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Project Gutenberg's The Whirligig of Time, by Wayland Wells Williams

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Title: The Whirligig of Time

Author: Wayland Wells Williams

Illustrator: J. Henry

Release Date: November 2, 2011 [EBook #37906]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME [Illustration: "'JAMES DID IT! JAMES HAS MADE A
TOUCHDOWN'"]




  THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME

  BY

  WAYLAND WELLS WILLIAMS


  _WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY J. HENRY_

  "_And thus the whirligig of Time brings in his
  revenges._"--Twelfth Night.


  NEW YORK

  FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

  PUBLISHERS


_Copyright, 1916, by_
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

_All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages._




  CONTENTS


  PART I

  CHAPTER

      I UNWRITTEN PAPERS
     II AUNTS
    III NOT COLONIAL; GEORGIAN
     IV PUPPY DOGS, AND A PSYCHOLOGICAL FACT
      V BABES IN THE WOOD
     VI ARCADIA AND YANKEEDOM
    VII OMNE IGNOTUM
   VIII LIVY AND VICTOR HUGO
     IX A LONG CHEER FOR WIMBOURNE
      X RUMBLINGS
     XI AUNT SELINA'S BEAUX YEUX
    XII AN ACT OF GOD
   XIII SARDOU
    XIV UN-ANGLO-SAXON
     XV CHIEFLY CARDIAC
    XVI THE SADDEST TALE

  PART II

      I CAN LOVE BE CONTROLLED BY ADVICE?
     II CONGREVE
    III NOT TRIASSIC, CERTAINLY, BUT NEARLY AS OLD
     IV WILD HORSES AND CHAMPAGNE
      V A SCHOeNE SEELE ON PISGAH
     VI A LONG CHAPTER. BUT THEN, LOVE IS LONG
    VII A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN ONE SENSE
   VIII ONE THING AND ANOTHER
     IX LABYRINTHS
      X MR. AND MRS. ALFRED LAMMLE
     XI HESITANCIES AND TEARS
    XII A ROD OF IRON
   XIII RED FLAME
    XIV A POTTER'S VESSEL
     XV THE TIDE TURNS
    XVI REINSTATEMENT OF A SCHOeNE SEELE




THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME




PART I




CHAPTER I

UNWRITTEN PAPERS


Two o'clock struck by the tall clock on the stairs, and young Harry
Wimbourne, lying wide awake in his darkened bedroom, reflected that he
had never heard that clock strike two before, except in the afternoon.
To his ears the two strokes had a curious and unfamiliar sound; he
waited expectantly for more to follow, but none did, and the tones of
the second stroke died slowly away in a rather uncanny fashion through
the silent house. For the house was silent now; the strange and
terrifying series of sounds, issuing from the direction of his mother's
room, that had first awakened him, had ceased some time ago. There had
been much scurrying to and fro, much opening and shutting of doors,
mingled not infrequently with the sound of voices; voices subdued and
yet strained, talking so low and so hurriedly that no complete sentences
could be caught, though Harry was occasionally able to distinguish the
tones of his father, or the nurse, or the doctor. Once he detected the
phrase "hot water"; and even that seemed to give a slight tinge of
familiarity and sanity to the other noises. But then had come those
other sounds that froze the very blood in his veins, and made him lie
stiff and stark in his bed, perspiring in every pore, in an agony of
ignorance and terror. It was all so inexplicable; his mother--! A
strange voice would not have affected him so.

But all that had stopped after a while, and everything had quieted down
to the stillness that had prevailed for an hour or more when the clock
struck two. The stillness was in its way even more wearing than the
noises had been, for it gave one the impression that more was to
follow. "Wait, wait, wait," it seemed to Harry to say; "the worst is
not nearly over yet; more will happen before the night is out; Wait,
wait!" and the slow tick of the clock on the stairs, faintly heard
through the closed door, took up the burden "Wait! Wait!" And Harry
waited. The passage of time seemed to him both cruelly slow and cruelly
fast; each minute dragged along like an hour, and yet when the hour
struck it seemed to him to have passed off in the space of a minute.

Sleep was impossible. For the fiftieth time he turned over in his bed,
trying to find a position that would prove so comfortable as to ensure
drowsiness; yet as he did so he felt convinced that he could not sleep
until something definite, something final, even if unpleasant, should
end the suspense of the silence. He looked across the short space of
darkness that separated his bed from that of his elder brother James,
and envied him his power of sleeping through anything. But a short
sudden change in the dim outline of the other bed told him that his
brother was not asleep. Harry felt the other's gaze trying to pierce the
darkness, even as his own. He half turned, with a sharp and nervous
motion, to show that he was awake, and for some minutes both boys lay
silently gazing toward each other, each wondering how much the other had
heard.

At length James broke the silence. "It's come," he said.

"Yes, it has," answered Harry. "How long have you been awake?" he added,
feeling he must ascertain how much James knew before committing himself
any further.

"Oh, hours," said James.

"Since before--"

"Yes."

So James had heard all, thought Harry. It was just like him to be awake
all that time and never give a sign. It scarcely occurred to him that
James might be as shy as himself in reference to the events of the
night.

It must not for a moment be supposed that either of these boys was
ignorant of the nature of what was taking place in their mother's room.
Harry was ten at the time, and James was within hinting distance of his
twelfth birthday. So that when their father, a few days before, had
solemnly informed them that they might expect the arrival of a little
brother or sister before long, and that they must be most careful not
to disturb their mother in any way, etc., etc., no childish superstition
picturing the newcomer flying through the window or floating down a
stream on a cabbage leaf or, more prosaically, being introduced in the
doctor's black bag, ever entered their heads. When the trained nurse
appeared, a day or two later, they did not need to be told why she was
there. They accepted the situation, tried to make as little noise as
possible, and struck up a great friendship with Miss Garver, who at
first had ample leisure to regale them with tales of her hospital
experiences; among which, she was sorry to observe, accounts of advanced
cases of delirium tremens were easily the favorites.

For a long time the two boys lay awake without exchanging any more
conversation worth mentioning. They heard the clock strike three, and
after that they may have slept. At any rate, the first thing they were
aware of was the door of their room being opened by a softly rustling
figure which they at once recognized as that of the trained nurse. She
crossed the room and methodically lit the gas; then she turned and stood
at the foot of Harry's bed, resting her hands lightly on the footboard.
Both the boys noticed immediately how white her face was and how grave
its expression.

"Are you both awake, boys?" she asked.

They both said they were, and Miss Garver, after pausing a moment, as if
to choose her words, said:

"Then get up and put on something, and come into your mother's room with
me."

Without a word they rose and stumbled into their dressing gowns and
slippers. When they were ready Miss Garver led the way to the door, and
there turned toward them, with her hand on the knob.

"Your mother is very ill, boys. We are afraid--this may be the last time
you will see her."

Dazed and silent they followed her into the hall.

The bedroom into which they then went was a large room at the front of
the house, high of ceiling, generous of window space, and furnished for
the most part with old mahogany furniture. It was a beautiful old room
when the sun was pouring in through the great windows, and it was quite
as beautiful, in a solemn sort of way, now, when it was dimly
illuminated by one low-burning gas jet and one or two shaded candles. A
low fire was burning in the grate, and its dying flames fitfully shone
on soft-colored chintz coverings and glowing mahogany surfaces, giving
to the room an air of drowsy and delicious peace. And in the middle of
it all, on a great mahogany four-poster bed, curtained, after the
fashion of a hundred years ago, Edith Wimbourne lay dying. She, poor
lady, white and unconscious on her great bed, cared as little for the
setting of the scene in which she was playing the chief part as dying
people generally do; but we, who look on the scene with detached and
appreciative eyes, may perhaps venture the opinion that, if a choice of
deaths be vouchsafed us, we would as lief as not die in a four-poster
bed, surrounded by those we love best, and with a flickering fire
casting changing and fantastic shadows on the familiar walls and
ceiling.

Beside the dying lady on the bed, there were three other people in the
bedroom when Miss Garver led Harry and James into it. The doctor, whom
they both knew and liked well, sat at the head of the bed. In a large
armchair near the fire sat the boys' father, and somewhere in the
background hovered another trained nurse, sprung out of nowhere. The
presence of these figures seemed, in some intangible way, to make death
an actual fact, instead of a mere possibility; if they had not been
there, the boys might merely have been going to pay their mother a visit
when she was ill. Now they both realized, with horribly sinking hearts,
that they were going to see her for the last time.

The doctor looked up inquiringly as Miss Garver brought the two boys
into the room and led them over toward the bed. The father did not even
turn his head as they came in. They stood by the bedside and gazed in
silence at the pale sleeping face on the pillow. A faint odor of
chloroform hung about the bed. The doctor stood up and leaned over to
listen to the action of the dying woman's heart. After he had finished
he drew back a little from the bedside.

"You may kiss her, if you like," he said softly.

The boys leaned down in turn and silently touched the calm lips. It was
almost more than Harry could stand.

"Oh, must this be the last time?" he heard himself shrieking. But no one
paid any attention to him, and he suddenly realized that he had not
spoken the words aloud. He looked at James' face, calm though drawn, and
the sight reassured him. He wondered if James was suffering as much as
himself, and thought he probably was. He wondered if his face showed as
little as James'.

The doctor and Miss Garver were whispering together.

"Shall I take them away now?" she asked.

"Not yet," was the answer; "there is just a chance that--"

He did not finish, but Miss Garver must have understood, for she nodded
and quietly drew the boys away. They walked off toward the fireplace,
and their father, without moving his head, stretched out a hand in their
direction. Silently they sat down by him, one on each arm of his chair,
and he slipped an arm about the waist of each.

So they started on the last period of waiting for what they all knew
must come; what they prayed might come soon and at the same time longed
to postpone as long as possible. The doctor had resumed his seat at the
bedside, and now kept his fingers almost constantly on the patient's
wrist. The two nurses sat down a little way off, to be ready in
case--The emergency was not formulated. These three people were all
present for professional reasons, so we may assume that most of their
meditations were of a professional nature. But even so, they felt
beneath their professional calm the mingled sadness and sweetness and
solemnity that accompanies the sight of death, be it never so familiar.
And we may easily guess the feelings of the two boys as they awaited the
departure of the person they loved most on earth; nothing but the
feeling of suspense kept them from giving away completely. The person in
the room whom the scene might have been expected to affect most was, in
point of fact, the one who felt it least, and that was the shortly to be
bereaved husband, Hilary Wimbourne.

"Poor Edith," he mused, "poor Edith. What a wife she has been to me, to
be sure! I was fond of her, too. Not as fond as I might have been, of
course ... Still, when I think that I shall never again see her face
behind the coffee things at the breakfast table it gives me a pang, a
distinct pang ... By the bye, I don't suppose she remembered, before all
this came on, to send that Sheffield urn to be replated ... But it's
all so beautiful--the fire, the draped bed, the waiting figures, the
whole atmosphere! Just what she would have chosen to die in; all peace
and naturalness. Everything seems to say 'Good-by, Edith;
congratulations, Edith; well out of it all,' only much more beautifully.
There is a dirge--how does it go?--

    Oh, no more, no more; too late
      Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
    Of a life as chaste as fate,
      Pure as are unwritten papers,
    Are burnt out--

"That comes somewhere near it; 'a life as chaste as fate'--not a bad
description of Edith ... 'Pure as are unwritten papers'--who but an
Elizabethan would have dared to cast that line just like that? Let's
see; Ford, was it, or Shirley?... If only some one were singing that
now, behind the scenes, out by the bathroom door, say, everything would
be quite perfect. 'Unwritten papers'--ah, well, people have no business
to be as pure as Edith was--and live. But what is to become of my home
without her? What will become of the boys? Good Heavens, what am I going
to do with the boys? Good little souls--how quiet they are! It all hits
them a great deal harder than it does me, I know. It won't be so bad
when they're old enough to go off to school, but till then ... I must
ask Cecilia's advice; she'll have some ideas, and by the way, I wonder
if Cecilia thought to see about that Sheraton sideboard for me?"

And so on, and so on. Hilary Wimbourne's meditations never went very far
without rounding up at a Sheraton sideboard or an old Sheffield urn or a
nice bit of Chienlung or a new idea for a pleached alley. Let us not
judge him. He was that sort of person.

These reflections, and the complete outward silence in which they took
place, were at last interrupted by a slight stirring of the sick woman
on the bed. For the last time in her mortal life--and for very nearly
the first, for the matter of that--Edith Wimbourne was to assume the
center of her family stage. Her husband and sons heard her sigh and stir
slightly as she lay, and then the doctor and Miss Garver appeared to be
busy over her for a few moments. Probably they made shift to force a
stimulant between her teeth, for in a moment or two she opened her eyes
to the extent of seeing what was about her. Almost the first sight that
greeted them was that of her two sons sitting on the arms of their
father's chair, and as she saw them she smiled faintly.

The nurse glanced inquiringly toward the doctor, who nodded, and she
went over and touched Harry lightly on the shoulder.

"Come over and speak to your mother," she whispered, and Harry walked to
her side. Very gently he took the hand that lay motionless on the bed
and held it in his. He could not have uttered a word for the life of
him.

Either the reviving action of the stimulant or the feeling of the warm
blood pulsing through his young hand, or perhaps both, lent a little
strength to the dying woman. She smiled again, and ever so slight a
flush appeared on her wasted cheeks. "Harry, dear Harry," she whispered
gently, and the boy leaned down to catch the words. "I am going to leave
you, dear, and I am sorry. I know I should be very proud of you, if I
could live ... Be a good boy, Harry, and don't forget your mother."

She closed her eyes again, exhausted with the effort of speaking. Dazed
and motionless Harry remained where he stood until the nurse led him
gently away to make room for James.

James stood for some moments as his brother had done, with his hand
clasped in that of his mother. Presently she opened her eyes once more,
and gazed gravely for a moment or two at the face of her first-born, as
though gathering her little remaining strength for what she had to say
to him.

"Listen, dear," she said at last, and James bent down. "I'm going to
die, James. Try not to be too sorry about it. It is all for the best ...
Dearest, there is something I want you to do for me; you know how I have
always trusted you, and depended on you--well, perhaps you don't know,
but I have ... James, I want you to look out for Harry. He needs it now,
and he will need it a great deal more later. You will see what I mean,
as you grow up. He is not made like you; he will need some one to look
after him. Can you promise me that you will do this?"

"Yes," whispered James.

His mother sighed gently, as though with relief. "Now kiss me, dear,"
she said, and then, almost inaudibly, "It is good to leave some one I
can trust." Then she closed her eyes, for the last time.

James never repeated those words of his mother to any human being, as
long as he lived, not even to Harry. It would be too much to say that
they were never absent from his thoughts, for in truth he thought but
seldom of them, after the first few days. But in some compelling though
intangible way he realized, as he stood there by his mother's death-bed,
that he had accepted a trust from which nothing but death would release
him.

The doctor returned to the side of the dying woman. Swiftly and quietly
Miss Garver placed a hand on the shoulder of each of the two boys and
led them from the room. Edith Wimbourne slept, and her sleep slowly
passed into death.

The man in the chair never moved.




CHAPTER II

AUNTS


Till Miss Garver had seen Harry and James tucked away in their beds
again and had put out the light and left their room, both the boys
maintained the same outward composure that they had shown throughout the
experiences of the night. But once left alone in the quiet of their
darkened bedroom, no further ordeal ahead of them to inspire
restraint--for they knew perfectly well by this time that their mother
must be dead--they gave way entirely to their natural grief and spent
what they both remembered afterward as the wretchedest night of their
lives.

It was scarcely better when Miss Garver woke them in the morning, though
sleep had so completely erased all recollection of the night before that
Harry, lazily sitting up and rubbing his eyes, asked what time it was in
the most natural voice in the world.

"About ten o'clock," was the reply.

"Ten o'clock! Why, we're an hour late for school already."

"You are not going to school to-day," answered Miss Garver, gently, and
she hated to say it, knowing that the remark would immediately set them
remembering. When she turned toward them again she saw that it had,
indeed.

"Listen," she told them, as gently as she could, "I want you both to get
dressed now as quickly as possible and then go down and eat your
breakfast. After that I am going to take you both down town. There is a
good deal to be done. So hurry up."

"Why are you going to take us down town?" asked James.

"To get some clothes."

"But I don't understand," he began again, and then he did. He started
dressing, mechanically, and had half completed his toilet before he
noticed his brother, who was kneeling despairingly by his bed, with his
face buried in the pillow.

"Come on, Harry," he said gently; "I'm nearly ready."

"No," moaned Harry.

"Yes. It's got to be done, you know."

"Oh, go away and leave me alone."

James bent his head down close to that of his brother. "You feel better
when you're doing something," he said softly.

Harry, at length persuaded, arose and began to dress, and before long he
began to feel that James was right. Doing something did not remove the
pain, or even ease it, but it made you notice it less. It was even
better during breakfast. Both the boys ate steadily and fairly
copiously, though their enjoyment, if there was any, of what was
customarily their pleasantest meal, was wholly subconscious. There was
honey on the table, and Harry, without realizing what he was doing,
helped himself to it for a second time. He mechanically pushed the pot
back toward James, who also partook. Almost simultaneously their teeth
closed on honey and muffin, and at the same time their eyes met. For two
or three seconds they gazed shamefacedly at each other, and then stopped
eating. Harry left the table and stood in front of the window, looking
out over the wide lawn.

"Oh, Mother, Mother," he cried within himself; "to think I should be
eating honey and muffin, now, so soon, and enjoying it! Oh, forgive me,
forgive me!"

When the first shock of self-contempt had passed off, the boys wandered
into the library, in search of their father. They discovered him, seated
at his desk as they had expected, but it was with a sharp shock of
surprise that they perceived that he was interviewing the cook. Both
were more or less disgusted at the discovery, but they felt
nevertheless, in a vague but reassuring way, that this partly justified
the honey episode.

The interview closed almost as soon as they entered, and their father
called them over to him.

"You have both been very good," he said, taking a hand of each of them;
"this has all been very hard for you, I know." He paused, and then,
seeing signs of tears on their faces, he went on somewhat hurriedly:
"You must go down town with Miss Garver now; she has very kindly offered
to get you what you will need for the funeral. Aunt Cecilia will take
you to New York after that, I expect, and will fit you out more fully.
The funeral will be to-morrow at three o'clock, and you will be on hand
for that. I don't know whether any one told you; the baby died--the one
that was born last night. It was a little girl; she only lived a few
minutes. She will be buried with your mother. There will be a lot of
people coming up to-day and to-morrow for the funeral; Uncle James and
Aunt Cecilia and various others, and as there is a good deal to arrange
you must try to be a help and not a hindrance, and make yourselves
useful if you can. Now run along with Miss Garver and--oh, one more
thing. I should advise you not to ask to see your mother again. You can,
of course, if you want to, but I rather think you will not be sorry if
you don't. You see, you probably have a good many years in which you
will have to live on her memory, and I think it will be better if your
last recollection of her is as she was when she was alive, not when she
was dead ... and if you want to drive down to the station after lunch to
meet Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia on the two-fifty, you can. You'd
better do that; it's a good thing to give yourself plenty of occupation.
That's all--good-by."

Then they went off in search of black clothes, and somewhat to their
surprise they noticed that Miss Garver had returned to her companionable
self of the preceding days; it was almost as if their mother had not
died, except that she was gravely cheerful now, instead of cheerfully
cheerful, as before.

Before long the boys noticed that almost every one they had to do with
adopted the attitude taken by Miss Garver. Lunch, to be sure, was a
rather terrible meal, for then they were alone with their father, and
he, though he refrained from further allusion to the loss that hung over
them all, was silent and preoccupied. But Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia,
when met at the station by their nephews, spoke and acted much as usual,
and neither of them noticed that Aunt Cecilia's gentle eyes filled with
tears as she kissed them. They had always loved Aunt Cecilia best of all
their aunts, though she was not their real aunt, being the wife of their
father's younger brother. Of their Uncle James the boys were both a
little afraid, and never felt they understood him. He was much like
their father, both in behavior and appearance--though he was
clean-shaven and their father wore a beard and mustache--but he was much
more unapproachable. He had an uncomfortable way of suddenly joining in
a conversation with an apparently irrelevant remark, at which everybody
would generally remain silent for a moment and then laugh, while he sat
with grave and unchanged countenance. The boys had once spoken to their
father of their uncle's apparent lack of sympathy; Harry had complained
that Uncle James never seemed to "have any feelings." "Well," replied
their father, "he is a better lawyer than I am," and the boys never saw
any sense in that reply till they remembered it years afterward, and
even then they never could decide whether it was meant as an explanation
or a corollary.

Later in the afternoon Aunt Selina arrived. There was always something
magnificent and aloof about Aunt Selina; she had the air of having been
transplanted out of a glorious past into a frivolous and inferior
present, and being far too well-bred to comment on its inferiority,
however keenly she was aware of it. She was the half-sister of Hilary
Wimbourne, and much older than he, being the child of a first marriage
of his father. Harry and James were on the front steps to greet her as
she drove up in state. Her very manner of stepping out of the carriage
and ascending the steps where she gravely bent and kissed each of her
nephews with the same greeting--"How do you do, my dear James," "How do
you do, my dear Harry,"--was not so much a tribute to the gravity of
this particular occasion as a typical instance of Aunt Selina's way of
doing things. Though only of average height, she generally gave the
impression of being tall by the erect way in which she habitually
carried her head, and by the straightness and spareness of her whole
figure. Her skirts always nobly swept the floor beside and behind her,
in a day when other women's skirts hung limply about their ankles. Both
Harry and James looked upon her with an awe which was only slightly
modified by affection.

But both boys' views of Aunt Selina underwent expansion within the next
twenty-four hours, and they were to learn the interesting lesson that a
warm and impulsive heart may be hidden within a forbidding exterior.
Aunt Selina entered the home of the Wimbournes with her customary quiet
ceremony, and gravely greeted such of her relatives as were present,
after which every one else in the room instinctively "stood around,"
waiting for her to make the first move. Kind and gentle Aunt Cecilia,
who was a daughter of one of New York's oldest and proudest and richest
families, was no one in particular while Aunt Selina was in the room.
Miss Wimbourne immediately proceeded to her bedroom, to repair the
ravages of travel, and when she came down again she found the
drawing-room deserted except for James, who was standing in front of a
window and gazing out into the twilight. She went over and stood by him,
also looking over the darkening lawn.

"I am very glad to get this chance to see you, James," she said
presently, in her subdued, measured tones, "even though the occasion for
my being here is such a sad one. It is not often I get a chance to see
any of my nephews and nieces."

James mumbled an inarticulate monosyllable or two in reply, without
turning his head. Aunt Selina had interrupted what was a bad half-hour
for James. She turned and looked at him, and the look of dumb suffering
on his face struck into the very roots of her heart. She stooped
suddenly and put her arms about him, kissing his cheek with a warmth
that was entirely new to James.

"I know how it feels," she whispered; "I've been through it all, not
once, but again and again, and I know just how bad it is. Dear boy, how
I wish I could bear it for you."

She sat down on a little settee that stood in front of the window, still
holding one of James' hands in hers, and the boy, after the first shock
of astonishment had passed, sank down on his knees in front of her and
buried his head in her lap. So he remained for some minutes, sobbing
almost contentedly; it was sweet to find consolation in this unexpected
quarter.

Presently he raised his miserable eyes to hers. "It's Harry,
too--partly--" he said, and could go no further.

"Yes, I know that too," said his aunt. "You mean that you have to bear
up on Harry's account--"

"Yes!"

"Because you are older and stronger than he, and you know he would
suffer more if you let him see how much you suffer. So you go about with
the pain burning your very heart out, because all the time something in
his face makes it impossible for you to breathe a word more of it than
you can help. And so every one gets the idea you are more hard-hearted
than he," she went on passionately, letting her voice sink to a whisper,
"and are not capable of as much feeling as he. But you don't care what
people think; you don't know or care about anything except oh! if you
only might go somewhere and shriek it all out to somebody, anybody! And
after a lifetime of that sort of thing self-repression becomes second
nature to you, so that you can't say a thing you think or feel, and you
become the sort of living mummy that I am, with your soul dead and
embalmed years ago, while your body, your worthless, useless body, goes
on living and living. You have begun it early, my poor James!"

She stopped, quite as much astounded at her own outburst as James. The
boy no longer cried, for astonishment had driven away his tears, but
stared thoughtfully out of the window. He had not caught the full
meaning of all that his aunt had said, but he knew that he was receiving
a most important confidence from the most unexpected possible quarter,
which was exactly in tune with his own mood. The good lady herself was
for a few moments literally too bewildered to utter a word.

"Good Heavens!" ran her astonished thoughts, "do you know what you have
done, Selina Wimbourne? You have made more of a fool of yourself in the
last five minutes than you have done in all the years since you were a
girl! God grant it may do him no harm."

To James she said aloud, as soon as she could control her voice:

"I am a foolish and indiscreet old woman, James--"

"No, you're not," interrupts the boy with sudden spirit.

"Well, I've said a great deal more than I ought, at any rate. I don't
want you to get any false impression from what I have told you. I want
to explain to you that all the suffering I have undergone from--in the
way I have told you--has not hurt me, but has rather benefited me. You
see, there are two kinds of human suffering. One is forced upon you from
the outside. You can't prevent that kind, you just have to go through
with it. It never is as bad as you think it is going to be, I find. The
other kind you make for yourself, by doing the wrong thing when you know
you ought to be doing the right thing. That is the really bad kind of
suffering, and you can always prevent it by doing the thing you know is
right."

"You mean," said James thoughtfully, "that it would have been even worse
for you if you had squealed, when you knew--when you knew you ought not
to!"

"Exactly. It's simply a question of the lesser of two evils. Doing the
pleasant but wrong thing hurts more in the end than doing the
disagreeable but right thing."

"I see. But suppose you can't tell which is the right thing and which
the wrong one?"

"Ah, there you've put your finger on a real difficulty. You just have to
think it all over and decide as best you can, and then, if it turns out
wrong, you're not so much to blame. Then, your suffering is of the kind
that you can't help. No one can do any better than what he thinks is
right at the time.... Now get up, dear, I hear people coming."

"Well, thank you, Aunt Selina. What you have told me helps, an awful
lot. Really!"

"I am glad, my dear," replied Miss Wimbourne, and when people entered
the room a second or two later no one suspected the sudden bond of
sympathy that had sprung up between the specimens of crabbed age and
youth they found there.

"Cecilia, what's going to become of those two boys?" inquired Miss
Wimbourne later in the evening, finding herself for the moment alone
with her sister-in-law.

"I've been asking myself that question pretty steadily for the last
twelve hours," answered Mrs. James. "I wish _I_ could take them," she
added, impulsively.

"Hardly, I suppose." If any of the remarks made in this conversation
seem abrupt or inconsequent, it must be remembered that these two ladies
understood each other pretty thoroughly without having to polish off or
even finish their sentences, or even to make them consecutive.

"Unfortunately," went on Mrs. James, after a brief pause, "the whole
thing depends entirely upon Hilary."

"The very last person--"

"Exactly. Yet what can one do?"

"It seems quite clear to me," said Aunt Selina, choosing her words
carefully and slowly, "that Hilary will inevitably choose the one course
which is most to be avoided. Hilary will want them to go on living here
alone with him; preserve the _status quo_ as far as possible. What do
you think?"

"I am almost sure of it. But...."

"But if any of us have the slightest feeling for those boys ... Until
they are both safely away at school, at any rate, and he won't send them
away for a year or two yet, at any rate."

"Harry not for three, I should say.... That is, _I_ shouldn't."

Silence for a moment, then Aunt Selina:

"Well, can you think of any one that could be got to come here?"

Mrs. James fluttered for a moment, as though preparing for a delicate
and difficult advance.

"I wonder," she said, "that is, the thought struck me to-day--if you--if
_you_ could ever--"

"Hilary and I," observed Aunt Selina in calm, clear impersonal tones
that once for all disposed of the suggestion; "Hilary and I Do Not Get
On. That way, I mean. At a distance--"

The sentence was completed by a gesture that somehow managed to convey
an impression of understanding and amity at a distance. Mrs. James'
subdued "Oh!" of comprehension, or rather of resignation, bid fair for a
while to close the interview. But presently Aunt Selina, with the air of
one accepting a sword offered with hilt toward her, asked, or rather
observed, as though it was not a question at all, but a statement:

"What do you think of Agatha Fraile?"

"Well," replied Mrs. James with something of a burnt-child air; "I like
her. Though I hardly know her, of course. I should say she would be
willing, too. Though of course one can't tell.... They are not well off,
I believe.... She is very good, no doubt...."

"Hm," said Aunt Selina serenely, aware that there was a conversational
ditch to be taken, and determined to make her interlocutrix give her a
lead. This Aunt Cecilia bravely did with:

"You mean--how much does she know about--?"

"About Hilary, yes."

"I rather think, myself, she must have found out through Edith.... I
don't see how she could have failed to know. Do you?"

"I can't say, I'm sure. Edith had rather curious ideas, though she was
one of the best women that ever lived. However, that is not the main
point for consideration now. What I want to know is, can you think of
anything better?"

"N-no," replied Mrs. James slowly. "I even think it would be the best
possible arrangement, if--Oh dear, to think it should come to
this--those poor boys!"

"Yes, I know," said Aunt Selina, briskly. "Now, that being decided, some
one has got to put it to Hilary. Hilary will do nothing alone. She comes
to-morrow morning, does she not? I think it should be settled, one way
or the other, before she goes. Now who is to approach Hilary?"

"I don't know," faltered Mrs. James, rather bewildered by the other's
swiftness of reasoning.

"Well, I do. James is the only human being I know who has, or ever had,
any influence on Hilary. Now one of us has got to talk to James, and I
rather think, Cecilia, that I could do it more successfully than you.
For the first time, that is.... Of course, afterward, you...."

"Yes, of course," murmurs Mrs. James.

"Very well, then; I will see James the first thing in the morning. I
don't say it will come to anything, but there is a great deal to be gone
through before she is even approached. We must do _something_. Living
here alone, with their father...."

"Out of the question, of course." The conversation having, as it were,
completed one lap of its course and arrived again at its starting point,
might have perambulated gently along till bedtime, had it not been
abruptly interrupted by the entrance of James, junior, come to say
good-night.

       *       *       *       *       *

A few days after the funeral, after they had gone to bed of an evening,
Harry through the darkness apostrophized his brother thus:

"I tell you, James, Aunt Selina is all right; did you know it?"

"Oh," was the reply, "she gave you five dollars, too, did she?"

"Yes, but that's not what I mean. She's given me five dollars plenty of
times before this."

"Well, what do you mean, then?"

"Well, she found me in the garden one morning.... Tuesday, I guess--"
Tuesday had been the day of the funeral--"and I had been crying a good
deal, and I suppose she knew it. At any rate, she took me by the hand
and talked to me for a while...."

"What did she say to you?" This question was not prompted by vulgar
curiosity; James knew that his brother wished to be pumped.

"Oh, she didn't _say_ much. She was just awfully nice, that's all....
She told me--well, she said, for one thing, that I cried too much. Only
she didn't say it like that. She said that going about and crying wasn't
much of a way of showing you were sorry. She said that if--well, if you
really _missed_ a person, the least you could do was not to go about
making a pest of yourself, even if you couldn't really do anything to
help."

"Oh."

"She said that the last thing that would please Mama herself was to
think that all she had taught me came to no more than ... well, than
crying. Then she said.... I don't think I'll tell you that, though."

"Well, don't, if you don't want to."

"She told me that, in a way, she realized I must feel it--about
Mama--more than any one else, because I had been more with her lately
than any one else--more dependent on her, she said, ..."

"Yes, I see."

"And that while it was harder on me, it put a greater responsibility on
me, because, you see--oh, I can't explain it all! But she was about
right, I guess."

"She told me something of the same kind ... not exactly like that, I
mean, but--well, the same sort of thing. It helped, too. It's funny, to
think of her understanding better than any one else--Aunt Selina!"

"Yes, isn't it? Well, you really never can tell about people." With
which mature reflection Harry turned over and went to sleep. But his
brother lay awake for some time thinking over what he had just heard,
and as he thought, his respect for his aunt grew. Not only could she
sound the depths of his own woe and give him comfort for it, but she
could light on the one thing that would be likely to help Harry in his
own peculiar need, and show it to him with ready and fearless tact. And
what she had told Harry was practically the very opposite of what she
had told him.

"I wish I could be like Aunt Selina," he thought.




CHAPTER III

NOT COLONIAL; GEORGIAN


Harry and James lived in the city of New Haven in a big house surrounded
by spacious grounds. The house itself was an old and stately one; the
local papers, when they had occasion to mention it, usually referred to
it as the Wimbourne "mansion." The boys' dislike of this word dated from
an early age, when their father informed them that it was a loathsome
expression, which people who "really knew" never used under any
circumstances. He himself, if he had had occasion to describe it, would
have spoken of it as a "place."

The house was built in the first decade of the nineteenth century. It
was put up by Hilary Wimbourne's great-grandfather James, first of the
name, the founder of the family fortunes. He came to New Haven as a
penniless apprentice to a carriage-maker after the conclusion of the
Revolutionary wars left him without other occupation, and within ten
years after his arrival he became one of the two or three most prominent
lawyers in the place. His understanding of his early trade he turned to
good account by investing a large portion of his earnings as a lawyer in
the carriage factory in which he originally served, and which with the
benefit of his money and business acumen, became the most profitable of
its kind in the town. He bought a farm in what were then the extreme
outskirts of the city and built the spacious, foursquare,
comfortable-looking house in which the Wimbournes with whom we have to
deal still lived, nearly one hundred years later.

The house stood in a commanding position above an up-town avenue. It was
painted white with green trimmings, and had a front portico of tall
Doric columns reaching up to the top of the house. People habitually
referred to its style of architecture as "Colonial." "Post-Colonial," or
"late American Georgian" would have come much nearer the mark, but these
distinctions are as naught to the great and glorious body of New
England's inhabitants, to whom everything with pillars is and always
will be "Colonial." The house was in truth a fine example of its style,
and had been surprisingly little spoiled by the generations of
Wimbournes that had lived and died in it, but the unity of its general
effect was marred by the addition of two wings reaching out from its
sides, erected by Hilary Wimbourne's father in the fifties and showing
all the peculiarities of that glorious but architecturally weak period.
Friends of the family often expressed sympathy and sorrow at the
anachronism the house was thus made to offer, but Hilary soon became
somewhat impatient of these. In fact, he never listened to an expression
of regret on the subject without breathing a silent prayer of
thanksgiving that the wings had been built when they were, and not ten
or twenty or thirty years later, when architectural indiscretion ran to
extremes only vaguely hinted at in the forties and fifties.

"Besides," he would explain to those who showed interest in the matter,
"those wings are not always going to look as badly as they do now. Our
eyes will always look on them as unpleasantly different from the old
house, but the eyes of a hundred years hence will see in them nothing
more than a quaint and agreeable variety. After all, the two styles are
but two different aspects of neo-classicism, one a little more remote
from its original model than the other. History has proved what I say;
think how the sensitive must have shuddered in the fifteenth century
when they saw a lot of Perpendicular Gothic slammed down by the side of
pure Early English! It must have looked like the very devil to them."
Only very few people heard this theory carried back to its logical
conclusion, however. Hilary would see and recognize the drowning
expression that came over their faces, and as soon as he knew that he
was beyond their depth he stopped, for he made it a rule never to talk
above people's heads. Consequently he seldom got beyond the
"neo-classicism" point.

As far as the interior was concerned, the atmosphere of the old days had
been almost perfectly preserved. Every wall-paper, every decoration had,
by some lucky succession of chances, been as nearly as possible
duplicated when it became necessary to replace or restore, and the hand
of the seventies and eighties left almost no trace of its equally
ruthless destructive and constructive powers. So that at the time of
which we write the house was furnished almost completely in the style of
the late Georgian period, for what his ancestors omitted to leave him
the faultless taste of Hilary supplied.

The house faced westward and toward the principal street of the
neighborhood; the ground fell gently away from it on all sides, but most
steeply toward the west. Carriage drives led up to the house from the
two corners formed by the main thoroughfare and the two intersecting
streets which bounded the property. A tar footpath followed the curve of
each driveway, so that between the street and the front door of the
house there stretched an unbroken expanse of green lawn. In their early
youth Harry and James both wondered why no footpath ran directly up the
middle of the front lawn, as was the case with most of the other front
lawns of their acquaintance, and they considered it monstrously
inconvenient that they were obliged to "go way round by the corners"
when they wished to reach the house from without. At length, however,
the brilliant thought occurred to them that as they always approached
the house either from the north or the south, and never from the
unbroken block to the west, they could not well have used a central walk
if they had had it.

Such was the setting in which the early lives of these two boys took
place, and, taking one thing with another, their lot could probably not
have been bettered. The first ten years of their lives had the divine
monotony of perfect happiness and harmony, in which no more momentous
events than the measles, a change of school, or summer trips to the
coast of Maine or, more rarely, to Europe, ever occurred. They were
brought up, from their earliest years, under the direct but never too
obtrusive eye of their mother, and as we have already heard Aunt Selina
describe her as "one of the best women that ever lived," we should be
guilty of something akin to painting the rose if we ventured on any
further encomiums of her character on our own account. Their relation
with their father was hardly less ideal, though they saw much less of
him and were, at bottom, less deeply attached to him than to their
mother. Hilary was fond of his boys, and was capable of entering into
their youthful moods with a sort of intimate aloofness that the boys
found very winning. Not infrequently he would suddenly swoop down on
them in their happy but humdrum occupations and carry them off to a
baseball game or perhaps to New York for the day to spend a few hours of
bliss in the Aquarium or the Zoo, in less time than it frequently took
their mother to decide what overcoats they should wear to school. This
dashing _insouciance_ secretly captivated their mother as much as it did
them, and though by this time she had given up showing the delight it
caused her, she was never more pleased than when Hilary would so take
them off.

Hilary also read to them occasionally, and his reading was another
source of secret admiration to their mother. He never read them anything
but what his wife would have described, and rightly, too, as "far beyond
them"; such things as Spenser, Shakespeare, Sheridan, or Milton, even;
and he always read with such a mock-serious air as Sir Henry Irving used
in the scene where Charles I recites poetry to his children. His wife on
such occasions, though perfectly content with her role of Henrietta
Maria, would reflect that if _she_ tried to read such things to them
they would be fidgeting and walking about the room and longing for her
to stop, instead of sitting spellbound, as they did when he read, on the
arms of his chair and breathlessly following each word of the text.

With another parent and with other children such reading would have
proved utterly sterile, but from it the boys managed to absorb a good
deal of pleasure and the germs of literary appreciation as well, and the
words of many a great passage in many a great author became dear to them
long before they were able to grasp their full meaning. Results of their
literary sessions would crop out in the family intercourse in sundry
curious ways. One instance may serve to illustrate this. The family were
sitting about together one day after lunch; Edith Wimbourne had a pile
of household mending before her.

"I declare," she said, "these tablecloths have simply rotted away from
lying in that dark closet; they would have lasted much better if they
had been used a little."

"She let concealment," said Hilary from behind a magazine, "like a worm
i' the bud, feed--what did concealment feed on, James?"

"Feed on her damask--"

"Tablecloth!" shouts Harry, brilliantly but indiscreetly.

"Oh, shut up," retorts his brother, peevishly, as who would not, at
having the words snatched from his mouth? "You needn't be so smart, I
was going to say that anyway."

"The heck you were!"

"Yes, I was."

"You were not! You were going to say 'cheek'; I saw you start to say
it."

"Oh, shut up! Can't any one be bright but you?"

"That's all right; you were going to say it. Wasn't he, Father?" asks
Harry, with the air of one appealing to the supreme authority.

"What?" Hilary had long since returned to his magazine.

"Say 'cheek.' Wasn't he going to?"

"Who?"

"James, of course."

"I trust not. It seems to me that it is one of the slang words your
mother has requested you not to use."

"Wha--what is?"

"Cheek." Not much of a joke, certainly, but Hilary, looking with
impenetrable gravity over his glasses at his son, when he really knows
perfectly well what Harry is talking about, is funny. At any rate Harry
stops to laugh, and the quarrel is a failure. Edith could have stopped
the quarrel by simply enjoining peace, but she could not have done it
without resort to parental authority.

One day James, ordinarily phlegmatic and self-controlled, ran through
the house in a great state of dishevelment and distress in search of his
mother, holding aloft a bloody finger and weeping hot tears of woe.

"Where's Mama?" he inquired breathlessly, ending up in the library and
finding his father alone there.

"Out, I think. What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing.... A kid licked me.... I wanted something for this
finger."

"Well, go upstairs and get that large brown bottle on my wash-stand, and
we'll see what we can do about it." Hilary, taking a page out of his own
boyhood, guessed that no mere cut finger could have reduced James to
such an abject pass. He suspected that his son, who, unlike Harry, was
almost morbidly sensitive to appearances and almost never gave way to
demonstrations of grief, had augmented the disgrace of being thrashed by
allowing himself to be reduced to a state of tears in the presence of
his fellows. Some such occurrence only could account for this
precipitate rout. One or two further inquiries confirmed this
conjecture, and he then prepared to apply, if possible, a balm to his
son's mental wound as well as the physical one.

"There," said he, giving a final pull to an unprofessional-looking
bandage, composed of an entirely un-antiseptic handkerchief, "that will
stay till your mother comes in. Now go and get me that green book on the
third shelf and I'll read to you for a while, if you want."

The green book happened to be no less notable a work than "Paradise
Lost," and Hilary, turning to the last pages of the twelfth book, read
of the expulsion of our sinning forbears from Eden. He read Milton
rather well, almost as well, in fact, as he secretly thought he did, and
James, though incapable at first of listening attentively or
understanding much of anything, was gradually soothed by the solemn
music of the lines; by the time his father reached the closing passage
he was listening with wide open ears.

    They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
    Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
    Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate
    With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
    Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon;
    The world was all before them, where to choose
    Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
    They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
    Through Eden took their solitary way.

Hilary kept the book open on his knee for a moment after he had
finished, and he noticed with interest that James leaned forward with
aroused attention to read over the passage again. "Some natural
tears--wiped them soon--the world was all before them--" the words sank
in on James' mind as his father knew they would, and suggested the
thought that the world need not be irrevocably lost through one
indiscretion.

Let no one gain from these somewhat extended accounts of Hilary's
dealings with his sons an impression to the effect that the boys found a
more sympathetic friend in their father than in their mother. As a
matter of fact, the exact contrary was true. Like all perfect art,
Hilary's successful passages with them bore no trace of the means by
which they were brought about, and consequently they did not feel that
their father's attitude toward them was inspired by anything like the
warm and undisguised affection which pervaded their mother's. Nor,
indeed, was it.

James, even in these early days, showed signs of having inherited a fair
share of his father's inborn tact in his dealings with his brother. The
fraternal relation is always an interesting one to observe, because of
its extreme elasticity, combining, as it does, apparently unlimited
possibilities for love, hate and indifference. Who ever saw two pairs of
brothers that seemed to regard each other with exactly the same
feelings? Harry and James certainly did not hate each other, but on the
other hand they did not love each other with that passionate devotion
that is supposed to characterize the ideal brothers of fancy. Nor could
they truthfully be called wholly indifferent to each other; their
mutual attitude lay somewhere between indifference and the
Castor-and-Pollux-like devotion that the older and less attractive of
their relatives constantly tried to instil in their youthful bosoms.
They were never bored by each other. James always felt for Harry's
superior quickness in all intellectual matters an admiration which he
would have died sooner than give full expression to, and Harry, though
he frequently scouted his brother's opinions in all matters, had a
profound respect for James' clearness and maturity of judgment. But
what, more than anything else, kept them on good terms with each other
and always, at the last moment, prevented serious ructions, was a way
that James had at times of viewing their relation in a detached and
impersonal light, and acting accordingly. On such occasions he appeared
to be two people; first, the James that was Harry's brother and
contemporary, less than two years older than he and subject to the same
desires and weakness, and, secondly, the James who stood as judge over
their differences and distributed justice to them both with a fair and
impartial hand.

For instance, there was the episode of the neckties. A distant relative,
a cousin of their mother's, who does not really come into the story at
all, took occasion of expressing her approval of their existence by
sending them two neckties, one purple and one green, with the direction
that they should decide between them which was to have which. James, by
the right of primogeniture that prevails among most families of
children, was given the first choice, and picked out the purple one.
Harry quietly took the other, but though there was no open
dissatisfaction expressed, it soon became evident to James that his
brother was tremendously disappointed. During the rest of the day, as he
went about his business and pleasure, vague but disturbing recollections
flitted through James' mind of Harry's being particularly anxious to
possess a purple tie, of having been half promised one, indeed, by the
very relative from whom these blessings came; circumstances which, from
the wording of the letter which accompanied the gift, obviously
constituted no legal claim on the tie, but were nevertheless enough to
appeal to James' sense of moral, or "ultimate" justice.

The next morning James, according to custom, approaching the completion
of his dressing some time before Harry, remarked in a casual tone:

"Oh, you can have that purple tie, if you want. I'd just as lief take
the green one."

Harry, who had taken the attitude of being willing to suffer to the
point of death before making a complaint in the matter, would not allow
this. In the brief conversational intervals that the spirited wielding
of a sponge, and subsequently of a towel, allowed, he disclaimed any
predilection for ties of any particular color, or of any particular kind
of tie, or for any particular color in general. Clothes were a matter of
complete indifference for him; he had never been able to understand why
people spent their time in raving inanely over this or that particular
manner of robing themselves. As for colors, he could scarcely bother to
tell one from the other; the prism presented to him a field in which it
was impossible to make any choice. If, however, in his weaker moments,
he had ever felt a passing fancy for one color over and above another,
that color was undoubtedly green. And so on, and so forth. James made no
further observation on the subject, but when he reached the necktie
stage in his dressing, he quietly put on the green tie, and Harry, like
the Roman senators of old, subsequently flashed in the purple.

James preferred the purple tie, but he let Harry have it because Harry
felt more keenly on the subject than he. "If"--so ran the substance of
his reasoning--"if I give way in this matter, about which I do not
particularly care, one way or the other, there will be a better chance
of my getting what I want some other time, when the issue is a really
vital one. By sacrificing a penny now, I gain a pound in the future."
Such clearness of sight was beyond James' years, and, but for the real
sense of justice that accompanied it might have made him an opportunist.
James would never in the last resort, have used his reasoning powers to
cheat Harry, who, though his brother, was, when all was said and done,
his best friend.




CHAPTER IV

PUPPY DOGS, AND A PSYCHOLOGICAL FACT


The story of the life of any person begins with the moment of his birth
and ends with the last breath that leaves his body. The complete account
of the inward and outward experiences that go to make up any one
individual life would, if properly told, be the most fascinating story
in the world, for there never lived a person who did not carry about
within himself the materials for a great and complete novel. Such
stories have never yet been written, and probably never will be, partly
because they would be too long and partly because the thing would be so
confoundedly hard to do. So as to make it interesting, that is. We have
chosen to begin this account of the lives, or rather, a section of the
lives, of Harry and James at the death of their mother because that was
their first great outward experience. It influenced their inward lives
even more fundamentally. It lifted their thoughts, their whole outlook
on life, from what, for want of a better expression, might be called the
level of youthful development and sent them branching and soaring into
new and strange regions.

One of the most important outward changes that Edith Wimbourne's death
caused in the life of her household was the substitution, as far as such
a thing could be, of her younger sister, Agatha Fraile, in her place.
Such was, in a word, the ultimate fruit of the conversation between Aunt
Selina and Aunt Cecilia that occurred a chapter or two ago. James
Wimbourne was approached and convinced, and in his turn approached and
convinced his brother Hilary, who, in his turn, came back to his
half-sister Selina and persuaded her to approach and convince that lady
in question on his behalf. Aunt Selina was perfectly willing to do this,
though she had not counted on it.

"Miss Fraile," she said, on the first occasion for speech that
presented itself; "my brother Hilary has asked me to put a proposition
to you on his behalf. What would you say to coming here and living with
him as his housekeeper and having an eye on those two boys, until--well,
say till it is time for them to go off to a boarding-school?"

This direct manner of approach was perhaps the one best calculated to
win Miss Fraile, who after a very little parley, assented to the
proposition. She was a very young and fragile-looking woman, having but
lately passed her thirtieth birthday, but she was in reality quite as
able to take care of herself as the next person, if not, indeed, a great
deal more so. She was the very antithesis, as the boys presently
discovered, of Aunt Selina, being all smiles and cordiality on the
outside and about as hard as tempered steel when you got a little below
the surface, in spite of her smiles, and in spite, moreover, of her
really unusual and perfectly sincere piety.

"I think," went on Aunt Selina rather magnificently, after the main
point had been gained, "that in the matter of the stipend there will be
no difficulty at all. You will find my brother entirely liberal in such
matters." Here she named a sum, Miss Fraile instantly decided that it
would not do, and proceeded after her own fashion to the work of raising
her opponent's bid.

"How very good of him," she murmured, letting her eyes fall to the
carpet. "All of our family have unfortunately been obliged to devote so
much thought and attention to money matters since our dear father's
death left us so badly off. Let me see.... I suppose my duties here
would take up very nearly all my time, would they not?"

"I do not know.... I daresay...."

"Exactly; one has to look so far ahead in all these matters, does one
not? I mean, that looking after this great house and those two dear boys
and Hilary himself would not leave me much time for anything like music
lessons, would it? Perhaps you did not know that I gave music lessons at
home?... Money is such a bother--! I suppose I should scarcely have time
to practise here myself, with one thing and another--household affairs
do pile up so, do they not?--without thinking of lessons or anything of
that sort; yet I daresay I should somehow be able to ... to make it up,
that is, if--"

"How much more would you need?" asked Aunt Selina bluntly.

Miss Fraile named a sum half as large again as the one previously
mentioned, but Aunt Selina, stifling a gasp, clinched the matter there.

After the funeral Miss Fraile returned to her home in semi-rural
Pennsylvania "to collect my traps" as she brightly put it, and a week
or so later came back to New Haven and settled down in her new position.
The boys on the whole liked their Aunt Agatha, though even their
exuberant boyish natures occasionally found her cheerfulness a little
oppressive, and she certainly did very well for them and for their
father. She ordered the meals, saw to the housework, arranged the
flowers, dusted the bric-a-brac with her own hands, did most of the
mending and presided at the head of the table at meals, fairly radiating
peace and cheer.

Hilary was a little appalled, to be sure, when she would burst on him on
his returning to the house of an evening with a pair of warmed slippers
in her hand and a musical little peal of laughter on her lips, but he
did not have to see much of her, and besides, he so thoroughly approved
of her.

"It is like living with Mary and Martha rolled into one," he told his
brother a month or two after her arrival; "with a little of Job and the
archangel Gabriel thrown in, flavored with a spice of St. Elizabeth of
Hungary--that bread woman, you know--and just a dash of St. Francis of
Assisi. She has covered the lawn knee-deep with bread crumbs for the
sparrows, and when she is not busy with her church work, which she
almost always is, she goes about kissing strange children on the head
and asking them if they say their prayers regularly. They all seem to
like her, too; that's the funny part of it. The boys are entirely happy
with her, and she is splendid for them. In short, I am entertaining an
angel, though not unawares--oh, no, certainly not unawares."

The two boys were thrown on each other's society much more constantly
than formerly, especially as, during the first weeks, at any rate, they
had small heart for the games of their schoolmates. James especially,
during these days of retirement, observed his brother with a
newly-awakened interest, and in the light, of course, of his mother's
last words to him. He had always thought of Harry as more irresponsible
and light-headed than himself, but it had never occurred to him that he
could give him any help against his impulsiveness beyond the customary
fraternal criticism and banter. Now he began to see that his position of
elder brother, combined with his superior balance and poise of
character, gave him a considerable influence over Harry, and he began to
feel at times an actual sense of responsibility very different from the
attitude of tolerant and half-amused superiority with which he had
previously regarded Harry's vagaries. At such times he would drop his
ridicule or blame, whichever it happened to be, and would become silent
and embarrassed, feeling that he should be helping Harry instead of
merely laying stress on his shortcomings, and yet not having the first
idea of how to go to work about it.

One day they were returning to the house after a walk through a somewhat
slummy and hoodlum-infested neighborhood and came upon a group of boys
tormenting a small, dirty, yellow mongrel puppy after the humorous
manner of their kind. They were not actually cruel to the dog, but they
were certainly not giving it a good time, and Harry's tender heart was
stirred to its core. Without a word or a second thought he rushed into
the middle of the gang, extracted the puppy and ran off with it to a
place of safety. The thing was done in the modern rather than in the
romantic style; he did not strike out at boys twice as big as
himself--there were none there, in the first place, and in any case he
had no desire for a fight--nor did he indulge in a lengthy tirade
against cruelty to animals; he simply grabbed the dog and ran. The
"micks" followed him at first, but he could run faster than they and
none of them cared much about a puppy, one way or the other.

James, meanwhile, had run off a different way, and when presently he
came upon his brother again he was walking leisurely along clasping the
puppy in a close embrace.

"You certainly are a young fool," said James, half amused and half
irritated; "what did you want to get mixed up in a street row like that
for? Darned lucky you didn't get your head smashed."

Harry thought it needless to reply to this, as the facts spoke for
themselves, and merely walked on, hugging and kissing his prize.

Then suddenly the situation dawned on James in its new light, and he
walked on, silent as Harry himself and far more perplexed. Harry's
fundamental motive was a good one, no doubt, but he realized what
disproportionate trouble the reckless following up of Harry's good
motives might bring him into. This time he had luckily escaped scot
free, but the next time he would very likely get mixed up in a street
fight, and would be lucky if he were able to walk home. And all about so
little--the dog was not really suffering; being a slum dog it had
probably thrived on teasing and mistreatment since before its eyes were
open. And the worst part of the situation was that he was so helpless in
making Harry see the thing in its true light.

At any rate, he reflected, his first attitude was of no avail. Calling
Harry a fool, he knew, would not convince him of his foolishness; it
would more likely have the effect of making him think he was more right
than ever. As he walked silently on, beside his brother, Harry's
shortcomings seemed to dwindle and his own to increase.

"Let's have a look at the beast," he said presently in an altered tone,
stopping and taking the puppy from Harry's arms. "He's not such a bad
puppy, after all. Wonder how old he is." He sat down on a nearby
curbstone and balancing the puppy on his knee apostrophized him further:
"Well, it was poor pupsy-wupsy; did the naughty boys throw stones at it?
That was a dirty shame, it was!"

James put the puppy down in the gutter and encouraged playfulness. For a
few minutes the two boys watched its somewhat reluctant antics; then
James asked:

"What are you going to do with it, anyway?"

"Take it home, I suppose."

"What'll you do with it there? Keep him in the house?"

"No. That is, I suppose Father wouldn't hear of it."

"I suppose not A puppy...! There are three dogs in the house anyway."

"What about the stable, then?"

"I don't know. There's Thomas." Thomas was the coachman, who made no
secret of his dislike for dogs "under the horses' hoofs."

"Yes," said Harry, "and Spark, too. Spark would try to bite him, I'm
afraid."

"What are you going to do with him, then?"

"I don't know; what shall we?"

"It's for you to say--he's your dog."

"Do you think," said Harry, lowering his voice and gazing furtively
around, "do you think it would be all right just to leave him here?"

James laughed, inwardly. Then a bright idea struck him. Grasping the
puppy in one hand he walked across the street to a small and dirty front
yard in which a small and dirty child of four or five was sitting
playing.

"Hullo, kid," said James breezily, "do you want a puppy dog? Here you
are, then. He's a very valuable dog, so be careful of him. Mind you
don't pull his tail now, or he'll bite."

James walked off well pleased with the turn of events, which left Harry
relieved and satisfied and the dog honorably disposed of. As for Harry,
he was profoundly grateful. He would have liked to give some expression
to his gratitude, but the words would not come, and he walked on for
some time without speaking. But he was determined to give some sign of
what he felt.

"Thank you, James," he said at length in a low voice, and blushed to the
roots of his hair.

"What? Oh, that's all right." James' surprise was no affectation; the
matter had really passed from his mind. But he gave to Harry's words the
full meaning that the speaker placed in them. They made him feel
suddenly ashamed of himself; what had Harry done that was wrong? What
had he done but what was right and praiseworthy, when you came to look
at it? Should he not be ashamed himself of not having run in and rescued
the dog before Harry?

And yet, most of the things that Harry did worked out wrong, somehow,
even when they were prompted by the best of motives.

"Poor Harry," thought James, "he's always getting into scrapes, and yet
I suppose, if everything were known, people would see that he was twice
as good as I am, at bottom. I would never have thought of saving that
dog; Harry thinks out such funny things to do.... I can generally do the
right thing, if it's put directly up to me, but Harry goes out and
searches for the right thing to do; I guess that's what it amounts to.
Only, I wish he didn't have to search in such strange places."

As James settled down into his position of mentor to his brother he
found out a curious thing; he was fonder of Harry than formerly. The old
sense of unconscious, taking-it-for-granted companionship gradually
became infused with positive affection which, for the reason that it
found little if any outward expression in the daily round of work and
play, escaped the notice of everybody except James himself.

"Do you think that doing something for a person would ever make you
fonder of that person?" he once asked of his father when they were alone
together. "I mean--I should think, that is, that it would work out the
other way, so that the person you did the thing for would be fonder of
you."

"It's a well known psychological fact," replied his father; "I've often
noticed it. If you merely stop a person in the street and ask him the
way, or what time it is, you can see his expression change from one of
indifference, or even dislike, to interest and cordiality. And if you
ever feel that a man, an acquaintance, doesn't like you, ask him to do
you some slight service, and he'll admire you intensely from that moment
on. And conversely, if you want to make a man your enemy, the best way
of going about it is to do something for him.--Why, what made you think
of it?"

"Thomas," replied James promptly, being prepared for the question. "He
was cross as two sticks the other day when we wanted to build forts in
the haymow, but after I asked him to help me put the chain on my
bicycle," etc., etc. But James was disturbed by his father's development
of the theory. What if his "helping out" Harry should have the effect of
making him hate him, James, the very effect of all others he desired to
avoid? He resolved to keep his new-found feeling to himself, and give
his brother's resentment no foothold; but he could not entirely live it
down, for all that. Unconsciously he found fault less with him,
unconsciously he would take his part in squabbles with the servants or
with his father; and as he noticed no change in Harry's conduct toward
him he congratulated himself on his powers of concealment.

But he need have had no worries on the score of Harry's resenting his
protection. To Harry, James had always appeared to partake somewhat of
the nature of a divinity; if not Apollo or Jupiter, out and out, he was
at least Hercules, say, or Theseus. And though, in the very nature of
things in general and the fraternal relation in particular, he was
obliged outwardly to deny James' superiority in everything and more
especially the right to boss younger brothers, he was acutely, almost
pathetically, sensitive to James' demeanor toward him and was entirely
ready to respond to any increase in good feeling, if James would lead
the way.

James, with all his insight and quickness of perception, failed to count
upon the fact that Harry would be as slow in making a parade of his
feelings as he himself, and was a little surprised that Harry made so
slight a demonstration of sorrow when, about a year after their mother's
death, James was sent off to school. Harry, indeed, sought to cover his
secret conviction that he would really miss his brother very much by
repeated harpings upon the blessings that James' presence had ever kept
from him, and now, the obstacle being removed, would shower copiously on
his deserving, but hitherto officially unrecognized, head. Now he would
get the first go at all dishes at table, now he would always sit on the
box beside Thomas and drive, now people would see whether he could not
be on time for breakfast without his brother's assistance, and so forth.
James smiled tolerantly at all such talk; he knew that it did not amount
to much, though even he failed to realize quite how little.

When the fatal morning came the brothers parted with complete cordiality
and every outward expression of mutual contempt.

"Be very careful about putting on your clothes in the morning, kid,"
said James as the train that was to take him off rolled into the
station. "You put on your undershirt first, remember, then your shirt
and coat. Don't go putting your undershirt over your coat; people might
laugh."

"All right, you dear thoughtful boy, I'll try to remember, but I shall
be pretty busy hoping that those other kids'll lick the tar out of you,
for the first time in your innocent life. You're a good boy at heart,
James; all you need is to have the nonsense knocked out of you!"

James' first letter to his brother from school, written some ten days
after his departure, is still extant, and may be quoted in full as a
document in the story.

     St. Barnabas' School.
     October 5.

     Dear Harry:

     I meant to have written you before, but I have been so busy
     that there was no time. This certainly is a fine place, and I
     like it a lot already. There are 21 new boys this term, which
     is fewer than usual, but they say we are an unusually good
     crowd. We say so, at any rate! There was a big rough-house in
     our corridor Saturday night. A lot of the old boys came down
     and turned the new fellows after lights were out, and also made
     them run the gauntlet down the hall, standing at the sides and
     swatting them with belts and things as they went by. That was
     much worse than the turning, which did not amount to much. I
     got turned five times, and Brush, the fellow that rooms with
     me, six times. That was not much. There was one chap that got
     turned 22 times that one night. That was Hawley. They call him
     'Stink' Hawley already, because he is so dirty looking. They
     say he has not washed his face since he came. Gosh, I wonder
     what you will be called when you get here!

"What a filthy lie!" shrieked Harry when he reached this, making up in
vehemence what he lacked in coherence. His alleged aversion to the
wash-basin was a standing joke in the family, and any reference to it
invariably brought a rise.

"Gracious, dear," murmured Aunt Agatha, and smiled.

"Let's hear," said his father, suspending judgment. (The scene took
place at the breakfast table.) Harry read the letter aloud up to the
point in question, and was relieved to observe an exculpatory smile on
his father's lips when he stopped.

"I admit there is an implication in that last remark," said Hilary,
"that might prove irritating. However, that's no excuse for making a
menagerie of yourself. What else does James say?" Harry read on:

     There always is a big rough-house the first two or three
     Saturday nights every year, and after that they keep pretty
     quiet. They say the masters let them do what they like, almost,
     those first nights, because they behave better afterwards and
     it keeps the new boys from being too fresh. That's what I'll be
     doing to you, you see, next year!

     I have been playing football every day, and am trying for the
     fourth team. Do you remember Roswell Banks, that boy we saw up
     at Northeast? He is going to make the first team this year,
     probably. They say he tackles better than any one else here.
     Kid Leffingwell also plays a peach of a game, but he won't make
     the first this year. He is too light, but he has got lots of
     nerve.

     I must stop now, so good-night.

     Your affectionate brother,
     JAMES.

The present writer has no quarrel with any one who is unable to detect
in this letter symptoms of any particularly keen brotherly affection. It
is his private opinion, however, that such exist there. He thinks,
_imprimis_, that James, strange as it may appear, laid himself out to be
more agreeable in that letter than he would if he had written it, say, a
year previously. It is longer and fuller than James' letters usually
were. And--though this may be drawing the point too fine--he thinks that
the exclamation point after "that's what I'll be doing to you next year"
would not have been put in under the old regime. An exclamation point
does so much toward toning down and softening a disagreeable remark! And
for the manner of signature, of course James might have signed himself
like that to Harry at any time of his life. Yet the writer, even at the
risk of being called super-sensitive, will not ignore the fact that most
of James' letters to his brother previous to this date are signed, more
casually, "Yours affect'ly," or "Ever yours," or simply
"Good-by,--James," and though he realizes that at best the point is not
an all-important one, he feels he can do no better than give the reader
all the information he has at his command, be it never so trifling, and
let him draw conclusions for himself.




CHAPTER V

BABES IN THE WOOD


One Saturday morning about a year after James went away to school Harry
bounded downstairs for breakfast to find his father just leaving the
dining room.

"Hello, Father," he said, jumping up and kissing him as usual. "You
don't stay in the office this afternoon, do you, Father? Why don't you
take Bugs and me to the game? Or you can take us for a ride in the car,
if you like; we'll meet you downtown for lunch, so as to save time."
(Bugs was for the moment Harry's _fidus Achates_; a sort of vice-James.)

"You will not, I fear," returned Hilary briefly. "I'm going out of town
for the day."

"What, not in the car?"

"In the car."

"_All_ day?"

"All day. Leaving now, as soon as ever the car comes round, and not
getting back till late--perhaps not to-night."

"Dash," remarked Harry. "I wish you'd go by train; Graves told me he'd
give me a lesson in running the machine the next free Saturday."

"Sorry. Next week, perhaps."

"Where are you going, anyway, Father?"

"My business."

"Going to take Graves?"

"No."

"What, all alone? You'll be lonely. Why don't you take Aunt Agatha?"

"No, I shan't be lonely and I'm not going to take Aunt Agatha. I'll tell
you what I am going to do, however; I'm going to send you away to
school, and that next term. You have a pretty glib tongue in your head,
Harry my boy, and I think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will
be even better able to appreciate it than I am."

But Harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke.
He became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with
his preparations for departure.

"Yes, I'll have a talk with Hodgman about the exams.... There's the car,
at last--I must run. Where did I put those water rights, anyway? Oh....
Yes, I think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this
term.... Take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if I can
arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail,
progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat--no, the dark
one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?--and a triumphal exit in a
motor car. Harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and
admiration. Hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled
along in his scarlet chariot--they ran a great deal to bright red paint
in those early days, if you'll remember--and people would run to catch a
glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next
meal. But it occurred to Harry that he would complete the picture very
nicely, sitting there at his father's side. He wished fervently that he
could ever make his father remember that Saturday was Saturday.

This parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial
things and inscribed indelibly on Harry's memory by the fact that it was
the last he ever had with his father.

The day passed like any other day and at its close the household went to
bed as usual, boding no ill. Toward midnight the telephone rang and Aunt
Agatha arose and answered it. The voice at the other end introduced
itself as Police Headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this
was Mr. Wimbourne's house. Yet, it was. Headquarters then expressed a
desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a
reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls
speaking? Aunt Agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would
have been called frigid, that this was Miss Fraile.

Headquarters appeared duly impressed; at least he seemed to have
difficulty in finding words in which to continue. Aunt Agatha's crisp
inquiry of what was it, please? at last moved him to admit there had
been an accident. Yes, to Mr. Wimbourne. The automobile did it; ran into
a telegraph pole down near Port Chester. Pretty bad smash-up; couldn't
say just how bad.... Was Mr. Wimbourne badly hurt? Well, yes, pretty
badly; the machine--Was Mr. Wimbourne killed? Well, yes, he was, if you
put it that way. His body would arrive sometime next morning....

This was the sort of occasion on which Aunt Agatha shone as a perfect
model of efficiency. She spent an hour or more telegraphing and
telephoning, prayed extensively, returned to her bed and slept soundly
till seven. Then she arose and gave directions to the servants. It was
breakfast time before she remembered that she had yet to tell Harry.

Then, as he appeared so cheerfully and ignorantly at the breakfast
table, Aunt Agatha's heart failed her. Her presence of mind also left
her; she blurted out a few words to the effect that his father had had a
bad accident, wished she had let him eat his breakfast in ignorance,
hoped despairingly that he would guess the truth from her perturbation.
But even this was denied her; he asked a great many questions and
refused to eat till she made him, but gave no sign of suspecting
anything beyond what she told him.

She saw that the suspense of waiting for his father's return would tell
on him more than the worst certainty, but still she could not bring
herself to break the truth to him. When at last she nerved herself to do
it, it was too late.

"Come here and sit down by me, Harry," she said gently, but Harry, who
was standing at one of the front windows, listlessly replied:

"Wait, there's something coming up the street."

"Just a minute, dear, I want to talk to you," said Aunt Agatha, going
over and trying to push him gently away from the window. But Harry's
attention was caught and he refused to move.

"I thought it might be Father. Do you think it's Father, Aunt Agatha? It
moves so slowly I can't see.... Yes, it's turning in at the gate. What
sort of a thing is it, anyway?..."

The next moment his own eyes answered the question, and with a little
cry he toppled backward into her arms.

James' reception of the news was characteristically different. His
behavior was generally referred to by the family as "wonderful." He
certainly was very calm throughout. He was informed of his father's
death on the Sunday morning by the headmaster of his school, to whom
Aunt Agatha had telegraphed the night before.

"I suppose I'd better go home," was his first comment.

"I suppose you had," replied the schoolmaster, and he was rather at a
loss for what to say next. He had certainly expected more of a
demonstration than this. "Somebody had better go with you. Whom would
you like to have go?"

James hesitated and blushed. "Do you suppose Marston would come?" he
said at last, in a low voice. Marston, a long-legged sixth former, was
James' idol at present; to ask him to do something for one was like
calling the very gods down from Olympus.

"I am sure he would," said the headmaster, who understood, perfectly. "I
will send for him now and ask him."

So Marston accompanied James on his dreary homeward journey, though his
presence was not in the least necessary, and James sat covertly gazing
at him in mute adoration all the way. His thoughts were actually less on
his father's death during this journey than on the wonderful, incredible
fact that anything like a mere family death could throw him into
intimate intercourse with Marston for a whole day.

But of course he gave no sign of this, and Marston, like a real god,
seemed entirely unconscious of the immensity of the blessing he was
conferring. He spent the night at the Wimbournes', behaving himself in
his really rather trying position with the greatest ease and seemliness,
and even submitted with a becoming grace to the kiss which Aunt Cecilia
impulsively placed on his brow when she bade him farewell next morning.

"You're a dear good boy," she said softly, as she did it; "thank you,
again and again, for what you've done."

James, who was a witness to this episode, nearly sank through the floor
with shame. That a relative of his should kiss--actually, _kiss_
Marston--! He felt like throwing himself on the ground and imploring
Marston's pardon, dedicating himself to his service for life as an
expiation.

Yet Marston only blushed and laughed a little and said he had done
nothing, and bade good-by to James with unimpaired cordiality.

Aunt Cecilia had been the first of the relatives to arrive on the spot
after Hilary's death, and she remained commander-in-chief of the relief
forces throughout. But her command was not a complete or unquestioned
one. Among the relatives that assembled at the Wimbourne house on that
Sunday and Monday for Hilary's funeral was one with whom the story has
hitherto had no dealings, but who was a very important force in the
family, for all that. This was Lady Fletcher, Hilary's younger sister,
by all odds the handsomest and most naturally gifted of her generation.
She was the wife of an English army officer, Sir Giles Fletcher, who,
having won his major-generalship and a K.C.B. by distinguished service
with Kitchener in the Soudan, and being physically incapacitated by that
campaign for further service in the tropics, was now, with the able
assistance of his wife, devoting his declining years to politics. Lady
Fletcher, by the discreet exercise of her social qualities, had
succeeded in making herself in the five years since her husband had
entered Parliament, one of the most important political hostesses in
London. At the time of Hilary's death she was paying one of her flying
autumn visits to the country of her birth, in which her headquarters was
always her brother James' house in New York.

She and James had gone up to New Haven on the Sunday afternoon in a
leisurely fashion several hours in the wake of Aunt Cecilia, who had
rushed off, without so much as packing a bag, the moment she received
Miss Fraile's telegram that morning. Miriam--that was her Christian
name--always felt that she and her brother James understood one another
better than any other members of the family, and it was her private
opinion that they between them possessed more of the rare gift of common
sense than all the other Wimbournes put together, with their wives and
husbands thrown in. During the short two-hour journey from New York to
New Haven neither she nor her brother appeared so overcome by sorrow
over their recent loss that they were not able to discuss the newly
created situation pretty satisfactorily, or, to "be practical" as Lady
Fletcher was fond of putting it.

"You aren't going to smoke, James?" she asked, as her brother, shortly
after the train had started, exhibited preparatory signs of a
restlessness which she knew would culminate in an apologetic exit to the
smoking car. "Please don't; I can't, on the train, and the thought of
your doing it would make me miserable." She stopped for a moment,
reflecting that there was perhaps that in the air which ought to make
her miserable anyway; then went on, with a significantly lowered voice.
"Beside, I want to talk to you; we may not get another chance...."

"Well?" said James at length.

"Don't be irritating, James; you know what I mean, perfectly. Can't you
turn your chair around a little nearer? I don't want to shout.... Tell
me, first, who are to be the guardians? Now don't say you don't know,
because you do."

"I do, as a matter of fact. You and I, jointly. That's the one thing I
do know, for sure."

"I felt sure it would be that, somehow.... Why me, I wonder? and if me
at all, why you? However, it might have been worse, of course."

"Yes, I think he was right, on the whole." So perfect was the unspoken
understanding between these two that, if a third person had interrupted
at this moment and asked, point blank, what they were talking about,
both would have replied, without a moment's hesitation, "Selina," though
her name had not passed their lips.

"Well, what's to be done?" Lady Fletcher exhibited, to James' trained
eye, preliminary symptoms of a "practical" seizure.

"Can't tell anything for certain, till we see the will. I shall see
Raynham in the morning."

"Yes, but haven't you any idea ..."

"Oh, none! You were not a witness, were you?... if that's any comfort to
you."

"Thanks, I have no expectations." This was uttered in Lady Fletcher's
best snubbing tone, impossible to describe. "Please be practical, James.
What is going to become of those two boys?"

"Well, there are several possibilities. First, there's their aunt...."

"Oh, the Fraile woman? I've never met her. Isn't she ... well, a
trifle...."

"Oh, quite. She's a leading candidate for the position of first American
saint. But there'd be no point in keeping on with her, with James away
at school and Harry ready to go."

"Oh, really? I didn't realize."

"No," continued James, raising his eyes to his sister's and smiling
slightly, "what it will come to will be that I shall have six children
instead of four. Or rather, seven instead of five."

"Oh, really?" This in a changed tone from the lady.

"Yes, hasn't she told you? April."

"No." The practical mood seemed to have undergone a setback; there was
something new in that monosyllable, irritation, a twinge of pain,
perhaps. An outside observer might have thought this was due to Miriam's
having been left out of her sister-in-law's confidence, but James knew
better. He felt sorry for his sister; he knew that her childlessness was
the one blight on her career.

"I don't see why you should do it, James." This after a long interval of
silent thought on the part of Miriam, and passive observation of the
rushing autumn landscape on the part of James. "I don't see why, when
I'm equally responsible. It isn't a question of money, so much--I
suppose that will be left all right?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. Though I don't know just how."

"It's more than that; it's the responsibility, the bother. There's no
use in saying that one more, or two more, don't matter, for they do; and
there's no use in saying that they would both be away at school, for,
though that would make a difference, of course, you never can tell what
is going to turn up. No matter what did happen, it would always fall on
you--and Cecilia."

"That's all very true, perhaps, but--"

"And remember this; it's not as if you didn't have four--five already,
and I none."

"What _are_ you driving at, Miriam?"

"Don't you see? I want to take one, or both of them, myself."

"Whee-ew." This was not, strictly speaking, an observation, but rather a
sort of vocalized whistle, the larynx helping out the lips. "You do rush
things so, Miriam! Aside from the consideration of whether it would be
advisable or not, do you realize what opposition there'd be?"

"Why? What, I mean, that could not be properly overcome? You are one
guardian, I the other; I take one boy, you the other. What is there
strange about such a course? Or I could take both together."

"I should be against James leaving the country, myself. He is safely
started in his school; doing well there; striking his _milieu_. Why
disturb him?"

"Well, Harry, then. What sort of a child is he, James? I haven't seen
either of them for three years, but as I remember it, I liked James
best. Rather the manly type, isn't he? Not but what the other seemed a
nice enough child...."

"Harry? Oh, he'll have the brains of his generation, without doubt. Yes,
I'm not surprised at your liking James best. There are plenty of people
who find Harry the more attractive, however. He's got winning ways.
But--are you serious about this, Miriam?"

"Serious? Certainly!"

"Well, what's the point? Do we want to make an Englishman out of the
boy? And do you want to separate them? Wouldn't that smack a little
of--well, of Babes in the Wood? Cruel uncles and things, you know?"

"I don't think so. We wouldn't want to do that, of course. It wouldn't
be for always, anyway. But even if he went to an English public school,
which I should prefer to an American one, particularly for that type ...
they would always have vacations. You are here, and I am there, and we
would keep running across pretty frequently. Besides," here Lady
Fletcher again changed her tone, and generally gave the impression of
preparing to start another maneuver; "besides, there's another element
in it--Giles. He's devoted to children. He would come as near being a
father to the boy, if he liked him, as any one could. And--do you
realize what that might mean for him--for Harry?" Miriam stopped,
significantly, and looked her brother straight in the eye for a moment.
"The Rumbold property is very large, and Giles will certainly come into
it before long...."

"I see," said James, slowly nodding his head; "I see. Though I wouldn't
sacrifice anything definite to that chance. Beside, what about the
Carson family?"

"Oh, yes, I'm not saying there's any certainty; it's just one of the
things to be counted on.... Leaving Harry out of consideration for the
moment, it would be a wonderful thing for Giles. I can't think of
anything Giles would rather have; it would be like giving him a son. And
if you knew how wild English people of a certain class and type are
about children--! Giles has never got on well with the Carson children,
for some reason."

"That's all very fine, Miriam, but we mustn't leave Harry out of
consideration, since it's him we're the guardians of, and not Giles--at
least, I am.... I'm inclined to think there is something in what you
say, though I should be definitely against making an Englishman of
him--you understand that?" Lady Fletcher nodded, and her brother
continued: "It would certainly have an admirably broadening influence,
if all went right. And I'm not sure but what you're right about English
public schools. Even for American boys. But--" here he smiled
quizzically at his sister--"did you ever hear of a person called Selina
Wimbourne?"

Lady Fletcher laughed. "You've hit it this time, I fancy! Honestly,
James--" the practical mood was now in complete abeyance--"though I've
knocked around a good deal with swells and terrifying people and all
that, I have never been so cowed by the mere presence of any individual
as I have been by my sister Selina. Did it ever occur to you, James,
that Selina runs this family--well, as the engineer runs this train?"

"Something very like it--yes."

"At any rate, I have a premonition in the present instance that as
Selina jumps the tree will fall ... fancy Selina jumping out of a tree!
It will have to be most carefully put to her--if it is put."

"If it is put--exactly. We must see how things lie before doing
anything.--What, already?" This to a negro porter, who was exhibiting
willingness to be of service. "We must look alive--the next stop's New
Haven. Mind you don't say anything too soon, now; easy does it."

"Yes, of course.--No, Bridgeport, isn't it?--What, don't we, any
more?... But you are on my side, in the main, aren't you?"

"Conditionally, yes--that is, if all parties seem agreeable. The one
thing I won't stand for is--well, Babes in the Wood business."

"James, what do you think of my taking Harry off to England with me?"
said Aunt Miriam to her elder nephew a day or two later.

"I think it would be fine," was his reply, and then after a pause: "For
how long, though?"

This was going nearer to the heart of the matter than the lady cared to
penetrate, so she merely answered:

"Oh, one can't tell; a few months; perhaps more, if he wants to stay."
Seeing that he swallowed this without apparent effort, she went on:
"What should you say to his going to school in England, when he is able,
for a time?"

James' expression underwent no change, but he only answered stiffly, "I
think he had better come to St. Barnabas, when he is able," and his aunt
let the matter drop there.

It was in Aunt Cecilia, and not Aunt Selina, that Lady Fletcher found
the most formidable opposition. Miss Wimbourne, indeed, quite took to
the idea when her half-sister, very carefully and with not a little
concealed trepidation, suggested it to her. She took it, as Miriam more
vividly put it to her brother, "like milk."

"That is not a bad plan, Miriam, not a bad plan at all," she said in the
quiet voice that could be so firm when it wanted. "I can see why there
are good reasons why neither of the boys should live in New Haven. For
the present, you know. James will be at school, and will spend his
vacations with James' family, and Harry will be with you until he is
ready to do the same. I do not see but what it is a very good
arrangement. I am perfectly willing to do my part in taking care of
them, but I am not nearly so useful in that way as either you or James."

But not so with Mrs. James. Her husband first spoke to her of the scheme
before breakfast on the Monday morning, and she took immediate and
articulate exception to it. The plan was forced, dangerous, artificial,
cruel, unnecessary, short-sighted; in fact, it wouldn't do at all. There
was no telling what Miriam would do with him, once he was over there,
and no telling when she would let him come back to what had been, what
ought to be, and what, if she (Mrs. James) had any say in the matter,
was going to be his Home. It would make her extremely unhappy to think
of that child spending his vacations--or his whole time for that
matter--with any one but his uncle and natural guardian ("Miriam is his
guardian, too," James attempted to say, but no attention was paid to
him), his aunt and his young cousins. As for all that business about
Giles Fletcher, it was Perfect Nonsense. Before she would give an
instant's consideration to such--to such an absurdity, she (Mrs. James)
would give the boy every scrap of money she had, or was ever going to
have, outright, and would end the matter then and there. (This would
have been a really appalling threat, if it was meant seriously, for
Cecilia was due to inherit millions.) As for sending him to an English
public school, she thought it would be the cruelest, most unfeeling,
most ridiculous thing possible, seeing Harry was what he was. If it had
been James, now--!

But the gods fought on Miriam's side. Cecilia went into the library
during the latter part of the morning and discovered young James alone
there. She found him uncommunicative and solemn, which, in the nature of
things, was only to be expected; and he took her completely by surprise
by asking after a few moments, in the most ordinary tone:

"Who is Marcelline Lefebre, Aunt Cecilia?"

Mrs. James stifled a gasp, and waited before replying till she was sure
of her voice.

"Why? How did you ever hear of her?" she said.

"Oh, in this. There's a lot more about it to-day. She was badly hurt,
wasn't she?"

Mrs. James looked up and saw the newspaper lying open on the desk in
front of which James was sitting.

"Oh, yes.... An actress, I think."

"Yes," said James, "it says that here." The words and tone clearly
implied that James expected her to tell him something he did not know
already, but she parried.

"Had you ever heard of her before?"

"No, never. That's just the funny part of it. Why should we never have
heard of a person Father knew well enough to take out to ride? Did you
ever know her?"

"No; merely heard of her. Oh, it's not to be wondered at; he had lots of
acquaintances, of course." This was definite enough to indicate that she
had told him all she intended to, and both were silent for a while. But
presently a new thought occurred to her and she began again:

"Tell me, James, does Harry know anything about Mme. Lefebre?"

"Not that I know of; not unless he heard of her ... before."

"Well, I think it would be a good plan if you didn't mention her name to
him, or talk about her in his presence."

"All right. Why, though--particularly?"

"Never mind about that. At least," she caught herself up, realizing,
perhaps, that this was treating him too much _en enfant_; "at least, I
think it would be just as well for him not to know anything about her.
It might worry him. Particularly in his present state. There is no
reason why he should see the papers, or hear anything."

"I see," said James, quietly, staring out of the window. He saw far too
well, poor boy, was Aunt Cecilia's thought.

But the conversation started her off on a new line of thought in regard
to Harry. Harry was so different from James; if he once smelled a rat he
would go nosing about till he found him, even if he undermined the
foundations of his own happiness in so doing. And Harry was the kind
that smelled rats.... Inevitably her thoughts wandered around to Lady
Fletcher's scheme, and beheld it in a new light. There was a certain
amount of common sense in the plan, so viewed; there would certainly be
fewer rats in London than anywhere in this country. And after all, what
was the danger in his going to England? Miriam would not eat him,
neither would Giles; Miriam must really be fond of him if she wanted to
take him--Miriam would hardly do anything against her own inclination,
she reflected, a little bitterly.

She presented her changed front to her husband that evening, and the
upshot of it all was that Harry was to go to England. The whole family
adjourned to New York after the funeral, and steamship plans and
sailings were in the air. James went with them; it was decided that he
was not to return to school till Harry sailed with his aunt.

Harry himself took most kindly to the scheme; seemed, indeed, to prefer
it to St. Barnabas. He flaunted his superior fortune in the face of his
brother, making comparisons between the British Isles and St. Barnabas,
greatly to the detriment of the latter.

"Oh, yes, I'll write to you," he said airily during one of these
conversations; "that is, if I can find a minute to do it in. Of course I
shall be pretty busy, with pantomimes, and theaters, and parties,
and--and the Zoo, and all that."

"Fudge," said James calmly; "you'll be homesick as a cat before you've
been there a week."

"Then when I get tired of that I may go to school--if I feel like it.
Aunt Miriam says she knows of one that would just do. Not Eton or Rugby,
or anything like that; a school for younger boys. This one is in a
beautiful big house, Aunt Miriam says, with lots of grounds and things
about. Park, you know, like Windsor. And deer in it. And the house was
built in the reign of Charles the First."

"Bet you don't even know when that was. What's the use in having that
kind of place for a school, anyway?"

"St. Barnabas," replied Harry with hauteur, "was built in the reign of
Queen Victoria."

"Queen nothing! Gosh, if you talk rot like this now, what'll you be when
you've been over there a while?"

"Then I may go to Eton, or one of those places, later." This was merely
to bring a rise; Harry had no idea of completing his education anywhere
but at St. Barnabas'.

"Yes, a fine time you'd have there! A fine time you'd have with those
kids. Lords, Dukes, and things. Gosh, wouldn't you be sick of them, and
oh, but they'd be sick of you!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Harry; "good fellows, lords. Some of them, that
is. I might be made one myself, in time, who knows?"

"Yes, you might, mightn't you?" James was laughing now. "Nothing more
likely, I should think. Lord Harry, Earl Harry!"

Harry replied in kind, and hostilities ensued.

This was all more or less as it should be, and the mutual attitude was
maintained up to the actual moment of sailing--after it, indeed, for
when Harry last saw his brother he was standing on the very end of the
dock and shouting "Give my love to the earls!" and similar pleasantries
to the small head that protruded itself out of the great black moving
wall above him; above him now, and now not so much above, but some
distance off, and presently not a great black wall at all, but the side
of a perfectly articulate ship, way out in the river.

Uncle James and his wife, also their eldest child, Ruth, a girl of nine
or thereabouts, all came down to the dock with James to see the
travelers off, and as they arrived hours and hours, as Miriam put it,
before there was any question of sailing, there was a good deal of
standing about in saloons and on decks and talking about nothing in
particular, pending the moment when gongs would be rung and people begin
to talk jocularly about getting left and having to climb down with the
pilot. They all went down to see the staterooms, which adjoined each
other and were pronounced satisfactory. Aunt Cecilia said she was glad
Harry could have his window open at night without a draught blowing on
him, and Aunt Miriam remarked that it was nice to have the ship all to
one's self, practically, which was so different from Coming Over, and
Uncle James added that when he crossed on the _Persia_ in '69 as a mere
kid, there were only fifteen people in the first cabin and none of them
ever appeared in the dining room after the first day except himself and
the captain. After this, conversation rather lagged and there was a
general adjournment to the deck. A few passengers, accompanied by their
stay-at-home friends and relations, wandered about the halls and
stairways, saying that autumn voyages were not always so bad and that
you never could tell about the ocean, at any season; which amounted to
admitting that they probably would be seasick, though they hoped not.
Our friends, the Wimbournes, had little to say on even this
all-absorbing topic, for Harry, who had crossed once before, had proved
himself a qualmless sailor, and Aunt Miriam had crossed so often that
she had got all over that sort of thing, years ago.

Uncle James was presently despatched to see what mischief those boys
were getting that child into, and the two ladies wandered into the main
lounge and sat down.

"Anything more different than the appearance of a steamship saloon while
the ship is in dock from what it looks like when she is careering round
at sea can hardly be imagined," murmured Lady Fletcher, pleasantly, with
no intention of being comprehended or replied to. Mrs. James' polite and
conscientious rejoinder of "What was that, Miriam?"--she had not, of
course, been listening--piqued the other lady ever so slightly. It was
not real annoyance, merely the rather tired feeling that comes over one
when a companion sounds a note out of one's own mood.

"Oh, nothing; merely what a difference it makes, being out on the open
sea."

"Yes, doesn't it?... Harry will--"

"Harry will what?"

"Nothing." Mrs. James blushed a little. She was going to say, "Harry
will have to be looked out for, or he will go climbing over places where
he shouldn't and fall overboard," or something to that effect, but she
decided not to, fearing that her sister-in-law would think her fussy.
Lady Fletcher accepted the omission, and went on to talk of the next
thing that came into her mind, which was Business. There were some
Lackawanna shares, it appeared, part of Harry's property, the dividends
on which James was going to pay regularly to the London banker for
defraying Harry's expenses, and James might have forgotten to do
something, or else not to do something, in connection with these. Lady
Fletcher wandered on to American railroad stock, making several remarks
which, in the absence of brothers, with their satirical smiles, remained
unchallenged. Poor Aunt Cecilia, who could neither keep on nor off her
sister-in-law's line of thought, unluckily broke in on the Union Pacific
with the malapropos remark:

"Miriam, Harry has got to be made to wear woolen stockings in the
winter, no matter what he says ..."

Lady Fletcher was amused. "I declare, Cecilia," she said, "you think I
am no more capable of taking care of that boy than of ruling a state!"

But Mrs. James did not smile in reply; the remark came too near to
describing her actual state of mind.

"Well, Miriam, with four children of one's own, one may be expected to
learn a thing or two; it isn't all as easy as it seems. Beside, I am
fond of the boy; I suppose I may be excused for that ..."

"I can certainly excuse it; I am fond of him myself." Lady Fletcher was
trying to conceal her irritation. Perhaps the suavity of her tone was a
little overdone; at any rate, it only served to make Mrs. James' face a
little rosier and her voice a little harder as she replied:

"I suppose you think, Miriam, that because I have four children of my
own to fuss over, I might be expected to let the others alone, and I
daresay you're right; but all that I know is, my heart isn't made that
way. I have noticed you during these last weeks, and I am sure that you
have felt as I say. But if you think that because I have four of my own
to love, and therefore have less to give to those two motherless boys,
you are mistaken. The more you have to love, the more you love each one
of them, separately--not the less, as you might know if you had children
of your own ..."

She stopped, unable to say any more. Her words were much more cruel than
she intended them to be; that is, they fell much more cruelly than she
meant them to on Lady Fletcher's ears. She had no idea, of course, of
the deep though vain yearning for offspring of her own that filled her
sister-in-law's bosom; Miriam could not possibly have expressed this,
the deepest and most tragic thing in her life, to Cecilia. She was made
that way. The more poignantly she felt what she had missed, the more
determinedly she concealed every trace of her feeling from the outside
world.

So it was now. Every ounce of feeling in her flared for a moment into
hate; the hate of the childless woman for the mother. The flame fell
after a second or two, of course, and she was able to reply, unsmilingly
and coldly:

"I think that Harry will be as well treated by me as you could wish,
Cecilia."

Mother love, nothing else, was responsible for all the hardness and
bitterness in her tone. But Mrs. James knew nothing of this; she only
felt the hardness and bitterness and judged the speaker accordingly.

That was all. The quarrel, if such it could be called, died down as
quickly as it had flared up, for it was impossible for these two
well-bred ladies to fall out and fight like fishwives. Lady Fletcher's
last remark made further discussion of the subject, or any other
subject, for the time being, impossible, and after a minute the two rose
by tacit consent and went out to find the others.

By the time they found them they were both as calm and self-possessed as
usual. When, after a little more standing around, the gongs were rung
and the time for farewell actually arrived, Lady Fletcher kissed her
nephew and niece with neither more nor less than her usual cordiality,
and Mrs. James was exactly as affectionate in her farewells to Harry as
might have been expected. The two ladies also embraced each other with
no sign of ill-feeling. Lady Fletcher's good-humor was unabated in
quantity, if just a little strained in quality.

"Now comes the most amusing part of sailing," she said, "which is,
watching other people cry. Don't tell me people don't love to cry better
than anything else in the world; if not, why do they come down here? You
might think that every one of them was being torn away from his home and
country for life!"

"The time when I always want to cry most," contributed Uncle James, "is
on landing. Everything is so disagreeable then, after the ease and
comfort of the voyage."

That was the general tone of the parting. Even Aunt Cecilia smiled
appreciatively and gave no sign of underlying emotion. But as she
watched the great steamer glide slowly out of her slip her thoughts ran
in such channels as these:

"Miriam is a brilliant woman; she has made a great lady of herself, and
is going to be a still greater one. She has money, position, wit, beauty
and youth. The greatest people come gladly to her house; small people
scheme and plot to get invitations there. Yet what is it all worth, when
the greatest blessing of all, the blessing of children, is denied her?
And the terrible part of it is, she is so utterly unconscious of what
she has missed; her whole heart is eaten up with those worldly and
unsatisfactory things. Poor Miriam, I pity her as it is, but how I could
pity her if it were all a little different!"

And the thoughts of Lady Fletcher, as she stood on the deck and watched
the shores slip away from her, were somewhat as follows:

"I always thought Cecilia was one of the best of women, until this hour.
I don't mind her being a great heiress, I don't mind her never being
able to forget that she was a Van Lorn, I don't mind her subconscious
attitude of having married beneath her when she married James--whose
ancestors were governing colonies when hers were keeping a grocery store
on lower Manhattan Island--! But when it comes to her boasting about
having children, and flaunting them in my face because I haven't got
any, I think I am about justified in saying that she shows a mean and
ignoble nature. I have seen all I want to of Cecilia, for some time to
come!"




CHAPTER VI

ARCADIA AND YANKEEDOM


We have given a more or less detailed account of the misunderstanding
just described because of the fact that the mental relation it
inaugurated was responsible, more than any one other thing, for the
separation of Harry and James Wimbourne for a period of nearly seven
years.

No one, not even Lady Fletcher herself, had any idea that this would
come to pass at the time Harry left the country. One thing led on to
another; Harry was put in a preparatory school for two or three terms
soon after his arrival in England; he was so happy there and the climate
and the school life agreed with him so well that it seemed the most
natural thing, a year or so later, to send him up to Harrow with some of
his youthful contemporaries, with whom he had formed some close
friendships. This was done, be it understood, in accordance with Harry's
own wish. There was an atmosphere, a quality, a historical feeling about
the English schools that after a short time exerted a strong influence
on Harry's adolescent imagination, and made St. Barnabas seem flat and
unprofitable in comparison. It would not have been so with many boys,
but it was with Harry.

Of course James was a strong magnet in the other direction, but not
quite strong enough to pull him against all the forces contending on the
English side. There was a distinct heart-interest there; within a year
after Harry's arrival in the country, the majority of his friends were
English boys. How many vice-Jameses were needed to offset the pull of
one James we don't know, but we do know that there were enough. James at
first objected strenuously to the change in plans, but Harry countered
the objection with the proposal that James should leave St. Barnabas and
go up to Harrow with his brother. This was considered on the American
side as such an inexplicable attitude that further argument was
abandoned and the matter of Harry's schooling given up as a bad job.

The one valid objection to Harrow was that if Harry was to become an
American citizen, the place to educate him was in America. Sir Giles saw
this, and gave the objection its full value.

"If I were to consult my own inclination alone," he said to Harry when
they were talking the matter over, "I should undoubtedly want to make an
Englishman out of you. I think you would make a pretty good Englishman,
Harry. You could go to Oxford, and then make your career here.
Parliament, you know, or the diplomatic. But there seems to be some
feeling against such a course. They want you to be an American. They
seem to think that your having been born and bred an American makes some
difference. Fancy!"

"Fancy!" echoed Harry, as capable as any one of falling in
with the spirit of what Lady Fletcher called Sir Giles'
"arising-out-of-that-reply" manner.

"And I won't say they are wholly wrong. The question is, can we make a
good American of you over here in England? By the time you have gone
through Harrow, won't you be an Englishman of the most confirmed type?
Won't you disappoint everybody and slip from there into Oxford, as it
were, automatically?"

"I am of the opinion," replied Harry judicially, "that the honorable
member's fears on that score are ungrounded. You see, Uncle G.," he went
on, dropping his parliamentary manner, "I shall go back to America to go
to college, anyway. I couldn't possibly go anywhere except to Yale.
We've gone to Yale, you see, for three generations already."

"I thought, when you came over here, that you couldn't possibly go to
school anywhere except at St. Barnabas. It seems to me I remember
something of that kind."

"This is quite different," said Harry firmly, "quite different. I was
brought up in Yale, practically. I'm sure I could never be happy
anywhere but there. Besides, I don't want to become an Englishman.
That's all rot."

"Well," said his uncle, "if that's the case, we'll risk it. And--" he
unconsciously quoted his wife on a former occasion--"there are always
the vacations."

But that is just where the honorable member proved himself mistaken. The
vacations weren't there, after all. And that was where the mutual
misunderstanding between the two ladies came in.

We don't mean to say that this was wholly responsible for the
uninterrupted separation. Other things came into it; coincidence, mere
fortuitous circumstances. Plans were made, on both sides of the
Atlantic, but they were always interrupted, for some reason or another.
James and Cecilia would write cheerfully about coming over next summer
and bringing young James and one or two of their own children with them.
That would be from about October to January. Then, along in the winter,
it would appear that their plans for the summer were not settled, after
all. Ruth was not well enough to travel this year, or James could not
leave his work and Cecilia could not leave him. Or, on the other hand,
Aunt Miriam would talk breezily at times of taking Giles over and
showing him the country--Giles had never been to America except to marry
his wife--and taking Harry too, of course; or she would casually
suggest running over with him for a fortnight at Christmas. But Harry's
summer vacation was so short, only eight weeks, and there were Visits to
be made in September; the kind of visits that implied enormous shooting
parties and full particulars in the _Morning Post_. And when Christmas
drew near either Giles or Miriam would develop a bad bronchial cough and
have to be packed off to Sicily. It is odd how things like that will
crop up when two women are fully determined to have nothing to do with
each other.

And the boys themselves, could they not go over alone and stay with
their relations, at least as soon as they were old enough to make the
voyage unaccompanied? James wanted to do something of that kind very
much at times; wanted to far more than Harry, who thought that he would
have enough of America later on and was meanwhile anxious to get as much
out of the continent of Europe as possible. One reason why James never
did anything of the sort was that he was afraid; actually a little
afraid to go over, unsupported, and find out what they had made of
Harry. James' thoughts were apt to run in fixed channels; after he had
been a year or two at St. Barnabas, the idea that there was another
school in the country, fit for Harry to attend, or in any other country,
never entered his head. Harry's decision in favor of Harrow, and
particularly Harry's lighthearted suggestion that he should come over
and go to Harrow with him, filled his soul with consternation. He,
James, leave St. Barnabas for Harrow!...

And to the receptive mind the mere fact that Aunt Cecilia was at this
time his closest friend and confidante will explain much. She never made
derogatory remarks to him about his Aunt Miriam, nor did she reveal to
him, any more than to any one else, the antagonism of feeling that
existed between them; but in some subtle, unfelt way she imparted her
own attitude to him, which was, in a word, Keep Away. She herself would
have said, if any one asked her point blank, that she had Given Harry
Up. She never approved of his staying over to be educated; she would
have had him back, away from Miriam and Europe (Aunt Cecilia wasted no
love on that Continent) inside two months, if she could have had her own
way. But her opinion was worth nothing; she was not the boy's guardian!

There was a time, two or three years after his arrival in England, when
Harry was consumed by a desire to see his brother again, if only for a
few weeks. He told his Uncle Giles about it--he soon fell into the habit
of confiding in him sooner than in his aunt--and Uncle Giles sympathized
readily with his wish, and promised to run over to America with him the
next summer. But when, a few days before the date of their sailing,
Harry came home from school, his uncle met him in the library with a
grave face and told him that he had been called upon to stand for his
party in a by-election early in September, and could not possibly leave
the country before that. Afterward there would be no time.

"It is quite a compliment to me," explained Sir Giles; "they want me to
go in for them at West Bolton because it is a doubtful and important
borough, and they think I can win it over to the Conservatives if any
one can. Whereas Blackmoor is sure, no matter who runs. It pleases me in
a way, of course, but I hate it for breaking up our trip."

"Oh, dear, I did want to see James," said Harry, leaning his elbows on
the mantelpiece, and burying his face in his hands to hide his tears of
disappointment.

"Poor boy, it is hard on you," said Sir Giles, and impulsively drew
Harry to him and clasped him against his broad bosom. "Do you remember
the man in the play, that always voted at his party's call and never
thought of thinking for himself at all? That's me, and it makes me feel
foolish at times, I can tell you. But if you want so much to see James,
why can't he be brought over here?"

"I don't know," said Harry, "I wish he would come, but I'm sure he
won't. I don't know what's the matter, but I'm certain that if I am to
see him, it will have to be I that makes the journey. I've felt that for
some time."

"Well, what about your going over alone? I could see you off at
Liverpool, and they would meet you at New York."

But that would not do, either. Harry had counted so much on having his
uncle with him and showing him all the interesting things in America
that his uncle's defalcation took all the zest out of the trip for him.
So he remained in England and helped Sir Giles win the by-election,
which interested him very much.

Lady Fletcher was right when she prophesied that Sir Giles would become
fond of Harry. He was just such a boy as Sir Giles would have given his
Parliamentary career, his K. C. B., and his whole fortune to have for
his own son. The two got on famously together. Sir Giles liked to have
Harry with him during all his vacations, and visits during summer
holidays--visits, that is, on which Harry could not be included--were
almost completely given up, as far as Sir Giles was concerned. They
spent blissful days with each other on the golf links, or fishing in a
Scotch stream, or exploring the filthiest and most fascinating corners
of some Continental town, while Aunt Miriam, gently satirical, though
secretly delighted, went her own smart and fashionable way, joining them
at intervals.

No one was prouder or more pleased than Harry when--a year or two after
he came into the Rumbold property, curiously enough--Sir Giles was given
a G. C. B. and a baronetcy by his grateful party; or when, in the
Conservative landslide that followed the Boer War, he rose to real live
ministerial rank, and had to go through a second election by his borough
and became a "Right Honorable." The fly in the ointment was that he saw
less of his uncle than formerly. The Fletchers moved from their smart
but restricted quarters in Mayfair to an enormous place in Belgrave
Square, "so as to be near the House," as Aunt Miriam plausibly but
rather unconvincingly put it, and Sir Giles seemed to be always either
at the House or the Colonial office--have we said that he became
Secretary for the Colonies? However, Harry was treated as though he were
a son of the house, and was given _carte blanche_ in the matter of
asking school friends to stay with him when he came home. This
permission also applied to Rumbold Abbey, the estate in Herefordshire
that formed the chief part of the aforementioned property. There was no
abbey, but there was a late Stuart house of huge proportions; also parks
and woods and streams that offered unlimited opportunities for the
destruction of innocent fauna, of which Harry and a number of his
contemporary Harrovians soon learned to take advantage.

On the whole, Harry led an extremely joyous and entertaining life during
the days of his exile. At school he fared no less well than at home; he
was never a leader among his fellows, but he was good enough at sports
to win their respect and attractive enough in his personality to make
many friends. The natural flexibility of his temperament enabled him to
fit in fairly easily with the hard-and-fast ways of English school life.
He accepted all its conventions and convictions, and never realized, as
long as he remained in England, that they were in any way different from
those of the schools of his own country. He soon got to dress and to
talk like an Englishman, though he never went to extremes in what he
loved to irritate his schoolfellows by calling the "English accent."
While not exactly handsome, he became, as he reached man's estate,
extremely agreeable to look upon. He had a clear pink complexion and
dark hair, always a striking and pleasing combination, and he was tall
and slim and moved with the stiff gracefulness that is the special
characteristic of the British male aristocracy. In general, people liked
him, and he liked other people.

His vacations, as has been said, were usually spent with Sir Giles
either in the British Isles or on the Continent, but there was one
Easter holiday--the second he spent in England--when he was, to quote a
phrase of Aunt Miriam's, thrown on the parish. The Fletchers were booked
to spend the holiday in a Mediterranean cruise on the yacht of a
nautical duke, who was so nautical and so much of a duke that to be
asked to cruise with him was not merely an Engagement; it was an
Experience. In any case, there could be no question of taking Harry, and
Lady Fletcher was in perplexity about what to do with him till Sir Giles
suggested, "Why don't we send him to Mildred?" So to Mildred Harry went,
and spent an important, if not a wildly exciting, month.

Mildred was Sir Giles' only sister, Lady Archibald Carson. She lived in
a little house in the Surrey hills, and though the land that went with
it was restricted, it was fertile and its mistress went in as heavily as
her means would allow for herbaceous borders and rock gardens and
Japanese effects. Her two children, both girls, lived there with her.
Her husband, Lord Archibald, was also, in a sense, living with her, but
the verdant domesticity of the Surrey hills had no charm for him and he
spent practically all of his time in London and other busy haunts of
men, or even more busy haunts of women. He was a younger son of a long
line of marquises who for their combination of breeding and profligacy
probably had no match in the British peerage. Within five years of his
marriage he had with the greatest casualness in the world run through
his own patrimony and all he could lay his hands on of his wife's.
Having bullied and wheedled all that he could out of her he now
consistently let her alone and depended for his income on what he could
bully and wheedle out of his brother, the eleventh marquis, who was
known as a greater rake than Lord Archibald merely because he had
greater facilities for rakishness at his command.

Lady Archibald was a tall, light-haired, pale-eyed woman with a tired
face and a gentle manner. She had no interests in life beyond her
children and her garden, but she had a kind heart and welcomed Harry
cordially on his arrival at the little house in Surrey. He had seen her
once before at the Fletchers' in London, but he had never seen her
children. It was, therefore, with a rather keen sense of curiosity that
he walked through the house into the garden, where he was told that
Beatrice and Jane were to be found. He saw them across the croquet lawn
immediately, and he underwent a mild shock of disappointment on seeing,
as he could, at a glance, that they were just as long of limb, just as
straight of hair and just as angular in build as most English girls of
their age.

The elder girl rose from her seat and sauntered slowly across the lawn,
followed by her sister. She stared coolly at Harry as she walked toward
him, but said nothing, even when she was quite near. He met her gaze
with perfect self-possession, and suddenly realized that she was waiting
to see if he would make the first move. He instantly determined not to
do so, it being her place, after all, to speak first; so he stood still
and stared calmly back at her for a few seconds, till finally the girl,
with a sudden fleeting smile, held out her hand and greeted him.

"You're Harry Wimbourne, aren't you?" she said, cordially enough. "This
is my sister Jane. We are very glad to see you; we've heard such a lot
about you. Come over here and tell us about America."

In that meeting, in her rather rude little aggression and Harry's
reception of it, was started a friendship. She deliberately tested Harry
and found that he came up to the mark. He did not fidget, he did not
blush, he did not stammer; he simply returned her stare, waiting for her
to find her manners. Nothing he could have done would have pleased her
better; she decided she would like him, then and there.

Harry on his side found her conversation, even in the first hour of
their acquaintance, stimulating and agreeable, and like nothing that he
had experienced before in any young girl of thirteen, English or
American.

"You needn't be afraid that we shall ask foolish questions about
America," Beatrice went on. "We know the Indians don't run wild in the
streets of New York, and all that sort of thing. We even know what part
of the country New Haven is in; we looked it up on the map. It's quite
near New York, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Harry, "you're quite right; it is. But how do you pronounce
the name of the state it is in? Can you tell me that?"

"Connecticut," replied the girl, readily enough; but she sounded the
second _c_, after the manner of most English people. Harry explained her
mistake to her, and she took the correction smiling, quite without pique
or resentment.

"Now go on and tell us something about the country. Something really
important, you know; something we don't know already."

"Well," said Harry, "there seems to be more room there; that's about the
most important difference. Except in the largest cities, and there there
seems to be less, and that's why they make the buildings so high. And
nearly all the houses, except in the middle of the towns, are made of
wood."

He went on at some length, the two girls listening attentively.

At last Beatrice interrupted with the question:

"Which do you think you like best, on the whole, England or America?"

"Oh, America of course; but only because it's my own country. I can
imagine liking England best, if one happened to be born here. Some
things are nicer here, and some are nicer there."

"What do you like best in England?"

"Well, the old things. Cathedrals and castles. Also afternoon tea, which
we don't bother about much over there. And the gardens."

"And what do you like best about America?"

"Trolley cars, and soda water fountains, and such things. And the
climate. And the way people act. There's so much less--less formality
over there; less bothering about little things, you know."

"Yes, yes, I know exactly. Silly little things, that don't matter one
way or the other. I know I should like that about America."

"I think you would like America, anyway," said Harry, looking judicially
at his interlocutrix. "You seem to be a free and easy sort of person."

"Well, I wouldn't like trolley cars," interrupted Jane with firmness,
"They go too fast. I don't like to go fast. It musses my hair, and the
dust gets into my eyes."

"Shut up, silly," said her sister; "you've never ridden in one."

"No, but I know what it is to go fast, and I don't like it. I don't
think I should care much for America."

"Well," said Harry, laughing, "we won't make you go there. Or if you do
go there, we won't make you ride on the trolley cars. You can ride in
hacks all the time; they go slow enough for any one."

Beatrice's first impression of Harry underwent no disillusionment as the
days went on. She seemed to find in him a companion after her own heart.
He had plenty of ideas of his own, and he was entirely willing to act on
hers; he never affected to despise them as a girl's notions, nor did he
ever object to her sharing in his amusements because of her misfortune
of sex. They climbed trees and crawled through the underbrush on their
stomachs together with as much zest and _abandon_ as if there were no
such things as frocks and stockings in the world. Harry had never known
this kind of companionship with a girl before, and was delighted with
her.

"Oh, dash, there goes my garter," she exclaimed one day as they were
walking through a country lane together. She had got rather to make a
point of such matters, to over-emphasize their possible embarrassment,
simply in order to see how beautifully he acted.

"Well, tie it up or something," said he, sauntering on a few steps.

Beatrice did what was necessary and ran on and caught up with him.

"I never could see why a garter shouldn't be as freely talked about as
any other article of clothing," said she. "All that sort of modesty is
such rot; people have legs, and legs have to have stockings to cover
them, and stockings have to have garters to keep them up. And women have
legs, just as much as men; there's not a doubt of that. Perhaps that's
news to you, though?"

"No, I knew that."

"You really, honestly aren't shocked at what I'm saying?" asked the
girl, scanning his face intently.

"Not in the least; why should I be? You're not telling me anything
shocking."

Beatrice drew a long breath of pure enjoyment.

"It _is_ a comfort to meet a person like you once in a while," she said.
"Tell me, are women such fools about their legs in America as they are
here?"

"Yes, quite," said Harry fervently; "if not actually worse. That's one
thing that we don't seem to have learned any better about. It always
makes me tired."

The two saw each other, infrequently but fairly regularly, throughout
Harry's stay in England. They never corresponded, both admitting that
they were bad letter writers, but when they met they were always able to
pick up their friendship exactly where they had left it.

When Sir Giles came into the Rumbold property there was naturally a
corresponding change in the circumstances of Lady Archibald and her
daughters. Every penny of the property, which came to Sir Giles through
the death of a maternal uncle, was entailed and inalienable from his
possession; but he was able to alleviate her condition by giving her a
large yearly allowance out of his income; and it was pointed out that
such an arrangement would have the advantage of keeping the money safe
from her husband. Lady Archibald took a small house in South Street and
spent the winter and spring months there, and in the due course of time
Beatrice was brought out into society.

Her undoubted beauty, which was of the dark and haughty type, and her
excellent dancing were enough to make her a social success. This was a
tremendous comfort to her mother, who was never obliged to worry about
her at dances or scheme for invitations at desirable houses, and could
confine her maternal anxiety to merely hoping that Beatrice would make a
better match than she herself had. But Beatrice hated the whole
proceeding, heartily and unaffectedly.

"The dancing men all bore me," she once said to Harry; "and I bore all
the others. Almost all men are dull; at any rate, they appear at their
dullest and worst in society, and the few interesting ones don't want to
be bored by a chit like me, and I can't say that I blame them. As for
the women--when they get into London society they cease to be women at
all; they become fiends incarnate."

"I hope that success is not embittering your youthful heart," said
Harry, smiling.

"Not success, but just being in what they are pleased to call society;
that will make me bitter if I have much more of it. I don't know why it
is; people are nice naturally--most of them, that is. Of course some
people are born brutes, like--well, like my father; but most of them are
nice at bottom. But somehow London makes beasts of them all. If I am
ever Prime Minister--"

"Which, after all, is improbable."

"Well, if I am, the first thing I shall do will be simply to abolish
London. We shall have just the same population, but it will be all
rural. We shall all live in Arcadian simplicity, and while we may not be
perfect, at least we shan't all be the scheming, selfish, merciless
brutes that London makes of us."

"And pending the passage of that bill you want to live in Arcadian
simplicity alone. I see. I quite like the idea myself. I should love to
found Arcadia with you somewhere in rural England, when I have time.
Where shall we have it? I should say Devonshire, shouldn't you? Clotted
cream, you know, and country lanes. It will be like Marie Antoinette's
hamlet at Versailles, only not nearly so silly. We will pay other people
to milk the cows and make the butter, and do all the dirty work, and
just sit around ourselves and be perfectly charming. No one will be
admitted without passing a rigid examination in character, and that will
be the only necessary qualification. Arcadia, Limited, we'll call it; it
sounds like a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, doesn't it?"

"Whom shall we have in it? Uncle Giles--he could pass all right,
couldn't he?"

"Oh, Heavens, yes, _Magna cum_. And Aunt Miriam--perhaps. She would need
some cramming before she went up. What about your mother?"

"I'm afraid Mama could never get in," answered Beatrice, smiling rather
sadly. "I've talked to her before about such things and she never
answers, but just looks at me with that sad tolerant smile of hers that
seems to say 'Arcadian simplicity is all very well, but you'll find the
best way to get it is through a husband with ten thousand a year or so.'
And the dreadful part of it is that she's right, to a certain extent."

Although in matter of years Beatrice was a few weeks Harry's junior, she
was at this time twice as old as he, for all practical purposes. She was
an honored guest at Lady Fletcher's big dinners--almost the only ones
that did not bore her to death--into which Harry would be smuggled at
the last minute to fill up a vacant place, or else calmly omitted from
altogether. Nevertheless, he was her greatest comfort all through her
first season; nothing but his jovial optimism, which saw the worst but
found it no more than amusing, kept the iron from entering into her
soul. Such an occasional conversation as the above-quoted would put
sanity into her world and fortify her for days against the commonplaces
of dancing men and the jealous looks of less attractive maidens. And how
she would pine for him during the intervals! How she would long for the
arrival of the next vacation or mid-term exeat that would bring him up
to town! There was a freshness, a wholesomeness about his way of looking
at things that was soothing to her as a breath of country air.

It is not surprising, then, that Beatrice began to dread the nearing
date of Harry's departure for America and college more than any one
else, even Sir Giles himself, to whom Harry had become by this time
almost as dear as a son. Poor Uncle Giles, though he wanted Harry to
stay in the country more than any other earthly thing, made it a point
of honor never to dissuade the boy from his original project of
returning to his own country when he was ready to go to college and
becoming an American again. Beatrice, however, was bound by no such
restriction and complained bitterly of his desertion.

"What is the point of your going back to some silly American college?"
she would ask. "It isn't as if you didn't have the best universities in
the world right here, under your very nose. Why aren't Oxford and
Cambridge good enough for you, I should like to know? They were good
enough for Milton and Thackeray and Isaac Newton and a few other more or
less prominent people."

"Very true," replied Harry with perfect good-humor. "The only thing is,
those people didn't happen to be Yankees. I am, you know. It's been a
habit in our family for two hundred years or more, and it doesn't do to
break up old family traditions. Must be a Yankee, whatever happens."

"But that doesn't mean that you have to go to a Yankee college,
necessarily," argued Beatrice. "You won't learn nearly as much there as
you would at Oxford. You are as far along in your studies now as the
second year men at Yale; I heard Uncle Giles say so himself."

"Yes, I know, that's very true. I can't argue about it; you've got all
the arguments on your side. I just know that there's only one possible
place on earth where I can go to college, and that is Yale. Better not
talk about it any more, if it makes you peevish."

"Well, we won't. I'll tell you one thing, though; we have got to start a
correspondence. You can spare a few ideas from your Yankees, I hope. I
shall simply die on the wooden pavements if I can't at least hear from
you occasionally."

"Certainly; I should like nothing better. I'll even go so far as to be
the first to write, if you like, and that's a perfectly tremendous
concession, as I'm the worst letter writer that ever lived."

So there the matter was left. Harry left Harrow for good at Easter, and
spent one last golden month in London, seeing Beatrice almost every day
and being an unalloyed joy and comfort to his uncle and aunt. In May he
took a short trip through Spain with Sir Giles; it was a country
neither of them had visited before, and they had planned a trip there
for years. Uncle Giles worked double time for a fortnight in order to be
able to leave with a clear conscience, but he found the reward well
worth the labor.

They parted at Madrid, the plan being for Harry to sail for New York
from Gibraltar, arriving in time to take his final examinations in New
Haven in June.

There were tears in Sir Giles' kind blue eyes as he bade Harry good-by,
and Harry saw them and knew why they were there. Suddenly he felt his
own fill.

"I don't want to go very much, Uncle Giles," he said in a low voice.
"Now that it comes to the point, I don't like it much. You've all been
so wonderful to me.... It's not a question of what I want to do, though.
It's just what's got to be done."

"Yes," said his uncle; "I know. You're quite right about it. It's the
only thing to do. But perhaps you won't mind my saying I'm glad, in a
way, that you find it hard?"

"Thank you; that helps, too. There's more that comes into it, though;
more than what we have talked over together so often.... I mean--"

"James?"

"Yes," said Harry, "that's it."

They clasped hands again and went their separate ways; Sir Giles to the
train that was to take him north to Paris and home, and Harry to the
train that was to take him south to Gibraltar and home.




CHAPTER VII

OMNE IGNOTUM


"Bless us, how the boy has grown!" cried Aunt Cecilia, and kissed him
all over again.

"You'll find your aunt very much changed, I expect," said Uncle James,
clasping his hand and smiling, quite in his old style.

"Not a particle, thank Heaven," said Harry, understanding perfectly;
"nor you either. Nor the U. S. Customs service, either. Can't I just
make them a present of all my luggage and run along? Except that I have
some Toledo work and stuff for you and Aunt C."

"Hush, don't say that out loud; they'll charge you extra duty for it,"
replied Uncle James.

"Oh, was there e'er a Yankee breast which did not feel the moral beauty
of making worldly interest subordinate to sense of duty?" misquoted
Harry. "Bother the duty. Tell me how you all are. How are Ruth and
Oswald and Lucy and Jack and Timothy and the baby? All about eight feet
high, I suppose? And James, where is he?"

"James is in New Haven," said Aunt Cecilia; "he has an examination early
to-morrow morning and could not get away till after that. He'll be here
to-morrow in time for lunch."

It was all very easy and cordial. Harry was in high spirits over
returning to his native land, and was genuinely pleased that both his
uncle and aunt should take the trouble to come down to the dock to meet
his steamer. They, on their side, were most agreeably impressed by him;
agreeably disappointed with him, we almost said. It was a relief, as
well as a pleasure, to find him, so unchanged and unaffected at heart,
though he looked and talked like an Englishman. Mrs. James sat on a
packing case and watched him with unadulterated pleasure as he tended to
the examination of his luggage. The art of his Bond Street tailor served
to accentuate rather than hide the slim, sinewy, businesslike beauty of
his limbs, brought into play as he bent down to lift a trunk tray or tug
at a strap. Though all that was nothing, of course, to the joy of the
discovery that he was unspoiled in character.

"It's turned out all right," she thought and smiled to herself. "I don't
know whether it's chiefly to his credit or theirs, but it has come out
all right, anyway. I wish the boat had not arrived in the evening, so
that I could have brought the children to see him, the first thing.
They'll have plenty of time, though; and how they'll love him! And how
pleased James will be!"

She meant young James, who was now putting the finishing touches on his
sophomore year at Yale. James was never very far from her mind when her
thoughts ran to her own children--which was most of the time. She always
thought of him now more as her own eldest child than as her husband's
nephew.

And Harry's thoughts, beneath all his chatter to his uncle and aunt and
his transactions with the Customs officials, were also on James. All the
way across the Atlantic, on the long dull voyage from Gibraltar--there
are not many passengers traveling westward in June--they continually ran
on that one subject--James, James, James. What would he be like now?
would he be the old James, or changed, somehow--strangely,
disappointingly, unacceptably? Harry hoped not; hoped it with his whole
heart, in which there was nothing but humility and affection when he
thought of what his brother had been to him in the old days. He was so
little able to speak what he felt about James that he was embarrassed
and over-silent about him. That was why he was so debonair with the
Customs officials; that was why he asked after each of his young cousins
by name before he mentioned his brother.

"Every single article of clothing I own was bought abroad," he was
telling the Customs inspector; "so you can just go ahead and do your
worst--That suit cost eight guineas--yes, I know it's too much; I told
them so at the time, but they wouldn't listen.... No, that thing with
the feathers is not a woman's hat; it's a Tyrolean hat, that the men
climb mountains in. I'm going to give it to my Uncle James--that man
there sitting on the woman's trunk that she wants to get into--to wear
to his office, which is on the thirty-fifth floor.... Yes, I have worn
it myself, but don't tell him.... That gold cigarette case is for my
brother, who smokes when he's not playing football, and it cost six
pound fifteen, which is dirt cheap, I say. I'd keep it myself, except
that it's so cheap that I can't afford not to give it away...."

And James, what was he feeling, if he was feeling anything, in regard to
his brother at this time, and why have we said nothing about him during
these seven years? The truth is, his life had been chiefly distinguished
by the blessed uneventfulness that comes of outward happiness and a good
understanding with the world. If you can draw a mental picture for
yourself of a boy of perfect physique and untarnished mind, gradually
attaining the physical and mental development of manhood in comradeship
with a hundred or more others in a like position, dedicating the use of
each gift as it came to him not to his own aggrandizement but to the
glory of God and the service of other men, recognizing his superiority
in certain fields with the same humility with which he beheld his
inferiority in others, equally willing to give help where he was strong
and take help where he was weak, and possessed by the fundamental
conviction that other people were just as good as he if not a little bit
better, you may get some idea of James during the years of his brother's
absence. He was not brilliant, he was not handsome, but there was a
splendid normality about him, both in appearance and in character, that
inspired confidence and affection among his teachers, his relatives, and
friends of his own age.

"He has a good mind and body, and there is no nonsense about him," was
the substance of the opinion of the first-named group. "He is a good boy
and a nice boy, and I'm glad he is one of the family," said the second.
"He is captain of the football team," said the third group, and to one
who knows anything about American boarding schools this last will tell
everything.

If any one is inclined to blame James for his allowing the Atlantic
Ocean to separate him and brother so completely for those seven years it
may interest him to know that James was quite of the same opinion. As he
sat in the train that took him from New Haven to New York on the morning
after Harry's landing, he wondered how the long separation could have
come about. On the whole, after a careful review of the business, he was
inclined to blame himself; not over-severely, but definitely,
nevertheless. He had been timid, indifferent and, above all, lazy.
Looking back over his attitude of the last seven years, he was inclined
to be scornful and a little amused. What had he to fear about Harry?
Weren't Uncle Giles and Aunt Miriam good people, who could be trusted to
bring him up right? What was there to fear, even, in his becoming an
Englishman? And anyway, even if he had feared the worst, ought he not to
have taken the trouble to go over and see with his own eyes? It had
probably turned out all right, for Harry had returned at last with every
intention of living in America for the rest of his life; but if he had
been spoiled or altered for the worse in any way, he, James, must take
his share of the blame for it. There could be no doubt of that.

The root of the matter was, we suspect, that James had been somewhat
lacking in initiative. Thoroughly normal people customarily are; it is
at once their strength and their weakness. A splendid normality, such as
we have described James as enjoying, is a serviceable thing in life, but
it is apt to degenerate, if not sufficiently stimulated by misfortune
and opposition, into commonplaceness and sterile conservatism. But let
us do James justice; he at least saw his fault and blamed himself for
it.

He was devoured with curiosity to see what Harry was like; almost as
much so as Harry in regard to him. James had plenty of friends, but only
one brother, when all was said and done. As the train rushed nearer the
consummation of his curiosity, he felt the old feeling of timidity and
suspicion sweep over him; but that, as he shook it off, only increased
his curiosity; gave it edge. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico est_; every one
knows that, even if he never heard of Virgil, and it is especially true
of such natures as James'. Each little wave of fear and suspicion that
swept over him made him a little more restless and unhappy, though he
smiled at himself for feeling so. It was a relief when the train pulled
into the Grand Central Station and he could grip his bag and start on
the short walk to the house of his uncle, which was situated in the
refined and expensive confines of Murray Hill.

Any one who knows anything about the world will be able to guess pretty
closely the nature of the brothers' meeting. Harry was sitting in the
front room upstairs when his cousin Ruth, who was at the window,
announced: "Here he comes, Harry." In a perfect frenzy of pleasure,
embarrassment, affection and curiosity, the boy made a dash for the
stairs and greeted his brother at the front door with the demonstrative
words:

"Hello, James!"

To which James, who for the last few minutes had been obliged to
restrain himself from throwing his bag into the gutter and breaking into
a run, replied:

"Well, Harry, how's the boy?"

Then they walked upstairs together and began talking rather fast about
the voyage, examinations, Aunt Miriam, Spain, the Yale baseball
team,--anything but what was in their hearts.

"Well, you came back without being made an earl, after all, it seems,"
said James a little later at lunch.

"No, but I came back a sub-freshman, which is the next best thing.
There's no telling what I might have been if I'd stayed, though.
Everybody was so frightfully keen on my staying over there and going to
Oxford, especially Beatrice--Beatrice Carson, you know; I've written you
about her? She would have made me an earl in a minute, if she could, to
make me stay. None of it did any good, though. I would be a Yankee."

"How do you think you'll like being a Yankee again?" asked James. "You
certainly don't look much like one at present."

"No? That'll come, I dare say. My heart's in the right place. Though
that doesn't prevent the Americans from seeming strange, at first. Did
you notice that woman in the chemist's shop this morning, Aunt C.? She
was chewing gum all the time she waited on you, and she never said
'Thank you' or 'Ma'am' once."

"They all are that way," said Aunt Cecilia with a gentle sigh. "I don't
expect anything else."

"Oh, the bloated aristocrat!" said James. "It is an earl, after all.
Only don't blame the poor girl for not calling you 'My lord.' She
couldn't be expected to know; they don't have many of them over here."

"I don't mean that she was rude," said Harry; "she didn't give that
impression, somehow. It was just the way she did things; a sort of
casualness. The Americans are a funny people!"

"Oh, Lord!" groaned James; "hear the prominent foreigner talk. What do
you think of America, my lord? How do you like New York? What do you
think of our climate? To think that that's the thing I used to spank
when he was naughty!"

"That's all very well," retorted Harry, with warmth; "wait till you get
out of this blessed country for a while yourself, and see how other
people act, and then perhaps you'll see that there are differences. You
may even be able to see that they are not all in our favor. And as for
smacking--spanking, if you feel inclined to renew that quaint old custom
now, I'm ready for you. Any time you want!"

"Oh, very well," growled James; "after lunch."

"Yes, and in Central Park, please," observed Uncle James; "not in the
house; I can't afford it. You are right, though, Harry, about the
Americans being a funny people. If you enter the legal profession, or if
you go into public life, you'll be more and more struck by the fact as
time goes on. But there's one thing to remember; it doesn't do to tell
them so. They can't bear to hear it. We have proof of that immediately
before us; you announce your opinion here, _coram familia_, as it were,
and what is the result? Contempt and loathing on the part of the great
American public, represented by James, and a duel to follow--in Central
Park, remember; in Central Park."

"I wonder if that milk of magnesia has come yet," murmured Aunt Cecilia,
who had not gone beyond the beginning of the conversation; and further
hostilities--friendly ones, even--were forgotten in the general laugh
that followed.

Of course James, who conformed to the American type of college boy as
closely as any one could and retain his individuality, was greatly
struck during the first few days by his brother's Anglicisms, which
showed themselves at that time rather in his appearance and speech than
in his point of view. For example, James was indulging one day in a
lengthy plaint against the hardness of one of his instructors, as the
result of which he would probably, to use his own expression, "drop an
hour"; that is, lose an hour's work for the year and be put back
one-sixtieth of his work for his degree. Harry listened attentively
enough to the narrative, but his sole comment when James finished was
the single word "Tiresome." The word was ill chosen for James' peace of
mind. If such expressions were the result of English training he could
not but think the less of English training.

The summer passed off pleasantly enough, the boys living with their
uncle and aunt at Bar Harbor. Harry saw much less of James than he had
expected, for he was away much of the time, visiting classmates and
school friends whom Harry did not know. He was obliged, too, to return
to Yale soon after the first of September for football practise. Harry
spent most of his time playing fairly happily about with his young
cousins and other people of his own age. The most interesting feature of
the summer to him was a visit to Aunt Selina at her summer place in
Vermont. This was the ancestral, ante-Revolution farm of the Wimbournes,
much rebuilt and enlarged and presented to Miss Wimbourne for her life
on the death of her late father. Here Aunt Selina was wont to gather
during the summer months a heterogeneous crowd of friends, and it was a
source of wonder and admiration to the other members of the family that
she was able to attract such a large number of what she referred to as
"amusing people." With these Harry was quite at ease, his English
training having accustomed him to associating with older and cleverer
people than himself, and it gave Aunt Selina quite a thrill of pleasure
to see a boy of eighteen partaking in the staid amusements of his elders
and meeting them on their own ground, and to think that the boy was her
own nephew. She became at length so much taken with him that a bright
idea occurred to her.

"Harry," said she one day; "what do you think of my going to live in New
Haven?"

"I think it's a fine idea," said Harry. "But where?"

"Why, in the old house, of course. That is, if you and James, or your
guardians, are willing to rent it to me. It has stood empty ever since
you left it, and I presume there is no immediate prospect of your
occupying it yourselves for some time."

"As half owner of the establishment," said Harry courteously, "I offer
you the full use of it for as long a time as you wish, free of charge."

"That's sweet of you, but it's not business. I should insist on paying
rent."

"Well, Aunt Selina, you're used to having your own way, so I presume
you will. But what makes you want to come and live in New Haven, all of
a sudden? I thought you could never bear the place."

"I had a great many friends there in the old days, and should like to
see something of them again. Besides, it will be nice to be in the same
town with you and James."

Like most people, she put the real reason last. If Harry failed to
realize from its position that it was the real reason, he learned it
unmistakably enough from what followed. The conversation wandered to a
discussion of changes in the town since Aunt Selina had lived there. She
supposed that everybody had dinner at night there now, though she
remembered the time when it was impossible to reconcile servants to the
custom. She herself would have it late, except on Sundays. Sunday never
did seem like Sunday to her without dinner in the middle of the day and
supper in the evening.

"Well," said Harry, "I hope you'll ask James and me to a Sunday dinner
occasionally."

"Good gracious, yes! Every Sunday, and supper too. That will be a
regular custom; and I want you both to feel at liberty to come up for a
meal at any time. Any time, without even telephoning beforehand. And
bring your friends; there will always be enough to eat. How stupid of me
to forget that. Of course I want you, as often as you'll come."

"We accept," said Harry, "unconditionally. We shall be glad enough to
have a decent meal once in a while, after the food we shall get in
college. James says he even gets tired of the training table, which is a
great admission, for he loves everything connected with football. Even
when we were kids, I remember, he used to love to drink barley water
with his meals; nasty stuff--they used to make me drink it in England."

Harry rattled on purposely about the first thing that came into his
head, for he noticed his aunt seemed slightly embarrassed. She was going
to New Haven to take care of James and himself, and naturally she did
not care to divulge the real reason to him. Well, she was a dear old
thing, certainly; he remembered how she had acted on his mother's death.
He was suddenly sorry that he had seen nothing of her for the last seven
years, and sorry that he had written her so irregularly during his
absence. It was pleasant to think that he would have a chance to make up
for it in the future.




CHAPTER VIII

LIVY AND VICTOR HUGO


On a certain Wednesday evening late in September Harry stood on a
certain street-corner in the city of New Haven. Surging about him were a
thousand or so youths of his own age or a little older, most of them
engaged in making noises expressive of the pleasures of reunion. It was
a merry and turbulent scene. Tall, important-looking seniors, wearing
white sweaters with large blue Y's on their chests, moved through the
crowd with a worried air, apparently trying to organize something that
had no idea whatever of being organized. They were ineffectual, but oh,
so splendid! Harry, who had almost no friends of his own there to talk
to, watched them with undisguised admiration. He reflected that James
would be one of their number a year hence, and wondered if by any chance
he himself would be one three years from now.

Just as he dismissed the probability as negligible, a sort of order
became felt among those who stood immediately about him. Men stopped
talking and appeared to be listening to something which Harry could not
hear. Then they all began shouting a strange, unmeaning succession of
syllables in concert; Harry recognized this as a cheer and lustily
joined in with it. At the end came a number; repeated three times; a
number which no one present had ever before heard bellowed forth from
three or four hundred brazen young throats; a number that had a strange
and unfamiliar sound, even to those who shouted it, and caused the
upperclassmen to break into a derisive jeer.

A new class had officially started its career, and Harry was part of it.
No one flushed more hotly than he at the jeer of the upperclassmen; no
one jeered back with greater spirit when the sophomores cheered for
their own class. No one took part more joyfully in the long and varied
program of events that filled out the rest of the evening. The parade
through the streets of the town was to him a joyous bacchanal, and the
wrestling matches on the Campus a splendid orgy. After these were over
even more enjoyable things happened, for James, with two or three
fellow-juniors--magnificent, Olympian beings!--took him in tow and
escorted him safe and unmolested through the turbulent region of York
Street, where freshmen, who had nothing save honor to fight for, were
pressed into organized hostility against sophomores, who didn't even
have that.

"Well, what did you think of it all?" asked James later.

"Oh, ripping," said Harry, "I never thought it would be anything like
this. We never really saw anything of the real life of the college when
we lived in town here, did we?"

"Not much. It all seems pretty strange to you now, I suppose, but you'll
soon get onto the ropes and feel at home. What sort of a schedule did
you get?"

"Oh, fairly rotten. They all seem to be eight-thirties. Here, you can
see," producing a paper.

"That's not so bad," pronounced James, approvingly. "Nothing on
Wednesday or Saturday afternoons, so that you can get to ball games and
things, and nothing any afternoon till five, so that you'll have plenty
of time for track work."

"Oh, yes, track work; I'd forgotten that."

"Well, you don't want to forget it; you want to go right out and hire a
locker and get to work, to-morrow, if possible. If track's the best
thing for you to go out for, that is, and I guess it is, all right.
You're too light for football, and you don't know anything about
baseball, and you haven't got a crew build."

"What is a crew build?" asked Harry.

"Well, if you put it that way, I don't know that I can tell you. It's a
mysterious thing; I've been trying to find out myself for several years.
I don't see why I haven't got a fairly good crew build myself, but they
always tell me I haven't, when I suggest going out for it. However, you
haven't got one, that's easy. So you'll just have to stick to track."

"Yes," said Harry soberly, "I suppose I shall."

Harry was what is commonly known as a good mixer, and made acquaintances
among his classmates rapidly enough to suit even the nice taste of
James. In general, however, they remained acquaintances and never became
friends. It was not that they were not nice, most of them; "ripping
fellows, all of them," Harry described them to his brother. They were,
in fact, too nice; those who lived near him were all of the best
preparatory school type, the kind that invariably leads the class during
freshman year. Harry found them conventional, quite as much so as the
English type, though in a different way. Intercourse with them failed to
give him stimulus; he found himself always more or less talking down to
them, and intellectual stimulus was what Harry needed above all things
among his friends.

There were exceptions, however. The most brilliant was that of Jack
Trotwood, probably the last man with whom Harry might have been expected
to strike up a friendship. Harry first saw him in a Latin class, one of
the first of the term. Trotwood sat in the same row as Harry, two or
three seats away from him--the acquaintance was not even of the type
that alphabetical propinquity is responsible for. On the day in question
he dropped a fountain pen, and spent some moments in burrowing
ineffectually under seats in search of it. The fugitive chattel at
length turned up directly under Harry's chair, and as he leaned over to
restore it to its owner he noticed something about his face that
appealed to him at once. He never could tell what it was; the flush that
bending over had brought to it, the embarrassment, the dismay at having
made a fuss in public, the smile, containing just the right mixture of
cordiality and formality, yet undeniably sweet withal, with which he
thanked him; perhaps it was any or all of these things. At any rate
after class, on his way back toward York Street, Harry found himself
hurrying to catch up with Trotwood, who was walking a few paces ahead of
him. Trotwood turned as he came up, and smiled again.

"That was sort of a stinking lesson, wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," said Harry, "wasn't it, though?"

"I should say! Boned for two hours on it last night before I could make
anything out of it. Gee, but this Livy's dull, isn't he?"

"Yes, awfully dull. Do you use a trot?"

"No, I haven't yet, but I'm going to, after last night. I can't put so
much time on one lesson. Do you?"

"Well, yes. That is, I shall. Do you like Latin?"

"Lord, no, not when it's like this stuff. I only took it because it
comes easier to me than most other things. Do you like it?"

"Not much. Not much good at it, either.... Well, I live here--"

"Oh, do you? so do I. Where are you?"

"Fourth floor, back. Come up, some time."

"Thanks, I will. So long."

"So long."

So started a friendship, one of the sincerest and firmest that either
ever enjoyed. And yet, as Harry pointed out afterward, it was founded on
insincerity and falsehood. Harry's whole part in this first conversation
was no more than a tissue of lies. He was extremely fond of Latin, and
was so good at it that his entire preparation for his recitations
consisted in looking up a few unfamiliar words beforehand; he could
always fit the sentences together when he was called upon to construe.
It had never occurred to him to use a translation. He was rather fond of
Livy, whose flowing and complicated style appealed to him. He gave a
false answer to every question merely for the pleasure of agreeing with
Trotwood, whom he liked already without knowing why.

The two got into the habit of doing their Latin lesson together
regularly, three times a week. Trotwood did not buy a trot, after all;
he found Harry quite as good.

"My, but you're a shark," he said in undisguised admiration one evening,
as Harry brought order and clarity into a difficult passage. "You
certainly didn't learn to do that in this country. You're English,
anyway, aren't you?"

"Lord, no; Yankee. Born in New Haven. I have lived over there for some
years, though."

"Go to school there?"

"Yes; Harrow."

"Gosh." Trotwood stared at him for a few moments in dazed silence. He
stood on the brink of a world that he knew no more of than Balboa did of
the Pacific. "What sort of a place is it?"

"Oh, wonderful."

"You played cricket, I suppose, and--and those things?"

"Rugby football, yes," said Harry, smiling.

"And you liked it, didn't you?"

"Oh, rather! Only--"

"Only what?"

"Oh, nothing. I did like it. It's a wonderful place."

"Only it's different from what you're doing now?" said Trotwood, with a
burst of insight. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"I see; I see," said Trotwood, and then he kept still. There was
something so comforting, so sympathetic and understanding about his
silence that Harry was inspired to confide in him.

"The truth is, I'm beginning to doubt whether I ought to have gone to an
English school. I'm not sure but what it would have been better for me
to go to school and college in the same country, whatever it was. You
see, after spending five or six years in learning to value certain
things, it's rather a wrench to come here and find the values all
distorted."

"I see," said Trotwood again. He wasn't sure that he did see at all, but
he felt that unquestioning sympathy was his cue.

"It's not merely the different kinds of games," went on Harry; "it's not
that they make so much more of athletics, or rather of the public side
of athletics, than they do over there, though that comes into it a lot.
It's what people do and think about and talk about and--and are, in
short. Last year, I remember, the men I went with, the sixth formers,
used to read the papers a lot and follow the debates in Parliament and
talk about such things a lot, even among themselves. Some of them used
to write Greek and Latin verse just for fun--wonderfully good, too, some
of it. And here--well, how many men in our class, how many men in the
whole college do you suppose could write ten lines of Greek or Latin
verse without making a mess of it?"

"Not too many, I'm afraid."

"Then there's debating. We used to have pretty good house debates
ourselves at school. I used to look forward to them, I remember, from
month to month, as one of the most interesting things that happened. But
of course they were nothing to a thing like the Oxford Union. You've
heard of that, I suppose? Lord, I wish some of these people here could
see one of those meetings! It would be an eye-opener."

"But we have debating here," said Trotwood, doubtfully.

"Yes, but what kind of debating? A few grinds getting up and talking
about the Interstate Commerce Commission, or some rotten, technical, dry
subject, because they think it will give them good practise in public
speaking. Everybody hates it like poison, and they're right, too, for
it's all dull, dead; started on the wrong idea. The best men in the
class won't go out for it. I wouldn't myself, now that I know what it's
like; but I thought of doing it in the summer, and spoke to my brother
about it. He didn't say anything against it, because he didn't dare;
people are always writing to the _News_ and saying what a fine thing
debating is. But he let me see pretty clearly that he didn't think much
of debating and didn't want me to go out for it, because it didn't get
you anywhere in college; _simply wasn't done_. He'd rather see me take a
third place in one track meet and never do another thing in college than
to be the captain of the debating team."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Lord, no; he wouldn't dare. No one would; technically, debating is
supposed to be a fine thing. But it doesn't get you anywhere near a
senior society, so there's an end to it.... But perhaps I'd better not
get started on that."

"No, I should think not! Heavens, a junior fraternity is about the
height of my ambition!"

Harry smiled at his friend and went on: "You see it's this way, Trotty;
you are a sensible person, and look at them in the right way. You play
about with your mandolin clubs and various other little things because
you like them, like a good dutiful boy. When the time comes, you'll be
very glad to take a senior society, if it's offered you. If it isn't,
you won't care."

"But I will, though. I don't believe I have much chance, but I know I
shall be disappointed if I don't make one, just the same."

"For about twenty-four hours, yes. Don't interrupt me, Trotty; this
isn't flattery, it's argument. You are a sensible person, as I have
said; and don't let such considerations worry you. There are lots of
other sensible persons in the class, too. Josh Traill, for one, and
Manxome, and John Fisher and Shep McGee; they're all sensible people,
and don't worry or think much about senior societies, though I suppose
they all have a good chance to make one eventually, if any one has. But
that isn't true of all the class. There is a large and important
section of it that now, in the first term of freshman year, is thinking
and talking nothing except about who will go to a junior fraternity next
year, or a senior society two years hence. It's the one subject of
conversation that seriously competes with professional baseball and
college football, which is all you hear otherwise."

"Oh, no, Harry, you're hard on us. There's automobiles. And guns. And
theaters. But why should you mind if a lot of geesers do talk about
societies?"

"Well, it makes me sick, that's all. And when I say sick, I use the word
in its British, or most vivid sense. It makes me sick, after England and
after Harrow, to see a lot of what ought to be the best fellows in the
class spending their waking hours in wondering about such rubbishy
things.--Do you happen to be aware of an ornament of our class called
Junius Neville LeGrand?"

"Golden locks and blue eyes? Yes, I know him. Acts rather well, they
say."

"Yes; he's the kind I mean. At any rate, I seem to be in his good graces
just at present. All sweetness and light; can't be too particular about
telling me how good I am at French, and that sort of thing. In fact, he
went so far to-day as to suggest that we might go over the French lesson
together, and he's coming here presently to do it."

"But what's the matter with poor Junius? I thought he was as decent as
such a painfully good-looking person could be."

"I'm not denying he's attractive. But if you'll stay for the French
lesson I think I can show you what I'm talking about."

"But I don't take French."

"No, dear boy; you won't have to know French to see what I'm going to
show you. Your role will consist of lying on the window-seat and being
occupied with day before yesterday's _News_. Now listen; I have an idea
that the beautiful Junius has recently made the discovery that I am the
brother of James Wimbourne, of the junior class, pillar of the Yale
football team and more than likely to go Bones, or anything he wants,
next May. Hence this access of cordiality to poor little me, the obscure
Freshman. I'm going to find out that, first."

"But there's no need of finding out that," said Trotwood naively. "I
told him so myself, the other day."

"A week ago Tuesday, to be exact," said Harry reflectively. "I remember
he slobbered all over me at the French class Wednesday, though he didn't
have anything to say to me on Monday. Wasn't that about it?"

"Yes," admitted Trotwood.

"Well, it proves what I was saying, but I'm sorry you did it, for it
spoils my little game with the beautiful Junius. The French lesson will
be a dull one, I fear. I rather think I shall have to end by being rude
to Junius, to keep him from making an infernal little pest of himself."

But the French lesson was not as dull as Harry feared, for the
ingratiating Junius played into Harry's hands and incidentally proved
himself not so good an actor off the stage as on. His behavior for the
first ten or fifteen minutes was all that could be desired; he sat in
Harry's Morris chair and waved a cigarette and put his host and Trotwood
at their ease with the grace and charm of a George IV. At length he and
Harry settled down to their "Notre Dame de Paris," and for a while all
went well. Then of a sudden Junius became strangely silent and
preoccupied.

"'Then they made him sit down on--' oh, Lord, what's a _brancard
bariole_?" said Harry. "You look up _brancard_, Junius, and I'll look up
the other.... Oh, yes; speckled. No; motley--that's probably nearer; it
depends on what _brancard_ means. What does it mean, anyway? Come on,
Junius, do you mean to say you haven't found it yet? What's the matter?"

"I was looking up _asseoir_," said Junius, who had been staring straight
in front of him.

"Sit, of course; you knew that. I translated that, anyway. I'll look up
_brancard_." Harry's glance, as he turned again to his dictionary, fell
upon a letter lying on his desk, waiting to be mailed. It was addressed
in Harry's own legible hand to

    Lieut.-Gen. Sir Giles Fletcher, M. P. etc.,
    204 Belgrave Square,
    London, S. W.,
    England.

It immediately occurred to him that this was the probable cause of his
classmate's preoccupation, and the joy of the chase burned anew in his
breast.

"What _are_ you staring at, Junius?" he asked a minute later, with, well
simulated unconsciousness.

"Nothing," replied Junius, returning to his book and blushing. That was
bad already, as Harry pointed out later; it would have been so easy, for
a person who really knew, to pass it off with some such remark as "I was
overcome by the address on that letter. My, but what swells you do
correspond with," etc. But the unfortunate Junius could not even be
consistent to the role of affected ignorance that he had assumed.

"I see you know Sir Giles Fletcher," he said after a while. "I saw that
envelope on the table; I couldn't help seeing the address. Is he a
friend of yours?"

"Yes," said Harry; "my uncle."

"Oh. Well, I heard a good deal about him last summer from some relations
of his ... connections, anyway; the Marquis of Moville ... and his
family. We had a shooting-lodge in Scotland, and he had a moor near
ours. He came over and shot with us once, and said ours was the best
moor in Perthshire. His brother came too; Lord Archibald Carson. He's
the one that's connected with your uncle, isn't he?"

"Yes. Married his sister."

"The Marquis is rather a decent fellow," continued Junius languidly. "Do
you know him?"

"No," said Harry calmly; "no decent person does. Nor Lord Archibald,
either. They're the worst pair of rounders in England. My uncle doesn't
even speak to them in the street."

"Oh." Junius' face was a study, but Harry was sitting so that he could
not see it, and had to be contented with Trotwood's subsequent account
of it. There was silence for a few moments, during which Harry waited
with perfect certainty for Junius' next remark.

"Well, of course we didn't know them _well_, at all. They just came and
shot with us once. That's nothing, in Scotland."

Victor Hugo was resumed after this and the translation finished without
further incident. The beautiful Junius, however, needed no urging to
"stick around" afterward, and sat for an hour or more smoking cigarettes
and chatting pleasantly about his acquaintance, carefully culled from
the New York social register and the British peerage.

"Well, Trotty," said Harry after the incubus had departed, dropping a
perfect shower of invitations to New York, Newport, Palm Beach, the
Adirondacks and the Scottish moors; "what about it? Is the beautiful
Junius, friend of dukes and scion of Crusaders, an obnoxious, unhealthy
little vermin, or isn't he?"

"I suppose he is. My, but he was fun, though! But he's going to make the
Dramatic Association after Christmas, for all that."

"Oh, yes. He'll make whatever he sets out to make, straight through.
Nobody here will ever see through him. He doesn't often give himself
away as he did to-night, of course. He talks up to each person on what
he thinks they'll like; to Josh Traill, for instance, he'll talk about
football, and to an aesthetic type, like Morton Miniver, on Japanese
prints and Maeterlinck's plays; and to you on the Glee and Mandolin
Clubs.... He has already, hasn't he? Don't attempt to deny it; your
blush betrays you! That's the way his type gets on here; talk to the
right people, and don't talk to any one else, and in addition do a
little acting or whatever you can, and it'll go hard if you don't make a
senior society before you're through.... He's clever, too; he'll make
it, all right. You see, he only gave himself away to me because he
talked on a subject where breeding counts, as well as knowledge.... It
was rash of him to try the duke and duchess stuff; he'd much better have
stuck to track, or something safe."

"See here, Harry," said Trotwood, rising to go, "I grant you that Junius
has given himself away and that he's a repulsive little beast, and all
the rest of it, but don't you think that you are taking the incident
just a little too seriously? It's an obnoxious type, all right, but it's
a common one. There are bound to be a few Juniuses in every bunch of
three or four hundred fellows wherever you take them; Oxford, or
anywhere else. Why bother about them? Let them blather on; they won't
hurt you, as long as you know them for what they are. And if Junius, or
one of his kind, gets too aggressive and unpleasant, all you have to do
is reach out your foot and stamp on him. But don't let him worry you!"

"How wise, how uplifting, how Browningesque!" breathed Harry in
satirical admiration. Trotty winced slightly and made for the door.
"Don't be a fool," Harry added, running after his retreating friend and
grabbing him. "You're dead right about all that, of course, as you
always are when you take the trouble to use your bean. There's just one
thing, though, when all is said and done, that irritates me. Junius at
Yale ends by making his senior society, in spite of all. Junius at
Oxford doesn't! Do you know why? Because there aren't any senior
societies there!"




CHAPTER IX

A LONG CHEER FOR WIMBOURNE


Harry did eventually bestir himself to the extent of hiring a locker in
the track house and going out and "exercising," as he called it, three
or four afternoons a week. He enjoyed it, but he obviously did not take
it very seriously. He was neither good enough nor enthusiastic enough to
attract the attention of the coach and captain, and it was something of
a surprise to all concerned when he took a first place in the low
hurdles in the fall meet and became entitled to wear his class numerals.

"Fine work," said the captain, a small and insignificant-looking senior,
who could pole vault to incredible heights without apparent effort.
"Macgrath tells me you haven't come within two seconds of your time
to-day in practise."

"No," said Harry; "I've been working more at the jumps."

"Well, you'd better stick to the hurdles from now on. We're weakest
there. You practise and train regularly this year and next year you'll
probably be the best man on the hurdles we have. Except Popham, of
course. But we never can depend on Popham for a meet; he's always on
pro, or something."

That evening after dinner Harry strolled into Trotwood's room.

"Say, you're the hell of a fine hurdler, you are," growled the latter,
from the depths of a Morris chair. Harry was somewhat taken aback till
his friend suddenly clutched at his hand and began swinging it up and
down like a pump handle. Then he realized that objurgation was merely
Trotwood's gentle method of expressing pleasure and affection. Delight
shone in his face; not delight in his triumph but in the thought that it
meant something to Trotwood and that he understood Trotwood's peculiar
way of showing it.

"That's all right, Trotty dear," he said. "Never mind about giving me
back my hand; I shall have no further use for it."

"I suppose you think you're quite a man now, don't you?" continued
Trotwood in the same vein. "Just because you won a damned race against
people that can't run anyway."

"Sweet as the evening dew upon the fields of Enna fall thy words, O
sage," said Harry. "You're really quite a wonderful person at bottom,
aren't you, Trotty? How did you know that the last thing I'd want was to
be slathered over with congratulations by you? Good Lord, you ought to
have heard Junius LeGrand on the subject!"

"Never mind about LeGrand. Speaking seriously, it's a great thing for
you, Harry. I don't suppose you realize that, bar that unspeakable
rounder Popham, you're the coming man in the hurdles from now on? Why,
you've got your Y absolutely cinched for next year, with him going on
the way he does!"

"So it seems," said Harry dryly. "I seem to have heard the name of
Popham before. Suppose we talk about something else.... Look, Trotty;
will you room with me next year?"

"Yes," answered Trotwood, blushing deeply, and continued, after a pause:
"I've wanted to arrange that for some time, but I thought you'd better
be the one to mention the subject first."

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know; I thought if I asked you, you'd accept out of plain
good nature, for fear of throwing me down, and I didn't want that."

"Well, as it happened, I was determined to let the first advances come
from you, for very much the same reason. Until just now, when I was so
afraid you'd room with some one else that I couldn't wait another
minute. I've lost all sense of maidenliness, you see."

"Maidenliness be hanged. You don't have to be maidenly when you've won
your numerals at track."

That was on a Saturday. James had been out of town with the football
team and did not return till late that evening. The next day he and
Harry walked out to their old home together for their regular Sunday
dinner with Aunt Selina. On the way they discussed at length the fine
points of the game of the day before, in which James had played right
half with great distinction. Presently he inquired:

"By the way, how about the fall meet yesterday? How did you come out?"

"Oh, fairly well. I only entered in the low hurdles, but I came out all
right."

"All right?"

"Yes--first."

"What? Do you mean to say that you got first place in the hurdles?"

"Substantially that, yes."

"Good Lord. I hadn't heard a thing. Went straight to bed when I got home
last night and only got up this morning in time for Chapel. Why, it's
the best ever, Harry! You get your numerals. You must be about the first
man in your class to do that. What was your time?"

"Pretty rotten. Twenty-five two."

"Not so bad. Gee, but that's fine for you, child!"

"I'm glad you're pleased, James."

"It isn't merely the getting of your numerals in the fall meet, either.
It means that you'll be one of the main gazabes in the track world from
now on, if you work. There's no one here that can make better time than
you in the hurdles, bar Popham, who makes such a fool of himself they
can't use him, mostly."

"Oh, damn," said Harry softly and slowly.

"What's the matter? Forgotten something?"

"No. I can't forget something, that's the trouble."

"Well, what _is_ biting you?"

"Only that if I hear the name of Popham much more, I believe I shall go
mad on the spot."

"Oh, don't take it so hard as that. Most likely you'll be able to beat
him out anyway, if you make progress, and he's likely to drink himself
out of college anyway before--"

"Shut up, James, for Heaven's sake!" There was real anger in Harry's
tone, and James turned and looked at him with surprise. "You're as bad
as every one else--worse! Don't _you_ know me better than to suppose
that all my chances of happiness in college, in this world, in the next,
depend on Popham's drinking himself to death? Do you think it's pleasant
for me to know that every one considers my--my success, I suppose you'd
call it, dependent on whether that rounder stays off probation or not?
You make me sick, James."

James remained silent a moment. "No offense meant," he said gently. "I'm
sure I'm sorry if--"

"Oh, rot!" Harry disclaimed offense by slipping his hand through his
brother's arm. "Only you don't seem to _see_, James. That's what bothers
me."

"Well, no; I'm afraid I don't. It will be a great thing for you if you
get your Y next year. Do you think it's low of me to wish that Popham,
who is no good anyway, should get out of your way?"

"No; the wish is kindly meant, of course.... But this idea that my whole
worldly happiness is tied up with Popham takes the pleasure out of it
all, somehow. I don't give a continental whether I get my Y or not,
now."

"Oh, come on. Don't be morbid."

"No. I've a good mind not to go out for track any more."

James made no answer to this, and the two walked on in silence till they
had reached the house. As they walked up the front steps James said:

"You must tell Aunt Selina all about this. She'll be awfully glad to
hear about it."

"Including Popham," said Harry in a low voice. James made no reply to
this, for it scarcely called for a reply, but his lips were ever so
slightly compressed as he walked through the front door.

During the idle months that followed Harry used his spare time for
efforts in another and wholly different direction--a literary one. He
became what is known in the parlance of the college as a "_Lit._
heeler"; that is, he contributed regularly to the _Yale Literary
Magazine_. For the most part his contributions were accepted, and in the
course of a few months his literary reputation in his class equaled his
athletic fame. His verses, written chiefly in the Calverly vein, were
equally sought for by both the _Lit._ and the _Record_, the humorous
publication, and his prose, which generally took the form of short
stories with a great deal of very pithy, rapid-fire dialogue in them,
was looked upon favorably even by the reverend dons whose duty it was to
review the undergraduates' monthly offerings to the muses.

"Has a cinder track been laid to the top of Parnassus?" wrote one who
rather prided himself on his quaint and whimsical fancy. "Do poets
hurdle and sprint where once they painfully climbed? Do the joyous Nine
now stand at the top holding a measuring tape and wet sponges, instead
of laurel wreaths, as of old? Assuredly we shall have to answer in the
affirmative after reading the story 'Quest and Question' which appeared
in the last issue of the _Lit._, for not only is the writer of this, the
best and brightest offering of the month, a mere freshman, but a
freshman who, it seems, has distinguished himself so far for physical
rather than mental agility. The 'question' about Mr. Wimbourne appears,
indeed, to be whether the fleetness of his metrical feet can equal that
of his material ones," etc.

All this amused Harry, who, it is to be feared, sometimes laughed at
rather than with his reviewers; and it gave him something to think about
outside of his studies and his classmates, both of which palled upon him
heavily at times. But he was irritated from time to time by the way in
which even literary recreation was looked upon, by the undergraduate
body. A casual and kindly remark of a classmate, "Hullo, I see you're
ahead in the _Lit._ competition," would often throw him into a state of
restless depression from which only the soothing presence of Trotwood
could reclaim him.

"Isn't it awful, Trotty," he once complained; "Euterpe (she's the lyric
muse, you know), has deserted me. I haven't been able to write a line
for a month. Of course the loss to the world of letters is almost
irreparable, but that's not the worst of it. You see, if I can't write,
I shan't do well in the _Lit._ competition, and if I don't do well I
shan't make the chairmanship, and if I don't make the chairmanship in
the competition, I shan't make a senior society, and wouldn't that be
terrible, Trotty?"

"Cheer up, old cow; you probably won't make one anyway," suggested
Trotty reassuringly, and Harry laughed.

       *       *       *       *       *

The football game with Harvard was played in New Haven that year, and
Harry took Aunt Selina to it. Aunt Selina had never seen James play, and
was anxious to go on that account, though she had not been to a game for
many years, and even the last one she had seen was baseball.

"You must explain the fine points of the game to me, my dear," she told
him as they drove grandly out to the field in her victoria. "You see, I
have not been to a game since the seventies, and I daresay the rules
have changed somewhat since then. I used to take a great interest in it,
but I've forgotten all about it, now."

They were obliged to abandon the victoria at some distance from the
stands, rather to Aunt Selina's consternation, for she had secretly
supposed that they would watch the play from the carriage, as of old.
She was consequently somewhat bewildered when, after fifteen or twenty
minutes of such shoving and shouldering as she had never experienced,
she found herself in a vast amphitheater which forty thousand people
were trying to convert into pandemonium, with very fair success. As they
wormed their way along the sidelines toward their seats, a deafening
roar suddenly burst from the stands on the other side of the field,
which caused Aunt Selina to clutch her nephew's arm in affright.

"Harry, what _is_ it?" she asked. "_What_ are they making that frightful
noise about?"

"That's the Harvard cheer," replied Harry calmly. "You'll hear the Yale
people answering with theirs in just a minute."

The Yale people did answer, but it would be too much to say that Aunt
Selina heard. She was vaguely conscious of going up some steps and being
propelled past a line of people to what Harry told her were their seats,
though she could see nothing but a narrow bit of board. Nevertheless she
sat down, and tried to accustom her ears and eyes to chaos; just such a
chaos, she thought, as Satan fell into, only larger and noisier.

"Here we are," Harry was saying cheerfully, "just in time, too. The
teams will be coming on in a minute or two. What splendid seats James
has got us, bang on the forty yard line. Why, we're practically in the
cheering section! Do you know the Yale cheer, Aunt Selina? You must
cheer too, you know; it's expected of you.... Here comes the Yale
team...."

Aunt Selina lost the rest, as chaos broke forth with redoubled vigor.
She saw a group of blue-sweatered figures run diagonally across the
field, and thought the game had begun.

"Which is James?" she asked feverishly, feeling chaos work its way into
her own bosom. "Do you think he'll win, Harry? Oh, I do hope he'll
win!"

When the team lined up for its short preliminary practise Harry pointed
James out to her in his place at right halfback.

"I see," she said, gazing intently through her field glasses, "he's one
of those three little ones at the back. Does that mean that he'll be the
one to kick the ball? I'd rather he kicked it than be in the middle of
all that tearing about. Poor boy, how pale he looks!"

"He won't look pale long," said Harry grimly.

Aunt Selina by this time felt every drop of sporting blood in her course
through her veins. "Which is the pitcher, Harry?" she inquired
knowingly, and was not in the least abashed when her nephew informed her
that there was no pitcher in football.

"Well, well," said she indulgently, "isn't there really? Things do
change so; I can't pretend to keep up with them. I remember there used
to be a pitcher in my time, and Loring Ainsworth used to be it."

Just then the teams set to in deadly earnest, and conversation died. In
bewildered silence Aunt Selina watched the twenty-two players as they
ran madly and inexplicably up and down the field, pursued by the
fiendish yells of the spectators, and wondered if in truth, she were
dead and this--well, purgatory.

She made no attempt to understand anything that was going on down on the
field, or even to watch it. She turned her attention to Harry; he seemed
to be the most familiar and explicable object in sight, though she
wondered why he should leap to his feet from time to time shouting such
nonsense as "Block it, you ass!" or "Nail him, Sammy, nail him!" or
"First down! Yay-y-y!" Presently she became aware of a growing intensity
in the excitement. The players seemed to be moving gradually down toward
one end of the field, and short periods of breathless silence in the
audience punctuated the shouts. She heard cries of "Touchdown!
Touchdown!" emanate from all directions, but they meant nothing to her.
The players moved further and further away, till they were all huddled
into one little corner of the field. Every time they tumbled over
together in that awful human scrap-heap she shut her eyes, and did not
open them again till she was sure it was all right. Finally, after one
of those painful moments, there was a relapse of chaos, fifty times more
severe than any of the previous attacks. Women, as well as men,
shrieked like maniacs, and threw things into the air. Trumpets bellowed
and rattles rattled; somewhere in the background was a sound of a brass
band, of an organized cheer. Hats and straw mats flew through the air in
swarms.

"What is it?" shrieked Aunt Selina. "Who won? Who won?"

"It's a touchdown!" Harry shouted in her ear. "For Yale! It counts
five!" (It did, then.) "And James did it! James has made a touchdown!"
And in a moment Aunt Selina had the unusual pleasure of hearing her own
name shouted in concert by ten or fifteen thousand people at the top of
their voices.

"--rah rah rah Wimbourne! Wimbourne! Wimbourne!" shouted the crowd, at
the end of the long Yale cheer, and they went on shouting it, nine
times; then another long cheer, and nine more Wimbournes, and so on.

It was a great moment. Is it to be wondered that Aunt Selina, who did
not know a touchdown from a nose-guard, shrieked with the others and
wept like a baby? Is it strange that Harry, to whom the event meant more
than to any other person among the forty thousand, should have forgotten
himself in the expression of his natural joy; should have forgotten
where and what and who he was, everything but the one absorbing fact
that James had made a touchdown? We think not, and we have reason to
believe that every man jack out of the forty thousand would have agreed
with us. One did, we know. She thought it was the most natural thing in
the world, though it did set her coughing and disarranged her hat and
veil beyond all hope of recovery without the assistance of a mirror, not
to mention a comb and hairbrush. And Harry needn't apologize any more,
for she wouldn't hear of it; and the way she had behaved herself, in the
first excruciating moment, was a Perfect Disgrace. So they were quits on
that matter, and might she introduce Mr. Carruthers? Mr. Wimbourne. Was
Harry surprised that she knew who he was? Well, she would explain, and
also tell him who she was herself, if she could ever get the hair out of
her mouth and eyes.

For it must be explained that Harry, in his transports of exultation,
had behaved in a very unseemly manner toward his next-door neighbor on
the right hand. Aunt Selina, who sat on his left, had sunk, exhausted
with joy and excitement, to her seat as soon as she was told that James
had made a touchdown, and Harry, whose feelings were of a nature that
demanded immediate physical expression, had unconsciously relieved them
on the person of his other neighbor, who still remained standing; never
noticing who or what she was, even that she happened to be a young and
attractive woman. Harry never could remember what he had done in those
hectic seconds that immediately preceded his awareness of her existence;
according to her own subsequent account he had slapped her violently
several times on the back, put his arm around her, shaken her by the
scruff of her neck and shouted inarticulate and impossible things in her
ear.

The interval of hair-recovery was tactfully designed to give Harry a
moment's grace in which to recall, if possible, his neighbor's identity;
she was perfectly able to tell who she was with the hair in her mouth
and eyes, proof of which was that she had been talking in that condition
for the past few minutes. Harry was grateful for the intermission.

"Why of course I know you!" he exclaimed, as soon as the dying away of
the last nine Wimbournes made conversation feasible. "It was stupid of
me not to remember before. Do you remember; dancing school?.... It must
have been ten years ago, though; and you _have_ changed!"

"Yes, I suppose I have changed--thank Heaven!" The exclamation given
with a smile through a now unimpeachably neat veil, seemed in some
subtle, curious way to vindicate Harry, to emphasize his innocence in
failing to recognize her. "I know what I looked like then, all long
black legs and stringy yellow hair--"

"Not stringy," said Harry, recognizing his cue; "silky. I remember the
long black--the stockings, too. And lots of white fluffy stuff in
between; lace, and all that.... And we used to dance a good deal
together, because we were the two youngest there, and you were so nice
about it, too, when you wanted to dance with the older boys. But how did
you know me? Haven't I changed, too?"

"Oh, yes; but not so much. Boys don't. Beside, I knew your aunt by
sight...."

"I'm sorry, I forgot," said Harry. "Aunt Selina, do you know Miss
Elliston? And Mr. Carruthers, my aunt."

"Madge Elliston," corrected the girl, smiling, "you know my mother, I
think, Miss Wimbourne."

"Indeed I do, my dear; I am delighted to meet her daughter," said Aunt
Selina, who had had time to recover her customary _grande dame_ air, "I
knew her when she was Margaret Seymour; we used to be great friends."

And so forth, through the brief but blessed respite that follows a
touchdown. There is no need to quote the conversation in full, for it
degenerated immediately into the polite and commonplace. If we could
give you a picture of Madge Elliston during it, if we could do justice
to the sweetness and deference of her manner toward Aunt Selina, her
occasional smile, and the easy way she managed to bring both Harry and
Mr. Carruthers into the conversation, that would be a different thing.

The next kick-off brought it to an end, and all parties concerned turned
their attention once more to the field. Harry attempted to explain some
of the rudiments of the game to Aunt Selina, who confessed that her
recollections of the rules of the seventies were not of material
assistance to her enjoyment. And so passed the first half.

"Do you know, I believe I know exactly what you're thinking of?" was the
next thing Harry heard from his right. It was between the halves; Miss
Elliston was in an intermission of Mr. Carruthers, and Harry was
listening in silence to "Fair Harvard," which was being rendered across
the field.

"Do you?" he replied. "Well, I'll tell you if you're right."

"You were thinking of 'Forty Years On.'"

The smile died from Harry's face, and he paused a moment before
replying, almost gruffly:

"Yes, I was, as a matter of fact. How did you guess it?"

"Oh, I know all about you, you see." She stopped, and her silence seemed
to Harry to mean "I'm sorry if I've hurt you; but I wish you'd go on and
talk to me, and not be absurd." So he threw off his pique and went on:

"I don't know how you know about my going to Harrow, nor how you know
anything about 'Forty Years On,' and I don't care much; but I put it to
you, as man to man, isn't it a song that's worth thinking about?"

"It is! There never was such a song."

"Not even 'Fair Harvard'?"

"No."

"Not even 'Bright College Years,' to which you will shortly be treated?"

"Not even that." They exchanged smiles, and Harry continued, with
pleasure in his voice:

"Well, it is a relief to hear some one say that, in a place where 'For
God, for country, and for Yale' is considered the greatest line in the
whole range of English poetry. But of course I'm a heretic."

"You like being a heretic?" The question took him by surprise; it was
out of keeping, both in substance and in the way it was asked, with Miss
Elliston's behavior up to this point. He gathered his wits and replied:

"Oh, yes; who doesn't? Is there any satisfaction like that of knowing
that every one else is wrong and you alone are right?"

"I suppose not! That's the main danger of heresy, don't you think?
Subjective, not objective. Being burned at the stake doesn't matter,
much; it's good for one rather than otherwise. But thinking differently
from other people merely for the pleasure of being different, and above
them--there's danger in that, isn't there?"

"Then there is no such thing as honest heresy?"

"That was not what I said." This remark, spoken gently and with a
quizzical little smile, had none of the sharpness that cold type seems
to give it. Adopting something of her manner, Harry pursued:

"But I am not an honest heretic?"

"I didn't say that, either." Again the smile, which seemed to be
directed as much toward herself as toward him, softened the words. "And
aren't you rather trespassing on female methods of argument?"

"I don't understand."

"Applying abstract remarks to one's own case; that's what women are
conventionally supposed to do. But don't let's get metaphysical. What I
want to say is that, though I think 'Forty Years On' is incomparably
finer, as a song, than 'Bright College Years,' I wouldn't have it
changed if I could. The 'For God, for country, and for Yale' part, I
mean; and 'the earth is green or white with snow,'--a woefully
under-appreciated line.... There is something priceless, to me, in the
thought of a great crowd of men, young and old, getting up and bellowing
things like that together, never doubting but that it's the greatest
poetry ever written. That's worth a great deal more, to me, than good
poetry.... They're all such dears, too; the absurdity never hurts them a
bit!"

"By George," said Harry slowly, "you're right. I never thought of that
before. It is rather a priceless thought."

"Yes, isn't it? It's the full seriousness of it that makes it so good.
'For God, for country, and for Yale'--it's no anti-climax to them; it's
the way they really feel. It's absurd, it's ridiculous. But I love it,
for some reason."

"That's it. You make me see it all differently.... You mean, I suppose,
that if we could start from the beginning with a clean slate, we would
choose 'Forty Years On,' or something like it, every time. But now that
we've got the other, and they sing it like that, it seems just as good,
in its way ... so that we wouldn't like to change it...."

He wanted to add something like "What an extraordinary young person you
must be, to talk of such things to me, a stranger, under such
conventional circumstances," but a simultaneous recurrence of Mr.
Carruthers and the game prevented him. It is doubtful if he would have
dared, anyway.

He spoke no more to her that day, except to say good-by and ask if he
might call. Nor did he think much more of her. We would not give a false
impression on this point; he was really much more interested in the game
than in Miss Elliston, and after the second half was fairly started
scarcely gave her another thought. But in the moment that intervened
between the end of their conversation and the absorbing scurry of the
kick-off it did occur to him that Madge Elliston had grown up into an
unusual girl, a girl whom he would like to know better. Their short
conversation had been as different from the ordinary run of football
game civilities between young men and maidens as champagne from water.
Harry liked girls well enough, and got on well with them, but in general
they bored him. He had never met one, except Beatrice Carson, with whom
he was able to conduct anything approaching an intellectual
give-and-take, and even Beatrice was no more than an able follower in
his lead. Madge Elliston was a bird of a very different feather; she had
undeniably led him during every moment of their conversation. It was a
new sensation; he wondered if it would always be like that, in future
conversations.

But football was uppermost in his mind for the remainder of that day, at
least. He was proud and pleased beyond all expression about James, and
longed to grasp his hand in congratulation. But he had to go all the way
home with Aunt Selina after the game was over, and when at last he
reached Berkeley Oval he met James hurrying away somewhere and could
give him only the briefest and vaguest expressions of pleasure. On
returning to York Street he learned that the team was to have a banquet
that evening, in the course of which they would elect their captain for
the next year. It occurred to him that it would be nice if James were
elected, and it gave him pleasure to hear Trotwood and others say that
his chance was as good as any one's.

He stayed up to hear the result of the election, which when it came was
disappointing. James had missed the honor, less, apparently, because he
was not good enough, than because some one else was considered even
better. Harry was sorry, though he lost no sleep over it. When he saw
James next morning, he spoke first of what was uppermost in his heart.

"James," he said impulsively, seizing his brother's hand and hanging on
to it as he spoke; "I want to say a whole lot more about yesterday. I
don't mind saying you're the greatest thing that ever came down the
pike, and I'm proud to own you!" and more in the same vein, which James
received with smiling protests and remarks of a self-depreciatory
nature. But when Harry ended up "And I'm sorry as heck about the
captaincy," his manner changed.

"Oh, that's all right," he said. His face became grave, his whole
attitude seemed to add: "And we won't talk any more about that, please;
it's a sore subject."

Harry's easy flow of talk stopped short, and a new feeling filled his
mind. "Good Heavens, James cares, actually cares about the confounded
thing," he thought, and dropped his brother's hand.




CHAPTER X

RUMBLINGS


"Please, sir, could you give me any dope for the _News_ about your
coming back to coach the football team?" asked a timid voice from the
doorway.

"No, heeler, no; I've already said I wouldn't give anything about that
till I made up my mind, and I haven't yet." Thus James, more petulantly
than was his wont, from his chair below the green-shaded lamp. The
heeler, obviously a freshman, blinked disappointedly through the
half-gloom for a few seconds and then moved to go.

"Wait a bit," said James, his good-humor restored; "I'm sorry, heeler.
But when I tell you that you're the thirteenth person that has come in
at that door since seven o'clock, and that I've got a hundred pages of
economics to read for to-morrow, perhaps you'll understand why I'm a
little snappy about being interrupted."

"That's all right," murmured the heeler vaguely. He was used to being
snapped at by prominent seniors, but he was not used to being apologized
to by them, and was not sure how he liked it.

"I tell you what I'll do, though," went on James. "I'll give you a
locker notice that ought to have been put in long ago. Here." He reached
for the heeler's notebook and wrote in it: "All senior members of the
football squad are requested to remove their clothes from their lockers
as the space will be wanted for spring practice." "There, that'll put
you fifty words to the good, anyway," he said brightly, and the heeler
went his way in peace.

James had conducted himself most creditably during his college course,
and in the course of a few months would graduate if not exactly in a
blaze of glory, at least in a very comfortable radiance. His standard of
values had been a simple but satisfactory one; first, Football; second,
Curriculum; third, Other Things. Any number of the steadier and worthier
portion of the college world make this their creed, and find it works
out extremely well. In the case of James, at least, such a standard
gave a sane and well-balanced view of life. He took football with the
most deathly seriousness, it is true, but only in its season, and its
season, owing to the rigors of the New England climate, lasts hardly
more than two months out of the twelve. During that time James
practically hibernated when not actually on the football field, lived
mainly on boiled rice and barley water, indulged in no amusements or
vices, went about thoughtful and preoccupied, scarcely spoke even to his
most intimate friends, studied only just enough to keep his stand above
the danger mark and slept, as Harry rather vividly put it, "anywhere
from thirty to forty hours out of the twenty-four." Out of the football
season he was cheerful, cordial, loved the society of his fellows,
smoked, drank in moderation, went to the theater, played cards, ate
every kind of food he could lay his hands on and studied with a very
faithful and intelligent interest. His classmates admired him during the
football season, and loved him the rest of the year. Generally speaking,
he conformed closely to his type; but his type was one of the best the
college evolved.

After the _News_ heeler left him on the evening in question he read
economics uninterruptedly for about half an hour; then he took a
cigarette from his case and lit it. The case was the gold one that Harry
had brought him from Europe. He thought of Harry as he lay back in his
chair after lighting the cigarette, and it is not too much to say that
the thought of him impaired the pleasure of the first few puffs. Harry
was, indeed, the chief, the only cloud on the horizon. It was too bad;
he had begun so well. No one could have desired a more brilliant
freshman year for him, what with his track work and his literary success
and the excellent stand he maintained in his studies. And yet now, at
about the middle of his sophomore year, he seemed to be going in any
direction but that of fulfilling the promise of his first year. James
could see for himself, and he had heard things.... Perhaps, after all,
though, it was merely that he had begun too well; that his promise was
fulfilled before it was fairly given. Many men graduated from college
high in the esteem of their classmates without having distinguished
themselves as much as Harry had in one year. Perhaps he was really going
on exactly as well as before, only people were just beginning to find
out that he was only an American boy of nineteen, not Apollo and Hermes
rolled into one. That was what James hoped; but it occurred to him that
if such had been the case the idea would have come to him as a
certainty, not as a hope.

Harry himself sauntered into the room before the cigarette was smoked
out. Well, his outward appearance had not suffered, at any rate, was
James' first thought. The slimness of his figure was unimpaired; his
features retained their clear-cut lines of youth and innocence; his
complexion shone with the glow of health, nothing else.

"Give me a cigarette, and hurry up about it, too," were his first words.
"I've just been under a severe mental strain.... It will probably be the
last one for many moons, too, if I start in training to-morrow, like a
good little boy."

"Oh, of course; you've been to the call for track candidates," replied
his brother, handing over the desired commodities. "Well, was it a good
meeting?"

"Inspiring. Don't you see what a glow of enthusiasm I'm in? First
Dimmock got up and opened his mouth. 'Fellows,' he said, 'I'm darned
glad to see you all here to-night, but I wish there were more of you. I
see fewer men out than usual, and we need more than ever this year, and
I'll tell you why. We want to do better in the intercollegiates. We
think we are strong enough for the dual meets, but we want to make a
better show in the intercollegiates. But we've got plenty of good
material here, and with that we ought to get together and work hard and
show lots of the old Yale spirit, for we'll need it all in the
intercollegiates.'

"Well, Dimmock is a good soul, if he has got a face like a boiled cod,
and we cheered and clapped and patted him on the back. Then Macgrath
took the floor. He said he thought we were going to have a good year,
for there was plenty of material in sight, though he was sorry to see so
few there to-night. He hoped we weren't forgetting what the Yale spirit
was, because we particularly wanted to do well in the intercollegiates.
He spoke of the new cinder track and the lengthening of the two-twenty
yard straight-away, and ended with a hope that we would all get together
and do Yale credit in the intercollegiates.

"Then McCullen, who as perhaps you know, is manager, got up. As he is a
particular friend of yours I won't try to give an exact account of what
he said. His main points, however, were the fewness of the candidates
present, the probable wealth of good material in hand, the new cinder
track and the desirability of doing well in the intercollegiates.
Lastly, a man called Hodgman, or Hodgson, or something, who was captain
back in the eighties somewhere, was introduced. He spoke first of the
new cinder track and straight-away, from which he lightly and gracefully
went on to congratulating the team on having so much good material this
year--though he saw fewer there to-night than he had expected. He closed
with a touching peroration in which he intimated that the track team had
in general come off well in regard to Harvard and Princeton, and what
was wanted now was a little better showing against the other
universities in the intercollegiates.... Oh, it was a glorious meeting!"

James fully appreciated the humor of this narrative, as the sympathetic
twinkle in his eye betrayed, but he merely observed after Harry had
finished:

"Well, that's true; they ought to do better in the intercollegiates.
There's a good deal of feeling about it among the graduates, too, I
believe."

"Oh, it's _true_ enough." Harry, who felt the heat of the room, opened
the window and lay down at full length on the window-seat, directly in
the draught. "I'd take the word of those four noble, strapping,
true-hearted men for it any day in the year. Only--only--oh, heck! Why
should I have to sit up and listen to those boobs spend an hour in
telling me that one thing? And what the devil do I care about it anyway,
if it's the truest thing that ever happened?"

"Well, I care about it, though I'm no good at track and not a member of
the team," commented James.

"Perhaps if you were on it you wouldn't care quite so much.--Well, I'll
train and I'll practise regularly, not because I want Yale to win the
intercollegiates, but because I think it's good for me. It is good for
the figure, and I'd rather have my muscles hard than soft."

"Well, it comes to the same thing, if you keep to it, and don't go
gassing to the track people about your reasons."

"I shall go gassing to every human being I've a mind to.--And I'll tell
you one thing there's going to be trouble about, if they try to use
coercion, or the Yale spirit gag. That's about the Easter vacation;
there's some talk of making the track people stay here and train. I have
other plans for Easter."

"What are they?--For Heaven's sake, shut that window! What a fool you
are, lying in a draught like that, with the track season beginning."

"James, you are every bit as bad as any of them, at heart," said Harry,
shutting the window. "You wouldn't give a continental if I caught
pneumonia and died in frightful agony, except for its cutting the
university of a possible place in the intercollegiates.--Why, I'm going
down to the Trotwoods' place in North Carolina. Trotty's going to have a
large and brilliant house-party. Beatrice is going; he met her in New
York not long ago and took a great shine to her." For Beatrice, in the
company of Aunt Miriam, was paying a visit to the country of her dreams.

"What?" said James, pricking up his ears. "Beatrice going? Why hasn't
Trotty asked me?"

"Didn't dare, I suppose," said Harry indifferently. "I'll make him,
though, if you like. That's the way the King's visits are arranged; he
says he'd like to visit some distinguished subject, and a third party
tells the distinguished subject, who asks the King, who accepts. It's
complicated, but it gets there in the end."

James did not seem particularly interested in points of etiquette in
royal households.

"What do you make out of this business of the Carsons?" he asked.

"What business?"

"Hadn't you heard? Aunt C. told me about it when I was there last
Sunday. Beatrice's mother has made up her mind to sue for a divorce, and
Beatrice has quarreled with her about it."

"Good Lord! No, I hadn't heard a thing. I knew what the father was, of
course.... Has anything in particular happened?"

"Apparently, yes. Aunt C. can tell you more exactly than I. Beatrice has
confided the whole thing to her--they're thick as thieves already; she
gets on better with her than with Aunt Miriam, even. It seems that the
husband, Lord Archibald, is on to the fact that his wife has had a good
deal of money to spend lately; Uncle Giles having given her a lot since
he got that--"

"Yes, I know. Go on."

"Well, that's about the whole thing. He's been bullying her, making her
give it up to him ... and one thing and another, till she got desperate,
and decided to try for a complete divorce. There's plenty of ground,
even for English law ... but Beatrice's idea is that there's no need. Of
course, it will mean a lot of scandal. She says that if she had been
there to deal with him there would have been no talk about it, and that,
at worst, a separation would have been all that was necessary."

"Poor Lady Archie! She has had a tough time; I shall be glad to see her
well out of it. A divorce--! Well, she has more sense than I gave her
credit for."

"It seems to me that Beatrice is quite right," said James, a trifle
stiffly. "I should have thought that a divorce was the thing most to be
avoided. It's not like an American divorce.... I understand her point
very well."

Harry did not reply to this; he simply growled--made a curious sound in
the bottom of his throat. It amounted to a polite way of saying
"Nonsense!" Apparently James accepted the implied rebuke, for he said no
more on the subject. His brother also was silent for some time and gazed
thoughtfully out on the lights of the Campus. "I've got troubles of my
own, James," he said presently. "Have you heard anything about last
night yet?"

"Last night? No; what?"

"Well, you've heard of Junius LeGrand, in our class?"

"The actress? Yes."

"Well, he's become rather a power in the class; not only he is making
straight for the Dramat. presidency, but he's more or less the center of
a certain clique; the social register, monogrammed cigarettes,
champagne-every-night and abroad-every-summer type; the worst of it,
that is. Well, I had a dreadful scene with him last night. I got a
thrill and called him names, and he didn't like it."

"What happened?"

"There was a whole bunch of us sitting round at Mory's, and I was
talking partly in French, as I usually do when--when mildly excited, and
referred to him as a 'petite ordure.' Of course that isn't a pretty
thing to call a person, even in French, and I probably shouldn't have
said it if I hadn't been drinking. I meant it all, though, and was
willing to stand by it, so when he got mad I called him other and worse
things, in English. He wasn't tight, but he was pretty furious by that
time, and there'd have been a free fight if people hadn't held us
apart."

"That's pretty poor, Harry," said James gravely, after a moment's
consideration. "I don't mean your hating LeGrand--though you needn't
have actually come to quarreling with him. But your being tight and he
not puts you in the wrong right off.--What's all this about your
drinking, anyway?"

"I don't, so you could notice it.... That was the first time I ever got
carried beyond myself, except about once--or twice. I'm not fond of the
stuff; I only drink when I want to be cheered up."

"That's bad, too; it's much worse to drink when you're in bad spirits
than when you're in good," said James, with a wisdom beyond his
experience.

"After I've drunk, the good spirits are in me," retorted Harry, with
rather savage humor.

"It's no joking matter. Harry, will you cut it out entirely, if I ask
you to?"

"You'll have to do some tall asking, I'm afraid.--I don't like you much
when you preach, James. I came here for sympathy, not sermons."

"You won't get me to sympathize with your making a beast of yourself."

"James, you know perfectly well you were tight as a tick at the football
banquet in Boston last fall."

"I'm no paragon, I admit."

"You say that as if you thought you were, and expected me to say so. No,
you're right--you're not. There!"

James' humor suddenly changed. His grave face relaxed into a smile, he
rose from his chair and wandered to the end of the room and back to the
window-seat.

"All right, we'll leave it at that; I'm not." He stood for a moment
hands in pockets, smiling down at his brother. "It's nice to find one
point we can agree on, anyway.... I won't bother you. After all, I
suppose there's not much danger."

"No ... I don't think I should ever really get to like the stuff." But
Harry did not smile and fall in with his brother's mood; he had too much
on his mind still. "I haven't told you the most disagreeable part of
it," he went on. "Something happened to-day that made me sorry I had
made a fool of myself. Shep McGee came to me to-day and said that he'd
heard about our little _coup de theatre_, and that he was sorry, but
being one of Junius' particular friends he couldn't be friendly with me
any more unless I apologized. I was sorry, because I've always liked
Shep and got on very well with him."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, of course I was pretty peeved, and I messed it up still further. I
told him I was glad he'd spoken, because henceforth my acquaintance
would not be recruited conspicuously from Junius' special friends. I
said that, strange as it might seem, I felt myself able to hand him,
Shep, over to Junius' complete possession without a tear. I added that I
thought he would find it safer in the future to choose his friends
exclusively from the cause of Christ, and suggested that he might try to
convert Junius to the same august organization...."

Some explanation may be necessary to show why this remark outraged
James' feelings to the extent it did. The organization to which Harry
referred was Dwight Hall, the college home of the Y. M. C. A., Bible
study classes, city and foreign mission work, in all of which branches
of religious and semi-religious activity many of the worthiest
undergraduates interest themselves. James particularly admired the
organization and those who worked in it; he would have gone in for some
department of its work himself had he possessed the qualities of a
religious leader. Most of his best friends were Dwight Hall workers; the
senior society to which he belonged was notorious for taking many of
them into its fold yearly--so much so, indeed, that it has become a
popular myth that an underground passage exists between Dwight Hall and
the society hall.

Consequently, Harry's contemptuous epithet, together with the tone in
which he uttered it was quite enough to shock and pain James very much.
But what put him out even more was the thought that Harry had said this
to Shep McGee. The latter was one of the most respected men in Harry's
class, and James had happened to take a particular fancy to him. He
rather wondered at McGee's making a friend of such a person as LeGrand,
but he did not stop to think about that now.

"Harry," said he in a sharp, dry voice, "I think that's the rottenest
remark I ever heard you or any one else make--if you used that
expression to McGee."

"I did."

"I never thought you were capable of saying such a rotten thing, and I
don't mind your knowing what I think of it. Are you going to apologize
to McGee?"

"No."

"Well, I shall. If I can't apologize on your behalf, at least I can
apologize for being your brother! What the devil do you mean by saying
such a thing, in cold blood, to such a man? If you don't believe in the
work yourself, can't you let other people believe in it? What do you
believe in, anyway? Do you call yourself a Christian? Do you call
yourself a gentleman? Do you flatter yourself that McGee isn't a hundred
times a better man than you are?"

"Rumblings from the underground passage." This remark, given with a
cold, hard little smile, in which there was no geniality, no humor, even
of a mistaken nature, amounted to a direct insult. Any reference made to
a Yale man about his senior society by an outsider, be it a brother or
any one else, is looked upon as a breach of etiquette--was at that time,
at any rate. Harry's remark was worse than that; it was a rather
cowardly thrust, for he was insulting a thing that James, by reason of
the secrecy to which he was bound, could not defend.

James did not reply; he simply grabbed up a hat and flung himself out of
the room. Harry listened to his footsteps retreating down the stairs
with a sinking heart; all his anger, all his resentment ebbed with them,
and by the time they had died away there was nothing left but hopeless,
repentant wretchedness. In the last twenty-four hours he had made a
public disgrace of himself, he had fallen out with one of his best
friends, and he had wounded the feelings of the last person on earth he
wanted to hurt. And all because of his asinine convictions, because he
thought his ideals were a little higher than other men's, his honesty a
little more impeccable than theirs.

He got up and left the room, cursing himself for a fool, cursing the
fate that had brought him to this pass, cursing Dwight Hall, the senior
societies, the university that harbored them, the school, the country
that had put ideas into his head. But chiefest of all he cursed Junius
LeGrand....

But that did not do any good.

The next morning he wrote and posted a note of apology to James:--

     Dear James--I am sorry about last night--really, I am. I will
     try not to make such an ass of myself again.

     HARRY.

The same evening he received an answer, also through the mail. It was
simply a post-card bearing the words:

     All right. JAMES.

Its curt, businesslike goodwill and the promptness of its arrival
comforted him somewhat. He wisely determined to keep away from his
brother for the present and let time exert what healing effect it could.
When they did meet again, after some ten days' interval, no reference
was made to the episode. James was cordial, very cordial. Far, far too
cordial....

"Trotty," said Harry mournfully that evening; "I don't think you'd
better room with me again next year. You can't afford to, Trotty. I'm a
pariah, an outcast. Half the decent people in the class don't speak to
me any more. You simply can't afford to know me. It'll ruin your
chances."

"I wish you'd shut up," said Trotwood. "I'm trying to study."

"I mean it, Trotty. Don't pretend you don't hear, or understand. I'm
giving you warning."

"Rot," said Trotty, beginning to blush. "Damned, infernal rot."

Harry sighed. "You're a good soul, Trotty. But it's true. You'll be
known as the only man in the class that speaks to me, if you keep it
up."

"Will you shut up, you infernal idiot?"

"No. I tell you, I'm going straight to the devil."

Trotty rose from his chair and went to where Harry stood. He gently
pushed him back to the wall, and pinning him to it looked him straight
in the eyes. Harry was surprised to see that his face was set and
serious.

"Now," said Trotwood, "I'm going to talk about this business this once,
and if you ever mention the subject again I'll break your damned head
open. I'm going to room with you next year. I'm going to room with you
the year after that, if you'll have me. If we ever split up, it'll have
to be because you're tired of me--not afraid I'm tired of you, but
actually tired of me. You're not going to the devil. If you do, I don't
give a damn. What does friendship mean, anyway? Answer me that, damn
you!--damn you!--damn you--" His voice failed, but his eyes still spoke.

"All right, Trotty, we won't say any more about it, if you feel like
that." Harry smiled as he spoke the words, but he felt more like
crying.




CHAPTER XI

AUNT SELINA'S BEAUX YEUX


As Harry had anticipated, an issue arose between himself and the powers
in the track world concerning the Easter vacation. The edict went forth
that members of the 'varsity squad were to remain in New Haven, in
strict training, through the holidays, and it was assumed that he was to
be of their number. None of the powers asked him what he was going to
do, and he did not think it worth while to inform them of his plans.

One day, about a week before the vacation began, he did mention the
subject casually to Judy Dimmock, the captain, as they walked in from
practice together. Dimmock's consternation, as Harry said afterward, was
pitiful to see.

"But do you think you can get Macgrath's permission?" he asked,
stupefied.

"Why in the world should I bother about asking Macgrath's permission?"
answered Harry. "Of course he wouldn't give it to me."

"Do you mean to say that you're going without it?"

"Of course I'm going without it."

Dimmock was bewildered rather than irritated, though Harry's course of
action defied his authority quite as much as the coach's. "You'll have
to be dropped from the squad, then, I'm afraid."

"So I supposed."

"Harry, do you mean to say this work means no more to you than that?"
stammered Dimmock, all his convictions seething in his brain. "Haven't
you got any more respect for your college and traditions than that?
Don't you see what good discipline it is to buckle down to work and keep
at it, whether you like it or not?"

Harry waited a moment before replying, wondering how he could silence
Dimmock without angering him.

"That would all sound very well, if it were the dean and not the track
captain that said it," he ventured.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you, Harry." There was such a complete
absence of anger in the other's tone that Harry felt a momentary
outburst of sympathy for this honest, good-tempered creature.

"I'm sorry, Judy," he said. "The fact is, you take track deadly
seriously, and I don't. That's all there is to it. So we're bound to
disagree."

So Harry went to the North Carolina mountains and shot quail and rode
horseback and played bridge and carried on generally with James and
Beatrice and Trotty and eight or ten others of his age. When he returned
to New Haven he went out to the track field and jumped and ran about as
before, but nobody paid any attention to him. Nor was he asked to rejoin
the training table.

"It'll do him good to let his heels cool for a while," observed Dimmock
to Macgrath.

"That's all very well, but you'd better not let them cool too long, if
you want to get a place in the hurdles with Harvard," granted the coach.

"I was afraid all along we'd have to take him on again," said the other.
"He gets better and better on the track all the time, and queerer and
queerer every other way. I don't trust him."

"He's a second Popham," said Macgrath.

About a week before the Harvard meet Dimmock approached the second
Popham and with very commendable absence of anything like false pride
asked him if he would please put himself under Macgrath's orders for the
next few days and run in the meet. Harry graciously consented. He
hurdled abominably badly for a week, showing neither form nor speed;
then he hurdled against Harvard and beat their best men by a safe
margin. He won a first place, and his Y.

But that did not make him any more popular in the track world.

Later in the spring Beatrice came on for a visit, anxious to see the
university that Harry had preferred to Oxford. She and Lady Fletcher
stayed with Aunt Selina; presently Aunt Miriam went on and left Beatrice
alone there. She and Aunt Selina struck up one of those unaccountable
intimacies that occasionally arise between people of widely different
ages.

"I do like your relations," she once told Harry; "I like your country
and your university and your friends well enough, but I like your people
even better. I like your Uncle James, though I'm scared to death of him,
and Aunt Cecilia of course is a dear; but I like Aunt Selina best. I
never saw such a person! I didn't know you had her type in America. She
makes Aunt Miriam look like a vulgar, blatant little upstart!"

"I know," said Harry, laughing. "Did you tell Aunt Miriam that?"

"Something to that effect, yes. She laughed, and said that she had
always felt that way in her presence, too.--There's more about Aunt
Selina than that, though; there's something wonderfully human about her,
at bottom. I have an idea she could get nearer to me, if she wanted to,
than almost any one else, just because her true self is so rare and
remote."

Both Harry and James saw a good deal of Beatrice during her visit. Harry
was supposed to be in training again, and it was his interesting custom
to dine discreetly at the training table at six o'clock and then dash
out to his aunt's and eat another and much more sumptuous meal at seven.
James was scandalized when he heard of this proceeding, but he carefully
refrained from saying anything to Harry about it; he merely smiled
non-committally when Harry, with a desire of drawing him out, rather
flauntingly referred to it.

"A few weeks ago he would have cursed me out," he thought; "lectured me
up and down about it. Now he won't say anything because he's afraid it
would bring on another scrap." The thought made him feel lonely and
miserable.

James was greatly taken with Beatrice; that was quite clear from the
first. He was attracted by her beauty, and still more by her apparent
indifference to it. He found her more frank and sensible than American
girls, whose debutante conventionalities and mannerisms bored and
irritated him. He could not conceive of Beatrice "guying" or "kidding
him along" on slight acquaintance, as most of his American friends did,
or of Beatrice openly dazzling him with her beauty, or using her
prerogative of sex by making him "stand around" before other people.

One evening after dinner Beatrice, accompanied by both the brothers, was
walking down one drive and up the other, as the family were in the
habit of doing on warm spring evenings.

"Are you both prepared to hear something funny?" she asked.

"Fire away," they answered, and she continued:

"Well, I'm probably going to come back here next winter and live with
Aunt Selina!"

Harry gave a long whistle.

"This from you! Are you actually going to turn Yankee, too?"

"I'm going to give the Yankees a chance, at any rate! You see, there are
reasons why life for me wouldn't be particularly pleasant at home next
year.... I'm going back with Aunt Miriam after Commencement, as we had
planned, to try to patch it up with Mama, and then, if all parties are
agreeable, as I'm pretty sure they will be, I shall come back in the
autumn. The idea is for me to keep house for Aunt Selina and be her
companion generally. I shall receive a stipend for my valuable services,
so that I shall have the comfortable feeling of earning something. Aunt
Miriam thinks it's a fine plan. What do you think about it?"

"I think it's simply top-hole, to use the expression of your native
land. But won't you find New Haven a trifle dull, after London, and all
that?"

"I rather think I shall, but in a different way. I shall be quite busy,
and I thought I'd go to some lectures and things in the university and
learn something.--Why don't you say something, James?"

"I think it's a wonderful idea." James had been thinking so hard he had
forgotten to speak. Did he perhaps regret his lately-made decision not
to come back and coach the football team, but to take advantage of a
business opening in the Middle West? At any rate, he was startled to
observe what a leap his heart gave when Beatrice said she was coming
back. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he was really going to
care for this girl, with her dark brown eyes and her aloof,
aristocratic, unchallenging ways?...

But he was undeniably glad she was coming back, and found occasion to
tell her so more fully another time, when they were alone.

"I'm particularly glad," he added, "on Harry's account. He needs some
one to keep an eye on him; do you think you can do it?"

"I've done that for some years," said Beatrice, smiling. "I've been more
of a brother to him than you have, really. Why on earth did you never
come over and see him all that time, James?"

"Heaven knows.... I was lazy; I got in a rut. I wish I had, now."

"Why, nothing's going wrong, I hope?"

"Oh, damnably!--I beg your pardon. When he first came back he did
certain things that used to get on my nerves, and I, like a fool, let it
go on that way, thinking that he was all wrong and I was all right. It's
only lately that I've come to see better ... and now, when he
particularly needs some steadying influence, I can't give it to him. You
see, he gets on other people's nerves, too; he and his ideas--"

"Ideas?"

"Yes; fool notions he got about the way things are done in England--"

"Isn't that a trifle hard?"

"Oh, the ideas may be all right, but not the way he applies them.... At
any rate, they, or something else, are playing the deuce with his
college course. He's getting in Dutch, all around--"

"In Dutch," murmured Beatrice. "Oh, I do like that!" But James did not
notice the interruption.

"And while I see all this going on I have to stand aside and let it go
on, because when I say anything it doesn't do any good, but only
irritates him and makes him worse."

"I see. Well, I'm always willing to do what I can for Harry, but I'm
afraid I haven't any real influence over him, either."

"Oh, yes, you have. He has the greatest respect for you."

"Not nearly as much as you think." Her usually calm expression was
clouded; she seemed disturbed about something. Why did James feel a
momentary sinking of the heart when he noticed the seriousness of her
face and manner? It was nothing, though; gone again in a second.
Beatrice continued, in a more optimistic tone:

"But I honestly don't think, James, that there's much to worry about. I
don't mean that he mayn't get into scrapes, but I don't think that
there's anything seriously wrong.... I have always had the greatest
faith in him--not only in his intellect, but in his character. So has
Uncle G.; he expects great things of him, says he has just that
combination of intellect and balance that results in statues in public
places."

"The genius in the family is all confined to him; I'm glad you realize
that!" James could not help being a little rasped by her harping on the
good qualities of his brother, nor could he help showing it a little. He
immediately felt rather ashamed of himself, however, for Beatrice
replied, in a gently startled tone:

"Why, James, how bitter! You don't expect me to fling bouquets at your
very face, surely! I throw them at you when I'm talking to Harry!"

"You must throw a good lot of them, then, for you see him alone often
enough," was the somewhat gruff reply. Beatrice must have considered it
rather a foolish remark, for she paid no attention to it.

Harry's attitude toward her decision, as expressed in his next
_tete-a-tete_ with her, was rather different from that of his brother.

"Beatrice," said he, "of course I'm pleased as Punch about your coming
here next year, both on my own account and on Aunt Selina's, and all
that sort of thing; but I hope you won't think it rude of me if I ask
why on earth you're doing it. Of course, I know there are family
unpleasantnesses, and that you aren't particularly interested in London
balls, but that doesn't explain to me why, when you really do occupy an
enviable position over there, get asked everywhere worth going, in
season and out, and all that, you should choose to be the paid companion
of an old woman in a small New England town. And I don't believe it's
Aunt Selina's _beaux yeux_!"

"No!" said Beatrice, laughing; "I don't believe it's quite all that,
either!"

"What will people think about it over there?" went on Harry. "What'll
your mother say?"

"I'm afraid Mama will be perfectly delighted, even if she doesn't say
so," replied Beatrice, serious again. "The truth is, Harry, poor Mama
and I don't gee very well, somehow.... Jane is a great comfort to her--a
perfect daughter--she came out this year, you know."

"Is she as much of a social success as you?" asked Harry with that
frankness that was characteristic of their relation.

"Much more so--in a way. She uses her gifts to much more effect."

"She's not nearly as good-looking as you," persisted Harry.

It was a remark thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of their
comradeship, the kind of remark, expressive of a plain truth, nothing
more, that they prided themselves on making and taking between
themselves without the least affectation or self-consciousness. Yet
Beatrice simply could not keep pleasure from sounding in her voice as
she replied:

"Well, no; I suppose not. It's the only thing in which I have the better
of her, though. I'm very--"

She began her reply in the old spirit, but could not keep it up. She had
started to say, "I'm very glad you think that," then stopped herself,
then wished she had gone on. It would have been perfectly consistent
with their old "man-to-man" attitude, if she could have said it in the
right way!

Harry noticed her halting, and looked up at her quickly. He saw that she
was blushing. "Good Heavens!" he thought; "I hope Beatrice doesn't think
I'm paying her compliments!" The incident was slight, but it brought a
new and disturbing element into their relation. Indeed, in that one
little moment they ceased to remain boy and girl in their attitude
toward one another, and became man and woman. They met often enough on
the old terms of frankness and intimacy, but sex interest and suspicion
always lurked in the background, ready to burst out and break up things
at any moment.

The spring wore on; Commencement arrived; James was graduated. Aunt
Miriam, the James Wimbournes and numerous youthful James Wimbournes came
to stay with Aunt Selina and see him graduate. Beatrice was also there
and Harry was of course on hand. He took little part in the graduation
festivities and amused himself chiefly by showing his two eldest male
cousins, Oswald and Jack, the sights of the university and incidentally
making them look forward with a healthy dread to the day when as
freshmen first they would come to Yale.

"This is the swimming-pool," he would tell them; "it doesn't look very
big now, does it? Perhaps not! But it _seems_ pretty big, I can tell
you, when the sophomores dump you in there, in the pitch dark, and tell
you it's half a mile to shore and you've got to swim! And you have to
scramble out as best you can. _They_ won't help you!"

"They don't do that to _every_ freshman, though, do they?" hopefully
inquired Oswald, a nice, plump, yellow-haired, wide-eyed youth of
fourteen or so, the image of his mother.

"Yes, Muffins, indeed they do, every one, whether they can swim or not,"
replied Harry seriously. (Oswald was called Muffins because he was
considered by his playmates to look like one. This reason usually did
not satisfy older people, but after all, they did not know him as well
as those of his own age, and had no kick coming, at all.)

"I say, Harry, it's awfully decent of you to tell us all these things
beforehand, so that we shall be warned when the time comes!" This from
Jack, who was twelve and dark and looked like his father.

"Harold Wimbourne, what on earth have you been telling those children
about Yale College?" was Aunt Cecilia's indignant comment on his powers
of fiction. "Neither of them slept a wink last night, for thinking about
what the sophomores would do to them; and Jack asked me quite seriously
if he thought his father would mind much if he went to Harvard instead,
because he didn't think he could ever swim well enough to live through
his freshman year! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Harry laughed unfeelingly, and refused to abate one jot of the horrors
of hazing. He even wished it were all true, that these innocent and
happy boys might have to go through with it all, that some one would
ever be miserable in college beside himself. He scarcely spoke to James
during the last few days, though James remained cordial and cheery
enough toward him. But he was unnaturally cordial and forbearing, and
that drove Harry into despair, especially as there was copious reason
why James, under normal conditions, should be neither cordial nor
forbearing. Harry had, a fortnight or so before Commencement, just after
training was broken up, taken part in one of those engagements with the
forces of law and order with which undergraduates are wont to relieve
the monotony of their humdrum existence. First there had been strong
drink, and plenty of it, after which came a period of vague but
delightful irresponsibility, culminating in much broken glass, a clash
with policemen and two or three arrests.

Harry had escaped this latter ignominy, but as his name enjoyed equal
publicity with those of the more unfortunate revelers, it did him little
good. Nothing could possibly be less to the liking of such a person as
James, as Harry realized perfectly at the time. He participated in the
affair neither because he liked strong drink nor because he disliked
policemen, but chiefly with a sort of desperate desire to force James'
hand, to make his brother take him severely to task and end their mutual
coolness in one rousing scene of recrimination and forgiveness.

But no such thing happened; James did not make the slightest reference
to the business! Harry also remained silent on the subject, at first
because of his amazement, then out of obstinacy, and finally because he
was genuinely hurt. If James preferred that they should be strangers to
each other, strangers they should be. Meanwhile James remained silent,
of course, not because he did not take enough interest in his brother,
but because he took too much. He refrained from mentioning the row
because he was afraid that a discussion of it would merely bring on
another quarrel, which he wished of all things to avoid.

So the two brothers bade good-by to each other for the summer in
misunderstanding and mistrust, though their outward behavior was cordial
and brotherly enough. James, who was starting almost immediately for the
West, smiled as he shook the hand of his brother, who was going abroad
for the holidays and said, "Well, so long; look out for yourself and
don't take any wooden money." Harry, also smiling, replied in the same
vein; but the smile died on his lips and the words turned to gall in his
mouth as he thought what a bitter travesty this was of former partings,
when their gaiety was either natural or intended to hide the sorrow of
parting, and not, as now, wholly forced and affected to conceal the
relief that each could not but feel in being far from the other.




CHAPTER XII

AN ACT OF GOD


It was five o'clock in the afternoon and five degrees above zero. It was
also very windy, which made it seem colder to everybody except the
thermometer; and as the thermometer alone exhibited signs of being able
to stand a temperature of twenty or thirty or even forty degrees colder
without suffering disagreeable consequences, that seemed rather unfair.
For the wind, which was blowing not in hysterical gusts but in the calm,
relentless, all-day-and-all-night, forty-to sixty-mile gale that you
only get west of the Great Lakes, _did_ make it colder; there was no
doubt about that. Else why did every one keep out of it as much as
possible; walk on the protected side of the street, seek shelter in
doorways while waiting for trolley cars, and so forth? Of course the
wind made you colder; so much colder that when you were sheltered from
it, if only for a moment, you felt comparatively warm, though it was
still five degrees above zero. Unless, that is, you happened to be
standing over one of those grated openings in the sidewalk that belched
forth their welcome though inexplicable gusts of warm air into the outer
world; if you could get a place over one of those--gee, but you were the
lucky guy!

That was the way you phrased it, at any rate, if you happened to be
twelve years old and a newsboy with an income of--well, say thirty
dollars a year, if that sounds sufficiently insufficient to provide
anything approaching decent clothes, decent food and a decent place to
live. If not, make it as little as you like. The point is that the
annual income of a certain ten-year-old newsboy, by name of Stodger
McClintock, was preeminently, magnificently insufficient to provide any
of those commodities. As a consequence of which, Stodger was cold. As
another consequence of which Stodger, the gay, the debonair, the
unemotional, the anything but tearfully inclined, was very nearly in
tears. People do actually suffer from the cold occasionally, even in
this effete and over-protected age, and Stodger was suffering. The
volcanic opening was all very well, but he could not stay there long.
And the prospects for the night were bad, and bad even for supper....

There were tears in James' eyes also as he hurried along from work, but
they were entirely due to the wind. As soon as he perceived Stodger,
however, who dashed out at him with the customary "Here's yer paper,
mister!" at an unexpected place in the side street instead of at the
corner as per custom, he realized that his (Stodger's) tears were not
entirely due to the wind.

"Well, Stodger! What are you doing down here?" he cried cheerfully.

"Trine t' git woim." Stodger's diction at best was imperfect and it was
now further impeded by a certain nasal fluency, the joint result of the
cold and contemplation of domestic imperfections. But James understood,
perfectly well.

"Well, Stodger, it is cold, I'll have to grant you that!" he rejoined,
and instituted fumbling operations into the pocket where he kept his
loose silver. "Give me a _Star_ and a _Sun_ and a _Mercury_, too, will
you? This is no time for economy; the announcement of the all-American
football team is out to-night. Give me one of every paper you have!"

Pecuniary transaction ensued, parallel with conversation.

"And how do _you_ like this weather, Stodger?"

"Me? Oh, _I_ don't mind."

"Don't you? Well, I do, I'm afraid. This is just a little too cold for
my pleasure. But then I'm not a husk, like you."

"Well--" there was concession in Stodger's voice--"it's loike this. Some
guys minds it, 'n' then they don't like t' unbutton their coats 'n' fork
out a penny fer a paper. 'N' that makes bum bizniss. See?" Print is
miserably inadequate to give an idea of Stodger's consonants.

"I see. Stodger, did you ever hear of an act of God?"

"Huh?"

"Well, never mind. A cold snap like this is an act of God. Some natural
cataclysm, something that can't be prevented or even foreseen. Well,
sir, opposed as I am to indiscriminate giving, I'm going to break a rule
this time. All bets are off when an act of God comes along. Here's half
a dollar. Can you get something to eat and keep yourself warm over night
with that?"

"Sure I kin." Stodger grinned broadly for a second or two; then his face
clouded. "Aw, naw. Not off you. I couldn't take that off you." He meant
that only fools gave away money, and he did not want to put James in
that category.

"Why not?" James' smile, his unruffled good-humor, had their effect.
Surely a god that smiled and looked like that could not be quite a fool,
even if he gave away money. "Now stop your guff; take the cash and cut
along. So long!... That was my trolley, dash it; you and your confounded
scruples have made me miss my car, Stodger!... Well, let's take a look
at the all-American football team. Stoddard of Harvard, Brown of the
Army, Steele of Michigan...." He ran his eye down the list till
interrupted by a sharp exclamation from his friend.

"Gee, but he's a bum choice!"

"Who?"

"Steele."

"Steele? Oh, I'm not so sure. He's death on running back punts...."

"Aw, he _is_ not! I tell yer, he couldn't hang onto a punt if 'twas
handed to him on flypaper by a dago in a dress suit, let alone run with
it! My ole gran'mudder c'n run better'n him, any day!" Domestic troubles
being for the nonce in abeyance Stodger was in a mood to let his tongue
run free on a favorite topic.

"Well, we'll have to put your grandmother in at all-America left half
next year." Stodger knew as well as anybody when he was being laughed
at, and held his peace. "I didn't know you were such a football fan,
Stodger."

"Aw, yes. I'm some fan." This without enthusiasm, in the bored tone in
which one agrees to the statement of a self-evident fact.

"Well, I wonder. Stodger, do you think you could recognize any
all-America player if you saw him on the street, in ordinary togs?"

"Sure I could."

"How many years back?"

"T'ree years ... oh, more; four, five years, mebbe!"

"Well, I'm afraid you lose, Stodger!"

"Aw, gwawn! Try me an' see!"

"You've lost already, I tell you. You've been talking to an all-America
player for the last ten minutes and never knew it!"

"Aw, wotcha trine t' hand me! Run along 'n' tell it to the cop on the
corner! Tell it to me gran'mudder, if you like; _she_'ll believe yer!
You can't slip one like that on _me_, I tell yer!" Stodger's contempt
was magnificent, but he rather marred the effect of it by adding
suspiciously "Wotcheer?" which amounted to a confession that he might be
wrong, after all.

"Two years ago. Take a good look now, Stodger; see if you can't
recognize me." James turned so that the sunset glow fell more strongly
on his face. Stodger looked with all his eyes, but remained unconvinced.

"Line, er back?" he inquired.

"Back."

"I gotcha now! Wimboine! Wimboine! Right half! Yale!" But experience had
taught him that such dreams usually fade, and he went on, disappointed:
"Aw, naw. Can't slip _that_ on me. You're not that Wimboine. You look a
little bit like him, but you're not _that_ Wimboine. Brudder, p'raps.
_You're_ no football player."

"Why not?"

"Too thin. _You_ c'd never tear through the line th' way _that_ feller
did."

"Oh, rot; we'll end this, here and now." James fumbled at length beneath
his fur coat and produced the end of a watch-chain on which dangled a
little gold football with his name, that of his college and the date of
his achievement on it. Stodger, convinced, simply stared. It was as
though Jupiter had stepped right down from Olympus. James, with a smile
at his consternation, resumed his paper for the last minute or two
before his car arrived.

"Say, mister! Mister Wimboine! You got my tail twisted that time, all
right! I'm a goat, I'm a simp, I'm a boob! You got my number! Call me
wotch like!"

"All right, Stodger, I will." James spoke and smiled through his
reading. He had almost ceased to think of Stodger, who was more
entertaining when incredulous, and was reading merely to kill time till
his car arrived. Stodger's tongue was still wagging:--

"Say, dey was a guy useter live down Chicago called Schmidt--Slugger
Schmidt, that was a cracker jack--middle-weight--ever hear of him? I
knew him, oncet ... he had a little practise bout wid Riley th' other
night--you know, Hurrican Riley?--and laid him out in t'ree roun's....
Say, mister, there goes yer car! That's the Poik Street car went!"

"What? Oh, did it? Never mind; I'm going to walk." James was off; off
almost before the words were out of his mouth, and Stodger, struck by
the sudden curtness of his tone was afraid he had outraged the feelings
of the god. Mister Wimboine had clearly been deeply displeased about
something, and Stodger was sure it must have been something more than
the all-America football team.

Of course Stodger was not really responsible for James' displeasure and
his sudden determination to walk the three miles that lay between him
and his club and dinner, any more than was the composition of the
all-America football team. It was something much more serious; something
that made bodily exercise imperative lest cerebration around and around
one little particular point should make him dizzy. For it was a very
small thing that cerebration was busy on, even if it did represent a
great deal to James; only a tiny paragraph at the bottom of the first
page of one of the evening papers. The single headline had first caught
his eye:--"Rates Heartache at $40,000," and then with unbelieving eyes
he read on: "New Haven, Conn., Dec. 8. Myrtle Mowbray, a manicure living
in this city, has filed a suit of breach of promise of marriage for
$40,000 in the Superior Court here against Harold Wimbourne, a student
in Yale University. Mr. Wimbourne is a member of an old and prominent
New Haven family. He is a senior in the academic department."

A sort of mental and emotional nausea overcame James as the meaning of
those lines sank into his brain. The vulgar, degrading cynicism of the
headline! Breach of promise, scandal, newspaper publicity--that was the
sort of thing that happened to other people, not to one's self. Such
things simply did not occur in families one knew, much less in families
by the name of Wimbourne. James had always thought of that name as
apart, aloof from such things, exempt from all undesirable publicity.
His family pride was none the less strong for being so unconscious, so
dormant; now that it was outraged it flamed forth in a scorching blaze.

So loathing gave way to anger, and anger lasted a full mile and a half.
It would have lasted longer if it had been concentrated on one person or
thing, instead of directed against several persons, several things,
several sets of circumstances, the order of things in general. For James
was not angry at Harry alone; even he realized that before the mile and
a half were up. He was angry at him at first, but that soon passed off
somewhat; his anger seemed even to be seeking other objects,
unconsciously--the Mowbray woman, Uncle James, himself, Yale University,
the whole nature of man.

But cerebration had a chance to get in a good deal of its fell work
during those three miles. As he swung open the front door of the club
and passed into the main lobby, with its teeming confusion of electric
lights and bellboys, he was conscious of nothing but a quiet, deep,
corroding disgust that seemed to be as old as all time. It seemed as if
he had known of this disgrace for years; had almost had time to outlive
it, in fact. His first impulse was to go into the bar and annex himself
to one of the cheerful groups that would be congregating there at this
hour, and turn his mind to something else. But almost immediately he
remembered that practically every one there would also have read the
evening paper, and he shuddered at the thought of their pitying glances.

Automatically following his daily custom he cheeked his coat and hat at
the cloak room and collected his mail from his post-box. Then he went
straight to the one room in the club where he thought he was likely to
be alone; a small reading-room usually popular in the afternoon but
deserted by early evening. He found it empty, as he had expected. With a
sigh of relief he turned out all the electric lights and threw himself
on a couch in front of the open wood fire--a graceful though unnecessary
compliment on the part of the club management to meteorological
conditions.

But unluckily his glance fell on the unopened letters he still held in
his hand, and immediately his trouble was on him again. One of them he
recognized as coming from his Uncle James and the other, bearing the
post-mark of New Haven, was from Beatrice. With a slight groan of
combined resignation and disgust he tore open his uncle's letter and
read it by the flickering light of the fire.

     Dear James:

     Your young brother has made more of a mess of it than we hoped
     would be the case. The Mowbray woman has brought suit for
     $40,000, and is likely to get it, or a good part of it,
     according to Raynham, whom I saw about the business yesterday.
     She has letters and a spoken promise in the presence of
     witnesses. We have nothing except the knowledge that Harry was
     drunk when he wrote the letters and drunk when he spoke the
     words, which is not much comfort. Still, Raynham thinks she can
     be made to settle out of court, especially if we take our time.
     We have got to show her first that the world will not come to
     an end because a Wimbourne has been mixed up with a
     woman--which it won't. It will be a matter, Raynham thinks, of
     $15,000 at least; probably more.

     What is going to become of the boy? Have you any influence
     over him? If not, who has? It is about time somebody exerted
     some on him, other than bad. He has much to fight against.
     "Your aunt sends her love. Your affect. uncle,

     JAMES WIMBOURNE.

In spite of his fatigue and his disgust, James smiled as he finished the
letter. It was so characteristic of Uncle James; the most conventional
sentences, the ones that seemed to mean least, really meant the most.
"Your aunt sends her love"; only a person who knew Uncle James could
appreciate the consciously suppressed humor of that phrase. As if Aunt
Cecilia were not in such a vortex of conflicting emotions over the
affair that such a conventional message would not be as far from her as
Bagdad! "He has much to fight against"; Harry had much to fight against;
Uncle James knew what, and he knew that James also knew. Connotative
meanings like these more than atoned for the unflinching frankness of
certain other phrases.

On the whole, James felt better for having read the letter, and opened
Beatrice's with a lighter heart.

     Dear James; (he read)

     Jack Trotwood has just been here and told me that that
     unspeakable woman is actually going to sue Harry for breach of
     promise. I tried to get him to tell more, but he said that
     that was all he had been able to get out of Harry. It's too
     awful! You can imagine what a time I've been through, seeing
     him at least once a week and not being able to say a word about
     the whole business. I've had to depend on Jack Trotwood for all
     my information, and naturally he hasn't wanted to say much. Do
     you mean to say Harry hasn't written you all this term? I
     cannot understand it at all.

     Aunt Selina seems quite cut up about it, and wishes you were
     here. 'Tell James to come,' she said when I told her I would
     write you. I must confess, though, that I don't see what good
     you could do--now. Of course, terrible as this suit is, it does
     relieve things in one way, at least. Once we're quite sure it's
     merely money she's after, it doesn't seem quite so bad. I even
     think it is better now than it was early in the autumn, when we
     thought he was actually fond of her.

     There is no other news to give you; as you can imagine, we
     have not been thinking of much else. Poor Harry, how sorry I am
     for him! How much I wish I could help him, and how little I can
     do!

     As ever yours,

     BEATRICE.

This letter was less comforting than the other. Beatrice's words seemed
to James to carry a veiled reproach with them; to implicate him much
more closely in Harry's disgrace than he had as yet thought of
implicating himself. "I don't see what good you could do--now;" "better
now than it was in the early autumn--" such sentences could not but have
their sting for the sensitive mind, and James was sensitive when Harry
was concerned, and even more so when Beatrice was.

Had he been negligent in regard to Harry? Oh, yes, he was perfectly
willing to admit that he had, now that he came to think it over, though
he would rather have had anybody other than Beatrice point out the fact
to him--and that, doubtless, was because a comment from Beatrice would
have twice the force of the same comment uttered by any one else. He had
never really put himself out for Harry in any way, since the days when
England seemed too far for him to venture to discover what the years
were making of him. In the critical period of his senior and Harry's
sophomore year he had shown himself entirely incapable of giving the
friendship and sympathy and guidance that were needed. Jack Trotwood,
and not he himself, had been Harry's best friend, in every sense of the
phrase, for three years and more. And after graduation, he had come to
Minneapolis.

Then this degrading affair with the manicure. James had heard of that
first through Beatrice, for Harry's letters, which had arrived at
regular, though rather long, intervals, had ceased abruptly in
September, at the beginning of the college year. That had been almost a
relief to James. Harry's letters had been calculated to widen rather
than bridge the gulf between them. They had been amusing and always
cleverly written. A letter written on the previous Tap Day, dated
conspicuously "Thursday, May 18, 7 P.M." (two hours after Harry had
failed to receive an election to any senior society) had been a perfect
masterpiece of omission. It ran pleasantly along on the weather, the
outward appearance of the university, sundry little incidents
of no importance or interest, the economic condition of the
country--everything except Tap Day, himself, anything that would
interest James. This letter had irritated James beyond all expression,
yet at the same time he admired it for what it was worth, and hated
himself for admiring it.

And so, as he was obliged to learn from other sources of Harry's missing
a senior society, so he was dependent on others for all his information
_in re_ Myrtle Mowbray. In October Beatrice had written him that Harry
had been seen much in the society of the woman, who conducted her
business in connection with a barber shop situated conveniently for the
patronage of the student body. Jack Trotwood had also written, somewhat
timidly, to the same effect, evidently much perplexed about where his
truest duty to Harry lay. Apparently there had been motor parties to
neighboring country inns, more or less conspicuous carryings-on in
restaurants about town, and so forth. Such tidings became more and more
acute for a month, and then ceased. There was reason for hoping that the
nonsense was all over. Then the thunderbolt of to-day.

James had not really been much worried, before to-day. He had caught a
glimpse of "the Mowbray woman," as he always thought of her, one day in
the previous June, while in New Haven for Commencement. He had been
strolling along Chapel Street with a group of classmates, and one of
them called his attention to a female form emerging from a shop door,
giving in a discreet undertone a brief explanation of her celebrity,
ending with a vivid word of commendation--"Some fluff." James looked,
and saw a pretty face. It had been but a fraction of a second, and the
face was turned away from him; but it was enough to leave quite a
lasting impression on his mind--an impression that had not been without
its effect on his reception of the news of Harry's infatuation. A pretty
face! Well, when all was said and done, Harry had not been the first man
of his acquaintance to become enamored of a pretty face--and get over
it. He did not approve of the alleged infatuation; the thought of it
gave him considerable uneasiness. But, helped out by the impression, his
optimistic temperament had battled with the uneasiness and in the end
overcome it; prevented it, certainly, from growing into anything like
anxiety, anything that would necessitate drastic and disturbing
measures, such as pulling up stakes, for instance, and hurrying New
Haven-ward.... Oh, how loathsomely lazy and indifferent he had been, now
that he looked back on it all!

A pretty face! The memory of it was still sharply out-lined on the back
of James' brain and drove introspection and self-recrimination into
momentary abeyance. A clear, slightly olive complexion, rising to a
faint pink on the cheeks--artificial? Not as he remembered it; there was
no suggestion of the chorus-girl--sharply-drawn eyebrows and dark hair.
Above, a hat of some sort; below, a suit, preferably of dark blue serge.
The impression had been recurrent in James' mind during these past
months; not soon after it was received, in the summer; since then. There
was something irritating and tantalizing about this circumstance; it was
as though the impression had been strengthened by a second view. Where
had he seen that face again, if at all? Yes, he had seen it, somewhere;
he was almost certain of it. He was absolutely certain of it; he could
remember everything--except the time and place. Which after all were
important adjuncts to definite recollection--! No, he would not laugh
himself out of it; he was sure. He would remember all about it some time
when he least expected it.

He left it at that, and listlessly lay at full length watching the fire
and allowing his thoughts to wander from the all-absorbing topic and its
octopus-like ramifications. The fire was fascinating to watch; he loved
open fires and wished they would have one in this room every evening. It
would be almost like a home to come back to, after work. It was
particularly pleasant to watch, like this, in an otherwise dark room, as
it cast its intermittent flare on the walls and furniture. It brought
out the rich warm tones in the brown leather of the chairs and the oak
of the wainscot, and picked out small particles of gilt here and there
in the ceiling decoration, and set them twinkling back in a cheerful,
drowsy way. From the dim outside world beyond the open door came
occasional sounds of club life; the distant clatter of crockery, the
swish of a passing elevator, a voice finding fault with a club servant.
James listened to them at first, in a half-amused, idle sort of way;
then gradually they faded from his consciousness and he was aware of
nothing but the fire and its flickering yellow light.

He watched the fire intently, absorbedly, with the lazy concentration
with which a tired brain often fastens itself on some physical object,
as though to crowd out other thoughts clamoring for admittance. The fire
was beginning to burn low now, with flames that never rose more than a
few inches above the logs. Every few moments a small quantity of
half-burnt wood dropped off and fell to the glowing bed of coals
beneath, and the flames broke out afresh in the place it fell from.
James watched this process with a growing sense of expectancy; he seemed
to be always waiting, waiting for the next fall; yet when the next fall
came he was still waiting.... Was it only the fall of the coals that he
was waiting for? It must be something else, something that had nothing
to do with the fire at all; something much more important; something
that he longed not to have come, yet, and at the same time wished were
over.... He seemed now not to be lying at full length, but sitting on
the broad arm of a chair. The fire-light's glow fell no longer on
leather and oak, but on old flowered chintz and mahogany.... Now he was
sitting no longer; he was bending over--bending low over something
white; turning his ear so as to catch certain words that some one was
uttering in a whisper; words that were indelibly burnt on his brain;
words that were as inseparable from his being as life....

Then in an instant the room, the fire, everything vanished; and in their
place, filling his whole consciousness--that face! He knew it perfectly
now, exactly when, where, all about it; no room for mistake or doubt any
more! He started upright on the couch; his whole world seemed suddenly
illumined by a blinding flash of light. In another instant he was aware
that somebody had turned on the electric light, and of a face staring
quizzically into his. He heard a voice.

"Hello, you all alone in here, Wimbourne? You must be fond of the
dark!--What are you looking so all-fired pleased about, I wonder?"

"Oh--Laffan! How are you?... Nothing much; I just thought of something,
that's all."

"Congratulations on your thoughts. I'm looking for some one to dine
with; I suppose you've eaten? It's late--"

"Whew--nearly eight! No, I've not eaten; shall we go up together?"

They started to leave the room, but James stopped abruptly in the
doorway, suddenly practical, master of himself, of the whole situation.

"I say, Laffan, you're a lawyer, aren't you?"

"I attempt to be."

"Well, I want to consult you, professionally, if you'll let me. Consider
me a client! Now, what I want to know is this; suppose a--"

"Oh, rot, man--not on an empty stomach! Come along upstairs; you can
tell me all about it while you eat!"




CHAPTER XIII

SARDOU


About a week later James went to the head of his firm, the classmate's
father who had offered him his position, and asked for a few days' leave
of absence.

"Why didn't you go to Smith?" said his employer, naming the head of the
department in which James was working.

"I didn't think he'd let me off without your leave, sir."

"Hm.... You must go, must you?"

"I'm afraid I must. Indeed, I'm bound to say, sir, that I shall go,
leave or no leave."

"Hm. Well, you can go; but if you take more than half a week it'll have
to come off your annual vacation."

"Thank you, sir, I shan't need more than that," said James and the
interview was closed. No word was spoken of the reason for James'
departure. Jonathan McClellan, founder and owner of the McClellan
Automobile Company, knew a thing or two beside how to run an automobile
business. He also read the papers.

That was on a Thursday. In the course of the evening James conducted an
interview with his friend Laffan and at midnight or thereabouts he took
train for Chicago. He proceeded next day to New York, and thence, on
Saturday, to New Haven, arriving there early in the afternoon.

He went straight from the station to the law offices of Messrs. Raynham
and Rummidge and remained there upwards of half an hour. Every sign of
satisfaction was visible on his face as he emerged, but Raynham, who
escorted him to the outer door, seemed not nearly so well pleased.

"I wish you'd change your mind, even now, and leave it to us," he said,
just loud enough for the stenographer in the outer office not to hear.

"Plain enough sailing, now," replied James, smiling encouragingly. "I
don't think you need to worry."

"Well, if you get into trouble, don't lose your head or your temper, or
try to bluff. Just say you'll leave the rest to your lawyers, and get
out!"

James proceeded up Chapel Street in excellent spirits. A light snow was
falling, melting on the pavements but covering the grassy expanse of the
Green with a soft white blanket, and bringing each gaunt black branch of
the elm trees into strong relief. James walked on the Green side of the
street, so as to avoid the greetings of possible acquaintances, and kept
his eyes on the broad square. He noticed that some elm trees had been
clipped and others felled since he had last been in town; he was sorry
to see them go and wished the authorities could find some way of
preserving them better....

He walked unhesitatingly into the shop and, disregarding the obsequious
gestures of the line of barbers, went straight to the very end, where he
knew he would find her, with her glass-topped table and her instruments
and her disgusting little basin.... She was there, but a broad black
back obtruded itself in front of her.

"One moment," she said, looking up and smiling.

James retreated a few steps to a row of chairs placed there for the use
of the expectant. He sat down, and cursed himself for a fool. What
business had he here? Why hadn't he left it all to Raynham, like a
sensible person? He knew he would mess it all now, in spite of
everything; he remembered stories of commanders who had been ousted out
of impregnable positions by the mere confident attitude of their
opponents. It was her appearance, her manner, her faultless smile, that
unnerved him. It was, as he mentally phrased it to himself, because she
looked "so damned refined." Never had he dreamed it would be as bad as
this.

The black back shuffled inchoately out of his vision; his moment had
come. He walked forward.

"You are Miss Mowbray, are you not?" he asked, speaking slowly and
steadying his voice with difficulty.

"Yes?"

"My name is Wimbourne. I think you know my brother.... I would like to
talk to you, if I might. When will you be at liberty?"

"Why shouldn't we talk right here?" she said cheerfully. "If you'll sit
down there.... You had better let me tend to your nails--they need it."

"Very well." James sat down. He felt his courage returning; her
self-possession stimulated him. Not one shadow of a change of expression
had passed over her face when he told her he was Harry's brother; her
manner remained the perfection of professional cordiality. Well, if she
could show nerve, he could, too.

She filled her bowl with warm water and arranged her instruments with
perfect composure. When she was ready James surrendered his right hand.

"Miss Mowbray," he began at length, "as I understand the matter, you are
suing my brother for breach of promise. Is that right?"

"It is."

"Well, I'm sorry. It's a bad business. Bad for you as well as for him,
because you can't possibly win. Now, Miss Mowbray, I will be frank with
you. You are not going to get that forty thousand dollars--your suit
will not even get into court. I know that, but I don't want to have to
go into the reasons why. I don't want scenes, I hate them; I want to
make this interview as easy and as short as possible, so I will open it
with an offer. I will give you five hundred dollars if you will agree to
withdraw your suit and clear out of town, within a week. Do you accept?"

"I do not." Her smile was more than cordial now, there was pity in it.
"Why do you suppose I took the trouble to sue for forty thousand
dollars, if I would be content with five hundred, Mr. Wimbourne?"

"Oh, must we go into arguments? Why can't you simply take my word for it
that your suit is impossible, and close with me? Five hundred
dollars--think what it means! It would pay all your costs and leave you
enough to start in with somewhere else."

"The sum is just eighty times too small."

"You won't, then? Think it over a little! I'll leave the offer open for
five minutes; you needn't answer definitely till then."

James was thoroughly sure of himself and at ease now; he smiled to
himself with a certain grim pleasure at his little touch of melodrama,
reminiscent of--what? Sardou? A common trick, of course, but never
without its effect. He ceased thinking about it, and watched the clock.
Presently he was aware that his companion, always busy with her scraping
and cleaning and rubbing, was speaking in a low, calm voice.

"No, Mr. Wimbourne, I am not quite the fool you take me for, I'm afraid.
You may not know it, but your brother has treated me very badly. He
deserves to be punished. A man cannot make a fool of a woman, as he has
of me, and get off scot free. There is such a thing as law and justice
for those that are abused, and I have been abused. I should be very
silly now if I did not go on and take all that is coming to me. I shall
only be taking my right, Mr. Wimbourne; remember that. Fun is all very
well if it is innocent fun; but when it hurts other people it has to be
paid for."

"The five minutes are up," said James; "but I will willingly extend the
time if there is any chance of your reconsidering. What do you think?"

No answer. James watched her calm face, with its pleasing and
well-chiseled features, enlivened now by only the merest suggestion of a
smile that was not really there, but still seemed latent, ready for
instant use if called upon. About the mouth hung a shade of impatience,
of obstinacy; anything else? No, assuredly no, search as he would. She
was extraordinary!

"Oh, dear," he said with a gentle sigh, "you will go in for all the
unpleasantness, I'm afraid.... Miss Mowbray, you have no right to sue my
brother for breach of promise. You have been acting under false
pretenses to him from the first. You were married to a man called Edward
Jennings, in the city of Minneapolis, on the 3rd of last September."

"You have proofs, no doubt?" The tone was sharp and defiant, the smile
scornful and satirical, but she did blench--no doubt of it. James' heart
leaped within him.

"Oh, yes--lots, right here in my breast pocket. Tiresome things, but
lawyers love them. If you will release my right hand for a moment--" He
chose to smile ingratiatingly at her, and it gave him a little thrill of
revenge to observe how obviously forced her answering smile was. She was
not proof against her own weapons. But his triumph faded almost
immediately, and pity took its place. Poor thing, what a ridiculous game
she had been playing! How could it possibly succeed? Could she not have
known that some one who knew of her marriage would be sure to turn up at
the wrong moment and spoil the whole affair? She looked so small, so
defenseless, so crumpled as she sat there, waiting for him to produce
his proofs; surely she was never made for this sort of a career! Then
her smiles of a little while ago came back to him, and he reflected that
perhaps she was, after all.

"First, here is a little history of your career. You were born in
Minneapolis, June 16, 188-. At the age of sixteen you went to New York
City, where you entered the theatrical profession. For some years you
were on the vaudeville stage, playing occasionally in New York, but
mostly on the road. Your stage name was Rosa Montagu. You left the
profession about three years ago, and have been engaged in this place as
manicure for a little less than two years. You resumed the name of
Myrtle Mowbray, which as far as I can make out is your own, on leaving
the stage, but you were married, last September, under your stage name.
Here is a copy of your marriage lines, sworn to by the Minneapolis
License Bureau. Here is a photograph of you as Rosa Montagu...."
"Suppose you let me finish manicuring your hands, Mr. Wimbourne." James
replaced the papers in his pocket and his hand on the glass-topped
table, and professional duties were resumed. They continued in silence
for some time; neither party really had much to say now. It occurred to
James that even now she might be trying to take him in by her
indifference, to "bluff" him; but a careful study of her face dispelled
the idea. He admired her nerve now no less than before.

"Are you satisfied, Miss Mowbray?" he asked at length.

"No. I'm beaten, though." James liked the reply immensely; liked, also,
the manner in which it was given--hardly betraying anything more than
good-humored disgust.

"When can I see you again to-day or to-morrow?" he asked again after a
short pause. "There will be papers to sign, and that sort of thing."

"Is it possible that Mr. Raynham sent you out without a written
statement for me to sign in your pocket?" she rejoined, looking
fearlessly up at him.

"No--that is--yes, he did." Of course he had not, but James was already
planning a little _coup_ of his own not included in Mr. Raynham's
arrangements.

"Well, could you come back here this evening? Toward ten? We close then,
on Saturdays."

"Very well."

Both were silent for some time. At last, when the manicuring was almost
completed, James said with a sudden burst of friendly curiosity:

"Honestly, Miss Mowbray, why did you do it? Get married to him first, I
mean."

She looked coldly up at him. "I really don't see why I should answer
that question, Mr. Wimbourne."

"Of course not. There's not the slightest reason why you should answer
it, if you don't want to."

She was not proof against his candor or his smile. She smiled back, in
spite of herself, without rancor or affectation.

"I have an idea that you are quite an unusual young man, Mr. Wimbourne.
You are, without doubt, the worst enemy I have in the world, and yet you
give me the impression of being a friend. I think I like you better than
your brother."

James made no reply to this, but only reddened slightly, and she went
on:

"I married him because I lacked the courage not to. I was afraid to burn
my bridges behind me. He had been wanting me to for a long time, and at
the last he became very impatient.... It was the only way I could keep
him, and I dared not let him go. Things had not been going well here....
So I went back and married him, on condition that it was to be kept an
absolute secret. I was determined to come out here and try my luck for
one more year.... Of course I was very sorry that I did it, this fall.
But I determined to go through with ... the business, for there was a
big prize at stake."

"And you never knew he had a brother in Minneapolis?"

"No--he simply told me he had an elder brother in the West. I had no
suspicion of anything; it seemed perfectly safe. How did you find out,
anyway, if I may ask?"

"I happened to see you--perhaps a minute after you were married, coming
out of the marriage license office, with a man. Compromising! You had
been pointed out to me before, here, so I knew what you looked like. But
what made you so keen to go through with--with the business? You don't
look like that kind, somehow...."

She gave the last finishing touch to his hand and started to gather up
her belongings before replying. "You don't know what it is not to have
plenty of money, Mr. Wimbourne, or you would not ask that question. You
don't know what it is to watch other people sailing by in sixty
horsepower limousines and realize that you would look every bit as well
there as any of them, and better than most, and to realize, above all,
that you could make so much more out of your wealth than most of them. I
am under no delusions about myself; I know perfectly well that I'm not a
manicure type. I have brains, I have good looks, I have social
possibilities. Only, I happened to be born without money or social
position, and the handicap is too great.... Well, it's all up now.
There's no hope for anything better now."

The tone in which she spoke these words was so perfectly quiet and
resigned, so utterly lacking in vulgar desire to advertise her woes,
that James felt deeply moved. He could not think of anything to say to
reassure or encourage her. Presently he blurted out, desperately:

"You've got a good husband in Edward Jennings, anyway. He's a good chap,
according to all accounts...."

She smiled, deprecatorily. "He's a nice boy. But he'll never make any
money."

James made up an excuse to consult Mr. Raynham again, and after that
walked the snow-covered streets till dinner time. His first impulse was
to look up Harry, but he discarded the idea; he would not see him, Aunt
Selina, any one, till his task was done, every detail completed. He
dined alone in an obscure restaurant and with some difficulty succeeded
in frittering away the time till ten o'clock, at which hour he returned
to the barber shop on Chapel Street.

He proceeded at once to business, taking out two papers which he gave to
Miss Mowbray to sign. She read and signed without comment. When she had
finished he said: "Would you mind delivering this for me?" and handed
her an unsealed envelope bearing the simple superscription "Mr. Edward
Jennings."

Miss Mowbray fingered the envelope indecisively a moment; then she
opened it and took out the contents.

She rose from her seat and glanced apprehensively at James. "I
can't--we--thank you, but I simply can't accept this," she whispered.

"Nobody asked you to do anything, except deliver the letter," replied
James cheerfully. "I'd like to know what business you have opening
other people's letters, anyway. It isn't nice.--Wedding present, you
know," he went on, with a change of voice; "I'm rather hoping to have
the honor of giving you your first. Please try to make him accept it
from me, won't you? Good-by!"

He shook her hand quickly and was actually off before she had time to
offer another word of objection.

He made his way straight across the snowy street to Harry's rooms in
Vanderbilt Hall. There was no answer to his knock, but the door yielded
to a turn of the knob--how like Harry to leave it unlocked! The room was
dark and empty, but he went in and found the embers of a fire dying on
the hearth. He threw off his hat and overcoat, struck a light and looked
about for materials with which to rebuild the fire.

In a few minutes the logs were blazing merrily before him. He turned out
the gas, drew up an armchair and sat down in front of the fire to wait
for Harry.




CHAPTER XIV

UN-ANGLO-SAXON


He came in before long, stamping the snow from his boots. In the second
or two that passed before he spoke, James saw that though he looked
haggard and depressed, there was no trace of weakness of dissipation
about his eyes or mouth. Nor did he slink; he blundered in with the
impetuosity of a schoolboy for whom the world has no terrors. For which,
though he was shocked to see how badly he looked, James was profoundly
thankful.

He was aware of Harry's eyes trying to pierce the half-gloom; there was
a touch of pathos, to James, in his momentary bewilderment.

"Hullo, Harry," he said gently.

"James!" The immediate, unconscious look of delight that came over
Harry's face--even though it faded to something else within the
second--pleased James more than anything had pleased him yet. Harry was
glad to see him; that mattered much more than his almost instant
recovery of his self-possession, his continuing, in the manner of the
Harry of two years ago, the Harry of the previous Commencement:
"Whatever are you doing here now, James?"

"I've got good news for you, Harry," he replied, rising and taking hold
of the other's hand. "The Mowbray woman has withdrawn her suit. It's all
right; she's signed things, and you have no more to fear from her." He
dropped Harry's hand and moved off a step, as though to give him a
chance to take in the news.

There was something rather fine in the simplicity, the humility, even of
his manner as he did this, that did not escape Harry. He was deeply
moved; self-possession and all it implied fell from him again.

"James, have you done this? What has happened? Tell me all about it! You
haven't paid her all that money, James--don't tell me you've done that!"

"No, of course I haven't--there was no need for it. She was married out
in Minneapolis last September, and I happened to get onto the
fact--that's all. She had no business to be suing at all."

"And you--"

"I came here and told her so, to-day."

James sat down again where he had been sitting, as though to close the
incident. Harry stood and gasped; he tried to speak but could not; his
eyes filled with tears. Then he dropped at James' feet, clasping his
knees in the manner of a suppliant of old. He buried his face in James'
lap and gave a few deep sobs of joy and relief.

The Anglo-Saxon race being what it is, a good deal of courage is needed
to go on with the relation of what occurred next. However, there is no
help for it; history is history, and we can only tell it as it actually
occurred, regardless of whether the undemonstrative are outraged or not.
After Harry had thrown himself at his feet James took his brother's head
gently between his hands, and then, with the greatest simplicity and
naturalness in the world, bent forward and kissed it.

"Poor old thing," he said softly; "you have been having sort of a hard
time of it, haven't you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"I wish you would tell me, James," said Harry somewhat later, as they
sat gazing into the fire, James in the armchair and Harry on the floor,
leaning back against James' legs, "I wish you would tell me just how you
found out about her being married, and all about it. It seems so
incredible--both that she should have been married and that you, of all
people, should have been on the spot to discover it."

"Well, I just saw her, coming out of the marriage office with a man;
that was all there was to it. I thought she probably wouldn't have been
there unless she had just been married to him, so I had the register
looked up, and there she was. She was under the name of Rosa
Montagu--that gave us some trouble at first, because of course I didn't
know that was her stage name. I put a fellow called Laffan, a young
lawyer, onto the business, and he messed about with the register and the
detective bureau and communicated with Raynham till he wormed it all
out. Finally he got hold of a photograph of Rosa Montagu and showed it
to me, and after that it was easy enough--Of course, it was a most
God-given chance that I stumbled on her just at that compromising
moment. She really wasn't as foolish as she sounds; she hadn't lived in
Minneapolis for years and knew almost nobody there except her young man.
It was a long chance, what with using her stage name and all, that any
one would ever find her out."

"Yes. But I don't quite see--You say she was married in September?"

"Yes--the third."

"Well, if you knew she was married then, I don't quite see why you
didn't make use of your knowledge before. When I was playing round with
her, I mean--of course I, like the brazen idiot I was, didn't write you,
but you must have heard--"

"Oh, yes. Well, it was a very funny thing. I didn't remember about
having seen her in that place till months afterward; not till the night
I heard about the breach of promise business. You see, it was only the
barest, vaguest glimpse, there in the City Hall; she didn't even see me
and I didn't even remember where I had seen her face before, then. I
scarcely thought about it at all, at the time; I was in a great hurry to
get to a hearing before some commission or other, and the thing went
bang out of my mind. Then, when I read of the breach of promise, it all
came back, in one flash! Funny!"

"Yes. It's the kind of humor that appeals to me, I can tell you."

"The man, Jennings, curiously enough, happened to be in McClellan's for
a while, once, in the counting department. He left there to become a
clerk in some bank. We worked up his end too, a little....

"Harry, I wish you'd tell me one thing," went on James, after a pause.

"Anything I can, James."

"Why on earth, when you found you were getting in deep with that woman,
didn't you call on me to do something? You couldn't be so far gone as to
think that I wouldn't--"

"Oh, couldn't I? You have no idea of what depths of idiocy I can descend
to, if I want.--I don't know--at the time, the more I wanted help the
less I could talk of it to any one, and you least of all. The person
that gave me the most comfort was Trotty, and he never once mentioned
the subject to me, except when I introduced it myself! Yet even so, all
through that time, it was you that I really wanted.--Look here, James,
if you don't believe me, see what I've been carrying around with me all
this time, as a sort of talisman!"

He took his wallet from his pocket and after a short search produced an
old and dirty postal card bearing on its face the blurred but still
readable legend "All right. James." He handed it to his brother.

"Gosh," said James, when he had read it, "do you mean to say you've kept
that old thing ever since?"

"Ever since the day I got it. There was something about it that was
comforting and optimistic and--well, like you; and I used to take it out
and look at it occasionally when I got particularly down in the mouth.
And I used to persuade myself, after a while, that it all would come out
right, in the end; that somehow James would make it all right--you see
how the prophecy has come true!... And the extraordinary part of it is
that even while I thought that way about you, I simply couldn't break
the ice and tell you about it all. I don't know why--I just couldn't!"

"I know," said James; "I know the feeling."

"Isn't it incredible, James, that what seemed perfectly natural and
reasonable--inevitable, even--a few weeks, or days, or even an hour ago,
should appear so utterly asinine now!... Pride, vainglory and
hypocrisy--all of them, and a lot more! Sometimes I can't believe it
possible for one person to assemble in himself all the vices that I do."

"Well, you don't, either," said James seriously. "That's one thing I
want to clear up. Harry, don't you see that the blame for all this lies
with me just as much as with you--more than with you--entirely with
me?--"

"No, I don't," began Harry stoutly, but James continued:

"And that the real reason you didn't call on me was because I had
steadily shut myself away from you? Oh, Harry, I've behaved like the
devil during the last three years! It's just as you say; a course of
action you never even question at one time, a little later seems so
silly, so criminally silly, that you can't believe you seriously thought
of following it!... I know perfectly well that a lot of the things I
thought were horribly important a few years ago really aren't worth the
paper they're printed on. The perspective changes so, even with these
two years--less than two years--out of college! Good Lord, if a man is
really the right sort, if he has a good, warm-hearted nature at the
bottom of him, thinks good thoughts, does nice things, uses to the best
of his judgment what gifts and talents Providence is pleased to give
him, what in Heaven's name does it matter whether he manages the crew or
goes Bones, in the end?... I've been a fool, Harry. I've set the
greatest value on the most worthless things; I've worshiped stone gods;
I've let things irritate me that no sane man has any business to be
irritated by. Worst of all, I've let these silly, worthless things come
between you and me and spoil--well, one of the best things that ever
came into my life!... All this estrangement business has been mainly my
fault. I'm older, and have had more experience, and, I always thought,
more common sense--though I haven't really--and I was the one that ought
to have kept things straight. Harry, I'm sorry for it all!"

Harry was more moved than he would have liked to show by this
confession. He was still enough of an undergraduate to be much impressed
by his brother's casual mention of his senior society--the first time
since he had been tapped the name had ever passed James' lips in his
presence.

"It's a pleasure to hear you talk, James," he said, "but I hope you
won't misunderstand me when I say that there's not one word of truth in
all you've said--the last part of it, I mean. It's only convinced me
more thoroughly of my own fault. Before, there might have been a shadow
of doubt in my mind about my being entirely to blame. Now there is
absolutely none.--Funny, that a person you like blaming himself should
really be blaming you! It always seems that way, somehow...."

"James," he went on, a little later; "it makes you feel as if you were
getting on, doesn't it?"

"How? In years?"

"Yes! I don't know about you, but I feel as old as Methusaleh to-night,
and a whole lot wiser! And I must say I rather enjoy it!"

"Yes," said James reflectively, "it does seem a good deal that way."

"There are lots of questions you haven't asked me yet, James," continued
Harry, after another interval.

"Are there? Well, tell me what they are and I'll ask them, if you're so
crazy to answer them."

"The first is, What on earth could you ever have seen in That Woman?"

"There was no need to ask that question," replied James, laughing; "not
after I saw her to-day, at any rate."

"She was so damned refined," sighed Harry. James laughed again at the
coincidence of Harry's hitting on the very words of his own mental
description of her. "I was most horribly depressed, and she looked so
kind and sympathetic, and was, too, when I got to telling her my
woes.... And she never used a particle of rouge, or anything of that
kind.... Once I kissed her, and after that she managed, in that
diabolical refined manner of hers, to convince me that she wouldn't have
any more of that sort of thing without marriage. That made me respect
her all the more, of course, as she knew it would. At one time, for a
whole week, I should say, I was perfectly willing to marry her, whenever
she wanted, and I didn't care whom I said it to, either.... Do you know,
James, she would have been in for the devil of a time if I had gone on
and pressed her to? I wonder what little plans she had for making me
cease to care for her and back out at the right time.... There was no
need for that, though; one day she called me 'kid,' and things like that
before people, and I began to see."

"That was part of her little plan, of course," said James.

"Well, well--I shouldn't wonder if it was! You always were a clever
child, James!..."

"What are some more of the things I've got to ask?" inquired the clever
child after a brief silence.

"What? Oh--yes! Why don't you ask me to cut out the lick?" (He meant,
abstain from alcoholic beverages.)

"Well, do you want me to?"

"Well, yes, I think I do, rather!"

"Well, will you?"

"Well--yes!"

Both laughed, and then Harry went on: "It strikes me that we are both
talking a prodigious lot of nonsense, James. We've been making a regular
scene, in fact--"

"I rather like scenes, myself," interrupted James, just for the pleasure
of their being how he had expressed exactly the opposite opinion to some
one else a few hours before.

"And no doubt we shall be heartily ashamed when we look back on it all
in the cold gray light of to-morrow morning. One always is."

"I don't know," objected James, serious again, "I don't think that I
shall be sorry for anything I've said or done."

"Well, as a matter of strict truth, I don't know that I shall either. I
suppose one needn't necessarily be making a fool of oneself just because
it's twelve o'clock at night; that is--oh, you know what I mean--!"

So they sat and talked on far into the night, loath to break up the
enjoyment of the rediscovery of each other. They both seemed to bask in
a sort of wonderful clarity and peace--do you know these rare times when
life loses its complexity and uncertainty and becomes for the moment
wholly sane and enjoyable and inspiring? When a person is actually able
to live, if only for a little time, entirely in his better self, without
being troubled by even a recollection of his worser? That was,
substantially, the condition of those two boys as they sat there, at
first talking, then thinking, and at last, as drowsiness slowly asserted
itself over them, simply sitting.

"Well," said James at last; "unless you intend taking permanent
possession of my legs, I suppose we'd better go to bed. Am I sleeping
here, somewhere?"

"Yes," said Harry; "in my bed; I shall sleep on the sofa," and he
forthwith embarked on a search for extra sheets and blankets.

They both slept uninterruptedly till nearly ten, at which hour they
sallied forth in search of breakfast. During the night the snow had
changed to rain, which still fell out of a leaden sky, turning the
earth's white covering to dirty gray and clogging the gutters with
slush. Everything looked sordid, prosaic, ugly, especially Chapel
Street, which they crossed on their way to the nearest "dog"; especially
the "dog" itself as they approached it, with its yellow electric lights
still shining out of its windows. It was an unattractive world.

"Well, how does it look this morning?" James asked, studying his
brother's face.

Harry shuffled along several steps through the slush before he answered:

"Just the same, James, and I for one, don't mind saying so." Then they
looked at each other and smiled slightly.




CHAPTER XV

CHIEFLY CARDIAC


Life appeared, nevertheless, to have recovered all its normal complexity
and variety. Things change with the return of daylight, even if they do
not deteriorate, and though the two boys were still, in a manner of
speaking, happy in each other's proximity, the thoughts of each were
already busy on matters in which the other had no direct share. Harry
was already foreseeing unpleasantnesses in the way of the restoration of
cordial relations with the world. Exile has its palliations; he had
taken a sort of grim pleasure in the state of semi-warfare in which he
had lived. But that sort of thing was now over; he wanted to be right
with the whole world--he even looked forward to astonishing people with
the thoroughness of his conservatism. And he would have to make all the
first advances. Thoughts of apologies, unreciprocated nods, suppressed
sneers, incredulous glances and all the rest did not dismay him, but
they might be said to bother him. At least, they were there.

As for James, he had thought so much about Harry during the last ten
days that it is easy to understand why, the affair Harry having been
satisfactorily cleared up, his mind should be busy with other things.
James' control over his mind was singularly perfect and methodical; its
ease of concentration suggested that of an experienced lawyer examining
the contents of several scraps of papers and returning each one again to
its proper pigeon-hole, neatly docketed. The papers bearing the label of
"Harry," neatly tied up in red tape, were again reposing comfortably in
their pigeon-hole; the bundle that now absorbed his attention was marked
"Beatrice."

Outside of his work, to which he had conscientiously devoted the best of
his mental powers, Beatrice had occupied the most prominent place in his
thoughts for over a year and a half. For six days in the week, between
the hours of nine and five, she had not been conspicuous in his mind;
but how often, outside that time, had his attention wandered from a
book, a conversation, a play, and fastened itself on the recollection of
that softly aquiline profile of hers, the poise of her head on her
beautifully modeled shoulders, her unsmiling yet cordial manner of
greeting, and which she somehow managed to convey the impression of
being unaffectedly glad to see him! It would probably be too much to say
that James had been in love with her during that time, but James was not
the sort of person who would easily be carried off his feet in an affair
of the heart. Often, as the memory of her face obtruded itself on his
day-dreams--or still oftener, his night-dreams--he had calmly put to
himself, for open mental debate, the question "Am I really in love with
her?" and had never been able to answer it entirely satisfactorily.

On the whole, in view of the fact that the memory of her showed no
tendency to fade in proportion to the time he was absent from her
presence, he had become rather inclined to the opinion that the answer
must be in the affirmative. Yet even now he could not be sure. He might
be only cherishing an agreeable memory. He had not seen her since the
previous June, and could not be absolutely certain, he knew, till he saw
her again. He was anxious to see her!--Not that mere friendship would
not account for that, of course.

Harry had to attend Sunday Chapel, and it was arranged that James should
not go with him, but should proceed directly to the house. Harry himself
would turn up at dinner-time--Aunt Selina, it will be remembered, had
dinner in the middle of the day on Sundays. Harry was naturally anxious
to have all news-breaking over before he came, and James--well, on the
whole James was entirely willing to take the burden of news-breaking on
himself.

He found Aunt Selina at home; a slight cold in the head and the
inclemency of the weather had been sufficient to make her forego church
for this Sunday. Beatrice had proved herself of stauncher religious
metal--"Though I am sure she would not have gone, if she had known you
were in town," as Aunt Selina told James.

Aunt Selina took the good news much as a duchess of the old regime might
have learned that the Committee of Public Safety had decided not to chop
off her husband's head. It was agreeable news, but it was nothing to
make one forget oneself. Her manner of saying "This is splendid news,
James; I am proud of you" indicated a profound belief in the sanctity of
the Wimbourne destiny and an unshakable faith in the ultimate triumph of
the Wimbourne character rather than unbecoming thankfulness for
something she ought not to have had to be thankful about. James advised
her that Harry would talk much more freely and relations in general
would be much more agreeable if she refrained from mention of the
subject till he introduced it himself. Aunt Selina calmly agreed. She
had great faith in James' judgment.

After an hour's chat with his aunt James exhibited visible signs of
restlessness. Half-past twelve; it was time Beatrice returned. He rose
from his chair and stood watching in front of the window. Soon he saw
her; she alighted from a trolley car and started to walk up the path.
There was something rather fine, something high-bred and gently proud
about the way she grasped her umbrella and embarked on the long slushy
ascent to the house. Her manner rather suggested a daughter of the
Crusaders; it was as though she hated the wind and rain and slush, but
disdained to give other recognition of their existence than a silent
contempt.

As he beheld her distant figure turn in at the gate and plod
unflinchingly up the walk a curious sensation came over James. He
suddenly found himself wanting to wreak an immediate and violent
vengeance on the elements that dared to make things so unpleasant for
her, and that almost immediately passed into an intense desire to seize
upon that small figure and clasp it to him, sheltering her from the
rain, the wind, the slush, every evil in this world that could ever
befall her.... In that moment he felt all the beauty of man's first
love. All the worries of doubt and introspection fell from him; he felt
the full glow of love shining in his heart like a star, giving
significance, sanctity, even, to those moments of wondering, fearing,
hoping, doubting that had filled so many months. He was in love with
her!... He came into the realization of the fact in a spirit of humility
and prayer, like a worshiper entering a temple.

Of course he gave no outward sign of all this. He merely said, as soon
as he could trust himself to be articulate, in a perfectly ordinary tone
of voice:

"There's Beatrice, now. She's walking."

"Yes," answered his aunt; "I tried to make her stay at home, but she
would go." Then after a moment she gently added, as though in answer to
James' unspoken reproach: "I would have let her take the carriage, but
of course I could not ask Thomas to go out in such weather."

James entirely failed to see why not. He would willingly have condemned
Thomas and the horses to perpetual driving through something much more
disagreeable than rain and slush if it could have saved Beatrice one
particle of her present discomfort.

But being, in fact as well as in appearance, a daughter of Crusaders,
and consequently well used to climatic rigors in the country from which
her ancestors had marched to meet the Paynim foe, Beatrice was really
not suffering nearly as much as James' lover-like anxiety supposed her
to be. She had thick boots, a mackintosh, an umbrella and a thick tweed
skirt to protect her from the weather, and could have walked miles
without so much as wetting her feet. If she had got wet, she certainly
would have changed her garments immediately on reaching home, and even
if she had not changed then she probably would not have caught cold,
having a strong constitution. Nevertheless James stood at the window and
silently worried about her, and his first words as he met her at the
front door were expressive of this mood.

"Beatrice!" he cried eagerly, as he threw the door open, "I do hope
you're not wet through!"

She had not seen him standing at the window, so his appearance at the
door was consequently a complete surprise to her, and the expression
that came over her face as she saw him was one of pure pleasure. James'
heart leaped within him at her unaccustomed smile, and then fell again
as he saw it change to an expression of ever so slight and
well-restrained surprise, not at his being there, but at the manner and
words of his greeting. He realized in a second that he had allowed his
tongue to betray his heart.

Beatrice paid no immediate attention to the remark, and her welcoming
words "James, of all people in the world!" gave no sign of anything more
than a friendly pleasure. She was entirely at her ease. James found
himself running on, quite easily:

"Yes--just got a day or two off and came on to say Howdy-do to you all.
Got to start back this afternoon, worse luck. How well you're looking!"

By this time they were practically in the library, in the restraining
presence of Aunt Selina, and Beatrice had no more chance to introduce
the topic clamoring for discussion in the minds of both than the
question "You've seen Harry?" uttered in an undertone as they went
through the door, allowed her. Church, the weather and the unexpected
pleasure of James' arrival were politely discussed for a few moments,
and then Aunt Selina withdrew to prepare for dinner.

"James," Beatrice burst out, "tell me about Harry. I know you've come on
about that; tell me all about it! Has anything been done? Can anything
be done?"

"It can," said James, smiling at her impetuosity. "Like-wise, it has. In
fact, it's all over!"

"What do you mean?... Have you paid her off?"

"No; she withdrew of her own accord."

"James, don't be irritating! Tell me about it. You've done something, I
know you have!"

"Well--possibly!" He smiled tantalizingly at her--so like a man!

"What?"

"Well, I'll tell you--on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you'll promise not to thank me when you've found out!" James
considered this rather a masterly piece of deceptive strategy, more than
making up for his indiscretion at the front door.

Beatrice dropped her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth, with
an expression half humorous, half contemptuous. "Go ahead," said she.

James went ahead and told her the whole affair at some length. His
position during this narrative was a not unenviable one; it is not often
that one gets a chance to recount to one's lady-love a story in which
one is so obviously the hero. Nor did he lose anything by being the
narrator of his own prowess; his omissions spoke louder in his favor
than the most laudatory comments of a third person could have.

"So, he is free!" she said at last, when she had cross-questioned the
whole thing out of him. "He is free again!..."

What was there about these words that seemed to blast James' feeling of
triumph, to chill the very marrow in his bones? Was it only the words;
was it not rather the extraordinary intensity of the pleasure on her
face; a pleasure which did not fade with her smile, but lived on in the
dreamy expression of the eyes, gazing sightlessly out of the window?...
She spoke again in a moment or two, asking a question about some detail
in the case, and the feeling left him again. He answered her question
with perfect composure. Such hysterical vapors must be incidental to
love, he supposed. He was not troubled about it at all, unless, very
vaguely, by the fleeting memory of a similar experience, occurring--oh,
a long time ago. Nothing to worry about.

He did not say much after he had completed his narrative. He was content
simply to sit and look at her, drinking in her smiles, her comments, her
little ejaculations of pleasure and answering her stray questions about
the great affair. The joy of discovery was not yet even tinged with the
thirst for possession. It was enough to watch her as she talked and
laughed and moved about; to watch her, the living original, and think
how much more glorious she was than the most vivid of his recollections
of her. Oh, how wonderful she was!

Presently he was aware of her making remarks laudatory of himself, and
primed his ears to listen.

"But how clever it was of you, James," she was saying, "to work out the
whole thing, just from that one little glimpse--and so quickly, too! Of
course it was just a Heaven-sent chance, your seeing her at that moment,
but I can see how much more there was to it than that. What a
frightfully clever person you are, James--a regular detective! You
really must give up making motor cars and be another Sherlock Holmes!"

All this fell very pleasantly on his ears, though he could have wished,
if he had taken the time to, that she could have employed some other
adjective than "clever." But there was no time for such minor
considerations. Just at that moment they heard the rattle of the front
door latch, and Beatrice, knowing that none but Harry ever entered the
house without first ringing, jumped from her chair and started towards
the hall, the words "There he is now!" glowing on her lips....

And then the universe crumbled about James' ears. Had his father's early
readings extended into the minor Elizabethan Drama, he might have
remembered the words of Beaumont--

    This earth of mine doth tremble, and I feel
    A stark affrighted motion in my blood

and applied them quite aptly to his present state. For a moment the
earth literally seemed to reel; he staggered slightly, unnoticed, and
caught hold of the back of a chair. Then, while Beatrice went out to
meet Harry, he stood there and wished he had never been born to live
through such a moment.

Beatrice was in love with Harry--that was the long and the short of it.
There was no mistaking the import of the look of utter glorification
that came over her face as she heard his hand on the doorknob; such an
expression on the face of a human being could mean but one thing.... He
wondered, despairingly, if his face had borne such a look a little while
ago, when he caught sight of Beatrice....

Whether or not Harry was on similar terms with Beatrice he could not
say. He rather thought that he was, or if not, it was only a question of
time till he would be. He was not a witness of the actual moment of
meeting; that occurred in the hall, and all he got of it was Harry's
initial remark: "Well, Beatrice, have you heard the good news? James has
made a respectable woman of me!" drowned in a sort of flutter from
Beatrice, in which he could distinguish nothing articulate--nor needed
to. The character of the remark--flippant to the verge of good
taste!--might at another time have excited his disgust; but now it made
as little impression on him as it did on Beatrice.

Harry himself might not have made it at another time; it was the result
of his embarrassment. So, also, was the expression which he wore when he
came into the room with Beatrice a moment later--a very unusual look,
due to a very unusual cause. Beatrice had, in fact, all but given
herself away to him. He followed her into the room embarrassed and
flustered. It was incomparably the worst of the series of strained
moments in his intercourse with Beatrice, and it gave point and
coherency to the others in a way he hated to think of.... Once in the
library he found himself leading conversation, or what passed for
conversation among the three for the next few moments. The others
appeared conversationally extinct; Beatrice--he hardly dared look toward
her--trying to recover her composure; James preternaturally grave and
silent, for some unknown reason. The atmosphere seemed surcharged with
an unexpected and, to him, inappropriate gravity. He felt like a
schoolboy among grown-ups.

Presently Aunt Selina returned and dinner was announced.

       *       *       *       *       *

Poor James--he had won Paradise only to lose it the next instant! No one
could have guessed anything from his behavior--he was not the sort of
person to make an exhibition of his emotional crises; but he really
lived very hard during the meal that followed. His state of mind was at
first nothing but a ghastly chaos, from which but one thing emerged into
certainty--he must not betray himself or Beatrice; he must go on exactly
as if nothing unusual had occurred. It never paid to make a fool of
oneself, and--this was the next thought, the next plank that floated to
him from the wreck of his happiness--he had not, that he knew of, given
himself away. That was a tremendous thing to be thankful for; what a
blessing that he had got wind of Beatrice's true feelings before he had
the chance to blunder into making love to her and so precipitate a
series of horrors which he could not even bear to contemplate! Now, he
told himself reassuringly, as he tried desperately to contribute his
fourth to the none too spontaneous conversation, he had only to keep
himself in check, keep his mouth shut, keep from making of himself the
most unthinkable ass that ever walked God's earth--and it would all come
out right!

By the time the roast beef made its appearance he saw there was only one
thing to do and without a moment's hesitation he embarked on the doing
of it. Beatrice sat on his right; he raised his eyes to her and passed
them over each enthralling feature of her, her soft dark hair; her eyes,
brown almost to black, gentle yet fearless in their gaze, and at the
same time, quite calmly and unemotionally, told himself that she could
never be his. She was Harry's. These two were intended for each other
all along, made for each other. Could he not have seen that in the
beginning, if he had kept his eyes open? Could he not have seen that
their childish companionship, dating from Harry's English days, their
being placed again, as though by a divine sort of accident, in the same
town, and above all their obvious fitness for each other, was going to
lead to love?

Well--thus he found himself to his one substantial comfortable
support--he had hurt no one but himself. He had only to put Beatrice
resolutely out of his mind and all would be well. She was Harry's; was
that not the next best thing to her being his?--better, even? No longer
ago than last night he had convinced himself that Harry was, when all
was said and done, a better man than he was. Was it not perfectly just
that the prize should go to him?

The thought helped him through the meal astonishingly. Unselfishness is
a great stimulus. Once he saw that he could do something definite toward
the happiness of those he loved best, he seemed, rather to his own
surprise, perfectly willing and able to do it, at no matter what
sacrifice to himself. His righteousness supported him not only through
the meal, but well through that part of the afternoon that he spent in
the house--up, indeed, to the very moment of parting.

James' plan was to take a five-o'clock train to New York, whence he
would take a night train to Chicago and arrive in Minneapolis early
Tuesday morning, having missed only three working days at the office. It
was still raining at four o'clock and a cab was telephoned for. As it
was plodding up the slushy drive, James, overcoated and hatted, stood on
the porch ready to get into it. Harry, who was to go to the station with
him, was "having a word" with Aunt Selina--or, more exactly, being had a
word with by her--in the hall. Beatrice, by some fiendish chance,
determined to do the same by James.

"James," she said, "I want you to know how perfectly splendid I think it
was of you--all this about Harry, I mean. You may say it was no more
than your duty, and all that; but it was fine of you, nevertheless.
Thank you, James, and good-by."

It really was rather awful. It amounted to his being rewarded and
dismissed like a faithful servant. And her tacit, unconscious assumption
of her right to thank people for favors conferred upon Harry--that was
turning the knife in the wound. Of course she could have no idea of the
pain she was giving, and James shook her hand and said good-by trying to
give no sign of the pain he felt. All the comfortable stability of his
logic faded from him as she spoke those words. All the way to the
station, sitting by Harry's side in the smelly cab, he found himself
crying inwardly, like a child, for what he could not have; wondering if,
by the exercise of tact and patience, Beatrice could possibly be brought
to love him; overcome at moments by an insane desire to throw himself on
Harry's neck and beg him to let him have her--for surely, surely Harry
could not be as fond of her as he! Oh, was it going to be as hard as
this right along?...

"James," said Harry suddenly as the two paced the dreary platform in
silence, waiting for the train to pull in; "it's sometimes awfully hard
to say what you want without talking mawkish rot, but there's something
I've simply got to say, rot or no rot, or drop dead on the asphalt.--I'm
pretty young, of course, and haven't seen much of anything of life; but
a person doesn't have to live long to get the general idea that it's
rather a chaotic mess. Well, occasionally out of it there emerges a
thing that appears to bring out all that's best in your nature and gives
a certain coherence to the other things...."

"Yes?" said James, wondering what was to follow.

"Well, it seems to me that one of those things is--you and me. Since
last night, I mean ... James, I don't know how you feel about it, but
since then I've had a sense of nearness to you, such as I've never begun
to have with any other human being--such as doesn't occur often in one
lifetime, I imagine ... I really think very highly of you, James!" He
broke off here with a smile, half embarrassed at his brother's slowness
of response, ready to retreat into the everyday and the trivial if the
response did not come.

But he need not have worried; James was merely choosing his words; every
nerve in him was thrilling in answer to Harry's advance. He returned the
smile, but replied, in full seriousness: "You've hit it exactly; I
should even say it couldn't be duplicated in one lifetime.... You're
unique, Harry!"

"That's it--unique," said Harry, joining in with his mood. "You've
mastered the art of uniquity, James."

"And what's more," went on the other, "it always has been that
way--really. Even during these last few years. With me, I mean."

"With me, too. James"--he stood still and looked his brother full in the
face--"do you know, such a relation as ours is one of the few positive
good things that makes life worth while? If we were both struck dead as
we stand here, life would have been well worth living--just for this!"

"Yes, that's true," said James slowly; "that's perfectly true."

"And one thing more--for Heaven's sake, James, don't let's either of us
mess up this thing in the future, if we can help it! It may be broken up
by outside causes--well and good; we can't prevent that; but can't we
have the sense not to let silly, conventional things come between us?
Let's not be afraid, above all, of plain talk--at any rate, you need
never be afraid to say anything to me. I may be narrow and obstinate to
other people, but I don't think I could ever be so to you again. I'd
take anything from you, James, anything!--" He smiled at the
unintentional double meaning of his words, adding, "And there's nothing
I wouldn't give you, either."

It would not be too much to say that James was literally inspired by
Harry's words. They seemed to bring out every vestige of what was good
and noble and unselfish in his nature, lifting him high above his
everyday, weak, commonplace self--such as he had shown it in the cab,
for instance--making life as clear, as sensible, as inspiring as it had
seemed last night. His "sacrifice" now appeared nothing; he scarcely
thought of it at all, but its nature, when it did appear in the back of
his brain, was that of an obvious, pleasant, easy duty; a service that
was a joy, a denial that was a self-gratification.

"All right, I'll remember. And if I telegraph you to dye your face
pea-green, I shall expect you to do it!" He spoke with a lightness of
spirit wholly unfeigned. Then he continued, somewhat more seriously:
"I'll tell you what it is; each of us has got to behave so well that
it'll be the fault of the other if we do fall out. There's a poem Father
used to read that says something of the kind; something about there
being none but you--'there is none, oh, none but you--'"

"'That from me estrange your sight,'" finished Harry. "I
remember--Campion, I think."

"That's it--that from me estrange your sight. It's funny how those
things come back sometimes...." The train pulled noisily in at that
moment and made further discussion impossible, but enough had been said
to start the same thoughts running in the minds of both and give them
both the feeling, as they clasped hands in parting, that the future had
the blessing of the past.




CHAPTER XVI

THE SADDEST TALE


With the beginning of the next term Harry embarked on the task of
setting himself right with the world. He found it on the whole easier
than he had expected. He had only to make a few formal apologies, as in
the cases of Shep McGee and Junius LeGrand, and let it become generally
known that he had definitely given up drinking, et cetera, to make the
cohorts of the commonplace glad to receive him in their ranks once more.

Reinstatement in the social life of New Haven followed quite
easily--almost as a matter of course, for he had not actively offended
any members of what might be described as the entertaining classes. The
female element, practically all of whom knew him, or at least of him,
through his family connection, had evolved a mythical but interesting
conception of him as "rather a fast young man"; and that, alas! served
to endear him to their hearts rather than otherwise.

So the last months of his college course passed in a sort of sunset haze
of enjoyment, marred only by one thing, indecision as to his subsequent
career. His friends were inclined to look rather askance at this; one or
two, in a tactful way, pointed out to him the danger of "drifting." In
reality there was small danger of this; although his inherited income
would make him independent of his own efforts for livelihood during the
rest of his natural life, Harry would never "drift" very far. His brain
was too active, his ambition too lively, his sense of the seriousness of
life too deep to allow that. He could never be content doing nothing. He
wanted, in turn, to do very nearly everything; the professions of
lawyer, doctor, "business man," engineer, clergyman, soldier,
sailor--tinker and tailor, even were considered and rejected in turn.

"It's not that I don't want to do all these things," he explained to
Trotty, who sometimes showed impatience at his vagueness; "the trouble
is that I can't do any of them. I'm not fitted for them--I'm not worthy
of them, if you like to put it that way. If I were a conscienceless
wretch, now, it would be different!"

One Sunday afternoon in June, rather saddened by the feeling of his
apparent uselessness in the world, he went to call on Madge Elliston.

"Well, what are you going to do this summer?" she began. "That seems to
be the one topic of conversation at this time of year."

"This summer? Oh, I'm going to walk, with the rest of my class, in the
more mountainous portions of Europe. At present I am under engagement to
walk through the hilly parts of England, Scotland and Wales, the Black
Forest, the Alps, the Tyrol, the Dolomites and some of the cooler
portions of the Apennines; but the Cevennes and the Caucasus are still
open, if you care to engage them.... In between times I expect to
roister, shamelessly, in some of the livelier resorts of the Continent.
That's all quite simple; what I'm worrying about is what I'm going to do
next winter."

"Why don't you write, if I may be pardoned for asking so obvious a
question?" asked Madge.

"One simple but sufficient reason--I haven't got anything to write
about," answered Harry, smiling. "That's what everybody asks, and the
answer is always the same. This prevalent belief in my literary ability
is flattering, but unfortunately it's wholly unfounded."

"I shouldn't say so. I've read most of what you've written in college,
and it seems to me extremely clever."

"Clever--that's just it! Nothing more! The awful truth is, there's
nothing more in me. I have rather a high regard for literature, you see,
and on that very account I'm less willing to inflict myself on it. I
wouldn't care, though, if there was anything else I appeared to be cut
out for. If I felt that I could sweep crossings better than other
people, I assure you I would go into the profession with the greatest
cheerfulness!"

Madge laughed. "I know very much how you feel--I've been going through
much the same thing myself, though you might not have guessed it. Only
as it happens I have received a call for something very like the
profession you speak of."

"Crossing-sweeping?"

"The next thing to it--teaching in a dame's school in town--Miss
Snellgrove's. I think it's rather a pretty idea, don't you? Society
flower, withered and faint with gaiety, seeking refreshment in the
cloistral, the academic!--You don't approve?"

"Woman's sphere is the home," said Harry doubtfully.

"Not when the home is a two-by-four box; you couldn't call that a
sphere, could you? Of course," she went on, more seriously, "of course
the real, immediate reason why I'm doing it is financial. These are
times of--well, stringency.... Not but what we could scrape along; but
it seems rather absurd to be earning nothing when one could just as well
be earning something, doesn't it? And the only alternative is playing
about eternally with college boys younger than myself."

"Yes, I think you're very sensible, if that's the case. Not that it is,
of course; you'll find plenty of people coming back to the graduate and
professional schools to console you. Also my brother James at week-ends,
if that's any comfort to you!"

"James? Is he in this part of the country?"

"Yes, in New York. He's going to be in McClellan's branch there next
winter--assistant manager, or something of the sort--something important
and successful sounding. We are all very much set up over it. And it's
so near that he can come up for Sunday quite regularly, if he wants.--It
does give me quite a solemn and humble feeling, though, to think that
you have found a profession before me."

"Oh, yes; teaching at Miss Snellgrove's is more than a profession--it's
a career!--I refuse to believe, though," she continued with a change of
manner, "that you have not found your profession already, even though
you may not care to adopt it yet. For after all, you know, you have the
creative ability. Every one says that. All that's wanting in you, as you
say, is having something to write about, and nothing but time and
development will bring that. Meanwhile I think it's very nice and
high-minded of you not to go ahead and write nothing, with great ease
and fluency! That's what most people in your position do."

"Thank you; that's very encouraging," said Harry. He looked
thoughtfully at her for a moment and continued: "Has it ever occurred to
you, Madge, that you are quite a remarkable young woman?"

"Heavens yes, hundreds of times!"

"That's a denial, I suppose. However, it's true. Look at the way you've
just been talking to me!... You have what I've come to admire very much
during the past few months--perfect balance of viewpoint. You have what
one might call a sense of ultimacy--is there such a word? It's like a
number of children, each playing about in his own little backyard,
surrounded by a high fence that he can't see over, suspecting the
existence of a lot of other backyards, with children in them wondering
what lay beyond in just the same way. Then occasionally there is born a
happy being to whom is given the privilege of looking down on the whole
lot of them from the church steeple, and being able to see each backyard
in its exact relation to all the other backyards. That's you.... It's a
rare gift!"

Madge was at first amused by this elaborate compliment, but she ended by
being rather touched by it.

"It's very nice of you to say that," she replied after a moment, "no
matter how little foundation there may be for it. It proves one thing,
at any rate--I have no monopoly of the quality of ultimacy! You wouldn't
be able to think I was ultimate, would you, unless you were a wee bit
ultimate yourself? And that goes to prove what I said about your
attitude toward your profession."

"I'm afraid you can't make me believe in my own ultimacy, no matter how
hard you try," said Harry. "In fact I pursue the rival study of
propinquity--the art of never seeing beyond one's own nose!"

"Well, you must at least let me believe in the ultimacy of your finding
your profession," insisted Madge. But Harry only shook his head.

Commencement arrived at last, and Aunt Cecilia, attended by a
representative delegation of her progeny, flopped down upon Aunt Selina,
prepared to do as much by Harry as she had by his brother two years
earlier. Aunt Cecilia belonged to the important class of American women
who regard a graduation as a family event second in importance only to a
wedding or a funeral, ranking slightly higher than a "coming out." The
occasion was a particularly joyous one to her because of Harry's being
able to celebrate it in a full blaze of righteousness and truth, and
because of the consequent opportunities for motherly fluttering.

"Dear Harry," she said, as she kissed, him on his arrival; "I am so glad
to be here to see you graduate, and so glad that--that everything has
gone so splendidly. It is so much, much nicer--that is, it is _so_ nice
to think that--"

"Yes, dear; you mean, isn't it nice that I'm respectable again," said
Harry, with a flippancy made gentle by the sight of her kind blue eyes.
"I am respectable now, you know, so you needn't be afraid to talk about
it. We can all be respectable together; you're respectable, and I'm
respectable, and Ruth is respectable and Lucy is respectable, and Aunt
Selina is respectable--we hope; how about that, Aunt Selina?--and
altogether we're an eminently respectable family. All except Beatrice,
that is, who is far, far too nobly born, being related, in fact, to a
marquis. No one in the peerage, Aunt C. dear, likes to be called
respectable--it's considered insulting. No one, that is, above the rank
of baron; the barons are now all reformed brewers, who get their
peerages by being so respectable that people forget all about the
brewing, and that is English democracy, and isn't it a splendid thing,
dear? When you marry Ruth to an English peer, you must be sure to have
him a baron, because none of the others are respectable."

"Harry, what nonsense you do talk!" said his aunt. "Before these
girls--!"

"I imagine these girls know Harry by this time," remarked Aunt Selina.
"If they don't, it's time they did. You're a hundred times more innocent
than they, Cecilia, and always will be."

"Exactly always what I tell Mama," put in Ruth, the eldest of Aunt
Cecilia's brood. "Besides, what Harry said is all quite true, I'm sure.
Except about me; I shan't marry a foreigner at all, but if I do, I
certainly shan't marry a brewer. Mama is far too rich for me to take
anything less than a duke."

This was literally, almost painfully true. A succession of deaths in
Aunt Cecilia's family, accompanied by a scarcity of male heirs, had
placed her in possession of almost untold wealth--"more than I bargained
for when I took you," as Uncle James jocularly put it, for the pleasure
of seeing her bridle and blush. Aunt C. was one of the richest women in
the country, but it never changed her a particle. Not all her wealth,
not all her social prominence, not all the refining influences that
several generations' enjoyment of these brings, could ever make her even
appear to be anything but the simple, warm-hearted, motherly creature
she was.

Harry, realizing all this as well as any one, exerted himself to make
Aunt C. glad she had made the effort to come to see him graduate, and he
manfully escorted her and the girls to the play, the baccalaureate
service, his class-day exercises, the baseball game and various other
entertainments, where, as Ruth rather aptly put it, "we can sit around
and watch somebody else do something." He also did his full duty by his
cousin, and danced away a long and perspiring evening with her at the
senior promenade. He found Ruth very good company, in spite of her
active tongue, or rather, perhaps, because of it.

The final Wednesday, pregnant with fate, arrived at length, and after an
immense deal of watching other people receive degrees, some earned and
some accorded by the pure generosity of the University, Harry became
entitled to write the magic initials "B.A." after his name. Being one of
the leaders of his class in point of scholarship, he was one of the
twenty or so who mounted the platform and received the diplomas for the
rest. This was too much for Aunt Cecilia, who occupied a prominent place
in the front row of the balcony.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, wiping away a furtive tear, "there he goes, and
no mother to see him do it! No one to be proud of him! And the brightest
of all the family--I shall never live to see a son of mine do as well,
never, never!"

"I'm not so sure," said her eldest daughter, comfortingly; "the doctrine
of chances is in your favor. You have four boys--four chances to
Aunt--what was her name?--Aunt Edith's two. Harry's not so fearfully
bright, anyway--only sixteenth out of three hundred."

"My dear, how can you talk so? you ought to be ashamed, after his being
so nice to you all this week!"

"Yes, he's been very sweet, indeed," replied the maiden, magnanimously.
"Though I don't know, on looking back at it, that he's been any nicer to
me than I've been to him!"

Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he
found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was
impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed
to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them
leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of
receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had
not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor;
the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of
materialism.

The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni
luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of
all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall
filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong,
ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all
of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma
mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for
her--all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always
ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt
it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the
presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to
the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on
terms of equal footing--all graduates together.

At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers
of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the
recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of
these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such
speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's
service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister,
another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The
ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given
in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong
emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale
men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over,
were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one
of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house,
developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with
knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them
into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of
themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had
given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and
affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale
stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was
not an end in herself, but a means--one of many other means--to an
infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast
order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true
greatness.

The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of
a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe
and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his
idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and
agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge
and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main
exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the
whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and
realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against
college institutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize
them? What had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of
idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that
first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence
of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and
watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward
serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in
their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a
single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was
it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of
golden youth?

Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his
eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a
cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with
meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wandered
into introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually,
however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting
thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in
his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not
wholly wasted--he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where
he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James
occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had
been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must
be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he
hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes
could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard,
at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant,
unbiased and humble--above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's
table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud
were in fact the humblest.

The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor
of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his
watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see
Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at
once if he were to catch them.

He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates
toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had
never before listened.

    Mother of men, grown strong in giving
      Honor to them thy lights have led,

sang the men. Yes, thought Harry, there was plenty of honor to give.
Would that he might ever be one of those to whom such honor was due, but
that was not to be thought of. It was enough for him to be one of those
who were led by those lights. Yes, that was the first step, steadfastly
to follow the light that the grave Mother held above and before him; to
keep his eyes constantly on it, never looking down or behind.

    Rich in the toil of thousands living,
      Proud of the deeds of thousands dead,

Deeds, deeds! That was what counted; any one could see visions and dream
dreams; the veriest fool could mean well. Oh, might a merciful Heaven
help him to convert into deeds the lofty ideals that now surged within
his brain!--What a ripping song that was, and how well it sounded to
hear a thousand men singing it together! He forgot Aunt Cecilia for a
moment, and checked his pace near the door to hear the last verse.

    Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging,
      Under whose feet the years are cast,
    Heir to an ageless empire, ranging
      Over the future and the past--

Half blinded with tears he staggered out into the empty vestibule and
steadied himself for a second against a pillar. He never had realized
before how much it all meant to him, how he loved what he was leaving.
And yet--"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging"--he had never quite caught
the full meaning of those words. They now seemed, in a way, to soften
the pain of parting, to give him comfort and strength with which to face
the years. Surely growing old would not be so bad if one could think of
the spirit of youth as still there, alive, unchanging, spreading joy and
hope through the world!

And then, sweet and sudden as a breeze at sundown came the thought to
him that here lay his life's work, his own little mission in the world:
in using his intelligence and his power of interpretation, the only
gifts he could discover himself as possessing, to guide and assist those
who happened to come a little after him in the long procession of human
life--in becoming, in short, a teacher. A sudden feeling of calmness and
surety took possession of him; he was able to consider himself and his
place in the world with a more complete detachment than he had ever
before attained. He found himself able, for the moment, to rate his
powers and limitations exactly as an unprejudiced observer might have
done. Within him he suddenly, unmistakably felt those qualities of
priest and prophet which, combined with that of the scholar, make up the
ideal teacher.

"Spirit of youth," he whispered, "to you I dedicate myself, such as I
am, and my life, such as it may be."

He stood still for a moment and listened as the great chorus behind the
closed door brought the song to a finish, ending on a note both solemn
and exalted. For a second or two there was silence, and then there
burst forth the sound of the Yale cheer. The contrast between the last
notes of the song and the brazen bellow of that cheer, hallowed by the
memories of a hundred close-fought fields, struck Harry as both dramatic
and comic, and caused a corresponding change in his own mood.

"Spirit of youth, alive, unchanging!" he quoted again, laughing. Then he
hurried off to say good-by to his aunt.




PART II




CHAPTER I

CAN LOVE BE CONTROLLED BY ADVICE?


Madge Elliston lived alone with her mother in a small house on an
unpretentious but socially unimpeachable side street, just off one of
the main avenues. Their means, as Madge has already intimated, were
modest--"modest," as the young lady sprightly put it, "to the point of
prudishness." Joseph Elliston, her father, had been a brilliant and
promising young professor when her mother married him, with, as people
said, a career before him. If by career they meant affluence, they were
wholly right in saying it was all before him. But though the two married
on his prospects, they could not fairly have been said to have made an
unwise venture. Nothing but death had kept Joseph Elliston from becoming
a popular and respected teacher, a foremost authority on economics, the
author of standard works on that subject, and the possessor of a
comfortable income. But he had died when Madge, his only child, was five
years old, leaving his small and sorrowing family barely enough to live
on.

The straitened circumstances in which the sad event threw Mrs. Elliston
and her daughter were somewhat relieved by the generosity of the only
sister of the widow, Eliza Scharndorst, herself a widow and the
possessor of a large fortune. She was extremely fond of Madge, who
always got on beautifully with her "Aunt Tizzy"--an infantile corruption
allowed to survive into maturity--having more in common with her, if the
truth must be known, than with her mother. She was a festive soul, much
given to entertaining, and she was not long in discovering that the
assistance of her niece was a distinct asset in making her home
attractive to guests. It is not to be wondered at that Madge's
occasional services in the way of decorating a dinner table or
brightening up an otherwise stodgy reception would redound to her
material benefit as well as to her spiritual welfare. Such good things
as trips to Bermuda, occasional new frocks and instruction under the
best music masters, came her way so frequently that by the time we next
meet her, nearly five years after our last sight of her, Madge was a far
better dowered young woman, socially speaking, than the penniless
orphaned daughter of a college professor could normally hope to be.

For when we next see her Miss Elliston is--and in no mere figurative
sense--holding the center of the stage. A real stage in a real theater,
under the full blaze of real footlights, and if no real audience sits on
the other side of those footlights, it is no great matter, for a very
real audience will sit there soon enough. On Friday night, to be exact,
and this is Tuesday. To be even more exact, it is the first formal,
dress rehearsal of an amateur performance of "The Beggar's Opera"
(immortal work!) organized primarily for charitable purposes by a number
of prominent citizens, among them Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst, and
secondarily, if we are to give any weight to the opinion of those
present at the rehearsal, for the purpose of giving scope to the talents
of Mrs. Rudolph Scharndorst's niece.

For Madge is cast for the part of Polly Peachum, heroine of the piece.
And if there was originally the slightest doubt as to the wisdom of such
an assignment, it has vanished into thin air before now. For Madge is
lovely--! It is not merely a matter of voice; there never was any doubt
but that she had the best voice available for the part. What the
scattered few in the dark auditorium are busy admiring now is the
extraordinary charm, grace, actual beauty, even, of the girl performing
before them. The more so because it is all so unattended; no one thought
that she would give that effect on the stage. Of a type usually
described as "attractive," slight and rather short, with hair sandy
rather than golden, and a face distinguished only by a nice pair of blue
eyes and a particularly ingratiating smile, Madge could not fairly be
expected to turn herself into a vision of commanding beauty and charm
with the slight external aids of paint and powder and a position behind
a row of strong lights.

The only unimpressed and indifferent person in the theater was the
coach. That was quite as it should be, of course; coaches must not
exhibit bursts of enthusiasm, like common people. Yet it is perhaps
worth mentioning that the coach in question made none of his frequent
interruptions during the first few moments of Polly's presence on the
stage, but sat silently biting his pencil and frowning in the back row
of the theater till after she had finished her second song.

"One moment!" he cried, running down the aisle. "I'm going to change
that song." He exchanged a few whispered remarks with the leader of the
orchestra, who had charge of the musical side of the production. "All
right--never mind now--go on with the act ... No, don't cross there,
Mrs. Peachum; stay where you are, and Miss Elliston! what are the last
words of the second line of that song?"

"'Mothers obey.'"

"All right--let's have 'em. I didn't get them that time. Go on, please."

The act continued, and admiration grew apace. When at length the act
reached its close there was a faint but spontaneous outburst of applause
from the almost empty theater.

"Well, what do you think of Madge?" asked Mrs. Scharndorst, waylaying
the coach on his progress down the aisle.

"Oh, she'll do! There's a lot there to improve, though.--Strike for the
second act--drinking scene!" This last uttered in a shout as he rushed
on down to the stage. Not very fulsome praise, to be sure, but Mrs.
Scharndorst knows her man, and is satisfied. Indeed, she respects him
the more for not being fulsome.

So do the other members of the cast and chorus; at least, if they do
respect him, it cannot be for the enthusiasm of his approval. His
demeanor, as he stands there on a chair in the orchestra pit, shouting
directions to his minions, is not indicative of very profound
satisfaction with the progress of the rehearsal.

"Thompson! If you're going to use your spot on Polly's entrance, for
Heaven's sake keep it on her face and not on her feet! I didn't see a
thing but her shoes then ... No, you there, that table way down
front--so, and oh, Mrs. Smith! is that Tilman's idea of a costume for an
old woman, middle class?... I thought so ... no, I'm afraid not! That
train might be quite suitable for a duchess, but it won't do for a
robber's wife. You see Miss Banks about it, will you please?... Mr.
Barnaby! I want to get you and Miss Elliston to go through the business
of that Pretty Polly song once again--you're both as stiff as pokers
still.... No, just the motions. No, stand on both feet and keep your
chest out while you're singing your part, and when she comes in,
'Fondly, fondly,' you half turn round, so--so that when she falls back
on your arm she'll have a chance to show more than her chin to the
audience.... No, I think I'll have you wait till the encore before you
kiss her--it looks flat if you do it too often, and by the bye, Mr.
Barnaby, will you make an appointment with Mrs. Adams for to-morrow to
get up a dance for that prison scene--'How happy could I be with
either'.... Four o'clock--all right.... What song?"

This last is in answer to an inquiry from Miss Elliston.

"Oh, of course--'Can love be controlled by advice'.... Come down here
and we'll talk it over. Careful, step in the middle of that chair and
you'll be all right ... there!" And Miss Elliston and the great man sit
down companionably in the places belonging respectively to the oboe and
the trombone, just as though they had been friends from earliest youth.

If there is one thing we despise, it is transparent roguishness on the
part of an author. Let us hasten to admit, then, that the coach is none
other than our friend Harry; a Harry not changed a particle, really,
from his undergraduate days, though a Harry, to be sure, in whom the
passage of five years has effected certain important developments. Such,
for instance, as having become able to coach an amateur production of a
musical show. These will be described and accounted for, all in good
time. The story cannot be everywhere at once.

"About that song ... I know nothing about music, of course, but it
struck me to-night that that was rather a good tune--one of the best in
the show.... It may have been the singing, of course."

"Not a bit of it--it's a ripping tune!--Let's see what the trombone part
for it looks like.... There isn't any--just those little thingumbobs.
Oh, the accompaniment is all on the strings, of course; I forgot."

"Well, what I want to get at is, do you think Gay's words are up to
it?"

"Nowhere near. I'd much rather sing some of yours, if that's what you're
getting at.... They're not quite _jeune fille_, either; I just
discovered that to-day."

"There's a great deal in this show that isn't. We've cut most of it, but
there's a good bit left, only no one who hasn't studied the period can
spot it.... You needn't tell any one that.--Well, let's see about some
words. 'Can love be controlled by advice, will Cupid our mothers
obey'--we'll keep that, I think ..."

He produced a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled rapidly on
it. In a minute or two he had evolved the following stanzas, retaining
the first four lines of Gay's original song:

    Can love be controlled by advice?
      Will Cupid our mothers obey?
    Though my heart were as frozen as ice
      At his flame 'twould have melted away.
    Now love is enthroned in my heart
      All your threats and entreaties are in vain;
    His power defies all your art,
      And chiding but adds to my pain.

    Ah, mother! if ever in youth
      Your heart by love's anguish was wrung;
    If ever you thrilled with its truth
      Too sweet to be spoken or sung;
    If ever you've longed for life's best,
      Nor reckoned the issue thereof;
    If heart ever beat in your breast
      Have pity on me--for I love!

"There!" said he, handing it to the prima donna; "see what you think of
that."

"Oh ... much better! There'll be much more fun in singing it."

"It isn't much in the way of poetry," explained Harry, "but it gives a
certain dramatic interest to the song, which is the main thing. You can
change anything you want in it, of course; I daresay some of those words
are quite unsingable on the notes of the song."

"No--I think they'll be all right. Thank you very much; it was hard to
make anything out of the other words. Also, I shall be able to tell Mama
that you've cut out some of Gay's naughty words and put in some innocent
ones of your own instead. She's been just a little worried lately, I
think; she seems to have an idea that 'The Beggar's Opera' isn't quite a
nice play for a young lady to act in!"

"Well, one can hardly blame her...." This sentence trailed off into
inaudibility as Harry turned to give his attention to some one else
coming up with a question at the moment. Perhaps Miss Elliston did not
even hear the beginning of the sentence; it is easier to believe that
she did not, in view of what followed. Certainly every extenuating
circumstance is needed, on both sides, to help account for the fact that
so trivial conversation as that which just took place should have led
directly to unpleasantness and indirectly to consequences of a
far-reaching kind. It is easier to comprehend, also, if one remembers
that Miss Elliston's thoughts when she was left alone by Harry occupying
the position of the trombone, remained on, or at any rate quite near,
the point at which the conversation broke off, whereas Harry's had flown
far from it. So that when, after an interval of a few minutes, Harry's
voice again became articulate to her in the single isolated sentence
"given her something to say to her old frump of a mother," addressed to
the leader of the orchestra, she at first misconstrued his meaning,
interpreting his remark not as he meant it, as referring to her stage
mother, Mrs. Peachum, but as referring to quieting the puritanical
scruples of her own mother, Mrs. Elliston.

The whole affair hung on an incredibly slender thread of coincidence. If
Harry had not unconsciously raised his voice somewhat on that one
phrase, if he had not happened to use the word "frump," which might
conceivably be twisted into applying to either mother, Miss Elliston
would never, even for a moment, have been tempted to attribute the baser
meaning to his words. As it was the thought did not remain in her head
above five seconds, at the outside; she knew Harry better than to
believe seriously that he would say such a thing. But by another
unfortunate chance Harry happened to be looking her way during those few
seconds, and marked her angry flush and the instantaneous glance of
indignation and contempt that she shot toward him. He saw her flush die
down and her expression soften again, but the natural quickness that had
made him realize her state of mind was not long in giving him an
explanation of it.

All might yet have been well had not Harry's sense of humor played him
false. As usually happened at these evening rehearsals he escorted Miss
Elliston home, her house lying on the way to his. In the course of the
walk an unhappy impulse made him refer to the little incident, which had
struck him as merely humorous.

"By the way," said he "your sense of filial duty almost led you astray
to-night, didn't it?"

"Filial duty?"

"Yes--you thought I was making remarks about your mother to-night when I
was talking to Cosgrove about Mrs. Peachum and that song...."

"Oh, that--!" Any one who knew her might have expected Miss Elliston to
laugh and continue with something like "Yes, I know; wasn't it
ridiculous of me?" since she really knew perfectly well that Harry was
talking about Mrs. Peachum. That she did not is due partly to the
fatigue incident to rehearsing a leading part in an opera in addition to
teaching school from nine till one every day, and partly to the
eternally inexplicable depths of the feminine nature. She had been very
much ashamed of herself for having even for a moment done that injustice
to Harry, and she wished intensely that the affair might be buried in
the deepest oblivion. Harry's opening of the subject, consequently,
seemed to her tactless and a trifle brutal. She had done penance all the
evening for her after all very trifling mistake; why should he insist
upon humiliating her this way?... Obviously she was very tired!

"Yes," went on Harry, "don't expect me to believe that you were angry on
behalf of Mrs. Peachum!"

"No. I suppose I had a right to be angry on behalf of my own mother, if
I wanted to, though."

"But I wasn't talking about your mother--you know that!"

"Oh, weren't you?"

"Well, do you think so?"

"How should I know? I was only eavesdropping, of course, I have no right
to think anything about it."

"Madge, don't be silly."

"Well?"

"Do you really, honestly think that I am guilty of having spoken
slightingly of your mother? Just answer me that, yes or no."

"As I say, I have no right to any opinion on the subject. I only heard
something not intended--"

"Oh, the--" The remainder of this exclamation was fortunately lost in
the collar of Harry's greatcoat. "You had better give me back that
song--I presume you won't want to sing it now."

"Why not? Art is above all personal feelings." It was mere wilfulness
that led her to utter this cynical remark. What she really wanted to say
was "Of course I want to sing it, and I know you meant Mrs. Peachum,"
but somehow the other answer was given before she knew it.

"Madge, you may not know it, but you are positively insulting."

"Oh, Harry--! Who began being insulting? Not that I mind your insulting
me...."

"Oh. That's the way it is, is it? I see." They were now standing talking
at the foot of Madge's front steps. Harry continued, very quietly: "Now
perhaps you'd better give me back that song."

"I don't see the necessity."

"I'll be damned if you shall sing it now!" His voice remained low, but
passion sounded in it as unmistakably as if he had shouted. The remark
was, in fact, made in an uncontrollable burst of anger, necessitating
the severing of all diplomatic relations.

"Just as you like, of course." Madge's tone, cold, expressionless,
hopelessly polite, is equivalent to the granting of a demanded passport.
"Here it is. Good-night."

"Good-night."

So they parted, in a white heat of anger. But being both fairly sensible
people, in the main, beside being the kind of people whose anger however
violently it may burn at first, does not last long, they realized before
sleep closed their eyes that night that the quarrel would not last over
another day.

Morning brought to Harry, at any rate, a complete return of sanity, and
before breakfast he sat down and wrote the following note:

     Dear Madge:

     I send back the song merely as a token of the abjectness of my
     submission--I don't suppose you will want to sing it now. I
     can't tell you how sorry I am about my behavior last night; I
     can only ask you to attribute as much, of it as possible to
     the fatigue of business and forgive the rest!

     HARRY.

which he enclosed in an envelope with the words of the song and sent to
Madge by a messenger boy.

Madge received it while she was at breakfast. She went out and told the
boy to wait for an answer, and went back and finished her breakfast
before writing a reply. Her face was noticeably grave as she ate, and it
became even graver when at last she sat down at her desk and started to
put pen to paper. She wrote three pages of note-paper, read them, and
tore them up. She then wrote a page and a half, taking more time over
them than over the three. This she also tore up. Then she sat inactive
at her desk for several minutes, and at last, seeing that she was due at
her school in a few minutes, she took up another sheet of paper and
wrote: "All right--my fault entirely. M. E.," and sent it off by the
boy.

When Harry saw her at the rehearsal that evening she greeted him exactly
as if nothing had happened. She had rather less to say to him than was
customary during rehearsals, but Harry was so busy and preoccupied he
did not notice that. He did notice that she sang the original words to
the disputed song, which, as he told himself, was just what he expected.

For the next two days he was fairly buried in responsibility and detail
and hardly conscious of any feeling whatever beyond an intense desire to
have the performance over. It was not until this desire was partially
fulfilled, the curtain actually risen on the Friday night and the
performance well under way, that he was able to sit back and draw a free
breath. The moment came when, having seen that all was well behind the
scenes, he dropped into the back of the box occupied by Aunt Selina and
one or two chosen friends to watch the progress of the play from the
front.

Then, for the first time, he was able to look at it more from the point
of view of a spectator than that of a creator. Now that his work was
completed and must stand or fall on its own merit, he could watch from a
wholly detached position. On the whole, he rather enjoyed the sensation.
It occurred to him, for instance, as quite a new thought, that the
excellent make-up of the stolid Mr. Dawson in the part of Peachum very
largely counteracted his vocal "dulness"; and that Mrs. Smith as Mrs.
Peachum, in spite of the innumerable sillinesses and bad tricks that had
been his despair for weeks, was making an extremely good impression upon
the audience.

Then Madge made her entrance, and he saw at a glance, as he had never
seen it before, just how good Madge was. She had a certain way of
carrying her head, a certain sureness in adjusting her movements to her
speech, a certain judgment in projecting her voice that went straight to
the spot. Madge was a born actress, that was all there was to it; she
ought to have made the stage her profession. He smiled inwardly as he
thought how many people would make that remark after this performance.
Then his amusement gave place to a sudden and strange resentment against
the very idea of Madge's going on the stage; a resentment he made no
effort either to understand or account for....

The strings in the orchestra quavered a few languorous notes and Madge
started her song "Can love be controlled by advice." Her voice was a
singularly sweet one, of no great volume and yet possessed of a certain
carrying quality. The excellence of her instruction, combined with her
own good taste, had brought it to a state of what, for that voice, might
be called perfection. She also had the good sense never to sing anything
too big for her. But though her voice might not be suited to Wagner or
Strauss it was far better suited to certain simpler things than a larger
voice might have been, and the song she was singing now was one of
these. Probably no more happy combination could be effected between
singer and song than that of Madge and the slow, plaintive,
seventeenth-century melody of "Grim king of the ghosts," which Gay had
the good sense to incorporate into his masterpiece.

To say that the audience was spellbound by her rendering of the song
would be to stretch a point. It sat, for the most part, silently
attentive, enjoying it very much and thinking that it would give her a
good round of applause and an encore at the end. Harry, standing in the
obscurity of the back part of Aunt Selina's box, was of very much the
same mind. For about half of the song, that is. For near the end of the
first verse he suddenly realized that Madge was singing not Gay's
words, but his own.

It was absurd, of course, but at that realization the whole world seemed
suddenly to change. The floor beneath his feet became clouds, the
theater a corner of paradise, the people in it choirs of marvelous
ethereal beings, Mrs. Peachum (alias Smith) a ministrant seraph, Madge's
voice the music of the spheres, and Madge herself, from being an
unusually nice girl of his acquaintance, became....

What nonsense! he told himself; the idea of getting so worked up at
hearing his own words sung on a stage!--You fool, replied another voice
within him, you know perfectly well that that's not it at all.--Don't
tell me, replied the other Harry, the sensible one; such things don't
happen, except in books; they don't happen to real people--ME, for
instance.--Why not? obstinately inquired the other; why not you, as well
as any one else?--Well, I can't stop to argue about it now, the
practical Harry answered; I've got to go out and see that people are
ready for their cues.

He went out, and found everything running perfectly smoothly. People
were standing waiting for their entrances minutes ahead of time, the
electricians were at their posts, the make-up people had finished their
work, the scene-shifters and property men had put everything in
readiness for setting the next scene; no one even asked him a question.
He flitted about for a few moments on imaginary errands, asking various
people if all was going well; but the real question that he kept asking
himself all the time was Is this IT? Is this IT?

"I don't know!" he said at last, loudly and petulantly, and several
people turned to see whom he was reproving now.

When he got back to the box he found Madge still singing the last verse
of her song. He wondered how many times she had had to repeat it, and
hoped Cosgrove was living up to his agreement not to give more than one
encore to each song. In reality this was her first encore; his hectic
trip behind the scenes had occupied a much shorter time than he
supposed. Madge was making a most exquisite piece of work of her little
appeal to maternal sympathy; she was actually taking the second verse
sitting down, leaning forward with her arms on a table in an attitude of
conversational pleading. He had not told her to do that; it was so hard
to make effective that he would not have dared to suggest it. When she
reached the line, "If heart ever beat in your breast" she suddenly rose,
slightly threw back her arms and head, and sang the words on a wholly
new note of restrained passion, beautifully dramatic and suggestive. The
house burst into applause, but Harry was seized with a fit of unholy
mirth at the irony of the situation--Madge, perfectly indifferent,
singing those words, while he, their author, consumed with an
all-devouring flame, stood stifling his passion in a dark corner. An
insane desire seized him to run out to the middle of the stage and shout
at the top of his voice "Have pity on me, for I love!" It would be true
then. He supposed, however, that people might think it peculiar.

From then on, as long as Madge held the stage, he stood rooted to the
spot, unable to lift his eyes from her. Presently her lover came in, and
they started the lovely duet, "Pretty Polly, say." At the end of the
encore, according to Harry's instructions, Barnaby leaned over and
kissed his Polly on the mouth. A sudden and intense dislike for Mr.
Barnaby at that moment overcame Harry....

The act ended; the house went wild again; the curtain flopped up and
down with no apparent intention of ever stopping; ushers rushed down the
aisles with great beribboned bunches of flowers. This gave Harry an
idea; as soon as the second act was safely under way he rushed out to
the nearest florist's shop and commandeered all the American Beauty
roses in the place, to be delivered to Miss Elliston with his card at
the end of the next act.

As he was going out of the shop he stopped to look at some peculiar
little pink and white flowers in a vase near the door.

"What are those?" he asked.

"Bleeding hearts," said the florist's clerk. "Just up from Florida; very
hard to get at this time of year."

Harry stood still, thinking. If he sent those--would she Know--Of course
she would, answered the practical Harry immediately; she would not only
Know but would call him a fool for his pains.--Oh, shut up! retorted the
other.

"I'll have these then, instead of the roses, please," he said aloud.
"All of them, and don't forget the card."

They did not meet till after the performance was over. He caught sight
of her making a sort of triumphal progress through the back of the
stage, on her way to the dressing rooms, and deliberately placed himself
in her path. She was looking rather surprisingly solemn, he noticed. Her
face lighted up, however, when she saw him. She smiled, at least.

"Well, what did _you_ think of it?" she asked.

"I think the performance was very creditable," he answered. "To say what
I think of you would be compromising."

She laughed and went on without making any reply. He could not see her
face, but something gave him the impression that her smile did not last
very long after she had turned away from him.

He walked home alone through the crisp March night, breathing deeply and
trying to reduce his teeming brain to a state of order and clarity. The
walk from the theater home was not sufficient for this; he walked far
beyond his house and all the way back again before he could think
clearly enough. At last he raised his eyes to the comfortable stars and
spoke a few words aloud in a low, calm voice.

"I really think," he said, "that this is IT. I really do think so ...
But I must be very careful," he added, to himself; "_very_ careful. I
must take no chances--this time. Both on Madge's account and on mine."

"No," he added after a moment; "not on my account. On Madge's."




CHAPTER II

CONGREVE


Little had happened to mark the greater part of the time that had
elapsed since Harry's graduation. For three years he had studied hard
for his doctor's degree, and during the fourth year he had been set to
teaching English literature to freshmen, which task, on the whole, he
accomplished with marked success. But during the fifth year, the year in
which we next see him, he was not teaching freshmen, though he was still
living in New Haven, and working, according to his own accounts, like a
galley slave. The events which led up to this state of things form a
matter of some moment in his career.

These began with the production, during his fourth year out of college,
of a play of his by the college dramatic association. Or, to be more
exact, it really began some months before that, when Harry, leaving a
theater one evening after witnessing a poor play, had remarked to his
companion of the moment: "I actually believe that I could write a better
play than that." To which the friend made the obvious answer, "Why don't
you, then?" "I will," replied Harry, and he did.

It was his first venture in that field of composition. In all his
literary activities he had never before, to borrow his own phrase,
committed dramaturgy. To the very fact that his maiden effort came so
late Harry was wont, in later years, to attribute a large measure of his
success. His idea was that if he had begun earlier his first results
would have been so excruciatingly bad as to discourage him from
sustained effort in that direction.

However this may be, the play was judged the best of those submitted in
a competition organized by the dramatic association, and was produced by
it during the following winter with a very fair amount of success.
Nobody could fairly have called it a remarkable play, but neither could
any one have been justified in calling it a bad one. Its theme was,
apart from its setting, singularly characteristic of the subsequent
style of its author and may be said to have struck the tragi-comic note
that sounded through all his later work. It concerned the experiences of
a struggling young English author, poor, but of gentle birth, who is
first seen inveighing against the snobbery, coldness and indifference
shown toward him by people of wealth and position, and later, after
coming unexpectedly into a peerage and a large fortune, is horrified to
find himself forced into displaying the very qualities which he had so
fiercely condemned in others. The machinery of the play was somewhat
artificial, but the characterization and dramatic interest were
skilfully worked out. The dialogue was everywhere delightful and the
contrast afforded between the conscientious, introspective sincerity of
the young author and the gaily unscrupulous casuistry of his wife was a
forecast, if not actually an early example, of his best work.

Harry was never blind to the faults of the play, but he remained
convinced that it was good in the main, and, what was more important,
retained his interest in dramatic composition. He worked hard during the
following spring and summer and at length evolved another play, which he
called "Chances" and believed was a great improvement upon his first
work. Early in August he sent the play to a New York manager to whom he
had obtained an introduction and after a week or two made an appointment
with him.

The secret trepidation with which he first entered the office of the
great, the redoubtable Leo Bachmann was largely allayed by the
appearance of the manager. He was a large flabby man, with scant stringy
hair and a not unpleasant smile. He sat heavily back in an office chair
and puffed continually at a much-chewed cigar, the ashes of which fell
unnoticed and collected in the furrows of his waistcoat. He spoke in a
soft thick voice, with a strong German accent. Harry did not see
anything particularly terrifying about him.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Vimbourne," said the manager when Harry had made himself
known. "You have sent me a play, yes? Ah, here it is.... Unfortunately I
have not had time to read it; I am very, very busy just now, but my man
Jennings has read it and tells me it is very nice. Very nice, indeed
..." he puffed in ruminative silence for a few seconds. "Could you come
back next week, say Friday, Mr. Vimbourne? and we will talk it over. I
am sorry to trouble you, but you see I am so very, very busy...."

Harry made another appointment and left, not wholly dissatisfied. He
returned, ten days afterward, to his second interview, which was an
almost exact replica of the first. He allowed himself to be put off
another ten days, but when he returned for the third time and was
greeted by precisely the same soft words he was irritated and hardly
able to conceal the fact.

"Ah, yes, your play," said the manager, as though he had just heard of
it for the first time. "Jennings was speaking to me of it only the other
night. I am sorry to say I have not read it yet." He took the manuscript
from a pile on his desk and turned over the leaves. "I am sorry--very
sorry--I have so little time...."

"I don't believe you, Mr. Bachmann," said Harry.

"Ah?" said the manager, without the slightest apparent interest. "Why
not, Mr. Vimbourne?"

"Well, you turned straight to the best scene in it just now, for one
thing.... Beside, you wouldn't keep me hanging on this way if you didn't
see something in it, and if you see anything in it of course you've read
it. And I don't mind telling you, Mr. Bachmann, that isn't my idea of
business."

Mr. Bachmann's next remark was so unexpected that Harry nearly swooned
in his chair. "I read it the day after it came," he said softly.

"Then why on earth didn't you say so in the first place?" stammered
Harry.

The manager made no reply for some moments, but sat silently puffing and
turning over the pages of Harry's manuscript.

"I like to know people," he murmured at last, very gently and with
apparent irrelevance. Harry, however, saw the bearing of the remark and
suddenly felt extraordinarily small. He had been rather proud of his
little burst of spirit and independence; he now saw that Leo Bachmann
had drawn it from him with the ease and certainty of touch with which a
musician produces a note from a flute. He wondered, abjectly, how many
other self-satisfied young authors had sat where he sat and been played
upon by that great puffing mass of pulp.

Bachmann was the next to speak. "I like your play very much, Mr.
Vimbourne," he said. "It is very nice--some things in it not so good,
but on the whole, it is very nice. I think I vill try to produce it, Mr.
Vimbourne, but not yet--not till I see how my September plays go. I
shall keep yours in reserve, and then, later, we may try it. About the
first of November, when the Fifth Avenue crowd comes back to town...."
He smiled slightly. "They are the people that vill vant to see it. Not
Harlem. Not Brooklyn. The four hundred. Even so," he continued,
ruminatively, "even so, I shall not make on it."

This seemed to Harry a good opening for a proposition he had been
longing to make since the very first but had never quite dared. "If you
want me to put anything up on it, Mr. Bachmann, why--I...."

"No," said Mr. Bachmann gently; "I never do that, I produce my own
plays, for my own reasons. I vill pay you a sum, down. And a small
royalty, perhaps--after the hundredth performance."

Harry looked up and smiled, and the manager smiled back at him. His
smile grew quite broad, almost a laugh, in fact. Then he rose from his
chair--the first time Harry had seen him out of it--and clasped Harry's
hand between his two large plump ones.

"I think we shall get on very well, Mr. Vimbourne," he said. "Very well,
indeed. I vill let you know when rehearsals begin. And you must write
more--a great deal more. But--vait till after the rehearsals!"

"Yes, I think I understand you," said Harry, laughing. "I'll wait. And
I'll come to the rehearsals, too!"

In October the rehearsals actually started, and Harry began to see what
he told Mr. Bachmann he thought he understood. Day after day he sat in
the dark draughty theater and watched the people on the stage slash and
cut and change his carefully constructed dialogue without offering a
word of remonstrance. At first the pleasure of seeing his own work take
tangible form, on a real professional stage and by the agency of real
professional actors more than made up for the loss. Then as the
rehearsals went on, he perceived that there was a very real reason for
every cut and change, and that the play benefited tremendously thereby.
He began to see how acting accomplishes a great deal of what he had
always considered the office of dialogue. A dialogue of five speeches,
to take a concrete example, on the probable reasons why a certain person
did not arrive when he was expected was made unnecessary by one of the
characters crossing the stage and looking out of a window at just the
right moment and with just the right facial expression.

Harry made no secret of his conviction that his play improved immensely
under the care of Bachmann and his people. His attitude was that they
knew everything about play-producing and he knew nothing, and that the
extraordinary thing was that he had been able to provide them with any
dramatic material whatever. He joked about it with the actors and
managers, when occasion offered, as callously as if he had been a third
person, and rather surprised himself by the light-heartedness he
displayed. Whether this was entirely genuine, whether it did not contain
elements of a pose, a desire to appear as a man of the theatrical world,
a fear of falling into all the usual errors of youthful playwrights, he
did not at first ask himself.

One day, about a week before the opening night, he received a jolt that
made him look upon himself and his calling in rather a new light. This
came through an unexpected agent--none other, indeed, than a woman of
the cast, and not the player of the principal female part at that, but a
lesser light, Bertha Bensel by name, a plain but pleasant little person
of uncertain age. Harry was lunching alone with her and carrying on in
what had become his customary style when talking of his play.

"You know," he was saying, "I thought at one time I had written a play,
but I haven't, I've written a moving picture show. Everybody is writing
movies these days, even those that try to write anything else, which
just shows. I'm going regularly into the movie business, after this.
Seriously. And I intend to write the real kind of movies, the kind that
don't bother about the characters at all, but just dramatize scenery. I
shall call things by their proper names, too. Let's see--a Devonshire
parsonage is beloved and wooed by a Scotch moor, but turns him down for
a Louis Onze chateau with a Le Notre garden. She discovers, just in
time, that his intentions are not honorable, and is rescued by a Montana
prairie, who happens along just at the right moment. The situation is
still awkward, however, because the parsonage finds that her prairie has
a wife living, a New York gambling hell, whom he hates but who won't
release him. So the parsonage refuses his disinterested offers and
starts life for herself. After various adventures with a South Carolina
plantation, an Indian Ocean trawler, an Argentine pampas and the Scala
theater at Milan, the poor parsonage ends up in a London sweat shop, to
which she is at last discovered by the Scotch moor, who had been looking
for her all these years. Embrace. Passed by the national board of
censors."

Miss Bensel smiled, but did not seem to see much humor in this foolery.
That was due, thought Harry, to the fatigue of her long morning's work,
and he determined not to bother her with any more nonsense. The silence
which he allowed to ensue, however, was broken by an unexpected remark
from his _vis-a-vis_, who said with a dispassionate air:

"I think, Mr. Wimbourne, you stand in a great danger."

"Danger?"

"Yes, that is, I hope you do. If not, I'm very much disappointed in
you."

"Thank you so much, but just how?"

"You're in danger of getting to take your art as lightly as you talk
about it. Then you'll be lost, for good. It's a real danger. I've seen
the thing happen before, to people of as much talent as you, or nearly
so."

Harry looked at her in blank astonishment, and she went on:

"If you go on talking that way about your profession, you'll get to
think that way and finally _be_ that way. All roses and
champagne--nothing worth while. You may go on writing plays, but they'll
get sillier and sillier, even if they get more and more popular. So your
life will pass away in frivolity and popularity.... That's not your
place in the world, Mr. Wimbourne. You've got talent--perhaps more. You
know that? This play, now. I say nothing about the dialogue, because
good dialogue is not so rare--though yours is the best I've seen for
some time--but how about the rest of it, the story, the ideas? It's good
stuff--you know it is."

Harry leaned back in his chair and tapped the table meditatively with a
spoon. He had the lack of self-consciousness that enables a person to
take blame exactly in the spirit in which it is given, with no alloying
mixture of embarrassment or resentment.

"Yes," he said after a while, "I suppose you're right about it. I have a
certain responsibility.... I suppose the stuff is good, when all is said
and done--though I don't dare to think it can be."

Miss Bensel leaned forward with her elbows on the table and allowed her
face to relax into a smile, a curious little smile that did not part her
lips but drew down the corners of her mouth.

"That's it--I thought that probably was it! You're so modest you're
afraid to take yourself seriously. Well, that's a pretty good fault; I
think on the whole it's better than taking yourself too seriously. But
don't do it, even so. Take it from me, my dear boy, you can't accomplish
anything worth while in this world, _anything_, whatever it is, unless
you take your work seriously--at bottom."

Harry did a good deal of serious thinking on the subject during the rest
of the day, and the more he thought about it the more convinced he
became that Miss Bensel was right. He thought of Dickens' famous
utterance on the subject of being flippant about one's life's work; he
thought of the example of Congreve. Congreve, there was an appropriate
warning! Congreve, whose life was a duel between the painstaking artist
and the polished man-about-town, who never would speak other than
lightly of his best work, whose boast and whose shame it was
deliberately to stifle the fires of his own genius. Was he, Harry,
guilty of something like the pose of Congreve? He thought of his
attitude of exaggerated _camaraderie_ with the actors and managers, of
his attitude toward his own work; he realized that frivolity had become
not merely a pose, but a habit. Was he not, in such doings, following in
the steps of Congreve--the man who insisted that the work that made him
famous had been written for the sole purpose of whiling away the tedium
of convalescence after an illness?

As he watched his own play being enacted before his eyes that afternoon
he realized that his work was, in the main, good, and that he had known
it all along. He had felt it while he was writing it; Bachmann's
astonishingly prompt (as he had since learned it to be) acceptance of it
had given conclusive proof of it. If anything further was needed, he had
it in the enthusiasm with which the actors played it and spoke of it.
Somehow, by some incredible chance, the divine gift had fallen upon him.
To belittle that gift, to fail to devote his best efforts to making the
most of it, would be to shirk his life's duty.

The third act, upon which most of the work of the afternoon was done,
drew to its close. It had been immensely shortened by cuts; Harry was
not sorry, though he missed some of what he had thought the best lines
in the play. Then the heroine made her final exit, and Harry suddenly
realized she had done so without her and the hero's having delivered two
little speeches that ought to have come just before; speeches on which
he had spent much care and labor. Those two lines had, in fact,
contained the whole gist of the play, or at any rate driven home its
thesis in a particularly striking way. The point of the play was that
living was simply a system of chances, and these speeches made clear the
distinction between the wrong kind of chancing, the careless,
risking-all kind, whose final result was always ruin, and the sober,
intelligent, prayerful kind, as shown in the lives of those who, after
careful consideration of all the chances that may affect them, do what
they decide is best and await the result with the calmness of a
Mohammedan fatalist.

Harry suddenly became imbued with the profound conviction that those two
speeches were absolutely necessary to the understanding of his play. He
hastily read over the last half of the act in his typewritten copy, and
failed to see how any spectator could catch the true meaning of the work
without them. Well, here was a chance to show how seriously he could
take his art! The whole affair took on a new and strange momentousness;
he stood at this instant, he told himself, at the very turning-point of
his artistic career. He would not take the wrong road, cost him what it
might; he would not be found wanting.

Bachmann was in the theater, sitting in the back row of the orchestra,
as was his custom. Harry determined to go straight to him and ask him to
put those lines in again. As he walked up the aisle he thought
feverishly of the tremendous import of this interview. Bachmann would
refuse at first, he knew that well enough. Bachmann would not easily be
convinced by the opinion of an inexperienced scribbler. But Harry was
determined not to be beaten; he was prepared to fight, prepared to make
a scene, if necessary; prepared to sacrifice the production of his play,
if it came to that. He could see Bachmann's slow smile as he reminded
him of practical considerations. "Your contract?" "Damn the contract,"
Harry would reply. "Ha, ha! I've got the whip hand of you there, Mr.
Bachmann! I can afford to break all the contracts I want!" "And your
career?" retorted Bachmann, with a sneer, but turning ever so slightly
pale. "Ho! my career! What the devil do I care for my career! I choose
to write for all time, not for my own! I...."

"Vell, Mr. Vimbourne," Bachmann, the live, fleshly Bachmann, was saying
in a startlingly mild and everyday tone of voice, "what can I do for
you?"

"Oh ... I just wanted to speak to you about this last scene," said
Harry, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "They've cut out two lines
just before Miss Cleves' exit that I think ought to be kept."

"Let's see."

Harry handed him the manuscript and anxiously watched him as he glanced
rapidly over the pages. "They're pretty important lines, really. They
explain a lot; I'm afraid people won't understand...." He could feel his
voice weakening and his knees trembling, but his determination remained.

"Burchard!" Bachmann bellowed, in the general direction of the stage.

"Yes!"

"What about those two speeches before Miss Cleves' exit?"

There was a short and rather flurried silence from the stage, after
which the voice of Burchard again emerged:

"Miss Cleves said she couldn't make her exit on that line."

"Where is she? Tell her to come back and try it."

The battle was won without a shot being fired. Harry, almost literally
knocked flat by the surprise and relief of the moment, sank into the
nearest seat. Bachmann got up and lumbered off toward the stage; Harry
leaned his head against the back of his chair and gave himself over to
an outburst of internal mirth, at his own expense.

He raised his eyes again to the stage. Curiously enough, the first
person his glance fell on was Miss Bensel, with her trim little figure
and humorously plain face. It seemed to him she was smiling out at him,
with a mocking little smile that drew down the corners of her mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Everybody knows what happened to the play "Chances"; its history is a
page of the American stage. Much has been said and written about it; it
has been called a landmark, a stepping-stone, a first ditch, a guiding
light, a moral victory, a glorious failure, a promising defeat and
various similar things so often that people are tired of the very name
of it. What actually happened to it can be told in a few words; it was
well received, but not largely attended. It was withdrawn near the end
of its fourth week.

The critics were unanimous in praising it. Its dialogue was hailed as
the ideal dialogue of contemporary comedy. The characterization, the
humor of the lines, the universality of the theme, its wonderfully
logical and convincing development all received their due meed of
praise. It was compared to the comedies of Clyde Fitch, of Oscar Wilde,
of Sheridan, and of Congreve--yes, actually Congreve! Harry smiled when
he read that, and renewed his resolution never to let the comparison
apply in a personal way. But to be seriously compared to Congreve, not
Congreve the man but Congreve the author--! The thought made him fairly
dizzy.

But what took the eye of the critics, the best and soberest of them,
that is, more than anything else was the mixture of the humorous and
serious shown in the choice of the theme and its development. "To treat
the element of humor," wrote one critic, "not as a colored glass through
which to look at all life, as in farce, nor as a refreshing contrast to
its serious side, as in the 'comic relief' of a host of plays from the
Elizabethans down to the present day, but as part and parcel of the very
essence of life itself, co-existent with its solemnity, inseparable from
its difficulty, companion and friend to its unsolvable mystery; to put
people in such a mood that they can laugh at the greatest things in
their own lives, neither bitterly nor to give themselves Dutch courage,
but for the pure, life giving, illuminating exaltation of
laughing--this, we take it, is the whole essence and mission of comedy.
And this--we say it boldly and in no spirit of empty flattery--is the
type of comedy shown in Mr. Wimbourne's play."

It is not hard to see how such words should bring joy to the heart of
Harry and smiles of admiration and respect to the faces of his friends,
from Leo Bachmann right up to Aunt Selina. But they did not bring people
to the theater. For the first three performances the attendance was
satisfactory; then it began steadily to fall off and by the end of the
first week it became merely a question of how long it could survive.

Leo Bachmann was, curiously enough, the least affected of all the
theater crowd by the poor success of the work. He viewed the
discouraging box office reports with an untroubled smile, and cheerfully
began rehearsals for a new play. "Never you mind, my boy," he told
Harry, "I knew I should not make money off your play. I told you so in
the beginning. Never you mind! That is not your fault. It's just the way
things go. I have only one word to say to you, and that is--write!" Even
in his discouragement Harry could not help feeling that Mr. Bachmann was
strangely calm and cheerful.

Within a week from the end of the play's run a curious thing happened. A
visiting English dramatist and critic, a confirmed self-advertiser, but
a writer and thinker of unquestioned brilliancy, and a wit, withal, of
international reputation, was greatly struck by the play and wrote an
unsolicited letter about it which appeared in the pages of a leading
daily.

"No more striking proof," wrote this self-appointed defender of Harry,
"could be offered of the consanguinal intellectual stupidity of the
Anglo-Saxon race than I received at a performance of Mr. Harold
Wimbourne's play 'Chances' at the ---- Theater last night. For the first
time during my stay in this country as I looked over the almost empty
stalls and realized that this, incomparably the best play running in New
York, was also the worst attended, I could have fancied myself actually
in my own country.

"What are the lessons or qualities in Mr. Wimbourne's play which the
American people cannot stomach? I suppose, when all is said and done, he
has committed the unpardonable offense of giving them a little of their
own medicine. He has rammed down their throats some few corollaries of
the Calvinistic doctrines for which the ancestors of the very people who
stay away from his play sailed an uncharted sea, conquered a wilderness,
and spilt their blood to champion against a usurping power. The Pilgrim
fathers founded the United States of America in order to publish the
greatness of God and the littleness of man. Their descendants either
ignore or condemn one of their number because he does not extol the
greatness of man and the littleness of God. Because Mr. Wimbourne
ventures to show, in a very mild--if very artistic and compelling
way--how slight a hold man has on the moving force of life, God, the
universe, a group of atoms--whatever you choose to call the world--he
becomes a pariah. He has escaped easily after his first offense, but it
will go hard with the Anglo-Saxon character if he is not stoned in the
streets after the next one. America is a great and rich country; what
does it care about religion or philosophy or art or any of that
poppycock? Serious and devout thinking simply _are not done_; it has
become as great a solecism to mention the name of the Deity in
society--except as the hero of a humorous story--as to talk about Kant
or Hegel. Americans have lost interest in that sort of stuff; they do
not need it. Why, now that they have become physically strong, should
they bother about the unsubstantial kind of strength known as moral to
which they were forced to resort when they were physically weak? Why,
having become mountain lions, should they continue to practise what
upheld them when they were fieldmice?

"Of course I should not have made such a point in favor of a play if it
were not, technically and artistically speaking, a very good play. The
truth when it is badly spoken hardly merits more attention than if it
were not spoken at all. But 'Chances' is as beautifully constructed as
it was conceived; it is a play that I should be proud to have written
myself. Its technical perfections have already been praised, even by
that class of people least calculated to appreciate them; I mean the
critics. I will, therefore, mention but one small example, which I
believe, in the presence of so many greater beauties, has been
overlooked; namely, the short dialogue near the end of the first act in
which Frances, in perhaps half a page of conversation with the man to
whom she is then engaged, realizes that her engagement is empty, that
she has no heart for the man, that a new way of looking at love has
transcended her life;--realizes all this, and betrays it to the audience
without in the smallest degree giving herself away to the man with whom
she is talking or saying a word in violation of the probability of their
conversation. Such a feat in dramaturgy is, perhaps, appreciable only to
those who have tried to write plays themselves. Still, whom does that
not include?

"But I do not expect Americans to appreciate artistic perfection any
more than I expect Englishmen to. The shame, the disgrace to Americans
in not appreciating this play lies in the fact that it is fundamentally
American; American in its characters, in its setting, and above all in
its motive principles, which are the principles to which America owes
its very existence."

Such opinions, appearing over a famous signature, could not but revive
interest and talk about its subject, and the play experienced a slight
boom during the last few days of its existence. Its run, indeed, would
have been extended but for the fact that Bachmann had made all the
arrangements for its successor and advertised the date of its
appearance. Altogether the incident tended to show that if the play was
a failure it was at least a dynamic failure, indicative of future
success.

Harry was as little elated by the praise of the foreigner as he was cast
down by the condemnation of his countrymen. His demeanor all along, ever
since the day of his interview with Miss Bensel, had been characterized
by an observant calmness. He dissuaded as many of his relations and
friends as he could from being present at the first performance of the
play and ignored those who insisted on being there. He himself occupied
an obscure seat in the gallery and listened with the greatest attention
to the comments of those about him. He thereby began to form an idea of
what the general public thought of his work; knowledge which, as he
himself realized, would be of inestimable value if he could put it to
use in his next play.

A letter Harry wrote to his Uncle Giles just after the play was taken
off expresses his state of mind at this time. "'Chances' has gone by the
board," he wrote; "that splendid American institution, the Tired
Business Man, would have none of it, and it has ceased to be Drama and
has become merely Literature. But I have learned a lot during its brief
existence, and this knowledge I shall, please God, make use of if I ever
write another play. Which is a mere figure of speech, as I have started
one already.

"I have learned the point of view of the Tired Business Man. That was
what I wanted to know from the very first--not what the critics thought.
They could do no more than say it was good, and I knew that already. And
what the T. B. M. said was substantially, that my play was nice enough,
but that it had no _punch_. I don't know whether you recognize that
expression or not; it is one of those vivid American slang words that
English people are so fascinated by. People thought the play wasn't
interesting enough, and that is the simple truth about it. Therefore it
wasn't a good play. For my idea is that to be really good a play must
hold the stage, at least at the time it is written. And if we are ever
going to build up such a thing as the 'American drama' our critics are
continually bellowing about, we've got to begin with our foundations. We
can't create a full-fledged literary drama and then go to work and make
the people like it; we've got to begin with what the people like and
build up our drama on that. That's the way all the great 'dramas' of
history have grown up--the Greek, the French, the Spanish and the
Elizabethan; and it is interesting to notice that the drama that came
nearest to being the product of a mere literary class, the French, is
the weakest of the lot and is standing the test of time worst of them
all.

"I may never write a more successful play than 'Chances'; I may never
get another play on the stage at all. But one thing I am sure of; I
shall never offer another play to the public without being convinced
that it is a better stage play than 'Chances.'"

Of course that a mere boy, fresh from college, with no practical
experience of the stage whatever, should get a play produced at all was
an unusual and highly gratifying thing. Harry became quite a lion that
autumn, in a small way. He remained in New York till after the play was
taken off, living with the James Wimbournes, and was the guest of honor
at one or two of Aunt Cecilia's rather dull but eminently important
dinners. He became the object of the attention of reporters, and also of
that section of metropolitan _literati_ who live in duplex apartments
and wear strings of pearls in their hair and can always tell Schubert
from Schumann. He was especially delighted with these, and determined
some day to write a play or a novel portraying the inner side of their
painstaking spirituality.

He saw a good deal of James during those weeks; more than he had seen of
him since their college days. James had been rather sparing of his
week-end visits to New Haven since moving to New York; Harry noticed
that. He was sorry, for he now found James a great help and stimulus. He
discovered that a walk or a motor ride with James between the hours of
five and seven would obliterate the effects of the caviar-est of
luncheons and the pinkest of teas and give him strength with which to
face evenings in the company of people who appeared unable even to
perspire anything less exalted than pure Pierian fluid.

"Well, it's nice to meet some one who doesn't smell of Russian
cigarettes," he observed one day as he took his place in the long, low,
slightly wicked-looking machine in which James whiled away most of his
leisure moments. "Do you know, sometimes I actually rush into the
nursery at Aunt Cecilia's and kiss the youngest and bread-and-butteryest
child there, just to get the Parnassian odors out of my lungs. Next to a
rather slobby child, though, I prefer the society of an ex-All-American
quarter-back."

"Half," said James.

"Oh, were you? Well, you don't smell of anything aesthetic-er than the
camphor balls you put that coat away for the summer in.... James, if you
go round another corner at eighty miles an hour I shall leap out and
telephone for a policeman!"

"Oh, that's all right. They all know me, anyway. They know I don't take
risks."

"Hm.... Well, it's all over for me next week, thank Heaven. I'm going
back to Aunt Selina and Sunday night suppers, and I _shall_ be glad!"

"Well, I will say," said James slowly and carefully, with the air of one
determined to do the most meticulous justice, "that you have kept your
head through it all pretty well."

"Oh, it's not hard, when you come right to it," said Harry, laughing.
"Of course there are moments when I wonder if I'm not really greater
than Shakespeare. And it does seem funny to realize that the rising
genius, the person people are all talking about, and poor little Me are
the same. But then I remember what a failure my play was, and shrivel
into the poor graduate student.... After I've written a successful play,
though, I won't answer for myself. And after I've written 'Hamlet,' as I
mean to some day, I shall be simply unbearable. You won't own me then."

"Watch-chain round your neck?" suggested James.

"Oh, worse than that--diamond bracelets! And corsets--if necessary. I
saw a man wearing both the other day, I really did."

"A man?"

"Well, an actor. That's the sort of thing they run to now-a-days. Long
hair and general sloppiness are quite out of date--among the really
ultra ones, that is."

"Well," said James, "I give you permission to be as ultra as you like,
after you've written 'Hamlet.'"

"That helps, of course. I daresay I'm lacking in proper seriousness, but
it seems to me that if the choice were offered me, right now, between
being the author of 'Hamlet' and being also an ultra, and not writing
'Hamlet' and staying as I am, I would choose the latter. I don't know
what my point of view may be at some future time, but that's what it is
now, or at least I think it is. And after all, nobody can get nearer the
truth than saying what he thinks his point of view at any given moment
is, can he, James?"




CHAPTER III

NOT TRIASSIC, CERTAINLY, BUT NEARLY AS OLD


To return again to the events attendant on the "Beggar's Opera." Harry
slept late the morning after the performance, and when he awoke it was
with a mind rested and vacant except for an intangible conviction that
something pleasant had happened. He yawned and stretched delectably, and
in a leisurely sort of way set about discovering just what it was.

"Let's see, now, what can it be?" he argued pleasantly. "Oh, yes, the
'Beggar's Opera.' It's all over, thank Heaven, and it went off
creditably well. The wigs arrived in time and the prison set didn't fall
over, and nobody lost a cue--so you could notice it." He lay back for a
moment to give full rein to the enjoyment of these reflections. "There
was something else, though." His mind languidly returned to the pursuit,
as a dog crosses a room stretching at every step. "I'm sure there was
something else...."

"Oh, yes, of course," he said at last; "I remember now. Madge Elliston."

If, say, ten seconds sufficed for enjoyment of the recollection of the
"Beggar's Opera," how long should you say would be necessary for the
absorption of the truth contained in those two words? A lifetime? An
honest answer; we won't undertake to say it's not the right one. Harry,
at least, seemed to be of that opinion.

"After all, though, it would be rather absurd to spend a whole lifetime
in bed," he observed, after devoting twenty minutes to the subject. Then
he jumped out of bed and pulled up the shade.

Vague flittings of poetry and song buzzed through his brain. One little
phrase in particular kept humming behind his ears; a scrap from a song
he had heard Madge herself sing often enough:--"What shall I do to show
how much I love her?" The thing rather annoyed him by its insistence. He
stood by the open window and inhaled a few deep breaths of the
quickening March air. "What shall I do to show how much I love her!"
sang the air as it rushed up his nose and became breath and out again
and became carbon dioxide. "I really don't know, I'm sure," he answered,
impatiently breaking off and starting on some exercises he performed on
mornings when he felt particularly energetic and there was time. Their
rhythm was fascinating; he found he could do them in two different
ways:--What shall--I do--to show--how much--I love her, or, What shall
I--do to show--how much I--? "Oh, hang it!" He suddenly lost all
interest in them. With one impatient, dramatic movement he tore off the
upper half of his pajamas, ripping off three buttons as he did so. With
another slightly more complicated but even more dramatic, he extricated
himself from the lower half, breaking the string in the process.

"Ts! ts! More work for somebody!" he said, making the sound in the roof
of his mouth indicative of reproof. He kicked the damaged garments
lightly onto the bed and sauntered into the adjoining bathroom.

He turned on the water in the bathtub and stood watching
it a moment as it gushed out in its noisy enthusiasm.
"WhatshallIdotoshowhowmuchIloveher?" it inquired uncouthly. "Oh, do stop
bothering me," said Harry, turning disgustedly away; "I've got to
shave."

He lathered his face and took the razor in his right hand, while with
his left he delicately lifted the end of his nose, so as to make a taut
surface of his upper lip. It was a trick he had much admired in barbers.
"Somehow it's not so effective when you do it to yourself," he said
regretfully, watching the effect in the mirror. It helped his shaving,
however, and shaving helped his thinking. He was able to think quite
clearly and seriously, in fact, in spite of the roaring of the water
nearby.

"I suppose I might keep away from her for a while," he said presently.

That really seemed a good idea; the more he thought of it the better he
liked it. "I'll go down and stay with Trotty," he said as he scraped the
last strip of lather off his face, remembering how fervently Trotty,
recovering from a severe illness on the Trotwood estate in North
Carolina, had begged him to come down and cheer his solitude. "And I
won't come back until I know," he continued. "One must be sure.
Absolutely."

He plunged into his bath and the stimulus of the cold water set his
brain working faster. "I'll start this very morning. Let's see; I've
missed the ten-thirty, but I can catch the twelve-three, if I look
alive, and get the three-fifty from New York.... No, on second thoughts,
I'd better have lunch and pack comfortably and start this afternoon.
That'll be better; it never does to be in too much of a hurry!"

It never did; he became even more convinced of that when he remembered
at breakfast the many post-mortem arrangements to be made in connection
with the "Beggar's Opera." However, he spent an active afternoon in
completing what he could of these and delegating the remainder to
subordinates, with the calm explanation that he was called away on
business, and started for southern climes the next morning.

As soon as he had telegraphed Trotty and was actually on his way he
became inclined to fear he had not done the right thing. It was so
confoundedly quiet down there; he would have nothing to do but think
about her. He should have plunged himself into some all-absorbing
activity; he should have traveled or taken a nine-till-five clerkship or
gone to New York for a while. This suspicion continued through his
journey and even survived, though in a mangled form, Trotty's
enthusiastic welcome of him. But after he had passed a few days among
those pine-clad solitudes he began to see that he had done the wisest
possible thing. Trotty was required to be out-of-doors practically the
whole time, and the two drove endless miles in a dogcart through the
quickening oaks and pines, or lay on fragrant carpets of needles,
content with mere sensuous enjoyment of the wind and sun, sky and
landscape.

Somehow these things brought calm and conviction to the heart of Harry.
They seemed to rest and purge his soul from the fatigues of the past
months; the anxiety and effort of the autumn before, the pangs of
composition that had marked the winter, the hurry and worry to which
these had given place during the last few weeks, and to give coherence
and sanctity to the tremendous discovery of that Friday night. He could
not tell why it was that the sight of a flock of feathery clouds
scurrying across a blue sky or the sound of warm wind among pine needles
should work this change in him, but it was so. "You're quite right,"
they seemed to say; "perfectly right. The thing has come, and it's not
distracting or disturbing or frightening, as you feared it might be;
it's just simple and great and unspeakably sweet. And you were quite
right to come to us to find out about it; you can learn among us a great
deal better than in all that hectic scrambling up north. So lay aside
every thought and worry and ambition and open your whole heart and soul
to us while we tell you how to take this, the greatest thing that ever
was, is, or shall be!"

Trotty was also a source of comfort to him; Trotty had lost nothing of
his former singular faculty of always rubbing him the right way. Not
that either of them made any open or covert allusion to Harry's state of
mind, for they did not, but there was something particularly reassuring,
something strangely in tune with the great natural forces about them in
his silent presence. For they would drive or read or simply lie about
together for hours without speaking, after the manner of certain types
of people who become very intimate with each other.

Whether these silences were to Trotty merely the intimate silences of
yore or whether they had taken on for him also something of the
character that colored them for Harry is not particularly clear; it is
probable that he guessed something, but no more. As much might be
gathered, at least, from the one occasion upon which their conversation
even touched on anything vital.

This occurred on the eve of Harry's departure. For of course he had to
leave some time. The birds and trees and sky were all very well for a
while, but after three weeks the thought forced itself into his mind
that any more time spent among them would smack of laziness if not of
cowardice.

"Trotty," said he, "I'm going north on the twelve-fifty to-morrow."

"Oh," replied Trotty. "Bad news?"

"No."

"In love?"

"Yep."

"Oh." A silence of some length ensued.

"Carson?" asked Trotty at last.

"No, no--Elliston."

"Oh.... Well, here's luck."

"Thanks. I need it."

In this matter-of-fact, almost coarse form was cast the most intimate
conversation the two ever had together.

       *       *       *       *       *

Harry determined to "have it out," as he mentally expressed it, with
Madge as soon as possible, and went to call on her the very first
evening after his return. As he walked in the front door he caught sight
of her ahead of him crossing the hall with a sheaf of papers under her
arm, and immediately his heart began thumping in a way that fairly
shocked him. Her appearance was so wonderfully everyday, so utterly at
variance with the way his silly heart had been going on about her these
weeks! He felt as if he had been intending to propose to an archangel
who happened to be also a duchess.

"Hello! This is an unexpected pleasure! I thought you were away shooting
things." Her manner was friendly enough; she was obviously glad, as well
as surprised, to see him. He murmured something explanatory, which
apparently satisfied her, for she went on: "I'm glad you're back,
anyway, because you're just in time to help me with my arithmetic
papers. Come along in."

He sat down almost in despair, with the idea of merely making an evening
call and postponing more important matters to a time when he should be
better inured to the effects of her presence. But as he sat and watched
her as she talked to him and looked over her arithmetic papers he felt
his courage gradually return. Her physical presence was simply
irresistible, distant and difficult of approach as she seemed.

"Do tell all about North Carolina," said Madge; "it's a delightful
state, isn't it?"

"Oh, delightful."

"So I understand. My idea of it is a fashionable place where people go
to recover from something, but I suppose there's more to it than that.
The only other thing I know about it is geological; a remnant of
physical geography, ages ago. I seem to remember something about
triassic.... What is your North Carolina like, fashionable or triassic?"

"Not triassic, certainly."

"No, I suppose not. It's very nice triassic, though; coal, and all sorts
of lovely things, as I remember it. You must have been fashionable.
Asheville, and that sort of thing."

"Not at all. I was helping Trotty to recover from something."

"Oh, really? What?"

"Pneumonia. Also pleurisy."

"Indeed! I didn't know anything about that; I thought you went simply to
shoot things. So Jack Trotwood has had pleural pneumonia, has he? That's
a horrid combination; poor Uncle Rudolph Scharndorst died of it. You
often do if you have it hard enough and are old enough, or drink
enough...."

"Well, Trotty doesn't," said Harry; "so he didn't."

"My dear man, neither did Uncle Rudolph," rejoined Miss Elliston. "That
wasn't what I meant; he just had it so hard he died of it--that was
all.--How is he getting on?"

"Couldn't say, I'm sure."

"I mean Trotty, of course! Poor Uncle Rudolph!"

"Very well, indeed.--Madge!" he went on, gathering courage for a break,
"I didn't come here to-night to talk about Uncle Rudolph!"

Miss Elliston raised her eyebrows ever so little and went on, with
unabated cheerfulness: "We were talking about Jack Trotwood, I thought.
However, here's this arithmetic; you can help me with that. Do you know
anything about percentage? It's not so hard, when you really put your
mind to it. Given the principal and interest, to find the rate--that's
easy enough. Useful, too; if you know how much a person has a year all
you have to do is to find what it's invested in and look it up on the
financial page, and you can tell just what their capital is! It's quite
simple!"

"Oh, yes, perfectly simple."

"Let's see--Florrie Vicars; did you ever hear of any one whose name was
really Florrie before?... Florrie gets a C--she generally does. That
isn't on a scale of A B C, it stands for 'correct.' Did you ever hear of
anything so delightfully Victorian? That's the way we do things at Miss
Snellgrove's.... Sadie Jones--wouldn't you know that a girl called
Sadie Jones who wrote like that--look at those sevens--would have frizzy
yellow hair and sticky-out front teeth?"

"Yes, indeed, without any doubt."

"Well, as a matter of fact she has straight black hair and a pure
Grecian profile and is altogether the most beautiful creature you ever
saw!... Marjorie Hamlin--she never could add two and two straight....
Jennie Fairbanks...."

Harry realized more sharply than before that ordinary conversational
paths would not lead where he wanted to go; he must break through the
hedge and he must break with courage and determination.

"Madge!" he burst out again, "I didn't come here to talk about little
girls' arithmetic papers, either! I am here to-night to declare a state
of--" He stopped, unable, when the moment came, to treat the matter with
even that amount of lightness. He had been over-confident!

"Of what?" asked Madge, looking up from her arithmetic and smiling
brightly yet distantly at him. There was just a chance that she might
shame him back into mere conversation, even at this late moment.

"You know, perfectly well!" He sprang from his chair and took a step or
two toward her. The thing was done now. A minute ago they had been
occupied in trivial chatter; now they were launched on the momentous
topic.

"Madge, don't pretend not to understand, at any rate!" He was by her
side on the sofa now. "I used to think that when I was--when I was in
love I should be able to joke and laugh about it as I have about every
earthly thing in life. I thought that if love couldn't be turned into a
joke it wasn't worth having. But it isn't that way, at all!... Oh,
Madge, Madge, don't you see how it is with me?"

"Dear Harry, indeed I do!" said Madge impulsively, feeling a great wave
of pity and unhappiness swell in her bosom. "Indeed I do!"

"Then don't you think that you could ever ... Madge, until you tell me
you could possibly--feel that way--toward me, it's Hell, that's what it
is, Hell!"

"Indeed it is, Harry; that's just what it is!"

"Then you think you can't--love me?"

"No--God forgive me, I can't!"

He sat still for a moment, looking quietly at her from his sad brown
eyes in a way she thought would break her heart. "I was afraid so," he
said at last; "I suppose I really knew it, all along. It's been my
fault."

"Oh, Harry," she burst out, "if you only knew how much I wanted to! If
you only knew how terrible it is to see you sit there and say that, and
not be able to say yes! I like you so much, and you are such a dear
altogether, and you're so wonderful about this--oh, why, why, in
Heaven's name, can't I love you?"

"But Madge, surely you must be mistaken! How can you talk that way and
not have--the real feeling? Madge, you must be in love with me, only you
don't know it!"

"That's just what I've said to myself, time after time--I've lain awake
whole nights telling myself that. But it isn't so, it isn't! I can't
deceive myself into thinking so and I won't deceive you.... I
just--can't--love you, because I'm not good enough! Oh, it is so
terrible!..." Her voice suddenly failed; she sank to her knees on the
floor and buried her head among the cushions of the sofa in an
uncontrollable fit of weeping.

For a moment Harry was overcome by a desire to seize that grief-stricken
little figure in his arms and kiss away her ridiculous tears. A second
thought, however, showed the fruitlessness of that; small comfort to his
arms if their souls could not embrace! Instead he quietly arose from his
seat and shut the door, which seemed the most sensible thing to do under
the circumstances. He then walked over to the piano and stood leaning on
it, head on hands, thoughtfully and silently watching the diminishing
sobs of Madge.

When these at last reached the vanishing point their author turned
suddenly. Harry continued to stare quietly back at her for a second or
two and then slowly and solemnly winked his right eye. Madge emitted a
strange sound between a laugh and a sob, turned her face away again and
plied her handkerchief briskly.

"Here I am, of course," she said presently, "thinking of nothing but
indulging my own silly feelings, as usual. And you, poor Harry, who
really are capable of feeling, just stand there like Patience on a
monument.... Harry, why don't you swear at me, kick me? do something to
make it easier for me?..." She picked herself up, walked over toward
the piano and laid her hands on its smooth black surface in a caressing
sort of way. The piano had been given to her by her Aunt Tizzy and she
loved it very much, but she did not think of it at all now. "Harry," she
began again, "Harry, dear, I'll tell you what we'll do--I'll marry you,
if you like, anyway.... I'll make you a lovely wife; I'll do anything in
the wide world to be a comfort to you, just to show you how much I would
love to love you if I could...."

Harry, still looking gravely at her, shook his head slowly. "It would
never do, Madge," he said; "never in the world. We must wait until we
can start fair. You see that?"

She nodded. "I suppose I do--from your point of view."

"No--from _our_ point of view."

"Well, yes.... It is just a little bit hard, though, that the first
offer of marriage I ever made should be turned down."

Harry laughed, loudly and suddenly. "That's right!" he said; "that's
_you_! Not that self-denunciatory thing of a minute ago. Don't ever be
self-denunciatory again, please. Just remember there's nothing in the
world that can possibly be your fault, and _then_ you'll be all
right!... Now then, we can talk. I suppose," he went on, with a change
of tone, "you like me quite well, just as much as ever, and all that;
only when it comes to the question of whether you could ever be happy
for one instant without me you are forced to admit that you could. Is
that it?"

Madge nodded her head. "That's just about it. For a long time--oh, but
what's the use in _that_...?"

"No, go ahead."

"Well, one or two people have been in love with me before--or thought
they were, and though that disturbed me at times, it never amounted to
much. In fact I thought the whole thing rather fun, as I remember
it--Heaven forgive me for it! But then you came along and after a
while--several months ago--it became borne in on me that you were going
to--to act the same way, and I immediately realized that it was going to
be much, _much_ more serious than the others. And I--well, I had a
cobblestone for a heart, and knew it. So I tried my best to keep you off
the scent, in every way I could, knowing what a crash there would be if
it came to _that_.... But I never knew what I missed till to-night, when
you showed me what a magnificent creature a person really in love is,
and what a loathsome, detestable, contemptible creature--"

"Come, come, remember my instructions," interpolated Harry.

"--a person incapable of love is. And it just knocked me flat for the
moment."

"I see," said Harry thoughtfully; "I see."

"I suppose," continued Madge, "it would have been easier all around if I
didn't like you so much. I could conceive of marriage without love, if
the person was thoroughly nice and I was quite sure there was no chance
of my loving any one else, just because it's nicer to be rich than poor,
but with you--no!... And on the other hand, I daresay I _might_ have
come nearer falling in love with you if you hadn't been--such a
notoriously good match ... you never realized that, perhaps?... I just
couldn't bear the thought of giving _you_ anything but the real thing,
if I gave you anything--that's what it comes to!"

"Madge, what I don't see is how you can go on talking that way and
feeling that way and not be in love with me! Not much, of course, but
just a teeny bit!... Don't you really think your conscience is
making--well, making a fool of you?"

"No, no, Harry--please! I can't explain it, but I really am quite,
_quite_ sure! No one could be gladder than I if it were otherwise!"

"One person could, I fancy. Well, the thing to do now is to decide
what's to be done to make you love me.... For that is the next thing,
you know," he went on, in reply to an inarticulate expression of dissent
from Madge. "You don't suppose I'm going to leave this house to-night
and never think of you again, do you? You don't suppose I'm ever going
to give up loving you and trying to make you love me, as long as we two
shall live and after?"

"I thought," murmured Madge, apparently to her handkerchief. The rest
was almost inaudible, but Harry succeeded in catching the phrase "some
nice girl."

"Oh, rot!!" he exclaimed vociferously. Then he sank down on the piano
bench, rested his elbows on the keyboard cover and burst into paroxysms
of laughter. The idea of his leaving Madge and going out in search of
"some nice girl"! Madge, still leaning on the edge of the piano,
watched him with some apprehension, occasionally smothering a reluctant
smile in her handkerchief.

"Excuse me, Madge," he said at last, wiping his eyes, "but that's
probably the funniest remark ever made!... A large, shapeless person,
with yellow hair and a knitted shawl ... a sort of German type, who'd
take the most wonderful care of my socks ... with a large, soft kiss,
like ... like a hot cross bun!..." He was off again.

"Hush, Harry, don't be absurd! Hush, you'll wake Mama! Harry, you're
impossible!" Madge herself was laughing at the portrait, for all that.
It was some minutes before either of them could return to the subject in
hand.

"Oh, you'll love me all right, in time!" That laugh had cleared the
atmosphere tremendously; it seemed much easier to talk freely and
sensibly now. "Of course you don't think so now, and that's quite as it
should be; but time makes one look at things differently."

"No, no, you mustn't count on that. If I don't now, I can't ever
possibly! Really--"

"What, not love me? Impossible! Look at me!" He became serious and went
on: "Madge, granting that you don't care a hang for me now, can you look
into your inmost heart and say you're perfectly sure you never, never
could get to care for me, some time in the dim future of years?"

"I--don't know," replied Madge inconclusively.

"There you are--you know perfectly well you can't! However, I don't
intend to bother you about that now. What I want to suggest now is that
we had better be apart for a while, now that we know how things stand
between us--not see anything of each other for a long time. That's the
best way. That's how I fell in love with you--how I became sure about
it, at any rate. That was why I went to North Carolina, of course."

Madge thought seriously for a moment or two. What he said seemed
reasonable. If he did go entirely out of her head after a few months'
absence, he would be out of it for good and all, and there was the end
of it. Whereas, in the unlikely event of his _not_ going out of her
head, but going into her heart, she would be much surer of herself than
if under the continual stimulus and charm of his presence.

"Well," she said at length. "But how will you arrange it?"

"I shall simply go away--to-morrow. Abroad. You'll be here?"

"Yes."

"What do you do this summer?"

"I'm not sure--that is, I had thought of going to Bar Harbor, with the
Gilsons--as governess. They have a dear little girl."

Harry made a gesture of impatience. "I suppose that's as good as
anything. If you'll be happy?"

"Oh, perfectly. I should enjoy that, actually, more than anything else.
Mama'll be with Aunt Tizzy. I think I'll do it, now. I'd rather be doing
something."

"Well, we'll meet here, then, at the end of the summer, in September. I
suppose we'd better not write. Unless, that is, you see light before the
time is up. Then you're to let me know--that's part of the bargain. Just
wire to my bankers the single word, 'Elliston.' I'll know."

"On one condition--that you do the same if you change your mind the
other way!"

"Madge, what idiocy!"

"No, no; you must agree. Why shouldn't you be given a chance of changing
your mind, as well as I?"

"Very well; it's probably the easiest bargain any one ever made....
Well, that's all, I think." They both paused, wondering what was to come
next. The matter did seem to be fairly well covered. He made as if to
go.

"Oh, one thing--your work!" Madge apparently was suffering a slight
relapse of self-denunciation. "How absolutely like me, I never thought
of that!"

"I can work abroad as well as here. I can work anywhere better than
here--you must see that."

"I suppose so." She fixed her eyes on the carpet. A hundred thousand
things were teeming in her brain, clamoring to be said, but she turned
them all down as "absurd" and contented herself at last with: "You sail
immediately, then?"

"Saturday, I expect. To the Mediterranean. I shall leave town to-morrow,
though; you won't be bothered by me again!"

"You must give yourself plenty of time to pack. Be sure--" she checked
herself, apparently embarrassed.

"Be sure what?"

"Nothing--none of my business."

"Yes, please! My dying request!"

"Well, I was going to tell you to be sure to take plenty of warm things
for the voyage. Men are so silly about such things!"

As with Madge a minute ago, all sorts of things shouted to be done and
said in his brain, but he shut the door firmly on all of them and
replied quietly, "All right, I will," and started toward the door.

She could not let it go at that, after all. Before the door had swung to
behind him she had rushed up and caught it.

"Oh, Harry!" she exclaimed; "if it does--if it should come off, wouldn't
it be simply--Nirvana, and that sort of thing?"

"Madge," replied Harry solemnly from the doorstep, "it will make Nirvana
look like the Black Hole of Calcutta!"

If there rose in her mind one pang of remorse for her behavior that
evening, one suggestion of a desire to rush out on the doorstep and
fling herself into his arms and tell him what a fool she was, it was
reduced to subjection before she had closed the door and entirely
smothered by the time she reached the parlor again.

"No," she told herself quite firmly as she rearranged the tumbled sofa
cushions, "that would never do--that was part of the Bargain." Just what
was part of the bargain or exactly what the bargain was she did not
bother to specify. "No, I must wait," she continued, trying the locks of
the windows; "I must wait, a long time, a long, _long_ time. Till next
September, in fact. One always has to wait to find out; nothing but time
can show. And of course one must be _sure_"--she turned out the
gas--"first. _Perfectly_ sure--beyond all manner of doubt and question.
Both on my own account"--she reached up with considerable effort and
turned out the hall light--"and Harry's."

"No," she amended as she felt with her foot for the first step of the
dark staircase; "not on my account. On Harry's."




CHAPTER IV

WILD HORSES AND CHAMPAGNE


James Wimbourne always had the reputation of being an exceptionally
strong-willed person. None of his friends would have been in the least
surprised to see him come so triumphantly through the first real test
that life offered him, if they had known anything about it. Not one of
them did know anything about it; no human being ever vaguely surmised
that he renounced--the word is a big one but the act was worthy of
it--Beatrice in favor of his brother. Beatrice may have suspected it at
first, but her suspicion, if it existed at all, died an easy and natural
death. Harry suspected it least of all, which was just what James
wanted. The one reason why the renunciation did not turn out entirely as
James intended was one over which he had no control, namely, the simple
fact that Harry was never in love with Beatrice.

But as a matter of fact one must look deeper into James' character to
discover how it was that, long before the completion of the four years
that the story has recently skipped, James was able to think of Beatrice
without even a flutter of the heart. Deeply imbedded in his nature there
lay a motive force to which his will power, as other people knew it, was
merely the servant. This may perhaps be most safely described as James'
attitude toward Harry. It is not easy to describe it. It does not do to
lay stress upon the elements of brotherly affection, desire to protect,
unselfishness and so forth, which made it up; those things all appear to
smack of priggishness and cant and are at variance with the spontaneity
of the thing we are talking about. One might perhaps refer to it as an
ineradicable conviction in the soul of James that Harry was always to be
thought of first.

Very few people are capable of entertaining such a feeling. Very few are
worthy of it. James had just the sort of nature in which it is most
likely to occur. The Germans have an apt phrase for this type of
nature--_schoene Seele_. James had a _schoene Seele_. He had his tastes
and feelings, of course, like any one else, but the good always came
naturally to him; the bad was abnormal. And this was why he found it
possible and even--after a certain time--easy to erase from his brain
the image of Beatrice, and set up in its place a vision of Harry and
Beatrice coming into a mutual realization of each other.

Well, it couldn't have been much of a love in the first place if it
wasn't stronger than brotherly affection, does some one suggest? some
one, we fancy, who is thoroughly familiar with the poems of the late
Robert Browning and entertains a _penchant_ for the Paolo and Francesca
brand of love. Well, possibly. We confess to our own moments of
Paolomania; every healthy person has them. But we would call the
attention of the aforesaid some one to the stern fact that love in the
United States of America in the twentieth century is of necessity a
different thing from love in--Rimini, we were going to say, but Rimini
is a real place, with a railroad station and hotel omnibusses, so let us
change it to Paolo-and-Francescadom. Also that he may have fostered his
cult of Paoloism rather at the expense of his study of the _schoene
Seele_. And we would also suggest, meeting him on his own ground, that
there is no evidence of Paolo ever having got along very well with
Giovanni. For if he had, of course, that whole beautiful story might
have been spoilt.

Then, of course, James' remoteness from Beatrice made it easier for him.
Love is primarily a matter of geography, anyway. With the result that
finally, when the month of June arrived and with it the offer of the New
York position, the danger implied in New York's proximity to New Haven
and Beatrice was not enough to deter James from closing with it. He
accepted the offer, as we know, and took up his duties in New York in
September.

He took Stodger McClintock with him. Stodger by this time simply
belonged to James, as far as the Emancipation Proclamation and other
legal technicalities permit of one person belonging to another. He had
already obtained for him a job as office boy in McClellan's and now
proposed to take him east and educate him, with the eventual idea of
turning him into a chauffeur. Stodger seemed delighted with the
prospect.

"Only," he objected, "please, I'll have to ask me grand-mudder!"

"Oh, of course," said James gravely. "You couldn't go without her
consent. I'll have a talk with her myself, if you like."

Stodger seemed to think that would not be necessary. It ended by James
taking a small apartment and installing Stodger as chore boy under the
command of an eagle-eyed Swedish woman, where he could divide his time
between cleaning shoes and attending high school.

October arrived; it was ten months since James had seen Beatrice and he
decided it was now time to see her again, to make the sight of her and
Harry together chase the last shreds of regret from his mind. So he
wrote to Aunt Selina announcing that he would spend his next free
Saturday night in New Haven.

It happened that Aunt Selina had fixed upon that night to have some
people to dinner. When she learned that James would be one of the number
that idea vanished in smoke and from its ashes, phoenix-like, arose the
conception of making it a real occasion; not dinner, nor
people-to-dinner, but frankly, out-and-out, A Dinner, like that. She
arranged to have eighteen, and sent out invitations accordingly.

James did not see Beatrice until nearly dinner-time on the Saturday
night. He came downstairs at five minutes or so before the hour and
discovered Harry standing before the drawing-room fireplace with Aunt
Selina placidly sitting on a sofa and Beatrice flying about giving a
finishing touch here and there. There was no strain or uneasiness about
the meeting; his "Hello, Beatrice," received by her almost on the wing
as she passed on some slight preprandial mission, was a model of cordial
familiarity. And if she had not been too preoccupied to let the meeting
be in the least awkward, Harry, gaily chattering from the chimney-piece,
would have been enough to prevent it anyway.

"Well, here we all are," Harry was saying, "and nobody here to
entertain. Of course if we had all happened to be a minute or two late
there would have been a crowd of people waiting for us. We won't
complain, though; being too early is the one great social sin. Yes, Aunt
Selina dear, I know people didn't think so in the Hayes administration
... Beatrice, do stop pecking at those roses; they look very well
indeed. You make me feel as if my hair wasn't properly brushed, or my
shirt-front spotted. This suspense is telling on me; why doesn't
somebody come?"

Somebody did come almost immediately. Aunt Selina arose and stood in
state in front of the fireplace to receive, and she made James stand
with her, as though as a reward for returning to the eastern half of the
country. He looked extremely well standing there. There was not one of
the guests that came up and shook his hand that did not mentally
congratulate the house of Wimbourne upon its present head.

In some ways, indeed, one might say that those few minutes formed the
very apex of James' life, the point toward which his whole past appeared
to rise and his future to descend from. There are such moments in men's
careers; moments to which one can point and say, Would that chance and
my own nature had permitted me to stay there for the rest of my natural
days! Surely there can be no harm in a soul remaining static if the
level at which it remains is sufficiently high. Here was James, for
example, not merely rich, good-looking, clever rather than otherwise,
beloved of his fellow men, but with a very palpable balance on the side
of good in his character. Why could not fate leave him stranded on that
high point for the rest of his life, radiating goodness and happiness to
every one who came near him? _Schoene Seelen_ are rare enough in this
world anyway; what a pity it is that they should not always be allowed
to shine to the greatest possible advantage! What a pity it is that so
many of them are overwhelmed with shadows too deep for their struggling
rays to pierce; shadows so thick that the poor little flames are
accounted lucky if they can manage to burn on invisibly in the darkness,
illuminating nothing but their own frail substance, content merely to
live! The thought, indeed, would be intolerable were it not for certain
other considerations; as for example, that the purest flames burn
clearest in the darkness, or that a candle at midnight is worth more
than an arc-light at noonday.

Having successfully survived the first meeting, James found himself
performing the duties of the evening with astonishing ease. He devoted
himself chiefly to his right-hand neighbor, who for some reason was
always referred to as "little" Mrs. Farnsworth. He was not conscious of
the slightest feeling of strain in his conversation; he got on so well
and so easily that he perhaps failed to realize that his was a real
effort, made with the undoubted though unconscious purpose of keeping
his mind off other things. If he had not succeeded so well, it might
have been better. Certainly he would have been spared the let-down that
he subsequently realized was inevitable. It came about halfway through
dinner, in a general conversation which started with an account by James
of Stodger's grandmother.

He had made rather a good thing of this. "Of course I never force his
hand," he was explaining; "I never ask him out and out what her name is
and where she lives; I try to give the impression of believing in her as
profoundly as himself. But it's most amusing to see how cleverly he
dodges the questions I do ask. When we were about to come east, for
instance, I asked him how his grandmother dared to trust him so far away
without seeing me or knowing anything about me. He replied that she was
satisfied with the description he gave her of me. 'But Stodger,' I said,
'doesn't she want to see with her own eyes?' 'She's my _grand_mother,
not my mother,' he answered, which really covered the matter pretty
well."

"But he's never shown you either her or a letter from her?" asked Mrs.
Farnsworth.

"Of course not--how could he? Oh, I must say I admire him for it! You
see, I found him living practically in the gutter, sleeping Heaven knows
where and eating Heaven knows what; but through it all he hung onto this
grandmother business as his one last tie with the world of
respectability and good clothes and enough to eat. I think I never saw a
person get so much out of a mere idea."

"It shows imagination, certainly," murmured Mrs. Farnsworth
appreciatively, but her remark was drowned in the question of her
right-hand neighbor, who had been listening to James' narrative and
joined in with:

"Have you ever succeeded in getting any idea of what the old lady is
like? I should think the boy's mental picture of a grandmother might
form a key to his whole character."

"No," replied James; "I've never asked him anything very definite. I
must find out something more about her some time."

"What would the ideal grandmother be like, I wonder?" queried Mrs.
Farnsworth. "Yours or mine, for example? Mine would be a dear old soul
with a white cap and curls, whom I should always go to visit over
Thanksgiving and eat too much pumpkin pie."

"Yes, I think that comes pretty near my ideal, too," said James;
"provided she didn't want to kiss me too often and had no other bad
habits."

"How idyllic!" said Mrs. Farnsworth's other neighbor. "Arcadians, both
of you. I confess to something much more sophisticated; something living
in town, say, with a box at the opera. Mrs. Harriman, it's your turn."

"Oh, leave me out!" answered Mrs. Harriman, a woman who still, at forty,
gave the impression of being too young for her husband. "You see, I have
a grandmother still living."

"So have I," irrepressibly retorted her neighbor, whose name was
Nesmith; "two of them, in fact, and neither is anything like my ideal!
You can feel quite at your ease."

"Well, if I had to choose, I think I would have one more like yours, Mr.
Nesmith; only very old and dignified, something of the dowager type, who
would tell delightful stories of Paris under Louis Philippe and Rome
under the Popes, and possibly write some rather indiscreet memoirs.
Something definitely connecting my own time with hers, you know."

"Oh, I say, no fair!" interrupted James in unthoughtful high spirits.
"No fair stealing somebody else's grandmother! You've described Miss
Carson's grandmother, Mrs. Harriman, unless I'm greatly mistaken.
Beatrice, isn't Mrs. Harriman's ideal grandmother suspiciously like old
Lady Moville?"

Beatrice, who was sitting two places down the table from Mrs. Harriman,
had heard the description; the grandmother conversation had, in fact,
absorbed the attention of very nearly half the table.

"Very like, I admit; but Mrs. Harriman is quite welcome to her.... She
is not exactly my ideal of a grandmother...!" She turned directly toward
James and made the last remark straight at him with a sort of
deprecating smile of comprehension. It was as though she said: "I say
that to _you_ because I know you'll understand!" It did not amount to
much; it was one of the fleeting signs of mutual comprehension that
friends will frequently exchange in the presence of acquaintances. But
unfortunately the remark and the way it was given were extremely
ill-timed as far as James was concerned. The effect they caused in him
may perhaps be best likened to one of those sudden fits of faintness
that overcome people convalescing from a long illness; the sort of thing
where you are all right one minute and gasping and calling for brandy
the next, and the stronger you feel beforehand the harder the faintness
seizes you when it comes. If James had been on the watch for such
occurrences, the incident would not have had half the effect on him that
it did. As it was, however, Beatrice's little speech and glance stirred
into momentary activity much of the feeling that he had been striving
all these months to keep down.

It was not really much; it did not actually undo the work of those ten
months. James was really convalescent. But the suddenness of the thing
overcame him for the moment and gave him a feeling approaching that of
actual physical faintness. He saw a glass of champagne standing at his
side and involuntarily reached toward it.

No one noticed him much. Mrs. Farnsworth was chattering easily with Mr.
Nesmith; conversation had resumed its normal course. Possibly the
knowledge that James had touched on a rather doubtful topic, Beatrice's
father's family, gave conversation a slight added impetus; certainly if
anybody noticed James' embarrassment they assumed that his slight
indiscretion amply accounted for it. At any rate, when his embarrassment
led him so far as not only to reach for his left-hand neighbor's glass
of champagne instead of his own but to tip it over in the process, the
said left-hand neighbor, who happened to be Madge Elliston, attributed
his action to that reason and acted accordingly.

With a tact that would have seemed overdone if it had not been so prompt
and sufficient, she immediately assumed that it had been she who had
knocked the glass over.

"Oh, I am so sorry!" she exclaimed. "I _am_ such an awkward idiot; I
hope it didn't go all over you, James?... No, my dress is all right;
apparently nothing but the tablecloth has suffered," and so forth, and
so forth, to an accompaniment of gentle swabbings and shifting of table
utensils.

"Oh, Madge?" said James vaguely. "That's all right--I mean, it's my
fault, entirely...." He joined in the rescue work with grateful fervor,
and in a moment a servant came up and did something efficient with a
napkin. Madge chattered on.

"I never do get through a party without doing something silly! I'm glad
it's nothing worse than this; I generally count that dinner as lost when
I don't drop a hairpin into my food. I used to be quite embarrassed
about it, but I've got so now that I eat shamelessly on, right down to
the hairpin. I wonder if your aunt saw? No--or rather, she did, and is
far too polite to show it. She just won't ask me again, that's all!"

"She will if I have any influence with her," said James; "and I don't
mind saying, between you and me and the gatepost, that I have a good
deal! Only you must sing to us after dinner. You will, won't you?"

"My dear James, I don't suppose wild horses--"

"Oh, come now, you must!"

"I was going to say, wild horses couldn't stop me from singing, if I'm
asked! Did you ever know me to refrain from singing, loudly and clearly,
whenever I received the slightest encouragement?"

"I can't say--I haven't been here enough. I'm pretty sure, though, that
there are no wild horses here to-night."

"I'm not so sure...." She took a rapid glance around the table. "Yes,
there are at least two wild horses right here in this room. See if you
can guess who they are."

"Oh, this is getting beyond me!"

"Guess!" said Madge, inexorably.

"Well ... Professor Dodd?"

"Right. Now the other."

"Oh--old George Harriman."

"No. You're on the wrong track; it isn't the unmusical people that keep
me from singing; it's those who make me feel silly and _de trop_,
somehow, when I'm doing it."

"I can't guess," said James after a pause.

"Well, it's Beatrice Carson!"

"No, not Beatrice! Why, she's very fond of music!"

"It's not that, as I tried to explain. She is such a wonderful, Olympian
sort of person, so beautiful, so well-bred, so good, and tremendously
wise and capable--you've heard about the work she's doing here in the
Working Girls' League?"

"Something, yes."

"Well, it's perfectly extraordinary; they say she's been able to reach
people no one else has ever been able to do anything with. Altogether,
the thought of her listening to me makes me feel like a first-class fool
when I stand up and warble, and even more so when I think of the time
and money I waste on learning to do a little bit better something that
isn't worth doing at all!"

"But you teach school," objected James. "That's sound constructive
work."

"That," replied Miss Elliston, "is not for eleemosynary reasons."

"But you do it very well."

"No, you're mistaken there, and beside, I hate teaching school; I simply
_loathe_ it! Whereas ... let me tell you a secret. This singing
business, this getting up in a drawing-room and opening my mouth and
compelling people's attention, even for a moment--seeing people
gradually stop talking and thinking about something else and wishing I'd
stop, and at last just listening, listening with all their ears and
minds to me, plain, stupid, vapid little ME--well, I just love it! It's
meat and drink to me. Whenever I receive an invitation to dinner I want
to write back, Yes, if you'll let me sing afterward!"

"Really," said James thoughtfully, "that's the way it is with you, is
it?"

"I'm afraid so! You won't give me away though, will you, James?"

"Oh, no danger! And I'll promise you another thing--wild horses shan't
have a chance when I'm around! Not one chance! Ever!"

He was flattered by her confidence, of course, as well as grateful for
her tact. She had not only dragged him out of the water where he was
floundering on to the dry land, but had gone so far as to haul him up an
agreeable eminence before leaving him.

Conversation shifted again at that point and James turned again to Mrs.
Farnsworth. He got on very well with her from his eminence; so well that
they remained conversationally united for the rest of dinner. In the
course of their talk he thought of another thing that made him even
happier; something he had not had a chance to realize before. Madge
thought his momentary embarrassment had been due to having broached the
doubtful topic of the Carson family. She had no inkling of his feeling
for Beatrice; the freedom of her references to Beatrice was proof
positive of that. And if she did not suspect, probably no one else did!
His secret was as safe as it had ever been.

The full joy of this realization began to spread itself through him
about the time when fingerbowls came into use and Aunt Selina was
gathering eyes preparatory to starting an exodus. Just as they all rose
he chanced to catch Madge's eye and, unable to withhold some expression
of his relief, smiled and said softly: "Thank you, Madge!"

"What?" she asked, not understanding.

"Champagne," said James.

"Oh, nonsense!" As she started to walk doorward she turned her face
directly toward his and gave him a deprecatory little smile of
understanding, exactly like the one Beatrice had thrown him a short time
ago.

The coincidence at first rather took him aback. He was conscious, as the
men rearranged themselves for coffee and cigars, of a feeling of loss,
almost of desecration; the sort of feeling one might experience on
seeing somebody else wear one's mother's wedding gown. Nobody but
Beatrice had any real business to smile like that--to him, at least.
Then it occurred to him that that was all nonsense; either it was all on
or all off between him and Beatrice. After all, Madge's smile was just
about as good to look at as Beatrice's, if one made allowance against
the latter's unusual beauty. Madge was not unattractive in her way,
either....

Madge sang, of course. James enjoyed her singing very much, the more so
for what she had told him at dinner. During her performance an
inspiration came to him which he presently made an opportunity to impart
to her.

"Look here," he asked; "have you ever sung for Beatrice's working
girls?"

"No," answered she in some surprise. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"I've never been asked, for one thing!"

"Would you, if you were? I'd like to suggest it to Beatrice, at any
rate."

"That's all very well for me, but what about the poor working girls?"

"I should say that any working girl that didn't want to hear you sing
didn't deserve to be helped. I may suggest it to her, then?"

"Certainly, if you like. I don't really imagine that she'll have any use
for it, though."

"We'll see." He dismissed the subject with a smile. It pleased him to be
quite brief and businesslike. As the party broke up and the guests
dispersed he was busy, in a half-conscious sort of way, constructing a
vision of him and his whole future life on this scheme; irretrievably
blighted in his own career he would devote himself to doing helpful
little services for people he liked, without thought of other reward
than the satisfaction of performing them.

Sustained by this vision he embarked quite fearlessly and efficiently on
a _tete-a-tete_ with Beatrice before going to bed that night. He made
the suggestion to her that he had told Madge he would make, and was
pleased to find that Beatrice welcomed it warmly.

Once in bed, with the light turned out and absolute quiet reigning
throughout the house, of course disturbing things did force their way
into his brain. It was bound to be that way, of course; had it not been
that way for the past ten months? Fears, pains, doubts, memories,
regrets--all passed in their accustomed procession before his mind's
eye, gradually growing dimmer and fewer as drowsiness came on and at
last dwindling to occasional mental pictures, as of a characteristic
gesture, a look, a smile. A humorous little smile, for instance,
suggestive of mutual understanding....

Jove, that was a funny thing! He sat up in bed, shaking off his
sleepiness and subjecting his mental vision to the test of conscious
reason. That was Madge's smile that he had just seen, not Beatrice's; it
was all there, the different position, the eyes, the hair and
everything; all complete and unmistakable. Well, it was strange what a
heavy dinner could do to a man--that, and a glass of champagne!




CHAPTER V

A SCHOeNE SEELE ON PISGAH


More than four years have elapsed before we see James Wimbourne again.

Time has dealt easily with him, as far as appearances are concerned. No
periods of searching care have imprinted their lines upon his face; no
rending sorrow has dimmed the sweetness of its expression. No one could
even be tempted to say that he had begun to grow stout. And if his face
is a trifle thinner and more firmly molded than of old, if he has a more
settled manner of sinking back in to a club chair, if he takes rather
more time to get through the evening newspaper, or if, after the manner
of many ex-athletes, he is inclined to become fidgety and bilious unless
he has exactly the proper amount of physical exercise--well, who ever
reaches his late twenties without showing similar preliminary symptoms
of age; not so much the first stages of the process of ageing as
indications of what the process will be like when it begins in earnest?

The process in which we now find James engaged is mental rather than
senescent, but you would hardly guess it to look at him. He is sitting
on a rock on the top of a hill at sunset, smoking a cigarette and
patently enjoying it. One leg is thrown easily over the other, his body
is bent slightly forward; one hand rests on the rock by his side and the
other, when not employed in propelling the cigarette to and from his
mouth, lies quietly on his lap. He is very quiet; James is not the sort
of person to make many unnecessary motions; he picks out a comfortable
position and usually remains in it until it is time to do something
else. He would do this even if he were not gazing at an absorbingly
lovely view over the roofs of Bar Harbor, Frenchman's Bay and the
tumbled hills of the Maine Coast, and even if the mental process were
not such an absorbing one as a review of his relation with Madge
Elliston,--a sort of indexing of the steps by which it had developed
from the vaguest of acquaintanceships into its present state.

It had really begun, he reflected, on the evening of that dinner. Before
that Madge had been merely one of the group of chattery young women that
he had danced with and was polite to and secretly rather afraid of; one
of the genus debutante. After that she merged from her genus and, almost
without going through the intermediate stages of species and variety,
became an individual.

At first he had deliberately fostered and encouraged the thought of
Madge, for obvious reasons. It was clearly profitable to do anything
that would help weed out the thought of Beatrice. It would be fruitless
even to try to enumerate the stages by which from that point on Beatrice
faded from his heart and that of Madge took her place; to a far larger
place, as he now realized, than Beatrice had ever occupied there.

It appeared to him now, as he looked back on the whole process, that
Beatrice herself was responsible for a large part of it, Beatrice and
her Working Girls' League. That had all grown quite logically out of
that first evening and his inspiration about having Madge sing to the
working girls. Beatrice adopted the suggestion, and the result was so
successful that on the Saturday a month or two afterward, when James
made his next visit to New Haven, Madge was engaged to sing to them for
a second time. He accompanied Beatrice to that meeting and from that
evening dated his acquaintance with the Working Girls' League and social
work in general.

Madge sang for the most part old English songs, things the girls could
understand, and they followed them all with the most unaffected interest
and pleasure. James was surprised to see several of them actually wipe
tears from their eyes when she sang the plaintive ditty "A young country
maid up to London had strayed," and during one intermission he was
conscious of certain inarticulate sounds coming from the audience, of
which the only intelligible part was the word "husband" uttered in
beseeching accents again and again.

"They want her to sing 'Oh, for a husband,'" explained Beatrice to
James. "She sang that the last time and they all went crazy about it."
Madge complied with a really very spirited rendering of the old song,
and the girls applauded with an enthusiasm that rather touched James.
There was something appealing to him in the unaffected way in which
these poor shop and factory drudges, physically half-starved and
mentally wholly starved, responded to the slightest efforts to give them
pleasure. He felt himself suddenly warming toward the movement.

"Tell me something about this place," he found a chance to say to Madge
later on, when the gathering had broken up, and even before she replied
he reflected that he had had ample opportunity to ask Beatrice that.

"Oh, _I'm_ not the person to ask--I've only just come into it.... It was
started simply as a working girls' club, I believe; a place more
especially for the homeless ones to come to after work hours and meet
each other and spend a little time in cheerful surroundings before going
back to their hall bedrooms.... Now it's become more than that; they
have entertainments and dances and classes of various kinds, and we're
trying to raise money enough to build them a lodging house."

"You've become one of them then, have you?"

"Oh, yes, I'm one of those that have been drawn in. The thing has
flourished amazingly lately, both among the helpers and the helped. The
purpose of the League is entirely secular--I suppose that's what made it
go so well. The churches don't seem--they don't get a chance at many
people, do they?... This is aimed to help the very lowest class of
workers; all unmarried wage-earners are eligible, regardless of age or
race or religion.... Poor things, they are so glad to have their bodies
and minds cared for and their souls left alone! The souls follow easily
enough, we find, just as Shaw says--you've read 'Major Barbara'?"

"I don't think I have," replied James.

"Well, that shows what the League is trying to do better than I can....
It's had its results, too. The thing has been running about a year, and
already the number of arrests for certain kinds of offenses has fallen
off over fifty per cent. Keeping them off the streets alone is enough to
make us feel proud and satisfied...."

"I should think so," said James, blushing hotly. He had never heard a
young woman make such a remark before, and was at a loss how to take it.
But there was something at once fearless and modest in the way Madge
made it that not only put him at his ease but set him thinking. "Good
Lord, why can't we live in a world where every one talks like that?" he
suddenly asked himself.

Madge went on to give him a fuller account of the purposes and methods
of the League, outlining some of its difficulties and indicating, as far
as she knew it, the path of its future development. She paid him the
compliment of asking him several questions, and he was displeased to
find that he had either to bluff answers for them or confess ignorance.

"I wish I could do something of this sort," he said presently, in a
musing sort of way.

"Why don't you? There's plenty of chance in New York, I should say."

"Oh, New York, yes. I hadn't thought of that. I don't know what use I
could be, though."

"No difficulty about that, I should think. What about athletics? You'd
work among boys, I presume?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Somehow the prospect did not attract him
particularly. Then he thought of Stodger; of what Stodger's evenings
would have been but for him. What did he do to illuminate Stodger's
evenings under actual conditions, now that he come to think of it?

"You'll find there are plenty of things you can do for them. Practically
every one who knows anything at all can conduct an evening class. Even
I--I have a class in hat trimming! One of the few subjects I can
truthfully say I have practical knowledge in."

Thus the germ of the desire for social service was sowed in him. It
thrived pretty steadily during the winter that followed. He got himself
introduced to the proper people and almost before he knew it he found
himself volunteering in gymnasium work and pledged to give occasional
evening talks on athletic subjects. The organization in which he worked
was, he found to his satisfaction, like Madge's--Madge's, you observe,
not Beatrice's--Working Girls' League, designed to help the very lowest
classes of wage-earners. It had its clubrooms on the lower East Side and
set itself up as a rival attraction to the saloon-haunting gangs of that
interesting neighborhood, and since it dealt with the roughest section
of the population it did not hesitate to employ means that other
organizations would have hesitated to sanction. Beer and tobacco were
sold on the place; billiards and card games were freely encouraged,
though there was a rule against playing anything for money; but the
chief interest of the place was athletic. Herein lay a problem, for it
was found that in the hands of the descendants of Nihilists and pillars
of the Mano Negra such respectable sports as boxing and wrestling were
prone to degenerate into bloody duels.

It was in this matter that James first made himself felt. Happening into
the building at an unaccustomed hour one afternoon, he became aware of
strange noises issuing from an upper floor, and dashing up to the
gymnasium discovered two brawny young Italians apparently trying to
brain each other with Indian clubs. In a storm of righteous and
unaffected wrath he rushed into the fray, separated the combatants and
treated them to such a torrent of obloquy as they had never heard even
among their own associates. Too astonished and fascinated to reply, they
allowed themselves to be hustled from the room by James and literally
kicked down the stairs and out of the building without so much as
getting into their clothes, running several blocks in their gymnasium
costumes. They aroused no particular attention, for at that time even
the East Side was becoming accustomed to the sight of scantily clad
youths using the streets as a cinder track, but it was more than an hour
before, timid and peaceful, the offenders ventured to slip back into the
clubhouse and their trousers.

From that day on James practically ran the Delancy Street Club. It never
became a very large or famous organization, partly for the reason that
it was purposely kept rather small, but it did much good in its own
quiet way. It soon became the chief extra-business interest in James'
life; it effectually drove the last vestiges of what he learned to refer
to mentally as "that foolishness" from his head; his nights became full
of sleep and empty of visions. And by the spring of the next year he
found himself slipping into an intermittent but perfectly easy
friendship with Madge Elliston, founded, naturally enough, on their
common interest in social matters. He fell into the habit of running up
to New Haven for week-ends, and into the habit of seeing Madge on those
Saturday evenings. He liked talking to her about social problems; he
soon caught up with her in the matter of knowledge and experience, and
it was from a comfortingly similar viewpoint that they were able to
discuss such matters as methods of handling evening classes, the moral
effects of workmen's compensation and the great and growing problem of
dance halls and all that it involves. They both found much to help and
instruct them in each other's views; the mere dissimilarities of the
state laws under which they worked furnished ample material for
discussion, and their friendship was always tightened by the fact that
they were, so to speak, marching abreast, running up against successive
phases of their work at about the same time.

It need cause no surprise that such a relation should have remained
practically static for a period of three years or more. Each of them had
much to think of beside social work. James had eight or nine hours' work
per day and all the absorbing interests of metropolitan life to keep him
from spending overmuch time over it. And Madge, as we know, was already
an extremely busy young woman. For a long time their common interest
hardly amounted to more than an absorbing topic of conversation during
their meetings. The stages by which it became the agent of something
greater were quite imperceptible.

There was just one exterior fact that served as a landmark in the
progress of his feeling. Some months before--shortly after Harry had so
unexpectedly gone abroad--Madge had started a series of Saturday night
dances for her working girls--that was at the time when the dance craze
was spreading among all classes of society--and she asked James to help
her give some exhibitions of new dances, to get the thing well launched.
James rather hesitated in accepting this invitation.

"I'll do it, of course, if you really want me to," he said; "but I don't
see why you want to drag me all the way up here for that. Why don't you
ask somebody in town?"

"That's just the point," replied Madge; "I shall want you to give a
little individual instruction to the girls, if you will, and I think it
would be just as well if the person who did that had no chance of
meeting the girls about town, in other capacities...! Beside, you happen
to dance rather better than any one I know up here."

"Oh, nonsense!" said James. "I'll come," he added in the next breath.

It was from just about the time of those dances, James thought, that the
personal element in his relation to Madge began to overbalance the
intellectual. He had had his moments of being rather attracted by her,
of course--the episode of Aunt Selina's dinner was a fair example--but
such moments had been mere sparks, soulless little heralds of the flame
that now began to burn brightly and warmly. Hitherto he had primarily
been interested in her; now he began definitely to like her. And then,
before long, something more.

It is interesting to compare the processes by which the two brothers
fell in love with the same woman. Harry's experience might be likened to
a blinding but illuminating flash of lightning; James' to the gentle but
permeating effect of sunrise. Both were held at first by the purely
intellectual side of Madge's character, but by different aspects of it.
Harry was primarily attracted to her by her active wit; this had at
first repelled James, made him somewhat afraid of her, until he
discovered the more solid qualities of her mind. Both at last fell in
love with her as a person, not as a member of the female sex nor as a
thinking machine. Both passions were founded upon solid rock; neither
could be uprooted without violent and far-reaching results.

How beautifully it had all worked out in the end, James reflected; how
wisely the progress of things was ordained! How fortunate it was that
his first futile passion for Beatrice had not been allowed to develop
and bear ill-conceived fruit! Now that he almost went so far as to
despise himself for that passion as unworthy both of himself and of her.
What had he fallen in love with there? A lip, a cheek, a pair of eyes, a
noble poise of a head, a thing to win and kiss and at last squeeze in
his arms--nothing more! He had set her up as the image of a false,
fleshly ideal, an empty Victorian husk of an ideal, a sentimental,
boyish, calfish vision of womanhood. How paltry that image looked when
compared to that newer one combining the attributes of friend, comrade,
fellow-worker, kin of his mind and spirit! His first image had done
injustice to its material counterpart, to be sure; Beatrice had turned
out to be far different from the alluring but empty creature he had
pictured her. She was a being with a will, ideas, powers, purposes of
her own. Well, all the better--for Harry! How admirably suited she was
to Harry! What a pair they would make, with their two keen minds, their
active ambitions, their fine, dynamic personalities! The thought
furnished almost as pleasing a mental picture as that of his union with
a small blue-eyed person at this very moment covered by the sloping gray
roof he had already taken pains to pick out from the ranks of its
fellows....

The contemplation of material things brought a slight diminution of
pleasure. When one came down to solid facts, things were not going quite
so well as could be desired. Harry was at this moment kiting
unconcernedly about the continent of Europe and his match with Beatrice
seemed, as far as James could make out, as much in the air as ever.
Also, his own actual relation with Madge was not entirely satisfactory.
That was due chiefly to sordid facts, no doubt; he could not expect to
have the freedom of meeting and speech he naturally desired with a
governess in a friend's house. Still, in the two or three conversations
he had been able to arrange with her during the past three weeks he had
been conscious of an unfamiliar spirit of elusiveness. Once, he
remembered, she had gone so far as to bring the subject of conversation
round to impersonal things with something little short of rudeness, just
as he was getting started on something that particularly interested him,
too....

Plenty of time for that, though; it would never do to hurry things. He
arose from his rock and stretched himself, lifting his arms high above
his head in the cool evening air with a sense of strength and ease.
There was nothing to worry about; things were fundamentally all right;
ends would meet and issues right themselves, all in due time.

It was time, or very nearly time, for Aunt Selina's evening meal, so he
started off at a brisk pace down the hill, whistling softly and
cheerfully to himself. He thought of Aunt Selina, how pleased she would
be with it all, when she knew. Good old soul! He remembered how
pointedly she had asked him to spend his month's vacation with her when
she told him she had taken a house at Bar Harbor for the summer; could
it be that she suspected anything? Perhaps she had, perhaps not; it had
all worked in very conveniently with Madge being at Gilsons', at any
rate. Let her and every one else suspect what they wished; it did not
matter much. Nothing did matter much, when you came to that, except
that small person in white linen and lawn who had flouted him when he
had last seen her and whom he would show what was what, he promised
himself, on the next favorable opportunity....

"Thank God for Madge," he breathed softly to himself as he walked on and
the peace of the evening descended more deeply around him; "oh, thank
God for Madge!"




CHAPTER VI

A LONG CHAPTER. BUT THEN, LOVE IS LONG


Aunt Selina was almost the only person with whom Harry spoke during the
interval between his last interview with Madge and his departure for
foreign parts. He was living in the old house now, so he could not very
well avoid seeing her. At the last moment, with his overcoat on and his
hat in his hand, he sought out his aunt, and found her in a small room
on the ground floor known as the morning-room, going over her accounts.

"Good-by, Aunt Selina," he said. "I'm going to sail for Europe on the
first steamer I can get, so I shan't see you for some time."

Aunt Selina calmly took off her glasses, laid them beside her pen on the
desk and paused before replying.

"Good-by, my dear," she said at length; "I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy
yourself. Brown Shipley, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was a little disconcerted; Aunt Selina played the
game almost too well. Then as he stood unconsequently before her, he was
seized by a sudden desire to confide in her. "Do you know why I'm going,
Aunt Selina?" he asked.

"No, my dear."

"Well, why do you _think_?"

"I prefer not to guess, if that is what you mean. You may tell me, if
you wish."

"Madge Elliston," mumbled Harry.

Aunt Selina stared immovably at her bank book for a moment; then she got
up and faced her nephew.

"There is a streak of horse sense in the Wimbourne blood that has been
the saving of all of us," she said. "I'm glad to see it come out in you.
Good-by, my dear." She kissed him on the cheek.

"How do--how would you like it?" he asked, still hesitating, uncertain
as to her meaning.

"Nothing better. I wish you the best of luck. And I think you're doing
the wisest possible thing."

"I'm glad you do." He looked at her gratefully. "Did you suspect
anything?"

"Not a thing."

"Then I don't believe any one does.... Good-by, Aunt Selina."

"You've done me a great honor. Good-by, dear."

They kissed again and he went out, feeling greatly strengthened and
encouraged. As he drove down to the station he determined to go to a
hotel in New York and keep out of the way of the James Wimbournes and
all other possible confidants. The interview with Aunt Selina had been
so perfect that he could not bear the thought of risking anti-climaxes
to it. Suddenly he remembered that certain Cunard and White Star boats
sailed to the Mediterranean from Boston. He could go directly there and
wait for a steamer in perfect security.

So he took the next train to Boston and that very afternoon engaged
passage to Gibraltar on a steamer sailing two days later. The interval
he spent chiefly in laying up a great store of books on Spain and
Portugal, which countries he planned to visit _in extenso_.

The dull, wet voyage he found enchanting when brightened up by the
glowing pages of Lope de Vega, Calderon, "Don Quixote," "The Lusiads,"
"The Bible in Spain," and Lea's "History of the Inquisition," a galaxy
further enhanced by the businesslike promises of guide books and
numerous works on Hispanic architecture and painting. He landed at
Gibraltar with something almost approaching regret at the thought that
land traveling would allow him less time for reading.

In leisurely fashion he strolled through southern Spain and Portugal,
presently reaching Santiago de Compostela. It had been his intention,
when this part of the trip was finished, to go to Biarritz and from
there work on through the towns of southern France, but a traveling
Englishman told him that he ought on no account to miss seeing the
cathedral of Gerona. So he changed his plans and proceeded eastward.
When he reached Gerona he called himself a fool for having so nearly
missed it, but after a week or ten days among the huge dark churches of
Catalonia he suddenly sickened of sight-seeing and that very night
caught a through express from Barcelona to Paris.

Harry had never known Paris well enough to care for it particularly,
but just now there was something rather attractive to him in its late
June gaiety. He arrived there just at the time of the Grand Prix, and as
he strolled, lonely and unnoticed, through the brilliant Longchamps
crowd he felt his heart unaccountably warming to these well-groomed
children of the world. He had been outside the realm of social
intercourse so long that he felt a sudden desire for converse with
smart, cheerful, people of their type.

His desire was not difficult of fulfilment, as nothing but seven hours'
traveling lay between him and a welcoming Belgrave Square. The next day
he crossed the Channel and took his uncle and aunt completely by
surprise. They were delighted to see him and were unaffectedly
disappointed at having to leave him almost immediately for a dinner in
Downing Street.

"But we're going to see a lot of you while you're here, dear boy," said
Aunt Miriam, "if we have to break every engagement on our list. It isn't
every day that I have a nephew turn into a successful playwright! What
about a dinner, now? Giles, have you anything on for a week from
Monday?"

"The truth is," observed Sir Giles to his nephew, "you've become a lion,
and a lion is a lion even if he is in the family. Poor Harry, I feel for
you!"

"That'll do, G. It's good for the boy."

"There's small danger of my being a lion in London, anyway," said Harry.

"Oh, I don't know," ruminated Uncle Giles: "adoration of success is the
great British vice, you know."

"Monday the fourth, then, Giles," said his wife.

"Hooray, the national holiday!" retorted the irrepressible baronet. "I
say, we'll have the room decorated with American flags and set off
fireworks in the square afterward. We might make a real day of it, if
you like, and go to tea at the American Embassy!"

"No, I don't think we'll do that," answered Aunt Miriam, closing her
lips rather firmly.

Harry had a short talk alone with his aunt that night after she came
back from the evening's business.

"Come in and help me take off my tiara," she said, leading the way into
her bedroom. "I rather want to talk to you. Do you know, dear boy, I
fancy something's come over you lately, you're changed, somehow. Is it
only your success? What brought you over here, in the first place?"

"Spanish churches," answered Harry promptly. He had at one time half
decided to confide in Aunt Miriam, but he definitely gave up the idea
now. She was too sympathetic, by half. "Do you know Barcelona and
Batalha? There's nothing like them."

"No, I've never been to Spain. They say there are fleas, and the beds
are not reliable. I also understand that other arrangements are somewhat
primitive."

"Oh, not always," replied Harry, smiling. "Still, I don't think I do
quite see you in Spain, Aunt Miriam." Then he kissed her good night
quite affectionately. He could be very fond of her, from a short
distance.

As he strolled down Bond Street next morning Harry sighted an old school
acquaintance; a man whom he had known as plain Tommy Erskine, but whom a
succession of timely deaths, as he now vaguely remembered, had brought
into the direct line of an earldom. Harry wondered if he would remember
him; they had not met since their Harrow days. The other's somewhat
glassy stare relaxed quickly enough, however, when he saw who it was.

"Well, Harry! Jolly old Harry!" he said in a tone of easy cordiality, as
though he had not seen Harry perhaps for a week. "I say, turn around and
toddle down to Truefitt's again with me, will you? Fellah puts stinking
stuff on my hair three times a week; never do to miss a time, wot? Well,
jolly old Harry; wherever have you been all these yahs? Didn't go up to
Oxford, did you?"

"No," said Harry, "I went home, to America, and I've stayed there ever
since. I'm a thorough Yankee again now; you won't know me. But Tommy,
what's all this rot about you being a viscount or something?"

"Oh, bilge! Such a bilgy name, too--Clairloch--like a fellah with phlegm
in his throat, wot? Never call me that, though; call me Tommy, and I'll
call you Wiggers, just like jolly old times, wot?"

Harry felt himself warming to this over-mannered, over-dressed,
over-exercised dandy who was such a simple and affectionate creature
beneath his immaculate cutaway, and rather hoped he might see something
of him during his stay in London.

"Do you ever ride these days, Tommy?" he asked presently. "That is,
would you ride with me some day, if I can scratch up an animal?"

"Oh, rather. Every morning, before brekker. Only I'll mount you. Lots of
bosses, all eating their silly heads off. Oh, rot!" he went on, as Harry
demurred; "rot, Wiggers, of course I shall mount you. No trouble 't all.
Pleasure. You come to England, I mount you. I go to America, you mount
me. Turn about, you know."

"I'm afraid not, as we haven't got any saddle horses at present,"
answered Harry. "You can drive with Aunt Selina in the victoria, though,
if you like," he added, smiling at the thought.

"Wot? Wot's that? Delighted, I'm shaw," said Tommy, vaguely scenting an
invitation. "Oh, I say, Wiggers, speaking of aunts, wotever became of
that jolly cousin of yaws? Carson gell--oldest--sister married Ned
Twombly--you know." (For Jane had fulfilled her mission in life by
marrying the heir to a thoroughly satisfactory peerage.)

"She's not my cousin," said Harry, "but she's still living in America,
keeping house for my aunt--the one I mentioned just now--and doing lots
of other things. Settlement work, and such. She and my aunt are thick as
thieves."

"I say, how rum. Fancy, gell like that--good looks, and all
that--trotting off to do slum work in a foreign country. Wot's the
matter with London? Lots of slums here. Can't und'stand it, 't all.
Never could und'stand it. Rum."

"Oh, no one ever understands Beatrice," said Harry. "Her friends have
given up trying. Well, Tommy, I think I won't go into Truefitt's with
you. See you to-morrow morning?"

"Righto--Achilles statue--seven-thirty sharp."

"Righto," answered Harry, and laughed to think how well he said it.

That was the beginning of a long month of gaiety for Harry, a month of
theaters and operas, of morning rides in the Row, of endless chains of
introductions, of showering invitations, of balls, dinners, parties of
all kinds, of lazy week-ends in the Surrey hills or beside the Thames,
of sitting, on one occasion at least, enthroned at Aunt Miriam's right
hand and gazing down a long table of people who were not only all asked
there to meet him but had actually jumped at the invitation; of tasting,
in short, the first fruits of success among the most congenial possible
surroundings.

And as his relish outlasted the season he saw no reason for not
accepting an invitation to a yachting party over Cowes week and another
to one of Tommy's ancestral seats in Rosshire over the twelfth; the more
so as Uncle Giles and Aunt Miriam decamped for Marienbad early in
August. So he became in turn one of the white-flanneled army of
pleasure-seekers of the south and one of the brown-tweeded cohorts of
the north. His month in Tommydom ran into five, into six, into seven
weeks almost before he knew it; it threatened shortly to become two
months. And then, instantaneously, the revulsion seized him, even as it
had seized him in June at Manresa.

It happened one morning when the whole party were in the butts. Harry
was ordinarily a tolerable shot, but to-day he shot execrably. After he
had missed every bird in the first drive he cursed softly and broke his
shooting-stick; after he had missed every bird in the second he silently
handed his gun to his loader and walked down to his host, who had the
next butt to his.

"Good-by, Tommy," he said, holding out his hand. "I'm going."

"Oh, don't do that," said Tommy. "Birds flying rotten high to-day."

"It's not that. I'm going home."

"Righto. See you at tea time, then."

"No, you won't see me again. I'm going to catch the three-eighteen for
Glasgow, if I can make it. Sail from Liverpool Saturday."

Tommy's face, like his mind, became a blank, but he lived up to the
traditions of his race and class. "Well, so long, old thing," he said,
shaking Harry's hand. "Call on me if I can ever be any use. You'll find
the motor down at the crossroads, and do look alive and get off before
the next drive, there's a dear, or birds won't fly within a mile of the
first butt."

Harry reached Liverpool next day and succeeded in getting a berth on a
steamer sailing the day after. He landed in New York late one afternoon
and took a night train for Bar Harbor, arriving there next morning. He
telegraphed ahead the hour of his arrival, and James and Beatrice met
him at the dock. They both seemed glad to see him, and he supposed he
was glad to see them, but he found it strangely difficult to carry on
conversation with them as they all drove up to the house together.

Aunt Selina kissed Harry affectionately and wholly refrained, he could
not help noticing, from anything like knowing smiles or sly little
asides. Aunt Selina could always be depended on.

The Gilsons were New Haven people whom Harry had always known, though
never very well. He rather liked Mrs. Gilson, who was a plump, chirpy,
festive little person, but as he drove over the two miles that lay
between her house and Aunt Selina's he prayed with all his might that
both she and her husband might be from home that afternoon. Half his
prayer was granted, but not the most important half. Mr. Gilson was
away, but Mrs. Gilson, not content with being merely in, came bounding
to the door to meet him and was whirling him down a broad green lawn to
the tennis court before he knew which end he was standing on.

"I do so want you to meet my cousin Dorothy Fitzgerald," she said. "Such
a sweet girl, and it's so hard to get hold of men in Bar Harbor--you've
no idea! She plays such a good game of tennis. I'm so glad to see you've
got tennis shoes on--we were just trying to get up a four when you came.
And how was your trip--do tell me all about it! Spain? Oh, I've always
longed so to go to Spain! Young Mrs. Dimmock is here too--you know her?
And a Mr. McLean--I'll introduce you. Portugal, too? Oh, how delightful;
I do so want to hear all about Portugal. We've just got a new tennis
net--I do hope it will work properly...."

She buzzed pleasantly along by his side, neither asking nor requiring
attention. Harry's glance wandered back to the house; he caught a
glimpse of two little figures bent over a table on a verandah; Madge and
that confounded child, of course.

"Where is your little girl?" he asked.

"Oh, Lily--she's having her French lesson, I suppose. We find it works
better that way, to leave the morning free for golf and bathing and use
this first stupid part of the afternoon for lessons. She's doing so
well, too, with dear Madge Elliston...."

"I want to see Lily before I go," said Harry firmly; "I don't think I
have ever made her acquaintance. Madge Elliston, too," he added, trying
to make this seem like a polite afterthought.

"Oh, yes, indeed; I'll tell them both to come down to the court after
the lesson," replied his hostess.

By this time they were at the tennis court and introductions flew fast.
Tennis ensued immediately and continued, quietly but absorbingly,
through set after set till the afternoon was well-nigh gone. Presently
they stopped playing and sat about sipping soft drinks, it seemed, for
hours, and still Madge did not show up. At length he found himself being
dragged into a single with Miss Fitzgerald. He played violently and
nobly for a time, but when at last Madge with her small charge joined
the group at the side of the court it was more than flesh or blood could
stand. He left Miss Fitzgerald to serve into the backstop and walked
across the court to where Madge stood.

"How do you do?" he said, holding out his perspiring hand.

"How do you do?" she answered, politely shaking it. It was the flattest
meeting imaginable; nothing could have been more unlike the vision he
had formed of it.

Lily was introduced and he stood making commonplace remarks to both of
them until he became aware that he had been rude to Miss Fitzgerald. He
went off to make his apologies to her, and found her willing to receive
them and also to discontinue their game. But if he hoped that general
conversation would give him a chance for a private word with Madge he
was bound to be disappointed. Mrs. Gilson had other plans.

"Oh, Mr. Wimbourne, we're all going off on a picnic and we do so want
you to join us! You will, won't you? Mrs. Dimmock knows such a sweet
place on the Somesville road, and we're going to start right away. I'm
not at all sure there's enough to eat, but that doesn't matter on a
picnic, does it? Especially an evening picnic, when no one can see just
how little there is! I do think it's so nice to get up things just on
the spur of the moment like this, don't you? So much nicer than planning
it all out ahead and then having it rain. Let's see, two, four, six--we
shall all be able to pile in somehow...."

"But I'm afraid I shall have to change," objected Harry. "I don't quite
see how I can manage."

"We shall see the moon rise over McFarland," observed young Mrs. Dimmock
in a rapt manner, as though that immediately solved the problem.

Harry was at first determined not to go on any account; then he gathered
that Madge was to be included in the expedition, and straightway became
amenable. A picnic, an evening picnic, would surely give him the best
possible opportunity....

The plan as at last perfected was that Harry should be driven home where
he would change and pick up James and Beatrice, if possible, and with
them drive out in the Wimbournes' buckboard to the hallowed spot on the
Somesville road in plenty of time to see the moon rise over McFarland.
This was substantially what occurred, except that Beatrice elected to
remain at home with Aunt Selina. James and Harry took the buckboard and
drove alone to the meeting place. They found the others already there
and busy preparing supper. A fire crackled pleasantly; the smell of
frying bacon was in the air. Harry, refreshed by a bath and the prospect
of presently taking Madge off into some shadowy thicket, was in higher
spirits than he had been all day. He bustled and chattered about with
Mrs. Gilson and Mrs. Dimmock and joined heartily with them in lamenting
that the clouds were going to cheat them of the much-advertised
moonrise. He engaged in spirited toasting races with Miss Fitzgerald and
sardine-opening contests with members of the strong-wristed sex. He vied
with Mrs. Gilson herself in imparting a festive air to the occasion.

Then suddenly he realized that Madge was not there. He had been vaguely
aware of something lacking even before he overheard something about
"headache" and "poor little Lily," from which it became clear to him
that Madge's professional duties had again dealt him a felling blow. He
made some excuse about gathering firewood and darted off in a bee-line
to the place where the horses were tethered.

He caught sight of James on the way and dragged him out of the others'
hearing.

"James!" he whispered hoarsely, "you'll have to get home as you can. I'm
going to take the buckboard--now--right off! Something very
pressing--tell you about it later. Say I've got a stomach ache or
something."

He jumped into the buckboard and started off at a fast clip. The night
air rushing by him fanned his fevered senses and before the village was
reached he was calm and deliberate. He drove straight to the Gilsons'
house, tied his horse at the hitching-post, rang the front doorbell and
asked for Miss Elliston.

He allowed her to come all the way down the stairs before he said
anything. Half curious, half amused she watched him as he stood waiting
for her.

"Nothing the matter with that kid?" he inquired at last.

She shook her head.

"Come with me then."

Without a word he turned and walked off through a French window which he
held open for her. As she passed him she glanced at his set face and
gave a slight choking sound. He supposed he was rather amusing. No
matter, though; let her laugh if she wanted. He led her across the lawn
to the tennis court where they had met this afternoon and beyond it,
until at last they reached a small boathouse with a dock beside it. To
this was moored a canoe. He had seen that canoe this afternoon and it
had recurred to him on his drive. He stooped and unfastened the painter
and then held out his hand.

"Get in there," he commanded.

She hesitated. "It's not safe, really--"

"Get in," he repeated almost roughly.

She settled herself in the bow and he took his place at the other end.
With a few vigorous strokes of the paddle he sent the canoe skimming out
over the dark, mysterious water. The night was close and heavy and gave
the impression of being warm; it was in fact as warm as a Bar Harbor
night at the end of August can respectably be. The sky was thickly
overcast, but the moon which had so shamelessly failed to keep the
evening's engagements shed a dim radiance through the clouds, as though
generously lending them credit for having shut in a little daylight
after the normal time for its departure. Not a breeze stirred; the
surface of the water was still, though not with the glassy stillness of
an inland lake. Low, oily swells moved shudderingly about; when they
reached the shore they broke, not with the splashy cheerfulness of fair
weather ripples, but gurgling and sighing among the rocks, obviously
yearning for the days when they would have a chance to show what they
really could do in the breaking business. The whole effect was at once
infinitely calm and infinitely suggestive.

Neither of the occupants of the canoe spoke. Harry paddled firmly along
and Madge watched him with a sort of fascination. At length her eyes
became accustomed to the light and she was able to distinguish the grim,
unchanging expression of his features and his eyes gazing neither at her
nor away from her but simply through her. His face, together with the
deathly calm of the night, worked a strange influence over her; it
became more and more acute; she felt she must either scream or die of
laughing....

"Well, Harry?"

"Well, Madge?"

His answer seemed less barren as she thought it over; there had been
just enough emphasis on the last word to put the next step up to her.
The moment had come. She drew a deep breath.

"The answer," she said, "is in the affirmative."

The next thing Madge was aware of was Harry paddling with all his might
for the shore.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Going to get out of this confounded thing," he replied.

When they reached the dock he got out, helped her out and tied the canoe
with great care. Then he gathered her to him and kissed her several
times with great firmness and precision.

"You really are quite a nice young woman," he remarked; "even if you did
propose to me."

"Harold Wimbourne! I never!"

"You said, 'Well, Harry.' I should like to know what that is if it isn't
a proposal."

They turned and started up the steps toward the house. Madge seemed to
require a good deal of helping up those steps. When they reached the top
she swung toward him with a laugh.

"What is it now?" he asked.

"Nothing ... only that it should have happened in a canoe. You, of all
people!"

They walked slowly across the tennis court and sat down in one of the
chairs scattered along its western side. Here they remained for a long
time in conversation typical of people in their position, punctuated by
long and interesting silences.

"Suppose you tell me all about it," suggested Harry.

"Well, now that it's all done with, I suppose I was merely trying to be
on the safe side, all along. I know, at least, that I had rather a
miserable time after you left. All the spring. Then I came up here and
it seemed to get worse, somehow. It was early in June, and everything
was very strange and desolate and cold, and I cried through the entire
first night, without stopping a moment!"

"Yes," said Harry thoughtfully, "I should think you might have gathered
from that that all was not quite as it should be."

"Yes. Well, next morning I decided I couldn't let that sort of thing go
on. So I took hold of myself and determined never to discuss the subject
with myself, at all. And I really succeeded pretty well, considering.
Whenever the idea of you occurred to me in spite of myself, I
immediately went and did something else very hard. I've been a perfect
angel in the house ever since then, and I don't mind saying it was
rather brave of me!"

"You really knew then, months ago? Beyond all doubt or question?"

"I shouldn't wonder."

"Then why in the world didn't you telegraph me?"

"As if I would!" exclaimed Miss Elliston with an indignant sniff.

"That was the arrangement, you know."

"Oh, good gracious, hear the man! What a coarse, masculine mind you
have, my ownest! You call yourself an interpreter of human character,
but what do you really know of the maiden of bashful twenty-six?
Nothing!"

"Well, well, my dear," said Harry easily, "have it your own way. I
daresay it all turned out much better so. I was able to do up the
Spanish churches thoroughly, and I had a lovely time in England. Just
fancy, of all the hundreds of people I met there I can't think of a
single one, from beginning to end, who said I had a coarse masculine
mind."

"Brute," murmured Miss Elliston, apparently to Harry's back collar
button.

       *       *       *       *       *

"I suppose," she observed, jumping up a little later, "that you were
really right in the beginning. That first evening, you know."

"Oh, I'm quite sure of it. How?"

"When you said I couldn't talk that way to you without being in love
with you. I expect I really was, though the time hadn't come for
admitting it, even to myself. In fact, I was so passionately in love
with you that I couldn't bear to talk about it or even think about it,
for fear of some mistake. If I kept it all to myself, you see, no harm
could ever have been done."

"How sane," murmured Harry. "How incontrovertibly logical."

"Yes. You see," explained Miss Elliston primly, "no girl--no really nice
girl, that is, can ever bring herself to face the question of whether
she is in love with a man until he has declared himself."

"Consequently, it's every girl's--every nice girl's--business to bring
him to the point as soon as possible. Any one could see that."

"And for that very reason she must keep him off the business just as
long as she can. When you realize that, you see exactly why I acted as I
did that night and why I worked like a Trojan to keep you from
proposing. I failed, of course, at last--I hadn't had much experience.
I've improved since...." She wriggled uncomfortably. "You acted rather
beautifully that night, I will say for you. You made it almost easy."

"Hm. You seemed perfectly sure that night, though, that you were very
far from being in love with me. You even offered to marry me, as I
remember it, as an act of pure friendship. I don't see quite why you
couldn't respectably admit that you were in love with me then, since in
spite of your best efforts I had broken through to the point. How about
that?"

"It was all too sudden, silly. I couldn't bring myself round to that
point of view in a minute. I had to have time. Oh, my dear young man,"
she continued, resuming her primmest manner, "how little, how
singularly little do you know of that beautiful mystery, a woman's
heart."

"A woman's what?"

"Heart."

"Oh, yes, to be sure. As I understand it, the only mystery is whether it
exists or not."

"How can you say that?" cried Madge with sudden passion, grasping at him
almost roughly.

"I didn't," replied Harry.

"No, dear, excuse me, of course you didn't. Only I have to make a fool
of myself every now and then...."

       *       *       *       *       *

"But, oh, my dearest," she whispered presently with another change of
mood, "if you knew what a time I've been through, really, since you've
been gone! If you knew how I've lain awake at night fearing that it
wouldn't turn out all right, that something would happen, that I'd lose
you after all! I've scanned the lists of arrivals and departures in the
papers; I've listened till I thought my ears would crack when other
people talked about you. The very sound of your name was enough to make
me weep with delight, like that frump of a girl in the poem, when you
gave her a smile.... You see, I haven't been brave _all_ the time. There
were moments.... Do you know that backbone feeling?"

"I think so," said Harry. "You mean the one that starts very suddenly at
the back of your neck and shoots all the way down?"

"Yes, and at the same time you feel as if your stomach and lungs had
changed places, though that's not so important. I don't see why people
talk about loving with their hearts; the real feeling is always in the
spine. Well, no amount of bravery could keep that from taking me by
surprise sometimes, and even when I was brave it would often leave me
with a suspicion that I had been very silly and weak to trust to luck to
bring everything to a happy ending. But I never could bring myself to
send word to you. I was determined to give you every chance of changing
your mind; I knew you would come back at last, if you cared enough....
And if anything had happened, or if you had decided not to come
back--well, I always had something to fall back on. The memory of that
one evening, and the thought that I had been given the chance of loving
you and had lived up to my love to the best of my ability...."

"That doesn't seem very much now, does it?" suggested Harry.

"No. Oh, to think how it's come out--beyond all my wildest dreams!... I
never thought it would be quite as nice as this, did you?"

"Never. The truth has really done itself proud, for once."

"The truth--fancy, this is the truth! This!... Oh, nonsense, it can't
be! We aren't _really_ here, you know. This is simply an unusually vivid
subconscious affair--you know--the kind that generally follows one of
the backbone attacks. It will pass off presently. It will, you know,
even if it is what we call reality.... For the life of me, I don't
really know whether it is or not!--Harry, did it ever occur to you that
people are always marveling that dreams are so like life without ever
considering the converse--that life is really very much like a dream?"

"A few have--a very few. A great play has been written round that very
thing--_La Vida Es Sueno_--life is a dream. We'll read it together
sometime.--Heavens, I never realized what it really meant till now! Do
you know what this seems like to me? It seems like the kind of scene I
have always wanted to write but never quite dared--simply letting myself
go, without bothering about action or probability or motivation but just
laying it on with a trowel, as thick as I could. All that, transmuted
into terms of reality--or what we call reality! Heavens, it makes me
dizzy!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"See here, Harold Wimbourne," said Madge, suddenly jumping up again; "it
seems to me you've been talking a great deal about love and very little
about marriage. What I want to know is, when are you going to marry me?"

"Oh, the tiresome woman! Well, when should you say?"

"To-morrow morning, preferably. If that won't do, about next Tuesday.
No, of course I've got heaps of things to do first. How about the middle
of October?"

"I was just thinking," said Harry seriously. "You see, my dear, I'm at
present working on a play. Technically speaking. Only, owing to the
vaporous scruples of a certain young person I haven't been able to put
in any work on it for several months. Bachmann has been very decent. He
has practically promised to put it on in January, if it's any good at
all. That means having it ready before Christmas, and I shall have to
work like the very devil to do that. I work so confoundedly slowly, you
see. Then there'll be all the bother of rehearsals, lasting up to the
first night, which I suppose would be about the end of January. I should
like to have up till then clear, but I should think by about the middle
of February--say the fifteenth...."

"Oh, indeed," replied Miss Elliston, "you should say about the
fifteenth, should you? I'm sorry, very sorry indeed, but as it happens I
have another engagement for the fifteenth--several of them. Possibly I
could arrange something for next June, though, or a year from next
January; possibly not. Better let the matter drop, perhaps; sorry to
have disturbed--"

"When will you marry me?" interrupted Harry, doing something that
entirely destroyed the dignity of Miss Elliston's pose. "Next
week--to-morrow--to-night? I daresay we could wake up a parson...."

"Sorry, dear, but I've arranged to be married on the fifteenth of
February, and no other date will do. You're hurting my left
shoulder-blade cruelly, but I suppose it's all right. That's better....
Oh, Harry, I do want you to work like the very devil on this play! Don't
think about marriage, or me, or anything that will hinder you. Because,
dearest, I have a feeling that it's going to be rather a good one. A
perfect rip-snorter, to descend to the vulgar parlance."

"Yes," said Harry, "I have a feeling that it is, too."

       *       *       *       *       *

The sound of carriage wheels crunching along the gravel drive floated
down and brought them back with a start to the consideration of
actualities. They both sat silently wondering for a moment.

"What about Mrs. Gilson?" suggested Madge.

"Might as well," replied Harry.

"All right. You'll have to do it, though."

"Very well, then. Come along."

They rose and stood for a moment among the scattered chairs, both
thinking of their absurd meeting on that spot this very afternoon, and
then turned and started slowly up toward the house. When they had nearly
reached the verandah steps Harry stopped and turned toward Madge.

"Well, the whole world is changed for us two, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Nothing will ever be quite the same again, but always better, somehow.
Even indifferent things. And nothing can ever spoil this one evening?"

"Nothing?"

"Not all the powers of heaven or earth or hell? We have a sort of
blanket insurance against the whole universe?"

"Exactly," said Madge. "We're future-proof."

"That's it, future-proof. I'll wait here on the porch. No Fitzgerald,
mind."

He did not have to wait long. Madge found Mrs. Gilson in the hall, as it
happened, with Miss Fitzgerald receding bedward up the stairs and far
too tired to pay any attention to Madge's gentle "Mr. Wimbourne is here
and would like to see you, Mrs. Gilson." So the good lady was led out
into the dark porch and as she stood blinking in the shaft of light
falling out through the doorway Harry appeared in the blackness and
began speaking.

"I do hope you'll excuse my being so rude and leaving your party, Mrs.
Gilson. There was a real reason for it. You see Madge and I"--taking her
hand--"have come to an understanding. We're engaged."

Mrs. Gilson stood blinking harder than ever for one bewildered moment,
and then the floodgates of speech were opened.

"Oh, my _dear_, how _wonderful_! Madge, my dearest Madge, let me kiss
you! Whoever could have _dreamed_--Harry--you don't mind my calling you
Harry, do you?--you must let me kiss you too! It's all so wonderful, and
so unexpected, and I can't help thinking that if your dear mother--oh,
Madge, you double-dyed creature, how long has this been going on and I
never knew a thing? We all thought--your brother was so tactful and gave
us to understand that you had acute indigestion or something, left over
from the voyage, and we all quite understood, though I did think there
might be something afoot when I saw your buckboard at the door. And I
haven't heard a thing about Spain and Portugal, not a _thing_, though
goodness knows there's no time to think of that now and you must let me
give a dinner for you both at the earliest possible moment. When is it
to be announced? I do hope before Labor Day because there's never a man
to be had on the island after that...."

And so on. At last Harry made the lateness of the hour an excuse for
breaking away and went round to the front door to get his buckboard.
Madge had to go with him, though she had no particular interest in the
buckboard.

"She's a good woman," said Harry as he fumbled with the halter.
"Though--whoa there, you silly beast; you're liable to choke to death if
you do that."

"The rein's caught over the shaft," explained Madge. "It makes her
uncomfortable. Though what, dear?"

"That's the trace, and it's him, anyway. Oh, nothing. Only I never was
so awfully keen on slobbering."

"She's a dear, really. If you knew what an angel she's been to me all
summer! What makes her look round in that wild-eyed way?"

From Harry's answer, "He's tired, that's all," we may assume that this
question referred to the horse, though her next remark went on without
intermission: "I don't want you to go away to-night thinking--"

"I like slobbering," asserted Harry. "Always did.... Now if that's all,
dear, perhaps I'd better make tracks." The last ceremonies of parting
had been performed and he was in the buckboard.

"Just a moment, while I kiss your horse's nose. It doesn't do to neglect
these little formalities.... I'm glad you like slobbering, dear, because
your horse has done it all over my shoulder ... no, don't get out. It
had to go in the wash anyway. He's a sweet horse; what is his name?"

"Dick, I think. Oh, no--Kruger. Yes, he's that old."

"Because, dear," went on Madge, with her hand on the front wheel;
"there's one thing one mustn't forget. There was--Mr. Gilson, you know."

"Good Lord," said Harry, struck by the thought.

"Yes, and what's more, there still is!"

"A true model for us?"

"Yes. After all, we have no monopoly, you know."

"Good Lord, think of it! Millions of others!"

"It gives one a certain faith in the human race, doesn't it?"

"For Heaven's sake, Madge, don't be ultimate any more to-night! You make
me dizzy--how do you suppose I'm going to drive between those white
stones? Do you want me to be in love with the whole world?" And Madge's
reply "Yes, dear, just that," was drowned in the clatter of his wheels.




CHAPTER VII

A VERY SHORT CHAPTER, IN ONE SENSE


The next day it rained. Harry shut himself up in his room and wrote
violently all the morning, less in the hope of accomplishing valuable
work than in the desire to keep his mind off the one absorbing topic. It
proved to be of little use. At lunch time he threw all that he had
written into the fireplace and resolved to tell the immediate members of
his family.

It worked out very well. After lunch he arranged with James to take a
walk in the rain. Beatrice, it appeared, would be occupied at a bridge
party all the afternoon. There remained Aunt Selina--the easiest, by all
odds. Just before starting out with James he walked into the living
room, rustling in his raincoat, and found her alone by the fire.

"It's all right, Aunt Selina." He felt himself grinning like a monkey,
but couldn't seem to stop himself.

But Aunt Selina herself could do nothing but laugh. Presently she rose
from her seat and embraced her nephew.

"That top button has come off," she said. "I'm afraid you'll get your
neck wet." Then they looked at each other and laughed again. There was
really nothing more to be said.

James' feet sounded on the stairs above.

"I shan't be home for dinner," said Harry, starting toward the door.
"And you might tell Beatrice," he added.

He walked with James for three hours or more. It may have been the
calming influence of exercise or it may have been the comforting effect
that James' society generally had on him; at any rate, when the time
came he found himself able to say what he had to without any of the
embarrassment he had expected.

He chose the moment when they had all but reached the crossroad that
would take him off to the Gilsons'.

"James," he said, breaking a long silence, "I've got something rather
important to tell you. I'm engaged."

"To whom?"

"Madge Elliston."

"When?"

"Last night. That was it." They now stood facing each other, at the
crossroads. James did not speak for a moment, and Harry scanned his face
through the dusk. Its expression was one of bewilderment, Harry thought.
Strange, that James should be more embarrassed than he! But that was the
way it went.

"Harry! See here, Harry--"

"Yes, James!"

"I ..." He stopped and then slowly raised his hand. "I congratulate
you."

"Thanks, awfully. It does sort of take one's breath away, doesn't it?...
I'm going there now. Why don't you come too? No? Well, I may be rather
late, so leave the door on the latch. I'll walk home." And he walked off
down the crossroad.

       *       *       *       *       *

James knew, perfectly well, the moment Harry said he had something to
tell him. His subsequent questions were prompted more by a desire to
make the situation between them legally clear, as it were, than by real
need of information. His first dominant impulse was to explain the
situation to Harry and show him, frankly and convincingly, the utter
impossibility of his engagement. The very words formed themselves in his
mind:--"See here, Harry, you can't possibly marry Madge Elliston,
because I'm in love with her myself--have been for years, before you
ever thought of her!" He drew a long breath and actually started in on
his speech. But the words would not come. As he looked at his brother
standing happy and ignorant before him he realized in an instant that,
come what might, he would never be able to utter those words.

There was nothing left to do but mumble his congratulations. As he
lifted his hand to that of his brother the thought occurred to him that
he might easily raise it higher and put Harry out of his way, once and
for all. He knew that he could, with his bare hands, do him to death on
the spot; knee on chest, fingers on throat--he knew the place. That was
perhaps preferable to the other; kinder, certainly, but equally
impossible. It was not even a temptation.

As he walked off he reflected that he had just come through one of the
great crises of his whole life, and yet how commonplace, how utterly
flat had been its outward guise! He had always vaguely wondered how
people acted at such times; now the chance had come to him and he had
shown less feeling than he would have at missing a trolley car. In him,
at this present moment, were surging some of the most terrific passions
that ever swayed human beings--love, jealousy, disappointment, hate of
the order of things--and he could not find a physical vent for one of
them! Not only that, but he never would be able to; he saw that clearly
enough; people of his time and class and type never could. This was what
civilization had brought men to! What was the use? What was the meaning
of all civilization, all progress, all human development? Here he was,
as perfect a physical specimen as his age produced, unable to do more
than grit his teeth in the face of the most intolerable emotions known
to mankind, under pain of suffering a debasement even more intolerable.
Some people did give way to their passions, but that was only because
they were less able to think clearly than he. They always regretted it
in the end; they always suffered more that way; his knowledge of the
world had taught him nothing if it had not taught him that.

Just in order to prove to himself how ineffectual physical expression of
his mental state was he tore a rail off the top of a nearby fence--he
had wandered far out into the country again--and, raising it above his
shoulders, brought it down with all his strength upon a rock. The rail
happened to be a strong one and did not break, and the force of the blow
made his hands smart. He took a certain fierce joy in the pain and
repeated the blow two or three times, but long before his body tired
with the exertion his soul sickened of the business. He threw the rail
lightly over the fence and wandered hopelessly on into the hills.

After the first shock of surprise and disappointment had passed his
feelings boiled down to a slow scorching hate of destiny. The thought of
God occurred to him, among other things, and he laughed. Why did people
ever take it into their heads to deny the existence of God? Of course
there was a God; nothing but a divine will could possibly have arranged
that he should be thwarted in an honest love--not merely once, mind you,
but twice--by the one person in the world whom he could not oppose. Such
things were beyond the realm of chance or reason. During one part of his
wanderings he laughed aloud, several separate times, at the monumental
humor of it all. A man such as he was, in the full pride of his youth
and strength, strong in body, strong in mind, strong in will and
character, twitched hither and yon by the lightest whimsical breath of
an all-powerful divinity--it was supremely funny, in its coarse,
horrible way.

"Oh, yes, it's a good joke, God," he said aloud once or twice; "it's a
damned good joke."

It is significant that he thought very little of Madge now. He
experienced none of the sudden sharp twinges of memory that he had known
on a former occasion. At that time, as he now realized, only one side of
his nature had been stirred, and that a rather silly, unimportant side.
Now his whole being, or at least all that was best and strongest in his
being, was affected. He had loved Beatrice only with his eyes and his
imagination. He loved Madge with the full strength of his heart and soul
and mind. And heart, soul and mind being cheated of their right, united
in an alliance of hate and revenge against the fate that had cheated
them.

       *       *       *       *       *

He did not return to the house for dinner, and Aunt Selina supposed he
had gone with Harry to the Gilsons'. He walked most of the night and
when at last he reached home he found the door locked. Harry, of course,
not finding him downstairs, had thought he had gone to bed and had
locked everything. So he lay down in a cot hammock to await the coming
of a hopeless day.

He got some sleep; he did not see that dawn, after all. Awakened shortly
after seven by a housemaid opening doors and windows, he slipped
unobserved up to his room, undressed and took a cold bath. He supposed
nothing would ever keep him from taking a cold bath before breakfast;
nothing, that is, except lack of cold water. Strange, that cold water
could effect what love, jealousy and company could not. He glanced out
of the window. The weather had changed during the night and the day was
clear and windy and snapping, a true forerunner of autumn. The sun and
wind between them were whipping the sea into all sorts of shades of blue
and purple, rimming it with a line of white along the blue coast of
Maine over to the left. There was cold water enough for any one, enough
to drown all the wretched souls ever born into a world of pain. How
strange it was to think of how many unwilling souls that sea drowned
every year, and yet had not taken him, who was so eminently willing! He
could not deliberately seek death for himself, but he would be delighted
to die by accident. No such luck, though; the fate, God, destiny,
whatever you chose to call it, that had brought him twice into the same
corner of terrestrial hell would see to that....

As he was rubbing himself dry his eye fell on his reflection in a
full-length mirror and almost involuntarily stopped there. He still had
the pure Greek build of his college days, he noticed; the legs, the
loins, the chest, the arms, the shoulders all showed the perfect
combination of strength and freedom. He had not even the faults of
over-development; his neck was not thick like a prize-fighter's nor did
his calves bulge like those of many great athletes. And his head matched
the rest of him, within and without. And all this perfection was brought
to naught by the vagrant whim of a cynical power! A new wave of hate and
rebellion, stronger than any he had yet felt, swept over him. Moved by a
sudden impulse he threw aside his towel and advanced a step or two
toward the mirror, raising his hands after the manner of a
libation-pourer of old.

"I swear to you," he muttered between clenched teeth to the reflection
that faced him; "I swear to you that nothing in me shall ever rest until
I have got even with the Thing, god, devil or blind chance, that has
brought me to this pass. It may come early or it may come late, but
somehow, some day! I swear it."

There was something eminently satisfying in the juxtaposition of his
nakedness of body to the stark intensity of his passion and the
elemental fervor of his agnosticism. For James was now a thorough
agnostic; turned into one overnight from a "good" Episcopalian--he had
been confirmed way back in his school days--he realized his position
and fairly reveled in the hopelessness and magnificence and bravery of
it all. For it takes considerable bravery to become an agnostic,
especially when you have a simple religious nature. James was in a state
where the thought of being eternally damned gave him nothing but a
savage joy. It was all very wicked, of course, but strong natures have a
way of turning wicked when it becomes impossible for them to be good.
There are some things that not even a _schoene Seele_ can put up with.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having thus taken pact with himself he experienced a sense of relief and
became almost cheerful. He had breakfast alone with Harry--both ladies
customarily preferring to take that intimate meal in their own
rooms--and talked with him quite normally about various matters, chiefly
golf. He became almost garrulous in explaining his theories concerning
the proper use of the niblick. Harry was going to play golf that morning
with Madge. He looked extremely fresh and attractive in his suit of
tweed knickers; James did not blame Madge in the least for falling in
love with his brother rather than him. Nor was he in the least inclined
to find fault with Harry for falling in love with Madge. Only ... but
what was the use in going over all that again?

He walked briskly down to the town after breakfast and engaged a berth
on the New York express for that night. Living in immediate propinquity
to the happy lovers would of course be intolerable. Then he walked back
to the house. It was rather a long walk; the house stood on a height at
some distance back of the town. A feeling of lassitude overcame him
before he reached home; the exertions of last night were beginning to
tell on him. Oh, the horror of last night! The memory of it was almost
more oppressive than the dreadful thing itself.

He supposed he ought to go up and begin to pack, but he did not feel
like it. Instead he wandered out on the verandah to lie in the sun and
watch the sea for a while. He came at last to a hexagonal tower-like
extension of the verandah built over an abutment of rock falling sharply
away on all sides except that toward the house. There was a drop of
perhaps twenty-five feet from the broad railing of this extension to the
ground below. Harry, who knew the house from his early days, had dubbed
its peak-roofed excrescence the chamber up a tower to the east that
Elaine guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot in; it was sometimes more
briefly referred to as Elaine. It was a pleasant place to sit, but very
windy on a day like this, and James was rather surprised to discover
Beatrice sitting in one angle of the railing gazing silently out over
the sea.

"Hullo," he said, listlessly sinking into a chair. "You've heard, I
suppose?"

"Yes, I've heard."

"Fine, isn't it?"

"Oh, splendid."

"I'm going to New York to-night," said James after a moment.

"I'm going home next month," said Beatrice.

Neither spoke for a while and then it began to dawn on them both that
those two carelessly spoken sentences had much more to them than their
face-value. They both had the uneasy sensation of being forced into a
"situation."

"What for?" asked James at last.

"For good."

"But why?" he persisted, knowing perfectly well why, at bottom.

"You ought not to have to ask that," she replied. "You, of all
people.--Why are you going away to-night?" she added, turning toward him
with sudden passion.

James' first impulse was to make a sharp reply, his second was to get up
and walk away, and then his glance fell upon her face.... Oh, was there
no end to mortal misery?

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," he said wretchedly; "I'm sorry--I didn't mean to
hurt you."

"Oh, it's all right," she answered in his own tone of voice. Then for a
long time neither of them moved nor spoke.

The situation was on them now in full force, and it was a sufficiently
terrific one, for actual life; one which under other circumstances they
would both have made every effort to break up. Yet neither of them
thought of struggling against it now--there was so much else to struggle
against. Great misfortunes inoculate people to small embarrassments; no
one in the throes of angina pectoris has much time to bother about a
cold in the head. Then, as their silence wore on, they began to be
conscious of a certain sense of companionship.

"I suppose it's pretty bad?" ventured James at last, on a note of
tentative understanding.

"I suppose it is...."

An idea occurred to James. "At least you're better off than I am,
though. You can try to do something about it. You see how my hands are
tied. You can fight against it, if you want. That's something."

Beatrice gazed immovably out over the sea. "You can't fight against
destiny," she said at last.

James pricked up his ears; his whole being became suddenly alert.
Couldn't one? Had he not dedicated his whole future to that very thing?
"I'm not so sure of that," he answered slowly. "Have you ever tried?"

"I've tried for seven years."

Well, that was something. He became curious; seven years' experience in
the art of destiny-fighting would surely contain knowledge that would be
valuable to a novice like himself. And in the manner of getting this he
became almost diabolically clever. Guessing that all direct inquiries in
the matter would merely flatten themselves against the stone wall of her
reticence he determined to approach her through the avenue of her pride.

"I find it hard to believe that," he remarked; "I haven't seen the
slightest indication of such a thing."

"No, of course not. How should you? I haven't advertised it, like a
prize fight!"

"I don't mean that; I mean that I haven't ever discovered anything in
your character to make me believe you were--that sort of person. That
sort of thing takes more than strength of character and intellect; it
takes passion, capacity for feeling. And I shouldn't have said there was
much of that in you. You have always seemed to me--well, rather aloof
from such things. Cold, almost--I don't mean in the sense of being
ill-natured, but...."

James was perfectly right; it is a curious trait of human character,
that sensitiveness on the point of capacity for feeling. People who will
sincerely disclaim any pretensions to strength of mind, body or
character will flare into indignant protest when their strength of heart
is assailed. It was so with Beatrice now.

"Cold?" she interrupted with a slight laugh. "Me--cold?... Yes, I
suppose I might seem so. I daresay I appear to be a perfect human
icicle...." She laughed again, and then turned directly toward James.
"See here, James, it's more than likely that we shall never see each
other again after to-day, isn't it?"

"I suppose not, if you intend to go--"

"The first moment I can. Consequently it doesn't matter particularly
what I say to you now or what you think of me afterward. I should just
like to give you an idea of what these years have been to me. It may
amuse you to know that the pursuit of your brother has been the one
guiding passion of my life since I was eighteen. I was in love with him
before he left England and I've wanted him from that time on--wanted him
with all the strength of my soul and body! Wanted him every living
moment of the day and night!... Can you conceive of what that means for
a woman? A woman, who can't speak, can't act, can't make the slightest
advance, can't give the least glimmering of her feeling?--not only
because the world doesn't approve but because her game's all up if the
man gets a suspicion that she's after him.... I suppose I knew it was
hopeless from the start, though I couldn't bring myself to admit it. At
any rate, as soon as the chance came I made up my mind to come over here
and just sit around in his way and wait--the only thing a woman can do
under the circumstances...."

"I never--I didn't realize quite all that," stammered James. "Though I
knew--I guessed about the other.... You mean you deliberately came to
America--"

"With that sole purpose."

"And you--you...." He fairly gasped.

"I wormed my way into a place in your family with that one end in view,
if that's what you mean. And I've remained here with that one end in
view ever since."

"And all your work--the League--"

"I had to do something, in the meanwhile--No, that's not true either;
that was another means to the same end. Intended to be." She smiled with
the same quiet intensity of bitterness that had struck James before.

"But what about you and Aunt Selina? I always thought--"

The smile faded. "Aunt Selina might lie dead at my feet, for all I
should care," she answered with another sudden burst of passion. "Oh,
no, not quite that. I suppose I like her as well as I can _like_ any
one. But that's the way it is, comparatively."

"Yes. I know that feeling," said James meditatively.

"So you see how it is with me. I'm glad, in a way, that it's all up now.
Any end--even the worst--is better than waiting--that hopeless,
desperate waiting. Yet I never could bring myself to give up till I
heard--what I heard yesterday. I've expected it, really, for some time;
I've watched, I've seen. Oh, that horrible watching--waiting--listening!
That's all over, at least...."

She had sunk into a chair near the edge of the verandah and sat with her
elbows on the broad rail, gazing with sightless eyes over the variegated
expanse of the sea. The midday sun fell full upon her unprotected face
and even James at that moment could not help thinking how few
complexions could bear that fierce light as hers did. She was, indeed,
perhaps more beautiful at that moment than he had ever seen her before.
Her expression of quiet hopeless grief was admirably suited to the
high-bred cast of her features; she would have made a beautiful model
for a Zenobia or a classisized type of _pieta_. Beauty is never more
willing to come to us than when we want it least.

It had its effect on James, though he did not realize it. He came over
and sat down on the rail, where he could look directly down at her.

"Beatrice," he said, "I don't mind saying I think it was rather
magnificent of you."

She looked up at him a moment and then out to sea again. "Well, I must
say I don't. I'm not proud of it. If I had been man enough to go my own
way and not let it interfere with my life in the very least, that might
have been magnificent. But this.... It was simply weak. I always knew
there was no hope, you know."

"No, that's not the way to look at it. You devoted your whole life to
that single purpose.... After all, you did as much as it was possible to
do, you know. You went about it in the very best way--you were right
when you said the worst thing you could do was to let him see."

"I'm not so sure. No, I don't know about that. Sometimes I think that if
I had been brave enough simply to go to him and say, 'I love you; here I
am, take me; I'll devote my life to making a good wife for you,' it
would have been much better. But I wasn't brave enough for that."

"No," insisted James; "that wasn't why you didn't do it. You knew Harry.
It might have worked with some men, but not with him. Can't you see him
screwing himself to be polite and saying, 'Thank you very much,
Beatrice, but I don't think I could make you a good enough husband, so
I'm afraid it won't do'?... No, you picked out the best way to get at
him and made that your one purpose in life, and I admire you for it. It
wasn't your fault it didn't succeed; it was just--just the damned,
relentless way of things...."

"What are you going to do now?" he asked after a pause. "After you get
home, I mean?"

"I don't know. Work, I suppose, at something."

"What--slums?"

"Oh, I suppose so.--No, I'd rather do something harder, like
stenography--something with a lot of dull, grinding routine. That's the
best way."

"A stenographer!"

"Or a matron in a home.--Why not? I must do something. I won't live with
Mama, that's flat."

"You think you must go home, do you?"

"You wouldn't expect me to stay here and--?"

"No, but couldn't you find something to do here as well as there?"

"Yes, but why? I suppose I want to go home, things being as they are. If
I've got to live somewhere, I'd rather live among my own people. I
didn't come here because I liked America best...."

"But are you sure you don't like America best now? You can't have lived
here all these years without letting the place have its effect on you,
however little you may have thought about it. Why, your very speech
shows it! And what about your friends--haven't you got as many on this
side as the other? You've practically admitted it.... And do you realize
what construction is sure to be put on your leaving just now...?"

"What are you driving at?" She looked quickly up at him, curious in
spite of herself to discover the trend of his arguments, in themselves
scarcely worth answering. He did not reply for a moment, but stared
gravely back at her, and when he spoke again it was from a different
angle.

"Beatrice, why have you been telling me all these things...?"

He knew what he was going to do now, what he was striving toward with
the whole strength of his newly-forged determination. And if at the back
of his brain there struggled a crowd of lost images--ghosts of ideals
which at this time yesterday had been the unquestioned rulers of his
life--stretching out their tenuous arms to him, giving their last faint
calls for help before taking their last backward plunge into oblivion,
he only went on the faster so as to drown their voices in his own.

"Beatrice, why did you think of confiding in me? Why did you pick out
this particular time? You never have before; you're not the sort of
person that makes confidences. It wasn't because you were going away;
that was no real reason at all.... Beatrice, don't you see? Don't you
see the bond that lies between us two? Don't you see what's going to
happen to us both?"

"No--I don't know what you're talking about. James, don't be absurd!"
She rose to her feet as if to break away, but she stood looking at his
face, fascinated and possibly a little frightened by the onward rush of
his words. James rose too and stood over her.

"Beatrice, we've both had a damned dirty trick played on us, the same
trick at the same time. Are you going to take it lying down--spread
yourself out to receive another blow, or are you going to stand up and
make a fight--assert your independence--prove the existence of your own
soul? I'm not, whatever happens! I'm going to make a fight, and I want
you to make it with me. Beatrice, marry me! Now--to-day--this instant!
Don't you see that's the only thing to do?..."

"No! James, stop! You don't know what you're saying!" She broke away
from him, asserting her strength for the moment against even his
impetuous onrush. "James, you're mad, stark mad! Haven't you lived long
enough to know that you always regret words spoken like that? Try to act
like a sensible human being, if you can't be one!"

That was all very well, but why did she weaken it by adding "I won't
listen to any more such talk," which admitted the possibility that
there might be more such talk very soon? And if she was determined not
to listen, why did she not simply walk away and into the house? James
did not put these questions to himself in this form, but the substance
of their meaning worked its way through his excitement and lent him
courage for an attack from a new quarter. He dropped his impetuosity and
became very quiet and keen.

"You ask me to act like a sensible person; very well, I will. Let's look
at things from a practical point of view. There's no love's young dream
stuff about this thing, at all. We've lost that; it's been cut out of
both our lives, forever. All there is left for us to do is to pick up
the pieces and try to make something of ourselves, as we are. How can we
possibly do that better than by marrying? Don't you see the value of a
comradeship founded on the sympathy there must be between us?"

He stopped for a moment and stood calmly watching her. No need now to
use violence against those despairing voices in the background of his
thoughts; they had been hushed by the strength of a determination no
longer hot with the joy of self-discovery but taking on already
something of the chill irrevocability of age. He watched Beatrice almost
with amusement; he knew so well what futile struggles were going on
within her. He had no more doubt of the outcome now than he had of his
own determination.

"It all sounds very well, James," she answered at last, "but it won't
do. I couldn't do it. Marriage...."

"Well?"

"Marriage is an ideal, you know, as well as--as a contract. I can't--I
won't have one without the other."

"You are very particular. People as unpopular with chance as we are
can't afford to be particular."

"It would be false to--to--oh, I don't know how to put it! To the best
in life."

"Has the best in life been true to you?"

"You are so bitter!"

"Hasn't one the right to be, sometimes? God--fate--what you call
ideals--have their responsibilities, even to us. What claim have all
those things got on us now?"

"I choose to follow them still!"

"Then you are weak--simply weak!--You act as if I were proposing
something actually wicked. It's not wicked at all; it's simply a
practical benefit. Marriage without love might be wicked if there were
any chance left of combining it with love; but now--! It's simply
picking up pieces, making the best of things--straight commonsense...."

She might still have had her way against him, as long as he continued to
base his appeal on commonsense. But he changed his tactics again, this
time as a matter of impulse. He had been slowly walking toward her in
the course of his argument and now stood close by her, talking straight
down into her eyes, till suddenly her mere physical nearness put an end
to speech and thought alike. Something of her old physical attraction
for him, which had been much stronger than in the case of Madge,
returned to him with a force for the moment irresistible. There was
something about her wide eyes, her parted lips, her bosom slightly
heaving with the effort of argument.... He put his hand on her shoulder
and slowly yet irresistibly drew her to him. He bent his head till their
lips touched.

So they stood for neither knew how long. Seconds flew by like years, or
was it years like seconds? Sense of time was as completely lost as in
sleep; indeed, their condition was very much like that of sleep. They
had both become suddenly, acutely tired of life and had found at least
temporary rest and refreshment. Neither of them was bothered by worries
over the inevitable awakening; neither of them even thought of it, yet.

As for Beatrice, she was for the moment bowled over by the discovery
that some one cared for her enough to clasp her to his bosom and kiss
her. What had she wanted all these years, except to be loved? A wave of
mingled self-pity and self-contempt swept over her. She felt suddenly
weak; her knees trembled; what did that matter, though, when James was
there to hold her up? She needed strength above all things, and James
was strong above all things. Tears smarted in her eyes and streamed
unheeded down her cheeks.

"I was so lonely," she whispered at last, raising her welling eyes to
him. "I have been alone so long ... so long...."

"James," she began again after a while, "life is so horrible, isn't
it?"

"It is. Ghastly."

"Oh, it _is_ good to find some one else who thinks so!"

"Yes, I know."

"Anything is good--_anything_--that makes it easier to forget, isn't
it?"

"Yes. And we're going to try to forget together."

Presently the moment came when they had to break apart, and they did it
a little awkwardly, not caring to look at each other very closely. They
sat down on the rail, side by side but not touching, and for some time
remained silently busy regaining old levels and making new adjustments.
There was considerable to adjust, certainly. At last James looked at his
watch and announced that it was nearly lunch time.

"When shall we get married?" he inquired, brusk and businesslike. It may
have been only his tone that Beatrice involuntarily shuddered at. She
told herself it was, and then reviled herself for shuddering. It was
better to be prosaic and practical.

"Oh, as soon as possible.... Now--any time you say."

"Yes, but when? When shall we tell people?"

"Oh, not just yet...." she objected, almost automatically.

"Why not? Why not right now--before the other?"

"You think...?"

"Yes--every moment counts." He meant that the sooner the thing came out
the better were their chances of concealment, and she understood him.
Yes, that was the way to look at things, she reflected; might as well do
it well, if it was to be done at all. She warmed up to his point of view
so quickly that when his next question came she was able to go him one
better.

"And the other--the wedding? In about a fortnight, should you say?"

"Oh, no, not for a month, at least. At the very least. It must be in
England, you see."

"In England?"

"Yes, that's the way it would be...." If we were really in love with
each other, of course she meant. He looked at her with new admiration.

They made a few more arrangements. Their talk was pervaded now with a
sense of efficiency and despatch. If they could not call reasons by
their real names they could call steamships and railroads by theirs,
and did. In a few minutes they had everything planned out.

A maid appeared and announced lunch. They nodded her away and sat silent
for a moment longer. It seemed as if something more ought to be said;
the interview was too momentous to be allowed to end with an
announcement of a meal. The sun beat down on them from the zenith with
the full unsubtle light of noonday, prosaically enough, but the wind,
blowing as hard as ever, whistled unceasingly around their exposed tower
and provided a sort of counter-dose of eerieness and suggestiveness; it
gave them the sense of being rather magnificently aloof from the rest of
the world. The sun showed them plainly enough that they were on a
summer-cottage verandah, but the wind somehow managed to suggest that
they were really in a much more romantic place. Probably this dual
atmosphere had its effect on them; it would need something of the sort,
at any rate, to make James stand up and say aloud, in broad daylight:

"Beatrice, don't you feel a sort of inspiration in fighting against
something you can't see?"

"Yes, James," she answered slowly; "I believe I do--now."

"Something we can neither see nor understand, but know is wrong and can
only protest against with the whole strength of our souls? Blindly,
unflinchingly?"

"Yes."

"Inevitably?"

"Yes."

"Even if uselessly?"

"Yes." Her eyes met his squarely enough; there was no sign of flinching
in them.

"I'm glad you understand. For that's going to be our life, you know."

"Yes, James; that shall be our life." They got up and took each other's
hands for a moment, as though to seal their compact, looking each other
steadfastly in the eyes meanwhile. They did not kiss again.




CHAPTER VIII

ONE THING AND ANOTHER


Seldom have we longed for anything so much as for the pen of a Fielding
or a Thackeray to come to our aid at the present moment and, by means of
just such a delightful detached essay as occurs from time to time in
"Tom Jones" or "The Virginians," impart a feeling of the intermission
that at this point appears in our story. There is nothing like a
digression on human frailty or the condition of footmen in the reign of
King George the Second to lift the mind of a reader off any particular
moment of a story and, by throwing a few useful hints into the
discourse, prepare him ever so gently to be set down at last at the
exact point where he is to take it up again. That is making an art of
skipping, indeed. We admire it intensely, but realize how impossible it
is in this case. Not only is such a thing frankly outside our power, but
the prejudice of the times is set against it, so our only course is to
confess our weakness and plod along as best we may.

Why on earth every human being who ever knew him should not have known
of his engagement as soon as it occurred--or long before, for that
matter--Harry could never discover. That they did not, in most cases,
was due partly to reasons which could have been best explained by James
and partly to the fact that the person who is most careless of
concealment in such matters is very often the one who is least
suspected. And then so many men had been after Madge! So that when the
great news burst upon the world at the dinner that Mrs. Gilson could not
decently be prevented from giving, the surprise, in the words of
ninety-nine per cent. of their well-meaning friends, was as great as the
pleasure.

That occurred about a week after James' sudden departure from Bar
Harbor, a phenomenon amply accounted for by business. Trouble in the
Balkans--there always was trouble in the Balkans--had resulted, it
appeared, in Orders; and Orders demanded James' presence at his post.
This from Beatrice, with impregnable casualness. Beatrice was really
rather magnificent, these days. When she received her invitation to Mrs.
Gilson's dinner she vowed that nothing should take her there, but the
next moment she knew she would go; that nothing should keep her from
going. Obviously the first guiding principle of destiny-fighting was to
go on exactly as if nothing had happened.

About a week after the dinner Harry received a note from his brother in
New York saying that he was engaged to Beatrice; that the wedding was to
take place in London in October and that he hoped Harry would go over
with him and act as his best man. "I refrained from mentioning it
before," added James, "because I did not want to take the wind out of
your sails. We are also enabled by waiting to reap the benefit of your
experience; I refer to the Gilsons. We are taking no risks; it will
appear in the papers on Wednesday the sixteenth, with Beatrice in Bar
Harbor and me in New York. Beatrice sails the following Saturday."

That was all very well, if a little hard. James and Beatrice were both
undemonstrative, businesslike souls; the arrangement was quite
characteristic.

Beatrice in due time sailed for home, and James followed her some three
weeks afterward. Harry went with him, returning immediately after the
wedding by the fastest ship he could get; he was out of the country just
eighteen days, all told. The voyage over was an uneventful one; the ship
was nearly empty and Harry worked hard at his new play. He had rather
looked forward to enjoying this last week of unmarried companionship
with his brother, but somehow they did not seem to have more than usual
to say to each other when they were together. Rather less, in fact.

"You're looking low, seems to me," said Harry after they had paced the
wet deck in silence for nearly half of a certain evening.

"I've been rather low, lately."

"What--too much work?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's nothing."

"Not seasick, are you?"

"I hope not." Both gave a slight snort expressive of amusement. This was
occasioned by the fact that Aunt Cecilia had offered James the use of
her yacht--or rather the largest and most sumptuous of her yachts--for
his wedding trip, and he and Beatrice were going to cruise for two
months in the Mediterranean. As for the time--well, he was simply taking
it, defying McClellan's to fire him if they dared.

"It's funny, isn't it, our getting engaged at the same time," Harry went
on after a moment. It was the first reference he had made to the
coincidence.

"Oh, yes," said James, "it's one of the funniest things I can remember."

"And the funniest part of it is that neither of us seems to have
suspected about the other. At least I didn't."

"Oh, neither did I; not a thing."

"And practically nobody else did either, apparently."

"No. It might have been just the other way round, for all anybody
knew--you and Beatrice, and Madge and me."

Harry could not but take away from that conversation and from the whole
voyage a vague feeling of disappointment. Since he heard of James'
engagement he had entertained an elusive conviction that love coming
into their lives at so nearly the same time should somehow make a
difference for the better between them. When he tried to put this idea
into words, however, he found his mind mechanically running to such
phrases as "deeper sympathy" and "fuller understanding," all of which he
dismissed as sentimental cant. It was easy to reassure himself on all
grounds of reason and commonsense; James and he were in no need of
fuller understandings. And yet, especially after the above conversation,
he could not but be struck by a certain inapproachability in his
brother which for some reason he could not construe as natural
undemonstrativeness.

The wedding took place in an atmosphere of unconstrained formality.
Harry was not able to get a boat until two days after it, and he could
not resist the temptation of writing Madge all about it that very night,
though he knew the letter could hardly reach her before he did:--

"It was quite a small wedding, chiefly because, as far as I can make
out, there are only some thirty-odd dukes in the kingdom. It occurred at
the odd hour of 2:30, but that didn't seem to prevent any one from
enjoying the food, and more especially the drink, that was handed
around afterward at Lady Archie's. Lord Moville, Beatrice's uncle, was
there and seemed greatly taken with James. After he had got outside
about a quart of champagne he amused himself by feeling James' biceps
and thumping him on the chest and saying that with a fortnight's
training he'd back him for anything he wanted against the Somerset
Cockerel, or some one of the sort, most of which left James rather cold,
though he bore it smiling. His youngest daughter (Lord M.'s), a child of
about eighteen, apparently the only living person who has any control
over him, was quite frank about it. 'Fido's drunk again,' she announced
pleasantly to all who might hear. 'Oh, so's Ned,' said Jane Twombly,
Beatrice's sister; 'there's no use trying to help it at weddings, I
find!' Just then Lady Archie came running up in despair. 'Oh, Sibyl,'
she said, 'do try to do something with your father. He's been
threatening to take off his coat because he says the room's too hot, and
now he wants old Lady Mulford to kiss him!' And off darts Sibyl into the
dining-room where her father and Ned Twombly stand arm in arm waving
glasses of champagne and shouting 'John Peel' at the top of their lungs.
'Fido!' she shouted, running straight up to him, 'put down that glass
directly and come home! Instantly! Do you hear? You're disgracing us!
The next time I take you out to a wedding you'll know it!' 'Oh, Sib,'
pleaded the noble Marquis, 'don't be too hard on us! Only drinkin'
bride's health--must drink bride's health--not good manners not to. Sib
shall drink with us; here's a glass, Sib--for his view, view HALLO!
would awaken the dead--' 'Fido, do you know what you're doing? You're
ruining your season's hunting! Gout-stool and Seidlitz powders all the
winter for you, if you don't go easy!' But still Fido refused to obey
till at last the dauntless child went up and whispered something in his
ear, after which he calmed down and presently followed her out of the
house, gently as a lamb. 'She threatened to tell her mother about the
woman in Wimbledon,' explained Jane to me. 'Of course every one knows
all there is to know about her, including Aunt Susan, but he hasn't
found that out yet, and it gives Sib rather a strangle-hold on him. Good
idea, isn't it? Marjorie--Ned's sister, you know--has promised to work
the same trick for me with Ned, when the time comes.' I hope I am not
more straight-laced than my neighbors, but do you know, the whole
atmosphere struck me as just a teeny-weeny bit decadent...."

After he reached home Harry saw that it would be quite useless, what
with Madge and other diverting influences, to try to finish his play in
New Haven, so he repaired to the solitudes of the Berkshires for the
remainder of the autumn. He occupied two rooms in an almost empty inn in
Stockbridge, working and living for two months on a strict regime. It
was his habit to work from nine till half-past one. He spent most of the
afternoon in exercise and the evening in more writing; not the calm,
well-balanced writing of the morning, but in feverish and untrammeled
scribbling. Each morning he had to write over all that he had done the
night before, but he found it well worth while, discovering that reason
and inspiration kept separate office hours.

Meanwhile Madge, though freed from the trammels of Miss Snellgrove, was
very busy at home with her trousseau and other matters. She was
supremely happy these days; happy even in Harry's absence, because she
could feel that he was doing better work than he could with her near,
and that provided just the element of self-sacrifice that every
woman--every woman that is worth anything--yearns to infuse into her
love. She had ample opportunity of trying her hand at writing love
letters, but, to tell the truth, she was never very good at it. Neither
was Harry, for that matter; possibly because he was now putting every
ounce of creative power in him into something the result of which
justified the effort much better.... But suppose we allow some of the
letters to speak for themselves.

     Dear Inamorato: (wrote Madge one day in November) "I'm not at
     all sure that that word exists; it looks so odd in the
     masculine and just shows how the male sex more or less spoils
     everything it touches. However! I've been hemming towels all
     day and am ready to drop, but after I finish with them there
     will be only the pillow cases to attend to before I am done. By
     the bye, what do you suppose arrived to-day? _Four_ (heavily
     underscored) most _exquisite_ (same business) linen sheets,
     beautifully hemstitched and marked and from who ("Good
     Heavens, and the woman taught school!" exclaimed Harry) do you
     think? Miss Snellgrove! Wasn't it sweet of her? That makes ten
     in all. Everybody has been lovely and we shall do very well for
     linen, but clothes are much more difficult. In them, you see, I
     have to please not only myself but Mama and Aunt Tizzy as well.
     I went shopping with both of them yesterday, and they were
     possessed to make me order an evening gown of black satin with
     yellow trimmings which was something like a gown Aunt Tizzy had
     fascinated people in during the early eighties. It wasn't such
     a bad idea, but unfortunately it would have made me resemble a
     rather undersized wasp. We compromised at last on a blue silk
     that's going to have a Watteau pleat and will fall in nice
     little straight folds and make me look about seven feet high.
     Aunt Tizzy is too perfectly dear and keeps telling me not to
     scrimp, but her idea of not scrimping is to spend simply
     _millions_ and always go ahead and get the very best in the
     _extravagantest_ way, and my conscience rebels. I hope to pick
     up some things at the January sales in New York; if you are
     there seeing about your play at that time we can be together,
     can't we? I still have to get a suit and an afternoon gown and
     various other things the nature of which I do not care to
     specify!

     I run over and look in on Aunt Selina every time I get a
     chance. She is _so_ dear and uncomplaining about being left
     alone and keeps saying that having me in the house will be as
     good as having Beatrice, which is absurd, though sweet.
     Heavens, how I tremble when I think of trying to fill her
     shoes!

     I must stop now, dearest, so good-night. Ever your own,

     MADGE.

     O O O O O O

     Those O's stand for osculations. Do you know how hard it is to
     kiss in a small space? Like tying a bow-knot with too short a
     piece of ribbon."

     For Heaven's sake, my good woman (wrote Harry in reply),
     don't write me another letter like that! How do you think I
     feel when, fairly thirsting for fire and inspiration and that
     sort of thing, I tear open an envelope from you and find it
     contains an unusually chatty Woman's Column? How do you
     suppose poor old D. Alghieri would have written his Paradiso if
     Beatrice had held forth on the subject of linen sheets, and do
     you or do you not suppose it would have improved Petrarch's
     sonnets if Laura had treated him to a disquisition on the ins
     and outs of the prices of evening gowns?

     Remember your responsibility! If you continue to deny me
     inspiration my play will fail and you will live in disgrace and
     misery in the basement of a Harlem tenement in an eternal smell
     of cabbages and a well-justified fear of cockroaches, with one
     cracked looking-glass to see your face in and dinner served up
     in a pudding basin!

     The c. of my b. (that was his somewhat flippant abbreviation
     of child of my brain) "is coming along well enough,
     considering. The woman is shaping quite well. What was the name
     you suggested for her the last time I saw you? If it was
     Hermione, I'm afraid it won't do, because every one in the
     theater, from Bachmann down to the call-boy, will call it
     Hermy-one, and I shall have to correct them all, which will be
     a bad start. I call her Mamie for the present, because I know I
     can't keep it. What would be the worst possible name, do you
     think? Hannah? Florrie? Mae? Keren-happuch and Glwadwys also
     have their points.

     Please forgive me for being (a) short-tempered; (b) tedious. I
     was going to tear up what I have written, only I decided it
     would not be quite fair, as you have a right to know just how
     dreadful I can be, in case you want to change your mind about
     February.--What a discreetly euphemistic phrase!--It has grown
     fearfully cold here, and we had the first skating of the winter
     to-day. I got hold of some skates and went out and, fired by
     the example of two or three people here who skate rather well,
     I swore I would do a 3-turn or die in the attempt. The latter
     alternative occurred. I am writing this on the mantelpiece.

     Farewell. Write early and write often, and write Altman
     catalogues if you must, but not if you are interested in the
     uplift of drahmah. Give my best to Grandmama, and consider
     yourself embraced.

     IO EL REY.

Madge's reply to this missive was telegraphic in form and brief in
substance. It read simply "Sorry. Laura." "I would have signed it
Beatrice," she explained in her next letter, "only I was afraid you
might think it was from your sister-in-law Beatrice, and there's nothing
for _her_ to be sorry about."

Another letter of Harry's, written a few weeks later, shows him in a
different mood:

     Querida de mis ojos--You don't know Spanish but you ought to
     gather what that means without great effort--I have weighty
     news for you. I dashed down to New York on the spur of the
     moment day before yesterday and showed the first draught of my
     completed MS to Leo. My dear, he said IT WOULD DO! You don't
     know what that means, of course; no one could. You all think I
     have simply to write and say 'Here, play this,' and it is
     played. You know nothing of how it hurts to put ideas on paper,
     nothing of the dead weight of responsibility, the loneliness,
     the self-distrust, the hate of one's own work that the creative
     brain has to struggle against. Consequently, my dearest, you
     will just have to take it on trust from me that an interview
     such as I had yesterday with Bachmann is nothing less than a
     rebirth. He even advised me not to try to change or improve it
     much, saying that what changes were needed could best be put in
     at rehearsals, and I think he's dead right. So I shall do no
     more than put the third act in shape before I hand the thing
     over to him and dash home for the holidays. Atmosphere of Yule
     logs, holly berry and mistletoe!

     I really am absurdly happy. You see, it isn't merely success,
     or a premonition of success (for the first night is still to
     come); it's in a way a justification of my whole life. If this
     thing is as good as I think it is, it will amount to a sort of
     written permit from headquarters to love you, to go on thinking
     as I do think about certain things and to regard myself--well,
     it's hard to put into words, but as a dynamic force, rather
     than as a lucky fool that stumbled across one rather good
     thing. Not that I shouldn't do all three anyway, to be
     sure!--And every kind friend will say he knew I would 'make
     good'; that there never was any doubt my 'coming into my own,'
     and all the rest. Oh, Lord, if people only knew! But thank
     Heaven they don't!

     I am becoming obscure and rhapsodic. I seem to 'see' things
     to-night, like Tilburina in the play. I see strange and
     distorted conceptions of myself, for one thing; endless and
     bewildering publicity. Oh, what a comfort it is to think that
     no matter what I may be to other people, to you I shall always
     be simply the same stupid, bungling, untidy

     HARRY!

     I love you with an intensity that beggars the power of human
     expression.

     I did a bracket this afternoon.

Madge never received a letter from him that pleased her more. She was
fully alive to its chaotic immaturity, and she smiled at the way he
unconsciously appeared to shove his love for her into second place. But
there was that about it that convinced her of his greatness as nothing
had yet done. It seemed to her that when he spoke of the loneliness of
genius and in his prophetic touch at the end about the different ways in
which people would regard him he spoke with the true voice of a seer. It
all made her feel very humble and solemn. To think that Harry, her
Harry, that tall thin thing with the pink cheeks and dark brown hair and
the restless black eyes, should be one of the great men of his day,
perhaps one of the great ones of all time! Keats--Harry was already
older than Keats when he died, but she thought he had much the same
temperament; Congreve--she knew how he loved Congreve; Marlowe--she had
often compared his golden idealism to that of Marlowe; Shakespeare...?
No, no--of course not! She knew perfectly well he was no Shakespeare....
Still, why not, in time?... And anyway, Marlowe, Congreve,
Keats--Wimbourne!

So she dreamed on, till the future, which hitherto she had seen as
merely smiling toward her, seemed to rise and with solemn face beckon
her to a new height, a place hard to reach and difficult to hold, but
one whose very base seemed more exalted than anything she had yet
known....

Now Madge was, on the whole, a very fairly modern type of young woman.
Her outlook on the world was based on Darwin, and she held firmly to
such eugenic principles as seemed to flow directly from the doctrine of
evolution. She had long since declared war to the death on disease,
filth and vice, to which she added a lesser foe generally known as
"suppression of facts," and she had done a certain amount of real work
in helping those less fortunate than herself to the acquisition of
health, cleanliness, virtue and "knowledge." She thought that women
would get the vote some day, though they weren't ready for it yet, and
hadn't joined the Antis because there was no use in being a drag on the
wheels of progress, even if you didn't feel like helping. She believed
in the "social regeneration" of woman. It was quite clear to her that in
the early years of the twentieth century women were beginning--and only
just beginning--to take their place beside men in the active work of
saving the race; "why, you had only to look at Jane Addams and Florence
Nightingale to see--" et cetera.

And yet, and yet....

It was at least as fine a thing to become Mrs. Harold Wimbourne and
devote a lifetime to ministering to one of the great creative geniuses
of the time as to be a heavy gun on her own account, was what she meant,
of course. But that wasn't quite enough. Suppose, for the sake of
argument, that Harry were not one of the great creative geniuses of the
age; suppose there were no question of Congreve, Keats, Wimbourne and so
forth; suppose being his wife meant being plain Mrs. Harold Wimbourne
and nothing more--what then?

"Well, I suppose I'd still rather be plain Mrs. H. W., if you will have
it!" she retorted petulantly to her relentless self. But she soon became
glad she had brought herself to the point of admitting it, for, the
issue definitely settled, her mind became unaccountably peaceful....

       *       *       *       *       *

New Year's was scarcely over when rehearsals began, and Harry was in for
another period of lounging in shrouded orchestra chairs and watching
other people air their ideas, or lack of ideas, on the child of his
brain. His lounging was now, however, quite freely punctuated by
interruptions and not infrequently by scramblings over the footlights to
illustrate a fine point. This rather bored the actors; Harry had become
almost uncomfortably acute in matter of stage technique. But they had to
admit that his suggestions were never foolish or unnecessary.

In due time came the first night. It is no part of our purpose to
describe "Pastures New" or its success in this place. If--which is
improbable--you have to refresh your mind on it, you have only to ask
one of your journalistic friends--don't pretend that you haven't at
least one friend on a newspaper--to show you the files of his sheet.
There you will see it all, in what scholars call primary sources:--"New
Yorkers Roar With Delight at Feminist Satire," and all the rest of it,
like as not on the front page. Harry hated its being called a satire;
that was such a cheap and easy way of getting out of it. For when all
was over, when people had cried with laughing at its whimsical humor,
poked each other with delight at its satirical touches--oh yes, there
were plenty of them--quoted its really brilliant dialogue, sat
enthralled by its swift and compelling action--for Harry had made good
his promise that this play should have "punch"--when they had done all
these things to their heart's content, still not a person saw the play
who did not come away from it more fully convinced than ever he had been
of--well, of what you had only to look at Jane Addams and Florence
Nightingale to see. For there were really great moments in the play;
moments when no one even thought of laughing, though one was almost
always made to laugh the moment after. That was Harry's way, that was
his power, to "hit 'em hard and then make 'em laugh just as they begin
to feel smarty in the eyes," as Burchard the stage manager not unaptly
put it.

"Pastures New" ran for six months in New York alone, and no one laughed
harder or less rancorously at it than the "feminists" themselves--or all
of them that were worth anything.

Of course both Harry and Madge were tired to death by the time the
wedding became imminent, and the final preparations were made in what
might be called broad impressionistic strokes.

Madge had at first intended to have a small informal reception in her
own house, but Aunt Tizzy had been so disappointed that she had at last
consented to let it be at her aunt's and attain the dimensions of a
perfect tomasha--the phrase is her own--if it wanted to. Why not? Aunt
Tizzy's house could hold it.

"Besides, my dear," argued Harry, "it's only once in a lifetime, after
all. If you marry again as a widow you'll only have a silly little
wedding, without a veil and no bridesmaids, and if we're divorced you
won't have any wedding at all, worth mentioning. Much better do it up
brown when you have the chance."

"What about music?" asked Harry as the two stood in final consultation
with the organist on the night of the rehearsal. "I've always wondered
why people had such perfectly rotten music at weddings, but I begin to
see now. Still, if we _could_ have something other than Lohengrin and
Mendelssohn I think I could face marriage with a little better heart.
What about it, dear?"

Madge groaned. "Oh, anything! The Star-Spangled Banner, if you want!"

"I think I can arrange it," said the organist smiling, and he played the
march from "Tannhaeuser" and the march from "Athalie," which he always
played when people asked for something unusual, and the effect was
considered very pleasing and original. Altogether it was the prettiest
wedding any one had seen in years, according to the testimony of those
who attended the reception--which did become a perfect tomasha. But as
tomasha-goers are notoriously biased their testimony probably wasn't
legal and no respectable judge would have accepted it as evidence. The
only legal thing about the whole affair was the ceremony, which was
fully as much so as if it had been before a magistrate, which Madge
swore it should be if she ever had to go through it again and regretted
bitterly it hadn't been this time.... Well, perhaps, when she looked
about her and saw how unaffectedly happy her mother and Aunt Tizzy and
the bridesmaids and all the other good people were, she didn't regret it
quite so much.

"Though it is rather absurd, getting married to please other people,
isn't it?" she remarked as they drove off at last, leaving the
tomasha-goers to carouse as long as Aunt Tizzy could make them.

"I think I'd do almost anything to please Aunt Tizzy," said Harry. "Now
that it's all over, that is. Get married again, even.... After all," he
added suddenly, shamelessly going back on all his professions of the
last few days; "after all, you know, it _was_ rather a good wedding!"

Which shows that he was just as biased as any one, at bottom!




CHAPTER IX

LABYRINTHS


How many people should you say could be packed into a three-hundred foot
barkantine-rigged steam yacht, capable of fourteen knots under steam
alone, for a night in late June, presumably hot, anchored in a noisy
estuary off Long Island Sound without making them all wish they had
never been born? We ourselves should hate to have to answer the question
offhand. So did Aunt Cecilia, whom it concerned more closely than any
one else, and she did not have to answer it offhand at all, having all
the available statistics within reach. In fact, she had spent the best
part of one hot New York June morning over it already, sitting in her
darkened front drawing-room because it was the coolest room in the
house, amid ghost-like furniture whose drab slip-covers concealed
nothing less than real Louis Quinze. On her lap--or what Uncle James
said if she didn't look out wouldn't be her lap very long--she held a
magazine and over the magazine an expensive piece of letter-paper, on
one leaf of which was a list of names and on the other a plan drawn in
wobbly and unarchitectural lines--obviously a memory sketch of the
sleeping accommodations of the _Halcyone_. Near what even in the sketch
was undoubtedly the largest and most comfortable of the _Halcyone's_
cabins she had written in firm unmistakable letters the word "Me," and
opposite two other rooms she had inscribed in only slightly less bold
characters the initials "H. and M." and "J. and B." So far so good; why
not go on thus as long as the list or the cabins held and consider the
problem solved? It wasn't as simple as that, it seemed. Some of the
people hadn't been asked, or might be asked only if there was room
enough, and the boys might bring in people at the last moment; it was
very confusing. And not even the extent of the sleeping accommodations
was as constant as might have been desired. It was ridiculous, of
course, but even after all these years she could not be quite sure
whether there were two little single rooms down by the galley skylight
or only one. She was practically sure there were two, but suppose she
were mistaken? And then, if it came to that, the boys and almost as many
friends as they cared to bring might sleep on the smoking-room sofas....

"No ... no, I'm not sure how wise that would be," she mused, certain
things she had seen and been told of boat-race celebrations straying
into her mind. "The smoking-room cushions have only just been
covered...."

A ring at the doorbell. She glanced up at a pierglass (also Louis
Quinze) opposite her and strained her eyes at its mosquito-netting
covered surface. Her hair was far from what she could have wished; she
hoped it would be no one she would have to see. Oh, Beatrice.

"Howdy do, dear," said Aunt Cecilia, relieved. "I was just thinking of
you. I'm trying to plan out about the boat-race; it's less than a week
off now."

Beatrice sank languidly down on the other end of Aunt Cecilia's sofa.
She was much hotter and more fatigued than Aunt Cecilia, but no one
would have guessed it to look at her. Her clothes lay coolly and
caressingly on her; not a hair seemed out of place.

"You see," went on the other, "it's rather difficult to arrange, on
account of there being so many unmarried people--just the Lyles and the
MacGraths and George Grainger for us older ones and the rest all
Muffins' and Jack's friends. I think we shall work out all right,
though, with two rooms at the Griswold and the smoking-room to overflow
into. I'm tired of bothering about it. Tell me about yourself."

"Nothing much," answered Beatrice. "I much prefer hearing about you. By
the way--about the races. I just dropped in to tell you about Tommy
Clairloch. He's coming. You did tell me to ask him, didn't you?"

"Yes ... oh, yes, of course. I had forgotten about Lord Clairloch for
the moment. I thought he was going west the middle of the month."

"He was, but he didn't. Tommy's rather a fool." Tommy, it may be
mentioned, was in the process of improving himself by making a trip
around the world, going westward. He had left home in April and so far
Upper Montclair was his farthest point west. As Beatrice said, Tommy was
rather a fool.

"Oh, not a bit ... only.... By the bye, dear, do you happen to remember
whether there are one or two rooms down that little hall by the galley?"

"Two, as I remember it. But don't bother about Tommy. Really, Aunt
Cecilia, don't. He needn't come at all--I'll tell him he can't."

"Of course he must come.... That's it--I'll put him in the other little
single room and tell the boys that they and any one else they ask from
now on must go to the Griswold or sleep in the smoking-room. I'm glad to
have it settled."

Aunt Cecilia beamed as one does when a difficult problem is solved. It
occurred to her that Beatrice might beam back at her just a tiny bit, if
only in mock sympathy. Especially as it was her guest.... But Beatrice
remained just as casual as before, sitting easily but immovably in her
corner of the sofa with her parasol lying lightly in her slim gloved
hands. Aunt Cecilia noticed those hands rather especially; it seemed
scarcely human to keep one's gloves on in the house on a day like this!
Characteristically, she gave her thought outlet in words.

"Do take off your gloves and things, dear, and make yourself
comfortable! Such a day! New York in June is frightful--eighty-eight
yesterday, and Heaven knows what it will be to-day. You'll stay to
lunch, won't you?"

"Thanks, perhaps I will," replied Beatrice listlessly.

"I never have stayed in town so late in June," ran on Aunt Cecilia, "but
I thought I wouldn't open the Tarrytown house this spring--it's only for
six weeks and it is so much extra trouble.... I shall take the yacht and
the boys directly on up to Bar Harbor afterward; we should love to have
you come with us, if you feel like leaving James--you're looking so
fagged. You must both come and pay us a long visit later on, though I
suppose with Harry and Madge in the Berkshires you'll be running up
there quite often for week-ends...."

Beatrice stirred a little. "Thanks, Aunt Cecilia, but I don't mind the
heat especially. If James can bear it, I can, I suppose. I expect to
stay here most of the summer."

She was perfectly courteous, and yet it suddenly occurred to Aunt
Cecilia that perhaps she wouldn't be quite so free in showering
invitations on Beatrice and James for a while. There was that about her,
as she sat there.... Languid, that was the word; there had been a
certain languor, not due to hot weather, in Beatrice's reception of most
of her favors, now that she came to think of it. There had been that
wedding trip in the _Halcyone_, to begin with. Both she and James had
shown a due amount of gratitude, but neither, when you came right down
to it, had given any particular evidence of having enjoyed it.
Everything was as it should be, no doubt, but--one didn't lend yachts
without expecting to have them enjoyed!

"That trip cost me over five thousand dollars," she had remarked to her
husband shortly after the return of the bridal pair. "Of course I don't
grudge it, but five thousand dollars is a good deal of money, and I'd
rather have subscribed it to the Organized Charities than feel I was
spending it to give those two something they didn't want!"

Aunt Cecilia gazed anxiously at Beatrice for a moment, memories of this
sort floating vaguely through her mind. She scented trouble, somewhere.
The next minute she thought she had diagnosed it.

"You're bored, dear, that's the long and the short of it, and I think I
know what's the matter. I'm not sure that I didn't feel a little that
way myself, at the very first. But I soon got over it. My dear, there's
nothing in the world like a baby to drive away boredom...."

Beatrice tapped with the end of her parasol on what in winter would have
been a pink and gray texture from Aubusson's storied looms but was now
simply a parquet flooring. But she did not blush, not in the slightest
degree.

"Yes," she answered, a trifle wearily, "I daresay you're right.
Sometimes I think I would like to have a baby. It doesn't seem to come,
though.... After all, it's rather early to bother, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't want you to _bother_--! Only--" She was just a little taken
aback. This barren agreement, this lack of natural shyness, of blushes!
It was unprecedented in her experience.

"Only what, Aunt Cecilia?"

"Only--it's a sure cure for being bored. But Beatrice, there must be
others, while you're waiting. What about your studies, your work? You
haven't done much of that since you came home from abroad, have you?
It's too late to begin anything this summer, of course, but next autumn
I should think you'd like to take it up again, especially as you don't
care so much for society, and I'm sure I don't blame you for that...."
She beamed momentarily on her niece, who this time smiled back ever so
slightly in return. "After all, it's nice to be of some use in the
world, isn't it?"

Why not have left it there, on that secure impregnable pinnacle? Why
weaken her position by giving voice to that silly unprovoked fancy that
had hung about the back of her mind since the beginning of the
interview, or very near it? We can't explain, unless the sudden
suspicion that Beatrice had smiled less with than at her, and the sight
of her sitting there so beautiful and aloof, so well-bredly acquiescent
and so emotionally intangible, exercised an ignoble influence over her.
There is a sort of silent acquiescence that is very irritating.... And
after all, was the impulse so ignoble? A word of warning of the most
affectionate kind, prompted by the keenest sympathy--surely it was
wholly Beatrice's fault if anything went wrong!

"More than that, my dear, there's a certain danger in being too idle--a
danger I'm sure you're as free from as any one could be, but you know
what the psalm says!" (Or was it original with Isaac Watts? However!)
"Of course marriage isn't so easy, especially in the first year, and
especially if there are no children--what with the husband away at work
all day and tired to death and like as not cross as a bear when he comes
home in the evening--I know!--a young wife can't be blamed for feeling a
little out of sorts sometimes. And then along comes another man...."

Here Beatrice, to use a sporting expression, froze. From that moment it
ceased to be question of two women talking together and became a matter
of Aunt Cecilia apostrophizing a statue; a modern conception, say, of
Artemis. Marble itself could not be more unresponsive than Beatrice when
people tried to "get at her." It was not rudeness, it was not coldness,
it was not even primarily self-consciousness; it was the natural
inability to speak of matters deeply concerning oneself which people of
Aunt Cecilia's temperament can never fully understand.

"Of course other men have things to offer that husbands have not,
especially if they are free in the daytime and are nice and good-natured
and sympathetic, and often a young wife may be deceived into valuing
these things more than the love of her husband. They are all at their
best on the surface, while her husband's best is all below it. And that,
I think, is the way most married unhappinesses begin; not in
unfaithfulness or in jealousy or in loss of love, but merely in
idleness. I've seen it happen so often, dear, that you must be able to
understand why I never like to see a young wife with too little to
do...."

For Aunt Cecilia was personal, you see, to a degree. Did she imagine she
was making things any easier, Beatrice asked herself with a little burst
of humorous contempt, by her generalities and her third persons and her
"young wives"? If she had been perfectly frank, if she had come out and
said, "Beatrice, if you don't look out you'll be falling in love with
Tommy Clairloch," there was a possibility that Beatrice could have
answered her, even confided in her; at least put things on a
conversational footing. But as for talking about her own case in this
degrading disguise, dramatizing herself as a "young wife"--!

She remained silent long enough to make it obvious that her silence was
her real reply. Then she said "Yes, indeed, perfectly," and Aunt Cecilia
rather tardily became aware of her niece's metamorphosis into the modern
Artemis. She made a flurried attempt to give her own remarks,
retrospectively, something of the Artemis quality; to place a pedestal,
as it were, on which to take her own stand as a modern conception of
Pallas Athene.

"I hope, my dear, you don't think I mean anything...."

"Not at all," said Beatrice kindly but firmly. "And now if you don't
mind, Aunt Cecilia, I think I'll go up and get ready for luncheon."

But Aunt Cecilia was afraid she had gone too far.

       *       *       *       *       *

A week later came the gathering of the clans at New London for the
Yale-Harvard boat-race. Aunt Cecilia had not been to a race in years.
Races, you see, were not in a class with graduations; they were
optional, works of supererogation. But this year, in addition to one of
the largest yachts extant and money that fairly groaned to be put into
circulation, she had two boys in college, and altogether it seemed worth
while "making an effort." And the effort once made there was a certain
pleasure in doing the thing really well, in taking one's place as one of
the great Yale families of the country. So on the afternoon before the
race the _Halcyone_ was anchored in a conspicuous place in the harbor,
where she loomed large and majestic among the smaller craft, and a
tremendous blue flag with a white Y on it was hoisted between two of the
masts. People from the shore looked for her name with field glasses and
pointed her out to each other as "the Wimbourne yacht" with a note of
awe in their voices.

"It's like being on the _Victory_ at Trafalgar, as far as
conspicuousness goes," said Harry on his arrival. "Or rather," he added
magnificently, "like being on Cleopatra's galley at Actium."

"Absit omen," remarked Uncle James, and the others laughed, but his wife
paid no attention to him. She was not above a little thrill of pride and
pleasure herself.

Muffins and Jack and their friends were much in evidence; the party was
primarily for the "young people." They kept mostly to themselves,
dancing and singing and making personal remarks together, always
detaching themselves with a polite attentive quirk of the head when an
older person addressed them. Nice children, all of them. Muffins and
Jack were of the right sort, emphatically, and their friends were
obviously--not too obviously, but just obviously enough--chosen with
nice discriminating taste. Jack especially gave one the impression of
having a fine appreciation of people and things; that of Muffins was
based on rather broad athletic lines. Muffins played football. Ruth, the
brains of the family, was not present; we forget whether she was running
a summer camp for cash girls or exploring the headwaters of the Yukon;
it was something modern and expensive. Ruth was not extensively missed
by her brothers.

They all dined hilariously together on the yacht and repaired to the
Griswold afterward to dance and revel through the evening. All, that is,
except Beatrice and James; they did not arrive till well on in the
evening, James having been unable to leave town till his day's work was
over. The launch with Uncle James in it went to the station to meet them
and brought them directly back to the yacht to get settled and tidied
up; they could go on over to the Griswold for a bit, if they weren't too
tired.

"How about it?" inquired James as he stood peering at his watch in the
dim light on deck.

"Oh, just as you like," said Beatrice.

"Well, I don't care. Say something."

Beatrice was rather tired.... Well, perhaps it was better that way; they
would have another chance to see all they wanted to-morrow night. This
from Uncle James, who thought he would drop over there and relieve Aunt
Cecilia, who had been chaperoning since dinner.

His head disappeared over the ship's side. James walked silently off to
unpack. Beatrice sank into a wicker armchair and dropped her head on her
hands....

It seemed as if scarcely a moment had passed when she became aware of
the launch again coming up alongside and voices floating up from
it--Aunt Cecilia and Lord Clairloch. Salutations ensued, avuncular and
friendly. Aunt Cecilia was tired, but very cheerful. She buzzed off
presently to see about something and Lord Clairloch dropped down by
Beatrice.

Tommy was very cheerful also, apparently much impressed by what he had
seen at the Griswold. "I say, a jolly bean-feast, that! Never saw such
dancin' or drinkin' in my life, and I've lived a bit! They keep 'em
apart, too--that's the best of it; no trouble about takin' a gell,
provided she don't go to the bar, which ain't likely.... Jove, we've got
nothing like it in England! Rippin' looking lot of gells, rippin'
fellahs, rippin' good songs, too. All seem to enjoy 'emselves so
much!--I say, these Yankees can teach us a thing or two about havin' a
good time--wot?"

Beatrice listened with a growing sense of amusement. Tommy always
refreshed her when he was in a mood like this; he kept his youth so
wonderfully, in spite of all his super-sophistication; he was such a boy
still. Tommy never seemed to mind being hot or tired; Tommy was always
ready for anything; Tommy was not the sort that came home at six o'clock
and sank into the evening paper without a word--She stopped that line of
thought and asked a question.

"Why did you leave it all, Tommy, if it amused you so?"

"Oh, had enough of it--been there since dinner. Beside, I heard you'd
come. Thought I'd buzz over and see how you were gettin' on. Have a
horrid journey?"

Beatrice nodded.

"Hot?"

"No, not especially." They were silent a moment. Tommy opened his mouth
to ask a question and shut it again. And then, walking like a ghost
across their silence, appeared the figure of James, stalking aimlessly
down the deck. He nodded briefly to Tommy and walked off again.

The effect, in view of the turn of their conversation, of Tommy's
unasked question, was almost that of a spectral apparition. The
half-light of the deck, James' silence and the noiseless tread of his
rubber-soled shoes had in themselves an uncanny quality. Presently Tommy
whistled softly, as though to break the spell.

"Whew! I say, is he often like that?"

Beatrice laughed. Tommy _was_ refreshing! "Lately, yes. Do you know,"
she added, "he only spoke twice on the way up here--once to ask me if I
was ready to have dinner, and once what I wanted for dinner?" Her tone
was one of suppressed amusement, caught from Tommy; but before her
remark was fairly finished something rather like a note of alarm rang
through her. Why had she said that? It wasn't so frightfully amusing,
come to think of it. Her pleasure, she saw in a flash, came not from the
remark itself but from her anticipation of seeing Tommy respond to
it....

That was rather serious, wasn't it? Just how serious, she wondered? Joy
in seeing another man respond to a disparaging remark about her
husband--that was what it came to! For the first time in her life she
had the sensation of reveling in a stolen joy. For of course Tommy did
respond, beautifully--too beautifully. "Oh, I say! Really, now! That
_is_ a trifle strong, wot?" and so on. He was doing exactly what she had
meant him to, and there was a separate pleasure in that--a zest of
power!

Heavens!

For the first time she began to feel a trifle nervous about Tommy. Was
Aunt Cecilia right? Had all her careful euphemisms about young wives
some basis of justification as applied to her own case? She and
Tommy.... Well, she and Tommy?... Half an hour ago she could have placed
them perfectly; now her sight was a trifle blurred. There was not time
to think it all out now, anyway; another boatload of people from the
shore was even now crowding up the gangway; to-morrow she would go into
the matter thoroughly with herself and put things, whatever they might
be, on a definite business footing. To-night, even, if she did not
sleep....

Everybody was back, it appeared, and things shortly became festive.
There were drinks and sandwiches and entertaining reminiscences of the
evening from the young people, lasting till bedtime. Thought was out of
the question.

Once undressed and in bed, to be sure, there was better opportunity. She
slipped comfortably down between the sheets; what a blessing that the
night was not too hot, after all! Aunt Cecilia had said ... what was it
that Aunt Cecilia had said? Something about a young wife--a young wife
ought to have something to do. Of course. These were linen sheets, by
the way, and the very finest linen, at that. Aunt Cecilia did know how
to do things.... What was it? Something more, she fancied, about valuing
something more than something else. Tommy Clairloch was the first thing,
she was sure of that. Aunt Cecilia had not said it, but she had meant
it.... She was going to sleep, after all; what a blessing!... What was
that other thing? It was hard to think when one was so comfortable. Oh,
yes, she had it now--the love of a husband!

Whose husband? The young wife's, to be sure. And who was the young wife?
She herself, obviously. But--the thought flared up like a strong lamp
through the thickening fog of her brain--_her_ husband did not love her!
She and James were not like ordinary young wives and husbands.... How
silly of her not to have seen that before! That changed everything, of
course. Aunt Cecilia was on a wrong track altogether; her--what was the
word?--her premises were false. That threw out her whole
argument--everything--including that about Tommy.

Gradually the sudden illumination of that thought faded in the
evergrowing shadow of sleep. Now only vague wisps of ideas floated
through her mind; even those were but pale reflections of that one
truth; Aunt Cecilia was mistaken.... Aunt Cecilia was wrong.... It was
all right about Tommy.... Tommy was all right.... Aunt Cecilia ... was
wrong....

Psychologists tell us that ideas make most impression on the mind when
they are introduced into it during that indefinite period between
sleeping and waking; they then become incorporated directly with our
subconscious selves without having to pass through the usual tortuous
channels of consciousness and reason. And the sub-consciousness, as
every one knows, is a most intimate and important place; once an idea is
firmly grounded there it has become substantially a part of our being,
so far as we can tell from our incomplete knowledge of our own ideal
existence. We are not sure that a single introduction of this sort can
give an idea a good social standing in the realm of sub-consciousness;
probably not. But it can help; it can give it at least a nodding
acquaintance there. Certain it is, at any rate, that when Beatrice awoke
next morning it was with a mind at least somewhat more willing than
previously to take for granted, as part of the natural order of things,
the fact of the inherent wrongness of Aunt Cecilia and its corollary,
the innate rightness of Tommy. (Possibly this corollary would not have
appeared so inevitable if the matter had all been threshed out in
reason; they are rather lax about logic and such things in
sub-consciousness, making a good introduction the one criterion of
acceptance.) With the net material result that Beatrice was less
inclined than ever to be nervous about Aunt Cecilia and also less
inclined than ever to be nervous about Tommy.

The day began in an atmosphere of not unpleasant indolence. Breakfast
was late and was followed by the best cigarette of the day on
deck--Beatrice's smoking was the secret admiration and envy of all the
female half of the younger section. A cool breeze ruffled the harbor and
gathered in a flock of clouds from the Sound that left only just enough
sunlight to bring out the brilliant colors of the little flags all the
yachts had strung up between their mastheads and down again to bowsprit
and stern. It was rather pleasant to sit and watch these and other
things; the continual small traffic of the harbor, the occasional
arrivals of more slim white yachts.

Presently Harry and Madge and Beatrice and Tommy and one or two others
made a short excursion to the shore, for no other apparent reason than
to join the procession of smartly dressed people that for one day in the
year convert the quiet town of New London into one of the gayest-looking
places on earth. Tommy was much in evidence here, fairly crowing with
delight over each new thing that pleased him. It was all Harry could do
to keep him from swathing himself in blue; Tommy had become an
enthusiastic Yalensian. He had spent a week-end with Harry in New Haven
during the spring; he had driven with Aunt Selina in the victoria, he
had been shown the university and had met a number of pretty gells and
rippin' fellahs; what business was it of Wiggers if he wanted to wave a
blue flag? Wiggers ought to feel jolly complimented, instead of makin' a
row!

"You'd say just the same about Harvard, if you went there--the people
are just as nice," said Harry. "Besides, Harvard will probably win. You
may buy us each a blue feather, if you like, and call it square at
that."

Beatrice smiled, but she thought Harry a little hard.

"Never mind, Tommy," said she; "you can sit by me at the race this
afternoon and we'll both scream our lungs out, if we want."

That was substantially what happened. Luncheon on the yacht--an enormous
"standing" affair, with lots of extra people--was followed by a general
exodus to the observation trains. Tommy had never seen an observation
train before and was full of curiosity. They didn't have them at Henley.
It was all jolly different from Henley, wasn't it, though? As they
walked through the railroad yards to their car he was inclined to think
it wasn't as good fun as Henley. One missed the punts, and all that.
Once seated in the car, however, with an unobstructed view of the river,
it was a little better, and by the time the crews had rowed up to the
starting-point he had almost come round to the American point of view.
It might not be so jolly as Henley, quite, but Jove! one could see!

Tommy sat on Beatrice's left; on her right was Mr. MacGrath and beyond
him again was Aunt Cecilia. The others were scattered through the train
in similar mixed groups. Beatrice thought it a good idea to split up
that way.... She began to have an idea she was going to enjoy this race.

So she did, too, more than she had enjoyed anything in--oh, months! She
couldn't remember much about it afterward, though she did remember who
won, which is more than we do. She had a recollection, to begin with, of
Tommy joining in lustily in every Yale cheer and of Mr. MacGrath trying
not to thump Aunt Cecilia on the back at an important moment and
thumping herself instead. He apologized very nicely. Presently Tommy
committed the same offense against her and neglected to apologize
entirely, but she didn't mind in the least. (That was the sort of race
it was.) Perhaps there lurked in the back of her brain a certain sense
of joy in the omission.... She herself became infected with Tommy-mania
before long.

And the spectacle was an exhilarating one, under any circumstances. The
noble sweep of the river, the keen blue of the water and sky, the green
of the hills, the brilliant double row of yachts and the general
atmosphere of hilarity were enough to make one glad to be alive. And
then the excitement of the race itself, the sense of participation the
motion of the train gave one, the almost painful fascination of watching
those two little sets of automatons, the involuntary, electric response
from the crowd when one or the other of them pulled a little into the
lead, the thrill of bursting out from behind some temporary obstruction
and seeing them down there, quite near now, entering the last half-mile
with one's own crew just a little, ever so little, ahead! From which
moment it seemed both a second and an age to the finish, that terrific,
heart-raising finish, with its riot of waving colors and its pandemonium
of toots from the water and cries from the land....

On the whole, we suppose Yale must have won that race. For after all, it
isn't quite so pleasant when the other crew wins, no matter how close
the race was and no matter how good a loser one happens to be. Tommy was
as good a loser as you could easily find, but not even he could have
been as cheerful as all that on the ride back if his crew had lost.
Indeed, cheerful was rather a weak word with which to describe Tommy by
this time. Beatrice, doing her best to calm him down, became aware, from
glances shot at him from various--mostly feminine--directions, that some
people would have characterized his condition by a much sharper and
shorter word. Involuntarily, almost against her will, Beatrice
indignantly repelled their accusation. What nonsense! They didn't know
Tommy; he was naturally like this. Though there had been champagne at
lunch, of course....

Rather an interesting experience, that ride back to town. The enforced
inactivity gave one a chance to think, in the intervals of tugging at
Tommy's coat tails. Why should she be enjoying herself so ridiculously?
Whole-souled enjoyment was not a thing she had been accustomed to
during the last few years, at any rate since.... Yes, she had enjoyed
herself more this afternoon than at any time since she had been married;
but what of it? She attached no blame to James; it was not James' fault;
nothing was anybody's fault. She was taking a little, a very little fun
where she found it, that was all.

The train pulled up in the yards and thought was discontinued. It was
resumed a few minutes later, however, as they sat in the launch, waiting
for the rest of their party to join them. She happened to be sitting
just opposite to Aunt Cecilia, on whom her eyes idly rested. Aunt
Cecilia! What about Aunt Cecilia? She was wrong, of course! She did not
understand; she was wrong! Tommy was all right....

So sub-consciousness got in its little work, till conscious reason
sallied forth and routed it. Oh, why, Beatrice asked herself, with a
mental motion as of throwing off an entangling substance, why all this
nonsensical worrying about a danger that did not exist? What danger was
there of her--making a fool of herself over Tommy when.... She did not
follow that thought out; it was better to leave those "when" clauses
hanging in the air, when possible.

But Tommy! Poor, good-natured, simple, ineffective Tommy!

She resolved to think no longer, but to give herself entirely over to
what slight pleasure the moment had to offer She dressed and dined in
good spirits, with a sense of anticipation almost childlike in its
innocence.

After dinner there was a general exodus to the Griswold. From the moment
she stepped on to the hotel dock, surrounded by its crowd of cheerfully
bobbing launches, she became infected with the prevailing spirit of
gaiety. Tommy was right; Americans did know how to enjoy themselves!

They made their way up the lawn toward the big brilliant hotel. They
reached the door of the ballroom and stopped a moment. In this interval
Beatrice became aware of James at her elbow.

"You'd better dance with me first," he said.

They danced two or three times around the room in complete silence.
Beatrice did not in the least mind dancing with James, indeed she rather
enjoyed it, he danced so well. But why address her in that sepulchral
tone; why make his invitation sound like a threat; why not at least put
up a pretense of making duty a pleasure? She was conscious of a slight
rise of irritation; if James was going to be a skeleton at this
feast.... She was relieved when he handed her over to one of the other
men.

But James had no intention of being a skeleton. He went back to bed
before any of the others, alleging a headache. Beatrice learned this
indirectly, through Harry, and felt rather disappointed. She would have
preferred to have him remain and enjoy himself; she did not bother to
explain why. But he was apparently determined that nothing should make
him enjoy himself. James was rather irritating, sometimes. She said as
much, to Harry, who assented, frowning slightly. She saw a chance to get
in some of the small work of destiny-fighting.

"He's not been at all natural lately," she said; "I've been quite
worried about him. I wish you'd watch him and tell me what to do about
it. I feel rather to blame for it, naturally."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," said Harry. "Working in the city in summer is
hard on any one, of course."

"I'm afraid it's more than that, and I want your help. You understand
James better than I do, I think."

"No, you're wrong there. I don't understand James at all. No one really
understands any one else, as a matter of fact. We think we do, but we
don't. The very simplest nature is a regular Cretan labyrinth."

"But a wife ought to be the Theseus of her husband's labyrinth, that's
the point."

"Perhaps you're right. Here's hoping you don't find a minotaur in the
middle!"

She didn't worry much about it, however. Tommy cut in soon afterward,
and they didn't talk about James or labyrinths either. Tommy had not
danced with her before that evening. She was going to say something
about that, but decided not to. It was too jolly dancing to talk,
really. Tommy danced very well--quite as well as James. They danced the
contemporary American dances for some time and then they broke into an
old-fashioned whirling English waltz; the dance they had both been
brought up on. It brought memories to the minds of both; they felt old
times and places creeping back on them.

"Do you remember the last time we did this?" asked Tommy presently.

"At the Dimchurches', the winter before I came here."

"Didn't last long, though. You were the prettiest gell there."

"I suppose I was.--And you were just Tommy Erskine then, and awfully
ineligible!"

What an absurd remark to make! If she was going to let her tongue run
away with her like that, she had better keep her mouth shut.

They danced on in silence for some time, rested in the cool of a
verandah and then danced again. The room was already beginning to empty
somewhat, making dancing more of a pleasure than ever. They danced on
till they were tired and then sat out again.

"We might take a stroll about," suggested Tommy presently.

They walked down the steps and out on the lawn. Presently they came near
the windows of the bar, which was on the ground floor of the hotel, and
stopped to look in for a moment. It was a lively scene. The room--a
great white bare place--was filled with men laughing and shouting and
slapping each other on the shoulder and bellowing college songs, all in
a thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. They were also drinking, and
Beatrice noticed that when they had drained their glasses they
invariably threw them carelessly on the floor, adding a new sound to the
din and fairly paving the room with broken glass. Many of them were
mildly intoxicated, but none were actually drunk; the whole sounded the
note of celebration in the ballroom strengthened and masculinized. It
had its effect on Beatrice; it was a pleasure to think that one lived in
a world where people could enjoy themselves thoroughly and uproariously
and without becoming bestial about it.

"It's really very jolly, isn't it?" she said at last.

"Oh, rippin'," assented Tommy.

"Perhaps you'd rather go in there now?"

"No, no. Don't know the fellahs--I should feel out of it. Wiggers was
right.--Besides, I'd rather stay with you."

Beatrice wondered if she had intended to make Tommy say that.

They wandered off through the hotel grounds and saw other couples doing
the same. Doing rather more, in fact. After some search they found an
empty bench and sat down.

Tommy's education had been in many ways a narrow one, but it had
equipped him perfectly for making use of such situations as the present.
He turned about on the bench, leaning one arm on its back and facing
Beatrice's profile squarely.

"Jove!" he said reminiscently. "Haven't done that since Oxford."

"What?"

"That." He waved his head in the direction of the well populated
shadows.

"Oh," answered Beatrice carelessly. The profound lack of interest in her
tone had its effect.

"I did it to you once, by Jove! Remember?"

"No. You never did, Tommy; you know that perfectly well."

"Well, I will now, then!"

He did.

The next moment he rather wished he had not, Beatrice's slow smile of
contemptuous tolerance made him feel like such a child.

"Tommy, it's only you, of course, so it really doesn't matter, but if
you try to do that again I shall punish you."

Her power over him was as comforting to her as it was disconcerting to
him. For a moment; after that she felt a pang of irritation. The idea of
a married woman being kissed by a man not her husband was in itself
rather revolting, and the thought that she was that married woman stung.
As if that was not enough, the thought came to her that she could have
stopped Tommy at any moment and had not. Had she not, in fact,
secretly--even to herself--intended that he should do that very thing
when they first sat down? She had used her power for contemptible ends.
The thought that after all it was only poor ineffectual Tommy only
increased her sense of degradation. All her pleasure had fled.

"Come along, Tommy," she said, rising; "it's time to go home."

It was indeed late--long after twelve. The launch, as she remembered it,
was to make its last trip back to the yacht at half-past; they would be
just in time. Tommy walked the length of the dock two or three times
calling "Halcyone! Halcyone!" but there was no response from the already
dwindling throng of launches. They sat down to wait, both moody and
silent.

From the very first Beatrice suspected that they had been left. It was
the natural sequence of the preceding episode; that was the way things
happened. Her sense of disillusionment and irritation increased. The
dancing had stopped, but the drinking continued; people were wandering
or lying about the lawn in disgusting states of intoxication. What had
been a joyous bacchanal had degenerated into a horrid saturnalia. Once,
as they walked down to see if the launch had arrived, a man stumbled by
them with a lewd remark. Beatrice remained on the verandah and made
Tommy go down alone after that. His mournful "Halcyone!" floated up like
the cry of a soul from Acheron.

By one o'clock or so it became obvious to everybody that they had been
forgotten, and Beatrice instructed Tommy to hire any boat he could get
to take them to the yacht. He had a long interview with the chief
nautical employee of the hotel, who promised to see what he could do.
That appeared to be singularly little. At last, with altered views of
the American way of running things, Beatrice went down herself and
talked to him. He would do what he could, but.... It was two o'clock;
the dock was deserted.

Beatrice knew he would do nothing and bethought herself of the two rooms
in the hotel that Aunt Cecilia had engaged. Her impression was that they
were not being used to-night; their party was smaller than it had been
the night before. She went to the hotel office and asked if there were
some rooms engaged for Mrs. James Wimbourne and if they were already
occupied. After some research it appeared that there were and they
weren't. Well, Beatrice and Tommy would take them. The night clerk was
interested. He understood the situation perfectly and refrained from
commenting upon their lack of baggage.

So Beatrice was shown into one room and Tommy into the other, the two
parting with a brief good night in the corridor.

The first thing Beatrice noticed about the room was that there was a
communicating door between it and Tommy's room. She saw that there was a
bolt on her side, however, and made sure that it was shut.

Then she rang for a chambermaid and asked for a nightgown and
toothbrush.




CHAPTER X

MR. AND MRS. ALFRED LAMMLE


It was generally looked upon as rather a good joke. Aunt Cecilia, of
course, was prolific of apologies; the launch had made so many trips,
and every one thought Beatrice and Lord Clairloch had gone at another
time; there had been no general gathering afterward, they had all gone
to bed as soon as they reached the yacht, and James, as Beatrice knew,
had gone to bed early with a headache; how clever it was of Beatrice to
have thought of those two rooms and wasn't it lucky they had been
engaged, after all, and so forth. But most of the others were inclined
to be facetious. Breakfast, thanks to their efforts, was quite a merry
meal.

For the two most nearly concerned the situation was almost devoid of
embarrassment. They arrived at the yacht shortly after eight in a launch
they had ordered the night before at the hotel, and repaired to their
respective rooms without even being seen in their evening clothes. By
the time breakfast was over Beatrice had quite recovered from her
irritation at Tommy and had even almost ceased to blame herself for the
events of the previous night.

The party broke up after lunch, the yacht proceeding to Bar Harbor and
the guests going their various ways. Beatrice and James went directly
back to New York. James was very silent in the train, as silent as he
had been on the way up, but Beatrice was less inclined to find fault
with him for that than before. As she looked at him quietly reading in
the chair opposite her it even occurred to her that his silence was
preferable to Tommy's companionable chirpings, even at their best. And
with Tommy at his worst, as he had been last night, there was no
comparison. Oh, yes, she was thoroughly tired of Tommy!

Dinner in their apartment passed off almost as quietly as the journey,
yet quite pleasantly, in Beatrice's opinion. The night was cool, and a
refreshing breeze blew in from the harbor. After the maid had left the
room and they sat over their coffee and cigarettes, James spoke.

"About last night," he began, and stopped.

"Yes?" said Beatrice encouragingly.

"I thought at first I wouldn't mention it, and then I decided it would
be rather cowardly not to ... I want to say that--"

"That what?"

"That I have no objections."

"To what?" Her bewilderment was not feigned.

"To last night! I don't want you to think I'm jealous, or unsympathetic,
or anything like that.... You are at liberty to do what you please--to
get pleasure where you can find it. I understand."

"You don't understand at all!" Her manner was still one of bewilderment,
though possibly other feelings were beginning to enter.

"I understand, and shall understand in the future. I shan't mention the
matter again. Only one thing more--whenever our--our bargain interferes
too much, you can end it. I shan't offer any opposition."

She sat frozen in her chair, making no sign that she had understood, so
he explained in an almost gentle tone of voice: "I mean you can divorce
me, you know."

"Divorce!"

"Oh, very well, just as you like. Of course our marriage ceases to be
such from now on...."

So unprepared, so at peace with herself and the world had she been that
it was only now that she fully comprehended his meaning. James was
accusing her, making the great accusation ... James thought that she....
Of course, not being the kind of a woman who dissolves in tears at that
accusation, her first dominant emotion was one of anger; an anger
sharper than any she had ever felt; an anger she would have thought to
be impossible to her, after all these months of lassitude, all these
years of chastening. She rose from her chair and made a step toward the
door; her impulse being to walk out of the room, out of the house, out
of James' life, without a word. Not a word of self-defense; some charges
are too vile to merit reply!

Then commonsense flared up, conquering anger and pride. No, she must not
give way to her pride; she must act like a sensible being. After all,
James was her husband, he had some right to accuse if he thought proper;
the falseness of his accusation did not take away his right of
explanation; he should be made to see.

Slowly she turned and went back to her place. She sat down squarely
facing James with both hands on the table in front of her, and prepared
to talk like a lawyer presenting a case. James was watching her quietly,
interested, perhaps ever so slightly amused, but not in the least moved.

"James, as I understand it, you think that I--that Tommy and I...."

"Yes?"

"Well, you've made a great mistake, that's all. You've condemned me
without a hearing. You've assumed that I was guilty--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, let's not talk about being guilty or innocent or
wronging each other or being faithful to each other! Those things have
no meaning for us. I'm not blaming you--I've tried to explain that to
the best of my ability!"

"Very well, then, let us say you have made a mistake in facts."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean--what should I mean? That Tommy and I are not lovers."

"Well, what then?"

"What then--?"

"Yes, what of it? I never said you were, did I? Suppose you're not,
then; if you're glad, I'm glad, if you're sorry, I'm sorry. It doesn't
alter our position."

"James, you don't understand!"

"What?"

"When you spoke before you thought that I was--that I had sinned.--I do
consider it a sin; perhaps you'll allow me to call it so if it pleases
me."

"Certainly." He smiled.

"Well, you were wrong. I haven't."

"All right; I was wrong. You haven't."

"Very well, then!"

"Very well WHAT?"

"James!"

"I'm sorry.--But what are you driving at? I wasn't accusing you, you
know; I was simply telling you you were free, which you knew before,
and offering you more freedom if you wanted it. Why this outburst of
virtue?"

"James, you are rather brutal!"

"I'm sorry if I seem so; I don't mean to be." He shifted his position
slightly and went on quite gently with another smile: "Beatrice, if you
have successfully met a temptation--or what you look upon as a
temptation--I'm sure I'm very glad. After all, we are friends, and what
pleases my friend pleases me, other things being equal. But does that
pleasing fact in itself alter things between us when, from my own
selfish point of view, I don't care in the least whether you overcame
the temptation or not? And does it, I ask you, alter facts? Does it make
you any less fond of Tommy than you are; does it make you as fond of me
as you are of him?"

"Oh, James! You understand so little--"

"Whatever I may understand or not understand I know that you spent all
of last evening and practically all yesterday and a great part of the
evening before with Tommy, and that you gave no particular evidence of
being bored ... Beatrice, you were happy with him, happy as a child, the
happiest person in the whole crowd, and you showed it, too! Do you mean
to say that you've ever, at any time in your life, been as happy in my
society as all that! No! Deny it if you can!"

"James, you are jealous!" The discovery came to her like an inspiration,
sending a thrill through her. She did not stop to analyze it now, but
when she came to think it over later she realized that there was
something in that thrill quite distinct from the satisfaction of finding
a good reply to James' really rather searching (though of course quite
unfounded) charges.

"There's a good deal of the cave-man left in you, James, argue as you
may. Do you think any one but a jealous man could talk as you are
talking now? 'Deny it if you can'--what do you care whether I deny it or
not, according to what you just said? Oh, James, how are you living up
to your part of the bargain?"

Her tone was free from rancor or spite, and her words had their effect.
James was not beyond appreciating the justice in what she said. He left
his chair and raised his hand to his forehead with a gesture of
bewilderment.

"Oh, Lord, I suppose you're right," he muttered, and began pacing the
room.

So they remained in silence for some time, she sitting quietly in her
chair as before and he walking aimlessly up and down, desperately trying
to adjust himself to this new fact. It is strange how people will give
themselves away when they begin talking; he had been so sure of himself
in his thoughts; he had gone over such matters so satisfactorily in his
own head! Beatrice understood his plight and respected it; it was not
for her, after these last few days, to minimize the trials of
self-discovery....

The maid popped in at the pantry door and popped out again.

"All right, Mary, you can take the things," said Beatrice, and led the
way into the living room.

There was no air of finality in this move, but the slight domestic
incident at least had the effect of putting a check on introspection and
restoring things to a more normal footing. Once in the living room--it
was a large high room, built as a studio and reaching up two
stories--they were both much more at ease; they began to feel capable of
resuming negotiations, when the time arrived, like two normal sensible
beings. James threw himself on a couch; Beatrice moved about the room,
opening a window here, turning up a light there, arranging a vase of
flowers somewhere else. At last, deeming the time ripe, she stopped in
one of her noiseless trips and spoke down at her husband.

"James, do you realize that you alone, of all the people on the yacht,
had the remotest suspicion? You remember how they all joked about it?"

Oh, the danger of putting things into words! Beatrice's voice was as
gentle as she could make it; there was even a note of casual amusement
in it, but in some intangible way, merely by reopening the subject
vocally, Beatrice laid herself open to attack. James' lip curled; he
could no more keep it from doing so than keep his hair from curling.

"You must remember, however, that they were not fully acquainted with
the circumstances...."

Beatrice turned away in despair, not angry at James, but realizing the
inevitability of his reply as well as he himself. She sat down in an
armchair and leaned her head against the back of it; she wished it
might not be necessary ever to rise from that chair again. The blind
hopelessness of their situation lay heavy on them both.

James spoke next.

"Beatrice, will you tell me what it's all about? Why are we squabbling
this way? How can we find out--what on earth are we going to do about it
all?"

"I've no more idea than you, James."

"Every time we get talking we always fall back on our bargain, as if
that was the one reliable thing in the whole universe. Always our
bargain, our bargain! Beatrice, what in Heaven's name is our bargain?"

"Marriage, I take it."

"You know it's more than that--less than that--not that, anyway! At
first it was all quite clear to me; we were two people whose lives had
been broken and we were going to try to mend them as best we might. And
as it seemed we could do that better together than alone we determined
to marry. Our marriage was to be a perfectly loose, free arrangement,
and we were to stick to its terms only as long as we could profit by
doing so. We were to part without ill feeling and with perfect
understanding. And now, at the first shred of evidence--no, not even
evidence, suspicion--that you want to break away we start quarreling
like a pair of cats, and I become a monster of jealousy, like any comic
husband in a play...."

Beatrice's heart sank again at those words; there was no mistaking the
bitterness in them. That heightened a fear she had felt when James had
answered her about the people on the yacht; James was still smarting
with the discovery of his jealousy, and the trouble was that the smart
was so sharp that he might not forgive her for having made him feel it.
She felt the taste of her little triumph turn to ashes in her mouth.

"No, James, no!" she interrupted hurriedly. "You weren't, really. That
was all nonsense--we both saw that...."

"No, it's true--I was jealous. Jealous! and for what? And what's more, I
still am. I can't help it. When I think of Tommy, and the boat-race, and
all that. Oh, Lord, the idiocy of it!"

"I don't particularly mind your being jealous, James, if that's any
comfort to you."

"No! Why on earth should you? You're living up to your part of the
bargain, and I'm not--that's what it comes to. Oh, it's all my fault,
every bit of it--no doubt of that!"

His words gave Beatrice a new sensation, not so much a sinking as a
steeling of the heart. His self-accusation was all very well, but if it
also involved trampling on her--! And she did begin to feel trampled
upon; much more so now than when he had directly accused her.... That
was odd! Was it possible that she would rather be vilified than ignored,
even by James?

Meanwhile James was ranting on--it had not occurred to her that it was
ranting before, but it did now:--"There's something about the mere
institution of marriage, I suppose, that makes me feel this way; the old
idea of possession or something.... You were right about the cave-man!
It's something stronger than me--I can't help it; but if it's going on
like this every time you--every time you speak to another man, it'll
make a delightful thing out of our married life, won't it? This free and
easy bargain of ours, this sensible arrangement! Why, it's a thousand
times harder than an ordinary marriage, just because I have nothing to
hold you with!...

"Beatrice, we're caught in something. Trapped! Don't you feel it?
Something you can't see, can't understand, only feel gradually pressing
in on you, paralyzing you, smothering you! There's no use blaming each
other for it; we're both wound up in it equally; it's something far
stronger than either of us. A pair of blind mice in a trap!..."

He flung himself across the room to an open window and stood there,
resting his elbows on the sill and gazing out over the twinkling lights
of the city. Beatrice sat immovable in her chair, but her bosom was
heaving with the memory of certain things he had said. Another revulsion
of feeling mastered her; she no longer thought of him as ranting; she
felt his words too strongly for that. A pair of blind mice in a
trap--yes, yes, she felt all that, but that was not what had stirred her
so. What was that he had said about having nothing to hold her with?...

She watched him as he stood there trying to cool his tortured mind in
the evening air. He was tremendously worked up; she wondered if he could
stand this sort of thing physically; she remembered how ill he had been
looking lately.... She watched him with a new anxiety, half expecting to
see him topple over backward at any moment, overcome by the strain. Then
she could help him; her mind conjured up a vision of herself running
into the dining room for some whisky and back to him with the glass in
her hand; "Here, drink this," and her hand under his head.... It was
wicked of her to wish anything of the kind, of course; but if she could
only be of some use to him! If he would but think of turning to her for
help in getting out of his trap! He would not find his fellow-mouse cold
or unsympathetic.

She could not overcome her desire to find out if any such idea was in
his mind. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder.

"James--"

"No, not now, please; I want to think."

And his shoulder remained a piece of tweed under her hand; he did not
even bother to shake her off.

She sat down again to wait.

When at last he left the window it was to sit down by a lamp and take up
a book. That was not a bad sign, in itself, as long as he made his
reading an interlude and not an ending. But as she sat watching him it
became more and more evident that he regarded their interview as closed.
And so they sat stolidly for some time, James determined that nothing
should lead him into another humiliating exhibition of feeling and
Beatrice determined that whatever happened she would make him stop
ignoring her. And though she was at first merely hurt by his
indifference she presently began to feel her determination strengthened
by something else, something which, starting as hardly more than natural
feminine pique shortly grew into irritation, then into anger of a
slow-burning type and lastly, as her eyes tired of seeing him sit there
so unaffectedly absorbed in his reading, into something for the moment
approaching active dislike. We all know what hell hath no fury like, and
Beatrice, as she fed her mind on the thought of how often he had
insulted and repelled and above all ignored her that evening, began to
consider herself very much in the light of a woman scorned.

"Is that all, James?" she ventured at length.

He put down his book and looked up with the manner of one making a great
effort to be reasonable.

"What do you want, Beatrice?"

Beatrice would have given a good deal to be able to say that what she
really wanted was that he should take her to him as he had that day at
Bar Harbor and never once since, but as she could not she made a
substitute answer.

"We can't leave things as they are, can we?"

"Why not? Haven't we said too much already?"

"Too much for peace, but not enough for satisfaction. We can't leave
things hanging in the air this way."

"Very well, then, if you insist. How shall we begin?"

"Well, suppose we begin with our bargain--see what its terms are and
whether we can live up to them and whether it's for our benefit to do
so."

"All right. What do you consider the terms of our bargain to be?"

They were both talking in the measured tones of people determined to
keep control over themselves at all costs. They looked at each other
warily, as though guarding against being maneuvered into a betrayal of
temper or feeling.

"Well, in the first place, I assume that we want to present a good front
to the world. Bold and united. We want to prevent people from
knowing...."

"Certainly."

"And if we give the impression of being happy together we've gone a good
way toward that end."

"Yes, that's logical."

"Well--?"

"What?"

"It's your turn now, isn't it?"

"Oh, no; you've begun so well you'd better go on."

"Well, I've only got one more idea on the subject, and that is just
tentative--a sort of suggestion." She sat down on the sofa by him and
strove to make her manner a little more intimate without becoming
mawkish or intrusive. "It has occurred to me that we haven't given that
impression very much in the past, and I think the reason for that may be
that we--well, that we don't work together enough. Does it ever occur to
you, James, that we don't understand each other very well? Not nearly as
much as we might, I sometimes think, without--without having to pretend
anything. We know each other so slightly! Sometimes it gives me the
oddest feeling, to think I am married to you, who are stranger to me
than almost any of my friends...."

She feared the phrasing of that thought was a little unfortunate, and
broke off suddenly with: "But perhaps I'm boring you?"

"No, no--I'm very much interested. How do you think we ought to go about
it?"

"It's difficult to say, of course. How do you think? I should suggest,
for one thing, that we should be less shy with each other--less afraid
of each other. Especially about things that concern us. Even if it is
hard to talk about such things, I think we ought to. We should be more
frank with each other, James."

"As we have been this evening, for example?"

The cynical note rang in his voice, the note she most dreaded.

"No, I didn't mean that, necessarily. I don't mind saying, though, that
I think even our talking to-night has been a good thing. It has cleared
the air, you know. See where we are now!"

"Yes, and it's cleared you too. But what about me?"

"I don't understand."

"Oh, you've come out of it all right! You've behaved yourself,
vindicated yourself, done nothing you didn't expect to, nothing you have
reason to be ashamed of afterward. I have! I haven't been able to open
my mouth without making a fool of myself in one way or another...."

"Only because you're overtired, James...."

"I've said things I never thought myself capable of saying, and I've
found I thought things that no decent man should think. It was an
interesting experience."

"James, my dear, don't be so bitter! I'm not blaming you. I can forget
all that!"

She laid her hand on his knee and the action, together with the quality
of her voice, had a visible effect on him. He paused a moment and looked
at her curiously. When he spoke again it was without bitterness.

"That's awfully decent of you, Beatrice, but the trouble is I can't
forget. Those things stay in the memory, and they're not desirable
companions. And as talking, the kind of frank talking you suggest, seems
to bring them out in spite of me, I think perhaps we'd better not have
much of that kind of talk. It seems to me that the less we talk the
better we shall get on."

Beatrice was silent a moment in her turn. She had not brought him quite
to where she wanted him, but she had brought him nearer than he had been
before. She resolved to let things stay as they were.

"Very well, James," she said, leaning back by his side; "we won't talk
if you don't want to. About those things, that is. There are plenty of
other things we can talk about. And let's go to places more together and
do things more together. I see no reason why we shouldn't get on very
well together. After all, I do enjoy being with you, when you're in a
good mood, more than with any one else I know--that I could be with--"

"Then why--Oh, Lord!" He stopped himself and sank forward in despair
with his head on his hands.

"Well, go on and say it."

"No, no."

"Yes. It's better that way."

"I was going to say, why did you appear to enjoy yourself with Tommy so
much more than--Oh, it's no use, Beatrice! I can't help it--it's beyond
me!"

"Oh, James!"

"Yes, that's just it! It's the devil in me!"

"When that was all over, James!"

"All over! Then there was something!... Oh, good _Lord_! We can't go
through it all over again!"

"James, I meant that you were all over feeling that--"

"Yes, yes, I know you did, and I thought you meant the other and said
that, and of course I had no right to because of what we are, and so
forth, over and over again! Round and round and round, like a mouse in a
trap! Caught again!..."

He got up and walked across the room once or twice, steadying himself
with one last great effort. In a moment he stopped dead in front of her.

"See here, Beatrice!"

"Yes?"

"It can't happen again, do you see? It's got to stop right here and now!
I can't stand it--call it weak of me if you like, but I can't. It'll
drive me stark mad. We are not going to talk about these things again,
do you see?"

"What sort of things?"

"Anything! Anything that can possibly bring these things into my head
and make a human fiend of me. And you're not to tempt me to talk of
them, either. Do you promise?"

"I promise anything that's reasonable--anything that will help you. But
do you intend to let this--this weakness end everything--spoil our whole
life?"

"Spoil! What on earth is there to spoil? We've got on well enough up to
now, haven't we? Well, we'll go back to where we were, where we were
this morning! And we'll stay there, please God, as long as we two shall
live! You're free, absolutely free, from now on! I shan't question
anything you may care to do from this moment, I promise you!"

She remained silent a moment, awed in spite of herself by the fervency
of his words. She was cruelly disappointed in him. She had made so many
attempts, she had humbled herself so often, she had suffered his rebuffs
so many times and she had brought him at one time in spite of himself so
near to a happier state of things that his one-minded insistence on his
own humiliation seemed to her indescribably petty and selfish. His
jealousy, his vile, rudimentary dog-in-the-manger jealousy; that was
what he couldn't get over; that was what he could not forgive her for!
What a small thing that was to resent, in view of what she herself had
so steadfastly refrained from resenting!... However, since he wished it,
there was nothing more to be done. She could be as cold and unemotional
as he, if it came to the test.

"Then you definitely give up every effort toward a better
understanding?"

"Yes!"

"And you prefer, once for all, to be strangers rather than friends?"

"Strangers don't squabble!"

"Very well, then, James," she said with a quiet smile, "strangers let it
be. I daresay it's better so, after all. I shouldn't wonder if you found
me quite as good and thorough a stranger, from now on, as you could
desire. It was foolish of me to talk to you as I did."

"No, no--don't get blaming yourself. It's such a cheap form of
satisfaction."

She stood looking at him a moment with coldly glittering eyes.

"It's quite true," she repeated; "I was a fool. I was a fool to imagine
that you and I could have anything in common. Ever. Well, nothing can
very well put us farther apart than we are now. There's a certain
comfort in that, perhaps."

"There is."

"At last we agree. Husbands and wives should always agree. Good-night,
James."

"Good-night,"

He watched her as she glided from the room, so slim and beautiful and
disdainful. Perhaps a shadow of regret for her passed across his mind, a
thought of what a woman, what a wife, even, she might have been under
other circumstances; but it did not go far into him. Things were as they
were; he had long since given up bothering about them, trying only to
think and feel as little as possible. He took up his book again and read
far into the night.




CHAPTER XI

HESITANCIES AND TEARS


Thomas Mackintosh Drummond Erskine, by courtesy known as Viscount
Clairloch, was not a remarkably complicated person. His life was
governed by a few broad and well-tried principles which he found, as
many had found before him, covered practically all the contingencies he
was called upon to deal with. One wanted things, and if possible, one
got them. That was the first and great commandment of nature, and the
second was akin to it; one did nothing contrary to a thing generally
known as decency. This was a little more complicated, for though decency
was a natural thing--one always wanted to be decent, other things being
equal--it had a rather difficult technique which had to be mastered by a
long slow process. If any one had asked Tommy how this technique was
best obtained he would undoubtedly have answered, by a course of six
years at either Eton, Harrow or Winchester, followed by three years at
one of half a dozen colleges he could name at Oxford or Cambridge.

Occasionally, of course--though not often--the paths of desire and
decency diverged, and this divergence was sometimes provocative of
unpleasantness. Treated sensibly, however, the problem could always be
brought to an easy and simple solution. Tommy found that in such a case
it was always possible to do one of two things; persuade oneself either
that the desire was compatible with decency or that it did not exist at
all. Either of those simple feats of dialectic accomplished, everything
worked out quite beautifully. It is a splendid thing to have been
educated at Harrow and Christchurch.

Ever since he arrived in America it had been evident to Tommy that he
wanted Beatrice. He did not want her with quite the absorbing intensity
that would make him one of the great lovers of history--Harrow and
Christchurch decreed that one should go fairly easy on wanting a
married woman--but still he wanted her, for him, very much indeed. Up
to the night of the boat-race everything had gone swimmingly. Then,
indeed, he had received a setback; a setback which came very near making
him abandon further pursuit and proceed forthwith to those portions of
America which lie to the west of Upper Montclair. If Aunt Cecilia had
not casually invited him to accompany the yacht on its trip round Cape
Cod he might have started the very next morning. But he went to Bar
Harbor, and before he left there it had become plain to him that he
could probably have what he had so long desired.

Everything had favored him. Aunt Cecilia had made it pleasant for him
for a while, and when the time came when Aunt Cecilia might be expected
to become tired of making it pleasant for him others came forward who
were more than willing to do as much. Tommy was a desirable as well as
an agreeable guest; he looked well in the papers. With the result that
he was still playing about Bar Harbor at the end of July, at which time
Beatrice, looking quite lovely and wan and heat-fagged, came, unattended
by her husband, to be the chief ornament of Aunt Cecilia's spacious
halls.

And how Beatrice had changed since he last saw her! She was as little
the cold-eyed, contemptuous Artemis of that night in New London as she
was the fresh-cheeked debutante of his early knowledge; and she was
infinitely more attractive, he thought, than either of them. She had a
new way of looking up at him when he came to greet her; she was willing
to pass long hours in his sole company; she depended on him for
amusement, she relied on him in various little ways; and more important,
she soon succeeded in making him forget his fear of her. For the first
time in his knowledge of her he had the feeling of being fully as strong
as she, fully as self-controlled, as firm-willed. This was in reality
but another symptom of her power over him, but he never recognized it as
such.

Appetite, as we know, increases with eating, and every sign of favor
that came his way fanned the almost extinguished flame of Tommy's desire
into renewed warmth and vigor. Before many weeks it had grown into
something warmer and more vigorous than anything he had ever
experienced, till at last his gentle bosom became the battlefield of the
dreaded Armageddon between desire and decency. It wasn't really
dreaded, in his case, because he was not the sort of person who is
capable of living very far ahead of the present moment, and perhaps, in
view of the strength of both the contending forces, the term Armageddon
may be an exaggeration; but it was the most serious internal conflict
that the good-natured viscount (by courtesy) ever knew.

But the struggle, though painful, was short-lived. After going to bed
for five evenings in succession fearing that care would drive sleep from
his pillow that night, and sleeping soundly from midnight till
eight-thirty, the illuminating thought came to him that, owing to the
truly Heaven-made laws of the country in which he then was, the conflict
practically did not exist. In America people divorced; no foolish stigma
was attached to the process, as at home; it was easy, it was
respectable, it was done! He blessed his stars; what a marvelous stroke
of luck that Beatrice had married an American and not an Englishman! He
thought of the years of carking secrecy through which such things are
dragged in England, and contrasted it with the neat despatch of the
Yankee system. A few weeks of legal formalities, tiresome, of course,
but trivial in view of the object, and then--a triumphant return to
native shores, closing in a long vista of years with Beatrice at his
side as Lady Clairloch and eventually as Lady Strathalmond! Sweet
ultimate union of desire and decency! He gave thanks to Heaven in his
fervent, simple-souled way.

Nothing remained save to persuade Beatrice to take the crucial step.
Well, there would be little trouble about that, judging by the way
things were going....

As for Beatrice, she was at first much too exhausted, both physically
and mentally, to think much about Tommy one way or the other. That last
month in New York had been a horribly enervating one, both
meteorologically and domestically speaking. Scarcely had she been able
to bring herself to face the impossibility of winning her husband's
affection when the hot weather came on, the crushing heat of July, that
burned every ounce of a desire to live out of one and made the whole
world as great a desert as one's own home.... It was James who had
suggested her going to Aunt Cecilia's--"because he didn't want me to die
on his hands," Beatrice idly reflected, as she lay at last in a hammock
on the broad verandah, luxuriating in the sea breeze that made a light
wrap necessary.

Then Tommy came back to the Wimbournes' to stay, and a regular daily
routine was begun. Beatrice remained in her room all the morning, while
Tommy played golf. They met at lunch and strolled or drove or watched
people play tennis together in the afternoon. After dinner Beatrice
generally ensconced herself with rugs on the verandah while Tommy buzzed
about fetching footstools or cushions or talked to her or simply sat by
her side. After a while she found that Tommy was quite good company, if
you didn't take him seriously. Tommy--she supposed this was the real
foundation of her liking for him--was her countryman. He knew things, he
understood things, he looked at things as she had been brought up to
look at them. Tommy, to take a small instance, never stifled a smile
when she used such words as caliber or schedule, pronouncing them in the
English way--the proper way, when all was said and done, for was not
England the home and source of the English language?

A few days later, as returning health quickened her perceptions, she
realized that another thing that made Tommy agreeable was the fact that
he strove honestly to please her. A pleasant change, at least!... She
was well enough to be bitter again, it seemed. Not only was Tommy
attentive in such matters as rugs and cushions, but he made definite
efforts to fit his speech and his moods to her. He found that she liked
to talk about England and he was at some pains to read up information
about current events there, a thing he had not bothered much about since
his departure from home. She had only to ask a leading question about a
friend at home and he would gossip for a whole evening about their
mutual acquaintance.

Presently she began to discover--or fancy she discovered--hitherto
unsounded depths--or what were, comparatively speaking, depths--in
Tommy's character.

"I say, how jolly the stars are to-night," he observed as he took his
place by her one evening. "Never see the stars, somehow, but I think of
tigers. Ever since I went to India. Went off on a tiger hunt, you know,
out in the wilds somewhere, and we had to sleep out on a sort of grassy
place with a fire in the middle of us, you know, to keep the beasties
off. Well, I'd never seen a tiger, outside of the zoo, and I had 'em on
the brain. I had a dream about meeting one, and it got so bad that I
woke up at last with a shout, thinkin' a tiger was standin' just over me
with his two dev'lish old eyes staring down into mine! Then I saw it was
only two bright stars, rather close together. But I never can see stars
now without thinkin' of tiger's eyes, though I met a tiger quite close
on soon after that and his eyes weren't like that, at all....

"Rather sad, isn't it?" he added after a moment.

"Sad? Why?"

"Well, other people have something better than an old beast's blinkers
to compare stars to. Women's eyes, you know, and all that."

There was something in the way he said this that made Beatrice reply
"Oh, rot, Tommy!" even as she laughed. But his mood entertained her.

"Tommy," she went on, "I believe you'd try, even so, to say something
about my eyes and stars if I let you! Though anything less like stars
couldn't well be imagined.... Honestly now, Tommy, do my eyes look more
like stars or tiger's eyes?"

"Well," answered Tommy with laborious truthfulness, "I suppose they
really _look_ more like tiger's eyes. But they make me _think_ of
stars," he added, with a perfect burst of romance and poetry.

"And stars make you think of tiger's eyes! Oh, my poor Tommy!"

"Well, they're dev'lish good-lookin'--you ought to feel jolly
complimented!" He wanted to go on and say something about her acting
like a tiger, but did not feel quite up to it, at such short notice. But
they laughed companionably together.

Yes, Tommy really amused her. There was much to like in the simplicity
and kindliness of his nature; Harry had not been proof against it. And
there was no harm in him. Beatrice could imagine no more innocuous
pleasure than talking with Tommy, even if the conversation ran to
eyes--her eyes. She was not bothered this time by any nervous
reflections on what fields of amusement were suited to the innocent
ramblings of a young wife. And if she was inclined to emphasize the
pleasant part of her intercourse and minimize its danger--if indeed
there was any--the reason was not far to seek. Even if things went to
the last resort, what of it? What had she to lose--now?

Nothing. Not one earthly thing. She was free to glean where she could.

James would be glad--as glad as any one.

Though of course it had not come to that yet....

It was at about this time, however, that Tommy determined it should come
to that. Just that. And though he was not one to rush matters, he
decided that the sooner it came the better. He learned that James was to
come up for a fortnight at the end of August--James' vacation had for
some reason dwindled to that length of time--and he desired, in some
obscure way, to have it decided before James was actually in the house.
But the way had to be paved for the great suggestion and Tommy was not
perceptibly quicker at paving than at other intellectual pursuits.

One evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least
give an indication of the state of his own heart. With almost devilish
craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the
conversation round to the desired point.

"I say, Beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary
place.

"Yes, Tommy?"

"How long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about
here?"

"Oh, as long as you want, I suppose. She hasn't told me she was tired of
you."

"Yes, but ..."

"But what?"

"I've been here a goodish while, you know. First the boat-race, then the
cruise up here, then most of July and now most of August.... Stiffish,
wot?... Don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...."

Oh, but it was hard! Why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and
say, "Why do you want to leave, Tommy?" or something like that? She
seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged
desperately on.

"Not that I _want_ to go, you know. Jolly pleasant here, and all
that--rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...."

He felt himself perspiring profusely.

"Beatrice, do you know _why_ I don't want to go?" he burst forth.

Beatrice remained silent, lightly tapping the stone balustrade with her
foot. When she spoke it was with perfect self-possession.

"You're not going to be tiresome again, are you, Tommy?"

"Yes!" said Tommy fervently.

Again she paused. "Are you really fond of me, Tommy?" she asked
unexpectedly.

"Oh, Lord, yes!"

"How fond?"

"Oh ... frightf'ly!... What do you mean, how fond? You know! Do you want
me to throw myself into the sea?... I would," he added in a low voice.

"I didn't mean how much, exactly, but in what way? What do you mean by
it all?"

"What's the use of asking me? You know!"

"No, I don't think I do.... Are you fond enough of me to desire
everything for my good?"

"Yes!"

"Even at the sacrifice of yourself?"

"Yes!"

"Well, don't you think it's for my ultimate good as a married woman that
you shouldn't try to make love to me?"

"What the--Beatrice, don't torment me!"

"I don't want to, but you must see how impossible it is, Tommy. You
can't go on talking this way to me."

"Why not?"

"Why, because I'm _married_, obviously! Such things are--well, they
simply aren't done!"

Tommy waited a moment. "Do you mean to say, Beatrice...."

"What?"

"Can you truthfully tell me that you--that you aren't fond of me too?
Just a little?"

"Certainly!"

"Rot! Utter, senseless rot! You know it isn't so!--"

"Hush, Tommy! People will hear."

"Let 'em hear, then. Beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use
trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. Of course you knew, of
course you cared. Why've you sat talking with me here, night after
night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice--nicer 'n you ever were
before? Why did you ever let me get to this point?--Don't pretend you
couldn't help it, either!" He paused a moment. "Why did you let me kiss
you that night?"

That shaft hit. She lost her head a little, and fell back on an old
feminine ruse.

"Oh, Tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with
a little flurried break in her voice.

Tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "Why not?" but he was not the kind
who can give the proper answer at such moments. He was much more
affected by Beatrice's evident perturbation than Beatrice was by his
home truth, and was much slower in recovering.

"I'm sorry, Beatrice," he went on again after a short silence, "but
I--well, dash it all, I _care_, you know!"

"You mustn't, Tommy."

"But what if I jolly well can't help myself? After all, you know, you
must give a fellah a chance. Of course, I want you to be happy, and I'd
do anything I could to make you so, but--well, there it is! I'm _fond_
of you, Beatrice!"

She could smile quite calmly at him now, and did so. "Very well, Tommy,
you're fond of me. Suppose we leave it there for the present.--And now I
think I shall go in. It's getting chilly out here."

Evidently it had not quite come to _that_ with her.

Nor did it, for all Tommy could do, before James' arrival a few days
later. Aunt Selina came with him; she had elected to spend the summer at
her Vermont house, and found it, as she explained to her hostess, "too
warm. The interior, you know." With which she closed her lips and gave
the impression of charitably refraining from, richly deserved censure of
the interior's shortcomings. Aunt Cecilia nodded with the most perfect
understanding, and said she supposed it must have been warm in New York
also.

James allowed that it had.

Aunt Selina said she had read in the paper that August was likely to be
as hot as July there.

Beatrice, just in order to be on the safe side, said that she felt like
Rather a Brute.

Tommy, with a vague idea of vindicating her, remarked that some days
had been jolly warm in Bar Harbor, too.

Aunt Cecilia, politely reproachful, said that he had no idea what an
American summer could be, and that anyway, the nights had been cool.

Tommy said oh yes, rather.

Inwardly he was chafing. He felt his case lamentably weakened by the
presence of James. He had not bargained for an abduction from under the
husband's very nose. The thought of what he would have to go through now
made him feel quite uncomfortable and even a little, just a little,
suspicious that the case of decency had not been decisively settled.
Still, there was nothing to do but stay and go through with it.

But James, if he had but known it, was in reality his most powerful
ally. Continued residence in sweltering New York had not tended to
soften James, either in his attitude to the world in general or in his
feeling toward his wife in particular. He now adopted a policy of
outward affection. "When others were present he lost no opportunity of
elaborately fetching and carrying for Beatrice, of making plans for her
benefit, of rejoicing in her returning health. As she evinced a fondness
for the evening air he made it a rule to sit with her on the verandah
every night after dinner. Tommy could not very well oust him from this
pleasant duty, and writhed beneath his calm exterior every time he
watched them go out together."

He need not have worried, however. The contrast of James' warmth in
public to his wholly genuine coldness in private, together with the
change from Tommy's sympathetic chatter to James' deathly silence on
these evening sojourns had a much more potent effect on Beatrice than
anything Tommy could have accomplished actively. James literally seemed
to freeze the blood in Beatrice's veins. She became subject to fits of
shivering, she required twice as many wraps as before; she began going
to bed much earlier than previously. Ten o'clock now invariably found
her in her room.

One evening James was suddenly called upon to go out to dinner with Aunt
Cecilia and fill an empty place at a friend's table, and Tommy took his
place on the verandah. Tommy knew that this would be his best chance,
possibly his last. The stars burned brightly in a clear warm sky, but
there was no talk of tiger's eyes now. There was no talk at all for a
long time; the pleasure of sheer propinquity was too great. Beatrice
fairly luxuriated. She wondered why Tommy's silence affected her so
differently from that of James....

"Beatrice," began Tommy, but she switched him off.

"No, please don't try to talk now, Tommy, there's a dear."

They were silent again. The night stretched hugely before and above
them; it was very still. A little night-breeze arose and touched their
cheeks, but its message was only peace. Land and sea alike slept; not a
sound reached them save the occasional clatter of distant wheels. Only
the sky was awake, with its hundreds of winking eyes. Oh, these stars!
Beatrice knew them so well. Antares, glowing like a dying coal, sank and
fell below the hills, leaving the bright clusters of Sagittarius in
dominion over the southern heavens. Fomalhaut rose in the southeast,
shining with a dull chaotic luster, now green, now red. Fomalhaut, she
remembered, was the southernmost of all the great stars visible in
northern lands; its reign was the shortest of them all. And yet who
could tell what might happen before that star finally fell from sight in
the autumn?...

"Beatrice!" at length began Tommy again, and this time she could not
stop him. "Beatrice, we can't go on like this. We can't do it, I say, we
can't! Don't you feel it?... That husband of yours.... Oh, Beatrice, I
_can't_ stand by and watch it any longer!"

He caught hold of her hand and clasped it between his. It remained limp
there, press it as he would.... Then he saw that she was crying.

He flung himself on his knees beside her, covering her hand with kisses.
There was no conflict in him now, only a raging thirst for consummation.
Harrow and Christchurch were thrown to the winds.

"Beatrice," he whispered, "come away with me out of this damned
place--away from the whole damned lot of them--frozen, church-going
rotters! Let _me_ take care of you! I understand, Beatrice, I know how
it is! Only come with me! Leave it all to me--no trouble, no worry,
everything all right! _He'll_ be glad enough to free you--trust him! Oh,
dear Beatrice...."

He bent close over her, uttering all sort of impassioned foolishnesses.
He kissed her, too, not once, but again and again, and with things he
scarcely knew for kisses, so unlike were they to the lightly given and
taken pledges of other days.

And Beatrice was limp in his arms, as little able to stop him as to stop
her tears.

"Beatrice, we must go on _always_ like this! We _can't_ go back now, we
can't let things go on as they were! Come away with me, Beatrice,
to-night, now...."

Beatrice thought how, only a year ago, not far from this very place,
some one had used almost those very words to her, and the thought made
her weep afresh. But her tears were not all tears of misery.

At last she dried her eyes and pushed him gently away.

"No, no more, Tommy--dear Tommy, you must stop. Really, Tommy! I don't
know how I could let you go on this way--I seem to be so weak and silly
these days.... I must take hold of myself...."

"But, Beatrice--"

"No, Tommy--not any more now. I know, I know, dear, but it can't go on
any more. Now," she added with a momentary relapse of weakness. Then she
pulled herself together again. "You must be perfectly quiet and good,
now, Tommy, if you stay here. I've got to have a chance to get over this
before we go in. It's very important--there's a lot at stake. Just sit
there and don't speak a word. You can help me that way."

They sat quietly together for some time. At last Beatrice rose.

"I think I'll go," she said. "I shall be all right now."

"But we can't leave it like this!" protested Tommy. "Beatrice, you can't
go up there now...."

"Can't I? I'm going, though."

"No, you've got to give me an answer, Beatrice!"

She turned to him for a moment before walking off. "I can't tell you
anything now, Tommy. I don't know. Do you see? I honestly don't know.
You'll have to wait."

The hall seemed rather dark as they came into it; the others must have
gone to bed. They locked doors and turned out lights and walked upstairs
in the dark. They parted at the top with a whispered good-night, almost
conspiratorial in effect, Beatrice found James still dressed and
sitting under a droplight, reading. He put down his book as she entered
and looked at his watch, which lay on the table by him.

"After half-past twelve," he said. "Quite a pleasant evening."

Beatrice made no observation.

"The air has done you good," he went on. "We shall soon see the roses in
your cheeks again."

"If you have anything to say, James, perhaps you'd better go ahead and
say it."

"I? Oh, dear no! Any words of mine would be quite superfluous. The
situation is complete as it is."

Beatrice merely waited. She knew she would not wait in vain, nor did
she.

"Only, after this perhaps you'll save yourself the trouble of making up
elaborate denials. You and your Tommy!..."

He got up and started walking up and down the room with slow, measured
steps. To Beatrice, still sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, the
fall of his feet on the carpeted floor sounded like the inexorable tick
of fate for once made audible to human ears. The greatest things hung in
the balance at this moment; his next words would decide both their
destinies for the rest of their mortal life. She thought she knew what
they would be, but if there were to sound in them the faintest echo of a
regret for older and better times she was ready, even at this last
moment, to throw her whole being into an effort to help restore them.
Tommy's passionate whisper still echoed in her ears, Tommy's kisses were
scarcely cold upon her cheeks, but Tommy was not in her heart.

At last James spoke. At the first sound of his voice Beatrice knew.

"I shall receive a telegram calling me back to town to-morrow, in time
for me to catch the evening train...."

She was so occupied with the ultimate meaning of his words that their
immediate meaning escaped her. She raised her eyes in question.

"You're going away to-morrow? Why?"

"Yes. I prefer not to remain here and watch it going on under my very
eyes. It's a silly prejudice, no doubt, but you must pardon it...."

He continued his pacing, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor in front of
him. Occasionally he uttered a few sentences in the same cold, lifeless
tone.

"It's all over now, at any rate. I had hoped we might be able to tide
these things over through these first years, till we got old enough to
stop caring about them, but I was wrong. You can't govern things like
that.... I always had a theory that any two sensible people could get
along together in marriage, even though they didn't care much about each
other, if they made up their minds to take a reasonable point of view;
but I was wrong there too. Marriage is a bigger thing than I thought. I
was wrong all around....

"Just a year--not even that. I should have said it could go longer than
that, even at the worst....

"It's all in the blood, I suppose--rotten, decadent blood, in both of
you. I don't blame you, especially. Your father's daughter--I might have
known. I suppose I oughtn't to blame your father much more--it's the
curse of your whole civilization. Only it's hard to confine one's anger
to civilizations in such cases....

"The strange part about you is that you gave no sign of it whatever
beforehand. I had no suspicion, at all. I don't think any one could have
told....

"There's just one thing I should like to suggest. I don't know whether
it will be comprehensible to you, but I have a certain respect for my
family name and a sort of desire to spare the members of the family as
much as possible. So that, although you're perfectly free to act exactly
as you wish, I should appreciate it if you--if you could suspend
operations as long as you remain under my uncle's roof. Though it's just
as you like, of course.

"I shall be in New York. You can let me know your plans there when you
are ready. I suppose you'll want to sue, in which case it can't be done
in New York state; you'll have to establish a residence somewhere else.
Or if you prefer to have me sue, all right. That would save time, of
course.... Let me know what you decide.

"Well, we might as well go to bed, I suppose. It will be the last
time...."

Beatrice watched him as he took off his coat and waistcoat and threw
them over a chair and then attacked his collar and tie. Then she arose
from where she sat and addressed him.

"I don't suppose there's any use in my saying anything. We might get
quarreling again, and naturally you wouldn't believe me, anyway. I agree
with you that it's impossible for us to live together any longer. But I
can't forbear from telling you, James, that you've done me a great
wrong. You've said things ... oh, you've said things so wrong to-night
that it seems as if God himself--if there is a God--would speak from
heaven and show you how wrong you are! But there's no use in mere human
beings saying anything at a time like this....

"You've been a very wicked man to-night, James. May God forgive you for
it."

She turned away with an air of finality and started to prepare for bed.
She hung up her evening wrap in the closet and walked over to her
bureau. She took off what jewelry she wore and put it carefully away,
and then she seemed to hesitate. She stood looking at her reflection in
the mirror a moment, but found no inspiration there. She walked
inconclusively across the room and then back. Finally she stopped near
James, with her back toward him.

"It seems an absurd thing to ask," she said, "but would you mind? As you
say, it's the last time...."

"Certainly," said James.




CHAPTER XII

A ROD OF IRON


It is all very well to be suddenly called back to town by telegram on
important business, but suppose the business is wholly fictitious--what
are you going to do with yourself when you get there? Especially if you
have your own reasons for not wanting Business to know that you have
returned before the appointed time, and consequently are shy about
appearing in clubs and places where it would be likely to get wind of
your presence? And if, moreover, your apartment has been closed and all
the servants sent off on a holiday?

That is a fair example of the mean way sordid detail has of encroaching
on the big things of life and destroying what little pleasure we might
take in their dramatic value. When he arrived in New York James had the
chastened, exalted feeling of one who has just passed a great and
disagreeable crisis and got through with it, on the whole, very
tolerably well. What he wanted most was to return to the routine of his
old life and, so far as was possible, drown the nightmare recollection
in a flood of work. Instead of which he found idleness and domestic
inconvenience staring him in the face. He also saw that he was going to
be lonely. He walked through the dark and empty rooms of his apartment
and reflected what a difference even the mute presence of a servant
would make. He longed whole-heartedly for Stodger--for Stodger since we
last saw him has been promoted into manhood by nature and into
full-fledged chauffeurhood--with the official appellation of McClintock,
if you please--by James. With Stodger, who still retained jurisdiction
over his suits and shoes, James was accustomed, when they were alone
together, to throw off his role of employer and embark on technical
heart-to-heart talks on differential gears and multiple-disc clutches
and kindred intimate subjects. But Stodger was tasting the joys of leave
of absence on full pay, James knew not where.

He sought at first to beguile the hours with reading. He selected a
number of works he had always meant to read but never quite got around
to: a novel or two of Dickens, one of Thackeray, one of Meredith, "The
Origin of Species," Carlyle's "French Revolution," "The Principles of
Political Economy" and "Tristram Shandy." Steadily his eyes sickened of
print; by the time he came to Mill his brain refused to absorb and
visions of the very things he wished most to be free from hovered
obstinately over the pages. "Tristram Shandy" was even more unbearable;
he conceived an insane dislike for those interminable, ineffectual old
people and their terrestrial-minded creator. At last he flung the book
into the fireplace and strode despairingly out into the streets.

Oh, Beatrice--would she never send him word, put things definitely in
motion, in no matter what direction? Oh, this confounded brain of his;
would it never stop trying to re-picture old scenes, revive dead
feelings, animate unborn regrets? What had he done but what he should
have done, what he could not help doing, what it had been written that
he should do since the first moment when thoughts above those of a beast
were put into man's brain? Oh, the curse of a brain that would not live
up to its own laws, but continually kept flashing those visions of
outworn things across his eyes--not his two innocent physical eyes,
which saw nothing but what was put before them, but that redoubtable,
inescapable, ungovernable inward sight which, as he remembered some poet
had said, was "the bliss of solitude." The bliss of solitude--how like a
driveling ass of a poet!...

The next day he gave up and went back to his office as usual, saying
that he had returned from his vacation a few days ahead of time in order
to transact some business that had come up unexpectedly. Just what the
business was he did not explain; he was now the head of McClellan's New
York branch and did not have to explain things.

So the hours between nine and five ceased to be an intolerable burden,
and the hours from five till bedtime could be whiled away at the club in
discussing the baseball returns. He could always find some one who was
willing to talk about professional baseball. He remembered how he had
once similarly talked golf with Harry....

That left only the night hours to be accounted for, and sleep accounted
for most of them, of course. Sometimes. At other times sleep refused to
come and nothing stood between him and the inmost thoughts of his brain,
or worse, the thoughts that he did not think, never would think, as long
as a brain and a will remained to him.... Such times he would always end
by turning on the light and reading. They gave him a feeling like that
of which he had spoken to Beatrice about being caught in a trap,
deepened and intensified; a feeling to be avoided at any price.

At last he heard, not indeed from Beatrice, but from Aunt Selina.
"Beatrice arrives New York noon Thursday; for Heaven's sake do
something," she telegraphed. James knew what that meant, and thanked
Aunt Selina from the bottom of his heart. No scandal--nothing that would
reflect on the family name! So Beatrice had determined not to accede to
his last request; she was bent on rushing madly into her Tommy's arms,
perhaps at the very station itself? Oh, no, nothing of _that_ sort, if
you please; he would be at the station himself to see to it.

It was extraordinary how much getting back to work had benefited him. He
was no longer subject to the dreadful fits of depression that had made
his idleness a torment. Only keep going, only have something to occupy
hands and mind during every waking hour, and all would yet be well.
Beatrice and all that she implied had only to be kept out of his mind to
be rendered innocuous; all that was needed to keep her out was a little
will power, and he had plenty of that. As for the sleeping hours--well,
he had come to have rather a dread of the night time. No doubt some
simple medical remedy, however, would put that all right--sulphonal, or
something of the sort. He would consult a doctor. No unprescribed drugs
for him--no careless overdose, or anything of that sort, no indeed! The
time had yet to come when James Wimbourne could not keep pace with the
strong ones of the earth and walk with head erect under all the burdens
that a malicious fate might heap upon him.

In such a vein as this ran his thoughts as he walked from his apartment
to the station that Thursday morning. It was a cool day in early
September; a fresh easterly breeze blew in from the Sound bringing with
it the first hint of autumn and seeming to infuse fresh blood into his
veins. As he walked down Madison Avenue even the familiar sounds of the
city, the clanging of the trolley cars, the tooting of motor horns, the
rumbling of drays, even the clatter of steam drills or rivet machines
seemed like outward manifestations of the life he felt surging anew
within him. Was it not indeed something very like a new life that was to
begin for him to-day, this very morning? Not the kind of new life of
which the poets babbled, no youthful dream, but something far solider
and nobler, a mature reconstruction, a courageous gathering together, or
rather regathering--that made it all the finer--of the fragments of an
outworn existence. That was what human life was, a succession of
repatchings and rebuildings. He who rebuilt with the greatest promptness
and courage and ingenuity was the best liver.

Viewed in this broad and health-bringing light the last months of his
life appeared less of a failure than he had been wont to think. He
became able to look back on this year of destiny-fighting as, if not
actually successful, better than successful, since it led on to better
things and gave him a chance to show his mettle, his power of
reconstruction. He had made a mistake, no doubt; but he was willing to
recognize it as such and do his best to rectify it. Beatrice and he were
not cut out for team-mates in the business of destiny-fighting; it had
become evident that they could both get on better alone. Well, at last
they had come to the point of parting; to the point, he hoped, of being
able to part like fellow-soldiers whose company is disbanded, in
friendship and good humor, without recrimination or any of that
detestable God-forgive-you business....

He wished the newsboys would not shout so loud; their shrill uncanny
shrieks interrupted his line of thought, in spite of himself. It didn't
matter if they were calling extras; he never bought extras. Or was it
only a regular edition? They might be announcing the trump of doom for
all one could understand.

It was too bad that Beatrice had not arrived at anything like his own
state of sanity and calmness. This business of eloping--oh, it was so
ludicrous, so amateurish! That was not the way to live. He hoped he
might be able to make her see this. It would be easier, of course, if
Tommy were not at the station; one could not tell what arrangements a
woman in her condition might make. But he did not fear Tommy; there
would be no scene. A few firm words from him and they would see things
in their proper light. He pictured himself and Beatrice repairing sanely
and amicably to a lawyer's office together;--"Please tell us the
quickest and easiest way to be divorced...."

As he approached Forty-second Street the traffic grew heavier and
noisier. He could not think properly now; watching for a chance to
traverse the frequent cross streets took most of his attention. And
those newsboys--! Why on earth should those newspaper fellows send out
papers marked "Late Afternoon Edition" at half-past eleven in the
morning? Oh, it was an extra, was it? A fire on the East Side, no doubt,
two people injured--he knew the sort of thing. If those newspaper
fellows would have the sense only to get out an extra when something
_really_ important had happened somebody might occasionally buy them.

Seeing that he had plenty of time he walked slowly round to the
Forty-second Street entrance instead of going in the side way. He
observed the great piles of building and rebuilding that were going on
in the neighborhood, and compared the reconstruction of the quarter to
his own case. He wondered why they delayed in making the Park Avenue
connecting bridge--such an integral part of the scheme. If _he_ had
shilly-shallied like that, a nice mess he would have made of his life!
He gazed up at the great new front of the station and bumped into a
stentorian newsboy. Everywhere those confounded newsboys--!

He was actually in the station before he had any suspicion. There was
about the usual number of people in the great waiting-room, but there
seemed to be more hurrying than usual. He saw one or two people dart
across the space, and observed that they did not disappear into the
train gates.... Had he or had he not caught the word "wreck" on one of
those flaunting headlines in the street? He turned off suddenly to a
news stand and bought a paper.

There it all was, in black and white--or rather red and white. Red
letters, five inches high.

Train 64, the Maine Special, had run through an open switch and turned
turtle somewhere near Stamford. Fifteen reported killed, others injured.
No names given.

The Maine Special. Beatrice's train.

He knew that he must devote all his efforts at this juncture to keep
himself from thinking. Until he knew, that was. He did not even allow
himself to name the thoughts he was afraid of giving birth to. Anxiety,
hope, fear, premonition, horror, satisfaction, pity--he must put them
all away from him. There was no telling what future horrors he might be
led into if he gave way ever so little to any one of them. The one thing
to do now was to _find out_.

This was not so easy. He went first to the bulletin board where the
arrivals of trains were announced, and found a small and anxious-eyed
crowd gazing at the few uninforming statements marked in white chalk.
There was nothing to be learned from them. He spoke to an official, who
was equally reticent, and spoke vaguely of a relief train.

"Do you mean to say there's no way of finding out the names of those
killed before the relief train comes in?" he asked.

"We can't tell you what we don't know!" replied the man, already too
inured to such questions to show feeling of any sort. He then directed
James to the office of the railroad press agent, on the eighth floor.

James started to ask another question, but was interrupted by a young
woman who hurried up to the official. She held a little girl of seven or
eight by the hand, and the eyes of both were streaming with tears. The
sight struck James as odd in that cold, impersonal, schedule-run place,
and he swerved as he walked off to look at them. He turned again
abruptly and went his way, stifling an involuntary rise of a feeling
which might have been very like envy, if he had allowed himself to think
about it....

And no one else had even noticed the two.

He found no one in the press office except a few newspaper reporters who
sat about on tables with their hats balanced on the backs of their
heads. They eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. An inner door opened
and a young man in his shirtsleeves, a stenographer, entered the room
bearing a number of typewritten flimsies. The reporters pounced upon
these and rushed away in search of telephones.

James asked the young man if he could see Mr. Barker, the agent.

The young man said Mr. Barker was busy, and asked James what paper he
represented.

James said none.

On what business, then, did James want to see Mr. Barker?

To learn the fate of some one on the Maine Special.

A friend?

A wife.

The stenographer dropped his lower jaw, but said nothing. He immediately
opened the inner door and led James up to an older man who sat dictating
to a young woman at a typewriter. He was plump and clean-shaven and very
neat about the collar and tie; James did not realize that this was the
agent until the younger man told him so.

"My dear sir," replied Mr. Barker to James' question, "I know absolutely
no more about it than you do. If I did, I'd tell you. The boys have been
hammering away at me for the past hour, and I've given 'em every word
that's come in. These two names are all I've got so far." He handed
James a flimsy.

James' eye fell upon the names of two men, both described as traveling
salesmen. He went back to the outer office and sat down to think. It
was, of course, extremely improbable that Beatrice had been killed.
There had been, say, two hundred people on the train, of whom fifteen
were known to have died--something like seven and a half per cent. Two
of these were accounted for; that left thirteen. He wondered how long it
would be before those thirteen names came in.

The room began to fill up again; the reporters returned and new recruits
constantly swelled their number. From their talk James gathered why
there was such a dearth of detailed news. The wreck occurring during the
waking hours of the day had been learned, as far as the mere fact of its
occurrence was concerned, and published within half an hour after it had
happened. It naturally took longer than this to do even the first work
of clearing the wreckage and the compiling of the lists of dead and
injured would require even more time. With the results that interested
friends and relations, learning of the wreck but none of its
particulars, were rushing pell-mell to headquarters to get the first
news. One young man described in vivid terms certain things he had just
witnessed down in the concourse.

"Best sob stuff in months," was his one comment.

Just then one of their number, a slightly older man and evidently a
leader among them, emerged from the inner office.

"What about it, Wilkins?" they greeted him in chorus. "Slip it, Wilkins,
slip it over! Give us the dope! Any more stiffs yet? Come on, out with
it--no beats on this story, you know...."

Harpies!

The outer door opened and two women burst into the room. The first of
them, a tall, stout, good-featured Jewess, clothed in deep mourning, was
wildly gasping and beating her hands on her breast.

"Can any of you tell me about a young man called Lindenbaum?" she asked
between her sobs. "Lindenbaum--a young man--on Car fifty-six he was! Has
anything been heard of him--anything?"

The reporters promptly told her that nothing had. She sank into a chair,
covered her face with her hands and burst into an uncontrollable fit of
weeping. The younger woman, evidently her daughter, stood by trying to
comfort her. At length the other raised her veil and wearily wiped her
eyes. James studied her face; her sunken eyes no less than her black
clothes gave evidence of an older sorrow. Moved by a sudden impulse he
went over and spoke to her, telling her that her son was in all
probability safe and basing his assurance on the calm mathematical
grounds of his own reasoning. The woman did not understand much of what
he said, but the quiet tones of his voice seemed to comfort her. She
rose and started to go.

"Thank you," she said to James, "you're a nice boy.--Oh, I do hope God
will spare him to me--only nineteen, he is, and the only man I have
left, all I have left...."

Sob stuff!

Scarcely had the door closed behind her when a business man of about
forty-five, prosperous, well-dressed and unemotional-looking, came in
and asked if the name of his daughter was on the list of the dead. Some
one said it was not.

"Thank God," said the man in a weak voice. He raised his hand to his
forehead, closed his eyes and fell over backward in a dead faint. When
he came to he had to be told that the names of only three of the dead
were as yet known.

These were the first of a long series of scenes such as James would not
have thought possible off the stage. He had never seen people mastered
by an overwhelming anxiety before; it was interesting to learn that they
acted in such cases much as they were generally supposed to. Anxiety, he
reflected, was perhaps the most intolerable emotion known to man. Yet as
he sat there calmly waiting for the arrival of the relief train he could
have wished that he might have tasted the full horror of it.... No, that
was mere hysteria, of course. But there was something holy about such a
feeling; it was like a sort of cleansing, a purifying by fire.... Was it
that his soul was not worthy of such a purifying? Oh, hysterics again!

But the purifying of others went on before his eyes as he sat trying not
to think or feel and reading the bulletins as they came out from the
inner office. Grotesquely unimportant, those bulletins, or so they must
seem to those concerned for the fate of friends!

"General Traffic Manager Albert S. Holden learned by telegram of the
accident to Train 64 near Stamford this morning and immediately hurried
to Stamford by special train. Mr. Holden will conduct an investigation
into the causes of the accident in conjunction with Coroner Francis X.
Willis of Stamford."

"One young woman among the injured was identified as Miss Fannie Schmidt
of Brooklyn. She was taken to the Stamford hospital suffering from
contusions."

"Patrick F. McGuire, the engineer of Train 64 which ran through an open
switch near Stamford this morning, has been in the employ of the Company
for many years. He was severely cut about the face and head. He has been
engineer of the Maine Special since the 23rd of last May, prior to which
he had worked as engineer on Train 102. He began his service in the
Company in 1898 as fireman on the Naugatuck Division...."

"Vice-President Henry T. Blomberg gave out in New Haven this morning the
following statement concerning the accident at Stamford...."

"Whew!" exclaimed a reporter, issuing suddenly from a telephone booth
near James, "this is _some_ story, believe me!" He took off his hat and
wiped his forehead. He was a young man and looked somewhat more like a
human being than the others.

"Oh, you'd call this harrowing, would you?" said James.

"Well," said the other apologetically, "I've only been on the job a few
months and this human interest stuff sort of gets me. This is the first
big one of the kind I've been on. I guess there's enough human interest
here to-day for any one, though!"

"There doesn't seem to be enough to inconvenience you," observed James.
"Not you, so much, but--" with a wave toward the reporters'
table--"those--the others."

The young man laughed slightly. "Oh, you can stand pretty near anything
after you've been on the job for a while! You see, when you're on the
news end of a thing like this you don't have time to get worked up. When
you're hot foot after every bit of stuff you can get, and have to hustle
to the telephone to send it in the same minute, so's not to get beaten
on it, you don't bother about whether people have hysterics or not. You
simply can't--you haven't got time! That's why these fellows all seem so
calm--it's _business_ to them, you see. They're not really hard-hearted,
or anything like that. Gosh, it's lucky for me, though, that I'm here on
business, if I have to be here at all!"

"You mean you're glad you don't know any one on the train?"

"Oh, Lord yes, that--but I'm glad I have something to keep me busy, as
long as I'm here. If I were just standing round, watching, say--gosh, I
wouldn't answer for what I'd do! I'd probably have hysterics myself,
just from seeing the others!"

This gave James something more to think about.

He saw now that he had misjudged the reporters; even these harpies gave
him something to envy. If one was going to feel indifferent at a time
like this it would be well to feel at least an honest professional
indifference.... But that was not all. Had not this young man admitted
that the mere sight of such suffering would have stirred him to the
depths if he did not have his business to think of, and that without
being personally concerned in the accident? While he himself, with every
reason to suffer every anxiety in this crucial moment, was quite the
calmest person in the room, able to lecture a hysterical mother on the
doctrine of chances! Was he dead to all human feeling?

There was a moment of calm in the room, which was broken by the
entrance of a tall blonde young man--a college undergraduate, to all
appearances.

"Can any of you tell me if Car 1058 was on the Maine Special?" he asked
the reporters.

No one had heard of Car 1058. Research among the bulletins failed to
reveal any mention of it.

"What's the name of the person you're interested in?" asked some one.
"We might be able to tell you something."

"Oh, it wasn't any _person_," the young man explained; "it was my dog I
was looking for. I've found he was shipped on Car 1058. A water spaniel,
he was. I don't suppose you've heard anything?"

A moment of silence followed this announcement, and then one of the
reporters began to laugh. There was nothing funny about it, of course,
except the contrast. They all knew it was by the merest accident that
Fannie Schmidt's contusions had been flashed over the wires rather than
the fate of the water spaniel.

The youth flushed to the roots of his yellow hair.

"Oh, yes, it's very funny, of course," he said, and stalked out of the
room. But there shone another light in his eyes than the gleam of anger.

"Say, there's copy in that," observed one reporter, and straightway they
were all busy writing.

James had smiled with the others, but his merriment was short-lived.
This indeed was the finishing stroke. That young fellow actually was
more concerned about his dog....

The relief train was due to arrive at 1:30, and shortly before that hour
there was a general adjournment to the concourse. A crowd had already
gathered before the gate through which the survivors would presently
file. James looked at the waiting people and shuddered slightly. He
preferred not to wait there.

Passing by a news stand he bought the latest extra. It was curious to
see the contents of those press agent flimsies transcribed on the
flaring columns as the livest news obtainable. Well, all that would be
changed shortly.... His own name caught his eye; a paragraph was devoted
to telling how he had waited in the station, and why. "Mr. Wimbourne was
entirely calm and self-contained," the item ended. Calm and
self-contained. And those people took it for a virtue!...

The gates were opened to allow the friends of passengers on the
ill-fated train to pass through to the platform. The reporters were
unusually silent as James walked by. James knew what their silence
meant, and writhed under it.

The platform was dark and chilly. Like a tomb, almost.... The idea was
suggestive, but his heart was stone against it. The thought of seeing
Beatrice walking up the platform in a moment was enough to check any
possible indulgence of feeling. That was the way such things always had
been rewarded, with him. He could not remember having entertained one
such emotional impulse in the past that had not led him into fresh
misery.

He had waited nearly two hours and there was absolutely no indication as
to whether Beatrice had suffered or not. He had telephoned several times
to his flat, to which the servants had lately returned, and to his
office and had learned that no word had been received at either place.
That meant nothing. Five names of people killed had been received when
he left the press office, and hers was not among them. But the number of
dead was said to be larger than was at first expected; it would probably
reach into the twenties. Part of one Pullman, it appeared, had been
entirely destroyed by fire, and several people were believed to have
perished in it. There was no telling, of course, till the train came in.
The chances were still overwhelmingly in favor of Beatrice's safety, of
course....

One torment had been spared him: Tommy had not turned up. There would be
no scene; he would not have to look on while his wife and her lover,
maddened by the pangs of separation and suspense, rushed into each
other's arms.... Ah, no; he would not deceive himself. His relief at
Tommy's absence was really due to the fact that he had been spared the
sight of some one genuinely and whole-heartedly anxious about Beatrice's
fate.

The train crawled noiselessly into the station. James posted himself
near the inner end of the platform, so as to be sure not to miss her.
Soon groups began to file by of people laughing and crying and embracing
each other, as unconscious to appearances as children. How many happy
reunions, how many quarrels and misunderstandings mended forever by an
hour or two of intense suffering!... No, that was a foolish thought, of
course.

Presently he saw her, or rather a hat which he recognized as hers,
moving up the platform. He braced himself and walked forward with
lowered eyes, trying to think of something felicitous to say. He dared
not look up till she was quite near. At last he raised a hand toward
her, opened his mouth to speak, and found himself staring into the face
of a perfectly strange woman.

The mischance unnerved him. He lost control of himself and darted
aimlessly to and fro through the crowd for a few moments, like a rabbit.
Then he rushed back to the gate and stood there watching till the last
passenger had left the platform and white shrouded things on wheels
began to appear.

He saw a uniformed official and addressed him, asking where he could
find a complete list of the dead and injured. The man silently handed
him a paper. James ran his eyes feverishly down the list of names. There
it was--Wim--no, no, Wilson. Her name was not there. He raised his eyes
questioningly to the official.

"No, that list is not complete," said the man.

He led James away to one or two other uniformed officials, and then to a
man who was not in uniform. At length it was arranged; James was to take
the first train for Stamford. Some one gave him a pass.

But before he went he telegraphed to Bar Harbor. It was necessary to
have conclusive proof that Beatrice was on the train. As he recrossed
the concourse, now converted into a happy hunting ground for the
reporters, he caught sight of Mrs. Lindenbaum, the anxious mother. She
was alone, but the expression on her face left no doubt as to how the
day had turned out for her. He stopped and spoke to her:

"Your son is all right, is he?"

"Yes!" She turned toward him a face fairly transfigured with joy. "He
wasn't hurt at all--just scratched a little by broken glass. He and my
daughter have just gone to telephone to some people.... What do you
think--he was the first one in his car to break open a window and let
the smoke out! He reached up with his umbrella and smashed it open--that
was how he got out. And he dragged out three people who were
unconscious...." She stopped and laughed. "You must excuse me--I'm
foolish!"

"Not at all," replied James. "I'm so glad--" He started to move on, but
the woman stopped him, suddenly remembering.

"But what about--I do hope--" she began.

"No," said James quietly. "I'm sorry to say my news is bad." He had
little doubt now as to the verdict, but bad--! Was it? Oh, was it?

       *       *       *       *       *

It was early evening before he returned. His expedition had been painful
in the extreme, but wholly without definite results. There had been one
or two charred fragments of clothing that might or might not have
been.... It was too horrible to think much about.

He knew for certain no more than when he started out, but conviction was
only increased, for all that. What was there left to imagine but what
that heap of cinders suggested? There was just one other chance, one
bare possibility; Beatrice might not have left Bar Harbor, at any rate
not on that train. The answer to his telegram would settle that.

He found the yellow envelope awaiting him on the hall table. He lifted
it slowly and paused a moment before opening it, wondering if he could
trust himself to hope or feel anything in this final instant of
uncertainty. Anything! Any human feeling to break this shell of
indifference....

No use. Something in his brain refused to work.

He tore open the envelope. "Beatrice left last night on the seven
o'clock ferry; nothing more known. Please wire latest news," he read.

Well, that settled it, at any rate. He knew what the facts were; now he
had only to bring himself face to face with them. Yet still he found
himself dodging the issue, letting his thoughts wander into obscure
by-paths. His brain was strangely lethargic, his heart more so, if
possible, than in the station this morning. It was not that he felt
bitter or cruel; he explained the situation to the maid, as she served
him his dinner, with great tact and consideration, and afterward
arranged certain matters of detail with all his usual care and
foresight. It was only when he looked into himself that he met darkness.

Uncle James, who was in town on business, dropped in during the evening.
James told him the results of his labors and watched the first
hopefulness of his uncle's face freeze gradually into conviction.

"I see, I see," said Uncle James at last. "There's nothing more to be
done, then? Any use I can be, in any way--"

"Thank you," replied James gravely, "there's nothing more to be done."

Uncle James rose to go and then hesitated. "Well, there it is," he said;
"it's just got to be faced, I suppose. A major sorrow--the great blow of
a lifetime. Not many of us are called upon to bear such great things,
James. I never have been, and never shall, now. We feel less sharply as
we grow older.... It's a great sorrow, a great trial--but I can't help
feeling, somehow, that it's also a great chance.... But I'm only
harrowing you--I'm sorry." He turned and went out without another word.

Presently James wandered into the bedroom that had once been hers. He
turned on all the lights as if in the hope that illuminating the places
she had been familiar with would bring the memory of her more sharply to
his mind. Yes, it all seemed very natural; he would not say but what it
made death less terrible. The fact that her chair was in its accustomed
place before her dressing table did somehow make it easier to remember
the events of that afternoon. He sat down before the dressing table.
There was little on it to bring an intimate recollection of her to his
mind; most of her small possessions she had naturally taken away with
her to Bar Harbor. He opened a drawer and discovered nothing but a small
box of hairpins.

He took them out and handled them gently for a moment. Hairpins! Even
so, they brought her back more vividly than anything had yet done--the
soft dark hair sweeping back from the forehead, the lovely arch of her
nose, and all the rest of it.... He supposed she ought to seem aloof and
unapproachable, now that she was dead, but it was not so at all. He
remembered her only as feminine and appealing. She certainly had been
very beautiful. And of all that beauty there remained only--hairpins.
The fact of human mortality pressed suddenly down on him. Some time, a
few days or a few decades hence, he would cease to exist, even as
Beatrice, and nothing would remain of him but--Not hairpins, indeed, but
hardly anything more substantial. A society pin, a little gold
football, a few papers bearing his signatures in McClellan's files....

Poor Beatrice!

A feeling touched his heart at last; one of pity. Poor Beatrice! Fate
had treated her harshly, far beneath her deserts. She had sinned.... Had
she? It was not for him to settle that; she had been human, even as he.
She had been frail; leave it at that. The strongest of us are weak at
times. Only most of us are given a chance to regain our strength, pull
ourselves together after a fall, make something out of ourselves at
last. This opportunity had been denied Beatrice. Surely it was hard that
she should be cut off thus in the depth of her frailty, at the lowest
ebb of all that was good in her. The weakest deserved better than that.

So he sat meditating on the tragedy of her life as he might, in an idle
mood, have brooded over the story of a lovely and unhappy queen of long
ago, some appealing, wistful figure of the past with whom he had nothing
in common but mortality. The sense of his own detachment from the story
of his wife's life struck him at last and roused him to fresh pity. He
went into his dressing room and fetched the photograph of her that he
had thought it advisable to keep on his bureau. He stood it up on her
dressing table and sat down again to study it. Poor Beatrice! It was
pathetic that she, so young, so beautiful, so lonely, should be
unmourned, since his feeling could not properly be described as
mourning....

"Poor Beatrice," he murmured, "is pity all I can feel for you?"

A bell sounded somewhere, the front door bell. He scarcely noticed it.

No, there was one person to mourn her, of course--Tommy. The thought of
him sent a sudden shudder through him. Tommy! He wondered if he could
bring himself to be decent to Tommy in case he should turn up.... Just
like him, the nauseous little brute!

No, that thought was unworthy of him. What particular grudge had he
against Tommy? Hitherto he had not even taken the trouble to despise
Tommy, and surely there was no point in beginning now. No, he must be
decent to Tommy, if the occasion should arise.

But that Tommy should be chief mourner! Poor Beatrice!...

Presently he roused himself with a slight start. He did not wish to
grudge his wife what slight homage he could pay her, but he felt that he
had perhaps gone far enough. One felt what one could; harping over
things was merely morbid. He rose and quietly left the room.

The lights in the hall seemed dim and low. A gentle glow shone through
the living room door. That was odd; he thought he remembered turning out
the light in the room before he left it. Then he became aware of a
sentence or two being spoken in a low voice in that room, and the next
moment one of the servants walked out of the door and into the hall.

He brushed past her, wondering who could have arrived at this time of
night. At the door he stopped, strained his eyes to pierce the
half-gloom and became aware of a figure standing before him, a silent,
black-robed figure, full of a strange portent....

Aunt Selina.




CHAPTER XIII

RED FLAME


"James, is it true--what she just told me?" Her voice was full of
anxiety and horror, but in some curious way she still managed to be the
self-possessed Aunt Selina of old. Even in that moment James found time
to admire her.

"Yes, Aunt Selina, I'm afraid it's true."

"Is there no hope, no chance--"

"None, that I can see."

"Then ... oh!" She gave way at that, seeming to crumple where she stood.
James helped her to a sofa and silently went into the dining room and
mixed some whisky and water. Aunt Selina stared when he offered it to
her, and then took it without a word. How like Aunt Selina again! A fool
would have raised objections. James almost smiled.

"How do you happen to be here, Aunt Selina?" he asked after a few
moments, less in the desire of knowing than in the hope of diverting
her. "You didn't come from Bar Harbor to-day?"

"From Boston."

"Boston?"

"I took the boat to Boston last night. I learned of the accident there.
I supposed she was safe--the papers said nothing."

"Yes, I know. But--but how did you happen to leave Bar Harbor at all?"

"I was going to meet her here."

"Her?"

"Beatrice."

"I don't understand."

"No, and oh, my poor boy, I've got to make you!" She said this quietly,
almost prayerfully, with the air of a person laboring under a weighty
mission. James had no reply to offer and walked off feeling curiously
uncomfortable. There was a long silence.

"Come over here and sit down, James; I want to talk to you," said Aunt
Selina at last. She spoke in her natural tone of voice; there was no
more of the priestess about her. There was that about her, however, that
made him obey.

"James, I've got to tell you a few things about Beatrice. Some things I
don't believe you know. Do you mind?"

"No," said James slowly, "I don't know that I do."

"Well, in the first place, I suppose you thought she was in love with
that Englishman?"

James nodded.

"Well, she wasn't--not one particle. Whatever else may or may not be
true, that is. She despised him."

James froze, paused as though deciding whether or not to discuss the
matter and then said gently: "I have my own ideas about that, Aunt
Selina."

She nodded briefly, almost briskly. It was the most effective reply she
could have made. The more businesslike the words the greater the
impression on James, always, in any matter. Aunt Selina understood
perfectly. She let her effect sink in and waited calmly for him to
demand proof. This he did at last, going to the very heart of the
subject.

"Then perhaps, Aunt Selina, you can account for certain things...."

"No, I shall only tell you what I know. You must do your own
accounting." She paused a moment and then went on: "You've heard nothing
since you left Bar Harbor, I suppose?"

"Nothing."

"Beatrice was quite ill for a time after you left. For days she lay in
bed unable to move, but there seemed to be nothing specific the matter
with her. We called in the doctor and he said the same old thing--rest
and fresh air. He knew considerably less what was the matter with her
than any one else in the house, which is saying a good deal.

"Lord Clairloch left the day after you did. Beatrice saw him once, that
evening, and sent him away. The next day he went, saying vaguely that he
had to go back to New York.

"James, of course I knew. I couldn't live in the house with the two
people I cared most for in the world and not see things, not _feel_
things. The only wonder is that nobody else guessed. It seemed
incredible to me, who was so keenly alive to the whole business. Time
and time again when Cecilia opened her mouth to speak to me I thought
she was going to talk about that, and then she would speak about some
unimportant subject, and I blessed her for her denseness. And how I
thanked Heaven that that sharp-nosed little minx Ruth wasn't there!
She'd have smelt the whole thing out in no time.

"Gradually Beatrice mended. Her color came back and she seemed stronger.
At last one evening--only Tuesday it was; think of it!--she came down to
dinner with a peculiar sort of glitter in her eyes. She told us that she
felt able to travel and was going to New York the next day. She had
engaged her accommodations and everything. Of course I knew what that
meant....

"Knowledge can be a terrible thing, James. For days it had preyed on me,
and now when the moment for action came I was almost too weak to
respond. Oh, how I was tempted to sit back and say nothing and let
things take their course!... But I simply couldn't fall back in the end,
I simply couldn't. After bedtime that evening I went to the door of her
room and knocked.

"I found her in the midst of packing. I told her I had something to say
to her and would wait till she was ready. She said she was listening.

"'Beatrice,' said I, 'I've always tried to mind my own business above
all things, but I'm going to break my rule now. I'm fond of you,
Beatrice; if I offend you remember that. I simply can't watch you throw
your life away without raising a finger to stop you.'

"She didn't flare up, she didn't even ask me how I knew; she only gave a
sort of groan and said: 'Oh, but Aunt Selina, I haven't any life to
throw away! It's all been burned and frozen out of me; there's nothing
left but a shell, and that won't last long! Can't you let me pass the
little that remains in peace? That's all I ask for--I gave up happiness
long ago. It won't last long! It can hurt no one!'

"'You have an immortal soul,' said I; 'you can hurt that.'

"She sat looking at the floor for a while and then said imploringly:
'Don't ask me to go back to James, Aunt Selina, for that's the one thing
I can't do.' 'I shan't ask you to do anything,' I told her, but I knew
perfectly well that I was prepared to go down on my knees before her,
when the time came....

"But it hadn't come yet--there was a great deal to be done first. What I
did was to tell her something about my own life, in the hope that it
might throw a new light on her situation. I told her things that I've
never told to a human being and never expected to tell another....

"James, I think I ought to tell you the whole thing, as I told it to
her. It may help you to understand ... certain things you must
understand. Do you mind?"

She paused, less for the purpose of obtaining his consent than in order
to gain a perfect control over her voice and manner. Taking James'
silence as acquiescence she folded her hands in her lap and went on in a
low quiet voice:

"I haven't had much of a life, according to most ways of thinking. All I
ever knew of life, as I suppose you know it, was concentrated into a few
months. Not that I didn't have a good time during my girlhood and youth.
My mother died when I was a baby, but my stepmother took as good care of
me as if I had been her own child, and I loved her almost like my own
mother. I've often thought, though, that if my mother had lived things
might have turned out differently. Stepmothers are never quite the same
thing.

"Well, I grew up and flew about with the college boys in the usual way.
I never cared a rap for any of them, beyond the bedtime raptures that
girls go through. I was able to manage them all pretty easily; I see now
that I was too attractive to them. I had a great deal of what in those
days was referred to as 'animation,' which is another way of saying that
I was an active, strong-willed, selfish little savage. I was willing to
play with the college men, but I always said that when I fell in love it
would be with a _real_ man. I laughed when I said it, but I meant it.

"Presently there came a change. Father died, and when I came out of
mourning the college men I knew best had graduated and the others seemed
too young and silly for me even to play with. It was at about this time,
when I was adjusting myself to new conditions and casting about for
something to occupy my mind that I came to know Milton Leffert."

James stirred slightly. Aunt Selina smiled.

"Yes, you've heard of him, of course. It gives one a curious feeling,
doesn't it, to learn that dead people, or people who are as good as
dead, have had their lives? I know, I know ... I think you'd have liked
Milton Leffert. He was very quiet and not at all striking in appearance,
but he was strong and there was no nonsense about him. He was more than
ten years older than I. I had known him only slightly before that time.
Then after Father's death he began coming to see me a good deal and we
fell into the habit of walking and driving together. I always liked him.
I loved talking with him; he was the first man I ever talked much with
on serious subjects. He stimulated me, and I enjoyed being with him.
Only, it never occurred to me that he could be the Real Man.

"You've often heard of women refusing men because of their poverty.
Well, the chief thing that prejudiced me against Milton Leffert was his
wealth. He happened to possess a large fortune made and left to him by
his father, and he didn't do much except take care of it, together with
that of his sister Jane. He was president of the one concern his father
had not sold out before he died, but that was the sort of thing that ran
itself; he didn't spend an hour a day at it. That wasn't much of a
career, according to the way I thought at that time, and when he first
began asking me to marry him I laughed outright.

"'You can't know me very well, Milton,' I said, 'if you suppose I could
be content with a ready-made man. I like you very much, but you're not
the husband for me.'

"'What do you mean by a ready-made man?' he asked, looking at me out of
his quiet gray eyes.

"'I should say it was sufficiently obvious,' I said. 'There's nothing
the matter with you, and I hate to hurt you, but--well, you're not
dynamic.'

"I stopped to see how he would take that. He was silent for a while,
then at last he said: 'I don't think that's a very good reason for
refusing a man.'

"I laughed; the grave way he said it was so characteristic of him. 'Oh,
Milton,' I said, 'I really think that's the only reason in the world to
make me refuse a man. I don't much believe I shall ever marry, but if I
do it will be to a man that I can help win his fight in the world;
somebody with whom I can march side by side through life, whom I alone
can help and encourage and inspire! He's got to be the kind that will
start at the bottom and work his way up to the top, and who couldn't do
it without me! That's not you, Milton. You have no fight to make--your
father made it for you. You start in at the top, the wrong end. Of
course there are still higher summits you could aim for, but you never
will, Milton. You're not that kind; you'll hold on to what you have, and
no more. I'm not blaming you; you were made that way. And there must be
a great many people like you in the world. And I _like_ you none the
less. Only I can't marry you.'

"'But I don't see what difference all this would make,' he said, 'if you
only loved me.'

"'My dear man,' said I, 'don't you see that it's only that sort of a man
who could make me love him? If you had it in you, I suppose I should
love you. You don't suppose I could love you without that, do you? I'm
afraid you don't understand me very well, Milton!'

"'I'm learning all the time,' he answered, and that was the nearest
thing to a witty or humorous remark that I ever heard him make.

"'Then again,' I went on, 'our ages are too far apart. Even if you were
the sort I mean, we shouldn't be starting even. The fight would be half
won when I came in, and that would never do. I shouldn't feel as if I
were part of your life. A marriage like that wouldn't be a marriage, it
would be a sweet little middle-aged idyll!'

"He flushed at that. 'A man can't change his age, Selina; you have no
right to taunt me with that.'

"'I didn't mean to taunt you--I only wanted to explain,' said I. 'And
the last thing in the world I want to do is to hurt you.'

"'But that's the only thing a man can't change,' he went on after a
moment, paying no attention to my apology. After another pause he added:
'I shan't give you up, mind,' and when we talked again it was of other
things.

"I went on seeing him as before, though not quite so often. Then
presently I went away on some long visits and did not see him for
several months. When I came back I noticed that his manner was more
animated than before, and that somehow he looked younger. I remember
being quite pleased.--He was thirty-four at the time, and I not quite
twenty-three.

"It was perfectly evident, even to me, that he was working to win me. I
saw it, but I did not pay any attention to it; when I thought about it
at all it was with a sort of amusement. One day he came to me apparently
very much pleased about something.

"'Congratulate me, Selina,' he said; 'I've just got my appointment.'

"'Appointment?' said I. I truthfully had no idea what he was talking
about.

"'Yes,' he went on, 'I begin work on the board next week.'

"'What board?'

"'Why, the tax board--the city tax board. Surely you knew?'

"Then I laughed--I remember it so distinctly. 'Good gracious, Milton,' I
said, 'I thought it must be the Cabinet of the United States, at the
very least!' Then I saw his face, and knew that I had hurt him.

"'It's splendid, of course,' I added. 'I do congratulate you, indeed,
most heartily. Only--only Milton, you were so serious!'

"I laughed again. He stared at me and after a moment laughed himself, a
little. I suppose that laugh was the greatest effort he had made yet. I
know I liked him better at that moment than ever before. If he had let
it go at that who knows what might have happened?

"But he changed again after a few seconds; he scowled and became more
serious than ever. 'No!' he said angrily, 'why should I laugh with you
over the most serious thing in my life? Why should you want to make me?
First you blame me for not making anything of myself, and now, when I am
trying my best to do it, you laugh at me for being serious! Of course
I'm serious about my work--I shan't pretend to be anything else.'

"Of course that was all wrong, too. Every one admires a man who can
laugh a little about his work. But I felt a sort of hopelessness in
trying to explain it to him; I was afraid he would never really
understand. So instead I drew him out on the new work he had taken up
and tried to make him talk about the plans he had in mind, of which the
tax board was only the first step. He seemed rather shy about talking of
the future.

"'It's a case for actions, not words,' he said. 'I don't want to give
you the impression that I'm only a talker. You'll see, in time, what
you've made of me,' and he smiled at me in a way that rather went to my
heart.

"'Milton,' I said, 'I'm more than glad if I can be of help to you, in
any way, but I should be deceiving you if I let you think there's any
hope--any more hope, even, than there was.'

"But that was the kind of talk he understood best. 'Selina,' he said,
'don't you bother about caring for me. The time hasn't come for that
yet. I'm not even ready for it myself--there's a lot to be done first.
The time will come, at last; I'm sure of it. A woman can't have such a
power over a man as you have over me without coming to have some feeling
for him in the end, if it's only pride in her own handiwork. But even if
it never should come, do you think I could regret what I've done, what
I'm going to do? You've made a man of me, Selina. That stands, no matter
what happens!'

"Of course that sort of thing can't help but make an impression on a
woman, and it had its effect on me. It made me a little nervous; it was
like raising a Frankenstein. I began to wonder if I should come to be
swallowed up in this new life I had unwillingly created. Once or twice I
caught myself wondering how it would feel to be the wife of Milton
Leffert....

"But about that time my stepmother began talking to me about it and
trying to persuade me to marry him, and that had the effect of making me
like the thought less. Somehow she made it seem almost like a duty, and
if there was one thing I couldn't abide it was the idea of marrying from
a sense of duty. Then other things came into my life and for a time I
ceased to think of him almost entirely.

"We went abroad for several months, my stepmother and the two boys and
I. Hilary had been seriously ill, and we thought the change would do him
good. And as he had a good deal of study to make up--he was fourteen at
the time--my stepmother engaged a young man to go with us and tutor him
and be a companion to the boys generally.

"You might almost guess the rest. I saw my stepmother wince when he met
us at the steamer--we had engaged him by letter and had no idea what he
looked like. I suppose it had never occurred to her before that there
might be danger in placing me in daily companionship with a man of
about my own age. It certainly occurred to her then.

"James, I know I can't make it sound plausible to you, but even now I
don't wonder I fell in love with him. I don't suppose a more attractive
man was ever born. He was thin and brown and had a pure aquiline
profile--but it's no use describing him. Think of the most attractive
person you ever knew and make him ten times more so and perhaps you'll
get some idea.

"He was quite poor--that also took my fancy. He was trying to earn money
enough to put himself through law school. Those who knew him said he was
a brilliant student and that a great career lay before him, and I
believed it. He certainly was as bright and keen as they make 'em, and
very witty and amusing. Occasionally Harry reminds me of him, and that
makes me worry about Harry.... Of course I was tremendously taken with
his mental qualities, and I had all sorts of romantic notions about
helping him to make a great place for himself in the world, and all the
rest of it. But as a matter of fact what drew me to him chiefly was
simple animal attraction. It wasn't wrong and it wasn't unnatural,
but--well, it was unfortunate.

"Even my stepmother felt it. I don't know how long it was before she
knew what was going on, but she never made any effort to stop it. Like a
sensible woman she kept her mouth shut and determined to let things take
their course. But she never talked to me any more about Milton Leffert,
and as a matter of fact I know she would have been perfectly willing
that I should marry Adrian. Yes, that was his first name. I shan't tell
you his last, because he's still alive.

"I remember telling myself when I first saw him that such an absurdly
handsome person could not have much to him, but he appeared better and
better as time went on. He was thoughtful and tactful and knew how to
efface himself. He was splendid with the boys; Hilary in particular took
a tremendous fancy to him and would do anything he said. He was the
greatest influence in Hilary's life up to that time, and I really think
the best. He was an extraordinary person. By the end of the first month
I suspected he was the Real Man. By the end of the second I was
convinced of it, and by the end of the third I would willingly have
placed my head under his foot any time he gave the word. By the end of
the sixth month I wouldn't have touched him with my foot--I'm sure of
it. But there never was any sixth month.

"In the month of June we were on the Lake of Como. There happened to be
a full moon. Como in the moonlight is not the safest place in the world
for young people, under any circumstances. In our case it was sure to
lead to something.

"We had strolled up to a terrace high above the lake and stood for a
long time leaning over the balustrade drinking in the beauty of the
scene. For a long time we said nothing, and apparently the same thought
struck us both--that it was all too beautiful to be true. At any rate
after a time Adrian sighed and said: 'Oh, this damnable moonlight!'

"'Why?'I asked.

"'Because it makes everything seem so unreal--the lake, the mountains,
the nightingales, everything. It's like a poem by Lamartine. But I don't
mind that--I like Lamartine. The trouble is it makes you seem unreal
too. Oh, I know that you're where you are and are flesh and blood and
that if I pinched you you'd probably scream and all that--'

"'No, I shouldn't,' said I. 'I wouldn't be real if I did.'

"He sighed. 'That shows it,' he said; 'that proves exactly what I say.
You're not really living this; your soul isn't really here. I'm not
really in your life. I'm just a pretty little episode, a stage property,
a part of the lake and the moonlight, a part of every summer vacation!'

"'If you're not really in my life,' said I, 'doesn't it occur to you
that it's because of your unreality, not mine?'

"'You admit that I'm not real to you, then?'

"'No,' said I, 'but it would be your own fault if you weren't.'

"'What about that man in New Haven, is he real?' he asked suddenly. I
only flushed, and he went on: 'That's it--he's the real man in your
life. You're willing to play about with me in the summertime, but when
the winter comes you'll go straight back and marry him. I'm all right
for the moonlight, but you want him in the cold gray light of the dawn!
He's the Old and New Testaments to you, and I'm only--a poem by
Lamartine! And with me--oh, Lord!' He buried his face in his hands.

"I don't know whether it was pure accident or whether he somehow
guessed part of the truth. At any rate it roused me. I was very sure
that what he said was not true, or at least I was very anxious that it
should not be true, which often comes to the same thing. I argued with
him for some time, and when words failed there were other things. But he
did not seem entirely convinced.

"After a while, as we sat there, Hilary appeared with a telegram that
had just arrived for me. I saw that it was a cable message and thought
it was probably from Milton Leffert, as he had said that he might
possibly come abroad on business during the summer and would look me up
if he did. And somehow the thought of Milton Leffert at that moment
filled me with the most intense disgust....

"'Now,' I said when Hilary had gone, 'I'm tired of arguing; here may be
a chance to prove myself by actions. Open this telegram, and tell me if
it's from Milton Leffert!'

"He looked at me in a dazed sort of way. 'Open it!' I repeated, stamping
my foot. I was drunk with love and moonlight and I imagine I must have
acted like a fury. I know I felt like one.

"He opened the telegram and read it, gravely and silently.

"'Is it or is it not from Milton Leffert?'

"'Yes. He--'

"'That's all I want to know--don't say another word! Do you hear? Never
tell me another word about that telegram as long as you live! And now
destroy it--here--before my eyes! I'm going to put Milton Leffert out of
my life forever, here and now! Go on, destroy it!'

"Adrian hesitated. He seemed almost frightened. 'But--' he began.

"'Adrian!' I turned toward him with the moonlight beating full down on
me. I was not so bad-looking in those days; I daresay I was not
bad-looking at all as I stood there in the moonlight. At least I know
that woman never used her beauty more consciously than I did in that
moment.

"'Adrian, look at me! Do you love me?'

"He allowed that he did.

"'Then do what I say. Destroy that telegram and never mention it or that
man's name to me again!'

"A change came over him. He hesitated no longer; he became forceful and
determined.

"'Very well,' he cried, 'if you're not mine now you will be! Here's
good-by to Milton Leffert!'

"He took some matches from his pocket and lit the end of the paper. When
it was burning brightly he dropped it over the edge of the terrace and
it floated out into the space beneath. We stood together and watched it
as it fell, burning red in the moonlight....

"Then for some weeks we were happy. Adrian seemed particularly so; he
had had his gloomy moods before that but now they passed away entirely.
And if there was a cloud of suspicion that I had done wrong in my own
mind I was so happy in seeing Adrian's joy that I paid no attention to
it.

"Only one thing struck me as odd; he would not let me tell my
stepmother. He gave a number of reasons for it; it would make his
position with us uncomfortable; he could not be a tutor and a lover at
the same time; he was writing to his relatives and wanted to wait till
they knew; we must wait till we were absolutely sure of ourselves, and
so forth. One of these reasons might have convinced me, but his giving
so many of them made me suspect, even as I obeyed him, that none of them
was the real one. I wondered what it could be. I found out, soon enough.

"We left Italy and worked slowly northward. Several weeks after the
scene on the terrace we reached Paris. There we met a number of our
American friends, some of whom had just arrived from home. One day my
stepmother and I were sitting talking with one of these--Elizabeth
Haldane it was--and in the course of the conversation she happened to
say: 'Very sad, isn't it, about poor Milton Leffert?'

"'What is sad?' asked my stepmother.

"'Why, haven't you heard?' said Elizabeth. 'He died a short time before
we left. Brain fever or something of the sort--from overwork, they said.
He was planning to run for the State Legislature this fall.' I saw her
glancing round; she couldn't keep her eyes off me. But I sat still as a
stone....

"As soon as I could I took Adrian off alone.

"'Adrian,' I said, 'the time has come when you've got to tell me what
was in that telegram.'

"'Never,' said he, smiling. 'I promised, you know,'

"'I release you from your promise.'

"'Even so, I can't tell you.'

"'Adrian,' said I, looking him full in the face, 'Milton Leffert is
dead.'

"'I'm sorry to hear it,' said he.

"I blazed up at that. 'Stop lying to me,' I cried, 'and tell me what was
in that telegram!'

"He confessed at last that it was from Jane Leffert saying that her
brother was dangerously ill and asking me to come to him if possible or
at least send some message. I knew well enough what it must have been,
but I wanted to wring it from his lips....

"'Well, have you nothing to say to me?' he asked.

"I didn't answer for some time--I couldn't. To tell the truth I hadn't
been thinking of him. At last I turned on him. 'You contemptible
creature,' I managed to say.

"'Why?' he whined. 'You've no right to call me names. You made me do it.
If you're sorry now it's your own fault.'

"'I was to blame,' I answered. 'Heaven forbid that I should try to
excuse my own fault. But do you think that lets you out? Suppose the
positions had been reversed; suppose you had been ill and Milton with
me. Do you imagine he would have let me remain in ignorance while you
lay dying and in need of me, no matter what I told him to do or not to
do? Are you so weak and mean that you can't conceive of any one being
strong and good?'

"'It was because I loved you so much that I did it,' he said.

"'Oh, Adrian,' I told him, 'if you really loved me, why did you let me
do a thing you knew I'd live to regret? If you really loved me, what had
you to fear but that?'

"'You might have saved his life,' he answered.

"Oh, James, the anguish of hearing those words from his lips! The man I
did not love telling me I might have saved the life of the man I did!
For now that it was too late I knew well enough who it was that I loved.
In one flash I saw the two men as they were, one strong, quiet,
unselfish, the other selfish, cowardly, mean-spirited. Now I saw why he
had not wanted me to tell my stepmother of our engagement. He wanted to
cover up his own part in the affair in case anything unpleasant happened
when I heard of Milton's death.

"I told my stepmother everything as soon as I could and she behaved
splendidly. She sent Adrian away and I never saw him again. And as I
announced my intention of going home on the next steamer she decided it
was best to give up the rest of her trip and take the boys along back
with me. So we all went, that same week.

"People wondered, when we arrived so long ahead of time, and came pretty
near to guessing the whole truth. But I didn't care. The one thing I
wanted in the world was to see Milton's sister, his one surviving
relative.

"'Jane Leffert,' I wrote her, 'if you can bear to look on the woman who
killed your brother, let her come and tell you she's sorry.' She was a
good woman and understood. The next day I went to her house. She took me
upstairs and showed me his room, the bed where he had died. I never said
a word all the time. Then, as she was really a very remarkable woman,
she handed me an old brooch of her mother's containing a miniature of
him painted when he was four years old, and told me it was mine to keep.
Then for the first time I broke down and cried....

"If it hadn't been for Jane Leffert I think I should have gone mad. She
never tried to hide the truth from me. She admitted, when I asked her,
that Milton had, to all intents and purposes, worked himself to death
for me, and that the doctor had said the one hope for him lay in his
seeing me or hearing I was coming to him. But never a word of blame or
reproach did she give me, never a hint of a feeling of it. She knew how
easy it is to make mistakes in life, she knew how hard it is to atone
for them. She it was who gave me the blessed thought that it was worth
while to go on living as part of my atonement, and that if I put into my
life the things I had learned from him I might even, to a certain
extent, make Milton live on in me.

"So instead of taking poison or becoming a Carmelite nun I went on
living at home as before, stimulated and inspired by that idea. It was
hard at first, but somehow the harder things were the greater the
satisfaction I took in life. By the time I had lightened the remaining
years of my stepmother's life and nursed Jane Leffert through her last
illness I became content with my lot and, in a way, happy. I never asked
for happiness nor wanted it again on earth, but it came, at last. There
is something purifying about loving a dead person very much. The chief
danger is in its making one morbid, but as I was always a thoroughly
practical person with a strong natural taste for life it did me nothing
but good. But I don't prescribe it for any one who can get anything
better....

"One thing in particular helped me to keep my mind on earth and remind
me of the far-reaching effects of wrong-doing. I have said that Hilary,
your father, was extremely fond of Adrian. Well, somehow he got the idea
into his head that I had thrown him over because of his poverty, and he
never forgave me for it. Till his dying day he believed that I really
loved Adrian most but was afraid to marry him. Over and over again I
told him the truth, taking a sort of fierce pleasure in being able to
tell any one that I had never loved any one but Milton Leffert.

"'Then why did you let Adrian make love to you?' Hilary would answer,
'and why did you make him burn that telegram? I know, I heard you as I
walked down the path.' Nothing I could say ever made him understand. And
the hardest part of it was that I couldn't exactly blame him for not
being convinced.

"Taking him at that impressionable time of life the thing had a
tremendous effect on him. The idea grew into him that no human feeling
could stand the test of hard facts; that that was the way love worked
out in real life. From that time on his mind steadily developed and his
soul steadily dwindled. He became practical, brilliant, worldly wise,
heartless. We grew gradually more and more estranged; you seldom heard
him mention my name, I suppose? That's why you never heard before what
I've been telling you, or at least the whole truth of it.... And so, as
he consciously modeled certain of his mannerisms after those of Adrian
he unconsciously grew more and more like him in character; and I had the
satisfaction of watching the change and realizing that it was due, in
part at least, to me. And the thought of how I unwillingly hurt him has
made me all the more anxious to make reparation by being of service to
his two boys. Perhaps you can imagine some of the things I've feared for
them...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Here Aunt Selina broke off, choked by a sudden gust of emotion. James
said nothing, but sat staring straight in front of him. Presently his
aunt, steadying her voice to its accustomed pitch, went on:

"Well, James, I told this to Beatrice, much as I've told it to you,
though not at so great length, and I could see it made an impression on
her. She came over and sat down by me and took my hand without speaking.

"'You lived through all that?' she said at last, 'and you never told any
one?'

"'Why should I have told?' I answered. 'There was no one to tell. I've
only told you because I thought it might have some bearing on your own
case.'

"She caught her breath, gave a sort of little sigh. And that sigh said,
as plainly as words, 'Dear me, I was so interested in your story I
almost forgot I must get ready to go to New York to-morrow.' It was a
setback; I saw I had overestimated the effect I had made. But I set my
teeth and went on, determined not to give her up yet.

"'Beatrice,' I said, 'I haven't told you all this for the pleasure of
telling it nor to amuse you. I've told it to you because I wanted to
show you how such a course of action as you're about to take works out
in real life. There is a strange madness that comes over women
sometimes, especially over strong women; a sort of obsession that makes
them think they are too good for the men they love. I know it, I've felt
it--I've suffered under it, if ever woman did! It may seem irresistible
while it lasts, but oh, the remorse that comes afterward! Beatrice, how
many times do you suppose I've lived over each snubbing speech I made to
Milton Leffert? How often do you suppose my laugh at him when he told me
about the tax board has rung through my ears? Those are the memories
that stab the soul, Beatrice; don't let there be any such in your life!'

"She didn't answer, but sat staring at the floor.

"'Beatrice,' I went on, 'there's no mortal suffering like discovering
you've done wrong when it's too late. It's the curse of strong-willed
people. It all seems so simple to us at first; it's so easy for us to
force our wills on other people, to rule others and be free ourselves.
Then something happens, the true vision comes, and it's too late!
Beatrice, I've caught you in time--it's not too late for you yet. Do you
know where you stand now, Beatrice? You're at the point where I was when
I told Adrian to burn that telegram!'

"Still she said nothing, and the sight of her sitting there so beautiful
and cold drove me almost wild. 'Oh, Beatrice,' I burst out, losing the
last bit of my self-control, 'don't tell me I've got to live through it
all again with you! Don't go and repeat my mistake before my very eyes,
with my example before yours! It was hard enough to live through it once
myself, but what will it be when I sit helplessly by and watch the
people I love best go through it all! I can't bear it, I can't, I can't!
It takes all the meaning out of my own life!...'

"She was moved by my display of feeling, but not by my words. She said
nothing for a time, but took my hand again and began stroking it gently,
as if to quiet me. I said nothing more--I couldn't speak. At last she
said, in a calm, gentle tone of voice, as if she were explaining
something to a child:--

"'Aunt Selina, I don't think you quite understand about my marriage with
James. It isn't like other marriages, exactly.'

"'It seems to me enough that it is a marriage,' I answered. 'Though I
haven't spoken of that side of it, of course.'

"'Oh, you won't understand!' she said.

"'Beatrice,' said I, 'I couldn't understand if you kept telling me about
it till to-morrow morning. No one ever will understand you, except your
Creator--you might as well make up your mind to it. I don't doubt you've
had many wrong things done to you. The point is, you're about to do one.
Don't do it.'

"Always back to the same old point, and nothing gained! I had the
feeling of having fired my last shot and missed. I shut my eyes and
leaned my head back and tried to think of some new way of putting it to
her, but as a matter of fact I knew I had said all I had to say. And
then, just as I was giving her up for lost, I heard her speaking again.

"'Aunt Selina,' she said, 'you have made me think of one thing.'

"'What's that, my dear?' I asked.

"'Well, I don't doubt but what I have done wrong things already, without
suspecting it. Oh, yes, I've been too sure of myself!'

"'It's possible, my dear,' said I, 'but you haven't done anything that
you can't still make up for, if you want.'

"'I think I know what you mean,' she said slowly; 'you mean I could go
and tell him so. Tell him I had done wrong and was sorry--for I did sin,
not in deed, but still in thought.... I never told him that, of
course....' Then she shivered. 'Oh, but Aunt Selina, I can't do it, I
can't! If you only knew how I've tried already, how I've humiliated
myself!'

"'That never did any one any harm,' I told her.

"'And then,' she went on, 'even if I did do it, he'd never take me
back--not on any terms! He'd only cast me away again--that's what would
happen, you know! What would there be for me then but--Tommy?'

"Well, I knew I'd won a great point in making her even consider it.

"'Several things,' I answered, taking no pains to conceal my delight.
'In the first place, it's by no means certain that he will refuse you.
But if he does--well, you'll never lack a home or a friend while I'm
alive, my dear! And don't you go and pretend that I'm not more to you
than that brainless, chinless, sniveling, driveling little fool of an
Englishman, for I won't believe it!'

"She laughed at that and for a moment we both laughed together. Then it
suddenly occurred to me that I couldn't do better than leave it at that,
let that laugh end our talk.

"'Good night, my dear,' I said, kissing her. 'The time has come now when
you've got to make up your mind for yourself. I've done all I can for
you.' And with that I left her.

"But, oh, James, it wasn't as simple as all that! It was all very well
to tell her that and go to bed, but if you knew what agonies of doubt
and suspense I went through during the night, fearing, hoping,
wondering, praying! Those things are so much more complicated in real
life than they are when you read them or see them acted. What should
have happened was that I should have one grand scene with her and make
her promise at the end to do as I wanted. And I did my best, I went as
far as it was in me to go, and knew no more of the result than before I
began! And we parted laughing--laughing, from that talk!

"But almost the worst part of it was next morning when we met downstairs
after breakfast, with the family about. I could scarcely say good
morning to her, and I never dared catch her eye. And all the time that
one great subject was burning in our minds. And we couldn't talk of it
again, either; we couldn't have if we'd been alone together in a desert!
You can't go on having scenes with people.

"At last, after lunch, I was alone on the verandah with her, and managed
to screw myself up to asking her whether she was going to New York or
not.

"'Yes, I'm going,' she answered.

"'What do you mean by that?' I asked.

"'Oh, I don't know what I mean!' she said desperately. I knew she was as
badly off as I was, or worse, and after that I simply couldn't say
another word to her.

"But I saw her alone once again, just before she started. She kissed me
good-by and smiled and whispered: 'Don't worry, Aunt Selina--it's all
right,' and then the others came. Just that--nothing more!

"I didn't know what to think--what I dared to think. One moment I rushed
and telegraphed you, because I was afraid she was going to the
Englishman, after all. The next minute I was hurrying to catch the night
boat to Boston, because I thought she was going to you and that I might
have to deal with you. I wanted to be with her in any case. Oh, I was so
mad with the uncertainty and suspense I didn't know what I did or what I
thought! But the impression I took away finally from her last words to
me were that she was going to you.... But I never knew, James, _I never
knew_! And now I never shall!..."




CHAPTER XIV

A POTTER'S VESSEL


By a great effort Aunt Selina had kept a firm control over herself
throughout her narrative, but now, the immediate need of composure being
removed, she gave way completely to her natural grief. James, whose
attitude toward her had been somewhat as toward a divine visitation, an
emissary of Nemesis, suddenly found he had to deal with an old woman
suffering under an overwhelming sorrow. This put an end for the present
to the possibility of expanding on the Nemesis suggestion. He fetched
her some more whisky, reflecting that it must be not unpleasant to have
reached the age where grief wore itself out even partially in physical
symptoms, to which physical alleviations could be applied. For the first
time he found himself considering Aunt Selina as an old woman.

He could not help remarking, however, that even in age and even in grief
Aunt Selina was rather magnificent. There was about her tears a
Sophoclean, almost a Niobesque quality. It struck him that she must have
been extremely good-looking in her youth.

Of course Aunt Selina, even in that extremity, knew enough to refrain
from pointing a moral already sufficiently obvious. She said little
after finishing her account, and that little was expressive only of her
immediate sense of loss.

"Oh, James," she moaned, "I had always thought my life went out in a
little puff of red flame forty years ago and more, but it seemed to me
that if I could use my experience to mend her life I should be well
repaid for everything. And now...."

They sat silent for the most part, both laboring under the terrific
hopelessness of the situation, which certainty and uncertainty, together
with the impossibility of action, combined to make intolerable. For a
while each found a certain comfort in the other's mute presence, but at
last even that wore off.

"Well, my dear, you don't want to be bothered by a hysterical old woman
at this time," said Aunt Selina finally, and James obediently
telephoned, for a taxi. Nemesis must be met, sooner or later....

Only once, as they sat side by side in the dark cab, did Aunt Selina
give utterance to the one idea that animated her thoughts of the future.

"Well, I've lost my own life and I've lost her, and now you're the only
thing I have left. Oh, James, for Heaven's sake don't let me lose you!"

"No, Aunt Selina, no," he replied, laying his hand on hers and speaking
with a promptness and a fervor that surprised himself.

"One thing," she began just before they drew up at the hotel.

"Yes?"

"One thing I've learned in all these years is that there's nothing so
bad that it isn't better to face it than dodge it. Nothing!"

"Yes," said James. "Thank you, Aunt Selina."

He walked back to his apartment with a feeling as of straightening his
shoulders. His aunt's words rang in his brain. There was need of
courage, he saw that. Well, he had never lacked that and would not be
found wanting in it now. Not even--the thought flashed on him as he
opened his front door--not even if the kind of courage that was now
needed implied humiliation. He entered his home with the consciousness
of having made a good start.

He walked straight into the bedroom.

"Well, I've done you an injustice," he said aloud. "I misjudged you. I'm
sorry."

"Oh, you didn't give her credit for being capable of loving YOU, did
you?" rang a mocking voice in his brain. A palpable hit for Nemesis.

"Oh, you know what I _mean_," he answered petulantly. He thought it was
unworthy of her to quibble thus, particularly when he was voluntarily
assuming that Beatrice had started from Bar Harbor--well, with the right
idea. He had a right to doubt there, which he was willing to waive.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "truly sorry. Isn't that enough?" His eyes
fell on the photograph of Beatrice which still stood on the dressing
table. He turned quickly away again.

"Not by a long shot," said Nemesis, or words to that effect.

No, somehow it wasn't. He realized it himself; even feeling that didn't
give him the sense of repletion and calm that he sought. He paced the
room for some time in silent anxiety.

"I really don't know what to do," he admitted at last. "Suppose"--he was
appealing to Beatrice now--"suppose you tell me what."

He glanced involuntarily at the photograph. Its unchanging half-smile
informed him that all help must now come from himself. A sudden access
of rage at that photograph seized him.

"Don't you laugh at me, when I'm trying my best!" he cried.

The picture smiled on. In a burst of fury James picked up the frame and
hurled it with all his strength into the mirror. There was a crash and a
shower of broken glass, amid which the picture bounded lazily back and
fell to the floor, face downward.

James stood and stared at it, and as he stared a curious revulsion came
over him. He stooped slowly down, unaccountably hoping with all his soul
that the photograph was not hurt. He scarcely dared to turn it over....

The glass was smashed to atoms, but the picture itself was unhurt. No,
there was a cut across the face.

"Oh, I've hurt her, I've hurt Beatrice!" he whispered.

Nemesis said something that made him sink into a chair and gaze before
him with horror. Cinders, ashes, black coals, some of them still
glowing--oh, the mere sight of them then had been unbearable! And now,
in view of what he had learned.... He could not face the thought.

Yet it was true: if it had not been for him Beatrice would still be
alive. Whether she took that train intending to go to him or to Tommy it
did not matter; she would not have taken it at all if he had behaved as
he should.

He turned his attention back to the picture, gently and carefully
smoothing out the cut, as though in the hope that reparation to her
effigy would make it easier to face the thought of having compassed her
destruction.

Somehow it did no such thing....

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course what Nemesis wanted was a confession that he loved the woman
whose death he was morally responsible for. James realized that himself,
almost from the first, but it was not in his nature to admit easily that
such an unreasonable change of feeling was possible to him. Long hours
of struggle followed, hours of endless pacing, of fruitless internal
argument, of blind resistance to the one hope, as he in the bottom of
his soul knew it was, of his salvation. Resistance, brave, exhilarating,
hopeless, futile, ignoble resistance to whatever happened to him
contrary to the dictates of his own will--it was as inevitable to him as
feeling itself.

From time to time he thought of Tommy, and this, if he did but know it,
was the best symptom he could have shown. For though at first he thought
of him with little more than his usual contempt, envy soon began to
creep in, then frank jealousy and at last a blind hatred that made him
clench his hands and wish, as he had seldom wished anything, that
Tommy's throat was between them. In fact he ended by hating Tommy quite
as though he were his equal. He never stopped to consider that this
change was no less revolutionary than the one he was fighting.

The hopeless hours dragged on. A sense of physical fatigue grew on him;
every muscle in him ached. His brain also staggered under the long
strain; it hammered and rang. Certain scraps of sentences he had heard
during the day buzzed through it with a curious insistence, taking
advantage of his weakened state to torment him. A great chance, a great
chance--Uncle James' parting words to him. Sorrow was a great
chance--for some. For Aunt Selina, yes; for Beatrice, yes; or Uncle
James, frozen and unresponsive as he appeared, yes. But not for him. Oh,
no, he must admit it, he was not even worthy to suffer greatly. He was
not really suffering now, he supposed; he was merely very tired.
Otherwise those words, a great chance, a great chance, would not keep
pounding through his head like the sound of loud wheels....

Railroad wheels.

Then what was it that Aunt Selina had said about finding out something
too late? Oh, yes, people found out they loved other people when it was
too late. Especially strong people. He was strong.... Could it be that
_he_ was going to discover something too late--_that_? It was too late
for something already, but surely not for that! Just think--Aunt Selina
had found out too late, and Beatrice had found out too late, and now....

Yes, if it was horrible it must be true. It was he who was too late. He
understood about Aunt Selina, all she must have felt. And Beatrice too;
he saw now how strong and noble and warm-hearted she had been, and how
she must have suffered. Especially that. And now he had found out it was
too late to tell her so!

"We can't tell you what we don't know," the man in the station had said
that morning. Words spoken mechanically and without thought, but
containing the very essence of human tragedy. While there was yet time
he had had no knowledge, not the slightest glimmering....

"Oh, Beatrice!" he groaned, "if I had only been able to hope! Just a
little hope, even at that last minute on the platform! That would be
something to be thankful for!"

And then in the anguish of his remorse all his fatigue and uncertainty
suddenly fell from him. Nothing remained but the thought of her, strong,
generous, brave, humble, all that he had professed to admire--dead! And
he, false, mean, cowardly, cold-hearted, alive. And the idea of never
being able to tell her that at last he understood became so intolerable,
so cruel, so contrary to all that was good in life, so blindly
unthinkable, that....

Well, in a word, it simply ceased to be. Such a life as had been hers
could not fade into nothingness, such a heart as hers could not fail to
understand, be she dead or alive.

"God," he whispered, clutching with all his strength at the hope the
word now contained, "God, make her understand! I recant, I repent, I
believe--anything! Forgive me if you can or punish me as you will, only
let her live, let her know...."

Then, as the crowning torment, came hope. After all, he knew nothing; he
only supposed. Nothing was certain; only probable. Something might have
happened; he dared not think what or how, but it was possible,
conceivable, at least, that Beatrice was not on that train when it was
wrecked. Beatrice might still be alive!... The anguish of the fall back
into probability was sharper than anything he had yet known, but every
time he found himself struggling painfully up again toward that small
spark of light.

He fell on his knees beside the bed--her bed--and tried to pray.
Nothing came to his lips but the words he had so long disdained to say,
uttered now with a fierce sweet jubilation:

"Beatrice, I love you. I never did before, but I do now--at least I
think I do! I never knew, I never understood, but I do now! Beatrice, I
do love you, I do, I do! Beatrice...."

But apparently they satisfied the power that has charge of such matters,
for even as he stammered the words that saved him a blessed drowsiness
stole over him and before long he slept as he knelt. It was morning when
he awoke.




CHAPTER XV

THE TIDE TURNS


A gray morning, wet and close, whose very atmosphere was death to hope.
James did hope, nevertheless, with all the refreshed energy of his
being. Hope came as soon as he started to wake up, before he began to
feel the cramps in his limbs, before he had time to rub his eyes and
wonder what had happened.

A hot bath, and then breakfast. Physical alleviations; he was humiliated
to realize they did make a difference, even to him. He shuddered at the
thought of how he had patronizingly envied Aunt Selina for being helped
by them last night, much as he shuddered at the remembrance of having
once dared to pity Beatrice....

But the present was also with him, and the present was even harder to
face than the past. Hope sprang eternal, but so did certainty. One might
have thought that they would have neutralized each other's effects and
left a blank, but as a matter of fact they only doubled each other's
torments. The moment breakfast was over James started off for the
station to set one or the other at rest.

He went straight to the press room, which was only just open; he had to
wait for the agent to arrive. When he came he was able to tell James
nothing new, but he conducted him to a departmental manager. He was no
more satisfactory, but he undertook to make every possible inquiry.
Leaving James in an outer office he called various people to him, got
into telephonic communication with others and ended by calling up
Stamford and then Boston. But James could guess the result from his face
the moment he reentered the room.

"Nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing. But don't give up yet."

James walked slowly down the corridor toward the elevator. It was a long
corridor, dark and empty; James could not see the end of it when he
started. The sound of his feet echoed hollowly along the dim walls.
Altogether it was rather an eerie place, not at all suggestive of a
modern office building. Much more, it seemed to James as he walked on,
like life.... A blind alley, the end of which was in shadow, where one
must walk alone and in almost total darkness. A place where one's
footsteps echo with painful exactness--one must walk carefully lest the
sound of their irregularity should ring evilly in one's ears and pierce
unharmoniously into those mysterious chambers alongside, perhaps even
into other corridors, other people's corridors....

He roused himself from his reverie with a jerk, but his mood remained on
him, translated into a larger meaning. He was alive; no matter what had
happened to Beatrice, he was still alive, with a living person's duties
and responsibilities--and chances. Beatrice, even though cut off in the
bloom of her youth, had succeeded in making a person of herself,
justifying her existence, supplying a guiding light to some of those who
walked in greater darkness than herself. He had not as yet done that.
Well, he must. He would. Beatrice's gift to him should not be wasted. In
a flash he felt his strength and his manhood return to him. He looked
into the future with a humble yet unflinching gaze; hope and certainty
had lost their terrors for him. If Beatrice had died, he would thank God
that it had been given him to know her and do his best to translate her
spirit into earthly terms. If by any impossible chance she still
lived--well, he could do nothing to make himself worthy of such
happiness, but he would do his best.

He walked out of the elevator into the concourse, the huge unchanging
concourse where so much had happened yesterday. It was comparatively
empty at this moment, only a few figures waiting patiently before train
gates. One of these caught his eye; it took on a bafflingly familiar
appearance. He moved curiously nearer to it....

Tommy!

At last, at last, at last he was going to feel that throat between his
fingers, get a chance to exterminate that--that--He sprang forward like
a wildcat.

He stopped before he had taken two steps, with a feeling of impotence,
hopelessness. Who was he, who under the sun was he to teach Tommy
anything? Tommy--why, Tommy had loved Beatrice, not after it was too
late, but before! Beatrice had preferred Tommy to him. Tommy was a
better man than he was; he took a morbid joy in thinking how much
better.

It was conceivable that Tommy might know something. Perhaps he had even
come to this very spot to meet Beatrice.... Well, he would not blame her
or offer objections, if it were so. He would accept such a judgment
gladly, as a small price for knowing she was alive. He hurried across
the concourse.

"Tommy, can you tell me anything about Beatrice?" James' voice was so
matter-of-fact, so strikingly unfitted to a Situation, that Tommy was
rather irritated. He flushed.

"No, of course not. Why should I?"

"I only thought--seeing you here--"

"No." The tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness, wholly un-Tommylike.
There was an odd moment of silence, which Tommy ended by breaking out:
"Why the devil do you have to come here and crow over me? Why can't you
let me clear out in peace?"

James was so penitent for having hurt Tommy that he did not at first
notice the implication in his words.

"I'm sorry--I meant nothing! I've been out of my head with anxiety.... I
only thought she might have gone somewhere else to meet you--it was my
last hope...."

"_What?_" Tommy cocked his eyebrows incredulously, with a sort of
fierceness. "Hope of what?"

"Why, that Beatrice was still alive."

"Still alive? What on earth--! What makes you think she isn't?"

"Do you mean to say--"

Again the two stared at each other in a strained silence. Then Tommy
produced a crumpled yellow envelope from his pocket and handed it to
James.

"I got this yesterday morning--that's all I know. I haven't been able to
destroy the damned thing...."

James took it and opened it. A telegram:--

     It's all off, Tommy. Please go away and forgive me if you can.
     Beatrice.

He looked at the date at the top. Boston, 8:37 A. M. Boston! The Maine
Special did not go into Boston; Beatrice had left it before--before....

"Tommy," he said faintly, "Tommy, I--" His head swam; he felt himself
reeling.

"All right, old top, all right; easy does it." He felt Tommy's arm about
him and heard Tommy's voice in his ears, the voice of the good-hearted
Tommy of old. Suddenly the idea of a disappointed lover calling his
fainting though successful rival old top and telling him that easy did
it struck him as wildly and irresistibly humorous. He laughed, and the
sound of his laugh acted like a stimulant. He bit his lip hard.

"All right now--I'll go up and get into a taxi. You see," he began
explanatorily to Tommy as he walked beside him, "I thought--I thought--"

"I see," supplied Tommy companionably, "you thought she was in the
accident, of course. Beastly thing, that accident; no wonder it knocked
you up. Knocked me up a bit myself when I heard of it, although I knew
she couldn't be in it. Easy up the steps--righto! Everything turned out
all right in the end, though, didn't it? Pretty hefty steps, wot? Pretty
hefty place altogether--nothing like it in London...."

A cab puffed up beside them. James turned with his hand on the door. An
unaccountable wave of affection, respect, even, for Tommy surged through
him. "Tommy, you're going away now, I take it?"

"Yes--Chicago." (He pronounced it _Shickago_. That was nothing; when he
arrived in the country he had pronounced it with the ch sound. In a few
more weeks he would get it correctly; you couldn't expect too much at a
time from Tommy.)

"Well, Tommy, see here--"

"Yes?"

"It may sound silly to you, but--come and see us some time!"

"Righto. Not now, though--got to see the country--train leaves in two
minutes. See America first, wot? Good-by!" and he was off.

James sank back into the cab, admiring the other's tact. A thoughtless,
brutal proposal; of course he ought never to have made it. It was not in
him, though, to deny Tommy any sign of the overwhelming love for the
whole world that filled him.

When he reached his apartment his physical strength was restored, but
mentally he seemed paralyzed. There was much to be done, but he had no
idea how to go about it. A bright thought struck him; he called up Aunt
Selina. He laughed foolishly into the transmitter; Heaven knows how he
made her understand at last. The two babbled incoherently at one another
for a moment and abruptly rang off, without saying good-by.... Another
bright idea--Uncle James. He was more definite, but James had little
idea of what he said. He caught something about a Comparatively Simple
Matter.... Uncle J. undertook to do everything, whatever it was. A
satisfactory person.

After that James sat down in an armchair and for a long time remained
there, reduced to an inarticulate pulp of joy.

An hour or two later Beatrice's telegram arrived. It was dated from an
obscure place in the White Mountains. "Quite safe and well; only just
heard of the accident," it read. Just ten words. But quite enough! To
think of her telegraphing _him_!...

Immediately he became strong and efficient again. He rushed back to the
station, dashed off a telegram and caught up a time table. Confound the
trains--nothing till eight-fifteen!

       *       *       *       *       *

When she left Bar Harbor, Beatrice had no very clear idea of what she
was going to do. Of one thing she was fairly sure; she was not going to
Tommy. Where Aunt Cecilia's tentative suggestions concerning the dangers
besetting a young wife had failed, Aunt Selina's uncompromising realism
had gone straight to the point. Her eyes were opened; she saw what
pitfalls infatuation and pique and obstinacy might lead her into. She
was willing to admit that the thing she had planned to do would be
equivalent to throwing away her last hold on life--all she read into the
word life. No, she would not go to Tommy. Not directly, anyway....

Ah, there was the rub. Suppose her imagined scene of confession and
appeal turned into one of mutual recrimination and resentment--the old
sort. What was more likely, in view of her past experience? Were things
so radically changed now that either she or James would be able to
understand the other better than before? With the best intentions in the
world she could not help rubbing him the wrong way, and she feared the
anger and hopelessness that it was his power to inspire in her. With
Tommy at hand, in the same town, could she trust herself to resist the
temptation of throwing herself into his ready arms? It was all very well
for Aunt Selina to say that she was worth more to Beatrice than Tommy;
Beatrice was quite convinced of it, in the calm light of reason. But in
the hour of failure, with her pride and her woman's desire for
protection and love worked up to white heat, would she still be
convinced of it? Could she dare entrust her whole chance of future
happiness to the strength of her reason in the moment of its greatest
trial?

Thoughts like these mingled with the rattle of the train in a sleepless
night. In the morning one thing emerged into clarity; she must wait till
Tommy was out of the way. If her determination to try to regain James
was worth anything, she must give it every possible chance for success.
Her hopes for a happy issue out of her dreadful labyrinth were not so
good that she could afford to take one unnecessary risk.

Well, if she wasn't going to New York she would have to get off the
train, obviously. So she alighted outside Boston early in the morning,
took a local into town and telegraphed Tommy. Then, as she wandered
aimlessly through the station her eye fell on a framed time-table in
which occurred the name of a small White Mountain resort of which she
had lately heard; a place described to her as remote and quiet and
possessed of one fairly good hotel. She noticed that a train was due to
leave for there in an hour's time. In a moment her decision was made;
she would go up there and wait for Tommy to get safely out of the way,
carefully plan out her course of action and--she scarcely dared express
the thought, even mentally--give herself a little time to enjoy her
newly-awakened love before putting it to the final test.

She arrived in the evening, took a room in the hotel and went to bed
almost immediately, sleeping soundly for the first time in weeks. About
the middle of the next morning the Boston papers arrived. Until then she
had no notion that the train she had traveled by had been wrecked.

She telegraphed immediately to Aunt Cecilia and then, after some
thought, to James. It seemed the thing to do, everything being
considered. She wondered if he knew she was safe, how he would take the
news, if he had been much disturbed by uncertainty. She was inclined to
fear that her escape had not done her cause any particular good....

His reply arrived surprisingly soon: "Stay where you are, am coming."
She was touched. Apparently the turn of events had had a favorable
effect on him; if he cared enough now to come up and see her the
opportunity for putting her plea to him must be fairly propitious. There
was a fair chance that if she acted wisely all would turn out well. But
oh, she must be careful!

She knew he must arrive by the morning train and arose betimes so as to
be on hand. She was in some doubt about breakfast, whether to get it
early or wait for him. Either way might be better or worse; it all
depended on the outcome of their meeting. She ended by deciding to wait;
she would let him breakfast alone if--if. Small interest she would have
in breakfast in that event.

She was downstairs long before the train was due to arrive. The weather
had cleared during the night and the morning was sunny and cool, a true
autumn day. She tried waiting on the verandah, but the wind was so sharp
that she soon returned to the warm lobby. She could watch the road
equally well from the front windows; there was a long open ascent from
the station. At last she saw the hotel wagon appear round a curve. There
was only one passenger in it. He, of course. She could recognize the set
of his head and shoulders even at that distance. She hoped he had a warm
enough overcoat.

The wagon reached the steepest part of the incline, and he was out,
walking briskly along beside it. Before it, very soon; he went so much
faster. How like James, and how unnecessary! He the only passenger, and
what were horses made for, anyway? Still perhaps it was better, if he
were not warmly dressed....

The ascent grew steeper before him and his pace visibly decreased. But
the wagon merely crawled, far behind him! He was a furious walker. That
hill was enough to phase any one....

Presently the sight of him plodding painfully up toward her while she
waited calmly at the top grew perfectly intolerable. She could bear it
no longer; hatless and coatless she rushed out of the hotel and down
the road toward him. After a while he raised his face and their eyes
met. Nearer and nearer they came, gazing fixedly into each other's eyes
and discovering new things there, new lives, new worlds....

They did not even kiss. She, looking beyond him, saw the driver of the
station wagon peering up at them, and he caught sight over her shoulder
of the staring windows of the hotel. They stopped with some
embarrassment and immediately began walking up together.

"It's nice to see you, James; did you have a good journey?"

"Yes, very, thanks. You comfortable here?"

On they walked, in silence. Gradually their embarrassment left them and
gave place to a sort of awe. Something was going to happen, something
great and wonderful; they no longer doubted it nor felt any fear.
But--all in good time!

It must be coming soon, though, to judge by the way it kept pressing
down on them. Good time? Heavens, there never was any time but the
present moment, never would be any....

"Beatrice," said James, staring hard at the ground in front of him, "I
know now how wicked I've been. Do you think you can ever forgive me?"

"Why, James," said Beatrice gently, "dear James, there's nothing to
forgive."

Then he looked up and saw there were tears on her cheeks....

Yes, right there in the open road!




CHAPTER XVI

REINSTATEMENT OF A SCHOeNE SEELE


The sunlight of a golden October afternoon poured down on a little brick
terrace running along one side of the farmhouse in the Berkshires Harry
had bought and reformed into a summer house. It was not the principal
open-air extension of the place; the official verandah was on the other
side, commanding a wide view to the east and south. This was just a
little private terrace, designed especially for use on afternoons like
the present, when for the moment autumn went back on all its promises
and in a moment of carelessness poured over a dying landscape the breath
of May. The only view to be had from it was up a grassy slope to the
west, on the summit of which, according to all standards except those of
the New England farmer of one hundred years ago, the house ought to have
been built. Not that either Madge or Harry cared particularly. They were
fond of pointing out that Tom Ball, or West Stockbridge Mountain, or
whatever it was, shut out the view to the west anyway, and that they
were lucky enough to find a farmhouse with any view from it at all.

On the terrace sat James and Beatrice, who were spending a week-end with
their relatives. Madge was with them. Presumably there was current in
her mind a polite fiction that she was entertaining her guests, but she
did not take her duties of hostess-ship too seriously. It was not even
necessary to keep up a conversation; they all got along far too well
together for that. They simply sat and enjoyed the fleeting sunshine,
making pleasant and unnecessary remarks whenever they felt moved to do
so. Probably they also thought, from time to time. Of the general
extraordinariness of things, and so forth. If they all spent a little
time in admiring the adroitness with which the hands of fate had
shuffled them, with the absent member of the pack, into their present
satisfactory positions, we should not be at all surprised. But of course
none of them made any allusion to it.

Harry suddenly burst through the glass door leading from the house and
flopped into a chair. His appearance was informal. The others turned
toward him with curious nostrils.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "The only thing is for us all to smoke. You
too, Beatrice. Because if you don't you'll smell me, and if you smell me
I'll have to go up and wash, and if I go up and wash now I shall miss
this last hour of sunshine and that will make you all very, very
unhappy."

"I am smoking," said Beatrice calmly, "because I want to, and for no
other reason."

"And I," observed Madge, "because Harry doesn't want me to."

"If you want to know what I've been doing since lunch," said Harry,
disregarding the insult, "I don't mind telling you that I've mended a
wire fence, covered the asparagus bed, conducted several successful
bonfires and filled all the grease-cups on the Ford. I have also
turned--"

"Yes," said James, "we've guessed that."

"And now only a few trifles such as feeding fowls and swine--or as Madge
prefers to put it, chickabiddies and piggywigs--stand between me and a
well-deserved repose. Heavens! I don't see how farmers can keep such
late hours. Harker, I believe, frequently stays up till nearly nine. I
feel as if it ought to be midnight now; nothing but the thought of the
piggywigs keeps me out of bed."

"Can't Harker feed the piggywigs?" inquired Beatrice.

"Oh, yes," said Madge, "just as he can do all the other things Harry
does a great deal better than he. But it keeps him busy and happy, so we
let him go on."

"Just as if you didn't cry every night to feed your old pigs!" retorted
her husband.

Madge laughed. "Yes, I am rather a fool about the poor things, even if
they aren't so attractive as they were in June. You should have seen
them, so pink and tiny and sweet, standing up on their hind legs and
wiggling their noses at you! No one could help wanting to feed them,
they were so helpless and confident of receiving a shower of manna from
above. I know just how the Almighty felt when he fed the Israelites."

"Better manna than manners," murmured Harry, and for a while there was a
profound silence.

"What about a stroll before tea?" presently suggested the happy farmer.

"I should like to," said James. "We'll have to make it short, though."

"Very well. What about the others--the fair swine-herd?"

"I think not," answered the person referred to, smiling up at him. "I
took quite a long walk before lunch, you know."

"Oh, yes," said Harry, blushing for no apparent reason. "Beatrice?"

Beatrice preferred to stay with Madge.

"You see," said Harry when the two had gone a little way; "you see, the
fact is, Madge--hm. Madge--"

"You mean," said James, smiling, "there is hope of a new generation of
our illustrious house?"

"Yes! I only learned this morning. If it's a boy we're going to call it
James, and if it's a girl we're going to call it Jaqueline."

"I wonder," mused James, "how many times you have named it since you
first heard."

"There have been several suggestions," admitted Harry, laughing. "I
really think it will end by that, though."

"Jaqueline--quite a pretty name. Much prettier than James--I rather hope
it will be a girl."

"Yes, I do too," said Harry. And both knew that they would not have
troubled to express that wish if they had not really hoped the direct
opposite....

They walked slowly up the hill and presently turned and stopped to
admire the view that the foolish prudence of a dead farmer had prevented
them from enjoying from the house. It was a very lovely view, with its
tumbled stretches of hills and fields and occasional sheets of blue
water bathed in the mellow light of the sun that hung low over the dark
mountain wall to the west. Possibly it was its sheer beauty, or the
impression it gave of distance from human strife and sordidness, or
perhaps the subject last mentioned imparted to their thoughts and
impulse away from the trivial and familiar; at any rate when Harry next
spoke his words fell neither on James' ears nor his own with the sound
of fatuity that they might have held at another time.

"James," he said, "we're getting on, aren't we? I don't mean in years,
though that's a most extraordinary feeling in itself, but in--in life,
in the business of living. If you ask me what I mean by that
high-sounding phrase I can only say it's something like coming out of
every experience a little better qualified to meet whatever new
experience lies in store for you. Of course we've heard about life being
a game and all that facile rot ever since we were old enough to speak,
but it's quite different when you come to _feel_ it. It's a sensation
all by itself, isn't it?"

James drew a deep breath. "Yes, it is quite by itself," he agreed. "And
I'm glad to be able to say that at last I have some idea of what the
actual feeling is like. It was atrophied long enough in me, Heaven
knows! It's still very slight, very timid and tentative; just a sort of
glimmering at times--"

"That's all it ever is," said Harry. "Just an occasional glimmering. The
true feeling, that is. If it's anything more, it isn't really that at
all, but just a sort of stuckupness, an idea that I am equal to the
worst life can do to Me! I know people that seem to have that
attitude--insufferable! Only life is pretty apt to punish them by giving
them a great deal more than they bargained for."

James was silent a moment, as with a sort of confessional silence. But
he knew Harry would not understand its confessional quality, so he said
quietly: "That's exactly what happened to me, of course."

"Oh, rot! Did you think I meant you?"

"No, but it's true, for all that. Thank Heaven I have been permitted to
live through it!... The truth is, I suppose, I was too successful early
in life. In school, in college and afterward it was always the same--I
found myself able to do certain things with an ease that surprised and
delighted people--no one more than myself. For they weren't things that
mattered especially, you see; they were showy, spectacular things that
appealed to the public eye, like playing football. I was a good physical
specimen, not through any effort or merit of my own, but simply through
a natural gift, and a very poor and hollow gift it is, as I've found
out. I don't think people quite realize the problem that a man of the
athletic type has to face if he's going to make anything out of himself
but an athlete. From early boyhood he's conscious of physical
superiority; he knows perfectly well that in the last resort he can
knock the other fellow down and stamp on him, and that gives him a
certain feeling of repose and self-sufficiency that's very pernicious.
It usually passes for strength of character, but it's nothing in the
world but faith in bone and muscle. And people do worship physical
strength so! It's small wonder a man gets his head turned.... Good Lord,
the ideas I used to have about myself! Why, in college, if any one had
made me say what, in the bottom of my heart, I thought was the greatest
possible thing for a man of my years to be, I should have said being a
great football player in a great university. That is, I wouldn't have
said it, because that would have been like bragging, and it isn't done
to brag: but that would have been my secret thought.

"And then, if the man has any brains or any capacity for feeling, he
runs up against some of the big forces of life, and he finds his
physical strength no more use to him than a broken reed. It's quite a
shock! I've been more severely tried than most people are, I imagine,
but Heaven knows I needed it! Everything had gone my way before that; I
literally never knew what it was to have to put up a fight against
something I recognized as stronger than I and likely to beat me in the
end. Well, I'm grateful enough for it now. Thank Heaven for it! Thank
Heaven for letting me fight and find out my weakness and come through it
somehow, instead of remaining a mere mountain of beef all my days!"

Both stood silent for a moment after James had ended this confession,
less because they felt embarrassment in the presence of the feeling that
lay behind it than because for a short time the past lay on them too
heavily for words. After a few seconds they moved as though by a common
impulse and walked slowly along the grassy crest of the ridge, and Harry
began again.

"What you say sounds very well coming from you, James, but I have reason
to believe that very little, if any of it, is true. It was my privilege
to know you during the years you speak of, and I seem to remember you as
something more than a mountain of beef. Don't be absurd, James!"

He paused a moment and then went on more seriously: "No, James; if there
was ever any danger of any of us suffering from cock-sureness it's I, at
this moment. Do you realize how ridiculously happy I've been for the
last year or so? This success of mine--oh, I've worked, but it's been
absurdly easy, for all that--and Madge, and everything--it seems
sometimes as if there was something strange and sinister about it. It
simply can't be good for any one to be so happy! It worries me."

"Well, as long as it does, you needn't," said James.

"Oh, I see! That makes it quite simple, of course!"

"What I mean," elucidated James, "is that, if you feel that way about
it, it's probable that you really deserve what happiness you have. After
all, you know, you have paid for some. You have had your times; I don't
mind admitting that there have been moments when you weren't quite the
archangel which of course you are at present!"

Harry laughed. "The prophet Jeremiah once said something about its being
good for a man that he should bear the yoke in his youth. If that is
equivalent to saying that the earlier a man has his bad times the
better, it may be that I got off more easily by having them in college
than if they'd held off till later. One does learn certain things easier
if one learns them early. But that doesn't mean that your youth has
passed without your feeling the yoke, or that your youth has passed yet.
You're still in the Jeremiah class! One would hardly say that at
thirty--you're not much over thirty, are you?"

"A few weeks under, I believe."

"I'm sorry!--Well, at thirty there are surely years of youth ahead of
you, which you, having borne your yoke, may look forward to without fear
and with every prospect of enjoying to the fullest extent. Whereas
I--well, there's even more time for me to bear yokes in, if necessary. I
don't much believe that Jeremiah has done with me yet, somehow!"

"You're not afraid of the future, though, are you?" asked James after a
pause.

"Oh, no--that would never do. I feel about it as.... One can't say these
things without sounding cocksure and insufferable!"

"You mean you'll do your best under the circumstances?"

"Yes, or make a good try at it! And then.... Of course I can't be as
happy as I am without having a good deal at stake; I've given hostages
to fortune--that's Francis Bacon, not me. And if fortune should look
upon those hostages with a covetous eye--if anything, for instance,
should happen to Madge in what's coming, why, there are still plenty of
things that the worst fortune can't spoil!... Well, you know."

"Yes," said James; "I know."

"In fact, there are certain things in the past so dear to me that
perhaps, if it came to the point, it would be almost a joy to pay
heavily for them. But that's only the way I feel about it now, of
course. It's easy enough to be brave when there's no danger."

"Yes," said James, "but I think you're right in the main. After all, the
past is one's own--inalienably, forever! While the future is any
man's....

"Of course you know," he went on after a pause, "that my past would have
been nothing at all to me without you. It sounds funny, but it's true."

"Funny is the word," said Harry.

"But perfectly true. I should never have come through--all this business
if it hadn't been for you."

"Look here, James, you're not going to thank me for saving your soul,
are you? That would be a little forced!"

"My dear man, I'm not thanking you, I'm telling you! You were the one
good thing I held on to; I was false and wicked in about every way I
could be, but I did always try, in a sort of blind and blundering way,
to be true to you. You've been--unconsciously if you will have it
so--the best influence of my life, and I thought it might be well to
tell you, that's all."

"Well, I won't pretend I'm not glad to hear it," said Harry soberly. "It
is rather remarkable when you come to think of it," he went on after a
moment, "how our lives have been bound up together. It's rather unusual
with brothers, I imagine. Generally they see a good deal too much of
each other during their early years and when they grow up they settle
down into an acquaintanceship of a more or less cordial nature. But with
us it's been different. Being apart during those early years, I suppose,
made it necessary for us to rediscover each other when we grew up...."

"Yes," said James, "and the process of rediscovering had some rather
lively passages in it, if I remember right."

"It did! But it was a good thing; it gave us a new interest in each
other. One reason why people are commonly so much more enthusiastic
about their friends than about their relations is because their
relations are an accident, but their friends are a credit to them. It
just shows what a selfish thing human nature is, I suppose."

"I see; a new way of being a credit to ourselves. Well, most of it's on
my side, I imagine."

Harry turned gravely toward his brother. "It seems to me, James, you
suffer under a tendency to overestimate my virtues. You mustn't, you
know; it's extremely bad for me. I should say, if questioned closely,
that that was your one fault--if one expects a kindred tendency to
shield me from things I ought not to be shielded from."

"Oh, rot, man!"

"You needn't talk--you do. I've felt it, all along, though you've done
your job so well that for the most part I never knew what you'd saved me
from."

"Well.... I might go so far as to say that when I've put you before
myself I generally find I'm all right, and when I put myself first I
generally find I'm all wrong. But as I've been all wrong most of the
time, it doesn't signify much!"

"Hm. You put it so that I can't insist very hard. It's there, though,
for all that. Funny thing. I don't believe it's a bit usual between
friends, really, especially between brothers. Whatever started you on
it? It must have been more or less conscious."

For a moment James thought of telling him. They had lived so long since
then; it would be amusing for them to trace together the effects of that
one little guiding idea. But he thought of the years ahead, and they
seemed to call out to him with warning voices, voices full of a tale of
tasks unfinished and the need of a vigilance sharper than before. So he
only laughed a little and said:

"Oh, it's you that are exaggerating now! You mustn't get ideas about it;
it's no more than you'd do for me, or any one for any one else he cares
about. But little as it is, don't grudge it to me, for though it may not
have done you much good, it's been the saving of me...."

       *       *       *       *       *

So they walked and talked as the sun sank low and the night fell gently
from a cloudless sky. To Madge and Beatrice, seeing them silhouetted
against that final blaze of glory in the west, they seemed almost as one
figure.





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