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diff --git a/old/60593-0.txt b/old/60593-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 56a6011..0000000 --- a/old/60593-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10624 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cinder Buggy, by Garet Garrett - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Cinder Buggy - A Fable in Iron and Steel - -Author: Garet Garrett - -Release Date: October 30, 2019 [EBook #60593] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CINDER BUGGY *** - - - - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - -Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end. - - * * * * * - -THE CINDER BUGGY - - * * * * * - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - -THE DRIVER - -“A good, rapidly moving novel of ‘Wall Street’ methods, written by a -man who knows.” - - --_Springfield Republican_ - -“The book is among the most absorbing which we have read recently.” - - --Heywood Broun in _The World_ - -“I feel as did Mark Sullivan, who said: ‘Garet Garrett has written one -of the great novels of the day.’... That is beside the point to one who -wants to study man and his work.... The thing that impresses me is its -fidelity to life.” - - --_Bernard M. Baruch._ - -E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - - - - -THE CINDER BUGGY _A FABLE IN IRON AND STEEL_ - - - BY - GARET GARRETT - AUTHOR OF “THE DRIVER,” “THE BLUE WOUND,” ETC. - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY - 681 FIFTH AVENUE - - * * * * * - -Copyright, 1923 By E. P. Dutton & Company - -_All Rights Reserved_ - -PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - * * * * * - -THE CINDER BUGGY - - * * * * * - - A pot-metal body - on two little wheels, - absurdly, - bow-leggedly - walking away to the dump - with the slag, the - purgings of iron, the - villainous drool of the furnace-- - that is a cinder buggy. - - It is also a sign - that what man refines - beyond - God’s content - with things as he left them - will very soon perish - for want of the dross - from which it is parted. - Why hath each thing its cinder?-- - even the sweetest desire? - - * * * * * - -THE CINDER BUGGY - - - - -I - - -A generation has fled since a stranger was seen in the streets of New -Damascus on an errand of business. - -The town has nothing to sell except the finest wrought iron in the -world. As the quality of this iron is historic and the form of it a -standard muck bar for use in further manufacture you order it from afar -at a price based on what is current in Pittsburgh. - -Sellers of merchandise miss New Damascus on purpose. It is a catalogue -town. It buys nothing because it is new, nothing it does not need, has -no natural pride in waste whatever. - -Strangers are not unwelcome, only they must not mind to be stared at. -The town is shy and jealous and has the air of keeping a secret. - -There are no sights to see. Once people came great distances, even from -Europe, to see the New Damascus blast furnaces. They were the first of -their kind to be built in this country, had features new in the world, -and made the scene wild and awesome at night. All that is long past. -There is only a trace of the mule railroad by which ore came down from -the mountains. Where the furnaces were are great green holes. Nature -has had time to heal her burns. No ore has been mined or smelted at New -Damascus for many years. Yet the place is still famous for its fine -wrought iron. The ore now comes from the top of the Great Lakes, stops -at Pittsburgh to be smelted, and arrives at New Damascus in the form -of pigs to be melted again, puddled and rolled into malleable bars. -That may be done anywhere. It is done at many places. But it is so -much better done at New Damascus than anywhere else that the product -will bear the cost of all that transportation. The reasons why this is -so belong to tradition, to the native pride of craftmanship, to that -mysterious touch of the hand that is learned only in one place and -cannot be taught. The iron workers here, descended from English, Scotch -and Welsh smiths imported to this valley, are the best puddlers and -rollers in the world. Therefore as people they are dogmatic, stubborn -and brittle. - -There is the old Woolwine mansion on the east hill, there is the Gib -mansion on the west hill. Nobody would recommend them to the sense -of wonder. Besides they are disremembered. They were once very grand -though ugly. They are no longer grand and have been made much uglier -by architectural additions of a cold ecclesiastical character. One -is a nunnery. One is a monastery. The church got them for less than -the walks and fences cost. Only a church could use them. All that the -indwellers knew about them is that the woodwork polishes easily and -must have been very expensive. The grounds are still nice. - -The river is lovely, but nobody has ever cared for it esthetically. -The town is set with its back stoop to the river, as to an alleyway or -tradesmen’s entrance, facing the mountains where its wealth first was. - -Sights? No. Unless it be the sight of a town that seems to exist in a -state of unending reverie. This is fancy. New Damascus appears to be -haunted with memories of things confusedly forgotten, as if each night -it dreamed the same dream and never had quite remembered it. - -In the Woolwine library there is a memory of distinction in sixty -parts,--bound volumes of the NEW DAMASCUS INTELLIGENCER back to 1820. -There was a newspaper! An original poem, a column humorous, a notable -speech on the slavery question, the secret of Henry Clay’s ruggedness -discovered in the fact that he bathed his whole person once a day in -cold water, and the regular advertisers, all on the first page. One of -the advertisers was a Wm. Wardle, bookseller, stationer, importer of -all the current English imprints, proprietor of a very large stock of -the world’s best literature, periodicals, and so forth. Wm. Wardle’s -name is still on the lintel of the three-story building he occupied -until about 1870. The ground floor now is rented to a tobacconist who -keeps billiard tables in the back for the iron workers, the upper -floors are in disuse, and there is no bookshop in New Damascus. Well, -that is a sight, perhaps, only nobody would think to show it to you, -because much stranger than the disappearance of that important old -bookshop is the fact that no one can remember ever to have missed it. - -If you mention this curious fact to the First National Bank president -he helps you look at the faded name of Wardle above the tobacconist’s -sign and says, “Well!” precisely as he would help you to look at one of -the great green holes where a blast furnace was and say, “Well, well!” -never having seen it before. - -“What do people now read in New Damascus?” - -“Magazines,” says the banker. “I find if I read the Sunday newspapers I -get everything I want.” - -“How do you account for the fact that New Damascus, an iron town, has -fewer people to-day than it had fifty years ago?” - -“You’ve touched the answer,” says the banker. “It is an iron town. -Always was. When modern steel making came in fifty or sixty years ago -anybody might have known that steel would displace iron. New Damascus -stuck to iron.” - -“Lack of enterprise, you mean?” - -“Something like that.” - -“Yet New Damascus had the enterprise to roll the first rails that were -made in this country.” - -“Yes, they rolled the first American rails here,--iron rails.” - -“And having done that there was not enough enterprise left merely to -change the process from iron to steel?” - -“Well, there was some reason. I’ve heard it said a committee of New -Damascus business men went out to investigate the steel process. They -reported there was nothing in it. Then the steel rail knocked the iron -rail out completely. There isn’t an iron rail made anywhere in the -world now.” - -“And nails. New Damascus was once the seat of the nail industry. What -became of that?” - -“Same thing. They made iron nails here,--what we call cut nails. The -cheap steel wire nail knocked the iron nail out. Then, of course, you -must remember that when the Mesaba ore fields were opened we had to -close our mines. We couldn’t compete with that ore. It was too cheap.” - -“That wasn’t inevitable, was it? Since New Damascus stopped, other -towns have grown up from nothing in this valley,--towns with no better -transportation to begin with, no record behind them, hauling their raw -material even further.” - -“Yes,” says the banker. “Well, I don’t know. There’s something wrong in -the atmosphere here.” - -The banker on the next corner has another explanation. - -“It’s the labor,” he says. “People who’ve been around tell me, and I -believe it’s true, that labor here is more independent, more exacting, -harder to deal with, than labor anywhere else. In other mill towns -you’ll find Italians, Hungarians, Polacks and that like. All our labor -was born here. Jobs go from father to son. Foreigners can’t come in.” - -“That’s strange. One never hears of any serious labor trouble at New -Damascus--not the kind of trouble they have in other mill towns.” - -“Not that kind,” says the banker. “There’s a very peculiar thing about -labor in New Damascus. It can live without work.” - -“How?” - -“I don’t know how. It just does. When anything happens these people -don’t like they stop work. That’s all there is to it.” - -“Is it a union town?” - -“They don’t need a union.” - -Bankers in New Damascus are like bankers anywhere else. They know -much more than they believe and tell only such things as ought to be -true. It is scandalous for labor to be able to live without work. That -offends the economic law. It ought not to be so. Yet in so far as it -is there is no mystery about it. The town is invisibly rich and has a -miserly spirit. There are as many banks as churches,--and the people -are very religious. The banks are full of money that cannot be loaned -in New Damascus. It is sent away to Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and New -York to put out at interest on other people’s enterprise. If you ask -why that is the answer is cynical. - -“Perhaps,” says the banker, “we know each other too well.” - -But you see how it is that labor may live without work. Everybody has -something by,--a home, a bit of land, a little hoard to sit upon. -Spending is unfashionable. Carried far it is sinful. Living is very -cheap. Three mornings a week the farmers come in with fresh killed -meat, sausage, poultry, eggs, cheese, butter and vegetables and turn -the main street into an open air market; and there is an ordinance -which forbids the shopkeepers to buy any of this produce before ten -o’clock. By that time there is nothing left, or if there is no dealer -wishes to buy it, since the demand is already satisfied. - -But there is still the question: What happened to New Damascus? - -Ask John Tizack, the tobacconist, in the old Wardle building. He meets -you with the air of a man of the world and pretends to be not in the -least surprised when you say: “I’ve asked everybody else and now I ask -you. What’s the matter with this place?” - -“Neighbor,” he says, “I was born here, my father before me and his -before him. I began as a lad in the mill here. Everything in New -Damascus came out of that mill. I say everything. That isn’t exactly -right. Them mansions on the hill,--they came out of it. The library, -that row of fine houses you may have seen on what we call Quality -Street, all the big and little fortunes you see people living on here, -came out of that mill. When I was twenty-five I says to myself, ‘I’ll -see a bit of the world before I die. Some of it anyhow.’ That was -thirty years ago,--yes, thirty-two. I’ve been to New York City and -Buffalo and around. Now I’m back. I’m going to die here. This ain’t a -bad business if you look at it right. Not so bad. And you want to know -what’s the matter with this place? You’ve been asking everybody else. -What do they tell you?” - -“This and that. No two alike.” - -“S’what I thought,” he says. “I couldn’t agree with them. There’s -men in this town, merchants, mind you--well, you wouldn’t believe -it. There’s not ten business men in this town been as far away as -Philadelphia. I know what I’m saying. I won’t mention any names, but I -happen to know the president of the biggest bank in town was never in -New York City.” - -“Is that what’s the matter?” - -“Now wait,” he says. “You see the kind of place I got here. No -profanity. Nothing at all. I know the boys that come here every -night. Iron workers you might say, but they’re gentlemen, in a way -of speaking. They play billiards, smoke, talk. Not one of them under -thirty. Went to school with most of them. Their fathers was born here -like mine. And they don’t get treated right. Now I’m telling you. -They’re the best iron men in the country, bar none, and they don’t get -treated right.” - -“So that’s it?” - -“No, that ain’t it either. I’m just telling you some of the things -that’s wrong with this place. You asked me the straight question, -didn’t you?” - -At this point he gives you a piercing look. Are you also a man of the -world? He seems to doubt it. You may be one of those people who go -around talking just for the excitement of it. - -It is necessary to remind him that he was apparently coming to -something else,--to the point, perhaps. He waits for you to do so. -Then with an air of extreme asperity, meaning that you shall get all -you came for, he clears the top of the showcase and leans at you with -his bristles raised, looking first toward the back room, which is -empty, then towards the street, which is clear, and lastly at you in a -pugnacious way. - -“You asked me, didn’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Do you happen to believe in any of them unnatural things?” - -“Such as what?” - -“Such as haunts and spells?” - -“More or less.” - -“All right,” he says. “Now neighbor, take it or leave it. Suit -yourself. I’ve seen my share of this world and I know what I’m talking -about. That’s what’s the matter with this place.” - -“What?” - -“What I’m telling you, and I’m going to die here. There’s a spell on -it. Nobody can help it. There’s a spell on it. Now that’s all.” - -“Who put it on?” - -“Oh, well, n-o-w,” he says, becoming irresponsible. “That’s different. -That’s very different again. I’m not telling you anything I don’t know. -Who put it on? I tell you frankly I don’t know. Maybe you’ll be smart -enough to find that out. To speak the truth, I don’t know as it’s -anything I want to meddle with.” - -There is a difference, you see, between a banker and a tobacconist. A -tobacconist believes more than he knows and tells things that ought not -to be so. - -Still, there is the fact. New Damascus, having cradled the -metallurgical industry, ought to have grown up with it and simply did -not. A town that rolled the first American rails smaller now than it -was fifty years ago! Why? If it had died you could understand that. But -it is not dead. Its health is apparently perfect. There is not a sore -spot on its body. It functions in a kind of somnambulistic manner. The -last thing you hear as you fall asleep at the old Lycoming House is the -throb of its heart. That is the great engine of the Susquehanna Iron -Works, muttering-- - - Wrought iron - Wrought iron - Wrought iron - -It never stops. - - - - -II - - -When in 1789 Gen. Aaron Z. Woolwine founded this place all the best -Palestinian names, such as Philadelphia, Lebanon and Bethlehem, were -already taken in Pennsylvania, so he called it New Damascus; and this -name when he thought of it was perfect. The Damascenes were famous -artificers in metal. He imagined even a geographical resemblance,--a -plain bounded on one side by a river and on the other three by -mountains representing the heights of Anti-Lebanon. - -He resolved a city and that its character should be Presbyterian, -and entered in his diary a prophecy. With ore, coal and limestone -in Providential propinquity, with a river for its commerce to walk -upon and with that spirit of industry which he purposed to teach and -exemplify, aye, if necessary to require, New Damascus should wax in the -sight of the Lord, partake of happiness and develop a paying trade. - -Besides capital and imagination he brought to this undertaking a -partner, three sons and a new wife. - -For thirty years he fathered New Damascus. He saw it become the most -important point of trade between Philadelphia and Wilkes-Barre, with -five notable inns, two general supply stores, three tanneries, six -grist mills, two lumber mills and the finest Presbyterian conventicle -in that part of the state. The river was a disappointment. It was -high and swift in flood and very low in the dry season, all very well -for lumbering and seasonal traffic, but not a true servant of steady -commerce. To bring the canal to New Damascus he entered politics and -continuously thereafter represented his county in the legislature. He -did not live to see the rise of the iron industry. That was left to the -wonder of the next generation. - -One of the disasters of his old age was with stone coal, the name by -which anthracite was first known. All the coal around New Damascus was -anthracite. For all that could be made of it commercially it might as -well have been slate or shale. Nobody knew how to burn it. The fuel -of industry was soft coal, which ignites easily; and wood was burned -in open grates, not in New Damascus only but everywhere at this time; -and as anthracite or hard coal would not burn in the same furnace -and grates that burned either soft coal or wood people were sure it -would not burn at all. General Woolwine knew better. Wherever he went -he carried with him samples of hard coal, even in his saddle bags, -begging people to try it, but the notion against it was too strong to -be overcome by propaganda. Only time and accident could do that. Once -he freighted a large quantity to Philadelphia, resolved to make it burn -in some of the large forges there. The result was a dismal failure. -Others before him on the same crazy errand had been arrested for -obtaining money under false pretences, selling black stone as coal, and -the prejudice was irreducible. He abandoned the stuff in Philadelphia; -it was broken up and spread in walks. Later,--too late to benefit -him,--the secret of burning anthracite in furnaces was discovered by -accident. A perverse foundryman, who believed less in hard coal than -in the probability that what everybody disbelieved was for that reason -true, spent a whole day trying to make a fire of it. Then he left it in -disgust and went home to supper. Returning some hours later he found -an amazing fire,--hotter than any soft coal fire he had ever seen. -The secret, beyond having a strong draught, was to let it alone. In a -little while everybody was saying that you could burn stone coal if -only you let it alone. That simple bit of knowledge, derived from trial -and error, was worth more to Pennsylvania than a thousand gold mines. - -In the last few years of his life General Woolwine, by his efforts to -exploit stone coal and in various schemes of the imagination, lost a -considerable part of his fortune by not attending to it. He was not a -sound man of business in that sense. Ideas obsessed him. The idea that -stone coal would burn was an obsession on which he made large outlays -of time and money. He pursued the idea to failure. A more practical -man would have first invented a grate suited to the fuel. A more -conservative, selfish man would have sat on his anthracite beds until -someone else had invented a grate. Yet he was never discouraged. The -day before he died he wrote in his diary: - -“As I lay down this life I am moved to reflect on its beauty and -fulness to me. I have used up my strength in works. Nothing have I -withheld from the Lord. I have walked in the faith. I have imagined -civilization in a wilderness. Then I have seen it with my eyes.” - -That was all he said of New Damascus. Other memories crowded in. - -“In 1774,” he wrote, “I married a pious, sensible woman, who bore me -two sons. In 1781 I married an eminent, worthy woman, who bore me a -third son. In 1788 I married a delightful, affectionate woman, whom -God was pleased to spare me to the end. She bore me my one daughter, -Rebecca.” - -The two sons by the first wife were already dead. This he did not -mention in his testimony. The third son, born of the eminent and -worthy woman, was at this time thirty-seven and unmarried, unlikely to -perpetuate the line or to grace it if he did. All the Woolwine vitality -went into Rebecca, born of his union with the delightful affectionate -woman. Rebecca had married Phineas Breakspeare, the inn keeper, and was -for a long time estranged from her father on that account. He forgave -her on the head of a grandson, his namesake, Aaron Breakspeare. - -The founder’s affairs were left in a somewhat involved condition. -Everyone was surprised that the estate was not greater. His partner had -large claims upon it and the accounts were in confusion. - -The widow survived the General but one year. The third son died the -next year. The whole estate then passed to Rebecca, who had buried her -inn keeper; she held it in trust for the founder’s grandson, Aaron. - -Here ends the Woolwine line. The name disappears suddenly from the -annals of the county. - - - - -III - - -Nowhere in the annals of the county nor in those lymphatic biographical -histories, quarto, half or full leather, profusely illustrated with -steel engravings, which adorn the bookshelves of posterity, is there -any mention of General Woolwine’s partner and man of business. This -was Christopher Gib, cold, and logical, with a large broad face, dull -blue eyes, a long bleak mouth line and a hard apple chin. People feared -him instinctively. He inspired them with dread, anxiety and a sense -of injury; yet in practical matters, especially in great emergencies, -he commanded their utmost confidence. Those who complained of his -oppression were certain to have been weak or wrong. That made no -difference,--or made it worse. In every dispute he was technically, -legally, perhaps morally right. By all the rules of law his acts were -blameless. Nevertheless they outraged that subtle sense of the heart, -higher than the sense of right and wrong, to which human conduct is -referred for ultimate judgment. He acquired his rights fairly. His way -of making a bargain was to let the party of the second part propose -the terms. Then he would say yes or no, and that was final. Higgling -disgusted him. But having made a bargain he insisted upon it in a -relentless, dispassionate manner. No one could say he was unjust. -But from one who is never unjust you shall not expect generosity. -Human beings do not crave justice; they accept it. What they long for -is understanding through sympathy. Christopher Gib had no chemistry -of sympathy. It was left out of him. Therefore he had no emotional -understanding of people and people had no rational understanding of -him. His tragedy was invisible. He was denied what he could not give, -namely, bread of the sweetened loaf without price, for which everyone -hungers. Contempt for all the sentimental aspects of life was the -self-saving device of his ego. He treated people as children. The more -they disliked him the more bitterly he took his due. - -He was ten years younger than General Woolwine and dominated the elder -man in all their joint affairs, as a rational nature may dominate a -romantic one. They quarreled a great deal;--one in a low, cynical -voice; the other in loud, righteous tones. These disagreements were -private. Outwardly to the end they maintained an appearance of unbroken -amity. As to his ideas the old founder was immovable and pursued his -own way. In matters of business he would sooner yield than continue -the argument. One neglected business; the other lived for it. As the -Woolwine estate declined that of Gib increased. There was no inequity -in this. It was inevitable. The General drew out his profits and spent -them; Gib reinvested his in undertakings outside the partnership. At -the beginning the coal and iron lands were divided between them in the -proportions of one-third and two-thirds, according to the amounts of -capital respectively invested. The one-third was Gib’s share. In the -end the proportions were exactly reversed. The Woolwine estate owned -one-third and Gib two-thirds. It was all perfectly correct and legal. - -At the age of fifty Gib married Sarah, of the Withy family, that came -from New Jersey and built the first grist mill in New Damascus. Sarah -was a dutiful, reconciled woman of strong, uncomplaining fibre, who -could not fold her hands until the work was done. She never understood -her husband. He never understood her. It wasn’t necessary. She was -thirty-five and had once loved a young man who never even suspected it. - -Of this inarticulate union came one son, named Enoch, born on the same -day with Aaron Breakspeare, Rebecca’s child, grandson of the founder. - -Christopher Gib lived fifteen years more, growing steadily richer and -more misunderstood. Then he built himself a tomb, the walls of which -were three feet thick, reinforced with bar iron, and died in the night -alone. - - - - -IV - - -Aaron Breakspeare, grandson of the founder, and Enoch, son of -Christopher Gib, being of the same age, inheriting parallel estates -in a town realized from a joint impulse of their forbears, grew up -together. They were never friends. They were rivals, unable to conceal -or control their rivalry, the essence of which was antagonism. But -they were inseparable. They could not let each other alone. Enoch was -the stronger physically. In their earliest games and contests his -object was to make Aaron say, “I quit.” And Aaron would sooner die than -say it. In this strife Enoch had always the advantage of a definite, -aggressive purpose. He created the occasions. Instinctively he knew -that the way to save oneself in a trial of endurance is to keep one’s -mind not on one’s own discomfort but on the agony of one’s adversary. - -Aaron’s power was of pride and spirit. He would never say quit, no -matter how much it hurt to go on, and when he was beaten he did not -complain. Once Enoch invented a way of locking their arms so as to -exert a mutual and very painful torsional leverage, perhaps enough to -break the bones. The game was that each should go as far as the other -could stand it. All the other had to do was to say enough. It was -fairly played. But the word was never uttered and Aaron went home with -a broken arm. - -The imponderable values of life,--admiration, sympathy, sudden -friendships, understanding, liking and being liked,--belonged to Aaron -as by right. He was that kind of being toward whom the heart yearns for -no reason but its own. Men and women loved him without knowing why. -The people of New Damascus spoke of him with possessive affection and -worldly misgiving; he would do himself no good, they said. That means -whatever you make of it. - -Enoch, pretending to be contemptuous, was secretly torn with envy. -People looked at him and said: “The spit image of his father.” He had -many of old Christopher’s facial expressions, especially one that -was unnatural and very disconcerting. Anger or any strong adverse -emotion caused the face to appear to be smiling. It wasn’t; nor was -the expression assumed as a mask. The effect was accidental, produced -by some peculiarity in the action of the retractor muscles. He was by -nature more saturnine than his father, or perhaps it was only that he -more indulged the impulse to cruelty. At fifteen he was already feared -by his elders for what he might say. - -His character developed in a true line. The traits of his youth became -only more pronounced as he grew up. To take the pride out of Aaron -became almost a passion. He delighted to expose his frailties and -limitations. Aaron bought a fast horse. Enoch hating horses bought a -faster one and drove it to death. Aaron on a dare swam the river at -flood, which was thought a fine feat. Enoch swam it with his legs tied. - -Aaron apparently did not mind. If he suspected the envious motive -in Enoch’s conduct he never spoke of it, but generously applauded -the other’s triumphs. Whatever else happened their intimacy remained -unbroken. This seemed to be no more of one’s seeking than the other’s. -Those of their own generation wondered, but the elders, hearing it -spoken of, said it was no more strange than the way General Woolwine -held with Christopher to the end of his days, though it more than half -ruined him. - -They went to the same school at Philadelphia. Enoch worked just -hard enough to beat Aaron in everything except mathematics and -popularity, and spent a great deal of his leisure prowling about the -iron foundries. They fascinated him. There was iron in the blood of -his family. His grandfather and great-grandfather had been smiths in -England. And his father had laid upon him one injunction, which was -never to part with an acre of ore or coal land, for some day these -undeveloped possessions would make him rich. Then secretly he took up -the study of metallurgy. - -Yet it was Aaron who proposed to Enoch that they should pool their -interests in ore and coal and found an iron industry at New Damascus. -This fatal thing happened sometime between midnight and dawn after a -disastrous twin celebration of their twenty-first birthday with a party -of friends at Fingerboard Inn. - -Aaron’s mood was sentimental. He felt a great twinge for Enoch, because -of what occurred at the party. He himself was the one to blame. First -he had demanded of his friends, when he heard what they were doing, -that they should invite Enoch, too, as an equal guest; then with great -difficulty, he had persuaded Enoch to come. It was bound to be dismal. -Only one of Aaron’s reckless spontaneity could have imagined otherwise. - -An archaic, mystical man rite survives in the panegyric supper. The -root is hero worship. The impulse is exacting, jealous and sacrificial. -Its chosen object, according to the rules, must submit to be clothed in -the colors of perfection, set upon a pedestal and gorged with praise -until he is purple. As the hero’s embarrassment rises his makers -become more solemn and egregious, until suddenly with rough hands they -drag their colossal effigy down and embrace it and everything, itself -included, dissolves in maudlin ecstasy. - -Obviously two human objects cannot be equally inflated in this manner -at once. The impulse cannot divide itself. If it tried, no matter with -what pains of tact, the effort would fall. - -Having invited Enoch, whom they all disliked, Aaron’s friends felt -acquitted toward him, and then, knowing how he hated to see Aaron -preferred, they carried praise of Aaron to a point grotesque. As the -wine flowed they became heedless and took delight in Enoch’s chagrin. -No toast was drunk to him; his name was not mentioned. It was cruel but -not premeditated. He ought not to have come. Aaron was ashamed to look -at him. - -Enoch, from having been at first merely bored, turned hot with anger, -thinking the situation had been purposely created to humiliate him. -He did not suspect Aaron of conscious part in that design; he blamed -him, however, for having lent himself to it unwittingly. Hitherto -convivialities had depressed and disgusted him. Now in the bitterness -of his heart he made a judgment concerning them, that they were utterly -beneath him; and made also a resolution which endured to the end of his -life. That was to accept once for all the fact of people’s dislike and -turn it against them. - -Was he not stronger than any of these who presumed to belittle him? One -by one he passed them through a test. There was not one he could not -break in any trial of mind or body. Perhaps it was for that reason they -disliked him. No matter why. He did not return the feeling in kind. -They were not important enough to call forth from him either dislike -or hatred. They merited only his indifference. That put them in their -right place. He would be indifferent to them so long as they stood out -of his way. If they came in his path he would break them indifferently. -His mind became cold and glittering. He no longer cared whether anyone -liked him or not. But they should never be indifferent toward him. -He would attend to that. They should fear him. That was it. He would -rather be feared than liked. - -With these self-saving thoughts he had become absent and oblivious -when suddenly on both sides he was nudged to rise, join hands, and sing -to the hero. He rose, but instead of joining hands he rapped heavily -on the table for attention. There was much surprise at this. Everyone -stared at him in silence. - -“Gentlemen,” he said, with the astonishing effect of a cold, sober -voice, “I call your attention to an unfortunate omission. I propose -that we shall drink to Aaron Breakspeare’s ancestors,--to the man but -for whom there would be no New Damascus nor any one of us here present, -and to the woman without whose assistance even that great pioneer -would be now entirely forgotten. We shall drink, I say, to Aaron -Breakspeare’s distinguished ancestors,--to Adam and Eve, if you please.” - -There was a sound of embarrassed laughter. It immediately broke down. -Gib was holding up his glass. His expression was sneering. He had paid -them off, going just far enough to do so cleanly, yet not so far as to -give actionable offence. For a long awkward moment they could not think -either how to turn it back on him or redeem their own conduct from the -ludicrous light in which he had placed it. Then Gearheart, who was -taking law, he who afterward became a great jurist in the state, lifted -his glass and spoke in a calm, judicial manner. - -“Mr. Gib is right,” he said. “We regret the omission. Let us drink to -Adam and Eve.” - -So they did and that ended the party. Nobody disliked Gib less; -everyone respected him more. - -Aaron, who by this time was feeling very miserable, made a point of -walking off with him. He wished to speak of what had happened. Yet what -could he say that would not recognize the fact of Enoch’s humiliation? -There was no way to speak tactfully of it. Still he could not let it -alone. - -“I’m sorry,” he said, blurting it out. - -“For what?” Enoch inquired dryly. - -“I’m afraid you had a wretched time. I’m to blame for getting you into -it.” - -“Not at all,” said Enoch. “To the contrary, I’m indebted to you for the -most profitable evening of my life.” - -He meant this. Those emotions of anger and mortification from which he -had suffered so bitterly seemed now remote and insignificant. They had -been swallowed up in a sense of deliverance. He had delivered himself -from the torment of being disliked. The fact was unchanged, but he no -longer cared. Therefore it had lost its right to oppress him. From this -sudden birth of indifference he derived a feeling of solitary power. -His mind was disenthralled. His whole outlook upon life was altered. -For the first time he did not wonder whether Aaron really liked him -or not, or how much, since it did not matter in the least. And also -for the first time he did not dislike Aaron. His indifference included -everyone, and it was sweet. - -Aaron misunderstood the nature of Enoch’s placidity. He thought it a -kind of sublime generosity and felt deep remorse. He would not have -believed it was in him to take a hurt to his pride so magnanimously. -He was wrenched with a sudden desire to offer some sign or token of -durable amity. So it was that as in one the well of friendship dried up -in the other it overflowed. - -They walked for some time in silence. On the first eminence east of -the town their ways parted. There Christopher Gib had built the dark -iron-stone house which was still Enoch’s home. The Woolwine mansion -where Aaron lived was higher up. Enoch would have turned his way, -leaving it as usual for Aaron to say goodnight; Aaron detained him by -the arm. - -They stood for several minutes with their faces averted, gazing -alternately at the stars that were God’s, at the mountains that were -theirs, and at the town beneath them, showing in silhouette against -the moon-lacquered river, a dream of their forebears realized. It was -a beautiful night. Their thoughts ran together. Both were stirred by a -vague sense of freedom, knowledge and responsibility. Each had that day -come into the possession of his estate. It was Enoch who spoke. - -“What will you do with yours?” he asked. - -Until this moment Aaron had never once thought what he should do with -it. But at the sound of Enoch’s voice asking the question so bluntly a -complete idea crystallized in his mind. It had clarity and perspective, -like a vision, and sudden as it was he felt very familiar with it. - -“Look, Enoch,” he said. “There is the New Damascus we grew up with. -How still it lies in the moonlight! How permanent it looks! Yet when -we were born it was not here. Before we die it will have disappeared. -In its place will be a city that shall walk out of those mountains,--a -city of furnaces, full of roaring and the clangor of metal, flaming and -smoking to heaven. Your father and my grandfather imagined it. They -could not themselves bring it to pass. It was not for their time. They -left it for us to do. We have a destiny here. Let’s take it together. -Let’s form a partnership and found an iron industry.” - -“That’s what I am intending to do,” said Enoch. “Not the partnership. -I was not thinking of that. But the iron business,--I’ve had that in -mind all the time. I’ve made a study of it.” After a pause he added: -“I didn’t know your thoughts turned that way. You never spoke of it -before.” - -“You never mentioned it, either,” said Aaron. “You would prefer to go -alone?” - -“The idea of a partnership is new to me,” said Enoch. - -“But wouldn’t it be advantageous to develop our ore and coal holdings -jointly? They lie together.” - -“Yes,” said Enoch, “I can see that.” - -“Is it only the newness of the idea that bothers you?” - -“I would not have entertained the thought as my own,” he said. “Since -it comes from you I do not reject it. I merely do not wish to be -responsible for it. You are not a man for business. Your father was -not. Your grandfather distinctly was not. You would do better in -law or politics. Still, as you say, there’s an obvious advantage in -bringing all the properties together. We’ll talk about it to-morrow if -you like. It’s on your initiative, remember.” - -“Let’s agree on the main point now and leave the details,” said Aaron. -“I’ll take my chances with business.” - -He held out his hand. Enoch took it slowly. They looked at each other -steadily in the moonlight. - -“Is it agreed?” - -“Yes,” said Enoch. - -Then they said goodnight. - - - - -V - - -Enoch’s misgivings notwithstanding, the partnership of Gib & -Breakspeare was very successful. This was owing partly to the ripeness -of the opportunity and perhaps even more to the sagacity with which -Enoch allotted to Aaron the tasks that were suited to his temperament. -They put in equal amounts of capital and pooled their ore and coal -lands on a royalty basis. Enoch was the dominant partner by right of -knowledge and force of doggedness. He had studied the business. He took -the manufacturing end and spent the whole of his time in New Damascus. -Aaron took the selling end and made all the outside contacts. - -It was easy to open the mines. That kind of work was already well -understood in Pennsylvania. - -Building a blast furnace was much more of an undertaking. It was in -fact a daring adventure. Older and wiser heads had left it to the -foolhardiness of youth. - -Hitherto iron had been produced in this country, as elsewhere in -the world, by primitive methods. Ore was wastefully smelted in rude -charcoal furnaces unimproved in design since the Middle Ages. The -process was of great antiquity. It was uniform in India at the time of -Alexander’s invasion. Its origin even then was lost in myth. Tubal -Cain, “an instructor of every artificer in brass and iron,” was master -of it in the city of his distinguished ancestor, Cain, which was in the -land of Nod. - -Between the old iron master of the Himalayas, 1,500 years before -Christ, with his little clay oven resembling an overturned pot, urging -the fire with a bellows clasped in his arms--(a bellows made from the -skin of a goat stripped from the animal without ripping the belly part, -then tied at the leg holes, fitted with a wooden nozzle at the neck -and stopped with an air valve in the tail orifice)--the difference -between him and the iron master if the early 19th century was only that -the latter had learned to build his forge of rude masonry and to make -nature blow his fire. - -The prize in both cases was a nugget of glowing iron, the most useful -non-digestible substance yet discovered by man. It is tenacious, -ductile, easily tempered, malleable at red heat, marriageable at white -heat and possesses one miraculous quality. It is magnetic. It calls -electricity out of the void, snares it, delivers it helpless into the -hands of man. Without this blackhearted substance, fallen from the sun, -natively pure only in form of a meteorite, lightning could not have -been captured and enslaved on earth. - -The glowing nugget on the forge hearth, called the loup or bloom, -is in a crystalline condition. It is removed and further refined by -hammering, drawing and rolling at red heat. It may be hammered by hand -on an anvil, or beaten under a trip-hammer, or rolled between rollers. -The effect of this treatment is to elongate the crystals into tough -fibres. - -A blast furnace differs from a forge not in principle so much as in -audacity, method and degree. The forge pricks nature and extracts iron -one molten drop at a time. The blast furnace cuts a gash in her side -and extracts iron in a blazing stream. - -There were blast furnaces before those of Gib and Breakspeare, in -England, Germany and France, but they were few and still in the stage -of wonder. They were very costly to build, many failed for unknown -reasons, and the conservative old iron masters stuck to the forge. -Nowhere had a blast furnace been worked with anthracite or stone coal. -All that had so far succeeded used wood, charcoal, bituminous coal and -coke. The fuel at New Damascus was anthracite. - -So it was in all respects a rash experiment and in one respect unique. -The partners were sure of the theory. The thing was scientifically -feasible. Yet in practice it might fail for want of handiness with a -strange process or because of some malicious chemical enemy lurking in -the elements to be acted upon. And failures in iron experiments are -ruinous. Nothing ever can be saved and the capital outlay will have -been enormous. - -The skill to build such a blast furnace as they required was not only -dear and hard to find: when found it was pessimistic and disbelieving -and disclaimed all responsibility for the outcome because it was -something that had never been done before. Expert iron workers to man -the process were of the same grey mindedness about it. - -These iron workers had to be imported from England under guarantees -and inveiglements. Nearly all the new iron working methods of that -time originated in England and were as jealously guarded as military -secrets. The rise of American industry against European competition -was greatly hampered by lack of industrial knowledge. Europe would -not part with it, or share it, since to possess it exclusively gave -her manufacturers a world-wide advantage. So it had to be obtained -surreptitiously. Much of it was smuggled out in the heads of English, -Scotch and Welsh artisans who could be bribed to evade the embargo upon -the emigration of skilled workmen and try their luck in the United -States. - -While Enoch worked indefatigably at New Damascus, tapping the mountains -and preparing the mule roads by which to drain away their coal and -ore and limestone, Aaron was abroad impressing the skill that should -convert those raw materials into iron. - -Two years from the time they started, one evening, the first miniature -volcano went into action. - -That precisely is what a blast furnace is. The hollow, cylindrical -furnace is the mountain cone, charged from the top with fuel, iron -ore and limestone flux. The mass is fired at the bottom. The gases go -off at the top in flame and smoke, an upside-down cataract of lost -affinities, giddy, voluptuous, hungry and free. An odd circumstance has -released them from the cold inert embrace in which they have lain for -ages of years. Cinders and gross matter flow away below as lava. The -iron, seeking itself, falls like rain into the hearth at the bottom and -runs out on the sand, forming there a molten lake. Around the edges -of this lake, taking off from it, is a series of moulded depressions. -The lake drains into these depressions. They suck it dry. Ironworkers -call the lake the sow. The forms that appear in the depressions, having -devoured the sow completely, are called the pigs. The product is pig -iron,--a lump of rough metal the size of a man’s thigh. - -After the fire is lighted at the bottom there is nothing to do for -several hours but wait. In this interval the partners went to supper -at Enoch’s house. They ate in silence. Aaron made several ineffectual -attempts at conversation. Their thoughts were far apart. One was -thinking of details, of faults to be remedied, of errors in the next -instance to be avoided; the other dwelt upon the achievement as a -dramatic whole. Enoch was anxious to get back. - -At a point from which the blast furnace was visible as a complete -spectacle Aaron stopped and seized him by the arm. - -“Take a look at it, man. There’s plenty of time for that.” - -A blast furnace even then was what a blast furnace is,--the most -audacious affront man has yet put upon nature. He decoys the elemental -forces and gives them handy nicknames. Though he cannot tame them, he -may control them through knowledge of their weaknesses. He learns their -immutable habits. From the Omnipotent Craftsman he steals the true -process. In the scale of his own strength he reproduces in a furnace -the conditions under which the earth was made, and extracts from the -uproar a lump of iron. - -By the very majesty of the effects he conjures up he is himself -absurdly diminished, to the point of becoming incredible. As you -look at him he is neither impressive nor august. Perhaps if one had -witnessed the creation the appalling effects in the same way would -have seemed much more wonderful than the Creator. In His old clothes, -anxious, preoccupied, intent upon results, He probably had been very -disappointing to the eye. - -From where he stood, detaining Enoch against his mood, Aaron could see -the workers moving about the furnace hearth,--tiny, impish figures, -grotesquely insignificant, scornfully manipulating the elemental -intensities. The surrounding slopes were lined with people, their faces -reflecting a dull, lurid glow; and there was an ominous, swooning -vibration in the air. - -“Admit it, Enoch,” he said, “You get a thrill from that.” - -“I want to get back,” said Enoch. - -They remained at the furnace the whole of that night and handled the -first cold pig iron. - -“It’s good,” said Enoch. - -It was a fine quality of pig iron. The demand for it was immediate and -profitable. Furnaces were added one or two at a time until there were -eight. Pig iron was for some time the sole product. The mill to draw -and roll the iron came later. - -In five years the population of New Damascus trebled. The mines, the -blast furnaces and later the drawing mill,--the first in this country -to pass iron through rollers,--employed thousands of workers. Their -wants made business. The town was rebuilt. That made more business. -Enoch on his own venture built houses for the iron workers and opened a -large company store. - -There was a third reason why the partnership, to everyone’s surprise, -was successful as a relationship between two antagonistic natures. - -Aaron had all the popularity still. The social life of New Damascus -centered upon him. The Woolwine mansion where he lived in bachelor -eminence was full of entertainment and gaiety. His hospitality was -memorable. Guests came from afar, from Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and New -York, to attend his parties. - -Enoch continued to live morosely in the old iron-stone house below. The -contrast was notable, even painful, but if Enoch minded at all there -were compensations. Within the partnership and outside of it his power -increased. There was never any doubt as to which of them exercised -ultimate authority in matters of business. When it came to borrowing -capital, as they did to build the mill, it was Enoch’s word that -persuaded the lenders. He made a sound they understood,--a crunching, -horizontal sound that was not in Aaron at all. The instinct that -preferred Aaron in friendship and the instinct that preferred Enoch in -business could exist, and did, in the same people. Enoch was preferred -where his vanity was. People feared and trusted him. That kept the -scales even. - - - - -VI - - -Having heard of New Damascus that it was marked to become the seat -of the American iron industry, there appeared at this time one Bruno -Mitchell, a capitalist, thinking to open a bank if the repute of -the place should prove to be well founded. He had prospered in New -England, where the practice of banking was already well advanced; but -he believed in the star of iron and it led him hither. In his active -character he was hard and avaricious, yet there was a quaintness about -him that first contradicted that fact and then mitigated one’s opinion -of it. He had never filled his skin, or perhaps it was a size too large -in the taking. Instead of hanging loosely, as an over-size skin does on -wavering natures, it had shrunk to measure, so that he was prematurely -wrinkled and had a leathery look. His face wore a quizzical expression. -His eyes were blue and restless. He walked softly. - -Enoch Gib impressed him deeply. They understood each other at sight. - -Persuaded by omens and discoveries that New Damascus was the place, -Mitchell moved himself there, together with all his means and chattels -and a daughter named Esther. He was an important addition to the -community. He gave it the prestige of having one of the first banks -west of Philadelphia. To Gib and Breakspeare he was very helpful. Not -only did he discount their bills and effect payments on their account -at distant points in a manner then new and miraculous; he also advanced -them considerable sums of credit and capital. He was anxious to make -a permanent investment in the business, and Enoch was willing that he -should. Aaron objected, as he had a right to do, and although both -Enoch and Mitchell were disappointed, there was no open feeling about -it. - -Esther Mitchell was twenty-four. Since the death of her mother five -years before she had lived alone with her father, who took it each day -for granted that she should be content to manage his household until -whatever it is that happens to women happened to her. They never spoke -of it and nothing happened. So time wore on. Once in a while he said to -himself, “I wonder why Esther never has a beau,” and then put it out of -his mind. They behaved toward each other like two married people who -run in parallel grooves and never touch. - -When at the death of his wife the daughter returned to him from a -convent school he hardly knew her. She was still, after five years, -as much a stranger to him as on the day she voluntarily assumed the -responsibilities of her mother. He never had been able to penetrate -her reserve. When he tried, as he did at first, he had a sense of -trespassing and guiltily retired. She had a way of looking at things, -at people, at him, with steady, wide-open eyes that never betrayed what -she was thinking. Sometimes a troubled expression would appear in -them, like the shadow of a cloud on the surface of a still blue pool. -They talked very little. What there was of it was friendly. He had no -idea what she did with her own time, if she had any, and never asked. - -As a housekeeper she was faultless. As the female adjunct of an -elderly, selfish engrossed man she had all the merits and none of the -liabilities of a perfect wife; besides she was in youth and sweet to -the eye. As a fellow human being she was a riddle. In that light he -knew hardly more than her name. Her castle was invisible. There was no -straight way to it. The outermost signs were all misleading. - -The partners were frequent visitors in the Mitchell household. The -atmosphere was social. The subject was business. They seldom talked of -anything else. Business of course has many facets. It was not merely -the affairs of Gib and Breakspeare they discussed. They debated the -future of iron, metallurgical processes, the blundering stupidity of -Congress. - -The feud between politics and business was never new. An economic -truth more obvious than daylight to the industrial founders was even -then a tangle of obscurities to Congress. What statesmen could not see -clearly, once for all, was that without high tariff protection the -American iron industry would live at the mercy of foreign competitors. -On that text Enoch said always the last word, which was his own, and -became a famous slogan among the ironmongers of that generation. It was -this: - -“War or tariff.” - -That now sounds cryptic. Then it was clear enough. Everybody knew or -could remember that there was no iron working in this land before the -war of Independence. The mother country forbade it. What she wanted -from the American colonists was the raw material to be worked up in -her own iron mills with her own skilled labor, for if the colonists -produced iron manufactures for themselves English exports to the New -World would suffer. An act of the British Crown decreed that “no mill -or other engine for slitting or rolling of iron, no plating forge to -work with a tilthammer and no furnace for making steel” should be -erected “in any of His Majesty’s Colonies in America.” Mills already -existing were declared a public nuisance and abated as such. - -So the colonists, forbidden to work their own iron, were obliged to -sell their raw materials to England and buy it back from British -merchants in the form of manufactures. The war cut the colonies off -from these British manufactures. They were thereupon obliged by -necessity to found a native iron working industry. After the war -the British sent their products to the United States at prices with -which the new American industrialists could not successfully compete, -hence the demand that British iron be excluded, or at least that the -importation of it be penalized by high tariff. This was the historic -experience that caused the prosperity, in fact the life, of the early -American iron industry to be associated with war and tariff. They were -in results the same. War had all the effects of a high tariff. It kept -the foreign stuff out. - -“And nobody wants war,” Enoch would add. - -Another topic endlessly debated was the railroad. It had just come -within range of practical vision. What were its possibilities? Would -it supplement or supersede canals? Enoch could not imagine that the -railroad would ever take the place of canals. Aaron thought it would. -Mitchell thought with Aaron, and Enoch for that reason was more rigid -in his opinion. - -Once Aaron broke all precedent in this private chamber of commerce by -saying suddenly to Esther: - -“What do you think?” - -He had been observing her for some time. Through all their interminable -repetitious dinner table talk she maintained an air of rapt attention, -with her gaze on the one who was speaking, and never uttered a word. He -wondered if she were listening or merely watching them. Both her father -and Enoch were surprised that anyone should address her with that kind -of question. She was not startled. - -“I wonder which will make the world happier,” she said. - -In the way she said it there was a kind of disbelieving that referred -neither to canals nor railroads but to something represented by the -discussion. The effect was strange. All three men were disturbed -in their sense of importance. They attacked her in concert, with -a condescending manner, Enoch leading. How like a woman to think -that way! What had happiness got to do with it? The question was -economic. Which would be the more efficient means of transportation? -But anyhow--this was Enoch--anyhow, was it not obvious that whatever -increased the wealth of the world increased also the sum of human -happiness? - -“Is it?” said Esther. - -They could get nothing more out of her. She declined to be argued with -and smiled at them from a great distance. Her smile was impassable. - -Several times after that Aaron tried to involve her in their -conversations, at dinner, or in the drawing room where she sat apart -with her needlework, but never again with any success. She would look -at him with a bothered expression, and either recognize his effort by -no other sign or slowly shake her head. This he took for disapproval -and thereafter ignored her, as the others did, except now and then to -scrutinize her in a surreptitious manner. When she surprised him at -that she returned his gaze with distant, impersonal curiosity, until he -was the first to turn away. - -A change took place gradually in the partners’ relations with the -Mitchell menage. Aaron’s visits were no less recurring, but Enoch’s -became more frequent and regular. It was the only household in New -Damascus in which he felt wholly at ease with himself and properly -esteemed. He seldom went anywhere else. Very soon the women people -were saying they knew what the attraction was. A certain expectation -began to crystallize. Enoch became aware of it, not knowing how. -Mitchell cultivated it adroitly. Since his offer to invest capital -in the business of Gib and Breakspeare had been declined the idea of -marrying Esther to one of the firm took possession of his thoughts. His -preference was for Enoch because more securely through him than through -Aaron would the Mitchell chariot be hitched to the star of iron. He -talked of both of them to Esther, with an air of being impartial, as -if giving her his intimate, unguarded impressions. As he understood -women, their minds worked on these matters in a contrary manner. To -disparage Aaron might be prejudicial to his ends. He never did that. -Nevertheless, Enoch came off by every comparison as much the superior -person. Esther listened attentively and said nothing. - -“Do you ever think of getting married?” he asked her. “I sometimes -wonder.” - -“No,” she said. “I never have. Why do you ask it?” - -“But you may,” he said. - -“Have you some one in view for me?” In her voice was a certain elusive -tone, unresolved between doubt and irony, that he knew and hated. It -made him uneasy. Sometimes it made him feel small. - -“Seriously, I have,” he replied. “That is to say, I have hoped you -might become interested that way in Enoch Gib. You know what I think of -him. He will be a great man in this country if nothing happens.” - -“Does it much concern your happiness?” she asked. There was that tone -again. - -“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said. “I am thinking of your future. -It would give me a sense of great comfort.” - -This was at dinner’s end one evening when they were alone. As he -talked, with his eyes down, he traced a figure on the table cloth with -a spoon, making it deeper and deeper as his unease increased. He felt -all the time that she was regarding him with a wide, impenetrable -expression. - -“Oh,” she said, after an interval of silence. - -He started and looked at her furtively. She was regarding him freely. -There was in her expression the trace of an ambiguous, amused smile. He -blushed and rose from the table. - -Expectations increased. More marriages take place under the tyranny of -expectation than Heaven imagines. New Damascus society became tensely -expectant. - -Enoch proposed, as Esther expected, with an air of bestowing himself -where he was sure to be appreciated. She took some time about it and -then accepted him. - -Aaron was apparently the only person in New Damascus who had not -foreseen it. He was deeply astonished. Why? It was not an improbable -consummation. Yet it seemed to him strange and unnatural. - -He first heard of it at dinner with the Mitchells. Enoch was present. -Mitchell announced it as if Aaron were a large party of friends. He -responded as such. There was a false note in his felicitations. He was -aware of it; so was Esther. But in trying to cancel the impression -he made it worse. Enoch was protected as by wool with a sense of -proprietorship and self-satisfaction. Mitchell was insensitive. - -Esther kept looking at Aaron. There was a troubled, startled expression -in her eyes. He misread it for distaste. He had long imagined she -disliked him. Several times that evening she was brief with him, almost -curt, and this had never happened before. - -His visits to the Mitchell house thereafter were formal and less -frequent. Enoch’s manner of making himself paramount affected him -disagreeably. And Esther’s behaviour perplexed him. She was at one time -much more friendly than he expected and at another so deliberately -indifferent that he could only conclude that she meant to estrange him. - -Yet now a fatality began to operate. By a law of coincidence that -we do not understand, and may not exist, they began to meet outside -the household, purely, as it seemed in each case, by accident,--in -unexpected places, on the street again and again, once at night in -a crowd at an open air Punch and Judy show in which neither of them -was at all interested, once in Philadelphia where he was transacting -business and she was shopping with her maid, and once in a memorable -way on a path through the woods to Throne Rock, a natural seat on the -mountain summit from which the view of the valley was exciting. - -It was a Sunday afternoon in early May. He was going; she was -returning. They were at first surprised, then embarrassed, and became -absurdly self-conscious. She wore a wide-brim hat, pulled down on both -sides and tied under her chin. She was hot and tired; her color was -high. Her dress was torn. He noticed it. - -“I was after these,” she said, catching his glance. She held out a -bunch of dogwood blossoms, with a gesture to share them. He admired -them and there was nothing else to say. So they stood, she looking at -him and holding out the dogwood flowers, he looking fixedly at them, -until her arm dropped and she turned to go on. He let her go and went -his way up the path. But he looked back. She had stopped and was seated -on a fallen tree trunk. He returned. She did not look up. - -“I’d like to give you a farewell party,” he said. “Will you come?” - -“A farewell party?” - -“There ought to be a better name for it,” he said. “A sour grape party, -then. I’ve always wanted to give you a dinner at the mansion. Will you -come?” - -“Yes,” she said. - -And again there was nothing else to say. She rose and he walked with -her toward the town. - -“If Enoch won’t mind,” he said. - -“Why should he mind?” she asked. - -“Perhaps he won’t,” said Aaron. - -This thought, as to whether Enoch should mind, had far and separate -projections in each of their minds and kept them silent until at the -natural parting of their ways she turned to face him and held out her -hand. It was a gesture of dismissal. He bowed and left her. - -The dinner party took place just two weeks before her wedding day. -It was perhaps too elaborate. It contained every preparable element -of success. Aaron did his best to save it, and yet nobody enjoyed it. -Esther was visibly depressed. Enoch sulked. The guests rallied them -until it was seen to be hopeless and then let them alone. They simply -could not react with gaiety. - -Aaron as host had special rights in the guest of honor and took them. -Enoch grew steadily worse. Opinion upon him was divided. Some thought -it was the natural gloom of his nature and were full of foreboding for -Esther. Others said they did believe the man was jealous. - -After a dance Esther and Aaron walked on the terrace. - -“Forgive me,” she said. “I have spoiled the party.” - -“No,” he said. “It’s my fault. I knew better. Yet I couldn’t resist it. -And it is in a sense a farewell party.” - -“What does that mean?” - -“After your wedding I may not see you again for a long time. I’m only -waiting on Enoch’s account. Then I shall be going to Europe for a year, -perhaps more.” - -“On business?” - -“Y-e-s,” he answered slowly. - -They took several more turns without speaking. - -“What are your plans?” he asked. - -“None that I know of,” she said. - -She had stopped. He saw that her gaze was directed at Enoch’s -ancestral iron-stone house below. The fitful glare of the blast -furnaces, lower down, lighted its sombre nakedness and gave it a -relentless, sinister aspect. The windows, which were small and -unsoftened by copings, were like cruel, ferocious eyes in a powerful, -short-haired, suspicious animal. - -“Shall you live there?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she said, giving him a frowning, startled look, as if he had -surprised her at a disadvantage. She added: “Enoch took me through it -yesterday. The room where he was born,--that will be mine. The room -where his father died is just as it was then. He thinks we shouldn’t -touch it.” - -She shivered. He asked her if she was cold. She wasn’t, but on the next -turn past the door she turned and they went in. - -Enoch’s idea of marriage was inherited. You take a wife from the church -to the ancestral abode and become jointly responsible with God for her -past, present, future and hereafter, for her body, her mind, her way -with the neighbors, for everything about her save the separate flame of -her individuality. That is vanity. The house is yours, therefore she -must accept it. It was yours before she had any rights in it, therefore -she must get used to it, as she must get used to you. And why not? If -Aaron married would he not take his wife to the Woolwine Mansion just -as it was? Well, what was Aaron’s was like Aaron and what was Enoch’s -was like Enoch, and what a woman married was what she got. - -Enoch rode home with Esther that night in her father’s carriage. -Mitchell had gone home earlier and sent the carriage back. As they were -passing the iron-stone house--fatally then--Enoch asked: - -“What do you and Aaron find to talk about?” - -“Nothing,” she said. - -That was literally the truth. It was with extreme difficulty that they -found anything to say to each other. Never had they carried on an -intimate, self-revealing conversation. There was too much constraint -on both sides. But Enoch could hardly believe that Aaron was under -any circumstances inarticulate, like himself. Or was it that he knew -instinctively if what Esther said was true there lay in that very truth -a deep significance? - -Her answer made him seethingly angry. An ungovernable feeling rose up -in him spirally. It was as an adder stinging him in the dark. He could -not seize it, for he knew not what or where it was. He could not escape -from it. The pain was horrible. - -Esther knew nothing of these violent emotions. She had no more -intuition of him than he had of her. That sense by which natures -attuned exchange thoughts without words was impossible between them. -Between Esther and Aaron it already existed: it always had. But it was -unacknowledged. - -Enoch passed three days without seeing Esther, hoping she might send -for him. On the fourth day he went to dinner and she treated him as -if nothing were the matter. She hardly knew there was. That made it -much worse. Then he flourished the wound by pretending heroically -to conceal it. That method will work only provided the woman cares -and loves the child in her man. Esther did not care. She refused to -discover the hurt. The man’s last recourse is to injure the woman, -to ease himself by hurting her. Enoch became oppressive. He began to -mention the things that should be rendered unto Cæsar, categorically, -gratuitously; he revealed the laws of Gib; he appointed how the -concavities of her life should correspond to the convexities of his; he -spoke of penalties, forfeits and consequences, and of the ancient legal -principle that ignorance of the statutes is no defence provided the -statutes have been duly published. She listened with wide-open eyes. -He believed he inspired her with admiration for the stern stuff he was -made of, and thus blindly sought his fate. - -So his hurt was revenged but in no wise healed. - -On the eve of their wedding day, at dinner, Aaron’s name was -pronounced. The invisible circumstances were tragic. Enoch happened at -that instant to be regarding Esther with a sensation that was new to -him and very disturbing. He knew not what to do with it. Suddenly he -had been seized with a great longing for her, a yearning of the heart -toward the fact of her being that was savage, tender and desolate. -He wondered that Esther and her father both were not aware of this -singular and dramatic occurrence. It shook him like an earth tremor. An -impulse to speak, to shout, to cry out words of fantastic meaning, to -rise and touch her, became almost uncontrollable,--almost. It occurred -to him for the first time, like a blow, that he had never discovered -her nature, her true self. He had not tried. The importance of doing -so, the possibility of it, had not been thought of. But he would. He -would begin all over again to get acquainted with her. - -In that moment he loved her. - -And it was then,--just then,--that he heard the sound of Aaron’s name. -He could not say which one of them uttered it. The sound was all he -knew. Instantly the hideous, stinging adder upraised from his depths -and began striking at the walls of his breast. Vividly, stereoptically, -as a series of pictures, there flashed across his mental vision every -situation in which he had seen Aaron and Esther together. - -He had been able to control the impulse of love to vent its untimely -ecstasy; his rage he could not govern. - -To Esther’s and her father’s amazement he began, with no apparent -provocation whatever, to utter against Aaron defamations of an extreme -and irrevocable character. His manner contradicted the violence of -his feelings. It was self-possessed, one would almost say restrained; -that was his way under stress of emotional excitement. At no point did -he become incoherent. His words were chilled and came to him easily. -One might have thought he was thinking out loud, very earnestly, in -solitude. On his face was that singular Gib expression, never witnessed -before in the Mitchell household,--the mouth contortion one mistook for -a smile. So far as Esther and Mitchell could see the performance was -gratuitous and premeditated. It had gone far before they realized that -his state was one of passion. But that discovery had no mitigating -value. They made no effort to stop him. He spoke of things that are -supposed to be unmentionable, and of his private intentions, and closed -abruptly with the declaration that Aaron should never be received in -his house as a guest. - -“Let that be understood,” he said to Esther. Then he rose from the -table and departed. - -Mitchell was stupefied. He looked slowly at Esther. Her face was a -perfect mask. - -“Do you know what it means?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she said. - -“What? What?” - -“It’s the only way Mr. Gib has of paying your daughter a compliment,” -she said. - -And now Bruno Mitchell suffered another shock. For the first time in -her life Esther rose from the table and left him there. - -She went to her room, sent her maid to bed, and sat for a long time -perfectly still, at the core of a maelstrom, her emotions whirling and -seething around her. They were her emotions. She recognized them as -such. Only, they were outside of her. This had always been true. Even -before she understood what it meant, her mother, a stoic, began to say: -“Don’t give way to your feelings. They will swallow you up. Watch them. -If you can see them they cannot hurt you.” So she had watched them -fearfully. To do that she had to put them outside. She had seen them -grow, change and rise until they engulfed her, and then the only way -she could save herself was to give them that whirling motion, which -caused them to incline from her, as the waters of the whirlpool incline -from the center. But it was harder and harder to keep them whirling and -she dared not stop, for if she did they would swallow her up. - -The spectacle became awesome and fascinating, as a maelstrom is, and -there were moments when the perverse impulse to stop, surrender, cast -herself headlong away, was almost irresistible. She thought of this as -equivalent to suicide. And she had for a long time secretly supposed -it would ultimately happen. Now she was terrified and thrilled by a -premonition that it was imminent. Never had the waters been so mad, so -giddy, so nearly ungovernable, so excitingly desirable. - -That is all she was thinking of,--if it may be called thinking,--as -she started up, drew on walking boots, took a shawl and descended -the stairs. In the hallway she met her father. He looked at her with -surprise. - -“Are you going out?” - -“For a walk,” she said. - -“But Esther! ... at this hour ... alone. I--” - -“Yes,” she said, waiting. “Do you forbid it?” - -There was a note in her voice he had never heard before. She wished him -to say yes, he forbade it. That was why she asked the question. And if -he had said that the whirling flood would have collapsed at once. That -again was all she was thinking. It was a wild, liberating thought. But -instead he took a step toward her and scrutinized her face. - -“Esther, what has happened to you?” - -“On the eve of my wedding, for the first and last time, for an hour -perhaps, I shall be Esther herself, alone,” she said. - -Since the unprecedented uproar of the inclined waters had begun an hour -before she had not once thought of her wedding. The word of it, as now -it came to her lips, seemed strange and fantastic, and yet she had made -no resolve against it. - -Her father stood aside and she passed out. - -Half an hour later the knocker sounded and Mitchell himself went to the -door, expecting to receive Esther. There was Enoch. He asked to see her. - -“She has gone for a walk,” said Mitchell. “Won’t you come in and wait? -She can’t be long returning.” - -Enoch hesitated and turned away, saying he might have the good luck to -meet her. - -He had come to mend the impression he was conscious of having left -behind him. At least that was the ostensible reason. That was what -he would have said. The fact was that the adder had suddenly slunk -away, and once more came that feeling for Esther which was so new and -irrational and caused his heart to stagger back and forth. It was -stronger than before,--stronger than pride. He could scarcely breathe -for the ache of wanting to see her again that night.... - -Esther turned first toward the river path, changed her direction -aimlessly, walked for some distance toward the limestone quarry, then -suddenly swung around, passed the blast furnaces, and presently, only -her feet aware of how they came there, she was high on the mountain -path to Throne Rock. She had been walking too fast. Her breath began -to fail. She sat on a log to rest. The moon came up. The log was the -same fallen tree trunk on which she sat with her dogwood flowers the -day Aaron turned round, came back, and invited her to a farewell dinner -party. She knew it all the time. The scene restored itself, with all -the feelings it had evoked, and she did not push them back. They -detached themselves from the whirling mass and touched her. There was -a moment in which she could not remember anything that had happened -since; and in that moment, as an integral part of it, the figure of -Aaron appeared, walking toward her from above, exactly as before. - -She sat so still he might almost have passed her. He did not start. -For a long time he stood looking at her. She did not move. He -could not see her face. Then without speaking he sat beside her, -at a little distance, on the log. The tree frogs informed on one -another--_peep_-ing--_peep_-ing. A dry twig falling made a crashing -sound. Far away below, at regular intervals, shrill whistle blasts -denoted stages in the ring of smelting alchemies. - -Aaron spoke. - -“What day is tomorrow?” - -“I don’t know,” said Esther. - -They were silent until the whistle blew again. - -“At ten o’clock,” said Aaron. - -“At ten o’clock,” said Esther. - -The exchange of wordless thoughts went on and on, and Aaron was -expecting what she said. - -“I do not love him.” - -“He loves you,” said Aaron. - -“Does that so much oblige the woman?” Esther asked. - -“The woman is obliged,” he said, “she is ... unless----” He stopped. - -“Aaron,” she said, “tell me this. How do friends regard each other’s -wives and sweethearts?” - -“Sweethearts almost the same as wives,” he said. - -“So that if one loved the sweetheart of a friend he could not tell her -that?” - -“No, he could not.” - -“Not even if he knew the sweetheart did not love the friend?” - -“No,” said Aaron. - -“Then should the woman tell?” - -“Tell whom?” asked Aaron, trembling. - -“The friend ... the other man,” said Esther. - -Aaron slowly dropped his head between his hands. She could feel his -body shake. A roaring blackness filled her eyes. She rose and would -have gone, but he enfolded her, with arms that touched her lightly, -almost not at all at first, then tightened, tightened, tightened, until -her life was crushed to his, and all the waters fell. - -He put her off at arm’s length to see her better. - -“Through all consequences ... forever ... to finality,” he said. - -And she was satisfied. - -How long they stood so, either thus or as it was, gazing one upon the -other, with no words to say,--how long they never knew. A sound of -footsteps very near broke their ecstasy, and there stood Enoch. - -They had no sense of guilt. They were shy and startled from the shock -of coming back to earth. - -Enoch stood there looking at them. Aaron moved, drawing Esther’s form -behind him. - -At that Enoch turned away and laughed. - -Twenty paces on his way he laughed again. - -When he was out of sight he laughed. - -At intervals all the way down the mountain he stopped to laugh. - -The sound of his laughter reverberated, echoed, swirled, went and -returned, filled the whole valley, blasting the night. Then when he was -far off he uttered a piercing scream. It rose on the air like a rocket, -hissed, burst with a soft splash and pitched off into space, and the -world for a moment was deathly still. The tree frogs were the first to -recover and began frantically to fill up the void. - -Aaron touched Esther. They descended. She inquired of him nothing; -he informed her of nothing. They did not speak again for hours. They -walked to the Woolwine mansion. He called for horses, a light vehicle, -and wraps. And all that night they drove, past the setting moon, into -the darkness, through the dawn, toward Wilkes-Barre. - -Next day at noon they were married. - - - - -VII - - -The partnership of Gib and Breakspeare was sundered. - -Two weeks later, when Aaron returned to the little red office building -across the road from the mill, he found on his desk a paper marked -“Articles of Dissolution.” Attached was a note of two lines from Enoch, -saying: “Let any changes proposed to be made herein appear in the form -of writing, or through an attorney at law.” - -They never spoke again. - -The articles prepared by Enoch provided that the ore and coal lands, -which had been pooled on a royalty basis, should release from that -agreement and revert to their respective owners; that the eight blast -furnaces should be divided equally, four and four; that Gib should buy -from Breakspeare, for cash, his interest in the rolling mill, because -it could not be divided, the price to be one-half the original cost, -according to the books, and that all the money in the firm’s treasury, -less current liabilities, should be halved on the date of signature. - -Aaron read the paper once through, put it down and signed it. The -terms were unfair. Yet he had no impulse to change them. They were -unfair because nothing was made of those two intangible assets -which sometimes in business are worth more than the physical -properties--namely, spirit of organization and good will of trade--all -of which would automatically belong to the one who bought out the -other’s interest in the mill. This was so because the mill was now the -crown of the business. What the firm sold was no longer pig iron, as at -first, but wrought iron in standard bars manufactured from the pig by -remelting, kneading, hammering and rolling it. The product of the blast -furnaces, instead of going to market, only fed the mill. - -What would Aaron do? - -He could not sell the product of his blast furnaces to Enoch. Business -transactions between them were unimaginable; besides, no sooner were -the articles of dissolution signed than Enoch went about building four -more blast furnaces of his own. That was to make himself independent -of Aaron’s product. Aaron, therefore, might choose between seeking -a market outside for his pig iron or building a mill to work it. To -build a mill would require, first, a large outlay of capital, then -an organization of expert workers and superintendents, and thirdly -a market for his wrought iron in competition with the product of -the established mill, now Enoch’s. For of course Enoch’s iron would -continue to be called Damascus Iron, which was its trade name, and it -was already famous in the country for its fine texture and purity. -Aaron’s might be just as good, but it would have to take a new name and -earn its own good will. - -Well, but what he did was unexpected. He drew the fires from his blast -furnaces and went to Europe with Esther. - -It was more than a honeymoon, or less, as you may happen to think. In -Aaron’s case romance and work were easily combined, for as love is -an adventure of the spirit, so to a man of his temperament work is a -romantic enterprise of the mind and creative in a manner less wonderful -than the mysterious life process only because we take it for granted. -What is an engine? a steamship? a blast furnace? a tower? It is the -materialization in form and function of an idea itself imponderable. It -is the psychic power of man exteriorized in substance and there is no -accounting for such phenomena save that it happens. Who knows but the -Gods are as much puzzled by that form of glow worm full of parasites -that we call a railroad train as we are by the things of cosmic origin? - -Specifically Aaron was in quest of a secret that had eluded and baffled -iron masters always. They were sure it existed. That certainty was -deducible from the data of knowledge. Many times they had almost -touched it; then it was lost again, like a coy, tantalizing vision -of loveliness, and the pursuers were discouraged. Still, they never -gave up. Whoever found it would be made exceedingly rich and the iron -industry at the same time would be revolutionized. - -It is to be explained. - -Everybody probably knows that in the first place all the iron was -trapped in the blazing heart of the earth. It forms no part anywhere of -the earth’s true granite crust. But it was rebellious and indigestible -and had to be spewed up from the inflamed Plutonic belly through the -tops of volcanoes. At that time volcanoes were near or under water -generally, and when the molten iron came jetting forth in red lava -streams a spectacular melodrama was enacted. Water was its adverse -element. At the lava’s touch the oceans boiled, hissed, upheaved and -draped themselves in steam. They were not hurt really; they were -outraged. - -What happened to the lava? - -The water shivered it to atoms and cast it high upon the wind as dust -and ashes. - -In that free and irresponsible condition iron travelled far, made his -bed in many places, took up with new and strange affinities,--the -flapper sisters Chlorine, the Sulphur Gerties, the lazy Nitrate Susans, -the harmless Silicates, a score of others known and unknown, and most -of all with a comfortable, indispensable element called Oxygen. The -extent and variety of his embracings may be imagined from the fact that -he is never found in a state of unattached purity save now and then -when he falls from the heavens as a meteorite. In these haphazard, -bigamous earthly alliances he is of no avail to man. The problem is how -to disentangle him,--how to divorce him from his undesirable affinities -and wed him durably and in a lawful manner to those elements which -supplement his power. - -It becomes extremely complicated when you begin seriously to consider -it. How shall one be divorced from many miscellaneous affinities? You -have to have been regularly wedded in order to get divorced. Well, the -only way is the long, pragmatic way. You wed him to the affinities -that are to be legally got rid of and then divorce him from them. - -Now take it: The iron ore is in the ore bed, embracing those other -elements at random, particularly Oxygen. First you oxidize him by -roasting. That is, you wed him to Oxygen; you give him Oxygen until -he is sick of it. Then you melt him down with coal in a furnace to -deoxidize him--to divorce him, that is to say, from his affinity -Oxygen. It is the first fiery ordeal. But at the same time you wed him -to Carbon. Thus deoxidized and carbonized, divorced and wedded by one -stroke, he becomes pig iron. - -The wedding with Carbon, however, is not permanent. It has been -contracted so to speak under duress, a miserable makeshift, because -his earthly nature is such that he must be wedded to something all the -time. Besides, there is now too much Carbon for his own good. So you -melt him again and divorce him from Carbon, by the unexpected method of -blowing Oxygen through him. At the end of this second ordeal he is free -of both Carbon and Oxygen, many other elements have disappeared also, -and you have wrought iron, practically pure, limp and malleable. - -Now suppose you want to make him hard. You want to convert him into -steel. In that case you melt him a third time and wed him permanently -to a small amount of Carbon, more or less, the amount to be governed by -the degree of hardness required. That makes steel. But to make it has -required one roasting and three meltings. - -The dream of the iron masters, beginning with the 19th century, was -to make it all one continuous, fluid process, and bring the complete -result to pass at one melting. If that could be done the cost of -production would be enormously reduced. - -The discovery of such a method now seemed imminent in either England -or Germany. Many experts were pressing on the door. Suddenly it would -fly open and whoever was there at the moment would be able to seize the -secret. Rumors of success had been heard, disbelieved, denied, scoffed -at and repeated. Aaron believed them, or believed at least that if the -secret had not already been captured it was about to be. That was his -quest in Europe. - -After a year he returned with a steel making patent, enormous -quantities of queer looking material, a crew of expert English -erectors, and proceeded to build what the curious Damascenes called a -concern. That word was in lieu of a proper name for an object which, -without being supernatural, was unique on earth. In shape it somewhat -resembled a gigantic snail shell, in a vertical position, open end up, -thirty feet high, made of iron plates bolted together, lined with fire -clay and so mounted at its axis that it could be tipped to spill its -contents. On the same foundation was mounted a blowing engine to force -air at high pressure through perforations in the bottom of the shell; -and there was also a great ladle in chains for hoisting molten metal to -its mouth. - -The work of construction was slow and tedious; it came several times -to a full stop for want of something that had not been provided -beforehand and could not be made on the spot. Nearly another year -passed. - -Then one day smoke appeared at the top of one of Aaron’s four blast -furnaces and people by this sign were notified that the great -experiment was about to begin. In a general way the population knew, -from what the workers said, that the intention was to produce steel and -to produce it direct from the ore, and also that if such a thing were -possible the iron industry would undergo a basic transformation. - -All of that was exciting and very important, especially to a town -like New Damascus, whose living was in iron. Yet it was no technical -interest in a metallurgical process that moved people to gather in -large numbers to witness the experiment. What they sensed was its -human meaning. It symbolized a struggle between the former partners. -The outcome might deeply affect the economic position of New Damascus -in the course of time. Immediately it had tense dramatic value. It -would prove which was the greater man and which was right,--Aaron who -believed steel cheaply produced in large quantities by a continuous -one-melt process would supersede iron and bring a new age to pass, or -Enoch who scoffed, who was known privately to have predicted Aaron’s -ruin, and who held that to think of getting steel direct from ore in -that manner, skipping the iron stage, was as absurd as to think of -getting a grandson from a grandfather, skipping the father. It was -contrary to the way of nature. - -All the iron wisdom of the community was with Enoch. All the inert -scepticism with which people behold the trial of a new thing was on -his side. But the heart was for Aaron. Everybody liked him still, -as in the old days, and ardently wished him success. Besides, if he -brought it off, Enoch Gib would be humbled. His tyrannical ways were -increasingly complained of. New Damascus would rather be a steel town -under Aaron than an iron town under Enoch. - -With the outcome in suspense, the experiment itself was worth seeing as -a spectacle. Nothing like it could have been imagined. - -First, that strange, enormous tilting vessel, resembling a snail shell, -was filled with fuel and fired under blast from the blowing engine -until its clay-lined interior was white hot. Then it was tilted on its -axis, emptied and tilted back again. Next the molten iron from the -blast furnace, instead of being run off in the sand to make the sow the -pigs devour, was tapped into that great ladle in chains, hoisted on -high, and poured into the white hot gullet of the tilting vessel. At -the same time the blowing engine to force air through the perforations -in the bottom was set in fast motion with a terrible roar. A blast of -air at high pressure began now to pass upward through the fluid metal. - -A series of awesome pyrotechnics ensued. - -In the belly of the tilting vessel occurred a dry, chortling sound, -followed by a dull, regular clapping, as of Plutonic amusement and -applause. From the mouth of the vessel issued millions of sparks, -particles burning brilliantly in the air. This went on for seven or -eight minutes. Suddenly the sparks went out and a dull, sluggish red -flame appeared, turning bright and yellowish, then becoming high, -brilliant and dart-like. After several minutes terrific detonations -began to take place in the vessel. With each detonation the flame shot -higher. This uproar was succeeded by a period of calm. The yellowish, -dart-like flame rising from the throat of the vessel was replaced by -a long, white flame, which stood for several seconds proudly, then -trembled, tore at the edges and abruptly collapsed. Dense black smoke -issued from the mouth of the crater and the scene was dark. This was -the moment at which the metal itself began to burn. The workers, -uttering shrill cries of anxiety, readiness, encouragement and -damnation, seized the levers controlling the vessel and tilted it over -to a spilling position. Through the black smoke that corked its throat -burst the fluid, blazing metal, hissing like a tortured serpent, alive -in every incandescent crystal, yet doomed quickly to cool and blacken, -every element touching it being fatally adverse. Men in waiting caught -it headfirst neatly into a trundle pot and wheeled it off to be -decanted into sand molds, like pig iron molds, but smaller. - -The experiment was finished. The test was yet to come. That waited on -the cooling. What was in those molds? Those squarish lumps blackening -in the sand,--what would they turn out to be? No one knew. - -Aaron waited until one was cool enough to handle. Then placing it like -a stick of kindling against the chopping block, he hit it one blow in -the middle with a sledge hammer. It broke with an ironic, ringing -sound and lay in two pieces apart. He never stooped to pick them up. -Without a word he dropped the hammer and walked away. - -Esther received him on the terrace. She had been there for hours, -anxiously watching the spectacle from afar, then waiting for him to -come and tell her what the outcome was. But he did not have to tell -her. She knew by his look, by his walk, by the way he took her arm. -They sat for some time in silence. - -“It beats me,” he said. “I can’t explain it. I don’t know what -happened.” - -“What was it like?” she asked. “The product I mean--was it iron or -steel?” - -“Pot metal,” he said contemptuously. - -For a long time they stood there on the terrace looking their thoughts -into space. Hers were personal. His were not. This she knew. There is -probably no sense of loneliness so poignant as that which a woman feels -when the idol of her being disembodies his soul and departs with it, -leaving in her hands the fact of his empty presence. Lacking in herself -his power of abstraction she cannot understand this phenomenon. But -she verifies it and it fills her with terror. The form is there at her -side, even in her arms, as it was a moment before. The man is gone. She -has no idea where he is or what he is doing. - -“Aaron!” - -Esther whispered his name as one who dreads to wake the sleeper and yet -cannot forbear to do so. Impulsively she buried her face beneath his -arm as if she would enter the vacant premises. He laid his arm around -her shoulder. It was an absent gesture. She had not waked him quite. - -“Aaron!” she called again. “What does it matter? Come back to me.” - -At that he started slightly and began to talk in a slow, far-away -manner, very much as he had talked to Enoch that moonlight night after -the birthday party when the idea of making New Damascus an iron town -had suddenly crystallized in his mind. Esther, loving the mere sound of -his voice, did not at first get the sense of his speech. He was saying: - -“Out there in unlimited space are the unborn....” - -These were the first words she understood. They thrilled her. She was -almost faint with an ecstasy that ran through her fibre up and down. -“So,” she thought, “it was that.” And she had been thinking he was far -away. Now she listened tensely. He went on: - -“... Millions, infinite millions, clamoring to get born, perhaps dying -because they cannot cross. Here is life on this side. There, out there, -is but the hope of it.” - -“Cross what?” asked Esther, awesomely. “You speak as if you were gazing -at it.” - -“Between life that is and life unborn I see the primal chasm,” he said. -“We who live have crossed. We do not remember how. The number that -can cross is small. You cannot imagine how small it is. Only one in -millions has the luck to get across. The rest are crowded on the edge, -weeping, reaching out their hands, silently imploring us to get them -over. They struggle, overwhelm themselves and fall into the void like -a cataract.” - -“Why is that?” asked Esther. - -“Because the number that can cross is limited by the preparations of -the living,” Aaron answered. “The living are selfish and forgetful. -All this I see as it has been for ages, as now it is, and as it shall -be. Always it has been as it is on the other side--that infinite, -voiceless, despairing multitude pressing down to the brink of the -void. Here in the world of the living there has been some change. We -have the power of preparation. How pitiably we have exercised it! I’ll -tell you all that has ever happened. Long ago, before he began by -imagination to extend his faculties, man was like the other animals. He -had only his hands and legs, his sheer brute strength, to work with. -He housed himself in holes and caves and ate what the untilled earth -set forth. You must imagine then across that primal chasm a chain of -human bodies, a living monkey bridge, by which the unborn came to life -most dangerously. How few they were! And yet, if more had come just -then they would have starved,--died here instead of there,--because -the means did not exist to house and clothe and feed them. It is man’s -business not only to bridge the chasm; he must also beforehand prepare -the world for those who cross. Come ten thousand years through time -this way. Now see him beginning to till the soil. See him building -huts. More life may be sustained. Above the void a swaying bridge -of sticks. More may safely get across. And yet so very few! Another -thousand years. Enter historic man. He builds him cities and fine -temples and there is a narrow stone arch to span the void. The bridge, -as you will note, is at any time of that material in which mankind is -working. This is better. The unborn begin to rush across. But, alas! -the case is worse than ever. Many now are born that never will be fed. -Why? - -“Imagine the world at this time in panorama. There are cities, noble -cities walled about; but they are few and very far apart, and the world -at large is still an untilled waste. Tillage is in small adjacent -areas, and when the produce of those areas is not enough the people in -the cities starve. Further away are vast fertile plains uncultivated. -They are of no use because food cannot be transported thousands of -miles in great quantities. The art of transportation is undiscovered. -Hence frightful famines on the bounteous earth. Then in his imagination -man finds a ship. That makes it possible to transport food long -distances, and yet the world is hardly touched. Life is increasable -only on the rim of the sea and in the valleys of rivers. An inland city -is impossible. - -“At length the iron age. It is our time. By mechanical means man has -enormously increased his power to prepare the world for that infinite -multitude unborn. It is tremendously excited--the voiceless, spectral -multitude. It presses more wildly toward the void. An iron bridge has -replaced the stone arch. It is a sign that many more may come. Now with -railroads it is possible to bring food quickly from afar. No fertile -area of the earth is inaccessible. Inland cities may begin to rise. -More life in more ways can be sustained than ever before. Nevertheless, -the iron bridge is a premature sign. The material is defective. It is -not hard enough to bear the strain of that host pressing upon life. -Besides, by no process yet discovered can it be made fast enough. - -“And I see what has not yet happened. I see whole cities built higher -than the tower of Babel. Those are steel buildings, sheathed with -brick and stone. Brick and stone upon mortar would not stand so high. -To serve but one of these cities,--to bring its food and take away -its manufactures,--I see a thousand railroad trains,--trains of steel -running on rails of steel. Compared with these the iron shod trains -we know and think so marvellous are merely toys. I see ships of steel -so vast in size that on the side of one the little vessel in which -Columbus found a new world would swing like a silly skiff. I see steel -in all its power--towers, tunnels, aqueducts, fantastic structures I -cannot sense the meaning of. I see miles of smoking chimneys where -steel is made for all these uses in unimaginable quantities. And -spanning the prismal chasm I see a series of great steel bridges, -multiplying as I look, seeming to cast themselves in air across the -void like cobwebs. But reflect! We have not yet discovered the way to -make this steel. Unless we find it quickly we shall fail that unborn -host. It cannot get across; if it did it could not live. The iron -bridge cannot bear its weight. Nor can the world be prepared with iron. -These things of iron are premature, too soft, too slowly made, not big -enough. Now do you know what it is we seek?” - -“Forgive me. I did not mean to speak lightly of it,” Esther said. “None -of this had been revealed to me.” - -“Nor to me,” said Aaron. “Not clearly until this instant. Man works -mostly in the dark, without knowing what he seeks or why....” - -They repeated the experiment many times, never with precisely the same -technical result, though always with the same disappointment. The metal -they got was worthless. It was neither iron nor steel. The process was -true. It remarkably foreshadowed the Bessemer process which some years -later did achieve the result, revolutionize the industry and cause -steel to overlap iron. It failed in Aaron’s hands for want of skill and -chemical knowledge. The elements are not passive. They are wilful and -rebellious. In their efforts to thwart man’s designs upon them they -become cunning and clannish. One helps the other to escape. With this -same mechanical equipment steel workers of a later time would have been -able to make a perfect steel. They would have known how at a certain -stage of the process to cast into the fiery, detonating mass a handful -of some tame, cajoling substance, and then the exact instant at which -to stop the air blast and tilt the vessel to a spilling position. - -Aaron was discouraged but not despairing. Half his fortune was gone. -Still, it was not an irretrievable disaster. - -To hold his organization together he built a small rolling mill. He -called it the Blue Jay. The site on which it stood may still be seen in -New Damascus after all these years. Nothing else has ever occupied it. -The mill was large enough to keep two blast furnaces going,--that is, -it absorbed their output of pig iron. This was merely to fill a gap. He -was bent upon steel. Having opened the mill and having found a market -for all the Blue Jay iron it could make, again he took Esther and went -to Europe on the same quest as before. - -While they were abroad a son was born. They named him John. - -On the homeward voyage Esther died and was buried at sea. The waters at -last did swallow her up. - -Aaron returned to New Damascus with a new steel making patent, an -infant and an empty heart. - -What there was in the patent nobody ever knew. He did nothing with it. -The whole steel adventure was too intimately associated with memories -of Esther. To succeed without her would be worse than to fail. He could -not think of it. There was very little in this world he could think -of. He could not bear living in the mansion without her. He closed it -and went to live at the inn with his child and nurse. Then presently -he could not bear living in New Damascus without her. People said -it was the state of his fortunes that made him morose. He had meant -to retrieve his fortunes with Esther standing by. Now he neglected -business, caring nothing about it, until one day he came awake to the -fact that even so little business as it takes to support a lone man -and child will not attend to itself. He had to do something. But he -could not do it there. - -One day he dismantled the mill, loaded it in a canal boat, abandoned -the irremovable blast furnaces, took his child in his arms and -disappeared. - -The Blue Jay Rolling Mill became famous not for its output but for its -migrations. He set it up in Scranton, then moved it to Pittsburgh. It -was next reported in Texas and after that in Colorado. Then he ceased -to be heard of, except once, when the old Woolwine Mansion was sold to -a Roman Catholic order. - -So he vanished from the light of New Damascus, with his steel patent, -his grief and the fourth generation in swaddling cloths,--vanished away -on a flying iron mill. - - - - -VIII - - -Meanwhile what of Enoch? - -He prospered in power and wealth and his soul turned black. From his -birth he had been cruel, legal, injurious. The tragedy of Esther’s -elopement left a horrible sting in his face for everyone to see. After -that he became, as the Damascenes said, unnatural. In that word they -characterized and judged his conduct; they never understood it. They -could not say in what his unnaturalness consisted. His acts were not -unnatural as acts in themselves, nor in contrast, sum or degree. They -were unnatural because they were his. He disbelieved in friendship; he -knew it not and doubted its existence. He disbelieved in love, too, -though not for the same reason. - -Esther he had loved. - -A man mortally hurt in love may do almost anything naturally. He is -sick prey for the cuckoo woman willing to lay her egg in another’s -nest. She has only to touch him with her fingers softly and hold her -tongue, but to make a soothing, mothering sound, and he will impale -himself without looking. - -But Jonet, daughter of Gearhard the blacksmith, was not that kind -of woman. She could not have made that sound. And it seemed somehow -unnatural that Enoch should marry her. No sound that was in him could -imaginably vibrate in her. According to the local notion the girl was -queer. Men let her alone because she made them vaguely uneasy. Her -phantasies were of the primeval outdoors. She was sometimes seen in the -deep woods by herself, dancing and singing as if she were not alone. -She named the trees and conversed with non-existent objects. Her hair -was black. Her eyes were brown and glistened. Her face was the color -of iron at cherry-red heat and she had the odor of a wild thing. Enoch -married her out of hand. There was no courtship. Then he proceeded to -build a mansion on the west hill larger and more ostentatiously ugly -than the Woolwine Mansion on the east hill. Some said, “Ah-ha! He has -learned his lesson. No woman would live in that gloomy iron stone -house.” Others said he did it neither in wisdom nor in love of Jonet, -but to spite Bruno Mitchell, who, though he was blameless of anything -that had happened, was yet Esther’s father. - -A peculiarity of the Gib mansion was much talked of at the time. It was -built on a twin principle,--that is, in halves, separated only by an -imaginary bisecting line. Each half was as like the other as the right -hand is like the left. There were two portals exactly alike, two halls, -two parlors, two grand stairways, two kitchens, everything in parallel -duplication until it came to the enormous solarium, which was a glass -court between the two parts, the imaginary line cutting through the -fountain in the center. The Philadelphia architect supposed there were -two families. When he discovered it was all for one man and one wife -not yet long enough married to have children he could not conceal his -wonder. - -“Well, why not?” said Enoch. “Haven’t you two lungs, two kidneys, two -ears? One of each would do.” - -The idea may have been thus derived from a principle of insurance -through pairing which nature has evolved. It may have been. -Nevertheless in time the imaginary dividing line became real. It was -painted through the middle of the solarium. Jonet lived on one side -and he on the other and there was no going to and fro,--not for Jonet. -Agnes, their daughter, was brought to his side by the nurses until she -was big enough to walk. She could cross the line as she pleased. But -generally she had to be coaxed or bribed to cross to Enoch’s side and -was always anxious to cross back. - -Between Enoch and Mitchell the subject of Esther was never mentioned, -not even at first. For a while they went on as if nothing had happened. -Gradually Mitchell became aware that Enoch was putting pressure upon -him, silently, deliberately. He made harder and harder terms for the -banker’s services, until Mitchell’s profit in the relationship was -destroyed, and when this fact was pointed out to Enoch he suggested a -simple remedy, which was that the relationship should discontinue. As -Mitchell seemed disinclined to act on this suggestion Enoch at length -invited a Wilkes-Barre man to come and open a bank in New Damascus. -Enoch himself provided most of the capital. The town’s business went -to the new bank naturally. It was Gib’s bank and Gib was a man to -be propitiated in the community. Moreover, his turning from Mitchell -caused Mitchell’s bank to be regarded with a tinge of doubt. Thus -Mitchell’s hope in the star of iron miserably perished. His bank -withered up. His years becoming heavy he returned to New England to die. - -The saying was that Enoch broke him. It would have been quite as easy -to say that Mitchell broke himself upon Enoch. Yet in putting it -the other way people implied a certain subtle truth wherein lay the -difference between Enoch Gib and other men,--the fact of his being -unnatural. His feeling toward Mitchell was natural. Anyone could -understand that. It was a feeling transferred from Esther to her -father. Because he loved Esther he could not hate her as much as his -hurt required; therefore he hated her father more. But where another -man would have manifested this feeling in some overt, unmistakable -manner, Enoch so concealed it that for a long time Mitchell did not -suspect its existence. And when he was aware of it, then it was too -late. If Enoch had committed upon him some definite act of unreason -that would have seemed natural. Instead, he exerted against him a kind -of slow, deadly hydraulic pressure. Nor was that all. Revenge may -require the infliction of a protracted remorseless torture. Even that -one may understand. But Gib, while exerting this killing pressure, -apparently had no more feeling about it than one would have about an -automatic, self-recording test for torsional strength applied to a -piece of iron, knowing that ultimately it was bound to break. If he -had enjoyed it, if he had seemed to derive malicious satisfaction from -the sequel, that would have made it human. - -Yet here was a man but bearing witness for the child. The trait -of character which appeared in his locked arm game with Aaron, in -their boyhood, when it was Aaron’s arm that broke, now fulfilled -itself. There was in him a strange passion for trying the strength of -materials. He invented various mechanical devices for that purpose. He -knew to an ounce what iron would stand under every kind of strain. He -knew what it took to crush a brick. Apparently his first thought on -looking at anything was, “What is its breaking point?” The only way -to find out was to break it. And people to him were like any other -kind of material. He had the same curiosity about them. What could -they stand without breaking? As in human material the utmost point of -resistance is a variable factor, he had to find it over and over. It is -by no means certain that the mood in which he exercised this passion -was deliberately destructive. That the final point of resistance is -coincident with the point of destruction probably never once occurred -to him as a tragic fact. - -He might have said of people that in any case they were free to decline -the test. They were not obliged to measure their strength with his. Yet -they did it and they did it as if they could not help doing it. Here -was a strange matter. - -For example, how did he hold his iron workers? They hated him. They -cursed him. Their injuries were as open sores that would not heal. -Take the case of McAntee. It was typical. Tom McAntee was one of the -best puddlers in the world. On a very hot day at the puddling furnace, -in the midst of a heat, with six hundred weight of good iron bubbling -like gravy, turning waxy and almost ready to be drawn, Tom dropped -the beater he was working it with, wobbled a bit, put his hand to his -head, and said he guessed he’d have to knock off and go home. Enoch, -who watched every heat, was standing there. He called Tom’s assistant -to take up the beater and then without a word he handed Tom a blue -ticket. The significance of the blue ticket was this: A man in Gib’s -mill had three chances with failure,--that is, he was entitled to three -dismissals. The first was a yellow ticket. That was a rebuke. After -three days he could come back to his job. The second dismissal was with -a red ticket. That was a warning. It meant two weeks off. Then he might -try again. But the third time it was a blue ticket, and that was final. -He could never come back. So McAntee was fired for good, and this was -without precedent under the rules because that was the first ticket he -had ever got. The next day Enoch sent a clerk to McAntee’s house with -Tom’s wages. A widow received them. Tom was dead. - -The man who picked up Tom’s beater and went on with the heat that day, -all the men of the puddling and heating crews, every man in the mill, -even the miners back in the mountains,--they were all white with rage -and horror, yet not one of them fumbled a stroke of labor, or quit, -or thought of quitting. The effect of this incident, in fact, was to -lift the breaking point through the whole organization. Those who had -already had yellow and red tickets went on for years and died without -ever getting a blue one. Many were dismissed. Almost never did a man -quit. Why? Because, more than anything else in the world they feared -Enoch Gib’s contempt for the man who broke. They could stand his -cruelty; they could not bear his scorn. Also, in a strange way, the men -themselves shared his contempt for the one who broke. They would not -acknowledge it; they tried hard to conceal it. Yet a man could not quit -without feeling inferior, not only in the sight of the tyrant but in -the eyes of his fellow workers. - -The demon who ruled them had no breaking point. Continuously day and -night he walked among them like a principle of evil, calling to a -spirit of demonry within them,--a spirit that racked their bodies, -scared their souls, and responded in spite of their reason. A maddened -hand would sometimes be raised against him. He never flinched. He was -derisive. The hand would drop. He never gave a man a ticket for that. - -Brains were another problem. He treated it separately, though in the -same way and with the same consequences. Any inquisitive young man -wishing to learn the iron business could begin at the bottom. He might -begin in the mill and work toward the office or begin in the office -and work toward the mill. He was sure to move fast in either direction. -If he survived the ruthless selection that took place on the lower -rungs of the ladder he could count on gaining a small partnership in a -few years. An interest of two or three per cent. in the business was -more stimulating than wages. As the business grew the number of junior -partners increased. There might be six or eight at a time, all trying -to keep pace with Enoch. They emerged from the flux like a procession -of sparks, burned brightly for a little while and fell in darkness. He -used them up and bought them out. - -In time the town of New Damascus, like the yard of his mill, was -littered with things Enoch Gib had strained to the breaking point. -Some, like Tom McAntee, were decently covered up in the cemetery. -Others were aimlessly walking about. Conspicuous among these were the -used up partners. They all had nice houses and plenty to live on. The -business was profitable. But they were withered and rickety, older than -old Enoch in the midst of their years, and had a baffled look in their -eyes. - -The town became rich and famous. The mill was the source of its -greatness. There the first American rails were rolled. For twenty years -they were the best iron rails in the world. There iron nails were first -cut from a sheet, like cookies out of dough. Then the Civil War came -and iron that cost ten dollars a ton to make could be sold for fifty -and sixty. - - - - -IX - - -One August evening in 1869 a number of Damascenes were gathered -as usual at the railroad station to witness and audit the arrival -and departure of the seven o’clock train. This was an event still -miraculous and unbelievable, requiring verification of the senses. A -young man swung off before the train had quite stopped, walked forward, -and stood watching the small freight unload. When the last of it was -off, one of the heavers, leaning from the car door, called to the -station agent, Andy Weir: - -“Give us an extra hand here. There’s a flat passenger.” - -Weir came and looked in. - -“Them’s rawkis words you use,” he said admonishingly. “Suppose it was -somebody we knew.” - -“Come on,” said the heaver. “Give us a hand. This ain’t a hearse. It’s -a railroad train.” - -Weir beckoned. Several men stepped out of the crowd to help. With a -hollow grating sound the end of a long pine box was pushed into view. -It came out slowly. Weir felt for handles. There weren’t any. It was a -plain coffin case. - -“Shoulder it,” he said to his volunteers. - -They walked with it to the far end of the platform and stopped. - -“Might rain,” said Weir, changing his mind. “Over there,” he added, -after looking around. “Under the overhang.” - -They turned back. Awkwardly, with scraping feet and gruntings, they put -it down against the station wall under the projecting eave, and then -stood looking at it, all a little red from the exertion and stooping. - -“Tain’t yours, is it?” said Weir, turning suddenly on the young man who -had followed the box to and fro. - -“Yes,” he said. - -“Who are you?” - -“John Breakspeare.” - -The station agent bent down and read the card tacked to the top of the -box. The name was Aaron Breakspeare. - -“I knew him,” he said, now gazing at the young man. “Knew him well, I -might say. Everybody around here did. You ain’t his boy?” - -“He was my father,” said the young man. “Will it be all right to----?” - -“And he’s sent himself home,” said Weir. “Sent himself home to be -buried. You all alone?” - -“I’m the whole family,” said the young man with a smile that made Weir -look away. “Will it be all right,” he began to ask again, and hesitated -before the pronoun. For nearly a week he had been travelling with -this freight and the dilemma was new each time. How should one refer -to one’s father in a pine box? Corpse was a sodden, gruesome word. -Body was too cold and distant. Remains,--no. There were left only the -pronouns--_it_, _this_, _that_--and they were disrespectful. - -“It’s all right there,” said the station agent, seeing what the young -man meant. “But if you want to leave it all night we’ll take it in.” - -“Only for a few minutes,” said the young man. “I’m coming right back.” - -The idlers about the station waited until he was out of sight and then -gathered around the box, staring at it, reading the card, looking away, -commenting-- - -“So that’s poor old Aaron.... As the fellow said, we’re all alike at -the end of the lane.... He wasn’t so oldan, I ought t’know because -wasn’t I born--?... The young one brought him back.... Where’d he come -from, does it say?... Likely looking boy.... What’s his name?... Wonder -what old Gib’l say.... This here one stole his sweetheart away back -there in....” - -To John Breakspeare, son of Esther, great grandson of the founder, now -turning his twentieth year, New Damascus was a legend. He had never -been there. Yet without asking his way he walked straight to the inn -that was his grandfather’s, since named Lycoming House, and wrote two -names in the register thus: - - { John Breakspeare. } - { Aaron ditto } Denver, Colo. - -They meant nothing to the clerk, who was new in the place. He blotted -the writing, looked at it, and asked: - -“Is your party all here?” - -“Not yet,” said the young man. “We want two parlor rooms on the ground -floor.” - -“Connecting rooms?” - -“Yes.” - -“You are John Breakspeare?” the clerk guessed. - -“Yes.” - -“The other member of your party will be coming tonight?” - -“He is waiting at the station,” said the young man. “We shall want the -rooms only for tonight and tomorrow. I’ll pay now, please.” - -“We can send a rig to the station,” said the clerk. - -“No, thank you,” said the young man. - -He looked at the rooms. In the large one he set two chairs six feet -apart, facing. Then lighting all the gas, he went out, locked the door, -and carried the key away in his pocket. - -One hour later an undertaker’s wagon, followed by a hack, pulled up in -front of Lycoming House. The young man got out of the hack and stood in -the main doorway waiting. Four men drew the pine box out of the wagon, -shouldered it, and started in. - -There was a crash from end to end of the long front veranda overhanging -the street, as twenty men sitting there in tilted chairs, their feet on -the railing, smoking, all with one impulse dropped their legs and sat -up straight to look. A rigid hotel custom forbids hospitality to Mr. -Death. There is only one way for a corpse to pass through a hotel door. -That is out. If you die inside that can’t be helped. You must go out. -But if you die outside you can’t come in. - -The clerk ran out to defend the threshold. - -“What’s this?” he shouted. “You can’t do this. You can’t rent a -mortuary chapel in a hotel.” - -His words were futile. The young man turned his back, beckoned the -undertaker to follow, and led the way through the door and down the -hall to the big parlor room, the door of which he unlocked and threw -open. They put the pine box on the floor, opened it, raised the coffin -to rest on the chairs. The young man followed the empty box to the -street and returned with two high candlesticks and candles. These he -set at the head of the coffin and lighted. Then, locking the door -behind him, he joined the undertaker outside and drove away with him. - -The clerk, outraged in both his authority and his traditions, meanwhile -had fallen downstairs and was shaking a red, tissue-logged hulk that -dozed in a hickory chair at the end of the bar. This was Thaddeus -Crawford, the proprietor. He never opened his eyes but to eat and speak -and look at the books. The sign he gave of listening, or of waking when -addressed, was to open his mouth,--a small, cherubic orifice,--and roll -the tip of his tongue round and round it. When he closed his mouth that -was a sign he was no longer interested. When he opened his eyes and -spoke it was a shock to discover that he could speak distinctly, that -his senses were alert, that the triumph of matter was incomplete. - -During the clerk’s recital of what was taking place upstairs he rolled -his tongue excitedly without opening his eyes. Then he heaved himself, -achieved locomotion, and went up to look at the names on the register. -He looked at them hard and long, dozed a bit, looked at them again, -then returned inarticulate to the hickory chair downstairs and fell -into it panting. - -“What shall we do?” asked the clerk, who had followed him up and down -again. - -“Do the dishes,” said Thaddeus. “Wouldn’t, anyhow.... Won’t hurt the -house.... Care a damn if it does.... Time we had a funeral here.” He -dozed off for a minute, chortled in his depths, and spoke again with -his eyes closed. - -“Put it on you, didn’t he? Guess he did. Guess yes. Damn smart.... Want -to see him when he comes back.... Knew his father.” - -When John Breakspeare returned, the clerk, now very civil, took him -down to Thaddeus. - -They talked until long after the bar closed. Thaddeus was surprised to -discover how little the young man knew of his pre-natal history and -proceeded to restore him to his background. The picture was somewhat -blurred in the romantic passages, from a feeling of delicacy. That loss -was more than compensated by high lights elsewhere. He told him in -turgid, topical, verbless sentences what the old Woolwine Mansion was -like in that other time, how Enoch and Aaron founded the iron industry -together, how they prospered, how strange it was that they got along -so well, how they parted suddenly when Esther, the banker’s daughter, -who was engaged to Enoch, changed her mind suddenly and married Aaron -instead, and finally of Aaron’s failure with steel and how he changed -all over after Esther’s death. - -The narrative had form and drama and a proper ending, very unexpected -to the young man. The parlor room in which the body of his father then -lay and the one adjoining in which he himself would spend the night -were rooms he had lived in once before. They were the rooms his father -took when he closed the Woolwine Mansion, unable to live there without -Esther, and came to this inn with nurse and infant. That infant was -himself. - -It came two o’clock. With no premonitory sign Thaddeus heaved himself -out of the hickory chair and called for the porter to put out the -lights. - -“What are you going to do?” he asked. - -“I haven’t thought of it,” said the young man. - -“Stay with us,” said Thaddeus. “Long as you like.” - -On his way to bed Thaddeus said to the clerk: “Give him anything he -wants. Don’t send him a bill till he asks for it. Don’t send him a bill -at all.” - -A spiritual adventure awaited John Breakspeare to complete his day. -As he re-entered the room where his father’s body was and closed and -locked the door behind him he got suddenly a sense of reality beyond -any perception of things. It was a reality to which he himself merely -pertained. This was a sense of existence. The story he had just heard -in the bar room, as he was hearing it, seemed to concern only his -father; and his father was a separate being who had lived and was dead -and about to be buried. But no. That was not so. Vividly, yet with no -way of saying it, no way of thinking it, with only a way of feeling -it, he became in one instant aware that the story no less concerned -himself. Everything that had happened to his father had happened also -to him. His father was dead, for there he lay. That was the evidence -of things. Beyond was the truth that his father was not dead. The same -life thread continued in him. That naïve delusion of youth in which -oneself is perceived as a separate miracle, beginning at the toes and -ending at the top of the head, was shattered. Back of his father and -mother were others, numberless. Their history was his history. He was -but a link in a continuous scheme, as his father was, and his father’s -father, and so on and on, back through an eternity of moments. The past -surrounded him. It was intangible, enormous, indivisible. - -One of the candles, dying with a splutter, startled him. The other one -also was low. He replaced them, lighted the fresh ones, then slid back -the panel of the coffin cover and gazed at the face of his father with -strange, uneasy interest. - -How little he knew of him! Always he had thought of him as a man -of sorrow. Yet once he had been gay and spontaneous, full of the -enthusiasms and compulsions of life. Never before had he sensed -anything of that. The first recollection of his father was sad. It -was of going with him, hand in hand, to an open air show, trembling -with excitement. It was a special occasion. His father had come a long -distance to see him. How he knew that he could not remember. There were -animals in the show and men and women who made them perform, and noise -and music and peanuts and wonderful smells and much going on. He was -delirious with happiness until he noticed that his father was weeping. -That almost spoiled the day. After that he could not remember him again -until somebody took him a long journey, lasting many days, for aught -he knew many years, and at last they found his father, who was in bed, -in a little white bed, and very strange, and he had not liked kissing -him. Then was a time, rather dim, when they were together and became -great and equal friends. This could not last. He was sent to school in -Philadelphia and saw his father only at long intervals; and each time -they had to get acquainted all over again. They both looked forward -eagerly to these meetings and always they were disappointed, especially -in the beginnings of new acquaintanceship, until the strangeness -wore off and they had reconstructed their memories of each other. At -least, it had been so with him. He remembered it as a fact. And now he -realized that it had been so also with his father. Intuition multiplied -his recollections and made them new. He remembered something he had -never once thought of before. They were together, waiting for the train -that was to take him back to school. He was restless with childish -impatience and counted the minutes that delayed their parting. The -train was late. When it came he clamored to get aboard, lest he -should be left, and almost forgot to look back and wave. The wistful -sadness in his father’s face meant nothing to him at the time. Now he -understood it. - -Suddenly, as he stood there gazing at his father’s face, his spirit -of itself achieved a form of mystical experience such as may occur -naturally and surprisingly at a certain time of youth and is seldom -if ever repeated save in the lives of ascetics. He felt himself -flooded with understanding, though he knew not in the least what it -was he so lucidly understood. There was a sense of new friendship -then beginning with his father,--a friendship that should be perfect, -wordless, indestructible, beyond peril. Never had he felt so near to -his father, so alive to him, so communicative. Death at the same time -changed its aspect. It was a catastrophic event, but inconclusive. It -was not the final enigma. It had nothing to do with life, for life -was a prior transaction and bound to go on. It had nothing to do with -love, for love was parallel to life and reached beyond death. Life and -love,--they were truly mysterious. For death there must be some simple -explanation, like the explanation of night, without which every sunset -would fill mankind with the terror of extinction. It was ... death -was ... death itself was only ... _what?_ He had almost seen it, what -it was, and then suddenly it disappeared. He had looked the wrong way. -For an instant it was there. He tried to reconstruct the point of -view. But when he began to think of what he was thinking the dazzling, -jewel-like space he had been staring into collapsed with an inaudible -crash. All that was left of it was the dead face, reflecting the light -of the candles. That experience was closed. Never in his life was it -repeated. He had no idea what it meant, then or afterward. Yet the -memory of it became his chief spiritual asset. One thought thereafter -controlled his life. He was his father continued. - - - - -X - - -He was yet to see his father in another light. That was the light of -universal human affection. For a day there were two kinds of people in -New Damascus,--those who knew Aaron and others. Nobody was asked. It -was meant to be a private ceremony. But that was impossible. All who -knew him came to assist at the obsequies. They came from Quality Street -and they came from the company houses beyond the canal. There were -hundreds of old iron workers and miners, who, at John’s suggestion, -walked in a body behind the hearse. He was amazed and deeply moved by -all this demonstration of feeling; and saddened by it at the same time, -for here were people strange to him whose knowledge of his father was -older and greater than his own. - -Enoch Gib neither came nor stayed away. As the funeral procession -departed from the inn he was observed sitting on the veranda, his feet -on the railing, his hat on his head, smoking a cigar, gazing vacantly -into space. - -Somebody said: “Tonight he will give a blue ticket to every man in the -mill who took time off for this. That’s why he came.” - -That was not true. Then why did he come? There is no answer. He himself -probably did not know. The mourners returning saw him sitting there -still. He sat there for hours, until evening, utterly oblivious. Then -he rose, crossed the town and disappeared up the path to Throne Rock. - -Late that night the furnace men at No. 4, deaf as furnace men by habit -are to the uproar of the smelting process, looked at one another -saying, “What was that?” - -It was a sound of ribald laughter off the mountain, home downward by -the wind. - -An old man spoke, one who stood in an open shirt, grey hair on his -chest, stray grey curls below the edge of his skull cap, alight in the -furnace glow. - -“That’s Enoch,” he said, “crowing over Aaron.” - -They listened. The laugh was not repeated. But as they turned away, -letting down their breath, another sound much worse came down the wind -and caused their skins to creep. - -That was Enoch screaming. - - - - -XI - - -John Breakspeare sat on the veranda of Lycoming House thinking of -this situation and of what he should do. His father’s old friends had -pursued him with offers of hospitality, and as he had to choose, he -chose that of Thaddeus, for two reasons. One was that he liked Thaddeus -extravagantly; the other was that living at the inn entailed no social -amenities. He was by no means a solitary person. Naturally he was -gregarious. But for the first time in his life he wished to be let -alone, and that great friendly hulk dozing in the hickory chair at the -end of the bar was the only person who had no meddling curiosity and -tactfully ignored his existence. - -Well, first, there was no available estate, save only a few thousand -dollars in money. The wandering Blue Jay mill wore out at last. Aaron’s -final act of business was to sell its good-will to a corporation. -That was where the few thousand dollars came from. The plant itself -was scrapped for junk. The day after that had happened Aaron lay him -down with a fever and never got up again. John, in his junior year at -college, was summoned at once, at Aaron’s request, as if he knew he -were going to die. Yet he could not wait. He died the night before the -boy arrived. - -His will, written by himself on a sheet of foolscap, was very simple: - - “All I have whatsoever I leave to my son, John. There is no one else.” - -Pinned to this was a personal note as follows: - - “Boy of Esther, I am leaving you. Go straight and God bless you. Bury - me at New Damascus.” - -The writing, though clear, was evidently an achievement of great -effort. He was dying then and was gone in less than an hour. - -The old Woolwine holdings of ore and coal, though still intact, were -in a state of suspended development and not very valuable, perhaps -quite unsaleable. As for the ore, it would not pay to develop that any -further. The whole iron region was now beginning to be flooded with -cheap Mesaba ore from the head of the Great Lakes. Gib, in fact, was -already buying this ore for his blast furnaces. He could buy it for -less than the cost of producing his own. As for the coal, the only -market there had ever been for that was at the New Damascus blast -furnaces. Gib owned all the furnaces and had all the coal he needed. -Coal is coal, of course; it may be sold anywhere. But the Woolwine -holdings, which John Breakspeare inherited, were probably not large -enough to bear the capital that would be necessary to put New Damascus -coal into commercial competition with the output of the big established -collieries up the river. - -These thoughts all wound up together in the young man’s meditations led -nowhere. They merely revolved. They fell into a kind of rhythm. The -same ideas kept repeating themselves in an obsessed, uncontrollable -manner. “I’m stupid,” he said, and got up to walk. Of a sudden he -became aware of what it was that had been making his thoughts go round -like that. - -There was a throbbing in the air, a rythmic punctuation, a ceaseless -hollow murmur. He had heard this voice before, continuously in fact, -without attending to it. Now he listened. It came from the chest of the -great driving engine in the rolling mill, at the other side of town. It -said: - - Wrought iron - Wrought iron - Wrought iron - Iron, iron. - -The mill! - -The mill his father founded! - -Volcanic fires, incandescent difficulties, quick, elemental fluids,--in -these his father wrought and failed. Had not the son some pressing -business with that same Plutonic stuff? He moved as if he had. With no -shape of an idea in his mind he walked purposefully, stalking the voice -of the engine, and came to the rear of the mill. - -It was evening. - -He had never seen an iron mill before. For some time he stood outside -the gate, viewing it at large, smelling and tasting its fumes, -acquainting his senses with its moody roar. There was at first no -sign of human agency. Then he made out figures passing back and forth -through bolts of sudden light. They seemed solitary, silent, bored. The -notion crossed his fancy that man had tapped the earth of forces which -turned genii on his hands, enslaved him, commanded weary obedience and -in the end consumed him. - -Now a shift was taking place. Night crews were coming on; day crews -were going out. Those arriving walked erect; their faces, white and -clean, showed vividly against the murky texture. Those going out were -limp and bent; their faces did not show at all. Twice a day they passed -like that, bodies healed by sleep and food relieving those all fagged -and bruised from a twelve-hour struggle with the genii. Puddlers, -heaters, hammermen and rollers were marked apart from common, unskilled -labor by leather aprons on their feet, tied round the ankles, flapping -as they walked. - -Curious glances fell upon the young man idling there in the dusk. -Nobody spoke to him. On the gate was a painted sign: “Positively no -admittance.” The rule was rigid, even more so in Gib’s mill than at -any other in the country, and all iron working plants in those days -were guarded very jealously because spies went to and fro stealing -methods, formulas and ideas. The weakness of a rigid rule is that -everyone supposes it will be observed. No doubt the men who saw -Breakspeare enter took him to be a young man from the office. No -common trespasser would be so cool about it; a spy would make his -entrance surreptitiously. Whatwise, nobody stopped him. He went all the -way in and was swallowed up in the gloomy, swirling, glare-punctured -commotion. And once inside he could move freely from place to place. No -one paid him the slightest heed. - -The air was torn, shattered, upheaved, compressed, pierced through, by -sounds of shock, strain, impact, clangor, cannonade and shrill whistle -blasts, occurring in any order of sequence, and then all at one time -dissolving in a moment of vast silence even more amazing to the ear. -Conversation would be possible only by shrieks close up. The men seemed -never to speak at their work. They did not communicate ideas by signs -either. Each man had his place, his part, his own pattern of action, -and did what he did with a kind of mechanical inevitability, as if it -were something he had never learned. They were related not to each -other but to the process, kept their eyes fixedly on it for obvious -reasons, and stepped warily. A false gesture might have immediate -consequences. - -The process just then was that of rolling iron bars. From where -Breakspeare stood he saw the latter end of it. He saw the finished bars -spurt like dull red serpents from between the rolls. Two men standing -with their gaze on the running hole from which the reptile darted forth -snared it by the neck with tongs, walked slowly backward with it as -the rolls released the glowing body, until its tail came free; then -dragged it off, a tame, limp thing, turning black, and put it straight -along with others to cool. - -The whole process could not be seen at once. It took place in a -train of events covering many acres of area. It could be followed -backward,--that is by going from the finished bars to the source of the -iron, or in the other direction downstream, from the puddling furnaces -where the iron is cooked, to the hammermen who mauled it into rough -shape and thence to the rolls. Breakspeare, having started that way, -traced it backward, from the finished bar to the source of its becoming. - -He moved to a position from which he could see all that happened at the -rolls. - -The rolls were merely enormous cylinders revolving together in gears, -with grooves through which to pass the malleable iron. The first groove -through which it passed was very large, the next one smaller, the -next one smaller still, until the last, out of which the final form -appeared. The iron had to be passed back and forth through each of -these grooves in turn. - -On each side of the rolls stood men in pairs with tongs,--silent, -foreboding men, with masks on their faces and leather aprons on their -feet, singularly impassive and still, save in moments of action. At -intervals of two or three minutes a man came running with two hundred -weight of incandescent iron in the shape of a rough log five or six -feet long, held in tongs swung by a chain to an overhead rail, and -dropped it at the feet of the rollers. Becoming that instant alive, -the rollers picked it up with tongs, passed it through the first -groove of the rolls, giving it a handful of sand if it stuck, and then -stood again in that attitude of brooding immobility, leaning on their -tongs, looking at nothing, bathed in sparks as the tail of the iron -disappeared. On the other side of the rolls similar men with similar -tongs seized it as you would take a reptile by the neck in a cleft -stick, controlled and guided its wrigglings, turned and thrust its head -into the next smaller groove. Thus they passed and repassed it through -the rolls, catching it each time by the neck and returning it through a -smaller groove. Each time it was longer, more sinuous, less dangerous, -until at last, with the final pass, it became what Breakspeare had -first seen, namely, a finished wrought iron bar, ready to cool. - -From the rolls he moved to the tilthammers. At corresponding intervals -the hammermen received on tongs from the puddling furnace two hundred -weight of iron in the form of a flaming dough ball, laid it on a block, -turned it under the blows of the tilthammer falling like a pile driver -from above, until it was the shape of a log, fit to be passed through -the rolls. Then helpers, lifting it in tongs, ran with it to the -rollers. - -Beyond the tilthammers were the puddling furnaces. There the process -began. - -A puddling furnace is a long, narrow, maw-like chamber of brick and -fire clay with a depressed floor for the molten iron to lie in and a -small square door at the end. It is heated to inferno by a cataract of -flame rising from a fire pit at one side and sucked by draught across -the roof of its mouth. When the whole interior is like a dragon’s -gullet, white hot, wicked and devouring, cold pigs of iron are cast in, -the door is banged to, the chinks are stopped and the puddler gathers -up his strength. - -In the door is a small round hole. Through that hole the puddler -watches. When the iron is fluid his work begins. The thing he -represents is Satan raking hell. With his beater and working only -through that little round hole, he must stir, whip, knead and skim the -iron. The impurities drain away in a lava stream beneath the door. He -may not pause. The beater gets too hot to hold, or begins itself to -melt. He casts it into a vat of water and continues with another. - -The puddler is the baker, the pastry cook, the mighty chef. All that -follows, the whole pudding, the quality of the iron to the end of its -life, will be the test of his skill and daemonic impatience. - -Presently the iron begins to bubble gravely, turning viscous. Now the -art begins. The puddler, still working through that small hole with a -long, round bar, must ball the iron. That is, he must divide the molten -mass into equal parts and make each part a ball of two hundred weight -just. Having made the balls he must keep them rolling round without -touching. If they do not roll they will cool a little on the under side -and burn on top; and if they touch they will fuse together and his work -is lost. One by one he draws them near the door. They must not all -come done at once. Therefore this one takes the hottest place; that -one stays a little back. Then one is ready. The door jerks open. A -helper, working tongs swung by a chain to a monorail overhead, reaches -in, plucks out the indicated flaming pill, rushes it headlong to the -hammermen and comes running back to get another. - -The puddling process fascinated Breakspeare. He watched it for a long -time. He particularly enjoyed watching the work of a certain young -puddler, tall and lithe, in whose movements there was an extraordinary -fulness of power, skill and unconscious grace. He was bare to his -middle, wore a skull cap and gloves, and in his outline, turning -always in three dimensions, a quality was realized that belongs to -pure sculpture. He moved in space as if it were a buoyant element, -like water. Never did he make a sudden start or stop. No gesture was -angular. One action flowed into another in a continuous pattern. When -with the furnace freshly loaded, the door closed, the chinks all -stopped and the draught roaring, the moment came to rest he flung -himself headlong but lightly on a plank bench and lay there on his -side, his head in his hand, propped from the elbow. And when he rose it -was all at once without effort. - -Standing in deep shadow, outside the area of action, Breakspeare was -not aware that the puddler had once looked at him or knew of his -presence there; and he was startled when without any warning at all -that person departed from his orbit, came close to him, and shouted in -a friendly voice: - -“Well, how about it?” - -“Bully,” Breakspeare shouted back at him. - -They looked at each other, smiling. - -“Don’t let the old man catch you,” said the puddler. “He’s about due.” - -“All right,” said Breakspeare. - -The puddler went back to his work and never looked at him again. - -Breakspeare liked the encounter. He liked the puddler, whose -friendliness was in character with his movements, swift and unerring. -He was at the same time in a curious way disappointed. When the puddler -spoke he was a man, like any other, who made the same sounds and had -the same difficulty in overriding the uproar. Speaking was the single -act that visibly required effort of him. But as a puddler, with the -glare in his face, an ironic twist on his lips, his body glistening -with perspiration, his left leg advanced and bent at the knee and -his other far extended, every muscle in him running like quicksilver -under satin,--then he was a demon, colossal, superb, unique. When he -spoke that impression was ruined; when he returned to his work it was -restored. - -These were not Breakspeare’s reflections. They were his feelings, and -so engrossed him that he was unaware of being no longer alone in the -shadow. Enoch Gib stood close beside him watching the puddlers. The -puddlers knew the old man was there. One sensed their knowing it from -an increase in the tension of the work. But they did not look at him. -Breakspeare turned as if to move away. - -“Stay where you are,” said Gib, in a voice that pierced the uproar. He -seemed to do this with no effort. It was in the pitch of his voice. -When he had seen the end of the heat and the iron was out he added: -“Come with me.” - -They walked out side by side through the front gate, across the road to -the little brick office building, into the front room. The old man took -off his coat, hung it on the back of his chair, spread a towel over it, -and sat down at a double walnut desk the top of which was littered with -ragged books, unopened letters, scraps of metals, sections of railroad -iron, scientific journals, cigar ashes and little models of machinery, -in the utmost confusion. Breakspeare, unasked, sat himself down at the -other side of the desk and waited. He had a feeling that all the time -Gib had been expecting him to break and run and was prepared to detain -him forcibly. Why, he could not imagine. He knew nothing about the -sacredness of iron working premises nor of the suspicion with which -intruders were regarded. - -“What were you doing in the mill?” Gib asked, brutally. - -“Looking at it,” said the young man. - -“Who sent you?” - -“Nobody.” - -“How did you get in?” - -“Walked in.” - -“At what gate?” - -“On the other side.” - -Gib made mental note of that statement. Then he asked: - -“Who are you?” - -“John Breakspeare.” - -Gib had been regarding the young man in a malevolent manner. That -expression seemed to freeze. Then slowly he averted his face. His gaze -fixed itself on a burnt cigar hanging over the edge of the desk. He sat -perfectly still, as if rigid, and Breakspeare could hear the ticking of -a watch in his waistcoat pocket. - -“What do you want?” he asked in a loud voice, as if they were in the -mill. - -Until that instant Breakspeare had no definite thought of wanting -anything in this place. First had been that reaction to the throb of -the engine. Then came the impulse to visit the mill. That impulse -was unexamined. It had not occurred to him to think that anything -might come of it; he had not thought of meeting Gib. Nevertheless the -question as it was asked started a purpose in his mind. - -“I want to learn the iron business,” he said. - -“Here?” said Gib, quickly. - -“Isn’t this a good place to learn it?” the young man retorted. - -For a long time the old man sat in meditation. - -“The iron business,” he said. “Mind now, you said the iron business.” - -“Yes.” - -“Not the steel business.... Iron! Iron!” - -“I don’t know the difference,” said Breakspeare, adding: “Anyhow, you -don’t teach the steel business here, do you?” - -The old man looked at him heavily. Then he got up to pace the floor. -Once, with his face to the wall, he laughed in a mirthless way. That -seemed to clear his mind. - -“Come Thursday at eight,” he said. - - - - -XII - - -When John told his friend Thaddeus he was going to work in the mill -Thaddeus rolled his tongue in a very droll way. - -“You seem surprised.” - -“Ain’t,” said Thaddeus. “Ain’t. Can’t tell when I’m surprised.” - -That was all he would say. - -Everybody who knew the past was astonished. It was supposed that -the young man did not know what he was doing. A very old citizen of -Quality Street, with a glass eye that gave him a furtive, untrustworthy -appearance, came to visit Aaron’s son on the hotel veranda and -approached the subject by stalking it. He was not a presumptuous -person. Never had he meddled in the affairs of others, though he would -say that if he had it would have been more often to their advantage -than prejudice. This matter of which he was making at his time of life -an exception, a precedent in a sense, was nobody’s business of course. -Still, in another way it was. There had been a great deal of talk about -it. Nobody wished to take it upon himself to speak out. That could be -understood. There were so many things to think of. Feelings of great -delicacy were involved. Still what a pity, he said--what a pity for any -of these reasons to withhold from Aaron’s son information he would not -come by for himself until it was perhaps too late. - -“I must be very stupid,” said John at one of the significant pauses. -“You are evidently trying to tell me something.” - -“You are going to work in the mill?” said the old citizen. - -“Yes.” - -“Do you know what happens to Enoch Gib’s young men?” - -He did not know. The old citizen told him. When he was through Aaron’s -son thanked him and made no comment. After that people said he knew -what he was doing. Some said he had a subtle design. - -That was not the case. He had an inherited feeling for iron. Here -was an opportunity to learn the business. There was of course a -romantic touch in learning it on the ancestral scene. But that was an -after-thought. It never occurred to him that he had a feud to keep -with Enoch Gib. So far as he could see there was more reason for Gib -to hate him as his father’s son than for him to hate Gib as a man who -might have been his father if his mother had not changed her mind. His -father had never spoken ill of Gib--had never spoken of him at all in -fact. It was not in the Breakspeare character to bequeath a quarrel. -And since Gib had been willing in this strange way to receive the son -of a man whom he hated indelibly why should the son be loath? As for -what happened to Enoch Gib’s young men,--and of this John heard more -and more,--that was a matter he lightly dismissed. - -A curious fact was that from the first Aaron’s son liked Enoch Gib. -Perhaps like is too strong a word. His feeling for him was one of -irrational sympathy, which, though he did not know it, had been Aaron’s -feeling for Enoch to the end. - -When John presented himself at eight o’clock Thursday morning Gib’s way -with him was impersonal and energetic. - -“Did you ever sell anything?” he asked. - -“No,” said John. - -“You will,” said Gib, “I see it in you.” - -He removed the towel from over his coat on the back of the chair, -folded the towel, laid it on the desk, and drew on his coat, saying: -“I’ll show you now the difference between steel and iron. The first -thing to be learned. The last thing to be forgotten.” - -They went to the mill yard. Laborers were piling up rails that looked -all alike to John except that they varied in length and weight. Gib led -the way straight to an isolate pile and pointed John’s attention to the -name of an English firm embossed on the web of each rail. - -“That’s a steel rail,” he said. “It’s imported into this country from -England. Now look.” - -He beckoned. Four men who knew what he wanted lifted one of those rails -and dropped it across a block of pig iron on the ground. It snapped -with a clean, crisp break in the middle. - -“That’s steel,” said Gib with a gesture of scorn. - -The men then laid half of the broken rail with one end on the ground, -the other resting on the pig iron block, and hit it a blow with a spike -maul. Again it snapped. - -“That’s a steel rail,” said Gib, “to run locomotives and cars over. It -breaks as you see,--like glass. When they unload steel rails for track -laying they let them over the side of the car in ropes for fear they -will break if they fall on the ground.” - -The same four men, evidently trained in this demonstration, went -directly to another pile of rails, carelessly picked up the one nearest -to hand, laid it on the ground against a stout iron post and attached -to each end of it a chain working to a windlass some distance off. Then -they started the windlass. As it wound in the chains, pulling at both -ends of the rail, the rail began to bend at the middle around the post. -As the windlass continued to wind the rail continued to bend until it -became the shape of a hairpin, without breaking, without the slightest -sound or sign of fracture. - -“That is one of our iron rails,” said Gib. “You can’t break it. Look at -the bend, inside and out.” - -John looked. The bent part was smooth on the outside and a little -wrinkled on the inside. There was no break in the fibre. - -“Do it for yourself as often as you like,” said Gib. “That’s what the -men are here for. We buy steel rails to break. Bring anyone who wants -to see it. Devise any other test you can think of. I want you to sell -iron rails.” Suddenly he became strange from suppressed emotion. “Steel -is a crime,” he said, in a tone of judgment. “The only excuse for it -is that it’s cheaper than iron. The public doesn’t know. Congress -doesn’t care. It lets these foreign steel rails come in to compete -with American iron rails. The gamblers who build railroads are without -conscience. They buy them. Yet a man who lays steel rails in a railway -track is a common murderer! He will come to be so regarded.” - -John was embarrassed. Gib’s exhibition of feeling seemed to him -inadequately explained by the technical facts. The possibility that -personal facts were primarily involved made him suddenly hot and -uncomfortable. Steel, he knew, had been the symbol of his father’s -defeat in New Damascus. Correspondingly, iron had been the symbol of -Enoch’s triumph. Was it that Enoch hated steel as he hated Aaron? That -his feeling for steel _was_ his feeling for Aaron? - -It partly was. That day, twenty-five years gone, when Aaron made his -spectacular steel experiment, with Esther watching from the Woolwine -Mansion terrace, was a day of agony for Enoch. To Aaron and Esther a -victorious outcome meant power, fortune, the thrill of achievement. For -Enoch it meant extinction. He could not have survived it in mind or -body. Simply, he would have died. - -The failure of the experiment saved him. It plucked him back from -the edge of the void. It saved him in the sight and respect of New -Damascus. And he had a feeling that it saved him even in the eyes of -Esther, though from what or for what he could not have said. Forever -after the word steel had a non-metallurgical meaning. It associated -in the depths of his emotional nature with black, ungovernable ideas, -including the idea of death. - -And now this rare, this altogether improbable irony of teaching Aaron’s -son the iron trade! of demonstrating to him the fallibility of steel! -of sending him forth from New Damascus to sell iron rails against steel! - -Did Gib relish the irony? gloat on it, perhaps? That may not be -answered clearly. There was at any rate a strong rational motive in his -behavior. - -Hitherto New Damascus rails had sold themselves. Therefore Gib had -no sales department in his organization. Now steel rails were coming -in and steel rails were being _sold_. There was a powerful selling -campaign behind them. The competition was not yet alarming, but it -was serious and likely to increase, and the way to meet it was to -_sell_ iron rails. Gib had business foresight. It revealed to him the -use of salesmanship to meet a new condition. What he had been seeking -was not then so quickly to be found. That was a selling genius. John -Breakspeare was not the first young man he had personally conducted -through the testing yard. Three had already failed him and he was -wondering where he should look for another prospect when Aaron’s son -appeared. Gib perceived or felt in him the latency of what he wanted. -If the same young man had been anyone else he would have taken hold of -him in precisely the same way. The fact of his being Aaron’s son--no -Esther’s--was one to be set aside. The relationship was experimental, -on the plane of business, and what might come of it--well, that would -appear. - -On John’s part a personal sensibility at the beginning gradually wore -away as he discovered the drift of events, which was this: - -The star of iron was threatened in the first phase of its glory. - -The day of steel was breaking. - -It was not a brilliant event. It was like a cloudy dawn, unable to make -a clean stroke between the light and the dark. Yet everyone had a sense -of what was passing in this dimness. - -Gib, whose disbelief in steel rested as much upon pain memories and -hatred as upon reason, was a fanatic; but at the same time great -numbers of men with no such romantic bias of mind were violently -excited on one side or the other of a fighting dispute. Fate decided -the issue. The consequences were such as become fate. They were -tremendous, uncontrollable, unimaginable. They changed the face of -civilization. Vertical cities, suburbs, subways, industrialism, the -rise of a wilderness in two generations to be the paramount nation in -the world, victory in the World War,--those were consequences. - -It is to be explained. - -Less than ten years after Aaron’s failure the great Bessemer process, -a way of producing steel direct from ore, was successfully evolved -in England, and the British now were producing steel, especially -steel rails, in considerable quantities. Americans as usual were -procrastinating, digressive, self-obstructing. The Bessemer patents -were bought and brought to this country. A Kentucky iron master filed -an interference on the ground that although he hadn’t developed -it in practice he had had that same idea himself, and had had it -first, and his contention was sustained. Several years were lost in -wrangling over rights. Meanwhile, England entered the American market -with steel rails. These now were competing with iron rails. When -at last the Bessemer process began to be tried in this country the -principle of perversity that animates the untamed elements bewitched -it. Disappointments were so continuous, so humiliating, so extremely -disastrous, that a period was when one would have thought the whole -thing much more likely to be abandoned than persevered with. And when -at length there was a useable product at all it was a poor and very -uncertain product, comparing unfavorably with English steel, and how -the English steel rails compared with good American iron rails has -already been witnessed in Gib’s mill yard. - -Man is the only animal that whistles in the dark. Being so long in -a dogged minority, so much discouraged, so sore in their hope, the -protagonists of steel were boastful. They could not boast of their -product. It was bad. Nor of their success. It was worse. They had to -boast of things which one could believe without proof. The Bessemer -steel process, they said, was the enemy of privilege. It was for the -many against the few. It would transform and liberate society and cast -down all barriers to progress. - -They were the radicals, the visionaries, the theorists, the yes-sayers -of their time. Many a sound, conservative, no-saying iron man was -seduced by their faith to exchange his money for experience. - -And all the time, bad as it was, steel kept coming more and more into -use, especially,--that is to say, almost exclusively in the form of -rails. And the reason the steel rail kept coming into use was that -an amazing human society yet unborn, one that should have shapes, -aspects, wants, powers and pastimes then undreamed of, was calling for -it,--calling especially for the steel rail. - -The steel men heard it. That was what kept them in hope. The iron men -heard it and were struck with fear. - -Why was it calling for steel rails instead of iron rails?--steel rails -that broke like clay pipes against iron rails that could be tied in -knots? Did it care nothing for its unborn life and limb? It cared -only a little for life and limb. Much more it cared about bringing -its existence to pass, and that was impossible with iron rails, with -anything but steel rails, for reasons that we already know, having -passed them. They require only to be focused at this point. - -It was true of the iron rail that it was unbreakable and therefore -safe and superior to the steel rail for all uses of human society in -the sixties and seventies of the nineteenth century. That was still the -iron age. But human society as it would be in the twentieth century -was calling for a rail that would meet the needs of a steel age. This -was a society that was going to require a ton of freight to be moved -2,500 miles annually for each man, woman and child in the country! -Transportation on that scale of waste and grandeur had never been -imagined in the world. Iron rails simply could not stand the strain. -They would not break under it. They would be smashed flat. They would -wear out almost as fast as they could be spiked down. - -It was true of the steel rail, as the iron people said, that it was -very breakable, of tricky temper, dangerous to life and limb. Society -in 1870 ran much more safely on iron rails. But the unborn society -of the steel age was making rail specifications beforehand. It was -a society for which a quarter of a million miles of railway would -have to be laid in one generation. That simply could not be done with -iron rails. There would not be enough fuel, labor and time by the old -wrought iron process to make or replace iron rails on any such scale. -Shoeing that society with iron rails would be like shoeing an army with -eiderdown slippers. - -The iron people of course could make a steel in their own way from -wrought iron, melted again and carbonized,--fine, cutlery steel, very -hard and trustworthy,--but you could not dream of making rails by the -millions of tons from that kind of steel. The making of it was too slow -and the cost prohibitive. - -The three primary desiderata in the oncoming society’s rail problem -were _hardness_, _cheapness_, _quantity_. - -The new process produced a rail within these three requirements. It -was hard because it was steel. It was cheap because the steel was got -direct from the ore at an enormous saving of time and fuel. And it -could be made in practically unlimited quantities. - -The Bessemer method made possible at once an increase of one hundred -fold in metallic production. That was miraculous. - -The iron age took three thousand years. - -The steel age developed in thirty. - -Enoch Gib stood with his face to it. He fought it with his eyes closed. -His strength crystallized against it. When it passed him by with a -rush and uproar it passed New Damascus. Never was a pound of steel -fabricated at New Damascus. It was an iron town. Steel towns grew up -around it. That made no difference so long as he lived, and when he was -gone, then it was too late. Opportunity had forsaken that spot. - -The meaning of events is swift. Yet events are spaced with days and -days are of equal length, lived one at a time. Historically you see -that the iron rail was suddenly and hopelessly doomed. But from a -contemporary point of view one might have been for a long time in -doubt. It was not until 1883, thirteen years after John’s arrival in -New Damascus, that the steel rail definitely superseded the iron rail. - - - - -XIII - - -Enoch Gib’s knowledge of human nature in the uses of business was deep -and exact. He was not mistaken in Aaron’s son. John Breakspeare could -sell iron rails. He could sell anything. - -Selling ability in its highest development is a strange gift. There is -no accounting for it. One has it or one has it not. He had it in that -all-plus-X degree, which is the indefinite part of genius. The final -irony was that Gib should have discovered it, for it belonged to the -steel age and was destined to be turned against him. In this young -man who could sell iron rails he prepared a weapon for his invincible -adversary. - -The steel age always knew in advance what it needed. Salesmanship -was its very breath. Why? Because when it came suddenly, like a -natural event, men found themselves in command of means for producing -wealth,--that is to say, goods, enormously beyond any scale of human -wants previously imaginable. Production attended to itself. It ran -utterly wild. There was a chronic excess of producing capacity because -the supply of steel had been magically increased one hundred fold and -steel was the basis of an endless profusion of new goods. - -The dilemma that presented itself was unique. Its name was -over-production. It occurred simultaneously in Great Britain, Germany, -France and the United States. They all had the same goods to sell, the -very same goods, rising from steel, and they sold them to each other -in mad competition. Prices fell steadily for many years, continuously, -until goods were preposterously cheap, and always there was a surplus -still. Rails fell from $125 to $18 a ton, and the face of two -continents was netted with railways. Yet there was a surplus of rails. - -Never before in the history of mankind did goods increase faster than -wants. It is not likely ever to happen again. - -In a way that becomes clear with a little reflection, a surplus of -steel caused a surplus of nearly everything else--food to begin with. -There was a great surplus of food because steel rails opened suddenly -to the world the virgin lands of the American west. The iron age had -foreshortened time and distance. The steel age annihilated them. - -It made no difference how far a thing was hauled. Transportation was -cheap because steel was cheap. Kansas wheat was sold in Minneapolis, -Chicago and in Liverpool. Minneapolis made flour and sent it to New -York, Europe and back to Kansas. - -The great availability of food released people from agriculture. They -went to the industrial centers to make more steel and things rising of -steel, so that there were more of such goods to sell. - -_More, more, more_ of everything. - -_Sell! Sell! Sell!_ - -That was the voice of the steel age. - -But we overrun the thread of the story. It lies still in the iron age. - -How did John Breakspeare sell iron rails for Enoch? - -It is to be mentioned that he founded the art of Messianic advertising. -He took the message of iron rails to the people. He dramatized the -subject. - -After four weeks of study and reflection, going to and fro in the mill, -absorbing all the technical literature there was, acquainting himself -with the way of the trade,--Gib watching and letting him alone,--he -outlined a plan of campaign. It involved a considerable outlay of -money. Gib approved it nevertheless and the young evangel set forth. - -At Philadelphia he arranged an exhibit the first feature of which was a -pair of New Damascus iron rails that had bridged a perilous gap twelve -feet wide and twelve feet deep washed out under a railway track at -night. A locomotive and six passenger cars passed safely over those -rails in the dark. The miracle was discovered the next morning. Steel -rails under that strain would have snapped. This was very effective. -He reproduced in public the breaking tests applied to steel and iron -rails alternately in the New Damascus mill yard. He collected data -on railway accidents, which were then numerous and terrifying, and -published regularly in the newspapers a cumulative record of those that -were caused by the failure of imported steel rails, at the same time -offering $10,000 for proof of the failure of a New Damascus iron rail -under any conditions. He handled his facts in a sensational manner. -Public sentiment was aroused. In several state legislatures bills were -introduced requiring all new railway mileage to be laid with iron rails -and all steel rails in use to be replaced with iron. None of these -bills was passed. Still, they were useful for purposes of propaganda. -A Committee of Congress made an extensive inquiry at which the young -Elias from New Damascus appeared and made a worthy impression. This was -the beginning of his familiarity with the lawmaking mentality. Without -asking for it directly he got what the iron people had prayed for in -vain. That was a punitive tariff against foreign steel rails. He had -moved public opinion; the rest was automatic. - -Thus he sold first the idea of iron rails. Next he proceeded to sell -the rails. - -Railway building at that time was the enchanted field of creative -speculation. Railways were made in hope, rejoicing and sheer abandon -of wilful energy. Once they were made they served economic ends, as a -navigable waterway will, no matter where or how it goes, but for one -that was intelligently planned for the greatest good of the greatest -need four or five others derived their existence fantastically from -motives of emulation, spite, greed, combat and civic vaingloriousness. -When in the course of events all these separate translations of -the ungoverned imagination were linked up the result was that -incomprehensible crazy quilt which the great American railway system -was and is in the geographical sense. It was more exciting and more -profitable to build railways than wagon roads. That is how we came to -have the finest railways and the worst highways of any country in the -civilized world. - -Into this field of sunshine and quicksand marched the young man from -New Damascus. He could scent a new railway project from afar, up or -down wind, and then he stalked it day and night. He sold it the rails. -Without fail he furnished the rails. He sold them for cash when he -could, and when he couldn’t get cash he took promissory notes, I O U’s, -post-dated checks, bonds and stocks. He took all he could get of what -he could find, but whatever it was he sold the rails. - -Enoch Gib, greatly startled at first, was willing to see how -merchandising by this principle would work out. But as he was unused -to excursions in finance and as the notes and stocks and bonds of -railways in the gristle piled up in his safe he called in his banker -for consultation. John was present. - -“It’s not so much of a gamble if you go far enough,” said John. -“There’s a principle of insurance in it. It would be risky to sell -insurance on one ship. Nobody does that. It is perfectly safe to sell -insurance on a thousand ships. This is the same thing. Some of these -railways will bust of course. But if we sell rails to all of them we -can afford to lose on the few that go down. The whole question is: do -you believe in railways?” - -The two old men looked at their youthful instructor with anxious wonder. - -“Is that your own idea?” the banker asked. - -“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” John answered. - -“When you mention it, yes,” said the banker. “I should never have -thought of it that way.” - -Later the banker spoke privately with Gib. - -“That’s a very dangerous young man.” - -“Very,” said Gib. - -Yet it worked out rather well, owing partly to the principle and partly -to John’s uncanny instinct for making a safe leap. He could smell -bankruptcy before it happened. Moving about as he did continually in -the surge of the railway excitement he had access to much private -information. He knew pretty well how it fared with the companies that -owed the mill for rails. If one were verging toward trouble he knew how -and where to get rid of its paper at a discount. There were losses; but -the losses were balanced by profits in those cases where a company that -had been charged a very high price for rails because it was short of -cash and nobody else would take its notes was able at length to redeem -its paper in full. - -In John’s mind was no thought of either loyalty to iron or disloyalty -to steel. It was a question of American rails against foreign rails. -Steel rails were entirely of foreign origin. The steel age had not -crossed the ocean. His work justified itself. It was immediately -creative and greatly assisted railway building. It was speculative -also, and this is to be remembered. A collateral and very important -result was that it hastened the advent of the American steel rail, -since the punitive tariff against foreign rails gave the American steel -people the incentive of greater profit. That presently changed the -problem. - -Meanwhile, never had the New Damascus mill been so active. Never had -its profits been greater. Yet Enoch Gib was uneasy. He had offered the -young man a partnership. John had flatly declined it. - -What did that mean? - - - - -XIV - - -For twenty years the social life of New Damascus had been as an -untended orchard,--shapeless, perfunctory and reminiscent. Its estate -was a memory running back to the old Woolwine Mansion and the days -of Aaron. It had no rallying point. There was youth as a biological -fact without gaiety, sparkle or sweet daring. Quality Street lived on -its income. Young men succeeded their fathers in business. The girls, -after music and finishing at Philadelphia, returned to New Damascus and -married them. - -The Gib Mansion might as well have been a mausoleum. Life was never -entertained there. It did not expect to be. Jonet was nobody until Gib -married her. After that she was the community’s commiseration. She died -when Agnes, their only child, was ten. The obsequies were private. At -the grave, besides the sexton and the minister, and Gib holding Agnes -by the hand, there was one other person. That was Gearhard, the father -of Jonet, who stood with his feet crossed and his left forearm resting -on the sexton’s shoulder as on the bellows-sweep, in a contemplative -attitude. People spoke of it literally. There, they said, was another -thing Enoch had broken and cast away. No wonder he wished to bury it -privately. - -Agnes was sent off to school. She had lately returned and was now -living at the Gib Mansion alone with her father. Nobody knew her. There -was some mystery about her. A story of unknown origin, and unverified, -was that she had been found out at school in an unchaperoned escapade, -which so enraged old Enoch that he brought her home and deprived her -of liberty. It would be like him to do that. Moreover, in the iron age -such discipline was feasible. Youth had not yet delivered itself from -parental tyranny. That was reserved to be one of the marvels of the -steel age. In 1870 any girl of seventeen was dependent, and one in the -situation of Agnes Gib was helpless. - -John’s advent on this iron grey scene produced a magical change. He was -rightful heir to all the social tradition there was in New Damascus. -This would have meant nothing in itself. But he liked it. He was not -then nor did he ever become the kind of man who must renounce life to -reach success. That is a matter partly of temperament and partly of -capacity. Knowledge necessary to his ends he acquired easily, seemingly -without effort, even technical knowledge. His imagination worked with -the ease of fancy and knew no fatigue. Business was a game at which he -played. Therefore it could not devour him. Without a moment’s notice -he could turn from one kind of play to another and back again. He -would dance all night and come with a crystal mind to the day’s work. -Frivolity seemed to stimulate or recharge his mind. - -The youth of New Damascus adored him. A group spontaneously formed -around him. He kept large rooms at the inn, where he entertained. More -than half his time was spent away from New Damascus, but the new social -order adjusted itself to his movements. When he was at home there were -parties, dances, suppers, excursions, flirtings and episodes. All this -took place on the plane of Quality Street. But his liking for people -neither began nor ended there. It knew no petty distinctions. There -were two kinds of people in the world,--his kind and others. And his -kind were all the same to him no matter where he found them. He had -friends among the mill workers--big, roystering fellows with whom he -often went revelling to fill out a night. One of these was Alexander -Thane, the splendid puddler who had spoken to him that first night in -the mill. They became fast friends. - -He scandalized people without offending them. Whatever he did, that -was John. He did anything he liked and it was forgiven beforehand. -His errancies were extravagant and alarming, such as had been almost -certain to involve a superficial nature in disaster. They were never -wicked or immoral, never hurtful to others and seemed but to innocently -enhance the romantic aspect of his personality. This may be true only -of one whose character is superior to his follies. As his character -came more and more to be realized people began to say, “Well, that’s -one young man Enoch Gib won’t break.” - -Enoch regarded him with wonder and misgiving. John’s impact on the -business had been phenomenal. Perhaps no one else could have done it; -certainly no one else wasting so much of himself in ways for which -Gib felt the utmost contempt could at the same time have attended to -business at all. Yet his way with it grew steadily stronger and more -remarkable, no matter what else he did. - -Gradually there grew up in Gib a vague baffled sense of recurrence. -As New Damascus had idolized Aaron in the old time so now it idolized -John. Was that because he was Aaron’s son? For a while it had that -aspect. Then it could no longer be so explained. Something that had -been was taking place again. What was it? The old man came to this -question again and again. It tormented him for a year of nights. Then -suddenly he had the answer. - -New Damascus idolized this person not because he was Aaron’s son but -_because he was Aaron_! - -Once this wild thought had occurred to Enoch it expanded rapidly, -filling his whole mind, and became an obsession. Aaron lived again! He -had returned with youth and strength restored. - -The physical resemblance was in fact very striking. Enoch began to -study it surreptitiously. The sight tortured and fascinated him. He -could not let it alone. He decided he had been mistaken about that look -of Esther which at first he had seemed to see in the young man’s eyes. -It was not there. Thank God for that. This youth was Aaron himself. - -From the moment of perceiving this thing with hallucinated clarity -Enoch hated John and arranged his thoughts to dwell against him -dangerously. How should he deal with the situation? It had no -tangibility. If he spoke of it people would think he was crazy. Yet -there was the fact. Aaron by foul strategy had entered the business -again. The circumstances of his entering it in the guise of a son -were extraordinary. As the old man reviewed the incident it assumed a -flagrant, preposterous aspect. Aaron had outwitted him. - -Yes. Aaron had always been able to do that. But this was an outrageous -act! Nothing like it had ever happened before in the world. And now -it behooved him to act cautiously, think cunningly, and above all -to conceal the fact that he knew. Merely again to put Aaron out of -the business, as he could easily do, would be neither quittance nor -justice. - - - - -XV - - -There was much curiosity about Enoch’s invisible daughter. Was she -really imprisoned in that gloomy mansion on the west hill? Or was she -queer, like her mother? How did she live? What was she like? The mill -workers, passing the house at all hours, were said to have seen her -walking in the landscape at twilight. There was also a legend that she -was beautiful. - -The young Quality Street set with whom John played and danced -talked itself into a state of romantic feeling about her. There was -competition in fanciful suggestions. One was that twenty of them should -become a committee and move in a body on the mansion. What could the -ogre do then? Only of course nothing so overt could really be done. -Besides, that would be too serious, not mad enough, and the prisoner -might turn out badly. Nobody knew what kind of person she was. Whatever -they did should be something to which she assented beforehand. - -The suggestion that did at length unite all silly young heads was this. -They would give her a party. That was a natural thing to do. She was -a New Damascus girl, wasn’t she? There was no reason in the world why -they shouldn’t give her a party. It was perfectly feasible in social -principle. The difficulties, as an engineer would say, were merely -technical. They were awkward nevertheless. How should they ask her? And -if she were unable to bring herself, as would certainly be the case, -how should they get her? They appealed to John. He was responsive. It -appealed to his spirit of reckless frivolity. He undertook offhand to -bring Agnes Gib to a party. It might take some time. He would tell them -when and where. - -First he made a reconnaissance of the enemy’s position. It had its -vulnerable points, one of which was an Irish gardener with a grouch on -the place. Beginning with him and working in, John proceeded to corrupt -the Gib menage. He learned that Agnes was confined to that part of the -mansion in which her mother had been immured. She was not permitted -to go out, except to walk in the grounds with a woman who was Gib’s -servant, not hers, and performed the office of a gaoler. - -In time he succeeded in getting a note to the prisoner. In it he said -simply that she was desired to come to a party. There was no answer. - -He sent a second note. The party he had mentioned before was one -proposed to be held in her honor. There would be introductions, then -supper and dancing, informal but all very correct and duly chaperoned. -Still no answer. - -He sent a third note in which for the first time he recognized -deterrent circumstances. However, all difficulties should be overcome. -She had only to consent. Then a way would be found. The young set of -New Damascus was very anxious to get acquainted with her, hence this -friendly gesture. To this was returned a note, unsigned, as follows: - - “Miss Gib thanks Mr. Breakspeare and his friends and regrets to say - she cannot come.” - -That was more or less what John by this time was expecting. He was not -discouraged, but he needed light on the young person’s character and it -occurred to him in this need to explore Gearhard the blacksmith, her -grandfather. He melted the hoary smith’s ferocity of manner, which was -but a rickety defence of the heart, by taking him headlong into the -plot with an air of unlimited confidence. Gearhard at first worked his -bellows furiously and stirred the fire in his forge, pretending to be -angrily absent. But the strokes of the sweep-pole gradually diminished, -the fire fell, the bellows collapsed with a rheumatic commotion, and he -stood in his characteristic attitude of contemplation, listening. When -he spoke his voice was remote and gentle. - -“She won’t,” he said. “That’s all there’s into it. She’s as proud as -that bar of steel.” - -Youth understands its own. It knows the chemistries of impulse and how -to challenge them. Curiosity overcomes pride, shyness and fear; and -if it be touched through the arc of vanity all else is forgiven, for -the desire of youth to be liked for itself alone, in the sign of its -personableness, is a glowing passion. - -What followed was absurd. Youth delights in high absurdities. It has a -way with them that wisdom pretends to have forgotten. Away wisdom! You -spoil the cosmic sorceries. - -John sent another note. - -It was to this effect. At the south boundary where the boxwood grew he -would be waiting Thursday evening. She would have only to come straight -on fifty paces more instead of turning in her walk at that point as her -habit was, and the frolic would begin. - -There was no answer. He expected none. But on Thursday evening he was -there. From where he stood behind the boxwood he could see all that -part of the grounds in which she walked. She appeared at the usual -time, attended by a powerful looking woman who disliked exercise and -made heavy work of it. Their relations were apparently hostile. They -never spoke. The girl was supercilious; the woman grim. After a while -the woman sat on an iron bench. The girl walked to and fro. Twice she -came within a stone’s throw of the boxwood and turned back. Once she -stood for several minutes, looking slowly up and down the boundary line -of hedge and stone, and at the sky, and all around, with a wilful blind -spot in her eye. She did not for an instant look seeingly at the spot -her mind was focussed on. Yet John, who watched her, knew she sensed -his presence there. That was all that happened. She presently went in -without notice to the woman, who saw her going toward the house and -followed. - -John sent another note. A second time he waited. This time she changed -her walk in oblique relation to the boxwood and finished it without the -slightest glance or impulse in that direction. - -There was a third time. And that was different. On the first turn she -came closer to the boxwood than ever before, closer still on the second -turn, and then, when the gaoler woman had become inert on the bench, -she came within speaking distance and sat on the grass. - -“We are here,” said John. - -“Who are we?” she asked. - -This was parley. - -“I am their deputy,” he said. “Constructively they are here. Naturally, -all of us couldn’t come at one time and--” He stopped. She wasn’t the -kind of girl he was expecting. She embarrassed his style. - -“And hide in the hedge,” she said, finishing his sentence. “Why not? It -wouldn’t be any less rude if twenty did it.” - -“That isn’t fair,” he said. “We don’t mean to be rude. We only want to -get you out.” - -“You think I couldn’t get out by myself if I wanted to?” - -“Yes,” he said. “That’s what we thought. It’s so, isn’t it?” - -She framed a reply, but withheld it, or, rather, she bit it in two and -threw it away, symbolically. It was a clover stem. She sat on her feet, -bent over, plucking at the grass, with an occasional glance at the -woman on the bench. - -“Do you think it’s nice to spy on a girl as you have been doing?” she -asked. - -“Very nice,” he said, to tease her. - -“And is this the way you get girls for your parties?” - -“May we drive up to your door and ask for you there?” - -“You may.” - -“Then will you come?” - -“No, I won’t be home.” - -“Why not?” - -“I won’t. That’s why not.” - -“Do you dislike parties?” - -“Yes.” - -“Do you hate people?” - -“I hate people who feel sorry for me.” - -“Do you wish me to go away?” - -“Not if you like what you are doing.” - -“I’m not doing this because I like doing it,” he answered. “I’m doing -it because I was asked.” - -“Oh,” she said. - -“They felt--I mean, they had this friendly impulse to give you a party. -They didn’t know how to get you and asked me to manage it. Now what -shall I say to them? Shall I say you hate parties and wish them to mind -their own business?” - -“Tell them what you like,” she said. “I can’t talk to you any longer,” -she added. “It will be noticed.” - -“I won’t tell them anything,” he said. “But I’ll be here a week from -tonight at this time if it doesn’t rain, and the week after that if -it does, and every week for the rest of the summer until you say -positively you will not come.” - -“Haven’t I said that?” she asked. - -“No.” - -She got up, shrugged her shoulders and walked away. - -_Silly!... Silly!... Silly!..._ - -That was what John kept saying to himself without subject or predicate. -It was the way he felt. The situation was absurd. His part in it was -ludicrous. They were all a lot of sillies,--save one. What he really -minded was the sense of having come off badly with her. She was not the -wistful, longing prisoner people imagined her to be. He could not make -out precisely what she was. She was under restraint. Not only had she -not denied this; she had treated it as a fact. But her attitude seemed -to be simply that it was nobody’s business. Meddling was unwelcome. -And such puerile interference as he represented had been treated as it -deserved, with high disdain. Never had he met a girl with so much bite -and tang. Well, however, it was not all to the bad. She might have cut -him away clean. Instead, she had left it as it was. - -“I think she will come,” he said to his friends. - -“Have you seen her?” they asked. - -“Yes. I’ve talked to her.” - -“Oh, what is she like?” - -“Like a grain of salt,” he said, rather absently. - -At this several girls looked at him anxiously, and although they -pretended to be as keen as ever for the party, even more than before, -still, misgivings assailed them and secretly their enthusiasm fell. -John was an unenclosed infatuation on which everyone had rights of -commonage. Numbers preserved him. And here he was keeping tryst with -a girl they knew nothing about. It was not his fault. But it was too -romantic. - -Another thing youth knows is that there are sudden, leaping, -dare-me-not moments, wild moments of yes, in which the most improbable -events come naturally to pass. It did not rain Thursday. John waited in -the boxwood. She came slowly, in the magnetized direction, went back, -returned, loitered about for some time, then sat on the grass again. - -“Aren’t you ashamed to be standing there?” she asked. - -“I feel a perfect fool,” he said. - -“Oh, do you?” she retorted, and with not another word she rose and -walked away. - -Whistling softly John departed. It became interesting. Thursday he was -there again, and so was she. - -“Then why do you do it?” she asked, resuming the conversation at the -point where she broke it, as if a week had not elapsed. - -“I’ve told you why,” he said. “Can you see me?” - -“No.” - -“How did you know I was here?” - -“I didn’t. Only that you said you would be,” she answered. - -“That meant last Thursday,” he said. - -“Do you mean to annoy me like this all summer?” - -“As long as you will come to talk with me,” he said. - -“Or until I say positively I won’t come to the party. That’s what you -said before.” - -“Will you come?” he asked. - -So they went on in a spirit of banter, touching invisible strings, -attending less and less to the meaning of words and more to the -language of sound. - -Scientists ask: Is there such a thing as biactinism?--vital animal -magnetism, producing an effect apart from itself with no mechanical -means of transmission? Is personality radio-active? Does the human -organism possess the property of radiating an influence capable of -acting at a distance upon another human organism? Ask youth. - -The barrier gave way the next week. - -John dwelt as usual in the boxwood. The girl was tardy. Portent one. -She wore a pretty dress and high heeled French boots. Portent two. She -was on terms of amiability with the gaoler woman. Portent three. It -was a musky, August evening, coming twilight. For half an hour or more -she walked in an aimless, listless way, stopping, starting, plucking -here and there a flower until she had a handful, and then with steps -unhurried, with still an air of sauntering, she came straight on. - -“Oh, here you are,” she said, in the cool, entrancing way youth has of -doing an audacious thing. - -“I’ll have to hand you down,” said John. - -Below them in the road, twenty paces off, a horse and buggy waited. - - - - -XVI - - -The party took place in John’s rooms. First there was a dainty supper; -then dancing. It was a heart breaking failure. Everyone tried to save -it. A party that needs to be saved is already hopeless. The more -everyone tried the worse it was until the lovely, dark-eyed little -matron who chaperoned it was on the verge of tears, the girls were -divided between sulks and hysterics and the men wondered vaguely what -was wrong. It was inevitable. The fluids were perverse. - -In the first place, the guest of honor flatly declined the rôle of -Cinderella. She was not in the least grateful. The little matron on -receiving her said: “We’ve tried so long to get you.” - -What could be more innocent. - -She replied, “Oh-h!” with ascending accent. - -The wreck began there. The matron’s tone and manner revealed to her -the light in which she was regarded. She was an object of curiosity -and a subject of commiseration. One figure she hated as much as the -other. To be pitied--particularly that,--was intolerable. She was stung -with chagrin and humiliation. It was nobody’s fault,--at least, no -more theirs than her own. She might have known it would be so; she had -placed herself in this position. None the less, or perhaps all the more -for that reason, she could not help behaving in that way which is meant -when one says she took it out of them. She took it out of her own sex -of course. Her power to do that was extraordinary. - -The matron did not know what next to say. That was generally the -trouble. None of the women knew how to talk to her. There was nothing -in common to talk about, except the circumstances, and these could not -be mentioned. At the slightest reference to them she coldly cut the -conversation. - -“If she couldn’t get into the spirit of it why did she come at all?” -one girl asked another. - -“That’s easy to see, I should think,” the other said. - -What was easy to see was that she was too good looking. No other girl -was anywhere near so attractive to the male principle. That was why she -could carry off a reckless part. She became more heedless and dangerous -about it as the psychic tension increased. She did not care in the -least what happened. - -It was nothing she did,--nothing you could isolate as an example and -criticise. Her behavior was basically naïve. It was what she was. It -was what she had been for thousands of threaded years. It was life at a -pitch of intensity, life of a certain quality, looking out of her eyes, -seeking itself. - -“Don’t you see what she is doing?” asked a feline girl, speaking to -John in the dance. - -“No,” he said. “I don’t see what she is doing. I see only that you are -treating her badly. I suppose it can’t be helped.” - -“She’s having a very good time, all the same,” the girl retorted. - -Most of the young men felt as John did and took pains to keep her -supplied with attention. She received it not ungraciously, but lightly, -with an amused and cynical smile. She seemed to be saying to herself: -“All grapes are a little sour.” - -The party was rapidly approaching a state of distress when a call for -Mr. Breakspeare was handed in from the office. He went out. A feeling -of suspense went all around. It seemed only at that moment to have -occurred to anyone that there might reasonably be some sort of sequel. -John returned in ten minutes, claimed his partner and entered the dance -as if nothing had happened. But there was an uneasy look on his face. -When the dance was over he went about looking for someone. Then he -began to ask. - -No one had seen her go. She had taken no leave. She had simply vanished. - -When the fact was definitely established John excused himself and went -in pursuit. He hoped to overtake her on the road home, supposing, as -was true, that she had scented trouble and wished to meet it alone. -That much of her character he understood. His anxiety was real. - -The man who had called for him at the inn was no other than his -corrupted gardener. And what he had come to say was that whoever -brought the young lady home had better be careful. He would do much -better not to bring her at all. For Enoch Gib, in waiting with a -blunderbuss, yearned to abate his existence. - -“An’ he is after findin’ out who be takin’ th’ young laday away,” the -news bringer said at the end of his tidings. - -All that had happened might have been foreseen if anyone had been -thinking of consequences. - -When the gaoler woman discovered that Agnes was gone the first -thing she did was to go to her room and search it. She found John’s -notes--all of them. As the whole exhibit made too strong a case against -her gaolership she destroyed all but the last two. These, which -referred only to the surreptitious meetings at the boxwood, she took to -Enoch, saying she was sure from certain other evidence that it was not -an elopement but an escapade. Agnes would return before daylight. - -The result upon Enoch may be imagined. - -This was Aaron again,--the same Aaron who stole Esther away from him. -The terrible wound fell wide open. The pain of it wrecked his mind. -It would have killed him, perhaps, but for the solacing thought that -revenge was near. - -So John pursued Agnes, Agnes was lost, and Enoch, waited with death in -his heart. - - - - -XVII - - -Agnes expected to be followed. - -Instead of going directly home she made a wide detour, skirting the -town, and ascended the west hill obliquely by a path the mill workers -used. Nobody would think to look for her there. - -She meant to enter the grounds by the main gate, defiantly, but she -would take her time. As for the consequences,--well, the worse the -better. Any change would be welcome. - -What made the feud with her father unendurable was its monotony. She -had meant to fight it out with him alone to the end, with no outside -help or interference. That was the true impulse of her nature. But it -had begun to be like fighting it out with some colossal stone image. -What terrified her was nothing he did, or could do, but the sheer -glacial mass of his hostility. No,--not hostility. It was something -else. It was a kind of malevolent indifference. - -The feud was about nothing. It rested on their mutual obstinacy. A word -would deliver her. That word she could not utter, or would not, which -is all the same matter. - -At school she had been one of ten girls suspected of having taken part -in a frolic much more exciting than wicked yet deserving the extreme -penalty. The nine denied it. When she was asked she said yes, she -had done it. When they asked who the others were she refused to tell. -They disciplined her. Still she refused. They offered her immunity if -she would tell. She refused all the more. They sent for her father. -He rashly said he would make her tell, and walked head-on into an -impassable wall. After an hour alone with her in the reception room he -marched her off, just as she was, saying as he crossed the threshold -that her things were to be sent after her. Defiance was something he -knew little about. Disobedience he could not comprehend at all. All the -way home he pondered it. - -“I understand why you refuse to tell on the others,” he said. “Now I -waive that. You do not have to tell on them. But you shall tell me you -are sorry.” - -She wouldn’t. She would say she was wrong; she had broken rules. But -she would not say she was sorry, for the reason that she wasn’t. This -she explained. That made no difference. - -“You shall tell me you are sorry,” he said. - -She refused. - -“You will,” he said. “When you do you may have your liberty again.” - -With that he banished her beyond the white line that had divided the -household in her infancy, set a woman to be her keeper, and then -apparently forgot her. She sometimes saw him at a distance. He never -looked at her. - -The girls on whom she would not tell sent her a beautiful present. -She sent it back. That was the last of her contacts with the outside -world. Her mail was cut off. No one was permitted to see her. More -than a year had passed in this way. Once she sent word she wished to -see him. He answered: “If she is sorry she may come.” That ended her -overtures. Fighting it out with him apparently meant living it out, as -her mother did, and that for her was grotesque. Besides, in that kind -of contest he had the advantage of age. Age has all the time there is. -Youth has neither past nor future,--only the present. The situation was -impossible. It could not go on. Yet she had found no clear way out. She -was too proud to seek refuge with anyone she knew. Moreover, she was a -minor with no rights of her own. And as for casting herself free upon -the wide world,--well, she had not yet come to that desperate thought. - -As she ascended the hill a mood that had been rising in her for several -days became suddenly intense and exulting. It made her short of breath. -The excitement of breaking bounds, of going to the party, of what she -did there, now a feeling of utter contempt for all the human values -it represented, an emotion of trampling upon her adversaries among -whom to her surprise was foremostly John, a sense of unknown power, -particularly that voluptuous unconcern with consequences--all these -different actions and reactions were as one effect. The cause was the -mood. She recognized it. She knew about how long it should last. Never -before had it been so tormenting. Never had she let it possess her -entirely. Surrendering to it was like a physical experience, fearful -and sweet. - -She sat on a stone at the edge of the path, on the lower side, with -a wide view of the valley and gave herself up to ecstasy. She was -attuned to wonder and understood it. The hymn of night bewitched her. -Becoming luminous, her thoughts touched objects and subjects alike -and returned to her charged with sensation. In the vastness of space, -in one’s impulse toward it, in the thrust of the church spire through -the black panoramic foliage, in the tearing way the moon sliced his -path through the clouds, in the shapes of the clouds, in convexity, -concavity, temptation, and selfness, in hereness and thereness, in all -that one saw and felt there was one meaning,--and she almost knew what -it was. But the thought that excited her to suffocation was the thought -of all that had not yet happened to her,--in that same one meaning. The -rest of her, most of her in fact, was out there in the void. It was -everything that had not happened. It might be anything. Whatever it was -she embraced it, accepted it unreservedly, consented to it beforehand -for the thrill of consenting. - -For the first time in her existence she felt knowingly the passion of -youth to pierce itself with life. - - - - -XVIII - - -There came a sound of footsteps on the path,--that plunging sound of -muffled resonance men make in iron-studded raw hide footgear, with -also in this case a swishing minor note from the play of the ankle -aprons worn by the mill workers. Agnes had never heard any sound like -it. Not until two men met and passed in the path, so close that she -could smell them, did she quite make out what it was; and by that time -her heart was making more noise than the men’s feet. They did not see -her. They passed without speaking to each other, which was strange for -mill workers; but when they had walked maybe twenty paces in opposite -directions one cast a taunt backward over his shoulder. What it was -Agnes could not tell. The other answered it. Both stopped. Then she -heard them slowly returning. - -They met again at the same spot where they had passed and stood there -looking at each other warily, suspiciously, their eyes rolling in the -moonlight. She could see them distinctly, for they were very close, yet -as it happened she herself was so concealed that the men, though they -might have touched her, did not see her. - -One had a very pleasing aspect. He was tall and vibrant with a fine -profile and no bristles. That was Alex Thane, the magnificent puddler. - -The other was of lower stature, much heavier, massive, in the form of a -wedge, with a width at the top across the shoulders that was almost a -deformity. He was neckless. His head started from between his shoulders -like a gargoyle. Coarse black hair grew all over him. His moustache was -like a worn brush. His eyes were wide apart, set very high, denoting -enormous animal vitality. - -It was he who had cast back the taunt; and it was he with his chin -thrust out who spoke first when they met again and stood facing each -other in that singular way. He was a Cornishman. What he said Agnes -could not understand. Thane answered him in words which, though she -knew them as words, most of them, imported to her mind no sense -whatever. Still she got the drift of what they were saying, for they -said a good deal of it in a universal language more gleaming and subtle -than the language of words. She got it from their tones and gestures -and what radiated from their eyes. And it was the drift of what men -have been saying to each other from the beginning. - -First it was, “Which of us can kill the other?” - -After a very long time, millions of years maybe, it became, “Which of -us _could_ kill the other?” - -That was the leap that placed an abyss between man and animal. No -creature but man exists on this side. The animals still say _can_. -He says _could_. It was the beginning of civilization. And all that -we have done since has been to elaborate the ways of could, ways to -conquer without killing, and to evolve the sporting code in which the -potentials of could are standardized. According to that code one may -acknowledge that another could have killed him without losing one’s -life, one’s self-esteem or one’s social caste. - -These two, Thane and the Cornishman, had been egged by their fellows -into a state of intense rivalry. They were the most powerful men in the -mill. Each in his daily work easily performed feats of strength beyond -the power of others, but with this difference, that while Thane exerted -himself only now and then for the mere feeling of it and the sooner -when no one was watching, the Cornishman exhibited his superiority -continuously because his vanity required it, and set a killing pace for -the men of his crew. He was brutal and laughed exultingly if one of -them dropped. - -There was much debate as to which was the better man. A majority -inclined to the Cornishman for that he was always and instantly ready -to try it out, whereas Thane put every challenge aside, not as if he -were afraid but with an air of distaste. - -“I’m making no show of myself,” he said. - -“Show be damned,” the eggers said. “The man is braggin’ he can do yu. -Ain’t that a show?” - -No use. He could not be goaded into a public match. Many misunderstood -it. The Cornishman particularly was misled. He got the notion that -Thane was afraid of him, and so he became arrogant and offensive. - -This is what had been going on for some time. It was what was going on -now in the path to the great wonder of a special, fascinated audience -of one. - -The Cornishman, jutting his chin piece further and further out, did the -boasting. Thane answered him with contemptuous looks and now and then a -derisive word. Suddenly they brought it to a head. As with one impulse -they walked a little apart, put down their dinner baskets, threw -off their caps and slipped out of their shirts. This seemed all one -movement. Then, facing at the same instant, they drew slowly together. -Their bodies, nude to the middle, were crouched in a manner that gave -Agnes a new and terrific sensation of the human form, especially of its -splendid, destructive power. Each had his left arm upraised and bent, -as if to guard his face and head, and in their eyes the lust of combat -glistened. - -Agnes was transfixed with horror and at the same time thrilled as she -had never been thrilled in her life before. No excitement she had ever -imagined, waking or dreaming, was remotely comparable to this. She -perhaps could not have run if she had tried; she would not have tried -if she had thought of it. She thought of nothing. She sat perfectly -still, her mouth hard set, her hands clenched, a look in her eyes she -would not have believed in her own mirror. - -The fighters seemed to pursue each other slowly in a small circle, eye -to eye, sparring a little, and Agnes gasped with delight. They moved -with the fluid ease and unconscious grace of leopards, and gave the -same impression of tense coiled strength. She had not the faintest -idea hitherto that the man thing could be like this. - -Then, so swiftly that she did not see it, the first clean blow went in, -with the sound of a butcher’s cleaver falling on the block. The effect -of that sound upon Agnes was tremendous. She felt a swooning of worlds -in the pit of her stomach. Solids were fluid. Her moorings gave way. -Nothing in her experience of men had prepared her for the possibility -of this. She had seen below the surface. The surface would never be the -same again. What an awful sound! She felt she could not bear to hear it -again; yet she listened for it breathlessly, frantically. - -She saw blood on the tall one’s face. That did not make her sick. It -made her violently partisan. She has been so all the time without -knowing it. Thought of the heavy brute winning was intolerable. She -could not see his face distinctly, for he crouched much lower than -his antagonist and looked out from under his shaggy eyebrows, thus -presenting the top of his head. When by accident, however, his face -did come into full view she was relieved to see that he was bleeding -freely. The tall one in fact was not bleeding at all. It was the -other’s blood transferred to him. And then, as she saw how it was -really going, she beat her knees with her fists and could hardly -restrain the impulse to cry out. - -The Cornishman was Thane’s equal in strength and vitality and forced -the fighting at first with ferocious onsets. But he was as a bull -against a tiger. His blows, falling short or going wild, landed always -where his enemy precisely was not. Thane, doing it thoughtfully, -planted his blows unerringly. He let the Cornishman come to him so long -as he would and simply cut him to pieces, keeping some of himself all -the time in reserve. - -The end came in that instant when Thane really exerted himself. The -Cornishman changed his tactics. He stopped lunging, stood on the -defensive, and waited for Thane to come to him. - -In this attitude it happened that the Cornishman’s back was to Agnes, -not squarely, but only slightly oblique. Therefore, she had a fair -full view of Thane as he came toward the Cornishman. The cool, easy -purposefulness of him agitated her in a most extraordinary way. She -knew he had won. - -He walked straight into the Cornishman’s guard and without any feint -or pass he did two things at once with such amazing swiftness that the -eye could not follow. With his left hand he put aside the Cornishman’s -defending arm and with his right he hit him, on the point of his -offensive chin, a blow the sound of which was like the snapping of a -great tree trunk on the knee of a windstorm. - -For an instant nothing happened, except that Thane folded his arms and -stood looking seriously at the Cornishman. Then the Cornishman’s arms -fell, his form swayed, and he began to go around in a circle, faster -and faster, as if one leg at each step became shorter and was letting -him down in spite of his efforts to overtake his balance. He was going -to fall. Where? - -The battle had taken place all at one side of the path where a level -space was. From the other side of the path, where Agnes was, the ground -pitched off. The stone on which she sat was two feet below the level of -the path. The grass concealed her head. - -The spinning Cornishman was almost in the path, directly above her. It -seemed probable that he would fall in a heap, pitching forward. It was -incredible that he should catch himself up; yet he did it with a mighty -effort, stopped spinning, stood upright for a moment, then unexpectedly -toppled backward over the edge of the path and fell with all his weight -upon Agnes. - -She screamed and tried to parry the awful mass. It bore her under and -she rolled with it a little distance down the hillside. Before she was -free of it she saw above her the face of Thane, white and scared. - -He picked her up, all of her, bodily, as if she were a doll, carried -her back to the path, and stood her on end experimentally. - -“Hurt?” - -“No,” she said, grimacing with pain. - -“You are,” he said. “Let’s see you stand up.” - -He let go of her and she began to go over. - -“My ankle,” she said. “It got a little twist. Let me sit down.” - -Having lowered her gently to a sitting posture he got down on his knees -and regarded her anxiously. - -“That all? Just the ankle?” - -“I’ll be all right in a minute or two,” she said. Pointing to the -vanquished lump she asked: “What about him?” - -“That?” he said. “Don’t worry. It ain’t dead. It’ll come to after a -bit.” - -Her breath was in her throat and her mind was filled with after images -of the event. She was still outside of herself with excitement. - -“I was on your side,” she said naïvely. Some secret thought then -touched her and she doubled up with a tickled sound. Her suppressed -feelings were exploding. - -Thane at that moment realized that she had witnessed the fight. Next -he became painfully conscious of himself. He felt a burning sensation -from his middle to the roots of his hair; and as he rose and went -looking in the grass for his shirt his movements were awkward, almost -clumsy. Having found his shirt he walked a long way off to put it on. -When he returned he had the Cornishman’s shirt. That hulk of vanity -was beginning to stir as from a deep sleep. Thane helped him to his -feet, set him in the path with his face averted, put the garment in his -hands, and earnestly desired him to disappear. - -Then he stood looking down at Agnes. A moment before they had been as -free and natural as children. Now they were false, self-embarrassed. - -“How is it now?” he asked. - -“Better,” she said. - -Silence. - -“Maybe you could rub it.” - -“It’s getting all right,” she said. - -More silence. - -“My name is Alexander.” - -“My name is Agnes,” she replied. - -Silence again. - -“Agnes what?” - -“Gib,” she said. - -“You old Enoch’s girl?” he asked. - -She did not answer. - -“Was you cuttin’ it?” he asked. - -“Was I what?” - -“Givin’ ’im the slip?” - -“I’m on my way home,” she said. “Please don’t bother any more about me. -I’m quite all right now.” - -Her manner had changed. Her tone was formal and dismissive. Thane moved -away from her, uncertain what to do, looked about in the grass for -his lunch basket, found it, stood for some minutes twirling it in his -hands, and slowly came back. - -“Better’d let me take you home.” - -“Thank you,” she said. “I know my way home.” - -“It ain’t no place for you out here. Them from the mill is all right, -but these new miners, they go back ’n forwards singing and fighting. -They’d scare you most to death ... or worse.” - -She was looking off into the valley and made no reply. - -“Better’d let me take you home.” - -“Please,” she said, “I don’t wish to be taken home.” - -“Ain’t you got to go home?” - -To this her only answer was an exasperated shrug of the shoulders. -All he could see of her was the expression of her back and it was so -unfriendly that it took everything out of him but the doggedness. He -waited until it was evident she did not mean to speak again. Then he -walked about in a fumble of perplexity and at length threw himself on -the grass and comfortably lighted his pipe. - -After a while she spoke without turning her head. - -“Are you there for the night?” - -“Jus’ standing by,” he said. “Can’t leave you here like you was a -cripple bird.” - -Agnes was secretly entertained. She had also a feeling of being -wonderfully safe. Yet the absurdity of her predicament filled her with -chagrin. She hated to be helpless. “I can walk,” she said to herself. -“I will.” - -She got up, took one step bravely and came down again with an -involuntary cry of pain. - -At that Thane rose with a fixed intention, knocked his pipe clean on -his heel, dropped it in his pocket, and came toward her, hitching at -his belt. She knew intuitively what he meant to do and felt herself for -an instant in the place of the Cornishman as he stood waiting for Thane -to come and finish him. - -He did not speak. Leaning over, he picked her off the ground and -settled her high in his arms. - -First she was furiously angry. Her thoughts were: “How dare you! Put me -down instantly and be gone.” The words did not come. She noticed how -lightly he carried her, almost as if he were not touching her, and how -easily he walked. She was helpless. If she resisted he would only hold -her differently and go steadily on. She could scream or struggle. To -scream would be childish. She had not the least inclination to scream. -And to struggle would be futile. So she took refuge in passivity. Then -sensations began to assail her. She was suddenly afraid. Fear was an -emotion she seldom experienced. Never had she been afraid like this. -What she was afraid of she did not know. She was not sure it was fear. -It was more like the thrill one gets in a high swing from the thought, -“What if the rope should break!” or in the phantasy of taking the place -of the animal trainer, from the thought, “What if the lion should -turn!” She remembered not the words but the sense of a line of Greek -poetry about maidens swooning from fear of finding that which not to -find would grieve them unto death. - -She was still herself, Agnes, furiously angry at being carried without -her consent. At the same time she was not Agnes. The Agnes she knew -was but a name and a memory. She herself, now existing originally, was -someone whose only desire was to be carried further, faster, higher, -off the edge of the world. She breathed deeply, inhaling his odor. - -Seeing that he should carry her more easily if her weight were somewhat -distributed by her own effort she put an arm around his neck. It -tightened there as she suspended her weight to relieve his arms. Then -came an instant in which she was amazed at the impulse, which she -restrained, to fasten the other arm about his neck. In the rough -places he began to hold her a little closer each time and not to relax -when it was smooth again. She was not aware of it. Her odor intoxicated -Thane. Sometimes he lost the path and stumbled. That she did not -notice. She listened to his breathing, counted it against her own, and -felt the rythmic rise and fall of his powerful chest. - -At a point where they turned out of the path through a piece of high -grass to enter the highway both of them as it were came awake. - -“Put me down, please,” she said in a low voice, hardly above a -whisper,--a voice she did not know. - -He apparently did not hear her. - -They came to the great iron gate. - -“Put me down,” she said again. - -Still he seemed not to hear. With his foot he rattled the gate, calling -in a loud, uncontrolled voice,--the voice of a man in danger--“Hey! -Hey!” He was trembling all over. - -Three times he rattled the gate and called. Twice he was answered only -by the reverberations of his own clamor, which shocked the stillness -of the night and left a vacant ringing in the ears. In the grass the -crickets sang. Far away a dog barked once and a cock woke up. Each -could hear the beating of the other’s heart. - -What happened the third time was apparitional. Suddenly, there was -Enoch, behind the gate, looking at them. He had been there all the -time in the shadow of the wall. He held a lighted lantern. That also -had been concealed. Slowly he raised the latch-bar and swung the gate -ajar. Then he held the lantern high and gazed unbelievingly at Thane, -who was the first to speak. - -“Found her up there in the grass. Was having a bit of a tiff, two of -us, me ’n the Cornishman, ’n he fell on her when I knocked him out, ’n -hurt her ankle, hiding there so as nobody could see her. She couldn’t -walk, so’s I brought her home.” - -Agnes neither stirred nor spoke. In the light of the lantern her eyes -gleamed with a trapped expression. Enoch did not look at her, not even -on hearing that she was hurt, but continued to stare fixedly at his -puddler, repeating after him: “In the grass.” - -“Don’t you want her?” Thane asked. - -At that Enoch lowered the lantern, swung the gate open and stood aside. - -“Take her in,” he said. - -As the puddler passed, Enoch closed and barred the gate; he followed -them up the driveway toward the mansion. The only sound was the -crunching of the two men’s feet on the gravel. - -Then Enoch laughed. It was an abominable sound, denoting a cruel -conclusion in his mind. Agnes shuddered. Her hold around the puddler’s -neck involuntarily tightened. So did his hold of her. Thus a subtle -sign passed between them. Neither one spoke. - -At the entrance Enoch overtook them, opened the door, and walked ahead. -There were no servants in sight. In this household servants appeared -when summoned and never otherwise. - -“In here,” said Enoch, opening the hall door into the back parlor on -the ground floor. This was his side of the house. The room was dimly -lighted. The puddler put his burden down on a couch and turned to look -at Enoch, who stood in the doorway. - -“Stay here, both of you, until I return,” he said. With that he closed -the door and turned the key from the outside. - -Thane in his mill clothes,--iron studded shoes, ankle aprons, trousers, -shirt open to the middle of his chest, and cap,--was bewildered and -overcome with conscious awkwardness. He looked at things as if they -might bark at him and stood with his weight on one leg, having no -use for the other. It stuck out from him at a great distance, and -terminated absurdly in a performing foot, rocking on its heel and -wearing a place in the varnished surface of the floor. - -Agnes, who had been straining her faculties to hear what might be -taking place outside, became aware of his distress. - -“Please sit down and listen,” she said. “Over there,” pointing to an -arm chair. - -They heard the jangling of bells, the opening and closing of doors, -and presently a carriage went off in haste. It must have been waiting. -There had not been time to harness a team. Then faintly they heard -footsteps patrolling the hallway. They were Enoch’s. - -“I haven’t any idea what I’ve got you into,” said Agnes. - -“Seem’s it ain’t ready yet,” he said, and smiled at her. - -His smile was a revelation, swift and unexpected, like an event in a -starlit sky. Agnes had not seen it before. It gave her a start of joy. -She smiled back at him and then blushed. That made her angry. She was -always angry at herself for blushing because it gave her away. Her -defense was to look at him steadily and that made him self-conscious -again. She had discovered that when his thoughts were dynamically -engaged, or when his mind was intended to action, instantly all -awkwardness left him. Then he was graceful unawares, as children and -animals are, never thinking of themselves. She could not bear to see -him fidget. - -“You don’t seem to care,” she said. - -“He bears down hard on you, don’t he, Enoch?” he asked. - -“His nature is hard,” she said. - -“Maybe you was cuttin’ it an’ here I brought you home. Ain’t that so?” - -“No,” she said. - -He came half way across the room and regarded her earnestly. - -“If that’s it, it ain’t too late now. I’ll take you anywhere you want.” -As she did not answer, he added: “Jus take ’n leave you there so’s you -need never see me again.” - -“Thank you,” she said, gently. “That wouldn’t be nice, would it,--never -to see you again after that? No. I’m--what was it you said?--I’m -standing by.” - -He sat down again, disappointed. - -“I must tell you what happened,” she said. “I broke out and went to a -party in town. That isn’t allowed. I expected a scene when I got home. -It might have been very disagreeable for the--for my escort, you know. -So, having first run away to go to the party, I next ran away from the -party and started home alone. You know the rest.” - -“Oh,” said Thane, thoughtfully. - -A sudden constraint fell upon them. Their eyes did not meet again. - -They were sitting in silence, she in reverie, when a sound of commotion -was heard in the hallway. The carriage had returned. Double footsteps -approached. - -The door opened, admitting Enoch, and with him the Presbyterian -minister, a clean, tame, ox-like man with a very large bald head, no -eyebrows and round blue eyes. Enoch closed the door. Thane stood up. -The minister looked first at him and then at Agnes. Her eyes were full -of wonder, tinged with premonition. Enoch spoke. - -“We found her in the grass. That’s the man. Marry them.” - -The minister, regarding both of them at once in an oblique manner, -began to nod his head up and down as if saying to himself, “Oh-ho! So -this is what we find?” - -Thane was slow to understand Enoch’s words. He had the look of a man -in the act of doubting his familiar senses. - -Agnes, very pale, lips slightly parted, nostrils distended, sitting -very erect, turned her head slowly and gazed at her father. The muscles -around her eyes were tense and drawn, her eyes were hard and partially -closed as if the sun were in them, and she looked at him so until his -countenance fell. But not his wickedness. - -“Marry them,” he said. - -Thane reacted suddenly. He cleared his throat, swallowed, glanced right -and left, and took a step forward, with a tug at his belt. - -“You’re supposing what ain’t so,” he shouted at Enoch. “What do you -mean by that about finding her in the grass? What does that mean? Me -’n the Cornishman was racketing up there in the path like I told you -at the gate. He ain’t come to yet, so there’s nobody can say as what -happened but me ’n the girl. She oughten have seen it. That’s correct. -But there ain’t no harm done--none as you could speak of. If you don’t -believe me ask her.... You tell them,” he said, turning to Agnes. - -“My father is mad,” she said. - -Thane began to tell them what had passed on the path and became utterly -incoherent. Despairing, he made a move toward Enoch. The minister -raised his hand. - -“What is your name?” - -“Alexander Thane.” - -Enoch, who had been standing with his back to the door, opened it, -reached around the jamb and drew it back holding a shot gun, the barrel -of which he rested on his left arm. - -“Marry them, I tell you.” His voice was low. “Make it short.” - -Thane made another move toward him. The minister raised his hand -again,--a fat, white hand. It fascinated Thane and calmed him. - -“Thane,” said the minister, “do you take this woman to be your lawful -wife?” - -“Not as he says it. Not for that shooting thing as he’s got there in -his hand,” said Thane. “Not unless the girl wants it,” he added, as a -disastrous and extremely complicated afterthought. - -If he had flatly said no, the shape of the climax might have been -different. There was no lack of courage. What stopped him was a -romantic seizure. - -The minister turned to Agnes. - -“Will you, Agnes, take this man Thane to be your husband?” - -The die was then in her hands. Thane had not meant to pass it. Gladly -would he have retaken it if only he had known how to do so. The -situation was beyond his resources. Moreover, the question--“Will you, -Agnes, take this man Thane to be your husband?”--was so momentous to -him that it deprived him of his wits and senses, save only the sense of -hearing. - -Emotions more dissimilar could scarcely be allotted to three men in a -single scene, one of them mad, yet for a moment they were united by a -feeling of awe and regarded Agnes with one expression. The woman’s -courage surpasses the man’s. This he afterward denies in his mind, -saying the difference is that she lacks a sense of consequences. - -Agnes was cool and contemplative, and in no haste to answer. She kept -them waiting. They could not see her face. Her head was bent over. -With one hand she plucked at the pattern of her dress and seemed to be -counting. Then slowly she began to nod her head. - -“Yes,” she said, distinctly, though in a very far voice, “I will.” - -“Stand up, please,” said the minister. - -Thane made his responses as one in a dream. Hers were firm and clear, -and all the time she was looking at her father as she had looked at him -first, with those tight little wrinkles around her eyes. - -So they were married. - -“That’s all,” said Enoch, to the minister, curtly. “The carriage is at -the door.” - -The minister bowed and vanished. - -Enoch drew a piece of cardboard from his pocket and handed it to Thane. -It was a blue ticket,--the token of dismissal. - -“Now go,” he said, “and let me never see you again.” - -Agnes looked up at Thane. - -“I can walk,” she said, taking him by the arm. It was so. She could, -with a slight limp. Enoch, seeing it, sneered. He watched them walk -into the night and closed the door behind them. - -At the gate Thane said: “But you can’t,” and started to pick her up. - -“Don’t,” she said. - -They had changed places. She was no longer afraid of him. He was afraid -of her. - - - - -XIX - - -All this time John had been seeking Agnes. First he went the high -road to the mansion until he was sure she had not gone that way, for -if she had he would have overtaken her. Turning back he began to make -inquiries and presently heard of someone, undoubtedly she, who had been -seen walking wide of the town, past the mill, toward the mountain. -Knowing the path and divining her intention he walked in her footsteps. - -The smell of Thane’s pipe was still in the air when he arrived at the -place where the fight had taken place. A thing of white in the grass -drew his eye. He picked it up and got a bad start. It was a tiny -handkerchief. By the light of a match he made out the initials A. G. -embroidered in one corner. Looking further he found a scarf that he -instantly recognized. He had particularly noticed it on their way to -the party. Now in a panic he began to examine the ground closely and -discovered extensive evidence of a human struggle. Running up and down -the path a short distance each way he came on the Cornishman’s shirt a -little to one side where the groggy owner had tossed it away. To John’s -disgust it was slimy with something that came off in his hands; as this -proved to be blood his disgust gave way to horror. - -Without actually formulating the thought, because it was too dreadful -to be true, he acted under the tyranny of a fixed idea, which was that -Agnes had met with a foul disaster. The possibility was real. Lately -there had come to New Damascus a group of mill hands whose ways and -morals were alien to the community. They were bestial drinkers and had -been making a great deal of trouble. - -In a state of frenzy he explored the mountain side, calling her name. -His panic rising, it occurred to him to ask at the mill among the men -who continually used the path. He found several who had been over it -within a hour or so. Someone was missing, he told them. Something -unknown had happened. Had they seen or heard anything unusual. They -became individually contemplative, made him say it all over again, -repeated it after him, thought very hard and shook their heads. Nobody -had seen or heard the least thing strange. But somebody did, by a freak -of intelligent association, remember the Cornishman. He was out there -under the water tank, speechless and weeping, not caring whether Enoch -saw him or not. Maybe something had happened to him. - -John found him as indicated, with his face in his hands, water dripping -on his naked back. - -“What happened to you?” John asked, shaking him. - -“Gotten m’dam head knocked off,” he groaned, without moving. It was a -refrain running through him. John’s attack had made it once audible. - -“Up there in the path?” - -He grunted. - -“Who was it?” - -Faintly, though very definitely, the Cornwall beauty expressed a -passionate desire to be let alone. - -“Was there a girl?” John asked. - -“Huh!” said the hulk, instantly penetrated by the sound of that word. - -John repeated the question. - -The Cornishman stirred painfully, sat up, turned a stupidly grinning -face and nodded--yes. - -“Who took her away?” John asked, thumping the body to keep the mind -afloat. “Tell me,” he said, shaking him by the hair. “Where did they -go?” he asked, kicking him in the shins. - -But the Cornishman was either slyer or more stupefied than one could -imagine. He relapsed. Nothing more could be got out of him. - -There now was but one rational thing to do--report to Enoch and raise a -general alarm. - -From running hard with a load of dread John was almost spent when he -arrived at the mansion gate. It was shut and barred; the house was -dark and where he had expected to find alarm and commotion everything -was strangely still. Foreboding assailed him. Thinking it might be -quicker to open the gate than to climb the wall he put his hand through -and began to fumble with the latch bar inside. He was so intent upon -the effort that a certain indefinable sense one may have of another’s -invisible proximity failed to warn him of Enoch’s presence. - -There was a swift, noiseless movement in the darkness and a hand -clutched him powerfully by the wrist. The physical disadvantage of his -position made him helpless. Over the vertical bars of the gate ran a -pattern of wrought iron ornamentation in the form of vine and leaves; -the interstices were irregular, with sharp edges. It was impossible to -use his free arm defensively because there was no other opening through -which he could reach far enough in. Besides, if he resisted Enoch could -instantly snap the bones of his trapped arm. He was utterly bewildered -by the circumstances. Enoch’s gesture was menacing, even terrifying in -its sinister precision, and yet John could scarcely imagine that his -intentions were destructive. So he submitted his arm passively to the -old man’s dangerous grip and spoke. - -“It is I,” he said. His voice betrayed his spirit, which was at the -verge of panic. Enoch did not speak. His hold tightened. “I was trying -to let myself in to save time,” said John. “Agnes is lost. That is, I -can’t find her. I was coming to tell you.” - -Enoch still did not speak. - -“Perhaps she is home,” said John. “Have you seen her? If you haven’t -I’m afraid something has happened to her.” - -The old man’s continued silence was unnatural and ominous. Slowly, -purposefully, he drew John’s arm further in, to almost the elbow; it -came to him unresistingly and bare, the cuffs of the coat and shirt -having caught on the vine work outside. Then he began to explore it -upward from the wrist, feeling through the flesh for the edges of the -radius and ulna bones, passing them an inch at a time between his thumb -and forefinger as if searching for something he was afraid to find. -John’s arm had once been broken in a football game at school. There -was a perceptible ridge in the radius bone at the point of fracture. -On this ridge Enoch’s fingers stopped, lost their strength and began -to tremble. At the same time the grip of his other hand around John’s -wrist began to relax in a slow, involuntary manner. - -“_Aaron!_” he whispered, awesomely. - -The next instant John’s arm was free and there was the sound of a body -falling on the gravel inside the gate. - -Now John scaled the wall. He stopped to make sure Enoch was breathing -and to ease his form on the ground; then he ran to the mansion. His -furious alarm brought a stolid, dark woman to the door, holding a small -oil light over her head. - -“Is Miss Gib at home?” he asked. - -The woman shook her head. - -“Does anyone know where she is?” - -In a dull manner the woman shook her head again. - -“Mr. Gib has fallen at the front gate,” said John. “Go to him at once -and send someone for the doctor.” - -The woman put the lamp down on the floor where she stood and started -alone down the driveway, running. - -“Call the servants,” said John. “You may have to carry him in.” - -But she went only faster. He followed her. Before he could overtake her -she met Enoch. He could see them both clearly in the light streaming -from the doorway. The woman looked at Enoch anxiously and made as if to -touch him, solicitously. He did not exactly ignore her; he seemed not -to see her at all and walked steadily on. - -John turned out of the light and passed unobserved in the darkness. -Then he ran headlong off the grounds, feeling at each step that his -knees would let him down. His emotional state was almost unmanageable. -The episode with Enoch at the gate had been not only very mysterious -but fraught with some ghastly inner meaning to which he had no clue -whatever. He knew nothing of Enoch’s obsession that he, John, was Aaron -reincarnated. He had never heard of that boyhood contest in which Enoch -broke Aaron’s arm. Therefore he could not know what it meant in Enoch’s -troubled brain to find in the arm of Aaron’s son the scar of a similar -fracture at almost precisely the corresponding place. To him it _was_ -the same scar in the same arm. It was the last thing needed to fix his -hallucination and the discovery had momentarily overwhelmed his senses. - -In that instant he had called John by his father’s name,--Aaron! - -What did it mean? Intuitively John knew that here was the key to the -riddle. But he could not apply it. He could see that in taking Esther, -his mother, away from Enoch his father had brought upon himself -Enoch’s undying hatred. He could understand how such hatred might -naturally be transferred to the son. Only, in that case, how could he -explain the fact that until now Enoch’s attitude toward him had been -friendly or indifferent? - - - - -XX - - -So his thoughts were running in this perplexed and absent manner when -suddenly a very urgent question burst through. - -“What of Agnes?” - -She was not at home. He could think of no way to find her unassisted. -He knew not where to look next and time was pressing. It was necessary -to raise a wide alarm and organize a search. But he had no authority -to act. It was her father’s business to take such steps. Now recalling -what he had said to Enoch through the gate about Agnes he realized that -it was absurdly inadequate. He had not at all communicated his fears -concerning her. Therefore, though the thought of another encounter with -Enoch made him shudder, he would have to go back. On this decision he -came to a sudden stop and was surprised to see how far he had come -unawares, and that he was not on the highway. When or how he had left -it he did not remember. “I must have come fast,” he thought. He was -half way back to New Damascus, not far from the mill, in a road that -further on became a street running into sooty locust trees, cinder -sidewalks, rows of company houses and a stale, historic smell of fried -food. Turning in his tracks he was making back when his name was called -from the side of the road by a voice he instantly knew. - -“Thane!” he said, going toward him. “I need you. Please go--oh! I’m -sorry. I thought you were alone.” - -He veered off at seeing the figure of a woman behind Thane, leaning on -the fence, her face averted; but Thane, coming forward, caught him by -the arm, saying anxiously: - -“I need your advice is why I called you.” - -“Hold it, whatever it is, Thane,” John answered. “I can’t stop now. I -just can’t.” He was pulling away. - -“Won’t hold,” said Thane. - -“It must,” said John. “I can’t stop. I’m sorry.” He liked Thane and was -loath to leave him in a lurch. “Go to the hotel and wait for me there,” -he said, pushing him off. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” - -With that he was going when the woman spoke. - -“Are you looking for me?” - -“Agnes!” said John to himself, as a declaration of preposterous fact. -He wheeled around and stood stone still. - -One instant before he had been mad with anxiety to hear her voice. -Yet to the sound of it, so collected and sure, his emotional reaction -was one of fierce anger. There was also a desolate world-wide sense -of loss. Why he was angry or what was lost he could not have said in -words. These feelings referred to her. Toward Thane there was a thought -that seemed to rise behind him with purpose and power of its own; and -he braced his back against it. - -“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, approaching her. “I -found these.” He held out the handkerchief and scarf. She took them. -“Then I went to the mansion ... and....” There he stopped. - -“Yes. What did you learn there?” she asked. - -His anger kept rising. How could she be so suave and frontal about it? -He had actually the impulse to set hands upon her roughly and demand -to know what she had been doing, how she came to be here alone on a -dark road with an iron puddler and how she could pretend to be so -unembarrassed. - -“Nothing,” he said. “It had just this instant occurred to me to go back -and try again. I was in a beastly fume about you.” - -“And seem to be still,” she said, in a way to put him in mind of the -high tone he had been using. - -“For reasons to which you are pleased to be oblivious,” he retorted. -“It is to be imagined that I have some interest in seeing you safely -home. May I take you on from here?” - -“Another one,” Agnes murmured in a tone of soliloquy. “How repetitious!” - -The thought touched off her feelings. They exploded in a burst of -shrill, irrelevant laughter. John was scandalized. His rage was -boundless. Yet at the same time his sense of responsibility increased. -Abominable thoughts assailed him. He wondered if perhaps her father had -not been right to keep her under restraint. He fervently wished he had -never tempted her to break out. A resolve to get her home by force if -necessary was forming in his mind when Thane put in. - -“They ain’t no home,” he said. “That’s the trouble.” - -“What do you know about it?” John asked, blazing. - -“Oughten I know somewhat about it seeing as she’s my own wife?” said -Thane, with dismal veracity. - -John, for an instant appalled, turned fiercely on Agnes. “Now what -have you done?” he asked. She was so startled by his manner that she -couldn’t speak. “What have you done?” he demanded, now shaking her and -with such authority that for a moment her spirit quailed. “Is it true? -Are you married?” - -“Yes,” she said. - -“To a....” He caught the word just in time, slowly let go of her and -stepped back. - -“Say it,” she dared him. “To a ... to ... a what? Go on. Say it.” - -John’s anger was gone. Other emotions had swallowed it up,--sorrow, -pity, remorse, that devastating sense of loss again, more poignant than -before in some new way, and above all a great yearning toward both of -them. - -“Where?” he asked, in a changed voice. - -“In my father’s house,” said Agnes, derisively. “What a pity you missed -it!” - -“But what happened?” asked John. - -She answered weirdly, improvising silly words to a silly tune:-- - - “What hap-pen-ed - What hap-pen-ed - What hap-pen-ed - Here Mildred? - - “That hap-pen-ed - That hap-pen-ed - That hap-pen-ed - Sir, she said.” - -A horrified silence fell. - -“Was it flat?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I know something to do. Let’s -each one tell the story of his life. Shall I begin?” - -She began to sing again:-- - - “What hap-pen-ed ...” - -“Please,” said John. “Please don’t. You make my blood run cold.” - -“She’s that way ever since,” said Thane, with an air of sharing his -misery. - -“Then you tell me,” said John. - -“I carried her home,” said Thane, now weary of telling it, “from where -she got hurt between me an’ the Cornishman knocking ourselves around in -the path, an’ old Enoch he got a wicked notion as I don’t know what an’ -sent for the preacher an’ we was married. Then he handed me the blue -ticket an’ put us out of the house.” - -John turned to Agnes with a question on his tongue. She anticipated him -and began to sing:-- - - “What hap-pen-ed ...” - -As he shuddered and turned away again she stopped. - -“I was coming for my street clothes to where I live,” continued Thane, -“being as I was all that time in my puddling rig an’ we got bogged -here like you see us now. Nothing I say let’s do will move her. And -when I say all right, what does she want, she chanties about me, making -them up out of nothing.” - -“When they get like that,” said John, “you have to use force. You’ve -got to pick them up.” - -“Can’t work it,” said Thane. - -“Why not? Does she bite?” - -“No.” - -“What then?” - -“Can’t work it,” said Thane. “Not since,” he added. - -“The subject of this clinic is conscious,” said Agnes, pleasantly. - -They paid no attention to her. - -“You board, don’t you? You were not intending to take her there?” said -John. - -“Only so as to get my clothes,” said Thane. - -“We can’t do anything until you get your clothes,” said John. “That’s -plain. I’ll stay here with her while you go for them. But don’t be -long. Then maybe we can think of something to do.” - -Thane went off at once with a tremendous sigh of relief in the feeling -of action. His feet made a cavernous _tlump, tlump, tlump_-ing on the -hard dirt road. John, who stood regarding Agnes from the side of the -road, was sure he saw her shudder. Then from the heedless tone with -which she broke the silence he was sure he had been mistaken. - -“It seems you know my husband,” she said. - -He was surprised that she had no difficulty with the word, though it -must have been the first time she had ever used it in the possessive -sense--and in such circumstances! - -“Can’t you think of anything feasible to do?” John asked. - -“Do you like him?” she inquired. - -“Because if you can’t,” said John, “I can. It’s too much for Thane. -That isn’t fair.” - -He supposed she was thinking. To his disgust she began to sing, softly, -tunefully: - - “Lovely maiden, tell me truly, - Is the ocean very wet? - If I meet you on the bottom, - Will you never once----” - -“Stop it!” He moved as if to menace her. She stopped and looked at him -soberly. - -“Is there nothing I can do to entertain you? I might recite. And you -haven’t answered my question.” - -“You give me the horrors,” he blurted. “No, no I’m sorry. I’m unstrung, -that’s all. Please do be serious. We’ve got to think of what we shall -do.” - -“Who are we?” - -“I beg your pardon. You, then,” he amended. - -“Who are you?” she asked. - -“Agnes, do for....” - -“Mrs. Thane, please.” - -“I don’t expect you to be amiable,” he said, “but please for one moment -be reasonable.” - -“When they are like that you can’t do anything with them,” she said. -“Really you can’t. You will have to see my husband.” - -She had seated herself on a grassy bench with her back to the fence, -her feet in the dry ditch, and was viciously jabbing the earth with a -limber stick. She threw the stick from her, leaned back, folded her -arms and tilted her chin at the sky, with an air of casting John out of -existence. He had given up trying to talk and stood observing her in -an overt manner. It was thus he saw how she looked at the moon, first -vacantly without seeing it, then with a start as of recognition or -recollection, and at length with an expression of such twisted mocking -wistfulness that he knew one shape of her heart and turned wretchedly -away, almost wishing he had not seen. - -For a long time she did not move. She seemed under a kind of spell. -Thane found them so, in separate states of reverie. Neither heard his -footsteps approaching. - -“I was thinking why should I bother you like this,” said Thane, “being -though as we are friends in a way. If only it was so as I could touch -something.” - -“Thane,” said John, slowly, “listen to what I am thinking. The skeins -of our three lives have run together in a hard knot. Mine and that of -Agnes were already twisted together in a very strange history. Yours -got entangled by chance, heaven knows why. Fate does it. Nobody is to -blame. But I am responsible.” - -“For us being married?” asked Thane. - -“For that, yes. But for a great deal more. I am only beginning to see -the meaning of things. By inheritance I am responsible for something -my father and mother did to Enoch before I was born, for the fact that -Agnes is his daughter and he is not my father, for the fact that he -is mad. He has had his revenge on Aaron’s son, greater than he knows. -What that means I cannot tell you. I shall never say it again. But what -I want you to see is that I cannot leave you to face the consequences -alone. It is not a matter of friendship. You are married to Agnes. In a -foster sense I am married to both of you.” - -His face was lighted from within. He spoke in the absent, anonymous -manner of one undergoing a mystical experience. Something of his mood -entered Thane. With one impulse they had struck hands and now stood -looking deeply into each other’s eyes. - -“I don’t know as I see what you mean,” said Thane. - -“No,” said John. “You wouldn’t. I’ve confused you, trying to get it all -said at once. There is first the fact that we are friends. My feeling -for you in that way has increased suddenly, I don’t quite know why. And -now, above that, is my sense of responsibility for what has happened. -You must accept my view of that. It shall be understood that I have a -right to stand by and that I may be trusted ... absolutely trusted ... -whatever comes....” - -He groped and stopped and seemed to have gone to sleep with his eyes -open. - -Thane moved uneasily. John, returning to himself, started slightly and -released Thane’s hand. When he spoke his voice was altered. - -“I can’t make it come clear,” he said. “I thought I could.” - -“I’ve looked my eyes out that way, too,” said Thane. “Let’s take it as -it is.” - -What John at first had so clear a vision of was an act of heroic -self-denial. It thrilled him with momentary ecstasy. That may be -understood. Man is an emotional formation, subject to sudden passions, -one of which is the passion of sacrifice. Blindly on the spot he rears -an altar, lays the wood in order and looks to see what offering hath in -a miraculous manner provided itself to be burnt. Lo! there stands the -one thing most beloved in all the world. The Lord sometimes interferes, -as for Isaac. Sometimes the victim saves itself. Then again the man -draws back. He has not the heart to do it. - -John drew back. To conclude the covenant with Thane meant forswearing -Agnes in his heart forever. That was a vow he could neither bring -himself to make nor trust himself to keep. And yet, any secret -reservation seemed treachery to Thane. So there he stood before this -truth of contradiction and “looked his eyes out” at it. How came Thane -to have a thought like that? - -Agnes was observing them intently with one elbow on her knee, her chin -in her hand, eyes half closed. She was not thinking. She was verifying -a kind of knowledge that underlies the mind. She knew why John -faltered, why he lost his way toward what he meant to do, what that -was, and why he dropped Thane’s hand. She knew what it was of a sudden -to become a woman and why a woman need never be afraid. - -Far away in the sky of her immemorial self, so far that what she saw -of it was but its heat’s reflection, passed a flash of contempt for -those tame, romantic vanities in which now man sublimates the reckless -impulses of his savage egoism. At that instant, too, as it were in the -light of this archaic intuition, there stood upon her memory the figure -of the Cornishman, and she was horribly ashamed. - -Nevertheless she continued to feel cynical about the emotional male -principle. It bored her. There was one obvious thing to do. There was -in fact only one thing possible to be done. But apparently neither -Thane nor John was ever going to think of it, or give her a chance to -suggest it without boldly naming it. One might have thought they had -forgotten her existence. They stood in the middle of the road, John -with his back to her, Thane with his eyes in the heavens, sharing a -vast man-silence. She was at the core of that silence; she was all -there was there. That did not interest her at all. She wished to be -somewhere else. - -She got up quietly and walked away from them, away from New Damascus, -with a very bad list and limp. They overtook her in four or five steps, -one on each side. - -“What’s this way now?” Thane asked. - -No answer. - -“She isn’t fit to walk,” said John. “Don’t let her do it.” - -She looked at Thane; the gesture he was making toward her froze in the -air. - -“Take her as you would a nettle, firmly,” John recommended. - -“’Tain’t what’s outside I’m afraid of,” said Thane. - -Stepping ahead and turning, John confronted her. Thane did the same. -She made to go around them, right. They moved that way. She made to go -around them, left. They moved that way. With a frustrated gesture she -gave it up, turned a tormented profile and made them feel how much she -despised them. - -“Mrs. Thane,” said John, “do you wish to leave New Damascus--leave it -now--tonight?” - -Agnes turned on him in a sudden rage of exasperation. - -“Fly, I suppose! Fly away with a--a--what is he? I forget.” - -“Oh, oh,” John groaned. - -“What are you?” she said to Thane. - -“Puddler,” he answered, with dignity, the look of a hurt animal in his -face. - -“It’s very well known,” she said, “puddlers don’t fly. Besides it’s -too late. We’ve stopped to think. We had to take time to change his -clothes. He’s out of a job and has no money. He told me so. I wonder -what the wives of puddlers do.” - -“Some would envy you your sting,” said John, horrified at what she was -doing to Thane. She understood him perfectly. - -“But you are immune,” she said. “I have not married you. Or have I? Are -you this puddler’s David? What are your rights in him? How come you to -suppose that you have rights in me?” - -“Tantrums, thank God, and not hysterics,” said John. - -“Shall we spend the rest of the night in this way?” she asked. “And -what then?” - -“I am leaving New Damascus tonight,” said John, pursuing a flash of -intuition. - -Agnes gave him an incredulous glance. - -“So far as I know, forever,” he continued. “This decision is my own. -You have nothing to do with it. But if you were also about to leave, -perhaps taking the same direction, why shouldn’t we go together, as far -as it’s parallel?” - -“Who goes or stays, no matter what happens, I shall not be in sight of -New Damascus at daybreak,” said Agnes, her face averted from both John -and her husband, and she spoke as one making a vow. “So, whatever you -do,” she added, “please hurry.” - -Thane would have asked her a question, not knowing how women consent; -John restrained him with a sign. - -“Then I’ll pick you up here,” he said, setting off abruptly. “And I -won’t be very long.” - -When he returned with a smart bay team and a light road wagon, his -own rig, the moon was sinking. Agnes was asleep on the dewy grass in -Thane’s coat. He wrapped her in the rug John held out to him and -lifted her to the seat. She was docile and limp, like a groggy child. -John had to hold her erect until Thane got up on the other side. She -sat between them. - -Where the road turns abruptly out of the valley John pulled up and -looked back. It was now quite dark. All that he could see was the mill, -like a live malignant cinder in the eye of darkness, glowing faintly, -going almost out, then spurting forth quick tongues of flame. He had -the sensation of a great solitary weight rolling about in his stomach. -Tears came to his eyes. Until that moment he had not known that he -cared for New Damascus. His caring was like an inherited memory. - -And though he knew it not, this night was the time and his exit the -sign that sealed the fate of New Damascus. It was left in the hands of -Enoch, who fanatically withheld it from the steel age. - -“Where to?” Thane asked. - -“Wilkes-Barre tonight,” said John. “Then to Pittsburgh. I’m buying a -mill at Pittsburgh that I want you to take hold of. We’ll discuss it -tomorrow.” - -“What shape of mill?” asked Thane. - -John hesitated. - -“Nothing like the mill behind us,” he said. - -The idea of buying a mill had only that instant come to him. So of -course he did not know what kind of mill it was. - -He looked at Agnes. She was sound asleep, leaning on Thane, who had his -arm around her. Again he looked at her. She was in the same position, -but her eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead. - - - - -XXI - - -The flying triangle reached Wilkes-Barre for breakfast. - -While waiting for Agnes, John and Thane transacted an important piece -of business. - -“Look here,” said John. - -He sat at a desk in the office and wrote rapidly on a sheet of hotel -paper as follows: - - MEMORANDUM OF CONTRACT - - In consideration of one month’s wages paid in hand on the signing of - this paper, Alexander Thane agrees to give his skill and services - exclusively to the North American Manufacturing Company, Ltd., - (John Breakspeare, agent), for a period of two years, and the North - American Manufacturing Company, Ltd., agrees to pay Alexander Thane - not less that five thousand dollars a year, plus a ten per cent. - share in the profits. - - Signed { - { JOHN BREAKSPEARE - -“Put your name over mine,” he said, handing the paper to Thane, who -read it slowly. - -“This the mill you meant last night?” - -“Yes,” said John. - -“How did you come to know as I could run a mill?” - -“I think you can,” John said. - -Thane signed his name in large, bold writing, blotted it hard, and -handed the paper back to John. - -“You’re right,” he said. “I can. And if it appears for any reason as I -can’t that thing ain’t no good and you can tear it up.” - -It never occurred to him that the business had a fabulous aspect. He -took what John said at its face value. He could imagine no other way -of taking a friend’s word. And if it were unusual for a young puddler -to become a participating mill superintendent over night, so urgently -wanted that he must sign up before breakfast, that might be easily -explained. His friend, John Breakspeare, was an extravagant person, -very impulsive, with unexpected flashes of insight. Who else would have -known what Thane could do? Anyhow he had got the right man to run the -mill. Thane was sure of that. He supposed John was sure of it, too. - -John just then was sure of nothing. His one anxiety was to get Thane -and Agnes into some kind of going order. He was aware that his motives -were exceedingly complex and would not examine them. He let himself off -with saying it was his moral responsibility; he was to blame for having -got them into a dilemma that neither was able to cope with. Yet all the -time he was thrilled by what he did because he was doing it for Agnes. - -Thane’s artlessness about the contract was an instant relief. A -fatal difficulty might otherwise have arisen at that point. But it -was also very surprising. Was he so extremely naïve? Or had he such -a notion of his ability to conduct a mill as to think he would be -worth five thousand a year and one-tenth of the profits? Yes, that -was the explanation, John decided: and it gave him a bad twist in his -conscience to think how hurt and unforgiving Thane would be if he knew -the truth,--that he had signed a contract with a non-existent company -to superintend a mythical mill. - -They ate a hearty breakfast, coming to it from a night in the open -air with no sleep at all. Although they talked very little they were -friendly under a truce without terms, all tingling with a sense of -plastic adventure. There was no telling what would come of it; but it -was exciting; and everything that happened was new. - -Both Agnes and John had a surreptitious eye for the puddler’s manners. -They were not intrinsically bad or disgusting. They were only -fundamentally wrong. He delivered with his knife, took his coffee from -his saucer, modelled and arranged his food before attacking it, cut all -his meat at once, did everything that cannot be done, and did it all -with a certain finish. That is to say, he was a neat eater, very handy -with his tools, and cleaned up. He took pride in the performance; his -confidence in it was impervious. He was not in the least embarrassed -or uneasy. He did not wait to see what they did. He did it his way and -minded his own business. - -Once John caught Agnes eyeing Thane aslant, and she stared him down for -it. He could not decide whether she was scandalized or fascinated. - -When they had finished Thane called for the reckoning and paid, John -politely protesting, Agnes looking somewhat surprised. After that in -all cases Thane paid for two and John paid for himself. - -Instead of resting for a day in Wilkes-Barre they chose to go on by -train to Pittsburgh and arrived there in the middle of the afternoon. -John recommended a hotel where he was sure they could be quite -comfortable while deciding how they wished to live. He was acquainted -there. He would introduce them. In fact, it was where he meant to lodge -himself. So of course they all went together. - -John managed the whole affair of settling them in their rooms, doing it -so tactfully, however, as to leave Thane with the sense of having done -it himself. When at last there was not another thing to be thought of -John held out his hand to Agnes, saying: - -“Congratulations.” - -This was subtle, wicked treachery, and in the act was a sting of shame, -yet her coolness was so audacious he could not resist the temptation to -try its depth. She took his hand and met his look with steady eyes. - -“Thank you,” she said. “May I share them with my husband?” - -“No, don’t,” he said. “They are all his. I’m about to lose my wits. -Well, no matter.... Thane,”--turning to him,--“Mrs. Thane may want to -do some shopping. The best places are three blocks east. I’ll see you -in the morning. Or later, perhaps? There’s no hurry.” - -“Tomorrow morning,” Thane answered. - -They were standing in a group outside the Thanes’ rooms, loath to break -up, each for a different reason. - -“I’m under the same roof, you know, if you should need me,” said John. - -“Thanks,” said Thane. - -Still they lingered in a group. - -“Have a bit of supper with us,” said Thane, suddenly. - -“Not tonight,” said John. “We shall be too sleepy.” - -Agnes was silent. - -After a long pause, “Well,” said Thane, “this is Pittsburgh.” - -John pensively nodded his head, and added, “Well.” - -Agnes might have yawned. That would have produced the necessary -centrifugal impulse. Or she might have said something to have that -effect. But she was apparently sunk in thought. - -After another long pause the two men shook hands in a hasty manner -and John walked rapidly down the hall. From the head of the staircase -he looked back. They were still there,--Agnes, her hands behind her, -leaning against the wall with her head thrown back, gazing from afar at -Thane, who stood in an awkward twist, with one superfluous leg, looking -away. His face was towards John, and John waved his hand, but there was -no response. The puddler was staring at an invisible thing. - -That last accidental glimpse of them left a vivid after-image in John’s -eyes. It stood there for hours like a transparent illusion. He walked -the sun down on a country road and still it was there. Returning, -he paced the streets until ten o’clock and it tortured him still. -Coming presently to a fine brick house, not very large, with a marble -fountain and small flower garden in front, he turned in. His feet knew -their way up the narrow walk and he pulled the bell knob with the air -of one to whom nothing unexpected is likely to happen. No light was -anywhere visible. The windows were hermetically shuttered. Nor did -his pull at the bell knob produce any audible sound. Yet almost at -once the door opened, revealing a brilliantly lighted interior, and a -servant in livery bowed him in. There was an air of vulgar elegance -about the hall. The servant did not speak. Having offered to take the -visitor’s hat, to which the visitor shook his head, he opened a heavy -door to the right and there came from beyond it intermittent sounds -of small clatter. The room John entered was what had been the front -drawing room. Back of it were two more rooms, in a train to the depth -of the house, all thrown together by means of unfolded doors, so that -the effect was of one very long apartment, about thirty feet wide, -laid with rich, deep carpet on which the feet made not the slightest -sound. The walls were full of pictures, some of them good. There were -several art objects on pedestals, a great many nice chairs and some -small tables, like tea tables, evidently used for serving refreshments. -On one of these tables was a large humidor and on another a tray with -a cut glass service of decanters, goblets and ice bowl. That was all, -except down both sides of the first two rooms roulette wheels and in -the last room at the end three faro layouts. - -Twenty or thirty men were betting at roulette, in groups of three or -four each. John passed them with a negligent, preoccupied air, walking -straight back. - -No faro play was just then going on. At one layout sat a dealer in -that state of chilled ophidian tension characteristic of professional -gamblers in the face of their prey, and by none so remarkably achieved -as by the faro bank dealer, who drinks ice water without warming it, -who sees without looking, who speaks only under great provocation -and then softly, and whose slightest movement is pontifical until he -reaches for the six-shooter. That movement is as a rattlesnake strikes. - -On the players’ side of a faro table are representations of the -thirteen cards,--ace, deuce, trey, etc., to the king, in two rows of -six each with the seven at one end. On the dealer’s side, besides -the rack containing the chips, the cash drawer and the invisible -six-shooter, is a little metal box in which a pack of cards will snugly -lie, face up. The dealer moves the cards off one at a time. They fall -alternately into two piles. One pile wins; the other loses. The players -bet which pile a card will fall in, indicating it by the way they place -their money on the table. No vocal sound is necessary. It is a silent -game. The expert might play for ever and never speak a word. - -John dragged up a large chair, hung his coat on the back of it, settled -himself to face the dealer and passed five hundred dollars across the -table. The dealer put the money in the cash drawer and pushed out five -stacks of yellow chips. John began to play. He did not make his bets at -random. He played a slow, rhythmic, two-handed game, never hesitating, -always thoughtful, precisely with the air of a man playing solitaire. - -For an hour or more he lost steadily. Several times his hands made a -bothered gesture, as of clearing the space in front of his face. The -dealer, the cards, the yellow chips, all objects of common reality, -were dim and uncertain, by reason of the image persisting in his -eyes,--that etched impression of Agnes and Thane in the hallway, so -twain, so improbable, yet so imminent, so-- ... so--.... - -He groaned aloud and held his head between clenched hands. The dealer -stopped and waited. Players sometimes behave that way. - -Recalling himself with a start, John looked up, cleared his play, gave -the dealer a nod to proceed and doubled the scale of his bets. That -made his game steep enough to attract attention. A little gallery -gathered. No one else cut in. He kept the table to himself. Gradually -the haunted mist broke up. The tormenting picture went away. If it -threatened to return he raised his bets again. His health revived. He -had some supper brought in and ate it as he played. He played all night. - -At seven he rose, yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes like a man coming -out of a deep sleep, pushed his chips across the table to be cashed, -and drew on his coat while the dealer counted them. - -He had won over three thousand dollars. But it was neither the fact -of his winning nor the amount of his gain that floated his spirits. -It was getting that picture out of his eyes and the feeling that went -with it out of his heart. Losing would have served him quite as well, -psychically, though of course winning was only that much more to boot. - -Always for him the excitement of chance was a perfect refuge from -thought and reality, better than sleep, which may be troubled with -dreams, and restful in the same way that dreamless sleep is. - -Now as he walked toward the hotel, though the morning was wet and -heavy, he felt fresh in his body and optimistic in his mind. He could -think of seeing Agnes and Thane at breakfast without that ugly lurching -of his heart. - -They were in the dining room when he arrived there an hour later. His -impulse was to let them alone, but Thane, seeing him, stood up and -beckoned. - -“We kept a place for you,” he said. - -It was so. The table was laid for three. John wondered whose wish that -was. - -“I’ve had word from New Damascus,” he said to Agnes. “Your father is -all right.” - -“Was there any reason to think he might not be all right?” she asked in -surprise. - -“No, no,” he said. “It was merely mentioned, like the state of the -weather.” - -She detected his confusion. - -“You saw him last,” she said. “Did anything unusual occur?” She was -regarding him keenly. - -“I thought he looked ill, or about to be,” John said, “And I asked the -servants to call the doctor. Apparently it was nothing. Anyhow ... I’ve -had word that he’s all right.” - -She did not pursue the subject, but became suddenly silent, and -thereafter avoided John’s eyes, for in the midst of his explanation his -expression had changed. He had looked at her in a most extraordinary -way and she suffered a deep psychic disturbance. It was as if he had -blunderingly discovered a nameless secret. And that was precisely what -had happened. As he was talking to her,--positively as he would swear -with no wanton curiosity in his mind,--as he looked at her and as her -eyes met his in open frankness there came an instant in which he saw -how matters stood. - -How can one tell? One cannot tell. It tells itself in the way the eyes -look back, in what is missing from them, in something there that was -not there before, in a certain hardness of the chin. - -In no such way had Agnes changed. - -That was what John saw. The discovery shook him. All his senses leaped -exultingly. She was not Thane’s,--not yet. Wild thoughts got loose. -The dining room began to sway. Then he looked at Thane and enormously -repented. His feeling for Thane was one of intense affection. He could -no more help it than he could help his feeling for Agnes. They were -separate chemistries, antagonistic. So he was torn between them, and -when he could bear it no longer he began clumsily to excuse himself. - -“We are delayed by legal formalities,” he said to Thane. “May be three -or four days yet. Take it easy. The company can stand it.” - -So he left them abruptly. - -All that day he fled from himself. All night he played. The next -morning he looked at his haggard self in the mirror,--looked deeply -into his own eyes, and said aloud: - -“But she is his, not mine, and I will let her be, by God.” - -On that he slept for twenty-four hours and rose on the third day with -a strong appetite, a clear mind and a great vow to the divinity with -whom he kept now a time of feud, now a time of grace, whimsically -alternating. - - - - -XXII - - -The divinity that made the pattern of John’s life is infinitely -mysterious. Some call it luck. Others call it chance. Both are begging -names. Mathematicians call it probability--the theory of, and devote a -branch of their science to it. Definition is impossible. It is whatever -it is that causes, permits or brings one thing to happen in place -of all the other things that might just as well have happened. Its -commonest manifestations are profoundly obscure. On the first toss of -a coin the chances are even between head and tail. On the second toss -they change. Why they change nobody can tell; but everyone knows that -the odds against the heads coming twice in succession are two to one. -If you think of it, how preposterous! Rationally, how can the result of -one throw create any probability as to the result of the next? Yet it -does. Here evidently is some principle or rhythmic variation that we do -not understand. - -We speak of the law of chance. There is no such thing, for if chance -could be reduced to law it would cease to be chance. It is outside any -law we know. The mathematical odds are two to one against double heads, -yet the head may happen to come ten times in succession, so that the -actual predestined odds against the tail showing once in ten throws -were ten to one. If the head may come ten times in succession, could it -come a thousand times? No one will say it could not. But since it has -never happened as a matter of record you can’t imagine it, and the odds -against it are what you will. - -The fact of oneself is an amazing unlikelihood. The biological chances -against one’s getting born as one is, plus the chances against any -particular organism getting born at all, must have been billions to -one. Yet here one is, thinking it had been precisely inevitable since -all eternity. Perhaps it was. There may be no such thing as chance. It -may be only that we never know all the factors. It may be. Yet does not -everyone believe from experience that survival is a continuous chance? - -There are innumerable chances for and against one’s living another -day, another hour. These chances are estimated statistically and great -companies are formed to bet on them. That is life insurance. The -insurance company bets not on the life of an individual, for that would -be gambling; it bets that the aggregate life of ten thousand people -will correspond to the average duration of human life, and that works -out, because those who fall short of the average are balanced by those -who exceed it, and there is an average. But any single life is the -sport of pure chance. And we know nothing about this fickle arbiter. -Therefore we become superstitious. Belief in luck is the only universal -religion. Luck is the happy chance. The right thing happens when it is -needed. It strains a point to happen. Why it happens, in streaks, why -it happens more to some than to others, why to a darling few it happens -importunately,--these are questions one asks in a rhetorical sense. -There is no answer. Luck and genius may be two aspects of the same -thing. Luck happens and genius happens, and there is no accounting for -it. - -It came to be a notorious saying about John Breakspeare that he was -lucky. But people at the same time said he was dangerous, which would -mean that he sometimes failed. That was true. He often failed. When -that happened he did not curse his luck. It only occurred to him that -he had played the wrong chance, and he went on from there. Probably in -a case like his there is a highly developed intuition of the winning -chance corresponding to a musical composer’s intuition of harmony. The -principles of harmony have been partially discovered. But the rhythms -of chance are still a mystery. - -Certainly it was chance, not luck, that brought John this day to the -edge of a small crowd in front of the county court house just as the -auctioneer was saying: - -“Three thousand--three thousand--three thousand--t-h-r-E-E thous-A-N-D! -Three thousand dollars for a first class nail mill. Why, gentlemen, it -would fetch more than that by the pound for junk. Three thousand do I -hear one? Three thousand do I hear one? GOING, at three--One! Thank -you, sir.” - -He bowed ironically to John. - -“Thirty-one--thirty-one--thirty-one hund-r-e-d! Do-I-hear-two? -Do-I-hear-two? Do-I-hear-two? Two over there! Now do I hear three? -Do-I-hear-three? Two-do-I-hear-three?” - -He was looking at John. - -“Going at thirty-two. Are you all DONE? T-h-i-r-t-y-two, ONCE. -T-h-i-r-t-y-two, T W I C E. T-h-i-r-t-y-two for the third and--” - -John nodded his head. - -“Three! Three-I-have, three-I-have, three-I-have. Thirty-three-hundred -dollars for an up-to-date iron mill in the great city of Pittsburgh. -Thirty-three-hundred. Do I hear four? Four do I hear? Thirty-three, -thirty-three, thirty-three. Going at thirty-three hundred. Going, ONCE. -Going, TWICE. Going for the third and last time--SOLD! to that young -man over there. Now, gentlemen, the next property to be sold by the -decree of the court is a nail mill as is a mill. It has a capacity of--” - -John, thrusting his way through the crowd, interrupted. - -“Where shall I go to settle for this?” - -The auctioneer eyed him suspiciously and relighted his cigar before -speaking. - -“If I were you,” he squinted, “I’d try the clerk of the court.” - -“Where is he?” - -“Haven’t you seen him?” - -“No.” - -“Why not?” - -“There was no occasion.” - -The auctioneer could not stand anything so opaque. It made him -sarcastic. - -“If you have been playing booby horse with me and the court,--if you -h-a-v-e! Does anybody around here know your figger to look at it?” - -“This is a public auction, isn’t it?” John asked. - -“Yes-sir-ee.” - -“A certain property was put up here for sale?” - -“Yes-sir-ee.” - -“Well, I bought it,” said John. “Now I want to pay for it. Is that -clear? I want to pay for it in cash. Does that make it any clearer? -Whom shall I pay? That’s all I want to know.” - -The auctioneer saved his ego with a gesture of being exceedingly bored. -He turned to the bailiff at his side and wearily tore from his hands -a large legal document. “I’ll read this,” he said. “Take him in to -the clerk.” Then he resumed--“A nail mill as is a mill, gentlemen, -particularly described, if we may read without further interruption, in -terms as follows:--” - -Half an hour later John walked out of the courthouse with title to a -mill he had never seen, guaranteed by the bankruptcy court to exist -in Twenty-ninth Street and to contain tools, machines, devices, etc., -pertaining to the manufacture of cut iron nails. It was one of four -nail mills sold that day on the court house steps. - -“Can’t be much of a mill,” mused John. “Still, it doesn’t take much of -a mill to be worth thirty-three hundred dollars.” - -Not until long afterward, and then not very hard, did the incongruity -of this transaction strike his sense of humor. And in fact it was not -as irrational as it might seem. He had to have a mill of some sort -in which to place Thane. Nail mills were very cheap because they had -increased too fast and were falling into bankruptcy. The other bidders -undoubtedly were men who not only had examined the mill but who knew -the state of the nail industry. It was not likely that they would -over-value the property; and he paid only one hundred dollars more than -they had been willing to give for it. - -The next thing he did was to visit a lawyer whom he favorably -remembered from slight acquaintance. That was Jubal Awns,--two small -black eyes in a big round head and a pleasant way of saying yes. - -John drew a slip of paper from his pocket. He wished to incorporate a -company, to be styled the North American Manufacturing Company, Ltd., -with an authorized capital of a quarter of a million dollars and three -incorporators,--himself, the lawyer Awns and a man named Thane. - -“What is the business?” Awns asked. - -“Manufacturing,” said John. - -“Yes,” said Awns, “but what do we manufacture? What is the property to -be incorporated?” - -“A nail mill to begin with,” said John. - -“Where is it?” - -“Here in Pittsburgh. Thirty-ninth Street.” - -“That’s got me,” said Awns. “I can’t think of any nail mill in -Thirty-ninth Street.” - -John looked at the bill of sale and improved the address without the -slightest change of expression. - -“Twenty-ninth,” he said. - -The lawyer took the bill of sale, glanced at it, and gave John a -curious look. - -“Have you seen it?” - -“No.” - -“Bought it sight unseen?” - -“Yes.” - -“How much stock of this new company do you mean to issue?” - -“Founders’ shares, or whatever they are, and then stock to myself for -what I put in,--the mill, the money to start with, and so on.” - -“Then why an authorized capital of a quarter of a million?” - -“Because I’m going into the iron and steel business,” said John. - -Awns studied him in silence. - -“You have quit with Gib at New Damascus?” - -“I’m out for myself,” said John. - -“All right,” said Awns. “Here’s for the North American Manufacturing -Company, Limited.” - -They drew up papers. At the end of the business John asked: “Will you -take your fee in cash or stock?” - -Jubal Awns was amazed, and somehow challenged, too. He was ten years -older than John, successful and shrewd, with a delusion that he was -romantic. He loved to dramatize a matter and make unexpected decisions. -Putting down the papers he got up and walked three times across the -floor with an air of meditation. - -“I’ll take it in stock,” he said, “provided I may incorporate all of -your companies and take my fees that way each time.” - -They shook hands on it. - -It was late that afternoon when John and Thane together set out in -a buggy from the hotel to inspect the mill. Thane was eager and -communicative. He had not been taking it easy. He evidently had visited -all the big mills in and around Pittsburgh. He had seen some new -practice and much that was bad, and had got a lot of ideas. He had -informed himself as to the conditions of labor. Here and there he had -found a man he meant to pick up. - -And all the time John’s heart was sinking. - -As they turned into Twenty-ninth Street the eight stacks of the -Keystone Iron Works rose in their eyes. No other iron working plant was -visible in the vicinity, and as John, looking for his nail mill, began -to slow up, Thane leaped to the notion that the Keystone was their goal. - -“She’s a whale,” he said, enthusiastically, but with no sound of awe. -John gave him a squinting glance. - -“Would you tackle that?” he asked. - -“Oh,” said Thane, “then that ain’t it.” In his tone was a sense of -disappointment that answered John’s question. Of course he would tackle -it. - -They drove slowly past the Keystone, past dump heaps, sand lots, a row -of unpainted, upside down boxes called houses, and came at length to -a group of rude sheds, one large one and four small ones. One of the -small ones, open in front like a wood-shed, was filled with empty nail -kegs in tiers. - -The front door of the big central shed was propped shut with an iron -bar. John kicked it away, pulled the door open, and they went in. A -figure rose out of the dimness, asking, “What’d ye want?” - -“Are you Coleman’s caretaker?” John asked. Coleman was the name of the -bankrupt. - -“Yep,” said the man. - -So this was the mill. - -“We’ve bought him out,” said John. “Want to have a look at the plant.” - -“Help yourself.” - -They walked about silently on the earthen, scrap littered floor. A nail -mill, as nail mills were at that time, was not much to look at, and a -cold iron working plant of any kind has a bygone, extinct appearance. -Thane had never seen a cold mill. He was horribly depressed. Gradually -their eyes grew used to the dimness. The equipment consisted of an -overloaded driving engine, one small furnace for heating iron bars, a -train of rolls for reducing the bars to sheets the thickness of nails -and five automatic machines for cutting nails from the sheet like -cookies,--all in bad to fair condition. - -“Won’t look so sad when you get her hot and begin to turn her over,” -said John. - -Thane said nothing. Having examined the machinery and the furnace -thoughtfully he stood for a long time surveying the mill as a whole. -There was no inventory to speak of. The raw material, which was bar -iron bought outside, had been worked up clean. They looked into the -small sheds and then it began to be dark. As they drove away Thane -spoke. It was the first word he had uttered. - -“When do we start up?” - -“Right away,” said John. “I’ll contract some iron tomorrow.” - -“Give me a couple of weeks,” said Thane. “There’s a lot to be done to -that place.” - -“What?” - -“She’s all upside down,” he said. “The stuff ain’t moving right. No -wonder they had to shut up.” - -That night at supper Agnes questioned her puddler. - -“What is your mill like?” - -“A one horse thing.” - -His manner was preoccupied and she let him alone. After supper he went -to his room, removed his coat, waistcoat, collar and shoes and sat with -his feet in the window, thinking. - -They had three rooms,--two bed chambers and a living room between. She -sat in the middle room sewing, with a view of him through the door, -which he left ajar. He did not move, except to refill and light his -pipe. He was still there, slowly receding beyond a veil of smoke, when -she retired. - -Before he went to bed the little nail mill was all made over and the -stuff was moving right. - -Thane at this time was twenty-five. He had lived nearly all his life -in the iron mill at New Damascus. He could not remember a time when -its uproar and smells were not familiar to his senses. His mother died -when he was three. He was the only child. Then his father, who was a -puddler and loved him fiercely, began to take him to the mill. It was -a wonderful nursery. When the shift was daytime he was the puddlers’ -mascot and playmate. At night he slept on a pallet in some gloom hidden -niche from which he could see his father, satanically transfigured -in the glare of the furnace. Then he went to school, but spent all -his playtime in the mill. The thrill of it never failed him. When he -was old enough to carry water he got a job. At nineteen he became his -father’s helper and delighted to vie with him in the weight of pig iron -he could lift and heave into the maw of the furnace. The normal carry -was one pig. He began to carry two at a time and his father matched -him. But one day his father stumbled. As they stooped again side by -side at the iron pile he picked up one pig. The old man gave him a -queer, startled look and did the same. After that it was always one -pig, and they never spoke of it. When his father died Alexander took -his place, and as he drew his first heat, Enoch watching, the fact -stood granted. He was the best puddler in the mill. - -He had it in his hands. Of iron, for coaxing, shaping and compelling -it, he had that kind of tactile understanding an artist has for paint -or clay, or any plastic stuff. He seemed to think with his hands. It is -a mysterious gift, and leaves it open to wonder whether the brain has -made the hand or the hand the brain. Besides this intuitive knowledge -that belongs to the hand Thane possessed a natural sense of mechanics -and a naïve way of taking nothing for granted because it happens so to -be. All of this was to be revealed. It was John’s luck. - - - - -XXIII - - -While Thane was thinking how to set the nail mill in order, John, -sitting in the hotel lobby with his feet in the window, gnawing a -cigar, was reflecting in another sphere. His problem was the nail -industry at large. It was in a parlous way. Although cut iron nails -had been made by automatic machines for a long time there had recently -appeared a machine that displaced all others, because it made the nail -complete, head and all, in one run, and was very fast. This machine -coming suddenly into use had caused an over-production of nails. The -price had fallen to a point where there was actually a loss instead of -a profit in nail making unless one produced one’s own iron and got a -profit there. The Twenty-ninth Street plant had to buy its iron. The -probability of running it at a profit was nil. - -His meditations carried him far into the night. The lights were put -out and still he sat with his feet in the window, musing, reflecting, -dreaming, with a relaxed and receptive mind. An idea came to him. -It will be important to consider what that idea was for it became -afterward a classic pattern. It had the audacity of great simplicity. -He would combine the whole nail making industry in his North American -Manufacturing Company, Ltd. Then production could be suited to demand -and the price of nails could be advanced to a paying level. - -He took stock of his capital. It was fifteen thousand dollars. Maybe it -could be stretched to twenty. In his work with Gib, selling rails, he -had acquired a miscellaneous lot of very cheap and highly speculative -railroad shares, some of which were beginning to have value. But -twenty thousand dollars would be the outside measurement, and to think -of setting out with that amount of capital to acquire control of the -nail making industry, worth perhaps half a million dollars, was at a -glance fantastic. But one’s capital may exist in the idea. John already -understood the art of finance. - -Leaving the Twenty-ninth Street plant in Thane’s hands, with funds -for overhauling it, he consulted with Jubal Awns and set out the next -morning on his errand. - -The nail makers were responsive for an obvious reason. They were all -losing money. In a short time John laid before Awns a sheaf of papers. - -“There’s the child,” he said. “Examine it.” - -He had got options in writing on every important nail mill in the -country save one. The owners agreed to sell out to the North American -Manufacturing Co., Ltd., taking in payment either cash or preferred -shares at their pleasure. The inducement to take preferred shares was -that if they did they would receive a bonus of fifty per cent. in -common stock. - -“But they will take cash in every case,” said Awns, “and where will you -find it?” - -“They won’t,” said John. “I’ll see to that. What have you done with -Gib?” - -Awns had been to see Enoch. The New Damascus mill produced in its nail -department a fifth of all the nails then made. There was no probability -of buying him out. John well knew that. Yet his nail output had to be -controlled in some way, else the combine would fail. So he had sent -Awns to him with alternative propositions. The first was to buy him out -of the nail making business. And when he had declined to sell, as of -course he would, Awns was to negotiate for his entire output under a -long term contract. - -“He wouldn’t sell his nail business,” said Awns. - -“I knew that,” said John. - -“But I’ve got a contract for all his nails,” said Awns, handing over -the paper. “The price is stiff,--fifty cents a keg more than nails are -worth. It was the best I could do.” - -“That’s all right,” said John reading the agreement. “We are going to -add a dollar a keg to nails. This phrase--‘unless the party of the -second part,’ (that’s Gib), ‘wishes to sell nails at a lower price to -the trade’--who put that in?” - -“He did,” said Awns. “I couldn’t see any point in objecting to it. No -man is going to undersell his own contract.” - -John handed the agreement back and sat for several minutes musing. - -“There’s a loose wheel in your scheme, if I’m not mistaken,” said Awns. -“If you add a dollar a keg to nails won’t you bring in a lot of new -competition? Anybody can make nails if it pays. These same people who -sell out to you may turn around and begin again. You’ll be holding the -umbrella for everybody else.” - -“Anybody can’t make nails,” said John. “I’ve looked at that.” - -“Why not?” - -“Nail making machines are covered by patents. There are only four firms -that make them. I’ve made air tight contracts with them. We take all -their machines at an advance of twenty-five per cent. over present -prices and they bind themselves to sell machines to nobody else during -the life of the contract. So we’ve got the bag sewed up top and bottom. -They were glad to do it because there isn’t any profit in machines -either with the nail makers all going busted.” - -Awns stared at him with doubt and admiration mingled. - -“Well, that is showing them something,” he said. “If you go far with -that kind of thing laws will be passed to stop it.” - -“It’s legal, isn’t it?” - -“There’s no law against it,” said Awns. - -“We’re not obliged to be more legal than the law,” said John. “Tell -me, what do you know about bankers in Pittsburgh? I’ve got to do some -business in that quarter.” - -Pittsburgh at this time was not a place prepared. It was a sign, a -pregnant smudge, a state of phenomena. The great mother was undergoing -a Cæsarian operation. An event was bringing itself to pass. The steel -age was about to be delivered. - -Men performed the office of obstetrics without knowing what they did. -They could neither see nor understand it. They struggled blindly, -falling down and getting up. Forces possessed them. Their psychic -condition was that of men to whom fabulous despair and extravagant -expectation were the two ends of one ecstasy. They were hard, shrewd, -sentimental, superstitious, romantic in friendship and conscienceless -in trade. They named their blast furnaces after their wives and -sweethearts, stole each other’s secrets, fell out with their partners, -knew no law of business but to lay on what the traffic would bear, read -Swedenborg and dreamed of Heaven as a thoroughfare resembling Wood -Street, Pittsburgh, lined with banks and in the door of each bank a -grovelling president, pleading: “Here’s money for your payrolls. Please -borrow it here. Very fine quality of money. Pay it back when you like.” - -They were always begging money at the banks. When they made money -they used it to build more mills and to fill the mills with automatic -monsters that grew stranger and more fantastic. Many of these monsters, -like things in nature’s own history of trial and error, appeared for -a short time and became extinct. When they were not making money they -were bankrupt. That was about half the time. Then they came to the -banks in Wood Street to implore, beg, wheedle money to meet their -payrolls. - -There is the legend of a man, afterward one of the great millionaires, -who drove one mare so often to Wood Street and from one bank to another -in a zigzag course that the animal came to know the stops by heart, -made them automatically, and could not be made to go in a straight line -through this lane of money doors. - -The bankers were a tough minded group. They had to be. Nobody was quite -safe. A man with a record for sanity would suddenly lose his balance -and cast away the substance of certainty to pursue a vision. The effort -to adapt the Bessemer steel process to American conditions was an -irresistible road to ruin. That process was producing amazing results -in Europe but in this country it was bewitched with perversity and it -looked as if the English and German manufacturers would walk away with -the steel age. Fortunes were still being swallowed up in snail shaped -vessels called converters, not unlike the one Aaron had built at New -Damascus twenty-five years before. - -Of all the bankers in Wood Street the toughest minded was Lemuel -Slaymaker. - -“All the same,” said Awns, “I should try him first. His name would put -it through and he loves a profit.” - -Awns knew him. They went together to see him. Slaymaker saluted Awns -and acknowledged his introduction of Mr. John Breakspeare not otherwise -nor more than by turning slowly in his chair and staring at them. He -had a large white face, pale blue eyes and red, close-cropped hair. The -impression he made was one of total sphericity. There was no way to -take hold of him. No thought or feeling projected. - -John laid out his plan, producing the papers as exhibits, A, B, C, in -the appropriate places. Lastly he produced data on the nail trade, -showing the amount of nails consumed in the country and the normal -rate of annual increase with the growth of population, together with a -carefully developed estimate of the combine’s profits at various prices -per keg. When he had finished the idea was lucid, complete in every -part and self-evident. Therein lay the secret of his extraordinary -power of persuasion. He seemed never to argue his case. He expressed -no opinion of his own to be combatted. He merely laid down a state of -facts with an air of looking at them from the other man’s point of view. - -“And what you want is a bank to guarantee this scheme,” said Slaymaker. -“You want a bank to guarantee that if these people want cash instead of -stock the cash will be forthcoming.” - -This was the first word he had spoken. The papers he had not even -glanced at. They lay on his desk as John had placed them there. - -“That’s it,” said John. “Guarantee it. Very little cash will be -required.” - -“How do you say that?” - -“To make them want stock instead of cash,” said John, “you have only to -engage brokers to make advance quotations for the stock, here and in -Philadelphia at, say, par for the preferred and fifty for the common. -If you do not know brokers who can do that I will find them. The scheme -is sound. The stock will pay dividends from the start. A bank that had -guaranteed it might very well speak a good word for it here and there. -The public will want some of the stock.” - -Slaymaker gazed at a corner of the ceiling and twiggled his foot. Then -he turned his back on them. - -“Leave the papers,” he said, “and see me at this time tomorrow.” - -When they were in the street again Awns said: “You got him.” - -And so the infant trust was born,--first of its kind, first of a giant -brood. Biologically they were all alike, but with evolution their size -increased prodigiously. The swaddling cloths of this one would not -have patched the eye of a twentieth century specimen delivered in Wall -Street. - -Slaymaker’s lawyers and Jubal Awns together verified all the -agreements. The stock of the N. A. M. Co., Ltd., was increased enough -to make sure there would be plenty to go around. Slaymaker took a large -amount for banker’s fees, John took a block for promoter’s services and -another block for the Twenty-ninth Street mill, the lawyers took some, -and a certain amount was set aside for Thane,--for Agnes really. John -was elected president and the combine was launched. Before the day came -on which the options of purchase were to be exercised the preferred -stock was publicly quoted at 105 and the common stock at 55, and -there were symptoms of public interest in its possibilities. As John -predicted, nearly all the nail manufacturers elected to take stock in -the new company, with Slaymaker’s name behind it. - -Everyone at length was more enthusiastic than John. He kept thinking of -that phrase in the contract with Gib--“unless the party of the second -part wishes to sell nails to the trade at a lower price.” No one else -had noticed it, not even Slaymaker. Nobody else would have had any -misgivings about it. Who could imagine, as Awns said, that a man would -undersell his own contract? There is a law of self interest one takes -for granted. - - - - -XXIV - - -Thane had been reporting laconically on the Twenty-ninth Street mill. -It now was in action and the nails were piling up. John had not been -out to see it. Their contacts had become irregular; generally they -met by accident in the hotel lobby, rarely in the dining room. This -was owing partly to John’s absorption in his scheme and partly to the -resolve he had made to avoid Agnes. He had not once been close enough -to speak to her since that third morning when his haggard true self -met his anti-self in the mirror, saying: “She is his.” The only way -he could put her out of his mind at all was to involve himself in -difficulties. Trouble was a cave of refuge. As during those two nights -of struggle with his anti-self, when it had almost conquered him, -he played absently at faro and increased his bets to make the game -absorbing, so afterward in business, wilfully at first and then by -habit, he preferred the hazardous alternative; he seemed to seek those -situations in which the chance was all or none. This made his ways -uncanny. Luck seems to favor one who doesn’t care. Or it may be that -one who doesn’t care sees more clearly than the rest, being free of -fear. - -“Better come and sight it,” said Thane, one morning in the lobby. “I’m -worried where to put the nails.” - -“We’ll go now,” said John. “Anyhow, I want to talk to you. I don’t -know about this Twenty-ninth Street mill. It’s a poor layout. Maybe -we’d better shut it up. Now don’t get uneasy. Wait till I’m through. -The company--(and, by the way, you are a director and there’s some -stock in your name)--it has bought nearly all the nail mills there -are. Over a hundred, big and little, all over the place. The idea is -to combine the nail industry in one organization and put it back on a -paying basis. I want you to go around with me and have a look at mills. -Some of them we’ll throw away. The trouble was too many of them.” - -He went on talking to take up Thane’s injured silence. That he was -a director in the company, that he had stock in it, that his salary -was to be doubled,--none of this availed against the puddler’s pride -in what he had done with the Twenty-ninth Street mill. The thought -of now shutting it up hurt him in his middle. John on his side was -disappointed in Thane’s inability to rise to an opportunity. So they -came to the mill. - -“Sounds busy,” said John. - -Thane held his thoughts. - -On beholding the scene of action within, almost at a glance, John -placed the puddler where he belonged. Here was the work of a master -superintendent. Nothing was as it had been except the engine and -furnace. Everything else had been relocated with one aim in view, which -was to eliminate all unnecessary human motion and shorten the train -of events from the raw material straight through to the finished nail -packed in the keg and stored. Besides the physical achievement, which -alone was very notable, there was a subtle psychic relation between -Thane and his men. They worked on their toes and liked doing it for him. - -“Shake,” said John, holding out his hand. “No, we won’t shut her up. -We’ll take her as a pattern. If you can do this with all the mills -we’ll walk away with it. Have you figured your costs? They must be -fine.” - -“In my head,” said Thane. - -They stood at a little greasy box-desk screwed to the wall under a -window dim with cobwebs. - -“I’ll show you how to figure them,” said John. “Iron, so much; fuel, so -much; kegs, so much; oil, and so forth, so much; wear and tear of tools -and plant, so much; labor, so much; total, so much. Then kegs of nails, -so many. Divide that by that and you have the cost per keg. Let’s see -how it will work out.” - -It worked out nearly as Thane had it in his head and John was -sentimental with pride and satisfaction. - -“Come on,” he said, impatiently. “Leave a man in charge of this, and -we’ll see the other mills.” - -Starting with more than a hundred mills, they scrapped twenty outright, -saving only their contracts, raw material and stock on hand; others -they consolidated. In the end they had fifty well equipped plants -strategically placed to supply the trade by the shortest routes. -They had all to be overhauled according to Thane’s ideas. He turned -the Twenty-ninth Street plant into a training station and sent men -from there to work the other mills. It was a large and complicated -program. He carried it through so skillfully that he was appointed -vice-president in charge of manufacturing, and John was free to -organize the company’s business and function executively. - -He raised the price of nails, first twenty-five cents a keg, then -fifty, then seventy-five cents, and stopped. At that price there was -a good profit. Thane was steadily reducing costs by improving plant -practice and that increased profits in another way. - -A dividend was paid on the preferred stock in the third month. The -omens were fine. Still, John was uneasy. No New Damascus nails had been -received under their contract with Enoch. The making of nails had not -stopped at New Damascus. He made sure of that. No New Damascus nails -were coming on the market, either, for John knew everything about the -trade. Then what was to be expected? - -The answer when it came did not surprise him. He had guessed it already. - -One day the nail market was knocked in the head. Enoch was offering -nails to the hardware trade at a price seventy-five cents lower than -the combine’s price. That meant he was selling them for fifty cents a -keg less than the combine had agreed to pay him for his whole output. -He had never tendered one ten-penny nail on that contract. Instead, -working his plant at high speed, he had accumulated thousands of kegs -expressly for the irrational purpose of casting them suddenly on sale -to break the combine’s market--John Breakspeare’s market--_Aaron’s -market_! John was the only person who understood it. Everyone else was -dazed. - -Slaymaker sent for John. - -“What’s the matter with that man at New Damascus?” - -“He’s out of his mind,” said John. - -“Better buy him up at his own price,” said Slaymaker. “That’s what he -wants.” - -John knew better. However, to satisfy Slaymaker, he sent Awns to see -Enoch again. - -“You’re right,” Awns reported. “The old man is clean crazy. He won’t -sell at any price. All he would do was to point to that stipulation in -the contract and laugh at me.” - -The combine stood aside until the trade had absorbed the New Damascus -nails and then tried to go on without reducing its own price; but the -trade became very ugly about it, the combine began to be denounced, and -Congress, hearing from the farmers, threatened to take the import duty -off nails and let the foreign product in. The combine had to let down -the price and wait. - -Three months later the preposterous act was repeated, Enoch flooding -the market with nails at fifty cents a keg less than the combine’s -price. There was no doubt this time that he was selling nails at a -ruinous loss, and everyone’s amazement grew. Only John knew why he did -it. - -The combine was now in a very awkward dilemma. If it met Enoch’s price -it not only would be selling its own nails at a loss but selling them -at a price far below that at which it was obliged to take Enoch’s -entire output in case he should choose to deliver to the combine -instead of selling direct to the trade. - -“Whipsawed,” said John to Awns, “if you know what that means.” - -For the N. A. M. Co., Ltd. from then on it was a race with bankruptcy, -Gib pursuing. He sold Damascus nails lower and lower until it was -thought he would give them away. He might ultimately go broke, of -course, but that was nothing the combine could wait for. He was very -rich,--nobody knew how rich,--and nail making after all was a small -part of his business. - -Under these unnatural circumstances John won the incognizable -Slaymaker’s glassy admiration, for in trouble he was dogged and -enormously resourceful. - -“If we’ve got to live on the sweat of our nails,” he said, “we can’t -afford to buy iron.” - -Thereupon at a bankrupt price he negotiated the purchase of a blast -furnace and puddling mill over which two partners were quarrelling in -a suicidal manner. No cash was involved. He paid for it with notes. -In Thane’s hands, and with luck that was John’s, the plant performed -one of those miracles that made Pittsburgh more exciting than a mining -camp. It paid for itself the first year out of its own profits. Then -John turned it over to the N. A. M. Co., Ltd., at cost. On seeing him -do this, Slaymaker, who had never parted with his first stock holdings, -privately increased them. - -There was a profit in ore back of the iron. John went to that. He got -hold of a small Mesaba ore body on a royalty basis and had then a -complete chain from the ore to the finished nail. There was still one -profit. That was in the kegs. So cooper shops were added. - -What with all this integration, as the word came to be for that method -of working back to one’s raw material and articulating the whole -series of profits, and what at the same time with Thane’s skill in -manufacture, developing to the point of genius, the N. A. M. Company -got the cost of nails down very low,--even lower as John one day -discovered than it was in Europe. This gave him an idea. There was no -profit in nails at home, owing to Enoch’s mad policy of slaughter, but -there was the whole world to sell nails in. The N. A. M. Co. invaded -the export field. This was a shock to the European nail makers. They -met it angrily with reprisals. John went to Europe with a plan to form -an international pool in which the nail business of the earth should be -divided up,--allotting so much to Great Britain, so much to Germany, so -much to Belgium, so much to the United States, and so on. If they would -do that everybody might make a little money. - -He returned unexpectedly and appeared one morning in Slaymaker’s office. - -“Did you get your pool born?” - -“Chucked the idea,” said John. “I found this.” - -He laid on the banker’s desk a bright, thin, cylindrical object. - -“What’s that?” Slaymaker asked, looking at it but not touching it. - -“That,” said John, “is a steel wire nail. It will drive the iron nail -out. It’s just as good and costs much less to make. You feed steel wire -into one end of a machine and nails come out at the other like wheat.” - -“Well?” said the banker. - -“The machines both for drawing the wire and making the nails are -German,” John continued. “I’ve bought all the American rights on a -royalty basis.” - -“What will you do with them?” - -“I bought them for the N. A. M.,” said John. - -“If this is going to be such a God Almighty nail why not form a new -company to make it?” asked Slaymaker. - -“I’d rather pull the horse we’ve got out of the ditch,” said John. - -Slaymaker regarded him with an utterly expressionless stare. - -“Go ahead,” he said. - -Enter the steel wire nail. It solved the N. A. M. Company’s problem. -Enoch could not touch it. The combine steadily reduced its output -of iron nails, until it was nominal, and flooded the trade with the -others. Enoch could make any absurd price he liked for iron nails, but -as his output, though a formidable bludgeon with which to beat down -prices, was only a fraction of what the country required, and as the -remainder of the demand was met with the combine’s new product, wire -nails superseded iron nails four or five kegs to one. They could sell -at a higher price than iron nails without prejudice because they were -different, and John, putting a selling campaign behind them, proved -that they were also better. That probably was not so. But people had to -have them. - - - - -XXV - - -Still there were difficulties quite enough to keep John’s mind -enthralled. The steel wire nails soon got the N. A. M. Co. out of the -woods. But as the German nail making machines would devour nothing but -German wire their food had to be imported by the shipload. The German -wire drawing machines, acquired along with the nail making machines, -miserably failed when they were asked to reduce American steel to -the form of wire. That was not their fault really. It was the fault -of American steel. The N. A. M. Co. had either to import German and -English steel to make the wire the nail machines ate or import the wire -itself. - -And now for the first time John turned his mind to this great problem -of steel. Six or eight Bessemer steel plants had been built in the -United States under the English patents at enormous cost and every one -had failed. They could produce steel all right, and do it with one melt -from the iron ore, which was what they were after. The trouble was that -the steel was never twice the same. Its quality and nature varied. The -process was treacherous. There were those who said it simply could -not be adapted to American ores; that the only way this country could -produce true steel was the old long way, which made it much more -expensive than iron. - -One night John recognized in the hotel lobby a figure that tormented -both the flesh and the spirit of Pittsburgh,--the flesh by wasting -its substance and the spirit by keeping always before it a riddle it -had not solved. He was a frail, bent little man, not yet old, with a -long thin mustache and a pleasing, naïve voice that had cost several -iron men their entire fortunes. Wood Street bankers wished he were -dead or had never been born. This was Tillinghast, metallurgist and -engineer, who had already designed and constructed four steel plants -that were a total loss. He knew in each case what was wrong,--knew it -in the instant of failure,--and begged to be permitted to make certain -changes. Very simple changes. Quite inexpensive. He would guarantee -the result. But as his changes at length involved rebuilding the whole -plant and as the last of the steel was still like the first his backers -sickened and turned away. - -“What’s the matter, Tillinghast?” John asked. “You look so horribly -down.” - -It was a long story, incoherent with unnecessary details, technical -exposition, expostulation and argument aside, told at the verge of -tears. A steel plant on the river, opposite Allegheny,--one that -everyone knew about,--had been under trial for a week. It was almost -right. It needed only one correction. They were actually touching the -magic. Yet his backers were on the point of throwing it up in disgust. - -“No more money, maybe,” said John. - -“Fifty thousand more,” said Tillinghast. “I guarantee the result if -they will spend fifty thousand more. They have spent eight times that -already.” His idea of money in large sums was childlike. - -John heard for a while, then heard without listening, while Tillinghast -went on and on, thinking to himself out loud. On leaving him John was -in a state of vague apprehension. Afterward he could not remember -whether he had said goodnight. - -All that he had ever heard, here and there, first from Thaddeus and -then from others about his father’s fateful steel experiment at New -Damascus came back to him, fused and made a vivid picture. That was -not so strange. But he seemed to know more than he had ever heard. He -seemed to be directly remembering,--not what he had learned from others -but the experience itself as if it had been his own. He saw it. And -presently in another dimension he saw the steel age that was coming. -His imagination unrolled it as a panorama. He understood what it meant -to increase one hundred fold the production of that metallic fibre of -which there could never be enough. - -The next morning he went to look at the abandoned steel plant. It was -cast on a large scale. Quite four hundred thousand, as Tillinghast -said, must have been spent on it. - -“They do it in Europe,” he kept saying to himself. “We can do it here. -There is only some little trick to be discovered.” - -Later in a casual way he made contact with the owners. They were eager -to get anything back. On the faintest suspicion that he might be -soft-minded, they overwhelmed him with offers to sell out. At last he -got it for nothing. That is, he agreed to take it off their hands flat -and go on with Tillinghast’s experiment. If success were achieved their -interest in it should be exactly what they had already spent on the -plant; if not, he would owe them nothing and lose only what he himself -put in. - -North American Manufacturing Company stock was now valuable. He took a -large amount of it to Slaymaker for a loan. - -“What’s up now?” - -John told him shortly, knowing what to expect. Slaymaker’s phobia was -steel. The word made him mad. He had once lost a great deal of money -in that experimental process. He snatched the stock certificates out -of John’s hands, put a pin through them and tossed them angrily into a -corner of his desk. - -“I knew it. I knew it. All right. You can have the money. But I warn -you. You’ll never see that stock again. You’ll be bankrupt a year from -now.” - -Nothing else was said. - -Tillinghast treated John not as if John had adopted him but as if -he had adopted John and his attitude about the steel plant was one -of sacrosanct authority. He was really a cracked pot. It took six -months to make the changes. Then they fired up. The first run was good -steel, the second was poor, the third was good and the fourth was bad. -They got so far that the steel made from the raw iron of one furnace -would always be good. When they took the molten iron from two or more -furnaces successively the results went askew again. Tillinghast cooed -when the steel was good and was silent when it was bad. He could not -deny that they were baffled and John had sunk two-thirds of everything -he owned. - -Thane was a constant onlooker. He looked hard and saw everything. - -“It ain’t what you do to it afterward,” he said, breaking a long -silence. “That’s the same every time. It’s back of that. It’s in the -furnace.” - -“Well, suppose it is,” said John. “What are you going to do about it?” - -“Mix it,” said Thane. - -“Mix what?” - -“The molten iron from the blast furnaces before it goes to the steel -converter.” - -“What will you mix it with?” - -“With itself,” said Thane. “Ore’s various, ain’t it? Pig iron as comes -from ore is various, ain’t it? That’s why you puddle it so as to make -it all the same, like wrought iron’s got to be. Here you take a run of -stuff from this furnace ’n one from that furnace ’n it ain’t the same -because it ain’t been puddled, but you run it into that converter thing -’n think it’s got to come out all one kind of steel. It won’t.” - -“How can you mix six or eight tons of molten iron?” John asked. - -“There’s got to be some way,” Thane answered. - -Tillinghast was deaf. It didn’t make sense to John. Yet Thane kept -saying, “Mix it,” until they were sick of hearing him, and the steel -persisted in being variable until they were desperate. - -“Well, mix it then,” said John. “If you know how, mix it.” - -Thereupon Thane built the first mixer,--an enormous, awkward tank -or vat resting on rollers that rocked and jigged the fluid, blazing -iron. Now they started the blast furnaces again and molten iron in -equal quantities from all three was run into this mixer and sloshed -around. From there it went to the converter. After two or three trials -they began to get and continued to get steel that was both good and -invariable. - -And that was Eureka! - -They tried the steel in every possible way and it was all that steel -should be and is. They fed it to those fastidious German wire drawing -machines and they loved it. Never again would it be necessary to import -German or English steel to make wire, or German wire to make nails. -They had it. - -John formed a new company. Slaymaker came in. The men from whom John -had taken the plant got stock for their interest. A large block was -allotted to Thane for his mixer. John had the controlling interest. It -was named the American Steel Company. But John and Thane between them -spoke of it as the Agnes Plant. - -“Let’s call it that for luck,” said John. - -Thane made no reply. However, the next time he referred to it he called -it so. - - - - -XXVI - - -One evening Thane and John were sitting together in one of their -friendly silences, after supper, in the hotel lobby. Thane cleared his -throat. - -“We’ve got a house, Agnes ’n me,” he said. As there was no immediate -comment he added: “I suppose you won’t be lonesome here alone. We don’t -seem to visit much anyhow.” - -John said it was very nice that they had a house;--he hoped they would -be comfortable;--had they got everything they needed? He did not ask -where the house was nor when they should move; and that was all they -said about it. - -No. John would not be lonesome. There was another word for it and he -couldn’t remember what it was. Although he saw her very seldom and then -only at a distance, or when he passed her by chance in the hotel and -they exchanged remote greetings, still, just living under the same roof -with her had become a fact that deeply pertained to his existence. How -much he had made of it unconsciously he did not realize until they were -gone. Thereafter as he turned in at the door he had always the desolate -thought, “She is not here.” The place was empty. The rooms in which he -had settled them were open to transients. He thought of taking them -for himself. On coming to do it he couldn’t. So he went elsewhere to -live; he moved about; all places were empty. - -From time to time Thane hinted they would like to see him at the house. -For some reason it seemed hard for him to come out with a direct -invitation. However, he did at last. - -“Mrs. Thane wants you up to supper,” he said, abruptly. - -“Thanks,” said John. “I’m ashamed of myself, tell her. I’ll stop in -some evening.” - -“You don’t know where it is,” said Thane. - -“That’s so. Tell me how to find it.” - -He wrote the directions down. Still, it was most indefinite. Some -evening meant nothing at all. Thane took him by the shoulders and -regarded him with an expression that John avoided. - -“And _I_ want you to come,” he said, with slow emphasis on the first -pronoun. “To-morrow.” - -“All right,” said John. “Meet me here at the office and I’ll go with -you.” - -It was a small house in a poor street, saved only by some large old -trees. This surprised John, because Thane’s income was enough to enable -them to live in a very nice way, in moderate luxury even. He was still -more surprised at the indecorative simplicity of its furnishings. -Thane’s nature was not parsimonious. He would not have stinted her. -Then why had they set up a household more in keeping with the status -of a first rate puddler than with that of the vice-president of a -flourishing nail trust, receiving in salary and dividends more than -twenty thousand a year? Yet simple, even commonplace as everything was -there was evidence of taste beyond Thane’s. It must have been Agnes who -did it. - -The first thing Thane did on entering was to remove his collar and -place it conspicuously on a table in the hallway by the foot of the -staircase. “I forget that if I don’t see it going out,” he said. He -unbuttoned the neck of his shirt, breathed and looked around with an -air of satisfaction. “Beats living at a hotel,” he said, opening the -door into a little front sitting room for John to see. “The only thing -I picked out,” he said, “was that big chair,” referring to an enormous -structure of hickory and rush that filled all one corner of the room. -“I’ll show you upstairs,” he added. Coming to his own room he said: -“This ain’t much to look at but that ain’t what it’s for. Nobody sees -it.” It was furnished with a simple cot, another hickory chair and a -plain pine table. On the table was a brass lamp ready to be lighted; -also, tobacco jar, matches, some technical books, mechanical drawings, -pencils and paper. - -At the other end of the hall Thane stopped before a closed door. -“She’s downstairs,” he said, at the same time knocking. He opened it -softly, saying: “This is hers.” John got a glimpse of a little white -bed, a white dressing table, some white chairs and two tiny pictures -on the wall. A nun’s chamber could hardly have been more austere. He -turned away. At the head of the staircase he looked back. Thane had -momentarily forgotten him and was still standing on the threshold of -the little white room gazing into it. Suddenly he remembered John, -closed the door gently and joined him. - -“We’ll see about supper,” he said, leading the way through the sitting -room into the next one, where the table was spread. - -Just then Agnes appeared from the kitchen, bearing a tray. John had -another surprise. Her appearance made an unexpected contrast, so -striking as to be almost theatrical. She wore a dainty apron. Behind -that was an elaborate toilette. She was exquisite, lovely. His first -thought was that she had prepared this effect for him. Yet he noticed -that Thane was not in the least surprised. He looked at her calmly, -taking it all for granted, as if this had been her normal way of -appearing. And so it was. - -She shook hands with John. Her manner was a little too cordial. “Supper -is quite ready,” she said. “Please sit down.” She had served a joint of -beef, mashed potatoes browned, some creamed vegetables. Thane surveyed -the food. - -“Nothing fried?” he said. - -“Shall I fry you something?” she asked. “It won’t take a minute.” Her -tone puzzled John. It expressed patience, readiness, even tractability, -and yet submissiveness was in a subtle sense explicitly denied. - -“I was only fooling,” Thane replied. He whetted the carving knife -carefully, as for a feat of precision, ran his thumb over the edge and -applied it to the roast with an extremely deft effect. - -“Did you buy the house?” John asked. “It’s very charming.” - -The note failed. He felt Agnes looking at him. - -“Rent it,” said Thane. “Mrs. Thane thought we’d better rent a while, -maybe as we’d want another shape of house afterward. I want her to get -a girl. She says there ain’t nothing for a girl to do.” - -There was a silence. John did not know which side to take. He spoke -highly of the food. - -“Mr. Thane tells me you also have left the hotel,” she said. - -“You get tired of it,” John answered absently. He was wondering what to -make of the fact that they were Mr. and Mrs. to each other. Twice he -had been at the point of calling her Agnes. He wished to get one full -look at her and tried to surprise her eyes. She avoided him. Then as if -accepting a challenge she met his gaze steadily and utterly baffled his -curiosity. - -This time he could not be sure. A kind of wisdom was in her eyes that -had never been there before. It might be only that she was on her -guard, knowing the secret he was after. - -Conversation suffered many lapses. There seemed so little they could -talk about. All the three of them had in common was reminiscent; and -reminiscences were taboo. After supper they sat as far apart as three -persons could in the small front room,--Thane in his big chair, Agnes -in a stiff chair with some needlework over which her head was bent. Her -knees were crossed. The men were fascinated by the swift, delicate, -tantalizing, puncturing rhythm of her needle, and in the margin of -John’s vision was exactly all she meant to be seen of a small silk-clad -ankle and slippered foot. - -If it was as he suspected, how could Thane endure it? - -“We are very quiet,” she said, not looking up. - -At that John began to talk about Thane,--of his work and the genius -showing in it, of the methods he had evolved, of the things he had -invented, of his way with his men and what a brilliant future he had. -Agnes listened attentively, even tensely, as he could see, but made -no comment; and Thane, sinking lower and lower in his chair, became -intolerably embarrassed. He stopped it by beginning of a sudden to talk -about John. He knew much less about John’s work, however, than John -knew about his. For that reason the narrative fell into generalities -and was not convincing. Agnes listened for a while and became restive. -Suddenly she put her needlework away and asked if anyone would like -refreshments. John looked at the time. It was past eleven o’clock and -he arose to go. Thane would have detained him; Agnes politely regretted -that he had to go so soon. Still, when she shook hands with him at the -door her manner was spontaneous and warm and she pressed him to come -again. - -John walked about in the night without any mind at all. When his -thoughts became coherent he found himself saying: “No. They are not man -and wife. They are strangers. I wonder what goes on in that house. Why -does she do it?... Why does she do it?” - -Why did she? - - - - -XXVII - - -As the door closed behind their visitor Agnes turned without speaking -and went back to the front room where she sat at a little desk to write -in a large black book. This was the last thing she did each day. - -Thane leaned against the door jamb looking at her back. It was the view -of her that sometimes thrilled him most. It made him see her again as -she was that first night, in the moonlight, sitting at the edge of the -mountain path, mysteriously averse. Approaching timidly he stood behind -her chair, close enough to have touched her, as he longed to do if only -he dared. He looked at his hands, turning them in the light; then at -himself, downward, and was overcome with a sense of incongruity. - -To him she was as untouchable as a butterfly. Her way of dressing so -elaborately was at once an insurmountable barrier and a maddening -provocation. Never did he see her in less formidable attire, not even -at breakfast. Her morning gowns were forbidding in quite another way. -Their effect was to put him on his sense of honor. If it should happen -that he came home unexpectedly she was always in her room and when she -appeared it was like this. Embellishment was her armor. It was constant -and never slipped. Yet the need for it was only in those moments such -as now when his feeling for her broke down his pride and moved him -toward her in spite of himself. This was not often. It had happened -only a few times since the first night in the hotel, when after supper -she met his impulse by looking at him with such scorn and anger, even -horror, that his desire instantly collapsed and left him aching cold. -His pride was as black a beast as hers. - -For a long time after that they had no way with each other, almost -no way of meeting each other’s eyes. Then to his great surprise she -offered truce, not in words but by implications of conduct. She became -friendly and began to talk to him about himself, about his work and -by degrees about themselves. It was she who proposed to take a house. -She chose it, bought the things that went into it, ordered the pattern -of their twain existence within its walls. He was for spending more -money, telling her how much he made and how well they could afford -having more. She was firm in her own way, asking him only if he were -comfortable, and he was. - -The only thing she would freely spend money for was clothes. He -pondered this and found no clue to its meaning. They had no social life -whatever. She never went out alone. Twice in a year they had been to -the play and nowhere else. Except for the recurring frustrations of his -impulse toward her, which left him each time worse mangled in his pride -and filled with rage, shame and self-abomination, he was happy. - -He had been standing there back of her chair for so long that he began -to wonder if she was aware of his presence when she spoke abruptly. - -“Yes?” she said, in a quick, sharp tone. - -He quailed, with the look of a man turned suddenly hollow. His pride -saved him. Without a word he turned and went upstairs. When his -footsteps were near the top she called, “Goodnight.” Apparently he did -not hear her. At least he did not answer. She went on writing. - -The black book was the ledger of her spirit’s solvency. Each night -she wrote it up. There was first a record of all the money received -from Thane. Then a record of all expenditures, under two heads,--money -spent for household purposes, itemized, and money spent upon herself, -for clothes, etc., unitemized. At the end of each month against her -personal expenditures was entered,--“Item, to Agnes, for wages, $50.” -If her personal expenditures exceeded her wage credit she wrote against -the excess,--“Balance owing Alexander Thane, to be accounted for.” - -Some day she would have a fortune of her own. Then she would return -everything she had spent above her wages. That was what the record -said. Anyone could see it at a glance. The book was always lying there -on the desk. Perhaps covertly she wished he would have the curiosity -to look into it and see what she was doing. He never did and he never -knew. She meant sometime to tell him. What was the point of not telling -him? Yet she didn’t, and the longer she put it off the more difficult -it was, for a reason she was afraid to face. She would not face it for -fear it was true. But even more she feared it might not be true. - -So it appears that what went on in that house was as much an enigma to -Thane as to John; and nobody could answer John’s question,--“Why does -she do it?”--for Agnes who knew concealed the truth from herself. - - - - -XXVIII - - -Thane became vice-president also of the American Steel Company. Its -capacity was greater than the need was for wire to make nails. For this -reason the N. A. M. Co. enlarged its scope and began to make steel wire -for all purposes, especially for that distinctively American product -called barbed wire which ran the first year into thousands of miles -of farm fencing. It was cheaper than the rude, picturesque rail fence -which it immediately superseded and at the same time appealed in an -unaccountable manner to the Yankee sense of humor. - -Steel wire was indispensable to the steel age. There were bridges to -be cast in the air like cobwebs, chasms to be spanned, a thousand -giants to be snared in their sleep with threads of steel wire, single, -double, or twisted by hundreds into cables. Enough of them would make -a rope strong enough to halt the world in its flight if one end could -be made fast in space. There could never have been a steel age without -steel wire. But the steel age required first of all steel rails to -run on. John saw this clearly. Iron rails wore out too fast under -the increasing weight of trains; besides, the time had almost come -when they simply couldn’t be made in quantities sufficient to meet -the uncontrollable expansion of the railroad system. The importation -of steel rails over the high tariff wall was increasing. American -steel rails had been made experimentally, were still being made, but -they were variable and much distrusted. When they were good they were -excellent. They were just as likely to be very bad. They could not be -guaranteed, owing to the variableness of steel obtained in this country -by the Bessemer process. - -This factor of variability was now eliminated by Thane’s celebrated -mixer. For the first time there was the certainty of being able to -produce American steel rails that would not only outwear iron as iron -outwears oak, that would not only not break, that would not only be -satisfactory when they were good, but rails that would be always the -same and always good. It was natural that the American Steel Company -should turn to rails. John knew the rail business upside down. He -believed in railroads. When other people were thinking railroad -building had been overdone he said it had not really begun. He imagined -the possibility that the locomotive would double in size. - -It did. Then it doubled again. It could not have done so without steel -rails under its feet, and if it had not doubled and then doubled again -this now would be a German world. Democracy even then was shaping -its weapons for Armageddon through men who knew nothing about it. -They were free egoists, seeking profit, power, personal success, -everyone attending to his own greatness. Never before in the world had -the practise of individualism been so reckless, so purely dynamic, -so heedless of the Devil’s harvest. Yet it happened,--it precisely -happened,--that they forged the right weapons. It seems sometimes to -matter very little what men think. They very often do the right thing -for wrong reasons. It seems to matter even less why they work. All -that the great law of becoming requires is that men shall work. They -cannot go wrong really. They cannot make wrong things. The pattern is -foreordained. - -Knowing what difficulties lay in the path of the steel rail,--knowing -them very well indeed, since many of them were of his own work,--John -executed a brilliant preliminary maneuver. The point of it was to -create his market beforehand. With that in view he persuaded the -officials of several large railroads to take ground floor shares in the -North American Steel Company. Its capitalization was increased for that -purpose. Thus not only was capital provided toward the building of a -great rail making addition to the plant but powerful railroad men now -had a participating interest in the success of the steel rail. - -Meanwhile others also had discovered true steel formulas. As usual in -such cases many hands were pressing against the door. Once the latch -is lifted the door flies open for everyone. And then it appears that -all the time there were several ways to have done it. Thane’s way -was not the only way. He had been the one to see where the cause of -variableness lay. After that there could be several methods of casting -it out. So the American Steel Company had competition almost from -the start. However, as its rails were all bespoken by the railroads -whose officials were stockholders, and as in any case the demand for -rails was increasing very fast, there would have been prosperity for -everyone if Enoch Gib had not been mad. - -No sooner had the American Steel Company begun to produce rails than -Enoch did with iron rails as he had done before with iron nails. He -began to sell the famous Damascus iron rail at a ruinous price. The -steel rail makers had to meet him. Then he lowered his price again, and -again, and still again, all the time increasing his output, until there -was no profit in rails for anybody. - -John knew what it cost to make Damascus rails. Enoch was selling them -actually at a loss. - -The fact that puissant railroad officials were stockholders in the -American Steel Company counted for less and less. Though they might -prefer steel rails for both personal and intrinsic reasons, still they -could not spend their railroad’s money for steel rails with the famous -Damascus rail selling at a price that made it a preposterous bargain. -There was a panic in Pittsburgh. - -John’s emotions were those of Jonah riding the storm with an innocent -face and a sense of guilt at his heart. He made no doubt that Enoch had -set out deliberately to ruin the steel rail industry and would if need -be commit financial suicide to accomplish that end. Nobody else knew or -suspected the truth. John could not publish it. - -Other steel rail makers quit. They could not stand the loss. And -there it lay between Enoch and John. Enoch’s mind was governed by two -passions. One was his hatred of steel. The other was his hatred of -John, who symbolized _Aaron_. He had the advantage of a fixed daemonic -purpose. His strength was unknown. How long he might last even John -could not guess. - -In the fight over nails John’s rule had been defensive. It had to be. -But here there was choice. His resources now were so much greater that -a policy of reprisals might be considered. If Enoch were determined to -find his own breaking point the sooner the end the better for everyone -else. The American Steel Company could slaughter rails, too, increasing -both its own loss and Enoch’s, and thus foreshorten the agony. But when -it came to the point of adopting an offensive course John wavered. He -could not bring himself to do it. Never had he hated Enoch. So far from -that, his feeling for him was one of unreasoning pity. The old man -probably would not survive bankruptcy. It would kill him. “Therefore,” -said John, “let him bring it about in his own time.” - -And so it was that a lone and dreadful man, stalking day and night -through the New Damascus iron mill like a tormented apparition, goading -his men to the point of frenzy, using them up and casting them off, yet -holding them to it by force of contempt for fibre that snapped,--that -one man in a spirit of madness frustrated the steel age and made it to -limp on iron rails long after the true steel to shoe it with had been -available. In all the histories of iron and steel you read men’s blank -amazement at the fact that it took so many years for the steel rail, -once perfected, to supersede the iron rail. They cannot account for it. - -At about this time a committee of New Damascus business men went forth -to investigate the subject of steel. Enoch caused this to be done. His -mood was one of exulting. Many had begun to believe that steel might -overthrow iron. He was resolved to put that heresy down. He chose the -right time. The committee going to and fro saw steel rail plants lying -idle; it found the steel people in despair, terrorized by Enoch. It -returned to New Damascus and saw with its own eyes on Enoch’s books -how the output of iron rails was increasing. Who would go behind such -evidence? The committee reported that steel would never supersede iron. -Except perhaps in some special uses, iron was forever paramount. It -adopted a resolution in praise of Enoch, who had made New Damascus the -iron town it was, and disbanded. - -The sun of New Damascus was then at its zenith and the days of Enoch -were few to run. He lived them out consistently. No man saw him but -in his strength. His weakness was invisible like his nakedness. His -end was as that of the oak that once more flings back the storm, -then suddenly falls of its own weight. Never had his power seemed so -immeasurable as at its breaking point. - -For all that John could or could not do, the American Steel Company -came itself to the brink. It could not forever go on making steel rails -at a loss. How far short of bankruptcy would it give up the struggle -and stop? The rocks were already in sight. Seeing them clearly, John -did not act. He stood still and waited as if fascinated. The longer he -waited the more desperate was the chance of saving the company. Its -credit was sinking. All of this he saw. “Then what am I waiting for?” -he would ask himself, and postpone the answer. Twice he had called the -directors together to lay before them a plan of salvage, which was to -abandon rail making and convert the plant to other uses; and each time -at the last minute he changed his mind. - -One morning at breakfast he was electrified by a single black line in -his newspaper. - - _“Damascus Mill Closes.”_ - -Beneath it was this dispatch: - - “New Damascus, June 11.--The Damascus mill closed down last night - in all departments for the first time in its history. There is no - explanation. Enoch Gib is understood to be ill.” - -John knew what this meant. The end had come. Having verified the news -by telegraph he went to Slaymaker and told him for the first time -enough of the history of New Damascus and its people to illuminate what -had been going on. - -“Why do you tell me this now?” Slaymaker asked. - -“Isn’t it a great relief?” said John. “The ghastly game that’s nearly -ruined us is at an end.” - -“There’s some other reason,” Slaymaker insisted. - -“You have lost a lot of money with me in American Steel,” John said. -“Now of course it will all come back. Still, you might be able to turn -this information to special advantage. There are two or three idle rail -mills that could be picked up for nothing.” - -Slaymaker took time to reflect. - -“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll help.” - -John shook his head. - -“It’s an apple I don’t like the taste of. If I were in your place I’d -know what to do. That’s why I have told you. But leave me out of it -entirely.” - -“I can’t for the life of me see why you shouldn’t,” said Slaymaker. - -“Neither can I,” said John. “There’s no reason. Say I’m superstitious -and let it drop.” - -“There’s nothing the matter with the apple though?” asked Slaymaker. - -“Not for you,” said John. - -He left the banker on the edge of his chair. When he arrived at his own -office Thane was there waiting. - -“We’ve got a telegram Enoch is dying. Thought maybe as you would go -along with us.” - -“How does Mrs. Thane take it?” - -“Cold and still,” said Thane. “But you can’t tell.” - -“Does she want me to go?” - -“She knows I’m asking you,” said Thane. “There’s just time. She’s at -the depot.” - -John turned and went with him. - - - - -XXIX - - -It was six hours by train from Pittsburgh to New Damascus. The last -hour was from Wilkes-Barre down the valley, the railway now running -with the turnpike on which Agnes passed her wedding night between Thane -and John over the flying heels of a pair of bays. Not one of them had -seen it since. Surreptitiously watching for signs and landmarks they -became silent and solitary. Memories in which they were intimately -associated instead of drawing them together caused separate states of -reverie. - -Agnes sat at the window with her face averted. John and Thane were -together in the opposite seat. Her eyebrows were a little raised, -acutely bent and drawn together, and in her forehead was a Gothic -cross. This muscular tension never for a moment relaxed, not even when -she spoke and smiled. In her eyes was an expression of strained and -baffled interrogation, inward looking. - -Two years were gone since that night of John’s first supper with the -Thanes in their trial abode. In this time she had changed at the base -of her personality. The girl of her had vanished almost without trace. - -What becomes of the being we have ceased to be? - -That Agnes of the tantalizing armor, half of ice and half of flame, -part disdain and part desire, who froze the impulse she provoked and -singed the pride that saved her,--she was gone, entirely gone. This -Agnes knew her not. This Agnes was a woman who knew bitterness and the -taste of dust. When she had been ready ... willing ... dying ... to -give her pride to save her love the door was closed. The shop was dark. - -The light went out that night she let him stand behind her chair in -an agony of longing, pretending not to know he stood there, and then -broke him with a hard, glissando “Y-e-s?” It was ominous that he did -not respond from the top of the staircase to her careless goodnight. -She regarded him particularly the next morning and began to wonder. -Never again did he look at her in that way she ached for and dreaded. -The more he didn’t look at her in that way the more she ached for it -and the less she dreaded it, until she couldn’t remember why she had -dreaded it and forgot why she had ever repulsed him. - -She had repulsed because her vanity required it. He had got her to wife -without wooing her. She had been thrust upon him. The thought was a -sleepless scorpion in her breast. It poisoned her dreams. Well ... but -before he could touch her he should have to want her and prove it. She -would attend to that. To reach her at all he should have to overcome a -great barrier. This she resolved and so she repulsed him. Each hurt to -his pride was a stone added to the barrier, and she set no limit to it, -for the higher it was the more it would prove if he ever got over. Then -she would see what her own feelings were. - -He on his part, after that night, once and for all accepted the only -inference he could draw from her behaviour. He was hateful to her; he -filled her with loathing and disgust. Well ... he could no more help -that than he could help the fact of their being married: but he could -avoid those moments on the rack. They left him limp and useless for -days afterward. He could lock the impulse up. Its getting loose was -what drew her scorn upon him. So he chained and locked it up. - -At first, seeing the door was closed, she walked to and fro before it, -thinking he would read in her manner a sign of remorse. He saw nothing. -Then she began to knock. He did not hear. She thought he was making -her pay. She was willing, even greedy, to pay. She went on knocking. -Presently she realized that he was blind and deaf. In a panic she beat -upon the door, hurled her weight against it, crying out her wish to -surrender. But she had seared his heart. He could see only with his -eyes and hear but with his ears, and totally misapprehended her woman’s -gesture. - -She imagined that now _he_ repulsed HER, not in revenge, not to trample -on her,--that she could easily have endured,--but coldly, with undesire. - -This completed the irony. Thereafter she held aloof and began to fear -him. She put away her glittering armor, staining it with tears of rage -and chagrin, and he never noticed even that. He was always gentle, -always absent, always cold. He grew on her in this aspect, assumed -colossal proportions, and began to seem as inaccessible to her as -she had seemed to him. They changed places again. She stood in awe -of him. What he wished for was. He spoke of a way of living more in -keeping with their circumstances. She moved them to a larger house -and organized their lives according to such dim suggestions as she -could get from him, one of which was that she should “stay out of the -kitchen.” There had to be servants. Evenings were so much worse on -that account that they began to go out more, often alone, sometimes -together. By a law of contradiction, the more they concealed themselves -from each other in the tatters of their pride and the further they went -apart, the more polite they became and the easier it was to be friendly. - -Her outwardness had changed no less. A wilful, pouting mouth had found -the shape of wistfulness. Her eyes had lost their defiant glitter; they -were softer, deeper and full of recognition. Into her movements had -come that kind of gentle dignity, loftier than pride, lovelier than -loveliness, which is idolized of men above the form and sign of beauty. - -“Almost there,” she said, settling back in her seat. - -“How strange the mill looks!--cold,” said Thane. - -Agnes did not look. - -“Five years,” said John. “What a long time!” - -“Six,” said Agnes. - -“Six,” said Thane. - -The Gib carriage was waiting at the station. “I’ll be at the inn,” said -John. “It will take no time to bring me if I’m wanted. If Enoch--if you -don’t stay at the mansion I’d like you to have supper with me.” - -“I’ll send you word,” said Thane. - - - - -XXX - - -On the last terrace the carriage was stopped by two men who detached -themselves from a sullen group on the lawn and stood in the driveway -with their hands upraised. Thane recognized them. The two who halted -the carriage were puddlers with whom he had worked side by side in the -mill. The others, to the number of six, were heaters and rollers, all -men of long service under the tyrant. - -“Want a word with you, Thane,” said the taller one of the two puddlers. - -He got out of the carriage and stood for an instant hesitating whether -to let Agnes go on to the house alone or have her wait. Suddenly a -scream of mindless, futile fury canted through the air. Everybody -shuddered. - -“Him,” said the puddler, answering Thane’s startled look. - -Deciding then not to let Agnes go on alone he took her out, led her to -an iron bench in the shade, and returned to hear what the men were so -anxious to tell him. - -“You heard him,” said the tall puddler. “That’s at us. We ain’t a going -to do it. Nary if nor and about it, we ain’t. It’s against God, man and -nature. It’s irreligious. What’s moreover the men won’t have it. They -got to work there, don’t they? No sir. They won’t have it.” - -“What does he want?” Thane asked. - -“He takes on that a way and says as he can’t die until’s we promise. -But we ain’t a going to promise.” - -“What does he want you to promise?” Thane asked, patiently. - -“No sir,” the puddler went on. “Nobody’s a going to. Not so as you -could notice it. Ain’t it bad enough to have him always on our necks -alive?” - -“You ain’t told him yet,” said the second puddler. - -“’Tain’t Christian,” said the tall one, walking off by himself. “It’s -heathen,” he mumbled. “It’s unbelieving. It’s....” - -“You tell me,” said Thane to the second puddler. “What does Enoch want?” - -“Wants us to burn him up in a puddlin’ furnace,” said the second -puddler. Trying to say it calmly, even lightly, and all at once, he -lost control of his voice. It squeaked with horror on the last word. - -“Is that all?” - -The puddler recoiled. The group behind him fell back a step. - -“Is that all he wants?” Thane asked again. - -“That’s what he’s a screaming at us for,” said the puddler, sharply. - -Thane went back to Agnes. He had time to tell her before they reached -the mansion. - -“If he wants it, and you have no will to the contrary, I’ll promise to -do it,” he concluded. - -“It strikes one with terror,” she said. “If he wants it that’s enough.” - -Just as they were admitted they heard the dreadful scream again. The -door, closing, seemed to cut it off. Inside there was no sound of it. - -The family doctor anxiously received them. He talked rapidly, -addressing Agnes in a manner tactfully to include Thane, whom he had -never seen before. The two best consulting physicians in Wilkes-Barre -were present, he said. There had arrived within the hour also an -eminent alienist from Philadelphia. Four men nurses had been provided. -Everything possible to be done had been thought of almost at once. - -“But what is it?” Agnes asked. “What has happened?” - -The doctor was sympathetic. Naturally she would want to know what it -was and how it happened. Those were questions anyone would ask. Alas! -who could answer them? He, the doctor, had attended the late Mrs. Gib; -it had been his happiness to know Agnes before she could possibly know -herself; but Mr. Gib, as they all knew, lived to himself. He had, so -to speak, no pathological history. Three days before it happened he -had begun to behave strangely at the mill. The men noticed it. He -interfered with their work by having them hold the furnace doors open -while he committed papers, bundles and various unidentified objects to -the fire, thereby spoiling several heats of good iron. It was not a -doctor’s business to know these things. He had taken it upon himself, -nevertheless, to make inquiries. - -On the third day there had been a conference between Mr. Gib and his -lawyers. What took place at this conference a doctor would probably not -understand if he were told; however, he had not been told. The lawyers -were reticent to the point of being rude, not knowing, of course, how -important it was for a doctor to be able to reconstruct the events that -have immediately preceded the seizure. Mr. Gib, he had learned, never -returned to the mill from that conference with his lawyers. The notice -of the mill’s closing was posted by the lawyers; it was signed by them -with power of attorney. Mr. Gib went straight home and was next seen -in a state of frenzy. When the doctor arrived he was in a paroxysm of -rage, very dangerous to himself but otherwise harmless, since it seemed -to vent itself upon imaginary objects. This state was followed by -others, in rapid, alarming alternation--despair, exultation, terror. It -had been necessary, as they could realize, to put him under restraint. -Two men nurses were by him constantly. - -What was it? The Wilkes-Barre consultants had agreed upon one -diagnosis. The patient, they said, had been attacked by delusional -mania. If the attack subsided he would recover; if not he would die of -exhaustion. That might be a matter of weeks. The Philadelphia alienist -had only just now seen the patient; yet his mind was made up. He -pronounced it a kind of progressive disintegration of the brain matter, -with sudden, catastrophic lesions. Death would take place in a few -hours. And it certainly was true that all the symptoms grew worse. - -“What is your opinion?” Agnes asked. - -“My own?” said the doctor, casting glances around. He lowered his voice -to a nonprofessional tone. “We have different names for it,” he said. -“That is scientific. No matter. We are all talking about the same -thing.... He ... is ... possessed.” - -Agnes shuddered. - -“What does he want from these mill workers outside?” Thane asked. - -Yes, yes. The doctor was just coming to that. Mr. Gib had lucid, -coherent intervals. They were decreasing in frequency and duration -and that was an ominous sign. In the very first of these intervals he -seemed to be facing the thought of death and revealed an extreme horror -of natural interment. He had in one such interval either conceived a -way or remembered one of cheating the earth, which was to be cremated -in one of his own furnaces. Thereupon he began to call for certain old -puddlers and heaters by name and when they were brought up to him he -demanded of them a promise to dispose of his body in that extraordinary -way. While he looked at them they had not the strength to say outright -they would not; but he could not make them promise, and each time he -failed it was very bad for him. The state of terror returned, and if -this continued the consequences would be fatal. - -“Would it relieve him if I promised?” Thane asked. - -“Promised what?” the doctor asked moving uneasily. - -“To do what he wants done with his body,” said Thane. - -“But who would do it?” the doctor asked. - -“I would,” said Thane. - -The doctor looked away in all four directions. “Certainly it would -relieve him now,” he said, vaguely, as if that were not the point. - -Thane suggested that Agnes be permitted to see him in the next lucid -interval, and that afterward, in the same interval if possible, and if -not, then in the next one, they should try letting him promise to carry -out the old man’s cremation wish. - -The doctor agreed. However, he was not to be held responsible for the -consequences. He had been responsible until now for everything because -there was no one else. He could not be unaware of the fact that there -had been an unfortunate family episode. No one could tell how Mr. Gib -would be affected by the unexpected sight of his own daughter. He had -not asked to see her. However, she _was_ his daughter and there was no -one else,--no one. How extraordinary! - -He left them to ascertain and report. - -Agnes, putting off her hat and gloves, sat facing the window. Thane -took several turns about the room, came up behind her chair, laid his -hand gently on her head. She sat quite still and reached over her -shoulder for his other hand. They did not speak. The doctor returned in -haste, saying: “If Mrs. Thane will come now, at once, very softly, we -may try.” Agnes and the doctor walked up the staircase together, Thane -following. Her feet were as steady as his own. He was suddenly swept -with a feeling of great tenderness for her. - -The Philadelphia alienist and the Wilkes-Barre consultants made a group -in the front hall window. They had been arguing technically and stopped -to stare a little at Agnes and then at Thane, who fell back and stood -leaning against the wall as Agnes and the doctor went on. The doctor -opened the door carefully and peered in. Standing aside he motioned -Agnes to enter. - -Her father lay in a great four-poster on his back, extended to his -full length, his feet together and vertical, his head slightly raised -on pillows,--and their eyes met as she crossed the threshold. He -recognized her instantly. She was sure of it,--sure he was in his right -mind. Yet he gave not the slightest sign of his feelings. She was -surprised that he was not more shrunken. His bulk was intact. But he -was the color of sand. His aspect was sepulchral. She advanced slowly, -holding his gaze, hardly aware of two men standing alert at the head of -the bed, just outside the line of vision, ready to seize him. - -When she was half way to him he began to sit up, lifting his whole -trunk from the hips without the use of his arms, his feet at the same -time rising a little, under the lower part of the sheet. - -“Go away!” he said hoarsely, and she stopped. “Go away!” he meant -to say again, but as his voice rose he became inarticulate and made -guttural sounds. He began to repel her with excited gestures. The -doctor interfered. “Come,” he whispered. She half turned to go, but -faced her father again. In a clear, loud voice, she uttered the three -words he had once with all his strength demanded and could not make -her say. “I am sorry.” Their effect was to excite him all the more. -He continued to wave her away. When the door had closed behind her he -collapsed. - -Thane was waiting outside the door. She leaned on him heavily and -seemed about to go under. He took her in his arms and bore her -downstairs. She revived at once and sharply declined to be made about, -even by the doctor, whose smelling salts she put aside. Thane walked -with her in the air. - -Presently the doctor joined them. The idea of bringing Mr. Thane to -Mr. Gib’s notice as one who would promise to do the strange thing he -desired,--this idea, he said, had been discussed with the alienist; -and it was the alienist’s notion first to put the patient under the -suggestion that a puddler named Thane had been sent for, the point -being that Mr. Gib might remember Mr. Thane as a puddler and forget -him as a son-in-law. This seemed to the doctor too subtle altogether; -still, as it couldn’t do any harm he had consented. It had in fact been -done with such success that Mr. Gib now lay in a fever of hope. Would -Mr. Thane, the puddler, please come at once? - -Thane had never been in a sick room. He had never seen death -transacting. He had known two idiots and had an idea of imbecility; -insanity he could not imagine. The doctor’s long medical discourse on -Enoch’s disorder had filled him with a vague sense of resentment; and -the doctor’s private conviction that Enoch was possessed had made him -angry. He did not believe in devils. That flash of superstition threw -the professional manner into grotesque relief and he was contemptuous -of it. His feelings went over and stood with Enoch against these -self-important outsiders who by some law of their own had established -themselves above him in his own house, were permitted to restrain him -in his own bed, who stood about in his hallway disputing as to how and -why he should die. - -As Thane entered the room the two nurses were leaning over the old man -from opposite sides of the bed, and the sight of them deepened his -antagonism. They stood back as he approached. Enoch, slowly opening -his eyes, gazed at Thane with a look of tense recognition. Otherwise -he lay perfectly inert until Thane stood looking down at him. Then his -lips began to move as if he were talking. No sound was audible. Thane, -bending lower and lower, dropped on his knees and put his ear very -close. Enoch was whispering. His words, though faint, were distinct, -almost fluent, and dramatically intentional. - -What he said was that worse puddlers and lesser men than Thane, men -he had known all his life, had refused to do for him that service -one cannot perform for oneself and must therefore be permitted to -ask as a favor. This service was to dispose of his remains agreeably -to a certain wish, which was to be cremated. There was no physical -difficulty whatever. It was feasible to be done in a puddling -furnace!--his own furnace!--his own mill!--his own body! Why not? - -“I will do it,” said Thane, removing his ear and meeting the old man’s -eyes. Enoch’s lips continued to move. Thane returned his ear. - -It was to be done in Number One Furnace. - -Thane met his eyes again, saying: “All right. In Number One. I -understand.” - -Enoch’s lips were still moving. Thane listened. - -There was one thing more, Enoch said. He had no right to ask it except -as a favor for which he would be deeply grateful. Would Thane listen -very carefully? In that walnut secretary by the door, in a secret -drawer of it that would come open when the moulding above the pen rack -was pressed downward--there he would find the key to a room upstairs, -directly above the one they were in. He wished to die in that room -upstairs,--_by himself_. He knew better than to ask the nurses or the -doctors. They already thought him mad. Anyhow they would ask questions -and he couldn’t tell them why he wished to die in that room alone. He -had been saving his strength against an opportunity to give them the -slip, intending to lock himself into it. Once in it he would be safe. -But his strength had suddenly departed forever. No one knew this yet. -It had just happened. The nurses supposed he was resting. The fact was -he could not move foot, hand or finger. So now he was utterly helpless -and hopeless except for Thane,--and the end was so near. - -Would Thane get the key?--carry him over all obstacles to that room -above?--set him in a certain chair, taking care not to move it?--then -retire and lock the door and keep them all off for an hour? An hour -would do it. In one hour he would be out of their reach. - -Thane did not pause to reflect. The old man’s appeal to be permitted -to die as he would in his own house was irresistible. It moved him -dynamically. He strode to the walnut secretary, discovered the key, -dropped it in his pocket and returned to the bedside. - -The nurses were dumfounded! scandalized! to see him suddenly take the -old man up in his arms, sheet and all, and start off with him toward -the door. - -They followed, exclaiming and chattering. They were too amazed to act. -At the door occurred a scene of pure confusion. As Thane pulled it open -the four doctors, having heard the commotion within, were there in a -group on the momentum of entry. At sight of Enoch in Thane’s arms they -recoiled and stood blankly aghast. The two nurses behind Thane became -hysterically vocal, trying all in one breath to exculpate themselves -and explain an inconceivable thing. - -Thane was pushing through. - -“He wants to die upstairs,” he said. - -Instantly on speaking of it he became aware that the situation had an -irrational aspect; and he wondered how he should clear them out of the -room in which Enoch wished to die and keep them out,--for of course -they would follow. He could not help that. With a resolve if necessary -to throw them all downstairs he crossed the threshold. The alienist -from Philadelphia and the two Wilkes-Barre consultants fell back. It -was not their case. The family doctor barred Thane’s way at the foot of -the staircase. - -“You must be crazy,” he shouted, waving his arms. “This simply cannot -be permitted. As his physician I order you to take him back.” - -“Stand aside,” said Thane. - -“You will kill him,” said the doctor. “Do you hear that? This will kill -him. I forbid it.” - -Thane seemed not at all impressed. Probably he would have pursued -his purpose in a straight line but that his mind was arrested by a -startling change in the heft and feeling of his burden. - -It became suddenly so much heavier that he almost lost his balance. -And as he looked to see what this could mean there rose out of Enoch -a groan unlike any sound concerned with life. With that the body -underwent a violent muscular commotion and threw itself into a state of -rigid extension. Thane needed all his strength to hold it. Immediately -there was another change. The body began slowly to go limp. - -“It’s over,” said the Philadelphia alienist. - -What Thane held in his arms was no longer Enoch, but a distasteful -object, fallen in one breath from the first person _I_, from the second -person _you_, to the state of a pronominal third thing which is spoken -of--_that_! - -Thane carried it back to the bed. - -All of this had taken place in less than half an hour. Thane found -Agnes as he had left her, on an iron bench in the maple shade. - -“He is dead,” she said, on looking at him. - -He answered by sitting by her side in silence. - -She asked him nothing about the end, and he was glad, for it had been -extremely harrowing. Still, he was surprised at her want of curiosity, -and had a moment of thinking her callous. He had somehow mysteriously -arrived at an understanding of Enoch, was shaken by a sense of loss, -even grief, and yearned to share his emotion with Agnes. - -Having been for some time withdrawn in thought she started slightly. -“Did you promise?” she asked. “Was there time for that?” - -“Yes,” he said. “Don’t let it upset you,” he continued gently. “You -won’t have to think about it. I’ve got it worked out in my mind. There -can be funeral services here like they have sometimes when nobody goes -to the grave or when there ain’t going to be any burial. Then I can go -alone with him to the mill. There’s nobody at the mill, you know. It’s -shut.” - -She regarded him with a troubled, unbelieving expression. - -“Alone!” she said. - -“I’d rather to,” he said, “with everybody being so superstitious about -it.” - -“But I shall go,” she said. - -“May take a long time,” he said uneasily. “I’ll have the furnace going, -of course, but it’s got to be kept going and watched I don’t know how -long.” - -She met these difficulties with a scornful gesture. - -“All right,” he said. “He’ll be pleased you feel that way.” - - - - -XXXI - - -Late that night Thane was telling John how Enoch died and how his -remains were to be disposed of. He had to tell someone. It was a weight -on his mind and he was tormented with misgivings about his own conduct. -When he came to the key he remembered having it in his pocket still and -produced it associatively. John took it out of his hand and continued -to regard it thoughtfully long after the narrative was finished. - -“Was I right?” Thane asked, anxiously. - -“Admirable!” said John, a little off the point as it seemed to Thane. -He added thoughtfully: “The fate that amuses itself with our lives knew -what it wanted when it tangled you in.” - -“Seems there’s a lot as I don’t know,” said Thane, a faint edge to his -voice. - -“It’s hard to get at,” said John. He continued: “This place, if you -know, was founded by General Woolwine, my great grandfather, whose -partner was a younger man named Christopher Gib, this Enoch’s father.” - -So he began, as if opening a book. Some of it was missing, parts were -illegible, yet the shape of the drama stood vividly forth. When he came -to the end--to where the invisible writing stopped,--it was sudden and -for a moment bewildering, almost as if they had forgotten who they -were and had been unexpectedly let down in the middle of a story. They -sat a while musing. - -“To be continued by the three of us,” said John. “I should like to know -what is in that room.” - -“Let’s go see,” said Thane. - -He had come to the hotel only to talk to John and was returning to the -mansion. John went with him. - -Enoch’s body lay where it was in the second floor bed chamber. They -passed it without stopping and went on to the third floor. On the -landing was a little table with a lighted glass lamp, which John took -up. - -“That would be it,” he said, indicating a certain doorway. The key -fitted the lock, but to their surprise the bolt was already drawn. John -held the light. Thane went first. He had but crossed the threshold -when he started back, recoiled rather, with a movement so sudden -and involuntary that John immediately behind him was thrown off his -balance, and dropped the lamp, which burst and harmlessly petered out. -They were then in darkness. There was no other light on that floor. - -“Match,” said Thane, now standing quietly. - -John had matches and he divided them by a sense of touch. Each struck -one and held it out. - -What had startled Thane was the figure of a woman. As they saw her now -in the flickering light of their matches she stood at the other side -of the room, her back to the wall, facing them. John recognized her -at once as the woman who met him in the front doorway, holding an oil -light over her head, the night he came seeking Agnes and encountered -Enoch at the gate. She was dishevelled. Her thick black hair had fallen -on one side and her face was distorted and swollen from weeping. -Her eyes were alight with a kind of wild animal defiance. As they -approached her she began to move along the wall, sideways, her arms a -little spread. In one hand she held a coil of small rope. - -“Who are you?” Thane asked. - -She did not speak, but continued slowly to edge along the wall, staring -at them angrily. They lit fresh matches from the dying ones and pursued -her in this way, asking her who she was and what she did there, and -she answered only with that wild look, until with more presence -of mind than they were able to summon she had worked herself to a -position between them and the open door. Their matches gave out and she -disappeared in the dark. They heard her go down the back stairway. - -“We’ll have to get a light,” said John. - -They groped their way downstairs, both absurdly unnerved, found some -candles and returned to the room. Both had the same thought. From what -they had glimpsed of the interior in the light of their matches by a -kind of marginal vision it seemed quite empty. And so it was. There was -no trace of what had been there, except dust, which on the floor showed -evidence of much moving about. The only object of any kind was a key -that evidently the woman had dropped. It was a duplicate of the one -in Thane’s possession. They examined the room with silent curiosity. -The walls gave a dead, solid sound to the rap of their knuckles. The -windows were double and grated inside with iron bars. - -Now they went in search of the woman, knowing nothing about her, not -even her name. She was probably the housekeeper. Agnes would know. But -they hated to disturb Agnes. She was at the other side of the mansion -and it was very late. Besides, they had a feeling that the sequel might -be distressing. - -The woman had vanished. They could find no trace of her, nor could they -raise any servants indoors, for the reason afterward disclosed that -latterly Enoch’s ménage had consisted of three persons,--housekeeper, -gardener and stable man. - -“Let’s try the stable,” John suggested. “There must be somebody alive.” - -On their way to the stable they stared curiously at a great unsightly -heap of ashes, still smoking and glowing in spots, on the back terrace, -as if a miscellaneous lot of things had been gathered hastily together -and burned. - -“Strange place for a fire,” said Thane, with an unspoken intuition that -John shared. - -The stable-man was sitting up, smoking, with the look of a man whose -eyes have seen more than mind can grasp. He knew Thane and seemed -comforted by the advent of human society. - -“Nobody in the house. What’s the matter?” Thane asked. - -“I ain’t the housekeeper,” said the stable-man. “No, thank God, I ain’t -her. She’s on her way.” - -“Way where?” - -“Wherever,” he said, with the air of a man who for cause has newly -resolved not to meddle with things that will be. - -“What do you know about her?” John asked. - -They had only to listen and piece it together. He was full of it. -The woman’s name was Ann Sibthorp and she came from nobody knew -where,--most likely from some place where they had ceased to speak well -of her. She had been Enoch’s housekeeper for many years and at last his -only house servant. She was not a woman you could get acquainted with. -You wouldn’t if you could. So it wasn’t that anybody cared, but that -she gave herself airs about her station, became oppressive and drove -the help away. She did much that Enoch probably knew nothing about. Yet -she had her way, even with him, and it got so nobody dared to cross -her. For several days she had been going strange. When the old man died -she seemed to lose her mind. She looked without seeing. There was no -sense in her eyes. A little while before dark she began to carry things -from the house and pile them out there on the terrace. He could not -say exactly what they were,--some pieces of furniture, a chair, a bed -no doubt; yes, and some clothes, a pair of white slippers and little -what-not objects. When he saw her pouring oil on them he protested. She -didn’t hear him. She wasn’t natural and he was afraid to do anything -except to draw a lot of water in case something caught fire. Then she -lighted the pile and watched it burn, fairly standing in the flames, -poking them with a stick, rubbing her hands in them, taking on like -a witch. It made a God-fearing person sick to see her. After that she -went in and he didn’t see her again until just now when she rushed out -of the house and disappeared among the trees. - -“She’s a going to do herself a damage, that woman,” he predicted, -calmly. “Found this in the edge of the ashes,” he remembered, drawing -from his pocket a small square brown case, badly singed at one corner. -“Maybe you would know what it is.” - -It was a daguerreotype in a faded leather case. Thane opened it and -held it for John to see in the light of the stable lantern. - -“I recognize it,” said John. Thane gave it to him. - -That was all from the stable-man. And that was all that was ever known -about Ann Sibthorp. She was never seen again, dead or alive. - -“You know the picture?” Thane asked, as they were parting at the gate. - -“It’s a portrait of my mother,” John answered. - -“Esther that you just told me about?” - -“Yes.” - - - - -XXXII - - -At daybreak smoke was seen curling out of one of the cold mill stacks. -Everybody in New Damascus knew that Enoch’s body was to be burned in a -puddling furnace. - -“There he goes!” one said. “There goes old Enoch now.” - -“Not yet,” said another. “Take a hotter fire than that. Don’t you see -it’s just started. That’s his puddler son-in-law getting it ready for -him.” - -It takes eight or ten hours, starting with it cold, to get the maw of -a puddling furnace white hot. In this case it would take even longer -since Thane had it all to do alone and would be unable to stoke the -fire steadily. There were other duties. Simple obsequies would take -place at the mansion in the afternoon. That was all the public was -permitted to know. Only Thane and Agnes knew at what hour the cremation -would begin. The point of keeping it secret was obvious. - -All day long people watched the smoke with fascinated horror. Crowds -gathered on the mountainside and at points overlooking the mill to -witness this weird translation of the symbol that was Enoch,--symbol -of iron, symbol of indestructibility. There were many who believed he -would not burn. - -After the funeral services had taken place at the mansion interest -in the smoke became intense. Changes in its color or density or in -the way it twisted out of the top of the stack evoked exclamations -of horrendous wonder and cries of “Look! Look! That’s the image of -him. That’s Enoch going up. Don’t you see him?” Then news would -come, seemingly by a telepathic impulse, that that had been only the -son-in-law poking up the fire; the body was still at the mansion. -Again it would be rumored that a previous rumor was positively true. -The remains had been got into the mill unobserved. Everybody had been -fooled. Enoch had got the last laugh. He had been burning up for more -than an hour and had already very largely vanished into the sky.... So -the whole afternoon and the early evening passed. - -An hour after sunset the stable-man drove a spring wagon to the Enoch -portal of the Gib mansion. He tied the horse to the ring in the hand of -the ironboy hitching post and went indoors. Presently the front door -swung open. Thane, the gardener and the stable-man appeared bearing -the coffin. They slid it into the bed of the wagon over the tailboard. -Agnes followed with a black drape. Thane covered the coffin with it. -Then he helped Agnes up over the high front wheel, took the lines from -the stable-man, got up beside her, and they drove away at a walk. - -At the entrance to the mill yard Agnes held the lines while Thane got -down to unlock the gate. A number of people were idly gathered there -in separate knots, pretending to be non-existent. News of the body’s -arrival would travel fast. That couldn’t be helped. What Thane had -counted on was that darkness would cheat the eye of morbidity. But he -had forgotten the moon; it was full and coming up. The whorl of smoke -rising from the stack looked even more ghost-like by moonlight than in -daytime and the watchers, now sure of their spectacle and of Enoch’s -presence in the smoke, were more gruesomely thrilled than they had -hoped to be. - -The yard and mill were deserted. Even the watchmen had been sent away -until midnight. Agnes still holding the lines, Thane leading the horse, -they crossed the yard, picking their way around heaps of rusty pig -iron, abandoned castings, rails piled up like cord wood, and came to -the rear door of the mill. - -“You stay here for a minute,” said Thane. “I’ll come and get you.” - -He drew the coffin half way out of the wagon, stooped to get his -shoulder under, lifted it, and walked slowly into the gloom, treading -cautiously. There was no light and there were many pitfalls, but his -feet knew every inch of this ground before they wore shoes. He soon -returned, tied the horse, helped Agnes down and led her by the hand. - -At first she could see nothing and followed him blindly. Then far off -in the crêpe interior she saw a sultry glow. As they drew near she -heard the roar of the furnace fire, like the sound at the brink of a -cataract. A fire is a cataract upward. It grew louder and louder with -each step until she could feel its vibrations in the soles of her feet. -She never had been in the mill before. - -A puddling furnace is a low brick structure somewhat resembling a -double tomb. One side is the fire pit; the other side is the oven. The -flames from the fire pit are sucked by draught across the roof of the -oven. As you face the furnace you see two iron doors--one is to the -fire pit, opening on the grate, to receive the fuel. To the right of -that on a higher level is the small square door of the oven. Through -the first door when it is open you see the fire. Through the other you -see heat,--nothing but heat,--blinding incandescence. - -Thane led Agnes to a bench facing the furnace, spread his coat upon it -and motioned her to sit down. The roar was so great that conversation -in normal tones was impossible. She now began to take in the scene. - -The fire pit at the last stoking had evidently been gorged to the -teeth. A long iron bar was propped against the door to hold it shut. -Gases, smoke and cherry flames were belching through the cracks. The -oven door was set in a square halo of exuding white light. And directly -in front of this door, pointing toward it head first, was the coffin, -resting on a pair of iron horses. - -There was no light other than that escaping from the furnace doors, -and as it was continually running through unpredictable changes, so -perspectives, and the forms, dimensions and relations of objects, were -always changing with a very weird effect. - -Thane threw off his collar, tie, waistcoat and hat, and seemed to take -the furnace by the jaws with his bare hands. First he opened the oven -door and was immersed in scalding light. He slammed it to, shaking -his head. Kicking away the iron bar, he opened the fire door and -immediately banged it shut, still shaking his head. The fire was not -hot enough. Rolling up his sleeves he seized a great poker, pulled the -fire door open again, and made several passes; then he stopped, slammed -the door, and stood for a moment in apparent dilemma. No wonder. Who -in a white shirt could bring a fire to its zenith? He disappeared into -the gloom and was lost for five minutes. When he reappeared he was in -the puddler’s rig he had worn earlier in the day,--naked to the middle, -trousers rolled at the waist, cowhide shoes, gloves and skullcap. Now -he could talk to the fire. As he thrust the javelin into its throat it -roared back at him like an angry beast. He made it turn over, lie down, -turn over again and rear on its legs. For moments he was swallowed up -in smoke and Agnes could scarce restrain a shriek of thrill and terror. -Each time he miraculously emerged unsinged. Then he cast in more fuel, -working swiftly, with heroic ease and grace, and banged the door shut -just in time, for the monster was on the point of lunging headlong -forth. With another look at the inside of the oven he came and sat on -the end of the bench. She noticed that his chest rose and fell slowly. -All that exertion had not forced his breathing. Ten minutes passed. He -rowelled the fire again. This time instead of returning to sit on the -bench he walked to and fro in front of the furnace. - -In Agnes a mysterious excitement was rising. It seemed incongruous -with what they were doing; therefore she ceased to be aware of that. -The emotion comprehended Thane, centered in him, excluded everything -else save the fact of herself in relation to him. As she watched -him his figure became splendid, fabulous! Her own ego’s importance -collapsed. In his power with ideas man is dimly admirable to woman; in -his power over circumstances he inspires her with trust; in his power -over people he satisfies her taste for grandeur; but in his power over -elements,--in that aspect he wrecks her completely, for she is herself -an element. In that moment he is god-like; she cannot comprehend him. - -She was in love with him. That fact had long been desperate and -apparently hopeless, since he had closed the door. But now, in addition -to the potential of her love, she felt that sweet, fierce longing for -the thing of life, that headlong impulse to perpetuation, with which -we are mysteriously seized in the presence of death. This nameless -elemental forethought will pierce through grief, affliction and terror. -Sir John Everett Millais caught its gesture in the most poignant pencil -sketch in the world--“Marrying and Giving in Marriage at the Deluge.” - -Thane’s emotions were parallel. He loved that woman. And the stark -enigma moved him in the same way to answer death with life. Being a man -he thought himself abominable. Yet the impulse overthrew him. - -Breaking his walk before the furnace he strode to the bench where she -sat, lifted her free, pressed her to him and kissed her once hotly on -the mouth. - -Instantly overcome at what he had done, humiliated, chagrined, horribly -ashamed of the desire that possessed him, he put her down as suddenly -as he had picked her up, roughly, leaving her stunned and limp. - -She had been overwhelmed, in all her senses. The impact was -catastrophic. There had not been time for her to react as her nature -listed. For a moment she could scarcely believe it had happened. It -might almost have been an episode of phantasy. She rose to run after -him. - -At that instant he opened the furnace door and the glare blinded her. -When he closed it and turned she was at one end of the coffin and he at -the other. So they faced each other. - -“It is ready,” he said. Though she could not hear she knew what he -meant. The fire at last was hot enough. As she neither moved nor made a -sign, he asked: “Is there anything to say?” That also she understood. - -She crossed her arms and dropped her head on the foot of the coffin. -Thane looked away.... She raised her head and stood back. Thane flung -the door wide open, quickly lifted the coffin by the middle, rested -the head of it on the lip of the oven, then took it by the foot and -pushed it in. It made a grating sound above the roar of the fire and -was instantly wrapped in a flame of burning wood. Seizing an iron bar -he pushed it far in and slammed the door. - -Hours passed. No word was spoken. Thane gave the fire no peace. He -made it rage and bellow. The door of the oven was not opened again. -From time to time he unstopped the little round eye through which a -puddler kneads the waxing iron and peered in. - -It was nearly two o’clock when he gorged the pit once more with fuel, -propped the fire door shut, and stood in front of Agnes, saying: “We -could go now.” - -She rose slowly and he took her by the hand to lead her out. - -When they came to the air by the door at which they went in he said: -“Wait here by the wagon. I want to wash a bit.” She caught a white -gleam of him in the moonlight as he got out of the puddler’s rig and -heard him splashing under the tap at the water tank. He was not long, -and returned carrying his coat on his arm, otherwise dressed as when he -came, except that his collar was missing and the front of his shirt lay -open. He offered to help her up. - -“I’d like to walk,” she said. - -One of the watchmen who had returned took charge of the horse and they -departed on foot. Although dense smoke still issued from the stack -there was very little of Enoch left in it, perhaps not a trace. When -Thane last looked there was nothing on the incandescent bed of the oven -but an ashy outline fainter than a shadow. The fire as it was would -continue to burn for hours. - -“Thought you might rather go to the hotel,” he said, when they were -through the gate, and he had locked it again. “We’ve got rooms there.” - -“I would,” she answered, “only I’ve no sleep in me and I’d like to -walk.” - -She was looking toward the mountain and they walked that way. Thane was -stirred by an intuition, which he disbelieved, that if he were passive -and let her choose they would come to a certain path. And they did. He -had a further intuition, most unbelievable, that of her own accord she -would stop at a certain place, turn in a certain way, and stand looking -into the valley. And she did. - -It was the spot at which they first met, the night of his battle with -the Cornishman,--a night very like this one. - -All the way she had been silent. If they touched, walking side by side, -he made it clear without words that the contact was accidental. When -they came to the path he stood aside and she went ahead. When at this -spot she stopped and turned her face to the valley he went a few paces -away, not to disturb her reverie, and stood with his face averted. - -The summer night was cool; but the air he breathed was hot, tasteless -and suffocating. Memory reconstructed the episode of their original -meeting. It went on from there. He saw as in one picture the whole of -his life with Agnes and feelings extremely inconsistent assailed him. -There was one,--the one he thought he had got control of,--that rose -higher and higher, for a reason he seemed painfully aware of and yet -for a moment could not recall. Then he remembered. It referred to that -moment in the mill when he kissed her for the first time in his life, -and by force. He had forgotten it as one might momentarily forget -having just committed a murder. He loathed himself for having done it. -He wondered that she could tolerate him afterward, could walk with him -alone, could speak to him with no sign of disgust. He wondered what she -was thinking, so still in the moonlight. Probably thinking of that. - -He became aware that she moved. She was coming toward him. He did not -turn round. He detested himself so much that he could not bear to look -at her, or to be looked at, and stepped out of the path to let her -pass. She did not pass. - -He felt her standing close to him,--near enough to have touched him. -Still he did not turn. She raised her arms, slowly, with a wistfulness -he could not have imagined or believed. He knew her hands were stealing -around his neck and he could not realize it. Then she clasped him -fiercely, hung her weight against him, adhered to him like a vine, -saying, “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Turning in her embrace he tried to kiss her. She -buried her face in his neck, sobbing deeply, all the time clinging to -him frantically as if she expected him to put her off. Lifting her head -she leaned far back against the encircling chain of his arms and lay -there looking at him, moonbeams in her eyes. Clasping him again she -kissed his face, his mouth, his eyes, stopping only to whisper in his -ear the most stupendous three words a woman can say. - -For a long time he did not let the ground touch her feet. He carried -her to and fro in the path, then up the mountain, higher and higher, -and at last to the very top. - - - - -XXXIII - - -John, unable to sleep, had risen from his bed and gone walking. He let -his feet drift, having nothing consciously in view, and presently found -himself in the path where on just such a night six years before he had -raced up and down in a panic calling the name of Agnes. It occurred -to him to look for the spot at which he had found her things. Unable -to make sure of it he idly gave up the effort. The view of the valley -impressed him and he sat on a stone at some distance below the path -to sense it. He was there when Agnes and Thane arrived. They could -not see him; shrubbery above his seat concealed him. He could see -them distinctly. His first impulse naturally was to disclose himself. -Hesitation arose on the thought that their coming to this place must -have been by romantic impulse; and then as the scene between them -developed he could only sit still. They should never know he had -witnessed it. Long after they were gone he sat there. And when he -departed he stumbled straight down the mountain side to the highway -lest they should still be near and see him if he went by the path. - -He felt strangely exalted. His love for Agnes was hopeless. It had -been hopeless as a matter of honor because she rightfully belonged to -Thane. Now it was hopeless in a new and final sense because she had -learned to love Thane as he loved her. What had been inevitable now -was fulfilled, and what had been renounced in fair conduct was beyond -temptation. There was also his feeling for Thane which made them closer -than brothers. - -He waited for them to seek him. That occurred on the second day. They -had come to the hotel and Thane asked him to join them for supper. They -required his advice. Much to their surprise Enoch not only had left no -estate; he was hopelessly bankrupt. The mill was heavily in debt. They -had to decide whether to pay off its debts or let it be sold for the -benefit of creditors. They were in no state about it. Agnes, it was -true, would never come into that fortune of her own out of which she -had meant to pay those “balances owing Alexander Thane to be accounted -for,” according to the black book. That no longer made the slightest -difference. As for Thane, he cared nothing about being rich. Besides, -his income now was large. Nevertheless, was it not an astonishing fact? - -“Had you suspected it?” Agnes asked. - -John told them of Enoch’s obsession against steel and how the wreck was -made. He put it entirely on the ground of Enoch’s steel phobia and left -himself out of it. - -“What would be your guess to do with the mill?” Thane asked. - -This question they debated at length. - -“It’s too late to make New Damascus a steel town,” John said. “That -opportunity has gone around. However, there will always be a want for -New Damascus iron. I’ll go halves, if you like, to pay off the debts. -We’ll form a close corporation and save the mill. Rationally worked it -will pay its way.” - -To this both Thane and Agnes agreed. - -John went back to Pittsburgh. Thane and Agnes remained for several -weeks, to settle Enoch’s affairs, to dismantle Number One Furnace and -to arrange for reopening the mill under a superintendent brought by -Thane from the Agnes plant. - -And New Damascus unawares was delivered to its fate. - - - - -XXXIV - - -Now the steel age was come with its deluge of things. - -Man’s environment was made over twice in one generation. Nothing was -built but to be built again on a greater scale. It seemed impossible to -make anything big enough. Wonders were of a day’s duration. - -In twenty-five years the country’s population doubled. In the same time -the production of things unto the use, happiness and discontent of -people increased five, ten, twenty fold. Man had now in his hand the -universal power of steel. It extended his arms and legs unimaginably, -grotesquely. - -The production of metallic fibre increased more than one hundred fold. -Railways were built which if placed end to end and run around the globe -would have circled it six times. Those already grown when the steel age -came were not yet old when a ton of freight was transported more than -2,500 miles annually for each man, woman and child living on American -soil. Food was cheaper and more abundant than ever before in the life -of man because the railways, pursuing the sun, had suddenly opened a -virgin continent to bonanza farming. So was everything else. Modern -cities were made and were no sooner made than torn down and built over -again. Chicago grew faster than St. Louis because it had less to tear -down. Rivers were moved, mountains were levelled, swamps were lifted -up. Nothing was right as God left it. - - O, bigger! and deeper! and higher! - O, faster! and cheaper! and plus! - -And it is still incredible, like the Pyramids. Men lived in strife by -doing. They labored and brought it forth. There was never a moment to -think. There has not come that moment yet. What it was toward nobody -knows. - -Steel was to make men free. They said this who required a slogan. Men -are not free. Why should they be? What shall they be free to do? Go to -and fro, perhaps. What shall they be free to think? Anything wherein is -refuge from the riddles they invent. - -The men who delivered the steel age were not thinkers. They were -magicians who monkeyed with the elements until they had conjured forth -from the earth a spirit that said: “Serve me!” - -Those who directly served it were of two kinds. - -First were the men who thought with their hands. They were daring in -invention. Mechanical impossibilities intoxicated them. They abhorred a -pause in the production process as nature abhors a vacuum. - -Next were the men of vision, who worked by inspiration, who had a -phantasy of things beyond the feeling of them, and ran ahead. - -And since men of both kinds are more available here than in Europe the -steel age walked across the ocean. - -Here were men like Thane whose genius fashioned tools in the guise of -sentient creatures,--walking tools, thinking tools, co-operating tools, -with eyes and ears and nerves and powers of discrimination. Human tools -but that they lacked the sense of good and evil. - -Fancy a tool larger than an elephant keeping vigil before a row of -furnaces, pacing slowly up and down, apparently brooding, and then -at the right moment opening a door and plucking forth a block of -incandescent steel weighing many tons, neatly, with not the slightest -effort, and nowhere in sight a human being! - -Fancy another tool to drudge and fag for this one! It comes running up, -stands still while the other gently lays upon its back the white-hot -slab, then runs and dumps it on a train of rollers. - -That two hundred weight of flaming iron you saw swinging through the -gloom of Enoch’s mill in hand tongs now is a mass of ninety tons or -more, handled, carried hither, delivered there, shaped and forged, all -by automatic tools. The ladle no larger than a pot in which the fluid -iron was first decanted is now a car on wheels,--no, not one but many -in a string, hence called a ladle train, running through the night -behind a donkey locomotive, slopping over at the turns, on the way from -where the ore is smelted to where the mixers mix it and the converters -change it into steel. - -The Thanes did that. - -And here were men like John to say: “Give us a tariff protection of -six-tenths of a cent a pound for ten years and we will not only make -all our own steel wire hereafter but wire for all the world,”--who got -it and did it. - -Here were men to say: “We spend half a million good American dollars -each year in England for tin cans to throw over the alley fence. Give -us a duty on tin plate and we will not only make our own but in ten -years other people will be throwing our cans over the fence,”--who got -it and proved it. - -Here were men to say: “There is going to be only one steel concern in -the world. That’s us.”--They meant it literally. - -They were men who knew not how to stop. They dared not stop. The one -who did was lost. Every little while they had to throw away everything -they had created, cast it out on the junk heap, because new ideas -came in so fast. It was nothing to scrap a million dollars’ worth -of machinery before it had settled in, a greater, faster engine of -production having just appeared. Whereas formerly every new thing -came from England, Germany or France, now Europe’s ironmongers were -continually coming over here to see what the Americans were doing and -how and why they had captured the steel age. - -Later, when the pace of evolution began somewhat to abate, when -original discoveries were fewer and a steel mill would stand awhile, -when the wild and reckless youth of the steel age was past and Wall -Street found it out,--then all these dynamic, self-paramount men began -to get rich. And as you may suppose, they no more knew how to stop -getting rich than they knew how to stop anything else. Of that in its -right place. - - - - -XXXV - - -No two were more the darlings of the steel age than John and Thane. -They were for it and of it, lover and husband to it, remarkably -possessing between them the qualities it demanded of men. No part -of its mystery was unknown to them. They became miners and smelters -of ore, bringers of coal, burners of coke, drawers of wire, rollers -of rails, in a very large way. Their wealth in property increased -alarmingly. One thing begat another so fast and new opportunities so -unexpectedly appeared that their resources were chronically stretched -to the utmost and they were continually in need of more capital. John -was always buying something they couldn’t pay for,--an ore mountain -perhaps, a ship to transport the ore down the Great Lakes, a steel -plant somebody had blunderingly steered on the rocks. He was like a -man on a tight rope juggling more glass balls than he can hold all at -once. He has to keep them going in the air. He cannot stop. John never -thought of stopping. It wasn’t that he wished to be rich; it wasn’t -that he had a passion for power; he craved excitement. And there was -plenty of it. - -The steel industry had frightful growing pains for which there was -no diagnosis. The trouble was it grew by violent starts and then had -fits of coma. The profits were so great when there was any profit at -all that the steel maker would pawn his hope of the everlasting to -build more mills; and perhaps before they were finished the profit -had vanished and his despair was as wild as his ecstasy. The time to -buy steel plants was when the sky was visible at Pittsburgh; the time -to sell them was when the smoke was so dense that the sun at midday -resembled a pickled beet. But at one time no one had the money to buy -anything with and at the other time nobody would sell. - -These were conditions perfectly suited to the exercise of John’s -reckless speculative genius. In the sloughs of despond he bought more -property, as he had bought the Agnes plant, with his notes of hand -and promises to pay. He seemed never so serene as when treading the -edge of a financial precipice in a high wind with a swaying load on -his back. People watched him with awe. He would do it once too often, -they said, as each time he got back to safe ground again. Certainly -he was a dangerous man to walk with. In an industry controlled by -fatalists he was unique for daring. Yet back of his apparent passion -for the gambling chance were saving qualities. He had keen, brooding -vision and rare business sagacity. When he told a committee of United -States Senators that with a tariff protection of six-tenths of a cent -a pound he would make this country independent of the European steel -wire makers (this was at the beginning),--when he said that nobody -took him seriously. However, they gave him what he wanted. The price -of wire was then twelve cents a pound and this country was importing -from Europe three-quarters of all it used. A few years later the tables -were turned. This country was making more than half the steel wire -used in the whole world, selling it heavily even in England, and the -price was two cents a pound. So with all things of steel. So with steel -rails. When the American steel industry got started at last foreign -steel rails were being imported for American railways at $125 a ton. -Ultimately American steel rails sold for $18 a ton in this country, -in Europe, in Asia and Africa. The United States then had become an -exporting nation selling the products of its skill to the four ends of -the earth. - -Business is warfare in time of peace. Hence its lure for combative -men. Its goal is conquest. Let alone it would perhaps wreck itself or -enslave the world. No matter. When it is ruthless, knowing no law but -its own necessity, then it is magnificent. - -Attila, king of the Huns, vowing no grass to grow where his horse had -trod the enemy’s soil, is magnificent. We can see him in that light now -that he is far away in history and not pursuing us. - -Business as it was in the last quarter of the nineteenth century also -is far away. Nothing like it can ever happen again. It was utterly -lawless, free in its own elemental might, lustful and glamorous. The -barbaric invasion that overturned Roman civilization was more obvious -as a spectacle but no more extraordinary, no more unexpected, and -perhaps as it shall turn out, no more significant, than America’s -economic invasion of the world in the steel age. One stupendous sequel -already present is the economic, financial and political supremacy of -the isolated American people in the affairs of this earth. What will -come of that nobody knows. - -The Breakspeares conceived it, imagined it, planned it; the Thanes -tooled it. There was of course labor. But labor no more invents the -tools that are the means to economic conquest than soldiers invent -the weapons of war, and has generally less understanding of ends than -soldiers have of the strategy. - -The men controlling the steel industry came to be grouped in three -main divisions. There was the original Pittsburgh group, under the -leadership of a round head named Carmichael; it had founded itself -in iron and then gone into steel. It was steady and powerful and had -gained some influential support in Wall Street. There was the western -group, always falling down and getting up again, very unstable, yet -dangerous as competitors. - -And thirdly was the Breakspeare group, extremely unpredictable, whose -interests lay in every direction. - -John naturally attracted men who loved risk and lived easily -with danger. Slaymaker learned the attitude, not thoroughly, but -sufficiently, and walked doggedly along. His goal was wealth for its -own sake. Although John’s high adventures often threatened to involve -all of them in colossal bankruptcy, yet this never quite happened, and -each time it didn’t happen Slaymaker took a part of his profit and -hid it away, never to be risked again. Jubal Awns, the lawyer, became -superstitious about John and followed him blindly. Besides these two, -who had been in from the start, there were three others who would be -called general partners. They not only were very large stockholders -and directors in John’s companies; they joined their capital with his -in new undertakings. One was Isaac Pick, a wordless man who conversed -in gestures and disbelieved everything including the fact of his own -existence. He had made a fortune in scrap iron and was brought into -the group by Slaymaker at a time when new capital was urgently needed. -Another was Col. Wingreene, an exceedingly profane man, one of the -railroad officials whom John had induced to take original stock in -the American Steel Company when it began to make rails. Wingreene had -bought out the other railroad people and now devoted himself entirely -to the steel business. A third was Justinian Creed, a Cleveland banker, -very obese, who believed in the better way and twice a year was in a -grovelling panic about his sins, never thinking, however, to divest -himself of the fruits thereof. Thane was a partner, too, only his work -was in other material. There were many others loosely affiliated, -but these five,--Slaymaker, Awns, Pick, Wingreene and Creed,--were -John’s own, whom he led, and who came to be known generically as the -Breakspeare Crowd. - -When the game was hot they worked at high pressure, wholly sustained -one would have thought by strong waters; when it was won they let down -with a bang. They were men of strong habits, strong wills, strong -feelings and strong humor. One of their odd passions was for getting -one another’s goat. In their practical jokes they were serious, grim -and imaginative, with an amazing power of deception. Never was a time -when some absurd hoax was not brewing; and if one knew of nothing in -pickle for another he began to be uneasy about himself. His defence was -to prepare something of his own against the field. They were always -on guard and regarded one another askance, with a kind of owlish -suspicion. One would have thought, seeing them together, that they were -too distrustful of themselves to look away or turn to spit. So they -were. But this was personal, part of a game, and had nothing to do with -business really. - -Their code of conduct was intricate. If the word passed they could -trust one another implicitly. Yet they avoided the word so far as -possible, preferring in all normal circumstances unlimited freedom of -personal action, each fellow for himself. In an emergency they came -close together, stood back to back, and presented a solid ring to the -world. In all situations John led them. Often he moved them against -their judgment. Sometimes he was wrong. Generally he was right. When -they acted severally against his judgment, on their own, they were -always wrong. His character was perhaps no stronger than theirs; his -judgment intrinsically was no better. But he had above all of them a -faculty of intuition, and he could change his mind. Creed used to say: -“John, he looks where he isn’t going and goes where he isn’t looking. -His eyes are crossed inside.” - -He said it cynically, and it was distorted by John’s enemies, who took -it to mean that he could not be trusted by his own crowd. That was not -so. He never broke the code. Creed, as it turned out, was the only man -who needed watching within the rules. - -Fortuity was the stuff they worked in; hazard was what they played -with. They were always betting. No game of chance or skill but they -had to add stakes to make it interesting. As they grew richer and more -easily bored it was increasingly difficult to find a pastime in which -the stakes were high enough. John turned the leisure of their minds to -horse racing. They would appear in a body on the race track and scare -the bookmakers with the size of their wagers. John was their oracle. -They never believed him; they only followed him. When he had involved -them in enormous loss they were obliged to go on; there was no other -hope of getting out but by his star of luck. And it was by no means -infallible. Once at Saratoga they had a frightful week. Twice they had -telegraphed home for money. Their losses had gone into six figures. -Slaymaker met Awns, Wingreene, Pick and Creed on the hotel veranda -after breakfast. He was exceedingly sore. - -“As long as I live and have my senses I’ll never bet on another horse -John picks,” he said. “He dreams these things. He never had a real tip -in his life.” - -They were all of one mind. They were through. Just then John’s voice -reached them from the doorway, saying: “We’ll get it all back today.” - -They groaned and turned their backs. - -“No, now listen?” he said. “You always get cold feet at the wrong -time. This is our chance. It’s air tight. It’s so secret I can’t even -tell you what horse it is. Give me your money and I’ll bet it with -mine.” - -He sat down and went on with it until Slaymaker said: “I’m an imbecile. -If anybody knew what an imbecile I am there would be a run on my bank. -This is positively the last time.” - -They all gave him their money. It was the third race. No more could -he tell them. The horses went to the post and still they did not know -which one carried their money. - -“It’s on,” said John. “It’s down all right. Don’t worry about that.” - -“Lord, no,” said Slaymaker. “That’s not what we are worried about.” - -John watched the horses. The others watched him. - -A horse named Leadbeater took the lead at the start, held all the way -and won by four lengths. John fell back with a blank expression. - -“That the horse?” asked Slaymaker. - -“Yes,” said John. “That’s it.” - -“Then what’s the matter?” - -“I didn’t bet on it,” said John. - -“You didn’t--what!” - -“That was the horse,” John explained. “Only after we came out here I -got what I thought was a better tip and bet all the money on.... Now, -wait!” - -They would not wait. They rose with one impulse and left him alone in -Saratoga. That night on the train they began to get telegrams from him. -Would they authorize him to lay five thousand apiece for them on a -horse that was bound to win the next day at odds of 100 to 1? They tore -up the telegrams. More kept coming, overtaking them en route all that -night and until noon the next day. They would not even reply. But that -horse did win and John by himself broke half the bookmakers at Saratoga. - -It was the end of their racing sport for that season. The crowd was -too disgusted to touch it again and John did not care for it alone. -Slaymaker said it was forever; so did all the rest. Yet the next season -they did it all over again. - - - - -XXXVI - - -All the men who got rich with John Breakspeare developed strange -pathologies from nervous shock and strain. Their eyes became opaque -and had that uncanny trick of suddenly and without movement changing -their focus while they looked at you, as if something were transacting -on the far-away horizon of their thoughts and you for that instant -were transparent. They had their luck by the tail and could not let -go. They could count their gains; they could not seize them. John was -always getting them in; he never got them out. Their wealth was in -property to which enormous additions had continuously to be made by an -uncontrollable law of growth. Thus the richer they grew the greater -correspondingly their liabilities were and there seemed no way either -to quit or get out. If you had all the wealth in the world you could -not sell it. There would be no one to buy it. In principle that was -their problem. If they could sell out they would be millionaires. But -where was there anybody with money enough to buy them out? It would -take twenty-five millions or more. Once they had begun to look at this -dilemma they could not let it alone; it filled them with anxiety. They -began to worry John about it. He had got them in. Couldn’t he find a -way to get them out? - -“All right,” he said. “I’ll show you a way out.” - -“How?” - -“We’re like a railroad,” he said. “No railroad is privately owned any -more. It’s too big. It represents too much capital. Only the public is -rich enough to own a railroad. It takes thousands of investors putting -their money together to build a railroad. Then somebody works it for -them and pays them dividends on their shares. We can do that,--put our -shares on the New York Stock Exchange and sell out to the public.” - -So he led them to Wall Street. The motive was theirs; the plan was his. - -The American Steel Company was reorganized. Its capitalization was -increased to take in properties hitherto jointly owned among them and -for other purposes. They agreed to sell no shares except through John -in order that all should fare alike. It was a verbal agreement. All -of their private agreements were verbal and never so far had one been -broken. - -Enter John Breakspeare upon the Wall Street scene with something to -sell. - -The shares of the American Steel Company were duly listed on the -New York Stock Exchange,--that is, they were added to the list of -securities permitted to be dealt in there and allotted sign and booth -in the great investment bazar. - -People stared and passed by. It was a strange sign not only because it -was new but for the reason also that the public knew only mining and -railroad shares. The day of industrial company shares had not come. -John was a pioneer in that line. He was a vendor unused to the ways of -this fair with merchandise nobody had ever seen before. - -He was not disappointed. He knew, if anybody did, that goods must be -brought to the buyer’s attention. Nothing will sell itself, least -of all seven per cent. shares for which there is instinctively -neither hunger nor thirst. He knew also in principle how this kind of -impalpable merchandise should be displayed. It has no appeal to any of -the natural senses. Therefore it must be made to appeal to all of them -at once, symbolically. How? - -First to be engaged is the sense of sight. The shares move. They go up. -People ask: “What is that?” They move again. People ask: “Why is that?” -They continue to move, going up, then down a little, then suddenly -up a great deal, and people say: “Here before our eyes is something -doing,--a chance to make some money.” And when once they begin to say -that all their senses and appetites are touched with expectation, for -money, however derived, is in itself palpable. It is the symbol of all -things whatever. - -For the art of making shares go up and down in a manner to excite first -attention, then curiosity and then an impulse to act for gain, there -is a long, inartistic word. The word is manipulation. The stock market -manipulator is an illusionist. Perched high upon some eerie crag of -the Wall Street canyon, producing enchantment at a distance, he is -himself invisible save to the initiate, and even they do not know what -he intends or why, because what he seems to be doing is never at all -what he is really doing. If it were, the lesser fauna--the wolves, -the jackals, the foxes, apes and crows,--would anticipate his ends -and take the quarry out of his hands. He makes shares rise when he is -selling them and fall when he is buying them. He can take an unnoticed, -unwanted thing like American Steel and cause it to become an object of -extravagant speculative interest, so that tens of thousands hang over -the tape and wait for the next quotation, betting whether it shall be -up or down. Moreover, he is a ventriloquist. When he has made certain -shares very active by the apparently simple though extremely intricate -expedient of buying and selling them furiously through different -brokers, no two of whom know they have the same principal,--when he has -done this and people begin to ask the question, then answers suitable -to his purpose are in everyone’s ears, saturate the atmosphere, and -although he, the manipulator, is the source of them that fact is as -little known as the fact that he was himself the solitary source of -all the buying and selling that started the excitement. Not only is -the public deceived; the fauna, too, will often be caught. All is -flesh that rises to his lure. His work is sometimes legitimate, as -when he creates a public demand for shares the proceeds of which go to -build a railroad or some other great economic work so vast that the -capital could not have been obtained in any other way; it is sometimes -predatory, sometimes wanton. - -At this time the pendragon of manipulators was one Sabath,--James -Sabath,--feared by the wicked and righteous both. He was not a member -of the Stock Exchange for he did not wish to be bound by the rules. -There was no name on his door nor was his name in any directory or book -of celebrities. Yet it was constantly on the lips of all men concerned -in gains and losses from speculation. One might have asked in every -bank in Wall Street who and where this Sabath was and one’s inquiry -would have been received with utter blankness. Yet there would have -been hardly a banker in Wall Street, certainly no very important one, -who had not had transactions with him of an extremely intimate and -delicate nature. Such is the way of men in the money canyon. - -For example, there was Bullguard. He was the great private banker -of his time,--a kind of Cæsar’s wife to the institution of American -finance. His authority was absolute, his power was feudal and -tyrannical. For him to have been seen in the society of Sabath would -have been scandalous. Nobody would have known what to make of it. Yet -in the pursuit of his ends he often engaged Sabath to do things he -could not risk doing for himself. That again is the way of men in the -little autonomous state which is Wall Street. - -John sought an audience with Sabath. After long delay and much -unnecessary mystery he was received in that strange man’s lair. Besides -himself there was nothing in it except a ticker, some chairs and a -worn Turkey carpet. The room was without windows, therefore lighted -artificially in daytime. Twice during the interview he rang a bell and -each time a boy appeared with one glass of whiskey in his hand. Sabath -drank it at a gulp, with no here’s how or by your leave. He sat in an -arm chair and combed his beard upward from its roots with his fingers, -or for change twisted it with the other hand. His head was continually -moving; sometimes he threw it far back to start his fingers through -his beard; no matter what he did with his head his eyes all the time -were perfectly still and held John in a blue, vise-like gaze. He looked -at people in a way to make them feel full of holes. His head was very -large; his body was neat and small; his voice was sarcastic, thin and -shrill. - -John explained his errand. He wished Sabath to take hold of American -Steel shares and create some public interest in them. Sabath said -nothing, but continued to look at him. John went into details, telling -about the company, what it owned and what it earned. Still Sabath -continued to gaze at him in silence. John told him at length how the -shares had been pooled in his hands by his associates, none to be sold -except through him. And Sabath said nothing. - -“Does it interest you at all?” John asked at last. - -“Come back tomorrow,” said Sabath. He made a gesture toward the door -without looking at it. As John went he sat still, but for his head, -which turned slowly in a reptilian manner. - -To John’s surprise Sabath was vocal the next day and asked many -questions in a high, twanging voice. Some of his questions were oblique -and some apparently quite irrelevant. Suddenly he said: - -“And so you know that God-fearing Creed, do you? You must know him -very well. How much of this precious stock has Mr. Creed got?” - -John told him. Sabath tweaked his beard, saying: “Who would imagine I’d -ever be found in the same alley with a he-cat like Creed.” - -“What’s the matter with him?” asked John. - -“I say nothing against him,” Sabath answered. “I only say I’d hate to -go into a room with him alone.” - -There was a third interview, then a fourth and a fifth. Terms were -stated. It seemed to be all ready for the signatures and as there -weren’t going to be any signatures John couldn’t understand why Sabath -kept postponing the final word. Then one day out of a painted sky he -said: “We seem unable to make a trade, Mr. Breakspeare. I cannot allow -myself to waste any more of your valuable time. I’m not interested.” - -John was amazed. - -“However,” he said, “I suppose I can trust you to keep to yourself the -information you have obtained in the course of these interviews?” - -“That’s what we live on down here,--trust,” said Sabath. “We couldn’t -do business without it.” - -With that he turned his back and stood looking at the ticker. John, -thus rudely dismissed, was at the door with his hand on the knob when -Sabath spoke again, without turning around, without moving his head, as -if he were thinking out loud. - -“What did you ever do to Mr. Bullguard?” - -“I don’t know him,” said John. “Why?” - -“He knows you,” said Sabath, still reading the tape. “He says you are a -gambler. Is that true?” - -“I don’t know what he means,” said John. “It would be absurd to talk -about it. I have some business to transact in Wall Street. How does -that concern him?” - -Sabath now turned and walked with him to the door. His manner was both -ingratiating and menacing; his voice was ironic, and yet there was -a suspicion of friendliness in his words. “Because if you are,” he -continued, as if John had not spoken, “I would urge you to keep all -that talent for the steel business. I understand the steel business -needs it. We don’t like gambling in Wall Street. You are a young man. -I have wasted your time. Now I offer you my advice. Don’t try anything -in Wall Street. Gamblers don’t go far down here. We eat them. Mr. -Bullguard would swallow you up at one bite.” He made an exaggerated -bow. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you before you go -back to Pittsburgh.” - -“Thanks,” said John. “When I want to be amused I’ll look you up. Tell -Mr. Bullguard I’ve been eaten up so often that I like it. Sometimes I -fairly hunger for it. Why did you change your mind?” - -“How could I have changed my mind?” Sabath injuredly asked. “How can -you say that? It had never been made up.” - -“Why did you change your mind?” John insisted. - -“You would be betrayed,” said Sabath. “I should be betrayed, too, of -course; but I’m used to it and you’re not. The only man you don’t -suspect is always the one who betrays you.” - -“Did Mr. Bullguard call you off?” John asked. - -“You might never get used to it,” Sabath continued, vaguely, ignoring -the question. “You wouldn’t know what to do. I’ve been betrayed so much -that I know it before it happens. And I know what to do. You never get -through a deal like this without being betrayed.” - -He turned sadly and walked back to the ticker. The interview was closed. - -John reacted to this experience with thoughtful curiosity. He was -baffled and chagrined and at the same time deeply interested, for -he perceived that here was a province of the dynamic mind in which -subtlety was carried to its ultimate point. After long reflection -he was still of the opinion that underlying Sabath’s diabolism lay -a vein of well meaning; also of the opinion still that the puissant -Bullguard had interfered. But why? What could his motive be? This was -presently to be discovered. John explored the matter adroitly and -learned that Bullguard was about to do for the Carmichael crowd what -John lone-handed had attempted to do for his crowd,--that is to say, -capitalize the steel business and introduce it to the public. Naturally -Bullguard desired the field to himself and took a high-handed way -against the interloper. - -Nevertheless, John resolved to go on. He would be his own manipulator. -Why not? The stock market was nobody’s private preserve. He had as much -right there as Bullguard or Sabath. Besides, where was the risk? He -controlled all the shares of the American Steel Company. - -So he engaged a broker, who engaged other brokers, and buying and -selling orders, both issuing from John, began to be executed in -American Steel. For a while he was delighted. It was so easy to make -the shares active, to make them go up and down, to create the illusion -of excited bargaining, that he began to wonder why anyone should pay -manipulators large fees to do this simple trick. He wondered, too, -what Sabath was thinking of his performance. He could almost feel -Sabath watching him. He imagined him at the ticker, tweaking his beard, -sneering at the amateur quotations that were appearing on the tape for -American Steel. - -They were beautiful quotations, rising from 80 to 85, then to 90, then -to 95 and at length to 100; they were also very costly quotations. -Commissions to brokers who executed his orders began to run into -large figures and there were no offsetting returns. That is to say, -real buyers were not in the least intrigued. After several weeks John -himself was the only buyer and the only seller. He discussed it with -his broker who thought what he needed was publicity. He ought to get -American Steel written about in the newspapers. - -Financial writers to the number of twenty were invited to meet the -president of the American Steel Company. Six came. John received them -in his broker’s private office and spoke eloquently and earnestly -of the company, its merits, earnings and all that. They stared at -him incredulously, then began to look very bored and went away. The -American Steel was not written about except in one newspaper, which -told of the solicited interview in a way to make it ludicrous. - -Now a most improbable thing happened. John’s broker reported that -someone was selling American Steel shares. - -Selling them? Who could be selling them? Nobody had any to sell. - -Nevertheless, it was true. Well, next best to selling the shares to -the public, which he hadn’t succeeded in doing, was to buy them from -speculators who would sell them without owning them, for in that case -when the sellers were called upon to deliver what they never had then -they couldn’t and John would be in a position to squeeze them. He would -have them in a corner. So he gave orders to buy all the American Steel -anyone offered to sell. The selling steadily increased. How strange -that professional Stock Exchange gamblers, the canniest men in the -world, would sell themselves into a corner in that silly manner! Yet -what else could it be? Still sure the sellers were selling what they -couldn’t deliver John continued to buy until very large sums began to -be involved. - -One afternoon his broker informed him that the selling had been traced -to Sabath. This John had already suspected. He was now in deep water -and wired for his crowd,--Slaymaker, Awns, Wingreene, Pick and Creed. -Having laid the cards before them he proposed that they should unite -their resources and bring off a corner in American Steel. Clearly they -had Sabath cornered. They had only to let him go on selling until he -was tired; then they could make him settle on their own terms. - -Creed declined. This was John’s party, he said. They had authorized him -to sell their shares. Instead he had got himself involved in a contest -with the most powerful speculator in Wall Street and now expected them -to stand under. They would be fools to get into that kind of game. He -flatly wouldn’t do it. - -The others wavered. They hated to leave John in the lurch; they were -afraid to stand by. Creed withdrew and vanished. - -While the other four were hesitating a sudden panic shook the stock -market. American Steel shares fell from 103 to 25 in ten minutes, -plunging headlong through John’s buying orders. And while this was -taking place his broker came to him in a state of gibbering excitement. - -“I thought you said nobody had any American Steel to sell?” - -“Nobody has,” said John. - -“Then we’re all crazy,” said the broker. “More than a million dollars’ -worth of the stuff has just been delivered to us. We’ve got to pay for -it at once.” - -“Let’s look at it,” said John. “I want to see it.” - -He saw it. The shares that had been delivered to him were Creed’s. - -John paid for them, though it almost broke his back. He used his -own money until he had no more and borrowed the rest from Slaymaker -and Pick on his notes. The fiasco was complete. American Steel was -indignantly stricken from the Stock Exchange list because it had been -manipulated in so outrageous a manner and the newspapers wrote about it -most scornfully. - -It was all over and John and his crowd, now always excepting Creed, -were at dinner in the Holland House, when a reporter from _The Sun_ -appeared at their table unannounced and asked: “Mr. Breakspeare, how do -you feel?” - -John went on eating as he replied: “I feel like a dog that’s been -kicked so much he goes sideways. I’ve got every pain there is but one. -That’s belly ache.” - -This was printed the next morning on the front page of _The Sun_, and -Wall Street forgot itself long enough to say: “Not a bad sport, anyhow.” - -“Now I suppose we’ll go back and attend to the steel business,” said -Slaymaker. - -“In a day or two,” John answered. “There’s something I want to do here -yet.” - -He wanted to find out how it happened. And he did. Bullguard, knowing -Creed, had tempted him to part with his shares at a very nice price. -These shares Bullguard turned over to Sabath with the understanding -that they should be used to club John’s market to death. John had no -hostile feeling for Sabath. For Creed he felt only contempt. But with -Bullguard he opened a score. - -His state was not one of anger. He had only himself to blame. “I don’t -so much mind getting plucked,” he said, “but I look so like Hell.” - -He simply couldn’t leave until he had turned the laugh. This he did -in the way as follows: One morning at eleven o’clock a small funeral -cortege, instead of stopping at Trinity Church as funerals should in -that part of the city, turned down Wall Street and stopped at the door -of Bullguard & Company. Six men drew from the hearse a silver-mounted -mahogany coffin smothered in roses, carried it into the great banking -house, put it down on the floor, went immediately out and drove away. -It was so swiftly yet quietly done and it was so altogether incredible -that the door attendant knew not what to do or think. His wits were -paralyzed and while he stared with his mouth open the pall-bearers -disappeared. So did the hearse and carriages. A great crowd instantly -gathered. The nearest policeman was called. As no one could say how -the coffin got there or what was in it he refused either to move it -or to let it be moved until the coroner should come to open it. He -was a new policeman and could not be awed. He knew his duty and no -manner of entreaty availed. For an hour it lay there on the floor. -Police reserves were summoned to keep a way for traffic through the -gaping throng. Somewhere inside the banking house, out of sight, was -Bullguard, surrounded by his partners, apoplectic and purple with a -sense of unanswerable outrage. The coroner was accompanied by a group -of reporters. - -When the coffin was opened, there upon the white satin pillow lay a -rump of a pig, rampant, tail uppermost; and in the curl of the tail was -twisted and tied like a ribbon the few feet of ticker tape on which the -last quotations for American Steel were printed. It was a freak story -and the newspapers made much of it. Wall Street rocked with glee. John -went back to Pittsburgh with a smile in his midriff, leaving the wreck -of a fortune behind him. - - - - -XXXVII - - -John’s Wall Street disaster was personal. He assumed all liabilities. -Therefore it did not involve his partners, save that he owed Slaymaker -and Pick nearly half a million dollars on his notes. Nor did it touch -Thane and Agnes. He took good care of that. - -On the day of his return to Pittsburgh he had dinner with them. They -had moved again, to a house of their own, one they had built on an -unspoiled eminence among some fine old trees. They exhibited it with -the pride of children. It was large and expensively made, with an -unpretentious air, and one of its features, saved until the last, was -an apartment for John. They hardly expected him to adopt it. However, -it should be his always, just like that, whenever it might please him -to come, and it had pleased them to do it. - -The evening meal was no longer supper. It was dinner. Thane at last was -comfortable in the society of servants, even in the brooding, anonymous -presence of a butler. - -Agnes now was in full bloom. Life had touched her in its richest -mood. There were moments in which her aura seemed luminous, like a -halo; or was that a trick of John’s imagination? He had not seen her -for above a year. She was more at ease with him than she had ever -been, spontaneous, friendly, quite unreserved, and by the same sign -infinitely further away. There was no misunderstanding her way with -Thane nor Thane’s with her. They had achieved the consonance of two -principles. They were the two aspects of one thing, separate and -inseparable, like right and left, like diameter and circumference. -What one thought the other said; what one said the other thought. They -conversed without words. - -Agnes pressed John with questions about the Wall Street episode. They -had read a good deal about it in the newspapers. His narrative left -much to be vaguely imagined. - -“But you yourself--how did you come out?” she asked. “Nobody else -appears to have got hurt. What happened to you?” For on that point he -had been evasive. - -“I did get rubbed a bit,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I’m all -right.” - -She looked at him thoughtfully. - -“Tell him what we’ve been doing,” she said, turning to Thane. - -“Remember,” said Thane, “you said once we’d see ore go in at the top of -a blast furnace and come out rails at the other end of the mill without -stopping?” - -“Yes,” said John, sitting up. - -“That gave me an idea,” Thane continued. “We’ve done it. It’s -experimental yet but we can do it. Take the steel ingots straight out -of the soaking pit and put them through the rolls with no reheating.” - -“Does anybody know it?” John asked. - -“Just ourselves,” said Thane. - -Agnes took it up there, described the process in detail, and told how -Thane had evolved it through endless nights of trial and failure. -John was amazed at the extent and accuracy of her knowledge. Thane -anticipated his question. - -“She knows,” he said. “She could run a mill.” - -It was literally true. John was thrilled to hear how at night, in -cap and overalls, she had been going with Thane to the mill to watch -his experiments. Not only did she learn to understand them; she -could discuss them technically, and make helpful suggestions. She -had taken up the study of metallurgy in a serious way. She spent her -days digesting scientific papers in English, French and German and -was continually bringing new knowledge to Thane’s attention. Later to -her immense delight she saw phases of this knowledge translate itself -through Thane’s hands into practice at the mill. - -“It’s in the blood,” said John, bound with admiration. - -It was a cherishable evening. After dinner they sat on the veranda. -Below them was a bottomless sea of velvety blackness, with no horizon, -no feeling of solid beneath it, sprinkled at random with lights and -intermittently torn by flashes from blast furnaces and converters many -miles away. - -“It’s like looking at the sky upside down,” said Agnes. - -They could feel what was taking place off there in the lamp-black -darkness. Men were tormenting the elements, parting iron from his -natural affinities, giving him in new marriage without love or consent, -audaciously creating what God had forgotten--_steel! steel! steel!_ -There in that smutted deep were tools walking about like fabled -monsters, obedient and docile, handling flaming ingots of metal with -the ponderous ease and precision of elephants moving logs. There amid -clangor and confusion shrieking little bipeds were raising gigantic -ominous shapes from shapelessness. There an epic was forming. - -These three sitting on the veranda were definitely related to all of -this. It had never ceased to thrill them. Much of it they had imagined -before it was there. Some of those Leviathan tools were Thane’s own. -He was thinking of them, not boastfully, yet with a swelling sense of -having created them. They were his ectoplasm, his arms and legs and -sinews externalized in other forms. Seldom did he review his work, -being normally too much absorbed in the difficulty at hand. Now, as -he gave way to it, a tingle of satisfaction stole through his blood. -It made him wish to touch Agnes. His hand reached for hers and it was -near. She seemed to know what he was thinking. - -John was thinking of the steel age, of what it yet required, of its -still unimagined possibilities. Every railroad then existing would -have to be rebuilt with heavier rails and bridges. Cars would come to -be made of steel. Street railways were a new thing: they would take -immense quantities of steel. - -They had been silent for a long time. - -“That’s the Agnes plant ... way over there ... that blue flame. There!” -said Thane. - -“I had made it out,” said John. - -“What did you call it?” Agnes asked. - -Sheepishly they told her that from the beginning, for luck, they had -called it the Agnes plant. - -“How nice!” she said. - -From that their conversation became more personal, even reminiscent. -They found they could speak naturally of incidents always until -then taboo. They talked of Enoch, of their arrival and beginning in -Pittsburgh, of the mill at Damascus which was doing well, and of each -other, how they had changed and what it was like to be all grown up. - -When Agnes rose to leave she shook hands with John, saying: “Alexander -will give you the key. We don’t press you. But it’s there for you -whenever you have the impulse to come. Day or night. Any time. And even -if you never come it will please us to keep it always ready for you.” - -With that she was gone, so suddenly that John had been unable to get -any words together. He had not even said good-night. - -“That place we’ve fixed for you means something,” said Thane, lunging -out of a silence. “I can’t find any way to say it. We know how it was -when you brought us to Pittsburgh and how there wasn’t any job for us -until you bought the little nail mill. We know all about it. It’s lucky -for all of us,--lucky for Agnes and me, I mean,--I didn’t know enough -to see it then. There ain’t no way to say how we feel about it. You -can just understand that’s what this key means.” - -John took it, turned it over in his hand, then put it in his pocket and -said nothing. - -“The reason Agnes was asking you so close how you came out in Wall -Street,” Thane added, “was we thought you might-a got skinned. We’ve -got a lot of money. We think it’s a lot. And we want you to know--” - -“Don’t!” said John. “That’s enough. Now stop it. Stop it, I tell you.” - -“A-l-l right, a-l-l right,” said Thane. “I’m through. I ain’t a going -on, am I? I’ve got it all said.” - -“I’m going,” said John. “Walk down to the gate.” - -At the gate they shook hands and lingered. - -“You’ve got it all wrong,” said John. “There’s nothing you two--what I -mean--” - -“I know, I know,” said Thane. - -“You don’t know anything,” said John. “Let me say something. I owe -you a damn sight more than you owe me. I couldn’t have done anything -without you. You’re the axle tree. I’m only the wheel. This one new -wrinkle, if it proves out, is worth millions.” - -“Well, don’t lose that key,” said Thane. - -They shook hands again and pushed each other roughly away. - - - - -XXXVIII - - -The steel industry was a giant without lineage, parentage or category. -Nobody knew how big it should be nor could tell by looking at it -what stage it was in. Not until afterward. It was measurable only by -contrast with itself. It was supposed to be already grown up when John -brought the American Steel Company back from Wall Street. But it was -still in the gristle. Bone and sinew had yet to be acquired. - -“What, my God! if we had sold out then,” Slaymaker would say again and -again, with the aghast and devout air of a man whose faith in the deity -dates from some miraculous escape. “We should probably never have got -in again,” he would add. - -If they had got out then they would have been able to count their -wealth in millions. But they had to go on. And when at last they did -get out in the golden harvest time years later they counted it in -scores and hundreds of millions. - -Thane’s new method, which proved itself in practice, gave the American -Steel Company a whip hand in steel rails. It could make them at a lower -cost than anyone else in the world, owing to the saving in fuel. Nobody -ever knew what that cost was. No matter at what price the Carmichael -people sold rails John could sell them a little lower if he needed the -business, and he became for that reason a burning thorn in the flesh -of Bullguard, who had capitalized the Carmichael properties and brought -the shares out in Wall Street. They had a wretched career. Everyone -who touched them lost money. This was not only because of the American -Steel Company’s competition; the steel industry as a whole was running -wild. There was no controlling it. For a year or two the demand for -steel would exceed the utmost supply at prices which made a steel -mill more profitable than a gold pocket. Then new mills would appear -everywhere at once and presently, although there never could be enough -steel really, the bowl would slop over from sheer awkwardness. - -There were still the three great groups,--the Western group, the -Carmichael group and John’s--all growing very fast. Minor groups were -continually springing up at precisely the wrong time. They generally -smashed up or had to be bought out by the others to save themselves -from ruinous competition. The steel age cared nothing about profits. -All it wanted was steel--more and more and more. - -Next was the phase of specialization. One mill made rails exclusively, -another merchant steel, another structural shapes for bridges and -skyscrapers, another sheet steel, another steel pipe, and so on. That -only intensified the competition. - -Then trusts began to be formed, precisely as John had formed the nail -trust years before, and for the same purpose, which was to regulate the -output and keep prices at a profitable level. Somebody would go around -and get options on nearly all the mills of this kind, of that kind and -then get bankers to make them into a trust with shares to be listed on -the Stock Exchange and sold to the public. So there came to be a steel -pipe trust, a sheet steel trust, a bridge and structural steel trust, -a tin plate trust, a trust for everything; and matters became a great -deal worse because some of the biggest mills, such as John’s, were -never in a trust and if the pipe trust or the structural steel trust -got prices too high the independent mills would begin to make pipe or -structural steel. Besides, each trust was a law unto itself and the -steel industry was still anarchic. - -Now finance began to be worried. The shares of these trusts having -been floated in Wall Street and the public at last having begun to -buy them, an outbreak of disastrous competition among the trusts, or -between the trusts and the independents, or an overrunning of the steel -spool, caused a panic on the Stock Exchange. Enormous sums of capital -had become involved. Every such panic caused a general commotion, like -a small earthquake. Something would have to be done to stabilize the -steel industry. That was the word; everybody began to say, _Stabilize -it_! Gradually there crystallized the thought of a great trust of -trusts to embrace everything. Not otherwise could the steel industry -be stabilized. Any such colossal scheme as that would have to consider -first of all the three dominant groups. But when overtures were made -to John directly or through his partners, he repulsed them. To Wall -Street’s emissaries he would say flatly, “No.” To his partners he -would say, “Not yet.” - -His word was final. Having retrieved his fortune in the first year -after his inglorious shipwreck, by the most daring and brilliant -selling campaign the steel industry had ever seen,--a campaign -that put American rails over European rails in all the markets of -the world,--his authority not only was restored: it was increased. -Then, having paid off his notes with Slaymaker and Pick, he had got -possession of Creed’s shares. That made his interest in the American -Steel Company greater than that of any three others. There was still -the North American Manufacturing Company, in which he was the largest -stockholder; it controlled the manufacture of steel wire and nails, and -had never ceased to pay dividends. - -He enforced one policy of business. That was to make steel continuously -under all conditions and never to close a plant except for repairs. -Back of him was Thane steadily reducing the costs of manufacture. -Sometimes they sold steel at a loss. In the long run, however, this -policy paid so handsomely that they were presently able to find -in their own profits the capital they needed for expansion. On an -ever-increasing scale they devoted profits to the construction and -purchase of new properties,--more mines, more ships, more mills. When -his partners complained, saying it was time to take something out -instead of putting all their gains back again, John offered to buy them -out. - -So he grew wise and tyrannical and a little grey at the temples. His -voice became husky. He lived hard, worked hard, walked steadily on the -edge of the precipice, with nothing he cared for in view. On his watch -chain he carried the key to Thane’s house. Twice he got as far as the -gate and turned back. - - - - -XXXIX - - -When the steel age walked across the ocean from Europe a dilemma was -created. The will and mentality were here; the labor was there. Until -then labor in American mills had been made up of British, Irish, -Welsh, Germans, Swedes and, choicest of all, Buckwheats, meaning young -American brawn released from the farm by the advent of man-saving -agricultural implements. The steel age widened the gap between brain -and muscle. It required a higher kind of imagination at the top and a -lower grade of labor below. There was no such labor here,--at least, -nowhere near enough. Hence an inpouring of Hungarians, Slavs, Polacks -and other inferior European types,--hairy, brutish, with slanting -foreheads. - -Nobody thought of the consequences. Nobody thought at all. The labor -was needed. That was enough. There was no effort to Americanize or -assimilate it. There wasn’t time. It had to be fed raw to the howling -new genie. It lived wretchedly in sore clusters from which Americans -averted their eyes. Where it came from life was wretched, even worse, -perhaps; but here were contrasts, no gendarmes, freedom of discontent, -and a new weapon, which was the strike. These men, bred with sullen -anger in their blood, melancholy and neglected in a strange land, -having no bond with the light, were easily moved to unite against the -work bosses who symbolized tyranny anew. Their impulse to violence was -built upon by labor leaders and the steel industry became a battle -ground. Strikes were frequent, bloody and futile, save for their -educational value, which was hard to see then and is not at all clear -yet. - -This was all in the way of business,--big business. We imported labor -and exported steel. We flung Slavs into our racial melting pot and sold -rails and bridges in Hungary. One can easily imagine an invisible force -to have been at work, a blind force, perhaps. The centers of power were -shifted in the world. Greatness was achieved. The rest is hidden. - -One advantage the Breakspeare mills had was almost complete immunity -from labor troubles. In every reign of terror destruction passed them -by. For this there was Thane to thank. He handled all labor problems. -In disputes between the workers and the steel companies the question -of wages was seldom the basic matter, even when it seemed to be. The -trouble was much more subtle, or more simple, as you happen to see -it, turning upon the ways and hungers of humanity. Thane knew men, he -knew what drudgery costs the soul and how little it takes beyond what -is due to overcome its bitterness. He knew, besides, how and in what -proportions to mix different kinds of men so that the characteristics -of one kind would neutralize those of another kind by a sort of -chemistry. - -Seven miles down the river from the Agnes plant had been built a -magnificent new plate mill, called the Wyoming Steel Works. It had -every element of success save one. The manager had no way with labor. -He was continually engaged in desperate struggles with the Amalgamated -Unions and the plant for that reason had involved its New York owners -in heavy loss. These troubles, becoming chronic, culminated in a strike -that spread sympathetically over the whole eastern steel industry. -At the Agnes plant the men went out for the first time. They had no -quarrel of their own. That was made very clear. But they felt obliged, -as all other union workers did, to take up the quarrel of the men at -the Wyoming Works and settle it for good; they would if necessary tie -up every steel plant in the country in order to bring pressure to bear -upon their arch enemy, the Wyoming manager, to whose destruction they -had made a vow. - -Not only did the strikers seize the Wyoming Works, as was the first -step in hostilities; they took possession of the town that had grown -up around the plant and organized themselves on a military basis. An -Advisory Committee of workers declared martial law, mounted a siren on -the town hall to give signals by a secret code, put sentinels around -the works, around the town, up and down the river front, and held a -mobile force of eight hundred Hungarians, Poles and Slavs in readiness -for battle at any point. No one could enter the town on an unfriendly -errand. Trains were not permitted to stop. The telegraph office was -seized. The Advisory Committee announced that any attempt on the part -of the owners to retake possession of their property,--say nothing -of trying to work it with non-union labor,--would mean an abundant -spilling of blood. - -This was the situation when Thane received a telegram from John in New -York, as follows: - -“Can buy Wyoming Steel Works for a song. Will close transaction at once -if you will say labor trouble can be straightened out with the plant in -our hands.” - -Almost without reflection Thane answered: - -“Yes. Go ahead.” - -He had no doubt that the mere announcement of their having bought the -works would end the violent phase of the strike. The rest would be a -matter of peaceable negotiation. He might have made the announcement in -Pittsburgh. The strikers there would have communicated it fast enough. -He might have telegraphed it to the Advisory Committee. He might have -done it in one of several ways. But his natural way was to go himself -and see to it. He knew the strike leaders; he talked their language. An -hour after answering John’s telegram he was in a launch going down the -river. - -There had been no news from the scene of passion since the afternoon -before. No one knew what was taking place in the Wyoming Steel Works -town. - -In the night two barge loads of Pinkerton men, recruited in -Philadelphia, had silently drifted down the river past Pittsburgh. The -manager was resolved to get possession of the plant by force. The plan -was to land the Pinkerton men before daylight on the river bank. Once -inside the works they could stand siege until the state authorities -could be persuaded to send the militia in. But the barges were sighted -by the Advisory Committee’s sentinels a mile above the town. The siren -blew an alarm. Men, women and children tumbled out of bed. The armed -battalion was rushed to receive the Pinkerton men. - -In the darkness a running fire was exchanged between the strikers on -shore and the barges; however, the barges did land at the works and -the leader of the Pinkerton men signalled for a parley. He told the -strikers he had come to take possession of the works and meant to do -it. The strike leaders dared him to try. He did. He formed his men and -started them off the barges. They were stopped by a volley from the -Slav battalion entrenched behind piles of steel in the yard,--and fled -back to the barges. Daylight came. The Pinkerton men, unwilling to -venture forth a second time, hoisted a white flag. The strikers scoffed -at it and went on firing at the barges. They became discouraged. They -could see the holes their shots made in the planks; they couldn’t be -sure they were hitting the men inside. So they floated burning oil -down the river and sent tanks of burning oil down the bank against -the barges. That was ineffective. Pinkerton men would not burn on -earth. Someone thought of dynamite. Cases of it were brought, and -the lightest of arm among the strikers calmly attached fuses to the -sticks of dynamite, lighted them, and hurled them at the barges, like -firecrackers. Once in a while they made the target, tearing a great -hole in the barge planking. Then there would be a volley of shots at -the Pinkerton men suddenly exposed. Two cannons were brought. They were -handled so awkwardly that they did little damage to the barges and took -off one striker’s head. The use of dynamite increased. In some fashion -the Pinkerton men fought back. When a striker fell groans were heard. -When a Pinkerton man was hit cheers went up from the strikers and were -repeated by the spectators,--women, children and noncombatants,--who -gorged the spectacle from afar. - -And that was what had been going on for hours when Thane’s launch -appeared, speeding down the middle of the river. He was steering it -himself; his boatman lay flat on the bottom. Having recognized him -the sentinels above the town passed word down their line, so that the -strikers at the works knew who he was before he had come within rifle -range. Firing ceased. He steered the boat in, shot it high on the bank, -and stepped out. - -At that instant there appeared from behind one of the steel piles the -figure of frenzy personified. This was not a striker. It was one of -those weak, anæmic creatures who are intoxicated by participation in -the lusts and passions of others and go mad over matters that do not -concern them. He was a clerk in a dry goods store and taught a Sunday -School class. It must be supposed that the cessation of firing made him -think the strikers were weakening. He brandished a rifle, shrieking: - -“Citizens! There are the men who wreck our homes, assault our women, -take away our bread. Kill them! Kill them without mercy!” He was -unnaturally articulate. “Cowards!” he cried. “Follow me!” - -He levelled his rifle at the barges. The only man in sight was Thane, -walking up the bank. The insane neurotic fired and Thane fell in a -crumpled heap. - -Several men together leaped at the assassin and disarmed him. He -disappeared. - -Thane was unconscious. There was no doctor, no ambulance. They took him -to Pittsburgh in the launch. - -John arrived the next morning. He looked once at Agnes and knew the -worst. - -Thane lived through that day and into the night. Shortly before he died -he wished to be alone with John. They clasped hands and read each other -in silence. Once the doctor opened the door and softly closed it again. -Thane beckoned to John to bring his head nearer. - -“Take ... Agnes,” he said. “That’s ... all ... everything.... Let -her ... come back ... now.” - -Only Agnes knew when he died. At daylight the doctor went in and she -was still holding his form in her arms. - - - - -XL - - -For John the sense of loss in Thane’s death was as if part of himself -had broken off and sunk out of sight. - -To Agnes it was as if the whole world were gone. She seemed to have -forgotten there was ever anything in it but Thane. Her life had -inhabited his. - -She went on living in the house, almost as if he were still there, -often calling his name and answering aloud to an audible memory of his -voice. She saw no one but John. She hardly knew anyone else. And she -saw him only because she was aware of his great feeling for Thane and -they could talk about him. - -This was a bond between them and led to a companionship without which -both would have missed the Autumn and gone directly from Midsummer to -the Winter of their lives. It was impersonal, yet very sweet, and they -came to rely upon it much more than they knew. Agnes had neither kin -nor friends. John was that solitary being who has many friends and no -brothers among men. - -Agnes began to fade. John induced her to travel. She went to Europe. -He joined her there. They went around the world together. When they -returned she seemed much improved in spirits. She had begun to smile -again. After a month in the house among the trees she became terribly -depressed. He coaxed her to New York and settled her luxuriously in a -hotel apartment. She disliked it and stayed on. More and more of John’s -time now passed in New York for business reasons. He told her this. - -“We’ve no one else to visit with,” he said. “Let’s stay in the same -town.” - -She said nothing. Often he surprised her looking at him with a -thoughtful, far away expression as if trying to remember what it was he -reminded her of. Suddenly she made up her mind to go to New Damascus -and build herself a house there. It would be something to do John said -at once, and that was what she needed. The house, which was small but -exquisite, occupied her for a year. Before it was finished she had -conceived the idea of building in New Damascus the finest hospital in -the state. - -Journeys to New Damascus now became John’s sole recreation. - -And so the Autumn stole upon them. - - - - -XLI - - -High in the financial heavens stood a sign,--sign of cabal, sign of -rapture, sign of gold. The time had come to form the trust of trusts. -Lords and barons of the steel industry began to settle down in Wall -Street. They brought their trusts along. One day the Western crowd -loaded six trusts on special trains,--brains, books, good will, -charters and clerks,--and trundled them thither, banners flying, -typewriters clicking, business doing on the way. They took the top -floors of the newest steel skyscrapers and preferred solid mahogany -furniture with brass mountings. - -Wall Street said: “Here is the fat of money! It walks into our hands. -How shall we divide it?” - -But Wall Street had much to learn. These men, brash, boastful and -boisterous, were also very wise. They did not come to play Wall -Street’s game. Most of them, like John, had sometime meddled with it -and cared not for it. Now they were strong enough to play their own -game. They brought their brokers with them, from Chicago, Cleveland, -and Pittsburgh,--men whose tricks they knew,--and bought them seats on -the New York Stock Exchange. - -“Oh,” said Wall Street. “That’s it, is it? Well, well,” and lolled its -tongue in relish. It knew very little about steel and nothing yet about -steel people. - -“Now, gentlemen,” said the steel people. “Red or black. High or low. -Any limit or none. Let’s shoot.” - -Using their own brokers to buy and sell the shares of their own trusts -they began to make the canyon howl. For a while the play lay between -Wall Street and the barbars, and the barbars held all the cards. If -Wall Street sold steel shares for a fall the dividends were increased -in the night. If it bought them for a rise suddenly the mills were shut -up and dividends ceased. Wall Street was outraged. This was worse than -gambling. It was a pea and shell game. The steel people were haled -to court on the charge of circulating false information about their -properties to influence the value of shares. - -Nothing to it! Nobody could prove the information to have been false. -Merely the steel people had it first, as they naturally would, and -acted upon it in the stock market, as everybody would who could. -So they all went back to Wall Street and the play waxed hotter and -steeper. No one had ever seen speculation like this. At conventions, -unwritten rules, limits, the steel people simply guffawed. They -invented rules. Nobody was obliged to play with them. Their creed was, -“Nothing in moderation.” - -After hours they played bridge for ten dollars a point. En route from -Wall Street to the Waldorf, which was their rendezvous, they would lay -bets in hundred-dollar units on the odd or even of numbered objects, -like passing street cars. Whiskey was their innocuous beverage. There -was one whose drink was three Scotch high-balls in succession. As the -third one disappeared he would slowly rub his stomach, saying: “That -one rings the bell.” Yet all the time they attended strenuously to -business. They were men of steel, physically and mentally powerful. -Carousing was an emotional outlet. Gambling on the Stock Exchange was -hardly more than pastime. Night and day they kept their eyes on that -sign in the heavens. - -They had delivered the steel age. The steel industry was their private -possession to do with as they damn pleased. They could make a circus -of it if they liked. They did. Their way with it had become a national -problem. The steel industry was much too important to be conducted in -that manner. It kept the country in a state of nerves. These wild, -untamable behemoths would have to be bought out. They were willing to -sell. There was a ludicrous fiction among them that they were weary -of doing, whereas they were only sated with it. However, as they were -willing to be bought out and as to be rid of them had become a public -necessity, there remained only the question of how. It would take all -the spare money there was in the country. Yet it would have to be done. -That is what the sign meant. - -John called his crowd together saying: “This is the tall goodbye if we -want to get out.” - -They did. He pledged them in writing to leave everything in his hands -and then returned to Wall Street where for months past he had been -preparing his ground unobserved. In one of the new steel skyscrapers -he had established himself an office. On the door was his name-- - - _John Breakspeare_ - -under that - - _American Steel Company - North American Manufacturing Company_ - -and nothing more. Inside was a private room of his own with a stock -ticker and a desk with a lot of telephones on it. Beyond was a large -meeting room furnished with a long table, chairs, brass cuspidors, a -humidor and a water cooler. From the window was a panoramic view of New -York harbor. A very simple establishment one would think. Yet it was -the center of a web radiating in all directions. Nothing much could -happen in Wall Street without causing an alarm on his desk, for he had -made some very excellent and timely connections. His private telephone -wires reached the sources of information. One of them, it would have -surprised everyone to know, ran to the office of John Sabath, with -whom he had come to confidential terms. So it was that perhaps no one -man, save only Bullguard, knew more than he about what was invisibly -taking place under that sign which stood higher and higher in the money -firmament. - -What was visible had by this time become very exciting. The newspapers -were giving astonished publicity to the doings of the golden bulls. -What they did in Wall Street was recorded by the financial writers; -what they did at large was written by the news reporters. And the -public’s imagination was inflamed. Incipient Napoleons of finance, -greedy little lambs, comet riders, haberdashers’ clerks, preachers, -husbands of actresses, dentists, small business men, delicatessen -shop-keepers, jockeys, authors, commuters, winesellers, planters, -prizefighters, crows and jackals clamored together at the Wall Street -tickers. From ten to three they watched steel shares go up and down, -betting on them, trying to out-guess the steel men who ordered their -fluctuations. In the evening all this motley appeared at the Waldorf -Hotel, sitting in rows along Peacock Alley, walking to and fro as if -at ease, peering in at the dining-room doors to glimpse the lords and -barons of steel at their food and drink. - -Everybody loved it. This was the Steel Court,--a court of twenty kings, -with its rabble and fringe and jesters, sycophants in favor, men of -mystery passing, the unseen lesser deeply bowing to the greater, sour -envy taking judgment at a distance, greed on ass-ear wings listening -everywhere. One might hear a word to make him rich to-morrow. And the -Machiavelli, too. That was Sabath, his beard now grey, otherwise the -same, sitting always by himself, darting here and there his piercing -eyes. - -This court made news. Often the steel men, bored with gaping -admiration, would extemporize a midnight stock market and buy and sell -their shares among themselves. Each morning as addenda to the regular -stock market reports would appear: “Transactions at the Waldorf.” The -newest rumors floated here. No financial editor was safe to go to bed -until the Waldorf grill room lights were out, for it was generally -late at night that the steel men spilled their secrets. One was -overheard to say: - -“There’s a billion dollar steel trust on the way.” - -What tidings! - -The remark had gone around the world before daylight, and at the -opening of the stock market in London people began to sell American -securities. Those Yankees, they said, always a bit mad, now were drunk -with the arithmetic of their wealth. Wall Street was vaguely uneasy, -too. There was no such thing as a billion-dollar corporation. - -Rumor for once in its life was below the truth. The great steel trust -was to be capitalized at a billion and a half. There had to be room for -everybody. Bullguard was to be its deity. There could be no other. The -charter had been applied for. Famous lawyers had reconciled it with the -law. All these facts came out gradually, mostly in the form of midnight -rumors. In the highest circles of the steel court an extremely curious -fact was already privately known. Sabath was to be the manipulator. If -he could not perform the unimaginable feat of selling the shares of a -billion-and-a-half dollar corporation to the public nobody could. Yet -how strange that Bullguard and Sabath should sail a ship together. - -At length all the salient probabilities had been established, and -nothing happened. A week passed. Then another. Wall Street was strung -with suspense and the nightly Waldorf swarm buzzed with adverse rumors. -Time was priceless. The public was in a fever of excitement. If ever -there was an opportunity it was then. Why did Bullguard wait? What -unexpected difficulty had been encountered? - -There was but one obstacle and that was John. The Breakspeare -properties were too important to be left out. A trust of trusts without -them simply could not be. Bullguard sent for all the other lords and -barons first, and they were quick to come. Then one day John received -a telephone call from the office of Bullguard & Company. Would he be -pleased to come to their office for a conference? His response was to -mention his business address. Next day one of Bullguard’s partners -called in person. - -“Mr. Bullguard wishes to see you,” he said. - -“If I wished to see Mr. Bullguard, I’d look for him at his office, not -mine,” said John. - -“I beg your pardon?” - -John repeated it. The partner went away, deeply offended in the name of -Bullguard. - -Sabath came to see him. He had been sent. John knew it and Sabath knew -he knew it. - -“When are you going to see Mr. Bullguard?” he asked. - -“I’m here nearly every day,” said John. - -“Mr. Bullguard is performing a great public service,” said Sabath, with -not a twinkle, as if they did not understand each other down to the -ground. “He’s trying to get all you gamblers out of the steel business -and bring some peace to the country. And because he spanked you once -when you were in knee pants, now you’re as proud as a pig with a ribbon -in its hereafter. I’ll tell him what I’ve said.” - -“Except the pig allusion. I’ll lay odds you won’t repeat that.” - -“I will,” said Sabath, departing. “I will.” - -John’s partners began to be alarmed. He kept nothing from them. When -they importuned him to bend a little, thinking his obduracy might have -disastrous consequences for all of them, he would say: “It amuses me -and it will pay you.” - -One morning Sabath’s voice called him on the telephone, saying: “The -great mountain is walking. You damn gamblers! Do you want everything in -the world?” - -“Thanks,” said John. - -Twenty minutes later Bullguard appeared. He walked right in, sat on the -edge of a chair, crossed his arms, leaned forward on his stick, and -glared. When he glared the world was supposed to tremble. He was rather -awful to look at. His purple face was of a strawberry texture; his -nose was monstrous, angry, red, bulbous, with hairy warts upon it; his -eyebrows were almost vertical. - -Three words were spoken,--all three by Bullguard. - -“How much?” he asked. - -John drew a pencil pad out of his desk and wrote slowly in large, -owlish characters, this: - - If you smile-- - $300,000,000 - No smile - $350,000,000 - -Having written it he stopped to gaze at it thoughtfully for a minute, -then pulled out the slide leaf of his desk, tossed the pad there for -Bullguard to see, and leaned back. - -Bullguard glanced at it and stood up. - -“That!” he said, tapping the $350,000,000 with his forefinger, and -stalked out. - -Slaymaker, Awns, Wingreene and Pick were waiting in the big room. John -walked in and threw the pad on the table. - -“There are the terms.” - -Knowing John they understood the pencil writing. - -“Did he smile?” they asked as one. - -“No,” said John. - -“My God!” murmured Slaymaker. He sank into a chair and wept. - -Two-fifths of it was John’s. His share included the Thane interest -which amounted to nearly twenty millions. Slaymaker, Awns, Wingreene -and Pick divided $170,000,000. The balance went to thirty or forty -minor stockholders in the Breakspeare companies. - - - - -XLII - - -So the fabulous Damosel of the Dirty Face, rescued from the goat herds -who had found and reared her, was clothed in what she should wear, -christened in due manner, annointed in the name of order, and presented -to the American people. Or, that is to say, the steel industry was -bought from the barbars and sold to the public. - -Auspicated by Bullguard and Company, manipulated by Sabath, advertised -by common wonder, the shares of the biggest trust in the world were -launched on the New York Stock Exchange. Popular imagination, prepared -in suspense, delivered itself headlong to the important task of buying -them. A craze to exchange money for steel shares swept the country. -That seemed to be only what people got up every morning to do. Such -manias, like panics inverted, have often occurred. They have a large -displacement in the literature of popular delusions. This one, although -of a true type and spontaneous, was fomented in an extraordinary manner -by Sabath, who for the first time in his life had all the power and -sanction of Wall Street behind him. The hand of the Ishmaelite that -everyone feared now strummed the official lyre and the tune it played -untied a million purse strings. - -The steel people removed their hats and bowed. - -“We were amateurs,” they admitted. - -For weeks and weeks they sat behind piles of steel engraved -certificates, fresh from the printer, and signed their names until they -were weary of making pen strokes at ten thousand dollars each. Before -the ink of their signatures was dry the certificates were cast upon the -market to be converted into cash,--the market Sabath made. There seemed -no bottom or end to it. The capacity of that market was unlimited. The -public’s power to buy was greater than anybody knew. - -When it was over, when Sabath’s sweet melody ceased, when the public -owned the steel industry and the barbars were out, then steel shares -began to fall. For several years they fell, disastrously, and the -public howled with rage. The trust went near the rocks. - -All who had had any part in the making of it faced a storm of wild -opprobrium. There is much to be said in reproach. However, given the -problem as it was, how else could anyone have solved it? The trust got -by the rocks. The steel industry was stabilized. And ultimately the -shares were worth much more than the public originally paid for them. - -This eventuality few of the great steel barbars lived to witness. A -little touched with madness anyhow, as heroic stature is, the Wall -Street harvest finished them. They were of a sudden Nabobs with nothing -on earth to do. Their wealth had been in mills and mines and ships, and -business was a very jealous mistress. Now it was in money and they were -free. - -In the first place they didn’t know what to do with the money itself. -Some of them bought banks of their own to keep it in. Then what could -they spend it for? What could they invest it in? The only thing they -knew was steel and they were out of that. Some of them began to buy -railroads. They would say: “This looks like a pretty good railroad. -Let’s buy that.” And they would buy it offhand in the stock market. -Then Wall Street, controlling railroads without owning them, was struck -with a new terror. It wasn’t safe to leave control of a railroad lying -around loose. There was no telling what these men would do next with -their money. They had got control of several great banks and railroads -before anyone knew what they were doing. - -But after they had invested their money in banks and railroads they -still had nothing really to do. They built themselves castles, in some -cases two or three each, and seldom if ever lived in them because they -were so lonesome. One transplanted a full grown forest and it died; -he did it again with like result, and a third time, and then he was -weary. He never went back to see. They got rid of their old wives and -bought new and more expensive ones. Even that made no perceptible hole -in their wealth. They tried horses and art and swamped everything they -touched. Gambling they forgot. One developed a peacock madness, never -wore the same garments more than an hour; his dressing room resembled a -clothing store, with hundreds of suits lying on long tables in pressed -piles. One had a phantasy for living out the myth of Pan and ceased to -be spoken of anywhere. One travelled ceaselessly and carried with him -a private orchestra that played him awake and attended his bath. He -died presently under the delusion that he had lost all his money and -all his friends, which was only half true. - -They disappeared. - -Blasted prodigies! - -Children of the steel age, overwhelmed in its cinders. - - - - -XLIII - - -John like all the others signed steel trust certificates until his -hand became an automaton. If he noticed what it was doing it faltered -and forgot. He sat in the big room at the long table, a clerk standing -by to remove the engraved sheets one by one and blot the signature. -Suddenly he saw it all as for the first time, in an original, -unfamiliar manner. - -“What are we doing?” he asked the clerk. - -“Signing the certificates, sir. They want this lot before 2 o’clock.” - -“Yes, but what does it mean?” - -“What does it mean?” the clerk repeated. “I don’t know, sir. What do -you mean?” - -“I don’t know either,” said John. He threw the pen away, got up, -reached for his hat. - -“You’re not going now, sir? They are waiting for these certificates.” - -“Let them wait.” - -“What shall I say when they call for them?” - -“Anything you like. Ask them what it means.” - -Up and down the money canyon people moved with absent gestures, some in -haste, some running, some loitering, all with one look in their eyes. -Bulls were bellowing on the Stock Exchange. Steel shares were rising. -Sabath was in his highest form. To the strumming of his lyre men of -all shapes and conditions turned from their ways and came hither and -wildly importuned brokers to exchange their money for bits of paper -believed to represent steel mills they had never seen, would never see, -had never heard of before. What did it mean? - -As John gazed at the scene it became unreal and detached. He was alone, -as one is in some dreams, there and not there, somehow concerned in the -action but invisible to the actors and to oneself. It was like a dream -of anxiety, full of confusion and grotesque matter. - -He was lonely and very wretched and accused Agnes. He would accuse her -to her face. That was what he was on his way to do, perhaps because -there was no other excuse for seeing her in the middle of the day. He -would tell her how selfish and unreasonable she was. They were two -solitary beings in one world together. Their hours were running away. -He loved her. He had always loved her. And at least she loved nobody -else. Then why should they not join their lives? - -Three times he had asked her that question. Each time she had said: -“Let’s go on being friends. That’s very nice, isn’t it?” - -A year had passed since the last time. He had watched for some sign -of change. But she was always the same, except that after having been -gently though firmly unwilling to say either yes or no she seemed to -come nearer in friendship and baffled him all the more. If she had -any feeling for him whatever beyond friendship he had been unable to -detect or surprise it, and fate would bear witness that the possibility -was one he had stalked with all patience and subtlety. In fact, he -really believed that if he pressed her to the point she would say -no,--that she had not said it already only because she hated to hurt -him. This notion tormented him exceedingly. It would be a relief to -know. - -She had been for some weeks in town, at the Savoy, where he detained -her on the pretext that her presence was necessary in her own interest. -It was only a little past twelve when he arrived there and called her -on the telephone, from the desk, asking her down to lunch. She was -surprised and pleased and answered him in a voice that had a ring of -youth. - -The sound of it echoing in his ears evoked memories and caused the -years to fall away. He waited, not there in the hotel lobby, but in a -boxwood hedge, surreptitiously, and saw her as a girl again, plucking -flowers, pretending not to know he was there, yet coming nearer, always -nearer, with a thoughtful air; and for a moment he forgot that anything -had happened since. - -“Business or pleasure at this time of day?” she asked, coming up behind -him. - -Instantly, at the provocation of her voice, an impish, youth-time -impulse took possession of him. It provided its own idea complete and -he did not stop to examine it. His mood seized it. - -“Personal,” he said. - -“But you look so serious.” - -“It is serious--for me.” - -They sat at a table in the far corner of the dining room. - -“Out with it. Lucky it isn’t murder. You’d be suspected at first -glance.” - -“What shall we eat? Pompano. That ought to be good.... Don’t look at me -like that. I’m so happy I can’t stand it. That’s all that’s the matter -with me.... Filet of sole. How about that?” - -“Anything to cure such happiness. Sole, salad and iced tea for me, -please. Now then.” - -“A sweet? Or shall we decide about that later?” - -“Later. I may be too much surprised by that time to want a sweet.” - -She was regarding him intently, with a very curious expression. He -avoided her eyes. - -“Yes, it may surprise you,” he said. “_Here, waiter!..._ Of course you -know--(_Sole, hearts of lettuce and tomato salad, French dressing, iced -tea for one, large coffee, sweets later_)--what an emotional animal I -am.--(_Two salads, yes._)--Or romantic. Whatever you like to call it. -(_Sole for two._) After all, I don’t know why--(_No, hot coffee for -one._)--Why I should be so self-conscious about it. The fact is simple -enough. I’m going to be married.” - -“Oh! How exciting. When?” - -“When? When, did you say? Why, right away. This evening perhaps.” - -“Who is the lady?” - -“I’d rather not tell you yet.” - -“Yet? But it’s to be this evening, you say.” - -“You would know her name at once and you might be prejudiced in spite -of yourself. I can’t very well explain it. But I want you to meet her -first.” - -“This afternoon?” - -“Or this evening. I’m coming to that. I very much need your help. It’s -an extraordinary thing to ask. I’m anxious to keep it very quiet, both -on her account and my own. Not the fact afterward. That must come out. -But its taking place, when and where. Then of course we can go away, -for a year, two years; live permanently abroad perhaps.” - -“Yes?” - -“I say I can’t explain it very clearly. You’ll just have to take a good -deal of it for granted. The newspapers are so curious and impertinent. -I’d like this to happen without anyone knowing it until the notice is -published and we are gone. She has no home. I mean, she lives at a -hotel. I have no home either. At a church or any public place like that -we’d be noticed at once.” - -“Will you ask the waiter to bring some more butter, please. Yes, go on. -What can I do to help?” - -“Take mine. I hoped you’d guess by this time. There’s no one else I can -ask.” - -“Thanks. No, I can’t guess.” - -“Well, if you would let the ceremony take place in your apartment here -and sort of manage the fussy part I’d never know how much to thank you.” - -“Yes, indeed. I’d love to do it. Why did you make such a bother of -asking? I’ll have some decorations sent in. What will she wear? What -colors does she like?” - -“I’ll have to find out.” - -“And the time?” - -“I’ll let you know.” - -“As soon as you can. And that’s what you were so glum about? Now cheer -up. Men are such lumps when they are happy.” - -“You are very sweet about it.” - -“Don’t mind me. Only go as fast as you can and get the details. You -don’t know how important they are. I’ll expect to hear from you within -an hour. You will call me up?” - -“Yes.” - -The next he knew he was in the Central Park Zoo looking at the monkeys -and wondering why they were so mystified. What had they to be puzzled -about? Then there was a little brown bear that precisely expressed the -absurdity he felt in himself. He did not mind feeling absurd. No, that -was even comforting. A pain in the ego counteracting one in the heart. -Clumsy as the device was it had served his purpose. He had found out. -But it was no relief whatever. In the way he hoped she might she cared -less than not at all--less than a foster sister or an old maid aunt. -He could not be mistaken. He had watched her closely. She had betrayed -not the slightest sign of self-concern. He had that same diminished, -ignominious feeling with which he retired from the boxwood hedge on the -evening of their first youth-time encounter. - -What an asinine thing to have done! - -When he called her on the telephone two hours later, as he had -promised to do, this conversation occurred: - -“This is John.” - -“Yes. Now tell me all about it. You’ve been a long time.” - -“Hello.” - -“Yes. What time?” - -“Hello.” - -“Yes, I’m here.” - -“Agnes, it’s too much of an imposition altogether. I can’t imagine how -I could have asked you to do it. Thanks all the same, but we’ll call it -off.” - -“Nonsense. You’re not telling me the truth. Something has happened.” - -“Maybe so. Anyhow, I withdraw the request.” - -“Where are you?” - -“Near by. Not very far.” - -“Meet me in the tea room downstairs. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” - -Not waiting for him to answer she closed the wire. She was there -waiting when he arrived. - -“I’m sorry if anything has happened,” she said, most sympathetically. -“Can you tell me about it?” - -“It’s off,” he said, feeling secretly and utterly ludicrous. “That’s -all.” - -“Oh, that can’t be,” she said. “Suppose I talk to her. I shan’t be -modest about you. I’ll not promise to be even truthful.” - -“No use,” he said. “I’ve said everything there is to say for myself. -She knows me well enough--too well, perhaps. That may be it.” - -“Tell me about her. What is she like?” - -“Cold. You wouldn’t think so, but she is. The fact that a man loves her -means nothing--not a thing.” - -“Is she so used to it?” - -“I don’t know. No. That isn’t it....” - -“What?” - -“I was going to say selfish. I ought not to say that. I’m selfish to -want her. She wants to keep her life to herself. It’s her own life.” - -“But it’s only postponed. She doesn’t say no, does she?” - -“Worse than that. She says--” - -“Yes. What does she say?” - -“She says it’s nicer as it is. We shall go on being friends. Friendship -is all right. It blooms in the next world.” - -“Let me talk to her, please.” - -“No. It’s hopeless.” - -“I’d not urge you if I weren’t so sure I could change her mind. The -fact is, I think I know her.” - -John started and became rigid with astonishment. He regarded her -fixedly with a groping, incredulous expression. She stirred her tea -very thoughtfully and kept her eyes down. - -“If she’s the person I think she is,” Agnes continued, still looking -down, “what you say about her is probably true. And yet--” - -“Agnes! Be careful what you say.” - -“I’ll be as careful as I know how to be. Trust me.” - -“How long have you known her?” - -“In one way, of course, you deserve to be wretched. It isn’t all on one -side. Do you think it’s nice--?” - -“How long have you known her, I ask?” - -“A long time. Longer than you have,” she said. - - * * * * * - -Note from the society column of the New York _Times_, November 6, 1901: - - Mr. and Mrs. Breakspeare are passing their honeymoon in Mediterranean - waters on Mr. Breakspeare’s yacht, the “Damascene.” - -THE END - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Punctuation has been made consistent. - -Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in -the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have -been corrected. - -The following change was made: - -p. 11: 1879 changed to 1789 (in 1789 Gen.) - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cinder Buggy, by Garet Garrett - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CINDER BUGGY *** - -***** This file should be named 60593-0.txt or 60593-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/5/9/60593/ - -Produced by Tim Lindell, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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