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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..20080db --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68542 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68542) diff --git a/old/68542-0.txt b/old/68542-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6a565a6..0000000 --- a/old/68542-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11011 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Free and other stories, by Theodore -Dreiser - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Free and other stories - -Author: Theodore Dreiser - -Release Date: July 17, 2022 [eBook #68542] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Amber Black, Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AND OTHER STORIES *** - - - - - - FREE AND - OTHER STORIES - - - - - FREE AND OTHER - STORIES - - BY THEODORE DREISER - - AUTHOR OF “SISTER CARRIE,” “THE HAND OF THE POTTER,” - “JENNIE GERHARDT,” ETC. - - [Illustration] - - - BONI AND LIVERIGHT - NEW YORK 1918 - - - - -Copyright, 1918 - -BY BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC. - - _First Printing_ _August, 1918_ - _Second Printing_ _August, 1918_ - _Third Printing_ _August, 1918_ - _Fourth Printing_ _December, 1918_ - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - FREE 9 - - MCEWEN OF THE SHINING SLAVE MAKERS 54 - - NIGGER JEFF 76 - - THE LOST PHŒBE 112 - - THE SECOND CHOICE 135 - - A STORY OF STORIES 163 - - OLD ROGAUM AND HIS THERESA 201 - - WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR 229 - - THE CRUISE OF THE “IDLEWILD” 300 - - MARRIED 323 - - WHEN THE OLD CENTURY WAS NEW 351 - - - - -FREE - - -The large and rather comfortable apartment of Rufus Haymaker, -architect, in Central Park West, was very silent. It was scarcely dawn -yet, and at the edge of the park, over the way, looking out from the -front windows which graced this abode and gave it its charm, a stately -line of poplars was still shrouded in a gray morning mist. From his -bedroom at one end of the hall, where, also, a glimpse of the park was -to be had, came Mr. Haymaker at this early hour to sit by one of these -broader windows and contemplate these trees and a small lake beyond. -He was very fond of Nature in its manifold art forms--quite poetic, in -fact. - -He was a tall and spare man of about sixty, not ungraceful, though -slightly stoop-shouldered, with heavy overhanging eyebrows and hair, -and a short, professionally cut gray mustache and beard, which gave -him a severe and yet agreeable presence. For the present he was clad -in a light-blue dressing gown with silver cords, which enveloped him -completely. He had thin, pale, long-fingered hands, wrinkled at the -back and slightly knotted at the joints, which bespoke the artist, in -mood at least, and his eyes had a weary and yet restless look in them. - -For only yesterday Doctor Storm, the family physician, who was in -attendance on his wife, ill now for these three weeks past with a -combination of heart lesion, kidney poisoning and neuritis, had taken -him aside and said very softly and affectionately, as though he were -trying to spare his feelings: “To-morrow, Mr. Haymaker, if your wife -is no better I will call in my friend, Doctor Grainger, whom you know, -for a consultation. He is more of an expert in these matters of the -heart”--the heart, Mr. Haymaker had time to note ironically--“than -I am. Together we will make a thorough examination, and then I hope -we will be better able to say what the possibilities of her recovery -really are. It’s been a very trying case, a very stubborn one, I might -say. Still, she has a great deal of vitality and is doing as well as -could be expected, all things considered. At the same time, though I -don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily--and there is no occasion for -great alarm yet--still I feel it my duty to warn you that her condition -is very serious indeed. Not that I wish you to feel that she is certain -to die. I don’t think she is. Not at all. Just the contrary. She may -get well, and probably will, and live all of twenty years more.” -(Mentally Mr. Haymaker sighed a purely spiritual sigh.) “She has fine -recuperative powers, so far as I can judge, but she has a bad heart, -and this kidney trouble has not helped it any. Just now, when her heart -should have the least strain, it has the most. - -“She is just at that point where, as I may say, things are in the -balance. A day or two, or three or four at the most, ought to show -which way things will go. But, as I have said before, I do not wish to -alarm you unnecessarily. We are not nearly at the end of our tether. We -haven’t tried blood transfusion yet, and there are several arrows to -that bow. Besides, at any moment she may respond more vigorously to -medication than she has heretofore--especially in connection with her -kidneys. In that case the situation would be greatly relieved at once. - -“However, as I say, I feel it my duty to speak to you in this way in -order that you may be mentally prepared for any event, because in such -an odd combination as this the worst may happen at any time. We never -can tell. As an old friend of yours and Mrs. Haymaker’s, and knowing -how much you two mean to each other”--Mr. Haymaker merely stared at -him vacantly--“I feel it my duty to prepare you in this way. We all of -us have to face these things. Only last year I lost my dear Matilda, -my youngest child, as you know. Just the same, as I say, I have the -feeling that Mrs. Haymaker is not really likely to die soon, and that -we--Doctor Grainger and myself--will still be able to pull her through. -I really do.” - -Doctor Storm looked at Mr. Haymaker as though he were very sorry for -him--an old man long accustomed to his wife’s ways and likely to be -made very unhappy by her untimely end; whereas Mr. Haymaker, though -staring in an almost sculptural way, was really thinking what a farce -it all was, what a dull mixture of error and illusion on the part -of all. Here he was, sixty years of age, weary of all this, of life -really--a man who had never been really happy in all the time that he -had been married; and yet here was his wife, who from conventional -reasons believed that he was or should be, and who on account of -this was serenely happy herself, or nearly so. And this doctor, who -imagined that he was old and weak and therefore in need of this loving -woman’s care and sympathy and understanding! Unconsciously he raised a -deprecating hand. - -Also his children, who thought him dependent on her and happy with her; -his servants and her and his friends thinking the same thing, and yet -he really was not. It was all a lie. He was unhappy. Always he had been -unhappy, it seemed, ever since he had been married--for over thirty-one -years now. Never in all that time, for even so much as a single day, -had he ever done anything but long, long, long, in a pale, constrained -way--for what, he scarcely dared think--not to be married any more--to -be free--to be as he was before ever he saw Mrs. Haymaker. - -And yet being conventional in mood and training and utterly -domesticated by time and conditions over which he seemed not to have -much control--nature, custom, public opinion, and the like, coming -into play as forces--he had drifted, had not taken any drastic action. -No, he had merely drifted, wondering if time, accident or something -might not interfere and straighten out his life for him, but it never -had. Now weary, old, or rapidly becoming so, he condemned himself for -his inaction. Why hadn’t he done something about it years before? -Why hadn’t he broken it up before it was too late, and saved his own -soul, his longing for life, color? But no, he had not. Why complain so -bitterly now? - -All the time the doctor had talked this day before he had wanted to -smile a wry, dry, cynical smile, for in reality he did not want Mrs. -Haymaker to live--or at least at the moment he thought so. He was too -miserably tired of it all. And so now, after nearly twenty-four hours -of the same unhappy thought, sitting by this window looking at a not -distant building which shone faintly in the haze, he ran his fingers -through his hair as he gazed, and sighed. - -How often in these weary months, and even years, past--ever since he -and his wife had been living here, and before--had he come to these -or similar windows while she was still asleep, to sit and dream! For -some years now they had not even roomed together, so indifferent had -the whole state become; though she did not seem to consider that -significant, either. Life had become more or less of a practical -problem to her, one of position, place, prestige. And yet how often, -viewing his life in retrospect, had he wished that his life had been as -sweet as his dreams--that his dreams had come true. - -After a time on this early morning, for it was still gray, with the -faintest touch of pink in the east, he shook his head solemnly and -sadly, then rose and returned along the hall to his wife’s bedroom, -at the door of which he paused to look where she lay seriously ill, -and beside her in an armchair, fast asleep, a trained nurse who was -supposedly keeping the night vigil ordered by the doctor, but who no -doubt was now very weary. His wife was sleeping also--very pale, very -thin now, and very weak. He felt sorry for her at times, in spite of -his own weariness; now, for instance. Why need he have made so great a -mistake so long ago? Perhaps it was his own fault for not having been -wiser in his youth. Then he went quietly on to his own room, to lie -down and think. - -Always these days, now that she was so very ill and the problem of her -living was so very acute, the creeping dawn thus roused him--to think. -It seemed as though he could not really sleep soundly any more, so -stirred and distrait was he. He was not so much tired or physically -worn as mentally bored or disappointed. Life had treated him so badly, -he kept thinking to himself over and over. He had never had the -woman he really wanted, though he had been married so long, had been -faithful, respectable and loved by her, in her way. “In her way,” he -half quoted to himself as he lay there. - -Presently he would get up, dress and go down to his office as usual -if his wife were not worse. But--but, he asked himself--would she be? -Would that slim and yet so durable organism of hers--quite as old as -his own, or nearly so--break under the strain of this really severe -illness? That would set him free again, and nicely, without blame or -comment on him. He could then go where he chose once more, do as he -pleased--think of that--without let or hindrance. For she was ill at -last, so very ill, the first and really great illness she had endured -since their marriage. For weeks now she had been lying so, hovering, as -it were, between life and death, one day better, the next day worse, -and yet not dying, and with no certainty that she would, and yet not -getting better either. Doctor Storm insisted that it was a leak in her -heart which had suddenly manifested itself which was causing all the -real trouble. He was apparently greatly troubled as to how to control -it. - -During all this period Mr. Haymaker had been, as usual, most -sympathetic. His manner toward her was always soft, kindly, apparently -tender. He had never really begrudged her anything--nothing certainly -that he could afford. He was always glad to see her and the children -humanly happy--though they, too, largely on account of her, he thought, -had proved a disappointment to him--because he had always sympathized -with her somewhat unhappy youth, narrow and stinted; and yet he had -never been happy himself, either, never in all the time that he had -been married. If she had endured much, he kept telling himself when he -was most unhappy, so had he, only it was harder perhaps for women to -endure things than men--he was always willing to admit that--only also -she had had his love, or thought she had, an actual spiritual peace, -which he had never had. She knew she had a faithful husband. He felt -that he had never really had a wife at all, not one that he could love -as he knew a wife should be loved. His dreams as to that! - -Going to his office later this same day--it was in one of those tall -buildings that face Madison Square--he had looked first, in passing, -at the trees that line Central Park West, and then at the bright wall -of apartment houses facing it, and meditated sadly, heavily. Here the -sidewalks were crowded with nursemaids and children at play, and in -between them, of course, the occasional citizen loitering or going -about his errands. The day was so fine, so youthful, as spring days -will seem at times. As he looked, especially at the children, and -the young men bustling office-ward, mostly in new spring suits, he -sighed and wished that he were young once more. Think how brisk and -hopeful they were! Everything was before them. They could still pick -and choose--no age or established conditions to stay them. Were any -of them, he asked himself for the thousandth time, it seemed to him, -as wearily connected as he had been at their age? Did they each have -a charming young wife to love--one of whom they were passionately -fond--such a one as he had never had; or did they not? - -Wondering, he reached his office on one of the topmost floors of one -of those highest buildings commanding a wide view of the city, and -surveyed it wearily. Here were visible the two great rivers of the -city, its towers and spires and far-flung walls. From these sometimes, -even yet, he seemed to gain a patience to live, to hope. How in his -youth all this had inspired him--or that other city that was then. -Even now he was always at peace here, so much more so than in his own -home, pleasant as it was. Here he could look out over this great scene -and dream or he could lose the memory in his work that his love-life -had been a failure. The great city, the buildings he could plan or -supervise, the efficient help that always surrounded him--his help, not -hers--aided to take his mind off himself and that deep-seated inner -ache or loss. - -The care of Mr. Haymaker’s apartment during his wife’s illness and his -present absence throughout the day, devolved upon a middle-aged woman -of great seriousness, Mrs. Elfridge by name, whom Mrs. Haymaker had -employed years before; and under her a maid of all work, Hester, who -waited on table, opened the door, and the like; and also at present -two trained nurses, one for night and one for day service, who were -in charge of Mrs. Haymaker. The nurses were both bright, healthy, -blue-eyed girls, who attracted Mr. Haymaker and suggested all the youth -he had never had--without really disturbing his poise. It would seem as -though that could never be any more. - -In addition, of course, there was the loving interest of his son -Wesley and his daughter Ethelberta--whom his wife had named so in -spite of him--both of whom had long since married and had children -of their own and were living in different parts of the great city. -In this crisis both of them came daily to learn how things were, and -occasionally to stay for the entire afternoon or evening, or both. -Ethelberta had wanted to come and take charge of the apartment entirely -during her mother’s illness, only Mrs. Haymaker, who was still able -to direct, and fond of doing so, would not hear of it. She was not -so ill but that she could still speak, and in this way could inquire -and direct. Besides, Mrs. Elfridge was as good as Mrs. Haymaker in -all things that related to Mr. Haymaker’s physical comfort, or so she -thought. - -If the truth will come out--as it will in so many pathetic cases--it -was never his physical so much as his spiritual or affectional comfort -that Mr. Haymaker craved. As said before, he had never loved Mrs. -Haymaker, or certainly not since that now long-distant period back in -Muskegon, Michigan, where both had been born and where they had lived -and met at the ages, she of fifteen, he of seventeen. It had been, -strange as it might seem now, a love match at first sight with them. -She had seemed so sweet, a girl of his own age or a little younger, the -daughter of a local chemist. Later, when he had been forced by poverty -to go out into the world to make his own way, he had written her much, -and imagined her to be all that she had seemed at fifteen, and more--a -dream among fair women. But Fortune, slow in coming to his aid and -fickle in fulfilling his dreams, had brought it about that for several -years more he had been compelled to stay away nearly all of the time, -unable to marry her; during which period, unknown to himself really, -his own point of view had altered. How it had happened he could never -tell really, but so it was. The great city, larger experiences--while -she was still enduring the smaller ones--other faces, dreams of larger -things, had all combined to destroy it or her, only he had not quite -realized it then. He was always so slow in realizing the full import of -the immediate thing, he thought. - -That was the time, as he had afterward told himself--how often!--that -he should have discovered his mistake and stopped. Later it always -seemed to become more and more impossible. Then, in spite of some -heartache to her and some distress to himself, no doubt, all would be -well for him now. But no; he had been too inexperienced, too ignorant, -too bound by all the conventions and punctilio of his simple Western -world. He thought an engagement, however unsatisfactory it might come -to seem afterward, was an engagement, and binding. An honorable man -would not break one--or so his country moralists argued. - -Yes, at that time he might have written her, he might have told -her, then. But he had been too sensitive and kindly to speak of it. -Afterward it was too late. He feared to wound her, to undo her, to -undo her life. But now--now--look at his! He had gone back on several -occasions before marriage, and might have seen and done and been free -if he had had but courage and wisdom--but no; duty, order, the beliefs -of the region in which he had been reared, and of America--what it -expected and what she expected and was entitled to--had done for him -completely. He had not spoken. Instead, he had gone on and married her -without speaking of the change in himself, without letting her know how -worse than ashes it had all become. God, what a fool he had been! how -often since he had told himself over and over. - -Well, having made a mistake it was his duty perhaps, at least -according to current beliefs, to stick by it and make the best of -it;--a bargain was a bargain in marriage, if no where else--but -still that had never prevented him from being unhappy. He could not -prevent that himself. During all these long years, therefore, owing to -these same conventions--what people would think and say--he had been -compelled to live with her, to cherish her, to pretend to be happy -with her--“another perfect union,” as he sometimes said to himself. In -reality he had been unhappy, horribly so. Even her face wearied him at -times, and her presence, her mannerisms. Only this other morning Doctor -Storm, by his manner indicating that he thought him lonely, in danger -of being left all alone and desperately sad and neglected in case she -died had irritated him greatly. Who would take care of him? his eyes -had seemed to say--and yet he himself wanted nothing so much as to be -alone for a time, at least, in this life, to think for himself, to -do for himself, to forget this long, dreary period in which he had -pretended to be something that he was not. - -Was he never to be rid of the dull round of it, he asked himself now, -never before he himself died? And yet shortly afterward he would -reproach himself for these very thoughts, as being wrong, hard, -unkind--thoughts that would certainly condemn him in the eyes of the -general public, that public which made reputations and one’s general -standing before the world. - -During all this time he had never even let her know--no, not once--of -the tremendous and soul-crushing sacrifice he had made. Like the -Spartan boy, he had concealed the fox gnawing at his vitals. He had not -complained. He had been, indeed, the model husband, as such things go -in conventional walks. If you doubted it look at his position, or that -of his children; or his wife--her mental and physical comfort, even in -her illness, her unfailing belief that he was all he should be! Never -once apparently, during all these years, had she doubted his love or -felt him to be unduly unhappy--or, if not that exactly, if not fully -accepting his love as something that was still at a fever heat, the -thing it once was--still believing that he found pleasure and happiness -in being with her, a part of the home which together they had built up, -these children they had reared, comfort in knowing that it would endure -to the end! To the end! During all these years she had gone on molding -his and her lives--as much as that was possible in his case--and those -of their children, to suit herself; and thinking all the time that she -was doing what he wanted or at least what was best for him and them. - -How she adored convention! What did she not think she knew in regard -to how things ought to be--mainly what her old home surroundings had -taught her, the American idea of this, that and the other. Her theories -in regard to friends, education of the children, and so on, had in the -main prevailed, even when he did not quite agree with her; her desires -for certain types of pleasure and amusement, of companionship, and so -on, were conventional types always and had also prevailed. There had -been little quarrels, of course, always had been--what happy home is -free of them?--but still he had always given in, or nearly always, and -had acted as though he were satisfied in so doing. - -But why, therefore, should he complain now, or she ever imagine, or -ever have imagined, that he was unhappy? She did not, had not. Like all -their relatives and friends of the region from which they sprang, and -here also--and she had been most careful to regulate that, courting -whom she pleased and ignoring all others--she still believed most -firmly, more so than ever, that she knew what was best for him, what he -really thought and wanted. It made him smile most wearily at times. - -For in her eyes--in regard to him, at least, not always so with -others, he had found--marriage was a sacrament, sacrosanct, never to -be dissolved. One life, one love. Once a man had accepted the yoke or -even asked a girl to marry him it was his duty to abide by it. To break -an engagement, to be unfaithful to a wife, even unkind to her--what a -crime, in her eyes! Such people ought to be drummed out of the world. -They were really not fit to live--dogs, brutes! - -And yet, look at himself--what of him? What of one who had made a -mistake in regard to all this? Where was his compensation to come -from, his peace and happiness? Here on earth or only in some mythical -heaven--that odd, angelic heaven that she still believed in? What -a farce! And all her friends and his would think he would be so -miserable now if she died, or at least ought to be. So far had asinine -convention and belief in custom carried the world. Think of it! - -But even that was not the worst. No; that was not the worst, either. It -had been the gradual realization coming along through the years that he -had married an essentially small, narrow woman who could never really -grasp his point of view--or, rather, the significance of his dreams or -emotions--and yet with whom, nevertheless, because of this original -promise or mistake, he was compelled to live. Grant her every quality -of goodness, energy, industry, intent--as he did freely--still there -was this; and it could never be adjusted, never. Essentially, as he -had long since discovered, she was narrow, ultraconventional, whereas -he was an artist by nature, brooding and dreaming strange dreams and -thinking of far-off things which she did not or could not understand -or did not sympathize with, save in a general and very remote way. -The nuances of his craft, the wonders and subtleties of forms and -angles--had she ever realized how significant these were to him, let -alone to herself? No, never. She had not the least true appreciation -of them--never had had. Architecture? Art? What could they really mean -to her, desire as she might to appreciate them? And he could not now -go elsewhere to discover that sympathy. No. He had never really wanted -to, since the public and she would object, and he thinking it half evil -himself. - -Still, how was it, he often asked himself, that Nature could thus allow -one conditioned or equipped with emotions and seekings such as his, -not of an utterly conventional order, to seek out and pursue one like -Ernestine, who was not fitted to understand him or to care what his -personal moods might be? Was love truly blind, as the old saw insisted, -or did Nature really plan, and cleverly, to torture the artist mind--as -it did the pearl-bearing oyster with a grain of sand--with something -seemingly inimical, in order that it might produce beauty? Sometimes -he thought so. Perhaps the many interesting and beautiful buildings -he had planned--the world called them so, at least--had been due to -the loving care he lavished on them, being shut out from love and -beauty elsewhere. Cruel Nature, that cared so little for the dreams of -man--the individual man or woman! - -At the time he had married Ernestine he was really too young to know -exactly what it was he wanted to do or how it was he was going to feel -in the years to come; and yet there was no one to guide him, to stop -him. The custom of the time was all in favor of this dread disaster. -Nature herself seemed to desire it--mere children being the be-all and -the end-all of everything everywhere. Think of that as a theory! Later, -when it became so clear to him what he had done, and in spite of all -the conventional thoughts and conditions that seemed to bind him to -this fixed condition, he had grown restless and weary, but never really -irritable. No, he had never become that. - -Instead he had concealed it all from her, persistently, in all -kindness; only this hankering after beauty of mind and body in ways -not represented by her had hurt so--grown finally almost too painful -to bear. He had dreamed and dreamed of something different until it -had become almost an obsession. Was it never to be, that something -different, never, anywhere, in all time? What a tragedy! Soon he would -be dead and then it would never be anywhere--anymore! Ernestine was -charming, he would admit, or had been at first, though time had proved -that she was not charming to him either mentally or physically in any -compelling way; but how did that help him now? How could it? He had -actually found himself bored by her for more than twenty-seven years -now, and this other dream growing, growing, growing--until---- - -But now he was old, and she was dying, or might be, and it could not -make so much difference what happened to him or to her; only it could, -too, because he wanted to be free for a little while, just for a little -while, before he died. - -To be free! free! - -One of the things that had always irritated him about Mrs. Haymaker was -this, that in spite of his determination never to offend the social -code in any way--he had felt for so many reasons, emotional as well -as practical, that he could not afford so to do--and also in spite -of the fact that he had been tortured by this show of beauty in the -eyes and bodies of others, his wife, fearing perhaps in some strange -psychic way that he might change, had always tried to make him feel or -believe--premeditatedly and of a purpose, he thought--that he was not -the kind of man who would be attractive to women; that he lacked some -physical fitness, some charm that other men had, which would cause all -young and really charming women to turn away from him. Think of it! He -to whom so many women had turned with questioning eyes! - -Also that she had married him largely because she had felt sorry for -him! He chose to let her believe that, because he was sorry for -her. Because other women had seemed to draw near to him at times in -some appealing or seductive way she had insisted that he was not -even a cavalier, let alone a Lothario; that he was ungainly, slow, -uninteresting--to all women but her! - -Persistently, he thought, and without any real need, she had harped -on this, fighting chimeras, a chance danger in the future; though he -had never given her any real reason, and had never even planned to sin -against her in any way--never. She had thus tried to poison his own -mind in regard to himself and his art--and yet--and yet---- Ah, those -eyes of other women, their haunting beauty, the flitting something they -said to him of infinite, inexpressible delight. Why had his life been -so very hard? - -One of the disturbing things about all this was the iron truth which -it had driven home, namely, that Nature, unless it were expressed or -represented by some fierce determination within, which drove one to -do, be, cared no whit for him or any other man or woman. Unless one -acted for oneself, upon some stern conclusion nurtured within, one -might rot and die spiritually. Nature did not care. “Blessed be the -meek”--yes. Blessed be the strong, rather, for they made their own -happiness. All these years in which he had dwelt and worked in this -knowledge, hoping for something but not acting, nothing had happened, -except to him, and that in an unsatisfactory way. All along he had seen -what was happening to him; and yet held by convention he had refused to -act always, because somehow he was not hard enough to act. He was not -strong enough, that was the real truth--had not been. Almost like a -bird in a cage, an animal peeping out from behind bars, he had viewed -the world of free thought and freer action. In many a drawing-room, on -the street, or in his own home even, had he not looked into an eye, -the face of someone who seemed to offer understanding, to know, to -sympathize, though she might not have, of course; and yet religiously -and moralistically, like an anchorite, because of duty and current -belief and what people would say and think, Ernestine’s position and -faith in him, her comfort, his career and that of the children--he had -put them all aside, out of his mind, forgotten them almost, as best he -might. It had been hard at times, and sad, but so it had been. - -And look at him now, old, not exactly feeble yet--no, not that yet, not -quite!--but life weary and almost indifferent. All these years he had -wanted, wanted--wanted--an understanding mind, a tender heart, the some -one woman--she must exist somewhere--who would have sympathized with -all the delicate shades and meanings of his own character, his art, his -spiritual as well as his material dreams---- And yet look at him! Mrs. -Haymaker had always been with him, present in the flesh or the spirit, -and--so---- - -Though he could not ever say that she was disagreeable to him -in a material way--he could not say that she had ever been that -exactly--still she did not correspond to his idea of what he needed, -and so---- Form had meant so much to him, color; the glorious -perfectness of a glorious woman’s body, for instance, the color of her -thoughts, moods--exquisite they must be, like his own at times; but no, -he had never had the opportunity to know one intimately. No, not one, -though he had dreamed of her so long. He had never even dared whisper -this to any one, scarcely to himself. It was not wise, not socially -fit. Thoughts like this would tend to social ostracism in his circle, -or rather hers--for had she not made the circle? - -And here was the rub with Mr. Haymaker, at least, that he could not -make up his mind whether in his restlessness and private mental -complaints he were not even now guilty of a great moral crime in so -thinking. Was it not true that men and women should be faithful in -marriage whether they were happy or not? Was there not some psychic -law governing this matter of union--one life, one love--which made the -thoughts and the pains and the subsequent sufferings and hardships of -the individual, whatever they might be, seem unimportant? The churches -said so. Public opinion and the law seemed to accept this. There were -so many problems, so much order to be disrupted, so much pain caused, -many insoluble problems where children were concerned--if people did -not stick. Was it not best, more blessed--socially, morally, and in -every other way important--for him to stand by a bad bargain rather -than to cause so much disorder and pain, even though he lost his own -soul emotionally? He had thought so--or at least he had acted as though -he thought so--and yet---- How often had he wondered over this! - -Take, now, some other phases. Granting first that Mrs. Haymaker had, -according to the current code, measured up to the requirements of a -wife, good and true, and that at first after marriage there had been -just enough of physical and social charm about her to keep his state -from becoming intolerable, still there was this old ache; and then -newer things which came with the birth of the several children: First -Elwell--named after a cousin of hers, not his--who had died only two -years after he was born; and then Wesley; and then Ethelberta. How he -had always disliked that name!--largely because he had hoped to call -her Ottilie, a favorite name of his; or Janet, after his mother. - -Curiously the arrival of these children and the death of poor little -Elwell at two had somehow, in spite of his unrest, bound him to this -matrimonial state and filled him with a sense of duty, and pleasure -even--almost entirely apart from her, he was sorry to say--in these -young lives; though if there had not been children, as he sometimes -told himself, he surely would have broken away from her; he could not -have stood it. They were so odd in their infancy, those little ones, -so troublesome and yet so amusing--little Elwell, for instance, whose -nose used to crinkle with delight when he would pretend to bite his -neck, and whose gurgle of pleasure was so sweet and heart-filling -that it positively thrilled and lured him. In spite of his thoughts -concerning Ernestine--and always in those days they were rigidly put -down as unmoral and even evil, a certain unsocial streak in him perhaps -which was against law and order and social well-being--he came to have -a deep and abiding feeling for Elwell. The latter, in some chemic, -almost unconscious way, seemed to have arrived as a balm to his misery, -a bandage for his growing wound--sent by whom, by what, how? Elwell had -seized upon his imagination, and so his heartstrings--had come, indeed, -to make him feel understanding and sympathy there in that little child; -to supply, or seem to at least, what he lacked in the way of love -and affection from one whom he could truly love. Elwell was never so -happy apparently as when snuggling in his arms, not Ernestine’s, or -lying against his neck. And when he went for a walk or elsewhere there -was Elwell always ready, arms up, to cling to his neck. He seemed, -strangely enough, inordinately fond of his father, rather than his -mother, and never happy without him. On his part, Haymaker came to be -wildly fond of him--that queer little lump of a face, suggesting a -little of himself and of his own mother, not so much of Ernestine, or -so he thought, though he would not have objected to that. Not at all. -He was not so small as that. Toward the end of the second year, when -Elwell was just beginning to be able to utter a word or two, he had -taught him that silly old rhyme which ran “There were three kittens,” -and when it came to “and they shall have no----” he would stop and say -to Elwell, “What now?” and the latter would gurgle “puh!”--meaning, of -course, pie. - -Ah, those happy days with little Elwell, those walks with him over his -shoulder or on his arm, those hours in which of an evening he would -rock him to sleep in his arms! Always Ernestine was there, and happy -in the thought of his love for little Elwell and her, her more than -anything else perhaps; but it was an illusion--that latter part. He did -not care for her even then as she thought he did. All his fondness was -for Elwell, only she took it as evidence of his growing or enduring -affection for her--another evidence of the peculiar working of her -mind. Women were like that, he supposed--some women. - -And then came that dreadful fever, due to some invading microbe which -the doctors could not diagnose or isolate, infantile paralysis perhaps; -and little Elwell had finally ceased to be as flesh and was eventually -carried forth to the lorn, disagreeable graveyard near Woodlawn. How he -had groaned internally, indulged in sad, despondent thoughts concerning -the futility of all things human, when this had happened! It seemed for -the time being as if all color and beauty had really gone out of his -life for good. - -“Man born of woman is of few days and full of troubles,” the preacher -whom Mrs. Haymaker had insisted upon having into the house at the time -of the funeral had read. “He fleeth also as a shadow and continueth -not.” - -Yes; so little Elwell had fled, as a shadow, and in his own deep sorrow -at the time he had come to feel the first and only sad, deep sympathy -for Ernestine that he had ever felt since marriage; and that because -she had suffered so much--had lain in his arms after the funeral and -cried so bitterly. It was terrible, her sorrow. Terrible--a mother -grieving for her first-born! Why was it, he had thought at the time, -that he had never been able to think or make her all she ought to be to -him? Ernestine at this time had seemed better, softer, kinder, wiser, -sweeter than she had ever seemed; more worthy, more interesting than -ever he had thought her before. She had slaved so during the child’s -illness, stayed awake night after night, watched over him with such -loving care--done everything, in short, that a loving human heart could -do to rescue her young from the depths; and yet even then he had not -really been able to love her. No, sad and unkind as it might seem, he -had not. He had just pitied her and thought her better, worthier! What -cursed stars disordered the minds and moods of people so? Why was it -that these virtues of people, their good qualities, did not make you -love them, did not really bind them to you, as against the things you -could not like? Why? He had resolved to do better in his thoughts, but -somehow, in spite of himself, he had never been able so to do. - -Nevertheless, at that time he seemed to realize more keenly than ever -her order, industry, frugality, a sense of beauty within limits, a -certain laudable ambition to do something and be somebody--only, only -he could not sympathize with her ambitions, could not see that she had -anything but a hopelessly commonplace and always unimportant point -of view. There was never any flair to her, never any true distinction -of mind or soul. She seemed always, in spite of anything he might -say or do, hopelessly to identify doing and being with money and -current opinion--neighborhood public opinion, almost--and local social -position, whereas he knew that distinguished doing might as well be -connected with poverty and shame and disgrace as with these other -things--wealth and station, for instance; a thing which she could never -quite understand apparently, though he often tried to tell her, much -against her mood always. - -Look at the cases of the great artists! Some of the greatest architects -right here in the city, or in history, were of peculiar, almost -disagreeable, history. But no, Mrs. Haymaker could not understand -anything like that, anything connected with history, indeed--she hardly -believed in history, its dark, sad pages, and would never read it, or -at least did not care to. And as for art and artists--she would never -have believed that wisdom and art understanding and true distinction -might take their rise out of things necessarily low and evil--never. - -Take now, the case of young Zingara. Zingara was an architect like -himself, whom he had met more than thirty years before, here in New -York, when he had first arrived, a young man struggling to become an -architect of significance, only he was very poor and rather unkempt -and disreputable-looking. Haymaker had found him several years before -his marriage to Ernestine in the dark offices of Pyne & Starboard, -Architects, and had been drawn to him definitely; but because he smoked -all the time and was shabby as to his clothes and had no money--why, -Mrs. Haymaker, after he had married her, and though he had known -Zingara nearly four years, would have none of him. To her he was low, -and a failure, one who would never succeed. Once she had seen him in -some cheap restaurant that she chanced to be passing, in company with a -drabby-looking maid, and that was the end. - -“I wish you wouldn’t bring him here any more, dear,” she had insisted; -and to have peace he had complied--only, now look. Zingara had since -become a great architect, but now of course, owing to Mrs. Haymaker, -he was definitely alienated. He was the man who had since designed the -Æsculapian Club; and Symphony Hall with its delicate façade; as well as -the tower of the Wells Building, sending its sweet lines so high, like -a poetic thought or dream. But Zingara was now a dreamy recluse like -himself, very exclusive, as Haymaker had long since come to know, and -indifferent as to what people thought or said. - -But perhaps it was not just obtuseness to certain of the finer shades -and meanings of life, but an irritating aggressiveness at times, backed -only by her limited understanding, which caused her to seek and wish to -be here, there and the other place; wherever, in her mind, the truly -successful--which meant nearly always the materially successful of a -second or third rate character--were, which irritated him most of all. -How often had he tried to point out the difference between true and -shoddy distinction--the former rarely connected with great wealth. - -But no. So often she seemed to imagine such queer people to be truly -successful, when they were really not--usually people with just money, -or a very little more. - -And in the matter of rearing and educating and marrying their two -children, Wesley and Ethelberta, who had come after Elwell--what -peculiar pains and feelings had not been involved in all this for him. -In infancy both of these had seemed sweet enough, and so close to him, -though never quite so wonderful as Elwell. But, as they grew, it seemed -somehow as though Ernestine had come between him and them. First, it -was the way she had raised them, the very stiff and formal manner in -which they were supposed to move and be, copied from the few new-rich -whom she had chanced to meet through him--and admired in spite of his -warnings. That was the irony of architecture as a profession--it was -always bringing such queer people close to one, and for the sake of -one’s profession, sometimes, particularly in the case of the young -architect, one had to be nice to them. Later, it was the kind of school -they should attend. He had half imagined at first that it would be the -public school, because they both had begun as simple people; but no, -since they were prospering it had to be a private school for each, and -not one of his selection, either--or hers, really--but one to which the -Barlows and the Westervelts, two families of means with whom Ernestine -had become intimate, sent their children and therefore thought -excellent! - -The Barlows! Wealthy, but, to him, gross and mediocre people who had -made a great deal of money in the manufacture of patent medicines -out West, and who had then come to New York to splurge, and had been -attracted to Ernestine--not him particularly, he imagined--because -Haymaker had built a town house for them, and also because he was -gaining a fine reputation. They were dreadful really, so _gauche_, so -truly dull; and yet somehow they seemed to suit Ernestine’s sense of -fitness and worth at the time, because, as she said, they were good and -kind--like her Western home folks; only they were not really. She just -imagined so. They were worthy enough people in their way, though with -no taste. Young Fred Barlow had been sent to the expensive Gaillard -School for Boys, near Morristown, where they were taught manners and -airs, and little else, as Haymaker always thought, though Ernestine -insisted that they were given a religious training as well. And so -Wesley had to go there--for a time, anyhow. It was the best school. - -And similarly, because Mercedes Westervelt, senseless, vain little -thing, was sent to Briarcliff School, near White Plains, Ethelberta had -to go there. Think of it! It was all so silly, so pushing. How well he -remembered the long, delicate campaign which preceded this, the logic -and tactics employed, the importance of it socially to Ethelberta, the -tears and cajolery. Mrs. Haymaker could always cry so easily, or seem -to be on the verge of it, when she wanted anything; and somehow, in -spite of the fact that he knew her tears were unimportant, or timed -and for a purpose, he could never stand out against them, and she knew -it. Always he felt moved or weakened in spite of himself. He had no -weapon wherewith to fight them, though he resented them as a part of -the argument. Positively Mrs. Haymaker could be as sly and as ruthless -as Machiavelli himself at times, and yet believe all the while that she -was tender, loving, self-sacrificing, generous, moral and a dozen other -things, all of which led to the final achievement of her own aims. -Perhaps this was admirable from one point of view, but it irritated him -always. But if one were unable to see him- or herself, their actual -disturbing inconsistencies, what were you to do? - -And again, he had by then been married so long that it was almost -impossible to think of throwing her over, or so it seemed at the -time. They had reached the place then where they had supposedly -achieved position together, though in reality it was all his--and not -such position as he was entitled to, at that. Ernestine--and he was -thinking this in all kindness--could never attract the ideal sort. -And anyhow, the mere breath of a scandal between them, separation or -unfaithfulness, which he never really contemplated, would have led to -endless bickering and social and commercial injury, or so he thought. -All her strong friends--and his, in a way--those who had originally -been his clients, would have deserted him. Their wives, their own -social fears, would have compelled them to ostracize him! He would have -been a scandal-marked architect, a brute for objecting to so kind and -faithful and loving a wife. And perhaps he would have been, at that. He -could never quite tell, it was all so mixed and tangled. - -Take, again, the marriage of his son Wesley into the De Gaud -family--George de Gaud _père_ being nothing more than a retired -real-estate speculator and promoter who had money, but nothing more; -and Irma de Gaud, the daughter, being a gross, coarse, sensuous girl, -physically attractive no doubt, and financially reasonably secure, -or so she had seemed; but what else? Nothing, literally nothing; and -his son had seemed to have at least some spiritual ideals at first. -Ernestine had taken up with Mrs. George de Gaud--a miserable, narrow -creature, so Haymaker thought--largely for Wesley’s sake, he presumed. -Anyhow, everything had been done to encourage Wesley in his suit and -Irma in her toleration, and now look at them! De Gaud _père_ had -since failed and left his daughter practically nothing. Irma had been -interested in anything but Wesley’s career, had followed what she -considered the smart among the new-rich--a smarter, wilder, newer -new-rich than ever Ernestine had fancied, or could. To-day she was -without a thought for anything besides teas and country clubs and -theaters--and what else? - -And long since Wesley had begun to realize it himself. He was an -engineer now, in the employ of one of the great construction companies, -a moderately successful man. But even Ernestine, who had engineered -the match and thought it wonderful, was now down on her. She had -begun to see through her some years ago, when Irma had begun to -ignore her; only before it was always the De Gauds here, and the De -Gauds there. Good gracious, what more could any one want than the De -Gauds--Irma de Gaud, for instance? Then came the concealed dissension -between Irma and Wesley, and now Mrs. Haymaker insisted that Irma -had held, and was holding Wesley back. She was not the right woman -for him. Almost--against all her prejudices--she was willing that he -should leave her. Only, if Haymaker had broached anything like that in -connection with himself! - -And yet Mrs. Haymaker had been determined, because of what she -considered the position of the De Gauds at that time, that Wesley -should marry Irma. Wesley now had to slave at mediocre tasks in order -to have enough to allow Irma to run in so-called fast society of a -second or third rate. And even at that she was not faithful to him--or -so Haymaker believed. There were so many strange evidences. And yet -Haymaker felt that he did not care to interfere now. How could he? Irma -was tired of Wesley, and that was all there was to it. She was looking -elsewhere, he was sure. - -Take but one more case, that of Ethelberta. What a name! In spite of -all Ernestine’s determination to make her so successful and thereby -reflect some credit on her had she really succeeded in so doing? To be -sure, Ethelberta’s marriage was somewhat more successful financially -than Wesley’s had proved to be, but was she any better placed in other -ways? John Kelso--“Jack,” as she always called him--with his light ways -and lighter mind, was he really any one!--anything more than a waster? -His parents stood by him no doubt, but that was all; and so much the -worse for him. According to Mrs. Haymaker at the time, he, too, was an -ideal boy, admirable, just the man for Ethelberta, because the Kelsos, -_père_ and _mère_, had money. Horner Kelso had made a kind of fortune -in Chicago in the banknote business, and had settled in New York, about -the time that Ethelberta was fifteen, to spend it. Ethelberta had met -Grace Kelso at school. - -And now see! She was not unattractive, and had some pleasant, albeit -highly affected, social ways; she had money, and a comfortable -apartment in Park Avenue; but what had it all come to? John Kelso had -never done anything really, nothing. His parents’ money and indulgence -and his early training for a better social state had ruined him -if he had ever had a mind that amounted to anything. He was idle, -pleasure-loving, mentally indolent, like Irma de Gaud. Those two should -have met and married, only they could never have endured each other. -But how Mrs. Haymaker had courted the Kelsos in her eager and yet -diplomatic way, giving teas and receptions and theater parties; and yet -he had never been able to exchange ten significant words with either of -them, or the younger Kelsos either. Think of it! - -And somehow in the process Ethelberta, for all his early affection and -tenderness and his still kindly feeling for her, had been weaned away -from him and had proved a limited and conventional girl, somewhat like -her mother, and more inclined to listen to her than to him--though he -had not minded that really. It had been the same with Wesley before -her. Perhaps, however, a child was entitled to its likes and dislikes, -regardless. - -But why had he stood for it all, he now kept asking himself. Why? -What grand results, if any, had been achieved? Were their children so -wonderful?--their lives? Would he not have been better off without -her--his children better, even, by a different woman?--hers by a -different man? Wouldn’t it have been better if he had destroyed it -all, broken away? There would have been pain, of course, terrible -consequences, but even so he would have been free to go, to do, to -reorganize his life on another basis. Zingara had avoided marriage -entirely--wise man. But no, no; always convention, that long list of -reasons and terrors he was always reciting to himself. He had allowed -himself to be pulled round by the nose, God only knows why, and that -was all there was to it. Weakness, if you will, perhaps; fear of -convention; fear of what people would think and say. - -Always now he found himself brooding over the dire results to him of -all this respect on his part for convention, moral order, the duty -of keeping society on an even keel, of not bringing disgrace to his -children and himself and her, and yet ruining his own life emotionally -by so doing. To be respectable had been so important that it had -resulted in spiritual failure for him. But now all that was over with -him, and Mrs. Haymaker was ill, near to death, and he was expected to -wish her to get well, and be happy with her for a long time yet! Be -happy! In spite of anything he might wish or think he ought to do, he -couldn’t. He couldn’t even wish her to get well. - -It was too much to ask. There was actually a haunting satisfaction in -the thought that she might die now. It wouldn’t be much, but it would -be something--a few years of freedom. That was something. He was not -utterly old yet, and he might have a few years of peace and comfort -to himself still--and--and---- That dream--that dream--though it might -never come true now--it couldn’t really--still--still---- He wanted to -be free to go his own way once more, to do as he pleased, to walk, to -think, to brood over what he had not had--to brood over what he had not -had! Only, only, whenever he looked into her pale sick face and felt -her damp limp hands he could not quite wish that, either; not quite, -not even now. It seemed too hard, too brutal--only--only---- So he -wavered. - -No; in spite of her long-past struggle over foolish things and in -spite of himself and all he had endured or thought he had, he was -still willing that she should live; only he couldn’t wish it exactly. -Yes, let her live if she could. What matter to him now whether she -lived or died? Whenever he looked at her he could not help thinking -how helpless she would be without him, what a failure at her age, and -so on. And all along, as he wryly repeated to himself, she had been -thinking and feeling that she was doing the very best for him and her -and the children!--that she was really the ideal wife for him, making -every dollar go as far as it would, every enjoyment yield the last drop -for them all, every move seeming to have been made to their general -advantage! Yes, that was true. There was a pathos about it, wasn’t -there? But as for the actual results----! - -The next morning, the second after his talk with Doctor Storm, found -him sitting once more beside his front window in the early dawn, and -so much of all this, and much more, was coming back to him, as before. -For the thousandth or the ten-thousandth time, as it seemed to him, -in all the years that had gone, he was concluding again that his life -was a failure. If only he were free for a little while just to be -alone and think, perhaps to discover what life might bring him yet; -only on this occasion his thoughts were colored by a new turn in the -situation. Yesterday afternoon, because Mrs. Haymaker’s condition had -grown worse, the consultation between Grainger and Storm was held, -and to-day sometime transfusion was to be tried, that last grim stand -taken by physicians in distress over a case; blood taken from a strong -ex-cavalryman out of a position, in this case, and the best to be hoped -for, but not assured. In this instance his thoughts were as before -wavering. Now supposing she really died, in spite of this? What would -he think of himself then? He went back after a time and looked in on -her where she was still sleeping. Now she was not so strong as before, -or so she seemed; her pulse was not so good, the nurse said. And now as -before his mood changed in her favor, but only for a little while. For -later, waking, she seemed to look and feel better. - -Later he came up to the dining room, where the nurse was taking her -breakfast, and seating himself beside her, as was his custom these -days, asked: “How do you think she is to-day?” - -He and the night nurse had thus had their breakfasts together for days. -This nurse, Miss Filson, was such a smooth, pink, graceful creature, -with light hair and blue eyes, the kind of eyes and color that of -late, and in earlier years, had suggested to him the love time or youth -that he had missed. - -The latter looked grave, as though she really feared the worst but was -concealing it. - -“No worse, I think, and possibly a little better,” she replied, eyeing -him sympathetically. He could see that she too felt that he was old and -in danger of being neglected. “Her pulse is a little stronger, nearly -normal now, and she is resting easily. Doctor Storm and Doctor Grainger -are coming, though, at ten. Then they’ll decide what’s to be done. I -think if she’s worse that they are going to try transfusion. The man -has been engaged. Doctor Storm said that when she woke to-day she was -to be given strong beef tea. Mrs. Elfridge is making it now. The fact -that she is not much worse, though, is a good sign in itself, I think.” - -Haymaker merely stared at her from under his heavy gray eyebrows. -He was so tired and gloomy, not only because he had not slept much -of late himself but because of this sawing to and fro between his -varying moods. Was he never to be able to decide for himself what he -really wished? Was he never to be done with this interminable moral or -spiritual problem? Why could he not make up his mind on the side of -moral order, sympathy, and be at peace? Miss Filson pattered on about -other heart cases, how so many people lived years and years after -they were supposed to die of heart lesion; and he meditated as to -the grayness and strangeness of it all, the worthlessness of his own -life, the variability of his own moods. Why was he so? How queer--how -almost evil, sinister--he had become at times; how weak at others. -Last night as he had looked at Ernestine lying in bed, and this morning -before he had seen her, he had thought if she only would die--if he -were only really free once more, even at this late date. But then when -he had seen her again this morning and now when Miss Filson spoke -of transfusion, he felt sorry again. What good would it do him now? -Why should he want to kill her? Could such evil ideas go unpunished -either in this world or the next? Supposing his children could guess! -Supposing she did die now--and he wished it so fervently only this -morning--how would he feel? After all, Ernestine had not been so bad. -She had tried, hadn’t she?--only she had not been able to make a -success of things, as he saw it, and he had not been able to love her, -that was all. He reproached himself once more now with the hardness and -the cruelty of his thoughts. - -The opinion of the two physicians was that Mrs. Haymaker was not much -better and that this first form of blood transfusion must be resorted -to--injected straight via a pump--which should restore her greatly -provided her heart did not bleed it out too freely. Before doing so, -however, both men once more spoke to Haymaker, who in an excess of -self-condemnation insisted that no expense must be spared. If her life -was in danger, save it by any means--all. It was precious to her, to -him and to her children. So he spoke. Thus he felt that he was lending -every force which could be expected of him, aside from fervently -wishing for her recovery, which even now, in spite of himself, he could -not do. He was too weary of it all, the conventional round of duties -and obligations. But if she recovered, as her physicians seemed to -think she might if transfusion were tried, if she gained even, it would -mean that he would have to take her away for the summer to some quiet -mountain resort--to be with her hourly during the long period in which -she would be recovering. Well, he would not complain now. That was all -right. He would do it. He would be bored of course, as usual, but it -would be too bad to have her die when she could be saved. Yes, that was -true. And yet---- - -He went down to his office again and in the meantime this first form -of transfusion was tried, and proved a great success, apparently. She -was much better, so the day nurse phoned at three; very much better. At -five-thirty Mr. Haymaker returned, no unsatisfactory word having come -in the interim, and there she was, resting on a raised pillow, if you -please, and looking so cheerful, more like her old self than he had -seen her in some time. - -At once then his mood changed again. They were amazing, these -variations in his own thoughts, almost chemic, not volitional, -decidedly peculiar for a man who was supposed to know his own -mind--only did one, ever? Now she would not die. Now the whole thing -would go on as before. He was sure of it. Well, he might as well resign -himself to the old sense of failure. He would never be free now. -Everything would go on as before, the next and the next day the same. -Terrible! Though he seemed glad--really grateful, in a way, seeing her -cheerful and hopeful once more--still the obsession of failure and -being once more bound forever returned now. In his own bed at midnight -he said to himself: “Now she will really get well. All will be as -before. I will never be free. I will never have a day--a day! Never!” - -But the next morning, to his surprise and fear or comfort, as his -moods varied, she was worse again; and then once more he reproached -himself for his black thoughts. Was he not really killing her by what -he thought? he asked himself--these constant changes in his mood? Did -not his dark wishes have power? Was he not as good as a murderer in his -way? Think, if he had always to feel from now on that he had killed her -by wishing so! Would not that be dreadful--an awful thing really? Why -was he this way? Could he not be human, kind? - -When Doctor Storm came at nine-thirty, after a telephone call from the -nurse, and looked grave and spoke of horses’ blood as being better, -thicker than human blood--not so easily bled out of the heart when -injected as a serum--Haymaker was beside himself with self-reproaches -and sad, disturbing fear. His dark, evil thoughts of last night and -all these days had done this, he was sure. Was he really a murderer at -heart, a dark criminal, plotting her death?--and for what? Why had he -wished last night that she would die? Her case must be very desperate. - -“You must do your best,” he now said to Doctor Storm. “Whatever is -needful--she must not die if you can help it.” - -“No, Mr. Haymaker,” returned the latter sympathetically. “All that can -be done will be done. You need not fear. I have an idea that we didn’t -inject enough yesterday, and anyhow human blood is not thick enough in -this case. She responded, but not enough. We will see what we can do -to-day.” - -Haymaker, pressed with duties, went away, subdued and sad. Now once -more he decided that he must not tolerate these dark ideas any more, -must rid himself of these black wishes, whatever he might feel. It -was evil. They would eventually come back to him in some dark way, he -might be sure. They might be influencing her. She must be allowed to -recover if she could without any opposition on his part. He must now -make a further sacrifice of his own life, whatever it cost. It was -only decent, only human. Why should he complain now, anyhow, after -all these years! What difference would a few more years make? He -returned at evening, consoled by his own good thoughts and a telephone -message at three to the effect that his wife was much better. This -second injection had proved much more effective. Horses’ blood was -plainly better for her. She was stronger, and sitting up again. He -entered at five, and found her lying there pale and weak, but still -with a better light in her eye, a touch of color in her cheeks--or -so he thought--more force, and a very faint smile for him, so marked -had been the change. How great and kind Doctor Storm really was! How -resourceful! If she would only get well now! If this dread siege would -only abate! Doctor Storm was coming again at eight. - -“Well, how are you, dear?” she asked, looking at him sweetly and -lovingly, and taking his hand in hers. - -He bent and kissed her forehead--a Judas kiss, he had thought up to -now, but not so to-night. To-night he was kind, generous--anxious, -even, for her to live. - -“All right, dearest; very good indeed. And how are you? It’s such a -fine evening out. You ought to get well soon so as to enjoy these -spring days.” - -“I’m going to,” she replied softly. “I feel so much better. And how -have you been? Has your work gone all right?” - -He nodded and smiled and told her bits of news. Ethelberta had phoned -that she was coming, bringing violets. Wesley had said he would be here -at six, with Irma! Such-and-such people had asked after her. How could -he have been so evil, he now asked himself, as to wish her to die? -She was not so bad--really quite charming in her way, an ideal wife -for some one, if not him. She was as much entitled to live and enjoy -her life as he was to enjoy his; and after all she was the mother of -his children, had been with him all these years. Besides, the day had -been so fine--it was now--a wondrous May evening. The air and sky were -simply delicious. A lavender haze was in the air. The telephone bell -now ringing brought still another of a long series of inquiries as to -her condition. There had been so many of these during the last few -days, the maid said, and especially to-day--and she gave Mr. Haymaker -a list of names. See, he thought, she had even more friends than he, -being so good, faithful, worthy. Why should he wish her ill? - -He sat down to dinner with Ethelberta and Wesley when they arrived, -and chatted quite gayly--more hopefully than he had in weeks. His own -varying thoughts no longer depressing him, for the moment he was happy. -How were they? What were the children all doing? At eight-thirty Doctor -Storm came again, and announced that he thought Mrs. Haymaker was -doing very well indeed, all things considered. - -“Her condition is fairly promising, I must say,” he said. “If she gets -through another night or two comfortably without falling back I think -she’ll do very well from now on. Her strength seems to be increasing a -fraction. However, we must not be too optimistic. Cases of this kind -are very treacherous. To-morrow we’ll see how she feels, whether she -needs any more blood.” - -He went away, and at ten Ethelberta and Wesley left for the night, -asking to be called if she grew worse, thus leaving him alone once -more. He sat and meditated. At eleven, after a few moments at his -wife’s bedside--absolute quiet had been the doctor’s instructions -these many days--he himself went to bed. He was very tired. His -varying thoughts had afflicted him so much that he was always tired, -it seemed--his evil conscience, he called it--but to-night he was sure -he would sleep. He felt better about himself, about life. He had done -better, to-day. He should never have tolerated such dark thoughts. And -yet--and yet--and yet---- - -He lay on his bed near a window which commanded a view of a small -angle of the park, and looked out. There were the spring trees, as -usual, silvered now by the light, a bit of lake showing at one end. -Here in the city a bit of sylvan scenery such as this was so rare and -so expensive. In his youth he had been so fond of water, any small -lake or stream or pond. In his youth, also, he had loved the moon, and -to walk in the dark. It had all, always, been so suggestive of love -and happiness, and he had so craved love and happiness and never had -it. Once he had designed a yacht club, the base of which suggested -waves. Once, years ago, he had thought of designing a lovely cottage -or country house for himself and some new love--that wonderful one--if -ever she came and he were free. How wonderful it would all have been. -Now--now--the thought at such an hour and especially when it was too -late, seemed sacrilegious, hard, cold, unmoral, evil. He turned his -face away from the moonlight and sighed, deciding to sleep and shut out -these older and darker and sweeter thoughts if he could, and did. - -Presently he dreamed, and it was as if some lovely spirit of -beauty--that wondrous thing he had always been seeking--came and took -him by the hand and led him out, out by dimpling streams and clear -rippling lakes and a great, noble highway where were temples and towers -and figures in white marble. And it seemed as he walked as if something -had been, or were, promised him--a lovely fruition to something which -he craved--only the world toward which he walked was still dark or -shadowy, with something sad and repressing about it, a haunting sense -of a still darker distance. He was going toward beauty apparently, but -he was still seeking, seeking, and it was dark there when---- - -“Mr. Haymaker! Mr. Haymaker!” came a voice--soft, almost mystical at -first, and then clearer and more disturbing, as a hand was laid on him. -“Will you come at once? It’s Mrs. Haymaker!” - -On the instant he was on his feet seizing the blue silk dressing -gown hanging at his bed’s head, and adjusting it as he hurried. Mrs. -Elfridge and the nurse were behind him, very pale and distrait, -wringing their hands. He could tell by that that the worst was at -hand. When he reached the bedroom--her bedroom--there she lay as in -life--still, peaceful, already limp, as though she were sleeping. Her -thin, and as he sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in a -faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had seen her look that way, -too, at times; a really gracious smile, and wise, wiser than she was. -The long, thin, graceful hands were open, the fingers spread slightly -apart as though she were tired, very tired. The eyelids, too, rested -wearily on tired eyes. Her form, spare as always, was outlined clearly -under the thin coverlets. Miss Filson, the night nurse, was saying -something about having fallen asleep for a moment, and waking only to -find her so. She was terribly depressed and disturbed, possibly because -of Doctor Storm. - -Haymaker paused, greatly shocked and moved by the sight--more so than -by anything since the death of little Elwell. After all, she had -tried, according to her light. But now she was dead--and they had been -together so long! He came forward, tears of sympathy springing to his -eyes, then sank down beside the bed on his knees so as not to disturb -her right hand where it lay. - -“Ernie, dear,” he said gently, “Ernie--are you really gone?” His voice -was full of sorrow; but to himself it sounded false, traitorous. - -He lifted the hand and put it to his lips sadly, then leaned his head -against her, thinking of his long, mixed thoughts these many days, -while both Mrs. Elfridge and the nurse began wiping their eyes. They -were so sorry for him, he was so old now! - -After a while he got up--they came forward to persuade him at -last--looking tremendously sad and distrait, and asked Mrs. Elfridge -and the nurse not to disturb his children. They could not aid her now. -Let them rest until morning. Then he went back to his own room and sat -down on the bed for a moment, gazing out on the same silvery scene that -had attracted him before. It was dreadful. So then his dark wishing had -come true at last? Possibly his black thoughts had killed her after -all. Was that possible? Had his voiceless prayers been answered in -this grim way? And did she know now what he had really thought? Dark -thought. Where was she now? What was she thinking now if she knew? -Would she hate him--haunt him? It was not dawn yet, only two or three -in the morning, and the moon was still bright. And in the next room she -was lying, pale and cool, gone forever now out of his life. - -He got up after a time and went forward into that pleasant front room -where he had so often loved to sit, then back into her room to view -the body again. Now that she was gone, here more than elsewhere, in -her dead presence, he seemed better able to collect his scattered -thoughts. She might see or she might not--might know or not. It was -all over now. Only he could not help but feel a little evil. She had -been so faithful, if nothing more, so earnest in behalf of him and of -his children. He might have spared her these last dark thoughts of -these last few days. His feelings were so jumbled that he could not -place them half the time. But at the same time the ethics of the past, -of his own irritated feelings and moods in regard to her, had to be -adjusted somehow before he could have peace. They must be adjusted, -only how--how? He and Mrs. Elfridge had agreed not to disturb Doctor -Storm any more to-night. They were all agreed to get what rest they -could against the morning. - -After a time he came forward once more to the front room to sit and -gaze at the park. Here, perhaps, he could solve these mysteries for -himself, think them out, find out what he did feel. He was evil for -having wished all he had, that he knew and felt. And yet there was -his own story, too--his life. The dawn was breaking by now; a faint -grayness shaded the east and dimly lightened this room. A tall pier -mirror between two windows now revealed him to himself--spare, angular, -disheveled, his beard and hair astray and his eyes weary. The figure he -made here as against his dreams of a happier life, once he were free, -now struck him forcibly. What a farce! What a failure! Why should he, -of all people, think of further happiness in love, even if he were -free? Look at his reflection here in this mirror. What a picture--old, -grizzled, done for! Had he not known that for so long? Was it not too -ridiculous? Why should he have tolerated such vain thoughts? What could -he of all people hope for now? No thing of beauty would have him now. -Of course not. That glorious dream of his youth was gone forever. It -was a mirage, an ignis fatuus. His wife might just as well have lived -as died, for all the difference it would or could make to him. Only, -he was really free just the same, almost as it were in spite of his -varying moods. But he was old, weary, done for, a recluse and ungainly. - -Now the innate cruelty of life, its blazing ironic indifference to him -and so many grew rapidly upon him. What had he had? What all had he -not missed? Dismally he stared first at his dark wrinkled skin; the -crow’s-feet at the sides of his eyes; the wrinkles across his forehead -and between the eyes; his long, dark, wrinkled hands--handsome hands -they once were, he thought; his angular, stiff body. Once he had been -very much of a personage, he thought, striking, forceful, dynamic--but -now! He turned and looked out over the park where the young trees were, -and the lake, to the pinking dawn--just a trace now--a significant -thing in itself at this hour surely--the new dawn, so wondrously new -for younger people--then back at himself. What could he wish for -now--what hope for? - -As he did so his dream came back to him--that strange dream of seeking -and being led and promised and yet always being led forward into a -dimmer, darker land. What did that mean? Had it any real significance? -Was it all to be dimmer, darker still? Was it typical of his life? He -pondered. - -“Free!” he said after a time. “Free! I know now how that is. I am free -now, at last! Free!... Free!... Yes--free ... to die!” - -So he stood there ruminating and smoothing his hair and his beard. - - - - -McEWEN OF THE SHINING SLAVE MAKERS - - -It was a hot day in August. The parching rays of a summer sun had faded -the once sappy green leaves of the trees to a dull and dusty hue. The -grass, still good to look upon in shady places, spread sere and dry -where the light had fallen unbroken. The roads were hot with thick -dust, and wherever a stone path led, it reflected heat to weary body -and soul. - -Robert McEwen had taken a seat under a fine old beech tree whose broad -arms cast a welcome shade. He had come here out of the toil of the busy -streets. - -For a time he gave himself over to blank contemplation of the broad -park and the occasional carriages that jingled by. Presently his -meditation was broken by an ant on his trousers, which he flipped away -with his finger. This awoke him to the thought that there might be more -upon him. He stood up, shaking and brushing himself. Then he noticed an -ant running along the walk in front of him. He stamped on it. - -“I guess that will do for you,” he said, half aloud, and sat down again. - -Now only did he really notice the walk. It was wide and hard and hot. -Many ants were hurrying about, and now he saw that they were black. At -last, one more active than the others fixed his eye. He followed it -with his glance for more than a score of feet. - -This particular ant was progressing urgently, now to the right, now to -the left, stopping here and there, but never for more than a second. -Its energy, the zig-zag course it pursued, the frequency with which it -halted to examine something, enlisted his interest. As he gazed, the -path grew in imagination until it assumed immense proportions. - -Suddenly he bestirred himself, took a single glance and then jumped, -rubbing his eyes. He was in an unknown world, strange in every detail. -The branched and many-limbed trees had disappeared. A forest of immense -flat swords of green swayed in the air above him. The ground between -lacked its carpet of green and was roughly strewn with immense boulders -of clay. The air was strong with an odor which seemed strange and yet -familiar. Only the hot sun streaming down and a sky of faultless blue -betokened a familiar world. In regard to himself McEwen felt peculiar -and yet familiar. What was it that made these surroundings and himself -seem odd and yet usual? He could not tell. His three pairs of limbs -and his vigorous mandibles seemed natural enough. The fact that he -sensed rather than saw things was natural and yet odd. Forthwith moved -by a sense of duty, necessity, and a kind of tribal obligation which -he more felt than understood, he set out in search of food and prey -and presently came to a broad plain, so wide that his eye could scarce -command more than what seemed an immediate portion of it. He halted and -breathed with a feeling of relief. Just then a voice startled him. - -“Anything to eat hereabout?” questioned the newcomer in a friendly and -yet self-interested tone. - -McEwen drew back. - -“I do not know,” he said, “I have just----” - -“Terrible,” said the stranger, not waiting to hear his answer. “It -looks like famine. You know the Sanguineæ have gone to war.” - -“No,” answered McEwen mechanically. - -“Yes,” said the other, “they raided the Fuscæ yesterday. They’ll be -down on us next.” - -With that the stranger made off. McEwen was about to exclaim at the use -of the word _us_ when a ravenous craving for food, brought now forcibly -to his mind by the words of the other, made him start in haste after -him. - -Then came another who bespoke him in passing. - -“I haven’t found a thing to-day, and I’ve been all the way to the -Pratensis region. I didn’t dare go any further without having some -others with me. They’re hungry, too, up there, though they’ve just made -a raid. You heard the Sanguineæ went to war, didn’t you?” - -“Yes, he told me,” said McEwen, indicating the retreating figure of the -stranger. - -“Oh, Ermi. Yes, he’s been over in their territory. Well, I’ll be going -now.” - -McEwen hastened after Ermi at a good pace, and soon overtook him. The -latter had stopped and was gathering in his mandibles a jagged crumb, -almost as large as himself. - -“Oh!” exclaimed McEwen eagerly, “where did you get that?” - -“Here,” said Ermi. - -“Will you give me a little?” - -“I will not,” said the other, and a light came in his eye that was -almost evil. - -“All right,” said McEwen, made bold by hunger and yet cautious by -danger, “which way would you advise me to look?” - -“Wherever you please,” said Ermi, “why ask me? You are not new at -seeking,” and strode off. - -“The forest was better than this,” thought McEwen; “there I would not -die of the heat, anyhow, and I might find food. Here is nothing,” and -he turned and glanced about for a sight of the jungle whence he had -come. - -Far to the left and rear of him he saw it, those great up-standing -swords. As he gazed, revolving in his troubled mind whether he should -return or not, he saw another like himself hurrying toward him out of -the distance. - -He eagerly hailed the newcomer, who was yet a long way off. - -“What is it?” asked the other, coming up rapidly. - -“Do you know where I can get something to eat?” - -“Is that why you called me?” he answered, eyeing him angrily. “Do you -ask in time of famine? Certainly not. If I had anything for myself, -I would not be out here. Go and hunt for it like the rest of us. Why -should you be asking?” - -“I have been hunting,” cried McEwen, his anger rising. “I have searched -here until I am almost starved.” - -“No worse off than any of us, are you?” said the other. “Look at me. Do -you suppose I am feasting?” - -He went off in high dudgeon, and McEwen gazed after him in -astonishment. The indifference and sufficiency were at once surprising -and yet familiar. Later he found himself falling rapidly into helpless -lassitude from both hunger and heat, when a voice, as of one in pain, -hailed him. - -“Ho!” it cried. - -“Hello!” he answered. - -“Come, come!” was the feeble reply. - -McEwen started forward at once. When he was still many times his own -length away he recognized the voice as that of his testy friend of a -little while before, but now sadly changed. He was stretched upon the -earth, working his mandibles feebly. - -“What is it?” asked McEwen solicitously. “What ails you? How did this -happen?” - -“I don’t know,” said the other. “I was passing along here when that -struck me,” indicating a huge boulder. “I am done for, though. You may -as well have this food now, since you are one of us. The tribe can use -what you do not eat,” he sighed. - -“Oh, nothing of the sort,” said McEwen solicitously, the while he -viewed the crushed limbs and side of the sufferer. “You’ll be all -right. Why do you speak of death? Just tell me where to take you, or -whom to go for.” - -“No,” said the other, “it would be no use. You see how it is. They -could do nothing for me. I did not want your aid. I merely wanted you -to have this food here. I shall not want it now.” - -“Don’t say that,” returned McEwen. “You mustn’t talk about dying. There -must be something I can do. Tell me. I don’t want your food.” - -“No, there isn’t anything you could do. There isn’t any cure, you know -that. Report, when you return, how I was killed. Just leave me now and -take that with you. They need it, if you do not.” - -McEwen viewed him silently. This reference to a colony or tribe or home -seemed to clarify many things for him. He remembered now apparently the -long road he had come, the immense galleries of the colony to which he -belonged under the earth, the passages by which he had made his way -in and out, the powerful and revered ant mother, various larvæ to be -fed and eggs to be tended. To be sure. That was it. He was a part of -this immense colony or group. The heat must have affected his sensory -powers. He must gather food and return there--kill spiders, beetles, -grubs, and bring them back to help provision the colony. That was it. -Only there were so few to be found here, for some reason. - -The sufferer closed his eyes in evident pain, and trembled -convulsively. Then he fell back and died. - -McEwen gazed upon the now fast stiffening body, with all but -indifference, and wondered. The spectacle seemed so familiar as to be -all but commonplace. Apparently he had seen so many die that way. Had -he not, in times past, reported the deaths of hundreds? - -“Is he dead?” asked a voice at his side. - -“Yes,” said McEwen, scarcely bringing himself out of his meditation -sufficiently to observe the newcomer. - -“Well, then, he will not need this, I guess,” said the other, and he -seized upon the huge lump with his mandibles, but McEwen was on the -alert and savage into the bargain, on the instant. He, too, gripped his -mandibles upon it. - -“I was called by him to have this, before he died,” he shouted “and I -propose to have it. Let go.” - -“That I will not,” said the other with great vigor and energy. “I’ll -have some of it, at least,” and, giving a mighty wrench, which sent -both himself and McEwen sprawling, he tore off a goodly portion of it -and ran, gaining his feet so quickly that he was a good length off -before McEwen arose. The latter was too hungry, however, to linger -in useless rage, and now fell to and ate before any other should -disturb him. Then, feeling partially satisfied, he stretched himself -languorously and continued more at his leisure. After a time he shook -himself out of his torpor which had seized on him with his eating, and -made off for the distant jungle, in which direction, as he now felt, -lay the colony home. - -He was in one of the darkest and thickest portions of the route thither -when there was borne to him from afar the sound of feet in marching -time, and a murmuring as of distant voices. He stopped and listened. -Presently the sounds grew louder and more individual. He could now tell -that a great company was nearing him. The narrow path which he followed -was clear for some distance, and open to observation. Not knowing what -creatures he was about to meet, he stepped out of it into a thicket, -at one side and took up a position behind a great boulder. The tramp -of many feet was now so close as to bode contact and discovery, and he -saw, through the interstices of green stalks, a strange column filing -along the path he had left. They were no other than a company of red -warriors--slave makers like himself, only of a different species, the -fierce Sanguineæ that Ermi had spoken of as having gone to war. - -To war they certainly had been, and no doubt were going again. Nearly -every warrior carried with him some mark of plunder or of death. Many -bore in their mandibles dead bodies of the enemy or their larvæ -captured from a Fuscan colony. Others bore upon their legs the severed -heads of the poor blacks who had been slain in the defense of their -home, and whose jaws still clung to their foes, fixed in the rigor of -death. Still others dragged the bodies of their victims, and shouted as -they went, making the long, lonely path to ring with uncanny sounds as -they disappeared in the distance. - -McEwen came furtively out after a time and looked after them. He had -gotten far to the left of the warriors and somewhat to the front -of them, and was just about to leave the shadow of one clump of -bushes to hurry to a neighboring stone, when there filed out from -the very shelter upon which he had his eye fixed, the figure of one -whom he immediately recognized as Ermi. The latter seemed to await a -favorable opportunity when he should not be observed, and then started -running. McEwen followed. In the distance could be seen a group of the -Sanguineæ, who had evidently paused for something, moving about in -great excitement, in groups of two or three, gesticulating and talking. -Some of those not otherwise engaged displayed a sensibility of danger -or a lust of war by working their jaws and sawing at heavy stones with -their mandibles. Presently one gazed in the direction of Ermi, and -shouted to the others. - -Immediately four warriors set out in pursuit. McEwen hastened after -Ermi, to see what would become of him. Discreetly hidden himself, he -could do this with considerable equanimity. As he approached, he saw -Ermi moving backward and forward, endeavoring to close the entrance -to a cave in which he had now taken refuge. Apparently that warrior -had become aware that no time was to be lost, since he also could see -the pursuing Sanguineæ. With a swiftness born of daring and a keen -realization of danger, he arranged a large boulder at the very edge of -the portal as a key, and then others in such position that when the -first should topple in the others would follow. Then he crawled deftly -inside the portal, and pulling the keystone, toppled the whole mass in -after him. - -This was hardly done when the Sanguineæ were upon him. They were four -cruel, murderous fighters, deeply scarred. One, called by the others -Og, had a black’s head at his thigh. One of his temples bore a scar, -and the tip of his left antenna was broken. He was a keen old warrior, -however, and scented the prey at once. - -“Hi, you!” he shouted to the others. “Here’s the place.” - -Just then another drew near to the portal which Ermi had barricaded. -He looked at it closely, walked about several times, sounded with his -antennæ and then listened. There was no answer. - -“Hist!” he exclaimed to the others. - -Now they came up. They also looked, but so well had Ermi done his work -that they were puzzled. - -“I’m not sure,” said Og, “it looks to me more like an abandoned cave -than an entrance.” - -“Tear it open, anyway,” advocated Ponan, the second of the quartette, -speaking for the first time. - -“There may be no other exit.” - -“Aha!” cried Og, “Good! We will see anyhow.” - -“Come on!” yelled Maru, a third, seizing the largest boulder, -“Mandibles to!” - -“Out with him!” cried Om, jumping eagerly to work. “We will have him -out in a jiffy!” - -It was not an easy task, as the boulders were heavy and deep, but they -tore them out. Later they dragged forth Ermi, who, finding himself -captured, seized the head of Maru with his mandibles. Og, on the other -hand, seized one of Ermi’s legs in his powerful jaws. The others also -had taken hold. The antennæ of all were thrown back, and the entire -mass went pushing and shoving, turning and tumbling in a whirl. - -McEwen gazed, excited and sympathetic. At first he thought to avoid -it all, having a horror of death, but a moment later decided to come -to his friend’s rescue, a feeling of tribal relationship which was -overwhelming coming over him. Springing forward, he clambered upon the -back of Og, at whose neck he began to saw with his powerful teeth. -Og, realizing a new adversary, released his hold upon Ermi’s limb and -endeavored to shake off his new enemy. McEwen held tight, however. The -others, however, too excited to observe the newcomer, still struggled -to destroy Ermi. The latter had stuck steadily to his labor of killing -Maru, and now, when Og’s hold was loosened, he gave a powerful crush -and Maru breathed his last. This advantaged him little, however, for -both Ponan and Om were attacking his sides. - -“Take that!” shouted Om, throwing himself violently upon Ermi and -turning him over. “Saw off his head, Ponan.” - -Ponan released his hold and sprang for Ermi’s head. There was a -kicking and crushing of jaws, and Ponan secured his grip. - -“Kill him!” yelled Om. “Come, Og! Come!” - -At this very moment Og’s severed head fell to the ground, and McEwen -leaping from his back, sprang to the aid of Ermi. - -“Come!” he shouted at Ponan, who was sawing at Ermi’s head. “It’s two -to two now,” and McEwen gave such a wrench to Ponan’s side that he -writhed in pain, and released his hold on Ermi. - -But recovering himself he leaped upon McEwen, and bore him down, -sprawling. - -The fight was now more desperate than ever. The combatants rolled and -tossed. McEwen’s right antenna was broken by his fall, and one of his -legs was injured. He could seem to get no hold upon his adversary, whom -he now felt to be working toward his neck. - -“Let go!” he yelled, gnashing at him with his mandibles, but Ponan only -tightened his murderous jaws. - -Better fortune was now with Ermi, however, who was a more experienced -fighter. Getting a grip upon Om’s body, he hurled him to the ground and -left him stunned and senseless. - -Seeing McEwen’s predicament, he now sprang to his aid. The latter was -being sadly worsted and but for the generous aid of Ermi, would have -been killed. The latter struck Ponan a terrific blow with his head and -having stunned him, dragged him off. The two, though much injured, now -seized upon the unfortunate Sanguinea and tore him in two, and would -have done as much for Om, had they not discovered that that bedraggled -warrior had recovered sufficiently to crawl away and hide. - -McEwen and Ermi now drew near to each other in warm admiration. - -“Come with me,” said Ermi. “They are all about here now and that coward -who escaped will have them upon us. There is a corridor into our home -from here, only I was not able to reach it before they caught me. Help -me barricade this entrance.” - -Together they built up the stones more effectually than before, and -then entered, toppling the mass in behind them. With considerable -labor, they built up another barricade below. - -“You watch a moment, now,” said Ermi to McEwen, and then hurried -down a long passage through which he soon returned bringing with him -a sentinel, who took up guard duty at the point where the fight had -occurred. “He will stay here and give the alarm in case another attack -is made,” he commented. - -“Come now,” he added, touching McEwen affectionately with his antennæ. -Leading the way, Ermi took him along a long winding corridor with -which, somehow, he seemed to be familiar, and through various secret -passages into the colony house. - -“You see,” he said to McEwen familiarly, as they went, “they could not -have gotten in here, even if they had killed me, without knowing the -way. Our passageways are too intricate. But it is as well to keep a -picket there, now that they are about. Where have you been? You do not -belong to our colony, do you?” - -McEwen related his experiences since their meeting in the desert, -without explaining where he came from. He knew that he was a member of -some other colony of this same tribe without being sure of which one. A -strange feeling of wandering confusion possessed him, as though he had -been injured in some way, somewhere, and was lost for the moment. - -“Well, you might as well stay with us, now,” said Ermi. “Are you -hungry?” - -“Very,” said McEwen. - -“Then we will eat at once.” - -McEwen now gazed upon a domed chamber of vast proportions, with which, -also, he seemed familiar, an old inhabitant of one such, no less. It -had several doors that opened out into galleries, and corridors leading -to other chambers and store rooms, a home for thousands. - -Many members of this allied family now hurried to meet them, all -genially enough. - -“You have had an encounter with them?” asked several at once. - -“Nothing to speak of,” said Ermi, who, fighter that he was, had also a -touch of vanity. “Look after my friend here, who has saved my life.” - -“Not I!” cried McEwen warmly. - -They could not explain, however, before they were seized by their -admirers and carried into a chamber where none of the din of -preparation penetrated, and where was a carpet of soft grass threads -upon which they might lie. - -Injured though they were, neither could endure lying still for long, -and were soon poking about, though unable to do anything. McEwen was -privileged to idle and listlessly watch an attack on one portal of -the cave which lasted an entire day, resulting in failure for the -invaders. It was a rather broken affair, the principal excitement -occurring about the barricaded portals and secret exits at the end of -the long corridors, where McEwen often found himself in the way. The -story of his prowess had been well told by Ermi, and he was a friend -and hero whom many served. A sort of ambulance service was established -which not only looked to the bringing in of the injured, but also to -the removal of the dead. A graveyard was prepared just outside one of -the secret entrances, far from the scene of the siege, and here the -dead were laid in orderly rows. - -The siege having ended temporarily the same day it began, the household -resumed its old order. Those who had remained within went forth for -forage. The care of the communal young, which had been somewhat -interrupted, was now resumed. Larvæ and chrysalises, which had been left -almost unattended in the vast nurseries, were moved to and fro between -the rooms where the broken sunlight warmed, and the shadow gave them -rest. - -“There is war ahead,” said Ermi to McEwen one day not long after this. -“These Sanguineæ will never let us alone until we give them battle. We -shall have to stir up the whole race of Shining Slave Makers and fight -all the Sanguineæ before we have peace again.” - -“Good,” said McEwen. “I am ready.” - -“So am I,” answered Ermi, “but it is no light matter. They are our -ancient enemy and as powerful as we. If we meet again you will see war -that is war.” - -Not long after this McEwen and Ermi, foraging together, encountered a -Sanguinea, who fought with them and was slain. Numerous Lucidi, of -which tribe he found himself to be a member, left the community of a -morning to labor and were never heard of again. Encounters between -parties of both camps were frequent, and orderly living ceased. - -At last the entire community was in a ferment, and a council was -called. It was held in the main saloon of the formicary, a vast chamber -whose hollowed dome rose like the open sky above them. The queen of the -community was present, and all the chief warriors, including Ermi and -McEwen. Loud talking and fierce comment were indulged in to no point, -until Yumi, long a light in the councils of the Lucidi, spoke. He was -short and sharp of speech. - -“We must go to war,” he said. “Our old enemies will give us no peace. -Send couriers to all the colonies of the Shining Slave Makers. We will -meet the Red Slave Makers as we did before.” - -“Ah,” said an old Lucidi, who stood at McEwen’s side, “that was a great -battle. You don’t remember. You were too young. There were thousands -and thousands in that. I could not walk for the dead.” - -“Are we to have another such?” asked McEwen. - -“If the rest of us come. We are a great people. The Shining Slave -Makers are numberless.” - -Just then another voice spoke, and Ermi listened. - -“Let us send for them to come here. When the Sanguineæ again lay siege -let us pour out and destroy them. Let none escape.” - -“Let us first send couriers and hear what our people say,” broke in -Ermi loudly. “The Sanguineæ are a vast people also. We must have -numbers. It must be a decisive battle.” - -“Ay, ay,” answered many. “Send the couriers!” - -Forthwith messengers were dispatched to all parts, calling the hordes -of the Shining Slave Makers to war. In due course they returned, -bringing information that they were coming. Their colonies also had -been attacked. Later the warriors of the allied tribes began to put in -an appearance. - -It was a gathering of legions. The paths in the forests about resounded -with their halloos. With the arrival of the first cohorts of these -friendly colonies, there was a minor encounter with an irritant host of -the Sanguineæ foraging hereabout, who were driven back and destroyed. -Later there were many minor encounters and deaths before the hosts were -fully assembled, but the end was not yet. All knew that. The Sanguineæ -had fled, but not in cowardice. They would return. - -The one problem with this vast host, now that it was assembled, was -food. Eventually they expected to discover this in the sacked homes of -the Sanguineæ, but temporarily other provision must be made. The entire -region had to be scoured. Colonies of Fuscæ and Schauffusi living in -nearby territory were attacked and destroyed. Their storehouses were -ransacked and the contents distributed. Every form of life was attacked -and still there was not enough. - -Both McEwen and Ermi, now inseparable, joined in one of these raids. It -was upon a colony of Fuscæ, who had their home in a neighboring forest. -The company went singing on their way until within a short distance of -the colony, when they became silent. - -“Let us not lose track of one another,” said McEwen. - -“No,” said Ermi, “but they are nothing. We will take all they possess -without a struggle. See them running.” - -As he said this, he motioned in the direction of several Fuscæ that -were fleeing toward their portals in terror. The Lucidi set up a shout, -and darted after, plunging into the open gates, striking and slaying -as they went. In a few minutes those first in came out again carrying -their booty. Others were singly engaged in fiercest battle with large -groups of the weaker Fuscæ. Only a few of the latter were inclined -to fight. They seemed for the most part dazed by their misfortunes. -Numbers hung from the topmost blades of the towering sword-trees, and -the broad, floor-like leaves of the massive weeds, about their caves -where they had taken refuge, holding in their jaws baby larvæ and -cocoons rescued from the invaders, with which they had hurriedly fled -to these nearest elevated objects. - -Singly, McEwen pursued a dozen, and reveled in the sport of killing -them. He tumbled them with rushes of his body, crushed them with his -mandibles, and poisoned them with his formic sting. - -“Do you need help?” called Ermi once, who was always near and shouting. - -“Yes,” called McEwen scornfully, “bring me more of them.” - -Soon the deadly work was over and the two comrades, gathering a mass of -food, joined the returning band, singing as they went. - -“To-morrow,” said Ermi, as they went along, “we will meet the -Sanguineæ. It is agreed. The leaders are conferring now.” - -McEwen did not learn where these latter were, but somehow he was -pleased. An insane lust of combat was now upon him. - -“They will not be four to two this time,” he laughed exultingly. - -“No, and we will not be barricading against them, either,” laughed -Ermi, the lust of war simmering in his veins. - -As they came near their camp, however, they found a large number of -the assembled companies already in motion. Thousands upon thousands of -those who had arrived were already assembled in one group or another -and were prepared for action. There were cries and sounds of fighting, -and long lines of Lucidi hurrying hither and thither. - -“What’s the matter?” asked Ermi excitedly. - -“The Sanguineæ,” was the answer. “They are returning.” - -Instantly McEwen became sober. Ermi turned to him affectionately. - -“Now,” he said solemnly, “courage. We’re in for it.” - -A tremendous hubbub followed. Already vast legions of the Lucidi were -bearing away to the east. McEwen and Ermi, not being able to find their -own, fell in with a strange company. - -“Order!” shouted a voice in their ears. “Fall in line. We are called.” - -The twain mechanically obeyed, and dropped behind a regular line. Soon -they were winding along with other long lines of warriors through the -tall sword trees, and in a little while reached a huge, smooth, open -plain where already the actual fighting had begun. Thousands were -here, apparently hundreds of thousands. There was little order, and -scarcely any was needed apparently, since all contacts were individual -or between small groups. It all depended now on numbers, and the -results of the contests between individuals, or at the most, these -small groups. Ermi, McEwen, and several other Lucidi were about to -seize upon one Sanguinea, who was approaching them, when an amazing -rush of the latter broke them, and McEwen found himself separated from -Ermi with a red demon snapping at his throat. Dazed by the shock and -clamor, he almost fell a prey to this first charge. A moment later, -however, his courage and daring returned. With a furious bound, he -recovered himself and forced himself upon his adversary, snapping his -neck in his jaws. - -“Take that!” he said to the tumbling carcass. - -He had no sooner ended one foe, however, than another clutched him. -They were on every hand, hard, merciless fighters like himself and Ermi -who rushed and tore and sawed with amazing force. McEwen faced his -newest adversary swiftly. While the latter was seeking for McEwen’s -head and antennæ with his mandibles, the former with a quick snap -seized his foe by the neck. Turning up his abdomen, he ejected formic -acid into the throat of the other. That finished him. - -Meanwhile the battle continued on every hand with the same mad -vehemence. Already the dead clogged the ground. Here, single combatants -struggled--there, whole lines moved and swayed in deadly combat. Ever -and anon new lines were formed, and strange hosts of friends or enemies -came up, falling upon the combatants of both sides with murderous -enthusiasm. McEwen, in a strange daze and lust of death, seemed to -think nothing of it. He was alone now--lost in a tossing sea of war, -and terror seemed to have forsaken him. It was wonderful, he thought, -mysterious---- - -As enemy after enemy assailed him, he fought them as he best knew, an -old method to him, apparently, and as they died, he wished them to -die--broken, poisoned, sawed in two. He began to count and exult in the -numbers he had slain. It was at last as though he were dreaming, and -all around was a vain, dark, surging mass of enemies. - -Finally, four of the Sanguineæ seized upon him in a group, and he -went down before them, almost helpless. Swiftly they tore at his head -and body, endeavoring to dispose of him quickly. One seized a leg, -another an antenna. A third jumped and sawed at his neck. Still he -did not care. It was all war, and he would struggle to the last shred -of his strength, eagerly, enthusiastically. At last he seemed to lose -consciousness. - -When he opened his eyes again, Ermi was beside him. - -“Well?” said Ermi. - -“Well?” answered McEwen. - -“You were about done for, then.” - -“Was I?” he answered. “How are things going?” - -“I cannot tell yet,” said Ermi. “All I know is that you were faring -badly when I came up. Two of them were dead, but the other two were -killing you.” - -“You should have left me to them,” said McEwen, noticing now for the -first time Ermi’s wounds. “It does not matter so much--one Lucidi more -or less--what of it? But you have been injured.” - -“I--oh, nothing. You are the one to complain. I fear you are badly -injured.” - -“Oh, I,” returned McEwen heavily, feeling at last the weight of death -upon him, “I am done for. I cannot live. I felt myself dying some time -ago.” - -He closed his eyes and trembled. In another moment---- - - * * * * * - -McEwen opened his eyes. Strangely enough he was looking out upon -jingling carriages and loitering passersby in the great city park. It -was all so strange, by comparison with that which he had so recently -seen, the tall buildings in the distance, instead of the sword trees, -the trees, the flowers. He jumped to his feet in astonishment, then -sank back again in equal amaze, a passerby eyeing him curiously the -while. - -“I have been asleep,” he said in a troubled way. “I have been dreaming. -And what a dream!” - -He shut his eyes again, wishing, for some strange reason--charm, -sympathy, strangeness--to regain the lost scene. An odd longing filled -his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing. -When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of -what had been happening, but it was fading, fading. - -At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently -been--or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched -grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in -amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now, as he -saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for -instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground -was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and -striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed. -What was this?--a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser -life or of his own--or what? And what was life if the strange passions, -moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those -there on so minute a plane? - -“Why, I was there,” he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, “a little -while ago. I died there--or as well as died there--in my dream. At -least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this.” - -Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the -forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead. -At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his -dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the -Shining Slave Makers--the blacks--as he thought of the two warring -hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he -stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world! he thought. What -worlds within worlds, all apparently full of necessity, contention, -binding emotions and unities--and all with sorrow, their sorrow--a -vague, sad something out of far-off things which had been there, and -was here in this strong bright city day, had been there and would be -here until this odd, strange thing called _life_ had ended. - - - - -NIGGER JEFF - - -The city editor was waiting for one of his best reporters, Elmer Davies -by name, a vain and rather self-sufficient youth who was inclined to -be of that turn of mind which sees in life only a fixed and ordered -process of rewards and punishments. If one did not do exactly right, -one did not get along well. On the contrary, if one did, one did. -Only the so-called evil were really punished, only the good truly -rewarded--or Mr. Davies had heard this so long in his youth that he had -come nearly to believe it. Presently he appeared. He was dressed in -a new spring suit, a new hat and new shoes. In the lapel of his coat -was a small bunch of violets. It was one o’clock of a sunny spring -afternoon, and he was feeling exceedingly well and good-natured--quite -fit, indeed. The world was going unusually well with him. It seemed -worth singing about. - -“Read that, Davies,” said the city editor, handing him the clipping. -“I’ll tell you afterward what I want you to do.” - -The reporter stood by the editorial chair and read: - - Pleasant Valley, Ko., April 16. - - “A most dastardly crime has just been reported here. Jeff Ingalls, - a negro, this morning assaulted Ada Whitaker, the nineteen-year-old - daughter of Morgan Whitaker, a well-to-do farmer, whose home is four - miles south of this place. A posse, headed by Sheriff Mathews, has - started in pursuit. If he is caught, it is thought he will be lynched.” - -The reporter raised his eyes as he finished. What a terrible crime! -What evil people there were in the world! No doubt such a creature -ought to be lynched, and that quickly. - -“You had better go out there, Davies,” said the city editor. “It looks -as if something might come of that. A lynching up here would be a big -thing. There’s never been one in this state.” - -Davies smiled. He was always pleased to be sent out of town. It was a -mark of appreciation. The city editor rarely sent any of the other men -on these big stories. What a nice ride he would have! - -As he went along, however, a few minutes later he began to meditate -on this. Perhaps, as the city editor had suggested, he might be -compelled to witness an actual lynching. That was by no means so -pleasant in itself. In his fixed code of rewards and punishments he -had no particular place for lynchings, even for crimes of the nature -described, especially if he had to witness the lynching. It was too -horrible a kind of reward or punishment. Once, in line of duty, -he had been compelled to witness a hanging, and that had made him -sick--deathly so--even though carried out as a part of the due process -of law of his day and place. Now, as he looked at this fine day and -his excellent clothes, he was not so sure that this was a worthwhile -assignment. Why should he always be selected for such things--just -because he could write? There were others--lots of men on the staff. -He began to hope as he went along that nothing really serious would -come of it, that they would catch the man before he got there and put -him in jail--or, if the worst had to be--painful thought!--that it -would be all over by the time he got there. Let’s see--the telegram -had been filed at nine a.m. It was now one-thirty and would be three -by the time he got out there, all of that. That would give them time -enough, and then, if all were well, or ill, as it were, he could just -gather the details of the crime and the--aftermath--and return. The -mere thought of an approaching lynching troubled him greatly, and the -farther he went the less he liked it. - -He found the village of Pleasant Valley a very small affair indeed, -just a few dozen houses nestling between green slopes of low hills, -with one small business corner and a rambling array of lanes. One -or two merchants of K----, the city from which he had just arrived, -lived out here, but otherwise it was very rural. He took notes of the -whiteness of the little houses, the shimmering beauty of the small -stream one had to cross in going from the depot. At the one main corner -a few men were gathered about a typical village barroom. Davies headed -for this as being the most likely source of information. - -In mingling with this company at first he said nothing about his being -a newspaper man, being very doubtful as to its effect upon them, their -freedom of speech and manner. - -The whole company was apparently tense with interest in the crime which -still remained unpunished, seemingly craving excitement and desirous of -seeing something done about it. No such opportunity to work up wrath -and vent their stored-up animal propensities had probably occurred here -in years. He took this occasion to inquire into the exact details of -the attack, where it had occurred, where the Whitakers lived. Then, -seeing that mere talk prevailed here, he went away thinking that he had -best find out for himself how the victim was. As yet she had not been -described, and it was necessary to know a little something about her. -Accordingly, he sought an old man who kept a stable in the village, -and procured a horse. No carriage was to be had. Davies was not an -excellent rider, but he made a shift of it. The Whitaker home was not -so very far away--about four miles out--and before long he was knocking -at its front door, set back a hundred feet from the rough country road. - -“I’m from the _Times_,” he said to the tall, rawboned woman who opened -the door, with an attempt at being impressive. His position as reporter -in this matter was a little dubious; he might be welcome, and he might -not. Then he asked if this were Mrs. Whitaker, and how Miss Whitaker -was by now. - -“She’s doing very well,” answered the woman, who seemed decidedly -stern, if repressed and nervous, a Spartan type. “Won’t you come in? -She’s rather feverish, but the doctor says she’ll probably be all right -later on.” She said no more. - -Davies acknowledged the invitation by entering. He was very anxious to -see the girl, but she was sleeping under the influence of an opiate, -and he did not care to press the matter at once. - -“When did this happen?” he asked. - -“About eight o’clock this morning,” said the woman. “She started to go -over to our next door neighbor here, Mr. Edmonds, and this negro met -her. We didn’t know anything about it until she came crying through the -gate and dropped down in here.” - -“Were you the first one to meet her?” asked Davies. - -“Yes, I was the only one,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “The men had all gone to -the fields.” - -Davies listened to more of the details, the type and history of the -man, and then rose to go. Before doing so he was allowed to have a look -at the girl, who was still sleeping. She was young and rather pretty. -In the yard he met a country man who was just coming to get home news. -The latter imparted more information. - -“They’re lookin’ all around south of here,” he said, speaking of a -crowd which was supposed to be searching. “I expect they’ll make short -work of him if they get him. He can’t get away very well, for he’s -on foot, wherever he is. The sheriff’s after him too, with a deputy -or two, I believe. He’ll be tryin’ to save him an’ take him over to -Clayton, but I don’t believe he’ll be able to do it, not if the crowd -catches him first.” - -So, thought Davies, he would probably have to witness a lynching after -all. The prospect was most unhappy. - -“Does any one know where this negro lived?” he asked heavily, a growing -sense of his duty weighing upon him. - -“Oh, right down here a little way,” replied the farmer. “Jeff Ingalls -was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and -another of the farmers hereabouts, and don’t appear to have had such a -bad record, either, except for drinkin’ a little now and then. Miss Ada -recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing -and turn to the right. It’s a little log house that sets back off the -road--something like that one you see down the lane there, only it’s -got lots o’ chips scattered about.” - -Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing -late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by -now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be -learned. - -Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner, -hoping that all had been concluded and that he might learn of it here. -At the principal corner much the same company was still present, -arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different -companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered -what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself -by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had -learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of -the sheriff. - -Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, -breathless. - -“They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!” - -A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as -the crowd gathered about the rider. - -“Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the -latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ’a’ -gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to Clayton, -so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re -after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to -take him away.” - -“Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to -make an attack. - -“’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by -way of Baldwin.” - -“Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him, -all right! Are you goin’, Sam?” - -“You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!” - -“Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching -party--a hired spectator!” - -He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again. -He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the -sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely. - -“What’s doin’?” inquired the liveryman as he noted Davies’ excited -appearance. - -“They’re after him,” replied the latter nervously. “The sheriff’s -caught him. They’re going now to try to take him away from him, or -that’s what they say. The sheriff is taking him over to Clayton, by way -of Baldwin. I want to get over there if I can. Give me the horse again, -and I’ll give you a couple of dollars more.” - -The liveryman led the horse out, but not without many provisionary -cautions as to the care which was to be taken of him, the damages which -would ensue if it were not. He was not to be ridden beyond midnight. -If one were wanted for longer than that Davies must get him elsewhere -or come and get another, to all of which Davies promptly agreed. He -then mounted and rode away. - -When he reached the corner again several of the men who had gone for -their horses were already there, ready to start. The young man who had -brought the news had long since dashed off to other parts. - -Davies waited to see which road this new company would take. Then -through as pleasant a country as one would wish to see, up hill and -down dale, with charming vistas breaking upon the gaze at every turn, -he did the riding of his life. So disturbed was the reporter by the -grim turn things had taken that he scarcely noted the beauty that was -stretched before him, save to note that it was so. Death! Death! The -proximity of involuntary and enforced death was what weighed upon him -now. - -In about an hour the company had come in sight of the sheriff, who, -with two other men, was driving a wagon he had borrowed along a lone -country road. The latter was sitting at the back, a revolver in each -hand, his face toward the group, which at sight of him trailed after -at a respectful distance. Excited as every one was, there was no -disposition, for the time being at least, to halt the progress of the -law. - -“He’s in that wagon,” Davies heard one man say. “Don’t you see they’ve -got him in there tied and laid down?” - -Davies looked. - -“That’s right,” said another. “I see him now.” - -“What we ought to do,” said a third, who was riding near the front, -“is to take him away and hang him. That’s just what he deserves, and -that’s what he’ll get before we’re through to-day.” - -“Yes!” called the sheriff, who seemed to have heard this. “You’re not -goin’ to do any hangin’ this day, so you just might as well go on -back.” He did not appear to be much troubled by the appearance of the -crowd. - -“Where’s old man Whitaker?” asked one of the men who seemed to feel -that they needed a leader. “He’d get him quick enough!” - -“He’s with the other crowd, down below Olney,” was the reply. - -“Somebody ought to go an’ tell him.” - -“Clark’s gone,” assured another, who hoped for the worst. - -Davies rode among the company a prey to mingled and singular feelings. -He was very much excited and yet depressed by the character of the -crowd which, in so far as he could see, was largely impelled to its -jaunt by curiosity and yet also able under sufficient motivation on -the part of some one--any one, really--to kill too. There was not so -much daring as a desire to gain daring from others, an unconscious wish -or impulse to organize the total strength or will of those present -into one strength or one will, sufficient to overcome the sheriff and -inflict death upon his charge. It was strange--almost intellectually -incomprehensible--and yet so it was. The men were plainly afraid of the -determined sheriff. They thought something ought to be done, but they -did not feel like getting into trouble. - -Mathews, a large solemn, sage, brown man in worn clothes and a faded -brown hat, contemplated the recent addition to his trailers with -apparent indifference. Seemingly he was determined to protect his man -and avoid mob justice, come what may. A mob should not have him if he -had to shoot, and if he shot it would be to kill. Finally, since the -company thus added to did not dash upon him, he seemingly decided to -scare them off. Apparently he thought he could do this, since they -trailed like calves. - -“Stop a minute!” he called to his driver. - -The latter pulled up. So did the crowd behind. Then the sheriff stood -over the prostrate body of the negro, who lay in the jolting wagon -beneath him, and called back: - -“Go ’way from here, you people! Go on, now! I won’t have you follerin’ -after me!” - -“Give us the nigger!” yelled one in a half-bantering, half-derisive -tone of voice. - -“I’ll give ye just two minutes to go on back out o’ this road,” -returned the sheriff grimly, pulling out his watch and looking at it. -They were about a hundred feet apart. “If you don’t, I’ll clear you -out!” - -“Give us the nigger!” - -“I know you, Scott,” answered Mathews, recognizing the voice. “I’ll -arrest every last one of ye to-morrow. Mark my word!” - -The company listened in silence, the horses champing and twisting. - -“We’ve got a right to foller,” answered one of the men. - -“I give ye fair warning,” said the sheriff, jumping from his wagon and -leveling his pistols as he approached. “When I count five I’ll begin to -shoot!” - -He was a serious and stalwart figure as he approached, and the crowd -fell back a little. - -“Git out o’ this now!” he yelled. “One--Two----” - -The company turned completely and retreated, Davies among them. - -“We’ll foller him when he gits further on,” said one of the men in -explanation. - -“He’s got to do it,” said another. “Let him git a little ways ahead.” - -The sheriff returned to his wagon and drove on. He seemed, however, to -realize that he would not be obeyed and that safety lay in haste alone. -His wagon was traveling fast. If only he could lose them or get a good -start he might possibly get to Clayton and the strong county jail by -morning. His followers, however, trailed him swiftly as might be, -determined not to be left behind. - -“He’s goin’ to Baldwin,” said one of the company of which Davies was a -member. - -“Where’s that?” asked Davies. - -“Over west o’ here, about four miles.” - -“Why is he going there?” - -“That’s where he lives. I guess he thinks if he kin git ’im over there -he kin purtect ’im till he kin git more help from Clayton. I cal’late -he’ll try an’ take ’im over yet to-night, or early in the mornin’ -shore.” - -Davies smiled at the man’s English. This countryside lingo always -fascinated him. - -Yet the men lagged, hesitating as to what to do. They did not want to -lose sight of Matthews, and yet cowardice controlled them. They did -not want to get into direct altercation with the law. It wasn’t their -place to hang the man, although plainly they felt that he ought to be -hanged, and that it would be a stirring and exciting thing if he were. -Consequently they desired to watch and be on hand--to get old Whitaker -and his son Jake, if they could, who were out looking elsewhere. They -wanted to see what the father and brother would do. - -The quandary was solved by one of the men, who suggested that they -could get to Baldwin by going back to Pleasant Valley and taking the -Sand River pike, and that in the meantime they might come upon Whitaker -and his son en route, or leave word at his house. It was a shorter cut -than this the sheriff was taking, although he would get there first -now. Possibly they could beat him at least to Clayton, if he attempted -to go on. The Clayton road was back via Pleasant Valley, or near it, -and easily intercepted. Therefore, while one or two remained to trail -the sheriff and give the alarm in case he did attempt to go on to -Clayton, the rest, followed by Davies, set off at a gallop to Pleasant -Valley. It was nearly dusk now when they arrived and stopped at the -corner store--supper time. The fires of evening meals were marked by -upcurling smoke from chimneys. Here, somehow, the zest to follow seemed -to depart. Evidently the sheriff had worsted them for the night. Morg -Whitaker, the father, had not been found; neither had Jake. Perhaps -they had better eat. Two or three had already secretly fallen away. - -They were telling the news of what had occurred so far to one of the -two storekeepers who kept the place, when suddenly Jake Whitaker, the -girl’s brother, and several companions came riding up. They had been -scouring the territory to the north of the town, and were hot and -tired. Plainly they were unaware of the developments of which the crowd -had been a part. - -“The sheriff’s got ’im!” exclaimed one of the company, with that -blatance which always accompanies the telling of great news in small -rural companies. “He taken him over to Baldwin in a wagon a coupla -hours ago.” - -“Which way did he go?” asked the son, whose hardy figure, worn, -hand-me-down clothes and rakish hat showed up picturesquely as he -turned here and there on his horse. - -“’Cross Sellers’ Lane. You won’t git ’em that-a-way, though, Jake. He’s -already over there by now. Better take the short cut.” - -A babble of voices now made the scene more interesting. One told how -the negro had been caught, another that the sheriff was defiant, a -third that men were still tracking him or over there watching, until -all the chief points of the drama had been spoken if not heard. - -Instantly suppers were forgotten. The whole customary order of the -evening was overturned once more. The company started off on another -excited jaunt, up hill and down dale, through the lovely country that -lay between Baldwin and Pleasant Valley. - -By now Davies was very weary of this procedure and of his saddle. He -wondered when, if ever, this story was to culminate, let alone he -write it. Tragic as it might prove, he could not nevertheless spend -an indefinite period trailing a possibility, and yet, so great was -the potentiality of the present situation, he dared not leave. By -contrast with the horror impending, as he now noted, the night was so -beautiful that it was all but poignant. Stars were already beginning -to shine. Distant lamps twinkled like yellow eyes from the cottages in -the valleys and on the hillsides. The air was fresh and tender. Some -peafowls were crying afar off, and the east promised a golden moon. - -Silently the assembled company trotted on--no more than a score in -all. In the dusk, and with Jake ahead, it seemed too grim a pilgrimage -for joking. Young Jake, riding silently toward the front, looked as -if tragedy were all he craved. His friends seemed considerately to -withdraw from him, seeing that he was the aggrieved. - -After an hour’s riding Baldwin came into view, lying in a sheltering -cup of low hills. Already its lights were twinkling softly and there -was still an air of honest firesides and cheery suppers about it which -appealed to Davies in his hungry state. Still, he had no thought now of -anything save this pursuit. - -Once in the village, the company was greeted by calls of recognition. -Everybody seemed to know what they had come for. The sheriff and his -charge were still there, so a dozen citizens volunteered. The local -storekeepers and loungers followed the cavalcade up the street to the -sheriff’s house, for the riders had now fallen into a solemn walk. - -“You won’t get him though, boys,” said one whom Davies later learned -was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather -youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his -door. “He’s got two deputies in there with him, or did have, and they -say he’s going to take him over to Clayton.” - -At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had -followed the sheriff. - -“He tried to give us the slip,” they volunteered excitedly, “but he’s -got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies -ain’t with him. They’ve gone somewhere for help--Clayton, maybe.” - -“How do you know?” - -“We saw ’em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow.” - -A hundred feet from the sheriff’s little white cottage, which backed up -against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he -proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff’s door and demand the negro. - -“If he don’t turn him out I’ll break in the door an’ take him!” he said. - -“That’s right! We’ll stand by you, Whitaker,” commented several. - -By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village -was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads -appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A -few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer -to the sheriff’s gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead, -however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he -would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff. - -“Hello, Mathews!” - -“Eh, eh, eh!” bellowed the crowd. - -The call was repeated. Still no answer. Apparently to the sheriff -delay appeared to be his one best weapon. - -Their coming, however, was not as unexpected as some might have -thought. The figure of the sheriff was plainly to be seen close to -one of the front windows. He appeared to be holding a double-barreled -shotgun. The negro, as it developed later, was cowering and chattering -in the darkest corner of the cellar, hearkening no doubt to the voices -and firing of the revolvers outside. - -Suddenly, and just as Jake was about to go forward, the front door of -the house flew open, and in the glow of a single lamp inside appeared -first the double-barreled end of the gun, followed immediately by the -form of Mathews, who held the weapon poised ready for a quick throw to -the shoulder. All except Jake fell back. - -“Mr. Mathews,” he called deliberately, “we want that nigger!” - -“Well, you can’t git ’im!” replied the sheriff. “He’s not here.” - -“Then what you got that gun fer?” yelled a voice. - -Mathews made no answer. - -“Better give him up, Mathews,” called another, who was safe in the -crowd, “or we’ll come in an’ take him!” - -“No you won’t,” said the sheriff defiantly. “I said the man wasn’t -here. I say it ag’in. You couldn’t have him if he was, an’ you can’t -come in my house! Now if you people don’t want trouble you’d better go -on away.” - -“He’s down in the cellar!” yelled another. - -“Why don’t you let us see?” asked another. - -Mathews waved his gun slightly. - -“You’d better go away from here now,” cautioned the sheriff. “I’m -tellin’ ye! I’ll have warrants out for the lot o’ ye, if ye don’t mind!” - -The crowd continued to simmer and stew, while Jake stood as before. He -was very pale and tense, but lacked initiative. - -“He won’t shoot,” called some one at the back of the crowd. “Why don’t -you go in, Jake, an’ git him?” - -“Sure! Rush in. That’s it!” observed a second. - -“He won’t, eh?” replied the sheriff softly. Then he added in a -lower tone, “The first man that comes inside that gate takes the -consequences.” - -No one ventured inside the gate; many even fell back. It seemed as if -the planned assault had come to nothing. - -“Why not go around the back way?” called some one else. - -“Try it!” replied the sheriff. “See what you find on that side! I told -you you couldn’t come inside. You’d better go away from here now before -ye git into trouble,” he repeated. “You can’t come in, an’ it’ll only -mean bloodshed.” - -There was more chattering and jesting while the sheriff stood on guard. -He, however, said no more. Nor did he allow the banter, turmoil and -lust for tragedy to disturb him. Only, he kept his eye on Jake, on -whose movements the crowd seemed to hang. - -Time passed, and still nothing was done. The truth was that young Jake, -put to the test, was not sufficiently courageous himself, for all his -daring, and felt the weakness of the crowd behind him. To all intents -and purposes he was alone, for he did not inspire confidence. He -finally fell back a little, observing, “I’ll git ’im before mornin’, -all right,” and now the crowd itself began to disperse, returning to -its stores and homes or standing about the postoffice and the one -village drugstore. Finally, Davies smiled and came away. He was sure he -had the story of a defeated mob. The sheriff was to be his great hero. -He proposed to interview him later. For the present, he meant to seek -out Seavey, the telegraph operator, and arrange to file a message, then -see if something to eat was not to be had somewhere. - -After a time he found the operator and told him what he wanted--to -write and file a story as he wrote it. The latter indicated a table -in the little postoffice and telegraph station which he could use. He -became very much interested in the reporter when he learned he was from -the _Times_, and when Davies asked where he could get something to eat -said he would run across the street and tell the proprietor of the only -boarding house to fix him something which he could consume as he wrote. -He appeared to be interested in how a newspaper man would go about -telling a story of this kind over a wire. - -“You start your story,” he said, “and I’ll come back and see if I can -get the _Times_ on the wire.” - -Davies sat down and began his account. He was intent on describing -things to date, the uncertainty and turmoil, the apparent victory of -the sheriff. Plainly the courage of the latter had won, and it was all -so picturesque. “A foiled lynching,” he began, and as he wrote the -obliging postmaster, who had by now returned, picked up the pages and -carefully deciphered them for himself. - -“That’s all right. I’ll see if I can get the _Times_ now,” he commented. - -“Very obliging postmaster,” thought Davies as he wrote, but he had so -often encountered pleasant and obliging people on his rounds that he -soon dropped that thought. - -The food was brought, and still Davies wrote on, munching as he did so. -In a little while the _Times_ answered an often-repeated call. - -“Davies at Baldwin,” ticked the postmaster, “get ready for quite a -story!” - -“Let ’er go!” answered the operator at the _Times_, who had been -expecting this dispatch. - -As the events of the day formulated themselves in his mind, Davies -wrote and turned over page after page. Between whiles he looked out -through the small window before him where afar off he could see a -lonely light twinkling against a hillside. Not infrequently he stopped -his work to see if anything new was happening, whether the situation -was in any danger of changing, but apparently it was not. He then -proposed to remain until all possibility of a tragedy, this night -anyhow, was eliminated. The operator also wandered about, waiting for -an accumulation of pages upon which he could work but making sure to -keep up with the writer. The two became quite friendly. - -Finally, his dispatch nearly finished, he asked the postmaster to -caution the night editor at K---- to the effect, that if anything more -happened before one in the morning he would file it, but not to expect -anything more as nothing might happen. The reply came that he was to -remain and await developments. Then he and the postmaster sat down to -talk. - -About eleven o’clock, when both had about convinced themselves that -all was over for this night anyhow, and the lights in the village had -all but vanished, a stillness of the purest, summery-est, country-est -quality having settled down, a faint beating of hoofs, which seemed -to suggest the approach of a large cavalcade, could be heard out on -the Sand River pike as Davies by now had come to learn it was, back or -northwest of the postoffice. At the sound the postmaster got up, as did -Davies, both stepping outside and listening. On it came, and as the -volume increased, the former said, “Might be help for the sheriff, but -I doubt it. I telegraphed Clayton six times to-day. They wouldn’t come -that way, though. It’s the wrong road.” Now, thought Davies nervously, -after all there might be something to add to his story, and he had so -wished that it was all over! Lynchings, as he now felt, were horrible -things. He wished people wouldn’t do such things--take the law, which -now more than ever he respected, into their own hands. It was too -brutal, cruel. That negro cowering there in the dark probably, and the -sheriff all taut and tense, worrying over his charge and his duty, were -not happy things to contemplate in the face of such a thing as this. -It was true that the crime which had been committed was dreadful, but -still why couldn’t people allow the law to take its course? It was so -much better. The law was powerful enough to deal with cases of this -kind. - -“They’re comin’ back, all right,” said the postmaster solemnly, as he -and Davies stared in the direction of the sound which grew louder from -moment to moment. - -“It’s not any help from Clayton, I’m afraid.” - -“By George, I think you’re right!” answered the reporter, something -telling him that more trouble was at hand. “Here they come!” - -As he spoke there was a clattering of hoofs and crunching of saddle -girths as a large company of men dashed up the road and turned into the -narrow street of the village, the figure of Jake Whitaker and an older -bearded man in a wide black hat riding side by side in front. - -“There’s Jake,” said the postmaster, “and that’s his father riding -beside him there. The old man’s a terror when he gets his dander up. -Sompin’s sure to happen now.” - -Davies realized that in his absence writing a new turn had been given -to things. Evidently the son had returned to Pleasant Valley and -organized a new posse or gone out to meet his father. - -Instantly the place was astir again. Lights appeared in doorways and -windows, and both were thrown open. People were leaning or gazing -out to see what new movement was afoot. Davies noted at once that -there was none of the brash enthusiasm about this company such as had -characterized the previous descent. There was grimness everywhere, and -he now began to feel that this was the beginning of the end. After the -cavalcade had passed down the street toward the sheriff’s house, which -was quite dark now, he ran after it, arriving a few moments after the -former which was already in part dismounted. The townspeople followed. -The sheriff, as it now developed, had not relaxed any of his vigilance, -however; he was not sleeping, and as the crowd reappeared the light -inside reappeared. - -By the light of the moon, which was almost overhead, Davies was able to -make out several of his companions of the afternoon, and Jake, the son. -There were many more, though, now, whom he did not know, and foremost -among them this old man. - -The latter was strong, iron-gray, and wore a full beard. He looked very -much like a blacksmith. - -“Keep your eye on the old man,” advised the postmaster, who had by now -come up and was standing by. - -While they were still looking, the old man went boldly forward to the -little front porch of the house and knocked at the door. Some one -lifted a curtain at the window and peeped out. - -“Hello, in there!” cried the old man, knocking again. - -“What do you want?” asked a voice. - -“I want that nigger!” - -“Well, you can’t have him! I’ve told you people that once.” - -“Bring him out or I’ll break down the door!” said the old man. - -“If you do it’s at your own risk. I know you, Whitaker, an’ you know -me. I’ll give ye two minutes to get off that porch!” - -“I want that nigger, I tell ye!” - -“If ye don’t git off that porch I’ll fire through the door,” said the -voice solemnly. “One--Two----” - -The old man backed cautiously away. - -“Come out, Mathews!” yelled the crowd. “You’ve got to give him up this -time. We ain’t goin’ back without him.” - -Slowly the door opened, as if the individual within were very well -satisfied as to his power to handle the mob. He had done it once before -this night, why not again? It revealed his tall form, armed with his -shotgun. He looked around very stolidly, and then addressed the old man -as one would a friend. - -“Ye can’t have him, Morgan,” he said. “It’s ag’in’ the law. You know -that as well as I do.” - -“Law or no law,” said the old man, “I want that nigger!” - -“I tell you I can’t let you have him, Morgan. It’s ag’in’ the law. You -know you oughtn’t to be comin’ around here at this time o’ night actin’ -so.” - -“Well, I’ll take him then,” said the old man, making a move. - -“Stand back!” shouted the sheriff, leveling his gun on the instant. -“I’ll blow ye into kingdom come, sure as hell!” - -A noticeable movement on the part of the crowd ceased. The sheriff -lowered his weapon as if he thought the danger were once more over. - -“You-all ought to be ashamed of yerselves,” he went on, his voice -sinking to a gentle neighborly reproof, “tryin’ to upset the law this -way.” - -“The nigger didn’t upset no law, did he?” asked one derisively. - -“Well, the law’s goin’ to take care of the nigger now,” Mathews made -answer. - -“Give us that scoundrel, Mathews; you’d better do it,” said the old -man. “It’ll save a heap o’ trouble.” - -“I’ll not argue with ye, Morgan. I said ye couldn’t have him, an’ ye -can’t. If ye want bloodshed, all right. But don’t blame me. I’ll kill -the first man that tries to make a move this way.” - -He shifted his gun handily and waited. The crowd stood outside his -little fence murmuring. - -Presently the old man retired and spoke to several others. There was -more murmuring, and then he came back to the dead line. - -“We don’t want to cause trouble, Mathews,” he began explanatively, -moving his hand oratorically, “but we think you ought to see that it -won’t do any good to stand out. We think that----” - -Davies and the postmaster were watching young Jake, whose peculiar -attitude attracted their attention. The latter was standing poised at -the edge of the crowd, evidently seeking to remain unobserved. His eyes -were on the sheriff, who was hearkening to the old man. Suddenly, as -the father talked and when the sheriff seemed for a moment mollified -and unsuspecting, he made a quick run for the porch. There was an -intense movement all along the line as the life and death of the deed -became apparent. Quickly the sheriff drew his gun to his shoulder. Both -triggers were pressed at the same time, and the gun spoke, but not -before Jake was in and under him. The latter had been in sufficient -time to knock the gun barrel upward and fall upon his man. Both shots -blazed harmlessly over the heads of the crowd in red puffs, and then -followed a general onslaught. Men leaped the fence by tens and crowded -upon the little cottage. They swarmed about every side of the house and -crowded upon the porch, where four men were scuffling with the sheriff. -The latter soon gave up, vowing vengeance and the law. Torches were -brought, and a rope. A wagon drove up and was backed into the yard. -Then began the calls for the negro. - -As Davies contemplated all this he could not help thinking of the negro -who during all this turmoil must have been crouching in his corner in -the cellar, trembling for his fate. Now indeed he must realize that his -end was near. He could not have dozed or lost consciousness during the -intervening hours, but must have been cowering there, wondering and -praying. All the while he must have been terrified lest the sheriff -might not get him away in time. Now, at the sound of horses’ feet and -the new murmurs of contention, how must his body quake and his teeth -chatter! - -“I’d hate to be that nigger,” commented the postmaster grimly, “but you -can’t do anything with ’em. The county oughta sent help.” - -“It’s horrible, horrible!” was all Davies could say. - -He moved closer to the house, with the crowd, eager to observe every -detail of the procedure. Now it was that a number of the men, as eager -in their search as bloodhounds, appeared at a low cellar entryway at -the side of the house carrying a rope. Others followed with torches. -Headed by father and son they began to descend into the dark hole. With -impressive daring, Davies, who was by no means sure that he would be -allowed but who was also determined if possible to see, followed. - -Suddenly, in the farthest corner, he espied Ingalls. The latter in his -fear and agony had worked himself into a crouching position, as if he -were about to spring. His nails were apparently forced into the earth. -His eyes were rolling, his mouth foaming. - -“Oh, my Lawd, boss,” he moaned, gazing almost as one blind, at the -lights, “oh, my Lawd, boss, don’t kill me! I won’t do it no mo’. I -didn’t go to do it. I didn’t mean to dis time. I was just drunk, -boss. Oh, my Lawd! My Lawd!” His teeth chattered the while his mouth -seemed to gape open. He was no longer sane really, but kept repeating -monotonously, “Oh, my Lawd!” - -“Here he is, boys! Pull him out,” cried the father. - -The negro now gave one yell of terror and collapsed, falling prone. He -quite bounded as he did so, coming down with a dead chug on the earthen -floor. Reason had forsaken him. He was by now a groveling, foaming -brute. The last gleam of intelligence was that which notified him of -the set eyes of his pursuers. - -Davies, who by now had retreated to the grass outside before this -sight, was standing but ten feet back when they began to reappear after -seizing and binding him. Although shaken to the roots of his being, he -still had all the cool observing powers of the trained and relentless -reporter. Even now he noted the color values of the scene, the red, -smoky heads of the torches, the disheveled appearance of the men, the -scuffling and pulling. Then all at once he clapped his hands over his -mouth, almost unconscious of what he was doing. - -“Oh, my God!” he whispered, his voice losing power. - -The sickening sight was that of the negro, foaming at the mouth, -bloodshot as to his eyes, his hands working convulsively, being -dragged up the cellar steps feet foremost. They had tied a rope about -his waist and feet, and so had hauled him out, leaving his head to hang -and drag. The black face was distorted beyond all human semblance. - -“Oh, my God!” said Davies again, biting his fingers unconsciously. - -The crowd gathered about now more closely than ever, more -horror-stricken than gleeful at their own work. None apparently had -either the courage or the charity to gainsay what was being done. -With a kind of mechanical deftness now the negro was rudely lifted -and like a sack of wheat thrown into the wagon. Father and son now -mounted in front to drive and the crowd took to their horses, content -to clatter, a silent cavalcade, behind. As Davies afterwards concluded, -they were not so much hardened lynchers perhaps as curious spectators, -the majority of them, eager for any variation--any excuse for one--to -the dreary commonplaces of their existences. The task to most--all -indeed--was entirely new. Wide-eyed and nerve-racked, Davies ran for -his own horse and mounting followed. He was so excited he scarcely knew -what he was doing. - -Slowly the silent company now took its way up the Sand River pike -whence it had come. The moon was still high, pouring down a wash of -silvery light. As Davies rode he wondered how he was to complete his -telegram, but decided that he could not. When this was over there would -be no time. How long would it be before they would really hang him? And -would they? The whole procedure seemed so unreal, so barbaric that he -could scarcely believe it--that he was a part of it. Still they rode on. - -“Are they really going to hang him?” he asked of one who rode beside -him, a total stranger who seemed however not to resent his presence. - -“That’s what they got ’im fer,” answered the stranger. - -And think, he thought to himself, to-morrow night he would be resting -in his own good bed back in K----! - -Davies dropped behind again and into silence and tried to recover -his nerves. He could scarcely realize that he, ordinarily accustomed -to the routine of the city, its humdrum and at least outward social -regularity, was a part of this. The night was so soft, the air so -refreshing. The shadowy trees were stirring with a cool night wind. Why -should any one have to die this way? Why couldn’t the people of Baldwin -or elsewhere have bestirred themselves on the side of the law before -this, just let it take its course? Both father and son now seemed -brutal, the injury to the daughter and sister not so vital as all this. -Still, also, custom seemed to require death in this way for this. It -was like some axiomatic, mathematic law--hard, but custom. The silent -company, an articulated, mechanical and therefore terrible thing, moved -on. It also was axiomatic, mathematic. After a time he drew near to the -wagon and looked at the negro again. - -The latter, as Davies was glad to note, seemed still out of his -sense. He was breathing heavily and groaning, but probably not with -any conscious pain. His eyes were fixed and staring, his face and -hands bleeding as if they had been scratched or trampled upon. He was -crumpled limply. - -But Davies could stand it no longer now. He fell back, sick at heart, -content to see no more. It seemed a ghastly, murderous thing to do. -Still the company moved on and he followed, past fields lit white -by the moon, under dark, silent groups of trees, through which the -moonlight fell in patches, up low hills and down into valleys, until -at last a little stream came into view, the same little stream, as it -proved, which he had seen earlier to-day and for a bridge over which -they were heading. Here it ran now, sparkling like electricity in the -night. After a time the road drew closer to the water and then crossed -directly over the bridge, which could be seen a little way ahead. - -Up to this the company now rode and then halted. The wagon was driven -up on the bridge, and father and son got out. All the riders, including -Davies, dismounted, and a full score of them gathered about the wagon -from which the negro was lifted, quite as one might a bag. Fortunately, -as Davies now told himself, he was still unconscious, an accidental -mercy. Nevertheless he decided now that he could not witness the end, -and went down by the waterside slightly above the bridge. He was not, -after all, the utterly relentless reporter. From where he stood, -however, he could see long beams of iron projecting out over the water, -where the bridge was braced, and some of the men fastening a rope to a -beam, and then he could see that they were fixing the other end around -the negro’s neck. - -Finally the curious company stood back, and he turned his face away. - -“Have you anything to say?” a voice demanded. - -There was no answer. The negro was probably lolling and groaning, quite -as unconscious as he was before. - -Then came the concerted action of a dozen men, the lifting of the black -mass into the air, and then Davies saw the limp form plunge down and -pull up with a creaking sound of rope. In the weak moonlight it seemed -as if the body were struggling, but he could not tell. He watched, -wide-mouthed and silent, and then the body ceased moving. Then after a -time he heard the company making ready to depart, and finally it did -so, leaving him quite indifferently to himself and his thoughts. Only -the black mass swaying in the pale light over the glimmering water -seemed human and alive, his sole companion. - -He sat down upon the bank and gazed in silence. Now the horror was -gone. The suffering was ended. He was no longer afraid. Everything -was summery and beautiful. The whole cavalcade had disappeared; the -moon finally sank. His horse, tethered to a sapling beyond the bridge, -waited patiently. Still he sat. He might now have hurried back to the -small postoffice in Baldwin and attempted to file additional details -of this story, providing he could find Seavey, but it would have done -no good. It was quite too late, and anyhow what did it matter? No -other reporter had been present, and he could write a fuller, sadder, -more colorful story on the morrow. He wondered idly what had become of -Seavey? Why had he not followed? Life seemed so sad, so strange, so -mysterious, so inexplicable. - -As he still sat there the light of morning broke, a tender lavender -and gray in the east. Then came the roseate hues of dawn, all the -wondrous coloring of celestial halls, to which the waters of the stream -responded. The white pebbles shone pinkily at the bottom, the grass and -sedges first black now gleamed a translucent green. Still the body hung -there black and limp against the sky, and now a light breeze sprang up -and stirred it visibly. At last he arose, mounted his horse and made -his way back to Pleasant Valley, too full of the late tragedy to be -much interested in anything else. Rousing his liveryman, he adjusted -his difficulties with him by telling him the whole story, assuring him -of his horse’s care and handing him a five-dollar bill. Then he left, -to walk and think again. - -Since there was no train before noon and his duty plainly called him -to a portion of another day’s work here, he decided to make a day of -it, idling about and getting additional details as to what further -might be done. Who would cut the body down? What about arresting the -lynchers--the father and son, for instance? What about the sheriff -now? Would he act as he threatened? If he telegraphed the main fact of -the lynching his city editor would not mind, he knew, his coming late, -and the day here was so beautiful. He proceeded to talk with citizens -and officials, rode out to the injured girl’s home, rode to Baldwin to -see the sheriff. There was a singular silence and placidity in that -corner. The latter assured him that he knew nearly all of those who -had taken part, and proposed to swear out warrants for them, but just -the same Davies noted that he took his defeat as he did his danger, -philosophically. There was no real activity in that corner later. He -wished to remain a popular sheriff, no doubt. - -It was sundown again before he remembered that he had not discovered -whether the body had been removed. Nor had he heard why the negro came -back, nor exactly how he was caught. A nine o’clock evening train to -the city giving him a little more time for investigation, he decided -to avail himself of it. The negro’s cabin was two miles out along a -pine-shaded road, but so pleasant was the evening that he decided -to walk. En route, the last rays of the sinking sun stretched long -shadows of budding trees across his path. It was not long before he -came upon the cabin, a one-story affair set well back from the road and -surrounded with a few scattered trees. By now it was quite dark. The -ground between the cabin and the road was open, and strewn with the -chips of a woodpile. The roof was sagged, and the windows patched in -places, but for all that it had the glow of a home. Through the front -door, which stood open, the blaze of a wood-fire might be seen, its -yellow light filling the interior with a golden glow. - -Hesitating before the door, Davies finally knocked. Receiving no answer -he looked in on the battered cane chairs and aged furniture with -considerable interest. It was a typical negro cabin, poor beyond the -need of description. After a time a door in the rear of the room opened -and a little negro girl entered carrying a battered tin lamp without -any chimney. She had not heard his knock and started perceptibly at the -sight of his figure in the doorway. Then she raised her smoking lamp -above her head in order to see better, and approached. - -There was something ridiculous about her unformed figure and loose -gingham dress, as he noted. Her feet and hands were so large. Her black -head was strongly emphasized by little pigtails of hair done up in -white twine, which stood out all over her head. Her dark skin was made -apparently more so by contrast with her white teeth and the whites of -her eyes. - -Davies looked at her for a moment but little moved now by the oddity -which ordinarily would have amused him, and asked, “Is this where -Ingalls lived?” - -The girl nodded her head. She was exceedingly subdued, and looked as if -she might have been crying. - -“Has the body been brought here?” - -“Yes, suh,” she answered, with a soft negro accent. - -“When did they bring it?” - -“Dis moanin’.” - -“Are you his sister?” - -“Yes, suh.” - -“Well, can you tell me how they caught him? When did he come back, and -what for?” He was feeling slightly ashamed to intrude thus. - -“In de afternoon, about two.” - -“And what for?” repeated Davies. - -“To see us,” answered the girl. “To see my motha’.” - -“Well, did he want anything? He didn’t come just to see her, did he?” - -“Yes, suh,” said the girl, “he come to say good-by. We doan know when -dey caught him.” Her voice wavered. - -“Well, didn’t he know he might get caught?” asked Davies -sympathetically, seeing that the girl was so moved. - -“Yes, suh, I think he did.” - -She still stood very quietly holding the poor battered lamp up, and -looking down. - -“Well, what did he have to say?” asked Davies. - -“He didn’ have nothin’ much to say, suh. He said he wanted to see -motha’. He was a-goin’ away.” - -The girl seemed to regard Davies as an official of some sort, and he -knew it. - -“Can I have a look at the body?” he asked. - -The girl did not answer, but started as if to lead the way. - -“When is the funeral?” he asked. - -“Tomorra’.” - -The girl then led him through several bare sheds of rooms strung in -a row to the furthermost one of the line. This last seemed a sort of -storage shed for odds and ends. It had several windows, but they were -quite bare of glass and open to the moonlight save for a few wooden -boards nailed across from the outside. Davies had been wondering all -the while where the body was and at the lonely and forsaken air of the -place. No one but this little pig-tailed girl seemed about. If they had -any colored neighbors they were probably afraid to be seen here. - -Now, as he stepped into this cool, dark, exposed outer room, the -desolation seemed quite complete. It was very bare, a mere shed or -wash-room. There was the body in the middle of the room, stretched upon -an ironing board which rested on a box and a chair, and covered with -a white sheet. All the corners of the room were quite dark. Only its -middle was brightened by splotches of silvery light. - -Davies came forward, the while the girl left him, still carrying her -lamp. Evidently she thought the moon lighted up the room sufficiently, -and she did not feel equal to remaining. He lifted the sheet quite -boldly, for he could see well enough, and looked at the still, black -form. The face was extremely distorted, even in death, and he could see -where the rope had tightened. A bar of cool moonlight lay just across -the face and breast. He was still looking, thinking soon to restore the -covering, when a sound, half sigh, half groan, reached his ears. - -At it he started as if a ghost had made it. It was so eerie and -unexpected in this dark place. His muscles tightened. Instantly his -heart went hammering like mad. His first impression was that it must -have come from the dead. - -“Oo-o-ohh!” came the sound again, this time whimpering, as if some one -were crying. - -Instantly he turned, for now it seemed to come from a corner of the -room, the extreme corner to his right, back of him. Greatly disturbed, -he approached, and then as his eyes strained he seemed to catch the -shadow of something, the figure of a woman, perhaps, crouching against -the walls, huddled up, dark, almost indistinguishable. - -“Oh, oh, oh!” the sound now repeated itself, even more plaintively than -before. - -Davies began to understand. He approached slowly, then more swiftly -desired to withdraw, for he was in the presence of an old black mammy, -doubled up and weeping. She was in the very niche of the two walls, -her head sunk on her knees, her body quite still. “Oh, oh, oh!” she -repeated, as he stood there near her. - -Davies drew silently back. Before such grief his intrusion seemed cold -and unwarranted. The guiltlessness of the mother--her love--how could -one balance that against the other? The sensation of tears came to his -eyes. He instantly covered the dead and withdrew. - -Out in the moonlight he struck a brisk pace, but soon stopped and -looked back. The whole dreary cabin, with its one golden eye, the -door, seemed such a pitiful thing. The weeping mammy, alone in her -corner--and he had come back to say “Good-by!” Davies swelled with -feeling. The night, the tragedy, the grief, he saw it all. But also -with the cruel instinct of the budding artist that he already was, he -was beginning to meditate on the character of story it would make--the -color, the pathos. The knowledge now that it was not always exact -justice that was meted out to all and that it was not so much the -business of the writer to indict as to interpret was borne in on him -with distinctness by the cruel sorrow of the mother, whose blame, if -any, was infinitesimal. - -“I’ll get it all in!” he exclaimed feelingly, if triumphantly at last. -“I’ll get it all in!” - - - - -THE LOST PHŒBE - - -They lived together in a part of the country which was not so -prosperous as it had once been, about three miles from one of those -small towns that, instead of increasing in population, is steadily -decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled; perhaps a -house every other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land -and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and -clover. Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log -portion being the old original home of Henry’s grandfather. The new -portion, of now rain-beaten, time-worn slabs, through which the wind -squeaked in the chinks at times, and which several overshadowing elms -and a butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, but -a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty-one and just -married. - -That was forty-eight years before. The furniture inside, like the house -outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of an earlier day. You -have seen the what-not of cherry wood, perhaps, with spiral legs and -fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned four poster bed, with its -ball-like protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a -sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau -of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking, -and with a musty odor. The rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy -examples of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored -affair woven by Phœbe Ann’s own hands, when she was fifteen years -younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which -it had been done now stood like a dusty, bony skeleton, along with a -broken rocking-chair, a worm-eaten clothes-press--Heaven knows how -old--a lime-stained bench that had once been used to keep flowers on -outside the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, in -an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called main portion. -All sorts of other broken-down furniture were about this place; an -antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its ribs; a broken mirror -in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail and cracked -itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an extension -hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs; -and a sewing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism by -rivals of a newer generation. - -The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled old -apple-trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and fully ornamented -with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white, -silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed -chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with -patches of moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint -for so long that they were blackish-gray as to color, and a little -spongy. The picket-fence in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and -the side fences of the stake-and-rider type were in an equally run-down -condition. As a matter of fact, they had aged synchronously with the -persons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe Ann. - -They had lived here, these two, ever since their marriage, forty-eight -years before, and Henry had lived here before that from his childhood -up. His father and mother, well along in years when he was a boy, -had invited him to bring his wife here when he had first fallen in -love and decided to marry; and he had done so. His father and mother -were the companions of himself and his wife for ten years after they -were married, when both died; and then Henry and Phœbe were left with -their five children growing lustily apace. But all sorts of things had -happened since then. Of the seven children, all told, that had been -born to them, three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas; one boy had -gone to Sioux Falls, never even to be heard of after; another boy had -gone to Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in the -same State, but was so burdened with cares of her own that she rarely -gave them a thought. Time and a commonplace home life that had never -been attractive had weaned them thoroughly, so that, wherever they -were, they gave little thought as to how it might be with their father -and mother. - -Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe were a loving couple. You -perhaps know how it is with simple natures that fasten themselves -like lichens on the stones of circumstance and weather their days to -a crumbling conclusion. The great world sounds widely, but it has no -call for them. They have no soaring intellect. The orchard, the meadow, -the corn-field, the pig-pen, and the chicken-lot measure the range of -their human activities. When the wheat is headed it is reaped and -threshed; when the corn is browned and frosted it is cut and shocked; -when the timothy is in full head it is cut, and the hay-cock erected. -After that comes winter, with the hauling of grain to market, the -sawing and splitting of wood, the simple chores of fire-building, -meal-getting, occasional repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the -changes of weather--the snows, the rains, and the fair days--there are -no immediate, significant things. All the rest of life is a far-off, -clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering like Northern lights in the night, -and sounding as faintly as cow-bells tinkling in the distance. - -Old Henry and his wife Phœbe were as fond of each other as it is -possible for two old people to be who have nothing else in this -life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died, a -queer, crotchety person with coarse gray-black hair and beard, quite -straggly and unkempt. He looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery eyes -that had deep-brown crow’s-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the -clothes of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, standing out -at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, protuberant and worn at -elbow and knee. Phœbe Ann was thin and shapeless, a very umbrella of -a woman, clad in shabby black, and with a black bonnet for her best -wear. As time had passed, and they had only themselves to look after, -their movements had become slower and slower, their activities fewer -and fewer. The annual keep of pigs had been reduced from five to one -grunting porker, and the single horse which Henry now retained was a -sleepy animal, not over-nourished and not very clean. The chickens, of -which formerly there was a large flock, had almost disappeared, owing -to ferrets, foxes, and the lack of proper care, which produces disease. -The former healthy garden was now a straggling memory of itself, and -the vines and flower-beds that formerly ornamented the windows and -dooryard had now become choking thickets. A will had been made which -divided the small tax-eaten property equally among the remaining -four, so that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these -two lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and then old -Henry would become unduly cranky, complaining almost invariably that -something had been neglected or mislaid which was of no importance at -all. - -“Phœbe, where’s my corn-knife? You ain’t never minded to let my things -alone no more.” - -“Now you hush, Henry,” his wife would caution him in a cracked and -squeaky voice. “If you don’t, I’ll leave yuh. I’ll git up and walk out -of here some day, and then where would y’be? Y’ain’t got anybody but me -to look after yuh, so yuh just behave yourself. Your corn-knife’s on -the mantel where it’s allus been unless you’ve gone an’ put it summers -else.” - -Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave him in any -circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what he would do if -she were to die. That was the one leaving that he really feared. As -he climbed on the chair at night to wind the old, long-pendulumed, -double-weighted clock, or went finally to the front and the back door -to see that they were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that -Phœbe was there, properly ensconced on her side of the bed, and that if -he stirred restlessly in the night, she would be there to ask what he -wanted. - -“Now, Henry, do lie still! You’re as restless as a chicken.” - -“Well, I can’t sleep, Phœbe.” - -“Well, yuh needn’t roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin let me sleep.” - -This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent ease. If she wanted a -pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure for him to get it; and if -she did rise first to build the fires, he saw that the wood was cut and -placed within easy reach. They divided this simple world nicely between -them. - -As the years had gone on, however, fewer and fewer people had called. -They were well-known for a distance of as much as ten square miles as -old Mr. and Mrs. Reifsneider, honest, moderately Christian, but too old -to be really interesting any longer. The writing of letters had become -an almost impossible burden too difficult to continue or even negotiate -via others, although an occasional letter still did arrive from the -daughter in Pemberton County. Now and then some old friend stopped with -a pie or cake or a roasted chicken or duck, or merely to see that they -were well; but even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent. - -One day in the early spring of her sixty-fourth year Mrs. Reifsneider -took sick, and from a low fever passed into some indefinable ailment -which, because of her age, was no longer curable. Old Henry drove to -Swinnerton, the neighboring town, and procured a doctor. Some friends -called, and the immediate care of her was taken off his hands. Then -one chill spring night she died, and old Henry, in a fog of sorrow -and uncertainty, followed her body to the nearest graveyard, an -unattractive space with a few pines growing in it. Although he might -have gone to the daughter in Pemberton or sent for her, it was really -too much trouble and he was too weary and fixed. It was suggested to -him at once by one friend and another that he come to stay with them -awhile, but he did not see fit. He was so old and so fixed in his -notions and so accustomed to the exact surroundings he had known all -his days, that he could not think of leaving. He wanted to remain -near where they had put his Phœbe; and the fact that he would have to -live alone did not trouble him in the least. The living children were -notified and the care of him offered if he would leave, but he would -not. - -“I kin make a shift for myself,” he continually announced to old Dr. -Morrow, who had attended his wife in this case. “I kin cook a little, -and, besides, it don’t take much more’n coffee an’ bread in the -mornin’s to satisfy me. I’ll get along now well enough. Yuh just let -me be.” And after many pleadings and proffers of advice, with supplies -of coffee and bacon and baked bread duly offered and accepted, he was -left to himself. For a while he sat idly outside his door brooding in -the spring sun. He tried to revive his interest in farming, and to keep -himself busy and free from thought by looking after the fields, which -of late had been much neglected. It was a gloomy thing to come in of -an evening, however, or in the afternoon and find no shadow of Phœbe -where everything suggested her. By degrees he put a few of her things -away. At night he sat beside his lamp and read in the papers that were -left him occasionally or in a Bible that he had neglected for years, -but he could get little solace from these things. Mostly he held his -hand over his mouth and looked at the floor as he sat and thought of -what had become of her, and how soon he himself would die. He made a -great business of making his coffee in the morning and frying himself a -little bacon at night; but his appetite was gone. The shell in which he -had been housed so long seemed vacant, and its shadows were suggestive -of immedicable griefs. So he lived quite dolefully for five long -months, and then a change began. - -It was one night, after he had looked after the front and the back -door, wound the clock, blown out the light, and gone through all the -self-same motions that he had indulged in for years, that he went to -bed not so much to sleep as to think. It was a moonlight night. The -green-lichen-covered orchard just outside and to be seen from his bed -where he now lay was a silvery affair, sweetly spectral. The moon shone -through the east windows, throwing the pattern of the panes on the -wooden floor, and making the old furniture, to which he was accustomed, -stand out dimly in the room. As usual he had been thinking of Phœbe and -the years when they had been young together, and of the children who -had gone, and the poor shift he was making of his present days. The -house was coming to be in a very bad state indeed. The bed-clothes were -in disorder and not clean, for he made a wretched shift of washing. It -was a terror to him. The roof leaked, causing things, some of them, to -remain damp for weeks at a time, but he was getting into that brooding -state where he would accept anything rather than exert himself. He -preferred to pace slowly to and fro or to sit and think. - -By twelve o’clock of this particular night he was asleep, however, -and by two had waked again. The moon by this time had shifted to a -position on the western side of the house, and it now shone in through -the windows of the living-room and those of the kitchen beyond. A -certain combination of furniture--a chair near a table, with his coat -on it, the half-open kitchen door casting a shadow, and the position -of a lamp near a paper--gave him an exact representation of Phœbe -leaning over the table as he had often seen her do in life. It gave -him a great start. Could it be she--or her ghost? He had scarcely ever -believed in spirits; and still---- He looked at her fixedly in the -feeble half-light, his old hair tingling oddly at the roots, and then -sat up. The figure did not move. He put his thin legs out of the bed -and sat looking at her, wondering if this could really be Phœbe. They -had talked of ghosts often in their lifetime, of apparitions and omens; -but they had never agreed that such things could be. It had never been -a part of his wife’s creed that she could have a spirit that could -return to walk the earth. Her after-world was quite a different affair, -a vague heaven, no less, from which the righteous did not trouble to -return. Yet here she was now, bending over the table in her black skirt -and gray shawl, her pale profile outlined against the moonlight. - -“Phœbe,” he called, thrilling from head to toe and putting out one bony -hand, “have yuh come back?” - -The figure did not stir, and he arose and walked uncertainly to the -door, looking at it fixedly the while. As he drew near, however, the -apparition resolved itself into its primal content--his old coat over -the high-backed chair, the lamp by the paper, the half-open door. - -“Well,” he said to himself, his mouth open, “I thought shore I saw -her.” And he ran his hand strangely and vaguely through his hair, the -while his nervous tension relaxed. Vanished as it had, it gave him the -idea that she might return. - -Another night, because of this first illusion, and because his mind -was now constantly on her and he was old, he looked out of the window -that was nearest his bed and commanded a hen-coop and pig-pen and -a part of the wagon-shed, and there, a faint mist exuding from the -damp of the ground, he thought he saw her again. It was one of those -little wisps of mist, one of those faint exhalations of the earth that -rise in a cool night after a warm day, and flicker like small white -cypresses of fog before they disappear. In life it had been a custom -of hers to cross this lot from her kitchen door to the pig-pen to -throw in any scrap that was left from her cooking, and here she was -again. He sat up and watched it strangely, doubtfully, because of his -previous experience, but inclined, because of the nervous titillation -that passed over his body, to believe that spirits really were, and -that Phœbe, who would be concerned because of his lonely state, must -be thinking about him, and hence returning. What other way would she -have? How otherwise could she express herself? It would be within the -province of her charity so to do, and like her loving interest in -him. He quivered and watched it eagerly; but, a faint breath of air -stirring, it wound away toward the fence and disappeared. - -A third night, as he was actually dreaming, some ten days later, she -came to his bedside and put her hand on his head. - -“Poor Henry!” she said. “It’s too bad.” - -He roused out of his sleep, actually to see her, he thought, moving -from his bed-room into the one living-room, her figure a shadowy mass -of black. The weak straining of his eyes caused little points of -light to flicker about the outlines of her form. He arose, greatly -astonished, walked the floor in the cool room, convinced that Phœbe -was coming back to him. If he only thought sufficiently, if he made it -perfectly clear by his feeling that he needed her greatly, she would -come back, this kindly wife, and tell him what to do. She would perhaps -be with him much of the time, in the night, anyhow; and that would make -him less lonely, this state more endurable. - -In age and with the feeble it is not such a far cry from the subtleties -of illusion to actual hallucination, and in due time this transition -was made for Henry. Night after night he waited, expecting her return. -Once in his weird mood he thought he saw a pale light moving about the -room, and another time he thought he saw her walking in the orchard -after dark. It was one morning when the details of his lonely state -were virtually unendurable that he woke with the thought that she was -not dead. How he had arrived at this conclusion it is hard to say. -His mind had gone. In its place was a fixed illusion. He and Phœbe -had had a senseless quarrel. He had reproached her for not leaving -his pipe where he was accustomed to find it, and she had left. It was -an aberrated fulfillment of her old jesting threat that if he did not -behave himself she would leave him. - -“I guess I could find yuh ag’in,” he had always said. But her cackling -threat had always been: - -“Yuh’ll not find me if I ever leave yuh. I guess I kin git some place -where yuh can’t find me.” - -This morning when he arose he did not think to build the fire in the -customary way or to grind his coffee and cut his bread, as was his -wont, but solely to meditate as to where he should search for her and -how he should induce her to come back. Recently the one horse had been -dispensed with because he found it cumbersome and beyond his needs. He -took down his soft crush hat after he had dressed himself, a new glint -of interest and determination in his eye, and taking his black crook -cane from behind the door, where he had always placed it, started out -briskly to look for her among the nearest neighbors. His old shoes -clumped soundly in the dust as he walked, and his gray-black locks, -now grown rather long, straggled out in a dramatic fringe or halo from -under his hat. His short coat stirred busily as he walked, and his -hands and face were peaked and pale. - -“Why, hello, Henry! Where’re yuh goin’ this mornin’?” inquired Farmer -Dodge, who, hauling a load of wheat to market, encountered him on the -public road. He had not seen the aged farmer in months, not since his -wife’s death, and he wondered now, seeing him looking so spry. - -“Yuh ain’t seen Phœbe, have yuh?” inquired the old man, looking up -quizzically. - -“Phœbe who?” inquired Farmer Dodge, not for the moment connecting the -name with Henry’s dead wife. - -“Why, my wife Phœbe, o’ course. Who do yuh s’pose I mean?” He stared -up with a pathetic sharpness of glance from under his shaggy, gray -eyebrows. - -“Wall, I’ll swan, Henry, yuh ain’t jokin’, are yuh?” said the solid -Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face. “It can’t be your -wife yuh’re talkin’ about. She’s dead.” - -“Dead! Shucks!” retorted the demented Reifsneider. “She left me early -this mornin’, while I was sleepin’. She allus got up to build the fire, -but she’s gone now. We had a little spat last night, an’ I guess that’s -the reason. But I guess I kin find her. She’s gone over to Matilda -Race’s; that’s where she’s gone.” - -He started briskly up the road, leaving the amazed Dodge to stare in -wonder after him. - -“Well, I’ll be switched!” he said aloud to himself. “He’s clean out’n -his head. That poor old feller’s been livin’ down there till he’s gone -outen his mind. I’ll have to notify the authorities.” And he flicked -his whip with great enthusiasm. “Geddap!” he said, and was off. - -Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly populated region until he -reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race and her husband three -miles away. He had passed several other houses en route, but these not -being within the range of his illusion were not considered. His wife, -who had known Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate -which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door. - -“Why, Mr. Reifsneider,” exclaimed old Matilda herself, a stout woman, -looking out of the door in answer to his knock, “what brings yuh here -this mornin’?” - -“Is Phœbe here?” he demanded eagerly. - -“Phœbe who? What Phœbe?” replied Mrs. Race, curious as to this sudden -development of energy on his part. - -“Why, my Phœbe, o’ course. My wife Phœbe. Who do yuh s’pose? Ain’t she -here now?” - -“Lawsy me!” exclaimed Mrs. Race, opening her mouth. “Yuh pore man! So -you’re clean out’n your mind now. Yuh come right in and sit down. I’ll -git yuh a cup o’ coffee. O’ course your wife ain’t here; but yuh come -in an’ sit down. I’ll find her fer yuh after a while. I know where she -is.” - -The old farmer’s eyes softened, and he entered. He was so thin and pale -a specimen, pantalooned and patriarchal, that he aroused Mrs. Race’s -extremest sympathy as he took off his hat and laid it on his knees -quite softly and mildly. - -“We had a quarrel last night, an’ she left me,” he volunteered. - -“Laws! laws!” sighed Mrs. Race, there being no one present with whom -to share her astonishment as she went to her kitchen. “The pore man! -Now somebody’s just got to look after him. He can’t be allowed to run -around the country this way lookin’ for his dead wife. It’s turrible.” - -She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some of her new-baked -bread and fresh butter. She set out some of her best jam and put a -couple of eggs to boil, lying whole-heartedly the while. - -“Now yuh stay right there, Uncle Henry, till Jake comes in, an’ I’ll -send him to look for Phœbe. I think it’s more’n likely she’s over to -Swinnerton with some o’ her friends. Anyhow, we’ll find out. Now yuh -just drink this coffee an’ eat this bread. Yuh must be tired. Yuh’ve -had a long walk this mornin’.” Her idea was to take counsel with Jake, -“her man,” and perhaps have him notify the authorities. - -She bustled about, meditating on the uncertainties of life, while old -Reifsneider thrummed on the rim of his hat with his pale fingers and -later ate abstractedly of what she offered. His mind was on his wife, -however, and since she was not here, or did not appear, it wandered -vaguely away to a family by the name of Murray, miles away in another -direction. He decided after a time that he would not wait for Jake Race -to hunt his wife but would seek her for himself. He must be on, and -urge her to come back. - -“Well, I’ll be goin’,” he said, getting up and looking strangely about -him. “I guess she didn’t come here after all. She went over to the -Murrays’, I guess. I’ll not wait any longer, Mis’ Race. There’s a lot -to do over to the house to-day.” And out he marched in the face of her -protests taking to the dusty road again in the warm spring sun, his -cane striking the earth as he went. - -It was two hours later that this pale figure of a man appeared in the -Murrays’ doorway, dusty, perspiring, eager. He had tramped all of five -miles, and it was noon. An amazed husband and wife of sixty heard his -strange query, and realized also that he was mad. They begged him to -stay to dinner, intending to notify the authorities later and see what -could be done; but though he stayed to partake of a little something, -he did not stay long, and was off again to another distant farmhouse, -his idea of many things to do and his need of Phœbe impelling him. So -it went for that day and the next and the next, the circle of his -inquiry ever widening. - -The process by which a character assumes the significance of being -peculiar, his antics weird, yet harmless, in such a community is often -involute and pathetic. This day, as has been said, saw Reifsneider at -other doors, eagerly asking his unnatural question, and leaving a trail -of amazement, sympathy, and pity in his wake. Although the authorities -were informed--the county sheriff, no less--it was not deemed advisable -to take him into custody; for when those who knew old Henry, and had -for so long, reflected on the condition of the county insane asylum, a -place which, because of the poverty of the district, was of staggering -aberration and sickening environment, it was decided to let him remain -at large; for, strange to relate, it was found on investigation that -at night he returned peaceably enough to his lonesome domicile there -to discover whether his wife had returned, and to brood in loneliness -until the morning. Who would lock up a thin, eager, seeking old man -with iron-gray hair and an attitude of kindly, innocent inquiry, -particularly when he was well known for a past of only kindly servitude -and reliability? Those who had known him best rather agreed that he -should be allowed to roam at large. He could do no harm. There were -many who were willing to help him as to food, old clothes, the odds -and ends of his daily life--at least at first. His figure after a time -became not so much a commonplace as an accepted curiosity, and the -replies, “Why, no, Henry; I ain’t see her,” or “No, Henry; she ain’t -been here to-day,” more customary. - -For several years thereafter then he was an odd figure in the sun -and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones, encountered occasionally -in strange and unexpected places, pursuing his endless search. -Undernourishment, after a time, although the neighbors and those -who knew his history gladly contributed from their store, affected -his body; for he walked much and ate little. The longer he roamed -the public highway in this manner, the deeper became his strange -hallucination; and finding it harder and harder to return from his more -and more distant pilgrimages, he finally began taking a few utensils -with him from his home, making a small package of them, in order that -he might not be compelled to return. In an old tin coffee-pot of large -size he placed a small tin cup, a knife, fork, and spoon, some salt and -pepper, and to the outside of it, by a string forced through a pierced -hole, he fastened a plate, which could be released, and which was his -woodland table. It was no trouble for him to secure the little food -that he needed, and with a strange, almost religious dignity, he had no -hesitation in asking for that much. By degrees his hair became longer -and longer, his once black hat became an earthen brown, and his clothes -threadbare and dusty. - -For all of three years he walked, and none knew how wide were his -perambulations, nor how he survived the storms and cold. They could not -see him, with homely rural understanding and forethought, sheltering -himself in hay-cocks, or by the sides of cattle, whose warm bodies -protected him from the cold, and whose dull understandings were not -opposed to his harmless presence. Overhanging rocks and trees kept him -at times from the rain, and a friendly hay-loft or corn-crib was not -above his humble consideration. - -The involute progression of hallucination is strange. From asking at -doors and being constantly rebuffed or denied, he finally came to the -conclusion that although his Phœbe might not be in any of the houses -at the doors of which he inquired, she might nevertheless be within -the sound of his voice. And so, from patient inquiry, he began to call -sad, occasional cries, that ever and anon waked the quiet landscapes -and ragged hill regions, and set to echoing his thin “O-o-o Phœbe! -O-o-o Phœbe!” It had a pathetic, albeit insane, ring, and many a farmer -or plowboy came to know it even from afar and say, “There goes old -Reifsneider.” - -Another thing that puzzled him greatly after a time and after many -hundreds of inquiries was, when he no longer had any particular -dooryard in view and no special inquiry to make, which way to go. These -cross-roads, which occasionally led in four or even six directions, -came after a time to puzzle him. But to solve this knotty problem, -which became more and more of a puzzle, there came to his aid another -hallucination. Phœbe’s spirit or some power of the air or wind or -nature would tell him. If he stood at the center of the parting of the -ways, closed his eyes, turned thrice about, and called “O-o-o Phœbe!” -twice, and then threw his cane straight before him, that would surely -indicate which way to go for Phœbe, or one of these mystic powers would -surely govern its direction and fall! In whichever direction it went, -even though, as was not infrequently the case, it took him back along -the path he had already come, or across fields, he was not so far gone -in his mind but that he gave himself ample time to search before he -called again. Also the hallucination seemed to persist that at some -time he would surely find her. There were hours when his feet were -sore, and his limbs weary, when he would stop in the heat to wipe his -seamed brow, or in the cold to beat his arms. Sometimes, after throwing -away his cane, and finding it indicating the direction from which he -had just come, he would shake his head wearily and philosophically, -as if contemplating the unbelievable or an untoward fate, and then -start briskly off. His strange figure came finally to be known in the -farthest reaches of three or four counties. Old Reifsneider was a -pathetic character. His fame was wide. - -Near a little town called Watersville, in Green County, perhaps four -miles from that minor center of human activity, there was a place -or precipice locally known as the Red Cliff, a sheer wall of red -sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, which raised its sharp face -for half a mile or more above the fruitful corn-fields and orchards -that lay beneath, and which was surmounted by a thick grove of trees. -The slope that slowly led up to it from the opposite side was covered -by a rank growth of beech, hickory, and ash, through which threaded -a number of wagon-tracks crossing at various angles. In fair weather -it had become old Reifsneider’s habit, so inured was he by now to the -open, to make his bed in some such patch of trees as this to fry his -bacon or boil his eggs at the foot of some tree before laying himself -down for the night. Occasionally, so light and inconsequential was his -sleep, he would walk at night. More often, the moonlight or some sudden -wind stirring in the trees or a reconnoitering animal arousing him, -he would sit up and think, or pursue his quest in the moonlight or the -dark, a strange, unnatural, half wild, half savage-looking but utterly -harmless creature, calling at lonely road crossings, staring at dark -and shuttered houses, and wondering where, where Phœbe could really be. - -That particular lull that comes in the systole-diastole of this -earthly ball at two o’clock in the morning invariably aroused him, and -though he might not go any farther he would sit up and contemplate the -darkness or the stars, wondering. Sometimes in the strange processes -of his mind he would fancy that he saw moving among the trees the -figure of his lost wife, and then he would get up to follow, taking his -utensils, always on a string, and his cane. If she seemed to evade him -too easily he would run, or plead, or, suddenly losing track of the -fancied figure, stand awed or disappointed, grieving for the moment -over the almost insurmountable difficulties of his search. - -It was in the seventh year of these hopeless peregrinations, in the -dawn of a similar springtime to that in which his wife had died, that -he came at last one night to the vicinity of this self-same patch -that crowned the rise to the Red Cliff. His far-flung cane, used as a -divining-rod at the last cross-roads, had brought him hither. He had -walked many, many miles. It was after ten o’clock at night, and he was -very weary. Long wandering and little eating had left him but a shadow -of his former self. It was a question now not so much of physical -strength but of spiritual endurance which kept him up. He had scarcely -eaten this day, and now exhausted he set himself down in the dark to -rest and possibly to sleep. - -Curiously on this occasion a strange suggestion of the presence of -his wife surrounded him. It would not be long now, he counseled with -himself, although the long months had brought him nothing, until he -should see her, talk to her. He fell asleep after a time, his head -on his knees. At midnight the moon began to rise, and at two in the -morning, his wakeful hour, was a large silver disk shining through the -trees to the east. He opened his eyes when the radiance became strong, -making a silver pattern at his feet and lighting the woods with strange -lusters and silvery, shadowy forms. As usual, his old notion that his -wife must be near occurred to him on this occasion, and he looked about -him with a speculative, anticipatory eye. What was it that moved in -the distant shadows along the path by which he had entered--a pale, -flickering will-o’-the-wisp that bobbed gracefully among the trees and -riveted his expectant gaze? Moonlight and shadows combined to give it -a strange form and a stranger reality, this fluttering of bog-fire -or dancing of wandering fire-flies. Was it truly his lost Phœbe? By -a circuitous route it passed about him, and in his fevered state he -fancied that he could see the very eyes of her, not as she was when he -last saw her in the black dress and shawl but now a strangely younger -Phœbe, gayer, sweeter, the one whom he had known years before as a -girl. Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of -this hour all these years, and now as he saw the feeble light dancing -lightly before him he peered at it questioningly, one thin hand in his -gray hair. - -Of a sudden there came to him now for the first time in many years the -full charm of her girlish figure as he had known it in boyhood, the -pleasing, sympathetic smile, the brown hair, the blue sash she had -once worn about her waist at a picnic, her gay, graceful movements. He -walked around the base of the tree, straining with his eyes, forgetting -for once his cane and utensils, and following eagerly after. On she -moved before him, a will-o’-the-wisp of the spring, a little flame -above her head, and it seemed as though among the small saplings of ash -and beech and the thick trunks of hickory and elm that she signaled -with a young, a lightsome hand. - -“O Phœbe! Phœbe!” he called. “Have yuh really come? Have yuh really -answered me?” And hurrying faster, he fell once, scrambling lamely to -his feet, only to see the light in the distance dancing illusively on. -On and on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing his ragged -arms against the trees, striking his hands and face against impeding -twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were breathless, his reason quite -astray, when coming to the edge of the cliff he saw her below among a -silvery bed of apple-trees now blooming in the spring. - -“O Phœbe!” he called. “O Phœbe! Oh, no, don’t leave me!” And feeling -the lure of a world where love was young and Phœbe as this vision -presented her, a delightful epitome of their quondam youth, he gave a -gay cry of “Oh, wait, Phœbe!” and leaped. - -Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering this region of bounty and prospect -some few days afterward, found first the tin utensils tied together -under the tree where he had left them, and then later at the foot -of the cliff, pale, broken, but elate, a molded smile of peace and -delight upon his lips, his body. His old hat was discovered lying under -some low-growing saplings the twigs of which had held it back. No one -of all the simple population knew how eagerly and joyously he had found -his lost mate. - - - - -THE SECOND CHOICE - - - SHIRLEY DEAR: - - You don’t want the letters. There are only six of them, anyhow, and - think, they’re all I have of you to cheer me on my travels. What good - would they be to you--little bits of notes telling me you’re sure to - meet me--but me--think of me! If I send them to you, you’ll tear them - up, whereas if you leave them with me I can dab them with musk and - ambergris and keep them in a little silver box, always beside me. - - Ah, Shirley dear, you really don’t know how sweet I think you are, - how dear! There isn’t a thing we have ever done together that isn’t - as clear in my mind as this great big skyscraper over the way here in - Pittsburgh, and far more pleasing. In fact, my thoughts of you are the - most precious and delicious things I have, Shirley. - - But I’m too young to marry now. You know that, Shirley, don’t you? I - haven’t placed myself in any way yet, and I’m so restless that I don’t - know whether I ever will, really. Only yesterday, old Roxbaum--that’s - my new employer here--came to me and wanted to know if I would like an - assistant overseership on one of his coffee plantations in Java, said - there would not be much money in it for a year or two, a bare living, - but later there would be more--and I jumped at it. Just the thought - of Java and going there did that, although I knew I could make more - staying right here. Can’t you see how it is with me, Shirl? I’m too - restless and too young. I couldn’t take care of you right, and you - wouldn’t like me after a while if I didn’t. - - But ah, Shirley sweet, I think the dearest things of you! There isn’t - an hour, it seems, but some little bit of you comes back--a dear, - sweet bit--the night we sat on the grass in Tregore Park and counted - the stars through the trees; that first evening at Sparrows Point - when we missed the last train and had to walk to Langley. Remember - the tree-toads, Shirl? And then that warm April Sunday in Atholby - woods! Ah, Shirl, you don’t want the six notes! Let me keep them. But - think of me, will you, sweet, wherever you go and whatever you do? - I’ll always think of you, and wish that you had met a better, saner - man than me, and that I really could have married you and been all - you wanted me to be. By-by, sweet. I may start for Java within the - month. If so, and you would want them, I’ll send you some cards from - there--if they have any. - - Your worthless, - ARTHUR. - -She sat and turned the letter in her hand, dumb with despair. It was -the very last letter she would ever get from him. Of that she was -certain. He was gone now, once and for all. She had written him only -once, not making an open plea but asking him to return her letters, -and then there had come this tender but evasive reply, saying nothing -of a possible return but desiring to keep her letters for old times’ -sake--the happy hours they had spent together. - -The happy hours! Oh, yes, yes, yes--the happy hours! - -In her memory now, as she sat here in her home after the day’s work, -meditating on all that had been in the few short months since he had -come and gone, was a world of color and light--a color and a light so -transfiguring as to seem celestial, but now, alas, wholly dissipated. -It had contained so much of all she had desired--love, romance, -amusement, laughter. He had been so gay and thoughtless, or headstrong, -so youthfully romantic, and with such a love of play and change and to -be saying and doing anything and everything. Arthur could dance in a -gay way, whistle, sing after a fashion, play. He could play cards and -do tricks, and he had such a superior air, so genial and brisk, with a -kind of innate courtesy in it and yet an intolerance for slowness and -stodginess or anything dull or dingy, such as characterized---- But -here her thoughts fled from him. She refused to think of any one but -Arthur. - -Sitting in her little bedroom now, off the parlor on the ground floor -in her home in Bethune Street, and looking out over the Kessels’ yard, -and beyond that--there being no fences in Bethune Street--over the -“yards” or lawns of the Pollards, Bakers, Cryders, and others, she -thought of how dull it must all have seemed to him, with his fine -imaginative mind and experiences, his love of change and gayety, his -atmosphere of something better than she had ever known. How little -she had been fitted, perhaps, by beauty or temperament to overcome -this--the something--dullness in her work or her home, which possibly -had driven him away. For, although many had admired her to date, and -she was young and pretty in her simple way and constantly receiving -suggestions that her beauty was disturbing to some, still, he had not -cared for her--he had gone. - -And now, as she meditated, it seemed that this scene, and all that -it stood for--her parents, her work, her daily shuttling to and fro -between the drug company for which she worked and this street and -house--was typical of her life and what she was destined to endure -always. Some girls were so much more fortunate. They had fine clothes, -fine homes, a world of pleasure and opportunity in which to move. They -did not have to scrimp and save and work to pay their own way. And yet -she had always been compelled to do it, but had never complained until -now--or until he came, and after. Bethune Street, with its commonplace -front yards and houses nearly all alike, and this house, so like the -others, room for room and porch for porch, and her parents, too, really -like all the others, had seemed good enough, quite satisfactory, -indeed, until then. But now, now! - -Here, in their kitchen, was her mother, a thin, pale, but kindly woman, -peeling potatoes and washing lettuce, and putting a bit of steak or -a chop or a piece of liver in a frying-pan day after day, morning -and evening, month after month, year after year. And next door was -Mrs. Kessel doing the same thing. And next door Mrs. Cryder. And next -door Mrs. Pollard. But, until now, she had not thought it so bad. But -now--now--oh! And on all the porches or lawns all along this street -were the husbands and fathers, mostly middle-aged or old men like her -father, reading their papers or cutting the grass before dinner, or -smoking and meditating afterward. Her father was out in front now, -a stooped, forbearing, meditative soul, who had rarely anything to -say--leaving it all to his wife, her mother, but who was fond of her -in his dull, quiet way. He was a pattern-maker by trade, and had come -into possession of this small, ordinary home via years of toil and -saving, her mother helping him. They had no particular religion, as he -often said, thinking reasonably human conduct a sufficient passport to -heaven, but they had gone occasionally to the Methodist Church over in -Nicholas Street, and she had once joined it. But of late she had not -gone, weaned away by the other commonplace pleasures of her world. - -And then in the midst of it, the dull drift of things, as she now -saw them to be, he had come--Arthur Bristow--young, energetic, -good-looking, ambitious, dreamful, and instanter, and with her never -knowing quite how, the whole thing had been changed. He had appeared so -swiftly--out of nothing, as it were. - -Previous to him had been Barton Williams, stout, phlegmatic, -good-natured, well-meaning, who was, or had been before Arthur came, -asking her to marry him, and whom she allowed to half assume that she -would. She had liked him in a feeble, albeit, as she thought, tender -way, thinking him the kind, according to the logic of her neighborhood, -who would make her a good husband, and, until Arthur appeared on -the scene, had really intended to marry him. It was not really a -love-match, as she saw now, but she thought it was, which was much the -same thing, perhaps. But, as she now recalled, when Arthur came, how -the scales fell from her eyes! In a trice, as it were, nearly, there -was a new heaven and a new earth. Arthur had arrived, and with him a -sense of something different. - -Mabel Gove had asked her to come over to her house in Westleigh, the -adjoining suburb, for Thanksgiving eve and day, and without a thought -of anything, and because Barton was busy handling a part of the work -in the despatcher’s office of the Great Eastern and could not see her, -she had gone. And then, to her surprise and strange, almost ineffable -delight, the moment she had seen him, he was there--Arthur, with his -slim, straight figure and dark hair and eyes and clean-cut features, -as clean and attractive as those of a coin. And as he had looked at -her and smiled and narrated humorous bits of things that had happened -to him, something had come over her--a spell--and after dinner they -had all gone round to Edith Barringer’s to dance, and there as she had -danced with him, somehow, without any seeming boldness on his part, he -had taken possession of her, as it were, drawn her close, and told her -she had beautiful eyes and hair and such a delicately rounded chin, and -that he thought she danced gracefully and was sweet. She had nearly -fainted with delight. - -“Do you like me?” he had asked in one place in the dance, and, in spite -of herself, she had looked up into his eyes, and from that moment she -was almost mad over him, could think of nothing else but his hair and -eyes and his smile and his graceful figure. - -Mabel Gove had seen it all, in spite of her determination that no one -should, and on their going to bed later, back at Mabel’s home, she had -whispered: - -“Ah, Shirley, I saw. You like Arthur, don’t you?” - -“I think he’s very nice,” Shirley recalled replying, for Mabel knew of -her affair with Barton and liked him, “but I’m not crazy over him.” And -for this bit of treason she had sighed in her dreams nearly all night. - -And the next day, true to a request and a promise made by him, Arthur -had called again at Mabel’s to take her and Mabel to a “movie” which -was not so far away, and from there they had gone to an ice-cream -parlor, and during it all, when Mabel was not looking, he had squeezed -her arm and hand and kissed her neck, and she had held her breath, and -her heart had seemed to stop. - -“And now you’re going to let me come out to your place to see you, -aren’t you?” he had whispered. - -And she had replied, “Wednesday evening,” and then written the address -on a little piece of paper and given it to him. - -But now it was all gone, gone! - -This house, which now looked so dreary--how romantic it had seemed that -first night _he_ called--the front room with its commonplace furniture, -and later in the spring, the veranda, with its vines just sprouting, -and the moon in May. Oh, the moon in May, and June and July, when he -was here! How she had lied to Barton to make evenings for Arthur, and -occasionally to Arthur to keep him from contact with Barton. She had -not even mentioned Barton to Arthur because--because--well, because -Arthur was so much better, and somehow (she admitted it to herself -now) she had not been sure that Arthur would care for her long, if at -all, and then--well, and then, to be quite frank, Barton might be good -enough. She did not exactly hate him because she had found Arthur--not -at all. She still liked him in a way--he was so kind and faithful, so -very dull and straightforward and thoughtful of her, which Arthur was -certainly not. Before Arthur had appeared, as she well remembered, -Barton had seemed to be plenty good enough--in fact, all that she -desired in a pleasant, companionable way, calling for her, taking her -places, bringing her flowers and candy, which Arthur rarely did, and -for that, if nothing more, she could not help continuing to like him -and to feel sorry for him, and, besides, as she had admitted to herself -before, if Arthur left her-- * * * * * Weren’t his parents better off -than hers--and hadn’t he a good position for such a man as he--one -hundred and fifty dollars a month and the certainty of more later on? -A little while before meeting Arthur, she had thought this very good, -enough for two to live on at least, and she had thought some of trying -it at some time or other--but now--now---- - -And that first night he had called--how well she remembered it--how it -had transfigured the parlor next this in which she was now, filling it -with something it had never had before, and the porch outside, too, -for that matter, with its gaunt, leafless vine, and this street, too, -even--dull, commonplace Bethune Street. There had been a flurry of snow -during the afternoon while she was working at the store, and the ground -was white with it. All the neighboring homes seemed to look sweeter -and happier and more inviting than ever they had as she came past -them, with their lights peeping from under curtains and drawn shades. -She had hurried into hers and lighted the big red-shaded parlor lamp, -her one artistic treasure, as she thought, and put it near the piano, -between it and the window, and arranged the chairs, and then bustled to -the task of making herself as pleasing as she might. For him she had -gotten out her one best filmy house dress and done up her hair in the -fashion she thought most becoming--and that he had not seen before--and -powdered her cheeks and nose and darkened her eyelashes, as some of -the girls at the store did, and put on her new gray satin slippers, and -then, being so arrayed, waited nervously, unable to eat anything or to -think of anything but him. - -And at last, just when she had begun to think he might not be coming, -he had appeared with that arch smile and a “Hello! It’s here you live, -is it? I was wondering. George, but you’re twice as sweet as I thought -you were, aren’t you?” And then, in the little entryway, behind the -closed door, he had held her and kissed her on the mouth a dozen times -while she pretended to push against his coat and struggle and say that -her parents might hear. - -And, oh, the room afterward, with him in it in the red glow of the -lamp, and with his pale handsome face made handsomer thereby, as she -thought! He had made her sit near him and had held her hands and told -her about his work and his dreams--all that he expected to do in the -future--and then she had found herself wishing intensely to share just -such a life--his life--anything that he might wish to do; only, she -kept wondering, with a slight pain, whether he would want her to--he -was so young, dreamful, ambitious, much younger and more dreamful than -herself, although, in reality, he was several years older. - -And then followed that glorious period from December to this late -September, in which everything which was worth happening in love had -happened. Oh, those wondrous days the following spring, when, with -the first burst of buds and leaves, he had taken her one Sunday to -Atholby, where all the great woods were, and they had hunted spring -beauties in the grass, and sat on a slope and looked at the river -below and watched some boys fixing up a sailboat and setting forth in -it quite as she wished she and Arthur might be doing--going somewhere -together--far, far away from all commonplace things and life! And then -he had slipped his arm about her and kissed her cheek and neck, and -tweaked her ear and smoothed her hair--and oh, there on the grass, -with the spring flowers about her and a canopy of small green leaves -above, the perfection of love had come--love so wonderful that the mere -thought of it made her eyes brim now! And then had been days, Saturday -afternoons and Sundays, at Atholby and Sparrows Point, where the great -beach was, and in lovely Tregore Park, a mile or two from her home, -where they could go of an evening and sit in or near the pavilion and -have ice-cream and dance or watch the dancers. Oh, the stars, the -winds, the summer breath of those days! Ah, me! Ah, me! - -Naturally, her parents had wondered from the first about her and -Arthur, and her and Barton, since Barton had already assumed a -proprietary interest in her and she had seemed to like him. But then -she was an only child and a pet, and used to presuming on that, and -they could not think of saying anything to her. After all, she was -young and pretty and was entitled to change her mind; only, only--she -had had to indulge in a career of lying and subterfuge in connection -with Barton, since Arthur was headstrong and wanted every evening that -he chose--to call for her at the store and keep her down-town to dinner -and a show. - -Arthur had never been like Barton, shy, phlegmatic, obedient, waiting -long and patiently for each little favor, but, instead, masterful and -eager, rifling her of kisses and caresses and every delight of love, -and teasing and playing with her as a cat would a mouse. She could -never resist him. He demanded of her her time and her affection without -let or hindrance. He was not exactly selfish or cruel, as some might -have been, but gay and unthinking at times, unconsciously so, and yet -loving and tender at others--nearly always so. But always he would talk -of things in the future as if they really did not include her--and this -troubled her greatly--of places he might go, things he might do, which, -somehow, he seemed to think or assume that she could not or would not -do with him. He was always going to Australia sometime, he thought, -in a business way, or to South Africa, or possibly to India. He never -seemed to have any fixed clear future for himself in mind. - -A dreadful sense of helplessness and of impending disaster came over -her at these times, of being involved in some predicament over which -she had no control, and which would lead her on to some sad end. -Arthur, although plainly in love, as she thought, and apparently -delighted with her, might not always love her. She began, timidly -at first (and always, for that matter), to ask him pretty, seeking -questions about himself and her, whether their future was certain to -be together, whether he really wanted her--loved her--whether he might -not want to marry some one else or just her, and whether she wouldn’t -look nice in a pearl satin wedding-dress with a long creamy veil and -satin slippers and a bouquet of bridal-wreath. She had been so slowly -but surely saving to that end, even before he came, in connection -with Barton; only, after _he_ came, all thought of the import of it -had been transferred to him. But now, also, she was beginning to ask -herself sadly, “Would it ever be?” He was so airy, so inconsequential, -so ready to say: “Yes, yes,” and “Sure, sure! That’s right! Yes, -indeedy; you bet! Say, kiddie, but you’ll look sweet!” but, somehow, -it had always seemed as if this whole thing were a glorious interlude -and that it could not last. Arthur was too gay and ethereal and too -little settled in his own mind. His ideas of travel and living in -different cities, finally winding up in New York or San Francisco, but -never with her exactly until she asked him, was too ominous, although -he always reassured her gaily: “Of course! Of course!” But somehow she -could never believe it really, and it made her intensely sad at times, -horribly gloomy. So often she wanted to cry, and she could scarcely -tell why. - -And then, because of her intense affection for him, she had finally -quarreled with Barton, or nearly that, if one could say that one ever -really quarreled with him. It had been because of a certain Thursday -evening a few weeks before about which she had disappointed him. In -a fit of generosity, knowing that Arthur was coming Wednesday, and -because Barton had stopped in at the store to see her, she had told him -that he might come, having regretted it afterward, so enamored was she -of Arthur. And then when Wednesday came, Arthur had changed his mind, -telling her he would come Friday instead, but on Thursday evening he -had stopped in at the store and asked her to go to Sparrows Point, with -the result that she had no time to notify Barton. He had gone to the -house and sat with her parents until ten-thirty, and then, a few days -later, although she had written him offering an excuse, had called at -the store to complain slightly. - -“Do you think you did just right, Shirley? You might have sent word, -mightn’t you? Who was it--the new fellow you won’t tell me about?” - -Shirley flared on the instant. - -“Supposing it was? What’s it to you? I don’t belong to you yet, do -I? I told you there wasn’t any one, and I wish you’d let me alone -about that. I couldn’t help it last Thursday--that’s all--and I don’t -want you to be fussing with me--that’s all. If you don’t want to, you -needn’t come any more, anyhow.” - -“Don’t say that, Shirley,” pleaded Barton. “You don’t mean that. I -won’t bother you, though, if you don’t want me any more.” - -And because Shirley sulked, not knowing what else to do, he had gone -and she had not seen him since. - -And then sometime later when she had thus broken with Barton, avoiding -the railway station where he worked, Arthur had failed to come at his -appointed time, sending no word until the next day, when a note came to -the store saying that he had been out of town for his firm over Sunday -and had not been able to notify her, but that he would call Tuesday. -It was an awful blow. At the time, Shirley had a vision of what was to -follow. It seemed for the moment as if the whole world had suddenly -been reduced to ashes, that there was nothing but black charred cinders -anywhere--she felt that about all life. Yet it all came to her clearly -then that this was but the beginning of just such days and just such -excuses, and that soon, soon, he would come no more. He was beginning -to be tired of her and soon he would not even make excuses. She felt -it, and it froze and terrified her. - -And then, soon after, the indifference which she feared did -follow--almost created by her own thoughts, as it were. First, it -was a meeting he had to attend somewhere one Wednesday night when he -was to have come for her. Then he was going out of town again, over -Sunday. Then he was going away for a whole week--it was absolutely -unavoidable, he said, his commercial duties were increasing--and once -he had casually remarked that nothing could stand in the way where -she was concerned--never! She did not think of reproaching him with -this; she was too proud. If he was going, he must go. She would not be -willing to say to herself that she had ever attempted to hold any man. -But, just the same, she was agonized by the thought. When he was with -her, he seemed tender enough; only, at times, his eyes wandered and he -seemed slightly bored. Other girls, particularly pretty ones, seemed to -interest him as much as she did. - -And the agony of the long days when he did not come any more for a -week or two at a time! The waiting, the brooding, the wondering, at -the store and here in her home--in the former place making mistakes at -times because she could not get her mind off him and being reminded -of them, and here at her own home at nights, being so absent-minded -that her parents remarked on it. She felt sure that her parents must -be noticing that Arthur was not coming any more, or as much as he -had--for she pretended to be going out with him, going to Mabel Gove’s -instead--and that Barton had deserted her too, he having been driven -off by her indifference, never to come any more, perhaps, unless she -sought him out. - -And then it was that the thought of saving her own face by taking up -with Barton once more occurred to her, of using him and his affections -and faithfulness and dulness, if you will, to cover up her own dilemma. -Only, this ruse was not to be tried until she had written Arthur this -one letter--a pretext merely to see if there was a single ray of hope, -a letter to be written in a gentle-enough way and asking for the return -of the few notes she had written him. She had not seen him now in -nearly a month, and the last time she had, he had said he might soon be -compelled to leave her awhile--to go to Pittsburgh to work. And it was -his reply to this that she now held in her hand--from Pittsburgh! It -was frightful! The future without him! - -But Barton would never know really what had transpired, if she went -back to him. In spite of all her delicious hours with Arthur, she could -call him back, she felt sure. She had never really entirely dropped -him, and he knew it. He had bored her dreadfully on occasion, arriving -on off days when Arthur was not about, with flowers or candy, or both, -and sitting on the porch steps and talking of the railroad business -and of the whereabouts and doings of some of their old friends. It -was shameful, she had thought at times, to see a man so patient, so -hopeful, so good-natured as Barton, deceived in this way, and by her, -who was so miserable over another. Her parents must see and know, she -had thought at these times, but still, what else was she to do? - -“I’m a bad girl,” she kept telling herself. “I’m all wrong. What right -have I to offer Barton what is left?” But still, somehow, she realized -that Barton, if she chose to favor him, would only be too grateful -for even the leavings of others where she was concerned, and that even -yet, if she but deigned to crook a finger, she could have him. He was -so simple, so good-natured, so stolid and matter of fact, so different -to Arthur whom (she could not help smiling at the thought of it) she -was loving now about as Barton loved her--slavishly, hopelessly. - -And then, as the days passed and Arthur did not write any more--just -this one brief note--she at first grieved horribly, and then in a fit -of numb despair attempted, bravely enough from one point of view, to -adjust herself to the new situation. Why should she despair? Why die -of agony where there were plenty who would still sigh for her--Barton -among others? She was young, pretty, very--many told her so. She could, -if she chose, achieve a vivacity which she did not feel. Why should she -brook this unkindness without a thought of retaliation? Why shouldn’t -she enter upon a gay and heartless career, indulging in a dozen -flirtations at once--dancing and killing all thoughts of Arthur in a -round of frivolities? There were many who beckoned to her. She stood at -her counter in the drug store on many a day and brooded over this, but -at the thought of which one to begin with, she faltered. After her late -love, all were so tame, for the present anyhow. - -And then--and then--always there was Barton, the humble or faithful, to -whom she had been so unkind and whom she had used and whom she still -really liked. So often self-reproaching thoughts in connection with -him crept over her. He must have known, must have seen how badly she -was using him all this while, and yet he had not failed to come and -come, until she had actually quarreled with him, and any one would have -seen that it was literally hopeless. She could not help remembering, -especially now in her pain, that he adored her. He was not calling -on her now at all--by her indifference she had finally driven him -away--but a word, a word-- She waited for days, weeks, hoping against -hope, and then---- - - * * * * * - -The office of Barton’s superior in the Great Eastern terminal had -always made him an easy object for her blandishments, coming and going, -as she frequently did, via this very station. He was in the office of -the assistant train-despatcher on the ground floor, where passing to -and from the local, which, at times, was quicker than a street-car, she -could easily see him by peering in; only, she had carefully avoided him -for nearly a year. If she chose now, and would call for a message-blank -at the adjacent telegraph-window which was a part of his room, and -raised her voice as she often had in the past, he could scarcely fail -to hear, if he did not see her. And if he did, he would rise and come -over--of that she was sure, for he never could resist her. It had been -a wile of hers in the old days to do this or to make her presence felt -by idling outside. After a month of brooding, she felt that she must -act--her position as a deserted girl was too much. She could not stand -it any longer really--the eyes of her mother, for one. - -It was six-fifteen one evening when, coming out of the store in which -she worked, she turned her step disconsolately homeward. Her heart -was heavy, her face rather pale and drawn. She had stopped in the -store’s retiring-room before coming out to add to her charms as much as -possible by a little powder and rouge and to smooth her hair. It would -not take much to reallure her former sweetheart, she felt sure--and yet -it might not be so easy after all. Suppose he had found another? But -she could not believe that. It had scarcely been long enough since he -had last attempted to see her, and he was really so very, very fond of -her and so faithful. He was too slow and certain in his choosing--he -had been so with her. Still, who knows? With this thought, she went -forward in the evening, feeling for the first time the shame and pain -that comes of deception, the agony of having to relinquish an ideal and -the feeling of despair that comes to those who find themselves in the -position of suppliants, stooping to something which in better days and -better fortune they would not know. Arthur was the cause of this. - -When she reached the station, the crowd that usually filled it at this -hour was swarming. There were so many pairs like Arthur and herself -laughing and hurrying away or so she felt. First glancing in the small -mirror of a weighing scale to see if she were still of her former -charm, she stopped thoughtfully at a little flower stand which stood -outside, and for a few pennies purchased a tiny bunch of violets. She -then went inside and stood near the window, peering first furtively to -see if he were present. He was. Bent over his work, a green shade over -his eyes, she could see his stolid, genial figure at a table. Stepping -back a moment to ponder, she finally went forward and, in a clear -voice, asked, - -“May I have a blank, please?” - -The infatuation of the discarded Barton was such that it brought him -instantly to his feet. In his stodgy, stocky way he rose, his eyes -glowing with a friendly hope, his mouth wreathed in smiles, and came -over. At the sight of her, pale, but pretty--paler and prettier, -really, than he had ever seen her--he thrilled dumbly. - -“How are you, Shirley?” he asked sweetly, as he drew near, his eyes -searching her face hopefully. He had not seen her for so long that he -was intensely hungry, and her paler beauty appealed to him more than -ever. Why wouldn’t she have him? he was asking himself. Why wouldn’t -his persistent love yet win her? Perhaps it might. “I haven’t seen you -in a month of Sundays, it seems. How are the folks?” - -“They’re all right, Bart,” she smiled archly, “and so am I. How have -you been? It has been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’ve been -wondering how you were. Have you been all right? I was just going to -send a message.” - -As he had approached, Shirley had pretended at first not to see him, a -moment later to affect surprise, although she was really suppressing a -heavy sigh. The sight of him, after Arthur, was not reassuring. Could -she really interest herself in him any more? Could she? - -“Sure, sure,” he replied genially; “I’m always all right. You couldn’t -kill me, you know. Not going away, are you, Shirl?” he queried -interestedly. - -“No; I’m just telegraphing to Mabel. She promised to meet me -to-morrow, and I want to be sure she will.” - -“You don’t come past here as often as you did, Shirley,” he complained -tenderly. “At least, I don’t seem to see you so often,” he added with -a smile. “It isn’t anything I have done, is it?” he queried, and then, -when she protested quickly, added: “What’s the trouble, Shirl? Haven’t -been sick, have you?” - -She affected all her old gaiety and ease, feeling as though she would -like to cry. - -“Oh, no,” she returned; “I’ve been all right. I’ve been going through -the other door, I suppose, or coming in and going out on the Langdon -Avenue car.” (This was true, because she had been wanting to avoid -him.) “I’ve been in such a hurry, most nights, that I haven’t had time -to stop, Bart. You know how late the store keeps us at times.” - -He remembered, too, that in the old days she had made time to stop or -meet him occasionally. - -“Yes, I know,” he said tactfully. “But you haven’t been to any of our -old card-parties either of late, have you? At least, I haven’t seen -you. I’ve gone to two or three, thinking you might be there.” - -That was another thing Arthur had done--broken up her interest in -these old store and neighborhood parties and a banjo-and-mandolin club -to which she had once belonged. They had all seemed so pleasing and -amusing in the old days--but now-- * * * * In those days Bart had been -her usual companion when his work permitted. - -“No,” she replied evasively, but with a forced air of pleasant -remembrance; “I have often thought of how much fun we had at those, -though. It was a shame to drop them. You haven’t seen Harry Stull -or Trina Task recently, have you?” she inquired, more to be saying -something than for any interest she felt. - -He shook his head negatively, then added: - -“Yes, I did, too; here in the waiting-room a few nights ago. They were -coming down-town to a theater, I suppose.” - -His face fell slightly as he recalled how it had been their custom to -do this, and what their one quarrel had been about. Shirley noticed it. -She felt the least bit sorry for him, but much more for herself, coming -back so disconsolately to all this. - -“Well, you’re looking as pretty as ever, Shirley,” he continued, noting -that she had not written the telegram and that there was something -wistful in her glance. “Prettier, I think,” and she smiled sadly. Every -word that she tolerated from him was as so much gold to him, so much of -dead ashes to her. “You wouldn’t like to come down some evening this -week and see ‘The Mouse-Trap,’ would you? We haven’t been to a theater -together in I don’t know when.” His eyes sought hers in a hopeful, -doglike way. - -So--she could have him again--that was the pity of it! To have what -she really did not want, did not care for! At the least nod now he -would come, and this very devotion made it all but worthless, and so -sad. She ought to marry him now for certain, if she began in this way, -and could in a month’s time if she chose, but oh, oh--could she? For -the moment she decided that she could not, would not. If he had only -repulsed her--told her to go--ignored her--but no; it was her fate to -be loved by him in this moving, pleading way, and hers not to love him -as she wished to love--to be loved. Plainly, he needed some one like -her, whereas she, she----. She turned a little sick, a sense of the -sacrilege of gaiety at this time creeping into her voice, and exclaimed: - -“No, no!” Then seeing his face change, a heavy sadness come over -it, “Not this week, anyhow, I mean” (“Not so soon,” she had almost -said). “I have several engagements this week and I’m not feeling -well. But”--seeing his face change, and the thought of her own state -returning--“you might come out to the house some evening instead, and -then we can go some other time.” - -His face brightened intensely. It was wonderful how he longed to be -with her, how the least favor from her comforted and lifted him up. She -could see also now, however, how little it meant to her, how little it -could ever mean, even if to him it was heaven. The old relationship -would have to be resumed in toto, once and for all, but did she want it -that way now that she was feeling so miserable about this other affair? -As she meditated, these various moods racing to and fro in her mind, -Barton seemed to notice, and now it occurred to him that perhaps he had -not pursued her enough--was too easily put off. She probably did like -him yet. This evening, her present visit, seemed to prove it. - -“Sure, sure!” he agreed. “I’d like that. I’ll come out Sunday, if you -say. We can go any time to the play. I’m sorry, Shirley, if you’re -not feeling well. I’ve thought of you a lot these days. I’ll come out -Wednesday, if you don’t mind.” - -She smiled a wan smile. It was all so much easier than she had -expected--her triumph--and so ashenlike in consequence, a flavor of -dead-sea fruit and defeat about it all, that it was pathetic. How could -she, after Arthur? How could he, really? - -“Make it Sunday,” she pleaded, naming the farthest day off, and then -hurried out. - -Her faithful lover gazed after her, while she suffered an intense -nausea. To think--to think--it should all be coming to this! She had -not used her telegraph-blank, and now had forgotten all about it. It -was not the simple trickery that discouraged her, but her own future -which could find no better outlet than this, could not rise above it -apparently, or that she had no heart to make it rise above it. Why -couldn’t she interest herself in some one different to Barton? Why did -she have to return to him? Why not wait and meet some other--ignore -him as before? But no, no; nothing mattered now--no one--it might as -well be Barton really as any one, and she would at least make him happy -and at the same time solve her own problem. She went out into the -train-shed and climbed into her train. Slowly, after the usual pushing -and jostling of a crowd, it drew out toward Latonia, that suburban -region in which her home lay. As she rode, she thought. - -“What have I just done? What am I doing?” she kept asking herself as -the clacking wheels on the rails fell into a rhythmic dance and the -houses of the brown, dry, endless city fled past in a maze. “Severing -myself decisively from the past--the happy past--for supposing, once I -am married, Arthur should return and want me again--suppose! Suppose!” - -Below at one place, under a shed, were some market-gardeners disposing -of the last remnants of their day’s wares--a sickly, dull life, she -thought. Here was Rutgers Avenue, with its line of red street-cars, -many wagons and tracks and counter-streams of automobiles--how often -had she passed it morning and evening in a shuttle-like way, and -how often would, unless she got married! And here, now, was the -river flowing smoothly between its banks lined with coal-pockets and -wharves--away, away to the huge deep sea which she and Arthur had -enjoyed so much. Oh, to be in a small boat and drift out, out into the -endless, restless, pathless deep! Somehow the sight of this water, -to-night and every night, brought back those evenings in the open -with Arthur at Sparrows Point, the long line of dancers in Eckert’s -Pavilion, the woods at Atholby, the park, with the dancers in the -pavilion--she choked back a sob. Once Arthur had come this way with -her on just such an evening as this, pressing her hand and saying how -wonderful she was. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! And now Barton was to take his -old place again--forever, no doubt. She could not trifle with her life -longer in this foolish way, or his. What was the use? But think of it! - -Yes, it must be--forever now, she told herself. She must marry. Time -would be slipping by and she would become too old. It was her only -future--marriage. It was the only future she had ever contemplated -really, a home, children, the love of some man whom she could love as -she loved Arthur. Ah, what a happy home that would have been for her! -But now, now---- - -But there must be no turning back now, either. There was no other way. -If Arthur ever came back--but fear not, he wouldn’t! She had risked -so much and lost--lost him. Her little venture into true love had -been such a failure. Before Arthur had come all had been well enough. -Barton, stout and simple and frank and direct, had in some way--how, -she could scarcely realize now--offered sufficient of a future. But -now, now! He had enough money, she knew, to build a cottage for the two -of them. He had told her so. He would do his best always to make her -happy, she was sure of that. They could live in about the state her -parents were living in--or a little better, not much--and would never -want. No doubt there would be children, because he craved them--several -of them--and that would take up her time, long years of it--the sad, -gray years! But then Arthur, whose children she would have thrilled to -bear, would be no more, a mere memory--think of that!--and Barton, the -dull, the commonplace, would have achieved his finest dream--and why? - -Because love was a failure for her--that was why--and in her life -there could be no more true love. She would never love any one again -as she had Arthur. It could not be, she was sure of it. He was too -fascinating, too wonderful. Always, always, wherever she might be, -whoever she might marry, he would be coming back, intruding between -her and any possible love, receiving any possible kiss. It would be -Arthur she would be loving or kissing. She dabbed at her eyes with a -tiny handkerchief, turned her face close to the window and stared out, -and then as the environs of Latonia came into view, wondered (so deep -is romance): What if Arthur should come back at some time--or now! -Supposing he should be here at the station now, accidentally or on -purpose, to welcome her, to soothe her weary heart. He had met her here -before. How she would fly to him, lay her head on his shoulder, forget -forever that Barton ever was, that they had ever separated for an hour. -Oh, Arthur! Arthur! - -But no, no; here was Latonia--here the viaduct over her train, the -long business street and the cars marked “Center” and “Langdon Avenue” -running back into the great city. A few blocks away in tree-shaded -Bethune Street, duller and plainer than ever, was her parents’ cottage -and the routine of that old life which was now, she felt, more fully -fastened upon her than ever before--the lawn-mowers, the lawns, the -front porches all alike. Now would come the going to and fro of Barton -to business as her father and she now went to business, her keeping -house, cooking, washing, ironing, sewing for Barton as her mother now -did these things for her father and herself. And she would not be in -love really, as she wanted to be. Oh, dreadful! She could never escape -it really, now that she could endure it less, scarcely for another -hour. And yet she must, must, for the sake of--for the sake of--she -closed her eyes and dreamed. - -She walked up the street under the trees, past the houses and lawns all -alike to her own, and found her father on their veranda reading the -evening paper. She sighed at the sight. - -“Back, daughter?” he called pleasantly. - -“Yes.” - -“Your mother is wondering if you would like steak or liver for dinner. -Better tell her.” - -“Oh, it doesn’t matter.” - -She hurried into her bedroom, threw down her hat and gloves, and -herself on the bed to rest silently, and groaned in her soul. To think -that it had all come to this!--Never to see him any more!--To see only -Barton, and marry him and live in such a street, have four or five -children, forget all her youthful companionships--and all to save her -face before her parents, and her future. Why must it be? Should it -be, really? She choked and stifled. After a little time her mother, -hearing her come in, came to the door--thin, practical, affectionate, -conventional. - -“What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you feeling well to-night? Have you a -headache? Let me feel.” - -Her thin cool fingers crept over her temples and hair. She suggested -something to eat or a headache powder right away. - -“I’m all right, mother. I’m just not feeling well now. Don’t bother. -I’ll get up soon. Please don’t.” - -“Would you rather have liver or steak to-night, dear?” - - “Oh, anything--nothing--please don’t bother--steak will -do--anything”--if only she could get rid of her and be at rest! - -Her mother looked at her and shook her head sympathetically, then -retreated quietly, saying no more. Lying so, she thought and -thought--grinding, destroying thoughts about the beauty of the past, -the darkness of the future--until able to endure them no longer she got -up and, looking distractedly out of the window into the yard and the -house next door, stared at her future fixedly. What should she do? What -should she really do? There was Mrs. Kessel in her kitchen getting her -dinner as usual, just as her own mother was now, and Mr. Kessel out on -the front porch in his shirt-sleeves reading the evening paper. Beyond -was Mr. Pollard in his yard, cutting the grass. All along Bethune -Street were such houses and such people--simple, commonplace souls -all--clerks, managers, fairly successful craftsmen, like her father and -Barton, excellent in their way but not like Arthur the beloved, the -lost--and here was she, perforce, or by decision of necessity, soon to -be one of them, in some such street as this no doubt, forever and--. -For the moment it choked and stifled her. - -She decided that she would not. No, no, no! There must be some other -way--many ways. She did not have to do this unless she really wished -to--would not--only--. Then going to the mirror she looked at her face -and smoothed her hair. - -“But what’s the use?” she asked of herself wearily and resignedly after -a time. “Why should I cry? Why shouldn’t I marry Barton? I don’t amount -to anything, anyhow. Arthur wouldn’t have me. I wanted him, and I am -compelled to take some one else--or no one--what difference does it -really make who? My dreams are too high, that’s all. I wanted Arthur, -and he wouldn’t have me. I don’t want Barton, and he crawls at my feet. -I’m a failure, that’s what’s the matter with me.” - -And then, turning up her sleeves and removing a fichu which stood out -too prominently from her breast, she went into the kitchen and, looking -about for an apron, observed: - -“Can’t I help? Where’s the tablecloth?” and finding it among napkins -and silverware in a drawer in the adjoining room, proceeded to set the -table. - - - - -A STORY OF STORIES - - -Take a smoky Western city. Call it Omaha or Kansas City or Denver, -only let the Mississippi flow past it. Put in it two rival morning -papers--two, and only two--the _Star_ and the _News_, the staffs -of which are rather keen to outwit each other. On the staff of the -_News_, slightly the better of the two newspapers, put Mr. David -Kolinsky, alias (yes, alias) David, or “Red” Collins (a little shift of -nomenclature due to the facts that, first: he was a South Russian Jew -who looked exactly like a red-headed Irishman--that is a peculiarity -of South Russian Jews, I believe--and secondly: that it was more -_distingué_, as it were, to be Irish in Omaha or Denver or Kansas -City than it was to be a South Russian Jew). Give him a slithery, -self-confident, race-track or tout manner. Put on him “loud” or showy -clothes, a diamond ring, a ruby pin in his tie, a yellowish-green -Fedora hat, yellow shoes, freckles, a sneering contemptuous “tough” -smile, and you have Mr. “Red” Collins as Mr.---- - -But wait. - -On the _Star_, slightly the lesser of these two great dailies that -matutinally thrashed the city to a foam of interest, place Mr. Augustus -Binns, no less, young (not over twenty-two), tall, college-y, rather -graceful as young college men go, literary of course, highly ambitious, -with gold eye-glasses, a wrist watch, a cane--in short, one of those -ambitious young gentlemen of this rather un-happy go un-lucky -scribbling world who has distinct ideals, to say nothing of dreams, -as to what the newspaper and literary professions combined should -bring him, and who, in addition, inherently despised all creatures of -the “Red” Collins, or race-track, gambler, amateur detective, police -and political, type. Well may you ask, what was Mr. Collins, with -his peculiar characteristics, doing on a paper of the importance and -distinction of the _News_. A long story, my dears. Newspapers are -peculiar institutions. - -For this same paper not long since had harbored the truly elegant -presence of Mr. Binns himself, and so excellent a writer and news -gatherer was he that on more than one occasion he had been set to -revise or rewrite the tales which Mr. “Red” Collins, who was then but -tentatively connected with the paper as a “tipster,” brought in. This -in itself was a crime against art and literature, as Mr. Binns saw it, -for, when you come right down to it, and in the strict meaning of the -word, Mr. Collins was not a writer at all, could not write, in fact, -could only “bring in” his stories, and most interesting ones they were, -nearly all of them, whereas about the paper at all times were men who -could--Mr. Binns, for instance. It insulted if not outraged Mr. Binns’s -sense of the fitness of things, for the _News_ to hire such a person -and let him flaunt the title of “reporter” or “representative,” for he -admired the _News_ very much and was glad to be of it. But Collins! -“Red” Collins! - -The latter was one of those “hard life,” but by no means hard luck, -Jews who by reason of indomitable ambition and will had raised himself -out of practically frightful conditions. He had never even seen a -bath-tub until he was fifteen or sixteen. By turns he had been a -bootblack, newsboy, race-track tout, stable boy, helper around a -saloon, and what not. Of late years, and now, because he was reaching -a true wisdom (he was between twenty-five and six), he had developed a -sort of taste for gambling as well as politics of a low order, and was -in addition a police hanger-on. He was really a sort of pariah in his -way, only the sporting and political editors found him useful. They -tolerated him, and paid him well for his tips because, forsooth, his -tips were always good. - -Batsford, the capable city editor of the _News_, a round, forceful, -gross person who was more allied to Collins than to Binns in spirit, -although he was like neither, was Binns’s first superior in the -newspaper world. He did not like Binns because, for one thing, of his -wrist watch, secondly, his large gold glasses--much larger than they -need have been--and thirdly, because of his cane, which he carried with -considerable of an air. The truth is, Binns was Eastern and the city -editor was Western, and besides, Binns had been more or less thrust -upon him by his managing editor as a favor to some one else. But Binns -could write, never doubt it, and proved it. He was a vigorous reporter -with a fine feeling for words and, above all, a power to visualize -and emotionalize whatever he saw, a thing which was of the utmost -importance in this rather loose Western emotional atmosphere. He could -handle any story which came to him with ease and distinction, and -seemed usually to get all or nearly all the facts. - -On the other hand, Collins, for all his garishness, and one might -almost say, brutality of spirit, was what Batsford would have called a -practical man. He knew life. He was by no means as artistic as Binns, -but still-- Batsford liked to know what was going on politically and -criminally, and Collins could always tell him, whereas Binns never -could. Also, by making Binns rewrite Collins’s stories, he knew he -could offend him horribly. The two were like oil and water, Mussulman -and Christian. - -When Batsford first told Collins to relate the facts of a certain tale -to Binns and let him work it out, the former strolled over to the -collegian, his lip curled up at one corner, his eye cynically fixed on -him, and said, “The Chief says to give youse this dope and let youse -work it out.” - -Youse! - -Oh, for a large, bright broad ax! - -Binns, however, always your stickler for duty and order, bent on him -an equally cynical and yet enigmatic eye, hitched up his trousers -slightly, adjusted his wrist watch and glasses, and began to take down -the details of the story, worming them out of his rival with a delicacy -and _savoir faire_ worthy of a better cause. - -Not long after, however, it was brought to the horrified ears of -Mr. Binns that Mr. Collins had said he was a “stiff” and a “cheap -ink-slinger,” a la-de-da no less, that writers, one and all, college -and otherwise, didn’t count for much, anyhow, that they were all -starving to death, and that they “grew on trees”--a phrase which -particularly enraged Mr. Binns, for he interpreted it to mean that they -were as numerous as the sands of the sea, as plentiful as mud. - -By Allah! That such dogs should be allowed to take the beards of great -writers into their hands thus! - -Nevertheless and in spite of all this, the fortunes of Mr. Collins went -forward apace, and that chiefly, as Mr. Binns frequently groaned, at -his expense. Collins would come in, and after a long series of “I sez -to him-s” and “He sez to me-s,” which Mr. Binns (per the orders of Mr. -Batsford) translated into the King’s best Britannica, he having in the -meanwhile to neglect some excellent tale of his own, would go forth -again, free to point the next day to a column or column-and-a-half or a -half-column story, and declare proudly, “My story.” - -Think of it! That swine! - -There is an end to all things, however, even life and crime. In due -time, as per a series of accidents and the groundless ill-will of -Mr. Batsford, Mr. Binns was perforce, in self-respect, compelled -to transfer his energies to the _Star_, a paper he had previously -contemned as being not so good, but where he was now made very welcome -because of his ability. Then, to his astonishment and disgust, one -day while covering a police station known as the South Ninth, from -which emanated many amazing police tales, whom should he encounter but -“Red” Collins, no less, now a full-fledged reporter on the _News_, if -you please, and “doing police.” He had a grand and even contemptuous -manner, barely deigning to notice Binns. Binns raged. - -But he noticed at once that Collins was far more _en rapport_ with -the various sergeants and the captain, as well as all that was going -on in this station, than ever he had dreamed of being. It was “Hello, -Red,” here and “Hi, sport,” there, while Collins replied with various -“Caps” and “Charlies.” He gave himself all the airs of a newspaper man -proper, swaggering about and talking of this, that, and the other -story which he had written, some of them having been done by Binns -himself. And what was more, Collins was soon closeted intimately with -the captain in his room, strolling in and out of that sanctum as if -it were his private demesne, and somehow giving Binns the impression -of being in touch with realms and deeds of which he had never heard, -and never would. It made Binns doubly apprehensive lest in these -secret intimacies tales and mysteries should be unfolded which should -have their first light in the pages of the _News_, and so leave him -to be laughed at as one who could not get the news. In consequence, -he watched the _News_ more closely than ever for any evidence of -such treachery on the part of the police, while at the same time he -redoubled his interest in any such items as came to his attention. By -reason of this, as well as by his greater skill in writing and his -undeniable imagination, on more than one occasion he gave Mr. Collins -a good drubbing, chancing to make good stories out of things which Mr. -Collins had evidently dismissed as worthless. _Au contraire_, now and -then a case appeared in the columns of the _News_ with details which -he had not been able to obtain, and concerning which the police had -insisted that they knew nothing. It was thus that Mr. Collins secured -his revenge--and very good revenge too, it was at times. - -But Mr. Binns managed to hold his own, as, for instance, late one -August afternoon when a negro girl in one of those crowded alleys -which made up an interesting and even amazing portion of O---- was cut -almost to shreds by an ex-lover who, following her from river-city to -river-city and town to town, had finally come up with her here and had -taken his revenge. - -It was a glistering tale this. It appeared (but only after the greatest -industry on the part of Mr. Binns) that some seven or eight months -before [the O---- papers curiously were always interested in a tale -of this kind] this same girl and the negro who had cut her had been -living together as man and wife in Cairo, Illinois, and that later the -lover (a coal passer or stevedore, working now on one boat and now on -another plying the Mississippi between New Orleans and O----), who was -plainly wildly fond of her, became suspicious and finally satisfying -himself that his mistress, who was a real beauty after her kind, was -faithless to him, set a trap to catch her. Returning suddenly one -day when she imagined him to be away for a week or two of labor, and -bursting in upon her, he found her with another man. Death would have -been her portion as well as that of her lover had it not been for the -interference of friends, which had permitted the pair to escape. - -Lacerated by the double offenses of betrayal and desertion, he now set -out to follow her, as the cutting on this occasion proved. Returning -to his task as stevedore and working his way thus from one river-city -to another, he arrived by turns in Memphis, Vicksburg, Natchez and -New Orleans, in each case making it a point to disguise himself as -a peddler selling trinkets and charms, and in this capacity walking -the crowded negro sections of all these cities calling his wares. -Ambling up one of these stuffy, stifling alleys, finally, in O---- -which bordered on this same police station and where so many negroes -lived, he encountered this late August afternoon his quondam but -now faithless love. In answer to his cry of “Rings! Pins! Buckles! -Trinkets!” his false love, apparently not recognizing his voice, put -her head out of a doorway. On the instant the damage was done. Dropping -his tray, he was upon her in a flash with his razor, cris-crossing and -slashing her until she was marred beyond recognition. With fiendish -cruelty he cut her cheeks, lips, arms, legs, back, and sides, so much -so that when Binns arrived at the City Hospital where she had been -taken, he found her unconscious and her life despaired of. On the other -hand, the lover had made good his escape, as had her paramour. - -Curiously, this story captured the fancy of Mr. Binns as it did that -of his city editor later, completely. It was such a thing as he could -do, and do well. With almost deft literary art he turned it into a -rather striking black tragedy. Into it, after convincing his rather -fussy city editor that it was worth the telling, he had crowded a -bit of the flavor of the hot waterfronts of Cairo, Memphis, Natchez, -and New Orleans, the sing-song sleepiness of the stevedores at their -lazy labors, the idle, dreamy character of the slow-moving boats, -this rickety alley, with its semi-barbaric curtain-hung shacks and -its swarming, idle, crooning, shuffling negro life. Even an old negro -refrain appropriate to a trinket peddler, and the low, bold negro life -two such truants might enjoy, were pictured. An old negro mammy with a -yellow-dotted kerchief over her head who kept talking of “disha Gawge” -and “disha Sam” and “disha Marquatta” (the girl), had moved him to a -poetic frenzy. Naturally it made a colorful tale, and his city editor -felt called upon to compliment him on it. - -But in the _News_, owing possibly to Collins’s inability to grasp the -full significance, the romance, of such a story as this, it received -but a scant stick--a low dive cutting affray. His was not the type of -mind that could see the color here, but once seen he could realize -wherein he had been beaten, and it infuriated him. - -“You think you’re a helluva feller, dontcha?” he snarled the next day -on sight, his lip a-curl with scorn and rage. “You think you’ve pulled -off sompin swell. Say, I’ve been up against you wordy boys before, and -I can work all around you. All you guys can do is get a few facts and -then pad ’em up. You never get the real stuff, never,” and he even -snapped his fingers under the nose of the surprised Mr. Binns. “Wait’ll -we get a real case some time, you and me, and then I’ll show you -sompin. Wait and see.” - -“My good fellow,” Mr. Binns was about to begin, but the cold, hard, -revengeful glare in the eyes of Mr. Collins quite took his breath away. -Then and there Mr. Collins put a strange haunting fear of himself into -Mr. Binns’s mind. There was something so savage about him, so like that -of an angry hornet or snake that it left him all but speechless. “Is -that so?” he managed to say after a time. “You think you will, do you? -That’s easy enough to say, now that you’re beaten, but I guess I’ll be -right there when the time comes.” - -“Aw, go to hell!” growled Collins savagely, and he walked off, leaving -Mr. Binns smiling pleasantly, albeit vacantly, and at the same time -wondering just what it was Mr. Collins was going to do to him, and -when. - -The sequel to this was somewhat more interesting. - -As Mr. Binns came in one morning fresh from his bath and breakfast, -his new city editor called him into his office. Mr. Waxby, in contrast -with Mr. Batsford, was a small, waspish, and yet affable and capable -man whom Binns could not say he admired as a man or a gentleman, but -who, he was sure, was a much better city editor than Batsford, and who -appreciated him, Binns, as Batsford never had, i.e., at his true worth. -Batsford had annoyed him with such a dog as Collins, whereas Waxby had -almost coddled him. And what a nose for news! - -Mr. Waxby eyed him rather solemnly and enigmatically on this occasion, -and then observed: “Do you remember, Binns, that big M.P. train robbery -that took place out here near Dolesville about six months ago?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“And do you remember that the Governor of this state and his military -staff, all in uniform, as well as a half dozen other big-wigs, were -on board, and that they all reported that there had been seven lusty -bandits, all heavily armed, some of whom went through the train and -robbed the passengers while others compelled the engineer and fireman -to get down, uncouple the engine, and then blow open the express car -door and safe for them and carry out the money, about twenty or thirty -thousand dollars all told?” - -Binns remembered it well. He had been on the _News_ at the time, and -the full-page spread had attracted his keenest attention. It was -illustrative, as he thought, of the character of this region--raw and -still daring. It smacked so much of the lawlessness of the forties, -when pack-train and stage-coach robberies were the rule and not the -exception. It had caused his hair to tingle at the roots at times so -real was it. Never had he been so close, as it were, to anything so -dramatic. - -“Yes, sir, I remember it very well,” he replied. - -“And do you remember how the newspapers laughed over the fact that -the Governor and his military staff had crawled into their berths and -didn’t come out again until the train had started?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well now, Binns, just read this,” and here Mr. Waxby handed him a -telegram, the while his eyes gleamed with a keen humorous light, and -Mr. Binns read: - - “Medicine Flats, M. K. - - “Lem Rollins arrested here to-day confesses to single-handed robbery - of M. P. express west of Dolesville February 2d last. Money recovered. - Rollins being brought to O---- via C.T.&A. this p.m. Should arrive - six-thirty.” - -“Apparently,” cackled Mr. Waxby, “there was nothing to that -seven-bandit story at all, Binns. There weren’t any seven robbers, but -just one, and they’ve caught him, and he’s confessed,” and here he -burst into more laughter. - -“No, Binns,” went on Waxby, “if this is really true, it is a wonderful -story. You don’t often find one man holding up a whole train anywhere -and getting away with twenty or thirty thousand dollars. It’s amazing. -I’ve decided that we won’t wait for him to arrive, but that you’re to -go out and meet him. According to this time-table you can take a local -that leaves here at two-fifteen and get to Pacific fifteen minutes -ahead of the express on which he is coming in, and you’ve just about -time to make it. That will give you all of an hour and a half in which -to interview him. It’s just possible that the _News_ and the other -papers won’t get wind of this in time to send a man. Think of the -opportunity it gives you to study him! No seven robbers, remember, but -just one! And the Governor and his whole staff on board! Make him tell -what he thinks of the Governor and his staff. Make him talk. Ha! ha! -You’ll have him all to yourself. Think of that! And they crawled into -their berths! Ha! ha! Gee whiz, you’ve got the chance of a lifetime!” - -Mr. Binns stared at the telegram. He recalled the detailed descriptions -of the actions of the seven robbers, how some of them had prowled -up and down outside the train, while others went through it rifling -the passengers, and still others, forward, overawed the engineer and -fireman, broke open and robbed the express car safe in the face of an -armed messenger as well as mailman and trainmen, and how they had then -decamped into the dark. How could one man have done it? It couldn’t be -true! - -Nevertheless he arose, duly impressed. It would be no easy task to get -just the right touch, but he felt that he might. If only the train -weren’t over-run with other reporters! He stuffed some notepaper into -his pocket and bustled down to the Union Station--if Mr. Binns could be -said to _bustle_. Here he encountered his first hitch. - -On inquiring for a ticket to Pacific, the slightly disturbing response -of “Which road?” was made. - -“Are there two?” asked Mr. Binns. - -“Yes--M.P. and C.T.&A.” - -“They both go to Pacific, do they?” - -“Yes.” - -“Which train leaves first?” - -“C.T.&A. It’s waiting now.” - -Mr. Binns hesitated, but there was no time to lose. It didn’t make any -difference, so long as he connected with the incoming express, as the -time-table showed that this did. He paid for his ticket and got aboard, -but now an irritating thought came to him. Supposing other reporters -from either the _News_ or one of the three afternoon papers were -aboard, especially the _News_! If there were not he would have this -fine task all to himself, and what a beat! But if there were others? -He walked forward to the smoker, which was the next car in front, and -there, to his intense disgust and nervous dissatisfaction, he spied, -of all people, the one man he would least have expected to find on -an assignment of this kind, the one man he least wanted to see--Mr. -Collins, no less, red-headed, serene, determined, a cigar between his -teeth, crouched low in his seat smoking and reading a paper as calmly -as though he were not bent upon the most important task of the year. - -“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mr. Binns irritably and even bitterly. - -He returned to his seat nervous and ill composed, all the more so -because he now recalled Collins’s venomous threat, “Wait’ll we get a -real case some time, you and me.” The low creature! Why, he couldn’t -even write a decent sentence. Why should he fear him so? But just the -same he did fear him--why, he could scarcely say. Collins was so raw, -savage, brutal, in his mood and plans. - -But why, in heaven’s name, he now asked himself as he meditated in -his seat as to ways and means, should a man like Batsford send a man -like Collins, who couldn’t even write, to interpret a story and a -character of this kind? How could he hope to dig out the odd psychology -of this very queer case? Plainly he was too crude, too unintellectual -to get it straight. Nevertheless, here he was, and now, plainly, he -would have this awful creature to contend with. And Collins was so -bitter toward him. He would leave no trick unturned to beat him! These -country detectives and sheriff and railroad men, whoever they were or -wherever they came from, would be sure, on the instant, to make friends -with Collins, as they always did, and do their best to serve him. -They seemed to like that sort of man, worse luck. They might even, at -Collins’s instigation, refuse to let him interview the bandit at all! -If so, then what? But Collins would get something somehow, you might -be sure, secret details which they might not relate to him. It made -him nervous. Even if he got a chance he would have to interview this -wonderful bandit in front of this awful creature, this one man whom he -most despised, and who would deprive him of most of the benefit of all -his questions by writing as though he had thought of and asked all of -them himself. Think of it! - -The dreary local sped on, and as it drew nearer and nearer to Pacific, -Binns became more and more nervous. For him the whole charm of this -beautiful September landscape through which he was speeding now was -all spoiled. When the train finally drew up at Pacific he jumped down, -all alive with the determination not to be outdone in any way, and yet -nervous and worried to a degree. Let Collins do his worst, he thought. -He would show him. Still--just then he saw the latter jumping down. At -the same time, Collins spied him, and on the instant his face clouded -over. He seemed fairly to bristle with an angry animal rage, and he -glared as though he would like to kill Binns, at the same time looking -around to see who else might get off. “My enemy!” was written all over -him. Seeing no one, he ran up to the station-agent and apparently -asked when the train from the West was due. Binns decided at once not -to trail, but instead sought information from his own conductor, who -assured him that the East-bound express would probably be on time five -minutes later, and would certainly stop here. - -“We take the siding here,” he said. “You’ll hear the whistle in a few -minutes.” - -“It always stops here, does it?” asked Binns anxiously. - -“Always.” - -As they talked, Collins came back to the platform’s edge and stood -looking up the track. At the same time this train pulled out, and a -few minutes later the whistle of the express was heard. Now for a real -contest, thought Binns. Somewhere in one of those cars would be this -astounding bandit surrounded by detectives, and his duty, in spite of -the indignity of it, would be to clamber aboard and get there first, -explain who he was, ingratiate himself into the good graces of the -captors and the prisoner, and begin his questioning, vanquishing -Collins as best he might--perhaps by the ease with which he should take -charge. In a few moments the express was rolling into the station, and -then Binns saw his enemy leap aboard and, with that iron effrontery -and savageness which always irritated Binns so much, race through the -forward cars to find the prisoner. Binns was about to essay the rear -cars, but just then the conductor, a portly, genial-looking soul, -stepped down beside him. - -“Is Lem Rollins, the train robber they are bringing in from Bald Knob, -on here?” he inquired. “I’m from the _Star_, and I’ve been sent out to -interview him.” - -“You’re on the wrong road, brother,” smiled the conductor. “He’s not -on this train. Those detective fellows have fooled you newspaper men, -I’m afraid. They’re bringing him in over the M.P., as I understand it. -They took him across from Bald Knob to Wahaba and caught the train -there--but I’ll tell you,” and here he took out a large open-face -silver watch and consulted it, “you might be able to catch him yet if -you run for it. It’s only across the field there. You see that little -yellow station over there? Well, that’s the depot. It’s due now, but -sometimes it’s a little late. You’ll have to run for it, though. You -haven’t a minute to spare.” - -Binns was all aquiver on the instant. Suppose, in spite of Collins’s -zeal and savagery, he should outwit him yet by catching this other -train while he was searching this one! All the gameness of his youth -and profession rose up in him. Without stopping to thank his informer, -he leaped like a hare along the little path which cut diagonally across -this lone field and which was evidently well worn by human feet. As he -ran he wondered whether the genial conductor could possibly have lied -to him to throw him off the track, and also if his enemy, seeing him -running, had discovered his error by now and was following, granting -that the conductor had told him the truth. He looked back occasionally, -taking off his coat and glasses as he ran, and even throwing away -his cane. Apparently Collins was still searching the other train. -And now Binns at the same time, looking eagerly forward toward the -other station, saw a semaphore arm which stood at right angles to the -station lower itself for a clear track for some train. At the same time -he also spied a mail-bag hanging out on a take-post arm, indicating -that whatever this train was and whichever way it might be going, it -was not going to stop here. He turned, still uncertain as to whether -he had made a mistake in not searching the other train. Supposing -the conductor had deliberately fooled him! Suppose Collins had made -some preliminary arrangements of which he knew nothing? Suppose he -had! Supposing the burglar were really on there, and even now Collins -was busy with the opening questions of his interview, while he was -here, behind! Oh Lord, what a beat! And he would have no reasonable -explanation to offer except that he had been outwitted. What would -happen to him? He slowed up in his running, chill beads of sweat -bursting out on his face as he did so, but then, looking backward, he -saw the train begin to move and from it, as if shot out of a gun, the -significant form of Collins leap down and begin to run along this -same path. Then, by George, the robber was not on it, after all! The -conductor had told him the truth! Ha! Collins would now attempt to make -this other train. He had been told that the bandit was coming in on -this. Binns could see him speeding along the path at top speed, his hat -off, his hands waving nervously about. But by now Binns had reached the -station a good three minutes ahead of his rival. - -Desperately he ran into it, a tiny thing, sticking his eager perspiring -face in at the open office window, and calling to the stout, truculent -little occupant of it: - -“When is the East-bound M.P. express due here?” - -“Now,” replied the agent surlily. - -“Does it stop?” - -“No, it don’t stop.” - -“Can it be stopped?” - -“No, it _cannot_!” - -“You mean to say you have no right to stop it?” - -“I mean I won’t stop it.” - -As they spoke there came the ominous shriek of the express’s whistle -tearing on toward them. For the moment he was almost willing that -Collins should join him if only he could make the train and gain this -interview. He must have it. Waxby expected him to get it. Think of what -a beat he would have if he won--what Waxby would think if he failed! - -“Would five dollars stop it?” he asked desperately, diving into his -pocket. - -“No.” - -“Will ten?” - -“It might,” the agent replied crustily, and rose to his feet. - -“Stop it,” urged Binns feverishly, handing over the bill. - -The agent took it, and grabbing a tablet of yellow order blanks which -lay before him, scribbled something on the face of one and ran outside, -holding it up at arm’s length as he did so. At the same time he called -to Binns: - -“Run on down the track! Run after it. She won’t stop here--she can’t. -She’ll go a thousand feet before she can slow up. Get on down there, -and after you’re on I’ll let ’er go.” - -He waved the yellow paper desperately, while Binns, all tense with -excitement and desire, began running as fast as he could in the -direction indicated. Now, if he were lucky, he would make it, and -Collins would be left behind--think of it! He could get them to go -ahead, maybe, before Collins could get aboard. Oh, my! As he ran and -thought, he heard the grinding wheels of the express rushing up behind -him. In a thought, as it were, it was alongside and past, its wheels -shrieking and emitting sparks. True enough, it was stopping! He would -be able to get on! Oh, glory! And maybe Collins wouldn’t be able to! -Wouldn’t that be wonderful? It was far ahead of him now, but almost -stock-still, and he was running like mad. As he ran he could hear the -final gritty screech of the wheels against the brakes as the train came -to a full stop farther on, and then coming up and climbing aboard, -breathless and gasping painfully, he looked back, only to see that his -rival had taken a diagonal course across the common, and was now not -more than a hundred feet behind. He would make the train if he kept -this up. It could scarcely be started quickly enough to leave him -behind, even if Binns paid for it. Instead of setting himself to the -stern task of keeping Mr. Collins off the train, however, as assuredly -Mr. Collins would have done--with his fists or his feet, if necessary, -or his money--Mr. Binns now hesitated, uncertain what to do. On the -rear platform with him was a brakeman newly stepped forth and, coming -out of the door, the conductor. - -“Let her go!” he cried to the conductor. “Let her go! It’s all right! -Go on!” - -“Don’t that other fellow want to get on?” asked the latter curiously. - -“No, no, no!” Binns exclaimed irritably and yet pleading. “Don’t let -him on! He hasn’t any right on here. I arranged to stop this train. I’m -from the _Star_. I’ll pay you if you don’t let him on. It’s the train -robber I want. Go ahead,” but even as he spoke Mr. Collins came up, -panting and wet, but with a leer of triumph and joy over his rival’s -discomfiture written all over his face as he pulled himself up the -steps. - -“You thought you’d leave me behind, didn’t you?” he sneered as he -pushed his way upward. “Well, I fooled you this time, didn’t I?” - -Now was the crucial moment of Mr. Binns’s career had his courage been -equal to it, but it was not. He had the opportunity to do the one -thing which might have wrested victory from defeat--that is, push Mr. -Collins off and keep him off. The train was beginning to move. But -instead of employing this raw force which Mr. Collins would assuredly -have employed, he hesitated and debated, unable in his super-refinement -to make up his mind, while Mr. Collins, not to be daunted or parleyed -with, dashed into the car in search of the robber. In the sudden -immensity of his discomfiture, Binns now followed him with scarcely -a thought for the moment, only to see Collins bustling up to the -bandit in the third car ahead who, handcuffed to a country sheriff and -surrounded by several detectives, was staring idly at the passengers. - -“Gee, sport,” the latter was saying as Mr. Binns sat down, patting -the burglar familiarly on the knee and fixing him with that basilisk -gaze of his which was intended to soothe and flatter the victim, “that -was a great trick you pulled off. The paper’ll be crazy to find out -how you did it. My paper, the _News_, wants a whole page of it. It -wants your picture, too. Say, you didn’t really do it all alone, did -you? Well, that’s what I call swell work, eh, Cap?” and now he turned -his ingratiating leer on the country sheriff and the detectives. In -a moment or two more he was telling them all what an intimate friend -he was of “Billy” Desmond, the chief of detectives of O---- and Mr. -So-and-So, the chief of police, as well as various other dignitaries of -that world. - -Plainly, admitted Binns to himself, he was beaten now, as much so -as this burglar, he thought. His great opportunity was gone. What a -victory this might have been, and now look at it! Disgruntled, he -sat down beside his enemy, beginning to think what to ask, the while -the latter, preening himself in his raw way on his success, began -congratulating the prisoner on his great feat. - -“The dull stuff!” thought Mr. Binns. “To think that I should have -to contend with a creature like this! And these are the people he -considers something! And he wants a whole page for the _News_! My -word! He’d do well if he wrote a half-column alone.” - -Still, to his intense chagrin, he could not fail to see that Mr. -Collins was making excellent headway, not only with the country -sheriff, who was a big bland creature, but the detectives and even -the burglar himself. The latter was a most unpromising specimen for -so unique a deed--short, broad-shouldered, heavy-limbed, with a -squarish, inexpressive, even dull-looking face, blue-gray eyes, dark -brown hair, big, lumpy, rough hands, and a tanned and seamed skin. He -wore the cheap, nondescript clothes of a laborer, a blue “hickory” -shirt, blackish-gray trousers, brownish-maroon coat, and a red bandana -handkerchief in lieu of a collar. On his head was a small round brown -hat pulled down over his eyes after the manner of a cap. He had the -still, indifferent expression of a captive bird, and when Binns finally -faced him and sat down, he seemed scarcely to notice either him or -Collins, or if so with eyes that told nothing. Binns often wondered -afterward what he really did think. At the same time he was so incensed -at the mere presence of Collins that he could scarcely speak. - -The latter had the average detective-politician-gambler’s habit of -simulating an intense interest and an enthusiasm which he did not -feel, his face wreathing itself in a cheery smile, the while his eyes -followed one like those of a hawk, attempting all the while to discover -whether his assumed enthusiasm or friendship was being accepted at its -face value or not. The only time Binns seemed to obtain the least grip -on this situation, or to impress himself on the minds of the detectives -and prisoner, was when it came to those finer shades of questioning -which concerned just why, for what ulterior reasons, the burglar had -attempted this deed alone. But even here, Binns noticed that his -confrère was all ears, and making copious notes. - -But always, to Binns’s astonishment and chagrin, the prisoner as well -as his captors paid more attention to Collins than they did to himself. -They turned to him as to a lamp, and seemed to be really immensely more -impressed with him than with himself, although the principal lines of -questioning fell to him. After a time he became so dour and enraged -that he could think of but one thing that would really have satisfied -him, and that was to attack Collins physically and give him a good -beating. - -However, by degrees and between them, the story was finally extracted, -and a fine tale it made. It appeared that up to seven or eight months -preceding the robbery, possibly a year, Rollins had never thought of -being a train robber but had been only a freight brakeman or yard-hand -on this same road at one of its division points. Latterly he had even -been promoted to be a sort of superior switchman and assistant freight -handler at some station where there was considerable work of this kind. -Previous to his railroad work he had been a livery stable helper in the -town where he was eventually apprehended, and before that a farm-hand -somewhere near the same place. About a year before the crime, owing to -hard times, this road had laid off a large number of men, including -Rollins, and reduced the wages of all others by as much as ten per -cent. Naturally a great deal of labor discontent ensued, and strikes, -riots, and the like were the order of the day. Again, a certain number -of train robberies which were charged and traced to discharged and -dissatisfied employees now followed. The methods of successful train -robbing were then and there so cleverly set forth by the average -newspaper that nearly any burglar so inclined could follow them. Among -other things, while working as a freight handler, Rollins had heard of -the many money shipments made by express companies in their express -cars, their large amounts, the manner in which they were guarded, and -so on. - -The road for which he worked at this time, the M.P., was, as he now -learned, a very popular route for money shipments both East and West. -And although express messengers (as those in charge of the car and -its safe were called) were well and invariably armed owing to the -many train robberies which had been occurring in the West recently, -still these assaults had not been without success. Indeed, the deaths -of various firemen, engineers, messengers, conductors, and even -passengers, and the fact that much money had recently been stolen -and never recovered, had not only encouraged the growth of banditry -everywhere, but had put such an unreasoning fear into most employees -connected with the roads that but few even of those especially picked -guards ventured to give these marauders battle. - -But just the same, the psychology which eventually resulted in this -amazing single-handed attempt and its success was not so much that -Rollins was a poor and discharged railroad hand unable to find any -other form of employment, although that was a part of it, or that he -was an amazingly cold, cruel and subtle soul, which he was not by any -means, but that he was really largely unconscious of the tremendous -risks he was taking. He was just mentally “thick”--well insulated, -as it were. This was a fact which Binns had to bring out and which -Collins noted. He had never, as it now developed, figured it out from -the point of danger, being more or less lobster-like in his nervous -organism, but solely from the point of view of success. In sum, in his -idleness, having wandered back to his native region where he had first -started out as a livery hand, he had now fallen in love with a young -girl there, and then realizing, for the first time perhaps, that he was -rather hard pressed for cash and unable to make her such presents as -he desired, he had begun to think seriously of some method of raising -money. Even this had not resulted in anything until latterly, another -ex-railroad hand who had been laid off by this same company arrived -and proposed, in connection with a third man whom he knew, to rob a -train. At this time Rollins had rejected this scheme as not feasible, -not wishing to connect himself with others in any such crime. Later, -however, his own condition becoming more pressing, he had begun to -think of train robbing as a means of setting himself up in life, only, -as he reasoned, it must be alone. - -Why alone? queried Binns. - -That was the point all were so anxious to discover--why alone, with all -the odds against him? - -Well, he couldn’t say exactly. He had just “kind o’ sort o’ thort,” as -he expressed it, that he might frighten them into letting him alone! -Other bandits (so few as three in one case of which he had read) had -held up large trains. Why not one? Revolver shots fired about a train -easily frightened all passengers as well as all trainmen, so the other -robbers had told him, and anyhow it was a life to death job either -way, and it would be better for him, he thought, if he worked it out -alone instead of with others. Often, he said, other men “squealed,” or -they had girls who told on them. He knew that. Binns looked at him, -intensely interested and all but moved by the sheer courage, or “gall,” -or “grit,” imbedded somewhere in this stocky frame. - -But how could he hope to overcome the engineer, fireman, baggage man, -express messenger, mailmen, conductor, brakeman and passengers, to -say nothing of the Governor and his staff? How? By the way, did he -know at the time that the Governor and his staff were on board? No, -he hadn’t known that until afterward, and as for the others, well, he -just thought he could overawe them. Collins’s eyes were luminous as -Rollins said this, his face radiant. Far more than Binns, he seemed to -understand and even approve of the raw force of all this. - -The manner in which Rollins came to fix on this particular train to rob -was also told. Every Thursday and Friday, or so he had been told while -he was assistant freight handler, a limited which ran West at midnight -past Dolesville carried larger shipments of money than on other nights. -This was due to week-end exchanges between Eastern and Western banks, -although he did not know that. Having decided on the train, although -not on the day, he had proceeded by degrees to secure from one distant -small town and another, and at different times so as to avoid all -chance of detection, first, a small handbag from which he had scraped -all evidence of the maker’s name; six or seven fused sticks of giant -powder such as farmers use to blow up stumps; two revolvers holding -six cartridges each, and some cartridges; and cord and cloth, out of -which he proposed to make bundles of the money if necessary. Placing -all of these in his bag, which he kept always beside him, he next -visited Dolesville, a small town nearest the spot which he had fixed on -in his mind as the place for his crime, and reconnoitering it and its -possibilities, finally arranged all his plans to a nicety. - -Just at the outskirts of this hamlet, as he now told Binns and Collins, -which had been selected because of its proximity to a lone wood and -marsh, stood a large water-tank at which this express as well as nearly -all other trains stopped for water. Beyond it, about five miles, was -the wood with its marsh, where he planned to have the train stopped. -The express, as he learned, was regularly due at about one in the -morning. The nearest town beyond the wood was all of five miles away, a -mere hamlet like this one. - -On the night in question, between eight and nine, he carried the bag, -minus its revolvers and sticks of giant powder, which were now on his -person, to that exact spot opposite the wood where he wished the train -to stop, and left it there beside the railroad track. He then walked -back the five miles to the water-tank, where he concealed himself and -waited for the train. When it stopped, and just before it started -again, he slipped in between the engine tender and the front baggage -car, which was “blind” at both ends. The train resumed its journey, but -on reaching the spot where he felt sure the bag should be, he could not -make it out. The engine headlight did not seem to reveal it. Fearing -to lose his chance and realizing that he was at about the place where -he had left it, he rose up, and climbing over the coal-box, covered -the two men in the cab, and compelled them to stop the train, dismount -and uncouple the engine. Then, revolver in hand, he drove them before -him to the express car door where, presenting one with a fused stick -of giant powder, he forced him to blow open the door; the messenger -within, still refusing to open it although he would not fire, for fear -of killing either the engineer or fireman. Both engineer and fireman, -at his command, then entered the car and blew open the money safe, -throwing out the packages of bills and coin at his word, the while -Rollins, realizing the danger of either trainmen or passengers coming -forward, had been firing a few shots backward toward the rear coaches -so as to overawe the passengers, and at the same time kept calling to -purely imaginary companions to keep watch there. It was these shots and -calls that had presumably sent the Governor and his staff scurrying -to their berths. They also put the fear of death into the minds of -the engineer and fireman and messenger, who imagined that he had many -confrères on the other side of the express car but for some reason, -because he was the leader, no doubt, preferred to act alone. - -“Don’t kill anybody, boys, unless you have to,” is what Rollins said he -called, or “That’s all right, Frank. Stay over there. Watch that side. -I’ll take care of these.” Then he would fire a few more shots, and so -all were deluded. - -Once the express car door and safe had been blown open and the money -handed out, he had now compelled the engineer and fireman to come down, -recouple the engine, and pull away. Only after the train had safely -disappeared in the distance did he venture to gather up the various -packages, only since he had lost his bag and had no light, he had -to fumble about and make a bag of his coat for them. With this over -his shoulder, he eventually staggered off into the wood and marsh, -concealing it under muck and stones, and then making for safety himself. - -But, as it turned out, two slight errors, one of forgetfulness and -one of eyesight, caused him to finally lose the fruit of his victory. -The loss of the bag, in which he had first placed and then forgotten -an initialed handkerchief belonging to his love, eventually brought -about his capture. It is true that he had gone back to look for the -bag, without, however, remembering that the handkerchief was in it, -but fearing capture if he lingered too long, had made off after a -time without it. Later a posse of detectives and citizens arriving -and finding the bag with the initialed handkerchief inside, they were -eventually able to trace him. For, experts meditating on the crime, -decided that owing to the hard times and the laying-off of employees, -some of the latter might have had a hand in it, and so, in due time, -the whereabouts and movements of each and every one of them was gone -into, resulting in the discovery finally that this particular ex-helper -had returned rather recently to his semi-native town and had there been -going with a certain girl, and that even now he was about to marry her. -Also, it was said that he was possessed of unusual means, for him. -Next, it was discovered that her initials corresponded to those on the -handkerchief. Presto, Mr. Rollins was arrested, a search made of his -room, and nearly all of the money recovered. Then, being “caught with -the goods,” he confessed, and here on this day was he being hurried -to O---- to be jailed and sentenced, while Mr. Binns and Mr. Collins, -like harpies, hovered over him, anxious to make literary capital of his -error. - -The only thing that consoled Mr. Binns, now that this story was finally -told, was that although he had failed to make it impossible for Collins -to get it, when it came to the writing of it he would be able to outdo -him, making a better and more connected narrative. Still, even here he -was a little dubious. During this interview Collins had been making -endless notes, putting down each least shade of Binns’s questioning, -and with the aid of one or several of the best men of the _News_ would -probably be able to work it out. Then what would be left? - -But as they were nearing O---- a new situation intruded itself which -soon threatened on the face of it to rob Binns of nearly, if not quite, -all his advantage. And this related, primarily, to the matter of a -picture. It was most essential that one should be made, either here or -in the city, only neither Waxby nor himself, nor the city editor of the -_News_ apparently, had thought to include an artist on this expedition. -Now the importance of this became more and more apparent, and Collins, -with that keen sense he had for making tremendous capital of seeming -by-products, suggested, after first remarking that he “guessed” they -would have to send to police headquarters afterward and have one made: - -“How would it do, old man, if we took him up to the _News_ office after -we get in, and let your friends Hill and Weaver make a picture of him?” -(These two were intimates of Binns in the art department, as Collins -happened to know.) “Then both of us could get one right away. I’d say -take him to the _Star_, only the _News_ is so much nearer” (which was -true), “and we have that new flash-light machine, you know” (which was -also true, the _Star_ being but poorly equipped in this respect). He -added a friendly aside to the effect that of course this depended on -whether the prisoner and officers in charge were willing. - -“No, no, no!” replied Binns irritably and suspiciously. “No, I won’t -do that. You mean you want to get him into the _News_ office first. -Not at all. I’ll never stand for that. Hill and Weaver are my friends, -but I won’t do it. If you want to bring him down to the _Star_, that’s -different. I’ll agree to that. Our art department can make pictures -just as good as yours, and you can have one.” - -For a moment Collins’s face fell, but he soon returned to the attack. -From his manner one would have judged that he was actually desirous of -doing Binns a favor. - -“But why not the _News_?” he insisted pleasantly. “Those two boys are -your friends. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Think of the -difference in the distance, the time we’ll save. We want to save time, -don’t we? Here it is nearly six-thirty, and by the time we get back to -the office it’ll be half-past seven or eight. It’s all right for you, -because you can write faster, but look at me. I’d just as lief go down -there as not, but what’s the difference? Besides the _News_ has got a -better plant, and you know it. Either Hill or Weaver’ll make a fine -picture, and they’ll give you one. Ain’t that all right?” - -At once he sensed what it was that Collins wanted. What he really -understood was that if Collins could get this great train robber into -the office of the _News_ _first_, it would take away so much of the -sheer necessity he would be put to of repeating all he had heard and -seen en route. For once there, other staff members would be able to -take the criminal in hand and with the aid of what Collins had to -report, extract such a tale as even Binns himself could not better. In -addition, it would be such a triumph of reporting--to go out and bring -your subject in! - -“No, it’s not,” replied Binns truculently, “and I won’t do it. It’s all -right about Hill and Weaver. I know they’ll give me a picture if the -paper will let them, but I know the paper won’t let them, and besides, -you’re not doing it for that reason. I know what you want. You want to -be able to claim in the morning that you brought this man to the _News_ -_first_. I know you.” - -For a moment Collins appeared to be quieted by this, and half seemed to -abandon the project. He took it up again after a few moments, however, -seemingly in the most conciliatory spirit in the world, only now he -kept boring Binns with his eyes, a thing which he had never attempted -before. - -“Aw, come on,” he repeated genially, looking Binns squarely in the -eyes. “What’s the use being small about this? You know you’ve got the -best of the story anyhow. And you’re goin’ to get a picture too, the -same as us. If you don’t, then we’ll have to go clear to your office or -send a man down to the jail. Think of the time it’ll take. What’s the -use of that? One picture’s as good as another. And you can’t take any -good pictures down there to-night, anyhow, and you know it.” - -As he talked he held Binns’s eyes with his own, and all at once the -latter began to feel a curious wave of warmth, ease and uncertainty -or confusion creep over him in connection with all this. What was so -wrong with this proposition, anyhow, he began to ask himself, even -while inwardly something was telling him that it was all wrong and -that he was making a great mistake. For the first time in his life, -and especially in connection with so trying a situation, he began -to feel an odd sense of ease and comfort, or as if surrounded by a -cloud of something that was comfortable and soothing. This scheme of -Collins’s was not so bad after all, he thought. What was wrong with it? -Hill and Weaver were his friends. They would make a good picture and -give him one. Everything Collins was saying seemed true enough, only, -only---- For the first time since knowing him, and in spite of all his -opposition of this afternoon and before, Binns found himself not hating -his rival as violently as he had in the past, but feeling as though he -weren’t such an utterly bad sort after all. Curiously, though, he still -didn’t believe a word that Collins said, but---- - -“To the _News_, sure,” he found himself saying in a dumb, half-numb -or sensuously warm way. “That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s nearer. What’s -wrong with that? Hill or Weaver will make a good picture seven or eight -inches long, and then I can take it along,” only at the same time he -was thinking to himself, “I shouldn’t really do this. I shouldn’t -think it. He’ll claim the credit of having brought this man to the -_News_ office. He’s a big bluff, and I hate him. I’ll be making a big -mistake. The _Star_ or nothing--that’s what I should say. Let him come -down to the _Star_.” - -In the meantime they were entering O----, the station of which now -appeared. By now, somehow, Collins had not only convinced the officers, -but the prisoner himself. Binns could even see the rural love of show -and parade a-gleam in their eyes, their respect for the _News_, the -larger paper, as opposed to the _Star_. The _Star_ might be all right, -but plainly the _News_ was the great place in the sight of these rurals -for such an exhibition as this. What a pity, he thought, that he had -ever left the _News_! - -As he arose with the others to leave the train he said dully, “No, I -won’t come in on this. It’s all right if you want to bring him down to -the _Star_, or you can take him to police headquarters. But I’m not -going to let you do this. You hear now, don’t you?” - -But outside, Collins laying hold of his arm in an amazingly genial -fashion, seemed to come nearer to him humanly than he had ever dreamed -was possible before. - -“You come up with me to the _News_ now,” Collins kept saying, “and then -I’ll go down with you to the _Star_, see? We’ll just let Hill or Weaver -take one picture, and then we’ll go down to your place--you see?” - -Although Mr. Binns did not see, he went. For the time, nothing -seemed important. If Collins had stayed by him he could possibly -have prevented his writing any story at all. Even as Binns dreamed, -Collins hailed a carriage, and the six of them crowded into it and were -forthwith whirled away to the door of the _News_ where, once they had -reached it and Collins, the detectives, and the bandit began hurrying -across the sidewalk to that familiar door which once had meant so much -to him, Binns suddenly awoke. What was it--the door? Or the temporary -distraction of Collins? At any rate, he awoke now and made a frantic -effort to retrieve himself. - -“Wait!” he called. “Say, hold on! Stop! I won’t do this at all. I don’t -agree to this!” but now it was too late. In a trice the prisoner, -officers, Collins and even himself were up the two or three low -steps of the main entrance and into the hall, and then seeing the -hopelessness of it he paused as they entered the elevator and was left -to meditate on the inexplicability of the thing that had been done to -him. - -What was it? How had this low brute succeeded in doing this to him? By -the Lord, he had succeeded in hypnotizing him, or something very much -like it. What had become, then, of his superior brain, his intellectual -force, in the face of this gross savage desire on the part of Collins -to win? It was unbelievable. Collins had beaten him, and that in a -field and at a task at which he deemed himself unusually superior. - -“Great heavens!” he suddenly exclaimed to himself. “That’s what he’s -done, he’s beaten me at my own game! He’s taken the prisoner, whom I -really had in my own hands at one time, into the office of our great -rival, and now in the morning it will all be in the paper! And I -allowed him to do it! And I had him beaten, too! Why didn’t I kick him -off the train? Why didn’t I bribe the conductor to help me? I could -have. I was afraid of him, that’s what it is. And to-morrow there’ll -be a long editorial in the _News_ telling how this fellow was brought -first to the _News_ and photographed, and they’ll have his picture to -prove it. Oh, Lord, what shall I do? How am I to get out of this?” - -Disconsolate and weary, he groaned and swore for blocks as he made -his way toward the office of the _Star_. How to break it to Waxby! -How to explain! The exact truth meant disgrace, possibly dismissal. -He couldn’t tell really, as he had hoped he might, how he had all -but prevented Collins from obtaining any interview. Waxby would have -sniffed at his weakness in a crisis, put him down as a failure. - -Reaching the office, he told another kind of story which was but a -half truth. What he could and did say was that the police, being -temperamentally _en rapport_ with Collins, had worked with him and -against the _Star_; that in spite of anything he could do, these rural -officers and detectives had preferred to follow Collins rather than -himself, that the superior position of the _News_ had lured them, and -that against his final and fierce protest they had eventually gone in -there, since the _News_ was on the natural route to the jail, and the -_Star_ was not. - -Now it was Waxby’s turn to rage, and he did--not at Binns, but at the -low dogs of police who were always favoring the _News_ at the expense -of the _Star_. They had done it in the past, as he well knew, when he -was city editor of the _News_. Then it had pleased him--but now---- - -“I’ll fix them!” he squeaked shrilly. “I’ll make them sweat. No more -favors from me, by----,” and rushing a photographer to the jail he had -various pictures made, excellent ones, for that matter--only, what -was the good? The fact that the _News_ had the honor of making the -first picture of this celebrity under its own roof, its own vine and -fig-tree, was galling. As a matter of fact, Waxby by now was blaming -himself for not having sent an artist along. - -But to Binns the sad part was that Collins had him beaten, and that in -the face of his self-boasted superiority. In spite of the fact that he -might slave over the text, as he did, giving it, because of his despair -and chagrin, all his best touches, still, the next morning, there -on the front page of the _News_, was a large picture of the bandit -seated in the sanctum sanctorum of the _News_, entirely surrounded by -reporters and editors, and with a portion of the figure, although not -the head, of the publisher himself in the background. And over it all -in extra large type was the caption: - -“LOAN TRAIN ROBBER VISITS OFFICE OF _NEWS_ TO PAY HIS RESPECTS” while -underneath, in italics, was a full account of how _willingly_ he had -visited the _News_ because of its immense commercial, moral and other -forms of superiority. - -Was Binns beaten? - -Well, rather! - -And did he feel it? - -He suffered tortures, not only for days, but for weeks and months, -absolute tortures. The very thought of Collins made him want to rise -and slay him. - -“To think,” he said over and over to himself, “that a low dog like -Collins on whom I wouldn’t wipe my feet intellectually, as it were, -could do this to me! He hypnotized me, by George! He did! He can! Maybe -he could do it again! I wonder if he knows? Am I really the lesser and -this scum the greater? Do writers grow on trees?” - -Sad thought. - -And some weeks later, meeting his old enemy one day on the street, he -had the immense dissatisfaction of seeing the light of triumph and -contempt in his eyes. The latter was so bold now, and getting along so -well as a _reporter_, or “newspaper man,” that he had the hardihood to -leer, sniff and exclaim: - -“These swell reporters! These high-priced ink-slingers! Say, who got -the best of the train robber story, huh?” - -And Binns replied---- - -But never mind what Binns replied. It wouldn’t be fit to read, and no -publisher would print it anyhow. - - - - -OLD ROGAUM AND HIS THERESA - - -In all Bleecker Street was no more comfortable doorway than that of the -butcher Rogaum, even if the first floor was given over to meat market -purposes. It was to one side of the main entrance, which gave ingress -to the butcher shop, and from it led up a flight of steps, at least -five feet wide, to the living rooms above. A little portico stood out -in front of it, railed on either side, and within was a second or final -door, forming, with the outer or storm door, a little area, where Mrs. -Rogaum and her children frequently sat of a summer’s evening. The outer -door was never locked, owing to the inconvenience it would inflict on -Mr. Rogaum, who had no other way of getting upstairs. In winter, when -all had gone to bed, there had been cases in which belated travelers -had taken refuge there from the snow or sleet. One or two newsboys -occasionally slept there, until routed out by Officer Maguire, who, -seeing it half open one morning at two o’clock, took occasion to look -in. He jogged the newsboys sharply with his stick, and then, when they -were gone, tried the inner door, which was locked. - -“You ought to keep that outer door locked, Rogaum,” he observed to the -phlegmatic butcher the next evening, as he was passing, “people might -get in. A couple o’ kids was sleepin’ in there last night.” - -“Ach, dot iss no difference,” answered Rogaum pleasantly. “I haf der -inner door locked, yet. Let dem sleep. Dot iss no difference.” - -“Better lock it,” said the officer, more to vindicate his authority -than anything else. “Something will happen there yet.” - -The door was never locked, however, and now of a summer evening Mrs. -Rogaum and the children made pleasant use of its recess, watching -the route of street cars and occasionally belated trucks go by. The -children played on the sidewalk, all except the budding Theresa -(eighteen just turning), who, with one companion of the neighborhood, -the pretty Kenrihan girl, walked up and down the block, laughing, -glancing, watching the boys. Old Mrs. Kenrihan lived in the next -block, and there, sometimes, the two stopped. There, also, they -most frequently pretended to be when talking with the boys in the -intervening side street. Young “Connie” Almerting and George Goujon -were the bright particular mashers who held the attention of the -maidens in this block. These two made their acquaintance in the -customary bold, boyish way, and thereafter the girls had an urgent -desire to be out in the street together after eight, and to linger -where the boys could see and overtake them. - -Old Mrs. Rogaum never knew. She was a particularly fat, old German -lady, completely dominated by her liege and portly lord, and at nine -o’clock regularly, as he had long ago deemed meet and fit, she was wont -to betake her way upward and so to bed. Old Rogaum himself, at that -hour, closed the market and went to his chamber. - -Before that all the children were called sharply, once from the -doorstep below and once from the window above, only Mrs. Rogaum did it -first and Rogaum last. It had come, because of a shade of lenience, not -wholly apparent in the father’s nature, that the older of the children -needed two callings and sometimes three. Theresa, now that she had “got -in” with the Kenrihan maiden, needed that many calls and even more. - -She was just at that age for which mere thoughtless, sensory life holds -its greatest charm. She loved to walk up and down in the as yet bright -street where were voices and laughter, and occasionally moonlight -streaming down. What a nuisance it was to be called at nine, anyhow. -Why should one have to go in then, anyhow. What old fogies her parents -were, wishing to go to bed so early. Mrs. Kenrihan was not so strict -with her daughter. It made her pettish when Rogaum insisted, calling -as he often did, in German, “Come you now,” in a very hoarse and -belligerent voice. - -She came, eventually, frowning and wretched, all the moonlight calling -her, all the voices of the night urging her to come back. Her innate -opposition due to her urgent youth made her coming later and later, -however, until now, by August of this, her eighteenth year, it was -nearly ten when she entered, and Rogaum was almost invariably angry. - -“I vill lock you oudt,” he declared, in strongly accented English, -while she tried to slip by him each time. “I vill show you. Du sollst -come ven I say, yet. Hear now.” - -“I’ll not,” answered Theresa, but it was always under her breath. - -Poor Mrs. Rogaum troubled at hearing the wrath in her husband’s voice. -It spoke of harder and fiercer times which had been with her. Still she -was not powerful enough in the family councils to put in a weighty -word. So Rogaum fumed unrestricted. - -There were other nights, however, many of them, and now that the young -sparks of the neighborhood had enlisted the girls’ attention, it was -a more trying time than ever. Never did a street seem more beautiful. -Its shabby red walls, dusty pavements and protruding store steps and -iron railings seemed bits of the ornamental paraphernalia of heaven -itself. These lights, the cars, the moon, the street lamps! Theresa -had a tender eye for the dashing Almerting, a young idler and loafer -of the district, the son of a stationer farther up the street. What a -fine fellow he was, indeed! What a handsome nose and chin! What eyes! -What authority! His cigarette was always cocked at a high angle, in -her presence, and his hat had the least suggestion of being set to one -side. He had a shrewd way of winking one eye, taking her boldly by the -arm, hailing her as, “Hey, Pretty!” and was strong and athletic and -worked (when he worked) in a tobacco factory. His was a trade, indeed, -nearly acquired, as he said, and his jingling pockets attested that he -had money of his own. Altogether he was very captivating. - -“Aw, whaddy ya want to go in for?” he used to say to her, tossing his -head gayly on one side to listen and holding her by the arm, as old -Rogaum called. “Tell him yuh didn’t hear.” - -“No, I’ve got to go,” said the girl, who was soft and plump and fair--a -Rhine maiden type. - -“Well, yuh don’t have to go just yet. Stay another minute. George, what -was that fellow’s name that tried to sass us the other day?” - -“Theresa!” roared old Rogaum forcefully. “If you do not now come! Ve -vill see!” - -“I’ve got to go,” repeated Theresa with a faint effort at starting. -“Can’t you hear? Don’t hold me. I haf to.” - -“Aw, whaddy ya want to be such a coward for? Y’ don’t have to go. He -won’t do nothin’ tuh yuh. My old man was always hollerin’ like that up -tuh a coupla years ago. Let him holler! Say, kid, but yuh got sweet -eyes! They’re as blue! An’ your mouth----” - -“Now stop! You hear me!” Theresa would protest softly, as, swiftly, he -would slip an arm about her waist and draw her to him, sometimes in a -vain, sometimes in a successful effort to kiss her. - -As a rule she managed to interpose an elbow between her face and -his, but even then he would manage to touch an ear or a cheek or her -neck--sometimes her mouth, full and warm--before she would develop -sufficient energy to push him away and herself free. Then she would -protest mock earnestly or sometimes run away. - -“Now, I’ll never speak to you any more, if that’s the way you’re going -to do. My father don’t allow me to kiss boys, anyhow,” and then she -would run, half ashamed, half smiling to herself as he would stare -after her, or if she lingered, develop a kind of anger and even rage. - -“Aw, cut it! Whaddy ya want to be so shy for? Don’tcha like me? What’s -gettin’ into yuh, anyhow? Hey?” - -In the meantime George Goujon and Myrtle Kenrihan, their companions, -might be sweeting and going through a similar contest, perhaps a -hundred feet up the street or near at hand. The quality of old Rogaum’s -voice would by now have become so raucous, however, that Theresa would -have lost all comfort in the scene and, becoming frightened, hurry -away. Then it was often that both Almerting and Goujon as well as -Myrtle Kenrihan would follow her to the corner, almost in sight of the -irate old butcher. - -“Let him call,” young Almerting would insist, laying a final hold on -her soft white fingers and causing her to quiver thereby. - -“Oh, no,” she would gasp nervously. “I can’t.” - -“Well, go on, then,” he would say, and with a flip of his heel would -turn back, leaving Theresa to wonder whether she had alienated him -forever or no. Then she would hurry to her father’s door. - -“Muss ich all my time spenden calling, mit you on de streeds oudt?” old -Rogaum would roar wrathfully, the while his fat hand would descend on -her back. “Take dot now. Vy don’d you come ven I call? In now. I vill -show you. Und come you yussed vunce more at dis time--ve vill see if I -am boss in my own house, aber! Komst du vun minute nach ten to-morrow -und you vill see vot you vill get. I vill der door lock. Du sollst -not in kommen. Mark! Oudt sollst du stayen--oudt!” and he would glare -wrathfully at her retreating figure. - -Sometimes Theresa would whimper, sometimes cry or sulk. She almost -hated her father for his cruelty, “the big, fat, rough thing,” and just -because she wanted to stay out in the bright streets, too! Because he -was old and stout and wanted to go to bed at ten, he thought every one -else did. And outside was the dark sky with its stars, the street -lamps, the cars, the tinkle and laughter of eternal life! - -“Oh!” she would sigh as she undressed and crawled into her small neat -bed. To think that she had to live like this all her days! At the -same time old Rogaum was angry and equally determined. It was not so -much that he imagined that his Theresa was in bad company as yet, but -he wished to forefend against possible danger. This was not a good -neighborhood by any means. The boys around here were tough. He wanted -Theresa to pick some nice sober youth from among the other Germans he -and his wife knew here and there--at the Lutheran Church, for instance. -Otherwise she shouldn’t marry. He knew she only walked from his shop -to the door of the Kenrihans and back again. Had not his wife told him -so? If he had thought upon what far pilgrimage her feet had already -ventured, or had even seen the dashing Almerting hanging near, then had -there been wrath indeed. As it was, his mind was more or less at ease. - -On many, many evenings it was much the same. Sometimes she got in on -time, sometimes not, but more and more “Connie” Almerting claimed her -for his “steady,” and bought her ice-cream. In the range of the short -block and its confining corners it was all done, lingering by the -curbstone and strolling a half block either way in the side streets, -until she had offended seriously at home, and the threat was repeated -anew. He often tried to persuade her to go on picnics or outings of -various kinds, but this, somehow, was not to be thought of at her -age--at least with him. She knew her father would never endure the -thought, and never even had the courage to mention it, let alone run -away. Mere lingering with him at the adjacent street corners brought -stronger and stronger admonishments--even more blows and the threat -that she should not get in at all. - -Well enough she meant to obey, but on one radiant night late in June -the time fled too fast. The moon was so bright, the air so soft. The -feel of far summer things was in the wind and even in this dusty -street. Theresa, in a newly starched white summer dress, had been -loitering up and down with Myrtle when as usual they encountered -Almerting and Goujon. Now it was ten, and the regular calls were -beginning. - -“Aw, wait a minute,” said “Connie.” “Stand still. He won’t lock yuh -out.” - -“But he will, though,” said Theresa. “You don’t know him.” - -“Well, if he does, come on back to me. I’ll take care of yuh. I’ll be -here. But he won’t though. If you stayed out a little while he’d letcha -in all right. That’s the way my old man used to try to do me but it -didn’t work with me. I stayed out an’ he let me in, just the same. -Don’tcha let him kidja.” He jingled some loose change in his pocket. - -Never in his life had he had a girl on his hands at any unseasonable -hour, but it was nice to talk big, and there was a club to which he -belonged, The Varick Street Roosters, and to which he had a key. It -would be closed and empty at this hour, and she could stay there until -morning, if need be or with Myrtle Kenrihan. He would take her there if -she insisted. There was a sinister grin on the youth’s face. - -By now Theresa’s affections had carried her far. This youth with his -slim body, his delicate strong hands, his fine chin, straight mouth and -hard dark eyes--how wonderful he seemed! He was but nineteen to her -eighteen but cold, shrewd, daring. Yet how tender he seemed to her, how -well worth having! Always, when he kissed her now, she trembled in the -balance. There was something in the iron grasp of his fingers that went -through her like fire. His glance held hers at times when she could -scarcely endure it. - -“I’ll wait, anyhow,” he insisted. - -Longer and longer she lingered, but now for once no voice came. - -She began to feel that something was wrong--a greater strain than if -old Rogaum’s voice had been filling the whole neighborhood. - -“I’ve got to go,” she said. - -“Gee, but you’re a coward, yuh are!” said he derisively. “What ’r yuh -always so scared about? He always says he’ll lock yuh out, but he never -does.” - -“Yes, but he will,” she insisted nervously. “I think he has this time. -You don’t know him. He’s something awful when he gets real mad. Oh, -Connie, I must go!” For the sixth or seventh time she moved, and once -more he caught her arm and waist and tried to kiss her, but she slipped -away from him. - -“Ah, yuh!” he exclaimed. “I wish he would lock yuh out!” - -At her own doorstep she paused momentarily, more to soften her progress -than anything. The outer door was open as usual, but not the inner. -She tried it, but it would not give. It was locked! For a moment she -paused, cold fear racing over her body, and then knocked. - -No answer. - -Again she rattled the door, this time nervously, and was about to cry -out. - -Still no answer. - -At last she heard her father’s voice, hoarse and indifferent, not -addressed to her at all, but to her mother. - -“Let her go, now,” it said savagely, from the front room where he -supposed she could not hear. “I vill her a lesson teach.” - -“Hadn’t you better let her in now, yet?” pleaded Mrs. Rogaum faintly. - -“No,” insisted Mr. Rogaum. “Nefer! Let her go now. If she vill alvays -stay oudt, let her stay now. Ve vill see how she likes dot.” - -His voice was rich in wrath, and he was saving up a good beating for -her into the bargain, that she knew. She would have to wait and wait -and plead, and when she was thoroughly wretched and subdued he would -let her in and beat her--such a beating as she had never received in -all her born days. - -Again the door rattled, and still she got no answer. Not even her call -brought a sound. - -Now, strangely, a new element, not heretofore apparent in her nature -but nevertheless wholly there, was called into life, springing in -action as Diana, full formed. Why should he always be so harsh? She -hadn’t done anything but stay out a little later than usual. He was -always so anxious to keep her in and subdue her. For once the cold -chill of her girlish fears left her, and she wavered angrily. - -“All right,” she said, some old German stubbornness springing up, “I -won’t knock. You don’t need to let me in, then.” - -A suggestion of tears was in her eyes, but she backed firmly out onto -the stoop and sat down, hesitating. Old Rogaum saw her, lowering down -from the lattice, but said nothing. He would teach her for once what -were proper hours! - -At the corner, standing, Almerting also saw her. He recognized the -simple white dress, and paused steadily, a strange thrill racing -over him. Really they had locked her out! Gee, this was new. It was -great, in a way. There she was, white, quiet, shut out, waiting at her -father’s doorstep. - -Sitting thus, Theresa pondered a moment, her girlish rashness and anger -dominating her. Her pride was hurt and she felt revengeful. They would -shut her out, would they? All right, she would go out and they should -look to it how they would get her back--the old curmudgeons. For the -moment the home of Myrtle Kenrihan came to her as a possible refuge, -but she decided that she need not go there yet. She had better wait -about awhile and see--or walk and frighten them. He would beat her, -would he? Well, maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. She might come -back, but still that was a thing afar off. Just now it didn’t matter so -much. “Connie” was still there on the corner. He loved her dearly. She -felt it. - -Getting up, she stepped to the now quieting sidewalk and strolled up -the street. It was a rather nervous procedure, however. There were -street cars still, and stores lighted and people passing, but soon -these would not be, and she was locked out. The side streets were -already little more than long silent walks and gleaming rows of lamps. - -At the corner her youthful lover almost pounced upon her. - -“Locked out, are yuh?” he asked, his eyes shining. - -For the moment she was delighted to see him, for a nameless dread had -already laid hold of her. Home meant so much. Up to now it had been her -whole life. - -“Yes,” she answered feebly. - -“Well, let’s stroll on a little,” said the boy. He had not as yet quite -made up his mind what to do, but the night was young. It was so fine to -have her with him--his. - -At the farther corner they passed Officers Maguire and Delahanty, idly -swinging their clubs and discussing politics. - -“’Tis a shame,” Officer Delahanty was saying, “the way things are run -now,” but he paused to add, “Ain’t that old Rogaum’s girl over there -with young Almerting?” - -“It is,” replied Maguire, looking after. - -“Well, I’m thinkin’ he’d better be keepin’ an eye on her,” said the -former. “She’s too young to be runnin’ around with the likes o’ him.” - -Maguire agreed. “He’s a young tough,” he observed. “I never liked him. -He’s too fresh. He works over here in Myer’s tobacco factory, and -belongs to The Roosters. He’s up to no good, I’ll warrant that.” - -“Teach ’em a lesson, I would,” Almerting was saying to Theresa as they -strolled on. “We’ll walk around a while an’ make ’em think yuh mean -business. They won’t lock yuh out any more. If they don’t let yuh in -when we come back I’ll find yuh a place, all right.” - -His sharp eyes were gleaming as he looked around into her own. Already -he had made up his mind that she should not go back if he could help -it. He knew a better place than home for this night, anyhow--the club -room of the Roosters, if nowhere else. They could stay there for a -time, anyhow. - -By now old Rogaum, who had seen her walking up the street alone, was -marveling at her audacity, but thought she would soon come back. It was -amazing that she should exhibit such temerity, but he would teach her! -Such a whipping! At half-past ten, however, he stuck his head out of -the open window and saw nothing of her. At eleven, the same. Then he -walked the floor. - -At first wrathful, then nervous, then nervous and wrathful, he finally -ended all nervous, without a scintilla of wrath. His stout wife sat up -in bed and began to wring her hands. - -“Lie down!” he commanded. “You make me sick. I know vot I am doing!” - -“Is she still at der door?” pleaded the mother. - -“No,” he said. “I don’t tink so. She should come ven I call.” - -His nerves were weakening, however, and now they finally collapsed. - -“She vent de stread up,” he said anxiously after a time. “I vill go -after.” - -Slipping on his coat, he went down the stairs and out into the night. -It was growing late, and the stillness and gloom of midnight were -nearing. Nowhere in sight was his Theresa. First one way and then -another he went, looking here, there, everywhere, finally groaning. - -“Ach, Gott!” he said, the sweat bursting out on his brow, “vot in -Teufel’s name iss dis?” - -He thought he would seek a policeman, but there was none. Officer -Maguire had long since gone for a quiet game in one of the neighboring -saloons. His partner had temporarily returned to his own beat. Still -old Rogaum hunted on, worrying more and more. - -Finally he bethought him to hasten home again, for she must have got -back. Mrs. Rogaum, too, would be frantic if she had not. If she were -not there he must go to the police. Such a night! And his Theresa---- -This thing could not go on. - -As he turned into his own corner he almost ran, coming up to the little -portico wet and panting. At a puffing step he turned, and almost fell -over a white body at his feet, a prone and writhing woman. - -“Ach, Gott!” he cried aloud, almost shouting in his distress and -excitement. “Theresa, vot iss dis? Wilhelmina, a light now. Bring a -light now, I say, for himmel’s sake! Theresa hat sich _umgebracht_. -Help!” - -He had fallen to his knees and was turning over the writhing, groaning -figure. By the pale light of the street, however, he could make out -that it was not his Theresa, fortunately, as he had at first feared, -but another and yet there was something very like her in the figure. - -“Um!” said the stranger weakly. “Ah!” - -The dress was gray, not white as was his Theresa’s, but the body was -round and plump. It cut the fiercest cords of his intensity, this -thought of death to a young woman, but there was something else about -the situation which made him forget his own troubles. - -Mrs. Rogaum, loudly admonished, almost tumbled down the stairs. At the -foot she held the light she had brought--a small glass oil-lamp--and -then nearly dropped it. A fairly attractive figure, more girl than -woman, rich in all the physical charms that characterize a certain -type, lay near to dying. Her soft hair had fallen back over a good -forehead, now quite white. Her pretty hands, well decked with rings, -were clutched tightly in an agonized grip. At her neck a blue silk -shirtwaist and light lace collar were torn away where she had clutched -herself, and on the white flesh was a yellow stain as of one who had -been burned. A strange odor reeked in the area, and in one corner was a -spilled bottle. - -“Ach, Gott!” exclaimed Mrs. Rogaum. “It iss a vooman! She haf herself -gekilt. Run for der police! Oh, my! oh, my!” - -Rogaum did not kneel for more than a moment. Somehow, this creature’s -fate seemed in some psychic way identified with that of his own -daughter. He bounded up, and jumping out his front door, began to call -lustily for the police. Officer Maguire, at his social game nearby, -heard the very first cry and came running. - -“What’s the matter here, now?” he exclaimed, rushing up full and ready -for murder, robbery, fire, or, indeed, anything in the whole roster of -human calamities. - -“A vooman!” said Rogaum excitedly. “She haf herself _umgebracht_. She -iss dying. Ach, Gott! in my own doorstep, yet!” - -“Vere iss der hospital?” put in Mrs. Rogaum, thinking clearly of an -ambulance, but not being able to express it. “She iss gekilt, sure. -Oh! Oh!” and bending over her the poor old motherly soul stroked the -tightened hands, and trickled tears upon the blue shirtwaist. “Ach, vy -did you do dot?” she said. “Ach, for vy?” - -Officer Maguire was essentially a man of action. He jumped to the -sidewalk, amid the gathering company, and beat loudly with his club -upon the stone flagging. Then he ran to the nearest police phone, -returning to aid in any other way he might. A milk wagon passing on its -way from the Jersey ferry with a few tons of fresh milk aboard, he held -it up and demanded a helping. - -“Give us a quart there, will you?” he said authoritatively. “A woman’s -swallowed acid in here.” - -“Sure,” said the driver, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement. -“Got a glass, anybody?” - -Maguire ran back and returned, bearing a measure. Mrs. Rogaum stood -looking nervously on, while the stocky officer raised the golden head -and poured the milk. - -“Here, now, drink this,” he said. “Come on. Try an’ swallow it.” - -The girl, a blonde of the type the world too well knows, opened her -eyes, and looked, groaning a little. - -“Drink it,” shouted the officer fiercely. “Do you want to die? Open -your mouth!” - -Used to a fear of the law in all her days, she obeyed now, even in -death. The lips parted, the fresh milk was drained to the end, some -spilling on neck and cheek. - -While they were working old Rogaum came back and stood looking on, by -the side of his wife. Also Officer Delahanty, having heard the peculiar -wooden ring of the stick upon the stone in the night, had come up. - -“Ach, ach,” exclaimed Rogaum rather distractedly, “und she iss oudt -yet. I could not find her. Oh, oh!” - -There was a clang of a gong up the street as the racing ambulance -turned rapidly in. A young hospital surgeon dismounted, and seeing the -woman’s condition, ordered immediate removal. Both officers and Rogaum, -as well as the surgeon, helped place her in the ambulance. After a -moment the lone bell, ringing wildly in the night, was all the evidence -remaining that a tragedy had been here. - -“Do you know how she came here?” asked Officer Delahanty, coming back -to get Rogaum’s testimony for the police. - -“No, no,” answered Rogaum wretchedly. “She vass here alretty. I vass -for my daughter loog. Ach, himmel, I haf my daughter lost. She iss -avay.” - -Mrs. Rogaum also chattered, the significance of Theresa’s absence all -the more painfully emphasized by this. - -The officer did not at first get the import of this. He was only -interested in the facts of the present case. - -“You say she was here when you come? Where was you?” - -“I say I vass for my daughter loog. I come here, und der vooman vass -here now alretty.” - -“Yes. What time was this?” - -“Only now yet. Yussed a half-hour.” - -Officer Maguire had strolled up, after chasing away a small crowd that -had gathered with fierce and unholy threats. For the first time now he -noticed the peculiar perturbation of the usually placid German couple. - -“What about your daughter?” he asked, catching a word as to that. - -Both old people raised their voices at once. - -“She haf gone. She haf run avay. Ach, himmel, ve must for her loog. -Quick--she could not get in. Ve had der door shut.” - -“Locked her out, eh?” inquired Maguire after a time, hearing much of -the rest of the story. - -“Yes,” explained Rogaum. “It was to schkare her a liddle. She vould not -come ven I called.” - -“Sure, that’s the girl we saw walkin’ with young Almerting, do ye mind? -The one in the white dress,” said Delahanty to Maguire. - -“White dress, yah!” echoed Rogaum, and then the fact of her walking -with some one came home like a blow. - -“Did you hear dot?” he exclaimed even as Mrs. Rogaum did likewise. -“_Mein Gott, hast du das gehoert?_” - -He fairly jumped as he said it. His hands flew up to his stout and -ruddy head. - -“Whaddy ya want to let her out for nights?” asked Maguire roughly, -catching the drift of the situation. “That’s no time for young girls -to be out, anyhow, and with these toughs around here. Sure, I saw her, -nearly two hours ago.” - -“Ach,” groaned Rogaum. “Two hours yet. Ho, ho, ho!” His voice was quite -hysteric. - -“Well, go on in,” said Officer Delahanty. “There’s no use yellin’ out -here. Give us a description of her an’ we’ll send out an alarm. You -won’t be able to find her walkin’ around.” - -Her parents described her exactly. The two men turned to the nearest -police box and then disappeared, leaving the old German couple in the -throes of distress. A time-worn old church-clock nearby now chimed -out one and then two. The notes cut like knives. Mrs. Rogaum began -fearfully to cry. Rogaum walked and blustered to himself. - -“It’s a queer case, that,” said Officer Delahanty to Maguire after -having reported the matter of Theresa, but referring solely to the -outcast of the doorway so recently sent away and in whose fate they -were much more interested. She being a part of the commercialized vice -of the city, they were curious as to the cause of her suicide. “I -think I know that woman. I think I know where she came from. You do, -too--Adele’s, around the corner, eh? She didn’t come into that doorway -by herself, either. She was put there. You know how they do.” - -“You’re right,” said Maguire. “She was put there, all right, and that’s -just where she come from, too.” - -The two of them now tipped up their noses and cocked their eyes -significantly. - -“Let’s go around,” added Maguire. - -They went, the significant red light over the transom at 68 telling -its own story. Strolling leisurely up, they knocked. At the very first -sound a painted denizen of the half-world opened the door. - -“Where’s Adele?” asked Maguire as the two, hats on as usual, stepped -in. - -“She’s gone to bed.” - -“Tell her to come down.” - -They seated themselves deliberately in the gaudy mirrored parlor -and waited, conversing between themselves in whispers. Presently a -sleepy-looking woman of forty in a gaudy robe of heavy texture, and -slippered in red, appeared. - -“We’re here about that suicide case you had to-night. What about it? -Who was she? How’d she come to be in that doorway around the corner? -Come, now,” Maguire added, as the madam assumed an air of mingled -injured and ignorant innocence, “you know. Can that stuff! How did she -come to take poison?” - -“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the woman with the -utmost air of innocence. “I never heard of any suicide.” - -“Aw, come now,” insisted Delahanty, “the girl around the corner. You -know. We know you’ve got a pull, but we’ve got to know about this case, -just the same. Come across now. It won’t be published. What made her -take the poison?” - -Under the steady eyes of the officers the woman hesitated, but finally -weakened. - -“Why--why--her lover went back on her--that’s all. She got so blue -we just couldn’t do anything with her. I tried to, but she wouldn’t -listen.” - -“Lover, eh?” put in Maguire as though that were the most unheard-of -thing in the world. “What was his name?” - -“I don’t know. You never can tell that.” - -“What was her name--Annie?” asked Delahanty wisely, as though he knew -but was merely inquiring for form’s sake. - -“No--Emily.” - -“Well, how did she come to get over there, anyhow?” inquired Maguire -most pleasantly. - -“George took her,” she replied, referring to a man-of-all-work about -the place. - -Then little by little as they sat there the whole miserable story came -out, miserable as all the wilfulness and error and suffering of the -world. - -“How old was she?” - -“Oh, twenty-one.” - -“Well, where’d she come from?” - -“Oh, here in New York. Her family locked her out one night, I think.” - -Something in the way the woman said this last brought old Rogaum and -his daughter back to the policemen’s minds. They had forgotten all -about her by now, although they had turned in an alarm. Fearing to -interfere too much with this well-known and politically controlled -institution, the two men left, but outside they fell to talking of the -other case. - -“We ought to tell old Rogaum about her some time,” said Maguire to -Delahanty cynically. “He locked his kid out to-night.” - -“Yes, it might be a good thing for him to hear that,” replied the -other. “We’d better go round there an’ see if his girl’s back yet. She -may be back by now,” and so they returned but little disturbed by the -joint miseries. - -At Rogaum’s door they once more knocked loudly. - -“Is your daughter back again?” asked Maguire when a reply was had. - -“Ach, no,” replied the hysterical Mrs. Rogaum, who was quite alone -now. “My husband he haf gone oudt again to loog vunce more. Oh, my! Oh, -my!” - -“Well, that’s what you get for lockin’ her out,” returned Maguire -loftily, the other story fresh in his mind. “That other girl downstairs -here to-night was locked out too, once.” He chanced to have a -girl-child of his own and somehow he was in the mood for pointing a -moral. “You oughtn’t to do anything like that. Where d’yuh expect she’s -goin’ to if you lock her out?” - -Mrs. Rogaum groaned. She explained that it was not her fault, but -anyhow it was carrying coals to Newcastle to talk to her so. The advice -was better for her husband. - -The pair finally returned to the station to see if the call had been -attended to. - -“Sure,” said the sergeant, “certainly. Whaddy ya think?” and he read -from the blotter before him: - -“‘Look out for girl, Theresa Rogaum. Aged 18; height, about 5, 3; -light hair, blue eyes, white cotton dress, trimmed with blue ribbon. -Last seen with lad named Almerting, about 19 years of age, about 5, 9; -weight 135 pounds.’” - -There were other details even more pointed and conclusive. For over an -hour now, supposedly, policemen from the Battery to Harlem, and far -beyond, had been scanning long streets and dim shadows for a girl in a -white dress with a youth of nineteen,--supposedly. - -Officer Halsey, another of this region, which took in a portion of -Washington Square, had seen a good many couples this pleasant summer -evening since the description of Theresa and Almerting had been read to -him over the telephone, but none that answered to these. Like Maguire -and Delahanty, he was more or less indifferent to all such cases, -but idling on a corner near the park at about three a.m., a brother -officer, one Paisly by name, came up and casually mentioned the missing -pair also. - -“I bet I saw that couple, not over an hour ago. She was dressed in -white, and looked to me as if she didn’t want to be out. I didn’t -happen to think at the time, but now I remember. They acted sort o’ -funny. She did, anyhow. They went in this park down at the Fourth -Street end there.” - -“Supposing we beat it, then,” suggested Halsey, weary for something to -do. - -“Sure,” said the other quickly, and together they began a careful -search, kicking around in the moonlight under the trees. The moon was -leaning moderately toward the west, and all the branches were silvered -with light and dew. Among the flowers, past clumps of bushes, near -the fountain, they searched, each one going his way alone. At last, -the wandering Halsey paused beside a thick clump of flaming bushes, -ruddy, slightly, even in the light. A murmur of voices greeted him, and -something very much like the sound of a sob. - -“What’s that?” he said mentally, drawing near and listening. - -“Why don’t you come on now?” said the first of the voices heard. “They -won’t let you in any more. You’re with me, ain’t you? What’s the use -cryin’?” - -No answer to this, but no sobs. She must have been crying silently. - -“Come on. I can take care of yuh. We can live in Hoboken. I know a -place where we can go to-night. That’s all right.” - -There was a movement as if the speaker were patting her on the shoulder. - -“What’s the use cryin’? Don’t you believe I love yuh?” - -The officer who had stolen quietly around to get a better view now -came closer. He wanted to see for himself. In the moonlight, from a -comfortable distance, he could see them seated. The tall bushes were -almost all about the bench. In the arms of the youth was the girl in -white, held very close. Leaning over to get a better view, he saw him -kiss her and hold her--hold her in such a way that she could but yield -to him, whatever her slight disinclination. - -It was a common affair at earlier hours, but rather interesting now. -The officer was interested. He crept nearer. - -“What are you two doin’ here?” he suddenly inquired, rising before -them, as though he had not seen. - -The girl tumbled out of her compromising position, speechless and -blushing violently. The young man stood up, nervous, but still defiant. - -“Aw, we were just sittin’ here,” he replied. - -“Yes? Well, say, what’s your name? I think we’re lookin’ for you two, -anyhow. Almerting?” - -“That’s me,” said the youth. - -“And yours?” he added, addressing Theresa. - -“Theresa Rogaum,” replied the latter brokenly, beginning to cry. - -“Well, you two’ll have to come along with me,” he added laconically. -“The Captain wants to see both of you,” and he marched them solemnly -away. - -“What for?” young Almerting ventured to inquire after a time, blanched -with fright. - -“Never mind,” replied the policeman irritably. “Come along, you’ll find -out at the station-house. We want you both. That’s enough.” - -At the other end of the park Paisly joined them, and, at the -station-house, the girl was given a chair. She was all tears and -melancholy with a modicum possibly of relief at being thus rescued -from the world. Her companion, for all his youth, was defiant if -circumspect, a natural animal defeated of its aim. - -“Better go for her father,” commented the sergeant, and by four in the -morning old Rogaum, who had still been up and walking the floor, was -rushing stationward. From an earlier rage he had passed to an almost -killing grief, but now at the thought that he might possibly see his -daughter alive and well once more he was overflowing with a mingled -emotion which contained rage, fear, sorrow, and a number of other -things. What should he do to her if she were alive? Beat her? Kiss her? -Or what? Arrived at the station, however, and seeing his fair Theresa -in the hands of the police, and this young stranger lingering near, -also detained, he was beside himself with fear, rage, affection. - -“You! You!” he exclaimed at once, glaring at the imperturbable -Almerting, when told that this was the young man who was found with his -girl. Then, seized with a sudden horror, he added, turning to Theresa, -“Vot haf you done? Oh, oh! You! You!” he repeated again to Almerting -angrily, now that he felt that his daughter was safe. “Come not near -my tochter any more! I vill preak your effery pone, du teufel, du!” - -He made a move toward the incarcerated lover, but here the sergeant -interfered. - -“Stop that, now,” he said calmly. “Take your daughter out of here and -go home, or I’ll lock you both up. We don’t want any fighting in here. -D’ye hear? Keep your daughter off the streets hereafter, then she won’t -get into trouble. Don’t let her run around with such young toughs as -this.” Almerting winced. “Then there won’t anything happen to her. -We’ll do whatever punishing’s to be done.” - -“Aw, what’s eatin’ him!” commented Almerting dourly, now that he felt -himself reasonably safe from a personal encounter. “What have I done? -He locked her out, didn’t he? I was just keepin’ her company till -morning.” - -“Yes, we know all about that,” said the sergeant, “and about you, too. -You shut up, or you’ll go down-town to Special Sessions. I want no guff -out o’ you.” Still he ordered the butcher angrily to be gone. - -Old Rogaum heard nothing. He had his daughter. He was taking her home. -She was not dead--not even morally injured in so far as he could learn. -He was a compound of wondrous feelings. What to do was beyond him. - -At the corner near the butcher shop they encountered the wakeful -Maguire, still idling, as they passed. He was pleased to see that -Rogaum had his Theresa once more. It raised him to a high, moralizing -height. - -“Don’t lock her out any more,” he called significantly. “That’s what -brought the other girl to your door, you know!” - -“Vot iss dot?” said Rogaum. - -“I say the other girl was locked out. That’s why she committed suicide.” - -“Ach, I know,” said the husky German under his breath, but he had no -intention of locking her out. He did not know what he would do until -they were in the presence of his crying wife, who fell upon Theresa, -weeping. Then he decided to be reasonably lenient. - -“She vass like you,” said the old mother to the wandering Theresa, -ignorant of the seeming lesson brought to their very door. “She vass -loog like you.” - -“I vill not vip you now,” said the old butcher solemnly, too delighted -to think of punishment after having feared every horror under the sun, -“aber, go not oudt any more. Keep off de streads so late. I von’t haf -it. Dot loafer, aber--let him yussed come here some more! I fix him!” - -“No, no,” said the fat mother tearfully, smoothing her daughter’s hair. -“She vouldn’t run avay no more yet, no, no.” Old Mrs. Rogaum was all -mother. - -“Well, you wouldn’t let me in,” insisted Theresa, “and I didn’t have -any place to go. What do you want me to do? I’m not going to stay in -the house all the time.” - -“I fix him!” roared Rogaum, unloading all his rage now on the recreant -lover freely. “Yussed let him come some more! Der penitentiary he -should haf!” - -“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Theresa told her mother, almost a heroine now -that she was home and safe. “He’s Mr. Almerting, the stationer’s boy. -They live here in the next block.” - -“Don’t you ever bother that girl again,” the sergeant was saying to -young Almerting as he turned him loose an hour later. “If you do, we’ll -get you, and you won’t get off under six months. Y’ hear me, do you?” - -“Aw, I don’t want ’er,” replied the boy truculently and cynically. “Let -him have his old daughter. What’d he want to lock ’er out for? They’d -better not lock ’er out again though, that’s all I say. I don’t want -’er.” - -“Beat it!” replied the sergeant, and away he went. - - - - -WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR? - - -It was a sweltering noon in July. Gregory, after several months of -meditation on the warning given him by his political friend, during -which time nothing to substantiate it had occurred, was making ready to -return to the seaside hotel to which his present prosperity entitled -him. It was a great affair, the Triton, about sixty minutes from his -office, facing the sea and amid the pines and sands of the Island. -His wife, ‘the girl,’ as he conventionally referred to her, had been -compelled, in spite of the plot which had been revealed or suggested, -owing to the ailing state of their child, to go up to the mountains to -her mother for advice and comfort. Owing to the imminence of the fall -campaign, however, he could not possibly leave. Weekdays and Sundays, -and occasionally nights, he was busy ferreting out and substantiating -one fact and another in regard to the mismanagement of the city, which -was to be used as ammunition a little later on. The mayor and his -“ring,” as it was called, was to be ousted at all costs. He, Gregory, -was certain to be rewarded if that came to pass. In spite of that he -was eminently sincere as to the value and even the necessity of what he -was doing. The city was being grossly mismanaged. What greater labor -than to worm out the details and expose them to the gaze of an abused -and irritated citizenship? - -But the enemy itself was not helpless. A gentleman in the publishing -business of whom he had never even heard called to offer him a position -in the Middle West which would take him out of the city for four or -five years at the least, and pay him six or seven thousand dollars -a year. On his failure to be interested some of his mail began to -disappear, and it seemed to him as though divers strange characters -were taking a peculiar and undue interest in his movements. Lastly, one -of the politicians connected with his own party called to see him at -his office. - -“You see, Gregory, it’s this way,” he said after a short preamble, “you -have got a line as to what’s going on in connection with that South -Penyank land transfer. The mayor is in on that, but he is absolutely -determined that the public is not going to find it out, and so is -his partner, Tilney--not until after the election, anyhow. They are -prepared to use some pretty rough methods, so look out for yourself. -You’re fond of your wife, are you? Well, keep her close beside you, and -the kid. Don’t let them get you away from her, even for a moment, where -you shouldn’t be. You saw what happened to Crothers two or three years -ago, didn’t you? He was about to expose that Yellow Point Ferry deal, -but of course no one knew anything about that--and then, zip!--all at -once he was arrested on an old charge of desertion, an old debt that he -had failed to pay was produced and his furniture seized, and his wife -was induced to leave him. Don’t let them catch you in the same way. If -you have any debts bring them to us and let us see what we can do about -them. And if you are interested in any other woman, break it off, send -her away, get rid of her.” - -Gregory viewed him with an irritated, half-pitying smile. - -“There isn’t any other woman,” he said simply. Think of his being -faithless to “the girl” and the kid--the blue-eyed, pink-toed kid! - -“Don’t think I’m trying to pry into your affairs,” went on the -politician. “I’m just telling you. If you need any further advice or -help, come to me. But whatever you do, look out for yourself,” and with -that he put on his high silk hat and departed. - -Gregory stood in the center of his office after his visitor had gone, -and gazed intently at the floor. Certainly, from what he had discovered -so far, he could readily believe that the mayor would do just what -his friend had said. And as for the mayor’s friend, the real estate -plunger, it was plain from his whispered history that no tricks or -brutalities were beneath him. Another politician had once said in -describing him that he would not stop short of murder, but that one -would never catch him red-handed or in any other way, and certainly -that appeared to be true. He was wealthier, more powerful, than he had -ever been, much more so than the mayor. - -Since he and his wife had come to this seaside hotel several things -had occurred which caused him to think that something might happen, -although there was no evidence as yet that his suspicions were -well-founded. An unctuous, over-dressed, bejeweled, semi-sporty widow -of forty had arrived, a business woman, she indicated herself to -be, conducting a highly successful theatrical agency in the great -city, and consequently weltering in what one of Gregory’s friends -was wont to describe as “the sinews of war.” She abounded in brown -and wine-colored silks, brown slippers and stockings, a wealth of -suspiciously lustrous auburn hair. Her car, for she had one, was of -respectable reputation. Her skill and willingness to risk at whist of -good report. She was, in the parlance of the hotel clerks and idlers -of the Triton veranda, a cheerful and liberal spender. Even while -Mrs. Gregory was at Triton Hall, Mrs. Skelton had arrived, making -herself comfortable in two rooms and bath on the sea front, and -finding familiar friends in the manager and several stalwart idlers -who appeared to be brokers and real estate dealers, and who took a -respectable interest in golf, tennis, and the Triton Grill. She was -unctuous, hearty, optimistic, and neither Gregory nor his wife could -help liking her a little. But before leaving, his wife had casually -wondered whether Mrs. Skelton would be one to engage in such a plot. -Her friendliness, while possible of any interpretation, was still -general enough to be free of suspicion. She might be looking for just -such a situation as this, though--to find Gregory alone. - -“Do be careful, dear,” his wife cautioned. “If you become too doubtful, -leave and go to another place. At least that will compel them to -provide another set of people.” And off she went, fairly serene in her -faith in her husband’s ability to manage the matter. - -Thus, much against his will, at first, Gregory found himself alone. He -began to wonder if he should leave, or weather it out, as he expressed -it to himself. Why should he be driven from the one comfortable hotel -on this nearest beach, and that when he most needed it, away from -a region where he was regularly encountering most of his political -friends, particularly at week-ends? For so near a place it had many -advantages: a delightful golf course, several tennis courts, food and -rooms reasonably well above complaint, and a refreshing and delightful -view of the sea over a broad lawn. Besides it was absolutely necessary -for him to be in the nearby city the greater portion of every single -working day. His peculiar and pressing investigation demanded it and a -comfortable place to rest and recuperate at night was also imperative. - -“It’s beautiful here,” he said to himself finally, “and here is where -I stick. I haven’t a car, and where is there any other place as -convenient? Besides, if they’re going to follow me, they’re going to -follow me.” - -In consequence, he traveled meditatively back and forth between this -place and the city, thinking of what might happen. Becoming a little -doubtful, he decided to call on Frank Blount and talk it over with -him. Blount was an old newspaper man who had first turned lawyer and -then broker. Seemingly clientless the major portion of the time, he -still prospered mightily. A lorn bachelor, he had three clubs, several -hotels, and a dozen country homes to visit, to say nothing of a high -power car. Just now he was held unduly close to his work, and so was -frequenting this coast. He liked golf and tennis, and, incidentally, -Gregory, whom he wished to see prosper though he could not quite direct -him in the proper way. Reaching the city one morning, Gregory betook -him to Blount’s office, and there laid the whole case before him. - -“Now, that’s the way it is,” he concluded, staring at the pink cheeks -and partially bald head of his friend, “and I would like to know what -you would do if you were in my place.” - -Blount gazed thoughtfully out through the high towers of the city to -the blue sky beyond, while he drummed with his fingers on the glass top -of his desk. - -“Well,” he replied, after a time, scratching his cheekbone -thoughtfully, “I’d stick it out if I were you. If there is to be -a woman, and she is attractive, you might have some fun out of it -without getting yourself in any trouble. It looks like a sporty summer -proposition to me. Of course, you’ll have to be on your guard. I’d take -out a permit to carry a revolver if I were you. They’ll hear of it if -they’re up to anything, and it won’t cheer them any. In the next place, -you ought to make out a day-to-day statement of your exact movements, -and swear to it before a notary. If they hear of that it won’t cheer -them any either, and it may make them try to think up something really -original. - -“Besides,” he went on, “I haven’t so very much to do evenings and -week-ends, and if you want me to I’ll just be around most of the time -in case of trouble. If we’re together they can’t turn much of anything -without one of us knowing something about it, and then, too, you’ll -have an eye-witness.” He was wondering whether the lady might not be -interesting to him also. “I’m over at Sunset Point, just beyond you -there, and if you want me I’ll come over every evening and see how -you’re making out. If any trick is turned, I’d like to see how it is -done,” and he smiled in a winsome, helpful manner. - -“That’s just the thing,” echoed Gregory thoughtfully. “I don’t want any -trick turned. I can’t afford it. If anything should happen to me just -now I’d never get on my feet again politically, and then there’s the -wife and kid, and I’m sick of the newspaper business,” and he stared -out of the window. - -“Well, don’t be worrying about it,” Blount insisted soothingly. “Just -be on your guard, and if you have to stay in town late any night, -let me know and I’ll come and pick you up. Or, if I can’t do that, -stay in town yourself. Go to one of the big hotels, where you’ll feel -thoroughly safe.” - -For several days Gregory, to avoid being a nuisance, returned to the -hotel early. Also he secured a permit, and weighted his hip pocket with -an unwieldy weapon which he resented, but which he nevertheless kept -under his pillow at night. His uncertainty worked on his imagination -to such an extent that he began to note suspicious moves on the part -of nearly everybody. Any new character about the hotel annoyed him. -He felt certain that there was a group of people connected with Mrs. -Skelton who were watching him, though he could not prove it, even to -himself. - -“This is ridiculous,” he finally told himself. “I’m acting like a -five-year-old in the dark. Who’s going to hurt me?” And he wrote -laughing letters to his wife about it, and tried to resume his old-time -nonchalance. - -It wasn’t quite possible, however, for not long after that something -happened which disturbed him greatly. At least he persuaded himself to -that effect, for that was a characteristic of these incidents--their -openness to another interpretation than the one he might fix on. In -spite of Blount’s advice, one night about nine he decided to return to -Triton Hall, and that without calling his friend to his aid. - -“What’s the use?” he asked himself. “He’ll be thinking I’m the biggest -coward ever, and after all, nothing has happened yet, and I doubt -whether they’d go that far, anyhow.” He consoled himself with the idea -that perhaps humanity was better than he thought. - -But just the same, as he left the train at Triton and saw it glimmering -away over the meadows eastward, he felt a little uncertain as to his -wisdom in this matter. Triton Station was a lonely one at nearly all -times save in the morning and around seven at night, and to-night it -seemed especially so. Only he alighted from the train. Most people went -to and fro in their cars by another road. Why should he not have done -as Blount had suggested, he now asked himself as he surveyed the flat -country about;--called him to his aid, or stayed in the city? After -all, hiring a car would not have been much better either, as Blount -had pointed out, giving a possible lurking enemy a much sought point -of attack. No, he should have stayed in town or returned with Blount -in his car, and telling himself this, he struck out along the lonely, -albeit short, stretch of road which led to the hotel and which was -lighted by only a half dozen small incandescent globes strung at a -considerable distance apart. - -En route, and as he was saying to himself that it was a blessed thing -that it was only a few hundred yards and that he was well-armed and -fairly well constructed physically for a contest, a car swerved about -a bend in the road a short distance ahead and stopped. Two men got out -and, in the shadow back of the lights, which were less flaring than was -usual, began to examine a wheel. It seemed odd to him on the instant -that its headlights were so dim. Why should they be so dim at this time -of night and why should this strange car stop just here at this lonely -bend just as he was approaching it? Also why should he feel so queer -about it or them, for at once his flesh began to creep and his hair -to tingle. As he neared the car he moved to give it as wide a berth -as the road would permit. But now one of the men left the wheel and -approached him. Instantly, with almost an involuntary urge, he brought -the revolver out of his hip pocket and stuffed it in his coat pocket. -At the same time he stopped and called to the stranger: - -“Stay right where you are, Mister. I’m armed, and I don’t want you -to come near me. If you do I’ll shoot. I don’t know who you are, or -whether you’re a friend or not, but I don’t want you to move. Now, if -there’s anything you want, ask it from where you are.” - -The stranger stopped where he stood, seemingly surprised. - -“I was going to ask you for a match,” he said, “and the way to Trager’s -Point.” - -“Well, I haven’t a match,” returned Gregory savagely, “and Trager’s -Point is out that way. There’s the hotel ... if you’re coming from -there, why didn’t you ask for directions there, and for matches, too?” -He paused, while the man in the shadow seemed to examine him curiously. - -“Oh, all right,” he returned indifferently. “I don’t want anything you -don’t want to give,” but instead of returning to the car, he stood -where he was, following Gregory with his eyes. - -Gregory’s skin seemed to rise on the back of his neck like the fur of -a cat. He fairly tingled as he drew his revolver from his pocket and -waved it ominously before him. - -“Now, I’m going to walk around you two,” he called, “and I want you to -stand right where you are. I have you covered, and at the first move -I’ll shoot. You won’t have any trouble out of me if you’re not looking -for it, but don’t move,” and he began orienting his own position so as -to keep them directly in range of his eyes and weapon. - -“Don’t move!” he kept calling until he was well up the road, and then -suddenly, while the men, possibly in astonishment, were still looking -at him, turned and ran as fast as he could, reaching the hotel steps -breathless and wet. - -“That’s the last lone trip for me,” he said solemnly to himself. - -When he spoke to Blount about it the latter seemed inclined to -pooh-pooh his fears. Why should any one want to choose any such open -place to kill or waylay another? There might have been other passengers -on the train. A stray auto might be coming along there at any time. The -men might have wanted a match, and not have been coming from the hotel -at all. There was another road there which did not turn in at the hotel. - -Still Gregory was inclined to believe that harm had been intended -him--he could scarcely say why to himself--just plain intuition, he -contended. - -And then a day or two later--all the more significant now because -of this other incident--Mrs. Skelton seemed to become more and more -thoughtful as to his comfort and well-being. She took her meals at one -of the tables commanding a view of the sea, and with (most frequently) -one or the other, or both, broker friends as companions, to say nothing -of occasional outside friends. But usually there was a fourth empty -chair, and Gregory was soon invited to occupy that, and whenever Blount -was present, a fifth was added. At first he hesitated, but urged -on by Blount, who was amused by her, he accepted. Blount insisted -that she was a comic character. She was so dressy, sporty, unctuous, -good-natured--the very best kind of a seaside companion. - -“Why, man, she’s interesting,” the latter insisted one night as they -were taking a ride after dinner. “Quite a sporty ‘fair and forty,’ -that. I like her. I really do. She’s probably a crook, but she plays -bridge well, and she’s good at golf. Does she try to get anything out -of you?” - -“Not a thing, that I can see,” replied Gregory. “She seems to be simple -enough. She’s only been here about three weeks.” - -“Well, we’d better see what we can find out about her. I have a hunch -that she’s in on this, but I can’t be sure. It looks as though she -might be one of Tilney’s stool pigeons. But let’s play the game and see -how it comes out. I’ll be nice to her for your sake, and you do the -same for mine.” - -Under the warming influence of this companionship, things seemed to -develop fairly rapidly. It was only a day or two later, and after -Gregory had seated himself at Mrs. Skelton’s table, that she announced -with a great air of secrecy and as though it were hidden and rather -important information, that a friend of hers, a very clever Western -girl of some position and money, one Imogene Carle of Cincinnati, no -less, a daughter of the very wealthy Brayton Carle’s of that city, -was coming to this place to stay for a little while. Mrs. Skelton, it -appeared, had known her parents in that city fifteen years before. -Imogene was her owny ownest pet. She was now visiting the Wilson -Fletchers at Gray’s Cove, on the Sound, but Mrs. Skelton had prevailed -upon her parents to let her visit her here for a while. She was only -twenty, and from now on she, Mrs. Skelton, was to be a really, truly -chaperone. Didn’t they sympathize with her? And if they were all very -nice--and with this a sweeping glance included them all--they might -help entertain her. Wouldn’t that be fine? She was a darling of a girl, -clever, magnetic, a good dancer, a pianist--in short, various and -sundry things almost too good to be true. But, above all other things, -she was really very beautiful, with a wealth of brown hair, brown eyes, -a perfect skin, and the like. Neither Blount nor Gregory offered the -other a single look during this recital, but later on, meeting on the -great veranda which faced the sea, Blount said to him, “Well, what do -you think?” - -“Yes, I suppose it’s the one. Well, she tells it well. It’s interesting -to think that she is to be so perfect, isn’t it?” he laughed. - -A few days later the fair visitor put in an appearance, and she was all -that Mrs. Skelton had promised, and more. She was beautiful. Gregory -saw her for the first time as he entered the large dining room at -seven. She was, as Mrs. Skelton had described her, young, certainly -not more than twenty-one at most. Her eyes were a light gray-brown, -and her hair and skin and hands were full of light. She seemed simple -and unpretentious, laughing, gay, not altogether fine or perfect, -but fairly intelligent, and good to look at--very. She was at Mrs. -Skelton’s table, the brokers paying her marked attention, and, at -sight, Blount liked her, too. - -“Say,” he began, “some beauty, eh? I’ll have to save you from yourself, -I fancy. I’ll tell you how we’ll work it. You save me, and I’ll save -you. The old lady certainly knows how to select ’em, apparently, and so -does Tilney. Well now, my boy, look out!” and he approached with the -air of one who was anxious to be a poor stricken victim himself. - -Gregory had to laugh. However much he might be on his guard, he was -interested, and as if to heighten this she paid more attention to Mrs. -Skelton and her two friends than she did to Gregory or Blount. She was, -or pretended to be absolutely sincere, and ignorant of her possible -rôle as a siren, and they in turn pretended to accept her at her own -valuation, only Blount announced after dinner very gaily that she might -siren him all she blanked pleased. He was ready. By degrees, however, -even during this first and second evening, Gregory began to feel that -he was the one. He caught her looking at him slyly or shyly, or both, -and he insisted to himself stubbornly and even vainly enough that he -was her intended victim. When he suggested as much to Blount the other -merely laughed. - -“Don’t be so vain,” he said. “You may not be. I wish I were in your -place. I’ll see if I can’t help take her attention from you,” and he -paid as much attention to her as any one. - -However, Gregory’s mind was not to be disabused. He watched her -narrowly, while she on her part chattered gaily of many things--her -life the winter before in Cincinnati, the bathing at Beachampton where -she had recently been, a yachting trip she had been promised, tennis, -golf. She was an expert at tennis, as she later proved, putting Gregory -in a heavy perspiration whenever he played with her, and keeping him on -the jump. He tried to decide for himself at this time whether she was -making any advances, but could not detect any. She was very equitable -in the distribution of her favors, and whenever the dancing began in -the East room took as her first choice one of the brokers, and then -Blount. - -The former, as did Mrs. Skelton and the brokers, had machines, and by -her and them, in spite of the almost ever-present Blount, Gregory was -invited to be one of a party in one or the other of their cars whenever -they were going anywhere of an afternoon or evening. He was suspicious -of them, however, and refused their invitations except when Blount was -on the scene and invited, when he was willing enough to accept. Then -there were whist, pinochle, or poker games in the hotel occasionally, -and in these Gregory as well as Blount, when he was there, were wont to -join, being persistently invited. Gregory did not dance, and Imogene -ragged him as to this. Why didn’t he learn? It was wonderful! She would -teach him! As she passed amid the maze of dancers at times he could -not help thinking how graceful she was, how full of life and animal -spirits. Blount saw this and teased him, at the same time finding her -very companionable and interesting himself. Gregory could not help -thinking what a fascinating, what an amazing thing, really, it was -(providing it were true) that so dark a personality as Tilney could -secure such an attractive girl to do his vile work. Think of it, only -twenty-one, beautiful, able to further herself in many ways no doubt, -and yet here she was under suspicion of him, a trickster possibly. What -could be the compulsion, the reward? - -“My boy, you don’t know these people,” Blount was always telling -him. “They’re the limit. In politics you can get people to do -anything--anything. It isn’t like the rest of life or business, it’s -just politics, that’s all. It seems a cynical thing to say, but it’s -true. Look at your own investigations! What do they show?” - -“I know, but a girl like that now----” replied Gregory solemnly. - -But after all, as he insisted to Blount, they did not _know_ that there -was anything to all this. She might and she might not be a siren. It -might be possible that both of them were grossly misjudging her and -other absolutely innocent people. - -So far, all that they had been able to find out concerning Mrs. Skelton -was that she was, as she represented herself to be, the successful -owner and manager of a theatrical agency. She might have known the -better days and connections which she boasted. Gregory felt at times -as though his brain were whirling, like a man confronted by enemies in -the dark, fumbling and uncertain, but he and Blount both agreed that -the best thing was to stay here and see it through, come what might. -It was a good game even as it stood, interesting, very. It showed, as -Blount pointed out to him, a depth to this political mess which he was -attempting to expose which previously even he had not suspected. - -“Stick by,” the other insisted sport-lovingly. “You don’t know what may -come of this. It may provide you the very club you’re looking for. Win -her over to your side if you can. Why not? She might really fall for -you. Then see what comes of it. You can’t be led into any especial trap -with your eyes open.” - -Gregory agreed to all this after a time. Besides, this very attractive -girl was beginning to appeal to him in a very subtle way. He had never -known a woman like this before--never even seen one. It was a very new -and attractive game, of sorts. He began to spruce up and attempt to -appear a little gallant himself. A daily report of his movements was -being filed each morning, though. Every night he returned with Blount -in his car, or on an early train. There was scarcely a chance for a -compromising situation, and still there might be--who knows? - -On other evenings, after the fashion of seaside hotel life, Gregory -and Imogene grew a little more familiar. Gregory learned that she -played and sang, and, listening to her, that she was of a warm and -even sensuous disposition. She was much more sophisticated than she -had seemed at first, as he could now see, fixing her lips in an odd -inviting pout at times and looking alluringly at one and another, -himself included. Both Blount and himself, once the novelty of the -supposed secret attack had worn off, ventured to jest with her about -it, or rather to hint vaguely as to her mission. - -“Well, how goes the great game to-night?” Blount once asked her during -her second or third week, coming up to where she and Gregory were -sitting amid the throng on the general veranda, and eyeing her in a -sophisticated or smilingly cynical way. - -“What game?” She looked up in seemingly complete innocence. - -“Oh, snaring the appointed victim. Isn’t that what all attractive young -women do?” - -“Are you referring to me?” she inquired with considerable hauteur and -an air of injured innocence. “I’d have you know that I don’t have to -snare any one, and particularly not a married man.” Her teeth gleamed -maliciously. - -Both Gregory and Blount were watching her closely. - -“Oh, of course not. Not a married man, to be sure. And I wasn’t -referring to you exactly--just life, you know, the game.” - -“Yes, I know,” she replied sweetly. “I’m jesting, too.” Both Gregory -and Blount laughed. - -“Well, she got away with it without the tremor of an eyelash, didn’t -she?” Blount afterward observed, and Gregory had to agree that she had. - -Again, it was Gregory who attempted a reference of this kind. She had -come out after a short instrumental interpretation at the piano, where, -it seemed to him, she had been posing in a graceful statuesque way--for -whose benefit? He knew that she knew he could see her from where he sat. - -“It’s pretty hard work, without much reward,” he suggested seemingly -idly. - -“What is? I don’t quite understand,” and she looked at him -questioningly. - -“No?” he smiled in a light laughing manner. “Well, that’s a cryptic -way I have. I say things like that. Just a light hint at a dark plot, -possibly. You mustn’t mind me. You wouldn’t understand unless you know -what I know.” - -“Well, what is it you know, then, that I don’t?” she inquired. - -“Nothing definite yet. Just an idea. Don’t mind me.” - -“Really, you are very odd, both you and Mr. Blount. You are always -saying such odd things and then adding that you don’t mean anything. -And what’s cryptic?” - -Gregory, still laughing at her, explained. - -“Do you know, you’re exceedingly interesting to me as a type. I’m -watching you all the while.” - -“Yes?” she commented, with a lifting of the eyebrows and a slight -distention of the eyes. “That’s interesting. Have you made up your mind -as to what type I am?” - -“No, not quite yet. But if you’re the type I think you are, you’re very -clever. I’ll have to hand you the palm on that score.” - -“Really, you puzzle me,” she said seriously. “Truly, you do. I don’t -understand you at all. What is it you are talking about? If it’s -anything that has any sense in it I wish you’d say it out plain, and if -not I wish you wouldn’t say it at all.” - -Gregory stared. There was an odd ring of defiance in her voice. - -“Please don’t be angry, will you?” he said, slightly disconcerted. “I’m -just teasing, not talking sense.” - -She arose and walked off, while he strolled up and down the veranda -looking for Blount. When he found him, he narrated his experience. - -“Well, it’s just possible that we are mistaken. You never can tell. -Give her a little more rope. Something’s sure to develop soon.” - -And thereafter it seemed as if Mrs. Skelton and some others might be -helping her in some subtle way about something, the end or aim of -which he could not be quite sure. He was in no way disposed to flatter -himself, and yet it seemed at times as if he were the object of almost -invisible machinations. In spite of what had gone before, she still -addressed him in a friendly way, and seemed not to wish to avoid him, -but rather to be in his vicinity at all times. - -A smug, dressy, crafty Jew of almost minute dimensions arrived on the -scene and took quarters somewhere in the building, coming and going and -seeming never to know Mrs. Skelton or her friends, and yet one day, -idling across some sand dunes which skirted an adjacent inlet, he saw -them, Imogene and the ant-like Jew, walking along together. He was so -astounded that he stopped in amazement. His first thought was to draw -a little nearer and to make very sure, but realizing, as they walked -slowly in his direction, that he could not be mistaken, he beat a hasty -retreat. That evening Blount was taken in on the mystery, and at dinner -time, seeing the Hebrew enter and seat himself in state at a distant -table, he asked casually, “A newcomer, isn’t he?” - -Mrs. Skelton, Imogene, and the one broker present, surveyed the -stranger with curious but unacquainted indifference. - -“Haven’t the slightest idea,” answered the broker. “Never saw him -before. Cloaks and suits, I’ll lay a thousand.” - -“He looks as though he might be rich, whoever he is,” innocently -commented Imogene. - -“I think he came Thursday. He doesn’t seem to be any one in particular, -that’s sure,” added Mrs. Skelton distantly, and the subject was dropped. - -Gregory was tempted to accuse the young woman and her friends then -and there of falsehood, but he decided to wait and study her. This -was certainly becoming interesting. If they could lie like that, then -something was surely in the air. So she was a trickster, after all, and -she was so charming. His interest in her and Mrs. Skelton and their -friends grew apace. - -And then came the matter of the mysterious blue racer, or “trailer,” -as Gregory afterward came to call it, a great hulking brute of a car, -beautifully, even showily, made, and with an engine that talked like -no other. There was a metallic ring about it which seemed to carry a -long way through the clear air and over the sands which adjoined the -sea. It was the possession, so he learned later through Mrs. Skelton, -of one of four fortunate youths who were summering at the next hotel -west, about a mile away. The owner, one Castleman by name, the son and -heir to a very wealthy family, was a friend of hers whom she had first -met in a commercial way in the city. They came over after Imogene’s -arrival, she explained, to help entertain, and they invariably came in -this car. Castleman and his friends, smart, showy youths all, played -tennis and bridge, and knew all the latest shows and dances and drinks. -They were very gay looking, at least three of them, and were inclined -to make much of Imogene, though, as Mrs. Skelton cautiously confided -to Gregory after a time, she did not propose to allow it. Imogene’s -parents might not like it. On the other hand, Gregory and Blount, being -sober men both and of excellent discretion, were much more welcome! - -Almost every day thereafter Mrs. Skelton would go for a ride in her own -car or that of Castleman, taking Gregory if he would, and Imogene for -companions. Blount, however, as he explicitly made clear at the very -beginning, was opposed to this. - -“Don’t ever be alone with her, I tell you, or just in the company of -her and her friends anywhere except on this veranda. They’re after -you, and they’re not finding it easy, and they’re beginning to work -hard. They’ll give themselves away in some way pretty soon, just as -sure as you’re sitting there. They want to cut me out, but don’t let -them do it--or if you do, get some one in my place. You don’t know -where they’ll take you. That’s the way people are framed. Take me, or -get them to use my machine and you take some other man. Then you can -regulate the conditions partially, anyhow.” - -Gregory insisted that he had no desire to make any other arrangements, -and so, thereafter, whenever an invitation was extended to him, Blount -was always somehow included, although, as he could see, they did not -like it. Not that Imogene seemed to mind, but Mrs. Skelton always -complained, “Must we wait for him?” or “Isn’t it possible, ever, to go -anywhere without him?” - -Gregory explained how it was. Blount was an old and dear friend of his. -They were practically spending the summer together. Blount had nothing -to do just now.... They seemed to take it all in the best part, and -thereafter Blount was always ready, and even willing to suggest that -they come along with him in his car. - -But the more these accidental prearrangements occurred, the more -innocently perverse was Mrs. Skelton in proposing occasional trips of -her own. There was an interesting walk through the pines and across the -dunes to a neighboring hotel which had a delightful pavilion, and this -she was always willing to essay with just Gregory. Only, whenever he -agreed to this, and they were about to set out, Imogene would always -appear and would have to be included. Then Mrs. Skelton would remember -that she had forgotten her parasol or purse or handkerchief, and would -return for it, leaving Imogene and Gregory to stroll on together. But -Gregory would always wait until Mrs. Skelton returned. He was not to be -entrapped like this. - -By now he and Imogene, in spite of this atmosphere of suspicion and -uncertainty, had become very friendly. She liked him, he could see -that. She looked at him with a slight widening of the eyes and a faint -distention of the nostrils at times, which spelled--what? And when -seated with him in the car, or anywhere else, she drew near him in a -gently inclusive and sympathetic and coaxing way. She had been trying -to teach him to dance of late, and scolding him in almost endearing -phrases such as “Now, you bad boy,” or “Oh, butterfingers!” (when once -he had dropped something), or “Big, clumsy one--how big and strong you -really are. I can scarcely guide you.” - -And to him, in spite of all her dark chicane, she was really beautiful, -and so graceful! What a complexion, he said to himself on more than -one occasion. How light and silken her hair! And her eyes, hard and -gray-brown, and yet soft, too--to him. Her nose was so small and -straight, and her lip line so wavily cut, like an Englishwoman’s, full -and drooping in the center of the upper lip. And she looked at him so -when they were alone! It was disturbing. - -But as to the Blue Trailer on these careening nights. Chancing one -night to be invited by Mrs. Skelton for a twenty-five-mile run to -Bayside, Blount accompanying them, they had not gone ten miles, it -seemed to him, when the hum of a peculiarly and powerfully built motor -came to him. It was like a distant bee buzzing, or a hornet caught -under a glass. There was something fierce about it, savage. On the -instant he recalled it now, recognized it as the great blue machine -belonging to young Castleman. Why should he be always hearing it, he -asked, when they were out? And then quite thoughtlessly he observed to -Imogene: - -“That sounds like Castleman’s car, doesn’t it?” - -“It does, doesn’t it?” she innocently replied. “I wonder if it could -be.” - -Nothing caused him to think any more about it just then, but another -time when he was passing along a distant road he heard its motor -nearby on another road, and then it passed them. Again, it brought its -customary group to the same inn in which he and Blount and Imogene and -Mrs. Skelton were. - -Suddenly it came to him just what it meant. The last time he had heard -it, and every time before that, he now remembered, its sound had been -followed by its appearance at some roadside inn or hotel whenever he, -Imogene and Blount happened to be in the same party; and it always -brought with it this self-same group of young men (“joy riders,” they -called themselves), accidentally happening in on them, as they said. -And now he remembered (and this fact was corroborated by the watchful -Blount) that if the car had not been heard, and they had not appeared, -either Mrs. Skelton or Imogene invariably sought the ladies’ retiring -room once they had reached their destination, if they had one, when -later the car would be heard tearing along in the distance and the “joy -riders” would arrive. But what for? How to compromise him exactly, if -at all? - -One night after Mrs. Skelton had left them in one of these inns, but -before the joy riders had arrived, Gregory was sitting at the edge of a -balcony overlooking a silent grove of pines when suddenly it seemed to -him that he heard it coming in the distance, this great rumbling brute, -baying afar off, like a bloodhound on the scent. There was something -so eerie, uncanny about it or about the night, which made it so. And -then a few moments later it appeared, and the four cronies strolled in, -smart and summery in their appearance, seemingly surprised to find them -all there. Gregory felt a bit cold and chill at the subtlety of it all. -How horrible it was, trailing a man in this way! How tremendous the -depths of politics, how important the control of all the great seething -cities’ millions, to these men--Tilney and his friends,--if they could -find it important to plot against one lone investigating man like this! -Their crimes! Their financial robberies! How well he knew some of -them--and how near he was to being able to prove some of them and drive -them out, away from the public treasury and the emoluments and honors -of office! - -That was why he was so important to them now--he a self-established -newspaperman with a self-established investigating bureau. Actually, -it was villainous, so dark and crafty. What were they planning, these -two smiling women at his side and these four smart rounders, with their -pink cheeks and affable manners? What could they want of him really? -How would it all end? - -As Mrs. Skelton, Imogene, Blount and himself were preparing to return, -and Castleman and his friends were entering their own car, a third -party hitherto unknown to Blount or Gregory appeared and engaged the -two women in conversation, finally persuading them to return with them -in their car. Mrs. Skelton thereupon apologized and explained that -they were old friends whom she had not seen for a long time, and that -they would all meet at the hotel later for a game of bridge. Blount -and Gregory, left thus to themselves, decided to take a short cut to -a nearby turnpike so as to beat them home. The move interested them, -although they could not explain it at the time. It was while they were -following this road, however, through a section heavily shaded with -trees, that they were suddenly confronted by the blazing lights of -another machine descending upon them at full speed from the opposite -direction, and even though Blount by the most amazing dexterity managed -to throw his car into the adjacent fence and wood, still it came so -close and was traveling at such terrific speed that it clipped their -left rear wheel as he did so. - -“Castleman’s car!” Blount said softly after it had passed. “I saw him. -They missed us by an inch!” - -“What do you think of that!” exclaimed Gregory cynically. “I wonder if -they’ll come back to see the result of their work?” - -Even as they were talking, however, they heard the big car returning. - -“Say, this looks serious! I don’t like the looks of it!” whispered -Blount. “That car would have torn us to bits and never been scratched. -And here they are now. Better look out for them. It’s just as well that -we’re armed. You have your gun, haven’t you?” - -The other group approached most brazenly. - -“Hello! Any trouble?” they called from a distance. “So sorry,” and then -as though they had just discovered it, “--well, if it isn’t Gregory and -Blount! Well, well, fellows, so sorry! It was an accident, I assure -you. Our steering gear is out of order.” - -Gregory and Blount had previously agreed to stand their ground, and -if any further treachery were intended it was to be frustrated with -bullets. The situation was partially saved or cleared up by the arrival -of a third car containing a party of four middle-aged men who, seeing -them in the wood and the other car standing by, stopped to investigate. -It was Gregory’s presence of mind which kept them there. - -“Do you mind staying by, Mister, until that other car leaves?” he -whispered to one of the newcomers who was helping to extricate Blount’s -machine. “I think they purposely tried to wreck us, but I’m not sure; -anyway, we don’t want to be left alone with them.” - -Finding themselves thus replaced and the others determined to stay, -Castleman and his followers were most apologetic and helpful. They had -forgotten something back at the inn, they explained, and were returning -for it. As they had reached this particular spot and had seen the -lights of Blount’s car, they had tried to stop, but something had gone -wrong with the steering gear. They had tried to turn, but couldn’t, -and had almost wrecked their own car. Was there any damage? They would -gladly pay. Blount assured them there was not, the while he and Gregory -accepted their apologies in seeming good part, insisting, however, that -they needed no help. After they had gone Blount and Gregory, with the -strangers as guards, made their way to the hotel, only to find it dark -and deserted. - -What an amazing thing it all was, Gregory said to himself over -and over, the great metropolis threaded with plots like this for -spoil--cold blooded murder attempted, and that by a young girl and -these young men scarcely in their middle twenties, and yet there was -no way to fix it on them. Here he was, fairly convinced that on two -occasions murder had been planned or attempted, and still he could -prove nothing, not a word, did not even dare to accuse any one! And -Imogene, this girl of beauty and gayety, pretending an affection for -him--and he half believing it--and at the same time convinced that she -was in on the plot in some way. Had he lost his senses? - -He was for getting out now posthaste, feeling as he did that he was -dealing with a band of murderers who were plotting his death by -“accident” in case they failed to discredit him by some trick or plot, -but Blount was of another mind. He could not feel that this was a -good time to quit. After all, everything had been in their favor so -far. In addition, Blount had come to the conclusion that the girl was -a very weak tool of these other people, not a clever plotter herself. -He argued this, he said, from certain things which he had been able -thus far to find out about her. She had once been, he said, the -private secretary or personal assistant to a well known banker whose -institution had been connected with the Tilney interests in Penyank, -and whose career had ended in his indictment and flight. Perhaps there -had been some papers which she had signed as the ostensible secretary -or treasurer, which might make her the victim of Tilney or of some of -his political friends. Besides, by now he was willing to help raise -money to carry Gregory’s work on in case he needed any. The city should -be protected from such people. But Blount considered Imogene a little -soft or easy, and thought that Gregory could influence her to help him -if he tried. - -“Stick it out,” he insisted. “Stick it out. It looks pretty serious, -I know, but you want to remember that you won’t be any better off -anywhere else, and here we at least know what we’re up against. They -know by now that we’re getting on to them. They must. They’re getting -anxious, that’s all, and the time is getting short. You might send for -your wife, but that wouldn’t help any. Besides, if you play your cards -right with this girl you might get her to come over to your side. In -spite of what she’s doing, I think she likes you.” Gregory snorted. “Or -you might make her like you, and then you could get the whole scheme -out of her. See how she looks at you all the time! And don’t forget -that every day you string this thing along without letting them bring -it to a disastrous finish, the nearer you are to the election. If this -goes on much longer without their accomplishing anything, Tilney won’t -have a chance to frame up anything new before the election will be upon -him, and then it will be too late. Don’t you see?” - -On the strength of this, Gregory agreed to linger a little while -longer, but he felt that it was telling on his nerves. He was becoming -irritable and savage, and the more he thought about it the worse he -felt. To think of having to be pleasant to people who were murderers at -heart and trying to destroy you! - -The next morning, however, he saw Imogene at breakfast, fresh and -pleasant, and with that look of friendly interest in her eyes which -more and more of late she seemed to wear and in spite of himself he was -drawn to her, although he did his best to conceal it. - -“Why didn’t you come back last night to play cards with us?” she asked. -“We waited and waited for you.” - -“Oh, haven’t you heard about the latest ‘accident’?” he asked, with -a peculiar emphasis on the word, and looking at her with a cynical -mocking light in his eyes. - -“No. What accident?” She seemed thoroughly unaware that anything had -happened. - -“You didn’t know, of course, that Castleman’s car almost ran us down -after you left us last night?” - -“No!” she exclaimed with genuine surprise. “Where?” - -“Well, just after you left us, in the wood beyond Bellepoint. It was so -fortunate of you two to have left just when you did.” And he smiled and -explained briefly and with some cynical comments as to the steering -gear that wouldn’t work. - -As he did so, he examined her sharply and she looked at him with what -he thought might be pain or fear or horror in her glance. Certainly -it was not a look disguising a sympathetic interest in the plans of -her friends or employers, if they were such. Her astonishment was so -obviously sincere, confusing, revealing, in a way that it all but won -him. He could not make himself believe that she had had a hand in that -anyhow. It must be as Blount said, that she was more of a tool herself -than anything else. She probably couldn’t help herself very well or -didn’t know the lengths to which her pretended “friends” were prepared -to go. Her eyes seemed troubled, sad. She seemed weaker, more futile, -than at any time since he had known her, and this, while it did not -add particularly to his respect, softened his personal animosity. He -felt that under the circumstances he might come to like her. He also -thought that she might be made to like him enough to help him. He had -the emotional mastery of her, he thought, and that was something. He -had described the incident with all the vividness of detail that he -could, showing how he and Blount had escaped death by a hair’s breadth. -She seemed a little sick, and shortly after left the table. Gregory had -taken good care to make it plain that the strangers in the other car -had been informed as to the exact details of the case, and had offered -their services as witnesses in case they were wanted. - -“But we don’t propose to do anything about it,” he said genially, “not -now, anyhow,” and it was then that she seemed to become a little sick -or faint, and left him. - -Whether owing to this conversation or the accident itself, or to -circumstances concerning which he knew nothing, there now seemed to -come a temporary lull in the activities of this group. The Blue Trailer -disappeared as an active daily fact in their lives. Mrs. Skelton -was called to the city on business for a few days, as well as Mr. -Diamondberg, the “cloak and suit man,” as Blount always called him, -who in all the time he had been there had never publicly joined them. -Mrs. Skelton came back later as cheerful and optimistic as ever, but in -the meanwhile there had been an approach on the part of Imogene toward -himself which seemed to promise a new order of things. She was freer, -more natural and more genial than she had been hitherto. She was with -him more, smiling, playful, and yet concerned, he thought. Because of -their conversation the morning after the accident, he felt easier in -her presence, more confidential, as though he might be able to talk to -her about all this soon and get her to help him. - -They had two hours together on the second afternoon of the absence of -the others which brought them within sight of each other’s point of -view. It began after lunch, because Gregory had some reports to examine -and was staying here to do it. She came over and stood beside him. - -“What are you doing?” she asked. - -“Oh, I’m looking up some facts,” he replied enigmatically, smiling up -at her. “Sit down.” - -They fell into conversation first about a tennis match which was being -held here, and then about his work, which he described in part after -observing that she knew all about it, or ought to. - -“Why do you always talk to me that way about everything in connection -with you?” she asked after a moment’s pause. “You have such a queer way -of speaking, as though I knew something I ought not to know about your -affairs.” - -“Well, you do, don’t you?” he questioned grimly, staring at her. - -“Now, there it is again! What do you mean by that?” - -“Do you really need to have me explain to you?” he went on in a hard -cynical manner. “As though you didn’t know! I don’t suppose you ever -heard of the Union Bank of Penyank, for instance? Or Mr. Swayne, its -president? Or Mr. Riley, or Mr. Mears, the cashier?” - -At the mention of these, as at the mention of the automobile accident, -there was something which seemed to click like a camera shutter in her -eyes, only this time there was no sign of pain, none even of confusion. -She seemed, except for a faint trace of color, to be fairly calm and -poised. She opened her mouth slightly, but more in an attempted smile -of tolerance than anything else. - -“The Union Bank? Mr. Swayne? Mr. Tilney? What are you talking about?” -she persisted. “Who is Mr. Swayne, and where is the Union Bank?” - -“Really, now, Miss Carle,” he said with a kind of dogmatic fury, “if -you want me to have any regard of any kind for you in the future, quit -lying about this. You know well enough what I mean. You know who Mr. -Swayne is, all right, and why he left Eastridge. You also know Mr. -Diamondberg, although I heard you say you didn’t, and that right after -I had seen you walking with him out here on the dunes three weeks ago. -You don’t remember that, I suppose?” this as she fluttered slightly. - -She stared, completely shaken out of her composure, and a real flush -spread over her cheeks and neck. For the moment her expression hardened -the least bit, then gave way to one of mingled weakness and confusion. -She looked more or less guilty and genuinely distrait. - -“Why, Mr. Gregory,” she pleaded weakly, “how you talk! Positively, I -haven’t the slightest idea of what you mean, and I wish you wouldn’t be -so rough. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about, or if you -do you certainly don’t know anything about me. You must have me mixed -up with some one else, or with something that I don’t know anything -about.” She moved as if to leave. - -“Now listen to me a minute,” he said sharply, “and don’t be so ready -to leave. You know who I am, and just what I’m doing. I’m running an -investigation bureau on my own account with which I mean to break up -the present city political ring, and I have a lot of evidence which -might cause Mr. Tilney and the mayor and some others a lot of trouble -this fall, and they know it, and that’s why you’re out here. Mr. Tilney -is connected with the mayor, and he used to be a bosom friend of your -friend, Jack Swayne. And Diamondberg and Mrs. Skelton are in his employ -right now, and so are you. You think I don’t know that Castleman and -his friends were working with you and Mrs. Skelton, and Diamondberg -and these ‘brokers’ also, and that Castleman tried to run into us the -other night and kill me, and that I’m being watched here all the time -and spied on, but I am, and I know it, and I’m not in the dark as to -anything--not one thing--not even you,” and he leered at her angrily. - -“Now wait a moment,” he went on quickly as she opened her mouth and -started to say something. “You don’t look to me to be so crafty and -devilish as all this seems, or I wouldn’t be talking to you at all, -and your manner all along has been so different--you’ve appeared so -friendly and sympathetic, that I’ve thought at times that maybe you -didn’t know exactly what was going on. Now, however, I see that you do. -Your manner the other morning at breakfast made me think that possibly -you were not so bad as you seemed. But now I see that you’ve been lying -to me all along about all this, just as I thought, only I must say that -up to now I haven’t been willing to believe it. This isn’t the first -time an attempt has been made to get people in this way, though. It’s -an old political trick, only you’re trying to work it once more, and I -don’t propose that you shall work it on me if I can help it. Plainly, -you people wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, any more than Tilney hesitated -to ruin Crothers three years ago, or than he would hesitate to ruin -me or any other man or woman who got in his path, but he hasn’t got -me yet, and he’s not going to, and you can tell him that for me. He’s -a crook. He controls a bunch of crooks--the mayor and all the people -working with him--and if you’re in with them, as I know you are, and -know what you’re doing, you’re a crook too.” - -“Oh, oh, oh! Don’t!” she exclaimed. “Please don’t! This is too -terrible! To think that you should talk to me in this way!” but she -made no attempt to leave. - -“Now I want to tell you something more, Miss Carle--if that’s your real -name--” Gregory went on as she was putting her hands to her temples and -exclaiming, and she winced again. “As I said before, you don’t look to -me to be as bad as you seem, and for that reason I’m talking to you -now. But just see how it is: Here I am, a young man just starting out -in the world really, and here you are trying to ruin me. I was living -here with my wife and my little two-year-old baby peacefully enough -until she had to go to the mountains because our little boy was taken -sick, and then you and Mrs. Skelton and Diamondberg and Castleman and -the ‘brokers’ and all the rest of the crowd that are and have been -around here watching and spying, came and began to cause me trouble. -Now I’m not helpless. And you needn’t think I wasn’t warned before you -came, because I was. There are just as many influential men on my side -of the fence right now as there are on Tilney’s--will be--and he isn’t -going to get away with this thing as easily as he thinks. But just -think of your part in all this! Why should you want to ruin me or help -these people? What have I ever done to you? I can understand Tilney’s -wanting to do it. He thinks that I have facts which will injure him, -and I have, and that because I haven’t made any public statement the -evidence is still in my hands, and that if I am put out of the way or -discredited the whole thing will blow over and nothing will happen to -him--but it won’t. Not now any more. It can’t. This thing will go -on just the same, whether I am here or not. But that isn’t the point -either. I was told two months ago that you would come, not by Mrs. -Skelton, but by friends of mine, and that an attempt would be made on -my life,” and at that she opened her eyes wide and sat there apparently -amazed, “and here you are on schedule time and doing just as you were -told, and apparently you aren’t the least bit ashamed to do it. But -don’t you think it’s a pretty shabby game for you to play?” He stared -at her wearily and she at him, but now for the moment she said nothing, -just sat there. - -“That big blue machine that was to have killed me the other night,” he -went on, stretching matters a little in so far as his own knowledge -was concerned, “was all arranged for long before you came down here. -I haven’t the slightest idea why you work for Tilney, but I know now -that that’s what you’re doing, and I’m sick of you and the whole thing. -You’re just a plain little crook, that’s all, and I’m through with you -and this whole thing, and I don’t want you to talk to me any more. -What’s more, I’m not going to leave this hotel, either, and you can -take that news to Tilney if you want to, or Mrs. Skelton or whoever -else is managing things here for him. I’ve kept a day-to-day record -of everything that’s happened so far, and I have witnesses, and if -anything more happens to me here I’m going to the newspapers and expose -the whole thing. If you had any sense of decency left you wouldn’t be -in on anything like this, but you haven’t--you’re just a shabby little -trickster, and that lets you out, and that’s all I have to say.” - -He stood up and made as if to walk off, while Miss Carle sat there, -seemingly dazed, then jumped up and called after him: - -“Mr. Gregory! Please! Please! Mr. Gregory, I want to tell you -something!” - -He stopped and turned. She came hurriedly up to him. - -“Don’t go,” she pleaded, “not just yet. Wait a minute. Please come -back. I want to talk to you.” And though he looked at her rather -determinedly, he followed her. - -“Well?” he asked. - -“You don’t understand how it is,” she pleaded, with a look of real -concern in her eyes. “And I can’t tell you either, just now, but I -will some time if you will let me. But I like you, and I really don’t -want to do you any harm. Really, I don’t. I don’t know anything about -these automobile things you’re telling about--truly I don’t. They’re -all terrible and horrible to me, and if they are trying to do anything -like that, I don’t know it, and I won’t have anything more to do with -it--really I won’t. Oh, it’s terrible!” and she clenched her hands. -“I do know Mr. Diamondberg now, I admit that, but I didn’t before I -came down here, and Mr. Swayne and Mr. Tilney. I did come here to see -if I could get you interested in me, but they didn’t tell me just -why. They told me--Mrs. Skelton did--that you, or some people whom -you represented, were trying to get evidence against some friends of -theirs--Mr. Tilney’s, I believe--who were absolutely innocent, that you -weren’t happy with your wife, and that if some one, any one, were able -to make you fall in love with her or just become very good friends, -she might be able to persuade you not to do it, you see. There wasn’t -any plan, so far as I know, to injure you bodily in any way. They -didn’t tell me that they wanted to injure you physically--really they -didn’t. That’s all news to me, and dreadful. All they said was that -they wanted to get some one to get you to stop--make it worth your -while in a money way, if I could. I didn’t think there was anything so -very wrong in that, seeing all they have done for me in the past--Mr. -Tilney, Mrs. Skelton and some others. But after I saw you a little -while I----” she paused and looked at him, then away, “I didn’t think -you were that kind of a man, you see, and so--well, it’s different -now. I don’t want to do anything to hurt you. Really I don’t. I -couldn’t--now.” - -“So you admit now that you do know Mr. Tilney,” he commented sourly, -but not without a sense of triumph behind it all. - -“I just told you that,” she said. - -She stopped, and Gregory stared at her suspiciously. That she liked him -was plain, and in a sense it was different from that of a mere passing -flirtation, and as for himself--well, he couldn’t help liking her in -a genial way. He was free to admit that to himself, in spite of her -trickery, and that she was attractive, and as yet she personally had -not done anything to him, certainly nothing that he could prove. She -seemed even now so young, although so sophisticated and wise, and much -about her face, its smoothness, the delicate tracery of hair about her -forehead, the drooping pout of the upper lip, sharpened his interest -and caused him to meditate. - -“Well?” he inquired after a time. - -“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t turn on me so and leave me,” she pleaded. “I -haven’t done anything to you, have I? Not yet, anyhow.” - -“That’s just the point--not yet. There’s the whole story in a nutshell.” - -“Yes, but I promise you faithfully that I won’t, that I don’t intend -to. Really I don’t. You won’t believe me, but that’s true. And I won’t, -I give you my word,--truly. Why won’t you still be friends with me? -I can’t tell you any more about myself now than I have--not now--but -I will some time, and I wish you would still be friends with me. I -promise not to do anything to cause you trouble. I haven’t really, have -I? Have I?” - -“How should I know?” he answered testily and roughly, the while -believing that this was a deliberate attempt on her part to interest -him in spite of himself, to get him not to leave yet. “It seems to me -you’ve done enough, being with these people. You’ve led me into going -about with them, for one thing. I would never have gone with them on -most of these trips except for you. Isn’t that enough? What more do you -want? And why can’t you tell me now,” he demanded, feeling in a way -the authority of a victor, “who these people are and all about them? -I’d like to know. It might be a help to me, if you really wanted to do -something for me. What are their plans, their game?” - -“I don’t know. I can’t tell you any more than I have, truly I can’t. If -I find out, maybe I will some time. I promise to. But not now. I can’t, -now. Can’t you trust me that much? Can’t you see that I like you, when -I tell you so much? I haven’t any plan to injure you personally, -truly I haven’t. I’m obliged to these people in one way and another, -but nothing that would make me go that far. Won’t you believe me?” She -opened her eyes very wide in injury. There was something new in her -expression, a luring, coaxing something. - -“I haven’t any one who is really close to me any more,” she went on, -“not anybody I like. I suppose it’s all my own fault, but--” her voice -became very sweet. - -In spite of his precautions and the knowledge that his wife was the -best and most suitable companion for him in the world, and that he was -permanently fixed through his affection for his child and the helpful, -hopeful mother of it, nevertheless he was moved by some peculiarity of -this girl’s temperament. What power had Tilney over her, that he could -use her in this way? Think of it--a beautiful girl like this! - -“What about Mrs. Skelton?” he demanded. “Who is she, anyhow? And these -three gardeners around here? What is it they want?” (There were three -gardeners of the grounds who whenever he and Imogene had been alone -together anywhere managed somehow to be working near the scene--an -arrival which caused him always instanter to depart.) “And Diamondberg?” - -She insisted that in so far as the gardeners were concerned she knew -absolutely nothing about them. If they were employed by Mrs. Skelton -or any one, it was without her knowledge. As for Diamondberg, she -explained that she had only met him since she had come here, but that -she really did not like him. For some reason Mrs. Skelton had asked her -to appear not to know him. Mrs. Skelton, she persisted, had known her -years before in Cincinnati, as she had said, but more recently in the -city. She had helped her to get various positions, twice on the stage. -Once she had worked for Mr. Swayne, yes, for a year, but only as a -clerk. She had never known anything about him or his plans or schemes, -never. When Gregory wanted to know how it was that he was to be trapped -by her, if at all, she insisted that she did not believe that he was to -be trapped. It was all to have been as she said. - -Gregory could not quite make out whether she was telling him the exact -truth, but it was near enough, and it seemed to him that she could not -be wholly lying. She seemed too frank and wishful. There was something -sensuously affectionate in her point of view and her manner. He would -know everything in the future, she insisted, if he wanted to, but only -not now--please not now. Then she asked about his wife, where she was, -when she was coming back. - -“Do you love her very much?” she finally asked naïvely. - -“Certainly I love her. Why do you ask? I’ve a two-year-old boy that I’m -crazy about.” - -She looked at him thoughtfully, a little puzzled or uncertain, he -thought. - -They agreed to be friends after a fashion before they were through. He -confessed that he liked her, but still that he did not trust her--not -yet. They were to go on as before, but only on condition that nothing -further happened to him which could be traced to her. She frankly told -him that she could not control the actions of the others. They were -their own masters, and, after a fashion, hers, but in so far as she -could she would protect him. She did not believe that they intended to -try much longer. In so far as she was concerned, he might go away if -he chose. She could see him anywhere, if he would. She was not sure if -that would make any difference in their plans or not. Anyhow, she would -not follow him if he did go unless he wished it, but she would prefer -that he did. Perhaps nothing more would happen here. If she heard of -anything she would tell him, or try to, in time. But she could not say -more than that now. After a while, maybe, as soon as she could get out -of here ... there were certain things over which she had no control. -She was very enigmatic and secretive, and he took it to mean that she -was involved in some difficult situation and could not easily extricate -herself. - -“I wouldn’t take too much stock in her, at that,” Blount reflected -when Gregory had told him about it. “Just keep your eyes open, that’s -all. Don’t have anything to do with her in a compromising way. She may -be lying to you again. Once a crook, always a crook.” Such was his -philosophy. - -Mrs. Skelton returned on the third day after his long conversation -with Imogene, and in spite of the fact that they had seemed to come -closer together than ever before, to have established a friendly -semi-defensive pact, still he sensed treachery. He could not make out -what it was. She seemed to be friendly, simple, gay, direct, even -wooing--and yet--what? He thought at one time that she might be the -unconscious psychologic victim of Mrs. Skelton or of some one else; at -other times, an absolutely unprincipled political philanderer. While -pretending to be “on the level,” as he phrased it, with him, she was -crossing his path in such odd ways, making him uncertain as to whether, -in spite of all she had said and was saying, she was still engaged -in trying to compromise him. The whole thing began to take on the -fascination of a game with the unconquerable lure of sex at the bottom -of it--steeled as he was against compromising himself in any way. - -Thus once, after a late card game, when he stepped out on a small -veranda or balcony which graced the end of the hall nearest which his -room was situated, and which commanded a splendid view of the sea, he -found her just outside his door, alone, diaphanously attired, and very -sympathetic and genial. Now that they were friends and had had this -talk, there was something in her manner which always seemed to invite -him on to a closer life with her without danger to himself, as she -seemed to say. She would shield him against all, at her own expense. At -the same time he was far--very far--from yielding. More than once he -had insisted that he did not want to have anything to do with her in an -affectional way, and yet here she was on this occasion, and although -there might or there might not have been anything very alarming in -that, he argued with himself afterward, yet since he had told her, -this could be made to look as though she were trying to overpersuade -him, to take him off his guard. Any guest of the hotel might have done -as much (her room was somewhere near there), but Rule One, as laid -down by Blount, and as hitherto practised by him, was never, under any -circumstances which might be misinterpreted, to be alone with her. And -besides, when he withdrew, as he did at once, excusing himself lightly -and laughingly, he saw two men turning in at a cross corridor just -beyond, and one, seeing him turn back, said to the other, “It must be -on the other side, Jim.” Well, there might not have been anything very -significant in that, either. Any two men might accidentally turn into a -hall on an end balcony of which a maiden was sitting in very diaphanous -array, but still---- - -It was the same whenever he walked along the outer or sea wall at -night, listening to the thunder of the water against the rapp which -sustained the walk, and meditating on the night and the beauty of the -hotel and the shabbiness of politics. Imogene was always about him -when she might be with safety, as he saw it, but never under such -circumstances as could be made to seem that they were alone together. -Bullen, one of the two brokers, who seemed not a bad sort after his -kind, came out there one night with Mrs. Skelton and Imogene, and -seeing Gregory, engaged him in conversation and then left Imogene to -his care. Gregory, hating to appear asininely suspicious under such -circumstances, was genuinely troubled as to what to do in such cases -as these. Always now he was drawn to her, painfully so, and yet---- He -had told her more than once that he did not wish to be alone with her -in this way, and yet here she was, and she was always insisting that -she did not wish him to be with her if he objected to it, and yet look -at this! Her excuse always was that she could not help it, that it -was purely accidental or planned by them without her knowledge. She -could not avoid all accidents. When he demanded to know why she did -not leave, clear out of all of this, she explained that without great -injury to herself and Mrs. Skelton she could not, and that besides he -was safer with her there. - -“What is this?” he asked on this occasion. “Another plan?” Feeling her -stop and pull back a little, he felt ashamed of himself. “Well, you -know what I’ve been telling you all along,” he added gruffly. - -“Please don’t be so suspicious, Ed. Why do you always act so? Can’t I -even walk out here? I couldn’t avoid this to-night, truly I couldn’t. -Don’t you suppose I have to play a part too--for a time, anyhow? What -do you expect me to do--leave at once? I can’t, I tell you. Won’t you -believe me? Won’t you have a little faith in me?” - -“Well, come on,” he returned crossly, as much irritated with himself -as any one. “Give me your arm. Give a dog a bad name, you know,” and -he walked her courteously but firmly in the direction of the principal -veranda, trying to be nice to her at the same time. - -“I tell you, Imogene, I can’t and I won’t do this. You must find ways -of avoiding these things. If not, I’m not going to have anything to -do with you at all. You say you want me to be friends with you, if -no more. Very well. But how are we going to do it?” and after more -arguments of this kind they parted with considerable feeling, but not -altogether antagonistic, at that. - -Yet by reason of all this finally, and very much to his personal -dissatisfaction, he found himself limited as to his walks and lounging -places almost as much as if he had been in prison. There was a little -pergola at one end of the lawn with benches and flowering vines -which had taken his fancy when he first came, and which he had been -accustomed to frequent as a splendid place to walk and smoke, but not -any more. He was too certain of being picked up there, or of being -joined by Mrs. Skelton and Imogene, only to be left with Imogene, with -possibly the three gardeners or a broker as witnesses. He could not -help thinking how ridiculous it all was. - -He even took Imogene, he and Blount, in Blount’s car, and Mrs. Skelton -with them or not, as the case might be--it was all well enough so -long as Blount was along--to one place or another in the immediate -vicinity--never far, and always the two of them armed and ready for any -emergency or fray, as they said. It seemed a risky thing to do, still -they felt a little emboldened by their success so far, and besides, -Imogene was decidedly attractive to both of them. Now that she had -confessed her affection for Gregory she was most alluring with him, and -genial to Blount, teasing and petting him and calling him the watchdog. -Blount was always crowing over how well he and Gregory were managing -the affair. More than once he had pointed out, even in her presence, -that there was an element of sport or fascinating drama in it, that -she “couldn’t fool them,” all of which was helping mightily to pass -the time, even though his own and Gregory’s life, or at least their -reputation, might be at stake. - -“Go on, go on, is my advice,” Blount kept saying now that he was being -amused. “Let her fall in love with you. Make her testify on your -behalf. Get a confession in black and white, if you can. It would be a -great thing in the campaign, if you were compelled to use it.” He was -a most practical and political soul, for all his geniality. - -Gregory could not quite see himself doing that, however. He was too -fond of her. She was never quite so yielding, so close to him, as now. -When he and Blount were out with her, now, the two of them ventured to -rag her as to her part in all this, asking her whether the other car -were handy, whether the gardeners had been properly lined up, and as to -who was behind this tree or that house. “There’d be no use in going if -everything wasn’t just right,” they said. She took it all in good part, -even laughing and mocking them. - -“Better look out! Here comes a spy now,” she would sometimes exclaim -at sight of a huckster driving a wagon or a farm-hand pushing a -wheelbarrow. - -To both Blount and Gregory it was becoming a farce, and yet between -themselves they agreed that it had its charm. They were probably tiring -her backers and they would all quit soon. They hoped so, anyhow. - -But then one night, just as they had concluded that there might not -be so very much to this plot after all, that it was about all over, -and Mrs. Gregory was writing that she would soon be able to return, -the unexpected happened. They were returning from one of those shorter -outings which had succeeded the longer ones of an earlier day, Blount -and Gregory and Imogene, and true to his idea of avoiding any routine -procedure which might be seized upon by the enemy as something to -expect and therefore to be used, Blount passed the main entrance and -drove instead around to a side path which led to a sunk-in porch -flanked on either side by high box hedges and sheltered furry pines. -True also to their agreed plan of never being separated on occasions -like this, they both walked to the door with Imogene, Blount locking -his car so that it could not be moved during his absence. On the steps -of this side porch they chaffered a little, bantering Imogene about -another safe night, and how hard it was on the gardeners to keep them -up so late and moving about in the dark in this fashion, when Imogene -said she was tired and would have to go. She laughed at them for their -brashness. - -“You two think you’re very smart, don’t you?” she smiled a little -wearily. “It would serve you right if something did happen to both of -you one of these days--you know so much.” - -“Is that so?” chuckled Blount. “Well, don’t hold any midnight -conferences as to this. You’ll lose your beauty sleep if you do.” - -To which Gregory added, “Yes, with all this hard work ahead of you -every day, Imogene, I should think you’d have to be careful.” - -“Oh, hush, and go on,” she laughed, moving toward the door. - -But they had not gone more than a hundred and fifty feet down the -shadowy side path before she came running after them, quite out of -breath. - -“Oh dear!” she called sweetly as she neared them, and they having heard -her footsteps had turned. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but some one -has locked that side door, and I can’t open it or make them hear. Won’t -one of you come and help me?” Then, as the two of them turned, “That’s -right. I forgot. You always work in pairs, don’t you?” - -Blount chortled. Gregory smiled also. They couldn’t help it. It was so -ridiculous at times--on occasions like this, for instance. - -“Well, you see how it is,” Gregory teased, “the door may be very -tightly closed, and it might take the two of us to get it open.” - -Seeing that Blount was really coming, he changed his mind. “I guess I -can get it open for her. Don’t bother this time. I’ll have to be going -in, anyhow,” he added. The thought came to him that he would like to be -with Imogene a little while--just a few moments. - -Blount left them after a cautioning look and a cheery good night. In -all the time they had been together they had not done this, but this -time it seemed all right. Gregory had never felt quite so close to -Imogene as he did this evening. She had seemed so warm, laughing, gay. -The night had been sultry, but mellow. They had tittered and jested -over such trifling things, and now he felt that he would like to be -with her a while longer. She had become more or less a part of his -life, or seemingly so, such a genial companion. He took her arm and -tucked it under his own. - -“It was nice over there at the Berkeley,” he commented, thinking of -an inn they had just left. “Beautiful grounds--and that music! It was -delightful, wasn’t it?” They had been dancing together. - -“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “the summer will soon be over, and then I’ll -have to be going back, I suppose. I wish it would never end. I wish I -could stay here forever, just like this, if you were here.” She stopped -and looked at the treetops, taking a full breath and stretching out -her arms. “And do look at those fire-flies,” she added, “aren’t they -wonderful?” She hung back, watching the flashing fire-flies under the -trees. - -“Why not sit down here a little while?” he proposed as they neared the -steps. “It isn’t late yet.” - -“Do you really mean it?” she asked warmly. - -“You see, I’m beginning to be so foolish as to want to trust you. Isn’t -that idiotic? Yes, I’m even going to risk fifteen minutes with you.” - -“I wish you two would quit your teasing, just once,” she pleaded. “I -wish you would learn to trust me and leave Blount behind just once in a -while, seeing that I’ve told you so often that I mean to do nothing to -hurt you without telling you beforehand.” - -Gregory looked at her, pleased. He was moved, a little sorry for her, -and a little sorrier for himself. - -In spite of himself, his wife and baby, as he now saw, he had come -along a path he should not have, and with one whom he could not -conscientiously respect or revere. There was no future for them -together, as he well knew, now or at any other time. Still he lingered. - -“Well, here we are,” he said, “alone at last. Now you can do your -worst, and I have no one to protect me.” - -“It would serve you right if I did, Mr. Smarty. But if I had suggested -that we sit down for a minute you would have believed that the wood -was full of spies. It’s too funny for words, the way you carry on. But -you’ll have to let me go upstairs to change my shoes, just the same. -They’ve been hurting me dreadfully, and I can’t stand them another -minute. If you want to, you can come up to the other balcony, or I’ll -come back here. I won’t be a minute. Do you mind?” - -“Not at all,” he assented, thinking that the other balcony would not be -as open as this, much too private for him and her. “Certainly not. Run -along. But I’d rather you came back here. I want to smoke, anyhow,” and -he drew out his cigar and was about to make himself comfortable when -she came back. - -“But you’ll have to get this door open for me,” she said. “I forgot -about that.” - -“Oh, yes, that’s right.” - -He approached it, looking first for the large key which always hung on -one side at this hour of the night, but not seeing it, looked at the -lock. The key was in it. - -“I was trying before. I put it there,” she explained. - -He laid hold of it, and to his surprise it came open without any effort -whatsoever, a thing which caused him to turn and look at her. - -“I thought you said it wouldn’t open,” he said. - -“Well, it wouldn’t before. I don’t know what makes it work now, but it -wouldn’t then. Perhaps some one has come out this way since. Anyhow, -I’ll run up and be down right away.” She hurried up the broad flight of -stairs which ascended leisurely from this entrance. - -Gregory returned to his chair, amused but not conscious of anything -odd or out of the way about the matter. It might well have been as she -said. Doors were contrary at times, or some one might have come down -and pushed it open. Why always keep doubting? Perhaps she really was -in love with him, as she seemed to indicate, or mightily infatuated, -and would not permit any one to injure him through her. It would seem -so, really. After all, he kept saying to himself, she was different -now to what he had originally thought, and what she had originally -been, caught in a tangle of her own emotions and compelled by him to -do differently from what she had previously planned. If he were not -married as happily as he was, might not something come of this? He -wondered. - -The black-green wall of the trees just beyond where he was sitting, -the yellow light filtering from the one bowl lamp which ornamented -the ceiling, the fireflies and the sawing katydids, all soothed and -entertained him. He was beginning to think that politics was not such -a bad business after all, his end of it at least, or being pursued -even. His work thus far had yielded him a fair salary, furnishing -as it had excellent copy for some of the newspapers and political -organizations--the best was being reserved for the last--and was -leading him into more interesting ways than the old newspaper days had, -and the future, outside of what had happened in the last few weeks, -looked promising enough. Soon he would be able to deal the current -administration a body blow. This might raise him to a high position -locally. He had not been so easily frustrated as they had hoped, and -this very attractive girl had fallen in love with him. - -For a while he stared down the black-green path up which they had come, -and then fixed his eyes in lazy contemplation on one of the groups of -stars showing above the treetops. Suddenly--or was it suddenly?--more -a whisper or an idea--he seemed to become aware of something that -sounded, as he listened more keenly, like a light footfall in the -garden beyond the hedge. It was so very light, a mere tickle of the -grass or stirring of a twig. He pricked up his ears and on the instant -strained every muscle and braced himself, not that he imagined anything -very dreadful was going to happen, but--were they up to their old -tricks again? Was this the wonderful gardeners again? Would they never -stop? Removing the cigar from his mouth and stilling the rocker in -which he had been slowly moving to and fro, he decided not to stir, not -even to move his hands, so well concealed was he from the bushes on -either side by the arrangement of the posts, one of which was to the -left of him. In this position he might see and not be seen. Did they -know he was there? How had they found out? Were they always watching -yet? Was she a part of it? He decided to get up and leave, but a moment -later thought it better to linger just a little, to wait and see. If -he left and she came back and did not find him there--could it be that -there was some new trick on foot? - -While he was thus swiftly meditating, he was using his ears to their -utmost. Certainly there was a light footfall approaching along the -other side of the hedge to the left, two in fact, for no sooner was -one seemingly still, near at hand, than another was heard coming from -the same direction, as light and delicate as that of a cat--spies, -trappers, murderers, even, as he well knew. It was so amazing, this -prowling and stalking, so desperate and cruel, that it made him a -little sick. Perhaps, after all, he had better have kept Blount with -him--not have lingered in this fashion. He was about to leave, a -nervous thrill chasing up and down his spine, when he heard what he -took to be Imogene’s step on the stair. Then she was coming back, -after all, as she had said. She was not a part of this as he had -feared--or was she? Who could tell? But it would be foolish to leave -now. She would see that he was wholly suspicious again, and that stage -had somehow seemed to be passing between them. She had promised on -more than one occasion to protect him against these others, let alone -herself. Anyhow he could speak of these newcomers and then leave. He -would let her know that they were hanging about as usual, always ready -to take advantage of his good nature. - -But now, her step having reached the bottom of the stair and ceased, -she did not come out. Instead, a light that was beside the door, but -out at this hour, was turned on, and glancing back he could see her -shadow, or thought he could, on the wall opposite, to the right. She -was doing something--what? There was a mirror below the light. She -might be giving her hair a last pat. She had probably arrayed herself -slightly differently for him to see. He waited. Still she did not -come. Then swiftly, a sense of something treacherous came over him, -a creeping sensation of being victimized and defeated. He felt, over -his taut nerves, this thrilling fear which seemed to almost convey the -words: Move! Hurry! Run! He could not sit still a moment longer, but, -as if under a great compulsion, leaped to his feet and sprang to the -door just as he thought he heard additional movements and even whispers -in the dark outside. What was it? Who? Now he would see! - -Inside he looked for her, and there she was, but how different! -When she had gone upstairs she had been arrayed in a light summery -dress, very smart and out-door-ish, but here she was clothed in a soft -clinging housedress such as one would never wear outside the hotel. And -instead of being adjusted with her customary care, it was decidedly -awry, as though she might have been in some disturbing and unhappy -contest. The collar was slightly torn and pulled open, a sleeve ripped -at the shoulder and wrist, the hang of the skirt over the hips awry, -and the skirt itself torn, a ragged slit over the knee. Her face had -been powdered to a dead white, or she herself was overcome with fear -and distress, and the hair above it was disarranged, as though it had -been shaken or pulled to one side. Her whole appearance was that of one -who had been assailed in some evil manner and who had come out of the -contest disarranged as to her clothes and shaken as to her nerves. - -Brief as his glance was, Gregory was amazed at the transformation. -He was so taken aback that he could not say anything, but just what -it all meant came to him in an intuitive flash. To fly was his one -thought, to get out of the vicinity of this, not to be seen or taken -near it. With one bound he was away and up the easy stair three at a -time, not pausing to so much as look back at her, meeting her first -wide half-frightened stare with one of astonishment, anger and fear. -Nor did he pause until he had reached his own door, through which he -fairly jumped, locking himself in as he did so. Once inside, he stood -there white and shaking, waiting for any sound which might follow, any -pursuit, but hearing none, going to his mirror and mocking at himself -for being such a fool as to be so easily outwitted, taken in, after -all his caution and sophisticated talk. Lord! he sighed. Lord! - -And after all her protests and promises, this very evening, too, he -thought. What a revelation of the unreliability and treachery of human -nature! So she had been lying to him all the time, leading him on -in the face of his almost boastful precautions and suspicions, and -to-night, almost at the close of the season, had all but succeeded in -trapping him! Then Tilney was not so easily to be fooled, after all. He -commanded greater loyalty and cunning in his employees than he had ever -dreamed. But what could he say to her, now that he knew what she really -was, if ever he saw her again? She would just laugh at him, think him a -fool, even though he had managed to escape. Would he ever want to see -her again? Never, he thought. But to think that any one so young, so -smooth, so seemingly affectionate, could be so ruthless, so devilishly -clever and cruel! She was much more astute than either he or Blount had -given her credit for. - -After moving the bureau and chairs in front of the door, he called up -Blount and sat waiting for him to come. - -Actually, as he saw it now, she had meant to stage a seeming assault -in which he would have been accused as the criminal and if they had -sufficient witnesses he might have had a hard time proving otherwise. -After all, he had been going about with her a great deal, he and -Blount, and after he had told himself that he would not. - -Her witnesses were there, close upon him, in the dark. Even though he -might be able to prove his previous good character, still, considering -the suspicious fact that he had trifled with her and this treacherous -situation so long, would a jury or the public believe him? A moment or -two more, and she would have screamed out that he was attacking her, -and the whole hotel would have been aroused. Her secret friends would -have rushed forward and beaten him. Who knows?--they might even have -killed him! And their excuse would have been that they were justified. -Unquestionably she and her friends would have produced a cloud of -witnesses. But she hadn’t screamed--there was a curious point as to -that, even though she had had ample time (and she had had) and it was -expected of her and intended that she should! Why hadn’t she? What had -prevented her? A strange, disturbing exculpating thought began to take -root in his mind, but on the instant also he did his best to crush it. - -“No, no! I have had enough now,” he said to himself. “She did intend to -compromise me and that is all there is to it. And in what a fashion. -Horrible. No, this is the end. I will get out now to-morrow, that is -one thing certain, go to my wife in the mountains, or bring her home.” -Meanwhile, he sat there trembling, revolver in hand, wiping the sweat -from his face, for he did not know but that even yet they might follow -him here and attempt the charge of assault anyhow. Would they--could -they? Just then some one knocked on his door, and Gregory, after -demanding to know who it was, opened it to Blount. He quickly told him -of his evening’s experience. - -“Well,” said Blount, heavily and yet amusedly, “she certainly is the -limit. That was a clever ruse, say what you will, a wonder. And the -coolness of her! Why, she joked with us about it! I thought you were -taking a chance, but not a great one. I was coming around to thinking -she might be all right, and now think of this! I agree with you that -it is time for you to leave. I don’t think you’ll ever get her over to -your side. She’s too crafty.” - -The next morning Gregory was up early and on the veranda smoking and -meditating as to his exact course. He would go now, of course, and -probably never see this girl with her fiend’s heart again. What a -revelation! To think that there were such clever, ruthless, beautiful -sirens about in the same world with such women as his wife! Contrast -them--his wife, faithful, self-sacrificing, patient, her one object -the welfare of those whom she truly loved, and then put on the other -side of the scale this girl--tricky, shameless, an actress, one without -scruples or morals, her sole object in life, apparently, to advance -herself in any way that she might, and that at the expense of everybody -and everything! - -He wanted to leave without seeing her, but in spite of himself he sat -on, telling himself that it would do no harm to have just one last talk -with her in order to clear up whether she had really intended to scream -or no--whether she was as evil as he really thought now, confront her -with her enormous treachery and denounce her for the villainess she -was. What new lie would she have on her tongue now, he wondered? Would -she be able to face him at all? Would she explain? Could she? He would -like to take one more look at her, or see if she would try to avoid him -completely. This morning she must be meditating on how unfortunately -she had failed, missed out, and only last night she had taken his hand -and smoothed it and whispered that she was not so bad, so mean, as he -thought her to be, and that some day he would find it out. And now see! - -He waited a considerable time, and then sent up word that he wanted to -see her. He did not want to see this thing closed in this fashion with -no chance to at least berate her, to see what new lie she would tell. -After a while she came down, pale and seemingly exhausted, a weary look -about her eyes as though she had not slept. To his astonishment she -came over quite simply to where he was sitting, and when he stood up at -her approach as if to ward her off, stood before him, seemingly weaker -and more hopeless than ever. What an excellent actress, he thought! He -had never seen her so downcast, so completely overcome, so wilted. - -“Well,” he began as she stood there, “what new lie have you fixed up to -tell me this morning?” - -“No lie,” she replied softly. - -“What! Not a single lie? Anyhow, you’ll begin by shamming contrition, -won’t you? You’re doing that already. Your friends made you do it, of -course, didn’t they? Tilney was right there--and Mrs. Skelton! They -were all waiting for you when you went up, and told you just what to do -and how it had to be done, wasn’t that it? And you had to do it, too, -didn’t you?” he sneered cynically. - -“I told you I didn’t have anything to say,” she answered. “I didn’t do -anything--I mean I didn’t intend to--except to signal you to run, but -when you burst in on me that way----” He waved an impatient hand. “Oh, -all right,” she went on sadly. “I can’t help it if you won’t believe -me. But it’s true just the same. Everything you think, all except that -automobile plot, and this is true, but I’m not asking you to believe -me any more. I can’t help it if you won’t. It’s too late. But I had to -go through my part anyhow. Please don’t look at me that way, Ed--not -so hard. You don’t know how really weak I am, or what it is that makes -me do these things. But I didn’t want to do anything to hurt you last -night, not when I left you. And I didn’t. I hadn’t the slightest -intention, really I hadn’t. Oh, well, sneer if you want to! I couldn’t -help myself, though, just the same--believe it or not. Nothing was -farther from my mind when I came in, only--oh, what a state my life has -come to, anyhow!” she suddenly exclaimed. “You don’t know. Your life’s -not a mess, like mine. People have never had you in any position where -they could make you do things. That’s just the trouble--men never know -women really.” (“I should say not!” he interpolated.) “But I have had -to do so many things I didn’t want to do--but I’m not pleading with -you, Ed, really I’m not. I know it’s all over between us and no use, -only I wish I could make you believe that as bad as I am I’ve never -wanted to be as bad to you as I’ve seemed. Really, I haven’t. Oh, -honestly----” - -“Oh, cut that stuff, please!” he said viciously. “I’m sick of it. It -wasn’t to hear anything like that that I sent for you. The reason I -asked you to come down here was merely to see how far you would face -it out, whether you would have the nerve to come, really, that was -all--oh, just to see whether you would have a new lie to spring, and I -see you have. You’re a wonder, you are! But I’d like to ask you just -one favor: Won’t you please let me alone in the future? I’m tired, and -I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going away now. This fellow Tilney you -are working for is very clever, but it’s all over. It really is. You’ll -never get another chance at me if I know myself.” He started to walk -off. - -“Ed! Ed!” she called. “Please--just a minute--don’t go yet, Ed,” she -begged. “There’s something I want to say to you first. I know all you -say is true. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself -a thousand times. But you don’t understand what my life has been like, -what I’ve suffered, how I’ve been pushed around, and I can’t tell -you now, either--not now. Our family wasn’t ever in society, as Mrs. -Skelton pretended--you knew that, of course, though--and I haven’t -been much of anything except a slave, and I’ve had a hard time, too, -terrible,” and she began dabbing her eyes. “I know I’m no good. Last -night proved it to me, that’s a fact. But I hadn’t meant to do you any -harm even when I came alone that way--really I didn’t. I pretended to -be willing, that was all. Hear me out, Ed, anyhow. Please don’t go yet. -I thought I could signal you to run without them seeing me--really I -did. When I first left you the door was locked, and I came back for -that sole reason. I suppose they did something to it so I couldn’t open -it. There were others up there; they made me go back--I can’t tell you -how or why or who--but they were all about me--they always are. They’re -determined to get you, Ed, in one way or another, even if I don’t help -them, and I’m telling you you’d better look out for yourself. Please -do. Go away from here. Don’t have anything more to do with me. Don’t -have anything more to do with any of these people. I can’t help myself, -honestly I can’t. I didn’t want to, but--oh----” she wrung her hands -and sat down wearily, “you don’t know how I’m placed with them, what it -is----” - -“Yes? Well, I’m tired of that stuff,” Gregory now added grimly and -unbelievingly. “I suppose they told you to run back and tell me this -so as to win my sympathy again? Oh, you little liar! You make me sick. -What a sneak and a crook you really are!” - -“Ed! Ed!” she now sobbed. “Please! Please! Won’t you understand how -it is? They have watched every entrance every time we’ve gone out -since I came here. It doesn’t make any difference which door you come -through. They have men at every end. I didn’t know anything about it -until I went upstairs. Really, I didn’t. Oh, I wish I could get out of -all this! I’m so sick of it all. I told you that I’m fond of you, and -I am. Oh, I’m almost crazy! I wish sometimes that I could die, I’m so -sick of everything. My life’s a shabby mess, and now you’ll hate me all -the time,” and she rocked to and fro in a kind of misery, and cried -silently as she did so. - -Gregory stared at her, amazed but unbelieving. - -“Yes,” he insisted, “I know. The same old stuff, but I don’t believe -it. You’re lying now, just as you have been all along. You think by -crying and pretending to feel sad that you might get another chance -to trick me, but you won’t. I’m out of this to-day, once and for all, -and I’m through with you. There’s no use in my appealing to the police -under this administration, or I’d do that. But I want to tell you -this. If you follow me any longer, or any of this bunch around here, -I’m going to the newspapers. There’ll be some way of getting this -before the courts somewhere, and I’ll try it. And if you really were on -the level and wanted to do anything, there’s a way, all right, but you -wouldn’t do it if you had a chance, never, not in a million years. I -know you wouldn’t.” - -“Oh, Ed! Ed! You don’t know me, or how I feel, or what I’ll do,” she -whimpered. “You haven’t given me a chance. Why don’t you suggest -something, if you don’t believe me, and see?” - -“Well, I can do that easily enough,” he replied sternly. “I can call -that bluff here and now. Write me out a confession of all that’s been -going on here. Let me hear you dictate it to a stenographer, and then -come with me to a notary public or the district attorney, and swear to -it. Now we’ll see just how much there is to this talk about caring for -me,” and he watched her closely, the while she looked at him, her eyes -drying and her sobs ceasing. She seemed to pause emotionally and stare -at the floor in a speculative, ruminative mood. “Yes? Well, that’s -different, isn’t it? I see how it is now. You didn’t think I’d have -just the thing to call your bluff with, did you? And just as I thought, -you won’t do it. Well, I’m onto you now, so good-day. I have your -measure at last. Good-by!” and he started off. - -“Ed!” she called, jumping up suddenly and starting after him. “Ed! -Wait--don’t go! I’ll do what you say. I’ll do anything you want. You -don’t believe I will, but I will. I’m sick of this life, I really am. -I don’t care what they do to me now afterwards, but just the same I’ll -come. Please don’t be so hard on me, Ed. Can’t you see--can’t you -see--Ed--how I feel about you? I’m crazy about you, I really am. I’m -not all bad, Ed, really I’m not--can’t you see that? Only--only----” -and by now he had come back and was looking at her in an incredulous -way. “I wish you cared for me a little, Ed. Do you, Ed, just a little? -Can’t you, if I do this?” - -He looked at her with mingled astonishment, doubt, contempt, pity, and -even affection, after its kind. Would she really do it? And if she did -what could he offer her in the way of that affection which she craved? -Nothing, he knew that. She could never extricate herself from this -awful group by which she was surrounded, her past, the memory of the -things she had tried to do to him, and he--he was married. He was happy -with his wife really, and could make no return. There was his career, -his future, his present position. But that past of hers--what was it? -How could it be that people could control another person in this way -she claimed, especially scoundrels like these, and why wouldn’t she -tell him about it? What had she done that was so terrible as to give -them this power? Even if he did care for her what chance would he have, -presuming her faithfulness itself, to either confront or escape the -horde of secret enemies that was besetting him and her just now? They -would be discovered and paraded forth at their worst, all the details. -That would make it impossible for him to come forth personally and make -the charge which would constitute him champion of the people. No, no, -no! But why, considering all her efforts against him, should she come -to his rescue now, or by doing so expect him to do anything for her by -way of return? He smiled at her dourly, a little sadly. - -“Yes. Well, Imogene, I can’t talk to you about that now, not for the -present, anyhow. You’re either one of the greatest actresses and -crooks that ever lived, or you’re a little light in the upper story. -At any rate, I should think that you might see that you could scarcely -expect me to like you, let alone to love you, all things considered, -and particularly since this other thing has not been straightened out. -You may be lying right now, for all I know--acting, as usual. But even -so--let’s first see what you do about this other, and then talk.” - -He looked at her, then away over the sea to where some boats were -coming towards them. - -“Oh, Ed,” she said sadly, observing his distracted gaze, “you’ll never -know how much I do care for you, although you know I must care a lot -for you, to do this. It’s the very worst thing I can do for me--the -end, maybe, for me. But I wish you would try and like me a little, even -if it were only for a little while.” - -“Well, Imogene, let’s not talk about that now,” he replied skeptically. -“Not until we’ve attended to this other, anyhow. Certainly you owe me -that much. You don’t know what my life’s been, either--one long up-hill -fight. But you’d better come along with me just as you are, if you’re -coming. Don’t go upstairs to get any hat--or to change your shoes. I’ll -get a car here and you can come with me just as you are.” - -She looked at him simply, directly, beatenly. - -“All right, Ed, but I wish I knew how this is going to end. I can’t -come back here after this, you know, if they find it out. I know I owe -this to you, but, oh dear, I’m such a fool! Women always are where love -is concerned, and I told myself I’d never let myself get in love any -more, and now look at me!” - -They went off to the city together, to his office, to a notary, to the -district attorney’s office--a great triumph. She confessed all, or -nearly so, how she had formerly been employed by Mr. Swayne; how she -had met Mr. Tilney there; how, later, after Swayne had fled, Tilney had -employed her in various capacities, secretary, amanuensis, how she had -come to look upon him as her protector; where and how she had met Mrs. -Skelton, and how the latter, at Mr. Tilney’s request (she was not sure, -only it was an order, she said) had engaged--commanded, rather--her -to do this work, though what the compulsion was she refused to say, -reserving it for a later date. She was afraid, she said. - - * * * * * - -Once he had this document in his possession, Gregory was overjoyed, and -still he was doubtful of her. She asked him what now, what more, and he -requested her to leave him at once and to remain away for a time until -he had time to think and decide what else he wished to do. There could -be nothing between them, not even friendship, he reassured her, unless -he was fully convinced at some time or other that no harm could come to -him--his wife, his campaign, or anything else. Time was to be the great -factor. - -And yet two weeks later, due to a telephone message from her to his -office for just one word, a few minutes, anywhere that he would -suggest, they met again, this time merely for a moment, as he told -himself and her. It was foolish, he shouldn’t do it, but still---- At -this interview, somehow, Imogene managed to establish a claim on his -emotions which it was not easy to overcome. It was in one of the small -side booths in the rather out-of-the-way Grill Parzan Restaurant in -the great financial district. Protesting that it was only because she -wished to see him just once more that she had done this, she had come -here, she said, after having dropped instantly and completely out of -the life at Triton Hall, not returning even for her wardrobe, as he -understood it, and hiding away in an unpretentious quarter of the city -until she could make up her mind what to do. She seemed, and said she -was, much alone, distrait. She did not know what was to become of her -now, what might befall her. Still, she was not so unhappy if only he -would not think badly of her any more. He had to smile at her seemingly -pathetic faith in what love might do for her. To think that love should -turn a woman about like this! It was fascinating, and so sad. He was -fond of her in a platonic way, he now told himself, quite sincerely -so. Her interest in him was pleasing, even moving, “But what is it -you expect of me?” he kept saying over and over. “You know we can’t -go on with this. There’s ‘the girl’ and the kid. I won’t do anything -to harm them, and besides, the campaign is just beginning. Even this -is ridiculously foolish of me. I’m taking my career in my hands. This -lunch will have to be the last, I tell you.” - -“Well, Ed,” she agreed wistfully, looking at him at the very close of -the meal, “you have made up your mind, haven’t you? Then you’re not -going to see me any more? You seem so distant, now that we’re back in -town. Do you feel so badly toward me, Ed? Am I really so bad?” - -“Well, Imogene, you see for yourself how it is, don’t you?” he went on. -“It can’t be. You are more or less identified with that old crowd, even -though you don’t want to be. They know things about you, you say, and -they certainly wouldn’t be slow to use them if they had any reason for -so doing. Of course they don’t know anything yet about this confession, -unless you’ve told them, and I don’t propose that they shall so long as -I don’t have to use it. As for me, I have to think of my wife and kid, -and I don’t want to do anything to hurt them. If ever Emily found this -out it would break her all up, and I don’t want to do that. She’s been -too square, and we’ve gone through too much together. I’ve thought it -all over, and I’m convinced that what I’m going to do is for the best. -We have to separate, and I came here to-day to tell you that I can’t -see you any more. It can’t be, Imogene, can’t you see that?” - -“Not even for a little while?” - -“Not even for a day. It just can’t be. I’m fond of you, and you’ve been -a brick to pull me out of this, but don’t you see that it can’t be? -Don’t you really see how it is?” - -She looked at him, then at the table for a moment, and then out over -the buildings of the great city. - -“Oh, Ed,” she reflected sadly, “I’ve been such a fool. I don’t mean -about the confession--I’m glad I did that--but just in regard to -everything I’ve done. But you’re right, Ed. I’ve felt all along that -it would have to end this way, even the morning I agreed to make the -confession. But I’ve been making myself hope against hope, just -because from the very first day I saw you out there I thought I -wouldn’t be able to hold out against you, and now you see I haven’t. -Well, all right, Ed. Let’s say good-bye. Love’s a sad old thing, isn’t -it?” and she began to put on her things. - -He helped her, wondering over the strange whirl of circumstances which -had brought them together and was now spinning them apart. - -“I wish I could do something more for you, Imogene, I really do,” he -said. “I wish I could say something that would make it a little easier -for you--for us both--but what would be the use? It wouldn’t really, -now would it?” - -“No,” she replied brokenly. - -He took her to the elevator and down to the sidewalk, and there they -stopped for a moment. - -“Well, Imogene,” he began, and paused. “It’s not just the way I’d like -it to be, but--well----” he extended his hand “----here’s luck and -good-by, then.” He turned to go. - -She looked up at him pleadingly. - -“Ed,” she said, “Ed--wait! Aren’t you--don’t you want to----?” she put -up her lips, her eyes seemingly misty with emotion. - -He came back and putting his arm about her, drew her upturned lips to -his. As he did so she clung to him, seeming to vent a world of feeling -in this their first and last kiss, and then turned and left him, never -stopping to look back, and being quickly lost in the immense mass which -was swirling by. As he turned to go though he observed two separate -moving-picture men with cameras taking the scene from different -angles. He could scarcely believe his senses. As he gazed they stopped -their work, clapped their tripods together and made for a waiting car. -Before he could really collect his thoughts they were gone--and then---- - -“As I live!” he exclaimed. “She did do this to me after all, or did -she? And after all my feeling for her!--and all her protestations! The -little crook! And now they have that picture of me kissing her! Stung, -by George! and by the same girl, or by them, and after all the other -things I’ve avoided! That’s intended to make that confession worthless! -She did that because she’s changed her mind about me! Or, she never did -care for me.” Grim, reducing thought! “Did she--could she--know--do a -thing like that?” he wondered. “Is it she and Tilney, or just Tilney -alone, who has been following me all this time?” He turned solemnly and -helplessly away. - -Now after all his career was in danger. His wife had returned and all -was seemingly well, but if he proceeded with his exposures as he must, -then what? This picture would be produced! He would be disgraced! Or -nearly so. Then what? He might charge fraud, a concocted picture, -produce the confession. But could he? Her arms had been about his neck! -He had put his about her! Two different camera men had taken them from -different angles! Could he explain that? Could he find Imogene again? -Was it wise? Would she testify in his behalf? If so what good would it -do? Would any one, in politics at least, believe a morally victimized -man? He doubted it. The laughter! The jesting! The contempt! No one -except his wife, and she could not help him here. - -Sick at heart and defeated he trudged on now clearly convinced that -because of this one silly act of kindness all his work of months had -been undone and that now, never, so shy were the opposing political -forces, might he ever hope to enter the promised land of his better -future--not here, at least--that future to which he had looked forward -with so much hope--neither he nor his wife, nor child. - -“Fool! Fool!” he exclaimed to himself heavily and then--“fool! fool!” -Why had he been so ridiculously sympathetic and gullible? Why so unduly -interested? but finding no answer and no clear way of escape save in -denial and counter charges he made his way slowly on toward that now -dreary office where so long he had worked, but where now, because of -this he might possibly not be able to work, at least with any great -profit to himself. - -“Tilney! Imogene! The Triton!” he thought--what clever scoundrels those -two were--or Tilney anyhow--he could not be sure of Imogene, even now, -and so thinking, he left the great crowd at his own door, that crowd, -witless, vast, which Tilney and the mayor and all the politicians were -daily and hourly using--the same crowd which he had wished to help and -against whom, as well as himself, this little plot had been hatched, -and so easily and finally so successfully worked. - - - - -THE CRUISE OF THE “IDLEWILD” - - -It would be difficult to say just how the trouble aboard the _Idlewild_ -began, or how we managed to sail without things going to smash every -fifteen minutes; but these same constitute the business of this -narrative. It was at Spike, and the weather was blistering hot. Some of -us, one in particular, were mortal tired of the life we were leading. -It was a dingy old shop inside, loaded with machines and blacksmithing -apparatus and all the paraphernalia that go to make up the little -depots and furniture that railways use, and the labor of making them -was intrusted to about a hundred men all told--carpenters, millwrights, -wood-turners, tinsmiths, painters, blacksmiths, an engineer, and a yard -foreman handling a score of “guineas,” all of whom were too dull to -interest the three or four wits who congregated in the engine room. - -Old John, the engineer, was one of these--a big, roly-poly sort of -fellow, five foot eleven, if he was an inch, with layers of flesh -showing through his thin shirt and tight trousers, and his face and -neck constantly standing in beads of sweat. Then there was the smith, -a small, wiry man of thirty-five, with arms like a Titan and a face -that was expressive of a goodly humor, whether it was very brilliant -or not--the village smith, as we used to call him. Then there was Ike, -little Ike, the blacksmith’s helper, who was about as queer a little -cabin boy as ever did service on an ocean-going steamer or in a -blacksmith’s shop--a small misshapen, dirty-faced lad, whose coat was -three, and his trousers four, times too large for him--hand-me-downs -from some mysterious source; immensely larger members of his family, -I presume. He had a battered face, such as you sometimes see given to -satyrs humorously represented in bronze, and his ears were excessively -large. He had a big mouthful of dirty yellow teeth, two or three -missing in front. His eyes were small and his hands large, but a -sweeter soul never crept into a smaller or more misshapen body. Poor -little Ike. To think how near he came to being driven from his job by -our tomfoolishness! - -I should say here that the _Idlewild_ was not a boat at all, but an -idea. She evolved out of our position on Long’s Point, where the Harlem -joins the Hudson, and where stood the shop in which we all worked, -water to the south of us, water to the west of us, water to the north -of us, and the railroad behind us landward, just like the four--or was -it the six? hundred--at Balaklava. Anyhow, we got our idea from the -shop and the water all around, and we said, after much chaffering about -one thing and another, that we were aboard the _Idlewild_, and that the -men were the crew, and that the engineer was the captain, and I was the -mate, just as if everything were ship-shape, and this were a really and -truly ocean-going vessel. - -As I have said before, I do not know exactly how the idea started, -except that it did. Old John was always admiring the beautiful yachts -that passed up and down the roadstead of the Hudson outside, and this -may have had something to do with it. Anyhow, he would stand in the -doorway of his engine room and watch everything in the shape of a -craft that went up and down the stream. He didn’t know much about -boats, but he loved to comment on their charms, just the same. - -“That there now must be Morgan’s yacht,” he used to say of a fine -black-bodied craft that had a piano-body finish to it, an’ “That -there’s the _Waterfowl_, Governor Morton’s yacht. Wouldn’ ja think, -now, them fellers ’d feel comfortable a-settin’ back there on the poop -deck an’ smokin’ them dollar cigars on a day like this? Aw, haw!” - -It would usually be blistering hot and the water a flashing blue when -he became excited over the yacht question. - -“Right-o,” I once commented enviously. - -“Aw, haw! Them’s the boys as knows how to live. I wouldn’ like nothin’ -better on a day like this than to set out there in one o’ them easy -chairs an’ do up about a pound o’ tobacco. Come now, wouldn’t that be -the ideal life for your Uncle Dudley?” - -“It truly would,” I replied sadly but with an inherent desire to tease, -“only I don’t think my Uncle Dudley is doing so very badly under the -circumstances. I notice he isn’t losing any flesh.” - -“Well, I dunno. I’m a little stout, I’ll admit. Still, them conditions -would be more congenial-like. I ain’t as active as I used to be. A nice -yacht an’ some good old fifty-cent cigars an’ a cool breeze ’d just -about do for me.” - -“You’re too modest, John. You want too little. You ought to ask for -something more suited to your Lucullian instincts. What do you say to a -house in Fifth Avenue, a country place at Newport, and the friendship -of a few dukes and earls?” - -“Well, I’m not backward,” he replied. “If them things was to come my -way I guess I could live up to ’em. Aw, haw!” - -“Truly, truly, John, you’re quite right, but you might throw in a few -shovelfuls of shavings just to show that there are no hard feelings -between you and the company while you’re waiting for all this. I notice -your steam is getting low, eh? What?” - -“Hang the steam! If the road was decent they’d give a man coal to burn. -It takes a hundred tons of shavin’s a day to keep this blinged old -cormorant goin’. Think of me havin’ to stand here all day an’ shovelin’ -in shavin’s! Seems to me all I do here is shovel. I’m an engineer, not -a fireman. They ought to gimme a man for that, by rights.” - -“Quite so! Quite so! We’ll see about that later--only, for the present, -the shavings for yours. Back to the shovel, John!” The tone was heavily -bantering. - -“Well, the steam was gettin’ a little low,” John would cheerfully -acknowledge, once he was able to resume his position in the doorway. It -was these painful interruptions which piqued him so. - -Out of such chaffering and bickering as this it was that the spirit -of the _Idlewild_ finally took its rise. It came up from the sea of -thought, I presume. - -“What’s the matter with us having a boat of our own, John?” I said to -him one day. “Here we are, out here on the bounding main, or mighty -near it. This is as good as any craft, this old shop. Ease the thing -around and hoist the Jolly Roger, and I’ll sail you up to White Plains. -What’s the matter with calling her the _Idlewild_? The men will -furnish the idle, and the bosses will furnish the wild, eh? How’s that -for an appropriate title?” - -“Haw! Haw!” exclaimed stout John. “Bully! We’ll fix ’er up to-day. You -be the captain an’ I’ll be the mate an’----” - -“Far be it from me, John,” I replied humbly and generously, seeing that -he had the one point of vantage in this whole institution which would -serve admirably as a captain’s cabin--with his consent, of course. -It was more or less like a captain’s cabin on a tug-boat, at that, -picturesque and with a sea view, as it were. “You be the captain and -I’ll be the mate. Far be it from me to infringe on a good old sea dog’s -rights. You’re the captain, all right, and this is a plenty good enough -cabin. I’m content to be mate. Open up steam, Cap, and we’ll run the -boat up and down the yard a few times. Look out the window and see how -she blows. It’s ho! for a life on the bounding main, and a jolly old -crew are we!” - -“Right-o, my hearty!” he now agreed, slapping me on the back at -the same time that he reached for the steamcock and let off a few -preliminary blasts of steam--by way of showing that we were moving, as -it were. The idea that we were aboard a real yacht and about to cruise -forth actually seized upon my fancy in a most erratic and delightsome -way. It did on John’s, too. Plainly we needed some such idyllic dream. -Outside was the blue water of the river. Far up and down were many -craft sailing like ourselves, I said. - -Inside of fifteen minutes we had appointed the smith, bos’n, and little -Ike, the smith’s helper, the bos’n’s mate. And we had said that the -carpenters and turners and millwrights were the crew and that the -“guineas” were the scullions. Mentally, we turned the engine-room into -the captain’s cabin, and here now was nothing but “Heave ho-s” and -“How does she blow thar, Bill-s?” and “Shiver my timbers-s” and “Blast -my top-lights-s” for days to come. We “heaved ho” at seven o’clock in -the morning when the engine started, “lay to and dropped anchor” at -noon when the engine stopped, “hoisted and set sail” again at one, for -heaven knows what port, and “sighted Spike” and “put hard to port” at -six. Sometimes during the day when it was hot and we were very tired -we took ideal runs to Coney and Manhattan Beach and Newport, where the -best of breezes are, in imagination, anyhow, and we found it equally -easy to sail to all points of the compass in all sorts of weather. Many -was the time we visited Paris and London and Rome and Constantinople, -all in the same hour, regardless, and our calls upon the nobility of -these places were always a matter of light comment. At night we always -managed to promptly haul up at Spike, which was another subject of -constant congratulation between the captain and the mate. For if we had -missed our trains and gotten home late!--Regardess of the fact that we -were seafaring men, we wanted our day to end promptly, I noticed. - -During the days which followed we elaborated our idea, and the -_Idlewild_ became more of a reality than is to be easily understood -by those who have not indulged in a similar fancy. We looked upon the -shop as a trusty ship with a wheel at the stern, where the millwright, -an Irishman by the name of Cullen, ran the giant plane, and an anchor -at the prow, where the engine-room was. And there was a light in the -captain’s eye at times which, to me at least, betokened a real belief. -It is so easy to enter upon a fancy, especially when it is pleasing. -He would stand in the doorway of his small, hot engine-room, or lean -out of the window which commanded the beautiful sweep of water so -close to our door, and at times I verily believe he thought we were -under way, so great is the power of self-hypnotism. The river was so -blue and smooth these summer days, the passing boats so numerous. We -could see the waters race to and fro as the tides changed. It was such -a relief from the dull wearisome grind of shoveling in shavings and -carrying out ashes or loading cars, as I was occasionally compelled to -do--for my health, in my own case, I should explain. I am sure that, -as an ordinary fifteen-cent-an-hour-shaving-carrier, I valued my title -of mate as much as I ever valued anything, and the smith, “the village -smith,” was smilingly proud to be hailed as “Bos’n.” Little Ike being -of an order of mind that fancied the world ended somewhere abruptly in -the Rocky Mountains, and that you really could shoot buffaloes after -you left Buffalo, New York, did not grasp the meaning of it all at -once, but at last it dawned upon him. When he got the idea that we -really considered this a ship and that he was the bos’n’s mate with the -privilege of lowering the boats in case of a wreck or other disaster, -he was beside himself. - -“Hully chee!” he exclaimed, “me a bos’n’s mate! Dat’s de real t’ing, -ain’t it! Heave ho, dere!” And he fell back on the captain’s locker and -kicked his heels in the air. - -“You want to remember, though, Ike,” I said, once in an evil -moment--what small things regulate the good and evil fortunes of all -things!--“that this is the captain’s cabin and bos’n’s mates are not -much shucks on a vessel such as the _Idlewild_. If you want to retain -your position you want to be respectful, and above all, obedient. For -instance, if the captain should choose to have you act as stoker for -a few minutes now and then, it would be your place to rejoice at the -request. You get that, do you?” - -“Not on yer life,” replied Ike irritably, who understood well enough -that this meant more work. - -“That’s right, though,” chimed in big John, pleased beyond measure at -this latest development. “I’m captain here now, an’ you don’t want to -forget that. No back lip from any bos’n’s mate. What the mate says -goes. The shovel for yours, bos’n, on orders from the captain. Now -jist to show that the boat’s in runnin’ order you can chuck in a few -shovelfuls right now.” - -“Na! I will not!” - -“Come, Ike,” I said, “no insubordination. You can’t go back on the -captain like that. We have the irons for recalcitrants,” and I eyed -a pile of old rusty chains lying outside the door. “We might have -to truss him up, Cap, and lay him down below,” and to prove the -significance of my thought I picked up one end of a chain and rattled -it solemnly. The captain half choked with fat laughter. - -“That’s right. Git the shovel there, Ike.” - -Ike looked as if he doubted the regularity of this, as if life on -the briny deep might not be all that it was cracked up to be, but -for the sake of regularity and in order not to be reduced to the -shameful condition of a scullion, or worse, “irons,” which was -the only alternative offered, he complied. After he had thrown in -eight scoopfuls we both agreed that this was true order and that the -organization and dignity of the _Idlewild_ might well be looked upon -now as established. - -Things went from good to better. We persuaded Joe, who was the -millwright’s assistant, back at the “wheel,” that his dignity would be -greatly enhanced in this matter if he were to accept the position of -day watch, particularly since his labors in that capacity would accord -with his bounden duties as a hireling of the road; for, if he were -stationed in the rear (front room, actually) anyhow, and compelled, -owing to the need of receiving and taking away various planks and -boards as they came out of the planes and molding machines, to walk to -and fro, it would be an easy matter to notice any suspicious lights on -the horizon forward and to come aft at once, or at least at such times -as the boss was not looking, or when he came to heat his coffee or get -a drink, and report. - -Amiable Joe! I can see him yet, tall, ungainly, stoop-shouldered, a -slight cast in one eye, his head bobbing like a duck’s as he walked--a -most agreeable and pathetic person. His dreams were so simple, his -wants so few. He lived with his sister somewhere in Eleventh Avenue -down-town in a tenement, and carried home bundles of firewood to -her at night all this great distance, to help out. He received (not -earned--he did much more than that) seventeen and a half cents an hour, -and dreamed of what? I could never quite make out. Marriage? A little -cheap flat somewhere? Life is so pathetic at times. - -“Light on the starboard bow,” or “Light on the port bow,” were the -chosen phrases which we told him he was in duty bound to use, adding -always “Sir,” as respectful subordinates should. Also we insisted on -his instantly making known to us at such times as we twain happened -to be in the engine-room together, all bell buoys, whistle buoys, -lighthouses, passing vessels and most of all the monthly pay car as -it rounded the curve half a mile up the track about the fifteenth of -every month. The matter of reporting the approach of the pay car was -absolutely without exception. If he failed to do that we would be -compelled, sad as it might be and excellent as his other services had -been, to put him in irons. Here we showed him the irons also. - -Joe cheerfully accepted. For days thereafter he would come back -regularly when the need of heating his coffee or securing a drink -necessitated, and lifting a straight forefinger to his forehead, would -report, “Light on the port bow, Sir. I think it’s in the steel works -jist up the track here,” or “Light on the starboard, Sir. It’s the fast -mail, maybe, for Chicago, jist passin’ Kingsbridge.” - -“No thinks, Joseph,” I used to reprimand. “You are not supposed to give -your thinks. If the captain wishes to know what it is, he will ask. -Back to the molding machine for yours, Joseph.” - -Joseph, shock-headed, with dusty hair, weak eyes and a weaker smile, -would retire, and then we would look at each other, the captain and I, -and grin, and he would exclaim: - -“Pretty fair discipline, mate.” - -“Oh, I think we’ve got ’em going, Captain.” - -“Nothin’ like order, mate.” - -“You’re right, Cap.” - -“I don’t suppose the mate’d ever condescend to take orders like that, -eh, mate?” - -“Well, hardly, Cap.” - -“Still, you don’t want to forget that I’m captain, mate.” - -“And you don’t want to forget that I’m mate, Captain.” - -Thus we would badger one another until one of the scullion crew -arrived, when without loss of dignity on either side we could easily -turn our attention to him. - - And these scullions! What a dull crew! Gnarled, often -non-English-speaking foreigners against or in front of whom we could -jest to our hearts’ content. They could not even guess the amazing -things we were ordering them to do on penalty of this, that, and the -other. - -Things went from better to best. We reached the place where the fact -of the shop’s being a ship, and the engineer the captain, and I the -mate, and the smith the bos’n, _ad infinitum_, came to be a matter of -general knowledge, and we were admired and congratulated and laughed -with until nearly all the workers of the shop, with some trifling -and unimportant exceptions, the foreman for one, began to share our -illusion--carpenters, cabinet-makers, joiners, all. The one exception, -as I say, was the foreman, only he was a host in himself, a mean, -ill-dispositioned creature, of course, who looked upon all such ideas -as fol-de-rol, and in a way subversive of order and good work. He -was red-headed, big-handed, big-footed, dull. He had no imagination -beyond lumber and furniture, no poetry in his soul. But the crew, the -hundred-headed crew, accepted it as a relief. They liked to think they -were not really working, but out upon a blue and dancing sea, and came -back one by one, the carpenters, the tinsmiths, the millwrights, one -and all, with cheerful grins to do us honor. - -“So you’re the captain, eh?” lazy old Jack, the partner of car-loading -Carder, asked of the engineer, and John looked his full dignity at once. - -“That I am, Jack,” he replied, “only able seamen ain’t supposed to ask -too many familiar questions. Are they, mate?” - -“Well, I should say not,” I replied, arriving with a basket of -shavings. “Able seamen should always salute the captain before -addressing him, anyhow, and never fail to say _Sir_. Still, our crew -is new. It’s not very _able_ and the seamen end of it is a little _on -the fritz_, I’m thinking. But, all things considered, we can afford -to overlook a few errors until we get everything well in hand. Eh, -Captain?” - -“Right, mate,” returned the captain genially. “You’re always -right--nearly.” - -Before I could start an argument on this score, one of the able seamen, -one who was thus discourteously commented on, observed, “I don’t know -about that. Seems to me the mate of this here ship ain’t any too much -shucks, or the captain either.” - -The captain and I were a little dismayed by this. What to do with an -able seaman who was too strong and too dull to take the whole thing -in the proper spirit? It threatened smooth sailing! This particular -person was old Stephen Bowers, the carpenter from the second floor who -never to us seemed to have quite the right lightness of spirit to make -a go of all this. He was too likely to turn rough but well-meant humor -into a personal affront to himself. - -“Well, Captain, there you are,” I said cautiously, with a desire to -maintain order and yet peace. “Mutiny, you see.” - -“It does look that way, don’t it?” big John replied, eyeing the -newcomer with a quizzical expression, half humorous, half severe. -“What’ll we do, mate, under such circumstances?” - -“Lower a boat, Captain, and set him adrift,” I suggested, “or put him -on bread and water, along with the foreman and the superintendent. -They’re the two worst disturbers aboard the boat. We can’t have these -insubordinates breaking up our discipline.” - -This last, deftly calculated to flatter, was taken in good part, and -bridged over the difficulty for the time being. Nothing was taken so -much in good part or seemed to soothe the feelings of the rebellious as -to include them with their superiors in an order of punishment which on -the very first day of the cruise it had been decided was necessary to -lay upon all the guiding officers of the plant. We could not hope to -control them, so ostensibly we placed them in irons, or lowered them in -boats, classifying them as mutineers and the foreman’s office as the -lock-up. It went well. - -“Oh no, oh no, I don’t want to be put in that class,” old Bowers -replied, the flattering unction having smoothed his ruffled soul. “I’m -not so bad as all that.” - -“Very well, then,” I replied briskly. “What do you think, Captain?” - -The latter looked at me and smiled. - -“Do you think we kin let him go this wunst?” he inquired of me. - -“Sure, sure,” I replied. “If he’s certain he doesn’t want to join the -superintendent and the foreman.” - -Old Bowers went away smiling, seemingly convinced that we were going -to run the boat in ship-shape fashion, and before long most of the -good-natured members of the crew consented to have themselves called -able seamen. - -For nearly a month thereafter, during all the finest summer weather, -there existed the most charming life aboard this ideal vessel. We -used the shop and all its details for the idlest purposes of our -fancy. Hammers became belaying pins, the machines of the shop ship’s -ballast, the logs in the yard floating debris. When the yard became too -cluttered, as it did once, we pretended we were in Sargasso and had to -cut our way out--a process that took quite a few days. We were about -all day commenting on the weather in nautical phrases, sighting strange -vessels, reporting disorders or mutiny on the part of the officers in -irons, or the men, or announcing the various “bells,” lighthouses, etc. - -In an evil hour, however, we lit upon the wretched habit of pitching -upon little Ike, the butt of a thousand quips. Being incapable of -grasping the true edge of our humor, he was the one soul who was yet -genial enough to take it and not complain. We called upon him to shovel -ashes, to split the wood, to run aft, that was, to the back gate, and -see how the water stood. More than once he was threatened with those -same “irons” previously mentioned, and on one occasion we actually -dragged in a length, pretending to bind him with it and fasten him to -the anvil (with the bos’n’s consent, of course), which resulted in a -hearty struggle, almost a row. We told him we would put him in an old -desk crate we had, a prison, no less, and once or twice, in a spirit -of deviltry, John tried to carry out his threat, nailing him in, much -against his will. Finally we went to the length of attempting to -physically enforce our commands when he did not obey, which of course -ended in disaster. - -It was this way. Ike was in the habit of sweeping up his room--the -smith’s shop--at three o’clock in the afternoon, which was really not -reasonable considering that there were three hours of work ahead of all -of us, and that he was inclined to resent having his fine floor mussed -up thereafter. On the other hand I had to carry shavings through there -all this time, and it was a sore temptation to drop a few now and then -just for the devil’s sake. After due consultation with the captain, -I once requested him to order that the bos’n’s mate leave the floor -untouched until half past four, at least, which was early enough. The -bos’n’s mate replied with the very cheering news that the captain could -“go to the devil.” He wasn’t going to kill himself for anybody, and -besides, the foreman had once told him he might do this if he chose, -heaven only knows why. What did the captain think that he (the bos’n’s -mate) was, anyhow? - -Here at last was a stiff problem. Mutiny! Mutiny! Mutiny! What was to -be done? Plainly this was inconveniencing the mate and besides, it was -mutiny. And in addition it so lacerated our sense of dignity and order -that we decided it could not be. Only, how to arrange it. We had been -putting so much upon the bos’n’s mate of late that he was becoming a -little rebellious, and justly so, I think. He was always doing a dozen -things he need not have done. Still, unless we could command him, -the whole official management of this craft would go by the board, -or so we thought. Finally we decided to act, but how? Direct orders, -somehow, were somewhat difficult to enforce. After due meditation we -took the bos’n, a most approving officer and one who loved to tease Ike -(largely because he wanted to feel superior himself, I think), into -our confidence and one late afternoon just after Ike had, figuratively -speaking, swabbed up the deck, the latter sent him to some other part -of the shop, or vessel, rather, while we strewed shavings over his -newly cleaned floor with a shameless and lavish hand. It was intensely -delicious, causing gales of laughter at the time--but--. Ike came back -and cleaned this up--not without a growl, however. He did not take it -in the cheerful spirit in which we hoped he would. In fact he was very -morose about it, calling us names and threatening to go to the foreman -[in the lock-up] if we did it again. However, in spite of all, and -largely because of the humorous spectacle he in his rage presented we -did it not once, but three or four times and that after he had most -laboriously cleaned his room. A last assault one afternoon, however, -resulted in a dash on his part to the foreman’s office. - -“I’m not goin’ to stand it,” he is declared to have said by one who -was by at the time when he appeared in front of that official. “They’re -strewin’ up my floor with shavin’s two an’ three times every day after -I’ve cleaned it up for the day. I’ll quit first.” - -The foreman, that raw, non-humorous person previously described, who -evidently sympathized with Ike and who, in addition, from various -sources, had long since learned what was going on, came down in a -trice. He had decided to stop this nonsense. - -“I want you fellows to cut that out now,” he declared vigorously on -seeing us. “It’s all right, but it won’t do. Don’t rub it in. Let him -alone. I’ve heard of this ship stuff. It’s all damn nonsense.” - -The captain and mate gazed at each other in sad solemnity. Could it -be that Ike had turned traitor? This was anarchy. He had not only -complained of us but of the ship!--the _Idlewild_! What snakiness -of soul! We retired to a corner of our now storm-tossed vessel and -consulted in whispers. What would we do? Would we let her sink or try -to save her? Perhaps it was advisable for the present to cease pushing -the joke too far in that quarter, anyhow. Ike might cause the whole -ship to be destroyed. - -Nevertheless, even yet there were ways and ways of keeping her afloat -and punishing an insubordinate even when no official authority existed. -Ike had loved the engine-room, or rather, the captain’s office, above -all other parts of the vessel because it was so comfortable. Here -between tedious moments of pounding iron for the smith or blowing -the bellows or polishing various tools that had been sharpened, he -could retire on occasion, when the boss was not about and the work -not pressing (it was the very next room to his) and gaze from the -captain’s door or window out on the blue waters of the Hudson where lay -the yachts, and up the same stream where stood the majestic palisades. -At noon or a little before he could bring his cold coffee, sealed in -a tin can, to the captain’s engine and warm it. Again, the captain’s -comfortable locker held his coat and hat, the captain’s wash bowl--a -large wooden tub to one side of the engine into which comforting warm -water could be drawn--served as an ideal means of washing up. Since -the bos’n’s mate had become friendly with the captain, he too had -all these privileges. But now, in view of his insubordination, all -this was changed. Why should a rebellious bos’n’s mate be allowed to -obtain favors of the captain? More in jest than in earnest one day -it was announced that unless the bos’n’s mate would forego his angry -opposition to a less early scrubbed deck---- - -“Well, mate,” the captain observed to the latter in the presence of the -bos’n’s mate, with a lusty wink and a leer, “you know how it goes with -these here insubordinates, don’t you? No more hot coffee at noon time, -unless there’s more order here. No more cleanin’ up in the captain’s -tub. No more settin’ in the captain’s window takin’ in the cool mornin’ -breeze, as well as them yachts. What say? Eh? We know what to do with -these here now insubordinates, don’t we, mate, eh?” This last with a -very huge wink. - -“You’re right, Captain. Very right,” the mate replied. “You’re on the -right track now. No more favors--unless---- Order must be maintained, -you know.” - -“Oh, all right,” replied little Ike now, fully in earnest and thinking -we were. “If I can’t, I can’t. Jist the same I don’t pick up no -shavin’s after four,” and off he strolled. - -Think of it, final and complete mutiny, and there was nothing more -really to be done. - -All we could do now was to watch him as he idled by himself at odd free -moments down by the waterside in an odd corner of the point, a lonely -figure, his trousers and coat too large, his hands and feet too big, -his yellow teeth protruding. No one of the other workingmen ever seemed -to be very enthusiastic over Ike, he was so small, so queer; no one, -really, but the captain and the mate, and now they had deserted him. - -It was tough. - -Yet still another ill descended on us before we came to the final loss, -let us say, of the good craft _Idlewild_. In another evil hour the -captain and the mate themselves fell upon the question of priority, a -matter which, so long as they had had Ike to trifle with, had never -troubled them. Now as mate and the originator of this sea-going -enterprise, I began to question the authority of the captain himself -occasionally, and to insist on sharing as my undeniable privilege all -the dignities and emoluments of the office--to wit: the best seat in -the window where the wind blew, the morning paper when the boss was -not about, the right to stand in the doorway, use the locker, etc. -The captain objected, solely on the ground of priority, mind you, and -still we fell a-quarreling. The mate in a stormy, unhappy hour was -reduced by the captain to the position of mere scullion, and ordered, -upon pain of personal assault, to vacate the captain’s cabin. The mate -reduced the captain to the position of stoker and stood in the doorway -in great glee while the latter, perforce, owing to the exigencies of -his position, was compelled to stoke whether he wanted to or no. It -could not be avoided. The engine had to be kept going. In addition, -the mate had brought many morning papers, an occasional cigar for the -captain, etc. There was much rancor and discord and finally the whole -affair, ship, captain, mate and all, was declared by the mate to be a -creation of his brain, a phantom, no less, and that by his mere act of -ignoring it the whole ship--officers, men, masts, boats, sails--could -be extinguished, scuttled, sent down without a ripple to that limbo of -seafaring men, the redoubtable Davy Jones’s locker. - -The captain was not inclined to believe this at first. On the contrary, -like a good skipper, he attempted to sail the craft alone. Only, unlike -the mate, he lacked the curious faculty of turning jest and fancy into -seeming fact. There was a something missing which made the whole thing -seem unreal. Like two rival generals, we now called upon a single army -to follow us individually, but the crew, seeing that there was war -in the cabin, stood off in doubt and, I fancy, indifference. It was -not important enough in their hardworking lives to go to the length -of risking the personal ill-will of either of us, and so for want of -agreement, the ship finally disappeared. - -Yes, she went down. The _Idlewild_ was gone, and with her, all her fine -seas, winds, distant cities, fogs, storms. - -For a time indeed, we went charily by each other. - -Still it behooved us, seeing how, in spite of ourselves, we had to work -in the same room and there was no way of getting rid of each other’s -obnoxious presence, to find a common ground on which we could work -and talk. There had never been any real bitterness between us--just -jest, you know, but serious jest, a kind of silent sorrow for many fine -things gone. Yet still that had been enough to keep everything out -of order. Now from time to time each of us thought of restoring the -old life in some form, however weak it might be. Without some form of -humor the shop was a bore to the mate and the captain, anyhow. Finally -the captain sobering to his old state, and the routine work becoming -dreadfully monotonous, both mate and captain began to think of some way -in which they, at least, could agree. - -“Remember the _Idlewild_, Henry?” asked the ex-captain one day -genially, long after time and fair weather had glossed over the -wretched memory of previous quarrels and dissensions. - -“That I do, John,” I replied pleasantly. - -“Great old boat she was, wasn’t she, Henry?” - -“She was, John.” - -“An’ the bos’n’s mate, he wasn’t such a bad old scout, was he, Henry, -even if he wouldn’t quit sweepin’ up the shavin’s?” - -“He certainly wasn’t, John. He was a fine little fellow. Remember the -chains, John?” - -“Haw! Haw!” echoed that worthy, and then, “Do you think the old -_Idlewild_ could ever be found where she’s lyin’ down there on the -bottom, mate?” - -“Well, she might, Captain, only she’d hardly be the same old boat that -she was now that she’s been down there so long, would she--all these -dissensions and so on? Wouldn’t it be easier to build a new one--don’t -you think?” - -“I don’t know but what you’re right, mate. What’d we call her if we -did?” - -“Well, how about the _Harmony_, Captain? That sounds rather -appropriate, doesn’t it?” - -“The _Harmony_, mate? You’re right--the _Harmony_. Shall we? Put ’er -there!” - -“Put her there,” replied the mate with a will. “We’ll organize a new -crew right away, Captain--eh, don’t you think?” - -“Right! Wait, we’ll call the bos’n an’ see what he says.” - -Just then the bos’n appeared, smiling goodnaturedly. - -“Well, what’s up?” he inquired, noting our unusually cheerful faces, I -presume. “You ain’t made it up, have you, you two?” he exclaimed. - -“That’s what we have, bos’n, an’ what’s more, we’re thinkin’ of raisin’ -the old _Idlewild_ an’ re-namin’ her the _Harmony_, or, rather, -buildin’ a new one. What say?” It was the captain talking. - -“Well, I’m mighty glad to hear it, only I don’t think you can have your -old bos’n’s mate any longer, boys. He’s gonna quit.” - -“Gonna quit!” we both exclaimed at once, and sadly, and John added -seriously and looking really distressed, “What’s the trouble there? -Who’s been doin’ anything to him now?” We both felt guilty because of -our part in his pains. - -“Well, Ike kind o’ feels that the shop’s been rubbin’ it into him of -late for some reason,” observed the bos’n heavily. “I don’t know why. -He thinks you two have been tryin’ to freeze him out, I guess. Says he -can’t do anything any more, that everybody makes fun of him and shuts -him out.” - -We stared at each other in wise illumination, the new captain and the -new mate. After all, we were plainly the cause of poor little Ike’s -depression, and we were the ones who could restore him to favor if -we chose. It was the captain’s cabin he sighed for--his old pleasant -prerogatives. - -“Oh, we can’t lose Ike, Captain,” I said. “What good would the -_Harmony_ be without him? We surely can’t let anything like that -happen, can we? Not now, anyhow.” - -“You’re right, mate,” he replied. “There never was a better bos’n’s -mate, never. The _Harmony’s_ got to have ’im. Let’s talk reason to him, -if we can.” - -In company then we three went to him, this time not to torment or -chastise, but to coax and plead with him not to forsake the shop, -or the ship, now that everything was going to be as before--only -better--and---- - -Well, we did. - - - - -MARRIED - - -In connection with their social adjustment, one to the other, during -the few months they had been together, there had occurred a number -of things which made clearer to Duer and Marjorie the problematic -relationship which existed between them, though it must be confessed -it was clearer chiefly to him. The one thing which had been troubling -Duer was not whether he would fit agreeably into her social dreams--he -knew he would, so great was her love for him--but whether she would fit -herself into his. Of all his former friends, he could think of only -a few who would be interested in Marjorie, or she in them. She cared -nothing for the studio life, except as it concerned him, and he knew no -other. - -Because of his volatile, enthusiastic temperament, it was easy to see, -now that she was with him constantly, that he could easily be led into -one relationship and another which concerned her not at all. He was for -running here, there, and everywhere, just as he had before marriage, -and it was very hard for him to see that Marjorie should always be with -him. As a matter of fact, it occurred to him as strange that she should -want to be. She would not be interested in all the people he knew, -he thought. Now that he was living with her and observing her more -closely, he was quite sure that most of the people he had known in the -past, even in an indifferent way, would not appeal to her at all. - -Take Cassandra Draper, for instance, or Neva Badger, or Edna -Bainbridge, with her budding theatrical talent, or Cornelia Skiff, or -Volida Blackstone--any of these women of the musical art-studio world -with their radical ideas, their indifference to appearances, their -semisecret immorality. And yet any of these women would be glad to see -him socially, unaccompanied by his wife, and he would be glad to see -them. He liked them. Most of them had not seen Marjorie, but, if they -had, he fancied that they would feel about her much as he did--that -is, that she did not like them, really did not fit with their world. -She could not understand their point of view, he saw that. She was for -one life, one love. All this excitement about entertainment, their -gathering in this studio and that, this meeting of radicals and models -and budding theatrical stars which she had heard him and others talking -about--she suspected of it no good results. It was too feverish, -too far removed from the commonplace of living to which she had been -accustomed. She had been raised on a farm where, if she was not -actually a farmer’s daughter, she had witnessed what a real struggle -for existence meant. - -Out in Iowa, in the neighborhood of Avondale, there were no artists, -no models, no budding actresses, no incipient playwrights, such as -Marjorie found here about her. There, people worked, and worked hard. -Her father was engaged at this minute in breaking the soil of his -fields for the spring planting--an old man with a white beard, an -honest, kindly eye, a broad, kindly charity, a sense of duty. Her -mother was bending daily over a cook-stove, preparing meals, washing -dishes, sewing clothes, mending socks, doing the thousand and one -chores which fall to the lot of every good housewife and mother. Her -sister Cecily, for all her gaiety and beauty, was helping her mother, -teaching school, going to church, and taking the commonplace facts of -mid-Western life in a simple, good-natured unambitious way. And there -was none of that toplofty sense of superiority which marked the manner -of these Eastern upstarts. - -Duer had suggested that they give a tea, and decided that they should -invite Charlotte Russell and Mildred Ayres, who were both still -conventionally moral in their liberalism; Francis Hatton, a young -sculptor, and Miss Ollie Stearns, the latter because she had a charming -contralto voice and could help them entertain. Marjorie was willing to -invite both Miss Russell and Miss Ayres, not because she really wanted -to know either of them but because she did not wish to appear arbitrary -and especially contrary. In her estimation, Duer liked these people too -much. They were friends of too long standing. She reluctantly wrote -them to come, and because they liked Duer and because they wished to -see the kind of wife he had, they came. - -There was no real friendship to be established between Marjorie and -Miss Ayres, however, for their outlook on life was radically different, -though Miss Ayres was as conservative as Marjorie in her attitude, and -as set in her convictions. But the latter had decided, partly because -Duer had neglected her, partly because Marjorie was the victor in this -contest, that he had made a mistake; she was convinced that Marjorie -had not sufficient artistic apprehension, sufficient breadth of -outlook, to make a good wife for him. She was charming enough to look -at, of course, she had discovered that in her first visit; but there -was really not enough in her socially, she was not sufficiently trained -in the ways of the world, not sufficiently wise and interesting to -make him an ideal companion. In addition she insisted on thinking this -vigorously and, smile as she might and be as gracious as she might, it -showed in her manner. Marjorie noticed it. Duer did, too. He did not -dare intimate to either what he thought, but he felt that there would -be no peace. It worried him, for he liked Mildred very much; but, alas! -Marjorie had no good to say of her. - -As for Charlotte Russell, he was grateful to her for the pleasant -manner in which she steered between Scylla and Charybdis. She saw at -once what Marjorie’s trouble was, and did her best to allay suspicions -by treating Duer formally in her presence. It was “Mr. Wilde” here and -“Mr. Wilde” there, with most of her remarks addressed to Marjorie; but -she did not find it easy sailing, after all. Marjorie was suspicious. -There was none of the old freedom any more which had existed between -Charlotte and Duer. He saw, by Marjorie’s manner, the moment he became -the least exuberant and free that it would not do. That evening he -said, forgetting himself: - -“Hey, Charlotte, you skate! Come over here. I want to show you -something.” - -He forgot all about it afterward, but Marjorie reminded him. - -“Honey,” she began, when she was in his arms before the fire, and he -was least expecting it, “what makes you be so free with people when -they call here? You’re not the kind of man that can really afford to -be free with any one. Don’t you know you can’t? You’re too big; you’re -too great. You just belittle yourself when you do it, and it makes them -think that they are your equal when they are not.” - -“Who has been acting free now?” he asked sourly, on the instant, -and yet with a certain make-believe of manner, dreading the storm -of feeling, the atmosphere of censure and control which this remark -forboded. - -“Why, you have!” she persisted correctively, and yet apparently mildly -and innocently. “You always do. You don’t exercise enough dignity, -dearie. It isn’t that you haven’t it naturally--you just don’t exercise -it. I know how it is; you forget.” - -Duer stirred with opposition at this, for she was striking him on -his tenderest spot--his pride. It was true that he did lack dignity -at times. He knew it. Because of his affection for the beautiful -or interesting things--women, men, dramatic situations, songs, -anything--he sometimes became very gay and free, talking loudly, -using slang expressions, laughing boisterously. It was a failing with -him, he knew. He carried it to excess at times. His friends, his most -intimate ones in the musical profession had noted it before this. In -his own heart he regretted these things afterward, but he couldn’t help -them, apparently. He liked excitement, freedom, gaiety--naturalness, -as he called it--it helped him in his musical work, but it hurt him -tremendously if he thought that any one else noticed it as out of the -ordinary. He was exceedingly sensitive, and this developing line of -criticism of Marjorie’s was something new to him. He had never noticed -anything of that in her before marriage. - -Up to the time of the ceremony, and for a little while afterward, it -had appeared to him as if he were lord and master. She had always -seemed so dependent on him, so anxious that he should take her. Why, -her very life had been in his hands, as it were, or so he had thought! -And now--he tried to think back over the evening and see what it was he -had done or said, but he couldn’t remember anything. Everything seemed -innocent enough. He couldn’t recall a single thing, and yet---- - -“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied sourly, -withdrawing into himself. “I haven’t noticed that I lack dignity so -much. I have a right to be cheerful, haven’t I? You seem to be finding -a lot that’s wrong with me.” - -“Now please don’t get angry, Duer,” she persisted, anxious to apply the -corrective measure of her criticism, but willing, at the same time, to -use the quickness of his sympathy for her obvious weakness and apparent -helplessness to shield herself from him. “I can’t ever tell you -anything if you’re going to be angry. You don’t lack dignity generally, -honey-bun! You only forget at times. Don’t you know how it is?” - -She was cuddling up to him, her voice quavering, her hand stroking his -cheek, in a curious effort to combine affection and punishment at the -same time. Duer felt nothing but wrath, resentment, discouragement, -failure. - -“No, I don’t,” he replied crossly. “What did I do? I don’t recall doing -anything that was so very much out of the way.” - -“It wasn’t that it was so very much, honey; it was just the way you did -it. You forget, I know. But it doesn’t look right. It belittles you.” - -“What did I do?” he insisted impatiently. - -“Why, it wasn’t anything so very much. It was just when you had the -pictures of those new sculptures which Mr. Hatton lent you, and -you were showing them to Miss Russell. Don’t you remember what you -said--how you called her over to you?” - -“No,” he answered, having by now completely forgotten. He was thinking -that accidentally he might have slipped his arm about Charlotte, or -that he might have said something out of the way jestingly about the -pictures; but Marjorie could not have heard. He was so careful these -days, anyway. - -“Why, you said: ‘Hey, Charlotte, you skate! Come over here.’ Now, what -a thing to say to a girl! Don’t you see how ugly it sounds, how vulgar? -She can’t enjoy that sort of remark, particularly in my presence, do -you think? She must know that I can’t like it, that I’d rather you -wouldn’t talk that way, particularly here. And if she were the right -sort of girl she wouldn’t want you to talk to her at all that way. -Don’t you know she wouldn’t? She couldn’t. Now, really, no good woman -would, would she?” - -Duer flushed angrily. Good heaven! Were such innocent, simple things -as this to be made the subject of comment and criticism! Was his -life, because of his sudden, infatuated marriage, to be pulled down -to a level he had never previously even contemplated? Why--why--This -catechising, so new to his life, so different to anything he had ever -endured in his youth or since, was certain to irritate him greatly, to -be a constant thorn in his flesh. It cut him to the core. He got up, -putting Marjorie away from him, for they were sitting in a big chair -before the fire, and walked to the window. - -“I don’t see that at all,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t see anything in -that remark to raise a row about. Why, for goodness’ sake! I have known -Charlotte Russell--for years and years, it seems, although it has only -been a little while at that. She’s like a sister to me. I like her. She -doesn’t mind what I say. I’d stake my life she never thought anything -about it. No one would who likes me as well as she does. Why do you -pitch on that to make a fuss about, for heaven’s sake?” - -“Please don’t swear, Duer,” exclaimed Marjorie anxiously, using this -expression for criticising him further. “It isn’t nice in you, and -it doesn’t sound right toward me. I’m your wife. It doesn’t make any -difference how long you’ve known her; I don’t think it’s nice to talk -to her in that way, particularly in my presence. You say you’ve known -her so well and you like her so much. Very well. But don’t you think -you ought to consider me a little, now that I’m your wife? Don’t you -think that you oughtn’t to want to do anything like that any more, even -if you have known her so well--don’t you think? You’re married now, and -it doesn’t look right to others, whatever you think of me. It can’t -look right to her, if she’s as nice as you say she is.” - -Duer listened to this semipleading, semichastising harangue with -disturbed, opposed, and irritated ears. Certainly, there was some truth -in what she said; but wasn’t it an awfully small thing to raise a row -about? Why should she quarrel with him for that? Couldn’t he ever be -lightsome in his form of address any more? It was true that it did -sound a little rough, now that he thought of it. Perhaps it wasn’t -exactly the thing to say in her presence, but Charlotte didn’t mind. -They had known each other much too long. She hadn’t noticed it one way -or the other; and here was Marjorie charging him with being vulgar and -inconsiderate, and Charlotte with being not the right sort of girl, and -practically vulgar, also, on account of it. It was too much. It was too -narrow, too conventional. He wasn’t going to tolerate anything like -that permanently. - -He was about to say something mean in reply, make some cutting -commentary, when Marjorie came over to him. She saw that she had lashed -him and Charlotte and his generally easy attitude pretty thoroughly, -and that he was becoming angry. Perhaps, because of his sensitiveness, -he would avoid this sort of thing in the future. Anyhow, now that -she had lived with him four months, she was beginning to understand -him better, to see the quality of his moods, the strength of his -passions, the nature of his weaknesses, how quickly he responded to the -blandishments of pretended sorrow, joy, affection, or distress. She -thought she could reform him at her leisure. She saw that he looked -upon her in his superior way as a little girl--largely because of the -size of her body. He seemed to think that, because she was little, she -must be weak, whereas she knew that she had the use and the advantage -of a wisdom, a tactfulness and a subtlety of which he did not even -dream. Compared to her, he was not nearly as wise as he thought, at -least in matters relating to the affections. Hence, any appeal to his -sympathies, his strength, almost invariably produced a reaction from -any antagonistic mood in which she might have placed him. She saw him -now as a mother might see a great, overgrown, sulking boy, needing only -to be coaxed to be brought out of a very unsatisfactory condition, and -she decided to bring him out of it. For a short period in her life she -had taught children in school, and knew the incipient moods of the race -very well. - -“Now, Duer,” she coaxed, “you’re not really going to be angry with -me, are you? You’re not going to be ‘mad to me’?” (imitating childish -language). - -“Oh, don’t bother, Marjorie,” he replied distantly. “It’s all right. -No; I’m not angry. Only let’s not talk about it any more.” - -“You are angry, though, Duer,” she wheedled, slipping her arm around -him. “Please don’t be mad to me. I’m sorry now. I talk too much. I get -mad. I know I oughtn’t. Please don’t be mad at me, honey-bun. I’ll get -over this after a while. I’ll do better. Please, I will. Please don’t -be mad, will you?” - -He could not stand this coaxing very long. Just as she thought, he did -look upon her as a child, and this pathetic baby-talk was irresistible. -He smiled grimly after a while. She was so little. He ought to endure -her idiosyncrasies of temperament. Besides, he had never treated her -right. He had not been faithful to his engagement-vows. If she only -knew how bad he really was! - -Marjorie slipped her arm through his and stood leaning against him. She -loved this tall, slender distinguished-looking youth, and she wanted -to take care of him. She thought that she was doing this now, when she -called attention to his faults. Some day, by her persistent efforts -maybe, he would overcome these silly, disagreeable, offensive traits. -He would overcome being undignified; he would see that he needed to -show her more consideration than he now seemed to think he did. He -would learn that he was married. He would become a quiet, reserved, -forceful man, weary of the silly women who were buzzing round him -solely because he was a musician and talented and good-looking, and -then he would be truly great. She knew what they wanted, these nasty -women--they would like to have him for themselves. Well, they wouldn’t -get him. And they needn’t think they would. She had him. He had married -her. And she was going to keep him. They could just buzz all they -pleased, but they wouldn’t get him. So there! - -There had been other spats following this--one relating to Duer -not having told his friends of his marriage for some little time -afterward, an oversight which in his easy going bohemian brain augured -no deep planted seed of disloyalty, but just a careless, indifferent -way of doing things, whereas in hers it flowered as one of the most -unpardonable things imaginable! Imagine any one in the Middle West -doing anything like that--any one with a sound, sane conception of the -responsibilities and duties of marriage, its inviolable character! For -Marjorie, having come to this estate by means of a hardly won victory, -was anxious lest any germ of inattentiveness, lack of consideration, -alien interest, or affection flourish and become a raging disease -which would imperil or destroy the conditions on which her happiness -was based. After every encounter with Miss Ayres, for instance, whom -she suspected of being one of his former flames, a girl who might -have become his wife, there were fresh charges to be made. She didn’t -invite Marjorie to sit down sufficiently quickly when she called at her -studio, was one complaint; she didn’t offer her a cup of tea at the -hour she called another afternoon, though it was quite time for it. She -didn’t invite her to sing or play on another occasion, though there -were others there who were invited. - -“I gave her one good shot, though,” said Marjorie, one day, to Duer, -in narrating her troubles. “She’s always talking about her artistic -friends. I as good as asked her why she didn’t marry, if she is so much -sought after.” - -Duer did not understand the mental sword-thrusts involved in these -feminine bickerings. He was likely to be deceived by the airy geniality -which sometimes accompanied the bitterest feeling. He could stand -by listening to a conversation between Marjorie and Miss Ayres, or -Marjorie and any one else whom she did not like, and miss all the -subtle stabs and cutting insinuations which were exchanged, and of -which Marjorie was so thoroughly capable. He did not blame her for -fighting for herself if she thought she was being injured, but he did -object to her creating fresh occasions, and this, he saw, she was quite -capable of doing. She was constantly looking for new opportunities -to fight with Mildred Ayres and Miss Russell or any one else whom -she thought he truly liked, whereas with those in whom he could not -possibly be interested she was genial (and even affectionate) enough. -But Duer also thought that Mildred might be better engaged than in -creating fresh difficulties. Truly, he had thought better of her. It -seemed a sad commentary on the nature of friendship between men and -women, and he was sorry. - -But, nevertheless, Marjorie found a few people whom she felt to be of -her own kind. M. Bland, who had sponsored Duer’s first piano recital -a few months before, invited Duer and Marjorie to a--for them--quite -sumptuous dinner at the Plaza, where they met Sydney Borg, the -musical critic of an evening paper; Melville Ogden Morris, curator -of the Museum of Fine Arts, and his wife; Joseph Newcorn, one of the -wealthy sponsors of the opera and its geniuses, and Mrs. Newcorn. -Neither Duer nor Marjorie had ever seen a private dining-room set -in so scintillating a manner. It fairly glittered with Sèvres and -Venetian tinted glass. The wine-goblets were seven in number, set in an -ascending row. The order of food was complete from Russian caviare to -dessert, black coffee, nuts, liqueurs, and cigars. - -The conversation wandered its intense intellectual way from American -musicians and singers, European painters and sculptors, discoveries -of ancient pottery in the isles of the Ægean, to the manufacture of -fine glass on Long Island, the character of certain collectors and -collections of paintings in America, and the present state of the -Fine Arts Museum. Duer listened eagerly, for, as yet, he was a little -uncertain of himself, his position in the art world. He did not quite -know how to take these fine and able personages who seemed so powerful -in the world’s affairs. Joseph Newcorn, as M. Bland calmly indicated -to him, must be worth in the neighborhood of fifteen million dollars. -He thought nothing, so he said, of paying ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty -thousand dollars for a picture if it appealed to him. Mr. Morris was -a graduate of Harvard, formerly curator of a Western museum, the -leader of one of the excavating expeditions to Melos in the Grecian -Archipelago. Sydney Borg was a student of musical history, who appeared -to have a wide knowledge of art tendencies here and abroad, but who, -nevertheless, wrote musical criticisms for a living. He was a little -man of Norse extraction on his father’s side, but, as he laughingly -admitted, born and raised in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. He liked Duer -for his simple acknowledgment of the fact that he came from a small -town in the Middle West, and a drug business out in Illinois. - -“It’s curious how our nation brings able men from the ranks,” he said -to Duer. “It’s one of the great, joyous, hopeful facts about this -country.” - -“Yes,” said Duer; “that’s why I like it so much.” - -Duer thought, as he dined here, how strange America was, with its -mixture of races, its unexpected sources of talent, its tremendous -wealth and confidence. His own beginning, so very humble at first, -so very promising now--one of the most talked of pianists of his -day--was in its way an illustration of its resources in so far as -talent was concerned. Mr. Newcorn, who had once been a tailor, so he -was told, and his wife was another case in point. They were such solid, -unemotional, practical-looking people, and yet he could see that this -solid looking man whom some musicians might possibly have sneered at -for his self-complacency and curiously accented English, was as wise -and sane and keen and kindly as any one present, perhaps more so, and -as wise in matters musical. The only difference between him and the -average American was that he was exceptionally practical and not given -to nervous enthusiasm. Marjorie liked him, too. - -It was at this particular dinner that the thought occurred to Marjorie -that the real merit of the art and musical world was not so much in -the noisy studio palaver which she heard at so many places frequented -by Duer, in times past at least--Charlotte Russell’s, Mildred Ayres’s -and elsewhere--but in the solid commercial achievements of such men -as Joseph Newcorn, Georges Bland, Melville Ogden Morris, and Sydney -Borg. She liked the laconic “Yes, yes,” of Mr. Newcorn, when anything -was said that suited him particularly well, and his “I haf seen dat -bardicular berformance” with which he interrupted several times when -Grand Opera and its stars were up for consideration. She was thinking -if only a man like that would take an interest in Duer, how much better -it would be for him than all the enthusiasm of these silly noisy studio -personalities. She was glad to see also that, intellectually, Duer -could hold his own with any and all of these people. He was as much at -ease here with Mr. Morris, talking about Greek excavations, as he was -with Mr. Borg, discussing American musical conditions. She could not -make out much what it was all about, but, of course, it must be very -important if these men discussed it. Duer was not sure as yet whether -any one knew much more about life than he did. He suspected not, but it -might be that some of these eminent curators, art critics, bankers, -and managers like M. Bland, had a much wider insight into practical -affairs. Practical affairs--he thought. If he only knew something about -money! Somehow, though, his mind could not grasp how money was made. It -seemed so easy for some people, but for him a grim, dark mystery. - -After this dinner it was that Marjorie began to feel that Duer ought -to be especially careful with whom he associated. She had talked with -Mrs. Newcorn and Mrs. Morris, and found them simple, natural people -like herself. They were not puffed up with vanity and self-esteem, as -were those other men and women to whom Duer had thus far introduced -her. As compared to Charlotte Russell and Mildred Ayres or her own -mother and sisters and her Western friends, they were more like the -latter. Mrs. Newcorn, wealthy as she was, spoke of her two sons and -three daughters as any good-natured, solicitous mother would. One of -her sons was at Harvard, the other at Yale. She asked Marjorie to -come and see her some time, and gave her her address. Mrs. Morris was -more cultured apparently, more given to books and art; but even she -was interested in what, to Marjorie, were the more important or, at -least, more necessary things, the things on which all art and culture -primarily based themselves--the commonplace and necessary details of -the home. Cooking, housekeeping, shopping, sewing, were not beneath -her consideration, as indeed they were not below Mrs. Newcorn’s. The -former spoke of having to go and look for a new spring bonnet in the -morning, and how difficult it was to find the time. Once when the men -were getting especially excited about European and American artistic -standards, Marjorie asked: - -“Are you very much interested in art, Mrs. Morris?” - -“Not so very much, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Wilde. Oh, I like some -pictures, and I hear most of the important recitals each season, but, -as I often tell my husband, when you have one baby two years old and -another of five and another of seven, it takes considerable time to -attend to the art of raising them. I let him do the art for the family, -and I take care of the home.” - -This was sincere consolation for Marjorie. Up to this time she appeared -to be in danger of being swamped by this artistic storm which she had -encountered. Her arts of cooking, sewing, housekeeping, appeared as -nothing in this vast palaver about music, painting, sculpture, books -and the like. She knew nothing, as she had most painfully discovered -recently, of Strauss, Dvorák, Debussy, almost as little of Cézanne, -Gauguin, Matisse, Van Gogh, Rodin, Ibsen, Shaw and Maeterlinck, with -whom the studios were apparently greatly concerned. And when people -talked of singers, musicians, artists, sculptors, and playwrights, -often she was compelled to keep silent, whereas Duer could stand with -his elbow on some mantel or piano and discuss by the half hour or hour -individuals of whom she had never heard--Verlaine, Tchaikowsky, -Tolstoy, Turgenieff, Tagore, Dostoyevsky, Whistler, Velasquez--anybody -and everybody who appeared to interest the studio element. It was -positively frightening. - -A phase of this truth was that because of his desire to talk, -his pleasure in meeting people, his joy in hearing of new things, -his sense of the dramatic, Duer could catch quickly and retain -vigorously anything which related to social, artistic, or intellectual -development. He had no idea of what a full-orbed, radiant, receptive -thing his mind was. He only knew that life, things, intellect--anything -and everything--gave him joy when he was privileged to look into them, -whereas Marjorie was not so keenly minded artistically, and he gave -as freely as he received. In this whirl of discussion, this lofty -transcendentalism, Marjorie was all but lost; but she clung tenaciously -to the hope that, somehow, affection, regard for the material needs of -her husband, the care of his clothes, the preparation of his meals, -the serving of him quite as would a faithful slave, would bind him -to her. At once and quickly, she hated and feared these artistically -arrayed, artistically minded, vampirish-looking maidens and women -who appeared from this quarter and that to talk to Duer, all of whom -apparently had known him quite well in the past--since he had come to -New York. When she would see him standing or leaning somewhere, intent -on the rendering of a song, the narration of some dramatic incident, -the description of some book or picture, or personage, by this or that -delicately chiseled Lorelei of the art or music or dramatic world, her -heart contracted ominously and a nameless dread seized her. Somehow, -these creatures, however intent they might be on their work, or however -indifferent actually to the artistic charms of her husband, seemed to -be intent on taking him from her. She saw how easily and naturally -he smiled, how very much at home he seemed to be in their company, -how surely he gravitated to the type of girl who was beautifully -and artistically dressed, who had ravishing eyes, fascinating hair, -a sylphlike figure, and vivacity of manner--or how naturally they -gravitated to him. In the rush of conversation and the exchange of -greetings he was apt to forget her, to stroll about by himself engaging -in conversation first with one and then another, while she stood or sat -somewhere gazing nervously or regretfully on, unable to hold her own in -the cross-fire of conversation, unable to retain the interest of most -of the selfish, lovesick, sensation-seeking girls and men. - -They always began talking about the opera, or the play, or the latest -sensation in society, or some new singer or dancer or poet, and -Marjorie, being new to this atmosphere and knowing so little of it, -was compelled to confess that she did not know. It chagrined, dazed, -and frightened her for a time. She longed to be able to grasp quickly -and learn what this was all about. She wondered where she had been -living--how--to have missed all this. Why, goodness gracious, these -things were enough to wreck her married life! Duer would think so -poorly of her--how could he help it? She watched these girls and women -talking to him, and by turns, while imitating them as best she could, -became envious, fearful, regretful, angry; charging, first, herself -with unfitness; next, Duer with neglect; next, these people with -insincerity, immorality, vanity; and lastly, the whole world and life -with a conspiracy to cheat her out of what was rightfully her own. Why -wouldn’t these people be nice to her? Why didn’t they give of their -time and patience to make her comfortable and at home--as freely, say, -as they did to him? Wasn’t she his wife, now? Why did Duer neglect -her? Why did they hang on his words in their eager, seductive, alluring -way? She hated them and, at moments, she hated him, only to be struck -by a terrifying wave of remorse and fear a moment later. What if he -should grow tired of her? What if his love should change? He had seemed -so enamored of her only a little while before they were married, -so taken by what he called her naturalness, grace, simplicity and -emotional pull. - -On one of these occasions, or rather after it, when they had returned -from an evening at Francis Hatton’s at which she felt that she had -been neglected, she threw herself disconsolately into Duer’s arms and -exclaimed: - - “What’s the matter with me, Duer? Why am I so dull--so -uninteresting--so worthless?” - -The sound of her voice was pathetic, helpless, vibrant with the quality -of an unuttered sob, a quality which had appealed to him intensely long -before they were married, and now he stirred nervously. - - “Why, what’s the matter with you now, Margie?” he asked -sympathetically, sure that a new storm of some sort was coming. “What’s -come over you? There’s nothing the matter with you. Why do you ask? -Who’s been saying there is?” - -“Oh, nothing, nothing--nobody! Everybody! Everything!” exclaimed -Marjorie dramatically, and bursting into tears. “I see how it is. I see -what is the matter with me. Oh! Oh! It’s because I don’t know anything, -I suppose. It’s because I’m not fit to associate with you. It’s because -I haven’t had the training that some people have had. It’s because I’m -dull! Oh! Oh!” and a torrent of heart-breaking sobs which shook her -frame from head to toe followed the outburst and declamation. - -Duer, always moved by her innate emotional force and charm, whatever -other lack he had reason to bewail, gazed before him in startled -sympathy, astonishment, pain, wonder, for he was seeing very clearly -and keenly in these echoing sounds what the trouble was. She was -feeling neglected, outclassed, unconsidered, helpless; and because it -was more or less true it was frightening and wounding her. She was, -for the first time no doubt, beginning to feel the tragedy of life, -its uncertainty, its pathos and injury, as he so often had. Hitherto -her home, her relatives and friends had more or less protected her -from that, for she had come from a happy home, but now she was out and -away from all that and had only him. Of course she had been neglected. -He remembered that now. It was partly his fault, partly the fault of -surrounding conditions. But what could he do about it? What say? People -had conditions fixed for them in this world by their own ability. -Perhaps he should not have married her at all, but how should he -comfort her in this crisis? How say something that would ease her soul? - -“Why, Margie,” he said seriously, “you know that’s not true! You know -you’re not dull. Your manners and your taste and your style are as good -as those of anybody. Who has hinted that they aren’t? What has come -over you? Who has been saying anything to you? Have I done anything? -If so, I’m sorry!” He had a guilty consciousness of misrepresenting -himself and his point of view even while saying this, but kindness, -generosity, affection, her legal right to his affection, as he now -thought, demanded it. - -“No! No!” she exclaimed brokenly and without ceasing her tears. “It -isn’t you. It isn’t anybody. It’s me--just me! That’s what’s the matter -with me. I’m dull; I’m not stylish; I’m not attractive. I don’t know -anything about music or books or people or anything. I sit and listen, -but I don’t know what to say. People talk to you--they hang on your -words--but they haven’t anything to say to me. They can’t talk to me, -and I can’t talk to them. It’s because I don’t know anything--because -I haven’t anything to say! Oh dear! Oh dear!” and she beat her thin, -artistic little hands on the shoulders of his coat. - -Duer could not endure this storm without an upwelling of pity for her. -He cuddled her close in his arms, extremely sad that she should be -compelled to suffer so. What should he do? What could he do? He could -see how it was. She was hurt; she was neglected. He neglected her when -among others. These smart women whom he knew and liked to talk with -neglected her. They couldn’t see in her what he could. Wasn’t life -pathetic? They didn’t know how sweet she was, how faithful, how glad -she was to work for him. That really didn’t make any difference in -the art world, he knew, but still it almost seemed as if it ought to. -There one must be clever, he knew that--everybody knew it. And Marjorie -was not clever--at least, not in their way. She couldn’t play or sing -or paint or talk brilliantly, as they could. She did not really know -what the world of music, art, and literature was doing. She was only -good, faithful, excellent as a housewife, a fine mender of clothes, a -careful buyer, saving, considerate, dependable, but---- - -As he thought of this and then of this upwelling depth of emotion of -hers, a thing quite moving to him always, he realized, or thought he -did, that no woman that he had ever known had anything quite like this. -He had known many women intimately. He had associated with Charlotte -and Mildred and Neva Badger and Volida Blackstone, and quite a number -of interesting, attractive young women whom he had met here and there -since, but outside of the stage--that art of Sarah Bernhardt and -Clara Morris and some of the more talented English actresses of these -later days--he persuaded himself that he had never seen any one quite -like Marjorie. This powerful upwelling of emotion which she was now -exhibiting and which was so distinctive of her, was not to be found -elsewhere, he thought. He had felt it keenly the first days he had -visited her at her father’s home in Avondale. Oh, those days with her -in Avondale! How wonderful they were! Those delicious nights! Flowers, -moonlight, odors, came back--the green fields, the open sky. Yes; she -was powerful emotionally. She was compounded of many and all of these -things. - -It was true she knew nothing of art, nothing of music--the great, new -music--nothing of books in the eclectic sense, but she had real, sweet, -deep, sad, stirring emotion, the most appealing thing he knew. It might -not be as great as that exhibited by some of the masters of the stage, -or the great composers--he was not quite sure, so critical is life--but -nevertheless it was effective, dramatic, powerful. Where did she get -it? No really common soul could have it. Here must be something of the -loneliness of the prairies, the sad patience of the rocks and fields, -the lonesomeness of the hush of the countryside at night, the aimless, -monotonous, pathetic chirping of the crickets. Her father following -down a furrow in the twilight behind straining, toil-worn horses; her -brothers binding wheat in the July sun; the sadness of furrow scents -and field fragrances in the twilight--there was something of all these -things in her sobs. - -It appealed to him, as it might well have to any artist. In his way -Duer understood this, felt it keenly. - -“Why, Margie,” he insisted, “you mustn’t talk like that! You’re better -than you say you are. You say you don’t know anything about books or -art or music. Why, that isn’t all. There are things, many things, which -are deeper than those things. Emotion is a great thing in itself, -dearest, if you only knew. You have that. Sarah Bernhardt had it; -Clara Morris had it, but who else? In ‘La Dame aux Camelias,’ ‘Sapho,’ -‘Carmen,’ ‘Mademoiselle de Maupin,’ it is written about, but it is -never commonplace. It’s great. I’d rather have your deep upwelling of -emotion than all those cheap pictures, songs, and talk put together. -For, sweet, don’t you know”--and he cuddled her more closely--“great -art is based on great emotion. There is really no great art without it. -I know that best of all, being a musician. You may not have the power -to express yourself in music or books or pictures--you play charmingly -enough for me--but you have the thing on which these things are based; -you have the power to feel them. Don’t worry over yourself, dear. I see -that, and I know what you are, whether any one else does or not. Don’t -worry over me. I have to be nice to these people. I like them in their -way, but I love you. I married you--isn’t that proof enough? What more -do you want? Don’t you understand, little Margie? Don’t you see? Now -aren’t you going to cheer up and be happy? You have me. Ain’t I enough, -sweetie? Can’t you be happy with just me? What more do you want? Just -tell me.” - -“Nothing more, honey-bun!” she went on sobbing and cuddling close; -“nothing more, if I can have you. Just you! That’s all I want--you, -you, you!” - -She hugged him tight. Duer sighed secretly. He really did not believe -all he said, but what of it? What else could he do, say, he asked -himself? He was married to her. In his way, he loved her--or at least -sympathized with her intensely. - -“And am I emotionally great?” she cuddled and cooed, after she had held -him tight for a few moments. “Doesn’t it make any difference whether I -know anything much about music or books or art? I do know something, -don’t I, honey? I’m not wholly ignorant, am I?” - -“No, no, sweetie; how you talk!” - -“And will you always love me whether I know anything or not, -honey-bun?” she went on. “And won’t it make any difference whether I -can just cook and sew and do the marketing and keep house for you? And -will you like me because I’m just pretty and not smart? I am a little -pretty, ain’t I, dear?” - -“You’re lovely,” whispered Duer soothingly. “You’re beautiful. Listen -to me, sweet. I want to tell you something. Stop crying now, and dry -your eyes, and I’ll tell you something nice. Do you remember how we -stood, one night, at the end of your father’s field there near the -barn-gate and saw him coming down the path, singing to himself, -driving that team of big gray horses, his big straw hat on the back of -his head and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows?” - -“Yes,” said Marjorie. - -“Do you remember how the air smelled of roses and honeysuckle and cut -hay--and oh, all those lovely scents of evening that we have out there -in the country?” - -“Yes,” replied Marjorie interestedly. - -“And do you remember how lovely I said the cow-bells sounded tinkling -in the pasture where the little river ran?” - -“Yes.” - -“And the fireflies beginning to flash in the trees?” - -“Yes.” - -“And that sad, deep red in the West, where the sun had gone down?” - -“Yes, I remember,” said Marjorie, crushing her cheek to his neck. - -“Now listen to me, honey: That water running over the bright stones in -that little river; the grass spreading out, soft and green, over the -slope; the cow-bells tinkling; the smoke curling up from your mother’s -chimney; your father looking like a patriarch out of Bible days coming -home--all the soft sounds, all the sweet odors, all the carolling of -birds--where do you suppose all that is now?” - -“I don’t know,” replied Marjorie, anticipating something complimentary. - -“It’s here,” he replied easily, drawing her close and petting her. -“It’s done up in one little body here in my arms. Your voice, your -hair, your eyes, your pretty body, your emotional moods--where do you -suppose they come from? Nature has a chemistry all her own. She’s like -a druggist sometimes, compounding things. She takes a little of the -beauty of the sunset, of the sky, of the fields, of the water, of the -flowers, of dreams and aspirations and simplicity and patience, and she -makes a girl. And some parents somewhere have her, and then they name -her ‘Marjorie’ and then they raise her nicely and innocently, and then -a bold, bad man like Duer comes along and takes her, and then she cries -because she thinks he doesn’t see anything in her. Now, isn’t that -funny?” - -“O-oh!” exclaimed Marjorie, melted by the fire of his feeling for -beauty, the quaintness and sweetness of his diction, the subtlety of -his compliment, the manner in which he coaxed her patiently out of -herself. - -“Oh, I love you, Duer dear! I love you, love you, love you! Oh, you’re -wonderful! You won’t ever stop loving me, will you, dearest? You’ll -always be true to me, won’t you, Duer? You’ll never leave me, will you? -I’ll always be your little Margie, won’t I? Oh, dear, I’m so happy!” -and she hugged him closer and closer. - -“No, no,” and “Yes, yes,” assured Duer, as the occasion demanded, as -he stared patiently into the fire. This was not real passion to him, -not real love in any sense, or at least he did not feel that it was. -He was too skeptical of himself, his life and love, however much he -might sympathize with and be drawn to her. He was questioning himself -at this very time as to what it was that caused him to talk so. Was -it sympathy, love of beauty, power of poetic expression, delicacy of -sentiment?--certainly nothing more. Wasn’t it this that was already -causing him to be hailed as a great musician? He believed so. Could he -honestly say that he loved Marjorie? No, he was sure that he couldn’t, -now that he had her and realized her defects, as well as his own--his -own principally. No; he liked her, sympathized with her, felt sorry -for her. That ability of his to paint a picture in notes and musical -phrases, to extract the last ringing delicacy out of the keys of a -piano, was at the bottom of this last description. To Marjorie, for -the moment, it might seem real enough, but he--he was thinking of the -truth of the picture she had painted of herself. It was all so--every -word she said. She was not really suited to these people. She did not -understand them; she never would. He would always be soothing and -coaxing, and she would always be crying and worrying. - - - - -WHEN THE OLD CENTURY WAS NEW - - -When William Walton, of Colonial prestige, left his father’s house, -St. George’s Square, New York, in the spring of 1801, it was to -spend a day of social activity, which, in the light of his ordinary -commercial duties, might be termed idleness. There were, among other -things, a luncheon at the Livingstone Kortright’s, a stroll with one -Mlle. Cruger to the Lispenard Meadows, and a visit in the evening to -the only recently inaugurated Apollo Theater, where were organized the -first permanent company of players ever transported to America. Under -the circumstances, he had no time for counting-house duties, and had -accordingly decided to make a day of it, putting the whole matter of -commerce over until such time as he could labor uninterrupted, which -was to-morrow. - -As he came out of the door over which was a diamond-pane lunette -for a transom, he was a striking example of the new order of -things which had come with the Declaration of Independence and the -victory of the colonies over the British. Long trousers of light -twilled cloth encased his legs, and were fastened under his shoes -by straps. A flower-ornamented pink waistcoat and light blue dress -coat of broadcloth, shared with brass buttons, yellow gloves, and an -exceedingly narrow-brimmed silk hat, in giving his appearance that -touch of completeness which the fashion of the day demanded. In the -face of those of the older order, who still maintained the custom of -wearing knee breeches and solemn, black waistcoats, he was a little apt -to appear the exaggerated dandy; but, nevertheless, it was good form. -My Madame Kortright would expect it at any luncheon of hers, and the -common people knew it to be the all-desirable whenever wealth permitted. - -In lower Pearl Street, below Wall, which direction he took to reach -the Bowling Green and the waterfront, he encountered a number of the -fashionable, so far as the commercial world was concerned, who were -anything but idle like himself. - -“Why, Master Walton, are you neglecting business so early in the -morning?” inquired Robert Goelet, whose iron-mongering business was -then the most important in the city. - -“For this day only,” returned Walton, smiling agreeably at the thought -of a pleasant day to come. “Several engagements make it unavoidable.” - -“You are going to the Collect, then, possibly?” returned Goelet, -looking in the direction of the old water reservoir, where all of the -city’s drinking supply was stored. - -“No,” said the other, “I had not thought of it. What is there?” - -“Some one, I understand, who has a boat he wishes to try. It is said to -go without sail. I should think one with as many ships upon the water -as you have would have heard of any such invention as that.” - -“Ah, yes,” answered young Walton, “I have heard of men who are going to -sail in the air, also. I will believe that a vessel can go without sail -when I see it.” - -“Well,” said the other, “I do not know. These inventors are strange -adventurers, at best, but there might be no harm in looking at it. I -think I shall go myself later.” - -“Oh, I should also like to see it,” said the other, “providing I have -time. When is it to sail, do you know?” - -“About eleven,” answered Goelet. “The _Post_ tells of it.” - -“Many thanks for the information,” returned the other, and, with a few -commonplaces as to ships expected and the news from France, they betook -their separate ways. - -In one of the many fine yards which spread before the old mansions -below Wall Street, he beheld John Adams, the newly-elected President of -the States, busy among his flowers. The elder statesman bowed gravely -to the younger gentleman and returned to his work. - -“A fine gentleman,” thought the latter, “and well worthy to be the -chief of this good government.” - -As he neared the Bowling Green, he observed that there was no one of -the many residents about taking advantage of the pleasant sunlight to -enjoy an hour at that favorite pastime, and so continued his way to -the Astor docks adjoining the Whitehall slip, where never yet had the -commercial New Yorker, interested in the matter of shipping, failed to -find a crowd. Messrs. John Jacob Astor and William Van Rensalaer were -already upon the ground, as he could see at a distance, the distinct -high hat of the one and the portly figure of the other standing out in -clear relief against the green waters of the bay. Elder Johannis Coop -was there, he of the vast ship chandlery business, and Opdyke Stewart, -importer of the finest stuffs woven in Holland. Old Jacob Cruger and -Mortimer Morris, the lean Van Tassel and Julius van Brunt, merchants -all and famous men of the city, chatted, smiled, and laughed together -as they discussed the probabilities of trade and the arrival of the -_Silver Spray_ and the _Laughing Mary_, both in the service between -New York and Liverpool. Almost every worthy present was armed with his -spy-glass, as the three-foot telescopes were then called, and now and -then one would take a look down the bay and through the distant narrows -to see if any sign of a familiar sail were present. - -“And how is Master Walton?” asked the elder Astor, recognizing the -scion of the one exceedingly wealthy family of the community. - -“Very well, thank you,” returned the other, surveying the company, -whose knee breeches and black coats presented a striking contrast to -his modern trousers and fancy jacket. - -“These modern fashions,” exclaimed Cruger, the elder, coming forward, -“make us old fellows seem entirely out of date. They are a wretched -contrivance to hide the legs. If I were a young woman I would have no -man whose form I could not judge by his clothes.” - -“And if I were a young man,” put in the jovial John Jacob, “I would put -on no clothes which a young woman did not approve of.” - -“Ah, well,” said the other, smiling, “these fashions are strange -contrivances. Not ten years since a man would have been drummed out of -New York had he appeared in such finery as this, and now, by heaven, -it is we old fellows who are like to be shown the door for dressing as -our fathers taught us.” - -“Not so bad as that, surely,” said Walton. “Full dress commands the old -style yet at evening. This is but daylight custom. But how about the -Bowling Green; is no one to play there this morning?” - -“Not when two ships like the _Silver Spray_ and the _Laughing Mary_ -are like to show their noses at any moment,” observed Cruger stoutly. -“I have fifty barrels of good India ale on the _Silver Spray_. Astor, -here, has most of the hold of the _Laughing Mary_ filled with his dress -goods. No bowling when stocks must be unpacked quickly.” - -“It is a weary watch, this, for these dogged vessels,” added Astor -reflectively. “There is no good counting wind or wave. The Spaniard, -too, is not dead yet, worse luck to him.” - -“I saw that about the _Polly_,” said young Walton interestedly. -“Perhaps the government will wake up now to our situation. The Spaniard -can wipe our vessels off the seas and hide behind the piracy idea. We -need more war vessels and that quickly, I think.” - -“And I, too,” said Astor. “But we are like to have them now. Only -to-day Congress voted to buy more land across the East River there,” -and he waved his spy-glass in the direction of the green outlines of -Long Island. - -“And that reminds me,” said Walton, pulling out his timepiece by the -fob attached to it; “I but now met Goelet, who says there is to be a -boat tried at the Collect which goes without sail. It is to be run by -steam.” - -“Ha!” exclaimed Cruger, “I have no time for such nonsense.” - -“I heard of it,” remarked Astor. “Possibly there is something to it. -There could be no harm in going to see. - -“I am going” said Walton, “and by-the-bye, it is high time I was on my -way.” - -“And if you have no objection I go with you,” said Astor, who was -seriously interested to know if there was anything to this idea or not. -Others hearing this joined them. - -Having thus secured companionship, young Walton proceeded up the -Whitehall slip to the Bowling Green, whence, with his friends, he now -turned into the Broadway, and so out past the fine residences and -occasional stores of that new thoroughfare to the old White residence, -where later was to be White Street, and thence eastward, across the -open common, to the Collect, where is now the Tombs. Quite a formidable -company of sightseers had gathered, the aristocracy, gentry, and common -rabble forming in separate groups. A very plain and homely looking -individual of the older school, clad in swallowtail and knee breeches, -was there with a contrivance large enough to sustain his own weight -in the water, which he was endeavoring with a wrench, a hammer, and -an oil can to put in final shape for the very important experiment of -traveling without sail. Naturally he had the undivided and even pushing -and prying attention of all present. - -While the citizens thus gazed, awaiting in comfortable idleness for -something of the marvelous to happen, there came a clattering sound -along the east road toward the city, where suddenly appeared the -outlines of Van Huicken’s water wagon, a great hogshead on wheels, -which, by its rumbling haste, suggested fire. Close after followed the -Almerich, another vehicle of the same kind, which secured its name from -its owner. Both drivers hailed the crowd while yet a distance off with -shouts of “Fire!” and then from distant Fulton Street were heard the -sounds of a bell tolling out the same intelligence. - -Everybody now wavered uncertainly between the possibility of witnessing -a marvelous invention and the certainty of seeing a splendid -conflagration, with the result that certainty triumphed. Instantly upon -learning the nature of the fire, both commonry and gentry departed, -leaving Astor and Walton, with their associates, gazing at the -tinkering wonder-worker alone. - -“That must be near the President’s house,” observed Walton, who was -looking toward the city. “It may spread.” - -“This fellow will get nothing out of his machine to-day, I fear,” -returned Astor, moved by the thought of a dangerous and yet interesting -fire as he gazed rather unfavorably upon the quiet inventor, who had -not remained unaware of this public defection. “Let us go back.” - -With somewhat more of eagerness than was conformable with their general -stately bearing, this rather important local company now took up the -trail of the water wagons and returned. - -In William Street, just off the Old Boston Road and near the -newly-named Liberty Street, were many signs of public excitement. The -fine residence of the Athorps, recently leased by the French minister, -had taken fire, and was rapidly burning. Although nine of the fourteen -water-pumps of the city were upon the scene of action, and eight -men were toiling at each handle, little progress was making. Bucket -brigades were also in operation, the volunteer citizens drawing upon -every well in the neighborhood for blocks about; but to small result. -The flames gained apace. Men ran looking for Goiter’s water conveyance, -which had not yet been pressed into action, and Huicken’s Broadway -sprinkler, which, however, had already been sent to the Collect for -more water. There was a deal of clatter and confusion, coupled with the -absolute certainty of destruction, for no pumping could throw the water -beyond the second story. More than once the tank supply, as rattled -forward from the Collect and the East River, was totally suspended, -while the flames gained new ground. This latter was due to the badness -of the roads and the inadequacy of the help at the supply end, where, -since all thought to gaze upon the fire, none were remaining to help -the lone Huicken or the energetic Goiter. - -When this last company of volunteer fire fighters arrived, with their -buckets and other contrivances for fighting a blaze, the flames had -gained such headway that there was little to be done. Walton wasted -half an hour discussing fire protection, and then bethought himself of -his luncheon engagement. - -“I must be out of this,” he said to Astor, as they stood gazing upon -the flames and the surging throng. “I am late as it is.” - -The genial forefather scarcely heard him at all. So interested was he -that his own luncheon mattered not at all. Quietly Walton withdrew -then, and getting back into Boston Road and the Broadway, betook -himself toward the Bowling Green and Madame Kortright’s. - -That lady’s mansion was to the west of the old playground, looking out -over lawn and lane to some space of water to be seen in the East River -and a boat or two at anchor in the bay. As he tapped upon the broad -door with its brazen knocker, a liveried servant opened to him, bowing -profoundly in greeting. - -“Will Master Walton give me his hat and gloves?” - -“Ah, Master Walton,” remarked the hostess, who now entered smiling. “I -had almost doubted your punctuality, though you have good reason. Whose -house is it burning?” - -“Count Rennay’s,” answered Walton, mentioning the French representative -to our government. - -“I have sent a servant to discover it for me, but he has not yet -returned. It must have fascinated him also. We must sit to lunch at -once, sir.” - -As the hostess said this, she turned about in her great hoops, now but -recently, like long trousers, come into fashion, and led the way. Her -hair was done in the curls of the post-revolution period, three at -each side, about the ears, and a tall chignon that was almost a curl -in itself. With stately grace she led the way to the dining chamber -and bowed him to his place. Eulalia, a daughter, and Sophia, a friend, -entered almost at the same moment with them through another door. - -At the head of the long, oaken table there were already standing the -two black table servants of this dignified household, splendid imported -Africans, trained in Virginia. My lady’s table was a-gleam with much of -the richest plate and old Holland china in the city. An immense silver -candelabra graced the center, and at every corner were separate graven -gold sticks making a splendid show. - -“I have the greatest terror of fire anywhere in our city,” began -the hostess, even as young Walton was bowing. “We have so little -protection. I have urged upon our selectmen the necessity of providing -something better than we have--a water tower or something of the sort -but so far nothing has come of it.” - -“You were at the fire, Master Walton?” inquired the handsome Eulalie -archly. - -“I came that way with several friends from the Collect,” he answered. - -“Why the Collect?” asked the hostess, who was now seated with the two -blacks towering above her. - -“There is a man there who has a boat which is to go without sail, as I -understand it, providing his idea is correct. It is to go by steam, I -believe, only he did not succeed in making it so do to-day, at least -not while I was there. It may have gone, though. I could not wait to -see.” - -“Oh marvelous,” exclaimed Eulalie, putting up a pair of pretty hands, -“and really is it a boat that will travel so?” - -“I cannot vouch for that,” returned the youth gravely. “It was not -going when we visited it. The fire and my engagement took the entire -audience of the inventor away,” and he smiled. - -“I shall have no faith in any such trap as that until I see it,” -observed Madame Kortright. “Fancy being on the water and no sail to -waft you. Mercy!” - -“I fancy it will be some time before men will venture afar on any such -craft,” returned the youth; “but it is a bit curious.” - -“Dangerous, I should say,” suggested Mistress Sophia. - -“No,” said Walton, “not that, I think. My father has often told me that -Master Franklin predicted to him that men should harness the lightning -before many years. That is even more strange than this.” - -“That may all be true,” said Madame Kortright, “but it has not come to -pass yet. It will never be in our time, I fear. But did you hear of the -case of jewels at Maton’s?” - -“Has he imported something new?” inquired Eulalie smartly. - -“The last ship brought a case of gems for him, I hear,” continued the -hostess. “That should be of interest to you, Master Walton.” - -The youth flushed slightly at the implication involved. His attentions -to Mistress Beppie Cruger were becoming a subject of pleasing social -comment. - -“So it is,” he said gaily, as he recovered his composure. “I shall look -in upon Maton this very afternoon.” - -“And I should like to see what is new in France,” said the ruddy Sophia -seriously. “I have not an earring or a pin in my collection that is not -as old as the hills----” - -“Nor any the less valuable, I venture,” answered Walton, with an -impressive air. - -“I would give them for new ones, believe me,” returned the girl -quaintly. - -Upon this gossiping company the two blacks waited with almost noiseless -accuracy, one serving at each side in answer to silent looks and nods -from the hostess. Walton watched them out of the corner of his eye, -gossiping the while. In his new home, he thought, whenever the fair -lady consented, there should be two such lackeys gracing her more -tender beauty. He could not help thinking how much more effective they -would appear behind her than his present hostess, who, however, was -attractive enough. It made him restless to depart, for certainly this -afternoon he should definitely, if he could, learn his fate. The jewels -would be one excuse. He would take her to look at the jewels before the -evening called them to the theater, and then he would see. - -Once he was free of the entertainment provided, he hurried away into -Wall Street, the spire of Trinity already beginning to cast a short -eastward shadow. About the building occupied as the new National -Capitol a few dignitaries from the colonies were to be seen. The new -mixture of stores among the residences was beginning to make lovely -Wall Street less conservative. A bank had opened just below the -Capitol, its entrance reaching out to the very sidewalk and hedging in -the view of the gardens beyond. Soon, if the city kept on growing, all -the fine old gardens would have to go. - -He pondered, as he walked, until he came to a certain gateway below -William Street, where he entered. From a window looking out upon a -small balcony above a face disappeared, and now he was greeted by -another pompous servant at the door. - -“My compliments,” he said, “to Mistress Cruger, if she pleases, and I -am waiting.” - -The servant bowed and retired. In a few moments more there fluttered -down into the large reception room from above the loveliest embodiment -of the new order of finery that he had ever seen. Such daintiness in -curls and laces, such lightness in silken flounces displayed upon -spreading hoops, he felt to be without equal. With a graceful courtesy -she received his almost ponderous bow. - -“Mother gives you her greeting, and she cannot come with us to-day,” -she said. “She has a very severe headache.” - -“I am very sorry to hear that,” he replied sympathetically, “but you -will come? The weather has favored us, and I fancy the meadows will be -beautiful to see.” - -“Oh, yes, I will come,” she returned smiling. “It is not quite three, -however,” she added. “You are early.” - -“I know,” he answered, “but we may talk until then. Besides there is -something I wish you to see before theater time--no, I will tell you of -it later. Henry will be on time.” - -They seated themselves very respectfully distant and took up the -morning’s commonplaces. Had he heard of the fire and where the French -minister was now being entertained? Cards had but this morning come -from the Jacob Van Dams for a reception at their new house in Broome -Street. The Goelets were to build farther out in Pearl Street. - -“I think it is a shame,” she said, “the way they are deserting us in -this street. We shall have to go also very shortly, and I like Wall -Street.” - -“When your turn comes perhaps you will not mind it so much,” he -returned, thinking of the proposal he hoped to find the courage to -make. “Broome Street is certainly pleasing after the new style.” - -She thought of all the fine residences being erected in that new -residence section, and for some, to him, inexplicable reason, smiled. -Outside, through the vine-festooned window, she could see a broad, open -barouche turning. - -“Here is the carriage,” she said. - -As they came out of the quiet chamber into the open sunlight, part -of their stilted reserve vanished. Once in the carriage beside him, -she smiled happily. As they rolled into William Street and up the Old -Boston Road into the green shaded Bowery, she laughed for the very joy -of laughing. - -“It is good to feel spring again,” she said, “the cold days are so -many.” - -As they traveled, an occasional citizen before his doorway, or pleasure -seeker upon horseback, greeted them. The distinguished Aaron Burr was -here prancing gaily countryward. Old Peter Stuyvesant’s mansion was -kept as rich in flowers as when he had been alive to care for it. - -“Are not the fields beautiful about here?” he observed, after they had -passed the region of the Collect. - -“Lovely,” she returned. “I never see them but I think of dancing, they -are so soft.” - -“Let us get out and walk upon them, anyhow,” he answered. “Henry can -wait for us at the turn yonder.” - -He was pointing to a far point, where, through a clump of trees, the -winding footpath, leading out from here, joined Broadway, now a lane -through the woods and fields. - -Gaily she acquiesced, and he helped her down. When the servant was out -of hearing, he reached for a dandelion, and pressing his lips to it -said, “Here is a token.” - -“Of what?” she said shyly. - -“What should it be?” he asked wistfully. - -“Spring, probably.” - -“And nothing else?” - -“Youth,” she answered, laughing. - -“And nothing else?” he questioned, drawing close with a tenderness in -his voice. - -“How should I know?” she said, laughing and casting it down, because of -her fear of the usual significance of the situation. - -“You mustn’t throw it away,” he said stooping. “Keep it. I’ll tell you -what it means. I--I----” - -“See the wild roses!” she exclaimed, suddenly increasing her pace. “I -should rather have some of those for a token, if you please.” - -He relaxed his tension, and hastened for that which she desired. When -he returned to hand them to her, she was laughing at something. - -“Ah, you laugh,” he said sadly. “I think I know why.” - -“It is because of the day,” she answered. - -Somehow he could make no progress with his declaration until it was too -late. Already they were near the carriage, and south along the road a -quarter of a mile was the Lispenard country house. Her relatives, the -Lispenards, were there as owners. He scarcely had time for what he -wished to say. - -“Shall we stop there?” he asked in a subdued murmur, as in driving -again they neared the long piazza where guests were seated enjoying the -prospect of the meadows beyond. “It is four now, and the play begins at -six. There are some new jewels from France at Maton’s, which I thought -you might like to see before then.” - -“Jewels from France! Oh, yes, I should like to see those. Let us go -there,” she answered. “But I must have time to dress, too, you know.” - -To the guests then, bowing as they passed, they returned a smiling nod, -and meeting others in carriages and chairs, extended this same courtesy -as they went along. Walton brooded in a mock-dreary manner, but finding -that it availed nothing thought to tempt her considerateness with -jewels. - -“What trinkets are these you have from France of which I hear?” he -inquired of Maton as they entered that sturdy jeweler’s shop in Maiden -Lane. - -“On the very last packet,” explained the latter, spreading the best of -his importations upon a black velvet cloth before them. “You will not -see the like of these six diamonds in New York again for many years, I -warrant you. Look at this.” - -He held up an exquisitely wrought ring of French workmanship, in which -a fine stone was gleaming, and smiled upon it approvingly. - -“Look,” he said, “it is very large. It is cut by Toussard. Did you ever -see such workmanship?” He turned it over and over, and then held it -lovingly up. “The band itself is so small,” he added, “that I believe -it would fit the lady’s finger--let us see.” - -Coquettishly she put out her hand, and then seeing that it marvelously -slipped on and fitted, opened her eyes wide. - -“Now, is not that beautiful!” exclaimed the jeweler. “What a gem! The -finest of any that I have imported yet, and it fits as though it had -been ordered for her.” He cast a persuasive smile upon Walton whose -interest in the fair Beppie he well knew. The latter pretended not the -slightest understanding. - -“It is well cut,” she said. - -“And the loveliest you have ever worn,” added Walton hopefully. - -By her side, in front of the counter and between their bodies, he was -endeavoring to take her free hand. - -“Let it stay,” he said gently, when he had secured it, and was -signalling the significance of the ring to her fingers. - -“Oh,” she said, smiling as if she were only jesting, “you are too -daring. I might!” - -“Do,” he answered. - -“Such a ring!” said the jeweler. - -“I will then,” said she. - -“Then, Master Maton,” said Walton, “you need only send the bill to me,” -and he laughed as he pushed the remaining display away. - -As they came out, after having vaguely picked over the others, the -young lover was all elation. Upon the narrow side-path a servant -wheeling a trunk to the Liverpool dock upon a barrow brushed him -rudely, but he did not notice. Only a newsboy crying out the _Gazette_, -the blast of the bugle of the incoming stage coach from Boston, the -dust of the side-path, where the helper of the Apollo was sweeping -the lobby preparatory to the performance of the night, attracted and -pleased him. He helped his fiancée gaily into the carriage and half -bounded with joy to the seat beside her, where he smiled and smiled. - -“I may not wear it, though,” said his betrothed, now that the -remarkable episode was over, and she held up a dainty finger; “because, -as you know, you have not spoken to my father as yet.” - -“Keep it, nevertheless,” he answered. “I will speak to him fast enough.” - -“I give you good-day, Master Walton,” said the distinguished Jefferson -as they passed from William into Wall Street, near where that statesman -made temporary stopping-place when in the city. - -“Master Jefferson, William,” cried his fiancée softly, using for the -first time his given name. “Master Jefferson has bid you good-day.” - -“Good evening!” cried Walton, all deference in a moment because of the -error which his excitement had occasioned, “good evening to you, sir!” -and he bowed, and bowed very gracefully again. - -“How can I be so mindful, though, of all these formalities,” he said -explanatorily as he turned once more to his fair intended, “when I have -you? It is not to be expected.” - -“But necessary, just the same,” she said. “And if you are to begin thus -quickly neglecting your duties, what am I to think?” - -For answer he took her hand. Elatedly then they made their way to the -old homestead again, and there being compelled to leave her while -she dressed for the theater, he made his way toward the broad and -tree-shaded Bowery, where was the only true and idyllic walk for a -lover. The older houses nearest the city, redolent in their Dutch -architecture of an older and even quainter period; the wide paths and -broad doorways, rich in both vines and flowers; the rapidly decreasing -evidences of population as one’s steps led northward--all combined -to soothe and set dreaming the poetic mind. Here young Walton, as so -many before him, strolled and hummed, thinking of all that life and -the young city held for him. Now, indeed, was his fortune truly made. -Love was his, the lovely Beppie, no less. Here then he decided to build -that mansion of his own--far out, indeed, above Broome Street, but in -this self-same thoroughfare where all was so suggestive of flowers and -romance. He had no inkling, as he pondered, of what a century might -bring forth. The crush and stress and wretchedness fast treading upon -this path of loveliness he could not see. - - - - -Transcriber’s Note: - - Minor errors and omissions in punctuation and spelling have been - fixed. - In this plain text version, small capitals have been changed to - to be in all uppercase. In cases where words were in uppercase - in the original text, this has also been maintained. - Page 31: “never any flare” changed to “never any flair” - Page 42: “eying him sympathetically” changed to “eyeing him - sympathetically”. - Page 50: “sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in” was - transposed with “a faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had”. - This has been corrected. - Page 67: “Larvæ and chrysalis” changed to "Larvæ and chrysalises". - Page 72: “jaws in his neck” changed to "neck in his jaws". - Page 202: “the rout of street cars” changed to “the route of street - cars”. - Page 205: “Dontcha like me?” changed to “Don’tcha like me?”. - Page 256: “influence her help” changed to “influence her to help”. - Page 263: “that’s you real” changed to “that’s your real”. - Page 332: “Just as he thought” changed to “Just as she thought”. - Page 339: “Cézanne, Goguin, Matisse,” changed to “Cézanne, Gauguin, - Matisse,”. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AND OTHER STORIES *** - -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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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Free and other stories</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Theodore Dreiser</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 17, 2022 [eBook #68542]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Amber Black, Emmanuel Ackerman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> - -<p class="center p2"><span class="figcenter" id="Cover"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" class="w40" alt="Cover" /> -</span></p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - - -<p class="center vbig"> -<b>FREE AND<br /> -OTHER STORIES</b> -</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="center w35 title-page"> -<h1 class="left">FREE AND OTHER<br />STORIES</h1> -<p class="left sbig">BY THEODORE DREISER</p> -<p class="left small"> AUTHOR OF “SISTER CARRIE,” “THE HAND OF THE POTTER,”<br /> -“JENNIE GERHARDT,” ETC.</p> -<p class="figcenter" id="PublisherMark"> -<img src="images/pubmark.jpg" class="p6 w15" alt="PublisherMark" /></p> -<p class="center big">BONI AND LIVERIGHT</p> -<p class="center">NEW YORK       1918</p> -</div> - -<hr class="r65" /> - -<p class="center small">Copyright, 1918</p> -<p class="center small smcap">BY BONI & LIVERIGHT, Inc.</p> - -<table class="autotable w35 center small"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><i>First Printing</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><i>August, 1918</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><i>Second Printing</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><i>August, 1918</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><i>Third Printing</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><i>August, 1918</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><i>Fourth Printing</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><i>December, 1918</i></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td class="tdr"><span class="vsmall">PAGE</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Free</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">McEwen of the Shining Slave Makers</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_54">54</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Nigger Jeff</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Lost Phœbe</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Second Choice</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Story of Stories</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Old Rogaum and His Theresa</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Will You Walk into My Parlor</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Cruise of the “Idlewild”</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Married</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_323">323</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">When the Old Century was New</span></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_351">351</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="FREE">FREE</h2> -</div> - - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">The</span> large and rather comfortable apartment of Rufus Haymaker, -architect, in Central Park West, was very silent. It was scarcely dawn -yet, and at the edge of the park, over the way, looking out from the -front windows which graced this abode and gave it its charm, a stately -line of poplars was still shrouded in a gray morning mist. From his -bedroom at one end of the hall, where, also, a glimpse of the park was -to be had, came <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker at this early hour to sit by one of these -broader windows and contemplate these trees and a small lake beyond. -He was very fond of Nature in its manifold art forms—quite poetic, in -fact.</p> - -<p>He was a tall and spare man of about sixty, not ungraceful, though -slightly stoop-shouldered, with heavy overhanging eyebrows and hair, -and a short, professionally cut gray mustache and beard, which gave -him a severe and yet agreeable presence. For the present he was clad -in a light-blue dressing gown with silver cords, which enveloped him -completely. He had thin, pale, long-fingered hands, wrinkled at the -back and slightly knotted at the joints, which bespoke the artist, in -mood at least, and his eyes had a weary and yet restless look in them.</p> - -<p>For only yesterday Doctor Storm, the family physician, who was in -attendance on his wife, ill now for these three weeks past with a -combination of heart<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> lesion, kidney poisoning and neuritis, had taken -him aside and said very softly and affectionately, as though he were -trying to spare his feelings: “To-morrow, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker, if your wife -is no better I will call in my friend, Doctor Grainger, whom you know, -for a consultation. He is more of an expert in these matters of the -heart”—the heart, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker had time to note ironically—“than -I am. Together we will make a thorough examination, and then I hope -we will be better able to say what the possibilities of her recovery -really are. It’s been a very trying case, a very stubborn one, I might -say. Still, she has a great deal of vitality and is doing as well as -could be expected, all things considered. At the same time, though I -don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily—and there is no occasion for -great alarm yet—still I feel it my duty to warn you that her condition -is very serious indeed. Not that I wish you to feel that she is certain -to die. I don’t think she is. Not at all. Just the contrary. She may -get well, and probably will, and live all of twenty years more.” -(Mentally <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker sighed a purely spiritual sigh.) “She has fine -recuperative powers, so far as I can judge, but she has a bad heart, -and this kidney trouble has not helped it any. Just now, when her heart -should have the least strain, it has the most.</p> - -<p>“She is just at that point where, as I may say, things are in the -balance. A day or two, or three or four at the most, ought to show -which way things will go. But, as I have said before, I do not wish to -alarm you unnecessarily. We are not nearly at the end of our tether. We -haven’t tried blood transfusion yet, and there are several arrows to -that bow. Besides, at any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> moment she may respond more vigorously to -medication than she has heretofore—especially in connection with her -kidneys. In that case the situation would be greatly relieved at once.</p> - -<p>“However, as I say, I feel it my duty to speak to you in this way in -order that you may be mentally prepared for any event, because in such -an odd combination as this the worst may happen at any time. We never -can tell. As an old friend of yours and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker’s, and knowing -how much you two mean to each other”—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker merely stared at -him vacantly—“I feel it my duty to prepare you in this way. We all of -us have to face these things. Only last year I lost my dear Matilda, -my youngest child, as you know. Just the same, as I say, I have the -feeling that <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker is not really likely to die soon, and that -we—Doctor Grainger and myself—will still be able to pull her through. -I really do.”</p> - -<p>Doctor Storm looked at <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker as though he were very sorry for -him—an old man long accustomed to his wife’s ways and likely to be -made very unhappy by her untimely end; whereas <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker, though -staring in an almost sculptural way, was really thinking what a farce -it all was, what a dull mixture of error and illusion on the part -of all. Here he was, sixty years of age, weary of all this, of life -really—a man who had never been really happy in all the time that he -had been married; and yet here was his wife, who from conventional -reasons believed that he was or should be, and who on account of -this was serenely happy herself, or nearly so. And this doctor, who -imagined that he was old and weak and therefore in need of this loving -woman’s care and sympathy and understanding!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> Unconsciously he raised a -deprecating hand.</p> - -<p>Also his children, who thought him dependent on her and happy with her; -his servants and her and his friends thinking the same thing, and yet -he really was not. It was all a lie. He was unhappy. Always he had been -unhappy, it seemed, ever since he had been married—for over thirty-one -years now. Never in all that time, for even so much as a single day, -had he ever done anything but long, long, long, in a pale, constrained -way—for what, he scarcely dared think—not to be married any more—to -be free—to be as he was before ever he saw <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker.</p> - -<p>And yet being conventional in mood and training and utterly -domesticated by time and conditions over which he seemed not to have -much control—nature, custom, public opinion, and the like, coming -into play as forces—he had drifted, had not taken any drastic action. -No, he had merely drifted, wondering if time, accident or something -might not interfere and straighten out his life for him, but it never -had. Now weary, old, or rapidly becoming so, he condemned himself for -his inaction. Why hadn’t he done something about it years before? -Why hadn’t he broken it up before it was too late, and saved his own -soul, his longing for life, color? But no, he had not. Why complain so -bitterly now?</p> - -<p>All the time the doctor had talked this day before he had wanted to -smile a wry, dry, cynical smile, for in reality he did not want <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Haymaker to live—or at least at the moment he thought so. He was too -miserably tired of it all. And so now, after nearly twenty-four hours -of the same unhappy thought, sitting by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> this window looking at a not -distant building which shone faintly in the haze, he ran his fingers -through his hair as he gazed, and sighed.</p> - -<p>How often in these weary months, and even years, past—ever since he -and his wife had been living here, and before—had he come to these -or similar windows while she was still asleep, to sit and dream! For -some years now they had not even roomed together, so indifferent had -the whole state become; though she did not seem to consider that -significant, either. Life had become more or less of a practical -problem to her, one of position, place, prestige. And yet how often, -viewing his life in retrospect, had he wished that his life had been as -sweet as his dreams—that his dreams had come true.</p> - -<p>After a time on this early morning, for it was still gray, with the -faintest touch of pink in the east, he shook his head solemnly and -sadly, then rose and returned along the hall to his wife’s bedroom, -at the door of which he paused to look where she lay seriously ill, -and beside her in an armchair, fast asleep, a trained nurse who was -supposedly keeping the night vigil ordered by the doctor, but who no -doubt was now very weary. His wife was sleeping also—very pale, very -thin now, and very weak. He felt sorry for her at times, in spite of -his own weariness; now, for instance. Why need he have made so great a -mistake so long ago? Perhaps it was his own fault for not having been -wiser in his youth. Then he went quietly on to his own room, to lie -down and think.</p> - -<p>Always these days, now that she was so very ill and the problem of her -living was so very acute, the creeping dawn thus roused him—to think. -It seemed as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> though he could not really sleep soundly any more, so -stirred and distrait was he. He was not so much tired or physically -worn as mentally bored or disappointed. Life had treated him so badly, -he kept thinking to himself over and over. He had never had the -woman he really wanted, though he had been married so long, had been -faithful, respectable and loved by her, in her way. “In her way,” he -half quoted to himself as he lay there.</p> - -<p>Presently he would get up, dress and go down to his office as usual -if his wife were not worse. But—but, he asked himself—would she be? -Would that slim and yet so durable organism of hers—quite as old as -his own, or nearly so—break under the strain of this really severe -illness? That would set him free again, and nicely, without blame or -comment on him. He could then go where he chose once more, do as he -pleased—think of that—without let or hindrance. For she was ill at -last, so very ill, the first and really great illness she had endured -since their marriage. For weeks now she had been lying so, hovering, as -it were, between life and death, one day better, the next day worse, -and yet not dying, and with no certainty that she would, and yet not -getting better either. Doctor Storm insisted that it was a leak in her -heart which had suddenly manifested itself which was causing all the -real trouble. He was apparently greatly troubled as to how to control -it.</p> - -<p>During all this period <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker had been, as usual, most -sympathetic. His manner toward her was always soft, kindly, apparently -tender. He had never really begrudged her anything—nothing certainly -that he could afford. He was always glad to see her and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> the children -humanly happy—though they, too, largely on account of her, he thought, -had proved a disappointment to him—because he had always sympathized -with her somewhat unhappy youth, narrow and stinted; and yet he had -never been happy himself, either, never in all the time that he had -been married. If she had endured much, he kept telling himself when he -was most unhappy, so had he, only it was harder perhaps for women to -endure things than men—he was always willing to admit that—only also -she had had his love, or thought she had, an actual spiritual peace, -which he had never had. She knew she had a faithful husband. He felt -that he had never really had a wife at all, not one that he could love -as he knew a wife should be loved. His dreams as to that!</p> - -<p>Going to his office later this same day—it was in one of those tall -buildings that face Madison Square—he had looked first, in passing, -at the trees that line Central Park West, and then at the bright wall -of apartment houses facing it, and meditated sadly, heavily. Here the -sidewalks were crowded with nursemaids and children at play, and in -between them, of course, the occasional citizen loitering or going -about his errands. The day was so fine, so youthful, as spring days -will seem at times. As he looked, especially at the children, and -the young men bustling office-ward, mostly in new spring suits, he -sighed and wished that he were young once more. Think how brisk and -hopeful they were! Everything was before them. They could still pick -and choose—no age or established conditions to stay them. Were any -of them, he asked himself for the thousandth time, it seemed to him, -as wearily connected as he had been at their age? Did<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> they each have -a charming young wife to love—one of whom they were passionately -fond—such a one as he had never had; or did they not?</p> - -<p>Wondering, he reached his office on one of the topmost floors of one -of those highest buildings commanding a wide view of the city, and -surveyed it wearily. Here were visible the two great rivers of the -city, its towers and spires and far-flung walls. From these sometimes, -even yet, he seemed to gain a patience to live, to hope. How in his -youth all this had inspired him—or that other city that was then. -Even now he was always at peace here, so much more so than in his own -home, pleasant as it was. Here he could look out over this great scene -and dream or he could lose the memory in his work that his love-life -had been a failure. The great city, the buildings he could plan or -supervise, the efficient help that always surrounded him—his help, not -hers—aided to take his mind off himself and that deep-seated inner -ache or loss.</p> - -<p>The care of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker’s apartment during his wife’s illness and his -present absence throughout the day, devolved upon a middle-aged woman -of great seriousness, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge by name, whom <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker had -employed years before; and under her a maid of all work, Hester, who -waited on table, opened the door, and the like; and also at present -two trained nurses, one for night and one for day service, who were -in charge of <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker. The nurses were both bright, healthy, -blue-eyed girls, who attracted <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker and suggested all the youth -he had never had—without really disturbing his poise. It would seem as -though that could never be any more.</p> - -<p>In addition, of course, there was the loving interest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> of his son -Wesley and his daughter Ethelberta—whom his wife had named so in -spite of him—both of whom had long since married and had children -of their own and were living in different parts of the great city. -In this crisis both of them came daily to learn how things were, and -occasionally to stay for the entire afternoon or evening, or both. -Ethelberta had wanted to come and take charge of the apartment entirely -during her mother’s illness, only <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker, who was still able -to direct, and fond of doing so, would not hear of it. She was not -so ill but that she could still speak, and in this way could inquire -and direct. Besides, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge was as good as <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker in -all things that related to <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker’s physical comfort, or so she -thought.</p> - -<p>If the truth will come out—as it will in so many pathetic cases—it -was never his physical so much as his spiritual or affectional comfort -that <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker craved. As said before, he had never loved <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Haymaker, or certainly not since that now long-distant period back in -Muskegon, Michigan, where both had been born and where they had lived -and met at the ages, she of fifteen, he of seventeen. It had been, -strange as it might seem now, a love match at first sight with them. -She had seemed so sweet, a girl of his own age or a little younger, the -daughter of a local chemist. Later, when he had been forced by poverty -to go out into the world to make his own way, he had written her much, -and imagined her to be all that she had seemed at fifteen, and more—a -dream among fair women. But Fortune, slow in coming to his aid and -fickle in fulfilling his dreams, had brought it about that for several -years more he had been compelled to stay<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> away nearly all of the time, -unable to marry her; during which period, unknown to himself really, -his own point of view had altered. How it had happened he could never -tell really, but so it was. The great city, larger experiences—while -she was still enduring the smaller ones—other faces, dreams of larger -things, had all combined to destroy it or her, only he had not quite -realized it then. He was always so slow in realizing the full import of -the immediate thing, he thought.</p> - -<p>That was the time, as he had afterward told himself—how often!—that -he should have discovered his mistake and stopped. Later it always -seemed to become more and more impossible. Then, in spite of some -heartache to her and some distress to himself, no doubt, all would be -well for him now. But no; he had been too inexperienced, too ignorant, -too bound by all the conventions and punctilio of his simple Western -world. He thought an engagement, however unsatisfactory it might come -to seem afterward, was an engagement, and binding. An honorable man -would not break one—or so his country moralists argued.</p> - -<p>Yes, at that time he might have written her, he might have told -her, then. But he had been too sensitive and kindly to speak of it. -Afterward it was too late. He feared to wound her, to undo her, to -undo her life. But now—now—look at his! He had gone back on several -occasions before marriage, and might have seen and done and been free -if he had had but courage and wisdom—but no; duty, order, the beliefs -of the region in which he had been reared, and of America—what it -expected and what she expected and was entitled to—had done for him -completely. He had not spoken. Instead, he had gone on and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> married her -without speaking of the change in himself, without letting her know how -worse than ashes it had all become. God, what a fool he had been! how -often since he had told himself over and over.</p> - -<p>Well, having made a mistake it was his duty perhaps, at least -according to current beliefs, to stick by it and make the best of -it;—a bargain was a bargain in marriage, if no where else—but -still that had never prevented him from being unhappy. He could not -prevent that himself. During all these long years, therefore, owing to -these same conventions—what people would think and say—he had been -compelled to live with her, to cherish her, to pretend to be happy -with her—“another perfect union,” as he sometimes said to himself. In -reality he had been unhappy, horribly so. Even her face wearied him at -times, and her presence, her mannerisms. Only this other morning Doctor -Storm, by his manner indicating that he thought him lonely, in danger -of being left all alone and desperately sad and neglected in case she -died had irritated him greatly. Who would take care of him? his eyes -had seemed to say—and yet he himself wanted nothing so much as to be -alone for a time, at least, in this life, to think for himself, to -do for himself, to forget this long, dreary period in which he had -pretended to be something that he was not.</p> - -<p>Was he never to be rid of the dull round of it, he asked himself now, -never before he himself died? And yet shortly afterward he would -reproach himself for these very thoughts, as being wrong, hard, -unkind—thoughts that would certainly condemn him in the eyes of the -general public, that public which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> made reputations and one’s general -standing before the world.</p> - -<p>During all this time he had never even let her know—no, not once—of -the tremendous and soul-crushing sacrifice he had made. Like the -Spartan boy, he had concealed the fox gnawing at his vitals. He had not -complained. He had been, indeed, the model husband, as such things go -in conventional walks. If you doubted it look at his position, or that -of his children; or his wife—her mental and physical comfort, even in -her illness, her unfailing belief that he was all he should be! Never -once apparently, during all these years, had she doubted his love or -felt him to be unduly unhappy—or, if not that exactly, if not fully -accepting his love as something that was still at a fever heat, the -thing it once was—still believing that he found pleasure and happiness -in being with her, a part of the home which together they had built up, -these children they had reared, comfort in knowing that it would endure -to the end! To the end! During all these years she had gone on molding -his and her lives—as much as that was possible in his case—and those -of their children, to suit herself; and thinking all the time that she -was doing what he wanted or at least what was best for him and them.</p> - -<p>How she adored convention! What did she not think she knew in regard -to how things ought to be—mainly what her old home surroundings had -taught her, the American idea of this, that and the other. Her theories -in regard to friends, education of the children, and so on, had in the -main prevailed, even when he did not quite agree with her; her desires -for certain types of pleasure and amusement, of companionship,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> and so -on, were conventional types always and had also prevailed. There had -been little quarrels, of course, always had been—what happy home is -free of them?—but still he had always given in, or nearly always, and -had acted as though he were satisfied in so doing.</p> - -<p>But why, therefore, should he complain now, or she ever imagine, or -ever have imagined, that he was unhappy? She did not, had not. Like all -their relatives and friends of the region from which they sprang, and -here also—and she had been most careful to regulate that, courting -whom she pleased and ignoring all others—she still believed most -firmly, more so than ever, that she knew what was best for him, what he -really thought and wanted. It made him smile most wearily at times.</p> - -<p>For in her eyes—in regard to him, at least, not always so with -others, he had found—marriage was a sacrament, sacrosanct, never to -be dissolved. One life, one love. Once a man had accepted the yoke or -even asked a girl to marry him it was his duty to abide by it. To break -an engagement, to be unfaithful to a wife, even unkind to her—what a -crime, in her eyes! Such people ought to be drummed out of the world. -They were really not fit to live—dogs, brutes!</p> - -<p>And yet, look at himself—what of him? What of one who had made a -mistake in regard to all this? Where was his compensation to come -from, his peace and happiness? Here on earth or only in some mythical -heaven—that odd, angelic heaven that she still believed in? What -a farce! And all her friends and his would think he would be so -miserable now if she died, or at least ought to be. So far had asinine -convention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> and belief in custom carried the world. Think of it!</p> - -<p>But even that was not the worst. No; that was not the worst, either. It -had been the gradual realization coming along through the years that he -had married an essentially small, narrow woman who could never really -grasp his point of view—or, rather, the significance of his dreams or -emotions—and yet with whom, nevertheless, because of this original -promise or mistake, he was compelled to live. Grant her every quality -of goodness, energy, industry, intent—as he did freely—still there -was this; and it could never be adjusted, never. Essentially, as he -had long since discovered, she was narrow, ultraconventional, whereas -he was an artist by nature, brooding and dreaming strange dreams and -thinking of far-off things which she did not or could not understand -or did not sympathize with, save in a general and very remote way. -The nuances of his craft, the wonders and subtleties of forms and -angles—had she ever realized how significant these were to him, let -alone to herself? No, never. She had not the least true appreciation -of them—never had had. Architecture? Art? What could they really mean -to her, desire as she might to appreciate them? And he could not now -go elsewhere to discover that sympathy. No. He had never really wanted -to, since the public and she would object, and he thinking it half evil -himself.</p> - -<p>Still, how was it, he often asked himself, that Nature could thus allow -one conditioned or equipped with emotions and seekings such as his, -not of an utterly conventional order, to seek out and pursue one like -Ernestine, who was not fitted to understand him or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> to care what his -personal moods might be? Was love truly blind, as the old saw insisted, -or did Nature really plan, and cleverly, to torture the artist mind—as -it did the pearl-bearing oyster with a grain of sand—with something -seemingly inimical, in order that it might produce beauty? Sometimes -he thought so. Perhaps the many interesting and beautiful buildings -he had planned—the world called them so, at least—had been due to -the loving care he lavished on them, being shut out from love and -beauty elsewhere. Cruel Nature, that cared so little for the dreams of -man—the individual man or woman!</p> - -<p>At the time he had married Ernestine he was really too young to know -exactly what it was he wanted to do or how it was he was going to feel -in the years to come; and yet there was no one to guide him, to stop -him. The custom of the time was all in favor of this dread disaster. -Nature herself seemed to desire it—mere children being the be-all and -the end-all of everything everywhere. Think of that as a theory! Later, -when it became so clear to him what he had done, and in spite of all -the conventional thoughts and conditions that seemed to bind him to -this fixed condition, he had grown restless and weary, but never really -irritable. No, he had never become that.</p> - -<p>Instead he had concealed it all from her, persistently, in all -kindness; only this hankering after beauty of mind and body in ways -not represented by her had hurt so—grown finally almost too painful -to bear. He had dreamed and dreamed of something different until it -had become almost an obsession. Was it never to be, that something -different, never, anywhere, in all time? What a tragedy! Soon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> he would -be dead and then it would never be anywhere—anymore! Ernestine was -charming, he would admit, or had been at first, though time had proved -that she was not charming to him either mentally or physically in any -compelling way; but how did that help him now? How could it? He had -actually found himself bored by her for more than twenty-seven years -now, and this other dream growing, growing, growing—until——</p> - -<p>But now he was old, and she was dying, or might be, and it could not -make so much difference what happened to him or to her; only it could, -too, because he wanted to be free for a little while, just for a little -while, before he died.</p> - -<p>To be free! free!</p> - -<p>One of the things that had always irritated him about <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker was -this, that in spite of his determination never to offend the social -code in any way—he had felt for so many reasons, emotional as well -as practical, that he could not afford so to do—and also in spite -of the fact that he had been tortured by this show of beauty in the -eyes and bodies of others, his wife, fearing perhaps in some strange -psychic way that he might change, had always tried to make him feel or -believe—premeditatedly and of a purpose, he thought—that he was not -the kind of man who would be attractive to women; that he lacked some -physical fitness, some charm that other men had, which would cause all -young and really charming women to turn away from him. Think of it! He -to whom so many women had turned with questioning eyes!</p> - -<p>Also that she had married him largely because she had felt sorry for -him! He chose to let her believe<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> that, because he was sorry for -her. Because other women had seemed to draw near to him at times in -some appealing or seductive way she had insisted that he was not -even a cavalier, let alone a Lothario; that he was ungainly, slow, -uninteresting—to all women but her!</p> - -<p>Persistently, he thought, and without any real need, she had harped -on this, fighting chimeras, a chance danger in the future; though he -had never given her any real reason, and had never even planned to sin -against her in any way—never. She had thus tried to poison his own -mind in regard to himself and his art—and yet—and yet——Ah, those -eyes of other women, their haunting beauty, the flitting something they -said to him of infinite, inexpressible delight. Why had his life been -so very hard?</p> - -<p>One of the disturbing things about all this was the iron truth which -it had driven home, namely, that Nature, unless it were expressed or -represented by some fierce determination within, which drove one to -do, be, cared no whit for him or any other man or woman. Unless one -acted for oneself, upon some stern conclusion nurtured within, one -might rot and die spiritually. Nature did not care. “Blessed be the -meek”—yes. Blessed be the strong, rather, for they made their own -happiness. All these years in which he had dwelt and worked in this -knowledge, hoping for something but not acting, nothing had happened, -except to him, and that in an unsatisfactory way. All along he had seen -what was happening to him; and yet held by convention he had refused to -act always, because somehow he was not hard enough to act. He was not -strong enough, that was the real truth—had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> not been. Almost like a -bird in a cage, an animal peeping out from behind bars, he had viewed -the world of free thought and freer action. In many a drawing-room, on -the street, or in his own home even, had he not looked into an eye, -the face of someone who seemed to offer understanding, to know, to -sympathize, though she might not have, of course; and yet religiously -and moralistically, like an anchorite, because of duty and current -belief and what people would say and think, Ernestine’s position and -faith in him, her comfort, his career and that of the children—he had -put them all aside, out of his mind, forgotten them almost, as best he -might. It had been hard at times, and sad, but so it had been.</p> - -<p>And look at him now, old, not exactly feeble yet—no, not that yet, not -quite!—but life weary and almost indifferent. All these years he had -wanted, wanted—wanted—an understanding mind, a tender heart, the some -one woman—she must exist somewhere—who would have sympathized with -all the delicate shades and meanings of his own character, his art, his -spiritual as well as his material dreams——And yet look at him! <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Haymaker had always been with him, present in the flesh or the spirit, -and—so——</p> - -<p>Though he could not ever say that she was disagreeable to him -in a material way—he could not say that she had ever been that -exactly—still she did not correspond to his idea of what he needed, -and so——Form had meant so much to him, color; the glorious -perfectness of a glorious woman’s body, for instance, the color of her -thoughts, moods—exquisite they must be, like his own at times; but no, -he had never had the opportunity to know one intimately. No, not one,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> -though he had dreamed of her so long. He had never even dared whisper -this to any one, scarcely to himself. It was not wise, not socially -fit. Thoughts like this would tend to social ostracism in his circle, -or rather hers—for had she not made the circle?</p> - -<p>And here was the rub with <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker, at least, that he could not -make up his mind whether in his restlessness and private mental -complaints he were not even now guilty of a great moral crime in so -thinking. Was it not true that men and women should be faithful in -marriage whether they were happy or not? Was there not some psychic -law governing this matter of union—one life, one love—which made the -thoughts and the pains and the subsequent sufferings and hardships of -the individual, whatever they might be, seem unimportant? The churches -said so. Public opinion and the law seemed to accept this. There were -so many problems, so much order to be disrupted, so much pain caused, -many insoluble problems where children were concerned—if people did -not stick. Was it not best, more blessed—socially, morally, and in -every other way important—for him to stand by a bad bargain rather -than to cause so much disorder and pain, even though he lost his own -soul emotionally? He had thought so—or at least he had acted as though -he thought so—and yet——How often had he wondered over this!</p> - -<p>Take, now, some other phases. Granting first that <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker had, -according to the current code, measured up to the requirements of a -wife, good and true, and that at first after marriage there had been -just enough of physical and social charm about her to keep his state -from becoming intolerable, still there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> was this old ache; and then -newer things which came with the birth of the several children: First -Elwell—named after a cousin of hers, not his—who had died only two -years after he was born; and then Wesley; and then Ethelberta. How he -had always disliked that name!—largely because he had hoped to call -her Ottilie, a favorite name of his; or Janet, after his mother.</p> - -<p>Curiously the arrival of these children and the death of poor little -Elwell at two had somehow, in spite of his unrest, bound him to this -matrimonial state and filled him with a sense of duty, and pleasure -even—almost entirely apart from her, he was sorry to say—in these -young lives; though if there had not been children, as he sometimes -told himself, he surely would have broken away from her; he could not -have stood it. They were so odd in their infancy, those little ones, -so troublesome and yet so amusing—little Elwell, for instance, whose -nose used to crinkle with delight when he would pretend to bite his -neck, and whose gurgle of pleasure was so sweet and heart-filling -that it positively thrilled and lured him. In spite of his thoughts -concerning Ernestine—and always in those days they were rigidly put -down as unmoral and even evil, a certain unsocial streak in him perhaps -which was against law and order and social well-being—he came to have -a deep and abiding feeling for Elwell. The latter, in some chemic, -almost unconscious way, seemed to have arrived as a balm to his misery, -a bandage for his growing wound—sent by whom, by what, how? Elwell had -seized upon his imagination, and so his heartstrings—had come, indeed, -to make him feel understanding and sympathy there in that little child; -to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> supply, or seem to at least, what he lacked in the way of love -and affection from one whom he could truly love. Elwell was never so -happy apparently as when snuggling in his arms, not Ernestine’s, or -lying against his neck. And when he went for a walk or elsewhere there -was Elwell always ready, arms up, to cling to his neck. He seemed, -strangely enough, inordinately fond of his father, rather than his -mother, and never happy without him. On his part, Haymaker came to be -wildly fond of him—that queer little lump of a face, suggesting a -little of himself and of his own mother, not so much of Ernestine, or -so he thought, though he would not have objected to that. Not at all. -He was not so small as that. Toward the end of the second year, when -Elwell was just beginning to be able to utter a word or two, he had -taught him that silly old rhyme which ran “There were three kittens,” -and when it came to “and they shall have no——” he would stop and say -to Elwell, “What now?” and the latter would gurgle “puh!”—meaning, of -course, pie.</p> - -<p>Ah, those happy days with little Elwell, those walks with him over his -shoulder or on his arm, those hours in which of an evening he would -rock him to sleep in his arms! Always Ernestine was there, and happy -in the thought of his love for little Elwell and her, her more than -anything else perhaps; but it was an illusion—that latter part. He did -not care for her even then as she thought he did. All his fondness was -for Elwell, only she took it as evidence of his growing or enduring -affection for her—another evidence of the peculiar working of her -mind. Women were like that, he supposed—some women.</p> - -<p>And then came that dreadful fever, due to some invading<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> microbe which -the doctors could not diagnose or isolate, infantile paralysis perhaps; -and little Elwell had finally ceased to be as flesh and was eventually -carried forth to the lorn, disagreeable graveyard near Woodlawn. How he -had groaned internally, indulged in sad, despondent thoughts concerning -the futility of all things human, when this had happened! It seemed for -the time being as if all color and beauty had really gone out of his -life for good.</p> - -<p>“Man born of woman is of few days and full of troubles,” the preacher -whom <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker had insisted upon having into the house at the time -of the funeral had read. “He fleeth also as a shadow and continueth -not.”</p> - -<p>Yes; so little Elwell had fled, as a shadow, and in his own deep sorrow -at the time he had come to feel the first and only sad, deep sympathy -for Ernestine that he had ever felt since marriage; and that because -she had suffered so much—had lain in his arms after the funeral and -cried so bitterly. It was terrible, her sorrow. Terrible—a mother -grieving for her first-born! Why was it, he had thought at the time, -that he had never been able to think or make her all she ought to be to -him? Ernestine at this time had seemed better, softer, kinder, wiser, -sweeter than she had ever seemed; more worthy, more interesting than -ever he had thought her before. She had slaved so during the child’s -illness, stayed awake night after night, watched over him with such -loving care—done everything, in short, that a loving human heart could -do to rescue her young from the depths; and yet even then he had not -really been able to love her. No, sad and unkind as it might seem, he -had not. He had just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> pitied her and thought her better, worthier! What -cursed stars disordered the minds and moods of people so? Why was it -that these virtues of people, their good qualities, did not make you -love them, did not really bind them to you, as against the things you -could not like? Why? He had resolved to do better in his thoughts, but -somehow, in spite of himself, he had never been able so to do.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, at that time he seemed to realize more keenly than ever -her order, industry, frugality, a sense of beauty within limits, a -certain laudable ambition to do something and be somebody—only, only -he could not sympathize with her ambitions, could not see that she had -anything but a hopelessly commonplace and always unimportant point -of view. There was never any <a id="flair"></a>flair to her, never any true distinction -of mind or soul. She seemed always, in spite of anything he might -say or do, hopelessly to identify doing and being with money and -current opinion—neighborhood public opinion, almost—and local social -position, whereas he knew that distinguished doing might as well be -connected with poverty and shame and disgrace as with these other -things—wealth and station, for instance; a thing which she could never -quite understand apparently, though he often tried to tell her, much -against her mood always.</p> - -<p>Look at the cases of the great artists! Some of the greatest architects -right here in the city, or in history, were of peculiar, almost -disagreeable, history. But no, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker could not understand -anything like that, anything connected with history, indeed—she hardly -believed in history, its dark, sad pages, and would never read it, or -at least did not care to. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> as for art and artists—she would never -have believed that wisdom and art understanding and true distinction -might take their rise out of things necessarily low and evil—never.</p> - -<p>Take now, the case of young Zingara. Zingara was an architect like -himself, whom he had met more than thirty years before, here in New -York, when he had first arrived, a young man struggling to become an -architect of significance, only he was very poor and rather unkempt -and disreputable-looking. Haymaker had found him several years before -his marriage to Ernestine in the dark offices of Pyne & Starboard, -Architects, and had been drawn to him definitely; but because he smoked -all the time and was shabby as to his clothes and had no money—why, -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker, after he had married her, and though he had known -Zingara nearly four years, would have none of him. To her he was low, -and a failure, one who would never succeed. Once she had seen him in -some cheap restaurant that she chanced to be passing, in company with a -drabby-looking maid, and that was the end.</p> - -<p>“I wish you wouldn’t bring him here any more, dear,” she had insisted; -and to have peace he had complied—only, now look. Zingara had since -become a great architect, but now of course, owing to <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker, -he was definitely alienated. He was the man who had since designed the -Æsculapian Club; and Symphony Hall with its delicate façade; as well as -the tower of the Wells Building, sending its sweet lines so high, like -a poetic thought or dream. But Zingara was now a dreamy recluse like -himself, very exclusive, as Haymaker had long since come to know, and -indifferent as to what people thought or said.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p> - -<p>But perhaps it was not just obtuseness to certain of the finer shades -and meanings of life, but an irritating aggressiveness at times, backed -only by her limited understanding, which caused her to seek and wish to -be here, there and the other place; wherever, in her mind, the truly -successful—which meant nearly always the materially successful of a -second or third rate character—were, which irritated him most of all. -How often had he tried to point out the difference between true and -shoddy distinction—the former rarely connected with great wealth.</p> - -<p>But no. So often she seemed to imagine such queer people to be truly -successful, when they were really not—usually people with just money, -or a very little more.</p> - -<p>And in the matter of rearing and educating and marrying their two -children, Wesley and Ethelberta, who had come after Elwell—what -peculiar pains and feelings had not been involved in all this for him. -In infancy both of these had seemed sweet enough, and so close to him, -though never quite so wonderful as Elwell. But, as they grew, it seemed -somehow as though Ernestine had come between him and them. First, it -was the way she had raised them, the very stiff and formal manner in -which they were supposed to move and be, copied from the few new-rich -whom she had chanced to meet through him—and admired in spite of his -warnings. That was the irony of architecture as a profession—it was -always bringing such queer people close to one, and for the sake of -one’s profession, sometimes, particularly in the case of the young -architect, one had to be nice to them. Later, it was the kind of school -they should attend.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> He had half imagined at first that it would be the -public school, because they both had begun as simple people; but no, -since they were prospering it had to be a private school for each, and -not one of his selection, either—or hers, really—but one to which the -Barlows and the Westervelts, two families of means with whom Ernestine -had become intimate, sent their children and therefore thought -excellent!</p> - -<p>The Barlows! Wealthy, but, to him, gross and mediocre people who had -made a great deal of money in the manufacture of patent medicines -out West, and who had then come to New York to splurge, and had been -attracted to Ernestine—not him particularly, he imagined—because -Haymaker had built a town house for them, and also because he was -gaining a fine reputation. They were dreadful really, so <em>gauche</em>, -so truly dull; and yet somehow they seemed to suit Ernestine’s sense of -fitness and worth at the time, because, as she said, they were good and -kind—like her Western home folks; only they were not really. She just -imagined so. They were worthy enough people in their way, though with -no taste. Young Fred Barlow had been sent to the expensive Gaillard -School for Boys, near Morristown, where they were taught manners and -airs, and little else, as Haymaker always thought, though Ernestine -insisted that they were given a religious training as well. And so -Wesley had to go there—for a time, anyhow. It was the best school.</p> - -<p>And similarly, because Mercedes Westervelt, senseless, vain little -thing, was sent to Briarcliff School, near White Plains, Ethelberta had -to go there. Think of it! It was all so silly, so pushing. How well he -remembered the long, delicate campaign which preceded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> this, the logic -and tactics employed, the importance of it socially to Ethelberta, the -tears and cajolery. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker could always cry so easily, or seem -to be on the verge of it, when she wanted anything; and somehow, in -spite of the fact that he knew her tears were unimportant, or timed -and for a purpose, he could never stand out against them, and she knew -it. Always he felt moved or weakened in spite of himself. He had no -weapon wherewith to fight them, though he resented them as a part of -the argument. Positively <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker could be as sly and as ruthless -as Machiavelli himself at times, and yet believe all the while that she -was tender, loving, self-sacrificing, generous, moral and a dozen other -things, all of which led to the final achievement of her own aims. -Perhaps this was admirable from one point of view, but it irritated him -always. But if one were unable to see him- or herself, their actual -disturbing inconsistencies, what were you to do?</p> - -<p>And again, he had by then been married so long that it was almost -impossible to think of throwing her over, or so it seemed at the -time. They had reached the place then where they had supposedly -achieved position together, though in reality it was all his—and not -such position as he was entitled to, at that. Ernestine—and he was -thinking this in all kindness—could never attract the ideal sort. -And anyhow, the mere breath of a scandal between them, separation or -unfaithfulness, which he never really contemplated, would have led to -endless bickering and social and commercial injury, or so he thought. -All her strong friends—and his, in a way—those who had originally -been his clients, would have deserted him.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> Their wives, their own -social fears, would have compelled them to ostracize him! He would have -been a scandal-marked architect, a brute for objecting to so kind and -faithful and loving a wife. And perhaps he would have been, at that. He -could never quite tell, it was all so mixed and tangled.</p> - -<p>Take, again, the marriage of his son Wesley into the De Gaud -family—George de Gaud <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">père</i> being nothing more than a retired -real-estate speculator and promoter who had money, but nothing more; -and Irma de Gaud, the daughter, being a gross, coarse, sensuous girl, -physically attractive no doubt, and financially reasonably secure, -or so she had seemed; but what else? Nothing, literally nothing; and -his son had seemed to have at least some spiritual ideals at first. -Ernestine had taken up with <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> George de Gaud—a miserable, narrow -creature, so Haymaker thought—largely for Wesley’s sake, he presumed. -Anyhow, everything had been done to encourage Wesley in his suit and -Irma in her toleration, and now look at them! De Gaud <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">père</i> -had since failed and left his daughter practically nothing. Irma had -been interested in anything but Wesley’s career, had followed what -she considered the smart among the new-rich—a smarter, wilder, newer -new-rich than ever Ernestine had fancied, or could. To-day she was -without a thought for anything besides teas and country clubs and -theaters—and what else?</p> - -<p>And long since Wesley had begun to realize it himself. He was an -engineer now, in the employ of one of the great construction companies, -a moderately successful man. But even Ernestine, who had engineered -the match and thought it wonderful, was now down<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> on her. She had -begun to see through her some years ago, when Irma had begun to -ignore her; only before it was always the De Gauds here, and the De -Gauds there. Good gracious, what more could any one want than the De -Gauds—Irma de Gaud, for instance? Then came the concealed dissension -between Irma and Wesley, and now <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker insisted that Irma -had held, and was holding Wesley back. She was not the right woman -for him. Almost—against all her prejudices—she was willing that he -should leave her. Only, if Haymaker had broached anything like that in -connection with himself!</p> - -<p>And yet <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker had been determined, because of what she -considered the position of the De Gauds at that time, that Wesley -should marry Irma. Wesley now had to slave at mediocre tasks in order -to have enough to allow Irma to run in so-called fast society of a -second or third rate. And even at that she was not faithful to him—or -so Haymaker believed. There were so many strange evidences. And yet -Haymaker felt that he did not care to interfere now. How could he? Irma -was tired of Wesley, and that was all there was to it. She was looking -elsewhere, he was sure.</p> - -<p>Take but one more case, that of Ethelberta. What a name! In spite of -all Ernestine’s determination to make her so successful and thereby -reflect some credit on her had she really succeeded in so doing? To be -sure, Ethelberta’s marriage was somewhat more successful financially -than Wesley’s had proved to be, but was she any better placed in other -ways? John Kelso—“Jack,” as she always called him—with his light ways -and lighter mind, was he really any one!—anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> more than a waster? -His parents stood by him no doubt, but that was all; and so much the -worse for him. According to <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker at the time, he, too, was an -ideal boy, admirable, just the man for Ethelberta, because the Kelsos, -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">père</i> and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mère</i>, had money. Horner Kelso had made a kind -of fortune in Chicago in the banknote business, and had settled in -New York, about the time that Ethelberta was fifteen, to spend it. -Ethelberta had met Grace Kelso at school.</p> - -<p>And now see! She was not unattractive, and had some pleasant, albeit -highly affected, social ways; she had money, and a comfortable -apartment in Park Avenue; but what had it all come to? John Kelso had -never done anything really, nothing. His parents’ money and indulgence -and his early training for a better social state had ruined him -if he had ever had a mind that amounted to anything. He was idle, -pleasure-loving, mentally indolent, like Irma de Gaud. Those two should -have met and married, only they could never have endured each other. -But how <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker had courted the Kelsos in her eager and yet -diplomatic way, giving teas and receptions and theater parties; and yet -he had never been able to exchange ten significant words with either of -them, or the younger Kelsos either. Think of it!</p> - -<p>And somehow in the process Ethelberta, for all his early affection and -tenderness and his still kindly feeling for her, had been weaned away -from him and had proved a limited and conventional girl, somewhat like -her mother, and more inclined to listen to her than to him—though he -had not minded that really. It had been the same with Wesley before -her. Perhaps, however,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> a child was entitled to its likes and dislikes, -regardless.</p> - -<p>But why had he stood for it all, he now kept asking himself. Why? -What grand results, if any, had been achieved? Were their children so -wonderful?—their lives? Would he not have been better off without -her—his children better, even, by a different woman?—hers by a -different man? Wouldn’t it have been better if he had destroyed it -all, broken away? There would have been pain, of course, terrible -consequences, but even so he would have been free to go, to do, to -reorganize his life on another basis. Zingara had avoided marriage -entirely—wise man. But no, no; always convention, that long list of -reasons and terrors he was always reciting to himself. He had allowed -himself to be pulled round by the nose, God only knows why, and that -was all there was to it. Weakness, if you will, perhaps; fear of -convention; fear of what people would think and say.</p> - -<p>Always now he found himself brooding over the dire results to him of -all this respect on his part for convention, moral order, the duty -of keeping society on an even keel, of not bringing disgrace to his -children and himself and her, and yet ruining his own life emotionally -by so doing. To be respectable had been so important that it had -resulted in spiritual failure for him. But now all that was over with -him, and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker was ill, near to death, and he was expected to -wish her to get well, and be happy with her for a long time yet! Be -happy! In spite of anything he might wish or think he ought to do, he -couldn’t. He couldn’t even wish her to get well.</p> - -<p>It was too much to ask. There was actually a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> haunting satisfaction in -the thought that she might die now. It wouldn’t be much, but it would -be something—a few years of freedom. That was something. He was not -utterly old yet, and he might have a few years of peace and comfort -to himself still—and—and——That dream—that dream—though it might -never come true now—it couldn’t really—still—still——He wanted to -be free to go his own way once more, to do as he pleased, to walk, to -think, to brood over what he had not had—to brood over what he had not -had! Only, only, whenever he looked into her pale sick face and felt -her damp limp hands he could not quite wish that, either; not quite, -not even now. It seemed too hard, too brutal—only—only—— So he -wavered.</p> - -<p>No; in spite of her long-past struggle over foolish things and in -spite of himself and all he had endured or thought he had, he was -still willing that she should live; only he couldn’t wish it exactly. -Yes, let her live if she could. What matter to him now whether she -lived or died? Whenever he looked at her he could not help thinking -how helpless she would be without him, what a failure at her age, and -so on. And all along, as he wryly repeated to himself, she had been -thinking and feeling that she was doing the very best for him and her -and the children!—that she was really the ideal wife for him, making -every dollar go as far as it would, every enjoyment yield the last drop -for them all, every move seeming to have been made to their general -advantage! Yes, that was true. There was a pathos about it, wasn’t -there? But as for the actual results——!</p> - -<p>The next morning, the second after his talk with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> Doctor Storm, found -him sitting once more beside his front window in the early dawn, and -so much of all this, and much more, was coming back to him, as before. -For the thousandth or the ten-thousandth time, as it seemed to him, -in all the years that had gone, he was concluding again that his life -was a failure. If only he were free for a little while just to be -alone and think, perhaps to discover what life might bring him yet; -only on this occasion his thoughts were colored by a new turn in the -situation. Yesterday afternoon, because <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker’s condition had -grown worse, the consultation between Grainger and Storm was held, -and to-day sometime transfusion was to be tried, that last grim stand -taken by physicians in distress over a case; blood taken from a strong -ex-cavalryman out of a position, in this case, and the best to be hoped -for, but not assured. In this instance his thoughts were as before -wavering. Now supposing she really died, in spite of this? What would -he think of himself then? He went back after a time and looked in on -her where she was still sleeping. Now she was not so strong as before, -or so she seemed; her pulse was not so good, the nurse said. And now as -before his mood changed in her favor, but only for a little while. For -later, waking, she seemed to look and feel better.</p> - -<p>Later he came up to the dining room, where the nurse was taking her -breakfast, and seating himself beside her, as was his custom these -days, asked: “How do you think she is to-day?”</p> - -<p>He and the night nurse had thus had their breakfasts together for days. -This nurse, Miss Filson, was such a smooth, pink, graceful creature, -with light hair<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> and blue eyes, the kind of eyes and color that of -late, and in earlier years, had suggested to him the love time or youth -that he had missed.</p> - -<p>The latter looked grave, as though she really feared the worst but was -concealing it.</p> - -<p>“No worse, I think, and possibly a little better,” she replied, <a id="eying"></a>eyeing -him sympathetically. He could see that she too felt that he was old and -in danger of being neglected. “Her pulse is a little stronger, nearly -normal now, and she is resting easily. Doctor Storm and Doctor Grainger -are coming, though, at ten. Then they’ll decide what’s to be done. I -think if she’s worse that they are going to try transfusion. The man -has been engaged. Doctor Storm said that when she woke to-day she was -to be given strong beef tea. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge is making it now. The fact -that she is not much worse, though, is a good sign in itself, I think.”</p> - -<p>Haymaker merely stared at her from under his heavy gray eyebrows. -He was so tired and gloomy, not only because he had not slept much -of late himself but because of this sawing to and fro between his -varying moods. Was he never to be able to decide for himself what he -really wished? Was he never to be done with this interminable moral or -spiritual problem? Why could he not make up his mind on the side of -moral order, sympathy, and be at peace? Miss Filson pattered on about -other heart cases, how so many people lived years and years after -they were supposed to die of heart lesion; and he meditated as to -the grayness and strangeness of it all, the worthlessness of his own -life, the variability of his own moods. Why was he so? How queer—how -almost evil, sinister—he had become at times; how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> weak at others. -Last night as he had looked at Ernestine lying in bed, and this morning -before he had seen her, he had thought if she only would die—if he -were only really free once more, even at this late date. But then when -he had seen her again this morning and now when Miss Filson spoke -of transfusion, he felt sorry again. What good would it do him now? -Why should he want to kill her? Could such evil ideas go unpunished -either in this world or the next? Supposing his children could guess! -Supposing she did die now—and he wished it so fervently only this -morning—how would he feel? After all, Ernestine had not been so bad. -She had tried, hadn’t she?—only she had not been able to make a -success of things, as he saw it, and he had not been able to love her, -that was all. He reproached himself once more now with the hardness and -the cruelty of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>The opinion of the two physicians was that <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker was not much -better and that this first form of blood transfusion must be resorted -to—injected straight via a pump—which should restore her greatly -provided her heart did not bleed it out too freely. Before doing so, -however, both men once more spoke to Haymaker, who in an excess of -self-condemnation insisted that no expense must be spared. If her life -was in danger, save it by any means—all. It was precious to her, to -him and to her children. So he spoke. Thus he felt that he was lending -every force which could be expected of him, aside from fervently -wishing for her recovery, which even now, in spite of himself, he could -not do. He was too weary of it all, the conventional round of duties -and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> obligations. But if she recovered, as her physicians seemed to -think she might if transfusion were tried, if she gained even, it would -mean that he would have to take her away for the summer to some quiet -mountain resort—to be with her hourly during the long period in which -she would be recovering. Well, he would not complain now. That was all -right. He would do it. He would be bored of course, as usual, but it -would be too bad to have her die when she could be saved. Yes, that was -true. And yet——</p> - -<p>He went down to his office again and in the meantime this first form -of transfusion was tried, and proved a great success, apparently. She -was much better, so the day nurse phoned at three; very much better. At -five-thirty <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker returned, no unsatisfactory word having come -in the interim, and there she was, resting on a raised pillow, if you -please, and looking so cheerful, more like her old self than he had -seen her in some time.</p> - -<p>At once then his mood changed again. They were amazing, these -variations in his own thoughts, almost chemic, not volitional, -decidedly peculiar for a man who was supposed to know his own -mind—only did one, ever? Now she would not die. Now the whole thing -would go on as before. He was sure of it. Well, he might as well resign -himself to the old sense of failure. He would never be free now. -Everything would go on as before, the next and the next day the same. -Terrible! Though he seemed glad—really grateful, in a way, seeing her -cheerful and hopeful once more—still the obsession of failure and -being once more bound forever returned now. In his own bed at midnight -he said to himself: “Now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> she will really get well. All will be as -before. I will never be free. I will never have a day—a day! Never!”</p> - -<p>But the next morning, to his surprise and fear or comfort, as his -moods varied, she was worse again; and then once more he reproached -himself for his black thoughts. Was he not really killing her by what -he thought? he asked himself—these constant changes in his mood? Did -not his dark wishes have power? Was he not as good as a murderer in his -way? Think, if he had always to feel from now on that he had killed her -by wishing so! Would not that be dreadful—an awful thing really? Why -was he this way? Could he not be human, kind?</p> - -<p>When Doctor Storm came at nine-thirty, after a telephone call from the -nurse, and looked grave and spoke of horses’ blood as being better, -thicker than human blood—not so easily bled out of the heart when -injected as a serum—Haymaker was beside himself with self-reproaches -and sad, disturbing fear. His dark, evil thoughts of last night and -all these days had done this, he was sure. Was he really a murderer at -heart, a dark criminal, plotting her death?—and for what? Why had he -wished last night that she would die? Her case must be very desperate.</p> - -<p>“You must do your best,” he now said to Doctor Storm. “Whatever is -needful—she must not die if you can help it.”</p> - -<p>“No, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker,” returned the latter sympathetically. “All that can -be done will be done. You need not fear. I have an idea that we didn’t -inject enough yesterday, and anyhow human blood is not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> thick enough in -this case. She responded, but not enough. We will see what we can do -to-day.”</p> - -<p>Haymaker, pressed with duties, went away, subdued and sad. Now once -more he decided that he must not tolerate these dark ideas any more, -must rid himself of these black wishes, whatever he might feel. It -was evil. They would eventually come back to him in some dark way, he -might be sure. They might be influencing her. She must be allowed to -recover if she could without any opposition on his part. He must now -make a further sacrifice of his own life, whatever it cost. It was -only decent, only human. Why should he complain now, anyhow, after -all these years! What difference would a few more years make? He -returned at evening, consoled by his own good thoughts and a telephone -message at three to the effect that his wife was much better. This -second injection had proved much more effective. Horses’ blood was -plainly better for her. She was stronger, and sitting up again. He -entered at five, and found her lying there pale and weak, but still -with a better light in her eye, a touch of color in her cheeks—or -so he thought—more force, and a very faint smile for him, so marked -had been the change. How great and kind Doctor Storm really was! How -resourceful! If she would only get well now! If this dread siege would -only abate! Doctor Storm was coming again at eight.</p> - -<p>“Well, how are you, dear?” she asked, looking at him sweetly and -lovingly, and taking his hand in hers.</p> - -<p>He bent and kissed her forehead—a Judas kiss, he had thought up to -now, but not so to-night. To-night he was kind, generous—anxious, -even, for her to live.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> - -<p>“All right, dearest; very good indeed. And how are you? It’s such a -fine evening out. You ought to get well soon so as to enjoy these -spring days.”</p> - -<p>“I’m going to,” she replied softly. “I feel so much better. And how -have you been? Has your work gone all right?”</p> - -<p>He nodded and smiled and told her bits of news. Ethelberta had phoned -that she was coming, bringing violets. Wesley had said he would be here -at six, with Irma! Such-and-such people had asked after her. How could -he have been so evil, he now asked himself, as to wish her to die? -She was not so bad—really quite charming in her way, an ideal wife -for some one, if not him. She was as much entitled to live and enjoy -her life as he was to enjoy his; and after all she was the mother of -his children, had been with him all these years. Besides, the day had -been so fine—it was now—a wondrous May evening. The air and sky were -simply delicious. A lavender haze was in the air. The telephone bell -now ringing brought still another of a long series of inquiries as to -her condition. There had been so many of these during the last few -days, the maid said, and especially to-day—and she gave <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker -a list of names. See, he thought, she had even more friends than he, -being so good, faithful, worthy. Why should he wish her ill?</p> - -<p>He sat down to dinner with Ethelberta and Wesley when they arrived, -and chatted quite gayly—more hopefully than he had in weeks. His own -varying thoughts no longer depressing him, for the moment he was happy. -How were they? What were the children all doing? At eight-thirty Doctor -Storm came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> again, and announced that he thought <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker was -doing very well indeed, all things considered.</p> - -<p>“Her condition is fairly promising, I must say,” he said. “If she gets -through another night or two comfortably without falling back I think -she’ll do very well from now on. Her strength seems to be increasing a -fraction. However, we must not be too optimistic. Cases of this kind -are very treacherous. To-morrow we’ll see how she feels, whether she -needs any more blood.”</p> - -<p>He went away, and at ten Ethelberta and Wesley left for the night, -asking to be called if she grew worse, thus leaving him alone once -more. He sat and meditated. At eleven, after a few moments at his -wife’s bedside—absolute quiet had been the doctor’s instructions -these many days—he himself went to bed. He was very tired. His -varying thoughts had afflicted him so much that he was always tired, -it seemed—his evil conscience, he called it—but to-night he was sure -he would sleep. He felt better about himself, about life. He had done -better, to-day. He should never have tolerated such dark thoughts. And -yet—and yet—and yet——</p> - -<p>He lay on his bed near a window which commanded a view of a small -angle of the park, and looked out. There were the spring trees, as -usual, silvered now by the light, a bit of lake showing at one end. -Here in the city a bit of sylvan scenery such as this was so rare and -so expensive. In his youth he had been so fond of water, any small -lake or stream or pond. In his youth, also, he had loved the moon, and -to walk in the dark. It had all, always, been so suggestive of love -and happiness, and he had so craved love and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> happiness and never had -it. Once he had designed a yacht club, the base of which suggested -waves. Once, years ago, he had thought of designing a lovely cottage -or country house for himself and some new love—that wonderful one—if -ever she came and he were free. How wonderful it would all have been. -Now—now—the thought at such an hour and especially when it was too -late, seemed sacrilegious, hard, cold, unmoral, evil. He turned his -face away from the moonlight and sighed, deciding to sleep and shut out -these older and darker and sweeter thoughts if he could, and did.</p> - -<p>Presently he dreamed, and it was as if some lovely spirit of -beauty—that wondrous thing he had always been seeking—came and took -him by the hand and led him out, out by dimpling streams and clear -rippling lakes and a great, noble highway where were temples and towers -and figures in white marble. And it seemed as he walked as if something -had been, or were, promised him—a lovely fruition to something which -he craved—only the world toward which he walked was still dark or -shadowy, with something sad and repressing about it, a haunting sense -of a still darker distance. He was going toward beauty apparently, but -he was still seeking, seeking, and it was dark there when——</p> - -<p>“<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker! <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Haymaker!” came a voice—soft, almost mystical at -first, and then clearer and more disturbing, as a hand was laid on him. -“Will you come at once? It’s <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Haymaker!”</p> - -<p>On the instant he was on his feet seizing the blue silk dressing -gown hanging at his bed’s head, and adjusting it as he hurried. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Elfridge and the nurse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> were behind him, very pale and distrait, -wringing their hands. He could tell by that that the worst was at -hand. When he reached the bedroom—her bedroom—there she lay as in -life—still, peaceful, already limp, as though she were sleeping. Her -thin, and as he <a id="transpose"></a>sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in a -faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had seen her look that way, -too, at times; a really gracious smile, and wise, wiser than she was. -The long, thin, graceful hands were open, the fingers spread slightly -apart as though she were tired, very tired. The eyelids, too, rested -wearily on tired eyes. Her form, spare as always, was outlined clearly -under the thin coverlets. Miss Filson, the night nurse, was saying -something about having fallen asleep for a moment, and waking only to -find her so. She was terribly depressed and disturbed, possibly because -of Doctor Storm.</p> - -<p>Haymaker paused, greatly shocked and moved by the sight—more so than -by anything since the death of little Elwell. After all, she had -tried, according to her light. But now she was dead—and they had been -together so long! He came forward, tears of sympathy springing to his -eyes, then sank down beside the bed on his knees so as not to disturb -her right hand where it lay.</p> - -<p>“Ernie, dear,” he said gently, “Ernie—are you really gone?” His voice -was full of sorrow; but to himself it sounded false, traitorous.</p> - -<p>He lifted the hand and put it to his lips sadly, then leaned his head -against her, thinking of his long, mixed thoughts these many days, -while both <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> and the nurse began wiping their eyes. They -were so sorry for him, he was so old now!</p> - -<p>After a while he got up—they came forward to persuade him at -last—looking tremendously sad and distrait, and asked <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge -and the nurse not to disturb his children. They could not aid her now. -Let them rest until morning. Then he went back to his own room and sat -down on the bed for a moment, gazing out on the same silvery scene that -had attracted him before. It was dreadful. So then his dark wishing had -come true at last? Possibly his black thoughts had killed her after -all. Was that possible? Had his voiceless prayers been answered in -this grim way? And did she know now what he had really thought? Dark -thought. Where was she now? What was she thinking now if she knew? -Would she hate him—haunt him? It was not dawn yet, only two or three -in the morning, and the moon was still bright. And in the next room she -was lying, pale and cool, gone forever now out of his life.</p> - -<p>He got up after a time and went forward into that pleasant front room -where he had so often loved to sit, then back into her room to view -the body again. Now that she was gone, here more than elsewhere, in -her dead presence, he seemed better able to collect his scattered -thoughts. She might see or she might not—might know or not. It was -all over now. Only he could not help but feel a little evil. She had -been so faithful, if nothing more, so earnest in behalf of him and of -his children. He might have spared her these last dark thoughts of -these last few days. His feelings were so jumbled that he could not -place them half the time. But at the same time the ethics of the past,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> -of his own irritated feelings and moods in regard to her, had to be -adjusted somehow before he could have peace. They must be adjusted, -only how—how? He and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Elfridge had agreed not to disturb Doctor -Storm any more to-night. They were all agreed to get what rest they -could against the morning.</p> - -<p>After a time he came forward once more to the front room to sit and -gaze at the park. Here, perhaps, he could solve these mysteries for -himself, think them out, find out what he did feel. He was evil for -having wished all he had, that he knew and felt. And yet there was -his own story, too—his life. The dawn was breaking by now; a faint -grayness shaded the east and dimly lightened this room. A tall pier -mirror between two windows now revealed him to himself—spare, angular, -disheveled, his beard and hair astray and his eyes weary. The figure he -made here as against his dreams of a happier life, once he were free, -now struck him forcibly. What a farce! What a failure! Why should he, -of all people, think of further happiness in love, even if he were -free? Look at his reflection here in this mirror. What a picture—old, -grizzled, done for! Had he not known that for so long? Was it not too -ridiculous? Why should he have tolerated such vain thoughts? What could -he of all people hope for now? No thing of beauty would have him now. -Of course not. That glorious dream of his youth was gone forever. It -was a mirage, an ignis fatuus. His wife might just as well have lived -as died, for all the difference it would or could make to him. Only, -he was really free just the same, almost as it were in spite of his -varying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> moods. But he was old, weary, done for, a recluse and ungainly.</p> - -<p>Now the innate cruelty of life, its blazing ironic indifference to him -and so many grew rapidly upon him. What had he had? What all had he -not missed? Dismally he stared first at his dark wrinkled skin; the -crow’s-feet at the sides of his eyes; the wrinkles across his forehead -and between the eyes; his long, dark, wrinkled hands—handsome hands -they once were, he thought; his angular, stiff body. Once he had been -very much of a personage, he thought, striking, forceful, dynamic—but -now! He turned and looked out over the park where the young trees were, -and the lake, to the pinking dawn—just a trace now—a significant -thing in itself at this hour surely—the new dawn, so wondrously new -for younger people—then back at himself. What could he wish for -now—what hope for?</p> - -<p>As he did so his dream came back to him—that strange dream of seeking -and being led and promised and yet always being led forward into a -dimmer, darker land. What did that mean? Had it any real significance? -Was it all to be dimmer, darker still? Was it typical of his life? He -pondered.</p> - -<p>“Free!” he said after a time. “Free! I know now how that is. I am free -now, at last! Free!... Free!... Yes—free ... to die!”</p> - -<p>So he stood there ruminating and smoothing his hair and his beard.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="McEWEN_OF_THE_SHINING_SLAVE_MAKERS">McEWEN OF THE SHINING SLAVE MAKERS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a hot day in August. The parching rays of a summer sun had faded -the once sappy green leaves of the trees to a dull and dusty hue. The -grass, still good to look upon in shady places, spread sere and dry -where the light had fallen unbroken. The roads were hot with thick -dust, and wherever a stone path led, it reflected heat to weary body -and soul.</p> - -<p>Robert McEwen had taken a seat under a fine old beech tree whose broad -arms cast a welcome shade. He had come here out of the toil of the busy -streets.</p> - -<p>For a time he gave himself over to blank contemplation of the broad -park and the occasional carriages that jingled by. Presently his -meditation was broken by an ant on his trousers, which he flipped away -with his finger. This awoke him to the thought that there might be more -upon him. He stood up, shaking and brushing himself. Then he noticed an -ant running along the walk in front of him. He stamped on it.</p> - -<p>“I guess that will do for you,” he said, half aloud, and sat down again.</p> - -<p>Now only did he really notice the walk. It was wide and hard and hot. -Many ants were hurrying about, and now he saw that they were black. At -last, one more active than the others fixed his eye. He followed it -with his glance for more than a score of feet.</p> - -<p>This particular ant was progressing urgently, now to the right, now to -the left, stopping here and there,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> but never for more than a second. -Its energy, the zig-zag course it pursued, the frequency with which it -halted to examine something, enlisted his interest. As he gazed, the -path grew in imagination until it assumed immense proportions.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he bestirred himself, took a single glance and then jumped, -rubbing his eyes. He was in an unknown world, strange in every detail. -The branched and many-limbed trees had disappeared. A forest of immense -flat swords of green swayed in the air above him. The ground between -lacked its carpet of green and was roughly strewn with immense boulders -of clay. The air was strong with an odor which seemed strange and yet -familiar. Only the hot sun streaming down and a sky of faultless blue -betokened a familiar world. In regard to himself McEwen felt peculiar -and yet familiar. What was it that made these surroundings and himself -seem odd and yet usual? He could not tell. His three pairs of limbs -and his vigorous mandibles seemed natural enough. The fact that he -sensed rather than saw things was natural and yet odd. Forthwith moved -by a sense of duty, necessity, and a kind of tribal obligation which -he more felt than understood, he set out in search of food and prey -and presently came to a broad plain, so wide that his eye could scarce -command more than what seemed an immediate portion of it. He halted and -breathed with a feeling of relief. Just then a voice startled him.</p> - -<p>“Anything to eat hereabout?” questioned the newcomer in a friendly and -yet self-interested tone.</p> - -<p>McEwen drew back.</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” he said, “I have just——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span></p> - -<p>“Terrible,” said the stranger, not waiting to hear his answer. “It -looks like famine. You know the Sanguineæ have gone to war.”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered McEwen mechanically.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the other, “they raided the Fuscæ yesterday. They’ll be -down on us next.”</p> - -<p>With that the stranger made off. McEwen was about to exclaim at the use -of the word <em>us</em> when a ravenous craving for food, brought now -forcibly to his mind by the words of the other, made him start in haste -after him.</p> - -<p>Then came another who bespoke him in passing.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t found a thing to-day, and I’ve been all the way to the -Pratensis region. I didn’t dare go any further without having some -others with me. They’re hungry, too, up there, though they’ve just made -a raid. You heard the Sanguineæ went to war, didn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he told me,” said McEwen, indicating the retreating figure of the -stranger.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ermi. Yes, he’s been over in their territory. Well, I’ll be going -now.”</p> - -<p>McEwen hastened after Ermi at a good pace, and soon overtook him. The -latter had stopped and was gathering in his mandibles a jagged crumb, -almost as large as himself.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” exclaimed McEwen eagerly, “where did you get that?”</p> - -<p>“Here,” said Ermi.</p> - -<p>“Will you give me a little?”</p> - -<p>“I will not,” said the other, and a light came in his eye that was -almost evil.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said McEwen, made bold by hunger<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> and yet cautious by -danger, “which way would you advise me to look?”</p> - -<p>“Wherever you please,” said Ermi, “why ask me? You are not new at -seeking,” and strode off.</p> - -<p>“The forest was better than this,” thought McEwen; “there I would not -die of the heat, anyhow, and I might find food. Here is nothing,” and -he turned and glanced about for a sight of the jungle whence he had -come.</p> - -<p>Far to the left and rear of him he saw it, those great up-standing -swords. As he gazed, revolving in his troubled mind whether he should -return or not, he saw another like himself hurrying toward him out of -the distance.</p> - -<p>He eagerly hailed the newcomer, who was yet a long way off.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked the other, coming up rapidly.</p> - -<p>“Do you know where I can get something to eat?”</p> - -<p>“Is that why you called me?” he answered, eyeing him angrily. “Do you -ask in time of famine? Certainly not. If I had anything for myself, -I would not be out here. Go and hunt for it like the rest of us. Why -should you be asking?”</p> - -<p>“I have been hunting,” cried McEwen, his anger rising. “I have searched -here until I am almost starved.”</p> - -<p>“No worse off than any of us, are you?” said the other. “Look at me. Do -you suppose I am feasting?”</p> - -<p>He went off in high dudgeon, and McEwen gazed after him in -astonishment. The indifference and sufficiency were at once surprising -and yet familiar. Later he found himself falling rapidly into helpless<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> -lassitude from both hunger and heat, when a voice, as of one in pain, -hailed him.</p> - -<p>“Ho!” it cried.</p> - -<p>“Hello!” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Come, come!” was the feeble reply.</p> - -<p>McEwen started forward at once. When he was still many times his own -length away he recognized the voice as that of his testy friend of a -little while before, but now sadly changed. He was stretched upon the -earth, working his mandibles feebly.</p> - -<p>“What is it?” asked McEwen solicitously. “What ails you? How did this -happen?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said the other. “I was passing along here when that -struck me,” indicating a huge boulder. “I am done for, though. You may -as well have this food now, since you are one of us. The tribe can use -what you do not eat,” he sighed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing of the sort,” said McEwen solicitously, the while he -viewed the crushed limbs and side of the sufferer. “You’ll be all -right. Why do you speak of death? Just tell me where to take you, or -whom to go for.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the other, “it would be no use. You see how it is. They -could do nothing for me. I did not want your aid. I merely wanted you -to have this food here. I shall not want it now.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that,” returned McEwen. “You mustn’t talk about dying. There -must be something I can do. Tell me. I don’t want your food.”</p> - -<p>“No, there isn’t anything you could do. There isn’t any cure, you know -that. Report, when you return, how I was killed. Just leave me now and -take that with you. They need it, if you do not.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span></p> - -<p>McEwen viewed him silently. This reference to a colony or tribe or home -seemed to clarify many things for him. He remembered now apparently the -long road he had come, the immense galleries of the colony to which he -belonged under the earth, the passages by which he had made his way -in and out, the powerful and revered ant mother, various larvæ to be -fed and eggs to be tended. To be sure. That was it. He was a part of -this immense colony or group. The heat must have affected his sensory -powers. He must gather food and return there—kill spiders, beetles, -grubs, and bring them back to help provision the colony. That was it. -Only there were so few to be found here, for some reason.</p> - -<p>The sufferer closed his eyes in evident pain, and trembled -convulsively. Then he fell back and died.</p> - -<p>McEwen gazed upon the now fast stiffening body, with all but -indifference, and wondered. The spectacle seemed so familiar as to be -all but commonplace. Apparently he had seen so many die that way. Had -he not, in times past, reported the deaths of hundreds?</p> - -<p>“Is he dead?” asked a voice at his side.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said McEwen, scarcely bringing himself out of his meditation -sufficiently to observe the newcomer.</p> - -<p>“Well, then, he will not need this, I guess,” said the other, and he -seized upon the huge lump with his mandibles, but McEwen was on the -alert and savage into the bargain, on the instant. He, too, gripped his -mandibles upon it.</p> - -<p>“I was called by him to have this, before he died,” he shouted “and I -propose to have it. Let go.”</p> - -<p>“That I will not,” said the other with great vigor and energy. “I’ll -have some of it, at least,” and, giving<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> a mighty wrench, which sent -both himself and McEwen sprawling, he tore off a goodly portion of it -and ran, gaining his feet so quickly that he was a good length off -before McEwen arose. The latter was too hungry, however, to linger -in useless rage, and now fell to and ate before any other should -disturb him. Then, feeling partially satisfied, he stretched himself -languorously and continued more at his leisure. After a time he shook -himself out of his torpor which had seized on him with his eating, and -made off for the distant jungle, in which direction, as he now felt, -lay the colony home.</p> - -<p>He was in one of the darkest and thickest portions of the route thither -when there was borne to him from afar the sound of feet in marching -time, and a murmuring as of distant voices. He stopped and listened. -Presently the sounds grew louder and more individual. He could now tell -that a great company was nearing him. The narrow path which he followed -was clear for some distance, and open to observation. Not knowing what -creatures he was about to meet, he stepped out of it into a thicket, -at one side and took up a position behind a great boulder. The tramp -of many feet was now so close as to bode contact and discovery, and he -saw, through the interstices of green stalks, a strange column filing -along the path he had left. They were no other than a company of red -warriors—slave makers like himself, only of a different species, the -fierce Sanguineæ that Ermi had spoken of as having gone to war.</p> - -<p>To war they certainly had been, and no doubt were going again. Nearly -every warrior carried with him some mark of plunder or of death. Many -bore in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> their mandibles dead bodies of the enemy or their larvæ -captured from a Fuscan colony. Others bore upon their legs the severed -heads of the poor blacks who had been slain in the defense of their -home, and whose jaws still clung to their foes, fixed in the rigor of -death. Still others dragged the bodies of their victims, and shouted as -they went, making the long, lonely path to ring with uncanny sounds as -they disappeared in the distance.</p> - -<p>McEwen came furtively out after a time and looked after them. He had -gotten far to the left of the warriors and somewhat to the front -of them, and was just about to leave the shadow of one clump of -bushes to hurry to a neighboring stone, when there filed out from -the very shelter upon which he had his eye fixed, the figure of one -whom he immediately recognized as Ermi. The latter seemed to await a -favorable opportunity when he should not be observed, and then started -running. McEwen followed. In the distance could be seen a group of the -Sanguineæ, who had evidently paused for something, moving about in -great excitement, in groups of two or three, gesticulating and talking. -Some of those not otherwise engaged displayed a sensibility of danger -or a lust of war by working their jaws and sawing at heavy stones with -their mandibles. Presently one gazed in the direction of Ermi, and -shouted to the others.</p> - -<p>Immediately four warriors set out in pursuit. McEwen hastened after -Ermi, to see what would become of him. Discreetly hidden himself, he -could do this with considerable equanimity. As he approached, he saw -Ermi moving backward and forward, endeavoring to close the entrance -to a cave in which he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> had now taken refuge. Apparently that warrior -had become aware that no time was to be lost, since he also could see -the pursuing Sanguineæ. With a swiftness born of daring and a keen -realization of danger, he arranged a large boulder at the very edge of -the portal as a key, and then others in such position that when the -first should topple in the others would follow. Then he crawled deftly -inside the portal, and pulling the keystone, toppled the whole mass in -after him.</p> - -<p>This was hardly done when the Sanguineæ were upon him. They were four -cruel, murderous fighters, deeply scarred. One, called by the others -Og, had a black’s head at his thigh. One of his temples bore a scar, -and the tip of his left antenna was broken. He was a keen old warrior, -however, and scented the prey at once.</p> - -<p>“Hi, you!” he shouted to the others. “Here’s the place.”</p> - -<p>Just then another drew near to the portal which Ermi had barricaded. -He looked at it closely, walked about several times, sounded with his -antennæ and then listened. There was no answer.</p> - -<p>“Hist!” he exclaimed to the others.</p> - -<p>Now they came up. They also looked, but so well had Ermi done his work -that they were puzzled.</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure,” said Og, “it looks to me more like an abandoned cave -than an entrance.”</p> - -<p>“Tear it open, anyway,” advocated Ponan, the second of the quartette, -speaking for the first time.</p> - -<p>“There may be no other exit.”</p> - -<p>“Aha!” cried Og, “Good! We will see anyhow.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> - -<p>“Come on!” yelled Maru, a third, seizing the largest boulder, -“Mandibles to!”</p> - -<p>“Out with him!” cried Om, jumping eagerly to work. “We will have him -out in a jiffy!”</p> - -<p>It was not an easy task, as the boulders were heavy and deep, but they -tore them out. Later they dragged forth Ermi, who, finding himself -captured, seized the head of Maru with his mandibles. Og, on the other -hand, seized one of Ermi’s legs in his powerful jaws. The others also -had taken hold. The antennæ of all were thrown back, and the entire -mass went pushing and shoving, turning and tumbling in a whirl.</p> - -<p>McEwen gazed, excited and sympathetic. At first he thought to avoid -it all, having a horror of death, but a moment later decided to come -to his friend’s rescue, a feeling of tribal relationship which was -overwhelming coming over him. Springing forward, he clambered upon the -back of Og, at whose neck he began to saw with his powerful teeth. -Og, realizing a new adversary, released his hold upon Ermi’s limb and -endeavored to shake off his new enemy. McEwen held tight, however. The -others, however, too excited to observe the newcomer, still struggled -to destroy Ermi. The latter had stuck steadily to his labor of killing -Maru, and now, when Og’s hold was loosened, he gave a powerful crush -and Maru breathed his last. This advantaged him little, however, for -both Ponan and Om were attacking his sides.</p> - -<p>“Take that!” shouted Om, throwing himself violently upon Ermi and -turning him over. “Saw off his head, Ponan.”</p> - -<p>Ponan released his hold and sprang for Ermi’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> head. There was a -kicking and crushing of jaws, and Ponan secured his grip.</p> - -<p>“Kill him!” yelled Om. “Come, Og! Come!”</p> - -<p>At this very moment Og’s severed head fell to the ground, and McEwen -leaping from his back, sprang to the aid of Ermi.</p> - -<p>“Come!” he shouted at Ponan, who was sawing at Ermi’s head. “It’s two -to two now,” and McEwen gave such a wrench to Ponan’s side that he -writhed in pain, and released his hold on Ermi.</p> - -<p>But recovering himself he leaped upon McEwen, and bore him down, -sprawling.</p> - -<p>The fight was now more desperate than ever. The combatants rolled and -tossed. McEwen’s right antenna was broken by his fall, and one of his -legs was injured. He could seem to get no hold upon his adversary, whom -he now felt to be working toward his neck.</p> - -<p>“Let go!” he yelled, gnashing at him with his mandibles, but Ponan only -tightened his murderous jaws.</p> - -<p>Better fortune was now with Ermi, however, who was a more experienced -fighter. Getting a grip upon Om’s body, he hurled him to the ground and -left him stunned and senseless.</p> - -<p>Seeing McEwen’s predicament, he now sprang to his aid. The latter was -being sadly worsted and but for the generous aid of Ermi, would have -been killed. The latter struck Ponan a terrific blow with his head and -having stunned him, dragged him off. The two, though much injured, now -seized upon the unfortunate Sanguinea and tore him in two, and would -have done as much for Om, had they not discovered that that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> bedraggled -warrior had recovered sufficiently to crawl away and hide.</p> - -<p>McEwen and Ermi now drew near to each other in warm admiration.</p> - -<p>“Come with me,” said Ermi. “They are all about here now and that coward -who escaped will have them upon us. There is a corridor into our home -from here, only I was not able to reach it before they caught me. Help -me barricade this entrance.”</p> - -<p>Together they built up the stones more effectually than before, and -then entered, toppling the mass in behind them. With considerable -labor, they built up another barricade below.</p> - -<p>“You watch a moment, now,” said Ermi to McEwen, and then hurried -down a long passage through which he soon returned bringing with him -a sentinel, who took up guard duty at the point where the fight had -occurred. “He will stay here and give the alarm in case another attack -is made,” he commented.</p> - -<p>“Come now,” he added, touching McEwen affectionately with his antennæ. -Leading the way, Ermi took him along a long winding corridor with -which, somehow, he seemed to be familiar, and through various secret -passages into the colony house.</p> - -<p>“You see,” he said to McEwen familiarly, as they went, “they could not -have gotten in here, even if they had killed me, without knowing the -way. Our passageways are too intricate. But it is as well to keep a -picket there, now that they are about. Where have you been? You do not -belong to our colony, do you?”</p> - -<p>McEwen related his experiences since their meeting in the desert, -without explaining where he came from.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> He knew that he was a member of -some other colony of this same tribe without being sure of which one. A -strange feeling of wandering confusion possessed him, as though he had -been injured in some way, somewhere, and was lost for the moment.</p> - -<p>“Well, you might as well stay with us, now,” said Ermi. “Are you -hungry?”</p> - -<p>“Very,” said McEwen.</p> - -<p>“Then we will eat at once.”</p> - -<p>McEwen now gazed upon a domed chamber of vast proportions, with which, -also, he seemed familiar, an old inhabitant of one such, no less. It -had several doors that opened out into galleries, and corridors leading -to other chambers and store rooms, a home for thousands.</p> - -<p>Many members of this allied family now hurried to meet them, all -genially enough.</p> - -<p>“You have had an encounter with them?” asked several at once.</p> - -<p>“Nothing to speak of,” said Ermi, who, fighter that he was, had also a -touch of vanity. “Look after my friend here, who has saved my life.”</p> - -<p>“Not I!” cried McEwen warmly.</p> - -<p>They could not explain, however, before they were seized by their -admirers and carried into a chamber where none of the din of -preparation penetrated, and where was a carpet of soft grass threads -upon which they might lie.</p> - -<p>Injured though they were, neither could endure lying still for long, -and were soon poking about, though unable to do anything. McEwen was -privileged to idle and listlessly watch an attack on one portal of -the cave which lasted an entire day, resulting in failure for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> the -invaders. It was a rather broken affair, the principal excitement -occurring about the barricaded portals and secret exits at the end of -the long corridors, where McEwen often found himself in the way. The -story of his prowess had been well told by Ermi, and he was a friend -and hero whom many served. A sort of ambulance service was established -which not only looked to the bringing in of the injured, but also to -the removal of the dead. A graveyard was prepared just outside one of -the secret entrances, far from the scene of the siege, and here the -dead were laid in orderly rows.</p> - -<p>The siege having ended temporarily the same day it began, the household -resumed its old order. Those who had remained within went forth for -forage. The care of the communal young, which had been somewhat -interrupted, was now resumed. Larvæ and <a id="chrysalis"></a>chrysalises, which had been left -almost unattended in the vast nurseries, were moved to and fro between -the rooms where the broken sunlight warmed, and the shadow gave them -rest.</p> - -<p>“There is war ahead,” said Ermi to McEwen one day not long after this. -“These Sanguineæ will never let us alone until we give them battle. We -shall have to stir up the whole race of Shining Slave Makers and fight -all the Sanguineæ before we have peace again.”</p> - -<p>“Good,” said McEwen. “I am ready.”</p> - -<p>“So am I,” answered Ermi, “but it is no light matter. They are our -ancient enemy and as powerful as we. If we meet again you will see war -that is war.”</p> - -<p>Not long after this McEwen and Ermi, foraging together, encountered a -Sanguinea, who fought with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> them and was slain. Numerous Lucidi, of -which tribe he found himself to be a member, left the community of a -morning to labor and were never heard of again. Encounters between -parties of both camps were frequent, and orderly living ceased.</p> - -<p>At last the entire community was in a ferment, and a council was -called. It was held in the main saloon of the formicary, a vast chamber -whose hollowed dome rose like the open sky above them. The queen of the -community was present, and all the chief warriors, including Ermi and -McEwen. Loud talking and fierce comment were indulged in to no point, -until Yumi, long a light in the councils of the Lucidi, spoke. He was -short and sharp of speech.</p> - -<p>“We must go to war,” he said. “Our old enemies will give us no peace. -Send couriers to all the colonies of the Shining Slave Makers. We will -meet the Red Slave Makers as we did before.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said an old Lucidi, who stood at McEwen’s side, “that was a great -battle. You don’t remember. You were too young. There were thousands -and thousands in that. I could not walk for the dead.”</p> - -<p>“Are we to have another such?” asked McEwen.</p> - -<p>“If the rest of us come. We are a great people. The Shining Slave -Makers are numberless.”</p> - -<p>Just then another voice spoke, and Ermi listened.</p> - -<p>“Let us send for them to come here. When the Sanguineæ again lay siege -let us pour out and destroy them. Let none escape.”</p> - -<p>“Let us first send couriers and hear what our people say,” broke in -Ermi loudly. “The Sanguineæ are a vast people also. We must have -numbers. It must be a decisive battle.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> - -<p>“Ay, ay,” answered many. “Send the couriers!”</p> - -<p>Forthwith messengers were dispatched to all parts, calling the hordes -of the Shining Slave Makers to war. In due course they returned, -bringing information that they were coming. Their colonies also had -been attacked. Later the warriors of the allied tribes began to put in -an appearance.</p> - -<p>It was a gathering of legions. The paths in the forests about resounded -with their halloos. With the arrival of the first cohorts of these -friendly colonies, there was a minor encounter with an irritant host of -the Sanguineæ foraging hereabout, who were driven back and destroyed. -Later there were many minor encounters and deaths before the hosts were -fully assembled, but the end was not yet. All knew that. The Sanguineæ -had fled, but not in cowardice. They would return.</p> - -<p>The one problem with this vast host, now that it was assembled, was -food. Eventually they expected to discover this in the sacked homes of -the Sanguineæ, but temporarily other provision must be made. The entire -region had to be scoured. Colonies of Fuscæ and Schauffusi living in -nearby territory were attacked and destroyed. Their storehouses were -ransacked and the contents distributed. Every form of life was attacked -and still there was not enough.</p> - -<p>Both McEwen and Ermi, now inseparable, joined in one of these raids. It -was upon a colony of Fuscæ, who had their home in a neighboring forest. -The company went singing on their way until within a short distance of -the colony, when they became silent.</p> - -<p>“Let us not lose track of one another,” said McEwen.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> - -<p>“No,” said Ermi, “but they are nothing. We will take all they possess -without a struggle. See them running.”</p> - -<p>As he said this, he motioned in the direction of several Fuscæ that -were fleeing toward their portals in terror. The Lucidi set up a shout, -and darted after, plunging into the open gates, striking and slaying -as they went. In a few minutes those first in came out again carrying -their booty. Others were singly engaged in fiercest battle with large -groups of the weaker Fuscæ. Only a few of the latter were inclined -to fight. They seemed for the most part dazed by their misfortunes. -Numbers hung from the topmost blades of the towering sword-trees, and -the broad, floor-like leaves of the massive weeds, about their caves -where they had taken refuge, holding in their jaws baby larvæ and -cocoons rescued from the invaders, with which they had hurriedly fled -to these nearest elevated objects.</p> - -<p>Singly, McEwen pursued a dozen, and reveled in the sport of killing -them. He tumbled them with rushes of his body, crushed them with his -mandibles, and poisoned them with his formic sting.</p> - -<p>“Do you need help?” called Ermi once, who was always near and shouting.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” called McEwen scornfully, “bring me more of them.”</p> - -<p>Soon the deadly work was over and the two comrades, gathering a mass of -food, joined the returning band, singing as they went.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow,” said Ermi, as they went along, “we will meet the -Sanguineæ. It is agreed. The leaders are conferring now.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> - -<p>McEwen did not learn where these latter were, but somehow he was -pleased. An insane lust of combat was now upon him.</p> - -<p>“They will not be four to two this time,” he laughed exultingly.</p> - -<p>“No, and we will not be barricading against them, either,” laughed -Ermi, the lust of war simmering in his veins.</p> - -<p>As they came near their camp, however, they found a large number of -the assembled companies already in motion. Thousands upon thousands of -those who had arrived were already assembled in one group or another -and were prepared for action. There were cries and sounds of fighting, -and long lines of Lucidi hurrying hither and thither.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter?” asked Ermi excitedly.</p> - -<p>“The Sanguineæ,” was the answer. “They are returning.”</p> - -<p>Instantly McEwen became sober. Ermi turned to him affectionately.</p> - -<p>“Now,” he said solemnly, “courage. We’re in for it.”</p> - -<p>A tremendous hubbub followed. Already vast legions of the Lucidi were -bearing away to the east. McEwen and Ermi, not being able to find their -own, fell in with a strange company.</p> - -<p>“Order!” shouted a voice in their ears. “Fall in line. We are called.”</p> - -<p>The twain mechanically obeyed, and dropped behind a regular line. Soon -they were winding along with other long lines of warriors through the -tall sword trees, and in a little while reached a huge, smooth, open -plain where already the actual fighting had begun.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> Thousands were -here, apparently hundreds of thousands. There was little order, and -scarcely any was needed apparently, since all contacts were individual -or between small groups. It all depended now on numbers, and the -results of the contests between individuals, or at the most, these -small groups. Ermi, McEwen, and several other Lucidi were about to -seize upon one Sanguinea, who was approaching them, when an amazing -rush of the latter broke them, and McEwen found himself separated from -Ermi with a red demon snapping at his throat. Dazed by the shock and -clamor, he almost fell a prey to this first charge. A moment later, -however, his courage and daring returned. With a furious bound, he -recovered himself and forced himself upon his adversary, snapping his -<a id="jaws"></a>neck in his jaws.</p> - -<p>“Take that!” he said to the tumbling carcass.</p> - -<p>He had no sooner ended one foe, however, than another clutched him. -They were on every hand, hard, merciless fighters like himself and Ermi -who rushed and tore and sawed with amazing force. McEwen faced his -newest adversary swiftly. While the latter was seeking for McEwen’s -head and antennæ with his mandibles, the former with a quick snap -seized his foe by the neck. Turning up his abdomen, he ejected formic -acid into the throat of the other. That finished him.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the battle continued on every hand with the same mad -vehemence. Already the dead clogged the ground. Here, single combatants -struggled—there, whole lines moved and swayed in deadly combat. Ever -and anon new lines were formed, and strange hosts of friends or enemies -came up, falling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> upon the combatants of both sides with murderous -enthusiasm. McEwen, in a strange daze and lust of death, seemed to -think nothing of it. He was alone now—lost in a tossing sea of war, -and terror seemed to have forsaken him. It was wonderful, he thought, -mysterious——</p> - -<p>As enemy after enemy assailed him, he fought them as he best knew, an -old method to him, apparently, and as they died, he wished them to -die—broken, poisoned, sawed in two. He began to count and exult in the -numbers he had slain. It was at last as though he were dreaming, and -all around was a vain, dark, surging mass of enemies.</p> - -<p>Finally, four of the Sanguineæ seized upon him in a group, and he -went down before them, almost helpless. Swiftly they tore at his head -and body, endeavoring to dispose of him quickly. One seized a leg, -another an antenna. A third jumped and sawed at his neck. Still he -did not care. It was all war, and he would struggle to the last shred -of his strength, eagerly, enthusiastically. At last he seemed to lose -consciousness.</p> - -<p>When he opened his eyes again, Ermi was beside him.</p> - -<p>“Well?” said Ermi.</p> - -<p>“Well?” answered McEwen.</p> - -<p>“You were about done for, then.”</p> - -<p>“Was I?” he answered. “How are things going?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell yet,” said Ermi. “All I know is that you were faring -badly when I came up. Two of them were dead, but the other two were -killing you.”</p> - -<p>“You should have left me to them,” said McEwen,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> noticing now for the -first time Ermi’s wounds. “It does not matter so much—one Lucidi more -or less—what of it? But you have been injured.”</p> - -<p>“I—oh, nothing. You are the one to complain. I fear you are badly -injured.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I,” returned McEwen heavily, feeling at last the weight of death -upon him, “I am done for. I cannot live. I felt myself dying some time -ago.”</p> - -<p>He closed his eyes and trembled. In another moment——</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McEwen opened his eyes. Strangely enough he was looking out upon -jingling carriages and loitering passersby in the great city park. It -was all so strange, by comparison with that which he had so recently -seen, the tall buildings in the distance, instead of the sword trees, -the trees, the flowers. He jumped to his feet in astonishment, then -sank back again in equal amaze, a passerby eyeing him curiously the -while.</p> - -<p>“I have been asleep,” he said in a troubled way. “I have been dreaming. -And what a dream!”</p> - -<p>He shut his eyes again, wishing, for some strange reason—charm, -sympathy, strangeness—to regain the lost scene. An odd longing filled -his heart, a sense of comradeship lost, of some friend he knew missing. -When he opened his eyes again he seemed to realize something more of -what had been happening, but it was fading, fading.</p> - -<p>At his feet lay the plain and the ants with whom he had recently -been—or so he thought. Yes, there, only a few feet away in the parched -grass, was an arid spot, over-run with insects. He gazed upon it, in -amazement, searching for the details of a lost world. Now,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> as he -saw, coming closer, a giant battle was in progress, such a one, for -instance, as that in which he had been engaged in his dream. The ground -was strewn with dead ants. Thousands upon thousands were sawing and -striking at each other quite in the manner in which he had dreamed. -What was this?—a revelation of the spirit and significance of a lesser -life or of his own—or what? And what was life if the strange passions, -moods and necessities which conditioned him here could condition those -there on so minute a plane?</p> - -<p>“Why, I was there,” he said dazedly and a little dreamfully, “a little -while ago. I died there—or as well as died there—in my dream. At -least I woke out of it into this or sank from that into this.”</p> - -<p>Stooping closer he could see where lines were drawn, how in places the -forces raged in confusion, and the field was cluttered with the dead. -At one moment an odd mad enthusiasm such as he had experienced in his -dream-world lay hold of him, and he looked for the advantage of the -Shining Slave Makers—the blacks—as he thought of the two warring -hosts as against the reds. But finding it not, the mood passed, and he -stood gazing, lost in wonder. What a strange world! he thought. What -worlds within worlds, all apparently full of necessity, contention, -binding emotions and unities—and all with sorrow, their sorrow—a -vague, sad something out of far-off things which had been there, and -was here in this strong bright city day, had been there and would be -here until this odd, strange thing called <em>life</em> had ended.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="NIGGER_JEFF">NIGGER JEFF</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">The</span> city editor was waiting for one of his best reporters, Elmer Davies -by name, a vain and rather self-sufficient youth who was inclined to -be of that turn of mind which sees in life only a fixed and ordered -process of rewards and punishments. If one did not do exactly right, -one did not get along well. On the contrary, if one did, one did. -Only the so-called evil were really punished, only the good truly -rewarded—or <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Davies had heard this so long in his youth that he had -come nearly to believe it. Presently he appeared. He was dressed in -a new spring suit, a new hat and new shoes. In the lapel of his coat -was a small bunch of violets. It was one o’clock of a sunny spring -afternoon, and he was feeling exceedingly well and good-natured—quite -fit, indeed. The world was going unusually well with him. It seemed -worth singing about.</p> - -<p>“Read that, Davies,” said the city editor, handing him the clipping. -“I’ll tell you afterward what I want you to do.”</p> - -<p>The reporter stood by the editorial chair and read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="right"> -Pleasant Valley, Ko., April 16.<br /> -</p> - -<p>“A most dastardly crime has just been reported here. Jeff Ingalls, -a negro, this morning assaulted Ada Whitaker, the nineteen-year-old -daughter of Morgan Whitaker, a well-to-do farmer, whose home<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> is four -miles south of this place. A posse, headed by Sheriff Mathews, has -started in pursuit. If he is caught, it is thought he will be lynched.”</p> -</div> - -<p>The reporter raised his eyes as he finished. What a terrible crime! -What evil people there were in the world! No doubt such a creature -ought to be lynched, and that quickly.</p> - -<p>“You had better go out there, Davies,” said the city editor. “It looks -as if something might come of that. A lynching up here would be a big -thing. There’s never been one in this state.”</p> - -<p>Davies smiled. He was always pleased to be sent out of town. It was a -mark of appreciation. The city editor rarely sent any of the other men -on these big stories. What a nice ride he would have!</p> - -<p>As he went along, however, a few minutes later he began to meditate -on this. Perhaps, as the city editor had suggested, he might be -compelled to witness an actual lynching. That was by no means so -pleasant in itself. In his fixed code of rewards and punishments he -had no particular place for lynchings, even for crimes of the nature -described, especially if he had to witness the lynching. It was too -horrible a kind of reward or punishment. Once, in line of duty, -he had been compelled to witness a hanging, and that had made him -sick—deathly so—even though carried out as a part of the due process -of law of his day and place. Now, as he looked at this fine day and -his excellent clothes, he was not so sure that this was a worthwhile -assignment. Why should he always be selected for such things—just -because he could write? There were others—lots of men on the staff. -He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> began to hope as he went along that nothing really serious would -come of it, that they would catch the man before he got there and put -him in jail—or, if the worst had to be—painful thought!—that it -would be all over by the time he got there. Let’s see—the telegram -had been filed at nine a.m. It was now one-thirty and would be three -by the time he got out there, all of that. That would give them time -enough, and then, if all were well, or ill, as it were, he could just -gather the details of the crime and the—aftermath—and return. The -mere thought of an approaching lynching troubled him greatly, and the -farther he went the less he liked it.</p> - -<p>He found the village of Pleasant Valley a very small affair indeed, -just a few dozen houses nestling between green slopes of low hills, -with one small business corner and a rambling array of lanes. One -or two merchants of K——, the city from which he had just arrived, -lived out here, but otherwise it was very rural. He took notes of the -whiteness of the little houses, the shimmering beauty of the small -stream one had to cross in going from the depot. At the one main corner -a few men were gathered about a typical village barroom. Davies headed -for this as being the most likely source of information.</p> - -<p>In mingling with this company at first he said nothing about his being -a newspaper man, being very doubtful as to its effect upon them, their -freedom of speech and manner.</p> - -<p>The whole company was apparently tense with interest in the crime which -still remained unpunished, seemingly craving excitement and desirous of -seeing something done about it. No such opportunity to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> work up wrath -and vent their stored-up animal propensities had probably occurred here -in years. He took this occasion to inquire into the exact details of -the attack, where it had occurred, where the Whitakers lived. Then, -seeing that mere talk prevailed here, he went away thinking that he had -best find out for himself how the victim was. As yet she had not been -described, and it was necessary to know a little something about her. -Accordingly, he sought an old man who kept a stable in the village, -and procured a horse. No carriage was to be had. Davies was not an -excellent rider, but he made a shift of it. The Whitaker home was not -so very far away—about four miles out—and before long he was knocking -at its front door, set back a hundred feet from the rough country road.</p> - -<p>“I’m from the <i>Times</i>,” he said to the tall, rawboned woman who -opened the door, with an attempt at being impressive. His position as -reporter in this matter was a little dubious; he might be welcome, and -he might not. Then he asked if this were <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Whitaker, and how Miss -Whitaker was by now.</p> - -<p>“She’s doing very well,” answered the woman, who seemed decidedly -stern, if repressed and nervous, a Spartan type. “Won’t you come in? -She’s rather feverish, but the doctor says she’ll probably be all right -later on.” She said no more.</p> - -<p>Davies acknowledged the invitation by entering. He was very anxious to -see the girl, but she was sleeping under the influence of an opiate, -and he did not care to press the matter at once.</p> - -<p>“When did this happen?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“About eight o’clock this morning,” said the woman.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> “She started to go -over to our next door neighbor here, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Edmonds, and this negro met -her. We didn’t know anything about it until she came crying through the -gate and dropped down in here.”</p> - -<p>“Were you the first one to meet her?” asked Davies.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I was the only one,” said <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Whitaker. “The men had all gone to -the fields.”</p> - -<p>Davies listened to more of the details, the type and history of the -man, and then rose to go. Before doing so he was allowed to have a look -at the girl, who was still sleeping. She was young and rather pretty. -In the yard he met a country man who was just coming to get home news. -The latter imparted more information.</p> - -<p>“They’re lookin’ all around south of here,” he said, speaking of a -crowd which was supposed to be searching. “I expect they’ll make short -work of him if they get him. He can’t get away very well, for he’s -on foot, wherever he is. The sheriff’s after him too, with a deputy -or two, I believe. He’ll be tryin’ to save him an’ take him over to -Clayton, but I don’t believe he’ll be able to do it, not if the crowd -catches him first.”</p> - -<p>So, thought Davies, he would probably have to witness a lynching after -all. The prospect was most unhappy.</p> - -<p>“Does any one know where this negro lived?” he asked heavily, a growing -sense of his duty weighing upon him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, right down here a little way,” replied the farmer. “Jeff Ingalls -was his name. We all know him around here. He worked for one and -another of the farmers hereabouts, and don’t appear to have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> had such a -bad record, either, except for drinkin’ a little now and then. Miss Ada -recognized him, all right. You follow this road to the next crossing -and turn to the right. It’s a little log house that sets back off the -road—something like that one you see down the lane there, only it’s -got lots o’ chips scattered about.”</p> - -<p>Davies decided to go there first, but changed his mind. It was growing -late, and he thought he had better return to the village. Perhaps by -now developments in connection with the sheriff or the posse were to be -learned.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, he rode back and put the horse in the hands of its owner, -hoping that all had been concluded and that he might learn of it here. -At the principal corner much the same company was still present, -arguing, fomenting, gesticulating. They seemed parts of different -companies that earlier in the day had been out searching. He wondered -what they had been doing since, and then decided to ingratiate himself -by telling them he had just come from the Whitakers and what he had -learned there of the present condition of the girl and the movements of -the sheriff.</p> - -<p>Just then a young farmer came galloping up. He was coatless, hatless, -breathless.</p> - -<p>“They’ve got him!” he shouted excitedly. “They’ve got him!”</p> - -<p>A chorus of “whos,” “wheres” and “whens” greeted this information as -the crowd gathered about the rider.</p> - -<p>“Why, Mathews caught him up here at his own house!” exclaimed the -latter, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his face. “He must ’a’ -gone back there for something. Mathews’s takin’ him over to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> Clayton, -so they think, but they don’t project he’ll ever get there. They’re -after him now, but Mathews says he’ll shoot the first man that tries to -take him away.”</p> - -<p>“Which way’d he go?” exclaimed the men in chorus, stirring as if to -make an attack.</p> - -<p>“’Cross Sellers’ Lane,” said the rider. “The boys think he’s goin’ by -way of Baldwin.”</p> - -<p>“Whoopee!” yelled one of the listeners. “We’ll get him away from him, -all right! Are you goin’, Sam?”</p> - -<p>“You bet!” said the latter. “Wait’ll I get my horse!”</p> - -<p>“Lord!” thought Davies. “To think of being (perforce) one of a lynching -party—a hired spectator!”</p> - -<p>He delayed no longer, however, but hastened to secure his horse again. -He saw that the crowd would be off in a minute to catch up with the -sheriff. There would be information in that quarter, drama very likely.</p> - -<p>“What’s doin’?” inquired the liveryman as he noted Davies’ excited -appearance.</p> - -<p>“They’re after him,” replied the latter nervously. “The sheriff’s -caught him. They’re going now to try to take him away from him, or -that’s what they say. The sheriff is taking him over to Clayton, by way -of Baldwin. I want to get over there if I can. Give me the horse again, -and I’ll give you a couple of dollars more.”</p> - -<p>The liveryman led the horse out, but not without many provisionary -cautions as to the care which was to be taken of him, the damages which -would ensue if it were not. He was not to be ridden beyond midnight.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> -If one were wanted for longer than that Davies must get him elsewhere -or come and get another, to all of which Davies promptly agreed. He -then mounted and rode away.</p> - -<p>When he reached the corner again several of the men who had gone for -their horses were already there, ready to start. The young man who had -brought the news had long since dashed off to other parts.</p> - -<p>Davies waited to see which road this new company would take. Then -through as pleasant a country as one would wish to see, up hill and -down dale, with charming vistas breaking upon the gaze at every turn, -he did the riding of his life. So disturbed was the reporter by the -grim turn things had taken that he scarcely noted the beauty that was -stretched before him, save to note that it was so. Death! Death! The -proximity of involuntary and enforced death was what weighed upon him -now.</p> - -<p>In about an hour the company had come in sight of the sheriff, who, -with two other men, was driving a wagon he had borrowed along a lone -country road. The latter was sitting at the back, a revolver in each -hand, his face toward the group, which at sight of him trailed after -at a respectful distance. Excited as every one was, there was no -disposition, for the time being at least, to halt the progress of the -law.</p> - -<p>“He’s in that wagon,” Davies heard one man say. “Don’t you see they’ve -got him in there tied and laid down?”</p> - -<p>Davies looked.</p> - -<p>“That’s right,” said another. “I see him now.”</p> - -<p>“What we ought to do,” said a third, who was riding near the front, -“is to take him away and hang<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> him. That’s just what he deserves, and -that’s what he’ll get before we’re through to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Yes!” called the sheriff, who seemed to have heard this. “You’re not -goin’ to do any hangin’ this day, so you just might as well go on -back.” He did not appear to be much troubled by the appearance of the -crowd.</p> - -<p>“Where’s old man Whitaker?” asked one of the men who seemed to feel -that they needed a leader. “He’d get him quick enough!”</p> - -<p>“He’s with the other crowd, down below Olney,” was the reply.</p> - -<p>“Somebody ought to go an’ tell him.”</p> - -<p>“Clark’s gone,” assured another, who hoped for the worst.</p> - -<p>Davies rode among the company a prey to mingled and singular feelings. -He was very much excited and yet depressed by the character of the -crowd which, in so far as he could see, was largely impelled to its -jaunt by curiosity and yet also able under sufficient motivation on -the part of some one—any one, really—to kill too. There was not so -much daring as a desire to gain daring from others, an unconscious wish -or impulse to organize the total strength or will of those present -into one strength or one will, sufficient to overcome the sheriff and -inflict death upon his charge. It was strange—almost intellectually -incomprehensible—and yet so it was. The men were plainly afraid of the -determined sheriff. They thought something ought to be done, but they -did not feel like getting into trouble.</p> - -<p>Mathews, a large solemn, sage, brown man in worn clothes and a faded -brown hat, contemplated the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> recent addition to his trailers with -apparent indifference. Seemingly he was determined to protect his man -and avoid mob justice, come what may. A mob should not have him if he -had to shoot, and if he shot it would be to kill. Finally, since the -company thus added to did not dash upon him, he seemingly decided to -scare them off. Apparently he thought he could do this, since they -trailed like calves.</p> - -<p>“Stop a minute!” he called to his driver.</p> - -<p>The latter pulled up. So did the crowd behind. Then the sheriff stood -over the prostrate body of the negro, who lay in the jolting wagon -beneath him, and called back:</p> - -<p>“Go ’way from here, you people! Go on, now! I won’t have you follerin’ -after me!”</p> - -<p>“Give us the nigger!” yelled one in a half-bantering, half-derisive -tone of voice.</p> - -<p>“I’ll give ye just two minutes to go on back out o’ this road,” -returned the sheriff grimly, pulling out his watch and looking at it. -They were about a hundred feet apart. “If you don’t, I’ll clear you -out!”</p> - -<p>“Give us the nigger!”</p> - -<p>“I know you, Scott,” answered Mathews, recognizing the voice. “I’ll -arrest every last one of ye to-morrow. Mark my word!”</p> - -<p>The company listened in silence, the horses champing and twisting.</p> - -<p>“We’ve got a right to foller,” answered one of the men.</p> - -<p>“I give ye fair warning,” said the sheriff, jumping from his wagon and -leveling his pistols as he approached. “When I count five I’ll begin to -shoot!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> - -<p>He was a serious and stalwart figure as he approached, and the crowd -fell back a little.</p> - -<p>“Git out o’ this now!” he yelled. “One—Two——”</p> - -<p>The company turned completely and retreated, Davies among them.</p> - -<p>“We’ll foller him when he gits further on,” said one of the men in -explanation.</p> - -<p>“He’s got to do it,” said another. “Let him git a little ways ahead.”</p> - -<p>The sheriff returned to his wagon and drove on. He seemed, however, to -realize that he would not be obeyed and that safety lay in haste alone. -His wagon was traveling fast. If only he could lose them or get a good -start he might possibly get to Clayton and the strong county jail by -morning. His followers, however, trailed him swiftly as might be, -determined not to be left behind.</p> - -<p>“He’s goin’ to Baldwin,” said one of the company of which Davies was a -member.</p> - -<p>“Where’s that?” asked Davies.</p> - -<p>“Over west o’ here, about four miles.”</p> - -<p>“Why is he going there?”</p> - -<p>“That’s where he lives. I guess he thinks if he kin git ’im over there -he kin purtect ’im till he kin git more help from Clayton. I cal’late -he’ll try an’ take ’im over yet to-night, or early in the mornin’ -shore.”</p> - -<p>Davies smiled at the man’s English. This countryside lingo always -fascinated him.</p> - -<p>Yet the men lagged, hesitating as to what to do. They did not want to -lose sight of Matthews, and yet cowardice controlled them. They did -not want to get into direct altercation with the law. It wasn’t their -place to hang the man, although plainly they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> felt that he ought to be -hanged, and that it would be a stirring and exciting thing if he were. -Consequently they desired to watch and be on hand—to get old Whitaker -and his son Jake, if they could, who were out looking elsewhere. They -wanted to see what the father and brother would do.</p> - -<p>The quandary was solved by one of the men, who suggested that they -could get to Baldwin by going back to Pleasant Valley and taking the -Sand River pike, and that in the meantime they might come upon Whitaker -and his son en route, or leave word at his house. It was a shorter cut -than this the sheriff was taking, although he would get there first -now. Possibly they could beat him at least to Clayton, if he attempted -to go on. The Clayton road was back via Pleasant Valley, or near it, -and easily intercepted. Therefore, while one or two remained to trail -the sheriff and give the alarm in case he did attempt to go on to -Clayton, the rest, followed by Davies, set off at a gallop to Pleasant -Valley. It was nearly dusk now when they arrived and stopped at the -corner store—supper time. The fires of evening meals were marked by -upcurling smoke from chimneys. Here, somehow, the zest to follow seemed -to depart. Evidently the sheriff had worsted them for the night. Morg -Whitaker, the father, had not been found; neither had Jake. Perhaps -they had better eat. Two or three had already secretly fallen away.</p> - -<p>They were telling the news of what had occurred so far to one of the -two storekeepers who kept the place, when suddenly Jake Whitaker, the -girl’s brother, and several companions came riding up. They had been -scouring the territory to the north of the town,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> and were hot and -tired. Plainly they were unaware of the developments of which the crowd -had been a part.</p> - -<p>“The sheriff’s got ’im!” exclaimed one of the company, with that -blatance which always accompanies the telling of great news in small -rural companies. “He taken him over to Baldwin in a wagon a coupla -hours ago.”</p> - -<p>“Which way did he go?” asked the son, whose hardy figure, worn, -hand-me-down clothes and rakish hat showed up picturesquely as he -turned here and there on his horse.</p> - -<p>“’Cross Sellers’ Lane. You won’t git ’em that-a-way, though, Jake. He’s -already over there by now. Better take the short cut.”</p> - -<p>A babble of voices now made the scene more interesting. One told how -the negro had been caught, another that the sheriff was defiant, a -third that men were still tracking him or over there watching, until -all the chief points of the drama had been spoken if not heard.</p> - -<p>Instantly suppers were forgotten. The whole customary order of the -evening was overturned once more. The company started off on another -excited jaunt, up hill and down dale, through the lovely country that -lay between Baldwin and Pleasant Valley.</p> - -<p>By now Davies was very weary of this procedure and of his saddle. He -wondered when, if ever, this story was to culminate, let alone he -write it. Tragic as it might prove, he could not nevertheless spend -an indefinite period trailing a possibility, and yet, so great was -the potentiality of the present situation, he dared not leave. By -contrast with the horror impending,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> as he now noted, the night was so -beautiful that it was all but poignant. Stars were already beginning -to shine. Distant lamps twinkled like yellow eyes from the cottages in -the valleys and on the hillsides. The air was fresh and tender. Some -peafowls were crying afar off, and the east promised a golden moon.</p> - -<p>Silently the assembled company trotted on—no more than a score in -all. In the dusk, and with Jake ahead, it seemed too grim a pilgrimage -for joking. Young Jake, riding silently toward the front, looked as -if tragedy were all he craved. His friends seemed considerately to -withdraw from him, seeing that he was the aggrieved.</p> - -<p>After an hour’s riding Baldwin came into view, lying in a sheltering -cup of low hills. Already its lights were twinkling softly and there -was still an air of honest firesides and cheery suppers about it which -appealed to Davies in his hungry state. Still, he had no thought now of -anything save this pursuit.</p> - -<p>Once in the village, the company was greeted by calls of recognition. -Everybody seemed to know what they had come for. The sheriff and his -charge were still there, so a dozen citizens volunteered. The local -storekeepers and loungers followed the cavalcade up the street to the -sheriff’s house, for the riders had now fallen into a solemn walk.</p> - -<p>“You won’t get him though, boys,” said one whom Davies later learned -was Seavey, the village postmaster and telegraph operator, a rather -youthful person of between twenty-five and thirty, as they passed his -door. “He’s got two deputies in there with him,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> or did have, and they -say he’s going to take him over to Clayton.”</p> - -<p>At the first street corner they were joined by the several men who had -followed the sheriff.</p> - -<p>“He tried to give us the slip,” they volunteered excitedly, “but he’s -got the nigger in the house, there, down in the cellar. The deputies -ain’t with him. They’ve gone somewhere for help—Clayton, maybe.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know?”</p> - -<p>“We saw ’em go out that back way. We think we did, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>A hundred feet from the sheriff’s little white cottage, which backed up -against a sloping field, the men parleyed. Then Jake announced that he -proposed to go boldly up to the sheriff’s door and demand the negro.</p> - -<p>“If he don’t turn him out I’ll break in the door an’ take him!” he said.</p> - -<p>“That’s right! We’ll stand by you, Whitaker,” commented several.</p> - -<p>By now the throng of unmounted natives had gathered. The whole village -was up and about, its one street alive and running with people. Heads -appeared at doors and windows. Riders pranced up and down, hallooing. A -few revolver shots were heard. Presently the mob gathered even closer -to the sheriff’s gate, and Jake stepped forward as leader. Instead, -however, of going boldly up to the door as at first it appeared he -would, he stopped at the gate, calling to the sheriff.</p> - -<p>“Hello, Mathews!”</p> - -<p>“Eh, eh, eh!” bellowed the crowd.</p> - -<p>The call was repeated. Still no answer. Apparently<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> to the sheriff -delay appeared to be his one best weapon.</p> - -<p>Their coming, however, was not as unexpected as some might have -thought. The figure of the sheriff was plainly to be seen close to -one of the front windows. He appeared to be holding a double-barreled -shotgun. The negro, as it developed later, was cowering and chattering -in the darkest corner of the cellar, hearkening no doubt to the voices -and firing of the revolvers outside.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, and just as Jake was about to go forward, the front door of -the house flew open, and in the glow of a single lamp inside appeared -first the double-barreled end of the gun, followed immediately by the -form of Mathews, who held the weapon poised ready for a quick throw to -the shoulder. All except Jake fell back.</p> - -<p>“<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Mathews,” he called deliberately, “we want that nigger!”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can’t git ’im!” replied the sheriff. “He’s not here.”</p> - -<p>“Then what you got that gun fer?” yelled a voice.</p> - -<p>Mathews made no answer.</p> - -<p>“Better give him up, Mathews,” called another, who was safe in the -crowd, “or we’ll come in an’ take him!”</p> - -<p>“No you won’t,” said the sheriff defiantly. “I said the man wasn’t -here. I say it ag’in. You couldn’t have him if he was, an’ you can’t -come in my house! Now if you people don’t want trouble you’d better go -on away.”</p> - -<p>“He’s down in the cellar!” yelled another.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you let us see?” asked another.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> - -<p>Mathews waved his gun slightly.</p> - -<p>“You’d better go away from here now,” cautioned the sheriff. “I’m -tellin’ ye! I’ll have warrants out for the lot o’ ye, if ye don’t mind!”</p> - -<p>The crowd continued to simmer and stew, while Jake stood as before. He -was very pale and tense, but lacked initiative.</p> - -<p>“He won’t shoot,” called some one at the back of the crowd. “Why don’t -you go in, Jake, an’ git him?”</p> - -<p>“Sure! Rush in. That’s it!” observed a second.</p> - -<p>“He won’t, eh?” replied the sheriff softly. Then he added in a -lower tone, “The first man that comes inside that gate takes the -consequences.”</p> - -<p>No one ventured inside the gate; many even fell back. It seemed as if -the planned assault had come to nothing.</p> - -<p>“Why not go around the back way?” called some one else.</p> - -<p>“Try it!” replied the sheriff. “See what you find on that side! I told -you you couldn’t come inside. You’d better go away from here now before -ye git into trouble,” he repeated. “You can’t come in, an’ it’ll only -mean bloodshed.”</p> - -<p>There was more chattering and jesting while the sheriff stood on guard. -He, however, said no more. Nor did he allow the banter, turmoil and -lust for tragedy to disturb him. Only, he kept his eye on Jake, on -whose movements the crowd seemed to hang.</p> - -<p>Time passed, and still nothing was done. The truth was that young Jake, -put to the test, was not sufficiently courageous himself, for all his -daring, and felt the weakness of the crowd behind him. To all intents -and purposes he was alone, for he did not inspire confidence.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> He -finally fell back a little, observing, “I’ll git ’im before mornin’, -all right,” and now the crowd itself began to disperse, returning to -its stores and homes or standing about the postoffice and the one -village drugstore. Finally, Davies smiled and came away. He was sure he -had the story of a defeated mob. The sheriff was to be his great hero. -He proposed to interview him later. For the present, he meant to seek -out Seavey, the telegraph operator, and arrange to file a message, then -see if something to eat was not to be had somewhere.</p> - -<p>After a time he found the operator and told him what he wanted—to -write and file a story as he wrote it. The latter indicated a table -in the little postoffice and telegraph station which he could use. He -became very much interested in the reporter when he learned he was from -the <i>Times</i>, and when Davies asked where he could get something -to eat said he would run across the street and tell the proprietor of -the only boarding house to fix him something which he could consume as -he wrote. He appeared to be interested in how a newspaper man would go -about telling a story of this kind over a wire.</p> - -<p>“You start your story,” he said, “and I’ll come back and see if I can -get the <i>Times</i> on the wire.”</p> - -<p>Davies sat down and began his account. He was intent on describing -things to date, the uncertainty and turmoil, the apparent victory of -the sheriff. Plainly the courage of the latter had won, and it was all -so picturesque. “A foiled lynching,” he began, and as he wrote the -obliging postmaster, who had by now returned, picked up the pages and -carefully deciphered them for himself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> - -<p>“That’s all right. I’ll see if I can get the <i>Times</i> now,” he -commented.</p> - -<p>“Very obliging postmaster,” thought Davies as he wrote, but he had so -often encountered pleasant and obliging people on his rounds that he -soon dropped that thought.</p> - -<p>The food was brought, and still Davies wrote on, munching as he did so. -In a little while the <i>Times</i> answered an often-repeated call.</p> - -<p>“Davies at Baldwin,” ticked the postmaster, “get ready for quite a -story!”</p> - -<p>“Let ’er go!” answered the operator at the <i>Times</i>, who had been -expecting this dispatch.</p> - -<p>As the events of the day formulated themselves in his mind, Davies -wrote and turned over page after page. Between whiles he looked out -through the small window before him where afar off he could see a -lonely light twinkling against a hillside. Not infrequently he stopped -his work to see if anything new was happening, whether the situation -was in any danger of changing, but apparently it was not. He then -proposed to remain until all possibility of a tragedy, this night -anyhow, was eliminated. The operator also wandered about, waiting for -an accumulation of pages upon which he could work but making sure to -keep up with the writer. The two became quite friendly.</p> - -<p>Finally, his dispatch nearly finished, he asked the postmaster to -caution the night editor at K—— to the effect, that if anything more -happened before one in the morning he would file it, but not to expect -anything more as nothing might happen. The reply came<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> that he was to -remain and await developments. Then he and the postmaster sat down to -talk.</p> - -<p>About eleven o’clock, when both had about convinced themselves that -all was over for this night anyhow, and the lights in the village had -all but vanished, a stillness of the purest, summery-est, country-est -quality having settled down, a faint beating of hoofs, which seemed -to suggest the approach of a large cavalcade, could be heard out on -the Sand River pike as Davies by now had come to learn it was, back or -northwest of the postoffice. At the sound the postmaster got up, as did -Davies, both stepping outside and listening. On it came, and as the -volume increased, the former said, “Might be help for the sheriff, but -I doubt it. I telegraphed Clayton six times to-day. They wouldn’t come -that way, though. It’s the wrong road.” Now, thought Davies nervously, -after all there might be something to add to his story, and he had so -wished that it was all over! Lynchings, as he now felt, were horrible -things. He wished people wouldn’t do such things—take the law, which -now more than ever he respected, into their own hands. It was too -brutal, cruel. That negro cowering there in the dark probably, and the -sheriff all taut and tense, worrying over his charge and his duty, were -not happy things to contemplate in the face of such a thing as this. -It was true that the crime which had been committed was dreadful, but -still why couldn’t people allow the law to take its course? It was so -much better. The law was powerful enough to deal with cases of this -kind.</p> - -<p>“They’re comin’ back, all right,” said the postmaster solemnly, as he -and Davies stared in the direction of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> the sound which grew louder from -moment to moment.</p> - -<p>“It’s not any help from Clayton, I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>“By George, I think you’re right!” answered the reporter, something -telling him that more trouble was at hand. “Here they come!”</p> - -<p>As he spoke there was a clattering of hoofs and crunching of saddle -girths as a large company of men dashed up the road and turned into the -narrow street of the village, the figure of Jake Whitaker and an older -bearded man in a wide black hat riding side by side in front.</p> - -<p>“There’s Jake,” said the postmaster, “and that’s his father riding -beside him there. The old man’s a terror when he gets his dander up. -Sompin’s sure to happen now.”</p> - -<p>Davies realized that in his absence writing a new turn had been given -to things. Evidently the son had returned to Pleasant Valley and -organized a new posse or gone out to meet his father.</p> - -<p>Instantly the place was astir again. Lights appeared in doorways and -windows, and both were thrown open. People were leaning or gazing -out to see what new movement was afoot. Davies noted at once that -there was none of the brash enthusiasm about this company such as had -characterized the previous descent. There was grimness everywhere, and -he now began to feel that this was the beginning of the end. After the -cavalcade had passed down the street toward the sheriff’s house, which -was quite dark now, he ran after it, arriving a few moments after the -former which was already in part dismounted. The townspeople followed. -The sheriff, as it now developed, had not relaxed any of his vigilance, -however;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> he was not sleeping, and as the crowd reappeared the light -inside reappeared.</p> - -<p>By the light of the moon, which was almost overhead, Davies was able to -make out several of his companions of the afternoon, and Jake, the son. -There were many more, though, now, whom he did not know, and foremost -among them this old man.</p> - -<p>The latter was strong, iron-gray, and wore a full beard. He looked very -much like a blacksmith.</p> - -<p>“Keep your eye on the old man,” advised the postmaster, who had by now -come up and was standing by.</p> - -<p>While they were still looking, the old man went boldly forward to the -little front porch of the house and knocked at the door. Some one -lifted a curtain at the window and peeped out.</p> - -<p>“Hello, in there!” cried the old man, knocking again.</p> - -<p>“What do you want?” asked a voice.</p> - -<p>“I want that nigger!”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can’t have him! I’ve told you people that once.”</p> - -<p>“Bring him out or I’ll break down the door!” said the old man.</p> - -<p>“If you do it’s at your own risk. I know you, Whitaker, an’ you know -me. I’ll give ye two minutes to get off that porch!”</p> - -<p>“I want that nigger, I tell ye!”</p> - -<p>“If ye don’t git off that porch I’ll fire through the door,” said the -voice solemnly. “One—Two——”</p> - -<p>The old man backed cautiously away.</p> - -<p>“Come out, Mathews!” yelled the crowd. “You’ve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> got to give him up this -time. We ain’t goin’ back without him.”</p> - -<p>Slowly the door opened, as if the individual within were very well -satisfied as to his power to handle the mob. He had done it once before -this night, why not again? It revealed his tall form, armed with his -shotgun. He looked around very stolidly, and then addressed the old man -as one would a friend.</p> - -<p>“Ye can’t have him, Morgan,” he said. “It’s ag’in’ the law. You know -that as well as I do.”</p> - -<p>“Law or no law,” said the old man, “I want that nigger!”</p> - -<p>“I tell you I can’t let you have him, Morgan. It’s ag’in’ the law. You -know you oughtn’t to be comin’ around here at this time o’ night actin’ -so.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll take him then,” said the old man, making a move.</p> - -<p>“Stand back!” shouted the sheriff, leveling his gun on the instant. -“I’ll blow ye into kingdom come, sure as hell!”</p> - -<p>A noticeable movement on the part of the crowd ceased. The sheriff -lowered his weapon as if he thought the danger were once more over.</p> - -<p>“You-all ought to be ashamed of yerselves,” he went on, his voice -sinking to a gentle neighborly reproof, “tryin’ to upset the law this -way.”</p> - -<p>“The nigger didn’t upset no law, did he?” asked one derisively.</p> - -<p>“Well, the law’s goin’ to take care of the nigger now,” Mathews made -answer.</p> - -<p>“Give us that scoundrel, Mathews; you’d better do it,” said the old -man. “It’ll save a heap o’ trouble.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not argue with ye, Morgan. I said ye couldn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> have him, an’ ye -can’t. If ye want bloodshed, all right. But don’t blame me. I’ll kill -the first man that tries to make a move this way.”</p> - -<p>He shifted his gun handily and waited. The crowd stood outside his -little fence murmuring.</p> - -<p>Presently the old man retired and spoke to several others. There was -more murmuring, and then he came back to the dead line.</p> - -<p>“We don’t want to cause trouble, Mathews,” he began explanatively, -moving his hand oratorically, “but we think you ought to see that it -won’t do any good to stand out. We think that——”</p> - -<p>Davies and the postmaster were watching young Jake, whose peculiar -attitude attracted their attention. The latter was standing poised at -the edge of the crowd, evidently seeking to remain unobserved. His eyes -were on the sheriff, who was hearkening to the old man. Suddenly, as -the father talked and when the sheriff seemed for a moment mollified -and unsuspecting, he made a quick run for the porch. There was an -intense movement all along the line as the life and death of the deed -became apparent. Quickly the sheriff drew his gun to his shoulder. Both -triggers were pressed at the same time, and the gun spoke, but not -before Jake was in and under him. The latter had been in sufficient -time to knock the gun barrel upward and fall upon his man. Both shots -blazed harmlessly over the heads of the crowd in red puffs, and then -followed a general onslaught. Men leaped the fence by tens and crowded -upon the little cottage. They swarmed about every side of the house and -crowded upon the porch, where four men were scuffling with the sheriff. -The latter soon gave up, vowing vengeance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> and the law. Torches were -brought, and a rope. A wagon drove up and was backed into the yard. -Then began the calls for the negro.</p> - -<p>As Davies contemplated all this he could not help thinking of the negro -who during all this turmoil must have been crouching in his corner in -the cellar, trembling for his fate. Now indeed he must realize that his -end was near. He could not have dozed or lost consciousness during the -intervening hours, but must have been cowering there, wondering and -praying. All the while he must have been terrified lest the sheriff -might not get him away in time. Now, at the sound of horses’ feet and -the new murmurs of contention, how must his body quake and his teeth -chatter!</p> - -<p>“I’d hate to be that nigger,” commented the postmaster grimly, “but you -can’t do anything with ’em. The county oughta sent help.”</p> - -<p>“It’s horrible, horrible!” was all Davies could say.</p> - -<p>He moved closer to the house, with the crowd, eager to observe every -detail of the procedure. Now it was that a number of the men, as eager -in their search as bloodhounds, appeared at a low cellar entryway at -the side of the house carrying a rope. Others followed with torches. -Headed by father and son they began to descend into the dark hole. With -impressive daring, Davies, who was by no means sure that he would be -allowed but who was also determined if possible to see, followed.</p> - -<p>Suddenly, in the farthest corner, he espied Ingalls. The latter in his -fear and agony had worked himself into a crouching position, as if he -were about to spring.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> His nails were apparently forced into the earth. -His eyes were rolling, his mouth foaming.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my Lawd, boss,” he moaned, gazing almost as one blind, at the -lights, “oh, my Lawd, boss, don’t kill me! I won’t do it no mo’. I -didn’t go to do it. I didn’t mean to dis time. I was just drunk, -boss. Oh, my Lawd! My Lawd!” His teeth chattered the while his mouth -seemed to gape open. He was no longer sane really, but kept repeating -monotonously, “Oh, my Lawd!”</p> - -<p>“Here he is, boys! Pull him out,” cried the father.</p> - -<p>The negro now gave one yell of terror and collapsed, falling prone. He -quite bounded as he did so, coming down with a dead chug on the earthen -floor. Reason had forsaken him. He was by now a groveling, foaming -brute. The last gleam of intelligence was that which notified him of -the set eyes of his pursuers.</p> - -<p>Davies, who by now had retreated to the grass outside before this -sight, was standing but ten feet back when they began to reappear after -seizing and binding him. Although shaken to the roots of his being, he -still had all the cool observing powers of the trained and relentless -reporter. Even now he noted the color values of the scene, the red, -smoky heads of the torches, the disheveled appearance of the men, the -scuffling and pulling. Then all at once he clapped his hands over his -mouth, almost unconscious of what he was doing.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my God!” he whispered, his voice losing power.</p> - -<p>The sickening sight was that of the negro, foaming at the mouth, -bloodshot as to his eyes, his hands working<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> convulsively, being -dragged up the cellar steps feet foremost. They had tied a rope about -his waist and feet, and so had hauled him out, leaving his head to hang -and drag. The black face was distorted beyond all human semblance.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my God!” said Davies again, biting his fingers unconsciously.</p> - -<p>The crowd gathered about now more closely than ever, more -horror-stricken than gleeful at their own work. None apparently had -either the courage or the charity to gainsay what was being done. -With a kind of mechanical deftness now the negro was rudely lifted -and like a sack of wheat thrown into the wagon. Father and son now -mounted in front to drive and the crowd took to their horses, content -to clatter, a silent cavalcade, behind. As Davies afterwards concluded, -they were not so much hardened lynchers perhaps as curious spectators, -the majority of them, eager for any variation—any excuse for one—to -the dreary commonplaces of their existences. The task to most—all -indeed—was entirely new. Wide-eyed and nerve-racked, Davies ran for -his own horse and mounting followed. He was so excited he scarcely knew -what he was doing.</p> - -<p>Slowly the silent company now took its way up the Sand River pike -whence it had come. The moon was still high, pouring down a wash of -silvery light. As Davies rode he wondered how he was to complete his -telegram, but decided that he could not. When this was over there would -be no time. How long would it be before they would really hang him? And -would they? The whole procedure seemed so unreal, so barbaric<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> that he -could scarcely believe it—that he was a part of it. Still they rode on.</p> - -<p>“Are they really going to hang him?” he asked of one who rode beside -him, a total stranger who seemed however not to resent his presence.</p> - -<p>“That’s what they got ’im fer,” answered the stranger.</p> - -<p>And think, he thought to himself, to-morrow night he would be resting -in his own good bed back in K——!</p> - -<p>Davies dropped behind again and into silence and tried to recover -his nerves. He could scarcely realize that he, ordinarily accustomed -to the routine of the city, its humdrum and at least outward social -regularity, was a part of this. The night was so soft, the air so -refreshing. The shadowy trees were stirring with a cool night wind. Why -should any one have to die this way? Why couldn’t the people of Baldwin -or elsewhere have bestirred themselves on the side of the law before -this, just let it take its course? Both father and son now seemed -brutal, the injury to the daughter and sister not so vital as all this. -Still, also, custom seemed to require death in this way for this. It -was like some axiomatic, mathematic law—hard, but custom. The silent -company, an articulated, mechanical and therefore terrible thing, moved -on. It also was axiomatic, mathematic. After a time he drew near to the -wagon and looked at the negro again.</p> - -<p>The latter, as Davies was glad to note, seemed still out of his -sense. He was breathing heavily and groaning, but probably not with -any conscious pain. His eyes were fixed and staring, his face and -hands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> bleeding as if they had been scratched or trampled upon. He was -crumpled limply.</p> - -<p>But Davies could stand it no longer now. He fell back, sick at heart, -content to see no more. It seemed a ghastly, murderous thing to do. -Still the company moved on and he followed, past fields lit white -by the moon, under dark, silent groups of trees, through which the -moonlight fell in patches, up low hills and down into valleys, until -at last a little stream came into view, the same little stream, as it -proved, which he had seen earlier to-day and for a bridge over which -they were heading. Here it ran now, sparkling like electricity in the -night. After a time the road drew closer to the water and then crossed -directly over the bridge, which could be seen a little way ahead.</p> - -<p>Up to this the company now rode and then halted. The wagon was driven -up on the bridge, and father and son got out. All the riders, including -Davies, dismounted, and a full score of them gathered about the wagon -from which the negro was lifted, quite as one might a bag. Fortunately, -as Davies now told himself, he was still unconscious, an accidental -mercy. Nevertheless he decided now that he could not witness the end, -and went down by the waterside slightly above the bridge. He was not, -after all, the utterly relentless reporter. From where he stood, -however, he could see long beams of iron projecting out over the water, -where the bridge was braced, and some of the men fastening a rope to a -beam, and then he could see that they were fixing the other end around -the negro’s neck.</p> - -<p>Finally the curious company stood back, and he turned his face away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> - -<p>“Have you anything to say?” a voice demanded.</p> - -<p>There was no answer. The negro was probably lolling and groaning, quite -as unconscious as he was before.</p> - -<p>Then came the concerted action of a dozen men, the lifting of the black -mass into the air, and then Davies saw the limp form plunge down and -pull up with a creaking sound of rope. In the weak moonlight it seemed -as if the body were struggling, but he could not tell. He watched, -wide-mouthed and silent, and then the body ceased moving. Then after a -time he heard the company making ready to depart, and finally it did -so, leaving him quite indifferently to himself and his thoughts. Only -the black mass swaying in the pale light over the glimmering water -seemed human and alive, his sole companion.</p> - -<p>He sat down upon the bank and gazed in silence. Now the horror was -gone. The suffering was ended. He was no longer afraid. Everything -was summery and beautiful. The whole cavalcade had disappeared; the -moon finally sank. His horse, tethered to a sapling beyond the bridge, -waited patiently. Still he sat. He might now have hurried back to the -small postoffice in Baldwin and attempted to file additional details -of this story, providing he could find Seavey, but it would have done -no good. It was quite too late, and anyhow what did it matter? No -other reporter had been present, and he could write a fuller, sadder, -more colorful story on the morrow. He wondered idly what had become of -Seavey? Why had he not followed? Life seemed so sad, so strange, so -mysterious, so inexplicable.</p> - -<p>As he still sat there the light of morning broke, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> tender lavender -and gray in the east. Then came the roseate hues of dawn, all the -wondrous coloring of celestial halls, to which the waters of the stream -responded. The white pebbles shone pinkily at the bottom, the grass and -sedges first black now gleamed a translucent green. Still the body hung -there black and limp against the sky, and now a light breeze sprang up -and stirred it visibly. At last he arose, mounted his horse and made -his way back to Pleasant Valley, too full of the late tragedy to be -much interested in anything else. Rousing his liveryman, he adjusted -his difficulties with him by telling him the whole story, assuring him -of his horse’s care and handing him a five-dollar bill. Then he left, -to walk and think again.</p> - -<p>Since there was no train before noon and his duty plainly called him -to a portion of another day’s work here, he decided to make a day of -it, idling about and getting additional details as to what further -might be done. Who would cut the body down? What about arresting the -lynchers—the father and son, for instance? What about the sheriff -now? Would he act as he threatened? If he telegraphed the main fact of -the lynching his city editor would not mind, he knew, his coming late, -and the day here was so beautiful. He proceeded to talk with citizens -and officials, rode out to the injured girl’s home, rode to Baldwin to -see the sheriff. There was a singular silence and placidity in that -corner. The latter assured him that he knew nearly all of those who -had taken part, and proposed to swear out warrants for them, but just -the same Davies noted that he took his defeat as he did his danger, -philosophically. There was no real activity in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> that corner later. He -wished to remain a popular sheriff, no doubt.</p> - -<p>It was sundown again before he remembered that he had not discovered -whether the body had been removed. Nor had he heard why the negro came -back, nor exactly how he was caught. A nine o’clock evening train to -the city giving him a little more time for investigation, he decided -to avail himself of it. The negro’s cabin was two miles out along a -pine-shaded road, but so pleasant was the evening that he decided -to walk. En route, the last rays of the sinking sun stretched long -shadows of budding trees across his path. It was not long before he -came upon the cabin, a one-story affair set well back from the road and -surrounded with a few scattered trees. By now it was quite dark. The -ground between the cabin and the road was open, and strewn with the -chips of a woodpile. The roof was sagged, and the windows patched in -places, but for all that it had the glow of a home. Through the front -door, which stood open, the blaze of a wood-fire might be seen, its -yellow light filling the interior with a golden glow.</p> - -<p>Hesitating before the door, Davies finally knocked. Receiving no answer -he looked in on the battered cane chairs and aged furniture with -considerable interest. It was a typical negro cabin, poor beyond the -need of description. After a time a door in the rear of the room opened -and a little negro girl entered carrying a battered tin lamp without -any chimney. She had not heard his knock and started perceptibly at the -sight of his figure in the doorway. Then she raised her smoking lamp -above her head in order to see better, and approached.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span></p> - -<p>There was something ridiculous about her unformed figure and loose -gingham dress, as he noted. Her feet and hands were so large. Her black -head was strongly emphasized by little pigtails of hair done up in -white twine, which stood out all over her head. Her dark skin was made -apparently more so by contrast with her white teeth and the whites of -her eyes.</p> - -<p>Davies looked at her for a moment but little moved now by the oddity -which ordinarily would have amused him, and asked, “Is this where -Ingalls lived?”</p> - -<p>The girl nodded her head. She was exceedingly subdued, and looked as if -she might have been crying.</p> - -<p>“Has the body been brought here?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, suh,” she answered, with a soft negro accent.</p> - -<p>“When did they bring it?”</p> - -<p>“Dis moanin’.”</p> - -<p>“Are you his sister?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, suh.”</p> - -<p>“Well, can you tell me how they caught him? When did he come back, and -what for?” He was feeling slightly ashamed to intrude thus.</p> - -<p>“In de afternoon, about two.”</p> - -<p>“And what for?” repeated Davies.</p> - -<p>“To see us,” answered the girl. “To see my motha’.”</p> - -<p>“Well, did he want anything? He didn’t come just to see her, did he?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, suh,” said the girl, “he come to say good-by. We doan know when -dey caught him.” Her voice wavered.</p> - -<p>“Well, didn’t he know he might get caught?” asked Davies -sympathetically, seeing that the girl was so moved.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, suh, I think he did.”</p> - -<p>She still stood very quietly holding the poor battered lamp up, and -looking down.</p> - -<p>“Well, what did he have to say?” asked Davies.</p> - -<p>“He didn’ have nothin’ much to say, suh. He said he wanted to see -motha’. He was a-goin’ away.”</p> - -<p>The girl seemed to regard Davies as an official of some sort, and he -knew it.</p> - -<p>“Can I have a look at the body?” he asked.</p> - -<p>The girl did not answer, but started as if to lead the way.</p> - -<p>“When is the funeral?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Tomorra’.”</p> - -<p>The girl then led him through several bare sheds of rooms strung in -a row to the furthermost one of the line. This last seemed a sort of -storage shed for odds and ends. It had several windows, but they were -quite bare of glass and open to the moonlight save for a few wooden -boards nailed across from the outside. Davies had been wondering all -the while where the body was and at the lonely and forsaken air of the -place. No one but this little pig-tailed girl seemed about. If they had -any colored neighbors they were probably afraid to be seen here.</p> - -<p>Now, as he stepped into this cool, dark, exposed outer room, the -desolation seemed quite complete. It was very bare, a mere shed or -wash-room. There was the body in the middle of the room, stretched upon -an ironing board which rested on a box and a chair, and covered with -a white sheet. All the corners of the room were quite dark. Only its -middle was brightened by splotches of silvery light.</p> - -<p>Davies came forward, the while the girl left him,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> still carrying her -lamp. Evidently she thought the moon lighted up the room sufficiently, -and she did not feel equal to remaining. He lifted the sheet quite -boldly, for he could see well enough, and looked at the still, black -form. The face was extremely distorted, even in death, and he could see -where the rope had tightened. A bar of cool moonlight lay just across -the face and breast. He was still looking, thinking soon to restore the -covering, when a sound, half sigh, half groan, reached his ears.</p> - -<p>At it he started as if a ghost had made it. It was so eerie and -unexpected in this dark place. His muscles tightened. Instantly his -heart went hammering like mad. His first impression was that it must -have come from the dead.</p> - -<p>“Oo-o-ohh!” came the sound again, this time whimpering, as if some one -were crying.</p> - -<p>Instantly he turned, for now it seemed to come from a corner of the -room, the extreme corner to his right, back of him. Greatly disturbed, -he approached, and then as his eyes strained he seemed to catch the -shadow of something, the figure of a woman, perhaps, crouching against -the walls, huddled up, dark, almost indistinguishable.</p> - -<p>“Oh, oh, oh!” the sound now repeated itself, even more plaintively than -before.</p> - -<p>Davies began to understand. He approached slowly, then more swiftly -desired to withdraw, for he was in the presence of an old black mammy, -doubled up and weeping. She was in the very niche of the two walls, -her head sunk on her knees, her body quite still. “Oh, oh, oh!” she -repeated, as he stood there near her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> - -<p>Davies drew silently back. Before such grief his intrusion seemed cold -and unwarranted. The guiltlessness of the mother—her love—how could -one balance that against the other? The sensation of tears came to his -eyes. He instantly covered the dead and withdrew.</p> - -<p>Out in the moonlight he struck a brisk pace, but soon stopped and -looked back. The whole dreary cabin, with its one golden eye, the -door, seemed such a pitiful thing. The weeping mammy, alone in her -corner—and he had come back to say “Good-by!” Davies swelled with -feeling. The night, the tragedy, the grief, he saw it all. But also -with the cruel instinct of the budding artist that he already was, he -was beginning to meditate on the character of story it would make—the -color, the pathos. The knowledge now that it was not always exact -justice that was meted out to all and that it was not so much the -business of the writer to indict as to interpret was borne in on him -with distinctness by the cruel sorrow of the mother, whose blame, if -any, was infinitesimal.</p> - -<p>“I’ll get it all in!” he exclaimed feelingly, if triumphantly at last. -“I’ll get it all in!”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LOST_PHOEBE">THE LOST PHŒBE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">They</span> lived together in a part of the country which was not so -prosperous as it had once been, about three miles from one of those -small towns that, instead of increasing in population, is steadily -decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled; perhaps a -house every other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land -and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and -clover. Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log -portion being the old original home of Henry’s grandfather. The new -portion, of now rain-beaten, time-worn slabs, through which the wind -squeaked in the chinks at times, and which several overshadowing elms -and a butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, but -a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty-one and just -married.</p> - -<p>That was forty-eight years before. The furniture inside, like the house -outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of an earlier day. You -have seen the what-not of cherry wood, perhaps, with spiral legs and -fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned four poster bed, with its -ball-like protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a -sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau -of cherry was also high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking, -and with a musty odor. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy -examples of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored -affair woven by Phœbe Ann’s own hands, when she was fifteen years -younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which -it had been done now stood like a dusty, bony skeleton, along with a -broken rocking-chair, a worm-eaten clothes-press—Heaven knows how -old—a lime-stained bench that had once been used to keep flowers on -outside the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, in -an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called main portion. -All sorts of other broken-down furniture were about this place; an -antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its ribs; a broken mirror -in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail and cracked -itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an extension -hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs; -and a sewing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism by -rivals of a newer generation.</p> - -<p>The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled old -apple-trees, worm-eaten as to trunks and branches, and fully ornamented -with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white, -silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed -chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with -patches of moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint -for so long that they were blackish-gray as to color, and a little -spongy. The picket-fence in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and -the side fences of the stake-and-rider type were in an equally run-down -condition. As a matter of fact, they had aged synchronously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> with the -persons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe Ann.</p> - -<p>They had lived here, these two, ever since their marriage, forty-eight -years before, and Henry had lived here before that from his childhood -up. His father and mother, well along in years when he was a boy, -had invited him to bring his wife here when he had first fallen in -love and decided to marry; and he had done so. His father and mother -were the companions of himself and his wife for ten years after they -were married, when both died; and then Henry and Phœbe were left with -their five children growing lustily apace. But all sorts of things had -happened since then. Of the seven children, all told, that had been -born to them, three had died; one girl had gone to Kansas; one boy had -gone to Sioux Falls, never even to be heard of after; another boy had -gone to Washington; and the last girl lived five counties away in the -same State, but was so burdened with cares of her own that she rarely -gave them a thought. Time and a commonplace home life that had never -been attractive had weaned them thoroughly, so that, wherever they -were, they gave little thought as to how it might be with their father -and mother.</p> - -<p>Old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phœbe were a loving couple. You -perhaps know how it is with simple natures that fasten themselves -like lichens on the stones of circumstance and weather their days to -a crumbling conclusion. The great world sounds widely, but it has no -call for them. They have no soaring intellect. The orchard, the meadow, -the corn-field, the pig-pen, and the chicken-lot measure the range of -their human activities. When the wheat is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> headed it is reaped and -threshed; when the corn is browned and frosted it is cut and shocked; -when the timothy is in full head it is cut, and the hay-cock erected. -After that comes winter, with the hauling of grain to market, the -sawing and splitting of wood, the simple chores of fire-building, -meal-getting, occasional repairing, and visiting. Beyond these and the -changes of weather—the snows, the rains, and the fair days—there are -no immediate, significant things. All the rest of life is a far-off, -clamorous phantasmagoria, flickering like Northern lights in the night, -and sounding as faintly as cow-bells tinkling in the distance.</p> - -<p>Old Henry and his wife Phœbe were as fond of each other as it is -possible for two old people to be who have nothing else in this -life to be fond of. He was a thin old man, seventy when she died, a -queer, crotchety person with coarse gray-black hair and beard, quite -straggly and unkempt. He looked at you out of dull, fishy, watery eyes -that had deep-brown crow’s-feet at the sides. His clothes, like the -clothes of many farmers, were aged and angular and baggy, standing out -at the pockets, not fitting about the neck, protuberant and worn at -elbow and knee. Phœbe Ann was thin and shapeless, a very umbrella of -a woman, clad in shabby black, and with a black bonnet for her best -wear. As time had passed, and they had only themselves to look after, -their movements had become slower and slower, their activities fewer -and fewer. The annual keep of pigs had been reduced from five to one -grunting porker, and the single horse which Henry now retained was a -sleepy animal, not over-nourished and not very clean. The chickens, of -which formerly there was a large flock, had almost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> disappeared, owing -to ferrets, foxes, and the lack of proper care, which produces disease. -The former healthy garden was now a straggling memory of itself, and -the vines and flower-beds that formerly ornamented the windows and -dooryard had now become choking thickets. A will had been made which -divided the small tax-eaten property equally among the remaining -four, so that it was really of no interest to any of them. Yet these -two lived together in peace and sympathy, only that now and then old -Henry would become unduly cranky, complaining almost invariably that -something had been neglected or mislaid which was of no importance at -all.</p> - -<p>“Phœbe, where’s my corn-knife? You ain’t never minded to let my things -alone no more.”</p> - -<p>“Now you hush, Henry,” his wife would caution him in a cracked and -squeaky voice. “If you don’t, I’ll leave yuh. I’ll git up and walk out -of here some day, and then where would y’be? Y’ain’t got anybody but me -to look after yuh, so yuh just behave yourself. Your corn-knife’s on -the mantel where it’s allus been unless you’ve gone an’ put it summers -else.”</p> - -<p>Old Henry, who knew his wife would never leave him in any -circumstances, used to speculate at times as to what he would do if -she were to die. That was the one leaving that he really feared. As -he climbed on the chair at night to wind the old, long-pendulumed, -double-weighted clock, or went finally to the front and the back door -to see that they were safely shut in, it was a comfort to know that -Phœbe was there, properly ensconced on her side of the bed, and that if -he stirred restlessly in the night, she would be there to ask what he -wanted.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<p>“Now, Henry, do lie still! You’re as restless as a chicken.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can’t sleep, Phœbe.”</p> - -<p>“Well, yuh needn’t roll so, anyhow. Yuh kin let me sleep.”</p> - -<p>This usually reduced him to a state of somnolent ease. If she wanted a -pail of water, it was a grumbling pleasure for him to get it; and if -she did rise first to build the fires, he saw that the wood was cut and -placed within easy reach. They divided this simple world nicely between -them.</p> - -<p>As the years had gone on, however, fewer and fewer people had called. -They were well-known for a distance of as much as ten square miles as -old <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Reifsneider, honest, moderately Christian, but too old -to be really interesting any longer. The writing of letters had become -an almost impossible burden too difficult to continue or even negotiate -via others, although an occasional letter still did arrive from the -daughter in Pemberton County. Now and then some old friend stopped with -a pie or cake or a roasted chicken or duck, or merely to see that they -were well; but even these kindly minded visits were no longer frequent.</p> - -<p>One day in the early spring of her sixty-fourth year <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Reifsneider -took sick, and from a low fever passed into some indefinable ailment -which, because of her age, was no longer curable. Old Henry drove to -Swinnerton, the neighboring town, and procured a doctor. Some friends -called, and the immediate care of her was taken off his hands. Then -one chill spring night she died, and old Henry, in a fog of sorrow -and uncertainty, followed her body to the nearest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> graveyard, an -unattractive space with a few pines growing in it. Although he might -have gone to the daughter in Pemberton or sent for her, it was really -too much trouble and he was too weary and fixed. It was suggested to -him at once by one friend and another that he come to stay with them -awhile, but he did not see fit. He was so old and so fixed in his -notions and so accustomed to the exact surroundings he had known all -his days, that he could not think of leaving. He wanted to remain -near where they had put his Phœbe; and the fact that he would have to -live alone did not trouble him in the least. The living children were -notified and the care of him offered if he would leave, but he would -not.</p> - -<p>“I kin make a shift for myself,” he continually announced to old <abbr title="Doctor">Dr.</abbr> -Morrow, who had attended his wife in this case. “I kin cook a little, -and, besides, it don’t take much more’n coffee an’ bread in the -mornin’s to satisfy me. I’ll get along now well enough. Yuh just let -me be.” And after many pleadings and proffers of advice, with supplies -of coffee and bacon and baked bread duly offered and accepted, he was -left to himself. For a while he sat idly outside his door brooding in -the spring sun. He tried to revive his interest in farming, and to keep -himself busy and free from thought by looking after the fields, which -of late had been much neglected. It was a gloomy thing to come in of -an evening, however, or in the afternoon and find no shadow of Phœbe -where everything suggested her. By degrees he put a few of her things -away. At night he sat beside his lamp and read in the papers that were -left him occasionally or in a Bible that he had neglected for years, -but he could get little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> solace from these things. Mostly he held his -hand over his mouth and looked at the floor as he sat and thought of -what had become of her, and how soon he himself would die. He made a -great business of making his coffee in the morning and frying himself a -little bacon at night; but his appetite was gone. The shell in which he -had been housed so long seemed vacant, and its shadows were suggestive -of immedicable griefs. So he lived quite dolefully for five long -months, and then a change began.</p> - -<p>It was one night, after he had looked after the front and the back -door, wound the clock, blown out the light, and gone through all the -self-same motions that he had indulged in for years, that he went to -bed not so much to sleep as to think. It was a moonlight night. The -green-lichen-covered orchard just outside and to be seen from his bed -where he now lay was a silvery affair, sweetly spectral. The moon shone -through the east windows, throwing the pattern of the panes on the -wooden floor, and making the old furniture, to which he was accustomed, -stand out dimly in the room. As usual he had been thinking of Phœbe and -the years when they had been young together, and of the children who -had gone, and the poor shift he was making of his present days. The -house was coming to be in a very bad state indeed. The bed-clothes were -in disorder and not clean, for he made a wretched shift of washing. It -was a terror to him. The roof leaked, causing things, some of them, to -remain damp for weeks at a time, but he was getting into that brooding -state where he would accept anything rather than exert himself. He -preferred to pace slowly to and fro or to sit and think.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> - -<p>By twelve o’clock of this particular night he was asleep, however, -and by two had waked again. The moon by this time had shifted to a -position on the western side of the house, and it now shone in through -the windows of the living-room and those of the kitchen beyond. A -certain combination of furniture—a chair near a table, with his coat -on it, the half-open kitchen door casting a shadow, and the position -of a lamp near a paper—gave him an exact representation of Phœbe -leaning over the table as he had often seen her do in life. It gave -him a great start. Could it be she—or her ghost? He had scarcely ever -believed in spirits; and still—— He looked at her fixedly in the -feeble half-light, his old hair tingling oddly at the roots, and then -sat up. The figure did not move. He put his thin legs out of the bed -and sat looking at her, wondering if this could really be Phœbe. They -had talked of ghosts often in their lifetime, of apparitions and omens; -but they had never agreed that such things could be. It had never been -a part of his wife’s creed that she could have a spirit that could -return to walk the earth. Her after-world was quite a different affair, -a vague heaven, no less, from which the righteous did not trouble to -return. Yet here she was now, bending over the table in her black skirt -and gray shawl, her pale profile outlined against the moonlight.</p> - -<p>“Phœbe,” he called, thrilling from head to toe and putting out one bony -hand, “have yuh come back?”</p> - -<p>The figure did not stir, and he arose and walked uncertainly to the -door, looking at it fixedly the while. As he drew near, however, the -apparition resolved itself into its primal content—his old coat over -the high-backed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> chair, the lamp by the paper, the half-open door.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said to himself, his mouth open, “I thought shore I saw -her.” And he ran his hand strangely and vaguely through his hair, the -while his nervous tension relaxed. Vanished as it had, it gave him the -idea that she might return.</p> - -<p>Another night, because of this first illusion, and because his mind -was now constantly on her and he was old, he looked out of the window -that was nearest his bed and commanded a hen-coop and pig-pen and -a part of the wagon-shed, and there, a faint mist exuding from the -damp of the ground, he thought he saw her again. It was one of those -little wisps of mist, one of those faint exhalations of the earth that -rise in a cool night after a warm day, and flicker like small white -cypresses of fog before they disappear. In life it had been a custom -of hers to cross this lot from her kitchen door to the pig-pen to -throw in any scrap that was left from her cooking, and here she was -again. He sat up and watched it strangely, doubtfully, because of his -previous experience, but inclined, because of the nervous titillation -that passed over his body, to believe that spirits really were, and -that Phœbe, who would be concerned because of his lonely state, must -be thinking about him, and hence returning. What other way would she -have? How otherwise could she express herself? It would be within the -province of her charity so to do, and like her loving interest in -him. He quivered and watched it eagerly; but, a faint breath of air -stirring, it wound away toward the fence and disappeared.</p> - -<p>A third night, as he was actually dreaming, some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> ten days later, she -came to his bedside and put her hand on his head.</p> - -<p>“Poor Henry!” she said. “It’s too bad.”</p> - -<p>He roused out of his sleep, actually to see her, he thought, moving -from his bed-room into the one living-room, her figure a shadowy mass -of black. The weak straining of his eyes caused little points of -light to flicker about the outlines of her form. He arose, greatly -astonished, walked the floor in the cool room, convinced that Phœbe -was coming back to him. If he only thought sufficiently, if he made it -perfectly clear by his feeling that he needed her greatly, she would -come back, this kindly wife, and tell him what to do. She would perhaps -be with him much of the time, in the night, anyhow; and that would make -him less lonely, this state more endurable.</p> - -<p>In age and with the feeble it is not such a far cry from the subtleties -of illusion to actual hallucination, and in due time this transition -was made for Henry. Night after night he waited, expecting her return. -Once in his weird mood he thought he saw a pale light moving about the -room, and another time he thought he saw her walking in the orchard -after dark. It was one morning when the details of his lonely state -were virtually unendurable that he woke with the thought that she was -not dead. How he had arrived at this conclusion it is hard to say. -His mind had gone. In its place was a fixed illusion. He and Phœbe -had had a senseless quarrel. He had reproached her for not leaving -his pipe where he was accustomed to find it, and she had left. It was -an aberrated fulfillment of her old jesting threat that if he did not -behave himself she would leave him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> - -<p>“I guess I could find yuh ag’in,” he had always said. But her cackling -threat had always been:</p> - -<p>“Yuh’ll not find me if I ever leave yuh. I guess I kin git some place -where yuh can’t find me.”</p> - -<p>This morning when he arose he did not think to build the fire in the -customary way or to grind his coffee and cut his bread, as was his -wont, but solely to meditate as to where he should search for her and -how he should induce her to come back. Recently the one horse had been -dispensed with because he found it cumbersome and beyond his needs. He -took down his soft crush hat after he had dressed himself, a new glint -of interest and determination in his eye, and taking his black crook -cane from behind the door, where he had always placed it, started out -briskly to look for her among the nearest neighbors. His old shoes -clumped soundly in the dust as he walked, and his gray-black locks, -now grown rather long, straggled out in a dramatic fringe or halo from -under his hat. His short coat stirred busily as he walked, and his -hands and face were peaked and pale.</p> - -<p>“Why, hello, Henry! Where’re yuh goin’ this mornin’?” inquired Farmer -Dodge, who, hauling a load of wheat to market, encountered him on the -public road. He had not seen the aged farmer in months, not since his -wife’s death, and he wondered now, seeing him looking so spry.</p> - -<p>“Yuh ain’t seen Phœbe, have yuh?” inquired the old man, looking up -quizzically.</p> - -<p>“Phœbe who?” inquired Farmer Dodge, not for the moment connecting the -name with Henry’s dead wife.</p> - -<p>“Why, my wife Phœbe, o’ course. Who do yuh s’pose I mean?” He stared -up with a pathetic sharpness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> of glance from under his shaggy, gray -eyebrows.</p> - -<p>“Wall, I’ll swan, Henry, yuh ain’t jokin’, are yuh?” said the solid -Dodge, a pursy man, with a smooth, hard, red face. “It can’t be your -wife yuh’re talkin’ about. She’s dead.”</p> - -<p>“Dead! Shucks!” retorted the demented Reifsneider. “She left me early -this mornin’, while I was sleepin’. She allus got up to build the fire, -but she’s gone now. We had a little spat last night, an’ I guess that’s -the reason. But I guess I kin find her. She’s gone over to Matilda -Race’s; that’s where she’s gone.”</p> - -<p>He started briskly up the road, leaving the amazed Dodge to stare in -wonder after him.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll be switched!” he said aloud to himself. “He’s clean out’n -his head. That poor old feller’s been livin’ down there till he’s gone -outen his mind. I’ll have to notify the authorities.” And he flicked -his whip with great enthusiasm. “Geddap!” he said, and was off.</p> - -<p>Reifsneider met no one else in this poorly populated region until he -reached the whitewashed fence of Matilda Race and her husband three -miles away. He had passed several other houses en route, but these not -being within the range of his illusion were not considered. His wife, -who had known Matilda well, must be here. He opened the picket-gate -which guarded the walk, and stamped briskly up to the door.</p> - -<p>“Why, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Reifsneider,” exclaimed old Matilda herself, a stout woman, -looking out of the door in answer to his knock, “what brings yuh here -this mornin’?”</p> - -<p>“Is Phœbe here?” he demanded eagerly.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<p>“Phœbe who? What Phœbe?” replied <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Race, curious as to this sudden -development of energy on his part.</p> - -<p>“Why, my Phœbe, o’ course. My wife Phœbe. Who do yuh s’pose? Ain’t she -here now?”</p> - -<p>“Lawsy me!” exclaimed <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Race, opening her mouth. “Yuh pore man! So -you’re clean out’n your mind now. Yuh come right in and sit down. I’ll -git yuh a cup o’ coffee. O’ course your wife ain’t here; but yuh come -in an’ sit down. I’ll find her fer yuh after a while. I know where she -is.”</p> - -<p>The old farmer’s eyes softened, and he entered. He was so thin and pale -a specimen, pantalooned and patriarchal, that he aroused <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Race’s -extremest sympathy as he took off his hat and laid it on his knees -quite softly and mildly.</p> - -<p>“We had a quarrel last night, an’ she left me,” he volunteered.</p> - -<p>“Laws! laws!” sighed <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Race, there being no one present with whom -to share her astonishment as she went to her kitchen. “The pore man! -Now somebody’s just got to look after him. He can’t be allowed to run -around the country this way lookin’ for his dead wife. It’s turrible.”</p> - -<p>She boiled him a pot of coffee and brought in some of her new-baked -bread and fresh butter. She set out some of her best jam and put a -couple of eggs to boil, lying whole-heartedly the while.</p> - -<p>“Now yuh stay right there, Uncle Henry, till Jake comes in, an’ I’ll -send him to look for Phœbe. I think it’s more’n likely she’s over to -Swinnerton with some o’ her friends. Anyhow, we’ll find out. Now yuh -just drink this coffee an’ eat this bread. Yuh must be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> tired. Yuh’ve -had a long walk this mornin’.” Her idea was to take counsel with Jake, -“her man,” and perhaps have him notify the authorities.</p> - -<p>She bustled about, meditating on the uncertainties of life, while old -Reifsneider thrummed on the rim of his hat with his pale fingers and -later ate abstractedly of what she offered. His mind was on his wife, -however, and since she was not here, or did not appear, it wandered -vaguely away to a family by the name of Murray, miles away in another -direction. He decided after a time that he would not wait for Jake Race -to hunt his wife but would seek her for himself. He must be on, and -urge her to come back.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll be goin’,” he said, getting up and looking strangely about -him. “I guess she didn’t come here after all. She went over to the -Murrays’, I guess. I’ll not wait any longer, Mis’ Race. There’s a lot -to do over to the house to-day.” And out he marched in the face of her -protests taking to the dusty road again in the warm spring sun, his -cane striking the earth as he went.</p> - -<p>It was two hours later that this pale figure of a man appeared in the -Murrays’ doorway, dusty, perspiring, eager. He had tramped all of five -miles, and it was noon. An amazed husband and wife of sixty heard his -strange query, and realized also that he was mad. They begged him to -stay to dinner, intending to notify the authorities later and see what -could be done; but though he stayed to partake of a little something, -he did not stay long, and was off again to another distant farmhouse, -his idea of many things to do and his need of Phœbe impelling him. So -it went for that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> day and the next and the next, the circle of his -inquiry ever widening.</p> - -<p>The process by which a character assumes the significance of being -peculiar, his antics weird, yet harmless, in such a community is often -involute and pathetic. This day, as has been said, saw Reifsneider at -other doors, eagerly asking his unnatural question, and leaving a trail -of amazement, sympathy, and pity in his wake. Although the authorities -were informed—the county sheriff, no less—it was not deemed advisable -to take him into custody; for when those who knew old Henry, and had -for so long, reflected on the condition of the county insane asylum, a -place which, because of the poverty of the district, was of staggering -aberration and sickening environment, it was decided to let him remain -at large; for, strange to relate, it was found on investigation that -at night he returned peaceably enough to his lonesome domicile there -to discover whether his wife had returned, and to brood in loneliness -until the morning. Who would lock up a thin, eager, seeking old man -with iron-gray hair and an attitude of kindly, innocent inquiry, -particularly when he was well known for a past of only kindly servitude -and reliability? Those who had known him best rather agreed that he -should be allowed to roam at large. He could do no harm. There were -many who were willing to help him as to food, old clothes, the odds -and ends of his daily life—at least at first. His figure after a time -became not so much a commonplace as an accepted curiosity, and the -replies, “Why, no, Henry; I ain’t see her,” or “No, Henry; she ain’t -been here to-day,” more customary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> - -<p>For several years thereafter then he was an odd figure in the sun -and rain, on dusty roads and muddy ones, encountered occasionally -in strange and unexpected places, pursuing his endless search. -Undernourishment, after a time, although the neighbors and those -who knew his history gladly contributed from their store, affected -his body; for he walked much and ate little. The longer he roamed -the public highway in this manner, the deeper became his strange -hallucination; and finding it harder and harder to return from his more -and more distant pilgrimages, he finally began taking a few utensils -with him from his home, making a small package of them, in order that -he might not be compelled to return. In an old tin coffee-pot of large -size he placed a small tin cup, a knife, fork, and spoon, some salt and -pepper, and to the outside of it, by a string forced through a pierced -hole, he fastened a plate, which could be released, and which was his -woodland table. It was no trouble for him to secure the little food -that he needed, and with a strange, almost religious dignity, he had no -hesitation in asking for that much. By degrees his hair became longer -and longer, his once black hat became an earthen brown, and his clothes -threadbare and dusty.</p> - -<p>For all of three years he walked, and none knew how wide were his -perambulations, nor how he survived the storms and cold. They could not -see him, with homely rural understanding and forethought, sheltering -himself in hay-cocks, or by the sides of cattle, whose warm bodies -protected him from the cold, and whose dull understandings were not -opposed to his harmless presence. Overhanging rocks and trees kept<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> him -at times from the rain, and a friendly hay-loft or corn-crib was not -above his humble consideration.</p> - -<p>The involute progression of hallucination is strange. From asking at -doors and being constantly rebuffed or denied, he finally came to the -conclusion that although his Phœbe might not be in any of the houses -at the doors of which he inquired, she might nevertheless be within -the sound of his voice. And so, from patient inquiry, he began to call -sad, occasional cries, that ever and anon waked the quiet landscapes -and ragged hill regions, and set to echoing his thin “O-o-o Phœbe! -O-o-o Phœbe!” It had a pathetic, albeit insane, ring, and many a farmer -or plowboy came to know it even from afar and say, “There goes old -Reifsneider.”</p> - -<p>Another thing that puzzled him greatly after a time and after many -hundreds of inquiries was, when he no longer had any particular -dooryard in view and no special inquiry to make, which way to go. These -cross-roads, which occasionally led in four or even six directions, -came after a time to puzzle him. But to solve this knotty problem, -which became more and more of a puzzle, there came to his aid another -hallucination. Phœbe’s spirit or some power of the air or wind or -nature would tell him. If he stood at the center of the parting of the -ways, closed his eyes, turned thrice about, and called “O-o-o Phœbe!” -twice, and then threw his cane straight before him, that would surely -indicate which way to go for Phœbe, or one of these mystic powers would -surely govern its direction and fall! In whichever direction it went, -even though, as was not infrequently the case, it took him back along -the path he had already come, or across fields, he was not so far gone -in his mind but that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> gave himself ample time to search before he -called again. Also the hallucination seemed to persist that at some -time he would surely find her. There were hours when his feet were -sore, and his limbs weary, when he would stop in the heat to wipe his -seamed brow, or in the cold to beat his arms. Sometimes, after throwing -away his cane, and finding it indicating the direction from which he -had just come, he would shake his head wearily and philosophically, -as if contemplating the unbelievable or an untoward fate, and then -start briskly off. His strange figure came finally to be known in the -farthest reaches of three or four counties. Old Reifsneider was a -pathetic character. His fame was wide.</p> - -<p>Near a little town called Watersville, in Green County, perhaps four -miles from that minor center of human activity, there was a place -or precipice locally known as the Red Cliff, a sheer wall of red -sandstone, perhaps a hundred feet high, which raised its sharp face -for half a mile or more above the fruitful corn-fields and orchards -that lay beneath, and which was surmounted by a thick grove of trees. -The slope that slowly led up to it from the opposite side was covered -by a rank growth of beech, hickory, and ash, through which threaded -a number of wagon-tracks crossing at various angles. In fair weather -it had become old Reifsneider’s habit, so inured was he by now to the -open, to make his bed in some such patch of trees as this to fry his -bacon or boil his eggs at the foot of some tree before laying himself -down for the night. Occasionally, so light and inconsequential was his -sleep, he would walk at night. More often, the moonlight or some sudden -wind stirring in the trees or a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> reconnoitering animal arousing him, -he would sit up and think, or pursue his quest in the moonlight or the -dark, a strange, unnatural, half wild, half savage-looking but utterly -harmless creature, calling at lonely road crossings, staring at dark -and shuttered houses, and wondering where, where Phœbe could really be.</p> - -<p>That particular lull that comes in the systole-diastole of this -earthly ball at two o’clock in the morning invariably aroused him, and -though he might not go any farther he would sit up and contemplate the -darkness or the stars, wondering. Sometimes in the strange processes -of his mind he would fancy that he saw moving among the trees the -figure of his lost wife, and then he would get up to follow, taking his -utensils, always on a string, and his cane. If she seemed to evade him -too easily he would run, or plead, or, suddenly losing track of the -fancied figure, stand awed or disappointed, grieving for the moment -over the almost insurmountable difficulties of his search.</p> - -<p>It was in the seventh year of these hopeless peregrinations, in the -dawn of a similar springtime to that in which his wife had died, that -he came at last one night to the vicinity of this self-same patch -that crowned the rise to the Red Cliff. His far-flung cane, used as a -divining-rod at the last cross-roads, had brought him hither. He had -walked many, many miles. It was after ten o’clock at night, and he was -very weary. Long wandering and little eating had left him but a shadow -of his former self. It was a question now not so much of physical -strength but of spiritual endurance which kept him up. He had scarcely -eaten this day, and now exhausted he set<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> himself down in the dark to -rest and possibly to sleep.</p> - -<p>Curiously on this occasion a strange suggestion of the presence of -his wife surrounded him. It would not be long now, he counseled with -himself, although the long months had brought him nothing, until he -should see her, talk to her. He fell asleep after a time, his head -on his knees. At midnight the moon began to rise, and at two in the -morning, his wakeful hour, was a large silver disk shining through the -trees to the east. He opened his eyes when the radiance became strong, -making a silver pattern at his feet and lighting the woods with strange -lusters and silvery, shadowy forms. As usual, his old notion that his -wife must be near occurred to him on this occasion, and he looked about -him with a speculative, anticipatory eye. What was it that moved in -the distant shadows along the path by which he had entered—a pale, -flickering will-o’-the-wisp that bobbed gracefully among the trees and -riveted his expectant gaze? Moonlight and shadows combined to give it -a strange form and a stranger reality, this fluttering of bog-fire -or dancing of wandering fire-flies. Was it truly his lost Phœbe? By -a circuitous route it passed about him, and in his fevered state he -fancied that he could see the very eyes of her, not as she was when he -last saw her in the black dress and shawl but now a strangely younger -Phœbe, gayer, sweeter, the one whom he had known years before as a -girl. Old Reifsneider got up. He had been expecting and dreaming of -this hour all these years, and now as he saw the feeble light dancing -lightly before him he peered at it questioningly, one thin hand in his -gray hair.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> - -<p>Of a sudden there came to him now for the first time in many years the -full charm of her girlish figure as he had known it in boyhood, the -pleasing, sympathetic smile, the brown hair, the blue sash she had -once worn about her waist at a picnic, her gay, graceful movements. He -walked around the base of the tree, straining with his eyes, forgetting -for once his cane and utensils, and following eagerly after. On she -moved before him, a will-o’-the-wisp of the spring, a little flame -above her head, and it seemed as though among the small saplings of ash -and beech and the thick trunks of hickory and elm that she signaled -with a young, a lightsome hand.</p> - -<p>“O Phœbe! Phœbe!” he called. “Have yuh really come? Have yuh really -answered me?” And hurrying faster, he fell once, scrambling lamely to -his feet, only to see the light in the distance dancing illusively on. -On and on he hurried until he was fairly running, brushing his ragged -arms against the trees, striking his hands and face against impeding -twigs. His hat was gone, his lungs were breathless, his reason quite -astray, when coming to the edge of the cliff he saw her below among a -silvery bed of apple-trees now blooming in the spring.</p> - -<p>“O Phœbe!” he called. “O Phœbe! Oh, no, don’t leave me!” And feeling -the lure of a world where love was young and Phœbe as this vision -presented her, a delightful epitome of their quondam youth, he gave a -gay cry of “Oh, wait, Phœbe!” and leaped.</p> - -<p>Some farmer-boys, reconnoitering this region of bounty and prospect -some few days afterward, found first the tin utensils tied together -under the tree where he had left them, and then later at the foot -of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> cliff, pale, broken, but elate, a molded smile of peace and -delight upon his lips, his body. His old hat was discovered lying under -some low-growing saplings the twigs of which had held it back. No one -of all the simple population knew how eagerly and joyously he had found -his lost mate.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_SECOND_CHOICE">THE SECOND CHOICE</h2> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="drop-cap left"><span class="smcap">SHIRLEY</span> DEAR: -</p> - -<p>You don’t want the letters. There are only six of them, anyhow, and -think, they’re all I have of you to cheer me on my travels. What good -would they be to you—little bits of notes telling me you’re sure to -meet me—but me—think of me! If I send them to you, you’ll tear them -up, whereas if you leave them with me I can dab them with musk and -ambergris and keep them in a little silver box, always beside me.</p> - -<p>Ah, Shirley dear, you really don’t know how sweet I think you are, -how dear! There isn’t a thing we have ever done together that isn’t -as clear in my mind as this great big skyscraper over the way here in -Pittsburgh, and far more pleasing. In fact, my thoughts of you are the -most precious and delicious things I have, Shirley.</p> - -<p>But I’m too young to marry now. You know that, Shirley, don’t you? I -haven’t placed myself in any way yet, and I’m so restless that I don’t -know whether I ever will, really. Only yesterday, old Roxbaum—that’s -my new employer here—came to me and wanted to know if I would like an -assistant overseership on one of his coffee plantations in Java, said -there would not be much money in it for a year or two, a bare living, -but later there would be more—and I jumped at it. Just the thought -of Java and going there did that, although I knew I could make more -staying right here. Can’t you see how it is with me, Shirl? I’m too -restless and too young. I couldn’t take care of you right, and you -wouldn’t like me after a while if I didn’t.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span></p> - -<p>But ah, Shirley sweet, I think the dearest things of you! There isn’t -an hour, it seems, but some little bit of you comes back—a dear, -sweet bit—the night we sat on the grass in Tregore Park and counted -the stars through the trees; that first evening at Sparrows Point -when we missed the last train and had to walk to Langley. Remember -the tree-toads, Shirl? And then that warm April Sunday in Atholby -woods! Ah, Shirl, you don’t want the six notes! Let me keep them. But -think of me, will you, sweet, wherever you go and whatever you do? -I’ll always think of you, and wish that you had met a better, saner -man than me, and that I really could have married you and been all -you wanted me to be. By-by, sweet. I may start for Java within the -month. If so, and you would want them, I’ll send you some cards from -there—if they have any.</p> - -<p class="right"> -Your worthless,<br /> -<span class="smcap">Arthur</span>.<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<p>She sat and turned the letter in her hand, dumb with despair. It was -the very last letter she would ever get from him. Of that she was -certain. He was gone now, once and for all. She had written him only -once, not making an open plea but asking him to return her letters, -and then there had come this tender but evasive reply, saying nothing -of a possible return but desiring to keep her letters for old times’ -sake—the happy hours they had spent together.</p> - -<p>The happy hours! Oh, yes, yes, yes—the happy hours!</p> - -<p>In her memory now, as she sat here in her home after the day’s work, -meditating on all that had been in the few short months since he had -come and gone, was a world of color and light—a color and a light so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> -transfiguring as to seem celestial, but now, alas, wholly dissipated. -It had contained so much of all she had desired—love, romance, -amusement, laughter. He had been so gay and thoughtless, or headstrong, -so youthfully romantic, and with such a love of play and change and to -be saying and doing anything and everything. Arthur could dance in a -gay way, whistle, sing after a fashion, play. He could play cards and -do tricks, and he had such a superior air, so genial and brisk, with a -kind of innate courtesy in it and yet an intolerance for slowness and -stodginess or anything dull or dingy, such as characterized—— But -here her thoughts fled from him. She refused to think of any one but -Arthur.</p> - -<p>Sitting in her little bedroom now, off the parlor on the ground floor -in her home in Bethune Street, and looking out over the Kessels’ yard, -and beyond that—there being no fences in Bethune Street—over the -“yards” or lawns of the Pollards, Bakers, Cryders, and others, she -thought of how dull it must all have seemed to him, with his fine -imaginative mind and experiences, his love of change and gayety, his -atmosphere of something better than she had ever known. How little -she had been fitted, perhaps, by beauty or temperament to overcome -this—the something—dullness in her work or her home, which possibly -had driven him away. For, although many had admired her to date, and -she was young and pretty in her simple way and constantly receiving -suggestions that her beauty was disturbing to some, still, he had not -cared for her—he had gone.</p> - -<p>And now, as she meditated, it seemed that this scene, and all that -it stood for—her parents, her work,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> her daily shuttling to and fro -between the drug company for which she worked and this street and -house—was typical of her life and what she was destined to endure -always. Some girls were so much more fortunate. They had fine clothes, -fine homes, a world of pleasure and opportunity in which to move. They -did not have to scrimp and save and work to pay their own way. And yet -she had always been compelled to do it, but had never complained until -now—or until he came, and after. Bethune Street, with its commonplace -front yards and houses nearly all alike, and this house, so like the -others, room for room and porch for porch, and her parents, too, really -like all the others, had seemed good enough, quite satisfactory, -indeed, until then. But now, now!</p> - -<p>Here, in their kitchen, was her mother, a thin, pale, but kindly woman, -peeling potatoes and washing lettuce, and putting a bit of steak or -a chop or a piece of liver in a frying-pan day after day, morning -and evening, month after month, year after year. And next door was -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Kessel doing the same thing. And next door <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Cryder. And next -door <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Pollard. But, until now, she had not thought it so bad. But -now—now—oh! And on all the porches or lawns all along this street -were the husbands and fathers, mostly middle-aged or old men like her -father, reading their papers or cutting the grass before dinner, or -smoking and meditating afterward. Her father was out in front now, -a stooped, forbearing, meditative soul, who had rarely anything to -say—leaving it all to his wife, her mother, but who was fond of her -in his dull, quiet way. He was a pattern-maker by trade, and had come -into possession of this small,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> ordinary home via years of toil and -saving, her mother helping him. They had no particular religion, as he -often said, thinking reasonably human conduct a sufficient passport to -heaven, but they had gone occasionally to the Methodist Church over in -Nicholas Street, and she had once joined it. But of late she had not -gone, weaned away by the other commonplace pleasures of her world.</p> - -<p>And then in the midst of it, the dull drift of things, as she now -saw them to be, he had come—Arthur Bristow—young, energetic, -good-looking, ambitious, dreamful, and instanter, and with her never -knowing quite how, the whole thing had been changed. He had appeared so -swiftly—out of nothing, as it were.</p> - -<p>Previous to him had been Barton Williams, stout, phlegmatic, -good-natured, well-meaning, who was, or had been before Arthur came, -asking her to marry him, and whom she allowed to half assume that she -would. She had liked him in a feeble, albeit, as she thought, tender -way, thinking him the kind, according to the logic of her neighborhood, -who would make her a good husband, and, until Arthur appeared on -the scene, had really intended to marry him. It was not really a -love-match, as she saw now, but she thought it was, which was much the -same thing, perhaps. But, as she now recalled, when Arthur came, how -the scales fell from her eyes! In a trice, as it were, nearly, there -was a new heaven and a new earth. Arthur had arrived, and with him a -sense of something different.</p> - -<p>Mabel Gove had asked her to come over to her house in Westleigh, the -adjoining suburb, for Thanksgiving eve and day, and without a thought -of anything,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> and because Barton was busy handling a part of the work -in the despatcher’s office of the Great Eastern and could not see her, -she had gone. And then, to her surprise and strange, almost ineffable -delight, the moment she had seen him, he was there—Arthur, with his -slim, straight figure and dark hair and eyes and clean-cut features, -as clean and attractive as those of a coin. And as he had looked at -her and smiled and narrated humorous bits of things that had happened -to him, something had come over her—a spell—and after dinner they -had all gone round to Edith Barringer’s to dance, and there as she had -danced with him, somehow, without any seeming boldness on his part, he -had taken possession of her, as it were, drawn her close, and told her -she had beautiful eyes and hair and such a delicately rounded chin, and -that he thought she danced gracefully and was sweet. She had nearly -fainted with delight.</p> - -<p>“Do you like me?” he had asked in one place in the dance, and, in spite -of herself, she had looked up into his eyes, and from that moment she -was almost mad over him, could think of nothing else but his hair and -eyes and his smile and his graceful figure.</p> - -<p>Mabel Gove had seen it all, in spite of her determination that no one -should, and on their going to bed later, back at Mabel’s home, she had -whispered:</p> - -<p>“Ah, Shirley, I saw. You like Arthur, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I think he’s very nice,” Shirley recalled replying, for Mabel knew of -her affair with Barton and liked him, “but I’m not crazy over him.” And -for this bit of treason she had sighed in her dreams nearly all night.</p> - -<p>And the next day, true to a request and a promise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> made by him, Arthur -had called again at Mabel’s to take her and Mabel to a “movie” which -was not so far away, and from there they had gone to an ice-cream -parlor, and during it all, when Mabel was not looking, he had squeezed -her arm and hand and kissed her neck, and she had held her breath, and -her heart had seemed to stop.</p> - -<p>“And now you’re going to let me come out to your place to see you, -aren’t you?” he had whispered.</p> - -<p>And she had replied, “Wednesday evening,” and then written the address -on a little piece of paper and given it to him.</p> - -<p>But now it was all gone, gone!</p> - -<p>This house, which now looked so dreary—how romantic it had seemed -that first night <em>he</em> called—the front room with its commonplace -furniture, and later in the spring, the veranda, with its vines -just sprouting, and the moon in May. Oh, the moon in May, and June -and July, when he was here! How she had lied to Barton to make -evenings for Arthur, and occasionally to Arthur to keep him from -contact with Barton. She had not even mentioned Barton to Arthur -because—because—well, because Arthur was so much better, and somehow -(she admitted it to herself now) she had not been sure that Arthur -would care for her long, if at all, and then—well, and then, to be -quite frank, Barton might be good enough. She did not exactly hate him -because she had found Arthur—not at all. She still liked him in a -way—he was so kind and faithful, so very dull and straightforward and -thoughtful of her, which Arthur was certainly not. Before Arthur had -appeared, as she well remembered, Barton had seemed to be plenty good -enough—in fact,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> all that she desired in a pleasant, companionable -way, calling for her, taking her places, bringing her flowers and -candy, which Arthur rarely did, and for that, if nothing more, she -could not help continuing to like him and to feel sorry for him, and, -besides, as she had admitted to herself before, if Arthur left her— -* * * * *   Weren’t his parents better off than hers—and hadn’t he a good -position for such a man as he—one hundred and fifty dollars a month -and the certainty of more later on? A little while before meeting -Arthur, she had thought this very good, enough for two to live on at -least, and she had thought some of trying it at some time or other—but -now—now——</p> - -<p>And that first night he had called—how well she remembered it—how it -had transfigured the parlor next this in which she was now, filling it -with something it had never had before, and the porch outside, too, -for that matter, with its gaunt, leafless vine, and this street, too, -even—dull, commonplace Bethune Street. There had been a flurry of snow -during the afternoon while she was working at the store, and the ground -was white with it. All the neighboring homes seemed to look sweeter -and happier and more inviting than ever they had as she came past -them, with their lights peeping from under curtains and drawn shades. -She had hurried into hers and lighted the big red-shaded parlor lamp, -her one artistic treasure, as she thought, and put it near the piano, -between it and the window, and arranged the chairs, and then bustled to -the task of making herself as pleasing as she might. For him she had -gotten out her one best filmy house dress and done up her hair in the -fashion she thought most becoming—and that he had not seen before—and -powdered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> her cheeks and nose and darkened her eyelashes, as some of -the girls at the store did, and put on her new gray satin slippers, and -then, being so arrayed, waited nervously, unable to eat anything or to -think of anything but him.</p> - -<p>And at last, just when she had begun to think he might not be coming, -he had appeared with that arch smile and a “Hello! It’s here you live, -is it? I was wondering. George, but you’re twice as sweet as I thought -you were, aren’t you?” And then, in the little entryway, behind the -closed door, he had held her and kissed her on the mouth a dozen times -while she pretended to push against his coat and struggle and say that -her parents might hear.</p> - -<p>And, oh, the room afterward, with him in it in the red glow of the -lamp, and with his pale handsome face made handsomer thereby, as she -thought! He had made her sit near him and had held her hands and told -her about his work and his dreams—all that he expected to do in the -future—and then she had found herself wishing intensely to share just -such a life—his life—anything that he might wish to do; only, she -kept wondering, with a slight pain, whether he would want her to—he -was so young, dreamful, ambitious, much younger and more dreamful than -herself, although, in reality, he was several years older.</p> - -<p>And then followed that glorious period from December to this late -September, in which everything which was worth happening in love had -happened. Oh, those wondrous days the following spring, when, with -the first burst of buds and leaves, he had taken her one Sunday to -Atholby, where all the great woods were, and they had hunted spring -beauties in the grass,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> and sat on a slope and looked at the river -below and watched some boys fixing up a sailboat and setting forth in -it quite as she wished she and Arthur might be doing—going somewhere -together—far, far away from all commonplace things and life! And then -he had slipped his arm about her and kissed her cheek and neck, and -tweaked her ear and smoothed her hair—and oh, there on the grass, -with the spring flowers about her and a canopy of small green leaves -above, the perfection of love had come—love so wonderful that the mere -thought of it made her eyes brim now! And then had been days, Saturday -afternoons and Sundays, at Atholby and Sparrows Point, where the great -beach was, and in lovely Tregore Park, a mile or two from her home, -where they could go of an evening and sit in or near the pavilion and -have ice-cream and dance or watch the dancers. Oh, the stars, the -winds, the summer breath of those days! Ah, me! Ah, me!</p> - -<p>Naturally, her parents had wondered from the first about her and -Arthur, and her and Barton, since Barton had already assumed a -proprietary interest in her and she had seemed to like him. But then -she was an only child and a pet, and used to presuming on that, and -they could not think of saying anything to her. After all, she was -young and pretty and was entitled to change her mind; only, only—she -had had to indulge in a career of lying and subterfuge in connection -with Barton, since Arthur was headstrong and wanted every evening that -he chose—to call for her at the store and keep her down-town to dinner -and a show.</p> - -<p>Arthur had never been like Barton, shy, phlegmatic, obedient, waiting -long and patiently for each little<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> favor, but, instead, masterful and -eager, rifling her of kisses and caresses and every delight of love, -and teasing and playing with her as a cat would a mouse. She could -never resist him. He demanded of her her time and her affection without -let or hindrance. He was not exactly selfish or cruel, as some might -have been, but gay and unthinking at times, unconsciously so, and yet -loving and tender at others—nearly always so. But always he would talk -of things in the future as if they really did not include her—and this -troubled her greatly—of places he might go, things he might do, which, -somehow, he seemed to think or assume that she could not or would not -do with him. He was always going to Australia sometime, he thought, -in a business way, or to South Africa, or possibly to India. He never -seemed to have any fixed clear future for himself in mind.</p> - -<p>A dreadful sense of helplessness and of impending disaster came over -her at these times, of being involved in some predicament over which -she had no control, and which would lead her on to some sad end. -Arthur, although plainly in love, as she thought, and apparently -delighted with her, might not always love her. She began, timidly -at first (and always, for that matter), to ask him pretty, seeking -questions about himself and her, whether their future was certain to -be together, whether he really wanted her—loved her—whether he might -not want to marry some one else or just her, and whether she wouldn’t -look nice in a pearl satin wedding-dress with a long creamy veil and -satin slippers and a bouquet of bridal-wreath. She had been so slowly -but surely saving to that end, even before he came, in connection with -Barton; only,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> after <em>he</em> came, all thought of the import of it -had been transferred to him. But now, also, she was beginning to ask -herself sadly, “Would it ever be?” He was so airy, so inconsequential, -so ready to say: “Yes, yes,” and “Sure, sure! That’s right! Yes, -indeedy; you bet! Say, kiddie, but you’ll look sweet!” but, somehow, -it had always seemed as if this whole thing were a glorious interlude -and that it could not last. Arthur was too gay and ethereal and too -little settled in his own mind. His ideas of travel and living in -different cities, finally winding up in New York or San Francisco, but -never with her exactly until she asked him, was too ominous, although -he always reassured her gaily: “Of course! Of course!” But somehow she -could never believe it really, and it made her intensely sad at times, -horribly gloomy. So often she wanted to cry, and she could scarcely -tell why.</p> - -<p>And then, because of her intense affection for him, she had finally -quarreled with Barton, or nearly that, if one could say that one ever -really quarreled with him. It had been because of a certain Thursday -evening a few weeks before about which she had disappointed him. In -a fit of generosity, knowing that Arthur was coming Wednesday, and -because Barton had stopped in at the store to see her, she had told him -that he might come, having regretted it afterward, so enamored was she -of Arthur. And then when Wednesday came, Arthur had changed his mind, -telling her he would come Friday instead, but on Thursday evening he -had stopped in at the store and asked her to go to Sparrows Point, with -the result that she had no time to notify Barton. He had gone to the -house and sat with her parents until ten-thirty, and then, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> few days -later, although she had written him offering an excuse, had called at -the store to complain slightly.</p> - -<p>“Do you think you did just right, Shirley? You might have sent word, -mightn’t you? Who was it—the new fellow you won’t tell me about?”</p> - -<p>Shirley flared on the instant.</p> - -<p>“Supposing it was? What’s it to you? I don’t belong to you yet, do -I? I told you there wasn’t any one, and I wish you’d let me alone -about that. I couldn’t help it last Thursday—that’s all—and I don’t -want you to be fussing with me—that’s all. If you don’t want to, you -needn’t come any more, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that, Shirley,” pleaded Barton. “You don’t mean that. I -won’t bother you, though, if you don’t want me any more.”</p> - -<p>And because Shirley sulked, not knowing what else to do, he had gone -and she had not seen him since.</p> - -<p>And then sometime later when she had thus broken with Barton, avoiding -the railway station where he worked, Arthur had failed to come at his -appointed time, sending no word until the next day, when a note came to -the store saying that he had been out of town for his firm over Sunday -and had not been able to notify her, but that he would call Tuesday. -It was an awful blow. At the time, Shirley had a vision of what was to -follow. It seemed for the moment as if the whole world had suddenly -been reduced to ashes, that there was nothing but black charred cinders -anywhere—she felt that about all life. Yet it all came to her clearly -then that this was but the beginning of just such days and just such -excuses, and that soon, soon, he would come no more. He was beginning -to be tired of her and soon he would not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> even make excuses. She felt -it, and it froze and terrified her.</p> - -<p>And then, soon after, the indifference which she feared did -follow—almost created by her own thoughts, as it were. First, it -was a meeting he had to attend somewhere one Wednesday night when he -was to have come for her. Then he was going out of town again, over -Sunday. Then he was going away for a whole week—it was absolutely -unavoidable, he said, his commercial duties were increasing—and once -he had casually remarked that nothing could stand in the way where -she was concerned—never! She did not think of reproaching him with -this; she was too proud. If he was going, he must go. She would not be -willing to say to herself that she had ever attempted to hold any man. -But, just the same, she was agonized by the thought. When he was with -her, he seemed tender enough; only, at times, his eyes wandered and he -seemed slightly bored. Other girls, particularly pretty ones, seemed to -interest him as much as she did.</p> - -<p>And the agony of the long days when he did not come any more for a -week or two at a time! The waiting, the brooding, the wondering, at -the store and here in her home—in the former place making mistakes at -times because she could not get her mind off him and being reminded -of them, and here at her own home at nights, being so absent-minded -that her parents remarked on it. She felt sure that her parents must -be noticing that Arthur was not coming any more, or as much as he -had—for she pretended to be going out with him, going to Mabel Gove’s -instead—and that Barton had deserted her too, he having been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> driven -off by her indifference, never to come any more, perhaps, unless she -sought him out.</p> - -<p>And then it was that the thought of saving her own face by taking up -with Barton once more occurred to her, of using him and his affections -and faithfulness and dulness, if you will, to cover up her own dilemma. -Only, this ruse was not to be tried until she had written Arthur this -one letter—a pretext merely to see if there was a single ray of hope, -a letter to be written in a gentle-enough way and asking for the return -of the few notes she had written him. She had not seen him now in -nearly a month, and the last time she had, he had said he might soon be -compelled to leave her awhile—to go to Pittsburgh to work. And it was -his reply to this that she now held in her hand—from Pittsburgh! It -was frightful! The future without him!</p> - -<p>But Barton would never know really what had transpired, if she went -back to him. In spite of all her delicious hours with Arthur, she could -call him back, she felt sure. She had never really entirely dropped -him, and he knew it. He had bored her dreadfully on occasion, arriving -on off days when Arthur was not about, with flowers or candy, or both, -and sitting on the porch steps and talking of the railroad business -and of the whereabouts and doings of some of their old friends. It -was shameful, she had thought at times, to see a man so patient, so -hopeful, so good-natured as Barton, deceived in this way, and by her, -who was so miserable over another. Her parents must see and know, she -had thought at these times, but still, what else was she to do?</p> - -<p>“I’m a bad girl,” she kept telling herself. “I’m all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> wrong. What right -have I to offer Barton what is left?” But still, somehow, she realized -that Barton, if she chose to favor him, would only be too grateful -for even the leavings of others where she was concerned, and that even -yet, if she but deigned to crook a finger, she could have him. He was -so simple, so good-natured, so stolid and matter of fact, so different -to Arthur whom (she could not help smiling at the thought of it) she -was loving now about as Barton loved her—slavishly, hopelessly.</p> - -<p>And then, as the days passed and Arthur did not write any more—just -this one brief note—she at first grieved horribly, and then in a fit -of numb despair attempted, bravely enough from one point of view, to -adjust herself to the new situation. Why should she despair? Why die -of agony where there were plenty who would still sigh for her—Barton -among others? She was young, pretty, very—many told her so. She could, -if she chose, achieve a vivacity which she did not feel. Why should she -brook this unkindness without a thought of retaliation? Why shouldn’t -she enter upon a gay and heartless career, indulging in a dozen -flirtations at once—dancing and killing all thoughts of Arthur in a -round of frivolities? There were many who beckoned to her. She stood at -her counter in the drug store on many a day and brooded over this, but -at the thought of which one to begin with, she faltered. After her late -love, all were so tame, for the present anyhow.</p> - -<p>And then—and then—always there was Barton, the humble or faithful, to -whom she had been so unkind and whom she had used and whom she still -really liked. So often self-reproaching thoughts in connection<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> with -him crept over her. He must have known, must have seen how badly she -was using him all this while, and yet he had not failed to come and -come, until she had actually quarreled with him, and any one would have -seen that it was literally hopeless. She could not help remembering, -especially now in her pain, that he adored her. He was not calling -on her now at all—by her indifference she had finally driven him -away—but a word, a word— She waited for days, weeks, hoping against -hope, and then——</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The office of Barton’s superior in the Great Eastern terminal had -always made him an easy object for her blandishments, coming and going, -as she frequently did, via this very station. He was in the office of -the assistant train-despatcher on the ground floor, where passing to -and from the local, which, at times, was quicker than a street-car, she -could easily see him by peering in; only, she had carefully avoided him -for nearly a year. If she chose now, and would call for a message-blank -at the adjacent telegraph-window which was a part of his room, and -raised her voice as she often had in the past, he could scarcely fail -to hear, if he did not see her. And if he did, he would rise and come -over—of that she was sure, for he never could resist her. It had been -a wile of hers in the old days to do this or to make her presence felt -by idling outside. After a month of brooding, she felt that she must -act—her position as a deserted girl was too much. She could not stand -it any longer really—the eyes of her mother, for one.</p> - -<p>It was six-fifteen one evening when, coming out of the store in which -she worked, she turned her step<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> disconsolately homeward. Her heart -was heavy, her face rather pale and drawn. She had stopped in the -store’s retiring-room before coming out to add to her charms as much as -possible by a little powder and rouge and to smooth her hair. It would -not take much to reallure her former sweetheart, she felt sure—and yet -it might not be so easy after all. Suppose he had found another? But -she could not believe that. It had scarcely been long enough since he -had last attempted to see her, and he was really so very, very fond of -her and so faithful. He was too slow and certain in his choosing—he -had been so with her. Still, who knows? With this thought, she went -forward in the evening, feeling for the first time the shame and pain -that comes of deception, the agony of having to relinquish an ideal and -the feeling of despair that comes to those who find themselves in the -position of suppliants, stooping to something which in better days and -better fortune they would not know. Arthur was the cause of this.</p> - -<p>When she reached the station, the crowd that usually filled it at this -hour was swarming. There were so many pairs like Arthur and herself -laughing and hurrying away or so she felt. First glancing in the small -mirror of a weighing scale to see if she were still of her former -charm, she stopped thoughtfully at a little flower stand which stood -outside, and for a few pennies purchased a tiny bunch of violets. She -then went inside and stood near the window, peering first furtively to -see if he were present. He was. Bent over his work, a green shade over -his eyes, she could see his stolid, genial figure at a table. Stepping -back a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> moment to ponder, she finally went forward and, in a clear -voice, asked,</p> - -<p>“May I have a blank, please?”</p> - -<p>The infatuation of the discarded Barton was such that it brought him -instantly to his feet. In his stodgy, stocky way he rose, his eyes -glowing with a friendly hope, his mouth wreathed in smiles, and came -over. At the sight of her, pale, but pretty—paler and prettier, -really, than he had ever seen her—he thrilled dumbly.</p> - -<p>“How are you, Shirley?” he asked sweetly, as he drew near, his eyes -searching her face hopefully. He had not seen her for so long that he -was intensely hungry, and her paler beauty appealed to him more than -ever. Why wouldn’t she have him? he was asking himself. Why wouldn’t -his persistent love yet win her? Perhaps it might. “I haven’t seen you -in a month of Sundays, it seems. How are the folks?”</p> - -<p>“They’re all right, Bart,” she smiled archly, “and so am I. How have -you been? It has been a long time since I’ve seen you. I’ve been -wondering how you were. Have you been all right? I was just going to -send a message.”</p> - -<p>As he had approached, Shirley had pretended at first not to see him, a -moment later to affect surprise, although she was really suppressing a -heavy sigh. The sight of him, after Arthur, was not reassuring. Could -she really interest herself in him any more? Could she?</p> - -<p>“Sure, sure,” he replied genially; “I’m always all right. You couldn’t -kill me, you know. Not going away, are you, Shirl?” he queried -interestedly.</p> - -<p>“No; I’m just telegraphing to Mabel. She promised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> to meet me -to-morrow, and I want to be sure she will.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t come past here as often as you did, Shirley,” he complained -tenderly. “At least, I don’t seem to see you so often,” he added with -a smile. “It isn’t anything I have done, is it?” he queried, and then, -when she protested quickly, added: “What’s the trouble, Shirl? Haven’t -been sick, have you?”</p> - -<p>She affected all her old gaiety and ease, feeling as though she would -like to cry.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” she returned; “I’ve been all right. I’ve been going through -the other door, I suppose, or coming in and going out on the Langdon -Avenue car.” (This was true, because she had been wanting to avoid -him.) “I’ve been in such a hurry, most nights, that I haven’t had time -to stop, Bart. You know how late the store keeps us at times.”</p> - -<p>He remembered, too, that in the old days she had made time to stop or -meet him occasionally.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know,” he said tactfully. “But you haven’t been to any of our -old card-parties either of late, have you? At least, I haven’t seen -you. I’ve gone to two or three, thinking you might be there.”</p> - -<p>That was another thing Arthur had done—broken up her interest in -these old store and neighborhood parties and a banjo-and-mandolin club -to which she had once belonged. They had all seemed so pleasing and -amusing in the old days—but now— * * * *   In those days Bart had been -her usual companion when his work permitted.</p> - -<p>“No,” she replied evasively, but with a forced air of pleasant -remembrance; “I have often thought of how much fun we had at those, -though. It was a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> shame to drop them. You haven’t seen Harry Stull -or Trina Task recently, have you?” she inquired, more to be saying -something than for any interest she felt.</p> - -<p>He shook his head negatively, then added:</p> - -<p>“Yes, I did, too; here in the waiting-room a few nights ago. They were -coming down-town to a theater, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>His face fell slightly as he recalled how it had been their custom to -do this, and what their one quarrel had been about. Shirley noticed it. -She felt the least bit sorry for him, but much more for herself, coming -back so disconsolately to all this.</p> - -<p>“Well, you’re looking as pretty as ever, Shirley,” he continued, noting -that she had not written the telegram and that there was something -wistful in her glance. “Prettier, I think,” and she smiled sadly. Every -word that she tolerated from him was as so much gold to him, so much of -dead ashes to her. “You wouldn’t like to come down some evening this -week and see ‘The Mouse-Trap,’ would you? We haven’t been to a theater -together in I don’t know when.” His eyes sought hers in a hopeful, -doglike way.</p> - -<p>So—she could have him again—that was the pity of it! To have what -she really did not want, did not care for! At the least nod now he -would come, and this very devotion made it all but worthless, and so -sad. She ought to marry him now for certain, if she began in this way, -and could in a month’s time if she chose, but oh, oh—could she? For -the moment she decided that she could not, would not. If he had only -repulsed her—told her to go—ignored her—but no; it was her fate to -be loved by him in this moving, pleading way, and hers not to love him -as she wished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> to love—to be loved. Plainly, he needed some one like -her, whereas she, she——. She turned a little sick, a sense of the -sacrilege of gaiety at this time creeping into her voice, and exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“No, no!” Then seeing his face change, a heavy sadness come over -it, “Not this week, anyhow, I mean” (“Not so soon,” she had almost -said). “I have several engagements this week and I’m not feeling -well. But”—seeing his face change, and the thought of her own state -returning—“you might come out to the house some evening instead, and -then we can go some other time.”</p> - -<p>His face brightened intensely. It was wonderful how he longed to be -with her, how the least favor from her comforted and lifted him up. She -could see also now, however, how little it meant to her, how little it -could ever mean, even if to him it was heaven. The old relationship -would have to be resumed in toto, once and for all, but did she want it -that way now that she was feeling so miserable about this other affair? -As she meditated, these various moods racing to and fro in her mind, -Barton seemed to notice, and now it occurred to him that perhaps he had -not pursued her enough—was too easily put off. She probably did like -him yet. This evening, her present visit, seemed to prove it.</p> - -<p>“Sure, sure!” he agreed. “I’d like that. I’ll come out Sunday, if you -say. We can go any time to the play. I’m sorry, Shirley, if you’re -not feeling well. I’ve thought of you a lot these days. I’ll come out -Wednesday, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>She smiled a wan smile. It was all so much easier than she had -expected—her triumph—and so ashenlike<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> in consequence, a flavor of -dead-sea fruit and defeat about it all, that it was pathetic. How could -she, after Arthur? How could he, really?</p> - -<p>“Make it Sunday,” she pleaded, naming the farthest day off, and then -hurried out.</p> - -<p>Her faithful lover gazed after her, while she suffered an intense -nausea. To think—to think—it should all be coming to this! She had -not used her telegraph-blank, and now had forgotten all about it. It -was not the simple trickery that discouraged her, but her own future -which could find no better outlet than this, could not rise above it -apparently, or that she had no heart to make it rise above it. Why -couldn’t she interest herself in some one different to Barton? Why did -she have to return to him? Why not wait and meet some other—ignore -him as before? But no, no; nothing mattered now—no one—it might as -well be Barton really as any one, and she would at least make him happy -and at the same time solve her own problem. She went out into the -train-shed and climbed into her train. Slowly, after the usual pushing -and jostling of a crowd, it drew out toward Latonia, that suburban -region in which her home lay. As she rode, she thought.</p> - -<p>“What have I just done? What am I doing?” she kept asking herself as -the clacking wheels on the rails fell into a rhythmic dance and the -houses of the brown, dry, endless city fled past in a maze. “Severing -myself decisively from the past—the happy past—for supposing, once I -am married, Arthur should return and want me again—suppose! Suppose!”</p> - -<p>Below at one place, under a shed, were some market-gardeners disposing -of the last remnants of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> day’s wares—a sickly, dull life, she -thought. Here was Rutgers Avenue, with its line of red street-cars, -many wagons and tracks and counter-streams of automobiles—how often -had she passed it morning and evening in a shuttle-like way, and -how often would, unless she got married! And here, now, was the -river flowing smoothly between its banks lined with coal-pockets and -wharves—away, away to the huge deep sea which she and Arthur had -enjoyed so much. Oh, to be in a small boat and drift out, out into the -endless, restless, pathless deep! Somehow the sight of this water, -to-night and every night, brought back those evenings in the open -with Arthur at Sparrows Point, the long line of dancers in Eckert’s -Pavilion, the woods at Atholby, the park, with the dancers in the -pavilion—she choked back a sob. Once Arthur had come this way with -her on just such an evening as this, pressing her hand and saying how -wonderful she was. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! And now Barton was to take his -old place again—forever, no doubt. She could not trifle with her life -longer in this foolish way, or his. What was the use? But think of it!</p> - -<p>Yes, it must be—forever now, she told herself. She must marry. Time -would be slipping by and she would become too old. It was her only -future—marriage. It was the only future she had ever contemplated -really, a home, children, the love of some man whom she could love as -she loved Arthur. Ah, what a happy home that would have been for her! -But now, now——</p> - -<p>But there must be no turning back now, either. There was no other way. -If Arthur ever came back—but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> fear not, he wouldn’t! She had risked -so much and lost—lost him. Her little venture into true love had -been such a failure. Before Arthur had come all had been well enough. -Barton, stout and simple and frank and direct, had in some way—how, -she could scarcely realize now—offered sufficient of a future. But -now, now! He had enough money, she knew, to build a cottage for the two -of them. He had told her so. He would do his best always to make her -happy, she was sure of that. They could live in about the state her -parents were living in—or a little better, not much—and would never -want. No doubt there would be children, because he craved them—several -of them—and that would take up her time, long years of it—the sad, -gray years! But then Arthur, whose children she would have thrilled to -bear, would be no more, a mere memory—think of that!—and Barton, the -dull, the commonplace, would have achieved his finest dream—and why?</p> - -<p>Because love was a failure for her—that was why—and in her life -there could be no more true love. She would never love any one again -as she had Arthur. It could not be, she was sure of it. He was too -fascinating, too wonderful. Always, always, wherever she might be, -whoever she might marry, he would be coming back, intruding between -her and any possible love, receiving any possible kiss. It would be -Arthur she would be loving or kissing. She dabbed at her eyes with a -tiny handkerchief, turned her face close to the window and stared out, -and then as the environs of Latonia came into view, wondered (so deep -is romance): What if Arthur should come back at some time—or now! -Supposing he should be here at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> station now, accidentally or on -purpose, to welcome her, to soothe her weary heart. He had met her here -before. How she would fly to him, lay her head on his shoulder, forget -forever that Barton ever was, that they had ever separated for an hour. -Oh, Arthur! Arthur!</p> - -<p>But no, no; here was Latonia—here the viaduct over her train, the -long business street and the cars marked “Center” and “Langdon Avenue” -running back into the great city. A few blocks away in tree-shaded -Bethune Street, duller and plainer than ever, was her parents’ cottage -and the routine of that old life which was now, she felt, more fully -fastened upon her than ever before—the lawn-mowers, the lawns, the -front porches all alike. Now would come the going to and fro of Barton -to business as her father and she now went to business, her keeping -house, cooking, washing, ironing, sewing for Barton as her mother now -did these things for her father and herself. And she would not be in -love really, as she wanted to be. Oh, dreadful! She could never escape -it really, now that she could endure it less, scarcely for another -hour. And yet she must, must, for the sake of—for the sake of—she -closed her eyes and dreamed.</p> - -<p>She walked up the street under the trees, past the houses and lawns all -alike to her own, and found her father on their veranda reading the -evening paper. She sighed at the sight.</p> - -<p>“Back, daughter?” he called pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Your mother is wondering if you would like steak or liver for dinner. -Better tell her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p> - -<p>She hurried into her bedroom, threw down her hat and gloves, and -herself on the bed to rest silently, and groaned in her soul. To think -that it had all come to this!—Never to see him any more!—To see only -Barton, and marry him and live in such a street, have four or five -children, forget all her youthful companionships—and all to save her -face before her parents, and her future. Why must it be? Should it -be, really? She choked and stifled. After a little time her mother, -hearing her come in, came to the door—thin, practical, affectionate, -conventional.</p> - -<p>“What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you feeling well to-night? Have you a -headache? Let me feel.”</p> - -<p>Her thin cool fingers crept over her temples and hair. She suggested -something to eat or a headache powder right away.</p> - -<p>“I’m all right, mother. I’m just not feeling well now. Don’t bother. -I’ll get up soon. Please don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Would you rather have liver or steak to-night, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, anything—nothing—please don’t bother—steak will -do—anything”—if only she could get rid of her and be at rest!</p> - -<p>Her mother looked at her and shook her head sympathetically, then -retreated quietly, saying no more. Lying so, she thought and -thought—grinding, destroying thoughts about the beauty of the past, -the darkness of the future—until able to endure them no longer she got -up and, looking distractedly out of the window into the yard and the -house next door, stared at her future fixedly. What should she do? What -should she really do? There was <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Kessel in her kitchen getting her -dinner as usual, just as her own mother<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> was now, and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Kessel out on -the front porch in his shirt-sleeves reading the evening paper. Beyond -was <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Pollard in his yard, cutting the grass. All along Bethune -Street were such houses and such people—simple, commonplace souls -all—clerks, managers, fairly successful craftsmen, like her father and -Barton, excellent in their way but not like Arthur the beloved, the -lost—and here was she, perforce, or by decision of necessity, soon to -be one of them, in some such street as this no doubt, forever and—. -For the moment it choked and stifled her.</p> - -<p>She decided that she would not. No, no, no! There must be some other -way—many ways. She did not have to do this unless she really wished -to—would not—only—. Then going to the mirror she looked at her face -and smoothed her hair.</p> - -<p>“But what’s the use?” she asked of herself wearily and resignedly after -a time. “Why should I cry? Why shouldn’t I marry Barton? I don’t amount -to anything, anyhow. Arthur wouldn’t have me. I wanted him, and I am -compelled to take some one else—or no one—what difference does it -really make who? My dreams are too high, that’s all. I wanted Arthur, -and he wouldn’t have me. I don’t want Barton, and he crawls at my feet. -I’m a failure, that’s what’s the matter with me.”</p> - -<p>And then, turning up her sleeves and removing a fichu which stood out -too prominently from her breast, she went into the kitchen and, looking -about for an apron, observed:</p> - -<p>“Can’t I help? Where’s the tablecloth?” and finding it among napkins -and silverware in a drawer in the adjoining room, proceeded to set the -table.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_STORY_OF_STORIES">A STORY OF STORIES</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">Take</span> a smoky Western city. Call it Omaha or Kansas City or Denver, -only let the Mississippi flow past it. Put in it two rival morning -papers—two, and only two—the <i>Star</i> and the <i>News</i>, the -staffs of which are rather keen to outwit each other. On the staff of -the <i>News</i>, slightly the better of the two newspapers, put <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -David Kolinsky, alias (yes, alias) David, or “Red” Collins (a little -shift of nomenclature due to the facts that, first: he was a South -Russian Jew who looked exactly like a red-headed Irishman—that is -a peculiarity of South Russian Jews, I believe—and secondly: that -it was more <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">distingué</i>, as it were, to be Irish in Omaha or -Denver or Kansas City than it was to be a South Russian Jew). Give -him a slithery, self-confident, race-track or tout manner. Put on -him “loud” or showy clothes, a diamond ring, a ruby pin in his tie, -a yellowish-green Fedora hat, yellow shoes, freckles, a sneering -contemptuous “tough” smile, and you have <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> “Red” Collins as <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr>——</p> - -<p>But wait.</p> - -<p>On the <i>Star</i>, slightly the lesser of these two great dailies -that matutinally thrashed the city to a foam of interest, place <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Augustus Binns, no less, young (not over twenty-two), tall, college-y, -rather graceful as young college men go, literary of course, highly -ambitious, with gold eye-glasses, a wrist watch, a cane—in short, one -of those ambitious young gentlemen of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> this rather un-happy go un-lucky -scribbling world who has distinct ideals, to say nothing of dreams, -as to what the newspaper and literary professions combined should -bring him, and who, in addition, inherently despised all creatures of -the “Red” Collins, or race-track, gambler, amateur detective, police -and political, type. Well may you ask, what was <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins, with -his peculiar characteristics, doing on a paper of the importance and -distinction of the <i>News</i>. A long story, my dears. Newspapers are -peculiar institutions.</p> - -<p>For this same paper not long since had harbored the truly elegant -presence of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns himself, and so excellent a writer and news -gatherer was he that on more than one occasion he had been set to -revise or rewrite the tales which <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> “Red” Collins, who was then but -tentatively connected with the paper as a “tipster,” brought in. This -in itself was a crime against art and literature, as <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns saw it, -for, when you come right down to it, and in the strict meaning of the -word, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins was not a writer at all, could not write, in fact, -could only “bring in” his stories, and most interesting ones they were, -nearly all of them, whereas about the paper at all times were men who -could—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns, for instance. It insulted if not outraged <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns’s -sense of the fitness of things, for the <i>News</i> to hire such a -person and let him flaunt the title of “reporter” or “representative,” -for he admired the <i>News</i> very much and was glad to be of it. But -Collins! “Red” Collins!</p> - -<p>The latter was one of those “hard life,” but by no means hard luck, -Jews who by reason of indomitable ambition and will had raised himself -out of practically frightful conditions. He had never even seen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> a -bath-tub until he was fifteen or sixteen. By turns he had been a -bootblack, newsboy, race-track tout, stable boy, helper around a -saloon, and what not. Of late years, and now, because he was reaching -a true wisdom (he was between twenty-five and six), he had developed a -sort of taste for gambling as well as politics of a low order, and was -in addition a police hanger-on. He was really a sort of pariah in his -way, only the sporting and political editors found him useful. They -tolerated him, and paid him well for his tips because, forsooth, his -tips were always good.</p> - -<p>Batsford, the capable city editor of the <i>News</i>, a round, -forceful, gross person who was more allied to Collins than to Binns -in spirit, although he was like neither, was Binns’s first superior -in the newspaper world. He did not like Binns because, for one thing, -of his wrist watch, secondly, his large gold glasses—much larger -than they need have been—and thirdly, because of his cane, which he -carried with considerable of an air. The truth is, Binns was Eastern -and the city editor was Western, and besides, Binns had been more or -less thrust upon him by his managing editor as a favor to some one -else. But Binns could write, never doubt it, and proved it. He was a -vigorous reporter with a fine feeling for words and, above all, a power -to visualize and emotionalize whatever he saw, a thing which was of the -utmost importance in this rather loose Western emotional atmosphere. He -could handle any story which came to him with ease and distinction, and -seemed usually to get all or nearly all the facts.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, Collins, for all his garishness, and one might -almost say, brutality of spirit, was what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> Batsford would have called a -practical man. He knew life. He was by no means as artistic as Binns, -but still— Batsford liked to know what was going on politically and -criminally, and Collins could always tell him, whereas Binns never -could. Also, by making Binns rewrite Collins’s stories, he knew he -could offend him horribly. The two were like oil and water, Mussulman -and Christian.</p> - -<p>When Batsford first told Collins to relate the facts of a certain tale -to Binns and let him work it out, the former strolled over to the -collegian, his lip curled up at one corner, his eye cynically fixed on -him, and said, “The Chief says to give youse this dope and let youse -work it out.”</p> - -<p>Youse!</p> - -<p>Oh, for a large, bright broad ax!</p> - -<p>Binns, however, always your stickler for duty and order, bent on him -an equally cynical and yet enigmatic eye, hitched up his trousers -slightly, adjusted his wrist watch and glasses, and began to take down -the details of the story, worming them out of his rival with a delicacy -and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">savoir faire</i> worthy of a better cause.</p> - -<p>Not long after, however, it was brought to the horrified ears of -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns that <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins had said he was a “stiff” and a “cheap -ink-slinger,” a la-de-da no less, that writers, one and all, college -and otherwise, didn’t count for much, anyhow, that they were all -starving to death, and that they “grew on trees”—a phrase which -particularly enraged <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns, for he interpreted it to mean that they -were as numerous as the sands of the sea, as plentiful as mud.</p> - -<p>By Allah! That such dogs should be allowed to take the beards of great -writers into their hands thus!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> - -<p>Nevertheless and in spite of all this, the fortunes of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins went -forward apace, and that chiefly, as <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns frequently groaned, at -his expense. Collins would come in, and after a long series of “I sez -to him-s” and “He sez to me-s,” which <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns (per the orders of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Batsford) translated into the King’s best Britannica, he having in the -meanwhile to neglect some excellent tale of his own, would go forth -again, free to point the next day to a column or column-and-a-half or a -half-column story, and declare proudly, “My story.”</p> - -<p>Think of it! That swine!</p> - -<p>There is an end to all things, however, even life and crime. In due -time, as per a series of accidents and the groundless ill-will of -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Batsford, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns was perforce, in self-respect, compelled to -transfer his energies to the <i>Star</i>, a paper he had previously -contemned as being not so good, but where he was now made very welcome -because of his ability. Then, to his astonishment and disgust, one day -while covering a police station known as the South Ninth, from which -emanated many amazing police tales, whom should he encounter but “Red” -Collins, no less, now a full-fledged reporter on the <i>News</i>, if -you please, and “doing police.” He had a grand and even contemptuous -manner, barely deigning to notice Binns. Binns raged.</p> - -<p>But he noticed at once that Collins was far more <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en rapport</i> with -the various sergeants and the captain, as well as all that was going -on in this station, than ever he had dreamed of being. It was “Hello, -Red,” here and “Hi, sport,” there, while Collins replied with various -“Caps” and “Charlies.” He gave himself all the airs of a newspaper man -proper, swaggering about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> and talking of this, that, and the other -story which he had written, some of them having been done by Binns -himself. And what was more, Collins was soon closeted intimately with -the captain in his room, strolling in and out of that sanctum as if it -were his private demesne, and somehow giving Binns the impression of -being in touch with realms and deeds of which he had never heard, and -never would. It made Binns doubly apprehensive lest in these secret -intimacies tales and mysteries should be unfolded which should have -their first light in the pages of the <i>News</i>, and so leave him -to be laughed at as one who could not get the news. In consequence, -he watched the <i>News</i> more closely than ever for any evidence of -such treachery on the part of the police, while at the same time he -redoubled his interest in any such items as came to his attention. By -reason of this, as well as by his greater skill in writing and his -undeniable imagination, on more than one occasion he gave <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins -a good drubbing, chancing to make good stories out of things which <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Collins had evidently dismissed as worthless. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Au contraire</i>, now -and then a case appeared in the columns of the <i>News</i> with details -which he had not been able to obtain, and concerning which the police -had insisted that they knew nothing. It was thus that <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins -secured his revenge—and very good revenge too, it was at times.</p> - -<p>But <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns managed to hold his own, as, for instance, late one -August afternoon when a negro girl in one of those crowded alleys -which made up an interesting and even amazing portion of O—— was cut -almost to shreds by an ex-lover who, following her from river-city to -river-city and town to town, had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> finally come up with her here and had -taken his revenge.</p> - -<p>It was a glistering tale this. It appeared (but only after the greatest -industry on the part of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns) that some seven or eight months -before [the O—— papers curiously were always interested in a tale -of this kind] this same girl and the negro who had cut her had been -living together as man and wife in Cairo, Illinois, and that later the -lover (a coal passer or stevedore, working now on one boat and now on -another plying the Mississippi between New Orleans and O——), who was -plainly wildly fond of her, became suspicious and finally satisfying -himself that his mistress, who was a real beauty after her kind, was -faithless to him, set a trap to catch her. Returning suddenly one -day when she imagined him to be away for a week or two of labor, and -bursting in upon her, he found her with another man. Death would have -been her portion as well as that of her lover had it not been for the -interference of friends, which had permitted the pair to escape.</p> - -<p>Lacerated by the double offenses of betrayal and desertion, he now set -out to follow her, as the cutting on this occasion proved. Returning -to his task as stevedore and working his way thus from one river-city -to another, he arrived by turns in Memphis, Vicksburg, Natchez and -New Orleans, in each case making it a point to disguise himself as -a peddler selling trinkets and charms, and in this capacity walking -the crowded negro sections of all these cities calling his wares. -Ambling up one of these stuffy, stifling alleys, finally, in O—— -which bordered on this same police station and where so many negroes -lived, he encountered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> this late August afternoon his quondam but -now faithless love. In answer to his cry of “Rings! Pins! Buckles! -Trinkets!” his false love, apparently not recognizing his voice, put -her head out of a doorway. On the instant the damage was done. Dropping -his tray, he was upon her in a flash with his razor, cris-crossing and -slashing her until she was marred beyond recognition. With fiendish -cruelty he cut her cheeks, lips, arms, legs, back, and sides, so much -so that when Binns arrived at the City Hospital where she had been -taken, he found her unconscious and her life despaired of. On the other -hand, the lover had made good his escape, as had her paramour.</p> - -<p>Curiously, this story captured the fancy of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns as it did that -of his city editor later, completely. It was such a thing as he could -do, and do well. With almost deft literary art he turned it into a -rather striking black tragedy. Into it, after convincing his rather -fussy city editor that it was worth the telling, he had crowded a -bit of the flavor of the hot waterfronts of Cairo, Memphis, Natchez, -and New Orleans, the sing-song sleepiness of the stevedores at their -lazy labors, the idle, dreamy character of the slow-moving boats, -this rickety alley, with its semi-barbaric curtain-hung shacks and -its swarming, idle, crooning, shuffling negro life. Even an old negro -refrain appropriate to a trinket peddler, and the low, bold negro life -two such truants might enjoy, were pictured. An old negro mammy with a -yellow-dotted kerchief over her head who kept talking of “disha Gawge” -and “disha Sam” and “disha Marquatta” (the girl), had moved him to a -poetic frenzy. Naturally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> it made a colorful tale, and his city editor -felt called upon to compliment him on it.</p> - -<p>But in the <i>News</i>, owing possibly to Collins’s inability to -grasp the full significance, the romance, of such a story as this, it -received but a scant stick—a low dive cutting affray. His was not the -type of mind that could see the color here, but once seen he could -realize wherein he had been beaten, and it infuriated him.</p> - -<p>“You think you’re a helluva feller, dontcha?” he snarled the next day -on sight, his lip a-curl with scorn and rage. “You think you’ve pulled -off sompin swell. Say, I’ve been up against you wordy boys before, and -I can work all around you. All you guys can do is get a few facts and -then pad ’em up. You never get the real stuff, never,” and he even -snapped his fingers under the nose of the surprised <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns. “Wait’ll -we get a real case some time, you and me, and then I’ll show you -sompin. Wait and see.”</p> - -<p>“My good fellow,” <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns was about to begin, but the cold, hard, -revengeful glare in the eyes of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins quite took his breath away. -Then and there <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins put a strange haunting fear of himself into -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns’s mind. There was something so savage about him, so like that -of an angry hornet or snake that it left him all but speechless. “Is -that so?” he managed to say after a time. “You think you will, do you? -That’s easy enough to say, now that you’re beaten, but I guess I’ll be -right there when the time comes.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, go to hell!” growled Collins savagely, and he walked off, leaving -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns smiling pleasantly, albeit vacantly, and at the same time -wondering just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> what it was <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins was going to do to him, and -when.</p> - -<p>The sequel to this was somewhat more interesting.</p> - -<p>As <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns came in one morning fresh from his bath and breakfast, -his new city editor called him into his office. <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Waxby, in contrast -with <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Batsford, was a small, waspish, and yet affable and capable -man whom Binns could not say he admired as a man or a gentleman, but -who, he was sure, was a much better city editor than Batsford, and who -appreciated him, Binns, as Batsford never had, i.e., at his true worth. -Batsford had annoyed him with such a dog as Collins, whereas Waxby had -almost coddled him. And what a nose for news!</p> - -<p><abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Waxby eyed him rather solemnly and enigmatically on this occasion, -and then observed: “Do you remember, Binns, that big M.P. train robbery -that took place out here near Dolesville about six months ago?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“And do you remember that the Governor of this state and his military -staff, all in uniform, as well as a half dozen other big-wigs, were -on board, and that they all reported that there had been seven lusty -bandits, all heavily armed, some of whom went through the train and -robbed the passengers while others compelled the engineer and fireman -to get down, uncouple the engine, and then blow open the express car -door and safe for them and carry out the money, about twenty or thirty -thousand dollars all told?”</p> - -<p>Binns remembered it well. He had been on the <i>News</i> at the time, -and the full-page spread had attracted his keenest attention. It was -illustrative, as he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> thought, of the character of this region—raw and -still daring. It smacked so much of the lawlessness of the forties, -when pack-train and stage-coach robberies were the rule and not the -exception. It had caused his hair to tingle at the roots at times so -real was it. Never had he been so close, as it were, to anything so -dramatic.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, I remember it very well,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“And do you remember how the newspapers laughed over the fact that -the Governor and his military staff had crawled into their berths and -didn’t come out again until the train had started?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Well now, Binns, just read this,” and here <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Waxby handed him a -telegram, the while his eyes gleamed with a keen humorous light, and -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns read:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p class="right"> -“Medicine Flats, M. K.<br /> -</p> - -<p>“Lem Rollins arrested here to-day confesses to single-handed robbery -of M. P. express west of Dolesville February 2d last. Money recovered. -Rollins being brought to O—— via C.T.&A. this p.m. Should arrive -six-thirty.”</p> -</div> - -<p>“Apparently,” cackled <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Waxby, “there was nothing to that -seven-bandit story at all, Binns. There weren’t any seven robbers, but -just one, and they’ve caught him, and he’s confessed,” and here he -burst into more laughter.</p> - -<p>“No, Binns,” went on Waxby, “if this is really true, it is a wonderful -story. You don’t often find one man holding up a whole train anywhere -and getting away with twenty or thirty thousand dollars. It’s amazing. -I’ve decided that we won’t wait for him to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> arrive, but that you’re to -go out and meet him. According to this time-table you can take a local -that leaves here at two-fifteen and get to Pacific fifteen minutes -ahead of the express on which he is coming in, and you’ve just about -time to make it. That will give you all of an hour and a half in which -to interview him. It’s just possible that the <i>News</i> and the other -papers won’t get wind of this in time to send a man. Think of the -opportunity it gives you to study him! No seven robbers, remember, but -just one! And the Governor and his whole staff on board! Make him tell -what he thinks of the Governor and his staff. Make him talk. Ha! ha! -You’ll have him all to yourself. Think of that! And they crawled into -their berths! Ha! ha! Gee whiz, you’ve got the chance of a lifetime!”</p> - -<p><abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns stared at the telegram. He recalled the detailed descriptions -of the actions of the seven robbers, how some of them had prowled -up and down outside the train, while others went through it rifling -the passengers, and still others, forward, overawed the engineer and -fireman, broke open and robbed the express car safe in the face of an -armed messenger as well as mailman and trainmen, and how they had then -decamped into the dark. How could one man have done it? It couldn’t be -true!</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he arose, duly impressed. It would be no easy task to get -just the right touch, but he felt that he might. If only the train -weren’t over-run with other reporters! He stuffed some notepaper into -his pocket and bustled down to the Union Station—if <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns could be -said to <em>bustle</em>. Here he encountered his first hitch.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> - -<p>On inquiring for a ticket to Pacific, the slightly disturbing response -of “Which road?” was made.</p> - -<p>“Are there two?” asked <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns.</p> - -<p>“Yes—M.P. and C.T.&A.”</p> - -<p>“They both go to Pacific, do they?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Which train leaves first?”</p> - -<p>“C.T.&A. It’s waiting now.”</p> - -<p><abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns hesitated, but there was no time to lose. It didn’t make any -difference, so long as he connected with the incoming express, as the -time-table showed that this did. He paid for his ticket and got aboard, -but now an irritating thought came to him. Supposing other reporters -from either the <i>News</i> or one of the three afternoon papers were -aboard, especially the <i>News</i>! If there were not he would have -this fine task all to himself, and what a beat! But if there were -others? He walked forward to the smoker, which was the next car in -front, and there, to his intense disgust and nervous dissatisfaction, -he spied, of all people, the one man he would least have expected to -find on an assignment of this kind, the one man he least wanted to -see—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins, no less, red-headed, serene, determined, a cigar -between his teeth, crouched low in his seat smoking and reading a paper -as calmly as though he were not bent upon the most important task of -the year.</p> - -<p>“Pshaw!” exclaimed <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns irritably and even bitterly.</p> - -<p>He returned to his seat nervous and ill composed, all the more so -because he now recalled Collins’s venomous threat, “Wait’ll we get a -real case some time, you and me.” The low creature! Why, he couldn’t<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> -even write a decent sentence. Why should he fear him so? But just the -same he did fear him—why, he could scarcely say. Collins was so raw, -savage, brutal, in his mood and plans.</p> - -<p>But why, in heaven’s name, he now asked himself as he meditated in -his seat as to ways and means, should a man like Batsford send a man -like Collins, who couldn’t even write, to interpret a story and a -character of this kind? How could he hope to dig out the odd psychology -of this very queer case? Plainly he was too crude, too unintellectual -to get it straight. Nevertheless, here he was, and now, plainly, he -would have this awful creature to contend with. And Collins was so -bitter toward him. He would leave no trick unturned to beat him! These -country detectives and sheriff and railroad men, whoever they were or -wherever they came from, would be sure, on the instant, to make friends -with Collins, as they always did, and do their best to serve him. -They seemed to like that sort of man, worse luck. They might even, at -Collins’s instigation, refuse to let him interview the bandit at all! -If so, then what? But Collins would get something somehow, you might -be sure, secret details which they might not relate to him. It made -him nervous. Even if he got a chance he would have to interview this -wonderful bandit in front of this awful creature, this one man whom he -most despised, and who would deprive him of most of the benefit of all -his questions by writing as though he had thought of and asked all of -them himself. Think of it!</p> - -<p>The dreary local sped on, and as it drew nearer and nearer to Pacific, -Binns became more and more nervous.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> For him the whole charm of this -beautiful September landscape through which he was speeding now was -all spoiled. When the train finally drew up at Pacific he jumped down, -all alive with the determination not to be outdone in any way, and yet -nervous and worried to a degree. Let Collins do his worst, he thought. -He would show him. Still—just then he saw the latter jumping down. At -the same time, Collins spied him, and on the instant his face clouded -over. He seemed fairly to bristle with an angry animal rage, and he -glared as though he would like to kill Binns, at the same time looking -around to see who else might get off. “My enemy!” was written all over -him. Seeing no one, he ran up to the station-agent and apparently -asked when the train from the West was due. Binns decided at once not -to trail, but instead sought information from his own conductor, who -assured him that the East-bound express would probably be on time five -minutes later, and would certainly stop here.</p> - -<p>“We take the siding here,” he said. “You’ll hear the whistle in a few -minutes.”</p> - -<p>“It always stops here, does it?” asked Binns anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Always.”</p> - -<p>As they talked, Collins came back to the platform’s edge and stood -looking up the track. At the same time this train pulled out, and a -few minutes later the whistle of the express was heard. Now for a real -contest, thought Binns. Somewhere in one of those cars would be this -astounding bandit surrounded by detectives, and his duty, in spite of -the indignity of it, would be to clamber aboard and get there first, -explain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> who he was, ingratiate himself into the good graces of the -captors and the prisoner, and begin his questioning, vanquishing -Collins as best he might—perhaps by the ease with which he should take -charge. In a few moments the express was rolling into the station, and -then Binns saw his enemy leap aboard and, with that iron effrontery -and savageness which always irritated Binns so much, race through the -forward cars to find the prisoner. Binns was about to essay the rear -cars, but just then the conductor, a portly, genial-looking soul, -stepped down beside him.</p> - -<p>“Is Lem Rollins, the train robber they are bringing in from Bald Knob, -on here?” he inquired. “I’m from the <i>Star</i>, and I’ve been sent -out to interview him.”</p> - -<p>“You’re on the wrong road, brother,” smiled the conductor. “He’s not -on this train. Those detective fellows have fooled you newspaper men, -I’m afraid. They’re bringing him in over the M.P., as I understand it. -They took him across from Bald Knob to Wahaba and caught the train -there—but I’ll tell you,” and here he took out a large open-face -silver watch and consulted it, “you might be able to catch him yet if -you run for it. It’s only across the field there. You see that little -yellow station over there? Well, that’s the depot. It’s due now, but -sometimes it’s a little late. You’ll have to run for it, though. You -haven’t a minute to spare.”</p> - -<p>Binns was all aquiver on the instant. Suppose, in spite of Collins’s -zeal and savagery, he should outwit him yet by catching this other -train while he was searching this one! All the gameness of his youth -and profession rose up in him. Without stopping to thank<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> his informer, -he leaped like a hare along the little path which cut diagonally across -this lone field and which was evidently well worn by human feet. As he -ran he wondered whether the genial conductor could possibly have lied -to him to throw him off the track, and also if his enemy, seeing him -running, had discovered his error by now and was following, granting -that the conductor had told him the truth. He looked back occasionally, -taking off his coat and glasses as he ran, and even throwing away -his cane. Apparently Collins was still searching the other train. -And now Binns at the same time, looking eagerly forward toward the -other station, saw a semaphore arm which stood at right angles to the -station lower itself for a clear track for some train. At the same time -he also spied a mail-bag hanging out on a take-post arm, indicating -that whatever this train was and whichever way it might be going, it -was not going to stop here. He turned, still uncertain as to whether -he had made a mistake in not searching the other train. Supposing -the conductor had deliberately fooled him! Suppose Collins had made -some preliminary arrangements of which he knew nothing? Suppose he -had! Supposing the burglar were really on there, and even now Collins -was busy with the opening questions of his interview, while he was -here, behind! Oh Lord, what a beat! And he would have no reasonable -explanation to offer except that he had been outwitted. What would -happen to him? He slowed up in his running, chill beads of sweat -bursting out on his face as he did so, but then, looking backward, he -saw the train begin to move and from it, as if shot out of a gun, the -significant form of Collins leap down and begin to run<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> along this -same path. Then, by George, the robber was not on it, after all! The -conductor had told him the truth! Ha! Collins would now attempt to make -this other train. He had been told that the bandit was coming in on -this. Binns could see him speeding along the path at top speed, his hat -off, his hands waving nervously about. But by now Binns had reached the -station a good three minutes ahead of his rival.</p> - -<p>Desperately he ran into it, a tiny thing, sticking his eager perspiring -face in at the open office window, and calling to the stout, truculent -little occupant of it:</p> - -<p>“When is the East-bound M.P. express due here?”</p> - -<p>“Now,” replied the agent surlily.</p> - -<p>“Does it stop?”</p> - -<p>“No, it don’t stop.”</p> - -<p>“Can it be stopped?”</p> - -<p>“No, it <em>cannot</em>!”</p> - -<p>“You mean to say you have no right to stop it?”</p> - -<p>“I mean I won’t stop it.”</p> - -<p>As they spoke there came the ominous shriek of the express’s whistle -tearing on toward them. For the moment he was almost willing that -Collins should join him if only he could make the train and gain this -interview. He must have it. Waxby expected him to get it. Think of what -a beat he would have if he won—what Waxby would think if he failed!</p> - -<p>“Would five dollars stop it?” he asked desperately, diving into his -pocket.</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Will ten?”</p> - -<p>“It might,” the agent replied crustily, and rose to his feet.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> - -<p>“Stop it,” urged Binns feverishly, handing over the bill.</p> - -<p>The agent took it, and grabbing a tablet of yellow order blanks which -lay before him, scribbled something on the face of one and ran outside, -holding it up at arm’s length as he did so. At the same time he called -to Binns:</p> - -<p>“Run on down the track! Run after it. She won’t stop here—she can’t. -She’ll go a thousand feet before she can slow up. Get on down there, -and after you’re on I’ll let ’er go.”</p> - -<p>He waved the yellow paper desperately, while Binns, all tense with -excitement and desire, began running as fast as he could in the -direction indicated. Now, if he were lucky, he would make it, and -Collins would be left behind—think of it! He could get them to go -ahead, maybe, before Collins could get aboard. Oh, my! As he ran and -thought, he heard the grinding wheels of the express rushing up behind -him. In a thought, as it were, it was alongside and past, its wheels -shrieking and emitting sparks. True enough, it was stopping! He would -be able to get on! Oh, glory! And maybe Collins wouldn’t be able to! -Wouldn’t that be wonderful? It was far ahead of him now, but almost -stock-still, and he was running like mad. As he ran he could hear the -final gritty screech of the wheels against the brakes as the train came -to a full stop farther on, and then coming up and climbing aboard, -breathless and gasping painfully, he looked back, only to see that his -rival had taken a diagonal course across the common, and was now not -more than a hundred feet behind. He would make the train if he kept -this up. It could scarcely be started<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> quickly enough to leave him -behind, even if Binns paid for it. Instead of setting himself to the -stern task of keeping <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins off the train, however, as assuredly -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins would have done—with his fists or his feet, if necessary, -or his money—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns now hesitated, uncertain what to do. On the -rear platform with him was a brakeman newly stepped forth and, coming -out of the door, the conductor.</p> - -<p>“Let her go!” he cried to the conductor. “Let her go! It’s all right! -Go on!”</p> - -<p>“Don’t that other fellow want to get on?” asked the latter curiously.</p> - -<p>“No, no, no!” Binns exclaimed irritably and yet pleading. “Don’t let -him on! He hasn’t any right on here. I arranged to stop this train. -I’m from the <i>Star</i>. I’ll pay you if you don’t let him on. It’s -the train robber I want. Go ahead,” but even as he spoke <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins -came up, panting and wet, but with a leer of triumph and joy over his -rival’s discomfiture written all over his face as he pulled himself up -the steps.</p> - -<p>“You thought you’d leave me behind, didn’t you?” he sneered as he -pushed his way upward. “Well, I fooled you this time, didn’t I?”</p> - -<p>Now was the crucial moment of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns’s career had his courage been -equal to it, but it was not. He had the opportunity to do the one -thing which might have wrested victory from defeat—that is, push <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Collins off and keep him off. The train was beginning to move. But -instead of employing this raw force which <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins would assuredly -have employed, he hesitated and debated, unable in his super-refinement -to make up his mind, while <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins, not to be daunted or parleyed -with, dashed into the car in search<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> of the robber. In the sudden -immensity of his discomfiture, Binns now followed him with scarcely -a thought for the moment, only to see Collins bustling up to the -bandit in the third car ahead who, handcuffed to a country sheriff and -surrounded by several detectives, was staring idly at the passengers.</p> - -<p>“Gee, sport,” the latter was saying as <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns sat down, patting the -burglar familiarly on the knee and fixing him with that basilisk gaze -of his which was intended to soothe and flatter the victim, “that was -a great trick you pulled off. The paper’ll be crazy to find out how -you did it. My paper, the <i>News</i>, wants a whole page of it. It -wants your picture, too. Say, you didn’t really do it all alone, did -you? Well, that’s what I call swell work, eh, Cap?” and now he turned -his ingratiating leer on the country sheriff and the detectives. In -a moment or two more he was telling them all what an intimate friend -he was of “Billy” Desmond, the chief of detectives of O—— and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -So-and-So, the chief of police, as well as various other dignitaries of -that world.</p> - -<p>Plainly, admitted Binns to himself, he was beaten now, as much so -as this burglar, he thought. His great opportunity was gone. What a -victory this might have been, and now look at it! Disgruntled, he -sat down beside his enemy, beginning to think what to ask, the while -the latter, preening himself in his raw way on his success, began -congratulating the prisoner on his great feat.</p> - -<p>“The dull stuff!” thought <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns. “To think that I should have -to contend with a creature like this! And these are the people he -considers something! And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> he wants a whole page for the <i>News</i>! My -word! He’d do well if he wrote a half-column alone.”</p> - -<p>Still, to his intense chagrin, he could not fail to see that <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Collins was making excellent headway, not only with the country -sheriff, who was a big bland creature, but the detectives and even -the burglar himself. The latter was a most unpromising specimen for -so unique a deed—short, broad-shouldered, heavy-limbed, with a -squarish, inexpressive, even dull-looking face, blue-gray eyes, dark -brown hair, big, lumpy, rough hands, and a tanned and seamed skin. He -wore the cheap, nondescript clothes of a laborer, a blue “hickory” -shirt, blackish-gray trousers, brownish-maroon coat, and a red bandana -handkerchief in lieu of a collar. On his head was a small round brown -hat pulled down over his eyes after the manner of a cap. He had the -still, indifferent expression of a captive bird, and when Binns finally -faced him and sat down, he seemed scarcely to notice either him or -Collins, or if so with eyes that told nothing. Binns often wondered -afterward what he really did think. At the same time he was so incensed -at the mere presence of Collins that he could scarcely speak.</p> - -<p>The latter had the average detective-politician-gambler’s habit of -simulating an intense interest and an enthusiasm which he did not -feel, his face wreathing itself in a cheery smile, the while his eyes -followed one like those of a hawk, attempting all the while to discover -whether his assumed enthusiasm or friendship was being accepted at its -face value or not. The only time Binns seemed to obtain the least grip -on this situation, or to impress himself on the minds of the detectives -and prisoner, was when it came to those finer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> shades of questioning -which concerned just why, for what ulterior reasons, the burglar had -attempted this deed alone. But even here, Binns noticed that his -confrère was all ears, and making copious notes.</p> - -<p>But always, to Binns’s astonishment and chagrin, the prisoner as well -as his captors paid more attention to Collins than they did to himself. -They turned to him as to a lamp, and seemed to be really immensely more -impressed with him than with himself, although the principal lines of -questioning fell to him. After a time he became so dour and enraged -that he could think of but one thing that would really have satisfied -him, and that was to attack Collins physically and give him a good -beating.</p> - -<p>However, by degrees and between them, the story was finally extracted, -and a fine tale it made. It appeared that up to seven or eight months -preceding the robbery, possibly a year, Rollins had never thought of -being a train robber but had been only a freight brakeman or yard-hand -on this same road at one of its division points. Latterly he had even -been promoted to be a sort of superior switchman and assistant freight -handler at some station where there was considerable work of this kind. -Previous to his railroad work he had been a livery stable helper in the -town where he was eventually apprehended, and before that a farm-hand -somewhere near the same place. About a year before the crime, owing to -hard times, this road had laid off a large number of men, including -Rollins, and reduced the wages of all others by as much as ten per -cent. Naturally a great deal of labor discontent ensued, and strikes, -riots, and the like were the order of the day. Again, a certain number -of train robberies<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> which were charged and traced to discharged and -dissatisfied employees now followed. The methods of successful train -robbing were then and there so cleverly set forth by the average -newspaper that nearly any burglar so inclined could follow them. Among -other things, while working as a freight handler, Rollins had heard of -the many money shipments made by express companies in their express -cars, their large amounts, the manner in which they were guarded, and -so on.</p> - -<p>The road for which he worked at this time, the M.P., was, as he now -learned, a very popular route for money shipments both East and West. -And although express messengers (as those in charge of the car and -its safe were called) were well and invariably armed owing to the -many train robberies which had been occurring in the West recently, -still these assaults had not been without success. Indeed, the deaths -of various firemen, engineers, messengers, conductors, and even -passengers, and the fact that much money had recently been stolen -and never recovered, had not only encouraged the growth of banditry -everywhere, but had put such an unreasoning fear into most employees -connected with the roads that but few even of those especially picked -guards ventured to give these marauders battle.</p> - -<p>But just the same, the psychology which eventually resulted in this -amazing single-handed attempt and its success was not so much that -Rollins was a poor and discharged railroad hand unable to find any -other form of employment, although that was a part of it, or that he -was an amazingly cold, cruel and subtle soul, which he was not by any -means, but that he was really largely unconscious of the tremendous -risks he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> was taking. He was just mentally “thick”—well insulated, -as it were. This was a fact which Binns had to bring out and which -Collins noted. He had never, as it now developed, figured it out from -the point of danger, being more or less lobster-like in his nervous -organism, but solely from the point of view of success. In sum, in his -idleness, having wandered back to his native region where he had first -started out as a livery hand, he had now fallen in love with a young -girl there, and then realizing, for the first time perhaps, that he was -rather hard pressed for cash and unable to make her such presents as -he desired, he had begun to think seriously of some method of raising -money. Even this had not resulted in anything until latterly, another -ex-railroad hand who had been laid off by this same company arrived -and proposed, in connection with a third man whom he knew, to rob a -train. At this time Rollins had rejected this scheme as not feasible, -not wishing to connect himself with others in any such crime. Later, -however, his own condition becoming more pressing, he had begun to -think of train robbing as a means of setting himself up in life, only, -as he reasoned, it must be alone.</p> - -<p>Why alone? queried Binns.</p> - -<p>That was the point all were so anxious to discover—why alone, with all -the odds against him?</p> - -<p>Well, he couldn’t say exactly. He had just “kind o’ sort o’ thort,” as -he expressed it, that he might frighten them into letting him alone! -Other bandits (so few as three in one case of which he had read) had -held up large trains. Why not one? Revolver shots fired about a train -easily frightened all passengers as well as all trainmen, so the other -robbers had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> told him, and anyhow it was a life to death job either -way, and it would be better for him, he thought, if he worked it out -alone instead of with others. Often, he said, other men “squealed,” or -they had girls who told on them. He knew that. Binns looked at him, -intensely interested and all but moved by the sheer courage, or “gall,” -or “grit,” imbedded somewhere in this stocky frame.</p> - -<p>But how could he hope to overcome the engineer, fireman, baggage man, -express messenger, mailmen, conductor, brakeman and passengers, to -say nothing of the Governor and his staff? How? By the way, did he -know at the time that the Governor and his staff were on board? No, -he hadn’t known that until afterward, and as for the others, well, he -just thought he could overawe them. Collins’s eyes were luminous as -Rollins said this, his face radiant. Far more than Binns, he seemed to -understand and even approve of the raw force of all this.</p> - -<p>The manner in which Rollins came to fix on this particular train to rob -was also told. Every Thursday and Friday, or so he had been told while -he was assistant freight handler, a limited which ran West at midnight -past Dolesville carried larger shipments of money than on other nights. -This was due to week-end exchanges between Eastern and Western banks, -although he did not know that. Having decided on the train, although -not on the day, he had proceeded by degrees to secure from one distant -small town and another, and at different times so as to avoid all -chance of detection, first, a small handbag from which he had scraped -all evidence of the maker’s name; six or seven fused sticks of giant -powder such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> as farmers use to blow up stumps; two revolvers holding -six cartridges each, and some cartridges; and cord and cloth, out of -which he proposed to make bundles of the money if necessary. Placing -all of these in his bag, which he kept always beside him, he next -visited Dolesville, a small town nearest the spot which he had fixed on -in his mind as the place for his crime, and reconnoitering it and its -possibilities, finally arranged all his plans to a nicety.</p> - -<p>Just at the outskirts of this hamlet, as he now told Binns and Collins, -which had been selected because of its proximity to a lone wood and -marsh, stood a large water-tank at which this express as well as nearly -all other trains stopped for water. Beyond it, about five miles, was -the wood with its marsh, where he planned to have the train stopped. -The express, as he learned, was regularly due at about one in the -morning. The nearest town beyond the wood was all of five miles away, a -mere hamlet like this one.</p> - -<p>On the night in question, between eight and nine, he carried the bag, -minus its revolvers and sticks of giant powder, which were now on his -person, to that exact spot opposite the wood where he wished the train -to stop, and left it there beside the railroad track. He then walked -back the five miles to the water-tank, where he concealed himself and -waited for the train. When it stopped, and just before it started -again, he slipped in between the engine tender and the front baggage -car, which was “blind” at both ends. The train resumed its journey, but -on reaching the spot where he felt sure the bag should be, he could not -make it out. The engine headlight did not seem to reveal it. Fearing -to lose his chance and realizing that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> he was at about the place where -he had left it, he rose up, and climbing over the coal-box, covered -the two men in the cab, and compelled them to stop the train, dismount -and uncouple the engine. Then, revolver in hand, he drove them before -him to the express car door where, presenting one with a fused stick -of giant powder, he forced him to blow open the door; the messenger -within, still refusing to open it although he would not fire, for fear -of killing either the engineer or fireman. Both engineer and fireman, -at his command, then entered the car and blew open the money safe, -throwing out the packages of bills and coin at his word, the while -Rollins, realizing the danger of either trainmen or passengers coming -forward, had been firing a few shots backward toward the rear coaches -so as to overawe the passengers, and at the same time kept calling to -purely imaginary companions to keep watch there. It was these shots and -calls that had presumably sent the Governor and his staff scurrying -to their berths. They also put the fear of death into the minds of -the engineer and fireman and messenger, who imagined that he had many -confrères on the other side of the express car but for some reason, -because he was the leader, no doubt, preferred to act alone.</p> - -<p>“Don’t kill anybody, boys, unless you have to,” is what Rollins said he -called, or “That’s all right, Frank. Stay over there. Watch that side. -I’ll take care of these.” Then he would fire a few more shots, and so -all were deluded.</p> - -<p>Once the express car door and safe had been blown open and the money -handed out, he had now compelled the engineer and fireman to come down, -recouple the engine, and pull away. Only after the train had safely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> -disappeared in the distance did he venture to gather up the various -packages, only since he had lost his bag and had no light, he had -to fumble about and make a bag of his coat for them. With this over -his shoulder, he eventually staggered off into the wood and marsh, -concealing it under muck and stones, and then making for safety himself.</p> - -<p>But, as it turned out, two slight errors, one of forgetfulness and -one of eyesight, caused him to finally lose the fruit of his victory. -The loss of the bag, in which he had first placed and then forgotten -an initialed handkerchief belonging to his love, eventually brought -about his capture. It is true that he had gone back to look for the -bag, without, however, remembering that the handkerchief was in it, -but fearing capture if he lingered too long, had made off after a -time without it. Later a posse of detectives and citizens arriving -and finding the bag with the initialed handkerchief inside, they were -eventually able to trace him. For, experts meditating on the crime, -decided that owing to the hard times and the laying-off of employees, -some of the latter might have had a hand in it, and so, in due time, -the whereabouts and movements of each and every one of them was gone -into, resulting in the discovery finally that this particular ex-helper -had returned rather recently to his semi-native town and had there been -going with a certain girl, and that even now he was about to marry her. -Also, it was said that he was possessed of unusual means, for him. -Next, it was discovered that her initials corresponded to those on the -handkerchief. Presto, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Rollins was arrested, a search made of his -room, and nearly all of the money recovered. Then, being “caught with -the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> goods,” he confessed, and here on this day was he being hurried -to O—— to be jailed and sentenced, while <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Collins, -like harpies, hovered over him, anxious to make literary capital of his -error.</p> - -<p>The only thing that consoled <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns, now that this story was finally -told, was that although he had failed to make it impossible for Collins -to get it, when it came to the writing of it he would be able to outdo -him, making a better and more connected narrative. Still, even here he -was a little dubious. During this interview Collins had been making -endless notes, putting down each least shade of Binns’s questioning, -and with the aid of one or several of the best men of the <i>News</i> -would probably be able to work it out. Then what would be left?</p> - -<p>But as they were nearing O—— a new situation intruded itself which -soon threatened on the face of it to rob Binns of nearly, if not quite, -all his advantage. And this related, primarily, to the matter of a -picture. It was most essential that one should be made, either here or -in the city, only neither Waxby nor himself, nor the city editor of -the <i>News</i> apparently, had thought to include an artist on this -expedition. Now the importance of this became more and more apparent, -and Collins, with that keen sense he had for making tremendous capital -of seeming by-products, suggested, after first remarking that he -“guessed” they would have to send to police headquarters afterward and -have one made:</p> - -<p>“How would it do, old man, if we took him up to the <i>News</i> office -after we get in, and let your friends Hill and Weaver make a picture -of him?” (These two were intimates of Binns in the art department, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> -Collins happened to know.) “Then both of us could get one right away. -I’d say take him to the <i>Star</i>, only the <i>News</i> is so much -nearer” (which was true), “and we have that new flash-light machine, -you know” (which was also true, the <i>Star</i> being but poorly -equipped in this respect). He added a friendly aside to the effect that -of course this depended on whether the prisoner and officers in charge -were willing.</p> - -<p>“No, no, no!” replied Binns irritably and suspiciously. “No, I won’t do -that. You mean you want to get him into the <i>News</i> office first. -Not at all. I’ll never stand for that. Hill and Weaver are my friends, -but I won’t do it. If you want to bring him down to the <i>Star</i>, -that’s different. I’ll agree to that. Our art department can make -pictures just as good as yours, and you can have one.”</p> - -<p>For a moment Collins’s face fell, but he soon returned to the attack. -From his manner one would have judged that he was actually desirous of -doing Binns a favor.</p> - -<p>“But why not the <i>News</i>?” he insisted pleasantly. “Those two boys -are your friends. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. Think of the -difference in the distance, the time we’ll save. We want to save time, -don’t we? Here it is nearly six-thirty, and by the time we get back to -the office it’ll be half-past seven or eight. It’s all right for you, -because you can write faster, but look at me. I’d just as lief go down -there as not, but what’s the difference? Besides the <i>News</i> has -got a better plant, and you know it. Either Hill or Weaver’ll make a -fine picture, and they’ll give you one. Ain’t that all right?”</p> - -<p>At once he sensed what it was that Collins wanted.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> What he really -understood was that if Collins could get this great train robber into -the office of the <i>News</i> <em>first</em>, it would take away so much of -the sheer necessity he would be put to of repeating all he had heard -and seen en route. For once there, other staff members would be able -to take the criminal in hand and with the aid of what Collins had to -report, extract such a tale as even Binns himself could not better. In -addition, it would be such a triumph of reporting—to go out and bring -your subject in!</p> - -<p>“No, it’s not,” replied Binns truculently, “and I won’t do it. It’s all -right about Hill and Weaver. I know they’ll give me a picture if the -paper will let them, but I know the paper won’t let them, and besides, -you’re not doing it for that reason. I know what you want. You want -to be able to claim in the morning that you brought this man to the -<i>News</i> <em>first</em>. I know you.”</p> - -<p>For a moment Collins appeared to be quieted by this, and half seemed to -abandon the project. He took it up again after a few moments, however, -seemingly in the most conciliatory spirit in the world, only now he -kept boring Binns with his eyes, a thing which he had never attempted -before.</p> - -<p>“Aw, come on,” he repeated genially, looking Binns squarely in the -eyes. “What’s the use being small about this? You know you’ve got the -best of the story anyhow. And you’re goin’ to get a picture too, the -same as us. If you don’t, then we’ll have to go clear to your office or -send a man down to the jail. Think of the time it’ll take. What’s the -use of that? One picture’s as good as another. And you can’t take<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> any -good pictures down there to-night, anyhow, and you know it.”</p> - -<p>As he talked he held Binns’s eyes with his own, and all at once the -latter began to feel a curious wave of warmth, ease and uncertainty -or confusion creep over him in connection with all this. What was so -wrong with this proposition, anyhow, he began to ask himself, even -while inwardly something was telling him that it was all wrong and -that he was making a great mistake. For the first time in his life, -and especially in connection with so trying a situation, he began -to feel an odd sense of ease and comfort, or as if surrounded by a -cloud of something that was comfortable and soothing. This scheme of -Collins’s was not so bad after all, he thought. What was wrong with it? -Hill and Weaver were his friends. They would make a good picture and -give him one. Everything Collins was saying seemed true enough, only, -only—— For the first time since knowing him, and in spite of all his -opposition of this afternoon and before, Binns found himself not hating -his rival as violently as he had in the past, but feeling as though he -weren’t such an utterly bad sort after all. Curiously, though, he still -didn’t believe a word that Collins said, but——</p> - -<p>“To the <i>News</i>, sure,” he found himself saying in a dumb, -half-numb or sensuously warm way. “That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s -nearer. What’s wrong with that? Hill or Weaver will make a good picture -seven or eight inches long, and then I can take it along,” only at the -same time he was thinking to himself, “I shouldn’t really do this. I -shouldn’t think it. He’ll claim the credit of having brought this man -to the <i>News</i> office. He’s a big bluff, and I hate him. I’ll<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> be -making a big mistake. The <i>Star</i> or nothing—that’s what I should -say. Let him come down to the <i>Star</i>.”</p> - -<p>In the meantime they were entering O——, the station of which now -appeared. By now, somehow, Collins had not only convinced the officers, -but the prisoner himself. Binns could even see the rural love of show -and parade a-gleam in their eyes, their respect for the <i>News</i>, -the larger paper, as opposed to the <i>Star</i>. The <i>Star</i> might -be all right, but plainly the <i>News</i> was the great place in the -sight of these rurals for such an exhibition as this. What a pity, he -thought, that he had ever left the <i>News</i>!</p> - -<p>As he arose with the others to leave the train he said dully, “No, I -won’t come in on this. It’s all right if you want to bring him down to -the <i>Star</i>, or you can take him to police headquarters. But I’m -not going to let you do this. You hear now, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>But outside, Collins laying hold of his arm in an amazingly genial -fashion, seemed to come nearer to him humanly than he had ever dreamed -was possible before.</p> - -<p>“You come up with me to the <i>News</i> now,” Collins kept saying, “and -then I’ll go down with you to the <i>Star</i>, see? We’ll just let Hill -or Weaver take one picture, and then we’ll go down to your place—you -see?”</p> - -<p>Although <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Binns did not see, he went. For the time, nothing -seemed important. If Collins had stayed by him he could possibly -have prevented his writing any story at all. Even as Binns dreamed, -Collins hailed a carriage, and the six of them crowded into it and were -forthwith whirled away to the door of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> the <i>News</i> where, once -they had reached it and Collins, the detectives, and the bandit began -hurrying across the sidewalk to that familiar door which once had meant -so much to him, Binns suddenly awoke. What was it—the door? Or the -temporary distraction of Collins? At any rate, he awoke now and made a -frantic effort to retrieve himself.</p> - -<p>“Wait!” he called. “Say, hold on! Stop! I won’t do this at all. I don’t -agree to this!” but now it was too late. In a trice the prisoner, -officers, Collins and even himself were up the two or three low -steps of the main entrance and into the hall, and then seeing the -hopelessness of it he paused as they entered the elevator and was left -to meditate on the inexplicability of the thing that had been done to -him.</p> - -<p>What was it? How had this low brute succeeded in doing this to him? By -the Lord, he had succeeded in hypnotizing him, or something very much -like it. What had become, then, of his superior brain, his intellectual -force, in the face of this gross savage desire on the part of Collins -to win? It was unbelievable. Collins had beaten him, and that in a -field and at a task at which he deemed himself unusually superior.</p> - -<p>“Great heavens!” he suddenly exclaimed to himself. “That’s what he’s -done, he’s beaten me at my own game! He’s taken the prisoner, whom I -really had in my own hands at one time, into the office of our great -rival, and now in the morning it will all be in the paper! And I -allowed him to do it! And I had him beaten, too! Why didn’t I kick him -off the train? Why didn’t I bribe the conductor to help me? I could -have. I was afraid of him, that’s what it is. And to-morrow there’ll -be a long editorial in the <i>News</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> telling how this fellow was -brought first to the <i>News</i> and photographed, and they’ll have his -picture to prove it. Oh, Lord, what shall I do? How am I to get out of -this?”</p> - -<p>Disconsolate and weary, he groaned and swore for blocks as he made his -way toward the office of the <i>Star</i>. How to break it to Waxby! -How to explain! The exact truth meant disgrace, possibly dismissal. -He couldn’t tell really, as he had hoped he might, how he had all -but prevented Collins from obtaining any interview. Waxby would have -sniffed at his weakness in a crisis, put him down as a failure.</p> - -<p>Reaching the office, he told another kind of story which was but a -half truth. What he could and did say was that the police, being -temperamentally <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en rapport</i> with Collins, had worked with him and -against the <i>Star</i>; that in spite of anything he could do, these -rural officers and detectives had preferred to follow Collins rather -than himself, that the superior position of the <i>News</i> had lured -them, and that against his final and fierce protest they had eventually -gone in there, since the <i>News</i> was on the natural route to the -jail, and the <i>Star</i> was not.</p> - -<p>Now it was Waxby’s turn to rage, and he did—not at Binns, but at the -low dogs of police who were always favoring the <i>News</i> at the -expense of the <i>Star</i>. They had done it in the past, as he well -knew, when he was city editor of the <i>News</i>. Then it had pleased -him—but now——</p> - -<p>“I’ll fix them!” he squeaked shrilly. “I’ll make them sweat. No more -favors from me, by——,” and rushing a photographer to the jail he had -various pictures made, excellent ones, for that matter—only,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> what was -the good? The fact that the <i>News</i> had the honor of making the -first picture of this celebrity under its own roof, its own vine and -fig-tree, was galling. As a matter of fact, Waxby by now was blaming -himself for not having sent an artist along.</p> - -<p>But to Binns the sad part was that Collins had him beaten, and that in -the face of his self-boasted superiority. In spite of the fact that he -might slave over the text, as he did, giving it, because of his despair -and chagrin, all his best touches, still, the next morning, there on -the front page of the <i>News</i>, was a large picture of the bandit -seated in the sanctum sanctorum of the <i>News</i>, entirely surrounded -by reporters and editors, and with a portion of the figure, although -not the head, of the publisher himself in the background. And over it -all in extra large type was the caption:</p> - -<p>“LOAN TRAIN ROBBER VISITS OFFICE OF <i>NEWS</i> TO PAY HIS -RESPECTS” while underneath, in italics, was a full account of how -<em>willingly</em> he had visited the <i>News</i> because of its immense -commercial, moral and other forms of superiority.</p> - -<p>Was Binns beaten?</p> - -<p>Well, rather!</p> - -<p>And did he feel it?</p> - -<p>He suffered tortures, not only for days, but for weeks and months, -absolute tortures. The very thought of Collins made him want to rise -and slay him.</p> - -<p>“To think,” he said over and over to himself, “that a low dog like -Collins on whom I wouldn’t wipe my feet intellectually, as it were, -could do this to me! He hypnotized me, by George! He did! He can! Maybe -he could do it again! I wonder if he knows?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> Am I really the lesser and -this scum the greater? Do writers grow on trees?”</p> - -<p>Sad thought.</p> - -<p>And some weeks later, meeting his old enemy one day on the street, he -had the immense dissatisfaction of seeing the light of triumph and -contempt in his eyes. The latter was so bold now, and getting along -so well as a <em>reporter</em>, or “newspaper man,” that he had the -hardihood to leer, sniff and exclaim:</p> - -<p>“These swell reporters! These high-priced ink-slingers! Say, who got -the best of the train robber story, huh?”</p> - -<p>And Binns replied——</p> - -<p>But never mind what Binns replied. It wouldn’t be fit to read, and no -publisher would print it anyhow.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="OLD_ROGAUM_AND_HIS_THERESA">OLD ROGAUM AND HIS THERESA</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">In</span> all Bleecker Street was no more comfortable doorway than that of the -butcher Rogaum, even if the first floor was given over to meat market -purposes. It was to one side of the main entrance, which gave ingress -to the butcher shop, and from it led up a flight of steps, at least -five feet wide, to the living rooms above. A little portico stood out -in front of it, railed on either side, and within was a second or final -door, forming, with the outer or storm door, a little area, where <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Rogaum and her children frequently sat of a summer’s evening. The outer -door was never locked, owing to the inconvenience it would inflict on -<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Rogaum, who had no other way of getting upstairs. In winter, when -all had gone to bed, there had been cases in which belated travelers -had taken refuge there from the snow or sleet. One or two newsboys -occasionally slept there, until routed out by Officer Maguire, who, -seeing it half open one morning at two o’clock, took occasion to look -in. He jogged the newsboys sharply with his stick, and then, when they -were gone, tried the inner door, which was locked.</p> - -<p>“You ought to keep that outer door locked, Rogaum,” he observed to the -phlegmatic butcher the next evening, as he was passing, “people might -get in. A couple o’ kids was sleepin’ in there last night.”</p> - -<p>“Ach, dot iss no difference,” answered Rogaum<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> pleasantly. “I haf der -inner door locked, yet. Let dem sleep. Dot iss no difference.”</p> - -<p>“Better lock it,” said the officer, more to vindicate his authority -than anything else. “Something will happen there yet.”</p> - -<p>The door was never locked, however, and now of a summer evening <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Rogaum and the children made pleasant use of its recess, watching -the <a id="rout"></a>route of street cars and occasionally belated trucks go by. The -children played on the sidewalk, all except the budding Theresa -(eighteen just turning), who, with one companion of the neighborhood, -the pretty Kenrihan girl, walked up and down the block, laughing, -glancing, watching the boys. Old <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Kenrihan lived in the next -block, and there, sometimes, the two stopped. There, also, they -most frequently pretended to be when talking with the boys in the -intervening side street. Young “Connie” Almerting and George Goujon -were the bright particular mashers who held the attention of the -maidens in this block. These two made their acquaintance in the -customary bold, boyish way, and thereafter the girls had an urgent -desire to be out in the street together after eight, and to linger -where the boys could see and overtake them.</p> - -<p>Old <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum never knew. She was a particularly fat, old German -lady, completely dominated by her liege and portly lord, and at nine -o’clock regularly, as he had long ago deemed meet and fit, she was wont -to betake her way upward and so to bed. Old Rogaum himself, at that -hour, closed the market and went to his chamber.</p> - -<p>Before that all the children were called sharply, once from the -doorstep below and once from the window<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> above, only <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum did it -first and Rogaum last. It had come, because of a shade of lenience, not -wholly apparent in the father’s nature, that the older of the children -needed two callings and sometimes three. Theresa, now that she had “got -in” with the Kenrihan maiden, needed that many calls and even more.</p> - -<p>She was just at that age for which mere thoughtless, sensory life holds -its greatest charm. She loved to walk up and down in the as yet bright -street where were voices and laughter, and occasionally moonlight -streaming down. What a nuisance it was to be called at nine, anyhow. -Why should one have to go in then, anyhow. What old fogies her parents -were, wishing to go to bed so early. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Kenrihan was not so strict -with her daughter. It made her pettish when Rogaum insisted, calling -as he often did, in German, “Come you now,” in a very hoarse and -belligerent voice.</p> - -<p>She came, eventually, frowning and wretched, all the moonlight calling -her, all the voices of the night urging her to come back. Her innate -opposition due to her urgent youth made her coming later and later, -however, until now, by August of this, her eighteenth year, it was -nearly ten when she entered, and Rogaum was almost invariably angry.</p> - -<p>“I vill lock you oudt,” he declared, in strongly accented English, -while she tried to slip by him each time. “I vill show you. Du sollst -come ven I say, yet. Hear now.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll not,” answered Theresa, but it was always under her breath.</p> - -<p>Poor <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum troubled at hearing the wrath in her husband’s voice. -It spoke of harder and fiercer times which had been with her. Still she -was not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> powerful enough in the family councils to put in a weighty -word. So Rogaum fumed unrestricted.</p> - -<p>There were other nights, however, many of them, and now that the young -sparks of the neighborhood had enlisted the girls’ attention, it was -a more trying time than ever. Never did a street seem more beautiful. -Its shabby red walls, dusty pavements and protruding store steps and -iron railings seemed bits of the ornamental paraphernalia of heaven -itself. These lights, the cars, the moon, the street lamps! Theresa -had a tender eye for the dashing Almerting, a young idler and loafer -of the district, the son of a stationer farther up the street. What a -fine fellow he was, indeed! What a handsome nose and chin! What eyes! -What authority! His cigarette was always cocked at a high angle, in -her presence, and his hat had the least suggestion of being set to one -side. He had a shrewd way of winking one eye, taking her boldly by the -arm, hailing her as, “Hey, Pretty!” and was strong and athletic and -worked (when he worked) in a tobacco factory. His was a trade, indeed, -nearly acquired, as he said, and his jingling pockets attested that he -had money of his own. Altogether he was very captivating.</p> - -<p>“Aw, whaddy ya want to go in for?” he used to say to her, tossing his -head gayly on one side to listen and holding her by the arm, as old -Rogaum called. “Tell him yuh didn’t hear.”</p> - -<p>“No, I’ve got to go,” said the girl, who was soft and plump and fair—a -Rhine maiden type.</p> - -<p>“Well, yuh don’t have to go just yet. Stay another minute. George, what -was that fellow’s name that tried to sass us the other day?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> - -<p>“Theresa!” roared old Rogaum forcefully. “If you do not now come! Ve -vill see!”</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go,” repeated Theresa with a faint effort at starting. -“Can’t you hear? Don’t hold me. I haf to.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, whaddy ya want to be such a coward for? Y’ don’t have to go. He -won’t do nothin’ tuh yuh. My old man was always hollerin’ like that up -tuh a coupla years ago. Let him holler! Say, kid, but yuh got sweet -eyes! They’re as blue! An’ your mouth——”</p> - -<p>“Now stop! You hear me!” Theresa would protest softly, as, swiftly, he -would slip an arm about her waist and draw her to him, sometimes in a -vain, sometimes in a successful effort to kiss her.</p> - -<p>As a rule she managed to interpose an elbow between her face and -his, but even then he would manage to touch an ear or a cheek or her -neck—sometimes her mouth, full and warm—before she would develop -sufficient energy to push him away and herself free. Then she would -protest mock earnestly or sometimes run away.</p> - -<p>“Now, I’ll never speak to you any more, if that’s the way you’re going -to do. My father don’t allow me to kiss boys, anyhow,” and then she -would run, half ashamed, half smiling to herself as he would stare -after her, or if she lingered, develop a kind of anger and even rage.</p> - -<p>“Aw, cut it! Whaddy ya want to be so shy for? <a id="dont"></a>Don’tcha like me? What’s -gettin’ into yuh, anyhow? Hey?”</p> - -<p>In the meantime George Goujon and Myrtle Kenrihan, their companions, -might be sweeting and going<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> through a similar contest, perhaps a -hundred feet up the street or near at hand. The quality of old Rogaum’s -voice would by now have become so raucous, however, that Theresa would -have lost all comfort in the scene and, becoming frightened, hurry -away. Then it was often that both Almerting and Goujon as well as -Myrtle Kenrihan would follow her to the corner, almost in sight of the -irate old butcher.</p> - -<p>“Let him call,” young Almerting would insist, laying a final hold on -her soft white fingers and causing her to quiver thereby.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” she would gasp nervously. “I can’t.”</p> - -<p>“Well, go on, then,” he would say, and with a flip of his heel would -turn back, leaving Theresa to wonder whether she had alienated him -forever or no. Then she would hurry to her father’s door.</p> - -<p>“Muss ich all my time spenden calling, mit you on de streeds oudt?” old -Rogaum would roar wrathfully, the while his fat hand would descend on -her back. “Take dot now. Vy don’d you come ven I call? In now. I vill -show you. Und come you yussed vunce more at dis time—ve vill see if I -am boss in my own house, aber! Komst du vun minute nach ten to-morrow -und you vill see vot you vill get. I vill der door lock. Du sollst -not in kommen. Mark! Oudt sollst du stayen—oudt!” and he would glare -wrathfully at her retreating figure.</p> - -<p>Sometimes Theresa would whimper, sometimes cry or sulk. She almost -hated her father for his cruelty, “the big, fat, rough thing,” and just -because she wanted to stay out in the bright streets, too! Because he -was old and stout and wanted to go to bed at ten, he thought every one -else did. And outside was the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> dark sky with its stars, the street -lamps, the cars, the tinkle and laughter of eternal life!</p> - -<p>“Oh!” she would sigh as she undressed and crawled into her small neat -bed. To think that she had to live like this all her days! At the -same time old Rogaum was angry and equally determined. It was not so -much that he imagined that his Theresa was in bad company as yet, but -he wished to forefend against possible danger. This was not a good -neighborhood by any means. The boys around here were tough. He wanted -Theresa to pick some nice sober youth from among the other Germans he -and his wife knew here and there—at the Lutheran Church, for instance. -Otherwise she shouldn’t marry. He knew she only walked from his shop -to the door of the Kenrihans and back again. Had not his wife told him -so? If he had thought upon what far pilgrimage her feet had already -ventured, or had even seen the dashing Almerting hanging near, then had -there been wrath indeed. As it was, his mind was more or less at ease.</p> - -<p>On many, many evenings it was much the same. Sometimes she got in on -time, sometimes not, but more and more “Connie” Almerting claimed her -for his “steady,” and bought her ice-cream. In the range of the short -block and its confining corners it was all done, lingering by the -curbstone and strolling a half block either way in the side streets, -until she had offended seriously at home, and the threat was repeated -anew. He often tried to persuade her to go on picnics or outings of -various kinds, but this, somehow, was not to be thought of at her -age—at least with him. She knew her father would never endure the -thought, and never even had the courage to mention<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> it, let alone run -away. Mere lingering with him at the adjacent street corners brought -stronger and stronger admonishments—even more blows and the threat -that she should not get in at all.</p> - -<p>Well enough she meant to obey, but on one radiant night late in June -the time fled too fast. The moon was so bright, the air so soft. The -feel of far summer things was in the wind and even in this dusty -street. Theresa, in a newly starched white summer dress, had been -loitering up and down with Myrtle when as usual they encountered -Almerting and Goujon. Now it was ten, and the regular calls were -beginning.</p> - -<p>“Aw, wait a minute,” said “Connie.” “Stand still. He won’t lock yuh -out.”</p> - -<p>“But he will, though,” said Theresa. “You don’t know him.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if he does, come on back to me. I’ll take care of yuh. I’ll be -here. But he won’t though. If you stayed out a little while he’d letcha -in all right. That’s the way my old man used to try to do me but it -didn’t work with me. I stayed out an’ he let me in, just the same. -Don’tcha let him kidja.” He jingled some loose change in his pocket.</p> - -<p>Never in his life had he had a girl on his hands at any unseasonable -hour, but it was nice to talk big, and there was a club to which he -belonged, The Varick Street Roosters, and to which he had a key. It -would be closed and empty at this hour, and she could stay there until -morning, if need be or with Myrtle Kenrihan. He would take her there if -she insisted. There was a sinister grin on the youth’s face.</p> - -<p>By now Theresa’s affections had carried her far.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> This youth with his -slim body, his delicate strong hands, his fine chin, straight mouth and -hard dark eyes—how wonderful he seemed! He was but nineteen to her -eighteen but cold, shrewd, daring. Yet how tender he seemed to her, how -well worth having! Always, when he kissed her now, she trembled in the -balance. There was something in the iron grasp of his fingers that went -through her like fire. His glance held hers at times when she could -scarcely endure it.</p> - -<p>“I’ll wait, anyhow,” he insisted.</p> - -<p>Longer and longer she lingered, but now for once no voice came.</p> - -<p>She began to feel that something was wrong—a greater strain than if -old Rogaum’s voice had been filling the whole neighborhood.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got to go,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Gee, but you’re a coward, yuh are!” said he derisively. “What ’r yuh -always so scared about? He always says he’ll lock yuh out, but he never -does.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but he will,” she insisted nervously. “I think he has this time. -You don’t know him. He’s something awful when he gets real mad. Oh, -Connie, I must go!” For the sixth or seventh time she moved, and once -more he caught her arm and waist and tried to kiss her, but she slipped -away from him.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yuh!” he exclaimed. “I wish he would lock yuh out!”</p> - -<p>At her own doorstep she paused momentarily, more to soften her progress -than anything. The outer door was open as usual, but not the inner. -She tried it, but it would not give. It was locked! For a moment she -paused, cold fear racing over her body, and then knocked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> - -<p>No answer.</p> - -<p>Again she rattled the door, this time nervously, and was about to cry -out.</p> - -<p>Still no answer.</p> - -<p>At last she heard her father’s voice, hoarse and indifferent, not -addressed to her at all, but to her mother.</p> - -<p>“Let her go, now,” it said savagely, from the front room where he -supposed she could not hear. “I vill her a lesson teach.”</p> - -<p>“Hadn’t you better let her in now, yet?” pleaded <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum faintly.</p> - -<p>“No,” insisted <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Rogaum. “Nefer! Let her go now. If she vill alvays -stay oudt, let her stay now. Ve vill see how she likes dot.”</p> - -<p>His voice was rich in wrath, and he was saving up a good beating for -her into the bargain, that she knew. She would have to wait and wait -and plead, and when she was thoroughly wretched and subdued he would -let her in and beat her—such a beating as she had never received in -all her born days.</p> - -<p>Again the door rattled, and still she got no answer. Not even her call -brought a sound.</p> - -<p>Now, strangely, a new element, not heretofore apparent in her nature -but nevertheless wholly there, was called into life, springing in -action as Diana, full formed. Why should he always be so harsh? She -hadn’t done anything but stay out a little later than usual. He was -always so anxious to keep her in and subdue her. For once the cold -chill of her girlish fears left her, and she wavered angrily.</p> - -<p>“All right,” she said, some old German stubbornness springing up, “I -won’t knock. You don’t need to let me in, then.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span></p> - -<p>A suggestion of tears was in her eyes, but she backed firmly out onto -the stoop and sat down, hesitating. Old Rogaum saw her, lowering down -from the lattice, but said nothing. He would teach her for once what -were proper hours!</p> - -<p>At the corner, standing, Almerting also saw her. He recognized the -simple white dress, and paused steadily, a strange thrill racing -over him. Really they had locked her out! Gee, this was new. It was -great, in a way. There she was, white, quiet, shut out, waiting at her -father’s doorstep.</p> - -<p>Sitting thus, Theresa pondered a moment, her girlish rashness and anger -dominating her. Her pride was hurt and she felt revengeful. They would -shut her out, would they? All right, she would go out and they should -look to it how they would get her back—the old curmudgeons. For the -moment the home of Myrtle Kenrihan came to her as a possible refuge, -but she decided that she need not go there yet. She had better wait -about awhile and see—or walk and frighten them. He would beat her, -would he? Well, maybe he would and maybe he wouldn’t. She might come -back, but still that was a thing afar off. Just now it didn’t matter so -much. “Connie” was still there on the corner. He loved her dearly. She -felt it.</p> - -<p>Getting up, she stepped to the now quieting sidewalk and strolled up -the street. It was a rather nervous procedure, however. There were -street cars still, and stores lighted and people passing, but soon -these would not be, and she was locked out. The side streets were -already little more than long silent walks and gleaming rows of lamps.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> - -<p>At the corner her youthful lover almost pounced upon her.</p> - -<p>“Locked out, are yuh?” he asked, his eyes shining.</p> - -<p>For the moment she was delighted to see him, for a nameless dread had -already laid hold of her. Home meant so much. Up to now it had been her -whole life.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered feebly.</p> - -<p>“Well, let’s stroll on a little,” said the boy. He had not as yet quite -made up his mind what to do, but the night was young. It was so fine to -have her with him—his.</p> - -<p>At the farther corner they passed Officers Maguire and Delahanty, idly -swinging their clubs and discussing politics.</p> - -<p>“’Tis a shame,” Officer Delahanty was saying, “the way things are run -now,” but he paused to add, “Ain’t that old Rogaum’s girl over there -with young Almerting?”</p> - -<p>“It is,” replied Maguire, looking after.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m thinkin’ he’d better be keepin’ an eye on her,” said the -former. “She’s too young to be runnin’ around with the likes o’ him.”</p> - -<p>Maguire agreed. “He’s a young tough,” he observed. “I never liked him. -He’s too fresh. He works over here in Myer’s tobacco factory, and -belongs to The Roosters. He’s up to no good, I’ll warrant that.”</p> - -<p>“Teach ’em a lesson, I would,” Almerting was saying to Theresa as they -strolled on. “We’ll walk around a while an’ make ’em think yuh mean -business. They won’t lock yuh out any more. If they don’t let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> yuh in -when we come back I’ll find yuh a place, all right.”</p> - -<p>His sharp eyes were gleaming as he looked around into her own. Already -he had made up his mind that she should not go back if he could help -it. He knew a better place than home for this night, anyhow—the club -room of the Roosters, if nowhere else. They could stay there for a -time, anyhow.</p> - -<p>By now old Rogaum, who had seen her walking up the street alone, was -marveling at her audacity, but thought she would soon come back. It was -amazing that she should exhibit such temerity, but he would teach her! -Such a whipping! At half-past ten, however, he stuck his head out of -the open window and saw nothing of her. At eleven, the same. Then he -walked the floor.</p> - -<p>At first wrathful, then nervous, then nervous and wrathful, he finally -ended all nervous, without a scintilla of wrath. His stout wife sat up -in bed and began to wring her hands.</p> - -<p>“Lie down!” he commanded. “You make me sick. I know vot I am doing!”</p> - -<p>“Is she still at der door?” pleaded the mother.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said. “I don’t tink so. She should come ven I call.”</p> - -<p>His nerves were weakening, however, and now they finally collapsed.</p> - -<p>“She vent de stread up,” he said anxiously after a time. “I vill go -after.”</p> - -<p>Slipping on his coat, he went down the stairs and out into the night. -It was growing late, and the stillness and gloom of midnight were -nearing. Nowhere in sight was his Theresa. First one way and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> -another he went, looking here, there, everywhere, finally groaning.</p> - -<p>“Ach, Gott!” he said, the sweat bursting out on his brow, “vot in -Teufel’s name iss dis?”</p> - -<p>He thought he would seek a policeman, but there was none. Officer -Maguire had long since gone for a quiet game in one of the neighboring -saloons. His partner had temporarily returned to his own beat. Still -old Rogaum hunted on, worrying more and more.</p> - -<p>Finally he bethought him to hasten home again, for she must have got -back. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum, too, would be frantic if she had not. If she were -not there he must go to the police. Such a night! And his Theresa—— -This thing could not go on.</p> - -<p>As he turned into his own corner he almost ran, coming up to the little -portico wet and panting. At a puffing step he turned, and almost fell -over a white body at his feet, a prone and writhing woman.</p> - -<p>“Ach, Gott!” he cried aloud, almost shouting in his distress -and excitement. “Theresa, vot iss dis? Wilhelmina, a light now. -Bring a light now, I say, for himmel’s sake! Theresa hat sich -<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">umgebracht</i>. Help!”</p> - -<p>He had fallen to his knees and was turning over the writhing, groaning -figure. By the pale light of the street, however, he could make out -that it was not his Theresa, fortunately, as he had at first feared, -but another and yet there was something very like her in the figure.</p> - -<p>“Um!” said the stranger weakly. “Ah!”</p> - -<p>The dress was gray, not white as was his Theresa’s, but the body was -round and plump. It cut the fiercest cords of his intensity, this -thought of death to a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> woman, but there was something else about -the situation which made him forget his own troubles.</p> - -<p><abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum, loudly admonished, almost tumbled down the stairs. At the -foot she held the light she had brought—a small glass oil-lamp—and -then nearly dropped it. A fairly attractive figure, more girl than -woman, rich in all the physical charms that characterize a certain -type, lay near to dying. Her soft hair had fallen back over a good -forehead, now quite white. Her pretty hands, well decked with rings, -were clutched tightly in an agonized grip. At her neck a blue silk -shirtwaist and light lace collar were torn away where she had clutched -herself, and on the white flesh was a yellow stain as of one who had -been burned. A strange odor reeked in the area, and in one corner was a -spilled bottle.</p> - -<p>“Ach, Gott!” exclaimed <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum. “It iss a vooman! She haf herself -gekilt. Run for der police! Oh, my! oh, my!”</p> - -<p>Rogaum did not kneel for more than a moment. Somehow, this creature’s -fate seemed in some psychic way identified with that of his own -daughter. He bounded up, and jumping out his front door, began to call -lustily for the police. Officer Maguire, at his social game nearby, -heard the very first cry and came running.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter here, now?” he exclaimed, rushing up full and ready -for murder, robbery, fire, or, indeed, anything in the whole roster of -human calamities.</p> - -<p>“A vooman!” said Rogaum excitedly. “She haf herself <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">umgebracht</i>. -She iss dying. Ach, Gott! in my own doorstep, yet!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> - -<p>“Vere iss der hospital?” put in <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum, thinking clearly of an -ambulance, but not being able to express it. “She iss gekilt, sure. -Oh! Oh!” and bending over her the poor old motherly soul stroked the -tightened hands, and trickled tears upon the blue shirtwaist. “Ach, vy -did you do dot?” she said. “Ach, for vy?”</p> - -<p>Officer Maguire was essentially a man of action. He jumped to the -sidewalk, amid the gathering company, and beat loudly with his club -upon the stone flagging. Then he ran to the nearest police phone, -returning to aid in any other way he might. A milk wagon passing on its -way from the Jersey ferry with a few tons of fresh milk aboard, he held -it up and demanded a helping.</p> - -<p>“Give us a quart there, will you?” he said authoritatively. “A woman’s -swallowed acid in here.”</p> - -<p>“Sure,” said the driver, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement. -“Got a glass, anybody?”</p> - -<p>Maguire ran back and returned, bearing a measure. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum stood -looking nervously on, while the stocky officer raised the golden head -and poured the milk.</p> - -<p>“Here, now, drink this,” he said. “Come on. Try an’ swallow it.”</p> - -<p>The girl, a blonde of the type the world too well knows, opened her -eyes, and looked, groaning a little.</p> - -<p>“Drink it,” shouted the officer fiercely. “Do you want to die? Open -your mouth!”</p> - -<p>Used to a fear of the law in all her days, she obeyed now, even in -death. The lips parted, the fresh milk was drained to the end, some -spilling on neck and cheek.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> - -<p>While they were working old Rogaum came back and stood looking on, by -the side of his wife. Also Officer Delahanty, having heard the peculiar -wooden ring of the stick upon the stone in the night, had come up.</p> - -<p>“Ach, ach,” exclaimed Rogaum rather distractedly, “und she iss oudt -yet. I could not find her. Oh, oh!”</p> - -<p>There was a clang of a gong up the street as the racing ambulance -turned rapidly in. A young hospital surgeon dismounted, and seeing the -woman’s condition, ordered immediate removal. Both officers and Rogaum, -as well as the surgeon, helped place her in the ambulance. After a -moment the lone bell, ringing wildly in the night, was all the evidence -remaining that a tragedy had been here.</p> - -<p>“Do you know how she came here?” asked Officer Delahanty, coming back -to get Rogaum’s testimony for the police.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” answered Rogaum wretchedly. “She vass here alretty. I vass -for my daughter loog. Ach, himmel, I haf my daughter lost. She iss -avay.”</p> - -<p><abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum also chattered, the significance of Theresa’s absence all -the more painfully emphasized by this.</p> - -<p>The officer did not at first get the import of this. He was only -interested in the facts of the present case.</p> - -<p>“You say she was here when you come? Where was you?”</p> - -<p>“I say I vass for my daughter loog. I come here, und der vooman vass -here now alretty.”</p> - -<p>“Yes. What time was this?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p> - -<p>“Only now yet. Yussed a half-hour.”</p> - -<p>Officer Maguire had strolled up, after chasing away a small crowd that -had gathered with fierce and unholy threats. For the first time now he -noticed the peculiar perturbation of the usually placid German couple.</p> - -<p>“What about your daughter?” he asked, catching a word as to that.</p> - -<p>Both old people raised their voices at once.</p> - -<p>“She haf gone. She haf run avay. Ach, himmel, ve must for her loog. -Quick—she could not get in. Ve had der door shut.”</p> - -<p>“Locked her out, eh?” inquired Maguire after a time, hearing much of -the rest of the story.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” explained Rogaum. “It was to schkare her a liddle. She vould not -come ven I called.”</p> - -<p>“Sure, that’s the girl we saw walkin’ with young Almerting, do ye mind? -The one in the white dress,” said Delahanty to Maguire.</p> - -<p>“White dress, yah!” echoed Rogaum, and then the fact of her walking -with some one came home like a blow.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear dot?” he exclaimed even as <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum did likewise. -“<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Mein Gott, hast du das gehoert?</i>”</p> - -<p>He fairly jumped as he said it. His hands flew up to his stout and -ruddy head.</p> - -<p>“Whaddy ya want to let her out for nights?” asked Maguire roughly, -catching the drift of the situation. “That’s no time for young girls -to be out, anyhow, and with these toughs around here. Sure, I saw her, -nearly two hours ago.”</p> - -<p>“Ach,” groaned Rogaum. “Two hours yet. Ho, ho, ho!” His voice was quite -hysteric.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> - -<p>“Well, go on in,” said Officer Delahanty. “There’s no use yellin’ out -here. Give us a description of her an’ we’ll send out an alarm. You -won’t be able to find her walkin’ around.”</p> - -<p>Her parents described her exactly. The two men turned to the nearest -police box and then disappeared, leaving the old German couple in the -throes of distress. A time-worn old church-clock nearby now chimed -out one and then two. The notes cut like knives. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum began -fearfully to cry. Rogaum walked and blustered to himself.</p> - -<p>“It’s a queer case, that,” said Officer Delahanty to Maguire after -having reported the matter of Theresa, but referring solely to the -outcast of the doorway so recently sent away and in whose fate they -were much more interested. She being a part of the commercialized vice -of the city, they were curious as to the cause of her suicide. “I -think I know that woman. I think I know where she came from. You do, -too—Adele’s, around the corner, eh? She didn’t come into that doorway -by herself, either. She was put there. You know how they do.”</p> - -<p>“You’re right,” said Maguire. “She was put there, all right, and that’s -just where she come from, too.”</p> - -<p>The two of them now tipped up their noses and cocked their eyes -significantly.</p> - -<p>“Let’s go around,” added Maguire.</p> - -<p>They went, the significant red light over the transom at 68 telling -its own story. Strolling leisurely up, they knocked. At the very first -sound a painted denizen of the half-world opened the door.</p> - -<p>“Where’s Adele?” asked Maguire as the two, hats on as usual, stepped -in.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span></p> - -<p>“She’s gone to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Tell her to come down.”</p> - -<p>They seated themselves deliberately in the gaudy mirrored parlor -and waited, conversing between themselves in whispers. Presently a -sleepy-looking woman of forty in a gaudy robe of heavy texture, and -slippered in red, appeared.</p> - -<p>“We’re here about that suicide case you had to-night. What about it? -Who was she? How’d she come to be in that doorway around the corner? -Come, now,” Maguire added, as the madam assumed an air of mingled -injured and ignorant innocence, “you know. Can that stuff! How did she -come to take poison?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the woman with the -utmost air of innocence. “I never heard of any suicide.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, come now,” insisted Delahanty, “the girl around the corner. You -know. We know you’ve got a pull, but we’ve got to know about this case, -just the same. Come across now. It won’t be published. What made her -take the poison?”</p> - -<p>Under the steady eyes of the officers the woman hesitated, but finally -weakened.</p> - -<p>“Why—why—her lover went back on her—that’s all. She got so blue -we just couldn’t do anything with her. I tried to, but she wouldn’t -listen.”</p> - -<p>“Lover, eh?” put in Maguire as though that were the most unheard-of -thing in the world. “What was his name?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. You never can tell that.”</p> - -<p>“What was her name—Annie?” asked Delahanty wisely, as though he knew -but was merely inquiring for form’s sake.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p> - -<p>“No—Emily.”</p> - -<p>“Well, how did she come to get over there, anyhow?” inquired Maguire -most pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“George took her,” she replied, referring to a man-of-all-work about -the place.</p> - -<p>Then little by little as they sat there the whole miserable story came -out, miserable as all the wilfulness and error and suffering of the -world.</p> - -<p>“How old was she?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, twenty-one.”</p> - -<p>“Well, where’d she come from?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, here in New York. Her family locked her out one night, I think.”</p> - -<p>Something in the way the woman said this last brought old Rogaum and -his daughter back to the policemen’s minds. They had forgotten all -about her by now, although they had turned in an alarm. Fearing to -interfere too much with this well-known and politically controlled -institution, the two men left, but outside they fell to talking of the -other case.</p> - -<p>“We ought to tell old Rogaum about her some time,” said Maguire to -Delahanty cynically. “He locked his kid out to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it might be a good thing for him to hear that,” replied the -other. “We’d better go round there an’ see if his girl’s back yet. She -may be back by now,” and so they returned but little disturbed by the -joint miseries.</p> - -<p>At Rogaum’s door they once more knocked loudly.</p> - -<p>“Is your daughter back again?” asked Maguire when a reply was had.</p> - -<p>“Ach, no,” replied the hysterical <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum, who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> was quite alone -now. “My husband he haf gone oudt again to loog vunce more. Oh, my! Oh, -my!”</p> - -<p>“Well, that’s what you get for lockin’ her out,” returned Maguire -loftily, the other story fresh in his mind. “That other girl downstairs -here to-night was locked out too, once.” He chanced to have a -girl-child of his own and somehow he was in the mood for pointing a -moral. “You oughtn’t to do anything like that. Where d’yuh expect she’s -goin’ to if you lock her out?”</p> - -<p><abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum groaned. She explained that it was not her fault, but -anyhow it was carrying coals to Newcastle to talk to her so. The advice -was better for her husband.</p> - -<p>The pair finally returned to the station to see if the call had been -attended to.</p> - -<p>“Sure,” said the sergeant, “certainly. Whaddy ya think?” and he read -from the blotter before him:</p> - -<p>“‘Look out for girl, Theresa Rogaum. Aged 18; height, about 5, 3; -light hair, blue eyes, white cotton dress, trimmed with blue ribbon. -Last seen with lad named Almerting, about 19 years of age, about 5, 9; -weight 135 pounds.’”</p> - -<p>There were other details even more pointed and conclusive. For over an -hour now, supposedly, policemen from the Battery to Harlem, and far -beyond, had been scanning long streets and dim shadows for a girl in a -white dress with a youth of nineteen,—supposedly.</p> - -<p>Officer Halsey, another of this region, which took in a portion of -Washington Square, had seen a good many couples this pleasant summer -evening since the description of Theresa and Almerting had been read to -him over the telephone, but none that answered to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> these. Like Maguire -and Delahanty, he was more or less indifferent to all such cases, -but idling on a corner near the park at about three a.m., a brother -officer, one Paisly by name, came up and casually mentioned the missing -pair also.</p> - -<p>“I bet I saw that couple, not over an hour ago. She was dressed in -white, and looked to me as if she didn’t want to be out. I didn’t -happen to think at the time, but now I remember. They acted sort o’ -funny. She did, anyhow. They went in this park down at the Fourth -Street end there.”</p> - -<p>“Supposing we beat it, then,” suggested Halsey, weary for something to -do.</p> - -<p>“Sure,” said the other quickly, and together they began a careful -search, kicking around in the moonlight under the trees. The moon was -leaning moderately toward the west, and all the branches were silvered -with light and dew. Among the flowers, past clumps of bushes, near -the fountain, they searched, each one going his way alone. At last, -the wandering Halsey paused beside a thick clump of flaming bushes, -ruddy, slightly, even in the light. A murmur of voices greeted him, and -something very much like the sound of a sob.</p> - -<p>“What’s that?” he said mentally, drawing near and listening.</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you come on now?” said the first of the voices heard. “They -won’t let you in any more. You’re with me, ain’t you? What’s the use -cryin’?”</p> - -<p>No answer to this, but no sobs. She must have been crying silently.</p> - -<p>“Come on. I can take care of yuh. We can live in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> Hoboken. I know a -place where we can go to-night. That’s all right.”</p> - -<p>There was a movement as if the speaker were patting her on the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“What’s the use cryin’? Don’t you believe I love yuh?”</p> - -<p>The officer who had stolen quietly around to get a better view now -came closer. He wanted to see for himself. In the moonlight, from a -comfortable distance, he could see them seated. The tall bushes were -almost all about the bench. In the arms of the youth was the girl in -white, held very close. Leaning over to get a better view, he saw him -kiss her and hold her—hold her in such a way that she could but yield -to him, whatever her slight disinclination.</p> - -<p>It was a common affair at earlier hours, but rather interesting now. -The officer was interested. He crept nearer.</p> - -<p>“What are you two doin’ here?” he suddenly inquired, rising before -them, as though he had not seen.</p> - -<p>The girl tumbled out of her compromising position, speechless and -blushing violently. The young man stood up, nervous, but still defiant.</p> - -<p>“Aw, we were just sittin’ here,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“Yes? Well, say, what’s your name? I think we’re lookin’ for you two, -anyhow. Almerting?”</p> - -<p>“That’s me,” said the youth.</p> - -<p>“And yours?” he added, addressing Theresa.</p> - -<p>“Theresa Rogaum,” replied the latter brokenly, beginning to cry.</p> - -<p>“Well, you two’ll have to come along with me,” he added laconically. -“The Captain wants to see both of you,” and he marched them solemnly -away.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> - -<p>“What for?” young Almerting ventured to inquire after a time, blanched -with fright.</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” replied the policeman irritably. “Come along, you’ll find -out at the station-house. We want you both. That’s enough.”</p> - -<p>At the other end of the park Paisly joined them, and, at the -station-house, the girl was given a chair. She was all tears and -melancholy with a modicum possibly of relief at being thus rescued -from the world. Her companion, for all his youth, was defiant if -circumspect, a natural animal defeated of its aim.</p> - -<p>“Better go for her father,” commented the sergeant, and by four in the -morning old Rogaum, who had still been up and walking the floor, was -rushing stationward. From an earlier rage he had passed to an almost -killing grief, but now at the thought that he might possibly see his -daughter alive and well once more he was overflowing with a mingled -emotion which contained rage, fear, sorrow, and a number of other -things. What should he do to her if she were alive? Beat her? Kiss her? -Or what? Arrived at the station, however, and seeing his fair Theresa -in the hands of the police, and this young stranger lingering near, -also detained, he was beside himself with fear, rage, affection.</p> - -<p>“You! You!” he exclaimed at once, glaring at the imperturbable -Almerting, when told that this was the young man who was found with his -girl. Then, seized with a sudden horror, he added, turning to Theresa, -“Vot haf you done? Oh, oh! You! You!” he repeated again to Almerting -angrily, now that he felt that his daughter was safe. “Come not near -my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> tochter any more! I vill preak your effery pone, du teufel, du!”</p> - -<p>He made a move toward the incarcerated lover, but here the sergeant -interfered.</p> - -<p>“Stop that, now,” he said calmly. “Take your daughter out of here and -go home, or I’ll lock you both up. We don’t want any fighting in here. -D’ye hear? Keep your daughter off the streets hereafter, then she won’t -get into trouble. Don’t let her run around with such young toughs as -this.” Almerting winced. “Then there won’t anything happen to her. -We’ll do whatever punishing’s to be done.”</p> - -<p>“Aw, what’s eatin’ him!” commented Almerting dourly, now that he felt -himself reasonably safe from a personal encounter. “What have I done? -He locked her out, didn’t he? I was just keepin’ her company till -morning.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, we know all about that,” said the sergeant, “and about you, too. -You shut up, or you’ll go down-town to Special Sessions. I want no guff -out o’ you.” Still he ordered the butcher angrily to be gone.</p> - -<p>Old Rogaum heard nothing. He had his daughter. He was taking her home. -She was not dead—not even morally injured in so far as he could learn. -He was a compound of wondrous feelings. What to do was beyond him.</p> - -<p>At the corner near the butcher shop they encountered the wakeful -Maguire, still idling, as they passed. He was pleased to see that -Rogaum had his Theresa once more. It raised him to a high, moralizing -height.</p> - -<p>“Don’t lock her out any more,” he called significantly. “That’s what -brought the other girl to your door, you know!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p> - -<p>“Vot iss dot?” said Rogaum.</p> - -<p>“I say the other girl was locked out. That’s why she committed suicide.”</p> - -<p>“Ach, I know,” said the husky German under his breath, but he had no -intention of locking her out. He did not know what he would do until -they were in the presence of his crying wife, who fell upon Theresa, -weeping. Then he decided to be reasonably lenient.</p> - -<p>“She vass like you,” said the old mother to the wandering Theresa, -ignorant of the seeming lesson brought to their very door. “She vass -loog like you.”</p> - -<p>“I vill not vip you now,” said the old butcher solemnly, too delighted -to think of punishment after having feared every horror under the sun, -“aber, go not oudt any more. Keep off de streads so late. I von’t haf -it. Dot loafer, aber—let him yussed come here some more! I fix him!”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” said the fat mother tearfully, smoothing her daughter’s hair. -“She vouldn’t run avay no more yet, no, no.” Old <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Rogaum was all -mother.</p> - -<p>“Well, you wouldn’t let me in,” insisted Theresa, “and I didn’t have -any place to go. What do you want me to do? I’m not going to stay in -the house all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I fix him!” roared Rogaum, unloading all his rage now on the recreant -lover freely. “Yussed let him come some more! Der penitentiary he -should haf!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Theresa told her mother, almost a heroine now -that she was home and safe. “He’s <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Almerting, the stationer’s boy. -They live here in the next block.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you ever bother that girl again,” the sergeant<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> was saying to -young Almerting as he turned him loose an hour later. “If you do, we’ll -get you, and you won’t get off under six months. Y’ hear me, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Aw, I don’t want ’er,” replied the boy truculently and cynically. “Let -him have his old daughter. What’d he want to lock ’er out for? They’d -better not lock ’er out again though, that’s all I say. I don’t want -’er.”</p> - -<p>“Beat it!” replied the sergeant, and away he went.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WILL_YOU_WALK_INTO_MY_PARLOR">WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a sweltering noon in July. Gregory, after several months of -meditation on the warning given him by his political friend, during -which time nothing to substantiate it had occurred, was making ready to -return to the seaside hotel to which his present prosperity entitled -him. It was a great affair, the Triton, about sixty minutes from his -office, facing the sea and amid the pines and sands of the Island. -His wife, ‘the girl,’ as he conventionally referred to her, had been -compelled, in spite of the plot which had been revealed or suggested, -owing to the ailing state of their child, to go up to the mountains to -her mother for advice and comfort. Owing to the imminence of the fall -campaign, however, he could not possibly leave. Weekdays and Sundays, -and occasionally nights, he was busy ferreting out and substantiating -one fact and another in regard to the mismanagement of the city, which -was to be used as ammunition a little later on. The mayor and his -“ring,” as it was called, was to be ousted at all costs. He, Gregory, -was certain to be rewarded if that came to pass. In spite of that he -was eminently sincere as to the value and even the necessity of what he -was doing. The city was being grossly mismanaged. What greater labor -than to worm out the details and expose them to the gaze of an abused -and irritated citizenship?</p> - -<p>But the enemy itself was not helpless. A gentleman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> in the publishing -business of whom he had never even heard called to offer him a position -in the Middle West which would take him out of the city for four or -five years at the least, and pay him six or seven thousand dollars -a year. On his failure to be interested some of his mail began to -disappear, and it seemed to him as though divers strange characters -were taking a peculiar and undue interest in his movements. Lastly, one -of the politicians connected with his own party called to see him at -his office.</p> - -<p>“You see, Gregory, it’s this way,” he said after a short preamble, “you -have got a line as to what’s going on in connection with that South -Penyank land transfer. The mayor is in on that, but he is absolutely -determined that the public is not going to find it out, and so is -his partner, Tilney—not until after the election, anyhow. They are -prepared to use some pretty rough methods, so look out for yourself. -You’re fond of your wife, are you? Well, keep her close beside you, and -the kid. Don’t let them get you away from her, even for a moment, where -you shouldn’t be. You saw what happened to Crothers two or three years -ago, didn’t you? He was about to expose that Yellow Point Ferry deal, -but of course no one knew anything about that—and then, zip!—all at -once he was arrested on an old charge of desertion, an old debt that he -had failed to pay was produced and his furniture seized, and his wife -was induced to leave him. Don’t let them catch you in the same way. If -you have any debts bring them to us and let us see what we can do about -them. And if you are interested in any other woman, break it off, send -her away, get rid of her.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> - -<p>Gregory viewed him with an irritated, half-pitying smile.</p> - -<p>“There isn’t any other woman,” he said simply. Think of his being -faithless to “the girl” and the kid—the blue-eyed, pink-toed kid!</p> - -<p>“Don’t think I’m trying to pry into your affairs,” went on the -politician. “I’m just telling you. If you need any further advice or -help, come to me. But whatever you do, look out for yourself,” and with -that he put on his high silk hat and departed.</p> - -<p>Gregory stood in the center of his office after his visitor had gone, -and gazed intently at the floor. Certainly, from what he had discovered -so far, he could readily believe that the mayor would do just what -his friend had said. And as for the mayor’s friend, the real estate -plunger, it was plain from his whispered history that no tricks or -brutalities were beneath him. Another politician had once said in -describing him that he would not stop short of murder, but that one -would never catch him red-handed or in any other way, and certainly -that appeared to be true. He was wealthier, more powerful, than he had -ever been, much more so than the mayor.</p> - -<p>Since he and his wife had come to this seaside hotel several things -had occurred which caused him to think that something might happen, -although there was no evidence as yet that his suspicions were -well-founded. An unctuous, over-dressed, bejeweled, semi-sporty widow -of forty had arrived, a business woman, she indicated herself to -be, conducting a highly successful theatrical agency in the great -city, and consequently weltering in what one of Gregory’s friends -was wont to describe as “the sinews of war.” She abounded in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> brown -and wine-colored silks, brown slippers and stockings, a wealth of -suspiciously lustrous auburn hair. Her car, for she had one, was of -respectable reputation. Her skill and willingness to risk at whist of -good report. She was, in the parlance of the hotel clerks and idlers -of the Triton veranda, a cheerful and liberal spender. Even while -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Gregory was at Triton Hall, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had arrived, making -herself comfortable in two rooms and bath on the sea front, and -finding familiar friends in the manager and several stalwart idlers -who appeared to be brokers and real estate dealers, and who took a -respectable interest in golf, tennis, and the Triton Grill. She was -unctuous, hearty, optimistic, and neither Gregory nor his wife could -help liking her a little. But before leaving, his wife had casually -wondered whether <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton would be one to engage in such a plot. -Her friendliness, while possible of any interpretation, was still -general enough to be free of suspicion. She might be looking for just -such a situation as this, though—to find Gregory alone.</p> - -<p>“Do be careful, dear,” his wife cautioned. “If you become too doubtful, -leave and go to another place. At least that will compel them to -provide another set of people.” And off she went, fairly serene in her -faith in her husband’s ability to manage the matter.</p> - -<p>Thus, much against his will, at first, Gregory found himself alone. He -began to wonder if he should leave, or weather it out, as he expressed -it to himself. Why should he be driven from the one comfortable hotel -on this nearest beach, and that when he most needed it, away from -a region where he was regularly encountering most of his political -friends, particularly at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> week-ends? For so near a place it had many -advantages: a delightful golf course, several tennis courts, food and -rooms reasonably well above complaint, and a refreshing and delightful -view of the sea over a broad lawn. Besides it was absolutely necessary -for him to be in the nearby city the greater portion of every single -working day. His peculiar and pressing investigation demanded it and a -comfortable place to rest and recuperate at night was also imperative.</p> - -<p>“It’s beautiful here,” he said to himself finally, “and here is where -I stick. I haven’t a car, and where is there any other place as -convenient? Besides, if they’re going to follow me, they’re going to -follow me.”</p> - -<p>In consequence, he traveled meditatively back and forth between this -place and the city, thinking of what might happen. Becoming a little -doubtful, he decided to call on Frank Blount and talk it over with -him. Blount was an old newspaper man who had first turned lawyer and -then broker. Seemingly clientless the major portion of the time, he -still prospered mightily. A lorn bachelor, he had three clubs, several -hotels, and a dozen country homes to visit, to say nothing of a high -power car. Just now he was held unduly close to his work, and so was -frequenting this coast. He liked golf and tennis, and, incidentally, -Gregory, whom he wished to see prosper though he could not quite direct -him in the proper way. Reaching the city one morning, Gregory betook -him to Blount’s office, and there laid the whole case before him.</p> - -<p>“Now, that’s the way it is,” he concluded, staring at the pink cheeks -and partially bald head of his friend,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> “and I would like to know what -you would do if you were in my place.”</p> - -<p>Blount gazed thoughtfully out through the high towers of the city to -the blue sky beyond, while he drummed with his fingers on the glass top -of his desk.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he replied, after a time, scratching his cheekbone -thoughtfully, “I’d stick it out if I were you. If there is to be -a woman, and she is attractive, you might have some fun out of it -without getting yourself in any trouble. It looks like a sporty summer -proposition to me. Of course, you’ll have to be on your guard. I’d take -out a permit to carry a revolver if I were you. They’ll hear of it if -they’re up to anything, and it won’t cheer them any. In the next place, -you ought to make out a day-to-day statement of your exact movements, -and swear to it before a notary. If they hear of that it won’t cheer -them any either, and it may make them try to think up something really -original.</p> - -<p>“Besides,” he went on, “I haven’t so very much to do evenings and -week-ends, and if you want me to I’ll just be around most of the time -in case of trouble. If we’re together they can’t turn much of anything -without one of us knowing something about it, and then, too, you’ll -have an eye-witness.” He was wondering whether the lady might not be -interesting to him also. “I’m over at Sunset Point, just beyond you -there, and if you want me I’ll come over every evening and see how -you’re making out. If any trick is turned, I’d like to see how it is -done,” and he smiled in a winsome, helpful manner.</p> - -<p>“That’s just the thing,” echoed Gregory thoughtfully. “I don’t want any -trick turned. I can’t afford<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> it. If anything should happen to me just -now I’d never get on my feet again politically, and then there’s the -wife and kid, and I’m sick of the newspaper business,” and he stared -out of the window.</p> - -<p>“Well, don’t be worrying about it,” Blount insisted soothingly. “Just -be on your guard, and if you have to stay in town late any night, -let me know and I’ll come and pick you up. Or, if I can’t do that, -stay in town yourself. Go to one of the big hotels, where you’ll feel -thoroughly safe.”</p> - -<p>For several days Gregory, to avoid being a nuisance, returned to the -hotel early. Also he secured a permit, and weighted his hip pocket with -an unwieldy weapon which he resented, but which he nevertheless kept -under his pillow at night. His uncertainty worked on his imagination -to such an extent that he began to note suspicious moves on the part -of nearly everybody. Any new character about the hotel annoyed him. -He felt certain that there was a group of people connected with <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton who were watching him, though he could not prove it, even to -himself.</p> - -<p>“This is ridiculous,” he finally told himself. “I’m acting like a -five-year-old in the dark. Who’s going to hurt me?” And he wrote -laughing letters to his wife about it, and tried to resume his old-time -nonchalance.</p> - -<p>It wasn’t quite possible, however, for not long after that something -happened which disturbed him greatly. At least he persuaded himself to -that effect, for that was a characteristic of these incidents—their -openness to another interpretation than the one he might fix on. In -spite of Blount’s advice, one night<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> about nine he decided to return to -Triton Hall, and that without calling his friend to his aid.</p> - -<p>“What’s the use?” he asked himself. “He’ll be thinking I’m the biggest -coward ever, and after all, nothing has happened yet, and I doubt -whether they’d go that far, anyhow.” He consoled himself with the idea -that perhaps humanity was better than he thought.</p> - -<p>But just the same, as he left the train at Triton and saw it glimmering -away over the meadows eastward, he felt a little uncertain as to his -wisdom in this matter. Triton Station was a lonely one at nearly all -times save in the morning and around seven at night, and to-night it -seemed especially so. Only he alighted from the train. Most people went -to and fro in their cars by another road. Why should he not have done -as Blount had suggested, he now asked himself as he surveyed the flat -country about;—called him to his aid, or stayed in the city? After -all, hiring a car would not have been much better either, as Blount -had pointed out, giving a possible lurking enemy a much sought point -of attack. No, he should have stayed in town or returned with Blount -in his car, and telling himself this, he struck out along the lonely, -albeit short, stretch of road which led to the hotel and which was -lighted by only a half dozen small incandescent globes strung at a -considerable distance apart.</p> - -<p>En route, and as he was saying to himself that it was a blessed thing -that it was only a few hundred yards and that he was well-armed and -fairly well constructed physically for a contest, a car swerved about -a bend in the road a short distance ahead and stopped. Two men got out -and, in the shadow back of the lights, which were less flaring than was -usual, began to examine<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> a wheel. It seemed odd to him on the instant -that its headlights were so dim. Why should they be so dim at this time -of night and why should this strange car stop just here at this lonely -bend just as he was approaching it? Also why should he feel so queer -about it or them, for at once his flesh began to creep and his hair -to tingle. As he neared the car he moved to give it as wide a berth -as the road would permit. But now one of the men left the wheel and -approached him. Instantly, with almost an involuntary urge, he brought -the revolver out of his hip pocket and stuffed it in his coat pocket. -At the same time he stopped and called to the stranger:</p> - -<p>“Stay right where you are, Mister. I’m armed, and I don’t want you -to come near me. If you do I’ll shoot. I don’t know who you are, or -whether you’re a friend or not, but I don’t want you to move. Now, if -there’s anything you want, ask it from where you are.”</p> - -<p>The stranger stopped where he stood, seemingly surprised.</p> - -<p>“I was going to ask you for a match,” he said, “and the way to Trager’s -Point.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I haven’t a match,” returned Gregory savagely, “and Trager’s -Point is out that way. There’s the hotel ... if you’re coming from -there, why didn’t you ask for directions there, and for matches, too?” -He paused, while the man in the shadow seemed to examine him curiously.</p> - -<p>“Oh, all right,” he returned indifferently. “I don’t want anything you -don’t want to give,” but instead of returning to the car, he stood -where he was, following Gregory with his eyes.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<p>Gregory’s skin seemed to rise on the back of his neck like the fur of -a cat. He fairly tingled as he drew his revolver from his pocket and -waved it ominously before him.</p> - -<p>“Now, I’m going to walk around you two,” he called, “and I want you to -stand right where you are. I have you covered, and at the first move -I’ll shoot. You won’t have any trouble out of me if you’re not looking -for it, but don’t move,” and he began orienting his own position so as -to keep them directly in range of his eyes and weapon.</p> - -<p>“Don’t move!” he kept calling until he was well up the road, and then -suddenly, while the men, possibly in astonishment, were still looking -at him, turned and ran as fast as he could, reaching the hotel steps -breathless and wet.</p> - -<p>“That’s the last lone trip for me,” he said solemnly to himself.</p> - -<p>When he spoke to Blount about it the latter seemed inclined to -pooh-pooh his fears. Why should any one want to choose any such open -place to kill or waylay another? There might have been other passengers -on the train. A stray auto might be coming along there at any time. The -men might have wanted a match, and not have been coming from the hotel -at all. There was another road there which did not turn in at the hotel.</p> - -<p>Still Gregory was inclined to believe that harm had been intended -him—he could scarcely say why to himself—just plain intuition, he -contended.</p> - -<p>And then a day or two later—all the more significant now because -of this other incident—<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton seemed to become more and more -thoughtful as to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> his comfort and well-being. She took her meals at one -of the tables commanding a view of the sea, and with (most frequently) -one or the other, or both, broker friends as companions, to say nothing -of occasional outside friends. But usually there was a fourth empty -chair, and Gregory was soon invited to occupy that, and whenever Blount -was present, a fifth was added. At first he hesitated, but urged -on by Blount, who was amused by her, he accepted. Blount insisted -that she was a comic character. She was so dressy, sporty, unctuous, -good-natured—the very best kind of a seaside companion.</p> - -<p>“Why, man, she’s interesting,” the latter insisted one night as they -were taking a ride after dinner. “Quite a sporty ‘fair and forty,’ -that. I like her. I really do. She’s probably a crook, but she plays -bridge well, and she’s good at golf. Does she try to get anything out -of you?”</p> - -<p>“Not a thing, that I can see,” replied Gregory. “She seems to be simple -enough. She’s only been here about three weeks.”</p> - -<p>“Well, we’d better see what we can find out about her. I have a hunch -that she’s in on this, but I can’t be sure. It looks as though she -might be one of Tilney’s stool pigeons. But let’s play the game and see -how it comes out. I’ll be nice to her for your sake, and you do the -same for mine.”</p> - -<p>Under the warming influence of this companionship, things seemed to -develop fairly rapidly. It was only a day or two later, and after -Gregory had seated himself at <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton’s table, that she announced -with a great air of secrecy and as though it were hidden and rather -important information, that a friend of hers, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> very clever Western -girl of some position and money, one Imogene Carle of Cincinnati, no -less, a daughter of the very wealthy Brayton Carle’s of that city, -was coming to this place to stay for a little while. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, it -appeared, had known her parents in that city fifteen years before. -Imogene was her owny ownest pet. She was now visiting the Wilson -Fletchers at Gray’s Cove, on the Sound, but <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had prevailed -upon her parents to let her visit her here for a while. She was only -twenty, and from now on she, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, was to be a really, truly -chaperone. Didn’t they sympathize with her? And if they were all very -nice—and with this a sweeping glance included them all—they might -help entertain her. Wouldn’t that be fine? She was a darling of a girl, -clever, magnetic, a good dancer, a pianist—in short, various and -sundry things almost too good to be true. But, above all other things, -she was really very beautiful, with a wealth of brown hair, brown eyes, -a perfect skin, and the like. Neither Blount nor Gregory offered the -other a single look during this recital, but later on, meeting on the -great veranda which faced the sea, Blount said to him, “Well, what do -you think?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose it’s the one. Well, she tells it well. It’s interesting -to think that she is to be so perfect, isn’t it?” he laughed.</p> - -<p>A few days later the fair visitor put in an appearance, and she was all -that <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had promised, and more. She was beautiful. Gregory -saw her for the first time as he entered the large dining room at -seven. She was, as <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had described her, young, certainly -not more than twenty-one at most. Her eyes were a light gray-brown, -and her hair and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> skin and hands were full of light. She seemed simple -and unpretentious, laughing, gay, not altogether fine or perfect, -but fairly intelligent, and good to look at—very. She was at <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton’s table, the brokers paying her marked attention, and, at -sight, Blount liked her, too.</p> - -<p>“Say,” he began, “some beauty, eh? I’ll have to save you from yourself, -I fancy. I’ll tell you how we’ll work it. You save me, and I’ll save -you. The old lady certainly knows how to select ’em, apparently, and so -does Tilney. Well now, my boy, look out!” and he approached with the -air of one who was anxious to be a poor stricken victim himself.</p> - -<p>Gregory had to laugh. However much he might be on his guard, he was -interested, and as if to heighten this she paid more attention to <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton and her two friends than she did to Gregory or Blount. She was, -or pretended to be absolutely sincere, and ignorant of her possible -rôle as a siren, and they in turn pretended to accept her at her own -valuation, only Blount announced after dinner very gaily that she might -siren him all she blanked pleased. He was ready. By degrees, however, -even during this first and second evening, Gregory began to feel that -he was the one. He caught her looking at him slyly or shyly, or both, -and he insisted to himself stubbornly and even vainly enough that he -was her intended victim. When he suggested as much to Blount the other -merely laughed.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so vain,” he said. “You may not be. I wish I were in your -place. I’ll see if I can’t help take her attention from you,” and he -paid as much attention to her as any one.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span></p> - -<p>However, Gregory’s mind was not to be disabused. He watched her -narrowly, while she on her part chattered gaily of many things—her -life the winter before in Cincinnati, the bathing at Beachampton where -she had recently been, a yachting trip she had been promised, tennis, -golf. She was an expert at tennis, as she later proved, putting Gregory -in a heavy perspiration whenever he played with her, and keeping him on -the jump. He tried to decide for himself at this time whether she was -making any advances, but could not detect any. She was very equitable -in the distribution of her favors, and whenever the dancing began in -the East room took as her first choice one of the brokers, and then -Blount.</p> - -<p>The former, as did <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and the brokers, had machines, and by -her and them, in spite of the almost ever-present Blount, Gregory was -invited to be one of a party in one or the other of their cars whenever -they were going anywhere of an afternoon or evening. He was suspicious -of them, however, and refused their invitations except when Blount was -on the scene and invited, when he was willing enough to accept. Then -there were whist, pinochle, or poker games in the hotel occasionally, -and in these Gregory as well as Blount, when he was there, were wont to -join, being persistently invited. Gregory did not dance, and Imogene -ragged him as to this. Why didn’t he learn? It was wonderful! She would -teach him! As she passed amid the maze of dancers at times he could -not help thinking how graceful she was, how full of life and animal -spirits. Blount saw this and teased him, at the same time finding her -very companionable and interesting himself. Gregory<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> could not help -thinking what a fascinating, what an amazing thing, really, it was -(providing it were true) that so dark a personality as Tilney could -secure such an attractive girl to do his vile work. Think of it, only -twenty-one, beautiful, able to further herself in many ways no doubt, -and yet here she was under suspicion of him, a trickster possibly. What -could be the compulsion, the reward?</p> - -<p>“My boy, you don’t know these people,” Blount was always telling -him. “They’re the limit. In politics you can get people to do -anything—anything. It isn’t like the rest of life or business, it’s -just politics, that’s all. It seems a cynical thing to say, but it’s -true. Look at your own investigations! What do they show?”</p> - -<p>“I know, but a girl like that now——” replied Gregory solemnly.</p> - -<p>But after all, as he insisted to Blount, they did not <em>know</em> that -there was anything to all this. She might and she might not be a siren. -It might be possible that both of them were grossly misjudging her and -other absolutely innocent people.</p> - -<p>So far, all that they had been able to find out concerning <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton -was that she was, as she represented herself to be, the successful -owner and manager of a theatrical agency. She might have known the -better days and connections which she boasted. Gregory felt at times -as though his brain were whirling, like a man confronted by enemies in -the dark, fumbling and uncertain, but he and Blount both agreed that -the best thing was to stay here and see it through, come what might. -It was a good game even as it stood, interesting, very. It showed, as -Blount pointed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> out to him, a depth to this political mess which he was -attempting to expose which previously even he had not suspected.</p> - -<p>“Stick by,” the other insisted sport-lovingly. “You don’t know what may -come of this. It may provide you the very club you’re looking for. Win -her over to your side if you can. Why not? She might really fall for -you. Then see what comes of it. You can’t be led into any especial trap -with your eyes open.”</p> - -<p>Gregory agreed to all this after a time. Besides, this very attractive -girl was beginning to appeal to him in a very subtle way. He had never -known a woman like this before—never even seen one. It was a very new -and attractive game, of sorts. He began to spruce up and attempt to -appear a little gallant himself. A daily report of his movements was -being filed each morning, though. Every night he returned with Blount -in his car, or on an early train. There was scarcely a chance for a -compromising situation, and still there might be—who knows?</p> - -<p>On other evenings, after the fashion of seaside hotel life, Gregory -and Imogene grew a little more familiar. Gregory learned that she -played and sang, and, listening to her, that she was of a warm and -even sensuous disposition. She was much more sophisticated than she -had seemed at first, as he could now see, fixing her lips in an odd -inviting pout at times and looking alluringly at one and another, -himself included. Both Blount and himself, once the novelty of the -supposed secret attack had worn off, ventured to jest with her about -it, or rather to hint vaguely as to her mission.</p> - -<p>“Well, how goes the great game to-night?” Blount<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> once asked her during -her second or third week, coming up to where she and Gregory were -sitting amid the throng on the general veranda, and eyeing her in a -sophisticated or smilingly cynical way.</p> - -<p>“What game?” She looked up in seemingly complete innocence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, snaring the appointed victim. Isn’t that what all attractive young -women do?”</p> - -<p>“Are you referring to me?” she inquired with considerable hauteur and -an air of injured innocence. “I’d have you know that I don’t have to -snare any one, and particularly not a married man.” Her teeth gleamed -maliciously.</p> - -<p>Both Gregory and Blount were watching her closely.</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course not. Not a married man, to be sure. And I wasn’t -referring to you exactly—just life, you know, the game.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know,” she replied sweetly. “I’m jesting, too.” Both Gregory -and Blount laughed.</p> - -<p>“Well, she got away with it without the tremor of an eyelash, didn’t -she?” Blount afterward observed, and Gregory had to agree that she had.</p> - -<p>Again, it was Gregory who attempted a reference of this kind. She had -come out after a short instrumental interpretation at the piano, where, -it seemed to him, she had been posing in a graceful statuesque way—for -whose benefit? He knew that she knew he could see her from where he sat.</p> - -<p>“It’s pretty hard work, without much reward,” he suggested seemingly -idly.</p> - -<p>“What is? I don’t quite understand,” and she looked at him -questioningly.</p> - -<p>“No?” he smiled in a light laughing manner. “Well,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> that’s a cryptic -way I have. I say things like that. Just a light hint at a dark plot, -possibly. You mustn’t mind me. You wouldn’t understand unless you know -what I know.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what is it you know, then, that I don’t?” she inquired.</p> - -<p>“Nothing definite yet. Just an idea. Don’t mind me.”</p> - -<p>“Really, you are very odd, both you and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Blount. You are always -saying such odd things and then adding that you don’t mean anything. -And what’s cryptic?”</p> - -<p>Gregory, still laughing at her, explained.</p> - -<p>“Do you know, you’re exceedingly interesting to me as a type. I’m -watching you all the while.”</p> - -<p>“Yes?” she commented, with a lifting of the eyebrows and a slight -distention of the eyes. “That’s interesting. Have you made up your mind -as to what type I am?”</p> - -<p>“No, not quite yet. But if you’re the type I think you are, you’re very -clever. I’ll have to hand you the palm on that score.”</p> - -<p>“Really, you puzzle me,” she said seriously. “Truly, you do. I don’t -understand you at all. What is it you are talking about? If it’s -anything that has any sense in it I wish you’d say it out plain, and if -not I wish you wouldn’t say it at all.”</p> - -<p>Gregory stared. There was an odd ring of defiance in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Please don’t be angry, will you?” he said, slightly disconcerted. “I’m -just teasing, not talking sense.”</p> - -<p>She arose and walked off, while he strolled up and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> down the veranda -looking for Blount. When he found him, he narrated his experience.</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s just possible that we are mistaken. You never can tell. -Give her a little more rope. Something’s sure to develop soon.”</p> - -<p>And thereafter it seemed as if <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and some others might be -helping her in some subtle way about something, the end or aim of -which he could not be quite sure. He was in no way disposed to flatter -himself, and yet it seemed at times as if he were the object of almost -invisible machinations. In spite of what had gone before, she still -addressed him in a friendly way, and seemed not to wish to avoid him, -but rather to be in his vicinity at all times.</p> - -<p>A smug, dressy, crafty Jew of almost minute dimensions arrived on the -scene and took quarters somewhere in the building, coming and going and -seeming never to know <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton or her friends, and yet one day, -idling across some sand dunes which skirted an adjacent inlet, he saw -them, Imogene and the ant-like Jew, walking along together. He was so -astounded that he stopped in amazement. His first thought was to draw -a little nearer and to make very sure, but realizing, as they walked -slowly in his direction, that he could not be mistaken, he beat a hasty -retreat. That evening Blount was taken in on the mystery, and at dinner -time, seeing the Hebrew enter and seat himself in state at a distant -table, he asked casually, “A newcomer, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p><abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, Imogene, and the one broker present, surveyed the -stranger with curious but unacquainted indifference.</p> - -<p>“Haven’t the slightest idea,” answered the broker.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> “Never saw him -before. Cloaks and suits, I’ll lay a thousand.”</p> - -<p>“He looks as though he might be rich, whoever he is,” innocently -commented Imogene.</p> - -<p>“I think he came Thursday. He doesn’t seem to be any one in particular, -that’s sure,” added <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton distantly, and the subject was dropped.</p> - -<p>Gregory was tempted to accuse the young woman and her friends then -and there of falsehood, but he decided to wait and study her. This -was certainly becoming interesting. If they could lie like that, then -something was surely in the air. So she was a trickster, after all, and -she was so charming. His interest in her and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and their -friends grew apace.</p> - -<p>And then came the matter of the mysterious blue racer, or “trailer,” -as Gregory afterward came to call it, a great hulking brute of a car, -beautifully, even showily, made, and with an engine that talked like -no other. There was a metallic ring about it which seemed to carry a -long way through the clear air and over the sands which adjoined the -sea. It was the possession, so he learned later through <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, -of one of four fortunate youths who were summering at the next hotel -west, about a mile away. The owner, one Castleman by name, the son and -heir to a very wealthy family, was a friend of hers whom she had first -met in a commercial way in the city. They came over after Imogene’s -arrival, she explained, to help entertain, and they invariably came in -this car. Castleman and his friends, smart, showy youths all, played -tennis and bridge, and knew all the latest shows and dances and drinks. -They were very gay looking, at least three of them, and were inclined -to make much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> of Imogene, though, as <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton cautiously confided -to Gregory after a time, she did not propose to allow it. Imogene’s -parents might not like it. On the other hand, Gregory and Blount, being -sober men both and of excellent discretion, were much more welcome!</p> - -<p>Almost every day thereafter <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton would go for a ride in her own -car or that of Castleman, taking Gregory if he would, and Imogene for -companions. Blount, however, as he explicitly made clear at the very -beginning, was opposed to this.</p> - -<p>“Don’t ever be alone with her, I tell you, or just in the company of -her and her friends anywhere except on this veranda. They’re after -you, and they’re not finding it easy, and they’re beginning to work -hard. They’ll give themselves away in some way pretty soon, just as -sure as you’re sitting there. They want to cut me out, but don’t let -them do it—or if you do, get some one in my place. You don’t know -where they’ll take you. That’s the way people are framed. Take me, or -get them to use my machine and you take some other man. Then you can -regulate the conditions partially, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>Gregory insisted that he had no desire to make any other arrangements, -and so, thereafter, whenever an invitation was extended to him, Blount -was always somehow included, although, as he could see, they did not -like it. Not that Imogene seemed to mind, but <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton always -complained, “Must we wait for him?” or “Isn’t it possible, ever, to go -anywhere without him?”</p> - -<p>Gregory explained how it was. Blount was an old and dear friend of his. -They were practically spending<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> the summer together. Blount had nothing -to do just now.... They seemed to take it all in the best part, and -thereafter Blount was always ready, and even willing to suggest that -they come along with him in his car.</p> - -<p>But the more these accidental prearrangements occurred, the more -innocently perverse was <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton in proposing occasional trips of -her own. There was an interesting walk through the pines and across the -dunes to a neighboring hotel which had a delightful pavilion, and this -she was always willing to essay with just Gregory. Only, whenever he -agreed to this, and they were about to set out, Imogene would always -appear and would have to be included. Then <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton would remember -that she had forgotten her parasol or purse or handkerchief, and would -return for it, leaving Imogene and Gregory to stroll on together. But -Gregory would always wait until <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton returned. He was not to be -entrapped like this.</p> - -<p>By now he and Imogene, in spite of this atmosphere of suspicion and -uncertainty, had become very friendly. She liked him, he could see -that. She looked at him with a slight widening of the eyes and a faint -distention of the nostrils at times, which spelled—what? And when -seated with him in the car, or anywhere else, she drew near him in a -gently inclusive and sympathetic and coaxing way. She had been trying -to teach him to dance of late, and scolding him in almost endearing -phrases such as “Now, you bad boy,” or “Oh, butterfingers!” (when once -he had dropped something), or “Big, clumsy one—how big and strong you -really are. I can scarcely guide you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span></p> - -<p>And to him, in spite of all her dark chicane, she was really beautiful, -and so graceful! What a complexion, he said to himself on more than -one occasion. How light and silken her hair! And her eyes, hard and -gray-brown, and yet soft, too—to him. Her nose was so small and -straight, and her lip line so wavily cut, like an Englishwoman’s, full -and drooping in the center of the upper lip. And she looked at him so -when they were alone! It was disturbing.</p> - -<p>But as to the Blue Trailer on these careening nights. Chancing one -night to be invited by <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton for a twenty-five-mile run to -Bayside, Blount accompanying them, they had not gone ten miles, it -seemed to him, when the hum of a peculiarly and powerfully built motor -came to him. It was like a distant bee buzzing, or a hornet caught -under a glass. There was something fierce about it, savage. On the -instant he recalled it now, recognized it as the great blue machine -belonging to young Castleman. Why should he be always hearing it, he -asked, when they were out? And then quite thoughtlessly he observed to -Imogene:</p> - -<p>“That sounds like Castleman’s car, doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“It does, doesn’t it?” she innocently replied. “I wonder if it could -be.”</p> - -<p>Nothing caused him to think any more about it just then, but another -time when he was passing along a distant road he heard its motor -nearby on another road, and then it passed them. Again, it brought its -customary group to the same inn in which he and Blount and Imogene and -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton were.</p> - -<p>Suddenly it came to him just what it meant. The last time he had heard -it, and every time before that, he now remembered, its sound had been -followed by its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> appearance at some roadside inn or hotel whenever he, -Imogene and Blount happened to be in the same party; and it always -brought with it this self-same group of young men (“joy riders,” they -called themselves), accidentally happening in on them, as they said. -And now he remembered (and this fact was corroborated by the watchful -Blount) that if the car had not been heard, and they had not appeared, -either <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton or Imogene invariably sought the ladies’ retiring -room once they had reached their destination, if they had one, when -later the car would be heard tearing along in the distance and the “joy -riders” would arrive. But what for? How to compromise him exactly, if -at all?</p> - -<p>One night after <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had left them in one of these inns, but -before the joy riders had arrived, Gregory was sitting at the edge of a -balcony overlooking a silent grove of pines when suddenly it seemed to -him that he heard it coming in the distance, this great rumbling brute, -baying afar off, like a bloodhound on the scent. There was something -so eerie, uncanny about it or about the night, which made it so. And -then a few moments later it appeared, and the four cronies strolled in, -smart and summery in their appearance, seemingly surprised to find them -all there. Gregory felt a bit cold and chill at the subtlety of it all. -How horrible it was, trailing a man in this way! How tremendous the -depths of politics, how important the control of all the great seething -cities’ millions, to these men—Tilney and his friends,—if they could -find it important to plot against one lone investigating man like this! -Their crimes! Their financial robberies! How well he knew some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> of -them—and how near he was to being able to prove some of them and drive -them out, away from the public treasury and the emoluments and honors -of office!</p> - -<p>That was why he was so important to them now—he a self-established -newspaperman with a self-established investigating bureau. Actually, -it was villainous, so dark and crafty. What were they planning, these -two smiling women at his side and these four smart rounders, with their -pink cheeks and affable manners? What could they want of him really? -How would it all end?</p> - -<p>As <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, Imogene, Blount and himself were preparing to return, -and Castleman and his friends were entering their own car, a third -party hitherto unknown to Blount or Gregory appeared and engaged the -two women in conversation, finally persuading them to return with them -in their car. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton thereupon apologized and explained that -they were old friends whom she had not seen for a long time, and that -they would all meet at the hotel later for a game of bridge. Blount -and Gregory, left thus to themselves, decided to take a short cut to -a nearby turnpike so as to beat them home. The move interested them, -although they could not explain it at the time. It was while they were -following this road, however, through a section heavily shaded with -trees, that they were suddenly confronted by the blazing lights of -another machine descending upon them at full speed from the opposite -direction, and even though Blount by the most amazing dexterity managed -to throw his car into the adjacent fence and wood, still it came so -close and was traveling at such terrific speed that it clipped their -left rear wheel as he did so.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> - -<p>“Castleman’s car!” Blount said softly after it had passed. “I saw him. -They missed us by an inch!”</p> - -<p>“What do you think of that!” exclaimed Gregory cynically. “I wonder if -they’ll come back to see the result of their work?”</p> - -<p>Even as they were talking, however, they heard the big car returning.</p> - -<p>“Say, this looks serious! I don’t like the looks of it!” whispered -Blount. “That car would have torn us to bits and never been scratched. -And here they are now. Better look out for them. It’s just as well that -we’re armed. You have your gun, haven’t you?”</p> - -<p>The other group approached most brazenly.</p> - -<p>“Hello! Any trouble?” they called from a distance. “So sorry,” and then -as though they had just discovered it, “—well, if it isn’t Gregory and -Blount! Well, well, fellows, so sorry! It was an accident, I assure -you. Our steering gear is out of order.”</p> - -<p>Gregory and Blount had previously agreed to stand their ground, and -if any further treachery were intended it was to be frustrated with -bullets. The situation was partially saved or cleared up by the arrival -of a third car containing a party of four middle-aged men who, seeing -them in the wood and the other car standing by, stopped to investigate. -It was Gregory’s presence of mind which kept them there.</p> - -<p>“Do you mind staying by, Mister, until that other car leaves?” he -whispered to one of the newcomers who was helping to extricate Blount’s -machine. “I think they purposely tried to wreck us, but I’m not sure; -anyway, we don’t want to be left alone with them.”</p> - -<p>Finding themselves thus replaced and the others determined<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> to stay, -Castleman and his followers were most apologetic and helpful. They had -forgotten something back at the inn, they explained, and were returning -for it. As they had reached this particular spot and had seen the -lights of Blount’s car, they had tried to stop, but something had gone -wrong with the steering gear. They had tried to turn, but couldn’t, -and had almost wrecked their own car. Was there any damage? They would -gladly pay. Blount assured them there was not, the while he and Gregory -accepted their apologies in seeming good part, insisting, however, that -they needed no help. After they had gone Blount and Gregory, with the -strangers as guards, made their way to the hotel, only to find it dark -and deserted.</p> - -<p>What an amazing thing it all was, Gregory said to himself over -and over, the great metropolis threaded with plots like this for -spoil—cold blooded murder attempted, and that by a young girl and -these young men scarcely in their middle twenties, and yet there was -no way to fix it on them. Here he was, fairly convinced that on two -occasions murder had been planned or attempted, and still he could -prove nothing, not a word, did not even dare to accuse any one! And -Imogene, this girl of beauty and gayety, pretending an affection for -him—and he half believing it—and at the same time convinced that she -was in on the plot in some way. Had he lost his senses?</p> - -<p>He was for getting out now posthaste, feeling as he did that he was -dealing with a band of murderers who were plotting his death by -“accident” in case they failed to discredit him by some trick or plot, -but Blount was of another mind. He could not feel that this was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> a -good time to quit. After all, everything had been in their favor so -far. In addition, Blount had come to the conclusion that the girl was -a very weak tool of these other people, not a clever plotter herself. -He argued this, he said, from certain things which he had been able -thus far to find out about her. She had once been, he said, the -private secretary or personal assistant to a well known banker whose -institution had been connected with the Tilney interests in Penyank, -and whose career had ended in his indictment and flight. Perhaps there -had been some papers which she had signed as the ostensible secretary -or treasurer, which might make her the victim of Tilney or of some of -his political friends. Besides, by now he was willing to help raise -money to carry Gregory’s work on in case he needed any. The city should -be protected from such people. But Blount considered Imogene a little -soft or easy, and thought that Gregory could influence her <a id="tohelp"></a>to help him if -he tried.</p> - -<p>“Stick it out,” he insisted. “Stick it out. It looks pretty serious, -I know, but you want to remember that you won’t be any better off -anywhere else, and here we at least know what we’re up against. They -know by now that we’re getting on to them. They must. They’re getting -anxious, that’s all, and the time is getting short. You might send for -your wife, but that wouldn’t help any. Besides, if you play your cards -right with this girl you might get her to come over to your side. In -spite of what she’s doing, I think she likes you.” Gregory snorted. “Or -you might make her like you, and then you could get the whole scheme -out of her. See how she looks at you all the time! And don’t forget -that every day<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> you string this thing along without letting them bring -it to a disastrous finish, the nearer you are to the election. If this -goes on much longer without their accomplishing anything, Tilney won’t -have a chance to frame up anything new before the election will be upon -him, and then it will be too late. Don’t you see?”</p> - -<p>On the strength of this, Gregory agreed to linger a little while -longer, but he felt that it was telling on his nerves. He was becoming -irritable and savage, and the more he thought about it the worse he -felt. To think of having to be pleasant to people who were murderers at -heart and trying to destroy you!</p> - -<p>The next morning, however, he saw Imogene at breakfast, fresh and -pleasant, and with that look of friendly interest in her eyes which -more and more of late she seemed to wear and in spite of himself he was -drawn to her, although he did his best to conceal it.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you come back last night to play cards with us?” she asked. -“We waited and waited for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, haven’t you heard about the latest ‘accident’?” he asked, with -a peculiar emphasis on the word, and looking at her with a cynical -mocking light in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“No. What accident?” She seemed thoroughly unaware that anything had -happened.</p> - -<p>“You didn’t know, of course, that Castleman’s car almost ran us down -after you left us last night?”</p> - -<p>“No!” she exclaimed with genuine surprise. “Where?”</p> - -<p>“Well, just after you left us, in the wood beyond Bellepoint. It was so -fortunate of you two to have left just when you did.” And he smiled and -explained<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> briefly and with some cynical comments as to the steering -gear that wouldn’t work.</p> - -<p>As he did so, he examined her sharply and she looked at him with what -he thought might be pain or fear or horror in her glance. Certainly -it was not a look disguising a sympathetic interest in the plans of -her friends or employers, if they were such. Her astonishment was so -obviously sincere, confusing, revealing, in a way that it all but won -him. He could not make himself believe that she had had a hand in that -anyhow. It must be as Blount said, that she was more of a tool herself -than anything else. She probably couldn’t help herself very well or -didn’t know the lengths to which her pretended “friends” were prepared -to go. Her eyes seemed troubled, sad. She seemed weaker, more futile, -than at any time since he had known her, and this, while it did not -add particularly to his respect, softened his personal animosity. He -felt that under the circumstances he might come to like her. He also -thought that she might be made to like him enough to help him. He had -the emotional mastery of her, he thought, and that was something. He -had described the incident with all the vividness of detail that he -could, showing how he and Blount had escaped death by a hair’s breadth. -She seemed a little sick, and shortly after left the table. Gregory had -taken good care to make it plain that the strangers in the other car -had been informed as to the exact details of the case, and had offered -their services as witnesses in case they were wanted.</p> - -<p>“But we don’t propose to do anything about it,” he said genially, “not -now, anyhow,” and it was then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> that she seemed to become a little sick -or faint, and left him.</p> - -<p>Whether owing to this conversation or the accident itself, or to -circumstances concerning which he knew nothing, there now seemed to -come a temporary lull in the activities of this group. The Blue Trailer -disappeared as an active daily fact in their lives. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton -was called to the city on business for a few days, as well as <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Diamondberg, the “cloak and suit man,” as Blount always called him, -who in all the time he had been there had never publicly joined them. -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton came back later as cheerful and optimistic as ever, but in -the meanwhile there had been an approach on the part of Imogene toward -himself which seemed to promise a new order of things. She was freer, -more natural and more genial than she had been hitherto. She was with -him more, smiling, playful, and yet concerned, he thought. Because of -their conversation the morning after the accident, he felt easier in -her presence, more confidential, as though he might be able to talk to -her about all this soon and get her to help him.</p> - -<p>They had two hours together on the second afternoon of the absence of -the others which brought them within sight of each other’s point of -view. It began after lunch, because Gregory had some reports to examine -and was staying here to do it. She came over and stood beside him.</p> - -<p>“What are you doing?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m looking up some facts,” he replied enigmatically, smiling up -at her. “Sit down.”</p> - -<p>They fell into conversation first about a tennis match which was being -held here, and then about his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> work, which he described in part after -observing that she knew all about it, or ought to.</p> - -<p>“Why do you always talk to me that way about everything in connection -with you?” she asked after a moment’s pause. “You have such a queer way -of speaking, as though I knew something I ought not to know about your -affairs.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you do, don’t you?” he questioned grimly, staring at her.</p> - -<p>“Now, there it is again! What do you mean by that?”</p> - -<p>“Do you really need to have me explain to you?” he went on in a hard -cynical manner. “As though you didn’t know! I don’t suppose you ever -heard of the Union Bank of Penyank, for instance? Or <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne, its -president? Or <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Riley, or <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Mears, the cashier?”</p> - -<p>At the mention of these, as at the mention of the automobile accident, -there was something which seemed to click like a camera shutter in her -eyes, only this time there was no sign of pain, none even of confusion. -She seemed, except for a faint trace of color, to be fairly calm and -poised. She opened her mouth slightly, but more in an attempted smile -of tolerance than anything else.</p> - -<p>“The Union Bank? <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne? <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney? What are you talking about?” -she persisted. “Who is <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne, and where is the Union Bank?”</p> - -<p>“Really, now, Miss Carle,” he said with a kind of dogmatic fury, “if -you want me to have any regard of any kind for you in the future, quit -lying about this. You know well enough what I mean. You know who <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Swayne is, all right, and why he left<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> Eastridge. You also know <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Diamondberg, although I heard you say you didn’t, and that right after -I had seen you walking with him out here on the dunes three weeks ago. -You don’t remember that, I suppose?” this as she fluttered slightly.</p> - -<p>She stared, completely shaken out of her composure, and a real flush -spread over her cheeks and neck. For the moment her expression hardened -the least bit, then gave way to one of mingled weakness and confusion. -She looked more or less guilty and genuinely distrait.</p> - -<p>“Why, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Gregory,” she pleaded weakly, “how you talk! Positively, I -haven’t the slightest idea of what you mean, and I wish you wouldn’t be -so rough. I don’t think you know what you’re talking about, or if you -do you certainly don’t know anything about me. You must have me mixed -up with some one else, or with something that I don’t know anything -about.” She moved as if to leave.</p> - -<p>“Now listen to me a minute,” he said sharply, “and don’t be so ready -to leave. You know who I am, and just what I’m doing. I’m running an -investigation bureau on my own account with which I mean to break up -the present city political ring, and I have a lot of evidence which -might cause <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney and the mayor and some others a lot of trouble -this fall, and they know it, and that’s why you’re out here. <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney -is connected with the mayor, and he used to be a bosom friend of your -friend, Jack Swayne. And Diamondberg and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton are in his employ -right now, and so are you. You think I don’t know that Castleman and -his friends were working with you and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, and Diamondberg -and these<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> ‘brokers’ also, and that Castleman tried to run into us the -other night and kill me, and that I’m being watched here all the time -and spied on, but I am, and I know it, and I’m not in the dark as to -anything—not one thing—not even you,” and he leered at her angrily.</p> - -<p>“Now wait a moment,” he went on quickly as she opened her mouth and -started to say something. “You don’t look to me to be so crafty and -devilish as all this seems, or I wouldn’t be talking to you at all, -and your manner all along has been so different—you’ve appeared so -friendly and sympathetic, that I’ve thought at times that maybe you -didn’t know exactly what was going on. Now, however, I see that you do. -Your manner the other morning at breakfast made me think that possibly -you were not so bad as you seemed. But now I see that you’ve been lying -to me all along about all this, just as I thought, only I must say that -up to now I haven’t been willing to believe it. This isn’t the first -time an attempt has been made to get people in this way, though. It’s -an old political trick, only you’re trying to work it once more, and I -don’t propose that you shall work it on me if I can help it. Plainly, -you people wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, any more than Tilney hesitated -to ruin Crothers three years ago, or than he would hesitate to ruin -me or any other man or woman who got in his path, but he hasn’t got -me yet, and he’s not going to, and you can tell him that for me. He’s -a crook. He controls a bunch of crooks—the mayor and all the people -working with him—and if you’re in with them, as I know you are, and -know what you’re doing, you’re a crook too.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, oh, oh! Don’t!” she exclaimed. “Please don’t! This is too -terrible! To think that you should talk to me in this way!” but she -made no attempt to leave.</p> - -<p>“Now I want to tell you something more, Miss Carle—if that’s <a id="your"></a>your real -name—” Gregory went on as she was putting her hands to her temples and -exclaiming, and she winced again. “As I said before, you don’t look to -me to be as bad as you seem, and for that reason I’m talking to you -now. But just see how it is: Here I am, a young man just starting out -in the world really, and here you are trying to ruin me. I was living -here with my wife and my little two-year-old baby peacefully enough -until she had to go to the mountains because our little boy was taken -sick, and then you and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and Diamondberg and Castleman and -the ‘brokers’ and all the rest of the crowd that are and have been -around here watching and spying, came and began to cause me trouble. -Now I’m not helpless. And you needn’t think I wasn’t warned before you -came, because I was. There are just as many influential men on my side -of the fence right now as there are on Tilney’s—will be—and he isn’t -going to get away with this thing as easily as he thinks. But just -think of your part in all this! Why should you want to ruin me or help -these people? What have I ever done to you? I can understand Tilney’s -wanting to do it. He thinks that I have facts which will injure him, -and I have, and that because I haven’t made any public statement the -evidence is still in my hands, and that if I am put out of the way or -discredited the whole thing will blow over and nothing will happen to -him—but it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> won’t. Not now any more. It can’t. This thing will go -on just the same, whether I am here or not. But that isn’t the point -either. I was told two months ago that you would come, not by <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton, but by friends of mine, and that an attempt would be made on -my life,” and at that she opened her eyes wide and sat there apparently -amazed, “and here you are on schedule time and doing just as you were -told, and apparently you aren’t the least bit ashamed to do it. But -don’t you think it’s a pretty shabby game for you to play?” He stared -at her wearily and she at him, but now for the moment she said nothing, -just sat there.</p> - -<p>“That big blue machine that was to have killed me the other night,” he -went on, stretching matters a little in so far as his own knowledge -was concerned, “was all arranged for long before you came down here. -I haven’t the slightest idea why you work for Tilney, but I know now -that that’s what you’re doing, and I’m sick of you and the whole thing. -You’re just a plain little crook, that’s all, and I’m through with you -and this whole thing, and I don’t want you to talk to me any more. -What’s more, I’m not going to leave this hotel, either, and you can -take that news to Tilney if you want to, or <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton or whoever -else is managing things here for him. I’ve kept a day-to-day record -of everything that’s happened so far, and I have witnesses, and if -anything more happens to me here I’m going to the newspapers and expose -the whole thing. If you had any sense of decency left you wouldn’t be -in on anything like this, but you haven’t—you’re just a shabby little -trickster, and that lets you out, and that’s all I have to say.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span></p> - -<p>He stood up and made as if to walk off, while Miss Carle sat there, -seemingly dazed, then jumped up and called after him:</p> - -<p>“<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Gregory! Please! Please! <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Gregory, I want to tell you -something!”</p> - -<p>He stopped and turned. She came hurriedly up to him.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go,” she pleaded, “not just yet. Wait a minute. Please come -back. I want to talk to you.” And though he looked at her rather -determinedly, he followed her.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand how it is,” she pleaded, with a look of real -concern in her eyes. “And I can’t tell you either, just now, but I -will some time if you will let me. But I like you, and I really don’t -want to do you any harm. Really, I don’t. I don’t know anything about -these automobile things you’re telling about—truly I don’t. They’re -all terrible and horrible to me, and if they are trying to do anything -like that, I don’t know it, and I won’t have anything more to do with -it—really I won’t. Oh, it’s terrible!” and she clenched her hands. -“I do know <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Diamondberg now, I admit that, but I didn’t before I -came down here, and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne and <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney. I did come here to see -if I could get you interested in me, but they didn’t tell me just -why. They told me—<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton did—that you, or some people whom -you represented, were trying to get evidence against some friends of -theirs—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney’s, I believe—who were absolutely innocent, that you -weren’t happy with your wife, and that if some one, any one, were able -to make you fall in love with her or just become very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> good friends, -she might be able to persuade you not to do it, you see. There wasn’t -any plan, so far as I know, to injure you bodily in any way. They -didn’t tell me that they wanted to injure you physically—really they -didn’t. That’s all news to me, and dreadful. All they said was that -they wanted to get some one to get you to stop—make it worth your -while in a money way, if I could. I didn’t think there was anything so -very wrong in that, seeing all they have done for me in the past—<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> -Tilney, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and some others. But after I saw you a little -while I——” she paused and looked at him, then away, “I didn’t think -you were that kind of a man, you see, and so—well, it’s different -now. I don’t want to do anything to hurt you. Really I don’t. I -couldn’t—now.”</p> - -<p>“So you admit now that you do know <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney,” he commented sourly, -but not without a sense of triumph behind it all.</p> - -<p>“I just told you that,” she said.</p> - -<p>She stopped, and Gregory stared at her suspiciously. That she liked him -was plain, and in a sense it was different from that of a mere passing -flirtation, and as for himself—well, he couldn’t help liking her in -a genial way. He was free to admit that to himself, in spite of her -trickery, and that she was attractive, and as yet she personally had -not done anything to him, certainly nothing that he could prove. She -seemed even now so young, although so sophisticated and wise, and much -about her face, its smoothness, the delicate tracery of hair about her -forehead, the drooping pout of the upper lip, sharpened his interest -and caused him to meditate.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he inquired after a time.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t turn on me so and leave me,” she pleaded. “I -haven’t done anything to you, have I? Not yet, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just the point—not yet. There’s the whole story in a nutshell.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I promise you faithfully that I won’t, that I don’t intend -to. Really I don’t. You won’t believe me, but that’s true. And I won’t, -I give you my word,—truly. Why won’t you still be friends with me? -I can’t tell you any more about myself now than I have—not now—but -I will some time, and I wish you would still be friends with me. I -promise not to do anything to cause you trouble. I haven’t really, have -I? Have I?”</p> - -<p>“How should I know?” he answered testily and roughly, the while -believing that this was a deliberate attempt on her part to interest -him in spite of himself, to get him not to leave yet. “It seems to me -you’ve done enough, being with these people. You’ve led me into going -about with them, for one thing. I would never have gone with them on -most of these trips except for you. Isn’t that enough? What more do you -want? And why can’t you tell me now,” he demanded, feeling in a way -the authority of a victor, “who these people are and all about them? -I’d like to know. It might be a help to me, if you really wanted to do -something for me. What are their plans, their game?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I can’t tell you any more than I have, truly I can’t. If -I find out, maybe I will some time. I promise to. But not now. I can’t, -now. Can’t you trust me that much? Can’t you see that I like you, when -I tell you so much? I haven’t any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> plan to injure you personally, -truly I haven’t. I’m obliged to these people in one way and another, -but nothing that would make me go that far. Won’t you believe me?” She -opened her eyes very wide in injury. There was something new in her -expression, a luring, coaxing something.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t any one who is really close to me any more,” she went on, -“not anybody I like. I suppose it’s all my own fault, but—” her voice -became very sweet.</p> - -<p>In spite of his precautions and the knowledge that his wife was the -best and most suitable companion for him in the world, and that he was -permanently fixed through his affection for his child and the helpful, -hopeful mother of it, nevertheless he was moved by some peculiarity of -this girl’s temperament. What power had Tilney over her, that he could -use her in this way? Think of it—a beautiful girl like this!</p> - -<p>“What about <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton?” he demanded. “Who is she, anyhow? And these -three gardeners around here? What is it they want?” (There were three -gardeners of the grounds who whenever he and Imogene had been alone -together anywhere managed somehow to be working near the scene—an -arrival which caused him always instanter to depart.) “And Diamondberg?”</p> - -<p>She insisted that in so far as the gardeners were concerned she knew -absolutely nothing about them. If they were employed by <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton -or any one, it was without her knowledge. As for Diamondberg, she -explained that she had only met him since she had come here, but that -she really did not like him. For some reason <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton had asked her -to appear not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> to know him. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton, she persisted, had known her -years before in Cincinnati, as she had said, but more recently in the -city. She had helped her to get various positions, twice on the stage. -Once she had worked for <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne, yes, for a year, but only as a -clerk. She had never known anything about him or his plans or schemes, -never. When Gregory wanted to know how it was that he was to be trapped -by her, if at all, she insisted that she did not believe that he was to -be trapped. It was all to have been as she said.</p> - -<p>Gregory could not quite make out whether she was telling him the exact -truth, but it was near enough, and it seemed to him that she could not -be wholly lying. She seemed too frank and wishful. There was something -sensuously affectionate in her point of view and her manner. He would -know everything in the future, she insisted, if he wanted to, but only -not now—please not now. Then she asked about his wife, where she was, -when she was coming back.</p> - -<p>“Do you love her very much?” she finally asked naïvely.</p> - -<p>“Certainly I love her. Why do you ask? I’ve a two-year-old boy that I’m -crazy about.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him thoughtfully, a little puzzled or uncertain, he -thought.</p> - -<p>They agreed to be friends after a fashion before they were through. He -confessed that he liked her, but still that he did not trust her—not -yet. They were to go on as before, but only on condition that nothing -further happened to him which could be traced to her. She frankly told -him that she could not control the actions of the others. They were -their own masters, and, after a fashion, hers, but in so far as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> she -could she would protect him. She did not believe that they intended to -try much longer. In so far as she was concerned, he might go away if -he chose. She could see him anywhere, if he would. She was not sure if -that would make any difference in their plans or not. Anyhow, she would -not follow him if he did go unless he wished it, but she would prefer -that he did. Perhaps nothing more would happen here. If she heard of -anything she would tell him, or try to, in time. But she could not say -more than that now. After a while, maybe, as soon as she could get out -of here ... there were certain things over which she had no control. -She was very enigmatic and secretive, and he took it to mean that she -was involved in some difficult situation and could not easily extricate -herself.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t take too much stock in her, at that,” Blount reflected -when Gregory had told him about it. “Just keep your eyes open, that’s -all. Don’t have anything to do with her in a compromising way. She may -be lying to you again. Once a crook, always a crook.” Such was his -philosophy.</p> - -<p><abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton returned on the third day after his long conversation -with Imogene, and in spite of the fact that they had seemed to come -closer together than ever before, to have established a friendly -semi-defensive pact, still he sensed treachery. He could not make out -what it was. She seemed to be friendly, simple, gay, direct, even -wooing—and yet—what? He thought at one time that she might be the -unconscious psychologic victim of <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton or of some one else; at -other times, an absolutely unprincipled political philanderer. While -pretending to be “on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> level,” as he phrased it, with him, she was -crossing his path in such odd ways, making him uncertain as to whether, -in spite of all she had said and was saying, she was still engaged -in trying to compromise him. The whole thing began to take on the -fascination of a game with the unconquerable lure of sex at the bottom -of it—steeled as he was against compromising himself in any way.</p> - -<p>Thus once, after a late card game, when he stepped out on a small -veranda or balcony which graced the end of the hall nearest which his -room was situated, and which commanded a splendid view of the sea, he -found her just outside his door, alone, diaphanously attired, and very -sympathetic and genial. Now that they were friends and had had this -talk, there was something in her manner which always seemed to invite -him on to a closer life with her without danger to himself, as she -seemed to say. She would shield him against all, at her own expense. At -the same time he was far—very far—from yielding. More than once he -had insisted that he did not want to have anything to do with her in an -affectional way, and yet here she was on this occasion, and although -there might or there might not have been anything very alarming in -that, he argued with himself afterward, yet since he had told her, -this could be made to look as though she were trying to overpersuade -him, to take him off his guard. Any guest of the hotel might have done -as much (her room was somewhere near there), but Rule One, as laid -down by Blount, and as hitherto practised by him, was never, under any -circumstances which might be misinterpreted, to be alone with her. And -besides, when he withdrew, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> he did at once, excusing himself lightly -and laughingly, he saw two men turning in at a cross corridor just -beyond, and one, seeing him turn back, said to the other, “It must be -on the other side, Jim.” Well, there might not have been anything very -significant in that, either. Any two men might accidentally turn into a -hall on an end balcony of which a maiden was sitting in very diaphanous -array, but still——</p> - -<p>It was the same whenever he walked along the outer or sea wall at -night, listening to the thunder of the water against the rapp which -sustained the walk, and meditating on the night and the beauty of the -hotel and the shabbiness of politics. Imogene was always about him -when she might be with safety, as he saw it, but never under such -circumstances as could be made to seem that they were alone together. -Bullen, one of the two brokers, who seemed not a bad sort after his -kind, came out there one night with <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and Imogene, and -seeing Gregory, engaged him in conversation and then left Imogene to -his care. Gregory, hating to appear asininely suspicious under such -circumstances, was genuinely troubled as to what to do in such cases -as these. Always now he was drawn to her, painfully so, and yet—— He -had told her more than once that he did not wish to be alone with her -in this way, and yet here she was, and she was always insisting that -she did not wish him to be with her if he objected to it, and yet look -at this! Her excuse always was that she could not help it, that it -was purely accidental or planned by them without her knowledge. She -could not avoid all accidents. When he demanded to know why she did -not leave, clear out of all of this, she explained that without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> great -injury to herself and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton she could not, and that besides he -was safer with her there.</p> - -<p>“What is this?” he asked on this occasion. “Another plan?” Feeling her -stop and pull back a little, he felt ashamed of himself. “Well, you -know what I’ve been telling you all along,” he added gruffly.</p> - -<p>“Please don’t be so suspicious, Ed. Why do you always act so? Can’t I -even walk out here? I couldn’t avoid this to-night, truly I couldn’t. -Don’t you suppose I have to play a part too—for a time, anyhow? What -do you expect me to do—leave at once? I can’t, I tell you. Won’t you -believe me? Won’t you have a little faith in me?”</p> - -<p>“Well, come on,” he returned crossly, as much irritated with himself -as any one. “Give me your arm. Give a dog a bad name, you know,” and -he walked her courteously but firmly in the direction of the principal -veranda, trying to be nice to her at the same time.</p> - -<p>“I tell you, Imogene, I can’t and I won’t do this. You must find ways -of avoiding these things. If not, I’m not going to have anything to -do with you at all. You say you want me to be friends with you, if -no more. Very well. But how are we going to do it?” and after more -arguments of this kind they parted with considerable feeling, but not -altogether antagonistic, at that.</p> - -<p>Yet by reason of all this finally, and very much to his personal -dissatisfaction, he found himself limited as to his walks and lounging -places almost as much as if he had been in prison. There was a little -pergola at one end of the lawn with benches and flowering vines -which had taken his fancy when he first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> came, and which he had been -accustomed to frequent as a splendid place to walk and smoke, but not -any more. He was too certain of being picked up there, or of being -joined by <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton and Imogene, only to be left with Imogene, with -possibly the three gardeners or a broker as witnesses. He could not -help thinking how ridiculous it all was.</p> - -<p>He even took Imogene, he and Blount, in Blount’s car, and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton -with them or not, as the case might be—it was all well enough so -long as Blount was along—to one place or another in the immediate -vicinity—never far, and always the two of them armed and ready for any -emergency or fray, as they said. It seemed a risky thing to do, still -they felt a little emboldened by their success so far, and besides, -Imogene was decidedly attractive to both of them. Now that she had -confessed her affection for Gregory she was most alluring with him, and -genial to Blount, teasing and petting him and calling him the watchdog. -Blount was always crowing over how well he and Gregory were managing -the affair. More than once he had pointed out, even in her presence, -that there was an element of sport or fascinating drama in it, that -she “couldn’t fool them,” all of which was helping mightily to pass -the time, even though his own and Gregory’s life, or at least their -reputation, might be at stake.</p> - -<p>“Go on, go on, is my advice,” Blount kept saying now that he was being -amused. “Let her fall in love with you. Make her testify on your -behalf. Get a confession in black and white, if you can. It would be a -great thing in the campaign, if you were compelled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> to use it.” He was -a most practical and political soul, for all his geniality.</p> - -<p>Gregory could not quite see himself doing that, however. He was too -fond of her. She was never quite so yielding, so close to him, as now. -When he and Blount were out with her, now, the two of them ventured to -rag her as to her part in all this, asking her whether the other car -were handy, whether the gardeners had been properly lined up, and as to -who was behind this tree or that house. “There’d be no use in going if -everything wasn’t just right,” they said. She took it all in good part, -even laughing and mocking them.</p> - -<p>“Better look out! Here comes a spy now,” she would sometimes exclaim -at sight of a huckster driving a wagon or a farm-hand pushing a -wheelbarrow.</p> - -<p>To both Blount and Gregory it was becoming a farce, and yet between -themselves they agreed that it had its charm. They were probably tiring -her backers and they would all quit soon. They hoped so, anyhow.</p> - -<p>But then one night, just as they had concluded that there might not -be so very much to this plot after all, that it was about all over, -and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Gregory was writing that she would soon be able to return, -the unexpected happened. They were returning from one of those shorter -outings which had succeeded the longer ones of an earlier day, Blount -and Gregory and Imogene, and true to his idea of avoiding any routine -procedure which might be seized upon by the enemy as something to -expect and therefore to be used, Blount passed the main entrance and -drove instead around to a side path which led to a sunk-in porch<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> -flanked on either side by high box hedges and sheltered furry pines. -True also to their agreed plan of never being separated on occasions -like this, they both walked to the door with Imogene, Blount locking -his car so that it could not be moved during his absence. On the steps -of this side porch they chaffered a little, bantering Imogene about -another safe night, and how hard it was on the gardeners to keep them -up so late and moving about in the dark in this fashion, when Imogene -said she was tired and would have to go. She laughed at them for their -brashness.</p> - -<p>“You two think you’re very smart, don’t you?” she smiled a little -wearily. “It would serve you right if something did happen to both of -you one of these days—you know so much.”</p> - -<p>“Is that so?” chuckled Blount. “Well, don’t hold any midnight -conferences as to this. You’ll lose your beauty sleep if you do.”</p> - -<p>To which Gregory added, “Yes, with all this hard work ahead of you -every day, Imogene, I should think you’d have to be careful.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, and go on,” she laughed, moving toward the door.</p> - -<p>But they had not gone more than a hundred and fifty feet down the -shadowy side path before she came running after them, quite out of -breath.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear!” she called sweetly as she neared them, and they having heard -her footsteps had turned. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but some one -has locked that side door, and I can’t open it or make them hear. Won’t -one of you come and help me?” Then, as the two of them turned, “That’s -right. I forgot. You always work in pairs, don’t you?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> - -<p>Blount chortled. Gregory smiled also. They couldn’t help it. It was so -ridiculous at times—on occasions like this, for instance.</p> - -<p>“Well, you see how it is,” Gregory teased, “the door may be very -tightly closed, and it might take the two of us to get it open.”</p> - -<p>Seeing that Blount was really coming, he changed his mind. “I guess I -can get it open for her. Don’t bother this time. I’ll have to be going -in, anyhow,” he added. The thought came to him that he would like to be -with Imogene a little while—just a few moments.</p> - -<p>Blount left them after a cautioning look and a cheery good night. In -all the time they had been together they had not done this, but this -time it seemed all right. Gregory had never felt quite so close to -Imogene as he did this evening. She had seemed so warm, laughing, gay. -The night had been sultry, but mellow. They had tittered and jested -over such trifling things, and now he felt that he would like to be -with her a while longer. She had become more or less a part of his -life, or seemingly so, such a genial companion. He took her arm and -tucked it under his own.</p> - -<p>“It was nice over there at the Berkeley,” he commented, thinking of -an inn they had just left. “Beautiful grounds—and that music! It was -delightful, wasn’t it?” They had been dancing together.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear,” she sighed, “the summer will soon be over, and then I’ll -have to be going back, I suppose. I wish it would never end. I wish I -could stay here forever, just like this, if you were here.” She stopped -and looked at the treetops, taking a full breath and stretching out -her arms. “And do look at those fire-flies,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> she added, “aren’t they -wonderful?” She hung back, watching the flashing fire-flies under the -trees.</p> - -<p>“Why not sit down here a little while?” he proposed as they neared the -steps. “It isn’t late yet.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really mean it?” she asked warmly.</p> - -<p>“You see, I’m beginning to be so foolish as to want to trust you. Isn’t -that idiotic? Yes, I’m even going to risk fifteen minutes with you.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you two would quit your teasing, just once,” she pleaded. “I -wish you would learn to trust me and leave Blount behind just once in a -while, seeing that I’ve told you so often that I mean to do nothing to -hurt you without telling you beforehand.”</p> - -<p>Gregory looked at her, pleased. He was moved, a little sorry for her, -and a little sorrier for himself.</p> - -<p>In spite of himself, his wife and baby, as he now saw, he had come -along a path he should not have, and with one whom he could not -conscientiously respect or revere. There was no future for them -together, as he well knew, now or at any other time. Still he lingered.</p> - -<p>“Well, here we are,” he said, “alone at last. Now you can do your -worst, and I have no one to protect me.”</p> - -<p>“It would serve you right if I did, <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Smarty. But if I had suggested -that we sit down for a minute you would have believed that the wood -was full of spies. It’s too funny for words, the way you carry on. But -you’ll have to let me go upstairs to change my shoes, just the same. -They’ve been hurting me dreadfully, and I can’t stand them another -minute. If you want to, you can come up to the other balcony,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> or I’ll -come back here. I won’t be a minute. Do you mind?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” he assented, thinking that the other balcony would not be -as open as this, much too private for him and her. “Certainly not. Run -along. But I’d rather you came back here. I want to smoke, anyhow,” and -he drew out his cigar and was about to make himself comfortable when -she came back.</p> - -<p>“But you’ll have to get this door open for me,” she said. “I forgot -about that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, that’s right.”</p> - -<p>He approached it, looking first for the large key which always hung on -one side at this hour of the night, but not seeing it, looked at the -lock. The key was in it.</p> - -<p>“I was trying before. I put it there,” she explained.</p> - -<p>He laid hold of it, and to his surprise it came open without any effort -whatsoever, a thing which caused him to turn and look at her.</p> - -<p>“I thought you said it wouldn’t open,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, it wouldn’t before. I don’t know what makes it work now, but it -wouldn’t then. Perhaps some one has come out this way since. Anyhow, -I’ll run up and be down right away.” She hurried up the broad flight of -stairs which ascended leisurely from this entrance.</p> - -<p>Gregory returned to his chair, amused but not conscious of anything -odd or out of the way about the matter. It might well have been as she -said. Doors were contrary at times, or some one might have come down -and pushed it open. Why always keep doubting? Perhaps she really was -in love with him, as she seemed to indicate, or mightily infatuated, -and would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> not permit any one to injure him through her. It would seem -so, really. After all, he kept saying to himself, she was different -now to what he had originally thought, and what she had originally -been, caught in a tangle of her own emotions and compelled by him to -do differently from what she had previously planned. If he were not -married as happily as he was, might not something come of this? He -wondered.</p> - -<p>The black-green wall of the trees just beyond where he was sitting, -the yellow light filtering from the one bowl lamp which ornamented -the ceiling, the fireflies and the sawing katydids, all soothed and -entertained him. He was beginning to think that politics was not such -a bad business after all, his end of it at least, or being pursued -even. His work thus far had yielded him a fair salary, furnishing -as it had excellent copy for some of the newspapers and political -organizations—the best was being reserved for the last—and was -leading him into more interesting ways than the old newspaper days had, -and the future, outside of what had happened in the last few weeks, -looked promising enough. Soon he would be able to deal the current -administration a body blow. This might raise him to a high position -locally. He had not been so easily frustrated as they had hoped, and -this very attractive girl had fallen in love with him.</p> - -<p>For a while he stared down the black-green path up which they had come, -and then fixed his eyes in lazy contemplation on one of the groups of -stars showing above the treetops. Suddenly—or was it suddenly?—more -a whisper or an idea—he seemed to become aware of something that -sounded, as he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> listened more keenly, like a light footfall in the -garden beyond the hedge. It was so very light, a mere tickle of the -grass or stirring of a twig. He pricked up his ears and on the instant -strained every muscle and braced himself, not that he imagined anything -very dreadful was going to happen, but—were they up to their old -tricks again? Was this the wonderful gardeners again? Would they never -stop? Removing the cigar from his mouth and stilling the rocker in -which he had been slowly moving to and fro, he decided not to stir, not -even to move his hands, so well concealed was he from the bushes on -either side by the arrangement of the posts, one of which was to the -left of him. In this position he might see and not be seen. Did they -know he was there? How had they found out? Were they always watching -yet? Was she a part of it? He decided to get up and leave, but a moment -later thought it better to linger just a little, to wait and see. If -he left and she came back and did not find him there—could it be that -there was some new trick on foot?</p> - -<p>While he was thus swiftly meditating, he was using his ears to their -utmost. Certainly there was a light footfall approaching along the -other side of the hedge to the left, two in fact, for no sooner was -one seemingly still, near at hand, than another was heard coming from -the same direction, as light and delicate as that of a cat—spies, -trappers, murderers, even, as he well knew. It was so amazing, this -prowling and stalking, so desperate and cruel, that it made him a -little sick. Perhaps, after all, he had better have kept Blount with -him—not have lingered in this fashion. He was about to leave, a -nervous thrill chasing up and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> down his spine, when he heard what he -took to be Imogene’s step on the stair. Then she was coming back, -after all, as she had said. She was not a part of this as he had -feared—or was she? Who could tell? But it would be foolish to leave -now. She would see that he was wholly suspicious again, and that stage -had somehow seemed to be passing between them. She had promised on -more than one occasion to protect him against these others, let alone -herself. Anyhow he could speak of these newcomers and then leave. He -would let her know that they were hanging about as usual, always ready -to take advantage of his good nature.</p> - -<p>But now, her step having reached the bottom of the stair and ceased, -she did not come out. Instead, a light that was beside the door, but -out at this hour, was turned on, and glancing back he could see her -shadow, or thought he could, on the wall opposite, to the right. She -was doing something—what? There was a mirror below the light. She -might be giving her hair a last pat. She had probably arrayed herself -slightly differently for him to see. He waited. Still she did not -come. Then swiftly, a sense of something treacherous came over him, -a creeping sensation of being victimized and defeated. He felt, over -his taut nerves, this thrilling fear which seemed to almost convey the -words: Move! Hurry! Run! He could not sit still a moment longer, but, -as if under a great compulsion, leaped to his feet and sprang to the -door just as he thought he heard additional movements and even whispers -in the dark outside. What was it? Who? Now he would see!</p> - -<p>Inside he looked for her, and there she was, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> how different! -When she had gone upstairs she had been arrayed in a light summery -dress, very smart and out-door-ish, but here she was clothed in a soft -clinging housedress such as one would never wear outside the hotel. And -instead of being adjusted with her customary care, it was decidedly -awry, as though she might have been in some disturbing and unhappy -contest. The collar was slightly torn and pulled open, a sleeve ripped -at the shoulder and wrist, the hang of the skirt over the hips awry, -and the skirt itself torn, a ragged slit over the knee. Her face had -been powdered to a dead white, or she herself was overcome with fear -and distress, and the hair above it was disarranged, as though it had -been shaken or pulled to one side. Her whole appearance was that of one -who had been assailed in some evil manner and who had come out of the -contest disarranged as to her clothes and shaken as to her nerves.</p> - -<p>Brief as his glance was, Gregory was amazed at the transformation. -He was so taken aback that he could not say anything, but just what -it all meant came to him in an intuitive flash. To fly was his one -thought, to get out of the vicinity of this, not to be seen or taken -near it. With one bound he was away and up the easy stair three at a -time, not pausing to so much as look back at her, meeting her first -wide half-frightened stare with one of astonishment, anger and fear. -Nor did he pause until he had reached his own door, through which he -fairly jumped, locking himself in as he did so. Once inside, he stood -there white and shaking, waiting for any sound which might follow, any -pursuit, but hearing none, going to his mirror and mocking at himself -for being such a fool as to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> be so easily outwitted, taken in, after -all his caution and sophisticated talk. Lord! he sighed. Lord!</p> - -<p>And after all her protests and promises, this very evening, too, he -thought. What a revelation of the unreliability and treachery of human -nature! So she had been lying to him all the time, leading him on -in the face of his almost boastful precautions and suspicions, and -to-night, almost at the close of the season, had all but succeeded in -trapping him! Then Tilney was not so easily to be fooled, after all. He -commanded greater loyalty and cunning in his employees than he had ever -dreamed. But what could he say to her, now that he knew what she really -was, if ever he saw her again? She would just laugh at him, think him a -fool, even though he had managed to escape. Would he ever want to see -her again? Never, he thought. But to think that any one so young, so -smooth, so seemingly affectionate, could be so ruthless, so devilishly -clever and cruel! She was much more astute than either he or Blount had -given her credit for.</p> - -<p>After moving the bureau and chairs in front of the door, he called up -Blount and sat waiting for him to come.</p> - -<p>Actually, as he saw it now, she had meant to stage a seeming assault -in which he would have been accused as the criminal and if they had -sufficient witnesses he might have had a hard time proving otherwise. -After all, he had been going about with her a great deal, he and -Blount, and after he had told himself that he would not.</p> - -<p>Her witnesses were there, close upon him, in the dark. Even though he -might be able to prove his previous<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> good character, still, considering -the suspicious fact that he had trifled with her and this treacherous -situation so long, would a jury or the public believe him? A moment or -two more, and she would have screamed out that he was attacking her, -and the whole hotel would have been aroused. Her secret friends would -have rushed forward and beaten him. Who knows?—they might even have -killed him! And their excuse would have been that they were justified. -Unquestionably she and her friends would have produced a cloud of -witnesses. But she hadn’t screamed—there was a curious point as to -that, even though she had had ample time (and she had had) and it was -expected of her and intended that she should! Why hadn’t she? What had -prevented her? A strange, disturbing exculpating thought began to take -root in his mind, but on the instant also he did his best to crush it.</p> - -<p>“No, no! I have had enough now,” he said to himself. “She did intend to -compromise me and that is all there is to it. And in what a fashion. -Horrible. No, this is the end. I will get out now to-morrow, that is -one thing certain, go to my wife in the mountains, or bring her home.” -Meanwhile, he sat there trembling, revolver in hand, wiping the sweat -from his face, for he did not know but that even yet they might follow -him here and attempt the charge of assault anyhow. Would they—could -they? Just then some one knocked on his door, and Gregory, after -demanding to know who it was, opened it to Blount. He quickly told him -of his evening’s experience.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Blount, heavily and yet amusedly, “she certainly is the -limit. That was a clever ruse, say what you will, a wonder. And the -coolness of her!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> Why, she joked with us about it! I thought you were -taking a chance, but not a great one. I was coming around to thinking -she might be all right, and now think of this! I agree with you that -it is time for you to leave. I don’t think you’ll ever get her over to -your side. She’s too crafty.”</p> - -<p>The next morning Gregory was up early and on the veranda smoking and -meditating as to his exact course. He would go now, of course, and -probably never see this girl with her fiend’s heart again. What a -revelation! To think that there were such clever, ruthless, beautiful -sirens about in the same world with such women as his wife! Contrast -them—his wife, faithful, self-sacrificing, patient, her one object -the welfare of those whom she truly loved, and then put on the other -side of the scale this girl—tricky, shameless, an actress, one without -scruples or morals, her sole object in life, apparently, to advance -herself in any way that she might, and that at the expense of everybody -and everything!</p> - -<p>He wanted to leave without seeing her, but in spite of himself he sat -on, telling himself that it would do no harm to have just one last talk -with her in order to clear up whether she had really intended to scream -or no—whether she was as evil as he really thought now, confront her -with her enormous treachery and denounce her for the villainess she -was. What new lie would she have on her tongue now, he wondered? Would -she be able to face him at all? Would she explain? Could she? He would -like to take one more look at her, or see if she would try to avoid him -completely. This morning she must be meditating on how unfortunately -she had failed, missed out, and only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> last night she had taken his hand -and smoothed it and whispered that she was not so bad, so mean, as he -thought her to be, and that some day he would find it out. And now see!</p> - -<p>He waited a considerable time, and then sent up word that he wanted to -see her. He did not want to see this thing closed in this fashion with -no chance to at least berate her, to see what new lie she would tell. -After a while she came down, pale and seemingly exhausted, a weary look -about her eyes as though she had not slept. To his astonishment she -came over quite simply to where he was sitting, and when he stood up at -her approach as if to ward her off, stood before him, seemingly weaker -and more hopeless than ever. What an excellent actress, he thought! He -had never seen her so downcast, so completely overcome, so wilted.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he began as she stood there, “what new lie have you fixed up to -tell me this morning?”</p> - -<p>“No lie,” she replied softly.</p> - -<p>“What! Not a single lie? Anyhow, you’ll begin by shamming contrition, -won’t you? You’re doing that already. Your friends made you do it, of -course, didn’t they? Tilney was right there—and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Skelton! They -were all waiting for you when you went up, and told you just what to do -and how it had to be done, wasn’t that it? And you had to do it, too, -didn’t you?” he sneered cynically.</p> - -<p>“I told you I didn’t have anything to say,” she answered. “I didn’t do -anything—I mean I didn’t intend to—except to signal you to run, but -when you burst in on me that way——” He waved an impatient hand. “Oh, -all right,” she went on sadly. “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> can’t help it if you won’t believe -me. But it’s true just the same. Everything you think, all except that -automobile plot, and this is true, but I’m not asking you to believe -me any more. I can’t help it if you won’t. It’s too late. But I had to -go through my part anyhow. Please don’t look at me that way, Ed—not -so hard. You don’t know how really weak I am, or what it is that makes -me do these things. But I didn’t want to do anything to hurt you last -night, not when I left you. And I didn’t. I hadn’t the slightest -intention, really I hadn’t. Oh, well, sneer if you want to! I couldn’t -help myself, though, just the same—believe it or not. Nothing was -farther from my mind when I came in, only—oh, what a state my life has -come to, anyhow!” she suddenly exclaimed. “You don’t know. Your life’s -not a mess, like mine. People have never had you in any position where -they could make you do things. That’s just the trouble—men never know -women really.” (“I should say not!” he interpolated.) “But I have had -to do so many things I didn’t want to do—but I’m not pleading with -you, Ed, really I’m not. I know it’s all over between us and no use, -only I wish I could make you believe that as bad as I am I’ve never -wanted to be as bad to you as I’ve seemed. Really, I haven’t. Oh, -honestly——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, cut that stuff, please!” he said viciously. “I’m sick of it. It -wasn’t to hear anything like that that I sent for you. The reason I -asked you to come down here was merely to see how far you would face -it out, whether you would have the nerve to come, really, that was -all—oh, just to see whether you would have a new lie to spring, and I -see you have. You’re a wonder,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> you are! But I’d like to ask you just -one favor: Won’t you please let me alone in the future? I’m tired, and -I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going away now. This fellow Tilney you -are working for is very clever, but it’s all over. It really is. You’ll -never get another chance at me if I know myself.” He started to walk -off.</p> - -<p>“Ed! Ed!” she called. “Please—just a minute—don’t go yet, Ed,” she -begged. “There’s something I want to say to you first. I know all you -say is true. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t said to myself -a thousand times. But you don’t understand what my life has been like, -what I’ve suffered, how I’ve been pushed around, and I can’t tell -you now, either—not now. Our family wasn’t ever in society, as <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton pretended—you knew that, of course, though—and I haven’t -been much of anything except a slave, and I’ve had a hard time, too, -terrible,” and she began dabbing her eyes. “I know I’m no good. Last -night proved it to me, that’s a fact. But I hadn’t meant to do you any -harm even when I came alone that way—really I didn’t. I pretended to -be willing, that was all. Hear me out, Ed, anyhow. Please don’t go yet. -I thought I could signal you to run without them seeing me—really I -did. When I first left you the door was locked, and I came back for -that sole reason. I suppose they did something to it so I couldn’t open -it. There were others up there; they made me go back—I can’t tell you -how or why or who—but they were all about me—they always are. They’re -determined to get you, Ed, in one way or another, even if I don’t help -them, and I’m telling you you’d better look out for yourself. Please -do. Go away from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> here. Don’t have anything more to do with me. Don’t -have anything more to do with any of these people. I can’t help myself, -honestly I can’t. I didn’t want to, but—oh——” she wrung her hands -and sat down wearily, “you don’t know how I’m placed with them, what it -is——”</p> - -<p>“Yes? Well, I’m tired of that stuff,” Gregory now added grimly and -unbelievingly. “I suppose they told you to run back and tell me this -so as to win my sympathy again? Oh, you little liar! You make me sick. -What a sneak and a crook you really are!”</p> - -<p>“Ed! Ed!” she now sobbed. “Please! Please! Won’t you understand how -it is? They have watched every entrance every time we’ve gone out -since I came here. It doesn’t make any difference which door you come -through. They have men at every end. I didn’t know anything about it -until I went upstairs. Really, I didn’t. Oh, I wish I could get out of -all this! I’m so sick of it all. I told you that I’m fond of you, and -I am. Oh, I’m almost crazy! I wish sometimes that I could die, I’m so -sick of everything. My life’s a shabby mess, and now you’ll hate me all -the time,” and she rocked to and fro in a kind of misery, and cried -silently as she did so.</p> - -<p>Gregory stared at her, amazed but unbelieving.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he insisted, “I know. The same old stuff, but I don’t believe -it. You’re lying now, just as you have been all along. You think by -crying and pretending to feel sad that you might get another chance -to trick me, but you won’t. I’m out of this to-day, once and for all, -and I’m through with you. There’s no use in my appealing to the police -under this administration, or I’d do that. But I want to tell you -this.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> If you follow me any longer, or any of this bunch around here, -I’m going to the newspapers. There’ll be some way of getting this -before the courts somewhere, and I’ll try it. And if you really were on -the level and wanted to do anything, there’s a way, all right, but you -wouldn’t do it if you had a chance, never, not in a million years. I -know you wouldn’t.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ed! Ed! You don’t know me, or how I feel, or what I’ll do,” she -whimpered. “You haven’t given me a chance. Why don’t you suggest -something, if you don’t believe me, and see?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I can do that easily enough,” he replied sternly. “I can call -that bluff here and now. Write me out a confession of all that’s been -going on here. Let me hear you dictate it to a stenographer, and then -come with me to a notary public or the district attorney, and swear to -it. Now we’ll see just how much there is to this talk about caring for -me,” and he watched her closely, the while she looked at him, her eyes -drying and her sobs ceasing. She seemed to pause emotionally and stare -at the floor in a speculative, ruminative mood. “Yes? Well, that’s -different, isn’t it? I see how it is now. You didn’t think I’d have -just the thing to call your bluff with, did you? And just as I thought, -you won’t do it. Well, I’m onto you now, so good-day. I have your -measure at last. Good-by!” and he started off.</p> - -<p>“Ed!” she called, jumping up suddenly and starting after him. “Ed! -Wait—don’t go! I’ll do what you say. I’ll do anything you want. You -don’t believe I will, but I will. I’m sick of this life, I really am. -I don’t care what they do to me now afterwards, but just the same I’ll -come. Please don’t be so hard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> on me, Ed. Can’t you see—can’t you -see—Ed—how I feel about you? I’m crazy about you, I really am. I’m -not all bad, Ed, really I’m not—can’t you see that? Only—only——” -and by now he had come back and was looking at her in an incredulous -way. “I wish you cared for me a little, Ed. Do you, Ed, just a little? -Can’t you, if I do this?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with mingled astonishment, doubt, contempt, pity, and -even affection, after its kind. Would she really do it? And if she did -what could he offer her in the way of that affection which she craved? -Nothing, he knew that. She could never extricate herself from this -awful group by which she was surrounded, her past, the memory of the -things she had tried to do to him, and he—he was married. He was happy -with his wife really, and could make no return. There was his career, -his future, his present position. But that past of hers—what was it? -How could it be that people could control another person in this way -she claimed, especially scoundrels like these, and why wouldn’t she -tell him about it? What had she done that was so terrible as to give -them this power? Even if he did care for her what chance would he have, -presuming her faithfulness itself, to either confront or escape the -horde of secret enemies that was besetting him and her just now? They -would be discovered and paraded forth at their worst, all the details. -That would make it impossible for him to come forth personally and make -the charge which would constitute him champion of the people. No, no, -no! But why, considering all her efforts against him, should she come -to his rescue now, or by doing so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> expect him to do anything for her by -way of return? He smiled at her dourly, a little sadly.</p> - -<p>“Yes. Well, Imogene, I can’t talk to you about that now, not for the -present, anyhow. You’re either one of the greatest actresses and -crooks that ever lived, or you’re a little light in the upper story. -At any rate, I should think that you might see that you could scarcely -expect me to like you, let alone to love you, all things considered, -and particularly since this other thing has not been straightened out. -You may be lying right now, for all I know—acting, as usual. But even -so—let’s first see what you do about this other, and then talk.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, then away over the sea to where some boats were -coming towards them.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ed,” she said sadly, observing his distracted gaze, “you’ll never -know how much I do care for you, although you know I must care a lot -for you, to do this. It’s the very worst thing I can do for me—the -end, maybe, for me. But I wish you would try and like me a little, even -if it were only for a little while.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Imogene, let’s not talk about that now,” he replied skeptically. -“Not until we’ve attended to this other, anyhow. Certainly you owe me -that much. You don’t know what my life’s been, either—one long up-hill -fight. But you’d better come along with me just as you are, if you’re -coming. Don’t go upstairs to get any hat—or to change your shoes. I’ll -get a car here and you can come with me just as you are.”</p> - -<p>She looked at him simply, directly, beatenly.</p> - -<p>“All right, Ed, but I wish I knew how this is going to end. I can’t -come back here after this, you know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> if they find it out. I know I owe -this to you, but, oh dear, I’m such a fool! Women always are where love -is concerned, and I told myself I’d never let myself get in love any -more, and now look at me!”</p> - -<p>They went off to the city together, to his office, to a notary, to the -district attorney’s office—a great triumph. She confessed all, or -nearly so, how she had formerly been employed by <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Swayne; how she -had met <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney there; how, later, after Swayne had fled, Tilney had -employed her in various capacities, secretary, amanuensis, how she had -come to look upon him as her protector; where and how she had met <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> -Skelton, and how the latter, at <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Tilney’s request (she was not sure, -only it was an order, she said) had engaged—commanded, rather—her -to do this work, though what the compulsion was she refused to say, -reserving it for a later date. She was afraid, she said.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Once he had this document in his possession, Gregory was overjoyed, and -still he was doubtful of her. She asked him what now, what more, and he -requested her to leave him at once and to remain away for a time until -he had time to think and decide what else he wished to do. There could -be nothing between them, not even friendship, he reassured her, unless -he was fully convinced at some time or other that no harm could come to -him—his wife, his campaign, or anything else. Time was to be the great -factor.</p> - -<p>And yet two weeks later, due to a telephone message from her to his -office for just one word, a few minutes, anywhere that he would -suggest, they met again, this time merely for a moment, as he told -himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> and her. It was foolish, he shouldn’t do it, but still—— At -this interview, somehow, Imogene managed to establish a claim on his -emotions which it was not easy to overcome. It was in one of the small -side booths in the rather out-of-the-way Grill Parzan Restaurant in -the great financial district. Protesting that it was only because she -wished to see him just once more that she had done this, she had come -here, she said, after having dropped instantly and completely out of -the life at Triton Hall, not returning even for her wardrobe, as he -understood it, and hiding away in an unpretentious quarter of the city -until she could make up her mind what to do. She seemed, and said she -was, much alone, distrait. She did not know what was to become of her -now, what might befall her. Still, she was not so unhappy if only he -would not think badly of her any more. He had to smile at her seemingly -pathetic faith in what love might do for her. To think that love should -turn a woman about like this! It was fascinating, and so sad. He was -fond of her in a platonic way, he now told himself, quite sincerely -so. Her interest in him was pleasing, even moving, “But what is it -you expect of me?” he kept saying over and over. “You know we can’t -go on with this. There’s ‘the girl’ and the kid. I won’t do anything -to harm them, and besides, the campaign is just beginning. Even this -is ridiculously foolish of me. I’m taking my career in my hands. This -lunch will have to be the last, I tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Ed,” she agreed wistfully, looking at him at the very close of -the meal, “you have made up your mind, haven’t you? Then you’re not -going to see me any more? You seem so distant, now that we’re back<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> in -town. Do you feel so badly toward me, Ed? Am I really so bad?”</p> - -<p>“Well, Imogene, you see for yourself how it is, don’t you?” he went on. -“It can’t be. You are more or less identified with that old crowd, even -though you don’t want to be. They know things about you, you say, and -they certainly wouldn’t be slow to use them if they had any reason for -so doing. Of course they don’t know anything yet about this confession, -unless you’ve told them, and I don’t propose that they shall so long as -I don’t have to use it. As for me, I have to think of my wife and kid, -and I don’t want to do anything to hurt them. If ever Emily found this -out it would break her all up, and I don’t want to do that. She’s been -too square, and we’ve gone through too much together. I’ve thought it -all over, and I’m convinced that what I’m going to do is for the best. -We have to separate, and I came here to-day to tell you that I can’t -see you any more. It can’t be, Imogene, can’t you see that?”</p> - -<p>“Not even for a little while?”</p> - -<p>“Not even for a day. It just can’t be. I’m fond of you, and you’ve been -a brick to pull me out of this, but don’t you see that it can’t be? -Don’t you really see how it is?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him, then at the table for a moment, and then out over -the buildings of the great city.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Ed,” she reflected sadly, “I’ve been such a fool. I don’t mean -about the confession—I’m glad I did that—but just in regard to -everything I’ve done. But you’re right, Ed. I’ve felt all along that -it would have to end this way, even the morning I agreed to make the -confession. But I’ve been making myself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> hope against hope, just -because from the very first day I saw you out there I thought I -wouldn’t be able to hold out against you, and now you see I haven’t. -Well, all right, Ed. Let’s say good-bye. Love’s a sad old thing, isn’t -it?” and she began to put on her things.</p> - -<p>He helped her, wondering over the strange whirl of circumstances which -had brought them together and was now spinning them apart.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could do something more for you, Imogene, I really do,” he -said. “I wish I could say something that would make it a little easier -for you—for us both—but what would be the use? It wouldn’t really, -now would it?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she replied brokenly.</p> - -<p>He took her to the elevator and down to the sidewalk, and there they -stopped for a moment.</p> - -<p>“Well, Imogene,” he began, and paused. “It’s not just the way I’d like -it to be, but—well——” he extended his hand “——here’s luck and -good-by, then.” He turned to go.</p> - -<p>She looked up at him pleadingly.</p> - -<p>“Ed,” she said, “Ed—wait! Aren’t you—don’t you want to——?” she put -up her lips, her eyes seemingly misty with emotion.</p> - -<p>He came back and putting his arm about her, drew her upturned lips to -his. As he did so she clung to him, seeming to vent a world of feeling -in this their first and last kiss, and then turned and left him, never -stopping to look back, and being quickly lost in the immense mass which -was swirling by. As he turned to go though he observed two separate -moving-picture men with cameras taking the scene from different<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> -angles. He could scarcely believe his senses. As he gazed they stopped -their work, clapped their tripods together and made for a waiting car. -Before he could really collect his thoughts they were gone—and then——</p> - -<p>“As I live!” he exclaimed. “She did do this to me after all, or did -she? And after all my feeling for her!—and all her protestations! The -little crook! And now they have that picture of me kissing her! Stung, -by George! and by the same girl, or by them, and after all the other -things I’ve avoided! That’s intended to make that confession worthless! -She did that because she’s changed her mind about me! Or, she never did -care for me.” Grim, reducing thought! “Did she—could she—know—do a -thing like that?” he wondered. “Is it she and Tilney, or just Tilney -alone, who has been following me all this time?” He turned solemnly and -helplessly away.</p> - -<p>Now after all his career was in danger. His wife had returned and all -was seemingly well, but if he proceeded with his exposures as he must, -then what? This picture would be produced! He would be disgraced! Or -nearly so. Then what? He might charge fraud, a concocted picture, -produce the confession. But could he? Her arms had been about his neck! -He had put his about her! Two different camera men had taken them from -different angles! Could he explain that? Could he find Imogene again? -Was it wise? Would she testify in his behalf? If so what good would it -do? Would any one, in politics at least, believe a morally victimized -man? He doubted it. The laughter! The jesting! The contempt! No one -except his wife, and she could not help him here.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> - -<p>Sick at heart and defeated he trudged on now clearly convinced that -because of this one silly act of kindness all his work of months had -been undone and that now, never, so shy were the opposing political -forces, might he ever hope to enter the promised land of his better -future—not here, at least—that future to which he had looked forward -with so much hope—neither he nor his wife, nor child.</p> - -<p>“Fool! Fool!” he exclaimed to himself heavily and then—“fool! fool!” -Why had he been so ridiculously sympathetic and gullible? Why so unduly -interested? but finding no answer and no clear way of escape save in -denial and counter charges he made his way slowly on toward that now -dreary office where so long he had worked, but where now, because of -this he might possibly not be able to work, at least with any great -profit to himself.</p> - -<p>“Tilney! Imogene! The Triton!” he thought—what clever scoundrels those -two were—or Tilney anyhow—he could not be sure of Imogene, even now, -and so thinking, he left the great crowd at his own door, that crowd, -witless, vast, which Tilney and the mayor and all the politicians were -daily and hourly using—the same crowd which he had wished to help and -against whom, as well as himself, this little plot had been hatched, -and so easily and finally so successfully worked.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_CRUISE_OF_THE_IDLEWILD">THE CRUISE OF THE “IDLEWILD”</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">It</span> would be difficult to say just how the trouble aboard the -<i>Idlewild</i> began, or how we managed to sail without things going -to smash every fifteen minutes; but these same constitute the business -of this narrative. It was at Spike, and the weather was blistering -hot. Some of us, one in particular, were mortal tired of the life we -were leading. It was a dingy old shop inside, loaded with machines and -blacksmithing apparatus and all the paraphernalia that go to make up -the little depots and furniture that railways use, and the labor of -making them was intrusted to about a hundred men all told—carpenters, -millwrights, wood-turners, tinsmiths, painters, blacksmiths, an -engineer, and a yard foreman handling a score of “guineas,” all of whom -were too dull to interest the three or four wits who congregated in the -engine room.</p> - -<p>Old John, the engineer, was one of these—a big, roly-poly sort of -fellow, five foot eleven, if he was an inch, with layers of flesh -showing through his thin shirt and tight trousers, and his face and -neck constantly standing in beads of sweat. Then there was the smith, -a small, wiry man of thirty-five, with arms like a Titan and a face -that was expressive of a goodly humor, whether it was very brilliant -or not—the village smith, as we used to call him. Then there was Ike, -little Ike, the blacksmith’s helper, who was about as queer a little -cabin boy as ever did service on an ocean-going steamer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> or in a -blacksmith’s shop—a small misshapen, dirty-faced lad, whose coat was -three, and his trousers four, times too large for him—hand-me-downs -from some mysterious source; immensely larger members of his family, -I presume. He had a battered face, such as you sometimes see given to -satyrs humorously represented in bronze, and his ears were excessively -large. He had a big mouthful of dirty yellow teeth, two or three -missing in front. His eyes were small and his hands large, but a -sweeter soul never crept into a smaller or more misshapen body. Poor -little Ike. To think how near he came to being driven from his job by -our tomfoolishness!</p> - -<p>I should say here that the <i>Idlewild</i> was not a boat at all, -but an idea. She evolved out of our position on Long’s Point, where -the Harlem joins the Hudson, and where stood the shop in which we -all worked, water to the south of us, water to the west of us, water -to the north of us, and the railroad behind us landward, just like -the four—or was it the six? hundred—at Balaklava. Anyhow, we got -our idea from the shop and the water all around, and we said, after -much chaffering about one thing and another, that we were aboard the -<i>Idlewild</i>, and that the men were the crew, and that the engineer -was the captain, and I was the mate, just as if everything were -ship-shape, and this were a really and truly ocean-going vessel.</p> - -<p>As I have said before, I do not know exactly how the idea started, -except that it did. Old John was always admiring the beautiful yachts -that passed up and down the roadstead of the Hudson outside, and this -may have had something to do with it. Anyhow, he would stand in the -doorway of his engine room and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> watch everything in the shape of a -craft that went up and down the stream. He didn’t know much about -boats, but he loved to comment on their charms, just the same.</p> - -<p>“That there now must be Morgan’s yacht,” he used to say of a fine -black-bodied craft that had a piano-body finish to it, an’ “That -there’s the <i>Waterfowl</i>, Governor Morton’s yacht. Wouldn’ ja -think, now, them fellers ’d feel comfortable a-settin’ back there on -the poop deck an’ smokin’ them dollar cigars on a day like this? Aw, -haw!”</p> - -<p>It would usually be blistering hot and the water a flashing blue when -he became excited over the yacht question.</p> - -<p>“Right-o,” I once commented enviously.</p> - -<p>“Aw, haw! Them’s the boys as knows how to live. I wouldn’ like nothin’ -better on a day like this than to set out there in one o’ them easy -chairs an’ do up about a pound o’ tobacco. Come now, wouldn’t that be -the ideal life for your Uncle Dudley?”</p> - -<p>“It truly would,” I replied sadly but with an inherent desire to tease, -“only I don’t think my Uncle Dudley is doing so very badly under the -circumstances. I notice he isn’t losing any flesh.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I dunno. I’m a little stout, I’ll admit. Still, them conditions -would be more congenial-like. I ain’t as active as I used to be. A nice -yacht an’ some good old fifty-cent cigars an’ a cool breeze ’d just -about do for me.”</p> - -<p>“You’re too modest, John. You want too little. You ought to ask for -something more suited to your Lucullian instincts. What do you say to a -house in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> Fifth Avenue, a country place at Newport, and the friendship -of a few dukes and earls?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m not backward,” he replied. “If them things was to come my -way I guess I could live up to ’em. Aw, haw!”</p> - -<p>“Truly, truly, John, you’re quite right, but you might throw in a few -shovelfuls of shavings just to show that there are no hard feelings -between you and the company while you’re waiting for all this. I notice -your steam is getting low, eh? What?”</p> - -<p>“Hang the steam! If the road was decent they’d give a man coal to burn. -It takes a hundred tons of shavin’s a day to keep this blinged old -cormorant goin’. Think of me havin’ to stand here all day an’ shovelin’ -in shavin’s! Seems to me all I do here is shovel. I’m an engineer, not -a fireman. They ought to gimme a man for that, by rights.”</p> - -<p>“Quite so! Quite so! We’ll see about that later—only, for the present, -the shavings for yours. Back to the shovel, John!” The tone was heavily -bantering.</p> - -<p>“Well, the steam was gettin’ a little low,” John would cheerfully -acknowledge, once he was able to resume his position in the doorway. It -was these painful interruptions which piqued him so.</p> - -<p>Out of such chaffering and bickering as this it was that the spirit of -the <i>Idlewild</i> finally took its rise. It came up from the sea of -thought, I presume.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with us having a boat of our own, John?” I said to -him one day. “Here we are, out here on the bounding main, or mighty -near it. This is as good as any craft, this old shop. Ease the thing -around and hoist the Jolly Roger, and I’ll sail you up to White Plains. -What’s the matter with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> calling her the <i>Idlewild</i>? The men will -furnish the idle, and the bosses will furnish the wild, eh? How’s that -for an appropriate title?”</p> - -<p>“Haw! Haw!” exclaimed stout John. “Bully! We’ll fix ’er up to-day. You -be the captain an’ I’ll be the mate an’——”</p> - -<p>“Far be it from me, John,” I replied humbly and generously, seeing that -he had the one point of vantage in this whole institution which would -serve admirably as a captain’s cabin—with his consent, of course. -It was more or less like a captain’s cabin on a tug-boat, at that, -picturesque and with a sea view, as it were. “You be the captain and -I’ll be the mate. Far be it from me to infringe on a good old sea dog’s -rights. You’re the captain, all right, and this is a plenty good enough -cabin. I’m content to be mate. Open up steam, Cap, and we’ll run the -boat up and down the yard a few times. Look out the window and see how -she blows. It’s ho! for a life on the bounding main, and a jolly old -crew are we!”</p> - -<p>“Right-o, my hearty!” he now agreed, slapping me on the back at -the same time that he reached for the steamcock and let off a few -preliminary blasts of steam—by way of showing that we were moving, as -it were. The idea that we were aboard a real yacht and about to cruise -forth actually seized upon my fancy in a most erratic and delightsome -way. It did on John’s, too. Plainly we needed some such idyllic dream. -Outside was the blue water of the river. Far up and down were many -craft sailing like ourselves, I said.</p> - -<p>Inside of fifteen minutes we had appointed the smith, bos’n, and little -Ike, the smith’s helper, the bos’n’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span> mate. And we had said that the -carpenters and turners and millwrights were the crew and that the -“guineas” were the scullions. Mentally, we turned the engine-room into -the captain’s cabin, and here now was nothing but “Heave ho-s” and -“How does she blow thar, Bill-s?” and “Shiver my timbers-s” and “Blast -my top-lights-s” for days to come. We “heaved ho” at seven o’clock in -the morning when the engine started, “lay to and dropped anchor” at -noon when the engine stopped, “hoisted and set sail” again at one, for -heaven knows what port, and “sighted Spike” and “put hard to port” at -six. Sometimes during the day when it was hot and we were very tired -we took ideal runs to Coney and Manhattan Beach and Newport, where the -best of breezes are, in imagination, anyhow, and we found it equally -easy to sail to all points of the compass in all sorts of weather. Many -was the time we visited Paris and London and Rome and Constantinople, -all in the same hour, regardless, and our calls upon the nobility of -these places were always a matter of light comment. At night we always -managed to promptly haul up at Spike, which was another subject of -constant congratulation between the captain and the mate. For if we had -missed our trains and gotten home late!—Regardess of the fact that we -were seafaring men, we wanted our day to end promptly, I noticed.</p> - -<p>During the days which followed we elaborated our idea, and the -<i>Idlewild</i> became more of a reality than is to be easily -understood by those who have not indulged in a similar fancy. We looked -upon the shop as a trusty ship with a wheel at the stern, where the -millwright, an Irishman by the name of Cullen, ran<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> the giant plane, -and an anchor at the prow, where the engine-room was. And there was a -light in the captain’s eye at times which, to me at least, betokened a -real belief. It is so easy to enter upon a fancy, especially when it is -pleasing. He would stand in the doorway of his small, hot engine-room, -or lean out of the window which commanded the beautiful sweep of water -so close to our door, and at times I verily believe he thought we were -under way, so great is the power of self-hypnotism. The river was so -blue and smooth these summer days, the passing boats so numerous. We -could see the waters race to and fro as the tides changed. It was such -a relief from the dull wearisome grind of shoveling in shavings and -carrying out ashes or loading cars, as I was occasionally compelled to -do—for my health, in my own case, I should explain. I am sure that, -as an ordinary fifteen-cent-an-hour-shaving-carrier, I valued my title -of mate as much as I ever valued anything, and the smith, “the village -smith,” was smilingly proud to be hailed as “Bos’n.” Little Ike being -of an order of mind that fancied the world ended somewhere abruptly in -the Rocky Mountains, and that you really could shoot buffaloes after -you left Buffalo, New York, did not grasp the meaning of it all at -once, but at last it dawned upon him. When he got the idea that we -really considered this a ship and that he was the bos’n’s mate with the -privilege of lowering the boats in case of a wreck or other disaster, -he was beside himself.</p> - -<p>“Hully chee!” he exclaimed, “me a bos’n’s mate! Dat’s de real t’ing, -ain’t it! Heave ho, dere!” And he fell back on the captain’s locker and -kicked his heels in the air.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span></p> - -<p>“You want to remember, though, Ike,” I said, once in an evil -moment—what small things regulate the good and evil fortunes of all -things!—“that this is the captain’s cabin and bos’n’s mates are not -much shucks on a vessel such as the <i>Idlewild</i>. If you want -to retain your position you want to be respectful, and above all, -obedient. For instance, if the captain should choose to have you act -as stoker for a few minutes now and then, it would be your place to -rejoice at the request. You get that, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Not on yer life,” replied Ike irritably, who understood well enough -that this meant more work.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, though,” chimed in big John, pleased beyond measure at -this latest development. “I’m captain here now, an’ you don’t want to -forget that. No back lip from any bos’n’s mate. What the mate says -goes. The shovel for yours, bos’n, on orders from the captain. Now -jist to show that the boat’s in runnin’ order you can chuck in a few -shovelfuls right now.”</p> - -<p>“Na! I will not!”</p> - -<p>“Come, Ike,” I said, “no insubordination. You can’t go back on the -captain like that. We have the irons for recalcitrants,” and I eyed -a pile of old rusty chains lying outside the door. “We might have -to truss him up, Cap, and lay him down below,” and to prove the -significance of my thought I picked up one end of a chain and rattled -it solemnly. The captain half choked with fat laughter.</p> - -<p>“That’s right. Git the shovel there, Ike.”</p> - -<p>Ike looked as if he doubted the regularity of this, as if life on -the briny deep might not be all that it was cracked up to be, but -for the sake of regularity and in order not to be reduced to the -shameful condition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> of a scullion, or worse, “irons,” which was -the only alternative offered, he complied. After he had thrown in -eight scoopfuls we both agreed that this was true order and that the -organization and dignity of the <i>Idlewild</i> might well be looked -upon now as established.</p> - -<p>Things went from good to better. We persuaded Joe, who was the -millwright’s assistant, back at the “wheel,” that his dignity would be -greatly enhanced in this matter if he were to accept the position of -day watch, particularly since his labors in that capacity would accord -with his bounden duties as a hireling of the road; for, if he were -stationed in the rear (front room, actually) anyhow, and compelled, -owing to the need of receiving and taking away various planks and -boards as they came out of the planes and molding machines, to walk to -and fro, it would be an easy matter to notice any suspicious lights on -the horizon forward and to come aft at once, or at least at such times -as the boss was not looking, or when he came to heat his coffee or get -a drink, and report.</p> - -<p>Amiable Joe! I can see him yet, tall, ungainly, stoop-shouldered, a -slight cast in one eye, his head bobbing like a duck’s as he walked—a -most agreeable and pathetic person. His dreams were so simple, his -wants so few. He lived with his sister somewhere in Eleventh Avenue -down-town in a tenement, and carried home bundles of firewood to -her at night all this great distance, to help out. He received (not -earned—he did much more than that) seventeen and a half cents an hour, -and dreamed of what? I could never<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> quite make out. Marriage? A little -cheap flat somewhere? Life is so pathetic at times.</p> - -<p>“Light on the starboard bow,” or “Light on the port bow,” were the -chosen phrases which we told him he was in duty bound to use, adding -always “Sir,” as respectful subordinates should. Also we insisted on -his instantly making known to us at such times as we twain happened -to be in the engine-room together, all bell buoys, whistle buoys, -lighthouses, passing vessels and most of all the monthly pay car as -it rounded the curve half a mile up the track about the fifteenth of -every month. The matter of reporting the approach of the pay car was -absolutely without exception. If he failed to do that we would be -compelled, sad as it might be and excellent as his other services had -been, to put him in irons. Here we showed him the irons also.</p> - -<p>Joe cheerfully accepted. For days thereafter he would come back -regularly when the need of heating his coffee or securing a drink -necessitated, and lifting a straight forefinger to his forehead, would -report, “Light on the port bow, Sir. I think it’s in the steel works -jist up the track here,” or “Light on the starboard, Sir. It’s the fast -mail, maybe, for Chicago, jist passin’ Kingsbridge.”</p> - -<p>“No thinks, Joseph,” I used to reprimand. “You are not supposed to give -your thinks. If the captain wishes to know what it is, he will ask. -Back to the molding machine for yours, Joseph.”</p> - -<p>Joseph, shock-headed, with dusty hair, weak eyes and a weaker smile, -would retire, and then we would look at each other, the captain and I, -and grin, and he would exclaim:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p> - -<p>“Pretty fair discipline, mate.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think we’ve got ’em going, Captain.”</p> - -<p>“Nothin’ like order, mate.”</p> - -<p>“You’re right, Cap.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose the mate’d ever condescend to take orders like that, -eh, mate?”</p> - -<p>“Well, hardly, Cap.”</p> - -<p>“Still, you don’t want to forget that I’m captain, mate.”</p> - -<p>“And you don’t want to forget that I’m mate, Captain.”</p> - -<p>Thus we would badger one another until one of the scullion crew -arrived, when without loss of dignity on either side we could easily -turn our attention to him.</p> - -<p>And these scullions! What a dull crew! Gnarled, often -non-English-speaking foreigners against or in front of whom we could -jest to our hearts’ content. They could not even guess the amazing -things we were ordering them to do on penalty of this, that, and the -other.</p> - -<p>Things went from better to best. We reached the place where the fact -of the shop’s being a ship, and the engineer the captain, and I the -mate, and the smith the bos’n, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad infinitum</i>, came to be a -matter of general knowledge, and we were admired and congratulated -and laughed with until nearly all the workers of the shop, with some -trifling and unimportant exceptions, the foreman for one, began to -share our illusion—carpenters, cabinet-makers, joiners, all. The one -exception, as I say, was the foreman, only he was a host in himself, a -mean, ill-dispositioned creature, of course, who looked upon all such -ideas as fol-de-rol,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> and in a way subversive of order and good work. -He was red-headed, big-handed, big-footed, dull. He had no imagination -beyond lumber and furniture, no poetry in his soul. But the crew, the -hundred-headed crew, accepted it as a relief. They liked to think they -were not really working, but out upon a blue and dancing sea, and came -back one by one, the carpenters, the tinsmiths, the millwrights, one -and all, with cheerful grins to do us honor.</p> - -<p>“So you’re the captain, eh?” lazy old Jack, the partner of car-loading -Carder, asked of the engineer, and John looked his full dignity at once.</p> - -<p>“That I am, Jack,” he replied, “only able seamen ain’t supposed to ask -too many familiar questions. Are they, mate?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I should say not,” I replied, arriving with a basket of -shavings. “Able seamen should always salute the captain before -addressing him, anyhow, and never fail to say <em>Sir</em>. Still, our -crew is new. It’s not very <em>able</em> and the seamen end of it is a -little <em>on the fritz</em>, I’m thinking. But, all things considered, -we can afford to overlook a few errors until we get everything well in -hand. Eh, Captain?”</p> - -<p>“Right, mate,” returned the captain genially. “You’re always -right—nearly.”</p> - -<p>Before I could start an argument on this score, one of the able seamen, -one who was thus discourteously commented on, observed, “I don’t know -about that. Seems to me the mate of this here ship ain’t any too much -shucks, or the captain either.”</p> - -<p>The captain and I were a little dismayed by this. What to do with an -able seaman who was too strong and too dull to take the whole thing -in the proper<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> spirit? It threatened smooth sailing! This particular -person was old Stephen Bowers, the carpenter from the second floor who -never to us seemed to have quite the right lightness of spirit to make -a go of all this. He was too likely to turn rough but well-meant humor -into a personal affront to himself.</p> - -<p>“Well, Captain, there you are,” I said cautiously, with a desire to -maintain order and yet peace. “Mutiny, you see.”</p> - -<p>“It does look that way, don’t it?” big John replied, eyeing the -newcomer with a quizzical expression, half humorous, half severe. -“What’ll we do, mate, under such circumstances?”</p> - -<p>“Lower a boat, Captain, and set him adrift,” I suggested, “or put him -on bread and water, along with the foreman and the superintendent. -They’re the two worst disturbers aboard the boat. We can’t have these -insubordinates breaking up our discipline.”</p> - -<p>This last, deftly calculated to flatter, was taken in good part, and -bridged over the difficulty for the time being. Nothing was taken so -much in good part or seemed to soothe the feelings of the rebellious as -to include them with their superiors in an order of punishment which on -the very first day of the cruise it had been decided was necessary to -lay upon all the guiding officers of the plant. We could not hope to -control them, so ostensibly we placed them in irons, or lowered them in -boats, classifying them as mutineers and the foreman’s office as the -lock-up. It went well.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, oh no, I don’t want to be put in that class,” old Bowers -replied, the flattering unction having smoothed his ruffled soul. “I’m -not so bad as all that.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> - -<p>“Very well, then,” I replied briskly. “What do you think, Captain?”</p> - -<p>The latter looked at me and smiled.</p> - -<p>“Do you think we kin let him go this wunst?” he inquired of me.</p> - -<p>“Sure, sure,” I replied. “If he’s certain he doesn’t want to join the -superintendent and the foreman.”</p> - -<p>Old Bowers went away smiling, seemingly convinced that we were going -to run the boat in ship-shape fashion, and before long most of the -good-natured members of the crew consented to have themselves called -able seamen.</p> - -<p>For nearly a month thereafter, during all the finest summer weather, -there existed the most charming life aboard this ideal vessel. We -used the shop and all its details for the idlest purposes of our -fancy. Hammers became belaying pins, the machines of the shop ship’s -ballast, the logs in the yard floating debris. When the yard became too -cluttered, as it did once, we pretended we were in Sargasso and had to -cut our way out—a process that took quite a few days. We were about -all day commenting on the weather in nautical phrases, sighting strange -vessels, reporting disorders or mutiny on the part of the officers in -irons, or the men, or announcing the various “bells,” lighthouses, etc.</p> - -<p>In an evil hour, however, we lit upon the wretched habit of pitching -upon little Ike, the butt of a thousand quips. Being incapable of -grasping the true edge of our humor, he was the one soul who was yet -genial enough to take it and not complain. We called upon him to shovel -ashes, to split the wood, to run aft, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> was, to the back gate, and -see how the water stood. More than once he was threatened with those -same “irons” previously mentioned, and on one occasion we actually -dragged in a length, pretending to bind him with it and fasten him to -the anvil (with the bos’n’s consent, of course), which resulted in a -hearty struggle, almost a row. We told him we would put him in an old -desk crate we had, a prison, no less, and once or twice, in a spirit -of deviltry, John tried to carry out his threat, nailing him in, much -against his will. Finally we went to the length of attempting to -physically enforce our commands when he did not obey, which of course -ended in disaster.</p> - -<p>It was this way. Ike was in the habit of sweeping up his room—the -smith’s shop—at three o’clock in the afternoon, which was really not -reasonable considering that there were three hours of work ahead of all -of us, and that he was inclined to resent having his fine floor mussed -up thereafter. On the other hand I had to carry shavings through there -all this time, and it was a sore temptation to drop a few now and then -just for the devil’s sake. After due consultation with the captain, -I once requested him to order that the bos’n’s mate leave the floor -untouched until half past four, at least, which was early enough. The -bos’n’s mate replied with the very cheering news that the captain could -“go to the devil.” He wasn’t going to kill himself for anybody, and -besides, the foreman had once told him he might do this if he chose, -heaven only knows why. What did the captain think that he (the bos’n’s -mate) was, anyhow?</p> - -<p>Here at last was a stiff problem. Mutiny! Mutiny! Mutiny! What was to -be done? Plainly this was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> inconveniencing the mate and besides, it was -mutiny. And in addition it so lacerated our sense of dignity and order -that we decided it could not be. Only, how to arrange it. We had been -putting so much upon the bos’n’s mate of late that he was becoming a -little rebellious, and justly so, I think. He was always doing a dozen -things he need not have done. Still, unless we could command him, -the whole official management of this craft would go by the board, -or so we thought. Finally we decided to act, but how? Direct orders, -somehow, were somewhat difficult to enforce. After due meditation we -took the bos’n, a most approving officer and one who loved to tease Ike -(largely because he wanted to feel superior himself, I think), into -our confidence and one late afternoon just after Ike had, figuratively -speaking, swabbed up the deck, the latter sent him to some other part -of the shop, or vessel, rather, while we strewed shavings over his -newly cleaned floor with a shameless and lavish hand. It was intensely -delicious, causing gales of laughter at the time—but—. Ike came back -and cleaned this up—not without a growl, however. He did not take it -in the cheerful spirit in which we hoped he would. In fact he was very -morose about it, calling us names and threatening to go to the foreman -[in the lock-up] if we did it again. However, in spite of all, and -largely because of the humorous spectacle he in his rage presented we -did it not once, but three or four times and that after he had most -laboriously cleaned his room. A last assault one afternoon, however, -resulted in a dash on his part to the foreman’s office.</p> - -<p>“I’m not goin’ to stand it,” he is declared to have said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> by one who -was by at the time when he appeared in front of that official. “They’re -strewin’ up my floor with shavin’s two an’ three times every day after -I’ve cleaned it up for the day. I’ll quit first.”</p> - -<p>The foreman, that raw, non-humorous person previously described, who -evidently sympathized with Ike and who, in addition, from various -sources, had long since learned what was going on, came down in a -trice. He had decided to stop this nonsense.</p> - -<p>“I want you fellows to cut that out now,” he declared vigorously on -seeing us. “It’s all right, but it won’t do. Don’t rub it in. Let him -alone. I’ve heard of this ship stuff. It’s all damn nonsense.”</p> - -<p>The captain and mate gazed at each other in sad solemnity. Could it -be that Ike had turned traitor? This was anarchy. He had not only -complained of us but of the ship!—the <i>Idlewild</i>! What snakiness -of soul! We retired to a corner of our now storm-tossed vessel and -consulted in whispers. What would we do? Would we let her sink or try -to save her? Perhaps it was advisable for the present to cease pushing -the joke too far in that quarter, anyhow. Ike might cause the whole -ship to be destroyed.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, even yet there were ways and ways of keeping her afloat -and punishing an insubordinate even when no official authority existed. -Ike had loved the engine-room, or rather, the captain’s office, above -all other parts of the vessel because it was so comfortable. Here -between tedious moments of pounding iron for the smith or blowing -the bellows or polishing various tools that had been sharpened, he -could retire on occasion, when the boss was not about and the work -not pressing (it was the very next room to his) and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> gaze from the -captain’s door or window out on the blue waters of the Hudson where lay -the yachts, and up the same stream where stood the majestic palisades. -At noon or a little before he could bring his cold coffee, sealed in -a tin can, to the captain’s engine and warm it. Again, the captain’s -comfortable locker held his coat and hat, the captain’s wash bowl—a -large wooden tub to one side of the engine into which comforting warm -water could be drawn—served as an ideal means of washing up. Since -the bos’n’s mate had become friendly with the captain, he too had -all these privileges. But now, in view of his insubordination, all -this was changed. Why should a rebellious bos’n’s mate be allowed to -obtain favors of the captain? More in jest than in earnest one day -it was announced that unless the bos’n’s mate would forego his angry -opposition to a less early scrubbed deck——</p> - -<p>“Well, mate,” the captain observed to the latter in the presence of the -bos’n’s mate, with a lusty wink and a leer, “you know how it goes with -these here insubordinates, don’t you? No more hot coffee at noon time, -unless there’s more order here. No more cleanin’ up in the captain’s -tub. No more settin’ in the captain’s window takin’ in the cool mornin’ -breeze, as well as them yachts. What say? Eh? We know what to do with -these here now insubordinates, don’t we, mate, eh?” This last with a -very huge wink.</p> - -<p>“You’re right, Captain. Very right,” the mate replied. “You’re on the -right track now. No more favors—unless—— Order must be maintained, -you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, all right,” replied little Ike now, fully in earnest and thinking -we were. “If I can’t, I can’t. Jist<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> the same I don’t pick up no -shavin’s after four,” and off he strolled.</p> - -<p>Think of it, final and complete mutiny, and there was nothing more -really to be done.</p> - -<p>All we could do now was to watch him as he idled by himself at odd free -moments down by the waterside in an odd corner of the point, a lonely -figure, his trousers and coat too large, his hands and feet too big, -his yellow teeth protruding. No one of the other workingmen ever seemed -to be very enthusiastic over Ike, he was so small, so queer; no one, -really, but the captain and the mate, and now they had deserted him.</p> - -<p>It was tough.</p> - -<p>Yet still another ill descended on us before we came to the final loss, -let us say, of the good craft <i>Idlewild</i>. In another evil hour the -captain and the mate themselves fell upon the question of priority, a -matter which, so long as they had had Ike to trifle with, had never -troubled them. Now as mate and the originator of this sea-going -enterprise, I began to question the authority of the captain himself -occasionally, and to insist on sharing as my undeniable privilege all -the dignities and emoluments of the office—to wit: the best seat in -the window where the wind blew, the morning paper when the boss was -not about, the right to stand in the doorway, use the locker, etc. -The captain objected, solely on the ground of priority, mind you, and -still we fell a-quarreling. The mate in a stormy, unhappy hour was -reduced by the captain to the position of mere scullion, and ordered, -upon pain of personal assault, to vacate the captain’s cabin. The mate -reduced the captain to the position of stoker and stood in the doorway -in great glee while the latter,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> perforce, owing to the exigencies of -his position, was compelled to stoke whether he wanted to or no. It -could not be avoided. The engine had to be kept going. In addition, -the mate had brought many morning papers, an occasional cigar for the -captain, etc. There was much rancor and discord and finally the whole -affair, ship, captain, mate and all, was declared by the mate to be a -creation of his brain, a phantom, no less, and that by his mere act of -ignoring it the whole ship—officers, men, masts, boats, sails—could -be extinguished, scuttled, sent down without a ripple to that limbo of -seafaring men, the redoubtable Davy Jones’s locker.</p> - -<p>The captain was not inclined to believe this at first. On the contrary, -like a good skipper, he attempted to sail the craft alone. Only, unlike -the mate, he lacked the curious faculty of turning jest and fancy into -seeming fact. There was a something missing which made the whole thing -seem unreal. Like two rival generals, we now called upon a single army -to follow us individually, but the crew, seeing that there was war -in the cabin, stood off in doubt and, I fancy, indifference. It was -not important enough in their hardworking lives to go to the length -of risking the personal ill-will of either of us, and so for want of -agreement, the ship finally disappeared.</p> - -<p>Yes, she went down. The <i>Idlewild</i> was gone, and with her, all her -fine seas, winds, distant cities, fogs, storms.</p> - -<p>For a time indeed, we went charily by each other.</p> - -<p>Still it behooved us, seeing how, in spite of ourselves, we had to work -in the same room and there was no way of getting rid of each other’s -obnoxious<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span> presence, to find a common ground on which we could work -and talk. There had never been any real bitterness between us—just -jest, you know, but serious jest, a kind of silent sorrow for many fine -things gone. Yet still that had been enough to keep everything out -of order. Now from time to time each of us thought of restoring the -old life in some form, however weak it might be. Without some form of -humor the shop was a bore to the mate and the captain, anyhow. Finally -the captain sobering to his old state, and the routine work becoming -dreadfully monotonous, both mate and captain began to think of some way -in which they, at least, could agree.</p> - -<p>“Remember the <i>Idlewild</i>, Henry?” asked the ex-captain one day -genially, long after time and fair weather had glossed over the -wretched memory of previous quarrels and dissensions.</p> - -<p>“That I do, John,” I replied pleasantly.</p> - -<p>“Great old boat she was, wasn’t she, Henry?”</p> - -<p>“She was, John.”</p> - -<p>“An’ the bos’n’s mate, he wasn’t such a bad old scout, was he, Henry, -even if he wouldn’t quit sweepin’ up the shavin’s?”</p> - -<p>“He certainly wasn’t, John. He was a fine little fellow. Remember the -chains, John?”</p> - -<p>“Haw! Haw!” echoed that worthy, and then, “Do you think the old -<i>Idlewild</i> could ever be found where she’s lyin’ down there on the -bottom, mate?”</p> - -<p>“Well, she might, Captain, only she’d hardly be the same old boat that -she was now that she’s been down there so long, would she—all these -dissensions and so on? Wouldn’t it be easier to build a new one—don’t -you think?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know but what you’re right, mate. What’d we call her if we -did?”</p> - -<p>“Well, how about the <i>Harmony</i>, Captain? That sounds rather -appropriate, doesn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“The <i>Harmony</i>, mate? You’re right—the <i>Harmony</i>. Shall we? -Put ’er there!”</p> - -<p>“Put her there,” replied the mate with a will. “We’ll organize a new -crew right away, Captain—eh, don’t you think?”</p> - -<p>“Right! Wait, we’ll call the bos’n an’ see what he says.”</p> - -<p>Just then the bos’n appeared, smiling goodnaturedly.</p> - -<p>“Well, what’s up?” he inquired, noting our unusually cheerful faces, I -presume. “You ain’t made it up, have you, you two?” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“That’s what we have, bos’n, an’ what’s more, we’re thinkin’ of raisin’ -the old <i>Idlewild</i> an’ re-namin’ her the <i>Harmony</i>, or, -rather, buildin’ a new one. What say?” It was the captain talking.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’m mighty glad to hear it, only I don’t think you can have your -old bos’n’s mate any longer, boys. He’s gonna quit.”</p> - -<p>“Gonna quit!” we both exclaimed at once, and sadly, and John added -seriously and looking really distressed, “What’s the trouble there? -Who’s been doin’ anything to him now?” We both felt guilty because of -our part in his pains.</p> - -<p>“Well, Ike kind o’ feels that the shop’s been rubbin’ it into him of -late for some reason,” observed the bos’n heavily. “I don’t know why. -He thinks you two have been tryin’ to freeze him out, I guess. Says he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span> -can’t do anything any more, that everybody makes fun of him and shuts -him out.”</p> - -<p>We stared at each other in wise illumination, the new captain and the -new mate. After all, we were plainly the cause of poor little Ike’s -depression, and we were the ones who could restore him to favor if -we chose. It was the captain’s cabin he sighed for—his old pleasant -prerogatives.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we can’t lose Ike, Captain,” I said. “What good would the -<i>Harmony</i> be without him? We surely can’t let anything like that -happen, can we? Not now, anyhow.”</p> - -<p>“You’re right, mate,” he replied. “There never was a better bos’n’s -mate, never. The <i>Harmony’s</i> got to have ’im. Let’s talk reason to -him, if we can.”</p> - -<p>In company then we three went to him, this time not to torment or -chastise, but to coax and plead with him not to forsake the shop, -or the ship, now that everything was going to be as before—only -better—and——</p> - -<p>Well, we did.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="MARRIED">MARRIED</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">In</span> connection with their social adjustment, one to the other, during -the few months they had been together, there had occurred a number -of things which made clearer to Duer and Marjorie the problematic -relationship which existed between them, though it must be confessed -it was clearer chiefly to him. The one thing which had been troubling -Duer was not whether he would fit agreeably into her social dreams—he -knew he would, so great was her love for him—but whether she would fit -herself into his. Of all his former friends, he could think of only -a few who would be interested in Marjorie, or she in them. She cared -nothing for the studio life, except as it concerned him, and he knew no -other.</p> - -<p>Because of his volatile, enthusiastic temperament, it was easy to see, -now that she was with him constantly, that he could easily be led into -one relationship and another which concerned her not at all. He was for -running here, there, and everywhere, just as he had before marriage, -and it was very hard for him to see that Marjorie should always be with -him. As a matter of fact, it occurred to him as strange that she should -want to be. She would not be interested in all the people he knew, -he thought. Now that he was living with her and observing her more -closely, he was quite sure that most of the people he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span> had known in the -past, even in an indifferent way, would not appeal to her at all.</p> - -<p>Take Cassandra Draper, for instance, or Neva Badger, or Edna -Bainbridge, with her budding theatrical talent, or Cornelia Skiff, or -Volida Blackstone—any of these women of the musical art-studio world -with their radical ideas, their indifference to appearances, their -semisecret immorality. And yet any of these women would be glad to see -him socially, unaccompanied by his wife, and he would be glad to see -them. He liked them. Most of them had not seen Marjorie, but, if they -had, he fancied that they would feel about her much as he did—that -is, that she did not like them, really did not fit with their world. -She could not understand their point of view, he saw that. She was for -one life, one love. All this excitement about entertainment, their -gathering in this studio and that, this meeting of radicals and models -and budding theatrical stars which she had heard him and others talking -about—she suspected of it no good results. It was too feverish, -too far removed from the commonplace of living to which she had been -accustomed. She had been raised on a farm where, if she was not -actually a farmer’s daughter, she had witnessed what a real struggle -for existence meant.</p> - -<p>Out in Iowa, in the neighborhood of Avondale, there were no artists, -no models, no budding actresses, no incipient playwrights, such as -Marjorie found here about her. There, people worked, and worked hard. -Her father was engaged at this minute in breaking the soil of his -fields for the spring planting—an old man with a white beard, an -honest, kindly eye, a broad, kindly charity, a sense of duty. Her -mother was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span> bending daily over a cook-stove, preparing meals, washing -dishes, sewing clothes, mending socks, doing the thousand and one -chores which fall to the lot of every good housewife and mother. Her -sister Cecily, for all her gaiety and beauty, was helping her mother, -teaching school, going to church, and taking the commonplace facts of -mid-Western life in a simple, good-natured unambitious way. And there -was none of that toplofty sense of superiority which marked the manner -of these Eastern upstarts.</p> - -<p>Duer had suggested that they give a tea, and decided that they should -invite Charlotte Russell and Mildred Ayres, who were both still -conventionally moral in their liberalism; Francis Hatton, a young -sculptor, and Miss Ollie Stearns, the latter because she had a charming -contralto voice and could help them entertain. Marjorie was willing to -invite both Miss Russell and Miss Ayres, not because she really wanted -to know either of them but because she did not wish to appear arbitrary -and especially contrary. In her estimation, Duer liked these people too -much. They were friends of too long standing. She reluctantly wrote -them to come, and because they liked Duer and because they wished to -see the kind of wife he had, they came.</p> - -<p>There was no real friendship to be established between Marjorie and -Miss Ayres, however, for their outlook on life was radically different, -though Miss Ayres was as conservative as Marjorie in her attitude, and -as set in her convictions. But the latter had decided, partly because -Duer had neglected her, partly because Marjorie was the victor in this -contest, that he had made a mistake; she was convinced that Marjorie<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span> -had not sufficient artistic apprehension, sufficient breadth of -outlook, to make a good wife for him. She was charming enough to look -at, of course, she had discovered that in her first visit; but there -was really not enough in her socially, she was not sufficiently trained -in the ways of the world, not sufficiently wise and interesting to -make him an ideal companion. In addition she insisted on thinking this -vigorously and, smile as she might and be as gracious as she might, it -showed in her manner. Marjorie noticed it. Duer did, too. He did not -dare intimate to either what he thought, but he felt that there would -be no peace. It worried him, for he liked Mildred very much; but, alas! -Marjorie had no good to say of her.</p> - -<p>As for Charlotte Russell, he was grateful to her for the pleasant -manner in which she steered between Scylla and Charybdis. She saw at -once what Marjorie’s trouble was, and did her best to allay suspicions -by treating Duer formally in her presence. It was “<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Wilde” here and -“<abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Wilde” there, with most of her remarks addressed to Marjorie; but -she did not find it easy sailing, after all. Marjorie was suspicious. -There was none of the old freedom any more which had existed between -Charlotte and Duer. He saw, by Marjorie’s manner, the moment he became -the least exuberant and free that it would not do. That evening he -said, forgetting himself:</p> - -<p>“Hey, Charlotte, you skate! Come over here. I want to show you -something.”</p> - -<p>He forgot all about it afterward, but Marjorie reminded him.</p> - -<p>“Honey,” she began, when she was in his arms before the fire, and he -was least expecting it, “what<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span> makes you be so free with people when -they call here? You’re not the kind of man that can really afford to -be free with any one. Don’t you know you can’t? You’re too big; you’re -too great. You just belittle yourself when you do it, and it makes them -think that they are your equal when they are not.”</p> - -<p>“Who has been acting free now?” he asked sourly, on the instant, -and yet with a certain make-believe of manner, dreading the storm -of feeling, the atmosphere of censure and control which this remark -forboded.</p> - -<p>“Why, you have!” she persisted correctively, and yet apparently mildly -and innocently. “You always do. You don’t exercise enough dignity, -dearie. It isn’t that you haven’t it naturally—you just don’t exercise -it. I know how it is; you forget.”</p> - -<p>Duer stirred with opposition at this, for she was striking him on -his tenderest spot—his pride. It was true that he did lack dignity -at times. He knew it. Because of his affection for the beautiful -or interesting things—women, men, dramatic situations, songs, -anything—he sometimes became very gay and free, talking loudly, -using slang expressions, laughing boisterously. It was a failing with -him, he knew. He carried it to excess at times. His friends, his most -intimate ones in the musical profession had noted it before this. In -his own heart he regretted these things afterward, but he couldn’t help -them, apparently. He liked excitement, freedom, gaiety—naturalness, -as he called it—it helped him in his musical work, but it hurt him -tremendously if he thought that any one else noticed it as out of the -ordinary. He was exceedingly sensitive, and this developing line of -criticism of Marjorie’s was something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span> new to him. He had never noticed -anything of that in her before marriage.</p> - -<p>Up to the time of the ceremony, and for a little while afterward, it -had appeared to him as if he were lord and master. She had always -seemed so dependent on him, so anxious that he should take her. Why, -her very life had been in his hands, as it were, or so he had thought! -And now—he tried to think back over the evening and see what it was he -had done or said, but he couldn’t remember anything. Everything seemed -innocent enough. He couldn’t recall a single thing, and yet——</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied sourly, -withdrawing into himself. “I haven’t noticed that I lack dignity so -much. I have a right to be cheerful, haven’t I? You seem to be finding -a lot that’s wrong with me.”</p> - -<p>“Now please don’t get angry, Duer,” she persisted, anxious to apply the -corrective measure of her criticism, but willing, at the same time, to -use the quickness of his sympathy for her obvious weakness and apparent -helplessness to shield herself from him. “I can’t ever tell you -anything if you’re going to be angry. You don’t lack dignity generally, -honey-bun! You only forget at times. Don’t you know how it is?”</p> - -<p>She was cuddling up to him, her voice quavering, her hand stroking his -cheek, in a curious effort to combine affection and punishment at the -same time. Duer felt nothing but wrath, resentment, discouragement, -failure.</p> - -<p>“No, I don’t,” he replied crossly. “What did I do? I don’t recall doing -anything that was so very much out of the way.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span></p> - -<p>“It wasn’t that it was so very much, honey; it was just the way you did -it. You forget, I know. But it doesn’t look right. It belittles you.”</p> - -<p>“What did I do?” he insisted impatiently.</p> - -<p>“Why, it wasn’t anything so very much. It was just when you had the -pictures of those new sculptures which <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Hatton lent you, and -you were showing them to Miss Russell. Don’t you remember what you -said—how you called her over to you?”</p> - -<p>“No,” he answered, having by now completely forgotten. He was thinking -that accidentally he might have slipped his arm about Charlotte, or -that he might have said something out of the way jestingly about the -pictures; but Marjorie could not have heard. He was so careful these -days, anyway.</p> - -<p>“Why, you said: ‘Hey, Charlotte, you skate! Come over here.’ Now, what -a thing to say to a girl! Don’t you see how ugly it sounds, how vulgar? -She can’t enjoy that sort of remark, particularly in my presence, do -you think? She must know that I can’t like it, that I’d rather you -wouldn’t talk that way, particularly here. And if she were the right -sort of girl she wouldn’t want you to talk to her at all that way. -Don’t you know she wouldn’t? She couldn’t. Now, really, no good woman -would, would she?”</p> - -<p>Duer flushed angrily. Good heaven! Were such innocent, simple things -as this to be made the subject of comment and criticism! Was his -life, because of his sudden, infatuated marriage, to be pulled down -to a level he had never previously even contemplated? Why—why—This -catechising, so new to his life, so different to anything he had ever -endured in his youth or since, was certain to irritate him greatly, to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span> -be a constant thorn in his flesh. It cut him to the core. He got up, -putting Marjorie away from him, for they were sitting in a big chair -before the fire, and walked to the window.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that at all,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t see anything in -that remark to raise a row about. Why, for goodness’ sake! I have known -Charlotte Russell—for years and years, it seems, although it has only -been a little while at that. She’s like a sister to me. I like her. She -doesn’t mind what I say. I’d stake my life she never thought anything -about it. No one would who likes me as well as she does. Why do you -pitch on that to make a fuss about, for heaven’s sake?”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t swear, Duer,” exclaimed Marjorie anxiously, using this -expression for criticising him further. “It isn’t nice in you, and -it doesn’t sound right toward me. I’m your wife. It doesn’t make any -difference how long you’ve known her; I don’t think it’s nice to talk -to her in that way, particularly in my presence. You say you’ve known -her so well and you like her so much. Very well. But don’t you think -you ought to consider me a little, now that I’m your wife? Don’t you -think that you oughtn’t to want to do anything like that any more, even -if you have known her so well—don’t you think? You’re married now, and -it doesn’t look right to others, whatever you think of me. It can’t -look right to her, if she’s as nice as you say she is.”</p> - -<p>Duer listened to this semipleading, semichastising harangue with -disturbed, opposed, and irritated ears. Certainly, there was some truth -in what she said; but wasn’t it an awfully small thing to raise a row -about?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span> Why should she quarrel with him for that? Couldn’t he ever be -lightsome in his form of address any more? It was true that it did -sound a little rough, now that he thought of it. Perhaps it wasn’t -exactly the thing to say in her presence, but Charlotte didn’t mind. -They had known each other much too long. She hadn’t noticed it one way -or the other; and here was Marjorie charging him with being vulgar and -inconsiderate, and Charlotte with being not the right sort of girl, and -practically vulgar, also, on account of it. It was too much. It was too -narrow, too conventional. He wasn’t going to tolerate anything like -that permanently.</p> - -<p>He was about to say something mean in reply, make some cutting -commentary, when Marjorie came over to him. She saw that she had lashed -him and Charlotte and his generally easy attitude pretty thoroughly, -and that he was becoming angry. Perhaps, because of his sensitiveness, -he would avoid this sort of thing in the future. Anyhow, now that -she had lived with him four months, she was beginning to understand -him better, to see the quality of his moods, the strength of his -passions, the nature of his weaknesses, how quickly he responded to the -blandishments of pretended sorrow, joy, affection, or distress. She -thought she could reform him at her leisure. She saw that he looked -upon her in his superior way as a little girl—largely because of the -size of her body. He seemed to think that, because she was little, she -must be weak, whereas she knew that she had the use and the advantage -of a wisdom, a tactfulness and a subtlety of which he did not even -dream. Compared to her, he was not nearly as wise as he thought, at -least<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span> in matters relating to the affections. Hence, any appeal to his -sympathies, his strength, almost invariably produced a reaction from -any antagonistic mood in which she might have placed him. She saw him -now as a mother might see a great, overgrown, sulking boy, needing only -to be coaxed to be brought out of a very unsatisfactory condition, and -she decided to bring him out of it. For a short period in her life she -had taught children in school, and knew the incipient moods of the race -very well.</p> - -<p>“Now, Duer,” she coaxed, “you’re not really going to be angry with -me, are you? You’re not going to be ‘mad to me’?” (imitating childish -language).</p> - -<p>“Oh, don’t bother, Marjorie,” he replied distantly. “It’s all right. -No; I’m not angry. Only let’s not talk about it any more.”</p> - -<p>“You are angry, though, Duer,” she wheedled, slipping her arm around -him. “Please don’t be mad to me. I’m sorry now. I talk too much. I get -mad. I know I oughtn’t. Please don’t be mad at me, honey-bun. I’ll get -over this after a while. I’ll do better. Please, I will. Please don’t -be mad, will you?”</p> - -<p>He could not stand this coaxing very long. Just as <a id="she"></a>she thought, he did -look upon her as a child, and this pathetic baby-talk was irresistible. -He smiled grimly after a while. She was so little. He ought to endure -her idiosyncrasies of temperament. Besides, he had never treated her -right. He had not been faithful to his engagement-vows. If she only -knew how bad he really was!</p> - -<p>Marjorie slipped her arm through his and stood leaning against him. She -loved this tall, slender distinguished-looking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span> youth, and she wanted -to take care of him. She thought that she was doing this now, when she -called attention to his faults. Some day, by her persistent efforts -maybe, he would overcome these silly, disagreeable, offensive traits. -He would overcome being undignified; he would see that he needed to -show her more consideration than he now seemed to think he did. He -would learn that he was married. He would become a quiet, reserved, -forceful man, weary of the silly women who were buzzing round him -solely because he was a musician and talented and good-looking, and -then he would be truly great. She knew what they wanted, these nasty -women—they would like to have him for themselves. Well, they wouldn’t -get him. And they needn’t think they would. She had him. He had married -her. And she was going to keep him. They could just buzz all they -pleased, but they wouldn’t get him. So there!</p> - -<p>There had been other spats following this—one relating to Duer -not having told his friends of his marriage for some little time -afterward, an oversight which in his easy going bohemian brain augured -no deep planted seed of disloyalty, but just a careless, indifferent -way of doing things, whereas in hers it flowered as one of the most -unpardonable things imaginable! Imagine any one in the Middle West -doing anything like that—any one with a sound, sane conception of the -responsibilities and duties of marriage, its inviolable character! For -Marjorie, having come to this estate by means of a hardly won victory, -was anxious lest any germ of inattentiveness, lack of consideration, -alien interest, or affection flourish and become a raging disease -which would imperil or destroy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span> the conditions on which her happiness -was based. After every encounter with Miss Ayres, for instance, whom -she suspected of being one of his former flames, a girl who might -have become his wife, there were fresh charges to be made. She didn’t -invite Marjorie to sit down sufficiently quickly when she called at her -studio, was one complaint; she didn’t offer her a cup of tea at the -hour she called another afternoon, though it was quite time for it. She -didn’t invite her to sing or play on another occasion, though there -were others there who were invited.</p> - -<p>“I gave her one good shot, though,” said Marjorie, one day, to Duer, -in narrating her troubles. “She’s always talking about her artistic -friends. I as good as asked her why she didn’t marry, if she is so much -sought after.”</p> - -<p>Duer did not understand the mental sword-thrusts involved in these -feminine bickerings. He was likely to be deceived by the airy geniality -which sometimes accompanied the bitterest feeling. He could stand -by listening to a conversation between Marjorie and Miss Ayres, or -Marjorie and any one else whom she did not like, and miss all the -subtle stabs and cutting insinuations which were exchanged, and of -which Marjorie was so thoroughly capable. He did not blame her for -fighting for herself if she thought she was being injured, but he did -object to her creating fresh occasions, and this, he saw, she was quite -capable of doing. She was constantly looking for new opportunities -to fight with Mildred Ayres and Miss Russell or any one else whom -she thought he truly liked, whereas with those in whom he could not -possibly be interested she was genial (and even affectionate)<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span> enough. -But Duer also thought that Mildred might be better engaged than in -creating fresh difficulties. Truly, he had thought better of her. It -seemed a sad commentary on the nature of friendship between men and -women, and he was sorry.</p> - -<p>But, nevertheless, Marjorie found a few people whom she felt to be of -her own kind. M. Bland, who had sponsored Duer’s first piano recital -a few months before, invited Duer and Marjorie to a—for them—quite -sumptuous dinner at the Plaza, where they met Sydney Borg, the -musical critic of an evening paper; Melville Ogden Morris, curator -of the Museum of Fine Arts, and his wife; Joseph Newcorn, one of the -wealthy sponsors of the opera and its geniuses, and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Newcorn. -Neither Duer nor Marjorie had ever seen a private dining-room set -in so scintillating a manner. It fairly glittered with Sèvres and -Venetian tinted glass. The wine-goblets were seven in number, set in an -ascending row. The order of food was complete from Russian caviare to -dessert, black coffee, nuts, liqueurs, and cigars.</p> - -<p>The conversation wandered its intense intellectual way from American -musicians and singers, European painters and sculptors, discoveries -of ancient pottery in the isles of the Ægean, to the manufacture of -fine glass on Long Island, the character of certain collectors and -collections of paintings in America, and the present state of the -Fine Arts Museum. Duer listened eagerly, for, as yet, he was a little -uncertain of himself, his position in the art world. He did not quite -know how to take these fine and able personages who seemed so powerful -in the world’s affairs. Joseph Newcorn, as M. Bland calmly indicated -to him,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span> must be worth in the neighborhood of fifteen million dollars. -He thought nothing, so he said, of paying ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty -thousand dollars for a picture if it appealed to him. <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Morris was -a graduate of Harvard, formerly curator of a Western museum, the -leader of one of the excavating expeditions to Melos in the Grecian -Archipelago. Sydney Borg was a student of musical history, who appeared -to have a wide knowledge of art tendencies here and abroad, but who, -nevertheless, wrote musical criticisms for a living. He was a little -man of Norse extraction on his father’s side, but, as he laughingly -admitted, born and raised in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. He liked Duer -for his simple acknowledgment of the fact that he came from a small -town in the Middle West, and a drug business out in Illinois.</p> - -<p>“It’s curious how our nation brings able men from the ranks,” he said -to Duer. “It’s one of the great, joyous, hopeful facts about this -country.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Duer; “that’s why I like it so much.”</p> - -<p>Duer thought, as he dined here, how strange America was, with its -mixture of races, its unexpected sources of talent, its tremendous -wealth and confidence. His own beginning, so very humble at first, -so very promising now—one of the most talked of pianists of his -day—was in its way an illustration of its resources in so far as -talent was concerned. <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Newcorn, who had once been a tailor, so he -was told, and his wife was another case in point. They were such solid, -unemotional, practical-looking people, and yet he could see that this -solid looking man whom some musicians might possibly have sneered at -for his self-complacency and curiously accented English, was as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</span> wise -and sane and keen and kindly as any one present, perhaps more so, and -as wise in matters musical. The only difference between him and the -average American was that he was exceptionally practical and not given -to nervous enthusiasm. Marjorie liked him, too.</p> - -<p>It was at this particular dinner that the thought occurred to Marjorie -that the real merit of the art and musical world was not so much in -the noisy studio palaver which she heard at so many places frequented -by Duer, in times past at least—Charlotte Russell’s, Mildred Ayres’s -and elsewhere—but in the solid commercial achievements of such men -as Joseph Newcorn, Georges Bland, Melville Ogden Morris, and Sydney -Borg. She liked the laconic “Yes, yes,” of <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Newcorn, when anything -was said that suited him particularly well, and his “I haf seen dat -bardicular berformance” with which he interrupted several times when -Grand Opera and its stars were up for consideration. She was thinking -if only a man like that would take an interest in Duer, how much better -it would be for him than all the enthusiasm of these silly noisy studio -personalities. She was glad to see also that, intellectually, Duer -could hold his own with any and all of these people. He was as much at -ease here with <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Morris, talking about Greek excavations, as he was -with <abbr title="Mister">Mr.</abbr> Borg, discussing American musical conditions. She could not -make out much what it was all about, but, of course, it must be very -important if these men discussed it. Duer was not sure as yet whether -any one knew much more about life than he did. He suspected not, but it -might be that some of these eminent curators, art critics, bankers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</span> -and managers like M. Bland, had a much wider insight into practical -affairs. Practical affairs—he thought. If he only knew something about -money! Somehow, though, his mind could not grasp how money was made. It -seemed so easy for some people, but for him a grim, dark mystery.</p> - -<p>After this dinner it was that Marjorie began to feel that Duer ought -to be especially careful with whom he associated. She had talked with -<abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Newcorn and <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Morris, and found them simple, natural people -like herself. They were not puffed up with vanity and self-esteem, as -were those other men and women to whom Duer had thus far introduced -her. As compared to Charlotte Russell and Mildred Ayres or her own -mother and sisters and her Western friends, they were more like the -latter. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Newcorn, wealthy as she was, spoke of her two sons and -three daughters as any good-natured, solicitous mother would. One of -her sons was at Harvard, the other at Yale. She asked Marjorie to -come and see her some time, and gave her her address. <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Morris was -more cultured apparently, more given to books and art; but even she -was interested in what, to Marjorie, were the more important or, at -least, more necessary things, the things on which all art and culture -primarily based themselves—the commonplace and necessary details of -the home. Cooking, housekeeping, shopping, sewing, were not beneath -her consideration, as indeed they were not below <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Newcorn’s. The -former spoke of having to go and look for a new spring bonnet in the -morning, and how difficult it was to find the time. Once when the men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</span> -were getting especially excited about European and American artistic -standards, Marjorie asked:</p> - -<p>“Are you very much interested in art, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Morris?”</p> - -<p>“Not so very much, to tell you the truth, <abbr title="Missus">Mrs.</abbr> Wilde. Oh, I like some -pictures, and I hear most of the important recitals each season, but, -as I often tell my husband, when you have one baby two years old and -another of five and another of seven, it takes considerable time to -attend to the art of raising them. I let him do the art for the family, -and I take care of the home.”</p> - -<p>This was sincere consolation for Marjorie. Up to this time she appeared -to be in danger of being swamped by this artistic storm which she had -encountered. Her arts of cooking, sewing, housekeeping, appeared as -nothing in this vast palaver about music, painting, sculpture, books -and the like. She knew nothing, as she had most painfully discovered -recently, of Strauss, Dvorák, Debussy, almost as little of Cézanne, -<a id="goguin"></a>Gauguin, Matisse, Van Gogh, Rodin, Ibsen, Shaw and Maeterlinck, with -whom the studios were apparently greatly concerned. And when people -talked of singers, musicians, artists, sculptors, and playwrights, -often she was compelled to keep silent, whereas Duer could stand with -his elbow on some mantel or piano and discuss by the half hour or hour -individuals of whom she had never heard—Verlaine, Tchaikowsky, -Tolstoy, Turgenieff, Tagore, Dostoyevsky, Whistler, Velasquez—anybody -and everybody who appeared to interest the studio element. It was -positively frightening.</p> - -<p>A phase of this truth was that because of his desire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</span> to talk, -his pleasure in meeting people, his joy in hearing of new things, -his sense of the dramatic, Duer could catch quickly and retain -vigorously anything which related to social, artistic, or intellectual -development. He had no idea of what a full-orbed, radiant, receptive -thing his mind was. He only knew that life, things, intellect—anything -and everything—gave him joy when he was privileged to look into them, -whereas Marjorie was not so keenly minded artistically, and he gave -as freely as he received. In this whirl of discussion, this lofty -transcendentalism, Marjorie was all but lost; but she clung tenaciously -to the hope that, somehow, affection, regard for the material needs of -her husband, the care of his clothes, the preparation of his meals, -the serving of him quite as would a faithful slave, would bind him -to her. At once and quickly, she hated and feared these artistically -arrayed, artistically minded, vampirish-looking maidens and women -who appeared from this quarter and that to talk to Duer, all of whom -apparently had known him quite well in the past—since he had come to -New York. When she would see him standing or leaning somewhere, intent -on the rendering of a song, the narration of some dramatic incident, -the description of some book or picture, or personage, by this or that -delicately chiseled Lorelei of the art or music or dramatic world, her -heart contracted ominously and a nameless dread seized her. Somehow, -these creatures, however intent they might be on their work, or however -indifferent actually to the artistic charms of her husband, seemed to -be intent on taking him from her. She saw how easily and naturally -he smiled, how very much at home he seemed to be in their company, -how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</span> surely he gravitated to the type of girl who was beautifully -and artistically dressed, who had ravishing eyes, fascinating hair, -a sylphlike figure, and vivacity of manner—or how naturally they -gravitated to him. In the rush of conversation and the exchange of -greetings he was apt to forget her, to stroll about by himself engaging -in conversation first with one and then another, while she stood or sat -somewhere gazing nervously or regretfully on, unable to hold her own in -the cross-fire of conversation, unable to retain the interest of most -of the selfish, lovesick, sensation-seeking girls and men.</p> - -<p>They always began talking about the opera, or the play, or the latest -sensation in society, or some new singer or dancer or poet, and -Marjorie, being new to this atmosphere and knowing so little of it, -was compelled to confess that she did not know. It chagrined, dazed, -and frightened her for a time. She longed to be able to grasp quickly -and learn what this was all about. She wondered where she had been -living—how—to have missed all this. Why, goodness gracious, these -things were enough to wreck her married life! Duer would think so -poorly of her—how could he help it? She watched these girls and women -talking to him, and by turns, while imitating them as best she could, -became envious, fearful, regretful, angry; charging, first, herself -with unfitness; next, Duer with neglect; next, these people with -insincerity, immorality, vanity; and lastly, the whole world and life -with a conspiracy to cheat her out of what was rightfully her own. Why -wouldn’t these people be nice to her? Why didn’t they give of their -time and patience to make her comfortable and at home—as freely, say, -as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</span> they did to him? Wasn’t she his wife, now? Why did Duer neglect -her? Why did they hang on his words in their eager, seductive, alluring -way? She hated them and, at moments, she hated him, only to be struck -by a terrifying wave of remorse and fear a moment later. What if he -should grow tired of her? What if his love should change? He had seemed -so enamored of her only a little while before they were married, -so taken by what he called her naturalness, grace, simplicity and -emotional pull.</p> - -<p>On one of these occasions, or rather after it, when they had returned -from an evening at Francis Hatton’s at which she felt that she had -been neglected, she threw herself disconsolately into Duer’s arms and -exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter with me, Duer? Why am I so dull—so -uninteresting—so worthless?”</p> - -<p>The sound of her voice was pathetic, helpless, vibrant with the quality -of an unuttered sob, a quality which had appealed to him intensely long -before they were married, and now he stirred nervously.</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s the matter with you now, Margie?” he asked -sympathetically, sure that a new storm of some sort was coming. “What’s -come over you? There’s nothing the matter with you. Why do you ask? -Who’s been saying there is?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, nothing—nobody! Everybody! Everything!” exclaimed -Marjorie dramatically, and bursting into tears. “I see how it is. I see -what is the matter with me. Oh! Oh! It’s because I don’t know anything, -I suppose. It’s because I’m not fit to associate with you. It’s because -I haven’t had the training that some people have had. It’s because I’m<span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</span> -dull! Oh! Oh!” and a torrent of heart-breaking sobs which shook her -frame from head to toe followed the outburst and declamation.</p> - -<p>Duer, always moved by her innate emotional force and charm, whatever -other lack he had reason to bewail, gazed before him in startled -sympathy, astonishment, pain, wonder, for he was seeing very clearly -and keenly in these echoing sounds what the trouble was. She was -feeling neglected, outclassed, unconsidered, helpless; and because it -was more or less true it was frightening and wounding her. She was, -for the first time no doubt, beginning to feel the tragedy of life, -its uncertainty, its pathos and injury, as he so often had. Hitherto -her home, her relatives and friends had more or less protected her -from that, for she had come from a happy home, but now she was out and -away from all that and had only him. Of course she had been neglected. -He remembered that now. It was partly his fault, partly the fault of -surrounding conditions. But what could he do about it? What say? People -had conditions fixed for them in this world by their own ability. -Perhaps he should not have married her at all, but how should he -comfort her in this crisis? How say something that would ease her soul?</p> - -<p>“Why, Margie,” he said seriously, “you know that’s not true! You know -you’re not dull. Your manners and your taste and your style are as good -as those of anybody. Who has hinted that they aren’t? What has come -over you? Who has been saying anything to you? Have I done anything? -If so, I’m sorry!” He had a guilty consciousness of misrepresenting -himself and his point of view even while saying this, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</span> kindness, -generosity, affection, her legal right to his affection, as he now -thought, demanded it.</p> - -<p>“No! No!” she exclaimed brokenly and without ceasing her tears. “It -isn’t you. It isn’t anybody. It’s me—just me! That’s what’s the matter -with me. I’m dull; I’m not stylish; I’m not attractive. I don’t know -anything about music or books or people or anything. I sit and listen, -but I don’t know what to say. People talk to you—they hang on your -words—but they haven’t anything to say to me. They can’t talk to me, -and I can’t talk to them. It’s because I don’t know anything—because -I haven’t anything to say! Oh dear! Oh dear!” and she beat her thin, -artistic little hands on the shoulders of his coat.</p> - -<p>Duer could not endure this storm without an upwelling of pity for her. -He cuddled her close in his arms, extremely sad that she should be -compelled to suffer so. What should he do? What could he do? He could -see how it was. She was hurt; she was neglected. He neglected her when -among others. These smart women whom he knew and liked to talk with -neglected her. They couldn’t see in her what he could. Wasn’t life -pathetic? They didn’t know how sweet she was, how faithful, how glad -she was to work for him. That really didn’t make any difference in -the art world, he knew, but still it almost seemed as if it ought to. -There one must be clever, he knew that—everybody knew it. And Marjorie -was not clever—at least, not in their way. She couldn’t play or sing -or paint or talk brilliantly, as they could. She did not really know -what the world of music, art, and literature was doing. She was only -good, faithful, excellent as a housewife, a fine mender of clothes, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</span> -careful buyer, saving, considerate, dependable, but——</p> - -<p>As he thought of this and then of this upwelling depth of emotion of -hers, a thing quite moving to him always, he realized, or thought he -did, that no woman that he had ever known had anything quite like this. -He had known many women intimately. He had associated with Charlotte -and Mildred and Neva Badger and Volida Blackstone, and quite a number -of interesting, attractive young women whom he had met here and there -since, but outside of the stage—that art of Sarah Bernhardt and -Clara Morris and some of the more talented English actresses of these -later days—he persuaded himself that he had never seen any one quite -like Marjorie. This powerful upwelling of emotion which she was now -exhibiting and which was so distinctive of her, was not to be found -elsewhere, he thought. He had felt it keenly the first days he had -visited her at her father’s home in Avondale. Oh, those days with her -in Avondale! How wonderful they were! Those delicious nights! Flowers, -moonlight, odors, came back—the green fields, the open sky. Yes; she -was powerful emotionally. She was compounded of many and all of these -things.</p> - -<p>It was true she knew nothing of art, nothing of music—the great, new -music—nothing of books in the eclectic sense, but she had real, sweet, -deep, sad, stirring emotion, the most appealing thing he knew. It might -not be as great as that exhibited by some of the masters of the stage, -or the great composers—he was not quite sure, so critical is life—but -nevertheless it was effective, dramatic, powerful. Where did she get -it? No really common soul could have it. Here must be something of the -loneliness of the prairies,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</span> the sad patience of the rocks and fields, -the lonesomeness of the hush of the countryside at night, the aimless, -monotonous, pathetic chirping of the crickets. Her father following -down a furrow in the twilight behind straining, toil-worn horses; her -brothers binding wheat in the July sun; the sadness of furrow scents -and field fragrances in the twilight—there was something of all these -things in her sobs.</p> - -<p>It appealed to him, as it might well have to any artist. In his way -Duer understood this, felt it keenly.</p> - -<p>“Why, Margie,” he insisted, “you mustn’t talk like that! You’re better -than you say you are. You say you don’t know anything about books or -art or music. Why, that isn’t all. There are things, many things, which -are deeper than those things. Emotion is a great thing in itself, -dearest, if you only knew. You have that. Sarah Bernhardt had it; -Clara Morris had it, but who else? In ‘La Dame aux Camelias,’ ‘Sapho,’ -‘Carmen,’ ‘Mademoiselle de Maupin,’ it is written about, but it is -never commonplace. It’s great. I’d rather have your deep upwelling of -emotion than all those cheap pictures, songs, and talk put together. -For, sweet, don’t you know”—and he cuddled her more closely—“great -art is based on great emotion. There is really no great art without it. -I know that best of all, being a musician. You may not have the power -to express yourself in music or books or pictures—you play charmingly -enough for me—but you have the thing on which these things are based; -you have the power to feel them. Don’t worry over yourself, dear. I see -that, and I know what you are, whether any one else does or not. Don’t -worry over me. I have to be nice to these people. I like them in their -way, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</span> I love you. I married you—isn’t that proof enough? What more -do you want? Don’t you understand, little Margie? Don’t you see? Now -aren’t you going to cheer up and be happy? You have me. Ain’t I enough, -sweetie? Can’t you be happy with just me? What more do you want? Just -tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing more, honey-bun!” she went on sobbing and cuddling close; -“nothing more, if I can have you. Just you! That’s all I want—you, -you, you!”</p> - -<p>She hugged him tight. Duer sighed secretly. He really did not believe -all he said, but what of it? What else could he do, say, he asked -himself? He was married to her. In his way, he loved her—or at least -sympathized with her intensely.</p> - -<p>“And am I emotionally great?” she cuddled and cooed, after she had held -him tight for a few moments. “Doesn’t it make any difference whether I -know anything much about music or books or art? I do know something, -don’t I, honey? I’m not wholly ignorant, am I?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, sweetie; how you talk!”</p> - -<p>“And will you always love me whether I know anything or not, -honey-bun?” she went on. “And won’t it make any difference whether I -can just cook and sew and do the marketing and keep house for you? And -will you like me because I’m just pretty and not smart? I am a little -pretty, ain’t I, dear?”</p> - -<p>“You’re lovely,” whispered Duer soothingly. “You’re beautiful. Listen -to me, sweet. I want to tell you something. Stop crying now, and dry -your eyes, and I’ll tell you something nice. Do you remember how we -stood, one night, at the end of your father’s field there near the -barn-gate and saw him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</span> coming down the path, singing to himself, -driving that team of big gray horses, his big straw hat on the back of -his head and his sleeves rolled up above his elbows?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Marjorie.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember how the air smelled of roses and honeysuckle and cut -hay—and oh, all those lovely scents of evening that we have out there -in the country?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” replied Marjorie interestedly.</p> - -<p>“And do you remember how lovely I said the cow-bells sounded tinkling -in the pasture where the little river ran?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“And the fireflies beginning to flash in the trees?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“And that sad, deep red in the West, where the sun had gone down?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I remember,” said Marjorie, crushing her cheek to his neck.</p> - -<p>“Now listen to me, honey: That water running over the bright stones in -that little river; the grass spreading out, soft and green, over the -slope; the cow-bells tinkling; the smoke curling up from your mother’s -chimney; your father looking like a patriarch out of Bible days coming -home—all the soft sounds, all the sweet odors, all the carolling of -birds—where do you suppose all that is now?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” replied Marjorie, anticipating something complimentary.</p> - -<p>“It’s here,” he replied easily, drawing her close and petting her. -“It’s done up in one little body here in my arms. Your voice, your -hair, your eyes, your pretty body, your emotional moods—where do you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</span> -suppose they come from? Nature has a chemistry all her own. She’s like -a druggist sometimes, compounding things. She takes a little of the -beauty of the sunset, of the sky, of the fields, of the water, of the -flowers, of dreams and aspirations and simplicity and patience, and she -makes a girl. And some parents somewhere have her, and then they name -her ‘Marjorie’ and then they raise her nicely and innocently, and then -a bold, bad man like Duer comes along and takes her, and then she cries -because she thinks he doesn’t see anything in her. Now, isn’t that -funny?”</p> - -<p>“O-oh!” exclaimed Marjorie, melted by the fire of his feeling for -beauty, the quaintness and sweetness of his diction, the subtlety of -his compliment, the manner in which he coaxed her patiently out of -herself.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I love you, Duer dear! I love you, love you, love you! Oh, you’re -wonderful! You won’t ever stop loving me, will you, dearest? You’ll -always be true to me, won’t you, Duer? You’ll never leave me, will you? -I’ll always be your little Margie, won’t I? Oh, dear, I’m so happy!” -and she hugged him closer and closer.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” and “Yes, yes,” assured Duer, as the occasion demanded, as -he stared patiently into the fire. This was not real passion to him, -not real love in any sense, or at least he did not feel that it was. -He was too skeptical of himself, his life and love, however much he -might sympathize with and be drawn to her. He was questioning himself -at this very time as to what it was that caused him to talk so. Was -it sympathy, love of beauty, power of poetic expression, delicacy of -sentiment?—certainly nothing more. Wasn’t it this that was already -causing him to be hailed as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</span> great musician? He believed so. Could he -honestly say that he loved Marjorie? No, he was sure that he couldn’t, -now that he had her and realized her defects, as well as his own—his -own principally. No; he liked her, sympathized with her, felt sorry -for her. That ability of his to paint a picture in notes and musical -phrases, to extract the last ringing delicacy out of the keys of a -piano, was at the bottom of this last description. To Marjorie, for -the moment, it might seem real enough, but he—he was thinking of the -truth of the picture she had painted of herself. It was all so—every -word she said. She was not really suited to these people. She did not -understand them; she never would. He would always be soothing and -coaxing, and she would always be crying and worrying.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="WHEN_THE_OLD_CENTURY_WAS_NEW">WHEN THE OLD CENTURY WAS NEW</h2> -</div> - -<p class="drop-cap"><span class="smcap">When</span> William Walton, of Colonial prestige, left his father’s house, -<abbr title="Saint">St.</abbr> George’s Square, New York, in the spring of 1801, it was to -spend a day of social activity, which, in the light of his ordinary -commercial duties, might be termed idleness. There were, among other -things, a luncheon at the Livingstone Kortright’s, a stroll with one -Mlle. Cruger to the Lispenard Meadows, and a visit in the evening to -the only recently inaugurated Apollo Theater, where were organized the -first permanent company of players ever transported to America. Under -the circumstances, he had no time for counting-house duties, and had -accordingly decided to make a day of it, putting the whole matter of -commerce over until such time as he could labor uninterrupted, which -was to-morrow.</p> - -<p>As he came out of the door over which was a diamond-pane lunette -for a transom, he was a striking example of the new order of -things which had come with the Declaration of Independence and the -victory of the colonies over the British. Long trousers of light -twilled cloth encased his legs, and were fastened under his shoes -by straps. A flower-ornamented pink waistcoat and light blue dress -coat of broadcloth, shared with brass buttons, yellow gloves, and an -exceedingly narrow-brimmed silk hat, in giving his appearance that -touch of completeness which the fashion of the day demanded. In the -face of those of the older order,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</span> who still maintained the custom of -wearing knee breeches and solemn, black waistcoats, he was a little apt -to appear the exaggerated dandy; but, nevertheless, it was good form. -My Madame Kortright would expect it at any luncheon of hers, and the -common people knew it to be the all-desirable whenever wealth permitted.</p> - -<p>In lower Pearl Street, below Wall, which direction he took to reach -the Bowling Green and the waterfront, he encountered a number of the -fashionable, so far as the commercial world was concerned, who were -anything but idle like himself.</p> - -<p>“Why, Master Walton, are you neglecting business so early in the -morning?” inquired Robert Goelet, whose iron-mongering business was -then the most important in the city.</p> - -<p>“For this day only,” returned Walton, smiling agreeably at the thought -of a pleasant day to come. “Several engagements make it unavoidable.”</p> - -<p>“You are going to the Collect, then, possibly?” returned Goelet, -looking in the direction of the old water reservoir, where all of the -city’s drinking supply was stored.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the other, “I had not thought of it. What is there?”</p> - -<p>“Some one, I understand, who has a boat he wishes to try. It is said to -go without sail. I should think one with as many ships upon the water -as you have would have heard of any such invention as that.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes,” answered young Walton, “I have heard of men who are going to -sail in the air, also. I will believe that a vessel can go without sail -when I see it.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said the other, “I do not know. These inventors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</span> are strange -adventurers, at best, but there might be no harm in looking at it. I -think I shall go myself later.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I should also like to see it,” said the other, “providing I have -time. When is it to sail, do you know?”</p> - -<p>“About eleven,” answered Goelet. “The <i>Post</i> tells of it.”</p> - -<p>“Many thanks for the information,” returned the other, and, with a few -commonplaces as to ships expected and the news from France, they betook -their separate ways.</p> - -<p>In one of the many fine yards which spread before the old mansions -below Wall Street, he beheld John Adams, the newly-elected President of -the States, busy among his flowers. The elder statesman bowed gravely -to the younger gentleman and returned to his work.</p> - -<p>“A fine gentleman,” thought the latter, “and well worthy to be the -chief of this good government.”</p> - -<p>As he neared the Bowling Green, he observed that there was no one of -the many residents about taking advantage of the pleasant sunlight to -enjoy an hour at that favorite pastime, and so continued his way to -the Astor docks adjoining the Whitehall slip, where never yet had the -commercial New Yorker, interested in the matter of shipping, failed to -find a crowd. Messrs. John Jacob Astor and William Van Rensalaer were -already upon the ground, as he could see at a distance, the distinct -high hat of the one and the portly figure of the other standing out in -clear relief against the green waters of the bay. Elder Johannis Coop -was there, he of the vast ship chandlery business, and Opdyke Stewart, -importer of the finest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</span> stuffs woven in Holland. Old Jacob Cruger and -Mortimer Morris, the lean Van Tassel and Julius van Brunt, merchants -all and famous men of the city, chatted, smiled, and laughed together -as they discussed the probabilities of trade and the arrival of the -<i>Silver Spray</i> and the <i>Laughing Mary</i>, both in the service -between New York and Liverpool. Almost every worthy present was armed -with his spy-glass, as the three-foot telescopes were then called, and -now and then one would take a look down the bay and through the distant -narrows to see if any sign of a familiar sail were present.</p> - -<p>“And how is Master Walton?” asked the elder Astor, recognizing the -scion of the one exceedingly wealthy family of the community.</p> - -<p>“Very well, thank you,” returned the other, surveying the company, -whose knee breeches and black coats presented a striking contrast to -his modern trousers and fancy jacket.</p> - -<p>“These modern fashions,” exclaimed Cruger, the elder, coming forward, -“make us old fellows seem entirely out of date. They are a wretched -contrivance to hide the legs. If I were a young woman I would have no -man whose form I could not judge by his clothes.”</p> - -<p>“And if I were a young man,” put in the jovial John Jacob, “I would put -on no clothes which a young woman did not approve of.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, well,” said the other, smiling, “these fashions are strange -contrivances. Not ten years since a man would have been drummed out of -New York had he appeared in such finery as this, and now, by heaven,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</span> -it is we old fellows who are like to be shown the door for dressing as -our fathers taught us.”</p> - -<p>“Not so bad as that, surely,” said Walton. “Full dress commands the old -style yet at evening. This is but daylight custom. But how about the -Bowling Green; is no one to play there this morning?”</p> - -<p>“Not when two ships like the <i>Silver Spray</i> and the <i>Laughing -Mary</i> are like to show their noses at any moment,” observed Cruger -stoutly. “I have fifty barrels of good India ale on the <i>Silver -Spray</i>. Astor, here, has most of the hold of the <i>Laughing -Mary</i> filled with his dress goods. No bowling when stocks must be -unpacked quickly.”</p> - -<p>“It is a weary watch, this, for these dogged vessels,” added Astor -reflectively. “There is no good counting wind or wave. The Spaniard, -too, is not dead yet, worse luck to him.”</p> - -<p>“I saw that about the <i>Polly</i>,” said young Walton interestedly. -“Perhaps the government will wake up now to our situation. The Spaniard -can wipe our vessels off the seas and hide behind the piracy idea. We -need more war vessels and that quickly, I think.”</p> - -<p>“And I, too,” said Astor. “But we are like to have them now. Only -to-day Congress voted to buy more land across the East River there,” -and he waved his spy-glass in the direction of the green outlines of -Long Island.</p> - -<p>“And that reminds me,” said Walton, pulling out his timepiece by the -fob attached to it; “I but now met Goelet, who says there is to be a -boat tried at the Collect which goes without sail. It is to be run by -steam.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</span></p> - -<p>“Ha!” exclaimed Cruger, “I have no time for such nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“I heard of it,” remarked Astor. “Possibly there is something to it. -There could be no harm in going to see.</p> - -<p>“I am going” said Walton, “and by-the-bye, it is high time I was on my -way.”</p> - -<p>“And if you have no objection I go with you,” said Astor, who was -seriously interested to know if there was anything to this idea or not. -Others hearing this joined them.</p> - -<p>Having thus secured companionship, young Walton proceeded up the -Whitehall slip to the Bowling Green, whence, with his friends, he now -turned into the Broadway, and so out past the fine residences and -occasional stores of that new thoroughfare to the old White residence, -where later was to be White Street, and thence eastward, across the -open common, to the Collect, where is now the Tombs. Quite a formidable -company of sightseers had gathered, the aristocracy, gentry, and common -rabble forming in separate groups. A very plain and homely looking -individual of the older school, clad in swallowtail and knee breeches, -was there with a contrivance large enough to sustain his own weight -in the water, which he was endeavoring with a wrench, a hammer, and -an oil can to put in final shape for the very important experiment of -traveling without sail. Naturally he had the undivided and even pushing -and prying attention of all present.</p> - -<p>While the citizens thus gazed, awaiting in comfortable idleness for -something of the marvelous to happen, there came a clattering sound -along the east road toward<span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</span> the city, where suddenly appeared the -outlines of Van Huicken’s water wagon, a great hogshead on wheels, -which, by its rumbling haste, suggested fire. Close after followed the -Almerich, another vehicle of the same kind, which secured its name from -its owner. Both drivers hailed the crowd while yet a distance off with -shouts of “Fire!” and then from distant Fulton Street were heard the -sounds of a bell tolling out the same intelligence.</p> - -<p>Everybody now wavered uncertainly between the possibility of witnessing -a marvelous invention and the certainty of seeing a splendid -conflagration, with the result that certainty triumphed. Instantly upon -learning the nature of the fire, both commonry and gentry departed, -leaving Astor and Walton, with their associates, gazing at the -tinkering wonder-worker alone.</p> - -<p>“That must be near the President’s house,” observed Walton, who was -looking toward the city. “It may spread.”</p> - -<p>“This fellow will get nothing out of his machine to-day, I fear,” -returned Astor, moved by the thought of a dangerous and yet interesting -fire as he gazed rather unfavorably upon the quiet inventor, who had -not remained unaware of this public defection. “Let us go back.”</p> - -<p>With somewhat more of eagerness than was conformable with their general -stately bearing, this rather important local company now took up the -trail of the water wagons and returned.</p> - -<p>In William Street, just off the Old Boston Road and near the -newly-named Liberty Street, were many signs of public excitement. The -fine residence of the Athorps, recently leased by the French minister, -had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</span> taken fire, and was rapidly burning. Although nine of the fourteen -water-pumps of the city were upon the scene of action, and eight -men were toiling at each handle, little progress was making. Bucket -brigades were also in operation, the volunteer citizens drawing upon -every well in the neighborhood for blocks about; but to small result. -The flames gained apace. Men ran looking for Goiter’s water conveyance, -which had not yet been pressed into action, and Huicken’s Broadway -sprinkler, which, however, had already been sent to the Collect for -more water. There was a deal of clatter and confusion, coupled with the -absolute certainty of destruction, for no pumping could throw the water -beyond the second story. More than once the tank supply, as rattled -forward from the Collect and the East River, was totally suspended, -while the flames gained new ground. This latter was due to the badness -of the roads and the inadequacy of the help at the supply end, where, -since all thought to gaze upon the fire, none were remaining to help -the lone Huicken or the energetic Goiter.</p> - -<p>When this last company of volunteer fire fighters arrived, with their -buckets and other contrivances for fighting a blaze, the flames had -gained such headway that there was little to be done. Walton wasted -half an hour discussing fire protection, and then bethought himself of -his luncheon engagement.</p> - -<p>“I must be out of this,” he said to Astor, as they stood gazing upon -the flames and the surging throng. “I am late as it is.”</p> - -<p>The genial forefather scarcely heard him at all. So interested was he -that his own luncheon mattered not at all. Quietly Walton withdrew -then, and getting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</span> back into Boston Road and the Broadway, betook -himself toward the Bowling Green and Madame Kortright’s.</p> - -<p>That lady’s mansion was to the west of the old playground, looking out -over lawn and lane to some space of water to be seen in the East River -and a boat or two at anchor in the bay. As he tapped upon the broad -door with its brazen knocker, a liveried servant opened to him, bowing -profoundly in greeting.</p> - -<p>“Will Master Walton give me his hat and gloves?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Master Walton,” remarked the hostess, who now entered smiling. “I -had almost doubted your punctuality, though you have good reason. Whose -house is it burning?”</p> - -<p>“Count Rennay’s,” answered Walton, mentioning the French representative -to our government.</p> - -<p>“I have sent a servant to discover it for me, but he has not yet -returned. It must have fascinated him also. We must sit to lunch at -once, sir.”</p> - -<p>As the hostess said this, she turned about in her great hoops, now but -recently, like long trousers, come into fashion, and led the way. Her -hair was done in the curls of the post-revolution period, three at -each side, about the ears, and a tall chignon that was almost a curl -in itself. With stately grace she led the way to the dining chamber -and bowed him to his place. Eulalia, a daughter, and Sophia, a friend, -entered almost at the same moment with them through another door.</p> - -<p>At the head of the long, oaken table there were already standing the -two black table servants of this dignified household, splendid imported -Africans, trained in Virginia. My lady’s table was a-gleam with much of -the richest plate and old Holland china in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</span> the city. An immense silver -candelabra graced the center, and at every corner were separate graven -gold sticks making a splendid show.</p> - -<p>“I have the greatest terror of fire anywhere in our city,” began -the hostess, even as young Walton was bowing. “We have so little -protection. I have urged upon our selectmen the necessity of providing -something better than we have—a water tower or something of the sort -but so far nothing has come of it.”</p> - -<p>“You were at the fire, Master Walton?” inquired the handsome Eulalie -archly.</p> - -<p>“I came that way with several friends from the Collect,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Why the Collect?” asked the hostess, who was now seated with the two -blacks towering above her.</p> - -<p>“There is a man there who has a boat which is to go without sail, as I -understand it, providing his idea is correct. It is to go by steam, I -believe, only he did not succeed in making it so do to-day, at least -not while I was there. It may have gone, though. I could not wait to -see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh marvelous,” exclaimed Eulalie, putting up a pair of pretty hands, -“and really is it a boat that will travel so?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot vouch for that,” returned the youth gravely. “It was not -going when we visited it. The fire and my engagement took the entire -audience of the inventor away,” and he smiled.</p> - -<p>“I shall have no faith in any such trap as that until I see it,” -observed Madame Kortright. “Fancy being on the water and no sail to -waft you. Mercy!”</p> - -<p>“I fancy it will be some time before men will venture<span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</span> afar on any such -craft,” returned the youth; “but it is a bit curious.”</p> - -<p>“Dangerous, I should say,” suggested Mistress Sophia.</p> - -<p>“No,” said Walton, “not that, I think. My father has often told me that -Master Franklin predicted to him that men should harness the lightning -before many years. That is even more strange than this.”</p> - -<p>“That may all be true,” said Madame Kortright, “but it has not come to -pass yet. It will never be in our time, I fear. But did you hear of the -case of jewels at Maton’s?”</p> - -<p>“Has he imported something new?” inquired Eulalie smartly.</p> - -<p>“The last ship brought a case of gems for him, I hear,” continued the -hostess. “That should be of interest to you, Master Walton.”</p> - -<p>The youth flushed slightly at the implication involved. His attentions -to Mistress Beppie Cruger were becoming a subject of pleasing social -comment.</p> - -<p>“So it is,” he said gaily, as he recovered his composure. “I shall look -in upon Maton this very afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“And I should like to see what is new in France,” said the ruddy Sophia -seriously. “I have not an earring or a pin in my collection that is not -as old as the hills——”</p> - -<p>“Nor any the less valuable, I venture,” answered Walton, with an -impressive air.</p> - -<p>“I would give them for new ones, believe me,” returned the girl -quaintly.</p> - -<p>Upon this gossiping company the two blacks waited with almost noiseless -accuracy, one serving at each<span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</span> side in answer to silent looks and nods -from the hostess. Walton watched them out of the corner of his eye, -gossiping the while. In his new home, he thought, whenever the fair -lady consented, there should be two such lackeys gracing her more -tender beauty. He could not help thinking how much more effective they -would appear behind her than his present hostess, who, however, was -attractive enough. It made him restless to depart, for certainly this -afternoon he should definitely, if he could, learn his fate. The jewels -would be one excuse. He would take her to look at the jewels before the -evening called them to the theater, and then he would see.</p> - -<p>Once he was free of the entertainment provided, he hurried away into -Wall Street, the spire of Trinity already beginning to cast a short -eastward shadow. About the building occupied as the new National -Capitol a few dignitaries from the colonies were to be seen. The new -mixture of stores among the residences was beginning to make lovely -Wall Street less conservative. A bank had opened just below the -Capitol, its entrance reaching out to the very sidewalk and hedging in -the view of the gardens beyond. Soon, if the city kept on growing, all -the fine old gardens would have to go.</p> - -<p>He pondered, as he walked, until he came to a certain gateway below -William Street, where he entered. From a window looking out upon a -small balcony above a face disappeared, and now he was greeted by -another pompous servant at the door.</p> - -<p>“My compliments,” he said, “to Mistress Cruger, if she pleases, and I -am waiting.”</p> - -<p>The servant bowed and retired. In a few moments<span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</span> more there fluttered -down into the large reception room from above the loveliest embodiment -of the new order of finery that he had ever seen. Such daintiness in -curls and laces, such lightness in silken flounces displayed upon -spreading hoops, he felt to be without equal. With a graceful courtesy -she received his almost ponderous bow.</p> - -<p>“Mother gives you her greeting, and she cannot come with us to-day,” -she said. “She has a very severe headache.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry to hear that,” he replied sympathetically, “but you -will come? The weather has favored us, and I fancy the meadows will be -beautiful to see.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I will come,” she returned smiling. “It is not quite three, -however,” she added. “You are early.”</p> - -<p>“I know,” he answered, “but we may talk until then. Besides there is -something I wish you to see before theater time—no, I will tell you of -it later. Henry will be on time.”</p> - -<p>They seated themselves very respectfully distant and took up the -morning’s commonplaces. Had he heard of the fire and where the French -minister was now being entertained? Cards had but this morning come -from the Jacob Van Dams for a reception at their new house in Broome -Street. The Goelets were to build farther out in Pearl Street.</p> - -<p>“I think it is a shame,” she said, “the way they are deserting us in -this street. We shall have to go also very shortly, and I like Wall -Street.”</p> - -<p>“When your turn comes perhaps you will not mind it so much,” he -returned, thinking of the proposal he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</span> hoped to find the courage to -make. “Broome Street is certainly pleasing after the new style.”</p> - -<p>She thought of all the fine residences being erected in that new -residence section, and for some, to him, inexplicable reason, smiled. -Outside, through the vine-festooned window, she could see a broad, open -barouche turning.</p> - -<p>“Here is the carriage,” she said.</p> - -<p>As they came out of the quiet chamber into the open sunlight, part -of their stilted reserve vanished. Once in the carriage beside him, -she smiled happily. As they rolled into William Street and up the Old -Boston Road into the green shaded Bowery, she laughed for the very joy -of laughing.</p> - -<p>“It is good to feel spring again,” she said, “the cold days are so -many.”</p> - -<p>As they traveled, an occasional citizen before his doorway, or pleasure -seeker upon horseback, greeted them. The distinguished Aaron Burr was -here prancing gaily countryward. Old Peter Stuyvesant’s mansion was -kept as rich in flowers as when he had been alive to care for it.</p> - -<p>“Are not the fields beautiful about here?” he observed, after they had -passed the region of the Collect.</p> - -<p>“Lovely,” she returned. “I never see them but I think of dancing, they -are so soft.”</p> - -<p>“Let us get out and walk upon them, anyhow,” he answered. “Henry can -wait for us at the turn yonder.”</p> - -<p>He was pointing to a far point, where, through a clump of trees, the -winding footpath, leading out<span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</span> from here, joined Broadway, now a lane -through the woods and fields.</p> - -<p>Gaily she acquiesced, and he helped her down. When the servant was out -of hearing, he reached for a dandelion, and pressing his lips to it -said, “Here is a token.”</p> - -<p>“Of what?” she said shyly.</p> - -<p>“What should it be?” he asked wistfully.</p> - -<p>“Spring, probably.”</p> - -<p>“And nothing else?”</p> - -<p>“Youth,” she answered, laughing.</p> - -<p>“And nothing else?” he questioned, drawing close with a tenderness in -his voice.</p> - -<p>“How should I know?” she said, laughing and casting it down, because of -her fear of the usual significance of the situation.</p> - -<p>“You mustn’t throw it away,” he said stooping. “Keep it. I’ll tell you -what it means. I—I——”</p> - -<p>“See the wild roses!” she exclaimed, suddenly increasing her pace. “I -should rather have some of those for a token, if you please.”</p> - -<p>He relaxed his tension, and hastened for that which she desired. When -he returned to hand them to her, she was laughing at something.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you laugh,” he said sadly. “I think I know why.”</p> - -<p>“It is because of the day,” she answered.</p> - -<p>Somehow he could make no progress with his declaration until it was too -late. Already they were near the carriage, and south along the road a -quarter of a mile was the Lispenard country house. Her relatives, the -Lispenards, were there as owners. He scarcely had time for what he -wished to say.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</span></p> - -<p>“Shall we stop there?” he asked in a subdued murmur, as in driving -again they neared the long piazza where guests were seated enjoying the -prospect of the meadows beyond. “It is four now, and the play begins at -six. There are some new jewels from France at Maton’s, which I thought -you might like to see before then.”</p> - -<p>“Jewels from France! Oh, yes, I should like to see those. Let us go -there,” she answered. “But I must have time to dress, too, you know.”</p> - -<p>To the guests then, bowing as they passed, they returned a smiling nod, -and meeting others in carriages and chairs, extended this same courtesy -as they went along. Walton brooded in a mock-dreary manner, but finding -that it availed nothing thought to tempt her considerateness with -jewels.</p> - -<p>“What trinkets are these you have from France of which I hear?” he -inquired of Maton as they entered that sturdy jeweler’s shop in Maiden -Lane.</p> - -<p>“On the very last packet,” explained the latter, spreading the best of -his importations upon a black velvet cloth before them. “You will not -see the like of these six diamonds in New York again for many years, I -warrant you. Look at this.”</p> - -<p>He held up an exquisitely wrought ring of French workmanship, in which -a fine stone was gleaming, and smiled upon it approvingly.</p> - -<p>“Look,” he said, “it is very large. It is cut by Toussard. Did you ever -see such workmanship?” He turned it over and over, and then held it -lovingly up. “The band itself is so small,” he added, “that I believe -it would fit the lady’s finger—let us see.”</p> - -<p>Coquettishly she put out her hand, and then seeing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</span> that it marvelously -slipped on and fitted, opened her eyes wide.</p> - -<p>“Now, is not that beautiful!” exclaimed the jeweler. “What a gem! The -finest of any that I have imported yet, and it fits as though it had -been ordered for her.” He cast a persuasive smile upon Walton whose -interest in the fair Beppie he well knew. The latter pretended not the -slightest understanding.</p> - -<p>“It is well cut,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And the loveliest you have ever worn,” added Walton hopefully.</p> - -<p>By her side, in front of the counter and between their bodies, he was -endeavoring to take her free hand.</p> - -<p>“Let it stay,” he said gently, when he had secured it, and was -signalling the significance of the ring to her fingers.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, smiling as if she were only jesting, “you are too -daring. I might!”</p> - -<p>“Do,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Such a ring!” said the jeweler.</p> - -<p>“I will then,” said she.</p> - -<p>“Then, Master Maton,” said Walton, “you need only send the bill to me,” -and he laughed as he pushed the remaining display away.</p> - -<p>As they came out, after having vaguely picked over the others, the -young lover was all elation. Upon the narrow side-path a servant -wheeling a trunk to the Liverpool dock upon a barrow brushed him -rudely, but he did not notice. Only a newsboy crying out the -<i>Gazette</i>, the blast of the bugle of the incoming stage coach -from Boston, the dust of the side-path, where the helper of the Apollo -was sweeping the lobby preparatory to the performance of the night, -attracted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</span> and pleased him. He helped his fiancée gaily into the -carriage and half bounded with joy to the seat beside her, where he -smiled and smiled.</p> - -<p>“I may not wear it, though,” said his betrothed, now that the -remarkable episode was over, and she held up a dainty finger; “because, -as you know, you have not spoken to my father as yet.”</p> - -<p>“Keep it, nevertheless,” he answered. “I will speak to him fast enough.”</p> - -<p>“I give you good-day, Master Walton,” said the distinguished Jefferson -as they passed from William into Wall Street, near where that statesman -made temporary stopping-place when in the city.</p> - -<p>“Master Jefferson, William,” cried his fiancée softly, using for the -first time his given name. “Master Jefferson has bid you good-day.”</p> - -<p>“Good evening!” cried Walton, all deference in a moment because of the -error which his excitement had occasioned, “good evening to you, sir!” -and he bowed, and bowed very gracefully again.</p> - -<p>“How can I be so mindful, though, of all these formalities,” he said -explanatorily as he turned once more to his fair intended, “when I have -you? It is not to be expected.”</p> - -<p>“But necessary, just the same,” she said. “And if you are to begin thus -quickly neglecting your duties, what am I to think?”</p> - -<p>For answer he took her hand. Elatedly then they made their way to the -old homestead again, and there being compelled to leave her while -she dressed for the theater, he made his way toward the broad and -tree-shaded Bowery, where was the only true and idyllic walk for a -lover. The older houses nearest the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</span> city, redolent in their Dutch -architecture of an older and even quainter period; the wide paths and -broad doorways, rich in both vines and flowers; the rapidly decreasing -evidences of population as one’s steps led northward—all combined -to soothe and set dreaming the poetic mind. Here young Walton, as so -many before him, strolled and hummed, thinking of all that life and -the young city held for him. Now, indeed, was his fortune truly made. -Love was his, the lovely Beppie, no less. Here then he decided to build -that mansion of his own—far out, indeed, above Broome Street, but in -this self-same thoroughfare where all was so suggestive of flowers and -romance. He had no inkling, as he pondered, of what a century might -bring forth. The crush and stress and wretchedness fast treading upon -this path of loveliness he could not see.</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber’s Note:</h2> -<p>Minor errors and omissions in punctuation and spelling have been fixed.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_31">Page 31:</a> “never any flare” changed to “<a href="#flair">never any flair</a>”</p> -<p><a href="#Page_42">Page 42:</a> “eying him sympathetically” changed to “<a href="#eying">eyeing him sympathetically</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_50">Page 50:</a> “sometimes thought, cold, lips were now parted in” was <a href="#transpose">transposed</a> with “a faint, gracious smile, or trace of one. He had”. This has been corrected.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_67">Page 67:</a> “Larvæ and chrysalis” changed to “<a href="#chrysalis">Larvæ and chrysalises</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_72">Page 72:</a> “jaws in his neck” changed to “<a href="#jaws">neck in his jaws</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_202">Page 202:</a> “the rout of street cars” changed to “<a href="#rout">the route of street cars</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_205">Page 205:</a> “Dontcha like me?” changed to “<a href="#dont">Don’tcha like me?</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_256">Page 256:</a> “influence her help” changed to “<a href="#tohelp">influence her to help</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_263">Page 263:</a> “that’s you real” changed to “<a href="#your">that’s your real</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_332">Page 332:</a> “Just as he thought” changed to “<a href="#she">Just as she thought</a>”.</p> -<p><a href="#Page_339">Page 339:</a> “Cézanne, Goguin, Matisse,” changed to “<a href="#goguin">Cézanne, Gauguin, Matisse,</a>”.</p> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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