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diff --git a/old/69006-0.txt b/old/69006-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 077d1df..0000000 --- a/old/69006-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6908 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Blindfold, by Orrick Johns - -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: Blindfold - -Author: Orrick Johns - -Release Date: September 17, 2022 [eBook #69006] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLINDFOLD *** - - - - - -BLINDFOLD - - - - - BLINDFOLD - - _By_ - ORRICK JOHNS - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - LIEBER & LEWIS - 1923 - - - - - Copyright, 1923 - - By LIEBER & LEWIS - - - Printed in the U.S.A. - - - - - TO MY - FATHER - - GEORGE S. JOHNS, - - IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT - OF UNFAILING SYMPATHY - - - - -BLINDFOLD - - - - -BLINDFOLD - - - - -I - - -Ellen Sydney’s first garden in the Meadowburn’s new American home had -made a fair beginning. She was at work one afternoon bending over the -bed of sweet peas, hooking the baby tendrils to the wire mesh of the -frame, with an occasional pat of the soft dark earth beneath--the earth -which Bennet, the youngest of the family, had brought by the basketful -from a distance, to enrich the yellow clay that filled in the property. - -School was just out and as she worked Bennet banged into the hall, -threw down his books and rushed forth again with a shout to join his -comrades up the street. They were building a “switch-back railway” -from the second story rear window of a neighbour’s house. She could -just glimpse the murderous rickety scaffolding of it through the small -leaves of the alley poplars. - -Fastening up the last of the tendrils to the wire, Ellen heard Mrs. -Osprey’s shrill voice calling from quite half a block away to one -of the Osprey boys. She could not restrain a smile at the familiar -summons. - -“Poor woman,” thought she, “they do worry her.” But she would no more -have thought of pitying Mrs. Osprey actually, than of feeling sorry for -Her Majesty Queen Alexandra, whom many years in Canada had taught her -to believe next to the angels themselves. - -As she turned from the garden she heard a still more familiar voice and -Potter Osprey came through the gate. - -“Hello, Ellen, mind my coming over?” - -“Oh, no! I’ve got to go in, though. Come in the kitchen, I’m not -very busy.” She had in fact three easy hours before her, with dinner -practically prepared and a little ironing to do before she put the -dishes in the stove. Ironing was quite pleasant if you had some one to -talk to while you did it. - -“Vacation’s only six weeks off now,” Potter said as they walked up to -the house. “Ain’t that great! I hate school anyway.” - -“Ah, Potter, when you are doing so well at it! Milly told me about the -debates. She said you were fine in them.” - -The monthly school debates were a point of pride with him, and he -betrayed a momentary embarrassment. He had quite lost himself in the -vainglory of winning two of them in succession, or of being on the -winning side both times. He had regretted that while they were in -progress, especially while he was on his feet, everybody he knew had -not been in the audience. So many people were not. The thing that he -feared in talking about them to Ellen was that he would reveal his -satisfaction. So Milly had been gossiping about them outside? That -pleased him. Milly was in the class below him, which sat in the same -room. - -He recovered his composure and spoke as though of an ordinary matter. - -“Pshaw, the debates ain’t really school. They’re different.... But -look, Ellen, all the lots around here are almost forests of weeds in -the summer. It’s great! You can hide in them, and everything. They get -over six feet high. And there’s woods only a mile out west there, to -swim and camp in. If you have time we can walk there some day.” - -Ellen’s face brightened at the prospect. - -“But it gets hot here in the summer,” he went on, “awful hot--not like -Winnipeg. You won’t like that.” - -“Oh, I’ve lived in N’Orleans. It’s lots hotter there.” - -“Yes, that’s so. That’s way down south, ain’t it? I always think of -you coming from Winnipeg. Bennet talks about it all the time. He’s a -Britisher all right.” - -Ellen replied warmly. - -“Well, he shouldn’t be, even if they were born in Canada. His father -says he’s going to stand by this country now, because it gives them a -good living and always has. He’s going to make them all citizens.” - -Potter laughed. He was sitting perched up on the kitchen table, his -small feet dangling beneath it and his cap in his hand. - -“I told Bennet we licked England twice and he got hot under the collar. -He’s funny. Did you like it better up north?” - -“Yes, I guess I did. We used to have good times in Winnipeg. The -fellows always in the house, my! It’ll be the same here after a while. -Those two girls get a crowd coming pretty quick. Only we’ll never have -snow like in Winnipeg. I did love the snow, such sledding and skating!” - -“That’s the ticket!” agreed Potter, and added with some disgust, “We -hardly had one good skate last winter--soon as it’d freeze it’d thaw! -But you should have seen the first winter we were here. Almost two -months of ice! This house wasn’t here then--hardly any in this row -were, and gee, the way the wind used to blow! It changes around here -fast. Kirk broke his arm falling through these joistses.” - -Potter swung down from the table and stood in front of the ironing -board, smiling up at the tall woman, his hands in his pockets. - -“Say, Ellen, got something to eat? Just anything, you know--I’ll tell -you why I want it.” - -Ellen put down her iron on the metal guard and went into the pantry. -She returned with three powdered doughnuts on a plate. - -“Here,” she said laughing. “You’re always eating, Potter Osprey. Your -mother told me I was spoiling your appetite for meals.” - -“Thanks,” he said and went on between mouthfuls. “I’ve been smoking. I -thought something to eat would take my breath away.” - -“Well, if that’s what you came here for you can go right back home. You -oughtn’t smoke--so there!” - -Potter, however, did not stir; and for a time there was no sound -except the thumping of Ellen’s iron on the thickly padded board. She -was thumping harder than need be, because she was angry. She was often -angry with him. Yet his prolonged visits with her in the kitchen or -on the back stoop of a fine afternoon meant much to her. The family -already teased her, calling young Osprey “Ellen’s pet.” Then Tom -Meadowburn reminded them that “Ellen always had a pet. Remember -Wolly Judson.” This sally caused an uproar. Wolly Judson had been a -Winnipegian of sixty-eight, a town character, a tottering flirt, who -had brought the current gossip regularly to Ellen’s door. - -Potter heard none of this chaffing, yet in his talks with her he -betrayed a small opinion of the Meadowburns, all except his friend -Bennet, with whom he sang in the choir. Once he told her indignantly -that she worked too hard, she was spoiling the whole family. Why didn’t -the others do more? Ellen laughed heartily. She did not believe any -such thing. It was her lot to work, and keep at it until things were -done. - -Ellen was neither by birth nor legal adoption a member of the -Meadowburn household. She lived there, a fixture; and the principal -advantages did accrue to the family. They obtained a willing, strong -and tireless servant, modest and well-appearing enough to be treated -as a distant relative (and consequently not paid except when chance -generosity dictated). She had been with the Meadowburns since she was -twelve, learning by heart their various needs so that she could have -administered to them in her sleep. She was now twenty-seven, a gaunt -figure, black-eyed and above the middle height. The face would have -been attractive but for the toughened swarthiness it had acquired, and -the cheeks perceptibly sunken by the absence of jaw teeth. - -The Meadowburn children had grown up under her care, the two eldest -girls being little more than babies at the time the orphan asylum -in New Orleans yielded her young and frightened body into the hands -of Mrs. Meadowburn. Ellen had found time for those fretful and -ill-tempered midgets, in addition to keeping the house spotless, -laundering for six and cooking the meals. Mrs. Meadowburn had been left -free to nurse a collection of modern ills, and to dream of her youth -as the dark beauty of a northwestern town. Since those days a morose -gloom had settled upon her handsome, Indian-like face. Ellen had rarely -known her to laugh at all. Even the smile with which she greeted her -husband’s jokes was wan and half-hearted. - -It was to Ellen that Tom Meadowburn looked for the fullest appreciation -of his comic genius and his masculine importance. Few men were more -conscious of both than he, and even in those moments when the comic -mask fell away completely, there was something in the solemn air of -pompous judgment and disciplinary wisdom which to any one but his -adoring brood would have seemed most funny. - -For Tom Meadowburn the world, whether of New Orleans or Winnipeg, or -the new city that had lately taken them in, was a place where he and -the wife and children were “getting on.” The Meadowburn household was, -in his mind, something very much like heaven, himself presiding. For -Ellen, as he often said, it was a refuge under his protecting arm, -wherein she need never come to harm nor suffer want. And to her credit -she believed him and worked all the harder to please him. - -Physically Meadowburn was a tall stout man with a heavy, pink, -unwhiskered face, the pale eyelashes and tow hair being lighter than -his skin, and the small, quick eyes a transparent, hardly perceptible -blue. As a humourist he was not one of your torrential and generous -laughers. He was sly and dry, a wrinkle, the flicker of a smile, a -knowing arch of the eyebrows being his favourite manner of accentuating -his point. He was in the habit of twitting Ellen on the subject of -marriage. - -“Now then, my girl,” he would say, “what are you keeping from us? What -have you got up your sleeve? Didn’t I hear you come in a little late -last night? Walking, eh--of course, not _alone_? We wouldn’t permit you -to walk alone.” - -“Ellen went to the drugstore for some medicine for me, last night, -Tom,” interposed his wife. - -“Well, well, Ellen,” he went on, “you must remember you’re perfectly -free. We wouldn’t keep you from marrying when the right man comes -along.” - -“Yes, and maybe I will marry, sooner than you think! You watch out, Mr. -Meadowburn!” - -The pleasure of this stock joke lay in the fact that none of the -Meadowburns believed there was danger of Ellen marrying, of any one -caring to marry her, at least, whose social position would suit her. -For she did not have kitchen-maid standards, as they knew. And she -believed there was no danger either. She felt very old.... - -It was into this somewhat harsh and lonely existence that Potter had -thrust his genial, boyish appearance, and by some strange affinity of -comradeship, they had taken to each other at once. He too, as she was -soon to learn, was lonely and cherished his dreams; and it comforted -her to have a champion--even so young and small a champion as he. Was -he so young and small? There were times when he frightened her with -flashes of grown-up speech. It did not always seem quite nice, quite -appropriate. For example, one evening when they were talking about -perfectly ordinary matters, he burst out: - -“You’re like Christ, Ellen. If He could be on earth He wouldn’t love -Dr. Minor or any of those people in the church. He’d pick you.” - -Her first thought about this was that it was deliberately bad, as bad -as his smoking and his score of other boy tricks. It was blasphemous -and wildly untrue. She sent him away in disgrace, much discomfited and -hurt. Probably this rudeness of her own was what brought her so swiftly -around to forgiveness, or it may be that she came to look kindly on -his tribute. In any event, she gave Bennet a note for him, a queer, -misspelled, dignified note.... - -When Potter returned she told him that he “must not think of Jesus as a -person but as God, and that was the end of it.” - - - - -II - - -The next Spring, which followed on the heels of his fourteenth -birthday, held a wonder for Potter Osprey such as he had not -experienced before. Until now the green buds and soft winds had meant -a time for the surreptitious stripping off of shoes and stockings -after school (and out of sight of home), the agonizing anticipation of -three long months of holidaying, and the making of limitless plans for -outdoor fun. This year he welcomed the bright weeks not as a rowdy boy, -but with a conscious relish that came from a deeper source within him. - -The Spring itself, as if it also were filled with a sense of unusual -importance, was precocious. When Potter, late every afternoon, ambled -along the several blocks of blatantly new sidewalks that led to the -church, the grass hid the softened brown earth with an abundance of -delicate colour wherever feet had not trod, the robins and squirrels -skipped perilously about the pavements and lawns oblivious of savage -man, and exultant banks of snowballs escaping over the picturesque -shingle- and iron-railed barriers of the old Clemons place, were just -on the point of changing from their pale shade of willow bark into -round fluffs of dazzling white as big as a boy’s head. - -These Lenten afternoons were moments of solitary poetry in his days. -The still church, the long slanting rays which came through the -coloured glass windows to the west; the faint perfumes that rose -into the ogival shadows above the nave, emanating from the hair and -handkerchiefs and bodices of lady worshippers, who made up the majority -(and the subtle pleasure with which he felt the eyes of these fine -women on his broadening back as he walked down to the chancel carrying -the offertory); the pervasive, vibrant drone of the organ, which had -always been like a physical caress to him; and the saintly beaked -profile of the rector, Dr. Minor, with its high, peeled brows, and -black, unruly hair, dominating an almost chinless jaw; and, finally, -between the breathing of the organ pipes, and the shrill singing of the -feminine congregation, Dr. Minor’s broad Virginia accents and consoling -overtones and melancholy quavers--all these sensations produced a -mingling of peace and the awareness of sacrifice, which was like a bath -of goodness. - -The church itself was charming to look at, built in the late ’eighties -of shingles now coloured a warm brown by many rains, and properly -vine-hung. The little building with its limited open meadow and -well-grown trees drew him at times when he had no particular business -there. It was a favourite place to read. Often he would arrive an hour -or more before the service and sit huddled up in one of the corners -of the deep verandah, intent upon his pastime, until the brisk step -of the rector sounded on the boards below; and if Dr. Minor happened -to espy him he would be conducted cheerily into the study, while the -lanky priest put on his vestments and asked him questions about his -work at school and the health of his “dear mother,” who, much to the -clergyman’s disappointment, came almost never to the services. - -These innocent confidences sometimes went so far as a mild spiritual -examination which had more significance than its casualness indicated. -Minor regarded young Osprey as promising material for the ministry. - -“The type for scholarship and consecration,” he told his wife. “A -sensitive boy, thoughtful and retiring--Oh, manly, manly enough! A -little conviction would turn that into spiritual leadership. His family -could do nothing better than give him a seminary training. And a part -of our duty, my dear, is to be fishers of men, to look out for new -recruits to bring under His banner.” - -Minor loved to roll forth militant symbols in his reflections upon the -mission of the Church. His early gods had been the deeply pious heroes -of the South. Stonewall Jackson and General Lee took rank with him very -little below the Apostles. - -There was one other who shared this secret ambition for Potter--Ellen -Sydney--until a recent incident in which he had figured shook her faith. - -This affair produced something of a scandal in the Osprey family. -Searching one day through the shelves of an old closet for one of -his brother Kirk’s discarded school books which it was now his turn -to use, the boy had come across a half dozen large, handsomely bound -portfolios. He had drawn one out and leaved it over, fascinated on the -instant. The sheets were of lovely texture, beautifully printed, and -the covers of a flexible, warm-toned, heavy parchment. He felt a sense -of incomparable luxury in the very touch of the books. - -The contents were no less absorbing. Between the pages of French -text were reproductions of paintings hung in the Paris salons of the -mid-’nineties, the majority of them nudes of that languishing and -silken type beloved by the French school of that day, the studio -renderings of a flock of anonymous Bouguereaus. Forgetting his search -for the school books, Potter took the volumes to an attic room where he -consulted them many times in the following weeks, and a collection of -nude sketches came from his pencil, copied sometimes from the originals -and sometimes attempted from memory. - -The upshot of it was that his mother swooped upon him one day just as -he was finishing a particularly elaborate drawing. It was taken from -him and shown in excited secrecy to John Osprey. - -Osprey was cut of a different cloth from Meadowburn. In a ruminant, -half-serious talk (a ray of amusement flickered in his eye on actually -facing the boy alone) he quoted the Scripture according to St. Paul, -and enjoined him to resist putting away childish things until he was -on the way to become a man. Then he dropped a sly hint that if the -youthful artist really had to draw improper subjects it would be a good -thing to keep them from his mother. There was other good advice to -the effect that it was both harder and more practical to draw people -the way they were usually seen in life, but this passed largely over -Potter’s head. - -He promptly diagnosed the interview as a vindication and he saw no harm -in telling the adventure to Ellen, but to his utter surprise she was -inexpressibly shocked; so much so that she left him on the Meadowburn -steps without even a good-night. - -As he had related the story, coolly, indeed boastfully to her, the -feeling came over her that the next time she raised her eyes to observe -him she would see a coarse, swarthy young man with stubble whiskers -whom she ought to be afraid of. The contrast between this fancy and -his actual appearance was a little laughable--yet the notion of his -interest in a woman’s body, a thing he could not, as she reasoned, -naturally have seen or even been strongly moved to see, was more than -she could grasp. - -For many days she watched him passing the house with other boys, his -eyes casting furtive and unhappy glances at its windows, and hardened -her heart. Then she could bear it no longer, and once more Potter -received a scarcely legible, lady-like note of prim forgiveness. - -To-night he was to see her for the first time since that event.... - -In Creve Cœur suburb a clear division existed between the old and the -new, marked by a certain trolly line. Northward lay the flat, banal -commons in which the Ospreys and the Meadowburns lived, but to the -south were houses mellowed by long custom, set deep in cool lawns, and -facing arched avenues of maples and elms under which one trod decaying -and rickety pine-board walks or crossed the tremulous bridges spanning -a serpentine creek that drained the valley. - -The quaint modesty of Florissant lane, its uselessness and hidden -charm--the thick maples and high shrubbery cutting off even the sight -of neighbouring windows--made it a fairy road, a retreat in which -Potter had already learned to spend fine mornings of October and May -when his mother thought him safely at school. As for Ellen, her first -autumn glimpse of it, nearly a year ago, had taken her back to greener -memories in the north. She could never walk there too often; it was as -near to complete demoralization and unbounded luxury as anything her -starved imagination could picture. - -Ordinarily they sat upon the steep terraced slope at the end of the -lane, whence one could look down its leaf-fretted vista, or peer over -one’s shoulder into the sombre depths of the rarely-visited Florissant -place, but to-night he was more venturesome. He led her through the -path behind the wall of Annunciation’s big enclosure, until they came -to the end of the terrace. Beyond was an open field, once the pasture -of the Florissants, and still a part of the property, empty and unused. -In its centre through the dusk loomed a dark little hillock clustered -with poplars and fir-trees. - -It was not hard to believe oneself continents away from the noise -of any familiar street or the lights of Creve Cœur houses. Directly -fronting them lay the dim mass of Annunciation, its half dozen French -turrets and many spires floating out of the treetops into crystalline -starlight. Potter had often sat in that very spot and pondered on -the mystery of this religious stillness, on the utter distance which -separated its life from any he had known, its community of young -and vital beauty sternly and perhaps rebelliously subordinated to -withered holiness. By a paradox of the law of boyhood, the girls -in the convent--boarders from comfortable families everywhere in -the states--were the subject of vulgar joking among the youngsters -thereabouts. - -To Ellen the convent was not benign; it was a little terrifying and -monstrous. All her life she had been awestruck by anything that -suggested the gigantic and august power of Rome, and her head was full -of legends concerning that religion and its devotees. Superstition had -required of her that she regard them--not as individuals but in the -mass--as a sinister species apart from ordinary people. - -Potter remarked that when there was bright moonlight the steep slate -pitches of the convent roof looked as though they were sheeted in snow. - -“There’s lots more of those places in Canada than here,” said she. -“They’re not all that they should be, either. Think of sending young -girls there!” - -“Why not?” he asked. - -She now regretted her outburst and was annoyed at his question. She -answered primly: - -“Why, I wouldn’t tell you, of course.” - -He laughed, unconcerned and superior. - -“Pshaw, I know what you mean. I’ve heard those stories too--about nuns -being in love with priests. But I don’t believe them.” - -“Oh, you don’t?” inquired Ellen sarcastically. It was not that she did -not think it admirable of him to dislike believing evil of people, but -one need not go so far as to defend Catholics.... - -“No,” he said. “You know why?” - -“Well, why, smarty?” - -“Because even people outside of such places, convents and the like, -even people who are grown up and free to do as they please--well, they -never do anything they want to do. I mean things that just pop into -their heads to do.” - -“Ah, don’t they?” asked Ellen, by this time amused, “And how are you so -sure they don’t?” - -“I just know. They’re too dog-goned cowardly.” - -“Well!” she exclaimed, “that’s a fine thing to be calling people who -behave themselves!” - -“Then they don’t think of anything bad that they want to do,” he -persisted. “You wouldn’t call that being good, would you, Ellen? Pshaw, -what’s the credit in that?” - -“It’s well for them they don’t think of such things,” she declared. “To -hear you, a person would believe you wanted to be tempted.” - -“No, I hate it, honestly,” he replied, and she felt that he was trying -to speak truly of himself. “I used to say that part of the Lord’s -prayer, about ‘lead us not into temptation,’ over twice. I did, for a -long time. Because, you see, I’m really tempted--always, every minute.” - -He paused after this announcement, which, in spite of his sincerity, -had a note of pride, and Ellen broke in, thinking that the moment had -come to speak of what was most in her mind. - -“Potter, you haven’t been making any more of those pictures, have you?” - -She felt him shift quickly to the defensive. - -“Yes, I have,” he said. “I’ve finished two more.” - -“Well, I’m ashamed of you.” - -“Why do you mind them so much, Ellen?” - -“You don’t have to ask me why.” - -“But I do, because my father didn’t think they were bad. He only -lectured me for show!” He chuckled at the recollection. - -“Ah, Potter, your father is a grown man! Men do lots of things that you -shouldn’t think about. You’re just a child. Those pictures! What’s the -good of them anyway? Nice people wouldn’t have them around.” - -“Some people would!” he declared stoutly. “They’re beautiful, or my -father wouldn’t have kept them ... and the one I’ve just finished is -the best, oh, lots the best I’ve done!” - -She sensed a strain of profound unhappiness in his voice, and all her -instincts flew to soothe the hurt. - -“I don’t mean to be hard on you, Potter,” she said. “You worry me, -that’s all. I can’t see why you bother about these things that other -people never think of.” - -“Aw,” he said, “never mind, Ellen. I guess I don’t know what I want. -It’s no fun being a boy when you’d like to be a man.” - -They both fell silent, listening to the trees chattering overhead -like live things. The breeze that stirred them was growing chill, and -Potter, responding to the kindlier tone of his companion, moved closer -to her. His last words and this unconscious movement of affection -touched her. She put a rough, friendly hand on his arm, and they sat -there in silence for a time. It was he who broke it.... - -Suddenly a strange plea came pouring from his lips in a torrent of -eager words, a plea that she all at once realized she had many times -before dreaded--and laughed at herself for dreading.... She sat, -scarcely breathing, with averted face. He ended abruptly, frightened -at the sound of his own voice. She said nothing. Surely she understood -him. What was she thinking? - -She turned toward him at last, and he found himself looking into her -black eyes that glowed like coals despite the mantle of dusk. Her -parted lips closed in a tight line. - -“Well,” she said, with slow emphasis, “if that’s what you mean, I’ll -tell you this. I will never do such a thing.” - -She was on her feet in an instant, her tall body like a statue of -rebuke crushing him in its shadow. - -“Come,” she said coldly. - -“Yes,” he replied. “I’m sorry, I’m awfully sorry, Ellen.” - -At that moment, as they started homeward from Florissant’s field with -the darkness between them, her swishing, angry stride filling him with -a new knowledge of mystery and awe, there was no doubt that they both -meant what they said. But in Ellen a certain helplessness and fear were -born. Struggle as she might from now on his very presence would be a -menace, and his presence was more than ever a necessity. For the cry -that he was uttering was one that her own heart understood. - - * * * * * - -So it happened that a few months later when the Osprey family were at -a country hotel for the summer, he and Ellen met in the empty house -and walked hand in hand through the rooms--her sworn promise whirling -in his brain. She was stiff and awkward, but he was in high spirits, -perhaps a little hysterical, fondly imagining he was entering upon a -new paradise of experience.... - - - - -III - - -Emmet Roget, twenty, and Potter Osprey, nineteen, both juniors at the -University, were sitting naked one afternoon on the long parapet which -formed one of the banks of Milton’s abandoned quarry. Behind them the -stone wall fell away a sheer twenty feet to the gulch below. In front, -licking the tops of the three-foot barrier, lay the broad sheet of -deep, clear water. Their white bodies dripped opaline flakes in the -sunset. From time to time they shivered in the chilly late September -wind. - -A pale, luminous dory of a moon floated low in the delicately blue -and pink expanse of sky that lay over the town. The surrounding flat -country was infinitely still, infinitely peaceful. - -Potter suddenly droned forth in the melancholy baritone the two -affected when reading Swinburne and other modern poets: - - “The wandering moon, an optimistic sprite - Etched a pale border ’round the face of night....” - -Emmet was silent for a moment, and then as though the sound of the -quotation had travelled to him from a distance, burst out: - -“Gosh, man, where did you get that?” - -The other reached over boisterously and clapped his friend’s shoulder. - -“A trial of my own! All you need to be a poet is to suffer from -insomnia, the way I did the other night.” - -“Well, you can write.” - -“Eh? But I’d so much rather paint.” - -“Better look out. You may have more talent for writing than for -painting.” Potter sensed a criticism in the remark, which he privately -resented. - -“No, the thing I’ll never be able to do is the thing I’m going to do.” - -Emmet did not reply at once, and his sleepy blue eyes, long and narrow -between the lids, rested upon an indefinable point of distance. The -wind ruffled his dark curly hair that grew low on the brow and temples. -He was the handsomer of the two. - -“Damn specialists and specialism,” he said. “I keep thinking about -a synthesis of the arts. Take the theatre, for example. Why not do -something like Wagner did--in a lighter, more lyric vein? Bring all the -arts together and create a new art? I hate this little business of one -man with a pen, one man with a brush and another with a piano, none of -them understanding each other.” - -“A synthesis of the arts is contradictory,” said Osprey. “Only Nature -can accomplish it, at any rate, and Nature and art are sworn enemies. -Nature takes a tree and gives it form and colour; its leaves rustle and -its branches are wood-winds. Then in certain lights the tree will have -the elusive, the startling quality of poetry. There you have sculpture, -painting, music and literature--but it isn’t art, and, thank God, art -never will be such a pudding.” - -“Nevertheless,” replied Roget, without controversy and as if to -himself, “Nevertheless something can be done that way. What about the -church in Renaissance Italy and elsewhere? That was a synthesis--a man -didn’t paint just to be painting something of his own. He painted for -God’s sake.” - -It was really cold by now, and a moment later they were hastily -dressing. Roget murmured: - -“‘The wandering moon, an optimistic sprite, etched a pale border -’round the face of night.’ _Ce n’est pas mal._ It’s pictorial and yet -it’s literary too. Perhaps you will use words to fix your notions -for painting. What’s that, in a sense, but synthesis, old-timer?” he -finished jubilantly. - -They went home in the dusk. These were the perfect hours college gave -them.... - -The rural University town of the central states, in the period when -electric lighting and telephones were young, when the automobile was -as yet a rarity, and the popular senior took his best girl out riding -Sundays behind a smart livery tandem, may have been hideous to modern -eyes with its muddy streets, its wooden dwellings and its old-time -murky brick and brownstone halls, but it had a mellow and quiet charm -that comported well with the spirit of scholarship. - -This charm we may assume has been swept away forever. Gasoline and -commercial growth, endowments, tudorized architecture, prohibition, -short-skirted and long-headed women, energetic chancellors, a wealthier -class of students, up-to-date burgher emporiums, moving picture -palazzos, Grecian banks, and other vanities of the wicked age have -hidden that erstwhile scene, with its air of leisure and moderation, -beneath a slick financial veneer that nothing but the fall of federal -empire and the end of progress will ever wipe off. - -When Potter Osprey arrived at the Athens of his native state it was -still a function of one’s education to sit with the more or less elect -twice a week in one of the three saloons and beer up, to the point -where one navigated with difficulty the crossings of perilously high -stepping stones and sometimes fell off into honest Athenian mud, which -accumulated in viscid pools a foot deep. - -If one was only a freshman one might have to be contented with the -private room of the “Bucket of Blood”--in a small rear section of -which negroes were allowed to drink. Later on, you aimed for the -private room at Steve Ball’s. The Y.M.C.A. and the Cadet Corps, the -latter also a moral training camp under the guise of military orders, -throve, but only among the groundlings. Two obscure fraternities out -of twelve admitted members who would stoop to either, unless they -were recommended by extraordinary prowess in other and more popular -directions. - -In those days the dirt-stained farmers in jack-boots came to town -Saturday morning with heavy carts of solid produce and departed at -nightfall with almost equally heavy burdens of liquid joy. Afternoon -strollers got their legs inextricably mixed with frantic, squealing -hogs, and the smell of fresh manure rose to the fifth story of the -Attic House, the tallest building on the local Broadway. Nowadays the -farmers come snorting in in Cadillacs as often as they please and -go home sober to tot up the double entry ledger with “mommer.” It -is a changed world and undoubtedly a more leisurely one for college -disciplinary committees. - -Potter’s progress for a year had consisted in desperate efforts to -escape his classes toward the end of the week, and to regain some -hold on them at the beginning. As often happens, in spite of such -practices, or perhaps because of the extra spurts of effort which they -made necessary, he regularly stood well in his studies. His second -year, however, from the standpoint of conduct, was an improvement over -the first. Roget put in an appearance, and Osprey wearied somewhat of -smutty anecdotes, at the telling of which he was never skilful, and -found a genuine interest growing in him for his language classes, and -even for mathematics. - -In the entire town, beside the poet, there had been two people in whom -he took an interest. One was a thin, rather angular but not uncomely -instructress in the art classes, who had come from New York and the Art -Students’ League. Potter never probed her jolly, untroubled character -very deeply, but she had a firm pencil stroke that he admired, and -after a few talks with her he discovered that she breathed a freer air -than the folk at Athens. To his fraternity brothers she was a frump, -socially impossible. The feminine ideal of the day was the type of Miss -Carroll of Carrollton, or Miss Brown from Brownhaven, rich father, -proud virtue, sentimental possibilities and skill in the small town -graces. - -His second admiration was a grey-haired, lean descendant of one of the -oldest families in town, a certain Oliver Pruyd, whose hawk-beaked -face habitually wore an ironic grin. He was supposed to correspond -with the metropolitan newspapers, and his unofficial scholarship had -achieved a certain subrosa reputation. But his gains in his vocation -were obviously slender and it was not his scholarship that brought him -distinction. Pruyd was the only known addict to the use of morphine of -whom the community could boast. - -Osprey’s acquaintance with him had been casual. There was something -sinister in Pruyd’s mocking expression and wrinkled, flavescent -skin. Once, however, the younger man had achieved the brilliance of -seeking him out in his small den over the pool and billiard hall, an -indescribably neat and carefully arranged place, walled with books and -piles of periodicals. Pruyd proved stimulating through three drinks, -introducing many hints of literary sources and art lore hitherto -strange to his companion. In the days of his family’s wealth he had -ruined his usefulness by overlong haunting of the byways of Europe. - -Beginning with the fourth bourbon, however, the conversation descended -to common levels, and the affair ended with their staggering down -Broadway like any two other louts expelled from Steve Ball’s at the -closing hour. - -The only other consolation was the college library. In its actual -precincts he was often uncomfortable because he was critically -inspected by elderly persons at the desk for his curious taste in -books. This alternately intimidated and enraged him--and almost -barred him from the use of the library. But from it he obtained -Pater’s “Marius” and “Renaissance,” prints of Hogarth and Daumier -and Michelangelo, “Tom Jones” and Balzac, Rousseau and Voltaire, -stray bits of Wilde and Beardsley, and sprinklings of the French -symbolists--shuddersome bombs in those days. - -The art class, one of the main objectives of his course (and the sop -which his father had thrown him in urging him to take a well-rounded -education before he settled down to his choice) was a puerile and -primary bore after the first day, a repetition of the drawing of casts -in charcoal, to which he had devoted two years at high school--with a -prim sketch hour thrown in twice a week in the evening, the members of -the class serving as models for fifteen minute studies. - -A few weeks after the conversation with Emmet Roget at Milton’s Pond, -Potter was sitting with a full assemblage of his fraternity brothers -at a breakfast of oatmeal swimming in blue milk, biscuits and rancid -butter--which was all the country town could furnish for some curious -reason--and pork chops well immersed in grease. The house manager that -season was an economist, loudly cursed at every meal, but immensely -appreciated at the end of the month when the pro-rated statements came -around. - -They were not a well-to-do nor a polished crowd. Raw-boned, plebeian, -familiar--tobacco-chewers from the agricultural towns getting their -first taste of a dress suit--they nevertheless had their pride -and social standards. Potter, for example, though he liked them -well enough--indeed had been dazzled by several of their more -suave and persuasive members during the first few weeks after his -matriculation--was now, on account of those standards, nursing a -private feud against the whole organization. The cause of this feud was -their refusal to invite Emmet Roget to join, a man, thought he, better -bred than any of them. They had taken in two gawky, mannerless Freshmen -that year, sons of zinc barons from the mining counties, but they would -not have Roget. - -Potter understood the reason well enough, but his resentment was -all the more keen on that account. Roget was rejected for personal -characteristics which he himself would like to have exhibited oftener. -He, also, did not quite belong in the group, and his influence, which -for some reason was not inconsiderable, would have waned quickly had -he been more frank about his own tastes. Roget did not lack that -frankness. He was poor, but poverty was no bar in that fraternity. The -trouble was that he was not ashamed of having won the Whittier prize -for verse in his freshman year. He had needed the money. He pronounced -his name in the French manner and sat in a corner quietly cynical at -dances. He was pretty generally admired by girls, but that could be -a fault in a person you instinctively disliked; and he turned up one -evening at a smoker wearing a wrist watch. In the first administration -of Roosevelt, a man was either a “good scout” or a “crumb,” and the -best looking and brainiest chap on earth, if he did these things, was a -crumb. - -The crowd was beginning to leave the breakfast table, some of them -rushing off to eight o’clock classes and others moiling onto the porch -for the first Bull Durham “drag” of the day, and bawling a good-natured -“hello, men” to students hurrying past from other houses. - -Potter had an eight o’clock class and was late. As he started off, -however, he took up a letter addressed to him, from the table in the -hall, and stopped in his tracks. He stared again at the superscription -and the eight o’clock class dropped completely from his mind. The -letter was in a hand that he knew well, and the sight of it instantly -smote him with fear. He looked about to see if any one was watching and -turned to flee to the bathroom upstairs, the only place in the house -where privacy was possible. On second thought he walked quietly by the -group on the porch and went up the street. A ten minute lope brought -him to the deserted little nine-hole golf course outside of town. He -could not help thinking how benign, how untroubled the fields were in -the brisk, delicious morning. They calmed his pounding blood and sent a -wave of optimism through him. - -“What a fool I was to miss my class,” he muttered aloud. “It may not -be anything at all.” He sat down on a sandbox and hurriedly opened the -letter. - - “Dear Potter,” it ran, “It’s happened as I was afraid. I’m nearly - three months gone. Dr. Schottman won’t help me. He says he never does - that. I haven’t got much money, and don’t know what I’m to do. - - “Yours truly, - “ELLEN.” - - - - - -IV - - -The blow, which he had many times dreaded, but which for two long years -he had thought of as blissfully escaped, had fallen. Until the summer -just passed, that length of time had elapsed--the first two years of -his University life--during which the affair with Ellen had reverted -to its original innocence. Before that they had drifted on, taking -what opportunities they could find. Potter, sometimes conscious that -the thing was an ordinary slavery, had struggled against it from time -to time, but half-heartedly. Habit and gratification were too strong. -Then, in a blinding flash of awakened responsibility, he realized that -physical consequences followed such relations, and under the guise of -moral repentance, he went to her and told her he wished to end it. - -Ellen acquiesced simply enough in this, as she acquiesced, perforce, in -everything that concerned her. She dumbly worshipped him, but she knew -how much that mattered. - -Then had come the summer of this year. It was accident that threw them -together one night, one very magical night, as Potter recalled. Both -were lonely; the Meadowburn family were all away on an August journey. -Their old intimacy, which in reality had been sordid and furtive, took -on a certain beauty--the sentiment of past things. Under that momentary -glamour forgetfulness took possession of them. - -“She said,” recalled Potter, “that was the first time she had been -thoroughly happy and secure.” - -He ruminated on, connecting this sudden, vivid pleasure of hers, -this mood of safety and surrender, with the deadening outcome they -now faced. His own fear had never left him since that night--that -one night, for it had had no sequel. Now he interpreted the event -fatalistically. Nature had waited for that happy mood of Ellen’s before -making her a mother. Nature was a subtle monster, a thing of scheming -purposes. She let you go on and on with impunity and then tripped you -when you weren’t thinking, when you felt particularly strong because -you had put up a long fight against her. She could even, in this awful -moment, make him thrill with the knowledge of having created life.... - -Potter had never had a confidant in the affair with Ellen. So far as he -knew the secret was her own and his, and had been from the beginning. -And it was something of a miracle, considering their narrow escapes -from detection. - -But now that he needed support there was no one to turn to. Roget was -the last person in the world to whom he could take such a tale. He had -an idea that Roget would laugh him to scorn or question his taste in -becoming the victim of such an intimacy. Roget had been raised among -women and had acquired a knowledge of them that made his relations -toward them seem little short of uncanny to Potter. He gave the -impression of being successful with many and quite uninvolved with all. -To Potter women were the paralyzing mystery. It was one of the subjects -on which he and Roget did not meet. - -Had there been an older man in town with whom he had developed any -sympathy, a faculty member or a person in authority of any kind, he -would have gone to him. There were many questions; there was money to -be got; there was common-sense guidance needed as to doctors and other -such matters, instinctively repugnant and dreadful to him. - -Marriage! Sometimes in the dead of night, lying awake with his fears, -anticipating just this predicament, he had experienced exaltations, -mystic desires for sacrifice and immolation and simple, laborious -living; it was a surviving remnant of his intense religious life as -a very young boy. In such moments his mind had admitted the idea of -marriage. In broad day, the thought became abhorrent. And in all the -broad days that had preceded this one, his fears also had melted with -the sun; but now they would not melt.... He knew perfectly well that he -would urge marriage upon Ellen, sincerely in a fashion. He knew also -that she would flatly refuse, and that he would accept her refusal with -relief. - -Yet what was she to do? He counted on no sympathy from the prudish -Meadowburns. They would loudly invoke the names of their young -daughters and fly from the scene. The family physician, Schottman, -a tolerant German-born physician of real ability, had taken an odd -sort of liking to Ellen and never visited the house without having a -talk with her wherever he happened to find her at work. He had been -their hope in earlier discussions. With him, there would be no danger, -while with others--Potter writhed before the spectres of horrible -little operating rooms, of death in agony, of murder and police and -squint-eyed judges with nose-glasses. But Ellen’s letter had settled -Schottman. - -It was past noon before he realized it, and the golf links were -becoming populated by a few straggling faculty men with clubs. He -aimed for an outlying street which led into town and the act of motion -toward a definite objective revived his spirits, which had been sinking -hopelessly into the quicksand of despair. He went to the bank and drew -out all of his small balance but a dollar. The previous day his check -had come and he had paid his scot for October at the fraternity house. -It was rare that his remittances from home exceeded forty dollars a -month. He converted the larger part of the sum he withdrew into a -money order at the Post Office and mailed it to Ellen, with a short -note in which he told her he would see her somehow before long, and if -possible to do nothing until then. - -“Money,” he thought, as he stepped out of the Post Office, “if one -just had enough money one could fix up anything!”--an idea that had -come to him before in many a tight place and morning after. He fell to -day-dreaming about what he would do for Ellen if he had money, money in -his hand, money in plenty. - -The mailing of the letter had brought a sudden release to his feelings. -It would cheer her up to hear from him. - -In this state he responded more willingly to passing acquaintances, -did not avoid the livery stable man and the candy man, and the dozen -other town bodies who were always about. Catastrophes, he reflected, -had their good points. They furnished a reason for cutting classes and -loafing on a beautiful Fall day. He was tempted for a moment to call on -Roget, who lived, as no one but he would have lived, on the native side -of Broadway, a short distance off. But he decided against it. He would -be pressed to talk about his trouble and that he had resolved not to do -except in the worst extremity, and certainly not to Roget. - -The decision to avoid Emmet left him no alternative, and he drifted -into Steve Ball’s bar. Those dark, quiet, wet-smelling precincts were -deserted at that hour, so far as his familiars were concerned. He was -glad they were. It would not have been easy to conceal the turmoil -within him, if forced into an extended conversation. He would take a -drink or two, slowly, he concluded, go home and try to forget the whole -thing, and to-morrow with a hard head, he would work out a plan of -action. - -Frank, the experienced bar man, wiped up the much scarred and -initialled table of the private room, and hovered in the doorway with a -friendly smile. - -“This is the sort of companionship a fellow needs in my fix,” thought -Potter. “Nothing like it. A good barkeep.” - -Frank, however, soon proved too busy to talk, and Potter was left to -his own thoughts. The effect which liquor usually had on him was to -produce three distinct stages. It plunged him first into a dreamy and -altogether pleasant condition, in which his lot appeared the rosiest -in the world, and he radiated good will on all sides. This led to -melancholy and a gradual feeling of boredom with everything, aggravated -by a tendency to analyze his wrongs and conduct long, unspoken -conversations about them with the persons presumed to be responsible -for wronging him. Then followed a feverish desire for physical motion, -and the making of quick decisions, obeyed on the instant, however -ill-advised. - -The first state of high spirits brought him agreeably to six o’clock -when he left Steve Ball’s for fear of encountering early drinkers -from the Campus. He was hungry and bolted sandwiches and coffee in a -nameless lunch-wagon around the corner. He found himself after that -in the “Bucket of Blood.” Night had fallen; the place was unspeakably -sordid with its dim lamps and shuffling bums, and his problem once more -assumed proportions that harried him. He began to assail Ellen for ever -having permitted the intimacy to start. Then he quickly reacted from -that attack. A profound, overwhelming wave of self-abasement engulfed -him. If there was suffering to be done poor Ellen would endure all of -it. She had been his victim and had given him what she had to give, in -all things. Had their ages been precisely reversed, he could not have -been more responsible. - -As he ordered another bottle of beer, he became acutely conscious that -his money was disappearing. There was no more to be had, certainly for -several days. Mails had to take their time, even if there was anything -to hope for from them. This sense of impecuniousness made his mind veer -to another complicated grievance. In one of the banks at home, held for -his use at majority, lay what now seemed an incredible sum of money, -from his grandmother’s estate. He had twice entreated his father to -allow him to draw modestly on it. His father had not refused in either -case, but had probed good-naturedly into his reasons for desiring it. -But why, thought the boy, should his father have to know his private -business? How could his father understand his peculiar needs? These -questions had rankled time and again. - -And now, he reflected bitterly, now that the trust fund might be the -means of lightening a burden that would follow him all his life, it -would be the same old story with his father. He would have to make a -full confession of the case. But he could not do this. How could he -tell his father such a yarn? Weren’t his whole family concerned as much -as he? Was there not a question of blood relationship involving them? -Common delicacy and loyal feeling toward them demanded that he conceal -the truth, unless he took the burden upon himself and parted with them -completely. He had thought all this out before and settled it. There -was nothing he could say to his father. - -These reflections, repeated over and over again, embroidered upon, -attacked at every angle, adorned with many duplications of the same -phrases, led nowhere. The bill at the “Bucket of Blood” had to be paid, -and nothing was left to do but to get up and go. Well, well, he felt -like moving anyhow. If only there were anything he could do now, right -now, it would be a relief. He started walking rapidly uptown toward the -fraternity house. Then at the corner where Broadway turned into his -own street he stopped abruptly. - -“What a fool!” he muttered aloud. “What a triple-plated iron-head! Why -did I send that money to Ellen? Why didn’t I go myself?” He stopped and -began to curse his idiocy with all the eloquence and thoroughness of -which he was capable. - -Then he reflected, again aloud: “But is it too late? The jerk-water -goes over to Jamestown in half an hour. I could make it to Jamestown. -But I haven’t enough money to go all the way. Well, I’ve got enough to -go to Jamestown.” - -The thought of bluffing his way on the through train with a promise to -pay at the other end rushed into his mind. His name, his identification -by letters in his pocket, his father’s acquaintance with railroad -officials, these might carry him through. He turned and started toward -the station. - -“If I can get home I can raise that money. I can raise it on a note. I -can get some Jew like Stern to shave the note. Or maybe I can get it -from Colonel Cobb. I’ll bet Colonel Cobb would let me have it.” - -This line of reasoning had to be exhausted with the usual number of -variations and redundancies as he sat in the little branch train of -two cars, with its dusty, worn plush seats, its threadbare blue -trainmen ambling back and forth, and its scattering of anonymous, -unimportant-looking passengers. Fortunately nobody was leaving town -that he knew. That was to be expected six weeks after the opening of -term. For the first time, the thought struck him that he himself was -bolting, perhaps for several days, without the formality of an excuse -from the Dean, without even notifying the men at the house. Ordinarily -this would have been a serious infraction of the rules, punishable by -suspension. - -“I can’t help it,” he thought, “I’ve _got_ to go. If they knew why I -guess they’d think so.” - -This, however, upon reflection, sounded illogical and inadequate. -The danger of trouble with the authorities would not down so easily. -There’d be mystery in his disappearance, a search would be made for him -in the morning, and a wire probably sent to his folks. A moment later -he had the solution. How easy! He could fix that up by telephoning the -fraternity from Jamestown. It would cost him a quarter and he’d still -have more than a dollar left. He would get old Ed Taylor to see the -Dean to-morrow. Some lie would do. Ed could turn the Dean around his -finger. Maybe he could keep the whole thing from his father. He could, -if he slipped back to town on the next night’s train. If his father got -hold of it, he’d be puzzled, want to know things, and this was no time -to be submitted to questioning of any kind. - -“At the same time,” he pursued, “I’d better not try the through train. -Fellows have been pinched for it. They might take me off the train at -Fayette, and then, oh, my God....” - -A picture rose before him of a night in the county jail, of wiring home -for money to pay his fine, of his father coming to Fayette, of scandal -untold and unending, and no help to Ellen whatever. Rather the reverse, -because he would be in disgrace and his hands, therefore, completely -tied for some time to come. - -“No, I can’t try the through train. Too big a chance. I wonder how -about the freight. Hell, plenty of other fellows have done that, with -no worse results than a swipe on the ear or a bawling out. Besides I’ve -got a little money. Brakies are all right.” - -The wind at that moment coming through the leaky train was devilishly -sharp, and he had no overcoat, nothing but his fall-weight suit. It -would be still colder later, especially on an unprotected freight car -roof, which was the only place he could think of to ride. - -“Can’t help it,” he concluded. “It’s got to be the freight. I can get -a half pint of rot gut at Jamestown. Keep me warm enough. It’s just a -nice little ride in the open air.” - -An hour later, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his -bottle in his breast pocket, Potter stepped from the smoke-draped, -kerosene-smelling barroom of the little junction town. By buying -a round of beer for two loafers he had obtained the advice and -information he wanted. The freight train now resting on tracks just -back of those on which the through train was soon expected would pull -out for his destination about ten-thirty. He crept down perhaps a half -a dozen cars from the station and found himself practically in open -country. An overgrown fence lay twenty feet to the side of one of the -big, dirty-looking red cars. He sat down in the shadow of the fence to -wait, listening to the frogs in the dim, unwelcoming marshes behind him. - -Once as he sat there a man ran along the top of the train from the -caboose far off at the end of the line of cars and came back. Once just -a little before the scheduled hour, he heard cinders being crunched -under foot in the direction of the engine. The flashing rays of a -lantern, swung from an invisible shoulder, played under the cars and -the figure carrying it passed by hurriedly on the other side. At every -coupling the lantern was swung up between the cars. Osprey knew now why -the roustabouts had told him to lie low and keep away from the train -while it was still. - -“Wait ’til she gives her first jerk, then grab her and climb like yer -momma was after you.” - -Whistles shrieked and soon a long, noisy shiver travelled down the -length of the cars. Potter jumped for the iron treads closest to him. -The train was moving off and he with it. Once on top of the car, he -laid full length, making himself as small as possible on the side of -the roof farthest from the station, until it should be passed. Beyond -the little town he breathed freely, took a comfortable seat on the flat -boardway in the centre with his legs dangling over the car’s end, and -gripped the rusty steel shaft of the brake. - - - - -V - - -At first he did not mind the bumping, nor the penetrating wind, nor -the coldness of the metal on his palms. The occasional showers of -cinders were annoying, and this grew worse as the train increased its -speed. Nevertheless, he was exhilarated; the motionless friendly stars -overhead, the sense of succeeding in a wild and unreasonable adventure -gave him courage and high spirits. He only had to stand it for a few -hours and a few hours of discomfort never had killed anybody. - -Misgivings crept over him gradually. His seat was being severely -lambasted by the bumping. It seemed incredible, in a way, how it -kept up and the violence of it. The steel bar to which he held grew -increasingly cold, yet he realized that come what may he would have -to cling to it or stand a chance of falling. The wind became more -biting and between it and the bar his fingers were stiffening fast. The -cinders, stinging his face with only brief cessations, might soon be -unendurable. - -However, he argued, he could bear all these for some time, and when -he couldn’t bear them any longer, he could do something else, shift -his position. He deliberately decided to stand his present one as long -as he could, then change and stand the next one as long as he could. -In that way each new position would be so much the greater relief. He -would see the night through. A long pull at the flask revived him. - -“I’ll get my second wind pretty soon,” he thought, “and it won’t be so -bad. That flask was an inspiration.” - -The night wore on and Potter resorted to first one expedient and -then another. He put his right side to the wind and then his left, -thus partly protecting his face from the cinders. He wrapped -handkerchiefs--fortunately he had two--around his hands. It was no -good trying to get a decent hold of his board seat. He didn’t feel -secure that way. These makeshifts did not help his sore buttocks, which -were being hammered to insensibility, nor keep off the cold which was -creeping over his whole body, but they lessened the number of his pains. - -Finally he could endure sitting no longer. He laid down first on one -side, then on the other, on his belly, and even for a while on his -back. He threw his arms around the brake shaft and doubled his body -into a bouncing, shaken ball, in order to keep the cold out of his -vitals. At the moment when he thought he was beginning to see the end -of his endurance the train ambled benevolently to a stop. He breathed a -sigh of thanks and drank. - -They were on a siding. As the train continued still, for five minutes, -for ten minutes, a fresh fear assailed him. He had forgotten about the -train crew. The fellow at Jamestown had told him to get off and hide -whenever the train stopped. - -“You got to do that if yer ridin’ in sight,” he said. Indeed, had the -man been a professional tramp instead of a village lounger, he would -have scouted the whole idea of riding on top. - -But by this time Potter was so stiff and sore in every muscle that he -feared being unable to climb back while the train was in motion. The -relief from the rushing wind and bumping and cinders was too much. It -was too sweet to sit there and recover some use of his limbs, to feel -the warm blood in him once more for a brief spell. If he could only -smoke or get up and walk about--but that would be dangerously courting -attention. He had gone this far, and he would finish it; there was no -sense in taking more chances than were necessary. - -It was unearthly still. Not a living thing seemed to stir for miles -about, over the uninterrupted fields of stubble just visible in the -starlight. Even the frogs were silent. Against the sky far off he saw -the silhouette of a group of buildings and trees, but they seemed -like apparitions in a dream. On the train he was in a separate world, -cut off from the other, a lonely world consisting of himself and his -thoughts. The long, tapering string of dark cars ahead struck him like -a procession of elephants asleep. They were impersonal and cruel, but -alive; and presently would begin to sway and lumber frightfully through -the murk. With their stopping his life, it seemed, had stopped. - -Time went on. They had been there on the siding for fifteen, perhaps -twenty minutes. Suddenly he was conscious of a low, blurred humming -which rose from the main tracks alongside, and a succession of whistle -blasts at a great distance broke the monotony. The buzz of the rails -grew louder and the whistles shrieked again. His tussle with discomfort -was about to begin once more, but he felt infinitely rested and -refreshed. He sat up straight and peered down the tracks for the sight -of a headlight. - -“Hullo!” - -The head and shoulders of a man appeared over the top of the car, -followed by a short, wiry body. - -“What the hell’s this? How’d you get here?” - -“I’ve got to get to Mississippi City, to-night. I’m from the University -up at Athens.” - -“Don’t care where yer from. This here ain’t no place fer you.” - -“Say, old man, you’re not goin’ to put me off now, are you?” - -“H’m.” The man leaned over and inspected him familiarly. - -“Yeh, you don’t look much like a bum. University up at Athens, eh? -I’ve heard some about you God damn loafers, raisin’ hell on trains. Why -the Christ can’t you ride in the cars where you belong?” - -“Didn’t have the price.” - -“No. An’ you think this railroad’s a charity institootion?” - -“Say,” pleaded Potter, “honest, this is a life and death matter. It’d -be a dirty trick to put a fellow off. Le’ me go the rest of the way, go -on.” - -The brakeman was obviously relenting. He gazed at Potter’s huddled, -unhappy looking figure while the passenger train, like a streak of -exploding lights on a whirling black band, shot deafeningly by. - -“How far are we, anyway?” asked Potter. “Must be more than half way.” - -The brakeman chuckled. - -“We ain’t even a third of the way yet. Guess you’ve been plenty cold up -here.” - -The first sentence fell heavily upon Potter’s spirits. - -“Gee, seems longer’n that,” he said, as casually as he could manage. - -“Got on at Jamestown, did you?” - -“Yes.” - -“You got any money?” - -“A little,” said Potter eagerly. “I’ll give you all I’ve got.” - -He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew it forth with a collection -of small change. - -“There,” he said, counting it over. “It’s seventy-five cents.” - -The brakeman took it. - -“That all you got, honest to God?” - -“Every cent. I can get more at Mississippi City, though. You going to -be there a few hours?” - -“Huh,” replied the other, “guess you’ll need breakfast by the time you -get in. Ain’t much used to this kind o’ business, eh? Well, here’s -coffee money.” He handed back a dime. - -“Have a drink, old man?” asked Potter, almost jovially, pulling out his -bottle with a distinct feeling of pride. - -“Sure.” - -The man took a long pull at the depleted flask and returned it almost -empty. - -“Ach,” he grunted appreciatively. “That’s red eye! Bet you were drunk, -boy, an’ thought ridin’ free was a picnic. Well, better come out o’ -this and hustle up the track. They’s an empty box car about halfway up. -You’ll see it ’cause one door’s open. An’ you’re God damn lucky, son. -You’d just naturally a froze a lung off up here an’ maybe fell off an’ -got winged. Shake a leg. Just time to make it. An’ hop off well outside -the yards when we get to town in the mornin’. Understand? If you don’t -you may see the judge.” - -Before he had finished speaking Potter was stumbling frantically -along the cinder track-side. In one end of the empty car was a little -dirty straw and excelsior. Two minutes later he was asleep, jolting -happily along the streets of paradise in a royal coach. An old man in -a brakeman’s cap whom he took to be the king of the country sat beside -him.... - -A sudden, wrenching jolt and the screaming of brakes woke him. Daylight -filled the car, and in a moment he was out on his feet, recognizing -the familiar outskirts of his native city. He plunged into the park, -striding vigorously along over new-fallen crisp leaves, warming his -body, which had been chilled through during his sleep, even in that -protected corner. The woods were gay with the last of the autumn -colour; the morning was dewy and mysterious under long corridors of -trees. His day’s job seemed easy before him, such as it was, and beyond -that he was too happy and thankful to speculate. Quite a trip, he -thought, thoroughly surprised that he had attempted it and come through -all right. - -“If I hadn’t got potty, I wouldn’t be here,” he told himself, -justifying thereby volumes of alcoholic adventures past and to come. - -He looked down at his hands, his trousers, his shirt. He was filthy. -It would never do to appear before Colonel Cobb with the grime of a -hundred and forty miles of rough travel clinging to him. But this was -the home town, good old home town! and he could get breakfast, new -linen and a good wash without the outlay of a cent. He took the car -downtown and went first to a store, then to a hotel. By ten o’clock he -was breakfasting sumptuously and appeared fairly respectable. - -Heretofore, Colonel Cobb had seemed in Potter’s mind a sort of complete -symbol of good fellowship. The all-weather friend of his father for -thirty years, Potter had heard everything there was to know about him -that could with discretion be told. He was the old-fashioned type of -publicity man, doing business largely through the medium of champagne -and dinners. Open-handedness and good nature were traits which a half -century of tradition had associated with his name. - -A much older man than Potter’s father, Cobb wore a beard which was -nearly white, but he was one of those veterans to whom a beard imparted -an air of boldness and adventure rather than of piety or age. His -costume was youngish, smart-looking, but deeply wrinkled by lounging -ease. He greeted the young man cordially in his somewhat unpretentious -and disorderly office and indicated an upholstered arm chair to him. -Potter sank into it and the old man leaned back in his own to survey -him. - -“Well,” he said, “Johnny’s boys are growing up. Let’s see, are you the -second or the third?” - -“Third, Colonel.” - -“I know your brother Kirk better’n I do the rest of you. I see a good -deal of him up at the Mercantile Club. Kirk’s a good boy and looks to -me like he’s goin’ to make his Dad proud. You ain’t old enough to drink -whiskey, are you? I guess not this time of the morning, anyway. Well, -have a cigar.” - -He thrust out a spacious box. - -“Colonel,” said Potter, “you may be surprised at what I’m here for. I’m -in a kind of a fix, a bad fix, to tell the truth, and I need money. -I’ve got twenty-eight hundred in the National Trust but I can’t draw -on it for two years, without my father’s consent. I want to get two -hundred and fifty dollars on a note for that length of time.” - -As he mentioned the amount it seemed so enormous to Potter that he felt -a little absurd. He had never handled more than fifty dollars at a time -in his life. - -“I see. H’m.” - -The older man was smoking a well-used meerschaum and took a few puffs -on it in silence, looking at Potter quickly once or twice with a more -penetrating and appraising glance than at first. The latter noticed, in -spite of the Colonel’s genial expression, that his eyes, in reflection, -became a very cold and impersonal grey. - -“H’m, that’s bad,” said the Colonel. “You see, your pa and me are -old pals. Now, why don’t you go over and tell him what the trouble -is? There’s nothin’ in the world you could tell John Osprey that he -wouldn’t understand. There ain’t a thing, son.” - -“I think there is, Colonel,” said Potter gravely. - -“Some girl trouble?” - -“Yes.” - -“Now, I’d say you’re wrong. I’d say he’d be just the kind of man to -take that kind of a story to. Your old man has got nothing to learn -about human nature, son.” - -Potter felt the moment had come for fuller confidence if he hoped to -succeed. He had anticipated this objection and intended to combat it by -laying stress on his own reasons for not wishing to tell his father. -These he felt would make a good impression upon any man. He launched -into the broad outlines of his story. Colonel Cobb listened with -seriousness and attention until he had finished. When Potter mentioned -the manner in which he had come to town that morning his eye lighted up -with a spark of the warmth that had marked his first reception. - -“H’m,” he chuckled. “I like that. Yep, I used to hop those blamed -things myself. Then they got me to workin’ for ’em, and since then I’ve -had to ride in style--but I don’t enjoy it as much.” - -He ruminated on in silence, puffing at the pipe held in one hand -and combing his beard downward with the other, at every stroke or so -stopping to scratch the tip of his thrust out chin, and drawing down -his lower lip somewhat in the manner of a bitted horse. Potter noticed -the long, blackened roots of his teeth, his puffy, reddish skin, and -the tiny network of blood vessels and wrinkles that crisscrossed his -cheeks around the eyes and nose. He felt a sudden disgust for life, -for the rotten universe and for his own silly predicament. He grew -restless, wishing for a decision one way or the other, scarcely caring -which it should be. - -“You’re at college, you said?” asked the Colonel. - -“Yes, State University. Two years.” - -“How are you doin’ up there in your studies?” - -“Well, a little better than the average, Colonel, right along,” said -Potter, smiling. It was somewhat less than the truth, yet he regretted -the words immediately, as a boast. But the Colonel did not mind. - -“That’s good,” he said, heartily. - -He lurched forward in his big leather swivel chair and laid down his -pipe. - -“The way I figure it out is this,” he said. “If you know that there’s -two of us to get into trouble over this money, instead of one, you -maybe will be more careful not to do the wrong thing with it, so it -will get out. As for what’s the wrong thing I leave that to you. I’m -goin’ to take a chance on John Osprey’s skinnin’ me alive if he hears -about this transaction, and I guess there ain’t much likelihood of his -hearin’ about it from you or me, is there?” - -He ponderously drew out a long black check-book, inked the pen and -looked at it, inked it again and wrote. Potter received the slip of -paper with its figures written in a big, round buccaneer’s Spencerian. -His fingers trembled in spite of himself. - -“But, Colonel,” he began, suddenly feeling a sense of guilt. - -“I don’t want a note,” interrupted Cobb, lifting his rotund body by the -arms of his chair. “The check’s enough. If you don’t pay me, I’ll send -it around to you some day, when you’re rich, and you can light your -cigar with it or pay, just the way you please. It’s made out to cash, -so’s you won’t have any trouble gettin’ the money, but you just write -your name along the back when you get to the bank. Good luck, son.” - -With the money actually in his pocket, Potter’s despondency abruptly -returned. After all, what had he accomplished? The money was useless so -far as restoring Ellen to her normal self was concerned. Much more--a -simply unrealizable sum--would be needed to enable her to go away in -peace and have her child with dignity and comfort. At best, this would -only pay the price of a crime.... - -He found her in much the same mood as his own, tired and resigned. -She did not complain or accuse any one at all. But she seemed aching -with dull resentment at the inevitable, friendless future, hating -it and fearing it. She told him directly that she was not to have -an operation. Dr. Schottman had warned that in her case it meant an -exceptional risk. Her health was not good and having the baby would put -her in fine shape.... Potter felt the sting of a lash in every word she -uttered. He burst out at last. - -“Ellen, you must marry me. You must. There’s no other way out.” - -She did not laugh at him, but she simply refused to heed him. If she -had consented he would have felt in that moment infinitely happier; -and for even a ray of light in his present darkness, he would have -abandoned a great many of the future’s promises. - -“But what will you do?” - -“Dr. Schottman has arranged everything for me. He’s to take me to a -hospital in a few weeks. I could wait a month or two longer, I suppose, -without their knowing it, but I might as well go. At the hospital I’ll -have to work, until my time. Then he’s fixed it with some people for me -to stay. They won’t mind anything. He’s told them all about me. They’re -patients of his, nice people and well off. The Meadowburns will never -know anything, they’ll never see me again. Not even the doctor knows -about you and nobody will if you keep still. I’m just to walk out and -disappear.” - -Potter stumbled down the stairway of the pretentious new Meadowburn -house in a daze of misery and meanness. Nightfall found him lying face -downward in the dried leaves of the park where the woods were thickest. -He might have built his house there and never have been discovered for -a generation. He might have become like “Clothes-pole Tom,” a hermit -hero of his childhood, and sold gopher skins for a living. Some such -method of losing himself would have been sweet.... - -But youth walks forward even though it harbours corroding secrets. -He could not escape the vision of Ellen in a hospital uniform, worn -and broken-spirited, carrying heavy buckets of dirty water and -swabbing down floors with a mop. He went back to college, lifeless -and desperate, whipping himself into work with torturing thoughts. By -January even his family saw something was wrong, and his father, who -saw farthest, told him to make his own plans, to leave school and go -where he liked. After a week of dismal idleness at home there followed -a telegraphic correspondence with Roget. The two started off together -to New York. Three years later, crossing the Atlantic to Paris, Osprey -still had not returned to his native city, and he repeated his oath -never to go back there again if it could be avoided. - - - - -VI - - -What Ellen Sydney had expected to be her trial by fire proved quite -the opposite. It was the beginning of a new and kinder life. For -if she had been unhappy at the Meadowburns’ it was because of a -deep-seated difference between her own native impulses and those of her -keepers. Long habit in a narrow rut, listening daily to a cautious and -inglorious philosophy, had fostered in her the belief that the great -world outside was monstrous and cruel; but she did not find it so. On -the contrary, there were many to appreciate her cheerful courage and -ready laugh, and return it with affection. Life at the hospital was -novel and filled with congenial activity. Behind its unmoral walls -was an anonymous and practical community in which her shame quickly -melted from her daily thoughts. After the first few days of strangeness -and mutual curiosity she saw that none cared how she had come by -her situation. Nor were her duties burdensome; without the normal -occupation they gave her she would have been ill at ease. - -The picture of a drab and bitter Ellen, clattering about a sordid -environment with pail and mop--which gave Potter so many secret twinges -in his New York room--never came true. - -She interested herself in the patients, most of whom she discovered -to her surprise were even less able to cope with misfortune than she; -the small purse which Dr. Schottman allowed her from the funds Potter -had given her was always half open. The many varieties of mothers, -and the innumerable enchanting babies fascinated her; but no more so -than the coming of her own. As the weeks went by her condition, the -manifestations of life within her, gave her increasing importance. It -made her for the first time interesting to herself. She thought that -she grew more attractive. Her body, long attenuated, took on softer -contours under the wholesome diet and freedom from responsibility; her -breasts were her particular pride. They changed magically; from stubby -protrusions without any character at all, they grew round and firm as -they had not been since girlhood. - -Then there were the visits of Dr. Schottman. His humorous sallies -dispelled in a moment the few worries that came with the long days of -waiting. He brought scant news of the Meadowburns, not seeming to care -to talk of them. They had been very eager to find her at first, had -made a great stir and called upon the police. Then, as suddenly as they -took up the search, they had dropped it. - -“Ah, they didn’t care much, you may be sure,” laughed Ellen. It was far -from displeasing to her to know that she need not depend upon them. -But immediately she remembered that it was the doctor to whom she owed -her present good fortune, not herself; and she felt remorseful. - -To Schottman, the hospital seemed to be something of a continuous -comedy, and all these mothers, many of them abandoned, caught -unwillingly in the grip of natural force, were the victims of a mild -practical joke. How much of this was a pose which he found useful in -dealing with them, and how much of it a mask to hide a disillusioning -experience nobody knew, but it never gave offence. His homely grin and -bracing philosophy made him a favourite everywhere. - -When she held her child in her arms for the first time a momentary -grief oppressed her that it should be fatherless. But the child grew -far more pleasing to look at than she had hoped it would be. Its dark -hair and unexpected blue eyes made it look unlike either herself or -Potter at first. Then a vague resemblance asserted itself, and more -strongly on the mother’s side. This seemed right to Ellen. The less her -daughter resembled the father she was never to see, the better. - -Before long she was allowed to take it out in the perambulator -Schottman had bought for her. The hospital was located in a bleak, -northern section of town, a region long associated in Ellen’s mind -with the foreign population, principally German, and much sniffed at -by people of the West End where she had lived. She remembered how -depressing that day had been when they first drove to the hospital, -through wintry streets between endless rows of low-roofed, packed-in -brick houses and frame cottages. They had a humbler and more domestic -air than she was used to, and gave forth odors of strong cookery, stale -lager and of musty parlours seldom opened to the air. But the four -months of hospital life in their midst had accustomed her to these -exotic touches, and when the people began to overflow into the streets -at the first hint of warm weather and to take a kindly interest in her -child, she felt drawn to them. It amused her to have them think, as -they sometimes did, that she was the nurse or governess. - -It was a mistake, perhaps natural, that Dr. Schottman at least viewed -with satisfaction. The little girl’s charm would serve his purpose -with the Blaydons to whom he was taking them. He had never entertained -any doubt that Ellen would win them in her own way. Her willingness -and modesty, a form of rough good breeding, would recommend her well. -But if the child should be really attractive, so much the better for -everybody. - -“Come now,” he teased Ellen, “this little chick has a high tone about -her. What you think? Better let me hunt up the young scapegrace and -show him what a handsome little rascal he’s responsible for.” - -“How do you know he’s young?” laughed Ellen. He had never pressed the -question of fatherhood, and she was not afraid that he would ever try -to. - -“And what will you name it? For it’s mother, eh?” - -Ellen had settled that matter. She had decided long before on the name -of Moira, for Moira McCoy, the pretty, laughing, assistant head nurse, -who had been the first to befriend her. But concerning this she also -chose to keep her counsel for the present. Another thing troubled her -mightily. - -“Are these--these people I’m going to live with Episcopalians?” - -He laughed. - -“I believe there’s a division in the family. Ach, these Christian -distinctions! They split God up into small pieces like a pie, and -each one takes a different slice. They are afraid to get indigestion -from too much goodness, eh? But ‘Aunt Mathilda’--that is the -sister-in-law--is Episcopalian. High church they call it. Oh, very -high! It will suit you that way, I guess. And she is the boss. You’ll -find that out.” - -High church. That would do very well. It was the serious question of -her daughter’s christening that disturbed her. - -The day came at last to take their fearsome step into a new home. Ellen -wept a little over her farewells, but on such a lovely morning she -could not be sad very long. She felt so good, so well, and in the new -clothes she had bought for this event she radiated unaccustomed health. - -“Look at you,” said the doctor. “I told you it would be good medicine. -If your old friends could see you they wouldn’t know it was the same -Ellen.” - -She blushed. She had never expected to leave the hospital so merry. In -a few moments they were driving along in a new-fangled thing called -a taxicab, and she had to hold the baby carefully to keep it from -bumping. It was the first time she had ever ridden in an automobile, -but her thoughts were too far ahead to concern themselves with the -novelty. A year ago it would have been a great adventure. - -First of all she reflected: - -“When Moira is grown up she will love me, and we will do so many nice -things together.” Then she thought, “Who knows, Moira may have a father -some day, and never be the wiser.” - -The doctor had decided that she was to be known as Mrs. Williams at the -Blaydons’. “Aunt Mathilda” herself had suggested this, and Ellen was -willing enough to consent. But she accepted with greater reluctance his -proposal of a gold band for her finger. The idea smacked of a deception -that was too bold by far, a deception that involved higher powers than -those of earthly authority, in her mind. She felt almost a criminal -whenever she looked at it. - -The rattling vehicle swung through an impressive high gate and they -were looking down between a row of trees. To their left, running -straight through the middle of the thoroughfare lay a grass grown -parkway so dotted with shrubs that she got only fleeting glimpses -of the houses on the other side. Those on her own side she gazed at -with wonder. They were set far apart, with generous lawns, and the -suggestion of gardens farther back behind walls and iron grill work. -The big houses revealed their age, not only by their old-fashioned and -heterogeneous architecture, but by the smoke-grimed look of their brick -and stone. - -“How lovely and peaceful,” thought Ellen, fascinated at the fresh sight -of green everywhere spotted and patched with sunlight. She seemed to -have been wearing dark glasses for months and months.... She noticed -that the driver was slowing down his vehicle and was craning his neck -for the house numbers. - -“My land,” she murmured, “we’re going to live here.... Look, Moira, -look!” she could not help but cry aloud--and then flushed pink when she -saw the doctor had heard the name. - -This was Trezevant Place, its fame already beginning to dwindle, so -that Ellen, acquainted only with the new city, had heard of it but once -or twice. For two generations the patrician families had housed there, -and a few of the original owners had remained, standing on their -dignity, defying the relentless town, which had long sprawled up to it, -and around it and far beyond, unsightly, clamorous and vulgar. The snob -that is in everybody claimed Ellen at that moment and she longed for an -audience of Meadowburns and Potters to watch them disembark. - -The cab came to an abrupt stop before the bronze figure of a barefooted -negro boy holding out an iron ring in one chubby paw. Ellen faced a -front door of many bevelled panes of glass which reflected the bright -sky into her eyes. Her knees failed her, but with a free hand she -grasped the doctor’s sleeve, finding in the act reassurance enough to -mount the steps between the red stone pillars. A maid appeared in the -doorway. - -“Oh, it’s you, doctor,” she said, beaming at them from under her neat -white cap. “Mrs. Seymour is waiting in the library. Go right in, -please.” - -Ellen found herself in a room filled with book-shelves, and mahogany, -and leather-covered chairs, facing a small lady who did not leave her -straight, uncomfortable seat. The greying hair was done up in a knot on -the top of her head and behind it was a dark spreading comb. She wore a -light blue silk frock with a white collar of lace that folded back over -her shoulders and left her neck bare. It was old-fashioned looking, -Ellen thought, yet “nice” as she would have put it, meaning smart, and -she noticed that the woman’s throat was smooth and plump. Her graceful -ankles showed, crossed, above a pair of little grey slippers with very -high heels. What a little doll of a person! she thought. - -“Good morning, doctor,” said the lady, shaking hands with Schottman, -while Ellen stood in the door. Then she turned to her. - -“Sit down, Mrs. Williams. You mustn’t feel strange here, because I -am sure we are going to like each other. The doctor has told me nice -things about you.” - -Ellen thought no more of dolls. The assured voice, and what she could -only describe as the foreign way “Aunt Mathilda” pronounced her words, -awed her. She did not know that this was what people called cultivated. -She obeyed the injunction to sit down, her eyes glued trustfully but -timidly upon her new mistress. - -“I’m not going to keep you long this morning, because for the next day -or two you will have little to do and will be getting accustomed to the -place. You can take care of the child yourself?” - -“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Ellen, and smiled. “I’ve taken care of many more -than this one, and done the work besides.” - -“I see. That’s splendid. Well, you will have plenty of time for her. It -can be managed very well. Gina is fond of children and will look after -the baby when you are busy, and then there is my nephews’ nurse, Mrs. -Stone. Gina is my personal maid. The other servants are Marie, who is -the parlour maid and waitress, John, the gardener and stable man, and -the laundress Annie, who lives out. So the work is pretty well divided. -And then there is Miss Wells, the trained nurse for Mrs. Blaydon. The -doctor may have told you that Mrs. Blaydon never leaves her room.” - -Ellen lost track of this catalogue of servants, yet she felt a -happy sense of importance in listening to these matter-of-fact and -self-respecting details. It was as though she were being taken into the -confidence of the household. She tried to attend Mrs. Seymour’s every -word with seriousness, and felt her embarrassment dropping away from -her. - -“Dr. Schottman tells me that you have been the only help in the family. -I suppose you have done only plain cooking?” - -“Yes, ma’am.” - -“Well, you will have no trouble learning our likes and dislikes, and -the way things must be served. Miss Wells will prepare most of Mrs. -Blaydon’s meals, which are separate. The present cook is to stay until -the end of the month, and that will give you plenty of time to catch -on. And you mustn’t be afraid. We expect to make allowances. Of course, -your wages will begin at once, but I can’t tell just what they should -be until we try you, so we won’t discuss that to-day.” - -“Oh, not at all, ma’am--” began Ellen, and stopped suddenly. “Aunt -Mathilda” covered her embarrassment by rising, and Ellen stood also, -with her child in her arms. The act brought them close enough together -for Mrs. Seymour to see the baby’s face. - -“What a sweet little thing,” she said, and smiled cordially at Ellen. -“I hope you are going to be happy here, Mrs. Williams. Marie will show -you your room and give you everything you need. Don’t bother about your -bags. John can take them up at once.” - -“Oh, thank you,” said Ellen. She stood hesitating, after saying a -halting, awkward good-bye to the doctor. It was not easy to leave his -friendly presence and impossible to thank him as she wanted to. But she -turned and in the wake of Marie climbed the broad front steps. - -Their carved, heavy banisters and the thick rugs rebuked her. It was as -though she realized that in this well-ordered house it would be rarely -indeed that she would tread them. Here she was more definitely placed -than she would ever have been at the Meadowburns’. - -As they passed the second story landing two very small, cleanly dressed -boys came out of a big bedroom, with a matronly hospital nurse between -them. - - - - -VII - - -Ellen spent her days learning more about the quaint art of cookery than -she ever dreamed there was to know, and discovering the ways of rich -people which were strange indeed. - -One of the first things that impressed her was the unvarying quiet. -Never was a voice raised that could be heard beyond the room in which -it was spoken, and this applied even to the young masters, who, if they -ever made a regular boy-racket, must have done so behind the closed -doors of the nursery. Compared to the shouting up and down stairs, -the banging of pianos and doors, the general uproar of the Meadowburn -household, this was like living in a church. The stately high ceilings -and big stained glass windows intensified the illusion. - -And the armies of tradesmen who came! She had been accustomed to -dealing with one butcher, one grocer, one baker. Here there were -dozens who handled a farrago of specialties. There were three or four -different dessert-makers, a pork butcher, a beef butcher, a poultry -butcher, and a fish monger of high degree; there were a plain grocer, -a grocer-importer, a wine-dealer, a liquor agent, coffee merchants and -tea merchants, purveyors of spices and sweet-meats, apothecaries and -fruiterers, dealers in milk, eggs and butter, and a score of others -whose business did not happen to be with Ellen. All day they came and -went. She had thought that supplying a kitchen was a matter of taking -in a certain fixed number of staples and making the most of them. But -here she found herself in the midst of an immense variety of esoteric -materials whose names suggested the index of a geography. The kitchen -with its vast conveniences for housing all these things in their -appointed places was not unlike a large shop itself. - -Formal dinner parties there were, but they were rare during those days, -because of the sick woman in the house. And it was well they were! -thought she, judging by the lavishness of those she helped to prepare. -Mrs. Seymour, however, gave many luncheons to her friends, and for -these Ellen delighted to outdo herself, since Aunt Mathilda was not -ungenerous with compliments when they were deserved. - -These refinements of luxury affected her unconsciously. She was soon -trying to acquire the atmosphere of the house, to train her manners -after her mistress, to soften her voice and even to alter the accent -of her speech, which had always, though she knew it not, been more -agreeable than the average. - -This instinct of imitation led her to listen, whenever she could, to -the conversations of Blaydon and his sister. She understood very little -of what they said that did not concern the surface news of the family. -Often they talked of books, and books were a strange world to Ellen. -But one day the thought struck her that Moira, living her childhood -in such a house would certainly acquire some of its cultivation, even -though no one deliberately undertook to teach her. - -But would Moira’s mother be worthy of such a companion? Ought she -not to make an effort to improve her mind, so that Moira would be a -little less ashamed of her in that rosy time ahead when they would -understand each other? To Ellen the difficulties of reading were almost -insurmountable. Nothing terrified her so much as twenty pages of print. -However, once the thought of her unworthiness in Moira’s eyes occurred -to her, she did not hesitate a moment. From one of the upstairs -book-cases she selected the largest volume she could find. It proved to -be “Les Misérables,” and there was something she liked about the title. -That night she began bravely to read. - -Hard as it was to make headway in it, she had chosen the only amusement -possible to her. When she was not busy in the kitchen, mastering the -problems of the stove and the mixing bowl, she sat beside her daughter. -There was no chance to think of more exciting pleasures, for which, -often enough, the youth in her still yearned. Yet these duties were -only confining, never exhausting. From the sheer drudgery of hard -manual labour, to which she once thought herself condemned until she -dropped, a miracle had suddenly delivered her. And that miracle was a -little child, unlawfully born. Life held many mysteries for Ellen, but -none of them was as incomprehensible as this. - -The first inkling that they were ever likely to move from the Trezevant -place came to her through one of those overheard talks between -Sterling Blaydon and his sister. They were sitting one morning in the -brick-walled garden just off the rear drawing room, a lovely place, as -Ellen knew, to dream and idle in, if it was deserted and she could have -Moira tumbling about on the rugs at her feet. There were rows of green -boxed plants along the top of the high walls, a striped awning and the -clear sky spread between, like another mysterious ceiling farther away. -There was comfort and security and the sense of distance too. It was -like many other of the civilized refinements which Ellen discovered at -the Blaydons’, suggestive of an almost incredible degree of foresight, -of attention to the details of luxury, which the fortunate of the world -had been developing illimitably since the first man was carried on the -backs of other men. Mr. Blaydon and his sister often breakfasted in -this inner garden on fine mornings, and Ellen sometimes served them -herself in the absence of Marie. - -She believed Sterling Blaydon the most romantic personage she had ever -seen. His hair was almost white, but he was young in body and in years. -His lean, brown face, which she thought had a tired expression when in -repose or when he was reading, lighted up marvellously when he smiled. -His tall, solid form would have made two of Aunt Mathilda’s. Ellen -loved to peep through the butler’s pantry doors and see him decant the -special brandy for his friends after dinner, languid and big-handed and -jovial through the smoky fog. - -This morning while he sat in the garden in the softest of grey tweeds, -with his outstretched legs crossed and resting upon the tiles, she -heard his drawling voice as she placed the coffee service fastidiously -on the big silver tray in the pantry. Ellen liked to fondle the Blaydon -china and silver. It was spoiling her; she would never want to touch -anything less valuable. - -“I dare say it sounds like blasphemy to you,” Mr. Blaydon was saying, -“but I’m sick of this place after all. I used to think I never should -be.” - -“It’s partly Jennie’s long illness. Poor boy, you’ve had a good deal to -contend with.” - -“I? Nonsense! But I ought to get her away from here. She could pull -together faster in the country. That is to say, if she ever has -strength enough to be moved. And there are the boys. I’m beginning to -think this is no locality for them to grow up in. If I toss a pebble -over the wall there it will land square in the melting pot--perhaps on -some anarchist’s head who will throw a bomb at me one of these days.” - -“It’s extraordinary how well Trezevant has held its own. There seems to -be a spirit in the place that won’t allow it to be tainted.” - -“Tainted enough by coal smoke!” he retorted. “Spirits won’t stop that. -I’d really like to get out, way out. Not just to follow the crowd, as -they say, but we’ve never had a satisfactory country place, and I’ve -come to think you can’t unless you make it a life accomplishment.” - -“A life is hardly enough, my dear brother,” replied Mrs. Seymour. -“Trezevant is the accomplishment of three generations.” - -“Bah!” he replied, good-humouredly, “we’re not the slow coaches we used -to be. You can get twice as much done these days in a third of the -time.” - -“Well, at any rate, it’s unpractical now,” she replied, and he -recognized the finality of her tone. - -Blaydon smoked his cigar in silence, while she finished her second -black coffee and leaned back in her chair swinging a tiny foot of -which she was proud. In the shimmering, palpable light, shot with many -colours, Mathilda’s face and hair were still amazingly pretty. There -were many who would have accepted the kind of slavery that marriage -with her would have entailed, and some among them who had no need for -her money. But she was not thinking of that. The arts of vanity had -ceased to be a conscious lure; they were the essentials of well-bred -self-cultivation. She had accepted her widowhood as the final failure -of man, so far as she was concerned. It had been a romantic love -match, ecstatic but unhappy, the kind that she fancied exhausted the -capacity for passion; and now her thoughts ran upon the future of her -brother’s household. For if Blaydon entertained any illusions about the -possibility of his wife’s recovery, Mathilda did not. - -She had long held certain opinions regarding Jennie, which were not -shared by the outside world. One of them was that her brother had -never loved her, that he had found this out almost immediately after -marrying, and determined to live the thing through because of his -old-fashioned loyalty. Mathilda had quite certain knowledge that in the -midst of the honeymoon he had rushed away and stayed several days. She -knew it had been his hour of terrible trial, his angry realization of -having made the first major mistake of his life, and made it in full -maturity. His sister was proud of him for remaining a tree of marriage -in a clearing of divorce stumps--for such their social world was -rapidly becoming. - -But her theory was that Jennie had never forgiven him, never in a -sense recovered from it. She had welcomed her children in order the -more to seal up the truth from others; but she had borne them late, -and the birth of the second son, Robert, had doomed her to physical -helplessness. - -This theory explained to Mathilda every peculiarity of Mrs. Blaydon’s -character, every inexplicable episode which had occurred in the -house since she had joined them. Jennie had never liked her; perhaps -suspected that she knew her secret. Part of Jennie’s satisfaction -in having the children was that they would help her to dominate her -sister-in-law and the household, in the rôle of mother. As adversaries -they had a healthy respect for each other. But Jennie’s sustained -firmness of will was less effective than Mathilda’s, because it was -less charming and less hidden. Luck was simply against Jennie. It was -Mathilda who would win and then (though Blaydon did not know she had -thought much about it) they would go to the country. Naturally this -would be their first move. It was inevitable because it was the thing -that people of their sort were doing, and because automobiles had made -it feasible. - -As though she felt that she might hint some of this that was in her -mind, she broke the silence. - -“Speaking of the country, I’ve had my eye for a long time on those -tracts in the Errant River hills, where the McNutts have bought.” - -Sterling Blaydon slowly took his cigar from his mouth and smiled. -Like all men of means he liked to have opportunities to display his -foresight presented to him without going out of his way to invite them. - -“Well then, you’ve had your eye on what will in all probability be -your future home. I’ve been picking up that land right along. I’ve got -about three hundred acres of it. Moreover, though the Country Club site -committee hasn’t decided officially yet, I know for a fact they are -going to take the contiguous property. It’s cheap enough just now, and -the club isn’t lavish.” - -He was fully satisfied with the glance of admiration Mathilda gave him. - -“Why, Sterling,” she said, “how long have you been at that?” - -“Since a little while after Hal was born. I got to thinking then this -wouldn’t do.” - -“Well, it never occurred to me until this year.” - -He rose, stretching to his full height to shake the indolence from his -body. - -“I’ve even got an architect to work. But I dare say you’re right and -we can’t think about it yet. I certainly can’t drag Jennie through a -radical change like that, and I haven’t even told her for fear it would -fret her. But the moment she’s better--You don’t say whether you would -really like it or not, Mathilda.” - -“Certainly I shall like it, dear boy.” - -He went off humming to his wife’s room, before going out. He was, -Mathilda thought, more attentive to her than many an enamoured husband, -and she admired him for it. - -The idea of moving to the country at first frightened Ellen, with that -pitiful fear which all dependents have of impending change. What will -become of them, they ask themselves, in the general forgetfulness?--and -a hundred misgivings and imagined instances of dissatisfaction on the -part of their masters throng their minds. - -But had she felt secure it would have pleased her. The old house was -too formal, too heavy with the fragrances and lingering stiffness of -a past day. She could never quite grow to like the eternal quiet. -A hearty clattering now and then would have relieved her pent-up -vitality. She would have liked, just once in a long, long while to -listen to one of Tom Meadowburn’s stories, or hear Bennet shouting in -the back yard. - - - - -VIII - - -But Mrs. Blaydon grew neither better nor worse and they remained at -Trezevant Place. And when Moira was a year and a half old a fresh -sorrow visited her mother. So rapid and unforeseen were the steps by -which it came that Ellen scarcely realized what was happening. - -To her, indeed, the child seemed to acquire new marvels of goodness and -beauty every day, but she imagined it was only her mother’s pride that -made her think so. She was not the sort who would boast of the deeds of -her offspring. - -Then she grew aware that others shared her interest. More and more, in -particular, she found the child, when she came to look for her, in the -company of Aunt Mathilda, even in that lady’s arms, most happily at -home and warmly welcome. - -“It is going to be very improving for Moira,” was her thought, and she -realized with a pang that she had been reading Hugo’s book for more -than a year now, and was not yet halfway through it. - -Mrs. Seymour’s brother was among those who noticed her partiality for -the baby. - -“Look,” she said to him one day, with enthusiasm, holding out one of -the child’s tiny pink hands, “how remarkably made they are. She’s the -same all over. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfect baby.” - -Blaydon laughed, thereby eliciting a brilliant response in kind from -Moira. The vibrations of his big voice had tickled her young flesh. - -“Well, Mathilda, the broadest road to your heart is still a pair of -hands. I remember your telling me that poor old Ned first got you with -his.” - -“Hands and feet,” she replied. “I don’t mind anything else but they -ought to be beautiful.” - -A few days afterward he came upon her in the garden, again with Ellen’s -daughter. - -“Que voulez-vous,” she was saying, “que voulez-vous, ma p’tite? -Voulez-vous maman?” - -The soft syllables seemed to please Moira’s ears, for she was -mirthfully bubbling things that sounded not unlike them. As Blaydon -stepped out he thought his sister a little apologetic, but she did not -put down the child. - -“The little thing wandered out here while I was reading,” she said. -“She quite seems to follow me about.” - -“You don’t find it annoying?” he asked. - -Her reply served notice upon him that she had caught his note of irony. - -“Oh, no.... I’m not such a busy woman as all that.” - -He glanced at the book she had been reading. It lay flung face -downward with both backs spread out on the table, “Le Crime de -Sylvestre Bonnard.” Blaydon recalled the story and somehow connected it -in his mind with his sister’s essential solitude--her dependence upon -his own family for affection. - -“I suppose,” he pursued, the thought forming suddenly from nowhere, -“that you are going to adopt her?” - -Mathilda looked up sharply. She pretended to detect in his words more -of approval than of inquiry and replied as though he had offered a -suggestion. - -“You’re not serious, Sterling?” - -Blaydon’s intuition surprised him. He had struck fire, where hardly -more than a joke had been intended. - -“Why not?” he asked, with a good-natured shrug. - -“It seems cruel, somehow,” she replied. Her tone was as detached as -though she had said, “it seems too green,” of a dress-cloth. - -“I can’t quite see that. Mothers are proverbially unselfish--” - -“She would have to be brought up with your boys, Sterling. Have you -thought of that?” - -He had not thought of that and there was more to Mathilda’s remark than -banter. As if to influence his reply, the youngest boy, Robert, three -and a half, scampered past them and climbed upon a favourite seat, -between two clipped boxwood trees, chattering to himself and grinning -across at his father as if to say, “I dare you to come and get me!” But -Blaydon ignored him for the moment. He did not know that Mathilda’s -mind had gone all over this matter of adoption, and that the question -she had just put to him, in spite of its unconcerned air, was really a -crucial one with her. Upon his feeling about it would depend a great -deal, yet this did not imply that she felt herself bound to accept -his decisions. There were scores of things that she might do if the -whim possessed her, in spite of him. Blaydon was aware of this, and -though he did not know how much she had thought about the child, he was -inclined toward caution. She was a good sister--a better mother, he -honestly believed, for his children than their own.... When he answered -it was with a laugh that had the effect upon Mathilda of some one -opening a door she wanted to go through. - -“Well, I don’t know,” he went on, slowly. “I suppose that Ellen is a -fixture anyhow, and young cubs are more likely to fall in love with a -really beautiful Cinderella than just a handsome cousin. That is if the -child is beautiful. How on earth can you tell anything about them at -that age?” - -“You can tell the day after they are born,” snapped back Mrs. Seymour. -“I would venture to sit down and write the lives of your two sons -to-day, and I shouldn’t be far from the truth, barring death and -accidents.” - -“So?” he asked, “and have I anything to fear?” - -“Oh, no, they’ll come back to the fold, even as you did!” - -Her look was one of benevolent sarcasm and he grinned. There were many -things worse to remember than the pretty women of his younger days. -But he had come back to the fold ... that was true, and it was not so -pleasant after all. Change would be kind. He reached over and touched -the blond head of his boy, who was sitting on the tiles now at his feet. - -“Poor old Rob, she’s got you catalogued,” he said, and the talk of -adoption stopped. Neither of them had taken it seriously--Jennie, -unmentioned, remained insurmountable. But Mathilda had entered her -wedge, without an effort. Being intensely feminine, circumstances moved -toward her, not she toward them, an achievement that resulted from -indicating definitely first, then vaguely opposing, everything she -wanted. - -Blaydon lifted his boy to his shoulder and walked through the house to -the drawing room windows. He talked little more than monosyllabically -to his children and had a great way of stilling their excited glee, -when he wanted to, by the tone of his voice. As they stood at the -window he wished that his gaze could go on over rolling hills to the -horizon. He wanted these boys to grow up with horses and vigorous -sports; to see them framed against green earth and wide skies. He -wanted them to draw in their early appreciations from the bare soil of -their own land. Somehow that now appeared to him a spiritual necessity -of which he had had too little himself, and it was the leading ambition -that possessed him after a life of sophisticated pleasure. - -A week later Mrs. Blaydon died. It was as though the new direction of -their thoughts had penetrated to her intuitively and left her without -strength to battle further. - -It was not long before Blaydon felt free to go ahead with his plans. -But the speed with which Mathilda proceeded to execute hers surprised -and even shocked him. She did not go directly to Ellen. Instead she -consulted Dr. Schottman, and readily gained his partisanship. It was -from Schottman that Ellen first heard of Aunt Mathilda’s intentions -toward Moira.... - -For the life of her she could not tell at first whether she was happy -or miserable at the suggestion. In one moment she rejoiced over the -good fortune of her daughter; in the next she experienced a sense of -terrible deprivation and loneliness. She was not so sentimental as to -minimize the extent of her renunciation--to hope that some crumbs from -the table of Moira’s affection would fall to her. It meant a thorough -transfer of parenthood and a ruthless blotting out of the truth. -One of Mrs. Seymour’s reasons for adopting the child at once, as she -explained to Schottman, was that the boys were young enough to grow up -none the wiser. Ellen did not deceive herself. Moira would never know -her, never think of her except as a servant. - -She recalled sorrowfully the two happy prospects she had brought with -her into that house, “Moira will love me when she is grown up, and we -will do so many nice things together,” and “Who knows, some day Moira -may have a father....” But Moira would never have a real father now -through her, and Moira would never love her in the sense she had meant. -A gleam of comfort crept in the chinks of her hopeless speculation. - -“If Moira should learn about this, much, much later--years later when -it could do no harm--about how I have given her up, she would love me -all the more!” - -But the stray gleam crept out at once, leaving her mind darker than -before. Moira would never know, never understand anything of all she -had gone through. She buried her face in the pillow. In the middle -of the night she suddenly started up, feeling frantically about the -room for she knew not what. Was it affection, love, just the touch of -something familiar? For Moira, of course ... but what a fool! Moira was -gone, even the crib was gone. She was alone, absolutely alone, for the -rest of her life. - -As she stumbled back to her bed, her hand encountered the big volume of -“Les Misérables.” She caught it up and held it to her breast. The book -had grown to be a symbol for her of their life together in fabulous -years to come. Now those years were dead. The book was no longer -necessary, no longer had any meaning.... Ellen put it away in one of -the drawers of her bureau. She would never have to read in its pages -again. It would be better if she did not, better that the gulf between -them should widen rather than diminish. - - - - -IX - - -It is four o’clock of a September afternoon and brightly still. Over on -the clean rolling golf course tiny figures in all combinations of white -and grey and brown move like insects soundlessly from one point to -another making odd motions. Even the jays which have been haggling and -shrieking all day are quiet. An occasional tree-toad or katydid creaks -from the false dusk of the Eastern woods. Locusts drone, and from a -long way off comes the faint click of a reaping machine at intervals, -but all these sounds only accentuate the silence. An eternal, -slow-breathing calm rests upon the treetops waiting patiently for the -cold of autumn. - -With a murmur that grows into a rumble the stillness is broken by a -monstrous motor truck which swerves into the driveway from the road a -quarter of a mile away and comes tumbling down the white track, its -racket increasing with its nearness. The driver noisily shunts his -gears at the kitchen door, and Ellen Sydney comes out to superintend -the unloading and disposition of supplies. This done and the truckman -sent away with a laugh, she strolls into the garden on that side of the -house and is presently at work with a pair of shears snipping asters -and marigolds for the table. There are many of them, so many they must -be gathered in profusion. She has the air of one who is at home among -the beds, who has worked on them and cherished them with her own hands. - -She is a handsomer woman than before. Her figure has decidedly taken -on dignity, and the colour of her face is a healthy brown pink. Her -cheeks, thanks to the best skill of the Blaydon dentist, have lost -their sunken hollows and her eyes have deepened from the effect -of well-being and contented activity. She bears herself with some -authority too, having taken a favoured place in her division of the -housework. Her hair is greying very slightly over the ears and temples, -but her step is as quick and her back as straight as a girl’s. She -wears a blue uniform with sleeves rolled up and a white apron. - -As she reaches the entrance portico, her arms overflowing with the -yellow and brown and purple flowers, a little girl of six or so with -dark hair bursts from the screen door. - -“Ellney, Ellney. Give me a cookie. I’m hungry.” - -“Can’t you wait till dinner, Miss Moira? Your mother wouldn’t like it.” - -“Oh, what’s one cookie? _Maman_ won’t mind just one.” - -“She will if she finds out, and if you don’t eat your dinner. It’s me -that will get the lecture, not you!”--and with a look backward into the -past, Ellen thinks of a boy who was once always asking for something to -eat. The boy’s face has so dimmed in her mind now that if there is a -resemblance she does not notice it. - -“_Maman_ shan’t lecture you, Ellney. I shan’t ever let her lecture you.” - -Ellen laughs, not only at what Moira says, but at the way she says -it. She cannot ever get over the fact that her own child--who is now -no longer her child--speaks the King’s English quite as carefully as -her well-bred elders, and has adopted an air of superiority in her own -right. But in Ellen’s laughter there is no ridicule. It is the sheer -pleasure of maternal pride. Does not Moira, they say, speak French -almost as well as English? - -“You little darling,” she cries, stooping and endeavouring to take the -child’s hand in spite of her overflowing burden, “I’ll give you just -one.” - -“No, two, Ellney--but one is for Hal, on my word. Isn’t it funny, he’s -afraid to ask!” - -Ellen thought there never had been a child whose laughter was more like -everything good and who laughed more often than Moira.... - - * * * * * - -Turning in from the Marquette road to Sterling Blaydon’s new country -house, “Thornhill” as they called it, a visitor with a sculptor’s eye -might describe the formation of the land as the huge thigh of a woman, -resting horizontally on the earth. The private driveway ran along the -crest which sloped on both sides downward to gentle valleys, while the -whole ridge tapered in width gradually to a round end or knee on which -rested the house in a semi-circle of green. Beyond the house lay a few -hundred feet of clipped lawn and well spaced trees, and then the Titan -calf plunged into the earth, its declivitous sides covered with exposed -rock and a thick undergrowth of every imaginable scrub and bramble, -with a plentiful scattering of dogwood and plumb and thorn. It was holy -with blossoms in the Spring, beginning with the ghostly shad-bush. The -edge of the hill overlooked a broad meadow fifty yards below, as flat -as a lake. - -Spread out in three directions from this crowning point lay Blaydon’s -land, perhaps a third of it in rocky knolls and wood, and the remainder -under cultivation by tenant farmers. The driveway to the site led -almost due west but the axis of the house itself, which was narrow and -long despite its irregularities, turned toward the south. It was built -to the shingle eaves of rubble-rock and dominated at either end by two -enormous chimneys of the same gorgeous, parti-coloured material, all -of which had been found on the place. Broad verandahs, a wide, tiled -terrace reached by French windows; a quaint Dutch Colonial door and -portico facing the road; screened balconies skilfully masked by the -eaves; the great living and dining rooms and library which took up -almost all of the lower floor; the correspondingly spacious chambers -overhead, attested its inhabitants’ means and love of comfort. The -entrance lawn and slopes to the north were laid out in series of -irregular, charming gardens. On the southeast the hill descended almost -horizontally from the tiled and parapeted terrace near the house, so -that from the living room windows one looked through the tops of trees -to the Country Club on another hill less than a mile away. - -With greater spaces had come more movement, more things to be -interested in, more excitement and sound, all of which Ellen had -welcomed. She meddled in everything. She had become a creditable -sub-assistant gardener and something of a bee-keeper, having watched -the professionals at work. The four dogs were her especial care. Two -were morbidly shy collies called “Count” and “Countess” by Mathilda, -and Ellen won the privilege of touching their magnificent coats and -standing by while they fed, only after many months of gentleness and -coaxing. They seldom allowed the other members of the household to come -near them and ran wild in the woods. On the other hand the beagle and -setter were almost annoyingly chummy. The animals in the stable had -their daily histories also, which concerned her intimately. She was a -splendid milker in emergencies and would have liked to keep fowls, but -this Mathilda, who respected sleep in the mornings, would not permit. - -Of the two boys in the house, Hal, nine and a half, was the -keener-witted and the more attractive. He was already at home among -the horses and rode bare-back as well as in the saddle. She often -felt sorry for Rob, who was left behind much of the time by his older -brother and the swift, tiny Moira, but she did not humour him as much -as she did Hal. - -It was Hal, however, who had ridden a cow so successfully one day that -Moira pleaded to be helped up herself, and whether the beast thought -her a less formidable antagonist, or was frightened by her skirts, -the little girl was thrown off and severely jolted. Hal supported her -into the house, himself more frightened than she, and vowed to his -aunt solemnly that from that day he would never lead her into danger -again, and if she got into it he would get her out. Yet she and the -boy quarrelled too and sometimes went for days without speaking. Moira -would take up with Rob then, scheming with all her mind to devise -adventures that would make his brother envious. She often succeeded in -these stratagems, until a time came when he did not concern himself -with her at all, being grown beyond little girls. - -The elaborate arrangements which had been made for Moira from the -first, and the increasing complexity of the child’s education, which -had been undertaken very early by Mrs. Seymour, made it easier for -Ellen to regard her as a member of the Blaydon family. It was only when -Moira misbehaved within her knowledge or in her sight, that the true -mother felt it hard to play her neutral rôle. While Moira was good she -was a Seymour, naturally, but when she was bad she seemed to Ellen -to be wholly her own. Ellen’s impulse then, in spite of the habit of -suppression, was to correct her as a mother would. - -When these occasions had passed and she could reflect back on them, -she thought it a blessing that Moira’s correction was in the hands of -others than herself. One instance of Mrs. Seymour’s wise manner of -dealing with unusual conduct filled her mind with wonder and created -for her almost a new conception of life. - -Aunt Mathilda was consulting with her in the kitchen when Moira burst -in and cried: - -“_Maman_, oh, _Maman_, the calf came right out of the cow! I saw it. I -did.” - -The child’s face was a study. She did not apparently know whether to -be very grave, or a little frightened or to laugh, and in one who -was so rarely puzzled it would have seemed pathetic had her sudden -announcement been less shocking than it was. As they learned afterward, -she had witnessed the birth, by sheer accident, while in the stables -with Harvey. Ellen blushed scarlet and was on the point of exclaiming -indignantly, but Mrs. Seymour checked her with a gesture and took the -child in her lap. Then she said in a tone the most natural in the world: - -“Why, certainly, my dear. That is what happens when all animals are -born, and people too. First we are carried in our mothers. Then we walk -by ourselves, just as the calf will in a day or two. Now you won’t ever -forget that, will you?” - -Beginning the middle of September and for eight months each year, Miss -Cheyney, the governess, came every morning at nine, and quiet reigned -while she went over the lessons with the three children shut up in the -library. After luncheon, Eberhard, the man, took her back by motor to -the train as he had brought her. - -Ellen was always glad to see her visits begin, not only because Miss -Cheyney was very democratic and “nice” to her, and proud of Moira’s -progress, but because they ushered in the Fall. She loved the glorious -colours that spread out in widening and deepening hues over the wooded -hills, until all the world seemed to have put on a flaming cloak. She -and the children would fill the house with sumach and maple branches -then. And when the men began bringing up the heavy logs that had lain -drying in the woods all summer and sawing and splitting them for the -fireplaces in the house, she could see in anticipation the flames -leaping in the chimney and hear the crackling of the wood in the fierce -heat, and watch the glow of dancing light on the children’s faces. She -had not seen open fireplaces since the New Orleans days, when they -were lighted only for a few weeks in the year; and never had she seen -anything to compare with the one in the Blaydon living room which was -so high a woman could stand in it while she cleaned. - -And then the parties began. There were nearly always two big ones each -Winter, and between them a constant stream of dinners and late motor -parties, and informal crowds who tramped over from the Club to dance. -Ellen loved to hear the music going at full tilt, the new jazz music -that was just coming in. She didn’t mind, as much as she should have, -the young men getting tipsy. She was thrilled to watch the couples -disappear down through the trees, laughing and chatting, eager to -escape the floods of light that poured from every window in the house; -or slip into their motors for a drive along the dark roads. - -She had always thought of Sterling Blaydon as a reserved and serious -man, and she wondered how he stood so much excitement. Then she -realized that she was dealing with a new Sterling Blaydon, who not only -stood it but encouraged it. His pride in the place and his love of -filling it with people was like a boy’s. - -A great part of the pleasure she took in these affairs arose from -the fact that her daughter was a favourite. Tall, important men and -dazzling young women were attentive to Moira and Moira enjoyed it as -much as they did. She was growing extraordinarily self-possessed, -particularly with her elders. Often enough the frank equality she -adopted toward them made Ellen gasp. - -Only in the dead of winter, when the snow piled up a foot or two -everywhere and the drifts sometimes were up to a man’s middle, would -they be without company for many days at a time. During this brief -closed season--for it did not last long at the worst--Mr. Blaydon -usually lived in town, and sometimes Mrs. Seymour would join him there, -when engagements came in bunches or the theatres were particularly -interesting. And the children, freed from their teacher, would be idle. - -Coming upon Moira alone at such times, with her constituted guardians -away and out of mind, Ellen experienced her moments of gravest -temptation. How she longed then to take the youngster in her arms and -pour out the floods of love pent up within her. These yearnings were -made all the more unbearable by the simple affection with which she -was nearly always greeted by her daughter; yet at the same time the -child’s own attitude strengthened her resistance. For Ellen stood in -awe of her. The force of training, the sedulously cultivated point of -view, the entirely different environment had already stamped her with -the mark of another caste. Ellen could not look upon her for more than -an instant as simply the object of possessive human feeling. It would -sweep over her at some childlike expression, some quaint, serious look. -It would be checked by some unlooked for sophistication of gesture or -remark. - -Moira familiarly uttered the names of grown young men who to Ellen were -no more than shadows from an upper world, coldly courteous ghosts who -did not see her even when they looked at her. Every season the little -girl extended her interests and knowledge into a wider world and grew -more alien. And gradually as the years flew by even the servants who -had been in the old Trezevant place when they came there, and who -somehow seemed to preserve for her, by their presence, the actuality -of her motherhood, passed, until there was not one left. Gina, whose -sympathy she had felt most keenly, though the sprightly Italian said -nothing, was the last. And Gina went away to be married.... - - - - -X - - -To be nearly sixteen; to have a great room all to oneself, with -high windows that looked upon surfs of close, glittering, talkative -leaves, and hills far off between them; to have a small library of -one’s favourite books, and a whole corner of the room devoted to the -paraphernalia of one’s dearest hobby, which was painting; to have a -square high bed, covered with a tester, and a wonderful, many-shelved -Sheraton table beside it, and candles in old green brass candlesticks; -to have a row of white, built-in armoires full of pretty dresses and -cloaks and shoes; to have all this and to know one has helped to create -it, was to possess a shrine where the thoughts of girlhood might -safely let themselves go to all the four winds of the imagination, -like many-coloured birds set free, unmindful of the traps and huntsmen -scouring the world beyond. - -But Moira’s real favourite was not the lovely golden brown tapestry, -nor the stained little bas relief of the Child, nor even the drawings -of Michelangelo and Rembrandt, but a painting hung on the wall facing -the foot of her bed, where she could look at it the first thing in -the morning as she rose, and the last thing at night as she retired. -It was a portrait of Mathilda’s grandmother at eighteen, painted in -Virginia, a year before she crossed the plains with her young husband. -The smooth, dark red hair was parted and drawn about the head above -the ears like a cap, its gleam of colour apparent only in the gloss of -the high lights. The blue eyes and fresh complexion and fine, regular -features were done with infinite tenderness. She sat in a black gown, -opening wide at the neck, against a red background formed by a cloak -thrown over the chair. Moira knew it was good painting, of an exquisite -older style, though the name of the painter was unsigned and had long -been forgotten. She amused herself making little verses about it. - - “My young great grandmother sits in her frame - And the red of her cloak burns warm as a flame....” - -Many a time she sat up in her bed pretending to have conversations -about the stirring adventures of her grandmother’s early days, for she -had heard the whole story of the young woman’s arduous journey and -home-building--and also about the young men who came to Thornhill, -discussing their characters without reserve. One could do this in -perfect propriety with a dead great grandmother. - -“Tommy McNutt wants to come over every day and ride with me, -Grandmother. But he squints out of doors, and he always wants to help -you on a horse and he talks like a newspaper piece. I’d rather have -somebody to talk to like old George Moore, wouldn’t you, dear? It’s a -pity you were born too early to read George Moore. I know you would -like him”--and she broke off for rhyme again: - - “The courtly old painter I am sure wore lace - And the things he said brought a flush to her face.” - -“But if I should like Tommy I’d have a whole house as big as this one -all my own. And if I should like Mark Sturm, the young brewer, I’d have -two.... I don’t care, _Maman_ will give me a house.” - -“Then there’s Selden Van Nostrand. He’s tremendously popular because he -makes up verses about ‘Aphrodite in a nightie,’ but he sometimes does -better than that. The other day he said his heart was a leaf devoured -by the worm of Egotism, shrivelled in the fire of Sex, and trampled -by the feet of Virtue. I see you like that one, Grandma. Beautiful -Grandma, I have your eyes-- - - “Her wide blue eyes have a trace of play - And the day she sat was a fine bright day!” - -Moira finished her morning cup of tea on the stand beside the bed -and recalled suddenly that this fine, bright day was one of special -significance, for Hal was coming home from his last year at prep -school. Hal was the one young man she never talked to her great -grandmother about, because, as she explained to herself, she was his -great grandmother also and would be prejudiced. She stood in the -sunlight pouring through the window, watching it gleam upon her firm -shoulders and flanks. She had not decided whether she would go to the -station with her mother and Uncle Sterling or not. - -Hal had treated her pretty badly the summer before and been very -satirical, and the worst of it was she had found it hard to resent -because he had seemed suddenly to be much older and to have some right -to authority. He had been nicer at Christmas, taking her to two parties -and giving her a set of Verlaine bound in tooled leather, but even when -he tried to be nice to her he had somehow seemed condescending. - -She was in great doubt. Nobody, of course, would attach any -significance to it, whichever she did, not even Hal, probably. It was -only important to herself. She knew something had happened to her -during the past year that was comparable to the change in Hal the year -before. She had evidence now under her hands and in her eyes as she -stood undressed, evidence that did not wholly please her, for she had -lately taken a fancy to dislike women. More satisfactory evidence was a -sense of mental growth. - -She had just returned from a long Spring vacation in New York with -Mathilda, not her first visit but her most exciting one, and her -thoughts were awhirl with Pavlova and Rachmaninoff and the Washington -Square Players, bobbed hair and the operas at the Metropolitan, and a -dozen startling, vivifying, even violent art exhibitions. She felt that -she was probably much more splashed by the currents than Hal himself, -for certainly one did not really learn anything at a boy’s school. Such -places could only be high class stables for thoroughbred colts to pass -the awkward stage in, under trainers far less capable than those they -would have had if they were horses. - -And now the question was whether to test the glamour of these mental -and physical acquisitions upon Hal by waiting to meet him alone, or -to go like a good fellow and see him with the family. There was, of -course, nothing personal about it; Hal was no more than an opportune -judge. He represented the best criticism the East had to send back to -them. - -After her bath she decided for action. She would go with the others and -meet him. “Anyway, why attach so much importance to Hal? He’s quite -capable of attaching enough to himself.” - -There was the possibility, too, of dramatic interest in his arrival. -The year before, on his return, at eighteen, he had boldly announced -to his father he was going to war. There wasn’t to be a day lost, he -wanted to go at once. Every man in his class was going somehow or -other. Sterling Blaydon opposed it, the argument dragged out for days, -and finally the family won. But it was only with the understanding -that if Hal would finish his last year at school he might make his own -decision. The country’s participation in the war was now over a year -old and the outlook was dismal, one German advance after another having -succeeded. There were plenty of youngsters of nineteen and twenty in -it, and Hal would insist upon enlisting. He had, as a matter of fact, -and as his letters showed, done almost no schooling at Fanstock that -year. The entire institution had been made over into a training camp. - -Moira remembered how her cousin had chafed the summer before, hating -his idleness and the wretched fate of being in excessive demand to -entertain girls. Her sympathy with his groans had gone a long way to -help her forgive his ill treatment. - -And yet she had never been worked up to a pitch of great excitement -about the war. - -One failing had troubled her ever since she could remember--the -tendency to disagree with opinions as soon as an overwhelming majority -held them. - -It was partly due to the example of Mathilda’s own fastidiousness and -independence of judgment, but she went farther than Mathilda, and -supposed that she must have inherited this inconvenient trait from that -mythical father of whom she had been told so little and longed to know -so much. At all events, she arrived at certain conclusions, by herself, -about the war: for example, that perhaps Germany was not entirely the -instigator, that cruelties were probably practised on both sides--war’s -horrors produced them--and that after all it did seem as though the -whole world was furiously pitted against two or three caged-in nations. - -She did not entirely like herself for these heresies and kept silent -upon them. But she promised herself the fun of an argument with Hal. -How it would irritate him! - -“He’ll think I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps he’ll surrender me to the -authorities. How wonderful--I wish he would!” - -She took one final glimpse of herself and walked slowly out of the room -to face a hard day. She felt she would prove a formidable antagonist -for Hal. - -But downstairs a surprise was waiting. She found Mathilda, suppressing -a few tears, and her Uncle sitting in a profound study. Their -disappointment communicated itself to her at once. Something had -happened about Hal. - -Mrs. Seymour indicated the yellow night-letter on the table. - - “Dear Father and Aunt [it read]: Offered chance to join aviation - training corps, Long Island, at once. No time to come home. Wish me - luck enough to get over soon. Love. Hal.” - -Well, that was sensation enough for her. He had acted with divine -independence. - -The months that followed until the Armistice were dull and tragic. -She would a hundred times rather have gone over herself, though it be -as a rank flag-waver. It was all stupid, cunning, criminal, got up by -old men to kill young ones. It would be stupid enough to take Hal, her -playmate. Night after night she saw him, mutilated or dead; she got -so she could picture exactly the way a small hole looked in a man’s -forehead, just the degree of red and blue about its tiny rim, and the -relaxed, livid expression of a face that had been dead several hours. -These pictures haunted her wakeful nights in many different guises, but -always with Hal’s features. She learned in imagination how flesh looked -when it was laid open or gangrened, and the appearance of the end of a -limb that had been taken off. And she grew so bitter that she found she -could not pray, though she had always experienced a soothing pleasure -from the language of the Book of Common Prayer. She never said those -pieces again. She would sit up suddenly in bed, as though she had been -wakened by a barrage, and talk by fitful candlelight to her portrait. - - - - -XI - - -“And you aren’t really sorry you didn’t get over?” - -“Sorry? Wouldn’t you be?” - -“Well, I don’t know. Considering the hordes of disillusioned veterans -I’ve met this winter--” - -“At least they had a chance to get disillusioned in action. Something -for their money. With me it’s just two years--practically three -years--gone to pot, and a sort of feeling it isn’t worth while to go -back at all. To college, I mean.” - -“You couldn’t start this time of year, could you?” - -“I suppose I could do something.” - -“It would be fun having you around until Fall--like old times.” - -Hal laughed shortly. - -“You’d care?” - -“I’ve had a good long spell of Thornhill alone, you know. Next year I -shan’t mind, because I’ll be away at school myself.” - -“My Lord, Moira, have you anything more to learn?” - -“Oh, yes, I could learn to be useful, for instance.” - -“You manage to be most anything, if the notion strikes you.” - -“I’m not so crazy to go,” she mused. “I imagine it’ll be rather awful. -Formalities, lady lecturers, highbrow girls with shell-rimmed glasses. -They’ve been cramming education down the throats of the fashionable -young for a generation and what’s the result? Country clubs, -prohibition, and a beastly war.” - -“Cynical, eh?” - -“No more than you would be, if you’d done nothing but read newspapers -these last two years. I suppose now they’ll all combine and squeeze -everything out of Germany that she has left--just as the Persians and -the Greeks did, and the kings in the Bible. And there’ll be a lot of -moralizing--more than ever. Of course, you’ll be glad. The victor is -always spoiled.” - -“Pooh,” he laughed. “You’ve got me wrong. I don’t give a damn what -they do. Say, the only principles I have left are principles of -horsemanship. I’m highly interested in the way you sit Elfin.” - -“Isn’t she a beauty!” - -“She’s a pretty horse. But I wasn’t referring entirely to the equine -part of the combination.” - -It was the first real day they had had together since Hal’s discharge -from camp the week before. The weather was like an Indian summer -afternoon, one of those exceedingly mild days of February between -spells of stiff cold. They had been galloping along the high road, -when Moira suddenly pulled up and turned her horse into a meandering -lane, so narrow that the stripped branches met in sharply accentuated -patterns overhead against the sky. The fields were a monotonous, hard -stubbly brown, except where pockets of soiled snow lay in the holes and -under the protecting sides of hillocks. - -“Is Selden Van Nostrand coming out to-morrow?” asked Hal, after they -had ridden a hundred yards in silence. - -“Yes.” - -“Does he come out often?” - -“Yes ... let’s go as far as Corey’s Inn for a bite. I’m famishing, -aren’t you?” - -“I don’t like him. I suppose you know that.” - -“You’re not going to be like the rest of the patriots, are you? Get so -you despise anybody with a critical mind?” - -“I admire people who say what they mean as much as anybody. But I do -object to Van Nostrand, because he’s faintly rotten, and even his wit -is literary. He always seems to be rehearsed. Anybody can do that Wilde -thing if they study up on it long enough. The point is, is it worth -while?” - -She laughed with a touch of malice. - -“You sound like a book review, Hal. His line is pretty easy, but it’s a -line. Nobody ever even tries to be amusing here, and he not only tries -but I think he succeeds.” - -“It’s from him, I suppose, you got this fellow-feeling for the Germans. -Well, he had plenty of opportunity to cultivate it, staying at home.” - -Moira gave him a glance of friendliness. - -“Oh, it’s such fun to have you back, I don’t care what you say. If you -knew all the dreams I’ve had, terrifying dreams, seeing you--hurt and -cut up and dead. I’d wake up mad enough to kill Germans myself.” - -“Did you really dream about me, Moira?” He pulled his horse closer to -hers, leaning as far as he could. The girl’s mount, disliking to be -crowded, pranced out of control, and Hal had to swerve away, but he -kept his eyes on the straight, slim figure. - -“God, Moira, what a beauty you’ve grown!” - -She began to murmur aloud: - - “When I was one and twenty - I heard a wise man say - Give crowns and pounds and guineas - But not your heart away, - Give gold away and rubies - But keep your fancy free, - But I was one and twenty, - No use to talk to me.” - -“Moira!” he cried, but she was gone, at full gallop down the lane. - -“Hurry!” she called back, “I’m nearly dead with hunger.” - -And from there to the inn was a race. - -When they returned it was dark, and both were eager to reach the -stables, but as they wheeled into the little pasture road which led -through the tenant’s land and past Hermann Dietz’ house, a curious -scene halted them. - -The house was a very old-fashioned small wooden dwelling, with a high -stone foundation, built by the past generation of Dietzes twenty-five -or thirty years before. The barn, larger than the house, was some -twenty yards from the kitchen door, across a squalid cow yard. A dim -lamp or two was burning in the house, but this was completely deserted, -the doors hanging open and giving it a half-witted grimace. The centre -of attraction was a big double barn door. Around this, in a lighted -semi-circle stood the Dietz family, consisting of the bony, tall, -salmon-faced father, the emaciated, dreadfully stooped mother, and four -children of varying ages. A curious murmur arose from the group, and -riding closer, Moira and Hal saw that they were weeping. Beyond, they -could catch a glimpse of the body of a horse, swaying slightly from -side to side in its last agony, and casting monstrous shadows on the -high cobwebbed walls behind, thrown by the lantern which stood on the -ground at Hermann’s feet. - -Moira dismounted and signalled to Hal to follow her. - -“They’ve been grieving this way since yesterday,” she whispered, “and -to-day the veterinary told them he couldn’t save the horse.” - -The sobs arising from the pitiful group, two of the smallest of whom -clung to their mother’s skirts and hid their faces, more frightened -at the commotion than troubled about the horse, rose and fell with -the spasms of suffering that swept over the dying beast. Moira heard -Ellen’s reassuring voice and saw her face for the first time in the -lantern light at the far end of the group. - -“Ah, Mrs. Dietz, let them put the poor animal out of its pain,” she was -saying in a loud whisper to the mother. “It can’t live.” - -Moira turned to Hal and took his arm. He had been smiling grimly at the -scene, but as her hand fell upon his sleeve he covered it with his own. -The horse, the drama of primitive sorrow, everything was forgotten, -except her features and hair, and gipsy loveliness in the wavering -light. - -“They’re Ellen’s children, these people,” she said. “She’s wonderful -to them. She told me yesterday ‘that horse is like a member of their -family, Miss Moira. It’ll be terrible when it dies.’ Isn’t she fine to -come down here and comfort them?” - -They turned at the sound of foot-steps crossing the hard earth and -stubble, and two stocky figures passed them. - -“Hullo,” said one, with a grin. It was Rob Blaydon, carrying in his -hand something from which they caught a quick gleam as he passed. The -veterinary was with him. Both went up to Hermann and held a hurried -consultation, and during this the family fell silent. Presently the -three men parted. Hermann spoke up in a high, quavering voice. - -“Well, Momma, they say it’s jest got to be done. We jest got to give -her up, and put her out of her misery. I don’t know where we’re a-goin’ -to git another one like her. I don’t know--that I don’t. Poor old -Molly. She’s been with us now longer than my boy there, pretty near -as long as Lilly here. It breaks me up to lose her. Yes, sir, it goes -hard, but there ain’t no helping it.” - -“That’s the way to look at it, Hermann,” said Rob, with gruff good -nature. - -Hal raised his voice from where he stood with Moira at some distance. - -“I’ll give you another horse, Dietz,” he said. Moira squeezed his arm. - -“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Hal,” the farmer responded, obsequiously, -peering for him in the weak light. “Now, Momma, ain’t that fine! Well, -children, I guess we better be movin’ in. Poor Molly--I’d rather not -see you do it, gentlemen, if you don’t mind.” - -The family turned to obey, exhibiting a variety of expressions, from -fright to the deepest woe, but Moira observed that there was one who -had not shared the general grief--the short, mature, straw-haired girl -of sixteen or seventeen, whose face bore a stolid, disdainful look. She -followed toward the kitchen after Ellen and one of the small children, -but as she reached the porch she turned and gazed at Rob Blaydon, -fascinated by the revolver in his hand. In the weird light, which cast -a romantic glow over her figure and uncouth clothing, Moira thought the -girl had a touch of beauty, fresh and coarse and natural as earth. - -“Poor Hermann,” she said, “he’s a rustic Pierrot, Hal.” - -Just as they topped the ridge they heard the harsh double-fire of Rob -Blaydon’s revolver. She was glad to see the lights of Thornhill. - -“Well,” said Hal, “Rob had a good hunch to-night--even if it was fun -for him. Just the sort of thing he’d love. There’s the boy who needed -to go to France. As it is he’ll get over that raw streak very slowly.” - -“Rob’s a dear,” she broke in, earnestly. “I’m not one of those who -worry about him. He’s a good animal--without a shred of theory in him. -I let him get me most beautifully pickled twice last Fall.” - -“The devil you did!” exclaimed Hal. - -“Why not? He knows everybody everywhere and they like him. And he -drives like a wild man--when he’s had a few. Now you wouldn’t be such -a good fellow, would you, Hal? You’d be cautious and look after my -morals, and count my drinks and take me home early.” - -“Yes, I’m afraid I would,” he said. “And I suppose you wouldn’t like -it.” - - - - -XII - - -It was Ellen’s night off and after the dispatching of the horse, she -stayed with Mrs. Dietz to cheer her up and help put the two youngest -children to bed. She had been so long a constant visitor and benefactor -that they had ceased to regard her as an emissary from the big house -and talked of their troubles freely before her. - -The five of them sat about the lamp in the comfortless but warm living -room of the farmhouse, listening to a monologue by Hermann Dietz on the -virtues of the dead horse. Although he had been born within a hundred -feet of that spot, and his father had come to America as a boy, Dietz’ -accent, like many of his kind bred to the farms thereabouts, still bore -traces of the German. They were a squatter-like tribe, never prosperous. - -“Poor old Molly, she was not so old, yet, but it seemed like we had had -her always, Mrs. Williams. She did her share, Molly.” - -“What did Mr. Robert do to Molly?” asked the boy, plaintively. “Did he -shoot her? Can I go see?” - -“No, no, you wait until morning. Don’t you mind about Molly. She was -sufferin’ terrible, and she’s better where she is. But we’ll miss her. -Yes, Johnnie, when you was a little bit of a feller, two, three years -old, Poppa used to put you on Molly’s back and hold you, and you’d -laugh and holler and she’d walk so easy just as if she knew you was a -baby.” - -“Things was different in them days,” piped his wife. “Them automobile -horns, now. We didn’t never used to hear them. But nowadays it’s half -the night, Mrs. Williams. I can’t get used to ’em. They keep me awake -so.” - -“Ah, they wouldn’t be so bad,” put in the girl Lilly, “if we could ride -in ’em now an’ then, the way others do. Johann Hunker’s got a m’chine.” - -“Ach, you are always bellerin’ about a m’chine,” her father burst out. -“When you got one you got a hole to throw money in. Listen to them rich -people even, talkin’ about how much they cost. What have I got to do -with a m’chine? An’ whose goin’ to run it, your Momma? I ain’t goin’ -to take no risks with ’em, not since I got that sunstroke last August -anyways. I git so dizzy sometimes I think I can’t get home to the -house.” - -“I could run it,” grumbled Lilly. - -“You now, Lilly! You’ve got plenty to do without that. You don’t tend -to your work the way it is.” - -“She’s gettin’ so lazy she’s got no head to remember anything,” put in -her mother. “I don’t dare leave the children with her.” - -“M’chine!” Dietz quavered on, “I ain’t got no money for ’em if I wanted -one.” - -“You’ve got the money, I guess,” said Mrs. Dietz querulously, “the same -as Johann Hunker, if you wanted to spend it.” - -“Now, Momma, I told you twenty times already I’m takin’ care of your -money. Who’s goin’ to keep it safe for a rainy day, if it ain’t me?” - -“Well, we don’t see anything of it, Hermann, not since you got hold of -it ... sellin’ off the farms, an’ leavin’ us with hardly a place to put -foot to the ground.” - -“Yes, Momma,” rejoined her husband earnestly. “I did sell off the -farms. But you know what Mr. McNutt said. He said if I didn’t want -to take that two hundred dollars an acre Mr. Blaydon offered, they’d -all go somewheres else an’ build, and our land never would git a high -price. You couldn’t git a hundred for it in them days.” - -“There’s some of them waited longer an’ got more. Johann Hunker did.” - -“Johann Hunker may be a slick feller, but if I hadn’t sold when I did -they mightn’t have come here at all, an’ then where would Johann Hunker -be? Never you mind about that money. It’s a-drawin’ good interest.” - -Dietz lifted his tall, bent form from his chair and shuffled over to -the stove to dump his pipe. Then he turned again to his wife, a sudden -grin spreading over his cheeks. - -“Well, Momma, what about a little wine? Seeing Mrs. Williams is here, -eh? A little home-made wine and coffee cake. We’ll give the childern -some wine to-night, eh? Lilly, bring up the chairs to the table.” - -The girl rose languidly to obey and Mrs. Dietz departed for the -bedroom, returning a moment later with a long bottle. Lilly brought -glasses and placed them on the red-figured table cover. - -“Get the coffee cake, Lilly,” her mother ordered. - -Dietz toyed affectionately with the stem of his glass filled with -bright red liquid. - -“Ach, the home-made wine--that is good! Well, it is like old times, -Momma--when the older children, Lena and Fred was here, and Lilly was a -little girl about Johnnie’s size. Yes, it was fine then. None of these -rich people with big houses and all that. We was the bosses then.” - -“We had all the land,” put in Mrs. Dietz gloomily. “We could get enough -off of it to sell a good crop every year and plenty of vegetables to -the commission men, and you always had money, if you needed it for -anything, like Molly dying. Now it’s in the bank and we can’t spend -nothing. No, the land was better than the money.” - -“Mr. Blaydon, he gives me sixty dollars a month, and all the feed for -the stock, and half the money from the truck. That is something, sixty -dollars sure every month.” - -“But you’ve got to work for Mr. Blaydon, and I do, and even the -childern. It ain’t the same as when we worked for ourselves.” - -“Poppa,” broke in Lilly, as she cut the long flat sections of coffee -cake, “Mary Hunker was selling some of Johann’s wine over at Corey’s -last week. She got a big price, enough to buy a new dress. Can I sell -some of Momma’s wine? We can’t ever drink up what we got every year.” - -“Ach Himmel!” Dietz cried, bringing his glass down with a rattle upon -the table. “There is that girl. We have the land and sell that. We have -the wine and we got to sell that too. Ain’t there nothing we can call -our own? No, Lilly, you let the wine be.” - -“I never get clothes at all like the Hunker girls,” she replied -sullenly. “I saw a green dress, a pretty one, over at town that was -only thirteen dollars and fifty cents.” - -“But, Lilly, your sister Lena never bought no dresses for thirteen -dollars and fifty cents. And Lena always looked nice. She married a -man with a fine bakery business on Oak Street. He took Lena already -because she was a neat, sensible girl and wouldn’t throw away his money -for him. I don’t know what to think of you, Lilly. A honest, Christian -girl, the way you’ve been brought up. You ain’t like your sister, is -she, Momma?” - -“You wouldn’t expect all girls would be alike, Hermann,” said her -mother. “Lilly is a good girl, but times have changed since Lena was -her age. You give me the money, now, and I’ll go with her to look at -the dress.” - -“Well, well, I guess so,” replied Hermann, mollified by his wife’s -firmness. “That is a lot of money, but Lilly is a pretty girl, eh? I’ll -give you the money to-morrow and maybe you can buy the dress before -Sunday. Then them Hunker girls won’t be so fresh up at church.” - -“Pour some more wine for Mrs. Williams, Lilly,” said Mrs. Dietz. - -“No,” said Ellen, “I must be going.” - -“Yes, a night cap, Mrs. Williams,” said Dietz, in his best manner. “A -little more wine for all of us, and then we’ll go to bed. I got to get -Meyer, if I can, or Ed Becker, to help me bury poor Molly to-morrow. -You got to dig a big hole for a horse.” - -As Ellen left the cottage and started homeward she did not know -whether to laugh or cry. It was always the same story, poverty and -hard work, and the vanity of the young girl tempted as she had been -most of her life by the strange, glamorous panorama of the rich at her -very doorstep. And she had not the sense of pride the older folks had -enjoyed, the knowledge of having been masters of the neighbourhood. -Mrs. Dietz’ remark haunted her mind. “The land was better than the -money.” For such as these people, it was. It had given them all they -had, all they could possibly have, to live for. - -The shortest path up the hill to the Blaydon house was rocky and steep, -and a third the way up Ellen stopped for breath and regretted she had -not walked around the longer way. It was dark under the trees and hard -to stick to the path. She sat down to remove a pebble from her low -shoe. As she stood up again facing the foot of the hill, she could see -a broad patch of Dietz’ field through an opening in the branches. At -that moment a figure stepped out from the trees into the open space and -came to a stop as if waiting. It was a man undoubtedly, she thought, -but she was curious to make sure. So few prowlers ever disturbed the -peace of the place. She crept down the path, holding on to the shrubs -and tree-trunks and making as little noise as possible. She decided -she would wait until the man moved on and go around by the road after -all. Reaching the bottom she found herself within a few yards of Rob -Blaydon. A moment later, nearer the already dark and silent Dietz -house, she saw another figure stirring. What could Rob be up to and who -was his confederate? Then swiftly, Lilly darted from the shadow of the -house and joined him. The two disappeared, exchanging whispers, around -the side of the hill. - -Ellen started impulsively, as though she would stop them, but she did -not go far. What could she do? She knew Rob Blaydon too well to think -that he would take any interference from her or from any inferior. He -was not a mean boy, but he was headstrong. He would tell her that he -thought her a busybody and a nuisance. And supposing she went to Lilly? -Lilly would be frightened and cowed for the moment. But Ellen realized, -far more sharply than the girl’s family, how deep her rebellion lay. In -the end she would throw advice to the winds. - -There was left the alternative of warning Mathilda or Sterling Blaydon. -If she did so what could she prove? Rob was bold enough to make the -thing appear in any light he desired, some boyish escapade in which he -had inveigled the girl to join. To excite the Dietz family about the -girl’s danger was as useless. They could not control her in any case, -and it might fire her to desperate measures. Ellen could do nothing -that would result in any good, nothing except create a scandal. - -She sat down and wondered if she cared. She certainly cared about the -child’s welfare, but now that she felt it was impossible to prevent -what was happening, she could reason about it calmly. Life was a -dreadfully sad thing any way you took it. But could this love affair do -the girl more harm than she was sure to meet with in any event--perhaps -at the hands of worse men? Might it not come to mean something to -her she would cherish despite its cost? Ellen’s only answer to these -questions was her own experience. Perhaps it had been worth while. Her -daughter was happy, with an unclouded future, and she was contented. -Knowledge of herself had suddenly shaken her faith in the creed that -one must inevitably suffer pain because of sin. - - - - -XIII - - -From the house far above them came the indistinct sound of Mathilda -at the piano. Was it “_Reflets dans l’eau_” she was playing? As the -music stopped the chaotic noises of life took up their endless staccato -rhythm--cows lowing in the pasture, a workman calling to another, the -beat of a hammer in some farmhouse, the restless twitter and trilling -of birds, the snapping and stirring of branches, a motorhorn sounding -a thousand miles away, it seemed--the music of the universe that was -flowing through her now in a full stream. Moira opened her book at -random: - - “Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see; - Let the dew-fall drench either side of me; - Clear apple leaves are soft upon that moon - Seen side-wise like a blossom in the tree; - Ah God, ah God, that day should come so soon....” - -She stopped and looked off through the leaves to the wide fields where -the sun lay. - -“Don’t you love it, Hal,” she said, “just the sound of it, the perverse -beauty of it? Is there anything more wonderful?” - -Hal rolled over upon the flat of his back staring thoughtfully up -from the shady chamber of green, the tiny grotto at the cliff-foot, -up at the grey old overhanging boulders, like moles and maculations -on the brow of an ancient crone, the massy tangle of branches and -leaves bursting from among them and cutting off half his vision of -the glittering blue heaven, wherein floated great flocks of clouds as -artificial in their sheer whiteness and hard outlines as puff-balls on -a pool. His muscular brown arms and neck were bare to the white bathing -shirt. His bright blonde hair was tousled over his face, which was -mature and strong. The girl’s voice made little ripples of pleasure run -over his limbs; it gave the words a significance which would never have -reached him without her-- - - “The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie, - Kissed upon either cheek and either eye. - I turn to thee as some green afternoon - Turns toward sunset and is loth to die; - Ah God, ah God, that day should come so soon.” - -That certainly he could feel supremely, experience in himself. He let -his gaze rest upon her. The fine black hair, bobbed at last in spite -of Aunt Mathilda’s anxious objections, made a quaint pattern on the -face. Against it the glow of her skin and lips was the more brilliant -by contrast, and beneath the white angle of brow, the eyes, looking -suddenly at him from the page, were as clear, cool, vivid blue as -violets in a snowbank. - -There was in that face the necessary balance between strength and -frailty, self-possession and emotion, at least, so he thought, the -features not quite absolutely regular. He preferred that touch of -oddness; it was the stamp of her will, her curious insights, her traits -of unusual justice. It mitigated too much beauty. Greek models were all -very well in statues, but in a woman one wanted a lively difference.... -Moira’s book suddenly snapped shut, as though his slowly relished -inspection were too much for her. Her short laugh came like a chain of -melody from her whole body. - -“Poor Hal,” she cried, “aren’t you sorry you will have to listen to -Swinburne all your life?” - -He reached out an Indian forearm and drew her to him. They were silent -for a long time. Then she sat back, her eyes admiring the relaxed -strength of his body. - -“God!” he muttered, “and I once thought because we were cousins this -could never happen--I should never be allowed to speak.” - -“Such a good little boy,” she said. “You would have waited to be -allowed.” - -“It’s odd how I’ve never been able to think of you as Aunt’s daughter.” - -“Neither have I,” she replied. “But it is easy to explain. It takes -a man--a father--about the house to establish parentage. Mother is a -dilettante on her job, anyway. But I have some qualities from her, I -know.... What _was_ father like?” - -“I wasn’t exactly his playmate, you know!” he laughed. “I don’t -remember him any more than you do. But he must have been a regular, -from all I’ve heard. He was your father, all right.” - -“H’m.... Ned Seymour _sounds_ like a man who might be my father. And -names are wonderful--better than portraits--to read people by. I can’t -tell much by father’s looks. Poor Daddy, Maman stood by him, I’m glad -of that. She’s always been a heretic among her own. But if Daddy was -so ambitious, so indifferent to the world and all that, why didn’t he -leave me a sign, why didn’t he leave glorious works? He should have.” - -“He left you,” laughed Hal. - -“The work of an idle moment.” - -“Aren’t they the best? But I rather like that about your father, the -fact that he was a spectator rather than a spouter. So many darned -people aren’t content with their limitations. They have to puddle about -with paint and ink.” - -“As I do.” - -“It’s yours by right, I suppose. At least, you really like it.” - -“I have invented a litany, Hal. Will you listen to it? I invented it -for the saddest people in the world. It goes like this: O God, be -merciful to those who are free and must live with the fettered; to -the scornful laughers who are bound to the humourless; to the swift -who walk by the slow; and the idle who are bondsmen to the busy--and -especially, O God, be merciful to all those whose spirits were young -and whose generation denied them youth’s chance, amen. There must have -been many like Daddy in his day.” - -Through the trees the half moon glowed like the polished end of a -woman’s nail against a pink and sapphire West. It was an infinitely -tender moment, the end of a week of betrothal, the eve of his departure -for a trip North. - -“Let me, please, once more,” whispered Moira, “one I love.” And she -quoted: - - “La lune blanche - Luit dans les bois, - De chaque branche - Parte une voix, - Sous la ramée, - Oh, bien-aimée. - - “Une vaste et tendre - Apaisement - Semble descendre - Du firmament - Que l’astre irise.... - C’est l’heure exquise!” - -“You gave me those,” she said. “They were a peace offering one -Christmas, one year you had treated me very badly. I love them because -they are all young, all fresh, ageless. Let’s you and I, dear, resolve -to be young forever. Let’s make a bond of youth, cherish it, study to -keep it, never let it go.” - -“Moira, you will never be older than this day.” - -“I think it is easy to stay young if one keeps one’s unreasonable -likes. One should always like things that are a little twisted and -strange, in spite of what people think. One must like Verlaine’s -absinthe as well as Verlaine, Swinburne and Swinburne’s perversity -also, Rob and his wickedness--the wickedness he doesn’t understand. You -know, Hal, I didn’t go to college after all, because I was afraid it -would make me old, it would give me ‘interests.’ I hate the word. As if -everything wasn’t an interest!” - -They walked around by the flat, broad meadow, hushed in the dusk. The -first whip-poor-will was calling. She clung to his arm, enjoying the -sensation of firm muscles flexing under her hand. - -“I don’t care,” she cried. “I’m not afraid of anything. I would as soon -give myself to you, all of me, now, to-night. The rest, all the fuss, -does not count. What is there to fear in this glorious wide world, Hal?” - -“Nothing--but fear, I suppose,” he replied. - -Two white figures swaying together across the dusty furrows, they -merged into the darkness like birds fluttering out of sight in the -clouds. - - - - -XIV - - -Moira had considered Mathilda not at all in the swift, sudden, almost -cyclonic romance with Hal Blaydon, no more indeed than in any of her -flirtations. There had been many others, of all ages, from her own -up to fifty, and she had vaguely realized that when her choice was -made, if she made a choice, her mother would have to be counted in. -At times during the past week of incredible magic, she had feared the -possibility of a clash between them, owing to the good Episcopalian -views, to which Mathilda still clung, despite the advanced and -advancing habits of thought that surrounded her. But the logic with -which the girl faced this possibility was serene: harmony had always -prevailed between them, too much harmony perhaps, and some conflict was -inevitable sooner or later. It had better occur over this biggest and -most important choice of her youth. - -She had begun to wonder, of late, just how she felt toward her mother. -Certainly she was very fond of her, but it seemed hardly a filial -fondness. She admired Mathilda’s little fantasticalities; it was clear -that she had in her time been something of an idol-breaker; but it -was equally clear that her cherished image of herself as a person -of great independence of mind was somewhat out-worn. The daughter -had gone far beyond the older woman, or so she thought, and there -lurked small matters on which they concealed their opinions from each -other. Moreover, Moira had loved her most for the brightness and charm -of her manner and these were becoming clouded by a new development -that touched her closely--a secret in her brother’s life. Mathilda -had discovered the truth with amazement, but to all appearances had -reconciled herself to it. So long, she argued, as the apartment he -kept in town remained only a rendezvous for discreet meetings, she -did not greatly care. But more and more this other establishment was -taking Blaydon away from them. Could her brother possibly bring himself -to marry the woman--not now perhaps--but when age had weakened his -resistance and laid him open to appeals to sentiment and protection? -He was already far from a young man.... It was a situation that had a -profound effect upon her accustomed poise, because it was one which she -could not influence nor even speak of in his presence. - -After Hal had left on his trip that night, Moira put up her car--she -had driven him to the station herself--and walked into the library. -She found Mathilda embroidering, a pastime in which she was skilful, -and took a frank pride. It was her substitute for artistic expression, -as she said, a gift she had always honestly envied. Everybody they -knew, Moira thought, longed for artistic expression--and Hal had been -right to scorn it. There were Mary Cawthorn and Tempe Riddle--as -soon as people like that had taken up writing verse, she herself had -dropped it. She had turned exclusively to her painting. That, at least, -you couldn’t do at all, without some foreground, some knowledge and -practice. She was happy that her youth had been industrious enough to -bring her a measure of these. And she did not take it seriously. - -“Well,” said Mathilda, “you’ve seen your darling off?” - -The girl did not attempt to conceal her surprise. Then she laughed. - -“I suppose nobody could really have failed to know, who had been around -the house these last few days. Still, we thought we were so clever.” - -“There’s such a thing as being too clever. When you and Hal began to be -stiff toward each other, I knew what was happening.” - -“We must have been a fine pair of actors.” - -“But I’ve seen it coming all along. Before either of you did, I -believe.” - -Moira flopped upon the cricket at her mother’s feet, and looked into -her face affectionately. - -“And that means, darling, that you don’t object?” - -Mathilda ran her slim hand through the short, dark curls leaning -against her knee. - -“Of course not, my child. It’s the most perfect thing that could have -happened.” - -“Mother,” asked the girl, looking up at her whimsically, “when are we -ever going to quarrel, you and I?” - -“Never, I hope.” - -“Isn’t it rather unhealthy never to quarrel? Hal and I do, frequently, -and I’m glad of it.” - -“You won’t think that way when you are my age.” - -“_Maman_, are you very miserable about Uncle Sterling?” - -Mathilda’s reply was preceded by a short pause and a quick glance. - -“How did you know that?” she asked. - -“I have ears and eyes--and can put things together, you know,” laughed -Moira. Then she added, more gravely, “I really don’t think many people -know. When Selden hinted about it I denied the story flatly--for his -benefit.” - -“Why deny the truth?” It was one of Mathilda’s traits to be able to say -things the implications of which were unpleasant to her. - -“Oh, one must to busybodies. Only I do wish you wouldn’t be unhappy -about it.” - -“I’m not,” said the other, “so long as matters remain as they are.” - -“I see what you mean, dear. People who have professionally renounced -marriage ought to have some pride. They ought to observe the ethics of -their profession.” - -Mathilda smiled. - -“I’m afraid my attitude is not so impersonal. Isn’t that somewhere in -Shaw?” - -“It must be,” replied the girl. “But I’m quite thrilled over the whole -thing. Please forgive me for saying so. To think of Uncle Sterling -being so delightfully biblical!” - -She went to the table and brought the cigarettes. The older woman took -one from her and laid aside her embroidery. “You’ll do something for -me, you two?” she asked. - -“What?” - -“Get married as soon as possible.” - -“Oh, my dear! I’m only nineteen.” - -“Do you think you would ever change?” - -“No, I don’t think that.” - -“Then why not marry? I can’t understand the modern idea of waiting -until life is over to marry. It’s good for people to have their youth -together--when they can.” - -“Well, Hal has done all the planning, and I think it is very sensible. -In the first place, he’s going on with his chemistry. He doesn’t want -to go into the brokerage office, and you mustn’t tell Uncle yet.” - -“I approve of that. Brokerage will do for Robert.” - -“It means two more years for him at college. The first of them I shall -spend in New York studying. The next I want to spend in Paris, and I -want you to come with me, dear. How about it? And then--married in -Paris, and the Sorbonne or some German University for Hal. Isn’t that a -glorious programme? He really didn’t plan all of it.” - -“No, I imagine not,” laughed Mathilda. “He would probably have planned -it as I would, by beginning with the end. But I shan’t oppose you. I’ve -never opposed you much, Moira, not even when I might have done so with -justice. And the reason is that I have always wanted to live to see one -completely happy person. I hope you are going to be the one.” - -Mathilda concluded with a wistful note. - -“Darling,” cried the girl. “How good you have been to me. And I wonder -if I am going to be completely happy. I’ll try, and I shan’t be ashamed -or modest about it, either. Is that--egotistical?” - -A few minutes later as she passed Hal Blaydon’s door on the way to her -own, she could not resist the temptation to go in. She had never done -that before deliberately, and she felt a little like an intruder. She -had a great distaste for the practice of assuming privileges with -those one cared for, but she knew he would be pleased if he saw her -patting his bed affectionately and looking around at his belongings. As -she stopped in front of the untidy book-shelves, she smiled at their -incongruous juxtaposition of textbooks, modern novels and classic -survivals of adolescence--“This Side of Paradise” between a Latin -grammar and a Dictionary of Physics; “Cytherea,” which reminded her -just then of many men she knew, alongside of “Plutarch’s Lives.” She -reflected that she would probably not sleep very early to-night and had -no fresh reading in her bedroom. She quickly pulled out a volume and -went to her room. - -With her clothes off and three pillows behind her back, and a cigarette -between her lips, she picked up the book she had borrowed. There had -been a certain degree of method in her selection. It was an old, -loose-backed, green-covered copy of “Les Misérables,” one of her long -and growing list of “duty books,” that is to say, books she ought -to have read years ago and had not. This happened also to belong to -the classification of “school-piece” books. An English reader had -contained a selection from it, and she had once resolved, in a fit of -rebellion against the academic, never to read any books that yielded -school pieces for the boredom of the young. Later the conscience of -a cultivated adult had forced her to recant, and her _index librorum -prohibitorum_ had become an index obligatory. - -The book in her hand was a long one. She would just about finish it by -the time Hal came back, and that would be killing two birds with one -stone. - -She opened it at random and as she removed her thumbs the pages leaped -back to a marked place, occupied by a letter. She picked it up. It -was an old and faded letter, addressed to “Mrs. Ellen Williams, 21 -Trezevant Place.” That was Ellen, the cook, of course. She smiled a -little at the thought of Ellen reading a monstrous book like this. She -had never seen Ellen read anything except a recipe or a label. But, -of course, humble people did like Hugo. She had read “Notre Dame” and -“Ninety-Three.” - -Moira would have put the letter aside at once to hand it to the servant -in the morning had she not noticed two markings on the envelope that -strangely interested her. One was the date, just a month after she was -born. The other was the inscription on the flap in back, which read as -follows: - - from Miss Moira McCoy, - Lutheran Maternity Hospital, - 2243 Bismarck Street. - -Her own name, on a letter almost as old as she was! She laid it down. -She ought not to read it, of course. But it certainly was hard to -resist knowing what some little Irish girl in the hospital (who made -her capital “m’s” with three vertical lines and a horizontal bar across -the top) was thinking and doing a month after she was born. Wasn’t -there a “statute of limitations” on letters? No letter nearly twenty -years old could be private. The lure of romance that lurked in the -envelope was too strong. She hastily drew out the folded sheet and read: - - MY DEAR MRS. WILLIAMS: - - Just a note to tell you how honoured and tickled I am that you are - going to name your little daughter after me. - - I hope to see her sometime soon, and you also. I am so busy now, but - in two or three weeks I could call on my day off, Thursday, if it - could be arranged. - - So you love your new place? I’m so glad. We all miss you and--my - pretty little namesake. How proud it makes me. - - Sincerely your friend, - MOIRA McCOY. - -She had never heard of Ellen’s having a baby, and if she had just been -naming it when this letter was written it should have been about the -same age as herself. How curious it was that she and Ellen’s baby -should have had the same name. Perhaps her mother had liked the name -and borrowed it from Ellen, for Mathilda would take what she wanted; -but it did seem unlikely she would take the name of the cook’s baby -for her own. And what had become of Ellen’s Moira? She would ask Ellen -about it in the morning. Never had her curiosity been so oddly and -intensely aroused. - -She cast the letter from her and opened Hugo, but her eyes were heavy -and her mind weary with the thoughts and excitements of that day. In a -few moments she was asleep. - -When she awoke in the morning the first thing she thought of was the -letter, and she reread it. The mystery had clearly taken a strong hold -upon her mind. While dressing she decided to postpone seeing Ellen, -and every time she went to her room during the day she read the letter -again and asked herself more and more puzzling questions about it. Why, -for example, had Ellen never spoken of her child, particularly if it -had the same name as herself? Was there something distasteful in the -recollection either to Ellen or to her mistress? - -Moira could not get into the Hugo book at all. Instead she took a long -drive in her car and, finding that a bore, she tried riding which -proved no better. She was tempted to hunt up Rob or telephone for -Selden and go somewhere for a cocktail and a dance. Failing to reach -either of them or to decide on anything definite to do, she began to -find Ellen a source of enormous interest. Hardly realizing it, she -spied upon her all afternoon, and searched her smiling, unconcerned -features whenever she appeared. It was hard to think of Ellen ever -having had a baby. She stopped herself from pursuing this obsession a -half a dozen times, but the spell of curiosity lingered. And still she -could not bring herself to speak to the woman. By nightfall she was -scattered and depressed, with the feeling of having spent a wasted day. - -She went to bed early and tried again to read Hugo, but instead, she -found herself rereading the McCoy letter. It drew her like a sinister -charm. She threw on a dressing gown and began walking in the room. For -the first time in her whole life her fingers shook as she started to -take a cigarette from her box, and actually muffed it. This made her -angry, and she lit the cigarette swiftly and fiercely and clattered the -box down on the table. Then she was able to laugh and upbraid herself. - -“Good Lord!” she cried. “What has the cook and her offspring to do with -me? Why am I so excited?” - -But even as the words died on her lips her reassurance departed. She -would never get control of herself until she investigated. Why hadn’t -she talked to Ellen that day and got this foolish curiosity off her -mind? The woman would think it strange if she called on her at this -late hour to return a twenty-year-old letter, even though it contained -sacred memories. Yet why should Ellen think that? She would simply -slip down and hand her the letter with some gay nonsense about it -being better twenty years late than never, and if Ellen wasn’t tired -and seemed talkative she would ask her about the coincidence of names. -It was certainly no new thing in that house for Moira to do whimsical -and unexpected things. She could come back and sleep and dream of her -blessed Hal--poor Hal, he had hardly had a thought from her all day. - -The regular servants’ rooms were at the top of the house, but Ellen -lived alone in the little wing off the kitchen. She had chosen this -ground floor room because it was closer to the affairs that directly -concerned her, outside and in, and because she was a privileged person, -the dean of the servants. Moira’s visit then would disturb nobody. She -drew her pretty gown about her and walked boldly downstairs, knocked, -made a laughing request to be admitted and waited for the startled -woman to put something around her and unlock the door. - -“Is this your letter, Ellen?” she asked. “I found it last night and -meant to give it to you to-day, but forgot it. I thought you’d be so -glad to get it back, I’d just come down and give it to you before I -went to sleep. You see ... I read it--the date was so near my birthday.” - -Ellen opened the letter and read it through with apparent awkwardness -and difficulty. - -“Why, Miss Moira, where did you get this? It’s been lost for years. I -didn’t know it was in existence.” - -“I found it in a book upstairs.” - -“My land! How did it get there, I wonder?” - -“It was an old volume of Hugo’s--‘Les Misérables.’” - -The girl winced a little as Ellen repeated the name after her and -mispronounced it schoolboy fashion. - -“Oh, yes, yes, I remember. That’s so many years ago. To think this -letter has been there all that time!” - -“I didn’t know you had ever had a baby, Ellen. Tell me about it. Are -you too sleepy?” - -“No, I’m not sleepy, Miss Moira--” Ellen’s politeness prompted the -words, yet the girl caught a hint that she would have liked to end the -conversation. “You--you startled me so,” she went on. “But--there isn’t -anything to tell.” - -“Did she die?” - -“Yes, Miss Moira.” - -The fidgety excitement which seized the grey-haired woman was -understandable on the ground of old memories being suddenly aroused. -Moira’s voice expressed the tenderest sympathy. - -“How sad. She would have been such a comfort to you now.” - -“Yes. But that’s all so long ago, ma’am. It’s the way things happen in -this world for some of us.” - -“And your husband? Is he dead, too?” - -The questioning was becoming more and more difficult for Ellen. When -she answered it was with a touch of impatience. - -“I don’t know. I don’t know where he is.” - -“He deserted you?” - -“Yes.” - -Moira felt the need of some apology, induced by Ellen’s uneasiness, -but the very fact that the information was unsatisfactory made her -perversely eager to stay, although the little room oppressed her. - -“I suppose you think I’m awfully curious, Ellen,” she said, with a -short laugh. “And very inconsiderate to come and talk to you about -these things at this time of night. But it seems so strange that you’ve -been here ever since I can remember, and I’ve never heard about them--I -suppose I thought you didn’t have an early life. You’re so cheerful, -one doesn’t imagine you’ve had sorrows.” - -“People forget, ma’am. You can’t stay sad always.” - -“Isn’t it funny,” Moira broke in, “that I’ve got the same name your -daughter had?” - -“Ye-es--I guess it is.” - -Ellen’s forced laugh and strained expression, and the tongue-tied -moment that followed, were as hard for Moira as for the speaker. The -silence lengthened. The older woman twisted in her uncomfortable seat -on the bed. She obviously did not want to be looked at nor to look at -the girl. Why, thought Moira, should she make all this fuss over old -memories? What harm was in them? Ellen was not naturally shy--she could -be voluble enough at times, and quite intelligent. - -“And we were just about the same age, weren’t we?” - -“No, oh, no,” burst out the other, and stopped suddenly. - -“But the letter is dated so near my birthday,” said Moira, a little -brusquely, “and speaks of your baby’s christening. We’d have to be.” - -“Bu-but--my little girl was christened very late.” - -“She was christened about the time I was, by the same name, and in the -same house? Why, it’s really a romantic idea, isn’t it?” - -“Yes,” said Ellen, “that was how it was. Your--your mother liked the -name too.” - -Moira felt a wave of compassion for the lonely old woman. There seemed -to be nothing left to do but to go. She rose as if to do so, and then -that impulse of sympathy caused her to sit down beside the other on the -bed. She spoke very gently. - -“Ellen, I’m sorry, I’ve been opening an old wound, haven’t I? I can see -that it hurts you. You understand why I am so interested--because of -the name? That’s natural, isn’t it? But I’m glad to have learned about -it. I shall think of you so differently from now on.” - -“Yes, Miss Moira, thank you.” The girl’s closeness to her and sympathy -made Ellen’s voice tremble. She looked down at the letter which she had -been rolling and twisting in her fingers, and following her glance, -Moira realized that her own curiosity was not appeased at all. The -mystery was as much a mystery as ever. - -“Why, you’re destroying your letter,” she said with a laugh, and took -it from her and straightened it out. “You must have been fond of Miss -McCoy,” she added gently. “Was she your friend?” - -“Yes.” - -“Was she sick, in the hospital?” - -“No, she--she was a nurse.” - -“Oh, of course. She speaks of being so busy and of missing you. And you -had your baby there?” - -“Yes.” - -“That old hospital is still there, Ellen. I’ve driven by it a dozen -times going to town. It doesn’t look like a very cheerful place to have -a baby, but I guess it was nicer in those days.” - -“It was all right,” said Ellen. Moira impulsively reached an arm about -her waist. - -“Well, I’m going now. You don’t want to talk any more about it, do you, -dear? I’ll ask mother to tell me the story. Can I--can I keep this -letter, just to show her? I’ll tell her the odd way I came across it.” - -Ellen’s hand flew in terror to the crumpled letter. - -“No--no, please, Miss Moira. Give it to me,” she begged. - -The violence of her action, its commanding tone, brought a flush of -anger to Moira’s face. She relinquished the letter. - -“Oh,” she said, in a changed voice. “I suppose I should apologize--that -is, no doubt you are angry that I read it.” - -“Yes, you shouldn’t have done that.” - -The servant spoke for the first time naturally, sincerely and -vigorously, and by contrast it made all her previous answers seem to -Moira like a patch-work of unreality and embarrassed evasion. Moreover, -the accusing tone of the remark added fuel to her resentment. She arose -and drew her dressing gown about her with a gesture of dignity. This -time she certainly must go. And yet she was hurt and offended. Her only -intent had been one of genuine interest and sympathy, and it had been -badly received. As she stood in the floor in this puzzled, dissatisfied -state, she caught sight of Ellen’s face appealing to her pathetically. - -“Please, Miss Moira,” the woman whispered hoarsely, “don’t tell Mrs. -Seymour, don’t tell her about this letter, or that you were here, or -anything.” - -The girl answered with an abrupt gesture of impatience. - -“Ellen, I don’t understand. What is all this secrecy, this mystery for? -I found your letter, I came to give it back to you and asked a simple -question--and you treat me as though I had done something criminal. -It’s foolish. I don’t see why I shouldn’t ask mother.” - -A blank panic seemed to have seized Ellen. She snatched the girl’s hand -and went on in the same hoarse voice: - -“I can’t explain, but only don’t, don’t say anything to her. For her -sake, for everybody’s sake, please!” - -Moira experienced a momentary insane illumination. It made her heart -stop and then flutter and then stop again. Twice in her life she had -felt herself near death--once in an accident with her car, and once -when her horse had thrown her. She felt now the same sensation she had -felt then. The questions that came to her lips would have seemed to her -idiotic a moment before. Yet they came irresistibly. - -“Ellen,” she cried, “what does all this mean? Have I got anything to do -with it?” - -“You? Oh, no, no,” cried Ellen. “No, you mustn’t think that!” - -“Was that baby me?” - -“Oh, Miss Moira, how can you--how can you dream--?” - -“Are you my mother, Ellen? Tell me the truth. I’ll never leave here -until I hear the truth. I’ll search this room, every inch of it.” - -But she did not need her answer in words. Ellen’s strength was gone. -Her mouth gibbered and her face ran tears. The girl sat down heavily, -as though she were facing a job that had to be got over with. She never -doubted the truth after that first glimpse of it, never tried to find -a loophole. There were simply details to be heard, the future to be -considered. She must get the whole story from Ellen, talk it over, make -some decision. It would be half the night before she was through with -it, and she hated it.... - -The sun had, in fact, appeared when she emerged from the little room, -with a strange tale in her possession, pieced together from the -incoherent reminiscences of Ellen. She had forgiven Mrs. Seymour, -forgiven her real mother, forgiven all of them for the deception. It -was only herself that she could not forgive, herself, humiliated by the -degrading masquerade of twenty years. - -The knowledge that gave her most courage was her illegitimacy--which -was clear from Ellen’s reticence. Better that a thousand times, better -a complete outcast, than a respectable nobody. She would go, of course, -go in secret, that day. She could take the fewest possible things, put -them in her car when no one was looking, and drive to town. What money -she needed to get established elsewhere she would have to take from her -own account at the bank, as a loan. Ellen had been sworn to say nothing -of the discovery. - -She stood at her window watching the first sun gild the tops of the -knolls, drive the low-lying mists slowly before it. This great knee of -a hill, this Penthesilea’s knee, had been a mother’s knee to her, more -truly than any human one. There were no relationships in Nature, and -this, the memory of her youth, could not be taken from her.... But it -would be long before she would see the morning rise from that window -again, and she lingered over it; not sentimentally. Why couldn’t she -feel sad? Why was she so hard--why had she been so cruel to Ellen? She -could hear her now pleading that she had given up Moira for her good, -pleading the advantages that had come to them by the sacrifice. Empty -advantages, thought their possessor, immorally got and useless to her -now, just so many more things to bid good-bye to. The only thing that -counted was Hal; if she was bitter it was because she feared yielding -to that. Fate had thrown her to Hal and snatched her away in the moment -of realization.... - -She turned from the full day flooding the window and went to her desk. -She wanted to write to him now, while she was strongest. - - Dear [she wrote]: I know what you would say. You would say that it - made no difference, and it would not now. But some day it would, it - would grow upon us and smother us. It would be ‘my past,’ and the - time would come when your pride might make you hate me, for I would - hate myself. I can face this now. I don’t know whether I could face - it later. I must go away and do something to absolve myself in my - own eyes. And you must not interfere--you cannot. It will be years - before I can see you again. I shall never forget these short days, - too precious to describe. It is almost enough, that memory, without - anything more. Good-bye. - -She could write no more, explain no more, though she wanted to. -She suddenly reflected on the injustice of having to carry all the -responsibility herself. She would have to repulse every advance, -however much she might long to accept it. - -She laid down her pen--a gold one that matched the other little tools -on her writing table--with a gesture that signified she was laying -down everything else in the room, the thousand things she had used and -loved, the horses, the trees, the long, dear roads, the very air of -Thornhill. - - - - -XV - - -The only things she saw at first were as dreary and tragic as herself. -It began the moment she left Thornhill, with her last vision of Ellen’s -agonizing, tear-stained face hiding at her window on the circular -drive. Then came the ride alone, through hot rows of dusty, dull brick -houses; the terror-inspiring sight of lives straitened and stagnant -through poverty; the abysmal reek of the neighbourhood, near a glue -factory, where she left her car in the garage, with instructions to -return it on the morrow, and engaged an express man to take her trunk; -the long file of weary, hopeful people with little green bills in their -hands at the bank--worshippers in the modern temple; the immigrants at -Union Station, sprawling on the circular benches about the pillars, -hemmed in by their squalid baggage and children; the herding of -exhausted, stupid families from the country trains to the street-cars -and from the street-cars to the trains; the smoke-patined inferno of -the city sweating in the heat after the clean beauty of her home.... - -She had been unable to get away in time to buy a berth in the fast -train. In order to leave that day, which was imperative, she was forced -to take the “two-day” train, and tried to console herself with the -thought that its second-rateness would more effectually cover her -flight. But the endless trip in coaches that contained unprepossessing -persons from the lower social chaos added to the weight that lay on her -spirit. - -The first night on the train she slept early and long, fatigued by -a day full of tasks, but the second she lay staring at the polished -red back of the berth above, her shade drawn up, her smarting eyes -conscious of the jabbing flashes of light as they passed through -sleeping towns, or straining out over dark, shuddering mysteries of -country; planning, wondering, trying to anticipate what life would -be like one year, two years, five years from to-night. Where should -she be; whom should she know? Should she be alive? Yes, she promised -herself, she would be that. The one thing she could not admit was that -life might end before she had fought it out. - -Once she asked herself what Mathilda was doing, for by this time her -flight was an old story, the worst of the scene between Ellen and -Mathilda was over. But they would be dreadfully unhappy nevertheless, -and the pity she could spare to them softened her own sense of wrong. -She flashed on the electric light in the berth and looked at her watch. -In six hours, had it not been for Victor Hugo, for a little scrawled -note written a fifth of a century ago, she would have been meeting -Hal Blaydon at the Blythedale platform. And who could say--if she had -married Hal and learned the truth afterward--would it have made any -difference after all? - -It was morning when they got beyond Pittsburgh and, sleepless and -discouraged, the grey day greeted her dismally. All she was able to -see beyond the window were little grimy houses belonging to coal -miners--they painted them a deep red or black in those parts, she -supposed because all life was accursed. For long distances nothing -caught her eye but these colours of Hell borrowed for earthly use. On a -high slope, dingy with slag and coal screenings and dust, there was a -black, sorry-looking house, where two children were swinging across the -cheap frame porch far above the train. They were singing, and it struck -her as the oddest thing she had ever witnessed. There were many houses -like it on that coal bank. Where there wasn’t coal there was yellow -mud. Where there were not either there were piles of rusty iron. She -might come to this herself, to ugliness and hunger. She shuddered and -darkened the berth, hiding her face from the vision as though it would -sear her beauty and put an end to her youth. Hardly a moment later, it -seemed, the porter awakened her from a deep sleep. They were in the -Pennsylvania station. - -Moira’s mood changed the moment she stood in the rotunda. The powerful -magic of the city stirred her. Had it been raining as only it can rain -in New York, had the streets been ice-bound or blistering in mid-summer -heat, she would have felt that great surge unabated. - -But to-day the city was in one of its magnificent sunny moods, laughing -at its own comic and gracile charms, whimsical with unreliable winds, -one of those startling, extravagant days when a walk in any street has -the effect of champagne. On a sudden impulse she ordered the cab to -the Ritz. She would enjoy one day, one supreme spell of indifference -and the sense of power, one hour at court when the regal town must -treat her with its finest smiles and courtesies. She wrote boldly on -the register “Mary Smith,” and the simple dignity of the name made it -distinguished in that long list of high-sounding titles. - -She breakfasted in state in her bedroom, looking over Park Avenue -toward the great railroad terminus, the innumerable roofs, which -stretched like irregular stepping stones to the river, the gracious -bridge uptown. She drove in a barouche to the Metropolitan Museum -and then down the Avenue, scenting its fine airs, and lingering on -its elegant details in the slow-moving vehicle; the gay pile of the -Plaza, like a monument erected to an Empress’ holiday; the pearly -home of the Vander-somethings, with its birdlike little statue of the -architect in a Rembrandt cap, perched among the décor of its roof; the -quaintly painted florist’s building in the forties; broad, gleaming -windows wherein the comfort of grizzled millionaires was framed for -the public’s delectation; the sleek cathedrals, English and Roman, -agreeably sunning themselves--almost tête-à-tête, with an air of -after-dinner ease; the occasional brown, old-fashioned banks, which one -took at first glance to be dwellings; the Library, squat with sedentary -scholarship and stained by too much knowledge of good and evil; the -mosque-like corner of the Waldorf; and far down where the Avenue -narrowed, pleasant-memoried houses of the older time, and a freshly -be-painted little French hotel, bright and impudent as a hat box from -the Rue de La Paix. - -This last looked so suitable to her state of high spirits that she -called to the driver to stop there. Strangely enough she had never been -in the Brevoort. She slipped down into the basement café and was soon -looking at the multiplied images of people in the mirrors that panelled -the walls; among them stocky, dapper bachelors, arty, bearded men, a -tall tan young fellow in a Norfolk, seemingly much fascinated with his -companion, a much older woman with a weathered elegant face. She liked -these. This, she supposed, had something to do with Greenwich Village, -though except through picture and story, she knew nothing of it. But -as she poured her tea for herself, she felt suddenly it was not the -place to be alone. How easy it would be to go upstairs now, to send -a telegram to Hal. The unholy notion made her finish her luncheon and -leave. - -She went back by bus and walked about through half a dozen shops, then -to a round of galleries, and finally, tired out, to the hotel. The -thrill was over as she watched the day die on the house-tops of the -East Side, and she almost wished she did not have to spend the night -there. She wanted to be at work, after all, the sooner the better; -nothing else could save her from boredom and despair. To-morrow she -would launch herself on the unknown stream. - -She bought a ticket to a Russian variety show, which was just then -having a vogue on Broadway, and found forgetfulness between its exotic -charm and the night-view from the theatre roof, of the yellow-dappled -park, its motors skimming and swerving upon curved ribbons of road. -As she turned for a last look at it, standing apart from the crowd -filing out, her solitary figure attracted the glances of a score of -prosperous-looking men. But she did not see them. She thought: - -“This is so vast, what can it matter who one is? The Moira of yesterday -is just as small compared to it, as this one here. Why should I care?” - -She laughed at this bit of philosophy. It was not particularly -comforting, but it helped her to believe that she had given -up the past.... In her dreams the visions of the day mingled -kaleidoscopically. - -Moira knew nothing about New York in a practical way. Her path had -always been the narrow round tripped by the fashionable visitor. -Therefore, as she sat at breakfast with the “classified” columns of -the _Times_ before her she had no idea where she wanted to live. It -happened that the first addresses that she jotted down in her notebook -were far downtown and to these she went looking for the cheapest single -room she could find. - -The sights that met her eye filled her with half-humorous, half-tragic -emotions. The landladies who greeted her were in the main revolting; -she was taken into rooms that smelled, rooms that had cheap iron beds -with battered brass knobs, that had carpets with holes in them and -frayed lace curtains, grey with dirt, and hideous oak furnishings and -coloured calendars on the walls. Three-fourths of them were not cleaned -oftener than once a month, she was certain, and she determined to have -cleanliness though every other comfort failed. - -She found it at last. On the west side of the Village she was attracted -by a neat card bearing the words “furnished rooms” on the door of a -brick house that looked many degrees better kept than its neighbours. -A shy grey-haired woman admitted her. There were several rooms, all -spotless, and she selected one reasonably priced, with white painted -woodwork and plain furniture that she thought she might manage to -live with. When she asked for the telephone to send for her luggage -from the hotel, she was shown into the daughter’s room. In one corner -of this pure haven was a small, square stand covered with chintz and -draped with flowered cretonne. Upon it stood a discarded perfume bottle -filled with holy water, a prayer-book and catechism, and a tall white -statuette of the Virgin and child, with the monogram M. A. on the -rococo base. On the wall above the stand was a black crucifix with -the Christ in gilt. Behind the Christ was thrust a little palm cross. -Still higher than the crucifix hung a photo-engraving of the Madonna -and child from some Italian master, in a gilded frame. The homely -simplicity of the scene brought tears to the girl’s eyes.... - -But she felt a little less benevolent the next day when she asked Mrs. -McCabe why there were no mirrors in the bathroom. That lady gazed at -her with the sad severity of the timid and replied: - -“I don’t know. There just ain’t, and there won’t be.” - -In this atmosphere of staggering piety began the career of “Mary -Smith.” - - - - -XVI - - -By the end of two years Moira had repaid the last of the five -hundred with which she had possessed herself on leaving Thornhill; -and accumulated a surplus of her own. From the day she quitted the -Munson School of Stenography and Typewriting she had never experienced -difficulty in securing a job and in making an excellent impression. The -two changes which she had made were of her own volition. For more than -six months now she had been secretary to the executive vice-president -of a soap company and had become something of an executive herself, on -a salary that still had a good margin in which to grow. - -This man was typical of the average young organizing and selling marvel -of the day, but he had a quality of intelligence in matters outside of -business--limited, yet enough to be refreshing after the others she had -encountered. Moira did not feel, as she had in other places, that she -must suppress all the evidences of her breeding and education. This -she had actually attempted to do hitherto; diplomatically ignoring -awkward and ungrammatical English, adopting as much slang as she could -retain without practice on the outside, and generally pretending to be -quite as much the low brow as most of the other girls whose chatter -bewildered her in the washroom. - -With Barcroft, for the first time, she could permit herself to be -natural, and this sense of ease increased her value enormously in -“meeting the trade” and handling difficult people in his absence. She -checked him up on his errors of dictation without shame, but she had -the rare good sense to know just when he was wiser in being wrong. -She grew to respect, rather than disdain, the qualities that made men -successful in business. They were qualities that did not interest her -essentially, yet Barcroft’s mind had mysterious powers of insight that -often called for silent applause. - -Their relations developed into friendliness, and she felt his honest -admiration without the fear that it would lead to complications. She -had never yet herself encountered the boss-turned-lover--and the case -was reputed to be so common that she felt far from flattered. She tried -to account for it on the score of her natural dignity, her quiet mode -of dressing, her application to work, and her reticence; but these did -not explain. She was not conspicuously dignified--when it seemed to her -good to laugh she did so. Nor did she dress unattractively, much as she -respected her budget. And her efficiency was not nearly so obtrusive -as some brands of it she had observed. Moreover these qualities, she -believed, in a young and good-looking woman, would only make her more -pleasing to men. She mocked at the whole business; it was another of -those favourite American panics, like the white slave traffic, the -German spy-hunt, and the innumerable other horrors that supported the -newspapers and bred the violence of mobs. - -She congratulated herself, nevertheless, that in spite of Barcroft’s -understanding and deference, nothing of that sort was remotely likely -to happen. She had found a good post, agreeably within her powers and -therefore easy, and she would be able to keep it indefinitely, with the -hope of a steadily mounting salary. Then one evening they fell into a -conversation after office hours. It ranged everywhere from the staging -of Arthur Hopkins to the value of rotogravure as an advertising medium, -from the proper length of skirts to the latest novel, and Barcroft -broke into the discussion suddenly by making love to her. He too was a -victim, as it appeared, of the quarrelsome and haphazard home. - -She had often asked herself, with some bitterness, what advantage her -early life gave her in such a career as she now had to follow. She -found it in this instance the most useful equipment she could have. -Another girl would have thrown up the job. She managed adroitly to save -it. She was not at all shocked by Barcroft’s love-making. She felt -sorry for him; she talked to him sympathetically about his troubles, -and in the end they were better friends than ever. Moreover, he was not -long afterward grateful to her ... the wife had come out victor over -her lord ... the yoke was again pleasing to his neck. - -Her life outside of the office was so devoid of romance that this brush -with it at the soap company was not unpleasant. She had occupied more -than one furnished room since the start at Mrs. McCabe’s, and in her -wanderings she had come necessarily in contact with the Village life, -but she did not adopt its easy associations. She discovered very early -that the Village was the gossip shop of the country. National--and -international--news travelled fast there from tongue to tongue, -concerning people even slightly known or connected with the known. You -could not say when you would walk into one of its restaurants and find -at the next table a prominent matron of your city. A half a dozen times -she had dodged or stared down old acquaintances on the upper Avenue. - -There were girls she met from day to day, willing to become her -friends--attractive girls who were doing interesting things. A few -good cronies of this sort would have lightened her solitary evenings -and perhaps helped her to find work more congenial than business. But -friendships, to be worth while, had to be frank. She knew she would be -tempted defiantly to tell all about herself, and she shrank from doing -so. Native resourcefulness made it easy to draw the line of separation, -but pride made it hard. She realized that her aloofness was causing -criticism. In the two restaurants where she took most of her evening -meals--because they were cheap and clean--the talk was not sympathetic. -If one was free to have lovers _ad lib._ in the Village one was -obviously not free to dispense with friends entirely. She seemed a snob. - -There were times when she gave herself up to storms of grief. It -grew to be an act of self-preservation, a part of her philosophy of -endurance. Long spells of weeping, or of a weary, helpless state of -the spirit that was more thoroughly a surrender and resignation than -tears. Again and again she would cry through the darkness for Hal -with the plaintive voice of a sick child--and even for the kind ghost -of Mathilda Seymour. If she felt ashamed of these indulgences, she -argued that there could be no harm in them. Her old friends could not -hear her. She was alone in all those little rooms, completely cut off -from anything familiar, from all but the fluttering, unreal, poignant -memories of her beautiful childhood. Waves of passionate self-pity -swept over her; she rebelled aloud against the bitter meanness of her -betrayal; the awful burden of carrying her secret alone. - -In the end it was wise that she did not deny these moods when they -came to her and did not try to control them. From them she rose -calm and clear-headed, charged with newly stored courage. They were -spiritual baths, which cleaned her, a sort of self-asserting prayer. -When they had gone not a vestige of rebellion was left in her; she felt -grown in stature, ready to carry her fate like a flag. For a day or two -afterward she would be sentimental and overfull of feeling. She would -go out of her way to help beggars and walk a block to give dimes to -the hurdy-gurdy man; and comfort the little girls in the filing room -if they weren’t feeling well, or had just been called down by the head -clerk. - -One thing that these rituals of solitary suffering gave her was the -buoyant, happy consciousness of artistic power, and she longed to -return to painting. Until now it had seemed impossible. She could -not command the space, the office robbed her of daylight, materials -were too costly. Now she began to dream of creating a studio--the -opportunity to work might be managed somehow, once she had acquired -the facilities. She saved more sedulously, giving up a part of -her pleasures, an occasional new book and a theatre now and then, -furbishing clothes for herself despite her hatred of the needle. - - - - -XVII - - -The floors were done and dry. Elsie Jennings, who had come in to -help, was putting the third coat of black upon the new book-shelves, -and Moira was waiting for the delivery of her three last pieces of -furniture, which completed the picture, for a time at least. Whether -they came as they had been promised or not, the house-warming party -was to be held that evening, with Elsie, Jade Sommers, and Arthur, her -husband. - -Arthur Sommers she had met as a printing salesman, visiting her office, -and later had run across with Jade in a restaurant. He was a good sort, -in his early thirties, jovial and proud of his plain citizenship, -inclined to stoutness and much in love with his wife, the story writer. -Elsie ran a shop in which she sold hand-made novelties and small house -furnishings, that caught the sightseers from the States and uptown -with their faintly futurist air. It was a Saturday in the Spring, and -had the party been postponed two days it might have celebrated Moira’s -birthday. But she did not divulge that fact. - -“There,” said Elsie, “it’s done. And I think three coats will be -enough.” - -“Not so bad,” replied Moira. She stood making an inspection of her -nearly finished home. The apartment itself was a discovery--quite a -bargain--one huge room with tall windows, and a tiny bedroom and bath -and kitchen closet, in an old five-story house, occupied by a small -army of nondescript tenants. - -“How good you look to me, old barn!” was her fervent thought, which -Elsie, watching her, divined. “If those chairs don’t come pretty soon,” -she went on aloud, “they won’t come at all, and somebody will have to -sit on the floor. I’m going out to shop for food.” - -“Yes, go ahead,” said Elsie. “This box of china has got to be unpacked -and washed. I’ll do that in the meantime.” - -Moira had been in and out of the building on many occasions during the -past week, but her curiosity had been slight regarding her neighbours. -She couldn’t afford to be particular about them, so it seemed to her -pointless to be curious. As she went downstairs, however, on the way to -the grocery, a name on the door to a small room caught her attention. - -“Miles Harlindew!” she said, and found her memory flying to years -before at Thornhill, and her lips repeating some lines about: - - “All shining parallels of track, - All brown roads leading up.” - -She had begun to see the man’s verses in the literary magazines when -she couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and many of -them had sung themselves into her memory. One or two had given her -an experience of discovery. But for the last few years she had found -no more of his work. She had imagined him for some reason, as people -are likely to think of anybody at all who gets things published, as -successful, comfortable, arrived. - -“He must be getting along in years,” she thought. “Poor fellow!” -For she knew that room corresponded to her bedroom above, a mere -cubby-hole, so small that she had to sit on her bed to look in the -dressing table mirror. - -It was her first party in years, and she did not need the -cocktails--which Arthur Sommers had brought in a silver flask--to give -her a thrill. She fell in love with her guests and charmed them into -something like wonder. So this was the unapproachable Mary Smith! - -“Oh, I’ve got distinguished literary neighbours,” she announced. “Miles -Harlindew is on the floor below.” - -A ripple of amusement greeted her remark. - -“But I remember some stunning poems of his,” she went on. - -“Oh, yes,” put in Jade, “but nobody knows he’s alive these days. He -doesn’t even know it himself.” - -“Come off,” said her husband. “I see him often, very much alive. Any -man who does his duty violating the Eighteenth Amendment as regularly -as Miles, has my vote. What do you say if I get him.” - -“If he’s sober,” put in Jade. - -Sommers glanced at Moira for consent, and she gave it with a brisk -nod. These people knew more about the man than she and no doubt were -justified in what they said; nevertheless she felt a vague resentment. -What would they say if they knew all there was to be known about -herself? Experience had already taught her that beneath the literal -and semi-bohemian veneer of her friends there was a stern core of -respectability. - -Harlindew came and was sober. He was painfully and tiresomely sober, -and she heartily wished they had saved some of Arthur’s cocktails. -He sat down stiffly and ventured commonplaces when spoken to. She -found him a satisfactory physical specimen, showing more years than -she expected, in premature lines. He was neither tall nor short, of -the type that never acquires flesh, somewhat shaggy behind the ears, -with a lop-sided face. One jaw was stronger than the other, one eye -keener than the other, one brow more pleasing in conformation than the -other--and these inequalities were not all on the same side of his -face. - -When she recited his verses, he was not pleased. He depreciated them -vigorously and was very uncomfortable. He called them the errors of -his youth. The one thing that he took extraordinary interest in was -a talk with Sommers about business. She then watched his gestures -and animation with pleasure. They made a change in the man’s whole -appearance. - -“I’m thinking seriously of going into business,” he announced in a -grave voice, and seemed a little disappointed that this statement was -not received with greater acclaim. The evening ended, dampened, on the -whole, by his presence. - -“How fiercely shy he is about his work,” said Moira to the others, as -they stood at the door ready to go. - -“Big night last night,” said Arthur, in a stage whisper. “Feeling -rocky.” - -“I hope you don’t meet him somewhere at three in the morning,” added -Elsie. “He’ll reel it off to you then until you’ll be sorry.” - -Yet she thought more about what she saw of Harlindew, during his short -stay in her rooms, than of anything else that had happened that night. -He was the only young man she had met in New York whom she wanted to -talk to. It was, possibly, a childish delusion, a fancy arising out of -the fact that both of them were miserable about something, obviously -about something it was impossible to discuss. - -A few days later she met him on the stairs, and he blushed and -stammered: - -“I believe you are the only person alive who still cares anything for -my poetry.” - -He was gone too quickly for her to answer. She did not see him again -for a week, and when she did she invited him to tea. In an hour he was -as much at his ease as though he had known her forever, and stayed so -long he expressed the fear of having bored her. Soon after that she was -seeing him two or three times a week. - -He came because she listened to his monologues. Moira found that -this was the man’s characteristic. Shy to the point of morbidness in -company, she no sooner began to encourage him alone than he talked -without end. His ideas were neither very well thought out nor very -clearly expressed, but they stimulated her. He poured forth the most -curious tag-ends of experience, made extraordinary confessions with -few traces of shame, chattered cynically, humorously, passionately -and autocratically by turns about writing and all the arts, and then -stopped suddenly in the midst of things, frightened to silence by -the realization of her presence and the boldness of his own tongue. -Only one thing could have enabled him to indulge this luxury and keep -coming--a knowledge of her interest, and she gave it honestly. She saw -that the inner life of this young man and her own had been similar. He -soon passed from Miss Smith to Mary, and from Mary to Madonna, and -finding that the last was to his taste, he held to it. Before long he -was giving full rein to a natural streak of fantastic high spirits and -messing about her place like a privileged person. - -She was, for some reason, wholly delighted by all this. The crushed -spirit he had shown at their first meeting had seemed tragically -inappropriate and she was glad to be drawing anybody out who needed -it. The man, set beside most of the people she had known, was a freak, -certainly, but he was not an impossible freak. And he differed from -such people as Selden Van Nostrand in depth, breadth and sensitive -contact with life. With a perfectly conventional background, he had -simply, she thought, allowed his spiritual life to express itself -in his physical life from an early age. His courtesy was innate and -usually unfailing, on some occasions oppressive--but it was a quality -she would not have liked to find lacking. His flattery she had to -accept as simply as she could; he exhausted his vocabulary in finding -terms for her beauty. It seemed an ever-renewed miracle to him, which -he had to talk about to enjoy. - -“Madonna,” he said one day, “you should be some queen like Margaret of -Navarre. I should like to be one of the story tellers of your court. -It is a commentary on our beastly times that such a one as you is a -stenographer.” - -“If I had the courage--as you have--I wouldn’t be,” she laughed, “but -it scares me to think of going my own way.” - -“Ah, that is one thing I came to ask you about. I must have told you -that I intend going into business.” - -“But why?” she asked, “why should you, after all?” - -“Well, when we are young we expect all things to come to us. We don’t -want them just to-day, but to-morrow?--we’ll whistle and down they -will come from the sky. That’s what we think. In my case, however, -they haven’t come. Ergo, I have lived disgracefully. Now I must begin -to die gracefully by turning to work. Yet isn’t it possible to look -upon the grotesque preoccupation of the American male as a trade, a -form of artisan-ship, a deed of the left hand? I know a man who sells -advertising, and who has more confidence in me than I should dare to -have in myself. He is decent enough to think that I can supply what he -wants. Why not try it?” - -“Aren’t you writing anything nowadays, Miles?” - -“Nothing,” he said, with a shrug. “Book reviews! What are book reviews? -Every time I have to go to see an editor and ask for a book, it -makes me feel as though selling hairpins from house to house is more -respectable. Besides, the literary world has forgotten me. I only fill -up space.” - -“Nonsense,” said she vehemently. “And you’re wrong about business. -Business is pretty awful. I suppose you’ll have to find that out for -yourself.” - -“There _are_ more delightful occupations, true. I have always had an -ambition to be a cab-driver. It is the sole profession in which one -becomes a licensed eavesdropper. Excellent for the literary man. You -know people mind the cabby no more than if he were the horse. I mean -a horse-cab, of course ... only in such leisurely vehicles do people -expose their souls, their most intimate secrets. But I haven’t the -cabby’s training. From things you have said, I fancied you knew horses.” - -“A little. When I was a young girl I had some playmates who owned them.” - -“Noble beasts. I’m sure they would break the neck of any poor fool who -had condescended to Pegasus.” - -“The trouble with you, Miles, is that you don’t condescend often -enough, nor persistently enough. You ought to be writing poems at this -moment. You should have been doing it these last five years.” - -“The impulse to creation begins with a peculiar tickling of the tummy -that I haven’t felt for ages.” - -Her eagerness to start him writing usually came to nothing in some such -joke. At other times he would grow more serious. - -“No, Madonna, I cannot. The blossom of life is gone--only the bare -stalk is left. It may flower again, but it must be watered and fed. My -affair with poetry has ended like so many marriages--in disillusion. -That is rough, when one realizes that poetry demands the hardest -labour for the smallest return of any occupation on earth. It takes -all one’s youth, at the expense of practical things--and one is left -with a handful of frail results that are hardly more substantial than -memories. But the greater the early love, the more complete must be the -separation, and one must recognize it when it comes. One must renounce; -in that lies the only hope of renewal. People are mistaken about life -being a steady progress from youth to age, anyway. It’s a constant -shuttling from age to youth and back again. We all grow senile about -every seven years, and then young again. I am in a senile period. Why -should I do poetry the dishonour of pursuing her in such a state? Bah, -it is better to do anything else. You mustn’t be impatient with me. I -do not flower very often--but neither does the century plant. And it is -counted among the world’s wonders.” - -“Well,” she said consolingly, “perhaps you are right. Better a little -that is good than a lot that is indifferent. All I know is that there -are reputations built on no more talent than yours.” - -“If I could believe that,” he said thoughtfully, “I should not -surrender. But I can’t believe it. I shall have to squeeze business -for a time, as one squeezes an orange--for the golden juice. I shall -hoard it, as if every ounce meant a golden hour. Then we shall see. My -God! Madonna,” he burst forth. “Fifty dollars a week--there in my hand, -_every week_. Think of it. All my life fifty dollars has seemed like -the other side of the moon.” - -The next day he began the work of which he had talked so much. She had -known him a month. Now for some time, she was to see little of him. -He left early and returned late, and with the long summer evenings at -hand, she began to paint. - -It was very hard to drive herself to work. Her hands were stiff; her -senses were clumsy, and her first efforts resulted in little more -than a waste of valuable materials. She needed everything--models, -encouragement, criticism. These even Elsie or Miles could have -furnished after a fashion, but she dared not ask them--she was not -ready for that. She contented herself with trials at still life, with -experiments, with attempts at self-portraiture. - -Then slowly the love of simply applying the brush, the fever of trying -and trying again for the effects she wanted, the joy of feeling -momentary hints of power, and of succeeding now and then with some -little thing, quickened her interest, until the time came when she -found herself standing up to her canvas until it had grown almost dark. - -She went with Elsie one night to the theatre and when they returned to -Elsie’s rooms, Moira confessed that she had begun to work. They talked -until three in the morning. She came away elated, and still sleepless, -not the least bit tired. The mere divulging of her modest ambitions had -started her blood bounding, and she swung buoyantly down the street. - -A block or two from her house she heard voices, and against the glow -of a lamp she saw the figure of a policeman leaning over a man who lay -on the pavement luxuriously supporting his head from the flagging with -folded arms. - -“Come on, now, get up,” said the officer. “I’ve fooled long enough. If -you don’t get up I’ll take you where you’ll have a long rest.” - -The voice that replied was unmistakably Miles Harlindew’s. -“Preposterous,” he said, running his consonants together. “I am lying -on m’own prop’ty. It was legally d’vised to me by God the Father. Six -feet by three of solid earth. That’s my allotment. You’ve spoiled it by -putting concrete on it, but I’ll be a good fellow. Won’t complain. It’s -all right. Just go away.” - -“Get up, I tell ya.” - -“What! Can’t a man lie on his own pat-patrimony, you blamed ass? It’s -goin’ to be mine f’r eternity, and I choose to use it now!” - -“We’ll see who’s a blamed ass, young feller. Come on!” - -Moira interrupted as the patrolman was about to grasp Harlindew’s -shoulder. - -“Officer,” she said hurriedly, “I know this man. He lives in the same -house I am in. I think I can get him to go with me, if you won’t take -him.” - -“Sure. That’s all right. I don’t want him if he’ll get out of here. -I’ve had this bird before, and it might go hard with him.” - -“Thank you,” she said fervently. Miles was on his feet in a second, -a little unsteady but effusively polite, repeating the words “divine -Madonna” in a voice that must have carried to many windows. - -“Officer,” he said, “meet Madonna--no, meet Ariadne. Ariadne, the night -is a labyrinth--you bring me a thread.” - -At his door he insisted upon going up with her--“just for a -second”--and she could not refuse him. He sat on the couch, pursuing a -strange, disjointed tale of the day’s adventures. He told twice about a -steel-worker he had met in a bootlegger’s house, who once had worked on -the Woolworth, forty stories up. “Said he never went up on the steel in -the morning without three whiskies--if he had he’d a fallen off,” said -Miles. “That’s good--if he had he’d a fallen off.” The idea seemed to -fill him with extraordinary delight. But other things were on his mind -also. Some one he called “the damn buzzard at the office” came in for a -large share of abuse. - -“If you want to see the damned buzzard to-morrow, you’d better go -downstairs and sleep,” she suggested. “You won’t feel much like work.” - -“Work? Never mind work.... Valuable man.... Know my own value.... Not -at all sleepy, anyway....” A moment later while she was out of the room -he stretched full length on the couch and fell asleep. - -She did not have the heart to wake him in the morning. If her own -racket, as she flew about preparing to leave, had no effect upon his -deep unconsciousness, it would probably take too much effort anyway. -At noon, however, she found him just beginning to stir about, making -coffee in her little kitchen, for which he apologized, but with no -sheepishness. He seemed, on the contrary, to find excessive enjoyment -in having awakened in a strange place, invaded by a lovely hostess. She -took the rôle of cook out of his hands. - -“Well,” he said when they were seated, “I suppose I am in a pickle. -Must say something to Jones. Wonder what it’ll be. All’s fair, I -imagine, in war and business. Any old alibi goes.” - -“But you’re a valuable man, Miles, you know,” she mocked, “as you said -several times last night.” - -His smile was a trifle wan. It was too soon by all means to bid -good-bye to the other side of the moon--that regular fifty a week. - -“You know, I’ve never had to be anywhere I didn’t want to be, in ... -in God knows when,” he declared. “Not easy to get the habit. But I’m -doing well down there. Honest, I’m sort of proud about it.” - -Moira thought that he seemed to be worrying very little about his -remissness, not even very actively at work on the problem of finding an -excuse. And it was late, even for that. She almost hated to undeceive -him, it concerned him so slightly. Finally she said: - -“I telephoned your Jones. I told him you were too ill to come down. Was -that right?” - -But obviously this service was in his eyes incalculably great. The look -he gave her made her want to laugh. She had not thought it possible for -a man to be so pathetically helpless, so profoundly grateful for an act -of friendly foresight. - -“How did it happen, Miles?” - -“Oh, I think the monotony got on my nerves. Then yesterday everything -went wrong; and I thought five o’clock would never come. Eight hours! -By Jove, it sometimes seems like eight years.” - -“Yes, it does,” she replied, remembering her first months of it. - -“Do you get used to it?” he asked anxiously. - -“Oh, yes, it comes to be a good deal like breathing.” - - - - -XVIII - - -They started out without objective, left the train at a little station -far down the southern part of Long Island and walked miles through a -flat country of stunted woods and sandy, almost deserted roads. - -It was toward the end of a coppery afternoon, the hazy air aflame -with the sun taking on the colour of the burnished trees. To Moira, -it had been an unreal day too, for her thoughts were running upon -revolutionary impulses, plans that would have seemed impossibly -romantic a few months before. Was it only because of this suddenly -important comradeship with Miles Harlindew that she had quite painfully -realized a sense of loss? She needed much more than life was giving -her, much more than her mere comfort and independence, even than her -painting. Their half year together had been full of a strangely wide -sympathy. But it had also been casual, without purpose and without end. -The first tang and odour of Autumn cold always brought a stirring of -unreasonable energy in her, a sense of dissatisfaction ... a prophecy -of change. But now it was like nothing she had ever known before, a -stifling in the midst of limitless air to breathe. - -“Seasons must be responsible for a great deal in life,” she said. “I -wonder if anything would get itself done at all, if it were not for -them, for the urging they give us to act.” - -“I have thought that too,” replied Miles. “You could almost live, -simply by letting the time of the year do what it will with you. I -shouldn’t be shocked if some one told me I had lived that way myself, -most of my life.” - -He drew out a pipe, filled and lighted it, and the fragrant smell -was pleasing to her nostrils. She liked his agreeable, easy ways. He -needed little to be happy, his thoughts, his books, tobacco, clothes -that seemed to have grown older with him. Since that diffused night -he had spent in her rooms in June, his life had run along in a quiet -groove, free from excitement or discontent--a period during which, -as he told her, weeks seemed so much longer because they were filled -with so many more and varied impressions, and these impressions -were caught and relished and fixed as they passed. Excitement and -sprees were monotonous, not varied, and one lost almost all of one’s -impressions.... She had shared this slow magic with him, and she -understood what he meant. Suddenly she found herself asking him to -marry her. - -“But, child,” he said, with amusement in his face and voice, “you -couldn’t do that.” - -“I’m not a child,” she replied, with unmistakable seriousness, “and I -could. I love you.” - -He stopped walking and faced her, holding his pipe halfway to his mouth -and looking at her in blank amazement. - -“My dear Mary!” he exclaimed. - -“My name isn’t Mary,” she broke in. “It’s Moira. Do you like it?” - -“Moira? Why haven’t you told me that?” - -“There’s even more to tell, Miles.” - -“But what do you mean?” - -“I suppose you won’t answer my question, until you hear the rest?” - -“I shall be glad to hear anything you want to tell,” he replied slowly. -“But first, my dear girl, do you know you are the stars in the sky? Do -you know you are a prize for sultans, for emperors, for decent people, -for people infinitely better than I am? I’m a stopping place in your -passage. Not that.... I’m as worthless as a man can very well be. I -think, in short, something has made you a little mad.” - -“You’re _not_ worthless,” she replied vehemently. “I’m tired of hearing -you say you are.... If all this means you don’t love me and don’t want -me, there’s nothing more to be said. If it means that you think you -are not good enough for me, that’s foolish. And in that case--there -_is_--more to be said.” - -She trembled a little. Both were under the stress of a new and powerful -feeling.... She wanted more than anything else in the world to take -hold of him, to shake him, to keep on shaking him, because he had not -been equal to asking of her what she had just now asked of him. She -wanted to love him as nobody had ever loved him; to love him until he -respected himself. It needed no more than a spur, something to make him -so proud that he could scarcely believe in his happiness. She could do -that for him, she was equal to it, because she did love him and she -was beautiful and desirable. She thought of herself, in that instant, -as Moira Seymour of Thornhill. But in the next she did not. It was so -terribly hard to say what she had to tell him. - -Moira’s persistence in her reckless proposal had given rise to a -tempest of forces in Miles Harlindew. The notion of marrying her -had never even formed in his dispirited brain. Now it swept through -him like a cleansing and strengthening hope. He faced her with the -uncertainty of a man who is still afraid to trust his own understanding. - -“Wait, Miles!” she said, “I’ve something more to tell you.” She -began hurriedly, like a guilty child, but as she went on her voice -became firm. “I don’t know who my father was. I was told his name was -Williams, but I don’t know whether he is alive or dead. I’m the child -of a servant who was never married. You see if you married me, it might -be said that I wanted the protection of your name. I’ve none of my own.” - -It was his turn to be impatient, and he had an impulse now to laugh -and take her in his arms. But he held back. - -“Mary,” he said seriously, “in the first place what has all that to do -with it?” - -“But it’s true. And you’ve forgotten my name is Moira.” - -“I don’t care. It’s all beside the point. I’ve never been strong for -relatives, my own kin into the bargain. I might not enjoy yours. But do -you suppose it makes any difference to any one who your father is? Your -father and mother are your face, your beautiful, glorious face. Your -birthright is yourself, your incredible perfection. Don’t you see, it -isn’t your father or your mother you’re giving up, but yourself, all -this miracle? You can’t give all that to me. I’m not worth it. I can’t -count on myself. How can I ask you to count on me?” - -“You don’t know yourself. You never have.” - -“Mary!” he cried, and she let him continue using the old name which -came so naturally. She felt his intense desire to be honest, while it -angered and annoyed her. Why should he decide these things for her? But -he went on, “Don’t you see? This is just a--a sentiment, a ridiculous -illusion about your birth.” - -“It’s _true_,” she replied. “I must know that you believe it’s true--or -nothing can go on.” - -“If it were a thousand times true it wouldn’t make me good enough for -you.” - -She sat down beside the road. Tears were coming to her eyes, and she -hated to have him see them. - -“Miles,” she said, “I thought once I couldn’t love again, but you’ve -seemed like something lost to me and come back. It’s the same thing in -my heart, only older and more real. If you don’t mind my being what I -am, if you want me, please come and take me. Only don’t argue.” - -His close embrace was like the end of a journey she had been travelling -all these last weeks quite unconsciously. His passion, the fierce, -sudden, exacting eagerness of the luckless taken unaware by great good -fortune, could not hurt her too much. - -“You must forgive me if I am quite mad,” he stammered. “Look at me. Am -I sane, Madonna beloved?” - -She did look at him, but she saw, beyond the cadaverous face and humble -eyes, a man who carried, she hoped, the power of change within him. She -was completely happy to have that job for her own. Yesterday she had -had loneliness, a heavy secret, futility. Now she had everything that -she had ever lost; and more, the knowledge of her own strength. What if -it did fail, it would be this while it lasted.... - - - - -XIX - - - “Oh, when I was in love with you - Then I was clean and brave, - And miles around the wonder grew - How well did I behave....” - -“It’s old Housman all over again,” cried Harlindew, in high glee. -“Since I married you, I’ve become a respected citizen. People stop me -on the street and want to talk who haven’t deigned to give me a wink in -years.” - -“Don’t forget there is a second verse,” said Moira. - - “But now the fancy passes by - And nothing will remain - And miles around they’ll say that I - Am quite myself again.” - -“Yes, but he had to add that to make it a well-rounded thought. The -first is the only one that counts. Well-rounded thoughts are an -abomination. Or else he had to live up to the well known Housman -cynicism. But isn’t this enough for one sitting? I’m hungry.” - -“Just five minutes more. There’s something I don’t want to miss about -that light. I can’t ever get you into the same position twice. You’re -changeable enough--physically!” she concluded. - -He strolled over to the portrait when she had released him and -criticized it outrageously. The face was all wrong, the colour of the -hair absurd, the brow too handsome. It was a good picture perhaps, -but a poor portrait. Her sketches of him were better. She had a nice -loose line in sketching and didn’t flatter so much. Women ought never -to paint men, at least never their sweethearts. They weren’t honest -enough. They were too romantic. But this was all delivered in the -utmost good nature and she did not resent it. She thought he was quite -a good critic of painting. He liked things of very crude strength, -directness. Her work, she herself was inclined to admit, indulged in -glamour--it was the hardest thing to avoid. But she hoped that in ten -or twenty years she would do something good; that was time enough. - -As a matter of fact, Miles Harlindew thought his wife’s work remarkably -fine and had often said so. Then, discovering she was so modest -about it that praise was downright displeasing to her, he adopted -the bantering tone. He catered to her modesty by giving her all the -severe criticism he dared to. And on the whole it resulted in a better -understanding. - -Standing in the doorway, he watched her with some impatience, while -she put on a hat, powdered her nose, dabbed at her nails and stood in -front of the mirror gazing at herself in satisfied animation. She -liked to make him wait. Then they slipped down the narrow carpeted -stairs and into the brilliant afternoon, breathless and laughing. It -was not surprising that people looked twice at the pair. She wondered -if there were any two lovers who enjoyed their holidays together as -much as they. There were so many things to do and it needed so little -to make them memorable. A walk through Italian streets, flooded with -little bodies and loud with cries, to some unknown restaurant; or up -the Avenue in the dusk to the Park; or a long ride in front of the -bus--whatever met their eyes on these jaunts was fresh and new though -they had seen it a hundred times before. There was no place for a -honeymoon like New York: it meant that the honeymoon never ended. - -Marriage had hardly changed an outward detail of their lives. She had -refused to give up her job, which he somehow expected she could do. -Perhaps she could paint and try to sell her work. It appeared to him so -much more fitting. But Moira did not wish to sell her paintings, even -if she had thought them worth any money. All that could wait. Wasn’t -his work waiting too? Poor boy! How could any one expect him to write -with his time all taken up? - -“But,” he objected, “I may have to take care of more than you one of -these days. Hadn’t I better get used to it?” - -“Nonsense,” she replied. “That’s all the more reason why I should be -earning now.” - -Miles had retained his room downstairs, much as it was, except that -she saw it was kept in some sort of order for him. Her own tiny living -quarters were not enough comfortably for two, and she had foreseen that -he would have many a spell when he wanted to be quite alone. To her -mind he was very chivalrous in hiding his low-spirited moments from -her. When he left her early after dinner to spend the evening and the -night in his room, she knew that it was a signal for one of these. -He was working off some disappointment, some mood of defeat. These -troubles had generally fled by morning. He would be in her bedroom, -before she woke up, noisy and hungry, and full of jokes. - -“You’re making me too happy to write,” he told her on one such -occasion, as he sat on her bedside and put her hand to his lips. “You -remember Rossetti says: - - “By thine own tears thy song must tears beget - O Singer! Magic mirror thou hast none - Except thy manifest heart and save thine own - Anguish or ardour, else no amulet.” - -He had the old-fashioned way of reading poetry, intoning it without -much shading or expression--and he threw himself into it. She thought -nobody was just like him when he did that entirely for his own -pleasure. - -“But he speaks of ardour as well as anguish,” she objected. - -“Yes, I suppose poetry itself does not have to be sad. But it comes -out of something like sadness. Rossetti was right. It is as foolish to -write poetry in the midst of happiness as to try to find words for what -you look like now--when I can be looking at you instead. How beautiful -you are when you wake.” - -It occurred to Moira that she might be a little distressed over all -this. She wanted him to be happy, but she also wanted him to write--and -become famous or at least deserve it in her eyes. But her good sense -brushed his idle words aside. Why encourage harbouring such notions? -She had never known any one who spoke his mind aloud so continuously -as he did, and she knew that many of the things he said simply passed -through it aimlessly. They were without significance except the -significance of always tossing up other thoughts, and still others, -until the right one came. This thinking aloud had a ruthless quality -that would have hurt a more sensitive wife. It did not trouble her. - -She decided there was no hurry about his getting to work. She did not -want him to do it until he could do his best. Nothing less than that -she wished to foster. They were living their lives to the full, now, -through each other. In good time they would branch out and live in -wider circles. Miles was storing up treasures that would find utterance -one of these days. Indeed he was writing--slight, experimental things -which she did not like, it was true, but which would help to open -up the dried springs of his invention. This period of his life was -certainly not less promising than the five years before she had met -him, arid years of picking up a mere living by critical trifles. - -An event that she did not foresee, however, happened shortly afterward. -A week came when Harlindew spent almost no time with her. He -disappeared into his room early; at breakfast he seemed to have slept -little, and he was distracted and irritable. When the time came to go -downtown, she felt that he resented it. He would dawdle and temporize -and start off anywhere from a quarter to a half hour late. The secrecy -of his movements were a trial to her, and she could not get anything -out of him by casual questioning. His answers were indirect, hinting at -work. Then her questioning stopped. She realized that she was growing -angry; malicious impulses came to her, a desire for petty revenge, and -all this warned her that she was vainer than she had believed. She -depended upon his attentions, his love-making, his continual amusing -flattery. That was the unfairness of marriage, she argued. It taught -you to expect certain things you had got on very well without before. -But if your single mate withheld them, you could not go elsewhere to -supply them.... After six days of this, Moira began to believe herself -a philosopher, and something of a cynic as well. She had kept her -temper, but she had also been experimenting with the green serpent of -disillusionment. - -The thing ended with a visit to her bedroom at two in the morning. -He was a little excited by liquor, a most unusual thing since their -marriage, yet she was sure he had not been away. Most of this -excitement came from another cause. He held in his hand a half a dozen -sheets of paper and began without preliminaries to read them to her. -They were new poems, of course--how stupid she had been not to suspect -it! When he had finished reading them she snatched them from him with -cries of delight and read them herself. - -“I have to see the words--the blessed words!” she declared. - -He walked out of the room, leaving the crinkly papers with her, walked -on air yet timorously, jumping half out of his boots at every slight -noise she made with the sheets. When he came back he found tear-drops -clinging to her lashes. She was still reading the poems as though to -fix them then and there in her mind. She laid back on the pillows and -asked him to read them all over himself aloud, and “very slowly.” It -was a long moment after he had ended that she spoke. - -“They’re better than anything you’ve done,” she said, with a -contentment that filled him with torturing pangs of delight. “As good -and better than the best in your book. It’s come back to you, Miles, I -always knew it would. Oh, isn’t it wonderful!” - -He sat down, suddenly downcast and sheepish in the midst of his elation. - -“But if this is going to happen to me often, what am I going to do?” -he said. “I’ve lived those things. It’s been hell and heaven, Moira. -I took two afternoons off from the office. I had to. It was all but -impossible to go.” - -She sat up in bed and gazed at him in profound reflection. She felt she -knew what he meant. It was not childish, not perverse. How could such -things be mixed up in the same day, this fine fervour of creation, and -that mechanical, wretched work? What she most desired him to be he was -now, and that he must continue to be at the cost of everything else. -She suddenly saw life rosy and fresh ahead of them, untrammelled by -anything base, full of brave expression. - -“Never mind, never mind!” she cried excitedly. “Listen, you can hold -on two months longer somehow. In two months my lease will be up. We’ve -got eighteen hundred dollars between us now, and by that time we ought -to have two thousand. We’ll just quit cold, Miles, drop everything. -Somewhere in Europe we can live for nothing, live forever on that. Who -knows what can happen before it is gone? We might never have to come -back--never until we wanted to. You can go on writing and writing these -gorgeous things!” - -“My God,” he murmured, “it would be marvellous. It could be done.... O -Magician!” - - - - -XX - - -The experience of that night was one of those moments on the Olympus -of extravagant hope, before which it is merciful to draw the veil. In -one hour they seemed to have attained all that life held for the most -fortunate--freedom, work, love. - -Therefore, had they stepped from the tropical belt to the Arctic -circle; had they plunged from the top of a sunlit tower to the depths -of a coal shaft, the change which came during the next month could -not have been greater. Moira had never anticipated resenting her -first baby. Preparations for the trip, expenditures for the trip, had -first been slackened up in mid-career, as they waited apprehensively -and then had been abandoned with the abruptness that only comes when -death enters a house. There lay the paraphernalia of travel, new and -useless. They had drifted into a state of divine negligence. Jobs and -all practical affairs went along any old way; they were matters soon to -be jettisoned like an old coat. Then came this reality as if the four -walls of a prison had been dropped about them in a day. - -It was not so bad as that of course, when the first rude awakening had -passed. Life substitutes one enthusiasm for another. Miles recovered -admirably at once; he spent his eloquence reassuring her that this was -the best thing that could have happened to them. He had all the normal -delight in the prospect of fatherhood. - -But Moira was not so easily reconciled. She would always look upon that -baby as something a little too unreasonably expensive. She was not -ready for it, and had the plan of going abroad been broached earlier -she would never have had it. She would have been more pleased had Miles -not tried so hard to make her see it in a better light. She did not -doubt his sincerity, nor that he would be one whose joy in children of -his own would be unbounded. But she hated to think of his taking one -burden after another from her shoulders until he would be carrying them -all, while she waited helplessly. She had never thought him, as yet, -strong enough without her. - -So she did not relinquish her burdens until she had to. She worked on, -until the last day she could without embarrassment. After a season of -careful figuring she estimated that what they had saved, with Miles’ -salary (which had been slightly increased not long before) would enable -them to maintain their present comforts until she got back to earning. -She hoped that could be managed somehow within two years. - -But if the idea of having a child was an adventure, they both had to -admit that the conditions it called for were somewhat depressing. For -one thing, they had to have more space. The first work she did after -leaving Barcroft’s establishment was to move to a flat in the eighties -on the west side. In every particular this place lacked the charm of -her studio, nor could anything they did to it or put into it make it -seem the same. The little kennel-like separations called rooms were -diabolically invented for people who had to have children, and so -constructed as to make them hate the fact that they had them. - -At the earliest hint of the baby’s coming she noticed changes in Miles. -He had never been very regular or responsible about office hours. Now -it worried him if he was a half minute late in getting started. He -talked less, he exaggerated less. He seemed to be unwilling to discuss -books, or any of the old subjects that had enthralled him. He spoke -much of there being a future “in the firm,” for a chap who “really -buckled down and dug up results.” She realized that he was beginning to -regard his job as a permanent support. - -He came home sometimes with bundles of papers filled with figures and -sat in the little study at night, writing what he called “plans” and -“copy” and making “market analyses.” It was the same sort of jargon -that Barcroft talked incessantly--“sales and distribution,” “consumer -demand,” and “dealer helps.” It had sounded all right from Barcroft; -but from Miles.... She found among his papers rough drafts in his own -hand of advertisements extolling the value of hog foods, lice powder, -piston rings--and one long story about “How I raised my salary from -fifty to two hundred dollars a week in six months.” When she read these -she went into her room and cried. They had meant nothing to her so long -as he took them lightly; now that he applied his whole mind to them and -sat absently dreaming of them, they seemed blasphemous. But she dared -not complain; she had no remedy to offer. - -In a little while--after the baby was a few months old--he began to -bring home news of certain results from all this energy and absorption. -His salary took a sudden jump. He was “meeting clients” continually, -doing executive work. Soon, he told her, he would have a small office -to himself. She simulated pleasure at these announcements, but she -felt none. Every triumph of that sort meant a surrender of himself. -She even resented the care he had begun to take in his clothes and his -hair-cuts, the change in his style of dress. - -The ugliness of the little apartment in a building which held perhaps -fifty tiresome families, the dreary parade of bourgeois virtues, and -fourth or fifth rate finery, the strident female voices in the street -and halls, the newness of everything one touched and looked at, the -lack of shadows and mystery and ease, the pervasive, obvious travail -for money--all these things were to Moira an education in American -life which her youth had escaped. She disliked them, but she regarded -them, because they were strange to her, with a detached, half-amused -curiosity. - -To Miles, however, they were a return to the hated past--from just such -a street in Cincinnati he had fled in horror years before. She saw -that it really involved him; that daily, as it were, he had to brush -its overwhelming effect from his clothes and from his mind. It was -she who was putting him through all this.... And it was only an added -irony that Miles, junior, turned out such a satisfactory child, normal -and vigorous and good-tempered. It did not improve matters any that he -deserved this sacrifice, for with every new fascination he exerted, -every delightful characteristic he exhibited, the subjection of all -their hopes to his demands became more complete.... - - * * * * * - -Three years passed this way, and though the affairs of the Harlindew -family went on quite as ever in outward appearance, much had happened -underneath to both. - -In the first place she had learned that a child was not a temporary -encumbrance, one that she could throw off in a year or two for outside -work. If certain of its wants diminished with its growth, others -increased, and the habit of being an attendant mother became fixed. She -had had to abandon her plan of returning to offices. Cheap servant -girls and the risk run in trusting them worried her too much as it was. -She became as helpless a house-person as the scores of other young -mothers in her teeming block. - -With the relinquishment of this notion came the gradual realization -that they might never be able to take up again that shoulder to -shoulder independence which had seemed so fine while it lasted. Miles -from now on was the provider--she and her child the dependents. She -discovered that he had seen this more clearly than she from the -beginning. - -He ceased to take an interest in himself at all. His mind settled into -a hopeless groove of dogged, disinterested work. To see him pick up -a book and lay it aside was a gesture that came to hold a veritable -sense of tragedy for her. To watch the effect of a fine play upon him -was pathetic. While its beauty filled him with happiness, he dared -not allow himself to be lifted too far into that rarified atmosphere. -He ventured no opinions about any of the hundreds of stimulating -personalities who were coming up on the horizon of culture everywhere. -Poetry he spoke of with whimsical condescension, even with contempt. It -seemed to him an impudent excrescence, a meaningless dream that had no -right to existence in a life of reality. - -All this came more swiftly than she knew, occupied as she was with the -absorbing bit of life under her care. In three years she thought she -scarcely knew Miles. The poems he had shown her that night before the -baby’s coming were often in her hands, though she dared not mention -them to him. They were as fine as they had been then. Could this -plodding man--who loved her still with a desperate, clinging love, a -love, as it seemed, that was the breath of his life--be the same man -who had written them? And was it possible that he must stop that divine -occupation for no other reason than that three people had to live? The -future seems short when life is meaningless and tiresome, and we become -seized with a fierce impatience. Moira fought against a feeling that -they were old and life was declining to its end.... - -An ominous fact was apparent. In spite of Harlindew’s devotion to work -at the office he was achieving very little. He had reached a certain -point and come to a standstill. His salary, large according to the -ideas with which he had begun, was a dwindling insufficiency when it -came to paying their bills. He was beginning to be afraid that he -might never go farther. She remembered now a saying that Barcroft had -repeated to her: “Push may start behind, but it’s got brains beat all -hollow in the end.” He was referring to the kind of brains Miles had, -theoretic and literary. Miles himself tried to explain his predicament -in words of much the same import. There was a “point of saturation,” -he said, in salaries and advancement, unless you “got outside and went -after the business.” Apparently that was what he could not do. - -At the same time, an incredible number of new expenses, roundly -chargeable to the item named “baby” had absorbed all their early -savings except a few hundred dollars, which she jealously kept--not so -much in fear of an emergency, as with the hope that it might be the -magic key to open the door to some way out of their life. But she went -into this treasure to buy Miles decent business suits. They were both -behind in similar comforts and vanities. - -Harlindew seemed to resent any invasion of his evenings, to prefer -to sit with her and his thoughts. Yet in reality he was full of an -enormous restlessness to which he dared not surrender. The office -needed all his energy; he could not spend it. So he thought.... Moira -would take the bored man out whenever her maid would stay, trying to -revive the spirit of their old comradeship. It came to life only in -rare flashes. - -Her twenty-eighth year passed. She found herself with more freedom on -her hands now, and she obtained work from Elsie Jennings which brought -in a few dollars a week. She was not sure which feeling was uppermost -in Miles, his pleasure at seeing the money or his disgust at finding -her painting silly gift cards. Her painting, the fact that she had -always kept it up to some extent, was his consolation, a vicarious -substitute for his own emptiness.... But the money made them more -comfortable. - -Then she discovered that she was going to have another baby. He took -the announcement casually, even with a joke. - -“By Jove, my dear,” he said, “I’m succeeding in something, anyway.” - -He sat down and chuckled to himself. Three things had struck him as -very funny. One was that he had never in his life pictured himself as -a prolific father--like his own father; another was that he would be -thirty-seven that week--and the third that he had come home to tell -Moira his salary had been cut. - -She dropped quickly, beseechingly beside him, disliking the sound of -his laugh. - -“What’s the matter, darling, is it too much?” - -He put his arms across her shoulders in an accustomed gesture. - -“No, no, dear. How absurd. I’m as glad as I can be.” - -He laughed again, attempting naturalness, and ruffled his hair with a -sudden motion of his hand. But she felt the husband slipping from her -grasp, turning defiantly before her eyes into the vagrant poet.... - - - - -XXI - - -They moved again, the landlord uptown having raised the rent at the -expiration of their lease. The new place was in two large, bare rooms -four stories up, lighted by gas, and without any kitchen except a -small gas stove in a corner and some shelves concealed by a wall-board -screen. There was a dilapidated bathroom, and a roof above where she -could take the children in good weather. The place was in the Italian -quarter and was cheap. The move seemed a logical one to Moira, for it -brought them down in the social scale. If they were to be poor, it was -better to live with the poor than with the pretentious. And the Italian -section was in the Village, of which they had both become incurably -fond, and where for many reasons they felt most comfortable. - -The house was managed by an Italian woman named Respetti, who had -once done odd jobs of sewing for Moira and for whom she felt a strong -liking. Mrs. Respetti had appeared to be quite overjoyed to see her -again, delighted to hear of her marriage and her children, and had -offered to help her look after them when she could. Her willingness in -this regard was the deciding factor in Moira’s choice of the house. - -She had not been installed there more than a few weeks when Miles -finally lost his job outright, an event she had anticipated almost -any day since before the birth of her little girl. He made efforts to -obtain work of the same kind, but unsuccessfully. He got books for -review. He did whatever came along. One day he brought her a check -signed by his father. He began shortly afterwards to be somewhat -worse than idle, and sought forgetfulness of his troubles in a way to -increase them.... - -Moira had lived to see three men in him: the skylarking poet, the -dogged misfit in business, and finally the self-drugged and nearly -self-convinced failure. And still the vision of the first one haunted -her and she hoped to bring it back to life. - -Left to herself, she made friendships in the Village and built up -her own income to fairly respectable proportions. She was, at least, -preserved from downright anxiety about the children. In her youth at -Thornhill, had she witnessed the privations and makeshifts which now -made up her life she would have thought them a chapter out of some -incredible tale of human misfortune. - -One night when she had waited late for Miles and he had not come, she -went to Sophie’s Kitchen. - -This was a dimly lighted little restaurant, with two rows of board -tables down each wall, and an exotically foreign air, where the food -was well-flavoured and not so expensive as in most of the show -places of the section. She was very fond of Sophie, the proprietress, -a whole-souled woman, discriminating in her intimates, with a soft, -pleasing voice, and remarkably long, narrow hazel eyes. - -As Moira seated herself at one of the tables she was conscious of a -fashionable party across the room. Such people were not unusual in -Sophie’s and she paid little attention to them. She saw the handsome -proprietress in the open pantry at the back of the room and waved -to her with a cry of greeting. Sophie replied by calling her name. -Immediately afterward, Moira looked up to see a man coming toward her -from the group she had spotted upon entering. He reached her table and -thrust out his hand. - -“Well, Rob Blaydon!” she cried. - -“Moira.” - -She had recognized him at once, but she looked him over more carefully -as he sat down opposite her. He was stouter. She found herself -experiencing a sensation she had never known before, that of meeting a -youthful companion grown mature in her absence, one she was fond of. It -wasn’t such an extraordinary sensation. It might have been only a few -days ago when she was seeing Rob constantly. Nothing happened to people -at all. Perhaps his face had changed a little, but whatever change -there was she would have expected. Yes, she felt he was an even more -wicked and human Rob than before. - -“I’ll tell you what, Moira,” he went on at once. “I don’t care what -you’ve got on hand to-night, you’ve got to spend the evening with me. -If you will wait just a minute I’ll get away from these people on some -pretext. I’ve simply got to talk to you, Moira. What do you say?” - -“Go ahead, Rob, if you want to. I’d love it,” she replied with -unaffected pleasure. - -He came back in a few moments. - -“Evidently they are used to your whims,” she said. “They don’t seem to -mind.” - -“Forget ’em,” he replied, with a clipped ruthlessness she remembered -well. - -The two women had in fact glanced at her curiously and critically, -but she did not care. They were certainly a very smart party. She -wondered what they would think if they knew that she, too, not so -many years ago, had worn the clothes they were wearing and cultivated -their dry, sophisticated smiles. It appeared to her now a diluted and -uninteresting sophistication.... - -“Moira,” he was saying, “I’ve got to know all about you. I’m hungry for -information. You don’t look any younger. But you don’t look any the -worse, either. What wouldn’t they give back home to be with me now!” - -“Rob, it’s good to see you!” - -“Honest? Well, I’m certainly glad you feel that way. Still, I always -knew you’d be just the same. Why did you do it, Moira? Why in the devil -did you do it?” - -“Do what?” - -“Oh, all that--rot. It was silly, Moira. You’re one of us, to this day. -Always will be, you know. Who cared?” - -She laughed a few notes of warm laughter that was still a clear stream -free from the sediment of bitterness. - -“I never think of that any more. Perhaps it was silly. But I’ve been -happier.” - -“H’m.” She was conscious that his eyes searched her face, and rather -proud that what he found there would make it impossible to pity her. -“H’m,” he repeated, “well, maybe you have. I guess you know a lot.” - -“How are they, Rob? I’d like to see them all. I really would. Goodness, -it’s been ten years! How’s Hal?” - -There was no challenge in the tone--it was just a natural question. - -“You haven’t heard about Hal? Well, Hal is in China. Been there for -six years and I reckon he won’t come home. You know he looked high -and low for you--thought he was going out of his mind. There were -difficulties, you understand, or perhaps you counted on them. Fear -of publicity--truth leaking out--abduction--shouting your name from -the house-tops. But he wore himself out. Then one night he came home, -and broke down. Well, he told me he guessed it was better the way it -turned out--that he admired you and knew you’d never be moved. Thought -after what happened you’d never feel right. My God, you high and mighty -idealists!” - -“Is he happy?” - -“I don’t know. Hal and I were always so confounded different, it’s -hard for me to get him. He wasn’t cut out to be happy or the opposite. -He’s turned out one of those quiet, square-jawed gumps, Moira. I met -him in Paris two years ago, and we had a rotten dull time of it. I -suppose he’ll mope around the Orient the rest of his life, working for -corporations, get richer and richer and marry somebody’s sister equally -rich. Now, I’m another breed of coyote. I’m always satisfied when I -have a clean shirt on. It’s the thoughtless life I like.” - -“I’m sorry Hal isn’t happy,” said Moira ruefully. - -“I wouldn’t be sorry about him!” snapped Rob. “Damn it, Moira, I don’t -say you weren’t clever as the devil. But if Hal had been me I’d have -found you.” - -“You’re the same Rob!” she laughed. “You know, of course, you’re -the only one of them I could have run into this way and talked to -comfortably. And the others--how are they? Your father I”--she dropped -her voice--“read about in the papers.” - -“Poor Dad. He must have felt he was buncoed sometime or other in his -life. He tried to overcrowd the last few years. I think Aunt Mathilda -felt he went off about in time.... Those two old women--I mean your -mother, Moira, and my aunt. It’s a curious friendship that’s grown up -between them. They keep that big house together and think mostly about -cows and flowers--and old times.” - -She did not reply to that nor look at him directly. She was glad when -he burst out in a more immediate vein. - -“Well, what do you say to a night of it? I find it’s a dull world, -Moira. You may have more money than I have, and it may bore you to do -the bright lights ... but that’s my form of entertainment. However, I’m -only going to do what you say. It’s your night. But I don’t imagine you -want me to take you to church!” - -“I haven’t money,” she answered, smiling. “I never have a night of it, -Rob. I’d love one.” - -“Good! Come on.” - -“No. I want you to wait here while I change. These clothes won’t do.” - -“Just as you say. But can’t I take you--wherever it is you go to change -your clothes?” - -“What’s the use?” she queried, tentatively, as much to herself as to -him. “No, I’d rather you wouldn’t.” - -“Just as you say.” - -“Rob, you’re a dear. In fifteen minutes I’ll be back. Meantime you talk -to Sophie. Oh, Sophie,” she called, and while she waited for Sophie to -come, she added, “Sophie will like you fine. She might even put you on -the poor list.” - -“What’s that?” - -“Sophie has a sliding scale of prices. But that’s a secret.” - -Moira’s one black evening gown was rather old, but she felt -extraordinarily happy as she stepped out of the restaurant a little -later on his arm. The sweet, leathery smell of the taxicab’s interior -held almost a new shiver for her. How long it had been since she had -smelled that with a good conscience and seen the lights of the little -squares and the upper Avenue slip by like a single glittering chain, -to the slinky whirr of wheels. She looked forward to the evening for -itself--its adventure in colours--and for Rob. She begged him not to -ask her questions, not until they had had a few dances and found a -quiet corner after the fun. - -“I see,” he said. “You’re starved for a fling--even if you won’t let -on.” - -“I am--with you.” - -“No kidding? But I guess you always did like me pretty well. You -used to be my only champion. And I needed one often. Well, I’m an -unrepentant sinner.” - -After dining they took in a part of the Follies and then went to dance. -It was the same, she found, here as it had been at home. Whenever -they stopped, at the Tom-Tom and La Fleur de Nuit, he was known and -served like the old-timers. She begged him to go on drinking while she -skipped, and he did so without apology, explaining that it was his -forte. She wondered at his power of absorbing continuously without the -trembling of an eyelash. It pleased her to meet admiring eyes, and be -asked to dance by his friends. - -He steered her afterward to a place furnished like a very intimate -club, where they sat in deep armchairs under dim lights and had -scrambled eggs and bacon on little French stands. There she took a long -Scotch highball and told him something of herself. - -“Moira,” he said. “It’s a weird sensation to listen to such a tale from -you. You belong in this sort of thing.” He indicated the too elegant -room. - -She rose to go. - -“It’s better fun to feel you belong in the whole crazy world. I wonder -if you do?” - -She laughed and then added with a sudden burst of bravado: “Rob, I’d -like to take you home and let you see my kids. I’d like to to-night. -Could you come?” - -“Yep. I get a train out of here at nine in the morning and there’s more -than six hours to make it.” - -She felt it was an odd experience for him climbing up the dark, gas-lit -stairs. She led him back to the cribs with candelabra in her hand, -and he looked longest at the blond-haired little Joanna, seeing in -her broad, upturned, warm face some misty resemblance to his earliest -vision of her mother. - -“They’re great kids, Moira. But I won’t bluff--I like ’em all best when -they’re asleep.” - -They came out into the shadowy, haphazard studio, and she knew he felt -uneasy and shocked at her surroundings. - -“Well,” he said coolly, “of course you’re going to let me help you. -I’ve got plenty--more than is good for me--and nobody has more right to -it than you. If you say so, I’ll ditch that train to-morrow and have -you out of here by noon with the children, into a comfortable place.” - -“No, sir,” she laughed. - -“But, my God!” he protested, and then added severely. “Moira, I told -you early in the evening you looked none the worse for everything.... -But you do--you look peaked. You’re fagged.” - -“Who wouldn’t be, after a night of it with you! No, no, you dear boy. -But we’ll have a night of it again.” - -“Thanks for that.” - -“And only with you, Rob,” she continued, with emphasis. He caught the -hint that he was to keep the secret of her whereabouts. - -“Just as you say. I shan’t talk. But I’m going to get you out of this, -somehow, sometime. I can’t tell you where to reach me, to-night, except -that Thornhill does, in a roundabout way. I’m going to locate in the -East in a few days and you’ll hear from me. I’m going now. There’s no -use talking, Moira, this pulls me down”--he made a gesture with his -hand about the room and then added apologetically--“Don’t be offended. -It’s just because it happens to be you.” - -As he stood awkwardly, with hat and stick under one arm, he took out a -long box of cigarettes and threw it on the table. - -“At least let me give you those,” he said with a sheepish grin. - -“Rob, please don’t worry about me,” she pleaded. She stepped toward -the table to take a cigarette from the box he had thrown down, but his -outstretched arm stopped her. - -“Here,” he said, offering his opened case, “take one of these.... -Moira, you’re the woman who makes all my conceptions about the sex go -blooey. Damn it, I wish I were Harold. I wish I had some prior rights -in the matter.” - -“You’ve more rights this minute than Hal,” she said firmly. - -After he had gone she sat puffing smoke into the dim upper reaches of -the room, and watching the petals of candlelight waver and dip. What -fun it had been! Life held strange meetings. Perhaps it held many more -for her. She was a little unhappy, dissatisfied ... the place did look -dismal, unclean, comfortless. - -In the morning she found Miles pacing the studio waiting for her to -rise. He was nervous and evasive, but in better shape than she had -expected to see him. Obviously, he had done his recovering elsewhere, -and bathed while she slept. She kissed him, her quarrel with him lost -in pleasant afterthoughts of the night before, but he seemed troubled -and strange. At breakfast, he suddenly asked: - -“What the devil is this?” - -“What?” - -He tossed a Pall Mall cigarette box across the table and she opened it. -The silver paper was folded carefully over the top. Between it and the -bottom layer of cigarettes lay five one hundred dollar bills. - -“It’s a long story,” she said, recovering from her surprise. Then she -told him about Rob. He stood up to go after she had finished. - -“Well,” he said, with some embarrassment, “I do hope you feel it’s a -perfectly natural thing for a fellow to open a box of cigarettes lying -around on a table. I mean to say--” - -“Nonsense. I should have done it myself.” - -Miles left her, to go to his accumulated work, bitterly, she knew, and -more completely convinced of his uselessness. She sat down to try to -think out what was to be done. The owner of the five hundred had taken -his train long ago. She did not know where to reach him, and if she -did, it would be downright mean to send the money back. She remembered -how he had prevented her from opening the box before he had left her. -The money was not there by accident. Rob was her schoolboy friend. -Perhaps she was only giving herself an excuse, but what good would her -self-righteousness do to temper the hurt she knew he would feel? She -would accept his gift simply and with thanks. Besides, she had a plan. -On the children’s account, on Miles’, on her own, she had long been -wanting to put it into execution. This money would enable her to do so, -beautifully and without a hitch. - - - - -XXII - - -In the open country near a southern village of Connecticut, not over a -brisk morning’s walk to the Sound, sat a smallish farmhouse which was -probably a century old. It was an innocent and ordinary enough looking -house from the road. It topped a swell of land that was somewhat higher -than its immediate surroundings and bare of large trees except for a -single magnificent elm halfway between the house and the road. The -lawn was allowed to grow wild, but nearer the house and covering the -approach to its graceful old doorway were several shrubs in more or -less cultivated condition placed on a few feet of clipped sod. In the -spring the lawn and the fields which rolled out downward from the house -were thickly starred with buttercups whose tiny yellow bowls glistened -like lacquered buttons in the sun. Later the same meadows turned to a -waving lake of red clover. - -Potter Osprey, when upbraided by his friends for not making more of -his handful of acres, declared he was no gardener. He could neither -adorn nature nor gain his feed from her by his own hands, for she was a -wild beast whose moods and colours and contours he had struggled with -all his life, and there was no quarter between them. To all offers to -prettify her in his immediate neighbourhood he was politely deaf. He -wanted her rugged and plain as his plastic, solid canvases liked to -interpret her, and that way he could love her as one loves a worthy foe. - -On the house itself he had lavished more care. Eight years of his own -proprietorship had made it, without any great loss of its ancient -character, a place of personal charm inside. In the rear the hill -fell sharply from the foundation, and here he had built up a broad -concrete terrace, looking northward to an unbroken view of horizon -and low hills. Above the terrace for ten or twelve feet in height and -almost as wide, rose a vertical sheet of heavy, transparent glass in -narrow panels, and this gave light to a large room, which had been made -by knocking out walls and upper flooring so that half of it was two -stories high. The house practically consisted of this room, a cellar -under it, and some small bedrooms above. Outhouse and kitchen stepped -away to the west. - -From Osprey’s north terrace could be seen a smaller house on the -eastern slope, nestling in a very old, gnarled and worn-out orchard. -Some of its trees reminded one of those anatomical designs in -physiological books; they were half bare-branched skeleton and half -green, waving body. - -To the larger house Moira Harlindew came one morning in answer to an -advertisement in a New York paper, describing a “small, furnished -house in the country with conveniences.” - -She was admitted by the painter himself, a man of medium height, who -showed his fifty years more in his figure, his careless gait, and -the way he wore his old clothes, than in the face, which was of no -definite age, so Moira thought. What lines had been worn upon it made -the man seem more youthful. The eyes were candid and reposeful, but -extremely responsive to passing moods. This she detected in his look -of anxiety as he first opened the door for her, and in the evident -relief that followed his swift inspection. The mouth, under a gray -wisp of moustache that tended to turn upwards at the ends, slanted a -bit so that more than half of the smile was on one side. There was a -suggestion of the satirical in it. Yet Moira found the face, on the -whole, a pleasant one to look at, especially when he had recovered his -composure and was welcoming her. - -“Come in,” he said. “What can I do for you?” - -“I’ve come to see the house for rent.” - -“Good. You’re early. I hardly expected any answers to-day before -noon. It’s quite a little way to come from the city, you know. By the -way, I’m at my breakfast. Suppose you come along and sit down while I -finish. Do you mind?” - -He led her into the studio and she sank into a large chair, a little -tired after the long, warm walk from the station. She felt instantly -and completely happy. The big room, with its cool, even light, its -smell of wood and paint, and its thousand and one objects familiar -and dear to her trade, drove everything else from her mind, even the -anxiety she had felt lest the place be taken--for it was Monday morning -and all day Sunday had elapsed since she had seen the advertisement. He -noticed her fatigue and glanced at her dusty shoes. - -“You’ve walked up,” he exclaimed, surprised. “Well, perhaps you will -join me.” He sat down before a low table which gleamed with silver and -yellow china. “Coffee? My morning tipple is tea, but Nana always has -some coffee because she loves it herself.” - -“If you really have it,” said Moira, “I’d like some coffee.” - -A large, impassive negress soon served her. - -“It isn’t much of a house you’re going to see,” he went on. “I call -it the orchard bungalow and it is nearly as decrepit as the orchard -itself. But it will shed the rain.” - -“And it’s not taken?” asked Moira warmly. - -“Well, no--not exactly. But I’m afraid it’s too--well, unpretentious -for you.” - -“It couldn’t be that,” she laughed. As he finished his toast her gaze -went on embracing the room with frank pleasure, and she was aware he -took sly glances at her. - -“Do you paint?” he asked suddenly. - -Moira had been afraid of the question. Though her host had only given -his last name she had read it on pictures in the studio, and knew -now that he was an American painter of reputation whose work she had -worried over at various exhibitions. She felt extremely humble, but her -fear arose from the suspicion that a successful painter might object to -having irresponsible and immature dabblers running about in his near -neighbourhood. She could not hide in the immediate safety of a lie. -Eventually that would be found out, though it tempted her. - -“I’m just a student,” she replied, and went on quickly, “but the real -reason I want a country place is because I’ve two young children. Do -you mind that? I’m sure they will not bother you.” - -“Not at all,” he said cordially. “On the contrary.... However,” he -added, rising, “I think we had better look at this humble dwelling -before you grow too enthusiastic, my dear young lady.” - -As Moira had entered the place, her mind’s eye had pictured the -four-year-old Miles playing among those buttercups, and learning -things he might never get to know if he grew much older in the city. -Now every step confirmed her in the desire to live here at any cost. -The nostalgia for Thornhill which she had felt in many a solitary hour -during these last ten years, together with a flood of early memories, -swept over her. The orchard, upon which a few apple blossoms lingered, -was enchantingly old and weird. Standing in the high grass beneath -it one could see a pattern of winding stone fences crisscrossing the -fields, and up a near-by hill danced three pale birches like a trio of -white-legged girls with green veils trailing about them. Even a bit of -decayed brown board by the path made her sentimental. She wanted to run -after a butterfly or to lie full length in the grass of the meadow, -letting the sun drink her up.... - -The house was small, but a moment’s speculation and mental -rearrangement convinced her that it was adequate. She and the genial -owner found themselves making plans together for the comfort of the -Harlindew family. - -“I don’t see what you are going to do with your maid,” said he, “unless -she sleeps on the couch out here in the sitting room.” - -“I shan’t have a maid,” Moira replied, and he looked at her with -another of his glances of wondering curiosity. - -“But,” he began, and then stopped, thinking better of what he had -intended to say. “Well, there’s my Nana. She often has time lying heavy -on her hands and she doesn’t object to an occasional extra fee. No -doubt she can help you.” - -“Oh, that will be splendid,” she cried. The suggestion did solve a -minor problem in her mind, but she had no patience just now with minor -problems. “I love the old furniture you have in here.” - -“Most of it was here when I came, in the house up above. I made one -room out of three when I built the studio, and these are the handful -of pieces I could not use. If you haven’t enough, there are a few more -odds and ends stored away.” - -“You’re going to let me take it, then?” asked Moira breathlessly. - -He seemed surprised at the question, as though the matter had been -settled between them, and then laughed. - -“I’ll tell you the truth now, Mrs. Harlindew. There have been several -other applicants but I put them off somehow--I didn’t like any of -them.... But!” he exclaimed suddenly--“but my dear girl! Well, well!” - -She was crying after all, as she had feared she would in the orchard, -ten minutes before. Tears that she could not keep back rolled down her -smiling cheeks.... - - - - -XXIII - - -Moira’s hope had been that their move to the country would bring Miles -to his senses. With nothing to do but rest and lose himself in the -beauty and peace of outdoors, with not even the responsibility, for -some months at least, to earn any money, she confidently believed he -would drop the habits which had regained their hold upon him of late, -get possession of his impulse to work, and begin to write the things of -which she dreamed he was capable. And in the beginning each day after -they arrived confirmed her hope. He seemed to cast heavy burdens from -his shoulders and his mind, to love spending hours with the children, -romping and making the place merry with their laughter and his. From -time to time he wandered off alone with his pockets stuffed with paper, -boyishly promising great results, or stayed up with the lamp at night. -When they had been there no more than ten days it seemed already a long -time ago that their lives had changed and taken a turn for the better. -She was for that ten days serenely happy. - -Then the country began to pall on Miles. He grew restless and evasive; -at breakfast he would hint at various reasons for going to New York. -When their second week end came around he managed a convincing excuse -and disappeared with a small handbag full of over-night clothing. - -Moira’s heart sank at this unexpected turn of affairs, and she spent -the days in his absence giving way to more real despair than she -had ever known with him. This time she had done her best, done what -a little while ago she would have thought impossible, and she had -failed.... - -He seemed to come back passionately eager to see her, and so long as he -did that she could only surrender to him and see in him still her lover -and her first lover, her lover for all time. But these waves of passion -died away; her presence and the children’s began to irk him in a day -or two, sometimes in a few hours, and it soon appeared to her that he -regarded a week as an interminable visit. - -She set herself to observing him, to studying his chance remarks, and -for the first time a genuine doubt of his fidelity oppressed her. There -was nothing tangible, except his trips to the city, to justify this -suspicion, and these would have been inadequate despite his evasions. -She could quite naturally think of him as being restless, as wanting -to go away, without dreaming that he would belie her faith in him. -The suspicion of infidelity came before the evidence, but once the -suspicion was lodged in her mind, the evidence, all unconsciously -furnished by Miles, piled up by little and little. - -She saw that this warmth of love-making with which he returned to her -did not last an hour. Bitter thoughts assailed her. Evidently he was -not always successful with his hypothetical sweetheart or sweethearts -and was driven back to his wife. She could not keep fantastic -exaggerations out of her head, though in her sober moments she told -herself that the truth, if probably serious, was far less florid than -she imagined. - -Nevertheless, there grew upon her an increasing repugnance toward -his advances. She made no issue of it. She did not want conflict. -He was very appealing, very hard on her sympathies, very skilful in -inventions. She could not quickly forget that he had suffered and -struggled while he still loved her. But her inescapable conclusion, -reached in hours of cold reflection, was that they were parting; that -sooner or later an end would come. She determined not to invite it -so long as her pride was not sacrificed; to wait for it sensibly and -coolly. - -Another explanation of Miles’ conduct brought a curious sort of -consolation and corrective. This was that he simply wanted to be -free--but did not have the strength. The opportunity had been placed in -his way to leave, and, feeling himself ultimately unequal to marriage -and its burdens and limitations, he believed he ought to take it. His -love still held him tenuously to her and the children, his sentiment -for their past together, his need for a woman’s support--whatever -it was--and he could not find the courage to make the break. He -had probably been strengthened in entertaining this purpose by the -knowledge that somebody had turned up from Thornhill, and she would be -taken care of. Much as that base notion offended her, this last theory -was frankly pleasing. It was better than the thought of betrayal with -another woman. - -By the time she had reached this state of enlightenment she was so -skilled in reading poor Miles’ motives that she felt as though she had -acquired supernatural powers of clairvoyance. The summer was more than -half gone. - -But she had not thought exclusively of Miles. She had the children to -care for and teach a whole new set of fascinating things, and she had -her painting. The opportunity presented by these untrammelled days was -not to be lost over heart-burnings, and a new power and certainty had -come to her. She wasted less time carrying her attempts to the last -degree of finish. She was trying by experiment after experiment to -get the feel and solidity of the earth and to express her warm daily -contact with it. - -She had been very timid toward Osprey where painting was concerned. She -had resolved never to speak to him about it and to keep out of his way -while she was at it. One ought not to expect to rent the cottage of a -famous painter and have advice thrown in. But it was he who sought -her in the orchard one morning and made comments for which she was -grateful, because she understood them and could profit by them, and -also because they were not uncomplimentary. - -“Most of us,” he said, “gamble frightfully in choosing art as a career. -That’s why there are so many hopeless artists. We mistake an urge for a -talent, and the devil of it is there is no sure way of knowing whether -we’re on the right road or not. But I think you are. In the first place -you have the steady enthusiasm and not just mere plugging industry. -In the second place you are a self-teacher. Everybody worth a hang is -that.” - -They were the first really golden words she had ever heard, and she -was certain afterward that simply hearing them had improved her work -miraculously--made her surer of the knowledge she had gained and helped -her to discard excrescences. - -Osprey had few visitors. Perhaps twice a year a gathering of -extraordinary individuals with whom he had consorted at various periods -and in many parts of the world crowded into the house, took possession -of it, kept up a racket until morning and departed, leaving him with a -few more intimate cronies, some to recover from the effects and others -simply to prolong the reunion. These entertainments occurred usually -in the early spring or fall, the seasons of change when people come -together most spontaneously. And they were spontaneous. He had no use -for set affairs. - -On rare occasions women drove out to see him, for luncheon or tea; and -he himself went to town about once a month, seldom remaining longer -than over night. He seemed to have cultivated not only the love of -solitude, but the power to enjoy it for long periods. - -There was one visitor, however, who arrived often. Moira saw his heavy -blue roadster drawn up beside the lawn three times during the first -month of her stay, and she wondered who the impressive man was, with -short grey curly hair, and the easy bearing of accomplishment. She was -not surprised to learn later that he was somebody--no less a person, in -fact, than Emmet Roget, the producer, a man who was both a power in the -business phase of the theatre and an artistic radical in his own right. - -The friendship between these two men appeared to be less extraordinary -now than it had been in past years, but it was still a friendship in -which a certain inequality was apparent. The rôle of Roget toward -Osprey, during three-fourths of their adult lives, had been that of -a detached but watchful guardian. A dozen years ago Osprey had been -something of a riderless horse, a centre of explosions, the victim of -unexpected mishaps and misunderstandings, constantly involved with a -woman, and taking his affairs with desperate seriousness, careless -of his talent and his time. Much of this relationship he skilfully -suggested to her himself, in his humorously philosophic moments. - -As he put it, he was born somewhere between his thirty-eighth and his -fortieth year, and began to live his life in a sense backward; for -though he went on having experiences it was always something in his -life before his thirty-eighth year that he seemed to be living over -in these experiences, and relishing where he previously had suffered. -The actual occasion of the change had been a painful separation from -the last of his devastating loves, and more or less complete celibacy -since. The result was a fresh joy in work, a really enormous volume of -production ... peace and contentment and plenty. - -The life of Emmet Roget had been exactly the antithesis. He was -penniless in his youth. No sooner had he reached New York--to which -initial step Osprey had assisted him--than he began to have means -for his needs. At twenty-nine he left Europe, after having immersed -himself in as much of French culture as an able young foreigner can -obtain with diligence and enthusiasm, and studied the beginnings of the -German theatre movement. A season was spent directing a Denver “little -theatre,” but the provinces offered too little future and freedom. Once -more in New York, Roget was designing sets and directing productions. -In his late thirties he was instituting new methods into the theatre -which were hailed and copied abroad. - -Many regarded Emmet Roget as primarily a “man for the future,” yet to -him the present seemed invariably kind. Unlike his friend, nothing -touched him; but whatever he touched gained from his personality, -took on fascination and beauty. Hard at the core, immovable and -unimpressionable, he was yet acutely sensitive, capable of profound -appreciations, for music, for colour, for a scene, a woman--and -surprisingly human in his contacts. No doubt it was this intuitive -appreciation, coupled with early friendship, which had made him cling -to Osprey through many hopeless seasons and experiments. - -The first two or three times that Roget visited him that summer, Osprey -did not refer to his new tenants except casually. Later, however, when -he had had a half dozen talks with Moira, he introduced the subject to -his friend at the dinner table. - -“That’s rather a remarkable young woman I’ve got down there in the -orchard,” he said. “Did I tell you that she painted?” - -“I believe so--something of the kind,” replied Roget. He had met with -his share of disillusionment among his own protégés, and he was not -given to more than passing interest in the mere fact that a young woman -painted. - -“Well,” pursued Osprey, “I’ve got something to show you after dinner.” - -When they had finished he led the producer to a picture on the studio -wall and switched on a light he had put up to illuminate it. - -“That’s one of hers,” he said. “I think there are extraordinarily good -things in it as well as bad. At all events, I liked it so well I bought -it.” - -Roget studied the picture for a moment, but without enthusiasm. - -“Yes,” he said. “Obviously you’ve influenced her already, or she’s -known your work for some time.” - -“I don’t think it’s so obvious,” protested the other. “There’s personal -insight in that modelling, and it has a back to it. Anyway, she’s -young. Fact is, there’s something really unusual about the girl. I -fancy she had things her own way at one time. The marks are there, -overlaid by experience since.” - -“Of course,” laughed Roget quietly, “it makes a difference if you know -the young lady.” - -“Hang it, my dear fellow, the girl is poor. Has two children, and a -husband who may be talented and may be a fool. But he’s certainly no -support.” - -“Charity and art do not mix, old man.” - -“The hell they don’t,” replied Osprey testily. “But as you say, -one must see for oneself. You are going to make Mrs. Harlindew’s -acquaintance, and whatever you think of charity, you will buy a picture -from her as a favour to me. Not too soon, you understand, and not too -obtrusively. She shied at me frightfully when I bought this one. I had -to tell her that I had made quite a collection of the work of promising -beginners for reasons of my own.” - -Roget found his friend nearly always transparent. Ten years ago he -would have said there was considerably more than the mere fervour of -the artist in this championship. But he had since become acquainted -with a wholly new side of the man, and it was difficult to believe him -capable of losing his head over a pretty bride who happened to rent his -house. - -“You say she is married?” he contented himself with asking, dryly. - -A flicker of humorous comprehension passed over the other’s face. - -“Yes,” he replied shortly, “but the fellow neglects her.” - -Roget’s manner became once more indulgent. - -“Well, I shall try to buy this picture. I don’t know what to do with it -after I get it. There are mighty few pictures worth buying. Perhaps not -more than twenty in the world.” - -He dismissed the subject and sat down at Osprey’s piano. His study of -the instrument had come late, in young manhood. Lacking any great -musical scholarship or conventional training, he nevertheless played -whatever he had heard that pleased him, with extraordinary tenderness -and effect. - - - - -XXIV - - -For Moira the summer grew increasingly fruitful, and, in a reflective -way, full of satisfactions, despite the continued absences of Miles. -A profound sympathy came over her, which she did not remember to have -experienced before, for the average discontented wife, who had to -endure this sort of thing with empty hands and no refuge of the spirit -in which to lose herself.... That could never be the case with her. - -It is true that she would have been less serene were it not for the -fact that she had found companionship that answered a real want. Osprey -had none of the qualifications of the teacher, and his criticisms -struck deep. If she had been younger and greener they might only -have puzzled and not helped her, but now she welcomed surgery and -destruction. Her own hard years of unaided application rendered her -capable of understanding his language remarkably well, and she was -ready to discard and forget everything she had ever known. - -Their discussions were often continued after brushes were laid aside. -She accepted invitations to tea in the studio or sat on his terrace -on warm nights after the children were asleep. The long drawn out -culmination of her relationship to Miles had given her the habit of -self-analysis, and she laughed somewhat over the appeal that Osprey -made to her as a man. She could not deny that it was the same that -originally had drawn her to her husband. She dealt here with a greater -Miles, wiser and more experienced. Nevertheless, she sensed in him the -type that was not self-sufficient, that required sympathy of a subtle -kind, and required it, when found, with an intensity that in this -case was beginning to prove hypnotic to her. Unquestionably Potter -Osprey was gradually becoming a necessary part of her life, and this -was not her fault but his. She had hinted at, more than revealed, the -state of affairs between herself and Miles. It was impossible not to -do so, appearances being what they were; and the older man’s complete -understanding coupled with hesitation to advise, was a soothing remedy -to her hurts. - -The attraction which was growing between herself and Osprey was -totally different from her feeling for his friend, Roget, with whom -she had become acquainted. The distinguished producer treated her -with bantering equality from the start. It was as if they recognized -a likeness to each other in essential strength, and the hesitation, -almost anxiety, which Roget had felt over the painter’s passionate -adoption of Moira’s cause disappeared on knowing her. He began to -think of the whole affair as a pleasant and lasting alliance for his -friend, of some sort, and he little doubted of what sort it would be. -Obstacles there were, which he did not concern himself with. Once a -possibility took life in Roget’s brain, obstacles did not exist. He had -seen too many large ones swept aside. - -To Moira, the obstacles were more significant, and yet they had -diminished amazingly in the last three months. The prospect that Osprey -would take their friendship seriously did have about it a quality of -dark adventure which made even her steady pulses jump uncomfortably. -But to the young woman who sees her marriage being slowly broken up -before her eyes, while she is helpless to restore it, everything is -touched by the shimmer of madness. And she asked herself what could -have been more mad, more out of all normal reason, than her whole life? -Moreover, she had a firm support now, one that gave her the strength -to adventure--her art. The intimation had visited her at last that she -might triumph in it; and, having reached that certainty, she felt it a -more present help than coffers heaped with gold.... The picture which -Roget had tried to buy she laughingly refused to sell him, but he had -countered with a problem in stage design which he promised to accept if -it offered a suggestion to work on. Here was a beginning, at least. - -Her children ... it was strange how she felt toward them, how little -she feared for them. Certainly they were to be shielded, but also -they were not to be deceived about the life into which they had been -brought. The truth would not hurt them. - -It was late in September that Moira received the letter from Miles -saying that he had left and would not return. The letter was a -mixture of unhappy self-accusation, and charges against her for -various shortcomings, chief of which appeared to be that she had -become self-sufficient and had accepted assistance from others. She -thought he might have spared her that, as well as the taunt about her -preoccupation with Osprey.... She had expected a parting shot of some -kind, yet when it came it was a painful blow, and she spent a week -brooding over it and wholly beside herself. - -During this week Osprey saw nothing of her, and when she came up the -hill one evening to join him, he revealed in his eagerness what the -deprivation had meant. He led her to a seat, fussed about her comfort -and lighted her cigarette. - -“I’ve been ill,” she said. “I go off and hide when that happens, like -an animal. Now I’m well.” - -“Ill?” he asked, disturbed. He reflected that he should have been less -squeamish and forced a visit upon her. He had never done just that. -Invitations, dropped at chance meetings or at the end of discussions -while they worked had been enough. This time he had gone a little -further, approached her door on an impulse twice, but stopped before -making his presence known. “But,” he resumed, “Nana didn’t tell me -about your being ill. Did she take care of you?” - -Moira knew what was in his mind. While she had been ill, her husband -had not been at home. - -“Well,” she confessed lightly, “ill is not strictly true. I’ve been -just out of sorts. I had some news, but it doesn’t matter.” - -“Good. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Particularly, as Nana tells me, -you’re expecting a guest to-morrow.” - -“Yes, an old friend, a Mr. Blaydon. An old schoolmate, really, who has -been very kind to us.” - -“I wonder if you wouldn’t bring him and Mr. Harlindew to dinner -to-morrow night? I shall be delighted to have you all; and as for Nana, -she suggested it herself.” - -Miles had always been included in Osprey’s formal invitations, whether -present or not, and had, in fact, attended once and contributed not -unpleasantly to the evening. - -“I’m afraid I can’t promise for my husband,” said Moira slowly. - -“H’m. That’s too bad. But I can count on you and your friend, Mr. -Blaydon, anyway?” - -“I should love to bring him,” she replied and paused.... It was better, -she thought, to have matters understood.... “My husband ... won’t come -back here,” she went on. “He has left me.” - -“It was that,” he asked kindly, “the news you had?” - -“Yes, he wrote me a letter.” - -Osprey spoke quietly but she was conscious of the emotion in his voice. - -“And you will accept that? You will not seek him, try to bring him -back?” - -“No,” she replied. “Too much has happened before this. It is over.” - -“You poor girl. You’ve suffered over it.” - -“I put a good deal into it.... But this had to happen. Miles must have -no ties.” - -Osprey’s animation returned and he spoke in a more impersonal tone. - -“Perhaps you’re right. I think the young man has not grown up in spite -of his years. But he may find himself. They have a kind of strength, -fellows like that, a kind of terrible strength that no one suspects. -I’ve seen his type before. The fact is,” he added, with a half-serious -smile, “I’ve been something of the sort myself. It’s often hard to -locate the origin of a fool’s folly, but I think in my case it was an -experience I had when I was a boy. It wasn’t a peccadillo with me. It -haunted me for years, so much that I can’t talk freely about it to this -day. It made life a desperate adventure; it was at the back of most of -my troubles....” He laughed. “I seem like an old fool to be telling you -all this. And truly my nightmares appear absurd to me now.” - -Moira laughed a little bitterly. “Something happened to me too when I -was young.... But I am free.... I tore myself free from it.” - -“I thought so,” he said gently. “There is a great difference in our -ages, but if I may say so, we seem to have--well, had something alike -to face in life. No, I do not mean just that--it’s presumptuous. I have -never, I think, before met any woman quite like you. Strength and the -genius for insight, such as yours, rarely meet in the same body.” - -A hungry intensity in his words escaped him unawares. Though he had -spoken nothing of significance, the feeling that shook him reached -her through the dusk with sinister force. She had felt the same thing -before and had had a momentary impulse to run, to break free from it. -She did not want to be subjected to another tyranny of her emotions.... -Yet she had reasoned with herself. Here was a future that could in -every sense be ideal, a man with whom she had everything in common and -whom she knew she could trust.... - -A moment later he changed the subject and she was glad. - -“By the way,” he said, “why not have your guest stay over, if he will? -You know I’ve extra bedrooms, and there is no reason why he should not -occupy one as long as he likes.” - -It was a point that had worried and embarrassed her, and she was -inexpressibly pleased that he had thought of it. - -“You’re too good,” she said fervently, “and I would love to keep him.” - -They chatted on over impersonal shallows until the time came for her to -return to the cottage. - - - - -XXV - - -As she left him that night she wondered if her conscience troubled her. -She was certainly encouraging Osprey. Standing in her own sitting room, -she recalled vividly how, when he took her hand in good-night, she had -felt the fierce stream that poured through him, and her very silence -had given him permission to unburden himself. She was thankful for his -restraint. Moreover her silence had been the result of pleasure, and -not mere lack of words. How little she had known of anything quite so -contained and yet so overpowering in Miles.... She could respond to -that, she knew: she had only to yield a little and she could respond. - -The thought of Osprey in this personal sense, of some one beside her -husband in a personal sense, caused her to realize how much importance -she had gone on attaching to Miles. How ridiculous and womanly of her! -she reflected. Miles had taken his departure, and yet she had not until -now seemed quite to believe in it. Perhaps even yet she did not believe -in it. She had told Osprey that it was over; she kept repeating to -herself that it was over. Everything pointed to it, Harlindew’s own -unequivocal statement and her angry resentment of the manner of his -desertion, particularly his letter. But in her real consciousness she -had continued to expect his return ... during the whole of her talk -with Osprey, Miles had been present as a reality--a definite bar--in -her thought. - -But now a new thing happened to her. She suddenly faced her whole life -spread out before her as on a single canvas, or rather as a continuing -panorama--and not just one small segment of it. Miles had not been her -whole life; he had been but a part. He might have continued to be that -part indefinitely and still not become her whole life. She had been -magnifying him until she had lost sight of the rest, all that other -strange web of adventure and catastrophe which had included her birth, -her childhood, her love for Hal, her tragic discovery, her runaway, her -struggle to help herself.... That would go on, no matter what happened, -whether Miles returned or stayed away, and it would go on according to -her own terms. - -The notion of herself as an entity, surviving, growing, separate and -alone, filled her for the first time with a curious excitement. It -released so many fresh and irresistible currents within her. She began -to think more consciously of other men, of Potter Osprey in particular. -She rose and went out into the orchard. The painter had had constructed -a table and seats for them earlier in the summer, and she sat down in -one of the gaily painted stationary benches which gave the children so -much pleasure. They recalled to her his scores of other attentions; the -flowers and delicacies of one sort or another which he had sent down -regularly by Nana, his numerous subterfuges to help her with money, the -little comforts that he had added to the house, his presents to young -Miles and Joanna. These things, of which her husband--most younger men -indeed--would never have thought, were dear to her. And once he had -hinted, in a joking manner, of “leaving her the cottage” in his will. - -“You can’t tell--I may be knocked off some day,” he had said. “I’ve -become such an absentminded countryman that I’m always a little -surprised to find myself alive after crossing a New York street.” - -She had turned such overtures off with pleasantries, which they -deserved, and yet she had entertained them; they had wooed her and -become a part of her dilatory dreaming. As she sat there in the -caressingly cool night she felt this keenly; she felt a sense of -permanency and peace under the protecting boughs of the orchard. She -could not remember such a feeling since long ago at Thornhill. - -She rose reluctantly and went into the house. Unquestionably she -had reached a point where she could regard Osprey’s passion without -disturbance; and yet she longed for a temporary refuge from it, -knowing that at any moment they might be brought together by some turn -of the conversation such as that to-night and his reserve would give -way. She wanted to escape that contingency for a long time, to think -out her relationship to the future. But she had no reasonable means -or excuse to flee. Her plans had not been made for the winter, and -according to their informal agreement she was to remain in the cottage -another month. - -Robert Blaydon’s visit furnished a safe diversion for three days. She -was able to keep him that long through the insistent hospitality of -Osprey, and the fact that the two took a strong liking to each other. -They sat up late together in the studio one night over a fine brand of -Scotch whisky which Blaydon had brought with him, and the younger man -submitted amiably to a questioning about Moira which disclosed little -more than that he had been her boyhood companion at one time, and her -circumstances had once been opulent. He told Osprey, however, that he -had heard his own name often. - -“Yes?” inquired his host. “Well, perhaps that’s natural, as you say we -have been fellow townsmen.” - -“Fact is,” replied Blaydon, “I’ve an aunt out there who has become -vastly interested in painters, in her old age, and I’ve heard her -speak of you. A Mrs. Seymour.” - -“Don’t ask me to remember names back home,” laughed Osprey. “You would -think me a pretty determined exile if I told you how long it had been -since I was there.” - -“In any case, she’ll be much excited when I tell her that I have met -you,” said the other, reflecting on the humour and difficulty of his -situation, in which discretion constrained him with Osprey from telling -Moira’s connection to his aunt, and with his aunt from telling Moira’s -connection with Osprey. - -“Mysteries are a damned nuisance among such likeable people,” he -concluded to himself. “I hope this one gets cleared up some day.” And -his conviction was that it would. - - - - -XXVI - - -Moira awoke late, long after Potter Osprey had departed for the city, -where he was to meet Roget and return with him in the car sometime that -night. - -It was her last week in the cottage. A few days after the departure -of Rob Blaydon for the west, Elsie Jennings had paid her a visit -and talked. Miles Harlindew was living with a young woman in the -Village. There was a rumour of their going to Europe together.... -Moira suppressed a twinge at this, in which at first there was more -of sardonic humour than of pain. The pain came sharply afterward, -but it did not remain long this time, and it left her at last aloof. -She no longer felt the vestige of an obstacle to following her own -inclinations, and she also had no further defence against Osprey’s -attentions. - -The growth of understanding between them was almost wordless, -monosyllabic. It made her intensely happy to discover in his eyes how -much she was bringing to him. A long time would have to elapse before -she could give a worthy response to that emotion, but she felt that it -would come.... - -The troublesome details of her future were therefore on this morning a -matter of no concern to her at all. What filled her with delight was -the immediate present. Never had she seen such weather as that October -day, or if she had, never before had she been alive to its innumerable -aspects at once. After the dubiousness and suffering of the past few -weeks she felt both older and younger, both cleansed by experience and -ready for more to come. Her whole womanly being was gathering itself -for something new, and she meant to grasp it to the full. The ship’s -engines were throbbing in her blood and the open sea lay beyond, but -her hand was firm on the wheel.... - -It was a day to idle, one of those days when the children were -positively in the way and work impossible. It was a day of heady -egoism, of reveling in her securely felt advantages, and a certain -sense of having won the spurs of lawlessness. She would be restless -until to-morrow when the men came. What fine friends they were! - -It was eleven o’clock, and, following her usual custom, she walked down -to the grey metal box in which both her own mail and that of the Osprey -house was deposited. She half expected to hear from Rob Blaydon who had -promised to write her from Thornhill. - -She ran through the letters quickly. There were none for her, but she -went back to look again at a large envelope addressed to Osprey. She -supposed she had done this simply because it was larger than the others -and extended out around them while she held them in her hand. But -there had been another reason, as she discovered on second examination. -The handwriting was familiar.... - -She realized in fact that she was looking at the handwriting of -Mathilda Seymour. She could not have mistaken it, even with nothing -else to guide her, but there was the postmark of her city. She turned -the envelope over, only to find confirmation in the return address. - -She caught herself almost in the gesture of tearing it open. Her -first thought had been that it was her letter, no matter whom it was -addressed to. But she stopped herself in time. She could not open -Potter Osprey’s letter. She wondered that she could have had the -impulse to do so. Yet, as if she feared the temptation would be too -strong, she kept repeating to herself, “I must not open it, I must -not open it....” The temptation passed and did not return, but her -disturbance and her curiosity were more stubborn. - -It was almost uncanny that Mathilda should be writing to Potter -Osprey.... - -But was it? Now she remembered he had told her the place of his -birth--a mere conversational allusion, which she had passed over -quickly, not wishing to discuss the city. It had surprised her mildly; -then she had recalled in passing that years ago there had been some -people named Osprey whom she never knew. Could Mathilda have known -them? Could she have known the painter, perhaps in his youth? It was -unlikely; she had never mentioned the name in Moira’s hearing. - -There was nothing to be gained on that tack, and soon she was off on -a more fruitful one. Rob Blaydon had told her about Mathilda’s new -hobbies, one of them helping young artists, another buying pictures -for the city museum. She had drifted out of social life and interested -herself in a little club, not very prosperous, where the artists of the -city met. - -Here was a possible even a probable, explanation. Osprey was a native -painter, who had gained reputation elsewhere. He had been a struggling -boy at home, and what could be more natural than that Mathilda should -decide the city must be enriched by one of his works? Or if this was -not exactly the case, there were a dozen other reasons why, on behalf -of the club of which Rob had spoken, she might be communicating with -him. - -The reason was enough for Moira, or at least she made it suffice. She -would find out the truth before long, and in any case it could not -concern herself. For it was incredible to her that Rob, in the face of -their definite understanding, had mentioned her at home. “At home!” -How naturally she used the phrase. Well, there was much to be cleared -up--both there and here. She troubled herself no more about the letter. -She laid it with the others on Osprey’s table, took the children up to -Nana to look after, and went off for a long walk. By ten o’clock that -night she was in bed asleep. - - * * * * * - -The two men drove up to the farmhouse, in accordance with their plan, -at about two o’clock in the morning in Roget’s car. They lingered in -the hall and studio for a few moments and went upstairs, the painter -taking his mail with him. - -Some hours later the same sound woke not only Roget, but Moira, down -in the cottage. It was a sharp report, and her first clear thought was -that a passing automobile had back-fired, perhaps Emmet Roget’s, just -arriving. She sat up for a time listening and then prepared to sleep -again. Some one knocked on the outside door. - -It was the producer, looking ominous as he stood in the half darkness, -in a long black dressing gown. - -“Mrs. Harlindew, an accident has happened,” he said gravely. “I think, -perhaps, I had better ask you to step up to the house with me.” - -She went with him up the steep bank, thoroughly unnerved. His hold on -her arm was firm and decidedly helpful on the rough path. They passed -through the lower part of the house and upstairs without a word. -She knew before she arrived what had happened and dared not ask the -question on her lips. - -Osprey lay on his bed dressed, with a small, old-fashioned revolver in -his hand. He was not breathing. The round, bleeding wound was near one -temple. On the table beside him lay a photograph of herself, face up, -the face of a half-smiling girl of eighteen. Beside it was Mathilda’s -letter. Moira snatched the letter and read, at first rapidly, then very -attentively and slowly. “My dear Mr. Osprey,” it began: - - You will not remember an old woman of your native city, but I used - to meet your father at the Round Robin Club long ago and admired his - wit and character. I was even introduced to you once, when you were a - very little boy. You had been left there one night to be taken home. - Since then, of course, I have followed, though at a distance, your - progress in the world as an artist. But it is not merely to presume - on this slender acquaintance that I write to you. - - I have a strange story to tell. There has lived in this house for - thirty years, ostensibly as a servant but in fact more a companion - and friend to me, a woman named Ellen Sydney. She came to my house as - Mrs. Ellen Williams and brought with her a baby daughter, whom she - called Moira. I adopted this child and raised her and loved her as - though she had been my own. She believed she was my own until her - nineteenth year, when she discovered the truth. She proved to be as - high-spirited as she was adorable, for although her life here offered - every advantage, and was, I know, one long unclouded happiness, she - gave it up in a day on learning her true parentage. I can understand - that spirit and yet I have suffered cruelly because of her act. She - left without a word, effacing every trace of herself, and from that - day to this I have never been able to find her, though I have made - repeated efforts. I had little hope, it is true, of persuading her to - return even if I did so, knowing her nature and her capacity to carry - out her own decisions. - - I am convinced she has spent a large part of her life in New York, - for at first, certain communications came from her there. Furthermore - she loved the study of art and could only have followed it to her - taste in that city. She may still be there. For that reason I write, - thinking it possible if you have not met her you will, and she will - then have a friend who has good reason to protect her. I am sending - the latest photograph I possess of her. - - You will ask why I have never addressed you before. It is because I - have always hesitated to ask Ellen the name of her child’s father. - Moira, herself, is in ignorance of it. Only a month ago Ellen was - persuaded, by the arguments I have used above, to tell her story to - me in confidence, and now I write with her consent. To complete the - coincidence, my nephew, Robert Blaydon, having met you, has given me - your address. - - You may be sure that should you ever meet with your daughter or be - able to send us word of her, two lonely old women will be grateful. - - I have considered that you may not be the kind of man who will care - to receive this letter, but I do not believe that is possible. The - passage of time softens our errors and may even turn them into - blessings. - - Yours very sincerely, - MATHILDA SEYMOUR. - -Moira put down the letter and sank beside the bed. She threw her arms -over the figure that lay there. - -“But, father,” she cried softly, “I could have loved you as my father, -too....” - -The tall figure of Roget was standing beside her, with bent head, his -penetrating glance, full of profound compassion, searching the face of -his friend. - -“Perhaps he could not, Mrs. Harlindew,” he said, as if thinking aloud. - - -THE END - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - - - Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. - - Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - - Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. - - Archaic or variant spelling has been retained. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLINDFOLD *** - -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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