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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75552 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+WILD OATS
+
+
+
+
+By the same author:
+
+  “DR. RAST”
+  “MONDAY MORNING AND OTHER POEMS”
+
+
+
+
+  WILD OATS
+
+  By JAMES OPPENHEIM
+
+  With a Foreword by
+  EDWARD BOK
+
+  NEW YORK
+  B. W. HUEBSCH
+  1910
+
+
+
+
+  COPYRIGHT 1910 BY
+  B. W. HUEBSCH
+
+  _All rights reserved_
+
+  Printed in U. S. A.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  CHAPTER                          PAGE
+
+      I. Spring on East Broadway      1
+
+     II. The Mother                  21
+
+    III. The First Night             35
+
+     IV. The Second Night            61
+
+      V. Spring Music                89
+
+     VI. Mr. Grupp Interrupts        96
+
+    VII. The Golden-Haired One      113
+
+   VIII. Twilight                   125
+
+     IX. Night                      154
+
+      X. Morning Again              160
+
+     XI. On the Bridge              165
+
+    XII. The Three Rooms            174
+
+   XIII. Wild Oats                  182
+
+    XIV. The Whirlwind              203
+
+     XV. Sunrise                    216
+
+    XVI. The Passing Seasons        230
+
+   XVII. Indian Summer              241
+
+  XVIII. The Harvest                245
+
+
+
+
+A FOREWORD
+
+
+This story by Mr. Oppenheim comes, perhaps, at the psychological moment
+to tell--let me hope to thousands--in the form of fiction what we
+must very soon face as an actual living question to be squarely met
+and dealt with. For the old saying that “the truth is stranger than
+fiction” is peculiarly true of this story. The fearful truth that lies
+back of this narrative cannot much longer remain in the background
+of the public conscience. We are slowly but surely awakening, in
+part, to a realizing sense that somewhere in the social body there
+is a festering sore that needs the surgery and cleansing process of
+the light of public discussion and extermination at the hands of
+decent people. It is not meeting the question to contend that it is
+not a “nice subject” or a “polite topic”: neither did the ravages of
+tuberculosis make pleasant reading. And the evil of “The Great White
+Plague” is comparatively as naught with the greater and more insidious
+evil that is being wrought by “The Great Black Plague,” with its
+fearful results on innocent children. Mr. Oppenheim, with due reserve,
+gives a glimpse, and it is but a glimpse, of the burden we are laying
+upon the next generation by blinding not alone our own eyes to the
+death-dealing evil that lies at our very door, but the actual and
+pitiable blinding of the unborn and the newly-born.
+
+It may be that the work of arousing the public conscience on the great
+evils that threaten the very foundations of our social structure, is in
+the hands of the fictionist. This has unquestionably been true in the
+past. If it be true of the present evil, may this story speak its great
+and vibrant message in clarion tones.
+
+                                                             EDWARD BOK.
+
+  Philadelphia,
+     1910.
+
+
+
+
+Wild Oats
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+SPRING ON EAST BROADWAY
+
+
+Spring on East Broadway. The air is winey, the heavens are radiant
+blue and full of fire. A sparrow chirps on the window-sill, fluttering
+before the milk-glass sign: “Doctor Rast.” Down toward the East the wet
+pavement is golden with sun, and through the splendor wades an ancient
+people on their way to work. For it is early morning; early April;
+the waters of river and bay flash about that shining floating city of
+towers; and, though the great Earth is buried beneath paving stone and
+brick and steel and granite, her mighty yearning exhales through the
+cool white air, and four million human beings are dazzled and smelted
+in the fires of Spring.
+
+The big dark Doctor was shaving before a tiny wall-mirror over the
+kitchen wash tub. He was in shirt and trousers, and his face was white
+with lather. Nell had the oatmeal cooking on the hot stove, and glided
+here and there singing snatches of song. Her eager olive-tinted face
+was flushed, her brown eyes afire. The little boy David, now nearly
+three, tugged at her skirts.
+
+“Mother! Mother! Mother!”
+
+She swung him up in her arms and laughed in his beautiful face; for he
+was a rosy new boy-god, straight and breathing health, overrunning with
+virility.
+
+“Well!” she shook him. “Well, Blinkers!”
+
+“I’m not Blinkers--I’m Davy,” he said indignantly.
+
+“You’re Blinkers!” she shook him again.
+
+“I’m not--_you’re_ Blinkers!”
+
+“Then give me a kiss.”
+
+“No--I can’t love you.”
+
+“Whom do you love?”
+
+“Daddy!”
+
+The Doctor danced up and down with joy.
+
+“Mother,” he cried, “the boy has genius!”
+
+“No, I haven’t,” said Davy, “I’ve got a new nose.”
+
+The Mother and Father laughed, and looked at each other.
+
+“Where?” Nell gave him a squeeze.
+
+“Here!” he delicately touched his nose with one finger.
+
+“And where did you get it?”
+
+“I bought it.”
+
+“Where?”
+
+“I bought it in the store.”
+
+“With what?” cried the Doctor.
+
+“A dollar,” said Davy calmly.
+
+“And who gave you a dollar, you rascal?”
+
+“Mother gave me a dollar.” The little imagination was set at work, and
+the little lips poured a wild stream of words, a breathless recitation:
+“I got a dollar and I went to the store and I said give me a new nose,
+and I gave the man a dollar and he gave me a nose. Isn’t that funny?
+And then I went to another store, and what do you think happened?”
+
+“What?” cried his parents.
+
+Three times he told his story, winding up, “Isn’t that funny? And then
+I went to another store, and what do you think happened?”
+
+Nell and the Doctor laughed till the tears came, for they were the
+Mother and the Father and only they shared the secret of the miracle.
+
+Then Nell put the boy down, and while he capered with excitement, put
+a wooden bowl on a chair, filled it with cut vegetables, and gave him
+a chopper. He set to work with a will, chopping the vegetables, a tiny
+mite laboring like a man. He looked up.
+
+“I’m a helper, Mother, I’m a helper!”
+
+Nell whispered to the Doctor:
+
+“Just watch!”
+
+And they put their arms round each other, and leaned close, smiling:
+
+“Look,” said Nell, “he does it just as I do--scrapes round the side
+and chops in toward the center. Isn’t it wonderful?”
+
+The Doctor sighed:
+
+“And to think that he came to the world through us! That we had a hand
+in creating him! Pretty good work, Nell!”
+
+The little fellow ran to the cupboard, obtained imaginary salt with
+his hand, and hurried back to sprinkle his hash. He could not contain
+himself for joy. He turned to his mother and cried in a wild treble
+music:
+
+“Oh, I love you so much, I don’t know what to do!”
+
+The Doctor shouted; the young Mother snatched up her baby and hugged
+him to her heart.
+
+Truly it was Springtime; joy was in the air, and new life; and the
+Earth had her way with the stone city. That little kitchen, with its
+shafts of bright light through the window, sang like a clearing in a
+wilderness. And even as the Earth enfolded with love and tenderness her
+young buds, her song-stricken birds, her singing waters, even so this
+man and woman enfolded their living child.
+
+“He is like a little bird,” said the Doctor, “so full of song; so
+fresh; so sweet. And like a little blossom.”
+
+He went on and finished his dressing, and the boy toiled and sang
+aloud, and the Mother prepared breakfast. Then the Doctor touched Nell
+on her shoulder.
+
+“Shall I tell you a secret, Mother?”
+
+“Yes. What is it?”
+
+He seized both her arms and looked in her face.
+
+“Spring is here!”
+
+They smiled at one another.
+
+“What does it remind you of?” he went on.
+
+“Us.”
+
+And then she whispered:
+
+“I’m always full of yearning in the Spring. Remember the nights we used
+to walk together?”
+
+“Moonlight nights!”
+
+“Oh, I wish we were in love again!”
+
+He smiled and drew her close.
+
+“Let’s be, then,” he whispered. “Let’s have the old enchantment
+again--the old witchery. A kiss in secret--a walk through deserted
+streets--a quarrel--romance!”
+
+“And let’s elope!” she cried.
+
+“Yes,” he said with a grin, “but we’ll be original, sweetheart. We’ll
+take the boy with us!”
+
+Whereupon they laughed, and the scene turned human again, and they sat
+and ate a hearty breakfast, and were glad that life was so full of
+commonplaces. For what more can a man ask than to eat breakfast with
+his wife and his son on a Spring morning?
+
+Then, after breakfast, the Doctor felt too happy to work, so Davy
+was shoved into a coat and hat, and his father took him out into the
+street, and they went wandering together. The first breath of that cool
+pure air, the first sight of golden pave and clear blue sky, the first
+thrill of sun, changed the Doctor into a young boy. He and Davy babbled
+together like closest chums.
+
+Many passing nodded to the Doctor. Old women in wigs and shawls,
+old men bearded and wrinkled, mothers leading children, young
+men on the way to work, cheerily spoke a good morning and passed.
+The old-fashioned red street, with a horse-car passing, with the
+Educational Alliance lifting yellow opposite and a crowd of children
+lined up at the door, was beautiful to the Doctor. Every step was
+rich with associations, bloody almost with the life of the past. For
+the Doctor had been working in the Ghetto for years now; he had come
+down with his young wife to serve his own people--serve them not with
+drug and knife alone, but rather with understanding, with wisdom and
+with love. And so his name had gone out to thousands, his face in the
+doorway made the sick strong, his counsel was sought in matters of
+birth and of life and death. He was the best-loved man in the East Side.
+
+And so, as he and Davy babbled together through the joyous morning, he
+was greeted by many as they passed. Suddenly a young voice cried:
+
+“Good morning!”
+
+The Doctor looked up. It was Edith Kroll, a girl of seventeen--young
+as the morning. A faint flush was in her fresh cheeks, her blue eyes
+were full of soft light, her light-brown hair went out in strands that
+fluttered in the stirring air. She was graceful, slim, exquisite, her
+little blue hat contrasting with the blue of her eyes. As she cried
+“good morning” her face was lit with soft laughter, and she leaned
+quickly and kissed Davy on the cheek.
+
+Davy shrieked: “Don’t do that!”
+
+The Doctor laughed, and took her little cool hand in both of his.
+
+“Well! Edith!” he cried. “Nun ya, how goes it?”
+
+The girl’s cheeks burned, and she looked down shyly.
+
+“Oh,” she said hastily, and withdrew her hand, “I was just going to
+stop in a moment.”
+
+His voice took on concern.
+
+“Is anything the matter?”
+
+“Nothing much,” she murmured, “Mother isn’t so well again. Do you want
+to go and see her?”
+
+“Surely!” he said heartily, and snatched at Davy who was bound for the
+gutter.
+
+“Well,” he went on, “how are you?”
+
+“Oh, I’m all right.”
+
+“And the job?”
+
+“It’s good.” She looked up, smiling, “I got a raise last month.”
+
+“A raise!” he whistled, “why, splendid!”
+
+“I’m getting twelve a week now.”
+
+He spoke tenderly:
+
+“Edith, I’m glad. But I’m not surprised. All my girls are wonders!”
+
+She flushed hotter with the praise, and her eyes shone as she looked
+down on the pavement and played with her hands.
+
+The Doctor smiled softly:
+
+“How you’ve changed, how you’ve grown! Tut, I’m getting to be an old
+man.”
+
+She looked up sharply:
+
+“No, you’re not!”
+
+He groaned.
+
+“But are you sure?”
+
+“Yes,” she cried “sure.”
+
+He murmured absently:
+
+“I just wonder if Edith is in love.”
+
+She seemed startled and surprised:
+
+“No! never!” she spoke vehemently “I’m never going to marry.”
+
+“Never?”
+
+“Why should I?”
+
+Again he spoke absently, his lips twitching with smiles:
+
+“Davy, it’s a habit girls have, isn’t it? Wait, till she meets the
+right man, eh, Davy?”
+
+Davy laughed knowingly, though he had to force himself to do it, and
+the sound resembled a cackle.
+
+“See?” triumphed the Doctor.
+
+But Edith only darted down and kissed the young fellow, cried a
+“good-by,” and ran off laughing. The Doctor watched her lovingly as she
+swung down the block and round the corner, a graceful young girl, light
+on her feet as a faun, dancing over the April earth like a flame in the
+blue morning.
+
+She hurried through the playground park. Just a hint of fresh green
+tipped the boughs of the glistening trees, and here and there in the
+branches blackbirds loosed their dark raucous cries; sparrows crowded
+the walk where an old man was scattering bread crumbs; and troops of
+little children, laughing, chattering, walked and ran toward the big
+white public school. They seemed like human sparrows, or, rather,
+blackbirds and redbirds, overrunning with laughter and song. Higher
+rose the sun over the swarming city; the air was white haunted with
+gold; the heavens seemed to dream and yearn, they were so blue, and
+steeped in these mysterious fires the heart of the young girl seemed to
+empty with yearning. What she wanted she hardly knew. Was it to leave
+the city, and go out beyond the horizon into some enchanted wilderness?
+Did she long to sit at the side of some wild water and brood and dream?
+Or did she want people? Did she crave human words, human touch, human
+faces? No, she wanted something wilder, sweeter. How could she know
+that she was in the throes of adolescence, that she was awaking to sex,
+that hereafter there would be two miracles on Earth: man and woman? How
+could she know what the word love meant as between girls and boys? The
+Doctor had whispered of marriage, but looking on the young men that
+passed, she saw no glamour. The Doctor was her ideal of a man--and
+these were very unlike him.
+
+Sweet Edith! Just seventeen--seventeen years in the heart of the deep
+city--and yet a simple and innocent and quiet life. Public school,
+shorthand school, the job in the clothing business--her few friends,
+her two brothers, her ailing mother. She had had a taste of theater;
+she had gone to night school; she sometimes attended a lecture, or a
+meeting of the people at Cooper Union. But thus far, though the wild
+city whirled like a cyclone about her, with its Broadway, its Bowery,
+its crime and commerce, its toil and struggle and tragicomedy of
+millions of living people, Edith had lived in the quiet center of the
+storm, a life immured, innocent, and had grown naturally as flower
+unfolding from bud.
+
+She was at the perilous age. From unconscious childhood she had
+emerged, and found that she, too, was a miracle--a human being capable
+of the depths and heights of life, packed with all sweet possibilities.
+All the world was new; a wonder was everywhere. Romance lurked in
+familiar corners, transfiguring them. Anything might break open in her
+heart now and sweep her with the passions that drive a life to divine
+heights or ruin it.
+
+Sweet Edith! There she was that young Spring morning, living,
+breathing, hurrying through the crowds of children, innocent as they,
+fresh as a new wild-rose, light on her feet, and full of the yearning
+fire of the blue. Can’t you see her, her little blue hat stuck with
+a black feather, her bending blue-eyed face, her lithe little body
+gracefully gliding through the cool air? Surely she was made for
+happiness, for motherhood and home, and all the quiet round of human
+life!
+
+She turned into shining Grand Street; she walked down the street
+to a tall loft-building, entered, climbed a flight of stairs, and
+pushed open a door into the “factory.” There in twilight were the
+garment-makers, stitching, cutting, and crazily racing the machines.
+She passed through the hubbub to the front, opened a door of a
+partition, and stepped into the offices. There were four of these,
+partitioned from each other, and connected by doors. The center one
+was the show-room, with large oak-table, and racks. Two young men were
+chatting at the open window and gazing down at the street. Edith did
+not notice them, but passed into the adjoining office, took off hat and
+coat, opened the window, pulled the cover from the typewriter, and set
+to work busily cleaning the machine. The hum of the young men’s voices
+reached her, but she paid no heed to their words.
+
+The young men were chatting amiably. One of them was Frank Lasser,
+the new traveling salesman, territory Pennsylvania--a smartly dressed
+fellow, almost insolently handsome. He had large black eyes, a little
+brown mustache, and black hair smoothly plastered on a high forehead.
+His chin was weak. He spoke volubly and cynically. His companion was
+Jonas Zug, salesman for New York State, young, but almost bald. As
+they talked trade and territory, a barrel organ in the street below
+loosed a wild waltz-music. The young men leaned out of the window. Four
+little school-girls had handed their books to others and were dancing
+in the center of an absorbed circle of people. They executed, not a
+waltz, but a wild street-dance, passionate, swift, their whole bodies
+playing rhythmically. One forgot tattered shoes and torn aprons and
+thin cheeks--so wild a magic was wrought by the dance. All the fresh
+glory of the morning, all the yearning and fire of the sun and the air,
+seemed to pulse through the world from them.
+
+Zug spoke grimly:
+
+“That’s where the chorus girls come from, eh? My! but they dance!”
+
+Frank laughed, and pointed:
+
+“See that one with the red sweater? Ain’t she a peach, though?”
+
+She was a strange creature--a girl with fiery black eyes, glossy
+black hair flying wild. She danced with a weird fury, throwing back
+her head now and then, shaking out her curls; her little feet flew,
+kicked, whirled; her thin arms and hands darted snakily, out, up,
+under. Something of the burning desert was in the face, something of
+the tropical in her motions; she seemed like the ominous fire-shot
+smoke-plume of a volcano. The crowd was fascinated, drawing closer;
+there was a queer feeling that mighty destinies hung on the dance; that
+it was leading _somewhere_; that it was moving toward some crisis.
+
+Zug breathed fast and watched sharply. And then the music ceased and
+the girl stopped short. A noise of many voices went up about her.
+
+“Gee!” said Frank, “in a few years that girl will be worth trapping.”
+
+Zug turned angrily, and raised his voice:
+
+“Quit it, will you? Can’t you think of anything else, Lasser?”
+
+“Well, well!” Frank whistled. “We’re getting virtuous in our old age,
+ain’t we?”
+
+Zug spoke with uncalled-for passion:
+
+“I’m getting decent, Lasser, and you----”
+
+Frank laughed:
+
+“So you’ve finished sowing your wild oats--Congratulations! Have you
+set the date?”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+Suddenly the air grew electric, as with two souls grappling in a death
+struggle. Frank was amazed, startled; but he spoke lightly.
+
+“I mean, when’s the wedding, eh?”
+
+“Whose wedding?”
+
+“Oh, come off,” said Frank cynically, “how should I know her name.”
+
+“Whose name?”
+
+“The lady’s. Is she on the premises? Is she a sweatshop lady?”
+
+Zug squared a fist, and his voice rose and rang with passion:
+
+“Now, see here, Lasser, I say you’ll cut this out. Understand?”
+
+“Oh, that’s it!” laughed Frank easily. “You’ve got it bad, Jonas.”
+
+Zug’s voice rose higher, and he raised his fist:
+
+“Damn you----”
+
+Then, suddenly, he dropped his hand, and stood back, abashed, ashamed,
+his face very pale. At the same moment a light delicate hand touched
+Frank’s arm, and a low sweet voice quivered at his ear:
+
+“You must both stop this--both.”
+
+Frank turned, and looked into Edith’s face. The light of the blue eyes
+went into him, running after the music of the voice. He saw the lips
+quiver; he saw the wisps of light-brown hair; the wild-rose cheeks.
+Strength went out of him; cynicism left him. And then he heard Zug
+speaking in a low, humble voice:
+
+“I didn’t mean it, Miss Edith, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry--awfully
+sorry.”
+
+Edith spoke sadly:
+
+“I’m sure you only forgot yourself, Mr. Zug.”
+
+And she was gone--vanishing like a startled fawn.
+
+Truly it was the Springtime--and Earth was yearning as she enfolded her
+creatures with strength and love; the air was cool; the heavens utterly
+blue; and the fires touched a heart here and there and woke it to dream
+and mystery and wild enchantment. Frank Lasser was young in years, but
+far from the pure beauty of this world. He did not know girls of this
+type. As he stood helpless, he felt as if a new Power was clutching at
+his heart.
+
+And then he looked at Zug and saw a remorseful face and tear-stained
+eyes--a man stricken down.
+
+“Oh,” he murmured, “I see! I see!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE MOTHER
+
+
+Doctor Rast didn’t get around to see Mrs. Kroll till late that
+afternoon. The enchantment of the morning proved to be but a promise of
+Spring--a promise unfulfilled. Clouds engulfed the city, darkening the
+streets. The wind blew wild, scattering dust. People hurried; pedlars
+raced their pushcarts along; windows were slammed shut. There was
+something ominous in the air, a momentary expectation of rain and storm.
+
+The Doctor could not help feeling the power of the weather--how
+the human race is driven before the changing atmosphere. A blue
+morning shakes out four million people exultant and daring; a black
+afternoon sweeps them shivering home. He himself felt the tragedy of
+the day--the sweet bubbling April broken and ruined. Full of these
+thoughts, as he passed the gas-lit shops of Clinton Street, he paused
+and entered a draughty hall and climbed two dark flights of stairs.
+
+He knocked in front, and getting no answer, tried the door. It was
+unlocked. A gust of air blew in with him. He stepped through the dark
+kitchen, through a dark inner room to the open doorway of another. As
+he stood a moment he could see the window of the parlor in front gray
+and dim, and suddenly lashed with rain.
+
+“May I come in?” he said softly.
+
+“Ach, ya, Doktor,” came a plaintively glad voice from the darkness.
+“Ach, I waited--all day!”
+
+There was a low light burning, and the Doctor reached and turned it
+big. It was a neat tidy room, mostly filled with the wooden double-bed.
+Mrs. Kroll was in bed, propped by pillows--a large fat woman, with a
+worn and wasted flabby face. Her eyes especially had a wasted look,
+surrounded by touches of red and gray and yellow flesh. Her nose was
+large; her lips large. She was breathing heavily.
+
+The Doctor felt a pang of remorse for his enforced tardiness; it had
+been a crowded day. He sat down on a chair at the bedside.
+
+“Mrs. Kroll,” he said gravely, “forgive me for making you wait.”
+
+“Ach,” she smiled, “but you are here. I could feel better already.”
+
+And to the simple woman his presence seemed to overflow the room. She
+muttered:
+
+“Does it rain?”
+
+“Listen!” he said.
+
+They heard in the hush the mighty sweep of the storm, on roof, and
+window, and pavement. She shook her head.
+
+“My Edy gets wet then?”
+
+The Doctor laughed softly:
+
+“No worrying! Edith can take care of herself! I want you to brace up,
+and feel better, and be happy!”
+
+She smiled sweetly:
+
+“No, Doktor, it is too late.”
+
+The sound of the rain darkened over him, but he leaned closer and spoke
+with a touch of tenderness:
+
+“Well, tell me how you are feeling.”
+
+She began at once, after the Jewish manner, and described her symptoms:
+
+“Doktor, I’m a sick woman. You couldn’t tell how sick I am. Eat I a
+sausage day before yesterday for supper, and it stick in my stomach and
+make me stoss auf (belch) and I feel gas on my heart, so it goes jump
+like a baby. And such a rheumatis_mus_ in my leg I got, like it was
+crazy. And my head! And my hand! And my stomach! I get very nervous. I
+could vomit my insides out. Um Gottes willen (for God’s sake) how sick
+I am. Doktor, I think I’m a very sick woman. I got four children, one
+dead, holy God, but not such pains as these.”
+
+The Doctor knew the case well, and so he did not smile, but spoke even
+more tenderly:
+
+“There is one thing you must do.”
+
+She put up a bony hand:
+
+“Don’t tell me to take castor oil, Doktor. I couldn’t do it. Rather
+would I die right away, and be done with it.”
+
+The Doctor smiled:
+
+“No, it isn’t that.”
+
+“Neither can I stay in bed. A woman must work.”
+
+“Not that--either.”
+
+Mrs. Kroll glanced at him, and spoke in a scared voice:
+
+“To the hospital?”
+
+“No,” he said quietly, “not that. Something very simple and good.”
+
+She was ready to listen to him then, and asked what it was.
+
+The Doctor leaned close and spoke gently:
+
+“Don’t worry.”
+
+Much pathos went into her voice then.
+
+“Ah, worry? I must not worry?”
+
+“Listen,” he said very gently, “you can live many years yet and be very
+happy, if you live quietly--if you don’t worry and get excited and
+worked up. Many, many years.”
+
+“And if I don’t stop worrying--no?”
+
+He said nothing, for his throat caught slightly. The noise of the rain
+rose upon them and seemed to the poor woman to be sounding her death.
+It was very strange to be alive, and yet to be so near the passing.
+Then she heard the Doctor saying softly:
+
+“What should you worry about?”
+
+“My boys,” she sobbed.
+
+The Doctor spoke in a queer voice:
+
+“Why I thought they were mighty good boys!”
+
+“Yes,” she sobbed, “but it’s America, Doktor. In the old country we
+Jews were very different. We were pious and good and the children
+loved God. But here the children care for nothing--nothing but fun.
+They think a pious boy ain’t stylish. They think their Mother is a
+back-number. So they run wild, and nothing stops them. They will never
+marry. If only my good man, _selig_, were alive!”
+
+“The boys!” muttered the Doctor. “Yes, our Jewish boys all sow their
+wild oats.”
+
+The woman’s voice arose and she gave vent to the tragedy of her life:
+
+“When my man died, I thought these boys would take his place. I
+thought I should be a proud Mother. Ach, they hurt the heart like
+strangers--my heart is zerrissen (ripped). They have made me old--I’m
+not such an old woman like I look--_they make my hair gray_. Maybe
+they think I’m not like other women.” She became excited. “Maybe they
+think such an ugly thing don’t want love and sweet words and good
+children. Maybe they forget what I done for them--how I got backache
+and hard hands bringing them up--how I work and work and work--I just
+kill myself working for my children. Ach, Gott, it’s not good to be a
+Mother.” She suddenly sat up in bed, her eyes flashed, and she cried
+out: “Look at me! See what my children done to me!”
+
+The Doctor spoke firmly:
+
+“It’s just this you mustn’t do. You mustn’t give way like this. You
+must control yourself.”
+
+“Huh!” she muttered. “It’s easy to say.” She fell back on the pillow
+and pressed her breast. “But I’ve got a heart--here!”
+
+In the silence again came the noise of the wild rain sweeping the
+toilers home. The Doctor’s heart went out to the poor woman, who once
+had her youth and her dreams.
+
+“You have Edith,” he murmured. “Remember that!”
+
+An exquisite smile lit her face:
+
+“My Edith!----” Then she sighed. “But a Mother thinks more of her boys.”
+
+“But Edith,” the Doctor went on, “what a wonderful girl! You can be
+proud of her. Not many girls are earning as much; not many are so sweet
+and beautiful.”
+
+The woman breathed softly.
+
+“Ach, Doktor,” she said, “she helps me, works hard, makes me money--a
+good girl, a good girl.” She went on musingly. “If I could live to see
+Edith married, I could die happy, I think.”
+
+“You shall,” said the Doctor heartily.
+
+“That I don’t know,” sighed the Mother. “For I must, must worry.”
+
+Then, in the silence, a door opened and shut, and a glad young voice
+cried, “Mother, Mother,” and at once the music of the Spring overflowed
+the room. It seemed good that the wild rain should encircle the warm
+human shelter; it made the home all the warmer and sweeter. The mother
+laughed softly, the Doctor arose, and then Edith glided in. She was
+bedraggled, dripping from head to foot, her clothes tight on her limbs,
+her hair pasted down her face. Tilting her hat, it spilled silver
+drops, and drops were falling from her chin. Like a wild-rose in rain,
+sweet enough to kiss, thought the Doctor.
+
+She ran over with laughter:
+
+“Oh, the Doctor! I didn’t think _you’d_ be here. I’m simply sopping
+wet. Such weather!”
+
+“Well!” cried the Doctor. “No umbrella?”
+
+“Umbrella! It’s glorious!--But I’d better go in the kitchen, or I’ll
+ruin the house!”
+
+She vanished; the Doctor looked at the mother, and both laughed with
+delight. He leaned over and took her hand:
+
+“How can you worry with _that_ in the house?”
+
+“I feel better,” she murmured.
+
+“Good,” he said heartily. “Now, really, you’ll brace up and take care
+of yourself. Good-by. I’ll come again soon--just a social visit.”
+
+He groped through the inner room into the kitchen. Edith was reaching
+up on tiptoe to light the gas.
+
+“Here,” he said, taking the match. In the sudden glow, the room broke
+real and vivid about them--stove, and dining table, cupboard and ice
+box.
+
+“How is she?” asked Edith anxiously.
+
+He took a hand, held it close, and spoke very near and very low.
+
+“Edith, your Mother must keep very quiet--she mustn’t excite herself.”
+
+Her face lifted, quivering with care.
+
+“Doctor.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Do you think I’m a brave girl?”
+
+“I do, Edith.”
+
+“Then tell me the truth. What is the matter with Mother?”
+
+He spoke very tenderly.
+
+“Edith, your Mother has a weak heart.”
+
+The girl trembled, and grew pale.
+
+“Weak heart? You mean----”
+
+“Yes,” his voice was almost inaudible, “at any moment--unless she
+controls herself.”
+
+“And then----?”
+
+“She may live years.”
+
+Her eyes were very large, her cheeks white. She gasped:
+
+“My Mother--die?”
+
+The Doctor whispered:
+
+“You’re a brave girl, Edith!”
+
+The girl swayed:
+
+“Oh, she’s all I have; I can’t stand it!”
+
+Two tears ran down her face. “Doctor!”
+
+“Hush!” he warned, “if she heard----!”
+
+“I can’t stand it!” She hid her face in her hands. “I can’t stand it!”
+
+The Doctor spoke in a voice of intimate pity:
+
+“You must take good care of her, and make your brothers behave. If she
+lives quietly, it will be years yet. Come, Edith, your Mother needs
+you!”
+
+He had touched the right string. The young girl threw up her head, and
+spoke with lovely courage:
+
+“She needs me? Yes, I’m selfish. But”--she looked in the Doctor’s
+face--“you can trust me. I’ll keep Mother alive.”
+
+The Doctor pressed her hand hard.
+
+“I knew it, Edith, I knew it!” And passed out.
+
+For a moment she was stunned and wrung her hands. It was as if
+blackness had entered her heart; she felt lonely, forsaken. And then
+her Mother called:
+
+“Come in and change your clothes, Edy.”
+
+And all the terror changed to tenderness. So she hurried in, and while
+her Mother was buttoning up her waist and she was rolling the water
+out of her long hair or changing her stockings and shoes, she asked a
+hundred loving questions. Wasn’t there anything she could do? What did
+her Mother like? Should she get her some chicken to-morrow? Wouldn’t
+she like to have a servant to help her?
+
+“Servant? Are you crazy?” cried the Mother. “For thirty years I worked
+without a servant! _Now I should begin!_”
+
+Edith turned about with divine eagerness:
+
+“Mother! Couldn’t I give up my job then, and stay home and help you?
+I’d take _such_ care of you, dear!”
+
+Her Mother ha-ha’d in her face:
+
+“I could put your help under my fingernail. Dummer esel! (Stupid
+donkey.)”
+
+The two brothers now came in, slamming the door.
+
+“Well, Mutter,” said the elder, a small stout fellow with a shining
+face, “how goes it?”
+
+He rubbed his hands and grinned.
+
+“Ach,” said the Mother, “I’m a sick woman.”
+
+“Too much sausage, hey?” said the son glibly.
+
+Edith spoke in a low voice.
+
+“Sam, you’d better go in the kitchen!”
+
+“Why?”
+
+She came closer:
+
+“Sam,” her voice took on a command new to her, “go in the kitchen!”
+
+He shrugged his shoulders in surprise and went. The other son, Marcus,
+who had the slimness of his sister without her beauty, muttered:
+
+“Say, the sis is getting pretty fresh, ain’t she?” And followed his
+brother.
+
+Then Edith laughed and kissed her Mother.
+
+“Dear,” she whispered, “I’m going to take care of the boys and make
+them behave! Indeed, I will! And I’m going to make you just so happy!”
+She hugged the Mother to show her just how happy.
+
+“Ah,” said the Mother, “you are my baby, Edith!”
+
+And they kissed each other, and Edith ran into the kitchen and prepared
+the supper, humming as she worked, and now and then a tear stealing
+down her cheek and angrily brushed off as she murmured:
+
+“I promised him I’d be brave.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+THE FIRST NIGHT
+
+
+It was a sight to watch Edith in the kitchen. She took to the work as
+any healthy-minded woman will; although she preferred fancy cooking to
+plain, and would glory in five-hours’ toil on fruit-cake and be balked
+altogether at boiling eggs. The fine way she sliced bread, running the
+knife rhythmically; the delightful grace she showed as she forked at
+potato-slices frying in the pan; the tenderness she spent on a tough
+hunk of boiled meat, abstracted admiration even from her brothers.
+They didn’t let on, however; merely howling their hunger and asking if
+supper never would be ready.
+
+But at table they ate like healthy animals, and Edith glowed with
+motherly pleasure. After their first onslaught had ended, she noticed
+that they both were glancing at her knowingly. Finally Sam cleared his
+throat.
+
+“Might I inquire,” he asked in a pompous way he sometimes affected, “if
+the parlor is in a condition to receive a caller?”
+
+“Why?” asked Edith.
+
+“Because, I suppose, there will _be_ a caller.”
+
+“I can fix it up,” said Edith simply.
+
+The two brothers glanced at each other and winked. Said Marcus:
+
+“Ain’t she the baby, Sam?”
+
+Sam cleared his throat again:
+
+“And what if this caller is calling on my sister, Edith?”
+
+Edith choked on some bread.
+
+“On _me_?” she gasped.
+
+“On you.”
+
+“_Me?_” She could not believe her ears.
+
+“Shall I repeat it?” asked Sam. “I say, what if this young man is
+calling on you?”
+
+“_Young man?_ Goodness!”
+
+The young men looked at each other and burst out laughing.
+
+“Well,” cried Marcus, smiting the table, “I’ll be damned.”
+
+“You know, Marc,” said Sam, “she never saw a young man before!”
+
+Edith leaned forward, her cheeks red.
+
+“If you’re making fun of me,” she cried indignantly, “Sam, if this is
+a joke----” Then, looking on their grinning faces, she rippled with
+laughter, “Oh, I’m such a fool!--Sam, is someone really going to call
+on me? Don’t fool me, Sam.”
+
+Her voice was so tenderly sweet, that Sam, to drive home the truth, had
+to assume anger.
+
+“I told you he was coming, and that’s all there is to it. Call me a
+liar, why don’t you?”
+
+“But--surely?”
+
+“Did I say so or not?”
+
+“A young man?”
+
+“No,” snorted Marcus, “a young elephant!”
+
+“To see _me_?”
+
+“No,” Marcus snorted again, “your Mother!”
+
+“But who can want to see me?”
+
+Sam ahemed.
+
+“Oh--you know and I know and they know----”
+
+“I know!” cried Edith, “it’s that bald-headed Zug.”
+
+“Zug!” they laughed together, and Sam added: “Guess again!”
+
+She had reached the end of her guessing. Poor Edith! Seventeen, and a
+young man’s call was an event to send the blood to the cheeks and to
+set the heart a-thump. She forgot that she was never to be married; she
+forgot her questionings; in a moment of amazement all the yearning and
+mystery of the blue morning rushed upon her, crying: “Edith, you are
+woman!” She realized her sex in a white flash, as it were; and all the
+wild glory of her natural destiny rose like a vision before her. Now
+she knew. Now the yearnings had a meaning. Now Earth had a meaning;
+life had a meaning. A man wanted to see _her_. Why? Because she was
+a woman. What a wild wonder to be alive; what an adventure; what a
+romance!
+
+So terrific was this blaze of new light that all this time she sat with
+flushed cheeks and shining, far-seeing eyes and looked so beautiful
+that her brothers could not banter her, but marveled at the strange
+thing that had crept into the house. This was not Edith, their sister.
+This was someone new, a stranger. They were surprised, perhaps a little
+annoyed. It was a very quiet minute; but sometimes a minute works great
+changes.
+
+Suddenly Edith leaped up and ran from the room. The brothers whistled
+and gave up girls as a bad job. But Edith had burst in on her Mother,
+and sat on the bed beside her.
+
+“Mother, what do you think?”
+
+“Think! Come along!”
+
+“Mother!”
+
+“Out with it!”
+
+“Oh, Mother, you can’t guess!” She darted and kissed a sallow cheek.
+
+The Mother grunted.
+
+“Mother,” Edith burst out, “someone is calling on me to-night!”
+
+“On you? Who?”
+
+“A man--a young man!”
+
+“A young man?” Now, was the Mother indeed amazed. “Ah, dear one, dear
+one!” She laughed softly. “So comes a nice young man.”
+
+Edith’s glad voice was full of mystery:
+
+“Who should want to call on me?”
+
+“Who? What’s his name?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Don’t know?” cried the Mother; “what a fool! Don’t know his name, and
+you ask him to call? Heavens, what a fool!”
+
+Edith explained, and then was all eagerness. Was her hair right? Should
+she put on her blue dress? Should she change her collar? Then was
+her Mother all Mother, pulsing with joy, patting at the hair, tying
+a ribbon, adjusting a collar, and totally forgetting her troubles.
+Finally she gave her daughter a light kiss on the cheek.
+
+“Who gets you,” she murmured devoutly, “is a lucky man. I was never
+so beautiful myself. I was a good cook, and no good-looker. But then
+your father, _selig_, Edith, was a big eater. And you know,” she added
+wisely, “you can’t eat looks.”
+
+Edith wasn’t listening. She was summoning up male-images, but whenever
+a new face appeared, immediately Doctor Rast’s face bobbed through it.
+If he was like the Doctor! But who could be like the Doctor? Who could
+be so handsome, so tender, so noble, so good? Doctor Rast might have
+answered her, being a man truthful with himself, and knowing some of
+his own limitations. But Edith was a young girl and had ideals. He was
+one of them.
+
+So Edith wondered, and while she wondered, she flung into the parlor
+and gave it the worst cleaning-up it had ever received. Pins and
+threads were stooped for; dust was vanquished; curtains straightened;
+and when she was through the cheerful little room was trim and
+tidy. Then two lights sprang up and flooded the place golden. As
+Edith stood, surveying her work, she did not know how vital was her
+beauty--breathing there rich with life, even as a daisy is rich
+with sun and moisture and tint and form. She was just beginning
+to ripen--bud unfolding into flower--the white of dawn was still
+on her--the careless grace, the unstudied bewitchment, the fresh
+sweetness of a pure young girl.
+
+Her brothers entered and expressed astonishment that a room in their
+flat should finally clean itself up; but Edith did not listen to them.
+And then came the knock.
+
+Sam consulted his watch:
+
+“Eight to the dot! I win my bet!”
+
+Marcus grumbled.
+
+“Say, sis, open!”
+
+“_You_ open!” she cried, and vanished.
+
+Sam opened, and Edith heard low voices. She felt almost frightened; a
+little stifled. Sam spoke at the door:
+
+“Someone for you, Eed.”
+
+“For _me_?”
+
+She followed him into the golden-flooded room. Frank Lasser was
+standing before her. And swiftly two strange emotions clashed
+within her, and left her standing mute. The first was a horrible
+disappointment; this smart young man was no Rast; the second was a
+throb of recognition; she had seen him somewhere. And standing thus,
+mute, lips parted, eyes drinking him in, she did not know her beauty!
+
+Her brother Sam was speaking:
+
+“Edith--this is Frank--Frank Lasser--old friend of mine----”
+
+Frank reached out his hand, and she felt it cool and strong about hers.
+He was speaking, too; trying to speak in his light way, and making a
+bad fizzle of it:
+
+“You see--Miss Kroll--we work in the same place.”
+
+“In the same place? Goldin’s?”
+
+“Yes--you see----” he paused.
+
+“Oh!” she cried, and then remembered. He and Zug, they were at the
+window quarreling; she had gone in to quiet them.
+
+He lowered his glance.
+
+“Yes,” he muttered, “Zug and I--you see we were at it a little----”
+
+“A little?” she echoed, and then silver laughter woke, the air
+cleared, Frank felt at home at once, and the brothers made themselves
+“scarce”--though not without inviting Frank to join them “with the
+boys,” and expressing consternation that he did not care for their
+society and telling him to “ware, ware the ladies,” until Edith
+told them sharply to hurry up and shut out the draught. They shut
+themselves out with it.
+
+The two sat down, Frank on the sofa, Edith on a chair, and at once
+Edith was at her ease, and wondering why she had felt such strange
+pangs. Wasn’t she used to men? She had brothers, and she had worked
+several years in business. She talked to strangers every day. And then
+why palpitation because one of them was in her home? She was inclined
+to laughter, which made her eyes sparkle and her voice melodious:
+
+“You must be a new man.”
+
+“I am.”
+
+“Salesman?”
+
+“Pennsylvania.”
+
+“Of course!” laughed Edith, “I entered it on the books--Frank Lasser.
+How is it I didn’t see you?”
+
+“Oh, I was just in a moment to see the boss--ain’t he a terror?--and
+then I got out. I really go on to-morrow.”
+
+Edith wished he wouldn’t say “ain’t.” He went on feebly:
+
+“I hope I didn’t make it unpleasant this morning.”
+
+“You did--a little,” she said.
+
+He was puzzled. Up to the present he had been a great “hand” with the
+ladies; his hard handsome face fascinating the fair sex. But this girl
+was different; she was new and strange; naive and direct. There was
+something about her, not of the face or form, that yet was shed by her
+personality--a something that came via the eyes or the voice or the
+gesture--a something penetratingly sweet and pure and poignant with
+mystery. A spiritual quality new to Frank. None of his familiar weapons
+was available--boisterousness, cynicism, flattery, all were useless.
+And so he felt as if he were weak as water, and yet as if some new
+Power were groping into his heart.
+
+In the short awkward silence Edith could not help noticing and
+disliking his clothes. The young man had his legs crossed widely,
+his hands clasped about his knee--a favorite position of his, which
+displayed his light-green socks and patent leather low shoes. His
+necktie matched the socks, and was stuck with a ruby-studded horseshoe
+pin. His collar was a “choker”; his shirt broadly striped. Edith had
+a sudden senseless desire to muss his hair; it was so plastered and
+shiny. Altogether she began to think him very odd and funny, and not to
+be taken seriously.
+
+But something had to be done with the silence, which was deepening, and
+which made Frank fidget. Finally he burst out:
+
+“You see I met your brother Sam--at least I called at his place--and he
+promised to bring me up. Never knew he had a sister till this morning
+and then Zug told me.”
+
+As she said nothing, merely nodding, he stammered:
+
+“What you think of Zug?”
+
+“Mr. Zug? To tell you the truth, I’ve never thought very much about
+him. I’m busy at the office.”
+
+Frank brightened perceptibly.
+
+“Say,” he began, “it’s quit raining. Would you care to take a walk,
+Miss Kroll?”
+
+This question was answered by three hearty knocks on the door. Edith
+laughed as she rose:
+
+“That’s Mr. Grupp.”
+
+“Grupp?” cried Frank, “Mo Grupp, salesman for Heimedinger’s? Lordy, I
+know Mo.”
+
+Edith opened the door, and Mr. Grupp entered. He was a Bavarian built
+like a short Grenadier, soldier-straight and stout, with ruddy face and
+big spongy nose and weathered blue eyes. He had been a friend of the
+Krolls the last thirty years--watched the babies grow and the parents
+age--and for the delight of the human race spoke as broken an English
+as he could command.
+
+He at once seized Edith under the chin.
+
+“Ah, Sveetie!” he cried; “how’s my Sveetie!”
+
+Frank was seized with impatience; Edith laughed and drew back.
+
+“Hello, Mo,” said Frank.
+
+Mr. Grupp wheeled around.
+
+“Well, my old college chum!” They shook hands. “My old college chum!”
+
+“What brings _you_ here?” asked Frank.
+
+“Such a question! I was here the day Edy was born, and you never heard
+such a yelling in your life. Have a cigar?” he drew one from his pocket
+and held it out, “It’s my last!”
+
+Frank refused laughingly, much to Mr. Grupp’s relief. The older man sat
+down and began puffing comfortably. Frank looked at Edith, but Edith
+returned to her chair.
+
+“Where’s your Mudder?” asked Mr. Grupp.
+
+“She’s not so well,” said Edith, “she’s in bed.”
+
+“That’s a fine way, when I call on her! Ach, but I’m sick, too!”
+
+“Sick?” echoed Edith.
+
+“Yes, I’ve lost my appetite. I remember twenty years ago, on my
+birthday, your Father, _selig_, for breakfast said, ‘Eat till you
+busted,’ und I eat a big juicy steak and twenty-two hard-boiled eggs.
+Then I could eat. But now? Oh, weh! Oh, Mamma! I have no appetite. I
+can only eat breakfast in the morning, and then a little yowsa (bite)
+at ten; at noon, dinner, at four in the afternoon a cup of Mocha, then
+supper, and at ten o’clock another yowsa. I’m a sick man.”
+
+Edith laughed, for this was an old, old story. Mr. Grupp noticed
+how Frank was fidgeting and enjoyed the little comedy greatly. He
+deliberately reached over again and seized Edith’s chin:
+
+“Well, my Sveetie!”
+
+Edith pushed his hand away.
+
+“Don’t!” she cried.
+
+“Himmel! how nervous you’re getting. Yes,” he shook his head, “here
+they call it nervous, but in the old country they call it verrückt
+(crazy).”
+
+Frank could not contain himself.
+
+“Do you want to walk, Miss Kroll?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Edith. “Would you wait here, Mr. Grupp? Mother’s
+alone.”
+
+“Oh, ho!” Mr. Grupp winked his eye. “That’s the way, is it? Vell, for a
+consideration----”
+
+“No,” said Edith, “no kisses.”
+
+“Vell,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I’m a poor Yank. So it goes!”
+
+Edith smiled:
+
+“Then I’ll ask Mother!”
+
+This was so naive that Frank almost laughed. Edith ran into her
+Mother’s room.
+
+“Asleep, dear?” The room was dark.
+
+“No,” came a soft voice in the warm darkness.
+
+Edith felt out and touched the old arms, the old face.
+
+“Mother dear,” she leaned over and put cheek to cheek, “Mr. Grupp is
+here--he’ll wait--may I go out for a walk with Mr. Lasser?”
+
+The Mother laughed softly and drew the young face closer:
+
+“Ach, ya, run along!”
+
+“You’re sure you won’t need me?”
+
+“Soon you won’t ask no questions!--Is he a nice young feller?”
+
+“I don’t know. He’s funny.”
+
+“Well, don’t let him get any funnier till you know positif his
+prospects and his savings and his family.”
+
+“Oh, Mother!” cried Edith, shocked.
+
+She kissed the old face and stole back. Mr. Grupp was revealing his
+true heart to Frank, who was much bored, and kept saying flippantly,
+“Aw, cut it out! You don’t know what you’re talking about”--much to
+Edith’s displeasure. Mr. Grupp was talking Socialism; he was describing
+the terrible lot of the toilers in mines and steel mills, and
+predicting revolution, all with a fiery passion that grew incoherent.
+
+“You will see,” he shouted, “we will have such a revolution worse than
+the pogroms of Russia and the Inquisitive-ition. Watch my vords.”
+
+“Cut it,” cried Frank, and then saw Edith gazing at him.
+
+Edith said in a low voice that she could go, so they put on coats and
+hats, and then finally Mr. Grupp buttonholed Frank as he was going out:
+
+“Take my advice,” he said, “for I know vomen, Mr. Lasser.”
+
+“Yes,” said Frank irritably.
+
+Mr. Grupp spoke dramatically with flourishes of the arm.
+
+“A tiger, Mr. Lasser, a _lion_, Mr. Lasser, a _rhinoceros_, Mr. Lasser,
+_even a rattlesnake_, Mr. Lasser, you can tame--but a vomen, _never_!”
+
+This was one of his pet formulas, and Edith laughed. Mr. Grupp
+continued:
+
+“If you want to be happy--fifty years engaged, and one year married!”
+
+Frank, catching Edith’s eye then, laughed too, and they went out,
+groping their way down the dim stairs and into the street. There was
+something wild about the night, something sharp and vivid. Tattered
+clouds, in the highest skies, were racing, and it seemed as if the
+edge-broken moon were tumbling and plunging into the fleece--shrouded
+a moment, and then spilling through the thin silver fringe, and then
+rolling into a glory of moonlight. A star here and there came and
+went. The street-lamps sparkled sharp; the shop-windows were lit; the
+pavement, still wet, was daubed gold or silver by every light; and
+people were wandering about, free and fresh in the cold blowing air.
+
+As they walked along, Frank, under cover of night, became voluble, as
+if in answer to the Mother’s question. Twelve a week and his expenses
+and commission; he could easily earn eighteen to twenty a week; a
+little family could live on that. He knew her brothers and many of the
+family friends. He remembered her father “one of the best of them”--an
+easy spender, a good fellow. He knew how to live! It’s an art this
+generation hasn’t learned. Now, heavens, he knew fellows who didn’t
+smoke, or play cards, or go to the races, or go around. Was the world
+becoming womanized? The sissies! Why, a fellow wasn’t a man until he
+had been through it all! Take this Zug; he was a queer one. Well, he
+smoked; a fellow had to with a customer; and he used to be a regular
+devil. But lately, he’s a sis. Stays home with his folks at night;
+never touches a drop; never gambles. Tame as a dog. Eat out of your
+hand. Reformed all but his temper. Did Edith favor that type of man?
+
+But Edith was with the racing moon. His talk had been blowing
+about her with the noises of the great night-city--the roar of the
+elevated train, the rattle of a late wagon, the stir and talk of
+people. Something of the morning came back to her, something of the
+romance that goes on unseen through all the world. The wild skies,
+the clear-eyed city, the buoyant air, the feel of a universe in
+action--everything intensely alive, pulsing, dreaming, struggling--not
+a grain of dust without its motion--and she moving through all, a part
+of the processes, a part of the to-and-fro, the give-and-take of living
+Nature. Glory was afoot; adventure was at hand. Whither was it all
+leading? What wild destiny was whirling her through this chaos of life?
+How good to breathe the air, how good to feel the blood tingle from
+ankle to neck, how good to swing along--give the body its way--give
+the mind to the moon, and the heart to the stirring people. She wanted
+to speak of it; loose the tumult within her; she felt creative, as all
+young people do; she wanted all this glory to prompt her brain and
+her hands, until she shaped life, handled human beings, wrought in the
+world.
+
+So, at his question, she dropped from the skies, as it were, to his
+side, and felt a sympathy for this living being who shared the night
+with her.
+
+He repeated his question.
+
+“Shall I tell you,” she said softly, “what I like in a man?”
+
+He felt a thrill steal through him; all the new Power worked on him and
+made him weak.
+
+“Tell me,” he murmured in a new voice--a voice lacking his habitual
+glibness and coarseness.
+
+“I like a man to be simple and sincere--just himself----” she
+hesitated, and then went on with great courage. “In his clothes,
+too--not too flashy--rather too quiet--and the same in his manners.
+And he ought to think of others, and be very kind with stupid or weak
+people. I like such men--and women, too.”
+
+The effect of these plain words was emphatic. It was the new Power
+at work. It was the woman-soul for the first time sweeping over
+his. He saw himself in a new light, and was acutely conscious of his
+socks, tie, pin, and shirt. He suddenly felt that Edith was at a great
+distance, and that, dressed as he was, and mannered as he was, he
+could not come an inch closer. That a woman should ever affect him in
+this way was inconceivable. That something pure and sweet should begin
+to bubble like a spring in his heart was a new experience. He felt
+uncomfortable--almost meek.
+
+Edith went on, in a low voice:
+
+“Do you know Doctor Rast?”
+
+“Rast?” he stammered, “Dr. Rast?--Oh, I guess I’ve heard of him. He’s
+that”--he was going to say--“molly coddle,” but desisted.
+
+“Dr. Rast,” said the young idealist slowly, “is just what a man should
+be. He never thinks of himself; he gives his whole life to help others;
+he makes people glad they are living. He’s very wonderful.”
+
+Frank was more and more disturbed. Edith went on:
+
+“He loves people. Once I heard him call the poor down here on the East
+Side, ‘the beloved people!’”
+
+They walked in silence.
+
+“He’s so real,” said Edith fervently.
+
+Frank felt a jealous stab.
+
+“Is he married?”
+
+“Oh,” laughed Edith softly, “very much. And he has a boy three years
+old. I kissed him this morning.”
+
+“The Doctor?”
+
+Edith’s silver laughter matched the moon.
+
+“No--the little boy.”
+
+They had almost unconsciously retraced their steps and stood before the
+doorway of the tenement.
+
+“May I come up?” asked Frank.
+
+“No,” said Edith simply, “my Mother isn’t well. I must look after her
+now.”
+
+Frank hesitated; thoughts and feelings hitherto unknown clamored at
+his lips; his eyes were glistening; he felt something break within,
+some hard crust about his heart; he was in a melting mood. It was
+her exquisite face, the light of blue eyes in the light of the moon,
+the quivering lips, the tinted cheeks, the stray hair; it was the
+night; it was the glory of the new Power. His heart pounded, he was
+breathless, something shuddered down his back. He held out his hand,
+and when he enclosed hers and felt the little cool daintiness in his
+grasp, the moment grew musical and magic for him.
+
+He caught her eyes then, and as she saw the strangeness of his, the
+expression of concern and longing and humility, the mother in her
+awoke. Was he trying for her sake? She pitied him, she wanted to help
+him, she looked at him with a sweet sadness. She took him into her
+life. She even, for a moment, liked his face.
+
+At that look, all crashed within him. His eyes dimmed; her sweetness
+made him faint; her presence was a power that swept him. He had to
+speak.
+
+“I want to say,” he said brokenly, humbly, “I want to say--you’ve made
+me feel different on some things. I never knew a woman who--who made me
+feel this way. Good-night.”
+
+Her heart sang.
+
+“You must come again--soon!” she cried.
+
+And then she was gone.
+
+It was as if he were a baby again in his Mother’s arms. All the buried
+goodness and tenderness and love emerged again. He wandered home in
+a dream; he sought out his home in Henry Street, hardly noticed his
+mother and father and their two friends who were playing pinochle in
+the dining room, and went to bed. He could not sleep. He kept trying to
+see Edith’s face--but it only came in enchanted glimpses--a glance of
+eyes, a quiver of lips, a tint of cheeks. More subtle and strong was
+the power of her spirit, sweeping over him like an ocean of sunrise,
+with singing voices and silent light and snatches of heavenly beauty
+and peace. He tried to summon up remembrance of the many women he had
+met--“peaches” all. But they somehow had lost their good looks. They
+were hard, coarse, vulgar. All the new Power in him repulsed these
+images. He could not laugh at himself, he could not be sufficiently
+amazed. All he knew was that henceforth there was but one real woman;
+and that there was a hidden man in him long subdued, but now rising in
+strength and vitality and claiming possession of his body. For hours
+he lay awake, very still, very quiet, while music came and went, and
+visions of the Unseeable swept his brain, and his heart bubbled like a
+white dawn. It was a night of death and birth.
+
+But Edith slept soundly beside her Mother. The Mother had asked her:
+
+“Well, is he funny yet?”
+
+“Sort of,” said Edith tenderly, “but he can be nice when he wants to.”
+
+“H’m,” muttered the Mother.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+THE SECOND NIGHT
+
+
+One reason why Frank had never met a good woman was that since he was
+old enough to take to the streets he had not met his Mother. She was
+the type of woman one might call a shadow. Thin she was, frail, small,
+with large eyes and lips and fast-fading hair, and by dressing in black
+she made herself all the more obscure. Her husband was all bluster,
+emotion, impatience--March weather, a short man with a hawk nose and
+blood-shot eyes. The mother was negative, passive, unprotesting.
+
+Wherefore when Frank came into the dining room that next morning and
+put his arms about her and gently kissed her, she was shocked, and
+feared he was ill. Her alarm increased as she noted his appearance. He
+had on a dark shirt and a black tie; his collar was low; his face pale.
+
+“What’s the matter, Frank?” she asked.
+
+“Nothing, Mother.” He smiled gently.
+
+“I thought----” but shadows do not tell their thoughts.
+
+Gazing at her with curious eyes, Frank felt he was making a discovery.
+He began to realize how shabby her life was, lived possibly in an
+area of ten square city blocks. She never went anywhere; her sole
+pleasure was cards; her life was the common lot of the women of the
+poor--washing, scrubbing, cooking, sewing, marketing. Frank saw the
+pitiful lines of her face, the large hungry eyes, the tragic want. It
+went through him like a needle of pain that this too was a woman with
+all a woman’s passions. Poor Mother! Seven times had she brought to
+this world in pain a human child. Seven seasons had she had of sickness
+unto death. Three times had she kissed a child’s dead face and buried
+a fragment of her soul under Earth. And those who had lived! Sickness,
+poverty, constant worry and care, constant sewing and washing. And yet
+she had said that she had not known trouble till her sixth child was
+born--her first boy--Frank. Frank remembered the phrase, and began to
+see something heroic in the quiet woman. He made up his mind to bring
+her some flowers that evening. He was the only child at home; the rest
+were married.
+
+He was also deferential to his father, so much so that that gentleman
+suspected a plot, and began to bluster:
+
+“You good-for-nothing loafer,” he cried, shaking his newspaper, “what
+are you after? If it’s money, go zum kukuk!”
+
+Luckily, enough of the old Frank came back to answer this:
+
+“Shut up, governor!” he snapped.
+
+And the governor relaxed.
+
+Frank kissed his mother good-by and went out into the brilliant
+weather. The wild fresh winds were loosed over the earth like young
+colts; blobs of white cloud swam over the blue; the sun came and went,
+the streets darkening into winter and then bursting splendid into
+spring. The air had an electric quality, that charged the heart with
+lusty life. It was a morning for brisk walking, hard work, joy and good
+nature. Shadows slapped buildings and gutter, and vanished.
+
+Frank hurried through the familiar streets. There was something glad
+and good in him; he had discovered his mother; now he was discovering a
+new world. He was really trying to see through Edith’s eyes--to measure
+the world with the new man within him. As truly as he did not know his
+new self, he did not know these familiar people and streets. Life took
+on a new aspect; a new light bathed the world, and people, steeped in
+it, appeared divine. He had a feeling of wanting to stop people and
+shake them by the hands and tell them: “I know you now. You, too, love
+and have loved.” Truly the world was a deeper and greater place than
+he had dreamed! There was more than the glittering surfaces and the
+laughter: there was a touch of glory, a vital meaning, a struggle of
+millions of destinies. And everywhere sprang the vision in shade and
+shine--sweet Edith.
+
+Further than that his thought could not go, for he was fumbling with
+new sensations, and could only feel them. But he was humble and glad
+and sad and thoughtful, and he longed with all his heart to see the
+young girl.
+
+So thinking, almost instinctively he walked to Grand and Clinton on a
+chance of meeting her. Instead he met Marcus. He had a new feeling for
+Marcus, because he was Edith’s brother. So he looked at him keenly, and
+noticed his peaked and drawn face, the look of haggard exhaustion, the
+expression of listless indifference.
+
+As they walked along Frank asked him what the trouble was.
+
+“Oh,” said Marcus bitterly, “women.”
+
+“Women, eh?”
+
+Marcus spoke more bitterly: “Why don’t they put a fellow wise? Here I
+go and get this trouble--why, I ain’t much of a sport, either.”
+
+“Tut, I’ve taken trouble from women myself.”
+
+Marcus evidently didn’t know all the ins and outs.
+
+“It’s curable, ain’t it?”
+
+“Sure thing! You just go to one of those fellows who advertise in the
+papers. He’ll fix you in a few weeks.”
+
+“Were you cured?”
+
+“Of course.”
+
+“Are you sure, though?”
+
+“Why, it’s the simplest thing in the world. Quit your worrying. Every
+boy gets it. He’s not a man till he’s been through it.”
+
+Marcus was very bitter about the women. They were the ruination of the
+world; wild oats full of rotten disease; marriage not only a gamble but
+a hell.
+
+Said Frank soothingly:
+
+“I used to think the same myself. I think differently now. A good woman
+is an angel.”
+
+It did not occur to him that his change of attitude was wrought
+overnight.
+
+And so they walked along, and then Marcus drifted off into the
+thronging people to such business as the day held for him, and Frank,
+with eager, quick steps, climbed to the loft, passed through the roar
+of machines and the dim beings in the twilight and entered the front
+office.
+
+Zug was standing at the shut window in a familiar attitude, foot on the
+low sill, hands in pockets. Frank made up his mind to be good to Zug,
+for, under the new dispensation, Zug also was a human being.
+
+“Brisk weather!” he said.
+
+He fell into Zug’s attitude and both gazed idly at the busy street--the
+children snaking in and out, the fat women nosing about the pushcarts,
+the pedlars with their Babylonian beards, all the strange people garbed
+modernly and yet as old as Israel. It was a bright, living sight--dabs
+of red, blue, black--a mix and shuffle of faces and forms--each body
+standing out distinctly as it threaded among the others. Cars clanged
+by, wagons hurried.
+
+“Yes,” said Zug, “a snappy morning!”
+
+He did not look at Frank.
+
+Then came a light tread and both turned. There she was, just as we saw
+her yesterday. Blue hat, black feather; graceful girlish form, lines
+that rippled; wild-rose face. The light of the morning had risen;
+penetrated the clothing loft, and shone there like love. She smiled
+sweetly at both. Both murmured some nothingness. She passed into the
+other office. Only sunset remained--the empty glowing shell of day.
+They heard the little clatter as she uncovered the typewriter and set
+to work cleaning it. They loved the busy toil of her fingers. They
+imagined her face, bending low, absorbed.
+
+“Jonas,” said Frank, low, “come to lunch with me to-day.”
+
+Jonas muttered his willingness.
+
+They went that noon to Fleischer’s Bakery, in narrow Division Street,
+in darkness under the elevated road. When the door opens, and it does
+often (so many go to Fleischer’s), the passing train drowns out speech.
+But Fleischer’s was the place! There you could get eggs--sunny side up,
+browned-on-both, omelet, jelly or plain, scrambled, boiled,--and cakes!
+Cakes! Rings, eclairs, puffs, apple or cheese. And the waitresses,
+Jewish-fashion, show that they are not menials and inferiors, but
+speak to you familiarly, and quarrel with you as if you belonged to the
+family. There never was an inferior Jew. Even if he is a pedlar he will
+discuss the weather or the cost of living or the Talmud as if he were
+an elder brother. To be a Jew is to belong to the oldest aristocracy of
+earth.
+
+Students here sipped their coffee and talked Socialism, or Kant and
+Hegel, or Music or Literature, or the latest performance at the Yiddish
+theatre. Business men traded. Working girls gossiped of bosses, and she
+says, and he says, and do you know him, and what do you think.
+
+Frank and Jonas had a little marble table to themselves, and spoke as
+best they could in the uproar.
+
+Said Jonas:
+
+“I saw you with Marc this morning.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“You know him pretty well, eh?”
+
+“Known him years.”
+
+“Intimate?”
+
+“Enough to call on him.”
+
+“Call? You ever call there?”
+
+“Only last night!” Frank, in spite of himself, could not forbear a
+smile.
+
+Jonas spoke jealously:
+
+“You said yesterday you didn’t know Miss Kroll.”
+
+“No more I did. I know her now, though!”
+
+Frank saw the vein on Jonas’ forehead swell out, and as Jonas leaned
+toward him, and said in a low voice:
+
+“Lasser, I want to say something to you,” he felt again that electric
+atmosphere as of two souls grappling in death struggle. He was not in a
+mood for trifling, and something dark issued up from his heart and his
+blood swiftened.
+
+“Go ahead,” he muttered, “but cut it short.”
+
+Zug leaned nearer, and his voice came low:
+
+“Lasser, what’s your game with this girl?”
+
+“What’s yours?”
+
+“Lasser,” Zug broke out, still keeping his voice private, “I know
+you. I know what women mean to you. I’m not going to have _her_ made
+unhappy.”
+
+The darkness in Frank deepened into blackness. He felt demons within
+him, a rage never before felt.
+
+“Who gave _you_ charge of her?” he muttered.
+
+“Who?” Zug’s voice came as if he were smothering or strangling, “I--I
+love her--I want to marry her--I--I love Edith!”
+
+Frank at that moment did not sense the tragedy of Zug’s life; he only
+felt outraged and blind devilish anger. He spoke very quietly:
+
+“I ain’t a baby, Zug, and if ever you talk to me this way again, I’ll
+knock you down!”
+
+Zug leaned still nearer.
+
+“Be careful, Lasser. I swear I’ll watch and protect her, and trip you
+up!”
+
+Frank arose, and spoke hotly:
+
+“I’ll pay for you as I go out.”
+
+Zug rose:
+
+“No you won’t. I’ll not take anything from you, Lasser!”
+
+They elbowed each other at the cashier’s desk and each paid for his own
+lunch. Then they went out and separated. Zug returned to the office.
+He found Edith washing her hands in the little white basin. She looked
+very pretty, her sleeves up, and she nodded to him laughingly.
+
+He paused beside her and tried to command himself. He was going to do
+her a service. She should come under his wing, Edith, the innocent. As
+he struggled with himself a beam of sunlight smote through the window,
+making the water flash, and lighting Edith’s face as she looked at him.
+
+He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her vivid face. Then he
+spoke:
+
+“What do you think of our new salesman?”
+
+“Mr. Lasser?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Oh,” she said lightly, “I guess he’s all right.”
+
+Zug burst out strangely:
+
+“No, he isn’t all right. He’s led a fast life. I’d almost call him a
+dissipated fellow. He’s not the sort you ought to know.”
+
+“No?”
+
+He had reckoned without the woman in Edith. Glancing up, he saw that
+she was offended. She dried her hands slowly, and spoke evenly:
+
+“You must never talk that way again, Mr. Zug. I don’t like it!”
+
+She went out. How could he know that she whom he wanted to take under
+his wing was taking Frank under _her_ wing? That all the creative,
+the mother in her had risen, and she was filled with a passion for
+making a man out of him. Zug could not work that afternoon; he walked
+miles through the city, even up to Central Park, torn with jealousy,
+despair, and love, and struggling with his doom. He felt the coming of
+a great tragedy. He felt that Edith, unknown to herself, had swung out
+on the perilous seas of life, and that her pilot would steer her on
+the rocks. When he thought of her pure girlhood, her fresh beauty, her
+spiritual strength, and foresaw the change that might come--the change
+to disaster, the blighting of the bud, the dry-rot of the years, it
+seemed to him that he would go insane. Who could protect her? She was
+enfolded in ignorance and carelessness--the stupid old mother, the
+flippant brothers. Where was there help? Her own innocence was now her
+worst enemy. Vile system of education that allows boys to get their
+knowledge of sex on the street and then turns them loose on girls who
+know nothing, girls who are carefully shielded from the very facts that
+concern them deepest! What more near to a girl than motherhood? And
+here was Edith, just made to be a wife, a mother, even created for love
+and joy of husband and laughing children, and she knew so little. She
+could be led by a Lasser, and God knows the Lassers of this world have
+wrecked many sweet possibilities.
+
+Full of this storm was Zug, poor honest fellow! He was nearly thirty;
+he had not been an angel; but there was in him something solid and
+sound--a right worthy man--a man who would have served Edith like
+a faithful dog, showered her with “attentions,” foreseen her least
+wishes, shielded her from pain, smoothed out life’s wrinkles, blunted
+the blows of tragedy. All this he had done for her, and given her,
+too, passionately strong children.
+
+So he went his way, raving; as many others at this moment go _their_
+way raving; this being a strange world. The whole heart wishes
+something; the passion that fills it we connect with God; it seems
+inevitable; for this we were born. But never in our lives shall
+we have it. Another comes and takes it easily. And if such is our
+nature, we rave. If we could wing in an aeroplane above the city,
+and the roofs were removed, and through some new telescope we could
+see simultaneously the lives of four million people, the sight would
+be branded on the brain as with white fire. Women shrieking with
+childbirth, death-rattle of babe or man, deserted wives, suicides,
+crime, lust, ruin, a host that rave. And yet walk the streets--how
+common are these people! How curious or happy or listless! A stolid
+crowd! The men in the cars read their papers, the people in skyscrapers
+talk business, the restaurants are filled with chatter and laughter,
+the theaters roar with applause.
+
+And so Zug, whose imagination was not social, walked through a city of
+souls, who all about him wept, shrieked, laughed, toiled, raved, and
+he knew it not. Out of four millions three were vivid and real--Edith,
+Lasser, himself. And so he went his way.
+
+Edith and Frank went _their_ way.
+
+Edith was putting on coat and hat under the electric bulb at six, when
+Frank asked if he could accompany her. She smilingly assenting, they
+went out together. Her blood was up; her heart and mind roused. She
+knew already her power over this man, and was too much of a woman and
+too ignorant not to use it. It was an experiment in motherhood. So she
+saw no harm in having him at her side, and she made up her mind to
+give him much good advice and plenty of ideals. Withal she was so much
+herself, or possibly, so full of more than herself (heaven and earth is
+in all youth!) that Frank noticed no change.
+
+The skies had cleared, and were beginning to fill with stars; the wind
+had died, the air warmed. Again Spring leapt on the earth, dancing
+over sea, and city and prairie, scattering blossoms and babies, and
+hope and youth and love. The city throbbed all about them; windows
+shone golden with hint of supper and gathered families; the day’s work
+was ended. Evening had come with peace and joy and contentment. Frank
+had so much to say that he said nothing. He wanted to tell her of his
+long sleepless night. But her presence at his side, the touch of her
+elbow, the swing of her skirt, the faint glimpses of her face, flung
+a wild enchantment over him. And she, too, at the first new breath
+of Spring, was swept by strange passions. Not as yesterday--vague
+yearning, vague desire, the sadness and longing for something than all
+things wilder, sweeter. She felt sex. She felt that she was a woman,
+and he a man. She felt that she was being wooed--the old, old romance,
+the magic pursuit, the witchery of the hunt. Beautiful it was, and sad
+as moon-stirred seas, filling the eyes with tears, shaking the sweet
+flesh with tremors, waking the brain to the music of the earth and the
+heavens.
+
+So neither spoke, but at the doorway:
+
+“It will be such a good night to-night for a walk,” said Frank.
+
+“All right; then come at eight!”
+
+He came. Edith laughed at his side. The warmth of the night had drawn
+people out of doors, as the sun’s heat unfolds buds. The streets
+flowered with human beings. Boys and girls played across the gutter;
+women sat out on stoops with their babies; organ-grinders were abroad
+with shouted song; the soda-water stands at corners were being tapped
+of green and scarlet liquids, weird to eye and tongue; and the lovers
+wove their way like melodies through the air. Oh, air, languishing,
+caressing, perfect! Oh, scene, human, warm, divine! Oh, night with
+yonder still, still moon, nearly full.... Silver is on the pulsing
+city; towers loom black; ferries glisten red and green and gold on the
+swimming tides. On such a night!
+
+Edith was laughing.
+
+“Marc was going out, but I told him to stay till I got back. He didn’t
+want to, so I made him!”
+
+Frank laughed.
+
+“Where shall we go? Do you ever go to the Nickel Theater?”
+
+“Yes, and I love to. But first we must go to Dr. Rast. I have to report
+Mother’s case!”
+
+Dr. Rast! So he would see the Ideal. His blood quickened.
+
+“Is your Mother very ill?”
+
+Sad was Edith:
+
+“Yes--very--she has a weak heart--you know what that means.”
+
+Frank said nothing; Edith went on tragically:
+
+“Really, if anything happened to Mother----”
+
+Frank’s heart went out in pity:
+
+“Why should anything happen?”
+
+“She gets excited--and she mustn’t--anything like that might kill her!”
+
+Frank found nothing further to say, and then, queer thing, strive as
+she would, Edith could keep neither fear nor grief in her heart. They
+sprang from her breast like birds and disappeared in yonder moon. Magic
+poured into her; she laughed over trifles; she felt elate, free, gay.
+Wings sprouted on her shoulder-blades and lifted her lightly along. On
+such a night! Frank was enchanted with her; all the spiritual strength
+of hers was now touched with airy poetry, winding him with light
+ecstasy.
+
+She would stop to look at a baby, or clutch a dirty little urchin, or
+mark the progress of the moon judged by the house-tops, or point out a
+drift of chimney smoke thinning into silver; and so they tripped along,
+or winged along, neither now being near the earth, darted across the
+Playground Park, that lay bare and black-shadowed in the moonlight and
+came to Dr. Rast’s office. The hall-door was open, so they went in and
+knocked.
+
+The Doctor flung open the door.
+
+“Edith?”
+
+“Yes,” she laughed, “and this,” Frank emerged from darkness, “is Mr.
+Lasser.”
+
+“Glad to know you!” he shook hands with Frank. “Come in!”
+
+They entered the cozy glowing office, with its flat top desk in
+center, its curtains, its shining instrument case. Nell was sitting
+on the rocker, at her everlasting sewing. The windows were open; the
+street-noise entered; but the hush and sanctity of home were in the
+room--an atmosphere steeped with love and content and labor done and
+done well. The tears came to Edith’s eyes. Just such a home did she
+want! But with whom? She glanced curiously at Frank.
+
+He was studying the Doctor; his handsome face, throbbing with life, was
+intent on the Ideal. So this was it--big, dark, smooth-faced, simple.
+Edith understood his studious look. She thrilled to think that he was
+studying a model.
+
+All of which was in the flash of a moment. Nell rose and greeted Edith
+with a kiss, and met Frank with extended hand. The Doctor puffed hard
+at his pipe. Nell put an arm about Edith.
+
+“Morris,” she cried, “did you ever see a girl so radiantly happy?”
+
+The Doctor looked from Edith to Frank, and from Frank to Edith. He
+didn’t much favor Frank. But he laughed heartily.
+
+“What’s up, Edith?”
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+“Nothing at all?” asked the Doctor.
+
+“Nothing.”
+
+Whereupon all four laughed as if that were a huge joke.
+
+“I guess it’s the weather,” said Nell.
+
+“H’m,” said the Doctor, “H’m!”
+
+Edith explained then that her mother had had a bad day, and would the
+Doctor look in to-morrow? He said he would.
+
+Edith dismissed the subject:
+
+“Where’s the baby?”
+
+“Davy?” growled the Doctor. “Don’t you call him a baby.” He imitated
+his son. “He’s a _big boy_!”
+
+“Want to see him?” asked Nell. “Fast asleep!”
+
+They started arms round each other.
+
+“May I come, too?” asked Frank.
+
+“Surely,” cried the Doctor. “I, too.”
+
+They all went on tiptoe in the dark bedroom, and the Doctor lit the
+gas, turning it dim. Softly they peered into the crib, and saw that
+perfect miracle--the head sideways, red lips parted, cheek rosy, lids
+together, tuft of hair on the pillow, and one little hand lying on
+the coverlet. A living child, but snatched to the far world of sleep.
+Breathing, but a blank. Heart beating, but all the vision of this earth
+shut away.
+
+“Beautiful,” murmured Edith.
+
+She turned to Frank.
+
+“Don’t you love little children?” she whispered.
+
+Never had he loved them, but a terrific pang went through him. Now he
+loved them.
+
+“I do--I do,” he breathed.
+
+Softly they went out. The ties between Edith and Frank were thickening.
+Those last few words had stirred both to the soul. How could he help
+thinking of _their_ children? How could she help thinking of _her_
+children? And the father? The Doctor and Nell said little to these
+entranced visitors. There was little to say. What would you say to an
+angel that suddenly flew in at the window? So the Doctor shut them
+out into a moonlight night, and Nell and he looked at each other with
+glistening eyes.
+
+“Her time has come,” whispered the Doctor. “The bud begins to open.
+Springtime--girlhood! Oh, the mystery!”
+
+“But do you like him?” asked Nell.
+
+“I’m not going to marry him,” said the Doctor.
+
+Into the moonlight stepped our pretty pair. Or rather winged again. And
+thus found themselves in the Playground Park.
+
+“Shall we sit a little?” asked he.
+
+“Yes,” laughed she.
+
+They sat down on a bench; behind them green was tipping the branches
+of a bush; the earth smelt damp and new; and above them, stars, stars,
+stars ... and the moon....
+
+“Just look!” said Edith.
+
+He looked; she looked--everywhere stars, dimmed about the solemn glory
+of the moon.
+
+“What are they, I wonder,” whispered she, “so far from us?”
+
+“They say,” he murmured, “many of them are worlds bigger than this
+world and people live on them....”
+
+“Oh, isn’t the world big,” said she.
+
+“We down here,” laughed Frank, “are nothing.”
+
+“But we see it all!”
+
+They were silent.
+
+“And isn’t it beautiful!” breathed Edith. “Did you ever know how
+beautiful it was before!”
+
+“No,” he whispered, “never.”
+
+“Everything seems alive,” she whispered, “the earth ... the air ... the
+moon ... the stars ... we....”
+
+On such a night! Oh, moon, that shinest on these young souls! Oh, air,
+fragrant with earth, caressing, languishing! Oh, world so fearfully
+wrought, so marvelous and magical! Oh, we living beings that breathe
+this air, that see yonder moon and stars, that feel this night! Why
+should we not give up our hearts to these strange ecstasies, these wild
+enchantments? Is not life common enough, sordid enough---- Why not one
+night of magic and glamour?
+
+The two trembled close together; his face was softened with unselfish
+love; the night and Edith had conquered him. His face was almost
+beautiful with man-beauty. He leaned and whispered near.
+
+“Listen!”
+
+He half-turned toward her, and their eyes met.
+
+“I want to tell you,” he whispered, and his heart poured mellow with
+the words, “you’ve changed me; made a man of me. I never knew there was
+such a woman!”
+
+She was looking into his eyes. Her face was perfect with its sadness,
+its ecstasy, its flash and tint and shadow and fire. And then, as she
+saw his changed face and heard the wonderful words, suddenly a bolt
+of electric lightning shot her heart, sprang through her eyes, smote
+through his, consumed him head to foot. Both were weakened; trembled;
+could not look away.
+
+He murmured:
+
+“Edith.”
+
+She sighed.
+
+“Edith.”
+
+Then her eyes fell.
+
+“No,” she murmured.
+
+But the thing had happened. For life and death, Edith, you are his, he
+is yours. Nature has spoken through you both, and Nature is stronger
+than either of you. He is what he is, O Seventeen, but whatever he is,
+he is yours. Marriages are not arranged by mortals--at least, not the
+real ones.
+
+Surely there are many powers in this world. Have we not given some of
+them names? Electricity, heat, light, steam, gravitation. But there
+are many other Powers, Powers unclassified, bunched under just one
+name--God. It is when these Powers are at work that we little human
+beings are used by mighty hands.
+
+Remember Edith’s age. She was just ripening; she was just awake to sex;
+she was ready. The moment came. Frank happened to be beside her. Nature
+flung the bolt through her and him.
+
+She was looking down. There was a long and sacred silence. For in the
+first glow, contact is a sacrilege, and words are useless. Frank’s
+better nature was uppermost. He would have died for her at the moment.
+He was breathless; he could not see. He knew, and she knew. That was
+enough. Not yet, O Human Marriage! And yet could they ever be more
+married than at that first flash?
+
+She murmured in a queer, tremulous voice:
+
+“Take me home.... I want to go home.”
+
+He conducted her silently. They saw no people, though this happens to
+be an inhabited city; they saw no houses; they saw no moon nor lamps.
+Voices they heard, pouring an ecstatic music; spheres of fire winged
+about them. They were not in Time and Space; they were in ... Love.
+
+For many hours, before sleeping, they heard that music, saw that fire.
+
+We may not tell of it. But we know. We, too, were young.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+SPRING MUSIC
+
+
+Who shall yet come to our earth and sing to us of love? Many have
+tried: Sappho and Shakespeare and Dante and Tennyson. Tut! our own
+hearts sing better. Yet let a hint be given here and there, to recall
+our hearts to the sacred theme.
+
+Eighty wonderful days passed over the earth, though you and I knew it
+not. While we were grubbing downtown and eating and sleeping uptown,
+Edith and Frank were in the Enchanted Gardens. Enchanted Gardens, by
+the way, are everywhere. On mountain tops and in mid-seas, in the
+Bermudas or in the Rockies, desolate coasts or democratic prairies. So,
+too, are the Enchanted Gardens in the slums of the city. For, after
+all, they exist not in stone and water and soil and vegetation; their
+dwelling is the human soul.
+
+Edith sits at her typewriter, someone enters, and at once there is
+music in the air; or the two walk home together talking intimately; or
+they sit in the golden-flooded parlor, the mother darning stockings and
+telling them her troubles; or they wander among the people on a perfect
+night; or Frank is away in his Pennsylvania with daily interchange of
+letters--prosaic enough to the outsider, pure poetry to two of us.
+
+And yet, all this time, not one word of love. Such things can be! How
+many times our young man wants to speak out; how many times our young
+woman wants to listen. He does not speak, she does not hear. Why?
+There are a hundred reasons, light as air. He wants to make good at
+his new job; she has qualms about her mother. Marriage must wait. And
+why hurry? Is it not enough just to _be_--to know and see and meet and
+part, while the days drift by, and earth is full of dream and witchery?
+No, in this first sacred passion, no contact is needed, no kiss, no
+word of love. The golden air that wraps them is enough.
+
+And all the while Love is ripening the girl. She is fast becoming a
+woman; she sees the world now as an assemblage of children. She, the
+Mother, has come to it. Grave is the responsibility, sweet the burden.
+There are visions of home and little ones and the husband coming from
+work at night. Fast is she becoming a woman. Everyone notes it. The new
+dignity, the sweet seriousness of eyes, the troubled air, the grace
+of carriage. Even her form responds, and seems to bloom, with greater
+richness and roundness. Her clothes, too, cease to be girlish. Her
+own mother doesn’t know her, she changes so day to day. Her brothers
+cease to talk down to her, and are forced to respect her. She is more
+tender about the house; she helps thoughtfully; she sympathizes. And
+yet, at a moment’s notice, off she flings her new mantle of womanhood,
+and is a radiant ecstasy, a whirl of music and laughter, a wildness of
+enchantment. Those are moments when she breaks open the kissed letter
+in secret, or hears someone’s knock at the door, or casually meets
+someone in the street.
+
+And we cannot help admiring Frank. Cynicism, flippancy, indecency are
+buried with the wild oats. He has become a serious-mannered man. He
+thinks deeply these days. He goes on with his discovery of the world,
+and his heartstrings pulse to the life about him. His mother’s cheeks
+begin to glow; she ceases to be a shadow. Frank is the most wonderful
+son in the world. How thoughtful! Yesterday he brought me a belt-buckle
+from Pittsburgh! He never forgets his mother! Everywhere one is with
+him, hovering over him, changing him, transforming him. More and more
+deep the brute is buried; more and more powerful grows the man. He
+does not spend on himself, but saves. His bank account shows the new
+Power. He is planning ahead for that little home. And yet he, too, at a
+moment’s notice, flings off his new manhood, and is--all that she is.
+So young has he become, that he feels he has no past, he feels pure
+and good and worthy. Such is the magic of the Enchanted Gardens.
+
+Zug understands; but he is helpless and it is too late, anyhow. He goes
+his own way.
+
+Doctor Rast understands, and gets joy from it, being a wise man, and
+hence draining good out of all situations.
+
+The mother understands, and, having satisfied herself concerning family
+and salary and prospects, is ready to die happily.
+
+All the world knows, and is reminded of its youth, and has its
+delighted laugh.
+
+Then comes an ardent summer’s night, after a roasting summer’s day.
+Edith and Frank are at Coney Island. They have wandered among the dense
+hot people; they have heard blare of brass, and beat of drum; the
+carousel has shrieked around; the screaming ladies bumped the bumps;
+the laughter-shrill girls shot the chutes. Edith and Frank are tired of
+the noise. They wander to the sand, they walk away from the din.
+
+Then, lo, the beauty of the night! Lustrous stars in the still heavens,
+ocean running in and out gold against the flare of Coney; breakers with
+soft cry thinning on the beach. Oh, the loneliness, the heartache, the
+sad music of the sea. Close they walk, and closer. They are both filled
+with sadness, unutterable, poignant yearning. They want each other.
+Away world! Away you shouting crowds! They want each other--the soul
+cries, the flesh cries.
+
+They stand still and listen. How the ocean is yearning, as if for
+speech! They droop toward each other. Now enchantment is not enough,
+golden air is not enough. Each other they want. Yes, the ripening
+process is brought to an issue!
+
+Very close they stand.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+“Frank!”
+
+“Edith--Edith!”
+
+“Oh, Frank!”
+
+He grasps her hand, she does not withdraw it.
+
+“I love you....” he whispers.
+
+“I love you.”
+
+Her arms are about his neck, his about hers. Their lips meet ... and
+oh, the heights, the heights ... ecstasy, swooning ecstasy....
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+MR. GRUPP INTERRUPTS
+
+
+That next night was a hot one. The Krolls and Mr. Grupp sat at table
+in the kitchen in the late light of day. They were drinking iced tea
+to wash down the cold sliced lamb. The pitcher clinked; knives and
+forks clattered; flies buzzed about their ears or sung their swan-songs
+on the sticky fly-paper; and through the open window and door came
+the jarring clamor of the city. Boys were yelling on the street; the
+neighbors up and downstairs were arguing with loud voices; somewhere a
+baby began to howl; laughter shook the air; wheel-noise; whistle-shriek.
+
+The hot spell was on. All day the toilers had been wasted in a furnace
+of stone; walls and pave breathed heat; and with the coming of scarlet
+sunset, a great noise went up from the released millions. The poor
+fat mother was dizzy and faint, and quarreled and complained; Edith,
+in a thin white dress that made her look very girlish, was a million
+miles away on the wings of dream; the boys and Mr. Grupp, in their
+shirtsleeves, damned the weather.
+
+Said Mr. Grupp:
+
+“I saw a fat woman-lady on Hester Street melt. The boys made a
+sliding-pond afterward.”
+
+Marcus and Sam laughed.
+
+“She had a rubber mouth,” said Mr. Grupp. “It was so elastic, a Grand
+Street pushcart could turn around in it.”
+
+He arose from his chair and circled the table for a lump of sugar.
+
+“What are you getting up for?” cried Mrs. Kroll indignantly. “Such
+manners!”
+
+“Oh, excuse! excuse!” he moaned. “You’re so nervous. Yes, in the old
+country they call it meschugge (loony).”
+
+“Will you sit down?” cried Mrs. Kroll.
+
+But Mr. Grupp seized Edith under the chin.
+
+“My Sveetie! Give me a kiss!”
+
+Edith’s laughter rippled silver-clear and sweet.
+
+“Later!” she whispered mysteriously.
+
+“_Will_ you sit down?” cried the mother, outraged.
+
+“Just one kiss!” he laughed. “See how her nose turns up, the little
+Sveetie!”
+
+Edith pushed his hand away.
+
+“Oh, the women!” he sighed, “I’m glad I’m an old batch.”
+
+“Sit down!” cried the mother.
+
+“Sit down!” the boys chorused.
+
+Mr. Grupp stole behind Marcus, crooked his first finger against his
+thumb, and with a low, “I give you a _schnelker_,” let the first finger
+fly like a steel spring released. It caught Marcus a sting on the ear.
+Mr. Grupp danced up and down with glee, while the mother and boys
+shouted:
+
+“Don’t you begin your _schnelking_! It’s too hot!”
+
+Schnelking was a Grupp institution, which he assured them he himself
+had introduced in America, though, much to his own discomfort, as he
+himself received the greatest number. Laughingly, he returned to his
+seat, the sweat trickling down his ruddy face.
+
+“Oh, weh,” he wailed, “I’ve lost my appetite----” and as he was about
+to tell them of the juicy steak, the twenty-two eggs and the yowsas,
+the boys cried:
+
+“Cut it out!”
+
+“Lost your appetite!” shrilled the mother. “You eat like a pig.”
+
+“Now, I’m insulted,” said Mr. Grupp, mournfully shaking his head. “Next
+time I wouldn’t come here; I stay away; and then there will be crying
+and howling, ‘Oh, where is Mr. Grupp, where is Mo.’ You’ll be sorry if
+I don’t come!--Pardon the pickles!”
+
+Sam handed him the pickles.
+
+“Have some more meat, Mo,” he urged.
+
+“Not for a thousand dollars,” cried Mr. Grupp. “Never.” He shrugged his
+shoulders. “But seeing it’s on the table--well----”
+
+He took a generous slice.
+
+The mother was slicing the cake.
+
+“Mamma,” said Sam acidly, “why do you have cake? You know no one cares
+for it.”
+
+“If you don’t like what you get here,” cried the mother, “find some
+other boarding house!”
+
+“But why do you have cake?” insisted Sam.
+
+The mother began to tremble.
+
+“You’ll be glad yet if you can get cake----” she began.
+
+Edith woke from her trance and spoke sharply:
+
+“Sam!” She turned to her mother: “Remember, dear!”
+
+Sam drummed on the table, the mother wiped her eyes. Mr. Grupp looked
+tragic.
+
+But then he pulled out a cigar and offered it to Sam.
+
+“My last,” he said.
+
+The air cleared in laughter.
+
+“That’s one of those smoke here and die home,” growled Sam. “No,
+thanks.”
+
+“Very well,” said Mr. Grupp, and lit up.
+
+Then he expanded. Then he blew clouds of foul smoke. Then he sang
+German student-songs, with roaring choruses. Then he arose and tramped
+grenadier-fashion up and down the kitchen.
+
+Edith and her mother cleared the table and washed the dishes at the
+sink; the boys put on shirts and collars and coats, and, announcing
+that they would return in the cold gray dawning of the morning after,
+went off for their night on the water. Then, at last, Edith stole into
+the dark parlor, whose ceiling was splashed with light from the street
+below, and sat on the sill of the open window, leaning out on the
+fire-escape.
+
+Intensely human was the scene. All the windows opposite were open, and
+in the lit rooms she saw the silhouettes of moving women and men and
+children. Children played on the fire-escapes; out of dark windows
+hung shadowy forms, and the street from end to end was black with
+humanity. Boys and girls played I-spy over the gutter; the stoops were
+thronged with mothers taking the evening air; young men and women stood
+before lighted shop-windows chatting, flirting, laughing. She saw in
+the delicatessen shop opposite the busy tradesman with his wife, the
+little children and the women customers. The night was dripping hot,
+the darkened heavens pulsing red with the lights of the broadcast city;
+but so much better was it than the sun-wilted day, that people breathed
+free, resting, laughing, chatting.
+
+Sweet was the scene, and so human, that it brought the tears to Edith’s
+eyes. How she loved the world at that moment. For she loved and was
+loved, and it seemed to her that all these people, too, were lovers--a
+world of lovers--the young boys and girls, the husbands and wives, the
+mothers with young babies, the grandmothers and grandfathers. Into this
+life she would plunge; these people her people; their lives her life.
+She wanted but the commonest, humanest things. She had no dream of
+wealth or power or pleasure. She wanted her own home; her husband; her
+children. She wanted to travel in the dust of the common road, deep in
+the warmth of the human crowd.
+
+All day she had been overbubbling with laughter and tears, with
+happiness wild and perfect, with blushes and shy beating of the heart,
+and now her heart took on tenderness, a great tenderness. No longer was
+she contented with the first enchantment of love; something more real,
+something more of the brown earth, something rooted in the soil she
+wanted. She wanted Frank; her own home; her own table and stove.
+
+There was a light knock on the door; she leaped up with a glad cry,
+and Frank came in. Their arms went about each other, tenderly; their
+lips, still tingling with that first kiss, met again; she drew his head
+closer passionately.
+
+“How are you?” he murmured. “Edith, how are you?”
+
+“Ssh!” she warned. “Mother! I’ll light up! Quick!”
+
+They laughed excitedly, and as Edith whispered, “Tell her right away!
+Have it over with!” he lit the gas, turning it low, so that the
+shutters could remain open. They heard the mother coming, and courage
+oozed out of them; Frank felt very young, much ashamed and very
+self-conscious; and Edith grew pale and blushed rosily and shyly hung
+her head. The mother, who all along was but a poor sick, woman, now
+seemed a veritable ogre.
+
+She toddled in, puffing.
+
+“Oh, good evening!” she said to Frank.
+
+He grasped her hand very eagerly.
+
+“I hope you are feeling well! I hope you ain’t sick in this weather!”
+
+“Ain’t?” whispered Edith.
+
+Frank laughed strangely, and all sat down, the mother rocking slowly in
+a big rocker, and fanning herself with a Yiddish newspaper. Only then
+did Edith notice how carefully he was dressed. Poor fellow! he felt as
+if he were decked for his own funeral.
+
+The mother pounced upon the word “sick.”
+
+“You should never be so sick as I, Mr. Lasser. Oi! Oi! Eat I some
+strudel yesterday and some ice-cream and cucumbers, and I get such
+cramps in my stomach, like I could yell. You could feel here,” she
+pressed her hand on her side, “I get a lump like a piece of ice. Did
+you ever have gas on the heart----”
+
+But Frank was too excited.
+
+“Mrs. Kroll,” he burst out, “I want to speak to you!”
+
+“What?”
+
+“I want to speak to you!”
+
+“Speak?”
+
+“Yes--I want to tell you something!”
+
+The mother looked from one to the other.
+
+“Well, young man, speak!”
+
+The air was breathless now, vague with expectancy, hushed with crisis.
+Frank had had his speech all ready, well rehearsed, but the “young man”
+took the wind out of his sails. He collapsed, and the drops stood out
+on his forehead.
+
+“You know”--he stammered--“why--it’s just----”
+
+“Oh, my old college chum!”
+
+And in burst expansive Mr. Grupp. “My old college chum! I’m so glad to
+see you!”
+
+He rushed over to Frank and seized his hand. Edith frowned, Frank
+pushed him off.
+
+“How do you do!” cried Mr. Grupp. “It’s so long since I seen you! But I
+met your uncle on Broadway yesterday.”
+
+The mother could not contain herself.
+
+“Will you go out? That man’s a nuisance! Go out!”
+
+“Oh, how nervous we’re getting,” wailed Mr. Grupp. “You shouldn’t get
+so nervous.”
+
+Edith spoke in a low, tremulous voice:
+
+“Mr. Lasser wants to speak to Mother. Please--please go out, Mr. Grupp!”
+
+“Oh, ho,” cried Mr. Grupp. “Ah, ha! Business! God forbid I should
+distoib you. I be back in a minute.”
+
+So saying, he vanished.
+
+Rude was the excitement in the air. The mother stopped fanning; Frank
+shrank and shrank until he was small enough for short pants; Edith
+looked away, and gasped.
+
+“Well, young man,” said the mother, as if she were charging an enemy.
+
+“You see,” he stammered, “it’s just like this----”
+
+“Don’t grabble around so,” the mother spoke frankly.
+
+Frank stared at her; she stared at him. That was too much for Edith,
+who loosed silver bells of laughter, ran to her mother, circled her
+neck, and whispered:
+
+“Mother, dear--you know--you must know!”
+
+And Frank, laughing nervously, took up the tale:
+
+“Why, of course, Edith and I----”
+
+In burst the inevitable Grupp, announcing with waving hand:
+
+“The trouble is just this. The young folks kiss each other too much,
+and then, when they are married, they couldn’t kiss for a hundred
+dollars. Now the right way is this: One kiss a day, before and after.
+And you could kiss all your life!”
+
+“Will you go out?” shrilled the mother. “Did you ever see such a man?”
+
+“Oh,” he cried, in astonishment. “Business! Business! I’ll be right
+back!”
+
+And vanished.
+
+“Such a man!” cried the mother.
+
+Silence followed, vast and empty silence. Then Frank tried again:
+
+“As I was about to say----”
+
+Suddenly the mother rose, Frank rose, Edith rose. A radiant smile was
+on the mother’s face:
+
+“I know--Frank,” she said simply, and seized him and kissed him.
+
+He flung his arms about the good woman and hugged her for all he was
+worth.
+
+Edith clapped her hands, and cried:
+
+“Mother! Mother, darling!”
+
+And then mother and daughter clasped and kissed. Wild joy sang through
+the room. Mother and daughter wept those tears that underlie laughter,
+the tears of sacred joy, and Mr. Grupp, bursting in with:
+
+“It’s a bargain,” received the promised kiss from his “Sweetie,” and
+gripping Frank’s hand, advised fifty years engaged, one year married.
+
+Then all sat down, and lips were loosed.
+
+“Mother,” cried Edith, “we’ve loved each other ever so long, and ever
+so much! I can’t tell you how much! Did you ever even dream we were in
+love?”
+
+“Did I ever?” laughed the mother. “What children! I knew it already
+two months.”
+
+“And never said a word?” from Edith.
+
+“What could I say! What children!--Frank!” she began.
+
+“Yes, Mother!”
+
+Then they all laughed again, and Edith sat on the arm of Frank’s chair
+and kissed him for the word.
+
+The mother’s voice saddened:
+
+“Edy is a good girl--she is the best I have in this world. I could die
+happy if she was married to a good man.”
+
+Frank spoke very humbly:
+
+“I--I’ll try to be worthy of Edith.”
+
+“Oh,” cried Edith, “you don’t know Frank. He’s noble and true and
+good----”
+
+“No, Edith,” he said, in a low voice, “don’t say that!”
+
+So Edith kissed him and whispered of his goodness.
+
+“Ah, Mr. Grupp,” said the mother tearfully, “the children grow up in a
+day, and you and I get old. But I am very happy.”
+
+Then she rose and took Frank by the hand and spoke to him secretly.
+
+“Be very good to Edy. Make her very happy. I was not so happy myself.
+I know how it is. Always be kind, and think of her, and do little
+things to please her. She is not like other girls, Frank; she wants
+little--only someone should love her, and be kind, and make a home for
+her.”
+
+Frank could hardly speak for tears:
+
+“There is no girl like her in the world, Mother. I swear I’ll be good
+to her!”
+
+“Good!” she murmured. “That’s right!” and again she kissed him.
+
+“So,” she nodded to Mr. Grupp. “Come--they want to talk!”
+
+And she and Mr. Grupp went out, and the lovers sat down on the sofa
+together. They were very serious that night. Life was very sacred and
+sweet. Edith put her head on his shoulder, and he drew her close.
+
+“Sweetheart!” he said.
+
+A kiss had to follow that wonderful word, and then they began speaking
+in low voices:
+
+“Soon,” he said, “we shall have our home, Edith--just you and I there,
+alone--alone together----”
+
+“Alone together!” she echoed.
+
+They were silent, dreaming of that humble vision--those rooms with two
+faces coming and going--and then Edith:
+
+“Isn’t it strange that out of all people, just you and I should marry
+each other?”
+
+“No, it had to be.”
+
+“Do you really think so, dear?”
+
+Again a wonderful word, and a kiss.
+
+“Yes,” said he.
+
+“Oh, I’m glad! I’m glad, then! Because I want to feel that you are just
+for me--only for me.”
+
+“I am,” he murmured.
+
+Their talk began to grow practical, as it should have, for the daily
+toil must be touched and transformed by the high love.
+
+“Oh, I am going to be such a good manager,” said Edith. “I’m going to
+have Mother teach me the things I don’t know. I want to be the best
+housewife in the world.”
+
+He laughed softly:
+
+“You will be! And I’ll be so proud of my wife!”
+
+“Your _wife_!”
+
+“Yes,” he murmured, “dear little wife!”
+
+She put her arms about him.
+
+“Husband!”
+
+Sweet and deep was the embrace and the kiss.
+
+And lest we now be overwhelmed with kisses, we must gently draw the
+curtain while these two young human beings gaze into the sunrise of
+their wedded life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE GOLDEN-HAIRED ONE
+
+
+Frank was in Pittsburgh the following Saturday night, and Pittsburgh is
+a weird city. It is a narrow point of river-ringed land, circled with
+mills that flame like Inferno all night long. All day the soft-coal
+smoke shrouds the streets, and at times thickens into a dirty fog. The
+buildings are soot-blackened and look old. The stranger goes about with
+an umbrella, momently expecting a storm to break. Not all the water
+in the Ohio River can keep the hands of the town clean. One dabs up
+soot from the parlor-table, and clean linen lasts an hour. Out of the
+mouths of the converters lining the river below shoots up a snow of
+golden flakes, and as one draws near one hears the wild _klong-a-al_,
+_bang-bang_, _st-st-st_, _spla_, _wow_ of the mills as of a jungle
+howling, and one sees half-naked men, like imps, running in and out
+among the flames. Shanties and palaces cling to the hollows and hills
+of the town, side by side.
+
+What can a full-blooded man do in such a town on a Saturday night?
+There are a few theaters, but Frank was not allured. Besides, he was
+saving money. He had finished his day’s business, and as there was no
+train for the next town till the morning, he was forced to inhabit
+Pittsburgh overnight. He had written the daily letter to Edith, and
+sent it by special delivery. Some old friends had asked him to “go out
+with the boys.” He had refused, much to their amusement.
+
+So he sauntered down Fifth Avenue, which end to end was a blaze of
+wild advertisements and glaring shop-windows. The music of the Nickel
+Theaters blared out over the street; globes of copper light flooded the
+pavement; a long procession of lighted trolley-cars thumped by, up, and
+down; and a black swarm of holiday-happy people streamed about him.
+Newsboys shouted; young girls laughed. For the week’s work was ended,
+for all save the toilers in the mills--those souls being consumed in
+the fires of Pittsburgh--and a glad irresponsible freedom leaped from
+heart to heart, from eye to eye, from lip to lip. A wine of splendor
+drenched the cool air; an electricity of romance was abroad.
+
+Frank was listless; Frank was lonely. The evening stretched before him
+interminably long. What should he do? Girls laughed in his eyes--sweet
+faces, daring faces, flashing faces. He grew restless, feverish. Old
+voices began to call him; the old wildness swept round him. He could
+not help thinking back to the wild-oats days, when his Saturday nights
+held an intoxication long since put by. It was the wine of life that
+was offered to his lips again; the wine that courses through the veins
+like fire, and sweeps the brain with a glad delirium. More and more
+restless he trudged along, trying to keep himself in hand, trying to
+deafen his ears to the siren voices of the past.
+
+But the Past keeps a strange grip on the soul. Bury the old Frank ever
+so deep, he is still there. Those brain-cells wrought by the wild young
+years are still there in the gray convolutions. We are but prisoners of
+the Past that bore us. And so this night Frank was beginning to pay for
+his youth.
+
+He was startled to feel these old desires, these old memories swarming
+over him like roused hornets. And then suddenly he remembered the
+“golden-haired one”--over the river, in Alleghany, Madge Madden, the
+strapping Valkyrie-woman, blue-eyed and golden-haired. Madge was a
+country girl, full-blooded, the health of the hills and the sun and
+wind not yet worn away. She had not the flaccid appearance of vice;
+rather the flaunting bold strength of a daring adventuress. She was a
+strong goddess of the streets. How well Frank remembered her! How she
+had enchanted him in the old days!
+
+And now strolling along he remembered her glad bold voice; he felt
+her touch; he saw vividly her face. The young girls smiled on him,
+recalling the fact that he was handsome. His blood began to beat
+faster; his pulses thronged with life; he wanted adventure, enjoyment.
+Edith began to fade far; New York was a long distance to the East; a
+man lives but once. Why not enjoy _this_ night, too? This night is as
+real as any other, and it is fast slipping through the fingers.
+
+The old Frank was in the ascendant. His eyes began to sparkle, he
+smiled, he hurried. By instinct, if not by forethought, he began to
+wander across dark vacant streets to the river. He paid the penny-toll
+at the bridge and began walking across. Below him ran the smooth
+river-tide with here and there a suspended lantern casting its gold
+or red or green reflection like a lance along the swaying waters. A
+soft cool air blew sweet over his face, with dark hint of pungent
+coal smoke. Overhead, here and there, was a star. Behind him glowed
+the towering city; before him were the low dim lights and the strings
+of street-lamps of Alleghany. A madness seized him; lusty sang his
+blood. And so he penetrated those streets, trudging by lonely one and
+two-story brick houses, and passing now and then some shattered woman
+who emerged from the shadows.
+
+Those months which had so changed him fell off, dropping into far
+abysses. And yet, but a few days before he had kissed Edith good-by,
+and they had shed tears together! And yet this very afternoon he had
+written her a tender letter, full of heartache and loneliness and
+passionate vows and sweet kisses--which letter on the morrow Edith
+would cry over, and press to her lips and her heart. But far away was
+the sweet, true little woman--quite vanished. Such is the strength of
+the buried Past.
+
+Up a little hilly street he wandered, entered a dark empty hall, and
+knocked on a door. He felt laughably excited and daring. He even felt
+that he had regained his true manhood, that now he was free and bold
+and brave.
+
+The door flung open. In a dim glow stood the golden-haired one, large
+as life.
+
+“Who is it?” the voice held harsh, strong music.
+
+“Me, Madge!”
+
+“_You?_” she cried, delighted. “Well, I’ll be hanged! Hello!” She
+seized his hand and pulled him into the room. “Frank, but I’m glad to
+see you! Show your face. Let me get a look.”
+
+She had a little asbestos gas-grate rippling low flame under the
+mantel. No other light was in the room, and the soft blue glow spread
+out and up, leaving the ceiling and walls in shadow. The air was just
+cool enough for a bit of fire.
+
+“Well,” he laughed, “I’m here!”
+
+She drew him before the fire, looked him over, and plunged him in a
+low Morris chair. He settled back comfortably. She took a deep chair
+opposite, and offered him cigarettes.
+
+They both lit up and puffed idly.
+
+In the dancing blue light he noticed her face, the wild golden hair,
+the blue eyes and red lips, the rosy cheeks. A little voice in him
+cried out that there was coarseness and vulgarity in the face, but he
+hushed it, and gave himself over to enjoyment.
+
+The strong music of her voice rose again:
+
+“You’re a nice one! I’ve been as lonely as a cat!”
+
+“Miss me, Madge?”
+
+She spoke musingly:
+
+“Every Saturday night I thought it was you coming. I had everything
+ready. Look.”
+
+He looked. On a small table at his side was a bottle of whiskey and a
+siphon of vichy and two glasses.
+
+“Well!” he cried, his pride roused, “you’re a dandy.”
+
+Her voice was almost sad:
+
+“I’ll never forget _you_ Frank.”
+
+“Oh, why not?” he asked lightly.
+
+“Hard to say,” she sighed. “I’ve known many men--but a woman only takes
+to one.”
+
+He felt a thrill at the words. Suddenly she laughed gaily, throwing
+back her head:
+
+“But away with the mopes! This won’t do, my handsome! Fill the glass,
+and let’s forget!”
+
+He leaned and poured whiskey and sprayed vichy, and each held up a
+glass.
+
+“Here’s--us,” she cried.
+
+“Us!”
+
+Glasses clinked, and they drank. She put hers on the broad arm of her
+chair, and leaned over and took his hand and looked in his face.
+
+“Frank, you didn’t go back on me?”
+
+He smiled and shook his head no.
+
+“You’re sure, Frank?”
+
+“Sure,” he muttered.
+
+“You know,” she mused, “they all go, sooner or later, one by one.” She
+spoke in an intimate rich voice: “You didn’t come here to say good-by?”
+
+“To say hello, Madge,” he murmured.
+
+“Then why,” she asked low, “did you keep me waiting all this time?”
+
+“I was busy.”
+
+“Busy! No, it wasn’t that! I know what it was!”
+
+He laughed softly and she patted his hand.
+
+“It’s some other woman, Frank,” she said slowly, “it’s someone else. I
+know you. Will-o’-the-wisp!”
+
+He lied to her face:
+
+“No, no!”
+
+Mad was his blood that moment; near were her lips, her eyes, her hair.
+
+“Madge!” he whispered.
+
+She laughed softly:
+
+“I believe the boy still cares.”
+
+She sat back, still laughing, and Frank started to fill his glass again.
+
+Suddenly Madge sat up.
+
+“Hello,” she cried sharply.
+
+Frank turned toward her.
+
+She got to her feet, seized his hands, and pulled him up.
+
+“You’ve changed,” she said sharply, “you’re different. Where’s your
+horseshoe pin, your high collar, your--Frank! You’re not a sport any
+more. You’ve toned down. I see it. Don’t say you haven’t. What’s
+happened?”
+
+“What of it?” he stammered.
+
+“Yes, you have, you have!” She drew him nearer. “Look in my eyes,
+Frank, look me straight in the eyes.”
+
+He tried to meet her eyes; he was confused and annoyed.
+
+She spoke in a low voice:
+
+“It _is_ some other woman.”
+
+He looked down. She breathed closer.
+
+“Are you going to be married?”
+
+He said nothing.
+
+“Are you going to be married?”
+
+He said angrily:
+
+“What if I am?”
+
+She spoke very low:
+
+“You lied to my face! You lied to my face!”
+
+He could not meet her eyes. Suddenly he felt a terrific sweep of shame
+pass through him; shame and guilt. Why was he here? He had a sharp
+vision of Edith, reproach on her face. Why had he come? All passion
+went out of him; he was angry with Madge, and hated himself.
+
+“Let me alone,” he blustered.
+
+“What are you doing?”
+
+“I’m going--good-by!”
+
+She seized his arm:
+
+“No--forgive me--I didn’t mean it--tell me about her, Frank. Tell me!”
+
+He pushed her hand away and started.
+
+“Frank!”
+
+“I’m going to leave you. I had no business to come!”
+
+“But now you’re here. You must stay--you must!”
+
+“I tell you I’m going.”
+
+“You’re not!” Again she seized his arm. “You’re going to stay! You
+must!”
+
+“Will you let me alone?” He threw off her arm, and reached for his hat.
+
+“Frank! Frank!”
+
+“Good-by!” he cried.
+
+“But just to-night! I didn’t mean it. Can’t you forgive me? For old
+sakes’ sake?”
+
+“I’m going back to her.”
+
+She laughed wildly:
+
+“Then go. But I’ll have my last kiss!”
+
+She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him. He turned madly, he
+drew her close. But she pushed him away, wildly laughing.
+
+“Go! Go!”
+
+She opened the door, and seized his arm:
+
+“Go, I tell you!”
+
+He passed through and she slammed the door. Then he reeled out like a
+drunkard in the cool night air, and knew himself as he was.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+TWILIGHT
+
+
+A sweet rain freshened the summer afternoon, drawing a good smell from
+the baking pavements. Our wild-rose, who perhaps was changing into a
+red, red rose of the gardens, she was so womanly grave and wise, stole
+forth to see Nell Rast. She did not use her umbrella, for the rain was
+sweet on her face, and she had on old clothes. And so she glided along,
+among the playing children and the serious idle old men and women,
+fresh as the rain, rich as the summer.
+
+She had given up her job; there was much sewing to be done--linen
+to be initialed, and a modest trousseau to be wrought. She had said
+good-by to the boss, who, spite of his grim ways, showed his sorrow
+in a little check. She had said good-by to Jonas Zug, and told him
+so cordially that he must call after she was married, that he could
+not speak. And now the long, long summer days were hers--what dreams,
+what schemes, what happy business! Her mother took on new life as they
+discussed stitches and soups and furniture. And Nell, meeting her
+marketing, basket on arm, had told her to call. Nell was very sensitive
+about people. Almost intuitively she knew them. She could not let this
+innocent girl go ignorantly into marriage.
+
+And so Edith glided into the cool, dark hallway and knocked at the
+kitchen. Nell opened the door.
+
+“Why, it’s Edith,” she laughed, and kissed her. “It’s sweet of you to
+come!”
+
+Edith laughed softly, and stepped in. Davy was tagging at his mother’s
+skirt.
+
+“Mother! Mother! Mother!”
+
+“Well, son?”
+
+“Where _are_ you?”
+
+Nell and Edith looked at each other laughingly. The woman and the
+girl made a pretty contrast--Nell with her large brown eyes, her
+hair parted in center and soft over her forehead, her olive-tinted
+cheeks, and Edith with lighted blue eyes and light hair and wild-rose
+cheeks--the one, blooming in womanhood, yet graceful and exquisite; the
+other, just brimming over girlhood, wild in her beauty. Yet they were
+both of a size.
+
+“You little boy,” cried the mother, and plucked him up and pushed his
+face close to Edith’s. “Give the pretty lady a kiss! Give Aunt Edith a
+kiss!”
+
+But Davy only stared, and pushed off.
+
+“Don’t you love me?” asked Edith.
+
+“No,” he cried, “I _can’t_ love you; I only like you.”
+
+The distinction was a fine one, and Edith laughed.
+
+“Whom do you love?”
+
+“I love Mother! Mother,” he cried, “where _are_ you?”
+
+“Here, son!”
+
+“Then, please, dear darling Mother dear, I want to be a little helper!”
+
+And he began pulling roguishly at her hair.
+
+“Stop!” she cried. “Shall I put ink on your hand?”
+
+“Don’t you do that!” he warned her.
+
+“Naughty boy! Now you can’t be a helper!”
+
+She set him on the floor, and he drew down the corners of his lips like
+a bow pulled round, and spoke slowly with stifled sobs:
+
+“I didn’t mean it! I was only teasing you! I couldn’t help it!”
+
+“Surely?”
+
+“Please, please, dear Mother dear!”
+
+“And you’ll never do it again?”
+
+“No!”
+
+So Nell took from the table a bowl of cake dough still in the pasty
+state and put it on a chair, and the young man danced with delight,
+took a big metal spoon and worked vigorously, like the laborer he was.
+
+Nell put two kitchen chairs side by side.
+
+“I want you near me,” she said, in a low voice.
+
+Edith took off her hat and sat down.
+
+“You’re sure I’m not keeping you from your work?”
+
+Nell only laughed and sat next her and took her two hands.
+
+“Dear,” she said sweetly, “I think you’re getting more beautiful every
+day.”
+
+The wild-rose blushed.
+
+“When is he coming back?”
+
+“To-morrow.”
+
+Nell put an arm about the girl.
+
+“Edith,” she said, “I want you to be very happy in your marriage. I
+have been in mine.”
+
+“I know,” murmured Edith.
+
+“We have had many troubles,” her voice shook a little. “Davy has had
+his sicknesses. Sometimes the work seems like drudgery. Sometimes I
+get a bit heart-sick because I don’t see enough of my husband. You
+see he is a very busy man. Just now, for instance, there’s a roomful
+of patients in front and he won’t be finished till supper time. And
+then,” her voice lowered, “we’ve had money-troubles. Marriage isn’t
+easy, dear, even when there’s love. There are so many disappointments,
+so many ruined hopes, so much wasted strength and time. And one has to
+make allowances.”
+
+She hesitated a moment.
+
+“Don’t you think the Doctor a splendid man?”
+
+“He’s perfect,” whispered the wild-rose.
+
+Nell laughed softly.
+
+“No, dear, not perfect. Splendid, but very human. I want to tell you
+something, Edith; I want to make one thing clear to avoid a mistake on
+your part.”
+
+“What is that?”
+
+“No two human beings,” said Nell, “no matter how good they are and how
+much they love, can live together without now and then getting tired of
+each other or jarring on one another.”
+
+“Oh, but it’s different----” Edith began.
+
+“No, it isn’t,” laughed Nell. “Don’t believe me now, but when the time
+comes, you will remember and be wise. That is the time for making
+allowances, for making sacrifices.”
+
+The wild-rose didn’t believe a word.
+
+“And then,” Nell went on, “remember, too, that love changes.
+Everything changes. We change and our lives and our passions change.
+The enchantment that comes before marriage fades afterward; fades,
+vanishes, to give way for something deeper, more durable, more sacred.
+There will even come a time when you will wonder if you love your
+husband--no, don’t stop me--and then you will find that it is but the
+pain of growth. A better love is taking its place.”
+
+The wild-rose protested that never in her life would she cease for a
+moment to love her husband.
+
+At this juncture groans arose from the son of the family.
+
+“Oh! Oh!” he groaned.
+
+“What’s the matter?” cried Nell.
+
+“I’m putting pepper and salt in!”
+
+“Pepper and salt?” Nell arose in horror. “What have _you_ been doing?”
+
+She strode over to a scene of ruin.
+
+“Edith,” she exclaimed, and then shook with wild laughter. “Look at
+this! The rogue’s taken his father’s tobacco-can and sprinkled the
+cake! You scamp! You rogue!”
+
+She seized the young man by the arm, and again he made a mouth:
+
+“I’m only putting pepper and salt in!”
+
+“You’ve ruined my nice cake, you scamp!”
+
+Edith doubled up with laughter. There was nothing to be done, so his
+lordship had his way, and mixed in what ingredients he could find,
+finally sweeping bread crumbs from the table and making neat designs on
+the paste.
+
+Then Nell sat down again and went on, gently and simply as any mother.
+She spoke of the need of a woman keeping young--not by devices of hair
+and dress so much--but by extending her life beyond her home.
+
+“Don’t be shut in four walls; don’t narrow down to three rooms and a
+street; get out; get into other activities; see people; study, read, go
+to theater--anything. And keep pace with your husband. Don’t let him
+grow away from you. Know his work; his ambition. Understand and help.”
+
+She tried to impress on Edith the need of growth; the need of an open
+mind and heart; a receptivity to the unfamiliar; a courage in making
+experiments in life, in testing out new theories by actual living. And
+then by slow degrees their talk drifted into the deepest theme of life;
+the theme that is blood and breath of woman’s existence--creation.
+
+Edith grew breathless. Now was she stirred to the very soul. Now was
+her thirst for knowledge to be quenched, her darkness irradiated with
+light. Nell put it very simply--how children are born--but the facts
+went crashing through the girl’s ignorance like gusts of lightning.
+
+“You see,” said Nell, “mothers don’t tell their daughters, and the
+young girls go into the greatest and most vital things of their life
+without knowing, without knowing. I want you to know.”
+
+Edith clung to her; she felt the burden of a new responsibility; she
+felt as if there were to be put in her hands a godlike power; the power
+of creating new life on the earth; that the very strength of the suns
+and the might of God would pass through her.
+
+And then Nell went on to speak of men, and the perils of marriage.
+She spoke of the double-standard, under which men freely go with women
+before marriage, and girls remain innocent.
+
+“Oh,” cried Edith, staring with large eyes, “but not all men. Not all!”
+
+“Most of them,” said Nell sadly.
+
+“It can’t be,” cried Edith. And suddenly she remembered Zug’s words,
+and grew very pale.
+
+Darkness was beginning to spread up on her horizon. Better to remain
+ignorant and happy!
+
+Nell saw the look in her eyes.
+
+“Dear,” she cried, “don’t feel that way about it. It’s no dishonor for
+a boy to go wrong to-day--really it isn’t. They, too, are ignorant.
+They, too, must be taught. But I had to tell you on account of the
+dangers. Those dangers can be avoided--a simple matter----”
+
+But she got no further that day. Just then the Doctor came in, in his
+white office coat, and the two jumped up like guilty children.
+
+“H’m,” growled the Doctor, “conspiracy?”
+
+Nell said laughingly:
+
+“It’s Edith, dear!”
+
+He shook her hand listlessly.
+
+“Goodness,” he muttered, stretching his arms out, “I’m sick and tired!
+Nell, I thought that bunch of aches and pains would never quit.”
+
+“My poor, poor man!” murmured Nell.
+
+“Oh,” cried the Doctor, “I’m sick of it all! Drat it!”
+
+The wild-rose was shocked, and the Doctor laughed.
+
+“Well, Edith,” he muttered, trying hard to be less tired, “where’s the
+man?”
+
+“Away.”
+
+But the Doctor was too tired; he sat down on a chair.
+
+“I’d better go,” said Edith.
+
+“But you must come in a day or two,” cried Nell eagerly, “remember,
+there is something I _must_ tell you!”
+
+They kissed each other; Davy submitted a cheek; the Doctor nodded his
+head, and the wild-rose wandered home through the late day.
+
+A tumult of new passions possessed her all the evening and deep into
+the night. Facts are aggressive. They leap up at us, sting us, batter
+a breach, drive into the mind, tear old beliefs to tatters, root
+themselves, throw up defenses, and so become part of our lives. Edith
+felt her old life slipping away from her; the vision of the world
+changed; she was no more what she had been. She could not be a young
+girl any more. She went through the birth-throes of womanhood.
+
+She began to see that marriage is not the end of life, but rather
+the beginning of a new life; that she was called upon to shoulder
+vast responsibilities; that it was more than a matter of love; it was
+life-work. She must prepare herself for pain and stubborn struggle and
+obstinate difficulties. She sat that night looking into the vastness of
+life. Torn away was the enchantment. This was serious business; this
+was life and death.
+
+And yet far within her there was a strange sense of joy--the feeling
+that she was no longer to be shut out from the common experiences of
+mankind. It is no blessing to be ignorantly innocent; such a state is
+shallow; the very terror of the deep crises of life have a wonder in
+them no real man or woman would forego. Each wants life to the full,
+the bitter and the sweet, the fire as well as the light.
+
+Many such thoughts surged dimly or clearly through her mind, and mixed
+with them were strange new passions concerning the man who was to be
+her husband. The intimate relationships to be frightened her; and
+now, in the light of her new knowledge he loomed a different man. She
+thought she had known him; she had not. He was a power that would work
+on all her life; he was a stranger. Nell had spoken of dangers to be
+avoided. What danger could there be? How could Frank be dangerous?
+
+Common sense came back and laughed at the notion. Dear Frank! Did he
+not truly love her; did she not love him? That was enough. Where then
+was the danger? Frank was true as steel; and how he had changed.
+Ever was he getting gentler and nobler--more attentive, more kind and
+loving. He would do anything for her. Such a man dangerous?
+
+And then the last few months came up again, the lightning bolt that
+spring night in the Playground Park; the golden eighty days; the first
+kiss in the sound of the sea; the sweet tenderness; his letters.
+Instinct told her that all was well.
+
+“Nevertheless,” said the wise little wild-rose, “he and I shall have a
+candid talk!”
+
+Blessings on the wild-rose!
+
+She was beginning to breathe happily again, and snuggle up in her soft
+night-gown, inviting sleep, when a strange noise stirred her. It was
+her mother gasping.
+
+“Mother!” she cried, sitting up, “Mother!”
+
+The cry rang sharp from her heart. Her mother tried to rise, fell back,
+gasped, choked.
+
+“Mother!” cried Edith frantically, clutching her hand.
+
+Then, at last her mother spoke:
+
+“All right! all right! Get the Doctor!”
+
+“Oh, but are you sure you’re all right!”
+
+“Ya, ya--run and get the Doctor!”
+
+Edith bolted from bed, groped out and out, trembling with fear, found a
+match, struck it and lit a small light. She leaned over her mother, and
+saw her purple face, the rolling eyes. She felt as if the sight would
+drive her crazy. She was utterly alone; so helpless. Then she flung
+open the door to the adjoining room, and cried:
+
+“Sam! Marc! Sam!”
+
+But the room was empty. The brothers were still out.
+
+“What shall I do?” she muttered. “What shall I do?”
+
+And, at once, her mind cleared; she was calm and self-possessed, though
+blackness showered upon her. She dressed quickly, took a last look at
+her mother, stole down the black halls, and then went winging her way
+through the deserted streets.
+
+Fear speeded her. She brought up panting at Doctor Rast’s and rang the
+night-bell. After what seemed a long time, the Doctor opened the door
+on a crack.
+
+“Yes?”
+
+“Come over to my mother--quick!”
+
+“I will!”
+
+The door shut.
+
+She sped back; she climbed the black steps; she burst into the room.
+Her mother was still a haggard sight, but breathed easily.
+
+“Mother! Tell me!” cried Edith.
+
+“I’m--I’m a little better! Thank you!”
+
+Edith sank on her knees, head in the covers.
+
+“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “Mother! Mother!”
+
+The Doctor found her still sobbing.
+
+Gently he lifted her, and helped her to a chair, and then bent above
+the patient.
+
+“Mrs. Kroll!”
+
+The mother opened her eyes, and then smiled wonderfully.
+
+“Ach, Doctor! Good Doctor!”
+
+“Yes, yes!--Pain?”
+
+She sighed:
+
+“It does not matter now!”
+
+He examined her, and then turned and looked at Edith. Poor wild-rose!
+Blackness shot his heart, and pity, and love. He touched Edith on the
+shoulder.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+She arose, sobbing.
+
+“Come,” he whispered tenderly, “come in the parlor.”
+
+She groped her way blindly, her hand feeling out. The dim light of
+the room followed them. Silence, the infinite silence of a sleeping
+city lay about them; deepened now by the strange hush of sickness. The
+Doctor stood over the girl, and waited.
+
+Then she murmured, on a strangling sob:
+
+“Yes--Doctor.”
+
+“Edith,” he spoke very gently, very slowly, “I am going to trust to
+you.”
+
+“Yes----”
+
+“I am going to ask courage and help. I need you to-night.”
+
+He waited.
+
+“Yes----” she cried.
+
+All his heart went out to her; she was so young for sorrow. He spoke in
+a voice pure with pity:
+
+“Edith, your mother is very, very sick.”
+
+“Oh, I know”--a wild sob escaped--“don’t you think I know?”
+
+She sobbed bitterly. And what could he do but help her to a chair and
+wish she were his own child that he might enfold her and comfort her?
+
+“Listen,” he said hurriedly, “I am going to send a nurse in the
+morning. We will take good care of the Mother, Edith--we will do all we
+can for her--we will make the pain little as possible. Edith, to-night
+you must nurse her--to-night you must go on being brave and strong. You
+were brave to come for me. Be brave still. Don’t cry, Edith.”
+
+Her sobbing slowed and died. She wiped her face, rubbed her eyes. She
+arose full of gentleness and thoughtfulness.
+
+“That’s over,” she said. “I’ll do anything, Doctor Rast.”
+
+He pressed her tear-wet hand with both of his.
+
+“Fight the good fight!” he said, and quickly he gave her directions.
+
+While they were talking, there was a noise at the kitchen door.
+
+“My brothers!” said Edith. “Quick--they must be quiet!”
+
+She hurried into the dark kitchen, followed by the Doctor. The
+sleeping-room light fell dimly, and in that light the brothers stood
+bewildered.
+
+“What’s the matter, Sis? Mutter?”
+
+“Ssh!” she said, “Mother’s very, very sick.”
+
+The brothers stood stupid and staring.
+
+Doctor Rast spoke quietly:
+
+“We will get a nurse for her in the morning, and Edith will take care
+of her to-night. One of you come for me if anything happens. And be
+very quiet. She must not be disturbed.”
+
+Sam spoke roughly:
+
+“I could stay with Mother, Sis. You get some sleep.”
+
+Strange were the words on his lips.
+
+Edith spoke gently:
+
+“No, Sam. You and Marc get your rest. You must work to-morrow, and I
+can sleep in the morning.”
+
+Marc tried his best, too.
+
+“If you want anything, Sis, why--call on me.”
+
+A great crisis faced the three and drew them closer together. The
+Doctor spoke a last word of courage and went. The brothers tiptoed to
+their room, and went to bed in silence. Edith sat by her mother.
+
+Long was the night. Time and again she glanced at her mother’s face,
+and though she had never had a God she created one this night, and
+prayed to Him for her mother’s life. No answer came through the still
+air. Earth beneath her rolled through the empty star-surrounded
+heavens, bearing its precious cargo of life. Out of the earth’s side
+new life emerged, old life vanished, an ebb and flow of the vital
+tides. In how many other rooms of the planet sprang the new cry of
+babes and the last cry of the dying. Swift indeed was the unfolding of
+this young girl, through first love, through deeper knowledge, and now
+through tragedy. Life deepened about her this night, fraught with a
+reality never before suspected.
+
+And as she gazed in the old face, its red and yellow engulfed eyes,
+its lines chiseled by the struggles and the joys and the dreams of
+years, it seemed to her as if she read there the book of her mother’s
+life. How clearly was love and pain written there! And this was her own
+mother!
+
+Then, like the cut of a knife in her heart, for the first time she
+realized a stupendous fact. She could hardly breathe for the wonder
+and terror of it. She--she herself had once lain curled under this
+woman’s heart. She was flesh of this flesh, bone of this bone, soul
+of this soul. And after she emerged in the world, a separate body,
+what if she were still in the mother--in her heart, in her soul? All
+these long years enfolded and engulfed in mother-love! How those worn
+hands had wrought for her, those lips spoken for her, that soul fought
+and labored and endured for her! Oh, so close she was to her mother!
+Closer, closer than flesh of flesh. Terrible and miraculous was the
+tie. Now she knew what “Mother” meant.
+
+And now if her mother should be swept away, sucked back by the earth,
+torn and sundered would be this miraculous tie. She, Edith, would be
+alone, alone in this world. What world? Even the Earth that was Mother
+of all life. Earth--Mother? Did earth enfold and engulf us with love,
+too? Were we flesh of her flesh, spirit of her spirit? Edith felt a
+new wonder fill her. She was indeed finding God this night. She looked
+about the room with a curious interest; she listened to the night with
+an inner ear, and it seemed as if in these walls, these streets, this
+air something lived, something real and powerful and wonderful. Peace
+stole in her, deep peace, and the great love, the love that swallows in
+its vastness the eddying dust of our little human loves, filled her.
+Her heart opened--opened out to the invisible--and she was transfigured
+with an ineffable glory....
+
+Slow went the hours, and though she arose to her mother’s call, and
+fetched and helped and nursed, she moved through tranquility; she
+stirred with power. It was the unfolding of the deepest within her.
+And how deep are we within! How deeper than thought can reach! Power
+beneath power, love beneath love.
+
+Morning came; timid gray light trembling; chirp of sparrows; rattle of
+milk-wagon; first stir of feet on the still pavement; light and more
+light; and all the world of people woke; talked, ate, went forth, and
+the great city thundered with labor and action.
+
+The brothers made their low-voiced inquiries; stood silent at the
+foot of the mother’s bed, and took her gentle good morning, and went
+out choking. The nurse came at eight, a quiet, neat young woman with
+glasses, who took charge with sweet cheer.
+
+“You run right along,” she hustled Edith out. “I don’t want any kids
+around. Curl up and go to sleep!”
+
+Edith smiled:
+
+“But Mother may need me, Miss Roth.”
+
+“Nonsense and fiddlesticks! I’ll teach you a thing or two! Go right to
+sleep, and don’t bother me!”
+
+Edith curled up on the parlor-sofa, and suddenly the nurse tucked her
+up in a blanket and kissed her.
+
+When she awoke it was afternoon; warm, shining, drowsy. Miss Roth was
+rocking to and fro. Edith sat up and stared at her.
+
+“Well, child,” cried the nurse, “am I as ugly as all that? The nerve of
+you!”
+
+“Oh!” cried Edith, “I didn’t know.”
+
+“Didn’t know!” echoed the nurse. “I like that! Well, take a good look.”
+
+Edith laughed softly, and arose.
+
+“But Mother----” she began.
+
+“Your mother’s all right! You just run along and take a bite! Quick!”
+
+“I’m not hungry----”
+
+“What! Are you crossing me? Don’t you say another word, but into the
+kitchen with you!”
+
+Miss Roth arose, eyes blazing through her glasses.
+
+“Out with you, quick! I’ll teach these children!”
+
+Edith laughed, and went out by the hall to the kitchen. She even tried
+to eat, though she wanted nothing. Then came a knock on the door, a
+knock that sped a wonderful gladness through her. She leaped up, flung
+the door wide.
+
+“Oh, Frank!” she cried out; “Frank--sweetheart!”
+
+She girdled him with her arms, clung to him, clung to him. At last! The
+man! The strength! He stood silent, struggling with shame and remorse.
+She drew back in wild surprise, and saw his white face.
+
+“Oh,” she cried, “you’ve heard!”
+
+“Heard?” he muttered, “heard what?”
+
+“About Mother!”
+
+His voice was queer:
+
+“Your mother?”
+
+“How sick she is!”
+
+“No,” he stammered, “she’s--sick?”
+
+“We have a nurse--she’s very, very sick----”
+
+His lips parted; he stared at her.
+
+“So sick?”
+
+He gave a groan:
+
+“Edith! Edith! Edith!”
+
+Then he clasped her to his heart, and they clung to one another.
+
+“Come,” she said sadly, for the moment grew sweet to her, “come and sit
+down and talk with me.”
+
+They sat together at the table.
+
+“It’s so good to have you here,” she said gravely. “I just need you,
+dear.”
+
+He patted her hand and glanced at the wild-rose face. It seemed to
+him that she had changed since he left. He felt younger than she. She
+seemed so wise and womanly.
+
+“It’s so strange,” she went on, “everything’s so strange. But I’ve made
+up my mind to be wise and brave, and not make a nuisance of myself.”
+
+Her voice deepened; her eyes filled.
+
+“I never knew I loved my mother so.”
+
+He glanced down; and then her voice came poignantly sad:
+
+“It’s never been very easy for her, Frank. And now----”
+
+There was a deep silence.
+
+“Oh,” she said, from her heart of hearts, “I’m so glad you’re here,
+dear.”
+
+He murmured that he, too, was glad. Again there was a deep silence.
+
+“Frank.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Can’t we talk a little? I feel things so deeply to-day. I want to know
+you better. I want to know my husband. We mustn’t hide anything from
+each other. We must be candid, dear.”
+
+She was speaking more like a mother than a wife. He was puzzled and
+disturbed and felt guilty.
+
+“Yes, Edith.”
+
+“May I say things?”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“Anything I want?”
+
+“Sure--anything.”
+
+“Then listen.”
+
+She spoke very intimately, very sweetly:
+
+“I’ve had a good talk with Mrs. Rast. She told me about marriage----”
+then the wild-rose hesitated and was confused; but she tried to go on,
+so she looked away and spoke in a low voice: “about how babies are
+born....”
+
+Frank was startled.
+
+“Yes....”
+
+“And other things,” Edith went on, still looking away, “about men ...
+about the double-standard....”
+
+His voice was very queer.
+
+“Double-standard?”
+
+“Yes ... men,” her cheeks burned, “going around before they are
+married....” There was a pause.... “She said most men did....”
+
+The golden-haired one arose before him, and his face flushed. He was
+shocked and angry.
+
+“And the dangers....” Edith went on.
+
+He withdrew his hands. Edith turned on him.
+
+“Oh, Frank,” she cried, “is it true? Is it true?”
+
+He arose from the table and spoke in a blaze of anger.
+
+“Never speak of this again! It ain’t a subject for you! What business
+has that woman...? I tell you women and men are different! Don’t you
+ever again speak of this.”
+
+She, too, arose, a frightful pain in her heart. She had offered him her
+dearest confidence; she had offered him her inmost soul: and he had
+roughly spurned the offer. She had sought bravely for a true marriage
+of mind and heart, and he had shrunk back. This was indeed a new Frank
+before her.
+
+She spoke in a low voice:
+
+“You had better go, Frank.”
+
+“Yes,” he cried, “I’d better go!”
+
+He seized up his hat, put it on, and went out. She watched the door
+close.
+
+Then she sat down in a stupor, her eyes staring, her face pale. A few
+moments before she would have forgiven him anything--no matter what his
+past was. But now--well, that was over with! He had come into her life,
+and gone out of it. It must be for the best. She felt frozen, stupid,
+inert. The blow had stopped her heart.
+
+And then the door opened and Miss Roth came in.
+
+“Your mother wants to speak to you.”
+
+“My mother? Oh, my mother! Miss Roth!”
+
+She arose, groping out with her hands, and Miss Roth drew her to her
+heart.
+
+Edith laughed strangely.
+
+“I almost forgot about my mother!”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+NIGHT
+
+
+“My Edy,” murmured the mother, stroking the girl’s hand.
+
+But Edith’s frozen heart could not feel. She had passed beyond all
+emotion, like one in a trance. She whispered:
+
+“Mother!”
+
+“I--I could want to talk to you,” the mother cried softly, “I got much
+to say ... but I can’t, Edy.”
+
+“I understand.”
+
+The mother’s voice came broken and raspy.
+
+“You was always my baby.... I remember the night you was born, Edy ...
+when your father, _selig_, saw it was a little girl, he cried, he was
+so happy. Two boys was enough....”
+
+“Yes, Mother.”
+
+“I’m so glad I got you now,” the mother went on, struggling for breath,
+“it makes it not so hard ... you always loved your mother, Edy....”
+
+“Always ... always....”
+
+“Ach, I know. No matter what troubles I got with Sam and Marc, there
+was never any trouble with you.... You always helped me, and made me
+laugh....”
+
+“I wish I had been a better girl.”
+
+“Maybe I could have been a better mother. God knows ... but I tried so
+good I can.... I worked and worked to make my children grow up good and
+happy.... And it make me proud all over, you get so beautiful, Edy....”
+
+“Yes, Mother....”
+
+“Oh, my Edy ...” she stroked the hand softly.
+
+There was a silence.
+
+“Is it a nice day?”
+
+“Beautiful, sunny, warm.”
+
+“Oh, my Edy!”
+
+Deep was the silence over mother and daughter. Then the mother went on
+with poignant sadness:
+
+“I’m glad to live to see you get a good man ... that’s all I wanted ...
+a good man for my Edy ... only I could have liked to see a little new
+baby, a little grandchild, what call me grandmother....”
+
+Edith could hardly speak.
+
+“Yes, Mother.”
+
+“Edy.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+The voice was seriously sweet and intimate:
+
+“When you get a baby, then you know what it is to be a mother ...
+then you will know what your mother was, and maybe love her more and
+more....”
+
+“I will.”
+
+There was a deep, sweet silence.
+
+“So ... my throat is shut like ... I could hardly breathe....”
+
+But she laughed softly.
+
+“Come here!”
+
+The daughter leaned over, and the old arms drew her closer and closer!
+
+“Oh, oh--Edy! Kiss me!”
+
+Their lips met.
+
+“My baby!”
+
+Edith slowly withdrew.
+
+“So ... tell the nurse ... quick.... Good-by....”
+
+“Good-by. Shall I go?”
+
+“Please, Edy ... tell the nurse....”
+
+Edith stole from the room.
+
+“Miss Roth! Go to her!”
+
+The nurse went in. Edith sat at the table in the kitchen, wide-eyed,
+tearless, inert. Her face was white as a sheet, her blue eyes big.
+Doctor Rast came in softly. Edith nodded.
+
+“How is she?”
+
+“Go in.”
+
+He gazed at her a moment, and then went with hot haste to the
+sick-room. Quiet hung over the little tenement. The moments throbbed
+and throbbed as they went their way. No one seemed to stir. Earth
+and air and all souls seemed suspended between death and life. Edith
+neither felt nor thought.
+
+And then, a soft step ... the Doctor.
+
+“Edith.”
+
+She rose.
+
+“Come in, Edith.”
+
+She followed him. The room was in twilight. The nurse was sobbing out
+in the dim parlor. The dark form of the mother lay on the bed.
+
+Edith stood at the bedside looking down at the quiet clay.
+
+Suddenly two boys groped their way in; they were muttering and babbling
+they knew not what. Edith turned and saw her brothers. Her heart broke
+... broke.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Sam!” she cried; “Marc!”
+
+She rushed to them; all three drew together; all three sobbed and
+sobbed, terrible wrenching sobs.
+
+And then another face appeared, a face contorted with agony.
+
+“Edith! Edith! Edith!”
+
+She flew to him; they flung their arms round each other; they sobbed
+from their broken hearts.
+
+“Oh, Frank, Frank!”
+
+“My darling!”
+
+The Doctor, with tears flowing, murmured:
+
+“Peace on this house. The Mother is dead.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+MORNING AGAIN
+
+
+Death has its by-products, and the greatest of these is love. The best
+of human nature comes from its deep source to the surface; families
+are reunited; people grow gentle. Someone has vanished from among
+us. Now we know her as she truly was; the faults are forgotten, the
+dusty details lost; we see her whole life now, a great human round; we
+see her soul, miraculous and great. No one will ever fill her niche.
+Something has gone from us. Something has gone out of our house and our
+lives.
+
+Now the mystery of life comes home to us. Here is the clay that once
+was woman. Whither has gone the woman? And to this end each one of us
+must come; through this strange change each one of us must pass. There
+will come a moment, real as this present moment, when each of us will
+meet the event. What next? Whither? Out of life we are born. Who shall
+say that we do not pass out into life? Who knows but what this mother
+is real as ever, the life enduring, the form changing? Who knows but
+what this air and this room are charged with her? Who knows but what,
+standing here at the coffin, we are steeped in her?
+
+Gentle were the brothers with Edith; full of love and understanding.
+Gentle was Frank, renewed and purified. Gentle and wholly forgiving was
+Edith. Why bother about dusty human problems? Beneath all faults there
+was the divine. These men and this woman looked on each other now as
+souls--all human, all the same. They forgot the ugly frailties. And so
+Edith and Frank met heart to heart, soul to soul, and were each glad
+that the other lived and was near. In the presence of death all life
+is holy; we understand that the criminal, too, was a human being, that
+somewhere in him he carried about all miracles.
+
+Mr. Grupp, the good man, spoke a few words at the head of the coffin
+the next evening. The brothers and Frank and Edith with bowed heads and
+open hearts stood about him. He spoke simply, and merely because the
+need was great, as he looked down on the still face:
+
+“She was a good woman. Thirty years I’ve known her. She worked hard;
+she was very kind to people. She suffered much. Not for herself she
+worked. For her children, for her husband. Now she is gone. We shall
+never see her any more. She goes again with her husband. She was the
+best friend I had. Always I could come here and she was glad to see me.
+Now she will never be here any more.” The tears trickled and he let
+them course without shame. “She never thought of herself, but always
+of her girl and her boys. The best mother was she I knew. But now she
+is gone; she is dead. Dust to dust!” And then he spoke fervently in
+Hebrew, “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of
+the Lord!”
+
+Friends and relatives called; Frank’s father and mother came, and the
+little thin woman took Edith to her heart. Zug slipped in, and wept in
+a corner. Edith went over to him:
+
+“Mr. Zug, soon Frank and I will marry. You will call on us then?”
+
+“God bless you!” said Zug, and went his way with handkerchief to eyes.
+
+Nell came, too, for a moment, and kissed Edith, and called her a brave
+girl.
+
+And so the two days passed over the darkened parlor, and the little
+group followed the body to the City of the Dead; ashes fell and
+flowers; the first spadeful of gravel, like hail on the heart; and the
+sweet Earth closed over the sweet Earth.
+
+Then came the first empty night, with its gnawing pain, its sense of
+loss, its hollowness and vacancy. Spite of cheerful talk at supper,
+spite of gentleness and good humor, the house was empty. The place at
+table, the void bedroom, the still parlor, all showed a gash of loss.
+It was a restless night of heartache. But with morning the world cried
+out to youth again. Work had to be done; people met; hunger awoke
+again; the blood took its old stride. The city roared on unconscious of
+a name lost on the roll-call. The brothers went forth to work; Frank
+sallied down Grand Street; and Edith was busy with housework. And so
+all of them were sweetly dustied up with life again; the work in hand
+loomed large; one after another the divine angels of their natures sank
+back into the depths; one after another the old imps flew up and broke
+loose; and human were they, very human again--just people. Yet possibly
+a streak of something new remained, a new mellowness not quite lost.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+ON THE BRIDGE
+
+
+Of a summer night, the wild-rose (we call her that more for what she
+was, than is) wandered through the crowded world with Frank. Both were
+in black, and made a sober and grave couple. Edith took his arm with
+a sweet trustfulness, and often looked at him, meeting his eyes with
+steadfast gaze. Wholly had she given herself to him, for she worried no
+more about theories or the last changes of girlhood, but stepped down
+to his level and followed him through his world. That world was a very
+human world, and as our young couple really were young, they found it
+absorbingly interesting.
+
+A silver moon was aloft again, flooding the streets and making pale
+glow of the street-lamps; again the children ran, filling the night
+with laughter; again the corner stand dispensed green and scarlet
+liquids; again the girls and boys stood in groups chatting, flirting,
+rippling with silver mirth. The old, old world! But where was the wild
+enchantment? Where were the Enchanted Gardens? Where was the golden air
+and the delirious yearning? Under this moon had sprung the electric
+bolt that flashed their lives into one. Under this moon had they been
+young god and goddess treading the mid-spaces, winging the mid-heavens.
+But spring had deepened into summer; nature was at her ripening; for
+these two April was gone forever.
+
+Yet how sweeter and simpler was July, rich with moist roots in the
+soil, green and earthy and real. It was very good to be human beings in
+this human world, one with its absorbing activities, its joys and pangs
+and desires. Each season has its own glory. How incomplete would the
+spring be if nothing ripened! How good is the summer with its promise
+of brown harvests!
+
+And so they wandered along, glad of each other, intimate, sweetly
+close. Just then they passed before an ice-cream saloon, brilliant with
+electric bulbs, the Summer Night’s Palace of the Poor. They paused a
+moment.
+
+“I’m awfully thirsty,” said Edith laughingly.
+
+“Come in, then. I’ll blow you!”
+
+“Do you think we ought?”
+
+“Ain’t we thirsty?”
+
+“Ain’t, Frank?” laughingly.
+
+“Shucks!” he cried; “ain’t’s all right!”
+
+So they went in and sat at the marble counter. Overhead whirled the
+electric fans, wafting gusts of hot air on feverish faces; flies
+buzzed; the counter was dripping; the dispensers spirted syrup, spooned
+ice-cream and sizzled in carbonated waters, and then set before the
+thirsty a sparkling, foamy drink. Edith, glancing in the long mirror
+before her, saw the reflection of thirsty, tired, drawn faces, girls
+and boys, men and women. They were drowning in oblivion their hard
+lives and the hot day. Dawn to darkness many of them had strained and
+fought against weight and time and machinery and human beings. They
+were fagged and feverish. A mother with a baby in her lap was feeding
+ice-cream to the eager little one, who kept crying:
+
+“More! more!”
+
+Edith laughed softly.
+
+“Do you see it?” she asked Frank.
+
+He looked and smiled.
+
+“Come,” she said suddenly, touching his hand, “I want to walk with you,
+far away! Away by ourselves! Away from everything!”
+
+They wandered down East Broadway to Brooklyn Bridge, and then along the
+foot-path, far out to the high center. There they stopped and leaned
+at the rail and peered out. Save for the occasional train and trolley
+snaking by with its glow of gold, here was silence. On the shores
+two mighty cities climbed twinkling to the horizons, hills of stars.
+Overhead, in the dim-studded heavens rolled the glory of the moon.
+Beneath hurried the river, heaving, swaying, with a silver-moonpath.
+Golden ferries shuttled across, in zones of golden water. Tugs went
+puffing steam, visible in moonlight, with lantern glistening gold or
+red. On ferry-slip the signal lamps were lustrous. It was a wonderfully
+beautiful night.
+
+The two drew very near, and gazed in silence.
+
+“Do you love me as much as you used to?” whispered Edith.
+
+“More,” he said.
+
+“It’s different, though,” she sighed. A woman regrets the slipping by
+of the enchantment.
+
+“It’s better,” said Frank.
+
+“Frank!”
+
+“Yes, sweetheart!”
+
+“Do you know,” she put an arm about him, “you are all I have in this
+world now?”
+
+“All?”
+
+“Yes. I depend so much on you now,” she sighed.
+
+“I want you to,” said he.
+
+“Oh,” she cried, “it’s strange to be a woman. I don’t like it.” Then
+she laughed shyly. “Do you know, if it weren’t for you, Frank, I’d
+want to be a man!”
+
+He snorted laughter.
+
+“Why, that’s clever!” he cried. “Good for you, Edith!”
+
+“Do you think I am clever--sometimes?”
+
+“Do I!” he whistled.
+
+She was delighted.
+
+“Wait till we’re married. Mrs. Lasser will surprise the Mister!” she
+cried. “Such things I’ll cook and sew and fix! And all for you!”
+
+“Edith.”
+
+“Yes, dear.”
+
+“There are some things I want to tell you.”
+
+“Tell me. I’m right here.”
+
+He spoke slowly:
+
+“I’ve saved up over a hundred dollars, and my father is going to give
+me another hundred.”
+
+“Yes,” she spoke breathlessly.
+
+“You know,” he said slowly, “we can buy furniture on instalment.”
+
+“Yes, Frank.”
+
+“I’ve thought we could even get a phonograph, too. You love music,
+don’t you?”
+
+“Yes,” she could scarcely speak, “I do.”
+
+He paused; then, very slowly:
+
+“Don’t you think we could look around for three little rooms and
+furnish them?”
+
+Tears were trickling. She thought it sweet of him to be so thoughtful;
+and then, the sudden reality of their own home was too much for a heart
+greatly tried these last few weeks. She turned to him.
+
+“Oh, Frank, our own home ... our marriage....”
+
+“Wait, Edith,” he said, and took her two hands and looked in her face.
+“There’s been something I’ve wanted to say ... wanted to say since our
+talk that afternoon ... before your mother died ... you remember?”
+
+Did she remember? What else so vividly?
+
+“Yes,” she said breathlessly.
+
+“Edith,” he spoke in a new manly way, “I’m going to be your husband.
+You must trust me. You must believe in me.”
+
+“I do ... I do,” she whispered.
+
+“That woman,” he went on, “probably meant well, but women don’t know
+anything about all this. They get a notion in their head and then
+simply make mischief. She’s just made you unhappy. Now I want you to do
+one thing, Edith.”
+
+“Yes....”
+
+“I want you to drop this--never speak of it again. For I’m to be your
+husband, and you must trust to me.”
+
+There was a deep silence; soft came the sea-smell from the
+moon-stirring waters.
+
+“Will you, Edith?”
+
+“Frank,” she whispered, “I will! For I know I should love you in spite
+of anything.”
+
+At that moment, curiously, she stood so strongly by Frank, that she
+turned against Nell with a sense of resentment, and resolved to bother
+no more with fine words.
+
+“Edith!” he cried; “Edith!”
+
+“Frank!”
+
+They clung together, closer, and with tender passion. Their lips met.
+He crushed her in his arms. And then, like flame leaping, their bodies
+cried for each other.
+
+“Good God!” he cried. “We must get married, Edith!”
+
+“Yes,” she spoke with a sharp intake of breath, “we must get married!”
+
+They released each other; they did not dare stay in that place. But
+back they hurried to the crowded world. New life had broken loose
+within them; the mighty Power that creates had bent them to its will;
+fire was in the heart, the brain, the blood. Their time was near at
+hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+THE THREE ROOMS
+
+
+What is more delightful than home-hunting? And more exhausting? You
+start in early in the morning full of adventurous daring; you wind up
+at twilight, dazed and drooping. Twenty flats tangle your brain. Every
+time Edith saw a to-let sign she ran Frank up any number of flights of
+stairs. But nothing pleased both. These rooms were too dark; those too
+costly; these other in a bad neighborhood. Finally Edith suggested that
+they follow the migration northward and settle in the Bronx.
+
+Then came long car-rides and dashes into unexplored territory. Here was
+light and air and quiet, but not the rich highly-colored life of the
+Ghetto, not the flow of humanity, the brilliance of packed streets.
+Rather rawness, newness, and a brightly-polished squalor. Edith was for
+light and air, thinking of little children. The East Side was no place
+for babies, for they died there one out of three. Frank was for the
+rich life, the excitement, and the familiar haunts.
+
+Nevertheless, one Sunday morning, when they stood in a bright sunny
+parlor on the fourth floor, up in the 180’s--with just a hint of nearby
+park through the window--they both felt in a flash that this was theirs.
+
+The janitor stood rubbing his hands, and surveying grimly the handsome
+pair.
+
+“Well, lady and gentleman, you couldn’t do better for the money in
+New York. Look at that steamheat radiator. It’s no fake. And them
+chandeliers--cost ten plunks apiece. And this here bath-room--open
+plumbing. Take my tip and grab it. There was a party in only an hour
+ago, highly pleased--coming back in an hour, and take it sure as fate.
+You take my tip and don’t let it go!”
+
+Edith flushed with excitement.
+
+“Someone else wants it?”
+
+“Ah, say,” laughed Frank, “that’s an old gag.”
+
+The janitor was very indignant.
+
+“Don’t believe it, eh? All right. But don’t you grumble if it’s
+snatched under your nose.”
+
+Edith’s eyes sparkled. She whispered to Frank.
+
+“What do you think of it?”
+
+“What do you?”
+
+“What? Frank, it’s just what I want!”
+
+“Sure?”
+
+“Just look at it--and look out that window. And with a park near! Oh,
+it’s beautiful!”
+
+“All right,” cried Frank, “I’m game. Here goes.”
+
+“What are you going to do?” cried Edith.
+
+“Take it!”
+
+“Really?” Her eyes grew wide.
+
+“Yes, really!”
+
+“You’re sure?”
+
+Frank turned to the janitor.
+
+“We’ll take it!”
+
+“That’s speaking English, young man! Now, looky here--rent’s twelve
+per. That means a deposit down.”
+
+“How much?”
+
+“Three dollars.”
+
+Frank drew out three dollars, and the janitor gave him a receipt. The
+young couple were red with excitement.
+
+“Now it’s ours!” cried Edith.
+
+“Yes, sweetheart, our home!”
+
+“Home!”
+
+And surely it was a glorious moment. They surveyed every nook and
+corner; they measured the floors; they planned the furniture. They
+gazed on the little place with loving pride.
+
+A week followed crowded with quick events. There were kitchen utensils,
+linens, odds and ends, and the furniture to get. Edith’s brain grew
+acute. A hundred dormant housewife powers sprang into life. Frank was
+delighted with the little woman. And finally one morning they stood in
+it, and it shone round them stocked with goods.
+
+Sunlight streamed in on them. They had found their cranny in the stormy
+world, their little cave. Here would they live together, and who knew
+what sweet life would laugh in their sunny home? The sacredness of
+Home, the glory of that habitation which is the refuge and nursery of
+the race, lifted them again to the miraculous heights.
+
+“Oh,” cried Edith, her eyes sparkling with tears, “this is lovelier
+than I dreamed!”
+
+“It’s ours, sweetheart,” said Frank, “and it would be beautiful no
+matter what it was!”
+
+And so their little home stood ready! They fixed their marriage-day
+for two weeks later. Perhaps some of the wild enchantment came back
+to them, perhaps out of their fresh memories sprang the old golden
+air, for their pulses chimed with ecstasy, their blood sang hymns in
+the white morning and in the starry night. The gates of life stood
+within reach of hands; two weeks, and they would fling open on the rich
+landscape of married life. Toward this, they knew now, the last few
+months had been speeding them. Closer and closer had the souls grown,
+and now rapidly they were being woven into one another, to go braiding
+down the happy years. The wild-rose wore a touch of color in her black;
+youth blew its buds again in her cheeks; her eyes shed the fair light
+of girlish days; she was all radiance, grace again. Frank seemed more
+manly, stronger, nobler. He was very considerate, very thoughtful.
+He made many good resolves. He knew of old that before a man marries
+he should be examined by a physician, and, though he was practically
+well, with but the traces of an old trouble, he made up his mind to
+see Doctor Rast. That would please Edith, if later she came to know of
+it. Finally he told Edith she was tired and needed a rest, and as he
+could not get off for a honeymoon, she must spend a week away before
+the marriage. Edith laughed at him, but he persisted, so anxiously, so
+ardently, that more to please him (she would do anything to please him)
+she packed up and ran off to the mountains.
+
+In the train, with people passing them up and down the aisle, they
+embraced passionately.
+
+“I don’t want to go!” cried Edith; “I was so happy!”
+
+“Hush!” he said. “Then how much more happy we will be to have each
+other!”
+
+“You’ll still love me? Surely?”
+
+“Love you!”
+
+“And you’ll miss me?”
+
+“Every moment!”
+
+“And write every day?”
+
+“Every day!”
+
+He felt her arms about him tight, tight--he felt the pressure of her
+lips--he felt her hair caressing his forehead--all her presence went
+swimming through him. He could not let her go. And then came the cry of
+“All aboard!”
+
+“Good-by!”
+
+“Good-by, good-by! Oh, sweetheart!”
+
+“Good-by!”
+
+He ran down the moving car and turned and waved his hand; she waved her
+handkerchief. And then he was gone and she was gone.
+
+One week! one week, sweet Edith! Go your way, wild-rose! Soon the last
+touch of girlishness will vanish, and the great years begin.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+WILD OATS
+
+
+Ominous thunder-clouds rolled over the city. Supper was over and the
+late light was vanishing yellow in all directions. It had been the
+sultriest day of the summer. In the gasping humid air death fell
+broadcast over the city--touching the puny tenement babies, slaying the
+horses in the baking gutter, everywhere striking the weak. Seventeen
+cases of sunstroke were listed in the evening papers. Four million
+people were held as by hands in a moist oven, and were tortured alive.
+All the city cried out for relief--everywhere the prayer went up for
+rain.
+
+And now as Doctor Rast sat at the window in his shirtsleeves and as
+Nell listlessly tried to sew, the flying yellow light was in the
+street, people struggled dimly through it, and there were muffled
+mutterings of thunder in the distance.
+
+“Are you getting any air there?” asked the Doctor.
+
+“Oh, I’m all right!” She put down her sewing. “But don’t you think we
+ought to bring Davy in here? It’s too hot in the bedroom.”
+
+“Cooler there than here,” muttered the Doctor. “Is he asleep?”
+
+“Yes.” Nell smiled as mentally she saw him. “Fast asleep, poor boy. The
+day half-killed him!”
+
+The Doctor sighed.
+
+“Nell, think of all the miserable wretches in the city to-night. The
+poor, the poor! The bad milk, the stenchant smothering tenements, the
+dead babies! Think of all the misery, all the misery and pain of this
+strange world. Why is it? Why is it?”
+
+Nell said nothing, but thought of green hills and cool-waved ocean, and
+her little son caught in the stone city. Sharply then, making the room
+vivid, came a flash of lightning followed by a crash as of the house
+collapsing. Nell leaped up.
+
+“Davy’ll wake! He’ll be terribly frightened!”
+
+She hurried out into the shadows of the inner rooms.
+
+The Doctor sat back, full of a bitter mood. It seemed as if Nature
+were ready to utterly crush her children to-night. All day she had
+drained them of strength and heart; now she was venomous and wrathful,
+and loosened down upon them. A shape passed in the street the Doctor
+thought he knew and a moment later there was a knock on the door.
+The Doctor had not the heart to put on his coat. He arose anxiously,
+stepped to the door and flung it open. Frank stood before him.
+
+“Who is it? Frank Lasser?”
+
+“Yes, Doctor.”
+
+“Come in--there’s nothing the matter?”
+
+“Oh, nothing--nothing much!”
+
+He followed the Doctor in. Neither cared much for the other; it was a
+bad evening; and Frank, besides, was lonely. For the wild-rose was on
+the mountain pastures--infinities away.
+
+The Doctor moodily pushed an armchair next the desk, and Frank sank
+into it. Then the Doctor lit the light low, and sat down.
+
+“How’s Edith?”
+
+“Edith?” Frank spoke with a touch of feeling. “She’s away, Doctor--off
+in the mountains for a week. I’m glad of it--this weather.”
+
+“Yes,” the Doctor muttered, “it’s a bad day for people.”
+
+Frank cleared his throat. He found difficulty in beginning. He spoke in
+a low voice:
+
+“Doctor.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I thought I’d drop in----”
+
+“That’s all right.”
+
+“About myself.”
+
+“Yourself? Under the weather?”
+
+“Well,” Frank laughed strangely, “not exactly. You see we’re to be
+married in a little over a week.”
+
+The Doctor leaned near, and spoke tenderly:
+
+“I’m glad to hear it--I’m really glad to hear it. It’ll make _her_
+happy. I’m mightily glad, Lasser.”
+
+There was a pause; Frank gathered his courage.
+
+“Doctor.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I’ve been told a man ought to be looked over before he’s married.”
+
+“Right!”
+
+“Well----” he paused, “I know it ain’t your office hours--but could you
+now?”
+
+“Of course! of course!”
+
+He arose and deliberately locked the door, closed the shutters, and
+turned the light higher.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A little while later, Frank, leaning forward in his chair, watched the
+Doctor peering with wrinkled face into the microscope. There was a
+flash of lightning bursting even through the shutters and a dreadful
+booming of thunder. The Doctor felt the lightning in his heart. He
+thought of the wild-rose; he thought of this young man before him. For
+some time he could not speak. It seemed too awful.
+
+Then Frank burst out:
+
+“Well, Doc.”
+
+The Doctor looked up and spoke under his breath:
+
+“You’ve had your fun, Lasser, haven’t you?”
+
+“Yes,” Frank tried to speak lightly, “I’ve sown my wild oats. I’ve gone
+around with the boys a bit.”
+
+The Doctor leaned close.
+
+“When did you first get this?”
+
+“Oh, about four years ago--a woman out West.”
+
+“Who treated you?”
+
+“Some old chap--read his ad in the paper. Claimed I was cured for life.”
+
+The Doctor’s voice cut sharp and awful, a knife of keen pain.
+
+“Lasser, he never cured you.”
+
+Frank could not believe his ears; he felt a great hand smiting him down.
+
+“Never cured me?” he echoed; then anger swept him. “That’s rot.”
+
+The Doctor leaned closer and spoke slowly, tapping the table:
+
+“You are going to take my word in this. This thing has run on and
+on--it’s become chronic. You were never cured.”
+
+There was a silence; now the wild rain was rattling on pave and window.
+
+“Lasser,” said the Doctor, “you will have to be treated again!”
+
+Frank clutched the arms of his chair; his heart seemed to stop short;
+his face was white.
+
+“You mean,” his voice was hollow and strange, “I’ve got to be doped
+five or six weeks again?”
+
+“I’m afraid it will be more than that.”
+
+“More than that?”
+
+“It may take months----”
+
+“Take months?”
+
+“Lasser, I’ll tell you--you’ve got to know the whole truth. I can’t set
+any time limit. It might run on a year.”
+
+Frank gave a loud cry:
+
+“A year?”
+
+He half rose in his chair:
+
+“My God--this horrible thing--this shame--But it’s nonsense!”
+
+The Doctor gently pushed him down:
+
+“You look this thing in the face, Lasser!”
+
+Frank sat back, trembling. Oh, the sweet wild-rose! the dreams! the
+gates of happiness! The Doctor, too, thought of Edith. His eyes grew
+dim; he leaned near; he could barely speak the cruel truth, the killing
+truth.
+
+“You know what it means?”
+
+“What?” groaned Frank.
+
+“It means,” the Doctor spoke as if one word at a time, “that until you
+are absolutely cured--you cannot marry.”
+
+Frank sat forward, face contorted, lips twisted.
+
+“You tell me why.”
+
+In the rattle of rain, the white of lightning and the crash of thunder,
+he heard the doom of the wild-rose. Her last kiss was still on his
+lips; her arms about his neck.
+
+“I’ll tell you,” said the Doctor, speaking as a father who had to hurt
+his son, “because of Edith--Yes, even if you seem perfectly well--all
+her life she may be an invalid--a broken woman--or even worse. And then
+the children--your children, Edith’s children--possibly she may not
+be able to have any, or if she has,” he paused, his voice was tragic,
+“they may become blind. That,” he cried, “is what comes of sowing wild
+oats. The harvest is ruined innocents, ruined women and children.”
+
+Frank could not breathe or think; his brain seemed stunned. The world
+was wild now, and lunatic.
+
+“You mean to say----” he broke off and was silent.
+
+A fearful roll of thunder shook the room. Frank gave a loud cry again;
+he had to defend the deathless Past.
+
+“Why--why--I only did what they all do----”
+
+“_Not all!_” put in the Doctor.
+
+“Then they do something as bad.”
+
+“_Not all of them!_”
+
+“Then they’re not human.”
+
+“Perhaps.”
+
+There was a pause, and the Doctor spoke in a far-away voice:
+
+“The young men--they think they have to--they think it’s a physical
+necessity. It’s not--the double-standard is a lie, a lie!”
+
+The young man was caught in a trap; and so, a wild anger came to his
+rescue. He struck the desk with his fist:
+
+“Why, it’s crazy--it’s rot--a little thing like that--why, I’m all
+right--I’m practically well--I know lots of men who get married----”
+
+He stopped, face fearfully haggard, his body wet with sweat.
+
+There was a stifling silence, through which rain poured, lightning
+flashed, thunder rolled. The city was in the clutch of a mighty storm.
+And then the Doctor, looking on this broken young man, and thinking
+again of the wild-rose, felt his heart twisted with pain and pity. He
+smiled sadly, leaned, and quietly took Frank’s hand in both of his.
+
+“Frank.”
+
+“Yes, Doctor.”
+
+“For Edith’s sake”--his voice broke--“you are going to face this
+terrible thing.”
+
+Frank said nothing.
+
+“For I know that you do not want to be as other men--go on sowing wild
+oats--and ruin that sweet girl. Would you do that to her you love--love
+so deeply?”
+
+Frank looked away.
+
+“Think of her--so wildly sweet, so pure, so fresh. She ought to be
+happy, have her own home, her little children, and the good health
+that fills the day with joy.”
+
+The Doctor told Frank nothing new; with his own eyes he saw the
+wild-rose; in his own heart he held her, held her and her very life.
+Edith! And then the Doctor went on quietly:
+
+“And if you and Edith had a little child--your own child--a little
+living human being--your own baby--shall it go through life blind? Did
+you ever see little blind children--so utterly pathetic, so lost in
+darkness, groping and reaching and trying to play? The world is full of
+such children. Shall your child be that way? Shall it?... Frank?”
+
+Frank’s head sank. The Doctor went on tenderly:
+
+“I’m telling you the whole truth--candidly, brutally--because there is
+enough suffering and sorrow in this world, because enough women are
+going through this moment in pain, because of _her_, Frank. Do you want
+to make the world darker and unhappier? Is that the way you love Edith?”
+
+Frank’s head sank on his arm on the desk. There came from him a low,
+tearing cry:
+
+“Doctor.”
+
+The Doctor was silent a moment.
+
+“Yes, Frank.”
+
+“Doctor--_Doctor_!”
+
+“Yes--Frank.”
+
+“I can’t stand it--I can’t stand it!”
+
+There was a silence again. Then suddenly the last few months swept like
+a vision through Frank’s heart. He raised his flushed face and clenched
+his fist.
+
+“She’s been making a decent fellow of me--I was rotten before,
+rotten--she’s making something of me--I’m all changed--and she--if you
+knew how she loves me. Oh, I never knew any one could love like that!
+God, and she’s so happy, you never saw a girl like it”--he suddenly
+gave a cry--“our three little rooms, our home--_Doctor_!”
+
+The Doctor leaned forward and spoke in a queer voice:
+
+“Your three little rooms? Have you taken a flat?”
+
+Frank put his hands to his face:
+
+“It’s all ready! Everything’s ready!”
+
+“You poor children,” murmured the Doctor.
+
+Then Frank lifted his face, and cried hoarsely:
+
+“Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? I can’t back out now! I can’t
+hold this up! Everybody knows it--we’ve told all. What excuse could
+I give? What reason? What can I tell Edith? Good God, do you think I
+could tell her this? She’s a sweet, pure girl----”
+
+“I think,” said the Doctor slowly, “she would understand. Women
+understand where babies are involved.”
+
+Frank blazed with anger:
+
+“Don’t you speak of telling _her_! I won’t stand for it!” And then his
+voice went wild again: “Just ask her to wait? to wait and wait? It
+will break her heart. And all for what? Because I’m human, because I’m
+human! Oh!”
+
+His head sank down. The Doctor put an arm about him and drew him close.
+
+“Frank”--his voice was pure with its tenderness, its compassion--“I
+know. Life is a real danger, strong as dynamite, sharp as a
+knife-blade--if we play with it, and that’s what sin is, we are apt to
+be blown to pieces or slashed and stabbed. The world isn’t a stage and
+all the men and women merely players--real blood flows, real torture
+tears the heart, real hearts break, real death annihilates us. And only
+a real man can grapple with this real life. Are you a real man, Frank?”
+
+There was a silence again. And then Frank broke away from the Doctor
+and rose and clenched his fist. His eyes had a dash of wildness in
+them, his face trembled with passion.
+
+“You want to break Edith’s heart--why, just when she is so happy and
+I so changed--to have a thing like this happen. I’ll not bear it. I
+don’t believe it. I’m well--don’t I feel all right? There’s nothing
+the matter with me! I bet some other doctor---- It’s a matter of luck,
+anyway, and I’ve been lucky, I’m always lucky. Why, no one could get
+married if this were so. It’s tommy rot, it’s womanish. A man must go
+ahead, he must risk something----”
+
+“Yes,” the Doctor broke in quietly. “Himself. But are you going to risk
+Edith, and Edith’s children?”
+
+Frank came close to him and all the frenzy of his passion poured with
+his voice:
+
+“But I’m crazy for her--I must have her!”
+
+The Doctor suddenly arose, a pain of hot anger in his heart. He seized
+Frank by the arm and looked in his face:
+
+“You dare to speak like that, Frank? I tell you you’re an irresponsible
+boy yet--you’ve been playing, you’re a pleasure-seeker; you don’t know
+what life means. You don’t know anything about pain and sorrow. You
+haven’t suffered enough yet. You don’t understand women--women who bear
+the burden of this world, the commonest in the street suffering pangs a
+man can’t dream of, who make men of us, and men of little children, who
+give themselves to us soul and body. And you would take a pure woman
+and basely defile her, spoil her body, and darken her days and nights!
+Frank, I tell you you’re a boy yet! Crazy for her! You must have her!
+You shall not have her, not yet! It would be better if you went down to
+the river to-night and threw yourself in!”
+
+Frank stared at him, his face pale.
+
+“How will you stop me?” he asked hoarsely.
+
+“How stop you?” the Doctor spoke sharply. “I’ll have Nell speak to
+Edith.”
+
+“Speak--to--Edith?”
+
+“Yes, Frank, she shall!”
+
+Frank’s voice rose.
+
+“I’m your patient--you’re sworn as a doctor not to tell your patient’s
+secret--you’re sworn to it. I know what I know!”
+
+The Doctor looked at him strangely.
+
+“Frank,” he murmured slowly, “there are times for breaking even oaths.”
+
+He dropped Frank’s arm and paced up and down the room. Wild was the
+storm, shaking the room, dashing the panes with rain. Frank sank into
+the chair, crumpled up in it. His face was fearfully white and looked
+frightened. He kept wetting his lips together.
+
+The Doctor took his seat again; his face was full of trouble; he gave
+Frank a searching glance; he spoke very low.
+
+“Frank.”
+
+“What you want?”
+
+“Frank,” he seized the young man’s hand again, “you’re in trouble, in
+deep waters. Let’s be sensible. Let’s see this thing with both eyes.
+You say that this love for Edith--this deep, great love for a sweet,
+true girl--has been making a man of you, a woman of her. Then it hasn’t
+been wasted; it’s worth while even to love--and lose. But you won’t
+lose. Go away. Leave her; go traveling again. Go for a long while.
+And this great love will go on working in your lives--you will be all
+the better for it, all the nobler and happier, knowing that you have
+sacrificed, sacrificed for her. And then, Frank, when the time comes,
+you can offer her a true and a good man and be as happy as you dream.
+You know Edith will wait for you--gladly, gladly!”
+
+But Frank cried out sharply:
+
+“It can’t be done! It’s too late! What if you were engaged--if you were
+just at the gates of your happiness--if you had waited and waited for
+this--if you loved as Edith and I love--if everyone knew--if your home
+was all ready--could you break it off? Could you wait? Talk’s cheap.
+But, think, it’s the happiest time of our life--such a time will never
+come for Edith again. Oh,” he moaned, “it will break her heart.”
+
+“Yes,” the Doctor went on softly, “but if you marry her now, Frank,
+and troubles come thick and fast upon you, and the first bloom of
+love fades off, and everything becomes commonplace, and your wife is
+complaining and sickly, and there is a sick or a blind child, will you
+be so crazy for her then? Will she be so happy then? You don’t know
+what marriage means, how much it demands from a man and a woman, what
+sacrifices, what service, what unselfishness. And then when you realize
+that the fault is yours, and that it is too late to mend it--that you
+have only made the world darker for your living in it, and visited your
+sins on your children and on your wife, then you will wonder, Frank,
+why you ever dreamed of marrying. Don’t talk to me of too late and
+everyone knowing it and the shame. It’s not too late to save Edith and
+Edith’s children. That’s the only thing to think of. Come, you’ll give
+Edith up now; you’ll go away.”
+
+Frank arose; his face struggled; he gulped as if he were strangling,
+and the Doctor standing, thinking again of the wild-rose, gripped the
+boy’s arms:
+
+“Frank--Frank--tell me!”
+
+“I can’t stand it,” said Frank. “I love her so.”
+
+The Doctor leaned close to the boy.
+
+“Love her more then--love her enough to save her--save her from you!”
+
+Frank said nothing.
+
+“Will you? Yes or no?”
+
+And then Frank cried:
+
+“Give me time to think. This has all come so of a sudden.” Then
+suddenly he burst out: “It’s too late--it’s impossible--I’m well”--and
+then he smiled haggardly and added--“give me time, Doctor.”
+
+The Doctor smiled sadly:
+
+“Take your own time, Frank. Go! Now you’re all right!”
+
+Frank steadied himself, he was reeling like a drunkard. The Doctor, at
+the door, leaned low:
+
+“I only want you children happy. Edith is one of the loveliest I know.”
+
+Frank nodded his head, gulped, the Doctor patted him on the back, and
+then shut him out in the storm. He dashed into lightning.
+
+Then the Doctor unlocked the other door and went back to his desk and
+sat chin on palm. His mind seemed to deepen down into the very springs
+and subterranean currents of life, all the mysteries of existence
+closed over him like storm and heat. He felt himself mixed in with a
+world of much agony and strife, and all was so real that it sent a pain
+into the recesses of his heart. And then he thought of the wild-rose,
+and all the wild-roses of this world, so early blighted, the sweet
+possibilities unfulfilled. Truly the tragedy of this Earth is the
+wasted possibilities!
+
+Nell opened the door and came in carrying Davy in her arms. The little
+fellow, in his nightdrawers, was staring curiously and was wide awake.
+He pointed to his father.
+
+“Thunder, daddy!” he cried.
+
+The Doctor looked up with blinded eyes.
+
+“Why, Morris,” Nell exclaimed, “you look like the end of the world!”
+
+“Nell,” he muttered, “the misery and pain of this world! I’m sorry for
+poor people, and I’m sorry for sick little children, and I’m sorry,
+sorriest for the women. It seems as if they always had the raw end of
+the deal!”
+
+The storm drowned his voice.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+THE WHIRLWIND
+
+
+Frank plunged wildly into the night, and rushed he knew not where.
+Without umbrella or coat, with straw hat jammed down over his forehead,
+with jacket flapping in the wind and head bent low, and fists clenched,
+he flew through the empty streets like a Fury, alone with the storm.
+For miles he flew, callous to the rain that soaked and drenched him,
+that splashed his face and closed his eyes. The whole city huddled
+under the loosened elements, but this human being laughed at the might
+of the heavens. What if the lightning struck him down? He himself was
+death flying through the city.
+
+Death! Death of all things! Death of all that made life. What is life
+without the things dearest to us? What is life without love or hope
+or joy or vision? Mockery of the Fates! They drive a free man into
+sweet bondage, and then rob him of the sweet. The bondage remains;
+the prisoner writhes and struggles in the coils; he cannot escape; he
+is alone; he cries out; he lifts his hands; the heavens? They send
+lightning and storm upon him, beat him down, ruin him.
+
+When the mad passion of sex-love seizes a man, has he not for the time
+a sweet insanity? He cannot see things sensibly; he cannot reason.
+_This night_ he must have the woman! To wait a day even is torture
+unendurable. The moments separate; each one is a trial and a durance.
+Wait for Edith? Wait months? Wait years? As well never marry, as well
+die at once.
+
+What a world! At first a playground; then a pleasure palace; then
+an Enchanted Garden--but now? Even as the lightning revealed vivid
+stretches of avenue, so the world stood naked this night. A mad hell of
+struggling souls, whipped by the whirlwind, stung and lashed by a rain
+of fire, split through the heart by the lightnings of pain and hate
+and failure, drowned in the mocking thunder! Could there be a god in
+such a mad-house? No--save a mad God, a merciless God, a divine cynic
+playing with puppets.
+
+What had he done that he merited this? Had he not gone the way of the
+world? Had he not followed the teachings of the street? Had he not been
+ignorant? To punish ignorance is to punish innocence. How can we help
+what we don’t know? No one had ever taught him, no one warned him. Why,
+they had patted him on the back and told him to go out and be a man.
+They had told him that until he had made the rounds he had not reached
+manhood. And so he had gone.
+
+Women of old arose and danced through the night at his side. The
+golden-haired one was there, laughing like a waterfall, loosing her
+harsh, sweet music. These had taught him life, these had taught him
+_Woman_.
+
+Why, it was wildly absurd. The Doctor was wrong. Men like the Doctor
+are fanatics. They go too far. And they are ignorant. What do they
+know of the world?
+
+Was he sick? Did he carry a peril in his body? Was he a danger? Mad!
+mad! who could believe such a thing! Wouldn’t he feel pain if there was
+a real trouble? Wouldn’t he be weak and crippled? He knew. He had been
+through it long ago. He was all right. He was well and strong.
+
+Who can go against Nature? It was Nature all these years that had
+driven him into vice. Who can go against her? And what is natural
+is right. Now Nature was driving him into marriage; Nature with her
+fatal hands was drawing a man and woman together; they had to serve
+her purposes; they could not resist; they could not push off a finger;
+slowly, surely, inevitably closer and closer they came. Now they were
+at the very verge of marriage. What could stop them? Who could go
+against Nature? And what is natural is right.
+
+Came a vivid vision of the three little rooms, the new furniture, the
+sunlight streaming on Edith’s head. Oh, the overrunning happiness! Oh,
+the cup trembling at the very lips! The gates, the golden gates of
+happiness within reach of the hand!
+
+Edith had said:
+
+“I didn’t dream it would be so lovely.”
+
+He had answered:
+
+“It’s ours--it would be beautiful no matter what it was!”
+
+He felt the pressure of her lips, the passionate hug of her arms in the
+train. Again those last wild words--the good-by.
+
+She had cried in his ear:
+
+“I don’t want to go away! I was so happy!”
+
+“Hush!” he had said; “think of how much happier we will be to have each
+other!”
+
+“You’ll still love me? Surely?”
+
+“Love you!”
+
+“And you’ll miss me?”
+
+“Every moment!”
+
+“And write every day?”
+
+“Every day!”
+
+Oh, the wild-rose, the sweet face, the trust in him. She was coming
+back in a week; they were to be married; they were to go into the
+little home; _their_ home. Every evening he would come home to her;
+they would sit opposite at table; their lives would be woven and woven
+into one another, and go trailing beautifully down the years. Who could
+stop them? Who could withhold the glory promised? Who would hold the
+wild cup to their lips and then dash it to the ground as they reached
+trembling to taste of it?
+
+But now? Hideous was the world! Hidden in it were poisons and
+death-dealing drugs. Terrors lurked behind the beautiful face of
+Nature. Under the skin lay earthquake and volcano. Hideous!
+
+He was caught in a trap. He had ignorantly sown the wind, and now the
+whirlwind was sweeping him to ruin. But not only him. The wild-rose!
+The wild-rose torn from the sunny soil and blown away into the dark,
+deathly gorge.
+
+“This will kill her,” he cried. “This will kill her!”
+
+He had no excuse to offer her. Tell her the truth? Never! She would
+shrink from him, as from a thing tainted. She would shudder in his
+presence, a girl so pure and sweet and innocent. She would learn to
+hate him. That would end all.
+
+He racked his brain. What could he tell her? Had he lost his position?
+He could get another. Was he sick? That was absurd; she knew he was
+well. Could he withhold the reason, and tell her to trust to him? She
+would demand the truth; she would think he had ceased to love her. What
+reason was there after taking the little home and furnishing it?
+
+“Go to her,” cried his heart; “go to her, and trust to your instincts
+to explain!”
+
+Wild advice! He knew that if he saw her face, that if he touched her
+lips with his, that if once her arms were about him, all was lost. He
+had not the strength to look on her and depart.
+
+The Doctor’s words flew back to his mind. He tried to shut them out.
+They persisted in coming. They stormed upon him, they cried out, they
+were heard--heard loudly. Edith an invalid--Edith a broken woman--and
+the baby!
+
+Could it be blind--their baby? Horrible! That surely would break
+Edith’s heart! Come! he must be a man! He must swallow the bitter
+medicine! How dared he think of passion?
+
+So then--it was all over! He would tell Edith--and Edith would plead
+with him to tell all. And all he couldn’t tell. That would break it all
+up. Yes, he must renounce Edith. He must release her utterly. He must
+go his own way. This then is the end of the wild enchantment and the
+golden days! This is the end of it.
+
+He saw the black and bitter years ahead--he saw Edith growing old
+alone, her love for him turned to hate, her dreams shattered--a
+withered and dried single woman! He saw himself plunging again into
+vice, drowning his sorrow--a long, empty, cynical life.
+
+Impossible! Why must this be?
+
+Because a fanatic had told him he was a peril. It was a lie! a lie!
+He knew better. There was Julius Neuman, he remembered, who had had
+the same trouble and married. Why, he had three children--three lusty
+children--and his wife was strong and happy.
+
+Frank laughed. The Doctor was crazy! He was making a mountain of a
+mole-hill. Who can go against Nature? Nature is always right. Go with
+her, not against her.
+
+Laughing harshly he turned homeward. He thought he had solved the
+trouble. He thought it was all over.
+
+But then with redoubled fury the whirlwind awoke again. Try as he would
+he could not drown out the downright sense of the Doctor. His mind told
+him that he didn’t know all about Julius Neuman. His mind told him that
+the Doctor handled such facts every day, and knew.
+
+Wild was his heart again! He saw the wild-rose torn and trampled in the
+mud. He saw his own life crashing about him. But he had to have her; he
+was crazy for her. Waiting even a week was nearly unendurable.
+
+He clenched his fists again; he raged; he drove like a demon. Vivid
+lightnings struck open the heavens and tore night out of the streets;
+thunder boomed through the rushing air. Up the stairs of the Henry
+Street tenement he dashed, flung open the door of his home, and slammed
+it to.
+
+His mother cried out:
+
+“Frank? Is it you?”
+
+He did not answer. He slammed the door of his own room. He sat down on
+the bed in the blackness. Water poured from him, splashing the floor.
+He was almost insane. He could not bear the fire in his breast, the
+fever on his forehead and cheeks.
+
+“Good God!” he cried hoarsely. “Good God!”
+
+The door opened gently; someone entered.
+
+“O God! God!” he cried; “I’m going crazy!”
+
+A gentle hand touched him; a gentle voice spoke:
+
+“Frank.”
+
+He did not answer.
+
+“Has something happened to Edith?”
+
+He laughed harshly. His mother began to cry, with soft sobs:
+
+“Frank, Frank!”
+
+She drew his head to her heart, she patted his cheek. Something broke
+down within him; he was very weak. He did not resist.
+
+“Oh, Mother,” he moaned, “what shall I do?”
+
+“What is it, Frank?”
+
+“I can’t tell you!”
+
+They were silent. His mother stooped and kissed him.
+
+“Do what is right, dear. My poor boy! my poor boy!”
+
+She was gone. He grew calm, as in a trance. He arose and lit the gas;
+sat down at his little table, and took pen and paper.
+
+“My darling,” he began writing, “never doubt that I love you with my
+very soul, and would rather die than harm you. We cannot marry yet. You
+mustn’t ask for the reason--I am not allowed to tell. You must trust to
+me--trust absolutely. Perhaps it will only be for a short time----”
+
+He paused, pen in air. He saw the wild-rose reading these strange
+words; he saw her pale, perhaps swooning away. It was like stabbing
+her with a knife. No, no, no! Darling Edith! He could not hurt her! He
+could not harm her!
+
+“No,” he said quietly, “I will go to her. She is wise and good. I will
+tell her like a child; she will forgive me like a mother!”
+
+Long and long he lay, even until the dawn broke white and clear--lay in
+a strange peace; knowing that Edith was wise and good.
+
+And that next day he took train and went to her, with forewarning of
+a telegram. She met him at the station--and how brown she was--how
+beautiful with the sun and the wind! How fresh and girlish again! She
+was wildly happy. He had come, she knew, because he could not stay away
+from her. Glorious was that evening. He could not bring himself to
+break into her wonderful happiness. Calm and quiet, he let her walk him
+under the stars.
+
+And then that night she whispered:
+
+“Let’s climb the mountain in the morning! See the sunrise from the
+mountain top!”
+
+That was his chance. Up there in the clear dawn he could speak. So
+they planned to meet before the house at four in the morning, and they
+parted, kissing passionately, drowsy with the glory of their love.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+SUNRISE
+
+
+They met in secret at the pasture bars across the road. In the dim
+light and still ecstasy of nature they stole on each other like ghosts.
+And then--fresh dewy lips, cool enwinding arms--and new enchantment.
+They were children of the city, children of noise and stone. But here
+was eternal quiet and the beauty that walks in the heart. Close were
+they at last to Mother Earth, and she sent through them her vital might
+and drew them passionately together.
+
+“Oh, Frank, Frank,” whispered Edith, “we were never so near each other,
+so near, so near!”
+
+In that moment bliss overcame him and he forgot all else.
+
+“Edith--sweetheart!”
+
+For long they stood thus, and then silently went through the pasture
+toward the still woods. A sea of mist lay on the ground about them, a
+foot deep, and through the mist here and there, like stars, floated
+a daisy. A ghostly light was everywhere. A waning moon stood over
+the mountain. The air was very pure, fragrant with Earth, cool and
+caressing.
+
+Into the wilderness, along an upward trail they wandered, Frank walking
+before. How wild! how still! how deep! Dawn was not; only the ghostly
+light, only the waning moon. They picked their way over dead logs and
+stones and branches; twigs snapped wet in their faces.
+
+How wonderfully alone they were! In the shadows about them only a leaf
+here and there rustled; they heard the noise of their own footsteps.
+Fresh were the wood-smells, poignant with dew; and a mighty expectation
+seemed to brood in the still air. They paused once to listen to the
+plaintive call of the wood-owl, and then went on, witchery stealing
+over their hearts. It was too beautiful for words.
+
+Then, “Listen,” whispered Edith.
+
+It was the fresh liquid thunder of rushing water, shaking the air with
+music. It lulled them both, soothing Frank’s heart. He was steeped in
+new miracles; he could think of nothing else. Suddenly, at a twist of
+the trail the mountain torrent roared beside them, a tumbled whiteness
+under the last few stars of dawn.
+
+“Oh, Edith,” he breathed, clasping her hand.
+
+They stood in silence.
+
+But there were no words in the face of this. So they went on, climbed
+a steep slope, and then paused, thrilling with grandeur. Empty space
+fell under them. They were at the edge of a cliff, from which, at their
+side, sprang a towering pine jutting into the sky. Beneath them lay a
+wild gorge--chaos and ruin of rocks and wild vegetation, the torrent
+leaping white here and there. Far opposite arose the mountain. The
+waning moon peered under the pine-boughs.
+
+Enchantingly wild was the scene, and as they stood hand in hand the
+faint wind of dawn lulled them; leaves rustled; needles fell. Then it
+was gone. But how good the smell of the pines and the damp earth! How
+still the cool air! How wild the scene!
+
+“Oh,” whispered the wild-rose, “who could have dreamed of this! And
+that we should have it--together! I think my heart would break now if
+you weren’t here!”
+
+“Edith!”
+
+Sadness seized him. Was this the last morning, here, in the wilderness,
+the beautiful wilderness? Love smote him; he wished he could clasp her,
+and that in one another’s arms they might hurl themselves to death in
+the rocky gorge.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+He felt her arms about him again, and brush of dewy-sweet lips and
+electric wafture of hair. They grew drowsy with the glory. All the
+passion of the Earth pulsed through them, all the primordeal joy of
+creation.
+
+A tear, not his own, ran down his cheek.
+
+“Sweetheart!” he cried, holding back to see her face. “So happy?”
+
+The wild-rose could not speak. Her eyes were shining at the lashes; two
+tears were trickling down.
+
+“Tell me,” he whispered.
+
+“Our love,” was all she could say.
+
+She trembled close to him; a strange shudder passed through them both
+together, as if all their nerves were joined in one body, an aching
+ecstasy. Forgotten was the wilderness and the gorge; forgotten all,
+save this.
+
+They turned away, faint with love. Frank felt himself weakening. He
+was overcome with trembling beauty. Onward they went, crossing where
+the torrent ran narrow, climbing the mountain through the pine-forest.
+As upward they strove, aiming as toward some victory, some wild goal,
+they could not see the world beneath, but only here and there glimpses
+of the pale sky. And then they came to a high slant of weathered rock,
+scaled it, and came out at the top of a grassy clearing, where, right
+beyond, a blue mirror in the wilderness, lay a little rain-water lake,
+hung in mid-heaven, circled with pines.
+
+Clasping hands the city-children gazed till their eyes were dim. Then
+they turned. Wonder weakened them. They cried out together. For the
+Earth was unrolled at their feet. Far as eye could see ran the mountain
+ranges, lifting out of valleys of white mist. Up the high slant of
+skies the golden heralds of dawn were running; mighty blew the gale
+in their faces; wild exhilaration stung them. They were alone on the
+heights of the world! They were alone--free!
+
+But the wind was cold.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+“Oh, Frank!”
+
+He spread his coat out with his right arm.
+
+“Come in under!”
+
+She nestled under, and he wrapped her close. They stood as one, warmer
+for the contact, and he felt her living heart beating at his side.
+
+“Oh,” she cried, “I can’t speak, Frank! I just love and love and love
+you!”
+
+Ecstasy swept them. And then their eyes saw the miracle of the dawn.
+Far in the Eastern skies that flush of purple; far on the valleys
+that purple flush. Swift on horizon, splendor of scarlet and bubbling
+yellow. Vast overhead the lift and spread of the paling heavens. And
+then on the Eastern rim a snake of fire; a riot of color; a thrill as
+of a curtain lifting; flame, flame----
+
+“The sun!” they whispered breathlessly, “the sun!”
+
+How could city-children know of such glories? They were gathered in
+the heart of revelations. Fire leaped from each to each. And lo, the
+mists were blown from the valleys; the sky swam blue; voices ran hither
+and yon in the forest; the whole Earth seemed to shake itself, awake,
+and shout, and quiver, and laugh. They saw lakes lying silver among
+the hills; they saw one broad fruitful valley, the dissimilar green
+of barley, wheat, and rye-fields; barns and houses, smoke lifting
+from chimneys; straggling gray stone-walls. Far away they saw a dusty
+road and a boy driving cows. Hens were in a barnyard about a woman
+scattering bran; a horse loped lazily over a pasture, and then----
+
+“Look!” cried Edith.
+
+A lonely eagle soared in the blue, lost now and then in the sun.
+
+Behind them sang a bluebird, pouring the sunrise into song.
+
+He felt her heart beating sharply at his side; he saw the radiance and
+distinctness of the Earth; he breathed the glory-freshened air. He was
+trembling with passion. Edith’s life was gliding into his. It was too
+late, too late.... She was his, his....
+
+And then she stood free of him, trembling. He saw the wind blowing
+the hair over her forehead, he saw her eyes confronting sunrise with
+sunrise, the blowing skirts, the freshness and fragrance of the
+wild-rose. She was his ... his....
+
+“Edith!” he seized her hand.
+
+“Come away from this,” she murmured.
+
+They stepped back to the little lake and stood on the moist grassy
+ground facing the waters. For some time they were silent, as the
+morning grew. He tried then to think clearly. “No, no,” cried his
+heart. “Trust to instinct! Trust to Nature!” The sun rose higher; the
+sky was of the tenderest blue; the warm smells of Earth blew over them;
+insects buzzed and hummed in the grass; the bluebird sang, and softly
+the lake-water lapped on the pebbly shore.
+
+Suddenly she felt it--the secret. Earth yearned; the sun like a male
+embraced the female Earth; two thrushes fluttered about their nest in
+the pine; two squirrels chased over the ground; and now there were two
+eagles in the blue. It was the sacred fire of creation, raimenting the
+Earth with new life--with babies and fruits and cubs--and everything
+sang and dripped and ran and sparkled with the glory. The two human
+beings drew close together; the man forgot his message; forgot the
+world; he thought only of this woman. For this they were alive; toward
+this had they been doomed. How could a thing so sacred be wrong?
+
+He drew closer to her. She was so rich and living! Music wrapt them,
+creation stirred in them. They were lost to all save each other.
+
+“Edith.”
+
+“Frank.”
+
+He took both her hands, he drew her till their faces were close.
+
+“I love you!” he whispered.
+
+She spoke tremulously:
+
+“Will you love me forever?”
+
+“Forever.”
+
+“Ever and ever?”
+
+“Forever and forever!”
+
+His arms drew her closer; their lips met; they cried out; they stood
+thus silent, motionless. The blue bent nearer, the birds sang, the
+leaves rustled, needles fell on them, the lake-water rippled dreamily.
+They were overcome with love, a long glory.
+
+Whispered Edith at last:
+
+“If you should die now I should die now.”
+
+Sacred was this love, indeed. He groaned inwardly. How could he blast
+this beauty? And then for a moment he was in the clutch of a wild
+struggle. Tell her he must; had he not come up for this; tell her he
+must, whatever the consequences. Was he so weak? Was he so unmanly? Was
+his love so earthly a thing? The morning began to darken for him; he
+released the wild-rose; he stood from her, gazing on the grass.
+
+“Frank,” she whispered, taking his hand, “what is it?”
+
+“Nothing!” he murmured.
+
+He felt it would be better to die than to pour into her ears the poison
+that would kill her happiness. In a few minutes their love would be
+shattered, their lives broken. He could see her face piteous and
+drooping; he could hear her wild cry. How could he speak? Why had he
+come? Why had he not written? And here she was, so real, so vital, his
+own, his own.
+
+But you must tell her, Frank. Shall you ruin this pure wild-rose? Shall
+all her beauty go because you are weak?
+
+He moistened his lips.
+
+“Listen,” he said, in a strange voice.
+
+“I’m listening,” she murmured.
+
+“I must tell you something.”
+
+“Tell me.”
+
+The moment had come. Listen now, wild-rose, and try to be wise! His
+tongue was tied, he stood rooted to the ground, his lips were parched.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“I want to ask you something.”
+
+“Ask me.”
+
+Oh, the sweetness of her, the freshness.
+
+“What--if--what if--what if we weren’t married for a while yet?”
+
+She spoke with sharp fright:
+
+“What has happened, Frank?”
+
+Could he go on? He delayed the blow.
+
+“Why, nothing,” he laughed strangely. “I only wanted to know.”
+
+“It’s a strange question!” her voice grew sharp again. “Something’s
+happened, Frank. I know it!”
+
+She seized his arm, looked in his face. That touch, that look overcame
+him. Nature cried out to take her. These two were for one another.
+Far was the city, far the Doctor; reason grew pale and fled; doubts
+vanished. His blood sang again; fire once more fell from the blue and
+wound them round; wildness was in them, wildness of Earth and sun.
+
+“I only wanted to know,” he whispered, “because I--I couldn’t wait!”
+
+She loosed silver laughter--utter joy.
+
+“Oh, Frank! Frank! I--I can hardly wait a week!”
+
+He laughed happily; they stepped to the cliff. They looked down on the
+marvelous world.
+
+“All the world’s before us!” he laughed.
+
+“And all of life!” cried the wild-rose. “This is the sunrise of our
+marriage!”
+
+Wild joy, wild laughter filled them. They were children again. They
+raced down through the wilderness, they drank of the cool spring,
+making a cup of Edith’s hand; they played tag, red was in their cheeks,
+and innocence gloried about them. Beautiful were they, and overflowing
+with life. Away with dark thoughts! Fling off problems and theories!
+Take the cup and drink of it!
+
+And so Frank was overcome; and so all darkness fled from his heart;
+and so he laughed at the Doctor and did not believe him, and knew
+himself for a well man. He went back to the city that afternoon; he
+plunged into his work. His mind was free. He was sure of himself.
+Nature herself had answered his questions.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next week they were married--Sam giving away the bride, and Mr.
+Grupp getting the second kiss by force.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+THE PASSING SEASONS
+
+
+Well, well, well, what a world! Not only are there queer people in it,
+but there are also young couples. They’re enough to make one sick--so
+said Mr. Grupp--kissing and hugging and making a show of themselves.
+Why in the middle of dinner does Mr. Lasser deem it necessary to leap
+up from his soup, circle the table, and give Mrs. Lasser one on the
+cheek? Why, when company is present must they needs be spooning on the
+sofa?
+
+Sam and Marcus paraded up and down the three rooms, chanting:
+
+  “_Gee whiz! I’m glad I’m free,
+  No wedding bells for me!_”
+
+Said Sam to Frank:
+
+“Come on out with us to-night and have a good time!”
+
+Whereupon Marc chanted:
+
+“I would if I could, but I can’t. Why? Because I’m married now!”
+
+“I told you not to kiss so much,” said Mr. Grupp from the Morris chair
+(on which but two instalments have been paid). “One kiss a day, before
+and after!”
+
+Marc took Frank aside, and spoke secretly:
+
+“Take my advice and never get married. Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot!”
+
+Mr. Grupp gave the young wife a schnelker, and she swept him out of the
+room with a broom, a gale of laughter blowing all about her. He nursed
+a sore knee, groaning, and making impossibly funny faces.
+
+“Oi yoi yoi! Oh, Mamma! such a woman-lady!” And then he declaimed
+dramatically, “A lion, Mr. Lasser, a tiger, Mr. Lasser, a _rhinoceros_,
+Mr. Lasser, _even a rattlesnake_--you can tame--but a vomen, never!”
+
+They laughed for old sake’s sake.
+
+Frank was very obedient when Edith gave orders.
+
+“Himmel!” cried Mr. Grupp, holding his cheek as if he had the
+toothache. “That boy is a sie-mandel! (a henpecked half-man).
+
+“He’s all right,” said Edith, petting him. “He’s the best in all the
+world!”
+
+“Cut it out!” cried the brothers.
+
+“You should have taken my advice,” said Mr. Grupp. “Fifty years
+engaged, one year married!”
+
+How proudly the young couple showed their place to visitors, displaying
+kitchen ware and Mission furniture, rug and clock and silver and china.
+And especially the view! What happy Sunday nights when Mr. Grupp and
+the brothers and Jonas Zug crowded the table and ate cold slices and
+pickles and cheese and cake! Zug came regularly now, and had ceased
+to rave. He had fallen into the comfortable berth of friend of the
+family, and was always warmly welcome. Everyone liked to call on the
+Lassers--their little place was so radiant with their own happiness.
+One felt the home-feeling as one stepped in; one carried away the glow
+and warmth of an open hearth fire. The Lassers took people into their
+home and their heart. Everyone felt instinctively that here was a happy
+marriage, here was a couple perfectly mated.
+
+Jonas would sit with them till late at night, and all three would
+remember and laugh over the vanished days.
+
+Edith and Frank never forgot their first supper in the little kitchen.
+They had been married the night before; all day they had been setting
+the things to right--hanging and rehanging and rehanging the four
+pictures till their heads were dizzy--cleaning the floors--placing the
+furniture--stacking the cupboards. Now in the warm evening they sat
+down. Low overhead the light glowed over the table and their faces.
+They sat opposite. The silverware shone; the plates were polished, the
+food steamed. A noise of people overhead and beneath hinted of many
+homes. Peaceful and at rest was the weary world. How alone they were!
+how human this was! how devoid of passion!
+
+They looked at each other across the table, their eyes met and shone
+with tears. They felt all the holiness of their home. This air they
+breathed was hallowed; this food of which they were to partake was
+sacred. The common lot; the simple human things--all theirs. And each
+other! They two alone, sundered from all others, alone in their own
+home. A deep wish sprang in both hearts; the wish to say grace, to ask
+a blessing on their first supper. But of whom? This younger generation
+knew no God, and spoke no prayers.
+
+Edith murmured in a low, sweet voice:
+
+“Say something, Frank.”
+
+He knew what she meant. They both bowed their heads. Frank spoke
+tremblingly:
+
+“God, be in our homes, be in our hearts, forever and ever. Amen.”
+
+That evening they walked out in the Park, out in the warm darkness and
+under lustrous stars. How candid they could be with one another! How
+much they shared in secret! What dreams they could give each other!
+
+Mornings came--they rose laughingly, they breakfasted, Edith kissed
+her husband good-by, and waved to him from the window. Evening
+returned--she heard his step, his whistle, she flew to his arms. He
+told her the day’s news; they took supper; they washed the dishes
+together; and then they sat and talked, or flooded the rooms with
+phonograph music, or read the evening papers, or went over their
+accounts, or walked in the Park.
+
+They were living a beautiful idyl that seemed endless. Quarrels came,
+too; sharp words, astonishing both; then tears and kisses and hours all
+the sweeter for the healing and the blessing of love.
+
+Edith became a wonderful manager and Frank declared laughingly that
+two could live on less than one. But, among the poor, it is always the
+woman who makes both ends meet. What a world of work--to figure on
+chops and potatoes and flour and coffee and butter--on gas and coal--on
+necessities and luxuries. Every Saturday night Frank handed over an
+unopened pay-envelope. Edith gave him an allowance, and saved out of
+the remainder.
+
+“We must save--save--save!” she cried, knowing well enough why.
+
+One trip Frank made in Pennsylvania, and those ten days nearly broke
+their hearts. Then, by good fortune, he secured a city job and had to
+travel no more. Their happiness was complete.
+
+And so, as the months glided on the last shadow of doubt and dread
+passed from Frank’s mind. Edith was healthy and happy. The Doctor
+had had good intentions, but he was mistaken: that was the only
+explanation. Frank thanked his stars time and again that he had not
+followed the Doctor’s advice. All was well, all was well! He never
+spoke the Doctor’s name in Edith’s hearing, and as for Edith, she had
+forgotten the Rasts entirely. They were lost with the old life in the
+Ghetto. In this freer, fresher life there was no room for Rasts. For if
+she did for a moment glance back and remember her old Ideal and the
+talk with Nell, she laughed away the memory with her vanished girlhood.
+
+No word came from them, either. The brothers had moved to a boarding
+house and doubtless the Rasts did not know what had become of the
+family, and were far too busy to find out. One can move round the
+corner in the city and be as lost as in remote jungles.
+
+And so the months flew. How time does really fly, lopping off the
+months, telescoping the years, till, suddenly all the world has
+changed, old faces gone, new generations upon us, and we ourselves
+hobbling into mystery! The months flew; the happy marriage deepened;
+more and more familiar and common were the days, sweeter and realer the
+relationship. Edith was a woman now, sweet, gentle, mirthful, and busy.
+Her faults were rather limitations than blemishes. So far as she went,
+she was all that a woman can be. But she went no further--stopping
+short of many worlds of thought and action. It was not through lack of
+possibilities in her nature, but rather her sweet compromise with the
+nature of her husband. She keyed herself to his pitch; she met him on
+equal ground; she came down and enjoyed life with him.
+
+As for Frank, he was attentive, thoughtful, manly in his own way. He
+never forgot to bring home the little things that delight a woman; he
+never preferred others before Edith. He worshipped and was proud of his
+wife.
+
+Then the processes of Nature, vast, miraculous, mysterious, entered
+into their lives again. Nature not long leaves us to ourselves. One
+night, late, with the light low, as Edith sat on her husband’s lap,
+laughing strangely, eyes shining, tears glittering, she told him.
+
+“Frank.”
+
+“Yes, dear.”
+
+“I think----”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+She blushed.
+
+“I think”--she hid her head in his shoulder--“I think a little new
+Lasser is coming!”
+
+A wild thrill went through him.
+
+“A child! Ours!”
+
+So the wonder of Fatherhood and Motherhood awoke in them.
+
+Tender he was with her through the long time, while our great Mother,
+Nature, was busy with her divine processes. Now Edith would sit and
+stitch and stitch at sweet little baby-clothes--her eyes shining, her
+cheeks flushed, her heart beating to the music of the great Mother. How
+laughingly she brooded on little hands and feet, and imaged out of the
+air a darling face, a face like her husband’s! How hard she tried to
+think good thoughts, to speak and act divinely. She wanted to be a good
+woman ... oh, how good ... that the child might be good ... that later
+she might be a good Mother, and help to create a good man or woman. New
+powers awoke in her; her face took on a new gravity, a deeper beauty.
+There was more meaning there. One read there more of life.
+
+One night she spoke of what Doctor they should have.
+
+“Could we have Dr. Rast?”
+
+Frank felt a pang of fear.
+
+“Tut! no! He’s too far off, Edith. We must have someone in the
+neighborhood!”
+
+“You’re sure?”
+
+“I don’t think he’d want to do it.”
+
+“We could ask him.”
+
+He spoke with a touch of anger.
+
+“I don’t like him, anyway, Edith. I’d rather you had someone here.”
+
+“Whom could we have?”
+
+“Why don’t you have a midwife? Everyone else has.”
+
+“I don’t like them.”
+
+“Why not? You know they cost less. Why, it’s nothing. It’s because it’s
+your first, Edith. Babies are born every day.”
+
+For days the argument continued, off and on. Edith finally consented.
+
+As the time grew near, she had her fears--secret fears, known to all
+women. Her pain, too, she had, nobly borne, quietly concealed. But pain
+was to be expected. Nothing is created in this world without struggle
+and pain.
+
+And so the seasons flew, winter gave way to spring, spring to summer,
+summer to autumn, and the autumn grew red and golden. It was the time
+of Indian summer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+INDIAN SUMMER
+
+
+It was the time of Indian Summer. Mild was the night; a night golden
+with harvest and fruition. Frank at the window saw the blood-red
+harvest moon, saw it rise across the heavens, saw it sink low and large
+and disappear.
+
+He was in his coat-sleeves; not for a moment could he sit still, but
+wandered like a caged tiger up and down, up and down. At times he was
+crazy with suspense. He listened at the closed door, and the tears ran
+down his face. The young wife was fighting bravely; hardly a groan
+escaped her; but the little noise cut his heart as with a knife-blade.
+He would hurry to the window and lean out into the night. Blood-red was
+that harvest moon! He watched it, and thought of the harvest in the far
+fields, and of the human harvest here.
+
+As the night wore on, silence deepened and deepened. Suddenly, standing
+still, he seemed to feel the room full of a Presence, a Power: it swept
+about him: he was steeped in it. Was it God? Was it God at his mighty
+labors? Was it God creating new life on this planet?
+
+Slowly went the hours; higher and higher climbed the blood-red moon;
+lower and lower it sank. He listened and waited; he walked; he tried to
+read; he flung down the book; he stood at the closed door; he pulled
+off his collar; he opened a deck of cards and tried to play solitaire.
+Nothing helped him; the Power was there, at work; he could not shake it
+off. Steeped in it was his soul. Oh, the divine mystery! Oh, miracle of
+reproduction--out of a seed a human being; out of a cell a Shakespeare
+or a Wagner; out of a microscopic particle such wonders as we are.
+
+Awe filled him; and pity. A soft pity for women, who are called upon to
+bear the pain of the wonder, to pay with their agony for the miracle.
+A soft pity for the young wife, so young, so sweet, so happy. Why did
+she have to suffer this night? He gazed out at the harvest moon, which
+shone unperturbed on the still and fruitful Earth.
+
+All of the mystery of existence, the mystery of being a human being, of
+being born and of dying, went to his heart. He returned to the center
+of the room. He could not bear to be alone. He waited and watched, he
+listened, he stood at the closed door. Would the ordeal never be ended?
+How long must this last?
+
+And then he leaned out again. The moon was gone. White and trembling
+arose the sweet dawn; birds were somewhere singing in the soft
+darkness; a smell of earth came to his nostrils on rising wind. Dawn!
+dawn was rising!
+
+He stood back; a thrill went through his heart. He felt the time was
+at hand. And then suddenly in the silence rose a great cry--the cry
+of the Mother. He felt faint; he gasped; put his hand to his dripping
+forehead; cried out:
+
+“God! God!”
+
+And leaned on the back of a chair.
+
+The door opened; the fat, red-faced midwife came out. In her arms was
+something tiny, carefully wrapped. Frank was breathless, almost afraid.
+He stepped over. He spoke in an awed whisper:
+
+“What is it?”
+
+“It’s a girl, Mr. Lasser.”
+
+A girl! He gazed down at the tiny face. It was real, it was living, it
+was his own baby, his own child. Suddenly his eyes swam in tears; he
+crumpled up in a chair, and sobbed, sobbed brokenly.
+
+A little while later the midwife called him.
+
+“She wants to see you a moment.”
+
+He staggered in; the tremulous light of dawn lay on the room; and in
+the bed the Mother with the sleeping babe in her arms. Frank leaned
+near, Edith smiled wanly.
+
+“Father!” she whispered.
+
+He thrilled and thrilled.
+
+“Mother!”
+
+Their lips met.
+
+“Our baby,” said Edith, “our little girl; our little daughter!”
+
+What miracle is greater than this: to have a child?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+THE HARVEST
+
+
+Doctor Rast had seen and heard nothing of Edith and Frank and had
+forgotten all about them. It was a crowded year and a half--there was
+much sickness with the changing seasons, and the months for him fled,
+too. Once or twice he had remembered that Frank was to return, but
+as no word came from him, he had let the matter drop. More important
+matters, people nearer and dearer to him, had to be attended to. Nell
+had often thought of Edith, inquired about her, and heard nothing. She
+had asked the Doctor, but he was ignorant as she. So she wondered in
+silence.
+
+Then on a snowy Sunday afternoon Frank came in. The Doctor had been
+reading his medical journal, and his mind was very busy. But when he
+flung back the door, and saw Frank, he woke sharply:
+
+“You? Frank Lasser?”
+
+“Yes. I want to see you.”
+
+“Come in.”
+
+Frank came into the cozy office, which was very white with the
+snow-light outside, and was very snug and warm. The Doctor noticed that
+Frank’s face was drawn and touched by wrinkles. Frank slouched wearily
+into the office, and sat down in the armchair.
+
+“Well,” said the Doctor, “been away?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“No? What then?”
+
+“Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“_I’m married!_”
+
+The Doctor felt a great shock smite his heart. He leaned nearer.
+
+“Married?”
+
+Frank smiled feebly.
+
+“Yes, Doctor, I’m married.”
+
+The Doctor’s face looked terrible at that moment--black and stern and
+forbidding.
+
+“You married Edith, Frank?”
+
+Frank spoke in a low voice:
+
+“Yes--Edith.” Then in self-defense. “I had to, Doctor. You don’t
+understand, but I had to. I couldn’t stand it. I took the risks. I had
+to marry her. I’m a human being. Anyway, I didn’t believe what you told
+me.”
+
+The Doctor could not believe his own ears. He reproached himself
+bitterly for not having kept track of Edith. His heart seemed to be
+smothered.
+
+“But at least tell me, Frank,” he said with something of a sharp groan,
+“that you haven’t any child.”
+
+Frank’s voice came on a sob.
+
+“No. I have a child.”
+
+The Doctor spoke with the edge of a knife-blade:
+
+“Why didn’t you call me in?”
+
+“Oh--you--you see you made such a row----”
+
+The Doctor broke in angrily:
+
+“Then why do you come now?”
+
+Frank said nothing.
+
+“Why do you come?”
+
+The young father spoke humbly, simply--from his heart:
+
+“Doctor, my little girl; she’s a month old. I want you to come and look
+at her--her eyes----”
+
+The Doctor gave him a strange look. He spoke slowly, with a great
+effort, for he felt his heart tightening with dreadful pain:
+
+“At the birth--did the doctor put drops in the child’s eyes?”
+
+Frank gasped, and looked frightened.
+
+“Doctor? We had a midwife. No--she didn’t do it. Why didn’t you tell me
+this that night?”
+
+The Doctor stifled a groan.
+
+“Because you had no right to marry Edith. And you promised to come
+again. Frank,” he raised his voice, he lifted his hands, “you went into
+this with eyes open.”
+
+Frank’s lips parted. He spoke slowly, in a dead voice:
+
+“Does this help now, Doctor? It’s done; ain’t it? Are you coming to see
+the kid?”
+
+“Yes,” said the Doctor quietly, “I’m coming.”
+
+Frank arose, bowed his head--he was a man humbled now--and spoke in a
+sob:
+
+“I--I want to beg your pardon, Doctor. You’ll never understand how it
+happened. But it did, and maybe--maybe I ought to be forgiven.”
+
+The Doctor rose with heart softened; he drew Frank close:
+
+“I was only thinking of Edith, Frank! Come! We will go to her!”
+
+He put on hat and coat and they stepped out into the soft white fall
+of snow. The fresh carpet on the pavement was black here and there
+with the indent of footprints, the red-brick houses had white sills
+and copings, the horse-cars came through a swirl of white and people
+hurried past muffled to the eyes. Autumn was gone; the winter of the
+earth had come. The Doctor walked close beside Frank.
+
+“I want to tell you something,” said Frank.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“About Edith.”
+
+“How is she?”
+
+“Oh--she’s not well.”
+
+“Gets dizzy?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Backache?”
+
+“She’s in pain all the time.”
+
+“Broken up?”
+
+“She’s not herself,” his voice broke, “she’s not what she used to be.
+She’s not so beautiful any more.”
+
+Poor wild-rose! The Doctor’s eyes filled. He spoke huskily:
+
+“Does she know what’s the matter with her?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Or the baby?”
+
+“No.”
+
+The Doctor gripped Frank’s arm:
+
+“Then, Frank, you’re going to do the manly thing. You’re going to tell
+her. Otherwise she’ll reproach herself--she’ll think she had no right
+to marry--she’ll think she’s a burden on you.”
+
+Frank did not speak for a moment; but then the agony of the last month,
+the frightful remorse, the black hours, spoke in his voice:
+
+“I’ll do anything for Edith--anything in this world”--he went on
+bitterly--“now that it’s too late.”
+
+The Doctor could say nothing. But as they rode uptown in silence he
+remembered the wild-rose of that enchanted April. Oh, the tragedy of
+life, the blighting of the blossoms, the crushing out of possibilities!
+Why did this have to be? His heart ached for the young mother. He
+longed to have superhuman power that he might set right the wrong
+of this world. He felt helpless and impotent. He felt as if he were
+rushing to the close of a ghastly tragedy. He felt as if all life broke
+in his hands and lay in ruins about him. With thoughts in a mad whirl,
+he climbed the three flights of stairs with Frank, and they walked into
+the pleasant parlor. At the window in a deep armchair, cushioned with
+a pillow, Edith was half lying. The Doctor stopped. His heart seemed
+twisted out of his breast. For was this the wild-rose? Was this sweet
+Edith--Edith of seventeen, laughing and blushing in early April? She
+was white-faced, thin, her eyes large and haunted by pain and trouble,
+her forehead puckered and quick at twitching, her lips dry and pulled
+down over her teeth. But it was the eyes mainly--so large and mournful,
+ringed with darkness, and very patient. The Doctor felt as a father
+that looked down on his dead child. How could the Power of this world
+permit such a thing? Poor blighted wild-rose.
+
+She looked up with surprise.
+
+“Doctor!”
+
+A flush of pleasure came to her cheeks.
+
+“Edith! Edith!” he cried, clasping her hand; “Edith!”
+
+“He’s come to look at the baby,” said Frank, twisting his derby through
+his hands.
+
+Edith gave a low cry:
+
+“The baby!” She tried to rise, and added sharply; “where’s the
+baby--where is she? Oh!” She put her hand on her heart.
+
+The baby was in the little crib beside her, quietly stirring its hands
+and feet.
+
+The Doctor smiled sadly: “Edith! It’s always good to watch a growing
+baby. Frank’s quite right. But how you’ve changed! What a woman you
+are!”
+
+Tears sprang to her eyes.
+
+“Oh, I don’t know, Doctor,” she said quietly, in a way that cut his
+heart. “I don’t seem much of anything good.”
+
+She smiled piteously, and the Doctor could hardly see. So this was the
+end of the enchantment, the sweet girlhood, the sacred marriage. He
+tried with all his soul to comfort her.
+
+“But you have a little living baby, Edith--that’s worth every trouble,
+isn’t it?”
+
+“Ah,” she said, with all the naiveness of a young mother, “did you ever
+see anything so sweet? Just look at her, just look! I watch her all
+day, my little Emily. I wish my mother could see her.”
+
+“Yes,” murmured the Doctor, “yes.”
+
+Edith smiled piteously:
+
+“Poor little thing! See how sore her eyes are.” She leaned forward,
+pleadingly. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? The midwife said they’d be
+all right in a few weeks, anyhow.”
+
+She gazed up at the Doctor, her eyes wide with question.
+
+But the Doctor did not answer. He looked away, delaying almost
+instinctively the fatal moment. He felt as if he could not look. He
+felt as if he could not look. His pulse missed a beat, his blood surged
+up about his temples. Then, slowly, he leaned close over the crib.
+Frank came very near, slightly stooped, and watched with haggard eyes.
+The Doctor searchingly examined the tiny face. Then he slowly, and with
+shaking fingers drew the swollen lids apart, and looked in.
+
+He stood up straight then, and all the pathos and tragedy of life
+seemed to go through him like a dreadful night. What could he say? What
+if this were his own child? He stood a moment looking down at Edith,
+his face lighted with struggling pity and love.
+
+Edith spoke quaintly:
+
+“Don’t you think she’s very, very lovely?”
+
+The Doctor’s voice was almost inaudible, and pure with divine
+tenderness.
+
+“Yes. She is more lovely than ever I have seen in my life--Edith!”
+
+“Yes, Doctor.”
+
+“You must be a good mother to her.”
+
+“Yes, Doctor.”
+
+“You must be twice a mother to her.”
+
+“Yes, Doctor.”
+
+“Because,” he said slowly, “she needs you twice as much as other
+children need mothers.”
+
+Frank bowed his head to his doom. Edith’s eyes changed strangely,
+filling with a wild light.
+
+“What do you mean, Doctor?”
+
+How soft his voice was, how tender:
+
+“I mean--little Emily isn’t like other children. She hasn’t any pain,
+but it’s a trouble just the same.”
+
+Edith felt lightning strike her; she sat forward.
+
+“Doctor!--_Doctor!_ Tell me what’s the matter with the baby!”
+
+He leaned, put a hand on her shoulder, and while his heart seemed to
+wither within him, spoke very gently:
+
+“Edith--the baby is blind.”
+
+Edith rose up, rose straight up. She gave a wild, strangling cry:
+
+“Blind? Blind? Emmy blind?--Good God! Good God!”
+
+She leaped to the crib, the Doctor making way for her, she snatched up
+the child, and stared at it.
+
+“Emmy blind? Good God! My heart! My heart! Emmy!”
+
+The little one whimpered plaintively. Then slowly--a weird and terrible
+sight--the mother passed her finger before the baby’s eyes, fluttered
+the ribbon of her sleeve above the tiny face, stared nearer and nearer
+like one possessed. Suddenly she put the child down, stretched out her
+arms, and shrieked. It was a cry as when the child was born. Frank
+sank on a chair, groaning. The Doctor seized her arms, and whispering,
+“Edith! Edith!” pushed her into the chair again. She leaned forward
+staring at the Doctor. He stood, eyes half-closed, and pain and pity on
+his face.
+
+“Edith,” he said quietly, “think how Emmy needs you--and will always
+need you!”
+
+Edith clenched her fist, looked up, and shook it.
+
+“God,” she cried hoarsely, “you punished us--we were too happy. I hate
+you, God, I hate you. Make a baby blind! I hate you!”
+
+Was it the wild-rose speaking?
+
+Then in the awful silence, Frank arose. The time had come; the great
+moment had arrived. His face was ashen, writhing with agony. He began
+in a low voice:
+
+“No, Edith, it wasn’t God. It was a human being. Maybe it usually is.
+It was I, Edith.”
+
+The Doctor looked at him sharply. The dreadful words fell on Edith’s
+torn heart, and she gasped.
+
+“You?”
+
+“Yes,” he went on quietly, “I. Before I married you I sowed my wild
+oats. I went around with women. And then I got into trouble. I went to
+the Doctor and he told me not to marry for a while. He told me what
+might happen--about you” his voice broke--“and the baby. I honestly
+meant to tell you and go away. That’s why I went up to the country to
+see you.”
+
+Edith breathed sharply, the revelation pouring light into her mind.
+
+“Edith,” he stood sobbing, “what could I do? Do you remember? How could
+I help having you? Oh, I was so sure the Doctor was mistaken! I was so
+sure I was all right. Edith!” he cried sharply; “I loved you too much,
+and now,” his shoulders wrenched coarse sobs, “what have I done? What
+have I done?”
+
+He threw up his hands, sank at her feet, buried his head in her lap.
+
+“Mother! Mother! I ought to be killed! Forgive me! Forgive me!”
+
+Edith looked from side to side, and kept moistening her lips.
+
+And then the Doctor’s voice came, came as if he could not speak for
+utter love:
+
+“Children--Edith, Frank. What’s done is done. And the worst has been
+done that can be. Take up your lives as they are, and use them well.
+There is still love--you have one another. Make up for your losses with
+more love, purer love; for in our poor human world that is the only
+healer. Oh, give each other that, give each other much of that.”
+
+He paused.
+
+“Edith”--he leaned near--“love him enough to forgive him. He has made a
+clean breast of it. He loved you enough for that.”
+
+Edith did not stir.
+
+“Edith--he is your husband.”
+
+Again there was silence, and the Doctor spoke sweetly:
+
+“As for that little child--much can be done. And possibly in the years
+to come little new children will laugh in this house, play about here
+on the floor, cling to your knees. Oh, take up your lives, take them
+up, and go on to what human glories there are. Frank--Edith!”
+
+Again there was silence.
+
+“Edith.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Forgive him, even as a mother forgives her only child.”
+
+Then suddenly Edith lifted the low head, lifted it, put her arms out
+and drew his body toward her, and kissed and kissed his face, and both
+sobbed brokenly, heart-brokenly together.
+
+“Edith!”
+
+“Frank!”
+
+“Oh,” she sobbed, “Frank--husband--why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t
+you trust me?”
+
+“Mother,” he cried, “forgive me!”
+
+“Ah,” she murmured, “what else can I do? I need you--I need you so
+much!”
+
+“Edith!” Then he spoke low: “Hereafter I will never hide anything.”
+
+The Doctor murmured gently:
+
+“Now, indeed, you are truly married. Now you are man and wife.”
+
+And he passed out into the storm. And as he wiped at his eyes he
+muttered:
+
+“When will the young men understand?”
+
+And then again:
+
+“Yes--the women--they always get the raw end of the deal.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And up in the little parlor into two broken hearts the first rays of
+perfect marriage stole, not without a touch of glory, not without a
+touch of victory.
+
+But the little blind baby said nothing, but lay there. Blighted was our
+wild-rose, our sweet Seventeen; sightless her first-born. The sowing
+was of wild oats; and this was the harvest.
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
+
+
+Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
+
+Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.
+
+Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
+
+Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75552 ***