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WILLIAM CHARVAT
American Fiction Collection
The Ohio State University Libraries
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AN opTIMIST


THE OPTIMIST
BY
SUSAN TABER
Author of “Unexpected Affinities,” “The Jewel of
Their Souls,” “Country Neighbors,”
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
1.9 1 7


t
Copyright 1917, by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY


TO
SUSAN TABER BORGIALLI





CONTENTS
PAGE
THE OPTIMIST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Two FEMINISTs. . . . . . . . . . . • • • • • • • * * * * * * * 23
THE SPoll ED CHILD. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
THE SworD. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
His BRothER’s STORY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
THE WINTER of HER DisconTENT. . . . . . . . . I21
THE PATRIOT. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
ALETHIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
THE WEDDING WEIL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
A LEGACY. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . • • * * * * * * * * * 211
EASTER MoRNING. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233
ALICE IN WonDERLAND. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 253





THE OPTIMIST





THE OPTIMIST
said.
“Yes, but we appreciate it all the more when
it comes late.”
“It’s your way, ma'am, to think so,” he answered
stolidly.
She took the letter he handed her and entered
the house. It was a neat little house and it faced
the street uncompromisingly, with no yard between.
And the town was like the house, old and pleasant
and rather the worse for wear. They had both seen
better days. The street was the only concession
to business; but the ten-cent store opposite, the
hotel just beyond, even the trolley itself, were in
a subdued key, as if it was always Sunday. On every
side one caught glimpses of salt water, and at in-
tervals quiet little lanes shaded with trees led to
the inlet. Mrs. Rawlins' garden overlooked it, too,
A COLD spring, Mrs. Rawlins,” the postman
3


4. THE OPTIMIST
and she paused by the window on entering to see
if there were any signs of spring.
She was tall, and almost gaunt, her complexion
was dark and her features rather irregular. It was
her smile that misled you into thinking her beautiful
—also perhaps the carriage of her head.
“A letter for me, mother?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Oh!” in a disappointed tone, “it’s to you from
the hotel.” -
“Probably about the Red Cross concert — put it
on my desk, dear, and help me with the breakfast.”
“Mother,” the girl said a little later, “now you
have had your coffee, prepare for bad news. The
hollyhocks are all dead — the winter has killed
them.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Rawlins. She rose and
hurried into the yard. Everything looked desolate
and bare, not a sign of green in the turf or on the
trees — even the birds were still. In the border
next the house, where last year the flowers had
bloomed in all their beauty, were now heaps of
blackened earth, dried remnants of the dead holly-
hocks. The light died out of her face, and without
a word she returned and took her seat.
“How you worked over them,” murmured the girl.
“Jeannie,” admonished her brother, “don’t rub
it in.”


THE OPTIMIST 5
“I enjoyed the work,” Mrs. Rawlins answered,
then with sudden resolution, “and only think how
interesting it will be to make over the garden.”
“I don’t believe there is a thing in the world that
you wouldn’t find some good in,” Jeannie said, almost
pettishly.
“Yes, there is one thing,” replied her mother.
“But when it came you would look on the bright
side of it.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“And Mary Ann says,” went on Jeannie, “that
she doesn’t see how you stand it.”
* Stand what?”
“Living as we do, in Aunt Jane's old house after
your beautiful place.”
“I have always loved this house.”
“And doing your own work after having twelve
servants.”
“Six,” corrected Mrs. Rawlins.
“And leaving New York.”
“I was delighted to get away.”
“That is just what Mary Ann says — that you
make the best of everything.”
Mrs. Rawlins laughed.
“It was hard enough to make the best of Mary
Ann even when she lived with me. Come, Jeannie,


6 THE OPTIMIST
you will be late for school if you don’t begin to
get ready.”
Jeannie's pretty little face puckered with per-
plexity.
“I don’t see how you manage,” she said at last,
“the other girls all have such complaining mothers.”
“And you are sorry you have not?”
“Please don’t make fun of me.”
“Don’t be a fool, then,” interrupted her brother,
“you know mother isn’t like anyone else.”
“Be quiet, Eddie, I want to understand.”
“Understand what, dear child?”
“How you can make the best of everything.”
“I have told you that I cannot.”
“Almost everything, then.”
A warm smile flooded her mother’s face.
“I try,” she said, “to look on the dark side of
other people's troubles and the bright side of my
own — most women do the opposite. And now
children you really must get ready.”
She saw them off to school and returned to her
work. The sun had risen and shone with the hard
white light of early spring, before the leaves are
out, lighting each dormant plant in the little yard,
and showing up the dried remnants of the dead
hollyhocks. A sharp wind, fresh from the sea,
swept in through the open door,


THE OPTIMIST 7
It was a quaint, low room, a little faded, a little
shabby, with the charm that comes from old fur-
niture pleasantly arranged, and old portraits on
the walls. Mrs. Rawlins, leisurely dusting the
papers on her desk, noticed for the first time the
letter the postman had given her some hours before.
“How careless of me,” she exclaimed, turning
it over to read the address.
Suddenly her eyes widened. She passed her hand
across them and looked again. She made an effort
to open the letter — her hand went to her throat,
she sank upon her knees before the window, staring
blankly at the dead hollyhocks. The one thing had
happened which she could not make the best of.
* * * * * * *
The postman after finishing his rounds made his
way to the hotel, with the laudable intention of for-
tifying himself against the effects of the wind.
“It do beat all, how some folks take things,” he
remarked as he sipped his whiskey at the bar.
“Heard what Miss Rawlins said?”
The hotel keeper replaced his feet on the counter.
“No, do tell.”
“‘A cold spring, says I. ‘Yes,’ says she, “but
we 'preciate it more when it comes late.” Beat that
if ye can for lookin' on the bright side.”


8 THE OPTIMIST
“She'd need to,” the hotel keeper replied, “after
such a come-down.”
“I say so, too — from a palace over Fall River
way to that house of her Aunt Jane’s – her that
used to spend her winters in New York.”
“What did you expect,” the other answered with
scorn, “old man Rawlins knew how to run a factory,
that husband of hers never did – ’twernt in him.
I always said he'd land it in the ditch.”
“I dunno what Mrs. Rawlins would 'a done after
he died, if her Aunt Jane hadn’t up and died, too,
and left her the house.”
“Was Mrs. Rawlins from here?” inquired a new
voice.
The postman was so startled at this interrup-
tion, that he upset his whiskey over the counter and
forgot it in observing the speaker. He was small
and slight, his clothes were worn and there was
nothing unusual about his appearance, yet the men
before him had a sense of constraint, a vague un-
easiness, as in the presence of a superior.
“Her folks have lived in this place ever since Mas-
sachusetts was founded,” the hotel keeper answered
with dignity.
The man he addressed gave a low laugh and
rising from his place by the stove, sauntered over
to the bar. “Have a drink with me,” he said to


THE OPTIMIST 9
the postman. “So you think Mrs. Rawlins looks
on the bright side of things,” he continued, when
their glasses were filled. “She never used to.”
“Pr'aps you knew her to New York?” the
postman asked with an inspiration that left him
breathless. “Pr'aps you’re from there, too?” he
finished in an awed tone.
“I am — unfortunately.”
The postman was so electrified at this confirma-
tion of his opinion that he stared open-mouthed and
the conversation went on without him.
“So you knew Miss Rawlins in New York?” the
hotel keeper asked in the manner of a lawyer ques-
tioning a witness.
The young man set down his glass.
“I did.”
“Ever seen her since?”
“This is my first visit to your delightful town.”
* Goin’ to see her now?”
The postman had regained his breath.
“She's to home. It's your likeliest time to find
her while the children are at school.”
The other observed him curiously.
“So the children are at school?”
“Yes, Mrs. Rawlins waits in to give them their


10 THE OPTIMIST
dinner; but it’s early yet. She'll be real glad to
see you.”
The young man laughed.
“I don’t know about that — but I’m inclined to
find out. Thanks for the suggestion.”
He paid his reckoning, nodded, and left the bar.
“A queer fish,” the hotel keeper muttered.
“I wonder,” the postman said, finishing his
drink, “if she will be glad to see him?”
The street looked even quieter than before as Mrs.
Rawlins' friend emerged from the hotel. A Ford
car was drawn up at the curb while its driver dis-
cussed the weather with an acquaintance; two young
girls were taking their dog for a walk; a farm wagon
rattled by in a cloud of dust. It was growing rap-
idly colder and the biting sea air made the young
man shiver when he stopped to light a cigarette.
“Spring weather, indeed,” he muttered angrily.
The two girls, apparently intent on their dog,
approached, furtively staring at him. He raised
his hat. -
“Can you tell me where Mrs. Rawlins lives?”
They laughed and pointed opposite. He had
stopped in front of the very house he was looking
for.
For a moment he smoked in silence, then threw
away his cigarette, crossed the street and ascended


THE OPTIMIST II
the steps. At the door he paused and listened - not
a sound. He laid his hand on the bell and paused
again. The two young girls were watching him
from the other side of the street; the man in the
Ford car had begun to watch, too. He pulled the
bell.
The sound reverberated through the house and
out into the quiet street. For a time nothing
moved, then he heard a step; it stopped, started,
and stopped again. A second time he pulled the
bell. There was a long silence. The door opened -
Mrs. Rawlins stood before him.
It was he who spoke first. “You did not expect
me so soon? May I come in?”
She stood aside for him to pass and he entered.
His eyes took in every detail of the quaint low room
— its faded coloring, its dim atmosphere of other
days — and then returned to her face. She had
taken refuge near a portrait of her Aunt Jane's, and
something of the spirit of that Puritan gentlewoman
had passed into her veins. There was no trace
now of weakness and despair. -
“You are more attractive than ever, Jane,” he
said coolly.
She made a repellent gesture. “Such remarks
are thrown away on me now.
“Your letter asked to see me,” she continued; “you


12 THE OPTIMIST
did not wait for an answer. No matter,” she sat
down and pointed to a chair, “we may as well get
this over. What do you want?”
He laughed.
“If I tell you I shall make you angry.”
“That is finished.”
“Very well then – I wanted to see how you
looked.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I told you not to speak in that way.”
He laughed again.
“I said I should make you angry. Wait a mo-
ment,” as she started to rise, “I promise not to
refer to your looks – may I smoke? Now,” when
he had lighted a cigarette, “why should we quarrel
during our short time together? Tell me, instead,
how did you manage to efface yourself? I had great
trouble in finding you. You don’t mean,” as she
continued silent, “that was what you intended?”
“I did not consider you,” she answered with
dignity; “there was nothing left after the business
was wound up. I was only too glad of this refuge.”
“But why break with your friends?”
“It is out of sight out of mind with most of
them; those who have not forgotten me, respect
my wishes.”


THE OPTIMIST I3
For the first time a note of hesitation crept into
his voice.
“I suppose you will not believe me — but I didn’t
know. I thought you had plenty.”
“Would it have made any difference if you had
known?” -
“Probably not; I can’t say after this length of
time; but the fact remains — I did not know.”
She made an effort to look at him and failed.
“You are just the same,” she said, “life hasn’t
changed you.”
He smiled ruefully.
“I am as I was made, I suppose. If I had lived
a few hundred years ago, I should have been called
a hero — now I am only a scoundrel.”
“Where have you been?”
“Wherever there was trouble; first in the Philip-
pines, while something was going on; afterwards
in the Russian-Japanese War — the Czar gave me
a decoration — then back by way of Mexico; but
things were too hot there even for me.”
“And now?” she inquired grimly.
“I got an infection after a wound; it was so bad
it almost finished me — I had to come home.”
She forced herself to look at him; for a moment
he was off his guard and his face was drawn with
pain; there were blue lines about his mouth.


14 THE OPTIMIST
“I didn’t suppose you could be ill,” escaped from
her.
“I didn’t myself until I found out my mistake.
Do you like this air? It strikes me as chilly.”
She rose and closed the window beside her.
“I suppose,” she said at last, with averted face,
“that you want to see the boy.”
“I am not a hypocrite, thank God; children don’t
interest me. I never have cared about them.”
She raised her clasped hands.
“Is there anyone on God’s earth that you do
care about?”
“Yes,” he answered, “just now I care about you.
I am interested to know why you have changed.
What has made you look on the bright side of
things?”
“Why do you ask me that?”
“Because I hear that you do. I think you will not
deny that when I met you, you were anything but
an optimist.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“And yet,” he went on, “you had everything to
make you so. I remember the first time I saw you
— at a dance, wasn’t it, in your own house? — I
thought you just suited your exquisite surround-
ings. You felt differently.”
“Yes,” she assented, “I did.”


THE OPTIMIST 15
“You had friends, admirers, an adoring hus-
band 39
“Why mention him?” she asked with set lips.
“Why shouldn't I? He was everything that I am
not, even if his mistakes sometimes annoyed you -
but in those days you never looked on the bright
side of anything. What has made you an optimist?”
She rose and faced him and he rose, too, with a
look of involuntary admiration.
“What made me an optimist?” she said with
passion. “You! Yes, you! After what I have
suffered through you, everything else is tolerable.
A woman who can bear what I have borne, has noth-
ing to fear on earth — loss of money, comfort,
friends, whatever people value, what do they matter
to me? Nothing! You say I suffered when things
went wrong, when people hurt me, when my husband
made mistakes, I did suffer, because I dreaded the
consequences! You have taught me that there is
nothing left to dread. If I can live through this, I
can live through anything, and what I have done
my children can do, and those I love. There is
nothing so bad but it can be borne. That is what
has made me an optimist!”
He braced himself against her wrath, as he would
have braced himself against a volley of musketry —
when it passed it left him untouched.


16 THE OPTIMIST
“I know I acted like a cad and a blackguard—
but what could you expect? I was in a hole and
there was no other way out — being what I am.
Janie, you must see that if I had stayed, it would
have been worse for you.”
“Why, then,” she whispered, “did you pursue
me — from the first? I was married, I was doing
my best for my husband, I was not your sort or in
your set, yet you left me no peace night or day until
you made me love you? Why did you do it? You
must have known what sort of man you were.”
“I suppose because I was in love with you; that
seemed reason enough at the time.”
“You say that after what you have done?”
“Of course, love doesn’t change a man. I al-
ways told you I was no stickler for duty. I never
deceived you. And, besides,” appealing against her
silence, “you speak as if I had made you wrong
your husband.”
“Was it your fault that I did not?”
“No, I must admit it was yours.”
“And afterwards why did you commit the worst
sin of all, why did you marry me?”
“What would you have me do? I was in love,
and there was no other way to get you. I told you
that marriage didn’t appeal to me. You wouldn’t
believe me.”


THE OPTIMIST 17
“I trusted you in spite of myself.”
“No, you did not trust me. You expected to re-
form me. You thought you could make me over.
Isn’t that so?”
“Perhaps I may have thought so — once.”
“And during our year together, you tried to,
didn’t you?”
“Perhaps I did.”
“Well, you ought not to have tried — you should
have made the best of me — that was the only thing
to do.”
“Do you put the blame on me?” she asked with
a despairing gesture.
“Heavens, no! I don’t put it anywhere. I told
you I acted like a cad and a blackguard. I might
have just the same, no matter what you have done
—I had to have my liberty.”
“Was that why you deserted me; was that why
you left me alone in the world, to bring up your
boy?” -
“If you like to put it so — yes.”
He rose, took two or three turns about the room.
and lighted another cigarette. Yet underneath this
airy manner a something showed that almost looked
like shame.
He paused at last beside her,


18 THE OPTIMIST
“It was decent in you not to give me away,” he
said in a sobered tone. -
“My friends didn’t need to know — I told them
we couldn’t agree — I took my old name and came
here among strangers. There was nothing left to
remind me of you. Why have you come back?”
“I don’t suppose I could make you understand
- yet.”
She considered him as one considers some strange
fantastic thing, exciting half wonder, half repulsion.
“I have tried to understand you,” she said. “As
you tell me we cannot change our natures. I was
brought up to keep my word and to believe in duty.
You are different. I suppose I did make it hard
for you. I suppose I did try to change you — but
I was punished.”
“Don’t worry,” he said with a deep-drawn breath,
“you have nothing more to dread. Put it that I
came back to make you a philosopher — for you did
dread meeting me.”
“As people dread death.”
“Well, I am living on too intimate terms with
death to dread it. When it catches me, I shall just
go off by myself as a dog does and trouble no one
But in the meantime — I thought I would come
back and say good-bye.”
He made her an odd little how. “Morituri te


THE OPTIMIST 19
salutant,” he muttered under his breath. If she
heard, she did not understand; she was listening to
the sound of a bell. It peeled out very slowly from
the tower of a neighboring church. She counted the
strokes. -
“Twelve o’clock,” she said, “the children will be
coming home from school.”
“Then I must go.”
She caught his hand in hers.
“The boy, Ned, have you forgotten? You can’t
go until you have seen the boy.”
He hesitated, his face softened, his hand closed
over hers; then he dropped her hand and said lightly:
“Why should I? He will hear about me soon
enough — I had better go before he comes.” His
eyes took in her every feature. “I want to remember
just how you look.”
She touched his arm and pointed. “There they
are.”
The children were coming home along the street,
the boy leading. He caught a glimpse of his mother
at the window and waved his hand; then seeing a
stranger, he drew back and waited for his sister. His
face was flushed; his eyes gleamed, he was a picture
of youthful charm. For one moment his father's
eyes rested upon him; the next he turned away.
“A fine boy,” he said coldly. “I hope he will


20 THE OPTIMIST
be like you.” His hand fumbled in his coat; she
caught the gleam of gold; he was pinning something
on her dress.
“What is it?” she asked.
“My decoration for bravery; you ought to have
it. And, Janie,” again his hand closed on hers, “I
am glad you look on the bright side of things. Some
day will you try to look on the bright side of me?”
“Yes,” she answered, “I will try.”
The children drew nearer; he was gone. She was
left beside the remnants of the dead hollyhocks.





TWO FEMINISTS
ES, this is the Home for Girls — it is one
Y: the workers. Oh! is that you, Judge Jen-
kyns, this is Miss Bradford — a first offender – of
course we will take her for a few days — no, I don’t
in the least mind her being a hard case – at the
Night Court, now — then send her round at once
– we shall be ready.”
The room had been the drawing-room of a de-
serted dwelling in the lower part of the city, and its
spacious, defaced beauty had been cleverly preserved
and utilized. The shabby furniture suited it, the
absence of ornaments emphasized it, and the grow-
ing plants in the window gave it a friendly character.
In spite of its bareness, it really looked like a home,
and Mary Bradford like its mistress.
The same critics who had whispered that she
took an austere pleasure in the becoming quality of
her black dress, and the folds of the muslin kerchief
23


24 THE OPTIMIST
against her white skin, asserted that she had given
up a home of her own and broken off a love match
because the man she was engaged to was not in sym-
pathy with her advanced views about women, or her
work among them, and they added that it was per-
haps fortunate for him she had, as her determination
to see only the best in women had led her to believe
only the worst of men.
Mary Bradford hung up the receiver and, stretch-
ing herself wearily, walked over to the window and
sat down. It was a damp, close night in early
spring; and a faint whiff of the city was wafted in by
the breeze to the music of a neighboring dance-hall,
clangs, cries, rumbles, noises; but all so confused
and intermingled that they sounded like the breath
of the monster, rather than his voice. And now
Mary distinguished another sound, monotonous, re-
current and yet heard above everything else —
footsteps; first at a distance in the direction of
the Night Court; nearer, along the street, pausing
before the house; mounting the steps. The door
opened noiselessly, and softly closed again — her
guest had come.
At first, in the dim light, she could distinguish
only an outline, and one unhappily familiar to her
— the attenuated form, the sheath-like skirt; the
narrow shoulders and thin yet rounded throat above


TWO FEMINISTS 25
which gleamed a sharp profile like the beak of a bird
were everyday sights to Mary Bradford! What was
new and startling was the face peering out at her
from under the rakish, diminutive hat. It inspired
fear, repulsion, and a curious fascination! The
eyes held her, they had in them an almost animal
quality and yet she could not distinguish their color
or shape.
“So,” the girl said at last, and her voice, though
shrill, was not unpleasant in quality. “So this is
the great Miss Bradford!”
“I am Mary Bradford,” Mary answered simply;
her tone was very gentle, even friendly, and yet it
brushed aside all familiarity.
“I always wanted to have a look at you,” the
girl went on in the same half-sneering, half-humorous
manner, “but not just in this way,” she laughed,
a sharp grating laugh, that had yet an infectious
quality of mirth in it.
“Won’t you take off your things?” Mary sug-
gested, “and let me give you something to eat?
Then we can talk.”
“No,” the other said, “talk all you please, I'm
not hungry.”
She removed her hat with a sweep of her hand,
jammed her hat pin into it, and tossed it on the
table, then, running her fingers through her tousled


26 THE OPTIMIST
hair, she flung herself into a chair, crossed her legs
and went on jauntily:
“Fire away! I'm ready!”
“For what?” asked Mary Bradford.
“Ain’t you going to question me?” demanded the
girl.
“Why should I? They have sent your record
with you. It isn’t a question now of how you got
in here, but of how you are going to get out.”
The girl opened her eyes wide and then brought
her lips together with a low whistle.
“So that’s your dodge,” she said. “Well, I’m
agreeable; but I guess all the same the one depends
on the other.” -
“They both depend on you,” answered Mary.
The girl peered at her obliquely from under half-
closed lids.
“Do you know why I'm here,” she demanded.
“I only know that you have made one mistake and
need my help to remedy it.” -
Mary's face expressed the same gentle friendli-
ness it had worn from the first, and appeared to
arouse in her companion only surprised incredulity.
“Why should you take so much trouble about
me?” escaped involuntarily from her lips, and some-
thing familiar in the intonation made Mary start.


TWO FEMINISTS 27
“One reason is that we are both from New Eng-
land.”
The other’s expression changed from stupefaction
to blind fury.
“You mean sneak to pretend you didn’t know me.”
“But I don’t,” Mary answered with convincing
sincerity; “I don’t even know your name, but I can
see that you are from New England, because I come
from there myself.”
The girl grasped her elbows, beating a tattoo with
hér fingers on her bare arms. At last —
“You don’t look like a sneak!” she said, “give
me your hand!” and as Mary placed hers in it:
“Honest, you don’t know anything about me?”
“Nothing,” Mary answered firmly, “not even
why you are here!”
“Then I'll tell you.” Her face relaxed. “I’m
here because I was a fool!'” she said. “I’m here
for stealing!”
“You were in need?”
“Need nothing. I haven’t sunk as low as that!
A pair of silk stockings fell off the counter and I
put them in my pocket! I thought they'd look well
on my feet!” She glanced down at them with a
smile of approval, “and I never thought I’d get


28 THE OPTIMIST
caught — give you my word, I never thought I’d
get caught!”
“And they arrested you?”
“Of course; ’twas a decoy; just my luck. And
then, 'count of my age and first offense they shipped
me on to you — there you have the whole story.”
“And is there no one you want to send word to?
Who could help you, I mean,” Mary added in answer
to another furious look.
“There's only the floor-walker in the store where
I work – that I’m keeping company with — it’s
likely I’d tell him!” the girl answered tartly; them
in her usual voice: “No, I’ve got myself into this
scrape and I’ll get myself out of it, thank you
kindly!”
“Why, how old are you?” asked Mary.
“Eighteen and single yet!” the girl said regret-
fully.
Mary pondered the face opposite her with baffled
curiosity, It was still swollen with anger and the
half humorous, half sensual mouth, was twisted into
a wry smile; but the colorless eyes held her, as they
had from the first. She was trying to understand,
and it seemed as if the girl herself were engaged in
the same struggle, for she repeated wonderingly:
“Why are you taking all this trouble about me?
Why do you care?”


TWO FEMINISTS 29
“I care,” Mary Bradford said, and her quiet voice
rose on a wave of enthusiasm, “because you are a
woman and I want you to be worthy of it! I know
what women have to bear; I know how fine they
can be, and I want to help them.”
The music from the neighboring dance hall burst
in through the window, and a couple who were pass-
ing, catching the beguiling strain, broke into a lively
two-step, and swirled by amid shrieks of laughter.
The girl touched Mary’s arm and pointed to them:
“That’s what women are like,” she said.
“But I want you to rise above it,” Mary cried.
“I don’t want you to be a man’s toy! You are his
superior!”
The girl’s laugh rang out.
“Toy! I like that — toy! It's the other way
round, let me tell you. I never met the man yet I
couldn’t twist about my little finger. Except one,
and then I took the wrong way; but I learned my
lesson l’” -
“Why did you leave your home?” Mary asked
abruptly.
The girl’s smile froze on her lips; she started as
though she had been struck from behind.
“Tell me, why did you leave?” insisted Mary;
“wasn’t it because of some man?”
“And if it was what has that to do with it?”


30 THE OPTIMIST
“Everything,” Mary answered sadly, “for he
has dragged you down to his level.”
“It ain’t so. I stand on my own two legs, I do,
and no man can hurt me or help me. I can take
care of myself.” She faced Mary defiantly with her
hands in her pockets, balancing herself on her
pointed, high-heeled shoes.
Then, with a sudden softening of her voice: “You
ain’t a bad sort; but you don’t understand women
'cause you judge 'em by yourself.”
“I want to understand you,” Mary answered
softly, again under the influence of her curious charm.
The girl broke into a loud laugh.
“Oh! you do, do you? All right; but remember
you brought it on yourself!” The defiance on her
face had been replaced by a hard look of determina-
tion; she began to walk about the room, her thin
young body in its sheath-like drapery giving her a
fantastic likeness to a wild animal pacing back and
forth in his cage.
“You want to know why I left home?” she began,
and her voice had regained its old sneering note.
“Very well, I'll tell you. -
“Ever heard of a town called Freeport?”
The shadow on Mary's face deepened, she nodded
silently. -
“I thought so; well, that’s where I come from,


TWO FEMINISTS 31
and a duller hole to live in you’d find it hard work
to scare up!” -
“Haven’t you parents?” whispered Mary.
“Yes, I have, old-fashioned folks that know no
more about the world than you do — without the
excuse of being too good for it. Well, they couldn’t
stand me or I them and I made up my mind I’d get
out.” -
“Did no one ever try to teach you better?”
“Tell you what they did teach me,” snapped the
girl: “That a woman had as good a right to her
own way as a man! I learned that at school if I
learned nothing else.”
Mary made no reply to this appalling travesty of
her most cherished ideals.
“Didn’t they teach you to support yourself?”
The girl laughed.
“Yes, they did; but I wanted a man to support
me! Other girls get a rich husband, why shouldn’t
I?” She stopped with her eyes on Mary's face,
where the shadow had widened and darkened. “I
picked out the best match in the town!”
She caught at her elbows again with her two
hands and hugged herself, swaying gently to and
fro,
“His father owned all our factories and was our
big man, and he had been away at college and in


32 THE OPTIMIST
Europe, and when he came back all the girls went
crazy over him. They hadn’t met him, but they
swapped stories about him —what a charmer he
was, how lucky a girl would be to get him, and I
made up my mind I’d have a try. Yes,” she went
on, in defiance of Mary’s look, “that’s what a man
would have done and that’s what I did. I threw
myself in his way.”
66 How? 99
The girl strode to the window and pointed silently
towards the dance hall on the other side of the
street. The couple they had before noticed were
standing in front of it, and she was leaning against
him in a soft effort of persuasion.
* That’s how !”
“Oh, how could you?” burst from Mary.
“Didn’t I tell you, you were too good for it;
didn’t I say you wouldn’t understand?” she turned
from the window and began to walk about again.
“It ain’t true what you say that women are bet-
ter than men!” she threw out over her shoulder. “I’m
not, so I know.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Mary asked in
a shaken voice.
“Because I am trying to make you understand,”
the other answered triumphantly. “I tickled his
fancy, and it flattered him to see me so crazy about


TWO FEMINISTS 33
him, and in a mighty short time I had him cold - at
least I thought I had — but I hadn’t ! I found that
out as soon as I let drop a word of what I was driv-
ing at — and then I made up my mind that I’d try
a stronger way!” The ghost of a blush crossed her
face. “I went off with him!'” she finished breath-
lessly.
“Oh!” fell from Mary.
“Nobody knew then because I gave them some
lingo about going to my aunt’s for the Fourth; but
afterwards they began to talk! My how they talked!”
There was another long pause.
“Perhaps I might have brought him up to the
point,” the girl said at last in her old flippant tone,
“if my folks had let us alone; but they didn’t! Oh!
no, they must needs put their fingers in the pie and
there was an awful row! — and somehow I think
he began to see through me! He didn’t at first,
he blamed them — and then all of a sudden it burst
on him what a humbug I was — and he pulled up
short! You see he wasn’t such a fool as he seemed,
and then he had met a good woman and knew the
difference!” She waited, but there was no sound
from Mary. “Well, we had a heart to heart talk,
and I saw that the game was up! I’m not one to cry
over spilt milk, and I know when I’m beaten, so we
parted friends! — Oh! no!” in answer to Mary’s


34 THE OPTIMIST
face, “not one red cent have I had from him since.
Why should I? I can support myself; but I had to
get out of Freeport; the place was too hot to hold
me! — so now you know!”
Mary rose very slowly and stiffly, steadying herself
on the arms of her chair.
“You are Nan Dayton.”
“Yes, I am Nan Dayton.”
The music from the dance hall had ceased as sud-
denly as it begun, and nothing now could be heard
but the city’s dull road.
“Did you ever hear about me?” Mary Bradford
asked.
“Yes, I heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard you were engaged to him afterwards,
and that you were very beautiful and he cared a
great deal about you — and then I heard that you'd
broken it off.”
“Do you know why?”
Another ghest of a blush, like the reflection from
her lost youth stained the rouge on Nan's cheeks.
“On account of me,” she faltered.
“On account of you, and on account of all the
other women who have been men's victims! — and
now you make me feel that my sacrifice is in vain!”
The girl’s little sharp teeth gleamed in a smile.


TWO FEMINISTS 35
“I can take care of myself!” she said, “and so
can these other women! Why not, if we’re as good
as you say?”
Mary examined her for a moment.
“Have you no feeling for anyone but yourself?”
she asked at last. “Are you just flesh and blood to
ensnare a man?”
“Dunno,” Nan answered with a shrug. “But
whatever I am, I won’t change, and there are lots
like me, though they haven’t the nerve to tell you
so. We’re out for our own way and you’ll have to
begin with us if you want to reform women, not but
it’s kind of you to try!” she concluded magnani-
mously.
“Is that why you told me?”
“I told you because I like fair play, and you
weren’t getting it! You meant to do me a good
turn and I’m no dog in the manger — to hold on
to a man who doesn’t want me — so it was up to me
to clear him.”
“It’s too late for that now,” whispered Mary.
Nan came closer to her, her eyes had become as
soft as a young animal’s.
“You’re very good looking,” she said, “and you’re
good. I didn’t quite believe it, in spite of all they
said; but now I see it's so. But — you don’t un-
derstand! Lock at me and try to put yourself in


TWO FEMINISTS 37
ately. “Let me help you; I have influence. Go
back to your parents, and I —”
Nan turned on her like a fury.
“Go back to that wretched little hole of a Free-
port, after living in New York City, to be bullied
by a couple of old-fashioned folks who don’t know
what fun is — not much! You mean well, Miss Brad-
ford; but you don’t understand this young woman!
No! I’ve made a fool of myself and I’ll take my
medicine and no kicking; but that’s all! I’ll not go
home and I’ll not eat humble pie! I stand on my
own two legs, I do, and I’ll not be beholden to no-
body, not even yo” – though it’s kind of you to try.”
“Is there nothing to be done with you?” Mary
cried with passion. -
“Nothing except to lock me up till I experience
a change of heart,” answered the girl, balancing
herself airily on her little high-heeled shoes.





THE SPOILED CHILD





THE SPOILED CHILD
HE first time I saw her was in the month of
August at a New England seaside resort. She
was dancing the “Turkey Trot,” and it seemed to
me that she gave distinction to this rather ques-
tionable art. She was very young and unformed, and
yet her general appearance in nowise denoted ex-
treme youth. Her face and throat were full, and
there was something Eastern about her narrow half-
closed eyes, her red lips opening slightly, as she
spoke with a slow, thick utterance. She was unique,
even to the clothes she wore which, bizarre and outré
as they looked, suited her. You felt that she was
satisfied with them just as she was with her frizzled
red-brown hair, and jeweled bandeau, her white skin,
her straight limbs and arched feet; and even her
short upper lip showing her white teeth in a vague,
fleeting smile. She seemed as filled with serene self-
conscious charm as a large black kitten basking be-
41


42 THE OPTIMIST
fore the fire and complacently licking her paws in
the sun.
As the girl passed me on her companion’s arm, I
was struck with something vaguely familiar about
her, and the sense of this increased when she joined
a lady, evidently her mother, on the piazza. The
latter instantly rose and wrapped a lace scarf about
her daughter’s shoulders, receiving, it seemed to me,
a scant acknowledgement for her attention.
“A spoiled child!” I decided in my own mind.
There was nothing about the mother’s small com-
monplace face in any way to arrest my attention,
and yet I felt sure that I had met her. I was de-
bating with myself where when she spoke to me with
voluble cordiality.
“How do you do? I thought I knew you; then
I wasn’t quite sure and people change so, and it
was rather dark, of course, and, as I said to Joseph-
ine, one hates to make that kind of mistake with a
stranger. But now I see I was quite right, as I
am apt to be — in recognizing people, I mean — and
it really is you, though you have grown older, of
course, which is quite natural, seeing that it was
ten years ago, and my dear husband and your dear
father still alive!”
I bowed.
Before I could speak – “You see,” she went on


THE SPOILED CHILD 43
in her steady, cheerful monotone, “Josephine was
a little girl then, only ten — she is twenty now — and
you — let me see, you must have been the same age
then — I mean the same she is now — while I 35
smiling archly.
I interrupted the dangerous question of ages to
say:
99
“We met ten years ago in
“In Paris, of course; you remember, I was there
for my dear husband's health, and to buy some winter
clothes, and your father Oh! there is Josephine
now! Come here, dear, you see I was quite right,
it is our old friend.”
Josephine came slowly forward to meet me, and
the young man with her came, too.
“How do you do,” she said briefly. Whatever
her resemblance in other matters, in speech she was
not like her mother.
“This is Jack Hayward,” Mrs. Vance introduced
sociably. “He is from New York, too, so perhaps
you already know him.”
Now, it really did happen that I knew his people,
and as I said so I noticed that he flushed. They were
neither rich, nor distinguished in any way except for
their social position, but they invariably associated
with people who were, and I found myself wondering
whether they would approve of Josephine.


THE SPOILED CHILD 45
“What do you find to do-here all day long? I
should think you’d be bored.”
She gave me another gleam from under her half-
closed lids:
“I’m never bored.”
“You are lucky,” I replied.
“Oh, there are always men everywhere!” she said,
with the faintest turn of her head toward Jack Hay-
ward’s cigarette.
He laughed.
“It suits mother, you see,” she added, apparently
in answer to what I did not say, “and so few places
do. Mother is nervous.”
* She doesn’t look so.”
“But she is.”
“And you,” I asked lightly, “are you nervous?”
Jack Hayward made a sudden quick movement
and tossed away his cigarette.
“Oh, no, I am like my father.”
“Josephine, Mrs. Smith wants to speak to you
about the party they are getting up!” exclaimed Mrs.
Vance, returning at this moment, and her daughter
and Jack Hayward strolled away. “I declare,” she
went on, “I really believe I have broken down my
health trying to take care of her — this place, for
instance — I am here entirely on her account. Why,
sometimes at night I am prefectly done up, just


46 THE OPTIMIST
taking her about, and getting her clothes and answer-
ing her notes and watching the boys she goes with
— she has a great deal of attention, almost as much
as I had when I was her age, and that is saying a
good deal!”
For the first time I looked at Josephine's mother
critically, and something that I saw in her convinced
me that she spoke the truth. She had all the quality
of youth which her daughter so conspicuously lacked;
her small, trim features stood out neatly from her
unlined face, and her compact figure was as straight
and slim as if she were eighteen; there was something
at once finished and yet childlike about her. She
seemed a negligible quantity, and yet — I knew now
where Josephine got her charm.
“I know I have spoiled her,” Mrs. Vance went on
as Josephine rejoined us. “I sometimes think she is
good for nothing except to be looked at!”
“Oh, yes, mother,” Josephine answered with per-
fect good nature, “I can trim hats!” A sudden
wave of sympathy swept over me at the thought of
a girl cast loose upon the world, in this utilitarian
age, with no more useful accomplishment than this!
What would happen, I wondered, if she were taken
out of her gilded cage and exposed to real life, with
no mother to stand between her and anything dis-
agreeable?


THE SPOILED CHILD 47
I asked myself this question again that evening
as I watched her leave the piazza, with her mother,
in a pretty show of dependence, leaning upon her
arm. “A spoiled child!” I said to myself, “and
Mrs. Vance has revolved around her, as she revolved
around her father, until they both fancied themselves
the sun ??”
This may have been the reason that the next morn-
ing I took Jack Hayward into my confidence in
regard to the character of Mrs. Vance's trustee.
He was inclined to view it very seriously.
“They ought to be warned,” he said, “and de-
mand an accounting at once. Mr. Wance may have
been a good manufacturer, but he was a poor judge
of men, for he has left Fenwick in complete control
of all their property. You should speak to
Josephine.”
But that it seemed was easier said than done. I
found on proposing the interview to her that she
had engagements for every hour of the day.
“But I will try to be home early enough to see
you before dinner,” she said graciously. “I am
always glad to meet a friend of my father's.”
It happened, however, that this friendship was not
to be put to the test, for when I came down late in
the afternoon to keep my appointment with her, I
was met by Jack Hayward.


48 THE OPTIMIST
“The game is up,” he said abruptly, handing me
the New York paper. “Henry Fenwick has failed.”
“Defaulted, you mean,” I exclaimed, glancing it
over hurriedly.
“I don’t want her to see it without warning. Will
you speak to her.”
“Who, Mrs. Vance?”
“Mrs. Vance? No, Josephine.”
“I can’t now,” I said, looking over to where she
stood, surrounded by men, and I continued with a
smile, that made us friends at once: “Besides, she
would rather hear it from you than from me. I
will prepare Mrs. Vance.”
“You must come and see us in New York this
winter,” she began complacently, as I dropped into
a seat beside her. “We have taken an apartment
at the Elmore; such lovely rooms — just what I
wanted; it has been the dream of my life to live in an
apartment hotel. I love hotels,” she concluded, let-
ting her eye linger almost like a caress about the hall.
I could see Jack slowly making his way through
the group about Josephine, gaining first a look, then
a word, finally a share of her fugitive attention. I
watched with fascination the circle of men gradually
thin and melt away. She had the paper — she was
reading it – they were entering the house - cross-
ing the hall — coming towards us.


THE SPOILED CHILD 49
“Mother,” Josephine said with her slow drawl,
and the veiled glance that took us both in, “you
know you always distrusted Cousin Henry; you were
right. He has failed!”
Mrs. Vance's puzzled expression changed to one
of triumphant satisfaction.
“There, now, Josephine, what did I tell you? Next
time I hope you will believe your mother. Distrusted
him — of course I did! I knew he had designs on
us from the time he refused to let me sell those bonds
to buy a diamond necklace. I wanted to take my
money right away, as you very well know, and you
said it was impossible, or illegal, or some such non-
sense — as if that wasn’t what lawyers were for "
Now I shall have my own way, I shall take my money
from him, just as soon as I get back to New York.”
“I think you ought to go there at once, in that
case,” I answered, humoring her mood; but she
turned on me.
“What, leave this hotel! I love it!”
“But the expense ” Josephine began in a
quick, sharp voice, and then checked herself, for her
mother’s eyes had opened wide in horror.
“You don’t mean there is any question of that?”
she gasped. “You don’t mean that he won’t give
up our money? Oh! what is going to become of


50 THE OPTIMIST
me?” she cried, “and Josephine of absolutely no
use!”
“Oh, yes, mother,” Josephine answered flippantly,
patting the curls on her forehead, “you forget I
can trim hats!”
* * * * * * *
On my return to town after some autumn visits
I went at once to the club and hunted up Jack Hay-
ward, who greeted me with melancholy cordiality.
“How about our friends?” I asked. “Is it as
bad as we feared?”
“Worse,” he replied emphatically.
“You mean they have nothing left?”
“As far as I can make out, nothing.”
“Have they no relations or friends to help them?”
“They have me,” said the young fellow brusquely,
“but so far I haven’t heard of anyone else. Mrs.
Vance's family are dead, and Mr. Vance left no one
able to be of any use.”
“Then what are they going to do?”
“I want Josephine to marry me,” he answered
simply. “She has refused.”
* Refused?” I asked. “For what reason?”
“She didn’t give me any, just said it was impos-
sible. Talks of earning her own living, which, of
course, is preposterous. How can a girl like that
earn her living?”


THE SPOILED CHILD 51
“She could trim hats,” I exclaimed with sudden
recollection.
“That is what she is going to do!” he replied.
“And what does Mrs. Vance do?” I asked with
sudden curiosity.
“Mrs. Vance has done nothing so far except cry,”
he replied impatiently.
“And so Josephine has really risen to the oc-
casion,” I asked incredulously.
“She has more than risen to it; she has dominated
it!” Later I had occasion to echo his words.
When I called upon Josephine that afternoon, at
the Elmore, I found her absolutely unchanged; she
had the same nonchalant manner; the same veiled
glance, the same soft, slow way of pronouncing her
words. While I was seeking an excuse to approach
the subject of her loss, she forestalled me by saying,
in a matter-of-fact tone:
“Jack has told you, I suppose, about our affairs?”
“Yes,” I answered, “and I cannot tell you how
sorry 95
“Of course, so is everyone; so am I myself; but
that doesn’t help!”
“Jack told me,” I ventured, “of a remedy he had
suggested.”
“Jack was very kind,” she said quietly, “but I
couldn’t think of putting him to the test.”


52 THE OPTIMIST
“I don’t think he looked at it in that way.”
“Perhaps not, where I am concerned, but you see
there is mother!”
“Yes,” I said lamely; “yes, I suppose that is so.”
“You see,” she said, softly tapping her foot in
and out of her high-heeled, jeweled slipper; “you
see, I have to look after her. I promised father I
would.”
“Yes, I see, but 95
“Father always did, while he lived. He gave her
everything she wanted — he nearly killed himself
sometimes to get the money — and he let her have
her own way, wherever he could, and travel and buy
pretty clothes; and he made me promise before he
died that I would do the same.”
“But couldn’t you take care of her just the
same if you married?”
“Perhaps, but it wouldn’t be fair to Jack! When
mother is nervous the doctor says she must have her
own way; and no man is willing to give up his. Even
father didn’t like it. But then, you see, she was
his wife and so there was nothing else for him to do.”
I paused, aghast at the magnitude of this as-
sumption, and she went quietly on: “No, it wouldn’t
be fair to Jack, and so the only thing left for me is
to support her!”


54 THE OPTIMIST
“Yes, they are to be cheap — fifteen dollars
apiece, and some are worth it, so the good ones will
carry the bad, and the money I make will give me
a start, for this is only a beginning!”
“How a beginning?”
“I have taken rooms in a house on East Thirty-
first Street; they are cheap and nasty, but that can’t
be helped — and I want to get some little milliner
to go in with me and open a shop there.”
And this was the girl I had dismissed to myself
as a spoiled child!
“The hotel keeper has been awfully kind to me.
He has taken as much pains about this sale as if it
were for himself. In fact, all the men I know have
been kind,” she concluded, with her veiled glance,
but I was in no mood for it now.
“I will send notices to my friends,” I said
stoutly. At this moment the door opened, and she
whispered:
“Here is mother; don’t say anything to her
about my plans.”
# * * * * * *
Josephine's sale was a great success. I was there
in a semi-official capacity to assist in the difficult
but necessary task of making change. Also with the
unacknowledged one of taking a friend who has a


THE SPOILED CHILD 55
mania for hats just as some people have for china
— and who I felt might be of assistance to Josephine.
I saw I was right when we reached the door and
caught sight of the struggling crowd within.
“It is like a sale at Lichtenstein’s,” she exclaimed
with a rapt expression, “the hats are perfectly
lovely!”
She emerged some ten minutes later with two in
her hand and made her way to where I stood with
Josephine.
“Will you hold these, please,” she said grimly,
handing them to me, “and don’t let any one get
them away from you, on your life!”
“I will put your name on them,” interposed Je-
sephine, then, as a shade crossed the other's face,
“You may take it off later if you don’t want them.”
“Isn’t that risky?” I whispered.
“Not at all. She is sure to want them as long as
some one else does.”
From where I stood I could see only a swaying,
swirling mass of women, out of which every now and
then one would emerge, grasping a hat, and make her
way to Josephine, for advice or assistance — and
then the same thing would begin over again, and so
on, until all the hats were gone.
It was then that mv friend returned to us, with
the last one in her hand.


THE SPOILED CHILD 57
“Pitiful! It's magnificent!” I interrupted.
“But,” coming down to earth again, “how does she
manage about her credit, and who keeps her books?”
“Well, you see,” Jack answered rather shame-
facedly, “she has always had bills everywhere, and
when she started in business she saw all these people
and somehow she has got them to trust her.” His
face relaxed a little. “And as for her books, for
the present I am keeping them.”
“I see that Josephine has not lost her friends, as
well as her money!” I said, to which he assented with
emphasis.
That was his first enthusiastic account; the second
was less rose-colored.
“It is beginning to tell on her!” he announced.
“She has lost all her fine color and has grown thin
and her mouth droops! I am afraid,” despairingly,
“that she can’t stand it much longer.”
“What is the matter? Has business given out or
is the work too much for her?”
“It’s not business!” he said with venom, “it’s her
mother!”
I decided to see for myself what was wrong, so I
called on Josephine one afternoon, late enough, I
hoped, to find the hats “all whisked away into the
big closet.” It was an evening when the weather
seemed to waver despondently between rain and snow,


58 THE OPTIMIST
as if unable to decide which was dreariest. Every
now and then a strong east wind would charge down
from the high buildings, and swirl through the
streets, sweeping them clean in places, and then cov-
ering them again with dust. As far as my eye could
reach huge sky-scrapers and deserted dwelling houses
swore softly at each other. In the little side street.
they were too hopeless even to swear. I picked my
way between the dingy houses, and, having stumbled
up the dark stairway of one of the dingiest, I found
the room into which I entered, by contrast, pe-
culiarly cheerful. -
It was the sitting room of what had once been a
private dwelling, and enough of its dignity lingered,
in the hardwood floors and carved woodwork for
Josephine to make as much of as of her talent for
trimming hats. Bits of painted furniture, formerly
in her bedroom, showed against the white walls, while
a few hat boxes, matching the chintz on her sofa,
rather added than detracted from the effect. There
was a real fireplace, and a real fire.
Mrs. Vance sat in an easy chair before it, with a
novel on her lap, and beside her a bunch of roses and
an untasted cup of tea; but in spite of these stimu-
lants to cheerfulness, she was rocking herself to and
fro in abject despair. Josephine stood at her side
and I recognized at a glance the truth of Jack's


THE SPOILED CHILD 59
picture. Her fleeting smile was absent and I missed
in her voice its old alluring note.
“It is kind of you to come,” Mrs. Vance murmured
plaintively, “but I shall hardly trouble anyone long.”
“Let me get you a cup of hot tea,” Josephine in-
terposed. “You don’t mind if I leave you with her
for a few moments,” she whispered hurriedly. “It’s
a relief to her to complain to some one besides me.”
I took the vacant chair at Mrs. Vance's side and
looked at her carefully. She was certainly an object
of pity; her trim little features were distorted with
grief, and her small, vacant face had taken on an
expression of such wrathful desolation as almost to
give it dignity; while her voice had a pathetic quality
that recalled her daughter's, as she said:
“Look what I have come to !”
I was too impressed to answer except by a sym-
pathetic murmur.
“It isn’t fair,” she moaned, “and if there
was such a thing as justice in the world it couldn’t
have happened! If ever there was a woman who
deserved consideration and attention and an easy
life it's I! I never think of myself; I never have;
from the time that Josephine was born I have always
done everything and sacrificed everything and given
up everything for her; just as I did before for her
dear father! And now when I thought I should have


60 THE OPTIMIST
my reward and settle down for a little comfort in a
hotel in New York, I am cheated out of it by that
wicked cousin of my husband’s !”
“It is very hard?” I exclaimed, caught and car-
ried away in spite of myself by the very extremity
of her grief.
“Hard!” It was impossible to convey a stronger
note of self-pity into any voice than rang through
Mrs. Wance’s now. “And to think that Josephine
should bring me here!”
“But what else could she do?” I braced myself
to ask.
“She might have let me stay where I was !” sobbed
(Mrs. Vance. She paused as though to recall her
vanished happiness. “That nice man at the Elmore
would have gone on trusting us a little longer be-
CauSe ” She raised her drenched face. “Did
it ever occur to you that Jack Hayward might want
to marry her?”
Before I could decide how to answer this embar-
rassing question I heard a slight sound and Josephine
stood beside us; there was something about the way
in which she set down the tea kettle and lighted the
lamp that convinced me she had heard her mother's
last words.
“Yes,” she said in a sharp, crisp voice, utterly
unlike her usual soft tones, “Jack Hayward does


THE SPOILED CHILD 63
window, divided between a good cigar and a strong
inclination to sleep, when Jack Hayward burst in
upon me.
“Mrs. Vance wants you,” he whispered excitedly,
“she sent me for you.”
“What for? Is she ill?”
“Ill, no. She wants your advice.”
“My advice!” I exclaimed eagerly, for my advice
is not, it must be confessed, at a premium. “About
What?”
“I can guess,” he replied with gusto, “but she
will tell you better herself. Come!”
I found Mrs. Wance sitting much as I had last
seen her, with her hands folded upon her lap, but
her face had regained the soft cheerfulness, the
pleasant commonplaceness, the serene contentment
that I had noticed when we first met.
“I want so much to consult you; thank you for
coming,” she said, giving me her hand with some-
thing in her eyes that reminded me of Josephine.
“You remember our conversation with my daughter?
when I told you about my friend, the man I wouldn’t
marry on her account – well, I answered his letter!
I answered his letter, and I told him about our loss
and how cruelly Josephine had acted, and would you
believe it, he came right on here from Cleveland to
see me. He lives in Cleveland, you know — and that


64 THE OPTIMIST
was really one reason I wouldn’t marry him before,
because I couldn’t bring myself to live out of New
York — but now things have changed! He has prom-
ised to let me stay in New York every year for at
least one month. I can easily get him to make it
two, later on — and so now the question is - shall
I marry him?”
I uttered an irrepressible ejaculation.
“Oh! I see you understand; I never consider
myself, but this thing can’t go on! It is killing me
and wearing out Josephine, and so the question is,
ought I to make the sacrifice? You are a man of
the world, not governed by foolish sentiment, like
me. Is it my duty to marry this man, and go to live
in Cleveland?”
She took both my hands, and looked into my eyes.
“Yes,” I answered with jubilant firmness, “I be-
lieve it is your duty to sacrifice yourself, to marry
him and go and live in Cleveland.”
She smiled a softly relieved smile, dropped my
hands and leaned back in her chair.
“That is just what I had made up my mind to do.”
Later that evening I took my three friends out to
dinner with me to celebrate the joyful event.
“So you have shifted your cares,” I whispered to
Josephine, as I helped her on with her wrap,
“I am not so sure,” she said thoughtfully. “I


THE SPOILED CHILD 65
have an idea that he can hold his own, even against
mother.”
“And Jack?” I asked eagerly. “Now that she
is cared for, you will make him happy, won’t you?”
“Perhaps,” answered Josephine looking at him
from under half-veiled lids. “I believe I rather like
to be taken care of again!” she finished aloud.
“You spoiled child!” exclaimed Mrs. Vance.
“Oh, Josephine is a modern girl,” Jack said laugh-
ing, “ and so,” bowing gallantly to Mrs. Vance, “even
an old-fashioned mother couldn’t spoil her.”
“Was he right?” I wondered, as she answered him
with the fleeting smile that showed her white teeth.





THE SWORD





THE SWORD
HE fog was sweeping in across the Swansea
T: in August, 1713 - just as it does
to-day – driven forward by a crisp salt breeze,
chilled by the waters of the Atlantic. The sun was
still hot, and John Martin's horse sniffed it gladly,
shaking his head free of its halo of mosquitoes and
flies, while his rider paused, before turning into the
highway that led to Wanamosett.
He was a tall man and his movements had a slow,
ponderous charm that made him noticeable even here,
where the wide stretches of landscape harmonized
with his tranquil composure and freedom from self-
consciousness. He wore his plain homespun suit
with such a fine air that it hardly seemed out of
keeping with the sword at his side, and which he
fingered from time to time in a curious stealthy
fashion. For a moment he glanced about in the
69


"70 THE OPTIMIST
direction of the Myles Block House — the scene of
former Indian conflicts — and his face darkened;
then, settling himself in his seat, he lifted the reins
and proceeded slowly along towards his father's
place.
It lay on the New-Meadows River, near the ferry,
leading to the place of trade of the prosperous Bap-
tist Settlement founded by the Reverend John Myles,
and a stone at its entrance dated 1673 marked the
year of its purchase; though the original dwelling
had since been burned by the Indians.
The present house stood a little back from the
highway and faced south — as was then the custom
— but its builder had shown a taste in his choice
of location unusual in those days, when a sheltered
position, rather than a fine view, was the ideal sought.
The house itself, a shingled two-story structure —
built outside its central chimney —had much of the
sturdy distinction which characterized its owner's
son. It had also his air of smart neatness; the clear-
ing in front was well kept; the orchards well tended;
everything looked solid and substantial, as though
built to stay. Perhaps at another time John Martin
might have noted this for, living as he did at Re-
hobeth, some ten miles distant, he was interested in
all that concerned his old home, but to-day he no-
ticed nothing,


72 THE OPTIMIST
as ever. So that even beside his son's youthful vigor
he shone out a sample of matchless old age – ripened,
but not decayed by time.
“Wherefore the sword?” he asked at last, his
eyes traveling from it upward towards the face of
his son.
“I like the feel of it!” the other said briefly.
“The war has had a curious effect on thee, Jack,”
his father answered, “ever since the Canada expedi-
tion, where you managed to capture a sword and the
name of a dare-devil, you have seen fit to go about
armed as if in an enemy’s country. Remember that
this is the Colony of Massachusetts, and we are a
God-fearing people.”
“I attack no one,” Jack said in the same half-
sullen fashion, as of a schoolboy expecting punish-
ment.
“I suppose,” the old man went on, “that 'tis to
make a brave appearance before Mistress Mercy
Thurber – I was that way myself at your age —
nevertheless it is unseemly and causes comment; we
want no sword-buckling gentry here!”
“You had them in Devon.”
“I know, and I left there many years ago — on
that account!” he added as if in afterthought.
“Father,” his son asked, as his eyes trailed over
the rich opulent landscape, “isn’t this like Devon?”


THE SWORD '73
“Ye—s,” John Martin admitted, “the country is
like it, though not, of course, the houses.”
“And the houses, don’t you miss them, with their
panelled walls and brave hangings?”
“Jack, how didst know the walls were panelled?”
“How, unless you told me,” Jack answered.
“And that I’ll swear I did not!” exclaimed his
father; but receiving no answer he continued more
mildly, “Yes, the panelling in our house at home
was very fine; but I never said so.”
“Don’t you miss it all sometimes, the houses and
the people; the women in silken finery, and the men
in brave apparel; and the shows; and the brawlings;
don’t you miss them?”
“For God’s sake, hush,” his father cried, “here
comes thy mother.” -
They both listened breathlessly and the little salt
breeze played about their faces and their deprecating
smile was very much the same.
“I was mistaken,” John Martin said at last in
a relieved tone. “I thought it was her voice, and I
would not that she heard thee.”
66 Why? 99
“Because she might fear that I missed my un-
regenerate days before I met her!”
Jack bowed, lacking courage to ask the question
that trembled on his lips; then, as his eyes again


T4 THE OPTIMIST
rested on the open Bible, he suddenly changed its
form.
“Father,” he asked with the faintest ghost of a
smile, “why is your Bible always open at the same
chapter of Numbers?”
For a moment John Martin stared angrily, then
turned again to the house to listen for his wife's
coming. Then, at last his eyes searched his son’s
face, and the same furtive, humorous smile gleamed
in his eyes.
“Jack,” he said, “I had not a godly bringing
up like thee! I was not taught from my youth up
to read the word of God.”
“No,” answered his son, “we are neither of us
religious!”
“Hold thy tongue, boy!” exclaimed his father.
“What is this, heresy?”
“The truth!” replied Jack boldly. “Why not
speak it? No one can hear us!”
A rueful expression appeared on the old man’s
face,
“No, Jack,” he acknowledged at last, “we are
not religious; but then, as godly Mr. Myles used to
say, ‘God knows that and will require the less at
our hands !’”
“And we see things as they are!”
“God forgive us, Jack, we do!”


76 THE OPTIMIST
“Well? *
“You have felt the curse!”
“The curse,” said Jack with something like a
sneer, “that is my mother's saying!”
“And ’tis mine, too !” his father answered,
“for I have felt it –“ the curse of worldliness!” I
tell you, son, that had it not been for your mother
and that holy man of God, the Reverend Mr. Myles,
I had been lost! He understood me and since his
death she has been the only one who did! You say
they distrust me here, and perhaps 'tis true, but the
curse has lifted as 'twill with thee! There is nothing
will save you, Jack, but a good wife — an she be
submissive — and Mistress Mercy is.”
“I care not to marry,” his son said coldly.
“She is fair and comely to look at, and of an
even disposition; and has housewifely gifts; and she
can read thee like a book!”
“Father, all that matters not to me — I must
away!”
There was a silence, and the mist crept farther
up the river.
“Where?” asked the old man at length.
“Anywhere, so it be from here?”
The heavy frown on John Martin’s lips lightened
into a smile.
“Has Mistress Mercy refused thee?”


THE SWORD 77
“No, nor will not!” his son replied, “for I shall
not ask her. I am tired of it all; I have been mar-
ried once for my soul’s weal and that was once too
often! Now I want my freedom.”
“Mistress Mercy is a widow and may feel the
same way!”
“Very likely; but it matters not! I shall be gone!”
“And your children?” demanded his father.
“They have money enough from their mother and
my mother will bring them up better than I can!”
“She will indeed; and what about her?”
The eyes of both men turned towards the house
and then searched each other’s faces.
“I am sorry,” Jack muttered, “but I must go!”
John Martin let himself sink back upon his seat
and leaned his head on his staff.
“Boy,” he said at last, “tell me the truth; how
camest thou by the sword? 'Tis though it had be-
witched thee!”
The sullen expression on Jack’s face gave way
for the first time, and for the first time he spoke and
acted like a man.
“I won it!” he cried. “I won it by mine own
good arm – in single combat with a Frenchman! A
fair fight and no favor! I had him down; my hands
were on his throat; prepared to take his life and —
I could not! – even though he was a Papist and ac-


'78 THE OPTIMIST
cursed, he had fought too well! Reproach me not,
did I not own that I was not religious! — I took my
hands away and motioned him to rise. “Yield thee, I
said, and he handed me his sword! 'Tis a Toledo
blade and I had never seen one. I was examining it
when they took me prisoner!” He paused and ran
his fingers lovingly along the blade. “I thought then
that my last hour had come, for there were Indians
among them, and they had taken away the sword
— I suspected even my Frenchman — but no, he
placed himself before me; he said something, they
fell back and with a low bow he signed to me to follow.
It seems it was the Seigneur I had fought, and
he was taking me to the Seigneurie.”
“I see; I could never understand before why they
released thee! but — whence this secrecy?”
A deep flush flooded the young man’s cheek.
“”Twere hopeless to make you understand.”
It was as though he was striving to express some-
thing dark even to himself, and to be groping about
for some way to put it into words.
“It was all so different from here, all but the
people, and they were the same, only — more civil,
and generous; I cannot tell you how generous! The
Seigneur took me to his house — such a house as I
had never seen — panelled in white; perhaps the
panelling in your old home was like it; and so beau-


THE SWORD 79
tiful! I had supper with him — such a supper-
flowers on the table, and the dishes of silver! — his
wife, too, was there, with her maidens, all in brave
attire – and such courtesy ! — not a word to re-
mind me that to her I was only a heretic?”
“Jack, didst also forget that to thee she was
only a Papist?”
“Yes,” Jack answered, “and so would you,
had you been with me!” John Martin sighed and
shook his head; but did not otherwise dispute the
assertion.
“How could I recall a thing like that?” his son
went on, “in face of such fair courtesy' — when she
thanked me for having spared her husband; when she
told me that I was free; when, before them all, she
handed me back the sword and said, ‘You have won
it, mon beau chevalier!’ Wouldst have me show
myself less generous? Answer me!”
“No,” escaped involuntarily from John Martin.
“Why — why may I not be a man instead of a
saint. I am not the stuff of which saints are made,
even poor ones, father — any more than you! I
want to go out in the world; I want to fight for my-
self and conquer as I conquered the Frenchman.”
“And suppose, Jack,” his father asked, “that the
world conquers thee!”


80 THE OPTIMIST
“Even then, if I am to be lost for it! at least
let me have a few years of freedom!”
He flung out his challenge as though in this mo-
ment of madness he was ready to defy, not only God,
but all creation as well. Yet the river rippled on,
and the little sea breeze played with the hair on his
forehead, and even his father's face retained its
tolerant look.
“Freedom,” he asked, “to sin.”
“No, to be happy.”
“So be it,” John Martin said, “and here I score,
for here I am on my own ground. About the other
world I am no great judge, but about this one I know
as much as the veriest saint, and I tell you, boy, your
bargain’s a poor one! Happy! You'll be the most
miserable thing alive! A poor man, with a proud
stomach; a weak man with a high spirit and a taste
for adventure! ”Tis a cruel world, Jack, as well as
wicked, and ’twill squeeze you dry like an orange and
then toss you into the gutter. Dost think I don’t
know; why I have ground my teeth for very rage in
past years, for my own impotence and misery. —
that was before I met your mother! That is what
I would save you from.”
“And if I persist, will you forbid me to go?”
His father frowned and glanced towards the
house; then seemed to come to a decision.


THE SWORD 81
“No,” he said. “I shall not, for I know that this
would only make you more determined; but as for
any other help from me count not on my weakness!
Rocky River Farm is yours; but try to sell it against
my will and see what follows! If one of the brethren
should chance to buy it, he’ll salve his conscience by
paying a small price, mark my words well.”
“Honored sir, in any case, may I not have your
blessing?”
“My blessing, yes, God forgive me Jack, thou
hast it! But hush, this time it is thy mother!”
From within the house a voice could be heard call-
ing; a low, feeble voice, very different from John
Martin’s strident tones, and the contrast between
them became even more apparent, as, receiving no
answer, she came herself to the door to look out.
Johanna Martin was twelve years younger than her
husband; but she appeared that much older. Her
small, slight form was bent as well as wasted, shriv-
elled would be a better word, except that it conveys
an impression of lifelessness, which could not be ap-
plied to her. Her worn face breathed vitality; the
glow of it was in her eyes, vague blue eyes that hardly
seemed to see what was before them; but to be fixed
somewhere far, far beyond and above the horizon.
Those eyes – the eyes of a Welsh seer — were the
only noticeable things about her, for her face was


82 THE OPTIMIST
gentle and colorless – after a typical Welsh fash-
ion – and her manner even more so; while her voice
had still the faintest ghost of a foreign accent;
though she and her family had left Wales, with the
Reverend John Myles some forty years before,
“I called you once before, son John,” she said,
“how is it you have kept me waiting?”
Her fashion of speaking was different from her
husband's. John Martin’s had always a certain
air as of one “to the manner born,” and though
his language often appeared old-fashioned, as
pertaining to the period at which he had left England,
it was always that of a man of the world, while his
wife's seemed to belong to her alone, and to be not so
much provincial as individual.
“Yes,” she said with her vague smile, “I have
waited long; come in.”
She led the way into the house, and her son fol-
lowed silently, leaving his father still outside, and
bending his head a little as he entered the door.
Inside it was already growing dark, the small win-
dows, with their opaque glass admitting little light
and, in spite of the warmth of the day, the air felt
damp. The ceiling was very low, and its deep beams
made it seem even lower, so that the room, though
spacious for that period, looked curiously con-
tracted as they entered it from the open air.


THE SWORD 85
He leaned over her, grasping her hands.
“Mother, I want to go away; to see the world;
to feel what 'tis like; to conquer, or else renounce it!
I want some credit for my choice and not to be kept
here and married against my will, and forced against
my will to be a Christian! I am a man and not a
saint, and I want my freedom!”
As he paused, overwhelmed at his own audacity,
she suddenly called out:
“How like thy father?”
She put her arms about him, defending him from an
evil spirit:
“Oh! my son, you are so like him! So
much more like him than any child I have, that I
must be patient! Oh! I have heard him say the like
so many times before — yet he repented, as thou
wilt! Be warned and struggle against the tempter!
Remember your babes, for whom God holds you re-
sponsible. Remember your father, who is failing —
I can see it though all else are blind. If you go,
you will never meet him in this world again, no nor
unless God have mercy in the world to come.”
“Mother,” he pleaded, “you have many other
children, what does it matter about me? My brother,
Melitiah, is wise and studious, and Ephriam knows
how to make his way in the world, and Manasseh is
a godly minister, and — Ebenezer is like you and the


86 THE OPTIMIST
favorite - why can you not spare one son? Let me
go my own way, even to destruction!”
She motioned him to her side with a commanding
gesture, and pointed to the distant meadows, where
the sheep were being rounded up into the fold.
“‘How think ye,’” she quoted, ““if a man have a
hundred sheep and one of them be gone astray, doth
he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the
mountain and seeketh that which is gone astray?’
To me, at this time, you are the most precious child
I have! Pray, my son, pray that this curse be lifted
from thee!”
A ray of sunshine touched her bowed head as she
folded her hands and then raised them in blessing.
“I will strive against it,” he answered, over-
whelmed by the force of her appeal.
Outside could be heard the tinkle of bells and the
soft thud of the cattle's feet as they trotted home
for milking time. Mistress Joan lifted her head.
“Your father will be wanting his supper,” she
murmured, and, rising, she greeted her husband
calmly as he entered the door.
“It is not often, sweetheart, that I find your sup-
per late,” he said, glancing in a questioning manner
between her and his son.
“I await the children, they have gone to Mistress
Mercy Thurber’s, and that reminds me, my son,”


88 THE OPTIMIST
of her shapely figure, and every line of her blooming
face – with its blond coloring and childlike sensuous-
ness — was brought out by the dress which she wore,
an austere dress, gray, close-fitting, yet designed
with such calculated art that it might rather have
belonged to a stage Puritan, instead of a living one.
“Were you waiting for John Martin?” a voice
said, as a girl’s figure appeared in the twilight,
“is the door open for him?”
“How you startled me, Nan!”
“Is he coming to-night,” went on the other glanc-
ing about her, “is that why you have sent away your
maiden and the boy?”
“The boy is asleep,” Mercy answered serenely,
“and as for the maiden, it is as you say. I like not
a tattler about.”
She spoke in the assured tone of a village heauty,
and her voice, although not sweet like her face,
seemed to command attention as well as to exact
obedience.
“Oh! I shall go before he comes,” laughed the
maiden she had called Nan, seating herself on a stool
by the fire. “I came because I thought you might
be lonely.”
“I am never lonely,” Mercy answered. “I have


THE SWORD 89
too much to do,” then, as though repenting the im-
plication, “but I am glad to see thee, Nan.”
Nan laughed; she was stout and comely and evi-
dently a negligible quantity.
“Tell me,” she continued, peering at the face
before her, “why did you not marry John Martin
in the beginning? He would have suited you far
better than my cousin.”
“I had no choice,” replied Mercy, “and neither
had Master Martin, ’twas all decided for us.”
“I marvel at that, for now, at least, his family
are eager to have him marry you.”
“Yes, to keep him here and prevent his going to
the war; the question now is, what have we to say?”
“Oh! by all means say yes, Mercy, dear,” tittered
her companion, “he is so handsome and looks so
unhappy and, besides, he might buy this place for
you, and put you up a fine new house, such as you
have always wished for.”
Mercy’s eyes glowed. “I should like that above
everything, and 'twould be a great help to you, too,
if you could sell the place, and give you the means
to marry,” she added archly.
Nan flushed and bridled:
“’Twas on your account I spoke, Mercy, dear,
for sold it must be. 'Tis said your husband
got too cheap a rent because he was a kinsman,


90 THE OPTIMIST
and that we must get more. I understand not such
matters, but I should like you to keep the place.”
“Never fear, Nan, but what I shall!” answered
Mercy sweetly.
There was a silence and the melancholy howl of
a wolf could be heard.
“Ough, how dreary!” muttered Nan, “’tis lonely
here I must say for a woman like you — without a
husband!”
“Say rather, restful!” answered Mercy, “men
are such a care.
“True; but ’tis hard to manage without them!”
“I have more men to help me now than I am like
to have after I marry!” replied the spoiled beauty.
“Hark, what’s that?”
A long breath of wind rose and mixed with it could
be heard the distant thud of a horse’s hoofs. The
wind fell, then rose, again, and with it the other
sound.
“That must be John Martin!” laughed Nan;
“never fear, I am going; good-night! Mistress.”
And, gathering up her cloak, she slipped unceremon-
iously away, leaving Mercy absorbed in listening.
But as the sounds increased, paused, and then
stopped again she did not rise nor did she go to


THE SWORD 91
meet them, but sat perfectly still, the fire lighting
her face, her eyes fixed on the door. Only as a tall
form entered and stood stiffly observing her, she ut-
tered a faint cry.
“Master Martin | *
“Yes, Mistress. You sent for me, and I am here.”
“’Twas kind of you to come,” whispered Mercy.
She rose and lighted the candle in an iron candle-
stick on the table; it sputtered, then burned more
steadily and for the first time she was able to see
his face.
“You look tired,” she said, “sit down and I will
get you a cup of mulled wine.”
He took a seat by the fire and watched with an
unconscious softening of his features, while she pre-
pared the drink; and it was not so much the grace
of her movements that struck him, as the marvelous
manner in which everything came ready to her hand,
so that without noise or effort within a few minutes
she had laid before him a delicious repast and he
realized that he was faint and exhausted, and had
eaten nothing at his father’s some hours before.
“”Tis late, and I see you have had no supper,”
she said, taking a seat beside him; “eat a little,
Master Martin, later I have business with thee, but
there is plenty of time for that.”


92 THE OPTIMIST
Jack tasted the drink she had prepared, and the
venison pastry she had made, and felt revived.
“You are a good provider, Mistress,” he said,
looking up to meet her smile.
“I had to be. My husband required it of me.”
His haggard face relaxed a little.
“I remember,” he said, “that you had a fine
training from your honored mother. The first time
I saw you I marveled that so much beauty should go
with such housewifely gifts.”
“God has blessed me with a good mother and
good health,” answered Mercy, dropping her lids.
“I value not beauty which is deceitful, nor gifts
which are vain.”
“My poor wife was not blessed with either, but
’twas a pious soul!”
“I know, and so perchance might I have been;
but I assure you, Master Martin, my husband left
me little time to be religious – ’twas all taken up
with him.”
“Nay, never excuse yourself,” he answered, “it
would not become me to complain, for that you are
far too comely.”
She looked him squarely in the eyes.
“A truce to compliments! You have seen too
many comelier women at the war to notice me.”
He rose hastily, his sword clanking as he moved,


THE SWORD 93
but she had risen, too, and was rapidly removing all
traces of his meal.
“I have heard that the French women are fair
to look at,” she began suddenly. “What say you?”
A dark flush rose to his brow.
“”Tis not so much their looks that are fair as
they ways and their fashions!”
“Ah!” escaped from Mercy. She was watching
him intently from under lowered lids, and her thin
lips parted to emit her quick breath. She bent down
and touched his sword. “”Twas a French woman
gave you this.” For a moment her eyes held him.
“And you would go back to her?” she finished,
dropping them.
“How did you guess?” asked John Martin.
She gave a curious sound between a gasp and a
laugh.
“”Tis plain enough.”
Again the wolf howled and a little puff of wind
rattled the window pane.
“Does she love thee?” Mercy asked in the same
detached tone.
“Love me,” he burst forth, “why, to her I am
nothing; a boor, a heretic! Why, she is the wife of
the Seigneur ! She is as much above me as the moon
out there!”


94 THE OPTIMIST
He strode to the door and pointed upward. The
moon had risen higher and its hard white light was
on his face. Mercy crept to his side and touched
his arm.
“Never reproach thyself,” she said. “I under-
stand.” He turned and laid his hand on hers. “I
blame thee not; ’tis said we can control the heart,
but ’tis not so.” His face softened. “Yes, I un-
derstand. You love her and you want to go out in
the world and do something so that she may value
you.”
“How did you know?” again asked John Martin.
She gave another queer little laugh and drew him
back into the room. On the table the candle still
flickered and sputtered as the flame blew to and fro
in the draught, casting ghostly shadows on the wall,
and lighting up their faces, his haggard and irreso-
lute, hers pale and determined.
“May it not be that you are making a mistake
about her?” He started and drew away, but her
hand held him fast. “You would go out in the world
to learn her ways, so she may value you. Perhaps
she values you already, perhaps that is why she gave
you the sword.” -
“She said, ‘You have won it, mon beau cheva-
lier!’” he answered softly.
Mercy’s lips tightened and her voice cut like pol-


THE SWORD 95
ished steel. “I know much of such great ladies
from my mother. They are kind and change-
able and cruel. Such as you were you took her fancy
because she had never seen your like before; would
you ruin yourself to be different, just to please her,
and find out too late that it was all in vain?”
“Cease,” he cried with passion, “’tis not alone
for her sake I would go, ’tis for mine own. I want
my freedom!”
She remained for a time in deep thought. The
light was upon her face and his eyes followed it as
if drawn by a magnet.
“Listen,” she said at last, “I have long wished to
counsel thee. Wilt hear me?”
He assented with the look of a man about whom
the toils are tightening.
“Your family are working to keep you here
by any means, fair or foul–oh! I speak plainly
because the time has come for it — I know you
think your father takes your part, and that per-
chance were true, were you alone concerned; but –
there is your mother — and your brothers! They
brook no interference with their plan for your sal-
vation - witness your marriage. Make no mistake,
they have the power to enforce their will and they
will use it. You have no one in all the world to
stand your friend but me!”


96 THE OPTIMIST
“Too true.”
She held out her hand.
“I will help you to go.”
He looked at her in stupefaction through which
pierced a gleam of dismay.
“You will help me to go?”
“Do you doubt it.” He held her hand pressed in
his, while she went rapidly on. “You must have
money and that you will find is very hard to get.
Oh! I know you have your farm, but can you dis-
pose of it against your parents’ wishes?”
“He said the same,” he muttered.
“There I can help you! If you wish to sell now,
at once, I will speak to my kinsman, Richard
Harding.”
“He will never buy it,” exclaimed Jack, but her
answer came sharp and clear.
“He will if I ask him.”
“What mean you?” he asked. “Wilt play him
off against me?”
“Why not, if it will help you?” A pause and she
added softly, “he will do much to please me.”
“And you wilt do the same for him?”
“Surely not,” she replied demurely, “is he not
a married man?”
He drew away with something like an oath and


THE SWORD 97
strode up and down the room, his mouth set, his
large bulk throwing huge shadows on the wall. At
last he paused beside her.
“That was a bitter jibe, Mistress Mercy, but I
deserved it, I pray your pardon!”
“I brought it on myself. Have I no offered you
my help?” -
He resumed his pacing of the floor, and his tall
shadow followed him along the wall.
“I cannot accept such help from a woman,” he
said at last, “’tis against my conscience.”
“Your conscience works strangely, Master Mar-
tin, 'twill permit you to desert your children, and
shame your father and break your mother's heart,
but it balks at help from a woman. Of a truth I
erred when I said I understood you.”
He bent and caught her roughly by the arm:
“Dost not see that such help were to disgrace
me?”
“If so,” she answered withdrawing her hand,
“’twould disgrace thee far more to go.”
He drew back so suddenly that his sword rang
with a hollow thud against the floor.
“I have the right,” he cried, “to hurt myself; I
would not hurt you!”
“”Tis what you have done,” she answered, and
he saw with dismay the bruises on her arm. “It


98 THE OPTIMIST
matters not! what matters is that you refuse my
help. What then remains to you?”
“The life of a hypocrite!”
“Oh, no,” she protested; but he went on, the words
dropping hot from his lips, like lava from a volcano.
“I would go out in the world and fight my way!
I would conquer or die; and instead — I remain to
a life I despise, with people who distrust me, and
must humble myself to be like them. You may call
that duty, Mistress, but to me it spells dishonor.
'Tis the life of a weakling!”
“Nay,” she pleaded, “of a soldier who fears to
desert his post.”
“God knows, ’tis the only fear I have!”
“God knows,” she answered, breaking into sobs,
“’tis my reason for wishing thee to stay!”
He moved from her side and stood by the window
looking out at the moonlit scene. Everything was
very white and still. The pear tree loomed like a
shadowy specter out of the luminous darkness; the
little salt breeze just lifted the edge of its leaves and
rustled the blades of grass. Beyond that no sound
but her faint sobs. Very gently he drew forth the
sword, held it a moment and ran his fingers along the
blade. Then with one last look he laid it down beside
the sputtering candle. She heard the movement, but


100 THE OPTIMIST
He shivered again, and again he held her closely
in his arms.
He married Mistress Mercy, and he bought the
place where she had lived, and built her a fair new
house, such as she had always longed for – it is
standing yet — and she was satisfied. And when
it rose at last, a quaint shingled structure, its color
silver-gray, the shape of its roof as fair as the curve
of its mistress’ form, he had a moment of rare con-
tent, as of an ideal realized. And sitting with her in
the best room he watched the panelling on the mantel,
and his thoughts were of Devon and of his father
— but such moments were rare.
He had many interests and his life was a very busy
one. He became a member of the church and promi-
nent in the town; people spoke of him as a respected
and prosperous man. Yet all that remained of his
youthful dream was this house which he had built and
— the sword.
For it is recorded that when he was about to die,
and children and grandchildren crowded about his
bed, he turned to Mistress Mercy, who was kneeling
beside him, and said to her softly:
* The sword.”
And, as she placed it in his hand, he clasped it for
the last time and whispered:
“You have won it, mon beau chevalier!” and died.


HIS BROTHER'S STORY





HIS BROTHER'S STORY
T WON'T do, my dear boy, the public would
I never stand for it!”
Charles Grosvenor was smiling and all his features
smiled with him, until the smile seemed to take in his
whole personality.
The man facing him was not in a mood to appre-
ciate this humorous philosophy, which some of the
editor’s enemies called a glorified Philistinism. He
stood there rather stiffly, his boyish figure — the
figure of an athlete — drawn up to its full height,
his wide-open blue eyes staring straight before him,
his face puckered into a puzzled, worried frown.
“What is the matter with it?” he asked at length,
bringing his eyes down to the level of the other’s face.
* It is well written?”
I03


104 THE OPTIMIST
“I couldn’t have done it better myself,” Grosvenor
agreed complacently. “That isn’t the question!”
“And it is true to life?” went on his companion
eagerly.
“Yes — I suppose so, but that isn’t the question,
either. The public doesn’t want to read about real
people. They want noble characters such as you
write about, Tanner,” he ended pleasantly.
Gilbert Tanner's long, elastic fingers mechanically
caressed a check he was holding loosely in his hand.
“I am so sorry,” he said at last.
“So am I,” the other answered still genially. “Will
your brother take it very hard?”
“Yes,” Gilbert said with the same puzzled frown.
“It meant a good deal to him; he had been working
on it a long time.”
“Oh! well, we all work hard,” Grosvenor answered
briskly, “and one man’s loss is another man’s gain.
You surely have no reason for complaint,” and he
pointed to the check which the other had allowed to
slip from his hand.
“It isn’t exactly the money part of it with him,”
Gilbert said, folding up the check, “he isn’t like me,
Grosvenor,” he added with some bitterness, “he
works for posterity!”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Charles Grosvenor,
“but she is a much more trying taskmaster than the


HIS BROTHER'S STORY 105
public. It isn’t everyone, my dear boy, who has your
luck; you couldn’t expect two such successes in the
same family,” he ended with a bow.
Gilbert did not disclaim the compliment; indeed
to have done so would have seemed foolish, when
everything about him proclaimed it. The new house
he had just bought; the automobile which had
brought him there, even the very check which he
held in his hand, were they not a sign and proof of
that success which was denied to his brother? He
took up the manuscript, rolled it up and put it in
his pocket.
“I am sorry,” he repeated again, turning away
without the heart to echo the publisher’s smile.
It was a misty yet glaring day, when the sun
seemed to lie just behind a thin veneer of clouds,
ready to break out at any moment. A little damp
breeze occasionally swept up from the river, chilling
the air for a moment and then leaving it even closer
than before. It had rained during the night and
nothing had as yet had time to dry. Patches of wet
stood on the sidewalks and little puddles in the gut-
ters, while the dirt in the street was only in part
washed away. Indeed everything had a partially
cleaned, scrubbed appearance, as though inter-
rupted in the midst of a bath. Though the sun was
not yet out, its effect could be seen in places, and felt


I06 THE OPTIMIST
in the current of dry air waich every now and then
swept by. The early scavengers of the city were
already up and about; private ashmen were fill-
ing carts with refuse — which the wind as usual
scattered far and wide — sweepers were at work
upon the streets, as if to aid in the cleansing
process, at which the sun laughed slyly behind its
clouds, and then shone out again to show the futility
of the attempt.
Gilbert’s house in Gramercy Park represented solid
substantial success, success measured in brick and
mortar; something which he could point to and say
confidingly to a friend:
“That is what my first book counted me in That
is what a best seller can do!”
“Is that you, Gilbert?” his wife's voice asked, as
he let himself in at the door.
She was a tall, well-developed woman, but her com-
plexion, originally fair, had the scorched look which
only exposure to sun and wind can give, while her
white, open-necked blouse brought into greater prom-
inence the red-brown of her skin, on which the mark
of last year’s sun was still to be seen. There was
something contradictory about her, for the deeply
marked lines on her face ran down, yet her
drooping mouth was gay when she smiled, and her
smile was frequent and merry. It was as though


HIS BROTHER’S STORY I07
a constant struggle were going on in her between a
mad and a sad imp, and the former triumphed; for in
the main the impression she produced was one of
*
astounding gaiety; a spirit at once bold and free; "
disdaining pain; demanding joy in life.
Eleanor Tanner had been an athlete before her
marriage, and indeed would still have so considered
herself; and curiously enough it had been her first
bond with her husband. For in this respect Gilbert's
appearance did not belie him; he was of so muscular
a type that at college he had been less noted for suc-
cess in the field of letters than that of sport, and even
later the same thing held true.
“I married you because you were one of the few
men who could beat me at golf,” his wife had said
with her curious drooping smile, “and now instead
you suddenly take up with literature, where I am
quite willing that anyone should beat me!” she added
with a slight shrug.
“I never deceived you, you know,” Gilbert had
replied, between jest and earnest. “I told you I had
literary aspirations.”
“But I didn’t believe you. If I had I should have
said, “No thank you’; I hate literary men.”
“So do I,” answered Gilbert, and he had tried his
best not to act the part.
That was some time ago, when he was first mar-


HIS BROTHER'S STORY 109
another; that what applied to them did not apply
to him, and that when they differed, he was right
and they were wrong. This was at first, but even
then his wife's look had begun to haunt him, he could
not argue it away, he could not explain it. It was
like a strong acid eating into the substance it puri-
fies — and to-day more than ever he saw the reflection
of it on her face as they entered the drawing-room.
“You were frowning. What is it?” she asked.
He took out the check and handed it to her.
“What, all that!” she exclaimed. “They seem
to have a wonderful opinion of you!”
“Does that surprise you?” he asked, trying to
suppress his long-felt bitterness.
“I thought you had given up expecting to make
an impression on me,” Eleanor answered, looking
from him to the check. “This ought to show what
you are worth! Doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know!” The expression was wrung from
him. “Nellie, they have — refused my brother's
story!”
“Well,” she said coolly, “is there any reason why
they should accept it?”
“None, except that it is good; better than any-
thing I have ever done!”
She examined his face with anxious curiosity –
she had never suspected him of jealousy, and yet —


II.0 THE OPTIMIST
“I suppose they are the best judges of that,” she
replied, still watching him.
“They ought to be,” he said harshly, “but you
can hardly expect him to feel it! Nellie, how long
do you think he worked on that story of his — over
a year! And mine were dashed off in a few weeks!”
“But you are a genius,” she answered with a
mocking smile, but even while he reddened under the
jibe she had in her heart acquitted him of jealousy.
She could not suspect him of that while she watched
his face; that face which to her was so infinitely
finer than anything he wrote. She followed his
movements with a kind of unwilling approval; the
sense of his being, mentally, as well as physically, so
very much alive. His wide-open blue eyes searched
hers with eager scrutiny, the mental alertness
of one able to count each leaf upon a tree while look-
ing through them at the sun. His face had the
attraction of a child’s, and for the same reason that
you felt his unflagging interest in everything he
saw; and his voice had the alertness that shone in
his eyes. She noticed this with a softening that
showed in the upward curve of her lip as she said:
“I should like to read your brother's story, Gil-
bert. May I?”
He made a sudden movement towards her and then
checked himself,


HIS BROTHER'S STORY 111
“I want you to read it and I know he would, too.
Tell me what you think ” he paused and added
hurriedly, “and don’t mind hurting my feelings by
saying it is better than mine!”
He turned, caught up his hat and went out.
Eleanor remained for a moment looking after him,
with a discouraged expression in the downward curve
of her mouth. He was so infinitely above what he
wrote — that had been her objection all along. He
was too good for it she had told herself with scorn,
even while she was reaping the advantage of its re-
sults. If this was what they called art, if that was
what they termed success then she was well out of it.
But she had not meant him to know, she had just tried
to keep them apart in her mind, him and his work.
Was he beginning to see too? Was this strange dis-
satisfaction due merely to his brother's failure? Or
did he realize for the first time his own inferiority?
Did he know that he did not deserve his success? A
sudden rush of love and pity overwhelmed her for
that part of him which was not in his books. With
a sigh she began his brother’s story.
Gradually as she read her face changed again and
her beautiful mouth curled upward. Here was the
sympathetic touch that she knew so well in him, and
which was so perfectly absent in his books; here was
pity for the tragedy of real life, here was under-


I 12 THE OPTIMIST
standing in this story of his brother's, which should
have been his story. And when she thought of her
husband and then remembered his brother, she mar-
velled that it was his brother to whom the gift of ex-
pression had been given. She was lost in the wonder
of finding in this work of another man the vague
yearnings she had tried so hard to put into words,
before she had at last taken refuge behind her
acknowledged ignorance of art. Well, it was too
late now, Gilbert would never understand, she must
be thankful for what he was. As for his work, it
paid — that was all that could be said.
But did it pay? She glanced about the room, a
pretty room, thanks to her, for pretty things were
as much a part of her life as his writing was a part
of her husband's. Here was the old painted furniture
which until lately she had never been able to afford;
here was the rug, whose coloring blended so per-
fectly with it, that the one seemed to have been made
for the other; here were the curtains she had had
dyed to match; and there, on the mantel, was the
delicate French clock that suited them. She was
sure that now she could afford a pair of old Italian
vases whose yellow and blue coloring would just com-
plete her scheme – if she wished. No, a thousand
times, no! Better the old things! There were not
many left, but she loved them for the association;


HIS BROTHER'S STORY 113
they carried her back to the first years of her mar-
riage, before her husband’s success.
They had lived very simply then in a small apart-
ment, and she had been far more concerned at the cost
of beef than at the price of painted furniture, while
her smart friends had pitied her and considered it
almost in the light of a charity to ask them out to
dinner. They had reminded her, too, playfully, some
of them, how well she might have married – for
Eleanor had been a belle in her day — and she had
made an effort to reply in her inarticulate fashion
that she had chosen the best man! Now the same
women invited her to dinner weeks in advance and
said to her with well-meant congratulations: “You
sly girl, to have guessed from the first what he had
in him,” and she had nothing to say.
No, it had not paid!
With the quiet tears that rose to her eyes a faint
hope stirred, faint as the ticking of her little clock.
Was it possible that he too might have seen, that he
might have noticed the contrast, that this blessed
dissatisfaction with himself might work its own cure?
The clock struck, she heard the turn of his key in
the door. He came towards her slowly and
hesitatingly. -
* You have read it?”
“Yes, dear,” she answered quietly, “I have read it.”


114 THE OPTIMIST
His face changed at the unwonted endearment, she
felt that he was bracing himself for what she had
to say.
“And you like it?” he asked in a low voice. “You
think it good?”
She nerved herself to her task and looked at him
unflinchingly in the eyes.
“I think it wonderful,” she said, “it is true; it is
lifelike; it is the way I want you to write.” Her
voice had risen unconsciously and she faced him with
a determined look. -
“Gilbert! why don’t you write about real people?
Why do you amuse the public with fairy tales; why
do you sell your brains for money? Why are you
so much finer than anything you write?”
There was a pause, while she listened to his hard
breathing, and felt his nearness, suddenly there was
the sharp grip of his hand on her arm, and the
sound of his voice with its startled ring:
“So that was what your look meant!” he said.
He seized her other hand.
“You want me to write like this?”
66 Yes.”
“Even if it leads to poverty or failure?”
“Yes.” -
“You know it is good, and that my way is bad?”
66 Yes.”


HIS BROTHER'S STORY II.7
written? Because it wasn’t true? No, for you’ve
accepted and paid for badly written trash fom me
too often before! I will tell you why you refused
this. It was by a new man, it had new stuff in it,
and you hate anything new, you and your kind, as
you hate poison!” -
Charles Grosvenor had listened to these accusa-
tions in absolute silence, and he remained silent for a
moment after they were finished, then he suddenly
leaned his head against the back of the chair and
laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I’ve been abused for everything in the world by
almost everybody in it,” he said at last, wiping his
eyes, though his lips still twitched, “but this is the
first time I’ve ever been blamed by an author for
overpaying his work. Really, my dear Tanner, you
are right! You have the gift of originality!” He
paused to laugh again — till all at once his eyes
lighted on the manuscript, lying face downward, be-
tween them, on the table. “And so you are the
author !” he said, taking it up and beginning to
glance through the leaves, “why didn’t you tell me
that at the time and save all this bother? A capital
story, as I said before, my dear Tanner, well writ-
ten, I couldn’t have done it better myself! Let us
make a bargain. I will publish it, and pay you with
the check on the table—on condition that you sign


II8 THE OPTIMIST
your name to it. You think the public will like it?
Perhaps they may; they have always liked you,” he
ended with his genial smile.
Gilbert Tanner had listened silently, as had the
other to his outbreak, and even now he did not an-
swer, but stood looking gravely, as the lion might
have looked down on the mouse, only that in this case
the lion looked, it must be confessed, a little foolish.
There was nothing more to do; he had had his say;
and what he demanded was granted; he remained the
victor; and yet it was he, and not his opponent, who
was made to appear the fool.
“You hesitate,” remarked the editor blandly. “I
hope you do not still consider the money tainted.”
And then Gilbert’s mouth relaxed into a smile.
“Indeed,” he stammered, “you certainly have
given me the retort courteous.”
“Not at all; not at all, my dear boy, I have only
got a story for nothing. And as for this one,” he
continued pleasantly, “who knows? The public may
like it now that you have signed your name to it.
They are such asses!” he added under his breath.
And as it happened, he was right - the public did.


THE WINTER OF HER
DISCONTENT





THE WINTER OF HER
DISCONTENT
O THIS is the end,” Angela said aloud, “for
S which I have sacrificed everything.”
Her eyes swept the dim recesses of the hall with
a last thrill of possession. Its noble simplicity of out-
line, its mellow tints of coloring showed in the waning
light. Beyond the line of portraits flashed out a
view of the river, half hidden by a swirling mist of
snow. Open doorways gave glimpses of lofty, tran-
quil interiors as setting for white shrouded furniture,
and she revelled in their desolate cleanliness. She
felt they were in mourning for her — white mourning
such as a Queen of France would wear. The dull
121


122 THE OPTIMIST
panelled walls and faded hangings were bidding her
good-bye.
“It's not my fault,” she answered their mute re-
proach. “I gave up everything, even Percy!”
It was growing dark now; she was no longer able
to distinguish the river; suddenly she felt a touch on
her arm, and heard a low whine. Carlos, the cocker
spaniel, was demanding his supper. She roused her-
self with a start and made her way to her own room
- a sitting room, used in summer by her cou-
sin’s housekeeper. There was a fire ready to light
and before it a table laid for dinner. Angela’s maid
came daily to prepare it, and then went home, leaving
her to serve herself alone. She wondered how she
could ever have considered this a hardship.
“I never appreciated my blessings,” she thought
bitterly. “I pitied myself for being her caretaker, a
servant in my own house. I am justly punished for
ingratitude.”
She gave Carlos his supper, and even attempted,
though vainly, to eat something herself, but she was
conscious all the time of a force which drew her else-
where. On a table in the farthest corner, lay a
crumpled letter, just where she had thrown it, and
every now and then she cast oblique glances towards
it, partly of fear, partly of attraction, now yielding


THE WINTER OF HER DISCONTENT 123
to, now resisting, an irresistible desire to read it - to
make certain that it left no loophole of escape. It
was only after she had cleared the things away, and
was seated before the fire in a vain effort a composure,
that she yielded.
It seemed to her, as she smoothed out the paper
with shaking fingers, that from the moment when
she recognized Mrs. Farnham’s handwriting, she had
had a premonition of evil.
“I am not a demonstrative person, Angela, dear,”
her cousin had once said, “when you don’t hear to
the contrary, you may know that I am suited with
you,” and she had found by experience that the re-
verse held true.
“Dearest Angela,” wrote Mrs. Farnham. “I am
afraid that my news is going to upset you very
much. I wish I might have spared you ” here
followed a page of regrets and protestations, during
which her reader’s mind had ranged wildly through
every conceivable conjecture until she was suddenly
confronted with the words:
“I have felt for some time that I ought not to have
a country place!” here followed another page in
which delicate health and straitened circumstances
led up confusedly to the terrible climax:
“I have decided to sell the house!”


THE WINTER OF HER DISCONTENT 125
door open, and Carlos left his bed and stole after
her, picking his way carefully in the dim light.
Through the glass doors, overlooking the river, she
could see the tall evergreens, swaying gently back
and forth; every now and then a drift of snow would
fall from their branches with a soft thud, against
the glass. It was very still, so still that each breath
of wind could be heard, and even the wind
itself became as ghostlike as the snow, which it sifted
silently and continuously through the door.
“It was just such a night as this,” she said to her-
self, “when Percy went away!” and she began to
pace the hall, gliding back and forth as quietly as
the branches, which swayed against the pane. An-
gela’s beauty had taken on a similar character, as if
the winters she had spent on the Hudson had pinched
her features and shrivelled her rich bloom. Her blue
eyes were lustreless; her blond coloring had grown
dim. She looked as lacking in warmth as the snow-
flakes which were dropping out of the shadows on to
the evergreens. Her mind had gone back, back many
years ago, until she was again the young girl who
had stood there; and then as now the subject in her
mind was the same — only then it was against her
young lover that she defended it, as now against
herself. “You have made a fetich of this house!”
he had said to her, “just as your father has always


126 THE OPTIMIST
done and some day you will awake to your mistake,
as he is beginning to do now.”
“Have I awakened to it?” she asked herself, and
there was no answer. except the swish of the snow
against the door.
“It is all foolish pride!” she seemed to hear his
fierce young voice say, “and I don’t intend to sacri-
fice my life to it, as the rest of my family have done,
even if I am a Lancey!” and she had smiled at the
unconscious ring of pride in his voice. “I am going
out to Alaska to make my own way and be my own
ancestor, instead of staying on here to waste my life
for an idea!”
“And the house, Percy?” she had pleaded, “which
has always belonged to us, will you not help me to
save it?” but he had replied brutally:
“No, let the house go; it has sacrificed lives enough
already!”
Then with a soft appealing note that she could
hear yet:
“You will have to choose between the house and
me, Angela! Will you come with me?”
She felt again the compelling force which had
drawn her to him — requiring all her utmost strength
to resist — but she had resisted with a force that
increased in intensity with every appeal that he made.
She had grown to believe herself the defender of her


THE WINTER OF HER DISCONTENT 127
family, the champion of a long line of ancestors who
had dwelt here, striving vainly to preserve their heri-
tage, fighting the fatality which drew her down and
which Percy had refused to help avert.
She remembered how brutally he had refused, and
tried to steel her heart again against him; her pang of
resentment, struggling with the consciousness which
had come to her — that he was right! For she was
beaten, just as her father had been, and, unlike him,
she had not even kept her home! Nothing was left to
her but a few old portraits, an historic name, and this
terrible ache at her heart.
She pressed her hands against her temples, they
were burning, and she felt as though there were fire
in her veins. She went to the door and threw it
open; the snow drifted in across the sill, forming
ghostly pictures on the floor, as she stood there wait-
ing. She pushed it to, it resisted, and after great
effort she succeeded in closing it. She shook herself
free of snow, and went back to the fire, leaving Carlos
on the stairs watching the door.
Angela knelt upon the hearth, and raked the em-
bers together in a cheerful glow, striving to warm
herself at the blaze; but she found it impossible, and
at last she became conscious of a draught that chilled
her, faster than the fire could give her warmth. Car-
los growled, and, going back into the hall, she found


128 THE OPTIMIST
that the door, insecurely fastened, had blown open,
and the snow was drifting in as before. She closed it
securely, taking care to lock it and put on the chain,
and, restored to warmth by her exertion, she re-
sumed her monotonous pacing of the floor.
“Be still, Carlos' " she muttered, for the dog had
begun again his low wailing growl. She glanced at
him in speaking and a cold shiver crept over her, and
for a moment made her heart stand still. All along
the little dog's back the hairs had begun to rise, till
they stood in stiff bristles down his spine; he himself
sat crouched upon the floor ready to spring – and as
he emitted another low wail the truth burst upon
Angela. The little dog was afraid!
She stood for a moment, watching with a sort of
fascination the curious erect fashion in which each
black and white hair stood up upon his head, and the
conviction forced itself on her.
Some one had come in through the open door!
A dull terror seized her, and again her heart al-
most stopped beating, then pounded so loudly that
she felt it could be heard. Carlos had moved nearer
and stood facing the dining room, in his eyes an
expression of almost human distress. It was several
minutes that Angela waited, the dog beside her, her
eyes fixed upon the door towards which he steadily
pointed. The light was dim in the hall and dimmer


THE WINTER OF HER DISCONTENT 129
still in the room he was watching, but gradually she
was able to distinguish some objects there. She saw,
swathed in white, the form of an old mahogany side-
board, above it the portrait of a Revolutionary of-
ficer, her great-grandfather, the light showing the
proud curl of his lip which was so like Percy—and, as
she strained her eyes to penetrate the darkness, it
seemed as though a tall shadow of some unknown
presence lay across the floor.
“Spirits have no shadows,” she whispered with
white lips, a gust of wind shook the house, the snow
from the hemlock tree beat upon the pane. Stealthy
noises sounded; flickering, swaying shadows surged
out of the light, and melted away into the gloom —
the wind ceased, the shadows disappeared, for a mo-
ment Angela heard the swish of the snow — she
listened tensely to catch the meaning of another
sound and her heart beat almost to suffocation, for
what she heard was a groan.
And while she listened, faint and breathless, she
saw a shadowy form detach itself from the darkness,
• just within the door, it wavered, she stared rigid with
horror, it raised its arms crying: “Angela, I have
come home to you,” and sank a heavy mass at her
feet, upon the floor.
- * *k *k *k sk *k *


130 THE OPTIMIST
For a time Angela remained unconscious of her
surroundings. When she came to herself he lay on
the sofa in her sitting room — where she must have
partly supported, partly dragged him — and she
noted while applying restoratives the changes which
had occurred. She shuddered, and rush of tender-
ness swept over her for the helpless wreck of the man
she had loved.
Perhaps the touch of her protecting arms, per-
haps her breath upon his cheek, roused him finally,
or had he possibly been conscious and lacked the
strength to speak, she could not tell; she saw his eye-
lids quiver and open, he made a movement to rise; he
whispered, “I am better now!” and sat up facing
her. “I ought not to have come this way!” he
gasped; “I did not mean to; but my train was late,
and the walk from the station finished me.”
“But what has happened? Have you been ill?”
“It is the effect of starvation,” he answered
simply. “Not lately,” as she made a horror-struck
movement, “but I never got over it, and the fatigue
and the sight of you together were too much for me.”
She got him a glass of milk, which he drank very
slowly, pausing between each mouthful to rest, then
with a smile for the first time puckering his lips:
“You and the house are still beautiful. Angela,
I ought not to have left you.”


132 THE OPTIMIST
in the mines like a slave-looking for gold! And
when I got it forced to squander it away for a warm
coat, a pair of shoes! And you think it pays? Why,
do you know that when I came on here I slept in a
bed for the first time in two years, and it felt so soft
it strangled me. I lay awake all night and I verily
believe that is why I cannot sleep now! And the
sights I have seen, and the horrors I have shared!
Do you suppose I can forget them, even if my
strength had not given out? No, Angela, no, it has
not paid. It is my punishment for leaving you —
and the house. I don’t deserve to have you,” he ended
with a break in his voice.
She kissed the hand she held, as it dawned on her
how utterly the house had faded out of her mind
except as it affected him.
“You must not feel that way,” she said, “because
if you had stayed, other things — the house, for in-
stance — might have come between us. Now I have
found out how very much more I care for you. I
was slowly freezing to death, and you have thawed
me back to life again.”
“I have not much left myself!” he answered
grimly, another rush of pity swept over her, and she
gathered him into her arms in a protecting way.
“Do you think I don’t love you all the better?
Yes, broken and weak and poor as you are, I care


THE WINTER OF HER DISCONTENT 133
more for you, though you have failed, than if you
had succeeded!”
He pressed her to him, laughing softly.
“But, Angela, dear, I haven’t failed; at least not
in your way; I am not poor, you know; on the con-
trary, I believe out there I am called the “Bonanza
King.’”
“Not poor; Then why did you speak as if
“I had failed? So I have, but not in that way!
Oh, I got what I went for — money! But was it
worth it, at such a cost? My sacrifice seems to
have worked out very much like yours. For now that
I have succeeded, at the price of ten years of my life,
do you know that the only pleasure I get out of it
is the thought that I can save the house for you?”
Angela laughed through her tears.
“Darling. I am afraid it is too late for that; the
house! — I hate to tell you — the house has been
sold!”
“I know,” he answered calmly, “it was the first
thing I did, after I got that big lead. I bought the
house, Angela, for you!”
99





THE PATRIOT





THE PATRIOT
thing for his country — he did not exactly care
what. His daydreams and waking visions took
different forms. Sometimes he defended her valiantly
from the deck of a sinking ship, manfully cursing the
foe who wronged her. Sometimes he crossed moun-
tains and forded rivers in pursuit of her enemy.
Sometimes — and this was his favorite picture — he
mounted guard over his father's house on the Hud-
son shooting down her invaders one by one, as they
strove to scale the heights on which it stood. He
revelled so long in the details of this conflict that
he was late for school on three separate occasions,
and endured stern rebuke, and still sterner punish-
ment with the complacent courage of a martyr.
Perhaps in the resultant exaltation he might have
taken his family into his confidence had the oppor-
tunity been offered him, but it was not. Mr. Rogers
J' ROGERS was very anxious to do some,
137


138 THE OPTIMIST
was a very busy man, who gave his wife and chil-
dren everything they asked for, subscribed to the
Navy League and thanked God he was an American.
Mrs. Rogers was a fair Pacifist and associated with
so many schemes for world betterment that her time
and strength were quite used up. True, Jimmy was
at home now for the Easter holidays, but she was
taking a rest cure in consequence of a nervous
breakdown. -
So he was left alone to plan for the defense of his
country and there was much to encourage his tense
state of mind. He sensed a feeling of unrest in the
air; the servants talked aside in suppressed voices and
conversation ceased when he joined the group. He
divined a present danger, felt but hardly understood.
Mr. Rogers’ house was but a short distance from
the machine shop where men were working day and
night in making ammunition, and Jimmy, who, just
before retiring, used to watch the light of their fur-
nace reflected in the river, watched it now with a
sense of injury, for he was both hurt and offended
by the conduct of his friends at the shop.
“They don’t seem to want me there any more,”
he confided to his father’s chauffeur.
It was a soft spring evening and they were looking
down at the factory which lay by the river, under-
neath the hill upon which the house stood.


THE PATRIOT 139
“Too busy, perhaps,” the chauffeur answered in
his careful, correct English, with just the ghost of
a foreign accent. This was what had checked Jimmy's
confession of patriotism more than once. Conrad
was not an American, therefore the country’s difficul-
ties should not be discussed before him — at least
so Jimmy felt. With this exception his confidence
was unbounded and he cherished an admiration for
the chauffeur, greater than for anyone he had ever
met. It was Conrad who had given him his first
lesson in machinery; it was Conrad who had taught
him to drive his Ford car, and indirectly stimulated
his warlike zeal. Jimmy knew enough of physical
training to realize that the chauffeur's physique was
perfect, and he had spent hours before the mirror
in a vain effort to make his overgrown figure conform
to this fine model. There was something about the
line of Conrad's back, and the way he held his head,
which appealed to the boy's sense of beauty. He
had not confessed this admiration, partly because
there was no one in whom he cared to confess.
“Never used to be too busy,” he answered Conrad's
apology, “looks more like swelled head.”
Conrad smiled an interrogation.
“Stuck on themselves, you know, for getting those
war orders.”


I40 THE OPTIMIST
“It's the way of the world,” answered the philo-
sophic chauffeur.
“It’s not my way, I’ll have you to know — when
I'm a friend it's for keeps. I wouldn’t throw you
ever, Conrad, just because I’m going into military
camp this summer.”
“Who knows,” answered Conrad.
“I tell you I wouldn’t. You’ve been awfully de-
cent to me, and I shan’t forget,” concluded Jimmy
magnificently.
He was interrupted by his mother, wrapped in
furs, to take a turn about the place, and Conrad left
with the fine salute which always so impressed Jimmy.
“Why are you always with that chauffeur?” Mrs.
Rogers demanded.
“Where’s the harm?” answered her son.
“None, if you enjoy his company.”
“He is a mighty sight better company than any
of those rotten Pacifists,” Jimmy retorted indig-
nantly, “and I’m so bored that I’m glad to talk to
anyone.”
“I am sorry your home bores you!” Jimmy strug-
gled inarticulately in an effort to explain. At last,
giving it up as hopeless, he shrugged his shoulders
and turned away towards the dog kennel.
“That boy grows more trying every day,” Mrs.
Rogers confided to her husband, who arrived from


THE PATRIOT 141
the station at that moment, very tired from a de-
pressing day in town.
“What has he done now?” he asked patiently.
“Nothing – that’s what I complain of. I de-
clare much as I disapprove a military training I
am glad he is to have some discipline 9%
“I am glad, too,” he answered still patiently, for
Mrs. Rogers looked very pretty in her fur coat. “I
only wish his vacation was over, for to tell the truth
I am not at all happy about his being here. I have
told them to keep him out of that machine shop; but
I can’t help being anxious.”
“What, a strike again? I have always felt that
these men were underpaid.”
“The men are all right; it’s the ammunition —
99
explosions are occurring all the time and
“Oh! well, of course, James, as one of the Peace
Party I disapprove of the manufacture of arms by
anybody for anyone 99
“And you approve, I suppose, of blowing them
up, to show your love of peace?”
Mrs. Rogers shrugged her shoulders. “I do hope
when we get the vote we shall not be obliged to argue
with men. Of course, I don’t want to blow anyone
up. I deprecate it; but if there is no other way to
have peace 99
“Don’t blow up your son, that's all I ask,” an-


142 THE OPTIMIST
swered Mr. Rogers, losing patience. “I am too tired
to-night to quarrel about peace, but I don’t like
the look of things at all, and neither does Brown.”
Brown was the president of the company who owned
the machine shop.
“Do you really think there is going to be trouble?”
asked Mrs. Rogers in a changed one.
“I know there's trouble, but I don’t know just
how far it will go,” her husband answered again,
patiently. “The worst of it is there seems no way
of tracing the scoundrel, whoever he is. The men
in charge of the plant where the explosions have oc-
curred are old trusted employees and took every
precaution. They tried to hush it up at first, hop-
ing to catch the fellow, but now every one knows,
and they say if they find the spy they will make
short work of him.”
“Why not shoot him?” Jimmy asked, appearing
at this moment.
“What about the German vote?” his father an-
swered grimly, and he spent some time in explain-
ing to his son his own views of neutrality, but the
result may be summed up in Jimmy’s closing
comment:
“The thing to do with a spy is to shoot him!”
“You have a good deal to learn, my son, even for
a boy of fifteen,” Mr. Rogers said over his shoulder.


THE PATRIOT 143
“Amy, remember we are dining out.” Mrs. Rogers
followed her husband, and Jimmy betook himself to
the garage, to ponder again the subject under dis-
cussion. He felt that it vastly complicated his whole
scheme of defense. If it was easy for a spy to enter
the factory, how much easier for one to worm his
way in here. He pictured himself preparing his plan
and perfecting every detail, only to be confronted
at the end by a tall uniformed figure, and to hear
a voice say, “Surrender, you are surrounded.” It
was all so real to him that he awoke with a shiver
to his actual surroundings.
The garage was built on a platform just over the
ravine in which the factory was located, and Jimmy
was seated in a small nook he had made for himself,
near the stone wall, where he was well hidden from
view. As he stared down, through the tree tops,
suddenly and without any warning, Conrad's head
appeared, then his shoulders and finally his whole
body, rising out of the ground. He stooped and
fumbled as if replacing something and Jimmy noted
a bent tree which marked the place where he was.
With quick, noiseless footsteps Conrad ascended to
the platform, entered the garage, and disappeared
from view.
Jimmy sat for a long time perfectly still, breath-
ing with difficulty, yet not daring to move for fear


144 THE OPTIMIST
of detection — and all the time his mind worked,
worked with such extraordinary rapidity that he
could almost hear the thoughts which raced across
his brain. Like many dreamers, once his suspicions
were aroused he reasoned with perfect directness,
and drew his conclusions with the speed of forked
lightning. His dim blue eyes hardened, his eager,
wistful face grew sharp and shrewd, he ran his fingers
automatically through his shock of fair hair.
At last he drew himself up and glanced about him.
He could hear Conrad getting the car ready to take
Mr. and Mrs. Rogers out to dinner! he waited until
the noise of the engine drowned the sound of his
movements and then fled precipitately. He was only
just in time; his supper was waiting and his mother
had been asking for him.
“What is the matter with your hair and where
have you been?” she inquired, looking very lovely
and plaintive in her evening dress.
Jimmy passed a hand over his head. “At the
garage.”
“That chauffeur again. James, do you consider
him a fit companion for your son?”
“He is a very good chauffeur.”
“That isn’t the question; do you know anything
else about him?”


THE PATRIOT 145
“Not very much; it's his first place in this coun-
try; but he had excellent references abroad.”
“Did you verify them?”
“No, I took him on approval and he has made
good. Come, my dear, we shall be late if we wrangle
any longer over Conrad,” and they left.
“The mistress is right, Mr. Jimmy, though I
wouldn’t tell her so,” remarked Mrs. Rogers’ maid,
who had lived with them so long that she felt it a
duty to be dictatorial. “I don’t take any stock in
that Conrad.”
“What do you mean by that.”
Jimmy was devouring his supper as he spoke; he
was always a rapid eater, but this was his record
meal.
Mary pursed up her lips.
“Look what he dropped to-day.”
Jimmy took the object she offered him and turned
it over curiously. It was a small gold seal such as
men wear on their watch chains.
“See that,” and Mary pointed grimly to a coat
of arms engraved on its face. “Now you needn’t
tell me that belongs to Conrad.”
“You think he stole it?” Jimmy said at last.
“I most surely do.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone, and I’ll see he gets called
down. Is it a go?”


146 THE OPTIMIST
She nodded assent and Jimmy, with one last gulp,
slipped the seal in his pocket, and fled again, this
time to his own room.
He was in such desperate haste that in his search
for a book he tumbled everything in his bookcase off
on the floor before finding what he wanted. At last
he discovered an old “History of Westchester
County,” and, carrying it to the window, he read
by the dim light:
“Barrytown on the Hudson was the site of a
curious phenomenon, which became the occasion of
a fine national exploit. A lofty cave once formed
a passage between the river and the heights protect-
ing it — this was used by the Tories as a storage
room for arms. One of the Patriots, knowing of the
existence of their hiding place — from having used
it to conceal smuggled rum — determined to destroy
these stolen hoards. He therefore concealed himself
within the cave — just in front of the powder — and
on the arrival of the traitor band he threatened to
blow them all up unless they yielded. The fear of
a fiery death overcame them, they laid down their
arms – followed him out — upon which he fired the
powder and blocked the cave's entrance. Thus this
noble man, alone and single-handed, destroyed a host
of enemies.”
Jimmy drew in his breath sharply as he finished


148 THE OPTIMIST
ing a little way the hole grew larger, he turned on
his electric light and saw that he could stand up.
But here began his first disillusionment — either the
historian of Westchester had been misled, or the
Patriot had fearfully mangled the cave, for it was
now little larger than a drain-pipe. The water oozed
from the walls, and Jimmy’s feet slipped on the muddy
ground. He recovered himself, but the next moment
he slipped again, this time almost tripping against
some packages which blocked the way. As he did
so the truth leaped into his mind — it was dynamite!
It had perhaps arrived that afternoon, leaving Con-
rad only just time to conceal it. Jimmy, like most
boys, felt no qualms; he was never afraid of anything
which could really hurt him.
The cave, as it continued down to the river, be-
came so precipitous that it was easier to slide than
walk, and Jimmy found on reconnoitering that it
opened out into a larger one, evidently near the ma-
chine shop, for he could hear the muffled noise of the
engines. This larger cave had been fitted up with a
kind of rude comfort; there was a seat, a workman’s
bench and tools, and a miner's lantern hung from
the roof, which Jimmy speedily lighted. He did not
wait to examine further, but started back at once
to carry down the dynamite. It was a hard task,
which taxed at once both his strength and patience,


THE PATRIOT 151
He made a step to take it, and looked into the
muzzle.
“Now, Conrad,” Jimmy said, “none of that, I
am on to everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you came here to blow up this plant.”
“You are crazy, Mr. Jimmy!”
“Don’t call me that, don’t try to pull it over me.
I know everything.”
“So — my young friend, then how happens it that
you are here; that you do not inform against me.”
For the first time Jimmy lost his temper.
“You mean spy,” he cried, “don’t you know I’m
not that kind.”
“You talked of protecting your country,” sneered
Conrad.
“An American never does a dirty thing even for
his country; we leave that to you!”
“So you have spoken to nobody?”
“I’m not lying. I told you before I was your
friend for keeps.”
Conrad started forward with outstretched hands
and again met the cold black muzzle.
“Not one step,” Jimmy said coldly. “I couldn’t
shake hands with you.”
“But, you young devil, you said you wouldn’t give
me up.”


I52 THE OPTIMIST
“Of course not,” answered Jimmy, “but that’s
not shaking hands.”
Conrad burst into a spasm of nervous laughter;
the boy stared at him in mute reproach.
“Why did you do it?” he asked. “If anyone had
said it of you, I would have rammed it down his
throat.”
“Why did I do it?” Conrad's manner changed
from contempt to wild enthusiasm. “You talk about
your country. Gott im Himmel, what about mine?
I am in this pit, forbidden to fight, working all night
like a mole in the ground, in the daytime submitting
to insult – and you ask me why I do it. You don’t
know what it is to have a Waterland.”
“Mine would never want me to do this.”
“No,” answered Conrad, “she wants you to make
money; that is what she wants, and yet she is too
mean to fight for it.”
Jimmy writhed uneasily.
“The country is in a bad way, Conrad. I didn’t
intend you to know, because you’re not an American;
but since you’ve caught on, I’ll own up to it. Some
people care a lot for money and some people don’t
care to fight; but there's enough patriots like me
to put an end to traitors. Don’t you make any
mistake. We’re real Americans, we are, and we’ve
got the spirit of '76.”


THE PATRIOT 153
“If there were more like you perhaps I shouldn’t
be here — who knows; but here I am, and what are
you going to do about it?”
“You’ll soon find out,” answered Jimmy.
Conrad moved a little closer.
“Stop,” he said, as Jimmy raised his arm. “I
will stay where I am and talk this over. What is it
you want me to do?”
“I want you to clear out.”
Conrad reflected a moment.
“If I do will you give me time to get my things
together? I can’t leave like this.”
“Why should I give you time?”
“Because if you don’t you might as well hand me
over to the authorities. I must notify my friends. I
must make arrangements for my safety.”
“If I let you stay here, how long would you
need?”
Conrad’s eyes glistened.
“Just long enough to get an answer from them.”
“You are lying,” exclaimed Jimmy suddenly.
“You have something up your sleeve. I don’t know
what it is; but it’s there.”
Conrad swore softly to himself.
“I thought you believed in me, Jimmy.”
“I did; but I don’t any more. You have got to
go — now!”


154 THE OPTIMIST
Conrad's eyes blazed; his teeth showed in an ugly
line. -
“Very well,” he said, “since you will have it so,
I wash my hands of it ” He drew nearer and his
hand stole to his hip. “Not one step will I stir out
of this place or you either — until I have finished
my job. I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve no time
to waste. Give me that pistol!”
He sprang at the boy and wrenched it out of his
hand. Jimmy after the first offered no resistance
and retreated steadily. Then, as Conrad, slipping
the pistol in his pocket, made a motion to follow, he
suddenly sprang in front of the dynamite, seized the
hammer and swung it above his head.
“Stand back,” he shouted, “ or I’ll blow us into
Kingdom Come.”
He never knew how long he stood there with the
hammer poised ready to fling. He heard the muffled
whirr of the machines and above it the dropping of
the water on the floor; outside himself somebody
seemed to be repeating:
“Charge, Chester, charge
On, Stanley, on,
Were the last words of Marmion.”
At last there was another voice and he felt rather
than heard that Conrad said:
“You are a brave little devil.”





ALETHIA
T WAS very hot that day on the Taunton road
I when my motor broke down; the rays of the
sun bored their way into the very stones, and then
exuded again in a sizzling vapor. I had the feeling
as I worked that each drop of blood in my veins was
heated to the boiling point and just ready to ex-
plode; and yet I failed to discover the cause of the
trouble.
When at last I paused, less to rest than to take
stock of my surroundings, I found that I had been
caught in a curious little nook on a bend where two
roads meet – just before the bridge crosses a slug-
gish stream — and that before me lay a store and
a post office. Three white houses, a church, and
two barns were the only other buildings in sight;
but the signs were unmistakable – I was in a vil-
lage street. It lay there in the blistering afternoon
sun, a peaceful little place, forgotten by the world,
159


162 THE OPTIMIST
father — had a taste for mechanics, there was such
a loving touch in the very way he fingered the handle
of the crank. I suppressed a haunting fear that
from the first had assailed me, and prepared to assist
him — in vain! In spite of our combined efforts the
engine would not go. The fear settled down on me
now, cold and relentless; I stopped my work and
looked him in the face.
“That crank shaft is broken,” I said.
“Guess that’s about the size of it,” he answered
with a smile.
My mind travelled with lightning rapidity from
one grim consequence to another.
“I can telephone to Taunton,” I said at last.
“Yes, and yer can telephone to Providence,” he
answered cheerfully, “and ’twill do ye just as much
good. You’ll have to come to Bosting in the end.
Why not now and save an extrer call?”
But I refused to be guided by this precept of econ-
omy! My mind was ranging now through a whole
gamut of regrets and surmises. The car laid up at
the beginning of my holiday; my plan for spending
the night with my friends upset; the impossibility of
starting on our tour the next morning; and to break
down on my first day out from New York — I will
not repeat the word I used.
“Of course,” went on my new friend, “yer can


ALETHIA 163
try Tanten. I once knew a man who got what he
wanted to Tanten.”
“The trolley will take you there,” the girl said
suddenly, and I was amazed at her voice; it was full
and clear, the enunciation perfectly correct. I looked
at her with new interest; her words had distinctly im-
plied a hope that I would go.
“I can wait here and tell them to send me what I
want,” I hazarded.
A shadow crossed her face; but her father inter-
posed before she could reply.
“Wait here all right; but you’ll get nothing short
of Bosting. Come in and telephone; the quicker ye
do the quicker you’ll see that I’m right!”
And he proved to be, as I found to my cost during
a weary hour at the telephone. After a succession
of interminable waits, interspersed with hectic en-
deavors to make myself understood at all the motor
supply places in Taunton, I was finally obliged to
transfer my efforts to Boston. Yes, they had what
I wanted; of course they would send it by the first
train; it would reach me at latest to-morrow morn-
ing; glad to be of use to me. I hung up the receiver
at last, my satisfaction only tempered by thoughts
of the night before me.
I met the girl’s eyes as I turned from the telephone.
She was sitting very stiff and rigid in a straight-


164 THE OPTIMIST
backed rocker, her hands clasping its arms, and I
noticed that her knuckles were tense as though
strained in a nervous clasp.
“It's all right,” I said to her father, “thanks to
you; and by-the-bye what am I to call you?”
He mentioned a name very well known in Boston-
my mother was from there – but which I will not re-
peat, as it was her own.
“What do you think of that,” he exclaimed when
I had reported this fact to him. “And so ye're a de-
scendant of the Guvner, too! I claim from him on
both sides of the house; you see my father was cousin
to my mother, and his mother was kin to his father
and so on. We’re all related round here, and every-
one calls me Cousin Hiram. You can, too, if yer
want to, as you belong to the family!”
“If I may,” I said to him, “I will leave my motor
in your care and take the trolley to Taunton. I can
return early in the morning to make mv repairs.”
“Not a bit of it,” he declared, slapping me on the
shoulder, “you don’t think I’d let one of the Guvner's
folks go off in that way? You jest stay right here.
You won’t have as slick a room or as fine meals as
you would to Tanten, but you’ll be a deal cooler and
that's worth something.”
The knuckles on the girl’s hands were strained


ALETHIA 165
now, until they were almost blue. She opened her
lips as if to object and then closed them tightly.
“I am afraid,” I began, “that it will be giving you
too much trouble!”
“Trouble!” he repeated scathingly, “not much.
I killed a chicken to-day for Alethia’s birthday —
she'll be eighteen to-morrow — and we can have it for
supper, and as for the room 99
“Which room?” Alethia broke in.
“Why, the north room, child. What other have
we got? And you’ll soon have it ready, won’t you,
honey?”
She swallowed again before answering; but when
she spoke her voice was quite steady.
“I don’t think we can make you comfortable; I
think you had better go to Taunton.”
I have always believed that but for that I should
have gone. I had no wish to stay; the house as I
had glimpsed it, in intervals of desperate telephoning,
was not inviting, being old only in the sense of
shabbiness and absence of all modern conveniences,
and the room where we sat was extraordinarily un-
tidy; every object being exactly where it was not
intended to be. At the time I said to myself that the
trip to Taunton was sure to be dreadful and the
hotel hot and nasty; but I knew in my heart that
this was not the reason. What kept me was the girl!


166 THE OPTIMIST
She did not wish me to stay; very well, she should
change her mind.
It struck me that she might be already beginning
to do so, for from the moment of my decision, she
seemed to accept my presence as a necessary evil
and went to work promptly to make me comfortable.
I found on going up to my room that it was better
than I expected, for being at the back of the house
it was far from the trolley and also relatively cool.
It had a curly maple bed and a chest of drawers,
both much the worse for wear, and by the window a
really fine old secretary, its bookcase filled with vol-
umes in faded bindings. I opened it idly and began
to turn them over one by one. There was the usual
collection of travels and sermons, with now and then
a book of old-fashioned verse, but among these was
one of a different kind. It was a modern history of
Italian art and on the flyleaf was written in a bold
sprawling hand, “James Marwood.”
A sound attracted my attention. I raised my
eyes and glanced out of the window. It was a pretty
country view; a sluggish stream flowed through rich
meadow where Holstein cattle were grazing, and a
bit of lawn next the house was surmounted by a well
at which a man was drawing water. At this moment
Alethia slipped out and touched him on the arm-
She spoke for some time, quietly, but with intense


ALETHIA I67
earnestness; he started and glanced towards my win-
dow. He seemed to speak reassuring words and
patted her hand, until at last, with a glance in my
direction, she turned and vanished leaving me more
than ever a prey to interest and mortification.
When, somewhat later in the evening, I went down
to supper it had grown cooler and the wind was be-
ginning to rise. The back door stood open giving
a glimpse of the sluggish stream without, and there
was a faint, damp odor of rain in the air. I had
changed and rested and felt more contented with my
lot. As I entered the sitting room I caught sight of .
Cousin Hiram, tipping back in his chair on the porch,
talking to the man I had seen from my window.
“So yer won’t give me a hand with the chores,” the
latter said, as I appeared.
Cousin Hiram shook his head and jerked his thumb
in my direction.
“Not to-night, Nathan,” he answered, and the
other lurched away.
Alethia herself looked-up as I entered and silently
made a place for me beside her. She had changed
her limp cotton gown for a starched white dress, and
appeared far less like a Botticelli Madonna. Her
manner had changed, too; it was still very shy, but
she no longer seemed frightened,


168 THE OPTIMIST
“I am afraid,” I said, “that I am giving you a
great deal of trouble.”
“It is not the trouble,” she began, then checking
herself, “it is only on your own account!” Her ex-
pression would have melted a harder heart than mine.
“You have entertained me,” I reassured her, “and
thereby gained a blessing.”
She started and clasped her hands.
“Do you think so,” she said, her sad eyes appeal-
ing to me, “do you really, really think so?”
“‘I was a stranger and ye took me in,’” I quoted,
smiling.
She looked at me so strangely that for the sake
of covering my embarrassment I remarked:
“You must be very lonely here all my yourself.”
“Oh! no,” she answered, “I read,” and in reply
to my surprise, “I can have all the books I want to
out of the library,” a pause and she added shyly,
“and then I have to entertain my father.”
“To entertain your father, why he must be busy
about the farm !”
“Oh! no,” she said. “Father doesn’t do any
work now; he hasn’t, you know, since mother died.
He used to sometimes, to please her.”
“Then who takes care of the place?”
“Nathan, our hired man,” she explained, “and
father helps him, as he helped you.”


I70 THE OPTIMIST
There was a silence that could be felt - then sud-
denly the trolley shrieked by, shaking the house to its
foundation – the man Nathan had dropped the plate
he was holding and stared at me mutely without stop-
ping to pick it up; the girl sat as if turned to stone;
only her father's face retained its usual look, except
that a white streak appeared on either side of his
mouth.
“Why?” he drawled at last.
“There is a book of his in my room,” I answered,
aghast at the sensation I had produced. “Is he a
relative?”
“Not that I know on,” Cousin Hiram answered,
“he's our last boarder before you.”
The girl drew in her breath quickly, and Nathan
gathered up the broken plate and carried it away.
“Yes,” the old man went on, “it’s over two years
now since he had your room.” It was just two years
since his wife’s death; that accounted perhaps for
their agitation.
“Was he an artist?” I asked for the sake of
breaking the silence.
Alethia gasped and Nathan, just returning,
stopped short at the door.
“How did you know,” Cousin Hiram inquired,
looking me suspiciously in the eyes.
“I didn’t; his book was on art.”


ALETHIA 171
“We—ll,” he replied grimly, “guess that's what
my wife would 'a called him. I know he said he'd
never leave here alive till he'd learnt how to paint
them fields out there,” and he pointed with a large
gesture through the open door.
“And did he?” I asked politely.
“Think not,” my host answered, “but ’tain’t his
fault, he’s dead.”
* * * * * * *
I was up very early the next morning, determined
to make my repairs and go — but I found my resolve
premature — the trolley from Taunton arrived
promptly, but my express package did not come.
“Guess they didn’t have that crank shaft after
all,” drawled Cousin Hiram.
“I shall tell them what I think,” I answered
angrily.
A pause.
I caught a gleam in Alethia’s eyes and changed my
mind.
“What’s the use, it won’t get here any sooner.”
He laughed.
“Oh, well, it'll get here soon enough, and it’s a
great day for a bake.”
* A what?”
“It’s plain you do come from New York. It’s


172 THE OPTIMIST
Allie's birthday and I mean to give her a clambake
on our own grounds.”
This was work which Cousin Hiram could do and
he began his preparations at once; Alethia looked
plaintively happy; only Nathan remained glum.
“The buckwheat is a 'most spoilt already,” he
muttered; “it’s the day to take it in.”
“It’s the day for a clambake,” Cousin Hiram con-
tradicted, “let the darn buckwheat go and give us
a hand with them clams,” and Nathan did.
So our preparations went merrily on, save for one
regrettable incident. The house dog, a mixture of
setter and spaniel with a dash of terrier thrown in,
had from the first evinced a fondness for me, due
possibly to tidbits; more probably to a feminine love
for strangers. Now as I stood caressing her, Cousin
Hiram called her from the house; she did not stir;
he called again, but she continued to lick my hand.
Suddenly at the third call he was beside me; his face
distorted, his eyes blazing fury — with one kick he
sent the animal howling into the air, while he shrieked:
“That ul teach ye to go back on your master.”
“Hiram,” Nathan said laying his hand on his
arm; he started, as if about to turn on him; checked
himself; mopped his face and muttered:
“We—ll, she deserved it anyway!”
Alethia had sprung after the dog and clasped it


ALETHIA I73
in her arms, turning on her father the only reproach-
ful look I ever saw her give him.
“Now, Allie,” he pleaded, patting them both, “I’ll
own I was in the wrong, but she’d no right to make
me jealous. It's the way I am,” he continued, turning
to me; “I can’t stand to have my women folk go back
on me!”
Alethia did not answer. She bent over the dog
until her face was hidden. Then rising, she went into
the house, with the dog still in her arms. The old
man followed her.
“Now who would have thought that he could be
so jealous!” I said to Nathan.
“He ain’t no cause to be with Lethia,” he flashed
back on me.
I was annoyed less by his words than their fancied
implication.
“How about James Marwood?” I said, feeling
that I had found a reason for the disturbing influence
of this name; but my bolt missed fire.
“Lethia ain’t never seen James Marwood,” he an-
swered, “he was her ma’s friend.”
It may seem strange that after this we should have
enjoyed ourselves – looking back on it afterwards
I am glad for Alethia’s sake that we did. It was her
birthday, and somehow she seemed to have discarded
her terrors and to have become a Botticelli Spring,


ALETHIA 175
asked you three times already, how you like our
bake?” ~ -
This recalled my mind to the present and I an-
swered truthfully that I was enjoying myself very
much. I even went further, in reply to his expres-
sion, and asserted that I was glad of the delay in
sending my things.
“Well, now, ain’t that funny, when this morning
you were so mad about it. What a compliment,
Allie, to us,” and he wheeled round to his daughter,
in time to catch her look.
Faint memories of that clambake still float through
my mind – the damp odor of sea-weed — the fishy
scent of the sea — the smoky taint that clung to it
all — but only one thing stands out. When the lob-
ster was passed Alethia shyly offered me the claws.
“Take them,” Hiram cried. “She used to give
them to me — it’s your turn now.”
I took them fearing to offend.
Later the telephone rang; Alethia answered it and
returned in a moment, her face excited, her voice
tense.
“It’s from Boston; they have tried everywhere
and can’t get what you want. Shall they send to
New York?”
“Of course,” I answered, “it’s the only thing to
do.” She gave me a look in which joy was blended


ALETHIA 177
it fell in sheets, in torrents. I slipped on a dressing
gown and went to the window to close it.
I became conscious of a sound, very faint and
stealthy; at first it seemed to come from my room,
but later I realized that it was outside the door. It
had the suggestion of a footstep. At another time
I should have thought nothing of it, but that night
I was a prey to fantastic notions. I was obsessed by
a vision of James Marwood crouching outside in the
hall. I crossed the room, threw open the door and
was confronted by — Cousin Hiram!
A shriek rang out — I can hear it yet on bad
nights – Alethia stood there poised for a moment-
then dropped pale and breathless against the wall.
“Allie, what is it?” her father cried. “I was
only closing the window. Look up, honey, and tell
me how ye are.”
He chafed her hands; the color returned to her
cheeks, and the light to her eyes as they met mine.
“You are not hurt!” she murmured in a tone of
unutterable relief.
He turned on me; a spasm crossed his face, two
white streaks appeared on either side of it, and the
lines about his mouth curled upward into a sinister
smile; but his voice did not lose its soft drawl.
“So,” he said, “you’re playing me the same trick
he did!—but I’m on to you, as I was on to my wife,


178 THE OPTIMIST
when she told her,” pointing a finger at Alethia,
“how I’d punished him !” With a sweep of his
arm he brushed us apart and entered my room -
strode to the secretary, opened it, fumbled a mo-
ment, and faced me, with his hand at his side.
“You asked me who James Marwood was,” he
cried, “I’ll tell you ; he was a thief; just like you.
He stole my wife's heart away as you’re trying to
do with my girl — and I killed him for it; just as
I mean to kill you!”
He raised his hand and aimed straight at my heart.
I sprang aside; but it was too late. Alethia had re-
ceived the shot intended for me. As the smoke passed
I caught her in my arms. She turned her little head
until it lay upon my breast. I caught a glimpse of
her bow-like mouth above her pointed chin.
“I am glad,” she said, “that it was for you.” A
lovely smile crossed her lips. She shivered, and was
dead. -


THE WEDDING VEIL





THE WEDDING VEIL 183
“Father says you made a lovely bride,” he re-
marked in the gentle tone that took all familiarity
from the words. “I was sorry not to be there to
see you but we couldn’t both leave.”
“Tell Vincent about your veil,” his father inter-
posed.
“Yes, tell him, Mary,” added my husband.
“It was my grandmother's, the one Aileen was
named for,” I answered, rather embarrassed at
so much attention. “It’s an old saying of hers
that no bride in her family was ever lucky unless she
wore it. She left to to me.”
“And is Aileen to wear it, too?” asked Mr. Fair-
field, smiling.
“Of course, and I have promised to dress her for
her wedding; that is if she marries to suit me,” I
finished with a smile.
My eyes met Vincent’s and I was startled by their
expression, though as yet I hardly felt concern. I
was still in a state of too great satisfaction with all
my surroundings — even their defects. The shabby
paint, the worn furniture, the general out-at-elbows
look about the place, were to me so many added
charms. As I went to my sister’s room that evening
I glimpsed the avenue of oaks that led to the river.
Its marshy banks shook and gleamed in the moon-


184 THE OPTIMIST
light; the frogs croaked and splashed; the moss on
the live oaks swayed back and forth.
“A tropical Paradise,” I remarked as I unhooked
her gown.
She glanced out with repugnance.
“I hate that moss; it's killing those trees.”
“It's taken a long time to do it,” I retaliated.
“It will strangle them in the end,” she said with
a shiver, “and that sand 99
“Yes, isn’t it lovely?”
“I hate it; it’s like a desert!”
“And Vincent Fairfield, do you hate him, too?”
I asked a little sharply, for I was nettled at her
criticism.
“I don’t like the way he looks at me!”
“Really, dear,” I said with mild sarcasm, “I didn’t
know that you objected to being looked at.”
“I object very much to being looked at in that
way.”
She walked to the window and stared moodily out
at the swaying moss.
“Mary,” she asked at length, “did you ever have
a presentiment?”
“A great many times! but it has never come true.”
“Don’t laugh, Mary; remember grandmother?”
“Grandmother was Scotch,” I said impatiently,


THE WEDDING VEIL 185
“and brought up to consider her second-sight a
proof of gentility — you ought to know better.”
She made a half nervous, half petulant gesture and
I left her with my satisfaction somewhat dimmed.
It returned, however, when I woke the next morn-
ing to a sunny day with a fresh wind stirring. It
was in February and we had left cold, wet weather
behind us; slush and mud under foot and gray clouds
overhead. Even Aileen was affected by the change
and her face lost its pensive, sullen expression.
Vincent Fairfield had changed, too. I had no
longer cause to dread the way he looked at my sis-
ter, for he did not look at her at all, but addressed his
remarks to me. I expressed my enthusiasm for the
place.
“It’s home, so of course I love it!” he answered
simply.
We were sitting, we three, in the garden after
breakfast, with our backs to the sun, and his eye
swept the beds of camelias and azaleas, the sandy
walks, and sun-baked ground, with a look of affec-
tion. I was afraid that Aileen might express some-
thing of what she had said to me, but she merely
asked:
“What do you do all day long?”
He looked puzzled for a moment, and then in a
tone one might use to a child:


186 THE OPTIMIST
“I have my work; I take charge of the plantation.”
“Of course,” she said vaguely, “but how about
amusements.”
“We have wonderful shooting and fishing and then
there are the fox hunts.”
She looked interested.
“Like those in England?”
“Yes, only that ours are at night.”
“At night,” I asked incredulously. “Where?”
“In the woods; you can start a fox almost any-
where.”
“And you chase him through the woods at night?”
“Of course.”
“But how do you see to guide your horse?”
“I don’t, I give him his head; there is no danger
if you are cool and steady.”
“And if not,” asked Aileen.
“Then you come a cropper.”
She shuddered.
“It must be terrible at night in those woods.”
His eyes shone.
“It's glorious; the light of the torches; the bay-
ing of the hounds; the chase; the motion; there is
nothing like it in the world!” Then in a changed
tone as he watched her face: “But you must see for
yourself. Dick,” to my husband who appeared just


THE WEDDING WEIL I91
posin’ I drive that-a-way. If we’re lucky p’r'aps we
see 'em come in.”
“Any way you like,” I assented.
We lurched blindly along through the darkness,
sometimes so violently jolted that we were almost
unseated, Jim encouraging the horse by unearthly
noises, Aileen still clinging to my arm. I could see
that we were plunging deeper and deeper into the
forest, probably taking a short road that might
intercept the hunt — but I was no longer stirred by
the gloom. My mind was on my sister. I could hear
her quick breathing, and feel her heart beat against
mine, but she did not speak. How long our drive
lasted I cannot say, nor how long we waited after-
wards in the silent darkness — at last Jim spoke.
“There they be,” he said. -
I heard a very faint distant bay, it rose, fell and
rose again; again flames licked up the darkness; a
figure sprang out; Aileen uttered a cry. It was
Vincent! He was leading; the reins on his horse's
neck, his face set in a desperate line. He passed; a
branch grazed his head; another dealt him a blow
almost unseating him; he recovered himself and
dashed on. The next instant shouts were heard;
the tramp of hoofs stopped; the dogs’ bay increased;
the fox was run to earth! We made our way there
and almost before we reached the spot Aileen got


I92 THE OPTIMIST
out. I saw her join Vincent; saw them speaking to-
gether, and turned to find my husband beside me.
“I believe Vincent is born to be hanged,” he said
angrily, “he rode as if he had ten lives to throw away
instead of one. What had Aileen done to him?”
“It seems to be all right now,” I answered, but
something within me contradicted the words.
I was not at all surprised the next morning when
my sister told me that she had promised to marry
Vincent. She came to me in the little sun-baked gar-
den, where I was gathering azaleas for the table, and
I have never been able to see them since without the
thought of her face. She looked as fragile and lovely
and as unsuited to endure a storm.
“I know what you are going to say, Mary,” she
went on in reply to my silence, “but don’t say it,
because I have said it all to myself.”
We searched each other’s eyes and I seemed to see
into her mind.
“I love him,” she continued, “nobody but you
will ever understand how much I love him. I found
it out last night.”
“Then you had refused him?”
“Yes, I knew very well it was the only thing to
do, but when I realized what it meant to him I had
to give in.”


THE WEDDING VEIL 195
“Nothing can change my love for Vincent,” she
insisted proudly. -
“That may be, but in that case no harm can come
of waiting. It is no use, Aileen, my mind is made
up. I can’t prevent your marrying Vincent, but you
must give yourself time and be married from your
35
own home, or else
“Well?” she asked.
“You shall not wear my wedding veil.”
“You wouldn’t be so mean?”
“Oh, yes, I would, if you refused to listen to me.”
She yielded, as I had known she would, and it was
finally agreed that she should be married late that
spring, in New York.
Vincent seemed perfectly satisfied.
“Your sister is quite right,” he declared, “though,
of course, I should love to have our wedding in the
old church here. It will always be the most beautiful
in the world to me and I see,” stroking her cheek,
“that you feel just as I do.”
Her silence seemed to give consent.
After that I have only a confused recollection of
our stay. Vincent was always with my sister,
and she cared for him, there could be no doubt that
she cared for him. Her face grew lovelier daily; she
basked on his affection, as the flowers basked in the
sun-baked garden.


196 THE OPTIMIST
Then came the day of parting. I remember that
it was very close and hot — though there was no sun
— and the mist hung low. The only other memory
I have, outside of Aileen’s tearful face, is of the little
old church where she had wished to be married. I
saw it, the last thing as we drove away, its low bare
outline unsoftened by ornament, the mellow tints of
age its greatest beauty. It foreshadowed to me the
life that might be hers.
# * * * * * *
We reached home very tired late one afternoon.
My house is large for New York—it had belonged to
my mother—but it seemed to me it had never looked
so small. A drizzling rain fell, making the view of
the street most depressing, and the steam-heated air
weighed me down. Yet as we entered my sitting room
Aileen’s face brightened.
“How very, very smart and neat,” she cried, “and
how nice it seems to hear the noise of the city.”
I looked at her aghast; her sad face had lighted up;
she was quite her former self.
“How lovely to bathe again out of a porcelain
tub,” she continued gaily, “and do you realize we
shall have dinner, not supper, to-night — and on
time!” \
“I realize that I am very tired, and very homesick


THE WEDDING VEIL 197
for the South,” I added reproachfully; but she did
not seem to see my point.
However this mood did not last long, for when I
entered her room a little later, she had unpacked
Vincent’s picture, and was so absorbed in studying it
that she hardly noticed my entrance. Yet when she
came down to dinner, she had regained her cheerful-
ness in planning a shopping expedition for the next
day. -
And so it continued for some time to come. She
announced her engagement to Vincent and began to
order her trousseau. She wrote to him daily and slept
with his letters under her pillow; but she rarely men-
tioned his name. Meanwhile her old gay life went on,
her flower-like face grew sunny again; she was just
as she used to be. I watched her with that sinking of
the heart which I still refused to call a presentiment.
I had left the details of the wedding to her. My
part seemed principally to consist in explaining to
her friends that she was not to live in New York. I
did this to spare her, but whether she was grateful
I cannot say, she gave no sign.
One day she came to me radiant.
“I have a telegram from Vincent,” she cried, “he
will be here to-night!”
I had dreaded this meeting, expecting I knew not
what ill results from it; but I found I had no cause


THE WEDDING VEIL 199
“And – she likes it?”
“Yes,” I answered again. “I think she does.”
That was all; but I wondered if he was beginning
to understand.
After that I distinguished a shadow stealing up
between them and I saw its reflection upon my sister.
Her mouth drooped; she had regained the half sullen,
half distressed expression, which I had noted on her
first meeting with Vincent. I dreaded yet longed for
her confidence; but when it came I found it worse
than I had feared.
“I can’t stand it any longer,” she said to me. “I
must talk to some one or I shall go mad.”
It was late one afternoon and Vincent had just
left her; she sat down on the floor and buried her
little head in my lap.
“I have tried,” she sobbed, “to make up my mind
to it, and I can't! I hate it more and more every
day.”
“To marry Vincent,” I asked sternly.
“No, no; to live away from here.”
“Aileen,” I said harshly, because pity was gaining
on me, “it is time to stop this. You can’t go on
playing fast and loose with a man in this way. If
you don’t love Vincent more than New York you
ought to tell him so at once and break it off.”
She opened her large despairing eyes.


200 THE OPTIMIST
“I do, I do love him! It's the thought of that
place. I can’t get it out of my mind; the quiet and
the sand, and those grinning black faces, and then
that moss! — I was all right till he mentioned that
moss | *
“This is an obsession, Aileen.”
“I know, I don’t defend myself. I have had a pre-
sentiment of evil since the first night I met Vincent.”
“Nonsense,” I answered harshly because her words
reflected my own dread. “I am ashamed of you for
dwelling on a thing like this.”
“Hush,” she whispered, wiping her eyes, “here's
Vincent.”
He came in hurriedly; it was dark but there was
light enough to see that he looked upset.
“Aileen,” he said, “I have a letter from my
father.”
“Indeed,” she asked with real interest. “I hope
his cold is better.”
“I am afraid not,” Vincent answered, “and I can
see he is doing too much. I think I ought to go
back.”
“Go back,” she replied, her lips whitening.
66 When? 99
“I thought of going to-night.” She did not an-
swer and he went on persuasively: “You see, Aileen,
it's the end of the week; if I get there now there is


THE WEDDING VEIL 201
a great deal that I can do to help him before Monday;
and I should have to leave next week in any case.”
“Wincent,” she begged in a voice that startled me,
“please don’t go; I can’t spare you.”
“But, my darling,” he insisted, “be reasonable.
Remember how much my father depends on me, and
that I hardly ever leave him. Why, after we are
married, you know, we can stay with him together;
you will be there for good and all.”
I have wondered since whether things might have
been different if he had not said that. I saw her
wince; I laid my hand on her arm.
“Vincent,” she repeated, drawing away from me,
“I ask you not to go.”
“But I must,” he replied gravely; “come, dear,
don’t make it too hard for me.”
My sister is always pale when she is angry, and
she never raises her voice — now she was white.
“So this is the return,” she said, “for all my
sacrifice!”
“Your sacrifice!” Vincent asked in a dazed tone.
“What sacrifice?”
I put out my hand to stop her, but it was too late.
“Only my life,” she answered, “my pleasure, my
friends, everything I care for. It may seem nothing
to you — it’s my all.”


204 THE OPTIMIST
for me near the front. No one noticed me, for they
were watching for Aileen, and I felt worried. I was
sure she needed me to help her dress, and put on
her veil. I sprang up to go to her. As I did so
the music sounded; people turned towards the door.
I tried to look, too, but I could not see; I tried
speak, but I could not utter a word. Some-
thing clutched my heart that meant fear! I knew
they were not playing a wedding march. The music
ceased; there was a silence and when I was able to see
the people had gone. I was alone in the church with
my sister.
She came towards me in all her wedding finery —
but it was black! — and in her hand was something
dark and shapeless that cast a shadow ! She held
it out to me and I wondered what it was.
“Mary,” she said, “you always promised to dress
me for my wedding and this is my wedding veil!”
Then I knew ! — and I threw the black thing over
her head.
* * * * * * *
I was roused — if I had been asleep — by the
sound of my name. The fire had burnt low; I was
shaking and covered with a cold sweat. It was my
husband’s voice calling me. I sprang up and stag-
gered to my feet.
“What is it,” I cried out.


A LEGACY





A LEGACY
I' WAS a dull winter afternoon and a little sharp
wind was whipping up the whitecaps on the sea
and driving a thin spray of rain into their faces.
To Hervey King, with senses sharpened by what he
had already gone through, each dreary detail of the
landscape was photographed on his brain. There
were no longer any outlines or any horizon, only a
dull, grey pall which shifted from time to time as
the wind rose or fell. The road had become a
straight, silent lane with no apparent outlet but the
water, until it suddenly turned into the Chantry’s
place. There everything was grey; the rich flat mea-
dows, the sparse fringe of trees — everything but
the whitecaps on the sea. Even the house itself with
its shingles and white facing had melted away al-
together into the universal grey.
As the motor drew up at the door and Hervey was
about to leave the car: “Beg pardon, sir!” the
211


212 THE OPTIMIST
chauffeur said, “but I wanted to tell you that I am
sorry.”
“Thank you,” Hervey answered.
“She was a kind lady,” the other continued.
“Last fall when I was took sick and went to the hos-
pital, there ain’t any end to what she did for me! I
never thanked her; somehow I didn’t know if she'd
care to have me. I wanted you to know, sir, now
she's gone.” *
“I’m glad you told me,” replied Hervey.
He ran up the steps and crossed the darkened hall,
when a young girl’s form detached itself from the
shadows.
“Sylvia!” he cried, catching her to him; “you
here!”
“She sent for me. Oh! Hervey, it has been
terrible!”
“It was like Annie, she knew how much I should
need you.”
“I don’t think it was on your account,” Sylvia
answered. “I mean,” she added hastily, “she
wanted me herself! Grandmother and I have been
here ever since.” She clung to him as he took off
his things. “Oh! I am so glad to have you back,”
and she drew him into the drawing room.
It was pleasant rather than handsome, with three
large windows looking out on the water, but to Her-


214 THE OPTIMIST
almost bitter in expression, while her eyes were so
eager and pitiful. His lips tightened in a manner
that increased the resemblance between them.
Sylvia watched him with a startled comprehension
of all that he not express. She was a pretty, child-
like creature, but her tear-stained face had the
utterly desolate look one one brought suddenly into
contact with an unexpected grief.
“We owe everything to her,” she began; “it was
she who made our engagement possible.”
“I know,” Hervey answered in an abstracted
tone.
“It was she who lent you the money to buy your
ranch,” Sylvia continued, almost combatively.
“Of course,” replied Hervey, “and I would have
done the same for her if my mother had been a rich
woman instead of hers.”
“If you had she would have thanked you,” ex-
claimed Sylvia. “Hervey, have you thanked her?”
“There was no question of thanks between Annie
and me; she understood how I felt,” he answered
coldly, then, between anger and amazement: “What
do you mean, Sylvia? Are you trying to make out
that I didn’t appreciate my sister?”
For a moment Sylvia did not answer and Hervey
noticed, in gathering perplexity, the expression on
her face; it faded; her pretty lips parted in a smile.


216 THE OPTIMIST
visible hand — and through it crept the shadow of
a dog.
“It is the pomeranian!” whispered Sylvia, draw-
ing closer to Hervey; “he's looking for Annie! Here,
Bennie, poor little Bennie!” The dog paid no atten-
tion, with panting breath and nose glued to the
ground he circled about the room. Then suddenly
he seemed to catch the scent and with on eager
bound started off in hot pursuit — leaving only the
echo of his little pattering feet.
“He does that every afternoon,” murmured
Sylvia.
But Hervey had risen and was inspecting an empty
basin in the corner.
“Have you remembered to give him water?” he
asked reproachfully.
“We none of us thought of it! and Annie al-
ways kept that basin filled because Alec objected
to him in the other rooms. Poor little fellow ! No
wonder he misses her!” she added with a bitterness
Hervey could not understand.
At this moment a man’s figure was outlined against
the gloom.
“That's Alec,” Sylvia said. Hervey could not
distinguish his face in the dim light, but his voice
had all its old-time ring as he exclaimed:
“Hervey, it's good to have you back!”


A LEGACY 219
pathy, and overwhelmed at the same time by an
unaccountable feeling of self-reproach.
“I am glad you are to be here to-night,” Alec went
on, beginning to move about again with long, nervous
strides. “I have sent for a number of people to come
and hear her will. She left a legacy, you remember,
to the hospital in the village.”
“She was devoted to it.”
“I suppose you know she settled an income on you
when you married,” his brother-in-law continued.
“Yes,” replied Hervey, “she wrote me so a short
time ago. I — I never answered the letter. I meant
to every day.”
“She was never the same after you went away!”
Alec said reproachfully. -
“Then why didn’t you let her come out to see
me?” Hervey retorted. “The doctor said the life
out there might help her.”
“Nonsense!” answered Alec. “The life here
suited her best; she hated traveling just as much as
I do! Besides, she wouldn’t leave me — you know
yourself she was never happy out of my sight. How
could I know how ill she was, when she didn’t com-
plain? In all the years we were married I never
once heard her say she wasn’t well enough to do any-
thing I wished! And as for these attacks, she had


220 THE OPTIMIST
had them before, and got well!” His voice broke. “I
couldn’t know how ill she was, now could I?”
“We all made the same mistake,” Hervey answered
bitterly.
“Annie didn’t want us to know,” her husband went
on, “she didn’t care for sympathy. I sometimes think
that I am the only one in the world who understood
her! What she did for me, nobody knows! After
her death I had to engage a secretary.”
“Why didn't you do so before?”
“She wouldn’t have allowed it. She wanted to do
everything for me herself — and as to thanking her,
she didn’t want to be thanked. The joy of giving
was enough!”
He turned, and Hervey saw that his exalted ela-
tion had faded away. He had suddenly become old
and careworn, he stooped and his shoulders sank
forward.
“You will want to go to your room,” he said in
a voice out of which all energy had fled, and Hervey
felt that the interview was closed.
He crossed the hall, looking to right and left in
search of Sylvia, but she was nowhere visible, and
he was just about to ascend the stairs when a slight,
elderly woman met him with a start of welcome.
“It's a hard home-coming, Katherine!”


222 THE OPTIMIST
he had not even missed his father. He recalled her
look on her wedding day when he asked her with
boyish jealousy: “Why did you marry him, Annie?
We were very well as we were.”
“I married him because he needed me,” she had
answered with a radiant smile, and added: “ and be-
cause he is devoted to me.”
“Aren’t we all devoted to you?” he had demanded
indignantly, and she had laughed and shaken her
head.
All at once it dawned upon him that even Sylvia —
dearly as he loved her — could never take Annie's
place; the world without her was different; she was
his ideal woman! And he had never told her so!
* * * * * * *
“It is a bad night for the meeting!” Alec Chantry
said as they gathered in the drawing room that eve-
ning. He had led the way there directly after din-
ner, and the others had not ventured to express sur-
prise. For it had been Mrs. Chantry's favorite room
— though as her husband disliked it, just as he dis-
liked her little pomeranian — she had as usual yielded
to his wishes, and they never occupied it when he
was at home.
Sylvia was restless; she got up and sat down con-
tinually, straightening a light here and a book there.


A LEGACY 223
“Do keep still, child,” observed her grandmother,
a comfortable, portly old lady, with a good-humored
face and shrewd eyes. “Let the room alone,” she
added in a low voice as Alec moved to the window,
“you cannot make it look as it did when Annie was
here, and you needn’t try.”
“He is beginning to realize what a housekeeper
he has lost!” she continued to Hervey. “Did you
notice our dinner to-night?” and she gave an ex-
pressive shrug. “I always said she had the best
table of any woman I ever knew. I wish I had told
her so,” she added reflectively, “but then it is too
late for that now ! Well, she was a sweet, lovely
young thing when she married; she had only one
fault, and I see by your face you are like her — if
I may say so without offense — she was too sensitive,
and she couldn’t talk back! It is a bad plan to be
sensitive!” she concluded as he reddened under her
look.
But, indeed, he hardly noted, so absorbed was he
in Sylvia — who had sunk upon the sofa, apparently
unconscious of his presence — for it dawned on him
that something painful and oppressive was haunting
her.
“Yes,” Alec repeated, as he turned from the win-
dow, “it is a bad night for the meeting.” He had
regained his alert, elated manner and began rapidly


A LEGACY 225
left,” and he raised his arms to a panel in the desk
which concealed a secret drawer.
“No! no!” Sylvia cried in rasping tones as she
sprang to her feet. “It’s not there!”
“We shall soon see,” he answered, fumbling with
the panel; but with one bound she was beside him
barring the way.
“I tell you,” she cried, “it’s not there!”
“Why, Sylvia, child, how you do act!” her grand-
mother exclaimed, while Hervey made his way to her
side. -
“It’s not there,” Sylvia gasped, her voice breaking
and tears forcing themselves to her eyes. “I have
looked and I know,” but at that very moment the
panel yielded and the drawer within came into view,
showing, not the looked-for memorandum, but a
folded paper in a blank envelope.
“Please, Alec, take my word for it and don’t look,”
Sylvia begged, grasping his arm as he worked at
the drawer; but he answered only by wrenching it
open, and as he did so she suddenly pounced upon
the paper and faced him, holding it behind her back.
“Sylvia, give me that paper,” Alec exclaimed, still
more in amazement than anger.
“Never,” faltered Sylvia. “I put it there
myself.” *


EASTER MORNING





EASTER MORNING
"YOULD she come? That was the question he
W: asked himself through the long hours of
a sleepless night and a weary waiting for dawn.
Would she come?
Through the vestry door he could get glimpses of
the church, and of the people as they came in — she
was not there! A cloying odor of lilies floated out
to him; the sun through the stained glass made rain-
bow pictures on the floor. The stained glass was not
of the best, nor were the lilies, but they were all the
little church could afford, and as such he had valued
them. Now they went unnoticed.
The organ sounded the first chords of the opening
hymn; the choir had formed; he settled his surplice
and followed them into the church. His eyes swept
its innermost recesses — she was not there! To the
rector of St. Anne's the triumphant music had be-
come a funeral march, and when he knelt in prayer
233


EASTER MORNING 235
radiated peace, his mouth breathed good will, and
they felt it. His companion apparently felt it, too,
for her expression lightened a little.
“Do you realize,” she asked, “how many years I
have been coming here to breakfast, after Easter
service?”
“Just five — ever since you were married.”
Her face clouded again, but by this time they had
reached the house and the door was opened promptly
from within. -
“You’re late and the breakfast ’ull be spoilt. Miss
Florence, you shouldn’t 'a let them keep the master
so long.” -
“It isn’t her fault, Mary, and I know nothing can
spoil your breakfast,” he answered.
As Florence entered the bare, white room, whose
immaculate cleanliness and restful lack of ornament
had its usual soothing effect on her, she noticed that
he had left her. A noise in the street explained his
absence. He was distributing Easter eggs to a
crowd of children gathered about him, and their
shrieks of delight were cheerful if not agreeable evi-
dence of their appreciation.
“That's where all his money goes,” Mary's voice
said, “and all his time and all his strength, wasted
on other people,” she finished as he returned.


EASTER MORNING 237
“Yes, and I have never told a lie since. I wish
he was alive now, poor old dear!”
“To punish you?”
“No, to take my part.”
She looked at him from under half closed lids, but
he did not smile and she continued to play with her
breakfast. When it was finished he glanced at his
watch and led the way to the study.
“It is early yet; we have a few minutes before
service.
He lighted his pipe and she flung herself into a
chair by the fire – his only luxury – and raised her
hands above her head. The study was as plain as all
the house, but its austere simplicity was somewhat
relieved by rows of books and a fine print of St.
George and the Dragon from a little-known painting
in Venice. She was nerving herself to break the
silence when he spoke:
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”
The color rushed to her face.
“Did you think I would go back on you like that?”
“It isn’t a question of me, it is what the service
stands for.”
“And you thought I had given it up?”
66 Yes.”
She rose defiantly.
“I insist upon knowing what mother has told you.”


EASTER MORNING 239
“Is he degrading you in any way?”
“Of course not.”
* Then what is the trouble?”
She made a magnificent gesture.
“He doesn’t love me.”
* He did once.”
“I know; but he has changed.”
“Strange!” Edmund murmured with infinite
ironry, “when you love him so.”
“You know that I don’t.”
“Then why did you marry him, Florence?”
“Perhaps I used to; of course I know that I did.
What is the object of all these questions?”
“To get at the truth.”
“Then here it is in a nutshell; he doesn’t love me
and I am going to leave him.”
“Does he know that you care for another man?”
She sprang up.
“Who told you?”
“No one; in my profession one learns to look at
life without frills.”
She seemed to be struggling between shame and
angry defiance. \ -
“We may as well have this thing out first as last.
If I did love another man I see nothing to be ashamed
of.”
“Neither do I – so far.”


240 THE OPTIMIST
She was taken aback.
“Of course I know what you are aiming at. But
I deny your authority, and I deny your principles !”
* On What?”
She turned her lovely flushed face upon him and
his eyes dropped before hers.
“On love,” she answered softly.
“Tell me yours, Florence.” -
She was drawn to her full height, her eyes aflame,
her mouth aglow.
“Love, why it is the most beautiful thing in the
world, the most glorious. Everything else should
yield to it. It is all that makes our lives endurable,
and makes us believe in Heaven.”
“I seem to have heard you say all this before.”
66 When? 99
“About your husband.”
“How dare you mention him; how dare you com-
pare his love with Arthur’s?”
“I know nothing against Arthur,” he answered
quietly, “ or against your husband — except one
thing.”
“Well? *
“They are men, and apt to change.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look behind you, Florence.”


242 THE OPTIMIST
“I didn’t suppose it was in you to be so cruel,”
she whispered.
He took two or three turns about the room.
“The truth is always cruel, Florence, that is why
people dislike it. They don’t want to believe that
love can change.”
“Real love never would, even if I lost my looks a
thousand times.”
“What do you call real love?”
She drew herself up proudly.
“The devotion I have inspired in Arthur.”
“How has he shown it?”
“Shown it,” she repeated.
“Yes, has he made you happy?”
She winced.
“You are too honest to claim that he has.”
“I shall be when this struggle is over 99
“A struggle with duty?” he asked coldly.
“Don’t you dare to use that word to me, Eddie.
Women have been sacrificed to it long enough.”
“Let us drop it then, as we have religion, and take
our stand on happiness. How do you know you will
be any happier with Arthur than with your
husband?”
“Because they are different.”
“They are alike in not believing in duty.”


244 THE OPTIMIST
“I don’t understand.”
“I think you do; I think you begin to see that,
even if we eliminate duty, there must be conces-
sions.”
“I will make them — in reason.”
“And suppose Arthur is unreasonable?”
She was silent.
“And suppose he leaves you to go after big game
— or golf. You will be lonely, won’t you, just as
Merwin was?”
“Are you making a bid for my sympathy?”
“No, for your sense of fair play.”
She made an impatient gesture.
“Look here, Eddie, it is useless to argue any more
with me. Even if you could convert me to your ideas
of love, I shouldn’t have the courage to admit it.”
“No,” his eyes caught fire. “You have been living
in a Fool’s Paradise. You think that calling a thing
so can make it so, that the world owes you happiness
and when you don’t get it, it’s some man’s fault and
some other man can give it to you — but it isn’t so.”
His voice rose. “Arthur cannot give you happi-
ness!”
She dropped again into her seat by the fire, her
hands hanging limp at her side, her whole figure
expressing supreme discouragement. From the
street came the murmur of voices, as accompaniment


248 THE OPTIMIST
“Eddie,” she said, “it is no use, I can’t do it.
If I promised I should fail and disappoint you all
the more; I play fair, whatever my faults. I dare say
it’s true that I don’t deserve to be loved; but it’s too
late to change now, and even if I did there is no one
to care. I am miserable with Merwin and I mean to
leave him and let the future take care of itself. It
can’t be worse than the past.”
There was a long silence. Once he tried to speak
and failed. At last he lifted his head and looked her
in the face.
“Florence, you say you want love, an unselfish
love that doesn’t change. I have loved you always —
better than myself, better than your looks, better
even than your own happiness — and I ask nothing
in return — except one thing.”
She caught hold of the arm of the chair to steady
herself, her face transfigured. -
“What — do you — want of me?” she said halt-
ingly.
“I want you to live up to my ideal of you.”
“It's too high.”
“It’s what you were intended to be.”
“I will rise to it,” she answered with the look of
one who sees a vision.
For a time she stood in silence still holding on
to the arm of the chair, then she moved unsteadily


ALICE IN WONDERLAND


254 THE OPTIMIST
“You must be gentle with her, Jack; she needs
tender handling.”
“Tender fiddlesticks,” interrupted Mr. Morris,
“she is your only girl and you have spoilt her.”
“Sympathy doesn’t spoil anyone.”
“Sympathy for what?”
“That I must find out from Alice,” she answered
firmly, and left the room. -
“And now, Jack,” asked Alice’s father, “as man
to man, what have you done?”
“As man to man, I don’t know.”
“You needn’t mind speaking out, there isn’t a
darned woman in sight.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference to me if there
were a hundred.”
“You really don’t know why Alice has broken off
her engagement with you.”
“I really don’t know,” Jack answered, setting his
shoulders.
They were fine, square shoulders, and his jaw was
square, too, and made his pink young face look heavy
— dull one might have said except for his eyes.
“And you have no suspicion?” asked Mr. Morris.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Now we are getting down to it. Who do you
suspect of coming between you — a man?”
Jack flushed to the roots of his fair hair.


ALICE IN WONDERLAND 255
“I think – I am sure there is no other man with
Alice.”
“A woman then?”
“Alice doesn’t like women.”
“Then who in thunder is it?”
“An evil influence,” answered Jack.
His eyes showed the effort he was making to put
his feeling into words.
“I noticed it,” he said at last, “months ago —
first I couldn’t understand because it had all been
so different — then it came to me — she had
changed.”
“How changed — angry?”
“No, disgusted!”
“Humph,” commented Mr. Morris.
“When I said the most obvious things she stared
at me, and one day — she was reading - I came up
suddenly, she dropped her book, jumped up and left
the room.”
“What was the book?”
“I don’t know; I went after Alice.”
“Humph,” again commented Mr. Morris.
“Perhaps she thinks I am not fond enough of
reading,” admitted Jack. “I do like Kipling and
Stevenson, but somehow I never can get interested in
the books she cares about.”


256 THE OPTIMIST
“My dear boy, you needn’t apologize; I haven’t
opened a book in years.”
“I thought you were so fond of reading.”
“So I was, Jack, when I was her age and reading
matter was different. Where is Alice now?”
“Upstairs in the sitting room.”
“Very well, wait for me a moment, I mean to get
to the bottom of this.”
He went out, leaving Jack uncomfortably seated
upon the edge of the sofa trying to think. This
came very hard for him because he was a man who
preferred to act first and do his thinking afterwards;
but in this case there was nothing left for him to do.
He was a little encouraged by seeing Mr. Morris re-
turn with a pile of books under his arm.
“Here,” said the latter, pitching them on the
floor, “are what I found in Alice's room, so they
must be her pets. Look them over, will you, while
I try to get something out of her.”
He left the room again and Jack followed him
into the hall and waited, listening. From above could
be heard the steady murmur of voices coming from
the sitting room. Mr. Morris ascended the stairs,
the heavy carpet deadening the sound of his foot-
steps, and, when at the top, he stopped and motioned
Jack back, laying his finger on his lips. For a
moment Jack stood irresolute, then he returned to


ALICE IN WONDERLAND 263
Modern Marriage, and here in ‘The Sec"t of Peace,’
is just the man she wants.”
“I know, I have been one myself. What shall you
do?”
“Give it to her,” answered Jack.
“Can you?”
“I can do anything to keep Alice. Mr. Morris,
the Peace Party has a meeting to-night. I shall go.”
* * *k * * sk *k
The meeting was just about to begin. The
speakers were divided between anticipation and dread,
oppressed as much by eloquence as their own fears.
The shabby, badly lighted hall and dust-laden air,
the swarming, chattering throng had gotten on their
nerves. A feeling of uneasiness was in the air. Jack
Ainsworth, seated far back on one side next the aisle
was acutely conscious of it. He did not recognize its
cause; he thought it was because he was watching
for Alice. He examined the women’s faces, and
looked at each new arrival, his restless blue eyes
taking everything in.
The “Peace Party” appealed to many different
types and classes and it seemed to emphasize rather
than to lessen their differences. There was Mrs.
Blundy, the chairman, plump, placid and pleasant,
her face expressing her determination to see people
happy and well-fed. There was Miss Daws, the pale


266 THE OPTIMIST
in tears and blood. Let us paraphrase Patrick
Henry’s words and say: ‘Give me peace or give me
death. It is the guiding spirit of our fathers.”
“How about George Washington and Abraham
Lincoln?” called out a voice. Jack always feared
it was his own.
There was a turmoil, cries of “Put him out !”
“There is something in that!” laughter and shouts
of “Shame.” In the midst of which Jack heard be-
hind him the woman’s voice he had noticed before.
“What if they come to blows over peace!”
The man laughed.
* So much the better for us!”
Then order was restored and another speaker
sprang to his feet.
“I accept the challenge,” he shouted. “I accept
it boldly. What have George Washington and Abra-
ham Lincoln to do with us? They believed in war
– we do not; they were religious men, we are not!
We live in a greater and better age — the age of
peace! Let us inscribe on our banner a sign given
in scorn. The white feather, once a signal of shame,
shall become for us an emblem of glory!”
He was interrupted by a storm of hisses and ap-
plause. The chairman rapped madly for order. The
speaker endeavored to continue; the cries redoubled;
the hisses increased; there were cat-calls from the


270 THE OPTIMIST
“I have been a very foolish girl, and very unjust.
I didn’t know, I didn’t realize what you were.”
“It had to be done,” he cried, seizing her hands.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“But I do! You have proved that you are will-
ing to fight for peace.”
THE END