[illustration: aunt hannah and seth a story of some people and a dog. by james otis] [illustration: "'hi, limpy!' a shrill voice cried."] [illustration: _aunt hannah and seth by james otis author of "how tommy saved the barn" etc. new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers_] copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. contents. chapter page i.--an advertisement, ii.--the country, iii.--aunt hannah, iv.--the flight, v.--an accident, vi.--sunshine, aunt hannah. chapter i. an advertisement. a small boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the new york approach to the brooklyn bridge on a certain june morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. seth barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as limpy seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "hi, limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "goin' to give up business?" "i got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' snip a chance to run in the park. the poor little duffer don't have much fun down at mother hyde's while i'm workin'." "you might sell him for a pile of money, limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "teddy dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "look here, tim, do you think i'd sell snip, no matter how much money i might get for him? why, he's the only relation i've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "it costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "what of that? he thinks a heap of me, snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as i would if anything happened to one of us." "yes, i reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! it's a pity, limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "snip has what milk he needs----" "an' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "what of that?" seth cried sharply. "don't i tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! i'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why i couldn't feed him." "a dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. i ain't countin' but that snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as teddy dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "he's a heap better'n i am, tim chandler! snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." as if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "there, look at that! if you didn't have any folks, tim chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "he ain't really yours," tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "what's the reason he ain't? didn't i find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't i kept him in good shape ever since? of course he wasn't mine at first; but i'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! if you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like snip. you ought'er see him when i come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! it seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! i tell you, tim, snip loves me just like i was his mother!" master chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "there's pip smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "he's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. he allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." seth gave more attention to the caresses snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "he's yellin' for you, seth! what's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" perhaps tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had master smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "what kind of a game have you been up to, limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "anything gone wrong?" tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "i don't know what he means," seth replied, and pip shouted wildly: "listen to him! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all i can find out!" "who?" seth demanded, grown restive under pip's accusing gaze. "you, of course!" "but i haven't been up to any game." "you can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause i've got it down here in black an' white." "got what down?" tim asked impatiently. "if there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "seth barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "listen to this, tim chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game limpy's been playin'!" then, with a tragical air, master smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "information wanted of a boy calling himself seth barrows. said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in jersey city three years ago. he then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one richard genet. a liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. address symonds & symonds, attorneys-at-law." as he ceased reading, master smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met seth's bewildered gaze. "sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "but i don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "what does it mean?" seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at tim and pip. "mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "i reckon you can answer that better'n we could. when the bank on broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for i saw it with my own eyes." "but i haven't been breakin' into any bank!" seth wailed, hugging snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "then what's that advertisement there for?" and master smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "how do i know?" now it was tim's turn to gaze at seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that snip's master had committed some terrible crime. the lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. he knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. there was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of new york would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. the number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until seth and snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. when little snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. a blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "see here, seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. if you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "i haven't done a thing, an' you know it, tim chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "then what's the notice about?" tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "i don't know any more'n you do." "where's the lead nickel mickey dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" teddy dixon asked sharply. seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "it's gone!" seth cried shrilly. "it's gone; but i'll cross my throat if i knew i was passin' it!" snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "that settles the whole business," teddy dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "you shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. from that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "you've got to skip mighty quick," tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "where'll i go?" seth cried tearfully. "they know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "if we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, i don't see how anybody could find you!" "but where'd i go?" seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "anywhere. here's snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. they held a hurried consultation, while seth stood caressing snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then teddy and tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of broadway, tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "you fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. wait here, an' me an' teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of seth." this injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "you'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "it can't be helped," teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "we ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. keep your eye on snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." even if seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. tim and teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and snip were being forced. he understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, teddy paid the passage money, and seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "the minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," teddy said impressively, clutching seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "we'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "but what am i to do afterward?" seth asked helplessly. "there ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. you're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "snip an' i will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while i'm hidin'?" "how much have you got now?" "'bout fifty cents." tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "you'll need it all, an' i can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to seth's expostulations, save as he said: "we're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. if you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way i reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' i stand ready to do all i can towards keepin' you away from him." "look here, fellers," seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "i don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. where can snip an' i go? we've got to earn our livin', an' i don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "that's easy enough," and tim spoke hopefully. "the city is a fool alongside the country, an' i'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. when we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. pip smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' i've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." seth shook his head doubtfully. although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by pip smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "you'll strike it rich somewhere," teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. i'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps i'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." the conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and seth, with snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from new york that the detectives can't find you," tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. tim and teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "i wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." and tim replied sadly: "if a feller stuck me with a counterfeit i'd think i had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' i ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if pip smith does think it's sich a soft snap." then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how seth had fared at the outset of his flight. chapter ii. the country. seth had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. if it had been possible for snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. the little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "i don't dare to stop yet a while, snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when i'm locked up in jail." a big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here seth halted irresolutely. he had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. he was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." no person could be seen in either direction, and seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. for the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "you must wait a spell longer, snippey dear," he muttered. "we may have to run for it, an' i mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. it would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' i'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows i wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." then seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "how many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. she looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "i don't know the price of them. this shop isn't mine; i'm tendin' it for a friend." "then you can't sell things?" and seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "oh, dear, yes, that's what i'm here for; but i never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth i don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. do you know what they are worth?" "the bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." the lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "it seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "have you got anything else to eat?" "that candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "i'll take five cents' worth of cakes," seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. the amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "what a dear little dog! did he come with you?" "yes, ma'am," seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress snip: "we're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes i'll thank you." "dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "how far are you going?" "i don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "got friends out this way, i take it?" "well,--yes--no--that is, i don't know. won't you please hurry?" the woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. his first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "they haven't caught up with us yet, snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "if they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "we can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. it was not difficult for a boy tired as was seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. it was most refreshing to seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. then snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. there was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. the birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. the sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "it's almost sunset, snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. it's fine, i know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but i don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. besides, who knows but there are bears? we must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as pip smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." the fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of tim and teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. he had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. after a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "we'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. he did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to snippey's alarm, and seth hurried on at full speed. "that wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "we'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "if pip smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." master snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. he began to fear that he might get himself and snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. no light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to seth than any he had seen. "if the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. it can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." the barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. he could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. the fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. many hours later the shrill barking of snip awakened seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. the rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny snip. "is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to seth, painful pause. "who--what animal? oh, you mean snip? why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. he always barks when strange folks come near where i am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. do you own this barn?" "yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the morses, an' there are none left now except gladys an' me." "i hope you won't be mad 'cause i came in here last night. i counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder i kept right on sleepin'." "have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "i didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. well, to tell the truth, i was afraid i'd be driven away, same's i had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "aunt hannah! aunt hannah!" it was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at snip: "i wish you would hold your dog, little boy. that is gladys, an' she's so reckless that i'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a june wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "oh, aunt hannah! why, where in the world did that little boy--what a perfectly lovely dog! oh, you dear!" this last exclamation was called forth by master snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "don't, gladys! you mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." the warning came too late. gladys already had snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "you poor, foolish aunt hannah! to think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! isn't he a perfect beauty? i never saw such a dear!" the little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. she feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. there was just a tinge of jealousy in seth's heart as he gazed at snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. it seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of aunt hannah's anxiety. she admired snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into seth's possession. the boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," seth said, without replying to her question. then snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. he sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to seth, and by this time aunt hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while i am milking." then it was that seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing snip's note of defiance and warning. gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while aunt hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "there's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "don't you think snippey would like some milk?" "i'm certain he would," seth replied promptly. "he hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." a moment later master snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. the fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. the walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. the floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. a large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "well, if this is a farmer's house i wouldn't wonder if a good bit of pip smith's yarn was true," seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. he was alone in the kitchen. snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "folks that live like this must be mighty rich," seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "it ain't likely snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' i expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. i reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. i wonder if that little bit of a woman expects i'll pay for breakfast?" chapter iii. aunt hannah. with a broken comb, which he used upon snip's hair as well as his own, seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. on either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. the little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then pip smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "it must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," seth said to himself. "it would please snip way down to the ground; but i mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." then aunt hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "bless your heart, my child, i ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that i've done as much or more every day since i was gladys's age." "but that's no reason why i shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause snip an' me slept in the barn. besides, i'd like to say to the fellers that i'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if i ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "then you came from the city?" "yes, an' i never got so far out in the country before. say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" and as aunt hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. after placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to gladys: "it's time white-face was taken to pasture, child." "do you mean the cow?" seth asked. "yes, dear." "why can't i take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. it's only across the road over yonder." seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which aunt hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. only once before had seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and pip smith had travelled over to the erie yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. it surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. she shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as aunt hannah had been of snip. once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from snip, who probably fancied seth stood in need of his protection. "why did you jump so?" gladys asked merrily. seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "i reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "and you are really afraid of poor old white-face? why, she's as gentle as snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." then gladys stepped boldly forward, and snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "now, you are just as foolish as your master," gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. then it was that snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "i want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but i never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. i s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "some cows are ugly, i suppose," gladys replied reflectively, taking snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when white-face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but aunt hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. she's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. there, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. by the time we get back breakfast will be ready. did you walk all the way from the city?" there was no necessity for seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. the morning meal was prepared, and as gladys drew out a chair to show seth where he should sit, aunt hannah asked anxiously: "what does the dog do while you are eating?" "you'll see how well he can behave himself," snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. much to seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. it caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "where are you going, my boy?" "that's what i don't just know," seth replied, after a short pause. "pip smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when snip an' i had to come away, i thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "haven't you any parents, or a home?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "i don't s'pose i have. i did live over to mr. genet's in jersey city; but he died, an' i had to hustle for myself." "had to what?" aunt hannah asked. "why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. there ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' i don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause i can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "well, sometimes. you see i ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' snip an' i had a room down to mother hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. we could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "i suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. perhaps some time i could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then i'd been all right, you know." "why did you come into the country?" "you see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left new york so unceremoniously. perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. aunt hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "i don't know anything about it, 'cause you see i never was in the country before," seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "pip smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. if i could always have such a bed as i got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "but you slept in the barn!" gladys cried. "yes; it was nicer than any room mother hyde's got. don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "the farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but i don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "i might strike something," seth said reflectively. "at any rate, snip an' i'll have to keep movin'." "then you have no idea where you're going?" and aunt hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "i wish i did," seth replied with a sigh, and gladys said quickly: "you can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "perhaps i might come across a barn, same's i did last night." "and grow to be a regular tramp?" "i wouldn't be one if i was willin' to work, would i? that's all snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." aunt hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. gladys began removing the dishes from the table, aunt hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts seth managed to ask: "how much will i have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "why, bless your heart, my boy, i wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "but we must pay our way, you know, though i ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. i don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "you needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. gladys an' i aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as i would like to see it." seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. it was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when aunt hannah and gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. it is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. it was aunt hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from gladys: "it is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. but how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "i am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, aunt hannah. with three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "he can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as i see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. i have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "i believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, i'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time i hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. there was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. he stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "a feller who would bother a good woman like aunt hannah deserves to be kicked. she's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but i ain't goin' to play mean with her. it's lucky i happened to hear what was said, else i'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me i might." at that moment snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "it's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "how would it be if i should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? i ought'er do it, snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family i've got. an' that's where i'm mighty mean! you'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "i can't do it, little man, i can't do it! you must stick to me, else i'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. we'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. it must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by aunt hannah, and snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "i'll take good care of him," she called to seth, as snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "i'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but i believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat gladys laughed merrily. then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when aunt hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "it looks very neat," she said approvingly. "i never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! last spring i hired william dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "have i earned the breakfast snip and i ate?" seth asked, pleased with her praise. "indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. when we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' i don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "it was the very nicest breakfast i ever had, miss--miss----" "you may call me 'aunt hannah,' for i'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "indeed i would!" was the emphatic reply, and then seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "that is, i would if i could; but snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." aunt hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "you an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what i'm not able to attend to now i've grown so old. why did you leave the city, my child?" had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "i'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which aunt hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "i'd like to tell you, but i can't," he repeated. "i don't believe you are a bad boy, seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. the lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. gladys declares, an' i've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. i don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and snip as members of the family." seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "would you rather go away?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "no, i wouldn't!" seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "i'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, snip an' i can't stay to bother you. we'll leave when he comes back." "listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. we will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after i have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." then gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and aunt hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "i never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" chapter iv. the flight. neither gladys nor snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that aunt hannah had said. a very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. it seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. as the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left new york was first told; and once aunt hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. he believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. so long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "i'll come back when i'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe i didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when i passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "it would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time snip could have!" then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "i'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "i reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but i couldn't get along without him!" gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. she and snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "if you jump like that i shall begin to think you are as nervous as aunt hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "she insists that between snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, seth, that i've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. i had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two dean boys and malvinia stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "i believe snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," seth replied gloomily. "i never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. if i wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "of course he'll stay," gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "aunt hannah and i have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. you two are to live here; snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of new york. what do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "i'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." and seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet miss gladys' startled gaze. "wait till you've talked with aunt hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "we've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "i have talked with her," seth replied gloomily. "we'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "i'd like to know why"; and now gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "neither you nor snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much i know to a certainty." "i believe you, but it can't be done." and the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. during the remainder of the forenoon neither aunt hannah, gladys, nor snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to aunt hannah's instructions. this time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her heavenly father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. aunt hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left new york, seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. then aunt hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. immediately after the meal had been brought to a close seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. when she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and snip were fugitives. some of the neighbors called upon aunt hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that gladys and snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. his hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then aunt hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "i declare you have done as well as any man i could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "william dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. you have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "i'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "of course i could do such work quicker after i'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "i didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. we'll see to that in the morning. i must go after white-face now, or we shall have a late supper. have you seen anything of gladys?" "she hasn't been here. say, why can't i get the cow?" "i suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "i reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." and seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that aunt hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. it did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. he led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as aunt hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "you've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. we poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "don't you think i could do that?" he asked timidly. "i dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "would you be willin' to let me try?" "of course you shall," and aunt hannah got up quickly from the stool. "be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although white-face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. then aunt hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as gladys and snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again aunt hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. while they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "you are to stay here until morning, seth, and then we will have another talk. i'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. you are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper i guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, seth took snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "you've been mighty good to us, miss--aunt hannah, an' i hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "you've done that this afternoon," gladys cried laughingly. "aunt hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. all hands, including snip, will have a share in the planting, and i wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed aunt hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "you won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. after undressing, and when snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. there was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "i hope aunt hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! there were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. the chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. weary, as seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as aunt hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. it is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. more than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell aunt hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. to his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. and then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking snip in his arms. the dog was sleeping soundly, and seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "it's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. you'll be sorry not to see gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as i shall, 'cause i know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." then he opened the door softly, still holding snip in his arms. not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. it was as if he and snip were the only occupants of the house. seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since aunt hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. with his hand on snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both aunt hannah and gladys must be aroused. in trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. he was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. the descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. the key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. the moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from new york; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. he saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. a cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than aunt hannah. seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. he had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "where are you going, seth dear?" "i wasn't--i had to run away, aunt hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "i was afraid you and gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps i couldn't stick to what i'd agreed on." "do you really want to leave us, seth?" "indeed i don't, aunt hannah! i'd give anything in this world if i could stay, for this is the very nicest place i ever was in. oh, indeed, i don't want to go away!" "then why not stay?" "i can't! i can't, 'cause i'd have to tell----" seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in snip's silky hair. "is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" and the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "then go right back to bed. you shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile i will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." chapter v. an accident. filled with shame and confusion, seth made no resistance when aunt hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. he was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. he could only realize that aunt hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. he wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "of course she'll tell gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe i'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. seth was awakened next morning by aunt hannah's voice, as she called gently: "it's time to get up, my dear. the sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and seth heard the little woman say to him: "i really believe gladys was in the right when she said i would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. do you want a saucer of milk?" "she won't talk so pleasantly when i get there," seth said to himself. "i'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if i was a thief!" the lad soon came to know aunt hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. when he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "you see i'm beginning to depend on you already, seth. gladys isn't up yet, and i've left white-face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. the grass is wet with dew, an' i'm gettin' so old that i don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. when the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. his one desire was to avoid coming face to face with aunt hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work gladys came out in search of snip. seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. just then snip was of far more importance in the eyes of aunt hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "come in an' wash your face, my dear. breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. aunt hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. the little woman asked that her father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. when the morning meal had come to an end gladys was eager seth should join her and snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "we've only to plant the garden," aunt hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. until noon the three, with snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as aunt hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." seth did not join gladys and snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from new york, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "i couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. there was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. during three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. he had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "it's no use, snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "i can't stay an' not tell aunt hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. if i could talk to her in the dark, when i couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. we must have it out mighty soon, for i can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." he was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade aunt hannah and gladys good-night. the moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. having repeated to snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, snip following close behind, barking shrilly. once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. the room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay aunt hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. it needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when dud wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. he pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "don't get scared! we can't put the fire out with water; but i'll soon smother it." "you needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! it would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "i'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "there is no fire here now." and aunt hannah threw back the rugs, despite seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "for mercy's sake, save the house! it's the only home i ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if i lost it!" before she had ceased speaking seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for aunt hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. the little woman remained upon the floor where seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "never mind me until the fire is out." "there is no more fire, an' i'm bound to mind you! are you hurt?" "it doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet i can't use either ankle or wrist. of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why gladys did not make her appearance. the first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for gladys. "don't waken her!" aunt hannah cried warningly. "if you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "ain't she in the house?" seth asked nervously. he feared aunt hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. he failed to observe that snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "you mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," aunt hannah said soothingly. "but for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "but you can't get up!" seth wailed. "that wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if i never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "but i'm not going to lie here. surely you can help me on to the couch." "tell me how to do it," seth cried eagerly, and at that moment gladys appeared in the doorway. "lean over so that i may put my arms around your neck," aunt hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "she fell an' hurt herself," seth said hurriedly to gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. and then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "if you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. aunt hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. then gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, aunt hannah had been grievously burned. "yes, i'm in some pain," she said in reply to seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved i have no right to complain. get some flour, gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps seth will run over to mrs. dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "where does mis' dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when gladys replied: "it's the first house past the grove where snip and i went this afternoon!" seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay aunt hannah for having given shelter to him and snip, lending speed to his feet. the dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, seth ran back to help gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. aunt hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "mis' dean is comin' right away. what can i do?" "nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "you have been of such great service to me this night that i can never repay you." "please don't say that, aunt hannah," seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "if i could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think i was so awful bad." "i believe you to be a good boy, seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. even then," she added with a smile, "i fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." the arrival of mrs. dean put an end to any further conversation, and seth was called upon to aid in carrying aunt hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "i am as well off in my own bed, sarah dean. don't treat me as if i was a child who didn't know what was best." "you are goin' into the foreroom, hannah morse, an' that's all there is about it. that bed hasn't been used since the year your brother benjamin was at home, an' i've always said that if anything happened to you, an' i had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. we'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "you can bet she does!" seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from mrs. dean's mouth. when the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and snip was ordered into the shed. aunt hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to gladys' chamber, and then mrs. dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by mr. dean, and here gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "how is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "her hands and arms are burned very badly. why, seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and mrs. dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "that's 'cause she's so good. if i was like her i needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after i died. it would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see aunt hannah!" "she'd have burned to death but for you." "that ain't so, gladys. i didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "she's just been telling mrs. dean that you saved her life, and the house." "did she really?" seth cried excitedly. "did she say it in them very same words?" "aunt hannah made it sound a good deal better than i can. she said god sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" seth asked quickly. "i've heard mother hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "aunt hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for i never heard a thing till snippey came into my room barking." "i hope i did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "and since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "i hope so." "why, seth barrows, how wicked you are!" "no, no, gladys, i didn't mean i hoped she'd have burned to death; but i hoped i really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when i tell her." "tell her what?" "why snip an' i had to run away from new york." "is it something you're ashamed of?" gladys asked quickly and in surprise. seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "i don't believe it. aunt hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "did aunt hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" and seth rose to his feet excitedly. "i hope you don't think i'd tell a lie?" "of course i don't, gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--aunt hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder i had hard work to believe it." "she said to me those very same words----" "what ones?" "that you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." then, suddenly, to gladys' intense surprise, seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. chapter vi. sunshine. mrs. dean had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that gladys and seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. at midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that aunt hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, gladys, in obedience to mrs. dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "somethin' that i could do might turn up, an' i count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "snip an' i'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" so eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve aunt hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. with the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when mrs. dean came out from the foreroom. "well, i do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "hannah morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n i expected. i wish my william could take a few lessons from you." "i didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "if the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "you're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when i tell hannah morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." seth did not venture to look up lest mrs. dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "is aunt hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "i allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. at first i was afraid she'd broken some bones; but mrs. stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. it seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. the wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." then mrs. dean questioned seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. then gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. mr. dean came over to milk white-face, and seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if aunt hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as mrs. dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. the old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that mr. dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. very proud was seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and gladys ran to tell aunt hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. during the next two days either mrs. dean or mrs. stubbs ruled over the morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that aunt hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. the neighbors sent newspapers and books for gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as aunt hannah herself would have done. then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. he had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. it was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to seth: "aunt hannah thinks i ought to run out of doors a little while because i have stayed in the house so long. there isn't the least bit of need; but i must go, else she'll worry herself sick. she says you can sit with her, an' i'll take snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than i am." just for a moment seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that aunt hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. with snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. aunt hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. the bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "i knew you would be forced to come when gladys went out, and that was why i sent her. we two--you an' i--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed aunt hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave new york, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "i ought'er----" he stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "you have saved the old home, an' my life as well, seth. even if i had hesitated at making you one of the family, i could not do so now, after owing you so much." "don't talk like that, aunt hannah! don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" seth cried tearfully. "it's the other way, an' snip an' i are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "ever since you got hurt i've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' i promised snip an' myself that i'd do it the very first chance. if it----" "there is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. i have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "we shall have to go; but i'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause i know you think i was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what i've done." "my dear boy," and aunt hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "i never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "an' that's jest the truth. now don't say a word till i've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by teddy and tim. "i didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but i reckon i'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause i couldn't afford to lose so much money. of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if i should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let gladys take care of poor little snippey?" "come here an' kiss me, seth," aunt hannah said softly. "i wish i could put my hand on your head! and you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "you poor little child! if you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. the good book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from god. but i'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. do you know, gladys read your story in the paper before i sent her for a walk, and that is why i wanted to be alone with you." seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and aunt hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "take up the newspaper lying on the table. i told gladys to fold it so you might find the article i wanted you to read." seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "can you read, dear?" "not very well, 'cause i have to spell out the big words." "hold it before my eyes while i make the attempt. there isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, i hope." seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: messrs. symonds & symonds, the well-known attorneys of pine street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in san francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one seth barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. all the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in jersey city, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. his age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "it is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in new york city; but messrs. symonds & symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. as has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. the boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. the moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." it was not until aunt hannah had concluded that seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "do you suppose the seth barrows told about there can be me?" "of course, my dear. isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "but there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, aunt hannah! there's a big mistake somewhere." "do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in california?" "indeed i don't. i thought snip was all the relation i had in the world." "why did the man in jersey city allow you to live with him?" "i don't know. i had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause i was too small." "well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "i don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but i'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from new york because of an advertisement. the money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "i wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. i'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. i've sent for nathan dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." then mrs. dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "what did aunt hannah say to you?" "why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "because i read that story in the newspaper. then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said i'd better ask mr. dean to come over this afternoon. i couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because mrs. dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. did you tell her why you and snippey ran away?" "of course i did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance i had to speak with her alone, though i made sure she'd send me away." then seth repeated that which he had told aunt hannah, and while he was thus engaged mr. dean entered the house. during the two days which followed, gladys and seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when aunt hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. then it was that mr. dean returned from new york, and came to make his report. there was no longer any question but that it was really seth's uncle who had lately died in san francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. it appeared, according to mr. dean's story, as learned from messrs. symonds & symonds, that daniel barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying richard genet of jersey city a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. mr. genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. there were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. aunt hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end mr. dean had several conferences with symonds & symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. there is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell aunt hannah, seth, gladys, and snip after the inheritance was paid. that they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in aunt hannah's home? and in the days to come, when father time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. the end. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xvii. reconstruction xviii. the riddle of causation xix. mr. goodrich becomes a partisan chapter xvii reconstruction i life had indeed become complicated, paradoxical. he, john hodder, a clergyman, rector of st. john's by virtue of not having resigned, had entered a restaurant of ill repute, had ordered champagne for an abandoned woman, and had no sense of sin when he awoke the next morning! the devil, in the language of orthodox theology, had led him there. he had fallen under the influence of the tempter of his youth, and all in him save the carnal had been blotted out. more paradoxes! if the devil had not taken possession of him and led him there, it were more than probable that he could never have succeeded in any other way in getting on a footing of friendship with this woman, kate marcy. her future, to be sure, was problematical. here was no simple, sentimental case he might formerly have imagined, of trusting innocence betrayed, but a mixture of good and evil, selfishness and unselfishness. and she had, in spite of all, known the love which effaces self! could the disintegration, in her case, be arrested? gradually hodder was filled with a feeling which may be called amazement because, although his brain was no nearer to a solution than before, he was not despondent. for a month he had not permitted his mind to dwell on the riddle; yet this morning he felt stirring within him a new energy for which he could not account, a hope unconnected with any mental process! he felt in touch, once more, faintly but perceptibly, with something stable in the chaos. in bygone years he had not seen the chaos, but the illusion of an orderly world, a continual succession of sunrises, 'couleur de rose', from the heights above bremerton. now were the scales fallen from his eyes; now he saw the evil, the injustice, the despair; felt, in truth, the weight of the sorrow of it all, and yet that sorrow was unaccountably transmuted, as by a chemical process, into something which for the first time had a meaning--he could not say what meaning. the sting of despair had somehow been taken out of it, and it remained poignant! not on the obsession of the night before, when he had walked down dalton street and beheld it transformed into a realm of adventure, but upon his past life did he look back now with horror, upon the even tenor of those days and years in the bright places. his had been the highroad of a fancied security, from which he had feared to stray, to seek his god across the rough face of nature, from black, forgotten capons to the flying peaks in space. he had feared reality. he had insisted upon gazing at the universe through the coloured glasses of an outworn theology, instead of using his own eyes. so he had left the highroad, the beaten way of salvation many others had deserted, had flung off his spectacles, had plunged into reality, to be scratched and battered, to lose his way. not until now had something of grim zest come to him, of an instinct which was the first groping of a vision, as to where his own path might lie. through what thickets and over what mountains he knew not as yet--nor cared to know. he felt resistance, whereas on the highroad he had felt none. on the highroad his cry had gone unheeded and unheard, yet by holding out his hand in the wilderness he had helped another, bruised and bleeding, to her feet! salvation, let it be what it might be, he would go on, stumbling and seeking, through reality. even this last revelation, of eldon parr's agency in another tragedy, seemed to have no further power to affect him. . . nor could hodder think of alison as in blood-relationship to the financier, or even to the boy, whose open, pleasure-loving face he had seen in the photograph. ii a presage of autumn was in the air, and a fine, misty rain drifted in at his windows as he sat at his breakfast. he took deep breaths of the moisture, and it seemed to water and revive his parching soul. he found himself, to his surprise, surveying with equanimity the pile of books in the corner which had led him to the conviction of the emptiness of the universe--but the universe was no longer empty! it was cruel, but a warring force was at work in it which was not blind, but directed. he could not say why this was so, but he knew it, he felt it, sensed its energy within him as he set out for dalton street. he was neither happy nor unhappy, but in equilibrium, walking with sure steps, and the anxiety in which he had fallen asleep the night before was gone: anxiety lest the woman should have fled, or changed her mind, or committed some act of desperation. in dalton street a thin coat of yellow mud glistened on the asphalt, but even the dreariness of this neighbourhood seemed transient. he rang the bell of the flat, the door swung open, and in the hall above a woman awaited him. she was clad in black. "you wouldn't know me, would you?" she inquired. "say, i scarcely know myself. i used to wear this dress at pratt's, with white collars and cuffs and--well, i just put it on again. i had it in the bottom of my trunk, and i guessed you'd like it." "i didn't know you at first," he said, and the pleasure in his face was her reward. the transformation, indeed, was more remarkable than he could have believed possible, for respectability itself would seem to have been regained by a costume, and the abundance of her remarkable hair was now repressed. the absence of paint made her cheeks strangely white, the hollows under the eyes darker. the eyes themselves alone betrayed the woman of yesterday; they still burned. "why," he exclaimed, looking around him, "you have been busy, haven't you?" "i've been up since six," she told him proudly. the flat had been dismantled of its meagre furniture, the rug was rolled up and tied, and a trunk strapped with rope was in the middle of the floor. her next remark brought home to him the full responsibility of his situation. she led him to the window, and pointed to a spot among the drenched weeds and rubbish in the yard next door. "do you see that bottle? that's the first thing i did--flung it out there. it didn't break," she added significantly, "and there are three drinks in it yet." once more he confined his approval to his glance. "now you must come and have some breakfast," he said briskly. "if i had thought about it i should have waited to have it with you." "i'm not hungry." in the light of his new knowledge, he connected her sudden dejection with the sight of the bottle. "but you must eat. you're exhausted from all this work. and a cup of coffee will make all the difference in the world." she yielded, pinning on her hat. and he led her, holding the umbrella over her, to a restaurant in tower street, where a man in a white cap and apron was baking cakes behind a plate-glass window. she drank the coffee, but in her excitement left the rest of the breakfast almost untasted. "say," she asked him once, "why are you doing this?" "i don't know," he answered, "except that it gives me pleasure." "pleasure?" "yes. it makes me feel as if i were of some use." she considered this. "well," she observed, reviled by the coffee, "you're the queerest minister i ever saw." when they had reached the pavement she asked him where they were going. "to see a friend of mine, and a friend of yours," he told her. "he does net live far from here." she was silent again, acquiescing. the rain had stopped, the sun was peeping out furtively through the clouds, the early loiterers in dalton street stared at them curiously. but hodder was thinking of that house whither they were bound with a new gratitude, a new wonder that it should exist. thus they came to the sheltered vestibule with its glistening white paint, its polished name plate and doorknob. the grinning, hospitable darky appeared in answer to the rector's ring. "good morning, sam," he said; "is mr. bentley in?" sam ushered them ceremoniously into the library, and gate marcy gazed about her with awe, as at something absolutely foreign to her experience: the new barrington hotel, the latest pride of the city, recently erected at the corner of tower and jefferson and furnished in the french style, she might partially have understood. had she been marvellously and suddenly transported and established there, existence might still have evinced a certain continuity. but this house! . . mr. bentley rose from the desk in the corner. "oh, it's you, hodder," he said cheerfully, laying his hand on the rector's arm. "i was just thinking about you." "this is miss marcy, mr. bentley," hodder said. mr. bentley took her hand and led her to a chair. "mr. hodder knows how fond i am of young women," he said. "i have six of them upstairs,--so i am never lonely." mr. bentley did not appear to notice that her lips quivered. hodder turned his eyes from her face. "miss marcy has been lonely," he explained, "and i thought we might get her a room near by, where she might see them often. she is going to do embroidery." "why, sally will know of a room," mr. bentley replied. "sam!" he called. "yessah--yes, mistah ho'ace." sam appeared at the door. "ask miss sally to come down, if she's not busy." kate marcy sat dumbly in her chair, her hands convulsively clasping its arms, her breast heaving stormily, her face becoming intense with the effort of repressing the wild emotion within her: emotion that threatened to strangle her if resisted, or to sweep her out like a tide and drown her in deep waters: emotion that had no one mewing, and yet summed up a life, mysteriously and overwhelmingly aroused by the sight of a room, and of a kindly old gentleman who lived in it! mr. bentley took the chair beside her. "why, i believe it's going to clear off, after all," he exclaimed. "sam predicted it, before breakfast. he pretends to be able to tell by the flowers. after a while i must show you my flowers, miss marcy, and what dalton street can do by way of a garden--mr. hodder could hardly believe it, even when he saw it." thus he went on, the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head bent forward in familiar attitude, his face lighted, speaking naturally of trivial things that seemed to suggest themselves; and careful, with exquisite tact that did not betray itself, to address both. a passing automobile startled her with the blast of its horn. "i'm afraid i shall never get accustomed to them," he lamented. "at first i used to be thankful there were no trolley cars on this street, but i believe the automobiles are worse." a figure flitted through the hall and into the room, which hodder recognized as miss grower's. she reminded him of a flying shuttle across the warp of mr. bentley's threads, weaving them together; swift, sure, yet never hurried or flustered. one glance at the speechless woman seemed to suffice her for a knowledge of the situation. "mr. hodder has brought us a new friend and neighbour, sally,--miss kate marcy. she is to have a room near us, that we may see her often." hodder watched miss grower's procedure with a breathless interest. "why, mrs. mcquillen has a room--across the street, you know, mr. bentley." sally perched herself on the edge of the armchair and laid her hand lightly on kate marcy's. even sally grover was powerless to prevent the inevitable, and the touch of her hand seemed the signal for the release of the pent-up forces. the worn body, the worn nerves, the weakened will gave way, and kate marcy burst into a paroxysm of weeping that gradually became automatic, convulsive, like a child's. there was no damming this torrent, once released. kindness, disinterested friendship, was the one unbearable thing. "we must bring her upstairs," said sally grover, quietly, "she's going to pieces." hodder helping, they fairly carried her up the flight, and laid her on sally grover's own bed. that afternoon she was taken to mrs. mcquillen's. the fiends are not easily cheated. and during the nights and days that followed even sally grower, whose slight frame was tireless, whose stoicism was amazing, came out of the sick room with a white face and compressed lips. tossing on the mattress, kate marcy enacted over again incident after incident of her past life, events natural to an existence which had been largely devoid of self-pity, but which now, clearly enough, tested the extreme limits of suffering. once more, in her visions, she walked the streets, wearily measuring the dark, empty blocks, footsore, into the smaller hours of the night; slyly, insinuatingly, pathetically offering herself--all she possessed--to the hovering beasts of prey. and even these rejected her, with gibes, with obscene jests that sprang to her lips and brought a shudder to those who heard. sometimes they beheld flare up fitfully that mysterious thing called the human spirit, which all this crushing process had not served to extinguish. she seemed to be defending her rights, whatever these may have been! she expostulated with policemen. and once, when hodder was present, she brought back vividly to his mind that first night he had seen her, when she had defied him and sent him away. in moments she lived over again the careless, reckless days when money and good looks had not been lacking, when rich food and wines had been plentiful. and there were other events which sally grower and the good-natured irishwoman, mrs. mcquillen, not holding the key, could but dimly comprehend. education, environment, inheritance, character--what a jumble of causes! what judge was to unravel them, and assign the exact amount of responsibility? there were other terrible scenes when, more than semiconscious, she cried out piteously for drink, and cursed them for withholding it. and it was in the midst of one of these that an incident occurred which made a deep impression upon young dr. giddings, hesitating with his opiates, and assisting the indomitable miss grower to hold his patient. in the midst of the paroxysm mr. bentley entered and stood over her by the bedside, and suddenly her struggles ceased. at first she lay intensely still, staring at him with wide eyes of fear. he sat down and took her hand, and spoke to her, quietly and naturally, and her pupils relaxed. she fell into a sleep, still clinging to his fingers. it was sally who opposed the doctor's wish to send her to a hospital. "if it's only a question of getting back her health, she'd better die," she declared. "we've got but one chance with her, dr. giddings, to keep her here. when she finds out she's been to a hospital, that will be the end of it with her kind. we'll never get hold of her again. i'll take care of mrs. mcquillen." doctor giddings was impressed by this wisdom. "you think you have a chance, miss grower?" he asked. he had had a hospital experience. miss grower was wont to express optimism in deeds rather than words. "if i didn't think so, i'd ask you to put a little more in your hypodermic next time," she replied. and the doctor went away, wondering . . . . drink! convalescence brought little release for the watchers. the fiends would retire, pretending to have abandoned the field, only to swoop down again when least expected. there were periods of calm when it seemed as though a new and bewildered personality were emerging, amazed to find in life a kindly thing, gazing at the world as one new-born. and again, mrs. mcquillen or ella finley might be seen running bareheaded across the street for miss grower. physical force was needed, as the rector discovered on one occasion; physical force, and something more, a dauntlessness that kept sally grower in the room after the other women had fled in terror. then remorse, despondency, another fear . . . . as the weeks went by, the relapses certainly became fewer. something was at work, as real in its effects as the sunlight, but invisible. hodder felt it, and watched in suspense while it fought the beasts in this woman, rending her frame in anguish. the frame might succumb, the breath might leave it to moulder, but the struggle, he knew, would go until the beasts were conquered. whence this knowledge?--for it was knowledge. on the quieter days of her convalescence she seemed, indeed, more madonna than magdalen as she sat against the pillows, her red-gold hair lying in two heavy plaits across her shoulders, her cheeks pale; the inner, consuming fires that smouldered in her eyes died down. at such times her newly awakened innocence (if it might be called such--pathetic innocence, in truth!) struck awe into hodder; her wonder was matched by his own. could there be another meaning in life than the pursuit of pleasure, than the weary effort to keep the body alive? such was her query, unformulated. what animated these persons who had struggled over her so desperately, sally grower, mr. bentley, and hodder himself? thus her opening mind. for she had a mind. mr. bentley was the chief topic, and little by little he became exalted into a mystery of which she sought the explanation. "i never knew anybody like him," she would exclaim. "why, i'd seen him on dalton street with the children following him, and i saw him again that day of the funeral. some of the girls i knew used to laugh at him. we thought he was queer. and then, when you brought me to him that morning and he got up and treated me like a lady, i just couldn't stand it. i never felt so terrible in my life. i just wanted to die, right then and there. something inside of me kept pressing and pressing, until i thought i would die. i knew what it was to hate myself, but i never hated myself as i have since then. "he never says anything about god, and you don't, but when he comes in here he seems like god to me. he's so peaceful,--he makes me peaceful. i remember the minister in madison,--he was a putty-faced man with indigestion,--and when he prayed he used to close his eyes and try to look pious, but he never fooled me. he never made me believe he knew anything about god. and don't think for a minute he'd have done what you and miss grower and mr. bentley did! he used to cross the street to get out of the way of drunken men--he wouldn't have one of them in his church. and i know of a girl he drove out of town because she had a baby and her sweetheart wouldn't marry her. he sent her to hell. hell's here--isn't it?" these sudden remarks of hers surprised and troubled him. but they had another effect, a constructive effect. he was astonished, in going over such conversations afterwards, to discover that her questions and his efforts to answer them in other than theological terms were both illuminating and stimulating. sayings in the gospels leaped out in his mind, fired with new meanings; so simple, once perceived, that he was amazed not to have seen them before. and then he was conscious of a palpitating joy which left in its wake a profound thankfulness. he made no attempt as yet to correlate these increments, these glimpses of truth into a system, but stored them preciously away. he taxed his heart and intellect to answer her sensible and helpfully, and thus found himself avoiding the logic, the greek philosophy, the outworn and meaningless phrases of speculation; found himself employing (with extraordinary effect upon them both) the simple words from which many of these theories had been derived. "he that hath seen me hath seen the father." what she saw in horace bentley, he explained, was god. god wished us to know how to live, in order that we might find happiness, and therefore christ taught us that the way to find happiness was to teach others how to live,--once we found out. such was the meaning of christ's incarnation, to teach us how to live in order that we might find god and happiness. and hodder translated for her the word incarnation. now, he asked, how were we to recognize god, how might we know how he wished us to live, unless we saw him in human beings, in the souls into which he had entered? in mr. bentley's soul? was this too deep? she pondered, with flushed face. "i never had it put to me like that," she said, presently. "i never could have known what you meant if i hadn't seen mr. bentley." here was a return flash, for him. thus, teaching he taught. from this germ he was to evolve for himself the sublime truth that the world grown better, not through automatic, soul-saving machinery, but by personality. on another occasion she inquired about "original sin;"--a phrase which had stuck in her memory since the stormings of the madison preacher. here was a demand to try his mettle. "it means," he replied after a moment, "that we are all apt to follow the selfish, animal instincts of our matures, to get all we can for ourselves without thinking of others, to seek animal pleasures. and we always suffer for it." "sure," she agreed. "that's what happened to me." "and unless we see and know some one like mr. bentley," he went on, choosing his words, "or discover for ourselves what christ was, and what he tried to tell us, we go on 'suffering, because we don't see any way out. we suffer because we feel that we are useless, that other persons are doing our work." "that's what hell is!" she was very keen. "hell's here," she repeated. "hell may begin here, and so may heaven," he answered. "why, he's in heaven now!" she exclaimed, "it's funny i never thought of it before." of course she referred to mr. bentley. thus; by no accountable process of reasoning, he stumbled into the path which was to lead him to one of the widest and brightest of his vistas, the secret of eternity hidden in the parable of the talents! but it will not do to anticipate this matter . . . . the divine in this woman of the streets regenerated by the divine in her fellow-creatures, was gasping like a new-born babe for breath. and with what anxiety they watched her! she grew strong again, went with sally drover and the other girls on sunday excursions to the country, applied herself to her embroidery with restless zeal for days, only to have it drop from her nerveless fingers. but her thoughts were uncontrollable, she was drawn continually to the edge of that precipice which hung over the waters whence they had dragged her, never knowing when the vertigo would seize her. and once sally drover, on the alert for just such an occurrence, pursued her down dalton street and forced her back . . . justice to miss drover cannot be done in these pages. it was she who bore the brunt of the fierce resentment of the reincarnated fiends when the other women shrank back in fear, and said nothing to mr. bentley or hodder until the incident was past. it was terrible indeed to behold this woman revert--almost in the twinkling of an eye--to a vicious wretch crazed for drink, to feel that the struggle had to be fought all over again. unable to awe sally drover's spirit, she would grow piteous. "for god's sake let me go--i can't stand it. let me go to hell--that's where i belong. what do you bother with me for? i've got a right." once the doctor had to be called. he shook his head but his eye met miss grower's, and he said nothing. "i'll never be able to pull out, i haven't got the strength," she told hodder, between sobs. "you ought to have left me be, that was where i belonged. i can't stand it, i tell you. if it wasn't for that woman watching me downstairs, and sally grower, i'd have had a drink before this. it ain't any use, i've got so i can't live without it--i don't want to live." and then remorse, self-reproach, despair,--almost as terrible to contemplate. she swore she would never see mr. bentley again, she couldn't face him. yet they persisted, and gained ground. she did see mr. bentley, but what he said to her, or she to him, will never be known. she didn't speak of it . . . . little by little her interest was aroused, her pride in her work stimulated. none was more surprised than hodder when sally grower informed him that the embroidery was really good; but it was thought best, for psychological reasons, to discard the old table-cover with its associations and begin a new one. on occasional evenings she brought her sewing over to mr. bentley's, while sally read aloud to him and the young women in the library. miss grower's taste in fiction was romantic; her voice (save in the love passages, when she forgot herself ) sing-song, but new and unsuspected realms were opened up for kate marcy, who would drop her work and gaze wide-eyed out of the window, into the darkness. and it was sally who must be given credit for the great experiment, although she took mr. bentley and hodder into her confidence. on it they staked all. the day came, at last, when the new table-cover was finished. miss grower took it to the woman's exchange, actually sold it, and brought back the money and handed it to her with a smile, and left her alone. an hour passed. at the end of it kate marcy came out of her room, crossed the street, and knocked at the door of mr. bentley's library. hodder happened to be there. "come in," mr. bentley said. she entered, breathless, pale. her eyes, which had already lost much of the dissipated look, were alight with exaltation. her face bore evidence of the severity of the hour of conflict, and she was perilously near to tears. she handed mr. bentley the money. "what's this, kate?" he asked, in his kindly way. "it's what i earned, sir," she faltered. "miss grower sold the table-cover. i thought maybe you'd put it aside for me, like you do for the others. "i'll take good care of it," he said. "oh, sir, i don't ever expect to repay you, and miss grower and mr. hodder! "why, you are repaying us," he replied, cutting her short, "you are making us all very happy. and sally tells me at the exchange they like your work so well they are asking for more. i shouldn't have suspected," he added, with a humorous glance at the rector, "that mr. hodder knew so much about embroidery." he rose, and put the money in his desk,--such was his genius for avoiding situations which threatened to become emotional. "i've started another one," she told them, as she departed. a few moments later miss grower appeared. "sally," said mr. bentley, "you're a wise woman. i believe i've made that remark before. you have managed that case wonderfully." "there was a time," replied miss grower, thoughtfully, when it looked pretty black. we've got a chance with her now, i think." "i hope so. i begin to feel so," mr. bentley declared. "if we succeed," miss grower went on, "it will be through the heart. and if we lose her again, it will be through the heart." hodder started at this proof of insight. "you know her history, mr. hodder?" she asked. "yes," he said. "well, i don't. and i don't care to. but the way to get at kate marcy, light as she is in some respects, is through her feelings. and she's somehow kept 'em alive. we've got to trust her, from now on--that's the only way. and that's what god does, anyhow." this was one of miss grover's rare references to the deity. turning over that phrase in his mind, hodder went slowly back towards the parish house. god trusted individuals--even such as kate marcy. what did that mean? individual responsibility! he repeated it. was the world on that principle, then? it was as though a search-light were flung ahead of him and he saw, dimly, a new order--a new order in government and religion. and, as though spoken by a voice out of the past, there sounded in his ears the text of that sermon which had so deeply moved him, "i will arise and go to my father." the church was still open, and under the influence of the same strange excitement which had driven him to walk in the rain so long ago, he entered and went slowly up the marble aisle. through the gathering gloom he saw the figure on the cross. and as he stood gazing at it, a message for which he had been waiting blazed up within him. he would not leave the church! chapter xviii the riddle of causation i in order to portray this crisis in the life of kate marcy, the outcome of which is still uncertain, other matters have been ignored. how many persons besides john hodder have seemed to read--in crucial periods--a meaning into incidents having all the outward appearance of accidents! what is it that leads us to a certain man or woman at a certain time, or to open a certain book? order and design? or influence? the night when he had stumbled into the cafe in dalton street might well have been termed the nadir of hodder's experience. his faith had been blotted out, and, with it had suddenly been extinguished all spiritual sense, the beast had taken possession. and then, when it was least expected,--nay, when despaired of, had come the glimmer of a light; distant, yet clear. he might have traced the course of his disillusionment, perhaps, but cause and effect were not discernible here. they soon became so, and in the weeks that followed he grew to have the odd sense of a guiding hand on his shoulder,--such was his instinctive interpretation of it, rather than the materialistic one of things ordained. he might turn, in obedience to what seemed a whim, either to the right or left, only to recognize new blazes that led him on with surer step; and trivial accidents became events charged with meaning. he lived in continual wonder. one broiling morning, for instance, he gathered up the last of the books whose contents he had a month before so feverishly absorbed, and which had purged him of all fallacies. at first he had welcomed them with a fierce relief, sucked them dry, then looked upon them with loathing. now he pressed them gratefully, almost tenderly, as he made his way along the shady side of the street towards the great library set in its little park. he was reminded, as he passed from the blinding sunlight into the cool entrance hall, with its polished marble stairway and its statuary, that eldon parr's munificence had made the building possible: that some day mr. parr's bust would stand in that vestibule with that of judge henry goodrich--philip goodrich's grandfather--and of other men who had served their city and their commonwealth. upstairs, at the desk, he was handing in the volumes to the young woman whose duty it was to receive them when he was hailed by a brisk little man in an alpaca coat, with a skin like brown parchment. "why, mr. hodder," he exclaimed cheerfully, with a trace of german accent, "i had an idea you were somewhere on the cool seas with our friend, mr. parr. he spoke, before he left, of inviting you." it had been eldon parr, indeed, who had first brought hodder to the library, shortly after the rector's advent, and mr. engel had accompanied them on a tour of inspection; the financier himself had enjoined the librarian to "take good care" of the clergyman. mr. waring, mr. atterbury; and mr. constable were likewise trustees. and since then, when talking to him, hodder had had a feeling that mr. engel was not unconscious of the aura--if it may be called such--of his vestry. mr. engel picked up one of the books as it lay on the counter, and as he read the title his face betrayed a slight surprise. "modern criticism!" he exclaimed. "you have found me out," the rector acknowledged, smiling. "came into my room, and have a chat," said the librarian, coaxingly. it was a large chamber at the corner of the building, shaded by awnings, against which brushed the branches of an elm which had belonged to the original park. in the centre of the room was a massive oak desk, one whole side of which was piled high with new volumes. "look there," said the librarian, with a quick wave of his hand, "those are some which came in this week, and i had them put here to look over. two-thirds of 'em on religion, or religious philosophy. does that suggest anything to you clergymen?" "do many persons read them, mr. engel?" said the rector, at length. "read them!" cried mr. engel, quizzically. "we librarians are a sort of weather-vanes, if people only knew enough to consult us. we can hardly get a sufficient number of these new religious books the good ones, i mean--to supply the demand. and the lord knows what trash is devoured, from what the booksellers tell me. it reminds me of the days when this library was down on fifth street, years ago, and we couldn't supply enough darwins and huxleys and spencers and popular science generally. that was an agnostic age. but now you'd be surprised to see the different kinds of men and women who come demanding books on religion --all sorts and conditions. they're beginning to miss it out of their lives; they want to know. if my opinion's worth anything, i should not hesitate to declare that we're on the threshold of a greater religious era than the world has ever seen." hodder thrust a book back into the pile, and turned abruptly, with a manner that surprised the librarian. no other clergyman to whom he had spoken on this subject had given evidence of this strong feeling, and the rector of st. john's was the last man from whom he would have expected it. "do you really think so?" hodder demanded. "why, yes," said mr. engel, when he had recovered from his astonishment. "i'm sure of it. i think clergymen especially--if you will pardon me --are apt to forget that this is a reading age. that a great many people who used to get what instruction they had--ahem--from churches, for instance, now get it from books. i don't want to say anything to offend you, mr. hodder--" "you couldn't," interrupted the rector. he was equally surprised at the discovery that he had misjudged mr. engel, and was drawn towards him now with a strong sympathy and curiosity. "well," replied mr. engel, "i'm glad to hear you say that." he restrained a gasp. was this the orthodox mr. hodder of st. john's? "why," said hodder, sitting down, "i've learned, as you have, by experience. only my experience hasn't been so hopeful as yours--that is, if you regard yours as hopeful. it would be hypocritical of me not to acknowledge that the churches are losing ground, and that those who ought to be connected with them are not. i am ready to admit that the churches are at fault. but what you tell me of people reading these books gives me more courage than i have had for--for some time." "is it so!" ejaculated the little man, relapsing into the german idiom of his youth. "it is," answered the rector, with an emphasis not to be denied. "i wish you would give me your theory about this phenomenon, and speak frankly." "but i thought--" the bewildered librarian began. "i saw you had been reading those books, but i thought--" "naturally you did," said holder, smiling. his personality, his ascendency, his poise, suddenly felt by the other, were still more confusing. "you thought me a narrow, complacent, fashionable priest who had no concern as to what happened outside the walls of his church, who stuck obstinately to dogmas and would give nothing else a hearing. well, you were right." "ah, i didn't think all that," mr. engel protested, and his parchment skin actually performed the miracle of flushing. "i am not so stupid. and once, long ago when i was young, i was going to be a minister myself." "what prevented you?" asked holder, interested. "you want me to be frank--yes, well, i couldn't take the vows." the brown eyes of the quiet, humorous, self-contained and dried-up custodian of the city's reading flamed up. "i felt the call," he exclaimed. "you may not credit it to look at me now, mr. hodder. they said to me, 'here is what you must swear to believe before you can make men and women happier and more hopeful, rescue them from sin and misery!' you know what it was." hodder nodded. "it was a crime. it had nothing to do with religion. i thought it over for a year--i couldn't. oh, i have since been thankful. i can see now what would have happened to me--i should have had fatty degeneration of the soul." the expression was not merely forcible, it was overwhelming. it brought up before holder's mind, with sickening reality, the fate he had himself escaped. fatty degeneration of the soul! the little man, seeing the expression on the rector's face, curbed his excitement, and feared he had gone too far. "you will pardon me!" he said penitently, "i forget myself. i did not mean all clergymen." "i have never heard it put so well," holder declared. "that is exactly what occurs in many cases." "yes, it is that," said engel, still puzzled, but encouraged, eyeing the strong face of the other. "and they lament that the ministry hasn't more big men. sometimes they get one with the doctrinal type of mind --a newman--but how often? and even a newman would be of little avail to-day. it is eucken who says that the individual, once released from external authority, can never be turned back to it. and they have been released by the hundreds of thousands ever since luther's time, are being freed by the hundreds of thousands to-day. democracy, learning, science, are releasing them, and no man, no matter how great he may be, can stem that tide. the able men in the churches now--like your phillips brooks, who died too soon--are beginning to see this. they are those who developed after the vows of the theological schools were behind them. remove those vows, and you will see the young men come. young men are idealists, mr. hodder, and they embrace other professions where the mind is free, and which are not one whit better paid than the ministry. "and what is the result," he cried, "of the senseless insistence on the letter instead of the spirit of the poetry of religion? matthew arnold was a thousand times right when he inferred that jesus christ never spoke literally and yet he is still being taken literally by most churches, and all the literal sayings which were put into his mouth are maintained as gospel truth! what is the result of proclaiming christianity in terms of an ancient science and theology which awaken no quickening response in the minds and hearts of to-day? that!" the librarian thrust a yellow hand towards the pile of books. "the new wine has burst the old skin and is running all over the world. ah, my friend, if you could only see, as i do, the yearning for a satisfying religion which exists in this big city! it is like a vacuum, and those books are rushing to supply it. i little thought," he added dreamily, "when i renounced the ministry in so much sorrow that one day i should have a church of my own. this library is my church, and men and women of all creeds come here by the thousands. but you must pardon me. i have been carried away--i forgot myself." "mr. engel," replied the rector, "i want you to regard me as one of your parishioners." the librarian looked at him mutely, and the practical, desiccated little person seemed startlingly transformed into a mediaeval, german mystic. "you are a great man, mr. hodder," he said. "i might have guessed it." it was one of the moments when protest would have been trite, superfluous. and hodder, in truth, felt something great swelling within him, something that was not himself, and yet strangely was. but just what--in view of his past strict orthodoxy and limited congregation --mr. engel meant, he could not have said. had the librarian recognized, without confession on his part, the change in him? divined his future intentions? "it is curious that i should have met you this morning, mr. engel," he said. "i expressed surprise when you declared this was a religious age, because you corroborated something i had felt, but of which i had no sufficient proof. i felt that a great body of unsatisfied men and women existed, but that i was powerless to get in touch with them; i had discovered that truth, as you have so ably pointed out, is disguised and distorted by ancient dogmas; and that the old authority, as you say, no longer carries weight." "have you found the new one?" mr. engel demanded. "i think i have," the rector answered calmly, "it lies in personality. i do not know whether you will agree with me that the church at large has a future, and i will confess to you that there was a time when i thought she had not. i see now that she has, once given to her ministers that freedom to develop of which you speak. in spite of the fact that truth has gradually been revealed to the world by what may be called an apostolic succession of personalities,--augustine, dante, francis of assisi, luther, shakespeare, milton, and our own lincoln and phillips brooks,--to mention only a few,--the church as a whole has been blind to it. she has insisted upon putting the individual in a straitjacket, she has never recognized that growth is the secret of life, that the clothes of one man are binding on another." "ah, you are right--a thousand times right," cried the librarian. "you have read royce, perhaps, when he says, 'this mortal shall put on individuality--'" "no," said the rector, outwardly cool, but inwardly excited by the coruscation of this magnificent paraphrase of paul's sentence, by the extraordinary turn the conversation had taken. "i am ashamed to own that i have not followed the development of modern philosophy. the books i have just returned, on historical criticism," he went on, after a moment's hesitation, "infer what my attitude has been toward modern thought. we were made acquainted with historical criticism in the theological seminary, but we were also taught to discount it. i have discounted it, refrained from reading it,--until now. and yet i have heard it discussed in conferences, glanced over articles in the reviews. i had, you see, closed the door of my mind. i was in a state where arguments make no impression." the librarian made a gesture of sympathetic assent, which was also a tribute to the clergyman's frankness. "you will perhaps wonder how i could have lived these years in an atmosphere of modern thought and have remained uninfluenced. well, i have recently been wondering--myself." hodder smiled. "the name of royce is by no means unfamiliar to me, and he taught at harvard when i was an undergraduate. but the prevailing philosophy of that day among the students was naturalism. i represent a revolt from it. at the seminary i imbibed a certain amount of religious philosophy--but i did not continue it, as thousands of my more liberal fellow-clergymen have done. my religion 'worked' during the time, at least, i remained in my first parish. i had no interest in reconciling, for instance, the doctrine of evolution with the argument for design. since i have been here in this city," he added, simply, "my days have been filled with a continued perplexity--when i was not too busy to think. yes, there was an unacknowledged element of fear in my attitude, though i comforted myself with the notion that opinions, philosophical and scientific, were in a state of flux." "yes, yes," said mr. engel, "i comprehend. but, from the manner in which you spoke just now, i should have inferred that you have been reading modern philosophy--that of the last twenty years. ah, you have something before you, mr. hodder. you will thank god, with me, for that philosophy. it has turned the tide, set the current running the other way. philosophy is no longer against religion, it is with it. and if you were to ask me to name one of the greatest religious teachers of our age, i should answer, william james. and there is royce, of whom i spoke,--one of our biggest men. the dominant philosophies of our times have grown up since arnold wrote his 'literature and dogma,' and they are in harmony with the quickening social spirit of the age, which is a religious spirit--a christian spirit, i call it. christianity is coming to its own. these philosophies, which are not so far apart, are the flower of the thought of the centuries, of modern science, of that most extraordinary of discoveries, modern psychology. and they are far from excluding religion, from denying the essential of christ's teachings. on the other hand, they grant that the motive-power of the world is spiritual. "and this," continued mr. engel, "brings me to another aspect of authority. i wonder if it has struck you? in mediaeval times, when a bishop spoke ex cathedra, his authority, so far as it carried weight, came from two sources. first, the supposed divine charter of the church to save and damn. that authority is being rapidly swept away. second, he spoke with all the weight of the then accepted science and philosophy. but as soon as the new science began to lay hold on people's minds, as --for instance--when galileo discovered that the earth moved instead of the sun (and the pope made him take it back), that second authority began to crumble too. in the nineteenth century science had grown so strong that the situation looked hopeless. religion had apparently irrevocably lost that warrant also, and thinking men not spiritually inclined, since they had to make a choice between science and religion, took science as being the more honest, the more certain. "and now what has happened? the new philosophies have restored your second authority, and your first, as you properly say, is replaced by the conception of personality. personality is nothing but the rehabilitation of the prophet, the seer. get him, as hatch says, back into your church. the priests with their sacrifices and automatic rites, the logicians, have crowded him out. why do we read the old testament at all? not for the laws of the levites, not for the battles and hangings, but for the inspiration of the prophets. the authority of the prophet comes through personality, the source of which is in what myers calls the infinite spiritual world--in god. it was christ's own authority. "and as for your other authority, your ordinary man, when he reads modern philosophy, says to himself, this does not conflict with science? but he gets no hint, when he goes to most churches, that there is, between the two, no real quarrel, and he turns away in despair. he may accept the pragmatism of james, the idealism of royce, or even what is called neo realism. in any case, he gains the conviction that a force for good is at worn in the world, and he has the incentive to become part of it..... but i have given you a sermon!" "for which i can never be sufficiently, grateful," said hodder, with an earnestness not to be mistaken. the little man's eyes rested admiringly, and not without emotion, on the salient features of the tall clergyman. and when he spoke again, it was in acknowledgment of the fact that he had read hodder's purpose. "you will have opposition, my friend. they will fight you--some persons we know. they do not wish--what you and i desire. but you will not surrender--i knew it." mr. engel broke off abruptly, and rang a bell on his desk. "i will make out for you a list. i hope you may come in again, often. we shall have other talks,--yes? i am always here." then it came to pass that hodder carried back with him another armful of books. those he had brought back were the levellers of the false. these were the builders of the true. ii hodder had known for many years that the writings of josiah royce and of william james had "been in the air," so to speak, and he had heard them mentioned at dinner parties by his more intellectual parishioners, such as mrs. constable and martha preston. now he was able to smile at his former attitude toward these moderns, whose perusal he had deprecated as treason to the saints! and he remembered his horror on having listened to a fellow-clergyman discuss with calmness the plan of the "varieties of religious experiences." a sacrilegious dissection of the lives of these very saints! the scientific process, the theories of modern psychology applied with sang-froid to the workings of god in the human soul! science he had regarded as the proclaimed enemy of religion, and in these days of the apotheosis of science not even sacred things were spared. now hodder saw what the little librarian had meant by an authority restored. the impartial method of modern science had become so firmly established in the mind of mankind by education and reading that the ancient unscientific science of the roman empire, in which orthodox christianity was clothed, no longer carried authority. in so far as modern science had discovered truth, religion had no quarrel with it. and if theology pretended to be the science of religion, surely it must submit to the test of the new science! the dogged clinging to the archaic speculations of apologists, saints, and schoolmen had brought religion to a low ebb indeed. one of the most inspiring books he read was by an english clergyman of his own church whom he had formerly looked upon as a heretic, with all that the word had once implied. it was a frank yet reverent study of the self-consciousness of christ, submitting the life and teachings of jesus to modern criticism and the scientific method. and the saviour's divinity, rather than being lessened, was augmented. hodder found it infinitely refreshing that the so-called articles of christian belief, instead of being put first and their acceptance insisted upon, were made the climax of the investigation. religion, he began to perceive, was an undertaking, are attempt to find unity and harmony of the soul by adopting, after mature thought, a definite principle in life. if harmony resulted,--if the principle worked, it was true. hodder kept an open mind, but he became a pragmatist so far. science, on the other hand, was in a sphere by herself, and need have no conflict with religion; science was not an undertaking, but an impartial investigation by close observation of facts in nature. her object was to discover truths by these methods alone. she had her theories, indeed, but they must be submitted to rigorous tests. this from a book by professor perry, an advocate of the new realism. on the other hand there were signs that modern science, by infinitesimal degrees, might be aiding in the solution of the mystery . . . . but religion, hodder saw, was trusting. not credulous, silly trusting, but thoughtful trusting, accepting such facts as were definitely known. faith was trusting. and faith without works was dead simply because there could be no faith without works. there was no such thing as belief that did not result in act. a paragraph which made a profound impression on hodder at that time occurs in james's essay, "is life worth living?" "now-what do i mean by i trusting? is the word to carry with it license to define in detail an invisible world, and to authorize and excommunicate those whose trust is different? . . our faculties of belief were not given us to make orthodoxies and heresies withal; they were given us to live by. and to trust our religions demands men first of all to live in the light of them, and to act as if the invisible world which they suggest were real. it is a fact of human nature that man can live and die by the help of a sort of faith that goes without a single dogma and definition." yet it was not these religious philosophies which had saved him, though the stimulus of their current had started his mind revolving like a motor. their function, he perceived now, was precisely to compel him to see what had saved him, to reenforce it with the intellect, with the reason, and enable him to save others. the current set up,--by a thousand suggestions of which he made notes,--a personal construction, coordination, and he had the exhilaration of feeling, within him, a creative process all his own. behold a mystery 'a paradox'--one of many. as his strength grew greater day by day, as his vision grew clearer, he must exclaim with paul: "yet not i, but the grace of god which was with me!" he, hodder, was but an instrument transmitting power. and yet--oh paradox!--the instrument continued to improve, to grow stronger, to develop individuality and personality day by day! life, present and hereafter, was growth, development, the opportunity for service in a cause. to cease growing was to die. he perceived at last the form all religion takes is that of consecration to a cause,--one of god's many causes. the meaning of life is to find one's cause, to lose one's self in it. his was the liberation of the word,--now vouchsafed to him; the freeing of the spark from under the ashes. the phrase was alison's. to help liberate the church, fan into flame the fire which was to consume the injustice, the tyranny, the selfishness of the world, until the garvins, the kate marcys, the stunted children, and anaemic women were no longer possible. it was royce who, in one illuminating sentence, solved for him the puzzle, pointed out whence his salvation had come. "for your cause can only be revealed to you through some presence that first teaches you to love the unity of the spiritual life. . . you must find it in human shape." horace bentley! he, hodder, had known this, but known it vaguely, without sanction. the light had shone for him even in the darkness of that night in dalton street, when he thought to have lost it forever. and he had awakened the next morning, safe,--safe yet bewildered, like a half drowned man on warm sands in the sun. "the will of the spiritual world, the divine will, revealed in man." what sublime thoughts, as old as the cross itself, yet continually and eternally new! iii there was still another whose face was constantly before him, and the reflection of her distressed yet undaunted soul,--alison parr. the contemplation of her courage, of her determination to abide by nothing save the truth, had had a power over him that he might not estimate, and he loved her as a man loves a woman, for her imperfections. and he loved her body and her mind. one morning, as he walked back from mrs. bledsoe's through an unfrequented, wooded path of the park, he beheld her as he had summoned her in his visions. she was sitting motionless, gazing before her with clear eyes, as at the fates. . . she started on suddenly perceiving him, but it was characteristic of her greeting that she seemed to feel no surprise at the accident which had brought them together. "i am afraid," he said, smiling, "that i have broken in on some profound reflections." she did not answer at once, but looked up at him, as he stood over her, with one of her strange, baffling gazes, in which there was the hint of a welcoming smile. "reflection seems to be a circular process with me," she answered. "i never get anywhere--like you." "like me!" he exclaimed, seating himself on the bench. apparently their intercourse, so long as it should continue, was destined to be on the basis of intimacy in which it had begun. it was possible at once to be aware of her disturbing presence, and yet to feel at home in it. "like you, yes," she said, continuing to examine him. "you've changed remarkably." in his agitation, at this discovery of hers he again repeated her words. "why, you seem happier, you look happier. it isn't only that, i can't explain how you impress me. it struck me when you were talking to mr. bentley the other day. you seem to see something you didn't see when i first met you, that you didn't see the first time we were at mr. bentley's together. your attitude is fixed--directed. you have made a decision of some sort--a momentous one, i rather think." "yes," he replied, "you are right. it's more than remarkable that you should have guessed it." she remained silent "i have decided," he found himself saying abruptly, "to continue in the church." still she was silent, until he wondered whether she would answer him. he had often speculated to himself how she would take this decision, but he could make no surmise from her expression as she stared off into the wood. presently she turned her head, slowly, and looked into his face. still she did not speak. "you are wondering how i can do it," he said. "yes," she acknowledged, in a low voice. "i should like you to know--that is why i spoke of it. you have never asked me, and i have never told you that the convictions i formerly held i lost. and with them, for a while, went everything. at least so i believed." "i knew it," she answered, "i could see that, too." "when i argued with you, that afternoon,--the last time we talked together alone,--i was trying to convince myself, and you--" he hesitated, "--that there was something. the fact that you could not seem to feel it stimulated me." he read in her eyes that she understood him. and he dared not, nor did he need to emphasize further his own intense desire that she should find a solution of her own. "i wish you to know what i am telling you for two reasons," he went on. "it was you who spoke the words that led to the opening of my eyes to the situation into which i had been drifting for two years, who compelled me to look upon the inconsistencies and falsities which had gradually been borne in upon me. it was you, i think, who gave me the courage to face this situation squarely, since you possess that kind of courage yourself." "oh, no," she cried. "you would have done it anyway." he paused a moment, to get himself in hand. "for this reason, i owed it to you to speak--to thank you. i have realized, since that first meeting, that you became my friend then, and that you spoke as a friend. if you had not believed in my sincerity, you would not have spoken. i wish you to know that i am fully aware and grateful for the honour you did me, and that i realize it is not always easy for you to speak so--to any one." she did not reply. "there is another reason for my telling you now of this decision of mine to remain a clergyman," he continued. "it is because i value your respect and friendship, and i hope you will believe that i would not take this course unless i saw my way clear to do it with sincerity." "one has only to look at you to see that you are sincere," she said gently, with a thrill in her voice that almost unmanned him. "i told you once that i should never have forgiven myself if i had wrecked your life. i meant it. i am very glad." it was his turn to be silent. "just because i cannot see how it would be possible to remain in the church after one had been--emancipated, so to speak,"--she smiled at him,--"is no reason why you may not have solved the problem." such was the superfine quality of her honesty. yet she trusted him! he was made giddy by a desire, which he fought down, to justify himself before her. his eye beheld her now as the goddess with the scales in her hand, weighing and accepting with outward calm the verdict of the balance . . . . outward calm, but inner fire. "it makes no difference," she pursued evenly, bent on choosing her words, "that i cannot personally understand your emancipation, that mine is different. i can only see the preponderance of evil, of deception, of injustice--it is that which shuts out everything else. and it's temperamental, i suppose. by looking at you, as i told you, i can see that your emancipation is positive, while mine remains negative. you have somehow regained a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is some purpose in the universe." he assented. once more she relapsed into thought, while he sat contemplating her profile. she turned to him again with a tremulous smile. "but isn't a conviction that the good is predominant, that there is a purpose in the universe, a long way from the positive assertions in the creeds?" she asked. "i remember, when i went through what you would probably call disintegration, and which seemed to me enlightenment, that the creeds were my first stumbling-blocks. it seemed wrong to repeat them." "i am glad you spoke of this," he replied gravely. "i have arrived at many answers to that difficulty--which did not give me the trouble i had anticipated. in the first place, i am convinced that it was much more of a difficulty ten, twenty, thirty years ago than it is to-day. that which i formerly thought was a radical tendency towards atrophy, the drift of the liberal party in my own church and others, as well as that which i looked upon with some abhorrence as the free-thinking speculation of many modern writers, i have now come to see is reconstruction. the results of this teaching of religion in modern terms are already becoming apparent, and some persons are already beginning to see that the creeds express certain elemental truths in frankly archaic language. all this should be explained in the churches and the sunday schools,--is, in fact, being explained in some, and also in books for popular reading by clergymen of my own church, both here and in england. we have got past the critical age." she followed him closely, but did not interrupt. "i do not mean to say that the creeds are not the sources of much misunderstanding, but in my opinion they do not constitute a sufficient excuse for any clergyman to abandon his church on account of them. indeed there are many who interpret them by modern thought--which is closer to the teachings of christ than ancient thought--whose honesty cannot be questioned. personally, i think that the creeds either ought to be taken out of the service; or changed, or else there should be a note inserted in the service and catechism definitely permitting a liberal interpretation which is exactly what so many clergymen, candidly, do now. "when i was ordained a deacon, and then a priest, i took vows which would appear to be literally conflicting. compelled to choose between these vows, i accept that as supreme which i made when i affirmed that i would teach nothing which i should be persuaded might not be concluded and affirmed by the scripture. the creeds were derived from the scripture --not the scripture from the creeds. as an individual among a body of christians i am powerless to change either the ordinal vows or the creeds, i am obliged to wait for the consensus of opinion. but if, on the whole, i can satisfy my conscience in repeating the creeds and reading the service, as other honest men are doing--if i am convinced that i have an obvious work to do in that church, it would be cowardly for me to abandon that work." her eyes lighted up. "i see what you mean," she said, "by staying in you can do many things that you could not do, you can help to bring about the change, by being frank. that is your point of view. you believe m the future of the church." "i believe in an universal, christian organization," he replied. "but while stronger men are honest," she objected, "are not your ancient vows and ancient creeds continually making weaker men casuists?" "undoubtedly," he agreed vigorously, and thought involuntarily of mr. engel's phrased fatty degeneration of the soul. "yet i can see the signs, on all sides, of a gradual emancipation, of which i might be deemed an example." a smile came into his eyes, like the sun on a grey-green sea. "oh, you could never be a casuist!" she exclaimed, with a touch of vehemence. "you are much too positive. it is just that note, which is characteristic of so many clergymen, that note of smoothing-over and apology, which you lack. i could never feel it, even when you were orthodox. and now--" words failed her as she inspected his ruggedness. "and now," he took her up, to cover his emotion, "now i am not to be classified!" still examining him, she reflected on this. "classified?" isn't it because you're so much of an individual that one fails to classify you? you represent something new to my experience, something which seems almost a contradiction--an emancipated church." "you imagined me out of the church,--but where?" he demanded. "that's just it," she wondered intimately, "where? when i try, i can see no other place for you. your place as in the pulpit." he uttered a sharp exclamation, which she did not heed. "i can't imagine you doing institutional work, as it is called,--you're not fitted for it, you'd be wasted in it. you gain by the historic setting of the church, and yet it does not absorb you. free to preach your convictions, unfettered, you will have a power over people that will be tremendous. you have a very strong personality." she set his heart, his mind, to leaping by this unexpected confirmation on her part of his hopes, and yet the man in him was intent upon the woman. she had now the air of detached judgment, while he could not refrain from speculating anxiously on the effect of his future course on her and on their intimate relationship. he forbore from thinking, now, of the looming events which might thrust them apart,--put a physical distance between them,--his anxiety was concerned with the possible snapping of the thread of sympathy which had bound them. in this respect, he dreaded her own future as much as his own. what might she do? for he felt, in her, a potential element of desperation; a capacity to commit, at any moment, an irretrievable act. "once you have made your ideas your own," she mused, "you will have the power of convincing people." "and yet--" "and yet"--she seized his unfinished sentence, "you are not at all positive of convincing me. i'll give you the credit of forbearing to make proselytes." she smiled at him. thus she read him again. "if you call making proselytes a desire to communicate a view of life which gives satisfaction--" he began, in his serious way. "oh, i want to be convinced!" she exclaimed, penitently, "i'd give anything to feel as you feel. there's something lacking in me, there must be, and i have only seen the disillusionizing side. you infer that the issue of the creeds will crumble,--preach the new, and the old will fall away of itself. but what is the new? how, practically, do you deal with the creeds? we have got off that subject." "you wish to know?" he asked. "yes--i wish to know." "the test of any doctrine is whether it can be translated into life, whether it will make any difference to the individual who accepts it. the doctrines expressed in the creeds must stand or fall by the test. consider, for instance, the fundamental doctrine in the creeds, that of the trinity, which has been much scoffed at. a belief in god, you will admit, has an influence on conduct, and the trinity defines the three chief aspects of the god in whom christians believe. of what use to quarrel with the word person if god be conscious? and the character of god has an influence on conduct. the ancients deemed him wrathful, jealous, arbitrary, and hence flung themselves before him and propitiated him. if the conscious god of the universe be good, he is spoken of as a father. he is as once, in this belief, father and creator. and inasmuch as it is known that the divine qualities enter into man, and that one man, jesus, whose composite portrait--it is agreed--could not have been factitiously invented, was filled with them, we speak of god in man as the son. and the spirit of god that enters into the soul of man, transforming, inspiring, and driving him, is the third person, so-called. there is no difficulty so far, granted the initial belief in a beneficent god. "if we agree that life has a meaning, and, in order to conform to the purpose of the spirit of the universe, must be lived in one way, we certainly cannot object to calling that right way of living, that decree of the spirit, the word. "the incarnate word, therefore, is the concrete example of a human being completely filled with the spirit, who lives a perfect life according to its decree. ancient greek philosophy called this decree, this meaning of life, the logos, and the nicene creed is a confession of faith in that philosophy. although this creed is said to have been, scandalously forced through the council of nicaea by an emperor who had murdered his wife and children, and who himself was unbaptized, against a majority of bishops who would, if they had dared constantine's displeasure, have given the conscience freer play, to-day the difficulty has, practically disappeared. the creed is there in the prayer book, and so long as it remains we are at liberty to interpret the ancient philosophy in which it is written--and which in any event could not have been greatly improved upon at that time--in our own modern way, as i am trying to explain it to you. "christ was identified with the logos, or word, which must have had a meaning for all time, before and after its, complete revelation. and this is what the nicene creed is trying to express when it says, 'begotten of his father before all worlds.' in other words, the purpose which christ revealed always existed. the awkward expression of the ancients, declaring that he 'came down' for our salvation (enlightenment) contains a fact we may prove by experience, if we accept the meaning he put upon existence, and adopt this meaning as our scheme of life. but we: must first be quite clear, as: to this meaning. we may and do express all this differently, but it has a direct bearing on life. it is the doctrine of the incarnation. we begins to perceive through it that our own incarnations mean something, and that our task is to discover what they do mean--what part in the world purpose we are designed to play here. "incarnate by the holy ghost of the virgin mary is an emphasis on the fact that man born of woman may be divine. but the ignorant masses of the people of the roman empire were undoubtedly incapable of grasping a theory of the incarnation put forward in the terms of greek philosophy; while it was easy for them, with their readiness to believe in nature miracles, to accept the explanation of christ's unique divinity as due to actual, physical generation by the spirit. and the wide belief in the empire in gods born in this way aided such a conception. many thousands were converted to christianity when a place was found in that religion for a feminine goddess, and these abandoned the worship of isis, demeter, and diana for that of the virgin mary. thus began an evolution which is still going on, and we see now that it was impossible that the world should understand at once the spiritual meaning of life as christ taught it--that material facts merely symbolize the divine. for instance, the gospel of john has been called the philosophical or spiritual gospel. and in spite of the fact that it has been assailed and historically discredited by modern critics, for me it serves to illuminate certain truths of christ's message and teaching that the other gospels do not. mark, the earliest gospel, does not refer to the miraculous birth. at the commencements of matthew and luke you will read of it, and it is to be noted that the rest of these narratives curiously and naively contradict it. now why do we find the miraculous birth in these gospels if it had not been inserted in order to prove, in a manner acceptable to simple and unlettered minds, the theory of the incarnation, christ's preexistence? i do not say the insertion was deliberate. and it is difficult for us moderns to realize the polemic spirit in which the gospels were written. they were clearly not written as history. the concern of the authors, i think, was to convert their readers to christ. "when we turn to john, what do we find? in the opening verses of this gospel the incarnation is explained, not by a virgin birth, but in a manner acceptable to the educated and spiritually-minded, in terms of the philosophy of the day. and yet how simply! 'in the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god.' i prefer john's explanation. "it is historically true that, in the earlier days when the apostles' creed was put forth, the phrase 'born of they virgin mary' was inserted for the distinct purpose of laying stress on the humanity of christ, and to controvert the assertion of the gnostic sect that he was not born at all, but appeared in the world in some miraculous way. "thus to-day, by the aid of historical research, we are enabled to regard the creeds in the light of their usefulness to life. the myth of the virgin birth probably arose through the zeal of some of the writers of the gospels to prove that the prophecy of isaiah predicted the advent of the jewish messiah who should be born of a virgin. modern scholars are agreed that the word olmah which isaiah uses does not mean virgin, but young woman. there is quite a different hebrew word for 'virgin.' the jews, at the time the gospels were written, and before, had forgotten their ancient hebrew. knowing this mistake, and how it arose, we may repeat the word virgin mary in the sense used by many early christians, as designating the young woman who was the mother of christ. "i might mention one or two other phrases, archaic and obscure. 'the resurrection of the body' may refer to the phenomenon of christ's reappearance after death, for which modern psychology may or may not account. a little reflection, however, convinces one that the phenomenon did take place in some manner, or else, i think, we should never have heard of christ. you will remember that the apostles fled after his death on the cross, believing what he had told them was all only a dream. they were human, literal and cowardly, and they still needed some kind of inner, energizing conviction that the individuality persisted after death, that the solution of human life was victory over it, in order to gain the courage to go out and preach the gospel and face death themselves. and it was paul who was chiefly instrumental in freeing the message from the narrow bounds of palestine and sending it ringing down the ages to us. the miracle doesn't lie in what paul saw, but in the whole man transformed, made incandescent, journeying tirelessly to the end of his days up and down the length and breadth of the empire, labouring, as he says, more abundantly than they all. it is idle to say that the thing which can transform a man's entire nature and life is not a reality." she had listened, motionless, as under the spell of his words. self-justification, as he proceeded, might easily have fused itself into a desire to convince her of the truth of his beliefs. but he was not deceived, he knew her well enough to understand, to feel the indomitable spirit of resistance in her. swayed she could be, but she would mot easily surrender. "there is another phrase," she said after a moment, "which i have never heard explained, 'descended into hell.'" "it was merely a matter of controverting those who declared christ was taken from the cross before he died. in the childish science of the time, to say that one descended into hell was to affirm that he was actually dead, since the souls of the departed were supposed to go at once to hell. hell and heaven were definite places. to say that christ ascended to heaven and sat on the right hand of the father is to declare one's faith that his responsible work in the spiritual realm continues." "and the atonement? doesn't that imply a sacrifice of propitiation?" "atonement may be pronounced at-one-ment," hodder replied. "the old idea, illustrated by a reference to the sacrifice of the ancients, fails to convey the truth to modern minds. and moreover, as i have inferred, these matters had to be conveyed in symbols until mankind were prepared to grasp the underlying spiritual truths which christ sought to convey. orthodox christianity has been so profoundly affected by the ancient jewish religion that the conception of god as wrathful and jealous--a god wholly outside--has persisted to our times. the atonement means union with the spirit of the universe through vicarious suffering, and experience teaches us that our own sufferings are of no account unless they be for a cause, for the furtherance of the design of the beneficent spirit which is continually at work. christ may be said to have died for humanity because he had to suffer death itself in order to reveal the complete meaning of life. you once spoke to me about the sense of sin --of being unable to feel it." she glanced at him quickly, but did not speak. "there is a theory concerning this," he continued, "which has undoubtedly helped many people, and which may be found in the writings of certain modern psychologists. it is that we have a conscious, or lower, human self, and a subconscious, or better self. this subconscious self stretches down, as it were, into the depths of the universe and taps the source of spiritual power. and it is through the subconscious self that every man is potentially divine. potentially, because the conscious self has to reach out by an effort of the will to effect this union with the spiritual in the subconscious, and when it is effected, it comes from the response of the subconscious. apparently from without, as a gift, and therefore, in theological language, it is called grace. this is what is meant by being born again, the incarnation of the spirit in the conscious, or human. the two selves are no longer divided, and the higher self assumes control,--takes the reins, so to speak. "it is interesting, as a theory. and the fact that it has been seriously combated by writers who deny such a function of the subconscious does not at all affect the reality of the experience. "once we have had a vision of the true meaning of life a vision which stirs the energies of our being, what is called 'a sense of sin' inevitably follows. it is the discontent, the regret, in the light of a higher knowledge, for the: lost opportunities, for a past life which has been uncontrolled by any unifying purpose, misspent in futile undertakings, wasted, perhaps, in follies and selfish caprices which have not only harmed ourselves but others. although we struggle, yet by habit, by self-indulgence, by lack of a sustained purpose, we have formed a character from which escape seems hopeless. and we realize that in order to change ourselves, an actual regeneration of the will is necessary. for awhile, perchance, we despair of this. the effort to get out of the rut we have made for ourselves seems of no avail. and it is not, indeed, until we arrive, gradually or otherwise, and through a proper interpretation of the life of christ, at the conviction that we may even never become useful in the divine scheme that we have a sense of what is called 'the forgiveness of sins.' this conviction, this grace, this faith to embark on the experiment accomplishes of itself the revival of the will, the rebirth which we had thought impossible. we discover our task, high or humble,--our cause. we grow marvellously at one with god's purpose, and we feel that our will is acting in the same direction as his. and through our own atonement we see the meaning of that other atonement which led christ to the cross. we see that our conviction, our grace, has come through him, and how he died for our sins." "it's quite wonderful how logical and simple you make it, how thoroughly you have gone into it. you have solved it for yourself--and you will solve it for others many others." she rose, and he, too, got to his feet with a medley of feelings. the path along which they walked was already littered with green acorns. a gray squirrel darted ahead of them, gained a walnut and paused, quivering, halfway up the trunk, to gaze back at them. and the glance she presently gave him seemed to partake of the shyness of the wild thing. "thank you for explaining it to me," she said. "i hope you don't think--" he began. "oh, it isn't that!" she cried, with unmistakable reproach. "i asked you --i made you tell me. it hasn't seemed at all like--the confessional," she added, and smiled and blushed at the word. "you have put it so nicely, so naturally, and you have given me so much to think about. but it all depends--doesn't it?--upon whether one can feel the underlying truth of which you spoke in the first place; it rests upon a sense of the prevailing goodness of things. it seems to me cruel that what is called salvation, the solution of the problem of life, should depend upon an accidental discovery. we are all turned loose with our animal passions and instincts, of self-preservation, by an indifferent creator, in a wilderness, and left to find our way out as best we can. you answer that christ showed us the way. there are elements in his teaching i cannot accept--perhaps because i have been given a wrong interpretation of them. i shall ask you more questions some day. "but even then," she continued, "granted that christ brought the complete solution, as you say, why should so many millions have lived and died, before and after his coming, who had suffered so, and who had never heard of him? that is the way my reason works, and i can't help it. i would help it if i could." "isn't it enough," he asked, "to know that a force is at work combating evil,--even if you are not yet convinced that it is a prevailing force? can you not trust that it will be a prevailing force, if your sympathies are with it, without demanding a revelation of the entire scheme of the universe? of what use is it to doubt the eternal justice?" "oh, use!" she cried, "i grant you its uselessness. doubt seems an ingrained quality. i can't help being a fatalist." "and yet you have taken your life in your own hands," he reminded her, gently. "only to be convinced of its futility," she replied. again, momentarily thrust back into himself, he wondered jealously once more what the disillusionments had been of that experience from before which she seemed, at times, ready to draw back a little the veil. "a sense of futility is a sense of incompleteness," he said, "and generally precedes a sense of power." "ah, you have gained that! yet it must always have been latent in you --you make one feel it. but now!" she exclaimed, as though the discovery had just dawned on her, "now you will need power, now you will have to fight as you have never fought in your life." he found her enthusiasm as difficult to withstand as her stoicism. "yes, i shall have to fight," he admitted. her partisanship was sweet. "when you tell them what you have told me," she continued, as though working it out in her own mind, "they will never submit to it, if they can help it. my father will never submit to it. they will try to put you out, as a heretic,--won't they?" "i have an idea that they will," he conceded, with a smile. "and won't they succeed? haven't they the power?" "it depends,--in the first place, on whether the bishop thinks me a heretic." "have you asked him?" "no." "but can't they make you resign?" "they can deprive me of my salary." she did not press this. "you mustn't think me a martyr," he pleaded, in a lighter tone. she paid no heed to this protest, but continued to regard him with a face lighted by enthusiasm. "oh, that's splendid of you!" she cried. "you are going to speak the truth as you see it, and let them do their worst. of course, fundamentally, it isn't merely because they're orthodox that they won't like it, although they'll say so, and perhaps think so. it will be because if you have really found the truth--they will instinctively, fear its release. for it has a social bearing, too--hasn't it?--although you haven't explained that part of it." "it has a distinct social bearing," he replied, amazed at the way her mind flew forward and grasped the entire issue, in spite of the fact that her honesty still refused to concede his premises. such were the contradictions in her that he loved. and, though she did not suspect it, she had in her the crusader's spirit. "i have always remembered what you once said, that many who believed themselves christians had an instinctive feeling that there is a spark in christianity which, if allowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. and that they had covered the spark with ashes. i, too," he added whimsically, "was buried under the ashes." "and the spark," she demanded, "is not socialism--their nightmare?" "the spark is christianity itself--but i am afraid they will not be able to distinguish it from socialism. the central paradox in christianity consists in the harmonizing of the individual and socialistic spirit, and this removes it as far from the present political doctrine of socialism as it is possible to be. christianity, looked at from a certain viewpoint,--and i think the proper viewpoint,--is the most individualistic of religions, since its basic principle is the development of the individual into an autonomous being." they stood facing each other on an open stretch of lawn. the place was deserted. through the trees, in the near distance, the sightless front of the ferguson mansion blazed under the september sun. "individualistic!" she repeated, as though dazed by the word applied to the religion she had discarded. "i can't understand. do you think i ever can understand?" she asked him, simply. "it seems to me you understand more than you are willing to give yourself credit for," he answered seriously. "you don't take into account your attitude." "i see what you mean--a willingness to take the right road, if i can find it. i am not at all sure that i want to take it. but you must tell me more--more of what you have discovered. will you?" he just hesitated. she herself appeared to acknowledge no bar to their further intimacy--why should he? "i will tell you all i know," he said. suddenly, as if by a transference of thought, she voiced what he had in mind. "you are going to tell them the truth about themselves!" she exclaimed. "--that they are not christians!" his silence was an admission. "you must see," he told her, after the moment they had looked into each other's faces, "that this is the main reason why i must stay at st. john's, in the church, if i conscientiously can." "i see. the easier course would be to resign, to have scruples. and you believe there is a future for the church." "i believe it," he assented. she still held his eyes. "yes, it is worth doing. if you see it that way it is more worth doing than anything else. please don't think," she said, "that i don't appreciate why you have told me all this, why you have given me your reasons. i know it hasn't been easy. it's because you wish me to have faith in you for my own sake, not for yours. and i am grateful." "and if that faith is justified, as you will help to justify it, that it may be transferred to a larger sphere," he answered. she gave him her hand, but did not reply. chapter xix mr. goodrich becomes a partisan i in these days of his preparation, she haunted him continually. in her he saw typified all those who possessed the: divine discontent, the yearning unsatisfied,--the fatalists and the dreamers. and yet she seemed to have risen through instinct to share the fire of his vision of religion revealed to the countless ranks of strugglers as the hidden motive-power of the world, the impetus of scientist, statesman, artist, and philanthropist! they had stood together on the heights of the larger view, whence the whole of the battle-line lay disclosed. at other and more poignant moments he saw her as waving him bravely on while he steamed out through towering seas to safety. the impression was that of smiling at her destiny. had she fixed upon it? and did she linger now only that she might inspire him in his charge? she was capable, he knew, of taking calmly the irrevocable step, of accepting the decree as she read it. the thought tortured, the desire to save her from herself obsessed him; with true clairvoyance she had divined him aright when she had said that he wished her to have faith in him for her own sake. could he save her in spite of herself? and how? he could not see her, except by chance. was she waiting until he should have crossed the bar before she should pay some inexorable penalty of which he knew nothing? thus he speculated, suffered, was at once cast down and lifted up by the thought of her. to him, at least, she was one of those rare and dauntless women, the red stars of history, by whom the dantes and leonardos are fired to express the inexpressible, and common clay is fused and made mad: one of those women who, the more they reveal, become the more inscrutable. divinely inarticulate, he called her; arousing the passion of the man, yet stirring the sublimer efforts of the god. what her feelings toward him, whether she loved him as a woman loves a man he could not say, no man being a judge in the supreme instance. she beheld him emancipated, perhaps, from what she might have called the fetters of an orthodoxy for which she felt an instinctive antagonism; but whether, though proclaiming himself free, the fact of his continuation in the ministry would not of itself set up in her a reaction, he was unable to predict. her antipathy to forms, he saw, was inherent. her interest --her fascinated absorption, it might be called--in his struggle was spiritual, indeed, but it also had mixed in it the individualistic zeal of the nonconformist. she resented the trammels of society; though she suffered from her efforts to transcend them. the course he had determined upon appeared to her as a rebellion not only against a cut-and-dried state of mind, but also against vested privilege. yet she had in her, as she confessed, the craving for what privilege brings in the way of harmonious surroundings. he loved her for her contradictions. thus he was utterly unable to see what the future held for him in the way of continued communion with her, to evolve any satisfactory theory as to why she remained in the city. she had told him that the gardens were an excuse. she had come, by her own intimation, to reflect, to decide some momentous question. marriage? he found this too agitating to dwell upon, summoning, as it did, conjectures of the men she might have known; and it was perhaps natural, in view of her attitude, that he could only think of such a decision on her part as surrender. that he had caught and held her attention, although by no conscious effort of his own, was clear to him. but had he not merely arrested her? would she not presently disappear, leaving only in his life the scarlet thread which she had woven into it for all time? would he not fail to change, permanently, the texture of hers? such were his hopes and fears concerning her, and they were mingled inextricably with other hopes and fears which had to do with the great venture of his life. he dwelt in a realm of paradoxes, discovered that exaltation was not incompatible with anxiety and dread. he had no thought of wavering; he had achieved to an extent he would not have believed possible the sense of consecration which brings with it indifference to personal fortunes, and the revelation of the inner world, and yet he shrank from the wounds he was about to receive--and give. outwardly controlled, he lived in the state of intense excitement of the leader waiting for the time to charge. ii the moment was at hand. september had waned, the nights were cooling, his parishioners were returning from the east. one of these was eleanor goodrich, whom he met on a corner, tanned and revived from her long summer in massachusetts. she had inherited the kindly shrewdness of glance characteristic of gentlefolk, the glance that seeks to penetrate externals in its concern for the well-being of those whom it scrutinizes. and he was subtly aware, though she greeted him cordially, that she felt a change in him without being able to account for it. "i hear you have been here all summer," she said reproachfully. "mother and father and all of us were much disappointed that you did not come to us on the cape." "i should have come, if it had been possible," he replied. "it seems to have done you a world of good." "oh, i!" she seemed slightly embarrassed, puzzled, and did not look at him. "i am burned as disgracefully as evelyn. phil came on for a month. "he tells me he hasn't seen you, but that isn't surprising, for he hasn't been to church since june--and he's a vestryman now, too." she was in mourning for her father-in-law, who had died in the spring. phil goodrich had taken his place. eleanor found the conversation, somehow, drifting out of her control. it was not at all what she would have desired to say. her colour heightened. "i have not been conducting the services, but i resume them next sunday," said the rector. "i ought to tell you," he went on, regarding her, "in view of the conversation we have had, that i have changed my mind concerning a great many things we have talked about--although i have not spoken of this as yet to any of the members of the congregation." she was speechless, and could only stare at him blankly. "i mean," he continued, with a calmness that astonished her afterwards, "that i have changed my whole conception as to the functions and future of the church, that i have come to your position, that we must make up our minds for ourselves, and not have them made up for us. and that we must examine into the truth of all statements, and be governed accordingly." her attitude was one of mingled admiration, concern, and awe. and he saw that she had grasped something of the complications which his course was likely to bring about. "but you are not going to leave us!" she managed to exclaim. "not if it is possible to remain," he said, smiling. "i am so glad." she was still overpowered by the disclosure. "it is good of you to tell me. do you mind my telling phil?" "not at all," he assured her. "will you forgive me," she asked, after a slight pause during which she had somewhat regained her composure, "if i say that i always thought, or rather hoped you would change? that your former beliefs seemed so--unlike you?" he continued to smile at her as she stepped forward to take the car. "i'll have to forgive you," he answered, "because you were right--" she was still in such a state of excitement when she arrived down town that she went direct to her husband's law office. "i like this!" he exclaimed, as, unannounced, she opened the door of his sanctuary. "you might have caught me with one of those good-looking clients of mine." "oh, phil!" she cried, "i've got such a piece of news, i couldn't resist coming to tell you. i met mr. hodder--and he's changed." "changed!" phil repeated, looking up at her flushed face beside him. instead of a law-book, he flung down a time table in which he had been investigating the trains to a quail shooting club in the southern part of the state: the transition to mr. hodder was, therefore, somewhat abrupt. "why, nell, to look at you, i thought it could be nothing else than my somewhat belated appointment to the united states supreme court. how has hodder changed? i always thought him pretty decent." "don't laugh at me," she begged, "it's really serious--and no one knows it yet. he said i might tell you. do you remember that talk we had at father's, when he first came, and we likened him to a modern savonarola?" "and george bridges took the floor, and shocked mother and lucy and laureston," supplied phil. "i don't believe mother really was as much shocked as she appeared to be," said eleanor. "at any rate, the thing that had struck us--you and me--was that mr. hodder looked as though he could say something helpful, if he only would. and then i went to see him afterwards, in the parish house--you remember?--after we had been reading modern criticism together, and he told me that the faith which had come down from the fathers was like an egg? it couldn't be chipped. i was awfully disappointed--and yet i couldn't help liking him, he was so honest. and the theological books he gave me to read--which were so mediaeval and absurd! well, he has come around to our point of view. he told me so himself." "but what is our point of view, nell?" her husband asked, with a smile. "isn't it a good deal like professor bridges', only we're not quite so learned? we're just ordinary heathens, as far as i can make out. if hodder has our point of view, he ought to go into the law or a trust company." "oh, phil!" she protested, "and you're on the vestry! i do believe in something, and so do you." "something," he observed, "is hardly a concrete and complete theology." "why do you make me laugh," she reproached him, "when the matter is so serious? what i'm trying to tell you is that i'm sure mr. hodder has worked it out. he's too sincere to remain in the church and not have something constructive and satisfying. i've always said that he seemed to have a truth shut up inside of him which he could not communicate. well, now he looks as though he were about to communicate it, as though he had discovered it. i suppose you think me silly, but you'll grant, whatever mr. hodder may be, he isn't silly. and women can feel these things. you know i'm not given to sentimentality, but i was never so impressed by the growth in any personality as i was this morning by his. he seems to have become himself, as i always imagined him. and, phil, he was so fine! he's absolutely incapable of posing, as you'll admit, and he stood right up and acknowledged that he'd been wrong in our argument. he hasn't had the services all summer, and when he resumes them next sunday i gathered that he intends to make his new position clear." mr. goodrich thrust his hands in his pockets and gave a low whistle. "i guess i won't go shooting saturday, after all," he declared. "i wouldn't miss hodder's sermon for all the quail in harrington county." "it's high time you did go to church," remarked eleanor, contemplating, not without pride, her husband's close-cropped, pugnacious head. your judgments are pretty sound, nell. i'll do you that credit. and i've always owned up that hodder would be a fighter if he ever got started. it's written all over him. what's more, i've a notion that some of our friends are already a little suspicious of him." "you mean mr. parr?" she asked, anxiously. "no, wallis plimpton." "oh!" she exclaimed, with disdain in her voice. "mr. parr only got back yesterday, and wallis told me that hodder had refused to go on a yachting trip with him. not only foolishness, but high treason." phil smiled. "plimpton's the weather-vane, the barometer of that crowd--he feels a disturbance long before it turns up--he's as sensitive as the stock market." "he is the stock market," said eleanor. "it's been my opinion," phil went on reflectively, "that they've all had just a trace of uneasiness about hodder all along, an idea that nelson langmaid slipped up for the first time in his life when he got him to come. oh, the feeling's been dormant, but it existed. and they've been just a little afraid that they couldn't handle him if the time ever came. he's not their type. when i saw plimpton at the country club the other day he wondered, in that genial, off-hand manner of his, whether hodder would continue to be satisfied with st. john's. plimpton said he might be offered a missionary diocese. oh we'll have a fine old row." "i believe," said eleanor, "that that's the only thing that interests you." "well, it does please me," he admitted, when i think of gordon atterbury and everett constable and a few others,--eldon parr,--who believe that religion ought to be kept archaic and innocuous, served in a form that won't bother anybody. by the way, nell, do you remember the verse the professor quoted about the pharisees, and cleansing the outside of the cup and platter?" "yes," she answered, "why?" "well--hodder didn't give you any intimation as to what he intended to do about that sort of thing, did he?" "what sort of thing?" "about the inside of eldon parr's cup,--so to speak. and the inside of wallis plimpton's cup, and everett constable's cup, and ferguson's cup, and langmaid's. did it ever strike you that, in st. john's, we have the sublime spectacle of eldon parr, the pharisee in chief, conducting the church of christ, who, uttered that denunciation? that's what george bridges meant. there's something rather ironical in such a situation, to say the least." "i see," said eleanor, thoughtfully. "and what's more, it's typical," continued phil, energetically, "the big baptist church on the boulevard is run by old sedges, as canny a rascal as you could find in the state. the inside of has cup has never been touched, though he was once immersed in the mississippi, they say, and swallowed a lot of water." "oh, phil!" "hodder's been pretty intimate with eldon parr--that always puzzled me," phil went on. "and yet i'm like you, i never doubted hodder's honesty. i've always been curious to know what would happen when he found out the kind of thing eldon parr is doing every day in his life, making people stand and deliver in the interest of what he would call national prosperity. why, that fellow, funk, they sent to the penitentiary the other day for breaking into the addicks' house isn't a circumstance to eldon parr. he's robbed his tens of thousands, and goes on robbing them right along. by the way, mr. parr took most of addicks' money before funk got his silver." "phil, you have such a ridiculous way of putting things! but i suppose it's true." "true! i should say it was! there was mr. bentley--that was mild. and there never was a hold-up of a western express that could compare to the consolidated tractions. some of these big fellows have the same kind of brain as the professional thieves. well, they are professional thieves --what's the use of mincing matters! they never try the same game twice. mr. parr's getting ready to make another big haul right now. i know, because plimpton said as much, although he didn't confide in me what this particular piece of rascality is. he knows better." phil goodrich looked grim. "but the law?" exclaimed his wife. "there never was a law that nelson langmaid couldn't drive a horse and carriage through." "and mr. langmaid's one of the nicest men i know!" "what i wonder," mused phil, "is whether this is a mere doctrinal revolt on hodder's part, or whether he has found out a few things. there are so many parsons in these days who don't seem to see any inconsistency in robbing several thousand people to build settlement houses and carved marble altars, and who wouldn't accept a christmas box from a highwayman. but i'll do hodder the justice to say he doesn't strike me as that kind. and i have an idea that eldon parr and wallis plimpton and the rest know he isn't, know that he'd be a tartar if he ever get started, and that's what makes them uneasy." "then it isn't his change of religious opinions they would care about?" said eleanor. "oh, i don't say that eldon parr won't try to throw him out if he questions the faith as delivered by the saints." "phil, what a way of putting it!" "any indication of independence, any approach to truth would be regarded as dangerous," phil continued. and of course gordon atterbury and others we could mention, who think they believe in the unchipped egg theory, will be outraged. but it's deeper than that. eldon parr will give orders that hodder's to go." "give orders?" "certainly. that vestry, so far as mr. parr is concerned, is a mere dummy board of directors. he's made langmaid, and plimpton, and even everett constable, who's the son of an honourable gentleman, and ought to know better. and he can ruin them by snapping his fingers. he can even make the financial world too hot for ferguson. i'll say this for gordon atterbury, that mr. parr can't control him, but he's got a majority without him, and gordon won't vote for a heretic. who are left, except father-in-law waring and myself?" "he can't control either of you!" said eleanor, proudly. "when it comes to that, nell--we'll move into canada and buy a farm." "but can he hurt you, phil--either of you?" she asked, after a moment. "i'd like to see him try it," phil goodrich declared and his wife thought, as she looked at him, that she would like to see mr. parr try it, too. iii phil goodrich had once said that mr. plimpton's translation of the national motto e pluribus unum, was "get together," and it was true that not the least of mr. plimpton's many gifts was that of peace making. such was his genius that he scented trouble before it became manifest to the world, and he stoutly declared that no difference of opinion ever existed between reasonable men that might not be patched up before the breach became too wide--provided that a third reasonable man contributed his services. the qualifying word "reasonable" is to be noted. when mr. bedloe hubbell had undertaken, in the name of reform, to make a witch's cauldron of the city's politics, which mr. beatty had hitherto conducted so smoothly from the back room of his saloon, mr. plimpton had unselfishly offered his services. bedloe hubbell, although he had been a playmate of mr. plimpton's wife's, had not proved "reasonable," and had rejected with a scorn only to be deemed fanatical the suggestion that mr. hubbell's interests and mr. beatty's interests need not clash, since mr. hubbell might go to congress! and mr. plimpton was the more hurt since the happy suggestion was his own, and he had had no little difficulty in getting mr. beatty to agree to it. yet mr. plimpton's career in the ennobling role of peacemaker had, on the whole, been crowned with such success as to warrant his belief in the principle. mr. parr, for instance,--in whose service, as in that of any other friend, mr. plimpton was always ready to act--had had misunderstandings with eminent financiers, and sometimes with united states senators. mr. plimpton had made many trips to the capitol at washington, sometimes in company with mr. langmaid, sometimes not, and on one memorable occasion had come away smiling from an interview with the occupant of the white house himself. lest mr. plimpton's powers of premonition seem supernatural, it may be well to reveal the comparative simplicity of his methods. genius, analyzed, is often disappointing, mr. plimpton's was selective and synthetic. to illustrate in a particular case, he had met mr. parr in new york and had learned that the reverend mr. hodder had not only declined to accompany the banker on a yachting trip, but had elected to remain in the city all summer, in his rooms in the parish house, while conducting no services. mr. parr had thought this peculiar. on his return home mr. plimpton had one day dropped in to see a mr. gaines, the real estate agent for some of his property. and mr. plimpton being hale-fellow-well-met, mr. gaines had warned him jestingly that he would better not let his parson know that he owned a half interest in a certain hotel in dalton street, which was leased at a profitable rate. if mr. plimpton felt any uneasiness, he did not betray it. and he managed to elicit from the agent, in an entirely casual and jovial manner, the fact that mr. hodder, a month or so before, had settled the rent of a woman for a dalton street flat, and had been curious to discover the name of the owner. mr. gaines, whose business it was to recognize everybody, was sure of mr. hodder, although he had not worn clerical clothes. mr. plimpton became very thoughtful when he had left the office. he visited nelson langmaid in the parr building. and the result of the conference was to cause mr. langmaid to recall, with a twinge of uneasiness, a certain autumn morning in a room beside bremerton lake when he had been faintly yet distinctly conscious of the, admonitory whisperings of that sixth sense which had saved him on other occasions. "dash it!" he said to himself, after mr. plimpton had departed, and he stood in the window and gazed across at the flag on the roof of 'ferguson's.' "it would serve me right for meddling in this parson business. why did i take him away from jerry whitely, anyhow?" it added to nelson langmaid's discomfort that he had a genuine affection, even an admiration for the parson in question. he might have known by looking at the man that he would wake up some day,--such was the burden of his lament. and there came to him, ironically out of the past, the very words of mr. parr's speech to the vestry after dr. gilman's death, that succinct list of qualifications for a new rector which he himself, nelson langmaid, had humorously and even more succinctly epitomized. their "responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to god" had been to find a rector "neither too old nor too young, who would preach the faith as we received it, who was not sensational, and who did not mistake socialism for christianity." at the "socialism" a certain sickly feeling possessed the lawyer, and he wiped beads of perspiration from his dome-like forehead. he didn't pretend to be versed in theology--so he had declared--and at the memory of these words of his the epithet "ass," self applied, passed his lips. "you want a parson who will stick to his last, not too high or too low or too broad or too narrow, who has intellect without too much initiative . . . and will not get the church uncomfortably full of strangers and run you out of your pews." thus he had capped the financier. well, if they had caught a tartar, it served him, nelson langmaid, right. he recalled his talk with gerald whitely, and how his brother-in-law had lost his temper when they had got on the subject of personality . . . . perhaps wallis plimpton could do something. langmaid's hopes of this were not high. it may have been that he had suspicions of what mr. plimpton would have called hodder's "reasonableness." one thing was clear--that mr. plimpton was frightened. in the sanctuaries, the private confessionals of high finance (and nelson langmaid's office may be called so), the more primitive emotions are sometimes exhibited. "i don't see what business it is of a clergyman, or of any one else, whether i own property in dalton street," mr. plimpton had said, as he sat on the edge of the lawyer's polished mahogany desk. "what does he expect us to do,--allow our real estate to remain unproductive merely for sentimental reasons? that's like a parson, most of 'em haven't got any more common sense than that. what right has he got to go nosing around dalton street? why doesn't he stick to his church?" "i thought you fellows were to build him a settlement house there," langmaid observed. "on the condition that he wouldn't turn socialist." "you'd better have stipulated it in the bond," said the lawyer, who could not refrain, even at this solemn moment, from the temptation of playing upon mr. plimpton's apprehensions. "i'm afraid he'll make it his business, wallis, to find out whether you own anything in dalton street. i'll bet he's got a list of dalton street property in his pocket right now." mr. plimpton groaned. "thank god i don't own any of it!" said langmaid. "what the deuce does he intend to do?" the other demanded. "read it out in church," langmaid suggested. "it wouldn't sound pretty, wallis, to be advertised in the post on monday morning as owning that kind of a hotel." "oh, he's a gentleman," said mr. plimpton, "he wouldn't do anything as low as that!" "but if he's become a socialist?" objected langmaid. "he wouldn't do it," his friend reiterated, none too confidently. "i shouldn't be surprised if he made me resign from the vestry and forced me to sell my interest. it nets me five thousand a year." "what is the place?" langmaid asked sympathetically, "harrod's?" mr. plimpton nodded. "not that i am a patron," the lawyer explained somewhat hastily. "but i've seen the building, going home." "it looks to me as if it would burn down some day, wallis." "i wish it would," said mr. plimpton. "if it's any comfort to you--to us," langmaid went on, after a moment, "eldon parr owns the whole block above thirteenth, on the south side --bought it three years ago. he thinks the business section will grow that way." "i know," said mr. plimpton, and they looked at each other. the name predominant in both minds had been mentioned. "i wonder if hodder really knows what he's up against." mr. plimpton sometimes took refuge in slang. "well, after all, we're not sure yet that he's 'up against anything,'" replied langmaid, who thought the time had come for comfort. "it may all be a false alarm. there's no reason, after all, why a christian clergyman shouldn't rescue women in dalton street, and remain in the city to study the conditions of the neighbourhood where his settlement house is to be. and just, because you or i would not be able to resist an invitation to go yachting with eldon parr, a man might be imagined who had that amount of moral courage." "that's just it. hodder seems to me, now i come to think of it, just the kind of john brown type who wouldn't hesitate to get into a row with eldon parr if he thought it was right, and pull down any amount of disagreeable stuff about our ears." "you're mixing your heroes, wallis," said langmaid. "i can't help it. you'd catch it, too, nelson. what in the name of sense possessed you to get such a man?" this being a question the lawyer was unable to answer, the conversation came to another pause. and it was then that mr. plimpton's natural optimism reasserted itself. "it isn't done,--the thing we're afraid of, that's all," he proclaimed, after a turn or two about the room. "hodder's a gentleman, as i said, and if he feels as we suspect he does he'll resign like a gentleman and a christian. i'll have a talk with him--oh, you can trust me! i've got an idea. gordon atterbury told me the other day there is a vacancy in a missionary diocese out west, and that hodder's name had been mentioned, among others, to the bishops for the place. he'd make a rattling missionary bishop, you know, holding services in saloons and knocking men's heads together for profanity, and he boxes like a professional. now, a word from eldon parr might turn the trick. every parson wants to be a bishop." langmaid shook his head. "you're getting out of your depths, my friend. the church isn't wall street. and missionary bishops aren't chosen to make convenient vacancies." "i don't mean anything crude," mr. plimpton protested. "but a word from the chief layman of a diocese like this, a man who never misses a general convention, and does everything handsomely, might count,--particularly if they're already thinking of hodder. the bishops would never suspect we wanted to get rid of him." "well," said langmaid, "i advise you to go easy, all along the line." "oh, i'll go easy enough," mr. plimpton assented, smiling. "do you remember how i pulled off old senator matthews when everybody swore he was dead set on voting for an investigation in the matter of those coal lands mr. parr got hold of in his state?" "matthews isn't hodder, by a long shat," said langmaid. "if you ask me my opinion, i'll tell you frankly that if hodder has made up his mind to stay in st. john's a ton of dynamite and all the eldon parrs in the nation can't get him out." "can't the vestry make him resign?" asked mr. plimpton, uncomfortably. "you'd better, go home and study your canons, my friend. nothing short of conviction for heresy can do it, if he doesn't want to go." "you wouldn't exactly call him a heretic," mr. plimpton said ruefully. "would you know a heretic if you saw one?" demanded langmaid. "no, but my wife would, and gordon atterbury and constable would, and eldon parr. but don't let's get nervous." "well, that's sensible at any rate," said langmaid . . . . so mr. plimpton had gone off optimistic, and felt even more so the next morning after he had had his breakfast in the pleasant dining room of the gore mansion, of which he was now master. as he looked out through the open window at the sunshine in the foliage of waverley place, the prospect of his being removed from that position of dignity and influence on the vestry of st. john's, which he had achieved, with others, after so much walking around the walls, seemed remote. and he reflected with satisfaction upon the fact that his wife, who was his prime minister, would be home from the east that day. two heads were better than one, especially if one of the two were charlotte gore's. and mr. plimpton had often reflected upon the loss to the world, and the gain to himself, that she was a woman. it would not be gallant to suggest that his swans were geese. iv the successful navigation of lower tower street, at noonday, required presence of mind on the part of the pedestrian. there were currents and counter-currents, eddies and backwaters, and at the corner of vine a veritable maelstrom through which two lines of electric cars pushed their way, east and weft, north and south, with incessant clanging of bells; followed by automobiles with resounding horns, trucks and delivery wagons with wheels reverberating on the granite. a giant irish policeman, who seemed in continual danger of a violent death, and wholly indifferent to it, stood between the car tracks and halted the rush from time to time, driving the people like sheep from one side to the other. through the doors of ferguson's poured two conflicting streams of humanity, and wistful groups of young women, on the way from hasty lunches, blocked the pavements and stared at the finery behind the plate-glass windows. the rector, slowly making his way westward, permitted himself to be thrust hither and thither, halted and shoved on again as he studied the faces of the throng. and presently he found himself pocketed before one of the exhibits of feminine interest, momentarily helpless, listening to the admiring and envious chorus of a bevy of diminutive shop-girls on the merits of a paris gown. it was at this moment that he perceived, pushing towards him with an air of rescue, the figure of his vestryman, mr. wallis plimpton. "well, well, well!" he cried, as he seized hodder by the arm and pulled him towards the curb. "what are you doing herein the marts of trade? come right along with me to the eyrie, and we'll have something, to eat." the eyrie was a famous lunch club, of limited membership, at the top of the parr building, where financial affairs of the first importance were discussed and settled. hodder explained that he had lunched at half-past twelve. "well, step into my office a minute. it does me good, to see you again, upon my word, and i can't let you get by without a little pow-wow." mr. plimpton's trust company, in vine street, resembled a greek temple. massive but graceful granite columns adorned its front, while within it was partitioned off with polished marble and ornamental grills. in the rear, guarded by the desks and flanked by the compartments of various subordinates, was the president's private sanctum, and into this holy of holies mr. plimpton led the way with the simple, unassuming genial air of the high priest of modern finance who understands men. the room was eloquent almost to affectation of the system and order of great business, inasmuch as it betrayed not the least sign of a workshop. on the dark oak desk were two leather-bound books and a polished telephone. the walls were panelled, there was a stone fireplace with andirons set, a deep carpet spread over the tessellated floor, and three leather-padded armchairs, one of which mr. plimpton hospitably drew forward for the rector. he then produced a box of cigars. "you don't smoke, mr. hodder. i always forget. that's the way you manage to keep yourself in such good shape." he drew out a gold match box and seated himself with an air of gusto opposite his guest. "and you haven't had a vacation, they tell me." "on the contrary," said the rector, "mccrae has taken the services all summer." "but you've been in the city!" mr. plimpton exclaimed, puffing at his cigar. "yes, i've been in the city." "well, well, i'll bet you haven't been idle. just between us, as friends, mr. hodder, i've often wondered if you didn't work too hard --there's such a thing as being too conscientious, you know. and i've an idea that the rest of the vestry think so. mr. parr, for instance. we know when we've got a good thing, and we don't want to wear you out. oh, we can appreciate your point of view, and admire it. but a little relaxation--eh? it's too bad that you couldn't have seen your way to take that cruise--mr. parr was all cut up about it. i guess you're the only man among all of us fairly close to him, who really knows him well," said mr. plimpton, admiringly. "he thinks a great deal of you, mr. hodder. by the way, have you seen him since he got back?" "no," hodder answered. "the trip did him good. i thought he was a little seedy in the spring --didn't you? wonderful man! and when i think how he's slandered and abused it makes me hot. and he never says anything, never complains, lives up there all alone, and takes his medicine. that's real patriotism, according to my view. he could retire to-morrow --but he keeps on--why? because he feels the weight of a tremendous responsibility on his shoulders, because he knows if it weren't for him and men like him upon whom the prosperity of this nation depends, we'd have famine and anarchy on our hands in no time. and look what he's done for the city, without ostentation, mind you! he never blows his own horn-never makes a speech. and for the church! but i needn't tell you. when this settlement house and chapel are finished, they'll be coming out here from new york to get points. by the way, i meant to have written you. have our revised plans come yet? we ought to break ground in november, oughtn't we?" "i intend to lay my views on that matter before the vestry at the next meeting, the rector said. "well," declared mr. plimpton, after a scarcely perceptible pause, "i've no doubt they'll be worth listening to. if i were to make a guess," he continued, with a contemplative smile, blowing a thin stream of smoke towards the distant ceiling, "i should bet that you have spent your summer looking over the ground. i don't say that you have missed your vocation, mr. hodder, but i don't mind telling you that for a clergyman, for a man absorbed in spiritual matters, a man who can preach the sermons you preach, you've got more common-sense and business thoroughness than any one i have ever run across in your profession." "looking over the ground?" hodder repeated, ignoring the compliment. "sure," said mr. plimpton, smiling more benignly than ever. "you mustn't be modest about it. dalton street. and when that settlement house is built, i'll guarantee it will be run on a business basis. no nonsense." "what do you mean by nonsense?" hodder asked. he did not make the question abrupt, and there was even the hint of a smile in his eyes, which mr. plimpton found the more disquieting. "why, that's only a form of speech. i mean you'll be practical, efficient, that you'll get hold of the people of that neighbourhood and make 'em see that the world isn't such a bad place after all, make 'em realize that we in st. john's want to help 'em out. that you won't make them more foolishly discontented than they are, and go preaching socialism to them." "i have no intention of preaching socialism," said hodder. but he laid a slight emphasis on the word which sent a cold shiver down mr. plimpton's spine, and made him wonder whether there might not be something worse than socialism. "i knew you wouldn't," he declared, with all the heartiness he could throw into his voice. "i repeat, you're a practical, sensible man. i'll yield to none in my belief in the church as a moral, uplifting, necessary spiritual force in our civilization, in my recognition of her high ideals, but we business men, mr. hodder,--as--i am sure you must agree, --have got to live, i am sorry to say, on a lower plane. we've got to deal with the world as we find it, and do our little best to help things along. we can't take the gospel literally, or we should all be ruined in a day, and swamp everybody else. you understand me? "i understand you," said the rector. mr. plimpton's cigar had gone out. in spite of himself, he had slipped from the easy-going, casual tone into one that was becoming persuasive, apologetic, strenuous. although the day was not particularly warm, he began to perspire a little; and he repeated the words over to himself, "i understand you." what the deuce did the rector know? he had somehow the air of knowing everything--more than mr. plimpton did. and mr. plimpton was beginning to have the unusual and most disagreeable feeling of having been weighed in the balance and found wanting. he glanced at his guest, who sat quite still, the head bent a trifle, the disturbing gray eyes fixed contemplatively an him--accusingly. and yet the accusation did not seem personal with the clergyman, whose eyes were nearly the medium, the channels of a greater, an impersonal ice. it was true that the man had changed. he was wholly baffling to mr. plimpton, whose sense of alarm increased momentarily into an almost panicky feeling as he remembered what langmaid had said. was this inscrutable rector of st. john's gazing, knowingly, at the half owner of harrods hotel in dalton street, who couldn't take the gospel literally? there was evidently no way to find out at once, and suspense would be unbearable, in vain he told himself that these thoughts were nonsense, the discomfort persisted, and he had visions of that career in which he had become one of the first citizens and the respected husband of charlotte gore clashing down about his ears. why? because a clergyman should choose to be quixotic, fanatical? he did not took quixotic, fanatical, mr. plimpton had to admit,--but a good deal saner than he, mr. plimpton, must have appeared at that moment. his throat was dry, and he didn't dare to make the attempt to relight his cigar. "there's nothing like getting together--keeping in touch with people, mr. hodder," he managed to say. "i've been out of town a good deal this summer--putting on a little flesh, i'm sorry to admit. but i've been meaning to drop into the parish house and talk over those revised plans with you. i will drop in--in a day or two. i'm interested in the work, intensely interested, and so is mrs. plimpton. she'll help you. i'm sorry you can't lunch with me." he had the air, now, of the man who finds himself disagreeably and unexpectedly closeted with a lunatic; and his language, although he sought to control it, became even a trifle less coherent. "you must make allowances for us business men, mr. hodder. i mean, of course, we're sometimes a little lax in our duties--in the summer, that is. don't shoot the pianist, he's doing his--ahem! you know the story. "by the way, i hear great things of you; i'm told it's on the cards that you're to be made a bishop." "oh," answered the rector, "there are better men mentioned than i!" "i want you to know this," said his vestryman, as he seized hodder's hand, "much as we value you here, bitterly as we should hate to lose you, none of us, i am sure, would stand in the way of such a deserved advancement." "thank you, mr. plimpton," said the rector. mr. plimpton watched the vigorous form striding through the great chamber until it disappeared. then he seized his hat and made his way as rapidly as possible through the crowds to the parr building. at the entrance of the open-air roof garden of the eyrie he ran into nelson langmaid. "you're the very man i'm after," said mr. plimpton, breathlessly. "i stopped in your office, and they said you'd gone up." "what's the matter, wallis?" inquired the lawyer, tranquilly. "you look as if you'd lost a couple of bonds." i've just seen hodder, and he is going to do it." "do what?" "sit down here, at this table in the corner, and i'll tell you." for a practical man, it must be admitted that mr. plimpton had very little of the concrete to relate. and it appeared on cross-examination by mr. langmaid, who ate his cold meat and salad with an exasperating and undiminished appetite--that the only definite thing the rector had said was that he didn't intend to preach socialism. this was reassuring. "reassuring!" exclaimed mr. plimpton, whose customary noonday hunger was lacking, "i wish you could have heard him say it!" "the wicked," remarked the lawyer, "flee when no man pursueth. don't shoot the pianist!" langmaid set down his beer, and threw back his head and laughed. "if i were the reverend mr. hodder, after such an exhibition as you gave, i should immediately have suspected the pianist of something, and i should have gone off by myself and racked my brains and tried to discover what it was. he's a clever man, and if he hasn't got a list of dalton street property now he'll have one by to-morrow, and the story of some of your transactions with tom beatty and the city council." "i believe you'd joke in the electric chair," said mr. a plimpton, resentfully. "i'll tell you this,--and my experience backs me up, --if you can't get next to a man by a little plain talk, he isn't safe. i haven't got the market sense for nothing, and i'll give you this tip, nelson,--it's time to stand from under. didn't i warn you fellows that bedloe hubbell meant business long before he started in? and this parson can give hubbell cards and spades. hodder can't see this thing as it is. he's been thinking, this summer. and a man of that kind is downright dangerous when he begins to think. he's found out things, and he's put two and two together, and he's the uncompromising type. he has a notion that the gospel can be taken literally, and i could feel all the time i was talking to him he thought i was a crook." "perhaps he was right," observed the lawyer. "that comes well from you," mr. plimpton retorted. "oh, i'm a crook, too," said langmaid. "i discovered it some time ago. the difference between you and me, wallis, is that i am willing to acknowledge it, and you're not. the whole business world, as we know it, is crooked, and if we don't cut other people's throats, they'll cut ours." "and if we let go, what would happen to the country?" his companion demanded. langmaid began to shake with silent laughter. "your solicitude about the country, wallis, is touching. i was brought up to believe that patriotism had an element of sacrifice in it, but i can't see ours. and i can't imagine myself, somehow, as a hercules bearing the burden of our constitution. from mr. hodder's point of view, perhaps,--and i'm not sure it isn't the right one, the pianist is doing his damnedest, to the tune of--dalton street. we might as well look this thing in the face, my friend. you and i really don't believe in another world, or we shouldn't be taking so much trouble to make this one as we'd like to have it." "i never expected to hear you talk this way," said mr. plimpton. "well, it's somewhat of a surprise to me," the lawyer admitted. "and i don't think you put it fairly," his friend contended. "i never can tell when you are serious, but this is damned serious. in business we have to deal with crooks, who hold us up right and left, and if we stood back you know as well as i do that everything would go to pot. and if we let the reformers have their way the country would be bedlam. we'd have anarchy and bloodshed, revolution, and the people would be calling us, the strong men, back in no time. you can't change human nature. and we have a sense of responsibility--we support law and order and the church, and found institutions, and give millions away in charity." the big lawyer listened to this somewhat fervent defence of his order with an amused smile, nodding his head slightly from side to side. "if you don't believe in it," demanded mr. plimpton, why the deuce don't you drop it?" "it's because of my loyalty," said langmaid. "i wouldn't desert my pals. i couldn't bear, wallis, to see you go to the guillotine without me." mr. plimpton became unpleasantly silent. "well, you may think it's a joke," he resumed, after a moment, "but there will be a guillotine if we don't look out. that confounded parson is getting ready to spring something, and i'm going to give mr. parr a tip. he'll know how to handle him. he doesn't talk much, but i've got an idea, from one or two things he let drop, that he's a little suspicious of a change in hodder. but he ought to be waived." "you're in no condition to talk to mr. parr, or to anyone else, except your wife, walks," langmaid said. "you'd better go home, and let me see mr. parr. i'm responsible for mr. hodder, anyway." "all right," mr. plimpton agreed, as though he had gained some shred of comfort from this thought. "i guess you're in worse than any of us." the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xxiii. the choice xxiv. the vestry meets xxv. "rise, crowned with light!" xxvi. the current of life chapter xxiii the choice i pondering over alison's note, he suddenly recalled and verified some phrases which had struck him that summer on reading harnack's celebrated history of dogma, and around these he framed his reply. "to act as if faith in eternal life and in the living christ was the simplest thing in the world, or a dogma to which one has to submit, is irreligious. . . it is christian to pray that god would give the spirit to make us strong to overcome the feelings and the doubts of nature. . . where this faith, obtained in this way, exists, it has always been supported by the conviction that the man lives who brought life and immortality to light. to hold fast this faith is the goal of life, for only what we consciously strive for is in this matter our own. what we think we possess is very soon lost." "the feelings and the doubts of nature!" the divine discontent, the striving against the doubt that every honest soul experiences and admits. thus the contrast between her and these others who accepted and went their several ways was brought home to him. he longed to talk to her, but his days were full. yet the very thought of her helped to bear him up as his trials, his problems accumulated; nor would he at any time have exchanged them for the former false peace which had been bought (he perceived more and more clearly) at the price of compromise. the worst of these trials, perhaps, was a conspicuous article in a newspaper containing a garbled account of his sermon and of the sensation it had produced amongst his fashionable parishioners. he had refused to see the reporter, but he had been made out a hero, a socialistic champion of the poor. the black headlines were nauseating; and beside them, in juxtaposition, were pen portraits of himself and of eldon parr. there were rumours that the banker had left the church until the recalcitrant rector should be driven out of it; the usual long list of mr. parr's benefactions was included, and certain veiled paragraphs concerning his financial operations. mr. ferguson, mr. plimpton, mr. constable, did not escape,--although they, too, had refused to be interviewed . . . . the article brought to the parish house a bevy of reporters who had to be fought off, and another batch of letters, many of them from ministers, in approval or condemnation. his fellow-clergymen called, some to express sympathy and encouragement, more of them to voice in person indignant and horrified protests. dr. annesley of calvary--a counterpart of whose rubicund face might have been found in the council of trent or in mediaeval fish-markets --pronounced his anathemas with his hands folded comfortably over his stomach, but eventually threw to the winds every vestige of his ecclesiastical dignity . . . . then there came a note from the old bishop, who was traveling. a kindly note, withal, if non-committal,--to the effect that he had received certain communications, but that his physician would not permit him to return for another ten days or so. he would then be glad to see mr. holder and talk with him. what would the bishop do? holder's relations with him had been more than friendly, but whether the bishop's views were sufficiently liberal to support him in the extreme stand he had taken he could not surmise. for it meant that the bishop, too, must enter into a conflict with the first layman of his diocese, of whose hospitality he had so often partaken, whose contributions had been on so lordly a scale. the bishop was in his seventieth year, and had hitherto successfully fought any attempt to supply him with an assistant,--coadjutor or suffragan. at such times the fear grew upon hodder that he might be recommended for trial, forced to abandon his fight to free the church from the fetters that bound her: that the implacable hostility of his enemies would rob him of his opportunity. thus ties were broken, many hard things were said and brought to his ears. there were vacancies in the classes and guilds, absences that pained him, silences that wrung him. . . . of all the conversations he held, that with mrs. constable was perhaps the most illuminating and distressing. as on that other occasion, when he had gone to her, this visit was under the seal of confession, unknown to her husband. and hodder had been taken aback, on seeing her enter his office, by the very tragedy in her face--the tragedy he had momentarily beheld once before. he drew up a chair for her, and when she had sat down she gazed at him some moments without speaking. "i had to come," she said; "there are some things i feel i must ask you. for i have been very miserable since i heard you on sunday." he nodded gently. "i knew that you would change your views--become broader, greater. you may remember that i predicted it." "yes," he said. "i thought you would grow more liberal, less bigoted, if you will allow me to say so. but i didn't anticipate--" she hesitated, and looked up at him again. "that i would take the extreme position i have taken," he assisted her. "oh, mr. hodder," she cried impulsively, "was it necessary to go so far? and all at once. i am here not only because i am miserable, but i am concerned on your account. you hurt me very much that day you came to me, but you made me your friend. and i wonder if you really understand the terrible, bitter feeling you have aroused, the powerful enemies you have made by speaking so--so unreservedly?" "i was prepared for it," he answered. "surely, mrs. constable, once i have arrived at what i believe to be the truth, you would not have me temporize?" she gave him a wan smile. "in one respect, at least, you have not changed," she told him. "i am afraid you are not the temporizing kind. but wasn't there,--mayn't there still be a way to deal with this fearful situation? you have made it very hard for us--for them. you have given them no loophole of escape. and there are many, like me, who do not wish to see your career ruined, mr. hodder." "would you prefer," he asked, "to see my soul destroyed? and your own?" her lips twitched. "isn't there any other way but that? can't this transformation, which you say is necessary and vital, come gradually? you carried me away as i listened to you, i was not myself when i came out of the church. but i have been thinking ever since. consider my husband, mr. hodder," her voice faltered. "i shall not mince matters with you--i know you will not pretend to misunderstand me. i have never seen him so upset since since that time gertrude was married. he is in a most cruel position. i confessed to you once that mr. parr had made for us all the money we possess. everett is fond of you, but if he espouses your cause, on the vestry, we shall be ruined." hodder was greatly moved. "it is not my cause, mrs. constable," he said. "surely, christianity is not so harsh and uncompromising as that! and do you quite do justice to--to some of these men? there was no one to tell them the wrongs they were committing--if they were indeed wrongs. our civilization is far from perfect." "the church may have been remiss, mistaken," the rector replied. "but the christianity she has taught, adulterated though it were, has never condoned the acts which have become commonplace in modern finance. there must have been a time, in the life of every one of these men, when they had to take that first step against which their consciences revolted, when they realized that fraud and taking advantage of the ignorant and weak were wrong. they have deliberately preferred gratification in this life to spiritual development--if indeed they believe in any future whatsoever. for 'whosoever will save his life shall lose it' is as true to-day as it ever was. they have had their choice--they still have it." "i am to blame," she cried. "i drove my husband to it, i made him think of riches, it was i who cultivated mr. parr. and oh, i suppose i am justly punished. i have never been happy for one instant since that day." he watched her, pityingly, as she wept. but presently she raised her face, wonderingly. "you do believe in the future life after--after what you have been through?" "i do," he answered simply. "yes--i am sure you do. it is that, what you are, convinces me you do. even the remarkable and sensible explanation you gave of it when you interpreted the parable of the talents is not so powerful as the impression that you yourself believe after thinking it out for yourself --not accepting the old explanations. and then," she added, with a note as of surprise, "you are willing to sacrifice everything for it!" "and you?" he asked. "cannot you, too, believe to that extent?" "everything?" she repeated. "it would mean--poverty. no--god help me --i cannot face it. i have become too hard. i cannot do without the world. and even if i could! oh, you cannot know what you ask everett, my husband--i must say it, you make me tell you everything--is not free. he is little better than a slave to eldon parr. i hate eldon parr," she added, with startling inconsequence. "if i had only known what it would lead to when i made everett what he is! but i knew nothing of business, and i wanted money, position to satisfy my craving at the loss of--that other thing. and now i couldn't change my husband if i would. he hasn't the courage, he hasn't the vision. what there was of him, long ago, has been killed--and i killed it. he isn't--anybody, now." she relapsed again into weeping. "and then it might not mean only poverty--it might mean disgrace." "disgrace!" the rector involuntarily took up the word. "there are some things he has done," she said in a low voice, "which he thought he was obliged to do which eldon parr made him do." "but mr. parr, too--?" hodder began. "oh, it was to shield eldon parr. they could never be traced to him. and if they ever came out, it would kill my husband. tell me," she implored, "what can i do? what shall i do? you are responsible. you have made me more bitterly unhappy than ever." "are you willing," he asked, after a moment, "to make the supreme renunciation? to face poverty, and perhaps disgrace, to save your soul and others?" "and--others?" "yes. your sacrifice would not, could not be in vain. otherwise i should be merely urging on you the individualism which you once advocated with me." "renunciation." she pronounced the word questioningly. "can christianity really mean that--renunciation of the world? must we take it in the drastic sense of the church of the early centuries-the church of the martyrs?" "christianity demands all of us, or nothing," he replied. "but the false interpretation of renunciation of the early church has cast its blight on christianity even to our day. oriental asceticism, stoicism, philo and other influences distorted christ's meaning. renunciation does not mean asceticism, retirement from the world, a denial of life. and the early christian, since he was not a citizen, since he took the view that this mortal existence was essentially bad and kept his eyes steadfastly fixed on another, was the victim at once of false philosophies and of the literal messianic prophecies of the jews, which were taken over with christianity. the earthly kingdom which was to come was to be the result of some kind of a cataclysm. personally, i believe our lord merely used the messianic literature as a convenient framework for his spiritual kingdom of heaven, and that the gospels misinterpret his meaning on this point. "renunciation is not the withdrawal from, the denial of life, but the fulfilment of life, the submission to the divine will and guidance in order that our work may be shown us. renunciation is the assumption, at once, of heavenly and earthly citizenship, of responsibility for ourselves and our fellow-men. it is the realization that the other world, the inner, spiritual world, is here, now, and that the soul may dwell in it before death, while the body and mind work for the coming of what may be called the collective kingdom. life looked upon in that way is not bad, but good,--not meaningless, but luminous." she had listened hungrily, her eyes fixed upon his face. "and for me?" she questioned. "for you," he answered, leaning forward and speaking with a conviction that shook her profoundly, "if you make the sacrifice of your present unhappiness, of your misery, all will be revealed. the labour which you have shirked, which is now hidden from you, will be disclosed, you will justify your existence by taking your place as an element of the community. you will be able to say of yourself, at last, 'i am of use.'" "you mean--social work?" the likeness of this to mrs. plimpton's question struck him. she had called it "charity." how far had they wandered in their teaching from the revelation of the master, since it was as new and incomprehensible to these so-called christians as to nicodemus himself! "all christian work is social, mrs. constable, but it is founded on love. 'thou shaft love thy neighbour as thyself.' you hold your own soul precious, since it is the shrine of god. and for that reason you hold equally precious your neighbour's soul. love comes first, as revelation, as imparted knowledge, as the divine gist of autonomy--self-government. and then one cannot help working, socially, at the task for which we are made by nature most efficient. and in order to discover what that task is, we must wait." "why did not some one tell me this, when i was young?" she asked--not speaking to him. "it seems so simple." "it is simple. the difficult thing is to put it into practice--the most difficult thing in the world. both courage and faith are required, faith that is content to trust as to the nature of the reward. it is the wisdom of foolishness. have you the courage?" she pressed her hands together. "alone--perhaps i should have. i don't know. but my husband! i was able to influence him to his destruction, and now i am powerless. darkness has closed around me. he would not--he will not listen to me." "you have tried?" "i have attempted to talk to him, but the whole of my life contradicts my words. he cannot see me except as, the woman who drove him into making money. sometimes i think he hates me." hodder recalled, as his eyes rested on her compassionately, the sufferings of that other woman in dalton street. "would you have me desert him--after all these years?" she whispered. "i often think he would be happier, even now." "i would have you do nothing save that which god himself will reveal to you. go home, go into the church and pray--pray for knowledge. i think you will find that you are held responsible for your husband. pray that that which you have broken, you may mend again." "do you think there is a chance?" hodder made a gesture. "god alone can judge as to the extent of his punishments." she got to her feet, wearily. "i feel no hope--i feel no courage, but--i will try. i see what you mean--that my punishment is my powerlessness." he bent his head. "you are so strong--perhaps you can help me." "i shall always be ready," he replied. he escorted her down the steps to the dark blue brougham with upstanding, chestnut horses which was waiting at the curb. but mrs. constable turned to the footman, who held open the door. "you may stay here awhile," she said to him, and gave hodder her hand.... she went into the church . . . . ii asa waring and his son-in-law, phil goodrich, had been to see hodder on the subject of the approaching vestry meeting, and both had gone away not a little astonished and impressed by the calmness with which the rector looked forward to the conflict. others of his parishioners, some of whom were more discreet in their expressions of sympathy, were no less surprised by his attitude; and even his theological adversaries, such as gordon atterbury, paid him a reluctant tribute. thanks, perhaps, to the newspaper comments as much as to any other factor, in the minds of those of all shades of opinion in the parish the issue had crystallized into a duel between the rector and eldon parr. bitterly as they resented the glare of publicity into which st. john's had been dragged, the first layman of the diocese was not beloved; and the fairer-minded of hodder's opponents, though appalled, were forced to admit in their hearts that the methods by which mr. parr had made his fortune and gained his ascendency would not bear scrutiny . . . . some of them were disturbed, indeed, by the discovery that there had come about in them, by imperceptible degrees, in the last few years a new and critical attitude towards the ways of modern finance: moat of them had an uncomfortable feeling that hodder was somehow right,--a feeling which they sought to stifle when they reflected upon the consequences of facing it. for this would mean a disagreeable shaking up of their own lives. few of them were in a position whence they might cast stones at eldon parr . . . . what these did not grasp was the fact that that which they felt stirring within them was the new and spiritual product of the dawning twentieth century--the social conscience. they wished heartily that the new rector who had developed this disquieting personality would peacefully resign and leave them to the former, even tenor of their lives. they did not for one moment doubt the outcome of his struggle with eldon parr. the great banker was known to be relentless, his name was synonymous with victory. and yet, paradoxically, hodder compelled their inner sympathy and admiration! . . . some of them, who did not attempt peremptorily to choke the a processes made the startling discovery that they were not, after all, so shocked by his doctrines as they had at first supposed. the trouble was that they could not continue to listen to him, as formerly, with comfort.... one thing was certain, that they had never expected to look forward to a vestry meeting with such breathless interest and anxiety. this clergyman had suddenly accomplished the surprising feat of reviving the church as a burning, vital factor in the life of the community! he had discerned her enemy, and defied his power . . . . as for hodder, so absorbed had he been by his experiences, so wrung by the human contacts, the personal problems which he had sought to enter, that he had actually given no thought to the battle before him until the autumn afternoon, heavy with smoke, had settled down into darkness. the weather was damp and cold, and he sat musing on the ordeal now abruptly confronting him before his study fire when he heard a step behind him. he turned to recognize, by the glow of the embers, the heavy figure of nelson langmaid. "i hope i'm not disturbing you, hodder," he said. "the janitor said you were in, and your door is open." "not at all," replied the rector, rising. as he stood for a moment facing the lawyer, the thought of their friendship, and how it had begun in the little rectory overlooking the lake at bremerton, was uppermost in his mind,--yes, and the memory of many friendly, literary discussions in the same room where they now stood, of pleasant dinners at langmaid's house in the west end, when the two of them had often sat talking until late into the nights. "i must seem very inhospitable," said hodder. "i'll light the lamp--it's pleasanter than the electric light." the added illumination at first revealed the lawyer in his familiar aspect, the broad shoulders, the big, reddish beard, the dome-like head, --the generous person that seemed to radiate scholarly benignity, peace, and good-will. but almost instantly the rector became aware of a new and troubled, puzzled glance from behind the round spectacles. . ." "i thought i'd drop in a moment on my way up town--" he began. and the note of uncertainty in his voice, too, was new. hodder drew towards the fire the big chair in which it had been langmaid's wont to sit, and perhaps it was the sight of this operation that loosed the lawyer's tongue. "confound it, hodder!" he exclaimed, "i like you--i always have liked you. and you've got a hundred times the ability of the average clergyman. why in the world did you have to go and make all this trouble?" by so characteristic a remark hodder was both amused and moved. it revealed so perfectly the point of view and predicament of the lawyer, and it was also an expression of an affection which the rector cordially, returned . . . . before answering, he placed his visitor in the chair, and the deliberation of the act was a revelation of the unconscious poise of the clergyman. the spectacle of this self-command on the brink of such a crucial event as the vestry meeting had taken langmaid aback more than he cared to show. he had lost the old sense of comradeship, of easy equality; and he had the odd feeling of dealing with a new man, at once familiar and unfamiliar, who had somehow lifted himself out of the everyday element in which they heretofore had met. the clergyman had contrived to step out of his, langmaid's, experience: had actually set him--who all his life had known no difficulty in dealing with men--to groping for a medium of communication . . . . hodder sat down on the other side of the fireplace. he, too, seemed to be striving for a common footing. "it was a question of proclaiming the truth when at last i came to see it, langmaid. i could not help doing what i did. matters of policy, of a false consideration for individuals could not enter into it. if this were not so, i should gladly admit that you had a just grievance, a peculiar right to demand why i had not remained the strictly orthodox person whom you induced to come here. you had every reason to congratulate yourself that you were getting what you doubtless would call a safe man." "i'll admit i had a twinge of uneasiness after i came home," langmaid confessed. hodder smiled at his frankness. "but that disappeared." "yes, it disappeared. you seemed to suit 'em so perfectly. i'll own up, hodder, that i was a little hurt that you did not come and talk to me just before you took the extraordinary--before you changed your opinions." "would it have done any good?" asked the rector, gently. "would you have agreed with me any better than you do now? i am perfectly willing, if you wish, to discuss with you any views of mine which you may not indorse. and it would make me very happy, i assure you, if i could bring you to look upon the matter as i do." this was a poser. and whether it were ingenuous, or had in it an element of the scriptural wisdom of the serpent, langmaid could not have said. as a lawyer, he admired it. "i wasn't in church, as usual,--i didn't hear the sermon," he replied. "and i never could make head or tail of theology--i always told you that. what i deplore, hodder, is that you've contrived to make a hornets' nest out of the most peaceful and contented congregation in america. couldn't you have managed to stick to religion instead of getting mixed up with socialism?" "so you have been given the idea that my sermon was socialistic?" the rector said. "socialistic and heretical,--it seems. of course i'm not much of an authority on heresy, but they claim that you went out of your way to knock some of their most cherished and sacred beliefs in the head." "but suppose i have come to the honest conclusion that in the first place these so-called cherished beliefs have no foundation in fact, and no influence on the lives of the persons who cherished them, no real connection with christianity? what would you have me do, as a man? continue to preach them for the sake of the lethargic peace of which you speak? leave the church paralyzed, as i found it?" "paralyzed! you've got the most influential people in the city." hodder regarded him for a while without replying. "so has the willesden club," he said. langmaid laughed a little, uncomfortably. "if christianity, as one of the ancient popes is said to have remarked, were merely a profitable fable," the rector continued, "there might be something in your contention that st. john's, as a church, had reached the pinnacle of success. but let us ignore the spiritual side of this matter as non-vital, and consider it from the practical side. we have the most influential people in the city, but we have not their children. that does not promise well for the future. the children get more profit out of the country clubs. and then there is another question: is it going to continue to be profitable? is it as profitable now as it was, say, twenty years ago? "you've got out of my depth," said nelson langmaid. "i'll try to explain. as a man of affairs, i think you will admit, if you reflect, that the return of st. john's, considering the large amount of money invested, is scarcely worth considering. and i am surprised that as astute a man as mr. pair has not been able to see this long ago. if we clear all the cobwebs away, what is the real function of this church as at present constituted? why this heavy expenditure to maintain religious services for a handful of people? is it not, when we come down to facts, an increasingly futile effort to bring the influences of religion--of superstition, if you will--to bear on the so-called lower classes in order that they may remain contented with their lot, with that station and condition in the world where--it is argued--it has pleased god to call them? if that were not so, in my opinion there are very few of the privileged classes who would invest a dollar in the church. and the proof of it is that the moment a clergyman raises his voice to proclaim the true message of christianity they are up in arms with the cry of socialism. they have the sense to see that their privileges are immediately threatened. "looking at it from the financial side, it would be cheaper for them to close up their churches. it is a mere waste of time and money, because the influence on their less fortunate brethren in a worldly sense has dwindled to nothing. few of the poor come near their churches in these days. the profitable fable is almost played out." hodder had spoken without bitterness, yet his irony was by no means lost on the lawyer. langmaid, if the truth be told, found himself for the moment in the unusual predicament of being at a loss, for the rector had put forward with more or less precision the very cynical view which he himself had been clever enough to evolve. "haven't they the right," he asked, somewhat lamely to demand the kind of religion they pay for?" "provided you don't call it religion," said the rector. langmaid smiled in spite of himself. "see here, hodder," he said, "i've always confessed frankly that i knew little or nothing about religion. i've come here this evening as your friend, without authority from anybody," he added significantly, "to see if this thing couldn't somehow be adjusted peaceably, for your sake as well as others'. come, you must admit there's a grain of justice in the contention against you. when i went on to bremerton to get you i had no real reason for supposing that these views would develop. i made a contract with you in all good faith." "and i with you," answered the rector. "perhaps you do not realize, langmaid, what has been the chief factor in developing these views." the lawyer was silent, from caution. "i must be frank with you. it was the discovery that mr. parr and others of my chief parishioners were so far from being christians as to indulge, while they supported the church of christ, in operations like that of the consolidated tractions company, wronging their fellow-men and condemning them to misery and hate. and that you, as a lawyer, used your talents to make that operation possible." "hold on!" cried langmaid, now plainly agitated. "you have no right--you can know nothing of that affair. you do not understand business." "i'm afraid," replied the rector, sadly, "that i understand one side of it only too well." "the church has no right to meddle outside of her sphere, to dictate to politics and business." "her sphere," said holder,--is the world. if she does not change the world by sending out christians into it, she would better close her doors." "well, i don't intend to quarrel with you, holder. i suppose it can't be helped that we look at these things differently, and i don't intend to enter into a defence of business. it would take too long, and it wouldn't help any." he got to his feet. "whatever happens, it won't interfere with our personal friendship, even if you think me a highwayman and i think you a--" "a fanatic," holder supplied. he had risen, too, and stood, with a smile on his face, gazing at the lawyer with an odd scrutiny. "an idealist, i was going to say," langmaid answered, returning the smile, "i'll admit that we need them in the world. it's only when one of them gets in the gear-box . . . ." the rector laughed. and thus they stood, facing each other. "langmaid," holder asked, "don't you ever get tired and disgusted with the juggernaut car?" the big lawyer continued to smile, but a sheepish, almost boyish expression came over his face. he had not credited the clergyman with so much astuteness. "business, nowadays, is--business, holder. the juggernaut car claims us all. it has become-if you will permit me to continue to put my similes into slang--the modern band wagon. and we lawyers have to get on it, or fall by the wayside." holder stared into the fire. "i appreciate your motive in coming here," he said, at length, "and i do you the justice of believing it was friendly, that the fact that you are, in a way, responsible for me to--to the congregation of st. john's did not enter into it. i realize that i have made matters particularly awkward for you. you have given them in me, and in good faith, something they didn't bargain for. you haven't said so, but you want me to resign. on the one hand, you don't care to see me tilting at the windmills, or, better, drawing down on my head the thunderbolts of your gods. on the other hand, you are just a little afraid for your gods. if the question in dispute were merely an academic one, i'd accommodate you at once. but i can't. i've thought it all out, and i have made up my mind that it is my clear duty to remain here and, if i am strong enough, wrest this church from the grip of eldon parr and the men whom he controls. "i am speaking plainly, and i understand the situation thoroughly. you will probably tell me, as others have done, that no one has ever opposed eldon parr who has not been crushed. i go in with my eyes open, i am willing to be crushed, if necessary. you have come here to warn me, and i appreciate your motive. now i am going to warn you, in all sincerity and friendship. i may be beaten, i may be driven out. but the victory will be mine nevertheless. eldon parr and the men who stand with him in the struggle will never recover from the blow i shall give them. i shall leave them crippled because i have the truth on my side, and the truth is irresistible. and they shall not be able to injure me permanently. and you, i regret deeply to say, will be hurt, too. i beg you, for no selfish reason, to consider again the part you intend to play in this affair." such was the conviction, such the unlooked-for fire with which the rector spoke that langmaid was visibly shaken and taken aback in spite of himself. "do you mean," he demanded, when he had caught his breath, "that you intend to attack us publicly?" "is that the only punishment you can conceive of?" the rector asked. the reproach in his voice was in itself a denial. "i beg your pardon, hodder," said the lawyer, quickly. "and i am sure you honestly believe what you say, but--" "in your heart you, too, believe it, langmaid. the retribution has already begun. nevertheless you will go on--for a while." he held out his hand, which langmaid took mechanically. "i bear you no ill-will. i am sorry that you cannot yet see with sufficient clearness to save yourself." langmaid turned and picked up his hat and stick and left the room without another word. the bewildered, wistful look which had replaced the ordinarily benign and cheerful expression haunted hodder long after the lawyer had gone. it was the look of a man who has somehow lost his consciousness of power. chapter xxiv the vestry meets at nine o'clock that evening hodder stood alone in the arched vestry room, and the sight of the heavy gothic chairs ranged about the long table brought up memories of comfortable, genial meetings prolonged by chat and banter.... the noise of feet, of subdued voices beside the coat room in the corridor, aroused him. all of the vestry would seem to have arrived at once. he regarded them with a detached curiosity as they entered, reading them with a new insight. the trace of off-handedness in mr. plimpton's former cordiality was not lost upon him--an intimation that his star had set. mr. plimpton had seen many breaches healed--had healed many himself. but he had never been known as a champion of lost causes. "well, here we are, mr. hodder, on the stroke," he remarked. "as a vestry, i think we're entitled to the first prize for promptness. how about it, everett?" everett constable was silent. "good evening, mr. hodder," he said. he did not offer to shake hands, as mr. plimpton had done, but sat down at the far end of the table. he looked tired and worn; sick, the rector thought, and felt a sudden swelling of compassion for the pompous little man whose fibre was not as tough as that of these other condottieri: as francis ferguson's, for instance, although his soft hand and pink and white face framed in the black whiskers would seem to belie any fibre whatever. gordon atterbury hemmed and hawed,--"ah, mr. hodder," and seated himself beside mr. constable, in a chair designed to accommodate a portly bishop. both of them started nervously as asa waring, holding his head high, as a man should who has kept his birthright, went directly to the rector. "i'm glad to see you, mr. hodder," he said, and turning defiantly, surveyed the room. there was an awkward silence. mr. plimpton edged a little nearer. the decree might have gone forth for mr. hodder's destruction, but asa waring was a man whose displeasure was not to be lightly incurred. "what's this i hear about your moving out of hamilton place, mr. waring? you'd better come up and take the spaulding lot, in waverley, across from us." "i am an old man, mr. plimpton," asa waring replied. "i do not move as easily as some other people in these days." everett constable produced his handkerchief and rubbed his nose violently. but mr. plimpton was apparently undaunted. "i have always said," he observed, "that there was something very fine in your sticking to that neighbourhood after your friends had gone. here's phil!" phil goodrich looked positively belligerent, and as he took his stand on the other side of hodder his father-in-law smiled at him grimly. mr. goodrich took hold of the rector's arm. "i missed one or two meetings last spring, mr. hodder," he said, "but i'm going to be on hand after this. my father, i believe, never missed a vestry meeting in his life. perhaps that was because they used to hold most of 'em at his house." "and serve port and cigars, i'm told," mr. plimpton put in. "that was an inducement, wallis, i'll admit," answered phil. "but there are even greater inducements now." in view of phil goodrich's well-known liking for a fight, this was too pointed to admit of a reply, but mr. plimpton was spared the attempt by the entrance of. nelson langmaid. the lawyer, as he greeted them, seemed to be preoccupied, nor did he seek to relieve the tension with his customary joke. a few moments of silence followed, when eldon parr was seen to be standing in the doorway, surveying them. "good evening, gentlemen," he said coldly, and without more ado went to his customary chair, and sat down in it. immediately followed a scraping of other chairs. there was a dominating quality about the man not to be gainsaid. the rector called the meeting to order . . . . during the routine business none of the little asides occurred which produce laughter. every man in the room was aware of the intensity of eldon parr's animosity, and yet he betrayed it neither by voice, look, or gesture. there was something uncanny in this self-control, this sang froid with which he was wont to sit at boards waiting unmoved for the time when he should draw his net about his enemies, and strangle them without pity. it got on langmaid's nerves--hardened as he was to it. he had seen many men in that net; some had struggled, some had taken their annihilation stoically; honest merchants, freebooters, and brigands. most of them had gone out, with their families, into that precarious border-land of existence in which the to-morrows are ever dreaded. yet here, somehow, was a different case. langmaid found himself going back to the days when his mother had taken him to church, and he could not bear to look at, hodder. since six o'clock that afternoon--had his companions but known it--he had passed through one of the worst periods of his existence. . . . after the regular business had been disposed of a brief interval was allowed, for the sake of decency, to ensue. that eldon parr would not lead the charge in person was a foregone conclusion. whom, then, would he put forward? for obvious reasons, not wallis plimpton or langmaid, nor francis ferguson. hodder found his, glance unconsciously fixed upon everett constable, who, moved nervously and slowly pushed back his chair. he was called upon, in this hour and in the church his father had helped to found, to make the supreme payment for the years of financial prosperity. although a little man, with his shoulders thrown back and his head high, he generally looked impressive when he spoke, and his fine features and clear-cut english contributed to the effect. but now his face was strained, and his voice seemed to lack command as he bowed and mentioned the rector's name. eldon parr sat back. "gentlemen," mr. constable began, "i feel it my duty to say something this evening, something that distresses me. like some of you who are here present, i have been on this vestry for many years, and my father was on it before me. i was brought up under dr. gilman, of whom i need not speak. all here, except our present rector, knew him. this church, st. john's, has been a part--a--large part--of my life. and anything that seems to touch its welfare, touches me. "when dr. gilman died, after so many years of faithful service, we faced a grave problem,--that of obtaining a young man of ability, an active man who would be able to assume the responsibilities of a large and growing parish, and at the same time carry on its traditions, precious to us all; one who believed in and preached, i need scarcely add, the accepted doctrines of the church, which we have been taught to think are sacred and necessary to salvation. and in the discovery of the reverend mr. hodder, we had reason to congratulate ourselves and the parish. he was all that we had hoped for, and more. his sermons were at once a pleasure and an instruction. "i wish to make it clear," he continued, "that in spite of the pain mr. hodder's words of last sunday have given me, i respect and honour him still, and wish him every success. but, gentlemen, i think it is plain to all of you that he has changed his religious convictions. as to the causes through which that change has come about, i do not pretend to know. to say the least, the transition is a startling one, one for which some of us were totally unprepared. to speak restrainedly, it was a shock--a shock which i shall remember as long as i live. "i need not go into the doctrinal question here, except to express my opinion that the fundamental facts of our religion were contradicted. and we have also to consider the effect of this preaching on coming generations for whom we are responsible. there are, no doubt, other fields for mr. hodder's usefulness. but i think it may safely be taken as a principle that this parish has the right to demand from the pulpit that orthodox teaching which suits it, and to which it has been accustomed. and i venture further to give it as my opinion--to put it mildly that others have been as disturbed and shocked as i. i have seen many, talked with many, since sunday. for these reasons, with much sorrow and regret, i venture to suggest to the vestry that mr. hodder resign as our rector. and i may add what i believe to be the feeling of all present, that we have nothing but good will for him, although we think we might have been informed of what he intended to do. "and that in requesting him to resign we are acting for his own good as well as our own, and are thus avoiding a situation which threatens to become impossible,--one which would bring serious reflection on him and calamity on the church. we already, in certain articles in the newspapers, have had an indication of the intolerable notoriety we may expect, although i hold mr. hodder innocent in regard to those articles. i am sure he will have the good sense to see this situation as i see it, as the majority of the parish see it." mr. constable sat down, breathing hard. he had not looked at the rector during the whole of his speech, nor at eldon parr. there was a heavy silence, and then philip goodrich rose, square, clean-cut, aggressive. "i, too, gentlemen, have had life-long association with this church," he began deliberately. "and for mr. hodder's sake i am going to give you a little of my personal history, because i think it typical of thousands of men of my age all over this country. it was nobody's fault, perhaps, that i was taught that the christian religion depended on a certain series of nature miracles and a chain of historical events, and when i went east to school i had more of this same sort of instruction. i have never, perhaps, been overburdened with intellect, but the time arrived nevertheless when i began to think for myself. some of the older boys went once, i remember, to the rector of the school--a dear old man--and frankly stated our troubles. to use a modern expression, he stood pat on everything. i do not say it was a consciously criminal act, he probably saw no way out himself. at any rate, he made us all agnostics at one stroke. "what i learned in college of science and history and philosophy merely confirmed me in my agnosticism. as a complete system for the making of atheists and materialists, i commend the education which i received. if there is any man here who believes religion to be an essential factor in life, i ask him to think of his children or grandchildren before he comes forward to the support of mr. constable. "in that sermon which he preached last sunday, mr. hodder, for the first time in my life, made christianity intelligible to me. i want him to know it. and there are other men and women in that congregation who feel as i do. gentlemen, there is nothing i would not give to have had christianity put before me in that simple and inspiring way when i was a boy. and in my opinion st. john's is more fortunate to-day than it ever has been in its existence. mr. hodder should have an unanimous testimonial of appreciation from this vestry for his courage. and if the vote requesting him to resign prevails, i venture to predict that there is not a man on this vestry who will not live to regret it." phil goodrich glared at eldon parr, who remained unmoved. "permit me to add," he said, "that this controversy, in other respects than doctrine, is more befitting to the middle ages than to the twentieth century, when this church and other denominations are passing resolutions in their national conventions with a view to unity and freedom of belief." mr. langmaid, mr. plimpton, and mr. constable sat still. mr. ferguson made no move. it was gordon atterbury who rushed into the breach, and proved that the extremists are allies of doubtful value. he had, apparently, not been idle since sunday, and was armed cap-a pie with time-worn arguments that need not be set down. all of which went to show that mr. goodrich had not referred to the middle ages in vain. for gordon atterbury was a born school-man. but he finished by declaring, at the end of twenty minutes (much as he regretted the necessity of saying it), that mr. hodder's continuance as rector would mean the ruin of the church in which all present took such a pride. that the great majority of its members would never submit to what was so plainly heresy. it was then that mr. plimpton gathered courage to pour oil on the waters. there was nothing, in his opinion, he remarked smilingly, in his function as peacemaker, to warrant anything but the most friendly interchange of views. he was second to none in his regard for mr. hodder, in his admiration for a man who had the courage of his convictions. he had not the least doubt that mr. hodder did not desire to remain in the parish when it was so apparent that the doctrines which he now preached were not acceptable to most of those who supported the church. and he added (with sublime magnanimity) that he wished mr. hodder the success which he was sure he deserved, and gave him every assurance of his friendship. asa waring was about to rise, when he perceived that hodder himself was on his feet. and the eyes of every man, save one, were fixed on him irresistibly. the rector seemed unaware of it. it was philip goodrich who remarked to his father-in-law, as they walked home afterwards, of the sense he had had at that moment that there were just two men in the room,--hodder and eldon parr. all the rest were ciphers; all had lost, momentarily, their feelings of partisanship and were conscious only of these two intense, radiating, opposing centres of force; and no man, oddly enough, could say which was the stronger. they seemingly met on equal terms. there could not be the slightest doubt that the rector did not mean to yield, and yet they might have been puzzled if they had asked themselves how they had read the fact in his face or manner. for he betrayed neither anger nor impatience. no more did the financier reveal his own feelings. he still sat back in his chair, unmoved, in apparent contemplation. the posture was familiar to langmaid. would he destroy, too, this clergyman? for the first time in his life, and as he looked at hodder, the lawyer wondered. hodder did not defend himself, made no apologies. christianity was not a collection of doctrines, he reminded them,--but a mode of life. if anything were clear to him, it was that the present situation was not, with the majority of them, a matter of doctrines, but of unwillingness to accept the message and precept of jesus christ, and lead christian lives. they had made use of the doctrines as a stalking-horse. there was a stir at this, and hodder paused a moment and glanced around the table. but no one interrupted. he was fully aware of his rights, and he had no intention of resigning. to resign would be to abandon the work for which he was responsible, not to them, but to god. and he was perfectly willing--nay, eager to defend his christianity before any ecclesiastical court, should the bishop decide that a court was necessary. the day of freedom, of a truer vision was at hand, the day of christian unity on the vital truths, and no better proof of it could be brought forward than the change in him. in his ignorance and blindness he had hitherto permitted compromise, but he would no longer allow those who made only an outward pretence of being christians to direct the spiritual affairs of st. john's, to say what should and what should not be preached. this was to continue to paralyze the usefulness of the church, to set at naught her mission, to alienate those who most had need of her, who hungered and thirsted after righteousness, and went away unsatisfied. he had hardly resumed his seat when everett constable got up again. he remarked, somewhat unsteadily, that to prolong the controversy would be useless and painful to all concerned, and he infinitely regretted the necessity of putting his suggestion that the rector resign in the form of a resolution . . . . the vote was taken. six men raised their hands in favour of his resignation--nelson langmaid among them: two, asa waring and philip goodrich, were against it. after announcing the result, hodder rose. "for the reason i have stated, gentlemen, i decline to resign," he said. "i stand upon my canonical rights." francis ferguson arose, his voice actually trembling with anger. there is something uncanny in the passion of a man whose life has been ordered by the inexorable rules of commerce, who has been wont to decide all questions from the standpoint of dollars and cents. if one of his own wax models had suddenly become animated, the effect could not have been more startling. in the course of this discussion, he declared, mr. hodder had seen fit to make grave and in his opinion unwarranted charges concerning the lives of some, if not all, of the gentlemen who sat here. it surprised him that these remarks had not been resented, but he praised a christian forbearance on the part of his colleagues which he was unable to achieve. he had no doubt that their object had been to spare mr. hodder's feelings as much as possible, but mr. hodder had shown no disposition to spare their own. he had outraged them, mr. ferguson thought,--wantonly so. he had made these preposterous and unchristian charges an excuse for his determination to remain in a position where his usefulness had ceased. no one, unfortunately, was perfect in this life,--not even mr. hodder. he, francis ferguson, was far from claiming to be so. but he believed that this arraignment of the men who stood highest in the city for decency, law, and order, who supported the church, who revered its doctrines, who tried to live christian lives, who gave their time and their money freely to it and to charities, that this arraignment was an arrogant accusation and affront to be repudiated. he demanded that mr. hodder be definite. if he had any charges to make, let him make them here and now. the consternation, the horror which succeeded such a stupid and unexpected tactical blunder on the part of the usually astute mr. ferguson were felt rather than visually discerned. the atmosphere might have been described as panicky. asa waring and phil goodrich smiled as wallis plimpton, after a moment's hush, scrambled to his feet, his face pale, his customary easiness and nonchalance now the result of an obvious effort. he, too, tried to smile, but swallowed instead as he remembered his property in dalton street . . . . nelson langmaid smiled, in spite of himself. . . mr. plimpton implored his fellow-members not to bring personalities into the debate, and he was aware all the while of the curious, pitying expression of the rector. he breathed a sigh of relief at the opening words of hodder, who followed him. "gentlemen," he said, "i have no intention of being personal, even by unanimous consent. but if mr. ferguson will come to me after this meeting i shall have not the least objection to discussing this matter with him in so far as he himself is concerned. i can only assure you now that i have not spoken without warrant." there was, oddly enough, no acceptance of this offer by mr. ferguson. another silence ensued, broken, at last, by a voice for which they had all been unconsciously waiting; a voice which, though unemotional, cold, and matter-of-fact, was nevertheless commanding, and long accustomed to speak with an overwhelming authority. eldon parr did not rise. "mr. hodder," he said, "in one respect seems to be under the delusion that we are still in the middle ages, instead of the twentieth century, since he assumes the right to meddle with the lives of his parishioners, to be the sole judge of their actions. that assumption will not, be tolerated by free men. i, for one, gentlemen, do not, propose to have a socialist for the rector of the church which i attend and support. and i maintain the privilege of an american citizen to set my own standards, within the law, and to be the sole arbitrar of those standards." "good!" muttered gordon atterbury. langmaid moved uncomfortably. "i shall not waste words," the financier continued. "there is in my mind no question that we are justified in demanding from our rector the christian doctrines to which we have given our assent, and which are stated in the creeds. that they shall be subject to the whims of the rector is beyond argument. i do not pretend to, understand either, gentlemen, the nature of the extraordinary change that has taken place in the rector of st. john's. i am not well versed m psychology. i am incapable of flights myself. one effect of this change is an attitude on which reasonable considerations would seem to have no effect. "our resources, fortunately, are not yet at an end. it has been my hope, on account of my former friendship with mr. hodder, that an ecclesiastical trial might not be necessary. it now seems inevitable. in the meantime, since mr. hodder has seen fit to remain in spite of our protest, i do not intend to enter this church. i was prepared, gentlemen, as some of you no doubt know, to spend a considerable sum in adding to the beauty of st. john's and to the charitable activities of the parish. mr. hodder has not disapproved of my gifts in the past, but owing to his present scruples concerning my worthiness, i naturally hesitate to press the matter now." mr. parr indulged in the semblance of a smile. "i fear that he must take the responsibility of delaying this benefit, with the other responsibilities he has assumed." his voice changed. it became sharper. "in short, i propose to withhold all contributions for whatever purpose from this church while mr. hodder is rector, and i advise those of you who have voted for his resignation to do the same. in the meantime, i shall give my money to calvary, and attend its services. and i shall offer further a resolution--which i am informed is within our right--to discontinue mr. hodder's salary." there was that in the unparalleled audacity of eldon parr that compelled hodder's unwilling admiration. he sat gazing at the financier during this speech, speculating curiously on the inner consciousness of the man who could utter it. was it possible that he had no sense of guilt? even so, he had shown a remarkable astuteness in relying on the conviction that he (hodder) would not betray what he knew. he was suddenly aware that asa waring was standing beside him. "gentlemen," said mr. waring, "i have listened to this discussion as long as i can bear it with patience. had i been told of it, i should have thought it incredible that the methods of the money changers should be applied to the direction and control of the house of god. in my opinion there is but one word which is suitable for what has passed here to-night, and the word is persecution. perhaps i have lived too long i have lived to see honourable, upright men deprived of what was rightfully theirs, driven from their livelihood by the rapacity of those who strive to concentrate the wealth and power of the nation into their hands. i have seen this power gathering strength, stretching its arm little by little over the institutions i fought to preserve, and which i cherish over our politics, over our government, yes, and even over our courts. i have seen it poisoning the business honour in which we formerly took such a pride, i have seen it reestablishing a slavery more pernicious than that which millions died to efface. i have seen it compel a subservience which makes me ashamed, as an american, to witness." his glance, a withering moral scorn, darted from under the grizzled eyebrows and alighted on one man after another, and none met it. everett constable coughed, wallis plimpton shifted his position, the others sat like stones. asa waring was giving vent at last to the pent-up feelings of many years. "and now that power, which respects nothing, has crept into the sanctuary of the church. our rector recognizes it, i recognize it,--there is not a man here who, in his heart, misunderstands me. and when a man is found who has the courage to stand up against it, i honour him with all my soul, and a hope that was almost dead revives in me. for there is one force, and one force alone, able to overcome the power of which i speak, --the spirit of christ. and the mission of the church is to disseminate that spirit. the church is the champion on which we have to rely, or give up all hope of victory. the church must train the recruits. and if the church herself is betrayed into the hands of the enemy, the battle is lost. "if mr. hodder is forced out of this church, it would be better to lock the doors. st. john's will be held up, and rightfully, to the scorn of the city. all the money in the world will not save her. though crippled, she has survived one disgrace, when she would not give free shelter to the man who above all others expressed her true spirit, when she drove horace bentley from her doors after he had been deprived of the fortune which he was spending for his fellow-men. she will not survive another. "i have no doubt mr. parr's motion to take from mr. hodder his living will go through. and still i urge him not to resign. i am not a rich man, even when such property as i have is compared to moderate fortunes of these days, but i would pay his salary willingly out of my own pocket rather than see him go . . . . "i call the attention of the chairman," said eldon parr, after a certain interval in which no one had ventured to speak, "to the motion before the vestry relating to the discontinuance of mr. hodder's salary." it was then that the unexpected happened. gordon atterbury redeemed himself. his respect for mr. waring, he said, made him hesitate to take issue with him. he could speak for himself and for a number of people in the congregation when he reiterated his opinion that they were honestly shocked at what mr. hodder had preached, and that this was his sole motive in requesting mr. hodder to resign. he thought, under the circumstances, that this was a matter which might safely be left with the bishop. he would not vote to deprive mr. hodder of his salary. the motion was carried by a vote of five to three. for eldon parr well knew that his will needed no reenforcement by argument. and this much was to be said for him, that after he had entered a battle he never hesitated, never under any circumstances reconsidered the probable effect of his course. as for the others, those who had supported him, they were cast in a less heroic mould. even francis ferguson. as between the devil and the deep sea, he was compelled, with as good a grace as possible, to choose the devil. he was utterly unable to contemplate the disaster which might ensue if certain financial ties, which were thicker than cables, were snapped. but his affection for the devil was not increased by thus being led into a charge from which he would willingly have drawn back. asa waring might mean nothing to eldon parr, but he meant a great deal to francis ferguson, who had by no means forgotten his sensations of satisfaction when mrs. waring had made her first call in park street on francis ferguson's wife. he left the room in such a state of absent-mindedness as actually to pass mr. parr in the corridor without speaking to him. the case of wallis plimpton was even worse. he had married the gores, but he had sought to bind himself with hoops of steel to the warings. he had always secretly admired that old roman quality (which the goodriches --their connections--shared) of holding fast to their course unmindful and rather scornful of influence which swayed their neighbours. the clan was sufficient unto itself, satisfied with a moderate prosperity and a continually increasing number of descendants. the name was unstained. such are the strange incongruities in the hearts of men, that few realized the extent to which wallis plimpton had partaken of the general hero-worship of phil goodrich. he had assiduously cultivated his regard, at times discreetly boasted of it, and yet had never been sure of it. and now fate, in the form of his master, eldon parr had ironically compelled him at one stroke to undo the work of years. as soon as the meeting broke up, he crossed the room. "i can't tell you how much i regret this, phil," he said. "charlotte has very strong convictions, you know, and so have i. you can understand, i am sure, how certain articles of belief might be necessary to one person, and not to another." "yes," said phil, "i can understand. we needn't mention the articles, wallis." and he turned his back. he never knew the pain he inflicted. wallis plimpton looked at the rector, who stood talking to mr. waring, and for the first time in his life recoiled from an overture. something in the faces of both men warned him away. even everett constable, as they went home in the cars together, was brief with him, and passed no comments when mr. plimpton recovered sufficiently to elaborate on the justification of their act, and upon the extraordinary stand taken by phil goodrich and mr. waring. "they might have told us what they were going to do." everett constable eyed him. "would it have made any difference, plimpton?" he demanded. after that they rode in silence, until they came to a certain west end corner, where they both descended. little mr. constable's sensations were, if anything, less enviable, and he had not mr. plimpton's recuperative powers. he had sold that night, for a mess of pottage, the friendship and respect of three generations. and he had fought, for pay, against his own people. and lastly, there was langmaid, whose feelings almost defy analysis. he chose to walk through the still night the four miles--that separated him from his home. and he went back over the years of his life until he found, in the rubbish of the past, a forgotten and tarnished jewel. the discovery pained him. for that jewel was the ideal he had carried away, as a youth, from the old law school at the bottom of hamilton place, --a gift from no less a man than the great lawyer and public-spirited citizen, judge henry goodrich--philip goodrich's grandfather, whose seated statue marked the entrance of the library. he, nelson langmaid, --had gone forth from that school resolved to follow in the footsteps of that man,--but somehow he missed the path. somehow the jewel had lost its fire. there had come a tempting offer, and a struggle--just one: a readjustment on the plea that the world had changed since the days of judge goodrich, whose uncompromising figure had begun to fade: an exciting discovery that he, nelson langmaid, possessed the gift of drawing up agreements which had the faculty of passing magically through the meshes of the statutes. affluence had followed, and fame, and even that high office which the judge himself had held, the presidency of the state bar association. in all that time, one remark, which he had tried to forget, had cut him to the quick. bedloe hubbell had said on the political platform that langmaid got one hundred thousand dollars a year for keeping eldon parr out of jail. once he stopped in the street, his mind suddenly going back to the action of the financier at the vestry meeting. "confound him!" he said aloud, "he has been a fool for once. i told him not to do it." he stood at last in the ample vestibule of his house, singling out his latch-key, when suddenly the door opened, and his daughter helen appeared. "oh, dad," she cried, "why are you so-late? i've been watching for you. i know you've let mr. hodder stay." she gazed at him with widened eyes. "don't tell me that you've made him resign. i can't--i won't believe it." "he isn't going to resign, helen," langmaid replied, in an odd voice. "he--he refused to." chapter xxv "rise, crowned with light!" i the church of st. john's, after a peaceful existence of so many years, had suddenly become the stage on which rapid and bewildering dramas were played: the storm-centre of chaotic forces, hitherto unperceived, drawn from the atmosphere around her. for there had been more publicity, more advertising. "the rector of st. john's will not talk"--such had been one headline: neither would the vestry talk. and yet, despite all this secrecy, the whole story of the suspension of hodder's salary was in print, and an editorial (which was sent to him) from a popular and sensational journal, on "tainted money," in which hodder was held up to the public as a martyr because he refused any longer to accept for the church ill-gotten gains from consolidated tractions and the like. this had opened again the floodgates of the mails, and it seemed as though every person who had a real or fancied grievance against eldon parr had written him. nor did others of his congregation escape. the press of visitors at the parish house suddenly increased once more, men and women came to pour into his ears an appalling aeries of confessions; wrongs which, like garvin's, had engendered bitter hatreds; woes, temptations, bewilderments. hodder strove to keep his feet, sought wisdom to deal patiently with all, though at times he was tried to the uttermost. and he held steadfastly before his mind the great thing, that they did come. it was what he had longed for, prayed for, despaired of. he was no longer crying in the empty wilderness, but at last in touch-in natural touch with life: with life in all its sorrow, its crudity and horror. he had contrived, by the grace of god, to make the connection for his church. that church might have been likened to a ship sailing out of the snug harbour in which she had lain so long to range herself gallantly beside those whom she had formerly beheld, with complacent cowardice, fighting her fight: young men and women, enlisted under other banners than her own, doing their part in the battle of the twentieth century for humanity. her rector was her captain. it was he who had cut her cables, quelled, for a time at least, her mutineers; and sought to hearten those of her little crew who wavered, who shrank back appalled as they realized something of the immensity of the conflict in which her destiny was to be wrought out. to carry on the figure, philip goodrich might have been deemed her first officer. he, at least, was not appalled, but grimly conscious of the greatness of the task to which they had set their hands. the sudden transformation of conservative st. john's was no more amazing than that of the son of a family which had never been without influence in the community. but that influence had always been conservative. and phil goodrich had hitherto taken but a listless interest in the church of his fathers. fortune had smiled upon him, trusts had come to him unsought. he had inherited the family talent for the law, the freedom to practise when and where he chose. his love of active sport had led him into many vacations, when he tramped through marsh and thicket after game, and at five and forty there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his hard body. in spite of his plain speaking, an overwhelming popularity at college had followed him to his native place, and no organization, sporting or serious, was formed in the city that the question was not asked, "what does goodrich think about it?" his whole-souled enlistment in the cause of what was regarded as radical religion became, therefore, the subject of amazed comment in the many clubs he now neglected. the "squabble" in st. john's, as it was generally referred to, had been aired in the press, but such was the magic in a name made without conscious effort that phil goodrich's participation in the struggle had a palpably disarming effect: and there were not a few men who commonly spent their sunday mornings behind plate-glass windows, surrounded by newspapers, as well as some in the athletic club (whose contests mr. goodrich sometimes refereed) who went to st. john's out of curiosity and who waited, afterwards, for an interview with phil or the rector. the remark of one of these was typical of others. he had never taken much stock in religion, but if goodrich went in for it he thought he'd go and look it over. scarcely a day passed that phil did not drop in at the parish house.... and he set himself, with all the vigour of an unsquandered manhood, to help hodder to solve the multitude of new problems by which they were beset. a free church was a magnificent ideal, but how was it to be carried on without an eldon parr, a ferguson, a constable, a mrs. larrabbee, or a gore who would make up the deficit at the end of the year? could weekly contributions, on the envelope system, be relied upon, provided the people continued to come and fill the pews of absent and outraged parishioners? the music was the most expensive in the city, although mr. taylor, the organist, had come to the rector and offered to cut his salary in half, and to leave that in abeyance until the finances could be adjusted. and his example had been followed by some of the high-paid men in the choir. others had offered to sing without pay. and there were the expenses of the parish house, an alarming sum now eldon parr had withdrawn: the salaries of the assistants. hodder, who had saved a certain sum in past years, would take nothing for the present . . . . asa waring and phil goodrich borrowed on their own responsibility . . . ii something of the overwhelming nature of the forces hodder had summoned was visibly apparent on that first sunday after what many had called his apostasy. instead of the orderly, sprucely-dressed groups of people which were wont to linger in greetings before the doors of st. john's, a motley crowd thronged the pavement and streamed into the church, pressing up the aisles and invading the sacred precincts where decorous parishioners had for so many years knelt in comfort and seclusion. the familiar figure of gordon atterbury was nowhere to be seen, and the atterbury pew was occupied by shop-girls in gaudy hats. eldon parr's pew was filled, everett constable's, wallis plimpton's; and the ushers who had hastily been mustered were awestricken and powerless. such a resistless invasion by the hordes of the unknown might well have struck with terror some of those who hitherto had had the courage to standup loyally in the rector's support. it had a distinct flavour of revolution: contained, for some, a grim suggestion of a time when that vague, irresponsible, and restless monster, the mob, would rise in its might and brutally and inexorably take possession of all property. alison had met eleanor goodrich in burton street, and as the two made their way into the crowded vestibule they encountered martha preston, whose husband was alison's cousin, in the act of flight. "you're not going in!" she exclaimed. "of course we are." mrs. preston stared at alison in amazement. "i didn't know you were still here," she said, irrelevantly. "i'm pretty liberal, my dear, as you know,--but this is more than i can stand. look at them!" she drew up her skirts as a woman brushed against her. "i believe in the poor coming to church, and all that, but this is mere vulgar curiosity, the result of all that odious advertising in the newspapers. my pew is filled with them. if i had stayed, i should have fainted. i don't know what to think of mr. hodder." "mr. hodder is not to blame for the newspapers," replied alison, warmly. she glanced around her at the people pushing past, her eyes shining, her colour high, and there was the ring of passion in her voice which had do martha preston a peculiarly disquieting effect. "i think it's splendid that they are here at all! i don't care what brought them." mrs. preston stared again. she was a pretty, intelligent woman, at whose dinner table one was sure to hear the discussion of some "modern problem": she believed herself to be a socialist. her eyes sought eleanor goodrich's, who stood by, alight with excitement. "but surely you, eleanor-you're not going in! you'll never be able to stand it, even if you find a seat. the few people we know who've come are leaving. i just saw the allan pendletons." "have you seen phil?" eleanor asked. "oh, yes, he's in there, and even he's helpless. and as i came out poor mr. bradley was jammed up against the wall. he seemed perfectly stunned . . . ." at this moment they were thrust apart. eleanor quivered as she was carried through the swinging doors into the church. "i think you're right," she whispered to alison, "it is splendid. there's something about it that takes hold of me, that carries one away. it makes me wonder how it can be guided--what will come of it?" they caught sight of phil pushing his way towards them, and his face bore the set look of belligerency which eleanor knew so well, but he returned her smile. alison's heart warmed towards him. "what do you think of this?" he demanded. "most of our respectable friends who dared to come have left in a towering rage--to institute lawsuits, probably. at tiny rate, strangers are not being made to wait until ten minutes after the service begins. that's one barbarous custom abolished." "strangers seem to have taken matters in their own hands for once" eleanor smiled. "we've made up our minds to stay, phil, even if we have to stand." "that's the right spirit," declared her husband, glancing at alison, who had remained silent, with approval and by no means a concealed surprise. "i think i know of a place where i can squeeze you in, near professor bridges and sally, on the side aisle." "are george and sally here?" eleanor exclaimed. "hodder," said phil, "is converting the heathen. you couldn't have kept george away. and it was george who made sally stay!" presently they found themselves established between a rawboned young workingman who smelled strongly of soap, whose hair was plastered tightly against his forehead, and a young woman who leaned against the wall. the black in which she was dressed enhanced the whiteness and weariness of her face, and she sat gazing ahead of her, apparently unconscious of those who surrounded her, her hands tightly folded in her lap. in their immediate vicinity, indeed, might have been found all the variety of type seen in the ordinary street car. and in truth there were some who seemed scarcely to realize they were not in a public vehicle. an elaborately dressed female in front of them, whose expansive hat brushed her neighbours, made audible comments to a stout man with a red neck which was set in a crease above his low collar. "they tell me eldon parr's pew has a gold plate on it. i wish i knew which it was. it ain't this one, anyway, i'll bet." "say, they march in in this kind of a church, don't they?" some one said behind them. eleanor, with her lips tightly pressed, opened her prayer book. alison's lips were slightly parted as she gazed about her, across the aisle. her experience of the sunday before, deep and tense as it had been, seemed as nothing compared to this; the presence of all these people stimulated her inexpressibly, fired her; and she felt the blood pulsing through her body as she contrasted this gathering with the dignified, scattered congregation she had known. she scarcely recognized the church itself . . . she speculated on the homes from which these had come, and the motives which had brought them. for a second the perfume of the woman in front, mingling with other less definable odours, almost sickened her, evoking suggestions of tawdry, trivial, vulgar lives, fed on sensation and excitement; but the feeling was almost immediately swept away by a renewed sense of the bigness of the thing which she beheld,--of which, indeed, she was a part. and her thoughts turned more definitely to the man who had brought it all about. could he control it, subdue it? here was opportunity suddenly upon him, like a huge, curving, ponderous wave. could he ride it? or would it crush him remorselessly? sensitive, alert, quickened as she was, she began to be aware of other values: of the intense spiritual hunger in the eyes of the woman in black, the yearning of barren, hopeless existences. and here and there alison's look fell upon more prosperous individuals whose expressions proclaimed incredulity, a certain cynical amusement at the spectacle: others seemed uneasy, as having got more than they had bargained for, deliberating whether to flee . . . and then, just as her suspense was becoming almost unbearable, the service began. . . . how it had been accomplished, the thing she later felt, was beyond the range of intellectual analysis. nor could she have told how much later, since the passage of time had gone unnoticed. curiosities, doubts, passions, longings, antagonisms--all these seemed--as the most natural thing in the world--to have been fused into one common but ineffable emotion. such, at least, was the impression to which alison startlingly awoke. all the while she had been conscious of hodder, from the moment she had heard his voice in the chancel; but somehow this consciousness of him had melted, imperceptibly, into that of the great congregation, once divided against itself, which had now achieved unity of soul. the mystery as to how this had been effected was the more elusive when she considered the absence of all methods which might have been deemed revivalistic. few of those around her evinced a familiarity with the historic service. and then occurred to her his explanation of personality as the medium by which all truth is revealed, by which the current of religion, the motive power in all history, is transmitted. surely this was the explanation, if it might be called one! that tingling sense of a pervading spirit which was his,--and yet not his. he was the incandescent medium, and yet, paradoxically, gained in identity and individuality and was inseparable from the thing itself. she could not see him. a pillar hid the chancel from her view. the service, to which she had objected as archaic, became subordinate, spiritualized, dominated by the personality. hodder had departed from the usual custom by giving out the page of the psalter: and the verses, the throbbing responses which arose from every corner of the church, assumed a new significance, the vision of the ancient seer revived. one verse he read resounded with prophecy. "thou shalt deliver me from the strivings of the people: and thou shalt make me the head of the heathen." and the reply: "a people whom i have not known shall serve me." the working-man next to alison had no prayer-book. she thrust her own into his hand, and they read from it together . . . . when they came to the second hymn the woman in front of her had wonderfully shed her vulgarity. her voice--a really good one--poured itself out: "see a long race thy spacious courts adorn, see future sons, and daughters yet unborn, in crowding ranks on every side arise, demanding life, impatient for the skies." once alison would have been critical of the words she was beyond that, now. what did it matter, if the essential thing were present? the sermon was a surprise. and those who had come for excitement, for the sensation of hearing a denunciation of a class they envied and therefore hated, and nevertheless strove to imitate, were themselves rebuked. were not their standards the same? and if the standard were false, it followed inevitably that the life was false also. hodder fairly startled these out of their preconceived notions of christianity. let them shake out of their minds everything they had thought it to mean, churchgoing, acceptance of creed and dogma, contributive charity, withdrawal from the world, rites and ceremonies: it was none of these. the motive in the world to-day was the acquisition of property; the motive of christianity was absolutely and uncompromisingly opposed to this. shock their practical sense as it might, christianity looked forward with steadfast faith to a time when the incentive to amass property would be done away with, since it was a source of evil and a curse to mankind. if they would be christians, let them face that. let them enter into life, into the struggles going on around them to-day against greed, corruption, slavery, poverty, vice and crime. let them protest, let them fight, even as jesus christ had fought and protested. for as sure as they sat there the day would come when they would be called to account, would be asked the question--what had they done to make the united states of america a better place to live in? there were in the apostolic writings and tradition misinterpretations of life which had done much harm. early christianity had kept its eyes fixed on another world, and had ignored this: had overlooked the fact that every man and woman was put here to do a particular work. in the first epistle of peter the advice was given, "submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the lord's sake." but christ had preached democracy, responsibility, had foreseen a millennium, the fulfilment of his kingdom, when all men, inspired by the spirit, would make and keep in spirit the ordinances of god. before they could do god's work and man's work they must first be awakened, filled with desire. desire was power. and he prayed that some of them, on this day, would receive that desire, that power which nothing could resist. the desire which would lead each and every one to the gates of the inner world which was limitless and eternal, filled with dazzling light . . . . let them have faith then. not credulity in a vague god they could not imagine, but faith in the spirit of the universe, humanity, in jesus christ who had been the complete human revelation of that spirit, who had suffered and died that man might not live in ignorance of it. to doubt humanity,--such was the great refusal, the sin against the holy ghost, the repudiation of the only true god! after a pause, he spoke simply of his hope for st. john's. if he remained here his ambition was that it would be the free temple of humanity, of jesus christ, supported not by a few, but by all,--each in accordance with his means. of those who could afford nothing, nothing would be required. perhaps this did not sound practical, nor would it be so if the transforming inspiration failed. he could only trust and try, hold up to them the vision of the church as a community of willing workers for the kingdom . . . iii after the service was over the people lingered in the church, standing in the pews and aisles, as though loath to leave. the woman with the perfume and the elaborate hat was heard to utter a succinct remark. "say, charlie, i guess he's all right. i never had it put like that." the thick-necked man's reply was inaudible. eleanor goodrich was silent and a little pale as she pressed close to alison. her imagination had been stretched, as it were, and she was still held in awe by the vastness of what she had heard and seen. vaster even than ever,--so it appeared now,--demanding greater sacrifices than she had dreamed of. she looked back upon the old as at receding shores. alison, with absorbed fascination, watched the people; encountered, here and there, recognitions from men and women with whom she had once danced and dined in what now seemed a previous existence. why had they come? and how had they received the message? she ran into a little man, a dealer in artists' supplies who once had sold her paints and brushes, who stared and bowed uncertainly. she surprised him by taking his hand. "did you like it?" she asked, impulsively. "it's what i've been thinking for years, miss parr," he responded, "thinking and feeling. but i never knew it was christianity. and i never thought--" he stopped and looked at her, alarmed. "oh," she said, "i believe in it, too--or try to." she left him, mentally gasping . . . . without, on the sidewalk, eleanor goodrich was engaged in conversation with a stockily built man, inclined to stoutness; he had a brown face and a clipped, bristly mustache. alison paused involuntarily, and saw him start and hesitate as his clear, direct gaze met her own. bedloe hubbell was one of those who had once sought to marry her. she recalled him as an amiable and aimless boy; and after she had gone east she had received with incredulity and then with amusement the news of his venture into altruistic politics. it was his efficiency she had doubted, not his sincerity. later tidings, contemptuous and eventually irritable utterances of her own father, together with accounts in the new york newspapers of his campaign, had convinced her in spite of herself that bedloe hubbell had actually shaken the seats of power. and somehow, as she now took him in, he looked it. his transformation was one of the signs, one of the mysteries of the times. the ridicule and abuse of the press, the opposition and enmity of his childhood friends, had developed the man of force she now beheld, and who came forward to greet her. "alison!" he exclaimed. he had changed in one sense, and not in another. her colour deepened as the sound of his voice brought back the lapsed memories of the old intimacy. for she had been kind to him, kinder than to any other; and the news of his marriage--to a woman from the pacific coast--had actually induced in her certain longings and regrets. when the cards had reached her, new york and the excitement of the life into which she had been weakly, if somewhat unwittingly, drawn had already begun to pall. "i'm so glad to see you," she told him. "i've heard--so many things. and i'm very much in sympathy with what you're doing." they crossed the street, and walked away from the church together. she had surprised him, and made him uncomfortable. "you've been away so long," he managed to say, "perhaps you do not realize--" "oh, yes, i do," she interrupted. "i am on the other side, on your side. i thought of writing you, when you nearly won last autumn." "you see it, too?" he exclaimed. "yes, i've changed, too. not so much as you," she added, shyly. "i always had a certain sympathy, you know, with the robin hoods." he laughed at her designation, both pleased and taken aback by her praise. . . but he wondered if she knew the extent of his criticism of her father. "that rector is a wonderful man," he broke out, irrelevantly. "i can't get over' him--i can't quite grasp the fact that he exists, that he has dared to do what he has done." this brought her colour back, but she faced him bravely. you think he is wonderful, then?" "don't you?" he demanded. she assented. "but i am curious to know why you do. somehow, i never thought of--you--" "as religious," he supplied. "and you? if i remember rightly--" "yes," she interrupted, "i revolted, too. but mr. hodder puts it so --it makes one wonder." "he has not only made me wonder," declared bedloe hubbell, emphatically, "i never knew what religion was until i heard this man last sunday." "last sunday!" "until then, i hadn't been inside of a church for fifteen years,--except to get married. my wife takes the children, occasionally, to a presbyterian church near us." "and why, did you go then?" she asked. "i am a little ashamed of my motive," he confessed. "there were rumours --i don't pretend to know how they got about--" he hesitated, once more aware of delicate ground. "wallis plimpton said something to a man who told me. i believe i went out of sheer curiosity to hear what hodder would have to say. and then, i had been reading, wondering whether there were anything in christianity, after all." "yes?" she said, careless now as to what cause he might attribute her eagerness. "and he gave you something?" it was then she grasped the truth that this sudden renewed intimacy was the result of the impression hodder had left upon the minds of both. "he gave me everything," bedloe hubbell replied. "i am willing to acknowledge it freely. in his explanation of the parable of the prodigal son, he gave me the clew to our modern times. what was for me an inextricable puzzle has become clear as day. he has made me understand, at last, the force which stirred me, which goaded me until i was fairly compelled to embark in the movement which the majority of our citizens still continue to regard as quixotic. i did not identify that force with religion, then, and when i looked back on the first crazy campaign we embarked upon, with the whole city laughing at me and at the obscure and impractical personnel we had, there were moments when it seemed incomprehensible folly. i had nothing to gain, and everything to lose by such a venture. i was lazy and easy-going, as you know. i belonged to the privileged class, i had sufficient money to live in comparative luxury all my days, i had no grudge against these men whom i had known all my life." "but it must have had some beginning," said alison. "i was urged to run for the city council, by these very men." bedloe hubbell smiled at the recollection. "they accuse me now of having indulged once in the same practice, for which i am condemning them. our company did accept rebates, and we sought favours from the city government. i have confessed it freely on the platform. even during my first few months in the council what may be called the old political practices seemed natural to me. but gradually the iniquity of it all began to dawn on me, and then i couldn't rest until i had done something towards stopping it. "at length i began to see," he continued, "that education of the masses was to be our only preserver, that we should have to sink or swim by that. i began to see, dimly, that this was true for other movements going on to-day. now comes hodder with what i sincerely believe is the key. he compels men like me to recognize that our movements are not merely moral, but religious. religion, as yet unidentified, is the force behind these portentous stirrings of politics in our country, from sea to sea. he aims, not to bring the church into politics, but to make her the feeder of these movements. men join them to-day from all motives, but the religious is the only one to which they may safely be trusted. he has rescued the jewel from the dust-heap of tradition, and holds it up, shining, before our eyes." alison looked at her companion. "that," she said, "is a very beautiful phrase." bedloe hubbell smiled queerly. "i don't know why i'm telling you all this. i can't usually talk about it. but the sight of that congregation this morning, mixed as it was, and the way he managed to weld it together." "ah, you noticed that!" she exclaimed sharply. "noticed it!" "i know. it was a question of feeling it." there was a silence. "will he succeed?" she asked presently. "ah," said bedloe hubbell, "how is it possible to predict it? the forces against him are tremendous, and it is usually the pioneer who suffers. i agree absolutely with his definition of faith, i have it. and the work he has done already can never be undone. the time is ripe, and it is something that he has men like phil goodrich behind him, and mr. waring. i'm going to enlist, and from now on i intend to get every man and woman upon whom i have any influence whatever to go to that church . . . ." a little later alison, marvelling, left him. chapter xxvi the current of life i the year when hodder had gone east--to bremerton and bar harbor, he had read in the train a magazine article which had set fire to his imagination. it had to do with the lives of the men, the engineers who dared to deal with the wild and terrible power of the western hills, who harnessed and conquered roaring rivers, and sent the power hundreds of miles over the wilderness, by flimsy wires, to turn the wheels of industry and light the dark places of the cities. and, like all men who came into touch with elemental mysteries, they had their moments of pure ecstasy, gaining a tingling, intenser life from the contact with dynamic things; and other moments when, in their struggle for mastery, they were buffeted about, scorched, and almost overwhelmed. in these days the remembrance of that article came back to hodder. it was as though he, too, were seeking to deflect and guide a force --the force of forces. he, too, was buffeted, scorched, and bruised, at periods scarce given time to recover himself in the onward rush he himself had started, and which he sought to control. problems arose which demanded the quick thinking of emergency. he, too, had his moments of reward, the reward of the man who is in touch with reality. he lived, from day to day, in a bewildering succession of encouragements and trials, all unprecedented. if he remained at st. john's, an entire new organization would be necessary . . . . he did not as yet see it clearly; and in the meantime, with his vestry alienated, awaiting the bishop's decision, he could make no definite plans, even if he had had the leisure. wholesale desertions had occurred in the guilds and societies, the activities of which had almost ceased. little tomkinson, the second assistant, had resigned; and mccrae, who worked harder than ever before, was already marked, hodder knew, for dismissal if he himself were defeated. and then there was the ever present question of money. it remained to be seen whether a system of voluntary offerings were practicable. for hodder had made some inquiries into the so-called "free churches," only to discover that there were benefactors behind them, benefactors the christianity of whose lives was often doubtful. one morning he received in the mail the long-expected note from the bishop, making an appointment for the next day. hodder, as he read it over again, smiled to himself. . . he could gather nothing of the mind of the writer from the contents. the piece of news which came to him on the same morning swept completely the contemplations of the approaching interview from his mind. sally grover stopped in at the parish house on her way to business. "kate marcy's gone," she announced, in her abrupt fashion. "gone!" he exclaimed, and stared at her in dismay. "gone where?" "that's just it," said miss grover. "i wish i knew. i reckon we'd got into the habit of trusting her too much, but it seemed the only way. she wasn't in her room last night, but ella finley didn't find it out until this morning, and she ran over scared to death, to tell us about it." involuntarily the rector reached for his hat. "i've sent out word among our friends in dalton street," sally continued. an earthquake could not have disturbed her outer, matter-of-fact calmness. but hodder was not deceived: he knew that she was as profoundly grieved and discouraged as himself. "and i've got old gratz, the cabinet-maker, on the job. if she's in dalton street, he'll find her." "but what--?" hodder began. sally threw up her hands. "you never can tell, with that kind. but it sticks in my mind she's done something foolish." "foolish?" sally twitched, nervously. "somehow i don't think it's a spree--but as i say, you can't tell. she's full of impulses. you remember how she frightened us once before, when she went off and stayed all night with the woman she used to know in the flat house, when she heard she was sick?" hodder nodded. "you've inquired there?" "that woman went to the hospital, you know. she may be with another one. if she is, gratz ought to find her. . . you know there was a time, mr. hodder, when i didn't have much hope that we'd pull her through. but we got hold of her through her feelings. she'd do anything for mr. bentley --she'd do anything for you, and the way she stuck to that embroidery was fine. i don't say she was cured, but whenever she'd feel one of those fits coming on she'd let us know about it, and we'd watch her. and i never saw one of that kind change so. why, she must be almost as good looking now as she ever was." "you don't think she has done anything--desperate?" asked hodder, slowly. sally comprehended. "well--somehow i don't. she used to say if she ever got drunk again she'd never come back. but she didn't have any money--she's given mr. bentley every cent of it. and we didn't have any warning. she was as cheerful as could be yesterday morning, mrs. mcquillen says." "it might not do any harm to notify the police," replied hodder, rising. "i'll go around to headquarters now." he was glad of the excuse for action. he could not have sat still. and as he walked rapidly across burton street he realized with a pang how much his heart had been set on kate marcy's redemption. in spite of the fact that every moment of his time during the past fortnight had been absorbed by the cares, responsibilities, and trials thrust upon him, he reproached himself for not having gone oftener to dalton street. and yet, if mr. bentley and sally grower had been unable to foresee and prevent this, what could he have done? at police headquarters he got no news. the chief received him deferentially, sympathetically, took down kate marcy's description, went so far as to remark, sagely, that too much mustn't be expected of these women, and said he would notify the rector if she were found. the chief knew and admired mr. bentley, and declared he was glad to meet mr. hodder. . . hodder left, too preoccupied to draw any significance from the nature of his welcome. he went at once to mr. bentley's. the old gentleman was inclined to be hopeful, to take sally grower's view of the matter. . he trusted, he said, sally's instinct. and hodder came away less uneasy, not a little comforted by a communion which never failed to fortify him, to make him marvel at the calmness of that world in which his friend lived, a calmness from which no vicarious sorrow was excluded. and before hodder left, mr. bentley had drawn from him some account of the more recent complexities at the church. the very pressure of his hand seemed to impart courage. "you won't stay and have dinner with me?" the rector regretfully declined. "i hear the bishop has returned," said mr. bentley, smiling. hodder was surprised. he had never heard mr. bentley speak of the bishop. of course he must know him. "i have my talk with him to-morrow." mr. bentley said nothing, but pressed his hand again . . . . on tower street, from the direction of the church, he beheld a young man and a young woman approaching him absorbed in conversation. even at a distance both seemed familiar, and presently he identified the lithe and dainty figure in the blue dress as that of the daughter of his vestryman, francis ferguson. presently she turned her face, alight with animation, from her companion, and recognized him. "it's mr. hodder!" she exclaimed, and was suddenly overtaken with a crimson shyness. the young man seemed equally embarrassed as they stood facing the rector. "i'm afraid you don't remember me, mr. hodder," he said. "i met you at mr. ferguson's last spring." then it came to him. this was the young man who had made the faux pas which had caused mrs. ferguson so much consternation, and who had so manfully apologized afterwards. his puzzled expression relaxed into a smile, and he took the young man's hand. "i was going to write to you," said nan, as she looked up at the rector from under the wide brim of her hat. "our engagement is to be announced wednesday." hodder congratulated them. there was a brief silence, when nan said tremulously: "we're coming to st. john's!" "i'm very glad," hodder replied, gravely. it was one of those compensating moments, for him, when his tribulations vanished; and the tributes of the younger generation were those to which his heart most freely responded. but the situation, in view of the attitude of francis ferguson, was too delicate to be dwelt upon. "i came to hear you last sunday, mr. hodder," the young man volunteered, with that mixture of awkwardness and straightforwardness which often characterize his sex and age in referring to such matters. "and i had an idea of writing you, too, to tell you how much i liked what you said. but i know you must have had many letters. you've made me think." he flushed, but met the rector's eye. nan stood regarding him with pride. "you've made me think, too," she added. "and we intend to pitch in and help you, if we can be of any use." he parted from them, wondering. and it was not until he had reached the parish house that it occurred to him that he was as yet unenlightened as to the young man's name . . . . his second reflection brought back to his mind kate mercy, for it was with a portion of nan ferguson's generous check that her board had been paid. and he recalled the girl's hope, as she had given it to him, that he would find some one in dalton street to help . . . . ii there might, to the mundane eye, have been an element of the ridiculous in the spectacle of the rector of st. john's counting his gains, since he had chosen--with every indication of insanity--to bring the pillars of his career crashing down on his own head. by no means the least, however, of the treasures flung into his lap was the tie which now bound him to the philip goodriches, which otherwise would never have been possible. and as he made his way thither on this particular evening, a renewed sense came upon him of his emancipation from the dreary, useless hours he had been wont to spend at other dinner tables. that existence appeared to him now as the glittering, feverish unreality of a nightmare filled with restless women and tired men who drank champagne, thus gradually achieving--by the time cigars were reached--an artificial vivacity. the caprice and superficiality of the one sex, the inability to dwell upon or even penetrate a serious subject, the blindness to what was going on around them; the materialism, the money standard of both, were nauseating in the retrospect. how, indeed, had life once appeared so distorted to him, a professed servant of humanity, as to lead him in the name of duty into that galley? such was the burden of his thought when the homelike front of the goodrich house greeted him in the darkness, its enshrouded windows gleaming with friendly light. as the door opened, the merry sound of children's laughter floated down the stairs, and it seemed to hodder as though a curse had been lifted. . . . the lintel of this house had been marked for salvation, the scourge had passed it by: the scourge of social striving which lay like a blight on a free people. within, the note of gentility, of that instinctive good taste to which many greater mansions aspired in vain, was sustained. the furniture, the pictures, the walls and carpets were true expressions of the individuality of master and mistress, of the unity of the life lived together; and the rector smiled as he detected, in a corner of the hall, a sturdy but diminutive hobby-horse--here the final, harmonious touch. there was the sound of a scuffle, treble shrieks of ecstasy from above, and eleanor goodrich came out to welcome him. "its phil," she told him in laughing despair, "he upsets all my discipline, and gets them so excited they don't go to sleep for hours..." seated in front of the fire in the drawing-room, he found alison parr. her coolness, her radiancy, her complete acceptance of the situation, all this and more he felt from the moment he touched her hand and looked into her face. and never had she so distinctly represented to him the mysterious essence of fate. why she should have made the fourth at this intimate gathering, and whether or not she was or had been an especial friend of eleanor goodrich he did not know. there was no explanation.... a bowl of superb chrysanthemums occupied the centre of the table. eleanor lifted them off and placed them on the sideboard. "i've got used to looking at phil," she explained, "and craning is so painful." the effect at first was to increase the intensity of the intimacy. there was no reason--he told himself--why alison's self-possession should have been disturbed; and as he glanced at her from time to time he perceived that it was not. so completely was she mistress of herself that presently he felt a certain faint resentment rising within him,--yet he asked himself why she should not have been. it was curious that his imagination would not rise, now, to a realization of that intercourse on which, at times, his fancy had dwelt with such vividness. the very interest, the eagerness with which she took part in their discussions seemed to him in the nature of an emphatic repudiation of any ties to him which might have been binding. all this was only, on hodder's part, to be aware of the startling discovery as to how strong his sense of possession had been, and how irrational, how unwarranted. for he had believed himself, as regarding her, to have made the supreme renunciation of his life. and the very fact that he had not consulted, could not consult her feelings and her attitude made that renunciation no less difficult. all effort, all attempt at achievement of the only woman for whom he had ever felt the sublime harmony of desire--the harmony of the mind and the flesh--was cut off. to be here, facing her again in such close proximity, was at once a pleasure and a torture. and gradually he found himself yielding to the pleasure, to the illusion of permanency created by her presence. and, when all was said, he had as much to be grateful for as he could reasonably have wished; yes, and more. the bond (there was a bond, after all!) which united them was unbreakable. they had forged it together. the future would take care of itself. the range of the conversation upon which they at length embarked was a tacit acknowledgment of a relationship which now united four persons who, six months before, would have believed themselves to have had nothing in common. and it was characteristic of the new interest that it transcended the limits of the parish of st. john's, touched upon the greater affairs to which that parish--if their protest prevailed--would now be dedicated. not that the church was at once mentioned, but subtly implied as now enlisted,--and emancipated henceforth from all ecclesiastical narrowness . . . . the amazing thing by which hodder was suddenly struck was the naturalness with which alison seemed to fit into the new scheme. it was as though she intended to remain there, and had abandoned all intention of returning to the life which apparently she had once permanently and definitely chosen.... bedloe hubbell's campaign was another topic. and phil had observed, with the earnestness which marked his more serious statements, that it wouldn't surprise him if young carter, hubbell's candidate for mayor, overturned that autumn the beatty machine. "oh, do you think so!" alison exclaimed with exhilaration. "they're frightened and out of breath," said phil, "they had no idea that bedloe would stick after they had licked him in three campaigns. two years ago they tried to buy him off by offering to send him to the senate, and wallis plimpton has never got through his head to this why he refused." plimpton's head, eleanor declared dryly, was impervious to a certain kind of idea. "i wonder if you know, mr. hodder, what an admirer mr. hubbell is of yours?" alison asked. "he is most anxious to have a talk with you." hodder did not know. "well," said phil, enthusiastically, to the rector, "that's the best tribute you've had yet. i can't say that bedloe was a more unregenerate heathen than i was, but he was pretty bad." this led them, all save hodder, into comments on the character of the congregation the sunday before, in the midst of which the rector was called away to the telephone. sally grover had promised to let him know whether or not they had found kate marcy, and his face was grave when he returned . . . . he was still preoccupied, an hour later, when alison arose to go. "but your carriage isn't here," said phil, going to the window. "oh, i preferred to, walk," she told him, "it isn't far." iii a blood-red october moon shed the fulness of its light on the silent houses, and the trees, still clinging to leaf, cast black shadows across the lawns and deserted streets. the very echoes of their footsteps on the pavement seemed to enhance the unreality of their surroundings: some of the residences were already closed for the night, although the hour was not late, and the glow behind the blinds of the others was nullified by the radiancy from above. to hodder, the sense of their isolation had never been more complete. alison, while repudiating the notion that an escort were needed in a neighbourhood of such propriety and peace, had not refused his offer to accompany her. and hodder felt instinctively, as he took his place beside her, a sense of climax. this situation, like those of the past, was not of his own making. it was here; confronting him, and a certain inevitable intoxication at being once, more alone with her prevented him from forming any policy with which to deal with it. he might either trust himself, or else he might not. and as she said, the distance was not great. but he could not help wondering, during those first moments of silence, whether she comprehended the strength of the temptation to which she subjected him . . . . the night was warm. she wore a coat, which was open, and from time to time he caught the gleam of the moonlight on the knotted pearls at her throat. over her head she had flung, mantilla-like, a black lace scarf, the effect of which was, in the soft luminosity encircling her, to add to the quality of mystery never exhausted. if by acquiescing in his company she had owned to a tie between them, the lace shawl falling over the tails of her dark hair and framing in its folds her face, had somehow made her once more a stranger. nor was it until she presently looked up into his face with a smile that this impression was, if not at once wholly dissipated, at least contradicted. her question, indeed, was intimate. "why did you come with me?" "why?" he repeated, taken aback. "yes. i'm sure you have something you wish to do, something which particularly worries you." "no," he answered, appraising her intuition of him, "there is nothing i can do, to-night. a young woman in whom mr. bentley is interested, in whom i am interested, has disappeared. but we have taken all the steps possible towards finding her." "it was nothing--more serious, then? that, of course, is serious enough. nothing, i mean, directly affecting your prospects of remaining--where you are?" "no," he answered. he rejoiced fiercely that she should have asked him. the question was not bold, but a natural resumption of the old footing "not that i mean to imply," he added, returning her smile, "that those prospects' are in any way improved." "are they any worse?" she said. "i see the bishop to-morrow. i have no idea what position he will take. but even if he should decide not to recommend me for trial many difficult problems still remain to be solved." "i know. it's fine," she continued, after a moment, "the way you are going ahead as if there were no question of your not remaining; and getting all those people into the church and influencing them as you did when they had come for all sorts of reasons. do you remember, the first time i met you, i told you i could not think of you as a clergyman. i cannot now--less than ever." "what do you think of me as?" he asked. "i don't know," she considered. "you are unlike any person i have ever known. it is curious that i cannot now even think of st. john's as a church. you have transformed it into something that seems new. i'm afraid i can't describe what i mean, but you have opened it up, let in the fresh air, rid it of the musty and deadening atmosphere which i have always associated with churches. i wanted to see you, before i went away," she went on steadily, "and when eleanor mentioned that you were coming to her house to-night, i asked her to invite me. do you think me shameless?" the emphasis of his gesture was sufficient. he could not trust himself to speak. "writing seemed so unsatisfactory, after what you had done for me, and i never can express myself in writing. i seem to congeal." "after what i have done for you!" he exclaimed: "what can i have done?" "you have done more than you know," she answered, in a low voice. "more, i think, than i know. how are such things to be measured, put into words? you have effected some change in me which defies analysis, a change of attitude,--to attempt to dogmatize it would ruin it. i prefer to leave it undefined--not even to call it an acquisition of faith. i have faith," she said, simply, "in what you have become, and which has made you dare, superbly, to cast everything away. . . it is that, more than anything you have said. what you are." for the instant he lost control of himself. "what you are," he replied. "do you realize--can you ever realize what your faith in me has been to me?" she appeared to ignore this. "i did not mean to say that you have not made many things clear, which once were obscure, as i wrote you. you have convinced me that true belief, for instance, is the hardest thing in the world, the denial of practically all these people, who profess to believe, represent. the majority of them insist that humanity is not to be trusted. . ." they had reached, in an incredibly brief time, the corner of park street. "when are you leaving?" he asked, in a voice that sounded harsh in his own ears. "come!" she said gently, "i'm not going in yet, for a while." the park lay before them, an empty, garden filled with checquered light and shadows under the moon. he followed her across the gravel, glistening with dew, past the statue of the mute statesman with arm upraised, into pastoral stretches--a delectable country which was theirs alone. he did not take it in, save as one expression of the breathing woman at his side. he was but partly conscious of a direction he had not chosen. his blood throbbed violently, and a feeling of actual physical faintness was upon him. he was being led, helplessly, all volition gone, and the very idea of resistance became chimerical . . . . there was a seat under a tree, beside a still lake burnished by the moon. it seemed as though he could not bear the current of her touch, and yet the thought of its removal were less bearable . . . for she had put her own hand out, not shyly, but with a movement so fraught with grace, so natural that it was but the crowning bestowal. "alison!" he cried, "i can't ask it of you. i have no right--" "you're not asking it," she answered. "it is i who am asking it." "but i have no future--i may be an outcast to-morrow. i have nothing to offer you." he spoke more firmly now, more commandingly. "don't you see, dear, that it is just because your future as obscure that i can do this? you never would have done it, i know,--and i couldn't face that. don't you understand that i am demanding the great sacrifice?" "sacrifice!" he repeated. his fingers turned, and closed convulsively on hers. "yes, sacrifice," she said gently. "isn't it the braver thing?" still he failed to catch her meaning. "braver," she explained, with her wonderful courage, "braver if i love you, if i need you, if i cannot do without you." he took her in his arms, crushing her to him in his strength, in one ineffable brief moment finding her lips, inhaling the faint perfume of her smooth akin. her lithe figure lay passively against him, in marvellous, unbelievable surrender. "i see what you mean," he said, at length, "i should have been a coward. but i could not be sure that you loved me." so near was her face that he could detect, even under the obscurity of the branches, a smile. "and so i was reduced to this! i threw my pride to the winds," she whispered. "but i don't care. i was determined, selfishly, to take happiness." "and to give it," he added, bending down to her. the supreme quality of its essence was still to be doubted, a bright star-dust which dazzled him, to evaporate before his waking eyes. and, try as he would, he could not realize to the full depth the boy of contact with a being whom, by discipline, he had trained his mind to look upon as the unattainable. they had spoken of the future, yet in these moments any consideration of it was blotted out. . . it was only by degrees that he collected himself sufficiently to be able to return to it. . . alison took up the thread. "surely," she said, "sacrifice is useless unless it means something, unless it be a realization. it must be discriminating. and we should both of us have remained incomplete if we had not taken--this. you would always, i think, have been the one man for me,--but we should have lost touch." he felt her tremble. "and i needed you. i have needed you all my life--one in whom h might have absolute faith. that is my faith, of which i could not tell you awhile ago. is it--sacrilegious?" she looked up at him. he shook his head, thinking of his own. it seemed the very distillation of the divine. "all my life," she went on, "i have been waiting for the one who would risk everything. oh, if you had faltered the least little bit, i don't know what i should have done. that would have destroyed what was left of me, put out, i think, the flickering fire that remained, instead of fanning it into flame. you cannot know how i watched you, how i prayed! i think it was prayer--i am sure it was. and it was because you did not falter, because you risked all, that you gained me. you have gained only what you yourself made, more than i ever was, more than i ever expected to be." "alison!" he remonstrated, "you mustn't say that." she straightened up and gazed at him, taking one of his hands in her lithe fingers. "oh, but i must! it is the truth. i felt that you cared--women are surer in such matters than men. i must conceal nothing from you--nothing of my craftiness. women are crafty, you know. and suppose you fail? ah, i do not mean failure--you cannot fail, now. you have put yourself forever beyond failure. but what i mean is, suppose you were compelled to leave st. john's, and i came to you then as i have come now, and begged to take my place beside you? i was afraid to risk it. i was afraid you would not take me, even now, to-night. do you realize how austere you are at times, how you have frightened me?" "that i should ever have done that!" he said. "when i looked at you in the pulpit you seemed so far from me, i could scarcely bear it. as if i had no share in you, as if you had already gone to a place beyond, where i could not go, where i never could. oh, you will take me with you, now,--you won't leave me behind!" to this cry every fibre of his soul responded. he had thought himself, in these minutes, to have known all feelings, all thrills, but now, as he gathered her to him again, he was to know still another, the most exquisite of all. that it was conferred upon him to give this woman protection, to shield and lift her, inspire her as she inspired him--this consciousness was the most exquisite of all, transcending all conception of the love of woman. and the very fulness of her was beyond him. a lifetime were insufficient to exhaust her . . . . "i wanted to come to you now, john. i want to share your failure, if it comes--all your failures. because they will be victories--don't you see? i have never been able to achieve that kind of victory--real victory, by myself. i have always succumbed, taken the baser, the easier thing." her cheek was wet. "i wasn't strong enough, by myself, and i never knew the stronger one . . . . "see what my trust in you has been! i knew that you would not refuse me in spite of the fact that the world may misunderstand, may sneer at your taking me. i knew that you were big enough even for that, when you understood it, coming from me. i wanted to be with you, now, that we might fight it out together." "what have i done to deserve so priceless a thing?" he asked. she smiled at him again, her lip trembling. "oh, i'm not priceless, i'm only real, i'm only human--human and tired. you are so strong, you can't know how tired. have you any idea why i came out here, this summer? it was because i was desperate--because i had almost decided to marry some one else." she felt him start. "i was afraid of it;" he said. "were you? did you think, did you wonder a little about me?" there was a vibrant note of triumph to which he reacted. she drew away from him. a little. "perhaps, when you know how sordid my life has been, you won't want me." "is--is that your faith, alison?" he demanded. "god forbid! you have come to a man who also has confessions to make." "oh, i am glad. i want to know all of you--all, do you understand? that will bring us even closer together. and it was one thing i felt about you in the beginning, that day in the garden, that you had had much to conquer--more than most men. it was a part of your force and of your knowledge of life. you were not a sexless ascetic who preached a mere neutral goodness. does that shock you?" he smiled in turn. "i went away from here, as i once told you, full of a high resolution not to trail the honour of my art--if i achieved art--in the dust. but i have not only trailed my art--i trailed myself. in new york i became contaminated, --the poison of the place, of the people with whom i came in contact, got into my blood. little by little i yielded--i wanted so to succeed, to be able to confound those who had doubted and ridiculed me! i wasn't content to wait to deny myself for the ideal. success was in the air. that was the poison, and i only began to realize it after it was too late. "please don't think i am asking pity--i feel that you must know. from the very first my success--which was really failure--began to come in the wrong way. as my father's daughter i could not be obscure. i was sought out, i was what was called picturesque, i suppose. the women petted me, although some of them hated me, and i had a fascination for a certain kind of men--the wrong kind. i began going to dinners, house parties, to recognize, that advantages came that way . . . . it seemed quite natural. it was what many others of my profession tried to do, and they envied me my opportunities. "i ought to say, in justice to myself, that i was not in the least cynical about it. i believed i was clinging to the ideal of art, and that all i wanted was a chance. and the people i went with had the same characteristics, only intensified, as those i had known here. of course i was actually no better than the women who were striving frivolously to get away from themselves, and the men who were fighting to get money. only i didn't know it. "well, my chance came at last. i had done several little things, when an elderly man who is tremendously rich, whose name you would recognize if i mentioned it, gave me an order. for weeks, nearly every day, he came to my studio for tea, to talk over the plans. i was really unsophisticated then--but i can see now--well, that the garden was a secondary consideration . . . . and the fact that i did it for him gave me a standing i should not otherwise have had . . . . oh, it is sickening to look back upon, to think what an idiot i was in how little i saw.... "that garden launched me, and i began to have more work than i could do. i was conscientious about it tried--tried to make every garden better than the last. but i was a young woman, unconventionally living alone, and by degrees the handicap of my sex was brought home to me. i did not feel the pressure at first, and then--i am ashamed to say--it had in it an element of excitement, a sense of power. the poison was at work. i was amused. i thought i could carry it through, that the world had advanced sufficiently for a woman to do anything if she only had the courage. and i believed i possessed a true broadness of view, and could impress it, so far as i was concerned, on others . . . . "as i look back upon it all, i believe my reputation for coldness saved me, yet it was that very reputation which increased the pressure, and sometimes i was fairly driven into a corner. it seemed to madden some men--and the disillusionments began to come. of course it was my fault --i don't pretend to say it wasn't. there were many whom, instinctively, i was on my guard against, but some i thought really nice, whom i trusted, revealed a side i had not suspected. that was the terrible thing! and yet i held to my ideal, tattered as it was. . . " alison was silent a moment, still clinging to his hand, and when she spoke again it was with a tremor of agitation. "it is hard, to tell you this, but i wish you to know. at last i met a man, comparatively young, who was making his own way in new york, achieving a reputation as a lawyer. shall i tell you that i fell in love with him? he seemed to bring a new freshness into my life when i was beginning to feel the staleness of it. not that i surrendered at once, but the reservations of which i was conscious at the first gradually disappeared--or rather i ignored them. he had charm, a magnificent self-confidence, but i think the liberality of the opinions he expressed, in regard to women, most appealed to me. i was weak on that side, and i have often wondered whether he knew it. i believed him incapable of a great refusal. "he agreed, if i consented to marry him, that i should have my freedom --freedom to live in my own life and to carry on my profession. fortunately, the engagement was never announced, never even suspected. one day he hinted that i should return to my father for a month or two before the wedding . . . . the manner in which he said it suddenly turned me cold. oh," alison exclaimed, "i was quite willing to go back, to pay my father a visit, as i had done nearly every year, but--how can i tell you?--he could not believe that i had definitely given up-my father's money . . . . "i sat still and looked at him, i felt as if i were frozen, turned to stone. and after a long while, since i would not speak to him, he went out. . . three months later he came back and said that i had misunderstood him, that he couldn't live without me. i sent him away.... only the other day he married amy grant, one of my friends . . . . "well, after that, i was tired--so tired! everything seemed to go out of life. it wasn't that i loved him any longer,--all had been crushed. but the illusion was gone, and i saw myself as i was. and for the first time in my life i felt defenceless, helpless. i wanted refuge. did you ever hear of jennings howe?" "the architect?" alison nodded. "of course you must have--he is so well known. he has been a widower for several years. he liked my work, saw its defects, and was always frank about them, and i designed a good many gardens in connection with his houses. he himself is above all things an artist, and he fell into the habit of coming to my studio and giving me friendly advice, in the nicest way. he seemed to understand that i was going through some sort of a crisis. he called it 'too much society.' and then, without any warning, he asked me to marry him. "that is why i came out here--to think it over. i didn't love him, and i told him so, but i respected him. "he never compromised in his art, and i have known him over and over to refuse houses because certain conditions were stipulated. to marry him was an acknowledgment of defeat. i realized that. but i had come to the extremity where i wanted peace--peace and protection. i wanted to put myself irrevocably beyond the old life, which simply could not have gone on, and i saw myself in the advancing years becoming tawdry and worn, losing little by little what i had gained at a price. "so i came here--to reflect, to see, as it were, if i could find something left in me to take hold of, to build upon, to begin over again, perhaps, by going back to the old associations. i could think of no better place, and i knew that my father would, be going away after a few weeks, and that i should be lone, yet with an atmosphere back of me,--my old atmosphere. that was why i went to church the first sunday, in order to feel more definitely that atmosphere, to summon up more completely the image of my mother. more and more, as the years have passed, i have thought of her in moments of trouble. i have recovered her as i never had hoped to do in mr. bentley. isn't it strange," she exclaimed wonderingly, "that he should have come into both our lives, with such an influence, at this time?" "and then i met you, talked to you that afternoon in the garden. shall i make a complete confession? i wrote to jennings howe that very week that i could not marry him." "you knew!" hodder exclaimed: "you knew then?" "ah, i can't tell what i knew--or when. i knew, after i had seen you, that i couldn't marry him! isn't that enough?" he drew in his breath deeply. "i should be less than a man if i refused to take you, alison. and--no matter what happens, i can and will find some honest work to support you. but oh, my dear, when i think of it, the nobility and generosity of what you have done appalls me." "no, no!" she protested, "you mustn't say that! i needed you more than you need me. and haven't we both discovered the world, and renounced it? i can at least go so far as to say that, with all my heart. and isn't marriage truer and higher when man and wife start with difficulties and problems to solve together? it is that thought that brings me the greatest joy, that i may be able to help you . . . . didn't you need me, just a little?" "now that i have you, i am unable to think of the emptiness which might have been. you came to me, like beatrice, when i had lost my way in the darkness of the wood. and like beatrice, you showed me the path, and hell and heaven." "oh, you would have found the path without me. i cannot claim that. i saw from the first that you were destined to find it. and, unlike beatrice, i too was lost, and it was you who lifted me up. you mustn't idealize me." . . . she stood up. "come!" she said. he too stood, gazing at her, and she lifted her hands to his shoulders . . . . they moved out from under the tree and walked for a while in silence across the dew-drenched grass, towards park street. the moon, which had ridden over a great space in the sky, hung red above the blackness of the forest to the west. "do you remember when we were here together, the day i met mr. bentley? and you never would have spoken!" "how could i, alison?" he asked. "no, you couldn't. and yet--you would have let me go!" he put his arm in hers, and drew her towards him. "i must talk to your father," he said, "some day--soon. i ought to tell him--of our intentions. we cannot go on like this." "no," she agreed, "i realize it. and i cannot stay, much longer, in park street. i must go back to new york, until you send for me, dear. and there are things i must do. do you know, even though i antagonize him so--my father, i mean--even though he suspects and bitterly resents any interest in you, my affection for you, and that i have lingered because of you, i believe, in his way, he has liked to have me here." "i can understand it," hodder said. "it's because you are bigger than i, although he has quarrelled with you so bitterly. i don't know what definite wrongs he has done to other persons. i don't wish to know. i don't ask you to tell me what passed between you that night. once you said that you had an affection for him --that he was lonely. he is lonely. in these last weeks, in spite of his anger, i can see that he suffers terribly. it is a tragedy, because he will never give in." "it is a tragedy." hodder's tone was agitated. "i wonder if he realizes a little" she began, and paused. "now that preston has come home--" "your brother?" hodder exclaimed. "yes. i forgot to tell you. i don't know why he came," she faltered. "i suppose he has got into some new trouble. he seems changed. i can't describe it now, but i will tell you about it . . . . it's the first time we've all three been together since my mother died, for preston wasn't back from college when i went to paris to study . . . ." they stood together on the pavement before the massive house, fraught with so many and varied associations for hodder. and as he looked up at it, his eye involuntarily rested upon the windows of the boy's room where eldon parr had made his confession. alison startled him by pronouncing his name, which came with such unaccustomed sweetness from her lips. "you will write me to-morrow," she said, "after you have seen the bishop?" "yes, at once. you mustn't let it worry you." "i feel as if i had cast off that kind of worry forever. it is only --the other worries from which we do not escape, from which we do not wish to escape." with a wonderful smile she had dropped his hands and gone in at the entrance, when a sound made them turn, the humming of a motor. and even as they looked it swung into park street. "it's a taxicab!" she said. as she spoke it drew up almost beside them, instead of turning in at the driveway, the door opened, and a man alighted. "preston!" alison exclaimed. he started, turning from the driver, whom he was about to pay. as for hodder, he was not only undergoing a certain shock through the sudden contact, at such a moment, with alison's brother: there was an additional shock that this was alison's brother and eldon parr's son. not that his appearance was shocking, although the well-clad, athletic figure was growing a trifle heavy, and the light from the side lamps of the car revealed dissipation in a still handsome face. the effect was a subtler one, not to be analyzed, and due to a multitude of preconceptions. alison came forward. "this is mr. hodder, preston," she said simply. for a moment preston continued to stare at the rector without speaking. suddenly he put out his hand. "mr. hodder, of st. john's?" he demanded. "yes," answered hodder. his surprise deepened to perplexity at the warmth of the handclasp that followed. a smile that brought back vividly to hodder the sunny expression of the schoolboy in the picture lightened the features of the man. "i'm very glad to see you," he said, in a tone that left no doubt of its genuine quality. "thank you," hodder replied, meeting his eye with kindness, yet with a scrutiny that sought to penetrate the secret of an unexpected cordiality. "i, too, have hoped to see you." alison, who stood by wondering, felt a meaning behind the rector's words. she pressed his hand as he bade her, once more, good night. "won't you take my taxicab?" asked preston. "it is going down town anyway." "i think i'd better stick to the street cars," hodder said. his refusal was not ungraceful, but firm. preston did not insist. in spite of the events of that evening, which he went over again and again as the midnight car carried him eastward, in spite of a new-born happiness the actuality of which was still difficult to grasp, hodder was vaguely troubled when he thought of preston parr. david belasco illustrated with scenes from the photoplay a william fox production [frontispiece: "my little girl had just such a doll--is it possible that you--?"] new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, by dodd, mead & company all rights reserved published, march, this book is dedicated to david warfield, artist by the author list of illustrations "my little girl had just such a doll--is it possible that you--?" . . . . . . . . . _frontispiece_ the "music master" can no longer pay rent for the piano. anton von barwig is compelled to pawn his favourite violin. beverly brings hélène a wedding gift. anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married. hélène prepares her trousseau. "i want you to come with us?" hélène and beverly find love's haven. chapter one anton von barwig rapped on the conductor's desk for silence and laid down his baton. the hundred men constituting the leipsic philharmonic orchestra stopped playing as if by magic, and those who looked up from their music saw in their leader's face, for the first time in their three years' experience under his direction, a pained expression of helplessness. "either i can't hear you this morning, or the first violins are late in attacking and the wood wind drags--drags--drags." "what's the matter? we've played this a hundred times," growled karlschmidt, the bass clarionet player, to poons, the dutch horn soloist, who sat at the desk next to him. karlschmidt was a socialist, a student of karl marx, and took more interest in communism than in his allotted share of the score of isolde's _liebestodt_. indeed, nearly all the men were interested in something other than the occupation which afforded them a living. for them the pleasure of music had died in the business of attaining accuracy. "what did he say?" asked poons, losing von barwig's next remark in trying to hear what karlschmidt was mumbling. "he said it's his own fault," whispered the second flute. "he's quite right," assented karlschmidt. "hush, hush!" came from one or two others. von barwig was addressing the men again, and they wanted to hear. "let's play; cut the speeches out," growled karlschmidt. "for god's sake, what's he saying now?" "damn it! how can we hear when you won't keep quiet?" blurted a germanised englishman who had an engagement at the old rathaus and wanted to get away. "we're dismissed," said poons, who couldn't hear. but the men at the violin desks down front were rising and putting away their instruments, and the others were slowly following their example. karlschmidt's face expanded into a smile; the prospect of avoiding the unpleasant grind of rehearsal had restored him to good humour. the lines of men were now breaking up into knots; bows were being loosened, violins put into cases and brass instruments into bags, while laughing and chatting became general. poons looked at von barwig, who still stood on the small dais, staring out into space, and he saw that something was the matter. he loved von barwig; for years before, when hard times had sent him over the border from amsterdam toward the german music centres, von barwig had extended him a helping hand, indeed had almost kept him from starving until he got an engagement in one of the minor dresden theatres; poons was grateful; and gratitude is a form of love that lies deeper than mere sympathy. "can i do something for you, anton?" he asked a few moments later, as he stood at the conductor's desk. von barwig did not answer; and with his round face, and smiling eyes glancing appealingly at his conductor, poons stood waiting like a little dog that patiently wags his tall in hope of his master's recognition. presently he shook his head gravely and sighed. surely something was wrong, for anton was not himself. never before had he stopped rehearsal and dismissed his men on the morning preceding a concert night, and, moreover, the night of the first performance of a new symphony--von barwig's own work. the men were rapidly disappearing, and the gewandhaus concert platform was almost empty. von barwig seemed deeply interested in watching his men carry off their instruments, and yet, when poons looked closely into his face, he knew that the leader did not see that which he was apparently watching so closely. "shall i wait for you, anton?" ventured poons finally. as if to remind von barwig of his presence, he touched him gently on the arm. von barwig started. a look of recognition came into his eye, and with it a smile that metamorphosed his homely, almost ugly face into something beyond mere beauty; a smile that transformed a somewhat commonplace personality into an appealing and compelling individuality. there is no need to describe the delicate, sensitive, rugged countenance, which, when he smiled, radiated love and sympathy for his fellow-beings and made him what is ordinarily described as magnetic. poons caught this smile, and his own broad grin deepened as he recognised his old friend again. "come, let's go," von barwig said briefly; and without another word they walked out of the gewandhaus. they passed the statue of mendelssohn erected in front of the building, walking down the august platz as far as the university. poons noticed that unusual things were happening that morning. first, his friend was walking rapidly, so rapidly that he himself almost had to trot to keep up with him; second, he was muttering to himself, a most unusual thing for von barwig to do; third, every now and then a look of intense hatred beclouded his face; and last, he was not talking over the events of the morning with his friend. furthermore, so engrossed was von barwig in his own thoughts that he passed schumann's monument without lifting his hat, and bismarck's monument without shaking his fist; and these two things von barwig had done, day in and day out, ever since poons had known him. finally, when at the thomas kirche poons ventured to ask, "where are we going?" von barwig stopped short in the middle of the street he was crossing. "that's it, that's it!" he said excitedly; "where am i going? where am i going?" and he looked at poons as if he expected that his frightened friend would answer his question. poons took his friend's arm and pushed him out of the road on to the pavement just in time to save him from being grazed by a cab which rapidly whisked by them. then he stopped and laid his hand on von barwig's shoulder. "what's the matter, anton?" he said soothingly. "can't you tell me? in god's name, what has happened?" anton looked at poons. the unexpected had happened; his devoted follower had dared to question him. the shock almost awoke him to a sense of his surroundings, and the ghost of his old smile stole over his face as he shook his head slowly. "that's it!" he gasped. "i don't know! i don't know! it's the uncertainty that is killing me. by god, august, i'll kill him! i'll kill him!" and then poons understood. they walked on in silence, whither neither of them knew. it was now poons's turn to walk faster than his companion and to mutter to himself. his face had lost its grin, and he was no longer conscious of his immediate surroundings. after they had passed auerbach's cellar he could contain himself no longer, and an explosion took place. he stopped von barwig in the middle of the pavement, grabbing him by the arm, and in a hoarse, gutteral voice, choked with emotion, shouted, "anton! anton!" von barwig looked at his friend in mute surprise. poons, oblivious of the bystanders--who were looking to see why a man should shout so unnecessarily--went on: "by god, anton, i kill him, too!" this appealed to von barwig's sense of humour, and he burst into laughter, a laughter perilously near to tears. it never occurred to him to ask poons what he knew or what he had heard. the fact that what was preying on his mind, his carefully guarded secret, was common property did not strike him at that moment. he merely thought that his friend was agreeing with him in the sentiment of killing "some one" as he agreed with him in all matters of music, philosophy and art. in anton von barwig's condition of mind at that moment, had it occurred to him that poons knew the awful fact that was confronting him, he would have taken him by the throat and then and there compelled him to confess what he knew or thought he knew; but he walked on in silence, followed by his devoted friend. they turned up a small side street of the august platz and stopped in front of the house where anton von barwig lived. it was the centre of a row of large modern apartment houses where lived for the most part the art world of leipsic, and this world included beside the rich, professional element, the wealthy publishers, of whom in this important centre of germany there were a large number. as von barwig stood waiting for poons to enter with him, he noticed poons's outstretched hand. "aren't you coming in?" he asked. poons shook his head. "i'd better not," he said simply. "why not?" asked von barwig. "because," poons faltered. he did not want to tell his friend that at such times as these it is better for a man to be alone with his thoughts. "why not?" cried von barwig; but poons did not speak. he stood like some dumb animal awaiting his master's lash; and then von barwig knew that poons knew. "come!" said von barwig in a low, hard voice, with such firmness and determination that poons, in spite of himself, was compelled to go forward. silently they walked up three flights, neither of them noticing the salute of the porter as they passed him. anton took out his keys and opened a door which led into a magnificently furnished musical studio, the largest apartment in koenigs strasse. it was here that he and madam elene von barwig, his wife, held their musical receptions and entertained the great german and foreign artists that came to leipsic. these receptions were famous affairs, and invitations were eagerly sought, not only by musical celebrities, but by such of the nobility as happened to be in town. members of the royal family had been known to grace more than one of these affairs; for though a conductor of the leipsic philharmonic is not necessarily a rich man, his social position is unquestioned. perhaps some such fleeting thoughts as these--glimpses into the past like those of a drowning man--came into anton von barwig's consciousness as he stepped quietly to the door leading from the reception-room and studio and passed into the corridor toward the living apartments. he listened intently; but hearing nothing, closed the door quietly, and somewhat to poons's alarm turned the key in the lock. "now tell me," he demanded, in a voice that was as strange as it was determined; "what do you know? sit down." this last was a direct command. poons felt that nothing was to be gained by silence. he had, so to speak, put his foot in it by allowing himself, through sympathy in his friend's affairs, to betray the fact that he knew what was troubling him. he felt, therefore, that by making a clean breast of it, he might not only mitigate von barwig's sufferings but enable him to see what the world, or at least the world of leipsic, had seen for some time. poons was not a rapid thinker, but these thoughts flashed through his mind in less time than it took him to obey von barwig. he sat down in the chair indicated by his friend and tried to collect his thoughts. "what do you know?" repeated von barwig. poons moistened his lips with his tongue, as if to enable him to speak; but words would not come. he loved anton; he knew that what he had to say would make him suffer; and that he could not bear to see. he tried to speak, faltered "i cannot, i cannot!" and burst into tears. von barwig walked up to the window and gazed steadily into the street. "it's more serious than i thought," he said after a few moments' pause, giving poons time to recover in some slight degree from his emotion. "it is serious, eh?" "yes," assented poons, relieved that anton's question required only a monosyllable for an answer. "very serious, eh?" asked von barwig, steeling himself for the answer he expected. "yes, i think so," nodded poons, gulping down a sob. "the worst, eh?" "god, you know what scandal-mongers are; what people say--when they do say--how they talk! they have no mercy, no brains, no sense! what is a woman's reputation to them? they repeat, they--they--the wretches--the murderers--" poons seemed to be trying to shift the blame on a number of people; it was easier for him to generalise at this moment than to answer his questioner straightforwardly. "do they say that my wife--that madam von barwig neglects her home?" "yes." "and her child?" "no, no!" eagerly interrupted poons, quite joyous at being able to deny something at last. "do they say that she--neglects me, that she doesn't care for me, that--" von barwig spoke now with an effort; "that she no longer loves me?" poons nodded affirmatively. he was summoning up all his courage for the question that he knew was coming; and it came. "do they say, do they mention--his name?" poons again nodded affirmatively. "ahlmann?" "yes." von barwig held his breath for a moment; then literally heaved a sigh. what he most feared had indeed come upon him. the world knew; his heart was on his sleeve for daws to peck at. "how long have you known this?" poons hung his head, he could not answer. he was longing to throw his arms around his friend's neck and cry on his shoulder; and he could think of nothing to say but "poor anton! poor anton!" "don't pity me, damn you! don't pity me!" burst out von barwig. "and don't sit there bleating like a lost sheep of israel! i'm not a woman--tears are no panacea for suffering like mine. put the world back five years, restore for me the past few months; then i could live life over again, then i could see and know and act differently. don't sit there like a wailing widow, moaning and moping over other people's miseries! that isn't sympathy, that's weakness! if you want to help me, tell me to be a man, to face my troubles like a man; don't cry like a baby!" "that's right," assented poons, "go on; it does you good. give it to me, i deserve it!" "poor old poons, you do your best! ah, your love does me good, old friend; but there's hell to face! she threatens to leave me, to leave me because i refused to allow him to come here. i've warned him! and if he shows his face in leipsic again, i'll kill him! look!" von barwig felt in his inner pocket. "now you can understand why i couldn't hold the men together at rehearsal this morning. my mind was with her, with him. ha! the mother of my little girl, my little hélène! that's the pity of it, poons, that's the pity of it!" and now it was von barwig's turn to show weakness. "that's what i can't understand. a woman's love for a man, yes, it can go here, there, anywhere; but the mother instinct, how can that change?" "doesn't she love her little girl any more?" asked poons in simple astonishment. "she loves _him_," said anton. "can there be room for the mother love with such love as he inspires?" he looked at the letter in his hand and passed it to poons. "this morning, just as i was leaving for rehearsal, the servant handed me this. my little girl is all i have left now." his voice choked with emotion as he turned once more toward the window. at the sight of his friend's suffering poons could no longer contain himself, and he fairly blubbered as he read the following: "dear anton: henry ahlmann is in leipsic and i have seen him. i cannot live a lie, so i am going away with him. believe me, it is better so; i feel that you can never forgive me and that we can never again be happy together. kiss my darling hélène for me, and oh, anton, don't tell the little one her unhappy mother's miserable history until she is old enough to understand! "elene von barwig." "well, that's conclusive, isn't it?" asked von barwig grimly as soon as poons finished reading. poons's voice failed him. hot, scalding tears were fairly raining down his cheeks as the letter fell out of his trembling hands and fluttered to the floor. "well, what's to be done; what's to be done?" "then she has gone?" von barwig nodded. "i suppose so! i don't know, i can't tell," he said helplessly. "i didn't try to stop her," he went on after a pause. "what's the use, to what end? oh, i don't want the entire blame to rest on her shoulders! a beautiful woman, twenty-five years of age, a pampered, petted, spoiled child, craving constant excitement; and he, a handsome, young american, rich and romantic. i, as you know, am a mature man of forty, devoted to an art in which she takes little interest. i introduced them. ha! that's the irony of it! i brought them together, i left them together, i--it's my fault, poons--my fault! i neglected her for my work. with me, all was music: the compositions, the rehearsal, the concert, the pupil, the conservatory, the opera, the singer, the player. he used to take her to my concerts; and i,--fool, fool--encouraged him, for it gave me more time to devote to my art. an artist is a selfish dog! he must be, or there is no art. what could i expect? i am fifteen years older than she; ugly----" "no, no!" blurted out poons. "misshapen, undersized----" "no, no!" "my friend can lie, but my looking-glass doesn't. i know, i know! god, how will it all end? how will it all end?" at this point the door shook a little as though some one were trying to get in. "she's come back!" almost gasped anton, and walking firmly to the door, he unlocked and opened it. as he did so, a little fairy creature between three and four years of age, with golden, flaxen curls and blue eyes, bounded into the room, calling out, "papa! papa! where is oo? where is oo?" von barwig was on his knees in a moment, and the child threw her left arm around his neck and hugged him so tightly that the little doll she held in her right hand was almost crushed between them. "hélène, hélène! my poor, motherless little baby!" and then for the first time von barwig gave way to tears. "we are alone, alone, alone! oh, god! oh, god!" he sobbed as he rocked from side to side in his agony. poons crept softly out of the room and closed the door gently after him. chapter two it was past seven o'clock that evening when poons returned to von barwig's apartment on his way to the gewandhaus concert. his old overcoat buttoned tightly over his well-worn dress suit covered a palpitating heart; for poons was afraid. a few minutes before, when he had kissed his motherly wife good-bye and told her to take good, extra good care of their little son august, she had noticed that his hand was trembling. and when he tried to account for his nervous condition by reminding her that anton von barwig's new symphony was to be played that night and that a member of the royal family was to be present on the occasion, she had shaken her head gravely, accusing him of being a foolish, timid old boy. it needed all the courage he could muster up to enable him to ring the door-bell of von barwig's dwelling. there was such a death-like stillness that poons thought for a moment no one was there; he dreaded he knew not what. as he stood listening to the silence, he thought he heard a child's laughter, and he sighed in relief. the servant came to the door, a sleepy-eyed german _mädchen_ as strong as an ox and nearly as stupid. "oh, it's herr poons," she said. "come in. i tell herr von barwig----" "is he--is he? _how_ is he?" faltered poons, much relieved that the girl showed no evidence of acquaintance with the real condition of her master's mind. "i tell him," repeated the girl stolidly, without answering his question. closing the hall door, she ushered him into the studio and left him standing there. poons looked at his watch; it was a quarter past seven. he still had fifteen minutes to spare before the concert engagement, which began at eight o'clock, called him to the gewandhaus. while he was wondering what he could say to his friend, the servant opened the door leading to the living apartments of the family and intimated that he should come in. poons passed through a magnificently furnished drawing-room and library, and thence into the dining-room. "this way," said the girl, opening the dining-room door, beyond which was a passage leading to the kitchen and bedrooms. poons looked surprised, and the girl hastened to say: "herr von barwig is in the nursery." "ah, of course," nodded poons, as he followed her. not very observant usually, poons noticed that the dinner table was set for two persons. both places were undisturbed and the food was untouched. "he has not eaten," thought poons. "of course she is not here! oh, god! that is the tragedy of it! the empty chair, always the empty chair--it is like death!" as the nursery door opened poons heard the sound of voices and laughter and, to his utter astonishment, saw his friend von barwig on the floor playing with little hélène's dolls' house. hélène was shrieking with childish laughter because von barwig pretended to be angry with one of her dolls which would not eat the cake he tried to make it swallow. as von barwig saw his friend, a look of intense pain crossed his face, but he forced himself to smile and say: "come in, herr doctor poons, and mend this little girl's eye. see, i've given her cake to eat, but it won't do her eye any good!" hélène laughed gleefully at the idea of cake being good for a broken eye. "good gracious, how did the eye fall out?" said dr. poons, shaking his head gravely. "she fell down and i kicked it," lisped the little one. "i kicked it," she laughed, unconscious that she had committed an unprovoked assault on her plaything. "mend it; oh, please mend it!" poons shook his head gravely. the child mistook this for a confession of his inability to do what she wished. "mamma 'll fix it when she comes home. she won't be long, will she?" said the child, somewhat tearfully. she had asked the question many times, and her father seemed unable to answer her. "i am trying to make her forget," said anton savagely to poons, in answer to his look of painful inquiry. "she must forget soon; i've been with her ever since you left me this morning." his arm stole around the child's neck, and drawing her to him gently, he kissed her again and again with such sad, lingering tenderness that the ever-ready tears welled up into poons's eyes, and he turned his head to conceal them. the child struggled to free herself. "papa so rough, eh? well, he won't be, or herr poons will beat him, eh?" "surely," assented poons. "papa will be so gentle and so kind," went on von barwig tenderly. "he'll love his little girl as no little girl in this wide, wide world was ever loved before, eh?" little hélène did not understand, and as she had nothing at this precise moment to occupy her attention, she answered him by asking the one question that absorbed her mind, "where's mamma?" von barwig and poons looked at each other helplessly. apart from the tragedy of two men trying to comfort a little child that had lost its parent, there remained in von barwig's mind a sense of the utter inability of the masculine individuality to fill the place of mother in the child's heart. in after years, von barwig always remembered the sinking sensation he felt when this fact came home to him in full force. "well, one thing," said anton, as he swallowed something that came in his throat and threatened to choke him, "one thing, she was kind to the little one; the was a kind mother, eh?" "kind? kind?" began poons fiercely. "is it kind to----" von barwig silenced him with a look. "yes, she was a good mother," he admitted conciliatingly. "but, by god, if we don't go we shall be late! phew!" he whistled as he looked at his watch, "half past seven." von barwig sat still for a moment. "half past seven? yes." then, as if it were slowly dawning upon him that he had duties, he arose, dusting his knees mechanically. "half past seven, yes. it begins at eight, eh? and i must dress. yes, i suppose i must dress!" the little girl was now putting her dolls back into the dolls' house; the doorway was blocked up and she was pushing one through a broken window in the little house as von barwig caught her in his arms and caressed her. "how can i leave her? good god, how can i leave her?" he groaned. he stroked her face, her hair, and kissed her again and again. "she's all i have, all; she's all i want. i won't go to-night, i won't leave her, do you hear? let ruhlmeyer conduct to-night. i can't go, i can't leave her alone! suppose something were to happen to her?" "but you must go!" said poons firmly; desperation had given him courage. "you must go!" von barwig looked at him in surprise; poons's tone sobered him a little. "for her sake you must work," went on poons, gaining courage as he saw that his words had an effect on his friend. "yes, i must work," assented von barwig, feeling the force of poons's words. "shall i go, little hélène, my little darling? shall i go?" "yes, go and tell mamma to come," was the little one's reply. "come, hurry, anton! you must dress, you have barely five minutes: five to dress, ten to get to the gewandhaus." "ha! they can wait!" said von barwig grimly. "prince mecklenburg strelitz, the kaiser, all germany can wait, while i mend the strings of my heart!" the nurse-maid came in and suggested that it was time to put little _fräulein_ to bed. poons looked at her closely; her eyelids were red, for she had been crying. "take good care of the little _fräulein_," said von barwig as he handed her over to the maid. it was long past her bedtime, and the little child had almost fallen asleep in her father's arms. "let me kiss her just once more; i won't wake her up!" the girl burst into tears as von barwig bent over the child, kissing her tenderly; then she hurried into the next room with her precious charge. "she knows?" inquired poons. "yes," nodded von barwig; and then, with a sigh, "she knows." five minutes later, von barwig, accompanied by poons, left the house and hurriedly took a cab to the concert hall. chapter three it was noticed by more than one member of the leipsic philharmonic orchestra that herr director von barwig was in unusually high spirits that evening. many attributed it to the fact that he was nervous because of the first production of his new symphony. karlschmidt hinted to his deskmate that von barwig was nervous and was trying to conceal it by pretending to be delighted with everything and everybody. this was probably true in a measure; at all events, when he came into the artists' room at the gewandhaus at about five minutes to eight, he shook hands with everybody, joked with his men, and talked almost incessantly, as if he wanted to keep at high pressure. poons watched him closely. von barwig was unusually pale, and as he slapped his concert meister on the back poons noticed that, though his face wore a smile, his lips quivered. "for heaven's sake," he heard him say to the leader of the second violins, "don't play the _pizzicato_ in the third movement as if you were picking up eggs!" poons rejoiced that his friend could forget so easily. it was, however, when von barwig walked out on the platform to the dais, bowed to the immense audience, and turned to his men, that the deadly pallor of his face was most apparent. some of the audience noticed it as he acknowledged the applause he received. there was not a tremor of hand or muscle, not an undecided movement; merely a deadly pallor of countenance as if he no longer had blood in his veins, but ice. the men felt the absence of the compelling force that always emanated from him, that seemed to ooze from his baton; that psychic something that compelled the player to feel as his director felt--the force we call magnetism. the firmness of mouth showed that the determination to dominate was still there, but the absence of that mental power left only the automatic rhythm and swing, sans heart, sans soul, sans feeling. the beat was the beat of the finely trained academic conductor, but the genius of it was gone. the ghost of a departed von barwig was beating time for the von barwig that had lived and died that night. perhaps the audience did not feel this as much as the men did, for they applauded heartily at the end of the opening number. they did notice that von barwig did not acknowledge their applause and seemed to be oblivious of their presence. the fact that an ultra-fashionable audience was present, including a prince and princess of the royal family, and the _élite_ of leipsic, to say nothing of the american ambassador, mr. cruger, apparently did not affect von barwig in the least. this appealed very much to the democratic instinct of mr. cruger, and at the end of the first part he asked his friend, prince holberg-meckstein, to present him to the conductor. "i will present him to _you_," said his highness, carefully readjusting the pronouns; and he sent for von barwig. "a curious personality!" remarked mr. cruger to the prince as von barwig bowed himself out of the box a few minutes later. "yes, and a fine musician," said the prince. "but he's not at his best to-night." as von barwig passed through the artists' room, poons approached him. anton motioned him away as if to say, "don't speak to me," and poons walked sadly away. the second part of the programme was to begin with von barwig's latest work. "quick, put the score of the symphony on my desk," he said to the librarian, who happened to be passing at the moment. "i intended to conduct it from memory; but i have forgotten." as the librarian placed the score on the conductor's desk, he thought it strange that a man who had been rehearsing from memory for weeks should so suddenly forget. von barwig opened the score a few moments later, raised his baton, and the wood wind began the new work. he conducted as mechanically as before, for his dead heart could pump no enthusiasm into his work, and the audience suddenly felt a sense of disappointment. but after the first few passages had been played the leader lost his self-consciousness and forgot his surroundings. he began to feel the music, to compose it again, and the mechanism of the conductor was lost in the inspiration of the composer. it was a beautiful movement marked _andante sostenuto_--pathos itself, and von barwig drew from his men their very souls, forcing them in turn to draw out of their strings all the suffering he had been going through for the past few days. then a curious psychic phenomenon took place. von barwig completely forgot himself, his audience, his orchestra; he was living in his music, and the music took him back to the precise moment of inspiration. once more he was in his studio, seated at his work table, looking up from his score into the face of his beloved elene. she was smiling at him, encouraging him to go on with his work, the work that she had prophesied would make him famous and her the happiest of women. this dream had almost the appearance of reality to von barwig. indeed it was real, as real as reality itself, until the wild applause of an enthusiastic audience awoke him alike to the consciousness of the success of his work and the hopeless misery of his present position; his success in his music only accentuating the failure his life had become. the playing of this movement made such an impression that von barwig was compelled again and again to acknowledge the plaudits of the audience. indeed, they wanted him to repeat it, but this he steadfastly refused to do. there was a slight intermission between the playing of the first and the second parts of the symphony, and during this pause the librarian handed a note to von barwig, whispering to him, "you must read it. the woman is outside in hysterics." "what woman?" demanded von barwig, his thoughts reverting to his wife. trembling and fearful of he knew not what the leader read the following hastily scrawled note: "come at once. the _fräulein_ is gone. she has been stolen away. please come. gretchen." von barwig crushed the note in his hand and looked about helplessly, almost lurching forward in his bewilderment. "hélène stolen? what did it mean?" he could not understand. he knew instinctively it was time to go on with the next movement, and that he must make an effort for the sake of others. already there were signs of impatience in the great audience. slowly he stepped upon the dais, steadying himself by means of the music-stand. he raised his baton, his men played the opening bars, and as they did so the full meaning of the awful news he had just read flashed upon him. he realised suddenly that his men were no longer with him; the first violin looked up at him panic stricken. he sawed the air wildly as he felt the great audience surging around him and his orchestra swaying to and fro. then he reeled, stumbled, clutching at the music-stand for support; and fell face forward upon the floor. * * * * * * some six weeks later loving friends had gently nursed him back to life and reason. it was slow work, but von barwig weathered the point of death and sailed slowly into the harbour of life. as he grew stronger, he realised by degrees all that had happened. one day he called for his beloved poons, but they did not dare to tell him that his faithful friend was dead; the shock of that night had brought on a stroke from which poons never recovered. when they did tell him long afterward, he only smiled, shook his head sadly, and said, "why not? all is gone! why should my old friend remain to me?" when von barwig was strong enough he took the train to berlin and consulted with the police authorities in reference to the whereabouts of his lost wife and child; but they had left no trace behind them except an indication that they had passed through paris on their way to some unknown destination. he called on mr. cruger, the american ambassador, who could throw no light on the subject. a search of the steamship lists failed to reveal their whereabouts; and at last, though anton von barwig felt that they were hopelessly lost to him, he returned to leipsic, more than ever determined to find them. it was the only idea he had: to find them--to find them--to find them. his other thoughts were without stimulating power--irresolute, vague, uncertain. this one idea grew and grew until it became an obsession. he could no longer bear the sound of music; so it was no sacrifice to him to give up his profession. he hated the very streets he walked in, for had elene not walked in them? he must find her; he must find his child. he could hear the little girl calling for him, he kept telling himself. it was his only duty, his only object and mission in life; so it became an ideal, a religion. but where to go, where to go? finally, he made up his mind to leave leipsic for paris and start from there. one day, after living in paris for some months, the idea occurred to him to go to america, the place of the man's birth. a week later he packed up all his effects and took passage on a steamer sailing for the port of new york. chapter four it was a hot august afternoon in new york, especially hot in the downtown districts, where it was damp and muggy, for it had been drizzling all the morning. the sun blazing behind the thin vapour-like clouds had converted the rain into steam, and the almost complete absence of a breeze had added to the personal discomfort of those who were compelled to be out of doors. altogether it was a most uncomfortable afternoon; and the task of running up and down stairs and answering the front door-bell increased the misery of the maid of all work in miss husted's furnished-room establishment on houston street, near second avenue. "phew, ain't it a scorcher?" muttered the young woman as she mounted the kitchen stairs in answer to some visitor's second tug at the bell. she walked across the hall that led to the front door. "don't the dratted bell keep goin'," she went on as she tugged open the door, which the damp weather had caused to swell and stick to the door-jamb. "forgot your key?" she said as she recognised signor tagliafico, better known as fico, the third-floor, hall-bedroom "guest," as miss husted insisted on calling her lodgers. "forgot your key?" repeated the girl, as the gentleman from italy shrugged his shoulders and otherwise disported himself in an endeavour to convey to her the news that he had lost his key and felt extremely sorry to trouble her. "keys is made to open doors, not to forget," continued the girl, banging the door shut. the noise brought miss husted out into the hall in less time than it takes to state the fact. "what is it, thurza?" she asked, showing evidence of being startled out of a doze by the noise. "third floor front forgot his key, miss houston," said the girl sulkily, as fico trudged upstairs to his room. "i wouldn't mind if he wasn't behind three weeks," said miss husted, who usually answered to the name of miss houston, chiefly because she lived in houston street. "well, _i_ mind it," muttered the girl to herself, "whether he's behind or whether he isn't. it makes work for me, and there ain't enough time for regular, let alone extras," she went on, as she turned to go down stairs to the kitchen. "quite right," said miss husted, as she closed the door and returned to her room. experience had taught her that it was useless to argue with thurza. the girl was open to impression, but not to explanation; once an idea found lodgment in her brain it stayed there, despite all argument to the contrary. it was most mortifying to miss husted that thurza had such deep-rooted prejudices against every guest that found his way into her establishment. lodgers made work; the more lodgers the more work; ergo, lodgers were enemies, is the way thurza reasoned it out; and she resumed her occupation of cleaning silver (save the mark) almost as cheerfully as she had left it to answer the door-bell. "dear me," sighed miss husted, "how hard it is to get help and how much harder it is to keep them! back again already? why, jenny, you must have flown!" this last to a rather pretty little girl who had just entered the door. "yes, aunt," replied the girl, "i knew thurza must be busy--so--i--i hurried." "i can see that," her aunt said reprovingly, "you are dripping wet; you shouldn't walk so fast in this hot weather." jenny was a thoughtful child. she had lived rather an unhappy existence with her parents, for her father had deserted her mother when she was three years old and after her mother's death she had come to her aunt "for a few days" until a home could be found for her. the few days were over some years before, for miss husted loved the child far too well to let her go, and gladly made a home for her. jenny loved her aunt and stayed on. curiously enough, not a word had ever been spoken between them on the subject, and the little girl just fitted in, adapting herself to aunt sarah's ways. now this process of adjustment was by no means an easy accomplishment, for aunt sarah had no sense of time. she thought and felt herself to be just as young as she was years and years ago. her looking-glass must have given her several hard jolts, but she either believed a looking-glass to be an illusion or ignored its evidence altogether; for though it showed her the face of a woman near the danger line of fifty, she insisted on considering herself as in the neighbourhood of thirty. she carried herself with the dignity of a duchess; that is, a conventional duchess, and talked habitually with the hauteur and elegance of a stage queen. her kingdom was the houston street establishment, her guests were her subjects, her aristocracy were the foreign gentlemen who occupied rooms in the various parts of her house, mostly hall bedrooms. she doted on fashion, refinement, pungent perfumery and expensive flowers; anything that to her mind suggested social grandeur appealed intensely to her. even the old house, now situated in an exceedingly unfashionable quarter, held a place in her affections because years before it had been a part of fashionable new york, and she felt quite proud because she was known as miss houston of houston street. the name suggested a title, and a title of all things was dear to her heart. perhaps her love for jenny was stronger because her father was supposed--by his unfortunate wife at least--to have been the scion of a proud and aristocratic family, who had not been too proud, however, to leave her to starve. altogether, miss husted was an exceedingly romantic, high-strung, middle-aged spinster, miles and miles above her station in life, whose heart and purse were open to any foreigner who had discernment enough to see her weakness and tact enough to pander to it by hinting at his noble lineage. this love of things and beings aristocratic was more than a weakness. it was a disease, for it kept poor a good soul, who otherwise might have been, if not well-to-do, at least fairly prosperous. jenny, young as she was, knew all this. she knew that fico, or signor tagliafico, was a struggling musician and not an artist in any sense of the word. she knew he was an ordinary italian fiddler who preferred to fiddle for food rather than to work manually for it. and yet her aunt had confided to her that she was sure he was a count, because one day miss husted had asked him the question, and the man, not quite understanding, had smiled and shrugged his shoulders. still, he had not denied it, so thenceforth was known as count fico. and pinac, the gentleman who occupied the other back room next to that of fico? miss husted was sure that he was a descendant of the noble refugees from france, who emigrated during the reign of terror in the french revolution. the romance of this appealed highly to her. monsieur pinac was always silent when questioned on this point, but miss husted was much interested. his silence surely meant something, and besides, he looked every inch a nobleman with his fashionably cut van dyck beard. there was a picture of the duc de guise in one of the bedrooms--heavens only knows where miss husted got it, but there it was--and pointing to it with great pride, she defied monsieur pinac to deny his relationship to the defunct duke. pinac did not take the trouble to deny it! as a matter of fact, he was simply an ordinary musician who continued to follow his profession because it paid him better than any other business he could embark in. music is often the line of easiest resistance, and many there be that slide down its graceful curves. in more senses than one, it is easier to play than to work. but when miss husted conferred a patent of nobility on a foreign gentleman, were he an italian organ-grinder or a french waiter, that title stood, his own protest to the contrary notwithstanding. in this particular view-point miss husted was completely opposite to her maid of all work. thurza's mental attitude was the socialistic slant that made for the destruction of aristocracy; miss husted's system created one of her own. to thurza foreigners were either "dagoes" or "dutch"; to miss husted they were either "gentlemen" or "noblemen" or both. in this way, perhaps, the balance of harmony was restored in houston mansion, as miss husted dearly loved to call her home. there was some foundation for believing that the name houston mansion was painted on the glass over the front door, but it was so worn that no one could decipher it. a violent ring at the door-bell interrupted the conversation between miss husted and her niece. "they'll break the bell if they're not careful," remarked the elder lady, arranging her ringlets in the event that it might be some one to see her. "it's a lady," whispered jenny to her aunt a few moments later. "she wants a room." miss husted sniffed. "i don't like ladies; they're twice the trouble that gentlemen are, and--i don't know--i don't like 'em. ladies looking for furnished rooms always have a history--and a past; i don't like 'em." jenny nodded without in the least understanding her aunt. she had heard this before, but she knew it was a peculiarity of miss husted always to say the same thing under the same circumstances, whether the occasion called for it or not. "shall i ask her in, or will you come out into the hall?" went on the child. "ask her kindly to step into the reception-room," said her aunt, kicking a feather duster under the sofa and generally tidying up a bit. a large, stout person of uncertain age stood in the doorway. "is this the reception-room?" asked the lady, fixing her glasses and looking about her as if quite prepared to disbelieve any statement miss husted was about to make. that lady, much offended, drew herself up stiffly. "yes, this is the reception-room," she said, in a tone intended to be frigidly polite. "may i inquire to what am i indebted for the honour of this visit?" the fat lady sniffed contemptuously and sat down. "i think it's the sign 'furnished rooms' that can claim the honour," she said simply. "sit down, jenny, and stop fidgeting," miss husted snapped out, ignoring the fat lady's attempt at smartness. "i want a room if you have one vacant. my name is mangenborn." "top floor?" inquired miss husted. "i suppose you think a lady of my avoirdupois ought to live on the top floor so as to have plenty of exercise, eh?" inquired mrs. mangenborn with an attempt at humour. then, without waiting for a reply, she went on: "well, you've just guessed right! what kind of people do you have in this house?" "my guests are artists and gentlemen." "which?" inquired the stout lady, and laughed; she saw the joke if miss husted didn't and was good natured enough to laugh even if it were her own. "well, i'm an artist," she said after a pause. "indeed?" said miss husted, and there was a slight inflection of sarcasm in that lady's voice. mrs. mangenborn was either deaf or did not notice it, for she went on unconsciously: "yes, i am an artist--a second-sight artist." "second-sight?" "yes; i tell fortunes, read the future----" "oh?" said miss husted, and that one word was enough to have driven an ordinary person out of the front door, convinced of being insulted, but mrs. mangenborn was not sensitive. "i should like a cup of tea," she said simply. "it's a very hot day." the magnificent coolness of this request fairly caught miss husted. this woman spoke like one accustomed to command; and much to jenny's astonishment (she had been listening attentively) her aunt sent her to order tea for two. given a person who can tell fortunes, and another person on the lookout for one, a person who has infinite hope in the future, whose whole life indeed is in the future, and it doesn't take long to establish an _entente cordiale_. when jenny came back a few minutes later, to her utter astonishment she saw the mysterious fat lady dealing cards to her aunt and talking of events past, present, and future; and her aunt chatting as pleasantly as if she had known the woman all her life. "however can you tell that?" asked miss husted as she sipped her tea and cut the cards for the ninetieth time. "don't you see the king? that means a visitor!" "yes; but how did you know that my best first-floor rooms were to let?" mrs. mangenborn shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "_that_ i cannot tell you; i can't even tell myself; it just comes to me." she did not remind miss husted that the best rooms in most boarding establishments in that locality were usually to let, because the people who could afford to pay the price seldom wanted to live in that neighbourhood; but she did tell her several things that must have pleased her immensely, for in a short while, after mrs. mangenborn had disposed of a second cup of tea, that lady was fairly ensconced in a seven-dollar front room on the first floor for a price that did not exceed three dollars. however, if half her predictions came true, it would have been a fine bargain for miss husted or any other landlady to have her as a guest. as jenny confided to thurza in the kitchen a few hours later: "you'll see. if the ground-floor parlor and bedroom aren't let next week, the new lady in the first floor front will get notice to leave because she's told a fortune that won't come true, and aunt will be angry. she keeps her word and she always expects people to keep theirs." "my fortune never came true," grunted thurza as she lifted a tub of washing off the table. "jenny, mrs. mangenborn wants you to go on an errand for her," called her aunt downstairs. "thought she wasn't never goin' to take females in her home again," said thurza, as jenny went upstairs to obey her aunt's order. as jenny closed the front door gently on her way to the stores, she mused sadly on the fact that her aunt, and not mrs. mangenborn, had given her the money with which to make the purchases. she hoped with childish optimism that the second-sight lady would pay her back; the other guests never did. jenny sighed as she thought how much easier it would be on rent-days if auntie didn't advance money. the front-door bell rang so often that day that thurza declared it rang when it didn't ring, and was equally positive that the dratted bell didn't ring when it did ring. at all events, when the bell had been nearly jerked out of its socket for the third time, miss husted poked her head out of mrs. mangenborn's room and shouted for thurza to hurry up and answer it. as she received no answer, she went down a flight to the head of the kitchen stairs, and gave vent to a most unusual display of temper. this was brought on by the fact that mrs. mangenborn had just declared that never in all her born days (to say nothing of her unborn moments) had she seen such a wonderful display of good fortune as that which lay in the cards spread on the table before them; there was a marriage just as sure as death. mrs. mangenborn was proceeding to describe the masculine element in the marriage proposition, and miss husted was trying to think who it could be, when the bell rang for the third time just as thurza's head made its appearance above the kitchen stairs. miss husted decided to forget her dignity and go to the door herself. outside stood a hack piled up with baggage, and on the doorstep, waiting patiently, stood a gentleman who bowed when the door was opened and asked gently with a foreign accent, if miss husted had a room for a studio and a bedroom. there was much bustle and excitement, a great deal of noise, and a still greater deal of confusion, but when it had subsided and the hackman had been paid three times as much as he was legally entitled to, the baggage was carried, or rather tumbled, into the rooms engaged by the gentleman with the foreign accent. miss husted rushed into mrs. mangenborn's room and breathlessly gasped that her fortune had come true, for the front parlor and bedroom were let at their full prices. "just think of it, mrs. mangborn," as miss husted insisted on calling her "guest," "just think of it, full price in summer!" mrs. mangenborn rose to the occasion. "why not?" demanded she, as if offended by miss husted's enthusiasm, "why not? the cards never lie! how much do you say he is to pay?" she went on, as if miss husted had told her and she had forgotten the precise amount. "fourteen," replied miss husted, "and it's a good price." "not bad! but wait, you'll see that's only the beginning," and mrs. mangenborn mixed up the cards lying on the table oblivious of the fact that she had just shuffled miss husted's marital prospects out of existence. "oh, that's nothing," she hastened to say as she saw the expression of alarm on miss husted's face. "it'll come out again. it's in the cards and it must come out." then she asked, "who is he? what is he?" "he's an artist of some sort, a fine, noble-looking old gentleman. german! oh such fine, elegant manners; to the manner born i am sure! a musician, i think; he had a violin with him." mrs. mangenborn's nose elevated itself a little. "no money in music! what's his name?" she asked. "i don't know," said miss husted. "he gave me his card, but i was so flustered i didn't look at it." she opened the reticule she always carried at her side, containing keys, recipes, receipts, almost everything that could be crowded into it, and after quite a little sifting and sorting she took out a card on which was inscribed: "herr anton von barwig." chapter five there was a decided air of mystery about the new occupant of the parlor-floor suite, or at least so it appeared to miss husted of houston street. as a matter of fact, herr von barwig minded his own business and evidently expected every one else to do likewise, for he kept his door and his ears closed to all polite advances during the first few days after his arrival at houston mansion. despite miss husted's oft-repeated inquiries after the professor's health (the title had been conferred on him by virtue of his possessing a violin and on the arrival of a piano for his room), despite her endeavours to direct conversation into a channel which might lead to a discussion of his personal affairs, herr von barwig remained tacit; hence a mystery attached itself to the personality of the professor. it is a curious fact that the one gentleman of genuine title that found his way into the houston street establishment was ruthlessly shorn of his right to distinction and dubbed professor, which sobriquet clung to him for many, many years. however, this did not annoy herr von barwig, for he had not yet realised that in america every concertina and rag-time piano-player, as well as barber, corn-doctor, and teacher of the manly art of boxing, is entitled to the distinction of being called professor. "the professor has beautiful manners--oh, such beautiful manners," confided miss husted to her new friend, mrs. mangenborn, about two weeks after his arrival. "every time i speak he bows, and there's oh, such dignity, such grace in the bending of his head. how polite he is, too; he always says, 'no, madam, thank you;' or 'yes, if madam will be so kind,' and then he bows again and waits for me to go." "is that all he says?" inquired mrs. mangenborn. "i guess he knows how to keep his mouth shut, then! if you want a man to talk never ask him questions; men are a suspicious lot." "ah, but _he_ is different," said miss husted. "he has such a sad, far-away, wistful look in his noble, dark eyes." "that may be, but far-away looks don't pay any rent for you! you can't attach any importance to things like that. my first husband had a far-away look, and i haven't seen him for ten years. that steinway grand the professor's got, did he hire it or buy it? a man's got to have money to support one of those instruments," went on mrs. mangenborn. "i don't know," replied miss husted, who could not help thinking that her friend had a somewhat mercenary mind. "no one's been to see him, so he hasn't got it for his friends; his violin has a beautiful sound. mr. pinac tells me that it must be a rare old instrument." the door-bell was heard ringing, but no one seemed to pay any attention to it until they heard the whistle that followed; then everybody bustled about. the postman always created a little excitement in houston street, and his arrival was the one occasion on which even thurza hurried to the door. it was also the one occasion on which she need not have done so, for she invariably found miss rusted or one of the guests ahead of her. "registered letter for herr von barwig." "i'll take it to him," said miss husted sweetly. "he's got to come and sign it himself," said the letter-carrier, shaking his head. "where's it from?" asked mrs. mangenborn, her head appearing over the bannisters. miss husted looked at the letter-carrier inquiringly, but that official appeared not to have heard the question. at all events, he made no reply, and miss husted knocked on the professor's door. "come in." miss husted opened the door. "ah, madam, what can i do for you?" said von barwig, rising from the table at which he was writing. miss husted smiled sweetly. she noticed that he was writing music, so he must be a composer as well as a professor. "will you please come and sign for a registered letter?" she said. "ah, yes! i come at once." he arose, held the door open for miss husted to pass out, bowing to her as she did so, and then coming into the hallway, fulfilled the postal requirements, totally unconscious that several pairs of eyes were watching the operation. the letter-carrier handed him two letters; one bearing the postmark leipsic, the other that of new york. von barwig returned to his room and read the following from a firm of stock brokers: "_herr anton von barwig_. "dear sir: pursuant to your instructions, we have sold the balance of the securities you left with us, but they have so depreciated in value during your seven years' absence from leipsic, that we hesitated to sell them at their present market price. however, your instructions in regard to these securities were definite and we have obeyed them. hoping this will meet with your satisfaction, we remain, "yours obediently, "bernstein & deutsch." a draft on drexel, morgan's bank, for $ , dropped from von barwig's hand; he picked it up mechanically and looked at it. "the last, the very last, barely one-tenth the price i paid for them," he thought; and sighing, put the draft into a pocketbook and deposited it in an inner pocket. the other letter was from a detective agency in eighth street, and read as follows: "dear sir: call on us at your earliest convenience. we have news. "hatch & buckley." that was all, but it was enough to cause von barwig to change hastily from his slippers and dressing-gown to his shoes and hat; and to be out in the street in less than one minute after reading the letter. "news, news, news! good god, is it possible? no, no! i mustn't believe it; i dare not. hélène, hélène, my little girl! no, no, i won't; i won't!" and he read the letter again. "after all," he mused, "it may be news of a thousand little girls and yet not of mine. i beg your pardon, madam!" in turning from houston street into the bowery, still reading the letter, he had bumped suddenly into a middle-aged lady, who retaliated by deliberately pushing him back, at the same time asking him a somewhat unnecessary question as to where he was going. then she had gone on her way without waiting to hear his apology. hatch & buckley's private detective agency, situated just off broadway and eighth street, had a large office divided into several small offices. for some occult reason only one person could get in or out at a time, and this made confidential conversation a necessity rather than a matter of choice. the senior member of the firm was in when von barwig called. be it understood at the beginning that this large, stout personage, who invariably spoke in a whisper, and referred so often to his partner, had no partner but a number of detectives on his staff, to whom he was wont to speak or whisper of as partner when discussing what they had ferreted out or left undiscovered. this man, fat, florid, and fifty, had been a central office detective for many years. after a time, being exceedingly useful in a political sense, he had been admitted to the inner circle at tammany hall and was at present one of the leading geniuses in that hallowed body of faithful public servitors. "come in, come in," said this gentleman urbanely as von barwig stood waiting as patiently as he could for the news he was so anxious to hear. "well, i think we've got something," he added. von barwig said nothing; he waited to hear more. "first of all, business before pleasure," said mr. hatch, and suited the action to the word by handing von barwig a bill for $ . , for "services rendered." "yes, yes; but tell me the news!" faltered von barwig, without looking at the bill. "have you found her? tell me!" the pleading look in von barwig's face would have melted the heart of any ordinary scoundrel; but mr. hatch was no ordinary scoundrel. "it's customary, mr. barwig," he said drily, "to settle one account before opening another." von barwig looked at the bill that had been handed to him, saw the amount, shook his head pathetically, and smiled. "there must be some mistake," he said. "my partner went to california on this clue and followed it clean to british columbia; railroad fares alone amount to two fifty; there's hotel bills, carfare; there's salaries, office expenses, stamps; and then--there's me." if mr. hatch had put himself first there would have been little need to refer to the other items. "there's the vouchers," he went on, pushing a lot of papers toward von barwig. "everything o.k.'d; everything on the level, open and above board." he leaned back in his chair as if determined not to say another word until the matter was settled. "then you refuse to tell me any more until this is paid?" "not at all, not at all! i'd just as leave tell you right now; but it wouldn't be business, it wouldn't be business." he repeated this as if to impress his listener with the importance of the business aspect of the situation being well preserved. "you are right; it is not business! it is life and death; it's my heart, my soul, my very existence! my little girl, my little hélène is not business." "i suppose not," assented the fat man, "not to you; but our end of it rests on a commercial basis. we've laid out the money and we're entitled to be paid for it." "but i have paid you already so much! i cannot afford more. for years i have hunted high and low for my wife and child through city after city for thousands upon thousands of miles. at last i came to you, and there have been months and months of weary waiting, hunting false clues; disappointments upon disappointments." "i know, i know," nodded the senior partner. "that's part of the game." "i have spent with you nearly all the money i have, and nothing has come of it. every now and then you raise my hopes by saying you have found her. then, when the news comes, you ask for more money and when i have given it, it is again a false clue." "that ain't our fault!" observed the stout gentleman. "my partner follows a clue, and you can't blame him if it don't turn out exactly the right one. this fellow ahlmann is an eel; that's what he is, an eel! but i think we've got him now, i'm almost sure!" "you think?" eagerly inquired von barwig. "well, of course there's nothing absolutely sure, but this is the last report he's sent in. seems to me to pretty well cover the case, but it's been a hard job. this fellow ahlmann has completely covered his tracks." "the child? she--she lives?" "oh, yes; yes!" "and the mother?" "i think he's located them all. i can't tell you for sure till i read the report again." von barwig, his hands trembling with excitement, wrote a cheque for the amount required, and with breathless impatience awaited the information as to the whereabouts of his lost wife and child. "they're in chicago," said hatch, taking up the cheque and scanning it. "both of them?" asked von barwig in a hoarse whisper. "both of them," repeated hatch, conveniently remembering the detail without reading the report. "george, bring me mr. bailey's telegram in the barwig case," and when george, a smart young office boy, brought the required documents, he was quietly instructed by his employer to cash von barwig's cheque immediately. "when will you go?" asked mr. hatch. "as soon as possible." "to-night?" "yes." "here's the address," and mr. hatch handed him a card. "you'll meet my partner there, state avenue; he'll take you to the parties. shall i get your railroad tickets?" "no. i--i get them." "it's twenty-six hours to chicago; you'll need a pullman ticket." "thank you; i get them." "well, just as you say. good luck to you, mr. barwig." "thank you," said von barwig simply. he did not tell mr. hatch that he had nearly come to the end of his resources and that he would ride in the day car. not that he felt ashamed of not being able to afford luxuries, but he instinctively resented making a confidant of a man like the senior partner of the firm of hatch & buckley. as he walked rapidly toward houston street he found himself thinking for the first time since his arrival in america of the question of his future, but this question did not occupy his mind long. like all his ideas on any subject other than that of his lost wife and child, it was forced into the background. as he neared his rooms in houston street his hopes began to rise; and the prospect of going to chicago, the possibility of seeing his wife and child, began to work in his mind. his heart began to beat tumultuously. this time his dream would come true, and in his mind's eye he clasped his little girl tightly to himself and rained kisses on her little upturned face. he even found it in his heart to forgive the mother; after all, she was the mother of his little one, that he could never forget. as for ahlmann, he could not picture him; his mind refused to conjure up a thought of the man. it seemed as if he were dead, and that von barwig was on his way to rescue the wife and child from some danger that threatened them. this work of rescue was the fulfilment of an ideal. nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of it! the senior partner of hatch & buckley had been quick to note this condition of mind and to reap the profits that came therefrom. monomania means money, was a business axiom in that gentleman's office, but he had pumped the stream dry and von barwig was now at the end of his resources. by some strange process of thought, von barwig recognised this fact, but it seemed to him to mean that because his money had come to an end his search had also come to an end. the result of his trip to chicago could not but be favourable, because he dared not think of its failure. so great is the influence of hope upon imagination that by the time von barwig reached his rooms he was already contemplating the possibility of keeping his wife and child there, at least until he could obtain better quarters for them. so, when he opened the door of his room, and found jenny there polishing the brass andirons, he took more notice than usual of the little girl, and to her intense joy promised to bring her a box of candy from out west, where he told her he was going as he busied himself packing his handbag. in a few hours anton von barwig, his heart beating high in expectation, was seated in one of the day coaches of a fast pennsylvania railroad train on his way to chicago. [illustration: the "music master" can no longer pay rent for the piano.] chapter six von barwig had left new york with a light heart. hope had ripened into expectation, and for the first time since his arrival in america, seven years since, he had felt something like a positive assurance that this time his mission was going to result favourably. hatch had assured him that his partner had positively found the missing wife and child; and von barwig had gradually allowed himself to think it possible, then probable, and finally he became almost certain of the successful result of his journey to chicago. as jenny watched him pack his valise on the afternoon he left for chicago, she had noticed that now and then his face beamed with happiness, the happiness of expected joy. and when he jokingly asked her how she would like to be his little girl, it made her, so happy that she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder. she felt that he was just the kind of father she would like to have, but the conversation didn't get very far, for von barwig had a train to catch and was too busy to hear the little girl's response to his question. jenny thought he was not quite in earnest, certainly not so deeply in earnest as she was. her aunt did not quite understand her, and she needed some one to whom she could open her heart. she felt that mr. von barwig would listen to her little confidences and sympathise with her; perhaps even tell her his troubles. young as the girl was, she felt that the man had suffered. she couldn't tell why, but her little heart had gone out to him in sympathy almost from the moment she saw him. how it was she could not have explained, but she loved him. jenny thought these things over long after mr. von barwig had departed on his journey. it made her glad to think how happy he was when he left the house with his valise and umbrella, hurrying to catch the little bobtail car that wended its way across town to the pennsylvania ferry. so it came about that when jenny, looking out of the window some few days later, saw him coming up the street slowly, disconsolately, almost dragging himself along, the little girl experienced a great shock. the man seemed to have changed altogether. it was the same dear mr. von barwig, yes, but the eyes of love cannot be deceived; he looked older, and oh, so careworn and tired! she rushed to the door at once, to save him the trouble of finding his night key, and greeted him with affectionate inquiry. to her intense disappointment, he nodded absentmindedly to signify his appreciation of her act. the faint, ghost of a smile came over his face, but he did not look at her. silently he opened the door to his room and passed into it without speaking, closing the door firmly behind him. jenny's heart sank; she felt rather than knew that her friend was in trouble, for he did not pat her on the head or pinch her cheek as he had always done before when she opened the door for him. her inability to be of any service to him only added to the child's sorrow; tears came into her eyes as she stood looking at the closed door, for she felt completely shut out of his life. at supper that night, when her aunt asked her "what ailed her," and invited mrs. mangenborn to look at "jenny's long face," the child tried to laugh, failed completely, and burst into a flood of tears. jenny could not have explained to herself the whys and wherefores of her tearful outburst, but the child could not forget poor von barwig's drawn, haggard face and its weary, hopeless expression. "she's a queer child," commented mrs. mangenborn, when jenny had gone to bed that night. "her father had blue blood," replied miss husted impressively, "and you always find hysterical natures in high-born families." "i shouldn't wonder," agreed her friend; "something is wrong with the child, that's plain." "what do you suppose it is," said miss husted, rather anxiously. "perhaps she's working up for an illness! oh, dear," she went on, almost in tears, for shallow as she was herself, she loved the child deeply, "shall i send for a doctor? i think i'd better; i always feel safer with a doctor in the house." "wait till the morning," suggested mrs. mangenborn; "if anything's going to develop, you'll know what it is by then." "do you think anything will develop?" inquired miss husted, clutching mrs. mangenborn by the arm. "i don't know for certain," replied her friend, "but it can't be much anyway, or i'd have seen it there," pointing to a pack of cards on the mantelpiece. "wait a moment," she said suddenly, and then she knit her brows as if thinking very hard; "didn't the six of spades come out true? yes, it did!" and she shook her head thoughtfully. "i shan't feel comfortable till i go and see her," said miss husted, now thoroughly alarmed; and taking a lamp from a side table, the good lady went upstairs to look at her niece. "that six of spades surely came out for something," muttered mrs. mangenborn to herself. "six is tragedy! well, we must take what comes," she continued philosophically as she helped herself liberally to some chocolate caramels that miss husted had thoughtfully, or thoughtlessly, left on the table. in the meantime, another tragedy of a very different sort was being enacted in the room on the parlor floor--the tragedy of the death of hope. for when anton von barwig closed the door of his room on the evening of his return from chicago, he closed it finally and forever upon hope, and gave himself up completely to dull, grim, sodden despair. not only this, but he cursed himself for ever having hoped. he never suspected for a moment that the eminent firm of hatch & buckley had wilfully deceived him, for mr. hatch's partner almost cried with vexation and disappointment when he found that the woman and child he pointed out were not the "parties" they were looking for. indeed, mr. buckley's grief was so poignant that von barwig almost felt sorry for the man, who declared that his professional honour as a detective was ruined from that moment. it was, in this case, for von barwig made up his mind at once never to employ him again. the summer twilight was fast deepening into night as von barwig sat staring out of his window, looking at the passers-by and seeing them not. he rebelled against fate, conditions, life; and for the first time in his career he railed at his creator. he had asked for light, and no light came in answer to his prayer; only more darkness, more disappointment, more loneliness. he sat with bowed head, wondering what was the meaning of it all. who could solve the problem; who could straighten out his tangled life; who could explain it? was the devil really and truly greater than god--the god who is love? von barwig had read nietzsche, schopenhauer, haeckel, all the school of pessimistic philosophers that exercised such a tremendous influence upon the thought of his day; but he had always instinctively rebelled against the nihilism of their creed, the creed of materialism. yet, at this moment he was perilously near to believing that the force for evil was greater than the force for good. there was no love in his life; and for him love was life itself. as he sat there with eyes fixed and staring, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he thought over the events that had come to him since his sojourn in america. for the past seven years he had devoted every thought, every energy, and nearly every penny he had to the search for his loved ones. and he had failed, failed, failed. when the first shock of his loss came upon him in leipsic he had asked himself the meaning of it, and the answer had come to him that art had been his mistress, and that she had stepped in between him and the ones he loved. he had been selfish, he had loved his art as much, more perhaps, than his own flesh and blood--and this was his punishment. yet he had given up his mistress, art; he no longer lived for her; he would live for his wife and child, if he could only find them, if, if, if! he felt that there was indeed nothing to live for! then why live, he asked himself? better be dead; far better be dead! who would care if he were no more? at this moment von barwig caught himself up, and realising his own danger refused to allow himself to drift along that line of thought. life meant nothing to him now, but live he must, live he would; that he was determined on. complex as the problem was, he would go on with it. he was not a coward, and for this he thanked his creator. in thanking him he gained a little courage, and he asked for a sign, something to indicate that he was not the sport of fate, the creature of circumstance; something, anything, to indicate that god had not completely forgotten him. with bowed head von barwig prayed that he might be saved from himself; that thoughts of self-destruction might never again come into his mind; for he felt that he might not always have the power to reject them. he asked that the desire to live might again come upon him; for it dawned upon him that perhaps his duty lay in the direction of serving others. desire is prayer, and von barwig's prayer was answered, for when he looked into the street he saw life once more. opening his window he heard the voices of the children at play. he saw their joy, and rejoicing with them, he thanked god that he could rejoice. as he arose from his chair he sighed, a deep, deep sigh, and the darkest moment in his life had passed. "was that a knock?" anton asked himself as he turned toward his door. "surely not a visitor?" lighting his lamp, he looked at the cuckoo clock upon the wall. it said a quarter past nine o'clock; he had not heard the cuckoo strike seven, eight, or nine! "phew!" he whistled, "i had no idea it was so late." again the timid little knock. "surely i can't be mistaken again," thought von barwig, and walking to the door he threw it wide open. to his utter astonishment, a little girl in a white night-gown stood there, silently sobbing as if her heart would break. "why, jenny, jenny!" and von barwig, taking the trembling child in his arms, placed her gently in his armchair. "jenny, my dear child." "i--i--couldn't go to sleep until i'd said good-night; i tried to but i couldn't," sobbed jenny as soon as she could speak coherently. "why, what has happened?" asked von barwig, as he covered her with a travelling rug. "you asked me to be your little girl, and then, when i said 'yes,' you didn't answer; and i--thought--you--were--angry--with--me--because--because! when--you--came--in, i felt so sorry for you, and you looked so unhappy that i had to come down and ask you to forgive me. i--i just couldn't help--it. you're not angry, are you?" "my dear, dear little girl. i, angry?" von barwig shook his head. "how could i be angry with you? why should i? why, it's--it's impossible!" and von barwig laughed at the very idea. jenny sighed deeply and remained silent; she seemed contented simply to be with him. after a few moments' silence von barwig looked at her. "is this my answer; is this--my--answer?" he thought, and then he said slowly, "i am glad, more glad than i can ever tell you, that you have come to me at this moment." he looked at the girl thoughtfully; she was not his little hélène, but he would try to love her as if she were. von barwig took her hand in his and tenderly stroked her cheek. "you shall be my little girl, my little one, eh, eh? you shall!" "yes," nodded jenny, smiling happily, "i'll be your little girl, if you'll have me." and from that moment von barwig never again felt quite alone in the world. at this instant a loud scream was heard, followed by another, and still another. von barwig rushed into the hallway, followed by jenny. "she's gone, gone! jumped out of the window!" screamed miss husted, from the top floor. "look! the window's open, and she's gone; jumped out--gone." "who, who?" shouted thurza, rushing upstairs. "jenny, jenny!" wailed miss husted--so excited that she was almost beside herself. jenny and von barwig looked at one another in astonishment and the little girl hurried after thurza, arriving upstairs just in time to prevent her aunt from going into hysterics. "here i am, auntie," she said, and miss husted was so delighted to see her niece again, that she forgot to scold her. as she came downstairs after satisfying herself that jenny was not only safe and sound, but in her usual health--she found herr von barwig at the foot of the stairs waiting for her. "she is all right, eh, madam?" "oh, yes," responded that lady, pleased that herr von barwig should be interested in the welfare of any member of her family. "she is a good child; i like her very much, very much." "yes, jenny is a very good girl; her father was a member of one of the oldest new york families, quite the aristocrat let me tell you!" "ah, yes. her father is dead?" repeated von barwig, "and her mother also?" he asked. "i am her only living relative," sighed miss husted. "ah, i am glad of that," said von barwig simply, "yes--i--jenny and i have come to an understanding. i am her--what you call--not father-in-law--her--her----" von barwig fumbled a little with the english language until he made miss husted understand that he had taken her niece under his wing, so to speak; and hoped that she would have no objection. on the contrary, miss husted was highly pleased, for one of her lodgers had told her that von barwig had been a great man in germany. "i shall go out to dinner. is there a restaurant near here that you can recommend?" asked von barwig. "dinner? why it's nearly ten o'clock!" replied miss hasted, "let me get you a cup of tea." "no, thank you, madam. i must go into the street, into the _café_, where there is life, and people; i must get away from myself. here i think too much my own thoughts. where did you say?" "galazatti's across the street is a nice little _café_," she replied, "and he serves a nice _table d'hôte_." "ah, i shall go there, then. thank you, madame. good-night!" and von barwig bowing to miss husted, closed the front door quietly and went into the street. chapter seven when anton arose the next morning after a refreshing night's rest, he became conscious that he was looking at the world through different coloured spectacles; and that there was no longer a dull feeling of despair gnawing at his heart. for the first time in many years his plans for the day did not include a search in this or that direction for his lost ones. it was not that he had forgotten, but he thought of them now as dead and gone; and this certainty, this lack of suspense, lightened his heart to such an extent that his manner was almost buoyant. realising the fact that he had spent nearly all of the large sum of money he brought with him from germany, he thought of his future, his welfare. to do for others, he must first do for himself; he must think of his music again; in short, he must earn a living. so, after a light breakfast at galazatti's, he took an inventory of his available assets. they included some old music; some compositions which he would now try to sell; a genuine amati violin worth at least three thousand dollars; a grand piano; one or two paintings; some silverware, presents, and jewelry; and about eight hundred dollars in cash. von barwig was completely bewildered; he had purposely avoided meeting musicians in new york and scarcely any one knew him; those who had known him by reputation had now completely forgotten his existence. he had not felt sufficient interest in affairs going on around him to realise the state of musical art in america, so he scarcely knew how to begin. it seemed like the commencement of a new life. the period was that between jenny lind and adelina patti, and he soon realised that musical art was at its lowest ebb. there were one or two ambitious orchestra conductors in america; one in chicago trying to introduce the wagnerian polyphonic school, and perhaps one or two in new york; but the public clamoured after divas, prima donnas and tenors with temperaments and vocal pyrotechnic skill. for orchestral music there was little demand. wagner was as yet unknown to the public--certainly he was unheard except on the rarest occasions and the majority of musicians did not like him because he was difficult to play. so it happened that von barwig's compositions, which were of the modern german school and rather heavy, did not find a ready market, in fact they did not find a market at all. day after day he would visit the music stores with his music roll tucked under his arm. after a few months the music publishers used to smile when they saw him coming into their places of business, and shake their heads before he had a chance even to show them his manuscripts. as time went on he came to be a byword among them. "here comes poor old von barwig," they would say, and then they would smile at his earnest face with its sad, longing expression and sympathise with him for his beautiful smile of resignation as he folded up his package of compositions and went sadly away. they admired his technical skill, but thought him very foolish to waste his time on such "stuff" as they called it. they advised him to write for the hour, and not for posterity. "you must give the public what they want," said schumein. "how can you tell what they want if you don't try?" pleaded von barwig. "if you give them only what you acknowledge is bad, how will they ever know what is better?" "it's no use," was schumein's reply, "music like yours has no market value. we're not in business for our health; once strike a popular tune and you'll be famous!" von barwig had never mentioned his leipsic reputation, and if he had, in all probability, it would have been useless. seven years is a long time for even a genius to remain in obscurity. "bring in a good waltz," said one. "what we want is a catchy melody; something that everybody whistles," said another. finally they were too busy to see von barwig at all; and after waiting hours and hours in vain efforts to obtain an interview, he would walk home slowly, thinking over the events of the day, or trying to create a tune that might make an appeal to the music-loving, or rather music-buying public. "alas!" he would say to himself, after giving up the effort. "i do not understand these people. the american people do not like my work." it did not occur to him that the americans were not a music-loving nation, at least not at that period. and so anton von barwig gradually came out of the world of dreams into the world of life. he had been reborn, of necessity, for he was nearly down to his last penny. he used to talk over the condition of the music market with tagliafico, our old friend, fico, of the hall bedroom on the top floor of miss husted's establishment, and pinac, fico's friend, who occupied the room adjoining. the meeting of these three men, which subsequently resulted in a friendship lasting many years, came about as follows: while eating dinner at galazatti's one night, von barwig found himself at the same table as fico. fico bowed to him and he graciously acknowledged his salute, not knowing who the man was, but vaguely remembering his features. fico then introduced pinac, his fellow-lodger. fico had recognised von barwig as the occupant of the first floor and took this opportunity of making the acquaintance of the musician whose music he had so often heard on the piano--for von barwig frequently played his own compositions and the strains were wafted through the open window. pinac was most enthusiastic, for he knew von barwig slightly by reputation. he had been in dresden and he had heard of anton von barwig, the musical conductor. it seemed scarcely possible that the gentleman before him was that great man. von barwig was silent, smiling a little at pinac's enthusiasm, but as he did not deny his identity pinac felt sure that he was right. the three men soon became quite friendly and often met in the little _café_ to talk things over. galazatti's was frequented chiefly by foreigners and the din of loud voices added to the rattle and clatter of knives and forks made conversation difficult. but its patrons soon became used to this and the _table d'hôte_ was cheap and good at the price, twenty-five cents. it was a combination of east side tivoli and french brasserie and hungarian goulash rendezvous--a tiny cosmopolis in itself--and it did a rushing business. so the months dragged along in unending monotony. poor von barwig tried hard to do work that would please the gentlemen who controlled the music trades, but failed. one day, while looking over his manuscripts to discover if possible the cause of his failure, he was struck by the similarity of one of his compositions to another. they all seemed to contain the same melody, in one form or another, and he saw plainly at last that he was subconsciously haunted by the leading motif of the first movement of his last symphony, the symphony that was played on that dreadful night for the first and last time. the inference was plain enough. this melody haunted him, he could not forget it; it showed itself in all his work and he realised that his career as a composer had come to an end. after that von barwig tore up all his compositions and turned his attention to teaching, an occupation he had always hated ever since he had given up the professorship of counterpoint and harmony in the leipsic conservatory. teaching--the very thought had made him shudder. he looked about him and found that new york was fast moving uptown, and that houston street was not a good locality for a musical conservatory. people who could afford to study music did not live in that neighbourhood; but he could not summon up sufficient energy or courage to leave the place. he had come to like the old house; it had become a home to him now. he liked miss husted, too, though she made him the repository for all her troubles, and then there were fico, and pinac and jenny--he really loved jenny. his little world was all in houston street and he made up his mind not to leave it, even if the location made the getting of pupils harder. besides he felt that he was not a fashionable teacher; he could teach only those who learned music because they loved it and not because they wanted to be accomplished. von barwig did not speak to his friends of all this; his pride would not allow him to discuss his personal affairs with them. besides neither pinac nor fico could throw much light on the pupil question, for though they were musicians, yes, for they played, they did not teach. pinac did not even know until von barwig showed him how to hold his violin properly he used to grab it with his whole hand instead of by his finger and thumb; and as for fico, he could not read music until von barwig taught him, but played the mandolin, guitar and piano by ear. these men were not only grateful to von barwig for his kindness, but they loved him, and recognising in him the real artist had unbounded respect for him. as for von barwig, he found them simple fellows, sentimental, unpretentious and good-hearted, and he liked them and felt at ease with them because they did not seek to probe into that part of his life which he preferred should remain unknown to them. they merely accepted him as they found him and for this von barwig was grateful. as time went on, von barwig found himself badly in need of ready money. one day when miss husted came for her rent, he hesitated before he paid her; he had forgotten it was rent day and was unprepared. the poor lady was kindness itself, but her kindness embarrassed von barwig extremely, for he had never been in a position in his life where he actually needed cash for his daily wants. "leave it a week, a month, a year, my dear professor!" said miss husted, and she implored him not to pay her if it afforded him the slightest inconvenience. "i go to the bank--if you come in an hour i will have it for you," said poor von barwig, quite overcome. he did not know what it was to be "behind," and the experience was painful to him. this was the beginning of the end, and the valuable amati violin soon went for eight hundred dollars, one-fourth its value, to a scoundrelly violin maker and dealer who told von barwig he had tried everywhere but could get no more for it, since there was a doubt as to its genuineness. von barwig took the money, which was further decreased by a twenty per cent. commission. the man told him he was very lucky to get it; and perhaps he was. this amount tided von barwig over for several months, during which time he secured several pupils and seemed for a time to be in a fair way to make a living. be it understood that he was no longer the anton von barwig who lived in leipsic ten years before. gone was the fire of his genius; dead was his ambition. his soul was not in his work--the man was alive, but the artist was dead. chapter eight and so the years passed away; one, two, three, von barwig did not keep count now. one year was just like another, equally profitless, equally monotonous; the struggle for existence just as keen, the interest in this or that pupil just as superficial, the interest in obtaining pupils perhaps the greatest of all. but the drudgery of teaching the young mind to distinguish between crotchet and quaver, and mark time, mark time, wore von barwig out. "good god," he would think, "will it ever come that time shall cease to be, and i shall cease to mark it?" the old man often smiled as he contrasted the leipsic days with the present. then he had but to raise his arm and from a hundred instruments and five hundred voices would vibrate sounds of beauty, of colour, of joy, in harmony and rhythm. now when he beat time some dirty-fingered little pupil would tinkle out sounds that nearly drove him mad with their monotony. von barwig had been compelled to sell his good piano and rent one on the installment plan; a cheap tin-pan affair, with a sounding board that sent forth the most metallic sort of music. this went on until von barwig hated the very sound of a musical instrument. he must have suffered terribly, but he made no mention of it. at the close of his day's work he would shut his piano wearily, put away his violin and go to galazatti's, where he would meet his friends, fico and pinac. he did not complain, but they did. fico was playing the mandolin on a coney island boat; pinac was doing nothing, but sat in galazatti's all day. when they complained to von barwig of their ill luck, their inability to obtain good engagements because they could not get into the musical union, von barwig did not spare them. he told them plainly that they had talent but that they were lazy; they would neither study nor practise, and yet they expected to enjoy the fruits of labour without its drudgery. both fico and pinac felt that he was right, and from that day forward they did practise and study, with the result that a year or so later they were admitted into the union; but times were hard and good regular engagements were rare. one day while von barwig was labouring hard to beat time and other musical values into the head of a square-browed, freckle-faced youth of nineteen, whom nature had ordained for the carpenter's bench and not for the piano, a knock came at the door, and on invitation to enter, in came a little fellow not more than nine years of age, black-haired, dark-eyed, of olive complexion, his features plainly bearing the stamp of his hebraic origin. as he stood at the door trying to speak, von barwig could not help commenting on his finely chiselled features and the intelligence and fire in his eyes. "what can i do for you, little man?" inquired von barwig. his soft voice and kindly look of interest gave the boy courage; for he was obviously afraid to speak. "come to me," said von barwig tenderly, and after he had closed the door, he placed his arm around the boy's neck. the old man's trained eye discerned in a moment the sensitive play of the lad's mouth, the quivering of the nostril that denotes what we call temperament. "i want to study--i want to learn--and they won't let me," blurted out the boy, bursting into tears. "who won't let you?" gently inquired von barwig. "my people," sobbed the child. "hully gee, you're in luck!" interrupted the shock-headed youth. "i wish my people wouldn't let me." "you go home, underman! you have no soul; this child has." "you bet i will!" and with a dart at his hat, the big boy seized it and ran out of the door in a moment. "so you want to study music and they won't let you?" "yes, sir. i--they'll let me play at night, but in the daytime, i--i must work." in a short half hour von barwig made the discovery that the child was a musical genius. he had taken no lessons and yet his manipulation of the keys was marvellous, but all by ear. chords, arpeggios, diminished sevenths, modulation, expression, all were mixed up in formless melody. the boy knew nothing, but felt everything. in von barwig's experience it had generally been the other way. "who sent you to me?" asked von barwig after he had heard the child play. "the sign says that you teach music, and i--i--then i saw your name outside." the little fellow seemed to think that he had committed some crime in coming in unasked. von barwig put him at his ease, then called in pinac and fico, and they listened to the child's playing in open-mouthed astonishment. bit by bit von barwig elicited his history from him. his name, it appeared, was josef branski, and he was the oldest of seven children. his father and mother had come from warsaw, in poland, and worked in a sweat shop below grand street near the river. josef himself worked there, too, and helped to support his family, who all lived in three small rooms. his parents would miss him and be angry, he said, and this partly accounted for the little fellow's anxiety. von barwig shook his head; he already had many pupils who couldn't pay, as well as several who didn't pay, but here was one who had to steal the time in which to learn his beloved art. it would be a crime not to teach the boy, he thought, so he determined to take him as his pupil. some six months later an excited pole bounded into von barwig's room and in a mixture of polish, german and hebrew threatened von barwig with the law if he continued to take his son away from him. he was, as nearly as von barwig could make out, little josef branski's father. von barwig vainly endeavoured to explain to the man that the boy could make his parents rich if they allowed him to study and develop himself as an artist, but they must give him time to practise, instead of compelling him to sew at a machine twelve or fourteen hours a day. the older branski either could not or would not understand. he declared that he did not want his son to be a worthless musician (for he evidently associated von barwig with the gipsy, an inferior type of musician) and could not be made to understand that the boy had talent, even genius. he needed the boy's help and wanted no further interference from von barwig. von barwig saw that it was useless and gave up trying to dissuade him from his purpose in condemning the boy to the merciless grind of a sweat shop machine. so it was that little josef came at night only for his lessons. this went on for some time, but von barwig shook his head sadly as he saw that the boy was tired out with his day's work and could not take in the instruction. finally he told josef that he had better not come again, as the strain of night study following the grind of machine work during the day was plainly telling on his health. but the boy pleaded hard: "take away my music and you take away my life," he said. "some day father and mother will see and then they'll let me study with you." von barwig looked at the boy sadly. "they love me and they want to see me famous, but they don't understand. they work so hard, they have so little to eat, and there are so many of them. mother can't work, you know, she has to nurse the baby. i must do all i can; i'm the eldest, it's my duty!" the boy's eyes filled with tears as he thought of the hardships his parents went through. "father worked till twelve o'clock last night; he's working now," and the little chap looked at the cuckoo clock, which was just striking ten. "how long will it be before i can play to the gentlemen you're going to take me to?" he asked wistfully. "i think you'd better have a little rest before you play to them, josef. you've been working very hard; up at five, to bed at midnight!" von barwig noticed that josef's face was peaked and white, but his great black eyes looked appealingly at his master. "but i must play to them; they'll give me money and i can give the money to father. then he'll believe me, and he'll believe you," said the boy in a tearful voice. his urgent, appealing manner had its effect on von barwig. "i'll take you to-morrow morning," he said. "will your father let you go?" "i'll beg him, i'll beg him, oh, so hard, on my bended knees. he won't refuse, he can't refuse! if he does, i--i'll just make an excuse and leave the machine as if i were going for oil, or cotton or something. i'll come! don't disappoint me, will you?" and so it was arranged that the boy should call for von barwig on the morrow and that they should go to steinway hall, where josef should play before some musical gentlemen that von barwig had come to know. the morning arrived, but little josef did not appear. after waiting three hours, von barwig made up his mind that the father would not let the boy go, so he sadly gave up the idea for that day, and waited till evening for josef to come as usual for his lesson. when the child did not come, von barwig experienced again that sensation of fear, for the first time in several years; and with it came the train of sickening thought, the old dread of impending evil. von barwig soon threw this off, and waited for events with as much calmness and patience as he could muster up. a week passed, and miss husted could not understand why von barwig spoke in such a low tone when he replied to her cheery good-evening. mrs. mangenborn put it down to hard times. jenny knew something was wrong, for he said very little to her as she swept out his room. she knew something had happened, but experience had taught her that sympathy doesn't ask questions. as for pinac and fico, they were too full of their own affairs to notice anything unless it was brought directly to their attention, and as von barwig made it a rule never to burden other people with his troubles they were in blissful ignorance of his mental perturbation. so it went on till the tenth day, when von barwig made up his mind to go and call on his little pupil and find out what was the matter. after much hunting and questioning, von barwig found the family he was looking for on the fourth floor of a crowded tenement house in rivington street. he heard the whirr of sewing machines and as he opened the door he saw the father of his pupil, and several others, all sewing rapidly as if for dear life. the six machines made such a noise he could barely hear the sound of his own voice. as soon as branski saw von barwig, he jumped up from his machine and railed at him in terms of bitter reproach. it was well perhaps that von barwig could not understand and that the noise of the machines and the crying of babies prevented his hearing what was said. the father pointed into the next room and motioned him to go in there. pushing aside a little chintz curtain, for there was no door, von barwig saw the object of his search lying on a cot in the corner of a small inner room with no window, only an air shaft for light and air, moaning in the grasp of mortal illness. the mother sat by the bedside of the sick boy rocking herself slowly, and at the same time holding a babe to her heart. the little one was trying in vain to get sustenance enough to satisfy its pangs of hunger and crying because it couldn't. another child of two years of age was playing on the floor, banging two pieces of wood together and shouting gleefully when it succeeded in making a noise. the woman looked at her sick son helplessly and then at von barwig. "doctor?" she asked feebly. von barwig shook his head slowly. he saw that his little pupil was too weak to recognise him and gazed at him too moved to speak. his lips quivered, and kneeling down by the lad's bedside he wept scalding hot tears of agony, for he felt rather than knew that the boy was dying. it appeared from the mother's story that when josef had reached home that night he had been in too excited a state to sleep. all night he moaned and tossed--the next morning he was delirious. the prospect of deliverance from his life of drudgery had been too much for him and had resulted in brain fever. the doctor said he had a bad cold, then finally announced that tubercular complications had set in, and as nearly as von barwig could find out the boy was now rapidly wasting away with the dreaded white disease. von barwig looked around him helplessly; the light was bad, the air rank poison and the noise and commotion distracting. "what hope could there be for his recovery?" thought von barwig, and he then and there resolved on a plan of action. before he left the house he had given the father all the money he had and secured a room with plenty of light and air and a nurse for the boy. his efforts were crowned with success. in a few weeks little josef was gently nursed back to life, and at the first signs of returning health von barwig saw to it that he was sent south. "his only chance," the doctor had said. it was von barwig who gave him that chance, but in order to do so he parted with his last remaining bit of valuable jewelry. * * * * * * it was some time before von barwig recovered from the effects of witnessing the sufferings of his pupil. when jenny asked him about josef branski he smiled sadly and shook his head. "the doctor says it may be years before he can touch an instrument again. poor josef--his little frame completely went to pieces under the burning fire of his genius; if any one was ever born out of harmony with his surroundings, he was. he might have become a great artist," added von barwig thoughtfully and then he sighed. it was a great struggle for him to send the money to keep the little chap alive down south, but he made the sacrifice without a murmur. if only the boy recovered, it would be sufficient reward for all his work. but it was not to be, for a few weeks later they brought him the news that his little pupil had died peacefully, without pain. von barwig said nothing--his mouth tightened a little and he smiled, a sad, far-away smile. miss husted tried to cheer him up. she had learned from jenny the details of the affair and her heart went out to the old man in womanly sympathy. she had liked the boy, too, and when he came for his lesson had given him many a slice of cake, for she thought he always looked pinched and hungry, underfed, as she called it. "do come and have a bit of dinner with us, professor," she said. with her dinner was a universal panacea, but von barwig declined with many thanks. he had grown to like miss husted and realised that she was far, far above the average woman of her class. moreover, he felt that she liked him, and sympathy begets sympathy. "professor, you are always doing things for folks, but you never allow folks to do anything for you," said miss husted, slightly piqued by his refusal of her invitation. "ah, then i accept!" said von barwig, seeing that she was hurt, "just to show you that you are more powerful than my own resolutions. but i warn you i shall be sad company; i don't feel quite myself tonight. it is better, far better, that little josef should have--left us, for i do not think he would have ever been strong enough to play again, but--" and von barwig sighed, "it is sad enough. a little light prematurely snuffed out is always sad. ah, well! i won't make you miserable. life is full of sorrow for us all; don't let me selfishly add to yours." at dinner he was the life of the party. he pinched jenny's cheek; he joked with miss husted; he smiled at thurza, and he even ventured a few remarks to mrs. mangenborn, whom he cordially disliked. every one present thought that von barwig was as happy as could be. that night, after he had closed the door of his room he sighed deeply and looked out of his window into the street at the blinking lamplights. once more that mournful far-away expression came into his face and he asked himself: "why? why is it my fate to lose everything i love? have i not yet drunk the dregs of my cup of sorrow?" * * * * * * "good-night, professor," came miss husted's cheery voice from the hallway, interrupting his reverie. "good-night, mr. von barwig," said jenny, as she passed his room on her way to bed. he opened the door and kissed her tenderly. "good-night, good-night, my friends," said von barwig. the sound of their voices comforted him not a little and then he thought, "i mustn't be ungrateful; there are many, many kind hearts in this world." and he slept peacefully all that night. chapter nine the next morning, while von barwig was waiting for a pupil--he had very few in these days--jenny came into his room with a letter, at the sight of which his heart beat rapidly, for it was post-marked germany. the handwriting was in a boyish scrawl he did not recognise. "not many pupils to-day?" ventured jenny. "no, they don't come; i'm afraid this is not just exactly the neighbourhood. new york is going uptown. i gave only fifteen lessons last week." "that's not bad, is it?" asked jenny. "not so bad when they pay, but they don't," laughed von barwig, and seeing that his visitor was in no hurry to leave him, von barwig ventured to open his letter and read it. he read it again and then looked at jenny with such a perplexed expression on his face that she was forced to laugh in spite of herself. "young poons is coming," he said finally. "is he?" replied jenny doubtfully. "yes, he is coming. he is the son of an old friend; a very dear old friend. his name is august and he wants me to--to give him a start in life. he is a 'cello player. you know what is a 'cello? it's a large violin and stands up when you play it, so," and he took his own violin and placing it between his knees showed her how the 'cello was manipulated. "he sails on the steamship _city of berlin_. he is coming here to make his fortune," and von barwig laughed at the idea of making a fortune at music in america. "how old is he?" asked jenny. "hum--he must be seventeen by this time!" jenny became quite interested. "i knew him when he was quite a little chap; his father was a horn player in my orchestra at--at--" von barwig hesitated; "in germany. i must help him. yes, jenny, i must help him. poor old august, i must be a father to his son! he was a dear little chap," he said reminiscently. "tell your aunt we shall want one of her bedrooms on the top floor if it is at liberty." "the one next to mr. pinac is empty. aunt will be so pleased that a friend of yours is going to take it." and jenny rushed off to acquaint her aunt with the good news. von barwig told the news of the impending arrival of his friend's son to pinac and fico, and the three men went down to the docks to meet him. at the docks they learned that he had arrived with eleven hundred other steerage passengers and had landed at castle garden, so they went down to the battery to try and find him. they found him in an inner room off the immigrants' reception hall, sitting on an old trunk, and busily engaged in trying to prevent his 'cello, which was protected only by a green bag, from being smashed by the rushing, gesticulating crowd of baggage men, porters and immigrants. with his round, smiling face and blond hair he was the picture of his father, and von barwig, recognising him in a moment, embraced him cordially. "i am to be sent back," he cried in german. "nonsense!" said von barwig, placing his arm around the young man affectionately. after von barwig had introduced his friend, they noticed his crestfallen manner. "what's the matter?" asked pinac, who could not understand german, but who knew something was wrong, and wanted to show poons that he knew the ropes in the states. poons poured out a tale of woe which was intended to touch von barwig's heart and gain his sympathy, instead of which it made him laugh heartily. "some one is investing his money for him and hasn't come back yet," von barwig confided to his friends; and they laughed too. poons could not understand why the men laughed at his troubles. the simple german lad had been swindled out of all his money, two hundred marks, by the simplest and most transparent of the many methods of swindling, the confidence game, and the immigration authorities had refused to allow him to land, as he had no means of subsistence. von barwig had very little money with him, so he consulted with his friends. they were playing in a _café_ at night and had a few dollars in their pockets, which they cheerfully handed to von barwig. between them they managed to find the necessary money and poons was allowed to land. on the way uptown the boy was profuse in his gratitude for the money that von barwig had sent to his mother while she lived. it was she who had given her son von barwig's address and begged him to seek him out in america and greet him for her. poons was greatly astonished at von barwig's appearance and condition, for he had always heard of him as one of the great conductors of germany. he did not understand how herr von barwig could be so poor, but he accepted the facts as they were and ceased to ask himself any further questions. in due course they arrived at miss husted's and young poons, bag and baggage and 'cello, was shortly afterward ensconced in a hall bedroom on the top floor of that lady's establishment. von barwig hurried to his room, locked the door and looked around him. a little later when he let himself quietly into the street, he had under his arm, carefully wrapped up, his cuckoo clock and a couple of pictures. that night at galazatti's, when he handed to pinac and fico the money he had borrowed from them at castle garden and paid for the little dinner which he gave them to celebrate the arrival of poons in america, they did not suspect that he had spent the very last dollar he had in the world. * * * * * * young poons was not a success at first. he had a good technique and was a well-grounded musician, but he could not get an engagement suited to him, as he was not in the union, and the foolish boy would not play dance music. he said he couldn't, and unfortunately the responsibility for his financial condition rested on von barwig. it was he who was compelled to make arrangements with miss husted and it was a hard blow to him to have the additional incumbrance, especially when times were so hard and pupils so scarce. it may be imagined that miss husted did not take very kindly to the new arrival, who was unable to pay even his first week's room rent. of course she sympathised with his misfortune, but thought he should have taken care of his money and not have handed it to the first person who asked for it, so that now he was a pauper. she discussed this delicate point with mrs. mangenborn in the strict privacy of her room, but jenny's ears were very sharp and her sympathy went out to young poons. "poor young man," she thought, "what a pity that he had been robbed." that his mother and father were dead added to the romance, and she felt a sort of a fellow-orphan's interest in him. "poor boy! robbed of his fortune on his arrival in a strange country; penniless and homeless; can't speak a word of english; as helpless as a child." the maternal instinct in the child was aroused, and his large innocent blue eyes and blond hair made a very strong appeal to her. he needed a mother and she determined to be a mother to him. so, many a little delicacy was left surreptitiously in his room; now a box of chocolates, now a slice of cake, or even a few flowers. when young poons would thank miss husted for these attentions in the choicest german that lady would turn on him and tell him to mind his own business, and he would smile and bow deferentially to her, saying, "ja, frau hooston." as the weeks went on, the struggle for von barwig to pay expenses became greater and greater. poons saw that it was an effort and determined to sink his pride, so he begged pinac to help him get something for him to do; anything, anywhere. it was a great day for poons when fico announced to him that the proprietor of the _café_ where they played had given them permission to bring him and his 'cello on trial for a week at a salary of six dollars and his supper, at the end of the night concert. jenny was quite proud. "i told you that mr. poons would succeed," she said joyfully to her aunt. "wait," replied miss husted, "he's not out of the woods yet." but she was mistaken, for he held on to his engagement and at the end of the week was taken on permanently. this was most fortunate, for by this time von barwig had completely denuded his room of all superfluous articles of value; even the fine old prints that had adorned his bedroom went for a mere trifle. a silver baton that had been given him by the director of the gewandhaus was the last thing to go. it was quite a wrench to part with it, for it was the last link between von barwig and his musical past. in the meantime he had lowered his prices for music lessons in the hopes of increasing the number of his pupils, and at miss husted's suggestion even had a new sign made with large letters in gold-leaf. but pupils did not come, and von barwig felt that he was indeed doomed to failure. everything he touched turned to dross; his one pupil of promise had died; there was no future, no outlook, no hope, and yet he did not give up, nor did he speak of his troubles to his friends. how he kept miss husted paid up she never knew, and yet, punctually every week, he handed to her the sum of money due her. when he suggested taking a smaller room upstairs she offered to lower the price of the room he was occupying. this sacrifice the old man would not accept; so he remained where he was, always hoping, hoping, hoping. he did not complain directly to her, but she knew that he was taking in little or no money. she blamed him for not being more exacting with those who were indebted to him, and as a matter of fact had he been able to collect all that was owing to him he would have been in far better circumstances; but no one seemed to think he needed money--he had such a prosperous air. "what can i do?" said von barwig apologetically, when she told him to sue his delinquent pupils. "i tell them their course of lessons is finished and they make no reply, or if they do, it is an excuse or a promise. i cannot go to law with them, and if i could, just think what it would cost for the lawyer! besides, they are very poor--these neighbours of ours. music with them is a luxury, not a necessity. poor souls, it brings a little joy into their lives! they struggle so hard to get higher in the scale of existence; why should i impede their progress by demanding my pound of flesh? no, my dear miss husted, they do the best they can; but they are poor." "and so are you," replied miss husted, shaking her curls. von barwig shook his head dubiously. "i'm afraid--i--i don't put my heart into my work." he did not like to tell her he thought the neighborhood he lived in was partly to blame. "who could put soul into a thing like that?" and he pointed to a cheap violin he had bought to play to his pupils when he taught them. "or that?" and he dropped the lid of his piano to show his contempt for the tin pan, called by courtesy a concert grand. miss husted looked sad; the ever-present tear was close at hand and von barwig saw it coming. "but, never mind, my dear miss husted; all comes right in the end! it's all for some good or other. i can't see it myself, but i know it's all for my good. come! cheer up, cheer up!" and he looked at her with such a beatific smile that she thought for the moment that she was very unhappy and that he was trying to help her. "very well, i will," she said resignedly, allowing herself to be comforted. that was one of von barwig's individual traits. no one ever thought of cheering him up, for no one knew that he suffered, except perhaps jenny. she alone saw through his smile, and felt rather than knew that it hid a heart torn with suffering and emotion. a few days after this von barwig read in one of the papers that a man named van praag, whom he knew years before in berlin as a ticket-taker in one of the theatres, was going to give a series of concerts in one of the large concert halls in new york. he mustered up courage to go and see him. van praag received him cordially and invited him to dinner that evening at one of the big hotels. von barwig put on his old dress suit, and houston mansion quickly recognised the fact. miss husted especially was most enthusiastic. "oh, professor, how well you look!" she cried. "mrs. mangenborn, do come and see the professor with his evening clothes on, he looks a perfect picture!" von barwig was compelled to leave an hour before the time appointed for the dinner, in order to escape from the congratulations of his friends. that night, for the first time in his life, he begged for a position. he had failed at composing, at teaching, at playing, but surely he could still conduct an orchestra. the desire for success grew on him again. van praag seemed convinced, and at the end of the dinner, after taking his address, he promised von barwig he would do what he could; but he must consult the director first, etc., etc. von barwig went home that night almost happy. a pint of champagne at dinner, with a liqueur afterward, had completely aroused his spirit; and for the first time in many years he felt quite jovial. he went to bed but couldn't go to sleep, so he rose and awakened pinac and fico out of their slumbers to tell them the good news, adding that he intended to engage them for his orchestra. poons, hearing the sound of voices in the room next to his, came in, and the men sat talking over their prospects. their hopes, their ambitions were about to be realised, and they talked and smoked the cigars von barwig had brought home with him until sleep was out of the question; they were too excited to go to bed again. twice did miss husted send up to beg them to make less noise, as the second floor front, mrs. mangenborn, had complained that her slumbers were being rudely disturbed. so the men dressed themselves and went down into von barwig's rooms, where they sat till daylight, talking and smoking; after which they all went out to breakfast at galazatti's. as the weeks went by and von barwig received no word from van praag the certainty of the engagement died out and became merely a hope. finally von barwig came to the conclusion that van praag had forgotten, and wrote to him reminding him of his promise. he received no answer to his letter, and even the hope of getting the engagement died out some few months after its birth. chapter ten the winter had now fairly set in and it was remembered by new yorkers as the hardest in many years. miss husted declared it was the coldest in her experience, for the plumber's presence was constantly required to thaw out the frozen pipes. certainly von barwig remembered it because he had to wrap blankets around him to keep warm while he was copying music at a few cents a page. he had other uses for the money that coal would cost; besides it was very expensive. so he preferred to write in bed rather than spend money for fuel, until one day some sixty odd pages of music were returned to him, because they were so badly written as to be almost illegible. the fact is, the old man's hands trembled so with the cold that he could not hold his pen tightly. after this loss he gave up copying music, and so even this last meagre means of getting money was denied him. as he walked up and down his room, feeling intuitively that it was breakfast time, he became really angry with himself for his repeated failures. lately he had been thinking of his wife and child; but fourteen years had somewhat benumbed his memory. when he thought of the happiness of his life with them, it was more as a happy dream that he delighted to ponder over than a tangible something of which he had been robbed. the wound was there but the pain had ceased. "are you coming out to breakfast?" said pinac's voice outside. "come on, anton," shouted fico, "it's late!" "i've had my breakfast," said von barwig, and he felt that he was lying in a good cause. the men would have torn down the door and carried him over to the restaurant by main force had they guessed the truth. "thank god it hasn't come to that," he thought. "he is an early bird," commented pinac, and he went out humming the latest music-hall ditty which he was playing nightly to the patrons of the _café_. poons went along; he had no more idea of his benefactor's condition than the man in the moon. the three men had not seen much of him lately, for they always left him to himself when he signified by his silence that he wanted to be alone. they respected his dignity, his slightest suggestion was law to them; they loved him, so they left him alone. "come on, you wretch," said von barwig to his violin, after the men had gone, "you are the last of the mohicans!" and, polishing it, he put it in its case, having determined to sell it. "this will be the first meal with which you have provided me," he said, shaking his fist at it, "so at last you are going to accomplish something, you cheap wooden cigar-box of a fiddle! i cannot play you to advantage but i can eat you. that's all you are good for--a few dinners and breakfasts!" he went out into the street with the violin under his cloak, and from houston street he turned into the bowery. there was no elevated road at that time and the thundering, ear-splitting, overhead noises heard nowadays were not yet in existence. still it was noisy, a perfect bedlam of jabbering foreigners, who crowded this busiest of busy streets as they crowded no other section of this cosmopolitan city. von barwig, usually so sensitive to noises, apparently did not notice this babel. curiously enough his thoughts were miles away from new york, and the idea that he was going to sell his violin to buy a breakfast was not borne in upon him with sufficient force to prevent his thinking of something else. although it was very cold he did not notice the weather, so he did not walk fast. his progress was a mechanical movement, for in fancy he was in leipsic again, walking down the august platz. it was a pleasant day dream, one from which von barwig did not like to awaken himself. he pictured to himself the joy, the happiness of his loved ones when they saw him, and thus he felt the reflex of this joy. these mental pictures were almost real to him, and he enjoyed them while they lasted, though he knew that they were not real. "it is better to dream than to think of the present," he said to himself. "what is there going on about me but misery and starvation and folly? why should i focus my mind on the evils of existence, analyse them, make them my bosom companions to the exclusion of all joy? no, i will think of those things that make for happiness. little hélène shall be my companion. these shadows" (and he looked at the people who passed him), "these caricatures of life shall not find a place in my mind. i will shut them out and in that way they shall cease to exist for me; since what we do not know cannot make us suffer." von barwig walked down the crowded thoroughfare, barely conscious that he was dreaming, yet in his dreams finding peace. the old man knew that there was a musical instrument shop somewhere in the neighbourhood, but it is quite possible that he would have passed it by had not the sound of a loud, roaring voice, accompanied by the banging of a big drum, attracted, or rather demanded his attention and aroused him from his day dream. "eat 'em alive, eat 'em alive!" bellowed the voice. bang! bang! went the drum. "bosco, bosco, the armless wonder," bang! bang! "bites their heads off and eats their bodies; eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" bang! bang! "bosco, bosco!" the drum punctuating each phrase, making a hideous, ear-splitting duet. "what hellish syncopation!" thought poor von barwig mechanically, as he looked at the individual from whom issued the voice that sounded so like the bellowing of a bull. the owner of this extraordinary vocal organ was a big, fat, florid-faced individual with a dark, bluish-red complexion. he wore a flaring diamond ring around a glaring red necktie; and a loud checked suit that matched his voice perfectly. in fact, his whole make-up harmonised remarkably with the unearthly noise that issued from his throat. he was standing before a flashy-fronted building, on which was painted in large yellow letters, intended to be gold, the legend "dime museum." in the front entrance were several cheap wax figures of a theatrical nature, and some still cheaper scenes, showing the figure of a nude savage without arms, biting the head off a huge fish and eating it alive apparently. on the canvas were also painted pictures of a wild man from borneo, a tattooed man, a skeleton, numerous fat ladies, mermaids, sylphs, and fauns; the whole forming a group of pictures and figures calculated to arrest the attention of the passers-by and attract them into the "theatretorium," as he of the loud voice called it. it was not the paintings that caught von barwig's attention; it was the voice that offended his sensitive ear. he looked at the man in astonishment; never in his life had he heard such an utter lack of music in a human voice, such volume of tone, such a surplusage of quantity and an absence of quality. barwig was fascinated and wondered how it could be possible. at this moment he caught the man's eye, and then a strange thing happened. the man stopped roaring, and, looking over at von barwig, in a more natural tone called out: "say, professor, i want to see you." "are you speaking to me?" said von barwig; his voice faltering. "yes," replied the showman, "that's just what i am." coming over to von barwig he took him by the arm and led him almost by force into the entrance of the museum. "say, professor," he asked, "how would you like a job?" "a job?" von barwig repeated helplessly, trying to realise the meaning of the man's words. "a job; yes, to be sure. can you thump the ivories?" "thump the ivories?" von barwig looked so mystified that the man volunteered an explanation. "play the pianner," and suiting the action to the word he perforated the air with ten large fingers. "i play--yes. i--i play a little--not well----" "well, do you want the job? we've got a day professor, but we need a night professor. day professor plays from eight till eight; night professor from eight till two or three. depends on the crowds. come on, now; i like your looks. say the word and the job is yours." it was not pride that made von barwig silent when he wanted to speak; he simply did not grasp the man's meaning. "i see you've got your fiddle there. you can play the incidental music for the dramas with that; and you can play the pianner for the curios and the intermissions. dollar a night; what do you say?" "a dollar a night!" von barwig at last caught the man's meaning. he wanted him to play for that amount, at night, and it would not interfere with his teaching in the daytime. "i only play a very little, just enough to show my pupils," he said deprecatingly. "oh, you're all right! you can read music, can't you?" von barwig smiled. "yes," he replied simply. "well, you'll get on to it." but von barwig still held back. "what's the matter, ain't it enough?" von barwig was silent. "damn it all," the showman blurted out. "i'll risk it; a dollar and a half a night. your long hair is worth that; you look the goods. i'll make a special feature of you--a real professor. come on inside and take a look at the place. a dollar and a half a night, eight till three; is it a bargain?" von barwig paused, then drew a long deep breath and nodded affirmatively. "you'll be fine--fine," said he of the big voice. "i can see it in your eye; you ain't one of them smart felleys." he grabbed the hand of his new attraction and shook it heartily. "say, george," he roared, "come here! this is the new night professor." george, the young man who was beating the drum, ceased that occupation and came over to the showman and von barwig. "what's your name?" the showman suddenly asked von barwig. "anton von barwig," came the reply in a low tone. "well, anton, my name is costello, al costello." then with dignity, "professor anton, shake hands with george pike--he's my assistant. this is the new night professor, george." "happy to meet you, professor," said that individual, grasping von barwig's hand and shaking it effusively. this hand-shaking process seemed a part of the theatrical trade. "say, george, take him inside and introduce him to the curios and just tell 'em from me that if they don't treat him better than they did the other night professor, by the eternal jumpin' jerusalem, i'll fire the whole bunch!" with that mr. costello slapped von barwig on the back, and resumed his occupation of attracting public attention. as george and von barwig passed the turnstile and went up the passage that led into the main hall, the huge voice outside continued to roar. "bosco, bosco, the armless wonder! bites their heads off and eats their bodies; eats them alive, eats them alive!" and so anton von barwig became the night professor in a dime museum on the bowery. it astonished even von barwig himself, when he found how easily he adapted himself to his new position. in a very short time he found his occupation far less irksome and tedious than he had expected. as to the disgrace of appearing nightly in a dime museum, von barwig felt it keenly enough, but he preferred to pay his way and suffer himself, rather than to make others suffer through his inability to make sufficient money to meet his expenses. not a word escaped him as to his new engagement, for he was determined not to parade his shame before his friends' eyes until it became absolutely necessary for them to know. [illustration: anton von barwig is compelled to pawn his favorite violin.] his duties were simple enough in their way; he extemporised incidental music on the piano or violin while the curios were being exhibited, and during the progress of the little abbreviated dramas that were played by the troupe of actors in the theatre upstairs. it did not add to von barwig's happiness that mr. costello always insisted upon calling the attention of the audience to the special music as played by "professor _an-tone_ of germany, europe," and would point at him and start clapping until the audience gave him the round of applause that he felt the professor was entitled to. to von barwig's astonishment and embarrassment, costello took a violent fancy to him, and would talk to him whenever a chance offered itself. "professor," he would say, "you're different from the gang that hangs around here. i like to talk to you; it does me good. you don't never try to give me no songs and dances about how much more you're worth than i'm paying you, and how much more you know than the day professor. you ain't forever talkin' about yourself." von barwig accepted this praise philosophically. he didn't in the least understand it, but he felt that mr. costello intended to be complimentary. he was grateful to him, too, for the man had raised his salary to two dollars a night without being asked, and on several occasions had let him go home early. besides that, he treated von barwig with far more consideration and respect than he did any one else, even his own wife. the latter liked the professor and told her husband she was sure he had seen better days. this deference made things much easier for the night professor, who otherwise would have suffered many an indignity. indeed the position seemed to call for special insult from any one who chose to bestow it. he heard the day professor roundly abused on several occasions because he did not play to suit the performers. not only insults, but cushions were flung at him, and von barwig determined if ever this happened to him he would leave at once. he was willing to sacrifice his dignity and his pride, but not his self-respect. thanks to mr. costello nothing happened to mar the harmony of his existence there. the curios were very fond of von barwig, and he took quite an interest in them. poor, crippled human beings, the sadness of their existence aroused his sympathy; their very affliction earning a livelihood for them. was life not a living hell for them? he found on closer intimacy with them that it was not, for they enjoyed life after their own manner and were capable of real affection. the midgets always shook hands with him every evening when he came to play. they were a loving little pair, brother, and sister, and they grew quite fond of him. von barwig, for his part, used to look upon them as children, although they were both well past forty years of age. once he saluted the "little girl," as he called her, with a kiss, and he was quite astonished when she blushed. her brother clapped his hands and enjoyed what he called the fun. but it was the untoward affection of the fat lady that nearly brought about a catastrophe, for her constant smile at the professor aroused the jealousy of the living skeleton and brought about an ultimatum from that gentleman in the shape of a challenge to fight a duel to the death. the fat lady was an agreeable individual. she seemed to have one occupation only, that of sitting in a rocking chair and rocking and fanning herself by the hour. the skeleton was quite sure that the professor was trying to win her affections, but as a matter of fact, von barwig was so fascinated by her constant rocking and fanning that he simply could not help looking at her, and she evidently could not help smiling. as he explained to the skeleton, her tempo was against the beat, or in other words, the rhythm of her rocking and fanning conflicted with the rhythm of the music he was playing. the skeleton did not altogether understand von barwig's explanation, but he accepted it willingly, for it was clear that the professor had withdrawn from the candidacy for the fat lady's affections! it must by no means be understood, however, that von barwig liked his new occupation. on the contrary, it grieved his very soul; but it was far less painful than he had anticipated. mr. costello seemed to realise that his night professor was not in his element and he made it as easy for him as possible. the weary months went on, and von barwig by teaching during the day and working at night just barely made ends meet. "i am getting thinner and thinner," thought he as a ring slipped from his finger and rolled under the old sofa which had been in his room for a long time. in looking for it he came across an old portmanteau which had been slipped under the sofa and had entirely escaped his memory during his residence in miss husted's house. he opened it and his heart beat rapidly as he saw the case of pistols he had brought from leipsic intending to force ahlmann to fight a duel. he looked at them--there they lay, old-fashioned, duelling pistols--weapons for the shedding of blood. he had found no use for them in all these years and now he would not use them if he could, so he gently laid them down on the piano and looked further into the portmanteau. within its depths, among many relics of the past he found one or two of his compositions, pieces for the piano. he lifted them up and underneath lay the symphony played by his orchestra the night she left him--the symphony that had never been heard in its entirety. he let the lid of the portmanteau fall. the dust flew up in his face, but he did not notice it, for memories of that fatal night came thronging into his brain and he could think of nothing but that never-to-be-forgotten scene. a great longing to hear that music again came upon him, a longing he could not resist. it was dusk and the gas lamps were being lit when he sat down at the piano. how long he played he never knew, for when they found him several hours later, it was quite dark and the old man was completely unconscious; his head had fallen on his arm which rested on the keyboard of the piano. * * * * * * mr. costello was quite disturbed at the absence of "professor antone of germany" that night, and when, the next night, von barwig walked into the museum, his violin under his arm as usual, he was greeted quite effusively. "well, well, well, profess'! so you didn't give us the shake after all! say, george, he's come back!" bawled costello at the top of his voice. "yes," said von barwig simply, "i've come back." the midgets laughed, the skeleton scowled, the fat lady smiled; and the old man took out his violin and prepared to go to work. chapter eleven miss husted was a woman of few ideas, but once an idea obtained lodgment in her brain it was by no means an easy matter for her to rid herself of it. she pondered over it and thought it out until it became too big for one person to hold. then, under the ban of secrecy, she confided it to another, and another, and another, until it became everybody's secret. she went through this process in regard to her aversion to young poons, whom she suspected in one way or another of being a burden to "the dear professor." in addition she had a haunting dread that mr. poons was in love with her niece. jenny was now nearly nineteen years of age, and although she looked barely sixteen, she had developed into a remarkably good-looking young woman, a fact which young poons had evidently noticed. miss husted trembled with dismay when she saw poons look at jenny. she was very grateful that he couldn't speak to her in english, and still more grateful that jenny couldn't understand german. mrs. mangenborn, aided and abetted by the cards, had predicted a most advantageous marriage for her niece; indeed the cards had pointed to either a title or a million, or both, and miss husted dreaded lest any premature, ill-considered love match should interfere with this happy prediction. she declared vehemently that jenny was too young "even to look at a man." now jenny had no idea that she liked young poons. she was interested in him because she was sorry for him, and she was sorry for him because her aunt was always speaking against him. so miss husted brought about the very condition she most dreaded, for her niece began to like the young man from the moment her aunt forbade her to speak to him. this secret was originally miss husted's, but after she had begged pinac to tell poons not to behave like a moon-calf, had asked fico to prevent the young german from sighing audibly whenever he saw jenny, and had finally told von barwig she wouldn't keep poons in the house at any price, everybody in the house began to suspect something. this suspicion ripened into certainty, and with the solitary exception of miss husted everybody sympathised with the young pair and aided and abetted them in their love-making. but this was not the only awful secret that was troubling miss husted's innermost soul. for some time she had been troubled and depressed, for she had found several pawn tickets in von barwig's room. she had also missed several ornaments, pictures and even garments that had formerly been conspicuous possessions. his fur-lined coat was gone; and the cuckoo clock, what had become of it? when she saw the pawn tickets she knew, and the knowledge troubled her, for she realised how very badly the professor must need money to pledge articles of such small value. she pondered over her discovery until it became too big for her to bear alone, so she confided it first to skippy, the little black and tan terrier that the professor had given her as a christmas gift, and then not getting much response from that quarter she told her secret to mrs. mangenborn. she had suspected all along that poor, dear professor barwig was not doing well, but she never dreamed it had come to this. tears came into the good woman's eyes as she showed mrs. mangenborn the pawn tickets and tearfully asked her what she could do. mrs. mangenborn, being a practical person, suggested reducing his rent and miss husted made up her mind to do this forthwith. she could hear the strains of music coming from his room, so she picked up the little dog, which was now her constant companion, and knocked at the door. receiving no reply she opened it and walked in. the three men who were playing stopped; jenny, who was there also, looked very guilty, and began dusting the furniture. pinac was playing his violin, poons the 'cello and fico was at the piano, with jenny apparently as the audience. "isn't professor barwig here?" inquired miss husted, surprised at his room being occupied during his absence. "no, miss owstong," said pinac, always the spokesman of the trio. he spoke english slightly better than fico, who could barely make himself understood. there was an awkward pause. "he lets us come down here to play. we practise to go into the union. we use his piano; he is very kind," pinac explained. at this point the unfortunate poons dropped his bow and in picking it up, knocked his music stand over. when miss husted glared at him, poons grinned guiltily, and stole a glance in the direction of jenny. miss husted followed this glance with her eye and rather testily suggested to her niece that the bell was ringing and there was no one to answer it. jenny, who was glad to get out alive, hurriedly made her escape. poons, sighing deeply, went into the alcove and looked out of the window. miss husted sat down, looked around the room pathetically, then followed poons's example and sighed. "gentlemen," she began; then hesitated. after all it was the professor's secret. perhaps they knew; if not, 'twas better they should. the men looked at each other inquiringly, and waited for her to speak. "i'm very glad i've found you together--very glad. do you notice any change in me?" pinac and fico shook their heads, mainly because they were mystified. "i haven't been sociable lately; not at all like myself," went on miss husted, "i'm so upset." "that's all right," said fico, who didn't know what else to say. "sure," nodded pinac, who felt he had to add his share to the conversation; then they picked up their music and started to leave the room, but miss husted held up her hand and signified that she wanted them to remain. when they came back to her she looked around the room pathetically once more, and began plaintively: "i said to myself, 'these foreign gentlemen will miss your cheery word in the hall and on the stairs.'" the men began to feel very uncomfortable, for they had missed nothing. pinac thought she referred in some way to poons, and tried to catch his eye and motion to him to get out of the room, but that lovelorn youth was mooning out of the window, so pinac nodded sympathetically at miss husted and said, "oui, oui. yes, oh, yes!" fico looked very grave and muttered: "too bad; too bad!" again miss husted looked around the room very mysteriously and motioned to the men to come closer. they obeyed, somewhat apprehensively this time. "what did it all mean?" they thought. "why this mystery?" "i've something to tell you in confidence," she said finally. she tried to open her reticule and finding skippy in the way, she handed the little animal to fico, saying: "will one of you gentlemen please hold skippy while i find those tickets? he just had a bath and if he rolls over he'll get soiled." fico took the dog, which promptly yelped, so he hurriedly handed it to pinac. pinac, who was afraid of dogs, transferred the animal to poons. poons, anxious to be of some service to miss husted, tried to pet the dog, but looking at miss husted for approval instead of watching the beast, he held it so awkwardly that its head hung down and its tail stuck up in the air. miss husted, in the act of pulling pawn tickets out of her reticule, caught sight of the unfortunate animal suspended in mid air, and jumped up quickly. "look at him! look how the stupid, stupid fellow is holding skippy! all the blood will rush into his poor little head. the dog, the dog; you foolish fellow; the d-o-g, dog! i can't make him understand. please tell him, mr. pinac." "hund--hund!" shouted fico to poons. "le chien--le chien! idiot, stupid!" said pinac. poons was so startled by hearing them all shout at him at once that he dropped the dog into von barwig's coal scuttle, whence it finally issued covered with coal dust and ran yelping into miss husted's arms. that lady petted the frightened animal while pinac pushed the unfortunate poons out of the room. when miss husted had completely recovered herself, she held up the pawn tickets. "i found them," she said dolefully, "under that pile of music." "gritt scott!" said pinac. he knew at a glance what they were; experience had taught him. "are they of von barwig?" he inquired. fico took three or four of the tickets. "from anton; yes," and then he sighed and shook his head. the men knew von barwig was poor, but they had no idea to what extent his poverty had reached. "his cuckoo clock: nine dollars!" read fico. "that was the first thing i missed--that cuckoo, evenings," sighed miss husted. "mozart, gone!" almost shouted pinac, pointing to the spot on the wall where that musician's portrait had once reposed. "and beethoven! and where is gluck?" then looking around: "nom de dieu! even his metronome have gone--his metronome! dieu, dieu!" "i should say it was dear, dear!" said miss husted, who slightly misunderstood pinac. and so the truth dawned upon them. for months, for years he had deceived them with his smile, his optimism, his gay manner and cheery word, and above all by the open-hearted manner in which he gave away to all who came to him. "all these years has professor von barwig been in my house and he has paid me like a gentleman. he pays me now, how does he do it? oh, dear!" miss husted tried hard not to cry, but the tears would come. the men looked on sadly; they had always accepted his bounty, and now they were reproaching themselves. miss husted's feelings made her reminiscent, and when she was reminiscent she invariably exaggerated--in retrospect she saw everything as she would have liked it to have been. "when he first came here what a man he was! and this, what a neighbourhood then, an elegant residential district. i had a position then, i could recommend him; everybody knew miss houston of houston street." in spite of her sorrow she felt proud of the past. the men looked at each other. they had heard this for the past fifteen years. it meant a long session and they wanted to practise their music; so pinac merely nodded, and fico shook his head gravely. "why, i was pointed out by everybody as miss houston of houston street. i was a landmark; a sight." "yes," said pinac unconsciously. "you were; and you are still." miss husted looked at him sharply. "was he venturing to laugh at her?" she thought. but his sad face belied any such intention. "how things have changed?" went on miss husted tremulously. "there's not a child in this neighbourhood that can afford to pay for his lesson! and when they can't afford it, he won't take the money! he gives away the very bread out of his mouth." pinac and fico shifted uncomfortably. "everything he had of value has gone long ago. do you remember that beautiful violin?" "ah, yes! his amati. yes, yes! he bought instead a cheap one. i wondered why, but did not ask him." "and still he pays me. where does he get it?" asked miss husted tearfully. "what is he doing out every night, nearly all night?" the men looked at each other; this was another revelation. they were out at night themselves and so did not know of his absence. "there's something done up to go to pawn now," said miss husted, pointing to a box wrapped up in a paper on the piano. it was von barwig's case of pistols. pinac and fico looked at each other in astonishment. "pistols for duel!" said pinac at once. he had seen them in the theatre, long, thin, single barrel pistols. "sometimes i feel that he came to this country purposely to take vengeance on some one," said miss husted mysteriously. the men were much impressed, but neither of them spoke. "i don't believe the poor man has his meals half the time," went on miss husted, somewhat irrelevantly. "i am almost sure he doesn't." "we ask him to dine the evening," said fico, with a look of triumph, feeling that he had not only discovered the problem but had also solved it. "yes," assented pinac, "we ask him." at this moment poons came back into the room, having forgotten his music. miss husted was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she had no time to frown at him. a door bang was heard, and her sharp ears detected the sound. "there he is now," she said. "please don't tell him that i spoke of his affairs. you know how sensitive he is." a key was heard in the door; von barwig evidently thought the room was empty. as he came in, followed by jenny, the sad expression on his face changed. "ah," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction; "when i set foot here, i am among friends. so glad, so glad! welcome to you all." miss husted, making a few lame excuses, hurried out. she felt that she had been guilty of an indiscretion in betraying the professor's secret to his friends. von barwig greeted his friends warmly. "well, how is the little _hausfrau_?" he said as he handed jenny a flower that he had brought for her. "beauty is a fairy, eh? sometimes it hides in a flower, sometimes in a fresh young face," and he pinched her cheek tenderly. "here blooms a rose; not picked, not picked, august!" poons smiled and shook his head. "he doesn't understand me," said von barwig. "the son of my old friend has been six months in this country, and not a word of english can he speak." "never mind, jenny! i find you a splendid fellow; one who can speak his own mind in his own language. not a selfish fellow like these bachelors. bah! a bachelor is not a citizen of his country; he is not even civilised. he is--a nondescript--a--a----" the men were looking at him sadly as if trying to read his innermost thoughts. they seemed to have realised for the first time that his gaiety was forced. his spirits this afternoon were unusually high; and it made the reality stand out in greater contrast. pinac felt that he might resent any reference to his financial condition, so he did not speak of it. "it is a long time since we have had a nice little dinner together," he said in his gallic way. "yes," assented von barwig, "a long time!" "a dinner during which we can exchange confidences," ventured fico, interspersing his english with italian, and a word or two of slang. pinac gave fico a look of warning. "he means a 'art to 'art talk," explained pinac. "excellent, excellent!" said von barwig, rubbing his hands, and going over to the window he pulled up the blind. "he falls into our trap very easily," whispered pinac to fico; "but be careful!" poons looked on and smiled as usual. "i should like nothing better," said von barwig. "you shall all dine with me," and before his friends could remonstrate he had invited poons to the banquet. "but i asked you!" said pinac. "he ask you," repeated fico. "i ask you; we all ask you," asserted pinac. "in my apartment!" demanded von barwig, with some slight show of dignity. "come, come! the matter is settled. it is good to have old friends at the table. we won't go to the restaurant; it's too noisy there; we shall dine here. galazatti will send over a dinner without extra charge, if we order enough." "i am not hungry," began fico, but von barwig silenced him with a look. "then please find your appetite at once," he said. they saw it was useless to remonstrate with him and for a moment remained silent, but pinac determined to make another effort. "you cannot afford such expense," he began. "it is too much." "pardon me," said von barwig, with quiet dignity, "i can always afford to invite my friends to dinner. i have had lessons all day, ever since early morning. please, my dear pinac, and you, fico, old friend, do not refer to the financial side of our little festivity. it robs it of the zest of enjoyment, of comradeship. let us eat and drink and be merry! the question is, what shall we have for dinner, not who shall pay for it?" and then without awaiting a reply, he opened the door and called for jenny. pinac and fico looked at each other. it was evident to them that miss husted had exaggerated von barwig's poverty, so their spirits rose at once. "jenny! we take dinner here. get me the _menu_, poons. jenny, you will ask your good aunt, miss husted, to dine with us _en famille_--one of our old-time dinners. now, what shall we have?" he said, scanning the well-thumbed _menu_ that poons had handed to him. "it is an old one," suggested fico. "it is always the same. it is only the date they change," said von barwig. pinac looked over his shoulder at the _menu_. "_chicken à la marengo_," said the frenchman, "with a _soupçon_ of garlic." "no," said von barwig decidedly, "miss husted doesn't like garlic!" "_À la polenta_ is better," suggested the italian. "_ein bischen limburger_," put in poons, which was instantly frowned upon by all. jenny was asked to take down the order, and the process of selecting the dishes for the dinner was gone through; each ordering according to his own taste. jenny tried to write down everything they wanted, but gave it up after she had filled three pages of suggestions and scratched them out again. finally von barwig ordered a nice little dinner, including spaghetti and garlic. as jenny was about to take the order to galazatti's, miss husted made her appearance. jenny told her that the professor had invited her to dinner, and she realised in a moment what had happened. it was the old story; the professor was to be the host. she suggested that she herself get up a little dinner for the men, but von barwig wouldn't hear of putting her to the trouble and so his ideas were carried out as usual. it was really a most enjoyable dinner! to this day miss husted speaks of it as one of those gala bohemian affairs that must be seen and heard and eaten to be appreciated. as she afterward told her friend, mrs. mangenborn, they had a hip, hip hurray of a time. the dear professor was just as jolly as he could be. even poons was tolerable, although she would not for worlds sit next to him at the table. it was simply impossible for her to describe the dinner in detail, but how fico swallowed the spaghetti without losing it down his shirt front was a mystery. how the man got so much on his fork and swallowed it down by the yard nobody knew, it was simply a sublime feat! but the toasts they drank (with the last of the professor's claret), the songs they sang, the art they discussed! every word was a scream of laughter. "just listen to this," said miss husted, laughing at the very memory of the joke. "young poons asked what was garlic, and the professor said: 'garlic is a vegetable limburger!' the idea of such a thing!" even mrs. mangenborn consented to smile. "and when mr. fico said, 'wine is the enemy of mankind,' mr. pinac jumped up and said, 'is it? then give me my enemy, that i may drink him down.' oh, it was a most enjoyable affair. i can't tell you all that was said," went on miss husted. "but how the wit did flow! wit and wine; no, wit and water; there wasn't much wine. we didn't in the least mind the noise that the donizetti family made overhead; though once when the chandelier nearly came down the professor did say they ought to live in the cellar! i think i'll give them notice next week," she added thoughtfully, "though god knows i need the money." "what about the pawn tickets?" asked mrs. mangenborn. "not a word was said about them," replied miss husted. "i don't know what to think! the professor was just--oh, he was--well, we had a great time. there's something about bohemia that appeals to my innermost nature. give me a bohemian dinner every time!" she said, when she had spoken her final word on the subject. "he must have money in the bank," commented mrs. mangenborn. miss husted shook her head. "i don't think so," she said. on the same evening the collection agent for the blickner piano company called on professor von barwig, and presented him with a "final notice." "i intended to pay you to-day," said von barwig. "i will pay you next week. won't you please wait? i have two lessons to-morrow." "you'll pay, or we'll take the piano away; that's all! you're six weeks behind." "i had the money and i intended to give it to you to-day," von barwig pleaded. "but--some friends came to dinner, and--" he paused, and then smiled as it occurred to him how thoughtless he had been. the collector left the notice in von barwig's possession, and walked away without further comment. chapter twelve affairs had not been going along very smoothly at the museum. about this time, there came into existence a new tempo in music that appealed chiefly to people whose musical tastes were not yet developed, or who had no musical taste or ear whatsoever. now the performers at costello's museum, who were called artists on the playbills, insisted that the "night profess'" play their accompaniments to their acts in this new style of musical rhythm--ragtime as it was most appropriately called. but von barwig, being a musician, whose music lay in his soul and not merely in his feet and fingers, could not do this. he worked hard to get it, but could not, and the artists complained to the manager. as a result mr. costello called upon von barwig at his lodgings; much to the professor's astonishment and dismay. "say, who was that freak that poked her head out or the door as i came in?" said that gentleman, as soon as he had banged the door shut, and seated himself comfortably in von barwig's armchair. "freak? freak? we have no freaks here! oh," and a faint smile stole over von barwig's features, which he tried hard to repress. "you mean perhaps miss husted?" "do i?" inquired costello, "well, p'raps i do! she's of the vintage of , and looks like a waxwork edition of ----" "please, please!" remonstrated von barwig. "she is a lady, a most hospitable, kind-hearted lady! you would like her if you knew her, really----" "maybe so," said costello, somewhat dubiously; and then he blurted out: "well, profess', i've come on a professional visit! i want to put you wise before you turn up to play to-night." von barwig looked pained. costello was bawling at the top of his voice, and he was afraid that the household would hear. "hush, please! you speak so loud. as you know, my visits to the museum are, in a sense, a secret. i keep my private and my professional life apart, as it were. forgive me, but please, please, don't speak loudly! i do not wish it known; for they think that i--they do not know that i--have--" von barwig was about to say, "fallen so low," but he did not wish to hurt the amiable costello's feelings; so he paused. "that's all right, profess'," broke in costello; "i'm having a little trouble with my main attraction, bosco, the armless wonder. i wish she was a tongueless wonder! she has no arms, but my god; how she can talk! i left her taking it out of the day professor; she was swearing a blue streak. ain't it funny how these stars kick?" and mr. costello bit the end off a cigar, viciously lit it, and puffed furiously at it till the room was clouded with smoke. von barwig was silent. he was waiting for mr. costello to tell him the worst, that he could not come again. his heart began to beat; what should he do if he lost his position? "she says your music is queering her act," said mr. costello finally, "she says you don't give it to her thumpin' enough; she wants ragtime or she can't work." "i will do my best," said the old man simply. "i try hard to please her; indeed i do!" "i know you do, i know you do, profess'! but, say, you can't do anything with them guys! you know i like you, you've got such damned elegant manners--the gentleman all over. yes, sir, you're a twenty-two karat gentleman; you're the first professor the freaks darsent josh!" von barwig bowed his head. he was grateful to costello; the man had made his hideous task almost bearable. "now i don't want to lose her and i don't want to lose you," costello went on, "but things have got to go right, see? they've got to! you're one of them kind that can take a tip. give her what she wants! what's the difference? you're a gentleman--she's a lady! she doesn't know any better!" "i am so sorry, so very sorry to trouble--" faltered von barwig. "you're all right, profess'," broke in costello, "you earn your money if it is small pay; but the job goes against you, now don't it?" his voice was almost soft. "you ain't used to our kind, are you?" the man's brusque kindness touched von barwig, and he choked up a little as he spoke: "well--i--i--i have had higher thoughts. here in houston street life is strange, and i must take what i find. times are a little hard, a little hard, and the parents of my pupils are pushed for money. they don't pay, otherwise, perhaps i--" and von barwig sighed. "you ain't suited, that's what's the matter!" "oh, yes; oh, yes! i--" broke in von barwig, afraid that costello might dispense with his services altogether. "i acknowledge the curios came a little on my nerves at first. it was all so strange: the people staring, the midgets chattering, the stout lady fanning, fanning, always fanning, the lecturing of the lecturer; and you at the door always calling 'insides, insides!'" costello laughed, "you mean 'insi-i-ide.'" "yes, insides," went on von barwig, unconsciously making the same mistake. then he added, trying to convince himself, "better times will come soon and then, perhaps, we shall part, but for the present i remain, eh, yes?" costello nodded. "as long as you like, profess'; as long as you like!" and he held out his hand for von barwig to shake. as von barwig did so, he said: "i shall always remember it was your money that helped me to bridge over--my--my difficulties----" "that's all right, that's all right!" asserted costello. "you're worth the money or you wouldn't get it. but don't forget, when the lecturer says, 'bosco, bosco, the armless wonder!' play up lively, see? and when he says, 'bites their heads off and eats their bodies; eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!' give it to her thumpin'!" here von barwig drew a deep breath. he was tired, tired unto his very soul of the whole business; but he had to go on. "yes," he said, with a pathetic smile, "she shall eat 'em alive yet livelier!" this appeared to satisfy costello, and shaking hands with von barwig once more, he went out and left him standing in the middle of the room. von barwig's eye fell on a daguerreotype of mendelssohn, and it called him back to leipsic. "eat 'em alive, eat 'em alive, eat 'em alive!" rang in his ears. "good god, to what have i fallen, to what have i fallen?" he cried to himself; then he stopped. "i must have more courage. i am a coward, i am always railing at fate! who can tell what the future shall have in store for me?" then he thought of the songs he had found in his old trunk with his symphony. he hastily opened the trunk, took them out and hurried uptown for the purpose of selling them, but the symphony he did not take--he had not the courage to sell that. it was some years since von barwig had tried to dispose of his compositions and he made the rounds of the various music publishers with as little success as usual. "there is no demand for my music," he thought, and he went into a fashionable music emporium, as a last hope. the clerks at schumein's recognised him in a moment; his was a face one could not forget. mr. schumein, the head of the firm, could not see him; he was busy. "i will wait," said von barwig, and he sat down. "i'm afraid he'll be busy all the afternoon," said the clerk apprehensively. "i can wait all the afternoon, if necessary," said von barwig. he was tired and was glad to sit down. "suppose you leave your songs here and i'll hand them to our reader," suggested the clerk, after von barwig had been waiting over two hours. "they won't see me," thought von barwig, "i can no longer obtain an interview. i am not worth seeing," and he smiled to himself as he thought of the days when people used to wait for hours to see him. "well," he spoke aloud, "i will leave them; and to-morrow i will call for the answer." "better leave it till next week; our reader is very busy," said the clerk, a little impatiently. "i will call again next week," said von barwig patiently. "what's your address?" asked the clerk. von barwig told him and he wrote it on the back of the manuscript. "all right, i'll attend to it," and the young man threw the songs carelessly into a drawer in his desk. von barwig thanked him, bowed politely, and walked slowly out. "who is that?" asked a young lady who had just arrived in a fashionable carriage and pair. she had been watching von barwig for the past few moments and was struck by the sweet, gentle sadness of his face. "he's a sort of a composer, miss; that is, he writes songs and things. he's a music master, i fancy, in one of the poorer quarters of the city," said the clerk, taking out the manuscript he had just thrown into a drawer. "yes," he added, as she saw the address, "he has a studio at houston street. rather far downtown," he added. "nine hundred and seventy houston street," repeated the girl; "that must be near our settlement headquarters." she made some purchases, and a few moments later the footman opened the door, and she was whisked rapidly away by a pair of fine blooded horses. "who is that?" asked a fellow-clerk. "why don't you know?" asked the other with a slight tinge of superiority. "it's miss stanton, the heiress." "is that so? she's a beauty!" "yes," went on his informant, "her father is only worth about twenty-five millions!" the other clerk whistled. during von barwig's absence from his room that morning, young poons had taken possession of it for the purpose of practising on his 'cello, but this was not his only reason. jenny invariably made it a point to straighten out von barwig's room at just about the time that poons happened to arrive. there he could look at her and speak to her in little broken bits of the english language, without fear of being interrupted by miss husted. jenny's knowledge of german was as hopelessly nil as his ideas of english; so they made up their minds to study "each other's language from each other." to help matters along, they bought two english-german "conversation made easy" books, and in the security of von barwig's studio they exchanged cut and dried sentences by the page, neither understanding what the other said. on this particular morning young poons, with the assistance of fico, had written out an english sentence, which he had recited to himself dozens of times that morning, for he had made up his mind to declare himself. the opportunity came quickly. poons had scarcely been practising three minutes before the door opened, and in walked jenny with mr. barwig's table-cloth. "ach, fräulein chenny!" said poons, blushing. "mr. poons," gasped jenny, in complete astonishment, although she must have heard him playing as she came through the hall. "ach, fräulein chenny," he repeated, trying to remember his declaration, but by this time the english sentence he had learned by heart had completely left him. "i could not speak to you for two days because auntie, that is, miss husted, was watching," said jenny, laying the cloth. poons nodded and smiled. "she was watching," said jenny, but he made no sign. "verstay? verstay?" she repeated, making her little stock of german go as far as she could. "nein! ich--" said poons hopelessly. he was hunting for the piece of paper with his declaration of love on it, and was having a great deal of trouble finding it. where was it? he knew it was in one of his pockets; but which one? he looked very awkward and embarrassed. "have you your lessons learned?" asked jenny, taking out her english-german "conversation made easy" book, and hoping to help him out by starting on a topic. "nein," replied poons, who knew what she meant when he saw the book. then he added in german that he had been so thoroughly occupied in practising that he had no time, but that he had something of great importance that he wanted to say to her. jenny almost shook her head off trying to make it clear that she didn't understand a word he said. "fräulein chenny," he began again, but gave it up. he opened the lesson book and read in english, with a strong german accent, "heff you die--hett of--die poy--found?" then he looked at her ardently, as if he had just uttered the most delicate sentiment. jenny smiled, and read what she considered to be an appropriate answer. "nein, ich hab die slissell meine--grossmutter----" she looked at him for approval, "schlüssel," corrected poons. "slissell," repeated jenny. "schlüss----" "sliss----" poons gave up trying and went back to his book, reading the following with deep-bated breath and loving emphasis. "vich---iss--to der hotel--die--vay?" jenny's reply came with business-like rapidity. "der pantoffle ist in die zimmer----" "puntoffel," corrected poons. "pantoffle," responded his pupil. "tsimmer," said he. "zimmer," repeated she, placing the accent strongly on the "z"; and so the lesson went on. suddenly a smile of joy spread itself over poons's features. in searching for his handkerchief he had fished out a piece of paper from his hip-pocket. joy! it was the lost declaration of dependence! he opened it, and read her the following with such ardent tenderness and affection, that the girl's heart fairly beat double time. "fräulein chenny," he began, putting the piece of paper in the book and pretending that it was part of his lesson. "fräulein chenny, i cannot mit you life midout--you liff," and then, feeling that he had somewhat entangled his words, he repeated: "i cannot life midout--you--chenny--you chenny midout." jenny looked at him in perplexity. his manner, the words--all were so strange! "that isn't in the lesson," she managed to gasp, holding down her head bashfully. "i cannot life midout you liff! luff, chenny, luff!" he added. he meant love, for he knew the meaning of that, and he waited for her answer. perhaps she did not understand, but if she did, all she seemed able to say was: "that isn't in my lesson, mr. poons; it isn't in my lesson!" what poons said in response to jenny's statement will never be known, for at that precise moment in walked von barwig, who had just returned from his weary, useless effort to sell his compositions. his face brightened up as he saw the young lovers, and a beautiful smile chased away the lines of sorrow and suffering. there was no mistaking poon's attitude. his eyes were full of love, and he held jenny's hand in his. although she indignantly snatched it away as soon as the door opened, probably thinking it was her aunt, von barwig saw the action, and it brought joy to his poor, bruised old heart. "come here, jenny," he said. she nestled by his side. "poons," he said sternly in german, "how long has this been going on?" "i don't know, herr von barwig," replied poons, in a low voice. "jenny, do you approve of his action?" "i don't know, professor, i--" jenny laid her head on his shoulder and von barwig knew that she loved the young man. "scoundrel!" began von barwig, turning to poons. he tried to be serious, but the expression on poons's face made him smile in spite of himself. poons begged him to speak to jenny for him; he pleaded so hard that jenny asked von barwig if he was talking about her. "ask him if he likes me!" said jenny innocently. "i will," replied von barwig, and he turned to poons. "do you love her?" he asked. poons's reply was a torrent of burning love, a flood of words that let loose the pent-up emotion of a highly strung musical temperament that for months had longed for utterance. the way he poured out the german language surprised both his hearers; it seemed as if he could not restrain himself. in vain did von barwig try to stem the onward rush of the tidal wave of talk, for declaration followed on declaration, until poons had completely poured out all he had wanted to tell jenny for months. he only stopped then because he had fairly exhausted the subject. "what did he say?" asked jenny anxiously. "he said, yes," said von barwig, with a faint smile. jenny looked at him shyly, and held out her hand. "go on, love, you loon!" said von barwig to poons in german, "you have caught your fish. don't dangle it too long on the hook!" poons acted on the suggestion, and took jenny in his arms and kissed her. the old man looked on approvingly; his eyes were moist with tears, but his thoughts were far away from the lovers. he loved them, yes; they were good children, good; dear, children, but his heart yearned for his own flesh and blood. it did not satisfy him that jenny put her arms around his neck and kissed him gratefully, or that poons embraced him and cried over him. their happiness only emphasised his misery. he wanted his own flesh and blood; he wanted his wife and his little hélène. but, feeling that he was selfish, he kissed them both affectionately, and promised he would speak to miss husted for them at the first opportunity. he did not have to wait long, for a few moments later miss husted came into the room with a letter for the "professor," and saw enough to convince her that poons and her niece were more than friends. poons wanted to pour out his heart to miss husted and tell her all, but von barwig promptly squelched this impulse, and sent him out of the room. jenny followed him, and von barwig faced miss husted alone. "they are charming young people," began von barwig. "yes, when they're apart," she replied. "now what have you against young poons?" he asked conciliatingly. "nothing," replied miss husted, "but i don't like him!" "ah, if you knew his father!" "i don't see how that would make any difference; it's the young man himself i object to! besides, i have tremendous prospects for jenny; she is going to marry a rich man, a very rich man." "this is news," said von barwig. "yes," replied miss husted. "who is the gentleman?" asked von barwig. "we don't know him yet; he--" miss husted hesitated. "ah, i see!" said von barwig, a flood of light breaking in on him. "but i know he will come!" von barwig shook his head. "you have been consulting mrs. mangenborn, the lady who promises you a fortune for fifty cents. ah, my dear miss husted, when will you understand life as it is? you take the false for the real and the real for the false!" "i take mr. poons for a fool!" said miss husted with some asperity, "and i am not far wrong." "on the contrary," assented von barwig, "to some extent you are right, quite right! but he is young, and he is in love. to you, perhaps; love is foolishness; but love is all there is in life." there was quite a pause. miss husted toyed with the letter she had not yet given to the professor. "you may be right, of course," said miss husted after a while. she was more placid now, more like herself. in thought she had gone back many years to a certain episode, the memory of which softened her toward love's young dream, and even toward poons. von barwig looked at her a moment, then took her hand in his. "is it possible, dear lady, that you, in your woman's heart, never wished that you had something to take care of besides skippy?" "yes, but mr. poons is not--" began miss husted, and then she blurted out "i can't understand him; he can't understand me. i might talk to him for a week and he wouldn't know what i was talking about!" "yes, but jenny understands him. what joy have you in life alone? think of the joy of seeing a young couple begin life, just like two young birds in a little bird's nest! god put love into their hearts; can you stop them? no, neither you nor i can forbid! as well try to count the sands of the sea, as well try to stop the waves, the tides!" miss husted did not reply for a moment. it was evident that von barwig had made some impression on her, but she would not admit it. "i had built such hopes on jenny," she said, shaking her head sadly. "can you tell how poons will turn out?" inquired von barwig, feeling that he was gaining ground. miss husted elevated her nose slightly, and handed the professor his letter. "he'll turn out of this house if he makes love to my niece!" she said. "give the matter a little thought," urged von barwig. "they both love you," he added. miss husted sighed deeply as if thoroughly disappointed. then she began to whimper. she told von barwig the story of jenny's life; which story, with variations, he had heard annually for many years. he listened patiently, and agreed with her. finally he extracted from her a promise to suspend action in reference to poons until she had given the matter more thought. "but in the meantime," insisted miss husted, "they must not speak!" knowing the extent of their knowledge of each other's language, von barwig readily promised on behalf of poons to obey her injunction to the letter, and she left the room in a state of resignation. von barwig opened his letter, his eyes fairly glittering with excitement as he read the following: "my dear von barwig: no doubt you thought i had forgotten you, but such is not the case. your appointment as conductor of the 'harmony hall concerts' has been passed on favourably by the promoters of the venture. none of them knew you or had ever heard of you, but i soon won them over, and i am now empowered to offer you a liberal salary during the engagement. so come up to the hall at your earliest convenience and let us discuss details. "yours always faithfully, "hermann van praag." p.s. "we are having some trouble with the unions, but i do not anticipate any serious impediment to our progress." von barwig's blood ran hot and cold; his heart beat so rapidly he could hear it. he read the letter again and again. his first impulse was to rush out into the hall to tell all his friends; to shout, to dance, to, give way to excitement. this he resisted. then a great calm came over him; the end of his ill luck had come at last. it was a long lane, but the turning was there and he had reached it. deep, deep down in his heart the man thanked god for his kindness. and as he read the letter once more, he wept tears of joy, for he felt that his deliverance was at hand. at last, at last, when well on the brink of failure, of despair, perhaps of starvation, this great joy had come to him! in order to realise it to its fullest possible extent he sat down in his armchair and thought it all out. he could give engagements to poons, to fico, to pinac. pinac was a fairly good violin player, both he and fico played well enough to sit at the back desk of the second violins. poons would, of course, be one of his 'cellists. and he, himself? he need never go to the dreadful museum again; for this alone he was grateful. yes, he could share his good fortune with his friends; he could even make it possible for poons to marry jenny. these thoughts filled him with such wild excitement that he could restrain himself no longer. he rushed out into the hall, and called up the stairway for his friends. they were in, he knew, for he could hear them practising. as soon as they heard his voice they came trooping down the stairs, making so much noise that miss husted rushed out of her room and asked whether the house was on fire. they all crowded pell-mell into von barwig's room. was this the usually calm, dignified professor? could it really be von barwig who was now almost shouting at the top of his voice, telling them to send in their resignations from the _café_, that they need play no more at a wretched twenty-five cent _table d'hôte_ for their existence. he would provide for them, he would engage them forthwith for his orchestra. by degrees they understood, and when they did understand they made his little outburst of enthusiasm appear almost feeble and weak-kneed compared to the wild, unrestrained, excited, and enthusiastic yells of joy that they let loose. they embraced each other and danced around the room. they hugged miss husted. poons even dared to kiss her, and although she slapped his face, she joined in the latin-franco-teutonic _mêlée_ of joy as though she herself had been one of them. in fact, she was one of them! even then their happiness did not come to an end, for they ordered a good dinner for themselves at galazatti's. "to hell with the _café_," said fico as he wrote to his employer, the proprietor of the restaurant, saying they did not intend to play that night, and could never come again. "_table d'hôte_, nothing! not for me, never again," said pinac as he indited his resignation. "À bas le _café_!" "i don't trouble to write at all," said poons in german, "i simply don't go." presently the dinner came, and what a dinner it was. the (california) wine flowed like water, and this was true literally, for more than once von barwig was compelled to put water in the demijohn to make it last out. they all talked at once, and everybody ate, drank and made merry. miss husted sang a song! after the rattle and banging of plates, knives and forks had subsided and the coffee had been brought in, von barwig was called upon to make a speech. somehow or other his mind reverted to the last speech he had made, so many, many years ago, when he had accepted the conductorship of the leipsic philharmonic orchestra. it seemed strange to him now, nearly twenty years later, that he should be called upon to speak on an almost similar occasion. then, too, there had been a banquet. he made a few remarks appropriate to the occasion and finally drank a toast to the standard of musical purity. this was pinac's opportunity. "no, no, von barwig!" he said, "we are not fit to drink such a toast! we are in the gutter. it is you, my friend, you alone of all these present, who does not sink himself to play for money at a _café_ on liberty street. to von barwig, the artist!" the rattle of plates, knives and forks attested the popularity of this sentiment; then fico began: "it is you only who keeps up the standard." more applause. "you are the standard bearer, the general. you lead; we follow," at which the clapping was vociferous. von barwig felt keenly the falsity of his position at that moment. he thought of the deception, the lie he was practising on them. he had sunk lower than they, far lower, for he was playing in a dime museum. he could not bear their praises; for he knew he did not deserve them. he inwardly determined to tell them the truth, but not at that moment, for he did not want to dampen their spirits. as the cognac and cigars were placed on the table miss husted rose grandly, and stated that the ladies would now withdraw; whereupon she and jenny left the room, proudly curtseying themselves out. "_la grande dame_!" said pinac as he bowed low to her. the men then talked over their prospects, their hopes, even getting so far as to discuss the opening programme. an idea occurred to von barwig, "why not open with his symphony?" the men almost cheered at the idea, so he unlocked the little trunk and took it out. there it was, covered with the dust of years and almost coffee-coloured. as he took it out of the trunk, something fell out from between the pages and dropped upon the floor. he picked it up, and his heart stood still for a moment as he glanced at it, for it was a miniature portrait of his wife. he thrust it hastily in his pocket and went on distributing the parts of the symphony. "you, the first violin, pinac," and he handed him his part. "for you, fico, the second violin. poons, the 'cello, of course," and the men hurried to get their instruments. chapter thirteen it was late the following morning when von barwig returned from his interview with van praag. all the details had been settled satisfactorily, and his three friends were to be engaged. von barwig had not yet left the museum; his sense of obligation to costello was too great to permit him to desert him without notice, so it was understood that he was to leave at the end of the week. how von barwig welcomed the thought of that saturday night, and it was only wednesday! when von barwig came in, the men were in his room practising their parts of the symphony. his arrival put an end to further work. they wanted to talk about their "grand new engagement," as pinac called it. von barwig produced some cigars that van praag had forced on him, and the men sat talking of their prospects, and smoking until the room looked like an inferno. while they were debating as to where they should dine that night, there was a knock at the door, and, von barwig hastened to open it. a somewhat portly, rather well-dressed, middle-aged individual entered. he was followed by another person, a tall, lantern-jawed man of the artisan type, who looked around defiantly as he came into the room. "does anton von barwig live here?" demanded the first comer. von barwig did not know the gentleman who made the inquiry. "why, it is schwarz! how do you do, mr. schwarz?" said pinac, coming forward and shaking hands with him, and he then introduced him to von barwig as mr. wolf schwarz, the secretary of the amalgamated musical association. mr. schwarz then introduced his companion as mr. ryan, the representative of the brickmakers' union. "shake hands with professor von barwig, mr. ryan," said schwarz. mr. ryan did so with such enthusiasm that von barwig was glad to withdraw his hand. mr. schwarz was an americanised german, far more american than the most dyed-in-the-wool, natural-born citizen of the united states. had any one called him a german, he would have repudiated the suggestion as an insult. he knew the american constitution backward, and he determined that others should know it, too. his demand for his rights as an american citizen was the predominating characteristic of his nature, for he was a born demagogue of the most pronounced type. it did not take mr. schwarz long to make clear the object of his visit. "you don't come to our rooms very much, von barwig," he said. von barwig pleaded stress of business as an excuse. "if you had," went on mr. schwarz, taking up the thread of his remarks without noticing von barwig's apology, "you'd know that van praag and those fellows up at harmony hall are on the black-list." "black-list?" said von barwig apprehensively. "mr. ryan here represents a delegation from the brickmakers' union," stated mr. schwarz, coughing and clearing his throat, thus indicating the importance of the statement that he was about to make. "well?" asked von barwig, who did not see the value of the information just furnished by mr. schwarz. "well," repeated mr. schwarz, "the brickmakers' union has just affiliated with our musical association." "music and bricks--affiliated!" the idea rather appealed to von barwig's sense of humour and he laughed. "music and bricks," he repeated, but this attempt at pleasantry did not meet with much response from mr. schwarz. that gentleman merely shrugged his shoulders while mr. ryan, the brickmakers' delegate, contented himself with squirting some tobacco juice into the adjacent fireplace and tilting his hat, which he had neglected to remove, over one eye, while he surveyed von barwig with an unpleasant stare from the other, thus indicating that he wanted no nonsense. "music and bricks," repeated von barwig, who evidently enjoyed the incongruity of the combination. then noticing that ryan was standing he said with a smile, "brother artist, be seated!" pinac and fico roared with laughter. mr. ryan sat down, mumbling to himself that that sort of sarcasm didn't go with him; he was a workman, not an artist. von barwig apologised and then, looking at schwarz, waited for him to speak. a very awkward pause ensued. "you've had an offer from the harmony hall concerts, under the management of van praag," stated schwarz. "yes," assented von barwig, who began to perceive for the first time that his visitors had come on a matter of more or less serious import. "well," began schwarz, "you've got to hold off for the present." "i do not understand," said von barwig. "you've got to throw up the job," broke in mr. ryan, emphasising the statement by allowing his walking stick to fall heavily on a pile of music which lay on the piano. von barwig looked at him but did not speak. "you can't go on," said schwarz. "not while scabs are working there," added mr. ryan sententiously. von barwig tried to speak but could not; words would not come. his heart had almost stopped beating. finally he managed to gasp, "what does it mean; all this?" "our association has been notified that van praag is having his new music hall built with non-union bricks, and----" "scabs," broke in mr. ryan, once more banging the inoffensive music with his stick. "scabs! we called out our men and they put in scab carpenters. the carpenters went out and the plumbers have gone out; they've all gone out, and now it's only fair--that--you should go out. stick together and we'll win; in other words, 'united we stand, divided we fall.' am i right, schwarz?" mr. schwarz did not commit himself as to the merits of the case; he was not there for that purpose. he was there to carry out the wishes of the association, so he merely contented himself with saying that the musicians would undoubtedly have to go out under the term of the affiliation. "music and bricks has got to stand by each other," said mr. ryan, unconsciously quoting von barwig. "they've got to, or there'll be no music; and no bricks." music and bricks, then, was no longer a joke. it was a reality, a dreadful impossibility that had become true; and von barwig's heart sank as he looked at his friends, and saw by their faces that they, too, realised what it meant. they were in the midst of a sympathetic strike; the question of the right or wrong of it did not appear. it was immaterial; right or wrong, they must go out because others went; those were the orders from headquarters. "of course, von barwig, you'll stand for whatever the amalgamated stands for?" said schwarz. "you'll resign until the matter is settled, i presume?" queried mr. ryan. von barwig shook his head. a faint "no" issued from his throat, which had literally dried up from fear; the fear of losing the happiness he had had just now, the fear of going back to that dreaded night-drudgery again. all their hopes were shattered, their anticipations were not to be realised. "of course--i--i am of the union. i stand by the union--of course. i--but it's--it's hard!" then with an effort, "it will not last long, eh?" "no," said mr. ryan, "it won't last a month! we'll put them out of business if it does. they'll weaken, mr. barwig, you'll see! they'll weaken all right." the ashen appearance of von barwig's face, the abject despair he saw depicted there aroused the man's sympathy. "it won't be long, mr. barwig," he repeated in a softened voice. "i know it's hard, but what are we to do? if we don't stand together, we'll be swamped." "that's right," said schwarz. "it ain't sympathy; it's self-defence, barwig," declared mr. ryan, uttering what he thought was a great truth. "yes, yes," muttered von barwig. hope had gone completely from him now. "self-defence," he repeated, and then he laughed bitterly. "the art of music progresses. wagner should be glad that he is dead." "wagner? who is wagner?" inquired mr. ryan. "no one, no one!" replied von barwig, shaking his head, "he did not belong to the union----" "then he's a scab," remarked mr. ryan. von barwig looked at him and burst out laughing, the laughter of despair. pinac and fico looked at each other. von barwig's laugh grated harshly on their ears; they did not like to see their beloved friend act in that manner. pinac touched him gently on the arm and looked appealingly at him. von barwig nodded, then rising from his chair, with his habitual gentleness, suggested that the interview was at an end. messrs. schwarz and ryan bowed themselves out and the four friends were left there alone with their misery. von barwig turned to his friends. it was for them that his heart bled, for they had resigned their positions at his request. for the first time since their friendship he had been the cause of misfortune coming to them. he felt it more than all the disappointments that he had experienced during his stay in america. "i am accursed," he thought, "doomed always to disappointments, and i am now a curse to others, to those i love." he tried to tell them how grieved he was at their misfortune, but they would not allow him to apologise, so he sat down in his old armchair and tried to smoke, but he could not. his heart was as heavy as lead. they saw this and they felt for him; they felt his sufferings more than they did their own. "we have resign from the _café_, yes, but we are glad, damn glad," said pinac, lying like a true gallic gentleman. "von barwig, i tell you we are deuced damn glad," he repeated with emphasis. von barwig silently shook his hand and smiled. "i said to hell with the _café_--i say it now!" ejaculated fico. "the _café_ to hell, and many of him!" "my beautiful 'cello is wasted in that food hole," said poons to von barwig in german, then he laughed and told him a funny story that he had read that day in the _fliegende blätter_. he did his best to make the old man laugh with him, but von barwig only smiled sadly. he did not speak; his heart was too heavy. "it won't last long! you see, it won't last long!" said pinac, again trying to comfort him. "come, boys, we go upstairs and play. we play for you, anton, eh?" von barwig made no reply. the men looked at each other significantly and tried to cheer him up by striking up a song and marching around the room; but they saw that the iron had entered deep, deep into his soul, and that he was thoroughly disheartened. "come! we go and play; perhaps that will arouse him," whispered pinac to the others. and they marched out of the room singing the refrain of one of the student glees that von barwig had taught them. [illustration: beverly brings hélène a wedding gift.] von barwig sat there quite still for a long time. his thoughts were formless. in a chaotic way he realised that he had played the game of life and had lost; he seemed to feel instinctively that the end had come. he had the museum to go to, that could supply his daily needs, but he was tired, oh, so tired of the struggle. there was nothing to look forward to--nothing, nothing. he arose with a deep, deep sigh. "i am tired," he said to himself, "tired out completely. i am like an old broken-down violin that can no longer emit a sound. my heart is gone; there is no sounding post; i am finished. i have been finished a long time, only i did not know it." he arose slowly from his chair and took his pipe off the mantelpiece. as he slowly filled it his eyes lighted on a wooden baton that lay on the mantelpiece. he took it up and looked at it. it was the baton with which he conducted his last symphony. he smiled and shook his head. "i am through; thoroughly and completely through," and he broke the conductor's wand in pieces and threw them into the fire. "that finishes me!" he said. "i am snapped; broken in little bits. i did not ask to live, but now,--now, i ask to die! to die, that is all i ask, to die." he took out the little miniature of his wife and looked at it long and tenderly. "elene, elene! my wife, where are you? if you knew what i go through you would come to me! give me the sign i wait for so long, that i may find you." he listened, but no answer came; then a new thought came to him. "i go back home, home; for here i am a stranger; they do not know me. the way is long, so long--" and then he started, for he heard the strains of the second movement of his symphony which was being played in the room above. it brought him back to himself, and he listened--listened as one who hears a voice from the dead. it seemed to him that the requiem of all his hopes was being played. he was still looking at the picture of his wife when jenny entered. she had come to fetch the lamp, to fill it with oil. the short winter afternoon was drawing to a close and the dusk was deepening into darkness. the red rays of the setting sun came in through the window and as it bathed him in its crimson glow it made a sort of a halo around the old man's head. jenny gazed at him for a long time and was surprised that he did not speak; but von barwig was not conscious of her presence. she looked at him more closely and saw the tears in his eyes; then she came over to him and nestled closely by his side. in a moment her woman's instinct divined his need of sympathy and her heart went out to him. "don't look like that," she pleaded, "i can't bear to see it! i've always known that something troubled you, that you've something to bear that you've kept back from us. tell me, tell me! don't keep it to yourself, it's eating your heart out. you know i love you; don't--don't keep it back," and she placed her arm around his neck and wept as if her heart would break. her action brought von barwig to himself and he patted her gently on the back. "why, jenny, my little jenny! yes, i know you love me, and i--i tell you. yes, jenny, i tell you----" jenny nestled closer to him; it was a sorrowful moment for the old man, and he needed some one to lead him into the light. slowly, slowly, but surely the young girl led him out of his mental chaos. his heart had been perilously near the breaking point, but he could think more calmly now. "i--when--i came over to this country i--i looked for some one that i never found. i have--no luck, jenny, no luck," he said in a broken voice, "and i bring no luck to others." he paused and then went on: "i stay here no longer, jenny. i go back; it's better! yes, i go back to my own country." "oh, no, don't go back!" pleaded the girl. "yes, i go; i must go," the old man said. she clung tightly to him now, as if she would not let him go. he smiled at her but shook his head. "it is better," he said gravely, "far better. i cannot trust myself here alone; it is too much alone! i love you all, but i am alone. there is an aching void which must be filled. i cannot trust myself alone any longer." she did not understand him, nor did she inquire of him his meaning. she only clung to him, as if determined not to lose him. "when you are married, jenny," he went on, "i shall not be here. but keep well to the house, love your husband, stay at home. don't search here, there, everywhere for excitement! the real happiness for the mother is always in the home; always, always! one imprudent step and the mother's happiness goes, and the father's, too," he added pathetically. "whose picture is that?" asked jenny, as she caught sight of the miniature in von barwig's hand. "the mother, my wife;" he said in a low, sad voice. "ah!" and jenny looked closely at the picture. "the mother who loved not the home, and from that's come all the sorrow! she loved not the home." von barwig's words came quickly now, and were interspersed with dry, inarticulate sobs. "the mother of my little girl, for whose memory i love you. ah, keep to the home, jenny, for god's sake! always the home!" jenny nodded. "where are they?" she asked, pointing to the portrait. "ah, where are they?" he almost sobbed. "for sixteen years i have not seen my own flesh and blood! he, my friend who did this to me, robbed me of them, and took them far, far away from me. i mustn't say more!" jenny understood; she no longer looked tenderly at the portrait. she pointed to it almost in horror. "she was not a good woman?" von barwig was shocked. here was the verdict of the world, through the mouth of a child. he had never thought of his wife as bad. "she was a good woman; not bad, not bad! no, no, jenny! i thought of nothing but my art, of music, of fame, fortune. one night, the night of the big concert, when i came home she had gone and she had taken with her my little hélène. it was the night that symphony was played. listen, you hear, you hear? it's the second movement. it was a wonderful success, but ah, jenny, that night i won the world's applause, but i lost my own soul!" the strains of the music came through the open door. jenny looked at him. he was listening eagerly now. in the red glow of the late afternoon sun his eyes sparkled with unnatural excitement. "it takes me home," he said, and then he looked at the picture. "not bad; oh, no, jenny; she is not bad!" jenny shook her head. she hated the woman from that moment. "she is bad," she thought, "or how could she have done it?" but she did not speak, and the old man went on: "i am not angry! no, mein gott, no! i only want my little girl. anything to have her back, my baby, my little baby girl, gone these sixteen years! my little baby!" "yes, but she wouldn't be a baby now," broke in jenny. von barwig, about to speak, stopped suddenly. "of course not; i never thought of that!" then he shook his head violently. "i cannot think of her as anything but a baby!" "yes, but she'd be a grown-up young lady," insisted jenny. "how old was she when you--when she--when you left her." "three years and two months," said von barwig softly. "then she'd be nineteen," said jenny, "just my age; big, grown-up young lady." "she is my little baby," repeated von barwig plaintively. "i can see her now so plainly; always playing with her little doll--the doll with one eye out. that was the doll she loved, jenny; the doll she had when i last saw her." the old man was calm now. the idea that the girl was a grown-up young woman, although obvious enough, changed his train of thought. for the moment it took his attention from the immediate cause of his unhappiness, and brought his imagination into play. "a grown-up young lady!" he mused. "yes, of course! but i can't see her as grown up; i can't see her, jenny. i can only remember her as a wee tot walking around with her one-eyed doll; the eye she kicked out! i remember that so well." in spite of his misery, the old man laughed aloud as he recalled the circumstance that led up to the loss of the eye. the consternation in the face of the child as she handed him the piece of broken eye had made him laugh; and he laughed now hysterically as he recalled the incident. jenny seeing him laugh, laughed too. "thank god he can still laugh," she thought. "ah, well!" he went on, drawing a deep breath. "they are gone, and i--look no more. my search is over, jenny, over and done. but i go back; i see once more my leipsic. there they know me! here i am an outcast, a beggar." jenny could only shake her head and look at him helplessly. she realised that any effort she might make to influence him to change his plans would be useless; and more and more did she hate the woman who had been the cause of all his misery, the woman whose portrait he looked at so lovingly. "a beggar," von barwig repeated to himself. "yes, that's it! i can fall no lower, i give up!" the fortune of the broken-spirited, broken-hearted old man was now at its lowest ebb; and he gave up the fight. there was a long silence. jenny was thinking hard. what could she say or do; how could she help him? a knock at the door broke the stillness, which had become almost oppressive. chapter fourteen "come in," said von barwig wearily. he barely looked at the door as it opened. in the ordinary course of events it was likely to be the laundry boy, or thurza with coal, or one of the musicians who lived in the house, or perhaps a collector. it might have been almost any one but the liveried footman who now stood at the door, hat in hand, with a look of inquiry upon his face. von barwig stared at the man in astonishment. liveries in houston street were most uncommon. "excuse me, sir, i am looking for a mr. von barwig," he said. "i was directed to come here. is this the right place, sir?" the man's manner was polite enough, but there was a decided attitude of superiority in his somewhat supercilious tone. jenny made her escape hastily. von barwig could not collect his thoughts. he simply looked at the man and made no reply. "he's a music master in the neighbourhood, i believe, sir," went on the servant. "a music master," he repeated. "yes, he was; but he is no more," said von barwig, who now realised that the man wanted to find him. "dead, sir?" "no, i am mr. von barwig. i teach, but i give up. you hear? i have finished; i give up, i give up!" he repeated in a voice quivering with emotion as he walked up to the window. there was such utter pathos in the old man's bearing that it caused even the footman to turn and look at the speaker more closely. there was a pause; the servant appeared uncertain what to do. "did you find him, joles?" asked some one coming into the room. the voice was that of a young lady, who was accompanied by a little boy carrying a violin case. at the sound of her voice von barwig started as if he had been shot, and with a half articulate cry he turned and gazed in the direction from whence the voice came. he saw in the dim twilight, for the sun had now nearly gone down, the half-blurred vision of a young lady dressed in the height of fashion. her features he could not distinguish, as her back was to the window, but he could see that she was a handsome young woman of about twenty years of age. as von barwig turned toward her she looked at her note-book and asked if he were herr von barwig. the old man bowed, tried to speak, but could not. his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. he pointed to a chair, and indicated that she should be seated. she noticed his embarrassment and addressed the servant. "you had better wait for me downstairs, joles," she said quickly. then as the man closed the door behind him she turned to von barwig, and spoke in a rich, warm, contralto voice that vibrated with youth and health. "you teach music, do you not? at least they said you did!" von barwig swallowed a huge lump in his throat. "i did, but--not now; i have given up." she looked at him but did not seem to understand. "lieber gott, lieber gott!" broke from him in spite of his efforts to suppress himself. "elene, elene!" then he looked more closely at her and shook his head. "so you are not teaching any longer? ah, what a pity!" she said. "they speak so well of you in the neighbourhood. perhaps i may be able to induce you to change your mind!" von barwig was now slowly gaining mastery over himself. "perhaps," he said, with a great effort at self-control. "you do not know me, herr von barwig?" the old man's eyes glowed like live coals. "elene, elene!" he murmured. "the living image! lieber gott, the living image!" "i am miss hélène stanton," she said with unconscious dignity. "you may have heard of me," she added with a smile. miss stanton's name was a household word in new york, especially in that quarter of the city where her large charities had done so much to alleviate the sufferings of the poor. von barwig had heard the name many times, but at that moment he did not recognise it, although it was the name of the greatest heiress in new york. his ear caught the word "hélène" and he could only repeat it over and over again. "elene, elene!" "hélène," corrected miss stanton. "ah, in my language it is elene; yes, elene!" then a great hope took possession of him. "some one has sent you to me?" he asked. "some one has sent you?" "not exactly," she replied, "but you were well recommended." the old man's manner, his emotion, his earnestness, somewhat embarrassed her. "why does he look at me so earnestly?" she thought. perhaps it was a mannerism peculiar to a man of his years. then she went on: "i am connected with mission work in the neighbourhood here. i go among the poor a great deal--" "ah, charity!" he said. "yes." and then he went up to the window and pulled up the blinds as far as they would go that he might get more of the fast-fading light. "i saw you a few days ago at schumein's, the music publishers, and your name was suggested to me by one of the young ladies at the mission as music master." "ah, you desire to take lessons?" he asked eagerly. miss stanton smiled. "no, the child. come here, danny," and the boy came toward her. von barwig had seen no one but her. the little boy had remained in the corner of the room, where the shadow of evening made it too dark to distinguish the outline of his form. "ah, the boy?" he said with a tone or disappointment in his voice. "not you, the boy? he needs instruction?" then he looked at her again. it was too dark for him to see the colour of her eyes. he went to the door. "jenny," he called, only he pronounced it "chenny"; "a lamp if you please." "how courteous and dignified his manner is!" thought miss stanton, "even in the most commonplace and trivial details of life a man's breeding shows itself." "we think the boy is a genius," she said aloud, "but his parents are very poor and cannot afford to pay for his tuition." "it is a poor neighbourhood," said von barwig, "but there will be no charge. i will teach him for--for you!" he had already forgotten that he had decided to take no more pupils. "i have taken charge of his future," said miss stanton pointedly; "and of course shall defray all the expense of his tuition myself. i have the consent of his parents----" jenny came in with a large lamp and placed it on the piano. von barwig could now see his visitor's face, and his heart beat rapidly. "tell me," he said, forcing himself to be calm, "your father and mother? are they----?" miss stanton drew herself up slightly. "i am speaking of his parents," she said. "yes, his parents, of course! yes, but your father--your mother," he asked insistently. "is she--is she--living?" the deep earnestness and anxiety with which von barwig put this question made it clear to miss stanton that it was not merely idle curiosity that prompted him to ask, so stifling her first impulse to ignore the question altogether she replied rather abruptly: "no, she is not living." then she added formally, "but that is quite apart from the subject we are discussing." von barwig did not hear the latter part of her answer. his eyes were riveted on her. he could only repeat, "dead--dead." then he looked at her and slowly shook his head in mournful tenderness, repeating the words, "dead--dead." to her own surprise miss stanton did not resent this sympathy. "i take an especial interest in this boy because his sister is one of the maids in my father's home," she began. von barwig's face fell. "ah," he said, "you have a father. fool that i am," he went on. "yes, of course; you have a father, and it is not----" at this point miss stanton made up her mind that herr von barwig did not understand english quite as well as he spoke it, for she repeated rather sharply this time that she was discussing the boy's musical education, not her own. then she added that there remained only the question of terms to discuss and she would detain him no longer. von barwig did not hear her. he could only mutter to himself in german, "a father, she has a father!" then he told the boy to call the next afternoon and he would hear him play. the lad thanked him and went home to his parents. after the boy's departure, miss stanton repeated her request to be allowed to discuss the terms for the boy's tuition; and when the music master made no response she said: "very well; whatever your charges are i will pay them." "there will be none," said von barwig decidedly. "but i wish to defray the entire expense," said miss stanton, greatly mystified at von barwig's refusal to receive payment for his work. "i cannot take money from you," he said. "cannot take money from me? i do not understand you!" and miss stanton arose. "please explain." there was an awkward pause. von barwig saw that he had made a mistake. "i like to help all children," he said somewhat lamely. "you are engaged in work of charity; i do my share," he added. the explanation only partially satisfied her, and she regarded him doubtfully. von barwig realised now that he had shown himself over-anxious. "i do something for him, i shall take an interest in him," he said, "because you brought him here." "what a strange man!" she thought as she looked at him in surprise. "a poor, struggling musician with the air and grace of a nobleman conferring a favour on a lady of his own class!" then she looked around the studio with its old-fashioned piano and the stacks of old music lying about here and there; a violin with one or two bows and resin boxes in the corner, some music stands, poons's 'cello case, a broken metronome; and on the walls some cheap pictures of the old musicians. in a fit of generosity, miss husted had bought them and put them on the walls. von barwig had not the heart to remove them, although cheap art did not appeal to him. miss stanton looked at them now, and then at him, and a deep feeling of pity came into her heart. "he has so little," she thought, "yet he is willing to give; and he gives with the air of a prince!" "i cannot allow you to--to--" she began. "you are not rich, and yet you wish to teach for nothing. surely your time is--is valuable----" "i have more than i need," he replied with quiet dignity. the heiress to twenty-five millions felt the rebuff and she liked him all the more for it, but she would not accept his offer without an effort to prevent the sacrifice. "why should you sacrifice yourself?" she asked. "it is no sacrifice to--ah--please, please! put it down to the whim of an old man--what you will; but don't deny me this pleasure! don't, please!" his pleading look disarmed her and she gave up trying to dissuade him. "very well," she said. "it shall be as you wish." she could not help liking him, she said to herself. his manner, at first a little embarrassing, now interested her strangely. he reminded her of a german nobleman she had met in washington at the german embassy. his grace, his bearing, his whole demeanour was noble and dignified in the extreme. under ordinary circumstances, she would have regarded his offer to teach her little charge for nothing as a gross breach of politeness, but with him she did not feel angry in the least. "it's curious," she said, "i came here with a good object in view; and you calmly appropriate my good intentions and make them your own, and what is still more strange i allow you to do so." "ah, don't say that!" still the tearful, pleading voice that moved her so. "yes, i allow you to do so," she persisted, and then she added, "do you know, herr barwig, i like you, in spite of a strong temptation to be very angry with you?" she had now moved around to the piano. "you know," she said enthusiastically, "i love music and musical people. some of the very greatest artists come to my father's musicales." "my father," the words made von barwig's heart sink. "my father!" she sat down at the piano; he raised the lamp and looked into her eyes, and as he stood there with the lamp uplifted she looked into his face. "of whom do you remind me?" she said quickly. "don't move----" there was a deep silence. the old man could hear his heart beat. "of whom, of whom?" he gasped. "go on; tell me! try to remember! for god's sake try to remember!" "there, now, it's gone!" she said. "i can't think," she added after a pause, greatly surprised at his look. "you know somehow or other i always feel at home with musicians. what a busy little studio this is," she went on, looking around. "you're quite successful, aren't you?" von barwig nodded. "it must be very gratifying to earn a lot of money through your own efforts; not for the mere money, but for the success. i'm glad you're successful!" she said with such feeling that it surprised even herself. "why?" asked von barwig. "why are you glad?" "i don't know. i suppose--" she paused. she did not like to say it was because she had thought he was very poor and was delighted to find that he was not; so she said it was because of his kindness to the boy, "and because i--i love music," she added. "you play?" he inquired. "a little." "play for me." the words came almost unbidden. it was an impulse to which he responded because he could not help it. "play for me," he pleaded. she ran her hands idly over the keys. "i ought to be angry," she thought, "he, a mere music master, to ask me to play for him as if he were an equal." but the gentle expression on the old man's face as he regarded her with a tender smile was so full of hallowed affection and respect that she could not utter the words which came to her lips. she merely looked at him and returned his smile with one of her own and heaven opened for the old man. she began to play. "you know i play very little," she said. "i love to hear music from your fingers," was all he could say. miss stanton listened a moment. "what music is that?" she heard the men upstairs playing. "it's very pretty," she added. they both listened for a few moments. "it's really beautiful! can i get it? i'd like to know that melody." "i make for you a piano score. it's the music they played the night that she, that she--" his breath came quickly. "lieber gott! elene; so like elene, so like!" he said, as he gazed at her. miss stanton took off her gloves and began to play. she had hardly struck the opening chords of a simple pianoforte piece when there came a knock at the door. before von barwig could speak a man entered. she stopped playing and von barwig's heart sank as he recognised the collector for the pianoforte house. "i am engaged, sir. if you please, another time!" "i've called for the piano," said the man, taking some papers out of his pocket. "another time, for god's sake!" pleaded von barwig. "please go on, miss stanton." "i want the piano or the money," said the man automatically. "i have not--now. to-morrow i will call." "the money or the piano is my instructions," said the collector. von barwig stood as if stricken dumb. the shame, the degradation were too great. he appealed to the man with outstretched hands. tears were in his eyes, but the man did not look at him; he went into the hall, opened the front door, and yelled out, "come on, bill----" miss stanton arose from the piano and walked over to the window. "it is a very busy view from here, isn't it?" she said; "gracious, how crowded the streets are!" poor von barwig's cup of misery was now full. she had been a witness of his poverty. his lies about his success and his pupils were all laid bare to her; he was disgraced forever in her eyes. he had lied to her, and she had found him out. the collector came back with the men and the process of moving the piano began. von barwig's sense of humour came to his rescue. "thank heaven they are taking that box of discords away at last! what a piano! did you notice it, miss stanton?" miss stanton had noticed it, and nodded, "i did indeed," she said. "not one note in harmonious relationship with another," went on von barwig, trying to smile as they upset his music on the floor. "not a sharp or a flat that is on good terms with his neighbour." the only reply the piano mover made was to drop one of the piano legs heavily on the floor, making the dust fly. "the black and white keys forever at war with each other," said von barwig, forcing a laugh, in which his visitor joined. seeing her merriment, von barwig began to recover his spirits. "the next time you call, miss stanton," he said, "i will have here an instrument that shall contain at least a faint suggestion of music. in the meantime i am most thankful that i have no longer to listen to a piano that sounds like a banjo." the whole situation appealed forcefully to miss stanton's sense of humour, and she thoroughly enjoyed the old man's jesting. "if he can rise above a condition like that," she thought, "he must be a splendid man." she longed to comfort, to help him; but how? as the men finally took out the piano, von barwig pretended to breathe a sigh of relief. "i'm glad it's gone," he said, "you can't tell what a relief!" he laughed, but his laugh did not deceive her; her musical ear recognised its artificiality in a moment. she could feel rather than see he was suffering, and she felt for him. they were left standing alone together. the room looked quite empty without the piano; it was like the breaking up of a home. neither of them spoke for a moment, and von barwig could see that she had found him out again. "what an awful liar she must think i am," thought he. "poor, dear old man trying to conceal his poverty," thought she. then an idea came to her. "i want you to come and see me, herr von barwig," she said. "i am going to take up piano study again, and i want you to help me. i shall be at home to-morrow afternoon at three. of course you must be very busy, but if you have no other engagement will you call?" "i will call, madam. i--i am--not engaged at that hour," said von barwig gratefully, as he bowed to her. miss stanton acknowledged the bow. "you won't find me a very apt pupil, but you'll take me, won't you? do, please take me!" the old man could not speak; too many conflicting thoughts were working in his mind. "take her! good god--" the very idea overwhelmed him. "you will take me, won't you?" she urged gently. he took the card, and nodded. he dared not trust himself to speak; he would have broken down and he knew it. "good-bye!" she said. "good-bye; it's getting so late, i must go!" she held out her hand. he took it and kissed it reverently, bowing his head as if she were a queen. "good-bye," she said again at the hall door. "don't forget!" she added, as she waved her hand from the carriage window. joles slammed the door shut and got on the box, and she was driven away. the old man watched the carriage until it was out of sight, returning to his room in a dream. he could not realise or explain his feelings. he had been happy, perfectly happy; that was all he knew. he had been at rest, contented, satisfied for a few brief moments, and that glimpse of heaven had put new, strange thoughts into his life--thoughts that made his blood pulsate. he recognised that life had taken on a new aspect; how or why he knew not. a strange young lady had called upon him, and had left a card; he was to see her again, and his whole life was changed. this was the only point that was clear to him, that his life had changed. how long he sat there, trying to think it out and understand, he knew not. the old crack-faced clock, with one hand, that miss husted had put on the mantelpiece, struck the hour with its old cracked bell, and it startled him. he had heard it hundreds of times, but now its weird, metallic tone jarred on the harmony of his feelings. he counted the strokes; five, six, seven, eight. eight o'clock! he started up, for his dream had come to an end, and he came back to earth again, back into the world of houston street, back to the bowery, to costello, to the museum, to his nightly labour for his daily bread. mechanically he changed his velvet jacket for his street dress, and hastily put on his cape coat and hat. "no, it's not a dream!" he told himself, as he read the card she had given him. "miss hélène stanton, fifth avenue and fifty-seventh street." he put the card carefully in his pocket-book and placing his violin case under his arm started to go out. then remembering that the lamp was still burning, he went back and carefully turned it out. "fifth avenue, and fifty-seventh street," he said to himself; "to-morrow at three, to-morrow at three." he went into the street and the noise and bustle of the bowery jarred upon his sensitive ear. "to-morrow at three," he joyfully sang to himself. "to-morrow at three!" but high above the din and rattle of traffic and street noises, high above von barwig's song, rang out costello's voice as if to drown his happiness. "eat 'em alive," it said. "eat 'em alive; eat 'em alive!" von barwig heard it; shuddered, and sang no more. "eat 'em alive," he muttered mournfully to himself. "eat 'em alive--eat 'em alive." chapter fifteen von barwig arose at daybreak, for a great hope had come to him. at last life held out a promise; of what he knew not. he only knew that he experienced a sensation of joy, and his great, loving heart throbbed in response. his cheerfulness communicated itself to his friends upstairs, for they came into his room and insisted on his accompanying them to breakfast at galazatti's. they were all in high spirits. pinac and fico were determined to let him see that the loss of their positions had not caused them any uneasiness. "bah! we get the engagement back again," laughed fico. pinac snapped his fingers. "the _café_! pouf, pouf, pouf!" poons grinned amiably. he had been warned by the others, notably by pinac in very bad german, not to let von barwig see that they felt down in the mouth. he kept a smile on his face when he thought of it, and was exceedingly sorrowful when he didn't; so the expression on his face altered from time to time, much to von barwig's astonishment. once, during breakfast, pinac heard poons sigh and kicked him under the table, whereupon he immediately grinned. von barwig saw this lightning change and wondered what was the matter. "are you in pain?" he asked. "no," replied poons, trying to smile, but only succeeding in grinning. then he laughed with real tears in his eyes. "are you laughing or crying?" asked von barwig. "if you are laughing, please cry; and if you are crying, for heaven's sake laugh." poons nodded. "i am very happy," he said tearfully, "so happy." "then you don't know how to show it," commented von barwig; whereupon they all laughed at him until he laughed too, in spite of himself. they joked all through the breakfast. so noisy were they that they attracted the attention of galazatti, the proprietor or the _café_, who came over to the four friends and shook hands with them. he had served them for many years, and he was glad to see them enjoy themselves. "how is the good lady of your house?" he asked. "miss husted is at the top of the notch," replied pinac, who generally constituted himself spokesman for the party. "we are all top of the notch," he added, "eh, poonsie?" slapping the young man on the back. "what a strange thing is this human existence!" thought von barwig, as he left his friends and walked back to his studio alone. "here i am in the middle of houston street, giving music instructions for fifty cents per lesson, playing out nights in a dime museum, and yet my heart, my mind is with this daughter of a great millionaire. to-day at three i shall be with her, and i can think of nothing else. what is she to me that i should care so much? a chance likeness, perhaps no likeness at all except that which exists in my brain! am i mad? is this world of shadows real? what does it all mean? who will tear the veil from this mystery, and tell me why one human being is so much more to us than another, why one human being so resembles another, and yet is not that one?" from time to time he looked at the clock wishing the time would pass more quickly. he brushed his clothes very carefully that morning. the frock coat he had worn for a dozen years now proved its claim to being made of the finest texture, for it responded splendidly to the brush, and gave up most of its spots; but it still retained its shine. when he had put on a clean collar and cuffs and his best white dress shirt, von barwig looked at himself in the glass. "if only this shine on my coat were transferred to my boots, what a happy transformation!" thought von barwig. "still, if that button on my sleeve is transferred to my coat, it will restore the balance of harmony," so jenny's services were called into requisition. "where are you going this morning?" she asked as she stitched on the button. "to a new pupil," replied von barwig as carelessly as he could, though his heart fairly bumped as he spoke. he did not like to speak of his visitor of yesterday afternoon to others. it was too sacred a subject to be mentioned in houston street. "the young lady that came yesterday?" inquired jenny, but von barwig made no reply. jenny looked at him closely; his silence chilled her. there was an imperceptible change in him, she thought. she could not say exactly what it was, but it seemed to her that when his eyes rested on her it was no longer with the same glance of lingering affection that he had always bestowed on her. now he barely glanced at her, and his eyes did not rest on her for a moment. the girl's sensitive nature made her conscious that he did not think of her when he spoke to her. "what's her name?" asked jenny, after a long pause, during which von barwig put on his cape coat. once more he did not appear to hear her, and jenny repeated the question. "what's her name, herr von barwig?" this time she spoke with directness. "i beg your pardon," said von barwig, with unconscious dignity. it was the old leipsic conductor that spoke, and there was such unbending sternness and severity in the tone of his voice, such coldness in his eye, that jenny shrank back and looked at him as if he had struck her. "oh, herr von barwig," she gasped, and burst into tears. "jenny, jenny, my little jenny! what is it, what did i say?" he asked in genuine distress. his thoughts had been miles away. "i didn't mean to--to--be--rude," she sobbed. "i--i only--you looked so--so happy! i--wanted to know." "come, come!" he said, taking her in his arms, and patting her affectionately on the cheek. "don't cry! i meant nothing, my child; only i did not want to speak of matters that--that you could not understand. come, it is two o'clock, and i must go," and he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. "you are all right now, eh?" he said, as she smiled. "forgive me, won't you?" asked jenny, who was now comforted. he still loved her; that was all she asked. as he walked up third avenue and turned into union square, he went into a florist's. "a bunch of violets, please," he said, and the young man tied up a very small quantity of violets with a very large silk tassel and a lot of green leaves, tin foil, oil paper and wire; putting the whole into a box, which he carefully tied up with more ribbon. "what a ceremony over a few violets!" thought von barwig, as he laid a twenty-five cent piece on the counter. "one dollar, please," said the young man, surveying the quarter with a somewhat pitying smile. von barwig's heart sank. he had forgotten that it was winter, that flowers were expensive, that coloured cardboard and tin foil and ribbon cost money, too. he searched his pockets and found the necessary dollar, but it was within a few cents of all he had. "they are not too good for her," thought von barwig as he carried the box away. he walked up broadway into fifth avenue, and stopped at the corner of fifty-seventh street. the number he sought was inscribed on the door of a large brownstone mansion with a most imposing entrance, one of those palatial residences that cover the space of four ordinary houses and stamp its owner as a multi-millionaire. as he nervously pulled the bell, he upbraided himself for having dared to think that she was like his child. it was a trick of the fading light, an optical illusion. his reflection was cut short, for the door was opened by a man-servant. "have you a card?" inquired the footman, as von barwig asked for miss stanton. the old man shook his head. "herr von barwig is the name; i have an appointment." "you can wait in there; i'll see if miss stanton is in," said the flunky, as he turned on his heel. such nondescript visitors were most unusual. "an old person without a card, mr. joles," he confided to that individual below stairs; "name barkwick or something, says he has an appointment. quite genteel, but--" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly. joles made no reply, but went up to interview mr. "barkwick." the stantons had so many applications from persons who needed charity for themselves or others that the standing order had gone forth to admit no stranger, under any pretext, unless of course he had complete credentials. herr von barwig was standing in the reception-room, hat in hand, when joles entered. "no card, eh? ah--um--dear me," and mr. joles rubbed his chin in a perplexed way. he looked around, none of the pictures were missing, nor had the statuary been removed. but denning shouldn't have asked the stranger into the reception-room. von barwig ventured to say that he had an appointment. mr. joles nodded. "oh, you have an appointment! written?" "no," replied von barwig. "oh, verbal? at what hour?" questioned mr. joles. "three," answered von barwig. "are you quite sure?" inquired mr. joles doubtfully. "i have received no orders." von barwig remained silent. what could he say? the man evidently doubted his word. "if you will please tell her," he said gently. "i am not at all sure that miss stanton is in," said mr. joles, and he stood there as if in doubt as to how to proceed. but any further question as to miss stanton's being in or out was settled by the young lady herself, who dashed into the room in evident haste. "i beg your pardon, herr von barwig; i forgot to leave word that you were coming! forgive me, won't you?" and she held out her hand to him in such a friendly manner that it drew from the servant a faint apology. "i beg your pardon, sir," he began. "it's all right, joles," said miss stanton, cutting him rather short. she evidently did not value that gentleman's explanations very highly, and took it for granted that herr von barwig didn't care to hear them. joles bowed and left the room. "well! i'm right glad to see you. it's a long way up town, isn't it?" von barwig nodded. he could not speak; he could only look at her. "for me?" she asked as he held out the box of violets. "oh, how kind, how thoughtful!" she murmured, as he bowed in response to her question. she opened the box. "violets in winter are a luxury, you know!" von barwig smiled with pleasure; he was almost too happy. "i congratulate myself on having pleased you," he managed to say. "now do sit down and talk to me!" she said, placing a chair for him and almost pushing him into it. he looked rather perplexed. "i thought," he began. "you surely didn't expect me to take a lesson to-day, did you?" she said, and then she went on: "oh dear me, no; not to-day! to-morrow. besides, my music room is upstairs; this is not my part of the house at all. how about the little boy? when does he begin? do you think he has talent?" von barwig looked bewildered. he had not only forgotten the appointment he had made with the boy to hear him play, but he had forgotten his very existence. "i--it is not settled," he faltered. "to-morrow perhaps. yes, to-morrow, he will call and then i will let you know." "oh, i thought you were to hear him to-day! i was rather anxious to know what you thought." von barwig felt quite guilty. "do you know i've been thinking of you quite a great deal," she said. "you are too kind," he replied in a low voice. miss stanton was evidently in a very communicative frame of mind, for from that moment she talked rapidly on current musical topics. she knew the latest operas, and loved the spirit of unrest, the unsettled minor chords of the new school of music; preferred the _leit motif_ to the _aria_, music drama to opera, and was altogether exceedingly modern in her tastes. she did not like recitative in music, and preferred wagner and tschaikowsky to bach and verdi. she loved to be stirred up, she said. she liked beethoven, yes, but he was too mathematical. as for handel, he was uninteresting in the extreme; and so she went on and on. the old man could only gaze at her in silence. there she sat, the living image of his dead wife, talking musical matters in a foreign tongue; an absolute stranger to him, and yet he felt drawn toward her in a strange and unusual way. who was she? what was she? had the dead come to life? what had happened? he could only look at her, and feel so very, very happy. what did it all mean? "how is your father?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation, brought about by miss stanton's pausing to breathe. her face fell. "he is in europe," she said, and did not continue the subject. von barwig noticed that her face saddened when she spoke of her father's absence. "she must love him very much," he thought, and the thought brought him to his senses. "don't be a fool, barwig," he said to himself. "her father is a multi-millionaire, one of the great men of the country. her mother is dead, and you must content yourself with having dreamed that she was yours. you must not look at her, you understand? don't look at her, or she will suspect what you think and you will be turned away. you have had your dream. now wake up, wake up!" it was time for him to awaken, for she was asking him if he thought that musical genius was allied to madness. "i--i don't know," he replied. "i am not a genius!" "will you play for me?" he said, to hide his confusion. "not now," she replied. "i have an engagement. come to-morrow at this hour. i'll leave word this time," she added with a smile. "mr. stanton is so particular about callers that no one can get near me without being personally guaranteed by joles or mr. ditson." "you haven't seen mr. ditson, have you? he is father's secretary. i don't like him, and i'm so sorry. i can't bear not to like any one," and she sighed. von barwig was looking at her again; in spite of himself he could not keep his eyes from her. "of what were you thinking when you looked at me in that way?" she asked, with a curious smile. "i--i--don't know," said von barwig, rather startled, and this was literally true. "you're thinking that i am a great rattle-box, aren't you? now, confess! i am talking a great deal, am i not? but i can't seem to help it! i'm not always like this; indeed i'm not," she said earnestly. "it's a positive luxury to utter the first thought that comes into one's mind--a luxury i seldom get, i can tell you! somehow or other you drew me out, and i allowed myself to ramble on and on without in the least knowing why. can you explain it?" she asked laughingly. he shook his head. "perhaps you feel that i am interested in you, if you will pardon the liberty i take in saying so." "very likely," she said thoughtfully. there was a long pause, for they were so occupied with their own thoughts that neither spoke. the reaction had set in, and she was now strangely quiet; indeed she hardly spoke again that afternoon. after a while von barwig rose to take his leave. "have i offended her?" he asked himself, as he left the house. "how dare i tell her that i am interested in her! what impertinence, what a liberty! who am i that i should dare to say such a thing! you old fool!" he now addressed himself directly. "you have happiness well within your grasp, and instead of gently taking it to yourself you grab it with both hands and pluck it up by the roots. you have offended her and she won't see you again. you'll see, you won't be admitted to the house!" the old man almost cried as he thought of his temerity, his folly, his stupidity. he walked faster and faster in his excitement. "i must curb my unfortunate tongue; i must, i will, if i ever get another chance!" he sighed deeply. "and yet--why should she press my hand and ask me to come to-morrow and be sure not to forget the hour? she has forgiven me, yes, yes, she likes me; i know she does, but i must be careful!" and so he walked rapidly home to his lodgings, alternately in a heaven of joy or in a hell of despair. chapter sixteen "what a strange old man," mused hélène, as she sat in a box that night at the academy of music and listened to an aria from "william tell." "why do i think of him so constantly?" "my dear hélène, you are not a very attentive hostess," said charlotte wendall, a tall brunette. it was after the curtain had fallen on the act, and the box was filled up with visitors. there was always a crowd in the stanton box on the grand tier when hélène stanton was present. "my cousin beverly has spoken to you twice, and you have not even intimated that you are aware of his presence." charlotte wendall, as a classmate of hélène's at vassar, took a school friend's privilege of saying just what she thought. besides, hélène was fond of her, and permitted her to say what she pleased. "won't you speak to me?" pleaded beverly. "i do so want to be noticed! i'll be satisfied with a glance in my direction." beverly cruger had recently finished a post-graduate course at harvard and was just budding into the diplomatic service. he was a fine manly looking chap of twenty-seven, and as he looked down into hélène stanton's face, his pleading eyes attested to the fact that he was more than merely interested in her. "i beg your pardon," said hélène, shaking hands with him warmly. "hélène is very pensive to-night. i can't make her out," interposed octavie, a pretty little blonde sprite, and a perfect antithesis to her sister charlotte. "she is thinking of some one who is not here." "quite true," nodded hélène, smiling. "happy fellow," murmured beverly. "on the contrary," said hélène, who had sharp ears. "the fellow i am thinking about is very unhappy." "ah, one of those sad affairs, with languishing eyes, who simpers and sighs!" said charlotte laughingly, bursting into what she called poetry. hélène smiled a little. "you'd never guess," she said thoughtfully. then, after a pause, "i am thinking of a musician, a music master who lives downtown in one of the little side streets of our crowded city. he is an artist and a gentleman, who has in all probability devoted the best years of his life to his music; and he has made a failure of it." "did he tell you his story?" asked beverly, slightly interested. hélène shook her head. "he told me he was a great success, a flourishing artist, a rich man (in her enthusiasm hélène exaggerated slightly), and not three minutes afterward the very piano on which he made his living was taken away from him because he had not sufficient money to pay for its hire. it was the most pitiful thing i ever saw; i simply can't forget it!" "poor chap! can't we do anything for him?" asked beverly, now thoroughly interested. "he is very proud. i took one of our mission boys there, a lad who has great talent for music, and this strange individual refused to take any compensation for teaching him. he insisted on taking him for nothing, and said he loved children." "i should say he was a strange individual," commented beverly. "he ought to feel highly flattered at the interest you are taking in him." "you want to look out for these _distingué_ foreigners, hélène! you're an heiress, you know," said octavie, who was an omnivorous newspaper reader. "yes," said hélène, and then she was silent. beverly cruger looked at her. her face, usually happy and smiling, was sad and thoughtful. "this stranger has made quite an impression on her," he thought. "what is his name?" he asked, a strange sense of annoyance creeping over him in spite of himself. "herr von barwig," replied hélène. "oh, a nobleman," broke in the irrepressible octavie, who read novels as well as the newspapers; "a german nobleman! it is a romance, isn't it? is he a count, or a baron; or a--prince, perhaps?" "he didn't tell me," replied hélène, who could not help smiling at the curiosity she had aroused. they were all looking at her very anxiously now, even mrs. van arsdale, the girls' chaperone, was interested. "he didn't tell me," repeated hélène; "really he didn't." "oh, well, he will!" said beverly, forcing a smile. he did not like to admit to himself that he was not exactly enjoying hélène's romance. "i am going to see him to-morrow, and i'll make it a point to ask him," said hélène, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. she rather enjoyed beverly's obvious consternation. "to-morrow? you see him to-morrow?" asked beverly, and his heart sank. the lights were lowered and the next act had begun before she could make any reply, and then it was too late. he had known her only a few months, but in that brief time he had seen a great deal of her. he loved her; of that he was quite sure. it was her immense wealth that prevented him from asking her to be his wife. but for that he would have spoken a score of times. "where were you?" asked his mother as he returned to his seat beside her in the stall. "in box ," he replied. "mr. stanton's box?" she asked. "yes," said beverly. "i wanted to see charlotte and octavie." "and miss stanton?" added his mother. beverly made no reply. "you were at her house yesterday," said mrs. cruger. "yes." "beverly, you must be careful! your father objects to miss stanton." "objects to her friendship for my cousins?" "no, to your friendship for her," replied his mother. "you have already shown her marked attention. she is a very beautiful girl, and he is afraid that the intimacy may ripen into something more than mere friendship." beverly was unusually silent during the progress of the opera, and when they arrived home he went straight to his father's study. andrew cruger occupied a position of leadership in new york society that practically made his position unassailable. he was not a rich man, but he was the most highly respected diplomat in america; a scholarly gentleman, the friend of kings and presidents. he had been of the greatest possible assistance to the secretaries of state of both parties in solving international problems. the respect of the entire world was his and he was far more solicitous about his good name than about his financial [transcriber's note: a line of the book appears to be missing here, but the sentence probably ends with "affairs", "business", or something similar.] "what is your objection to miss stanton, father?" demanded beverly in a somewhat excited manner. "i have no objection to her, my boy," replied his father. then, seeing that his son was terribly in earnest, he said in a more serious tone, "there is some question as to her father's social integrity." "what has that to do with miss stanton?" asked beverly. "nothing, my boy. and may i ask, what has the entire question to do with us?" "i love her, father. i want to make her my wife." andrew cruger put down the pen with which he was writing and looked at his son. "that's very serious," he said, and walking over to the fireplace he leaned against the mantelpiece. "you are slated by the incoming administration for one of the under secretaryships of the german legation. you are on the threshold of a great career. a marriage with henry stanton's daughter would not affect you at this stage, but when you rise to the dignity of ambassadorial honour, as in the course of events you logically will, your wife, my lad, must be beyond the breath of calumny. no scandal, no mystery must attach itself to her name." "what's there against miss stanton, father? won't you tell me?" asked beverly. "nothing against _her_! henry stanton's early life is shrouded in mystery. he inherited his immense fortune from his uncle. who her mother was, no one seems to know, and there lies the mystery. mr. stanton's immense works of charity have succeeded to some extent in getting him a foothold in new york, but the foundation of his social position is very insecure. i need scarcely tell you, beverly, that although money is a lever that can do much to help a man along in society, it is almost utterly valueless in the diplomatic world. in that smallest of small worlds one's name, one's record, one's wife, one's family must be almost immaculate, subject to the most minute scrutiny. you are in the diplomatic world; your name will pass muster. but what of the woman you propose to make your wife?" beverly was silent. he had hitherto heard nothing against henry stanton, much less against his daughter. "it will make no difference to me," he said firmly. "i love her, and, father, in saying this i mean no disrespect to your authority, but, if she will accept me, i intend to marry her." andrew cruger made no answer. he merely lowered his head and looked at his son. "when?" he asked briefly. "i have not spoken to her yet," said beverly. old cruger looked at him quizzically. "perhaps i've been a little premature," suggested beverly. the elder cruger shrugged his shoulders. "that is the chief characteristic of american youth," he said, with a slight smile. "i should never think of settling the question of dates, or of doing anything final until i had consulted you and my mother. nor would i speak to her without first asking your consent," he added, to please his father. andrew cruger smiled once more. "suppose i refuse my consent?" he asked. "well," beverly hesitated. "you'll marry her without it? of course you will! that's if she'll have you, my boy. the authority of parents is only nominal; therefore i content myself with warning you that you may ruin your career by such a marriage." "i'll risk it," said beverly. "in other words you will give up your career?" "yes," replied beverly. "quite so," agreed old cruger. "but if you are too willing to take the risk, too indifferent as to your future, the world, our world, which after all is the only world, may say that your wife's fortune made it unnecessary for you to bother about a career or even about having to earn your own living." beverly looked indignant. "you know the world, particularly our section of it, has rather an unpleasant way of putting things. i should not like to have a son of mine accused of such motives even though i knew it to be untrue." beverly was silent. he dimly saw that his father was right. "think it over," suggested old cruger. "have i your consent?" asked beverly. "don't put me in the position of being compelled to say, 'bless you, my child,' after i have damned you for disobedience," said the elder cruger laughingly. "be quite sure, my boy, that i shall adapt myself to conditions. if i say 'yes,' it is because i know you will do as you please in any event, and i don't want to cloud your happiness by interposing useless objections. i merely warn you! good-night, beverly." "good-night, father." beverly left the room and the elder cruger returned to his work. it was about five minutes before three the next afternoon when anton von barwig's card was brought up to hélène's room by joles. herr von barwig had evidently taken the precaution to have his name printed on a piece of pasteboard, so as not to offend joles's delicate sense of propriety. "will you see him, miss?" asked the man-servant; glancing at the cardboard somewhat suspiciously. "ask him up at once, please," said miss stanton, in such a decided tone that joles hastened to obey her orders. hélène was perplexed; she had been thinking all the morning of the false position she found herself in. she had told the old music master that she could not play at all, or could only play a little, and that she wanted to take piano lessons. at the very outset he would discover that she was quite a good amateur pianoforte player, with a fine musical ear, and then he would see through her ruse and refuse to teach her. she felt that he would see her pretences were only for the purpose of getting him to give her lessons and she was afraid that he would be very much offended. "after all, what does it matter?" she asked herself; and the answer came quickly, "it does matter." the more she thought of this the more perplexed she became. why should she care one way or the other? who was this man that she should consider his feelings toward her? the whole thing was ridiculous! yet von barwig made an irresistible appeal to her, and she felt that she must rest contented with the fact as it was, without seeking to know how or why. one point, however, stood out very clearly: beverly cruger had been obviously jealous last night at the opera. octavie's silly prattle about a young and handsome foreign nobleman had had a marked effect upon him, and hélène's heart beat slightly faster as she pondered over this phase of the matter. "he's actually jealous," she thought, and she enjoyed the idea. beverly's earnest manliness made her admire him greatly. it almost reconciled her to octavie's silliness! he was so different from the swarm of social bees who sipped only the sweets of pleasure. he was a worker, a sincere worker, and his promised appointment to the diplomatic service, notwithstanding his youth, attested the fact that he was unusual. "he takes an interest in his country's welfare," thought hélène, "and does not ignore it as does the world in which he lives and moves. he is a patriot; he loves his country. he is unselfish, too. a good-looking society man who is unselfish, what an anomaly!" hélène felt rather grateful to the innocent cause of beverly cruger's jealousy, and when he entered the room she greeted him with a beaming smile. "i am so pleased to see you," she said unaffectedly. von barwig had a little paper parcel in his hand. he carefully removed the paper, putting it in his pocket, and then held out a very tiny bunch of violets. "you are spoiling me," declared hélène, as she took them from him. she had a large bouquet of orchids in her corsage, which she quickly removed, and placed the violets there instead. "i think violets are far prettier than orchids," she said. von barwig looked rather dubious. he was pleased, but he doubted. "do sit down!" she said, and he went toward the piano. "not at the piano; here," said hélène, seating him beside her. "now, listen to me, sir! you must not bring me expensive flowers every time you call." "they are not expensive," said von barwig with a smile. "it is the box and the ribbon that costs. you may have observed that i avoided them on this occasion." "well, what shall we talk about?" asked hélène, after a pause. "talk about?" repeated von barwig, slightly perplexed. "our music lesson!" "oh, i don't feel like taking a lesson to-day," said hélène. "i want to talk." "yes, but i--it is i who must talk, if i am to teach," faltered von barwig in a low voice. he didn't want to go too far, for he had heard that american heiresses were capricious and whimsical and that they took likes and dislikes very suddenly. he did not want her to dislike him, so he would humour her; but he also wanted to teach her. "you know," she said confidentially, "i think i have a rather discontented nature. certain people have a horrible effect on me. i want to run about, play, sing, read, quarrel, do anything rather than talk to them. but you, how i like to talk to you! you have a sort of a--what shall i call it--an all-pervading calmness, that communicates itself to me, and soothes my ruffled feelings. i don't seem to feel in a hurry when you're here. and when you smile, as you're smiling now, i don't know why, but i feel just happy, and contented with myself. do you understand what i mean?" the girl had a far-away expression in her eyes, as if she were day-dreaming. the old man regarded her with a smile. "you are trying to put me at my ease," he said finally, "and you have succeeded, but we make no progress at our music." "what music have you brought?" she asked. "i cannot tell what books you will need until i hear you," he replied. "you'd better get me bach's studies," she said carelessly. "won't you play?" he asked, "and then i can judge." "not now," replied hélène, and then she went on again, telling him of herself, her life, her aims and ambitions, her predilections and prejudices. she seldom referred to her father, and mentioned her mother only occasionally. "how i do ramble on, don't i? i seem to have known you for years." "you are very happy, are you not?" he asked. "oh, yes, i suppose so!" she replied. there seemed to be a tinge of sadness in her manner, a sort of mental reservation as to her happiness that she did not like to confess even to herself. "yes, i _think_ i am," she said finally. "why not?" he answered. "here all is peaceful, beautiful and harmonious. what surroundings you have!" and he looked around, "beautiful art objects to look at, the beautiful park at your very window. here all is beauty, joy, peace, without and within. your architect was a fine artist, or is it your own taste--all this?" hélène nodded. "i designed this part of the house myself," she replied. "the tapestry and pictures and statuary of course add greatly to its general appearance, but you are quite right--the architect was an artist." "he must have been," commented von barwig, looking about approvingly. [illustration: anton learns that his newly found daughter is to be married.] "are you looking at that cabinet, the one with the dolls in it? that's a sixteenth century piece; it belonged to maria theresa. father brought it from paris himself. it's beautiful, isn't it? i keep all my dolls in it, and some day i'll show them to you. i have a great collection; but i don't suppose you take much interest in dolls," said hélène. "your father--he must be a fine man," said von barwig with a sigh. "i have heard so much of his goodness to the poor, his charity, his interest in church matters----" "yes, he is very good," said hélène, without any enthusiasm in her voice. "there is not a hospital or a church or an asylum that doesn't number him among its patrons. yes, he is really a very good man i suppose," repeated hélène as if she were trying to assure herself of his goodness. "he lays more corner stones and endows more orphanages than any man in america. he makes beautiful speeches; no public dinner seems to be complete without him. he knows just what to say and how to say it, and what is better than all, he knows when not to say anything!" von barwig nodded. "it's a great gift, that of speech," he said. "i despair of ever being able to speak this language with fluency." "but you speak english splendidly," said hélène. "my accent is terrible," said von barwig. "can you not hear it?" "your accent is beautiful to me, a rich german aristocratic roundness of expression, with nothing in the least harsh or grating to the ear. i just love to hear you talk!" declared hélène. "really?" asked von barwig in surprise. "really!" responded hélène with positive emphasis. "ah, you spoil me, young lady; you spoil me! but come, just a few bars on the piano, that i may see where my young pupil stands." hélène looked at him and laughed mischievously. "very well," she said, rising with evident reluctance. "i will play you 'the maiden's prayer'----" "hum," said von barwig dubiously. "she has prayed so many times this poor maiden; it is time she should be answered. however, it is for you to decide!" hélène seated herself at the piano and played that well-known and sorely tried air through as badly as she possibly could. when she had finished she placed her elbows on the keyboard and said: "how do you like this maiden's prayer?" von barwig looked at her critically. "you can do better than that," he said. "how do you know?" she asked quickly. "because, at some points you added notes of your own. you increased the bass, greatly improving the original harmony of the composition," replied von barwig. "you have talent," he added. "badly as you play, badly as you execute, your talent stands out. no one can add to the composer's work without having musical ideas of his own." "he has found me out already," thought hélène. then she mechanically picked a tune on the piano with one finger. von barwig's trained musical ear caught the melody in a moment. "where did you hear that?" he asked quickly. "at your house," she answered, "the night i brought danny to you. i have a very keen ear for music," she added. "you gave me quite a start," he said. "it is my symphony, my dead and buried work. to hear that music from you was startling." there was a pause. "do you know the bass part?" he asked. she closed the piano quickly with a bang. "what do you think of danny?" she asked, ignoring his question. "what a curious girl!" thought von barwig, and then he said aloud, "the boy has possibilities, and so have you," he added. hélène laughed. "it's a shame to deceive him," she thought. "herr von barwig," she began, "i want to be serious a moment. i'm afraid i've been guilty of a little--what shall i call it? indiscretion? no, deception; that's better. i have deceived you--" she paused; the look of deep consternation on von barwig's face arrested her. "what's the matter?" she asked. the old man gazed at her. "i don't know," he said, swallowing a lump in his throat "the fear that something had happened to prevent the--continuation--of--i am so happy here--i--" he apparently was unable to explain his meaning, for he stopped short. "go on," she said. von barwig shook his head. "you look so serious," he said after a pause. "i thought perhaps something had happened to prevent my coming here, and the thought made me very unhappy. i am a foolish old man, eh? but, i am so happy here, so happy! i try to explain," he said. "everything i have had in this world, everything i love i have lost! i am afraid to love anything for fear that i shall lose it. that's superstition, is it not? you tell me you have deceived me, and immediately i think she is going to tell me that she will no longer deceive me, that she does not like me for a music master! i know," he added plaintively, "that i am foolish. but my life here since i have been in this country has made of me a coward. forgive me; please forgive me!" the girl's eyes filled with tears. "no, no!" she said gently. "you need not fear. i shall never want any other music master but you, never!" chapter seventeen pinac and fico noticed it and so did miss husted. poons probably would have noticed it, too, if he had not been in love. but jenny was the only one who really felt the change in professor von barwig. try as he would, the old man could not conceal from them the fact that "something had happened." not that he was not just as affable to miss husted as ever, not that he was any less warm in his manner toward his friends, but there was something missing and jenny was the only one who came anywhere near guessing the truth. "he has found some one whom he loves more than us," thought she, and she felt glad at heart for his sake; though she did not understand. "he feels so bad with himself that we have lost our engagement through him that he cannot come over it," said fico in answer to pinac's query as to what was the matter with von barwig. they knew there was no chance now of their getting the symphony engagement, for van praag, hampered by creditors, unable to carry out his contracts owing to the strike, had gone into bankruptcy and retired from the venture with the loss of all his money. he wrote a letter to von barwig saying he was going back to germany, where musical art was one thing and bricks another. von barwig sadly showed them the letter, but his mind was so taken up with his new pupil that he did not feel the loss of the engagement as they did. and yet his financial position was daily growing worse and worse, for he had practically no pupils at all--that is, no paying pupils. besides this, the weather was so cold and business had dropped off to such an extent at the museum that costello had been compelled to reduce von barwig's salary fifty per cent. "a half a loaf is better than none," he had told the night professor as he handed him his envelope with half salary in it; so von barwig had been compelled to take what he could get. he now seriously considered moving upstairs. "we haven't a room vacant," said miss husted in a decided tone; "and if we had," tenderly, "no, professor, no top floor for you! i couldn't bear the idea of it; i couldn't really! pay me when you get it," she said when the old man pleaded that he must live within his means. "but i may never get it," expostulated the professor. "oh, yes, you will," confidently replied miss husted. "mrs. mangenborn says it is in the cards that great fortune is coming to you." "in the next world, perhaps," said von barwig, laughing in spite of himself. "besides," went on miss husted, "it doesn't matter one way or the other. i could never bear the idea. stay here for my sake," she pleaded when she saw that the professor was obstinate; and so he remained in his old rooms, though he squeezed every penny in order to pay her. on the afternoon following his interview with his father, beverly cruger made up his mind to speak to hélène, to ask her to be his wife. he called at her home, and was informed by joles that she was engaged; that a german gentleman was giving her music instruction, and that her orders were that she was not to be disturbed. beverly left his card, intending to call the next day, but the fates were against him, and he was sent for by the state department in regard to his diplomatic position and had to go to washington. on his return to new york a week later, he again called on miss stanton. to his astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his extreme annoyance, he found miss stanton again "engaged." herr von barwig, her music master, was there. "please take up my card, joles, and tell miss stanton that i wish to see her on a matter of the utmost importance--the utmost importance," repeated beverly. "yes, sir," replied joles. "herr von barwig appears to be _persona gratissima_," thought beverly, and then it occurred to him that it was very strange that an accomplished musician like hélène stanton should take music lessons. "he must be a very superior sort of a musical personage, very superior indeed." beverly would not acknowledge even to himself that he resented herr von barwig's presence at the stantons'. "how can our american women be so deceived by the artificial deference, the insincere, highly polished politeness of these foreigners!" he mused. "von barwig is probably an offshoot of some noble german house, but she's not apt to be attracted by an empty title!" he had loved her for months, he told himself, and each time he had made up his mind to speak this foreigner had been the means of preventing him. "send him up please, joles. i want you to meet mr. cruger, herr von barwig," said hélène as she glanced at the card joles handed her, and rose from the piano where she was taking a lesson. "i haven't seen him for days and days; i wondered what had become of him." von barwig noticed the heightened colour in miss stanton's cheeks and he made a mental note that he must like mr. beverly cruger, too, yet, if the truth must be known, he felt a pang of regret. "she loves him," he said to himself, "she will forget me." "shall we not continue the lesson?" he said aloud. hélène shook her head. "no more to-day," she said. "then miss stanton will perhaps pardon my leaving," said von barwig. "on the contrary, herr professor, miss stanton insists on your remaining," said hélène, motioning him to a seat. von barwig bowed deferentially. "you have disappointed me to-day," he said. "ach, your tempos change--like the winds! at one moment it is - , the next - , and almost in the same measure, you play - . at one moment you play with your thumbs, like a little girl; at another, you play like a professional, an artist. i cannot understand it. technically i don't know where you are. i am puzzled! i admit it; i am puzzled," and he looked at her in perplexed uncertainty. hélène's only answer was a ripple of laughter. she was beginning to enjoy her own cleverness in deceiving him, and his confusion endeared him to her more than ever. the greater his perplexity the more she sympathised with him. "poor old gentleman," she thought, "it is downright wicked of me to deceive him. but what can i do? if i let him know i don't need his services he will not come." "i have made up my mind to bring you some simple exercises for our next lesson, miss stanton. no more bach and unevenly played beethoven!" said von barwig. "it is necessary that we begin at the beginning and work up. that's it! we begin all over again, at the very beginning, and work up to the top. then you will have some style, some form, some technique that you can call your own." "oh, dear, you're not going to make me play exercises, are you? oh, herr von barwig, dear herr von barwig, please don't!" said hélène, with such a pleading accent that von barwig was compelled to smile. "it just serves me right," she thought. "i shall literally have to face the music," she said to herself with a laugh. beverly cruger heard that laugh as he came into the room, and he made up his mind that herr von barwig was one of those highly entertaining foreigners who appeal to the feminine mind with their superficial brilliancy and capture all before them. "herr von barwig, this is mr. beverly cruger," broke in hélène, and mr. cruger was formally introduced to his rival. beverly could hardly repress a smile as his eyes fell on the slim figure of the poor, grey-headed, homely old artist. was this the noble young foreigner, the handsome german music master he had pictured to himself? was this hélène's romance? "gott in himmel, what a squeeze he gives the hand!" thought von barwig, as he tried to release his injured digits from the vice that held them. "i am so glad to see you, herr von barwig," said beverly; and he meant it. "yes, and i, too," groaned von barwig as he rubbed his fingers. "a fine fellow," he thought. "such a welcome as that must come from the heart. but ach gott, what a muscle! it's like iron!" hélène was surprised. beverly cruger was far and away the most undemonstrative man of her acquaintance, and his cordial greeting of her old music master went straight to her heart. "he likes him because--perhaps, because i do," she thought. "do you know you remind me very much of a splendid bust of beethoven i saw in the british museum? upon my word you do!" von barwig bowed. "oh, i think mozart rather than beethoven," suggested hélène. "he's not stern enough for beethoven." again von barwig bowed. beverly cruger shook his head. "beethoven," he said, looking at von barwig critically. "still--well--i'm not sure, perhaps----" "mozart," insisted hélène. "are you sure you don't mean liszt? we really do look alike!" von barwig said, with a twinkle in his eye. then he added, "ah, you are very kind to me, very kind! dear me, i am afraid you spoil me. those are the giants, the leaders of a great art. i am the most humble of all its followers. even to resemble them is in itself a great honour." hélène could never quite clearly remember how or when von barwig took his leave that memorable afternoon, but when he came on the following day to give his lesson she held both his hands in hers. "you shall be the first one to hear the news," she said almost in a whisper. "i'm so happy, so very, very happy!" he looked at her, and understood. "herr cruger?" he asked. she nodded affirmatively. "how did you know?" "ah! he is an excellent young man; i approve very highly of him." then he was afraid of his own temerity. "what right had he to approve? he must curb his tongue," he thought. "i beg your pardon! i mean he is a most excellent gentleman." hélène hardly heard him, for her thoughts were far away at that moment. "i wonder what father will say?" she said. von barwig started. the word father sounded strange, as if a discord had been struck in the midst of a beautiful harmony. "why should i feel like that?" he asked himself. "barwig, you are a fool, a madman! mr. stanton is her father; i must love him, too. my heart must not beat every time i hear his name. come! let us go to work; our studies--" he said aloud, tapping the book. "we must go to work. i have brought with me the book of exercises." "no! no study to-day. but please don't go--just yet," she added as von barwig prepared to take his departure. "sit down! i am going to be very angry with you." "angry with me?" the old man smiled. he knew it was only the girl's way of finding some little trivial fault with him. "angry with me," he repeated. "and you said you were so very, very happy." "yes, i forgot when you came in that i ought to be very angry with you." "ah, you ought to be, but you are not! no, surely not," said von barwig gently. "why did you send me back my cheque? this one! don't look so innocent; you know what i mean, sir!" and hélène held up the cheque that von barwig had found awaiting him at his room the night before, and that he had carefully mailed back to her. von barwig looked pained. "herr von barwig, let us have a little understanding!" said hélène in a far more serious tone than she usually took with her music master. "ah, don't be angry, please don't be angry to-day! not on such a day as this!" he urged. "to-morrow you may scold me if you like; but to-day, no, please, no!" and he looked at her so pleadingly that hélène was forced to smile. "i wish nothing to happen that shall interfere with the happiness that has come to you," he added. but hélène was insistent. "it has been on my mind some time to ask you why you take such an interest in me," she said, "and now this," and she looked at the cheque. von barwig was silent. what could he say? he dared not tell her the real reason. "when i came to your studio with the little boy and asked you to teach him, you refused to accept money. your reasons were that you were devoted to your art and that you loved to help the children of the poor. surely i don't come under _that_ classification, herr von barwig?" "oh, no, no!" faltered poor von barwig. "then why do you refuse to take my money? heaven only knows you've worked hard enough for it! your efforts to instill your ideas into my head deserve far greater recognition than mere money payment." "no, no! i have not worked. it has been so great a pleasure. no, decidedly there has been no work! i do not feel myself entitled to take, until you show some progress." von barwig felt himself on terra firma again. "all that is begging the question, my dear maestro! whether your work affords you pleasure or no, it is still your work. teaching is your means of livelihood, is it not?" "not altogether; i play at--" and then he thought of the dime museum and was silent. he looked at her; she was regarding him quite seriously, and he was afraid he had offended her. there was a pause during which he tried to think out a course of action calculated to offset his mistake. hélène broke the silence. "you left your own country, where i understand you were well known and successful, and you came over here, where, pardon my saying so, you are not known and where you--" hélène hesitated slightly, "where you are not so prosperous. when i bring you a pupil you refuse to take money for his tuition. when i take lessons from you myself, you refuse to take money from me. now, my dear herr von barwig, i confess that i cannot understand! you must explain." there was a dead silence. "what does it mean?" demanded hélène. von barwig looked at her helplessly. he had no explanation, or, rather, he realised that the one he had was insufficient. "why do you take so much interest in me?" she asked. "at first for a likeness, a likeness to some one i knew," replied von barwig, in a low voice. "you resemble a memory i have known, a memory that gives me so much happiness. she is gone, and now you--pardon the liberty--you take her place. i take interest because it was she--and it is now--you--you--a fresh young girl that will never grow old! you have taken the place of--of--" von barwig could not go on. he knew what he meant, but he could not express it. "as i said before, herr von barwig," and hélène spoke now with less show of wounded dignity, "i do not understand. it is simply incomprehensible, but it amounts to this--you must not refuse this cheque. if you do, i--i shall be compelled to--to refuse to go on with my lessons," and hélène held out the cheque toward him. von barwig looked at her; his sweet melancholy smile deepened as he slowly shook his head. "if you knew, if you knew, miss hélène, how i love to teach you, you would realise that i am over-compensated now. i am a foolish old man, i suppose, a foolish, sentimental old man! perhaps i do not understand the ways of this country. here there is no what we call _esprit de corps_, no enthusiasm, no love of art for the sake of art, no love of beauty for the mere sake of beauty. all is exchange and barter; so much done, so much to be paid for. music, bricks, painting, sculpture and sewing machines all in one item--all to be paid for. here for me is fairyland! it may not be fairyland for others, but for me it is fairyland. when i walk up the steps of this house and ring the bell, i stand there impatiently till your mr. joles opens up for me heaven. when i tell you that mr. joles is for me an angel, the archangel that unlocks for me paradise, you will realise to what extent i separate this world of love, of joy, of happiness, the world over which you preside, from the outside world, where together come music and bricks and human misery. here is my heaven, my haven of rest and sweet contentment. shall i take money for it; shall i be paid for my happiness? ah, fräulein, fräulein, i dream, i dream! for sixteen years i have not rested. don't wake me, please don't wake me!" hélène tore the cheque into little pieces. "to-morrow at three, herr von barwig," she said. and when he had gone she burst into tears without in the least knowing why. chapter eighteen whatever andrew cruger may have thought in his inner consciousness on the subject of his son's engagement to hélène stanton, he outwardly showed no sign that he was not well pleased. he simply gave the consent that beverly asked of him, and accepted the new condition as another event in the continuity of life. "of course there can be no formal engagement until her father returns from europe," said he. "can't we get his consent by cable?" asked his son. "i don't believe in these irregularities," said the elder cruger, whose diplomatic training had made him something of a stickler for formality and precedent. "there will be time enough for that when he returns." beverly submitted without another word, for he felt that his father had already given way to him a good deal. the young people did not cable to mr. stanton for his consent, for all agreed that there would be time enough to acquaint him with the fact when he returned. whatever mr. cruger's mental attitude toward the engagement might have been his manner toward hélène was most cordial. as for beverly's mother, she was delighted beyond all words. "the dear, dear girl, how i shall love her!" she said to beverly, on hearing the news. and after she had showered mother kisses, plentifully mixed with mother tears, on them both, her happiness was well-nigh complete. that afternoon the crugers were to make a formal call on hélène. andrew cruger had finally yielded to his son's entreaties and consented to call on her, notwithstanding the fact that mr. stanton was still in europe and his formal consent had not been obtained. "i have been looking forward to the day when i should see my son's wife," said the elder cruger, somewhat pompously to hélène, as he greeted her with outstretched hand. he could never get over the idea that formalism was the soul of function. "i have always felt that i would demand a great deal of her," went on mr. cruger, in his best after-dinner manner. "i thank you for giving me everything i could desire! you are the daughter of a man whose charity and beneficence we all respect and admire, and--" here he paused to take breath. "thank you," said hélène simply. she was surprised that he did not kiss her instead of making a formal speech. "i know that father means what he says," remarked beverly to his mother; "but i do wish he would say it in a less stereotyped manner." "hush!" replied his mother, "your father is speaking again." "i want your married life to begin auspiciously," continued the elder cruger, as if he had not been interrupted. "so i have made what i consider to be a sacrifice for you. i had hoped to retire from public life, but i have altered my decision. i shall again represent my country in a foreign land." hélène gratefully acknowledged the sacrifice, although she did not quite see where it came in. she had heard that most american representatives at foreign courts managed rather to enjoy life than otherwise. "when i go abroad as hostess in the embassy that mr. cruger represents," mrs. cruger said, taking up the thread of the conversation, "i want my son's wife to share my honours. a sweet young woman, far younger than i, is almost a--a--" "a charming necessity," added mr. cruger, who made it a habit to finish his wife's sentences. "yes, a charming necessity," echoed his wife, and, then she continued: "the fact that octavie is engaged suggests a double wedding. they will marry in june, if the weather is good." "what has the weather to do with octavie's wedding?" inquired mr. cruger. "simply that it's an automobile wedding, andrew," replied his wife. mr. cruger looked almost pained. "permit me to remark, mary, that no cruger was ever married in an automobile and i trust that no cruger will so far forget himself or herself as to establish so ridiculous a precedent." "the motor business comes in after the wedding, father; at least so octavie said," whispered beverly. "your niece is very frivolous," remarked mr. cruger to his wife. "i shall take pains to remind her that we crugers marry quietly in trinity!" hélène laughed aloud. the idea of octavie doing anything quietly appealed to her sense of humour. "she does not take us very seriously," thought mr. cruger. mrs. cruger glanced at her husband and noticed a rather injured expression appear upon his face. evidently he was not highly pleased at hélène's levity. "you have written to your father?" mr. cruger asked her presently. "no, mr. cruger," replied hélène after a pause. "no, my dear?" echoed mr. cruger in surprise. "i will tell him when he returns," said hélène. mr. cruger was almost dismayed. "you have not written to your father?" he repeated. "my dear hélène, these formalities must be complied with! your father's consent is of the utmost importance. not that i anticipate any--er--opposition from that quarter, but it's merely the idea of the thing! of course, i am somewhat old-fashioned, i admit." "in france, for instance, it is against the law," interrupted beverly in a satirical tone. hélène smiled. her prospective father-in-law appeared to her somewhat punctilious, but she determined to humour him. "your father is quite right, beverly," she said. "i should have cabled at once." at this moment joles entered, apparently somewhat nervous. "mr. von barwig is here, miss," he explained. "i told him you were engaged, but----" "ask him to come up, joles." joles was surprised, but being a well-trained servant, his face gave no outward indication of his feelings. "it is my music master, mrs. cruger. i think this is a splendid opportunity for you to see him about your niece's music lessons." mr. cruger looked almost shocked. a music master invited to take part in a family function! such conduct savoured of socialism, and socialism did not appeal to him. "herr von barwig is a most exceptionable person," said hélène, quite unconscious of the thought her words had aroused in her prospective father-in-law. "von barwig? von barwig?" repeated mr. cruger, apparently interested in the name. "don't i know that name? it seems quite familiar. a music master, you say? yes, it seems to me that i do know it!" "he's one of the dearest old chaps i ever met," broke in beverly, "such a gentle creature, a most excellent musician, but rather unfortunate." "i know the name quite well, but if it's the man i mean it's impossible that it can be the same. he was a fine musician, from dresden i think. was it dresden?" he asked himself, as if annoyed that his memory had played him false. "it must have been dresden or leipsic." "herr von barwig," announced joles, in his most formal and freezing manner. poor old von barwig came into the room expecting to see no one but hélène, and was painfully astounded to see so many strangers. he wore his old broadcloth suit; it was well brushed, but more shiny than ever. poons had carefully brushed it for him that morning and it was more than scrupulously clean. his gloves were old, but jenny had mended up the holes the night before, so he looked even neater and more genteel than usual this afternoon. he carried the cheap little bunch of violets, wrapped in paper, in one hand and his hat in the other, for joles had never been able to persuade him to leave it in the hall. he stood by the door, as close as he could get to it, as if afraid to come in, and then bowed low to hélène and the others. there he waited with timid dignity, uncertain as to what he should do next. there was a dead silence for a few moments. "i'm so glad to see you," said hélène in an affectionate tone, coming to the rescue; and taking him warmly by the hand she led him away from the door into the middle of the room. "glad to meet you again, herr von barwig," said beverly, coming forward, and shaking hands with him far more cordially than the occasion called for. he then introduced von barwig to his mother and father. the elder cruger looked at him very closely. "it seems to me that we have met before, sir. your face is very familiar. yes, yes; prince holberg meckstein introduced me to you at one of your concerts." "holberg meckstein," repeated von barwig in a frightened voice. "yes, i--i knew him; but--but--i--forgive me, i--i do not remember!" "it was in leipsic; oh, it must be fifteen years ago!" said mr. cruger. "at that time i had the united states embassy at berlin. surely, you must remember! you became nervous that night while conducting your own symphony, and you fainted away right before the audience. don't you remember?" "i remember," said von barwig, in a low hoarse voice, which he controlled with great difficulty. "and then a few months later you made some inquiries at the embassy for me," went on mr. cruger, "but i was unfortunately not there at the time, and so was unable to be of service to you. you had some mission, some object in going to america, the secretary of legation said. you wanted a list of all the large towns in the united states. i hope you were successful in finding what you were searching for?" "no, sir, i did not accomplish--my mission," replied von barwig, who had gained command of himself to some extent, and could speak without giving evidence of his emotion. "it is extremely kind of you to remember me!" his retiring, bashful manner was somewhat disconcerting, but beneath it there was the unmistakable evidence of birth, breeding and dignity. "i am glad to find you in the house of such a distinguished citizen of the united states as mr. stanton," said mr. cruger at parting with von barwig. "ah, you know him, her father! he is a distinguished citizen?" said von barwig, and the last ray of hope died within him. "he is a distinguished citizen," he said to himself, "and he is her father." he sighed deeply, and reproached himself for ever having hoped. "that old man has a history," thought the elder cruger, as he went up to hélène, intent on saying good-bye to her. joles had announced his wife's nieces, and he did not care to stay longer. he had done his duty by beverly and that was all that was necessary. as he shook hands warmly with hélène, he said to her: "i should like to see herr von barwig again." hélène squeezed his hand warmly; it was the first note of affection that had been sounded between them. "let me know if i can be of any service to him," he said. "i will, i promise you i will," replied hélène, and mr. cruger took his departure, accompanied by his son. the girls were introduced to herr von barwig. "and this is hélène's romance," thought octavie, as she looked at von barwig and laughed aloud. von barwig thought she was a very pleasant young lady, and smiled back in return. "i should like charlotte to study for the next two years, herr von barwig, and octavie till about june," said mrs. cruger, who was determined to get herr von barwig to teach her nieces, since hélène had recommended him so highly. "i don't want to study at all," said octavie. "who ever heard of an engaged girl studying?" "and pray, am i not an engaged girl, as you call it?" asked hélène, who was pouring out tea. "and do i not study?" "yes, but you're an accomplished musician and----" "one lump or two, herr von barwig?" broke in hélène, to change the conversation. "no lumps! yes, thank you, i take one," said von barwig, somewhat confused by the incessant chatter of the young ladies, who smiled at his awkwardness. "cake, herr von barwig?" hélène held out the dish to her music master. "no, thank you," he replied quietly, and then catching an appealing look from her, he took a cake, and then another. "the idea of waiting on a music master," whispered octavie to charlotte; "she'll spoil him." "she's a socialist," said charlotte. "come, girls, tell herr von barwig what you know. if he can teach such a finished pianist as hélène, i am determined that you shall have the advantage of his tutelage." "a finished musician?" thought von barwig. "heaven save us! you have had lessons before?" he continued to ask one of the gay young ladies. "you have studied a great deal, yes?" "we've had lots of lessons," replied octavie, "but i don't think we've studied; at least i haven't!" she confessed. "don't count on me! i know nothing; absolutely nothing!" volunteered charlotte. "well," said von barwig sententiously, "that is something at all events! many musicians take years to discover that." "i only want to know enough to do a few stunts," said charlotte to him gaily. von barwig's face fell. "stunts! they do not love music," he thought, "they want to do tricks." and then the girls talked on the subject of musical comedies, popular songs and dance music, until their aunt interrupted them. "come, charlotte," said the excellent mrs. cruger. she thought her nieces had had time to prevail on the eminent professor to take them. "remember your appointment at the museum." von barwig, in the act of drinking tea, nearly choked. he thought of his dime museum. "if they should ever dream of such a thing!" "my drawing master is meeting me at the museum of art," explained charlotte to von barwig. "will you play something before you go?" asked von barwig. charlotte went to the piano and banged out a two-step march that was the raging popular tune of the day. "ah, that is the stunt! now, if you will play some music," ventured von barwig, "i can just tell you where you are." "isn't that music?" asked charlotte. "it is rhythm and jingle--a stunt as you call it. real musicians do not write such things." "isn't there a method of learning how to play without practising?" broke in octavie. "from nothing comes nothing," said von barwig with a sigh. "quite true," assented mrs. cruger. "some day," said von barwig prophetically, "some day they will invent a machine that will play itself. all you will have to do is to pump a bellows, or turn a wheel and the music will play itself! you will see; there is so much demand for it, some one will rise to the occasion." "splendid!" said charlotte. "won't that save lots of hard work!" "we'll write and make an appointment; hélène will give us the address," said octavie, as they said good-bye to von barwig. "thank you so much, herr professor, for your patience and courtesy," said mrs. cruger at parting. herr von barwig bowed. the girls accompanied by their aunt took their leave, and he was left alone with hélène. he took the paper from the little bunch of violets he had brought with him, and handed them to her. "ah, thank you so much! but why do you always bring me flowers?" "why do we love the light?" he asked. "because it gives us joy." she took an orchid she was wearing and tried to pin it on his coat. "i am afraid," said von barwig, "that it is healed up!" hélène laughed. "what a curious expression!" she said. then she walked up to the window and looked out. "shall we begin where we left off?" asked von barwig as he opened the music. he had been waiting some time for her to come to the piano. "you like him, don't you?" said hélène in a low voice. "the young herr cruger?" asked von barwig. then without waiting for an answer he went on: "yes, he has a fine noble heart. he is different to the young men here; quite different." "i am glad you like him!" "why?" "i don't know. i am glad, that's all!" at that moment von barwig was supremely happy. neither of them spoke for a few moments. "shall we not begin?" he said, breaking the silence. hélène walked slowly to the piano and sat down. at that moment joles entered the room with a message for miss stanton. "put it down, joles," she said, striking a note here and there on the piano. "it's a telegram, miss." "oh! bring it to me, then." he obeyed. she opened it and read: "left paris this morning en route to new york. father." a feeling of dread crept over her; the smile on her face gave way to a hardness of expression. gone was the joy, the happiness, in the girl's face, and in its place was doubt, apprehension, anxiety. von barwig looked at her; the keen eye of love quickly detected the presence of fear. he did not speak, but his look demanded an answer to its question. "my father is coming home," she said, forcing herself to smile. "ah? so? i shall be glad to meet him," said von barwig. chapter nineteen henry stanton's return to new york was not marked by any special outburst of joy on the part of the large retinue of dependents that constituted the machinery of his household. he was feared rather than loved by his servants, and this feeling, as has been indicated, was shared by his daughter in common with others. it was not that he did not want to be loved, or that he was indifferent to the feelings and opinion of others concerning him. on the contrary, he, of all men, was most anxious that others should think well of him. but his manner was stern, harsh and repellent, and he did not seem to have the capacity to gain the confidence or sympathy of those around him. although generous even to extravagance where it gratified his vanity, of broad-minded charity in its higher and nobler sense the man knew nothing. he gave not because he loved, but because his charities reflected lustre on his name; and here was the man's most vulnerable point, his sensitiveness as to name, fame, honour, reputation dignity, public opinion. "what will the world think?" stood out in blazing letters on a glittering signpost pointing to the motive of all he did. and so when mr. stanton told his daughter, the day after his arrival, that he approved of her engagement to beverly cruger and that it gave him great happiness, the utter absence of genuine fatherly tenderness in his manner showed the girl plainly that his happiness was brought about mainly by the fact that it advanced him several rungs in the social ladder, and not because she was going to marry a man who would make her happy. "he is a splendid catch," were mr. stanton's words on first hearing the news. "he belongs to a fine solid family and you will have _entrée_ into the first establishments in america and europe." hélène was instinctively repelled by the manner of his congratulations. not one solitary word was uttered as to love, happiness, or the sacred nature of marriage itself, not a regret at parting with her; nothing but an adding up of the advantages that would accrue to him from a social point of view. "the van nesses and the de morelles can't refuse to meet us now. we can snap our fingers at them! bravo, my girl, you have achieved a splendid victory. they can't dig up hidden and dead scandals now." hélène had never known that the van nesses and the de morelles had refused to meet them. she knew that several of the historic new york families did not make it a point to ask them to their functions, but she had always thought it was because her father was personally unpopular with the more exclusive set. his reference to hidden and dead scandals she did not in the least understand, for she had heard nothing. "at a moment like this," hélène thought, "if he had only opened his heart, if he would only let me love him!" but no, he had not shown the slightest encouragement, not a particle of sentiment. "with your husband's people and my money back of you," he said, "you ought to become a leader, nothing less than a leader! i'd give half a million to see you take julia van ness's place." hélène was disappointed. "oh, father, please don't speak of those things now! it's not a question of social advantage. it's my whole future happiness; my whole life itself is involved." "do you know, hélène, you are rather selfish in your love affair as i suppose you call it," cried mr. stanton angrily. "my ambition is for you, not for myself." "i have no ambition," said hélène, stifling a tendency to burst into tears, "that is, no social ambition. i love my friends and they love me. indeed, father, i have no desire to extend my circle of acquaintances; i can't do justice to those i know now! if it is for my sake you are trying to----" at these words mr. stanton completely lost his temper. "of course it is for your sake, don't you believe me when i say so? please remember that i am your father, and it is your duty to believe me whether my statement convinces you or not. it is your duty to believe me and to love me!" "god knows i try hard enough," broke from the girl, and now she too lost control of herself. "i hate myself for saying it, but it's true, father, it's true! i don't seem to love you, not as most girls love their fathers, and i want to, i do so want to! you believe that, don't you, father?" mr. stanton was silent, and hélène went on: "i always feel that there is something between us. i think of myself only as one of your possessions. you were so good, so gentle to mother; why aren't you more kind, more loving to me?" "is there anything you want that you do not get?" demanded mr. stanton. "yes," cried hélène, "there is love, love! i do not get it! your manner is cold, hard, repellent!" "how dare you!" shouted her father. "i repeat it!" cried hélène, now utterly regardless of consequences. "something in you repels me. i came to you this morning with the news of my engagement of marriage. i came to you with earnest longing to have you take me into your arms and kiss me, to have you congratulate me on my happiness. instead of this you repelled me with cold calculations as to the effect the marriage would have on your own social position. oh, father, father! is that the way to sympathise with a girl? i have no mother; you should supply her place. all the luxuries in this palace don't make up to me for the lack of love i find in it." "is it my fault that your mother died when you were eight years old?" said mr. stanton in a milder tone. the reference to his dead wife had had a softening influence upon him. "no, no, father; no, no! i can't help thinking of her now, that's all! i need her now, so much. i have no one to go to but you, and--" the girl shook her head helplessly. "i can just remember her, so delicate, so beautiful! she was an angel, wasn't she?" he nodded assent. "i remember that she was always in tears, always afraid to go out in the streets, afraid to be seen," said hélène somewhat irrelevantly. "you did love her, didn't you? i always feel you did! why, why can't you love me as you did her? why am i not as near to you as she was? your own flesh and blood should be very near and very dear to you; especially at such a time as this." he regarded her more tenderly. "you are near me," he said and kissed her. "poor little thing," he muttered to himself. "i suppose i am selfish," he said aloud, "but you'll have my money some day. surely that should give you a great deal of comfort!" hélène smiled sadly. her father seemed incapable of understanding her. she could only shake her head and say, "that's nothing, nothing!" "you'll find it a great deal, my girl," he said. that afternoon when her music master came he was astonished to find her pensive and downcast instead of joyful and happy, as he expected. "there has been a lovers' quarrel," he said to himself. "little missie wanted her way and young master wanted his. it is nothing," he decided, as he opened the music books. "have you studied your lesson?" he asked. "no," replied hélène, without thinking. "well, do the best you can," he said. to his utter astonishment she played the whole exercise through without looking at the music, without any effort and without playing a single false note. to say that von barwig was astounded is putting it mildly. he simply gasped for breath. "gott in himmel, fräulein! ach, du lieber gott! what style, what touch, what progress! ah," and then it came to him all at once, "your father has come back; you want to show him progress, is it not? you have practised on the sly, eh? ah--" and he shook his finger reproachfully at her. hélène looked at him and laughed. "if father was only like you," she thought. "yes," she said aloud. "i suppose i wanted to show my father the progress i have made, so i practised on the sly." "let us continue," said von barwig, who was now very anxious to see what new surprise his pupil was going to give him. "have you arranged with mrs. cruger about giving her nieces lessons?" asked hélène, carelessly striking a few chords on the piano. "not yet," replied von barwig, "i am to go next week." then he added with a little laugh, "the young ladies postpone me as long as possible." here they were interrupted by the entrance of denning, the under-butler, who informed miss stanton that her father wished to see her in the library. von barwig saw a downcast expression on hélène's face as she left the room. "perhaps he does not approve of the marriage, this mr. stanton. well, i do!" he said with emphasis. "i do, and i am determined that she shall marry the man of her choice. he is a splendid fellow, fully worthy of her. if this father interferes, i shall-- let me see, what shall i do?" von barwig laughed at his own foolishness in allowing his thoughts to run on unchecked. somehow they always led him into a ridiculous position from which he could never extricate himself. "i shall tell this father," he went on in a more compromising vein of thought, "i shall tell him that his daughter's happiness is at stake, and that he must not allow personal considerations to interfere with that happiness. then he will have me flung out of his house. no, thank you, barwig, you will not speak; but none the less that is what i think! her happiness first, last and all the time. let me tell you a secret, mr. stanton," said von barwig mentally. his thoughts rushed him along pell-mell now and he followed them, thoroughly enjoying the mental pictures they brought up. "let me tell you my secret, mr. stanton! she is my daughter as well as yours. i have adopted her. she does not know it, nor do you, but i do! she has taken the place of my own little one and i love her, mr. stanton. i love her just as much, aye, even more than you do, sir, and this love gives me the right to speak. you shall not interfere with her happiness! do you hear me, sir?" von barwig had now lashed himself into a whirlwind of imaginary indignation and was pacing up and down the music room; his thoughts completely engrossing him. they were the only realities in life to him now, these thoughts, and he treasured them as philosophers do the truths of existence. all at once his eye caught a pile of music that lay on the table next to miss stanton's dolls' cabinet in the corner of the room opposite the piano. he observed the beethoven concerto for pianoforte which had hélène stanton's name on it, also the c minor and f minor concertos of chopin, besides other compositions for pianoforte of an exceedingly difficult character; all this music was marked with her name and the date. "there must be some mistake," he thought, as he read the names. "she cannot play these difficult compositions, surely! it may be her mother had played them, but no, they are dated within a year or so of the present day!" everything was explained to him now. he was no longer surprised at the unaccountable unevenness of her playing. she had deceived him. "why, why?" he wondered. then it came to him. "of course! fool, dolt, idiot! she wanted to benefit you, so she pretends she cannot play and takes lessons she does not need. but why should she wish to befriend you, why?" von barwig was silent a long time. "why, why?" he kept asking himself and his thoughts could get no further. "am i dreaming?" he looked around. "is it all a dream? do i merely believe these things happen, or are they real? sometimes these people seem like phantoms of the past; phantoms that come and vanish like the thoughts that give them existence. there seems to be no substance in them. but real or phantom, dreaming or waking, my love for her is real. that is god's truth! i feel it, i know it! i love her, i love her! of that alone i am certain. that is truth, if nothing else is!" in the meantime, hélène found her father awaiting her in the library. mr. stanton was in very excellent spirits. "why did you trouble to come down, my dear child? i intended to come up and see you," he said as she entered the door. "i told denning to find out if you could receive me; servants are so stupid!" "oh, it doesn't matter! i was only taking a music lesson." "yes, so denning said. i didn't know you'd taken up your musical studies again," and then before hélène could reply, he went on: "sit down, my dear, i want to ask, no, not ask; i want to make a suggestion. i want you to do something for my sake. the spring has fairly set in; in a few weeks it will be summer, and i may want to go abroad again. can you arrange to have your marriage take place late in june or early in july?" "no, father!" replied hélène in a somewhat decided tone. "i am sorry," she added quickly, as she saw an expression of disappointment in his face. "why not, may i ask?" inquired her father. "because beverly is engaged in washington at the state department. the secretary has promised him an under-secretaryship in one of the european embassies if his work there is satisfactory, and our marriage would interrupt his work." "not necessarily," said mr. stanton. "besides he doesn't need any career! he will have plenty of money, and----" "i don't think all the money in the world would be sufficient to support beverly cruger in idleness," responded hélène with some spirit. "the crugers are not well off, and he refuses to accept anything from his father; and as for living on my income, it's out of the question, father! he insists on earning his own living and working out his own career." "well, after all, that shows a good spirit," said mr. stanton, "but i really don't see how an early marriage would interfere with his resolutions on that point. he could go on working." "his income is insufficient just at present," said hélène, "and it will be until next year. the marriage cannot take place till then. i am sorry." "some time next winter, eh? that's a long time, hélène; so many things may happen," said mr. stanton thoughtfully. "what could happen?" asked hélène in surprise. "what do you mean?" "i don't know; i'm nervous and apprehensive. i want to see you married and settled," replied her father almost peevishly, as if he didn't want to go into explanations. "i've a curious notion that i want to see you married and settled. it's a--a--my anxiety for you, hélène," added mr. stanton, forcing a smile. "you're very kind," repeated hélène. she did not understand her father in the least. he seemed to be afraid of something, his manner was distinctly apprehensive. she moved slowly toward the door, deep in thought. "are you going?" asked mr. stanton. "my music master is waiting for me," replied hélène. "your music master? oh, yes, you said you'd taken up your studies again." hélène smiled. "you can hardly call it taking up my studies," she said. "herr von barwig just--so to speak--goes over; i hardly know how to describe it. i think he tries to improve my technique." was it imagination or had her father turned ashen pale? he looked at her, barely able to speak; he seemed to have received an awful shock and he was gasping for breath. what had happened? there was a pause during which hélène wondered why she had not noticed before how pale and ill her father looked, and how his hands trembled. "what did you say was his name?" asked mr. stanton, barely able to repress the emotion in his voice. "professor von barwig. oh, he's not known here as well as he was in germany! what's the matter, father?" she cried out as the man almost tottered into his chair. "father, father! what is it?" "nothing, nothing; what should be the matter? i--these attacks come periodically now. a little heart trouble--it will soon pass away. ring for joles!" she obeyed him instantly. "good god, good god! is it possible? right under my own roof!" muttered stanton, "and with her! oh, god!" "i rang for him, father," said hélène, looking at him anxiously. "it's ditson i want to see. ditson, ditson! not joles." then he added quickly, "no, i don't want to see any one! i'm better now; these attacks pass away quickly. sit down, my dear child; i want to talk to you. what were you saying?" he asked, anxious to hear and yet not wishing to arouse her suspicion as to the cause of his anxiety. "nothing of any importance, father." "yes, yes; i insist! go right on with our conversation where we left off. you were speaking of your--your--musical professor, anton von barwig." mr. stanton had almost completely recovered himself now. "how did you know his first name, father?" "you mentioned it, you must have done so," said mr. stanton quickly. "yes, i remember you did! when you first mentioned his name, you called him anton. and he is upstairs," added her father with a curious laugh, "in this house." hélène thought his manner most strange. he was regarding her now with a curious, searching gaze. "he can have told her nothing," he muttered, "he must be as ignorant of the truth as she is. good god, what a coincidence!" joles came and ditson was sent for. when the confidential secretary arrived, mr. stanton and he went into the private study. hélène followed them. "will you need me any more, father?" she asked anxiously. "no, no!" replied mr. stanton. hélène went out and closed the door. as she reached the stairway she heard the key turn in the lock. "why does he lock himself in?" she thought. when hélène returned to the music room she found her music master waiting patiently for her. "forgive me for keeping you waiting!" she said. "there is great pleasure even in waiting for those we love; we love to teach, i should say," he added quickly. inwardly hélène found herself contrasting her father with this man. "if only he had the tenderness, the lovable qualities of this old musician," she thought, "how i could love him!" as he was taking his leave, her eye caught the music on top of the cabinet and in a moment she saw it had been disturbed. she looked quickly at von barwig, but he gave no sign that he knew of its existence. "i hope some day to be able to play those compositions for you," she said, pointing to them. "yes," replied von barwig with a smile. "i hope so." "i'll surprise you some day," she added. "yes," said von barwig simply, and he determined to allow her to surprise him. "good-bye!" he said, bowing. she held out her hand. "good-bye!" she replied almost tenderly. "to-morrow at the same time?" he asked anxiously. "yes, of course." von barwig breathed a sigh of relief. "she is not angry," he thought. "and it will very soon be to-morrow!" chapter twenty as von barwig walked down fifth avenue on his way home to his lodgings in houston street he could not help contrasting his present happy existence with the miserably hopeless state in which he had found himself on his first arrival in new york. "and it is to her, miss stanton, that i owe all this blessedness. i am a changed man," he said to himself, almost gaily, "i live, i enjoy, for to-morrow i shall see her again. to live that one hour of restful blessedness," he thought, "is well worth the bare existence of the other twenty-three." his friends felt the change, too. they all knew that something had happened, that something had entered the life of the old professor and changed it, but not one of them attempted to pry into his secret. "_ma foi_," said pinac, "he shall tell himself if he wants to. if not, he shall not!" fico's reply was characteristic of that italian's sunny disposition, and it inverted a familiar saying. "what the hell we care, so long as he is happy," he said. poons loved von barwig as a son, but the best of sons are self-centred when they are in love; and poons saw nothing. jenny was silent, she felt that she had lost her dear professor, but with that spirit of sacrifice of which woman alone is capable, she resigned her place in his heart to another. be it said to her credit there was not a jealous pang, not a moment of envy, nothing but mournful regret and sweet resignation to the inevitable. as a mother gives her son to another woman in marriage, so did jenny give up von barwig; to whom she knew not, nor did she seek to know. his secret was sacred to all his friends, all, save one, and this solitary exception led to a slight change in the houston street establishment. it came about as follows: "when a man comes home with orchids pinned to his coat," confided mrs. mangenborn to her friend miss husted, "it looks as if it was only a question of time when he would move uptown into more elegant apartments. orchids in winter only goes with blue diamonds and yellowbacks!" miss husted shook her head. "move upstairs more likely than uptown," replied that lady regretfully. "why, the poor old gentleman don't even get enough to eat. you mark my word for it, some day he's going to keel over! only yesterday morning i had to beg him almost on my bended knees to join us at dinner and then he only came in to oblige me. he ate scarcely anything, poor dear!" "does he pay regularly?" inquired mrs. mangenborn, with a lack of sympathy noted by her friend. "as regularly as clockwork," snapped miss husted. "half price, but how long will he be able to pay even that? only three pupils, and only one of them pays him in cash. oh, how people round here have changed since i first came here; how much they do expect for their money nowadays!" "he's out every afternoon, regularly. he's out evenings with his fiddle; home at four in the morning, he doesn't do that for nothing. i don't think he tells all he knows," concluded mrs. mangenborn with a significant wink of the eye, which brought her fat cheek very close to her eyebrow. "well," said miss husted with a sigh, "of course it's no business of mine where he goes and what he does, but--whatever it is, it's all right! that you can depend on, it is all right." this was intended to be a rebuke to mrs. mangenborn, but it was entirely lost on that lady, for with the very next breath she said bluntly: "why don't you ask him?" miss husted set her lips firmly together, and this movement might have warned a less obtuse person. "why don't you ask him?" repeated mrs. mangenborn. "because," replied miss husted, with more temper than she had ever exhibited before to her friend, "because, mrs. mangenborn, it's none of my business!" there was a slight pause. "not wishing to give you a short answer, my dear," supplemented miss husted, sorry that she had been compelled to take extreme measures to stay her friend's curiosity. to her utter surprise mrs. mangenborn still persisted. "well, it is your business, in a sense," went on that lady. "this is your house, and it is your duty to see that it is conducted respectably!" "respectably? am i to understand, mrs. mangenborn, that you intend to convey a hint that my house is not conducted respectably?" demanded miss husted. her back at this moment could not have been straighter had she been leaning against the wall. "why, no!" assented mrs. mangenborn, who saw that she had gone a little too far. "i merely said that it was your duty, and so it is! people should always do their duty," she added somewhat vaguely. "i trust i know my duty, mrs. mangenborn," said miss husted severely, "nor do i require to be put in the path of my duty by anybody, be it he, or be it she, be it transient, or be it permanent." this was a direct shot and mrs. mangenborn gave signs that it had gone home; for she arose. "i am very sorry," she said with heavy-weight dignity, "i am very sorry." "there is nothing to be sorry for, only this, mrs. mangenborn! i'd like it to be thoroughly understood that no person in this living world can besmirch the character of professor von barwig without besmirching me," and miss husted folded her arms somewhat defiantly. "oh, miss husted, miss husted, how can you say such a thing! did i besmirch even a particle of his character? just prove your words, please; did i, did i?" mrs. mangenborn now came slightly closer to miss husted and for a moment it looked as though there would be a personal altercation between the two ladies. "you said that his hours were not respectable hours, and that he didn't tell all he knew, and--and--oh, i can't remember all you said, mrs. mangenborn, nor does it matter in the least! pray, why should he tell all he knows? it's no lady's business--what he knows! for that matter, do you tell all you know? no," went on miss husted, now thoroughly aroused, "but you tell a great many things that you don't know! not one of your fortunes has come true, lately, not one!" the cards had toppled over, there were no more fortunes in them, and mrs. mangenborn saw that her reign had come to an end. "i do not care to discuss the question any further," she said loftily, and giving a wide sweep to her skirts she added somewhat grandiloquently: "kindly send my bill to my room, and please consider yourself at perfect liberty to dispose of it to some one else." "with great pleasure, mrs. mangenborn," replied miss husted, "with very great pleasure! and i may add i was going to ask you for your room this very evening." mrs. mangenborn's only answer was a loud and prolonged laugh, which she kept up all the way to her room and which only ceased when she had shut her door with a loud bang. "good riddance!" thought miss husted, "a very good riddance!" thus the friendship of years was sundered. [illustration: hélène prepares her trousseau.] at this precise moment the innocent object of their strife let himself in at the front door. "ah, my dear professor von barwig, i was just thinking of you," said miss husted, as she followed him into his rooms. "i've got rid of her at last; mrs. mangenborn is going." von barwig smiled. "is she?" he said simply, "i am glad for your sake. now you will be mistress of your own establishment." "i was always mistress of my own establishment, professor," replied miss husted with dignity. "always." "except sometimes when the cards would direct the policy of the house," said von barwig. "whenever there is a superstition, dear lady," he went on, "there is no freedom! we become slaves of our own beliefs." "well, i'm glad she's going, anyway," said miss husted, not quite comprehending, but not wishing to dispute with von barwig. "why, professor!" and miss husted started. she had just noticed that his clothes and books were packed into bundles, as if ready to be carried away. "professor, professor!" she gasped, "what is the meaning of that?" and she pointed to a big stack of music tied up, "and that, and that, and that," pointing to various articles. "it means, dear lady, that i'm going to move," said von barwig complacently. "move!" almost shrieked miss husted. "yes, as the top floor will not come down to me, i shall move up to the top floor. you see i am nearly all ready. pinac and fico will help me; and up i shall go! it is one way of getting up in the world, eh, miss husted?" he said with a little laugh, and he looked at her as if he expected her to laugh, too, but she did not join in his merriment. "there's no room upstairs," she said at last, as if determined he should not go. "oh, yes, in the hallway; a nice little room, large enough for my wants." "but that is a storeroom," cried miss husted. "when i occupy it, it will be a bedroom," laughed von barwig, "and just think," he added, "i shall be nearer my friends! they can visit me without running up and down stairs. i shall have additional advantages, at a less rental." miss husted looked at him sorrowfully. she knew it was useless to argue with him, so she gave her consent, but insisted on taking a very small sum for her room. and so von barwig moved from the ground floor to the attic. this floor with its huge atelier window on the roof and its stair running down at the back had been used by an artist on account of the splendid light. although a hallway, it was fitted up as a room. there was a stove, a sink, a large cupboard, and other conveniences for light housekeeping. there were four bedroom doors opening into this hallway, three of which were occupied by pinac, fico and poons, and the fourth von barwig took possession of. they all begged him to take their rooms, but he shook his head and smiled and they knew it was useless to ask him, so the skylight musketeers, as they called themselves, had complete possession of the hall, which served them as a common parlour. it was roomy and airy in the summer, but draughty and cold in the winter; as it was now warm weather, von barwig and his friends did not suffer any inconvenience at this time. the men did not see much of each other in these days. pinac and fico had secured engagements on an excursion steamboat that plied its way to coney island and back. they were away all day, and when they came back late at night von barwig was at the museum. he saw more of poons than he did of the others, for that young man had no regular engagement, but played now and then as substitute in one of the downtown theatre orchestras, so he just about managed to eke out an existence on a cash basis, and the three older men were as proud of this fact as if he were their own son. von barwig was strangely happy; he took no interest whatever in his physical existence. his immediate surroundings, the people he saw, the food he ate, made no mental impression upon him. life was a mechanical process, a routine existence to him till midday, when he would, to quote his own words, "begin to live," that is, he would start uptown on his walk to fifty-seventh street. rain or shine he would not ride, for the motion of riding on the bumpy stages interfered with the flow of his thoughts. "now begins my day," he would say to himself as he started on his journey to his pupil's house, some four or five miles from miss husted's establishment. the old man was happy; happy in going, happy when there, happy when thinking that the next day he would see her again. so when, for the third successive time, in as many days, joles informed him that miss stanton was not at home, von barwig experienced a feeling of disappointment accompanied by a sense of fear. "she--miss stanton is well?" faltered he to the dignified mr. joles, who was regarding him with a haughty expression, not unaccompanied with disdain. "i beg your pardon!" said joles in anything but an apologetic manner. "miss stanton is well?" repeated von barwig. "oh, yes," replied joles. "indeed, yes." his answer intended to convey to von barwig that such a question was entirely unnecessary, not to say uncalled for. "it's very strange," von barwig mused as he walked home. "she always writes me a little note or leaves a message for me with one of the servants, letting me know when to come for the next lesson." then he tried to assure himself that it was all right, that in the stress of her social obligations she had forgotten. "it's all right, barwig, you make yourself miserable for nothing. you expect too much. she is a petted, pampered, fêted young lady of fortune, the daughter of a croesus; do you think she can always think of you? who are you that she should spare you so much time? you overrate yourself; you--you idiot." people stopped in the streets to look at the old man, who was walking so rapidly and gesticulating so excitedly. when von barwig saw that he was observed, he calmed down. "it's all right," he said. "to-morrow! i shall see her to-morrow!" that evening at the museum the night professor was strangely inattentive. so deeply was he engrossed in his own thoughts that he entirely forgot to play when bosco was announced. he was rewarded by that young lady with a look that was intended to annihilate him on the spot, but the professor did not happen to be looking that way. "she will be there to-morrow, or she will leave a message," he was saying to himself. "bites their heads off; bites their heads off! holy gee! don't you hear, profess'? it's her cue," came in thundering tones from the throat of mr. al costello. "what the hell's the matter, profess'? eats 'em alive, eats 'em alive!" he bawled, glaring at von barwig, and then the night professor "found himself." "oh, my gracious," he thought as he banged on the piano--the chords intended to depict musically the armless wonder's cannibalistic proclivities. bosco not only bit their heads off, she bit her lips with vexation. it was too late; not a hand applauded when she came on and the fat lady laughed aloud and fanned herself vigorously. she hated miss bosco, who, being a headliner, had lorded it over the rest of the unfortunate freaks in a manner deeply resented by them; so the fat lady was glad to see bosco's act fall down. the skeleton looked wise and tapped his bony forehead with his bony fingers. "dippy," he articulated. "all musicians are dippy," he added. the midgets looked serious, for they loved the professor. tears started in the little lady's eyes; she expected a storm, for she was terribly afraid of bosco. "i do hope that mr. costello won't haul him over the coals," said the albino to the tattooed girl. "he's such a nice old guy!" after the show mr. costello listened to von barwig's apology in silence, and silence meant a great deal of self-restraint for him. "it's all right if she don't raise a holler," he said, taking his diamond ring off his necktie and placing it on his finger for the night. "but you must keep awake, see? it looks like blazes to see the profess' asleep! it not only sets the audience a bad example, but it looks as if we was givin' a bum show." then he added warningly, "we had one profess' last year who went to sleep on us regular, and snored so that we used his noise instead of the snare drums. well, we left him sound asleep after the show one night and turned the lights off. when he woke up he thought the wax figures was ghosts, and he threw a fit right on the piano. holy mackerel! it took nearly two quarts of whiskey to get him right for the next show; so don't do it again, profess'," he ended solemnly. von barwig promised that he would not--but he made up his mind that just as soon as terms for teaching mrs. cruger's nieces were arranged, he would at once give mr. costello notice of his determination to resign from the night professorship at the museum. this thought contributed in no small degree to his peace of mind, for he had begun to loathe the very thought of this place. when von barwig arrived home he found a letter on the hall table. he went up to his little room, lit the candle, sat down on his bed and read the following: "mrs. cruger presents her compliments to herr von barwig, and regrets to inform him that unexpected circumstances have arisen which will obviate the necessity of his calling upon her in regard to her nieces' studies." "very well," he said to himself, as he folded up the letter. "i shall have more time to think of her," and he went to bed and slept peacefully. a week elapsed. each day he had patiently gone uptown to miss stanton's house. he had started out full of hope and returned home in despair. on each occasion he had been informed by mr. joles that miss stanton was out, that she had left no message for him, and that he did not know when she would return. finally he wrote to her and waited patiently for an answer; but there was no word. the old man's hope of seeing her again gradually grew smaller and smaller until at last the old feeling of dull despair, the old gnawing pain of unsatisfied affection came back to him again. "i am doomed," he thought; "doomed to live my life alone!" he would sit for hours and hours and try to think out why she did not see him, why she did not answer his letter. was she away? if so, why did she not let him know? had she found out that he played in a bowery museum? or did she suspect that he knew that she did not need lessons? if so, was that sufficient cause for her neglect? no, he could not reason it out on those lines! why did mrs. cruger send him a note dismissing him after practically promising to engage him as music master to her nieces? did mrs. cruger dismiss him at all, or had circumstances arisen that obviated the necessity of engaging him? was it merely a coincidence that she should dismiss him at the same time that hélène avoided seeing him? were these two conditions in any way connected with each other? was hélène really trying to avoid him? had she received his letter? did she really know? this last question gave him much comfort and he persistently dwelt on that phase of the situation. to believe that she knew; it was inconceivable to him. she would surely have written. "did i address the letters properly? did i put stamps on?" he asked himself. "there is a mistake somewhere," he concluded; "a mistake that time will surely adjust." the next day, after going through the usual performance of asking for miss stanton and being informed by mr. joles of the young lady's absence, von barwig ventured to extend the field of his inquiry. "is mr. stanton in?" he asked in a low voice, scarcely knowing why he should ask for her father, or what he should say if he was fortunate enough to obtain an interview with him. "mr. stanton!" repeated mr. joles, almost horrified at the idea of von barwig's asking for his master. "mr. stanton?" he repeated. "have you an appointment with him?" von barwig admitted that he had not. "mr. stanton sees no one without an appointment," said mr. joles, slowly recovering from the shock von barwig had given him. "besides which, he is at present at bar harbour." "are you sure there is no message for me?" pleaded von barwig. "quite sure," responded mr. joles. "but there must be," pleaded the old man. he was desperate now. "did she get my note?" "my advice is for you to go home and wait till miss stanton signifies that your presence is required. that's the best thing to do--really." mr. joles volunteered this advice, which contained little comfort, but von barwig's lip quivered and he nodded his head thankfully. even the advice to go away and stay away contained more hope than the cold stolid stone-wall indifference he had encountered day after day from mr. joles. "thank you, mr. joles! i will, i will," and von barwig plodded his way wearily back to houston street. for one whole week he did not go near the stanton house. he contented himself with hoping. he would sit in his little room and rush out every time he heard the letter-carrier's whistle, but no letter came. one day, when he could no longer restrain himself, he carefully brushed his clothes and prepared to walk uptown again. "she must be in, she must be in; and she will see me. this time i know she will see me; i am sure of it; sure of it," he kept repeating to himself. "she can't be so cruel!" he found himself looking into a florist's window and started with a cry of joy. "that's a good omen, a very good omen! you're all right, barwig; she will see you." he had recognised the florist in union square that he had bought the violets he presented her with on the day he first called upon her. he went in and bought a bunch of violets. "we begin all over again," he said to himself. "we forget all this weary waiting, all this stupid fear. now, miss hélène, we are prepared for our lesson," he said, as he took the box of flowers and walked uptown with renewed hope. his heart beat very rapidly as he walked up the steps. "courage, barwig," he said to himself; "the tide turns i you will see!" he rang the bell. there was no answer. several times he repeated this action; each time he waited several minutes. finally he rang the bell, and added to it a loud knock. his persistence was rewarded, for mr. joles came to the door. he did not wait for von barwig to speak, as he usually did, but proceeded to inform the old man that his actions were "simply disgraceful." "miss stanton is not in and what's more she is not liable to be in," he said severely. "some people cannot take a hint! if miss stanton wanted to see you, miss stanton would have sent for you," added mr. joles, and his manner was quite ruffled. he took it as a personal offence that mr. von barwig should so persist in calling at a house where it was evident he was not wanted. von barwig was speechless; he could make no reply. insulted, turned away, humiliated by her servants! she must know, he felt sure she knew now and his degradation was complete. the old man turned to go now desiring only to get away, somewhere, anywhere, where he could hide his head, where he could hide his grief from the world. joles shut the door with a bang. he evidently intended that the music master's dismissal should be final. that door bang put a new idea into von barwig's bewildered brain. "that does not come from her," he cried, "she does not insult, she does not lacerate the heart, she would not purposely humiliate me. no, this last degradation could emanate only from one who has the soul of a servant. this is revenge! he hates me, but why? good god! why? i've done nothing to him," and the old man groaned aloud in his misery. "i'll wait and see, perhaps she is at bar harbour with her father. how do i know? how do i know?" after this, von barwig did something that he had never done before in his whole life; he hid himself in the shadow of the opposite corner, and watched. "it is a mean action," he said to himself, "but she will forgive, she will forgive!" for hours he stood there watching and waiting, and the time slipped by almost without his being conscious of it, until the shadows of night began to fall. once a policeman, seeing him crouched in the corner, stopped and looked at him. "what are you doing there?" he asked. von barwig turned his pale, tear-stained countenance and looked at the officer; then a gentle smile crept over his face. "i am waiting," he said simply. there was such utter pathos in the old man's voice, such gentle dignity in his manner, such a pleading look in his eyes that it seemed to satisfy the guardian of the law, for he walked on without uttering another word. von barwig's weary vigil soon came to an end. a pair of horses and a carriage drove up to the stanton mansion and stopped at its doors. von barwig instantly recognised the stanton livery, but the carriage was empty. "it is waiting for some one," he muttered to himself. "courage, courage! we shall soon see!" it was now nearly dark, and he could approach nearer to the house without fear of being seen. the carriage stood there quite a time, during which the horses pawed the ground impatiently. "patience, patience," said von barwig to himself. "you soon see." his patience was rewarded, for the door opened, and hélène stanton issued forth, clad in a handsome evening costume. to von barwig's fevered mind, she looked more radiantly beautiful, more tranquilly happy than he had ever before seen her. she walked rapidly down the brown stone steps, stepped quickly into the carriage and was whirled away before von barwig could realise what had happened. the old man could have shrieked aloud in his agony. "she knows, she knows, she knows!" he kept saying to himself, as he groped his way toward home. he was dazed, benumbed. the many figures coming and going, this way and that way, seemed like a spectral vision to him. how he got as far as union square he never knew, but the first place he recognised was the open square. a large piano organ was playing and quite a number of people were grouped around it. this music recalled him to himself. "i know the worst now; the sword of hope no longer hangs over my head. at least my suspense is over," he said, "thank god it is over!" he now realised what had happened. "no more waiting and watching for the word that never comes!" he thought. "my dream is over! i am awake again, i will think no more of it." he was walking across the square now. the evening was warm and sultry and all the benches were crowded with people except one on which a woman was seated holding a babe that was crying. "either people do not want to disturb her, or they do not want to be disturbed by the crying infant," thought von barwig, mechanically taking in the situation. he was now acutely conscious of things going on around him. "what is the matter with that baby?" he wondered. he stooped and looked at the infant. it was crying piteously, so he looked at the woman and was struck by the fact that she was taking no notice of her child. she seemed to be absolutely unconscious of the fact that it was crying. "how strange!" thought von barwig. she was a young, girlish woman with rather attractive features, but pale and wan. von barwig could not help noticing the look of abject despair on her face. the child cried on, but she seemed oblivious of the fact. "can she hear it?" he asked himself. "is she the mother and yet allows the babe to suffer without trying to help it?" von barwig's interest was aroused and he determined to speak to her. "i beg your pardon," he said gently to the girl. "can i not do something for you?" she turned to him and shook her head. "can i do something for the child? it--it suffers." "yes," responded the girl in a hoarse voice. "i suppose it does--it's hungry!" instinctively von barwig put his hand in his pocket, but the girl shook her head. "not that, not that!" she said quickly. "i have enough to eat, but--" she looked at him more closely, looked into his eyes, and felt rather than saw that it was not mere idle curiosity that was prompting his question. "it's very kind of you to take an interest in a stranger. i'm feeding the child myself," she said after a pause; "but i can't now, i can't!" the girl tried hard to keep back her tears. "it would poison her if i did! i dare not until i feel different. i'm full of hate and misery and hell, and i dare not feed it to the child. mother's milk is poison when the mother feels as i do!" she cried, striking her breast in her misery. the old man took her hand. "don't, please don't," he said gently; "unless you want the child to die. compose yourself, my dear girl, and tell me what has happened. i'm a stranger to you, yes, but misery brings us together and makes us old friends." he seated himself beside her. "tell me; i am old enough to be your father! you have none, eh?" "yes," said the girl, "i have, but--" she broke off suddenly. then she said, "my husband has left me, and the child not eight weeks old. isn't that hard luck? left me--for another! oh, i know it's an old story, but it's new enough to me. god knows it's new enough to me!" von barwig comforted her as well as he could, and when the girl quieted down she told him her story. it was conventional enough. she had run away from home and married a young fellow she met in a harlem dance hall. she knew nothing of his people or of his early life. she simply married him, and now he had deserted her after the arrival of her child. there was nothing uncommon or strange either in her story or her way of telling it. von barwig had heard such stories hundreds of times, but to him the pathos of the situation lay in the inability of the young mother to feed the crying child owing to her distracted mental condition. further, the fact that she was sufficiently acquainted with the laws of physiology to realise this truth showed von barwig that the girl had received a better education than most of her class. "have you money?" he asked her. "a little," the girl replied listlessly. "oh, god, if the child would only stop crying," she said as she kissed and fondled the babe. then she sighed. "i feel better now," she said, "much better. perhaps in a little while i shall be myself again." von barwig handed her a five dollar bill. "you will buy the little fellow something with the compliments of a stranger. what do you call him?" he said quickly, for he saw that his generous action had brought tears to the girl's eyes and he wanted to prevent her crying. "he's a fine little chap," he added. "it's a girl," she said, the ghost of a smile coming into her face. "her name is annie. i'll take this for her sake. thank you, sir, thank you!" "a little girl," he said in his low, gentle voice; "a little girl! i had a little girl once," and he stifled the sob that came into his throat. the girl heard this sob and squeezed his hand gently in sympathy. "let me tell you a story, my child, it may help you to bear the burden of life, as your story has helped me!" von barwig reseated himself by the girl's side and recounted to her the whole story of his miserable unhappy existence from beginning to end. this stranger was the only one to whom he had ever told it all. the girl was intensely interested, and it had the desired effect of taking her thoughts off her own misery. when von barwig took his leave of her an hour or so later, the colour had come into her waxen cheeks and she was quietly nursing her baby. "i have been asleep," he said to himself, "but i am awake now. life is all about me; i must not be blind to it again!" as von barwig turned the corner of houston street and the bowery, he glanced at the clock in the watchmaker's on the corner. it was eleven o'clock. he did not go to the museum that night. "are you quite sure there is no letter for me, joles?" hélène asked anxiously, as she came in late that night. "quite sure, miss." hélène thought a moment. "it's very strange," she said. "i've written to him so many times." joles's face expressed nothing. hélène shook her f head slowly and walked upstairs. before she went to bed that night she sent the following note: "my dearest beverly: come to-morrow morning and take me to lunch. i want you to do a little diplomatic work for me. "your loving "hÉlÈne." chapter twenty-one von barwig now firmly made up his mind that it would never be his good fortune to see his beloved pupil again. "she has gone out of my life as suddenly as she came into it," he said with a deep sigh. to a man of his mental activity the loss of almost the sole object of his thoughts created an aching void, and yet so hopeful was he in spite of the constant repetition of blasted hopes and unfilled desire that two or three days after the occurrences just narrated he had resolved on a new plan of action. "poons and jenny shall marry at once," said he as he arose that morning and dressed himself to go to the rehearsal of a new songstress at the museum. "the son of your old friend and the niece of your good landlady shall mark a new epoch for you, barwig. you overrated yourself, you loved the daughter of millions, you lived beyond your means, my friend. now it is time you lived within your income," he said, looking at himself in the glass, as he combed his grey hair. "love jenny and poons; poor little neglected ones, you had forgotten their existence! no more extravagances, no more reaching for the impossible! here down in houston street is your life! it is your own, live it! don't go after the fleshpots of fifth avenue, don't cheapen yourself that servants and lackeys may insult and deride you." yet ever as he spoke, a mental image of his beloved pupil came before him, and his heart sank as he thought that he should never see her again. "why has a mere thought, a stray idea the power to make us so unhappy?" he asked himself. this question was still unanswered when there came into his mind the memory of the unfortunate young woman he had met on union square a few nights before. her misery, her agony of mind, the crying babe, all came before him in a flash. "my god, when i think of her, i am ashamed of myself! here i howl and tear my hair and rail at fortune because i lose something that i never had; she was never mine--this girl of millions--i had no right to her. but the sufferings of that poor child-wife are real, deep, heartrending; and there are thousands of others like her in this world. get up, sluggard, get up! go out and comfort them; go out into the world and mend broken hearts. it is your trade! you have qualified, for your own is battered to pieces." this idea gave him peace of mind for a short time, but presently his thoughts ran into the old groove. try as he would he could not direct them away from the line of easiest mental resistance. "if i could only see her once again," he thought, "perhaps i could explain away the cause of our separation. perhaps i--" and he started up suddenly, the idea sweeping him off his feet. "by god, i make one more effort; just one more effort! and if that fails, i give it up; it shall be the last! this time i swear it shall be the last. yes, i go, i demand an interview. it is my right." he was as full of hope now as he had ever been. as a gambler eagerly stakes his last bet, so von barwig hastened to finish dressing and go to her, to make his one last appeal. as he brushed his coat hurriedly, there came a knock at the door. "come in," said von barwig rather impatiently, thinking that it was poons. he did not feel in the mood just at that moment for casual conversation. "come in," he repeated in a louder voice, and to his utter amazement in walked beverly cruger. von barwig could only stare at him in speechless astonishment. he was literally dumfounded. young cruger evidently saw this, for he seized von barwig's hand and shook it warmly. "how do you do, herr von barwig?" he said. "thank you, well! sit down," the old man managed to gasp out, as he pointed to a chair. "you come from her, from miss stanton?" he articulated in a voice just loud enough to be heard by the younger man. "yes," said beverly, taking off his gloves and placing them on the table. "i want to have a little talk with you. may i?" von barwig did not answer his question. "did--she--did she send you?" he asked. his eyes glistened; his very life seemed to depend on the answer. beverly nodded. "yes, she wanted me to ask you a few questions. are you sure you have the time to spare?" von barwig laughed from sheer joy. time! to some one who came from her! he could only nod in acquiescence and wait for the young man to speak. "how many letters have you received from miss stanton?" asked beverly. von barwig looked at him. "not any," he replied, shaking his head sadly. beverly made no comment, but he made a mental note. it was not his intention at that moment at least to acquaint herr von barwig with all that had passed between hélène and himself as to the letters that had failed to reach their destination. "didn't receive one, eh?" "no, not one," said von barwig, in a low voice. "has she written?" he asked falteringly. beverly made no reply, but thought a moment. "how many letters have you sent miss stanton?" he asked. von barwig hesitated. "perhaps--perhaps some five or six," he said apologetically. "hum!" commented beverly, "five or six, eh? how many times have you called during, say, the past month?" von barwig shook his head; he could not remember. "perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty times." "and she was always out?" queried beverly. "yes," said von barwig sorrowfully, "always!" "whom did you see?" "mr. joles," came the ready reply. "every time you called?" "yes, i--i think so!" beverly cruger looked at von barwig a few moments and knitted his brows thoughtfully. "it's damn queer," he said, after a pause. "has she written any letter to me? it did not reach me, that i am sure," began the old man. "that's all right. now let me give you miss stanton's message! she would like you to be at her home at four o'clock this afternoon. can you manage it?" von barwig did not trust himself to reply. he could only nod his head affirmatively. "i'm glad i came up; awfully glad!" beverly arose from his seat and held out his hand to von barwig. "good-bye! be on time, won't you?" he said. von barwig smiled. "yes, i'll be on time," he said joyfully. the look in the old man's face went to beverly cruger's heart and he showed his sympathy as he shook hands with him again. he hurriedly passed through the group of children who had gathered to look at the not too familiar spectacle of a hansom cab waiting at the door of miss husted's establishment. von barwig will always remember how wearily the hours dragged along until the time of his appointment uptown came. finally they did pass, and though it lacked several minutes of the hour of four, von barwig walked up the stone steps of mr. henry stanton's house on fifth avenue and fifty-seventh street. there was no change in the expression of mr. joles's face to denote that he had received imperative instructions from miss stanton to admit herr von barwig the moment he called. nor did mr. joles appear to think it at all curious that young mr. cruger should happen to be in the hallway just as the music master came in at the door. his face displayed no emotion whatever when that young gentleman came forward and led the old man upstairs to miss stanton's room. neither mr. cruger nor the music master saw the pale face of mr. stanton's secretary, ditson, peering over the staircase at them. but a moment later a telegram was sent to mr. stanton, telling him that there was an urgent necessity for him to come home at once. curiously enough at about the same time mr. stanton received this telegram, he also received a letter from his daughter begging him to come home as soon as he could, as her mail had been tampered with and she strongly suspected joles of acting in a most deceitful manner for reasons she could not fathom. it was because she expected her father that she acted under beverly's advice and did not mention the subject to joles, nor even to herr von barwig until her father had instituted an inquiry. the meeting between von barwig and his pupil was marked by no special display of emotion or even more than ordinary interest; for von barwig had steeled himself for the occasion. they greeted each other cordially, but it was only with the greatest self-control that he managed to conceal his delight at seeing her once more. again occurred the formal presentation of the little bunch of violets; again the casual remarks about the weather. "you are not angry?" asked hélène tenderly. von barwig dared not reply; he could only smile and look at her in silence. after a pause he ventured to say: "i have offended mr. joles's feelings. i am sorry!" hélène held up a warning finger, indicating her desire to keep silence on that subject, at least for the present. "later on!" she said. "i intend to take up the subject with my father when he returns." von barwig watched himself closely. he was determined to make no more mistakes, nor to yield to any temptation to give way to his feelings in the slightest degree. "you have practised since i--during my absence?" he asked, assuming a sternness he by no means felt, and that she saw through at once. "yes, _maestro_," she replied meekly. "i have practised every day. i've really made great progress, _caro maestro_!" and she laughed softly. "we shall see," said von barwig, with a critical frown on his face. he was a little self-conscious. he knew his own weakness, his temptation to become sentimental, and he had to watch himself continually to prevent his emotional nature from getting uppermost. this self-restraint made him slightly ill at ease, and hélène noticed it. "you are strangely quiet this afternoon," she said. "i should have thought you would have had a great deal to tell me." von barwig merely looked at her. "come," said he, "we must get to work!" "you did not receive a single line from me?" she asked as they neared the end of the lesson. "what must you have thought?" "what right have i to think?" replied von barwig. "i am only a teacher! there are so many. i thought perhaps you had replaced me." "don't talk like that, please," said hélène quickly, and shutting the piano up with a bang, she arose. "you know that i esteem you very highly," and she stopped suddenly. "i am going to find out all about these stolen letters and father will punish the culprit. he is very strict in these matters; he always punishes the guilty." "but it is over and done now, so why punish any one?" began von barwig. hélène shook her head. "it hasn't begun yet," she said, ringing the bell. denning answered it. "send joles please," she said. denning bowed and a little later joles appeared. "herr von barwig, my music master, will be here at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. you will please admit him at once." "yes, madam," and joles bowed his head rather lower than usual. von barwig took leave of his pupil, appearing not to notice her outstretched hand, but merely bowing to her as he said good-bye. joles opened the front door for him and von barwig looked at him pityingly. his triumph over the servant was so complete that he felt sorry for him. "perhaps you did not mean to keep back the letters," said von barwig to him in a low, sympathetic voice. joles looked at him in blank astonishment. "you have perhaps a family to support," went on von barwig. "i will ask mr. stanton to forgive you." "sir!" said mr. joles, with some slight show of indignation, "i do not understand you." von barwig looked at the man a moment, and seeing that it was useless to discuss the matter with him he walked slowly down the stone steps, wondering what it all meant. on the following morning mr. stanton arrived home. he appeared to be in very high spirits. hélène could not remember when her father had been so light-hearted and gay. she wanted to tell him about the suppression of her letters, of joles's contempt for her orders, and his lies about von barwig, but these were matters that evidently did not interest mr. stanton, for he paid very little attention to her complaints. "it is your birthday," he said, "let no unpleasant features mar the day! see, i have not forgotten!" and mr. stanton produced a box that came from the most fashionable and most expensive jewelry establishment in america. "a trifle," he said. "put it with your other gifts and show it to your friends when they come this afternoon." hélène opened the box. accustomed as she was to beautiful jewels, she could only gasp. within it was a magnificent pearl necklace, beautifully graded, with colour matching to perfection. "a trifle!" she repeated. "father, it's beautiful!" she wanted to throw her arms around his neck, to kiss him for his bountiful gift, but something in his manner checked her, so she stifled the impulse and contented herself with holding up her face. mr. stanton kissed her coldly and hélène drew back. it was an instinctive repulsion and she could not help showing it; he, on his part, appeared not to notice it. "i will inquire into the matter of your letters being tampered with," he said, "although i am confident that you will find that you are labouring under some mistake. joles is as honest as the day. what could be his motive?" hélène was silent. her father did not pursue the subject. "the crugers are coming to-day," he said finally. "indeed?" said hélène, somewhat surprised. "beverly is coming, i believe; but i did not know his father and mother were." "i informed the crugers that i had returned to town, and that i should be very pleased to see them this afternoon. i told them it was your birthday and--" he paused, saying in a more decided tone: "it is my intention to urge an immediate marriage, hélène." he spoke with an effort. "i may be called away at any moment, and----" hélène noticed that her father looked pale and worried and decidedly ill at ease. "i shall esteem it a great favour if you will not interpose any objection to my project for this marriage. i have asked several of our friends here to-day, and i have given them to understand that the date of the marriage would be announced. it is your birthday, so it will be a double event, as it were." he paused and looked at her. "do as you think best!" she said finally. she felt it was useless to contend with him. for some reason or other he wanted an early marriage; so be it! "you have asked several friends," she said. "have you asked any of my mother's people?" "no," replied mr. stanton abruptly. "mrs. cruger said she hoped some day to meet some of my mother's relations. father, how is it i know nothing of her or her people? what is the mystery about her? every time cards are sent out from this house for any function i am always reminded that there is not one of her family to come to this house. on an occasion like this i should have thought----" "she had no relatives," interrupted mr. stanton, "or i should have asked them. please discontinue the subject; it is by no means a pleasant one. good god, what a girl you are! i come to you with a gift fit for a princess; and you, you ungrateful----" mr. stanton looked at her with a look of intense anger, almost of hatred; then turned on his heel and walked out of the room. hélène returned to her room. she was quite thoughtful. "an early marriage! yes, the sooner the better!" she almost threw the necklace among the many gifts that had been sent her. she wished her father had not given it to her. it was evidently not in her to express the gratitude he deserved and she was angry with herself that she was not more grateful to him. that afternoon when von barwig was admitted to her presence he saw a pile of boxes, flowers, jewelry--gifts of all sorts on the piano. he noticed also that the dolls were on the outside of the cabinet, instead of inside, where she usually kept them. "it's my birthday," she said in explanation. "i've been having a good time with my dolls." she smiled as she saw that he was holding out a little bunch of violets. "for you!" he said. "you must really stop this sort of thing, sir, or i shall be very angry!" but she took them and pressed them to her face. "they look very meagre among all this great horticultural display," said von barwig regretfully. "they came from the heart and i love them," she said as she fastened them in her corsage. "well, now we begin," he said as he took out the lead pencil that he always used as a baton. "there must be progress to-day." he opened the piano and she sat down and looked at the music he placed there for her. he had chosen a well-known exercise, a czerny; not a difficult one, but requiring some technique to play with precision. "come, begin!" and she rattled off at a - allegretto, the music which was intended to be played in three-quarter andante. "very pretty," commented von barwig, "very pretty indeed, but you finish before you commence!" "that's the rate at which i'm thinking," said hélène. "when i think rapidly i play rapidly. my thoughts can only be described as _presto_." "that's rather hard on the composer, miss stanton. come, i count for you! one, two, three. one, two, three; one, two, three. the fingers should be little hammers, so! one, two, three. dear young lady, this is not a thumb exercise; it is for the fingers." "am i playing with my thumbs?" she asked. "come; please, please!" he entreated. "i can't refuse when you plead so hard," she said. "one, two, three; one, two, three," he counted monotonously. "you like me, don't you?" she asked irrelevantly, a mischievous smile on her face. von barwig tried to look stern but failed ignominiously. "please attend," he said. "one, two, three; one, two, three. ah, you play so unevenly! sometimes you have the touch of an artist, at another you make bungles." "bungles?" repeated hélène, laughing. "what are they?" "one, two, three; not six-eighth, dear lady, not six-eighth! so! one, two, three! one, two, three." "did i show you my new necklace?" she asked as she played on. von barwig shook his head. "one, two, three," was all she could elicit from him. "father gave it to me; to-day is my birthday." "your birthday; so?" said von barwig, still marking time. "your birthday?" he repeated. "yes, mio maestro; i am nineteen to-day." "nineteen! one, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. then after a pause, "nineteen?" she looked up, he was still counting and beating time with the lead pencil as a baton. but there was a far-away look in his eyes, as if he were trying to recall something. "nineteen to-day; nineteen to-day!" he repeated, as if he had not quite realised what she said. "one, two, three; one, two, three." was there a break in his voice? "nineteen to-day!" then he looked at her as she played. "where were you born?" he asked suddenly. "in leipsic," she replied carelessly. von barwig stopped counting, his baton poised in the air. "in leipsic!" he repeated hoarsely. "in leipsic? she--would have been nineteen to-day. ach gott, gott!" hélène turned and looked at him. "one, two, three; one, two, three," chanted the music master. he dared not let her see his agitation. "what does it mean? how can it be? good god, how can it be?" his brain was in a whirl; the possibilities came to him in an overwhelming flood. "you really must see that pearl necklace," said hélène, "and some of the other presents are very beautiful. do look at them!" "one, two, three; one, two, three," came in monotonous tones from the old man. completely gone was his sense of rhythm now. "one, two, three; one, two, three," he continued, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "does it mean that she is my--my-- oh, god! i must be mad, crazy! barwig, barwig, pull yourself together, for god's sake; or you lose her again." one, two, three; one, two, three seemed to be the only safe ground for him to tread on! hélène felt that he was not following the music, for her fingers strayed idly over the keys, playing snatches of different melodies, a fact which he apparently did not notice. "the necklace is over there," she said. "yes, yes," he gasped, going in the direction she pointed. "one, two, three; one, two, three. it is beautiful; beautiful!" he scarcely looked at it. "did you ever see my dolls? i don't think i ever showed them to you. they're over there in the cabinet." "your dolls? yes, i look at them!" he said. he was glad of an opportunity to escape observation. after a while his mind became calm enough for him to be able to realise what he was thinking, and the urgent necessity for him to conceal from her his mad folly. nineteen to-day, born in leipsic, the daughter of the rich millionaire; yet, on the other hand, the image of his own lost hélène, born on the same day, at the same place and bearing the same name. it was all so consistent and yet so contradictory! what could it mean? was it a phantasy of his brain, a dream? it seemed to him that he had once witnessed just such a scene as was taking place at that moment. surely it had occurred before! he was now picking up first one doll, then another, but he did not see them---- "one, two, three; one, two, three;" he said pathetically, trying to control his thoughts. he realised that he was counting "up in the air," so to speak, but he was afraid of betraying himself. "if she suspected that i dared to think that she was my own hélène, she'd turn me from the house," he thought. "i've kept all these old dolls since i was a little baby; even my little german doll is there," said hélène as she played on. von barwig took up the dolls, one by one. "your german doll?" he repeated. "yes, the one i had in leipsic. it's a queer little sawdust affair, but i love it to pieces. it always reminds me of my mother. do you know what i am playing?" but von barwig did not hear her. "the little german doll," he repeated. "the one she had in leipsic." "i heard this at your house the night we first met," went on hélène, playing dreamily. "it's a beautiful melody; it has so much sentiment in it, so much pathos, but oh, isn't it sad," and she sighed deeply. was it illusion, too, that the ghost of his long-forgotten symphony should be played by the girl at the piano there, who so resembled his own lost loved one? was it illusion that he should recognise that little doll, her doll, as the doll with which his own child, his own hélène, had played so long ago? von barwig did not start as he picked up this mute evidence of the truth; he was almost prepared for it. it was as if he knew she was his own, and yet did not know it. "that eye was never mended after all," he said in a pathetic, broken voice, and as he spoke the whole scene of years gone by came back to him. he saw once more his little girl pleading with him to mend the doll with the broken eye. von barwig was quite calm now. he had grasped a certainty at last; he knew now that he did not dream. he looked over at the piano. the girl felt deeply the music that she was playing, for it responded to something in her own nature; and so interested was she at this moment that she almost forgot his presence. tears filled his eyes as he gazed at her longingly, lovingly. "little heart! ach, lieber gott, my little hélène; my little baby! how long, how long!" he murmured, smothering his emotion, but looking now at her, now at the little german doll clutched tightly in his hand. [illustration: "i want you to come with us?"] after a while a feeling of great peace came upon him. his mission was ended; he had found her at last. his longing heart had reached its haven. "that's the doll my mother loved best," said hélène, without pausing in her playing. "she loved to play with that doll and me." he, too, was thinking of her mother. was it telepathy that she should think the very thought that was uppermost in his mind? "there's a portrait of her in the next room," and she pointed to the door off the main room. "it was painted by an artist here in new york three years before she died." von barwig dared not trust himself to speak. he silently opened the door and looked. "elene, elene!" he murmured in a low voice. he stood there some time gazing at the portrait of his dead wife, and his eyes were swimming with tears. "yes, there she is," he said, his low, sad voice scarcely audible through the music. "elene! ach, gott! dead, dead! better so; better--so----" he closed the door gently. as he did so a tear ran down his cheek and dropped on the little german doll. "i baptise it," he said with a smile, and then he sighed deeply. the feeling of deep, unsatisfied longing died out of his heart and from that moment a sense of great freedom took possession of him. he looked over at his beloved hélène. she was still rhapsodising on the piano, utterly unconscious of the great struggle going on in the heart of her music master. what could he offer her? should he ruin all her prospects? had he a home fit for her to come to? these thoughts surged through his mind as he looked at her. his first great impulse was to tell her who he was and take her to his heart, but with a supreme effort he controlled himself. he had so often pictured the scene of his first meeting with his child that it seemed almost as if he had been through this crisis before, but he had never dreamed that she would be occupying such a high station in life, never dreamed that to make his relationship known would ruin her prospects, and perhaps her happiness. this realisation gave him a perspective of the situation and he resolved for the sake of her future not to betray himself. he walked slowly to the piano, and stood behind her a few moments, then suddenly he lost control of himself and took her hands in his. "what is it?" she said, in some surprise, but with no tinge of anger in her voice. "you slurred," he faltered, not daring to look her in the face, for fear his great love would show itself. "you mustn't slur--please," he murmured apologetically. "did i slur?" she asked. "well, i assure you, it was unconscious. i didn't mean to do it." "you are very happy here?" he asked. "yes," she answered, surprised at the irrelevancy of the question. he was now stroking her hair with his gentle, loving hand. "you have everything in the world, everything?" he asked. "yes," she replied, scarcely conscious of his meaning. "and you are happy?" he repeated. "why shouldn't i be?" she said. "i suppose i have everything to make me." she stopped playing. this seemed to bring von barwig to a sense of his surroundings. "come," he said. "we must work! to the lesson! one, two, three; one, two, three." he could not resist the impulse. he leaned over and again grasped her hands in his. she looked up at him, this time in utter surprise. "you were slurring again, slurring again," he said, frightened at his lack of self-control. "was i, indeed?" said hélène. "well, you'll have to punish me severely if this goes on." "one, two, three; one, two, three," he counted. his voice was choked with emotion, and he could barely see for his tears. "no, no; i could not punish you. i could not put one straw in your way--only--i want to meet your father. yes," he said in a more decided tone, "i want to meet your father! one, two, three; one, two, three." whenever von barwig wanted to conceal his real feelings he counted. "i've gone into the - exercise," commented hélène. "yes, yes! one, two, three, four," counted von barwig timidly. "one, two, three, four; yes, i want to meet him." then he added almost savagely, "i must meet him!" the lesson was interrupted by denning. "if you please, miss, will you come down in the library?" "what is it, denning?" "mr. stanton wishes to see you at once, miss," said denning in a low voice, so that von barwig could not hear. "my father?" repeated hélène. "please don't go till i return, herr von barwig," and hélène left the music master alone. chapter twenty-two hélène found her father awaiting her in the library. his manner was excessively nervous. he seemed to be labouring under a strain. "sit down," he said briefly. his voice was harsh, his manner commanding. hélène sat down. in front of mr. stanton lay a pile of letters. he pointed to them. "here are your letters to this man, and his letters to you. they were withheld by my orders." "then joles," began hélène. "i am responsible, not joles," he interrupted. hélène arose; the blood mounted to her face. "why have you done this?" she demanded. "i wished to bring your association with this man to an end. i ordered him to be turned from the house, his letters kept from you and yours from him." "but, father, why did you not come to me?" cried hélène. "please don't interrupt me!" thundered stanton. "i won't have that man in this house! please understand that. send for him, tell him you do not wish to continue your lessons, and dismiss him definitely, finally." "father, i cannot." hélène could scarcely go on. "you must, hélène; you must," insisted mr. stanton. "i cannot!" she repeated. "you can say you have changed your mind." "impossible!" "but i tell you you must! i won't have this man in my house again." "what has he done? tell me, what has he done?" demanded hélène. stanton paused. "he--he is a scoundrel, a disgrace to society--to--to--" then in sudden fury he went on: "when a man gets down to playing for a mere pittance, as he does, in a disreputable theatre, and dwelling in a squalid neighbourhood, with low companions----" "can he help his poverty?" interrupted hélène, now thoroughly aroused. "the man has pride, he refuses to take money; he is a gentleman! you have no right to insult him because he is poor." "there are other reasons," said stanton quickly. "what are they?" stanton was silent. "what are they?" again demanded hélène. "it is enough that i know," replied stanton. "it is enough for you to know that i know." hélène shook her head. "it is not enough," she said. "if you don't tell him to go at once, you will force me to have him ordered from the house!" "father," hélène was almost calm now. "tell me, for god's sake, tell me what has he done?" stanton bit his lip with anger. the obstinacy of the girl was fast driving him to extremes. "he is not fit to be in this house," he almost shouted, "or to associate with gentlefolk." "but he is so good, so gentle! how can i suddenly tell him to go? father, i cannot believe that." "you don't believe me? has it come to a question of my word--your father's word against a stranger, a beggar! do you know i can have the man put in prison?" hélène stopped suddenly; she was very quiet now. "is it as bad as that?" she asked almost in a whisper. stanton was silent. "father, can you--put--him--in prison?" stanton felt that it was necessary to convince her. "i think the situation speaks for itself," he said. he, too, was calm now, for he felt that he had to resort to extreme measures. "the man leaves his own country, where he is successful, and comes here, and lives with the lowest of the low. would a man do that if he were not--afraid--or in danger?" hélène's heart sank. "don't say any more, don't please!" she felt that her father had good reasons for speaking as he did. "if you had only told me before," she said plaintively; "if you had only confided in me it would have saved so much suffering. why didn't you speak before, father?" stanton shook his head. "very well, you--you shall be obeyed, father." she said in a low voice. "i'll tell him that you----" "no," he interrupted quickly. "no! i don't wish him to know that i'm in any way cognisant of his presence here. simply dismiss him and let him go. above all, make him understand that he is never to come here again." hélène nodded. "if his coming here is likely to endanger his liberty, he must not come," she thought stanton thanked her, but she did not hear his words. silently, sorrowfully, she returned to the music room, where she found von barwig awaiting her. the old man looked up as she entered the room. she came toward him and looked at him a few moments in silence. the same tender, gentle smile that had so endeared him to her from the first was on his face. she could not bear to look at him, so she turned her gaze away and spoke without seeing him. "herr von barwig," she said, and then she paused. it was so hard, so very hard, to say what she had to say. he stood there expectantly, waiting for her to continue, as a little child looks up at the sound of its mother's voice. "i'm very sorry," she said in a deep, low voice. "i--don't," still she hesitated, then finally, with much effort she said: "i cannot take any more lessons from you." von barwig looked at her as if he did not comprehend her meaning. "not to-day, no, but to-morrow?" hélène shook her head. "ah, the next day!" again hélène shook her head. "no," she said in an almost inaudible voice. von barwig noted that her face was sad, that her tone was low and mournful and his voice faltered as he asked, with his usual smile, "the day after that, perhaps?" "no, herr von barwig. i cannot take any more lessons from you." "cannot take any more lessons," he repeated mechanically; then as he realised her meaning he tried to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. there was a long pause, during which neither of them spoke. "you wish me no more at all?" he asked finally. "i am very sorry, i am very grateful; believe me i am, herr von barwig, but--" she shook her head rapidly. she could not trust herself to speak. "i--do--not--understand," he said, and his voice was almost inaudible, for his heart was beating so furiously that he could feel its palpitation. she could only shake her head in reply. von barwig suddenly found his voice, for he was desperate now. "a moment ago we were here, good friends, and--" suddenly an idea occurred to him. "some one has told you that i played at the museum, the dime museum. ah, is that indeed so terrible? i do not play there from choice, believe me, dear--dear _fräulein_! it is poverty." "yes, yes; i know, i know!" cried hélène. she was nearly frantic now. "it is not your fault, but please, please, dear herr von barwig, let us say no more! good-bye," and she held out her hand, "good-bye! i hope better fortune may come to you." "no better fortune can come if you--if you are not there," wailed von barwig. "you don't know--what i know; if you did you would realise that--" he paused. "i cannot stay away! it is simply impossible--i cannot!" "you must," said hélène firmly. "please go! don't you understand that it is as hard for me as it is for you?" "why do you so punish me?" pleaded von barwig. "for what? what have i done?" "i am not punishing you, herr von barwig. i-- don't ask me to explain! you must not call again. please go; go! there, i've said it; i've said it!" cried hélène in despair, and she walked to the window to hide her emotion. von barwig looked at her in silence. "very well," he said after a few moments and then he looked around for his hat, which he always brought into the room with him. he realised that it was useless to try and move her and he turned to go. he reached the door and had partly opened it when he felt impelled to make one more effort. "i leave the museum," he said at the door. "i go there no more." hélène shook her head. the old man came toward her. "you must forgive me, miss hélène, i must speak," he said in a low voice choked with emotion; his english was very broken now. "a moment ago i was thinking what shall be best for you, for your future, your happiness; and i said to myself: 'don't say that which will perhaps hurt her prospects, her future, her marriage with herr beverly cruger!'" "i don't understand," said hélène in surprise. "what can you say, herr von barwig, that will hurt my prospects or in any way affect my marriage with mr. cruger?" "ah, i don't know what i say," pleaded von barwig, who felt at that moment that for her sake he must not tell her who he was. "i don't know what i say! i am struck down; i cannot rise, i cannot think! ah, don't discharge me, please don't discharge me!" wailed the old man pitifully. "let me come here as i always do; don't send me away!" hélène was silent; she felt that she could say no more. "it is the first time in my life i have ever begged of a living soul," pleaded von barwig, "and now i beg, i beg that you will not send me away! you have made me so happy, so happy, and now--please don't discharge me, don't discharge me!" it was all he seemed able to say. hélène was looking at him now, looking him full in the face while a great storm was surging in her mind. "i can't obey my father," she was saying to herself, i can't! it's too hard--too hard! the old man mistook her silence for the rejection of his prayer and slowly turned to go. the shrinking figure, the concentrated misery, the hopeless expression on his face, the tears in his eyes, the pathetic woebegone listlessness in his walk were too much for her; she could resist no longer. "herr von barwig," she cried, her voice ringing out in clear strong tones, "i don't believe it, i don't believe it!" he turned with a slight look of inquiry on his face and gazed at her through his tear-bedimmed eyes. "i don't believe that you ever did a dishonourable action in all your life," she cried. "my father is mistaken, mistaken! i'm sure of it." "your father?" there was no hesitation in his voice now. "your father," he repeated, his voice rising higher. "ah!" and a flood of light came in upon him. "when you left me a few moments ago, you went to him, and then, on your return--you--you sent me away; is it not so? tell me," he demanded, "is it not so?" gone was the hopeless misery, gone were the shambling gait, the pathetic smile, the helplessness of resignation to overwhelming conditions. gone, too, were the tears, the pleading look, and in their place stood anton von barwig, erect and strong, his eyes glittering with fire, the fire of righteous indignation, his voice strong and clear. hélène looked at him in amazement. she could not understand the transformation. "your father!" repeated von barwig in a loud, stern voice. "so! the time has come! i think perhaps i see your father. it is time we met; a little explanation is due. miss stanton, i shall see--your--father." "yes, you shall see him!" said the girl. "i'll--i'll speak to him for you; i am sure you can explain." "yes, i can explain," said von barwig with a low, hard laugh. "where is he?" "in the library," replied hélène. "ah? then i go there and see him," said von barwig in a decided tone. this new mental attitude of the music master amazed her. the little low, shambling figure was transformed into an overwhelming force. "perhaps i had better see him first," suggested hélène. "no," said von barwig. "i see him." his tone was almost commanding. hélène looked at him in astonishment. she was pleased; at least these were not signs of guilt on his part. she no longer hesitated. "perhaps you're right," she said. "come, we'll see him together." von barwig followed hélène through the corridors that led to the library. she paused a moment as she stood at the door and looked around at von barwig. there was a stern, cold, hard look in his face which was new to her. "he feels the injustice as i do," thought hélène, "and he is angry. thank god, he will be able to clear himself!" she turned the handle of the door and went in. von barwig followed her. stanton was sitting at a desk table, writing, as they entered. "there has been a mistake, father," she said. stanton looked up and started as if he had been struck. he saw his daughter, and he saw the man he had wronged standing there in the doorway like an avenging nemesis. he tried to speak, but could not. "what's the matter, father?" cried hélène in alarm. "nothing--nothing!" replied stanton incoherently. he was trembling in every limb. "hélène," he said, forcing himself to speak, "i will have a word with herr von barwig alone." "i beg your pardon for coming in unannounced, but we wanted to see you, father," began hélène. "yes, yes; please excuse us now, hélène. i'll see him alone," said stanton, speaking with great difficulty. "alone!" he repeated sharply. hélène turned and looked at von barwig. he stood there in silence, his slight figure seeming to tower above everything in the room. even stanton, tall as he was, seemed dwarfed by the strong personality of the music master. at this moment joles made his appearance. "a number of ladies have arrived, miss," he said to hélène, his quick eye catching sight of von barwig without looking at him. "they are in the reception-room." "i must go at once," said hélène. "i forgot all about my birthday reception." "young mr. cruger and his father are asking for you, sir," joles said quietly to mr. stanton. "ask them to wait--i must see this gentleman," said stanton, indicating von barwig. joles bowed himself out. hélène was pleased that her father acceded so readily to her wishes. she went to him and placing her hand on his arm said in a low voice: "let him explain, father! i want him to come back to me. it will make me very happy--please--this is my birthday." stanton nodded, but made no reply. hélène gave von barwig an encouraging smile and went out of the room, quietly closing the door after her. von barwig had been studying the man before him. there was quite a silence. "well, henry?" he said after a few moments. "anton," murmured stanton in a low tone as if ashamed to speak. von barwig's eyes glittered as he heard his name familiarly pronounced by the man he was regarding with deadly enmity. "the world has revolved a few times since i last saw you--but i am here," he said, repressing his anger; and this repression gave a curiously hard and guttural effect to his voice. "i have been expecting this moment for a long time," said stanton in a conciliating tone. "i've tried to forget." "you have been very successful," replied von barwig. "you have forgotten your own name for sixteen years. a prosperous friend has a poor memory, henry." "i have not prospered," said stanton quickly; "that is, not in the real sense of the word. i am rich, yes; but i am not prosperous." "you have changed your name?" said von barwig. "yes; my uncle stanton died in california. i took his name when he left me his great fortune." "that is why i could not find a trace of you," said von barwig thoughtfully. stanton thought he detected signs of relenting in von barwig's voice. "i suppose there's no use my telling you how sorry i am for----" "sorry, sorry!" almost screamed von barwig. "does that bring back anything? does that put sixteen years in my hands? damn the empty phrase 'i am sorry' when there is no use in being sorry!" "i have repented, anton! before god i have repented!" said stanton huskily. "she made me repent, and god knows she repented. she never had one happy hour since she left you!" von barwig was silent. "this is the only blot on my life--the one blot on my life," cried stanton. "and that one blot was my wife and child," said von barwig. "while you were at it you accomplished a great deal. mein gott, you were colossal! you always were a damned successful fellow, ahlmann," he added vindictively. "before god, anton," cried stanton with a show of emotion, "i didn't mean to do it; i swear i didn't. it was a mad impulse! it's not in my real nature." "nature never makes a blunder. when she makes a scoundrel she means it," said von barwig. stanton started and then looked through the library window. his sharp ear had detected the sound of carriage wheels stopping in front of the house. "what are you going to do?" he asked quickly. the fear of exposure was doubly increased by knowledge of the fact that his guests were arriving. von barwig made no reply. "barwig, for god's sake don't ruin me! at least, i've given the child everything. she knows nothing, and the world respects----" "the world always respects a successful rascal," interrupted von barwig with a harsh laugh. "of all people he is the most respected. why, if i had not found you, i have no doubt you would live on a church window-pane after you died! but now i anticipate that everybody shall know your virtues while you are alive. i cut off that window-pane! i am going to baptise you, ahlmann; i give you back your name." "anton, anton! why not sit down calmly and talk it over?" pleaded stanton. "ah, you were always a polite man, the kind women like; a man born with kid gloves and no soul. now we take off the gloves; we show you as you are," and von barwig shook his finger at the man opposite him. there were echoes of laughter out in the hallway; stanton heard them and trembled. he recognised the voices of mrs. cruger's nieces. if these gossips, ever found out the truth, he thought, not a family in new york but would be acquainted with the facts in twenty-four hours. "anton, be calm," he pleaded. "give me a few days to think it over." "no!" declared von barwig. "a few hours," pleaded stanton. "no!" repeated von barwig; "not even a few minutes." stanton moved toward the door. "stay here!" commanded von barwig. he was plainly master of the situation now, for stanton instinctively obeyed him. "if i let you go into the next room it might be sixteen years before you got back again! sit down." stanton obeyed him and there was a slight pause. "you know what a scandal this will make," he pleaded. "i know," replied von barwig in a quiet tone. "i know!" "the whole country will ring with it," said stanton. "you shouldn't have prayed so loud, ahlmann," replied von barwig with a sardonic smile. "you laid too many cornerstones; your charities are too well known. you should have kept them a secret and not blazoned your generosity to the whole world. when you fed an orphan or a widow you shouldn't have advertised it in the newspapers." stanton looked at him and saw no hope. "you're going to ruin me?" he asked. von barwig made no reply. "you're going to tell her?" demanded stanton. "yes," replied von barwig in a quiet tone; "i'm going to tell her." "you'd better think first." "i have thought." "how will you explain her mother's shame?" "ah!" von barwig glared at him in silence. "you will shield yourself behind the mother, eh?" he asked. "how will you explain her mother's shame?" again asked stanton. "i don't explain it! you talked her mother's name away--now talk it back! you're a clever man with words. you'll find a way out of it, ahlmann." stanton was now almost beside himself with fear and anger. "what can you do for the girl after you have disgraced her? think what i have done for her," pleaded stanton. "she is honoured, respected, cultured, refined, a lady of social distinction. are you going to drag her down to houston street, to the bowery, to the dime museum?" von barwig felt the force of this argument, and he knew there was no reply to be made. his anger was gone--he was thoughtful now. stanton saw that he was gaining ground. "for her sake, von barwig," he pleaded; "for her sake! just think!" von barwig interrupted him with a gesture, motioning him to silence. "look here, ahlmann," his voice was strangely quiet now. "i knew! i knew an hour ago who you were, whose house i was in. as she sat at the piano near me i could have touched her with my hand. my heart cried out, 'i am her father; i am her father!' for sixteen years i wait for that moment and then i get it; i get it! it's mine; but i pass it! i put it aside; i would not tell her." "you knew," interrupted stanton, "and you did not speak!" "i would have come here, to this house," went on von barwig, his voice quivering with excitement and emotion; "i would have come and gone as a friend, an old friend, if you had kept silent. but no, two fathers cannot live so with a child between them. one of them is bound to speak out and that one is you, you! you spoke. 'twas you who said to your servants, 'take this man and throw him into the streets like a dog.' 'twas you who destroyed my letters; 'twas you who destroyed my child's letters--letters to me. 'twas you who told my own flesh and blood to treat me as a dog--a dog! you made me plead and beg; you made me suffer for sixteen long and weary years. now i take what is mine," screamed von barwig. "you hear! i take what is mine!" and he strode over to the bell and deliberately rang it. "don't, don't for heaven's sake!" shouted stanton, trying to restrain him. it was too late and stanton almost fell back into his chair. "come, stand up! to your feet, ahlmann!" shouted von barwig in a loud voice. "i cannot throw you from your house as you would me; but i can empty it for you. come! i want to introduce you to your friends." he threw the door wide open. stanton came forward as if to close it, but von barwig waved him back. "stay where you are," he cried. "i introduce yon to your friends as you are. she shall choose between us. against your money and respectability i put my life. your friends shall choose; she shall choose; the young man she is to marry--he shall choose." the old man was now almost incoherent. "i have her back! she is mine, she is mine!" at this juncture joles entered. "speak; tell him!" shouted von barwig. "if you don't, i do!" "call miss stanton," said mr. stanton. "and her friends," commanded von barwig. stanton nodded acquiescence; and joles left the room. "you've ruined me; and you'll ruin her," said stanton in despair. "i get her back, i get her back!" repeated von barwig over and over again. "she is mine." "very well! she is yours, then," replied stanton in desperation. "yours with this disgraceful scandal over her head." "i don't care! she is mine--i get her back," was all von barwig could say. "yours with her engagement at an end, her heart broken! yes, her heart broken! do you think they'll take her into that family, do you think they will receive your daughter, the daughter of a----" von barwig was now almost hysterical. "if they don't take her, i take her! if they don't want her, i want her. she's mine, i'm going to have her! i want my own flesh and blood. do you hear, ahlmann? i'm tired of waiting, tired of starving for the love of my own. i'm selfish, i'm selfish!" in his excitement the old man banged his clenched fist several times on the table. "i'm selfish! i want her, and by god i'm going to have her!" at this juncture hélène came into the room. there was a dead silence. von barwig saw her and his clenched fist dropped harmlessly by his side. he stood there silently waiting. hélène looked at mr. stanton; his head was bowed low and he uttered not a word. she looked inquiringly at von barwig. he seemed incapable of speaking. "father," she said in a low, gentle voice. neither man answered. stanton dared not, and von barwig steeled himself against telling her the truth. stanton's words had had their effect; von barwig was unwilling to ruin the girl's chances for his own selfish interests. "you have explained?" she asked von barwig. he nodded, but did not speak. the sound of approaching voices caught their ears. joles threw open both doors and mr. cruger came into the room with his son and mrs. cruger, followed by many others. they greeted mr. stanton, who welcomed them as well as he could. in a few moments the conversation became general. von barwig stood apart from them. mr. stanton, nervous and anxious, watched him closely. mrs. cruger fastened a beautiful diamond pendant on hélène's neck. mr. cruger kissed her. "we cannot give you the wealth of your father, my dear child," said he; "but we can give you a name against which there has never been a breath; an honoured name, a name with which we are very proud to entrust you!" von barwig heard this, and groaned aloud in his misery. "i'm very happy, very happy!" said hélène. others gathered around the happy pair and showered congratulations on them. after a short while beverly saw von barwig in the corner of the room and went over and greeted him. hélène joined them. "is it all arranged between you and father?" she asked. von barwig nodded. "i knew you could explain," said hélène. "yes, he has let me explain!" said von barwig with a deep sigh. he was quite calm now. "pardon the liberty i take--i--forgive me--" he placed beverly's and hélène's hands one in the other. "pardon the liberty i take; i am an old man," he said in a low voice. "i wish you both--long life--much prosperity--much happiness--much joy to you both. god bless you, children; excuse me, i speak as a father. god bless you!" and the old man picked his hat up from the table on which he had deposited it and wiped away the tears that were coursing down his cheeks. stanton, who had been watching him closely, uttered a cry of joy. von barwig went out of the room slowly, shutting the door behind him. chapter twenty-three it was midwinter nearly a year later. the cold was the severest in the memory of any inmate of the houston street establishment, including miss husted herself. everything was frozen solid. it was nearly as cold inside the house as it was outside, greatly to miss husted's dismay, for added to the increased expenditure for coal, the services of the plumber to thaw out frozen water and gas pipes were in constant requisition. houston mansion was a corner house with an open space next door, and the biting north winds on three sides of the unprotected old walls added greatly to the discomfort and suffering of the "guests" within. in every sense it was a record breaker. there had already been three blizzards in the past month and a fourth was now in progress. it was on the top floor, however, that the extreme severity of the winter was felt. the cold biting winds howled and wailed over the roof, circling around the skylight and forcing their way through the cracked and broken panes of glass. it was impossible to keep the draughty old hallway warm with the one small stove intended for that purpose. pinac, fico and poons, huddled together around the fire bundled up in their overcoats, had to place their feet on the stove to keep them warm or blow on their fingers and walk about the room to keep their blood in circulation. at this time pinac and fico were playing at galazatti's for their dinners, being unable to obtain more profitable engagements, and poons was playing in an uptown theatre. poons was trying to save enough money to get married, and neither pinac nor fico would touch a penny of his earnings, although the boy generously offered them all or any part of his savings to help them tide over until the spring, when they were reasonably sure of obtaining lucrative engagements. the men had just finished their breakfast and jenny was washing the dishes for them. "i shall lay a cloth for the breakfast of von barwig when he shall wake up," said pinac, suiting the action to the word and spreading a red tablecloth on the rickety wooden table. "his work at the museum keeps him so late he must sleep late." "sacoroto, the rotten museum he play at, i wish it was dead," growled fico. they knew now that von barwig played at a cheap amusement resort on the bowery, and that it kept him out till early morning; and they loved him for it all the more. they knew that necessity, not choice, had driven him to it. besides, it made them more akin to him, for it brought him nearer their own artistic standard, and yet they did not lose one atom of respect for the old man. gone was his commanding spirit, and in its place was a quiet, gentle dignity which called forth respect as well as love; but above all--love. "he is sleeping later than usual," said jenny as she restored the crockery to its proper place in the cupboard. "all the strength of the coffee will boil away," murmured fico. "parbleu! we make new coffee for him," replied pinac. "he have sleep long enough. i call him," said fico, tapping lightly on the door of the lumber room that served von barwig as a bedroom. receiving no reply, fico knocked louder. finally he pushed open the door. it had no lock on it and the catch was broken. fico looked into the room, shook his head and then turned and stared at his friends. "he have gone up," he said with an anxious look. "you mean he have get up," suggested pinac. "got up!" corrected jenny. "yes," replied fico. "he is got up and out." poons, who had not quite followed the intricacies of the conversation, went into von barwig's room and satisfied himself that his beloved friend was not there. the three men stared at each other. they said nothing, but the expression on their faces denoted anxiety. "where has he gone?" seemed to be the question each asked silently of the other. von barwig had been very quiet in the past year, so quiet that his actions seemed to his friends to be almost mysterious. not that he was more reserved than usual, but there was a calmness, a resignation to existing conditions, a listlessness that seemed to them to amount to almost a lack of interest in life, and this mental attitude on von barwig's part caused them no little anxiety. "it's such an awful day," said pinac as he looked out of the window. "by god, yes!" assented fico. "another bliz." the wind was howling up and down the streets and flurries of snow were being driven against the windows, banging the shutters to and fro as the great gusts of wind caught them in their grasp. the iron catch that held the shutter had long since been torn out by the winter blizzards, and the constant banging sound grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the musicians. poons suffered more than the rest, and swore roundly in german every time the shutter struck against the window jamb. "jenny," came the shrill voice of miss husted up the stairway at the back of the hall. that lady was more than ever set against her niece's "taking up with a musician," as she called the love match between poons and jenny. whenever miss husted missed jenny on the floors below she invariably found her upstairs talking to young august. "we were looking for the professor," said jenny, as her aunt's head came up into view from the staircase below. "looking for the professor! why, where is he?" asked miss husted. "surely he hasn't gone out on a day like this! why, it's not fit for a dog; not fit for a dog! oh dear, dear! i'll be worried to death till he comes back," and miss husted pressed skippy more closely to her and went down stairs again; not, however, without first sending jenny to the floor below, out of the reach of poons's love-making eyes. "it is true; he has gone out," said pinac dolefully, as he looked out of the window at the blizzard. von barwig had risen very early that morning and dressed himself with more than his usual care. he had much to do, for on the morrow he was to depart from the shores of america and return to his old home. he was going back to leipsic, and the steamship sailed very early the next morning. the real cause of his absence at that moment was the fact that his daughter hélène was to be married that day, and he desired to witness the ceremony. altogether, there was much to be done and little time to do it in. he had told mr. costello the night before that he was not going to return to the museum; so that was ended, and his few clothes were packed in his little portmanteau with the assistance of jenny, who was the only one who knew his secret. he also had to go downtown and buy his steamship ticket and make arrangements with an expressman to take his trunk, and he felt he must say good-bye to a few acquaintances before he went away forever. so, in order to complete all these arrangements in time to get to the church where the wedding was to take place, he had to get up quite early. von barwig did not mind the cold weather at all. he trudged along the streets and stamped his feet to keep them warm while he brushed the snow off his face as it blew under his umbrella. his heart was light, for he rejoiced that his darling hélène was going to marry the man she loved. her happiness was assured, he thought; besides, he himself was going to do something. he had a plan of action and he was going to carry it out. during the last few months he had had a great yearning to see his old home again, to hear his native language spoken, to hear the folk songs and familiar german airs sung once more and to look upon the faces of his fellow-countrymen again. now that he knew his child was happy, he felt that he would be content simply to sit placidly in an obscure corner of the market-place in leipsic, and watch the ebb and flow of life as it is lived over there in the beloved fatherland. he did not ask to take part in it or to be one with his countrymen; all he asked was the privilege of watching their life for the few remaining years of his earthly existence. his pride had completely gone now, and it caused him not one pang to feel that he had left his native land in the flush and prime of success and was going to return an old, broken-down failure. on the contrary, the thought of again walking the streets of his native land, breathing the atmosphere, and hearing the voices of his beloved countrymen so lightened his heart that his steps were almost elastic. he kicked the snow aside with vigour, and jumped on the street car as if he were a boy. he saluted the conductor with such a hearty good-morning, that the man looked at him in astonishment. "you must be feeling pretty good to call this a good morning," said that functionary, as he collected his fare. "back of this awful blizzard is the beautiful sunshine," said von barwig, with a smile. "yes, if you can see it!" replied the man, compelled to smile when he looked into von barwig's beaming face. "how far are you going downtown?" asked the conductor to prolong the conversation. the car was empty, and von barwig's cheery smile encouraged him to talk. "fowling green," replied von barwig. "i buy my ticket back to germany," he added lightly. "ah!" said the man, as if that explained everything. "you're glad to go back, eh? most of 'em would never have come if they knew what they were going to get over here." von barwig shrugged his shoulders and laughed a little. "if you don't strike it right," went on the car conductor, "it's worse here than anywhere in the world!" von barwig nodded. "there's no room in america for the man who fails," he added, ringing up a fare with an angry jerk and then relapsing into moody silence. after many delays, owing to the packing of the snow on the car tracks, von barwig arrived at the steamship office, bought his ticket, and commenced his weary journey uptown. "i shall see her to-day," he thought. "i shall see her. how beautiful she will look in her white dress and her orange blossoms! he--he--will give her to her husband. that scoundrel!" von barwig's heart sank. "but she is happy, she is happy!" and this thought sustained him. [illustration: hélène and beverly find love's haven.] he had not seen her since the memorable moment in which he had placed the hand of his beloved pupil in that of her affianced husband and wished them joy and happiness. he had written to her and told her that her father, mr. stanton, was right; that it would be better that he did not resume his teaching. he had done this, that her happiness might not be destroyed by the coming to light of the scandal that had been dead and buried so many years. he felt it would not be right in the highest sense for him to expose stanton merely to gratify his own sense of revenge. he believed that his child had learned to love stanton as her own father; that it would be a cruelty to her to expose him; that it would rob her of her social position and perhaps of the man she loved. the girl might even turn on him and hate him for his selfish indulgence of revenge at the expense of her happiness. at the very best, he had nothing to offer her, and he knew she would refuse stanton's bounty when she learned the truth. von barwig had reasoned it out on these lines, and at every fresh pang of suffering he found comfort in the false logic that seemed so like truth. it never occurred to him that hélène disliked stanton; that she felt in her heart that the man was not her father; and that young cruger would have married her in spite of a dozen scandals. furthermore, he did not even dream that his pupil loved him and grieved for him to such an extent, that stanton felt it absolutely necessary to separate them completely by telling her that her old music master had gone back to germany and had died there. the car windows rattled noisily and the bells jangled monotonously, as the horses tramped through the snow on their way uptown, but von barwig heard them not, for his brain was thronged with thoughts of his darling hélène and his impending departure to his own country. how could he leave those kind hearts in houston street--jenny, poons, miss husted, fico, pinac! what would they all say? von barwig bought a morning paper and in it he read that his daughter's marriage was to be attended by a very large and fashionable audience; that admission to the church was only by personal invitation. von barwig started. how was he to get into the church? he had no card of invitation. he almost laughed aloud as he thought of his position; her own father would not see her married because he had no invitation. he must invent some story to get in, but he must attract no attention. no one who knew of his association with the family must see him. he dare not risk a public _exposé_ at the eleventh hour. no, her happiness must not be clouded even for a moment! but he must get in; he made up his mind to that. when von barwig arrived at the church there were quite a number of people gathered there in spite of the inclemency of the weather, for news of the wedding had been largely heralded forth by the new york daily papers, owing to the great wealth of mr. stanton and the high social position of the crugers, and it was looked upon as one of the great fashionable events of the year. thanks to mr. stanton's love of display and lavish outlay of money, the presents had been enumerated, the trousseau described, the names of the guests published in all the fashionable papers, greatly to hélène's annoyance. she would have preferred a quiet little wedding unattended save by those directly interested in the marriage, but mr. stanton wanted to spend money, and he did, most lavishly. a special orchestra and tons of flowers were ordered, notwithstanding that it was midwinter, and every prominent social and political person available had been invited to attend. in consequence, a platoon of police was needed to keep the crowds back, and when von barwig arrived, a long line of carriages had already formed at the church door. a policeman barred his way when he attempted to enter without a ticket. "sorry, sir; but we must obey orders," said the man in uniform. it was the same at all the doors, and von barwig soon saw that it was useless to attempt to get in without a ticket. he stood there for a few moments trying to think what he should do, when he saw several men carrying violins and other musical instruments going through a small side door on the side street, off fifth avenue, that led into the vestry situated at the end of the great church. "i am a musician; i go in with the musicians," said von barwig, and he followed the men, unchallenged and unquestioned through the passage leading to the vestry and from thence into the body of the great church. "for the first time in my life," thought von barwig, "my profession is of service to me!" the great church was beautifully decorated with flowers, and the guests were now beginning to arrive. von barwig, unobserved, crept silently to the darkest and farthest end of the church. he seated himself in a great pew on the centre aisle, where he could see without being seen. the church was now filling up; it was a splendid sight. the orchestra and the organ played some selections; finally the wedding march from lohengrin sounded, and every one arose to get a peep at what was happening in the centre aisle. von barwig craned his neck to see. the bride had entered the church and was coming up the aisle on the arm of mr. stanton, her supposed father, preceded by the ushers. the bridegroom and his best man awaited them at the chancel steps. at the sight of stanton von barwig felt his heart beat thickly. this man had broken up his home, robbed him of his wife and child, and now posed as the girl's father. what a splendid revenge he could take by publicly denouncing him in the midst of his friends. von barwig quickly stifled any impulse in that direction. he had come to witness his daughter's happiness, not to mar it by the demonstration of publicly unmasking a villain. he sat back in his seat and watched the proceedings with breathless interest. the marriage ceremony proceeded. the old clergyman who read the service, unlike most of his class, read it with feeling, as if he understood the meaning of the words he was uttering. so clear, so natural was his utterance that von barwig followed every word of it, scarcely realising that the man was reading and not merely speaking. when he came to the question, "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" the clergyman looked around the church as if expecting some one in the vast congregation to rise and say, "i do." there was no answer. it seemed to von barwig that the minister was looking directly at him, and not only looking at him, but tacitly asking a reply. once more in compelling tones came the momentous question, "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" von barwig was now quite positive that the clergyman was addressing himself directly to him, and he felt that the moment had come to declare the truth to the whole world. as in a dream one makes no effort to connect the present with the past or future or to account in any way for the logic of events, so did von barwig make no effort to understand how or why his secret was known to the clergyman. he simply accepted the fact as it appeared to him and made no effort to resist the impulse to rise and declare himself. so when henry stanton uttered the words, "i do," almost at the same moment from the back of the church came the loud, deep voice of von barwig quivering with emotion, "i do, i do!" everybody arose and looked around. for a moment there was great consternation in the church. cries of "hush, hush!" came from every quarter and several of the ushers came over to the pew in which von barwig sat. at the sound of von barwig's voice, hélène started as if she had received an electric shock. beverly thought she was going to faint and supported her with his arm. hélène recognised in a moment that it was the voice of her old music master, the man she had been told was dead and buried months ago. she looked quickly at mr. stanton for an explanation. "he is not dead; what does it mean?" she asked. "go on with the ceremony," was all the reply she could get from mr. stanton. the clergyman went on quietly with the marriage service. von barwig, as soon as the usher tapped him on the arm, realised that he had made a dreadful mistake, and sank back into his seat, trembling with excitement and shame. he had not intended to do such a thing and could not explain even to himself how it had happened. the wedding ceremony was now over, the process of signing and witnessing gone over in the vestry, and in a short while the bride and bridegroom came down the aisle to the sound of mendelssohn's inspiring wedding march. as they passed by the pew in which von barwig crouched to avoid recognition, some of the roses in the bride's bouquet fell to the ground almost at his feet. he picked them up and tenderly kissed them. apparently unconscious of his presence, hélène, surrounded by her friends, passed down the aisle, down the steps and out into her carriage escorted by beverly. they were both radiantly happy. "it's a happy marriage," said society with an approving nod. "it's a happy marriage," alike said friends and relations. "it's a happy marriage," said the stranger outside as the blushing bride stepped into her carriage and the smiling bridegroom closed the door shutting them out from view. "it's a happy marriage," echoed von barwig as he trudged through the snow on his way home. "it's a happy marriage. thank god for that!" chapter twenty-four as von barwig walked wearily up the stairway leading from the third floor to the top floor (or _atelier_ as miss husted preferred to call it), he heard the sounds of music. it was fico playing a waltz, "the artist's life," on the mandolin, while poons extemporised a _pizzicato_ accompaniment on the 'cello. "ah, my boys, they are in," he said to himself. "i hope they didn't wait breakfast for me." "professor, professor!" came the cheery voice of miss husted, as she greeted him warmly. "i'm so glad to see you!" the music stopped. "hello, anton, old friend," cried fico as he grasped von barwig by the hand. "go on playing, don't stop for me!" said von barwig, taking off his rubbers and brushing the snow off his hat and coat. poons hurriedly put away his 'cello. he was ashamed of playing ordinary waltz music in the presence of von barwig. with him tradition was strong; the old man was still herr von barwig, the great leipsic gewandhaus concert conductor, with whom his father had had the honour of playing first horn. the boy's mother had instilled this into his very soul. "why, great scott! look at him! where have you been? _ma foi_, you look like a wedding; oh, fico?" and pinac pointed to von barwig. "that's so, professor, you look just as handsome as a bridegroom," burst out miss husted. von barwig wore a grey satin tie, a flower was pinned in the lapel of his old prince albert coat, and his spotlessly clean cuffs and kid gloves gave him an appearance of festivity that was most unusual. "a wedding? you are right, all of you!" said von barwig, with a deep breath. then he added, "i have been to a wedding, yes, a wedding! ah, jenny, how is my little girl?" von barwig took the flower he had in his coat and placed it in her hand. "wear it, jenny, wear it! perhaps it will bring you good fortune! there should be two weddings, not one," he added, looking at poons. "two, indeed!" ejaculated miss husted, with a toss of her curls. "one is too many sometimes!" then she asked suddenly, "have you had your breakfast yet?" von barwig shook his head. "then, professor, you won't say no to a bite of hot breakfast with me," and miss husted smiled sweetly. von barwig still shook his head. "ah, do," pleaded jenny. "dear, good, kind hearts, no! many thousand thanks, no! i have much to do. early to-morrow morning, my--" he was going to tell them that the steamship on which he had taken passage was going to sail early next morning. he looked at them all and did not complete his sentence. "how can i tell them i am going to leave them forever," he thought. "i am not at all hungry; i have had breakfast, i assure you," he added quickly, partly to change the subject, and partly to avoid breakfasting alone with miss husted. he was in no mood to listen to imaginary troubles. "i'm sorry, very sorry!" sighed that lady, and she went downstairs, disappointed, taking jenny with her. von barwig put on his little velvet house coat. "what have you for lunch, boys?" he asked. "i am a bit hungry." "i thought so," said pinac, quickly jumping up and opening the cupboard which housed their slender stock of provisions. "some sausage, some loaf, some cold potato," he said, as he surveyed the contents of the shelf on which reposed the articles mentioned. "good; splendid!" said von barwig. fico laid the cloth while poons set the knives and forks. "and here's a 'arf bottle of wine," said pinac. "the same wine as yesterday?" asked von barwig. "the very same wine," replied pinac, handing him the bottle. the old man pulled out the cork and smelled the contents of the bottle. "it _was_ wine; it _is_ vinegar," he remarked tersely as he handed pinac back the bottle. "i prefer coffee!" pinac rushed to get it. poons put on a few coals and some more wood into the little stove, and the process of coffee-making began. "there's nothing like hot coffee to cheer you up on a cold day," said von barwig, rubbing his hands. "not that i need cheering up, boys," he added quickly; "but hot coffee, the smell alone is enough to--to--whoever invented hot coffee was a genius! the chord of the ninth and the diminished seventh were ordinary discoveries; any musician was bound to stumble across them sooner or later. but this," and he poured the ground coffee into the pot, "is a positive invention of genius!" pinac noticed that von barwig was thinking of something else than what he was saying, for his eyes were glistening, and he was obviously labouring under some great excitement. "we could have waited for you, anton, but we were cold," said pinac. "and hungry," added fico. "you were right; quite right!" said von barwig. "whose wedding did you attend, anton?" asked pinac. "a pupil's wedding," answered von barwig quickly; as if he expected the question and was prepared to answer it. "gott in himmel, it's cold! ha, of course," and he looked up; "that skylight isn't mended! dear miss husted, she always forgets it. i must fix it myself. yes," he went on thoughtfully, "a pupil of mine was married; a young lady. she is very happy, very happy; and i am happy that she is happy--i must always remember that." "remember what?" inquired fico after a pause. "always remember that this is a happy moment and that i must live on it. this moment is my future; it is all i have to live on. the wedding day of my pupil is the sum and end of all for me." "was it a fine wedding, anton?" asked pinac gently. he could see that the old man was much moved and he wanted to bring him out of the world of abstract ideas into the world of tangible, concrete thought. "very fine," replied von barwig. there was silence for a moment, then he went on reminiscently: "the father and mother of the bridegroom sat in church. the mother of my little pupil is dead, or she--she would have been there. when the minister said, 'who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' perhaps you think i did not envy that father who answered 'i--i do!' ah, he was a fine looking man, indeed yes, a fine looking man! after the wedding was over--i--i walked home. what is in my heart i cannot tell you; but she is happy, happy! what more can i ask? what more dare i ask?" he broke off suddenly. "what is it, anton?" asked fico gently, "you are worried, anxious!" "you are in trouble, anton," said pinac, taking von barwig's hand. "come confide in your friends; they help you." von barwig forced a laugh. "i troubled? why, no, no! i have been to a wedding; a happy wedding, a smiling bride, a fine fellow of a bridegroom. a few tears, yes; but happy, happy tears! come, come, long faces! cheer up," cried von barwig hysterically, and he slapped poons on the back to conceal his emotion. "mazette! do you smell something?" inquired pinac, sniffing the air. "something is burning!" von barwig started and hastily looked into the coffee pot. "ach gott, boys," he said, "it's the coffee!" and he laughed. "is it boiling?" asked pinac. "boiling! no, it's burning! i--forgot to put the water in it," and he laughed aloud. "let me make the coffee this time," said pinac, busying himself at that occupation without further delay. "yes, and i mend that skylight," said von barwig, climbing up the steps that led to the skylight window. but von barwig was not successful. the wind was so strong that it blew away everything that he tried to substitute for the missing pane of glass. finally he determined, as he could not mend it, to stuff it up temporarily and to that end he asked pinac to hand him up a cloak, which was lying on a chair, and which he thought was his own. his effort to stuff it into the broken skylight was only too successful, for, as it went through to the other side, the wind caught it, tore it out of his hands and blew it completely away. there was a great outcry as the men realised that pinac's overcoat had blown away and was lost. it was only when jenny brought up the missing article, which had fallen into the street below, that their excitement was allayed. von barwig made no further effort to mend the skylight. a little later, after the men had gone out to their respective engagements, jenny found von barwig busily engaged in packing his last few remaining possessions into the little old-fashioned portmanteau which he had brought over from leipsic with him. he had pulled it out into the hallway, as his room was too small for him to pack comfortably. "i've packed all your other things away. everything is ready now," said jenny in a low voice. the old man nodded and patted her hand as if to thank her for all her goodness. "have you told them?" she asked. "no," replied von barwig sadly; "i can't, i haven't the courage. i can't stand parting; i shall write them." jenny was so filled with emotion that she could hardly speak. "you told _me_," she said after a while. "yes, you are the only one that could understand. i had to tell you, jenny! i can't go like a thief in the night without letting some one know. you will tell them that i had to go, that there was nothing else to do. explain for me; you will do that, won't you? don't let them think that i--i didn't care." jenny nodded. tears were running down her cheeks. "and you never found the baby, the lost little girl you came over to find; the baby that is now a young lady?" "ja, i go back without her," said von barwig, avoiding the question. "that is our secret, eh, little friend? you will never speak of it, never tell a soul, eh? and you write to me, you tell me all the news of the neighbourhood. let me know how the poor pupils get on without their old music master. here, jenny! here is money for stamps." the girl shook her head. "no, no!" she cried, "not that!" "hush! money for stamps for the little letters, about the little pupils," and von barwig pressed a bill into her hand. "any one on these woiks?" bellowed a loud, deep bass voice from below. von barwig started as he recognised the voice of mr. al costello. "i see you again before i go, jenny," he said quickly as the portly person of the museum manager emerged up the stairway. he carried a large newspaper parcel in his hands. jenny looked in amazement at the fat, florid face of the big man. the incongruity of this great big, noisy individual calling on the dear, quiet little professor was too much for her and she went away wondering. "say, profess'!" bawled he of the large diamond; "if the freak that runs this joint don't put some one on the door, one of these days she'll get her props pinched." von barwig bowed. he had not the slightest idea what mr. costello was talking about, but he knew it was advice of some sort and that he must appear to be grateful. after shaking hands with von barwig and making a few passing inquiries as to the night professor's health mr. costello came to the direct object of his visit. "the members of my bloomin', blink house," began mr. costello in his most ponderous manner, "want me to present you with this--er--token, as a memento and a souvenir and a memorial of the occasion, in which our night professor gave us the grand shake, or words to that effect. i can't remember the exact hinkey dink they gave me; but, professor, it amounts to this," and mr. costello unwrapped the parcel he had so carefully brought upstairs with him. "this loving cup is a token of the regard and esteem in which you are held by us in general, and me and my wife in particular. and i can tell you my wife is particular, very particular," added mr. costello sententiously. "here, take it!" and the bowery museum proprietor thrust a large pewter water pitcher into von barwig's hands. the old man was quite surprised and not a little affected. this new proof of the affection of the poor, unfortunate creatures who made their afflictions the means of earning their livelihood touched him to the very heart, and for a moment he was unable to find words to express his feelings. mr. costello lit a cigar. von barwig looked at the water pitcher and then at costello and began: "mr. costello, and--and--" he paused. "freaks," prompted costello. "no, no!" interposed von barwig quickly. "no, not freaks! ladies and gentlemen of the curio salon." "very neatly put, but they'd get a swelled head if they heard it," broke in costello, puffing on his cigar. "i accept your gift with--with great--great pleasure," went on von barwig; "with more pleasure than i can say!" "drink hearty and often," said costello loudly. "may it never be empty! say, profess', the fat woman's all broke up; honest, she liked you!" and the big man roared with laughter at the bare idea of the stout lady's sorrow. "the midgets," inquired von barwig. "how is their health?" "you couldn't kill 'em with an axe!" replied costello. "and 'eat 'em alive!' she is still eating 'em, eh?" inquired von barwig with a slight smile. "she does nothing _but_ eat! ah! she gives me a pain; she's a four-flush!" growled the museum proprietor. "she don't make good!" "tell them, i have grown fond of them all, and i--part from them with regret, deep regret! they have kind hearts. ah, there are many kind hearts in this world," and von barwig sighed deeply. costello looked at him and shook his head slowly: the man was touched. that any one could express anything like affection or sentiment for the poor creatures in his curiously assorted collection was a marvel to him. "put it there, profess'," he said, and held out his hand to von barwig. "you're all right, profess'; you're all right, and your job is always open for you, rain or shine, summer or winter! you can always come back--good or bad biz--the job is yours for the askin'. there ain't nobody that can touch you in your line; and you're all to the good at that! good-bye, profess'," and shaking von barwig's hand heartily the big man went away, leaving the object of his praises standing alone, deep in thought. his reverie was interrupted by the sound of a slight scream. it was miss husted. she had met mr. costello on the stairway, and that gentleman had frightened her by playfully poking her in the ribs and bursting into a loud laugh. von barwig hastily put the water pitcher into his trunk. "what a rude man!" declared miss husted, as she came into the room, holding skippy in one hand and a dish of hot steak and potatoes in the other. "well, professor--" she said with her sweetest smile, "if mahomet won't come to the breakfast, the breakfast must come to mahomet! there's some hot coffee downstairs, oh, i see you have some," she said, as she looked at the coffee pot on the stove; "come now, sit down and eat!" von barwig meekly obeyed her. in his excitement he had forgotten that he had not tasted a mouthful that day. he did not know how hungry he was until he sat down to the steaming hot coffee and the excellent little steak and potatoes furnished by miss husted. if she furnished the professor with food for the body, she also furnished him with food for the mind, for the dear good lady talked, and talked, and talked. fortunately von barwig was a good listener; that is, he had the faculty of thinking of something else than what was being said. he had always been the repository for all her troubles, but until to-day she had never gone so far as to confess to him the reasons why she had never married, and would never marry, not if the last man in the world asked her. she told him of her first engagement and how it had resulted disastrously, how she had loaned the object of her affections large sums of money, until finally he ran away, leaving her penniless, and she had been compelled to work for a living. von barwig was very sympathetic that morning and it was this sympathy which drew her out. "we live too much in the past, you and i," said von barwig. then, after a pause, he added: "i, too, have had a loss. you live in your loss, i in mine. we remember what we should forget and we forget what we should remember. we must turn to the present, the here, and the now; the living claims our attention, not the dead. what is gone before is over and done with. have done with it. the memory of the past kills the present and the future. it never cures it. ah, dear lady, live in the present; it's your only chance of happiness. jenny, august poons, they are the present! live in them, don't discount their happiness, your own happiness, by waiting for some impossible future for your niece. it is in them, my dear friend, you will find happiness. it is in them you will find affection and love. it is in their joy you will find joy; their children shall be your children. don't deny yourself that happiness!" miss husted was silent for a long while. von barwig took her hand in his, speaking in a low, gentle voice. "it is the last request i make before i go to-morrow!" "before you go!" cried miss husted. "why, where are you going?" von barwig still held her hand tenderly clasped in his. he looked at her sadly, but made no answer. "professor!" she gasped, and then for the first time she noticed that his trunk was outside his room; packed, ready to go. "you're going away?" she wailed pathetically. "you're going away?" the tears came to her eyes. "where, where are you going?" she asked in a tone of entreaty. "where? where?" "home," he replied simply. "home?" she repeated tearfully. "home, back to leipsic. my life here is over. i should have gone months ago, but i waited to see a dear, dear pupil married. what i have come for is accomplished, and now i go back; my mission is ended. see, i have bought my ticket," and von barwig brought out his ticket to show her. miss husted was fairly stunned. she could only look at him in silence. "look! see my ticket," repeated von barwig, handing it to her to look at. "first-class?" she asked plaintively. she always thought for her dear professor's comfort. "yes, first-class steamer," he replied. "why it's a steerage ticket!" she said, looking closely at it. "yes, first-class steerage! ach, what does it matter? i get there all right," said von barwig. "here is what i owe you, all reckoned up to the penny! here," and he thrust a small roll of bills in her hand. "oh, professor!" wailed miss husted. it was all she could say. she did not even realise that he had given her money. "i shall not tell the others until the very last moment. i'll wake them up before daylight and say good-bye to them. ah, it is not easy to see these old friends go out; one by one, like lamps in the dark!" miss husted could only gaze at him through her tear-bedimmed eyes and shake her head mournfully. von barwig tried to cheer her. "come, think of jenny, of poons! new thoughts, new life, a new family! now i say good-bye to one or two good neighbours, to galazatti and the grocer, and the poor old schneider. i'll be back, i'll be back," and von barwig put on his cloak and rushed off. how long miss husted sat there at the table she never knew; she was too stunned to think. going, her dear professor, going! it could not be true, she would not believe it! but she had seen his steamship ticket and there was his trunk. she went over to the little portmanteau and saw that the key was in the lock. she opened it to see if it was packed properly. she then noticed the little roll of bills in her hand and for the first time realised that it was his money she had taken. "perhaps it is his last few dollars," she mourned. she stooped down and secreted the money in one of the pockets of his prince albert coat; then she closed the lid of the portmanteau. as she did so she burst into a flood of tears, and giving way completely to her feelings, she knelt by the little trunk and fairly sobbed as if her heart would break. when pinac, fico and poons returned to their respective rooms they found her kneeling by the trunk. when they spoke to her she pretended to be singing a worn-out ditty of years gone by. it struck the men as being most tearful for a comic song. it was some time before miss husted had sufficiently recovered herself to knock at poons's door and inform him that she had withdrawn her opposition to his marriage with her niece. how she made herself understood is one of the mysteries and must remain so, but poons understood and felt that she was now his friend. with a boyish shout he seized her around the neck and hugged her so tightly and kissed her so fervently that her principal curl came near severing its connection with the portion of her hair that really and truly belonged to her. it was not until she had slapped his face several times, and told him she was to be his aunt and not his sweetheart, that he released her, and even then he insisted on holding her hand and telling her how much he loved jenny. so much noise did the boy make that pinac and fico rushed out of their room to find out what was the matter. poons's explanation to them was nearly as lucid as his previous effort to enlighten miss husted. he threw his arms around their necks and kissed them on both cheeks and danced them around the room. he pointed to miss husted and tried to kiss her again, just to show his friends the relationship between them, but that good lady had had enough of poons's osculatory manifestations and indignantly threatened to slap him again if he tried to carry on with her! jenny joined them and there was more explaining and still more kissing. when von barwig came back he found them all in an uproar congratulating each other in mixed american and continental fashion. his presence added to the general joy. he kissed jenny tenderly and formally gave her to poons. he squeezed miss husted's hand in silence as he realised that his efforts on behalf of the young couple had been successful and he shook hands with his friends. "it is a day of rejoicing, so let us rejoice!" said von barwig, as he emerged from his little room with a violin bow and some music in his hand. he then took a ring off his finger. "poons, here! this ring was given me by your father twenty-five years ago. wear it for my sake! for you, pinac, my mendelssohn concerto. see, here is mendelssohn's own signature! fico, here is my tuart bow. it is broken in two places, but it is a fine bow." "what is all this?" asked pinac. "it is my birthday!" replied von barwig, slightly at a loss for an answer. "your birthday is next month, anton," said fico. "well, i celebrate it now! it is my birthday, i celebrate it when i please. come, no more questions, let us make this a day of rejoicing! come, wish me luck! your hands in mine, boys, and wish me luck and god-speed!" they did not understand, but did as he asked them. miss husted and jenny understood, and they were sad and silent as they watched the men wish von barwig good luck. as they stood there, clasping each other by the hands and singing one of their glees, thurza rushed up stairs and shouted: "some one to see miss husted." the good lady invited them all downstairs to her room to have a glass of wine in honour of the occasion, and disappeared below stairs, followed by the men. von barwig promised to join them later, but now he wanted to be alone. after they had gone he seated himself by the stove. "all is finished," he thought. "hélène is married; a happy marriage. jenny and poons are provided for, so my work is done. to-morrow i shall be here no longer! leipsic, once more leipsic. heimweh, heimweh!" although he spoke habitually in english, he thought in the german language. how strange it all seemed! the music of his last symphony had been running through his head all morning. he could hear it plainly. "i pick up the pieces of my life where i left off," he mused. "back to leipsic i go. how strange it will seem after all these years?" home, home; the thought soothed him. he was tired out, for he had been awake since early dawn and the food he had eaten and the warm glow of the fire on his face made him drowsy. with the music of his last symphony echoing in his mind, the old man fell asleep. chapter twenty-five without doubt it was one of the largest and most fashionable weddings ever given in new york's social history. society attended _en masse_, not so much because it was the fashionable thing to do, as that the young people were great favourites in their world. the wedding breakfast was a crowded affair, and both hélène and her husband were glad when that function was finished, and the business of receiving congratulations and saying good-byes was over and done with. the steamer on which they were going to europe was to sail in three hours. "let us go early, and escape from our friends," whispered beverly to his bride. "i must have an interview with my father before i go. i must!" said helen. then she added in a voice that sounded strangely harsh, "he has avoided me ever since the ceremony!" beverly cruger had noticed that hélène was nervous and emotional, and he attributed it to the excitement of the moment. but the deep-drawn lines of her mouth and the stern look in her eye indicated anger and deep-seated determination, rather than mere excitement. "what is it, darling?" he asked tenderly. "can't you trust me?" "my father has purposely avoided me," she replied. "he knows it is necessary that i should see him," and hélène then told her husband of her recognition of von barwig in church. "i have mourned for him as one dead and gone, and when i saw him to-day rising up like a spectre, as if reproaching me for my neglect, i was terribly overcome. oh, beverly, i can't explain, i don't understand why, but i think of him constantly, and my heart goes out to him! even at this moment i am haunted by the thought of his dear, sweet, gentle smile. why did my father tell me he was dead? there is some mystery connected with herr von barwig that i am determined to find out! you'll help me, won't you? i mean, you'll be patient with my--my unaccountable anxiety?" beverly nodded. "of course i will," he said. "aren't you my wife?" "somehow or other," hélène went on, almost unconscious of beverly's presence, "i feel sure that he is in some way connected with my mother. i know you'll think i'm foolish, but whenever i look at her portrait i think of him. why _should_ i think of him, unless--" hélène paused. "i shall never forget that day, the day i dismissed him. he stood at the door gazing at her portrait, the tears running down his cheeks, and oh, such a sad, sad, longing expression on his face! why should the sight of my mother's portrait make him cry? what is he to her, beverly?" beverly shook his head. "i wish to god i hadn't sent him away," moaned hélène. "what is this man to me that even the memory of his face makes me suffer! to-day of all days i should be happy, but i'm miserable, miserable, miserable!" "if mr. stanton knows, he must tell us," declared beverly emphatically. "yes, he shall tell us!" echoed hélène. "let's go to him and demand the truth." "you stay here, hélène! i'll bring him to you." three minutes later beverly had found his father-in-law surrounded by friends, and had taken him by the arm and led him to hélène's room. it was the room in which the old music master had given her lessons on the piano. hélène now confronted him; and beverly going up to her stood beside her as if to protect his wife. "why did you tell me he was dead?" demanded hélène. stanton was silent. "you must tell her, sir," said beverly. "it is necessary for her peace of mind!" "it is necessary for her peace of mind that i remain silent," said stanton. "but she is suffering!" cried beverly. "she'll suffer more if i tell her the truth," and stanton turned to go. "one moment, sir," and beverly laid his hand gently on mr. stanton's arm; "you must answer, this uncertainty and suspense must come to an end." "what is he to me? tell me!" entreated hélène. "father, father, won't you tell me? for god's sake tell me!" and hélène clasped him by the arm. "tell her, sir," said beverly in a commanding voice. "i--i cannot," faltered stanton; "it's impossible!" "then i'll find out from him," cried hélène. stanton realised that he was cornered. "find out what you please, from whom you please," he said harshly. "we'll go to him; he'll tell us. we should have done that at first," and hélène turned to beverly. "i warn you, you'll bring untold misery on your head!" shouted stanton. he was infuriated at the idea of his authority being ignored. "we want the truth, the truth!" cried hélène. stanton was now beside himself with rage. "then have it; have it!" the words came in short gasps. "and pay the price for it! the man is your father! now you know the truth; you can get the details from him!" and stanton went out slamming the door behind him, the same door through which von barwig had gone out in despair the day that hélène dismissed him. "herr von barwig my father! my father!" hélène sank on her knees and clasped her hands. she was trembling with joy. "thank god! thank god! thank god!" * * * * * * as von barwig partially awoke from his sleep he became dimly conscious that he was not alone. without opening his eyes he realised where he was, and that he was still sitting by the stove, for he felt the glare of the fire on his face, and his immediate surroundings were familiar. the snow on the glass roof above, the portmanteau outside his bedroom door, packed and ready to go; the broken balustrade at the back of the hallway, the sink in the corner, the shelf with the lamps on it; all these familiar objects seemed to be present without his looking directly at them. but there was something else, for a dim figure hovered over him like an angel beckoning him to a fairer, happier land; and the perfume of flowers seemed to fill the room. "i sleep," said von barwig to himself, "but i shall soon wake, and then--it will go." soon the figure began to take form and to his half-conscious mind it seemed to assume the shape of his dead wife. it was her face, her figure as he had known her many, many years ago. "elene, elene!" he murmured, "you have come to take me away from this place. oh, god, i hope i never wake up!" the figure now stretched out its arms, and seemed to be handing von barwig a bunch of flowers. the old man's eyes were fully opened now, and, as he gazed up, he recognised the face of his beloved pupil. then he knew that he was not sleeping. the dreaming and waking process had probably occupied but a few seconds of time, but it seemed to von barwig to have lasted many hours. hélène was looking down at him now as he sat there, her great blue eyes suffused with tears. she beamed tenderness and love upon him and her outstretched hand held a bunch of orange blossoms. "you didn't seek me out to-day, so i came to you," she said in a low, tender voice. "i have brought you my orange blossoms!" von barwig did not speak. another figure now outlined itself to his vision and became flesh and blood--the figure of beverly cruger. it seemed to von barwig that young mr. cruger looked pale and anxious. "what does he know?" the old man asked himself. "is he here to find out?" and in that moment he determined to keep his secret. hélène waited for von barwig to speak, but he remained silent. "you must think it strange that i should call upon you to-day of all days," she said, shaking her head sadly, "and that i should bring my--my husband with me." she looked around at beverly and he smiled approvingly. "but i am going away, herr von barwig, and it would be very sad if we never met again; wouldn't it?" von barwig still looked at her sadly, smilingly, but did not speak. "i feel," she went on sadly, "i always have felt that you never meant to see me again." von barwig nodded; he dared not trust himself to speak now. "what does she know? what does she know?" he asked himself. "shall her mother's disgrace fall on her young shoulders as a wedding gift from me? no, no, no!" again the girl spoke: "i am beginning life all over again; from to-day," she said. "ah, that is right!" murmured von barwig. "we were going to spend our honeymoon in paris," said hélène in a curiously strained voice, for it was all she could do to keep back her tears; "but now we have changed our plans! we are going to the little town where i was born." von barwig drew a deep breath and nodded. "so?" "we are going to leipsic," and hélène cruger looked closely, anxiously, into the old man's face. no sign of recognition was there. "shall we go?" she asked after a pause. he shook his head. "don't go!" he said simply. "why not?" asked hélène, as if his answer meant a great deal to her. "leipsic is not a--a pleasant place for honeymoons," he replied evasively. "that's just what--my--my father said." she was watching him closely now. the expression on von barwig's face was unchanged. "your father is--right," he said finally. "i told him to-day after the service," said hélène, "that we were going to leipsic, and he tried to make me promise not to go. when i refused, he forbade me to go, but he can't forbid me any more; he is beginning to understand that for the first time to-day." she spoke now with a deep-rooted sense of injury von barwig could only nod. he knew now that she had made some discovery. "it's so easy to deceive a child," continued hélène in a voice that must have betrayed the great depth of her feelings. "a child believes everything you tell it. it will grow up on lies, but when that child is older and a woman, then the truth comes out! herr von barwig, the truth comes out!" she looked him full in the face, but still there was no sign. "what truth?" faltered the old man. he realised now that she knew; but exactly what did she know? "you ask me that?" she said sadly. "you, my--my--old music master!" "a music master who taught you nothing," he said evasively. "shall i go to leipsic?" asked hélène. the old man shook his head. "no!" he articulated faintly. "why not?" demanded hélène. there was no reply. "and you won't tell me why?" "i have told you," faltered von barwig. "what have i done, what have i done!" cried hélène, "that you won't claim me?" her voice was now choked with sobs and she no longer made any effort to restrain them. "_he_ wouldn't tell me either; he referred me to you. what have i done? i have waited and waited and waited, but you won't speak! you knew me from the first. you must have known me from the likeness. i was under your roof, you were under mine; but you wouldn't claim me. there is some disgrace!" the old man nodded. "ah, then it's my mother!" cried hélène. "your mother? no! no!" cried von barwig. "no! she was an angel; an angel of goodness, of purity." "then what are you concealing?" cried hélène; "of what are you ashamed? of what is he ashamed?" von barwig rocked himself in agony, but at last he forced himself to speak. "it's a little story of life, of love--foolishness; of--of folly. ah, it is ended, ended!" wailed the old man. "it is over and done with. why should we bring it out into the daylight when it has slept so long over there in leipsic. surely it has slept itself into silence. no! no! the secret is buried there in leipsic. i--i put these orange blossoms on its grave!" and von barwig gently took the flowers from her. "i take them back to leipsic; a little token of silence she would love." "now i know why she cried so constantly," sobbed hélène. "she was thinking of you!" she grasped his hand and looked pleadingly into his face. "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" von barwig shook his head. "silence is best! the marriage is over; i have the orange blossoms," and the old man kissed them tenderly. "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" entreated hélène. "your husband, what does he say?" said von barwig, in a low voice. he felt he could not restrain himself much longer. beverly came forward. "he says: 'who giveth this woman to be married to this man?'" von barwig shook his head. the tears were running down his cheeks, and when he tried to withdraw his hand from hers hélène refused to let it go. "who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" she said entreatingly. von barwig could restrain himself no longer. "well, perhaps i do," he said in a voice trembling with emotion; "perhaps i do!" taking her in his arms, he kissed her again and again. "at last, at last! my little elene! my little baby--my little baby!" "father, father!" was all hélène could say. beverly looked out of the window. "now we mend that doll with the broken eye," said the old man, gulping down a sob and smiling through his tears. "yes, father," and hélène took his face between her two hands. "say it again!" he murmured. "it is the sound i have listened for these sixteen years." "father!" repeated hélène. beverly looked at his watch. "the steamer leaves in less than an hour," he said. "how long will it take you to pack?" he asked. "you are going with us now, father," he added, patting the old man on the back and shaking him by the hand. von barwig seemed dazed. "come, father," pleaded hélène, "no foolish pride! my home is your home after this. now don't hesitate!" "hesitate? i, hesitate?" and rushing to the stairway the old man shouted loudly for miss husted. poons was just coming up the stairs to find out why von barwig didn't come down to drink jenny's health. von barwig gave him a message which brought them all up in breathless haste. mr. and mrs. cruger had gone below, and von barwig had finished packing and was locking his portmanteau as his friends stood around begging him to tell them why he was going and where. "i go on a honeymoon," he said, and they all laughed. "i go home," he added. "no cruel farewells, no sad partings! jenny will tell you. i am called away. sit down, all of you, where you always sit. fico, your mandolin; pinac, your violin! poons, your 'cello!" they did as he asked them, "so, now! play, sing, be happy, just as always! come, the old dinner song we always sang; let it ring in my ears as i go!" though their hearts were heavy, they burst into their oft-sung glee, miss husted and jenny joining in the chorus. "so, so!" murmured the old man, beating time and smiling approval. "i want to go away seeing you all happy, as happy as i am, smiling, happy faces!" "you will come back?" whispered jenny as the old man kissed her tenderly. "i come back," he said gently, "i come back! good-bye, good-bye all of you! yes, i come back, i come back," and anton von barwig disappeared down the stairs and out of their lives. his eyes were still wet with tears as he took his seat in the carriage. hélène dried them with a beautiful duchesse lace handkerchief. "don't cry, father," she pleaded. "ach, i don't cry!" said the old man as he patted her hand. "i--i--" he hesitated. "when i think of the many, many kind hearts in this world--i--i just feel happy, that's all!" the inside of the cup by winston churchill table of contents of all volumes: volume . i. the waring problems ii. mr. langmaid's mission iii. the primrose path iv. some riddles of the twentieth century volume . v. the rector has more food for thought. vi. "watchman, what of the night" vii. the kingdoms of the world viii. the line of least resistance. volume . ix. the divine discontent x. the messenger in the church xi. the lost parishioner xii. the woman of the song volume . xiii. winterbourne xiv. a saturday afternoon xv. the crucible xvi. amid the encircling gloom volume . xvii. reconstruction xviii. the riddle of causation xix. mr. goodrich becomes a partisan volume . xx. the arraignment xxi. alison goes to church xxii. which say to the seers, see not! volume . xxiii. the choice xxiv. the vestry meets xxv. "rise, crowned with light!" xxvi. the current of life volume . xxvii. retribution xxviii. light the inside of the cup volume . chapter i the waring problems i with few exceptions, the incidents recorded in these pages take place in one of the largest cities of the united states of america, and of that portion called the middle west,--a city once conservative and provincial, and rather proud of these qualities; but now outgrown them, and linked by lightning limited trains to other teeming centers of the modern world: a city overtaken, in recent years, by the plague which has swept our country from the atlantic to the pacific--prosperity. before its advent, the goodriches and gores, the warings, the prestons and the atterburys lived leisurely lives in a sleepy quarter of shade trees and spacious yards and muddy macadam streets, now passed away forever. existence was decorous, marriage an irrevocable step, wives were wives, and the authorized version of the bible was true from cover to cover. so dr. gilman preached, and so they believed. sunday was then a day essentially different from other days--you could tell it without looking at the calendar. the sun knew it, and changed the quality of his light the very animals, dogs and cats and horses, knew it: and most of all the children knew it, by sunday school, by dr. gilman's sermon, by a dizzy afternoon connected in some of their minds with ceramics and a lack of exercise; by a cold tea, and by church bells. you were not allowed to forget it for one instant. the city suddenly became full of churches, as though they had magically been let down from heaven during saturday night. they must have been there on week days, but few persons ever thought of them. among the many church bells that rang on those bygone sundays was that of st. john's, of which dr. gilman, of beloved memory, was rector. dr. gilman was a saint, and if you had had the good luck to be baptized or married or buried by him, you were probably fortunate in an earthly as well as heavenly sense. one has to be careful not to deal exclusively in superlatives, and yet it is not an exaggeration to say that st. john's was the most beautiful and churchly edifice in the city, thanks chiefly to several gentlemen of sense, and one gentleman, at least, of taste--mr. horace bentley. the vicissitudes of civil war interrupted its building; but when, in , it stood completed, its stone unsoiled as yet by factory smoke, its spire delicately pointing to untainted skies, its rose window glowing above the porch, citizens on tower street often stopped to gaze at it diagonally across the vacant lot set in order by mr. thurston gore, with the intent that the view might be unobstructed. little did the goodriches and gores, the warings and prestons and atterburys and other prominent people foresee the havoc that prosperity and smoke were to play with their residential plans! one by one, sooty commerce drove them out, westward, conservative though they were, from the paradise they had created; blacker and blacker grew the gothic facade of st. john's; thurston gore departed, but leased his corner first for a goodly sum, his ancestors being from connecticut; leased also the vacant lot he had beautified, where stores arose and hid the spire from tower street. cable cars moved serenely up the long hill where a panting third horse had been necessary, cable cars resounded in burton street, between the new factory and the church where dr. gilman still preached of peace and the delights of the new-jerusalem. and before you could draw your breath, the cable cars had become electric. gray hairs began to appear in the heads of the people dr. gilman had married in the ' 's and their children were going east to college. ii in the first decade of the twentieth century, asa, waring still clung to the imposing, early victorian mansion in hamilton street. it presented an uncompromising and rather scornful front to the sister mansions with which it had hitherto been on intimate terms, now fast degenerating into a shabby gentility, seeking covertly to catch the eye of boarders, but as yet refraining from open solicitation. their lawns were growing a little ragged, their stone steps and copings revealing cracks. asa waring looked with a stern distaste upon certain aspects of modern life. and though he possessed the means to follow his friends and erstwhile neighbours into the newer paradise five miles westward, he had successfully resisted for several years a formidable campaign to uproot him. his three married daughters lived in that clean and verdant district surrounding the park (spelled with a capital), while evelyn and rex spent most of their time in the west end or at the country clubs. even mrs. waring, who resembled a roman matron, with her wavy white hair parted in the middle and her gentle yet classic features, sighed secretly at times at the unyielding attitude of her husband, although admiring him for it. the grandchildren drew her. on the occasion of sunday dinner, when they surrounded her, her heart was filled to overflowing. the autumn sunlight, reddened somewhat by the slight haze of smoke, poured in at the high windows of the dining-room, glinted on the silver, and was split into bewildering colors by the prisms of the chandelier. many precious extra leaves were inserted under the white cloth, and mrs. waring's eyes were often dimmed with happiness as she glanced along the ranks on either side until they rested on the man with whom she had chosen to pass her life. her admiration for him had gradually grown into hero-worship. his anger, sometimes roused, had a terrible moral quality that never failed to thrill her, and the loyal legion button on his black frock coat seemed to her an epitome of his character. he sat for the most part silent, his remarkable, penetrating eyes, lighting under his grizzled brows, smiling at her, at the children, at the grandchildren. and sometimes he would go to the corner table, where the four littlest sat, and fetch one back to perch on his knee and pull at his white, military mustache. it was the children's day. uproar greeted the huge white cylinder of ice-cream borne by katie, the senior of the elderly maids; uproar greeted the cake; and finally there was a rush for the chocolates, little tablets wrapped in tinfoil and tied with red and blue ribbon. after that, the pandemonium left the dining-room, to spread itself over the spacious house from the basement to the great playroom in the attic, where the dolls and blocks and hobby-horses of the parental generation stoically awaited the new. sometimes a visitor was admitted to this sacramental feat, the dearest old gentleman in the world, with a great, high bridged nose, a slight stoop, a kindling look, and snow white hair, though the top of his head was bald. he sat on mrs. waring's right, and was treated with the greatest deference by the elders, and with none at all by the children, who besieged him. the bigger ones knew that he had had what is called a history; that he had been rich once, with a great mansion of his own, but now he lived on dalton street, almost in the slums, and worked among the poor. his name was mr. bentley. he was not there on the particular sunday when this story opens, otherwise the conversation about to be recorded would not have taken place. for st. john's church was not often mentioned in mr. bentley's presence. "well, grandmother," said phil goodrich, who was the favourite son-in-law, "how was the new rector to-day?" "mr. hodder is a remarkable young man, phil," mrs. waring declared, "and delivered such a good sermon. i couldn't help wishing that you and rex and evelyn and george had been in church." "phil couldn't go," explained the unmarried and sunburned evelyn, "he had a match on of eighteen holes with me." mrs. waring sighed. "i can't think what's got into the younger people these days that they seem so indifferent to religion. your father's a vestryman, phil, and i believe it has always been his hope that you would succeed him. i'm afraid rex won't succeed his father," she added, with a touch of regret and a glance of pride at her husband. "you never go to church, rex. phil does." "i got enough church at boarding-school to last me a lifetime, mother," her son replied. he was slightly older than evelyn, and just out of college. "besides, any heathen can get on the vestry--it's a financial board, and they're due to put phil on some day. they're always putting him on boards." his mother looked a little distressed. "rex, i wish you wouldn't talk that way about the church--" "i'm sorry, mother," he said, with quick penitence. "mr. langmaid's a vestryman, you know, and they've only got him there because he's the best corporation lawyer in the city. he isn't exactly what you'd call orthodox. he never goes." "we are indebted to mr. langmaid for mr. hodder." this was one of mr. waring's rare remarks. eleanor goodrich caught her husband's eye, and smiled. "i wonder why it is," she said, "that we are so luke-warm about church in these days? i don't mean you, lucy, or laureston," she added to her sister, mrs. grey. "you're both exemplary." lucy bowed ironically. "but most people of our ages with whom we associate. martha preston, for instance. we were all brought up like the children of jonathan edwards. do you remember that awful round-and-round feeling on sunday afternoons, sally, and only the wabbly noah's ark elephant to play with, right in this house? instead of that!" there was a bump in the hall without, and shrieks of laughter. "i'll never forget the first time it occurred to me--when i was reading darwin--that if the ark were as large as barnum's circus and the natural history museum put together, it couldn't have held a thousandth of the species on earth. it was a blow." "i don't know what we're coming to," exclaimed mrs. waring gently. "i didn't mean to be flippant, mother," said eleanor penitently, "but i do believe the christian religion has got to be presented in a different way, and a more vital way, to appeal to a new generation. i am merely looking facts in the face." "what is the christian religion?" asked sally's husband, george bridges, who held a chair of history in the local flourishing university. "i've been trying to find out all my life." "you couldn't be expected to know, george," said his wife. "you were brought up an unitarian, and went to harvard." "never mind, professor," said phil goodrich, in a quizzical, affectionate tone. "take the floor and tell us what it isn't." george bridges smiled. he was a striking contrast in type to his square-cut and vigorous brother-in-law; very thin, with slightly protruding eyes the color of the faded blue glaze of ancient pottery, and yet humorous. "i've had my chance, at any rate. sally made me go last sunday and hear mr. hodder." "i can't see why you didn't like him, george," lucy cried. "i think he's splendid." "oh, i like him," said mr. bridges. "that's just it!" exclaimed eleanor. "i like him. i think he's sincere. and that first sunday he came, when i saw him get up in the pulpit and wave that long arm of his, all i could think of was a modern savonarola. he looks one. and then, when he began to preach, it was maddening. i felt all the time that he could say something helpful, if he only would. but he didn't. it was all about the sufficiency of grace,--whatever that may be. he didn't explain it. he didn't give me one notion as to how to cope a little better with the frightful complexities of the modern lives we live, or how to stop quarrelling with phil when he stays at the office and is late for dinner." "eleanor, i think you're unjust to him," said lucy, amid the laughter of the men of the family. "most people in st. john's think he is a remarkable preacher." "so were many of the greek sophists," george bridges observed. "now if it were only dear old doctor gilman," eleanor continued, "i could sink back into a comfortable indifference. but every sunday this new man stirs me up, not by what he says, but by what he is. i hoped we'd get a rector with modern ideas, who would be able to tell me what to teach my children. little phil and harriet come back from sunday school with all sorts of questions, and i feel like a hypocrite. at any rate, if mr. hodder hasn't done anything else, he's made me want to know." "what do you mean by a man of modern ideas, eleanor?" inquired mr. bridges, with evident relish. eleanor put down her coffee cup, looked at him helplessly, and smiled. "somebody who will present christianity to me in such a manner that it will appeal to my reason, and enable me to assimilate it into my life." "good for you, nell," said her husband, approvingly. "come now, professor, you sit up in the university' club all sunday morning and discuss recondite philosophy with other learned agnostics, tell us what is the matter with mr. hodder's theology. that is, if it will not shock grandmother too much." "i'm afraid i've got used to being shocked, phil," said mrs. waring, with her quiet smile. "it's unfair," mr. bridges protested, "to ask a prejudiced pagan like me to pronounce judgment on an honest parson who is labouring according to his lights." "go on, george. you shan't get out of it that way." "well," said george, "the trouble is, from the theological point of view, that your parson is preaching what auguste sabatier would call a diminished and mitigated orthodoxy." "great heavens!" cried phil. "what's that?" "it's neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, nor good red herring," the professor declared. "if mr. hodder were cornered he couldn't maintain that he, as a priest, has full power to forgive sins, and yet he won't assert that he hasn't. the mediaeval conception of the church, before luther's day, was consistent, at any rate, if you once grant the premises on which it was based." "what premises?" "that the almighty had given it a charter, like an insurance company, of a monopoly of salvation on this portion of the universe, and agreed to keep his hands off. under this conception, the sale of indulgences, masses for the soul, and temporal power are perfectly logical --inevitable. kings and princes derive their governments from the church. but if we once begin to doubt the validity of this charter, as the reformers did, the whole system flies to pieces, like sticking a pin into a soap bubble. "that is the reason why--to change the figure--the so-called protestant world has been gradually sliding down hill ever since the reformation. the great majority of men are not willing to turn good, to renounce the material and sensual rewards under their hands without some definite and concrete guaranty that, if they do so, they are going, to be rewarded hereafter. they demand some sort of infallibility. and when we let go of the infallibility of the church, we began to slide toward what looked like a bottomless pit, and we clutched at the infallibility of the bible. and now that has begun to roll. "what i mean by a mitigated orthodoxy is this: i am far from accusing mr. hodder of insincerity, but he preaches as if every word of the bible were literally true, and had been dictated by god to the men who held the pen, as if he, as a priest, held some supernatural power that could definitely be traced, through what is known as the apostolic succession, back to peter." "do you mean to say, george," asked mrs. waring, with a note of pain in her voice, "that the apostolic succession cannot be historically proved?" "my dear mother," said george, "i hope you will hold me innocent of beginning this discussion. as a harmless professor of history in our renowned university (of which we think so much that we do not send our sons to it) i have been compelled by the children whom you have brought up to sit in judgment on the theology of your rector." "they will leave us nothing!" she sighed. "nothing, perhaps, that was invented by man to appeal to man's superstition and weakness. of the remainder--who can say?" "what," asked mrs. waring, "do they say about the apostolic succession?" "mother is as bad as the rest of us," said eleanor. "isn't she, grandfather?" "if i had a house to rent," said mr. bridges, when the laughter had subsided, "i shouldn't advertise five bath rooms when there were only two, or electricity when there was only gas. i should be afraid my tenants might find it out, and lose a certain amount of confidence in me. but the orthodox churches are running just such a risk to-day, and if any person who contemplates entering these churches doesn't examine the premises first, he refrains at his own cost. "the situation in the early christian church is now a matter of history, and he who runs may read. the first churches, like those of corinth and ephesus and rome, were democracies: no such thing as a priestly line to carry on a hierarchy, an ecclesiastical dynasty, was dreamed of. it may be gathered from the gospels that such an idea was so far from the mind of christ that his mission was to set at naught just such another hierarchy, which then existed in israel. the apostles were no more bishops than was john the baptist, but preachers who travelled from place to place, like paul. the congregations, at rome and elsewhere, elected their own 'presbyteri, episcopoi' or overseers. it is, to say the least, doubtful, and it certainly cannot be proved historically, that peter ever was in rome." "the professor ought to have a pulpit of his own," said phil. there was a silence. and then evelyn, who had been eating quantities of hothouse grapes, spoke up. "so far as i can see, the dilemma in which our generation finds itself is this,--we want to know what there is in christianity that we can lay hold of. we should like to believe, but, as george says, all our education contradicts the doctrines that are most insisted upon. we don't know where to turn. we have the choice of going to people like george, who know a great deal and don't believe anything, or to clergymen like mr. hodder, who demand that we shall violate the reason in us which has been so carefully trained." "upon my word, i think you've put it rather well, evelyn," said eleanor, admiringly. "in spite of personalities," added mr. bridges. "i don't see the use of fussing about it," proclaimed laureston grey, who was the richest and sprucest of the three sons-in-law. "why can't we let well enough alone?" "because it isn't well enough," evelyn replied. "i want the real thing or nothing. i go to church once a month, to please mother. it doesn't do me any good. and i don't see what good it does you and lucy to go every sunday. you never think of it when you're out at dinners and dances during the week. and besides," she added, with the arrogance of modern youth, "you and lucy are both intellectually lazy." "i like that from you, evelyn," her sister flared up. "you never read anything except the sporting columns and the annual rules of tennis and golf and polo." "must everything be reduced to terms?" mrs. waring gently lamented. "why can't we, as laury suggests, just continue to trust?" "they are the more fortunate, perhaps, who can, mother," george bridges answered, with more of feeling in his voice than he was wont to show. "unhappily, truth does not come that way. if roger bacon and galileo and newton and darwin and harvey and the others had 'just trusted,' the world's knowledge would still remain as stationary as it was during the thousand-odd years the hierarchy of the church was supreme, when theology was history, philosophy, and science rolled into one. if god had not meant man to know something of his origin differing from the account in genesis, he would not have given us darwin and his successors. practically every great discovery since the revival we owe to men who, by their very desire for truth, were forced into opposition to the tremendous power of the church, which always insisted that people should 'just trust,' and take the mixture of cosmogony and greek philosophy, tradition and fable, paganism, judaic sacerdotalism, and temporal power wrongly called spiritual dealt out by this same church as the last word on science, philosophy, history, metaphysics, and government." "stop!" cried eleanor. "you make me dizzy." "nearly all the pioneers to whom we owe our age of comparative enlightenment were heretics," george persisted. "and if they could have been headed off, or burned, most of us would still be living in mud caves at the foot of the cliff on which stood the nobleman's castle; and kings would still be kings by divine decree, scientists--if there were any --workers in the black art, and every phenomenon we failed to understand, a miracle." "i choose the united states of america," ejaculated evelyn. "i gather, george," said phil goodrich, "that you don't believe in miracles." "miracles are becoming suspiciously fewer and fewer. once, an eclipse of the sun was enough to throw men on their knees because they thought it supernatural. if they were logical they'd kneel today because it has been found natural. only the inexplicable phenomena are miracles; and after a while--if the theologians will only permit us to finish the job --there won't be any inexplicable phenomena. mystery, as i believe william james puts it may be called the more-to-be-known." "in taking that attitude, george, aren't you limiting the power of god?" said mrs. waring. "how does it limit the power of god, mother," her son-in-law asked, "to discover that he chooses to work by laws? the most suicidal tendency in religious bodies today is their mediaeval insistence on what they are pleased to call the supernatural. which is the more marvellous--that god can stop the earth and make the sun appear to stand still, or that he can construct a universe of untold millions of suns with planets and satellites, each moving in its orbit, according to law; a universe wherein every atom is true to a sovereign conception? and yet this marvel of marvels--that makes god in the twentieth century infinitely greater than in the sixteenth--would never have been discovered if the champions of theology had had their way." mrs. waring smiled a little. "you are too strong for me, george," she said, "but you mustn't expect an old woman to change." "mother, dear," cried eleanor, rising and laying her hand on mrs. waring's cheek, "we don't want you to change. it's ourselves we wish to change, we wish for a religious faith like yours, only the same teaching which gave it to you is powerless for us. that's our trouble. we have only to look at you," she added, a little wistfully, "to be sure there is something--something vital in christianity, if we could only get at it, something that does not depend upon what we have been led to believe is indispensable. george, and men like him, can only show the weakness in the old supports. i don't mean that they aren't doing the world a service in revealing errors, but they cannot reconstruct." "that is the clergyman's business," declared mr. bridges. "but he must first acknowledge that the old supports are worthless." "well," said phil, "i like your rector, in spite of his anthropomorphism --perhaps, as george would say, because of it. there is something manly about him that appeals to me." "there," cried eleanor, triumphantly, "i've always said mr. hodder had a spiritual personality. you feel--you feel there is truth shut up inside of him which he cannot communicate. i'll tell you who impresses me in that way more strongly than any one else--mr. bentley. and he doesn't come to church any more." "mr. bentley," said her, mother, "is a saint. your father tried to get him to dinner to-day, but he had promised those working girls of his, who live on the upper floors of his house, to dine with them. one of them told me so. of course he will never speak of his kindnesses." "mr. bentley doesn't bother his head about theology," said sally. "he just lives." "there's eldon parr," suggested george bridges, mentioning the name of the city's famous financier; "i'm told he relieved mr. bentley of his property some twenty-five years ago. if mr. hodder should begin to preach the modern heresy which you desire, mr parr might object. he's very orthodox, i'm told." "and mr. parr," remarked the modern evelyn, sententiously, "pays the bills, at st. john's. doesn't he, father?" "i fear he pays a large proportion of them," mr. waring admitted, in a serious tone. "in these days," said evelyn, "the man who pays the bills is entitled to have his religion as he likes it." "no matter how he got the money to pay them," added phil. "that suggests another little hitch in the modern church which will have to be straightened out," said george bridges. "'woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! for ye make clean the outside of the cup and of the platter, but within they are full of extortion and excess.'" "why, george, you of all people quoting the bible!" eleanor exclaimed. "and quoting it aptly, too," said phil goodrich. "i'm afraid if we began on the scribes and pharisees, we shouldn't stop with mr. parr," asa wiring observed, with a touch of sadness. "in spite of all they say he has done, i can't help feeling sorry for him," said mrs. waring. "he must be so lonely in that huge palace of his beside the park, his wife dead, and preston running wild around the world, and alison no comfort. the idea of a girl leaving her father as she did and going off to new york to become a landscape architect!" "but, mother," evelyn pleaded, "i can't see why a woman shouldn't lead her own life. she only has one, like a man. and generally she doesn't get that." mrs. waring rose. "i don't know what we're coming to. i was taught that a woman's place was with her husband and children; or, if she had none, with her family. i tried to teach you so, my dear." "well," said evelyn, "i'm here yet. i haven't alison's excuse. cheer up, mother, the world's no worse than it was." "i don't know about that," answered mrs. waring. "listen!" ejaculated eleanor. mrs. waring's face brightened. sounds of mad revelry came down from the floor above. chapter ii mr. langmaid's mission i looking back over an extraordinary career, it is interesting to attempt to fix the time when a name becomes a talisman, and passes current for power. this is peculiarly difficult in the case of eldon parr. like many notable men before him, nobody but mr. parr himself suspected his future greatness, and he kept the secret. but if we are to search what is now ancient history for a turning-point, perhaps we should find it in the sudden acquisition by him of the property of mr. bentley. the transaction was a simple one. those were the days when gentlemen, as matters of courtesy, put their names on other gentlemen's notes; and modern financiers, while they might be sorry for mr. bentley, would probably be unanimous in the opinion that he was foolish to write on the back of thomas garrett's. mr. parr was then, as now, a business man, and could scarcely be expected to introduce philanthropy into finance. such had been mr. bentley's unfortunate practice. and it had so happened, a few years before, for the accommodation of some young men of his acquaintance that he had invested rather generously in grantham mining stock at twenty-five cents a share, and had promptly forgotten the transaction. to cut a long story short, in addition to mr. bentley's house and other effects, mr. parr became the owner of the grantham stock, which not long after went to one hundred dollars. the reader may do the figuring. where was some talk at this time, but many things had happened since. for example, mr. parr had given away great sums in charity. and it may likewise be added in his favour that mr. bentley was glad to be rid of his fortune. he had said so. he deeded his pew back to st. john's, and protesting to his friends that he was not unhappy, he disappeared from the sight of all save a few. the rising waters of prosperity closed over him. but eliza preston, now mrs. parr, was one of those who were never to behold him again,--in this world, at least. she was another conspicuous triumph in that career we are depicting. gradual indeed had been the ascent from the sweeping out of a store to the marrying of a preston, but none the less sure inevitable. for many years after this event, eldon parr lived modestly in what was known as a "stone-front" house in ransome street, set well above the sidewalk, with a long flight of yellow stone steps leading to it; steps scrubbed with sapoho twice a week by a negro in rubber boots. there was a stable with a tarred roof in the rear, to be discerned beyond the conventional side lawn that was broken into by the bay window of the dining-room. there, in that house, his two children were born: there, within those inartistic walls, eliza preston lived a life that will remain a closed book forever. what she thought, what she dreamed, if anything, will never be revealed. she did not, at least, have neurasthenia, and for all the world knew, she may have loved her exemplary and successful husband, with whom her life was as regular as the strasburg clock. she breakfasted at eight and dined at seven; she heard her children's lessons and read them bible stories; and at half past ten every sunday morning, rain or shine, walked with them and her husband to the cars on tower street to attend service at st. john's, for mr. parr had scruples in those days about using the carriage on the sabbath. she did not live, alas, to enjoy for long the medicean magnificence of the mansion facing the park, to be a companion moon in the greater orbit. eldon part's grief was real, and the beautiful english window in the south transept of the church bears witness to it. and yet it cannot be said that he sought solace in religion, so apparently steeped in it had he always been. it was destiny that he should take his place on the vestry; destiny, indeed, that he should ultimately become the vestry as well as the first layman of the diocese; unobtrusively, as he had accomplished everything else in life, in spite of prestons and warings, atterburys, goodriches, and gores. and he was wont to leave his weighty business affairs to shift for themselves while he attended the diocesan and general conventions of his church. he gave judiciously, as becomes one who holds a fortune in trust, yet generously, always permitting others to help, until st. john's was a very gem of finished beauty. and, as the rothschilds and the fuggera made money for grateful kings and popes, so in a democratic age, eldon parr became the benefactor of an adulatory public. the university, the library, the hospitals, and the parks of his chosen city bear witness. ii for forty years, dr. gilman had been the rector of st. john's. one sunday morning, he preached his not unfamiliar sermon on the text, "for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face," and when the next sunday dawned he was in his grave in winterbourne cemetery, sincerely mourned within the parish and without. in the nature of mortal things, his death was to be expected: no less real was the crisis to be faced at the vestry meeting that followed, the problem was tersely set forth by eldon parr, his frock coat tightly buttoned about his chest, his glasses in his hand. "gentlemen," he said, "we have to fulfil a grave responsibility to the parish, to the city, and to god. the matter of choosing a rector to-day, when clergymen are meddling with all sorts of affairs which do not concern them, is not so simple as it was twenty years ago. we have, at st. john's, always been orthodox and dignified, and i take it to be the sense of this vestry that we remain so. i conceive it our duty to find a man who is neither too old nor too young, who will preach the faith as we received it, who is not sensational, and who does not mistake socialism for christianity." by force of habit, undoubtedly, mr. parr glanced at nelson langmaid as he sat down. innumerable had been the meetings of financial boards at which mr. parr had glanced at langmaid, who had never failed to respond. he was that sine qua non of modern affairs, a corporation lawyer,--although he resembled a big and genial professor of scandinavian extraction. he wore round, tortoise-shell spectacles, he had a high, dome-like forehead, and an ample light brown beard which he stroked from time to time. it is probable that he did not believe in the immortality of the soul. his eyes twinkled as he rose. "i don't pretend to be versed in theology, gentlemen, as you know," he said, and the entire vestry, even mr. parr, smiled. for vestries, in spite of black coats and the gravity of demeanour which first citizens are apt to possess, are human after all. "mr. parr has stated, i believe; the requirements, and i agree with him that it is not an easy order to fill. you want a parson who will stick to his last, who will not try experiments, who is not too high or too low or too broad or too narrow, who has intellect without too much initiative, who can deliver a good sermon to those who can appreciate one, and yet will not get the church uncomfortably full of strangers and run you out of your pews. in short, you want a level-headed clergyman about thirty-five years old who will mind his own business" the smiles on the faces of the vestry deepened. the ability to put a matter thus humorously was a part of nelson langmaid's power with men and juries. "i venture to add another qualification," he continued, "and that is virility. we don't want a bandbox rector. well, i happen to have in mind a young man who errs somewhat on the other side, and who looks a little like a cliff profile i once saw on lake george of george washington or an indian chief, who stands about six feet two. he's a bachelor--if that's a drawback. but i am not at all sure he can be induced to leave his present parish, where he has been for ten years." "i am," announced wallis plimpton, with his hands in his pockets, "provided the right man tackles him." iii nelson langmaid's most notable achievement, before he accomplished the greater one of getting a new rector for st. john's, had been to construct the "water-tight box" whereby the consolidated tractions company had become a law-proof possibility. but his was an esoteric reputation, --the greater fame had been eldon parr's. men's minds had been dazzled by the breadth of the conception of scooping all the street-car lines of the city, long and short, into one big basket, as it were; and when the stock had been listed in new york, butcher and baker, clerk and proprietor, widow and maid, brought out their hoardings; the great project was discussed in clubs, cafes, and department stores, and by citizens hanging on the straps of the very cars that were to be consolidated--golden word! very little appeared about nelson langmaid, who was philosophically content. but to mr. parr, who was known to dislike publicity, were devoted pages in the sunday newspapers, with photographs of the imposing front of his house in park street, his altar and window in st. john's, the parr building, and even of his private car, antonia. later on, another kind of publicity, had come. the wind had whistled for a time, but it turned out to be only a squall. the consolidated tractions company had made the voyage for which she had been constructed, and thus had fulfilled her usefulness; and the cleverest of the rats who had mistaken her for a permanent home scurried ashore before she was broken up. all of which is merely in the nature of a commentary on mr. langmaid's genius. his reputation for judgment--which by some is deemed the highest of human qualities--was impaired; and a man who in his time had selected presidents of banks and trust companies could certainly be trusted to choose a parson--particularly if the chief requirements were not of a spiritual nature. . . a week later he boarded an east-bound limited train, armed with plenary powers. his destination was the hill town where he had spent the first fifteen years of his life, amid the most striking of new england landscapes, and the sight of the steep yet delicately pastoral slopes never failed to thrill him as the train toiled up the wide valley to bremerton. the vision of these had remained with him during the years of his toil in the growing western city, and embodied from the first homesick days an ideal to which he hoped sometime permanently to return. but he never had. his family had shown a perversity of taste in preferring the sea, and he had perforce been content with a visit of a month or so every other summer, accompanied usually by his daughter, helen. on such occasions, he stayed with his sister, mrs. whitely. the whitely mills were significant of the new bremerton, now neither village nor city, but partaking of the characteristics of both. french canadian might be heard on the main square as well as yankee; and that revolutionary vehicle, the automobile, had inspired there a great brick edifice with a banner called the bremerton house. enterprising italians had monopolized the corners with fruit stores, and plate glass and asphalt were in evidence. but the hills looked down unchanged, and in the cool, maple-shaded streets, though dotted with modern residences, were the same demure colonial houses he had known in boyhood. he was met at the station by his sister, a large, matronly woman who invariably set the world whizzing backward for langmaid; so completely did she typify the contentment, the point of view of an age gone by. for life presented no more complicated problems to the middle-aged mrs. whitely than it had to alice langmaid. "i know what you've come for, nelson," she said reproachfully, when she greeted him at the station. "dr. gilman's dead, and you want our mr. hodder. i feel it in my bones. well, you can't get him. he's had ever so many calls, but he won't leave bremerton." she knew perfectly well, however, that nelson would get him, although her brother characteristically did not at once acknowledge his mission. alice whitely had vivid memories of a childhood when he had never failed to get what he wanted; a trait of his of which, although it had before now caused her much discomfort, she was secretly inordinately proud. she was, therefore, later in the day not greatly surprised to find herself supplying her brother with arguments. much as they admired and loved mr. hodder, they had always realized that he could not remain buried in bremerton. his talents demanded a wider field. "talents!" exclaimed langmaid, "i didn't know he had any." "oh, nelson, how can you say such a thing, when you came to get him!" exclaimed his sister." "i recommended him because i thought he had none," langmaid declared. "he'll be a bishop some day--every one says so," said mrs. whitely, indignantly. "that reassures me," said her brother. "i can't see why they sent you--you hardly ever go to church," she cried. "i don't mind telling you, nelson, that the confidence men place in you is absurd." "you've said that before," he replied. "i agree with you. i'm not going on my judgment--but on yours and gerald's, because i know that you wouldn't put up with anything that wasn't strictly all-wool orthodox." "i think you're irreverent," said his sister, "and it's a shame that the canons permit such persons to sit on the vestry . . . ." "gerald," asked nelson langmaid of his brother-in-law that night, after his sister and the girls had gone to bed, "are you sure that this young man's orthodox?" "he's been here for over ten years, ever since he left the seminary, and he's never done or said anything radical yet," replied the mill owner of bremerton. "if you don't want him, we'd be delighted to have him stay. we're not forcing him on you, you know. what the deuce has got into you? you've talked to him for two hours, and you've sat looking at him at the dinner table for another two. i thought you were a judge of men." nelson langmaid sat silent. "i'm only urging hodder to go for his own good," mr. whitely continued. "i can take you to dozens of people to-morrow morning who worship him, --people of all sorts; the cashier in the bank, men in the mills, the hotel clerk, my private stenographer--he's built up that little church from nothing at all. and you may write the bishop, if you wish." "how has he built up the church?" langmaid demanded "how? how does any clergyman buildup a church "i don't know," langmaid confessed. "it strikes me as quite a tour de force in these days. does he manage to arouse enthusiasm for orthodox christianity?" "well," said gerard whitely, "i think the service appeals. we've made it as beautiful as possible. and then mr. hodder goes to see these people and sits up with them, and they tell him their troubles. he's reformed one or two rather bad cases. i suppose it's the man's personality." ah! langmaid exclaimed, "now you're talking!" "i can't see what you're driving at," confessed his brother-in-law. "you're too deep for me, nelson." if the truth be told, langmaid himself did not quits see. on behalf of the vestry, he offered next day to mr. hodder the rectorship of st. john's and that offer was taken under consideration; but there was in the lawyer's mind no doubt of the acceptance, which, in the course of a fortnight after he had returned to the west, followed. by no means a negligible element in nelson langmaid's professional success had been his possession of what may called a sixth sense, and more than once, on his missions of trust, he had listened to its admonitory promptings. at times he thought he recognized these in his conversation with the reverend john hodder at bremerton,--especially in that last interview in the pleasant little study of the rectory overlooking bremerton lake. but the promptings were faint, and langmaid out of his medium. he was not choosing the head of a trust company. he himself felt the pull of the young clergyman's personality, and instinctively strove to resist it: and was more than ever struck by mr. hodder's resemblance to the cliff sculpture of which he had spoken at the vestry meeting. he was rough-hewn indeed, with gray-green eyes, and hair the color of golden sand: it would not stay brushed. it was this hair that hinted most strongly of individualism, that was by no means orthodox. langmaid felt an incongruity, but he was fascinated; and he had discovered on the rector's shelves evidences of the taste for classical authors that he himself possessed. thus fate played with him, and the two men ranged from euripides to horace, from horace to dante and gibbon. and when hodder got up to fetch this or that edition, he seemed to tower over the lawyer, who was a big man himself. then they discussed business, langmaid describing the parish, the people, the peculiar situation in st. john's caused by dr. gilman's death, while hodder listened. he was not talkative; he made no promises; his reserve on occasions was even a little disconcerting; and it appealed to the lawyer from hodder as a man, but somehow not as a clergyman. nor did the rector volunteer any evidences of the soundness of his theological or political principles. he gave langmaid the impression--though without apparent egotism--that by accepting the call he would be conferring a favour on st. john's; and this was when he spoke with real feeling of the ties that bound him to bremerton. langmaid felt a certain deprecation of the fact that he was not a communicant. for the rest, if mr. hodder were disposed to take himself and his profession seriously, he was by no means lacking in an appreciation of langmaid s humour . . . . the tempering of the lawyer's elation as he returned homeward to report to mr. parr and the vestry may be best expressed by his own exclamation, which he made to himself: "i wonder what that fellow would do if he ever got started!" a parson was, after all, a parson, and he had done his best. iv a high, oozing note of the brakes, and the heavy train came to a stop. hodder looked out of the window of the sleeper to read the sign 'marcion' against the yellow brick of the station set down in the prairie mud, and flanked by a long row of dun-colored freight cars backed up to a factory. the factory was flimsy, somewhat resembling a vast greenhouse with its multitudinous windows, and bore the name of a firm whose offices were in the city to which he was bound. "we 'most in now, sah," the negro porter volunteered. "you kin see the smoke yondah." hodder's mood found a figure in this portentous sign whereby the city's presence was betrayed to travellers from afar,--the huge pall seemed an emblem of the weight of the city's sorrows; or again, a cloud of her own making which shut her in from the sight of heaven. absorbed in the mad contest for life, for money and pleasure and power she felt no need to lift her eyes beyond the level of her material endeavours. he, john hodder, was to live under that cloud, to labour under it. the mission on which he was bound, like the prophets of old, was somehow to gain the ears of this self-absorbed population, to strike the fear of the eternal into their souls, to convince them that there was something above and beyond that smoke which they ignored to their own peril. yet the task, at this nearer view, took on proportions overwhelming--so dense was that curtain at which he gazed. and to-day the very skies above it were leaden, as though nature herself had turned atheist. in spite of the vigour with which he was endowed, in spite of the belief in his own soul, doubts assailed him of his ability to cope with this problem of the modern nineveh--at the very moment when he was about to realize his matured ambition of a great city parish. leaning back on the cushioned seat, as the train started again, he reviewed the years at bremerton, his first and only parish. hitherto (to his surprise, since he had been prepared for trials) he had found the religious life a primrose path. clouds had indeed rested on bremerton's crests, but beneficent clouds, always scattered by the sun. and there, amid the dazzling snows, he had on occasions walked with god. his success, modest though it were, had been too simple. he had loved the people, and they him, and the pang of homesickness he now experienced was the intensest sorrow he had known since he had been among them. yes, bremerton had been for him (he realized now that he had left it) as near an approach to arcadia as this life permits, and the very mountains by which it was encircled had seemed effectively to shut out those monster problems which had set the modern world outside to seething. gerald whitely's thousand operatives had never struck; the new york newspapers, the magazines that discussed with vivid animus the corporation-political problems in other states, had found bremerton interested, but unmoved; and mrs. whitely, who was a trustee of the library, wasted her energy in deploring the recent volumes on economics, sociology, philosophy, and religion that were placed on the shelves. if bremerton read them--and a portion of bremerton did--no difference was apparent in the attendance at hodder's church. the woman's club discussed them strenuously, but made no attempt to put their doctrines into practice. hodder himself had but glanced at a few of them, and to do him justice this abstention had not had its root in cowardice. his life was full --his religion "worked." and the conditions with which these books dealt simply did not exist for him. the fact that there were other churches in the town less successful than his own (one or two, indeed, virtually starving) he had found it simple to account for in that their denominations had abandoned the true conception of the church, and were logically degenerating into atrophy. what better proof of the barrenness of these modern philosophical and religious books did he need than the spectacle of other ministers--who tarried awhile on starvation salaries --reading them and preaching from them? he, john hodder, had held fast to the essential efficacy of the word of god as propounded in past ages by the fathers. it is only fair to add that he did so without pride or bigotry, and with a sense of thankfulness at the simplicity of the solution (ancient, in truth!) which, apparently by special grace, had been vouchsafed him. and to it he attributed the flourishing condition in which he had left the church of the ascension at bremerton. "we'll never get another rector like you," alice whitely had exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, as she bade him good-by. and he had rebuked her. others had spoken in a similar strain, and it is a certain tribute to his character to record that the underlying hint had been lost on hodder. his efficacy, he insisted, lay in the word. hodder looked at his watch, only to be reminded poignantly of the chief cause of his heaviness of spirit, for it represented concretely the affections of those whom he had left behind; brought before him vividly the purple haze of the bremerton valley, and the garden party, in the ample whitely grounds, which was their tribute to him. and he beheld, moving from the sunlight to shadow, the figure of rachel ogden. she might have been with him now, speeding by his side into the larger life! in his loneliness, he seemed to be gazing into reproachful eyes. nothing had passed between them. it, was he who had held back, a fact that in the retrospect caused him some amazement. for, if wifehood were to be regarded as a profession, rachel ogden had every qualification. and mrs. whitely's skilful suggestions had on occasions almost brought him to believe in the reality of the mirage,--never quite. orthodox though he were, there had been times when his humour had borne him upward toward higher truths, and he had once remarked that promising to love forever was like promising to become president of the united states. one might achieve it, but it was independent of the will. hodder's ideals--if he had only known--transcended the rubric. his feeling for rachel ogden had not been lacking in tenderness, and yet he had recoiled from marriage merely for the sake of getting a wife, albeit one with easy qualification. he shrank instinctively from the humdrum, and sought the heights, stormy though these might prove. as yet he had not analyzed this craving. this he did know--for he had long ago torn from his demon the draperies of disguise--that women were his great temptation. ordination had not destroyed it, and even during those peaceful years at bremerton he had been forced to maintain a watchful guard. he had a power over women, and they over him, that threatened to lead him constantly into wayside paths, and often he wondered what those who listened to him from the pulpit would think if they guessed that at times, he struggled with suggestion even now. yet, with his hatred of compromises, he had scorned marriage. the yoke of augustine! the caldron of unholy loves! even now, as he sat in the train, his mind took its own flight backward into that remoter past that was still a part of him: to secret acts of his college days the thought of which made him shudder; yes, and to riots and revels. in youth, his had been one of those boiling, contagious spirits that carry with them, irresistibly, tamer companions. he had been a leader in intermittent raids into forbidden spheres; a leader also in certain more decorous pursuits--if athletics may be so accounted; yet he had capable of long periods of self-control, for a cause. through it all a spark had miraculously been kept alive. . . . popularity followed him from the small new england college to the harvard law school. he had been soberer there, marked as a pleader, and at last the day arrived when he was summoned by a great new york lawyer to discuss his future. sunday intervened. obeying a wayward impulse, he had gone to one of the metropolitan churches to hear a preacher renowned for his influence over men. there is, indeed, much that is stirring to the imagination in the spectacle of a mass of human beings thronging into a great church, pouring up the aisles, crowding the galleries, joining with full voices in the hymns. what drew them? he himself was singing words familiar since childhood, and suddenly they were fraught with a startling meaning! "fill me, radiancy divine, scatter all my unbelief!" visions of the crusades rose before him, of a friar arousing france, of a maid of orleans; of masses of soiled, war-worn, sin-worn humanity groping towards the light. even after all these ages, the belief, the hope would not down. outside, a dismal february rain was falling, a rain to wet the soul. the reek of damp clothes pervaded the gallery where he sat surrounded by clerks and shop girls, and he pictured to himself the dreary rooms from which they had emerged, drawn by the mysterious fire on that altar. was it a will-o'-the-wisp? below him, in the pews, were the rich. did they, too, need warmth? then came the sermon, "i will arise and go to my father." after the service, far into the afternoon, he had walked the wet streets heedless of his direction, in an exaltation that he had felt before, but never with such intensity. it seemed as though he had always wished to preach, and marvelled that the perception had not come to him sooner. if the man to whom he had listened could pour the light into the dark corners of other men's souls, he, john hodder, felt the same hot spark within him,--despite the dark corners of his own! at dusk he came to himself, hungry, tired, and wet, in what proved to be the outskirts of harlem. he could see the place now: the lonely, wooden houses, the ramshackle saloon, the ugly, yellow gleam from the street lamps in a line along the glistening pavement; beside him, a towering hill of granite with a real estate sign, "this lot for sale." and he had stood staring at it, thinking of the rock that would have to be cut away before a man could build there,--and so read his own parable. how much rock would have to be cut away, how much patient chipping before the edifice of which he had been dreaming could be reared! could he ever do it? once removed, he would be building on rock. but could he remove it? . . . to help revive a faith, a dying faith, in a material age, --that indeed were a mission for any man! he found his way to an elevated train, and as it swept along stared unseeing at the people who pushed and jostled him. still under the spell, he reached his room and wrote to the lawyer thanking him, but saying that he had reconsidered coming to new york. it was not until he had posted the letter, and was on his way back to cambridge that he fully realized he had made the decision of his life. misgivings, many of them, had come in the months that followed, misgivings and struggles, mocking queries. would it last? there was the incredulity and amazement of nearest friends, who tried to dissuade him from so extraordinary a proceeding. nobody, they said, ever became a parson in these days; nobody, at least, with his ability. he was throwing himself away. ethics had taken the place of religion; intelligent men didn't go to church. and within him went on an endless debate. public opinion made some allowance for frailties in other professions; in the ministry, none: he would be committing himself to be good the rest of his life, and that seemed too vast an undertaking for any human. the chief horror that haunted him was not failure,--for oddly enough he never seriously distrusted his power, it was disaster. would god give him the strength to fight his demon? if he were to gain the heights, only to stumble in the sight of all men, to stumble and fall. seeming echoes of the hideous mockery of it rang in his ears: where is the god that this man proclaimed? he saw the newspaper headlines, listened in imagination to cynical comments, beheld his name trailed through the soiled places of the cities, the shuttlecock of men and women. "to him that overcometh, to him will i give of the hidden manna, and i will give him a white stone, and upon the stone a new name written, which no one knoweth but he that receiveth it." might he ever win that new name, eat of the hidden manna of a hidden power, become the possessor of the morning star? unless there be in the background a mother, no portrait of a man is complete. she explains him, is his complement. through good mothers are men conceived of god: and with god they sit, forever yearning, forever reaching out, helpless except for him: with him, they have put a man into the world. thus, into the supreme canvas, came the virgin. john hodder's mother was a widow, and to her, in the white, gabled house which had sheltered stern ancestors, he travelled in the june following his experience. standing under the fan-light of the elm-shaded doorway, she seemed a vision of the peace wherein are mingled joy and sorrow, faith and tears! a tall, quiet woman, who had learned the lesson of mothers,--how to wait and how to pray, how to be silent with a clamouring heart. she had lived to see him established at bremerton, to be with him there awhile . . . . he awoke from these memories to gaze down through the criss-cross of a trestle to the twisted, turbid waters of the river far below. beyond was the city. the train skirted for a while the hideous, soot-stained warehouses that faced the water, plunged into a lane between humming factories and clothes-draped tenements, and at last glided into semi-darkness under the high, reverberating roof of the union station. chapter iii the primrose path i nelson langmaid's extraordinary judgment appeared once more to be vindicated. there had been, indeed, a critical, anxious moment, emphasized by the agitation of bright feminine plumes and the shifting of masculine backs into the corners of the pews. none got so far as to define to themselves why there should be an apparent incompatibility between ruggedness and orthodoxy--but there were some who hoped and more who feared. luther had been orthodox once, savonarola also: in appearance neither was more canonical than the new rector. his congregation, for the most part, were not analytical. but they felt a certain anomaly in virility proclaiming tradition. it took them several sundays to get accustomed to it. to those who had been used for more than a quarter of a century to seeing old dr. gilman's gentle face under the familiar and faded dove of the sounding-board, to the deliberation of his walk, and the hesitation of his manner, the first impression of the reverend john hodder was somewhat startling. they felt that there should be a leisurely element in religion. he moved across the chancel with incredible swiftness, his white surplice flowing like the draperies of a moving victory, wasted no time with the pulpit lights, announced his text in a strong and penetrating, but by no means unpleasing voice, and began to speak with the certainty of authority. here, in an age when a new rector had, ceased to be an all-absorbing topic in social life, was a new and somewhat exhilarating experience. and it may be privately confessed that there were some who sat in st. john's during those first weeks of his incumbency who would indignantly have repudiated the accusation that they were not good churchmen and churchwomen, and who nevertheless had queer sensations in listening to ancient doctrines set forth with emersonian conviction. some were courageous enough to ask themselves, in the light of this forceful presentation, whether they really did believe them as firmly as they supposed they had. dear old dr. gilman had been milder--much milder as the years gained upon him. and latterly, when he had preached, his voice had sounded like the unavailing protest of one left far behind, who called out faintly with unheeded warnings. they had loved him: but the modern world was a busy world, and dr. gilman did not understand it. this man was different. here was what the church taught, he said, and they might slight it at their peril! it is one thing to believe one's self orthodox, and quite another to have that orthodoxy so definitely defined as to be compelled, whether or no, to look it squarely in the face and own or disown it. some indeed, like gordon atterbury, stood the test; responded to the clarion call for which they had been longing. but little everett constable, who also sat on the vestry, was a trifle uncomfortable in being reminded that absence from the communion table was perilous, although he would have been the last to deny the efficacy of the sacrament. the new rector was plainly not a man who might be accused of policy in pandering to the tastes of a wealthy and conservative flock. but if, in the series of sermons which lasted from his advent until well after christmas, he had deliberately consulted their prejudices, he could not have done better. it is true that he went beyond the majority of them, but into a region which they regarded as preeminently safe,--a region the soil of which was traditional. to wit: st. paul had left to the world a consistent theology. historical research was ignored rather than condemned. and it might reasonably have been gathered from these discourses that the main proofs of christ's divinity lay in his virgin birth, his miracles, and in the fact that his body had risen from the grave, had been seen by many, and even touched. hence unbelief had no excuse. by divine commission there were bishops, priests, and deacons in the new hierarchy, and it was through the apostolic succession that he, their rector, derived his sacerdotal powers. there were, no doubt, many obscure passages in the scripture, but men's minds were finite; a catholic acceptance was imperative, and the evils of the present day --a sufficiently sweeping statement--were wholly due to deplorable lapses from such acceptance. the apostolic teaching must be preserved, since it transcended all modern wanderings after truth. hell, though not definitely defined in terms of flames, was no less a state of torture (future, by implication) of which fire was but a faint symbol. and he gave them clearly to understand that an unbaptized person ran no inconsiderable risk. he did not declare unqualifiedly that the church alone had the power to save, but such was the inference. ii it was entirely fitting, no doubt, when the felicitations of certain of the older parishioners on his initial sermon were over, that mr. hodder should be carried westward to lunch with the first layman of the diocese. but mr. parr, as became a person of his responsibility, had been more moderate in his comment. for he had seen, in his day, many men whose promise had been unfulfilled. tightly buttoned, silk hatted, upright, he sat in the corner of his limousine, the tasselled speaking-tube in his hand, from time to time cautioning his chauffeur. "carefully!" he cried. "i've told you not to drive so fast in this part of town. i've never got used to automobiles," he remarked to hodder, "and i formerly went to church in the street-cars, but the distances have grown so great--and i have occasionally been annoyed in them." hodder was not given to trite acquiescence. his homely composure belied the alertness of his faculties; he was striving to adapt himself to the sudden broadening and quickening of the stream of his life, and he felt a certain excitement--although he did not betray it--in the presence of the financier. much as he resented the thought, it was impossible for him not to realize that the man's pleasure and displeasure were important; for, since his arrival, he had had delicate reminders of this from many sources. recurrently, it had caused him a vague uneasiness, hinted at a problem new to him. he was jealous of the dignity of the church, and he seemed already to have detected in mr. parr's manner a subtle note of patronage. nor could hodder's years of provincialism permit him to forget that this man with whom he was about to enter into personal relations was a capitalist of national importance. the neighbourhood they traversed was characteristic of our rapidly expanding american cities. there were rows of dwelling houses, once ultra-respectable, now slatternly, and lawns gone grey; some of these houses had been remodelled into third-rate shops, or thrown together to make manufacturing establishments: saloons occupied all the favourable corners. flaming posters on vacant lots announced, pictorially, dubious attractions at the theatres. it was a wonderful indian summer day, the sunlight soft and melting; and the smoke which continually harassed this district had lifted a little, as though in deference to the sabbath. hodder read the sign on a lamp post, dalton street. the name clung in his memory. "we thought, some twenty years ago, of moving the church westward," said mr. parr, "but finally agreed to remain where we were." the rector had a conviction on this point, and did not hesitate to state it without waiting to be enlightened as to the banker's views. "it would seem to me a wise decision," he said, looking out of the window, and wholly absorbed in the contemplation of the evidences of misery and vice, "with this poverty at the very doors of the church." something in his voice impelled eldon parr to shoot a glance at his profile. "poverty is inevitable, mr. hodder," he declared. "the weak always sink." hodder's reply, whatever it might have been, was prevented by the sudden and unceremonious flight of both occupants toward the ceiling of the limousine, caused by a deep pit in the asphalt. "what are you doing, gratton?" mr. parr called sharply through the tube. presently, the lawns began to grow brighter, the houses more cheerful, and the shops were left behind. they crossed the third great transverse artery of the city (not so long ago, mr. parr remarked, a quagmire), now lined by hotels and stores with alluring displays in plate glass windows and entered a wide boulevard that stretched westward straight to the great park. this boulevard the financier recalled as a country road of clay. it was bordered by a vivid strip, of green; a row of tall and graceful lamp posts, like sentinels, marked its course; while the dwellings, set far back on either side, were for the most part large and pretentious, betraying in their many tentative styles of architecture the reaching out of a commercial nation after beauty. some, indeed, were simple of line and restful to the trained eye. they came to the wide entrance of the park, so wisely preserved as a breathing place for future generations. a slight haze had gathered over the rolling forests to the westward; but this haze was not smoke. here, in this enchanting region, the autumn sunlight was undiluted gold, the lawns, emerald, and the red gravel around the statesman's statue glistening. the automobile quickly swung into a street that skirted the park,--if street it might be called, for it was more like a generous private driveway,--flanked on the right by fences of ornamental ironwork and high shrubbery that concealed the fore yards of dominating private residences which might: without great exaggeration, have been called palaces. "that's ferguson's house," volunteered mr. parr, indicating a marble edifice with countless windows. "he's one of your vestrymen, you know. ferguson's department store." the banker's eyes twinkled a little for the first time. "you'll probably find it convenient. most people do. clever business man, ferguson." but the rector was finding difficulty in tabulating his impressions. they turned in between two posts of a gateway toward a huge house of rough granite. and hodder wondered whether, in the swift onward roll of things, the time would come when this, too, would have been deemed ephemeral. with its massive walls and heavy, red-tiled roof that sloped steeply to many points, it seemed firmly planted for ages to come. it was surrounded, yet not hemmed in, by trees of a considerable age. his host explained that these had belonged to the original farm of which all this park street property had made a part. they alighted under a porte-cochere with a glass roof. "i'm sorry," said mr. parr, as the doors swung open and he led the way into the house, "i'm sorry i can't give you a more cheerful welcome, but my son and daughter, for their own reasons, see fit to live elsewhere." hodder's quick ear detected in the tone another cadence, and he glanced at eldon parr with a new interest . . . . presently they stood, face to face, across a table reduced to its smallest proportions, in the tempered light of a vast dining-room, an apartment that seemed to symbolize the fortress-like properties of wealth. the odd thought struck the clergyman that this man had made his own tower of london, had built with his own hands the prison in which he was to end his days. the carved oaken ceiling, lofty though it was, had the effect of pressing downward, the heavy furniture matched the heavy walls, and even the silent, quick-moving servants had a watchful air. mr. parr bowed his head while hodder asked grace. they sat down. the constraint which had characterized their conversation continued, yet there was a subtle change in the attitude of the clergyman. the financier felt this, though it could not be said that hodder appeared more at his ease: his previous silences had been by no means awkward. eldon parr liked self-contained men. but his perceptions were as keen as nelson langmaid's, and like langmaid, he had gradually become conscious of a certain baffling personality in the new rector of st. john's. from time to time he was aware of the grey-green eyes curiously fixed on him, and at a loss to account for their expression. he had no thought of reading in it an element of pity. yet pity was nevertheless in the rector's heart, and its advent was emancipating him from the limitations of provincial inexperience. suddenly, the financier launched forth on a series of shrewd and searching questions about bremerton, its church, its people, its industries, and social conditions. all of which hodder answered to his apparent satisfaction. coffee was brought. hodder pushed back his chair, crossed his knees, and sat perfectly still regarding his host, his body suggesting a repose that did not interfere with his perceptive faculties. "you don't smoke, mr. hodder?" the rector smiled and shook his head. mr. parr selected a diminutive, yellow cigar and held it up. "this," he said, "has been the extent of my indulgence for twenty years. they are made for me in cuba." hodder smiled again, but said nothing. "i have had a letter from your former bishop, speaking of you in the highest terms," he observed. "the bishop is very kind." mr. parr cleared his throat. "i am considerably older than you," he went on, "and i have the future of st. john's very much at heart, mr. hodder. i trust you will remember this and make allowances for it as i talk to you. "i need not remind you that you have a grave responsibility on your shoulders for so young a man, and that st. john's is the oldest parish in the diocese." "i think i realize it, mr. parr," said hodder, gravely. "it was only the opportunity of a larger work here that induced me to leave bremerton." "exactly," agreed the banker. "the parish, i believe, is in good running order--i do not think you will see the necessity for many--ahem--changes. but we sadly needed an executive head. and, if i may say so, mr. hodder, you strike me as a man of that type, who might have made a success in a business career." the rector smiled again. "i am sure you could pay me no higher compliment," he answered. for an instant eldon parr, as he stared at the clergyman, tightened his lips,--lips that seemed peculiarly formed for compression. then they relaxed into what resembled a smile. if it were one, the other returned it. "seriously," mr. parr declared, "it does me good in these days to hear, from a young man, such sound doctrine as you preach. i am not one of those who believe in making concessions to agnostics and atheists. you were entirely right, in my opinion, when you said that we who belong to the church--and of course you meant all orthodox christians--should stand by our faith as delivered by the saints. of course," he added, smiling, "i should not insist upon the sublapsarian view of election which i was taught in the presbyterian church as a boy." hodder laughed, but did not interrupt. "on the other hand," mr. parr continued, "i have little patience with clergymen who would make religion attractive. what does it amount to --luring people into the churches on one pretext or another, sugar-coating the pill? salvation is a more serious matter. let the churches stick to their own. we have at st. john's a god-fearing, conservative congregation, which does not believe in taking liberties with sound and established doctrine. and i may confess to you, mr. hodder, that we were naturally not a little anxious about dr. gilman's successor, that we should not get, in spite of every precaution, a man tinged with the new and dangerous ideas so prevalent, i regret to say, among the clergy. i need scarcely add that our anxieties have been set at rest." "that," said hodder, "must be taken as a compliment to the dean of the theological seminary from which i graduated." the financier stared again. but he decided that mr. hodder had not meant to imply that he, mr. parr, was attempting to supersede the dean. the answer had been modest. "i take it for granted that you and i and all sensible men are happily. agreed that the church should remain where she is. let the people come to her. she should be, if i may so express it, the sheet anchor of society, our bulwark against socialism, in spite of socialists who call themselves ministers of god. the church has lost ground--why? because she has given ground. the sanctity of private property is being menaced, demagogues are crying out from the house-tops and inciting people against the men who have made this country what it is, who have risked their fortunes and their careers for the present prosperity. we have no longer any right, it seems, to employ whom we will in our factories and our railroads; we are not allowed to regulate our rates, although the risks were all ours. even the women are meddling,--they are not satisfied to stay in the homes, where they belong. you agree with me?" "as to the women," said the rector, "i have to acknowledge that i have never had any experience with the militant type of which you speak." "i pray god you may never have," exclaimed mr. parr, with more feeling than he had yet shown. "woman's suffrage, and what is called feminism in general, have never penetrated to bremerton. indeed, i must confess to have been wholly out of touch with the problems to which you refer, although of course i have been aware of their existence." "you will meet them here," said the banker, significantly. "yes," the rector replied thoughtfully, "i can see that. i know that the problems here will be more complicated, more modern,--more difficult. and i thoroughly agree with you that their ultimate solution is dependent on christianity. if i did not believe,--in spite of the evident fact which you point out of the church's lost ground, that her future will be greater than her past, i should not be a clergyman." the quiet but firm note of faith was, not lost on the financier, and yet was not he quite sure what was to be made of it? he had a faint and fleeting sense of disquiet, which registered and was gone. "i hope so," he said vaguely, referring perhaps to the resuscitation of which the rector spoke. he drummed on the table. "i'll go so far as to say that i, too, think that the structure can be repaired. and i believe it is the duty of the men of influence--all men of influence--to assist. i don't say that men of influence are not factors in the church to-day, but i do say that they are not using the intelligence in this task which they bring to bear, for instance, on their business." "perhaps the clergy might help," hodder suggested, and added more seriously, "i think that many of them are honestly trying to do so." "no doubt of it. why is it," mr. parr continued reflectively, "that ministers as a whole are by no means the men they were? you will pardon my frankness. when i was a boy, the minister was looked up to as an intellectual and moral force to be reckoned with. i have heard it assigned, as one reason, that in the last thirty years other careers have opened up, careers that have proved much more attractive to young men of ability." "business careers?" inquired the rector. "precisely!" "in other words," said hodder, with his curious smile, "the ministry gets the men who can't succeed at anything else." "well, that's putting it rather strong," answered mr. parr, actually reddening a little. "but come now, most young men would rather be a railroad president than a bishop,--wouldn't they?" "most young men would," agreed hodder, quickly, "but they are not the young men who ought to be bishops, you'll admit that." the financier, be it recorded to his credit, did not lack appreciation of this thrust, and, for the first time, he laughed with something resembling heartiness. this laughter, in which hodder joined, seemed suddenly to put them on a new footing--a little surprising to both. "come," said the financier, rising, "i'm sure you like pictures, and langmaid tells me you have a fancy for first editions. would you care to go to the gallery?" "by all means," the rector assented. their footsteps, as they crossed the hardwood floors, echoed in the empty house. after pausing to contemplate a millet on the stair landing, they came at last to the huge, silent gallery, where the soft but adequate light fell upon many masterpieces, ancient and modern. and it was here, while gazing at the corots and bonheurs, lawrences, romneys, copleys, and halses, that hodder's sense of their owner's isolation grew almost overpowering once, glancing over his shoulder at mr. parr, he surprised in his eyes an expression almost of pain. "these pictures must give you great pleasure," he said. "oh," replied the banker, in a queer voice, "i'm always glad when any one appreciates them. i never come in here alone." hodder did not reply. they passed along to an upstairs sitting-room, which must, hodder thought, be directly over the dining-room. between its windows was a case containing priceless curios. "my wife liked this room," mr. parr explained, as he opened the case. when they had inspected it, the rector stood for a moment gazing out at a formal garden at the back of the house. the stalks of late flowers lay withering, but here and there the leaves were still vivid, and clusters of crimson berries gleamed in the autumn sunshine. a pergola ran down the middle, and through denuded grape-vines he caught a glimpse, at the far end, of sculptured figures and curving marble benches surrounding a pool. "what a wonderful spot!" he exclaimed. "my daughter alison designed it." "she must have great talent," said the rector. "she's gone to new york and become a landscape architect," said his host with a perceptible dryness. "women in these days are apt to be everything except what the lord intended them to be." they went downstairs, and hodder took his leave, although he felt an odd reluctance to go. mr. parr rang the bell. "i'll send you down in the motor," he said. "i'd like the exercise of walking," said the rector. "i begin to miss it already, in the city." "you look as if you had taken a great deal of it," mr. parr declared, following him to the door. "i hope you'll drop in often. even if i'm not here, the gallery and the library are at your disposal." their eyes met. "you're very good," hodder replied, and went down the steps and through the open doorway. lost in reflection, he walked eastward with long and rapid strides, striving to reduce to order in his mind the impressions the visit had given him, only to find them too complex, too complicated by unlooked-for emotions. before its occurrence, he had, in spite of an inherent common sense, felt a little uneasiness over the prospective meeting with the financier. and nelson langmaid had hinted, good-naturedly, that it was his, hodder's, business, to get on good terms with mr. parr--otherwise the rectorship of st. john's might not prove abed of roses. although the lawyer had spoken with delicacy, he had once more misjudged his man--the result being to put hodder on his guard. he had been the more determined not to cater to the banker. the outcome of it all had been that the rector left him with a sense of having crossed barriers forbidden to other men, and not understanding how he had crossed them. whether this incipient intimacy were ominous or propitious, whether there were involved in it a germ (engendered by a radical difference of temperament) capable of developing into future conflict, he could not now decide. if eldon parr were procrustes he, hodder, had fitted the bed, and to say the least, this was extraordinary, if not a little disquieting. now and again his thoughts reverted to the garden, and to the woman who had made it. why had she deserted? at length, after he had been walking for nearly an hour, he halted and looked about him. he was within a few blocks of the church, a little to one side of tower street, the main east and west highway of the city, in the midst of that district in which mr. parr had made the remark that poverty was inevitable. slovenly and depressing at noonday, it seemed now frankly to have flung off its mask. dusk was gathering, and with it a smoke-stained fog that lent a sickly tinge to the lights. women slunk by him: the saloons, apparently closed, and many houses with veiled windows betrayed secret and sinister gleams. in the midst of a block rose a tall, pretentious though cheaply constructed building with the words "hotel albert" in flaming electric letters above an archway. once more his eye read dalton street on a lamp . . . . hodder resumed his walk more slowly, and in a few minutes reached his rooms in the parish house. chapter iv some riddles of the twentieth century i although he found the complications of a modern city parish somewhat bewildering, the new rector entered into his duties that winter with apostolic zeal. he was aware of limitations and anomalies, but his faith was boundless, his energy the subject of good-natured comment by his vestry and parishioners, whose pressing invitations' to dinners he was often compelled to refuse. there was in john hodder something indefinable that inflamed curiosity and left it unsatisfied. his excuse for attending these dinners, which indeed were relaxing and enjoyable, he found in the obvious duty of getting to know the most important members of his congregation. but invariably he came away from them with an inner sense of having been baffled in this object. with a few exceptions, these modern people seemed to have no time for friendship in the real meaning of the word, no desire to carry a relationship beyond a certain point. although he was their spiritual pastor, he knew less about most of them at the end of the winter than their butlers and their maids. they were kind, they were delightful, they were interested in him--he occasionally thought--as a somewhat anachronistic phenomenon. they petted, respected him, and deferred to him. he represented to them an element in life they recognized, and which had its proper niche. what they failed to acknowledge was his point of view--and this he was wise enough not to press at dinner tables and in drawing-rooms--that religion should have the penetrability of ether; that it should be the absorbent of life. he did not have to commit the banality of reminding them of this conviction of his at their own tables; he had sufficient humour and penetration to credit them with knowing it. nay, he went farther in his unsuspected analysis, and perceived that these beliefs made one of his chief attractions for them. it was pleasant to have authority in a black coat at one's board; to defer, if not to bend to it. the traditions of fashion demanded a clergyman in the milieu, and the more tenaciously he clung to his prerogatives, the better they liked it. although they were conscious of a certain pressure, which they gently resisted, they did not divine that the radiating and rugged young man cherished serious designs upon them. he did not expect to transform the world in a day, especially the modern world. he was biding his time, awaiting individual opportunities. they talked to him of the parish work, congratulated him on the vigour with which he had attacked it, and often declared themselves jealous of it because it claimed too much of him. dear dr. gilman, they said, had had neither the strength nor the perception of 'modern needs; and mccrae, the first assistant clergyman, while a good man, was a plodder and lacking in imagination. they talked sympathetically about the problems of the poor. and some of them--particularly mrs. wallis plimpton were inclined to think hodder's replies a trifle noncommittal. the trouble, although he did not tell them so, was that he himself had by no means solved the problem. and he felt a certain reluctance to discuss the riddle of poverty over champagne and porcelain. mrs. plimpton and mrs. constable, mrs. ferguson, mrs. langmaid, mrs. larrabbee, mrs. atterbury, mrs. grey, and many other ladies and their daughters were honorary members of his guilds and societies, and found time in their busy lives to decorate the church, adorn the altar, care for the vestments, and visit the parish house. some of them did more: mrs. larrabbee, for instance, when she was in town, often graced the girls' classes with her presence, which was a little disquieting to the daughters of immigrants: a little disquieting, too, to john hodder. during the three years that had elapsed since mr. larrabbee's death, she had, with characteristic grace and ease, taken up philanthropy; become, in particular, the feminine patron saint of galt house, non-sectarian, a rescue home for the erring of her sex. there were, too, in this higher realm of wealth in and out of which hodder plunged, women like mrs. constable (much older than mrs. larrabbee) with whom philanthropy and what is known as "church work" had become second nature in a well-ordered life, and who attended with praiseworthy regularity the meetings of charitable boards and committees, not infrequently taking an interest in individuals in mr. hodder's classes. with her, on occasions, he did discuss such matters, only to come away from her with his bewilderment deepened. it was only natural that he should have his moods of depression. but the recurrent flow of his energy swept them away. cynicism had no place in his militant christianity, and yet there were times when he wondered whether these good people really wished achievements from their rector. they had the air of saying "bravo!" and then of turning away. and he did not conceal from himself that he was really doing nothing but labour. the distances were great; and between his dinner parties, classes, services, and visits, he was forced to sit far into the night preparing his sermons, when his brain was not so keen as it might have been. indeed--and this thought was cynical and out of character--he asked himself on one occasion whether his principal achievement so far had not consisted in getting on unusual terms with eldon parr. they were not lacking who thought so, and who did not hesitate to imply it. they evidently regarded his growing intimacy with the banker with approval, as in some sort a supreme qualification for a rector of st. john's, and a proof of unusual abilities. there could be no question, for instance, that he had advanced perceptibly in the estimation of the wife of another of his vestrymen, mrs. wallis plimpton. the daughter of thurston gore, with all her astuteness and real estate, was of a naivete in regard to spiritual matters that hodder had grown to recognize as impermeable. in an evening gown, with a string of large pearls testing on her firm and glowing neck, she appeared a concrete refutation of the notion of rebirth, the triumph of an unconscious philosophy of material common-sense. however, in parish house affairs, hodder had found her practical brain of no slight assistance. "i think it quite wonderful," she remarked, on the occasion at which he was the guest of honour in what was still called the new gore mansion, "that you have come to know mr. parr so well in such a short time. how did you do it, mr. hodder? of course wallis knows him, and sees a great deal of him in business matters. he relies on wallis. but they tell me you have grown more intimate with him than any one has been since alison left him." there is, in proverbs or ecclesiastes, a formula for answering people in accordance with their point of view. the rector modestly disclaimed intimacy. and he curbed his curiosity about alison for the reason that he preferred to hear her story from another source. "oh, but you are intimate!" mrs. plimpton protested. "everybody says so--that mr. parr sends for you all the time. what is he like when he's alone, and relaxed? is he ever relaxed?" the lady had a habit of not waiting for answers to her questions. "do you know, it stirs my imagination tremendously when i think of all the power that man has. i suppose you know he has become one of a very small group of men who control this country, and naturally he has been cruelly maligned. all he has to do is to say a word to his secretary, and he can make men or ruin them. it isn't that he does ruin them--i don't mean that. he uses his wealth, wallis says, to maintain the prosperity of the nation! he feels his trusteeship. and he is so generous! he has given a great deal to the church, and now," she added, "i am sure he will give more." hodder was appalled. he felt helpless before the weight of this onslaught. "i dare say he will continue to assist, as he has in the past," he managed to say. "of course it's your disinterestedness," she proclaimed, examining him frankly. "he feels that you don't want anything. you always strike me as so splendidly impartial, mr. hodder." fortunately, he was spared an answer. mr. plimpton, who was wont to apply his gifts as a toastmaster to his own festivals, hailed him from the other end of the table. and nelson langmaid, who had fallen into the habit of dropping into hodder's rooms in the parish house on his way uptown for a chat about books, had been struck by the rector's friendship with the banker. "i don't understand how you managed it, hodder, in such a short time," he declared. "mr. parr's a difficult man. in all these years, i've been closer to him than any one else, and i don't know him today half as well as you do." "i didn't manage it," said hodder, briefly. "well," replied the lawyer, quizzically, "you needn't eat me up. i'm sure you didn't do it on purpose. if you had,--to use a hibernian phrase,--you never would have done it. i've seen it tried before. to tell you the truth, after i'd come back from bremerton, that was the one thing i was afraid of--that you mightn't get along with him." hodder himself was at a loss to account for the relationship. it troubled him vaguely, for mr. parr was the aggressor; and often at dusk, when hodder was working under his study lamp, the telephone would ring, and on taking down the receiver he would hear the banker's voice. "i'm alone to-night, mr. hodder. will you come and have dinner with me?" had he known it, this was a different method of communication than that which the financier usually employed, one which should have flattered him. if wallis plimpton, for instance, had received such a personal message, the fact would not have remained unknown the next day at his club. sometimes it was impossible for hodder to go, and he said so; but he always went when he could. the unwonted note of appeal (which the telephone seemed somehow to enhance) in mr. parr's voice, never failed to find a response in the rector's heart, and he would ponder over it as he walked across to tower street to take the electric car for the six-mile trip westward. this note of appeal he inevitably contrasted with the dry, matter-of-fact reserve of his greeting at the great house, which loomed all the greater in the darkness. unsatisfactory, from many points of view, as these evenings were, they served to keep whetted hodder's curiosity as to the life of this extraordinary man. all of its vaster significance for the world, its tremendous machinery, was out of his sight. mr. parr seemed indeed to regard the rest of his fellow-creatures with the suspicion at which langmaid had hinted, to look askance at the amenities people tentatively held out to him. and the private watchman whom hodder sometimes met in the darkness, and who invariably scrutinized pedestrians on park street, seemed symbolic, of this attitude. on rare occasions, when in town, the financier dined out, limiting himself to a few houses. once in a long while he attended what are known as banquets, such as those given by the chamber of commerce, though he generally refused to speak. hodder, through mr. parr's intervention, had gone to one of these, ably and breezily presided over by the versatile mr. plimpton. hodder felt not only curiosity and sympathy, but a vexing sense of the fruitlessness of his visits to park street. mr. parr seemed to like to have him there. and the very fact that the conversation rarely took any vital turn oddly contributed to the increasing permanence of the lien. to venture on any topic relating to the affairs of the day were merely to summon forth the banker's dogmatism, and hodder's own opinions on such matters were now in a strange and unsettled state. mr. parr liked best to talk of his treasures, and of the circumstances during his trips abroad that had led to their acquirement. once the banker had asked him about parish house matters. "i'm told you're working very hard--stirring up mccrae. he needs it." "i'm only trying to study the situation," hodder replied. "i don't think you quite do justice to mccrae," he added; "he's very faithful, and seems to understand those people thoroughly." mr. parr smiled. "and what conclusions have you come to? if you think the system should be enlarged and reorganized i am willing at any time to go over it with you, with a view to making an additional contribution. personally, while i have sympathy for the unfortunate, i'm not at all sure that much of the energy and money put into the institutional work of churches isn't wasted." "i haven't come to any conclusions--yet," said the rector, with a touch of sadness. "perhaps i demand too much--expect too much." the financier, deep in his leather chair under the shaded light, the tips of his fingers pressed together, regarded the younger man thoughtfully, but the smile lingered in his eyes. "i told you you would meet problems," he said. ii hodder's cosmos might have been compared, indeed, to that set forth in the ptolemaic theory of the ancients. like a cleverly carved chinese object of ivory in the banker s collection, it was a system of spheres, touching, concentric, yet separate. in an outer space swung mr. parr; then came the scarcely less rarefied atmosphere of the constables and atterburys, fergusons, plimptons, langmaids, prestons, larrabbees, greys, and gores, and then a smaller sphere which claims but a passing mention. there were, in the congregation of st. john's, a few people of moderate means whose houses or apartments the rector visited; people to whom modern life was increasingly perplexing. in these ranks were certain maiden ladies and widows who found in church work an outlet to an otherwise circumscribed existence. hodder met them continually in his daily rounds. there were people like the bradleys, who rented half a pew and never missed a sunday; mr. bradley, an elderly man whose children had scattered, was an upper clerk in one of mr. parr's trust companies: there were bachelors and young women, married or single, who taught in the sunday school or helped with the night classes. for the most part, all of these mentioned above belonged to an element that once had had a comfortable and well-recognized place in the community, yet had somehow been displaced. many of them were connected by blood with more fortunate parishioners, but economic pressure had scattered them throughout new neighbourhoods and suburbs. tradition still bound them to st. john's. with no fixed orbit, the rector cut at random through all of these strata, and into a fourth. not very far into it, for this apparently went down to limitless depths, the very contemplation of which made him dizzy. the parish house seemed to float precariously on its surface. owing partly to the old-fashioned ideas of dr. gilman, and partly to the conservatism of its vestry, the institutionalism of st. john's was by no means up to date. no settlement house, with day nurseries, was maintained in the slums. the parish house, built in the, early nineties, had its gymnasium hall and class and reading rooms, but was not what in these rapidly moving times would be called modern. presiding over its activities, and seconded by a pale, but earnest young man recently ordained, was hodder's first assistant, the reverend mr. mccrae. mccrae was another puzzle. he was fifty and gaunt, with a wide flat forehead and thinning, grey hair, and wore steel spectacles. he had a numerous family. his speech, of which he was sparing, bore strong traces of a caledonian accent. and this, with the addition of the fact that he was painstaking and methodical in his duties, and that his sermons were orthodox in the sense that they were extremely non-committal, was all that hodder knew about him for many months. he never doubted, however, the man's sincerity and loyalty. but mccrae had a peculiar effect on him, and as time went on, his conviction deepened that his assistant was watching him. the fact that this tacit criticism did not seem unkindly did not greatly alleviate the impatience that he felt from time to time. he had formed a higher estimate of mccrae's abilities than that generally prevailing throughout the parish; and in spite of, perhaps because of his attitude, was drawn toward the man. this attitude, as hodder analyzed it from the expressions he occasionally surprised on his assistant's face, was one of tolerance and experience, contemplating, with a faint amusement and a certain regret, the wasteful expenditure of youthful vitality. yet it involved more. mccrae looked as if he knew--knew many things that he deemed it necessary for the new rector to find out by experience. but he was a difficult man to talk to. if the truth be told, the more hodder became absorbed in these activities of the parish house, the greater grew his perplexity, the more acute his feeling of incompleteness; or rather, his sense that the principle was somehow fundamentally at fault. out of the waters of the proletariat they fished, assiduously and benignly, but at random, strange specimens! brought them, as it were, blinking to the light, and held them by sheer struggling. and sometimes, when they slipped away, dived after them. the young curate, mr. tompkinson, for the most part did the diving; or, in scriptural language, the searching after the lost sheep. the results accomplished seemed indeed, as mr. parr had remarked, strangely disproportionate to the efforts, for they laboured abundantly. the italian mothers appeared stolidly appreciative of the altruism of miss ramsay, who taught the kindergarten, in taking their charges off their hands for three hours of a morning, and the same might be said of the jews and germans and russians. the newsboys enjoyed the gymnasium and reading-rooms: some of them were drafted into the choir, yet the singing of te deums failed somehow to accomplish the miracle of regeneration. the boys, as a rule, were happier, no doubt; the new environments not wholly without results. but the rector was an idealist. he strove hard to become their friend, and that of the men; to win their confidence, and with a considerable measure of success. on more than one occasion he threw aside his clerical coat and put on boxing-gloves, and he gave a series of lectures, with lantern slides, collected during the six months he had once spent in europe. the irish-americans and the germans were the readiest to respond, and these were for the most part young workingmen and youths by no means destitute. when they were out of a place, he would often run across them in the reading-room or sitting among the lockers beside the gymnasium, and they would rise and talk to him cordially and even familiarly about their affairs. they liked and trusted him--on a tacit condition. there was a boundary he might not cross. and the existence of that boundary did not seem to trouble mccrae. one night as he stood with his assistant in the hall after the men had gone, hodder could contain himself no longer. "look here, mccrae," he broke out, "these men never come to church--or only a very few of them." "no more they do," mccrae agreed. "why don't they?" "ye've asked them, perhaps." "i've spoken to one or two of them," admitted the rector. "and what do they tell you?" hodder smiled. "they don't tell me anything. they dodge." "precisely," said mccrae. "we're not making christians of them," said hodder, beginning to walk up and down. "why is it?" "it's a big question." "it is a big question. it's the question of all questions, it seems to me. the function of the church, in my opinion, is to make christians." "try to teach them religion," said mccrae--he almost pronounced it releegion--"and see what happens. ye'll have no classes at all. they only come, the best of them, because ye let them alone that way, and they get a little decency and society help. it's somewhat to keep them out of the dance-halls and saloons maybe." "it's not enough," the rector asserted. "you've had a great deal of experience with them. and i want to know why, in your view, more of them don't come into the church." "would ye put jimmy flanagan and otto bauer and tony baldassaro in mr. parr's pew?" mccrae inquired, with a slight flavour of irony that was not ill-natured. "or perhaps mrs. larrabbee would make room for them?" "i've considered that, of course," replied hodder, thoughtfully, though he was a little surprised that mccrae should have mentioned it. "you think their reasons are social, then,--that they feel the gap. i feel it myself most strongly. and yet none of these men are socialists. if they were, they wouldn't come here to the parish house." "they're not socialists," agreed mccrae. "but there is room in the back and sides of the church, and there is the early service and the sunday night service, when the pews are free. why don't they come to these?" "religion doesn't appeal to them." "why not?" "ye've asked me a riddle. all i know is that the minute ye begin to preach, off they go and never come back." hodder, with unconscious fixity, looked into his assistant's honest face. he had an exasperating notion that mccrae might have said more, if he would. "haven't you a theory?" "try yourself," said mccrae. his manner was abrupt, yet oddly enough, not ungracious. "don't think i'm criticizing," said the rector, quickly. "i know well ye're not." "i've been trying to learn. it seems to me that we are only accomplishing half our task, and i know that st. john's is not unique in this respect. i've been talking to andrews, of trinity, about their poor." "does he give you a remedy?" "no," hodder said. "he can't see any more than i can why christianity doesn't appeal any longer. the fathers and mothers of these people went to church, in the old country and in this. of course he sees, as you and i do, that society has settled into layers, and that the layers won't mix. and he seems to agree with me that there is a good deal of energy exerted for a comparatively small return." "i understand that's what mr. parr says." these references to mr. parr disturbed hodder. he had sometimes wondered, when he had been compelled to speak about his visits to the financier, how mccrae regarded them. he was sure that mccrae did regard them. "mr. parr is willing to be even more generous than he has been," hodder said. "the point is, whether it's wise to enlarge our scope on the present plan. what do you think?" "ye can reach more," mccrae spoke without enthusiasm. "what's the use of reaching them, only to touch them? in addition to being helped materially and socially, and kept away from the dance-halls and saloons, they ought to be fired by the gospels, to be remade. they should be going out into the highways and byways to bring others into the church." the scotchman's face changed a little. for an instant his eyes lighted up, whether in sympathy or commiseration or both, hodder could not tell. "i'm with ye, mr. hodder, if ye'll show me the way. but oughtn't we to begin at both ends?" "at both ends?" hodder repeated. "surely. with the people in the pews? oughtn't we to be firing them, too?" "yes," said the rector. "you're right." he turned away, to feel mccrae's hand on his sleeve. "maybe it will come, mr. hodder," he said. "there's no telling when the light will strike in." it was the nearest to optimism he had ever known his assistant to approach. "mccrae," he asked, "have you ever tried to do anything with dalton street?" "dalton street?" the real mccrae, whom he had seemed to see emerging, retired abruptly, presenting his former baffling and noncommittal exterior. "yes," hodder forced himself to go on, and it came to him that he had repeated virtually the same words to mr. parr, "it is at our very doors, a continual reproach. there is real poverty in those rooming houses, and i have never seen vice so defiant and shameless." "it's a shifty place, that," mccrae replied. "they're in it one day and gone the next, a sort of catch-basin for all the rubbish of the city. i can recall when decent people lived there, and now it's all light housekeeping and dives and what not." "but that doesn't relieve us of responsibility," hodder observed. "i'm not denying it. i think ye'll find there's very little to get hold of." once more, he had the air of stopping short, of being able to say more. hodder refrained from pressing him. dalton street continued to haunt him. and often at nightfall, as he hurried back to his bright rooms in the parish house from some of the many errands that absorbed his time, he had a feeling of self-accusation as he avoided women wearily treading the pavements, or girls and children plodding homeward through the wet, wintry streets. some glanced at him with heavy eyes, others passed sullenly, with bent heads. at such moments his sense of helplessness was overpowering. he could not follow them to the dreary dwellings where they lodged. eldon parr had said that poverty was inevitable. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xiii. winterbourne xiv. a saturday afternoon xv. the crucible xvi. amid the encircling gloom chapter xiii winterbourne i hodder fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, awaking during the night at occasional intervals to recall chimerical dreams in which the events of the day before were reflected, but caricatured and distorted. alison parr was talking to the woman in the flat, and both were changed, and yet he identified both: and on another occasion he saw a familiar figure surrounded by romping, ragged children--a figure which turned out to be eldon parr's! finally he was aroused by what seemed a summons from the unknown--the prolonged morning whistle of the shoe factory. for a while he lay as one benumbed, and the gradual realization that ensued might be likened to the straining of stiffened wounds. little by little he reconstructed, until the process became unbearable, and then rose from his bed with one object in mind,--to go to horace bentley. at first--he seized upon the excuse that mr. bentley would wish to hear the verdict of dr. jarvis, but immediately abandoned it as dishonest, acknowledging the true reason, that in all the--world the presence of this one man alone might assuage in some degree the terror in his soul. for the first time in his life, since childhood, he knew a sense of utter dependence upon another human being. he felt no shame, would make no explanation for his early visit. he turned up tower, deliberately avoiding dalton street in its lower part, reached mr. bentley's door. the wrinkled, hospitable old darky actually seemed to radiate something of the personality with which he had so long been associated, and hodder was conscious of a surge of relief, a return of confidence at sight of him. yes, mr. bentley was at home, in the dining room. the rector said he would wait, and not disturb him. "he done tole me to bring you out, sah, if you come," said sam. "he expects me?" exclaimed hodder, with a shock of surprise. "that's what he done tole me, sah, to ax you kindly for to step out when you come." the sun was beginning to penetrate into the little back yard, where the flowers were still glistening with the drops of their morning bath; and mr. bentley sat by the window reading his newspaper, his spectacles on his nose, and a great grey cat rubbing herself against his legs. he rose with alacrity. "good morning, sir," he said, and his welcome implied that early morning visits were the most common and natural of occurrences. "sam, a plate for mr. hodder. i was just hoping you would come and tell me what dr. jarvis had said about the case." but hodder was not deceived. he believed that mr. bentley understood perfectly why he had come, and the knowledge of the old gentleman's comprehension curiously added to his sense of refuge. he found himself seated once more at the mahogany table, permitting sam to fill his cup with coffee. "jarvis has given a favourable report, and he is coming this morning himself, in an automobile, to take the boy out to the hospital." "that is like jarvis," was mr. bentley's comment. "we will go there, together, after breakfast, if convenient for you," he added. "i hoped you would," replied the rector. "and i was going to ask you a favour. i have a check, given me by a young lady to use at my discretion, and it occurred to me that garvin might be willing to accept some proposal from you." he thought of nan ferguson, and of the hope he lead expressed of finding some one in dalton street. "i have been considering the matter," mr. bentley said. "i have a friend who lives on the trolley line a little beyond the hospital, a widow. it is like the country there, you know, and i think mrs. bledsoe could be induced to take the garvins. and then something can be arranged for him. i will find an opportunity to speak to him this morning." hodder sipped his coffee, and looked out at the morning-glories opening to the sun. "mrs. garvin was alone last night. he had gone out shortly after we left, and had not waited for the doctor. she was greatly worried." hodder found himself discussing these matters on which, an hour before, he had feared to permit his mind to dwell. and presently, not without feeling, but in a manner eliminating all account of his personal emotions, he was relating that climactic episode of the woman at the piano. the old gentleman listened intently, and in silence. "yes," he said, when the rector had finished, "that is my observation. most of them are driven to the life, and held in it, of course, by a remorseless civilization. individuals may be culpable, mr. hodder--are culpable. but we cannot put the whole responsibility on individuals." "no," hodder assented, "i can see that now." he paused a moment, and as his mind dwelt upon the scene and he saw again the woman standing before him in bravado, the whole terrible meaning of her life and end flashed through him as one poignant sensation. her dauntless determination to accept the consequence of her acts, her willingness to look her future in the face, cried out to him in challenge. "she refused unconditionally," he said. mr. bentley seemed to read his thought, divine his appeal. "we must wait," he answered. "do you think?--" hodder began, and stopped abruptly. "i remember another case, somewhat similar," said mr. bentley. "this woman, too, had the spirit you describe--we could do nothing with her. we kept an eye on her--or rather sally grover did--she deserves credit --and finally an occasion presented itself." "and the woman you speak of was--rehabilitated?" hodder asked. he avoided the word "saved." "yes, sir. it was one of the fortunate cases. there are others which are not so fortunate." hodder nodded. "we are beginning to recognize that we are dealing, in, many instances, with a disease," mr. bentley went on. "i am far from saying that it cannot be cured, but sometimes we are forced to admit that the cure is not within our power, mr. hodder." two thoughts struck the rector simultaneously, the: revelation of what might be called a modern enlightenment in one of mr. bentley's age, an indication of uninterrupted growth, of the sense of continued youth which had impressed him from the beginning; and, secondly, an intimation from the use of the plural pronoun we, of an association of workers (informal, undoubtedly) behind mr. bentley. while he was engaged in these speculations the door opened. "heah's miss sally, marse ho'ace," said sam. "good morning, sally," said mr. bentley, rising from the table with his customary courtesy, "i'm glad you came in. let me introduce mr. hodder, of st. john's." miss grover had capability written all over her. she was a young woman of thirty, slim to spareness, simply dressed in a shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt; alert, so distinctly american in type as to give a suggestion of the indian. her quick, deep-set eyes searched hodder's face as she jerked his hand; but her greeting was cordial, and, matter-of-fact. she stimulated curiosity. "well, sally, what's the news?" mr. bentley asked. "gratz, the cabinet-maker, was on the rampage again, mr. bentley. his wife was here yesterday when i got home from work, and i went over with her. he was in a beastly state, and all the niggers and children in the neighbourhood, including his own, around the shop. fusel oil, labelled whiskey," she explained, succinctly. "what did you do?" "took the bottle away from him," said miss grower. the simplicity of this method, holder thought, was undeniable. "stayed there until he came to. then i reckon i scared him some." "how?" mr. bentley smiled. "i told him he'd have to see you. he'd rather serve three months than do that--said so. i reckon he would, too," she declared grimly. "he's better than he was last year, i think." she thrust her hand in the pocket of her skirt and produced some bills and silver, which she counted. "here's three thirty-five from sue brady. i told her she hadn't any business bothering you, but she swears she'd spend it." "that was wrong, sally." miss grower tossed her head. "oh, she knew i'd take it, well enough." "i imagine she did," mr. bentley replied, and his eyes twinkled. he rose and led the way into the library, where he opened his desk, produced a ledger, and wrote down the amount in a fine hand. "susan brady, three dollars and thirty-five cents. i'll put it in the savings bank to-day. that makes twenty-two dollars and forty cents for sue. she's growing rich." "some man'll get it," said sally. "sally," said mr. bentley, turning in his chair, "mr. holder's been telling me about a rather unusual woman in that apartment house just above fourteenth street, on the south side of dalton." "i think i know her--by sight," sally corrected herself. she appealed. to holder. "red hair, and lots of it--i suppose a man would call it auburn. she must have been something of a beauty, once." the rector assented, in some astonishment. "couldn't do anything with her, could you? i reckoned not. i've noticed her up and down dalton street at night." holder was no longer deceived by her matter-of-fact tone. "i'll tell you what, mr. holder," she went on, energetically, "there's not a particle of use running after those people, and the sooner you find it out the less worry and trouble you give yourself." "mr. holder didn't run after her, sally," said mr. bentley, in gentle reproof. holder smiled. "well," said miss grower, "i've had my eye on her. she has a history --most of 'em have. but this one's out of the common. when they're brazen like that, and have had good looks, you can nearly always tell. you've. got to wait for something to happen, and trust to luck to be on the spot, or near it. it's a toss-up, of course. one thing is sure, you can't make friends with that kind if they get a notion you're up to anything." "sally, you must remember--" mr. bentley began. her tone became modified. mr. bentley was apparently the only human of whom she stood in awe. "all i meant was," she said, addressing the rector, "that you've got to run across 'em in some natural way." "i understood perfectly, and i agree with you," holder replied. "i have come, quite recently, to the same conclusion myself." she gave him a penetrating glance, and he had to admit, inwardly, that a certain satisfaction followed miss grower's approval. "mercy, i have to be going," she exclaimed, glancing at the black marble clock on the mantel. "we've got a lot of invoices to put through to-day. see you again, mr. holder." she jerked his hand once more. "good morning, mr. bentley." "good morning, sally." mr. bentley rose, and took his hat and gold-headed stick from the rack in the hall. "you mustn't mind sally," he said, when they had reached the sidewalk. "sometimes her brusque manner is not understood. but she is a very extraordinary woman." "i can see that," the rector assented quickly, and with a heartiness that dispelled all doubt of his liking for miss grower. once more many questions rose to his lips, which he suppressed, since mr. bentley volunteered no information. hodder became, in fact, so lost in speculation concerning mr. bentley's establishment as to forget the errand on which--they were bound. and sally grower's words, apropos of the woman in the flat, seemed but an energetic driving home of the severe lessons of his recent experiences. and how blind he had been, he reflected, not to have seen the thing for himself! not to have realized the essential artificiality of his former method of approach! and then it struck him that sally grower herself must have had a history. mr. bentley, too, was preoccupied. presently, in the midst of these thoughts, hodder's eyes were arrested by a crowd barring the sidewalk on the block ahead; no unusual sight in that neighbourhood, and yet one which aroused in him sensations of weakness and nausea. thus were the hidden vice and suffering of these sinister places occasionally brought to light, exposed to the curious and morbid stares of those whose own turn might come on the morrow. it was only by degrees he comprehended that the people were gathered in front of the house to which they were bound. an ambulance was seen to drive away: it turned into the aide street in front of them. "a city ambulance!" the rector exclaimed. mr. bentley did not reply. the murmuring group which overflowed the uneven brick pavement to the asphalt was characteristic: women in calico, drudges, women in wrappers, with sleepy, awestricken faces; idlers, men and boys who had run out of the saloons, whose comments were more audible and caustic, and a fringe of children ceaselessly moving on the outskirts. the crowd parted at their approach, and they reached the gate, where a burly policeman, his helmet in his hand, was standing in the morning sunlight mopping his face with a red handkerchief. he greeted mr. bentley respectfully, by name, and made way for them to pass in. "what is the trouble, ryan?" mr. bentley asked. "suicide, sir," the policeman replied. "jumped off the bridge this morning. a tug picked him up, but he never came to--the strength wasn't in him. sure it's all wore out he was. there was a letter on him, with the home number, so they knew where to fetch him. it's a sad case, sir, with the woman in there, and the child gone to the hospital not an hour ago." "you mean garvin?" mr. bentley demanded. "it's him i mean, sir." "we'd like to go in," said mr. bentley. "we came to see them." "you're welcome, air, and the minister too. it's only them i'm holdin' back," and the policeman shook his stick at the people. mr. bentley walked up the steps, and took off his hat as he went through the battered doorway. hodder followed, with a sense of curious faces staring at them from the thresholds as they passed; they reached the upper passage, and the room, and paused: the shutters were closed, the little couch where the child had been was empty. on the bed lay a form --covered with a sheet, and beside it a woman kneeling, shaken by sobs, ceaselessly calling a name . . . . a stout figure, hitherto unperceived, rose from a corner and came silently toward them--mrs. breitmann. she beckoned to them, and they followed her into a room on the same floor, where she told them what she knew, heedless of the tears coursing ceaselessly down her cheeks. it seemed that mrs. garvin had had a premonition which she had not wholly confided to the rector. she had believed her husband never would come back; and early in the morning, in spite of all that mrs. breitmann could do, had insisted at intervals upon running downstairs and scanning the street. at half past seven dr. jarvis had come and himself carried down the child and put him in the back of his automobile. the doctor had had a nurse with him, and had begged the mother to accompany them to the hospital, saying that he would send her back. but she would not be persuaded to leave the house. the doctor could not wait, and had finally gone off with little. dicky, leaving a powder with mrs. breitmann for the mother. then she had become uncontrollable. "ach, it was terrible!" said the kind woman. "she was crazy, yes--she was not in her mind. i make a little coffee, but she will not touch it. all those things about her home she would talk of, and how good he was, and how she lofed him more again than the child. "und then the wheels in the street, and she makes a cry and runs to see --i cannot hold her . . . ." "it would be well not to disturb her for a while," said mr. bentley, seating himself on one of the dilapidated chairs which formed apart of the german woman's meagre furniture. "i will remain here if you, mr. hodder, will make the necessary arrangements for the funeral. have you any objections, sir?" "not at all," replied the rector, and left the house, the occupants of which had already returned to the daily round of their lives: the rattle of dishes and the noise of voices were heard in the 'ci devant' parlour, and on the steps he met the little waif with the pitcher of beer; in the street the boys who had gathered around the ambulance were playing baseball. hodder glanced up, involuntarily, at the window of the woman he had visited the night before, but it was empty. he hurried along the littered sidewalks to the drug store, where he telephoned an undertaker; and then, as an afterthought, telephoned the hospital. the boy had arrived, and was seemingly no worse for the journey. all this hodder performed mechanically. not until he was returning--not, indeed, until he entered the house did the whiff of its degrading, heated odours bring home to him the tragedy which it held, and he grasped the banister on the stairs. the thought that shook him now was of the cumulative misery of the city, of the world, of which this history on which he had stumbled was but one insignificant incident. but he went on into mrs. breitmann's room, and saw mr. bentley still seated where he had left him. the old gentleman looked up at him. "mrs. breitmann and i are agreed, mr. hodder, that mrs. garvin ought not to remain in there. what do you think?" "by all means, no," said the rector. the german woman burst into a soliloquy of sympathy that became incoherent. "she will not leave him,--nein--she will not come. . . ." they went, the three of them, to the doorway of the death chamber and stood gazing at the huddled figure of the woman by the bedside. she had ceased to cry out: she was as one grown numb under torture; occasionally a convulsive shudder shook her. but when mrs. breitmann touched her, spoke to her, her grief awoke again in all its violence, and it was more by force than persuasion that she was finally removed. mrs. breitmann held one arm, mr. bentley another, and between them they fairly carried her out, for she was frail indeed. as for hodder, something held him back--some dread that he could not at once define. and while he groped for it, he stood staring at the man on the bed, for the hand of love had drawn back the sheet from the face. the battle was over of this poor weakling against the world; the torments of haunting fear and hate, of drink and despair had triumphed. the sight of the little group of toys brought up the image of the home in alder street as the wife had pictured it. was it possible that this man, who had gone alone to the bridge in the night, had once been happy, content with life, grateful for it, possessed of a simple trust in his fellow-men--in eldon parr? once more, unsummoned, came the memory of that evening of rain and thunder in the boy's room at the top of the great horse in park street. he had pitied eldon parr then. did he now? he crossed the room, on tiptoe, as though he feared to wake once more this poor wretch to his misery and hate, gently he covered again the face with the sheet. suddenly he knew the reason of his dread,--he had to face the woman! he was a minister of christ, it was his duty to speak to her, as he had spoken to others in the hour of sorrow and death, of the justice and goodness of the god to whom she had prayed in the church. what should he say, now? in an agony of spirit, he sat down on the little couch beside the window and buried his face in his hands. the sight of poor garvin's white and wasted features, the terrible contrast between this miserable tenement and the palace with its unseen pictures and porcelains and tapestries, brought home to him with indescribable poignancy his own predicament. he was going to ask this woman to be comforted by faith and trust in the god of the man who had driven her husband to death! he beheld eldon parr in his pew complacently worshipping that god, who had rewarded him with riches and success--beheld himself as another man in his white surplice acquiescing in that god, preaching vainly . . . . at last he got to his feet, went out of the room, reached the doorway of that other room and looked in. mr. bentley sat there; and the woman, whose tears had ceased to flow, was looking up into his face. ii "the office ensuing," says the book of common prayer, meaning the burial of the dead, "is not to be used for any unbaptized adult, any who die excommunicate, or who have laid violent hands on themselves." hodder had bought, with a part of nan ferguson's money, a tiny plot in a remote corner of winterbourne cemetery. and thither, the next morning, the body of richard garvin was taken. a few mourners had stolen into the house and up the threadbare stairs into the miserable little back room, somehow dignified as it had never been before, and laid their gifts upon the coffin. an odd and pitiful assortment they were--mourners and gifts: men and women whose only bond with the man in life had been the bond of misery; who had seen him as he had fared forth morning after morning in the hopeless search for work, and slunk home night after night bitter and dejected; many of whom had listened, jeeringly perhaps, to his grievance against the world, though it were in some sort their own. death, for them, had ennobled him. the little girl whom hodder had met with the pitcher of beer came tiptoeing with a wilted bunch of pansies, picked heaven knows where; stolen, maybe, from one of the gardens of the west end. carnations, lilies of the valley, geraniums even--such were the offerings scattered loosely on the lid until a woman came with a mass of white roses that filled the room with their fragrance,--a woman with burnished red hair. hodder started as he recognized her; her gaze was a strange mixture of effrontery and --something else; sorrow did not quite express it. the very lavishness of her gift brought to him irresistibly the reminder of another offering. . . . . she was speaking. "i don't blame him for what he done--i'd have done it, too, if i'd been him. but say, i felt kind of bad when i heard it, knowing about the kid, and all. i had to bring something--" instinctively hodder surmised that she was in doubt as to the acceptance of her flowers. he took them from her hand, and laid them at the foot of the coffin. "thank you," he said, simply. she stared at him a moment with the perplexity she had shown at times on the night he visited her, and went out. . . funerals, if they might be dignified by this name, were not infrequent occurrences in dalton street, and why this one should have been looked upon as of sufficient importance to collect a group of onlookers at the gate it is difficult to say. perhaps it was because of the seeming interest in it of the higher powers--for suicide and consequent widows and orphans were not unknown there. this widow and this orphan were to be miraculously rescued, were to know dalton street no more. the rector of a fashionable church, of all beings, was the agent in the miracle. thus the occasion was tinged with awe. as for mr. bentley, his was a familiar figure, and had been remarked in dalton street funerals before. they started, the three mourners, on the long drive to the cemetery, through unfrequented streets lined with mediocre dwellings, interspersed with groceries and saloons--short cuts known only to hearse drivers: they traversed, for some distance, that very wilderness road where mr. bentley's old-fashioned mansion once had stood on its long green slope, framed by ancient trees; the wilderness road, now paved with hot blocks of granite over which the carriage rattled; spread with car tracks, bordered by heterogeneous buildings of all characters and descriptions, bakeries and breweries, slaughter houses and markets, tumble-down shanties, weedy corner lots and "refreshment-houses" that announced "lager beer, wines and liquors." at last they came to a region which was neither country nor city, where the road-houses were still in evidence, where the glass roofs of greenhouses caught the burning rays of the sun, where yards filled with marble blocks and half-finished tombstones appeared, and then they turned into the gates of winterbourne. like the city itself, there was a fashionable district in winterbourne: unlike the city, this district remained stationary. there was no soot here, and if there had been, the dead would not have minded it. they passed the prestons and the parrs; the lots grew smaller, the tombstones less pretentious; and finally they came to an open grave on a slope where the trees were still young, and where three men of the cemetery force lifted the coffin from the hearse--richard garvin's pallbearers. john hodder might not read the service, but there was none to tell him that the gospel of john was not written for this man. he stood an the grass beside the grave, and a breeze from across the great river near by stirred the maple leaves above his head. "i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." nor was there any canon to forbid the words of paul: "it is sown in corruption; it is raised in in corruption; it is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body." they laid the flowers on the fresh earth, even the white roses, and then they drove back to the city. chapter xiv a saturday afternoon i the sight of a certain old gentleman as he walked along the shady side of twenty-second street about two o'clock on a broiling saturday afternoon in midsummer was one not easily to be forgotten. a younger man, tall and vigorous, clad in a thin suit of blue serge, walked by his side. they were followed by a shouting troop of small boys who overran the pavements, and some of whom were armed with baseball bats. the big trolley car was hailed by a dozen dirty little hands. even the grumpy passengers were disarmed. the conductor took mr. bentley's bill deprecatingly, as much as to say that the newly organized traction company--just out of the receivers' hands--were the moloch, not he, and rang off the fares under protest. and mr. bentley, as had been his custom for years, sat down and took off his hat, and smiled so benignly at those around him that they immediately began to talk, to him. it was always irresistible, this desire to talk to mr. bentley. if you had left your office irritated and out of sorts, your nerves worn to an edge by the uninterrupted heat, you invariably got off at your corner feeling better. it was phil goodrich who had said that horace bentley had only to get on a tower street car to turn it into a church. and if he had chosen to establish that 'dernier cri' of modern civilization where ladies go who have 'welt-schmerz' without knowing why, --a sanitarium, he might have gained back again all the money he had lost in giving his grantham stock to eldon parr. like the pied piper of hamelin, he could have emptied dalton street of its children. in the first place, there was the irresistible inducement to any boy to ride several miles on a trolley without having this right challenged by the irate guardian of the vehicle, without being summarily requested to alight at twenty-five miles an hour: in the second place, there was the soda water and sweet biscuit partaken of after the baseball game in that pavilion, more imposing in one's eyes than the taj mahal. mr. bentley would willingly have taken all dalton street. he had his own 'welt-schmerz', though he did not go to a sanitarium to cure it; he was forced to set an age limit of ten, and then establish a high court of appeal; for there were boys whose biographies, if they are ever written, will be as hazy as those of certain world-wide celebrities who might be mentioned concerning the date and exact spot of the entrance of their heroes into the light. the solemn protestations, the tears, the recrimination even, brought pangs to the old gentleman's heart, for with all the will in the world he had been forced in the nature of things, to set a limit. this limit had recently been increased by the unlooked-for appearance on these excursions of the tall man in the blue serge suit, whose knowledge of the national game and of other matters of vital import to youth was gratifying if sometimes disconcerting; who towered, an unruffled gulliver, over their lilliputian controversies, in which bats were waved and fists brought into play and language used on the meaning of which the century dictionary is silent. on one former occasion, indeed, mr. bentley had found moral suasion, affection, and veneration of no avail, and had had to invoke the friendly aid of a park policeman to quell one of these incipient riots. to mr. bentley baseball was as a sealed book. the tall man's justice, not always worthy of the traditions of solomon, had in it an element of force. to be lifted off the ground by strong arms at the moment you are about to dust the home plate with your adversary is humiliating, but effective. it gradually became apparent that a decision was a decision. and one saturday this inexplicable person carried in his hand a mysterious package which, when opened, revealed two pairs of diminutive boxing gloves. they instantly became popular. by the time they had made the accidental and somewhat astounding discovery that he was a parson, they were willing to overlook it; in view, perhaps, of his compensating accomplishments. instead of advising them to turn the other cheek, he taught them uppercuts, feints, and jabs, and on the proof of this unexpected acquaintance with a profession all of them openly admired, the last vestige of reserve disappeared. he was accepted without qualifications. ii although the field to which they resorted was not in the most frequented section of the park, pedestrians often passed that way, and sometimes lingered. thus, towards the close of a certain saturday in july, a young woman walked out of the wood path and stood awhile gazing intently at the active figure striding among the diminutive, darting forms. presently, with an amused expression, she turned her head to discover mr. bentley, who sat on a green bench under a tree, his hat and stick on the grass beside him. she was unaware that he had been looking at her. "aren't they having a good time!" she said, and the genuine thrill in her voice betrayed a rare and unmistakable pleasure. "ah," replied mr. bentley, smiling back at her, "you like to see them, too. most persons do. children are not meant for the city, my dear young lady, their natural home is in the woods and fields, and these little fellows are a proof of it. when they come out here, they run wild. you perceive," he added with a twinkle, as an expletive of unquestionable vigour was hurled across the diamond, "they are not always so polite as they might be." the young woman smiled again, but the look she gave him was a puzzled one. and then, quite naturally, she sank, down on the grass, on the other side of mr. bentley's hat, watching the game for a while in silence. "what a tyrant!" she exclaimed. another uproar had been quelled, and two vigorously protesting runners sent back to their former bases. "oh, a benevolent tyrant," mr. bentley corrected her. "mr. hodder has the gift of managing boys,--he understands them. and they require a strong hand. his generation has had the training which mine lacked. in my day, at college, we worked off our surplus energy on the unfortunate professors, and we carried away chapel bells and fought with the townspeople." it required some effort, she found, to imagine this benevolent looking old gentleman assaulting professors. "nowadays they play baseball and football, and box!" he pointed to the boxing gloves on the grass. "mr. hodder has taught them to settle their differences in that way; it is much more sensible." she picked off the white clover-tops. "so that is mr. hodder, of st. john's," she said. "ah, you know him, then?" "i've met him," she answered quietly. "are these children connected with his church?" "they are little waifs from dalton street and that vicinity," said mr. bentley. "very few of them, i should imagine, have ever been inside of a church." she seemed surprised. "but--is it his habit to bring them out here?" the old gentleman beamed on her, perhaps with the hint of a smile at her curiosity. "he has found time for it, this summer. it is very good of him." she refrained from comment on this remark, falling into reflection, leaning back, with one hand outstretched, on the grass. the game went on vociferously, the shrill lithe voices piercing the silence of the summer afternoon. mr. bentley's eyes continued to rest on her. "tell me," he inquired, after a while, "are you not alison parr?" she glanced up at him, startled. "yes." "i thought so, although i have not seen you since you were a little girl. i knew your mother very well indeed, but it is too much to expect you to remember me, after all this time. no doubt you have forgotten my name. i am mr. bentley." "mr. bentley!" she cried, sitting upright and gazing at him. "how stupid of me not to have known you! you couldn't have been any one else." it was the old gentleman's turn to start. she rose impulsively and sat down on the bench beside him, and his hand trembled as he laid it in hers. "yes, my dear, i am still alive. but surely you cannot remember me, alison?" the old look of almost stubborn honesty he recalled in the child came into her eyes. "i do--and i don't," she said, perplexed. "it seemed to me as if i ought to have recognized you when i came up, and yet i hadn't the slightest notion who you were. i knew you were somebody." he shook his head, but did not speak. "but you have always been a fact in my existence--that is what i want to say," she went on. "it must be possible to remember a person and not recognize him, that is what i feel. i can remember you coming to our house in ransome street, and how i looked forward to your visits. and you used to have little candy beans in your pockets," she cried. "have you now?" his eyes were a little dimmed as he reached, smilingly, into the skirts of a somewhat shiny but scrupulously brushed coat and produced a brightly colored handful. she took one, and put it in her mouth: "oh," she said, "how good they were--isn't it strange how a taste brings back events? i can remember it all as if it were yesterday, and how i used to sit on your knee, and mother would tell me not to bother you." "and now--you are grown," he said. "something more than grown," she smiled. "i was thirty-one in may. tell me," she asked, choosing another of the beans which he still absently held, "do you get them for these?" and she nodded toward the dalton street waifs. "yes," he said, "they are children, too." "i can remember," she said, after a pause, "i can remember my mother speaking of you to me the year she died. i was almost grown, then. it was after we had moved up to park street, and her health had already begun to fail. that made an impression on me, but i have forgotten what she said--it was apropos of some recollection. no--it was a photograph --she was going over some old things." alison ceased speaking abruptly, for the pain in mr. bentley's remarkable grey eyes had not escaped her. what was it about him? why could she not recall? long-forgotten, shadowy episodes of the past tormented her, flitted provokingly through her mind--ungrasped: words dropped in her presence which had made their impression, but the gist of which was gone. why had mr. bentley ceased coming to the house? so strongly did she feel his presence now that the thought occurred to her,--perhaps her mother had not wished her to forget him! "i did not suspect," she heard him saying, "that you would go out into the world and create the beautiful gardens of which i have heard. but you had no lack of spirit in those days, too." "i was a most disagreeable child, perverse,--cantankerous--i can hear my mother saying it! as for the gardens--they have given me something to do, they have kept me out of mischief. i suppose i ought to be thankful, but i still have the rebellious streak when i see what others have done, what others are doing, and i sometimes wonder what right i ever had to think that i might create something worth while." he glanced at her quickly as she sat with bent head. "others put a higher value on what you have done." "oh, they don't know--" she exclaimed. if something were revealed to him by her tone, he did not betray it, but went on cheerfully. "you have been away a long time, alison. it must interest you to come back, and see the changes in our western civilization. we are moving very rapidly--in certain directions," he corrected himself. she appraised his qualification. "in certain directions,--yes. but they are little better in the east. i have scarcely been back," she added, "since i went to paris to study. i have often thought i should like to return and stay awhile, only --i never seemed to get time. now i am going over a garden for my father which was one of my first efforts, and which has always reproached me." "and you do not mind the heat?" he asked. "those who go east to live return to find our summers oppressive." "oh, i'm a salamander, i think," alison laughed. thus they sat chatting, interrupted once or twice by urchins too small to join in the game, who came running to mr. bentley and stood staring at alison as at a being beyond the borders of experience: and she would smile at them quite as shyly,--children being beyond her own. her imagination was as keen, as unspoiled as a child's, and was stimulated by a sense of adventure, of the mystery which hung about this fine old gentleman who betrayed such sentiment for a mother whom she had loved and admired and still secretly mourned. here, if there had been no other, was a compelling bond of sympathy . . . . the shadows grew longer, the game broke up. and hodder, surrounded by an argumentative group keeping pace with him, came toward them from the field; alison watched him curiously as he turned this way and that to answer the insistent questions with which he was pelted, and once she saw him stride rapidly after a dodging delinquent and seize him by the collar amidst piercing yells of approval, and derision for the rebel. "it's remarkable how he gets along with them," said mr. bentley, smiling at the scene. "most of them have never known what discipline is." the chorus approached. and hodder, recognizing her, dropped the collar he held: a young woman conversing with mr. bentley--was no unusual sight, --he had made no speculations as to this one's identity. he left the boys, and drew near. "you know miss parr, i believe," the old gentleman said. hodder took her hand. he had often tried to imagine his feelings if he should meet her again: what he should do and say,--what would be their footing. and now he had no time to prepare . . . . "it is so strange," she said, with that note of wonder at life in her voice which he recalled so well, "that i should have come across mr. bentley here after so many years. how many years, mr. bentley?" "ah, my dear," he protested, "my measurements would not be yours." "it is better for both of us not to say, alison declared, laughingly. "you knew mr. bentley?" asked hodder, astonished. "he was a very dear friend of my mother's, although i used to appropriate him when he came to our house. it was when we lived in ransome street, ages ago. but i don't think mr. bentley has grown a bit older." "he is one of the few who have found the secret of youth," said the rector. but the old gentleman had moved off into the path, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was carried off by the swarm which clustered around him, two smaller ones tugging at his hand, and all intent upon arriving at the soda-water pavilion near the entrance. they had followed him with their eyes, and they saw him turn around and smile at them, helplessly. alison presented a perplexed face to hodder. "does he bring them here,--or you?" she asked. "i--" he hesitated. "mr. bentley has done this every saturday afternoon for years," he said, "i am merely one of them." she looked at him quickly. they had started to follow, in the cool path beneath the forest trees. restraint fell upon them, brought about by the memory of the intimacy of their former meeting, further complicated on hodder's part by his new attitude toward her father, and his finding her in the company, of all persons, of mr. bentley. unuttered queries pressed on the minds of both. "tell me about mr. bentley," she said. hodder hesitated. "i scarcely know where to begin," he replied, yet smiling at the characteristic abruptness of her question. the modulations of her voice revealed again the searching, inquisitive spirit within her, and his responded to the intensity of the interest in mr. bentley. "begin anywhere." "anywhere?" he repeated, seeking to gain time. "yes--anywhere," she said impatiently. "well, he lives in dalton street, if you recall what kind of a place that is" (she nodded), "and he is known from one end of it to the other." "i see what he is--he is the most extraordinary person i have ever known. just to talk to him gives one such a queer feeling of--of dissatisfaction with one's self, and seeing him once more seems to have half revived in me a whole series of dead memories. and i have been trying to think, but it is all so tantalizing. there is some mystery about him," she insisted. "he disappeared suddenly, and my mother never mentioned him but once afterward, but other persons have spoken of him since--i forget who. he was so well known, and he used to go to st. john's." "yes, he used to go to st. john's." "what happened to him--do you know? the reason he stopped coming to our house was some misunderstanding with my father, of course. i am positive my mother never changed her feelings toward him." "i can only tell you what he has told me, which is all i know --authoritatively," hodder replied. how could he say to her that her father had ruined mr. bentley? indeed, with a woman of her fearlessness and honesty--and above all, her intuition,--he felt the cruelty of his position keenly. hodder did not relish half truths; and he felt that, however scant his intercourse in the future might be with alison parr, he would have liked to have kept it on that basis of frankness in which it had begun. but the exact stage of disillusionment she had reached in regard to eldon parr was unknown to him, and he feared that a further revelation might possibly sever the already precarious tie between father and daughter. he recounted, therefore, that mr. bentley had failed; and how he had before that given much of his estate away in charity, how he had been unable to keep his pew in st. john's, and had retired to the house in dalton street. for some moments after he had finished alison did not reply. "what is his number in dalton street?" she asked. hodder informed her. he could not read in her face whether she suspected that he could have told her more. and in spite of an inordinate, human joy in being again in her presence, his desire to hide from her that which had taken place within him, and the inability he felt to read his future, were instinctive: the more so because of the very spontaneity they had achieved at their first meeting. as a man, he shrank from confessing to her, however indirectly, the fact that she herself was so vital an element in his disillusionment. for the conversation in the garden had been the immediate cause of the inner ferment ending in his resolution to go away, and had directed him, by logical steps, to the encounter in the church with mrs. garvin. "you have not yet finished the garden?" he asked. "i imagined you back in the east by this time." "oh, i am procrastinating," she replied. "it is a fit of sheer laziness. i ought to be elsewhere, but i was born without a conscience. if i had one i should try to quiet it by reminding it that i am fulfilling a long-delayed promise--i am making a garden for mrs. larrabbee. you know her, of course, since she is a member of your congregation." "yes, i know her," he assented. and his mind was suddenly filled with vivid colour,--cobalt seas, and arsenic-green spruces with purple cones, cardinal-striped awnings that rattled in the salt breeze, and he saw once more the panorama of the life which had passed from him and the woman in the midst of it. and his overwhelming thought was of relief that he had somehow escaped. in spite of his unhappiness now, he would not have gone back. he realized for the first time that he had been nearer annihilation then than to-day. "grace isn't here to bother me with the ideas she has picked up in europe and catalogued," alison continued. "catalogued!" hodder exclaimed, struck by the pertinency of the word. "yes. did you ever know anybody who had succeeded half so well in piecing together and absorbing into a harmonized whole all the divergent, artificial elements that enter into the conventional world to-day? her character might be called a triumph of synthesis. for she has actually achieved an individuality--that is what always surprises me when i think of her. she has put the puzzle picture together, she has become a person." he remembered, with a start, that this was the exact word mrs. larrabbee had used about alison parr. if he had searched the world, he could not have found a greater contrast than that between these two women. and when she spoke again, he was to be further struck by her power of logical insight. "grace wants me because she thinks i have become the fashion--for the same reason that charlotte plimpton wants me. only there is this difference--grace will know the exact value of what i shall have done. not that she thinks me a le notre"--alison laughed--"what i mean is, she sees behind, she sees why it is fashionable to have a garden, since she has worked out the values of that existence. but there!" alison added, with a provocative touch that did not escape him, "i am picking your parishioners to pieces again." "you have more right than i," he replied, "they have been your friends since childhood." "i thought you had gone away," she said. "why?" he demanded. had she been to church again? "my father told me before he left that you were to take a cruise with him on the yacht he has chartered." "he wrote me from new york--i was unable to go," hodder said slowly. he felt her gaze upon him, but resolutely refused to meet it. . . . they walked on in silence until they came to the more open spaces near the edge of the park, thronged that saturday evening by crowds which had sought the, city's breathing space. perfect trees cast long, fantastic shadows across the lawns, fountains flung up rainbows from the midst of lakes; children of the tenements darted hither and thither, rolled and romped on the grass; family parties picnicked everywhere, and a very babel of tongues greeted the ear--the languages of europe from sweden to italy. suddenly an exclamation from her aroused and thrilled him. "isn't it wonderful how happy they are, and with what simple pleasures they are satisfied! i often come over here on saturdays and sundays, just to talk to them." "talk to them!" he echoed stupidly. "in their own languages?" "oh, i know a little german and italian, though i can't lay claim to czech," she answered gayly. "why are you so surprised that i should possess such modest accomplishments?" "it's not the accomplishments." he hesitated. "no. you are surprised that i should be interested in humanity." she stood facing him. "well, i am," she said, half humorously, half defiantly. "i believe i am more interested in human beings than in anything else in the world--when they are natural, as these people are and when they will tell one their joys and their troubles and their opinions." "enthusiasm, self-assertion, had as usual, transformed her, and he saw the colour glowing under her olive skin. was she accusing him of a lack of frankness? "and why," he asked, collecting himself, "did you think--" he got no further. "it's because you have an idea that i'm a selfish epicurean, if that isn't tautology--because i'm interested in a form of art, the rest of the world can go hang. you have a prejudice against artists. i wish i really were one, but i'm not." this speech contained so many surprises for him that he scarcely knew how to answer it. "give me a little time," he begged, "and perhaps i'll get over my prejudices. the worst of them, at any rate. you are helping me to do so." he tried to speak lightly, but his tone was more serious in the next sentence. "it seems to me personally that you have proved your concern for your fellow-creatures." her colour grew deeper, her manner changed. "that gives me the opportunity to say something i have hoped to say, ever since i saw you. i hoped i should see you again." "you are not going away soon?" he exclaimed. the words were spoken before he grasped their significance. "not at once. i don't know how long i shall stay," she answered hurriedly, intent upon what was in her mind. "i have thought a great deal about what i said to you that afternoon, and i find it more than ever difficult to excuse myself. i shan't attempt to. i merely mean to ask you to forgive me." "there is nothing to forgive," he assured her, under the influence of the feeling she had aroused. "it's nice of you to say so, and to take it as you did--nicer than i can express. i am afraid i shall never learn to appreciate that there may be other points of view toward life than my own. and i should have realized and sympathized with the difficulties of your position, and that you were doing the best under the circumstances." "no," he exclaimed, "don't say that! your other instinct was the truer one, if indeed you have really changed it--i don't believe you have." he smiled at her again. "you didn't hurt my feelings, you did me a service. i told you so at the time, and i meant it. and, more than that, i understood." "you understood--?" "you were not criticizing me, you were--what shall i say?--merely trying to iron out some of the inconsistencies of life. well, you helped me to iron out some of the inconsistencies of my own. i am profoundly grateful." she gazed at him, puzzled. but he did not, he could not enlighten her. some day she would discover what he meant. "if so, i am glad," she said, in a low voice. they were standing in the midst of the crowd that thronged around the pavilion. an urchin caught hold of the rector's coat. "here he is! say, mr. hodder, ain't you going to have any sody?" "certainly we are," he replied, returning alison's faint smile . . . . in the confusion that followed he caught a glimpse of her talking to mr. bentley; and later, after he had taken her hand, his eyes followed her figure wending its way in the evening light through the groups toward park street, and he saw above the tree-tops the red tiled roof of the great house in which she was living, alone. chapter xv the crucible i for better or worse john hodder had flung his treasured beliefs into the crucible, and one by one he watched them crumble and consume away. none but his own soul knew what it cost him to make the test; and some times, in the early stages of it, he would cast down his book under the lamp and walk for hours in the night. curiosity, and the despair of one who is lost impelled him to persist. it had been said of him that he had a talent for the law, and he now discovered that his mind, once freed, weighed the evidence with a pitiless logic, paid its own tribute--despite the anguish of the heart --to the pioneers of truth whose trail it followed into the unknown, who had held no mystery more sacred than truth itself, who had dared to venture into the nothingness between the whirling worlds. he considered them, those whirling worlds, at night. once they had been the candles of jehovah, to light the path of his chosen nation, to herald the birth of his son. and now? how many billions of blind, struggling creatures clung to them? where now was this pin-point of humanity, in the midst of an appalling spectacle of a grinding, remorseless nature? and that obscure event on which he had staked his hopes? was he, as john had written, the first born of the universe, the word incarnate of a system that defied time and space, the logos of an outworn philosophy? was that universe conscious, as berkeley had declared, or the blind monster of substance alone, or energy, as some modern scientists brutally and triumphantly maintained? where was the spirit that breathed in it of hope? such were some of the questions that thronged for solution. what was mind, what spirit? an attenuated vapour of the all-pervading substance? he could not permit himself to dwell on these thoughts--madness lay that way. madness, and a watching demon that whispered of substance, and sought to guide his wanderings in the night. hodder clung to the shell of reality, to the tiny panorama of the visible and the finite, to the infinitesimal gropings that lay recorded before him on the printed page. let him examine these first, let him discover--despite the price--what warrant the mind of man (the only light now vouchsafed to him in his darkness) gave him to speculate and to hope concerning the existence of a higher, truer reality than that which now tossed and wounded him. it were better to know. scarcely had the body been lifted from the tree than the disputes commenced, the adulterations crept in. the spontaneity, the fire and zeal of the self-sacrificing itinerant preachers gave place to the paralyzing logic then pervading the roman empire, and which had sent its curse down the ages to the modern sermon; the geometrical rules of euclid were made to solve the secrets of the universe. the simple faith of the cross which had inspired the martyr along the bloody way from ephesus to the circus at rome was formalized by degrees into philosophy: the faith of future ages was settled by compromises, by manipulation, by bribery in councils of the church which resembled modern political conventions, and in which pagan emperors did not hesitate to exert their influence over the metaphysical bishops of the factions. recriminations, executions, murders--so the chronicles ran. the prophet, the idealist disappeared, the priest with his rites and ceremonies and sacrifices, his power to save and damn, was once more in possession of the world. the son of man was degraded into an infant in his mother's arms. an unhealthy, degenerating asceticism, drawn from pagan sources, began with the monks and anchorites of egypt and culminated in the spectacle of simeon's pillar. the mysteries of eleusis, of attis, mithras, magna mater and isis developed into christian sacraments--the symbol became the thing itself. baptism the confession of the new life, following the customs of these cults, became initiation; and from the same superstitious origins, the repellent materialistic belief that to eat of the flesh and drink of the blood of a god was to gain immortality: immortality of the body, of course. ah, when the superstitions of remote peoples, the fables and myths, were taken away; when the manufactured history and determinism of the israelites from the fall of man to the coming of that messiah, whom the jews crucified because he failed to bring them their material kingdom, were discredited; when the polemic and literal interpretations of evangelists had been rejected, and the pious frauds of tampering monks; when the ascetic buddhism was removed; the cults and mysteries, the dogmas of an ancient naive philosophy discarded; the crude science of a ptolemy who conceived the earth as a flat terrestrial expanse and hell as a smoking pit beneath proved false; the revelation of a holy city of jasper and gold and crystal, the hierarchy with its divine franchise to save and rule and conquer,--when all these and more were eliminated from christianity, what was left? hodder surveyed the ruins. and his mind recalled, that sunday of rain in new york which had been the turning-point in his life, when he had listened to the preacher, when he had walked the streets unmindful of the wet, led on by visions, racked by fears. and the same terror returned to him now after all the years of respite, tenfold increased, of falling in the sight of man from the topmost tower. what was to become of him, now that the very driving power of life was gone? where would he go? to what might he turn his hand, since all were vanity and illusion? careers meant nothing, had any indeed been possible to a man forty, left staring at stark reality after the rainbow had vanished. nineveh had mocked and conquered him who had thought himself a conqueror. self flew back and swung on its central pivot and took command. his future, his fate, what was to become of him. who else now was to be considered? and what was to restrain him from reaching out his hand to pluck the fruit which he desired? . . . ii what control from the unknown is this which now depresses and now releases the sensitive thing called the soul of man, and sends it upward again until the green light of hope shines through the surface water? he might have grown accustomed, holder thought, to the obscurity of the deeps; in which, after a while, the sharp agony of existence became dulled, the pressure benumbing. he was conscious himself, at such times, of no inner recuperation. something drew him up, and he would find himself living again, at length to recognize the hand if not to comprehend the power. the hand was horace bentley's. what was the source of that serenity which shone on the face of his friend? was it the light of faith? faith in--what? humanity, mr. bentley had told him on that first evening when they had met: faith in a world filled with cruelties, disillusionments, lies, and cheats! on what authority was it based? holder never asked, and no word of theology ever crossed mr. bentley's lips; not by so much as a sign did he betray any knowledge he may have had of the drama taking place in holder's soul; no comment escaped him on the amazing anomalies of the life the rector was leading, in the church but not of it. it was only by degrees holder came to understand that no question would be asked, and the frequency of his visits to dalton street increased. he directed his steps thither sometimes hurriedly, as though pursued, as to a haven from a storm. and a haven it was indeed! at all hours of the day he came, and oftener in the night, in those first weeks, and if mr. bentley were not at home the very sight of the hospitable old darky brought surging up within him a sense of security, of, relief; the library itself was filled with the peace of its owner. how many others had brought their troubles here, had been lightened on the very threshold of this sanctuary! gradually hodder began to realize something of their numbers. gradually, as he was drawn more and more into the network of the relationships of this extraordinary man,--nay, as he inevitably became a part of that network,--a period of bewilderment ensued. he found himself involved, and quite naturally, in unpremeditated activities, running errands, forming human ties on a human basis. no question was asked, no credentials demanded or rejected. who he was made no difference --he was a friend of horace bentley's. he had less time to read, less time to think, to scan the veil of his future. he had run through a score of volumes, critical, philosophical, scientific, absorbing their contents, eagerly anticipating their conclusions; filled, once he had begun, with a mania to destroy, a savage determination to leave nothing,--to level all . . . . and now, save for the less frequent relapsing moods, he had grown strangely unconcerned about his future, content to live in the presence of this man; to ignore completely the aspects of a life incomprehensible to the few, besides mr. bentley, who observed it. what he now mostly felt was relief, if not a faint self-congratulation that he had had the courage to go through with it, to know the worst. and he was conscious even, at times, of a faint reviving sense of freedom he had not known since the days at bremerton. if the old dogmas were false, why should he regret them? he began to see that, once he had suspected their falsity, not to have investigated were to invite decay; and he pictured himself growing more unctuous, apologetic, plausible. he had, at any rate, escaped the more despicable fate, and if he went to pieces now it would be as a man, looking the facts in the face,--not as a coward and a hypocrite. late one afternoon, when he dropped in at mr. bentley's house, he was informed by sam that a lady was awaiting mr. bentley in the library. as hodder opened the door he saw a tall, slim figure of a woman with her back toward him. she was looking at the photographs on the mantel. it was alison parr! he remembered now that she had asked for mr. bentley's number, but it had never occurred to him that he might one day find her here. and as she turned he surprised in her eyes a shyness he had never seen in them before. thus they stood gazing at each other a moment before either spoke. "oh, i thought you were mr. bentley," she said. "have you been waiting long?" he asked. "three quarters of an hour, but i haven't minded it. this is such an interesting room, with its pictures and relics and books. it has a soothing effect, hasn't it? to come here is like stepping out of the turmoil of the modern world into a peaceful past." he was struck by the felicity of her description. "you have been here before?" he asked. "yes." she settled herself in the armchair; and hodder, accepting the situation, took the seat beside her. "of course i came, after i had found out who mr. bentley was. the opportunity to know him again--was not to be missed." "i can understand that," he assented. "that is, if a child can even be said to know such a person as mr. bentley. naturally, i didn't appreciate him in those days--children merely accept, without analyzing. and i have not yet been able to analyze,--i can only speculate and consider." her enthusiasm never failed to stir and excite hodder. nor would he have thought it possible that a new value could be added to mr. bentley in his eyes. yet so it was. he felt within him, as she spoke, the quickening of a stimulus. "when i came in a little while ago," alison continued, "i found a woman in black, with such a sweet, sad face. we began a conversation. she had been through a frightful experience. her husband had committed suicide, her child had been on the point of death, and she says that she lies awake nights now thinking in terror of what might have happened to her if you and mr. bentley hadn't helped her. she's learning to be a stenographer. do you remember her?--her name is garvin." "did she say--anything more?" hodder anxiously demanded. "no," said alison, surprised by his manner, "except that mr. bentley had found her a place to live, near the hospital, with a widow who was a friend of his. and that the child was well, and she could look life in the face again. oh, it is terrible to think that people all around us are getting into such straits, and that we are so indifferent to it!" hodder did not speak at once. he was wondering, now that she had renewed her friendship with mr. bentley, whether certain revelations on her part were not inevitable . . . . she was regarding him, and he was aware that her curiosity was aflame. again he wondered whether it were curiosity or--interest. "you did not tell me, when we met in the park, that you were no longer at st. john's." did mr. bentley tell you?" "no. he merely said he saw a great deal of you. martha preston told me. she is still here, and goes to church occasionally. she was much surprised to learn that you were in the city. "i am still living in the parish house," he said. "i am--taking my vacation." "with mr. bentley?" her eyes were still on his face. "with mr. bentley," he replied. he had spoken without bitterness. although there had indeed been bitterness in his soul, it passed away in the atmosphere of mr. bentley's house. the process now taking place in him was the same complication of negative and positive currents he had felt in her presence before. he was surprised to find that his old antipathy to agnosticism held over, in her case; to discover, now, that he was by no means, as yet, in view of the existence of horace bentley, to go the full length of unbelief! on the other hand, he saw that she had divined much of what had happened to him, and he felt radiating from her a sympathetic understanding which seemed almost a claim. she had a claim, although he could not have said of what it was constituted. their personal relationship bore responsibilities. it suddenly came over him, in fact, that the two persons who in all the world were nearest him were herself and mr. bentley! he responded, scarce knowing why he did so, to the positive current. "with mr. bentley," he repeated, smiling, and meeting her eyes, "i have been learning something about the actual conditions of life in a modern city." she bent a little toward him in one of those spontaneous movements that characterized her. "tell me--what is his life?" she asked. "i have seen so little of it, and he has told me nothing himself. at first, in the park, i saw only a kindly old gentleman, with a wonderful, restful personality, who had been a dear friend of my mother's. i didn't connect those boys with him. but since then--since i have been here twice, i have seen other things which make me wonder how far his influence extends." she paused. "i, too, have wondered," said the rector, thoughtfully. "when i met him, i supposed he were merely living in simple relationships with his neighbours here in dalton street, but by degrees i have discovered that his relationships are as wide as the city itself. and they have grown naturally--by radiation, as it were. one incident has led to another, one act of kindness to another, until now there seems literally no end to the men and women with whom he is in personal touch, who are ready to do anything in their power for him at any time. it is an institution, in fact, wholly unorganized, which in the final analysis is one man. and there is in it absolutely nothing of that element which has come to be known as charity." alison listened with parted lips. "to give you an example," he went on, gradually be coming fired by his subject, by her absorption, "since you have mentioned mrs. garvin, i will tell you what happened in that case. it is typical of many. it was a question of taking care of this woman, who was worn out and crushed, until she should recover sufficiently to take care of herself. mr. bentley did not need any assistance from me to get the boy into the hospital--dr. jarvis worships him. but the mother. i might possibly have got her into an institutional home--mr. bentley did better than that, far better. on the day of the funeral we went directly from the cemetery to the house of a widow who owns a little fruit farm beyond the park. her name is bledsoe, and it is not an exaggeration to say that her house, small as it is, contains an endowed room always at mr. bentley's disposal. "mrs. garvin is there now. she was received as a friend, as a guest --not as an inmate, a recipient of charity. i shall never forget how that woman ran out in the sun when she saw us coming, how proud she was to be able to do this thing, how she ushered us into the little parlour, that was all swept and polished, and how naturally and warmly she welcomed the other woman, dazed and exhausted, and took her hat and veil and almost carried her up the stairs. and later on i found out from miss grower, who lives here, mrs. bledsoe's history. eight or nine years ago her husband was sent to prison for forgery, and she was left with four small children, on the verge of a fate too terrible to mention. she was brought to mr. bentley's attention, and he started her in life. "and now mrs. garvin forms another link to that chain, which goes on growing. in a month she will be earning her own living as stenographer for a grain merchant whom mr. bentley set on his feet several years ago. one thing has led to the next. and--i doubt if any neighbourhood could be mentioned, north or south or west, or even in the business portion of the city itself, where men and women are not to be found ready and eager to do anything in their power for him. of course there have been exceptions, what might be called failures in the ordinary terminology of charity, but there are not many." when he had finished she sat quite still, musing over what he had told her, her eyes alight. "yes, it is wonderful," she said at length, in a low voice. "oh, i can believe in that, making the world a better place to live in, making people happier. of course every one cannot be like mr. bentley, but all may do their share in their own way. if only we could get rid of this senseless system of government that puts a premium on the acquisition of property! as it is, we have to depend on individual initiative. even the good mr. bentley does is a drop in the ocean compared to what might be done if all this machinery--which has been invented, if all these discoveries of science, by which the forces of an indifferent nature have been harnessed, could be turned to the service of all mankind. think of how many mrs. garvins, of how many dalton streets there are in the world, how many stunted children working in factories or growing up into criminals in the slums! i was reading a book just the other day on the effect of the lack of nutrition on character. we are breeding a million degenerate citizens by starving them, to say nothing of the effect of disease and bad air, of the constant fear of poverty that haunts the great majority of homes. there is no reason why that fear should not be removed, why the latest discoveries in medicine and science should not be at the disposal of all." the genuineness of her passion was unmistakable. his whole being responded to it. "have you always felt like this?" he asked. like what?" "indignant--that so many people were suffering." his question threw her into reflection. "why, no," she answered, at length, "i never thought----i see what you mean. four or five years ago, when i was going to socialist lectures, my sense of all this--inequality, injustice was intellectual. i didn't get indignant over it, as i do now when i think of it." "and why do you get indignant now?" "you mean," she asked, "that i have no right to be indignant, since i do nothing to attempt to better conditions?--" "not at all," hodder disavowed. "perhaps my question is too personal, but i didn't intend it to be. i was merely wondering whether any event or series of events had transformed a mere knowledge of these conditions into feeling." "oh!" she exclaimed, but not in offence. once more she relapsed into thought. and as he watched her, in silence, the colour that flowed and ebbed in her cheeks registered the coming and going of memories; of incidents in her life hidden from him, arousing in the man the torture of jealousy. but his faculties, keenly alert, grasped the entire field; marked once more the empirical trait in her that he loved her unflinching willingness to submit herself to an experiment. "i suppose so," she replied at length, her thoughts naturally assuming speech. "yes, i can see that it is so. yet my experience has not been with these conditions with which mr. bentley, with which you have been brought in contact, but with the other side--with luxury. oh, i am sick of luxury! i love it, i am not at all sure that i could do without it, but i hate it, too, i rebel against it. you can't understand that." "i think i can," he answered her. "when i see the creatures it makes," she cried, "i hate it. my profession has brought me in such close contact with it that i rebelled at last, and came out here very suddenly, just to get away from it in the mass. to renew my youth, if i could. the gardens were only an excuse. i had come to a point where i wanted to be quiet, to be alone, to think, and i knew my father would be going away. so much of my girlhood was spent in that park that i know every corner of it, and i--obeyed the impulse. i wanted to test it." "yes," he said, absorbed. "i might have gone to the mountains or the sea, but some one would have come and found me, and i should have been bound again--on the wheel. i shouldn't have had the strength to resist. but here--have you ever felt," she demanded, "that you craved a particular locality at a certain time?" he followed her still. "that is how i felt. these associations, that park, the thought of my girlhood, of my mother, who understood me as no one else has since, assumed a certain value. new york became unbearable. it is just there, in the very centre of our modern civilization, that one sees the crudest passions. oh, i have often wondered whether a man, however disillusioned, could see new york as a woman sees it when the glamour is gone. we are the natural prey of the conqueror still. we dream of independence--" she broke off abruptly. this confession, with the sudden glimpse it gave him of the fires within her that would not die down, but burned now more fiercely than ever, sent the blood to his head. his face, his temples, were hot with the fierceness of his joy in his conviction that she had revealed herself to him. why she had done so, he could not say. . . this was the woman whom the world thought composed; who had triumphed over its opposition, compelled it to bow before her; who presented to it that self-possessed, unified personality by which he had been struck at their first meeting. yet, paradoxically, the personality remained,--was more elusive than before. a thousand revelations, he felt, would not disclose it. he was no nearer to solving it now. . yet the fires burned! she, too, like himself, was aflame and unsatisfied! she, too, had tasted success, and had revolted! "but i don't get anywhere," she said wearily. "at times i feel this ferment, this anger that things are as they are, only to realize what helpless anger it is. why not take the world as it appears and live and feel, instead of beating against the currents?" "but isn't that inconsistent with what you said awhile ago as to a new civilization?" hodder asked. "oh, that utopia has no reality for me. i think it has, at moments, but it fades. and i don't pretend to be consistent. mr. bentley lives in a world of his own; i envy him with all my heart, i love and admire him, he cheers and soothes me when i am with him. but i can't see--whatever he sees. i am only aware of a remorseless universe grinding out its destinies. we anglo-saxons are fond of deceiving ourselves about life, of dressing it up in beautiful colours, of making believe that it actually contains happiness. all our fiction reflects this--that is why i never cared to read english or american novels. the continental school, the russians, the frenchmen, refuse to be deluded. they are honest." "realism, naturalism," he mused, recalling a course in philosophy, "one would expect the russian, in the conditions under which he lives, possessing an artistic temperament combined with a paralysis of the initiative and a sense of fate, to write in that way. and the frenchmen, renan, zola, and the others who have followed, are equally deterministic, but viewing the human body as a highly organized machine with which we may amuse ourselves by registering its sensations. these literatures are true in so far as they reflect the characteristics of the nations from which they spring. that is not to say that the philosophies of which they are the expressions are true. nor is it to admit that such a literature is characteristic of the spirit of america, and can be applied without change to our life and atmosphere. we have yet, i believe, to develop our own literature; which will come gradually as we find ourselves." "find ourselves?" she repeated. "yes. isn't that what we are trying to do? we are not determinists or fatalists, and to condemn us to such a philosophy would be to destroy us. we live on hope. in spite of our apparent materialism, we are idealists. and is it not possible to regard nature as governed by laws--remorseless, if you like the word--and yet believe, with kant and goethe, that there is an inner realm? you yourself struggle--you cling to ideals." "ideals!" she echoed. "ideals are useless unless one is able to see, to feel something beyond this ruthless mechanism by which we are surrounded and hemmed in, to have some perception of another scheme. why struggle, unless we struggle for something definite? oh, i don't mean heavenly rewards. nothing could be more insipid and senseless than the orthodox view of the hereafter. i am talking about a scheme of life here and now." "so am i," answered hodder. "but may there not be a meaning in this very desire we have to struggle against the order of things as it appears to us?" "a meaning?" "a little while ago you spoke of your indignation at the inequalities and injustices of the world, and when i asked you if you had always felt this, you replied that this feeling had grown upon you. my question is this: whether that indignation would be present at all if it were not meant to be turned into action." "you believe that an influence is at work, an influence that impels us against our reason?" "i should like to think so," he said. "why should so many persons be experiencing such a feeling to-day, persons who, like yourself, are the beneficiaries of our present system of privilege? why should you, who have every reason to be satisfied, materially, with things as they are, be troubling yourself with thoughts of others who are less-fortunate? and why should we have the spectacle, today, of men and women all over this country in social work, in science and medicine and politics, striving to better conditions while most of them might be much more comfortable and luxurious letting well enough alone?" "but it's human to care," she objected. "ah--human!" he said, and was silent. "what do we mean by human, unless it is the distinguishing mark of something within us that the natural world doesn't possess? unless it is the desire and willingness to strive for a larger interest than the individual interest, work and suffer for others? and you spoke of making people happier. what do you mean by happiness? not merely the possession of material comforts, surely. i grant you that those who are overworked and underfed, who are burning with the consciousness of wrongs, who have no outlook ahead, are essentially hopeless and miserable. but by 'happiness' you, mean something more than the complacency and contentment which clothing and food might bring, and the removal of the economic fear,--and even the restoration of self-respect." "that their lives should be fuller!" she exclaimed. "that drudgery and despair should be replaced by interest and hope," he went on, "slavery by freedom. in other words, that the whole attitude toward life should be changed, that life should appear a bright thing rather than a dark thing, that labour should be willing vicarious instead of forced and personal. otherwise, any happiness worth having is out of the question." she was listening now with parted lips, apparently unconscious of the fixity of her gaze. "you mean it is a choice between that or nothing," she said, in a low voice. "that there is no use in lifting people out of the treadmill --and removing the terror of poverty unless you can give them something more--than i have got." "and something more--than i have got,"--he was suddenly moved to reply... presently, while the silence still held between them, the door opened and startled them into reality. mr. bentley came in. the old gentleman gave no sign, as they rose to meet him, of a sense of tension in the atmosphere he had entered--yet each felt--somehow, that he knew. the tension was released. the same thought occurred to both as they beheld the peaceful welcome shining in his face, "here is what we are seeking. why try to define it?" "to think that i have been gossiping with mrs. meyer, while you were waiting for me!" he said. "she keeps the little florist's shop at the corner of tower street, and she gave me these. i little guessed what good use i should have for them, my dear." he held out to her three fragrant, crimson roses that matched the responsive colour in her cheeks as she thanked him and pinned them on her gown. he regarded her an instant. "but i'm sure mr. hodder has entertained you," mr. bentley turned, and laid his hand on the rector's shoulder. "most successfully," said alison, cutting short his protest. and she smiled at hodder, faintly. chapter xvi amid the encircling gloom i hodder, in spite of a pressing invitation to remain for supper, had left them together. he turned his face westward, in the opposite direction from the parish house, still under the spell of that moment of communion which had lasted--he knew not how long, a moment of silent revelation to them both. she, too, was storm-tossed! she, too, who had fared forth so gallantly into life, had conquered only to be beaten down--to lose her way. this discovery strained the very fibres of his being. so close he had been to her--so close that each had felt, simultaneously, complete comprehension of the other, comprehension that defied words, overbore disagreements. he knew that she had felt it. he walked on at first in a bewildered ecstasy, careless of aught else save that in a moment they two had reached out in the darkness and touched hands. never had his experience known such communion, never had a woman meant what this woman meant, and yet he could not define that meaning. what need of religion, of faith in an unseen order when this existed? to have this woman in the midst of chaos would be enough! faith in an unseen order! as he walked, his mind returned to the argument by which he had sought to combat her doubts--and his own. whence had the argument come? it was new to him--he had never formulated it before--that pity and longing and striving were a justification and a proof. had she herself inspired, by some unknown psychological law, this first attempt of his to reform the universe, this theory which he had rather spoken than thought? or had it been the knowledge of her own longing, and his desire to assuage it? as twilight fell, as his spirits ebbed, he could not apply it now--it meant nothing to him, evaded him, there was in it no solace. to regain his footing once more, to climb again without this woman whom he needed, and might not have! better to fall, to be engulfed. . . the vision of her, tall and straight, with the roses on her breast, tortured him. thus ecstasy ebbed to despondency. he looked around him in the fading day, to find himself opposite the closed gates of the botanical gardens, in the southwestern portion of the city . . . . an hour later he had made his way back to dalton street with its sputtering blue lights and gliding figures, and paused for a moment on the far sidewalk to gaze at mr. bentley's gleaming windows. should he go in? had that personality suddenly lost its power over him? how strange that now he could see nothing glowing, nothing inspiring within that house,--only a kindly old man reading a newspaper! he walked on, slowly, to feel stealing on him that desperate longing for adventure which he had known so well in his younger days. and he did not resist. the terror with which it had once inspired him was gone, or lingered only in the form of a delicious sense of uncertainty and anticipation. anything might happen to him--anything would be grateful; the thought of his study in the parish house was unbearable; the dalton street which had mocked and repelled him suddenly became alluring with its champaigns of light and inviting stretches of darkness. in the block ahead, rising out of the night like a tower blazing with a hundred beacons, hodder saw a hotel, heard the faint yet eager throbbing of music, beheld silhouetted figures flitting from automobiles and carriages across the white glare of the pavement,--figures of men and women. he hastened his steps, the music grew louder and louder in his ears, he gained the ornamental posts crowned by their incandescent globes, made his way through the loiterers, descended the stone steps of the restaurant, and stood staring into it as at a blurred picture. the band crashed a popular two-step above the mingled voices and laughter. he sat down at a vacant table near the door, and presently became aware that a waiter had been for some time at his elbow. "what will you have, sir?" then he remembered that he had not eaten, discovered that he was hungry, and ordered some sandwiches and beer. still staring, the figures began to differentiate themselves, although they all appeared, somehow, in perpetual motion; hurrying, though seated. it was like gazing at a quivering cinematograph. here and there ribbons of smoke curled upward, adding volume to the blue cloud that hung over the tables, which in turn was dissipated in spots by the industrious electric fans. everywhere he looked he met the glances of women; even at the table next him, they were not so absorbed in their escorts as to be able to resist flinging him covert stares between the shrieks of laughter in which they intermittently indulged. the cumulative effect of all these faces was intoxicating, and for a long time he was unable to examine closely any one group. what he saw was a composite woman with flushed cheeks and soliciting eyes, becomingly gowned and hatted--to the masculine judgment. on the walls, heavily frescoed in the german style, he read, in gothic letters: "wer liebt nicht wein, weib, and gesang, er bleibt ein narr sein leben lang." the waiter brought the sandwiches and beer, yet he did not eat. in the middle distance certain figures began insistently to stand out,--figures of women sitting alone wherever he looked he met a provoking gaze. one woman, a little farther away than the rest, seemed determinedly bent on getting a nod of recognition, and it was gradually borne in upon hodder's consciousness that her features were familiar. in avoiding her eyes he studied the men at the next table,--or rather one of them, who loudly ordered the waiters about, who told brief anecdotes that were uproariously applauded; whose pudgy, bejewelled fingers were continually feeling for the bottle in the ice beside his chair, or nudging his companions with easy familiarity; whose little eyes, set in a heavy face, lighted now and again with a certain expression . . . . . suddenly hodder pushed back his chair and got to his feet, overcome by a choking sensation like that of being, asphyxiated by foul gases. he must get out at once, or faint. what he had seen in the man's eyes had aroused in him sheer terror, for it was the image of something in his own soul which had summarily gained supremacy and led him hither, unresisting, to its own abiding-place. in vain he groped to reconstruct the process by which that other spirit--which he would fain have believed his true spirit--had been drugged and deadened in its very flight. he was aware, as he still stood uncertainly beside the table, of the white-aproned waiter looking at him, and of some one else!--the woman whose eyes had been fastened on him so persistently. she was close beside him, speaking to him. "seems to me we've met before." he looked at her, at first uncomprehendingly, then with a dawning realization of her identity. even her name came to him, unexpectedly, --kate marcy,--the woman in the flat! "ain't you going to invite me to have some supper?" she whispered eagerly, furtively, as one accustomed to be rebuffed, yet bold in spite of it. "they'll throw me out if they think i'm accosting you." how was it that, a moment ago, she had appeared to him mysterious, inviting? at this range he could only see the paint on her cheeks, the shadows under her burning eyes, the shabby finery of her gown. her wonderful bronze hair only made the contrast more pitiful. he acted automatically, drawing out for her the chair opposite his own, and sat down again. "say, but i'm hungry!" she exclaimed, pulling off her gloves. she smiled at him, wanly, yet with a brazen coquettishness become habit. "hungry!" he repeated idly. "i guess you'd be, if you'd only had a fried egg and a cup of coffee to-day, and nothing last night." he pushed over to her, hastily, with a kind of horror, the plate of sandwiches. she began eating them ravenously; but presently paused, and thrust them back toward him. he shook his head. "what's the matter with you?" she demanded. "nothing," he replied. "you ordered them, didn't you? ain't you eating anything?" "i'm not hungry," he said. she continued eating awhile without comment. and he watched her as one fascinated, oblivious to his surroundings, in a turmoil of thought and emotion. "i'm dry," she announced meaningly. he hesitated a moment, and then gave her the bottle of beer. she made a wry face as she poured it out. "have they run out of champagne?" she inquired. this time he did not hesitate. the women of his acquaintance, at the dinner parties he attended, drank champagne. why should he refuse it to this woman? a long-nosed, mediaeval-looking waiter was hovering about, one of those bizarre, battered creatures who have long exhausted the surprises of life, presiding over this amazing situation with all the sang froid of a family butler. hodder told him to bring champagne. "what kind, sir?" he asked, holding out a card. "the best you have." the woman stared at him in wonder. "you're what an english johnny i know would call a little bit of all right!" she declared with enthusiastic approval. "since you are hungry," he went on, "suppose you have something more substantial than sandwiches. what would you like?" she did not answer at once. amazement grew in her eyes, amazement and a kind of fear. "quit joshing!" she implored him, and he found it difficult to cope with her style of conversation. for a while she gazed helplessly at the bill of fare. "i guess you'll think it's funny," she said hesitatingly, "but i feel just like a good beefsteak and potatoes. bring a thick one, walter." the waiter sauntered off. "why should i think it strange?" hodder asked. "well, if you knew how many evenings i've sat up there in my room and thought what i'd order if i ever again got hold of some rich guy who'd loosen up. there ain't any use trying to put up a bluff with you. nothing was too good for me once, caviar, pate de foie gras" (her pronunciation is not to be imitated), "chicken casserole, peach melba, filet of beef with mushrooms,--i've had 'em all, and i used to sit up and say i'd hand out an order like that. you never do what you think you're going to do in this life." the truth of this remark struck him with a force she did not suspect; stung him, as it were, into a sense of reality. "and now," she added pathetically, "all t want is a beefsteak! don't that beat you?" she appeared so genuinely surprised at this somewhat contemptible trick fate had played her that hodder smiled in spite of himself. "i didn't recognize you at first in that get-up," she observed, looking at his blue serge suit. "so you've dropped the preacher business, have you? you're wise, all right." "why do you say that?" he asked. "didn't i tell you when you came 'round that time that you weren't like the rest of 'em? you're too human." once more the word, and on her lips, startled him. "some of the best men i have ever known, the broadest and most understanding men, have been clergymen," he found himself protesting. "well, they haven't dropped in on me. the only one i ever saw that measured up to something like that was you, and now you've chucked it." had he, as she expressed the matter, "chucked it"? her remark brought him reluctantly, fearfully, remorselessly--agitated and unprepared as he was--face to face with his future. "you were too good for the job," she declared. "what is there in it? there ain't nobody converted these days that i can see, and what's the use of gettin' up and preach into a lot of sapheads that don't know what religion is? sure they don't." "do you?" he asked. "you've called my bluff." she laughed. "say, do you?" if there was anything in it you'd have kept on preachin' to that bunch and made some of 'em believe they was headed for hell; you'd have made one of 'em that owns the flat house i live in, who gets fancy rents out of us poor girls, give it up. that's a nice kind of business for a church member, ain't it?" "owns the house in which you live!" "sure." she smiled at him compassionately, pitying his innocence and ignorance. "now i come to think of it, i guess he don't go to your church,--it's the big baptist church on the boulevard. but what's the difference?" "none," said hodder, despondently. she regarded him curiously. "you remember when you dropped in that night, when the kid was sick?" he nodded. "well, now you ain't in the business any more, i may as well tell you you kind of got in on me. i was sorry for you--honest, i was. i couldn't believe at first you was on the level, but it didn't take me long to see that they had gold-bricked you, too. i saw you weren't wise to what they were." "you thought--" he began and paused dumfounded. "why not?" she retorted. "it looked easy to me,--your line. how was i to know at first that they had you fooled? how was i to know you wasn't in the game?" "the game?" "say, what else is it but a game? you must be on now, ain't you? why. do they put up to keep the churches going? there ain't any coupons coming out of 'em. "maybe some of these millionaires think they can play all the horses and win,--get into heaven and sell gold bricks on the side. but i guess most of 'em don't think about heaven. they just use the church for a front, and take in strangers in the back alley,--downtown." hodder was silent, overwhelmed by the brutal aptness of her figures. nor did he take the trouble of a defence, of pointing out that hers was not the whole truth. what really mattered--he saw--was what she and those like her thought. such minds were not to be disabused by argument; and indeed he had little inclination for it then. "there's nothing in it." by this expression he gathered she meant life. and some hidden impulse bade him smile at her. "there is this," he answered. she opened her mouth, closed it and stared at him, struck by his expression, striving uneasily to fathom hidden depths in his remark. "i don't get on to you," she said lamely. "i didn't that other time. i never ran across anybody like you." he tried to smile again. "you mustn't mind me," he answered. they fell into an oasis of silence, surrounded by mad music and laughter. then came the long-nosed waiter carrying the beefsteak aloft, followed by a lad with a bucket of ice, from which protruded the green and gold neck of a bottle. the plates were put down, the beefsteak carved, the champagne opened and poured out with a flourish. the woman raised her glass. "here's how!" she said, with an attempt at gayety. and she drank to him. "it's funny how i ran across you again, ain't it?" she threw back her head and laughed. he raised his glass, tasted the wine, and put it down again. a sheet of fire swept through him. "what's the matter with it? is it corked?" she demanded. "it goes to the right spot with me." "it seems very good," he said, trying to smile, and turning to the food on his plate. the very idea of eating revolted him--and yet he made the attempt: he had a feeling, ill defined, that consequences of vital importance depended upon this attempt, on his natural acceptance of the situation. and, while he strove to reduce the contents of his plate, he racked his brain for some subject of conversation. the flamboyant walls of the room pressed in on every side; comment of that which lay within their limits was impossible,--but he could not, somehow, get beyond them. was there in the whole range of life one easy topic which they might share in common? yet a bond existed between this woman and himself--a bond of which he now became aware, and which seemed strangely to grow stronger as the minutes passed and no words were spoken. why was it that she, too, to whom speech came so easily, had fallen dumb? he began to long for some remark, however disconcerting. the tension increased. she put down her knife and fork. tears sprang into her eyes,--tears of anger, he thought. "say, it's no use trying to put up a bluff with me," she cried. "why do you say that?" he asked. "you know what i mean, all right. what did you come in here for, anyway?" "i don't know--i couldn't tell you," he answered. the very honesty of his words seemed, for an instant, to disconcert her; and she produced a torn lace handkerchief, which she thrust in her eyes. "why can't you leave me alone?" she demanded. "i'm all right." if he did not at once reply, it was because of some inner change which had taken place in himself; and he seemed to see things, suddenly, in their true proportions. he no longer feared a scene and its consequences. by virtue of something he had cast off or taken on, he was aware of a newly acquired mastery of the situation, and by a hidden and unconscious process he had managed to get at the real woman behind the paint: had beaten down, as it were without a siege, her defences. and he was incomparably awed by the sight of her quivering, frightened self. her weeping grew more violent. he saw the people at the next table turn and stare, heard the men laughing harshly. for the spectacle was evidently not an uncommon one here. she pushed away her unfinished glass, gathered up her velvet bag and rose abruptly. "i guess i ain't hungry after all," she said, and started toward the door. he turned to the waiter, who regarded him unmoved, and asked for a check. "i'll get it," he said. hodder drew out a ten dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. the waiter looked at him. some impulse moved him to remark, as he picked up the rector's hat: "don't let her put it over you, sir." hodder scarcely heard him. he hurried up the steps and gained the pavement, and somewhere in the black shadows beyond the arc-lights he saw her disappearing down the street. careless of all comment he hastened on, overtook her, and they walked rapidly side by side. now and again he heard a sob, but she said nothing. thus they came to the house where the garvins had lived, and passed it, and stopped in front of the dimly lighted vestibule of the flats next door. in drawing the key from her bag she dropped it: he picked it up and put it in the lock himself. she led the way without comment up the darkened stairs, and on the landing produced another key, opened the door of her rooms, fumbled for the electric button, and suddenly the place was flooded with light. he glanced in, and recoiled. ii oddly enough, the first thing he noticed in the confusion that reigned was the absence of the piano. two chairs were overturned, and one of them was broken; a siphon of vichy lay on the floor beside a crushed glass and two or three of the cheap ornaments that had been swept off the mantel and broken on the gaudy tiles of the hearth. he glanced at the woman, who had ceased crying, and stood surveying the wreckage with the calmness, the philosophic nonchalance of a class that comes to look upon misfortune as inevitable. "they didn't do a thing to this place, did they?" was her comment. "there was two guys in here to-night who got a notion they were funny." hodder had thought to have fathomed all the horrors of her existence, but it was not until he looked into this room that the bottomless depths of it were brought home to him. could it be possible that the civilization in which he lived left any human being so defenceless as to be at the mercy of the ghouls who had been here? the very stale odours of the spilled whiskey seemed the material expression of the essence of degraded souls; for a moment it overpowered him. then came the imperative need of action, and he began to right one of the chairs. she darted forward. "cut it out!" she cried. "what business have you got coming in here and straightening up? i was a fool to bring you, anyway." it was in her eyes that he read her meaning, and yet could not credit it. he was abashed--ashamed; nay, he could not define the feeling in his breast. he knew that what he read was the true interpretation of her speech, for in some manner--he guessed not how--she had begun to idealize him, to feel that the touch of these things defiled him. "i believe i invited myself," he answered, with attempted cheerfulness. then it struck him, in his predicament, that this was precisely what others had done! "when you asked me a little while ago whether i had left the church, i let you think i had. i am still connected with st. john's, but i do not know how long i shall continue to be." she was on her knees with dustpan and whiskbroom, cleaning up the fragments of glass on the stained carpet. and she glanced up at him swiftly, diviningly. "say--you're in trouble yourself, ain't you?" she got up impulsively, spilling some of the contents of the pan. a subtle change had come in her, and under the gallantly drooping feathers of her hat he caught her eye--the human eye that so marvellously reflects the phases of the human soul: the eye which so short a time before hardily and brazenly had flashed forth its invitation, now actually shone with fellowship and sympathy. and for a moment this look was more startling, more appalling than the other; he shrank from it, resented it even more. was it true that they had something in common? and if so, was it sin or sorrow, or both? "i might have known," she said, staring at him. in spite of his gesture of dissent, he saw that she was going over the events of the evening from her new point of view. "i might have known, when we were sitting there in harrods, that you were up against it, too, but i couldn't think of anything but the way i was fixed. the agent's been here twice this week for the rent, and i was kind of desperate for a square meal." hodder took the dustpan from her hand, and flung its contents into the fireplace. "then we are both fortunate," he said, "to have met each other." "i don't see where you come in," she told him. he turned and smiled at her. "do you remember when i was here that evening about two months ago i said i should like to be your friend? well, i meant it. and i have often hoped, since then, that some circumstance might bring us together again. you seemed to think that no friendship was possible between us, but i have tried to make myself believe that you said so because you didn't know me." "honest to god?" she asked. "is that on the level?" "i only ask for an opportunity to prove it," he replied, striving to speak naturally. he stooped and laid the dustpan on the hearth. "there! now let's sit down." she sank on the sofa, her breast rising and falling, her gaze dumbly fixed on him, as one under hypnosis. he took the rocker. "i have wanted to tell you how grateful mrs. garvin, the boy's mother --was for the roses you brought. she doesn't know who sent them, but i intend to tell her, and she will thank you herself. she is living out in the country. and the boy--you would scarcely recognize him." "i couldn't play the piano for a week after--that thing happened." she glanced at the space where the instrument had stood. "you taught yourself to play?" he asked. "i had music lessons." "music lessons?" "not here--before i left home--up the state, in a little country town, --madison. it seems like a long time ago, but it's only seven years in september. mother and father wanted all of us children to know a little more than they did, and i guess they pinched a good deal to give us a chance. i went a year to the high school, and then i was all for coming to the city--i couldn't stand madison, there wasn't anything going on. mother was against it,--said i was too good-looking to leave home. i wish i never had. you wouldn't believe i was good-looking once, would you?" she spoke dispassionately, not seeming to expect assent, but hodder glanced involuntarily at her wonderful crown of hair. she had taken off her hat. he was thinking of the typical crime of american parents,--and suddenly it struck him that her speech had changed, that she had dropped the suggestive slang of the surroundings in which she now lived. "i was a fool to come, but i couldn't see it then. all i could think of was to get away to a place where something was happening. i wanted to get into ferguson's--everybody in madison knew about ferguson's, what a grand store it was,--but i couldn't. and after a while i got a place at the embroidery counter at pratt's. that's a department store, too, you know. it looked fine, but it wasn't long before i fell wise to a few things." (she relapsed into slang occasionally.) "have you ever tried to stand on your feet for nine hours, where you couldn't sit down for a minute? say, when florry kinsley and me--she was the girl i roomed with --would get home at night, often we'd just lie down and laugh and cry, we were so tired, and our feet hurt so. we were too used up sometimes to get up and cook supper on the little stove we had. and sitting around a back bedroom all evening was worse than madison. we'd go out, tired as we were, and walk the streets." he nodded, impressed by the fact that she did not seem to be appealing to his sympathy. nor, indeed, did she appear--in thus picking up the threads of her past--to be consciously accounting for her present. she recognized no causation there. "say, did you ever get to a place where you just had to have something happen? when you couldn't stand bein' lonely night after night, when you went out on the streets and saw everybody on the way to a good time but you? we used to look in the newspapers for notices of the big balls, and we'd take the cars to the west end and stand outside the awnings watching the carriages driving up and the people coming in. and the same with the weddings. we got to know a good many of the swells by sight. there was mrs. larrabbee,"--a certain awe crept into her voice--"and miss ferguson--she's sweet--and a lot more. some of the girls used to copy their clothes and hats, but florry and me tried to live honest. it was funny," she added irrelevantly, "but the more worn out we were at night, the more we'd want a little excitement, and we used to go to the dance-halls and keep going until we were ready to drop." she laughed at the recollection. "there was a floorwalker who never let me alone the whole time i was at pratt's--he put me in mind of a pallbearer. his name was selkirk, and he had a family in westerly, out on the grade suburban . . . . some of the girls never came back at all, except to swagger in and buy expensive things, and tell us we were fools to work. and after a while i noticed florry was getting discouraged. we never had so much as a nickel left over on saturdays and they made us sign a paper, when they hired us, that we lived at home. it was their excuse for paying us six dollars a week. they do it at ferguson's, too. they say they can get plenty of girls who do live at home. i made up my mind i'd go back to madison, but i kept putting it off, and then father died, and i couldn't! "and then, one day, florry left. she took her things from the room when i was at the store, and i never saw her again. i got another roommate. i couldn't afford to pay for the room alone. you wouldn't believe i kept straight, would you?" she demanded, with a touch of her former defiance. "i had plenty of chances better than that floorwalker. but i knew i was good looking, and i thought if i could only hold out i might get married to some fellow who was well fixed. what's the matter?" hodder's exclamation had been involuntary, for in these last words she had unconsciously brought home to him the relentless predicament in the lives of these women. she had been saving herself--for what? a more advantageous, sale! "it's always been my luck," she went on reflectingly, "that when what i wanted to happen did happen, i never could take advantage of it. it was just like that to-night, when you handed me out the bill of fare, and i ordered beefsteak. and it was like that when--when he came along --i didn't do what i thought i was going to do. it's terrible to fall in love, isn't it? i mean the real thing. i've read in books that it only comes once, and i guess it's so." fortunately she seemed to expect no answer to this query. she was staring at the wall with unseeing eyes. "i never thought of marrying him, from the first. he could have done anything with me--he was so good and generous--and it was him i was thinking about. that's love, isn't it? maybe you don't believe a woman like me knows what love is. you've got a notion that goin' downhill, as i've been doing, kills it, haven't you? i wish to god it did--but it don't: the ache's there, and sometimes it comes in the daytime, and sometimes at night, and i think i'll go crazy. when a woman like me is in love there isn't anything more terrible on earth, i tell you. if a girl's respectable and good it's bad enough, god knows, if she can't have the man she wants; but when she's like me--it's hell. that's the only way i can describe it. she feels there is nothing about her that's clean, that he wouldn't despise. there's many a night i wished i could have done what garvin did, but i didn't have the nerve." "don't say that!" he commanded sharply. "why not? it's the best way out." "i can see how one might believe it to be," he answered. indeed, it seemed that his vision had been infinitely extended, that he had suddenly come into possession of the solution of all the bewildered, despairing gropings of the human soul. only awhile ago, for instance, the mood of self-destruction had been beyond his imagination: tonight he understood it, though he still looked upon it with horror. and he saw that his understanding of her--or of any human being--could never be of the intellect. he had entered into one of those astounding yet simple relationships wherein truth, and truth alone, is possible. he knew that such women lied, deceived themselves; he could well conceive that the image of this first lover might have become idealized in her vicissitudes; that the memories of the creature-comforts, of first passion, might have enhanced as the victim sank. it was not only because she did not attempt to palliate that he believed her. "i remember the time i met him,--it was only four years ago last spring, but it seems like a lifetime. it was decoration day, and it was so beautiful i went out with another girl to the park, and we sat on the grass and looked at the sky and wished we lived in the country. he was in an automobile; i never did know exactly how it happened,--we looked at each other, and he slowed up and came back and asked us to take a ride. i had never been in one of those things--but that wasn't why i went, i guess. well, the rest was easy. he lost his head, and i was just as bad. you wouldn't believe me if i told you how rich he was: it scared me when i found out about him, and he was so handsome and full of fun and spirits, and generous! i never knew anybody like him. honest, i never expected he'd want to marry me. he didn't at first,--it was only after a while. i never asked him to, and when he began to talk about it i told him it would cut him off from his swell friends, and i knew his father might turn him loose. oh, it wasn't the money! well, he'd get mad all through, and say he never got along with the old man, and that his friends would have to take me, and he couldn't live without me. he said he would have me educated, and bought me books, and i tried to read them. i'd have done anything for him. he'd knocked around a good deal since he'd been to harvard college,--he wasn't what you'd call a saint, but his heart was all right. and he changed, too, i could see it. he said he was going to make something out of himself. "i didn't think it was possible to be so happy, but i had a feeling all along, inside of me, that it couldn't come off. i had a little flat in rutger street, over on the south side, and everything in the world i wanted. well, one day, sure enough, the bell rang and i opened the door, and there stood a man with side whiskers staring at me, and staring until i was frightened to death. i never saw such eyes as he had. and all of a sudden i knew it was his father. "'is this miss marcy?'" he said. "i couldn't say anything at all, but he handed me his card and smiled, i'll never forget how he smiled--and came right in and sat down. i'd heard of that man all my life, and how much money he'd made, and all that. why, up in madison folks used to talk about him--" she checked herself suddenly and stared at hodder in consternation. "maybe you know him!" she exclaimed. "i never thought!" "maybe i do," he assented wearily. in the past few moments suspicion had become conviction. "well--what difference does it make--now? it's all over, and i'm not going to bother him. i made up my mind i wouldn't, on account of him, you understand. i never fell that low--thank god!" hodder nodded. he could not speak . . . . the woman seemed to be living over again that scene, in her imagination. "i just couldn't realize who it was sitting there beside me, but if i hadn't known it wouldn't have made any difference. he could have done anything with me, anyway, and he knew how to get at me. he said, now that he'd seen me, that he was sure i was a good girl at the bottom and loved his son, and that i wouldn't want to ruin the boy when he had such a big future ahead of him. i wouldn't have thought, to look at the man, that he could have been so gentle. i made a fool of myself and cried, and told him i'd go away and never see his son any more--that i'd always been against marrying him. well, he almost had tears in his eyes when he thanked me and said i'd never regret it, and he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. i said i wouldn't take any money, and gave it back to him. i've always been sorry since that i didn't make him take it back--it never did anything but harm to me. but he had his way. he laid it on the table and said he wouldn't feel right, and took my hand--and i just didn't care. "well, what do you think i did after he'd gone? i went and played a piece on the piano,--and i never can bear to hear that ragtime to this day. i couldn't seem to feel anything. and after a while i got up and opened the envelope--it was full of crackly new hundred dollar bills --thirty of 'em, and as i sat there staring at 'em the pain came on, like a toothache, in throbs, getting worse all the time until i just couldn't stand it. i had a notion of sending the money back even then, but i didn't. i didn't know how to do it,--and as i told you, i wasn't able to care much. then i remembered i'd promised to go away, and i had to have some money for that, and if i didn't leave right off i wouldn't have the strength to do it. i hadn't even thought where to go: i couldn't think, so i got dressed and went down to the depot anyway. it was one of those bright, bitter cold winter days after a thaw when the icicles are hanging everywhere. i went inside and walked up and down that long platform under the glass roof. my, it was cold in there! i looked over all the signs, and made up my mind i'd go to chicago. "i meant to work, i never meant to spend the money, but to send it back. i'd put it aside--and then i'd go and take a little. say, it was easy not to work--and i didn't care what happened to me as long as i wasn't going to see him again. well, i'm not trying to smooth it over, i suppose there was something crooked about me from the start, but i just went clean to hell with that money, and when i heard he'd gone away, i came back here." "something crooked!" the words rang in hodder's ears, in his very soul. how was he or any man to estimate, to unravel the justice from the injustice, to pass upon the merit of this woman's punishment? here again, in this vitiated life, was only to be seen the remorseless working of law--cause and effect. crooked! had not the tree been crooked from the beginning--incapable of being straightened? she had herself naively confessed it. was not the twist ingrained? and if so, where was the salvation he had preached? there was good in her still,--but what was "good"? . . . he took no account of his profound compassion. what comfort could he give her, what hope could he hold out that the twist, now gnarled and knotted, might be removed, that she might gain peace of soul and body and the "happiness" of which he had talked with alison parr? . . . he raised his eyes, to discover that the woman's were fixed upon him, questioningly. "i suppose i was a fool to tell you," she said, with a shade of her old bitterness; "it can't do any good." her next remark was startlingly astute. "you've found out for yourself, i guess, that all this talk about heaven and hell and repentance don't amount to anything. hell couldn't be any worse than i've been through, no matter how hot it is. and heaven!" she laughed, burst into tears, and quickly dried them. "you know the man i've been talking about, that bought me off. i didn't intend to tell you, but i see you can't help knowing--eldon parr. i don't say he didn't do right from his way of looking at things,--but say, it wasn't exactly christian, was it?" "no," he said, "it wasn't." he bowed his head, and presently, when he raised it again, he caught something in her look that puzzled and disturbed him--an element of adoration. "you're white through and through," she said, slowly and distinctly. and he knew not how to protest. "i'll tell you something," she went on, as one who has made a discovery. "i liked you the first time you came in here--that night--when you wanted me to be friends; well, there was something that seemed to make it impossible then. i felt it, if you didn't." she groped for words. "i can't explain what it was, but now it's gone. you're different. i think a lot more of you. maybe it's because of what you did at harrod's, sitting down with me and giving me supper when i was so hungry, and the champagne. you weren't ashamed of me." "good god, why should i have been!" he exclaimed. "you! why shouldn't you?" she cried fiercely. "there's hardly a man in that place that wouldn't have been. they all know me by sight--and some of 'em better. you didn't see 'em grinning when i came up to you, but i did. my god--it's awful--it's awful i...." she burst into violent weeping, long deferred. he took her hand in his, and did not speak, waiting for the fit to spend itself . . . . and after a while the convulsive shudders that shook her gradually ceased. "you must trust me," he said. "the first thing tomorrow i'm going to make arrangements for you to get out of these rooms. you can't stay here any longer." "that's sure," she answered, trying to smile. "i'm broke. i even owe the co--the policeman." "the policeman!" "he has to turn it in to tom beatty and the politicians" beatty! where had he heard the name? suddenly it came to him that beatty was the city boss, who had been eulogized by mr. plimpton! "i have some good friends who will be glad to help you to get work--and until you do get work. you will have to fight--but we all have to fight. will you try?" "sure, i'll try," she answered, in a low voice. her very tone of submission troubled him. and he had a feeling that, if he had demanded, she would have acquiesced in anything. "we'll talk it over to-morrow," he went on, clinging to his note of optimism. "we'll find out what you can do easiest, to begin with." "i might give music lessons," she suggested. the remark increased his uneasiness, for he recognized in it a sure symptom of disease--a relapse into what might almost have been called levity, blindness to the supreme tragedy of her life which but a moment before had shaken and appalled her. he shook his head bravely. "i'm afraid that wouldn't do--at first." she rose and went into the other room, returning in a few moments with a work basket, from which she drew a soiled and unfinished piece of embroidery. "there's a bureau cover i started when i was at pratt's," she said, as she straightened it over her knees. "it's a copy of an expensive one. i never had the patience to finish it, but one of the sales-ladies there, who was an expert, told me it was pretty good: she taught me the stitch, and i had a notion at that time i might make a little money for dresses and the theatre. i was always clever with my hands." "the very thing!" he said, with hopeful emphasis. "i'm sure i can get you plenty of it to do. and i'll come back in the morning." he gave it back to her, and as she was folding it his glance fell on a photograph in the basket. "i kept it, i don't know why," he heard her say; "i didn't have the heart to burn it." he started recovered himself, and rose. "i'll go to see the agent the first thing to-morrow," he said. "and then--you'll be ready for me? you trust me?" "i'd do anything for you," was her tremulous reply. her disquieting, submissive smile haunted him as he roped his way down the stairs to the street, and then the face in the photograph replaced it--the laughing eyes, the wilful, pleasure--loving mouth he had seen in the school and college pictures of preston parr. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xxvii. retribution xxviii. light chapter xxvii retribution i the bishop's house was a comfortable, double dwelling of a smooth, bright red brick and large, plate-glass windows, situated in a plot at the western end of waverley place. it had been bought by the diocese in the nineties, and was representative of that transitional period in american architecture when the mansard roof had been repudiated, when as yet no definite types had emerged to take its place. the house had pointed gables, and a tiny and utterly useless porch that served only to darken the front door, made of heavy pieces of wood fantastically curved. it was precisely ten o'clock in the morning when hodder rang the bell and was shown into the ample study which he had entered on other and less vital occasions. he found difficulty in realizing that this pleasant room, lined with well-worn books and overlooking a back lawn where the clothes of the episcopal family hung in the yellow autumn sun, was to be his judgment seat, whence he might be committed to trial for heresy. and this was the twentieth century! the full force of the preposterous fact smote him, and a consciousness of the distance he himself had travelled since the comparatively recent days of his own orthodoxy. and suddenly he was full again of a resentful impatience, not only that he should be called away from his labours, his cares, the strangers who were craving his help, to answer charges of such an absurd triviality, but that the performance of the great task to which he had set his hand, with god's help, should depend upon it. would his enemies be permitted to drive him out thus easily? the old bishop came in, walking by the aid of a cane. he smiled at hodder, who greeted him respectfully, and bidding him sit down, took a chair himself behind his writing table, from whence he gazed awhile earnestly and contemplatively at the rugged features and strong shoulders of the rector of st. john's. the effect of the look was that of a visual effort to harmonize the man with the deed he had done, the stir he had created in the city and the diocese; to readjust impressions. a hint of humour crept into the bishop's blue eyes, which were watery, yet strong, with heavy creases in the corners. he indicated by a little gesture three bundles of envelopes, bound by rubber bands, on the corner of his blotter. "hodder," he said, "see what a lot of trouble you have made for me in my old age! all those are about you." the rector's expression could not have been deemed stern, but it had met the bishop's look unflinchingly. now it relaxed into a responding smile, which was not without seriousness. "i am sorry, sir," hodder answered, "to have caused you any worry--or inconvenience." "perhaps," said the bishop, "i have had too much smooth sailing for a servant of christ. indeed, i have come to that conclusion." hodder did not reply. he was moved, even more by the bishop's manner and voice than his words. and the opening to their conversation was unexpected. the old man put on his spectacles, and drew from the top of one of the bundles a letter. "this is from one of your vestrymen, mr. gordon atterbury," he said, and proceeded to read it, slowly. when he had finished he laid it down. "is that, according to your recollection, mr. hodder, a fairly accurate summary of the sermon you gave when you resumed the pulpit at the end of the summer?" "yes, sir," answered the rector, "it is surprisingly accurate, with the exception of two or three inferences which i shall explain at the proper moment." "mr. atterbury is to be congratulated on his memory," the bishop observed a little dryly. "and he has saved me the trouble of reading more. now what are the inferences to which you object?" hodder stated them. "the most serious one," he added, "is that which he draws from my attitude on the virgin birth. mr. atterbury insists, like others who cling to that dogma, that i have become what he vaguely calls an unitarian. he seems incapable of grasping my meaning, that the only true god the age knows, the world has ever known, is the god in christ, is the spirit in christ, and is there not by any material proof, but because we recognize it spiritually. and that doctrine and dogma, ancient speculations as to how, definitely, that spirit came to be in christ, are fruitless and mischievous to-day. mr. atterbury and others seem actually to resent my identification of our lord's spirit with the social conscience as well as the individual conscience of our time." the bishop nodded. "hodder," he demanded abruptly, leaning forward over his desk, "how did this thing happen?" "you mean, sir--" there was, in the bishop's voice, a note almost pathetic. "oh, i do not mean to ask you anything you may deem too personal. and god forbid, as i look at you, as i have known you, that i should doubt your sincerity. i am not your inquisitor, but your bishop and your friend, and i am asking for your confidence. six months ago you were, apparently, one of the most orthodox rectors in the diocese. i recognize that you are not an impulsive, sensational man, and i am all the more anxious to learn from your own lips something of the influences, of the processes which have changed you, which have been strong enough to impel you to risk the position you have achieved." by this unlooked-for appeal hodder was not only disarmed, but smitten with self-reproach at the thought of his former misjudgment and underestimation of the man in whose presence he sat. and it came over him, not only the extent to which, formerly, he had regarded the bishop as too tolerant and easygoing, but the fact that he had arrived here today prepared to find in his superior anything but the attitude he was showing. considering the bishop's age, hodder had been ready for a lack of understanding of the step he had taken, even for querulous reproaches and rebuke. he had, therefore, to pull himself together, to adjust himself to the unexpected greatness of soul with which he was being received before he began to sketch the misgivings he had felt from the early days of his rectorship of st. john's; the helplessness and failure which by degrees had come over him. he related how it had become apparent to him that by far the greater part of his rich and fashionable congregation were christians only in name, who kept their religion in a small and impervious compartment where it did not interfere with their lives. he pictured the yearning and perplexity of those who had come to him for help, who could not accept the old explanations, and had gone away empty; and he had not been able to make christians of the poor who attended the parish house. finally, trusting in the bishop's discretion, he spoke of the revelations he had unearthed in dalton street, and how these had completely destroyed his confidence in the christianity he had preached, and how he had put his old faith to the test of unprejudiced modern criticism, philosophy, and science. . . the bishop listened intently, his head bent, his eyes on he rector. "and you have come out--convinced?" he asked tremulously. "yes, yes, i see you have. it is enough." he relapsed into thought, his wrinkled hand lying idly on the table. "i need not tell you, my friend," he resumed at length, "that a great deal of pressure has been brought to bear upon me in this matter, more than i have ever before experienced. you have mortally offended, among others, the most powerful layman in the diocese, mr. parr, who complains that you have presumed to take him to task concerning his private affairs." "i told him," answered holder, "that so long as he continued to live the life he leads, i could not accept his contributions to st. john's." "i am an old man," said the bishop, "and whatever usefulness i have had is almost finished. but if i were young to-day, i should pray god for the courage and insight you have shown, and i am thankful to have lived long enough to have known you. it has, at least, been given one to realize that times have changed, that we are on the verge of a mighty future. i will be frank to say that ten years ago, if this had happened, i should have recommended you for trial. now i can only wish you godspeed. i, too, can see the light, my friend. i can see, i think, though dimly, the beginnings of a blending of all sects, of all religions in the increasing vision of the truth revealed in jesus christ, stripped, as you say, of dogma, of fruitless attempts at rational explanation. in japan and china, in india and persia, as well as in christian countries, it is coming, coming by some working of the spirit the mystery of which is beyond us. and nations and men who even yet know nothing of the gospels are showing a willingness to adopt what is christ's, and the god of christ." holder was silent, from sheer inability to speak. "if you had needed an advocate with me," the bishop continued, "you could not have had one to whose counsel i would more willingly have listened, than that of horace bentley. he wrote asking to come and see me, but i went to him in dalton street the day i returned. and it gives me satisfaction, mr. holder, to confess to you freely that he has taught me, by his life, more of true christianity than i have learned in all my experience elsewhere." "i had thought," exclaimed the rector, wonderingly, "that i owed him more than any other man." "there are many who think that--hundreds, i should say," the bishop replied . . . . "eldon parr ruined him, drove him from the church.... it is strange how, outside of the church, his influence has silently and continuously grown until it has borne fruit in--this. even now," he added after a pause, "the cautiousness, the dread of change which comes with old age might, i think, lead me to be afraid of it if i--didn't perceive behind it the spirit of horace bentley." it struck holder, suddenly, what an unconscious but real source of confidence this thought had likewise been to him. he spoke of it. "it is not that i wouldn't trust you," the bishop went on. "i have watched you, i have talked to asa waring, i have read the newspapers. in spite of it all, you have kept your head, you have not compromised the dignity of the church. but oh, my friend, i beg you to bear in mind that you are launched upon deep waters, that you have raised up many enemies --enemies of christ--who seek to destroy you. you are still young. and the uncompromising experiment to which you are pledged, of freeing your church, of placing her in the position of power and influence in the community which is rightfully hers, is as yet untried. and no stone will be left unturned to discourage and overcome you. you have faith,--you have made me feel it as you sat here,--a faith which will save you from bitterness in personal defeat. you may not reap the victory, or even see it in your lifetime. but of this i am sure, that you will be able to say, with paul, 'i have planted, apollos watered, but god gave the increase.' whatever happens, you may count upon my confidence and support. i can only wish that i were younger, that my arm were stronger, and that i had always perceived the truth as clearly as i see it now." holder had risen involuntarily while these words were being spoken. they were indeed a benediction, and the intensity of his feeling warned him of the inadequacy of any reply. they were pronounced in sorrow, yet in hope, and they brought home to him, sharply, the nobility of the bishop's own sacrifice. "and you, sir?" he asked. "ah," answered the bishop, "with this i shall have had my life. i am content. . . ." "you will come to me again, hodder? some other day," he said, after an interval, "that we may talk over the new problems. they are constructive, creative, and i am anxious to hear how you propose to meet them. for one thing, to find a new basis for the support of such a parish. i understand they have deprived you of your salary." "i have enough to live on, for a year or so," replied the rector, quickly. "perhaps more." "i'm afraid," said the bishop, with a smile in his old eyes, "that you will need it, my friend. but who can say? you have strength, you have confidence, and god is with you." ii life, as hodder now grasped it, was a rapidly whirling wheel which gave him no chance to catch up with the impressions and experiences through which it was dragging him. here, for instance, were two far-reaching and momentous events, one crowding upon the other, and not an hour for reflection, realization, or adjustment! he had, indeed, after his return from the bishop's, snatched a few minutes to write alison the unexpected result of that interview. but even as he wrote and rang for a messenger to carry the note to park street, he was conscious of an effort to seize upon and hold the fact that the woman he had so intensely desired was now his helpmate; and had, of her own freewill, united herself with him. a strong sense of the dignity of their relationship alone prevented his calling her on the telephone--as it doubtless had prevented her. while she remained in her father's house, he could not. . . in the little room next to the office several persons were waiting to see him. but as he went downstairs he halted on the, landing, his hand going to his forehead, a reflex movement significant of a final attempt to achieve the hitherto unattainable feat of imagining her as his wife. if he might only speak to her again--now, this morning! and yet he knew that he needed no confirmation. the reality was there, in the background; and though refusing to come forward to be touched, it had already grafted itself as an actual and vital part of his being, never to be eliminated. characteristically perfecting his own ideal, she had come to him in the hour when his horizon had been most obscure. and he experienced now an exultation, though solemn and sacred, that her faith had so far been rewarded in the tidings he now confided to the messenger. he was not, as yet, to be driven out from the task, to be deprived of the talent, the opportunity intrusted to him by lord--the emancipation of the parish of st. john's. the first to greet him, when he entered his office, was one who, unknown to himself, had been fighting the battle of the god in christ, and who now, thanks to john hodder, had identified the spirit as the transforming force. bedloe hubbell had come to offer his services to the church. the tender was unqualified. "i should even be willing, mr. hodder," he said with a smile, "to venture occasionally into a pulpit. you have not only changed my conception of religion, but you have made it for me something which i can now speak about naturally." hodder was struck by the suggestion. "ah, we shall need the laymen in the pulpits, mr. hubbell," he said quickly. "a great spiritual movement must be primarily a lay movement. and i promise you you shall not lack for opportunity." iii at nine o'clock that evening, when a reprieve came, hodder went out. anxiety on the score of kate marcy, as well as a desire to see mr. bentley and tell him of the conversation with the bishop, directed his steps toward dalton street. and hodder had, indeed, an intention of confiding to his friend, as one eminently entitled to it, the news of his engagement to alison parr. nothing, however, had been heard of kate. she was not in dalton street, mr. bentley feared. the search of gratz, the cabinet-maker, had been fruitless. and sally grover had even gone to see the woman in the hospital, whom kate had befriended, in the hope of getting a possible clew. they sat close together before the fire in mr. bentley's comfortable library, debating upon the possibility of other methods of procedure, when a carriage was heard rattling over the pitted asphalt without. as it pulled up at the curb, a silence fell between them. the door-bell rang. holder found himself sitting erect, rigidly attentive, listening to the muffled sound of a woman's voice in the entry. a few moments later came a knock at the library door, and sam entered. the old darky was plainly frightened. "it's miss kate, marse ho'ace, who you bin tryin' to fin'," he stammered. holder sprang to his feet and made his way rapidly around the table, where he stood confronting the woman in the doorway. there she was, perceptibly swaying, as though the floor under her were rocked by an earthquake. her handsome face was white as chalk, her pupils widened in terror. it was curious, at such an instant, that he should have taken in her costume,--yet it was part of the mystery. she wore a new, close-fitting, patently expensive suit of dark blue cloth and a small hat, which were literally transforming in their effect, demanding a palpable initial effort of identification. he seized her by the arm. "what is it?" he demanded. "oh, my god!" she cried. "he--he's out there--in the carriage." she leaned heavily against the doorpost, shivering . . . . holder saw sally grover coming down the stairs. "take her," he said, and went out of the front door, which sam had left open. mr. bentley was behind him. the driver had descended from the box and was peering into the darkness of the vehicle when he heard them, and turned. at sight of the tall clergyman, an expression of relief came into his face. "i don't like the looks of this, sir," he said. "i thought he was pretty bad when i went to fetch him--" holder pushed past him and looked into the carriage. leaning back, motionless, in the corner of the seat was the figure of a man. for a terrible moment of premonition, of enlightenment, the rector gazed at it. "they sent for me from a family hotel in ayers street," the driver was explaining. mr. bentley's voice interrupted him. "he must be brought in, at once. do you know where dr. latimer's office is, on tower street?" he asked the man. "go there, and bring this doctor back with you as quickly as possible. if he is not in, get another, physician." between them, the driver and holder got the burden out of the carriage and up the steps. the light from the hallway confirmed the rector's fear. "it's preston parr," he said. the next moment was too dreadful for surprise, but never had the sense of tragedy so pierced the innermost depths of holder's being as now, when horace bentley's calmness seemed to have forsaken him; and as he gazed down upon the features on the pillow, he wept . . . . holder turned away. whatever memories those features evoked, memories of a past that still throbbed with life these were too sacred for intrusion. the years of exile, of uncomplaining service to others in this sordid street and over the wide city had not yet sufficed to allay the pain, to heal the wound of youth. nay, loyalty had kept it fresh--a loyalty that was the handmaid of faith. . . the rector softly left the room, only to be confronted with another harrowing scene in the library, where a frantic woman was struggling in sally grover's grasp. he went to her assistance. . . words of comfort, of entreaty were of no avail,--kate marcy did not seem to hear them. hers, in contrast to that other, was the unmeaning grief, the overwhelming sense of injustice of the child; and with her regained physical strength the two had all they could do to restrain her. "i will go to him," she sobbed, between her paroxysms, "you've got no right to keep me--he's mine . . . he came back to me--he's all i ever had . . . ." so intent were they that they did not notice mr. bentley standing beside them until they heard his voice. "what she says is true," he told them. "her place is in there. let her go." kate marcy raised her head at the words, and looked at him a strange, half-comprehending, half-credulous gaze. they released her, helped her towards the bedroom, and closed the door gently behind her. . . the three sat in silence until the carriage was heard returning, and the doctor entered. the examination was brief, and two words, laconically spoken, sufficed for an explanation--apoplexy, alcohol. the prostrate, quivering woman was left where they had found her. dr. latimer was a friend of mr. bentley's, and betrayed no surprise at a situation which otherwise might have astonished him. it was only when he learned the dead man's name, and his parentage, that he looked up quickly from his note book. "the matter can be arranged without a scandal," he said, after an instant. "can you tell me something of the circumstances?" it was hodder who answered. "preston parr had been in love with this woman, and separated from her. she was under mr. bentley's care when he found her again, i infer, by accident. from what the driver says, they were together in a hotel in ayers street, and he died after he had been put in a carriage. in her terror, she was bringing him to mr. bentley." the doctor nodded. "poor woman!" he said unexpectedly. "will you be good enough to let mr: parr know that i will see him at his house, to-night?" he added, as he took his departure. iv sally grower went out with the physician, and it was mr. bentley who answered the question in the rector's mind, which he hesitated to ask. "mr. parr must come here," he said. as the rector turned, mechanically, to pick up his hat, mr. bentley added "you will come back, hodder?" "since you wish it, sir," the rector said. once in the street, he faced a predicament, but swiftly decided that the telephone was impossible under the circumstances, that there could be no decent procedure without going himself to park street. it was only a little after ten. the electric car which he caught seemed to lag, the stops were interminable. his thoughts flew hither and thither. should he try first to see alison? he was nearest to her now of all the world, and he could not suffer the thought of her having the news otherwise. yes, he must tell her, since she knew nothing of the existence of kate marcy. having settled that,--though the thought of the blow she was to receive lay like a weight on his heart,--mr. bentley's reason for summoning eldon parr to dalton street came to him. that the feelings of mr. bentley towards the financier were those of christian forgiveness was not for a moment to be doubted: but a meeting, particularly under such circumstances, could not but be painful indeed. it must be, it was, hodder saw, for kate marcy's sake; yes, and for eldon parr's as well, that he be given this opportunity to deal with the woman whom he had driven away from his son, and ruined. the moon, which had shed splendours over the world the night before, was obscured by a low-drifting mist as hodder turned in between the ornamental lamps that marked the gateway of the park street mansion, and by some undiscerned thought--suggestion he pictured the heart-broken woman he had left beside the body of one who had been heir to all this magnificence. useless now, stone and iron and glass, pictures and statuary. all the labour, all the care and cunning, all the stealthy planning to get ahead of others had been in vain! what indeed were left to eldon parr! it was he who needed pity,--not the woman who had sinned and had been absolved because of her great love; not the wayward, vice-driven boy who lay dead. the very horror of what eldon parr was now to suffer turned hodder cold as he rang the bell and listened for the soft tread of the servant who would answer his summons. the man who flung open the door knew him, and did not conceal his astonishment. "will you take my card to miss parr," the rector said, "if she has not retired, and tell her i have a message?" "miss parr is still in the library, sir." "alone?" "yes, sir." the man preceded him, but before his name had been announced alison was standing, her book in her hand, gazing at him with startled eyes, his name rising, a low cry, to her lips. "john!" he took the book from her, gently, and held her hands. "something has happened!" she said. "tell me--i can bear it." he saw instantly that her dread was for him, and it made his task the harder. it's your brother, alison." "preston! what is it? he's done something----" hodder shook his head. "he died--to-night. he is at mr. bentley's." it was like her that she did not cry out, or even speak, but stood still, her hands tightening on his, her breast heaving. she was not, he knew, a woman who wept easily, and her eyes were dry. and he had it to be thankful for that it was given him to be with her, in this sacred relationship, at such a moment. but even now, such was the mystery that ever veiled her soul, he could not read her feelings, nor know what these might be towards the brother whose death he announced. "i want to tell you, first, alison, to prepare you," he said. her silence was eloquent. she looked up at him bravely, trustfully, in a way that made him wince. whatever the exact nature of her suffering, it was too deep for speech. and yet she helped him, made it easier for him by reason of her very trust, once given not to be withdrawn. it gave him a paradoxical understanding of her which was beyond definition. "you must know--you would have sometime to know that there was a woman he loved, whom he intended to marry--but she was separated from him. she was not what is called a bad woman, she was a working girl. i found her, this summer, and she told me the story, and she has been under the care of mr. bentley. she disappeared two or three days ago. your brother met her again, and he was stricken with apoplexy while with her this evening. she brought him to mr. bentley's house." "my father--bought her and sent her away." "you knew?" "i heard a little about it at the time, by accident. i have always remembered it . . . . i have always felt that something like this would happen." her sense of fatality, another impression she gave of living in the deeper, instinctive currents of life, had never been stronger upon him than now. . . . she released his hands. "how strange," she said, "that the end should have come at mr. bentley's! he loved my mother--she was the only woman he ever loved." it came to hodder as the completing touch of the revelation he had half glimpsed by the bedside. "ah," he could not help exclaiming, "that explains much." she had looked at him again, through sudden tears, as though divining his reference to mr. bentley's grief, when a step make them turn. eldon parr had entered the room. never, not even in that last interview, had his hardness seemed so concretely apparent as now. again, pity seemed never more out of place, yet pity was hodder's dominant feeling as he met the coldness, the relentlessness of the glance. the thing that struck him, that momentarily kept closed his lips, was the awful, unconscious timeliness of the man's entrance, and his unpreparedness to meet the blow that was to crush him. "may i ask, mr. hodder," he said, in an unemotional voice, "what you are doing in this house?" still hodder hesitated, an unwilling executioner. "father," said alison, "mr. hodder has come with a message." never, perhaps, had eldon parr given such complete proof of his lack of spiritual intuition. the atmosphere, charged with presage for him, gave him nothing. "mr. hodder takes a strange way of delivering it," was his comment. mercy took precedence over her natural directness. she laid her hand gently on his arm. and she had, at that instant, no thought of the long years he had neglected her for her brother. "it's about--preston," she said. "preston!" the name came sharply from eldon parr's lips. "what about him? speak, can't you?" "he died this evening," said alison, simply. hodder plainly heard the ticking of the clock on the mantel . . . . and the drama that occurred was the more horrible because it was hidden; played, as it were, behind closed doors. for the spectators, there was only the black wall, and the silence. eldon parr literally did nothing, --made no gesture, uttered no cry. the death, they knew, was taking place in his soul, yet the man stood before them, naturally, for what seemed an interminable time . . . . "where is he?" he asked. "at mr. bentley's, in dalton street." it was alison who replied again. even then he gave no sign that he read retribution in the coincidence, betrayed no agitation at the mention of a name which, in such a connection, might well have struck the terror of judgment into his heart. they watched him while, with a firm step, he crossed the room and pressed a button in the wall, and waited. "i want the closed automobile, at once," he said, when the servant came. "i beg pardon; sir, but i think gratton has gone to bed. he had no orders." "then wake him," said eldon parr, "instantly. and send for my secretary." with a glance which he perceived alison comprehended, hodder made his way out of the room. he had from eldon parr, as he passed him, neither question, acknowledgment, nor recognition. whatever the banker might have felt, or whether his body had now become a mere machine mechanically carrying on a life-long habit of action, the impression was one of the tremendousness of the man's consistency. a great effort was demanded to summon up the now almost unimaginable experience of his confidence; of the evening when, almost on that very spot, he had revealed to hodder the one weakness of his life. and yet the effort was not to be, presently, without startling results. in the darkness of the street the picture suddenly grew distinct on the screen of the rector's mind, the face of the banker subtly drawn with pain as he had looked down on it in compassion; the voice with its undercurrent of agony: "he never knew how much i cared--that what i was doing was all for him, building for him, that he might carry on my work." v so swift was the trolley that ten minutes had elapsed, after hodder's arrival, before the purr of an engine and the shriek of a brake broke the stillness of upper dalton street and announced the stopping of a heavy motor before the door. the rector had found mr. bentley in the library, alone, seated with bent head in front of the fire, and had simply announced the intention of eldon parr to come. from the chair hodder had unobtrusively chosen, near the window, his eyes rested on the noble profile of his friend. what his thoughts were, hodder could not surmise; for he seemed again, marvellously, to have regained the outward peace which was the symbol of banishment from the inner man of all thought of self. "i have prepared her for mr. parr's coming," he said to hodder at length. and yet he had left her there! hodder recalled the words mr. bentley had spoken, "it is her place." her place, the fallen woman's, the place she had earned by a great love and a great renunciation, of which no earthly power might henceforth deprive her . . . . then came the motor, the ring at the door, the entrance of eldon parr into the library. he paused, a perceptible moment, on the threshold as his look fell upon the man whom he had deprived of home and fortune,--yes and of the one woman in the world for them both. mr. bentley had risen, and stood facing him. that shining, compassionate gaze should have been indeed a difficult one to meet. vengeance was the lord's, in truth! what ordeal that horace bentley in anger and retribution might have devised could have equalled this! and yet eldon parr did meet it--with an effort. hodder, from his corner, detected the effort, though it were barely discernible, and would have passed a scrutiny less rigid,--the first outward and visible sign of the lesion within. for a brief instant the banker's eyes encountered mr. bentley's look with a flash of the old defiance, and fell, and then swept the room. "will you come this way, mr. parr?" mr. bentley said, indicating the door of the bedroom. alison followed. her eyes, wet with unheeded tears, had never left mr. bentley's face. she put out her hand to him . . . . eldon parr had halted abruptly. he knew from alison the circumstances in which his son had died, and how he had been brought hither to this house, but the sight of the woman beside the bed fanned into flame his fury against a world which had cheated him, by such ignominious means, of his dearest wish. he grew white with sudden passion. "what is she doing here?" he demanded. kate marcy, who had not seemed to hear his entrance, raised up to him a face from which all fear had fled, a face which, by its suggestive power, compelled him to realize the absolute despair clutching now at his own soul, and against which he was fighting wildly, hopelessly. it was lying in wait for him, with hideous patience, in the coming watches of the night. perhaps he read in the face of this woman whom he had condemned to suffer all degradation, and over whom he was now powerless, something which would ultimately save her from the hell now yawning for him; a redeeming element in her grief of which she herself were not as yet conscious, a light shining in the darkness of her soul which in eternity would become luminous. and he saw no light for him--he thrashed in darkness. he had nothing, now, to give, no power longer to deprive. she had given all she possessed, the memorial of her kind which would outlast monuments. it was alison who crossed the room swiftly. she laid her hand protectingly on kate marcy's shoulder, and stooped, and kissed her. she turned to her father. "it is her right," she said. "he belonged to her, not to us. and we must take her home with us. "no," answered kate marcy' "i don't want to go. i wouldn't live," she added with unexpected intensity, "with him." "you would live with me," said alison. "i don't want to live!" kate marcy got up from the chair with an energy they had not thought her to possess, a revival of the spirit which had upheld her when she had contended, singly, with a remorseless world. she addressed herself to eldon parr. "you took him from me, and i was a fool to let you. he might have saved me and saved himself. i listened to you when you told me lies as to how it would ruin him . . . . well,--i had him you never did." the sudden, intolerable sense of wrong done to her love, the swift anger which followed it, the justness of her claim of him who now lay in the dignity of death clothed her--who in life had been crushed and blotted out--with a dignity not to be gainsaid. in this moment of final self-assertion she became the dominating person in the room, knew for once the birthright of human worth. they watched her in silence as she turned and gave one last, lingering look at the features of the dead; stretched out her hand towards them, but did not touch them . . . and then went slowly towards the door. beside alison she stopped. "you are his sister?" she said. "yes." she searched alison's face, wistfully. "i could have loved you." "and can you not--still?" kate mercy did not answer the question. "it is because you understand," she said. "you're like those i've come to know--here. and you're like him . . . . i don't mean in looks. he, too, was good--and square." she spoke the words a little defiantly, as though challenging the verdict of the world. "and he wouldn't have been wild if he could have got going straight." "i know," said alison, in a low voice. "yes," said kate mercy, "you look as if you did. he thought a lot of you, he said he was only beginning to find out what you was. i'd like you to think as well of me as you can." "i could not think better," alison replied. kate mercy shook her head. "i got about as low as any woman ever got," she said "mr. hodder will tell you. i want you to know that i wouldn't marry --your brother," she hesitated over the name. "he wanted me to--he was mad with me to night, because i wouldn't--when this happened." she snatched her hand free from alison's, and fled out of the room, into the hallway. eldon parr had moved towards the bed, seemingly unaware of the words they had spoken. perhaps, as he gazed upon the face, he remembered in his agony the sunny, smiling child who need to come hurrying down the steps in ransome street to meet him. in the library mr. bentley and john hodder, knowing nothing of her flight, heard the front door close on kate marcy forever . . . . chapter xxviii light i two days after the funeral, which had taken place from calvary, and not from st. john's, hodder was no little astonished to receive a note from eldon parr's secretary requesting the rector to call in park street. in the same mail was a letter from alison. "i have had," she wrote, "a talk with my father. the initiative was his. i should not have thought of speaking to him of my affairs so soon after preston's death. it seems that he strongly suspected our engagement, which of course i at once acknowledged, telling him that it was your intention, at the proper time, to speak to him yourself. "i was surprised when he said he would ask you to call. i confess that i have not an idea of what he intends to say to you, john, but i trust you absolutely, as always. you will find him, already, terribly changed. i cannot describe it--you will see for yourself. and it has all seemed to happen so suddenly. as i wrote you, he sat up both nights, with preston--he could not be induced to leave the room. and after the first night he was different. he has hardly spoken a word, except when he sent for me this evening, and he eats nothing . . . . and yet, somehow, i do not think that this will be the end. i feel that he will go on living. . . . . "i did not realize how much he still hoped about preston. and on monday, when preston so unexpectedly came home, he was happier than i have known him for years. it was strange and sad that he could not see, as i saw, that whatever will power my brother had had was gone. he could not read it in the face of his own son, who was so quick to detect it in all others! and then came the tragedy. oh, john, do you think we shall ever find that girl again?--i know you are trying but we mustn't rest until we do. do you think we ever shall? i shall never forgive myself for not following her out of the door, but, i thought she had gone to you and mr. bentley." hodder laid the letter down, and took it up again. he knew that alison felt, as he felt, that they never would find kate marcy . . . . he read on. "my father wished to speak to me about the money. he has plans for much of it, it appears, even now. oh. john, he will never understand. i want so much to see you, to talk to you--there are times when i am actually afraid to be alone, and without you. if it be weakness to confess that i need your reassurance, your strength and comfort constantly, then i am weak. i once thought i could stand alone, that i had solved all problems for myself, but i know now how foolish i was. i have been face to face with such dreadful, unimagined things, and in my ignorance i did not conceive that life held such terrors. and when i look at my father, the thought of immortality turns me faint. after you have come here this afternoon there can be no longer any reason why we should not meet, and all the world know it. i will go with you to mr. bentley's. "of course i need not tell you that i refused to inherit anything. but i believe i should have consented if i possibly could have done so. it seemed so cruel--i can think of no other word--to have, to refuse at such a moment. perhaps i have been cruel to him all my life--i don't know. as i look back upon everything, all our relations, i cannot see how i could have been different. he wouldn't let me. i still believe to have stayed with him would have been a foolish and useless sacrifice . . . but he looked at me so queerly, as though he, too, had had a glimmering of what we might have been to each other after my mother died. why is life so hard? and why are we always getting glimpses of things when it is too late? it is only honest to say that if i had it to do all over again, i should have left him as i did. "it is hard to write you this, but he actually made the condition of my acceptance of the inheritance that i should not marry you. i really do not believe i convinced him that you wouldn't have me take the money under any circumstances. and the dreadful side of it all was that i had to make it plain to him--after what has happened that my desire to marry you wasn't the main reason of my refusal. i had to tell him that even though you had not been in question, i couldn't have taken what he wished to give me, since it had not been honestly made. he asked me why i went on eating the food bought with such money, living under his roof? but i cannot, i will not leave him just yet . . . . it is two o'clock. i cannot write any more to-night." ii the appointed time was at the november dusk, hurried forward nearly an hour by the falling panoply of smoke driven westward over the park by the wet east wind. and the rector was conducted, with due ceremony, to the office upstairs which he had never again expected to enter, where that other memorable interview had taken place. the curtains were drawn. and if the green-shaded lamp--the only light in the room--had been arranged by a master of dramatic effect, it could not have better served the setting. in spite of alison's letter, holder was unprepared for the ravages a few days had made in the face of eldon parr. not that he appeared older: the impression was less natural, more sinister. the skin had drawn sharply over the cheek-bones, and strangely the eyes both contradicted and harmonized with the transformation of the features. these, too, had changed. they were not dead and lustreless, but gleamed out of the shadowy caverns into which they had sunk, unyielding, indomitable in torment,--eyes of a spirit rebellious in the fumes . . . . this spirit somehow produced the sensation of its being separated from the body, for the movement of the hand, inviting holder to seat himself, seemed almost automatic. "i understand," said eldon parr, "that you wish to marry my daughter." "it is true that i am to marry alison," holder answered, "and that i intended, later on, to come to inform you of the fact." he did not mention the death of preston. condolences, under the circumstances, were utterly out of the question. "how do you propose to support her?" the banker demanded. "she is of age, and independent of you. you will pardon me if i reply that this is a matter between ourselves," holder said. "i had made up my mind that the day she married you i would not only disinherit her, but refuse absolutely, to have anything to do with her." "if you cannot perceive what she perceives, that you have already by your own life cut her off from you absolutely and that seeing her will not mend matters while you remain relentless, nothing i can say will convince you." holder did not speak rebukingly. the utter uselessness of it was never more apparent. the man was condemned beyond all present reprieve, at least. "she left me," exclaimed eldon parr, bitterly. "she left you, to save herself." "we need not discuss that." "i am far from wishing to discuss it," holder replied. "i do not know why you have asked me to come here, mr. parr. it is clear that your attitude has not changed since our last conversation. i tried to make it plain to you why the church could not accept your money. your own daughter, cannot accept it." "there was a time," retorted the banker, "when you did not refuse to accept it." "yes," holder replied, "that is true." it came to him vividly then that it had been alison herself who had cast the enlightening gleam which revealed his inconsistency. but he did not defend himself. "i can see nothing in all this, mr. hodder, but a species of insanity," said eldon parr, and there crept into his tone both querulousness and intense exasperation. "in the first place, you insist upon marrying my daughter when neither she nor you have any dependable means of support. she never spared her criticisms of me, and you presume to condemn me, a man who, if he has neglected his children, has done so because he has spent too much of his time in serving his community and his country, and who has--if i have to say it myself--built up the prosperity which you and others are doing your best to tear down, and which can only result in the spread of misery. you profess to have a sympathy with the masses, but you do not know them as i do. they cannot control themselves, they require a strong hand. but i am not asking for your sympathy. i have been misunderstood all my life, i have become used to ingratitude, even from my children, and from the rector of the church for which i have done more than any other man." hodder stared at him in amazement. "you really believe that!" he exclaimed. "believe it!" eldon parr repeated. "i have had my troubles, as heavy bereavements as a man can have. all of them, even this of my son's death, all the ingratitude and lack of sympathy i have experienced--" (he looked deliberately at hodder) "have not prevented me, do not prevent me to-day from regarding my fortune as a trust. you have deprived st. john's, at least so long as you remain there, of some of its benefits, and the responsibility for that is on your own head. and i am now making arrangements to give to calvary the settlement house which st. john's should have had." the words were spoken with such an air of conviction, of unconscious plausibility, as it were, that it was impossible for hodder to doubt the genuineness of the attitude they expressed. and yet it was more than his mind could grasp . . . . horace bentley, richard garvin, and the miserable woman of the streets whom he had driven to destroy herself had made absolutely no impression whatever! the gifts, the benefactions of eldon parr to his fellow-men would go on as before! "you ask me why i sent for you," the banker went on. "it was primarily because i hoped to impress upon you the folly of marrying my daughter. and in spite of all the injury and injustice you have done me, i do not forget that you were once in a relationship to me which has been unique in my life. i trusted you, i admired you, for your ability, for your faculty of getting on with men. at that time you were wise enough not to attempt to pass comment upon accidents in business affairs which are, if deplorable, inevitable." eldon parr's voice gave a momentary sign of breaking. "i will be frank with you. my son's death has led me, perhaps weakly, to make one more appeal. you have ruined your career by these chimerical, socialistic notions you have taken up, and which you mistake for christianity. as a practical man i can tell you, positively, that st. john's will run downhill until you are bankrupt. the people who come to you now are in search of a new sensation, and when that grows stale they will fall away. even if a respectable number remain in your congregation, after this excitement and publicity have died down, i have reason to know that it is impossible to support a large city church on contributions. it has been tried again and again, and failed. you have borrowed money for the church's present needs. when that is gone i predict that you will find it difficult to get more." this had every indication of being a threat, but hodder, out of sheer curiosity, did not interrupt. and it was evident that the banker drew a wrong conclusion from his silence, which he may actually have taken for reluctant acquiescence. his tone grew more assertive. "the church, mr. hodder, cannot do without the substantial business men. i have told the bishop so, but he is failing so rapidly from old age that i might as well not have wasted my breath. he needs an assistant, a suffragan or coadjutor, and i intend to make it my affair to see that he gets one. when i remember him as he was ten years ago, i find it hard to believe that he is touched with these fancies. to be charitable, it is senile decay. he seems to forget what i have done for him, personally, made up his salary, paid his expenses at different times, and no appeal for the diocese to me was ever in vain. but again, i will let that go. "what i am getting at is this. you have made a mess of the affairs of st. john's, you have made a mess of your life. i am willing to give you the credit for sincerity. some of my friends might not be. you want to marry my daughter, and she is apparently determined to marry you. if you are sensible and resign from st. john's now i will settle on alison a sufficient sum to allow you both to live in comfort and decency the rest of your lives. i will not have it said of me that i permitted my daughter to become destitute." after he had finished, the rector sat for so long a time that the banker nervously shifted in his chair. the clergyman's look had a cumulative quality, an intensity which seemed to increase as the silence continued. there was no anger in it, no fanaticism. on the contrary, the higher sanity of it was disturbing; and its extraordinary implication--gradually borne in upon eldon parr--was that he himself were not in his right mind. the words, when they came, were a confirmation of this inference. "it is what i feared, mr. parr," he said. "you are as yet incapable of comprehending." "what do you mean?" asked the banker, jerking his hand from the table. the rector shook his head. "if this great chastisement with which you have been visited has given you no hint of the true meaning of life, nothing i can say will avail. if you will not yet listen to the spirit which is trying to make you comprehend, how then will you listen to me? how am i to open your eyes to the paradox of truth, that he who would save his life shall lose it, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of god? if you will not believe him who said that, you will not believe me. i can only beg of you, strive to understand, that your heart many be softened, that your suffering soul may be released." it is to be recorded, strangely, that eldon parr did not grow angry in his turn. the burning eyes looked out at hodder curiously, as at a being upon whom the vials of wrath were somehow wasted, against whom the weapons of power were of no account. the fanatic had become a phenomenon which had momentarily stilled passion to arouse interest. . . "art thou a master of israel, and knowest not these things?" "do you mean to say"--such was the question that sprang to eldon parr's lips--"that you take the bible literally? what is your point of view? you speak about the salvation of souls, i have heard that kind of talk all my life. and it is easy, i find, for men who have never known the responsibilities of wealth to criticize and advise. i regard indiscriminate giving as nothing less than a crime, and i have always tried to be painstaking and judicious. if i had taken the words you quoted at their face value, i should have no wealth to distribute to-day. "i, too, mr. hodder, odd as it may seem to you, have had my dreams--of doing my share of making this country the best place in the world to live in. it has pleased providence to take away my son. he was not fitted to carry on my work,--that is the way--with dreams. i was to have taught him to build up, and to give, as i have given. you think me embittered, hard, because i seek to do good, to interpret the gospel in my own way. before this year is out i shall have retired from all active business. "i intend to spend the rest of my life in giving away the money i have earned--all of it. i do not intend to spare myself, and giving will be harder than earning. i shall found institutions for research of disease, hospitals, playgrounds, libraries, and schools. and i shall make the university here one of the best in the country. what more, may i ask, would you have me do?" "ah," replied the rector, "it is not what i would have you do. it is not, indeed, a question of 'doing,' but of seeing." "of seeing?" the banker repeated. "as i say, of using judgment." "judgment, yes, but the judgment which has not yet dawned for you, the enlightenment which is the knowledge of god's will. worldly wisdom is a rule of thumb many men may acquire, the other wisdom, the wisdom of the soul, is personal--the reward of revelation which springs from desire. you ask me what i think you should do. i will tell you--but you will not do it, you will be powerless to do it unless you see it for yourself, unless the time shall come when you are willing to give up everything you have held dear in life,--not your money, but your opinions, the very judgment and wisdom you value, until you have gained the faith which proclaims these worthless, until you are ready to receive the kingdom of god as a little child. you are not ready, now. your attitude, your very words, proclaim your blindness to all that has happened you, your determination to carry out, so far as it is left to you, your own will. you may die without seeing." crazy as it all sounded, a slight tremor shook eldon parr. there was something in the eyes, in the powerful features of the clergyman that kept him still, that made him listen with a fascination which had he taken cognizance of it--was akin to fear. that this man believed it, that he would impress it upon others, nay, had already done so, the banker did not then doubt. "you speak of giving," hodder continued, "and you have nothing to give --nothing. you are poorer to-day than the humblest man who has seen god. but you have much, you have all to restore." without raising his voice, the rector had contrived to put a mighty emphasis on the word. "you speak of the labour of giving, but if you seek your god and haply find him you will not rest night or day while you live until you have restored every dollar possible of that which you have wrongfully taken from others." john hodder rose and raised his arm in effective protest against the interruption eldon parr was about to make. he bore him down. "i know what you are going to say, mr. parr,--that it is not practical. that word 'practical' is the barrier between you and your god. i tell you that god can make anything practical. your conscience, the spirit, tortures you to-day, but you have not had enough torture, you still think to escape easily, to keep the sympathy of a world which despises you. you are afraid to do what god would have you do. you have the opportunity, through grace, by your example to leave the world better than you found it, to do a thing of such magnitude as is given to few men, to confess before all that your life has been blind and wicked. that is what the spirit is trying to teach you. but you fear the ridicule of the other blind men, you have not the faith to believe that many eyes would be opened by your act. the very shame of such a confession, you think, is not to be borne." "suppose i acknowledge, which i do not, your preposterous charge, how would you propose to do this thing?" "it is very simple," said the rector, "so far as the actual method of procedure goes. you have only to establish a board of men in whom you have confidence,--a court of claims, so to speak,--to pass upon the validity of every application, not from a business standpoint alone, but from one of a broad justice and equity. and not only that. i should have it an important part of the duties of this board to discover for themselves other claimants who may not, for various reasons, come forward. in the case of the consolidated tractions, for instances there are doubtless many men like garvin who invested their savings largely on the strength of your name. you cannot bring him back to life, restore him to his family as he was before you embittered him, but it would be a comparatively easy matter to return to his widow, with compound interest, the sum which he invested." "for the sake of argument," said eldon parr, "what would you do with the innumerable impostors who would overwhelm such a board with claims that they had bought and sold stock at a loss? and that is only one case i could mention." "would it be so dreadful a thing," asked hodder, "to run the risk of making a few mistakes? it would not be business, you say. if you had the desire to do this, you would dismiss such an obsession from your brain, you would prefer to err on the aide of justice and mercy. and no matter how able your board, in making restitution you could at best expect to mend only a fraction of the wrongs you have done." "i shall waive, for the moment, my contention that the consolidated tractions company, had it succeeded, would greatly have benefited the city. even if it had been the iniquitous, piratical transaction you suggest, why should i assume the responsibility for all who were concerned in it?" "if the grace were given you to do this, that question would answer itself," the rector replied. "the awful sense of responsibility, which you now lack, would overwhelm you." "you have made me out a rascal and a charlatan," said eldon parr, "and i have listened' patiently in my desire to be fair, to learn from your own lips whether there were anything in the extraordinary philosophy you have taken up, and which you are pleased to call christianity. if you will permit me to be as frank as you have been, it appears to me as sheer nonsense and folly, and if it were put into practice the world would be reduced at once to chaos and anarchy." "there is no danger, i am sorry to say, of its being put into practice at once," said hodder, smiting sadly. "i hope not," answered the banker, dryly. "utopia is a dream in which those who do the rough work of the world cannot afford to indulge. and there is one more question. you will, no doubt, deride it as practical, but to my mind it is very much to the point. you condemn the business practices in which i have engaged all my life as utterly unchristian. if you are logical, you will admit that no man or woman who owns stock in a modern corporation is, according to your definition, christian, and, to use your own phrase, can enter the kingdom of god. i can tell you, as one who knows, that there is no corporation in this country which, in the struggle to maintain itself, is not forced to adopt the natural law of the survival of the fittest, which you condemn. your own salary, while you had it, came from men who had made the money in corporations. business is business, and admits of no sentimental considerations. if you can get around that fact, i will gladly bow to your genius. should you succeed in reestablishing st. john's on what you call a free basis --and in my opinion you will not--even then the money, you would live on, and which supported the church, would be directly or indirectly derived from corporations." "i do not propose to enter into an economics argument with you, mr. parr, but if you tell me that the flagrant practices indulged in by those who organized the consolidated tractions company can be excused under any code of morals, any conception of christianity, i tell you they cannot. what do we see today in your business world? boards of directors, trusted by stockholders, betraying their trust, withholding information in order to profit thereby, buying and selling stock secretly; stock watering, selling to the public diluted values,--all kinds of iniquity and abuse of power which i need not go into. do you mean to tell me, on the plea that business is business and hence a department by itself, that deception, cheating, and stealing are justified and necessary? the awakened conscience of the public is condemning you. "the time is at hand, though neither you nor i may live to see it, when the public conscience itself is beginning to perceive thin higher justice hidden from you. and you are attempting to mislead when you do not distinguish between the men who, for their own gain and power, mismanage such corporations as are mismanaged, and those who own stock and are misled. "the public conscience of which i speak is the leaven of christianity at work. and we must be content to work with it, to await its fulfilment, to realize that no one of us can change the world, but can only do his part in making it better. the least we can do is to refuse to indulge in practices which jeopardize our own souls, to remain poor if we cannot make wealth honestly. say what you will, the christian government we are approaching will not recognize property, because it is gradually becoming clear that the holding of property delays the kingdom at which you scoff, giving the man who owns it a power over the body of the man who does not. property produces slavery, since it compels those who have none to work for those who have. "the possession of property, or of sufficient property to give one individual an advantage over his fellows is inconsistent with christianity. hence it will be done away with, but only when enough have been emancipated to carry this into effect. hence the saying of our lord about the needle's eye--the danger to the soul of him who owns much property." "and how about your christian view of the world as a vale of tears?" eldon parr inquired. "so long as humanity exists, there will always be tears," admitted the rector. "but it is a false christianity which does not bid us work for our fellow-men, to relieve their suffering and make the world brighter. it is becoming clear that the way to do this effectively is through communities, cooperation, through nations, and not individuals. and this, if you like, is practical,--so practical that the men like you, who have gained unexampled privilege, fear it more and more. the old christian misconception, that the world is essentially a bad place, and which has served the ends of your privilege, is going by forever. and the motto of the citizens of the future will be the christian motto, 'i am my brother's keeper.' the world is a good place because the spirit is continually working in it, to make it better. and life is good, if only we take the right view of it,--the revealed view." "what you say is all very fine," said eldon parr. "and i have heard it before, from the discontented, the socialists. but it does not take into account the one essential element, human nature." "on the other hand, your scheme of life fails to reckon with the greater factor, divine nature," hodder replied. "when you have lived as long as i have, perhaps you will think differently, mr. hodder." eldon parr's voice had abruptly grown metallic, as though the full realization had come over him of the severity of the clergyman's arraignment; the audacity of the man who had ventured to oppose him and momentarily defeated him, who had won the allegiance of his own daughter, who had dared condemn him as an evil-doer and give advice as to his future course. he, eldon parr, who had been used to settle the destinies of men! his anger was suddenly at white heat; and his voice, which he strove to control, betrayed it. "since you have rejected my offer, which was made in kindness, since you are bent on ruining my daughter's life as well as your own, and she has disregarded my wishes, i refuse to see either of you, no matter to what straits you may come, as long as i live. that is understood. and she leaves this house to-day, never to enter it again. it is useless to prolong this conversation, i think." "quite useless, as i feared, mr. parr. do you know why alison is willing to marry me? it is because the strength has been given me to oppose you in the name of humanity, and this in spite of the fact that her love for you to-day is greater than it has ever been before. it is a part of the heavy punishment you have inflicted on yourself that you cannot believe in her purity. you insist on thinking that the time will come when she will return to you for help. in senseless anger and pride you are driving her away from you whom you will some day need. and in that day, should god grant you a relenting heart to make the sign, she will come to you,--but to give comfort, not to receive it. and even as you have threatened me, i will warn you, yet not in anger. except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of god, nor understand the motives of those who would enter into it. seek and pray for repentance." infuriated though he was, before the commanding yet compassionate bearing of the rector he remained speechless. and after a moment's pause, hodder turned and left the room . . . . iii when hodder had reached the foot of the stairs, alison came out to him. the mourning she wore made her seem even taller. in the face upturned to his, framed in the black veil and paler than he had known it, were traces of tears; in the eyes a sad, yet questioning and trustful smile. they gazed at each other an instant, before speaking, in the luminous ecstasy of perfect communion which shone for them, undimmed, in the surrounding gloom of tragedy. and thus, they felt, it would always shine. of that tragedy of the world's sin and sorrow they would ever be conscious. without darkness there could be no light. "i knew," she said, reading his tidings, "it would be of no use. tell me the worst." "if you marry me, alison, your father refuses to see you again. he insists that you leave the house." "then why did he wish to see you?" "it was to make an appeal. he thinks, of course, that i have made a failure of life, and that if i marry you i shall drag you down to poverty and disgrace." she raised her head, proudly. "but he knows that it is i who insist upon marrying you! i explained it all to him--how i had asked you. of course he did not understand. he thinks, i suppose, that it is simply an infatuation." in spite of the solemnity of the moment, hodder smiled down at her, touched by the confession. "that, my dear, doesn't relieve me of responsibility. i am just as responsible as though i had spoken first, instead of you." "but, john, you didn't--?" a sudden fear made her silent. he took her hand and pressed it reassuringly. "give you up? no, alison," he answered simply. "when you came to me, god put you in my keeping." she clung to him suddenly, in a passion of relief. "oh, i never could give you up, i never would unless you yourself told me to. then i would do it,--for you. but you won't ask me, now?" he put his arm around her shoulders, and the strength of it seemed to calm her. "no, dear. i would make the sacrifice, ask you to make it, if it would be of any good. as you say, he does not understand. and you couldn't go on living with him and loving me. that solution is impossible. we can only hope that the time will come when he will realize his need of you, and send for you." "and did he not ask you anything more?" hodder hesitated. he had intended to spare her that . . . . her divination startled him. "i know, i know without your telling me. he offered you money, he consented to our--marriage if you would give up st. john's. oh, how could he," she cried. "how could he so misjudge and insult you!" "it is not me he misjudges, alison, it is mankind, it is god. that is his terrible misfortune." hodder released her tenderly. "you must see him--you must tell him that when he needs you, you will come." "i will see him now, she said. you will wait for, me?" "now?" he repeated, taken aback by her resolution, though it was characteristic. "yes, i will go as i am. i can send for my things. my father has given me no choice, no reprieve,--not that i ask one. i have you, dear. i will stay with mr. bentley to-night, and leave for new york to-morrow, to do what i have to do--and then you will be ready for me." "yes," he said, "i shall be ready." he lingered in the well-remembered hall . . . . and when at last she came down again her eyes shone bravely through her tears, her look answered the question of his own. there was no need for speech. with not so much as a look behind she left, with him, her father's house. outside, the mist had become a drizzle, and as they went down the walk together beside the driveway she slipped her arm into his, pressing close to his side. her intuition was perfect, the courage of her love sublime. "i have you, dear," she whispered, "never in my life before have i been rich." "alison!" it was all he could say, but the intensity of his mingled feeling went into the syllables of her name. an impulse made them pause and turn, and they stood looking back together at the great house which loomed the greater in the thickening darkness, its windows edged with glow. never, as in this moment when the cold rain wet their faces, had the thought of its comfort and warmth and luxury struck him so vividly; yes, and of its terror and loneliness now, of the tortured spirit in it that found no rest. "oh, john," she cried, "if we only could!" he understood her. such was the perfect quality of their sympathy that she had voiced his thought. what were rain and cold, the inclemency of the elements to them? what the beauty and the warmth of those great, empty rooms to eldon parr? out of the heaven of their happiness they looked down, helpless, into the horrors of the luxury of hell. "it must be," he answered her, "in god's good time." "life is terrible!" she said. "think of what he must have done to suffer so, to be condemned to this! and when i went to him, just now, he wouldn't even kiss me good-by. oh, my dear, if i hadn't had you to take me, what should i have done? . . . it never was a home to me--to any of us. and as i look back now, all the troubles began when we moved into it. i can only think of it as a huge prison, all the more sinister for its costliness." a prison! it had once been his own conceit. he drew her gently away, and they walked together along park street towards the distant arc-light at the corner which flung a gleaming band along the wet pavement. "perhaps it was because i was too young to know what trouble was when we lived in ransome street," she continued. "but i can remember now how sad my mother was at times--it almost seemed as though she had a premonition." alison's voice caught . . . . the car which came roaring through the darkness, and which stopped protestingly at their corner, was ablaze with electricity, almost filled with passengers. a young man with a bundle changed his place in order that they might sit together in one of the little benches bordering the aisle; opposite them was a laughing, clay-soiled group of labourers going home from work; in front, a young couple with a chubby child. he stood between his parents, facing about, gazing in unembarrassed wonder at the dark lady with the veil. alison's smile seemed only to increase the solemnity of his adoration, and presently he attempted to climb over the barrier between them. hodder caught him, and the mother turned in alarm, recapturing him. "you mustn't bother the lady, jimmy," she said, when she had thanked the rector. she had dimpled cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, but their expression changed as they fell on alison's face, expressing something of the wonder of the child's. "oh, he isn't bothering me," alison protested. "do let him stand." "he don't make up to everybody," explained the mother, and the manner of her speech was such a frank tribute that alison flushed. there had been, too, in the look the quick sympathy for bereavement of the poor. "aren't they nice?" alison leaned over and whispered to hodder, when the woman had turned back. "one thing, at least, i shall never regret,--that i shall have to ride the rest of my life in the streetcars. i love them. that is probably my only qualification, dear, for a clergyman's wife." hodder laughed. "it strikes me," he said, "as the supreme one." they came at length to mr. bentley's door, flung open in its usual wide hospitality by sam. whatever theist fortunes, they would always be welcome here . . . . but it turned out, in answer to their question, that their friend was not at home. "no, sah," said sam, bowing and smiling benignantly, "but he done tole me to say, when you and miss alison come, hit was to make no diffunce, dat you bofe was to have supper heah. and i'se done cooked it--yassah. will you kindly step into the liba'y, suh, and miss alison? dar was a lady 'crost de city, marse ho'ace said--yassah." "john," said alison with a questioning smile, when they were alone before the fire, "i believe he went out on purpose,--don't you?--just that we might be here alone." "he knew we were coming?" "i wrote him." "i think he might be convicted on the evidence," hodder agreed. "but--?" his question remained unasked. alison went up to him. he had watched her, absorbed and fascinated, as with her round arms gracefully lifted in front of the old mirror she had taken off her hat and veil; smoothing, by a few deft touches, the dark crown of her hair. the unwonted intimacy of the moment, invoking as it did an endless reflection of other similar moments in their future life together, was in its effect overwhelming, bringing with it at last a conviction not to be denied. her colour rose as she faced him, her lashes fell. "did you seriously think, dear, that we could have deceived mr. bentley? then you are not as clever as i thought you. as soon as it happened i sent him a note? that very night. for i felt that he ought to be told first of all." "and as usual," hodder answered, "you were right." supper was but a continuation of that delicious sense of intimacy. and sam, beaming in his starched shirt and swallow-tail, had an air of presiding over a banquet of state. and for that matter, none had ever gone away hungry from this table, either for meat or love. it was, indeed, a consecrated meal,--consecrated for being just there. such was the tact which the old darky had acquired from his master that he left the dishes on the shining mahogany board, and bowed himself out. "when you wants me, miss alison, des ring de bell." she was seated upright yet charmingly graceful, behind the old english coffee service which had been mr. bentley's mother's. and it was she who, by her wonderful self-possession, by the reassuring smile she gave him as she handed him his cup, endowed it all with reality. "it's strange," she said, "but it seems as though i had been doing it all my life, instead of just beginning." "and you do it as though you had," he declared. "which is a proof," she replied, "of the superior adaptability of women." he did not deny it. he would not then, in truth, have disputed her wildest statement. . . but presently, after they had gone back into the library and were seated side by side before the coals, they spoke again of serious things, marvelling once more at a happiness which could be tinged and yet unmarred by vicarious sorrow. theirs was the soberer, profounder happiness of gratitude and wonder, too wise to exult, but which of itself is exalted; the happiness which praises, and passes understanding. "there are many things i want to say to you, john," she told him, once, "and they trouble me a little. it is only because i am so utterly devoted to you that i wish you to know me as i am. i have always had queer views, and although much has happened to change me since i have known and loved you, i am not quite sure how much those views have changed. love," she added, "plays such havoc with one's opinions." she returned his smile, but with knitted brows. "it's really serious--you needn't laugh. and it's only fair to you to let you know the kind of a wife you are getting, before it is too late. for instance, i believe in divorce, although i can't imagine it for us. one never can, i suppose, in this condition--that's the trouble. i have seen so many immoral marriages that i can't think god intends people to live degraded. and i'm sick and tired of the argument that an indissoluble marriage under all conditions is good for society. that a man or woman, the units of society, should violate the divine in themselves for the sake of society is absurd. they are merely setting an example to their children to do the same thing, which means that society in that respect will never get any better. in this love that has come to us we have achieved an ideal which i have never thought to reach. oh, john, i'm sure you won't misunderstand me when i say that i would rather die than have to lower it." "no," he answered, "i shall not misunderstand you." "even though it is so difficult to put into words what i mean. i don't feel that we really need the marriage service, since god has already joined us together. and it is not through our own wills, somehow, but through his. divorce would not only be a crime against the spirit, it would be an impossibility while we feel as we do. but if love should cease, then god himself would have divorced us, punished us by taking away a priceless gift of which we were not worthy. he would have shut the gates of eden in our faces because we had sinned against the spirit. it would be quite as true to say 'whom god has put asunder no man may join together.' am i hurting you?" her hand was on the arm of his chair, and the act of laying his own on it was an assurance stronger than words. alison sighed. "yes, i believed you would understand, even though i expressed myself badly,--that you would help me, that you have found a solution. i used to regard the marriage service as a compromise, as a lowering of the ideal, as something mechanical and rational put in the place of the spiritual; that it was making the church, and therefore god, conform to the human notion of what the welfare of society ought to be. and it is absurd to promise to love. we have no control over our affections. they are in god's hands, to grant or withdraw. "and yet i am sure--this is new since i have known you--that if such a great love as ours be withdrawn it would be an unpardonable wrong for either of us to marry again. that is what puzzles me--confounds the wisdom i used to have, and which in my littleness and pride i thought so sufficient. i didn't believe in god, but now i feel him, through you, though i cannot define him. and one of many reasons why i could not believe in christ was because i took it for granted that he taught, among other things, a continuation of the marriage relation after love had ceased to justify it." hodder did not immediately reply. nor did alison interrupt his silence, but sat with the stillness which at times so marked her personality, her eyes trustfully fixed on him. the current pulsing between them was unbroken. hodder's own look, as he gazed into the grate, was that of a seer. "yes," he said at length, "it is by the spirit and not the letter of our lord's teaching that we are guided. the spirit which we draw from the gospels. and everything written down there that does not harmonize with it is the mistaken interpretation of men. once the spirit possesses us truly, we are no longer troubled and confused by texts. "the alpha and omega of christ's message is rebirth into the knowledge of that spirit, and hence submission to its guidance. and that is what paul meant when he said that it freed us from the law. you are right, alison, when you declare it to be a violation of the spirit for a man and woman to live together when love does not exist. christ shows us that laws were made for those who are not reborn. laws are the rules of society, to be followed by those who have not found the inner guidance, who live and die in the flesh. but the path which those who live under the control of the spirit are to take is opened up to them as they journey. if all men and women were reborn we should have the paradox, which only the reborn can understand, of what is best for the individual being best for society, because under the will of the spirit none can transgress upon the rights and happiness of others. the spirit would make the laws and rules superfluous. "and the great crime of the church, for which she is paying so heavy an expiation, is that her faith wavered, and she forsook the spirit and resumed the law her master had condemned. she no longer insisted on that which christ proclaimed as imperative, rebirth. she became, as you say, a mechanical organization, substituting, as the jews had done, hard and fast rules for inspiration. she abandoned the communion of saints, sold her birthright for a mess of pottage, for worldly, temporal power when she declared that inspiration had ceased with the apostles, when she failed to see that inspiration is personal, and comes through rebirth. for the sake of increasing her membership, of dominating the affairs of men, she has permitted millions who lived in the law and the flesh, who persisted in forcing men to live by the conventions and customs christ repudiated, and so stultify themselves, to act in christ's name. the unpardonable sin against the spirit is to doubt its workings, to maintain that society will be ruined if it be substituted for the rules and regulations supposed to make for the material comforts of the nations, but which in reality suppress and enslave the weak. "nevertheless in spite of the church, marvellously through the church the germ of our lord's message has come down to us, and the age in which we live is beginning to realize its purport, to condemn the church for her subservient rationalism. "let us apply the rule of the spirit to marriage. if we examine the ideal we shall see clearly that the marriage-service is but a symbol. like baptism, it is a worthless and meaningless rite unless the man and the woman have been born again into the spirit, released from the law. if they are still, as st. paul would say, in the flesh, let them have, if they wish, a civil permit to live together, for the spirit can have nothing to do with such an union. true to herself, the church symbolizes the union of her members, the reborn. she has nothing to do with laws and conventions which are supposedly for the good of society, nor is any union accomplished if those whom she supposedly joins are not reborn. if they are, the church can neither make it or dissolve it, but merely confirm and acknowledge the work of the spirit. and every work of the spirit is a sacrament. not baptism and communion and marriage only, but every act of life. "oh, john," she exclaimed, her eyes lighting, "i can believe that! how beautiful a thought! i see now what is meant when it is said that man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of god. that is the hourly guidance which is independent of the law. and how terrible to think that all the spiritual beauty of such a religion should have been hardened into chapter and verse and regulation. you have put into language what i think of mr. bentley, --that has acts are sacraments . . . . it is so simple when you explain it this way. and yet i can see why it was said, too, that we must become as children to understand it." "the difficult thing," replied holder, gravely, "is to retain it, to hold it after we have understood it--even after we have experienced it. to continue to live in the spirit demands all our effort, all our courage and patience and faith. we cannot, as you say, promise to love for life. but the marriage service, interpreted, means that we will use all our human endeavour, with the help of the spirit, to remain in what may be called the reborn state, since it is by the spirit alone that true marriage is sanctified. when the spirit is withdrawn, man and woman are indeed divorced. "the words 'a sense of duty' belong to moral philosophy and not to religion. love annuls them. i do not mean to decry them, but the reborn are lifted far above them by the subversion of the will by which our will is submitted to god's. it is so we develop, and become, as it were, god. and hence those who are not married in the spirit are not spiritually man and wife. no consecration has taken place, church or no church. if rebirth occurs later, to either or both, the individual conscience--which is the spirit, must decide whether, as regards each other, they are bound or free, and we must stand or fall by that. men object that this is opening the door to individualism. what they fail to see is that the door is open, wide, to-day and can never again be closed: that the law of the naturally born is losing its power, that the worn-out authority of the church is being set at naught because that authority was devised by man to keep in check those who were not reborn. the only check to material individualism is spiritual individualism, and the reborn man or woman cannot act to the detriment of his fellow-creatures." in her turn she was silent, still gazing at him, her breath coming deeply, for she was greatly moved. "yes," she said simply, "i can see now why divorce between us would be a sacrilege. i felt it, john, but i couldn't reason it out. it is the consecration of the spirit that justifies the union of the flesh. for the spirit, in that sense, does not deny the flesh." "that would be to deny life," hodder replied. "i see. why was it all so hidden!" the exclamation was not addressed to him--she was staring pensively into the fire. but presently, with a swift movement, she turned to him. "you will preach this, john,--all of it!" it was not a question, but the cry of a new and wider vision of his task. her face was transfigured. and her voice, low and vibrating, expressed no doubts. "oh, i am proud of you! and if they put you out and persecute you i shall always be proud, i shall never know why it was given me to have this, and to live. do you remember saying to me once that faith comes to us in some human form we love? you are my faith. and faith in you is my faith in humanity, and faith in god." ere he could speak of his own faith in her, in mankind, by grace of which he had been lifted from the abyss, there came a knock at the door. and even as they answered it a deeper knowledge filtered into their hearts. horace bentley stood before them. and the light from his face, that shone down upon them, was their benediction. afterword although these pages have been published serially, it is with a feeling of reluctance that i send them out into the world, for better or worse, between the covers of a book. they have been written with reverence, and the reading of the proofs has brought back to me vividly the long winters in which i pondered over the matter they contain, and wrote and rewrote the chapters. i had not thought to add anything to them by way of an afterword. nothing could be farther from my mind than to pose as a theologian; and, were it not for one or two of the letters i have received, i should have supposed that no reader could have thought of making the accusation that i presumed to speak for any one except myself. in a book of this kind, the setting forth of a personal view of religion is not only unavoidable, but necessary; since, if i wrote sincerely, mr. hodder's solution must coincide with my own--so far as i have been able to work one out. such as it is, it represents many years of experience and reflection. and i can only crave the leniency of any trained theologian who may happen to peruse it. no one realizes, perhaps, the incompleteness of the religious interpretations here presented more keenly than i. more significant, more vital elements of the truth are the rewards of a mind which searches and craves, especially in these days when the fruit of so many able minds lies on the shelves of library and bookshop. since the last chapter was written, many suggestions have come to me which i should like to have the time to develop for this volume. but the nature of these elements is positive,--i can think of nothing i should care to subtract. here, then, so far as what may be called religious doctrine is concerned, is merely a personal solution. we are in an age when the truth is being worked out through many minds, a process which seems to me both christian and democratic. yet a gentleman has so far misunderstood this that he has already accused me, in a newspaper, of committing all the heresies condemned by the council of chalcedon,--and more! i have no doubt that he is right. my consolation must be that i have as company--in some of my heresies, at least--a goodly array of gentlemen who wear the cloth of the orthodox churches whose doctrines he accuses me of denying. the published writings of these clergymen are accessible to all. the same critic declares that my interpretations are without "authority." this depends, of course; on one's view of "authority." but his accusation is true equally against many men who--if my observation be correct--are doing an incalculable service for religion by giving to the world their own personal solutions, interpreting christianity in terms of modern thought. no doubt these, too, are offending the champions of the council of chalcedon. and does the gentleman, may i ask, ever read the pages of the hibbert journal? finally, i have to meet a more serious charge, that mr. hodder remains in the church because of "the dread of parting with the old, strong anchorage, the fear of anathema and criticism, the thought of sorrowing and disapproving friends." or perhaps he infers that it is i who keep mr. hodder in the church for these personal reasons. alas, the concern of society is now for those upon whom the church has lost her hold, who are seeking for a solution they can accept. and the danger to-day is not from the side of heresy. the rector of st. john's, as a result of his struggle, gained what i believe to be a higher and surer faith than that which he formerly held, and in addition to this the realization of the presence of a condition which was paralyzing the church's influence. one thing i had hoped to make clear, that if mr. hodder had left the church under these circumstances he would have made the great refusal. the situation which he faced demanded something of the sublime courage of his master. lastly, may i be permitted to add that it is far from my intention to reflect upon any particular denomination. the instance which i have taken is perhaps a pronounced rather than a particular case of the problem to which i have referred, and which is causing the gravest concern to thoughtful clergymen and laymen of all denominations. winston churchill santa barbara, california march , . note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the canadian photoplay title of the land of promise a novelization of w. somerset maugham's play by d. torbett illustrated with scenes from the photoplay a paramount picture starring thomas meighan [illustration: love for her husband is finally born in nora.] grosset & dunlap publishers, new york made in the united states of america. copyright, , by edward j. clode the land of promise chapter i nora opened her eyes to an unaccustomed consciousness of well-being. she was dimly aware that it had its origin in something deeper than mere physical comfort; but for the moment, in that state between sleeping and wakening, which still held her, it was enough to find that body and mind seemed rested. youth was reasserting itself. and it was only a short time ago that she had felt that never, never, could she by any possible chance feel young again. when one is young, one resents the reaction after any strain not purely physical as if it were a premature symptom of old age. a ray of brilliant sunshine, which found its way through a gap in the drawn curtains, showed that it was long past the usual hour for rising. she smiled whimsically and closed her eyes once more. she remembered now that she was not in her own little room in the other wing of the house. the curtains proved that. how often in the ten years she had been with miss wickham had she begged that the staring white window blind, which decorated her one window, be replaced by curtains or even a blind of a dark tone that she might not be awakened by the first ray of light. she had even ventured to propose that the cost of such alterations be stopped out of her salary. miss wickham had refused to countenance any such innovation. three years before, when the offending blind had refused to hold together any longer, nora had had a renewal of hope. but no! the new blind had been more glaringly white than its predecessor, which by contrast had taken on a grateful ivory tone in its old age. they had had one of their rare scenes at its advent. nora had as a rule an admirable control of her naturally quick temper. but this had been too much. "i might begin to understand your refusal if you ever entered my room. but since it would no more occur to you to do so than to visit the stables, i cannot see what possible difference it can make," nora had stormed. miss wickham's smile, which at the beginning of her companion's outburst had been faintly ironic, had broadened into the frankly humorous. "stated with your characteristic regard for exactitude, my dear miss marsh, it would never enter my head to do either. i prefer the white blind, however. as you know, i have no taste for explanations. we will let the matter rest there, if you please." then she had added: "some day, i strongly suspect, some man will amuse himself breaking that fiery temper of yours. i wish i were not so old, i think that i should enjoy knowing that he had succeeded." and the incident had ended, as always, with a few angry tears on nora's part, as a preliminary to the inevitable game of bezique which finished off each happy day! and this had been her life for ten years! a wave of pity, not for herself but for that young girl of eighteen who had once been herself, that proudly confident young creature who, when suddenly deprived of the protection of her only parent,--nora's father had died when she was too young to remember him,--had so bravely faced the world, serene in the consciousness that the happiness which was her right was sure to be hers after a little waiting, dimmed her eyes for a moment. the dreams she had dreamed after she had received miss wickham's letter offering her the post of companion! she recalled how she had smiled to herself when the agent with whom she had filed her application congratulated her warmly on her good fortune in placing herself so promptly, and, by way of benediction, had wished that she might hold the position for many years. many years indeed! that had been no part of her plan. those nebulous plans had always been consistently rose-colored. it was impossible to remember them all now. sometimes the unknown miss wickham turned out to be a soft-hearted and sentimental old lady who was completely won by her young companion's charm and unmistakable air of good breeding. after a short time, she either adopted her, or, on dying, left her her entire fortune. again, she proved to be a perfect ogre. in this variation it was always the prince charming, that looms large in every young girl's dreams, who finally, after a brief period of unhappiness, came to the rescue and everything ended happily if somewhat conventionally. the reality had been sadly different. miss wickham had disclosed herself as being a hard, self-centered, worldly woman who considered that in furnishing her young companion with board, lodging and a salary of thirty pounds a year, she had, to use a commercial phrase, obtained the option on her every waking hour, and indeed, during the last year of her life, she had extended this option to cover many of the hours which should have been dedicated to rest and sleep. all the fine plans that the young nora had made while journeying down from london to tunbridge wells, for going on with her music, improving herself in french and perhaps taking up another modern language, in her leisure hours, had been nipped in the bud before she had been an inmate of miss wickham's house many days. she had no leisure hours. miss wickham saw to that. she had apparently an abhorrence for her own unrelieved society that amounted to a positive mania. she must never be left alone. let nora but escape to her own little room in the vain hope of obtaining a few moments to herself, and kate, the parlor maid, was certain to be sent after her. "miss wickham's compliments and she was waiting to be read to." "miss wickham's compliments, but did miss marsh know that the horses were at the door?" "miss wickham's compliments, and should she have kate set out the backgammon board?" and upon the rare occasions when there was company in the house, miss wickham's ingenuity in providing occupation for dear miss marsh, while she was herself occupied with her friends, was inexhaustible. in an evil hour nora had confessed to a modest talent for washing lace. miss wickham, it developed, had a really fine collection of beautiful pieces which naturally required the most delicate handling. their need for being washed was oddly coincident with the moment when the expected guest arrived at the door. or, it appeared that the slugs had attacked the rose trees in unusual numbers. the gardener was in despair as he was already behind with setting out the annuals. "would miss marsh mind while miss wickham had her little after-luncheon nap----!" miss marsh did mind. she loved flowers; to arrange them was a delight--at least it had been once--but she hated slugs. but she was too young and too inexperienced to know how to combat the subtle encroachments upon her own time made by this selfish old woman. and so, gradually, she had found that she was not only companion, but a sort of superior lady's maid and assistant gardener as well. and all for thirty pounds a year and her keep. and alas! prince charming had never appeared, unless--nora laughed aloud at the thought--he had disguised himself with a cleverness defying detection. with reginald hornby, a callow youth, the son of miss wickham's dearest friend, who occasionally made the briefest of duty visits; mr. wynne, the family solicitor, an elderly bachelor; and the doctor's assistant, a young person by the name of gard, nora's list of eligible men was complete. there had been a time when nora had flirted with the idea of escaping from bondage by becoming the wife of young gard. he was a rather common young man, but he had been sincerely in love with her. he was not sufficiently subtle to recognize that it was the idea of escaping from miss wickham and the deadly monotony of her days that tempted her. he had laid his case before miss wickham. there had been some terrible scenes. nora had felt the lash of her employer's bitter tongue. partly because she was still smarting from the attack, and partly because she was indignant with her suitor for having gone to miss wickham at all and particularly without consulting her, she, too, had turned on the unfortunate young man. there had been mutual recriminations and reproaches, and young gard, after his brief and bitter experience with the gentry, had left the vicinity of tunbridge wells and later on married a girl of his own class. but miss wickham had been more shaken at the prospect of losing her young companion, who was so thoroughly broken in, than she would have liked to have confessed. she detested new faces about her, and as a matter of fact, she came as nearly caring for nora as it was possible for her to care for any human being. she had told the girl then that it was her intention to make some provision for her at her death, so that she might have a decent competence and not be obliged to look for another position. there was, of course, the implied understanding that she would remain with miss wickham until that lady was summoned to a better and brighter world, a step which miss wickham, herself, was in no immediate hurry to take. in the meantime, she knew perfectly well just how often a prospective legacy could be dangled before expectant eyes with perfect delicacy. it furnished her with an additional weapon, too, against her nephew, james wickham, and his wife, both of whom she cordially detested, although she fully intended leaving them the bulk of her fortune. the consideration and tenderness she showed toward nora when mr. and mrs. wickham ran down from london to see their dear aunt showed a latent talent for comedy, on the part of the chief actress, of no mean order. these occasions left nora in a state of mind in which exasperation and amusement were about equally blended. it was amusing to note the signs of apprehension on the part of miss wickham's disagreeable relatives as they noted their aunt's doting fondness for her hired companion. and while she felt that they richly deserved this little punishment, it was humiliating to be so cynically made use of. and now it was all over. after a year of illness and gradual decline the end had come two days before. nothing could induce miss wickham to have a professional nurse. the long strain and weeks of broken rest had told even on nora's strength. kindly dr. evans had insisted that she be put immediately to bed and kate, the parlor maid, who had always been devoted to her, had undressed her as if she had been a baby. for the last two days she had done little but sleep the dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. and to-day was the day of the funeral. she was just about to ring to find the time, when kate's gentle knock came at the door. "come in. good morning, kate. do tell me the time. oh! how good it is to be lazy once in a while." "good morning to you, miss. i hope you're feeling a bit rested. it's just gone eleven. dr. evans has called, miss. he told me to see if you had waked." "how good of him. ask him to wait a few moments and i'll come right down." 'coming right down' was not so easy a matter as she had thought. nora found herself strangely weak and languid. she was still sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to gather energy for the task of dressing, when kate returned. "i beg your pardon, miss, but dr. evans says you're not to get up until he sees you. i'm to bring you a bit of toast and your tea and to help you freshen up a bit and then he will come up in twenty minutes. he says to tell you that he has plenty of time." nora made a show of protest. secretly she was rather glad to give in. she had not reckoned with the weakness following two unaccustomed days in bed. dr. evans was a kindly elderly man, whose one affectation was the gruffness which the country doctor of the old school so often assumes as if he wished to emphasize his disapproval of the modern suave manner of his city _confrère_. he had a sardonic humor and a sharp tongue which had at first quite terrified nora, until she discovered that they were meant to hide the most generous heart in the world. many were the kindly acts he performed in secret for the very people he was most accustomed to abuse. having felt nora's pulse and looked at her sharply with his keen gray eyes, he settled the question of her attendance at miss wickham's funeral with his accustomed finality. "you'll do nothing of the sort," he growled. "you may get up after a while and go and sit in the garden a bit; the air is fairly spring-like. but this afternoon you must lie down again for an hour or two. i suppose you'll have to get up to do the civil for james wickham and his wife before they go back to town. oh, no! they'll not stay the night. they'll rush back as fast as the train will take them, once they've heard the will read. couldn't bear the associations with the place, now that their dear aunt has departed!" he gave one of his sardonic chuckles. "it may be nonsense"--this in reply to nora's remonstrance--"but i'm not going to have you on my hands next. you'll go to that funeral and get hysterical like all women, and begin to think that you wish her back. i should think this last year would have been about all anyone would want. but you're a poor sentimental creature, after all," he jeered. "i'm nothing of the sort. but i did feel sorry for her, badly as she often treated me. she was a desperately lonely old soul. nobody cared a bit about her, really, and she knew it." "in spite of all her little amiable tricks to make people love her," said the doctor. "now, remember, the garden for an hour this morning, the drawing-room later in the day, after you've rested for an hour or so. and don't dare disobey me." with that, he left. it was pleasant in the garden. the air, though chilly, held the promise of spring. warmly wrapped in an old cape, which the thoughtful kate had discovered somewhere, with a book on paris and some italian sketches to fall back upon when her own thoughts ceased to divert her, nora sat in a sheltered corner and looked out on the border which would soon be gay with the tulips whose green stocks were just beginning to push themselves up through the brown earth. poor miss wickham! she had been so proud of her garden always. but for her it had bloomed for the last time. would the james wickhams take as much pride in it? somehow, she fancied not. and she? where would she be a year from now? a year! where would she be in another month? the whole world, in a modest sense, would he hers to choose from. while she had no definite notion as to the amount of her legacy, she had understood that it would bring in sufficient income to keep her from the necessity of seeking further employment. probably something between two and three hundred pounds a year. she had always longed to travel. italy, france, germany, spain, she would see them all. one could live very reasonably in really good pensions abroad, she had been told. and then, some day, after a few years of happy wandering, she might adventure to that far-off canada where her only brother was living the life of a frontiersman on an incredibly huge farm. she had not seen him for many years, but her heart warmed at the thought of seeing her only relative again. he was much older. yes, eddie must now be about forty. oh, all of that. she, herself, was almost twenty-eight. but she wouldn't go to him for several years. he had done one thing which seemed to her quite dreadful. he had made an unfortunate marriage with a woman far beneath him socially. men were so weak! because they fancied themselves lonely, or even captivated by a pretty face, they were willing to make impossible marriages. women were different. still, she had the grace to blush when she recalled the episode of the doctor's assistant. yes, she would go out to eddie after his wife had had the chance to form herself a little more. living with a husband so much superior was bound to have its influence. and she must have some really good qualities at bottom or she could never have attracted him. there was nothing vicious about her brother. she must write him of miss wickham's death. they were neither of them fond of writing. it must be nearly a year since she had heard from him last. and then, it was so difficult to keep up a correspondence when people had no mutual friends and so little in common. a glance at her watch told her that it must be nearly time for the london wickhams to arrive. it would be better not to see them, unless they sent for her, until after they had returned from the cemetery. they were just the sort of people to think that she was forgetting her position if she had the manner of playing hostess by receiving them. thank goodness! she would probably never see them again after to-day. with a word to kate that she would presently have her luncheon in her room and then rest for a few hours until the people returned after the funeral, she made her way to her own bare little room. how cold and bare it was! with the exception of the framed pictures of her father and mother and a small photograph of eddie, taken before he had gone out, there was nothing but the absolutely necessary furniture. miss wickham's ideas of what a 'companion's' room should be like had partaken of the austere. and all the rest of the house was so crowded and overloaded with things. the drawing-room had always been an eyesore to nora, crammed as it was with little tables and cabinets containing china. and in every available space there were porcelain ornaments and photographs in huge silver frames. it was all like a badly arranged museum or a huddled little curio shop. well, she would soon be done with that, too! armed with her portfolio and writing materials nora returned to the guest chamber, which was her temporary abode. the motherly kate was waiting with an appetizing lunch on a neat tray. what a good friend she had been. she would be genuinely sorry to part with kate. she must ask her to give her some address that would always reach her. who knew, years hence when she returned to england, but what she might afford to set up a modest flat with kate to manage things for her. she would speak to her on the morrow--after the will was read. "ah, kate, you knew just what would tempt me. thank you so much! by the way, has miss pringle sent any message?" "yes, miss. miss pringle stopped on her way to the village a moment ago. she was with mrs. hubbard and had only a moment. i was to tell you that she would call this afternoon and hoped you could see her. i told her, miss, that the doctor had said you were not to go to the burial. she will come while they are away." "let me know the moment she comes. i want to see her very much." miss pringle was the only woman friend nora had made in the years of her sojourn at tunbridge wells. they had little in common beyond the fellow-feeling that binds those in bondage. miss pringle was also a companion. her task mistress, mrs. hubbard, was in nora's opinion, about as stolidly brainless as a woman could well be. miss pringle was always lauding her kindness. but then miss pringle had been a companion to various rich women for thirty years. nora had her own ideas as to the value of the opinions of any woman who had been in slavery for thirty years. having eaten her luncheon and written her letter to her brother, she felt glad to rest once more. how wise the doctor had been to forbid her to go to the funeral, and how grateful she was that he had forbidden it, was her last waking thought. chapter ii it was well on to three o'clock when miss pringle made her careful way up the path that led to the late miss wickham's door. "how strange it will be not to find her in her own drawing-room!" she reflected. "i don't recall that nora marsh and i have ever been alone together for two consecutive minutes in our lives. i simply couldn't have stood it." "i'll tell miss marsh you're here, miss pringle," said kate, at the door. "how is she to-day, kate?" "still tired out, poor thing. the doctor made her promise to lie down directly after she had had a bite of luncheon. but she said i was to let her know the moment you came, miss." "i'm very glad she didn't go to the funeral." "dr. evans simply wouldn't hear of it, miss." "i wonder how she stood it all these months, waiting on miss wickham hand and foot. she should have been made to have a professional nurse." "it wasn't very easy to make miss wickham have anything she had made up her mind not to, you know that, miss," said kate as she led the way to the drawing-room. "miss marsh slept in miss wickham's room towards the last, and the moment she fell asleep miss wickham would have her up because her pillow wanted shaking or she was thirsty, or something." "i suppose she was very inconsiderate." miss pringle did not in general approve of discussing things with servants. but nora had told her frequently how faithfully kate looked after her and, as far as it was possible, made things bearable, so she felt she could make an exception of her. "inconsiderate isn't the word, miss. i wouldn't be a lady's companion," kate paused, her hand on the doorknob, to make a sweeping gesture, "not for anything. what they have to put up with!" "everyone isn't like miss wickham," said miss pringle, a trifle sharply. "the lady i'm companion to, mrs. hubbard, is kindness itself." "that sounds like miss marsh coming down the stairs now," said kate, opening the door. "miss pringle is here, miss." as kate closed the door behind her, nora advanced to meet her friend from the doorway with her pretty smile and outstretched hand. miss pringle kissed her warmly and then drew her down on a large sofa by her side. her glance had a certain note of disapproval as it took in her friend's black dress, which did not escape that observant young person. "i was so glad to hear you were coming to me this afternoon; it is good of you. how did you escape the dragon?" she had long ago nicknamed the excellent mrs. hubbard 'the dragon' simply to tease miss pringle. "mrs. hubbard has gone for a drive with somebody or other and didn't want me," said miss pringle primly. "you haven't been crying, nora?" "yes, i couldn't help it. my dear, it's not unnatural." miss pringle dropped the hand she had been stroking to clasp both her own over the handle of her umbrella. "well, i don't like to say anything against her now she's dead, poor thing, but miss wickham was the most detestable old woman i ever met." "still," said nora slowly, looking toward the french window which opened on the garden, at the sun streaming through the drawn blinds, "i don't suppose one can live so long with anyone and not be a little sorry to part with them forever. i was miss wickham's companion for ten years." "how you stood it! exacting, domineering, disagreeable!" "yes, i suppose she was. because she paid me a salary, she thought i wasn't a human being. i certainly never knew anyone with such a bitter tongue. at first i used to cry every night when i went to bed because of the things she said to me. but i got used to them." "i wonder you didn't leave her. i would have." miss pringle attempting to delude herself with the idea that she was a mettlesome, high-spirited person who would stand no nonsense, was immensely diverting to nora. to hide an irrepressible smile, she went over to a bowl of roses which stood on one of the little tables and pretended to busy herself with their rearrangement. "posts as lady's companions are not so easy to find, i fancy. at least i remember that when i got this one i was thought to be extremely lucky not to have to wait twice as long. i don't imagine things have bettered much in our line, do you?" "that they have not," rejoined miss pringle gloomily. "they tell me the agents' books are full of people wanting situations. before i went to mrs. hubbard i was out of one for nearly two years." her voice shook a little at the recollection. her poor, tired, weather-beaten face quivered as if she were about to cry. "it's not so had for you," said nora soothingly. "you can always go and stay with your brother." "you've a brother, too." "ah, yes. but he's farming in canada. he has all he could do to keep himself. he couldn't keep me, too." "how is he doing now?" asked miss pringle, to whom any new topic of conversation was of interest. she had so little opportunity for conversation at the irreproachable mrs. hubbard's, that lady having apparently inherited a limited set of ideas from her late husband, 'as mr. hubbard used to say' being her favorite introduction to any topic. miss pringle saw herself making quite a little success at dinner that night--there was to be a guest, she believed--by saying: "a friend of mine has just been telling me of the success her brother is having way out in canada." "he is getting on?" she asked encouragingly. "oh, he's doing very well. he's got a farm of his own. he wrote over a few years ago and told me he could always give me a home if i wanted one." "canada's so far off," observed miss pringle deprecatingly. her tone seemed to imply that there were other disadvantages which she would refrain from mentioning. now while nora had always had the same vague feeling that canada, in addition to being an immense distance off, was not quite, well, it wasn't england--that was indisputable--she found herself unreasonably irritated by her friend's tone. "not when yon get there," she replied sharply. miss pringle evidently deemed it best to change the subject. "why don't you draw the blinds?" she asked after a moment. "it is horrid, isn't it? but somehow i thought i ought to wait till they came back from the funeral. but just see the sunlight; it must be beautiful out of doors. why don't we walk about in the garden? do you care for a wrap? i'll send kate to fetch you something, if you do." miss pringle having decided that her coat was sufficiently warm if they did not sit anywhere too long and just walked in the paths where it was sure not to be damp, they went out of the gloomy drawing-room into the bright afternoon sunshine. "don't you love a garden when things are just beginning to show their heads? i sometimes think that spring is the most beautiful of all the seasons. it's like watching the birth of a new world. i think the most human thing about poor miss wickham was her fondness for flowers. she always said she hoped she'd never die in winter." to miss pringle, the note of regret which crept now and again into nora's voice when she spoke of her late employer was a continual source of bewilderment. here was a woman who she knew had a quick temper and a passionate nature speaking as if she actually sorrowed for the tyrant who had so frequently made her life unbearable. she was sure that she couldn't have felt more grieved if providence had seen fit to remove the excellent mrs. hubbard from the scene of her earthly activities. poor miss pringle! she did not realize that after thirty years of a life passed as a hired companion that she no longer possessed either sensibility or the power of affection. to her, one employer would be very like another so long as they were fairly considerate and not too unreasonable. it would be tiresome, to be sure, to have to learn the little likes and dislikes of mrs. hubbard's successor. but what would you? life was filled with tiresome moments. poor miss pringle! her next remark was partly to make conversation and partly because she might obtain further light upon this perplexing subject. she made a mental note that she must not forget to speak to mrs. hubbard of nora's grief over miss wickham's death. naturally, she would be gratified. "well, it must be a great relief to you now it's all over," she said. "sometimes i can't realize it," said nora simply. "these last few weeks i hardly got to bed at all, and when the end came i was utterly exhausted. for two days i have done nothing but sleep. poor miss wickham. she did hate dying." miss pringle had a sort of triumph. she had proved her point. even mrs. hubbard could not doubt it now! "that's the extraordinary part of it. i believe you were really fond of her." "do you know that for nearly a year she would eat nothing but what i gave her with my own hands. and she liked me as much as she was capable of liking anybody." "that wasn't much," miss pringle permitted herself. "and then i was so dreadfully sorry for her." "good heavens!" "she'd been a hard and selfish woman all her life, and there was no one who cared for her," nora went on passionately. "it seemed so dreadful to die like that and leave not a soul to regret one. her nephew and his wife were just waiting for her death. it was dreadful. each time they came down from london i could see them looking at her to see if she was any worse than when last they'd seen her." "well," said miss pringle with a sort of splendid defiance, "i thought her a horrid old woman, and i'm glad she's dead. and i only hope she's left you well provided for." "oh, i think she's done that," nora smiled happily into her friend's face. "yes, i can be quite sure of that, i fancy. two years ago, when i--when i nearly went away, she said she'd left me enough to live on." they walked on for a moment or two in silence until they had reached the end of the path, where there was a little arbor in which miss wickham had been in the habit of having her tea afternoons when the weather permitted. "do you think we would run any risk if we sat down here a few moments? suppose we try it. we can walk again if you feel in the least chilled. i think the view so lovely from here. besides, i can see the carriage the moment it enters the gate." miss pringle sat down with the air of a person who was hardly conscious of what she was doing. "you say she told you she had left you something when you nearly went away," she went on in the hesitating manner of one who has been interrupted while reading aloud and is not quite sure that she has resumed at the right place. "you mean when that assistant of dr. evans wanted to marry you? i'm glad you wouldn't have him." "he was very kind and--and nice," said nora gently. "but, of course, he wasn't a gentleman." "i shouldn't like to live with a man at all," retorted miss pringle, with unshakable conviction. "i think they're horrid; but of course it would be utterly impossible if he weren't a gentleman." nora's eyes twinkled with amusement; she gave a little gurgle of laughter. "he came to see miss wickham, but she wouldn't have anything to do with him. first, she said she couldn't spare me, and then she said that i had a very bad temper." "i like _her_ saying that," retorted her listener. "it's quite true," said nora with a deprecating wave of her hand. "every now and then i felt i couldn't put up with her any more. i forgot that i was dependent on her, and that if she dismissed me, i probably shouldn't be able to find another situation, and i just flew at her. i must say she was very nice about it; she used to look at me and grin, and when it was all over, say: 'my dear, when you marry, if your husband's a wise man, he'll use a big stick now and then.'" "old cat!" "i should like to see any man try it," said nora with emphasis. miss pringle dismissed the supposition with a wave of her hand. "how much do you think she's left you?" she asked eagerly. "well, of course i don't know; the will is going to be read this afternoon, when they come back from the funeral. but from what she said, i believe about two hundred and fifty pounds a year." "it's the least she could do. she's had the ten best years of your life." nora gave a long, happy sigh. "just think of it! never to be at anybody's beck and call again. i shall be able to get up when i like and go to bed when i like, go out when i choose and come in when i choose. think of what that means!" "unless you marry--you probably will," said miss pringle in a discouraging tone. "never." "what do you purpose doing?" "i shall go to italy, florence, rome; oh, everywhere i've so longed to go. do you think it's horrible of me? i'm so happy!" "my dear child!" said miss pringle with real feeling. at that moment the sound of carriage wheels came to them. turning quickly, nora saw the carriage containing mr. and mrs. wickham coming up the drive. "there they are now. how the time has gone!" "i'd better go, hadn't i?" said miss pringle with manifest reluctance. "i'm afraid you must: i'm sorry." "couldn't i go up to your room and wait there? i do so want to know about the will." nora hesitated a moment. she didn't want to take miss pringle up to her bare little room. a sort of loyalty to the woman who was, after all, to be her benefactress--for was she not, after all, with her legacy, going to make the happy future pay rich interest for the unhappy past?--made her reluctant to let anyone know how poorly she had been lodged. "no," she said; "i'll tell you what, stay here in the garden. they want to catch the four-something back to london. and, later, we can have a cozy little tea all by ourselves." "very well. oh, my dear," said miss pringle with emotion, "i'm so sincerely happy in your good luck!" nora was genuinely moved. she leaned over and kissed miss pringle, her eyes filling with quick tears. then she went into the house. the wickhams were already in the drawing-room. mrs. james wickham was a pretty young woman, a good ten years younger than her unattractive husband. of the two, nora preferred mr. wickham. there was a certain cynicism about her insincerity which his, somehow, lacked. even now, they wore their rue with a difference. mrs. wickham's mourning was as correct and elegant as a fashionable dressmaker could make it; the very latest thing in grief. mr. wickham was far less sumptuous. beyond the customary band on his hat and a pair of black gloves conspicuously new, he had apparently made little expenditure on his costume. as nora entered, mrs. wickham was pulling off her gloves. "how do yon do?" she said carelessly. "ouf! do put the blinds up, miss marsh. really, we needn't be depressed any more. jim, if you love me, take those gloves off. they're perfectly revolting." "why, what's wrong with them! the fellow in the shop told me they were the right thing." "no doubt; i never saw anyone look quite so funereal as you do." "well," retorted her husband, "you didn't want me to get myself up as if i were going to a wedding, did you?" "were there many people?" said nora hastily. the insolence of mrs. wickham's glance was scarcely veiled. "oh, quite a lot," she drawled. "the sort of people who indulge in other peoples' funerals as a mild form of dissipation." "i hope wynne will look sharp," said her husband hastily, looking at his watch. "i don't want to miss that train." "who were all those stodgy old things who wrung your hand afterwards, jim?" asked his wife. she was moving slowly about the room picking up the various little objects scattered about and examining the contents of one of the cabinets with the air of an appraiser. "i can't think. they did make me feel such a fool." "oh, was that it?" laughed his wife. "i saw you looking a perfect owl and i thought you were giving a very bad imitation of restrained emotion." "dorothy!" in a tone of remonstrance. "would you care for some tea, mrs. wickham?" nora broke in. to her the whole scene was positively indecent. she longed to make her escape, but felt that it would be considered part of her duty to remain as long as the wickhams stayed. as she was about to ring the bell, mrs. wickham stopped her with a gesture. "well, you might send some in so that it'll be ready when mr. wynne comes. we'll ring for you, shall we?" she added. "i dare say you've got one or two things you want to do now." "very good, mrs. wickham." nora could feel her cheeks burn as she left the room. but she was thankful to escape. outside the door she hesitated for a moment. there was no good in rejoining miss pringle as yet. she had no news for her. she hoped mr. wynne would not be delayed much longer. the wickhams could not possibly be more anxious to get back to london than she was to have them go. how gratuitously insolent that woman was. thank heaven, she need never see her again after to-day. of course, she was furious because she suspected that the despised companion was to be a beneficiary under the will. how could anyone be so mean as to begrudge her her well-earned share in so large a fortune! well, the coming hour would tell the tale. on the table in her room was the letter to her brother which she had forgotten to send to the post. slipping down the stairs again, she went in search of kate to see if it were too late to send it to the village. now that it was written, she had almost a superstitions feeling that it was important that it should catch the first foreign mail. as she passed the door of the drawing-room, she could hear james wickham's voice raised above its normal pitch. were they already quarreling over the spoils! chapter iii nora's surmise had been very nearly correct; the wickhams were quarreling, but not, as yet, over the spoils. james wickham had waited until the door had closed behind his aunt's companion to rebuke his wife's untimely frivolity. "i say, dorothy, you oughtn't to be facetious before miss marsh. she was extremely attached to aunt louisa." "oh, what nonsense!" jeered mrs. wickham, throwing herself pettishly into a chair. "i find it's always a very good rule to judge people by oneself, and i'm positive she was just longing for the old lady to die." "she was awfully upset at the end, you know that yourself." "nerves! men are so idiotic. they never understand that there are tears _and_ tears. i cried myself, and heaven knows i didn't regret her death." "my dear dorothy, you oughtn't to say that." "why not?" retorted his wife. "it's perfectly true. aunt louisa was a detestable person and no one would have stood her for a minute if she hadn't had money. i can't see the use of being a hypocrite _now_ that it can't make any difference either way. oh, why doesn't that man hurry up!" she resumed once more her impatient walk about the room. "i wish wynne would come," said her husband, glad to change the subject, particularly as he felt that he had failed to be very impressive. "it'll be beastly inconvenient if we miss that train," he finished, glancing again at his watch. "and another thing," said mrs. wickham, turning sharply as she reached the end of the room, "i don't trust that miss marsh. she looks as if she knew what was in the will." "i don't for a moment suppose she does. aunt louisa wasn't the sort of person to talk." "nevertheless, i'm sure she knows she's been left something." "oh, well, i think she has the right to expect that. aunt louisa led her a dog's life." mrs. wickham made an angry gesture. "she had her wages and a comfortable home. if she didn't like the place, she could have left it," she said pettishly. "after all," she went on in a quieter tone, "it's family money. in my opinion, aunt louisa had no right to leave it to strangers." "i don't think we ought to complain if miss marsh gets a small annuity," said her husband soothingly. "i understand aunt louisa promised her something of the sort when she had a chance of marrying a couple of years ago." "miss marsh is still quite young. it isn't as if she had been here for thirty years," protested mrs. wickham. "well, anyway, i've got an idea that aunt louisa meant to leave her about two hundred and fifty a year." "two hundred and fif---- but what's the estate amount to; have you any idea?" "about nineteen thousand pounds, i believe." mrs. wickham, who had seated herself once more, struck her hands violently together. "oh, it's absurd. it's a most unfair proposition. it will make _all_ the difference to us. on that extra two hundred and fifty a year we could keep a car." "my dear, be thankful if we get anything at all," said her husband solemnly. for a moment she stared at him aghast. "jim! jim, you don't think---- oh! that would be too horrible." "hush! take care." he crossed to the window as the door opened and kate came in softly with the tea things. "how lucky it is that we had a fine day," he said, endeavoring to give the impression that they had been talking with becoming sobriety of light topics. he hoped his wife's raised voice had not been heard in the passageway. but mrs. wickham was beyond caring. her toneless "yes" in response to his original observation betrayed her utter lack of interest in the subject. but as kate was still busy setting out the things on a small table, he continued his efforts. really, dorothy should 'play up' more. "it looks as if we were going to have a spell of fine weather." "yes." "it's funny how often it rains for weddings." "very funny." "the tea is ready, sir." as kate left the room, mrs. wickham crossed slowly over to where her husband was standing in front of the window leading to the garden. her voice shook with emotion. it was evident that she was very near tears. he put his arm around her awkwardly, but with a certain suggestion of protective tenderness. "i've been counting on that money for years," she said, hardly above a whisper. "i used to dream at night that i was reading a telegram with the news of aunt louisa's death. and i've thought of all we should be able to do when we get it. it'll make such a difference." "you know what she was. she didn't care twopence for us. we ought to be prepared for the worst," he said soberly. "do you think she could have left everything to miss marsh?" "i shouldn't be greatly surprised." "we'll dispute the will," she said, once more raising her voice. "it's undue influence. i suspected miss marsh from the beginning. i hate her. oh, how i hate her! oh, why doesn't wynne come?" a ring at the bell answered her. "here he is, i expect." "the suspense is too awful." "pull yourself together, old girl," said wickham, patting his wife encouragingly on the shoulder. "and i say, look a bit dismal. after all, we've just come from a funeral." mrs. wickham gave a sort of suppressed wail. "oh, i'm downhearted enough, heaven knows." "mr. wynne, sir," said kate from the doorway. mr. wynne, the late miss wickham's solicitor, was a jovial, hearty man, tallish, bald and ruddy-looking. in his spare time he played at being a country gentleman. he had a fine, straightforward eye and a direct manner that inspired one with confidence. he was dressed in complimentary mourning, but for the moment his natural hearty manner threatened to get the better of him. "helloa," he said, holding out his hand to wickham. but the sight of mrs. wickham, seated on the sofa dejectedly enough, recalled to him that he should be more subdued in the presence of such genuine grief. he crossed the room to take dorothy's hand solemnly. "i didn't have an opportunity of shaking hands with you at the cemetery." "how do you do," she said rather absently. "pray accept my sincerest sympathy on your great bereavement." mrs. wickham made an effort to bring her mind back from the all-absorbing fear that possessed her. "of course the end was not entirely unexpected." "no, i know. but it must have been a great shock, all the same." he was going on to say what a wonderful old lady his late client had been in that her faculties seemed perfectly unimpaired until the very last, when wickham interrupted him. not only was he most anxious to hear the will read himself and have it over, but he saw signs in his wife's face and in the nervous manner in which she rolled and unrolled her handkerchief, that she was nearing the end of her self-control, never very great. "my wife was very much upset, but of course my poor aunt had suffered great pain, and we couldn't help looking upon it as a happy release." "naturally," responded the solicitor sympathetically. "and how is miss marsh?" he was looking at james wickham as he spoke, so that he missed the sudden 'i told you so' glance which mrs. wickham flashed at her husband. "oh, she's very well," she managed to say with a careless air. "i'm glad to learn that she is not completely prostrated," said mr. wynne warmly. "her devotion to miss wickham was perfectly wonderful. dr. evans--he's my brother-in-law, you know--told me no trained nurse could have been more competent. she was like a daughter to miss wickham." "i suppose we'd better send for her," said mrs. wickham coldly. "have you brought the----" wickham stopped in embarrassment. "yes, i have it in my pocket," said the solicitor quickly. he had noted before now how awkward people always were about speaking of wills. there was nothing indelicate about doing so. heavens, all right-minded persons made their wills and they meant to have them read after they were dead. everybody knew that, and yet they always acted as if it were indecent to approach the subject. he had no patience with such nonsense. with an eloquent look at her husband, mrs. wickham slowly crossed the room to the bell. "i'll ring for miss marsh," she said in a hard voice. "i expect mr. wynne would like a cup of tea, dorothy." she frowned at her husband behind the solicitor's broad back. more delays. could she bear it? "oh, i'm so sorry, i quite forgot about it." "no, thank you very much, i never take tea," protested that gentleman. he took from his pocket a long blue envelope and slowly drew from it the will, which he smoothed out with a deliberation which was maddening to mrs. wickham. she could hardly tear her fascinated eyes away from it long enough to tell the waiting kate to ask miss marsh to be good enough to come to them. "what's the time, jim?" she asked nervously. "oh, there's no hurry," he said, looking at his watch without seeing it. then turning to wynne, he added: "we've got an important engagement this evening in london and we're very anxious not to miss the fast train." "the train service down here is rotten," said mrs. wickham harshly. "that's all right. the will is very short. it won't take me two minutes to read it," mr. wynne reassured them. "what on earth is miss marsh doing?" said mrs. wickham, half to herself. an endless minute passed. "how pretty the garden is looking now," said the solicitor cheerfully, gazing out through the window. "very," wickham managed to say. "miss wickham was always so interested in her garden." "yes." "my own tulips aren't so advanced as those." "aren't they?" wickham's tone suggested irritation. mr. wynne addressed his next observation to mrs. wickham. "are you interested in gardening?" "no, i hate it. at last!" the exclamation was called forth by the appearance of nora in the doorway. the two men both, rose; wynne to go forward and shake nora's hand with unaffected cordiality, wickham to whisper in his wife's ear, beseeching her to exercise more self-control. "how do you do, miss marsh? i'm rejoiced to see you looking so fit." "oh, i'm very well, thank you. how do you do?" "will you have a cup of tea?" asked wickham in response to what he thought was a signal from his wife. but mrs. wickham had reached the point where further waiting was simply impossible. "jim," she remonstrated, "miss marsh would much prefer to have tea quietly after we're gone." nora understood and for the moment found it in her heart to be sorry for the woman, much as she disliked her. "i won't have any tea, thank you," she said simply. "mr. wynne has brought the will with him," explained mrs. wickham. her tone was almost appealing as if she begged nora if she knew of its contents to say so without further delay. "oh, yes?" nothing should induce her to show such agitation as this woman did. she managed to assume an air of polite interest and find a chair for herself quite calmly. and yet she was conscious that her heart was beating wildly beneath her bodice. but she would not betray herself, she would not. and yet her stake was as great as any. her whole future hung on the contents of that paper mr. wynne was caressing with his long fingers. "miss marsh," questioned mr. wynne as soon as she was seated, "so far as you know there is no other will?" "how do you mean?" "miss wickham didn't make a later one--without my assistance, i mean? you know of nothing in the house, for instance?" "oh, no," said nora positively. "miss wickham always said you had her will. she was extremely methodical." "i feel i ought to ask you," the solicitor went on with unwonted gentleness, "because miss wickham consulted me a couple of years ago about making a new will. she told me what she wanted to do, but gave me no actual instructions to draw it. i thought perhaps she might have done it herself." "i heard nothing about it. i am sure that her only will is in your hands." "then i think that we may take it that this----" mrs. wickham's set face relaxed. the light of triumph was in her eyes. she understood. "when was that will made?" she asked eagerly. "eight or nine years ago. the exact date was march th, ." the date settled it. nora, too, realized that. she was left penniless. what a refinement of cruelty to deceive--but she must not think of that now. she would have all the rest of her life in which to think of it. but here before that woman, whose searching glance was even now fastened on her face to see how she was taking the blow, she would give no sign. "when did you first come to miss wickham?" mrs. wickham's voice was almost a caress. "at the end of nineteen hundred and three." there was no trace of emotion in that clear voice. after a moment mr. wynne spoke again. "shall _i_ read it, or would you just like to know the particulars? it is very short." "oh, let us know just roughly." mrs. wickham was still eager. "well, miss wickham left one hundred pounds to the society for the propagation of the gospel, and one hundred pounds to the general hospital at tunbridge wells, and the entire residue of her fortune to her nephew, mr. james wickham." mrs. wickham drew her breath sharply. once more she looked at her late aunt's companion, but nothing was to be read in that calm face. she was a designing minx, none the less. but she did yield her a grudging admiration, for her self-control in the shipwreck of all her hopes. now they could have their car. oh, what couldn't they have! she felt she had earned every penny of it in that last dreadful half hour. "and miss marsh?" she heard her husband ask. "miss marsh is not mentioned." somehow, nora managed a smile. "i could hardly expect to be. at the time that will was drawn i had been miss wickham's companion for only a few months." "that is why i asked whether you knew of any later will," said mr. wynne almost sadly. "when i talked to miss wickham on the subject she said her wish was to make adequate provision for you after her death. i think she had spoken to you about it." "yes, she had." "she mentioned three hundred a year." "that was very kind of her." nora's voice broke a little. "i'm glad she wished to do something for me." "oddly enough," continued the solicitor, "she spoke about it to dr. evans only a few days before she died." "perhaps there is a later will somewhere," said wickham. "i honestly don't think so." "oh, i'm sure there isn't," affirmed nora. "dr. evans was talking to miss wickham about miss marsh. she was completely tired out and he wanted miss wickham to have a professional nurse. she told him then that i _had_ the will and that she had left miss marsh amply provided for." "that isn't legal, of course," said mrs. wickham decidedly. "what isn't?" "i mean no one could force us--i mean the will stands as it is, doesn't it?" "certainly it does." "i'm afraid it's a great disappointment to you, miss marsh," wickham said, not unkindly. "i never count my chickens before they're hatched." this time nora smiled easily and naturally. the worst was over now. "it would be very natural if miss marsh were disappointed in the circumstances. i think she'd been led to expect----" mr. wynne's voice was almost pleading. mrs. wickham detected a certain disapproval in the tone. she hastened to justify herself. he might still be useful. when the estate was once settled, they would of course put everything in the hands of their london solicitor. but it would be better not to antagonize him for the moment. "our aunt left a very small fortune, i understand, and i suppose she felt it wouldn't be fair to leave a large part of it away from her own family." "of course," said her husband, following her lead, "it is family money. she inherited it from my grandfather, and--but i want you to know, miss marsh, that my wife and i thoroughly appreciate all you did for my aunt. money couldn't repay your care and devotion you've been perfectly wonderful." "it's extremely good of you to say so." "i think everyone who saw miss marsh with miss wickham must be aware that during the ten years she was with her she never spared herself." mr. wynne's eyes were on mrs. wickham. "of course my aunt was a very trying woman----" began james wickham feebly. his wife headed him off. "earning one's living is always unpleasant; if it weren't there'd be no incentive to work." this astonishing aphorism was almost too much for nora's composure. she gave mrs. wickham an amused glance, to which that lady responded by beaming upon her in her most agreeable manner. "my wife and i would be very glad to make some kind of acknowledgment of your services." "i was just going to mention it," echoed mrs. wickham heartily. mr. wynne's kindly face brightened visibly. he was glad they were going to do the right thing, after all. he had been a little fearful a few moments before. "i felt sure that in the circumstances----" but mrs. wickham interrupted him quickly. "what were your wages, may i ask, miss marsh?" "thirty pounds a year." "really?" in a tone of excessive surprise. "many ladies are glad to go as companion without any salary, just for the sake of a home and congenial society. i daresay you've been able to save a good deal in all these years." "i had to dress myself decently, mrs. wickham," said nora frigidly. mrs. wickham was graciousness itself. "well, i'm sure my husband will be very glad to give you a year's salary, won't you, jim?" "it's very kind of you," replied nora coldly, "but i'm not inclined to accept anything but what is legally due to me." "you must remember," went on mrs. wickham, "that there'll be very heavy death duties to pay. they'll swallow up the income from miss wickham's estate for at least two years, won't they, mr. wynne?" "i quite understand," said nora. "perhaps you'll change your mind." "i don't think so." there was an awkward pause. mr. wynne rose from his seat at the table. his manner showed unmistakably that he was not impressed by mrs. wickham's great generosity. "well, i think i must leave you," he said, looking at nora. "good-by, miss marsh. if i can be of any help to you i hope you'll let me know." "that's very kind of you." bowing slightly to mrs. wickham and nodding to her husband, he went out. "we must go, too, dorothy," said james uneasily. mrs. wickham began drawing on her gloves. "jim will be writing to you in a day or two. you know how grateful we both are for all you did for our poor aunt. we shall be glad to give you the very highest references. you're such a wonderful nurse. i'm sure you'll have no difficulty in getting another situation; i expect i can find you something myself. i'll ask among all my friends." nora made no reply to this affable speech. "come on, dorothy; we really haven't any time to lose," said wickham hurriedly. "good-by, miss marsh." "good-by," said nora dully. she stood, her hands resting on the table, her eyes fastened on the long blue envelope which mr. wynne had forgotten. from a long way off she heard the wheels of the cab on the driveway. chapter iv "i thought they were never going. well?" it was miss pringle who had come in from her retreat in the garden, eager to hear the news the moment she had seen the wickhams driving away. nora turned and looked at her without a word. miss pringle was genuinely startled at the drawn look on her face. "nora! what's the matter? isn't it as much as you thought?" "miss wickham has left me nothing," said nora in a dead voice. miss pringle gave a positive wail of anguish. "oh-h-h-h." "not a penny. oh, it's cruel!" the girl said, almost wildly. "after all," she went on bitterly, "there was no need for her to leave me anything. she gave me board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. if i stayed it was because i chose. but she needn't have promised me anything. she needn't have prevented me from marrying." "my dear, you could never have married that little assistant. he wasn't a gentleman," miss pringle reminded her. "ten years! the ten best years of a woman's life, when other girls are enjoying themselves. and what did i get for it? board and lodging and thirty pounds a year. a cook does better than that." "we can't expect to make as much money as a good cook," said miss pringle, with touching and unconscious pathos. "one has to pay something for living like a lady among people of one's own class." "oh, it's cruel!" nora could only repeat. "my dear," said miss pringle with an effort at consolation, "don't give way. i'm sure you'll have no difficulty in finding another situation. you wash lace beautifully and no one can arrange flowers like you." nora sank wearily into a chair. "and i was dreaming of france and italy--i shall spend ten years more with an old lady, and then she'll die and i shall look out for another situation. it won't be so easy then because i shan't be so young. and so it'll go on until i can't find a situation because i'm too old, and then some charitable people will get me into a home. you like the life, don't you?" "my dear, there are so few things a gentlewoman can do." "when i think of those ten years," said nora, pacing up and down the length of the room, "having to put up with every unreasonableness! never being allowed to feel ill or tired. no servant would have stood what i have. the humiliation i've endured!" "you're tired and out of sorts," said miss pringle soothingly. "everyone isn't so trying as miss wickham. i'm sure mrs. hubbard has been kindness itself to me." "considering." "i don't know what you mean by 'considering.'" "considering that she's rich and you're poor. she gives you her old clothes. she frequently doesn't ask you to have dinner by yourself when she's giving a party. she doesn't remind you that you're a dependent unless she's very much put out. but you--you've had thirty years of it. you've eaten the bitter bread of slavery till--till it tastes like plum cake!" miss pringle was distinctly hurt. "i don't know why you say such things to me, nora." "oh, you mustn't mind what i say; i----" "mr. hornby would like to see you for a minute, miss," said kate from the doorway. "now?" "i told him i didn't think it would be very convenient, miss, but he says it's very important, and he won't detain you more than five minutes." "what a nuisance. ask him to come in." "very good, miss." "i wonder what on earth he can want." "who is he, nora?" "oh, he's the son of colonel hornby. don't you know, he lives at the top of molyneux park? his mother was a great friend of miss wickham's. he comes down here now and then for week-ends. he's got something to do with motor cars." "mr. hornby," said kate from the door. reginald hornby was evidently one of those candid souls who are above simulating an emotion they do not feel. he had regarded the late miss wickham as an unusually tiresome old woman. his mother had liked her of course. but he could hardly have been expected to do so. moreover, he had a shrewd notion that she must have been a perfect tartar to live with. miss marsh might be busy or tired out with the ordeal of the day, but as she also might be leaving almost immediately and he wanted to see her, he had not hesitated to come, once he was sure that the wickham relatives had departed. that he would find the late miss wickham's companion indulging in any show of grief for her late employer, had never entered his head. he was a good-looking, if rather vacuous, young man with a long, elegant body. his dark, sleek hair was always carefully brushed and his small mustache trimmed and curled. his beautiful clothes suggested the fashionable tailors of savile row. everything about him--his tie, his handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket, his boots--bore the stamp of the very latest thing. "i say, i'm awfully sorry to blow in like this," he said airily. he beamed on nora, whom he had always regarded as much too pretty a girl to be what he secretly called a 'frozy companion' and sent a quick inquiring glance at miss pringle, whom he vaguely remembered to have seen somewhere in tunbridge wells. but then tunbridge wells was filled with frumps. oh, yes. he remembered now. she was usually to be seen leading a pair of poms on a leash. "you see, i didn't know if you'd be staying on here," he went on, retaining nora's hand, "and i wanted to catch you. i'm off in a day or two myself." "won't you sit down? mr. hornby--miss pringle." "how d'you do?" mr. hornby's glance skimmed lightly over miss pringle's surface and returned at once to nora's more pleasing face. "everything go off o. k.?" he inquired genially. "i beg your pardon?" "funeral, i mean. mother went. regular outing for her." miss pringle stiffened visibly in her chair and began to study the pattern in the rug at her feet with an absorbed interest. nora was conscious of a wild desire to laugh, but with a heroic effort succeeded in keeping her face straight out of deference to her elderly friend. "really?" she said, in a faint voice. "oh, yes," went on young hornby with unabated cheerfulness. "you see, mother's getting on. i'm the child of her old age--benjamin, don't you know. benjamin and sarah, you know," he explained, apparently for the benefit of miss pringle, as he pointedly turned to address this final remark to her. "i understand perfectly," said miss pringle icily, "but it wasn't sarah." "wasn't it? when one of her old friends dies," he went on to nora, "mother always goes to the funeral and says to herself: 'well, i've seen _her_ out, anyhow!' then she comes back and eats muffins for tea. she always eats muffins after she's been to a funeral." "the maid said you wanted to see me about something in particular," nora gently reminded him. "that's right, i was forgetting." he wheeled suddenly once more on miss pringle, who had arrived at that stage in her study of the rug when she was carefully tracing out the pattern with the point of her umbrella. "if sarah wasn't benjamin's mother, whose mother was she?" "if you want to know, i recommend you to read your bible," retorted that lady with something approaching heat. mr. hornby slapped his knee. "i thought it was a stumper," he remarked with evident satisfaction. "the fact is, i'm going to canada and mother told me you had a brother or something out there." "a brother, not a something," said nora, with a smile. "and she said, perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me a letter to him." "i will with pleasure. but i'm afraid he won't be much use to you. he's a farmer and he lives miles away from anywhere." "but i'm going in for farming." "you are? what on earth for?" "i've jolly well got to do something," said hornby with momentary gloom, "and i think farming's about the best thing i can do. one gets a lot of shooting and riding yon know. and then there are tennis parties and dances. and you make a pot of money, there's no doubt about that." "but i thought you were in some motor business in london." "well, i was, in a way. but--i thought you'd have heard about it. mother's been telling everybody. governor won't speak to me. altogether, things are rotten. i want to get out of this beastly country as quick as i can." "would you like me to give you the letter at once?" said nora, going over to an escritoire that stood near the window. "i wish you would. fact is," he went on, addressing no one in particular, as nora was already deep in her letter and miss pringle, having exhausted the possibilities of the rug, was gazing stonily into space, "i'm broke. i was all right as long as i stuck to bridge; i used to make money on that. over a thousand a year." "what!" horror was stronger than miss pringle's resolution to take no further part in the conversation with this extraordinary and apparently unprincipled young man. "playing regularly, you know. if i hadn't been a fool i'd have stuck to that, but i got bitten with chemi." "with what?" asked nora, over her shoulder. "chemin de fer. never heard of it? i got in the habit of going to thornton's. i suppose you never heard of him either. he keeps a gambling hell. gives you a slap-up supper for nothing, as much pop as you can drink, and cashes your checks like a bird. the result is, i've lost every bob i had and then thornton sued me on a check i'd given him. the governor forked out, but he says i've got to go to canada. i'm never going to gamble again, i can tell you that." "oh, well, that's something," murmured nora cheerfully. "you can't make money at chemi," went on hornby, relapsing once more into gloom; "the _cagnotte's_ bound to clear you out in the end. when i come back i'm going to stick to bridge. there are always plenty of mugs about, and if you have a good head for cards, you can't help making an income out of it." "but i thought you said you were never going----" began miss pringle, but, thinking better of it, abandoned her sentence in mid-air. "here is your letter," said nora, holding it out to him. "thanks, awfully. i daresay i shan't want it, you know. i expect i shall get offered a job the moment i land, but there's no harm having it. i'll be getting along." "good-by, then, and good luck." "good-by," he said, shaking hands with nora and miss pringle. "nora, why don't you go out to canada?" said miss pringle thoughtfully, as soon as the door had closed after young hornby. "now your brother has a farm of his own, i should think----" "my brother's married," interrupted nora quickly. "he married four years ago." "you never told me." "i couldn't." "why? isn't his wife--isn't his wife nice?" "she was a waitress at a scrubby little hotel in winnipeg." "what _are_ you going to do then?" "i? i'm going to look out for another situation." miss pringle shook her head sadly. "well, i must be going. mrs. hubbard will be back from her drive by this time. she's sure to have you in for tea or something before you go. she's always been quite fond of you. at any rate, i'll see you again, of course." "oh, yes, indeed." nora was thankful to be alone once more. she wanted to think it all out. what a day it had been. starting with such high hopes to end only in utter disaster. she felt completely exhausted by the emotions she had undergone. time enough to plan to-morrow. to-night she needed rest. two days later, in the late afternoon, she found herself in the train for london, the second journey she had taken in ten years. once, three years before, miss wickham had been persuaded to go up and pay the james wickhams a short visit and had taken nora with her. it could hardly have been described as a pleasure trip. miss wickham detested visiting and had only yielded to her nephew's importunities because she had never been in his london house to stay any time and had an avid curiosity to see how they lived. she had of course disapproved of everything she saw about the establishment. but, as it was no part of her purpose to let the fact be known to her relatives, she had in a large measure vented her consequent ill-humor upon her unfortunate companion. the last few days had seemed full, indeed. no matter how little one may really care for a place, the process of uprooting after ten years is not an easy one. mr. wynne had been to see her to renew his offer of assistance and counsel in any plan she might have for the future and she had spent an hour with the good doctor and his wife. the dreaded invitation from mrs. hubbard had duly arrived and had turned out to be for dinner, an extraordinary honor. nora had accepted it entirely on miss pringle's account. mrs. hubbard had been condescension itself and had even gone the length of excusing miss pringle from the evening's game of bezique, in order that she might have a farewell chat with her friend. she had mildly deprecated miss wickham's carelessness in not altering her will, but had reminded miss marsh that she should be grateful to her late employer for having had such kindly intentions toward her, vaguely ending her remarks with the statement that as her dear husband had always said in this imperfect world one had often to consider intentions. it was from her more humble friends that nora found it hardest to part. she had had tea with the gardener's wife and children of whom she was genuinely fond. but it was the parting from kate that had brought the tears to her eyes. she had confided to that motherly soul how large she had loomed in the rosy plans she had made while she still had expectations from miss wickham, and been assured in turn that kate couldn't have fancied herself happier than she would have been in looking after her, and the faithful kate refused to regard the plan as anything more than postponed. it developed that she was an adept in telling fortunes with tea leaves. she hoped her dear miss marsh wouldn't consider it a liberty for her to say so, but in every forecast that kate had made for herself in the last twelfth month, miss marsh had always been mixed up, which showed beyond the peradventure of a doubt that they were to meet again. it was already dusk when london was reached, but nora had an address of an inexpensive little private hotel which the doctor's wife had given her. she had written ahead to engage a room so that her mind was at ease on that subject. not knowing exactly where the street might be, further than that it led off the strand, she indulged herself in the novel luxury of a taxi and drove to her new lodgings in state. "if it isn't too much out of the way, would you take me by way of trafalgar square, please." the chauffeur touched his cap. his "yes, miss," was non-committal. she was conscious of an unusual feeling of exaltation as she went along. london, while it can be one of the most depressing cities in the world when one is alone and friendless, quickens the imagination. as they went through trafalgar square and caught a fleeting glimpse of the national gallery, nora resolved that she would give herself a real treat and renew old acquaintance with that institution as well as see the wallace collection and the tate gallery, both of which would be new to her. she realized more poignantly than ever how starved her love of beauty had been for the last ten years. it awoke in her afresh with the thought that for a few days, at least, she could permit herself the luxury of gratifying it. she was shown to her room by a neat maid who said she would see what might be done in the way of a light tea. as a rule breakfast was the only repast that was supposed to be furnished. but she was quite sure miss horn, the proprietor, would, in view of the fact that the young lady was a stranger in london and would hardly know where to go alone for a bite of dinner, make an exception. nora thanked her and set about making the bare little room, which was quite at the top of the house, look a little more homelike by unpacking some of her own things. after all, she reflected, it wasn't much less cheerful than the room she had had for ten years. perhaps her late participation in the splendors of miss wickham's guest chamber, which had been part of dr. evans' prescription, had spoiled her for simpler joys. she laughed aloud at the thought. by the time she had had her supper, which was sufficiently good, and written a few notes--one to the doctor's wife to say that she thought she would be quite comfortable in her new quarters, and one to the head of the agency through which she had obtained her post with miss wickham--nora found herself ready for bed. the next day dawned bright and fine; one of those delightful spring days to which the great city occasionally treats you as if to protest against the injustice of her reputation for being dark and gloomy. there were a number of pleasant looking people in the coffee room when nora went down to breakfast, which turned out to be abundant and well cooked. having inquired her direction--a sense of location was not one of her gifts--she set out gaily enough for a whole day of sightseeing. she might never get another position and have eventually to go out as a charwoman--the detail that she would be illy equipped for any such undertaking she humorously dismissed--but a day or two of unalloyed enjoyment she was going to have, come what might. the day was a complete success. having done several of the picture galleries, lunched and dined frugally at one of the a. b. c. restaurants, nora returned at nightfall, tired but happy. oh, the blessed freedom of it! the next morning on coming down stairs she found at her plate a letter from the agency. the management of affairs, it seemed, had passed into other hands. doubtless miss marsh's name would be found on the books of several years back, but it was not familiar to the new director. however, they would, of course, be pleased to put themselves at miss marsh's service. if she would be good enough to give them an early call, bringing any and all references she might have, etc., etc. miss marsh tore the note into tiny fragments. the agency could wait, everything could wait, for the moment. she must have her fling, the first taste of freedom in all these years. after that----! chapter v october had come. nora was no longer in the comfortable little hotel to which the doctor's wife had sent her. early in july she had thought it wiser to seek cheaper quarters where breakfast was not 'included.' every penny must be counted now, and by combining breakfast and lunch late in the morning she found she could do quite well until night, besides saving an appreciable sum for the end of the week, when her room must be paid for. the summer had been one long nightmare of heat. it had been years according to all accounts since the unhappy londoners had so sweltered beneath the scorching rays of an almost tropic sun. often, when tossing on her little bed or when seated by her small window which gave on a sort of court, with the forlorn hope of finding some air stirring, had she thought with longing of the pleasant garden at tunbridge wells and is perfumed breezes. so far her search for any position had been fruitless. she had gone to other agencies; to some whose greatly reduced fees were a sure indication that she could hope for nothing so "high class," to use their hateful phrase, as she had been accustomed to. but one must do what one could. at one establishment, she shuddered to remember, she found that she would be expected to sit in the office, as at the servants' agencies, to be inspected by prospective employers. this, nora had flatly refused to do and had been coolly informed by the manager, an insufferable young man with a loud voice and a vulgar manner, that in that case he could do nothing for her. he had at the same time refused to return her fee, which he had providently collected before explaining these conditions, on the ground that they never returned fees. nora had been glad enough to make her escape from his hateful presence without arguing the matter with him, although she considered that, to all intents and purposes, her pocket had been picked. apparently everyone in the world was already supplied with a companion. she had thought of filing an application for the position of nursery governess, only to find that, for a really good post, two modern languages would be required. that, coupled with the fact that she was obliged to confess to absolutely no previous experience in teaching, closed the door to even second-class appointments. and the desolating loneliness of it all! only once in all this time had she seen anyone she knew, and that was shortly after her arrival while still in the first flush of her newly regained freedom. she had gone with a young woman who was staying at the hotel for a few days to the gallery of a theater. from her lofty perch she had seen reggie hornby with a gay party of young men in the stalls below. evidently he was making the most of his last hours at home before going into exile. since leaving the hotel she had exchanged but few words with anyone beyond her landlady, the little slavey and the people at the various agencies. once, it chanced that for several days in succession she had lunched at the same table in a dingy little restaurant with a fresh, pleasant-looking young girl, who had said 'good morning' in such a friendly manner on their second encounter that nora felt encouraged to begin conversation. her new acquaintance had the gift of a sympathetic manner and before nora realized it she found herself relating the story of her failures and disappointments. miss hodson--so nora discovered she was called from the very business-like card she had handed her at the beginning of the repast, with an air which for the moment relapsed from the sympathetic to the professional--had suggested when they had finished their lunch that, as she still had a quarter of an hour to spare, they might go and finish their chat in one of the little green oases abutting on the embankment. seated on one of the benches she proceeded to advise her companion to take up stenography and typewriting while she was still in funds. "there are plenty of chances for a girl who knows her business and you're your own mistress and not at the beck and call of any old cat, who thinks she has bought you outright just because she's paying you starvation wages," she said with a finely independent air. then in a thoroughly business-like way she went on to give the address of the school at which she had studied herself and had offered to take nora there any evening the coming week. in the end, to nora's great pleasure, she had suggested joining forces for an outing on the coming sunday. with a gesture that seemed to refer one to her card, she had explained that after typing all week in a stuffy office she always tried to have a sunday out of doors to get her mind off her work. it was arranged that they should go somewhere together, leaving their destination to be decided when they met. they were to meet in front of the national gallery at a quarter before ten. but, although poor nora waited for over an hour, her friend did not turn up, and she had returned sadly to her dreary room. neither of the girls had thought to exchange addresses. beyond her name and occupation miss hodson's card vouchsafed nothing. nor had nora ever seen her again, although she had returned several times to the restaurant where they had met. she had spent many of the long sleepless hours of the night in speculation as to what had become of her. she was sure that some accident had befallen her or she would have met her again. no one could be so cruel intentionally. once again in a tea room she had timidly ventured, prompted by sheer loneliness, to speak to an elderly woman with gray hair. it was a harmless little remark about some flowers in a vase on the counter. the woman had stared at her coldly for a moment before she said: "i do not seem to recall where i have had the pleasure of seeing you before." a flash of the old temper had crimsoned nora's cheek, but she made no reply. since then, aching as she was for a little human companionship, she had spoken to no one. she had had two long letters from miss pringle, whose star seemed momentarily to be in the ascendant. mrs. hubbard had been ordered to the seaside; they were later to take a continental trip. there was even talk of consulting a famous and expensive specialist before returning to the calm of tunbridge wells. but prosperity had not made miss pringle selfish. in the face of the gift of a costume, which mrs. hubbard had actually never worn, having conceived a strong distaste for it on its arrival from the dressmaker, she had time to think of her less fortunate friend. while waiting for the situation which was sure to come eventually, why didn't nora run down to brighton for a week after the terrible london heat? one could get really very comfortable lodgings remarkably cheap at this season. it would do her no end of good and, on the theory that a watched pot never boils, she would be certain to find that there was something for her on her return. miss pringle's brother, it seemed, had had a turn of luck. just what, she discreetly forbore to mention. certainly, it could not have been at cards. nora smiled at the recollection of the horror that mr. hornby's remarks as to his earnings from that source had provoked. however, he had most generously sent his sister a ten-pound note as a present. miss pringle had, of course, no possible use for it at the time. also it appeared that the thought of carrying it about with her, particularly as she was going among foreigners, filled her with positive terror. therefore, she was enclosing it to nora to take care of. she hoped she would use any part of it or all of it. she could return it after they returned to tunbridge wells, provided that miss pringle survived the natural perils that beset one who ventured out of england. they would have started on their journey before the receipt of the letter. as to their destination, miss pringle said never a word. a small envelope had fallen into her lap when she opened the letter. with dimmed eyes nora opened it. it contained the ten-pound note. it was a week later that it occurred to nora to answer two advertisements that appeared in one of the morning papers. in each case it was a companion that was wanted. one of the ladies lived at whitby and pending the answer to her letter she decided to call personally on the other, who lived at hampstead. the morning being fine, she decided to make an early start and walk about on hampstead heath until a suitable hour for making her call. when she finally arrived before the house, a rather pretentious looking structure in south hampstead, she was met at the gate by a middle-aged woman of unprepossessing appearance, who inquired rather sharply as to her errand. "mrs. blake's card distinctly said that all applications were to be made in writing," she said disagreeably, in reply to nora's explanation. "the one i read did not, at least i don't think it did," said nora. "well, if it didn't, it should have," said the woman tartly. "may i ask if _you_ are mrs. blake?" "write and you may find out; although i might as well tell you, you won't answer. mrs. blake will be wanting someone of a very different appearance," said the woman rudely. "i am indeed unfortunate," said nora with a bow. the woman closed the gate with a bang and turned toward the house as nora walked rapidly away. she decided to answer no more advertisements. one morning, at the end of the week, the post brought her three letters. one from its postmark was clearly from her brother in canada. she put that aside for the moment to be read at her leisure. [illustration: nora overhears frank say wives are made for work only.] the yorkshire lady, it appeared, was blind and required a companion to read to her and to assist in preparing some memoirs which her dead brother had left uncompleted. she offered nora a refined home with every comfort that a lady could desire, but--there was no salary attached to the position. the third was from one of the agencies. a client was prepared to offer a lady companion the magnificent sum of ten shillings a week and her lunch. out of her salary nora would be expected, therefore, to find herself a room, clothes, breakfast and supper! her brother's letter was, as always, kind and affectionate. he rather vaguely apologized for his delay in replying to hers, written at the time of miss wickham's death. he had been frightfully busy, up at dawn and so tired at night that he was glad to tumble into bed right after supper. his wife, too, had had a sharp spell of sickness. however, she was all right again, he was glad to say. why did not nora come out to them? they would be glad to offer her a comfortable home, although she must make up her mind to dispense with the luxuries she was accustomed to. but there was always plenty to eat and a good bed, at any rate. he knew she would grow to love the life as he had done. there was a fine freedom about it. for his part, nothing would ever tempt him back to england, except for a visit when he had put by a little more. she would find his wife a good sort. she, too, would welcome her sister-in-law. they would be no end of company for each other during the long days while the men were away. and she would be glad to have someone to lend a hand about the house. he hoped she had been able to save enough money to pay her passage out. if she hadn't, he would somehow manage to send whatever was necessary. but while he was fairly prosperous, ready money was a little more scarce than usual, for the moment. his wife's illness had been pretty expensive, what with hiring a woman to do all the work, etc., etc. the letter settled it. on the one hand was this heart-breaking waiting while watching one's little hoard diminish from day to day and always the terrifying and unanswerable question: what is to be done when it is exhausted? on the other, a home and the prospect that she might be able in a measure to pay her way by helping her brother's wife. nora's housewifely accomplishments were but few, yet she could learn, and while learning she could at least take away the sting of those lonely hours, as her brother had said. on one thing she was resolved: she would let bygones be bygones. she would do everything in her power to win her sister-in-law, forgetting everything but that she was the wife of her only brother. the next few days were the happiest she had known for a long time. there was a pleasurable excitement in getting ready for so momentous a step. after having paid her passage she found that she had eight pounds in the world, the result of ten years' work as lady's companion. she wrote to let mr. wynne know of her decision and enclosed miss pringle's banknote to the doctor's wife with an explanatory note asking her to see that it reached her hands safely. miss pringle herself should have a long letter from the new world waiting her on her return. her last day at home, having satisfied herself that nothing was forgotten, she spent a long hour in the turner room in the tate gallery, drinking it all in for the last time. when she left the building it was with a feeling that the last farewell to the old life was said. to her great pleasure and a little to her surprise, nora discovered herself to be a thoroughly good sailor. as a consequence, the voyage to montreal was quite the most delightful thing she had ever experienced. the boat was a slow one but the time never once seemed long. indeed, as they approached their destination, she found herself wishing that the western continent might, by some convulsion of nature, be removed, quite safely, an indefinite number of leagues farther, or that they might make a détour by way of the antipodes, anything rather than bring the voyage to an end. there were but few passengers at this season so that beyond the daily exchange of ordinary courtesies, she was able to pass much of the time by herself. the weather was unusually fine for the time of year. it was possible to spend almost all the daylight hours on deck, and with night came long hours of dreamless sleep such as she never remembered to have enjoyed since childhood. as a consequence, it was a thoroughly rejuvenated nora that landed in montreal. the stress and strain of the past summer was forgotten or only to be looked back upon as a sort of horrid nightmare from which she had happily awakened. it was too late in the day after they had landed to think of continuing her journey. besides, as is often the case with people who have stood a sea voyage without experiencing any disagreeable sensations, nora found that she still felt the motion of the boat after landing. it seemed a pity, too, not to see something of this new-world city while she was on the ground. her brother's farm was still an incredible distance farther west. people thought nothing of distance in this amazing new world. still, it might easily be long before she would be here again. the future was a blank page. there was a delightful irresponsibility about the thought. she had come over the sea at her brother's bidding. the future was his care, not hers. the journey west had the same charm of novelty that the sea voyage had had. the nearest station to eddie's farm was a place called dyer in the province of manitoba, not far from winnipeg. once inured to the new and strange mode of traveling in canada, so different from what she had been accustomed to, nora prepared to enjoy it. never before had she realized the possibilities of beauty in a winter landscape. the flying prospect without the window fascinated her. the magazines and papers with which she had provided herself lay unopened in her lap. she realized that these vast snow-covered stretches might easily drive one mad with their loneliness and desolation if one had to live among them. but to rush through them as they were doing was exhilarating. it was all so strange, so contrary to any previous experience, that nora had an uncanny feeling that they might easily have left the earth she knew and be flying through space. she whimsically thought that if at the next stop she were to be told that she was on the planet mars, she would not be greatly astonished. it was like traveling with alice in wonderland. one thing, however, recalled her to earth and prosaic mundane affairs: her supply of money was rapidly getting dangerously low. barring accident, she would have enough to get her to dyer, where eddie was to meet her. but suppose they should be snowed up for a day or two? only an hour before she had been thrilled with an account of just such an experience which a man in the seat in front of her was recounting to his companion. well, if that happened, she would either have to go hungry or beg food from the more affluent of her fellow-passengers! fortunately she was not obliged to put their generosity to the test. the train arrived at dyer without accident only a few minutes behind the scheduled time. there were a number of people at the station as nora alighted. for a moment she had a horrid fear that either she had been put off at the wrong place or that her brother had failed to meet her. certainly none of the fur-coated figures were in the least familiar. but almost at once one of the men detached himself from the waiting group on the platform and after one hesitating second came toward her. "nora, my child, i hardly knew you! i was forgetting that you would be a grown woman," and nora was half smothered in a furry embrace and kissed on both cheeks before she was quite sure that the advancing stranger was her brother. "oh, eddie, dear, i didn't know you at all. but how can one be expected to with that great cap covering the upper part of your face and a coat collar hiding nearly all the rest. but you really haven't changed, now that i get a look at you. i daresay i have altered more than you. but i was little more than a child when you went away." "well, we have quite a little drive ahead of us," said eddie as, having himself helped to carry nora's trunks to a nondescript-looking vehicle to which were attached two horses, he motioned to nora to get in. "i expect you won't be sorry to have a little air after being so long in a stuffy car." nora noticed that he gave the man who had helped him with the trunks no tip and that they called each other "joe" and "ed." this was democracy with a vengeance. she made a little face of disapproval. nora never forgot that drive. in the light of after-events it seemed to have cut her off more sharply from all the old life than either the crossing of the pathless sea or the long overland journey. it was taken for the most part in silence, eddie's attention being largely taken up with his team. also nora noted that he seemed to feel the cold more than she did, as he kept his coat collar turned up all the way. she herself was so occupied with her thoughts that she had no sense of either time or distance. at last they came in sight of a house such as she had never seen. it was built entirely of logs. at the sound of their approach, the one visible door opened on the crack as if to avoid letting in the cold, and nora saw a thin dark little woman with rather a hard look and a curiously dried-up skin, whom she rightly guessed to be her sister-in-law, standing in the doorway, while lounging nonchalantly against the doorpost was a tall, strong, well-set-up young man whose age might have been anything between thirty and thirty-five. he had remarkably clean-cut features and was clean-shaven. his frankly humorous gaze rested unabashed on the stranger's face. forgetting all her good resolutions to adapt herself to the habits and customs of this new country, nora felt that she could have struck him in his impudent face. the fact that she reddened under his scrutiny, naturally only made her the more furious. "come on out here, some of you," called eddie jovially. "heavens! the way you all hug the stove would make anyone believe you'd never seen a canadian winter before in your lives. here, frank, lend a hand with these trunks and call ben to take the horses. gertie, this is nora. now you need never be lonely again." "pleased to make your acquaintance," said gertie primly. the man called frank, the one who had been honoring nora with his regard, came forward with a hand outstretched to help her alight, while another man, the ordinary type of english laborer placed himself at the horses' heads. "come, hop out, nora." there was nothing else to do, nora put the very tips of her fingers into the outstretched hand. to her unspeakable indignation, she felt herself lifted bodily out and actually carried inside the door. at her smothered exclamation, gertie gave a shrill laugh. chapter vi three weeks had passed with inconceivable rapidity, leaving nora with the dazed feeling that one has sometimes when waking from a fantastic dream. there were moments when she was overwhelmed with the utter hopelessness of ever being able to adapt herself to a mode of life so foreign to all her traditions. she had, she told herself, been prepared to find everything different from life at home; and, while she had smiled--on that day such ages ago when young hornby had called on her at tunbridge wells to announce his impending departure from the land of his birth--at his airy theory that the life of the canadian farmer was largely occupied with riding, hunting, dancing and tennis, she found to her dismay that her own mental picture of her brother's existence had been nearly as far from the reality. on the drive over from the station, eddie had vaguely remarked that he had a great surprise for her when she reached the house. nora had paid but little attention at the moment, thinking that he probably meant the house itself. what had been her astonishment--when once her rage at being lifted bodily from the sled by the man called frank had permitted of her feeling any other emotion--to find reginald hornby himself an inmate of her brother's household. there was but little trace of the ultra smart young londoner, beyond his still carefully kept hair and mustache. the only difference between his costume and that of the others was that his overalls were newer and that his flannel shirt was plainly a piccadilly product. nora had known gentlemen farmers in england who worked hard, riding about their estates every day supervising and directing everything, and who seemed, from their conversation, to take it all seriously enough. she had made all allowance for the rougher life in a new and unsettled country. there was something picturesque and romantic about the frontiersman which had always appealed to her imagination. she had read a little of him and had seen a play in london the night she recognized reggie from afar, where the scene was laid in the far west. on returning to the hotel she had looked with new interest at eddie's photograph and tried to picture him in the costume worn by the leading man. but to find that her own brother, a man of education and refinement, actually worked with his own hands like a common laborer and--what to nora's mind was infinitely more incomprehensible--on a footing of perfect equality with his hired men, calling them familiarly by their given names and being called "ed" in turn, was a distinctly disagreeable revelation. that they should be familiar with gertie was quite another matter. probably they were acquaintances of long standing dating back to her old hotel days. her sister-in-law, too, was absolutely different from the type she had imagined. always she had seen her as one of those vapid, pretty little creatures who had become old long before her time; peevish, spoiled, inclined to be flirtatious, refusing to give up her youth, still living in the recollection of her little day of triumph. gertie fulfilled only one of these conditions. she was a small woman, not nearly so tall as nora herself. in all else she was as different as possible from what she had imagined. there could never have been anything of the 'clinging vine' about gertie. as a girl she might have been handsome in an almost masculine way; pretty, in the generally accepted sense, she could never have been. her one coquetry seemed to be in the matter of shoes. her feet were unbelievably small. nora divined that she was inordinately proud of them. while always scrupulously neat, she was apparently indifferent to clothes so long as they were clean and not absolutely shabby. but her high-heeled shoes were the smartest that could be had from winnipeg. and as for her being soft and spoiled! never was there a more tireless and hard-working creature. from early morning till late at night she was never idle. she was a perfect human dynamo of force and energy. the cooking and washing for the 'family' which, now that nora was here, consisted of six persons, four of whom were men with the appetites which naturally come with a long day's work in the open air, in itself was no light task. but, by way of recreation, after the supper dishes had been washed up, gertie darned socks, mended shirts, patched trousers for the men folk or sewed on some garment for herself. nora longed to see her sit with folded hands just once. that she was as devoted to her husband as he to her there could be no doubt. all other men were a matter of complete indifference to her. were they good workers or shirkers? that was the only thing about them of any interest. but she was not the sort of woman to show tenderness or affection. eddie had apparently the greatest respect for her judgment in all matters pertaining to the running of the farm. frequently in the evenings they sat together in the far corner of the living room, eddie talking in a low voice, while gertie, always at her eternal sewing, listened with close attention, often nodding her head in approval, but occasionally shaking it vehemently when any project failed to meet with her approbation. occasionally her sharp bird-like glance flashed over the other occupants of the room: at the three men yarning lazily by the big stove or playing cards at the dining table and at nora making a pretense of reading a six-months-old magazine, or writing, her portfolio on her knee. always, when nora encountered that glance, she understood its exultant message. "look, you," it said as plainly as if it had been couched in actual words, "look at me ruling over my little court, advising, as a queen might, with her prime minister. you think yourself my superior, you with your fine-lady's airs and graces! a pretty pass your education and accomplishments have brought you to. of what use are you to anyone?" there was no blinking the fact: the antagonism between the two women was too instinctive, too deep ever to be more than superficially covered over. they each recognized it. and yet neither was wholly to blame. it had its roots in conditions that were far more significant than mere personal feeling. nora, for her part, had come to her brother's house with the sincere intention of doing everything in her power to win her sister-in-law's good will if not affection. she had believed that their common fondness for eddie would be a sure foundation on which to build. but from the first, without being at all conscious of it, her manner breathed patronage and disapproval of a mode of life so foreign to all her experience. she had made the resolution to remember nothing of gertie's humble origin, to treat her in every way with the deference due her brother's wife. gertie, too, had made good resolutions. she was at heart the more generous nature of the two. she was prepared to find her husband's sister unskilled to the point of incompetency in all the housewifely lore of which she was past mistress; for she, too, had her traditions. she would have laughed at the idea that it was possible for her to be jealous of anybody. but secretly she knew that there was one thing which aroused in her a frenzy of jealous rage; that was those years of her husband's life in which she had neither part nor lot. any reference to his old life 'at home' fairly maddened her. and deep down in her heart, each woman nursed a grievance. with gertie it was the remembrance of the angry letter of protest which nora had written her brother when she learned of his approaching marriage and which he had been indiscreet enough to show her; with nora, it was the recollection of gertie's laugh the night of her arrival when her brother's hired servant had dared to take her for a moment in his arms. still, any open rupture might have been avoided or at least delayed for several months longer, if either could have been persuaded to exercise a little more patience and self-control. each of them, in her different way, had known adversity. both of them had had to learn to control tempers naturally high while they were still dependent. but it never occurred to either of them that the obligation to do so still existed. from gertie's point of view, nora was just as much a dependent as in the days when she was a hired companion to a rich woman. it was her house in law and in fact, for her husband had made it over to her. it was her bread that she ate, her bed she slept in. it behooved her, therefore, to be a little less lofty and condescending. she had always known how it would be, and it was only because the project seemed so near her husband's heart that she had consented to such an experiment. in simple justice it must be said that such a thought had never entered nora's head. she had accepted gladly her brother's invitation to make her home with him. what more natural that he should offer it, now that he was able to do so? in return she was perfectly willing to do everything she could to help in all the woman's work about the house as far as her ignorance would permit. it could hardly be expected that she would be as proficient in household work as a person who had done it all her life. she was more than willing to concede her sister-in-law's superiority in all such matters. and she was perfectly ready to learn all that gertie would teach her. she had, in everything, been prepared to meet her half-way; further she would not go. for the rest, it was her brother's place to protect her. sadly nora confessed to herself that eddie had deteriorated in a degree that she could not have believed possible. the first shock had come when they sat down to supper the night of her arrival. to her amazed disgust, they had all eaten at the same table, hired men and all. and then, to see her brother, a gentleman by birth, breeding, and training, sitting down at his own table in his shirt-sleeves! her own seat was on the right of her sister-in-law, next reginald hornby. all the men except eddie wore overalls. he had replaced his with an old black waistcoat and a pair of grubby dark trousers. nora wondered sarcastically if his more formal costume was in honor of her arrival, but quickly remembered that he had had to drive to dyer. it was cold outside; probably these festive garments were warmer. she found herself speculating as to whether any of the men owned anything but outer coats. there hadn't been much general conversation at that first meal. naturally, eddie had had many questions to ask about old acquaintances in england. nora had given her first impressions of travel in the new world, addressing many of her remarks to gertie, who had been noticeably silent. through all her bright talk the thought would obtrude itself: "what can reggie hornby think of my brother?" she had an angry consciousness, too, that she was unwittingly furnishing much amusement to that objectionable person opposite, whose name she learned was frank taylor. she meant to speak to eddie about him later. he was an entirely new type to her. his fellow servant, whose name was trotter, on the contrary, could be seen about london any day, an ordinary, ignorant cockney. he, at least, had the merit of seeming to know his place and how to conduct himself in the presence of his betters, and except when asking for more syrup, of which he seemed inordinately fond, kept discreetly silent. but the idea that there was any difference in their stations was not betrayed in taylor's look or manner. he commented humorously from time to time on nora's various experiences coming overland, quite oblivious, to all appearances, that she pointedly ignored him. nora had arrived at that point in her gay recital when she had had qualms that her brother had failed to meet her. "you can fancy how i felt getting down at a perfectly strange station----" she was interrupted by gertie's irritating little laugh. "but what have i said? what is it?" it was taylor who replied. "well, you see out here in the wilderness we don't call it a station, _we_ call it a depot." "do you really?" asked nora with exaggerated surprise, looking at her brother. "custom of the country," he said smilingly. "but a depot is a place where stores are kept." "of course i don't know what you call it in england," said gertie aggressively, "but while you're in _this_ country, i guess you'd better call it what other folks do." "it would be rather absurd for me to call it that when it's wrong," said nora, flushing with annoyance. gertie's thin lips tightened. "of course i don't pretend to have had _very_ much schooling, but it seems to me i've read something somewhere about doing as the romans do when you're livin' with them. at any rate, i'm sure of one thing: it's considered the polite thing to do in _any_ country." the feeling that she had been put in the wrong, even if not very tactfully, did not tend to lessen nora's annoyance. she looked appealingly at her brother, but he, leaning back in his chair and seeing that his wife's eyes were bent on her plate, shook his head at her, smiling slightly. "if everyone has finished," said gertie after an awkward pause, "if you'll all move your chairs away i'll clear away the things." "may i help you?" said nora with an effort at conciliation. "no, thanks." "no, no. you're company to-night," said her brother with a man's relief at finding an unpleasant situation at an end. "but i daresay to-morrow gertie'll find plenty for you to do. we'll all be out till dinner time. you girls will have a lot to talk over while you're getting acquainted." hornby groaned dismally. "it doesn't make any difference what the weather is in this blessed country," he said dismally to nora, "you have to go out whether there's really anything to do or not." "that's so," laughed taylor; "still i think you'll admit the boss always manages to find something to fill up the time." "that he does," said hornby with another hollow groan. "the last time i saw you," said nora, "you were calling poor old england all sorts of dreadful names. isn't farming in canada all your fancy painted it?" gertie paused in the act of pouring water from the kettle into the dishpan. "not a bit like it," she said dryly. "he's like most of the english i've run up against. they think all you've got to do is just to sit down and have afternoon tea and watch the crops grow by themselves." "oh, come now, gertie. you've never had to accuse me of loafing, and i'm an englishman," said her husband good-naturedly. "i said 'most.'" "and as for afternoon tea," broke in hornby, "i don't believe they have that sacred institution in the whole blessed country." "you have tea with all your meals. men out here have something else to do but sit indoors afternoons and eat between meals." "do you know," said nora after a pause, "it isn't nearly so cold as i expected to find it. don't you usually have it much colder than this?" "it's rarely colder until later in the season. but frank, here, who's our champion weather prophet, says it's going to be an exceptional season with hardly any snow at all." nora had been conscious all through the evening that taylor had hardly once taken his eyes from her face. she looked directly at him for the first time, to find him watching her with a look of quiet amusement. "that would indeed be an exceptional season, if all one hears of the rigors of the climate be true," she said coldly. "every season in this country is exceptional," he said humorously; "if it isn't exceptional one way, it's sure to be exceptional the other." "fetch me those pants of yours," said gertie to trotter. he left the room, to return shortly with the desired articles, exhibiting a yawning tear in one of the knees. gertie at once set about mending them in the same workmanlike manner that she did everything. "doesn't she ever rest?" asked nora in an undertone of hornby. "never," he whispered. "her one recreation is abusing me. i fancy you'll come in for a little of the same medicine. she's planning an amusing winter, i can see that already." "i think, if i may, i'll ask you to excuse me," said nora, rising abruptly. "i'm a little tired after my long journey. oh, how good it'll be to find oneself in a real bed again." "i'm sure you must be," said her brother. "nora knows where her room is?" he said, turning to his wife. "she was up before supper; she can't very well have forgotten the way. the house is small after what she's been accustomed to, i dare say." "thank you, i can find it again easily," said nora hastily. "i'll see you at breakfast, eddie?" she crossed over to where gertie was sewing busily. "good night--gertie. i hope you will not find me too stupid about learning things. you'll find me willing, anyway," she said almost humbly. gertie looked up at her with real kindness. "wllling's half the battle," she said in softened tone. as nora was leaving the room, satisfied at having done her part as far as gertie was concerned, she was recalled by taylor's drawling tone. "oh, miss nora, you're forgetting something." "am i? what?" "you're forgetting to say 'good night' to me." "why, so i am!" she could hear them laugh as she left the room. and so ended the first day in her brother's house. breakfast the next morning was of the most hurried description. gertie herself did not sit down until the men had gone, being chiefly occupied with baking some sort of hot cakes which were new to nora, who confined herself to an egg and some tea. she secretly longed for some toast; but as no one else seemed to have any, she refrained from making her wants known. perhaps later, when she was more familiar with the ways of this strange household, she would be permitted to make some for herself when she wanted it. while her sister-in-law was eating her breakfast, nora stood looking out of the window at the vast expanse of snow-covered country with never a house in sight. already there were signs that taylor's prophecy would be fulfilled. the sun, which had been up only a few hours, shone brightly, and already the air had lost much of its sharpness. it was distinctly warmer than it had been the day before. at the first sign that gertie had finished her breakfast, nora began to gather the things together for washing, wisely not waiting to ask permission. if possible, gertie seemed to be less inclined for conversation in the early morning than at night. they finished the task in unbroken silence. when the last dish had been put away, gertie spoke: "can you bake?" "i have baked cakes." "how about bread and biscuits?" "i've never tried them." "umph!" "i should be glad to learn, if you would be good enough to teach me." "i have little time for teaching," said gertie ungraciously. "but you can watch how i do it and maybe you'll learn something." "can you wash and iron?" said gertie while she was kneading her dough. "of course i can iron and i can wash lace." "people round here wear more flannel shirts than lace. i suppose you never washed any flannels?" "no, never." "have you ever done any scrubbing?" "of course not." nora was beginning to find this catechism a little trying. "not work for a lady, i suppose. just what does a companion do?" "it depends. she does whatever her employer requires; reads aloud, acts as secretary, goes riding and shopping with the lady she lives with, arranges the flowers, everything of that sort." "oh. but nothing really useful." nora gave an angry laugh. "it's clear that some people consider a companion's work useful, since they employ them." "you take pay for it; after all, it's much the same as being a servant." "it's not at all the same." "ed tells me that sometimes when miss wickers, wickham--whatever her name was----" "miss wickham." "that when miss wickham had company for dinner, you had to have your dinner alone." "that is true." "then she considered you sort of a servant," said gertie triumphantly. nora was silent. gertie having cut her dough into small round pieces with a tin cutter and put them into her pans, went toward the oven. "and yet you object to eating at the same table with the hired men." having satisfied herself that the oven was at the proper heat, she shut the door with a bang. "i've said nothing about it." "you didn't need to." "but i most certainly do object to it and i can't for the life of me see the necessity of it." "i was what you call a servant for years; i suppose you object to eating at the table with me." "what perfect nonsense! it's not at all the same thing. you're my brother's wife and the mistress of his house." "yes, i'm the mistress of the house all right," said gertie grimly. "frank taylor's an uncommonly handsome man, isn't he?" "i really haven't noticed." "what perfect nonsense!" mimicked gertie. "of course you've noticed. any woman would notice him." "then i must be different from other women." "oh, no, you're not; you only think you are. at bottom women are all alike, take it from me, and i've known a few." "if i can be of no help to you here, i think i'll go and unpack my box," said nora. she felt as if she had borne all she possibly could. "as you like." once in her own room, nora found it hard to keep back her angry tears. only the thought that her reddened eyes would betray her to gertie at dinner kept her from having a good cry. chapter vii that one morning was a fair sample of all the other days. each suspected the other, neither would make allowances or concessions. as a consequence, day by day the breach widened. even eddie, who was more unobserving than most men, felt vaguely uncomfortable in the surcharged atmosphere. from the first nora realized that it was an unequal contest; gertie was too strongly intrenched in her position. but it was not in her nature to refrain from administering those little thrusts, which women know so well how to deal one another, from any motive of policy. the question of what she should do once her brother's house became intolerable she never permitted herself to ask. in the needle-pricking mode of warfare she was, of course, far more expert than her rival. but if gertie's hand was clumsy it was also heavy. and always in the back of her mind was the consciousness that she, so to speak, had at least one piece of heavy artillery which she could bring up once the enemy's fire became unendurable. during the day, the men being out of the house except at meal time, there was to a certain degree, a cessation of hostilities. nora gradually acquired some knowledge of housework. she learned to cook fairly well and always helped with the washing, rarely complaining of her aching arms and back. the only indication she had that she was making progress was that gertie complained less. praise, of course, was not to be expected. at dinner the men were usually too anxious to get back to work--always with the exception of hornby, who according to his own highly colored account, had been assigned the herculean task of splitting all the wood required by the province of manitoba for the ensuing winter--to linger longer than the time required for smoking a hurried pipe, so that it was only during the long evenings that hostilities were resumed. and then, more or less under cover. there was one person upon whom nora could openly vent her nervous irritation after a long day in gertie's society, and that was frank taylor. they quarreled constantly, to the great amusement of the others. but with him, too, she felt hopelessly at a disadvantage. he was maddeningly sure of himself, and while he sometimes gave back thrust for thrust, he never lost his temper. seemingly, nothing could penetrate his armor of good nature, nor make him comprehend that she really meant her bitter words. slow of movement and speech, his mind was alert enough, and nora had to admit to herself, although she always openly denied it, that he had humor. to lose one's own temper in a wordy passage at arms and find one's opponent still smiling and serene is not a soothing experience. often, in the darkness of the night after she had gone to bed, she could feel her cheek burn at the recollection that this 'ignorant clod,' as she contemptuously called him to herself, had the power to make her feel a weak, undisciplined child by merely never losing his self-control. there would have been consolation in the thought that in his stupidity he did not understand how she despised him, how infinitely beneath her she considered him, had it not been darkened by the suspicion that he understood perfectly well _and didn't care_. how dared he, how dared he! she had complained of his familiar manner to her brother a day or two after her arrival. but he had given her neither support nor consolation. "my dear nora," he said, "we are not back in england. the sooner you forget all the old notions of class and class distinctions, the happier you'll be. they won't go here. as long as a man's straight, honest and a worker--and frank's all three--it doesn't make any odds whether he's working for himself or for someone else. we're all on the same footing. it is only due to the fact that i've had two good years in succession that i'm not somebody's 'hired man' myself." "don't, eddie, don't; you don't realize how you hurt me." "my dear girl, i'm sorry; but i'm in dead earnest." "you, a hired man? oh, i can't believe it." "it's true, nevertheless. plenty of better fellows than i have had to do it. when you're starting in, unless you have a good deal bigger capital than i had, you only need to be hailed out, frosted out, or weeded out a couple of years in succession to use up your little stake, and then where are you?" "what do you mean by 'weeded out'?" he was just about to explain when a halloo from the stables cut him short. "there's frank now. i ought to be out helping him this minute; we've got a good stiff drive ahead of us. you ask gertie about it, she'll explain it to you." but gertie had been deeply preoccupied with some domestic problem and nora had forborne to question her. she had intended returning to the subject that evening, but eddie and gertie were deep in one of their conferences until nearly bedtime. it would never have suggested itself to her to seek any information from the objectionable frank, so under cover of a heated discussion between him and trotter, she appealed to reggie. "what does it mean to be weeded out?" "oh, lord, i don't know! kicked out, i suppose. isn't there something in the bible about tares and wheat?" "nonsense; it doesn't mean that. i'd forgotten, by the way, how strong you were on biblical references. do you remember your discussion about sarah and benjamin with agnes pringle?" "of course i do. and i completely stumped her; don't you recollect?" "goose! she only wanted to make you look it up for yourself. but being 'weeded out' is something disastrous that happens to the farmers here, like having the crops frozen." "well, it hasn't happened since i've been here, anyway. but i'll bet you a bob it means kicked out. i tell you, i'll ask gertie if she doesn't think that i ought to be weeded out." "you'd better not," laughed nora. the first open quarrel had taken place one day at dinner. the night before nora had proposed making her first attempt at baking bread. gertie had given a grudging consent. everything had gone well until the bread, once in the oven, nora had gone to her room to add some pages to a long letter which she had begun, some evenings before to agnes pringle. gertie had been out in one of the barns most of the morning engaged in some mysterious task which she had been reserving until the weather became milder--there had been a decided thaw, setting in the day before--and nora intended to be gone only a short time. filled with a warm feeling of gratitude to miss pringle for her generous loan of the ten-pound note, she was writing her a long letter in the form of a diary describing her voyage across the atlantic and the trip across the continent, both of which she was sure would greatly interest her friend and furnish her with topics for her tête-à-tête dinners with the excellent mrs. hubbard for some days to come. of the difficulties and disappointments in her new life she was resolved to say nothing. nora hated to confess that she had failed in anything. and, so far, she could hardly say that she had made a success. later on, she might have to acknowledge that her move had been a mistake. but for the moment she would confine herself to describing all that struck her as novel and strange while the impression was still fresh, while she still had the 'seeing eye.' "when i came to the end of my last page (and i remember that i was getting extremely sleepy at that point)," she wrote, "i had just finished describing the exterior of my brother's house to you. i am sure i can never do justice to the interior! you can never have seen, much less imagined, anything in the least like it. i have decided, upon reflection, that it is the most un-english thing i have seen yet: and i have not forgotten those strange railway carriages either. "try to imagine a large room, longer than it is deep, at once living-room, dining-room and kitchen; with nothing but rough brown boards for walls, on which--some framed, some unframed--are the colored supplements of the christmas illustrated papers, both english and american. over one of the doors is a magnificent trophy--at least that is what we would call it at home--i think it is a moose. i am not at all sure, although i have been told more than once. over another door is a large clock, such a one as one finds in a broker's office with us. the floor is covered with what is called oilcloth--i wonder why: it certainly is not the least like cloth--very new and excessively shiny. it has a conventional pattern in black and white, and when the sun shines on it, it quite dazzles one's eyes. "there are two windows, one to the south, the other looking west. the western view is magnificent. i feel as if i could see straight away to the setting sun! in the summer, when the prairie is one great waving green sea, it must be superb. two days ago it was covered with snow. as i write, i can see great patches of brown every here and there, for we have had a sudden thaw. the window sills are filled with geraniums planted, my dear, in tins which once contained syrup, of which everyone here, including my brother, seems extravagantly fond. the syrup jug appears regularly at every meal and is almost the first thing put on the table. i have yet to acquire a taste for it--which they all think extremely queer. "the furniture consists of two american rockers and a number of kitchen chairs; an unvarnished deal dresser covered with earthenware;--i don't think there are any two pieces that match!--two tables, one a dining table; a bookcase containing a few paper-backed novels and some magazines, none so recent, however, as those i saw before i left england; and last and most important, an enormous american cooking stove. "our principal meal, called dinner, is----" great heavens, her bread! nora dashed from her room. gertie was standing at one of the windows in the unwonted indulgence of a moment's leisure. nora threw open the oven door. it was empty. "oh, did you look after my loaf, gertie? i'm so sorry; i quite forgot it." "yes, i took it out a few moments ago." she still had her face turned toward the window, so nora did not see the smile that curled her lip. she turned after a moment, and the two women began to set the table for dinner. presently the men were heard laughing outside as they cleaned their muddy boots on the scraper. reggie had apparently achieved something new. his ignorance of everything pertaining to farming furnished the material for most of the amusement that was going. fortunately, he was always good-natured. gertie, with unusual good spirits, entered into the joke of the thing at once and even bantered reggie playfully upon his latest discovery. nora did not even hear what it was all about. she was searching for the bread plate which always stood on the dresser. "why, gertie, i----" "it's all right," said gertie, without looking up from pouring the tea. "i took it. i'll get it in a minute. come, sit down." nora obeyed. hornby was just about to begin his explanation for whatever it was he had done, when eddie interrupted him: "hold on a minute, reg. i want some bread. i declare you two girls are getting to be as bad as reggie, here. setting a table without bread!" "i was keeping it for a surprise," said gertie, getting up slowly. "i want you to appreciate the fact that nora helped me by doing the baking this morning." nora's face flushed with pleasure as her brother patted her on the shoulder with evident approval. she looked at gertie with eyes shining with gratitude. at that moment she came nearer liking her sister-in-law than she ever was to again. gertie went slowly across the room--she usually moved with nervous quickness--and picking up the missing bread plate from where it was leaning against the wall behind the stove went into the little pantry that gave off the kitchen. slowly she returned and stood beside her husband's chair. on the plate, burned almost to a cinder, was the loaf of bread that nora had forgotten. "here it is," said gertie. her smile was cruel. "oh, i say, gertie, that's too bad of you." it was frank who spoke. "too bad!" nora sprung to her feet with flashing eyes. "too bad. it's mean and despicable. there are no words to do it justice. but what could i expect from----" "nora!" said her brother sharply. nora rushed from the table to her room. and although eddie knocked repeatedly at her door and begged her to let him speak with her if only for a moment that evening at supper-time, she made no sign nor did anyone see her again that night. she made a point of not coming down to breakfast the next morning until after the time when the men would be gone. she thought it best to meet gertie alone. it was time that they came to some sort of understanding. to her surprise and annoyance taylor was still at the table. gertie was nowhere to be seen. "come down to keep me company? that's real nice of you, i'm sure." "i supposed, naturally, that you had gone. you usually have at this hour." "you don't know how it flatters a fellow to have women folks study his habits like that," he said with a grin. "i knew that my brother had left the house, since i saw him go. i took it for granted that all his employees left when he did. let me assure you, once and for all, that your habits are of no possible interest to me." taylor put on his hat and went to the door. just as he was about to open it, he changed his mind and came back to the table where nora had seated herself and stood leaning on the back of his chair looking down at her. "it's all right for us to row," he said, "but if i were you i'd go a little easy with gertie. she's all right and a good sort at bottom, you can take it from me. yesterday, i admit she was downright nasty. i guess you rile her up more than she's used to. but i want to see you two get on." "it's my turn to feel flattered," said nora sarcastically. "well, so long," he said with undiminished good humor as he went out. gertie appeared almost at once from the pantry. "i heard what he said. i couldn't help it. he was right--about us both. we don't hit it off. but i'm willing to give it another try." "i have little choice but to agree with you," said nora bitterly. "well, that's hardly the way to begin," retorted gertie angrily. there was a certain air of restraint about them ail when they came in to dinner. eddie looked both worried and anxious. but as he saw that the two women were going about their duties much the same as usual, he argued that the storm had blown over and brightened visibly. the men had pushed back their chairs and were preparing to light their after-dinner pipes. "we'll be able to start on the ironing this afternoon," said gertie, addressing nora for the first time since breakfast. "very well." "i say," said trotter, who rarely ventured on a remark while at the table, "it was a rare big wash you done this morning by the look of it on the line." "when she's been out in this country a bit longer, nora'll learn not to wear more things than she can help," said gertie. as a matter of fact, she had no intention of criticising nora at the moment. she meant, merely, that she would be more economical with experience. but nora was in the mood to take fire at once. "was there more than my fair share?" she asked sharply. "you use double the number of stockings than what i do. and everything else is the same." "i see. clean but incompetent." "there's many a true word spoken in jest," said gertie with angry emphasis. "say, reg," taylor broke in hastily, "is it true that when you first came out you asked ed where the bath-room was?" "that's right," laughed trotter. "ed told 'im there was a river a mile and a 'alf from 'ere, an' that was the only bath-room 'e knowed." "one gets used to that sort of thing, eh, reg?" said marsh good-naturedly. "ra-ther. if i saw a proper bath-room _now_, it would only make me feel nervous." "i knew a couple of englishmen out in british columbia," broke in taylor, "who were bathing, and the only other people around were indians. the first two years they were there, they wouldn't have anything to do with the indians because they were so dirty. after that the indians wouldn't have anything to do with them." he pointed this delectable anecdote by holding his nose. "what a disgusting story!" said nora. "d'you think so? i rather like it." "_you_ would." "now don't start quarreling, you two. and on frank's last day." nora gave her brother a quick glance. it was on the tip of her tongue to ask what he meant by frank's last day, but seeing that taylor was watching her with an amused smile, she held her tongue. getting up, she began clearing away the table. hornby, ramming the tobacco into his pipe, went over to the corner by the stove, where gertie was scalding out her large dishpan, and tried to interest her in the number of logs he had split since breakfast, without conspicuous success. trotter stood looking out of the window, while marsh stretched himself lazily in one of the rocking chairs with a sigh of content. things were beginning to shake down a little better. there had been a time yesterday when he feared that everything was off. he knew nora's temper of old and he knew his wife's jealous fear of her criticism. it would take some rubbing to wear off the sharp corners. but things were coming out all right, after all. they'd soon be working together like a well-broken team. gertie had been nasty about the bread. but apparently everything was patched up. and with frank once gone, and the new chap--a man of the trotter type, who would never obtrude himself--he foresaw that everything would run on wheels, an idea dear to his peace-loving soul. not that he was not sorry to lose frank. in the first place, he liked him, and then he was a good, steady, hard-working fellow, one of the kind you didn't have to stand over. but, naturally, he wanted to get back to his own place, now that he had saved up a bit. every man liked being his own master. taylor alone had remained at his place at the table. nora had cleared away everything except the dishes at his place. she never went near him if she could avoid it. "i guess i'm in your way," he said, rising. "not more than usual, thank you." taylor gave a little laugh. "i guess you'll not be sorry to see the last of me." nora paused in her work, and leaning on the table with both hands, looked him steadily in the face. "i can't honestly say that it makes the least difference to me whether you go or stay," she said coldly. "when does your train go, frank?" asked hornby from his corner. "half-past three; i'll be starting from here in about an hour." "reg can go over with you and drive the rig back again," said marsh. "all right. i'll go and dress myself in a bit." "i guess you'll be glad to get back to your own place," said gertie warmly. she had always liked frank taylor--a man who worked hard and earned his money. she did not begrudge him a cent of it, nor the pleasure he had in the thought of getting back to his own place. he was the kind of man who should set up for himself. "well, i guess i'll not be sorry." he sat looking out of the window with a sort of dreamy air, as if seeing far to the westward his own land. so that was the reason for his going. he had a place of his own. he was only a hired man for the moment. eddie had told her that a man frequently had to hire out after a succession of bad seasons. what of it? his keeping it to himself was the crowning impertinence! chapter viii "i'll do the washing, nora, and you can dry," said gertie in that peculiar tone which nora had learned to recognize as the preface to something disagreeable. "all right." "i've noticed the things aren't half clean when i leave them to you to do." "i'm sorry; why didn't you tell me?" "i suppose yon never did the washing-up in england. too grand?" but nora was not to be ruffled just now. her resentment against taylor, who was sitting watching her as if he read her thoughts--she often wondered how much of them he _did_ read--made anything gertie said seem momentarily unimportant. "i don't suppose anyone would wash up if they could help it. it's not very amusing." "you always want to be amused?" "no, but i want to be happy." "well," said gertie sharply, "you've got a roof over your head and a comfortable bed to sleep in, three good meals a day and plenty to do. that's all anybody wants to make them happy, i guess." "oh, lord!" exclaimed reggie from his corner. "well," said gertie, turning sharply on him, "if you don't like canada, why did you come out?" "you don't suppose," said hornby, rising slowly to his feet, "i'd have let them send me if i'd have known what i was in for, do you? not much. up at five in the morning and working about the place like a navvy till your back feels as if it 'ud break, and then back again in the afternoon. and the same thing day after day. what was the good of sending me to harrow and oxford if that's what i've got to do all my life?" there was a tragic dignity in his tone which for the moment held even gertie silent. it was her husband who answered him, and gertie's jealous ear detected a certain wistfulness in his voice. "you'll get used to it soon enough, reg. it _is_ a bit hard at first, i'll admit. but when you get your foot in, you wouldn't change it for any other life." "this isn't a country for a man to go to sleep in and wait for something to turn up," said gertie aggressively. "i wouldn't go back to england now, not for nothing," said trotter, stung to an unusual burst of eloquence. "england! eighteen bob a week, that's what i earned. and no prospects. out of work five months in the year." "what did you do in england!" asked nora curiously. "bricklayer, miss." "you needn't call her miss," said gertie heatedly. "you call me gertie, don't you? well, _her_ name's nora." "what with strikes and bad times," went on trotter unheeding, "you never knew where you was. and the foreman always bullying you. i don't know what all. i 'ad about enough of it, i can tell you. i've never been out of work since the day i landed. i've 'ad as much to eat as i wanted and i'm saving money. in this country everybody's as good as everybody else." "if not better," said nora dryly. "in two years i shall be able to set up for myself. why, there's old man thompson, up at pratt. _he_ started as a bricklayer, same as i. come from yorkshire, he did. he's got seven thousand dollars in the bank now." "believe me, you fellows who come out now have a much softer thing of it than i did when i first came. in those days they wouldn't have an englishman, they'd have a galician rather. in winnipeg, when they advertised in the paper for labor, you'd see often as not: 'no english need apply.'" "well, it was their own fault," stormed gertie. "they wouldn't work or anything. they just soaked." "it _was_ their own fault, right enough. this was the dumping ground for all the idlers, drunkards and scallywags in england. they had the delusion over there that if a man was too big a rotter to do anything at all at home, he'd only got to be sent out here and he'd make a fortune." "i guess things ain't as bad as that now," spoke up taylor. "they send us a different class. it takes an englishman two years longer than anybody else to get the hang of things, but when once he tumbles to it, he's better than any of them." "ah, well!" said marsh, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "i guess nowadays everyone's glad to see the englishman make good. when i nearly smashed up three years ago, i had no end of offers of help." "how _did_ you nearly smash up?" asked hornby interestedly. "oh, i had a run of bad luck. one year the crop was frosted and the next year i was hailed out. it wants a good deal of capital to stand up against that." "that's what happened to me," said taylor. "i was hailed out and i hadn't got any capital, so i just had to hire out." he turned suddenly to nora. "if it hadn't been for that hail storm you wouldn't have had the pleasure of makin' my acquaintance." "how hollow and empty life would have been without that!" she said ironically. "i wonder you didn't just quit and start out calgary way," put in gertie. "well," said taylor slowly, "it was this way: i'd put in two years on my homestead and done a lot of clearing. it seemed kind of silly to lose my rights after all that. then, too, when you've been hailed out once, the chances are it won't happen again, for some years that is, and by that time i ought to have a bit put by." "what sort of house have you got?" asked nora. "well, it ain't what you might call a palace, but it's large enough for two." "thinking of marrying, frank?" asked marsh. "well, i guess it's kind of lonesome on a farm without a woman. but it's not so easy to find a wife when you're just starting on your own. canadian girls think twice before taking a farmer." "they know something, i guess," said gertie grimly. "you took me, gertie," laughed her husband. "not because i wanted to, you can be sure of that. i don't know how you got round me." "i wonder." "i guess it was because you was kind of helpless, and i didn't know what you'd do without me." "i guess it was love, and you couldn't help yourself." gertie stopped her work long enough to make a little grimacing protest. "i'm thinking of going to one of them employment agencies when i get to winnipeg," said taylor, moving his chair so that he could watch nora's face, "and looking the girls over." "like sheep," said nora scornfully. "i don't know anything about sheep. i've never had to do with sheep." "and may i ask, do you think that you know anything about women?" "i guess i can tell if they're strong and willing. and so long as they ain't cock-eyed, i don't mind taking the rest on trust." "and what inducement is there for a girl to have you?" "that's why he wants to catch 'em young, when they're just landed and don't know much," laughed trotter uproariously. "i've got my quarter-section," went on the imperturbable frank, quite undisturbed by the laughter caused by trotter's sally, "a good hundred and sixty acres with seventy of it cleared. and i've got a shack that i built myself. that's something, ain't it?" "you've got a home to offer and enough to eat and drink. a girl can get that anywhere. why, i'm told they're simply begging for service." "y-e-e-s. but you see some girls like getting married. there's something in the word that appeals to them." "you seem to think that a girl would jump at the chance of marrying you!" said nora with rising temper. "she might do worse." "i must say i think you flatter yourself." "oh, i don't know. i know my job, and there ain't too many as can say that. i've got brains." "what makes you think so?" "well, i can see you're no fool." gertie chuckled with amusement. "he certainly put one over on you then, nora." "because you've got no use for me, there's no saying but what others may have." "i forgot that there's no accounting for tastes." "i can try, can't i?" wishing to escape any further conversation with the object of her detestation, and seeing her opportunity now that the dishes were washed, nora started to empty the dishpan in the sink in the pantry. but gertie, who divined her motive and wished the sport to continue, forestalled her. "i'll do it," she said. "you finish wiping the dishes." "it's very wise of you to go to an agency," said nora in answer to his last question. "a girl's more likely to marry you when she's only seen you once than when she's seen you often." "it seems to make you quite mad, the thought of me marrying!" with a wink at the others. "you wouldn't talk about it like that unless you looked down upon women. oh, how i pity the poor wretched creature who becomes your wife!" "oh, i guess she won't have such a bad time--when i've broken her in to my ways." "and are you under the impression that you can do that?" "yep." "you're not expecting that there'll be much love lost between you and the girl whom you--you honor with your choice?" "what's love got to do with it?" asked taylor in affected surprise. "it's a business undertaking." "what!" nora's eyes were dark with indignation and anger. "none at all. i give her board and lodging and the charm of my society. and in return, she's got to cook and bake and wash and keep the shack clean and tidy. and if she can do that, i'll not be particular what she looks like." "so long as she's not cock-eyed," reggie reminded him. "no, i draw the line at that." "i beg your pardon," said nora with bitter irony; "i didn't know it was a general servant you wanted. you spend a dollar and a half on a marriage license and then you don't have to pay any wages. it's a good investment." for the first time she seemed to have pierced the enemy's armor. "you've got a sharp tongue in your head for a girl, nora." "please don't call me nora." "don't be so silly, nora," said her brother with a trace of irritation. "it's the custom of the country. why, they all call me ed." "i don't care what the custom of the country is. i'm not going to be called nora by the hired man!" "don't you bother, ed," said frank, apparently once more restored to his normal placidity; "i'll call her miss marsh if she likes it better." but nora was not to be pacified. he wouldn't have dared take such a liberty with her had he not been on the eve of going away for good, she told herself. it was a last shot from a retreating enemy. well and good. he should hear, if for the last time, what she thought of him! "i should like to see you married to someone who'd give you what you deserved. i'd like to see your pride humbled. you think yourself very high and mighty, don't you? i'd like to see a woman take you by the heartstrings and wring them till you screamed with pain." "oh, nora, how violent you are!" said ed. "you're overbearing, supercilious and egotistic," went on nora bitingly. "i'm not sure as i know what them long words means, but i guess they ain't exactly complimentary." "i guess they ain't," she mimicked. "i'm sorry for that." taylor straightened himself a little in his chair. his blue eyes seemed to have caught a little of the light from nora's. "i was thinking of offering you the position before i went to the employment agency." "how dare you speak to me like that!" "don't fly into a temper, nora," said ed. while he didn't blame frank, he wished he had not made that last speech. why didn't he go and get ready for town? here was nora all upset again just as things had calmed down a bit! "he's got no right to say impudent things to me!" "don't you see he's only having a joke with you?" he said soothingly. "he shouldn't joke. he's got no sense of humor." she made a furious gesture, and the cup she was in the act of wiping flew out of her hand, crashing in a thousand pieces on the floor, just as gertie returned. "butter fingers!" "i'm so sorry," said nora in a colorless tone. she was raging inwardly at having allowed that beast of a man to put her in such a temper. why couldn't she control herself? how undignified to bandy words with a person she so despised. it was hardly the moment for gertie to take her to task for carelessness. but gertie was not the person to consider other moods than her own. "you clumsy thing! you're always doing something wrong." "oh, don't worry; i'll pay for it." "who wants you to pay for it? do you think i can't afford to pay for a miserable cup! you might say you're sorry: that's all i want you to do." "i said i was sorry." "no, you didn't." "i heard her, gertie," broke in ed. "she said she was sorry as if she was doing me a favor," said gertie, turning furiously on the would-be peacemaker. "you don't expect me to go down on my knees to you, do you? the cup's worth twopence." "it isn't the value i'm thinking about, it's the carelessness." "it's only the third thing i've broken since i've been here." if nora had been in a calmer mood herself she would not have been so stupid as to attempt to palliate her offense. her offer of replacing the miserable cup only added fuel to the flame of gertie's resentment. "you can't do anything!" she stormed. "you're more helpless than a child of six. you're all the same, all of you." "you're not going to abuse the whole british nation because i've broken a cup worth twopence, are you?" "and the airs you put on. condescending isn't the word. it's enough to try the patience of a saint." "oh, shut up!" said marsh. he went over to his wife and laid a hand on her shoulder. she shook him off impatiently. "you've never done a stroke of work in your life, and you come here and think you can teach me everything." "i don't know about that," said nora, in a voice which by comparison with gertie's seemed low but which was nevertheless perfectly audible to every person in the room. "i don't know about that, but i think i can teach you manners." if she had lashed the other woman across the face with a whip, she couldn't have cut more deeply. she knew that, and was glad. gertie's face turned gray. "how dare you say that! how dare you! you come here, and i give you a home. you sleep in my blankets and you eat my food and then you insult me." she burst into a passion of angry tears. "now then, gertie, don't cry. don't be so silly," said her husband as he might have spoken to an angry child. "oh, leave me alone," she flashed back at him. "of course you take her part. you would! it's nothing to you that i have made a slave of myself for you for three whole years. as soon as _she_ comes along and plays the lady----" she rushed from the room. after a moment, ed followed after her. there was an awkward pause. nora stood leaning against the table swinging the dishcloth in her hand, a smile of malicious triumph on her face. gertie had tried it on once too often. but she had shown her that one could go too far. she would think twice before she attempted to bully her again, especially before other people. she stooped down and began to gather up the broken pieces of earthenware scattered about her feet. her movement broke the spell which had held the three men paralyzed as men always are in the presence of quarreling women. "i reckon i might be cleaning myself," said taylor, rising from his chair. "time's getting on. you're coming, ben?" "yes, i'm coming. i suppose you'll take the mare?" "yep, that's what ed said this morning." they went out toward the stables without a word to nora. "well, are you enjoying the land of promise as much as you said that i should?" hornby asked with a smile. "we've both made our beds, i suppose we must lie in them," said nora, shaking the broken pieces out of her apron into a basket that stood in the corner. "do you remember that afternoon at miss wickham's when i came for the letter to your brother?" "i hadn't much intention of coming to canada then myself." "well, i don't mind telling you that i mean to get back to england the very first opportunity that comes," he said, pacing up and down the floor. "i'm willing to give away my share of the white man's burden with a package of chewing gum." "you prefer the effete east?" smiled nora, putting a couple of irons on the stove. "ra-ther. give me the degrading influence of a decadent civilization every time." "your father _will_ be pleased to see you, won't he?" "i don't think! of course i was a damned fool ever to leave winnipeg." "i understand you didn't until you had to." "say," said hornby, pausing in his walk, "i want to tell you: your brother behaved like a perfect brick. i sent him your letter and told him i was up against it--d'you know i hadn't a bob? i was jolly glad to earn half a dollar digging a pit in a man's garden. bit thick, you know!" "i can see you," laughed nora. "your brother sent me the fare to come on here and told me i could do the chores. i didn't know what they were. i soon found it was doing all the jobs it wasn't anybody else's job to do. and they call it god's own country!" "i think you're falling into the _ways_ of the country very well, however!" retorted nora as she struggled across to the table with the heavy ironing-board. "do you? what makes you think that?" "you can stand there and smoke your pipe and watch me carry the ironing-board about." "i beg your pardon. did you want me to help you?" "never mind. it would remind me of home." "i suppose i shall have to stick it out at least a year, unless i can humbug the mater into sending me enough money to get back home with." "she won't send you a penny--if she's wise." "oh, come now! wouldn't you chuck it if you could?" "and acknowledge myself beaten," said nora, with a flash of spirit. "you don't know," she went on after ironing busily a moment, "what i went through before i came here. i tried to get another position as lady's companion. i hung about the agents' offices. i answered advertisements. two people offered to take me; one without any salary, the other at ten shillings a week and my lunch. i, if you please, was to find myself in board, lodging and clothes on that magnificent sum! that settled _me_. i wrote eddie and said i was coming. when i'd paid my fare, i had eight pounds in the world--after ten years with miss wickham. when he met me at the station at dyer----" "depot; you forget." "my whole fortune consisted of seven dollars and thirty-five cents; i think it was thirty-five." "what about that wood you're splitting, reg?" said a voice from the doorway. eddie came in fumbling nervously in his pockets. he detested scenes and had some reason to think that he was having more than his share of them in the last few days. "has anyone seen my tobacco! oh, here it is," he said, taking his pouch from his pocket. "come, reg, you'd better be getting on with it." "oh, lord, is there no rest for the wicked?" exclaimed hornby as he lounged lazily to the door. "don't hurry yourself, will you?" "brilliant sarcasm is just flying about this house to-day," was his parting shot as he banged the door behind him. chapter ix nora understood perfectly that her brother had been forced to take a stand as a result of this last quarrel with gertie. well, she was glad of it. things certainly could not go on in this way forever. of course he would have to make a show, at least, of taking his wife's part. but, equally of course, he would understand her position perfectly. however much his new life and his long absence from england might have changed him, at bottom their points of view were still the same. he and she, so to speak, spoke a common language; she and gertie did not. gertie had probably been pouring out her accumulation of grievances to him for the last half hour. now it was her turn. she would show that she was, as always, more than ready to meet gertie half-way. it would be his affair to see that her advances were received in better part in future than they had been. she went on busily with her ironing, waiting for him to begin. but eddie seemed to experience a certain embarrassment in coming to the subject. while she took article after article from the clothes-basket at her side, he wandered about the room aimlessly, puffing at a pipe which seemed never to stay lighted. [illustration: married--though secretly enemies.] "that's the toughest nut i've ever been set to crack," he said at length, pointing his pipestem after the vanished hornby. "why on earth did you give him a letter to me?" "he asked me to. i couldn't very well say no." "i can't make out what people are up to in the old country. they think that if a man is too big a rotter to do anything at all in england, they've only got to send him out here and he'll make a fortune." "he may improve." "i hope so. look here, nora, you've thoroughly upset gertie." "she's very easily upset, isn't she?" "it's only since you came that things haven't gone right. we never used to have scenes." "so you blame me. i came prepared to like her and help her. she met all my advances with suspicion." "she thinks yon look down on her. you ought to remember that she never had your opportunities. she's earned her own living from the time she was thirteen. you can't expect in her the refinements of a woman who's led the protected life you have." "now, eddie, i haven't said a word that could be turned into the least suggestion of disapproval of anything she did." "my dear, your whole manner has expressed disapproval. you won't do things in the way we do them. after all, the way you lived in tunbridge wells isn't the only way people can live. our ways suit us, and when you live amongst us you must adopt them." "she's never given me a chance to learn them," said nora obstinately. "she treated me with suspicion and enmity the very first day i came here. when she sneered at me because i talked of a station instead of a depot, of _course_ i went on talking of a station. what do you think i'm made of? because i prefer to drink water with my meals instead of your strong tea, she says i'm putting on airs." marsh made a pleading gesture. "why can't you humor her? you see, you've got to take the blame for all the english people who came here in the past and were lazy, worthless and supercilious. they called us colonials and turned up their noses at us. what do you expect us to do?--say, 'thank you very much, sir.' 'we know we're not worthy to black your boots.' 'don't bother to work, it'll be a pleasure for us to give you money'? it's no good blinking the fact. there was a great prejudice against the english. but it's giving way now, and every sensible man and woman who comes out can do something to destroy it." "all i can say," said nora, going over to the stove to change her iron, "is if you're tired of having me here, i can go back to winnipeg. i shan't have any difficulty in finding something to do." "good lord, i don't want you to go. i like having you here. it's--it's company for gertie. and jobs aren't so easy to find as you think, especially now the winter's coming on; everyone wants a job in the city." "what do you want me to do?" "i want you to make the best of things and meet her half-way. you must make allowances for her even if you think her unreasonable. it's gertie you've got to spend most of your time with." he was so manifestly distressed and, as he hadn't been so hard on her as she had expected and in her own heart felt that she deserved, nora softened at once. "i'll have a try." "that's a good girl. and i think you ought to apologize to her for what you said just now." "i?" said nora, aflame at once. "i've got nothing to apologize for. she drove me to distraction." there was a moment's pause while eddie softly damned the pipe he had forgotten to fill, for not keeping lighted. "she says she won't speak to you again unless you beg her pardon." "really! does she look upon that as a great hardship?" "my dear! we're twelve miles from the nearest store. we're thrown upon each other for the entire winter. last year there was a bad blizzard, and we didn't see a soul outside the farm for six weeks. unless we learn to put up with one another's whims, life becomes a perfect hell." nora stopped her work and set down her iron. "you can go on talking all night, eddie, i'll never apologize. time after time when she sneered at me till my blood boiled, i've kept my temper. she deserved ten times more than i said. do you think i'm going to knuckle under to a woman like that?" "remember she's my wife, nora." "why didn't you marry a lady?" "what the dickens do you think is the use of being a lady out here?" "you've degenerated since you left england." "now look here, my dear, i'll just tell you what gertie did for me. she was a waitress in winnipeg at the minnedosa hotel, and she was making money. she knew what the life was on a farm--much harder than anything she'd been used to in the city--but she accepted all the hardship of it and the monotony of it, because--because she loved me." "she thought it a good match. you were a gentleman." "fiddledidee! she had the chance of much better men than me. and when----" "such men as frank taylor, no doubt." "and when i lost my harvest two years running, do you know what she did? she went back to the hotel in winnipeg for the winter, so as to carry things on till the next harvest. and at the end of the winter, she gave me every cent she'd earned to pay the interest of my mortgage and the installments on the machinery." nora had been more moved by this recital than she would have cared to confess. she turned away her head to hide that her eyes had filled with tears. after all, a woman who could show such devotion as that, and to her brother---- yes, she would try again. "very well: i'll apologize. but leave me alone with her. i--i don't think i could do it even before you, eddie." "fine! that's a good girl. i'll go and tell her." nora felt repaid in advance for any sacrifice to her pride as he beamed on her, all the look of worriment gone. she was once more busy at her ironing-board, bending low over her work to hide her confusion, when he returned with gertie. a glance at her sister-in-law told her that there was to be no unbending in that quarter until she had made proper atonement. there was little conciliatory about that sullen face. however, she made an effort to speak lightly until, once eddie had taken his departure, she could make her apology. "i've been getting on famously with the ironing." "have you?" "this is one of the few things i _can_ do all right." "any child can iron." "well, i'll be going down to the shed," said her brother uneasily. "what for?" said gertie quickly. "i want to see about mending that door. it hasn't been closing right." "i thought nora had something to say to me." "so she has: that's what i'm going to leaves you alone for." "i like that. she insults me before everybody and then, when she's going to apologize, it's got to be private. no, thank you." "what do you mean, gertie?" asked nora. "you sent ed in to tell me you was goin' to apologize for what you'd said, didn't you?" "and i'm ready to: for peace and quietness." "well, what you said was before the men, and it's before the men you must say you're sorry." "how can you ask me to do such a thing!" cried nora indignantly. "don't be rough on her, gertie," pleaded her husband. "no one likes apologizing." "people who don't like apologizing should keep a better lookout on their tongue." "it can't do you any good to make her eat humble pie before the men." "perhaps it won't do _me_ any good, but it'll do _her_ good!" "gertie, don't be cruel. i'm sorry if i lost my temper just now, and said anything that hurt you. but please don't make me humiliate myself before the others." "i've made up my mind," said gertie, folding her arms across her breast, "so it's no good talking." "don't you see that it's bad enough to have to beg your pardon before eddie?" "good lord!" said gertie irritably, "why can't you call him ed like the rest of us. 'eddie' sounds so sappy." "i've called him eddie all my life: it's what our mother called him," said nora sadly. "oh, it's all of a piece. you do everything you can to make yourself different from all of us." she stalked over to the window and stood with folded arms looking out toward the wood-pile on which reggie was seated--it is to be presumed having a moment's respite after his arduous labors. "no, i don't," pleaded nora. "at least i don't mean to. why won't you give me any credit for trying to do my best to please you?" "that's neither here nor there." she suddenly wheeled about, facing them both. "go and fetch the men, ed, and then i'll hear what she's got to say." "no, i won't, i won't, i won't!" cried nora furiously. "you drive me too far." "you won't beg my pardon?" demanded gertie threateningly. if she wished to drive nora beside herself, she accomplished her purpose. "i said i could teach you manners," she gave a hysterical laugh, "i made a mistake. i _couldn't_ teach you manners, for one can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." "shut up, nora," said her brother sharply. "now you must make her, ed," said gertie grimly. he replied with a despairing gesture. "i'm sick to death of the pair of you!" "i'm your wife, and i'm going to be mistress of this house--my house." "it's horrible to make her eat humble pie before three strange men. you've no right to ask her to do a thing like that." "are you taking her part?" demanded gertie, her voice rising in fury. "what's come over you since she came here. you're not the same to me as you used to be. why did she come here and get between us?" "i haven't changed." "haven't i been a good wife to you? have you ever had any complaint to make of me?" "you know perfectly well i haven't." "as soon as your precious sister comes along, you let me be insulted. you don't say a word to defend _me_!" "darling," said her husband with grim humor, "you've said a good many to defend yourself." but gertie was not to be reached by humor, grim or otherwise. "i'm sick and tired of being put upon. you must choose between us," she said, with an air of finality. "what on earth do you mean?" "if you don't make her apologize right now before the hired men, i'm quit of you." "i can't make her apologize if she won't." "then let her quit." "oh, i wish i could! i wish to god i could!" said nora wildly. "you know she can't do that," said marsh roughly. "there's nowhere she can go. i've offered her a home. you were quite willing, when i suggested having her here." "i was willing because i thought she'd make herself useful. we can't afford to feed folks who don't earn their keep. we have to work for our money, we do." "i didn't know you grudged me the little i eat," said nora bitterly. "i wonder if i should begrudge it to you, if i were in your place." "look here, it's no good talking. i'm not going to turn her out. as long as she wants a home, the farm's open to her. and she's welcome to everything i've got." "then you choose her?" demanded gertie. "choose her? i don't know what you're talking about!" easy-going as he was, he was beginning to show signs of irritation. "i said you'd got to choose between us. very well, let her stay. i earned my own living before, and i can earn it again. _i'm_ going." "don't talk such nonsense," said marsh violently. "you think i don't mean it? d'you think i'm going to stay here and be put upon? why should i?" "don't you--love me any more?" "haven't i shown that i love you? have you forgotten, ed?" "we've gone through so much together, darling," he said huskily. "yes, we have that," she said in a softened tone. "won't you forgive her, for--for my sake?" gertie's face hardened once more. "no, i can't. you're a man, you don't understand. if she won't apologize, either she must go or i shall." "i can't lose you, gertie. what should i do without you?" "i guess you know me well enough by now. when i say a thing, i do it." "eddie!" nora had buried her face in her hands. he looked at her a moment without speaking. "she's my wife. after all, if it weren't for her i should be hiring out now at forty dollars a month." nora lifted her face. for a long moment, brother and sister exchange a sad regard. "very well," she said huskily, "i'll do what you want." he made one last appeal: "you _do_ insist on it, gertie?" "of course i do." "i'll go and call the men." he looked vacantly about the room, searching for his hat. "frank taylor needn't come, need he?" asked nora timidly. "why not?" "he's going away almost immediately. it can't matter about him, surely." "then why are you so particular about it?" "the others are english----" she knew she had made an unfortunate speech the moment the words had left her lips and hastened to modify it. "he'll like to see me humiliated. he looks upon women as dirt. he's---- oh, i don't know, but not before him!" "it'll do you a world of good to be taken down a peg or two, my lady." "oh, how heartless, how cruel!" "go on, ed. i want to get on with my work." "why do you humiliate me like this?" asked nora after the door had closed on her brother. gertie had seated herself, very erect and judicial, in one of the rocking chairs. "you came here and thought you knew everything, i guess. but you didn't know who you'd got to deal with." "i was a stranger and homeless. if you'd had any kindness, you wouldn't have treated me so. i _wanted_ to be fond of you." "you," scoffed gertie. "you despised me before you ever saw me." nora made a despairing gesture. even now the men might be on the way, but she had a more unselfish motive for wishing to placate gertie. anything rather than bring that look of pain she had seen for the first time that day into her brother's eyes. she staked everything on one last appeal. "oh, gertie, can't we be friends? can't we let bygones be bygones and start afresh? we both love eddie--ed i mean. he's your husband and he's the only relation i have in the world. won't you let me be a _real_ sister to you?" "it's rather late to say all that now." "but it's not too late, is it?" nora went on eagerly. "i don't know what i do that irritates you so. i can see how competent you are, and i admire you so much. i know how splendid you've been with eddie. how you've stuck to him through thick and thin. you've done everything for him." gertie struck her hands violently together and sprang from her chair. "oh, don't go on patronizing me. i shall go crazy!" "patronizing you?" "you talk to me as if i were a naughty child. you might be a school teacher." nora wrung her hands. "it seems perfectly hopeless!" "even when you're begging my pardon," gertie went on, "you put on airs. you ask me to forgive you as if you was doing _me_ a favor!" "i must have a most unfortunate manner." nora laughed hysterically. "don't you dare laugh at me," said gertie furiously. "don't make yourself ridiculous, then." "did you think i would ever forget what you wrote to ed before i married him?" "what i wrote? i don't know what you mean." "oh, don't you? you told him it would be a disgrace if he married me. he was a gentleman and i---- oh, you spread yourself out!" "and he showed you that letter," said nora slowly. "now i understand," she added to herself. "still," she went on, looking gertie directly in the face, "i had a perfect right to try and prevent the marriage before it took place. but after it happened, i only wanted to make the best of it. if you had _this_ grudge against me, why did you let me come here!" "oh," said gertie moodily, "ed wanted it, and it was lonely enough sometimes with the men away all day and no one to say a word to. but i can't bear it," she almost screamed, "when ed talks to you about the old country and all the people i don't know anything about!" "then you _are_ jealous?" "it's my house and i'm mistress here. i won't be put upon. what did you want to come here for, upsetting everybody? till you came, i never had a word with ed. oh, i hate you, i hate you!" she finished in a sort of ecstasy. "gertie!" "you've given me my chance," said gertie with set teeth; "i'm going to take it. i'm going to take you down a peg or two, young woman." "you're doing all you can to drive me away from here." "you don't think it's any very wonderful thing to have you, do you? you talk of getting a job," she went on scornfully. "you! you couldn't get one. i know something about that, my girl. you! what can you do? nothing." suddenly, from outside, they heard frank taylor's laugh. nora winced as if she had been struck. gertie's face was distorted with an evil smile. she seated herself once more in the rocking chair and folded her arms across her heaving breast. "here they come: now take your punishment," she said harshly. chapter x nora could never after think of what followed with any feeling of reality so far as her personal participation in the scene was concerned. it was like watching a play in which one is interested, without being in any degree emotionally stirred. she saw gertie, erect and stern in her big chair; she saw herself, standing behind the ironing-board, as if at a bar of justice, her hands resting loosely upon it; and she saw the door open to admit her brother, followed by taylor and trotter; noted that the former had discarded the familiar overalls and was wearing a sort of pea-jacket with a fur collar, and that her brother's face was once more sad and a little stern. she had been obliged to press her handkerchief to her mouth to hide the crooked smile that the thought: '_he_ is the executioner,' had brought to her lips. then the figures which were gertie and her brother had exchanged some words. "where's hornby?" "he's just coming." "do they know what they're here for!" "no, i didn't tell them." then the figure which was reggie had come in with some laughing remark about being torn away from his work, but, stopping so suddenly in the midst of his laughter at the sight of gertie's face that it was comical; once more she had had to press her handkerchief to her lips. and all the time she knew that this nora whom she seemed to be watching had flushed a cruel red clear to her temples and that a funny little pulse was beating,--oh, so fast, so fast!--way up by her cheek-bone. it couldn't have been her heart. her heart had never gone as fast as that. then she had heard gertie say: "nora insulted me a while ago before all of you and i guess she wants to apologize." and then frank had said: "if you told me it was that, ed, you wanted me to come here for, i reckon i'd have told you to go to hell." "why?" it must have been she who had asked the question, although she was not conscious that her lips had moved and the voice did not seem like her own. her own voice was rather deep. this voice was curiously thin and high. "i've got other things to do besides bothering my head about women's quarrels." "oh, i beg your pardon," still in the same high tone. "i thought it might be some kindly feeling in you." "go on, nora, we're waiting," came the voice from the big chair. sour-dough! that's what those coats, such as frank had on, were called. she had been wondering all the time what the name was. it was only the other day that gertie had used the word in saying that she wished eddie--no, ed--could afford a new one. what a ridiculous name for a garment. "i'm sorry i was rude to you, gertie. i apologize to you for what i said." "if there's nothing more to be said, we'd better go back to our work." while her brother was speaking to his wife, frank had taken a step forward. somehow, the smile on his face had lost all of its ordinary mockery. "you didn't find that very easy to say, i reckon." "i'm quite satisfied." and then gertie had dared to add: "let this be a lesson to you, my girl!" that was the last straw. the men had turned to go. in a flash she had made up her mind. her brother's house was no longer possible. gertie had, in a moment of passion, confessed that she hated her; had always hated her in her secret heart ever since she had read that protesting letter. what daily humiliations would she not have to endure now that she had matched her strength against gertie and lost! it meant one long crucifixion of all pride and self-respect. no, it was not to be borne! there was one avenue of escape open, and only one. _he_ had said that he was willing to offer a home to a woman who was willing to assume her share of the burden of making one. it was even possible that he would be both kind and considerate, no matter how many mistakes she made at first, to a woman who tried to learn. of one thing she was certain, he would know how to see that his wife was treated with respect by all the world. for the moment, her bleeding pride cried to her that that was the only thing in life that was absolutely necessary. nothing else mattered. "frank, will you wait a minute?" "sure. what can i do for you?" "i've understood that i'm not wanted here. i'm in the way. you said just now you wanted a woman to cook and bake for you, wash and mend your clothes, and keep your shack clean and tidy. will i do?" "sure." "nora!" her brother was shaking her by the shoulder. "i'm afraid you'll have to marry me." "i guess it _would_ be more respectable." "nora, you can't mean it: you're in a temper! see here, frank, you mustn't pay any attention to her." "shameless, that's what i call it." that was gertie. "he wants a woman to look after him. he practically proposed to me half an hour ago--didn't you?" "practically." "nora! you've been like cat and dog with frank ever since you came. my dear, you don't know what you're in for." "if he's willing to risk it, i am." "it ain't an easy life you're coming to. this farm is a palace compared with my shack." "i'm not wanted here and you say you want me. if you'll take me, i'll come." for what seemed an interminable moment, he had looked at her with more gravity than she had ever seen in his face. "i'll take you, all right. when will you be ready? will an hour do for you?" "an hour! you're in a great hurry." she had had a funny sensation that her knees were giving way. she had never fainted in her life. was she going to faint now before them all? before gertie? never! somehow she must get out of the room and be alone a minute. "why, yes. then we can catch the three-thirty into winnipeg. you can go to the y. w. c. a. for the night and we'll be buckled up in the morning. you meant it, didn't you? you weren't just saying it as a bluff?" "i shall be ready in an hour." she had pushed eddie gently aside and, without a glance at anyone had walked steadily from the room. once seated on the side of the bed in the room that had been hers, she had been seized with a chill so violent that her teeth had chattered in her head. to prevent anyone who might follow her from hearing them,--and it was probable that her brother might come for a final remonstrance; it was even conceivable that gertie, herself, might be sorry for what she had done; but no, it was she who had said she was shameless!--she got up and locked her door and then threw herself full length on the little bed and crammed the corner of the pillow into her mouth. perhaps she was going to die. she had never really been ill in her life and the violence of the chill frightened her. in her present overwrought state, the thought of death was not disquieting. but supposing she was only going to be very ill, with some long and tedious illness that would make her a care and a burden for weeks? she recalled the unremitting care which she had had to give miss wickham, and pictured gertie's grudging ministrations at her sick-bed. anything rather than that! she must manage to get to winnipeg. once away from the house, nothing mattered. but after a few moments the violence of the chill, which was of course purely nervous in its origin, subsided perceptibly. nora rose and began to busy herself with her packing. fortunately her wardrobe was small. she had no idea how long she had been lying on the bed. she had just folded the last garment and was about to close the lid of her trunk, when there came a knock at the door. "who is it?" "it's me," said frank's voice. "the team is at the door. are you ready?" for reply, nora threw open the door and pointed to her box. "i have only to put on my hat. will you be good enough to fasten that for me? here is the key." while he knelt on the floor, locking and strapping it, she gave a careful look at herself in the mirror, while putting on her hat. she congratulated herself that she had not been crying. aside from the fact that she looked pale and tired, there was nothing in her face to suggest that she had had a crisis of the nerves: certainly no look of defeat for gertie to gloat over. would they all be there to witness her retreat? well, let them: no one could say that she had not gone out with flying colors. she turned, with a smile to meet frank's gaze. "that's right," he said approvingly. "you look fine. say," he added, "i'm afraid i'll have to have reggie up to give me a lift with this trunk of yours. i don't know what you can have in it unless it's a stove, and we've got one at home already. it'll be all right once i get it on my back." he had taken just the right tone. his easy reference to 'home' and to their common possession of even so humble a piece of furniture as a stove, as if they were an old married couple returning home after paying a visit, had a restorative effect on nerves still a little jangly. that was the only way to look at it: in a thoroughly commonplace manner. as he had said himself, it was a business undertaking. she gave a perfectly natural little laugh. "no, i haven't a stove; only a few books. i didn't realize how heavy they were. i'm sorry." "i'm not," he said heartily. "you can read to me evenings. i guess a little more book-learning'll polish me up a bit and i'll be right glad of the chance. you're not afraid to stand at the horses' heads, are you, while reg runs up here?" "no, of course not." she could hear gertie in the pantry as she crossed the living-room. she was grateful to her for not coming out to make any show of leave-taking. having sent reggie on his errand, she stood stroking the horses' soft noses while waiting for the men to return. just as they reached the door, eddie came slowly over to her from the barn. his face was haggard. he looked older than she had ever seen him. "nora," he said in a low tone, "i beg you, before it is too late----" "please, dear," she whispered, her hand on his, "you only make it harder." "i'll write, eddie, oh, in a few days, and tell you all about my new home," she called gayly, as frank, having disposed of her trunk in the back of the wagon, lifted her in. her brother turned without a word to the others and went into the house. as she felt herself for the second time in those arms, the reaction came. "eddie, eddie!" but, strangled by sobs, her voice hardly carried to the man on the seat in front of her. as he sprang in, frank gave the horses a flick with the whip. the afternoon air was keen and the high-spirited team needed no further urging. they swung out of the farm gate at a pace that made reggie cling to the seat. when he had them once more in hand, taylor turned his head slightly. "all right back there?" he called, without looking at her. she managed a "yes." she had only just recovered her self-control as they drove into winnipeg. as they drew up in front of the principal hotel, taylor turned the reins once more over to reggie, and, vaulting lightly from his seat, held out his hand and helped her to alight. "you'd better go into the ladies' parlor for a minute or two. i'm feeling generous and am going to blow reg to a parting drink. i'll come after you in a minute and take you to the y. w. c. a." "very well." "here," he called, as she turned toward the door marked ladies' entrance, "aren't you going to say good-by to reg?" for a moment she almost lost her hardly regained self-control. to say good-by to reg was the final wrench. she had known him in those immeasurably far-off days at home. it was saying good-by to england. she held out her hand without speaking. "good-by, miss marsh," he said warmly, "and good luck." a quarter of an hour later taylor came to her in the stuffy little parlor of which she was the solitary tenant. in silence they made their way to the building occupied by the y. w. c. a. "you have money?" he asked as they reached the door. "plenty, thanks." "do you want me to come in with you?" "it isn't necessary." "what time shall i come for you to-morrow?" "at whatever time you choose." "shall we say ten, then? or eleven might be better. i've got to get the license, you know, and look up the parson." "very good; at eleven." "good night, nora." "good night, frank." nora's first impulse on being shown to a room was to go at once to bed. mind and body both cried out for rest. but she remembered that she had eaten nothing since noon. she would need all her strength for the morrow. she supposed they would start at once for taylor's farm after they were married. good god, since the world began had any woman ever trapped herself so completely as she had done! but she must not think of that. she had not the most remote idea where the farm was. all she remembered to have heard was that it was west of winnipeg, miles farther than her brother's. one couldn't drive to it, it was necessary to take the train. but whether it was a day's journey or a week's journey, she had never been interested enough to ask. after all, what could it possibly matter where it was; the farther away from everybody and everything she had ever known, the better. the sound of a gong in the hall below recalled her thoughts to the matter of supper. she went down to a bare little dining-room, only partly filled, and accepted silently the various dishes set before her all at one time. she had never seen a dinner--or supper, they probably called it--served in such a haphazard fashion. even at gertie's--she smiled wanly at the thought that since the morning she no longer thought of it as her brother's, but as gertie's--while such a thing as a dinner served in courses had probably never been heard of by anyone but reggie, her brother and herself, the few simple, well-cooked dishes bore some relation to each other, and the supply was always ample. gertie was justly proud of her reputation as a good provider. but here there was a sort of mockery of abundance. dabs of vegetables, sauces, preserves, meats, both hot and cold, in cheap little china dishes fairly elbowed each other for room. it would have dulled a keener appetite than poor nora's. having managed to swallow a cup of weak tea and a piece of heavy bread, she went once more to her room and sat down by the window which looked out on what she took to be one of the principal streets of the town. tired as she still was, she felt not the slightest inclination for sleep. the thought of lying there, wakeful, in the dark, filled her with terror. for the first time in her life, nora was frightened. she pressed her face against the window to watch the infrequent passers-by. surely none of them could be as unhappy as she. like a hideous refrain, over and over in her head rang the words: "trapped, trapped, trapped, by your own mad temper, trapped!" at length, unable to bear it any longer, the now empty street offering no distraction, she undressed and went to bed, hoping for relief in sleep. but sleep would not be wooed. she tossed from side to side, always hearing those maddening words: "trapped, trapped, trapped, by your own mad temper, trapped!" all sorts of impractical schemes tormented her feverish brain. she would appeal to the manager of the place. she was a woman. she would understand. she would do any work, anything, for her bare keep. take care of the rooms, wait on table, anything. then the thought came to her of how gertie would gloat to hear--and she would be sure to do so, things always got out--that she was now doing _her_ old work. no, she could not bear that. perhaps, if she started out very early, she could get a position in some shop. there must be plenty of shops in a place the size of winnipeg. but what would she say when asked what experience she had had? no; that, too, seemed hopeless. as a last resort, she thought of throwing herself on taylor's mercy. she would explain to him that she had been mad with anger; that she hadn't in the least realized what she was doing; that her only thought had been to defy gertie in the hour of her triumph. surely no man since the days of the cave-men would prize an unwilling wife. she would humbly confess that she had used him and beg his pardon, if necessary, on her knees. but what if he refused to release her from her promise? and what if he did release her? what then? there still remained the unsolvable problem of what she was to do. her brother had told her that positions in winnipeg during the winter months were impossible to get. gertie had taunted her with the same fact. she had less than six dollars in the world. after she had paid her bill she would have little more than four. it was hopeless. "trapped, trapped, trapped, by your own mad temper, trapped!" and then more plans; each one kindling fresh hope in her heart only to have it extinguished, like a torch thrown into a pool, when they proved, on analysis, each to be more impracticable than its predecessor. and then, the refrain. and then, more plans. it was a haggard and weary-looking bride that presented herself to the expectant bridegroom the next morning. the great circles under her eyes told the story of a sleepless night. but nothing in taylor's manner betrayed that he noticed that she was looking otherwise than as usual. while she was dressing, nora had come to a final decision. quite calmly and unemotionally she would explain the situation to him. she would point out the impossibility, the absurdity even, of keeping an agreement entered into, by one of the parties at least, in hot blood, and thoroughly repented of, on later and saner reflection. in the remote event of this unanswerable argument failing to move him, she would appeal to his honor as a man not to hold her, a woman, to so unfair a bargain. she had even prepared the well-balanced sentences with which she would begin. but as she stood with her cold hand in his warm one, he forestalled her by exhibiting, not without a certain boyish pride, the marriage license and the plain gold band which was to bind her. if these familiar and rather commonplace objects had been endowed with some evil magic, they could not have deprived her of the power of speech more effectively. without a protest, she permitted herself to be led to the waiting carriage, provided in honor of the occasion. it seemed but a moment later that she found herself being warmly embraced by a motherly looking woman, who, it transpired, was the wife of the clergyman who had just performed the ceremony. from the parsonage they drove directly to the station. chapter xi the journey had seemed endless: it was already nightfall when they arrived at the town of prentice, where they were to get off and drive some twelve miles farther to her new home. and yet, endless and unspeakably wearying as it was, her heart contracted to find that it was at an end. she realized now how comfortable, even luxurious, her trip across the continent had been by comparison. then, she had traveled in a pullman. this, she learned, was called a day-coach. her husband did everything in his power to mitigate the rigors of the trip. he made a pillow for her with his coat, bought her fruits, candies and magazines from the train-boy, until she protested. best of all, he divined and respected her disinclination for conversation. at intervals during the day he left her to go into the smoking-car to enjoy his pipe. the view from the window was, on the whole, rather monotonous. but it would have had to be varied indeed to match the mental pictures that nora's flying thoughts conjured up for her. the dead level of her life at tunbridge wells had been a curious preparation for the violent changes of the last few months. how often when walking in the old-world garden with miss wickham she had had the sensation of stifling, oppressed by those vine-covered walls, and inwardly had likened herself to a prisoner. there were no walls now to confine her. clear away to the sunset it was open. and yet she was more of a prisoner than she had ever been. and now she wore a fetter, albeit of gold, on her hand. it had been her habit to think of herself with pity as friendless in those days; forgetful of the good doctor and his wife, agnes pringle and even mr. wynne, not to speak of her humbler friends, the gardener's wife and children, and the good kate. well, she was being punished for it now. it would be hard, indeed, to imagine a more friendless condition than hers. rushing onward, farther and farther into the wilderness to make for herself a home miles from any human habitation; no woman, in all probability, to turn to in case of need. and, crowning loneliness, having ever at her side a man with whom she had been on terms of open enmity up to a few short hours before! from time to time she stole furtive glances at him as he sat at her side; and once, when he had put his head back against the seat and pulled his broad-brimmed hat over his eyes and was seemingly asleep, she turned her head and gave him a long appraising look. how big and strong and self-reliant he was. he was just the type of man who would go out into the wilderness and conquer it. and, although she had scoffed at his statement when he made it, she knew that he had brains. yes, although his lack of education and refinement must often touch her on the raw, he was a man whom any woman could respect in her heart. and when they clashed, as clash they must until she had tamed him a little, she would need every weapon in her woman's arsenal to save her from utter route; she realized that. but then, these big, rough men were always the first to respond to any appeal to their natural chivalry. if she found herself being worsted, there was always that to fall back upon. if from some other world miss wickham could see her, how she must be smiling! nora, herself, smiled at the thought. and at the thought of agnes pringle's outraged astonishment if she were to meet her husband now, before she had toned him down, as she meant to do. she recalled the chill finality of her friend's tone when in animadverting on the doctor's unfortunate assistant she had said: "but, my dear, of course it would be impossible to marry anyone who wasn't a gentleman." if by some arabian night's trick she could suddenly transport herself and the sleeping frank to miss pringle's side, she felt that that excellent lady's astonishment at seeing her descend from the magic carpet would be as nothing in comparison to her astonishment in being presented to nora's husband. her mind had grown accustomed already to thinking of him as her husband; not, as yet, to thinking of herself as his wife. at supper time they went into a car ahead, where frank ate with his accustomed appetite and nora pecked daintily at the cold chicken. and now they were at prentice. for some minutes before arriving, frank, who had asked her a few moments before to change places with him, had been looking anxiously out of the window, his nose flattened against the glass. as they drew up to the station platform, he gave a shout. "good! there's old man sharp. luckily i remembered it was the day he generally drove over and wired him." "what for?" "so that he could drive us home. he's a near neighbor; lives only about a mile beyond us. he's married, too. so you won't be entirely without a woman to complain to about me." "i should hardly be likely to do that," said nora stiffly. "bless your heart! i know you wouldn't: you're not that sort." "i hope she's not much like gertie." "gosh, no! a different breed of cats altogether." "well, that's something to be thankful for." "this is mr. sharp; sid, shake hands with mrs. frank taylor." it was the first time that she had heard herself called by her new name. it came as a distinct and not altogether pleasant shock. once again her husband lifted her in his strong arms to the back seat of the rough-looking wagon and saw to it that she was warmly wrapped up, for, although there was little or no snow to be seen at prentice, the night air was sharply chill. she moved over a little to make room for him at her side; but without appearing to notice her action, he jumped lightly onto the front seat beside his friend. "let 'em go, sid. everything all comfortable?" he asked, turning to nora. "quite, thanks." throughout the long cold drive, they exchanged no further word. frank and sid seemed to have much to say to each other about their respective farms. nora gathered from what she could hear that sharp had played the part of a good neighbor, during her husband's enforced absence, in having a general oversight of his house. "you'll find the fence's down in quite a few places. i allowed to fix it myself when i had the spare time, but when i heard that you was comin' back so soon, i just naturally let her go." "sure, that was right. it'll give me something to do right at home. i don't want to leave mrs. taylor too much alone until she gets a little used to it. she's always been used to a lot of company," nora heard him say. she smiled to herself in the darkness and felt a little warm feeling of gratitude. she was right in her estimate. this man would be tractable enough, after all. his attitude toward women, which, had formerly so enraged her, was only on the surface. an affectation assumed to annoy her when they were always quarreling. how foolish she had been not to read him more accurately. for the first time, she felt a little return of self-confidence. she would bring this hazardous experiment to a successful conclusion, after all. it was really failure that she had most feared. but her heart sank within her once more when at last they drew up in front of a long, low cabin built of logs. mr. sharp had not overstated the dilapidated state of the fence. it sagged in half a dozen places and one hinge of the gate was broken. altogether it was as dreary a picture as one could well imagine. the little cabin had the utterly forlorn look of a house that has long been unoccupied. "woa there! stand still, can't you?" said sharp, tugging at the reins. "a tidy pull, that last bit," said frank. "trail's very bad." "stand still, you brute! wait a minute, mrs. taylor." "i guess she wants to get home." taylor vaulted lightly from his seat and, without waiting to help nora, ran up the path to the house. as she stood up, trying to disentangle herself from the heavy lap-robe, she could hear a key turn noisily in a lock. with a jerk, he threw the door wide open. "wait a bit and i'll light the lamp, if i can find where the hell it's got to," he called. "this shack's about two foot by three, and i'm blamed if i can ever find a darned thing!" nora smiled to herself in the darkness. she got down unassisted this time. under the bright and starry sky she could see a long stretch of prairie, fading away, without a break into the darkness. a long way off she thought she could distinguish a light, but she could not be certain. "i'll give you a hand with the trunk," called sharp, laboriously climbing out of the wagon. "woa there," as the mare pawed restlessly on the ground. "i'll come and help you if you'll wait a bit. come on in, nora." nora hunted round among the numerous parcels underneath the seat until she found a meshed bag containing some bread, butter and other necessaries they had bought on the way to the station. then she walked slowly up the path to her home. she had the feeling that she was still a free agent as long as she remained outside. once her foot had crossed the threshold----! it was like getting into an ice-cold bath. she dreaded the plunge. however, it must be taken. he was standing stock-still in the middle of the room as she reached the door, his heavy brows drawn together. "i'm quite stiff after that long drive." the moment the words were out of her mouth she wished to recall them. this was no way to begin. it was actually as if she had been trying to excuse herself for not coming more quickly when she was called. his whole attitude of frowning impatience showed that he had expected her to come at the sound of his voice. his face cleared at once. "are you cold?" he asked with a certain anxiety. "no, not a bit; i was so well wrapped up." "well, it's freezing pretty hard. but, you see, it's your first winter and you won't feel the cold like we do?" "how odd," said nora. "i'll just bring some of the things in." she had an odd feeling that she didn't want to be alone with him just now, and said the first thing that entered her head. "don't touch the trunk, it's too heavy for you." "oh, i'm as strong as a horse." "don't _touch_ it." "i won't," she laughed. he brushed by her and went on out to the rig, returning almost instantly with an arm full of parcels. "we could all do with a cup of tea. just have a look at the stove. it won't take two shakes to light a fire." "it seems hardly worth while; it's so late." "oh, light the fire, my girl, and don't talk about it," he said good-humoredly. on her knees before the stove, with her face as flushed as if it were already glowing, nora raked away at the ashes. through the open doorway she could see her husband and mr. sharp unfasten the trunk from the back of the wagon and start with it toward the house. "this trunk of yours ain't what you might call light, mrs. taylor," said sharp good-naturedly as he stepped over the threshold. "you see it holds everything i own in the world," said nora lightly. "i guess it don't do that," laughed her husband. "since this morning, you own a half share in a hundred and sixty acres of as good land as there is in the province of manitoba, and a mighty good shack, if i did build it all myself." "to say nothing of a husband," retorted nora. "where do you want it put?" asked sharp. "it 'ud better go in the next room right away. we don't want to be falling over it." as they were carrying it in, nora, with a rather helpless air, carried a couple of logs and a handful of newspapers over from the pile in the corner. "here, you'll never be able to light a fire with logs like that. where's that darned ax? i'll chop 'em for you. i guess you'll have plenty to do getting the shack tidy." after a little searching, he found the ax back of the wood-pile and set himself to splitting the logs. in the meantime, sharp, who had made another pilgrimage to the rig, returned carrying his friend's grip and gun. "now, that's real good of you, sid." "get any shooting down at dyer, frank?" "there was a rare lot of prairie chickens round, but i didn't get out more than a couple of days." "well," said sharp, taking off his fur cap and scratching his head, "i guess i'll be gettin' back home now." "oh, stay and have a cup of tea, won't you?" "do," said nora, seconding the invitation. she had taken quite a fancy to this rough, good-natured man. in spite of his straggly beard and unkempt appearance, there was a vague suggestion of the soldier about him. besides, she had a vague feeling that she would like to postpone his departure as long as she could. "i hope you won't be offended if i say that i would take you for english," she said, smiling brightly on him. "you're right, ma'am, i am english." "and a soldier?" "i was a non-commissioned officer in a regiment back home, ma'am," he said, greatly pleased. "but why should i be offended?" nora and her husband exchanged glances. "it's this way," frank laughed. "gertie, that's nora's brother's wife--down where i've been working--ain't very partial to the english. i guess my wife's been rather fed up with her talk." "oh, i see. but, thank you all the same, and you, too, mrs. taylor, i don't think i'll stay. it's getting late and the mare'll get cold." "put her in the shed." "no, i think i'll be toddling. my missus says i was to give you her compliments, mrs. taylor, and she'll be round to-morrow to see if there's anything you want." "that's very kind of her. thank you very much." "sid lives where you can see that light just about a mile from here, nora," explained frank. "mrs. sharp'll be able to help you a lot at first." "oh, well, we've been here for thirteen years and we know the ways of the country by now," deprecated mr. sharp. "nora's about as green as a new dollar bill, i guess." "i fear that's too true," nora admitted smilingly. "there's a lot you can't be expected to know at first," protested their neighbor. "i'll say good night, then, and good luck." "well, good night then, sid, if you _won't_ stay. and say, it was real good of you to come and fetch us in the rig." "oh, that's all right. good night to you, mrs. taylor." "goodnight." pulling his cap well down over his ears, mr. sharp took his departure. in the silence they could hear him drive away. nora went over to the stove again and made a pretense of examining the fire, conscious all the time that her husband was looking at her intently. "i guess it must seem funny to you to hear him call you mrs. taylor, eh?" "no. he isn't the first person to do so. the clergyman's wife did, you remember." "that's so. how are you getting on with that fire?" "all right." "i guess i'll get some water; i'll only be a few minutes." he took a pail and went out. nora could hear him pumping down in the yard. getting up hurriedly from her knees before the stove, she took up the lamp and held it high above her head. this untidy, comfortless, bedraggled room was now hers, her home! she would not have believed that any human habitation could be so hopelessly dreary. the walls were not even sealed, as at the brother's. tacked, here and there, against the logs were pictures cut from illustrated papers, unframed, just as they were. the furniture, with the exception of the inevitable rocking-chair, worn and shabby from hard use, had apparently been made by frank, himself, out of old packing boxes. the table had been fashioned by the same hand out of similar materials. on a shelf over the rusty stove stood a few battered pots and pans; evidently the entire kitchen equipment. there were two doors, one by which she had entered; the other, leading supposedly into another room. the one window was small and low. even in this light she could see that a spider had spun a huge web across it. in the dark corners of the room all sorts of objects seemed to be piled without any pretense of order. she lowered the lamp and listened. yes, she could still hear the pump. with a furtive, guilty air she hurried to complete her examination before he should surprise her. one of the corners contained a battered suitcase and a nondescript pile of old clothes, the other was piled high with yellowing copies of what she saw was the winnipeg _free press_ and a few old magazines. "the library!" she said bitterly, and was surprised to find that she had spoken aloud. insane people did that, she had heard. was she----? she ran over to a shelf that had escaped her notice, and the ill-fitting lamp chimney rattled as she moved. it was stacked high with the same empty syrup cans that at gertie's did the duty of flower-pots. but these held flour, now quite mouldy, and various other staple supplies all spoiled and useless. she started to say "the larder," but, remembering in time, put her hand over her lips that she might only think it. and now she had come to that other door. she must see what was there. "having a look at the shack?" she gave a stifled scream and for a moment turned so pale that he hastily set down his pail and went over to her. "i guess you're all tuckered out," he said kindly. "no wonder. you've had quite a little excitement the last day or two." with a tremendous effort, nora recovered her self-control. she walked steadily over to one of the packing-box stools and sat down. "it was silly of me, but you don't know how you startled me. don't think i usually have nerves, but--but the place was strange last night and i didn't sleep very well." "do you mind if i open the door a moment?" she asked after a short pause. "it isn't really cold and it looks so beautiful outside. one can't see anything out of the window, you know, it's so cobwebby. i must clean it--to-morrow." try as she would, her voice faltered on the last word. she threw open the door and stood a moment looking out into the bright canadian night brilliant with stars. it was all so big, so open, so free--and so lonely! you could fairly hear the stillness. but she must not think of that. ah, there was the light that she had been told was the sharp's farm. somehow, it brought her comfort. but even as she watched, the light went out. she came in and closed the door. chapter xii he was sitting on one of the stools, pipe in mouth, reading a newspaper he had already read in the train. "well, what do you think of the shack?" "i don't know." "i built it with my own hands. every one of them logs was a tree i cut down myself. you wait till morning and i'll show you how they're joined together, at the corners. there's some neat work there, my girl, i guess." "yes? oh, i was forgetting; here's the kettle." she brought it over to him from the shelf. he filled the kettle carefully from the pail while she stood and watched him. she took it from his hand and set it on the stove to boil. "you'll find some tea in one of them cans on the shelf; leastways, there was some there when i come away. i reckon you're hungry." "i don't think i am, very. i ate a very good supper on the train, you know." "i'm glad you call that a good supper. i guess i could wrap up the amount you ate in a postage stamp." "well," she said with a smile, "you may be glad to learn that i haven't a very large appetite." "i have, then. where's the loaf we got in winnipeg this afternoon?" "i'll get it." "and the butter. you'll bake to-morrow, i reckon." "you're a brave man--unless you've forgotten my first attempt at eddie's," she said with a laugh as she took the loaf and butter from the bag. for some reason her mood had completely changed. all her confidence in being perfectly able to take care of herself had returned. she had been frightened, badly frightened a moment ago at nothing. nerves, nothing more. nerves were queer things. it was because she hadn't slept last night. she was such a good sleeper naturally that a wakeful night affected her more than it did most people. the cool night air had completely restored her. she hunted about until she found a knife, and with the loaf in one hand and the knife poised in the air asked: "shall i cut you some?" "yep." "please." "please what?" "yep, please," she said with a gay smile. "oh!" he growled. still smiling, she cut several slices of bread and buttered them. going to the shelf, she found the teapot and shook some tea into it from one of the cans, measuring it carefully with her eye. his momentary ill humor, caused by her correcting him, vanished as he watched her. "i guess it's about time you took your hat and coat off," he said with a chuckle. as a matter of fact, she was not conscious that they were still on. without a word, she took them off and, having given her coat a little shake and a pat, looked about her for a place to put them. she ended finally by putting them both on the kitchen chair. "you ain't terribly talkative for a woman, are you, my girl?" "i haven't anything to say for the moment," said nora. "well, i guess it's better to have a wife as talks too little than a wife as talks too much." "i suppose absolute perfection is rare--in women, poor wretches," she said in the old ironic tone she had always used toward him while he was her brother's hired man. "what's that?" he said sharply. "i was only amusing myself with a reflection." he checked an angry retort, and striding over to a nail in the wall, took off his coat and hung it up. somehow, he looked larger than ever in his gray sweater. a sense of comfort and unaccustomed well-being restored him to good humor. throwing himself into the rocker, he stretched out his long legs luxuriantly. "i guess there's no place like home. you get a bit fed up with hiring out. ed was o. k., i reckon, but it ain't like being your own boss." "i should think it wouldn't be," said nora quietly. "where does that door go?" she asked presently. "that? oh, into the bedroom. like to have a look?" "no." "no what?" he said quickly. nora turned from the shelf where she had been contriving a place to put the things they had brought from the town, and looked at him inquiringly. his face was grave, but a twinkle in his eye betrayed him. she blushed charmingly to the roots of her hair, but her laugh was perfectly frank and good-humored. "i beg your pardon. i was so occupied with arranging my pantry that i forgot my manners. no, _thank you_." "one can't be too careful about these important things," he said with rather heavy humor. "when i built this shack," he went on proudly--but the pride was the pride of possession, not of achievement--"i fixed it up so as it would do when i got married. sid sharp asked me what in hell i wanted to divide it up in half for, but i guess women like little luxuries like that." "like what?" "like having a room to sleep in and a room to live in." "here's the bread and butter," said nora abruptly. "will you have some syrup?" "s-u-r-e." he got up out of the rocking chair and pulling one of the stools up to the table, sat down. "the water ought to be boiling by now; what about milk?" "that's one of the things you'll have to learn to do without till i can afford to buy a cow." "i can't drink tea without milk." "you try. say, can you milk a cow?" "i? no." "then it's just as well i ain't got one." nora laughed. "you _are_ a philosopher." having filled the teapot with boiling water and set it on the table, she returned to the shelf and began moving the things about in search of something. "what you looking for?" "is there a candle? i'll just get one or two things out of my box and bring in here." "ain't you going to sit down and have a cup of tea?" "i don't want any, thanks." "sit down, my girl." "why?" "because i tell you to." the command was smilingly given. "i don't think you'd better tell me to do things." nora could smile, too. "then i ask you. you ain't going to refuse the first favor i've asked you?" "certainly not," she said in her most charming manner. pulling another of the stools up to the table, she sat facing him. "there." "now, pour out my tea for me, will you? i tell you," he said, watching her slim hands moving among the tea things, "it's rum seeing _my_ wife sitting down at _my_ table and pouring out tea for me." "is it pleasant?" "sure. now have some tea yourself, my girl. you'll soon get used to drinking it without milk. and i guess you'll be able to get some to-morrow from mrs. sharp." nora noticed that he did not taste his tea until she had poured herself a cup. "just take a bit of the bread and butter." he passed her the plate and she, still smiling brightly, broke off a small half of one of the slices. "i had a sort of feeling i wanted you and me to have the first meal together in your new home," he said gently. then, with a sudden change of manner, he laughed aloud. "we ain't lost much time, i guess. why, it's only yesterday you told me not to call you nora. you did _flare_ out at me!" "that was very silly of me, but i was in a temper." "and now we're man and wife." "yes: married in haste with a vengeance." "ain't you a bit scared?" "i? what of? you?" her voice was steady, but the hands in her lap were clenched. "with ed miles away, t'other side of winnipeg, he might just as well be in the old country for all the good he can be to you. you might naturally be a bit scared to find yourself alone with a man you don't know." "i'm not the nervous sort." "good for you!" "you _did_ give me a fright, though," said nora, with a laugh, "when i asked you if you'd take me. i suppose it was only about fifteen seconds before you answered, but it seemed like ten minutes. i thought you were going to refuse. how gertie would have gloated!" "i was thinking." "i see. counting up my good points and balancing them against my bad ones." "n-o-o-o: i was thinking you wouldn't have asked me like that if you hadn't of despised me." nora caught her breath sharply, but her manner lost none of its lightness. "i don't know what made you think that." "well, i don't know how you could have put it more plainly that my name was mud." "why didn't you refuse, then?" "i guess i'm not the nervous sort, either," he remarked dryly over his teacup. "_and_," nora reminded him, "women are scarce in manitoba." "i've always fancied an english woman," he went on, ignoring her little thrust. "they make the best wives going when they've been licked into shape." nora showed her amusement frankly. "are you purposing to attempt that operation on me?" "well, you're clever. i guess a hint or two is about all you'll want." "you embarrass me when you pay me compliments." "i'll take you round and show you the land to-morrow," he said, tilting back on his stool, to the imminent peril of his equilibrium. "i ain't done all the clearing yet, so there'll be plenty of work for the winter. i want to have a hundred acres to sow next year. and then, if i get a good crop, i've a mind to take another quarter. you can't make it pay really without you've got half a section. and it's a tough proposition when you ain't got capital." "i had no idea i was marrying a millionaire." "never you mind, my girl, you shan't live in a shack long, i promise you. it's the greatest country in the world. we only want three good crops and you shall have a brick house same as you lived in back home." "i wonder what they're doing in england now." "well, i guess they're asleep." "when i think of england i always think of it at tea time," began nora, and then stopped short. a wave of regret caught her throat. in spite of herself, the tears filled her eyes. she looked miserably at the cheap, ugly tea things on the makeshift table before her. her husband watched her gravely. presently she went on, more to herself than to him: "miss wickham had a beautiful old silver teapot, a george second. she was awfully proud of it. and she was proud of her tea-set; it was old worcester. and she wouldn't let anyone wash the tea things but----" again, her voice failed her. "and two or three times a week an old indian judge came in to tea. and he used to talk to me about the east, the wonderful, beautiful east. he made me long to see it all--i who had never been anywhere. i've always loved history and books of travel more than anything else. there are a lot of them there in my box--that's what makes it so heavy--all about the beautiful places i was going to see later on with the money miss wickham promised me----" her glance took in the mean little room in all its unrelieved ugliness. "oh, why did you make me think of it all?" she bowed her head on the table for a moment. taylor laid his hand gently on her arm. "the past is dead and gone, my girl. we've got the future; it's ours." she gently disengaged herself from his detaining hand and went over to the little window, looking out with eyes that saw other pictures than the window had to show. "one never knows when one's well off, does one? it's madness to think of what's gone forever." for several minutes there was silence, during which nora recovered her self-control. having wiped away her tears, she turned hack to him, smiling bravely. "i beg your pardon. you'll think me more foolish than i really am. i'm not the crying sort, i assure you. but i don't know, it all----" "that's all right, i know you're not," he said roughly. "i wish we'd got a good drop of liquor here," he went on with the evident intention of changing the current of her thoughts, "so as we could drink one another's health. but as we _ain't_, you'd better give me a kiss instead." "i'm not at all fond of kissing," said nora coolly. frank grinned at her, his pipe stuck between his white teeth. "it ain't, generally speaking, an acquired taste. i guess you must be peculiar." "it looks like it," she said lightly. "come, my girl," he said, getting slowly up from his stool, "you didn't even kiss me after we was married." "isn't a hint enough for you?"--her tone was perfectly friendly. "why do you insist on my saying everything in so many words? why make me dot my i's and cross my t's, so to speak?" "it seems to me it wants a few words to make it plain when a woman refuses to give her husband a kiss." "do sit down, there's a good fellow, and i'll tell you one or two things." "that's terribly kind of you," he said, sinking into the rocker. "have you any choice of seats?" "not now, since you've taken the only one that's tolerably comfortable. i think there's nothing to choose between the others." "nothing, i should say." "i think we'd better fix things up before we go any further," she said, resuming her stool. "sure." "you gave me to understand very plainly that you wanted a wife in order to get a general servant without having to pay her wages. wages are high, here in canada." "that was the way _you_ put it." "batching isn't very comfortable, you'll confess that?" "i'll confess that, all right." "you wanted someone to cook and bake for you, wash, sweep and mend. i offered to come and do all that for you. it never entered my head for an instant that there was any possibility of your expecting anything else of me." "then you're a damned fool, my girl." he was perfectly good-natured. she would have preferred him to be a little angry. she would know how to cope with that, she thought. but she flared up a little herself. "d'you mind not saying things like that to me?" his smile widened. "i guess i'll have to say a good many things like that--or worse--before we've done." "i asked you to marry me only because i couldn't stay in the shack otherwise." "you asked me to marry you because you was in the hell of a temper," he retorted. "you were mad clean through. you wanted to get away from ed's farm right then and there and you didn't care what you did so long as you quit. but you was darned sorry for what you'd done by the time you'd got your trunk packed." "i don't know that you have any reason for thinking that," she said stiffly. "i've got sense. besides, when you opened the door when i went up and knocked, you was as white as a sheet. you'd have given anything you had to say you'd changed your mind, but your damned pride wouldn't let you." "i wouldn't have stayed longer in that house for anything in the world," said nora with passion. "there you are; that's just what i have been telling you," he said, nodding his head. "and this morning, when i came for you at the y. w. c. a., you wanted bad to say you wouldn't marry me. when you shook hands with me your hand was like ice. you tried to speak the words, but they wouldn't come." "after all, one isn't married every day of one's life, is one? i admit i was nervous for the moment." "if i hadn't shown you the license and the ring, i guess you wouldn't have done it. you hadn't the nerve to back out of it then." "i hadn't slept a wink all night. i kept on turning it over in my mind. i _was_ frightened at what i'd done. i didn't know a soul in winnipeg. i hadn't anywhere to go. i had four dollars in my pocket. i _had_ to go on with it." "well, you took pretty good stock of me in the train on the way here, i guess," he laughed, pacing up and down the room. "what makes you think so?" asked nora, who had recovered her coolness. "well, i felt you was looking at me a good deal while i was asleep," he jeered. "it wasn't hard to see that you was turning me over in your mind. what conclusion did you come to?" nora evaded the question for the moment. "you see, i lived all these years with an old lady. i know very little about men." "i guessed that." "i came to the conclusion that you were a decent fellow and i thought you would be kind to me." "bouquets are just flying round! have you got anything more to say to me?" he asked, seating himself once more in his chair. "no, i think not." "then just get me my tobacco pouch, will you? i guess you'll find it in the pocket of my coat." with narrowed eyes, he watched her first hesitate, and then bring it to him. "here you are." her tone was crisp. "i thought you was going to tell me i could darned well get it myself," he laughed. "i don't very much like to be ordered about," she said smoothly; "i didn't realize it was one of your bad habits." "you never paid much attention to me or my habits till to-day, i reckon." "i was always polite to you." "oh, very! but i was the hired man, and you'd never let me forget it. you thought yourself a darned sight better than me, because you could play the piano and speak french. but we ain't got a piano and there ain't anyone as speaks french nearer than winnipeg." "i don't just see what you're driving at." "parlor tricks ain't much good on the prairie. they're like dollar bills up in hudson bay country. tobacco's the only thing you can trade with an esquimaux. you can't cook very well, you don't know how to milk a cow; why, you can't even harness a horse." "are you regretting your bargain already?" "no," he said, going over to the shelf in search of the matches, "i guess i can teach you. but if i was you"--he paused, the lighted match in his fingers, to look at her--"i wouldn't put on any airs. we'll get on o. k., i guess, when we've shaken down." "you'll find i am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she said with emphasis, speaking each word slowly. she returned his steady gaze and felt a thrill of victory when he looked away. "when two people live in a shack," he went on as if she had not spoken, "there's got to be a deal of give and take on both sides. as long as you do what i tell you you'll be all right." a sort of an angry smile crossed nora's face. "it's unfortunate that when anyone _tells_ me to do a thing, i have an irresistible desire not to do it." "i guess i tumbled to that. you must get over it." "you've spoken to me once or twice in a way i don't like. i think we shall get on better if you _ask_ me to do things." "don't forget that i can _make_ you do them," he said brutally. "how?" really, he was amusing! "well, i'm stronger than you are." "a man can hardly use force in his dealings with a woman," she reminded him. "o-o-o-oh?" "you seem surprised." "what's going to prevent him?" "don't be so silly," she retorted as she turned to look once more out of the window. but her hands were clammy and, somehow, even though her back was turned toward him, she knew that he was smiling. chapter xiii how much time elapsed before he spoke she had no means of knowing; probably, at most, two or three minutes. but to the woman gazing out blindly through the cobweb-covered window into the night, it might well have been hours. for some illogical reason, which she could not have explained to herself, she had the feeling that the victory in the coming struggle would lie with the one who kept silent the longer. to break the nerve-wrecking spell would be a betrayal of weakness. none the less, she had arrived at the point when, the tension on her own nerves becoming too great, she felt she must scream, drive her clenched hand through the glass of the window, or perform some other act of hysterical violence; then he spoke, and in the ordinary tone of daily life. "well, i'm going to unpack my grip." the tone, together with the commonplace words, had the effect of a cold douche. she drew a sharp breath of relief, her hands unclenched. she was herself once more. she'd won. she turned slowly, as if reluctant to abandon the starry prospect without, to find him bending over a clutter of things scattered about his half-emptied case. she had been about to say that she must see to unpacking some of her own things. "wash up them things." he jerked his bowed head toward the littered table. for the first time, his tone was curt. but she was too much mistress of herself and the situation now to be more than faintly annoyed by it. "i'll wash them up in the morning," she said casually. she started toward the door behind which her box had been carried. "wash 'em up now, my girl. you'll find the only way to keep things clean is to wash 'em the moment you've done with 'em." she smiled at him over her shoulder, her hand on the knob of the door. but she did not move. "did you hear what i said?" "i did." "then why don't you do as i tell you?" "because i don't choose to." "you ain't taking long to try it out, are you?" his face wore an ugly sneer. "they say there's no time like the present." "are you going to wash up them things?" "no." there was a moment's silence while he held her eyes with his. then, very slowly and deliberately he got up, poured some boiling water into a pan and placed it, together with a ragged dishcloth, on the table. "are you going to wash up them things?" "no." she was still cool and smiling: only, her grip on the knob of the door had tightened until the nails of her fingers were white. "do you want me to make you?" "how can you do that?" "i'll soon show you." she waited the fraction of a moment. "i'll just get out those rugs, shall i? i think the holdall was put in here. i expect it gets very cold toward morning." she had opened the door now and stepped across the threshold. her face was still turned toward his, but her smile was a little fixed. "nora." "yes." "come here." "why?" "because i tell you to." still, she did not move. in two strides he was over at her side. he stretched out his hand to seize her by the wrist. "you daren't touch me!" she pulled the door to sharply and stood with her back against it, facing him. her face was as white as a linen mask, and about as expressionless. only her eyes lived. anger and fear had enlarged the pupils until they seemed black in the dead white of her face. "you daren't!" she repeated. "i daren't: who told you that?" "have you forgotten that i'm a woman?" "no, i haven't. that's why i'm going to make you do as i tell you. if you were a man, i mightn't be able to. come, now." he made a movement to take her by the arm, but she was too quick for him. with the quickness of a cat, she slipped aside. the next moment, to his astonishment, he felt a stinging blow on the ear. he stared at her dumbfounded. it is safe to hazard that never in his life had he been so utterly taken aback. she met his stare without lowering her glance. but she was panting now as if she had been running, one clenched hand pressed against her heaving breast. he gave a short laugh, half of amused admiration at her daring, and half of anger. "that was a darned silly thing to do!" "what did you expect?" "i expected that you were cleverer than to hit me. you ought to know that when it comes to--to muscle, i guess i've got the bulge on you." "i'm not frightened of you." it was a stupid thing to say. nora realized it too late. if she had only been able to hold her tongue, he might have relented, she thought. but at her words, his face hardened once more and the same steely glitter came into his eyes. "now come and wash up these things." "i won't, i tell you!" "come on." quickly grasping her by the wrists, he began to drag her slowly but steadily to the table. earlier in the evening she had boasted that she was as strong as a horse. as a matter of fact, she had unusual strength for a woman. but she was quickly made to realize that her strength, even intensified as it was by her anger was, of course, nothing compared with his. strain and resist as she might, she could neither release herself from his grasp nor prevent him from forcing her nearer and nearer to the table which was his goal. in the struggle one of the large shell hair pins which she wore fell to the floor. in another second she heard it ground to pieces under his heel. a long strand of hair came billowing down below her waist. another moment, and by making a long arm, he could reach the table. with a quick movement for which she was unprepared, he brought her two hands sharply together so that he could hold both of her wrists with one hand, leaving the other free. "let me go, let me go!" she kicked him, first on one shin and then on the other. but their bodies were too close together for the blows to have any force. "come on now, my girl. what's the good of making a darned fuss about it." his laugh was boyish in its exultant good-nature. "you brute, how dare you touch me! you'll never force me to do anything. let go! let go! let go!" and now, his free hand held fast the edge of the table. with a quick movement she bent down and fastened her teeth in the skin of the back of his hand. with an exclamation of pain, he released her, carrying his wounded hand instinctively to his mouth. "gee, what sharp teeth you've got!" "you cad! you cad!" she panted. "i never thought you'd bite," he said, looking at his bleeding hand ruefully. "that ain't much like a lady, according to _my_ idea." "you filthy cad! to hit a woman!" "gee, i didn't hit you. you smacked my face and kicked my shins, and you bit my hand. and now you say i hit _you_." he picked up his pipe from the table and mechanically rammed the tobacco down with his thumb and looked about for a match. "you beast! i hate you!" in the height of her passion she unconsciously began twisting up the loosened strand of her hair. "i don't care about that, so long as you wash them cups." with a furious gesture she swept the table clean. "look!" she screamed, as cups, saucers, plates and teapot broke into a thousand pieces at his feet. there came another little sound of something breaking, like a faint echo far away. it was his pipe which had fallen among the wreckage. in his astonishment at her sudden action, he had bitten through the mouthpiece. "that's a pity; we're terribly short of crockery. we shall have to drink our tea out of cans now," was all he said. "i said i wouldn't wash them, and i haven't washed them," nora exulted. "they don't need it now, i guess," he said humorously. "i think i've won!" "sure," he said without the slightest trace of rancor. "now take the broom and sweep up all the darned mess you've made." "i won't!" "look here, my girl," he said threateningly, "i guess i've had about enough of your nonsense: you do as you're told and look sharp about it." "you can kill me, if you like!" "what would be the good of that? women, as you reminded me a little while back, are scarce in manitoba." he gave a searching look around the room and spying the broom in the corner, went over and fetched it. "here's the broom." "if you want that mess swept up, you can sweep it up yourself." "look here, you make me tired!" his tone suggested that he was becoming more irritated. but nora was beyond caring. as he put the broom in her hand, she flung it from her as far as she could. "look here," he said again, and this time there was no mistaking the menace in his voice, "if you don't clean up that mess at once, i'll give you the biggest hiding you ever had in your life, i promise you that." "you?" she jeered. "yours truly," he said, nodding his head. "i've done with larking now." he began rolling up the sleeves of his sweater. for some obscure reason--possibly because his deliberation seemed to connote implacability--this simple action filled her with a terror that she had not known before even in the midst of their physical struggle. "help! help! help!" she screamed. she rushed across the room and threw open the door, sending her agonized appeal out into the night. "help! help! help!" she strained her ears for any sign of response. "what's the good of that? there's no one within a mile of us. listen." it is doubtful if she heard his words. if she had, it would have mattered but little. the answering silence which engulfed her like a wave told her that she was lost. she bowed her head in her hands. her whole slender body was wrecked with hard, dry sobs. when she lifted her head, he read in her eyes the anguish of the conquered. nevertheless, she made one last stand. "if you so much as touch me, i'll have you up for cruelty. there are laws to protect me." "i don't care a curse for the laws," he laughed. "i know i'm going to be master here. and if i tell you to do a thing, you've darned well got to do it, because i can make you. now stop this fooling. pick up that crockery and get the broom." "i won't!" he made one stride toward her. "no, don't. don't hurt me!" she shrieked. "i guess there's only one law here," he said. "and that's the law of the strongest. i don't know nothing about cities; perhaps men and women are equal there. but on the prairie, a man's the master because he's bigger and stronger than a woman." "frank!" "damn you, don't talk." she did not move. her eyes were on the ground. pride and fear were having their last struggle, and fear conquered. without looking at her husband she could feel that his patience was nearing an end. very slowly she stooped down and picked up the teapot and the broken cups and saucers and laid them on the table. blindly she tottered over to the rocking-chair and burst into a passion of tears. "and i thought i knew what it was to be unhappy!" he watched her with a slight, but not unkindly, smile on his face. "come on, my girl," he said, without any trace of anger, "don't shirk the rest of it." through her laced fingers, she looked at the mess of spilled tea on the floor. keeping her tear-marred face turned away from him, she slowly got up, and slowly found the broom and swept it all into a little heap on the newspaper that lay where he had left it. suddenly she threw back her head. her eyes shone with a new resolution. he watched her, wondering. with a quick, firm step, she carried the rolled-up paper to the stove and shoved it far into the glowing embers. gathering up the crockery, after a glance around the room in search of some receptacle which her eye did not find, she carried it over to the wood-pile, laying it upon the logs. the broom was restored to its corner. she took up her hat and coat and began to put them on. "what are you doing?" "i've done what you _made_ me do, now i'm going." "where, if i might ask?" "what do i care, as long as i get away." "you ain't under the impression that there's a first-class hotel round the corner, are you? there ain't." "i can go to the sharps." "i guess they're in bed and asleep by now." "i'll wake them." "you'd never find your way. it's pitch dark. look." he threw open the door. it was true. the sky had clouded over. the feeling of the air had changed. it smelt of storm. "i'll sleep out of doors, then." "on the prairie? why, you'd freeze to death before morning." "what does it matter to you whether i live or die?" "it matters a great deal. once more, let me remind you that women are scarce in manitoba." "are you going to keep me from going?" "sure." he closed the door and placed his back against it. "you can't keep me here against my will. if i don't go to-night, i can go to-morrow." "to-morrow's a long, long way off." her hand flew to her throat. "frank! what do you mean?" "i don't know what silly fancies you've had in your head; but when i married you i intended that you should be a proper wife to me." "but--but--but you understood." it was all she could do to force the words from her dry throat. with a desperate effort she pulled herself together and tried to talk calmly and reasonably. "i'm sorry for the way i've behaved, frank. it was silly and childish of me to struggle with you. you irritated me, you see, by the way you spoke and the tone you took." "oh, i don't mind. i don't know much about women and i guess they're queer. we had to fix things up sometime and i guess there's no harm in getting it over right now." "you've beaten me all along the line and i'm in your power. have mercy on me!" "i guess you won't have much cause to complain." "i married you in a fit of temper. it was very stupid of me. i'm very sorry that i--that i've been all this trouble to you. won't you let me go?" "no, i can't do that." "i'm no good to you. you've told me that i'm useless. i can't do any of the things that you want a wife to do. oh," she ended passionately, "you can't be so hard-hearted as to make me pay with all my whole life for one moment's madness!" "what good will it do you if i let you go? will you go to gertie and beg her to take you back again? you've got too much pride for that." she made a gesture of abnegation: "i don't think i've got much pride left." "don't you think you'd better give it a try?" once more hope wakened in nora's heart. his tone was so reasonable. if she kept her self-control, she might yet win. she sat down on one of the stools and spoke in a tone that was almost conversational. "all this life is so strange to me. back in england, they think it's so different from what it really is. i thought i should have a horse to ride, that there would be dances and parties. and when i came out, i was so out of it all. i felt in the way. and yesterday gertie drove me frantic so that i felt i couldn't stay a moment longer in that house. i acted on impulse. i didn't know what i was doing. i made a mistake. you can't have the _heart_ to take advantage of it." "i knew you was making a mistake, but that was your lookout. when i sell a man a horse, he can look it over for himself. i ain't obliged to tell him its faults." "do you mean to say that after i've begged you almost on my knees to let me go, you'll force me to stay?" [illustration: frank glimpses the approaching storm that means his ruin.] "that's what i mean." "oh, why did i ever trap myself so!" "come, my girl, let's let bygones be bygones," he said good-humoredly. "come, give me a kiss." she tried a new tack. "i'm not in love with you," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "i guessed that." "and you're not in love with me." "you're a woman and i'm a man." "do you want me to tell you in so many words that you're physically repellent to me? that the thought of letting you kiss me horrifies and disgusts me?" in spite of her resolution, her voice was rising. "thank you." he was still good-humored. "look at your hands; it gives me goose-flesh when you touch me." "cuttin' down trees, diggin', lookin' after horses don't leave them very white and smooth." "let me go! let me go!" he took a step away from the door. his whole manner changed. "see here, my girl. you was educated like a lady and spent your life doin' nothing. oh, i forgot: you was a lady's companion, wasn't you? and you look on yourself as a darned sight better than me. i never had no schooling. it's a hell of a job for me to write a letter. but since i was so high"--his hand measured a distance of about three feet from the floor--"i've earned my living. i guess i've been all over this country. i've been a trapper, i've worked on the railroad and for two years i've been a freighter. i guess i've done pretty nearly everything but clerk in a store. now you just get busy and forget all the nonsense you've got in your head. you're nothing but an ignorant woman and i'm your master. i'm goin' to do what i like with you. and if you don't submit willingly, by god i'll take you as the trappers, in the old days, used to take the squaws." for the last moment nora could hardly have been said to have listened. in a delirium of terror her eyes swept the little cabin, searching desperately for some means of escape. as he made a step toward her, her roving eye suddenly fell on her husband's gun, standing where sharp had left it when he brought it in. with a bound, she was across the room, the gun at her shoulder. with an oath, frank started forward. "if you move, i'll kill you!" "you daren't!" "unless you open that door and let me go, i'll shoot you--i'll shoot you!" "shoot, then!" he held his arms wide, exposing his broad chest. with a sobbing cry, she pulled the trigger. the click of the falling hammer was heard, nothing more. "gee whiz!" shouted taylor in admiration. "why, you meant it!" the gun fell clattering to the floor. "it wasn't loaded?" "of course it wasn't loaded. d'you think i'd have stood there and told you to shoot if it had been? i guess i ain't thinking of committin' suicide." "and i almost admired you!" "you hadn't got no reason to. there's nothing to admire about a man who stands five feet off a loaded gun that's being aimed at him. he'd be a darned fool, that's all." "you were laughing at me all the time." "you'd have had me dead as mutton if that gun 'ud been loaded. you're a sport, all right, all right. i never thought you had it in you. you're the girl for me, i guess!" as she stood there, dazed, perfectly unprepared, he threw his arms around her and attempted to kiss her. "let me alone! i'll kill myself if you touch me!" "i guess you won't." he kissed her full on the mouth, then let her go. sinking into a chair, she sobbed in helpless, angry despair. "oh, how shameful, how shameful!" he let her alone for a little; then, when the violence of her sobbing had died away, came over and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "hadn't you better cave in, my girl? you've tried your strength against mine and it hasn't amounted to much. you even tried to shoot me and i only made you look like a darned fool. i guess you're beat, my girl. there's only one law here. that's the law of the strongest. you've got to do what i want because i can make you." "haven't you any generosity?" "not the kind you want, i guess." she gave a little moan of anguish. "hark!" he held up his hand as if to call her attention to something. for a moment, hope flamed from its embers. but stealing a glance at his face from beneath her drooping lashes, she saw that she was mistaken. the last spark died, to be rekindled no more. "listen! listen to the silence. can't you hear it, the silence of the prairie? why, we might be the only two people in the world, you and me, here in this little shack, right out _in_ the prairie. are you listening? there ain't a sound. it might be the garden of eden. what's that about male and female, created he them? i guess you're my wife, my girl. and i want you." nora gave him a sidelong look of terror and remained dumb. what would have been the use of words even if she could have found voice to utter them? taking up the lamp, he went to the door of the bedroom and threw it wide. she saw without looking that he remained standing, like a statue of fate, on the threshold. to gain time, she picked up the dishcloth and began to scrub at an imaginary spot on the table. "i guess it's getting late. you'll be able to have a good clean-out to-morrow." "to-morrow!" a violent shudder, similar to the convulsion of the day before, shook her from head to foot. but she kept on with her scrubbing. "come!" the word smote her ear with all the impact of a cannon shot. the walls caught it, and gave it back. there _was_ no other sound in heaven or earth than the echo of that word! shame, anguish and fear, in turn, passed over her face. then, with her hands before her eyes, she passed beyond him, through the door which he still held open. chapter xiv the storm which the night had foreshadowed broke with violence before dawn. at times during the night, the wind had howled about the little building in a way which recalled to nora one of the best-remembered holidays of her childhood. she and her mother had gone to eastborne for a fortnight with some money eddie had sent them shortly after his arrival in canada. the autumnal equinox had caught them during the last days of their stay, and the strong impression which the wind had made upon her childish mind had remained with her ever since. lying, wakeful through the long hours, staring wide-eyed out of the little curtainless window into the thick darkness, thick enough to seem palpable; the memory of how, on that far-off day she had passed long hours with her nose flattened against the window of the dingy little lodging-house drawing-room watching the wonder of the wind-lashed sea, came back to her with extraordinary vividness. the spectacle had filled her with a sort of terrified exultation. she had longed to go out and stand on the wind-buffeted pier and take her part in this saturnalia of the elements. she had something of the same feeling now; a longing to leave her bed and go out onto the windswept prairie. strangely enough, she had no sensation of fatigue or weariness either bodily or mentally. her mind, indeed, seemed extraordinarily active. little petty details of her childhood and of her life with miss wickham, long forgotten, such as the day the gardener had cut his thumb, trooped through her mind in an endless procession. she had a strange feeling that she would never sleep again. but just as the blackness without seemed turning into heavy grayness, lulled possibly by the wind which had moderated its violence and had now sunk to a moan not unpleasant, and by the rythmic breathing of the sleeping man at her side, she fell asleep. for several hours she must have slept heavily, indeed. for when she awoke, it was to find the place at her side empty. hurriedly dressing herself, she went out into the living-room. that was empty, too. but the lamp was lighted, the kettle was singing merrily on the stove and the fire was burning brightly. and outside was a whirling veil of snow which made it impossible to see beyond the length of one's arm. had she been marooned on an island in the ultimate ocean of the antartic, she could not have felt more cut off from the world she knew. well, it was better so. she wondered what had become of frank. surely on a day like this there could be nothing to do outside; and even if there were, nothing so imperative as to take him away before he had had his breakfast. she felt a little hurt at his leaving without a word. evidently, he expected to return soon, however. the table was laid for two. she felt her face crimson as she saw that there was but one cup left. one of them must drink from one of those horrible tin cans. she did not ask herself which one it would be. partly to occupy herself and to take her thoughts away from the recollection of the events of the evening before, and partly prompted by a desire to have everything in readiness against her husband's return, she busied herself with the preparations for breakfast. there were some eggs and a filch of bacon which they had brought from winnipeg. she would make some toast, too. very likely he didn't care for it, they certainly never had it at gertie's, but in _her house_---- she smiled to think how quickly, in her mind, she had taken possession. she was just beginning to think that she had been foolish to start her cooking without knowing at all when he was going to return, when she heard a great stamping and scraping of feet outside, and in another moment frank's snow-covered figure darkened the doorway. "getting on with the breakfast? that's fine!" he called. "it's quite ready: wherever have you been? i wouldn't have imagined that anyone could find a thing to do outside on a day like this." "oh, there's always something to do. but i just ran up to the sharps' for a minute. i knew old mother sharp wouldn't keep her promise about coming down to-day. she's all right, but she does hate to walk." "well, i'm sure i wouldn't blame anyone for choosing to stay indoors a day like this. but what did you want to see her in such a hurry for?" "oh, nothin' particular; i sort of thought maybe you wouldn't mind having a little milk with your tea on a gloomy morning like this," he said shamefacedly. "that was awfully good of you; thank you very much," she said with real gratitude, as she thought of him tramping those two miles in the blinding storm. "do you think we are in for a blizzard?" she asked when they were at the table. to her unspeakable relief, she found that the one cup was intended for her; he had waved her toward the one chair, apparently the place of honor, contenting himself with one of the stools. "n-o-o," he said, "i don't think so. it's beginning to lighten up a little already. and besides, don't you remember that i foretold a mildish winter?" "i was forgetting that i had married a prophet," she smiled. but all through the day the snow continued to fall steadily, although the wind had died away and, at intervals, the sun shone palely. at nightfall, it was still snowing. the day passed quickly, as nora found plenty to occupy herself with. by supper time she felt healthfully tired, with the added comfortable feeling that, for a novice, she had really accomplished a good deal. the whole room certainly looked cleaner and the pots and pans, although not shining, were as near to it as hot water and scrubbing could make them. fortunately, she had a quantity of fresh white paper in her trunk which greatly improved the appearance of the shelves. during the day frank left the house for longer or shorter intervals on various pretexts which she felt must be largely imaginary, trumped up for the occasion. she was agreeably surprised to find that he was sufficiently tactful to divine that she wanted to be alone. while he was in the house he smoked his pipe incessantly and read some magazines which she had unpacked with some of her books. but she never glanced suddenly in his direction without finding that he was watching her. "i tell _you_, this is fine," he said heartily as he was lighting his after-supper pipe. "mrs. sharp won't hardly know the place when she comes over. she's never seen it except when i was housekeeper. she doesn't think i'm much good at it. leastways, she's always tellin' sid that if she dies, he must marry again right away as soon as he can find anyone to have him, for fear the house gets to looking like this." "that doesn't look like a very strong indorsement," nora admitted. the next day nora woke to a world of such dazzling whiteness that she was blinded every time she attempted to look out on it. "you want to be careful," her husband cautioned her; "getting snow-blinded isn't as much fun as you'd think. even i get bad sometimes; and i'm used to it. looks like one of them christmas cards, don't it? somebody sent gertie one once and she showed it to us." that afternoon, mr. sharp drove his wife down for the promised visit. as in his judgment the two women would want to be alone, he proposed to frank to drive back home with him to give him the benefit of his opinion on some improvements he was contemplating. "you're only wasting your time," mrs. sharp had remarked grimly. "there ain't going to be anything done to any of them barns before i get a lean-to on the house. you'd think even a man would know that a house that's all right for two gets a little small for seven," she added, scornfully, to nora. "are there seven of you?" "me and sid and five little ones. if that don't make seven, i've forgotten all the 'rithmetic i ever learned," said mrs. sharp briefly. "and let me tell you, you who're just starting in, that having children out here on the prairie half the time with no proper care, and particularly in winter, when maybe you're snowed up and the doctor can't get to you, ain't my idea of a bank holiday." "i shouldn't think it would be," said nora, sincerely shocked, although she found it difficult to hide a smile at her visitor's comparison; bank holidays being among her most horrid recollections. mrs. sharp, despite a rather emphatic manner which softened noticeably as her visit progressed, turned out to be a stout, red-faced woman of middle age who seemed to be troubled with a chronic form of asthma. she was as unmistakably english as her husband. but like him, she had lost much of her native accent, although occasionally one caught a faint trace of the cockney. she had two rather keen brown eyes which, as she talked, took in the room to its smallest detail. "well, i declare, i think you've done wonders considering you've only had a day and not used to work like this," she said heartily. "when sid told me that frank was bringing home a wife i said to myself: 'well, i don't envy her _her_ job; comin' to a shack that ain't been lived in for nigh unto six months and when it was, with only a man runnin' it.'" "you don't seem to have a very high opinion of men's ability in the domestic line," said nora with a smile. "i can tell you just how high it is," said mrs. sharp with decision. "i would just as soon think of consultin' little sid--an' he's goin' on three--about the housekeepin' as i would his father. it ain't a man's work. why should he know anything about it?" "still," demurred nora, "lots of men look after themselves somehow." "somehow's just the word; they never get beyond that. of course i knew frank would be sure to marry some day. and with his good looks it's a wonder he didn't do so long ago. most girls is so crazy about a good-lookin' fellow that they never stop to think if he has anything else to him. not that he hasn't lots of good traits, i don't mean that. but," she added shrewdly, "you don't look like the silly sort that would be taken in by good looks alone." "no," said nora dryly, "i don't think i am." after that, until the two men returned, they talked of household matters, and nora found that her new neighbor had a store of useful and practical suggestions to make, and, what was even better, seemed glad to place all her experience at her disposal in the kindliest and most friendly manner possible, entirely free from any trace of that patronage which had so maddened her in her sister-in-law. "now mind you," called mrs. sharp, as she laboriously climbed up to the seat beside her husband as they were driving away, "if frank, here, gets at all upish--and he's pretty certain to, all newly married men do--you come to me. i'll settle him, never fear." frank laughed a little over-loudly at this parting shot, and nora noticed that for some time after their guests had gone, he seemed unusually silent. as for the sharps, they also maintained an unwonted silence--which for mrs. sharp, at least, was something unusual--until they had arrived at their own door. "well?" queried sharp, as they were about to turn in. "it beats me," replied his wife. "why, she's a lady. but she'll come out all right," she finished enigmatically, "she's got the right stuff in her, poor dear!" in after years, when nora was able to look back on this portion of her life and see things in just perspective, she always felt that she could never be too thankful that her days had been crowded with occupation. without that, she must either have gone actually insane, or, in a frenzy of helplessness, done some rash thing which would have marred her whole life beyond repair. after she found herself growing more accustomed to her new life--and, after all, the growing accustomed to it was the hardest part--she realized that she was only following the universal law of life in paying for her own rash act. the thought that she was paying with interest, being overcharged as it were, was but faint consolation: it only meant that she had been a fool. that conviction is rarely soothing. then, too, she gradually began to look at the situation from frank's point of view. he had certainly acted within his rights, if with little generosity. but she had to acknowledge to herself that the obligation to be generous on his part was small. she could hardly be said to have treated him with much liberality in the past. she had used him without scruple as a means to an end. she had made him the instrument for escaping from a predicament which she found unbearably irksome. that she had done so in the heat of passion was small palliation. for the present, at least, she wisely resolved to make the best of things. it could not last forever. the day must come when she could free herself from the bonds that now held her. it was characteristic of her unyielding pride, of her reluctance to confess to defeat, that the thought of appealing to her brother never once entered her head. for this reason, it was long before she could bring herself to write the promised letter to eddie. what was there to say? the things that would have relieved her, in a sense, to tell, must remain forever locked in her own heart. in the end, she compromised by sending a letter confined entirely to describing her new home. as she read it over, she thanked the fates that eddie's was not a subtile or analytical mind. he would read nothing between the lines. but gertie? well, it couldn't be helped! it was some two months after her marriage that she received a letter from miss pringle in answer to the one she had written while she was still an inmate of her brother's house. miss pringle confined herself largely to an account of her continental wanderings and her bloodless encounters with various foreigners and their ridiculous un-english customs from which she had emerged triumphant and victorious. mrs. hubbard's precarious state of health had led her into being unusually captious, it seemed. miss pringle was more than ever content to be back in tunbridge wells, where all the world was, by comparison, sane and reasonable in behavior. when it came to touching upon her friend's amazing environment and unconventional experiences, miss pringle was discretion itself. but if her paragraphs had bristled with exclamation points, they could not, to one who understood her mental processes, have more clearly betrayed her utter disapproval and amazement that english people, and descendants of english people, could so far forget themselves as to live in any such manner. replying to this letter was only a degree less hard than writing to eddie. nora's ready pen faltered more than once, and many pages were destroyed before an answer was sent. she confined herself entirely to describing the new experience of a canadian winter. of her departure from her brother's roof and of her marriage, she said nothing whatever. in accordance with her resolution to make the best of things, she set about making the shack more comfortable and homelike. there were many of those things which, small in themselves, count for much, that her busy brain planned to do during the time taken up in the necessary overhauling. this cleaning-up process had taken several days, interrupted as it was by the ordinary daily routine. to her unaccustomed hand, the task of preparing three hearty meals a day was a matter that consumed a large amount of time, but gradually, day by day, she found herself systematizing her task and becoming less inexpert. to be sure she made many mistakes; once, indeed, in a fit of preoccupation, while occupied in rearranging the bedroom, burning up the entire dinner. upon his return, her husband had found her red-eyed and apologetic. "oh, well!" he said. "it ain't worth crying over. what is the saying? 'hell wasn't built in a day'?" nora screamed with laughter. "i think you're mixing two old saws. rome wasn't built in a day and hell is paved with good intentions." "well," he laughed good-naturedly, "they both seem to hit the case." he certainly was unfailingly good-tempered. not that there were not times when nora did not have to remind herself of her new resolution and he, for his part, exercise all his forbearance. but in the main, things went more smoothly than either had dared to hope from their inauspicious beginning. the thing that nora found hardest to bear was that he never lost a certain masterful manner. it was a continual reminder that she had been defeated. then, too, he had a maddening way of rewarding her for good conduct which was equally hard to bear, until she realized that it was perfectly unconscious on his part. for example: after she had struggled for a week with her makeshift kitchen outfit, small in the beginning but greatly reduced by her destructive outburst on the night of their arrival, he had, without saying a word to her of his intentions, driven over to prentice and laid in an entire new stock of crockery and several badly needed pots and pans. nora had found it hard to thank him. if they had been labeled "for a good child" she could not have felt more humiliated. and what was equally trying, he seemed to have divined her thoughts, for his smile, upon receiving her halting thanks, had not been without a touch of malicious amusement. on the other hand, all her little efforts to beautify the little house and make it more livable met with his enthusiastic approval and support. he was as delighted as a child with everything she did, and often, when baffled for the moment by some lack of material for carrying out some proposed scheme, he came to the rescue with an ingenious suggestion which solved the vexed problem at once. and so, gradually, to the no small wonder of her neighbor, mrs. sharp, the shack began to take on an air of homely brightness and comfort which that lady's more pretentious place lacked, even after a residence of thirteen years. curtains tied back with gay ribands, taken from an old hat and refurbished, appeared at the windows; the old tin syrup cans, pasted over with dark green paper, were made to disgorge their mouldy stores and transform themselves into flower-pots holding scarlet geraniums; even the disreputable, rakish old rocking chair assumed a belated air of youth and respectability, wearing as it did a cushion of discreetly patterned chintz; and the packing-box table hid its deficiencies under a simple cloth. all these magic transformations nora had achieved with various odds and ends which she found in her trunk. not to be outdone, frank had contributed a well-made shelf to hold nora's precious books and a sort of cupboard for her sewing basket and, for the crowning touch, had with much labor contrived some rough chairs to take the place of the packing-box affairs of unpleasant memory. as has been said, mrs. sharp came, saw and wondered; but she had her own theory, all the same, which she confided to her husband. all these little but significant changes, the result of their co-operative effort, had not been the work of days, but of weeks. by the time they had all been accomplished, the winter was practically over and spring was at hand. looking back on it, it seemed impossibly short, although there had been times, in spite of her manifold occupations, when it had seemed to nora that it was longer than any winter she had ever known. she looked forward to the coming spring with both pleasure and dread. through many a dark winter day she had pictured to herself how beautiful the prairie must be, clad in all the verdant livery of the most wonderful of the seasons. and yet it would mean a new solitude and loneliness to her, her husband, of necessity, being away through all the long daylight hours. she began to understand gertie's dread of having no one to speak to. she avoided asking herself the question as to whether it was loneliness in general or the particular loneliness of missing her husband that she dreaded. but she was obliged to admit to herself that the winter had wrought more transformations than were to be seen in the little shack. chapter xv it had all come about so subtilely and gradually that she was almost unaware of it herself, this inward change _in_ herself. nora had by nature a quick and active mind, but she had also many inherited prejudices. it is a truism that it is much harder to unlearn than to learn, and for her it was harder, in the circumstances, than for the average person. not that she was more set in her ways than other people, but that she had accepted from her childhood a definite set of ideas as to the proper conduct of life; a code, in other words, from which she had never conceived it possible to depart. people did certain things, or they did not; you played the game according to certain prescribed rules, or you didn't play it with decent people, that was all there was to it. one might as well argue that there was no difference between right and wrong as to say that this was not so. of course there were plenty of people on the face of the earth who thought otherwise, such as chinese, aborigines, turks, and all sorts of unpleasant natives of uncivilized countries--nora lumped them together without discrimination or remorse--but no one planned to pass their lives among them. and as for the sentiment that trotter had enunciated one day at her brother's, that canada was a country where everybody was as good as everybody else, that was, of course, utter nonsense. it was because the country was raw and new that such silly notions prevailed. no society could exist an hour founded upon any such theory. and yet, here she was living with a man on terms of equality whom, when measured up with the standards she was accustomed to, failed impossibly. and yet, did he? that is, did he, in the larger sense? that he was woefully deficient in all the little niceties of life, that he was illiterate and ignorant could not be denied. but he was no man's fool, and, as far as his light shone, he certainly lived up to it. that was just it. he had a standard of his own. she compared him with her brother, and with other men she had known and respected. was he less honest? less brave? less independent? less scrupulous in his dealings with his fellowmen? to all these questions she was obliged to answer "no." and he was proud, too, and ambitious; ambitious to carve out a fortune with his own hands, beholden to neither man nor circumstances for the achievement. certainly there was much that was fine about him. and, as far as his treatment of herself was concerned, after that first terrible struggle for mastery, she had had nothing to complain of. he had been patient with her ignorance and her lack of capabilities in all the things that the women in this new life were so proficient in. did she not, perhaps, fall as far below _his_ standard as he did before hers? there was certainly something to be said on both sides. there was one quality which he possessed to which she paid ungrudging tribute; never had she met a man so free from all petty pretense. he regretted his lack of opportunities for educating himself, but it apparently never entered his head to pretend a knowledge of even the simplest subject which he did not possess. the questions that he asked her from time to time about matters which almost any schoolboy in england could have answered, both touched and embarrassed her. at first she had found the evenings the most trying part of the day. when not taken up with her household cares, she found herself becoming absurdly self-conscious in his society. they were neither of them naturally silent people, and it was difficult not to have the air of "talking down" to him, of palpably making conversation. beyond the people at her brother's and the sharps, they had not a single acquaintance in common. her horizon, hitherto, had been, bounded by england, his by canada. finally, acting on the suggestion he had made, but never again referred to, the unforgettable day when they were leaving for winnipeg, she began reading aloud evenings while he worked on his new chairs. the experiment was a great success. her little library was limited in range; a few standard works and a number of books on travel and some of history. she soon found that history was what he most enjoyed. things that were a commonplace to her were revealed to him for the first time. and his comments were keen and intelligent, although his point of view was strikingly novel and at the opposite pole from hers. to be sure, she had been accustomed to accepting history merely as a more or less accurate record of bygone events without philosophizing upon it. but to him it was one long chronicle of wrong and oppression. he pronounced the dead and gone sovereigns of england a bad lot and cowardly almost without exception; not apparently objecting to them on the ground that they were kings, as she had at first thought, but because they attained their ends, mostly selfish, through cruelty and oppression, without any regard for humane rights. it was the same way with books of travel. the chateaus and castles, with all their atmosphere of story and romance which she had always longed to visit, interested him not a jot. in his opinion they were, one and all, bloody monuments of greed and selfishness; the sooner they were razed to the ground and forgotten, the better for the world. it was useless to make an appeal for them on artistic grounds; art to him was a doubly sealed book, and yet he frequently disclosed an innate love of beauty in his appreciation of the changing panorama of the winter landscape which stretched on every side before their eyes. it was a picture which had an inexhaustible fascination for nora herself, although there were times when the isolation, and above all the unbroken stillness got badly on her nerves. but she could not rid herself of an almost superstitious feeling that the prairie had a lesson to teach her. twice they went in to prentice. with these exceptions, she saw no one but her husband and mr. and mrs. sharp. but it was, strangely enough, from mrs. sharp that she drew the most illumination as to the real meaning of this strange new life. not that mrs. sharp was in the least subtle, quite the contrary. she was as hard-headed, practical a person as one could well imagine. but her natural powers of adaptability must have been unusually great. from a small shop in one of the outlying suburbs of london, with its circumscribed outlook, moral as well as physical, to the limitless horizon of the prairie was indeed a far cry. how much inward readjustment such a violent transplanting must require, nora had sufficient imagination to fully appreciate. but if mrs. sharp, herself, were conscious of having not only survived her uprooting but of having triumphantly grown and thrived in this alien soil, she gave no sign of it. everything, to employ her own favorite phrase with which she breached over inexplicable chasms, "was all in a lifetime." as she had a deeply rooted distaste for any form of exercise beyond that which was required in the day's work, most of the visiting between them devolved upon nora. to her the distance that separated the two houses was nothing, and as she had from the first taken a genuine liking to her neighbor she found herself going over to the sharps' several times a week. when, as was natural at first, she felt discouraged over her little domestic failures, she found these neighborly visits a great tonic. mrs. sharp was always ready to give advice when appealed to. and unlike gertie, she never expressed astonishment at her visitor's ignorance, or impatience with her shortcomings. these became more and more infrequent. nora made up for her total lack of experience by an intelligent willingness to be taught. there was a certain stimulation in the thought that she was learning to manage her own house, that would have been lacking while at her brother's even if gertie had displayed a more agreeable willingness to impart her own knowledge. nora had always been fond of children, and she found the sharp children unusually interesting. it was curious to see how widely the ideas of this, the first generation born in the new country, differed, not only from those of their parents, but from what they must have inevitably been if they had remained in the environment that would have been theirs had they been born and brought up back in england. all of their dreams as to what they were going to do when they grew to manhood were colored and shaped by the outdoor life they had been accustomed to. they were to be farmers and cattle raisers on a large scale. mrs. sharp used to shake her head sometimes as she heard these grandiloquent plans, but nora could see that she was secretly both proud and pleased. after all, why should not these dreams be realized? everything was possible to the children of this new and wonderful country, if they were only industrious and ambitious. "i don't know, i'm sure, what their poor dear grandfather would have said if he had lived to hear them," she used to say sometimes to nora. "_he_ used to think that there was nothing so genteel as having a good shop. he quite looked down on farming folk. still, everything is different out here, ideas as well as everything else, and i'm not at all sure they won't be better off in the end." in which notion nora secretly agreed with her. to picture these healthy, sturdy, outdoor youngsters confined to a little dingy shop such as their mother had been used to in her own childhood was impossible, as she recalled to her mind the pale, anemic-looking little souls she had occasionally seen during her stay in london. was not any personal sacrifice worth seeing one's children grow up so strong and healthy, so manly and independent? this, then, was the true inwardness of it all; the thing that dignified and ennobled this life of toil and hardship, deprived of almost all the things which she had always regarded as necessary, that the welfare, prosperity and happiness of generations yet to come might be reared on this foundation laid by self-denial and deprivation. she felt almost humbled in the presence of this simple, unpretentious, kindly woman who had borne so much without complaint that her children might have wider opportunities for usefulness and happiness than she had ever known. not that mrs. sharp, herself, seemed to think that she was doing anything remarkable. she took it all as a matter of course. it was only when something brought up the subject of the difficulties of learning to do without this or that, that she alluded to the days when she also was inexperienced and had had to learn for herself without anyone to advise or help her. miles away from any help other than her husband could give her, she had borne six children and buried one. and although the days of their worst poverty seemed safely behind them, they had been able to save but little, so that they still felt themselves at the mercies of the changing seasons. given one or two good years to harvest their crops, they might indeed consider themselves almost beyond the danger point. but with seven mouths to feed, one could not afford to lose a single crop. with her head teeming with all the new ideas that mrs. sharp's experiences furnished, nora felt that the time was by no means as wasted as she had once thought it would be. there was no reason, after all, that she should sink to the level of a mere domestic drudge. and if this part of her life was not to endure forever, it would not have been entirely barren, since it furnished her with much new material to ponder over. after all, was it really more narrow than her life at tunbridge wells? in her heart, she acknowledged that it was not. to frank, also, the winter brought a broader outlook. he had looked upon nora's little refinements of speech and delicate point of view, when he had first known her at her brother's, as finicky, to say the least. all women had fool notions about most things; this one seemed to have more than the average share, that was all. he secretly shared gertie's opinion that women the world over were all alike in the essentials. he had always been of the opinion that nora had good stuff in her which would come out once she had been licked into shape. yet he found himself not only learning to admire her for those same niceties but found himself unconsciously imitating her mannerisms of speech. then, too, after they began the habit of reading in the evenings, he found that she had no intention of ridiculing his ignorance and lack of knowledge in matters on which she seemed to him to be wonderfully informed. that they did not by any means always agree in the conclusions they arrived at, in place of irritating him, as he would have thought, he found only stimulating to his imagination. to attack and try to undermine her position, as long as their arguments were conducted with perfect good nature on either side, as they always were, diverted him greatly. and he was secretly pleased when she defended herself with a skill and address that defeated his purpose. all the little improvements in the shack were a source of never-ending pride and pleasure to him. often when at work he found himself proudly comparing his place with its newly added prettiness with the more gaudy ornaments of mrs. sharp's or even with gertie's more pretentious abode. and it was not altogether the pride of ownership that made them suffer in the comparison. looking back on the days before nora's advent seemed like a horrible nightmare from which he was thankful to have awakened. once in a while he indulged himself in speculating as to how it would feel to go back to the old shiftless, untidy days of his bachelorhood. but he rarely allowed himself to entertain the idea of her leaving, seriously. he was like a child, snuggly tucked in his warm bed who, listening to the howling of the wind outside, pictures himself exposed to its harshness in order to luxuriate the more in its warmth and comfort. but when, as sometimes happened, he could not close the door of his mind to the thought of how he should ever learn to live without her again, it brought an anguish that was physical as well as mental. once, looking up from her book, nora had surprised him sitting with closed eye, his face white and drawn with pain. her fright, and above all her pretty solicitude even after he had assuaged her fears by explaining that he occasionally suffered from an old strain which he had sustained a few years before while working in the lumber camps, tried his composure to the utmost. for days, the memory of the look in her eyes as she bent over him remained in his mind. but he was careful not to betray himself again. it was to prevent any repetition that he first resorted to working over something while she was reading. while doubly occupied with listening and working with his hands, he found that his mind was less apt to go off on a tangent and indulge in painful and profitless speculations. for, after all, as she had said, how could he prevent her going if her heart was set on it? that she had given no outward sign of being unhappy or discontented argued nothing. she was far too shrewd to spend her strength in unavailing effort. pride and ordinary prudence would counsel waiting for a more favorable opportunity than had yet been afforded her. she would not soon forget the lesson of the night he had beaten down her opposition and dragged her pride in the dust. and would she ever forgive it? that was a question that he asked himself almost daily without finding any answer. there was nothing in her manner to show that she harbored resentment or that she was brooding over plans for escaping from the bondage of her life. but women, in his experience, were deep, even cunning. once given a strong purpose, women like nora, pursued it to the end. women of this type were not easily diverted by side issues as men so often were. for weeks he lived in daily apprehension of ed's arrival. there was no one else she could turn to, and evoking his aid did not necessarily argue that she must submit again to gertie's grudging hospitality. ed might easily, unknown to his masterful better-half, furnish the funds to return to england. she had not written him that he knew of. as a matter of fact, she had not, but she might have given the letter to sid sharp to post on one of his not infrequent trips into prentice. it would only have been by chance that sid would speak of so trifling a matter. he was much too proud to question him. but as time went on and no ed appeared, he began, if not exactly to hope that, after all she was finding the life not unbearable, at least her leaving was a thing of the more or less remote future. he summoned all his philosophy to his aid. perhaps by the time she did make up her mind to quit him he would have acquired some little degree of resignation, or at least would not be caught as unprepared as he frankly confessed himself to be at the moment. the spring, which brought many new occupations, mostly out of doors, had passed, and summer was past its zenith. frank had worked untiringly from dawn to dark, so wearied that he frequently found it difficult to keep his eyes open until supper was over. but his enthusiasm never flagged. if everything went as well as he hoped, the additional quarter-section was assured. for some reason or other, possibly because he was beginning to feel a reaction after the hard work of the summer, nora fancied that his spirits were less high than usual. he talked less of the coveted land than was his custom. she, herself, had never, in all her healthy life, felt so glowing with health and strength. she, too, had worked hard, finding almost every day some new task to perform. but aside from the natural fatigue at night, which long hours of dreamless sleep entirely dissipated, she felt all the better for her new experiences. for one thing, her steady improvement in all the arts of the good housewife made her daily routine much easier as well as giving her much secret satisfaction. never in her life had she looked so well. the summer sun had given her a color which was most becoming. chapter xvi one afternoon, shortly after dinner, she had gone out to gather a nosegay of wild flowers to brighten her little living-room. she was busily engaged in arranging them in a pudding bowl, smiling to think that her hand had lost none of the cunning to which miss wickham had always paid grudging tribute, even if her improvised vase was of homely ware, when she heard her husband's step at the door. it was so unusual for him to return at this hour that for a moment she was almost startled. "_i_ didn't know you were about." "oh," he said easily, "i ain't got much to do to-day. i've been out with sid sharp and a man come over from prentice." "from prentice?" having arranged her flowers to her satisfaction, she stepped back to view the effect. at that moment her husband's eye fell on them. "say, what you got there?" "aren't they pretty? i picked them just now. they're so gay and cheerful." "very." but his tone had none of the enthusiasm with which he usually greeted her efforts to beautify the house. "a few flowers make the shack look more bright and cozy." he took in the room with a glance that approved of everything. "you've made it a real home, nora. mrs. sharp never stops talking of how you've done it. she was saying only the other day it was because you was a lady. it does make a difference, i guess, although i didn't use to think _so_." nora gave him a smile full of indulgence. "i'm glad you haven't found me quite a hopeless failure." "i guess i've never been so comfortable in all my life. it's what i always said: once english girls _do_ take to the life, they make a better job of it than anybody." "what's the man come over from prentice for?" asked nora. they were approaching a subject she always avoided. "i guess you ain't been terribly happy here, my girl," he said gravely, unmindful of her question. "what on earth makes you say that?" "you've got too good a memory, i guess, and you ain't ever forgiven me for that first night." it was the first time he had alluded to the subject for months. would he never understand that she wanted to forget it! he might know that it always irritated her. "i made up my mind very soon that i must accept the consequences of what i'd done. i've tried to fall in with your ways," she said coldly. "you was clever enough to see that i meant to be the master in my own house and that i had the strength to make myself so." how unlike his latter self this boastful speech was. but then he had been utterly unlike himself for several days. what did he mean? she knew him well enough by now to know that he never acted without meaning. but directness was one of his most admirable characteristics. it was unlike him to be devious, as he was being now. but if the winter had taught her anything, it had taught her patience. "i've cooked for you, mended your clothes, and i've kept the shack clean. i've tried to be obliging and--and obedient." the last word was not yet an easy one to pronounce. "i guess you hated me, though, sometimes." he gave a little chuckle. "no one likes being humiliated; and you humiliated me." "ed's coming here presently, my girl." "ed who?" "your brother ed." "eddie! when?" "why, right away, i guess. he was in prentice this morning." "how do you know?" "he 'phoned over to sharp to say he was riding out." "oh, how splendid! why didn't you tell me before?" "i didn't know about it." "is that why you asked me if i was happy? i couldn't make out what was the matter with you." "well, i guess i thought if you still wanted to quit, ed's coming would be kind of useful." nora sat down in one of the chairs and gave him a long level look. "what makes you think that i want to?" she said quietly. "you ain't been so very talkative these last months, but i guess it wasn't so hard to see sometimes that you'd have given pretty near anything in the world to quit." "i've no intention of going back to eddie's farm, if that's what you mean." to this he made no reply. still with the same grave air, he went over to the door and started out again, pausing a moment after he had crossed the threshold. "if ed comes before i get back, tell him i won't be long. i guess you won't be sorry to do a bit of yarning with him all by yourself." "you are not going away with the idea that i'm going to say beastly things to him about you, are you?" "no, i guess not. that ain't your sort. perhaps we don't know the best of one another yet, but i reckon we know the worst by this time." "frank!" she said sharply. "there's something the matter. what is it?" "why, no; there's nothing. why?" "you've not been yourself the last few days." "i guess that's only your imagination. well, i'd better be getting along. sid and the other fellow'll be waiting for me." without another look in her direction, he was gone, closing the door after him. nora remained quite still for several minutes, biting her lips and frowning in deep thought. it was all very well to say that there was nothing the matter, but there was. did he think she could live with him day after day all these months and not notice his change of mood, even if she could not translate it? he had still a great deal to learn about women! on the way over to the shelf to get her work, she paused a moment beside her flowers to cheer herself once more with their brightness. sitting down by the table, she began to darn one of her husband's thick woolen socks. an instant later she was startled by a loud knock on the door. with a little cry of pleasure she flung it open, to find eddie standing outside. she gave a cry of delight. somehow, the interval since she had seen him last, significant as it was in bringing to her the greatest change her life had known, seemed for the second longer than all the years she had spent in england without seeing him. "eddie! oh, my dear, i'm so glad to see you!" she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. "hulloa there," he said awkwardly. "but how did you come? i didn't hear any wheels." "look." he pointed over to the shed; she looked over his shoulder to see reggie hornby grinning at her from the seat of a wagon. "why, it's reggie hornby. reggie!" she called. reggie took off his broad hat with a flourish. "tell him he can put the horse in the lean-to." "all right. reg," called marsh, "give the old lady a feed and put her in the lean-to." "right-o!" "didn't you meet frank? he's only just this moment gone out." "no." "he'll be back presently. now, come in. oh, my dear, _it is_ splendid to see you!" "you're looking fine, nora." "have you had your dinner?" "sure. we got something to eat before we left prentice." "well, you'll have a cup of tea?" "no, i won't have any, thanks." "ah," laughed nora happily, "you're not a real canadian yet, if you refuse a cup of tea when it's offered you. but do sit down and make yourself comfortable," she said, fairly pushing him into a chair. "how are you getting along, nora?" his manner was still a little constrained. they were both thinking of their last parting. but she, being a woman, could carry it off better. "oh, never mind about me," she said gayly. "tell me all about yourself. how's gertie? and what has brought you to this part of the world? and what's reggie hornby doing here? and is thingamajig still with you; you know, the hired man?"--the word "other" almost slipped out.--"what _was_ his name, trotter, wasn't it? oh, my dear, don't sit there like a stuffed pig, but answer my questions, or i'll shake you." "my dear child, i can't answer fifteen questions all at once!" "oh, eddie, i'm so glad to see you! you are a perfect duck to come and see me." "now let me get a word in edgeways." "i won't utter another syllable. but, for goodness' sake, hurry up. i want to know all sorts of things." "well, the most important thing is that i'm expecting to be a happy father in three or four months." "oh, eddie, i'm so glad! how happy gertie must be." "she doesn't know what to make of it. but i guess she's pleased right enough. she sends you her love and says she hopes you'll follow her example very soon." "i?" said nora sharply. "but," she added with a return to her gay tone, "you've not told me what you're doing in this part of the world, anyway." "anyway?" nora blushed. "i've practically spoken to no one but frank for months; it's natural that i should fall into his way of speaking." "well, when i got frank's letter about the clearing-machine----" "frank has written to you?" "why, yes; didn't you know? he said there was a clearing-machine going cheap at prentice. i've always thought i could make money down our way if i had one. they say you can clear from three to four acres a day with one. frank thought it was worth my while to come and have a look at it and he said he guessed you'd be glad to see me." "how funny of him not to say anything to me about it," said nora, frowning once more. "i suppose he wanted to surprise you. and now for yourself; how do you like being a married woman?" "oh, all right. but you haven't answered half my questions yet. why has reggie hornby come with you?" "do you realize i've not seen you since before you were married?" "that's so; you haven't, have you?" "i've been a bit anxious about you. that's why, when frank wrote about the clearing-machine, i didn't stop to think about it, but just came." "it was awfully nice of you. but why has reggie hornby come?" "oh, he's going back to england." "is he?" "yes, he got them to send his passage money at last. his ship doesn't sail till next week, and he said he might just as well stop over here and say good-by to you." "how has he been getting on?" "how do you expect? he looks upon work as something that only damned fools do. where's frank?" "oh, he's out with sid sharp. sid's our neighbor. he has the farm you passed on your way here." "getting on all right with him, nora?" "why, of course," said nora with just a suggestion of irritation in her voice. "what's that boy doing all this time?" she asked, going over to the window and looking out. "he _is_ slow, isn't he?" but marsh was not a man whom it was easy to side-track. "it's a great change for you, this, after the sort of life you've been used to." "i was rather hoping you'd have some letters for me," said nora from the window. "i haven't had a letter for a long time." as a matter of fact she had no reason to expect any, not having answered miss pringle's last and having practically no other correspondent. but the speech was a happy one, in that it created the desired diversion. "there now!" said her brother with an air of comical consternation. "i've got a head like a sieve. two came by the last mail. i didn't forward them, because i was coming myself." "you don't mean to tell me you've forgotten them!" "no; here they are." nora took them with a show of eagerness. "they don't look very exciting," she said, glancing at them. "one's from agnes pringle, the lady's companion that i used to know at tunbridge wells, you remember. and the other's from mr. wynne." "who's he?" "oh, he was miss wickham's solicitor. he wrote to me once before to say he hoped i was getting on all right. i don't think i want to hear from people in england any more," she said in a low voice, more to herself than to him, tossing the letters on the table. "my dear, why do you say that?" "it's no good thinking of the past, is it?" "aren't you going to read your letters?" "not now; i'll read them when i'm alone." "don't mind me." "it's silly of me; but letters from england always make me cry." "nora! then you aren't happy here." "why shouldn't i be?" "then why haven't you written to me but once since you were married?" "i hadn't anything to say. and then," carrying the war into the enemy's quarter, "i'd been practically turned out of your house." "i don't know what to make of you. frank taylor's kind to you and all that sort of thing, isn't he?" "very. but don't cross-examine me, there's a dear." "when i asked you to come and make your home with me, i thought it mightn't be long before you married. but i didn't expect you to marry one of the hired men." "oh, my dear, please don't worry about me." nora was about at the end of her endurance. "it's all very fine to say that; but you've got no one in the world belonging to you except me." "don't, i tell you." "nora!" "now listen. we've never quarreled once since the first day i came here. now are you satisfied?" she said it bravely, but it was with a feeling of unspeakable relief that she saw reggie hornby at the door. she certainly had never before been so genuinely glad to see him. as she smilingly held out her hand, her eye took in his changed appearance. gone were the overalls and the flannel shirt, the heavy boots and broad belt. before her stood the reggie of former days in a well-cut suit of blue serge and spotless linen. she was surprised to find herself thinking, after all, men looked better in flannels. "i was wondering what on earth you were doing with yourself," she said gayly. "i say," he said, his eye taking in the bright little room, "this is a swell shack you've got." "i've tried to make it look pretty and homelike." "helloa, what's this!" said marsh, whose eye had fallen for the first time on the bowl of flowers. "aren't they pretty? i've only just picked them. they're mustard flowers." "we call them weeds. have you much of it?" "oh, yes; lots. why?" "oh, nothing." "eddie tells me you're going home." "yes," said reggie, seating himself and carefully pulling up his trousers. "i'm fed up for my part with god's own country. nature never intended me to be an agricultural laborer." "no? and what are you going to do now?" "loaf!" mr. hornby's tone expressed profound conviction. "won't you get bored?" smiled nora. "i'm never bored. it amuses me to watch other people do things. i should hate my fellow-creatures to be idle." "i should think one could do more with life than lounge around clubs and play cards with people who don't play as well as oneself." hornby gave her a quick ironic look. "i quite agree with you," he said with his most serious air. "i've been thinking things over very seriously this winter. i'm going to look out for a middle-aged widow with money who'll adopt me." "i recall that you have decided views about the white man's burden." "all i want is to get through life comfortably. i don't mean to do a stroke more work than i'm obliged to, and i'm going to have the very best time i can." "i'm sure you will," said nora, smiling. but her smile was a little mechanical. somehow she could no longer be genuinely amused at such sentiments which, in spite of his airy manner, she knew to be real. and yet, it was not so very long ago that she would have thought them perfectly natural in a man of his position. somehow, her old standards were not as fixed as she had thought them. "the moment i get back to london," continued hornby imperturbably, "i'm going to stand myself a bang-up dinner at the ritz. then i shall go and see some musical comedy at the gaiety, and after that, i'll have a slap-up supper at romano's. england, with all thy faults, i love thee still!" he finished piously. "i suppose it's being alone with the prairie all these months," said nora, more to herself than him; "but things that used to seem clever and funny--well, i see them altogether differently now." "i'm afraid you don't altogether approve of me," he said, quite unabashed. "i don't think you have much pluck," said nora, not unkindly. "oh, i don't know about that. i've as much as anyone else, i expect, only i don't make a fuss about it." "oh, pluck to stand up and let yourself be shot at."--she flushed slightly at the remembrance of frank standing in this very room in front of the gun in her hand. would she ever forget his laugh!--"but pluck to do the same monotonous thing day after day, plain, honest, hard work--you haven't got that sort of pluck. you're a failure and the worst of it is, you're not ashamed of it. it seems to fill you with self-satisfaction. oh, you're incorrigible," she ended with a laugh. "i am; let's let it go at that. i suppose there's nothing you want me to take home; i shall be going down to tunbridge wells to see mother. got any messages?" "i don't know that i have. eddie has just brought me a couple of letters. i'll have a look at them first." she went over to the table and picked up miss pringle's letter and opened it. after reading a few lines, she gave a little cry. "oh!" "what's the matter?" asked marsh. "what _can_ she mean? listen! 'i've just heard from mr. wynne about your good luck and i'm glad to say i have another piece of good news for you.'" dropping the letter, she tore open the other. it contained a check. she gave it a quick glance. "a check for five hundred pounds! oh, eddie, listen." she read from mr. wynne's letter: "'dear miss marsh--i have had several interviews with mr. wickham in relation to the late miss wickham's estate, and i ventured to represent to him that you had been very badly treated. now that everything is settled, he wishes me to send you the enclosed check as some recognition of your devoted services to his late aunt--five hundred pounds." "that's a very respectable sum," said marsh, nodding his head sagely. "i could do with that myself," remarked hornby. "i've never had so much money in all my life!" "but what's the other piece of good news that miss stick-in-the-mud has for you?" "oh, i quite forgot. where is it?" her brother stooped and picked the fallen letter from the floor. "thank you. um-um-um-um-um. oh, yes, 'piece of good news for you. i write at once so that you may make your plans accordingly. i told you in my last letter, did i not, of my sister-in-law's sudden death? now my brother is very anxious that i should make my home with him. so i am leaving mrs. hubbard. she wishes me to say that if you care to have my place as her companion, she will be very pleased to have you. i have been with her for thirteen years and she has always treated me like an equal. she is very considerate and there is practically nothing to do but to exercise the dear little dogs. the salary is thirty-five pounds a year.'" "but," said marsh, looking at the envelope in his hand, "the letter is addressed to miss marsh. i'd intended to ask you about that; don't they know you're married?" "no. i haven't told them." "what a lark!" said reggie, slapping his knee. "you could go back to tunbridge wells, and none of the old frumps would ever know you'd been married at all." "why, so i could!" said nora in a breathless tone. she gave hornby a strange look and turned toward the window to hide the fact that she had flushed to the roots of her hair. her brother gave her a long look. "just clear out for a minute, reg. i want to talk with nora." "right-o!" he disappeared in the direction of the shed. "nora, do you _want_ to clear out?" "what on earth makes you think that i do?" "you gave reg such a look when he mentioned it." "i'm only bewildered. tell me, did frank know anything about this?" "my dear, how could he?" "it's most extraordinary; he was talking about my going away only a moment before you came." "about your going away? but why?" she realized that she had betrayed herself and kept silent. "nora, for goodness' sake tell me if there's anything the matter. can't you see it's now or never? you're keeping something back from me. i could see it all along, ever since i came. aren't you two getting on well together?" "not very," she said in a low, shamed tone. "why in heaven's name didn't you let me know." "i was ashamed." "but you just now said he was kind to you." "i have nothing to reproach him with." "i tell you i felt there was something wrong. i knew you couldn't be happy with him. a girl like you, with your education and refinement, and a man like him--a hired man! oh, the whole thing would have been ridiculous if it weren't horrible. not that he's not a good fellow and as straight as they make them, but---- well, thank god, i'm here and you've got this chance." "eddie, what do you mean?" "you're not fit for this life. i mean you've got your chance to go back home to england. for god's sake, take it! in six months' time, all you've gone through here will seem nothing but a hideous dream." the expression of her face was so extraordinary, such a combination of fear, bewilderment, and something that was far deeper than dismay, that he stared at her for a moment without speaking. "nora, what's the matter!" "i don't know," she said hoarsely. but she did, she did. at his words, the picture of the little shack--her home now--as it had looked the first time she saw it in all its comfortlessness, its untidy squalor, rose before her eyes. and she saw a lonely man clumsily busying himself about the preparation of an illy-cooked meal, and later sitting smoking in the desolate silence. she saw him go forth to his daily toil with all the lightness gone from his step, to return at nightfall, with a heaviness born of more than mere physical fatigue, to the same bleak bareness. and she saw herself, back at tunbridge wells. no longer the mistress, but the underpaid underling. eating once more off fine old china, at a table sparkling with silver and glass. but the bread was bitter, the bread of the dependent. and she came and went at another's bidding, and the yoke was not easy. she trod once more, round and round, in that little circle which she knew so well. she used to think that the walls would stifle her. how much more would they not stifle her now that she had known this larger freedom? "i say," said reggie's voice from the doorway, "here's someone coming to see you." chapter xvii it was mrs. sharp, making her laborious way slowly up the path. "why," said nora, in a low voice, "it's mrs. sharp, the wife of our neighbor. whatever brings her here on foot! she never walks a step if she can help it." "good afternoon, mrs. sharp," she called. mrs. sharp had apparently come on some sudden impulse. usually, well as they knew each other by this time, she always made more or less of a toilet before having her husband drive her over. but to-day she had evidently come directly from her work. she wore a battered old skirt and a faded shirt-waist, none too clean. on her head was an old sunbonnet, the strings of which were tied in a hard knot under her fat chin. "come right in," said nora cordially. "you _do_ look warm." "good afternoon to you, mrs. taylor. yes, i'm all in a perspiration. i've not walked so far--well, goodness alone knows when!" "this is my brother," said nora, presenting eddie. "your brother? is _that_ who it is!" "why, you seem surprised." mrs. sharp forbore any explanation for the moment. sinking heavily into the rocking chair, she accepted with a grateful nod the fan that nora offered her. there was nothing to do but to give her time to recover her breath. nora and eddie sat down and waited. "i was so anxious," mrs. sharp at length managed to say, still panting--whether with exhaustion or emotion, nora could not tell--between her sentences, "i simply couldn't stay indoors--another minute. i went out to see if i--could catch a sight of sid. and i walked on, and on. and then i saw the rig what's--outside. and it gave me such a _turn_! i thought it was the inspector. i just had to come--i was that nervous----!" "but why? is anything the matter?" asked nora, completely puzzled. "you're not going to tell me you don't _know_ about it? when sid and frank haven't been talking about anything else since frank found it?" "found it? found what?" "the weed," said mrs. sharp simply. "you've got it then," said marsh, with a slight gesture of his head toward the table where nora's flowers made a bright spot of color. "it's worse here, at taylor's. but we've got it, too." "what does she mean?" nora addressed herself to eddie, abandoning all hope of getting anything out of her friend. "we can't make out who reported us. it isn't as if we had any enemies," went on mrs. sharp gloomily, as if nora wasn't present, or at least hadn't spoken. "it isn't as if we had any enemies," she repeated. "goodness knows we've never done anything to anybody." "oh, there's always someone to report you. after all, it's not to be wondered at. no one's going to run the risk of letting it get on his own land." "and she has them in the house as if they were flowers!" exclaimed mrs. sharp, addressing the ceiling. "eddie, i insist that you tell me what you two are talking about," demanded nora hotly. "my dear," said her brother, "these pretty little flowers which you've picked to make your shack look bright and--and homelike, may mean ruin." "eddie!" "you must have heard--why, i remember telling you about it myself--about this mustard, this weed. we farmers in canada have three enemies to fight: frost, hail and weed." mrs. sharp confirmed his words with a despairing nod of her head. "we was hailed out last year," she said. "lost our whole crop. never got a dollar for it. and now! if we lose it this year, too--why, we might just as well quit and be done with it." "when it gets into your crop," marsh explain for nora's benefit, "you've got to report it. if you don't, one of the neighbors is sure to. and then they send an inspector along, and if _he_ condemns it, why you just have to destroy the whole crop, and all your year's work goes for nothing. you're lucky, in that case, if you've got a bit of money laid by in the bank and can go on till next year when the next crop comes along." "we've only got a quarter-section and we've got five children. it's not much money you can save then." "but----" began nora. "are they out with the inspector now?" asked marsh. "yes. he came out from prentice this morning early." "this will be a bad job for frank." "yes, but he hasn't got the mouths to feed that we have. i can't think what's to become of us. he can hire out again." nora's face flushed. "i--i wonder why he hasn't told me anything about it. i asked him, only this morning, what was troubling him. i was sure there was something, but he said not," she said sadly. "oh, i guess he's always been in the habit of keeping his troubles to himself, and you haven't taught him different yet." nora was about to make a sharp retort, but realizing that her good neighbor was half beside herself with anxiety and nervousness, she said nothing. a fact which the unobservant eddie noted with approval. "well," he said as cheerfully as he could, "you must hope for the best, mrs. sharp." "sid says we've only got it in one place. but perhaps he's only saying it, so as i shouldn't worry. but you know what them inspectors are; they don't lose nothin' by it. it don't matter to _them_ if you starve all winter!" suddenly she began to cry. great sobs wracked her heavy frame. the big tears rolled down her cheeks. nora had never seen her give way before, even when she talked of the early hardships she had endured, or of the little one she had lost. she was greatly moved, for this good, brave woman who had already suffered so much. "oh, don't--don't cry, dear mrs. sharp. after all, it may all turn out right." "they won't condemn the whole crop unless it's very bad, you know," marsh reminded her. "too many people have got their eyes on it; the machine agent and the loan company." mrs. sharp had regained her self-control in sufficient measure to permit of her speaking. she still kept making little dabs at her eyes with a red bandanna handkerchief, and her voice broke occasionally. "what with the hail that comes and hails you out, and the frost that kills your crop just when you're beginning to count on it, and now the weed!" she had to stop again for a moment. "i can't bear any more. if we lose this crop, i won't go on. i'll make sid sell out, and we'll go back home. we'll take a little shop somewhere. that's what i wanted to do from the beginning. but sid--sid always had his heart set on farming." "but you couldn't go back now," said nora, her face aglow, "you couldn't. you never could be happy or contented in a little shop after the life you've had out here. and think; if you'd stayed back in england, you'd have always been at the beck and call of somebody else. and you own your land. you couldn't do that back in england. every time you come out of your door and look at the growing wheat, aren't you proud to think that it's all yours? i know you are. i've seen it in your face." "you don't know all that i've had to put up with. when the children came, only once did i have a doctor. all the rest of the times, sid was all the help i had. i might as well have been an animal! i wish i'd never left home and come to this country, that i do!" "how can you say that? look at your children, how strong and healthy they are. and think what a future they will have. why, they'll be able to help you both in your work soon. you've given them a chance; they'd never have had a chance back home. you know that." "oh, it's all very well for them. they'll have it easy, i know that. easier than their poor father and mother ever had. but we've had to pay for it all in advance, sid and me. they'll never know what we paid." "ah, but don't you see that it is because you were the first?" said nora, going over to her and laying a friendly hand upon her arm. mrs. sharp was, of course, too preoccupied with her own troubles to realize, even if she had known that the question of nora's return to england had come up, that her friend was doing some special pleading for herself, against herself. but to her brother, who years before had in a lesser degree gone through the same searching experience, the cause of her warmth was clear. he nodded his approval. "it's bitter work, opening up a new country, i realize that," nora went on, her eyes dark with earnestness. unknown to herself, she had a larger audience, for hornby and frank stood silently in the open door. marsh saw them, and shook his head slightly. he wanted nora to finish. "what if it is the others who reap the harvest? don't you really believe that those who break the ground are rewarded in a way that the later comers never dream of? i do." "she's right there," broke in marsh. "i shall never forget, mrs. sharp, what i felt when i saw my first crop spring up--the thought that never since the world began had wheat grown on that little bit of ground before. oh, it was wonderful! i wouldn't go back to england now, to live, for anything in the world. i couldn't breathe." "you're a man. you have the best of it, and all the credit." "not with everyone," said nora. she fell on her knees beside the elder woman's chair and stroked her work-roughened old hand. "the outsiders don't know. you mustn't blame them, how could they? it's only those who've lived on the prairie who _could_ know that the chief burden of the hardships of opening up a new country falls upon the women. but the men who are the husbands, they know, and in their hearts they give us all credit." "i guess they do, mrs. sharp," said marsh earnestly. mrs. sharp smiled gratefully on nora through her tears. "thank you for speaking so kindly to me, my dear. i know that you are right in every blessed thing you've said. you must excuse me for being a bit downhearted for the moment. the fact is, i'm that nervous that i hardly know _what_ i'm saying. but you've done me no end of good." "that's right." nora got slowly to her feet. "sid and frank will be here in a minute or two, i am sure." "and you're perfectly right, both of you," mrs. sharp repeated. "i couldn't go back and live in england again. if we lose our crop, well, we must hang on some way till next year. we shan't starve, exactly. a person's got to take the rough with the smooth; and take it by and large, it's a good country." "ah, now you're talking more like yourself, the self that used to cheer me up when----" turning, she saw her husband standing in the doorway. "frank!" he was looking at her with quite a new expression. how long had he been there? had he heard all she had been saying to mrs. sharp, carried away by the emotion aroused by the secret conflict within her own heart? she both hoped and feared that he had. "where's sid?" said mrs. sharp, starting to her feet. "why, he's up at your place. hulloa, ed. saw you coming along in the rig earlier in the morning. but i was surprised to find reg here. didn't recognize him so far away in his store clothes." "must have been a pleasant surprise for you," said hornby with conviction. "what's happened? tell me what's happened." "mrs. sharp came on here because she was too anxious to stay at home," nora explained. "oh, you're all right." "we are?" mrs. sharp gave a sobbing gasp of relief. "only a few acres got to go. that won't hurt you." "thank god for that! and it's goin' to be the best crop we ever had. it's the finest country in the world!" her face was beaming. "you'd better be getting back," warned taylor. "sid's taken the inspector up to give him some dinner." "he hasn't!" said mrs. sharp indignantly. "if that isn't just like a man." she made a gesture condemning the sex. "it's a mercy there's plenty in the house. but i must be getting along right away," she bustled. "but you mustn't think of walking all that way back in the hot sun," expostulated nora. "there's eddie's rig. reggie, here, will drive you over." "oh, thank you, kindly. i'm not used to walking very much, you know, and i'd be all tuckered out by the time i got back home. good-by, all. good afternoon, mrs. taylor." "good afternoon. reggie, you won't mind driving mrs. sharp back. it's only just a little over a mile." "not a bit of it," said hornby good-naturedly. "i'll come and help you put the mare in," said marsh, starting to follow hornby and mrs. sharp down the path. "i guess it's a relief to you, now you know," he called back to his brother-in-law. "terrible. i want to have a talk with you presently, ed. i'll go on out with him, i guess," he said, turning to his wife. she nodded silently. she was grateful to him for leaving her alone for a time. they would have much to say to each other a little later. "hold on, ed, i'm coming." "right you are!" he ran lightly down the path where his brother-in-law stood waiting for him. she stood for a long moment looking down at the innocent-looking little blossoms on her table. and they could cause such heartbreak and desolation, ranking, as engines of destruction, with the frost and the hail! could make such seasoned and tried women as mrs. sharp weep and bring the gray look of apprehension into the eyes of a man like her husband. those innocent-looking little flowers! what must he have felt as he saw her arranging them so light-heartedly in her pudding-dish that morning. and yet, rather than mar her pleasure, he had choked back the impulse to speak. yes, that was like him. for a moment they blurred as she looked at them. she checked her inclination to throw them into the stove, to burn them to ashes so that they could work their evil spells no more. later on, she would do so. but she wanted them there until he returned. she looked about the little room. yes, it _was_ pretty and homelike, deserving all the nice things people said about it. and what a real pleasure she had had in transforming it, from the dreadful little place it was when she first saw it, into what it was now. not that she could ever have worked the miracle alone. she smiled sadly to herself. how all her thoughts, like homing pigeons, had the one goal! and how proud he was of it all. with what delighted, almost childlike interest, he had watched each little change. and how he had acquiesced in every suggestion and helped her to plan and carry out the things she could not have done alone. she lived again those long winter evenings when, snug and warm, the grim cruelty of the storms shut out, she had read aloud to him while he worked on making the chairs. how long would it keep its prettiness with no woman's eye to keep its jealous watch on it? the process of reversion to its old desolation would be gradual. the curtains, the bright ribands, the cushions would slowly become soiled and faded. and there would be no one here to renew them. for a moment, the thought of asking mrs. sharp to look after them came into her mind. but, no. she certainly had enough to do. and, besides--the thought thrilled her with delight--_he_ would not like having anyone else to touch them! and she? she would be back in that old life where such simple little things were a commonplace, a matter of course. and what interest would they be to her? she could see herself ripping the ribands from an old hat to tie back curtains for mrs. hubbard! certainly that excellent lady would be astonished if she suggested doing anything of the sort, and small wonder. she hired the proper people to keep her house in order just as she was going to hire her. she found it in her heart to be sorry for mrs. hubbard. she had always had her money. the joy of these little miracles of contrivance had never been hers. she had bought her home. she had never, in all her pampered life, made one. home! what a desolating word it could be to the homeless. she knew. since her far-off childhood, she had never called a place 'home' till now. and just as the word began to take on a new meaning, she was going to leave it! had anyone told her a few short months ago, on the night that she had first seen what she had inwardly called a hovel, that she would ever leave it with any faintest feeling of regret, she would have called him mad. regret! why the thought of leaving tore her very heartstrings. what if it had been only a few short months that had passed since then? one's life is not measured by the ticking of a clock, but by emotion and feeling. she had crowded more emotion into these few short months than in all the rest of her dull, uneventful life put together. fear, terror, hatred, murderous rage, bitter humiliation, she had felt them all within the small compass of these four walls. and greatest of all--why try to deceive her own heart any longer--here she had known love. she had fought off the acknowledgment of this the crowning experience and humiliation as long as she could. she had called on her pride, that pride which had never before failed her. and now, to herself, she had to acknowledge that she was beaten. they were all against her. her own brother had spoken, only a few moments ago, of her marriage as horrible. "a girl like you and a hired man!" she could hear him now. and _he_ had spoken of her leaving as a matter of course. he couldn't have done it if he had cared. he liked the comforts that a woman brings to a house, the little touches that no man's hand can give, that a woman, even as unskillful as she, brings about instinctively, that was all. almost any other woman could do as well. he did not prize her for herself. and she would go back to england and, as hornby had gleefully said, no one need ever know. she would have a place, on sufferance, in other people's homes. the only change that the year would have made in her life would be that the check in her pocket, safely invested, might save her eventually, when she was too old to serve as a companion, from being dependant on actual charity. and to all outward intents and purposes, the year would be as if it had never been. "in six months, all you've gone through here will seem nothing but a hideous dream," her brother had promised her. was there ever a man since the world began that understood a woman! a dream! the only time in her life that she had really lived. no, all the rest of her life might be of the stuff that dreams are made on, but not this. and like a sleep-walker, dead to all sensation, she must go through with it. and she was not yet thirty. all of her father's family--and she was physically the daughter of her father, not of her mother--lived to such a great age. in all human probability there would be at least fifty years of life left to her. fifty years with all that made life worth living behind one! she supposed he would eventually get a divorce. she remembered to have heard that such things were easy out here, not like it was in england. and he was a man who would be sure to marry again, he would want a family. and it was some other woman who would be the mother of his children! the wave of passion that swept her now, made up of bitter regret, of longing and of jealousy, overwhelmed her as never before. she had been pacing the room up and down, up and down, stopping now and then to touch some little familiar object with a touch that was a caress. but at this last thought, she sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. the storm of weeping which shook her had nearly spent itself, when she heard steps coming toward the house, a step that her heart had known for many a day. drying her eyes quickly, she went to the window and made a pretense of looking out that he might not see her tear-stained face. she made a last call on her pride and strength to carry her through the coming interview. he should never know what leaving cost her; that she promised herself. chapter xviii "ed drove over with reg and emma; i guess he won't be very long. there was something he wanted to say to old man sharp that he'd forgot about." "then you didn't get your talk with him?" she was glad of that. it was better to have their own talk first. but as it had been _he_ who had broached the subject of her leaving, it was he who must reopen it. "no, but i guess anything i've got to say to him will keep till he gets back. ed's thinking of buying a clearing-machine that's for sale over prentice way." "yes, he told me." without turning her head, she could tell that he was looking around for the matches. he never could remember that they were kept in a jar over on the shelf back of the stove. he was going to smoke his pipe, of course. when men were nervous about anything they always flew to tobacco. women were denied that poor consolation. but she, too, felt the necessity of having something to occupy her hands. she went back to the table, and taking some of frank's thick woolen socks from her basket, sat down and began mechanically to darn them. she purposely placed herself so that he could only see her profile. even then, he would see that her eyes were still red; she hadn't had time to bathe them. "i suppose i look a sight, but poor mrs. sharp was so upset! she broke down and cried and of course i've been crying, too. i'm so thankful it's turned out all right for her. poor thing, i never saw her in such a state!" "they've got five children to feed. i guess it would make a powerful lot of difference to them," he said quietly. "i wish you'd told me all about it before. i felt that something was worrying you, and i didn't know what." there was a pause. "why _didn't_ you tell me?" "if i saved the crop, there didn't seem any use fussing, and if i didn't, you'd know soon enough." "how could you bear to let me put those dreadful flowers here in the house?" she said, pointing to the bowl on the table. "oh, i guess i didn't mind, if it gave you any pleasure. you didn't know they was only a weed and a poisonous one for us farmers. you thought them darned pretty." "that was very kind of you, frank," said nora. her voice shook a little in spite of her effort to control it. "i guess it's queer that a darned little flower like that should be able to do so much damage." that subject exhausted, there came another pause. he was very evidently waiting her lead. could eddie have told him anything about the news from england? no, he hadn't had any opportunity. besides it would have been very unlike eddie, who, as a general rule, had a supreme talent for minding his own affairs. "how did it happen that you didn't tell me that you had written to eddie?" "i guess i forgot." she waited a few moments to make sure that her voice was quite steady: "frank, eddie brought me some letters from home--from england, i mean--to-day. i've had an offer of a job back in england." he got up slowly and went over to the corner where the broom hung to get some straws to run through the mouthpiece of his pipe. his face was turned from her, so that she could not see that he had closed his eyes for a moment and that his mouth was drawn with pain. when he turned he had resumed his ordinary expression. his voice was perfectly steady when he spoke: "an offer of a job? gee! i guess you'll jump at that." "it's funny it should have come just when you had been talking of my going away." "very." not even a comment. oh, why didn't he say that he would be glad to have her gone, and be done with it! anything, almost, would be easier to bear than this total lack of interest. she tried another tack. "have you any--any objection?" "i guess it wouldn't make a powerful lot of difference to you if i had." he could actually smile, his good-natured, indulgent smile, which she knew so well. "what makes you think that?" "oh, i guess you only stayed on here because you had to." nora's work dropped in her lap. "is life always like that?" she said with bitter sadness. "the things you've wanted so dreadfully seem only to bring you pain when they come." he gave her a swift glance, but went on smoking quietly. she went over to the window again and stood looking out at the stretch of prairie. presently she spoke in a low voice, but her words were addressed as much to herself as to him: "month after month, this winter, i used to sit here looking out at the prairie. sometimes i wanted to scream at the top of my voice. i felt that i must break that awful silence or go mad. there were times when the shack was like a prison. i thought i should never escape. i was hemmed in by the snow and the cold and the stillness; cut off from everything and everybody, from all that had been the world i knew." "are you going to quit right now with ed?" he asked gently. nora went slowly back to her chair. "you seem in a great hurry to be rid of me," she said, with the flicker of a smile. "well, i guess we ain't made a great success of our married life, my girl." he went over to the stove to knock the ashes from his pipe. "it's rum, when you come to figure it out," he said, when it was once more lighted; "i thought i could make you do everything i wanted, just because i was bigger and stronger. it sure did look like i held a straight flush. and you beat me." "i?" said nora in astonishment. "why, sure. you don't mean to say you didn't know _that_?" "i don't know at all what you mean." "i guess i was pretty ignorant about women," his began pacing up and down the floor as he talked. "i guess i didn't know how strong a woman could be. you was always givin' way; you done everything i told you. and, all the time, you was keeping something back from me that i couldn't get at. whenever i thought i was goin' to put my hand on you--zip! you was away again. i guess i found i'd only caught hold of a shadow." "i don't know what more you expected. i didn't know you wanted anything more!" "i guess i wanted love," he said in a tone so low that she barely caught it. he stood over by the table, looking down on her from his great height. his face was flushed, but his eyes were steady and unashamed. "you!" she looked at him in absolute consternation. her breath came in hurried gasps. but her heart sang in her breast and the little pathetic droop of her mouth disappeared. her telltale eyes dropped on her work. not yet, not yet; she was greedy to hear more. "i know you now less well than when you'd been only a week up to ed's." he resumed his pacing up and down. "i guess i've lost the trail. i'm just beating round, floundering in the bush." "i never knew you wanted love," she said softly. "i guess i didn't know it until just lately, either." "i suppose parting's always rather painful," she said with just the beginning of a little smile creeping round the corners of her lips. "if you go back--_when_ you go back," he corrected himself, "to the old country, i guess--i guess you'll never want to come back." "perhaps you'll come over to england yourself, one of these days. if you only have a couple of good years, you could easily shut up the place and run over for the winter," she said shyly. "i guess that would be a dangerous experiment. you'll be a lady in england. i guess i'd still be only the hired man." "you'd be my husband." "n-o-o-o," he said, with a shake of the head. "i guess i wouldn't chance it." she tried another way. she was sure of her happiness now; she could play with it a little longer. "you'll write to me now and then, and tell me how you're getting on, won't you?" "will you care to know?" he asked quickly. "why, yes, of course i shall." "well," he said, throwing back his head proudly, "i'll write and tell you if i'm making good. if i ain't, i guess i shan't feel much like writing." "but you _will_ make good, frank. i know you well enough for that." "do you?" his tone was grateful. "i have learned to--to respect you during these months we've lived together. you have taught me a great deal. all sorts of qualities which i used to think of great value seem unimportant to me now. i have changed my ideas about many things." "we have each learned something, i guess," he said generously. nora gave him a grateful glance. he stood for a moment at the far end of the room and watched her roll up the socks she had just darned. how neat and deft she was. after all, there _was_ something in being a lady, as mrs. sharp had said. neither she nor gertie, both capable women, could do things in quite the same way that nora did. oh, why had she come into his life at all! she had given him the taste for knowledge, for better things of all sorts; and now she was going away, going away forever. he had no illusions about her ever returning. not she, once she had escaped from a life she hated. had she not just said as much when she said that the shack had seemed like a prison to her? and now, in place of going on in the old way that had always seemed good enough to him before he knew anything better, mulling about, getting his own meals, with only one thought, one ambition in the world--the success of his crops and the acquisition of more land that he might some day in the dim future have a few thousands laid by--he would always be wanting something he could never get without her: more knowledge of the things that made life fuller and wider and broader, the things that she prized and had known from her childhood. it was cruel and unfair of her to have awakened the desire in him only to abandon him. to have held the cup of knowledge to his lips for one brief instant and then leave him to go through life with his thirst unslaked! not that she was intentionally cruel. no, he thought he knew all of her little faults of temper and of pride by this. her heart was too kindly to let her wound him knowingly, witness her tenderness to poor mrs. sharp only this afternoon. but it hurt, none the less. she had said that she had not known he wanted love. how should she have guessed it? but the real thing that tortured him most was the fact that he wanted her, her, her. she had been his, his woman. no other woman in this broad earth could take her place. a little sound like a groan escaped him. "you'll think of me sometimes, my girl, won't you?" he said huskily. "i don't suppose i shall be able to help it." she smiled at him over her shoulder, as she crossed the room to restore her basket to its place. "i was an ignorant, uneducated man. i didn't know how to treat you properly. i wanted to make you happy, but i didn't seem to know just how to do it." "you've never been unkind to me, frank. you've been very patient with me!" "i guess you'll be happier away from me, though. and i'll be able to think that you're warm and comfortable and at home, and that you've plenty to eat." "do you think that's all i want?" she suddenly flashed at him. he gave her a quick glance and looked away immediately. "i couldn't expect you to stay on here, not when you've got a chance of going back to the old country. this life is all new to you. you know that one." "oh, yes, i know it: i should think i did!" she gave a little mirthless laugh, and went over to her chair again. "at eight o'clock every morning a maid will bring me tea and hot water. and i shall get up, and i shall have breakfast. and, presently, i shall interview the cook, and i shall order luncheon and dinner. and i shall brush the coats of mrs. hubbard's little dogs and take them for a walk on the common. all the paths on the common are asphalted, so that elderly gentlemen and lady's companions shan't get their feet wet." "gee, what a life!" she hardly gave him time for his exclamation. as she went on, mirth, scorn, hatred and dismay came into her voice, but she was unconscious of it. for the moment, everything else was forgotten but the vivid picture which memory conjured up for her and which she so graphically described. "and then, i shall come in and lunch, and after luncheon i shall go for a drive: one day we will turn to the right and one day we will turn to the left. and then i shall have tea. and then i shall go out again on the neat asphalt paths to give the dogs another walk. and then i shall change my dress and come down to dinner. and after dinner i shall play bezique with my employer; only i must take care not to beat her, because she doesn't like being beaten. and at ten o'clock i shall go to bed." a wave of stifling recollection choked her for a moment so that she could not go on. presently she had herself once more in hand. "at eight o'clock next morning a maid will bring in my tea and hot water, and the day will begin again. each day will be like every other day. and, can you believe it, there are hundreds of women in england, strong and capable, with red blood in their veins, who would be eager to get this place which is offered to me. almost a lady--and thirty-five pounds a year!" she did not look toward him, or she would have seen a look of wonder, of comprehension and of hope pass in turn over his face. "it seems a bit different from the life you've had here," he said, looking out through the open doorway as if to point his meaning. "and you," she said, turning her eyes upon him, "you will be clearing the scrub, cutting down trees, plowing the land, sowing and reaping. every day you will be fighting something, frost, hail or weed. you will be fighting and i will know that you must conquer in the end. where was wilderness will be cultivated land. and who knows what starving child may eat the bread that has been made from the wheat that you have grown! _my_ life will be ineffectual and utterly useless, while yours----" "what do you mean? nora, nora!" he said more to himself than to her. "while i was talking to mrs. sharp just now, i didn't know what i was saying. i was just trying to comfort her when she was crying. and it seemed to me as if someone else was speaking. and i listened to myself. i thought i hated the prairie through the long winter months, and yet, somehow, it has taken hold of me. it was dreary and monotonous, and yet, i can't tear it out of my heart. there's beauty and a romance about it which fills my very soul with longing." "i guess we all hate the prairie sometimes. but when you've once lived on it, it ain't easy to live anywhere else." "i know the life now. it's not adventurous and exciting, as they think back home. for men and women alike, it's the same hard work from morning till night, and i know it's the women who bear the greater burden." "the men go into the towns, they have shooting, now and then, and the changing seasons bring variety in their work; but for the women it's always the same weary round: cooking, washing, sweeping, mending, in regular and ceaseless rotation. and yet it's all got a meaning. we, too, have our part in opening up the country. we are its mothers, and the future is in us. we are building up the greatness of the nation. it needs _our_ courage and strength and hope, and because it needs them, they come to us. oh, frank, i can't go back to that petty, narrow life! what have you done to me?" "i guess if i asked you to stay now, you'd stay," he said hoarsely. "you said you wanted love."--the lovely color flooded her face.--"didn't you see? love has been growing in me slowly, month by month, and i wouldn't confess it. i told myself i hated you. it's only to-day, when i had the chance of leaving you forever, that i knew i couldn't live without you. i'm not ashamed any more. frank, my husband, i love you." he made a stride forward as if to take her in his arms, and then stopped short, smitten by a recollection. "i--i guess i've loved you from the beginning, nora," he stammered. she had risen to her feet and stood waiting him with shining eyes. "but why do you say it as if---- what _is_ it, frank?" "i can't ask you to stay on now; i guess you'll have to take that job in england, for a while, anyway." "why?" "the inspector's condemned my whole crop; i'm busted." "oh, why didn't you tell me!" "i just guess i couldn't. i made up my mind when i married you that i'd make good. i couldn't expect you to see that it was just bad luck. anyone may get the weed in his crop. but, i guess a man oughtn't to have bad luck. the odds are that it's his own fault if he has." "ah, now i understand about your sending for eddie." "i wrote to him when i knew i'd been reported." "but what are you going to do?" "it's all right about me; i can hire out again. it's _you_ i'm thinking of. i felt pretty sure you wouldn't go back to ed's. i don't fancy you taking a position as lady help. i didn't know what was going to become of you, my girl. and when you told me of the job you'd been offered in england, i thought i'd have to let you go." "without letting me know you were in trouble!" "why, if i wasn't smashed up, d'you think i'd _let_ you go? by god, i wouldn't! i'd have kept you. by god, i'd have kept you!" "then you're going to give up the land," she made a sweeping gesture which took in the prospect without. "no," he said, shaking his head. "i guess i can't do that. i've put too much work in it. and i've got my back up, now. i shall hire out for the summer, and next winter i can get work lumbering. the land's my own, now. i'll come back in time for the plowing next year." he had been gazing sadly out of the door as he spoke. he turned to her now ready to bring her what comfort he could. but in place of the tearful face he had expected to see, he saw a face radiant with joy and the light of love. in her hand was a little slip of colored paper which she held out to him. "look!" "what's that?" "the nephew of the lady i was with so long--miss wickham, you know--has made me a present of it. five hundred pounds. that's twenty-five hundred dollars, isn't it? you can take the quarter-section you've wanted so long, next to this one. you can get all the machinery you need. and"--she gave a little, happy, mirthful laugh--"you can get some cows! i've learned to do so many things, i guess i can learn to milk, if you'll teach me and be very, very patient about it. anyway, it's yours to do what you like with. now, will you keep me?" "oh, my girl, how shall i ever be able to repay you!" "good heavens, i don't want thanks! there's nothing in all the world so wonderful as to be able to give to one you love. frank, won't you kiss me?" he folded her in his arms. "i guess it's the first time you ever asked me to do that!" "i'm sure i'm the happiest woman in all the world!" she said happily. as they stood in the doorway, he with his arm about her, they saw eddie coming up the path toward them. marsh's honest face, never a good mask for hiding his feelings, wore an expression of bewildered astonishment at their lovelike attitude. "it's all right, old dear," said nora with a happy laugh; "don't try to understand it, you're only a man. but i'm not going back to england, to mrs. hubbard and her horrid little dogs; i'm going to stay right here. this overgrown baby has worked on my feelings by pretending that he needs me." "and now, if you'll be good enough to hurry reggie a little, we'll all have some supper; it's long past the proper time." and as she bustled about her preparations, her brother heard her singing one of the long-ago songs of their childhood. * * * * * "the books you like to read at the price you like to pay" there are two sides to everything-- --including the wrapper which covers every grosset & dunlap book. when you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent writers of the day which is printed on the back of every grosset & dunlap book wrapper. you will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for every mood and every taste and every pocket-book. don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to the publishers for a complete catalog. there is a grosset & dunlap book for every mood and for every taste. * * * * * margaret pedler's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. red ashes a gripping story of a doctor who failed in a crucial operation--and had only himself to blame. could the woman he loved forgive him? the barbarian lover a love story based on the creed that the only important things between birth and death are the courage to face life and the love to sweeten it. the moon out of reach nan davenant's problem is one that many a girl has faced--her own happiness or her father's bond. the house of dreams-come-true how a man and a woman fulfilled a gypsy's strange prophecy. the hermit of far end how love made its way into a walled-in house and a walled-in heart. the lamp of fate the story of a woman who tried to take all and give nothing. the splendid folly do you believe that husbands and wives should have no secrets from each other? the vision of desire an absorbing romance written with all that sense of feminine tenderness that has given the novels of margaret pedler their universal appeal. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york * * * * * transcriber's notes . punctuation has been made regular and consistent with contemporary standards. . all illustrations carried the credit line: "the canadian--photoplay title of the land of promise." and "a paramount picture." in addition to the caption presented with each illustration in the text. . contemporary spelling retained, for example: dependant, indorsement, subtile, and intrenched as used in this text. . table of contents was not present in the original text. . spelling corrections: page , "splendid" for "spendid" ("splendid defiance"). page , "antarctic" for "antartic" ("ocean of the antarctic"). [illustration: "they shouted and cheered; then mr. trelawny put his hand on her head." page . _esther's charge._] esther's charge a story for girls by e. everett-green author of "squib and his friends," "the young pioneers," "in the days of chivalry," etc, etc. _illustrated_ new york a. l. burt, publisher contents. i. a little manager, ii. the boys, iii. an anxious charge, iv. the sweets of freedom, v. at the crag, vi. the shorn sheep, vii. days of sunshine, viii. the city of refuge, ix. the magician's cave, x. confessions, xi. mr. trelawny, xii. a new charge, esther's charge. chapter i. a little manager. "where is miss esther, genefer?" "i think she's at the linen-press, marm, putting away the things from the wash." "tell her to come to me when she has done that. i want to speak to her." "yes, marm, i will. can i do anything else for you?" "no, thank you. i have all i want. but send miss esther to me quickly." mrs. st. aiden was lying on a couch in a very pretty, dainty, little room, which opened upon a garden, blazing with late spring and early summer flowers. the lawn was still green, and looked like velvet, and the beds and borders of flowers were carefully tended, as could be seen at a glance. the gravel paths were rolled and weeded, and everything was in exquisite order, both within and without the house. everything also was on a very small scale; and the lady herself, who was clad in deep widow's weeds, was small and slim also, and looked as if she were somewhat of an invalid, which indeed was the case. rather more than a year ago her husband had died after a very short illness, and she had never been well since, although she was not exactly ill of any disease. she was weak and easily upset, and she had to depend a good deal upon her servants and her only daughter. she had never been accustomed to think for herself. captain st. aiden had always done the thinking and the managing as long as he lived, and the poor lady felt very helpless when he was taken from her. when the servant had gone she took up again a letter which she had been reading, and kept turning the leaves of it over and over again, sighing, and seeming troubled and perplexed. she also kept looking across the room towards the door at short intervals, sometimes saying half aloud as she did so,-- "i wish esther would come!" presently the door opened, and a little girl came into the room with very quiet steps. she was dressed daintily in a white frock, with black sash and bows. she had a grave little face, that was generally rather pale, and looked small beneath the wide brow and big gray eyes. perhaps it looked smaller for the flowing mass of wavy hair, a dusky chestnut color, that flowed over the child's shoulders and hung below her waist. it was very beautiful hair, soft and silky, with a crisp wave in it that made it stand off from her face like a cloud. it looked dark in the shadow, but when the sun shone upon it, it glistened almost like gold. mrs. st. aiden was very proud of esther's hair, and considered it her chief beauty; but it was a source of considerable trouble to the little girl herself, for it took a great deal of brushing and combing to keep it in order, and tangled dreadfully when she played games. then often the weight and heat of it made her head ache, especially at night; and she used to long to have a cropped head like other little children she sometimes saw, or, at least, to have only moderately long hair, like her two little friends at the rectory, prissy and milly polperran. "did you want me, mama?" asked esther, coming forwards towards the couch. "yes, dear, i did. i want to talk to you about something very serious. i have a letter here from your uncle arthur. he wants to send his two little boys here for three years, because he has just got an appointment that will take him out of the country all that time. i don't know what to think about it; it is so very sudden." it was sudden, and mrs. st. aiden looked rather piteously at esther. it seemed so hard for her to have to decide upon such a step in a hurry, and her brother wanted an answer at once. he had to make his own arrangements very quickly. esther was quite used to being her mother's confidante and adviser. even in her father's lifetime she had often been promoted to this post during his frequent absences. when he lay dying, he had taken esther's hands in his, and looking into her serious eyes, so like his own, had told her to take great care of mama always, and try to be a help and comfort to her. her father had often called her his "wise little woman," and had talked to her much more gravely and seriously than most fathers do to their young children. esther, too, having no brothers or sisters, had grown up almost entirely with her elders, and, therefore, she had developed a gravity and seriousness not usual at her age, though she was by no means lacking in the capacity for childish fun on the rare occasions when she was free to indulge in it. she was ten years old at this time, and she was not taller than many children are at seven or eight; but there was a thoughtful look upon the small face and in the big gray eyes which was different from what is generally to be seen in the eyes of children of that age. "two little boys!" repeated esther gravely; "they will be my cousins, i suppose. how old are they, and what are their names, mama?" "the elder is nine, and the other rather more than a year younger. he does not mention their names, but i know the elder is called philip, after our grandfather. i'm not quite sure about the second. arthur is such a very bad correspondent, and poor ada died when the second boy was born. you see it was like this, esther. the grandmother on the mother's side kept house for him, and took care of the children after their mother died--she was living with him then. she died a year ago, and things have been going on in the same groove at his house. but now comes this appointment abroad, and he can neither take the boys nor leave them at home alone. they are not fit for school yet, he says. of course they are not ready for public school, but i should have thought they might--well, never mind that. what he says is that they want taking in hand by a good governess or tutor, and suggests that they should come to me, and that i should find such a person, and that you should share the lessons, and get a good start with your education." esther's eyes began to sparkle beneath their long black lashes. she had an ardent love of study, and hitherto she had only been able to pick up such odd crumbs as were to be had from the desultory teaching of her mother, or from the study of such books as she could lay hands upon in that little-used room that was called the study, though nobody ever studied there save herself. in her father's lifetime esther had been well grounded, but since his death her education had been conducted in a very haphazard fashion. she had a wonderful thirst after knowledge, and in her leisure hours would almost always be found poring over a book; but of real tuition she had now hardly any, and the thought of a regular governess or tutor made her eyes sparkle with joy. "o mama! could we?" "could we what, esther?" "have a governess or tutor here as well as two boys?" "not in the house itself, of course. but he or she could lodge in the place, i suppose, and come every day. your uncle is very liberal in his ideas, esther. he is going to let his own big house. he has had an offer already, and he suggests paying over three or four hundred pounds a year to me, if i will undertake the charge of the two boys. of course that would make it all very easy in some ways." esther's eyes grew round with wonder. she knew all about her mother's affairs, and how difficult it sometimes was to keep everything in the dainty state of perfection expected, upon the small income they inherited. to have this income doubled at a stroke, and only two boys to keep and a tutor's salary to pay out of it! why, that would be a wonderful easing of many burdens which weighed heavily sometimes upon esther's youthful shoulders. she had often found it so difficult to satisfy her delicate mother's wishes and whims, and yet to keep the weekly bills down to the sum genefer said they ought not to exceed. "o mama, what a lot of money!" "your uncle is a well-to-do man, my dear, and he truly says that terms at good private schools, where the holidays have to be provided for as well, run into a lot of money. and he does not think the boys are fit for school yet. he says they want breaking in by a tutor first. they have had a governess up till now, but he thinks a tutor would be better, especially as there is no man in this house. i hope he does not mean that the boys are very naughty and troublesome. i don't know what i shall do with them if they are." the lady sighed, and looked at esther in that half helpless way which always went to the little girl's heart. she bent over and kissed her brow. "never mind, mama dear. i will take care of the boys," she said, in her womanly way. "they are both younger than i. i think it will be nice to have regular lessons again. i think papa would have been pleased about that. and perhaps i shall like having boys to play with too; only it will be strange at first." "we could keep a girl, then, to help genefer and janet," said mrs. st. aiden. "the boys will have to have the big attic up at the top of the house, and the study to do lessons in. i hope they will not be very noisy; and there is the garden to play in. but they must not break the flowers, or take the fruit, or spoil the grass, or cut up the gravel. you will have to keep them in order, esther. i can't have the place torn up by a pair of riotous boys." "i will take care of them, mama dear," answered esther bravely, though her heart sank just a little at the thought of the unknown element about to be introduced into her life. she had had so little experience of boys--there was only little herbert at the rectory who ever came here, and he was quite good, and under the care of his elder sisters. would these boys let her keep them in order as bertie was kept by prissy and milly? she hoped they would, and she said nothing of her misgivings to her mother. "do you think you will say 'yes' to uncle arthur?" "i think i must, my dear. i don't like to refuse; and, of course, there are advantages. your education has been a difficulty. i have not the health myself, and we cannot afford a governess for you, and this is the first time arthur has ever asked me to do anything for him. and, really, i might be able to keep a little pony carriage, and get out in the summer, with this addition to our income. i always feel that if i could get out more i should get back my health much quicker." esther's eyes sparkled again at these words, and a little pink flush rose in her cheeks. it was the thing of all others she had always wished for her mother--a dear little pony, and a little low basket carriage in which she could drive her out. in father's days they had had one, and esther had been allowed to drive the quiet pony when she was quite a little child. but that belonged to the old life, before the father had been taken away and they had come here to live, right down in cornwall, at this little quaint hermitage, as the house was called. since then no such luxury could be dreamed of. it had been all they could do to make ends meet, and keep the mother content with what could be done by two maids, and one man coming in and out to care for the garden. and even so, esther often wondered how they would get on, if it were not for all that mr. trelawny did for them. "o mama!" she cried, "could we really have a pony again?" "we will think about it. i should like to, if we could. it seems a pity that that nice little stable should stand empty; and there is the little paddock too. the pony could run there when he wasn't wanted, and that would save something in his keep. i have always been used to my little drives, and i miss them very much. but, of course, i shall not make up my mind in a hurry. i should like to see mr. trelawny about it all even before i write to uncle arthur." a little shadow fell over esther's face. she felt sure she knew what was coming. "i wish, dear, you would just run up to the crag and ask mr. trelawny if he would come down and see me about this." the shadow deepened as the words were spoken, but esther made only one effort to save herself the task. "couldn't genefer go, mama? it is so hot!" "it will be getting cooler every hour now, and there is plenty of shade through the wood. have you had a walk to-day?" "no, mama; i have been busy. saturday is always a busy day, you know." "then a walk will do you good, and you will go much quicker than genefer. bring mr. trelawny back with you if you can. you can tell him a little about it, and he will know that it is important. you have time to go and come back before your tea-time." esther did not argue the matter any more. she had never betrayed to any living creature this great fear which possessed her. she was half ashamed of it, yet she could never conquer it. she was more afraid of mr. trelawny than of anything in the world beside. he was like the embodiment of all the wizards, and genii, and magicians, and giants which she had read of in her fairy story-books, or of the mysterious historic personages over whom she had trembled when poring over the pages of historical romance. he was a very big man, with a very big voice, and he always talked in a way which she could not fully understand, and which almost frightened her out of her wits. it was the greatest possible penance to have to go up to his great big house on the hill, and she never approached it without tremors and quakings of heart. she fully believed that it contained dungeons, oubliettes, and other horrors. she had been told that the crags beneath were riddled with great hollow caves, where monks had hidden in times of persecution, and where smugglers had hidden their goods and fought desperate battles with the excise officers and coast-guardsmen. the whole place seemed to her to be full of mystery and peril, and the fit owner and guardian was this gigantic cornish squire, with his roiling voice, leonine head, and autocratic air. he was always asking her why she did not oftener come to see him, but esther would only shrink away and answer in her low, little voice that she had so much to do at home. and then he would laugh one of his big, sonorous laughs, that seemed to fill the house; and it was he who had given her the name of the "little manager," and when he called her by it he did so with an air of mock homage which frightened her more than anything else. at other times he would call her "goldylocks," and pretend he was going to cut off her hair to make a cable for his yacht, which lay at anchor in the bay; and he would tell her a terrible story about a man who sought to anchor in the middle of a whirlpool, the cable being made of maidens' hair--only the golden strand gave way, and so he got drowned instead of winning his wife by his act of daring boldness. this story was in verse, and he would roll it out in his big, melodious voice; and she was always obliged to listen, for the fascination was strong upon her. and then in the night she would lie shivering in her bed, picturing mr. trelawny and his yacht going round and round in the dreadful whirlpool, and her own chestnut-brown hair being the cable which had failed to hold fast! and yet mr. trelawny was a very kind friend to them. he was a relation, too, though not at all a near one, and had been very fond of esther's father, who was his kinsman. when the widow and child had been left with only a small provision, mr. trelawny had brought them to this pretty house at the foot of the hill upon which his big one stood. he had installed them there, and he would not take any rent for it. and he sent down his own gardener several times a week to make the garden trim and bright, and keep it well stocked with flowers and fruit. once a week he always came down himself and gave an eye to everything. mrs. st. aiden looked forward to these visits, as they broke the monotony of her life, and mr. trelawny was always gentle to the helpless little widow. but esther always tried to keep out of the way when she could, and the worst of it was that she was afraid mr. trelawny had a suspicion of this, and that it made him tease her more than ever. however, she never disobeyed her mother, or refused to do what was asked of her, and she knew that such a step as this one would never be taken without mr. trelawny's approval. indeed, she saw that he ought to be asked, since the house was his; and, perhaps, he would not like two boys to be brought there. esther had heard that boys could be very mischievous beings, and, though she could not quite think what they did, she saw that the lord of the manor had a right to be consulted. the hermitage lay nestling just at the foot of a great craggy hill, that was clothed on one side with wood--mostly pine and spruce fir; but on the other it was all crag and cliff, and looked sheer down upon the tumbling waves of the great atlantic. near to the hermitage, along the white road, lay a few other houses, and the little village of st. maur, with its quaint old church and pretty village green. there were hills and moors again behind it, wild, and bleak, and boundless, as it seemed to the little girl whenever she climbed them. but st. maur itself was a sheltered little place; the boom of the sea only sounded when the surf was beating very strong, and it was so sheltered from the wind that trees grew as they grew nowhere else in the neighborhood, and flowers flourished in the gardens as esther had never seen them flourish in the other places where she had lived. geraniums grew into great bushes, and fuchsias ran right up the houses as ivy did in the north, and roses bloomed till christmas, and came on again quite early in the spring, so that they seemed to have flowers all the year round. that was a real delight to the little girl, who loved the garden above any other place; and with a book and an apple, crouched down in the arbor or some pleasant flowery place, she would find a peace and contentment beyond all power of expression. as she climbed the path through the pine woods leading to mr. trelawny's great house, she began to wonder what it would be like to have her precious solitude invaded by a pair of little boys. "i wish they were rather littler, so that i could take care of them," said esther to herself. "i should like to be a little mother to them, and teach them to say their prayers, and wash their hands and faces, and keep their toys nice and tidy. but perhaps they are too big to care for being taken care of. if they are, i don't quite know what i shall do with them. but we shall have lessons a good part of the day, i suppose, and that will be interesting. perhaps i shall be able to help them with theirs. only they may know more than i do." musing like this, esther soon found herself at the top of the hill, and coming out of the wood, saw the big, curious house right in front of her. she never looked at it without a little tremor, and she felt the thrill run through her to-day. it was such a very old house, and there were such lots of stories about it. once it had been a castle, and people had fought battles over it; but that was so long, long ago that there was hardly anything left of that old building. then it had been a monastery, and there were lots of rooms now where the monks had lived and walked about; and the gardens were as they made them, and people said that at night you could still see the old monks flitting to and fro. but for a long time it had been a house where people lived and died in the usual way, and trelawnys had been there for nearly three hundred years now. esther had a private belief that this mr. trelawny had been there for almost all that time, and that he had made or found the elixir of life which the historical romances talked about, so that he continued living on and on, and knew everything, and was strange and terrible. he always did seem to know everything that had happened, and his stories were at once terrifying and entrancing. if only she could have got over her fear of him, she would have enjoyed listening; as it was, she always felt half dead with terror. "hallo, madam! and whither away so very fast?" cried a great deep voice from somewhere out of the heart of the earth; and esther stopped short, with a little strangled cry of terror, for it was mr. trelawny's voice, and yet he was nowhere to be seen. "wait a minute and i'll come!" said the voice again, and esther stood rooted to the spot with fear. there was a curious little sound of tap, tap, tapping somewhere underground not far away, and in another minute a great rough head appeared out of one of those crevices in the earth which formed one of the many terrors of the crag, and a huge man dragged himself slowly out of the fissure, a hammer in his hand and several stones clinking in one of his big pockets. he was covered with earth and dust, which he proceeded to shake off as a dog does when he has been burrowing, whilst esther stood rooted to the spot, petrified with amazement, and convinced that he had come up from some awful subterranean cavern, known only to himself, where he carried on his strange magic lore. "well, madam?" he said, making her one of his low bows. when he called her madam and bowed to her esther was always more frightened than ever. "to what happy accident may i attribute the honor of this visit?" "mama sent me," said esther, seeking to steady her voice, though she was afraid to speak more than two or three words at a time. "ah, that is it--mama sent you. it was no idea of your own. alas, it is ever so! nobody seeks the poor old lonely hermit for his own sake. so mama has sent you, has she, miss goldylocks? and what is your errand?" "mama asks if you will please read this letter, and then come and see her and advise her what to do." mr. trelawny took the letter, gave one of his big laughs, and looked quizzically at esther. "does your mama ever take advice, my dear?" esther's eyes opened wide in astonishment. "yes, of course she does. mama never does anything until she has been advised by everybody." the big, rolling laugh sounded out suddenly, and esther longed to run away. she never knew whether she were being laughed at herself, and she did not like that thought. "may i say you will come soon?" she asked, backing a little way down the hillside. "wait a moment, child; i will come with you," answered the big man, turning his fossils out of his pocket, and putting them, with his hammer, inside a hollow tree. "do you know what this letter says?" "oh yes; mama read it to me." "ah, of course. the 'little manager' must be consulted first. well, and what does she say about it?" "mama? oh, i think----" "no, not mama; the 'little manager' herself. what do you want to do about it?" esther summoned up courage to reply sedately,-- "i think perhaps it might be a good plan. you see, i should get a good education then, and i should like that very much. it would be a great advantage in many ways----" but esther left off suddenly, for mr. trelawny was roaring with laughter again. "hear the child!" he cried to the empty air, as it seemed; "she is asked if she likes boy-playfellows, and she replies with a dissertation on the advantages of a liberal education! hear that, ye shades of all the sages! a great advantage!--yes, my dear, i think it will be a great advantage. you will learn to be young at last, perhaps, after being grown-up ever since you were shortened. a brace of boys will wake you up a bit, and, if i read between the lines correctly, this pair are going to turn out a precious pair of pickles." esther understood very little of this speech, but she tingled from head to foot with the consciousness that fun was being poked at her. "i think mama will do as you advise about it," she said, not being able to think of anything else to say. the big man in the rough clothes was looking down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. he got hold of her hand and made her look up at him. "now tell me, child--don't be afraid to speak the truth--do you want these young cubs to come, or don't you? would it make life pleasanter to you or only a burden?" "i don't think i can quite tell till i've tried," said esther, shaking all over, but striving to keep her fears to herself; "but i think it might be nice to have two little boys to take care of." "to take care of, eh? you haven't enough on your hands as it is?" "i used often to wish i'd a brother or a sister to play with; that was before papa died. since then i haven't had so much time to think about it, but perhaps it would be pleasant." "you do play sometimes then?" "yes; when the little polperrans come to see me, or when i go to see them." "and you know how to do it when you try?" esther was a little puzzled, and answered doubtfully,-- "i know how to play the games they play. i don't know any besides." mr. trelawny suddenly flung her hand away from him and burst into a great laugh. "i think i shall advise your mother to import these two young monkeys," he said over his shoulder; and to esther's great relief, she was allowed to walk the rest of the way home by herself, mr. trelawny striding on at a great rate, and muttering to himself all the while, as was his habit. later on, when he had gone back again, and esther crept in her mouse-like fashion to her mother's side, she found her closing a letter she had just written. "mr. trelawny advises me to have the boys, dear," she said; "so i have been writing to your uncle. i suppose it is the best thing to do, especially as mr. trelawny has undertaken to find a suitable tutor. that would have been difficult for me; but he is a clever man, and knows the world. he will be sure to select the right person." "yes, mama," said esther gently; but she shook in her shoes the while. a tutor selected by mr. trelawny might surely be a very terrible person. suppose he came from underground, and was a sort of magician himself! chapter ii. the boys. it was growing very exciting. the life of the little house, which had hitherto run so quietly in its grooves, now seemed all at once changed and expanded. there was an air of bustle pervading the upper regions. genefer, and a stout young maid lately engaged as joint-helper to her and the cook, were busy for two whole days in turning out a great attic which formed the top story of the little house, making room in other holes and corners for the boxes and odds and ends which had been stored there, and furbishing up this place as a bedroom for the boys, who were expected in a week's time. esther was immensely interested. she had always thought the big attic a very charming place, only when it was dusty and dark there had not been much to attract her there. now the dormer windows stood open to sun and air, and commanded wide views in many directions over the valley in which st. maur stood. two little white beds and the needful furniture did not take up a great deal of space, and there would be ample room for the boys to frisk about, collect treasures, and range them on the various shelves and ledges, without inconveniencing anybody, or bringing disorder into the rest of the house. moreover there was an access to the attic from the back staircase, so that nothing dirty or disagreeable need be brought into the mistress's part of the house at all. genefer regarded this arrangement as a great boon, though esther sometimes wondered why. the answer she got to her questions was generally the same, though it did not greatly enlighten her. "boys will be boys, all the world over, miss esther," genefer would say with a shake of the head; and when she repeated this aphorism to her mother, mrs. st. aiden would sometimes sigh and say rather plaintively,-- "oh, i hope we shall not find we have made a great mistake!" and that used to set esther wondering still more. for her own part, she looked forward to the advent of these cousins with a great amount of interest. she had told the little polperrans all about it, and they were greatly excited too. "i am glad they are younger than you," said prissy, as they walked home from church together. when esther's mother was not able to get to church, esther sat in the rectory pew, and her little friends generally walked with her as far as her own gate, which was about a quarter of a mile farther off than the rectory. "you will be able to keep them in order. boys want that. they get obstreperous if they are left alone. bertie is sometimes a little bit like that, but i never let him get the upper hand. it would never do." prissy was twelve years old, and had helped her mother at home and in the parish for quite a long time now. she was more grown-up in her ways than esther, though not perhaps so thoughtful. she used to tell esther that when she was old enough she meant to marry a clergyman and have a parish of her own; and esther would listen with a sense of great respect and admiration, for she certainly felt that she should be very sorry to have a parish to care for. it was quite enough to have to help her mother to manage one little house. "i hope they will be good boys," she said rather timidly; "i should think they are. they have had a grandmother and a governess as well as their father." "i think grandmothers often spoil boys," prissy answered, with her customary air of decision. "ours does; i don't much like when she comes. she is often quite rude to me, and doesn't listen to what i say; but she pets bertie, and gives him things, and lets him talk to her as much as he likes. i call that showing favoritism; i don't approve of it at all. in the parish mother never lets that sort of thing be." "who was that funny man in spectacles sitting in mr. trelawny's pew?" asked milly, who was walking in front with bertie, but who suddenly turned back to ask the question. esther had not even noticed him. she never looked towards mr. trelawny if she could help it. often his great, deep-set eyes would be fixed upon her face, and that made her blush and tremble, and so she never glanced his way willingly. she had not even seen that there had been a stranger with him. "i don't know," answered prissy, as esther evidently had no information to give; "i've never seen him before. i suppose he's a friend of mr. trelawny's, but he doesn't often have a visitor at the crag. he's a queer man, mother says; though father always likes him." "the other man looked like an owl; his spectacles were quite round," remarked herbert; "most people's are oval. when the sun got on them they looked as if they were made of fire--like a big cat's eyes shining in the dark." "oh, don't," cried esther quickly. "don't what?" asked herbert, staring. esther colored and looked half ashamed. "i don't know quite. i felt afraid. i always do feel a little afraid of mr. trelawny. i wonder who the other gentleman is." esther was soon to know. she had spent her sunday afternoon curled up in the garden with a book, and she had not even heard the bell when it rang. she had no idea there were visitors with her mother, and when she came in at half-past four to pour out her afternoon tea, which on sunday they shared together, she gave a great jump and dropped her book, for there was mr. trelawny sitting beside her mother, and a strange gentleman standing looking out of the window, and he had on round spectacles, just such as herbert had described. he stepped forward and picked up esther's book, and gave it into her hands with a smile; and as she stepped timidly forward to shake hands with mr. trelawny, she heard him say,-- "this is one of your future pupils, earle." so this was the tutor. it had never occurred to esther that he would come so soon, or that he would be a friend of mr. trelawny's. somehow the whole thing frightened her a good deal. she was shaking all over as she gave her hand to mr. earle; and he seemed to notice it, for he laughed and said,-- "so you seem to think that tutor spells ogre, little miss esther. we shall have to see if we can't get over that impression somehow." then mr. trelawny's great laugh rang out through the room, and he exclaimed in his big voice,-- "oh, you won't have much trouble with her ladyship here. she will only want the birch-rod occasionally. she's a mighty hand at books, as it is--quite a budding blue-stocking, if that isn't a mixed metaphor. it's the boys you'll want that cane of mine for.--eh, esther? a pair of young pickles, i take it, that will take a deal of breaking-in. you tell them when they come that i've a fine array of sticks and canes from all parts of the world for mr. earle to take his choice of. he'll thrash some discipline into them, never you fear. you shan't have all the breaking-in to do. he's a fine hand at swishing, you'll see." then the other gentleman said something in a language esther did not understand, at which mr. trelawny broke out into one of his rolling laughs, and esther got away behind the tea-table, and began pouring out the tea with very shaking hands; and though mr. earle came and took the cups, and talked to her quite kindly, her heart was all in a flutter, for she thought he was like the cruel old witch in the fairy-tale, who was so kind to the little boys and girls till she had got them into her house and into the cage, and then began to beat and starve them. the thought of the array of sticks and canes up at the crag, of which the tutor was to have the choice, seemed to swim before her eyes all the while. "it is a pity you are always so shy and awkward with mr. trelawny, esther," said her mother a little plaintively when the gentlemen had gone. "he is really very kind, and would make a great pet of you if you would let him; but you're always so cold and distant, and seem frightened out of your wits. it's really very silly of you. and you never will call him uncle, though he has asked you more times than i can count." "i can never remember," answered esther in a very small voice. "it always goes out of my head. besides, he isn't my uncle." "no, not exactly; but he's a kind of cousin, and you might just as well do as he asks. it vexes me when your manners are so bad just when he comes. i thought you were going to cry or to faint just now. it is so silly to be frightened when gentlemen have a little bit of fun. it doesn't mean anything." there were tears in esther's eyes, but she held them bravely back. "i can't help being frightened at mr. trelawny, mama. i know he is kind but he does frighten me. is mr. earle a friend of his? and is he really our tutor?" "he will be soon. but the boys are to have a week to settle down first before beginning lessons. yes, mr. earle is the son of an old friend of mr. trelawny's; and he is very clever, and a great lover of the same things that interest mr. trelawny so much. so, for a time, at least, he will live up at the crag, and come down every day for your lessons. the rest of the time he and mr. trelawny can spend together in their laboratory, or whatever they call it. there are a lot of experiments they want to make together." esther tried hard to subdue the tremor which took hold of her at this thought, but it really was rather terrible to think that their tutor would be another of those mysterious magicians, such as she had read about in romances, who lived all day, when they could manage it, shut up with crucibles and other strange things, trying all sorts of experiments, and seeking after the elixir of life, or other mysterious compounds, that would change everything into gold, or give them power such as no men possessed before. but it was no use trying to seek sympathy from her mother, or even from genefer. they could not understand her fear of mr. trelawny. they did not believe that he had subterranean places where he lived when he was alone, or that he could see through the earth, and come up just where he chose, and know everything that was going on overhead. grown-up people never seemed to understand these things. even prissy would say, "oh, nonsense!" when esther tried to explain the source of her fears. but millie and bertie would listen open-mouthed; and when the children met the next day, prissy being with her mother, the little boy broke out at once with a piece of startling intelligence. "he's mr. earle, and he's going to be your tutor; and he's very clever, and he's found out a great many things, and he's going to find out a lot more with mr. trelawny. i heard father say they were going to have an electric eye, that could see through walls and things. i expect he's got electric eyes in his head now, and that's why he wears those funny spectacles. i suppose he's going to make a pair for mr. trelawny, and then he'll be able to see everything too. it won't be any use trying to run away from them then. why, they'll see you right through the hillside." esther began to quake all over. "o bertie, they couldn't!" "but they can!" he argued stoutly. "i heard father trying to explain to mother. he said they had things that went right through the hill, and could ring bells or something on the other side. but you can't see it. i suppose it's a sort of familiar spirit that does it, but the electric eye has got something to do with it. it's going to be very queer up there, i think. perhaps they'll want children's blood for some of their experiments, like the old wizard of the mountains. i'll lend the book to you again, if you like. it tells you lots of things about him." "no, please, don't," said esther, who already remembered more than she desired of the blood-curdling story; "besides, i thought your mother had taken the book away." "yes, but we found it again when the house was cleaned, and it's in our cupboard now. i like it awfully." "i don't," replied esther, whose imagination was considerably more vivid than that of the stolid and horror-loving herbert. "i don't want to read it any more. mr. trelawny's quite bad enough alone." "only he's not alone any more," said milly; "he's got your tutor with him." esther went home in a very subdued frame of mind. she had so looked forward to regular lessons with a tutor, who could really explain things to her, and teach her the things she longed to know; and it was hard that he should turn out to be a strange and mysterious being, second only in terrors to mr. trelawny himself. that's what came of trusting him with the task of choosing the tutor. oh dear! it seemed as though life were going to be rather a hard thing for esther in the future. however, there really was not much time to think about it all, for the boys were coming. they would be here very soon, and the preparations for their arrival filled up every bit of spare time, and occupied the whole household. then came the afternoon upon which they were to arrive. they were to leave london very early in the morning, their father putting them in charge of the guard of the train, who was to see them safely to their journey's end; and mr. trelawny had volunteered to drive as far as the junction, twelve miles away, and save them the little slow piece upon the local line. the boys' father had hoped to have time to bring them down himself, but at the last it had proved impossible. however, they were to be dispatched under official escort, and were bound to turn up safe and sound. it was with a very fluttering heart that esther stood at the gate looking down the stretch of white road which led up to the house. she pitied the little boys being met by the terrible mr. trelawny, and pictured them crouched up in the carriage like a pair of frightened mice watched over and guarded by a monster cat. her mother had suggested that she should go to meet them also, but esther's courage had not been equal to the ordeal of the long drive with mr. trelawny. so there she was waiting at the gate, her heart in her mouth each time the roll of wheels was heard upon the road, running indoors now and then, just to see that everything was in readiness for the travelers' tea, when the little fellows should have arrived, but never long away from her post beside the gate. at last she heard the unmistakable sound of the beat of a pair of horses' feet upon the hard road. that must be the carriage. the color came and went in her cheeks. she called out to genefer that they were really coming at last, and then stood with the gate wide open behind her, whilst the odd-job man stood a little in the rear, ready to help with the luggage. round the bend in the road dashed the carriage. esther heard a clamor of voices before it had stopped. there were two heads poked far out of the window, and two shrill voices were exchanging a perfect hurricane of comment and question. she saw that each boy was being held from behind by a hand upon his collar; then the carriage stopped, and the voices became audible. "let go, old bobby!" cried one voice. "here we are!" "the carriage can't get through the gate," shrieked the other. "oh, drive on, drive on, coachman, and let us stick fast. it would be such fun!" "there, get out with you, you young pickles!" spoke mr. trelawny's deep bass from within the carriage. "i'm thankful to deliver you up with sound skins and whole bones. don't you see your cousin esther waiting to speak to you? take off your caps, and behave like little gentlemen, if you know how to." the boys were out in a trice, but they had not even a look for esther. both had darted round to the horses, and stood under their noses, reaching up to stroke them, perfectly fearless, and asking the coachman a hundred questions about them. mr. trelawny came behind and took them each by the collar once more. "didn't you hear me tell you to go and speak to your cousin?" "oh, she's only a girl, and she'll always be there. i like horses best," remarked one youngster in a perfectly audible voice; and sensitive little esther bit her lip, though she felt no anger in her heart. after all, she was only a girl. "i don't want to stay in this poky little house. i'll go on with you, and live in your house instead." the next moment, to esther's unspeakable astonishment and dismay, both the boys had scrambled back into the carriage, and were clinging tightly to the seats, shrieking out to the coachman,-- "drive on! drive on! this isn't the house! we're going to live with the bobby man!" esther stood perfectly aghast, unable either to speak or move. she did not know which impressed her most--the extraordinary behavior of her cousins, or their perfect fearlessness towards mr. trelawny, whom they treated without a particle of respect. his face was rather grim, though there was a humorous gleam in his eyes as he put out his long, strong arms, and hauled the obstreperous boys out of the carriage, amid much squealing, and kicking, and roars of laughter. it was all play, but a sort of play that esther did not understand in the least. with a boy held fast in each hand, mr. trelawny turned to the grave-faced little girl and said,-- "i had meant to present these two young gentlemen to your mother myself, but i think the only thing i can do is to get away as fast as i can. perhaps they will come to their senses then;" and so saying, he made a sudden dive into the carriage, which had now been relieved of the luggage with which it had been piled. the boys were after him like a shot, and esther was in terror lest they should be run over before the carriage got safely away; but at last this was achieved, after much shouting and bawling and scrimmaging; and though both boys set off in pursuit like a pair of street arabs, the horses soon left them behind, and they returned panting and breathless to the little gate. [illustration: "how d'ye do? hadn't time to speak to you before."--page . _esther's charge._] "he's a jolly old buffer," said one of the boys; "i'd like to have gone with him." "i shall go and see him every day," remarked the other. "he said he lived close by." then they reached the gate once more, and held out their rather smutty paws to esther. "how d'ye do? hadn't time to speak to you before. are we all going to live in this funny little box of a place?" "it's our house," answered esther shyly, much more afraid of the boys than they of her; indeed they did not seem to know what fear or shyness was. "i think you'll find there's plenty of room inside; and we have a very nice little garden." "call this a garden!" said the boy, with a look round; "i call it a pocket-handkerchief!" then they both laughed, and esther laughed too, for there was something infectious about their high spirits, though they did talk in a fashion she had never heard before. "come and see mama first," she said, "and then i'll take you up-stairs to wash your hands, and then we'll have tea together. i daresay you are hungry." they followed her into the little drawing-room where mrs. st. aiden lay. on her face there was a look of some perplexity, for she had heard a great deal of shouting and laughing, and was in some anxiety to know what it could mean. now she was looking upon a couple of little boys, in plain dark-blue knickerbocker suits, both having round faces and curly hair, though that of the elder boy was dark brown, and his eyes were a bright hazel; whilst the younger was blue-eyed, his hair the color of burnished gold, and his face, when at rest, wore a sort of cherubic expression that went to his aunt's heart. "my dears, i am very glad to see you," she said. "come and kiss me, and tell me which is philip and which is percy." the boys looked at each other, and a gleam came into their eyes. "we'll kiss you to-day," said the elder one, advancing, and speaking with the air of one making a great concession, "because we've just come, and crump said we were to. but we're not going to kiss every day. that's like women and girls. boys don't kiss like that. so you won't expect it, you know." then the pair advanced simultaneously; each gave and received a kiss, and stood back again, the younger one wiping the salute from his face with the cuff of his jacket. "i hope you're not a kissing girl," he said in a low voice to esther, who stood behind lost in amaze, "because i shan't let you kiss me." "and which is philip and which is percy?" asked mrs. st. aiden again, more disposed to be afraid of the boys than they of her. "oh, we don't call ourselves by these affected names--nobody does," said the elder of the pair in lofty tones. "i suppose i'm philip, but really i hardly know. they all call me pickle, and him puck. you'll have to do the same." "i am not very fond of nicknames," said mrs. st. aiden, not quite pleased. "i shall call you by your right names whilst you are in my house." "call away; we shan't answer!" cried pickle, with one of the ringing laughs which took off just a little from the bluntness of his speech.--"come along, puck, we've done it all now.--oh, one thing more. crump sent his love to you, and was sorry he couldn't come down and see you. i think that's all." "but i don't understand. who is crump?" asked mrs. st. aiden rather breathlessly. "oh, only father," answered puck, as he sidled out at the door; and then making a dash across into the dining-room, he set up a great whoop of delight, for there was a splendid tea set out--chicken, and ham, and tarts, and devonshire cream, and several kinds of cake and jam; and the boys had scrambled on to their chairs in a twinkling, and were calling out to somebody to make haste and give them their tea, as they were just starving. "but you haven't washed your hands," said esther aghast. they contemplated their grubby little paws with great equanimity. "mine aren't dirty to speak of," said pickle. "mine are quite clean," asserted puck, with an angelic smile. "we're not like cats and girls, who are always washing," added pickle. "do give us our tea. we're so hungry and thirsty!" "but you haven't said grace!" said esther, whereupon the boys began to laugh. "grown-up people don't say grace now. it's not the fashion. but fire away if you want to. crump used to make us try, but we always burst out laughing in the middle, so we gave it up." esther said grace gravely, and the boys did not laugh that time. then she helped them to what they wanted, regarding them rather in the light of wild animals, upon whose next acts there was no depending. and yet it was rather interesting, and she wanted to know more about them and their odd ways. "why do you call your father crump?" she asked tentatively. "well, we have to call him something," said pickle, with his mouth full, and they both began to giggle. "it's my name," said puck, after a short pause. "i thought of it in bed one night. we laughed for nearly an hour afterwards. we've called him it ever since." "does he like it?" they stared at her round-eyed and amazed. "i don't know. we never asked him. we've always got some name for him. you've got to call people something." "why don't you call him father?" asked esther mildly; but at that question they both went off into fits of laughter, and she felt herself getting red without knowing why. "what's your name?" asked puck, when he had recovered himself; but his brother cut in by saying,-- "you know it's esther--old bobby told us that." "so he did; and he said you were frightened at him, and that we should have to teach you better. fancy being frightened at an old buffer like that--a jolly one too!" esther sat in silent amaze. she knew they were talking of mr. trelawny, but she was dumfounded at their audacity, and it was rather disconcerting to hear that he was aware of her feelings towards him. she hoped that he took her silence for a grown-up reserve. "you mustn't call mr. trelawny names," she said. "he's quite an old gentleman, and you must treat him with respect." "i said he was a nice old buffer," said puck, as though after that nothing more could be expected of him. "but you call him 'old bobby,' and i can't think how you dare. it isn't at all respectful. i wonder he lets you." "well, he shouldn't play the bobby on us then," answered pickle. "he said he'd come to carry us off, and he marched us out of the station like a pair of prisoners. we had to call him bobby after that. i want to go and see his house. can we go up after tea?" esther shook her head. she was not prepared for such a move. "you'd better wait for another time for that," she said. "i'll show you our house when you're done with tea." "all right; but there isn't much to show, i should think. it's the funniest little box i was ever in. but perhaps we'll get some fun out of it, all the same. crump said the sea was quite near. that'll be jolly fun. i like the sea awfully." "i don't go there very often," said esther. "mama does not care about it. the coast is rather dangerous, you know." but both boys began to laugh, as they seemed to do at whatever she said; and esther let them finish their tea in silence, and then took them the round of the small premises. they liked their attic, which was a comfort; and they liked the stable and little coach-house, and the bit of paddock and orchard beyond; and they looked with great approval at the pine wood stretching upwards towards the craggy heights between them and the sea, where esther told them mr. trelawny's house stood. it could not be seen from there, but she showed them the path which led up to it and they cried, "jolly, jolly, jolly!" and hopped about from one foot to another, and esther wondered if it would be possible for them to go to that strange old house upon the summit of the crag, and not feel afraid of it. it was a comfort to esther that they were not unkind to her cat. they were rather disgusted that there was no dog belonging to the house; but they seemed kind-hearted boys, and left the cat in peace by the kitchen fire. they had been up so early that morning that they were sleepy before their usual bed-time; and esther was rather relieved when, at last, they were safely shut into their room for the night, having indignantly declined the offices of genefer as nursery-maid, saying that they could do everything for themselves and each other. esther showed them up to their room herself, half fascinated, half repelled by their odd words and ways. their parting good night, shouted through the door to her, was characteristic in the extreme. "we're going to call you tousle," one of them bawled through the key-hole; "you've got such a mop of hair hanging down, you know." chapter iii. an anxious charge. "how quiet they are!" thought esther, as she dressed herself next morning. "i daresay they are fast asleep still. they must be tired after that long journey yesterday. they shall sleep as long as they like this morning. i will tell genefer not to call them. they are funny boys, but i think i shall soon get fond of them. puck is so pretty, and looks as though he could be very good by himself. i hope we shall be happy together soon. i shall take care of them, and show them everything; and perhaps they will teach me some new games." genefer came in at this moment to brush out esther's mane of hair. the little girl had dispensed with other help at her toilet, but the great, thick, waving mass of curly hair was beyond her strength, and genefer took great pride in brushing and combing it. she was almost as proud of esther's hair as mrs. st. aiden herself. "o genefer," said the little girl, "i think we won't call the boys yet. they seem quite quiet, and i daresay they are asleep. we will let them have their sleep out this first morning." genefer made a sound between a snort and a laugh. "lord love you, miss, them boys have been up and out this two hours! they were off before ever i was down, and i'm no lie-a-bed. they had got the door opened and were away to the pine wood. old sam he saw them scuttling up the path like a pair of rabbits. there'll be no holding that pair, i can see. boys will be boys, as i always did say." esther's face was full of anxiety and trouble. "o genefer! and they don't know their way about a bit! and all the holes, and crags, and rocks on the other side! perhaps some harm will come to them, and i promised to take care of them! oh, please, let me go, and i'll run after them and see if i can't fetch them home! they said something about the sea last night. suppose they fall into one of the pools and get drowned!" but genefer only gave another snort. "you take my word for it. miss esther, them boys isn't born to be drowned. now don't you worrit so, child. they'll be all right. that sort never comes to any harm. you might as well go looking for a needle in a haystack, as for a boy out on the spree, as they call it. you go down and get your breakfast, and take up your mama's. we'll have them down again safe and sound, and as hungry as hunters, before you're done. it's not a bit of good your worriting after them. they can take good care of themselves, as one can see with half an eye." esther always submitted to genefer's judgment, but it was with an anxious heart that she went down-stairs, and gazed up at the pine-clad hillside, hoping to see some signs of the returning boys. but there was nothing visible, and she went into the dining-room with a grave face, feeling as though she had somehow been unfaithful to her charge. breakfast at the hermitage was at nine o'clock, and esther always took up the tray to her mother's room. mrs. st. aiden seldom came down-stairs before noon, though she talked of getting up earlier now that the summer was coming. but esther was fond of waiting on her, and she liked being waited upon. afterwards esther would eat her solitary breakfast, with a book propped up in front of her on the table; and she never thought of being lonely, especially as smut always sat on a chair beside her, and had his saucer of milk replenished each time she poured out her own tea afresh. but to-day esther did not get her book; she was much too anxious, and kept rising and walking over to the window every few minutes, rather to the discomfort of the placid cat, who could not think what had come to his little mistress that day. esther was thankful that her mother had not seemed much alarmed by the news that the boys had gone out for a walk before breakfast. "boys like that sort of thing, i suppose," she said. "their father said they were active and independent, and that we must not make ourselves anxious over them needlessly." then she had taken up her letters and begun to read them; and esther stole away, wishing she could be as calm and tranquil over the disappearance of the boys as other people were. "i'm sure they have gone up to the crag," she kept saying to herself, "and they may have got into some awful place, and all sorts of things may be happening!" esther could not have explained to genefer or anybody grown up her horror and misgiving respecting the vicinity of the crag; but it was a very real terror to her, and it had become greater since she had heard bertie's account of the electric eye, and other awful things which were likely to be going on there now. mr. trelawny had an assistant now, and was going to do still stranger things. suppose he wanted blood, or brains, or something human for his experiments! she shivered at the bare thought. suddenly she jumped up with a stifled cry. through the open window she heard the sound of steps and voices; but before she had time to reach it again, the sunlight was darkened by the approach of a tall figure, and esther saw that the missing boys were being led home by mr. earle, who had his hand upon the collar of each, as though he had found them a slippery pair of customers, and was resolved that they should not escape him. "here are your boys, miss esther," he remarked, walking in and depositing each of them upon the chair set ready at table for him. "i hope you have not been anxious about this pair of young rascals; and will you tell your mother, with my compliments, that i am ready to begin regular study with you all any day she may like to send word! you need not wait till next week unless you like." there was rather a grim smile upon mr. earle's face, and the round spectacles glinted in the sunshine till esther thought they must certainly be "electric eyes"--though what electric eyes were she had not the faintest notion, which, however, did not tend to allay her uneasiness. "thank you, sir," she said rather faintly; "i will tell mother." then she plucked up her courage to add, "may i give you a cup of coffee after your walk?" "thank you; but i have breakfasted already," answered mr. earle with a smile, which made esther just a little less afraid of him. "we keep early hours up at the crag; and a good thing too for these young sinners!" and he threw a scathing look at the boys, who were sitting marvelously quiet in their places, looking exceedingly demure, not to say sheepish, though they stole glances across the table at each other, showing that the spirit of mischief within them was only temporarily in abeyance. mr. earle nodded to them all and walked off through the window, and esther looked curiously at her two charges as she poured out the coffee. "where did you go?" she asked. "why, up to old bobby's of course!" answered pickle, his mouth full of bread and butter. "why can't we live up there, instead of in this little band-box? it's no end of a jolly place. do you go often?" "not very," answered esther with a little shiver. "that's what he said," remarked puck indistinctly, "but you'll have to come oftener now." "why?" "oh, because he said we might come as often as you brought us. i want to go every day." "i don't think mr. trelawny would like that." "oh, he wouldn't mind. he said he didn't mind how many visits you paid him. he said little girls were worth twice as much as boys, but that's all tommy rot." esther's eyes opened rather wider. "i don't know what tommy rot is," she said. puck burst out laughing. "she doesn't know much, does she, pickle?" he cried. "i wonder why old bobby likes girls better than boys?" "perhaps they're nicer to eat," suggested pickle; and the two boys went off into fits of laughter, whilst esther shook silently, wondering if that could have anything to do with it. to judge by their appetites, the boys were none the worse for their morning's walk--they put away the food in a fashion that astonished esther; but as she sat watching them at their meal, she noticed some very queer marks upon their clothes, which she did not think had been there last night--stains, and little holes, looking rather like burns; and presently she asked,-- "what have you been doing to yourselves?" and pointed to the marks. puck began to giggle, and pickle answered boldly,-- "oh, i suppose that must have been some of the stuff that smelt so nasty in the tanks." "what tanks?" "don't you know? haven't you ever been down there? in that jolly old cave under old bobby's house." esther felt a cold thrill creeping through her. "i don't know what you mean," she said faintly. "well, you must be a precious ninny!" laughed pickle, with a good-humored contempt; "fancy living here all these years, and not knowing that!" "we haven't been here so very long," said esther. "well, you've been here longer than we have anyhow. and we've found it out already." she was shivering a little, yet was consumed by curiosity. "tell me about it," she said. pickle was quite ready to do that. he had appeased his first hunger, and he loved to hear himself talk, especially when he had an appreciative audience; and esther's eager and half-frightened face bespoke the keenness of her interest. "well, you see, we woke up early, and didn't see any fun in lying in bed; so we got up and dressed and went out, and there was the path up through the wood, and we knew old bobby's house was somewhere up there. so it seemed a good plan just to go and look him up, you know." "we often go out early at home," added puck, "and look people up. sometimes we wake them up throwing things into their windows, or at them, if they're shut. sometimes they throw water at us, and that's awful fun. one old fellow did that, and we went and got the garden-hose, and his window was wide open, and we just soused his room with water. you should have seen him rushing to shut it up! but there isn't always a hose and pump handy," and he looked pathetic for a moment. "well," continued pickle, "we got up the hill easy enough, and it was a jolly place. we forgot all about going to the house, there was such lots to see and explore. that was how we found the cave--poking about all over. there are no end of little crevasses and things--places you can swarm down and climb up again. we had a fine time amongst them; and then we found this one. we climbed down the chimney, but there are two more ways of getting in. old bobby came by one, and turned us out by the other." "i've heard him speak of an underground place," said esther in a low voice. "he said he'd show it to me, but i didn't want to go." puck stared at her in amaze. "why on earth not?" he asked. "i thought it would be dark," she said, not caring to explain further; and both boys laughed. "it is rather dark; but not so very when you've got used to it," said pickle, "and boys don't mind that sort of thing. i don't know where the light gets in; but there are cracks, he said. anyhow we got down a queer, narrow hole like a chimney, and dropped right down into a sort of huge fireplace--big enough to cook half a dozen men." "o pickle!" "well, it was. i expect, perhaps, they did cook men there in the olden times--when people were persecuted, you know, and they had places for torturing them," remarked pickle, who had a boy's relish for horrors. "that sort of place would be just the very thing. and afterwards smugglers had it, and i daresay they murdered the excisemen in there if they got a chance. i never saw such queer marks as there were on the stones--did you, puck? i should think they must be human blood. you know that won't wash out if it has once been spilt when there's a murder. i've read lots of stories about that. if you only cut yourself, it doesn't seem to leave a stain; but that's different from murder." esther's face was as white as her frock. pickle enjoyed the impression he was producing. "well, i don't know what they use the cave for now, but something very queer anyhow. i never saw such odd things as they have got; it was just like the places you read of about wizards and magicians and the things they do. and there were tanks with lids, and we took off the lids and looked in, and they did smell. we put our fingers into some of them, and they smelt worse. and one of them burnt me!" and pickle held up a couple of bandaged fingers as though in proof of his assertion. "old bobby tied them up," said puck. "he said it served pickle right for meddling. he was in a rage with us for getting in and looking at his things. i expect he's got his enemies pickling in those tanks. i expect he's lured them to his cave and murdered them, and hidden them away, so that the stuff will eat them all up, and nobody will find their bodies. that's what i should like to do to all the nasty people when i'm a man. when you have a sort of castle on a crag, with underground caves to it, you can do just as you like, you know." "how did mr. trelawny find you?" asked esther, who was all in a tremor at this confirmation of her own suspicions--suspicions she had scarcely dared to admit even to herself. "well, i'm coming to that," said pickle; "it wasn't very long after we'd been down. we heard a funny scrunching noise somewhere up overhead, and then a sort of hollow echoing sound. we couldn't make it out at first, but soon we knew what it must be. it was steps coming down-stairs--tramp, tramp, tramp--nearer and nearer." "o pickle! weren't you frightened?" "well, not exactly; but we thought we'd better hide in case it might be smugglers, or murderers, or something. there wasn't time to get up the chimney again, and i'm not sure if you can get out that way, though you can get down easy enough. anyhow it would take some time. so we crouched behind a big stone and waited; and there were two men coming down talking to each other, and their voices echoed up and down and made such funny noises; and when they got down into the cave, it was old bobby himself, and that owl fellow who brought us home." "mr. earle," said esther. "earle or owl--what's the odds? i shall call him the owl; he's just like one with those round gig-lamps. well, they came down together, and then, of course, we knew it was all right; so out we jumped with a screech--and i say, puck, didn't we scare them too?" both boys went off into fits of laughter at the recollection of the start they had given their seniors, and then pickle took up the thread of the tale. "but old bobby was in a jolly wax too. he boxed both of us on the ears, and told us we'd no business there--" "he was afraid we'd found out something about the pickled corpses," interrupted puck. "people never like that sort of thing found out; but, of course, we shouldn't go telling about it--at least only to a few special people. "he went on at us ever so long, calling us little trespassers and spies, and wondering we had not killed ourselves; and then he led us along a funny sort of passage, and out through a door in the hillside right under the house. but they hadn't come in that way. they had come down a lot of steps; so we know that the cave is just under the house, and that old bobby and the owl get to it by a private way of their own. but i could find the door we went out by easily, though there is a great bush in front of it, and you can't see it when you've got a few paces off." "and there's a path right down to the sea," cried puck. "it's a regular smugglers' den. he got less cross when we were out, and told us a lot of things about smugglers. but he said we weren't ever to come there again--at least not alone. he said you might bring us, if we'd give our word of honor to obey you. he seemed to want you to come, tousle. i'm sure i don't know why, for girls are no good in jolly places like that." "i don't think i want to go," answered esther, putting it as mildly as possible; "i don't like underground places." but she wanted the boys to enjoy themselves; and after breakfast she asked leave to take them as far as the fishing village that nestled under the crags upon which mr. trelawny's house stood. of course there was another way to it along the road, which, though longer, was easier walking than climbing the hill and scrambling down the crags on the other side. the boys were willing to go the less adventurous way, as they had explored the cliff already, and esther felt more light of heart, thinking that along the road they could not come to any harm. but she was soon to realize that some boys find facilities for mischief and pranks wherever they are. the mercurial spirits of her charges kept her in a constant flutter of anxiety. they would get under horses' feet, climb up into strange carts to chat with the carters, jump over brooks, heedless of wet feet, chase the beasts at pasture as fearlessly as they chased butterflies, and make the acquaintance of every dog they met, whether amiable or the reverse. they even insisted upon taking an impromptu ride upon a pony out at grass, and enjoyed a gallop round the field on its bare back. esther, whose life until recently had been passed mainly in garrison towns, and who had not acquired the fearlessness of the country child, looked on in wondering amaze at these pranks, and listened with a sense of wonder and awe as the boys described their exploits at their own home, the things they did, and the things they meant to do. down by the shore there was no holding the pair. they tore about the little quay and landing place in the greatest excitement. they got into the boats lying beneath, and scrambled from one to the other, rocking them in a fashion that sent esther's heart into her mouth. she felt like a hen with ducklings to rear. she had not courage to follow the boys into the swaying boats, and could only stand watching them with anxious eyes, begging them to be careful, and not to fall into the water. "bless your heart, missie!" said an old fisherman whom esther knew, because he often brought them fish and lobsters in his basket fresh from the sea, "they won't come to no harm. bless you! boys allers will be boys, and 'tisn't no good fur to try and hold them back. them's not the kind that hurts. you sit here and watch them comfortable like. they're as happy as kings, they are." the old man spoke in the soft, broad way which esther was getting to understand now, but which puzzled her at first, as it would puzzle little people if i were to write it down the way the old man spoke it. she rather liked the funny words and turns of expression now, and she enjoyed sitting by old master pollard, as she called him, watching the boys and listening to his tales, which he was always ready to tell when he had a listener. the boys had a glorious morning, paddling and shrimping with some of the fisher lads of the place. they only returned to esther when they were growing ravenous for their dinner. she was glad to get them home quickly, driven by the pangs of hunger; and she told them that master pollard had said he would take them out fishing one of these days, and show them how the lobster-pots were set, and various other mysteries. esther knew something about lobster-pots, having been with the old man to visit his sometimes; so she rose in the estimation of her cousins, especially as some of the lads had told them that "old pollard were once a smuggler himself, long ago, when he was a lad," though this esther was disposed indignantly to deny. "well, i hope he was, anyhow," said puck; "i shall ask him to tell us all about it. i wonder if he knows all about the cave, and whether they pickled corpses up there in his time." the boys would have gone down to the shore again after their early dinner, but their aunt had another suggestion to make. "mrs. polperran has been in, and wants you all to go to the rectory for the afternoon, and have tea in the garden. i said i would send you all, so that you can make friends with your little playfellows." "who is mrs. poll-parrot?" asked pickles, with a sly look in his eyes. "polperran, dear. mr. polperran is our clergyman, and his children are esther's little friends, and will be your friends too." "the rev. poll-parrot," said puck under his breath; and then both boys went off into fits of laughter. "i don't think you ought to speak like that, puck," said mrs. st. aiden, with mild reproof. "you must remember he is a clergyman, and you must be respectful." puck's blue eyes twinkled. it did not seem as though he had very much respectfulness in his composition; but he did not reply. both the boys treated the gentle invalid with more consideration than they seemed disposed to bestow upon anybody else. they did nothing more free and easy than to dub her "aunt saint," and though mrs. st. aiden suggested that aunt alicia would be better, she did not stand out against the other appellation. "you look like a saint on a church window," pickle remarked judicially, "so it seems to fit you better;" and mrs. st. aiden smiled indulgently, for it was less trouble to give way than to insist. it was with some trepidation that esther conducted her young charges to the rectory that day. the little polperrans had been so very well brought up, and were so "proper behaved"--as genefer called it--themselves, that she was fearful of the effect that might be produced upon them by the words and ways of the newly-imported pair. mrs. polperran herself came out to welcome them upon their approach, and pickle, when introduced, went boldly up to her with outstretched hand. "how do you do, mrs. poll-parrot? is this the cage you live in?" now mrs. polperran was just a little hard of hearing, so that she only caught the drift of the speech, and not the exact words, and she smiled and nodded her head. "yes, dear; this is my house, and that is the garden where you will often come and play, i hope; and there is an orchard beyond with a swing in it; and here are your little friends all ready to make your acquaintance," and she indicated her three children, who had been close beside her all the time. prissy's face was rather red, and bertie had his handkerchief tucked into his mouth in a very odd way, whilst milly was looking divided between the desire to laugh and the fear of prissy; however, mrs. polperran did not observe these small signs, but told her children to take care of their little guests, and sailed back to the house herself, where there was always work to be done. "pretty poll! pretty poll! scratch a poll, polly!" cried puck softly, capering on the grass-plot as the lady disappeared. "you are a very rude little boy," said prissy with an air of displeasure and a glance at esther, as much as to ask her why she did not reprove such impertinence; but bertie made a dash at puck, seized him by the hand, and cried out,-- "come along! come along! oh, won't we have some fun now!" immediately the three boys dashed off together full tilt, and milly, after a wavering glance in the direction of her sister and esther, rushed headlong after them. the elder pair were left for the moment alone, and prissy looked inquiringly into esther's flushed face. "i don't think your cousins are very nice boys," she remarked with some severity; "i should think they have been very badly brought up." esther felt a little tingle of vexation at hearing her cousins thus criticised, though after all she was not quite sure that she could deny prissy's charge. "they have no mother, you see," she said. "ah, well, perhaps that does make a difference. fathers often spoil their children, when there is no mother; i've heard mama say so herself," she said. "you will have to be a little mother to them, esther, and teach them better. i'm not going to hear my mother called names, and i shall tell them so." prissy proceeded to do this with great firmness when the children met a little later. pickle listened to her speech with most decorous gravity, while puck's pretty face dimpled all over with laughter. "pretty polly! pretty polly!--doesn't she talk well!" he exclaimed; and to prissy's infinite astonishment and dismay, milly and bertie rolled to and fro in helpless mirth, whilst pickle looked up in her flushed face and said,-- "you know little poll-parrots are called lovebirds. it isn't pretty-behaved at all to get so angry about it.--scratch her poll, tousle; perhaps that'll put her in a better temper. why, she's sticking her feathers up all over; she'll peck somebody next!" and pickle made a show of drawing back in fear, whilst his admirers became perfectly limp with laughter. it was the first time the younger pair had ever tasted of the sweets of liberty. without exactly knowing it, they had been under prissy's rule from their babyhood upwards. it had been as natural to them to obey her as to obey their mother, and they had come to regard her almost in the light of a grown-up person whose word must, as a matter of course, be law. and yet the germs of rebellion must surely have been in their hearts, or they would hardly have sprung up so quickly. "we never have any fun at home," said bertie, in a subdued whisper, when the boys and milly had had their tea and had taken themselves off to the farthest corner of the orchard; "whenever we think of anything nice to do, prissy always says we mustn't." "why do you tell her?" asked puck, and at that bertie and milly exchanged glances. it had never occurred to them as possible to keep anything from prissy. "we mean to have some fun here, puck and i," said pickle, "and we shan't go and tell everything beforehand. we tell when it's done. it's a much better way." milly and bertie sat open-mouthed in admiration at such audacity and invention. "i never thought of that!" said milly softly. "we thought of it a long time ago," said puck, with a touch of pride and patronage in his voice. "well," said pickle suddenly, "you don't seem such a bad pair of youngsters; so suppose we let you know when we've got our next plan on hand, and you come too." "oh!" cried milly, and "oh!" cried bertie. a look of slow rapture dawned upon their faces. they realized that a time of glorious emancipation was at hand, when they might be able to get into mischief like other happy little boys and girls. chapter iv. the sweets of freedom. "you can do as you like, milly; but i shall go!" small herbert set his foot to the ground with a gesture of immovable firmness. milly watched him with admiring eyes, still halting between two opinions. "oh, but, bertie, isn't it naughty?" "i don't care if it is. i'm going." it was like hoisting the signal of revolt--revolt from the rule of the elder sister. they both knew that prissy would never go, or let them go either, if she knew of the plan. and to slip away unknown to her, though not a difficult matter upon a saturday afternoon, would mark an epoch in the life of this pair of properly-brought-up children, as both instinctively felt, though they could not have expressed themselves upon the subject. "it's our holiday afternoon," said bertie stoutly, his square face looking squarer than ever. "nobody's told us never to go out of the orchard; we're allowed to know pickle and puck. they say they're going out for a lark on saturday afternoon, and i'm going with them." milly's eyes were growing brighter and brighter; she looked with open admiration upon herbert. he was younger than herself, but at this moment he seemed the older of the pair. "bertie," she asked, in a voice that was little above a whisper, "what _is_ a lark?" bertie hesitated a moment. "it's something we don't ever get here," he answered, with a note of resentment in his voice; "but pickle and puck know all about it, and i mean to learn too." "o bertie!--and so will i!" "that's right. i'd like you to come too. i don't see why you should be a little cockney any more than i!" "o bertie! what's that?" "well, i don't just exactly know; but it's something i heard father say." "what did he say?" "well, i'll tell you. i was in his study learning my latin declension; and i was behind the curtain, and i think he'd forgotten i was there. mother came in, and they talked, and i stopped my ears and was learning away, when i heard them say something about puck and pickle. then i listened." "what did they say?" "mother was saying she was afraid they were naughty, rude boys, and would teach us mischief; and then father laughed and said he didn't much mind if they did." "o bertie!" "he did, i tell you," answered bertie, swelling himself out, as though he felt his honor called in question. "they talked a good while, and i couldn't understand it all; but i heard father say he'd rather i were a bold cornish boy, even if i did get into mischief sometimes, than grow up a little timid cockney." "i wonder what he meant," said milly in an awestruck tone; "i never heard of a cockney before." "i think it must mean something like a girl," said bertie, with a note of perhaps unconscious contempt in his voice, "for mother said something, and then father said, 'you see, you were brought up a cockney yourself, my dear, and you can do as you like about the girls; but i want herbert to be a true cornish boy, and he doesn't seem to be one yet.' that's what he said; and now i'm going to find out what it is to be a cornish boy, and i'm going to be one. you can go on being a cockney if you like." "but i won't!" cried milly rebelliously; "i'll be a cornish boy too!" "you can't be a boy, but you can come along with us if you like," said bertie patronizingly; "pickle and puck said you could, though puck did say he thought girls cried and spoiled things after a bit." "i don't cry!" answered milly sturdily; and, indeed, she had most of her father in her of the three polperran children. they had been brought up under the rule of a mother who had very strict ideas of training and discipline, and had lived the greater part of her life in towns, so that country ways would always be more or less strange to her. they had never run wild, even now that they had returned to their father's native county, and were in the midst of moors and crags, and almost within sound of the sea. they still kept to their prim little walks along the road, and if they played out of doors, it was always in the orchard--never on the open moorland, or by the rocks and pools of the shore. prissy was really a little copy of her mother, and she had no taste for anything strange, and was rather afraid of solitude and of the boom of the sea. so she kept her younger pair well in hand, and they had never seriously thought of rebellion until the arrival upon the scene of pickle and puck. from that moment the horizon of their lives seemed to widen. here were two boys who actually dared to call their mother mrs. poll-parrot to her face, and their father the reverend poll! they habitually spoke of their own father as crump, and had dubbed the redoubtable mr. trelawny "old bobby"! these were flights of boldness beyond the wildest dreams of the little polperrans. at first they had been almost overcome with fear, but familiarity had changed that feeling into one of growing wonder and admiration. for these boys were not only bold in word--they were daring beyond expression in deed. already they had explored some of the hidden mysteries of the crag; they had been out lobster-catching with old pollard; and they had tumbled into one of the deep pools in the rocks, and had been hauled out dripping by a fisherman who luckily chanced to be near at hand. now they were learning to swim, mr. trelawny having decided that that must be the next step in their education; and although they had not had many lessons, pickle could already keep himself afloat several strokes, and puck was not far behind. and all this had been done in three weeks, as well as other minor acts, of which the heroes themselves thought simply nothing, though bertie and milly were filled with admiration. prissy disapproved of them utterly and entirely; nor was this very difficult to understand. she gave herself the sort of airs which pickle and puck openly ridiculed. they persisted in calling her "pretty polly," and she retaliated by calling them rude, ill-mannered boys, and openly pitying esther for the infliction of their company. "if prissy would be nice to them, they would be nice to her," milly remarked sagely once, "and then things would be better. but they always get quarreling, and then it's no good trying to settle anything. everything goes wrong." "that's because prissy is such a cockney," cried bertie, airing his new word with satisfaction; "esther would never make half the fuss about every little thing. pickle and puck like esther, though they do laugh at her rather. but they won't have either esther or prissy with them when we have our lark on saturday afternoon. they'll only take you and me." "well, i'll go!" cried milly, throwing to the winds all allegiance to prissy; "i want to see what a lark is like. i'm tired of being a cockney." "hurrah!" cried bertie, feeling all the glow that follows a bold stand against domestic tyranny; "we'll all have a regular lark together, and we'll tell father all about it afterwards. he won't scold, and then mother can't." saturday afternoon was the children's holiday. at the hermitage lessons went on regularly now on every morning of the week, and five afternoons; and it was the same at the rectory, where father and mother taught their children, or superintended their lessons when not able to be with them the whole time. but on saturday afternoons all were free to do as they pleased. prissy always went with her mother to give out the books at the lending library, of which she was practically librarian, and very proud of her position. esther was always busy at home with little household duties, which she had less time for now during the week. this left the younger children quite free to follow out their own plans, and so far they had spent their holiday afternoon together. once they had played in the orchard, and once they had gone down to the shore, where the pair from the hermitage had displayed to their admiring companions the progress they had made in the art of swimming. "i mean to ask father to let me learn to swim too," said herbert, whose ideas were soaring to untold heights. "i'm sure that would be one way of growing to be a cornish boy. all the boys and men here can swim." pickle and puck, however, had no intention of wasting all half-holidays in such peaceful and unadventurous fashion, and they had given out very decidedly that on the following saturday they should have "a lark." they had not further specified what form this lark was to take, but had merely declared their willingness that herbert and milly should share it, provided they wouldn't go and talk of it beforehand. "we don't want miss prig sticking her nose into our business anyhow," said pickle, using a second name they had recently evolved for prissy. "we'll go where we like, and do what we like, and when we get home we'll tell them all about it. that's what puck and i always do, and it's much the best plan. grown-ups are always worrying after you if you say a word. they'll be much happier if they think we are safe here in the orchard." it had been a moot point all the week with bertie and milly whether or not they should dare to join in the projected "lark"; but bertie's resolution was now irrevocably taken, and milly threw prudence and subservience to the four winds, and swore adhesion to the new league of liberty. they met in the rectory orchard, whither pickle and puck were supposed to be going to spend the saturday afternoon. esther was at ease about them there, for she had a belief that in that house everything went by routine, and that herbert and milly would restrain their comrades from any overt acts of independence and daring. there were rabbits to be visited, and cows to be driven in from the glebe pasture, and various other mild delights which always seemed quite exciting to her. she let her charges go with an easy mind; and as for prissy, it never so much as occurred to her that after her admonition, "mind you are very good!" milly or bertie would venture to dream of such a thing as leaving the premises unknown to anybody in the house, and without obtaining leave. pickle and puck arrived, brimming over with excitement and the delights of anticipation. "where is everybody?" they asked at once. "they're all out," answered milly, skipping about. "there's nobody to stop us or say 'don't.' what are we going to do? have you decided?" "of course we have. we're going to get a boat, and go out to that island where those jolly rocks are, and where nobody lives. we've got some jolly cakes and things in this basket. we shall light a fire of dried seaweed, and be castaways from a wreck, and have a scrumptious time till it's time to go home again." bertie's eyes grew round with anticipation. milly jumped into the air with delight; but then suddenly looking grave, she exclaimed,-- "but how shall we get there?" "in a boat, of course." "but then we shall have to have a man with us, and that costs such a lot of money." "come along, silly-billy!" cried pickle with good-humored scorn; "you'll soon see how we do things, puck and i. a man, indeed! as though we'd have a great lumbering gowk to spoil all our fun, and have to pay him too! no fear!" pickle took a short cut across country towards the shore. it was safer than the road in many ways, and the path he selected did not lead to the fishing village, but to a little cove half a mile away to the right. milly danced beside him chattering gleefully. "o pickle, can you row yourself?" "of course i can. puck and i rowed old pollard's boat about for him the other day amongst the lobster-pots. anybody can row--at least anybody with any sense. you only have to put the oar in the water and pull it out again. even a girl could do that." "we've never been let try," said milly. "we hardly ever go in a boat. mother doesn't like it. sometimes father takes us out on a fine evening, but not often. he's busy, and mother generally thinks it too cold or damp or something." "i'm glad i wasn't brought up in a poll-parrot's cage," was pickle's remark; "your mother seems worse than aunt saint, and she's pretty silly about boys." "i believe mother was a cockney," said milly gravely. "perhaps that is why, though i don't quite know what a cockney is." pickle laughed, but they were going too fast for much conversation. it was rough walking, but they did not want to lose time. "here we are!" shouted pickle, as they came suddenly upon a little cleft in the fringe of moorland they were skirting, and could see right down to the shining sea. "here's the place, and here's the old boat. i've settled with the old fellow for it, and he promised to leave the oars and things in all ready. oh, jolly! jolly! jolly! now we'll have a lark!" this little creek was an offshoot of the bay, and a small tumble-down hut stood just beneath the overhanging crags. a boat lay rocking in the water, moored to a ring in the rock, and the owner had been true to his promise, and had left the oars and rudder and stretchers all in place. with shouts of ecstasy the children tumbled in. this was something like independence! not a creature was there to say them nay. they were afloat in a boat of their very own, about to row over to that enchanted and enchanting island which millie and bertie had often gazed at wonderingly and wistfully, but had never dreamed of exploring in their own persons. the boat was a safe old tub, heavy and cumbersome, but steady in the water. the sea was very smooth, and the tide was falling, so that the efforts of the youthful rowers to get clear of the creek were crowned with success, although pickle and puck had only very elementary ideas as to rowing. bertie took the rudder, and as he had sometimes steered the boat when his father rowed them about the bay, he had some idea of keeping a straight course, and avoiding rocks and buoys. the island looked quite near to shore from the cliffs above; but it seemed rather a long way off when the boat was on the water, slowly traveling out towards it. pickle and puck soon cast off their coats and waistcoats, and the drops stood upon their brows; but they would not be beaten, and pulled on manfully, though they did feel as though the island must be behaving in a very shabby manner, and retiring gradually from them as they approached. still, the delight of being out in a boat by themselves made amends for much, and milly, who had taken her place in the bows, screamed aloud with joy and excitement. she looked over the edge, and cried out that there were the loveliest things to be seen along the bottom. she would have been happy enough on the water the whole afternoon; but the two rowers were very glad when, after prolonged and gallant efforts on their part, they at last felt the keel of the boat grating upon the longed-for shore. "i'm hot and thirsty, i know!" cried pickle; "i shall have a swim first thing. there's a jolly pool. i shall just swim about there, i can swim across it, i believe, and it isn't deep anywhere." "i'll come too!" cried puck; "i'm just sweating all over!" "prissy says people oughtn't to bathe when they're hot," remarked milly doubtfully; but pickle only laughed and said,-- "pretty polly talks an awful lot of rubbish. the hotter you are the jollier it is. you come along too, bert." bertie drew his breath hard. this was indeed freedom! milly would have loved to join the party, but desisted from motives of propriety. she had not brought her bathing dress, and, indeed, she was hardly ever allowed to use it at any time. so she went off to explore the wonders of the island, leaving the boys to enjoy their bath and dry themselves in the hot sunshine afterwards. "i wish i were a boy too," she said to herself; "but anyhow i won't be a little cockney, even if i am a girl." certainly the island was a most entrancing place. there were pools where sea-anemones displayed their flower-like beauty, and others lined with green seaweed that looked like moss, where little fishes swam about, and shrimps turned somersaults, and limpets stuck tight to the side, as though a part of the solid rock. then on the top of the island, where the water never came, a coarse kind of grass grew, and some little flowers and sea-poppies; and milly found many treasures in the way of tiny shells, which would make lovely decorations for the doll's house at home. she could have enjoyed herself for hours like this; but the boys turned up before very long, rosy and wet-headed from their bath, and declared they must have something to eat quick, and that they must make a fire and boil their very tiny kettle, just for the sake of feeling that they really were castaways upon a desert island. "i've found some water that isn't salt!" cried milly; "it's in a deep pool above high-water mark. it must be rain-water, i suppose; but it's quite nice, for i drank some." and pickle gave a shout of joy, for the boys were terribly thirsty, and though they had provided themselves with a kettle and some tea, they had never thought of bringing water. puck said that sea-water boiled would be sure to be quite nice, for boiling was sure to take the salt out of it somehow. milly, however, knew better, and was proud of her find; and she and puck ran off to fill the kettle, whilst pickle and bertie set to gathering dry seaweed, and putting it in a hole in the rocks which was rather like a fire-grate, and over which they could easily put on the kettle to boil. it was tremendously exciting and interesting work--the sort of play the rectory children had never indulged in before, though they had secretly longed after it. [illustration: "pickle soon had a merry little fire burning."--page . _esther's charge._] "i'm the captain, and you're the bo'sun, bertie," explained pickle; "puck's the cabin-boy, and milly's a passenger. everybody else has been drowned dead, and we've been cast ashore on the island. so we have to light a fire as a signal to any passing ship to come and take us off." "oh, but we don't want to be taken off!" shrieked milly; "we want to stay all the afternoon! if they see our fire perhaps they'll come too soon. we don't want that." however, pickle decreed that this risk must be run, as they must have their tea, and all castaways lighted a fire when they could. he had matches ready, and very soon the dry seaweed kindled, and a merry little fire was soon burning in the hole. it was not long before the kettle boiled, and very proud was milly of being permitted to put in the tea, and officiate at the dispensing of the liquid. they had only one mug, and some lumps of sugar, and no milk; but that mattered very little. castaways could not expect luxuries, and the cakes were excellent. bertie was in rampant spirits. this was true liberty, and he was eager for remaining on the island permanently. there was a hole on the other side where they could sleep upon a bed of dried seaweed; and then in the mornings they could bathe in the pool, and he could learn to swim, and milly could cook their food, and they would catch fish, and crabs, and shrimps, and live like princes. puck was rather taken by the idea. "we shouldn't have any lessons then with the old owl," he remarked. "i don't like lessons. it's such a waste of time, when one might be having fun. i can't see what good lessons are to anybody. i asked crump once if he remembered the dates of all the kings and queens, and he said he was afraid he didn't, though he could have said them off pat when he was my age. if one may forget everything as soon as one grows up, what's the use of making such a fuss about learning them?" "crump says it trains the mind to learn," said pickle, jumping up; "but i should think living on an island and doing everything for oneself would train it much more. let's go and see the hole, bert. p'r'aps we won't stay to-day--we've not brought quite enough things; but we might collect them here for a bit, and then when we've got enough we might come over, and let the boat go adrift, and live like cave-men as long as we liked. it would do for our city of refuge, you know," and he looked across at puck, who capered in great glee. "of course, of course, of course!" he shouted; "we ought to have a city of refuge!" "what's that?" asked bertie eagerly. "oh, it's all in the bible," answered puck. "we found it one day, and told crump; and we asked if we might have one, and he said yes, if we could find it; and so we made it. it was out on the stable roof--such a jolly place!--no avenger of blood could ever get up there. crump did try once; but he stuck fast, and we sat and roared at him. it was a fine city of refuge. we always went there when people were angry. once we were up there nearly all day; and if we'd had more gingerbread we'd never have come down till they'd promised not to punish us. but miss masters sat at the bottom of the ladder that time, and she whipped us when we had to come down. that was what i call being real mean. what's the good of a city of refuge if the avenger of blood sits waiting for you at the bottom of the ladder? we asked crump to tell her never to do it again, but i don't know if he ever did. soon after that we came here, and the old owl teaches us instead." "and you haven't got a city of refuge here?" asked the breathless milly. "no; but i think we shall want one," said pickle seriously. "there's something about old bobby and the owl that i don't quite like. they can be very jolly; but they seem to think they're going to have it very much their own way. i don't like giving in to a pair of old fogies like that. i think this island might come in very useful." "prissy could never find us here!" cried milly under her breath; "we could do the loveliest things! oh, do let us have a city of refuge!" they explored the island with breathless interest. it seemed an excellent place for their design. there was no danger of its ever being covered at high tide; there was a rent in one side, not quite a cave, but a deep fissure, which would give protection from wind and some shelter from rain, and prove an excellent place of concealment. there was the big pool for bathing in, and little pools for keeping their treasures in the way of anemones and other sea-water creatures. and though the tides might wash away the old treasures, there would be new ones deposited instead, and altogether it seemed a most desirable sort of place. "we'll collect things here," said pickle with decision. "that was the worst of our other city of refuge; there was no place to keep anything. we had just to carry up with us what we wanted, and unless we could get down into the house without being seen we couldn't get anything more. once jim, the stable-boy, brought us some apples; but he didn't generally know when we were up there. we'll lay in a regular store of things, and then if they get cross we can come here and stop for a week. they'll be so frightened by that time that they'll never think of being angry when we get back, if we don't stay here always." "are you sure?" asked milly eagerly. "i feel as though mother would get angrier and angrier the longer we stayed away." but pickle looked immensely wise. "no, it isn't like that," he said; "they begin by getting angrier and angrier, but then they get frightened, and when they're just as frightened as they can be, then if you go back they don't scold--at least hardly at all. they're only all in a tremble lest you've got wet or something like that--as if one were a cat. it's very stupid of them, but it's very convenient for us. you get more fun and less scolding that way." "o pickle! how do you know?" "oh, we've tried it so often, and with different nurses and governesses, and with granny and crump. we know all about that sort of thing. crump was the worst to reckon on. he would sometimes say very little that day, but take it out of you next. but then crump was crump, and one never minded much what he did. i wish we had him here now." "would he let you have a city of refuge out here?" asked milly wonderingly. "of course he would. crump isn't like a pack of silly women, who always think one is going to kill oneself. crump likes boys to do things for themselves, and not be always hanging round and asking other people to take care of them. i'm going to be a soldier when i grow up, and soldiers have to learn how to do lots of things; and puck will be either a soldier or a sailor. crump said we might choose for ourselves; and when we had chosen we must stick to it like bricks, and so we will." "i'm going to be a cornish boy!" cried bertie; "my father said so. cornish boys can all swim, and row boats, and wrestle, and things like that. we'll learn all about that at the city of refuge. it's the women who spoil everything. let's pass a law that no woman shall ever be allowed to set foot on our island." "then you mustn't count me a woman!" cried milly appealingly. "of course not!" answered all the boys at once; and pickle went on judicially--"we shan't count all girls as women--only the very stupid ones like pretty polly. tousle may come as a visitor sometimes; and you may come always, milly, if you'll be jolly and not tell secrets. i don't count people like you women. you have some sense." "and perhaps if you get regularly jolly, you won't ever be a woman," added puck consolingly. "i should think there must be some way of stopping it. when old bobby or the owl are in good temper i'll ask them about it. they have all sorts of funny things in bottles and tanks, and they can do lots of queer things. i'll ask them if they can't do something to stop you always being a woman. you'd like that very much, wouldn't you?" "oh yes!" cried milly eagerly. "if i could be a cornish boy i should be quite happy." but time was flying fast, and, unless the children wanted their secret to escape them too soon, they would have to be going back. they had had a fine time out on the island, and the tide had begun to flow again, and had floated their boat, which, for above an hour, had been lying stranded amid the rocks. so in they all tumbled, and rowed back homewards, reaching the creek as the clock in the village church chimed out the hour of six. "we shall just get home in time!" cried milly, "and nobody will know we haven't been playing about near home all the time.--pickle, may we tell father about the city of refuge--just as a secret? i'm sure he won't mind; and if he doesn't tell mother it will be all right." "well, i'll think about it," answered pickle, in his capacity of captain; "but don't you tell anything till i give you leave." chapter v. at the crag. "you must come, tousle; you must, you must, you must!" the boys were dancing round her like a pair of wild indians, and esther gave up the unequal struggle. "i'll come if you want me very much," she said rather wearily, "but i think you'd enjoy yourselves just as much without me." "well, it's not so much that we couldn't do without you ourselves," returned puck, with his habitual candor; "but old bobby says he won't have us without our keeper, and that means you, though i'm sure i don't know why he should call you that." "nor i," answered esther, shaking her head. she felt very little power over the mercurial pair whom she had vainly tried to make her charge. they were fond of her, in a fashion, and she was fond of them. their arrival had brought a new element into her life; and there were many happy hours when they played together joyously, and esther forgot her gravity and grown-up ways, and laughed and raced about and shouted gleefully, as other children do. yet it could not be denied that the boys brought many new anxieties into her life, and the uncertainty as to what they would do next kept her upon tenter-hooks from week's end to week's end. they did not want to give trouble and pain; they only wanted to amuse themselves and to be left alone. they were accustomed to liberty and independence, and were on the whole very well able to take care of themselves. but they were full of spirit, and they delighted in mischief; and something in the prim and proper methods prevailing in this little place stirred up the spirit of mischief within them, and led them to commit more pranks, perhaps, than they would otherwise have thought of. mrs. st. aiden took things easily, fortunately for esther. the boys amused her. she did not see very much of them, and on the whole they behaved nicely towards her, having received rather explicit commands on this point from their father. they could not always restrain their mischievous devices even where she was concerned. one morning when her breakfast-tray was brought up, and she uncovered the plate where some little hot dainty generally reposed, behold there was a large toad sitting upon an empty plate, and gazing at her with its jewel-like eyes; and the shout of laughter which followed upon her startled scream betrayed the presence of the lurking conspirators, who had deftly made an exchange of plates whilst esther's back was turned, just before she took the tray up-stairs. still, in spite of sundry tricks of this sort, mrs. st. aiden did not object on the whole to the presence of the boys in the house. she liked to hear their racy accounts of what they did from day to day, and there was always mr. trelawny to fall back upon if they threatened to become too much for her. a long afternoon at the crag had been promised to the boys for some while, on the first half-holiday when their conduct through the week had won them the right to the treat. mr. earle was to be the judge on this point, and it was some time before he could honestly say it was deserved. mr. earle was exciting esther's admiration by the way he was obtaining the upper hand of the restless and obstreperous boys. at first they had obviously regarded lesson hours as so much time for the invention of tricks for the interruption of study, and the playing off of practical jokes. but gradually they had come to an understanding that their tutor regarded matters differently, and that he had just as definite ideas as they upon the subject. then had come a certain battle of wills between the belligerents, and little by little it became evident that the tutor was becoming the victor. he did not often have to resort to corporal chastisement, though he had once given pickle a sound caning for insubordination, and puck had had two or three good cuts across his grubby little hand. but he had other ways of showing that he meant to be master in study hours; and esther had come to have a great admiration for him, and a sense of confidence in his presence, although the halo of dread which surrounded all persons connected with the crag still continued to cling about him. it had been a great relief to her when saturday after saturday mr. earle had looked through his mark book and had shaken his head at the proposal of the promised treat. she did not want pickle and puck to be naughty, but she did not in the least want to go up with them to spend the afternoon at mr. trelawny's house. and yet it was understood that she was to accompany the boys, "to keep them in order," as the master of the house said, though esther knew perfectly that if anybody succeeded in keeping the pair in order it would be himself or mr. earle. "he likes you, tousle," said pickle shrewdly; "he likes you a lot better than us. i don't think he cares for us a bit; but he's fond of you. i can't think why you don't like him." "i never said i didn't like him," said esther nervously. "no; but anybody not a fool could see it with half an eye. i can't think why you don't. he's an awfully jolly old boy, for all he's so gruff and such an old tyrant. he'd like you to like him i'm sure. i can't think why you don't." "you'd much better," advised puck, "or perhaps you'll make him angry, and then he might put you into one of his tanks and use you for his experiments. i think it's silly of you always to run away and hide when he comes. he's always asking where you have gone to, and when we tell him you're hiding away from him, he looks as if he didn't quite like it, though he always laughs his big, gruff laugh." "o puck! why do you tell?" "well, we must speak the truth," said puck with an air of virtue; "and you know you do always scuttle away when he comes." "never mind," cried pickle, who was in a mighty hurry to be off; "come along now, and let's go up. we may go any time after dinner, you know." "it's so hot!" said esther with a little sigh. "would it do if i came a little later? the sun makes my head ache." "oh, but it's all in the wood, and i don't believe he'll have us without you. do come along. boys never have headaches. i don't see why girls should have either." esther yielded. she did not want to spoil the boys' holiday afternoon, but she did wish that her going with them had not been a condition. her fears of the crag and its master did not diminish from the things she heard dropped by older people about the things going on there, now that mr. trelawny had an assistant in his experiments. the scientific names she heard spoken sounded terrible in her ears; and she pictured the two men in their gloomy cave, sitting up all the night through pursuing wonderful and mysterious researches, and her books of historical romance, which told of the secret machinations of wizards and magicians, acquired for her a new fascination and a new terror. the three children started off through the pine woods, but esther was soon left far behind. the boys clambered hither and thither, rushing about with the inexhaustible energy of children; but esther's feet lagged wearily, and her small face was pale. there were shadows beneath her eyes, and she pulled off her hat and fanned herself with it, thinking the way to the crag had never seemed so long before. esther's head had taken to aching a good deal of late. at night she could not always sleep. her lessons seemed to dance before her eyes, and she would dream about them even after she got off to slumber-land. it had been a great pleasure to esther to have regular lessons with somebody like mr. earle, who could explain everything she wanted to know, and who never reproved her for asking questions; but perhaps the strain of regular work, in addition to that of the two boys in the house and the anxiety she was often in about them and their doings, was rather much for her. at any rate, she had been feeling her head a good deal for the past fortnight, and would so much rather have spent the afternoon quietly at home than have faced first the long walk up the hill and then all the tremors and excitements of the crag. but esther was not accustomed to think first of herself, and she plowed her way bravely upwards, till at last they arrived in front of the grim-looking old house perched upon its crag, and saw the two gentlemen sitting out on the terrace, rather as though waiting for their guests. the boys gave a whoop and a bound, and dashed towards them. when esther reached the terrace they were both swarming about mr. trelawny like a pair of young monkeys. he was laughing in his rather grim fashion, and esther heard him saying in his deep voice,-- "no, i won't have that impudence from you, you young jackanapes. if your father lets you behave so, he ought to know better. when i was a boy we were made to respect our elders, and if we couldn't do it, we had to keep it to ourselves. you may call me uncle bob, if you like, as my name happens to be robert; but every time you call me old bobby you'll get a good sound box on the ear--so now you understand." the boys laughed, but they knew perfectly that mr. trelawny was in earnest, and that he would be as good as his word. they had found out that from mr. earle, who had absolutely forbidden the use of nicknames in school hours, and had insisted that they should speak of esther by her proper name, and address him as mr. earle--a thing that seemed to astonish them not a little. out of school hours, however, they considered that they had full liberty of speech, and the next minute puck exclaimed,-- "here's tousle coming along. she didn't want to come a bit. we had to bully her into it. she can't bear the crag." a quick flush mounted to esther's cheek as she heard, and her heart beat fast. how she did wish the boys would not say such things! she didn't seem able to make them understand how terrifying it was for her that mr. trelawny should be told of her shrinking from him and his house. shyness with esther was like a real physical pain, and she would rather have received a sharp blow than be obliged to face mr. trelawny after these words had just been spoken. he threw the boys from him, and went and took her by the hand. "well, little miss esther, and how do you do? you are quite a stranger here. we must make you change your opinion of the crag and its owner. now you shall tell me what you would like to do and to see, since you are here." "oh, thank you, but i don't mind," answered esther nervously. "i like sitting here and watching the beautiful sea." "well, we'll sit here till you have cooled down, and we have drunk our coffee, and then we will see if we can't find something more exciting to amuse ourselves." a man-servant came out almost immediately, bearing cups of coffee on a tray; and this was very good, with plenty of milk and sugar for the little people. the boys chattered away, and esther found herself able to sit in a quiet corner and be silent, for if ever mr. trelawny asked her a question, pickle or puck always broke in with an answer before she could get in a word. presently the boys could be quiet no longer. "come along and show us things," they cried, getting upon the rails of mr. trelawny's chair, and tweaking his thick, grizzled hair. "we know you've got an awful lot of jolly things up here. come along and show us them. why, even tousle hasn't seen half, and she's lived here ever so long." a smart rap on the knuckles brought pickle quickly to the ground. "speak properly of your cousin whilst you are in my house," said mr. trelawny. "what did i say?" asked pickle, aggrieved. "oh, bother! why can't we call people what we like? i think you're a regular old tyrant." "well, you needn't come near me unless you like," was the equable response; "but if you do, you'll have to behave yourself. so just you mind that." the brothers exchanged glances; but it was evidently not diplomatic to quarrel with the master of the house at this juncture, and they felt that in the matter of argument they would get the worst of it with him. so they only made a covert grimace at the back of his head, and said,-- "come along, then. show us your house. we want to see all the queer old places we've heard about. was there once a monk walled up in the cellar? and did you dig out his skeleton? and did his ghost go prowling about tapping on the doors and making groans?" "not in my time," answered mr. trelawny. "there is a story about the finding of a skeleton down below, though how it came there nobody could say. it was all guess-work.--come, little miss esther; i know you are a historian, and i have some things i think will interest you," and mr. trelawny held out his great hand, into which esther was obliged to slip her little cold fingers, though she felt them trembling all over as she did so. mr. trelawny looked down at her for a moment, but said nothing. the boys dashed hither and thither through the rooms, making remarks and asking questions, which they did not always wait to hear answered. but by and by they got interested in the interesting tales mr. trelawny had to tell about the fine old house in which he lived, and even esther lost her fears for a while in the breathless delight of hearing the story of some of the pictured ladies and armed warriors whose portraits hung upon the walls of the corridors and rooms. it was later on, when they were taken into the great laboratory at the top of the house, that her fears began to come back. there was a strange smell in the place, and it was full of the queerest things, the very names of which were terrible. then mr. trelawny did some wonderful things with wires and lights; and presently mr. earle was sent down into the cave, right at the very bottom of the house, underneath its foundations, and he and mr. trelawny passed messages to each other without so much as a speaking-tube or a wire between them, and everything seemed so strange and uncanny that even the boys were quite silent, whilst esther felt as though she should be stifled in the atmosphere of this weird place. but the boys were not frightened, though they were greatly astonished at some of the things they saw and heard. nothing would serve them but that they must go down into the cave again themselves, and see what was going on there; and esther felt as though her heart would stop beating altogether as she felt her hand grasped by that of this big, terrible wizard, and knew that he was leading her down, down, down into the very heart of the earth. she dared not resist. his grasp was too strong for that. she was afraid if she angered him he would begin to flash more fire, and perhaps annihilate her altogether. her teeth chattered in her mouth. her breath came and went in great gasps. if he had not had such firm hold of her hand, she would almost have fallen. at all times esther had a fear of underground places. she had never done more than just peep into a cave before this; and now she was going down, down, down into the very heart of the earth--into that terrible place the boys had told her of, where all sorts of unthinkable horrors were practised, or had been in bygone days, and where, for all she knew, skeletons were still pickling in great tanks. she dared not even think of anything more. they entered the cave through a sort of trap-door communicating with the house above. the boys were delighted to go by this way. mr. earle was there, moving about like a gnome in the gloom; and the voices of the boys, as they cried out their questions, and exclaimed over the strange things they saw, sounded hollow and strange, and went echoing away down the vaulted passages, as though taken up and repeated by half a hundred unseen demons. the air of the place seemed oppressive and difficult to breathe. the sullen booming of the sea beneath added to the awfulness of the darkness and the horror. esther threw a few scared glances round her, and felt as though everything was swimming in a mist before her eyes. it seemed as though a cold hand was grasping at her throat, hindering her breath and numbing her limbs. she knew that she was being walked about from place to place, but she could see nothing and hear nothing plainly. the boys were making the place ring with their shouts and strange calls, and it seemed to her as though the cave were full of dancing forms, and as though she could not breathe any longer. then all of a sudden it seemed to get quite dark. the sound of voices died away in her ears. she thought she was left alone in this awful place; perhaps she had been put into one of the tanks. she was suffocating, and could hear nothing but the wild beating of her own heart; and then even that seemed to stop, and she remembered nothing more. when she opened her eyes again the sun was shining, and it was all warm and bright round her, and somebody had fast hold of her, and was making her feel so comfortable and restful that she did not want to move. she could not think where she was, but it was certainly out of doors. the wind fanned her brow, and she could see the sky and the sea and a bit of waving fern or tree. then there was the sound of a step close by, and suddenly mr. earle loomed into view, carrying a glass in his hand, and when his eyes met hers he smiled and said,-- "ah, that is better!" and then esther felt herself lifted up, and saw that it was mr. trelawny who was holding her so comfortably. he was sitting on the ground, and she was on his knee, resting against his broad shoulder; and now he bent and looked into her face with a smile, and said,-- "so, so, my little girl; that is better, that is better. now drink what mr. earle has brought you, and you will feel yourself again." esther held out her hand obediently, but it shook so much that mr. earle would not give the glass into her hand, but knelt down on one knee and held it to her lips. it was not nice medicine at all, and it made her choke and cough when she had swallowed it, but it seemed to warm her all through; and when she had finished the draught she felt able to lift up her head, though it was rather appalling to find herself alone out on the hillside, with only mr. trelawny and mr. earle beside her. she remembered everything now--the terrible cave, the strange sights and sounds there, and that feeling of giddiness and weakness which had come over her. she sat up and looked round her, and then she shivered again a little, for just behind them was a dark gap which she knew must lead into the cave. were they going to take her back into it again? mr. earle had hold of her hand, and his finger was on the little wrist. he looked into her face with a smile, and asked,-- "what is the matter now?" "nothing, thank you, sir." "you are frightened," he said quietly. "were you afraid of the darkness in there just now?" "i--i don't know if it was the darkness exactly. i think it was everything." she made another little movement, and then added wistfully, "please, may i go home?" "no hurry," said mr. trelawny's big voice just in her ear. "we will go back to my house first, and see what all this means." and then esther felt herself lifted bodily in those great, strong arms, and carried baby-fashion up the steep pathway towards the house on the top of the crag. "o mr. trelawny, i'm too heavy to be carried!" she cried. "you're not half as heavy as you should be. i must know about that too. we've got you a prisoner between us, my little maid, and we shall not let you go till we've----" mr. trelawny stopped suddenly, because mr. earle had begun to speak to him in the strange language esther had heard him use upon another occasion. she shut her eyes tightly, and tried to be brave; but if only she might have gone home by herself! the crag was a very terrible place to come to. even the boys seemed to have disappeared. there was no sign of them about the great, quiet house. mr. trelawny carried her into the drawing-room, which did not look as though it were often used, though it was bright and sunny; and he laid her down upon a wide sofa, and took a chair close to her. mr. earle stood a little way off, looking out of the window. if esther had had the courage to look into the face above her, she would have seen that it was full of a very kindly concern and interest, but she dared not raise her eyes. she felt like a prisoner awaiting sentence, and only wondered whether she would ever be free to run home again. "now tell me, child," said mr. trelawny's big voice, "what is the matter with my little friend?" "nothing, thank you, sir." "can't you call me uncle robert, like that pair of urchins, who are no kith or kin of mine, though you are? esther, i was very fond of your father. won't you try to be a little fond of me? i will be your friend, if you will let me." she looked up at him then, and her heart beat fast. it was all so very strange and unexpected. she did not know what to say; but she put out her hand and laid it on his, and he smiled and patted it, and said,-- "there, that is better. now tell me about these headaches of yours. we ought to find a cure for them. has mr. earle been working you too hard?" esther felt a thrill run through her again. how was it he knew anything about her headaches? she had not even told her mother, and it never occurred to her that the boys could have spoken the word. yet, to be sure, once or twice lately she had not cared to join their games because her head ached so badly towards evening. but it was not the lessons. they must not think that. her lessons were the great pleasure of her life. "oh no, no!" she answered earnestly; "indeed it is not that. please, don't stop the lessons. i do like them so very much." mr. earle came forward then, smiling and saying,-- "i don't want to lose my pupil either, but health comes before pleasure--even before learning." "i'm sure it isn't the lessons," said esther again. "sometimes i think perhaps it's my hair. it makes my head so hot, and at night i can't always sleep." mr. trelawny lifted the heavy mass of curly locks and weighed it in his hand. he looked at mr. earle, and they spoke a few words together in the strange tongue. "did you ever complain to your mother about your hair?" asked mr. trelawny, with a gleam in his deepset eyes. "yes," answered esther, "i often used to ask her if i mightn't have it short like milly polperran; but she doesn't like me to tease about it, so i've given it up." mr. trelawny reached out his hand towards a table upon which lay a pair of sharp scissors in a sheath. the gleam in his eyes was deepening. mr. earle said something in the foreign tongue, and he answered back in his sharp, decisive way. esther lay still, wondering; but they were both behind her, and she could not see. then came a strange, grating sound close to her head, another, and another; and before she realized what was happening, mr. trelawny suddenly laid upon her lap a great mass of waving chestnut hair, exclaiming as he did so,-- "there, my dear! take that home to your mother with my best compliments; and as for me, i shall have to find a new name for little goldylocks." then esther realized that her hair had been cut off by mr. trelawny, and she lay looking at it with thrills of excitement running through her. what would her mother say when she got home? and what would it feel like to be relieved of that great floating mass of hair? how delightful to have no tugging and pulling at the knots morning and night, often when her head was aching and tender, and every pull seemed to hurt more than the last! she must get up and feel what it was like. so she sat up and passed her hands over her head. mr. trelawny and mr. earle were looking at her and laughing. esther had to laugh too; but how light and cool it felt! "it is nice!" she exclaimed. "i feel as if i'd got a new head! oh. i hope mama will not mind much!" "look here, sir," said mr. earle; "you're not as good a barber as a lady had a right to expect. give me the scissors, and let me put a more artistic finish to your work. we must send her home looking less like a hearth broom than she does at the present moment." they all laughed again at that, and the color began to come back into esther's cheeks. this was something rather exciting, and it had driven away her fears for the time being. she sat quite still whilst mr. earle snipped and cut, and walked round and round her, and quarreled with mr. trelawny about the proper way of trimming a lady's hair; and in the end they put her upon the sofa, and told her to look at herself in the great mirror opposite. when she did this she began to laugh out loud. "will it always stand on end like that?" she asked, for the wave in her hair made it set off from her face and stand round it rather like the aureole round the heads of saints in the church windows. "i don't think genefer will think it tidy like that. can't i brush it and make it lie smooth, like mr. earle's?" they got a brush, but the hair set them at defiance, and stood out in its own way. but it was delightful to have no heavy mane hanging down behind. esther declared her headache almost gone, and so she was allowed to go out and find the boys, who had been set to play by themselves for an hour. the shrieks of delight they set up at sight of esther with her cropped head made her laugh and glow like a child; and she looked altogether so much brighter and merrier that the two gentlemen exchanged glances and nodded their heads, as though quite satisfied with the high-handed measure they had taken. "we shall call you roundhead now!" cried puck, dancing round her in an ecstasy of amusement; but mr. trelawny came up and took him by the ears, saying in his gruffest way,-- "you will call your cousin by her proper name, or you will never come to my house again. now, do you understand?" "do you mean really?" asked puck, wriggling away and facing round. "i mean really and truly," was the emphatic answer. "you've got to learn manners, you two, whilst you are here; and if mr. earle knocks some knowledge into your thick skulls, i'll knock a little respect for other people into your democratic little minds. so mind, if you don't behave yourselves properly to your cousin, and speak to her properly too, you'll never have the chance of coming to the crag again." chapter vi. the shorn sheep. "i think you ought to come home with us, uncle bob, after cutting off esther's tousle like that. i expect aunt saint will be in a jolly old wax." the children had finished their tea out on the terrace, and a very nice tea it had been. esther was looking brighter than she had done at first, and a little bit of color had stolen into her face; but her eyes still had a tired look in them, and there were dark marks underneath. mr. trelawny paused beside her, and passed his big hands over the cropped head. the touch was kindly, and esther tried to conquer the little thrill of fear which ran through her. she felt as though she had behaved herself badly at the wizard's house, and that he had been very indulgent to her when he might have been very angry. she could not conquer her old fears all at once; but she resolved to try and mingle some liking with them for this big, strange man, who seemed wishful to be regarded as an uncle. "what does the shorn sheep say herself about that?" asked mr. trelawny, bending down to look into esther's face. she made herself return the glance, and said timidly,-- "i think i should be much obliged if you would, uncle robert. you would explain to mama better than i can." a smile lit up the rugged features of the cornishman. "to be sure i will then, my dear. i'll take all the blame, which is certainly all mine. i've got a few things i want to say to your mother, so i'll come down now and say them." so when the shadows had grown a little longer, and the sea was lit up like a sheet of gold, the little party of four started down the hill again, the boys tearing about like a pair of wild animals, mr. trelawny following more soberly, holding esther's hand in his, and helping her over the bits of rough ground; though, as he remarked laughingly, it was "like helping a bit of thistle-down over a hedge." mr. trelawny told esther a great many interesting things during that walk--things about birds and insects, which she had never known before. he did not frighten her at all the whole way, and when she asked a timid question he always had a full and interesting answer ready. then he told her that he had a number of books full of pictures of live creatures in his library, and said she must come up another day and look at them. and though esther could never think of the crag without a certain shrinking and fear, yet she did want to see the pictures very much, if only they would not take her into those awful underground places, or into the rooms where all those strange things went on. when they got home, there was a sound of voices coming from the open drawing-room windows. the boys had rushed headlong in, and now came tumbling out again. "it's only mrs. poll-parrot and pretty polly!" cried the pair in a breath; whereupon mr. trelawny took the two heads, one in either hand, and knocked them pretty smartly together. "mind your manners, boys!" he said in his big gruff voice, and strode on, holding esther's hand, whilst pickle and puck remained behind, staring after him and rubbing their heads with an air of injured innocence. "he's rather an old beast sometimes, i think," said puck rather ruefully. "i don't quite like him always." "he makes us do as he says," added pickle, "like mr. earle--i mean the owl. i think it's rather interfering of them." meantime mr. trelawny had entered the window, drawing esther after him. "good evening, madam," he said in his breezy way--"good evening to you all. mrs. st. aiden, i have come to make my peace with you. tell me first what you think of your shorn lamb." then he pushed esther forward, and the child stood before her mother, the color coming and going in her face rather too fast to please mr. trelawny, who looked at her from under his bushy brows and shook his head once or twice. mrs. st. aiden gave a little gasp, almost a little scream. mrs. polperran stared, and began to laugh; while prissy cried out in unveiled astonishment,-- "o esther, your hair, your hair! where has it gone?" "here it is," said mr. trelawny, producing a packet wrapped in soft paper, and laying it upon mrs. st. aiden's knee. "i daresay some enterprising hairdresser would give a pretty penny for it. now, miss prissy, you run off with your little friend here. i want to talk a little to these good ladies." prissy rose, and esther was glad to escape with her into the garden. it was delightful to have such a cool, comfortable head; but all the talk about herself made her feel hot and shy. "o esther!" cried prissy, "you do look so funny. but i've often heard mother say that it is bad for you having such a great head of hair. what was it made mr. trelawny cut it off? don't you think it was taking a great liberty without your mother's leave?" "i don't know," answered esther slowly. "i don't think mama would ever have let him." the boys came running up now, and the four children were soon well hidden from view in the clipped yew arbor, which was esther's especial haunt. "i thought he cut it off to use it in his experiments," said pickle. "i've read of magicians who took people's hair, and then they used to burn bits of it and make them come to them in their sleep. i expect that's what he's done it for. i expect that you'll often be walking up to the cave in your sleep now." esther began shaking at once, but prissy said, with her grown-up air of reproof,-- "you are talking great nonsense, philip." (prissy very often called the boys philip and percy, to their own unspeakable disgust.) "there are no magicians now; and besides, it was all nonsense when there were any. and mr. trelawny gave esther's hair back to mrs. st. aiden just now. i saw him." but pickle wasn't going to be shut up like that. "i expect he kept some of it back for himself," he said; "and you needn't pretend to know such a mighty lot about mr. trelawny and what he can do. if he isn't a magician, he's something uncommonly like it. you should have seen the things he did to-day for us to see; and he'd have done some funnier ones still, only _she_ went and flopped down in a heap on the floor, and then they had to carry her out, and they wouldn't go back any more." "what did you do, esther?" asked prissy. "i don't know. i felt funny down there, and everything seemed going round, and i didn't know anything about the rest." "well, she just spoiled the fun," said puck. "they were going to show us some things--skeletons in the tanks, i expect, or jolly things like that--but when _she_ went flop they didn't seem to think a bit about us. they hustled us away up to the house, and wouldn't show us anything more. that's always the way when there are girls. they are always sure to spoil the fun." "i'm very sorry," said esther penitently, "but i didn't mean to. only i don't like underground places. they make me feel queer." "i've heard father speak about mr. trelawny's cave," said prissy. "i don't think he likes it much. quite a little while ago i heard him say to mother that he was afraid, now mr. earle had come, that there might be something horrid happening there. i can't quite remember the words, but he said something like that. and mother said she was afraid he was reckless, and too fond of experiments. i wonder what he does there, and what father is afraid of." "people always are afraid of magicians and wizards," said pickle with a sly look of triumph at prissy; and for a moment she was silent, feeling as though she had been somehow caught in a trap. "well, i think he's a very odd sort of man; and i don't think he'd any business to cut off your hair, esther. did you know he was going to do it?" "no, i never thought of such a thing. i only said it made my head hot at nights, or something like that. and then he got a big pair of scissors and cut it all off in a minute." "i think it looks rather nice like that," said prissy, with a critical glance, "though it does stand on end rather. i should think you would enjoy not having it combed out at nights." "i've decided now!" cried puck, shouting out suddenly the great new idea. "i shall call you ess now. it'll do for esther, and for shorn sheep too. old bobby calls you that himself now, so he can't scold us. you shall be ess. don't you think that's a nice, easy, short name?" mr. trelawny was soon seen stalking away up the path towards the crag, and mrs. polperran's voice was heard calling for prissy. esther stole back to her mother's side, and asked timidly,-- "you're not vexed with me, mama dear? indeed i did not know what he was going to do." "no, dear, i suppose not. it's no use making a trouble of it now it's done. it was certainly a liberty to take; but it's never any use being angry with mr. trelawny--he only laughs and makes a joke of it. besides, he always has looked upon you rather in the light of his ward. your father did write to him before he died, asking him to give an eye to us, and to take care of us both if we wanted it. i suppose he thinks he has some rights over you; and he has been very kind to us, so we must not say too much." esther listened very gravely. she did not know exactly what a ward might be, but she fancied that it made her in some sort the property of the redoubtable mr. trelawny. it was rather an alarming notion; but esther said nothing, for it had been her endeavor all these past months, since her father's death, never to trouble her mother needlessly. "you should have told me about your headaches, dear," said mrs. st. aiden, stroking esther's hand. "perhaps we could have cured them then without the sacrifice of your pretty hair." "o mama, they weren't so very bad. i didn't want to worry you. but i think i shall be much better now without my hair." "and what made you faint in the cave, dear? you frightened mr. trelawny and mr. earle, i think." esther thought it had been the other way; but she only said, after a little hesitation,-- "there didn't seem any air down there, and it was all so dark and queer, it made me feel funny; but i didn't know i fainted." "well, i have told mr. trelawny not to take you there again. i have always had that sort of dislike to caves and underground places myself. men don't understand that sort of thing; but you had better never go there again, esther." "oh, thank you, mama!" cried esther earnestly. it was an immense relief to feel that she need never go back to the cave, and that mr. trelawny had been told not to take her there. she could almost face the idea of going up to the crag to see the books, if she were safe from that terrible place. things seemed suddenly to be brighter and happier altogether. esther was quite lively that evening; and as genefer brushed the shorn head at night she remarked,-- "well, miss esther, it's made a good bit of difference to your looks; but i always did say to the missus that it was a pity to let you grow such a mane of hair now. very likely you would have had it grow thin and poor as you grew up; but if you keep it cropped short for a few years, you'll have a nice head of hair when you're a young lady and want it again." on sunday afternoon milly and bertie polperran came to the hermitage to spend the time with their little friends there, as on saturday they had not met. prissy taught a little class in the sunday school; but milly and bertie were free, only that they had some little verses and part of a hymn to learn, and they had leave to say them to esther to-day. esther had been rather exercised in her mind about the fashion in which pickle and puck spent their sundays. they went to church in the morning with her, and kept her pretty much on tenter-hooks all the time, although they had never done anything very outrageous so far. but their eyes always seemed everywhere, and nothing escaped their observation; and they would giggle in a subdued yet sufficiently audible fashion, if anything amused them, and sometimes try to make esther or their little friends opposite join them in their ill-timed hilarity. after having been to church, they seemed to consider that for them sunday had ended, and they played about and amused themselves just as they pleased. "crump always played with us on sunday afternoons," they would say when esther suggested something more quiet and decorous, according to her ideas. they did not seem to understand why they should be more quiet on sunday than on any other day, and it was not quite easy for esther to explain. "they must have been badly brought up," prissy would say in her prim, grown-up fashion. "i think their father must be a very strange sort of man." but when esther spoke to genefer, she was a little comforted by hearing her say,-- "you see, miss esther, the poor little boys have had no mother to teach them, and gentlemen don't think of things quite like mothers. i don't think they mean to be naughty a bit, but they've not been taught as you have. perhaps they'll get into better ways living here for a spell. but it's no good preaching at them. that'll never do it. you only get at children by making them love you. then they like the things you like, and they learn different ways. they're getting fond of you, miss esther, my dear. they'll begin to copy you by and by, whether they know it or not." esther did not think pickle and puck had much notion of copying anybody; but she thought they were growing fond of her in a fashion, and she was certainly growing fond of them. if they brought new anxiety into her life, they brought a considerable amount of pleasure and variety too. she did not at all regret the arrangement, although she wished the boys had been just a little younger, so that she might have had more influence over them. "we're going to have a sunday school, and you're to teach!" cried milly, running up to esther as she sat in the yew arbor, thinking that the four little ones would rather be alone together. "we've learned our lessons, and pickle and puck have learned something, too; and now we're going to come and be a class, and you're to teach us." there was plenty of room in the summer-house for the class; and a chair was set for esther, whilst her four scholars occupied the fixed bench that ran round the arbor. they came in with looks of decorous gravity, and the boys pulled their forelocks, and milly made a courtesy, whilst esther felt half-embarrassed at so much respect and deference. the little polperrans repeated their lessons with the readiness of those accustomed to such tasks. pickle followed with a fair show of fluency; and puck said a short text with great deliberation, prompted from time to time by milly, who had evidently "coached" him up in it. at the close he looked up into esther's face and asked with due solemnity, evidently put up to the right phraseology by either bertie or milly,-- "please, teacher, what is the sin that so easily besets us?" there was a faint giggle from bertie; but puck had thrown himself into his part, and was as solemn as a judge. esther was a little embarrassed at the position in which she found herself, but she strove to find a suitable answer. "i think it's different things with different people," she said after a pause. "you know some people are naughty in some ways, and some in others. we don't all sin alike." pickle here broke in eagerly,-- "let's think of the naughty things people do. mr. trelawny cut off your hair yesterday without asking leave. wasn't that a sort of sin?" esther was rather taken aback at this method of treating the subject; but before she had found words in which to reply, the boy had broken out again,-- "i tell you what i think it is--the sin that so easily besets him is doing just as he likes, and being what crump calls 'lord high everything.' don't you think that's uncle bob's sin, ess?" esther looked straight at pickle, and answered with some spirit,-- "i know somebody else who always wants to do as he likes, and cares very little what other people say or think." pickle looked suddenly taken aback. "my stars!" he exclaimed. bertie pointed one finger at pickle and another at puck. his square face was bubbling over with a subdued sense of humor. "she means you," said puck: "i know she does. it's just what you're always saying. you do what you like, and don't care what people say. if it's a sin, it's your sin too." "oh dear!" cried pickle, really interested now; "i never thought of that before. did you mean that, ess?" esther's face was rosy red now; she spoke truthfully, however. "i think i did, pickle. you know you do like your own way. but i think we all like that. i suppose that's one of the sins that easily besets us all." "i don't think it besets you," said pickle loyally; "you're always doing things you don't like, to spare other people, or because they want you to." "it besets prissy!" cried milly eagerly; "she always wants her own way. she likes to be 'lord high everything' too. she's been as cross as two sticks lately, because bertie and i have kept secrets from her, and she can't do just as she likes with us." but esther did not think this a very profitable turn to the talk, and she said slowly and rather shyly,-- "i don't think we need bother about other people's sins. it would be better to leave these alone, i think, and just to try and find out our own. if we know what they are, perhaps we can get over them; but if we don't know them, we shall never fight against them properly." "there's some sense in that!" cried pickle eagerly. "there was a picture i once saw on a church window of a man fighting with a dragon. i asked the old verger what it meant, and he said it was what all of us had to do some time or other. i didn't know what he meant, but crump told me he meant that we all had to fight against sins, only they weren't live green dragons with red eyes and crinkly wings now; and we didn't always know when one was trying to get the best of us, but we'd got to try and be ready to fight. i suppose that's the sort of thing you mean, ess? we've got to find out what our sins are. let's have a think about it now. i don't mind fighting, if i only know what to fight." "i'd like it to be a green dragon with red eyes," said puck; "there'd be some sense in that." "well, but if there aren't any dragons left, we have to do it the other way," cried pickle eagerly. "now, let's think about it. we'll all think. at least i don't think esther needs. i don't think she's got any sins." "o pickle, don't say that!" "well, i don't think you have. you're always good. look at the marks you get; and the owl has never had to scold you once. i don't believe you could think of any sin that besets you." "yes, indeed i can," answered esther--"ever so many. i've got one in my head this very minute." "what's that? do tell." esther's face grew red, but she answered bravely,-- "yes, i'll tell you if you like, because, perhaps, if i tell, i shall be able to fight it better. i'm often so frightened about things nobody else is." the children eyed her wonderingly. "but i don't call that a sin," cried pickle. "you can't help being frightened--you're a girl." "yes, but i don't think girls ought to be cowards," answered esther, her face still flushed. "i want to learn to be brave. i think being afraid when there isn't any reason is a sort of sin." she paused and hesitated, and then added in a lower voice, "i think we ought to remember that god can always take care of us, and then we need not be afraid any more." the children were silent for a few minutes. something in esther's manner impressed them, they hardly knew why. they felt that she was speaking to them out of the depths of her heart, and that she meant every word she said. "do you ever think about god?" asked pickle at last. "yes," answered esther in a low voice, "but not as often as i ought to. i shouldn't be so frightened often, if i thought about him more." "why? what difference would it make?" "oh, don't you see? suppose you were frightened by something, and felt all alone, with nobody to help you. and then suppose you remembered that your father was looking at you all the time through a window somewhere with a glass, and that he saw you though you didn't see him. and if you knew that he could send somebody to help you if you wanted it really, why, you wouldn't be afraid any more, would you?" "no, i suppose not. it would be silly." "i think, perhaps, it is silly; and what is silly can be a sin, i think," said esther steadily. "i want not to be frightened so often, and i think that is the sin that most easily besets me. i am going to try and fight against it, because it makes me forget about god always seeing us and taking care of us, and that is wrong, i know." "i wonder what my sin is!" cried pickle. "i expect i've got a lot. esther, do you think it's a sin to call people by nicknames? old--i mean uncle robert makes a great fuss about it." "i--i don't think it's perhaps the names exactly," said esther, with a little hesitation--"at least not amongst ourselves. but to older people it doesn't seem quite respectful, and children ought to treat older people with respect. i think it says so in the bible somewhere. i'm sure it means it often. you know that even jesus was obedient, and 'subject to' joseph and mary, though he was god's son all the time." "we don't mean any harm," said puck. "crump used only to laugh, and call us cheeky little beggars." "well," said esther, with a little gentle decision in her tone, "i don't think it sounds at all nice for little boys to speak of their father as crump." "don't you, really? do you mean you would call it a sin?" "i don't know whether i am old enough to judge about that," answered esther, "but it doesn't seem to me like honoring our fathers and mothers to speak of them like that, and that would be disobeying one of the commandments." "well, i never thought of it like that," said pickle, in the tone of one open to conviction; "but i don't mind giving that up, if it is a sort of a sin. i did sometimes think that when people were there cr--i mean father--didn't always quite like it. but i'm sure we must have lots of sins besides that. that's only quite a little one." "i'm greedy; that's my sin," said bertie. "i always want the biggest egg or the nicest cake. i don't always get them, but i want them. i shall have to fight against that." "i don't like getting up in the morning," said milly; "and i get cross with prissy often; and i hate my sums, and scribble on my slate instead of doing them. i think i'm lazy, for i'm always so glad when we can't do lessons, or visitors come when i'm practising. and sometimes i don't practise all my time, but run out into the garden for a little while, if nobody is about, and pretend i've been at the piano all the time. i don't mean i say so, because nobody asks me; but i pretend it to myself, and i suppose that's a sort of lie." "i sometimes tell stories," said puck. "i say i've done things and seen them, and i haven't really--at least not just as i say them. i like to pretend things are bigger than they are, and that we're braver, and stronger, and cleverer." "and i like to do just as i like," said pickle, remembering how the conversation had begun. "i don't like mr. earle when he interferes, and makes us do things his way; and i get in a rage sometimes because he sees through us and stops the things we want to do. i think i've got a lot of sins--more than any of the rest of you. i'm the eldest, and so i suppose i should have. at least esther's older; but then she's good. i don't call it a sin to be afraid. girls and women are made that way. it's much worse to be always wanting your own way, and not caring for anything or anybody so long as you get it." pickle had faced the flaw in his character or training with a good deal of candor, although, perhaps, there was a touch of pride in the feeling that he had a bigger sin to battle with than anybody else. esther's voice was now heard saying gently,-- "then if we all know what is the sin that so easily besets us, we ought to be able to fight against it better, and to help one another to fight too. i think it would be nice to help each other when we can. there is something somewhere about bearing one another's burdens. i should think that would be the same sort of thing." "and let's have a sunday school rather often," said milly, "and tell each other how we're getting on. i should like to know if esther stops being afraid of things; and i'll tell how often i've been lazy at lessons, or have got angry with prissy. now and then i'm angry with mother too"--here milly's face got very red--"and sometimes i say naughty things to her very softly, because i know she doesn't hear them. i think that's quite a sin--don't you, esther?" the sound of the tea-bell broke up the sunday school at that moment, and the children trooped to the house, where genefer had a nice tea waiting for them in the dining-room. that night she remarked to her little charge how well-behaved they had all been that sunday afternoon. esther's face grew rather rosy as she answered,-- "yes, we are all going to try to be good, and fight our sins. but, genefer, i wanted to tell them that we must ask jesus to help us, and i didn't quite know how to say it, and so i didn't. i think it's very hard to be really brave." "you'll get braver as you get older, miss esther," said the woman sympathetically, "and the little folks will soon find out that they want help for their bits of battles, and you can talk about how that's to be had another time." "i--yes, i will try," said esther earnestly. "i hope i shall grow braver, and then it will be less hard." chapter vii. days of sunshine. somehow after that saturday at the crag, and the sunday following, on which some good resolutions had been made, esther found that her life became decidedly brighter and happier. mr. earle was particularly kind to her in study hours. he put aside for a time the lessons on arithmetic, which had often haunted her at night, for sums were rather a trouble to the little girl; and, instead, he brought from the crag some beautiful books on natural history, and gave her chapters to read about the structure and habits of wild animals, which was very interesting; and then, when the boys had done their tasks, he would tell them all delightful tales about these animals, some of which he had shot himself in different parts of the world. mr. earle was a capital hand at telling a story. they soon found that out; and the boys began to understand that he was a tutor quite worth pleasing. on the days when they had been industrious and well-behaved, he never minded stopping for half an hour or more before time, to help them with some bit of work of their own, or to tell them exciting stories. but if they had been idle, or impertinent, or unruly, he just packed them off to their own pursuits with a few cutting words; and if he stayed at all, it was to tell esther something about the pictures in her book, and the boys were not permitted to remain or to hear a word. "you're not fit for civilized society--be off with you!" mr. earle would say in his quick, authoritative way; and it was no use their putting on coaxing or defiant airs, as they had done to their father in old days. mr. earle would neither be coaxed nor defied. he sent them straight off with an air of cutting contempt, which pickle, at least, was old enough to feel and to wince under. "if you can't behave yourselves like gentlemen, you're not fit company for a lady," was another of his maxims; and both pickle and puck began rather to dread provoking these speeches from their inflexible tutor. and then mr. earle was well worth pleasing, as they soon began to find. upon the wednesday following that eventful saturday, when he came down in the afternoon (for he always went back to the crag between half-past twelve and two), he walked into the study and swept all the books back into their places, and said, with a happy twinkle in his eye,-- "get your hats, and come along. we're going to have a lesson in navigation this afternoon." the boys gave a whoop of delight. they did not exactly know what navigation might be, but they scented something delightful; and as they had been remarkably good for the past days, it seemed to come like a reward of virtue. esther's face brightened with pleasure and curiosity. she wondered what was going to happen; but there was no delay in getting off, and soon they were all walking down to the shore, where they found old pollard waiting for them, not in his cranky old tub, but in the tight, trim boat belonging to the crag, that was kept in order by the old fisherman, and had beautiful white sails curled up in readiness, two masts, and a figurehead like a swan with a gracefully-arched neck. esther knew the look of the boat, and had once been out in it with mr. trelawny, but had been too much afraid of him to enjoy her sail at all. now, however, her eyes kindled and danced, for she dearly loved the water, and was never the least seasick; and when the boys understood that they were going out for a sail, they yelled and danced and shouted like a pair of wild indians. the old fisherman sat with the helm in his hand, but mr. earle managed the sails, and he went about his business as though he were a sailor himself, and talked in queer terms with the old man, whilst the boys listened agape, and wished they knew what it meant. they soon found, however, that they had not come out simply to be idle. they were soon in the middle of a lecture upon ropes and rigging, sails and spars, and began to understand that this sailing was not a mere game, but that there was a vast deal to learn about it, and that a whole new world of thoughts and ideas was opening before them. but it was very interesting, for puck always meant to be a sailor, and he was eager to learn as many new words as his little head could take in. it was interesting too because the things mr. earle told them explained many mysteries which they had come across in story-books, and had never understood. the boys did not lack for wits, and were clever with their fingers too, so it was not a difficult task to get them into the way of furling or unfurling a sail, or learning to distinguish between the different ropes and spars. when they passed by other boats, mr. earle pointed out different parts of them, and expected them to remember the names; and, on the whole, he was satisfied with the sharpness of his pupils, and he found them tolerably well-behaved too. "if you boys are thinking of the army and the navy for professions," he remarked once to them, with his rather grim yet not unkindly smile, "the sooner you get all this fooling out of your heads the better." "what fooling?" asked pickle, with a little flush in his cheek, for the word did not quite please him. "i mean the foolish trick of treating all the world as though there was perfect equality there--as though a little shaver like you had the same rights of speech and remark as grown-up people who have served their apprenticeship, and gone through their training--as though your opinions were of the least consequence to anybody, and you had any right to air them when they are not wanted, and to have any say in the way in which your affairs are regulated. i mean all that, and a good deal more. if you don't get the better of that stuff these next few years, you'll find yourself in some trouble when you're under discipline." pickle flushed slowly. he had a fairly good understanding of the admonition addressed to them; but puck felt it rather beyond him. "i don't understand," he said. "well, i'll explain. a soldier and a sailor have nothing in the world to do at first but just to obey orders. there is no answering back, no questioning commands, no loitering, or any nonsense like that. in old-fashioned days boys were trained like that at home--at least the majority were; a father or a mother gave the word, and there was an end of it. then, when those boys went out into life they had learned unquestioning obedience, and it had become second nature to them. nowadays things are vastly changed--whether for the better or the worse time will show, but i have my own opinions on the point." pickle and puck exchanged glances, and the elder boy said slowly,-- "cr--i mean father--sometimes told us we should have to have the nonsense licked out of us some day. but we did generally obey him. of course we didn't obey miss masters. i don't see how anybody could expect it. she was just an old frump, and her rules were all bosh. i don't think father thought much of her himself." "you may not think very much of your superior officer some day," said mr. earle grimly, "but you'll have to obey him, or he'll know the reason why." "ah! but a man is different." "yes, a much harder nut to crack, as you will find to your cost. if you had a spark of chivalry in your composition, you would know better than to speak slightingly of women. no really brave or noble-minded man ever does that." mr. earle did not spare his pupils; yet in spite of his sharp speeches pickle and puck liked him better and better every day, and began to take good care not to get into his black-books. they found that that did not pay at all. navigation lessons were not all play, as the boys soon found; and there was some pretty hard work in the way of sums bound up with it, as well as a great deal to notice and remember. but it was the sort of thing that they liked. and later on they were allowed to make rough models of ships themselves, and try to get the ropes and spars right; and this was like a new game, and kept them busy and happy for hours together. and then they were taken up to the crag to see certain models of ships there; and mr. trelawny put them through their paces, and seemed really quite pleased with them, and made them a present of a small model yacht, which became the most prized of their possessions. esther did not learn the navigation so thoroughly as the boys, though she began to feel quite knowing on the subject of spars and rigging and nautical terms. she used to sit beside the old fisherman at the helm when the boat went out, and look at the clouds and the sea, and dream her own dreams or get the old man to tell her some of his stories, which he was always ready to do. her head hardly ever ached now; and mr. earle always seemed to know when it did, and gave her the sort of lessons that did not make it any worse. the boys were very nice too--much more companionable than they had been at first; and she was always ready to cut out and hem the sails for them, and help them with her clever little fingers when they got into difficulties over their rigging. and they soon found that her sharp eyes saw things quite as soon as theirs, and that she could often help them out of a difficulty; so instead of treating her with a sort of boyish contempt, they came to look upon her as a valuable assistant, and included her in their games. then about this time another great pleasure and interest came into esther's life. it was about a fortnight after the visit to the crag, when her mother called her one day, and said, with a smiling face,-- "esther dear, do you think you remember how to drive?" esther's face colored with surprise and pleasure. when she was quite a little girl her father had taught her both to ride and drive, for they kept a little pony carriage for the mother, and she used to be allowed sometimes to drive the pony, though generally only when her father sat beside her. it seemed a long time now since she had done anything of the kind, but she fancied the power would soon come back, and answered eagerly,-- "o mama dear, i think i remember. why do you ask?" "because i have been talking things over with mr. trelawny, and he has found me a nice quiet little pony, and a little light carriage, and mr. earle is going to drive it down this evening, and give you a lesson in driving, for the pony has been used to children, and is said to be quite safe; but i should like you to have a few more lessons before you take me out." esther clasped her hands in ecstasy. "o mama! are you going to have a little carriage again?" "yes, dear--at least it is to be like this; it will be my carriage, but it will be kept up at the crag, where they have plenty of room, and a good coachman to look after things. and mr. earle is putting up a telephone from this house to the stables there, so that we can send for it when we want. and perhaps, by and by, if we like, we shall have it here; but i am always afraid of things going wrong with live creatures." esther's eyes were bright. she would have better liked, for some things, that the pony should live in their own little stable, where she could visit it with apples and sugar; and the thought of the telephone to the crag was a little alarming to her--she hardly knew why. but she was making a great effort to conquer her groundless fears, and had met mr. trelawny lately several times, almost without a tremor. and certainly the pony would have added to her cares, for her mother would not have been able to tell her anything about it, and if the man had neglected it in any way it would have been so difficult to find out. "i see, mama," she said slowly. "perhaps that is best. how nice it will be for you to get drives again!" "yes, we shall both enjoy that. mr. trelawny wants you to get out into the fresh air as much as possible. we shall both get rosy cheeks, i hope, when we have our daily drives." the boys were greatly excited by the news that a pony was coming, and the three children stood together at the gate to watch the road leading downwards from the crag to their house. "here it comes! here it comes!" cried puck, capering with excitement; "here is mr. earle driving along. oh, what a jolly little pony! he's got a mane like yours before it was cut off, essie--all in a tousle. and look how he tosses his head! i'm sure he's a jolly little beggar. i wonder if we may ride him sometimes. we used to ride at home. there was a pony there to mow the lawns, and we had him in turns in the field often." mr. trelawny appeared at this moment from the direction of the pine wood. "well," he said, on seeing the children, "and what are you all in such a state of jubilation about?" "oh, the pony, the pony!" shouted puck; "isn't he a jolly little fellow! where did he come from, uncle bob? and why didn't you drive down with him too?" "my legs are too long for that little affair," laughed mr. trelawny. "it is only meant for fairies and ladies," and he laid his hand on esther's head, so that she looked up quickly with a blush and a smile. mrs. st. aiden appeared from the house, and mr. trelawny offered her his arm and led her down towards the gate. mr. earle had drawn up the little equipage now, and the children were crowding round the pony, patting and praising him--a state of affairs to which he seemed quite accustomed, and which appeared to suit him very well. "he is a darling!" cried esther delightedly. [illustration: "'he is a darling!' cried esther delightedly."--page . _esther's charge._] "what is his name?" asked puck. "he was called punch at his last home," answered mr. earle, "and he is used to little people.--now, little miss esther, are you going to be bold, and see how well you can drive him? i have come to see what sort of a whip you make." esther's face was in a glow. it was such a pretty little carriage, and everything about the pony was charming--his flowing mane and tail, the bright, silver-mounted harness, the red-leather frontlet and saddle pad, and the bright brown of the reins where she would hold them. it was all so spick and span and well turned out--much better than anything she had known in past days. "i can drive," began pickle with sudden eagerness, and then he clapped his hand to his mouth and turned away. "i'll run and get a bit of sugar for punch," he cried; and he dashed off, pulling puck after him. "look here," he said, when they were a little way off; "i was just going to ask to have the first drive myself; but it's esther's pony, and she must go. don't you go and say anything; and if she offers, don't you take it. she's always doing things for us. we won't go and be pigs now she's got something nice herself." "all right," answered puck, whose mouth was watering for a ride on the pony, or a drive behind him; "she shall go first. but i suppose when she comes back we might have a turn?" "well, we will if they offer it us; but don't let's ask. we mustn't be greedy, you know; and we mustn't pretend we've ever done such a mighty lot of driving and riding, because you know we haven't--only just a little now and then. crump was always saying we must have ponies and learn properly; but we never did." puck colored up a little, for he had been rehearsing in his head some of the things he meant to tell esther about his prowess in the saddle and as a whip. but he remembered that he had resolved not to romance so much, just as pickle was keeping in mind that he must not always expect to be the leader, and have the best place in everything. so they ran away to the house together to get the sugar; and esther, after looking round a little uncertainly, let herself be handed into the carriage by mr. earle. "i thought perhaps the boys would like the first turn," she said. "ladies first is the right motto," said mr. trelawny. "now let us see how you hold your reins and whip. you won't want much whip for this fellow, so you can leave that in its socket for the present.--now, earle, in with you, and let us see how the little lady can drive you.--you are not afraid, my dear?" esther looked up with candid eyes. "no--at least, hardly at all. i'm not afraid, now mr. earle is here to help me. i like it very much, but i haven't driven for a very long time. i might do something wrong if there was nobody here to help me." then she drew up her reins and chirruped to punch, who threw up his head and started at a brisk trot; and esther felt her heart beating with excitement and delight, just dashed with a nervous tremor, for punch went very fast, and there were several corners to turn in the winding road. but the pony was a well-trained little fellow, and knew his business, and there was nothing in his way. he dashed along in fine style, mr. earle encouraging both him and his driver; and then esther had the delight of drawing up at the rectory gate to show her new accomplishment to the little polperrans, who came flocking out to admire and exclaim. it was a very enchanting half-hour that esther spent taking her first lesson; but she was in rather a hurry to get back, for she wanted the boys to enjoy the new pleasure also. so mr. earle took them each a turn, looking rather sharp after them; but they had a very fair notion of driving, and were perfectly fearless, yet at the same time they were fond of animals, and had no desire to use the whip unreasonably, or otherwise to harass the pony. punch gave the greatest satisfaction to all, and was declared to be a "perfect darling" by esther, and "a jolly little brick" by the boys. "mr. earle will take you out every day for a week, esther," said her mother, when the carriage had gone, "and after that he thinks you will be able to drive me out." esther's face glowed with pleasure, and pickle cried out,-- "we can drive you too, aunt saint!" but to his surprise his aunt shook her head, smiling the while, and said,-- "i think, dear, i should feel safer with esther, thank you." "well, that's funny," said puck; "i thought women always felt so much safer when they had a man driving them." then mrs. st. aiden laughed and kissed him, and said he should drive her out some day, when he was a man. nice things seemed to happen often now. for after the pony and carriage had been a few weeks in use, and esther had grown to be quite an experienced little whip, the children heard that mr. trelawny was going to keep his birthday, and that it was to be celebrated by an excursion to an old ruin, and that little people as well as their parents were to be allowed to go. esther clasped her hands in ecstasy when she heard this. she had never seen a ruin yet, though she had so often heard of them; and as her knowledge of history had greatly enlarged during the past few months, she was quite delighted to think of seeing any place which had played a part in the strange doings of olden times. mr. trelawny's house had done that; but esther could never quite conquer her fears of that place. she did not go very often even now, though the boys scrambled up the steep path as often as they dared, when she was out driving. but a real old castle would be delightful; and mr. earle gave them a whole history of the things that had happened there, and showed them pictures of the kind of old windows and arches they would see, and taught esther the names of the different moldings, so that she might know them when she saw them. she was to drive herself in the pony carriage, and have one companion, either grown-up or not as she liked, and puck had leave to go in the tiny back seat, which had been added in order that the three children might go out together. "of course you'll take me," cried pickle, dancing round esther in his excited fashion. she hesitated a little, and then said,-- "pickle dear, i should like you best; but i feel as though i ought to ask prissy polperran. i'm afraid she sometimes thinks i am unkind to her. we used to be a good deal together, but i haven't time now that i have so many more things to do." "oh, bother that young poll-parrot!" cried pickle; "i don't see why you should be bothered by her. she's a regular kill-joy. you know she is." "it would be kind," said esther gently; "she would like it very much. but you may drive her, pickle, if mama and mr. earle don't mind." "not i, thank you!" answered pickle scornfully. "i can't abide the stuck-up minx. she's a little prig. she's----" pickle suddenly stopped short. the sunday class in the arbor still went on, and the children discussed with interest each week how they were "getting on with their sins," and how many dragons they had killed. they also had a little book now, and esther wrote down in it what good resolutions they made week by week. it was rather like a "sunday game" to the little people; nevertheless it was not without its effect upon them. pickle's sudden stop was due to the remembrance that they had last sunday resolved to try and be kind to other people, and always do as they would be done by; so that saying all these things about prissy was not quite according to their rule. "oh, bother!" he said, and looked at esther, and then began to laugh. in a minute he spoke again,-- "all right, ess. take pretty polly. i suppose she will like it, and they don't have half the fun we do. i'll try to be civil to her all day too, if i can; but she is such a precious----" another stop and another laugh. "i say, essie, i think we make too many resolutions. i'm always tripping over some of them. don't let's have any new ones till we've learned how to keep these." "i'll let bertie have the dicky behind," said puck suddenly--"he'd like it; and i don't care so very much, if pretty polly is going instead of pickle." "thank you, boys," said esther; "it is very nice of you. i should like to have you best, but i think we ought to try and be kind." the young folks did not enjoy themselves any the less for the small sacrifice they had made. the delight of the polperrans at being driven in esther's little carriage made amends to her for the loss of the boys; and prissy was quite nice and merry, and never once put on her grown-up airs of superiority. pickle and puck occupied the box seat of a big wagonette, and were permitted by the driver to hold the reins now and then up the hill, or along the level, so they had nothing left to wish for; and it was a very merry and happy party that arrived by midday at the old ruined castle perched commandingly on the summit of a crag, not so very unlike the one where mr. trelawny lived. prissy had been there once before, and showed esther a great many of the wonders it contained--the great banqueting hall, with a part of its beautiful vaulted roof still standing; the old chapel, where the tracery of the windows was wonderful in its graceful beauty; and the ancient keep, with the thick walls, in which little passages could run without interfering with them. mr. trelawny was a capital host, and knew how to make people enjoy themselves. there was plenty to eat, and plenty to do; but he seemed fondest of getting all the little people about him, and telling them the wonderful stories of battles and sieges and escapes which had taken place around these very walls. "show us the prisons!" cried pickle. "aren't there some dungeons underneath? and isn't there a block or an ax or something like that? i like those jolly old underground places. i'd soon have got out though, if i'd been a prisoner." "i'll show you one prison, anyhow," answered mr. trelawny; "but i think you'd be puzzled how to get out of it, if once you were shut in." esther felt her breath coming and going. she did so hope there were no underground places here. the old feeling of horror came back directly she heard this talk. she felt as though everything had suddenly been spoiled. she didn't want to think about poor wretched prisoners, shut out from the light of day, lying in chains down in those terrible places. she couldn't think how all the children seemed to want to go and look. it made her feel sick and miserable; and yet she did not like to hang back when everybody else was moving. she thought of her resolution not to be frightened of fancied terrors; but this was not fancy. these were real prisons, and real people had been shut up there; and perhaps she would hear of horrid things that were done to them, which would make her feel all creepy at night, and not let her go to sleep. her feet lagged more and more as the party trooped on after mr. trelawny, laughing and asking questions; and then esther suddenly found that she could not make up her mind to go with the rest. she turned tail, and ran in the opposite direction, and threw herself down on the warm grass, shaking all over. "what is the matter?" asked a voice close beside her. she gave a great jump, and looked round with scared eyes. there was mr. earle sitting very near indeed to her, with a sketch-book in his hand. she wished then she had not come, or had seen him in time to run somewhere else. "what is the matter?" he asked again quite kindly. "i--i don't know. they were going down to the dungeons. i didn't want to go--that's all." "there is nothing very pretty down there; come and look at my drawing, and tell me how you like it. isn't that a fine bit of molding there? do you know people come from all over the country to see it. it's one of the best bits that exist in the world--or at least in this country." "how nicely you draw!" said esther admiringly, feeling the cold tremors abating. "what a lot of things you can do, mr. earle! it must be nice to be clever." "very, i should think," he answered with a smile. "would you like to learn to sketch some day?" "oh, very much, only there are so many things to learn. there does not seem time for them all." "no, that's the worst of it; it is like picking up pebbles on the seashore. one can never get more than a few out of all the millions there. still, if we make these few our own we have done something." mr. earle went on with his drawing, and esther sat watching him, feeling soothed and comforted, she did not know why. her thoughts went off on their own wonderings, and presently she said suddenly,-- "mr. earle, is it wrong to be afraid of things--i mean of things that don't hurt, like dark places and cellars?" "it is not wrong, but it is often inconvenient." "you don't mind them, i suppose?" "not now. i used to be afraid of the dark once when i was a little boy." "how did you cure yourself?" "my mother asked me to try and get over it. so she taught me to say my prayers first, and then walk over the dark part of the house every night alone. i used to make believe that an angel came with me. after that i soon stopped being afraid." esther sat very still for a little while, a light coming slowly into her face. "do you think the angel was there really, mr. earle?" "i should not be very much surprised," he answered gravely, and they sat in silence till the rest came back. chapter viii. the city of refuge. it must not be supposed that the city of refuge was forgotten or neglected all this time. saturday afternoons had always been kept sacred to it, except when some other attraction took the children elsewhere. the changes which had taken place on the other days did not affect saturday to any great extent. mr. earle was always up at the crag on that afternoon, shut up in the laboratory with mr. trelawny. he did not volunteer either drives or sails on that day, and other people were busy too. esther always had a number of little saturday duties to think of; prissy was safely shut up in the lending library; and the four younger children invariably spent the leisure time together, and almost as regularly got the old fisherman's boat and took a trip across to their island. but they had kept this a profound secret, and, so far, there had been no danger of its escaping them. mr. polperran had not been told about the island, but bertie had had leave to whisper to him that they had a very nice place they went to down by the sea, and he had said it was all right, and he was glad they should play there. for mr. polperran was a cornishman born and bred, and he did not wish his children to grow up timid or dependent. he would have brought them up more robustly had it not been for the fears and prejudices of his wife, who had lived almost all her previous life in london. as it was, he was quite pleased for his little son to have boy companions to teach him bolder sorts of games than he had ever learned at home, and he told mrs. polperran not to mind if milly and bertie did come back wet and dirty. they were getting good from the salt water and from their companions, and the rest mattered nothing. so the secret of the island never transpired in that house, and esther always thought that pickle and puck spent their saturday afternoons in the rectory orchard. orders had been issued to the fishermen generally, and pollard in particular, that the children were not to be permitted to go out alone in a boat; and had they attempted to embark down at the little quay in the village, they would have been quickly stopped. but pickle had had the wits to foresee that from the first, and had made his bargain with the queer, old, half-daft man who lived at the creek, and who was very glad to let the little gentleman have the use of his boat for a few hours on saturday, for the payment of the shilling which pickle always gave him. pocket-money was plentiful with the two boys, who had come with an ample store, and who received their usual amount weekly from their aunt. there was not much chance of spending it in such a quiet place. fishing-tackle and sweet stuff from the one village shop absorbed a little, but there was always a shilling for "jonah," as they called him, whenever they wanted the boat, and the old fellow was cunning enough not to say a word about it, so that nobody in the place knew that the children made a practise of being out on the water alone. to be sure, there was not a great deal of risk in this. the boat was very safe and heavy; their island was not far away, and was well within shelter of the bay. they were not strong enough to care to row farther out to sea, and the weather through the summer had been exceptionally fine and calm. "i wish we could get a nice breezy day," pickle had often said; "then we'd hoist up the sail and have a jolly time. but it never blows on saturday afternoon. i call it a swindle." there was a sail to the boat, and the boys were learning more and more of the management of a sailing craft. they often went out with mr. earle in the _swan_, and sometimes he would take the tiller and make them manage the sail, whilst sometimes he would take the sail and set them on to steer. they were growing expert now, and they had never been lacking in boldness from the first. one day mr. trelawny came down himself, and puck was put in charge of the tiller and pickle of the sheet; and between them, with only a little assistance and instruction, they managed to get the boat through the water very creditably. "you'll make a pair of good jack-tars in time," had been mr. trelawny's encouraging verdict at the end of the voyage; and ever since pickle and puck had been burning and yearning for a chance of displaying their prowess by taking a sail quite on their own account. they had begged to have the _swan_ for their experiment, but had been forbidden. "don't try to run before you can walk," mr. earle had advised. "this is a ticklish coast, and you don't know much about it yet. and though the weather has been very settled, nobody knows what may happen. sometimes a gale of wind gets up just when one expects it least. you'd be in a nice predicament if that were to happen. you must wait till you're older and stronger before you go sailing alone." "i call that rot," pickle said rather loftily in private to his brother afterwards; "we could do it perfectly well now, i'm sure." but as pickle was really trying to cure himself of his self-will and desire to do everything his own way, he did not say anything more about having the _swan_ to go sailing in. perhaps he felt that mr. earle's "no" was a different sort of thing from his father's, and that coaxing and teasing would be thrown away here. so the two things together kept him quiet. nevertheless there was a great desire in his mind to show off his prowess and skill in the art of practical navigation, and it had been quite a disappointment to him that saturday after saturday came and went, and there was not enough breeze in the bay to fill the sail of "jonah's" old boat. "it seems as if it was just to spite us," he grumbled more than once; "but it'll have to come some day, and then you'll see what you'll see." it did not seem much like coming this breathless september afternoon. the sun shone as fiercely as if it were the height of summer. there was neither a cloud to be seen in the sky nor a breath of air to be felt. "it'll be precious hot pulling across," said puck rather ruefully, "but i suppose we'd better go." "oh yes; and then we can have a jolly bathe, and paddle about all the time in the pools. besides, milly and bertie can pull a bit now; we can take turns with those old sweeps." bertie and milly were always all eagerness to go across. to them the island was a veritable city of refuge. prissy could never find them there, and that was in itself a wonderful boon on holiday afternoons. true, prissy was generally all the time in the parish room; but there had been occasions when she had turned up unexpectedly, and had interrupted and condemned the most charming games. there was none of the delicious security from interruption at home that was one of the greatest charms of the island. and the very fact of going thither by themselves in a boat was an immense attraction to the rectory children, who were hardly ever taken out upon the water, even when mr. trelawny did offer them a sail in the _swan_. mrs. polperran could not conquer her nervous fears for them when out in a boat. she hated the water herself, and feared it for the little ones. she had an idea that mr. trelawny was a very headstrong, rash sort of man, and she almost always found some excuse for declining his invitations to her children. if they had known this themselves they would have been much distressed; but happily they were in ignorance, and supposed that mr. trelawny only cared about pickle and puck, who regarded him in the light of a new relation. however, the bliss of these excursions to the island had made a wonderful difference in their lives. there was always something to look forward to all the week. and they had now the delightful sense of having a place all their own--a real city of refuge, where even prissy could never find them; and they were gradually collecting there a miscellaneous assortment of treasures, keeping in view the possibility that they might some day really have to flee to their island home for safety from some peril, and desirous to have some useful stores laid up there in readiness. most saturdays they made some additions to their supplies. they had an old tin box which pickle had begged from genefer, and this was hidden in a cleft of the rocks in the little creek which formed their most sheltered hiding-place. the stores were all hidden away in this box, and kept very well. they tasted the biscuits and the chocolate-sticks each time, to make sure they were keeping all right, and milly declared that they grew "more and more delicious" with the flight of time. the heat was very great to-day upon the water, but when they reached the island they could find all sorts of nice places to shelter themselves in. shoes and stockings were off in a moment, and milly's skirts were soon tucked right away, so that she could paddle with the best of them. "oh, i do wish we could live here always, and not have to go home at all!" she cried. "i'd like to sail away to the other side of the world, and live on a coral island, and eat bread-fruit, and have a delicious time. i wonder how long it would take to get there. i wonder why nobody does nice interesting things except in books. why doesn't mr. trelawny go and see nice places like that when he has a boat of his own, instead of always living up there in a house and staring at things with an electric eye?" "i don't believe he's got an electric eye," said puck. "his eyes are just like everybody else's!" "i heard father say he had," said bertie quickly; "so he must have it, i'm sure." "well, i don't much believe he has," reiterated puck. "i asked essie if he had only the other day, and she didn't know; and aunt saint said she thought it was all nonsense." "perhaps it's mr. earle then," said milly; "but somebody's got one up there, i know. i think father said they couldn't do all their experiments unless one of them had an electric eye." "mr. earle's eyes are just like other people's when he takes off his spectacles," returned puck. "i'll tell you what that is," said pickle, who came up at the moment; "i was telling essie about it only last night. i think she was rather frightened. i've been asking lots of things about electricity, and it's awfully queer sort of stuff--all in volts and things. and you can switch it on and off as you like. i suppose that's what they do with their eyes--sometimes they're like other people's eyes, and sometimes they're electric. and you have to have a complete circuit, you know. i think that's what mr. earle uses his spectacles for. i think it completes the circuit." "yes, because they're round," added puck; and the three younger ones regarded pickle with looks of respect, as one who has been dabbling deep in the fount of knowledge. suddenly in the midst of their play pickle broke into a shout of triumph. "look, look, look!" he cried, and pointed out to sea. "what is it?" asked the others, staring, but seeing nothing, till bertie suddenly realized his meaning, and clapped his hands in triumph. "a breeze! a breeze!" he shouted. "now we can go sailing! it's coming up beautifully!" milly began to caper wildly. she had been longing unspeakably to participate in the delights of which she had heard. she thought that sailing on the water must be just the most delightful thing in the whole world, and had shed a few tears in private because she had never been in the _swan_, and bertie only once. "oh, come along, come along!" she cried ecstatically. "can we really have a sail?" her confidence in pickle was by this time unbounded. he seemed to her almost as wise and as resourceful as a grown-up person, without all the tiresome prudence that seemed to come with the advance of years. if he took them they would be as safe as if they were with mr. trelawny himself, and pickle's own confidence in his powers was little less. good resolutions were cast to the winds. perhaps pickle did not even know that this was the case. he had so longed for a breeze which would enable him to sail the fisherman's big boat, and it never occurred to him to regard this desire as a part and parcel of the self-will he had tried to get the better of. he had given up teasing for leave to go out in the _swan_ alone. but that was quite different. she was a fast-sailing boat, and perhaps wanted somebody more skilled to manage her properly; but this old tub was as safe as a house, he was perfectly certain of that. besides, they need not go any distance, but just sail round and round or backwards and forwards in the bay. he knew quite well by this time how to tack and put the boat's head about. he could manage that old tub as well as "jonah" himself. "shall we go and find a coral island?" asked milly, as they tumbled one over the other in their haste. "i--i don't quite know," answered pickle, not wishful to seem backward in the spirit of adventure, but rather doubtful as to the course to take for such a goal. "perhaps to-day we'd better not go so very far. we can look for a coral island next time." "shall we take some provisions with us, in case we're wrecked?" asked milly with beaming face, as though that would be the crowning delight to the adventure. "we might perhaps," said pickle; "one gets jolly hungry out sailing. we often have something to eat when we're out in the _swan_." milly ran off to the storehouse for supplies, whilst the boys made a rush for the boat. little puffs of wind were coming up from the west, dimpling the water, which had been as smooth as oil, and making it all ruffled and pretty. the sun, too, began to be obscured by a light film of cloud, and away over the land great banks of lurid-looking vapor began piling themselves slowly up in the sky; but the children were much too busy to think of looking out for signs like these, nor would they have been much the wiser had they noticed them. some cornish children, no older than milly and bertie, might have guessed from the look of sky and sea, and from the strange, heavy feeling in the air, that there was going to be a storm. but mrs. polperran had managed to bring up her young family in wonderful ignorance of such matters. bertie had never been allowed to run down to the shore to play with or amongst the fishermen's children; and so long as the sun was shining they never thought of such a thing as rain. there was sunshine still over the sea, though it was not so bright and hot as it had been. "isn't it nice?" cried milly, who was in a perfect ecstasy. "it isn't too hot now, and there's a lovely little breeze coming up, and it's all so pretty and nice. here's our basket; there are some cakes left, and i've put in some biscuits. let's take a drink of water out of the fountain, and then we can go for ever so long." the children kept their "fountain" replenished in dry weather from a can they brought over, filled from the well behind the fisherman's cottage. they liked drinking from the cleft in the rocks, but unless there had been rain quite lately the cleft was apt to be dry. however, they satisfied their thirst before embarking, and milly held her breath as she watched the old sail slowly swelling itself out as the puffs of wind caught it. it was the most entrancing experience to see the island just gliding away from them, as it seemed, for the boat did not appear to be moving, and yet there was quite a gap between them and it. then the sheet began to draw. pickle gave a shout of triumph as they felt the movement, and saw the little ripple of water round the prow. "she's off! she's off!" shouted both the boys in triumph. "set her head out to sea, bertie. that's right. hold her so. now we shall go. the wind's fresher away from shore. oh jolly, jolly, jolly! don't we go along?" milly had no words just at first. it was too delightful and wonderful. here they were actually in a boat of their very own, heading out for the beautiful green and golden sea lying away ahead of them, sparkling and dimpling in the westering light. they did not so much as glance towards land, where the masses of black sulphurous-looking clouds were piling themselves above the tall crags. they only saw the beautiful, shining sea, and felt the bird-like motion of the boat as she rushed through the dimpling waves. this was something like sailing. no laborious pulling at those heavy oars that moved so slowly through the water, and often hardly seemed to make the boat move at all; nothing to do but sit still, just holding sheet and rudder, and watch the water curling away from the bow as the boat pursued her course. when the puffs of wind came up more strongly they seemed almost to fly, and when they died down a little the sail would flap for a few minutes against the mast, and then puck would alter their course a little, and soon it would be drawing again beautifully. they did not care where they went or what they did. they were having a glorious sail, and they were full of delight and triumph. nobody could say now that they could not manage a boat. "only if we tell," said milly, frankly expressing the thought in words, "perhaps they'll never let us go again." "that is so stupid of people," said pickle; "they are always like that. if they'd know we went over to our city of refuge alone in a boat, i believe they'd have stopped us; but we never came to any harm, and now that we can sail like bricks, and manage a boat quite easily, they'd go on, saying just the same things as when we'd never been out or had any lessons. so it's no good talking; we'd better keep it our secret, like the island. but now that the windy time of year is coming, we can go out sailing often. we'll have jolly fun, if some stupid old fisherman doesn't see us and tell; but there seems nobody about to-day anyway." "i expect it was too hot and bright for fishing," said milly. "i know fishermen like dull days or the nights best." a low rumble from the shore boomed through the air, and the children looked round. "i think it's a thunderstorm over there," said puck, "but it's jolly and fine out here." "there! i saw a flash of lightning come out of the big black cloud!" cried milly. "it was so pretty. i don't mind lightning when i'm right away from it out here. i don't much like it at home. let's sail away from it, pickle, right away. it's quite fine the way we're going, and we go so fast. we shan't have it at all. and when mother wonders why we're not wet or anything, we shall just say it didn't rain where we were. it's like the israelites and the land of goshen." pickle looked just a little doubtfully at the weather. the sun was almost obscured now, though it still shone over the sea away to the west and south. the wind was coming up in squally gusts behind them, and sending the boat dancing along merrily. it was certainly great fun sailing on like that, but the waves were beginning to grow rather bigger out here than they had looked from inside the bay, and when the wind came rushing along, there were sometimes little crests of foam to be seen, and now and then these dashed into the boat. "i think, perhaps, we'd better put her about now," he said, with a look of wise command directed towards puck; "the storm might come over here, you know, and then we should get very wet--at least if it rained. you know how to put her helm round, puck, don't you? or shall i come and do it?" "of course i know," answered puck rather indignantly; "you just manage the sail. it always flaps a great deal when we put her round on the other tack." milly and bertie, greatly impressed by this nautical language, sat as still as mice watching their companions. milly was rather disappointed at hearing they were to go back, but now that the sun was obscured and the wind getting up, it wasn't quite so nice upon the water, and bertie was looking very solemn indeed. "you're not frightened, are you?" she whispered. "oh no; only my inside feels funny," he answered, trying to put a brave face on matters. "i don't think i mind going home so very much." milly had no qualms of seasickness such as were troubling bertie, but she did think the boat was rocking rather wildly, and the sail seemed to be flapping and pulling them over, and the water was very near the edge of the boat, which seemed to be dipping quite down. she gave a little shriek, and threw herself towards the other side. pickle was fighting fiercely with the sail, and she went to his assistance, and only just in time. "we must get it down," he said; and milly helped with all her might, so that in a few more minutes the boat lay rocking on the waves, the sail furled up round the mast, whilst bertie called out dismally that the water was all over his feet, and pickle told him rather sharply to get the water can and bail it out as fast as he could. "you didn't turn her head right a bit," he said to puck. "we were nearly capsized that time." "then it was your fault with the sail," retorted puck, who was rather frightened. "i didn't do anything wrong." "let's go home now," cried milly, a little piteously, though struggling hard against her rising fears; "the sun's gone in, and i think it's going to rain, and oh! what a flash of lightning that was!" the boom of the thunder almost immediately after was even more alarming. poor little bertie, who was feeling very sick and queer, began to cry; and pickle looked towards the shore, and marveled how they could ever have got all that way from it in such a little time. "we can never row back," was the thought in his heart; "we must get the sail up again somehow. we've sailed the _swan_ backwards and forwards. why on earth won't this old tub do the same? it must be puck's fault." he saw that the spirit of the party was becoming damped, and he was the more resolved to keep up a bold front himself. "we must just pull her round with the sweeps," he said in his commanding way, "and then we'll get the sail up all right. it's only just the tacking that is a bit difficult. we'll be racing home in a jiffy, you'll see." this was consoling to milly, who was half ashamed of her sudden fears, and now that the boat ceased to rock and plunge so wildly she began to recover her courage; and it was rather grand to be helping pickle to pull the old boat round. she could do that quite well, as well as help bertie with the bailing out, which he only prosecuted languidly, looking almost ready to cry. his face had a sickly greenish hue too, which rather distressed milly, but pickle said,-- "he's only seasick. puck felt like that once or twice. he'll be better soon." when the boat was really headed for the shore, pickle tried experiments with the sail; but do as he would, he couldn't make the boat sail towards land. it would sail away, or it would sail sideways, but towards shore it would not go; and indeed they seemed to be getting slowly farther and farther away, and bertie suddenly burst into miserable crying, begging to be taken home, because he was so very poorly. pickle was beginning to wish very sincerely that they had never left their island. he looked back towards it with longing eyes. it would be a real city of refuge now, but alas! it looked almost as far away as the mainland. "can't we row to it?" asked milly, following the direction of his eyes. "i'm quite cool now. i'm rather cold. i should like to row if we can't sail. we got out here so very quickly, it can't take so very long to row back." it seemed the only thing to do, and pickle consented to try. he took one oar, and milly the other. puck kept the tiller, and put the boat's head for their city of refuge, whilst bertie lay along the bottom of the boat, heedless of damp or discomfort, only longing to be at home in his little bed. "i hope father won't call it being a cockney," he once said pitifully to milly, "but i can't help it. i do feel so sick. i wish we'd never come." "i dare say cornish boys are sometimes sick at sea," answered milly consolingly. she hardly knew whether she wished they had not come or not. there was something rather exciting in the adventure, and if only they could get back to their city of refuge she thought she should be quite glad. it would make them feel that they really were sailors, to be able to manage a boat in a storm. milly had her back to the shore now, and was pulling her oar very manfully. she thought they seemed to be going very fast through the water, though the waves were rather bigger than she liked, and seemed sometimes to rise up very near the edge of the boat. still she thought they seemed to be getting through them very fast, and made up her mind that they would soon be at their journey's end now. she almost wondered why puck did not exclaim that they were close in now. he only sat holding the tiller with a very solemn expression on his face. "the waves are getting very big," he said at last; "i don't much like the look of them. this boat doesn't swim nicely, like the _swan_. they look as though they'd come in on us every time." then milly looked over her shoulder, and gave a little cry of astonishment and dismay. "why, we're farther off than when we started!" she cried. "i think we get farther and farther away every minute," said puck. "i should like to pull round, and put up the sail again, and go round the world like that. we should come to our island again upside down, you know, and it would be much easier." "it's the wind and the tide against us," said pickle, with a rather anxious face. "we shall never get home at this rate." a sob from bertie was the only response to this remark. milly was trying to choke back her tears, because she didn't want it cast in her teeth that girls always cried. "what can we do?" said puck. "i think we'd better do as you said," answered pickle--"get her head round, and put up a bit of sail, and run before the wind. i don't think the old boat is safe going against these big waves. she'll be all right the other way, and we shall fall in with some ship soon, and they'll take us on board; or perhaps we shall get to a coral island after all." "i'd rather go home," sobbed bertie; and milly wondered if it was very silly of her, but she wanted much more now to be at home than to see a coral island. pickle put on a brave face, for he felt that he was the captain, and must support the failing courage of his crew; but he began to wish from the bottom of his heart that he had not thrown aside his good resolutions quite so quickly, and that he had never tried to sail a boat before mr. earle had given him leave. chapter ix. the magician's cave. esther had taken her mother for a little drive upon that hot september afternoon, but they had not stayed out so long as usual. the banks of cloud rising in the sky had frightened mrs. st. aiden, and esther turned the pony's head for home, not very wishful herself to test punch's nerve in a thunderstorm. they got home, however, before the first rumble sounded, and mrs. st. aiden went up-stairs to lie down. she said that the heavy air made her head ache, and that perhaps she should get a nap before tea-time. esther had taken off her hat, and was watching the first flashes of the lightning amid the piled-up clouds, when the little maid came to say that there was a poor woman who wanted to speak to one of the ladies, and should she tell the mistress, or would miss esther see her? "oh, i'll go," said esther; "mother must not be disturbed." she ran down to the back gate. genefer was out, and for the moment there was only the little maid available for any service. the cook was picking fruit in the garden over the road. she must not be hindered, as the rain would very likely soon come. esther did not remember ever to have seen this wrinkled old woman before. she did not know in the least who she was, nor what she wanted. she could only just understand her when she spoke, for she had a very broad, soft accent, and used many funny words that the little girl hardly understood. at first she thought the woman must be making a mistake in what she was saying; for she was telling esther that the little gentlemen, and little miss milly from the rectory, were out in a boat on the bay, and that she was afraid there was a storm coming on, and had come up to tell somebody lest they should come to harm. it was some time before esther could be persuaded that there was not a mistake somewhere. she could not believe that pickle and puck and the little polperrans could possibly be out in a boat by themselves. but the old woman assured her that they were, and told her, in a half-frightened way, how they came down on most saturdays and took her husband's old boat across to the little island opposite, where they played for a few hours and then came back. but it had always been calm and quiet on the water hitherto, and she had had no uneasiness on their account; but now the wind was getting up, and it looked like a storm coming, and she thought she ought to tell somebody, and didn't know what to do lest her old man should be vexed with her. so she had come to see the ladies about it. perhaps they could send somebody. "oh yes," answered esther quickly, casting about in her mind what to do; "i think i could find somebody who would help. is the storm going to come very quickly?" "i don't think so very quick, missie, and they'll be all safe on the island; they don't come back ever till a good bit later than this. but i don't like to think of them trying to get the heavy old boat home alone, with the wind blowing off shore like this. i don't think as they could do it; and it might get blown out to sea, and they would be skeered like." esther was a little scared herself at the bare thought. she turned things quickly over in her mind. she had to take command of the situation. genefer was away for the afternoon. cook was no good in an emergency, as she always lost her head; and it was one of esther's tenets that her mother must be spared all worry and anxiety. whatever was to be done she must do herself, and her thoughts flew instantly to mr. earle. he had become something like a real friend to the little girl during these past weeks. she was not without a certain timid fear of his cleverness, his stores of occult knowledge, and the things in which he took part up at the crag, which made folks shake their heads sometimes, and say that they feared some hurt to somebody would be the result. yet for all that esther believed in him thoroughly, and felt that he was certain to go to the aid of the boys if he knew their predicament, and it must be her work to let him know as soon as possible. she looked up at the threatening sky, but thunder and lightning did not frighten esther much. she would have been glad of company through the dark pine wood, but she was not really afraid to go alone. she was more afraid of approaching the crag at a time when it was popularly supposed that the master and his assistant were always engaged upon one of their uncanny experiments; but there seemed nothing else to be done, since the pony carriage had been already sent back by the boy in charge. after dismissing the woman with a small fee and a few words of thanks, esther put on her hat once more and commenced the climb to the crag. she had got about half-way there when she uttered a little exclamation of joy, for there was mr. earle himself swinging away down the path as if to meet her. she ran eagerly forward to meet him. "o mr. earle, did they tell you too?" "tell me what?" he asked, stopping short and looking straight at her. "what are you doing here all alone, with a storm coming up?" "o mr. earle, it's the boys. i'm afraid about them. i was coming to ask you what to do." and then she plunged into the story, and told him exactly what the old woman had told her. mr. earle's face looked a little grim as he heard, and his eyes scanned the clouds overhead and the aspect of things in general. "look here," he said to esther in his clear, decisive way; "i'll tell you what we must do. leave me to see after the boys. i'll go after them in the _swan_; for they ought not to be alone any distance from land, with the wind getting up and blowing off shore. but if i do that for you, you must go up to the crag for me with a message; and if the storm breaks, or looks very like breaking, you must stop up there till it's over. i'll leave word as i pass your house where you are, so that nobody will be uneasy about you." esther shook a little at the thought of going alone to the crag, but she never thought of shirking. "what is the message?" she asked. "it's like this," said mr. earle, speaking rapidly and clearly: "mr. trelawny and i are at a stand-still in some of our experiments for a certain chemical, which has been on order from london for some time. we think the carrier may have brought it to-day, and i'm on my way to the little shop to see if it's been left. mr. trelawny is waiting for me in some impatience. you must take word that i shall probably be detained, and that i want him not to go on any farther till i come back. you can remember that, can't you? you had better send merriman to fetch him to come and see you; then you can explain all about it, and if you have once got him safe out of the laboratory, you keep him out. i don't want him to go on experimenting without me. it wants two for that sort of thing. do you understand?" "yes," answered esther, and then the pair parted. mr. earle went swinging down the path which passed the hermitage and led to the village where the carrier's cart deposited parcels; and esther, with a very grave face, went slowly upwards towards the house upon the crag. she was glad to think she need not seek mr. trelawny himself amid his crucibles and retorts and strange apparatus; but she was a little afraid at having to face him all alone, although she had been trying hard to conquer her fears of him, and she had to own that he was always especially kind to her. she could not walk very fast here, for the ground was steep, and she had tired her limbs by hurrying along the first part of the way. the air seemed very hot and close about her, and she felt the sort of ache in her head which thunder often brought. all of a sudden she gave a little jump, and stopped short, for she saw a strange thing just in front of her--a little spiral of sulphurous smoke, curling upwards from the ground, very much as she had read that it did when volcanoes were going to have an eruption; and she very nearly forgot everything else, and turned to run away, when her steps were arrested by something even more alarming--the distinct sound of a groan, proceeding, as it seemed, from the very heart of the earth. esther's feet seemed rooted to the spot. she could not run away now; she had not the power. meantime her wits were hard at work, and in a few moments she realized that she was close to the hole which the boys called the chimney of the underground cave, and the smoke she saw was coming up from that place, whilst the groan must surely have been uttered by some person down there. all the old terror of that subterranean cave came like a flood over esther--all the talk of the boys about prisoners and victims, and her own vague and fearful imaginings of the horrors of such places. she was shaking all over, and beads of moisture stood upon her brow. reason for the moment had taken wing, and it seemed to esther as though she had suddenly come upon some fearful mystery of human suffering. there was some wretched human being in that cave, groaning in pain--bound, perhaps, in fetters, and awaiting some terrible doom. could she leave him like that? having made this discovery, ought she not to pursue it farther? her heart beat to suffocation at the bare thought, but she fought fiercely with her fears. had she not resolved to overcome them? and how could she leave this poor creature without seeking to do something? with failing limbs she crept towards the mouth of the shaft. she had looked down it many times before this, when the boys had been with her. but then there had been no smoke curling out of it, and no blood-curdling sounds coming up. she could not put her head right over it to-day, for the smoke choked her and made her cough; and immediately there seemed to come from below a sort of muffled cry. esther caught her breath and called back,-- "is there anybody down there?" "yes; come to me! help!" spoke the voice, which sounded from the very depths of the earth. and esther's resolve was taken. she must go. she must go herself, and at once. to summon help from the crag might be worse than useless. this miserable victim was probably imprisoned there by the master of that place. esther's mind had gone back for the moment to its old standpoint, and mr. trelawny was the terrible magician, whose doings were so full of mystery if not of iniquity. if any captive were there, he had placed him in that terrible prison. his servants were probably in collusion with their master. if anything could be done, it must be done quickly and by herself alone. "i'm coming!" she cried down the mouth of the shaft, and then set off to run for the door in the hillside, the position of which she knew perfectly by this time. the boys had often shown it to her, and had shown her the trick of opening it. but they had never gone in. mr. trelawny had forbidden them to do so, knowing their mischievous tendencies. esther had the free right of entrance, but she would sooner have put her head into a lion's mouth than have exercised it. she had never been in since that first day when she had had to be carried out by mr. trelawny. she had hoped never to have to enter the fearful place again. but she must to-day, she plainly must, though her knees were quaking at the bare thought. she had had one or two talks with mr. earle about fear of the dark and how to conquer it. esther was not afraid of the dark in the ordinary sense of the word. she was not afraid of going about in the dark in her own home; for she had tried that, and only now and then, when in a nervous mood, had felt any fear. but she knew that she could not bear strange underground dark places, and she had once asked mr. earle if he thought she ought to go there to get used to them. but he had looked at her for a few moments, and had then said,-- "no, i do not think so--not unless there were some object to be gained by it. there are many people in the world who dislike underground places, and avoid them. as a rule there is no call for them to conquer the dislike. of course, if one could do any good by going, if there were some sufficient reason for it--if it were to help somebody else, for instance--then it would be right to try and overcome one's repugnance. but without some such motive, i do not see that any one would be greatly benefited by going into uncongenial places of the kind." esther thought of all this as she ran along. hitherto it had been a comfort to her to think of this decision. but now it seemed to her that the time had come when she was bound to go. somebody wanted help. there was nobody but herself to give it. she might not be able to accomplish much, but at least she ought to go and see. to turn and run away would be like the priest and levite in the parable, who left the poor man wounded and half dead. everybody knew that they were wicked. she must try and copy the good samaritan, who, she knew, was the type of jesus himself. that thought came to her like a ray of comfort, and it helped to drive back the flood of her fears. then she remembered what mr. earle had said about what his mother told him to do; and, just as she reached the strange old door in the hillside, esther dropped upon her knees and buried her face in her hands. it was only for a few seconds, but when she got up again she felt that she could go into the cave. a few minutes before, it had seemed as if it were almost impossible. the heavy door yielded to her touch. she knew it would swing back again when she let it go, so she took a big stone with her and set it wide open. there would be comfort in the feeling that there was light and air behind her, though the cave looked fearfully dark and gloomy, and the strange smell inside it, as she went slowly forward, brought back some of the dizzy feeling she had experienced upon her first visit. a heavy groan smote upon her ears, and she gave a start and clasped her hands tightly together. she was through the passage now, and could just see the outline of the great dim cave. but where the living thing was that was making these sounds she could not guess. she stood quite still, and called timidly,-- "is anybody there?" "yes, child," answered a voice which she knew, now that she heard it more plainly. "come a little nearer. i can't see you. i'm afraid i've been an old fool; and if i haven't blinded myself, i shall have better luck than i deserve." esther sprang forward with a little cry of relief. it was no chained captive, no unknown, mysterious prisoner. it was mr. trelawny himself, and he was hurt. in a moment she was by his side, bending over him, seeing a very blackened face and a brow drawn with pain. mr. trelawny was half sitting, half lying upon the cold floor of the cave, and there was a lot of broken glass all about him. so much she could see, and not much beside. "o uncle robert, i am so sorry! what can i do?" "isn't there a lot of glass about?" "yes." "well, there is a broom somewhere about. get it and sweep it away, and i'll try to get up. every time i've tried to move i've got my hands cut. i can't see a thing, and i've little power to help myself." esther forgot all about being afraid now that there was something to do. she found the broom, and was soon sweeping away like a little housemaid. now and then a groan broke from mr. trelawny, and at last she said gently,-- "i think there's no more glass. please, are you very much hurt?" "earle will tell me i ought to have been blown into a thousand fragments," was the rather grim reply. "i think i've got off cheap. but i've had a tremendous electric shock; and i'm a good bit cut and burnt, i expect. if only my eyes are spared, i'll not grumble at anything else. how came you here, child? i thought i should have an hour or more to wait till earle got back." esther explained then what had happened, for mr. trelawny, although in much pain, had all his wits about him; and when he knew that mr. earle might be detained, he said to esther,-- "then you must be my attendant messenger instead. go up by those stairs into the house, and fetch down merriman and another of the men. i don't think i can get up there without more help than your little hands can give." esther quickly obeyed. she knew the way up into the house, and the key was in the door, so that she had no difficulty in getting there. the hall above was almost as dark by that time as the cave below; for the storm had gathered fast, and the black clouds seemed hanging right over them. but esther had other things to think of now, and she quickly summoned the men, and sent them down to mr. trelawny; and then, being used in her own house to illness, she ran for the housekeeper, and begged her to get oil and linen rag and wine and soup ready, because mr. trelawny had burnt and hurt himself, and somebody must look after him, till the doctor came, and he could not well be sent for till after the storm had gone by, for it was going to be a very bad one. so before very long mr. trelawny was lying at full length upon a great wide oak settle in the hall, and esther was gently bathing his cut and blackened and blistered face and hands, and covering up the bad places with oiled rag, as she had seen genefer do when cook had burnt herself one day. mr. trelawny kept his eyes closed, and he drew his breath rather harshly, like one in pain, and his brows were drawn into great wrinkles. "do i hurt you?" esther asked from time to time. the housekeeper seemed to think that esther had better do the actual handling of the patient while she kept her supplied with the things she wanted. mr. trelawny's servants--and especially the women servants--stood in considerable awe of him. he never liked any attentions from a woman that a man could bestow, and the housekeeper preferred to remain discreetly in the background, leaving esther to play the part of nurse. esther was well used to the _rôle_, and had a gentle, self-contained way with her that had come from her long tendance upon her mother. her touch was very soft and gentle, but it was not uncertain and timid. indeed she did not feel at all afraid of mr. trelawny now, only afraid of hunting him. "no, no, child," he answered when she put the question; "your little hands are like velvet. they don't hurt at all. but what's all that noise overhead?" "it's the rain," answered esther. "there is such a storm coming up. hark! don't you hear the thunder? and there was such a flash of lightning." mr. trelawny put his hand up to his eyes, and made an effort to open them, but desisted almost immediately, with an exclamation of suffering. esther clasped her soft little hands round one of his in token of sympathy. she could understand the terrible fear which must possess him just now. the servants had moved away by this time. they knew that the master did not like being looked at and fussed over. he had made a sign with his hand which they had understood to be one of dismissal, and esther was alone with him now in this big place. the storm was raging fearfully, but the child was not frightened. she had other things to think of, and she was thinking very hard. "i hope mr. earle has got the boys safe," she said, with a tone of anxiety in her voice. there was no reply. mr. trelawny was suffering keenly both in mind and body. esther looked at him, and realized that this was so. she hardly meant to speak the words out loud, but they came into her head and they passed her lips almost before she was aware of it. "jesus can stop the storms and make them quiet again, and keep people safe in them. and he can make blind people see." there was no reply; but esther felt one of the bandaged hands feel about as if for something, and she put her own little hand into it at once. the fingers closed over it, and the man and the child sat thus together for a very long time. then there was a little stir in the hall, as the butler appeared, bringing tea; and mr. trelawny told esther to get some, and give him a cup, as he was very thirsty. she was glad enough to serve him, and did so daintily and cleverly; and before they had finished, the storm had very much abated. the rain still fell, and the wind blew; but the sun was beginning to shine out again, and esther knew that the worst was over now. "it is light again now," she said. "it was so dark all that time--almost as dark as the cave." mr. trelawny looked more himself now. the pain of his burns was soothed by the dressing laid upon them, and the lines in his face had smoothed themselves out. "ah, the cave!" he repeated. "i thought that the cave was your special abhorrence, esther. how came you to be there all alone to-day?" "i came after you," answered esther. "i heard somebody groan and call for help." "did you know who was calling?" "no, the voice sounded so muffled and strange." "i wonder you weren't afraid, you timid little mouse. suppose it had been some great, rough smuggler fellow, such as used to live in that cave long ago!" "but i knew he was hurt; he was groaning and calling for help." "and that gave you courage?" esther hesitated. "i don't think i felt very brave, but i knew i ought to go." "why ought you?" "o uncle robert, you know we ought always to help people when they are in trouble--especially if they are hurt." "didn't you think you might get hurt too?" esther's face was rosy now, though he could not see it. "i thought a great many silly things," she confessed softly. "i think i have been very silly and cowardly often, but i'm going to try not to be any more. i don't think i should mind going down into the cave again now." "tell me what you thought about it before," said mr. trelawny, in his imperious way; and though it was rather a hard command to obey, esther thought it might, perhaps, amuse him to hear some of the things that she and the boys together had imagined about him, and perhaps he would tell her then how much of it all was true. so she told what puck had said about the tanks where skeletons were pickled, and about the electric eye, and the elixir of life, and the different things that different persons had said, and the interpretation the boys had put upon their words, and how she had fancied that the groans she heard that day must proceed from some miserable captive destined for one of the tanks. it was rather hard to say all this, for some of it sounded quite silly now; but esther bravely persevered, for she thought if she could once talk it right out she might never feel so frightened again. mr. trelawny lay still, and she could not quite see the expression on his face, because it was partly covered up; but at last he seemed able to contain himself no longer, and he broke into a real laugh--not quite so loud or so gruff as usual, but very hearty for all that. at the sound of that laugh esther's fears seemed to take wing. it must all have been nonsense, she was sure. nobody who had really been doing wicked and cruel things would laugh to know that they had been found out. "i shall have to take you over my laboratory one of these days, and really show you my pickled skeletons, and my electric eye, and all the other mysteries. now you need not shake, my dear. i have nothing in pickle worse than a specimen animal; and as for the electric eye, that is very far from being perfect, and it will be a long while before i can make you understand its use, or what we mean by the term. anyhow, it is not an eye that we carry about with us. in your mind it would not be an eye at all, though it has some analogy to one. and as for the elixir of life, my dear, i would not drink of it if i were to find it. to live forever in this mortal world of ours would be a poor sort of thing; and we know that there is an elixir of life preparing for us, of which we shall all drink one day--all to whom it is given, that is. and then there will be new heavens and a new earth, and we shall all be glorified together." esther sat very still, trying to take in the magnitude of that idea, and feeling that she should never be afraid of mr. trelawny again, now that she had spoken so freely of her fears to him, and he had been so kind, and had said such nice things. the shadows were beginning to fall now, and she was wondering how long she would have to stay here. she did not mean to leave mr. trelawny till mr. earle got back to take care of him; but she began to wish that he would come, and that she might get news of the boys. at last the sound of a firm, ringing step was heard without, and esther sprang to her feet. the big door was open, for it was quite warm still, though the rain had taken the sultriness out of the air. she ran out, and met mr. earle face to face. he was wet through and almost dripping, but he looked as quiet and composed as ever. "o mr. earle, where are the boys?" "safe at home in bed, like a pair of drowned rats. it was a good thing you came to warn me, esther, or they might have been miles out at sea by this time, or else at the bottom of it." esther's face paled a little. "o mr. earle, what did they do?" "you'd better run home and hear all about it from them. i thought you'd be back before i was." "o mr. earle, i couldn't go till you came. mr. trelawny has hurt himself. they've sent for the doctor now. but they couldn't just at first, the storm was so bad. please, will you go to him? then i can go home. but may i come again to-morrow to see how he is?" mr. earle had uttered a startled exclamation at hearing esther's words, and was now striding into the hall, almost forgetful of her. "trelawny!" she heard him exclaim; and then mr. trelawny said in his dry way,-- "yes; crow over me now as much as you like. i neglected your valuable advice, and see the result!" mr. earle went and bent down over him; and esther, feeling her task done, took her hat and stole out into the soft dusk, and ran down the hill home as fast as she could. chapter x. confessions. esther found genefer at the door on the lookout for her. "o miss esther, my dear, i am glad to see you! i was getting fidgety about you--so long away up there, and the storm and all. but you are not wet through at all events," feeling the condition of her clothing and the temperature of her hands. "why did you stay such a time up there after the storm was over?" "i stayed with mr. trelawny; he has been hurt. i found him in the cave where he tries his experiments. i didn't like to leave him till mr. earle came back. but the boys, genefer--what about them?" "oh, they're in bed--the best place for them too. they were just soaked to the skin, and master percy had some of the pluck taken out of him. i don't know just what it was all about. i was busy getting them put into a hot bath, and then tucked up between hot blankets. master philip doesn't seem any the worse. he was asking for you all the time. i said you would go up as soon as you got in." "i will," said esther. "i've had my tea up at the crag. how is mama?" "lying down still with a headache. she got a bit upset when the boys were brought in, so when i'd seen to them i coaxed her to go to bed, and i hope she's asleep. the thunder upset her head, as it almost always does. i wouldn't go to her unless she calls to you going by." esther lingered a moment by her mother's door, but no voice summoned her in, so she went up-stairs, and soon heard pickle's unmistakable tones urging her to speed. "is that you, essie? come along! what a time you've been! we've got such things to tell you! come on!" esther pushed open the boys' door, and entered the room where two small beds stood side by side, and a small boy occupied each. puck was snuggled down in his, though his eyes were wide open; but pickle was sitting up, quivering with excitement to tell his tale to more sympathetic ears than those of either mr. earle or genefer. "o esther! why didn't you come before? we've such things to tell you! where have you been?" "up with mr. trelawny at the crag. he's hurt himself. i had to stay with him. o pickle, what were you doing? the old fisherman's wife said you were on the little island, and couldn't get back. did mr. earle come and fetch you?" "oh, she let on to somebody, did she? i didn't quite understand about that part of it. well, perhaps it was a good thing she did. but, i say, esther, we did have a jolly old time of it for a bit. we went such a sail by ourselves. if it hadn't been for that stupid storm coming up and spoiling it, we could have showed everybody that we could manage a boat first-rate." "bertie was sick," chimed in puck from his nest, "and i didn't like it when we couldn't get to shore. i thought we were going to be upset and drowned once. i didn't like that part of it." esther looked from one to the other in some bewilderment and anxiety. "o boys, what did you do?" then pickle plunged headlong into the story. it was all rather mixed up and difficult for esther to follow, but she began to understand that the boys had taken advantage of their liberty on saturdays to go off regularly to the little island, and that they had kept this "city of refuge" quite as a secret of their own. "i shouldn't have minded telling you," said pickle, "only we thought perhaps you'd tell mrs. poll-parrot, or pretty polly, and then all the fun would have been gone." "it wouldn't have been a city of refuge if the avenger of blood could come after us in another boat and take us away," added puck. "i'm afraid it won't be a city of refuge any longer now. i wish we hadn't gone sailing, but just gone home. then nobody would have known anything." "were you out on the water in the storm?" asked esther, with a little shiver. "o pickle, you should not have been so disobedient. you know mr. earle and mr. trelawny would not let you sail the boat alone." "not the _swan_," said pickle quickly, "but nobody had said anything about that old tub." esther looked rather grave, and a quick wave of color swept over pickle's face. "i wanted to do it," he said in rather a low voice; "perhaps that was why it seemed all right." "you might have been drowned," said esther in a voice of awe; "mr. earle said so himself." "i thought so once," said the boy; "i was frightened then." "tell me about it," said esther with a little shiver. she sat down on the side of puck's bed, and he got fast hold of her hand. he was more subdued than pickle, though esther could see that even the bold elder boy had received a considerable shock to his nerves. his eyes were bright, and he was excited and not quite himself. "we had always wanted so much to sail the boat," said he in response to esther, "but there had never been any wind. and to-day, when it began just to blow a little, it seemed just the very thing. so we got in and went off, and it was delicious. we did it beautifully, and it was all pretty and sunny on the sea, and we went along finely. but by and by the waves got bigger, and bertie began to get sick, and some of them wanted to get home again. so we tried to tack her round as mr. earle does, but she wouldn't go against the wind a bit, and the waves splashed in and wet us. and then we tried to row, but we only got farther and farther away from land, and the sea got rougher and rougher. and bertie was sick and frightened, and everybody wanted to get home, and we couldn't." "o pickle, how dreadful! what did you do?" "well, we had to turn round at last and run before the wind," answered the boy, with as much of the sailor air as he could assume. "i saw it was the only thing to try for. the waves were all right if you didn't try to meet them; and we thought perhaps we should meet a ship which would take us up." "that might have been rather nice," said puck, "only it got so dark, and then the thunder and lightning came; and oh, how it did rain! we couldn't see anything. we felt like being all alone on the sea. i was frightened then, and bertie was awfully sick, and milly began to cry. i wanted to cry, too, only i thought it would be like a girl." esther was shivering herself at the bare picture of all these horrors. she had nothing but sympathy for the boys now, though she knew that it had been the spirit of disobedience which had prompted them to this daring escapade. "oh, what did you do?" she asked, in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "we couldn't do anything but sail on and on," answered pickle; "but puck said,-- "yes, we could. milly proposed it. we all said our prayers; and milly reminded us about jesus walking on the water, and making the storm stop. so we asked him to come and do the same for us." "the storm did stop by and by," said esther in a low voice. "yes, it did--almost just after we'd been praying," said puck; "and when the rain went away and the sun came out, we saw the _swan_ coming after us as hard as ever it could come. bertie thought perhaps it was jesus coming to us on the water, but it was only mr. earle." "perhaps jesus sent him to you," said esther in a low voice. "he said it was you who sent him," said pickle the practical. "yes, in one way," answered esther, coloring up, for she was shy of uttering her deeper thoughts; "but i shouldn't have known if the old woman hadn't come up. perhaps it was jesus who sent her--i mean, put it into her head to come." "do you think so?" asked puck, with wide-open eyes, and esther answered softly and steadily,-- "yes, i do." puck suddenly scrambled up in his bed and got upon his knees. "genefer put us to bed without our prayers--she was in such a hurry," he said. "i'd like to say my prayers now, because i'm very much obliged, if it was like that. it's mean not to thank people when they've done things for you. let's all say our prayers together." esther immediately knelt down beside the little bed, and in a moment pickle was out and on his knees beside her. they both hid their faces, and a few half-whispered words and snorts from puck, who was very much in earnest, alone broke the silence of the upper room. but presently esther felt that the child kneeling beside her was quivering all over, and suddenly pickle broke down and began to sob uncontrollably. this was a strange thing in pickle, who had hardly shed a tear all the months he had been under the roof of the hermitage, and esther was distressed and almost frightened at the sudden vehemence of the outburst. she put her arms round him, and rather to her surprise he did not repulse her overture of sympathy, but clung to her convulsively, weeping silently, but with great gasping sobs, that seemed wrung from him by some power too strong to be resisted. puck crept into bed again, and watched his brother with wondering eyes. but nature was claiming her dues now from both, and puck's eyes grew heavy with sleep even as he watched, and soon shut themselves up altogether. not even curiosity, or the remains of the excitements through which they had passed, could keep him longer from the land of dreams. "pickle dear," said esther gently at last, "won't you let me put you to bed? you will be getting cold." "don't go away then," he said between his sobs. "hold my hand and sit with me. i don't want to be left alone." how well esther understood that appeal! she knew without any telling that if left alone all the horrors of that dangerous voyage would come back over the boy's mind, as they had never done at the moment when the things were happening. she felt as though a bond of sympathy had been established between herself and her manly little cousin. hitherto he had never shown weakness in her presence. now he was clinging to her as though he felt her presence to be a source of strength and refreshment. she held his hands, and sometimes spoke softly to him, and presently the sobs ceased. but he did not on that account let go his hold upon her. she felt the grasp of his fingers tighten on her hands. "esther," he said presently, "i was the one who thought of it all and planned it all. it was disobedience. i think i knew it was all the time, only i wouldn't think about it. i wanted to do as i liked. i always do. esther, suppose the boat had gone down and we had been drowned, would that have been dying in one's sins?" "o pickle, i don't know!" "i know there's something in the bible about dying in our sins. i thought it meant going to hell. esther, should i have gone to hell?" "o pickle dear, i don't think so!" "don't you? but i was being naughty all the time." "we are all naughty very often," said esther gently, "but you know jesus said he would give eternal life to every one who believed in him. you do believe in jesus, don't you, pickle, even though you forget and are naughty sometimes?" "yes, i do," answered the boy, very soberly and steadily. "it was the only thing that helped us not to be very badly afraid when it was all dark and the thunder and lightning came. but it was milly who thought of it. she cried, but she helped us the most. and when the rain seemed to be right off, and we saw the sun coming through again, and there was the _swan_ racing along after us, why, then it did just seem as though he were coming to us on the water, as puck said." "i think he was," said esther, with a little quiver in her voice; and pickle squeezed her hands, and she squeezed his, and they were silent a few minutes. then the boy spoke again,-- "essie, i must go to-morrow and tell mr. polperran all about this." "won't he know from milly and bertie?" "yes, but i must tell him too. it wasn't their fault. it was i who did everything--getting the boat, and the city of refuge, and then going sailing when there was a breeze. that's what i want to tell him. he trusted me to take care of the little ones--he told me so once--and i nearly drowned them. and it wasn't that i forgot about what mr. earle had said about not trying to sail alone. i remembered it every bit, but i didn't choose to obey. i pretended to myself that he had only said we mustn't sail the _swan_, but i knew he'd never let us go sailing alone in any boat. i'll tell him so, and get him to set me a punishment; and i'll tell mr. polperran too, and ask him to forgive milly and bertie, and only to be angry with me." pickle spoke with subdued vehemence, and with great earnestness. esther approved his resolution. "mr. polperran is a very kind man," she said. "i don't think he'll be angry exactly; and you will never do it any more." "i'm going to try and be obedient," said pickle with a little sigh. "mr. earle is always telling us that we shall never be any good anywhere till we learn to obey; but i never quite believed him before. i do now." pickle was growing soothed and comforted now. esther sat beside him till he dropped off to sleep. he was thoroughly tired out, and the burst of tears had relieved the overcharged brain. when he was sound asleep, the little girl covered him up and kissed him in motherly fashion, and stole away to see if her mother had awakened. mrs. st. aiden was ready now to hear the story of the adventures of her little daughter, and a modified account of the peril in which the boys had placed them. she shuddered a little over the latter, but was not conversant enough with the subject to thoroughly realize how near the children had been to a tragic death. she was more immediately interested in the accident that mr. trelawny had met with in his cave-like laboratory, and made esther repeat the story of her adventure more than once. "dear, dear, poor man! i do hope his sight will not be permanently injured; it would be such a terrible loss. mr. polperran has always been afraid of some accident. he has said to me many times that he was afraid mr. trelawny was sometimes too eager to be cautious; and, poor man, i am afraid it was so to-day. what a good thing you found him when you did, esther! it must have been so bad for him down there in that lonely place. you will be more of a favorite with him than ever." esther's eyes opened rather wide at that. "am i a favorite?" she asked; and her mother broke into a little laugh. "have you never found that out yet, child? ah! you are always so frightened at him. perhaps you will get over that now. you will find that he does not mean to eat you." "i think i have been rather silly," said esther soberly; "but i have been trying not to be so afraid of things lately." "yes, that is wise; for mr. trelawny is really our very kind friend, though he is strange and sometimes rough in his ways. and i have not quite forgiven him yet for cutting off your hair." "i have been so much more comfortable without it, mama," said esther, ruffling up her wavy crop. "my head never aches now, and it is so nice not to have all the tangles to pull out." "well, dear, i have got used to it now, and if you are more comfortable i am glad. all the same, it was a liberty for anybody to take; but mr. trelawny is not like anybody else, and it is no use minding." next day esther and pickle were the only two able to go to church from the hermitage. puck was sleeping on so soundly that genefer would not have him wakened; and mrs. st. aiden was still feeling the effects of the storm of the previous day, and was not able to attempt the service, though she was able now to go to church sometimes. the children looked eagerly towards the rectory pew, but nobody appeared there except prissy, who was looking very prim and rather severe; and she would not throw so much as a glance towards esther and pickle, though the little girl was really anxious to catch her eye and telegraph a question to her. at the proper place in the service mr. polperran rose, and said in a voice which had a little tremor in it, that a father and mother desired to return thanks to almighty god for the preservation of their own children, and some others, in a great danger to which they had been exposed. it came quite unexpectedly, and pickle threw a hasty glance at esther, whilst the color flamed all over his face; and as the words of the general thanksgiving were spoken, with the special clause which sounded strangely impressive as read by mr. polperran that day, his head sank lower upon his folded arms, and esther saw his shoulders heave, and felt her own warm tears gathering under their long lashes. but it comforted her to hear this public recognition of god's care for his children in their peril. it seemed to bring home to her the mysterious and wonderful truth about the fall of the sparrow--the individual care and love which god feels towards every single living atom in his vast creation. and the sound of the fervent amen which passed through the church at the close seemed to speak of the universal brotherhood of those who owned the lord as their master; and though esther could not have told the reason of it, a strange sense of sweetness came into her soul, and a peaceful assurance of god's fatherhood crept over her spirit and took up its habitation there. pickle was wonderfully quiet and attentive during the rest of the service, even listening to the sermon as he had never listened before. was it a coincidence, or had the father's heart been moved by what he had heard yesterday, so that he had prepared his discourse after the return of his children from their hour of peril? esther did not know, but she gave a little start when the clergyman read out his text, for it was nothing more or less than the account of how the lord came to his disciples walking on the water, and how his presence with them there brought them immediately to the desired haven. pickle squeezed her hand tight as the impressive words were read out, and his attention never wavered for a moment during the whole of the simple discourse, which went home to many hearts that day; for it was known all over the place by this time that the rector's children had been in great danger, and there was something in mr. polperran's way of dealing with his subject which showed that his heart was full of thankfulness for their escape, and that he could not forget the peril in which they had been placed. at the close of the service esther and pickle remained in their places till the congregation had pretty well dispersed, and then found their way round to the vestry door from which the clergyman would take his departure. the boy's resolve had only been strengthened by the emotions of the morning. he must ask the forgiveness of milly and bertie's father before he could be happy again. mr. polperran came out looking rather absorbed, but when his eyes fell upon the two children his face lighted. he put out both his hands towards pickle, and drew the little boy towards himself, saying,-- "they tell me that you were their greatest help, and never lost courage, and saved the boat from being upset by your clever handling. my dear, brave, little man, i shall not forget that. if you had not had the presence of mind to get the boat round and let her run before the wind, she must have been swamped." pickle was so taken aback by receiving praise and kindness instead of blame that for a moment his breath seemed taken away, but then he burst out with all the greater emphasis,-- "o sir, you mustn't call me brave; you mustn't think me clever, or anything that is good. i was very naughty and disobedient, and i led them all into it. it was all my fault. they would never have thought of it but for me. i don't think they would ever have gone in a boat at all, even to the city of refuge, if i hadn't taken them. it was disobedience. perhaps they didn't think of it, but i did. i want to be punished for it; i don't want to be praised. i was very conceited, and thought i knew such a precious lot. when the storm came, i found i didn't know anything. i was frightened, though perhaps they didn't know. but i was. i knew i had done wrong. i thought god was angry with us. it was milly who helped us most. it's she you ought to praise. i was naughty. i'm very sorry. i want to ask you to forgive me." the last words came out almost with a sob. they were not easy words for pickle to speak. he had not been used to make confession of his misdeeds, or to ask forgiveness. in the old days he had taken things much more lightly. but something new seemed to have come into his life now; and perhaps mr. polperran understood, for he sat down a little while upon the low stone wall, and talked very gravely and kindly to pickle, and then forgave him fully for his share in the act of disobedience which might have ended so badly, and sent the children home with warm hearts and smiling faces, although there was real seriousness in their hearts. "he is a very nice man," said pickle with emphasis. "i think he is very good too. i like him better than mrs. pol--polperran. but i'll tell her i'm sorry when i see her next. i shan't like to, but i will. i'm sorry bertie's sick and has got a cold. but i daresay he'll be better soon." puck was up and dressed when they got back, and quite interested to hear about the thanksgiving, and the sermon, and the talk with mr. polperran afterwards. he was not quite so serious as pickle, but then he had not quite the same weight upon his conscience. he had always been used to follow the lead of his brother, and though he was quite aware that they had been disobedient to a certain extent, he had not the same burden of responsibility as that which weighed upon the elder boy. mr. earle had not been in church, so there was no news of mr. trelawny; and after the early dinner, esther and pickle walked up to ask after him. puck felt indisposed for the exertion, and remained at home. mrs. st. aiden expressed her intention of walking as far as the rectory to inquire for milly and bertie, and puck said he would like to go with her. as esther and pickle climbed the hill, he asked her about mr. trelawny, and listened with immense interest as she told the tale of her doings that afternoon. "weren't you afraid to go in? i thought you couldn't bear the cave. o essie, i wish i had been there! but i never thought you'd dare go in." "i didn't want to much," answered esther in her grave way, "but it seemed like my duty." pickle pondered a while, and then said suddenly,-- "it's better to be frightened doing our duty than frightened because we've been disobedient and naughty and horrid things have come that needn't have done if we'd been good." esther turned this over in her mind for a while, and then looked at pickle with a kindling smile. "and yet we were both helped and taken care of. pickle, i do think jesus is very, very good." "so do i," he answered, looking down and kicking the soft pine-needles under his feet; and after that they walked in silence up to the crag. nobody was about upon the terrace, which seemed strange on such a fine afternoon; but mr. earle came down to see the children, and gave them the report of mr. trelawny. "his eyes are bandaged up still, and will have to be for some little time yet; and the burns, though they are not deep or dangerous, are rather painful. he says nobody touches them so gently as his 'little nurse.' that is you, esther. he is to be kept quite quiet for a few days, and then the doctor will be able to judge better what is the extent of the mischief. that is as much as i can tell you to-day." esther's face was full of concern. "oh, i am so sorry. can i go and see him?" fancy her asking this of her own accord! "if he had not just dropped asleep you should have done so. he would have liked it; but he must not be disturbed, for he had a bad night, and now he has taken a draught, and perhaps will sleep some hours. but i will tell him you have been to ask, and will come and see him another day." "to-morrow," said esther promptly; "and please, mr. earle, mama says she thinks we had better have a week's holiday, so that you can stay with mr. trelawny, and we can go blackberrying and nutting. we didn't have a holiday in august because we had not worked long enough." "i am much obliged to your mother for the kind thought," said mr. earle. "i think a holiday will do none of you any harm just now, and i shall be glad to have the time with my old friend." he stopped and looked rather earnestly at esther, and then said,-- "what was it that took you into the cave to find mr. trelawny on saturday?" "i heard him groan and call out. the sound came through the chimney." "did you know who it was?" "no; but it was somebody who wanted help." "i thought you were too frightened to go into underground places. didn't you once tell me so?" esther's face crimsoned over, but pickle broke in,-- "that's what i said just now; but she went because she thought it was her duty." "i thought somebody wanted help, and it would be unkind not to," said esther, hanging her head. "but you were afraid?" "rather." she paused and hesitated, and then looked up quickly into mr. earle's face. "i remembered what you had told me about when you were a little boy, and what your mother had said. i did that too. then i wasn't so frightened." she knew he understood, for she felt the touch of his hand upon her shoulder. she was too shy to look up again, but next moment she heard him ask another question. "esther, suppose you had been afraid, and had not gone in and got mr. trelawny safely out of the cave, do you know what would have happened?" "no." "if he had lain there till i got back, he would have been a dead man." esther started and looked up with scared eyes, and pickle drew a long whistling breath. "oh, i say!" he murmured, with staring eyes. "it is quite true," went on mr. earle. "you would not understand if i were to try and tell you; but mr. trelawny had been trying a dangerous experiment. i do not think he knew himself how dangerous it was. the first explosion was enough to injure him and reduce him to the state in which you found him; but there was worse afterwards. he probably did not know it, not being able to see; but there was something going on all the time which must quite shortly after you left the cave with him have made a second and a worse explosion. had anybody been there then he could not have lived. i suppose the thunderstorm prevented this sound from being heard, but a number of things down below are shattered to atoms that were all safe in their places when the servants went down at your bidding." esther's face had grown pale with excitement and awe. it was rather a terrible thing to feel how nearly mr. trelawny had lost his life. suppose she had not heard him. suppose she had let her fears get the better of her. oh, how glad she was that she had been trying to conquer them before! that had made it much easier when the moment for proving herself came. the children walked very gravely away hand in hand. then pickle suddenly burst out,-- "i say, essie, it's you who have taken the palm after all. you are really the heroine. i used to think girls were no good. but i think it's boys now." "o pickle, i don't think i like to be praised. i've been so silly often and often. but i am very happy and glad. still i don't think i should have dared to go in if it hadn't been for what mr. earle told me once." "what did he tell you? i wanted to ask." then esther told of the talk in the old ruin, and pickle listened very attentively. "what a lot of different things god had to see to that afternoon," he remarked very soberly, after a long pause; "i do think it was awfully good of him." "so do i," answered esther softly; "i should like always to do what he wants us to now." "well, we'll try," said pickle with emphasis. "i think after all this it would be mean not to." chapter xi. mr. trelawny. "i'm not sure that mama will let them go. we have been very much disappointed and displeased," said prissy in her primmest way. "i'm not blaming you, esther; you knew no more about it than i did myself. but the children had all conspired together to deceive us. of course we have been very much hurt, mother and i." "i think children always like a secret," said esther in her gentle, womanly way, which was not in the least like prissy's primness; "but i know that my boys were most to blame, and pickle is very sorry indeed for his disobedience. but i hope mrs. polperran will let milly and bertie come with us, even if you do not care to come. we have got our lunch in baskets, and punch will carry everything, and we can ride him in turns if we are tired, and mr. earle says there are splendid nuts and blackberries in mr. trelawny's woods. we shall have such a nice time!" "i'll go and ask mother," said prissy. "of course milly and bertie would like it, but after what has occurred, you know--" and there prissy stopped short, pursed up her lips, and looked unutterable things. esther could not help feeling glad that the boys were waiting at the gate with punch. she was not sure whether pickle's penitence would stand the strain of these airs on prissy's part. she felt her own cheeks tingling a little. she felt that she did not at all like her boys found fault with by prissy, even though she knew they had been naughty. pickle had owned up his fault to mr. polperran like a man, and had received forgiveness. it did not seem quite fair to esther that anything more should be said about it. the next minute mrs. polperran came in, kind and fussy, as was her way. "if you are going with them, esther dear, i will send them. but i have been very much shocked and disturbed, as you will understand. i had always been able to trust my children before. it has been very sad to think that they have been instructed in the ways of deceitfulness." mrs. polperran shook her head, and esther felt her cheeks growing red. she knew that there had been disobedience, but she was sure that her boys had not meant to deceive. they had been accustomed to liberty and a good bit of their own way. they had not been brought up under any obligation to tell everything they did. it was not fair to accuse them of deceit. it was a great relief at this moment to see mr. polperran's head appear over that of his wife in the doorway. "tut, tut, tut, my dear! don't let us call things by harder names than we need. the little ones did tell me that they had a place down on the shore where they went and played, and i gave them free leave to do so. indeed, i was glad they should have bolder spirits to play with. i didn't know they went off to the island; but, upon my word, i don't think i should have interfered if i had. the bay is perfectly safe, and that tub of old jerry's could hardly overturn with anything the children might do. of course they were wrong to try and sail it, and to leave the shelter of the bay; but the boys have seen their fault, and all the children have asked and obtained forgiveness. now, i don't want another word said about it. they were sufficiently punished by their fright, and they have learned a lesson they will not forget. don't weaken the effect of it by talking too much. what has esther come about to-day?" esther's invitation was soon repeated, and mr. polperran's kind face beamed. "to be sure, to be sure!--just the very thing for little folks. let them go? why, of course. they can't get into any danger up there, and i don't think they'll try to. bertie wants the current of his thoughts changed. it will do him good to go. i'll answer for it there will be no getting into mischief now. come, mama; you don't grudge them a day's pleasuring, i'm sure. i'll go and fetch the young rascals down, and start them all off together." mrs. polperran raised no objection, though she looked a little doubtful. prissy decided not to accompany the party, and esther did not seek to shake her determination; she could not help feeling that they would be happier without her. milly and bertie came down clinging to their father's hands. milly looked none the worse for the adventure of the saturday afternoon. bertie had not quite got his color back, but the threatening of cold had been averted by prompt measures, and, as mr. polperran always declared, there was nothing like fresh air and the breath of the sea and the woods for dissipating any little ailment and putting people in trim again. "now, be good boys and girls, all of you," he said; "have plenty of fun, but don't get into mischief. learn to be brave lads and lassies, making friends with nature wherever you go. that's the way to grow up fine men and women. don't you be afraid of anything in the world except doing wrong." punch was at the gate with the little people, a basket slung on each shoulder, and a saddle on his back. bertie was lifted up for a ride, as his legs were the smallest, and he had been a little poorly for two days after the adventure in the boat. but his eyes were dancing now with delight at the prospect before him; and when they started off and had turned the corner, milly gave a little hop, skip, and jump, and cried,-- [illustration: "punch was at the gate, with bertie in the saddle."--page . _esther's charge._] "oh, how nice it is to get away! i am so glad that prissy isn't coming!" esther was very nearly saying, "so am i," and she saw that the words were on the very tip of pickle's ready tongue. but she was glad that he did not speak them, but only looked at her with a laugh in his eyes, and puck asked solemnly,-- "has she been lecturing you all round?" "oh yes," sighed milly, "ever so much worse than father and mother. father was very kind indeed, though he made me feel more sorry about it than anybody. but he understands about what we feel like--i mean, he knows that it is nice to do things, and to get away from people, and to play we're sailing off to coral islands and places like that. i don't think he's going to stop our going out in the old boat to the city of refuge." "isn't he? how jolly of him!" cried pickle; "i thought our city of refuge was gone forever." "i don't think he minds a bit," cried bertie, "for i talked about it a lot, and he said he'd come with us some day and see it. i said i thought the avenger of blood would always be coming after us now. i meant prissy, you know, and he knew it. and then he laughed and said he thought the avenger of blood would think a long time before following us there; and i'm sure he meant that prissy would be frightened, and i dare say she would." "besides, if we have the boat she can't come," cried puck. "i was afraid mr. earle would be the avenger of blood, and would come in the _swan_." "i don't think anybody will come," said milly. "i heard father telling mother that he was very glad we had some games like what he and his brothers used to play. he said he'd rather we got into a scrape now and then, than grow up afraid to wet our feet, like so many little cats." pickle burst out laughing, and the party felt inspirited by the feeling that mr. polperran's sympathy was with them in their love of adventure, although not in their disobedience to definite commands. they distinguished very clearly between the two. it was a perfect september day, and they had a delightful time wandering through the great copses on mr. trelawny's property, filling their baskets with blackberries, and feasting themselves at the same time. at noon they had a delightful surprise, for mr. earle found them out, and brought them a big jar of cream and some excellent cake, and shared their picnic with them at their own eager request. they were all very fond of mr. earle by this time, and they wanted to know about mr. trelawny too. but mr. earle could not tell them much on this score. he was still kept in bed, and was not allowed to have the bandage off his eyes. esther was very sorry indeed to hear this. she could not think what mr. trelawny would do. he had always been so active and independent, and she did not think he had ever spent a day in bed before. "he will very likely be up again to-morrow. he does not like stopping there, i can tell you," said mr. earle, "but there is nothing that makes people feel so helpless as not being able to see. but for that he would never be so quiet." "would he like some blackberries?" asked puck, opening the basket and looking in. "let's pick out some of the very best for him, and you tell him we gathered them for him, and hope he'll like them." so mr. earle departed presently with the pick of the spoil, and the children sat and talked about mr. trelawny, thinking how sad it was for him to be half blind and not able to do anything, and wondering if they could do anything to cheer him up. "children can't do things for grown-ups," said milly, rather disconsolately. "it's only grown-ups who do things for children. but you did something for mr. trelawny, essie, when you got him out of the cave. i should like to have done that. you saved his life, didn't you?" "yes!" cried pickle; but esther said,-- "no--at least i mean it wasn't really like that. i went and told the servants, and they got him out." "but if you hadn't gone in when he called, if you'd run away as some silly people would have done, he'd have been a deader as sure as a gun," chimed in pickle eagerly. "mr. earle said so his very self." this act of esther's was very interesting to all the children, and certainly she found that all her old fears of mr. trelawny had vanished away. the very next day she was admitted to his darkened room, where he was lying on a couch with a bandage over his eyes, and his hand and arm bound up too. she sat beside him quite a long time, telling him all about her own adventure that day, about what had befallen the boys on the same afternoon, and about their doings these last days--how they had been often up in the woods getting nuts and blackberries, and how they were enjoying their holiday. esther found that mr. trelawny was a very nice person to talk to, although his voice was still rather loud, and he had a quick, imperious way of asking a question which sometimes made her jump. but he was always interested in what she said. he made her explain exactly where they went each day, and how the trees were looking, and what things they found in the woods, and what all the live creatures were doing. indeed esther found that she had to notice things much more closely than she had ever done before, and this was rather interesting, she thought. she and the boys all began noticing everything, so that esther might tell about it to mr. trelawny; and she was sure he liked it, though he did not exactly say so, but made his funny snorts, and seemed trying to trip her up with his questions. but she was not afraid of him now, and she did not mind if she did make a mistake. she found she was learning a great deal more than she had ever known before about the world she lived in, and that in itself was very interesting. one day at the end of the week, she came in to her mother and found her with an open letter in her hand and a rather perplexed face. "is anything the matter, mama?" she asked. "o my dear! i hardly know. no, nothing is the matter, but it is such a sudden thing to suggest. i have got a letter from mr. trelawny." "o mama! then can he see again?" "no, my dear. it was not written by him, but only at his dictation. there is a good deal of reason in what he says, but it is all so unexpected." "what is it, mama?" "he asks if i will shut up the hermitage for the winter, and come with you all and stay at the crag." "o mama! why?" "to keep him company, he says. to cheer him up. to make a little life about the old house for a poor blind man." "but, mama, he isn't going to be blind, is he?" cried esther, distressed. "i hope not indeed, dear. he has seen the oculist again, and hopes are held out--strong hopes, he says--that he will recover the sight of one eye, at least. but recovery will be slow, and it must not be forced, or he may lose his sight altogether. for the next few months he will have to be content to use other people's eyes more than his own. of course that is much better than being always blind. but the poor man feels it a good deal, one can see." "and he wants us to go and stay with him?" "that is what he asks--to stay for the winter months, and see how we get on. as he says, he is very dependent upon mr. earle, and it would be much more convenient if the boys were living in his house, so that the lessons could be given there; and then, as he cannot read or study or employ himself as he has been used to do, a silent house, with nobody to speak to for the greater part of the day, would be very dreary for him. he says that he has no kinsfolk except ourselves. your father was the last blood relation of whom he knows anything, and he seems to feel that we belong to him in a certain sort of way. what do you think about it, esther, my dear? do you think we ought to go?" esther's face was quite flushed and eager. "o mama, if we can help him, i think we ought!" "he says we might bring genefer as my maid, and make any arrangements we liked about the other servants, and he would see that the house and garden here were properly cared for. of course, it would be a great saving of trouble and expense in a way, but it would not be quite like living at home. mr. trelawny would be the master, and we should all have to keep his rules. but that might be a good thing for the boys. i sometimes think they want a stronger hand over them." "i think it would be a very good plan," said esther; "they are getting so much better, and they are fond of mr. trelawny. he would make them obey, and they would like it. they always obey mr. earle now, and they like him better than anybody almost." "it would be more the sort of life they have been accustomed to--a big house and a man's authority," said mrs. st. aiden reflectively. "and mr. trelawny is a sort of guardian to you, and has been a most kind friend to me since your father died. we must not forget that. he asks it as a favor to himself. you can read the letter if you like." esther did so, and looked up with the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "o mama, you will go, won't you?" "i suppose so, dear, if you like the plan, and think you could all be happy there. as he says, it is a big house, and we should have our own rooms, and the boys' noise need not trouble him more than he cares about. i don't think their father would mind. after all, it is only a long visit. he only asks us just for the winter months." "he wants us to go as soon as we can," said esther. "yes, you see he feels his blindness so much, and a merry houseful about him would cheer him up. well, dear, would you like to run up and tell him that we will try the experiment? it will save me the trouble of writing, and i think he will like to hear it from your lips. and mr. trelawny is always in a hurry to carry out his plans." esther smiled a little at that. she knew very well that mr. trelawny never waited an hour if he could help it. it was his impatience of delay that had caused the accident which had partly destroyed his sight, and might have caused his death. "i should like to go, mama, if you like me to. i have done my lessons for to-day. the boys are having their navigation. i don't do that with them." "well, then, run off, dear, with the answer. i don't see how we could refuse. and i always think that this house in the winter is just a little damp. i shall be glad to be out of it before the fall of the leaf." esther had her hat in her hand, and was soon on her way to the crag. how strange to think that before long she might be actually an inmate of that house! and how much stranger still that she was not a bit afraid of the prospect! it was a beautiful afternoon--as warm as summer; and when esther approached the house, she gave a little jump of surprise, for there was mr. trelawny lying on a couch on the terrace, his eyes still bandaged up so that he could see nothing, but at least he could breathe the fresh wind blowing softly off the sea, and esther knew how he would like that. she ran forward, forgetting all about her old shyness. "o mr. trelawny, how nice for you to be out of doors!" "ha! is that my little goldylocks?" said the invalid, stretching out the hand he could use. "so you have found your way up to the old blind man, have you? i suppose you have not brought me any letter from your mother yet. that would be too soon." esther clasped her two hands around that of mr. trelawny, and said,-- "mama said i might run up and tell you. she has got your letter, and we think it so kind of you. we should like very much to come and pay you a nice long visit, if you don't think we shall be in your way." his strong fingers closed over her little hands in a tight grip; she could see that his mouth was smiling, and that there was pleasure in every line of his face. "is that so, little woman? have you taken counsel together over the blind man's request? of course your mother would not settle anything so important without the leave of the 'little manager.'" esther did not mind being teased now, not one bit. she gave a little soft laugh as she answered,-- "we think it would be a very nice plan, if you like it too. i know the boys will be just delighted. they think this is the very nicest house in the whole place, and i think it will suit mama. she will enjoy this nice sunny terrace in fine weather, and the view of the sea. we can't see a bit of the sea from our house." "and will somebody else enjoy it too?" asked mr. trelawny. "what about my little goldylocks herself?" "oh, i shall like it!" answered esther softly, stroking the hand she held. "i think it is beautiful up here, and i like being useful. do you think i can be useful to you, uncle robert, if i come?" "i mean to make you very useful, little woman," he said. "it was partly for that reason i thought out the plan. i want a little niece or granddaughter of my own to wait upon me and take care of me. as i haven't got one quite of my own, i have to do the next best thing, and try to steal one who will do instead." a little while ago esther would have shaken in her shoes at the notion of being stolen by mr. trelawny, but now she listened to these words with only a little thrill of pleasure. "i should like to be your little granddaughter," she said. "you must tell me what you want me to do." he drew her down beside him on the couch, and passed his hand over her head. "you will have to learn how to be eyes for me, for a little while at any rate, goldylocks, and to do the same for me that the dog does for the blind man--lead me about, and take care that i don't fall. will that be a great nuisance, little woman?" "oh no! i like taking care of people," answered esther earnestly; "only i am so sorry you want taking care of at all. but it won't be for very long. you will be able to see again soon, won't you?" "i hope so, my little maid, i hope so. they give me good words when i ask the question myself. but they all tell me i must be patient--be patient; and, esther, though i am an old man, and ought to have learned that lesson long ago, i find that i have not done so. i find it harder to be patient than anything else in the world, and it is harder to learn lessons when we are old than when we are young. hallo! hallo!--what's this?" this exclamation was caused by mr. trelawny's becoming aware of something warm and damp dropping upon his hand. esther hastily dashed the drops from her eyes, but her old friend knew whence they had come, and something like a quiver passed over his face. "child, child, you must not cry," he said. "i was only wishing i could be blind instead of you for a little while," said esther, with a little catch in her voice. her hands were held very closely by mr. trelawny's strong fingers; his voice was not a bit gruff as he answered,-- "i believe you, my dear, i believe you. you are like your father, and he was the most unselfish man i ever knew. i believe you would give me the eyes out of your head if you had power to do it; and as you have not that, you must learn to use them for my benefit, and i shall expect them to see a great deal. tell me what you see now." esther looked round and scarcely knew where to begin, but she was thinking too much of mr. trelawny to be self-conscious, and soon she was telling him just how the sea looked, with the great burning track of yellow light across it, as the sun slowly sank; and how big and golden-red the sun grew as it drew near to the horizon; and how the little fishing boats were all coming home; and in which direction the clouds were sailing; and how the white-winged seagulls were fishing in the bay, and wheeling round and round, calling to each other with their strange, mournful cries. it was very interesting, she thought, to try to make somebody else see it all; and mr. trelawny evidently could, for he sometimes interrupted to tell her things she had not noticed herself, so that she often looked quickly at him to make sure that he really was not "peeping." for she knew he must not try to use his eyes yet, even though he might be able to see by and by with one of them at any rate. "if the sun is dipping, you must run home, childie," he said at last. "run home and tell your mother that i am very grateful to her for humoring a blind man's fancy, and that the sooner she and her tribe can come and take possession, the better he will be pleased." "i will tell her," answered esther. "i think we could come quite soon. there will not be so very much to do, and if we should leave anything behind, we can easily fetch it away afterwards. i will talk to genefer about that. she and i will do the packing, you know." "of course, of course; the 'little manager' will manage all that. i shall soon be managed out of house and home, i expect. what a wide field the crag will give to such an enterprising little woman!" "you are teasing me now," said esther, laughing, and bending down she kissed him on the lips, and then talking her hat, ran lightly down the hill towards home, a very warm feeling in her heart towards the redoubtable owner, who had once been the very terror of her life. half-way down she encountered the boys, who were running to meet her, brimful of excitement. "o essie! essie! is it true?" "are we going to live up there?" "did he really ask us too? oh, won't it be jolly? won't it be scrumptious? aunt saint said you'd gone to settle it all. do say that it's all settled now." "yes, quite," answered esther; "mr. trelawny wants us to go as soon as ever we can. he says the house seems so empty and lonely now that he can't read or go about or amuse himself as he used to do. and he wants mr. earle so much more now; that is another reason. you must be very good and nice, boys, and not give trouble. we mustn't worry him now that he's ill." "we won't," cried pickle earnestly. "we'll be as good as gold. i mean, we'll try to be as good as we can.--won't we, puck?" "we will," answered that young man solemnly. "i should like mr. trelawny to like us. perhaps, then, he'll let us stay always. i mean till crump--no, till father comes back or we go to school. i don't like it when mr. earle is angry with us, and i don't want uncle bob to be either." "i think it'll be awfully nice," said pickle, as they wended their way home again through the wood. "i shall try and help uncle bob too. aunt saint said he wanted you, essie, because you would be like a pair of eyes to him. i know why he thought that. you're always doing kind things for other people, and you don't care about yourself if other people are happy. i just know if i were to be ill, i should like to have you come and see me and sit with me. it can't be just because you're a girl, for that pretty polly is a girl, and she thinks herself very good too, but i'd sooner have a toad come to sit with me than her." "o pickle, don't talk like that!" "i'd twice as soon have the toad," cried puck; "toads are nice things, and they have such funny eyes--like precious stones. she's just a prig, and i can't abide her. we won't ever ask her up to play at the crag. i shall tell uncle bob about her, and he won't let her come then." "that would be unkind," said esther gently. "i don't think we ought to be unkind to prissy. she tries to be very good, you know, and she is always obedient." pickle and puck were silent for a minute. they had been thinking, very seriously for them, about obedience of late. they had recognized their own failure, and had been sorry for it. in the old days they had taken this matter too lightly, but they were learning better now. "well," said puck at length, "she may be obedient, but she's nasty too. you're obedient and nice, essie. i like you. but if you say we've got to ask prissy, we will; only i hope uncle bob will laugh the priggishness out of her if she comes." great excitement reigned in the little house during the next days, for there seemed no reason to postpone the arrangement if it were really to be carried out. esther and genefer were busy putting away household things, and packing up personal belongings. the boys flitted hither and thither, helping and hindering, and made daily excursions to the crag to get news of mr. trelawny, and tell him how they were getting on. lessons were not to be recommenced till the party got up to their new quarters, and the cart came daily to fetch away boxes that were ready for removing. milly and bertie were rather sorrowful at the thought of losing their playmates, but puck brought good news from the crag. "uncle bob says you may come up every saturday afternoon and play with us. he doesn't think we shall go sailing in the _swan_ very often now, because the sea gets rough in the winter; but there are no end of jolly things to do up there, and uncle bob says we may have you up whenever you can come on saturdays. esther can ask prissy too, if she wants her, but you are our friends. prissy never cares to play with us." this was delightful news, for the crag had never, been anything but a mysterious region of wonders to the rectory children. mr. trelawny had sometimes asked the parents to send them; but mrs. polperran did not entirely approve of mr. trelawny, and she was half afraid lest some harm should come to her brood through his love of practical joking. it was very exciting to think of visiting there now, and seeing all the strange things that were said to exist in that house. "is he really a magician or a wizard?" asked milly with bated breath. "i don't believe he is," answered pickle. "i believe he's just a nice, jolly old gentleman; only he's very clever, and people don't understand, and call him names. i don't believe there are any magicians left now. i believe he's just the same as other people." "but the pickled skeletons in the tanks," urged milly. "i don't believe there are any really," answered puck, with a note of regret in his voice; "i don't think he pickles anything except specimens that go into bottles. we shall find out all about it when we go to live there. but i don't believe he's a bit of a magician, and essie doesn't think so either. she isn't a bit afraid of him now." the day for the flitting arrived in due course, and the carriage and a last cart were sent down to the hermitage to convey mrs. st. aiden and her belongings. genefer remained behind to shut up the house, and the boys preferred to climb the hill by the path through the wood. but esther drove up with her mother by the zigzag road, and as the great easy carriage rolled smoothly along, mrs. st. aiden said with a little sigh,-- "we must persuade your uncle robert to go driving with us, esther. he is one of those men who have never cared to drive, but it would do him good, i am sure. this is a most comfortable carriage. it will be delightful to have the use of it, and i am sure it will do him good to get out as much as possible." "i dare say he would drive with you, mama," answered esther. "we will try to coax him. but i don't think anybody would care very much about driving all alone." mr. trelawny was standing in the hall to welcome them. he had a stick in his hand, but he laid it down and drew esther towards him and kissed her. "you will be a substitute for that now, my little maid," he said. "we are going to have some good times together, are we not?" the boys came rushing in at this moment, helter-skelter, bringing an atmosphere of life and jollity with them. "uncle bob!" cried puck, rushing up and seizing his hand, almost gasping and choking in his eagerness and excitement, "we've thought of such a plan for you. we'll do lessons by ourselves for a little while, and mr. earle shall make you an electric eye to see with, till your own gets quite well." chapter xii. a new charge. esther found out very soon that mr. trelawny's threat of making her his "little white slave" was not altogether an idle one. she had laughed when he spoke the words upon a former visit to the crag, but she soon found that he did take up a great deal of her time and care, and very willingly was the service rendered that his helplessness made needful. it seemed to be less irksome to mr. trelawny to be led about by the little girl than by any other person--even mr. earle; and, of course, a good deal of mr. earle's time was now taken up by lessons. esther found that her regular studies were very much interrupted by the demands made upon her time by mr. trelawny; but on the other hand, she thought she was learning as much with him, as though she had been in the schoolroom all the time. his mind seemed like a perfect storehouse of information; and as he took his leisurely walks abroad, he would teach esther all manner of things--history, geography, physiology, geology, and all sorts of things with long names that esther never learned. all she knew was that she was learning interesting things every day of her life, and that the world seemed to be growing a bigger and more beautiful and wonderful place than she had had the least idea of before. mr. trelawny was a wonderful teacher; but he expected his lessons to be understood and remembered. again and again he would put a sudden question to his little companion, asking her about something he had told her on a previous occasion, or making sure that she understood the bearing of some new piece of information he was giving her. esther soon conquered her first shyness, and was not a bit afraid to ask questions and to say when she did not understand. she found that mr. trelawny, though not quite so well used to teaching as mr. earle, was never impatient or vexed at being asked to explain himself. what did vex him was for anybody to make believe to understand a thing he was saying, and then show later on that it had not been understood at all. as long as the fine weather lasted there were delightful things to do. sometimes it was a long drive, which mrs. st. aiden generally shared; sometimes a sail in the _swan_ with mr. earle and the boys, which was always a great pleasure. then there was a great excitement for a few days in the place, for the mackerel had come into the bay in shoals; and the _swan_ went out with the other boats, and the little polperrans went in her, and they all had spinners, and caught mackerel by the dozen, and fine fun they had out of it till the fish disappeared as suddenly as they had come. mr. trelawny was getting quite strong again, but he was still forbidden to make any attempt to use his eyes, and went about with a bandage and a shade. perhaps it was this that made him stoop a little in his walk, as he had never done before. certainly his hair had begun to grow white rather quickly. he had never seemed to be an old man before. esther had never thought of him as old until just lately, although he used to speak of himself in a half-joking way as an old fellow; but he did begin to look old now, though he seemed strong and well in himself. he liked to be out of doors as much as possible, and esther was nearly always his companion. she found this interesting in many ways. one was that she had her lessons in a new and interesting fashion from him. another was that she got to know a great many fresh people, and heard a great many interesting things about them. mr. trelawny owned a good deal of land all round the crag, and the people who lived in the cottages were his tenants. he had known them all his life, and they had known him. there had been trelawnys at the crag for several hundreds of years. esther found out that mr. trelawny, in spite of his gruffness, was very much respected and loved. she liked very much to go with him to see the cottagers and fisher folk, and listen whilst they talked to him and told him all about themselves, their troubles, their bits of good luck, their perplexities with their sons and daughters, and all the different things which went to make up the sum of their simple lives. she grew fond of the simple people herself, who always had a smile and soft word for "the little lady." she thought it must be very nice to have mr. trelawny's power to help them in times of need, to advise them in their troubles, to rebuke those who wanted a sharp reproof, and to warn those who were in danger of falling into bad habits or idle ways. often after these visits mr. trelawny would talk to esther a great deal about the family they had just visited, telling her its history, what sort of people they had shown themselves in the past, and what kind of treatment they had required. some children might have been bored by this sort of thing, but esther was never bored. it seemed to her very interesting, and she always listened with great attention. "you must help me at christmas time this year, little woman," he said one crisp december day, as they were walking home together. "there are a lot of old fashions we keep up at christmas here. it's one of the relics of old times that no trelawny has had the disposition to do away with. some people say that the time has gone by for that sort of thing, and that it is obsolete and only a form of pauperization. perhaps they may be right. but in my day i shall change nothing. i'm too much the old tory for that. and you will help me this year, won't you? you ought to see how everything is done." "i should like to," answered esther eagerly; "what is it you do?" "give a great feed--dinner, the people call it--in the hall at the crag, to which every tenant and his family is entitled to come, even to the babies, if the mothers choose to bring them. no questions are asked, nobody is turned away. every tenant has the right to be there, and to eat and drink to his heart's content. five o'clock is the hour for the feed, and after that they sing carols or old songs and make speeches. i come in and drink a glass with them, as the trelawnys have always done; and when they can eat and drink no more, there is a great giving of presents all round. bran pies or a christmas-tree for the children, and clothing or nets or tools for the grown folks. we keep it up till ten o'clock, and then sing 'god save the queen,' and send them all off to their homes. it used to be done on christmas eve or on christmas day, but now it's on boxing day, as we think that home is the right place for folks on christmas day itself. you will have to be my right hand, little woman, in all the preparations we have to make." esther was skipping along gaily: her face was aglow. "how nice!" she exclaimed; "i shall like to help and to see them all. may i come with you, uncle robert, when you go to see them at dinner-time?" "of course you may, my dear. indeed i particularly wish you to be with me. i want to present you to the people then. it will be the best opportunity for it." esther raised her eyes with a questioning look, but then, remembering that he could not see, she said softly,-- "i don't think i quite understand, uncle robert." his clasp upon her fingers tightened; he did not speak for a while, and then he said slowly,-- "no, childie, i know you don't. i am debating in my mind whether or not to tell you." esther looked up again with the same shade of perplexity in her eyes, but she asked no further question. she knew she would be told if mr. trelawny thought it well. at last he spoke, but rather as though to himself and not to her. it was as if he were debating some point in his own mind. "i don't know why she should not be told. the queen was no older when she found out that in all probability she would one day have a kingdom to rule, and her first wish and resolve were that she might grow up a good woman. i believe it would be the same with this child in a very little kingdom. i want her to grow up feeling what are the duties which will some day be hers." esther's heart was beating rather fast by this time. she felt as though something momentous was going to be spoken, and she was not wrong. they had reached the terrace by this time, and with the shelter of the house behind them, and the sunlight falling full upon it, the place was quite warm--so warm that mr. trelawny seated himself under the veranda, and drew the little girl between his knees. "my dear," he said, "i suppose you are too young ever to have wondered who will live at the crag after i am gone." esther did not speak. it had certainly never entered her head to think about such a thing as this. "i am the last of the trelawnys," continued the old man; "i have not a single blood relation of that name to come after me. once i thought it would be otherwise. for three happy years i had a wife living with me here, and a little boy who had just learned to call me 'daddy.' then they were both taken away. it was all so long ago that the folks here have almost forgotten, and some of them speak of me as a bachelor. but i have never forgotten. i never could care for anybody else. i have lived my life alone, and i have nobody to come after me--nobody to love me now." esther suddenly raised the hand she held and carried it to her lips. "we all love you, uncle robert," she said softly. he stooped and kissed her, putting his arm round her and holding her close. for with all her clinging, affectionate ways, esther had never yet spoken of loving her father's old kinsman. "thank you for telling me so, childie. yes, i believe you, my dear. esther, do you know that you are the only blood relation i have in the world?" she shook her head, and he felt the motion. "but that is so, my child. your father was my only kinsman. at one time i looked upon him as my heir. then he too was taken. i brought his wife and child to be near me, but i do not think i at once formed any plan for the future. the estate and income are my own property. i can dispose of them as i will. but i want to find a successor who will love the old place, and who will be a merciful as well as a just monarch in the little kingdom which lies around the crag." he paused, and esther neither spoke nor moved. "kingdom is perhaps an obsolete word in these leveling days, yet down here amongst these simple folk the owner of the crag wields no small power. it is a power i should fear to put into any but just and merciful hands. little esther, do you think you could be a just and merciful ruler here some day? would you try--like our good and gracious queen--to 'be good,' to love your people, to be a wise and god-fearing ruler, if ever that power were to be entrusted to you?" she hid her face upon his shoulder. she was startled, overcome, almost frightened. he felt her shiver through all her little frame. he saw that she had understood, and that it was all a very solemn and sacred thing to her. he held her very closely as he went on speaking. "little esther, it is a great charge, and you are but a little girl now, but you will grow older every year; and i believe i shall be spared many years longer myself, though i do not expect ever to be the same man that i was before my accident. i have talked to your mother about this, and she is willing that you should continue to live with me, to learn the ways of the place, and how to be its mistress one day. my will is drawn up, leaving all to you. i am just waiting till i have my sight back to sign it. i think you are learning every day to love and understand the people better and better. perhaps some day you will take my name, so as to keep the old name with the old acres; but there is time enough to think of that. you have always been used to having the charge of something or somebody. it will only be adding a new one to the list. do you think your little shoulders are strong enough to bear the burden? will you be my little girl now, and be good to the people when i am gone?" her tears came at that, not loudly or noisily, but raining down very fast. "o uncle robert, i will do what i can. i will try to be good. but, please, don't talk as though i were going to have it all. i can't bear that. i only want to help you, and learn to do things as you do them." "that is all i ask, my dear. i hope that is all that will be laid upon you for a good many years to come. indeed, you would never have the sole burden in your childhood and youth, of course. but i should like to feel that you were growing up in the traditions of the place, knowing what is before you, just as you would know it if you were in very truth the little niece or granddaughter that i call you." for a few days after that talk esther went about with a very grave face, and was absorbed in a multitude of new thoughts. but children quickly grow used to an idea, and so it was here. the little girl never spoke of it to anybody but mr. trelawny and her mother, but she began to have an understanding of the new charge which would one day in all probability be hers; and she followed mr. trelawny about more assiduously than ever, waiting upon him, watching him, trying to forestall all his wants and to understand all that he was doing; whilst he, on his part, took her more and more into his confidence, both feeling that a new and very tender bond had been established between them. the coming christmas festivities kept the boys fully engrossed. they had leave to go into penzance with mr. earle to make their purchases, and they were full of mystery and excitement for days before and after. at last they could bear the burden of their great secret no longer, and pulling esther into their room one day, a little before christmas day, they whispered the tremendous secret. "esther, we've got it; we got it all by ourselves. nobody knows--not even mr. earle. would you like to see it? it is such a funny thing; but we know what it must be, and we've bought it. it was very expensive, but we don't care if only he likes it. would you like to see it first?" "what is it?" asked esther, infected by the air of mystery around her. the boys' room was almost dark, for the light was fading fast. puck was quivering all over in his excitement. he seemed able to contain himself no longer, and burst suddenly into speech. "it's an electric eye--an electric eye for mr. trelawny. we found it at last in a bicycle shop. come here, esther, and look. you know people do have such accidents on bicycles. i expect they knock out their eyes and have electric ones put in. it's rather big, but mr. trelawny has such big holes for his. i expect it'll go in.--pickle, open the door and we'll show her." pickle was fumbling under the carpet for a key, which was hidden in some crevice in the boards and when that was brought to light a cupboard was unlocked, and then suddenly one of the boys did something, and immediately a bright ray of white light shone forth from a small glass ball which had somewhat the look of an eye. "there, there, look!" cried puck, dancing up and down in his excitement; "there it is--an electric eye! do you think he'll like it? don't you think he'll be pleased? just see what a light it gives! he'd be able to see with that in the dark as well as in the light." esther was immensely impressed, though rather perplexed. the eye was certainly very wonderful, and could be turned on and off at will; but whether it would help mr. trelawny in his present condition she did not feel quite certain, but the boys had no manner of doubt. "won't it be jolly when he can go about without that horrid old shade, and without a stick, or anybody to lead him? i can't think why he didn't have one before, but i suppose he couldn't find one. we hunted all over, and people only laughed when we asked. but one man told us he'd seen something like one in the bicycle shop, and sure enough there it was. sometimes it gets empty and has to be filled up, but mr. earle could do that, i'm sure. he can do lots of things with electricity. i can't think why he hasn't made uncle bob an electric eye all this time, but i'm glad he hasn't, because we shall so like to give it him." it was hard work waiting for christmas eve, when the presentation was to be made; but the preparations for the great feast took up much time and attention, and drew off the boys' thoughts from the engrossing subject of the electric eye. but when the dusk of christmas eve had really come, and when mr. trelawny suddenly appeared in their midst, showering parcels about him in the twilight, like a miniature snowstorm, then the boys made a rush upon him, and the electric eye was produced and exhibited, pickle being the principal speaker, though puck kept up a running, breathless commentary, almost choking in his excitement and ecstatic hopes. mr. trelawny received the gift, and felt it all over. then he turned his head towards mr. earle, and said,-- "come, earle; we must retire and see what we can do with this wonderful eye. you're a bit of a genius, according to these young men, and we'll see whether you understand adjusting it or not." mr. earle's face lighted up, and he marched off with mr. trelawny, whilst the servants brought in lamps, and the children, in breathless delight, opened the parcels which had been showered upon them. the fairies must surely have whispered in mr. trelawny's ears, for the secret desire of every heart seemed to be gratified. there were the daintiest of working and writing materials for esther, together with just the very books she would have chosen for herself had the whole world's library been at her disposal. there were model boats for the boys, and tools, and knives, and charts, and books; and the children had little presents for one another, which had to be opened and explained and admired; and mrs. st. aiden had not forgotten, or been forgotten, and her couch was the center of the busy, happy group. then suddenly the door was thrown open and in stalked mr. trelawny, without his shade, and walking erect, with his eyes looking just as they did of old, save that they were protected by a pair of spectacles with thick glasses. the children did not know that there had been any previous rehearsal of such a scene as this, and that mr. trelawny had been permitted to try to use his eyes by degrees for the last week or more. even esther did not know this--it was to be kept for a christmas surprise; and now, with the glint of the light upon the spectacles, it was small wonder that puck broke into a shout of triumph, and yelled at the top of his voice,-- "the electric eye; the electric eye! three cheers for uncle bob and mr. earle and the electric eye!" esther had run forward and was grasping the hand of her kind old friend. her eyes were brimming over with tears of joy. "o uncle robert, can you really see?" "yes, my little maid; i can see everything clearly again, thank god! let me have a good look at the face of my little woman, for once i thought i should never see it again." it was hard to say who was happiest that night--mr. trelawny with his newly-restored gift, which, if somewhat impaired, would still be strong and serviceable again; or the boys, in their conviction that they had found the means whereby this result had been achieved; or mrs. st. aiden, who had found a safe shelter for herself and her child under the care of this kind and wealthy kinsman; or little esther, who somehow felt that, though another charge had been given her, yet the burden which had rested rather heavily upon her since her father's death had somehow been wonderfully lightened. there was uncle robert now to care for them and think for them, and she was so glad it should be so. and she somehow felt almost certain that the crag would always be their home now. she was more sure of it upon the night of the feast, when mr. trelawny took her by the hand and led her into the big hall that was filled from end to end with people she knew, crowded together at the long tables. she did not understand all the speech that mr. trelawny made, for he spoke it in the broad dialect of the country and fisher folk. but they understood, and they shouted and cheered; and then mr. trelawny put his hand upon her head, and said,-- "you must make them a little bow, my dear, and i will make a speech for you. don't you understand that they are paying homage to you? they are accepting you as my little grand-daughter, who will one day rule here in my stead, and they are promising to love and be loyal to you, as i hope you will be loyal and true to them." and then mr. trelawny stooped and lifted her up in his arms and kissed her before them all; and esther, as she ran away, overcome with all the honor and notice she was receiving, felt as though such a wonderful christmas-tide could never come again. the end. a. l. burt's publications for young people by popular writers, - - reade street, new york. =bonnie prince charlie:= a tale of fontenoy and culloden. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the adventures of the son of a scotch officer in french service. the boy, brought up by a glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the french coast, reaches paris, and serves with the french army at dettingen. he kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of prince charlie, but finally settles happily in scotland. "ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of 'quentin durward.' the lad's journey across france, and his hairbreadth escapes, make up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read. for freshness of treatment and variety of incident mr. henty has surpassed himself."--_spectator._ =with clive in india=; or, the beginnings of an empire. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the period between the landing of clive as a young writer in india and the close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. at its commencement the english were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes. at its close they were masters of bengal and of the greater part of southern india. the author has given a full and accurate account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a tale of daring and adventure, which gives a lifelike interest to the volume. "he has taken a period of indian history of the most vital importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a story which of itself is deeply interesting. young people assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_scotsman._ =the lion of the north=: a tale of gustavus adolphus and the wars of religion. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by john schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty gives the history of the first part of the thirty years' war. the issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in germany. the army of the chivalrous king of sweden was largely composed of scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. "the tale is a clever and instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited."--_times._ =the dragon and the raven=; or, the days of king alfred. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between saxon and dane for supremacy in england, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. the hero, a young saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by king alfred. he is driven from his home, takes to the sea and resists the danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of paris. "treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish reader."--_athenæum._ =the young carthaginian:= a story of the times of hannibal. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by c. j. staniland, r.i. mo, cloth, price $ . . boys reading the history of the punic wars have seldom a keen appreciation of the merits of the contest. that it was at first a struggle for empire, and afterward for existence on the part of carthage, that hannibal was a great and skillful general, that he defeated the romans at trebia, lake trasimenus, and cannæ, and all but took rome, represents pretty nearly the sum total of their knowledge. to let them know more about this momentous struggle for the empire of the world mr. henty has written this story, which not only gives in graphic style a brilliant description of a most interesting period of history, but is a tale of exciting adventure sure to secure the interest of the reader. "well constructed and vividly told. from first to last nothing stays the interest of the narrative. it bears us along as on a stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its force."--_saturday review._ =in freedom's cause:= a story of wallace and bruce. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author relates the stirring tale of the scottish war of independence. the extraordinary valor and personal prowess of wallace and bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at one time wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. the researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living, breathing man--and a valiant champion. the hero of the tale fought under both wallace and bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure. "it is written in the author's best style. full of the wildest and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly put on one side."--_the schoolmaster._ =with lee in virginia:= a story of the american civil war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of a young virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under lee and jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. he has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted, bring him safely through all difficulties. "one of the best stories for lads which mr. henty has yet written. the picture is full of life and color, and the stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the personal interest and charm of the story."--_standard._ =by england's aid=; or, the freeing of the netherlands ( - ). by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the story of two english lads who go to holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting veres." after many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the corsairs. he is successful in getting back to spain under the protection of a wealthy merchant, and regains his native country after the capture of cadiz. "it is an admirable book for youngsters. it overflows with stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the era and of the scene are finely reproduced. the illustrations add to its attractiveness."--_boston gazette._ =by right of conquest=; or, with cortez in mexico. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. s. stacey, and two maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . the conquest of mexico by a small band of resolute men under the magnificent leadership of cortez is always rightly ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in history. with this as the groundwork of his story mr. henty has interwoven the adventures of an english youth, roger hawkshaw, the sole survivor of the good ship swan, which had sailed from a devon port to challenge the mercantile supremacy of the spaniards in the new world. he is beset by many perils among the natives, but is saved by his own judgment and strength, and by the devotion of an aztec princess. at last by a ruse he obtains the protection of the spaniards, and after the fall of mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming aztec bride. "'by right of conquest' is the nearest approach to a perfectly successful historical tale that mr. henty has yet published."--_academy._ =in the reign of terror:= the adventures of a westminster boy. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by j. schÃ�nberg. mo, cloth, price $ . . harry sandwith, a westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a french marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to paris at the crisis of the revolution. imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. after hairbreadth escapes they reach nantes. there the girls are condemned to death in the coffin-ships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy protector. "harry sandwith, the westminster boy, may fairly be said to beat mr. henty's record. his adventures will delight boys by the audacity and peril they depict.... the story is one of mr. henty's best."--_saturday review._ =with wolfe in canada=; or, the winning of a continent. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in the present volume mr. henty gives an account of the struggle between britain and france for supremacy in the north american continent. on the issue of this war depended not only the destinies of north america, but to a large extent those of the mother countries themselves. the fall of quebec decided that the anglo-saxon race should predominate in the new world; that britain, and not france, should take the lead among the nations of europe; and that english and american commerce, the english language, and english literature, should spread right round the globe. "it is not only a lesson in history as instructively as it is graphically told, but also a deeply interesting and often thrilling tale of adventure and peril by flood and field."--_illustrated london news._ =true to the old flag:= a tale of the american war of independence. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story the author has gone to the accounts of officers who took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which american and british soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage and good conduct. the historical portion of the book being accompanied with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of lake huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general narrative and carried through the book. "does justice to the pluck and determination of the british soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against american emancipation. the son of an american loyalist, who remains true to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of hawkeye and chingachgook."--_the times._ =the lion of st. mark:= a tale of venice in the fourteenth century. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. the hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. he contributes largely to the victories of the venetians at porto d'anzo and chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of venice. "every boy should read 'the lion of st. mark.' mr. henty has never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more vivacious."--_saturday review._ =a final reckoning:= a tale of bush life in australia. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by w. b. wollen. mo, cloth, price $ . . the hero, a young english lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to australia, and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. a few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bushrangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter. "mr. henty has never published a more readable, a more carefully constructed, or a better written story than this."--_spectator._ =under drake's flag:= a tale of the spanish main. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story of the days when england and spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. the heroes sail as lads with drake in the pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. the historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages. "a book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience enough, one would think, to turn his hair gray."--_harper's monthly magazine._ =by sheer pluck:= a tale of the ashanti war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . the author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. his hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the english expedition on their march to coomassie. "mr. henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys' stories. 'by sheer pluck' will be eagerly read."--_athenæum._ =by pike and dyke:= a tale of the rise of the dutch republic. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by maynard brown, and maps. mo, cloth, price $ . . in this story mr. henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an english boy in the household of the ablest man of his age--william the silent. edward martin, the son of an english sea-captain, enters the service of the prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time. he ultimately settles down as sir edward martin. "boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will be students in spite of themselves."--_st. james' gazette._ =st. george for england:= a tale of cressy and poitiers. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . no portion of english history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of edward iii. cressy and poitiers; the destruction of the spanish fleet; the plague of the black death; the jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "st. george for england." the hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a london apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the black prince. "mr. henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the historical labors of sir walter scott in the land of fiction."--_the standard._ =captain's kidd's gold:= the true story of an adventurous sailor boy. by james franklin fitts. mo, cloth, price $ . . there is something fascinating to the average youth in the very idea of buried treasure. a vision arises before his eyes of swarthy portuguese and spanish rascals, with black beards and gleaming eyes--sinister-looking fellows who once on a time haunted the spanish main, sneaking out from some hidden creek in their long, low schooner, of picaroonish rake and sheer, to attack an unsuspecting trading craft. there were many famous sea rovers in their day, but none more celebrated than capt. kidd. perhaps the most fascinating tale of all is mr. fitts' true story of an adventurous american boy, who receives from his dying father an ancient bit of vellum, which the latter obtained in a curious way. the document bears obscure directions purporting to locate a certain island in the bahama group, and a considerable treasure buried there by two of kidd's crew. the hero of this book, paul jones garry, is an ambitious, persevering lad, of salt-water new england ancestry, and his efforts to reach the island and secure the money form one of the most absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press. =captain bayley's heir:= a tale of the gold fields of california. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . a frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. the former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves england for america. he works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with indians to the californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader. "mr. henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment; and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of john holl, the westminster dustman, dickens himself could hardly have excelled."--_christian leader._ =for name and fame=; or, through afghan passes. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . an interesting story of the last war in afghanistan. the hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the malays, finds his way to calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the afghan passes. he accompanies the force under general roberts to the peiwar kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to cabul, whence he is transferred to candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of ayoub khan. "the best feature of the book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the afghan people."--_daily news._ =captured by apes:= the wonderful adventures of a young animal trainer. by harry prentice. mo, cloth, $ . . the scene of this tale is laid on an island in the malay archipelago. philip garland, a young animal collector and trainer, of new york, sets sail for eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities. the vessel is wrecked off the coast of borneo and young garland, the sole survivor of the disaster, is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the apes that overrun the place. the lad discovers that the ruling spirit of the monkey tribe is a gigantic and vicious baboon, whom he identifies as goliah, an animal at one time in his possession and with whose instruction he had been especially diligent. the brute recognizes him, and with a kind of malignant satisfaction puts his former master through the same course of training he had himself experienced with a faithfulness of detail which shows how astonishing is monkey recollection. very novel indeed is the way by which the young man escapes death. mr. prentice has certainly worked a new vein on juvenile fiction, and the ability with which he handles a difficult subject stamps him as a writer of undoubted skill. =the bravest of the brave=; or, with peterborough in spain. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by h. m. paget. mo, cloth, price $ . . there are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the earl of peterborough. this is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of marlborough. his career as general extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed. "mr. henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth. lads will read 'the bravest of the brave' with pleasure and profit; of that we are quite sure."--_daily telegraph._ =the cat of bubastes=: a story of ancient egypt. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations. mo, cloth, price $ . . a story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the egyptian people. amuba, a prince of the rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer jethro into slavery. they become inmates of the house of ameres, the egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of bubastes. in an outburst of popular fury ameres is killed, and it rests with jethro and amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter. "the story, from the critical moment of the killing of the sacred cat to the perilous exodus into asia with which it closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting adventures. it is admirably illustrated."--_saturday review._ =with washington at monmouth:= a story of three philadelphia boys. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . three philadelphia boys, seth graydon "whose mother conducted a boarding-house which was patronized by the british officers;" enoch ball, "son of that mrs. ball whose dancing school was situated on letitia street," and little jacob, son of "chris, the baker," serve as the principal characters. the story is laid during the winter when lord howe held possession of the city, and the lads aid the cause by assisting the american spies who make regular and frequent visits from valley forge. one reads here of home life in the captive city when bread was scarce among the people of the lower classes, and a reckless prodigality shown by the british officers, who passed the winter in feasting and merry-making while the members of the patriot army but a few miles away were suffering from both cold and hunger. the story abounds with pictures of colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of washington's soldiers which are given show that the work has not been hastily done, or without considerable study. =for the temple:= a tale of the fall of jerusalem. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by s. j. solomon. mo, cloth, price $ . . mr. henty here weaves into the record of josephus an admirable and attractive story. the troubles in the district of tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of jotapata, of gamala, and of jerusalem, form the impressive and carefully studied historic setting to the figure of the lad who passes from the vineyard to the service of josephus, becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the temple, and after a brief term of slavery at alexandria, returns to his galilean home with the favor of titus. "mr. henty's graphic prose pictures of the hopeless jewish resistance to roman sway add another leaf to his record of the famous wars of the world."--_graphic._ =facing death=; or, the hero of the vaughan pit. a tale of the coal mines. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by gordon browne. mo, cloth, price $ . . "facing death" is a story with a purpose. it is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. the hero of the story is a typical british boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. "the tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is much reality in the characters. if any father, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we would recommend."--_standard._ =tom temple's career.= by horatio alger. mo, cloth, price $ . . tom temple, a bright, self-reliant lad, by the death of his father becomes a boarder at the home of nathan middleton, a penurious insurance agent. though well paid for keeping the boy, nathan and his wife endeavor to bring master tom in line with their parsimonious habits. the lad ingeniously evades their efforts and revolutionizes the household. as tom is heir to $ , , he is regarded as a person of some importance until by an unfortunate combination of circumstances his fortune shrinks to a few hundreds. he leaves plympton village to seek work in new york, whence he undertakes an important mission to california, around which center the most exciting incidents of his young career. some of his adventures in the far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close the book until the last page shall have been reached. the tale is written in mr. alger's most fascinating style, and is bound to please the very large class of boys who regard this popular author as a prime favorite. =maori and settler:= a story of the new zealand war. by g. a. henty. with full-page illustrations by alfred pearse. mo, cloth, price $ . . the renshaws emigrate to new zealand during the period of the war with the natives. wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. he has for his friend mr. atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. in the adventures among the maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant new zealand valleys. "brimful of adventure, of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of colonial life."--_schoolmaster._ =julian mortimer:= a brave boy's struggle for home and fortune. by harry castlemon. mo, cloth, price $ . . here is a story that will warm every boy's heart. there is mystery enough to keep any lad's imagination wound up to the highest pitch. the scene of the story lies west of the mississippi river, in the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the great plains to the land of gold. one of the startling features of the book is the attack upon the wagon train by a large party of indians. our hero is a lad of uncommon nerve and pluck, a brave young american in every sense of the word. he enlists and holds the reader's sympathy from the outset. surrounded by an unknown and constant peril, and assisted by the unswerving fidelity of a stalwart trapper, a real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results. harry castlemon has written many entertaining stories for boys, and it would seem almost superfluous to say anything in his praise, for the youth of america regard him as a favorite author. "=carrots=:" just a little boy. by mrs. molesworth. with illustrations by walter crane. mo, cloth, price cents. "one of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been our good fortune to meet with for some time. carrots and his sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at once to become very fond of."--_examiner._ "a genuine children's book; we've seen 'em seize it, and read it greedily. children are first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate walter crane's illustrations."--_punch._ =mopsa the fairy.= by jean ingelow. with eight page illustrations. mo, cloth, price cents. "mrs. ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for children, and 'mopsa' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our young folks. it requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity; but genius miss ingelow has and the story of 'jack' is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of childhood."--_eclectic._ =a jaunt through java:= the story of a journey to the sacred mountain. by edward s. ellis. mo, cloth, price $ . . the central interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures of two cousins, hermon and eustace hadley, on their trip across the island of java, from samarang to the sacred mountain. in a land where the royal bengal tiger runs at large; where the rhinoceros and other fierce beasts are to be met with at unexpected moments; it is but natural that the heroes of this book should have a lively experience. hermon not only distinguishes himself by killing a full-grown tiger at short range, but meets with the most startling adventure of the journey. there is much in this narrative to instruct as well as entertain the reader, and so deftly has mr. ellis used his material that there is not a dull page in the book. the two heroes are brave, manly young fellows, bubbling over with boyish independence. they cope with the many difficulties that arise during the trip in a fearless way that is bound to win the admiration of every lad who is so fortunate as to read their adventures. =wrecked on spider island=; or, how ned rogers found the treasure. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . a "down-east" plucky lad who ships as cabin boy, not from love of adventure, but because it is the only course remaining by which he can gain a livelihood. while in his bunk, seasick, ned rogers hears the captain and mate discussing their plans for the willful wreck of the brig in order to gain the insurance. once it is known he is in possession of the secret the captain maroons him on spider island, explaining to the crew that the boy is afflicted with leprosy. while thus involuntarily playing the part of a crusoe, ned discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and overhauling the timbers for the purpose of gathering material with which to build a hut finds a considerable amount of treasure. raising the wreck; a voyage to havana under sail; shipping there a crew and running for savannah; the attempt of the crew to seize the little craft after learning of the treasure on board, and, as a matter of course, the successful ending of the journey, all serve to make as entertaining a story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire. =geoff and jim:= a story of school life. by ismay thorn. illustrated by a. g. walker. mo, cloth, price cents. "this is a prettily told story of the life spent by two motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. both geoff and jim are very lovable characters, only jim is the more so; and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will, no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers."--_church times._ "this is a capital children's story, the characters well portrayed, and the book tastefully bound and well illustrated."--_schoolmaster._ "the story can be heartily recommended as a present for boys."--_standard._ =the castaways=; or, on the florida reefs. by james otis. mo, cloth, price $ . . this tale smacks of the salt sea. it is just the kind of story that the majority of boys yearn for. from the moment that the sea queen dispenses with the services of the tug in lower new york bay till the breeze leaves her becalmed off the coast of florida, one can almost hear the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her straining cordage as she heels to the leeward, and feel her rise to the snow-capped waves which her sharp bow cuts into twin streaks of foam. off marquesas keys she floats in a dead calm. ben clark, the hero of the story, and jake, the cook, spy a turtle asleep upon the glassy surface of the water. they determine to capture him, and take a boat for that purpose, and just as they succeed in catching him a thick fog cuts them off from the vessel, and then their troubles begin. they take refuge on board a drifting hulk, a storm arises and they are cast ashore upon a low sandy key. their adventures from this point cannot fail to charm the reader. as a writer for young people mr. otis is a prime favorite. his style is captivating, and never for a moment does he allow the interest to flag. in "the castaways" he is at his best. =tom thatcher's fortune.= by horatio alger, jr. mo, cloth, price $ . . like all of mr. alger's heroes, tom thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. he supports his mother and sister on meager wages earned as a shoe-pegger in john simpson's factory. the story begins with tom's discharge from the factory, because mr. simpson felt annoyed with the lad for interrogating him too closely about his missing father. a few days afterward tom learns that which induces him to start overland for california with the view of probing the family mystery. he meets with many adventures. ultimately he returns to his native village, bringing consternation to the soul of john simpson, who only escapes the consequences of his villainy by making full restitution to the man whose friendship he had betrayed. the story is told in that entertaining way which has made mr. alger's name a household word in so many homes. =birdie=: a tale of child life. by h. l. childe-pemberton. illustrated by h. w. rainey. mo, cloth, price cents. "the story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier years."--_new york express._ =popular fairy tales.= by the brothers grimm. profusely illustrated, mo, cloth, price $ . . "from first to last, almost without exception, these stories are delightful."--_athenæum._ the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . v. the rector has more food for thought. vi. "watchman, what of the night" vii. the kingdoms of the world viii. the line of least resistance. chapter v the rector has more food for thought i sunday after sunday hodder looked upon the same picture, the winter light filtering through emblazoned windows, falling athwart stone pillars, and staining with rich colours the marble of the centre aisle. the organ rolled out hymns and anthems, the voices of the white robed choir echoed among the arches. and hodder's eye, sweeping over the decorous congregation, grew to recognize certain landmarks: eldon parr, rigid at one end of his empty pew; little everett constable, comfortably, but always pompously settled at one end of his, his white-haired and distinguished-looking wife at the other. the space between them had once been filled by their children. there was mr. ferguson, who occasionally stroked his black whiskers with a prodigious solemnity; mrs. ferguson, resplendent and always a little warm, and their daughter nan, dainty and appealing, her eyes uplifted and questioning. the plimptons, with their rubicund and aggressively healthy offspring, were always in evidence. and there was mrs. larrabbee. what between wealth and youth, independence and initiative, a widowhood now emerged from a mourning unexceptionable, an elegance so unobtrusive as to border on mystery, she never failed to agitate any atmosphere she entered, even that of prayer. from time to time, hodder himself was uncomfortably aware of her presence, and he read in her upturned face an interest which, by a little stretch of the imagination, might have been deemed personal . . . . another was gordon atterbury, still known as "young gordon," though his father was dead, and he was in the vestry. he was unmarried and forty-five, and mrs. larrabbee had said he reminded her of a shrivelling seed set aside from a once fruitful crop. he wore, invariably, checked trousers and a black cutaway coat, eyeglasses that fell off when he squinted, and were saved from destruction by a gold chain. no wedding or funeral was complete without him. and one morning, as he joined mr. parr and the other gentlemen who responded to the appeal, "let your light so shine before men," a strange, ironical question entered the rector's mind--was gordon atterbury the logical product of those doctrines which he, hodder, preached with such feeling and conviction? none, at least, was so fervent a defender of the faith, so punctilious in all observances, so constant at the altar rail; none so versed in rubrics, ritual, and canon law; none had such a knowledge of the church fathers. mr. atterbury delighted to discuss them with the rector at the dinner parties where they met; none was more zealous for foreign missions. he was the treasurer of st. john's. it should undoubtedly have been a consolation to any rector to possess mr. atterbury's unqualified approval, to listen to his somewhat delphic compliments,--heralded by a clearing of the throat. he represented the faith as delivered to the saints, and he spoke for those in the congregation to whom it was precious. why was it that, to hodder, he should gradually have assumed something of the aspect of a cerberus? why was it that he incited a perverse desire to utter heresies? hodder invariably turned from his contemplation of gordon atterbury to the double blaring pew, which went from aisle to aisle. in his heart, he would have preferred the approval of eleanor goodrich and her husband, and of asa waring. instinct spoke to him here; he seemed to read in their faces that he failed to strike in them responsive chords. he was drawn to them: the conviction grew upon him that he did not reach them, and it troubled him, as he thought, disproportionately. he could not expect to reach all. but they were the type to which he most wished to appeal; of all of his flock, this family seemed best to preserve the vitality and ideals of the city and nation. asa waring was a splendid, uncompromising survival; his piercing eyes sometimes met hodder's across the church, and they held for him a question and a riddle. eleanor goodrich bore on her features the stamp of true nobility of character, and her husband, hodder knew, was a man among men. in addition to a respected lineage, he possessed an unusual blending of aggressiveness and personal charm that men found irresistible. the rector's office in the parish house was a businesslike room on the first floor, fitted up with a desk, a table, straight-backed chairs, and a revolving bookcase. and to it, one windy morning in march, came eleanor goodrich. hodder rose to greet her with an eagerness which, from his kindly yet penetrating glance, she did not suspect. "am i interrupting you, mr. hodder?" she asked, a little breathlessly. "not at all," he said, drawing up a chair. "won't you sit down?" she obeyed. there was an awkward pause during which the colour slowly rose to her face. "i wanted to ask you one or two things," she began, not very steadily. "as perhaps you may know, i was brought up in this church, baptized and confirmed in it. i've come to fear that, when i was confirmed, i wasn't old enough to know what i was doing." she took a deep breath, amazed at her boldness, for this wasn't in the least how she had meant to begin. and she gazed at the rector anxiously. to her surprise, he did not appear to be inordinately shocked. "do you know any better now?" he asked. "perhaps not," she admitted. "but the things of which i was sure at that time i am not sure of now. my faith is--is not as complete." "faith may be likened to an egg, mrs. goodrich," he said. "it must be kept whole. if the shell is chipped, it is spoiled." eleanor plucked up her courage. eggs, she declared, had been used as illustrations by conservatives before now. hodder relieved her by smiling in ready appreciation. "columbus had reference to this world," he said. "i was thinking of a more perfect cue." "oh!" she cried, "i dare say there is a more perfect one. i should hate to think there wasn't--but i can't imagine it. there's nothing in the bible in the way of description of it to make me really wish to go there. the new jerusalem is too insipid, too material. i'm sure i'm shocking you, but i must be honest, and say what i feel." "if some others were as honest," said the rector, "the problems of clergymen would be much easier. and it is precisely because people will not tell us what they feel that we are left in the dark and cannot help them. of course, the language of st. john about the future is figurative." "figurative,--yes," she consented, "but not figurative in a way that helps me, a modern american woman. the figures, to be of any use, ought to appeal to my imagination--oughtn't they? but they don't. i can't see any utility in such a heaven--it seems powerless to enter as a factor into my life." "it is probable that we are not meant to know anything about the future." "then i wish it hadn't been made so explicit. its very definiteness is somehow--stultifying. and, mr. hodder, if we were not meant to know its details, it seems to me that if the hereafter is to have any real value and influence over our lives here, we should know something of its conditions, because it must be in some sense a continuation of this. i'm not sure that i make myself clear." "admirably clear. but we have our lord's example of how to live here." "if we could be sure," said eleanor, "just what that example meant." hodder was silent a moment. "you mean that you cannot accept what the church teaches about his life?" he asked. "no, i can't," she faltered. "you have helped me to say it. i want to have the church's side better explained,--that's why i'm here." she glanced up at him, hesitatingly, with a puzzled wonder, such a positive, dynamic representative of that teaching did he appear. "and my husband can't,--so many people i know can't, mr. hodder. only, some of them don't mention the fact. they accept it. and you say things with such a certainty--" she paused. "i know," he replied, "i know. i have felt it since i have come here more than ever before." he did not add that he had felt it particularly about her, about her husband: nor did he give voice to his instinctive conviction that he respected and admired these two more than a hundred others whose professed orthodoxy was without a flaw. "what is it in particular," he asked, troubled, "that you cannot accept? i will do my best to help you." "well--" she hesitated again. "please continue to be frank," he begged. "i can't believe in the doctrine of the virgin birth," she responded in a low voice; "it seems to me so--so material. and i feel i am stating a difficulty that many have, mr. hodder. why should it have been thought necessary for god to have departed from what is really a sacred and sublime fact in nature, to resort to a material proof in order to convince a doubting humanity that jesus was his son? oughtn't the proof of christ's essential god-ship to lie in his life, to be discerned by the spiritual; and wasn't he continually rebuking those who demanded material proof? the very acceptance of a material proof, it seems to me, is a denial of faith, since faith ceases to have any worth whatever the moment the demand for such proof is gratified. knowledge puts faith out of the question, for faith to me means a trusting on spiritual grounds. and surely the acceptance of scriptural statements like that of the miraculous birth without investigation is not faith--it is mere credulity. if jesus had been born in a miraculous way, the disciples must have known it. joseph must have known it when he heard the answer 'i must be about my father's business,' and their doubts are unexplained." "i see you have been investigating," said the rector. "yes," replied eleanor, with an unconscious shade of defiance, "people want to know, mr. dodder,--they want to know the truth. and if you consider the preponderance of the evidence of the gospels themselves--my brother-in-law says--you will find that the miraculous birth has very little to stand on. take out the first two chapters of matthew and luke, and the rest of the four gospels practically contradict it. the genealogies differ, and they both trace through joseph." "i think people suffer in these days from giving too much weight to the critics of christianity," said the rector, "from not pondering more deeply on its underlying truths. do not think that i am accusing you of superficiality, mrs. goodrich; i am sure you wish to go to the bottom, or else you would be satisfied with what you have already read and heard." "i do," she murmured. "and the more one reflects on the life of our lord, the more one is convinced that the doctrine of the virgin birth is a vital essential; without it christianity falls to pieces. let us go at the matter the other way round. if we attribute to our lord a natural birth, we come at once to the dilemma of having to admit that he was merely an individual human person,--in an unsurpassed relationship with god, it is true, but still a human person. that doctrine makes christ historical, some one to go back to, instead of the ever-present, preexistent son of god and mankind. i will go as far as to assert that if the virgin birth had never been mentioned in the gospels, it would nevertheless inevitably have become a fundamental doctrine of the christian faith. such a truth is too vast, too far-reaching to have been neglected, and it has a much higher significance than the mere record of a fact. in spite of the contradictions of science, it explains as nothing else can the mystery of the divinity as well as the humanity of the saviour." eleanor was unconvinced. she felt, as she listened, the pressure of his sincerity and force, and had to strive to prevent her thoughts from becoming confused. "no, mr. hodder, i simply can't see any reason for resorting to a physical miracle in order to explain a spiritual mystery. i can see why the ancients demanded a sign of divinity as it were. but for us it has ceased even to be that. it can't be proved. you ask me, in the face of overwhelming evidence against it, to teach my children that the incarnation depends on it, but when they grow up and go to college and find it discredited they run the risk of losing everything else with it. and for my part, i fail utterly to see why, if with god all things are possible, it isn't quite as believable, as we gather from st. mark's gospel, that he incarnated himself in one naturally born. if you reach the conclusion that jesus was not a mere individual human person, you reach it through the contemplation of his life and death." "then it isn't the physical miracle you object to, especially?" he asked. "it's the uselessness of it, for this age," she exclaimed. "i think clergymen don't understand the harm it is doing in concentrating the attention on such a vulnerable and non-essential point. those of us who are striving to reorganize our beliefs and make them tenable, do not bother our heads about miracles. they may be true, or may not, or some of them may be. we are beginning to see that the virgin birth does not add anything to christ. we are beginning to see that perfection and individuality are not incompatible,--one is divine, and the other human. and isn't it by his very individuality that we are able to recognize jesus to-day?" "you have evidently thought and read a great deal," dodder said, genuinely surprised. "why didn't you come to me earlier?" eleanor bit her lip. he smiled a little. "i think i can answer that for you," he went on; "you believe we are prejudiced,--i've no doubt many of us are. you think we are bound to stand up for certain dogmas, or go down, and that our minds are consequently closed. i am not blaming you," he added quickly, as she gave a sign of protest, "but i assure you that most of us, so far as my observation has gone, are honestly trying to proclaim the truth as we see it." "insincerity is the last thing i should have accused you of, mr. hodder," she said flushing. "as i told you, you seem so sure." "i don't pretend to infallibility, except so far as i maintain that the church is the guardian of certain truths which human experience has verified. let me ask you if you have thought out the difference your conception of the incarnation;--the lack of a patently divine commission, as it were,--makes in the doctrine of grace?" "yes, i have," she answered, "a little. it gives me more hope. i cannot think i am totally depraved. i do not believe that god wishes me to think so. and while i am still aware of the distance between christ's perfection and my own imperfection, i feel that the possibility is greater of lessening that distance. it gives me more self-respect, more self-reliance. george bridges says that the logical conclusion of that old doctrine is what philosophers call determinism--calvinistic predestination. i can't believe in that. the kind of grace god gives me is the grace to help myself by drawing force from the element of him in my soul. he gives me the satisfaction of developing." "of one thing i am assured, mrs. goodrich," hodder replied, "that the logical result of independent thinking is anarchy. under this modern tendency toward individual creeds, the church has split and split again until, if it keeps on, we shall have no church at all to carry on the work of our lord on earth. history proves that to take anything away from the faith is to atrophy, to destroy it. the answer to your arguments is to be seen on every side, atheism, hypocrisy, vice, misery, insane and cruel grasping after wealth. there is only one remedy i can see," he added, inflexibly, yet with a touch of sadness, "believe." "what if we can't believe?" she asked. "you can." he spoke with unshaken conviction. "you can if you make the effort, and i am sure you will. my experience is that in the early stages of spiritual development we are impervious to certain truths. will you permit me to recommend to you certain books dealing with these questions in a modern way?" "i will read them gladly," she said, and rose. "and then, perhaps, we may have another talk," he added, looking down at her. "give my regards to your husband." yet, as he stood in the window looking after her retreating figure, there gradually grew upon him a vague and uncomfortable feeling that he had not been satisfactory, and this was curiously coupled with the realization that the visit had added a considerable increment to his already pronounced liking for eleanor goodrich. she was, paradoxically, his kind of a person--such was the form the puzzle took. and so ably had she presented her difficulties that, at one point of the discussion, it had ironically occurred to him to refer her to gordon atterbury. mr. atterbury's faith was like an egg, and he took precious care not to have it broken or chipped. hodder found himself smiling. it was perhaps inevitable that he began at once to contrast mrs. goodrich with other feminine parishioners who had sought him out, and who had surrendered unconditionally. they had evinced an equally disturbing tendency,--a willingness to be overborne. for had he not, indeed, overborne them? he could not help suspecting these other ladies of a craving for the luxury of the confessional. one thing was certain,--he had much less respect for them than for eleanor goodrich . . . . that afternoon he sent her the list of books. but the weeks passed, and she did not come back. once, when he met her at a dinner of mrs. preston's, both avoided the subject of her visit, both were conscious of a constraint. she did not know how often, unseen by her, his eyes had sought her out from the chancel. for she continued to come to church as frequently as before, and often brought her husband. ii one bright and boisterous afternoon in march, hodder alighted from an electric car amid a swirl of dust and stood gazing for a moment at the stone gate-houses of that 'rus in urbe', waverley place, and at the gold block-letters written thereon, "no thoroughfare." against those gates and their contiguous grill the rude onward rush of the city had beaten in vain, and, baffled, had swept around their serene enclosure, westward. within, a silvery sunlight lit up the grass of the island running down the middle, and in the beds the softening earth had already been broken by the crocus sheaves. the bare branches of the trees swayed in the gusts. as hodder penetrated this hallowed precinct he recognized, on either hand, the residences of several of his parishioners, each in its ample allotted space: mrs. larrabbee's; the laureston greys'; thurston gore's, of which mr. wallis plimpton was now the master,--mr. plimpton, before whose pertinacity the walls of jericho had fallen; and finally the queer, twisted richardson mansion of the everett constables, whither he was bound, with its recessed doorway and tiny windows peeping out from under mediaeval penthouses. he was ushered into a library where the shades were already drawn, where a-white-clothed tea-table was set before the fire, the red rays dancing on the silver tea-kettle. on the centre-table he was always sure to find, neatly set in a rack, the books about which the world was talking, or rather would soon begin to talk; and beside them were ranged magazines; french, english, and american, punch, the spectator, the nation, the 'revue des deux mondes'. like the able general she was, mrs. constable kept her communications open, and her acquaintance was by no means confined to the city of her nativity. and if a celebrity were passing through, it were pretty safe, if in doubt, to address him in her care. hodder liked and admired her, but somehow she gave him the impression of having attained her ascendancy at a price, an ascendancy which had apparently been gained by impressing upon her environment a new note --literary, aesthetic, cosmopolitan. she held herself, and those she carried with her, abreast of the times, and he was at a loss to see how so congenial an effort could have left despite her sweetness--the little mark of hardness he discerned, of worldliness. for she was as well born as any woman in the city, and her husband was a constable. he had inherited, so the rector had been informed, one of those modest fortunes that were deemed affluence in the eighties. his keeping abreast of the times was the enigma, and hodder had often wondered how financial genius had contrived to house itself in the well-dressed, gently pompous little man whose lack of force seemed at times so painfully evident. and yet he was rated one of the rich men of the city, and his name hodder had read on many boards with mr. parr's! a person more versed in the modern world of affairs than the late rector of bremerton would not have been so long in arriving at the answer to this riddle. hodder was astute, he saw into people more than they suspected, but he was not sophisticated. he stood picturing, now, the woman in answer to whose summons he had come. with her finely chiselled features, her abundant white hair, her slim figure and erect carriage she reminded him always of a vigee lebrun portrait. he turned at the sound of her voice behind him. "how good of you to come, mr. hodder, when you were so busy," she said, taking his hand as she seated herself behind the tea-kettle. "i wanted the chance to talk to you, and it seemed the best way. what is that you have, soter's book?" "i pinked it up on the table," he explained. "then you haven't read it? you ought to. as a clergyman, it would interest you. religion treated from the economic side, you know, the effect of lack of nutrition on character. very unorthodox, of course." "i find that i have very little time to read," he said. "i sometimes take a book along in the cars." "your profession is not so leisurely as it once was, i often think it such a pity. but you, too, are paying the penalty of complexity." she smiled at him sympathetically. "how is mr. parr? i haven't seen him for several weeks." "he seemed well when i saw him last," replied hodder. "he's a wonderful man; the amount of work he accomplishes without apparent effort is stupendous." mrs. constable cast what seemed a tentative glance at the powerful head, and handed him his tea. "i wanted to talk to you about gertrude," she said. he looked unenlightened. "about my daughter, mrs. warren. she lives in new york, you know --on long island." then he had remembered something he had heard. "yes," he said. "she met you, at the fergusons', just for a moment, when she was out here last autumn. what really nice and simple people the fergusons are, with all their money!" "very nice indeed," he agreed, puzzled. "i have been sorry for them in the past," she went on evenly. "they had rather a hard time--perhaps you may have heard. nobody appreciated them. they were entombed, so to speak, in a hideous big house over on the south side, which fortunately burned down, and then they bought in park street, and took a pew in st. john's. i suppose the idea of that huge department store was rather difficult to get used to. but i made up my mind it was nonsense to draw the line at department stores, especially since mr. ferguson's was such a useful and remarkable one, so i went across and called. mrs. ferguson was so grateful, it was almost pathetic. and she's a very good friend--she came here everyday when genevieve had appendicitis." "she's a good woman," the rector said. "and nan,--i adore nan, everybody adores nan. she reminds me of one of those exquisite, blue-eyed dolls her father imports. now if i were a bachelor, mr. hodder--!" mrs. constable left the rest to his imagination. he smiled. "i'm afraid miss ferguson has her own ideas." running through hodder's mind, a troubled current, were certain memories connected with mrs. warren. was she the divorced daughter, or was she not? "but i was going to speak to you about gertrude. she's had such a hard time, poor dear, my heart has bled for her." there was a barely perceptible tremor in mrs. constable's voice. "all that publicity, and the inevitable suffering connected with it! and no one can know the misery she went through, she is so sensitive. but now, at last, she has a chance for happiness--the real thing has come." "the real thing!" he echoed. "yes. she's going to marry a splendid man, eldridge sumner. i know the family well. they have always stood for public spirit, and this mr. summer, although he is little over thirty, was chairman of that vice commission which made such a stir in new york a year ago. he's a lawyer, with a fine future, and they're madly in love. and gertrude realizes now, after her experience, the true values in life. she was only a child when she married victor warren." "but mr. warren," hodder managed to say, "is still living." "i sometimes wonder, mr. hodder," she went on hurriedly, "whether we can realize how different the world is today from what it was twenty years ago, until something of this kind is actually brought home to us. i shall never forget how distressed, how overwhelmed mr. constable and i were when gertrude got her divorce. i know that they are regarding such things differently in the east, but out here!--we never dreamed that such a thing could happen to us, and we regarded it as a disgrace. but gradually--" she hesitated, and looked at the motionless clergyman --"gradually i began to see gertrude's point of view, to understand that she had made a mistake, that she had been too young to comprehend what she was doing. victor warren had been ruined by money, he wasn't faithful to her, but an extraordinary thing has happened in his case. he's married again, and gertrude tells me he's absurdly happy, and has two children." as he listened, hodder's dominating feeling was amazement that such a course as her daughter had taken should be condoned by this middle-aged lady, a prominent member of his congregation and the wife of a vestryman, who had been nurtured and steeped in christianity. and not only that: mrs. constable was plainly defending a further step, which in his opinion involved a breach of the seventh commandment! to have invaded these precincts, the muddy, turbulent river of individualism had risen higher than he would have thought possible . . . . "wait!" she implored, checking his speech,--she had been watching him with what was plainly anxiety, "don't say anything yet. i have a letter here which she wrote me--at the time. i kept it. let me read a part of it to you, that you may understand more fully the tragedy of it." mrs. constable thrust her hand into her lap and drew forth a thickly covered sheet. "it was written just after she left him--it is an answer to my protest," she explained, and began to read: "i know i promised to love victor, mother, but how can one promise to do a thing over which one has no control? i loved him after he stopped loving me. he wasn't a bit suited to me--i see that now--he was attracted by the outside of me, and i never knew what he was like until i married him. his character seemed to change completely; he grew morose and quick-tempered and secretive, and nothing i did pleased him. we led a cat-and-dog life. i never let you know--and yet i see now we might have got along in any other relationship. we were very friendly when we parted, and i'm not a bit jealous because he cares for another woman who i can see is much better suited to him. "'i can't honestly regret leaving him, and i'm not conscious of having done anything wrong. i don't want to shock you, and i know how terribly you and father must feel, but i can see now, somehow, that i had to go through this experience, terrible as it was, to find myself. if it were thirty years ago, before people began to be liberal in such matters, i shudder to think what might have become of me. i should now be one of those terrible women between fifty and sixty who have tried one frivolity and excess after another--but i'm not coming to that! and my friends have really been awfully kind, and supported me--even victor's family. don't, don't think that i'm not respectable! i know how you look at such things.'" mrs. constable closed the letter abruptly. "i did look at such things in that way," she added, "but i've changed. that letter helped to change me, and the fact that it was gertrude who had been through this. if you only knew gertrude, mr. hodder, you couldn't possibly think of her as anything but sweet and pure." although the extent of hodder's acquaintance with mrs. warren had been but five minutes, the letter had surprisingly retouched to something like brilliancy her faded portrait, the glow in her cheeks, the iris blue in her eyes. he recalled the little shock he had experienced when told that she was divorced, for her appeal had lain in her very freshness, her frank and confiding manner. she was one of those women who seem to say, "here i am, you can't but like me:" and he had responded--he remembered that--he had liked her. and now her letter, despite his resistance, had made its appeal, so genuinely human was it, so honest, although it expressed a philosophy he abhorred. mrs. constable was watching him mutely, striving to read in his grave eyes the effect of her pleadings. "you are telling me this, mrs. constable--why?" he asked. "because i wished you to know the exact situation before i asked you, as a great favour to me, to mr. constable, to--to marry her in st. john's. of course," she went on, controlling her rising agitation, and anticipating a sign of protest, "we shouldn't expect to have any people, ---and gertrude wasn't married in st. john's before; that wedding was at passumset our seashore place. oh, mr. hodder, before you answer, think of our feelings, mr. constable's and mine! if you could see mr. constable, you would know how he suffers--this thing has upset him more than the divorce. his family have such pride. i am so worried about him, and he doesn't eat anything and looks so haggard. i told him i would see you and explain and that seemed to comfort him a little. she is, after all, our child, and we don't want to feel, so far as our church is concerned, that she is an ishmaelite; we don't want to have the spectacle of her having to go around, outside, to find a clergyman--that would be too dreadful! i know how strict, how unflinching you are, and i admire you for it. but this is a special case." she paused, breathing deeply, and hodder gazed at her with pity. what he felt was more than pity; he was experiencing, indeed, but with a deeper emotion, something of that same confusion of values into which eleanor goodrich's visit had thrown him. at the same time it had not escaped his logical mind that mrs. constable had made her final plea on the score of respectability. "it gives me great pain to have to refuse you," he said gently. "oh, don't," she said sharply, "don't say that! i can't have made the case clear. you are too big, too comprehending, mr. hodder, to have a hard-and-fast rule. there must be times--extenuating circumstances--and i believe the canons make it optional for a clergyman to marry the innocent person." "yes, it is optional, but i do, not believe it should be. the question is left to the clergyman's' conscience. according to my view, mrs. constable, the church, as the agent of god, effects an indissoluble bond. and much as i should like to do anything in my power for you and mr. constable, you have asked the impossible,--believing as i do, there can be no special case, no extenuating circumstance. and it is my duty to tell you it is because people to-day are losing their beliefs that we have this lenient attitude toward the sacred things. if they still held the conviction that marriage is of god, they would labour to make it a success, instead of flying apart at the first sign of what they choose to call incompatibility." "but surely," she said, "we ought not to be punished for our mistakes! i cannot believe that christ himself intended that his religion should be so inelastic, so hard and fast, so cruel as you imply. surely there is enough unhappiness without making more. you speak of incompatibility --but is it in all cases such an insignificant matter? we are beginning to realize in these days something of the effects of character on character,--deteriorating effects, in many instances. with certain persons we are lifted up, inspired to face the battle of life and overcome its difficulties. i have known fine men and women whose lives have been stultified or ruined because they were badly mated. and i cannot see that the character of my own daughter has deteriorated because she has got a divorce from a man with whom she was profoundly out of sympathy--of harmony. on the contrary, she seems more of a person than she was; she has clearer, saner views of life; she has made her mistake and profited by it. her views changed--victor warren's did not. she began to realize that some other woman might have an influence over his life--she had none, simply because he did not love her. and love is not a thing we can compel." "you are making it very hard for me, mrs. constable," he said. "you are now advocating an individualism with which the church can have no sympathy. christianity teaches us that life is probationary, and if we seek to avoid the trials sent us, instead of overcoming them, we find ourselves farther than ever from any solution. we have to stand by our mistakes. if marriage is to be a mere trial of compatibility, why go through a ceremony than which there is none more binding in human and divine institutions? one either believes in it, or one does not. and, if belief be lacking, the state provides for the legalization of marriages." "oh!" she exclaimed. "if persons wish to be married in church in these days merely because it is respectable, if such be their only reason, they are committing a great wrong. they are taking an oath before god with reservations, knowing that public opinion will release them if the marriage does not fulfil their expectations." for a moment she gazed at him with parted lips, and pressing her handkerchief to her eyes began silently to cry. the sudden spectacle, in this condition, of a self-controlled woman of the world was infinitely distressing to hodder, whose sympathies were even more sensitive than (in her attempt to play upon them) she had suspected. . . she was aware that he had got to his feet, and was standing beside her, speaking with an oddly penetrating tenderness. "i did not mean to be harsh," he said, "and it is not that i do not understand how you feel. you have made my duty peculiarly difficult." she raised up to him a face from which the mask had fallen, from which the illusory look of youth had fled. he turned away. . . and presently she began to speak again; in disconnected sentences. "i so want her to be happy--i cannot think, i will not think that she has wrecked her life--it would be too unjust, too cruel. you cannot know what it is to be a woman!" before this cry he was silent. "i don't ask anything of god except that she shall have a chance, and it seems to me that he is making the world better--less harsh for women." he did not reply. and presently she looked up at him again, steadfastly now, searchingly. the barriers of the conventions were down, she had cast her pride to the winds. he seemed to read in her a certain relief. "i am going to tell you something, mr. hodder, which you may think strange, but i have a reason for saying it. you are still a young man, and i feel instinctively that you have an unusual career before you. you interested me the first time you stepped into the pulpit of st. john's --and it will do me good to talk to you, this once, frankly. you have reiterated to-day, in no uncertain terms, doctrines which i once believed, which i was brought up to think infallible. but i have lived since then, and life itself has made me doubt them. "i recognize in you a humanity, a sympathy and breadth which you are yourself probably not aware of, all of which is greater than the rule which you so confidently apply to fit all cases. it seems to me that christ did not intend us to have such rules. he went beyond them, into the spirit. "under the conditions of society--of civilization to-day, most marriages are merely a matter of chance. even judgment cannot foresee the development of character brought about by circumstances, by environment. and in many marriages i have known about intimately both the man and the woman have missed the most precious thing that life can give something i cannot but think--god intends us to have. you see,"--she smiled at him sadly--"i am still a little of an idealist. "i missed--the thing i am talking about, and it has been the great sorrow of my life--not only on my account, but on my husband's. and so far as i am concerned, i am telling you the truth when i say i should have been content to have lived in a log cabin if--if the gift had been mine. not all the money in the world, nor the intellect, nor the philanthropy--the so-called interests of life, will satisfy me for its denial. i am a disappointed woman, i sometimes think a bitter woman. i can't believe that life is meant to be so. those energies have gone into ambition which should have been absorbed by--by something more worth while. "and i can see so plainly now that my husband would have been far, far happier with another kind of woman. i drew him away from the only work he ever enjoyed--his painting. i do not say he ever could have been a great artist, but he had a little of the divine spark, in his enthusiasm at least--in his assiduity. i shall never forget our first trip abroad, after we were married--he was like a boy in the galleries, in the studios. i could not understand it then. i had no real sympathy with art, but i tried to make sacrifices, what i thought were christian sacrifices. the motive power was lacking, and no matter how hard i tried, i was only half-hearted, and he realized it instinctively--no amount of feigning could deceive him. something deep in me, which was a part of my nature, was antagonistic, stultifying to the essentials of his own being. of course neither of us saw that then, but the results were not long in developing. to him, art was a sacred thing, and it was impossible for me to regard it with equal seriousness. he drew into himself,--closed up, as it were,--no longer discussed it. i was hurt. and when we came home he kept on in business--he still had his father's affairs to look after--but he had a little workroom at the top of the house where he used to go in the afternoon . . . . "it was a question which one of us should be warped,--which personality should be annihilated, so to speak, and i was the stronger. and as i look back, mr. hodder, what occurred seems to me absolutely inevitable, given the ingredients, as inevitable as a chemical process. we were both striving against each other, and i won--at a tremendous cost. the conflict, one might say, was subconscious, instinctive rather than deliberate. my attitude forced him back into business, although we had enough to live on very comfortably, and then the scale of life began to increase, luxuries formerly unthought of seemed to become necessities. and while it was still afar off i saw a great wave rolling toward us, the wave of that new prosperity which threatened to submerge us, and i seized the buoy fate had placed in our hands,--or rather, by suggestion, i induced my husband to seize it--his name. "i recognized the genius, the future of eldon parr at a time when he was not yet independent and supreme, when association with a constable meant much to him. mr. parr made us, as the saying goes. needless to say; money has not brought happiness, but a host of hard, false ambitions which culminated in gertrude's marriage with victor warren. i set my heart on the match, helped it in every, way, and until now nothing but sorrow has come of it. but my point--is this,--i see so clearly, now that it is too late, that two excellent persons may demoralize each other if they are ill-mated. it may be possible that i had the germs of false ambition in me when i was a girl, yet i was conscious only of the ideal which is in most women's hearts . . . . "you must not think that i have laid my soul bare in the hope of changing your mind in regard to gertrude. i recognize clearly, now, that that is impossible. oh, i know you do not so misjudge me," she added, reading his quick protest in his face. "indeed, i cannot analyze my reasons for telling you something of which i have never spoken to any one else." mrs. constable regarded him fixedly. "you are the strongest reason. you have somehow drawn it out of me . . . . and i suppose i wish some one to profit by it. you can, mr. hodder,--i feel sure of that. you may insist now that my argument against your present conviction of the indissolubility of marriage is mere individualism, but i want you to think of what i have told you, not to answer me now. i know your argument by heart, that christian character develops by submission, by suffering, that it is the woman's place to submit, to efface herself. but the root of the matter goes deeper than that. i am far from deploring sacrifice, yet common-sense tells us that our sacrifice should be guided by judgment, that foolish sacrifices are worse than useless. and there are times when the very limitations of our individuality --necessary limitation's for us--prevent our sacrifices from counting. "i was wrong, i grant you, grievously wrong in the course i took, even though it were not consciously deliberate. but if my husband had been an artist i should always have remained separated from his real life by a limitation i had no power to remove. the more i tried, the more apparent my lack of insight became to him, the more irritated he grew. i studied his sketches, i studied masterpieces, but it was all hopeless. the thing wasn't in me, and he knew it wasn't. every remark made him quiver. "the church, i think, will grow more liberal, must grow more liberal, if it wishes to keep in touch with people in an age when they are thinking out these questions for themselves. the law cannot fit all cases, i am sure the gospel can. and sometimes women have an instinct, a kind of second sight into persons, mr. hodder. i cannot explain why i feel that you have in you elements of growth which will eventually bring you more into sympathy with the point of view i have set forth, but i do feel it." hodder did not attempt to refute her--she had, indeed, made discussion impossible. she knew his arguments, as she had declared, and he had the intelligence to realize that a repetition of them, on his part, would be useless. she brought home to him, as never before, a sense of the anomalistic position of the church in these modern days, of its appallingly lessened weight even with its own members. as a successor of the apostles, he had no power over this woman, or very little; he could neither rebuke her, nor sentence her to penance. she recognized his authority to marry her daughter, to baptize her daughter's children, but not to interfere in any way with her spiritual life. it was as a personality he had moved her--a personality apparently not in harmony with his doctrine. women had hinted at this before. and while mrs. constable had not, as she perceived, shaken his conviction, the very vividness and unexpectedness of a confession from her--had stirred him to the marrow, had opened doors, perforce, which he, himself had marked forbidden, and given him a glimpse beyond before he could lower his eyes. was there, after all, something in him that responded in spite of himself? he sat gazing at her, his head bent, his strong hands on the arms of the chair. "we never can foresee how we may change," he answered, a light in his eyes that was like a smile, yet having no suggestion of levity. and his voice--despite his disagreement--maintained the quality of his sympathy. neither felt the oddity, then, of the absence of a jarring note. "you may be sure, at least, of my confidence, and of my gratitude for what you have told me." his tone belied the formality of his speech. mrs. constable returned his gaze in silence, and before words came again to either, a step sounded on the threshold and mr. constable entered. hodder looked at him with a new vision. his face was indeed lined and worn, and dark circles here under his eyes. but at mrs. constable's "here's mr. hodder, dear," he came forward briskly to welcome the clergyman. "how do you do?" he said cordially. "we don't see you very often." "i have been telling mr. hodder that modern rectors of big parishes have far too many duties," said his wife. and after a few minutes of desultory conversation, the rector left. chapter vi "watchman, what of the night?" it was one of those moist nights of spring when the air is pungent with the odour of the softened earth, and the gentle breaths that stirred the curtains in mr. parr's big dining-room wafted, from the garden, the perfumes of a revived creation,--delicious, hothouse smells. at intervals, showers might be heard pattering on the walk outside. the rector of st. john's was dining with his great parishioner. here indeed were a subject for some modern master, a chance to picture for generations to come an aspect of a mighty age, an age that may some day be deemed but a grotesque and anomalistic survival of a more ancient logic; a gargoyle carved out of chaos, that bears on its features a resemblance to the past and the future. our scene might almost be mediaeval with its encircling gloom, through which the heavy tapestries and shadowy corners of the huge apartment may be dimly made out. in the center, the soft red glow of the candles, the gleaming silver, the shining cloth, the church on one side--and what on the other? no name given it now, no royal name, but still power. the two are still in apposition, not yet in opposition, but the discerning may perchance read a prophecy in the salient features of the priest. the man of power of the beginning of the twentieth century demands a subtler analysis, presents an enigma to which the immortal portraits of forgotten medicis and capets give no clew. imagine, if you can, a lorenzo or a grand louis in a tightly-buttoned frock coat! there must be some logical connection between the habit and the age, since crimson velvet and gold brocade would have made eldon parr merely ridiculous. he is by no means ridiculous, yet take him out of the setting and put him in the street, and you might pass him a dozen times without noticing him. nature, and perhaps unconscious art, have provided him with a protective exterior; he is the colour of his jungle. after he has crippled you --if you survive--you will never forget him. you will remember his eye, which can be unsheathed like a rapier; you will recall his lips as the expression of a relentless negative. the significance of the slight bridge on the narrow nose is less easy to define. he is neither tall nor short; his face is clean-shaven, save for scanty, unobtrusive reddish tufts high on the cheeks; his hair is thin. it must be borne in mind, however, that our rector did not see him in his jungle, and perhaps in the traditional nobility of the lion there is a certain truth. an interesting biography of some of the powerful of this earth might be written from the point of view of the confessor or the physician, who find something to love, something to pity, and nothing to fear--thus reversing the sentiments of the public. yet the friendship between john hodder and eldon parr defied any definite analysis on the rector's part, and was perhaps the strangest--and most disquieting element that had as yet come into hodder's life. the nature of his intimacy with the banker, if intimacy it might be called, might have surprised his other parishioners if they could have been hidden spectators of one of these dinners. there were long silences when the medium of communication, tenuous at best, seemed to snap, and the two sat gazing at each other as from mountain peaks across impassable valleys. with all the will in the world, their souls lost touch, though the sense in the clergyman of the other's vague yearning for human companionship was never absent. it was this yearning that attracted hodder, who found in it a deep pathos. after one of these intervals of silence, eldon parr looked up from his claret. "i congratulate you, hodder, on the stand you took in regard to constable's daughter," he said. "i didn't suppose it was known," answered the rector, in surprise. "constable told me. i have reason to believe that he doesn't sympathize with his wife in her attitude on this matter. it's pulled him down, --you've noticed that he looks badly?" "yes," said the rector. he did not care to discuss the affair; he had hoped it would not become known; and he shunned the congratulations of gordon atterbury, which in such case would be inevitable. and in spite of the conviction that he had done his duty, the memory of his talk with mrs. constable never failed to make him, uncomfortable. exasperation crept into mr. pares voice. "i can't think what's got into women in these times--at mrs. constable's age they ought to know better. nothing restrains them. they have reached a point where they don't even respect the church. and when that happens, it is serious indeed. the church is the governor on our social engine, and it is supposed to impose a restraint upon the lawless." hodder could not refrain from smiling a little at the banker's conception. "doesn't that reduce the church somewhere to the level of the police force?" he asked. "not at all," said eldon parr, whose feelings seemed to be rising. "i am sorry for constable. he feels the shame of this thing keenly, and he ought to go away for a while to one of these quiet resorts. i offered him my car. sometimes i think that women have no morals. at any rate, this modern notion of giving them their liberty is sheer folly. look what they have done with it! instead of remaining at home, where they belong, they are going out into the world and turning it topsy-turvy. and if a man doesn't let them have a free hand, they get a divorce and marry some idiot who will." mr. parr pushed back his chair and rose abruptly, starting for the door. the rector followed him, forcibly struck by the unusual bitterness in his tone. "if i have spoken strongly, it is because i feel strongly," he said in a strange, thickened voice. "hodder, how would you like to live in this house--alone?" the rector looked down upon him with keen, comprehending eyes, and saw eldon parr as he only, of all men, had seen him. for he himself did not understand his own strange power of drawing forth the spirit from its shell, of compelling the inner, suffering thing to reveal itself. "this poison," eldon parr went on unevenly, "has eaten into my own family. my daughter, who might have been a comfort and a companion, since she chose not to marry, was carried away by it, and thought it incumbent upon her to have a career of her own. and now i have a choice of thirty rooms, and not a soul to share them with. sometimes, at night, i make up my mind to sell this house. but i can't do it--something holds me back, hope, superstition, or whatever you've a mind to call it. you've never seen all of the house, have you?" he asked. the rector slowly shook his head, and the movement might have been one that he would have used in acquiescence to the odd whim of a child. mr. parr led the way up the wide staircase to the corridor above, traversing chamber after chamber, turning on the lights. "these were my wife's rooms," he said, "they are just as she left them. and these my daughter alison's, when she chooses to pay me a visit. i didn't realize that i should have to spend the last years of my life alone. and i meant, when i gave my wife a house, to have it the best in the city. i spared nothing on it, as you see, neither care nor money. i had the best architect i could find, and used the best material. and what good is it to me? only a reminder--of what might have been. but i've got a boy, hodder,--i don't know whether i've ever spoken of him to you--preston. he's gone away, too. but i've always had the hope that he might come back and get decently married, and live, here. that's why i stay. i'll show you his picture." they climbed to the third floor, and while mr. parr way searching for the electric switch, a lightning flash broke over the forests of the park, prematurely revealing the room. it was a boy's room, hung with photographs of school and college crews and teams and groups of intimates, with deep window seats, and draped pennons of harvard university over the fireplace. eldon parr turned to one of the groups on the will, the earliest taken at school. "there he is," he said, pointing out a sunny little face at the bottom, a boy of twelve, bareheaded, with short, crisping yellow hair, smiling lips and laughing eyes. "and here he is again," indicating another group. thus he traced him through succeeding years until they came to those of college. "there he is," said the rector. "i think i can pick him out now." "yes; that's preston," said his father, staring hard at the picture. the face had developed, the body had grown almost to man's estate, but the hint of crispness was still in the hair, the mischievous laughter in the eyes. the rector gazed earnestly at the face, remembering his own boyhood, his own youth, his mind dwelling, too, on what he had heard of the original of the portrait. what had happened to the boy, to bring to naught the fair promise of this earlier presentment? he was aroused by the voice of eldon parr, who had sunk into one of the leather chairs. "i can see him now," he was saying, "as he used to come running down that long flight of stone steps in ransome street to meet me when i came home. such laughter! and once, in his eagerness, he fell and cut his forehead. i shall never forget how i felt. and when i picked him up he tried to laugh still, with the tears rolling down his face. you know the way a child's breath catches, hodder? he was always laughing. and how he used to cling to me, and beg me to take him out, and show such an interest in everything! he was a bright boy, a remarkable child, i thought, but i suppose it was my foolishness. he analyzed all he saw, and when he used to go off in my car, brennan, the engineer, would always beg to have him in the cab. and such sympathy! he knew in an instant when i was worried. i had dreams of what that boy would become, but i was too sure of it. i went on doing other things--there were so many things, and i was a slave to them. and before i knew it, he'd gone off to school. that was the year i moved up here, and my wife died. and after that, all seemed to go wrong. perhaps i was too severe; perhaps they didn't understand him at boarding-school; perhaps i didn't pay enough attention to him. at any rate, the first thing i knew his whole nature seemed to have changed. he got into scrape after scrape at harvard, and later he came within an ace of marrying a woman. "he's my weakness to-day. i can say no to everybody in the world but to him, and when i try to remember him as he used to come down those steps on ransome street . . . . "he never knew how much i cared--that what i was doing was all for him, building for him, that he might carry on my work. i had dreams of developing this city, the great southwest, and after i had gone preston was to bring them to fruition. "for some reason i never was able to tell him all this--as i am telling you. the words would not come. we had grown apart. and he seemed to think--god knows why!--he seemed to think i disliked him. i had langmaid talk to him, and other men i trusted--tell him what an unparalleled opportunity he had to be of use in the world. once i thought i had him started straight and then a woman came along--off the streets, or little better. he insisted on marrying her and wrecking his life, and when i got her out of the way, as any father would have done, he left me. he has never forgiven me. most of the time i haven't even the satisfaction of knowing were he is--london, paris, or new york. i try not to think of what he does. i ought to cut him off,--i can't do it--i can't do it, hodder--he's my one weakness still. i'm afraid--he'd sink out of sight entirely, and it's the one hold i have left on him." eldon parr paused, with a groan that betokened not only a poignant sorrow, but also something of relief--for the tortures of not being able to unburden himself had plainly become intolerable. he glanced up and met the compassionate eyes of the rector, who stood leaning against the mantel. "with alison it was different," he said. "i never understood her--even when she was a child--and i used to look at her and wonder that she could be my daughter. she was moody, intense, with a yearning for affection i've since sometimes thought--she could not express. i did not feel the need of affection in those days, so absorbed was i in building up, --so absorbed and driven, you might say. i suppose i must accept my punishment as just. but the child was always distant with me, and i always remember her in rebellion; a dark little thing with a quivering lip, hair awry, and eyes that flashed through her tears. she would take any amount of punishment rather than admit she had been in the wrong. i recall she had once a fox terrier that never left her, that fought all the dogs in the neighbourhood and destroyed the rugs and cushions in the house. i got rid of it one summer when she was at the sea, and i think she never forgave me. the first question she asked when she came home was for that dog--mischief, his name was--for mischief. i told her what i had done. it took more courage than i had thought. she went to her room, locked herself in, and stayed there, and we couldn't get her to come out for two days; she wouldn't even eat. "perhaps she was jealous of preston, but she never acknowledged it. when she was little she used once in a while to come shyly and sit on my lap, and look at me without saying anything. i hadn't the slightest notion what was in the child's mind, and her reserve increased as she grew older. she seemed to have developed a sort of philosophy of her own even before she went away to school, and to have certain strongly defined tastes. she liked, for instance, to listen to music, and for that very reason would never learn to play. we couldn't make her, as a child. "bad music, she said, offended her. she painted, she was passionately fond of flowers, and her room was always filled with them. when she came back from school to live with me, she built a studio upstairs. after the first winter, she didn't care to go out much. by so pronounced a character, young men in general were not attracted, but there were a few who fell under a sort of spell. i can think of no other words strong enough, and i used to watch them when they came here with a curious interest. i didn't approve of all of them. alison would dismiss them or ignore them or be kind to them as she happened to feel, yet it didn't seem to make any difference. one i suspect she was in love with --a fellow without a cent. "then there was bedloe hubbell. i have reason enough to be thankful now that she didn't care for him. they've made him president, you know, of this idiotic municipal league, as they call it. but in those days he hadn't developed any nonsense, he was making a good start at the bar, and was well off. his father was elias hubbell, who gave the botanical garden to the city. i wanted her to marry gordon atterbury. he hung on longer than any of them--five or six years; but she wouldn't hear of it. that was how the real difference developed between us, although the trouble was deep rooted, for we never really understood each other. i had set my heart on it, and perhaps i was too dictatorial and insistent. i don't know. i meant the best for her, god knows . . . . gordon never got over it. it dried him up." . . . . irritation was creeping back into the banker's voice. "then it came into alison's head that she wanted to 'make something of her life,'--as she expressed it. she said she was wasting herself, and began going to lectures with a lot of faddish women, became saturated with these nonsensical ideas about her sex that are doing so much harm nowadays. i suppose i was wrong in my treatment from the first. i never knew how to handle her, but we grew like flint and steel. i'll say this for her, she kept quiet enough, but she used to sit opposite me at the table, and i knew all the time what she was thinking of, and then i'd break out. of course she'd defend herself, but she had her temper under better control than i. she wanted to go away for a year or two and study landscape gardening, and then come back and establish herself in an office here. i wouldn't listen to it. and one morning, when she was late to breakfast, i delivered an ultimatum. i gave her a lecture on a woman's place and a woman's duty, and told her that if she didn't marry she'd have to stay here and live quietly with me, or i'd disinherit her." hodder had become absorbed in this portrait of alison parr, drawn by her father with such unconscious vividness. "and then?" he asked. in spite of the tone of bitterness in which he had spoken, eldon parr smiled. it was a reluctant tribute to his daughter. "i got an ultimatum in return," he said. "alison should have been a man." his anger mounted quickly as he recalled the scene. "she said she had thought it all out: that our relationship had become impossible; that she had no doubt it was largely her fault, but that was the way she was made, and she couldn't change. she had, naturally, an affection for me as her father, but it was very plain we couldn't get along together: she was convinced that she had a right to individual freedom,--as she spoke of it,--to develop herself. she knew, if she continued to live with me on the terms i demanded, that her character would deteriorate. certain kinds of sacrifice she was capable of, she thought, but what i asked would be a useless one. perhaps i didn't realize it, but it was slavery. slavery!" he repeated, "the kind of slavery her mother had lived . . . ." he took a turn around the room. "so far as money was concerned, she was indifferent to it. she had enough from her mother to last until she began to make more. she wouldn't take any from me in any case. i laughed, yet i have never been so angry in my life. nor was it wholly anger, hodder, but a queer tangle of feelings i can't describe. there was affection mixed up in it--i realized afterward--but i longed to take her and shake her and lock her up until she should come to her senses: i couldn't. i didn't dare. i was helpless. i told her to go. she didn't say anything more, but there was a determined look in her eyes when she kissed me as i left for the office. i spent a miserable day. more than once i made up my mind to go home, but pride stopped me. i really didn't think she meant what she said. when i got back to the house in the afternoon she had left for new york. "then i began to look forward to the time when her money would give out. she went to paris with another young woman, and studied there, and then to england. she came back to new york, hired an apartment and a studio, and has made a success." the rector seemed to detect an unwilling note of pride at the magic word. "it isn't the kind of success i think much of, but it's what she started out to do. she comes out to see me, once in a while, and she designed that garden." he halted in front of the clergyman. "i suppose you think it's strange, my telling you this," he said. "it has come to the point," he declared vehemently, "where it relieves me to tell somebody, and you seem to be a man of discretion and common-sense." hodder looked down into mr. parr's face, and was silent. perhaps he recognized, as never before, the futility of the traditional words of comfort, of rebuke. he beheld a soul in torture, and realized with sudden sharpness how limited was his knowledge of the conditions of existence of his own time. everywhere individualism reared its ugly head, everywhere it seemed plausible to plead justification; and once more he encountered that incompatibility of which mrs. constable had spoken! he might blame the son, blame the daughter, yet he could not condemn them utterly . . . . one thing he saw clearly, that eldon parr had slipped into what was still, for him, a meaningless hell. the banker's manner suddenly changed, reverted to what it had been. he arose. "i've tried to do my duty as i saw it, and it comes to this--that we who have spent the best years of our lives in striving to develop this country have no thanks from our children or from any one else." with his hand on the electric switch, he faced hodder almost defiantly as he spoke these words, and suddenly snapped off the light, as though the matter admitted of no discussion. in semi-darkness they groped down the upper flight of stairs . . . . chapter vii the kingdoms of the world i when summer arrived, the birds of brilliant plumage of mr. hodder's flock arose and flew lightly away, thus reversing the seasons. only the soberer ones came fluttering into the cool church out of the blinding heat, and settled here and there throughout the nave. the ample mr. bradley, perspiring in an alpaca coat, took up the meagre collection on the right of the centre aisle; for mr. parr, properly heralded, had gone abroad on one of those periodical, though lonely tours that sent anticipatory shivers of delight down the spines of foreign picture-dealers. the faithful gordon atterbury was worshipping at the sea, and even mr. constable and mr. plimpton, when recalled to the city by financial cares, succumbed to the pagan influence of the sun, and were usually to be found on sunday mornings on the wide veranda of the country club, with glasses containing liquid and ice beside them, and surrounded by heaps of newspapers. to judge by st. john's, the city was empty. but on occasions, before he himself somewhat tardily departed,--drawn thither by a morbid though impelling attraction, hodder occasionally walked through dalton street of an evening. if not in st. john's, summer was the season in dalton street. it flung open its doors and windows and moved out on the steps and the pavements, and even on the asphalt; and the music of its cafes and dance-halls throbbed feverishly through the hot nights. dalton street resorted neither to country club nor church. mr. mccrae, hodder's assistant, seemed to regard these annual phenomena with a grim philosophy,--a relic, perhaps, of the calvinistic determinism of his ancestors. he preached the same indefinite sermons, with the same imperturbability, to the dwindled congregations in summer and the enlarged ones in winter. but hodder was capable of no such resignation --if resignation it were, for the self-contained assistant continued to be an enigma; and it was not without compunction that he left, about the middle of july, on his own vacation. he was tired, and yet he seemed to have accomplished nothing in this first year of the city parish whereof he had dreamed. and it was, no doubt, for that very reason that he was conscious of a depressing exhaustion as his train rolled eastward over that same high bridge that spanned the hot and muddy waters of the river. he felt a fugitive. in no months since he had left the theological seminary, had he seemingly accomplished so little; in no months had he had so magnificent an opportunity. after he had reached the peaceful hills at bremerton--where he had gone on mrs. whitely's invitation--he began to look back upon the spring and winter as a kind of mad nightmare, a period of ceaseless, distracted, and dissipated activity, of rushing hither and thither with no results. he had been aware of invisible barriers, restricting, hemming him in on all sides. there had been no time for reflection; and now that he had a breathing space, he was unable to see how he might reorganize his work in order to make it more efficient. there were other perplexities, brought about by the glimpses he had had into the lives and beliefs--or rather unbeliefs--of his new parishioners. and sometimes, in an unwonted moment of pessimism, he asked himself why they thought it necessary to keep all that machinery going when it had so little apparent effect on their lives? he sat wistfully in the chancel of the little bremerton church and looked into the familiar faces of those he had found in it when he came to it, and of those he had brought into it, wondering why he had been foolish enough to think himself endowed for the larger work. here, he had been a factor, a force in the community, had entered into its life and affections. what was he there? nor did it tend to ease his mind that he was treated as one who has passed on to higher things. "i was afraid you'd work too hard," said mrs. whitely, in her motherly way. "i warned you against it, mr. hodder. you never spared yourself, but in a big city parish it's different. but you've made such a success, nelson tells me, and everybody likes you there. i knew they would, of course. that is our only comfort in losing you, that you have gone to the greater work. but we do miss you." ii the air of bremerton, and later the air of bar harbor had a certain reviving effect. and john hodder, although he might be cast down, had never once entertained the notion of surrender. he was inclined to attribute the depression through which he had passed, the disappointment he had undergone as a just punishment for an overabundance of ego,--only hodder used the theological term for the same sin. had he not, after all, laboured largely for his own glory, and not gods? had he ever forgotten himself? had the idea ever been far from his thoughts that it was he, john hodder, who would build up the parish of st. john's into a living organization of faith and works? the curious thing was that he had the power, and save in moments of weariness he felt it in him. he must try to remember always that this power was from god. but why had he been unable to apply it? and there remained disturbingly in his memory certain phrases of mrs. constable's, such as "elements of growth." he would change, she had said; and he had appeared to her as one with depths. unsuspected depths--pockets that held the steam, which was increasing in pressure. at bremerton, it had not gathered in the pockets, he had used it all--all had counted; but in the feverish, ceaseless activity of the city parish he had never once felt that intense satisfaction of emptying himself, nor, the sweet weariness that follows it. his seemed the weariness of futility. and introspection was revealing a crack--after so many years--in that self that he had believed to be so strongly welded. such was the strain of the pent-up force. he recognized the danger-signal. the same phenomenon had driven him into the church, where the steam had found an outlet--until now. and yet, so far as his examination went, he had not lost his beliefs, but the power of communicating them to others. bremerton, and the sight of another carrying on the work in which he had been happy, weighed upon him, and bar harbor offered distraction. mrs. larrabbee had not hesitated to remind him of his promise to visit her. if the gallery of portraits of the congregation of st. john's were to be painted, this lady's, at the age of thirty, would not be the least interesting. it would have been out of place in no ancestral hall, and many of her friends were surprised, after her husband's death, that she did not choose one wherein to hang it. she might have. for she was the quintessence of that feminine product of our country at which europe has never ceased to wonder, and to give her history would no more account for her than the process of manufacture explains the most delicate of scents. her poise, her quick detection of sham in others not so fortunate, her absolute conviction that all things were as they ought to be; her charity, her interest in its recipients; her smile, which was kindness itself; her delicate features, her white skin with its natural bloom; the grace of her movements, and her hair, which had a different color in changing lights--such an ensemble is not to be depicted save by a skilled hand. the late mr. larrabbee's name was still printed on millions of bright labels encircling cubes of tobacco, now manufactured by a trust. however, since the kind that entered mrs. larrabbee's house, or houses, was all imported from egypt or cuba, what might have been in the nature of an unpleasant reminder was remote from her sight, and she never drove into the northern part of the city, where some hundreds of young women bent all day over the cutting-machines. to enter too definitely into mrs. larrabbee's history, therefore, were merely to be crude, for she is not a lady to caricature. her father had been a steamboat captain--once an honoured calling in the city of her nativity--a devout presbyterian who believed in the most rigid simplicity. few who remembered the gaucheries of captain corington's daughter on her first presentation to his family's friends could recognize her in the cosmopolitan mrs. larrabbee. why, with new york and london at her disposal, she elected to remain in the middle west, puzzled them, though they found her answer, "that she belonged there," satisfying grace larrabbee's cosmopolitanism was of that apperception that knows the value of roots, and during her widowhood she had been thrusting them out. mrs. larrabbee followed by "of" was much more important than just mrs. larrabbee. and she was, moreover, genuinely attached to her roots. her girlhood shyness--rudeness, some called it, mistaking the effect for the cause--had refined into a manner that might be characterized as 'difficile', though hodder had never found her so. she liked direct men; to discover no guile on first acquaintance went a long way with her, and not the least of the new rector's social triumphs had been his simple conquest. enveloped in white flannel, she met his early train at the ferry; an unusual compliment to a guest, had he but known it, but he accepted it as a tribute to the church. "i was so afraid you wouldn't come," she said, in a voice that conveyed indeed more than a perfunctory expression. she glanced at him as he sat beside her on the cushions of the flying motor boat, his strange eyes fixed upon the blue mountains of the island whither they were bound, his unruly hair fanned by the wind. "why?" he asked, smiling at the face beneath the flying veil. "you need the rest. i believe in men taking their work seriously, but not so seriously as you do." she was so undisguisedly glad to see him that he could scarcely have been human if he had not responded. and she gave him, in that fortnight, a glimpse of a life that was new and distracting: at times made him forget --and he was willing to forget--the lower forms of which it was the quintessence,--the factories that hummed, the forges that flung their fires into the night in order that it might exist; the dalton streets that went without. the effluvia from hot asphalt bore no resemblance to the salt-laden air that rattled the venetian blinds of the big bedroom to which he was assigned. her villa was set high above the curving shore, facing a sheltered terrace-garden resplendent in its august glory; to seaward, islands danced in the haze; and behind the house, in the sunlight, were massed spruces of a brilliant arsenic green with purple cones. the fluttering awnings were striped cardinal and white. nature and man seemed to have conspired to make this place vividly unreal, as a toy village comes painted from the shop. there were no half-tones, no poverty--in sight, at least; no litter. on the streets and roads, at the casino attached to the swimming-pool and at the golf club were to be seen bewildering arrays of well-dressed, well-fed women intent upon pleasure and exercise. some of them gave him glances that seemed to say, "you belong to us," and almost succeeded in establishing the delusion. the whole effect upon hodder, in the state of mind in which he found himself, was reacting, stimulating, disquieting. at luncheons and dinners, he was what is known as a "success"--always that magic word. he resisted, and none so quick as women to scent resistance. his very unbending attitude aroused their inherent craving for rigidity in his profession; he was neither plastic, unctuous, nor subservient; his very homeliness, redeemed by the eyes and mouth, compelled their attention. one of them told mrs. larrabbee that that rector of hers would "do something." but what, he asked himself, was he resisting? he was by no means a puritan; and while he looked upon a reasonable asceticism as having its place in the faith that he professed, it was no asceticism that prevented a more complete acquiescence on his part in the mad carnival that surrounded him. "i'm afraid you don't wholly approve of bar harbor," his hostess remarked; one morning. "at first sight, it is somewhat staggering to the provincial mind," he replied. she smiled at him, yet with knitted brows. "you are always putting me off--i never can tell what you think. and yet i'm sure you have opinions. you think these people frivolous, of course." "most of them are so," he answered, "but that is a very superficial criticism. the question is, why are they so? the sight of bar harbor leads a stranger to the reflection that the carnival mood has become permanent with our countrymen, and especially our countrywomen." "the carnival mood," she repeated thoughtfully, "yes, that expresses it. we are light, we are always trying to get away from ourselves, and sometimes i wonder whether there are any selves to get away from. you ought to atop us," she added, almost accusingly, "to bring us to our senses." "that's just it," he agreed, "why don't we? why can't we?" "if more clergymen were like you, i think perhaps you might." his tone, his expression, were revelations. "i--!" he exclaimed sharply, and controlled himself. but in that moment grace larrabbee had a glimpse of the man who had come to arouse in her an intense curiosity. for an instant a tongue of the fires of vulcan had shot forth, fires that she had suspected. "aren't you too ambitious?" she asked gently. and again, although she did not often blunder, she saw him wince. "i don't mean ambitious for yourself. but surely you have made a remarkable beginning at st. john's. everybody admires and respects you, has confidence in you. you are so sure of yourself," she hesitated a moment, for she had never ventured to discuss religion with him, "of your faith. clergymen ought not to be apologetic, and your conviction cannot fail, in the long run, to have its effect." "its effect,--on what?" he asked. mrs. larrabbee was suddenly, at sea. and she prided herself on a lack of that vagueness generally attributed to her sex. "on--on everything. on what we were talking about,--the carnival feeling, the levity, on the unbelief of the age. isn't it because the control has been taken off?" he saw an opportunity to slip into smoother waters. "the engine has lost its governor?" "exactly!" cried mrs. larrabbee. "what a clever simile!" "it is mr. pares," said hodder. "only he was speaking of other symptoms, socialism, and its opposite, individualism,--not carnivalism." "poor man," said mrs. larrabbee, accepting the new ground as safer, yet with a baffled feeling that hodder had evaded her once more, "he has had his share of individualism and carnivalism. his son preston was here last month, and was taken out to the yacht every night in an unspeakable state. and alison hasn't been what might be called a blessing." "she must be unusual," said the rector, musingly. "oh, alison is a person. she has become quite the fashion, and has more work than she can possibly attend to. very few women with her good looks could have done what she has without severe criticism, and something worse, perhaps. the most extraordinary thing about her is her contempt for what her father has gained, and for conventionalities. it always amuses me when i think that she might have been the wife of gordon atterbury. the goddess of liberty linked to--what?" hodder thought instinctively of the church. but he remained silent. "as a rule, men are such fools about the women they wish to marry," she continued. "she would have led him a dance for a year or two, and then calmly and inexorably left him. and there was her father, with all his ability and genius, couldn't see it either, but fondly imagined that alison as gordon atterbury's wife, would magically become an atterbury and a bourgeoise, see that the corners were dusted in the big house, sew underwear for the poor, and fast in lent." "and she is happy--where she is?" he inquired somewhat naively. "she is self-sufficient," said mrs. larrabbee, with unusual feeling, "and that is just what most women are not, in these days. oh, why has life become such a problem? sometimes i think, with all that i have, i'm not, so well off as one of those salesgirls in ferguson's, at home. i'm always searching for things to do--nothing is thrust on me. there are the charities--galt house, and all that, but i never seem to get at anything, at the people i'd like to help. it's like sending money to china. there is no direct touch any more. it's like seeing one's opportunities through an iron grating." hodder started at the phrase, so exactly had she expressed his own case. "ah," he said, "the iron grating bars the path of the church, too." and just what was the iron grating? they had many moments of intimacy during that fort night, though none in which the plumb of their conversation descended to such a depth. for he was, as she had said, always "putting her off." was it because he couldn't satisfy her craving? give her the solution for which--he began to see--she thirsted? why didn't that religion that she seemed outwardly to profess and accept without qualification--the religion he taught set her at rest? show her the path? down in his heart he knew that he feared to ask. that mrs. larrabbee was still another revelation, that she was not at rest, was gradually revealed to him as the days passed. her spirit, too, like his own, like 'mrs constable's, like eldon parr's, like eleanor goodrich's, was divided against itself; and this phenomenon in mrs. larrabbee was perhaps a greater shock to him, since he had always regarded her as essentially in equilibrium. one of his reasons, indeed, --in addition to the friendship that had grown up between them,--for coming to visit her had been to gain the effect of her poise on his own. poise in a modern woman, leading a modern life. it was thus she attracted him. it was not that he ignored her frivolous side; it was nicely balanced by the other, and that other seemed growing. the social, she accepted at what appeared to be its own worth. unlike mrs. plimpton, for instance, she was so innately a lady that she had met with no resistance in the eastern watering places, and her sense of values had remained the truer for it. he did not admire her the less now he had discovered that the poise was not so adjusted as he had thought it, but his feeling about her changed, grew more personal, more complicated. she was showing an alarming tendency to lean on him at a time when he was examining with some concern his own supports. she possessed intelligence and fascination, she was a woman whose attentions would have flattered and disturbed any man with a spark of virility, and hodder had constantly before his eyes the spectacle of others paying her court. here were danger-signals again! mrs. plaice, a middle-aged english lady staying in the house, never appeared until noon. breakfast was set out in the tiled and sheltered loggia, where they were fanned by the cool airs of a softly breathing ocean. the world, on these mornings, had a sparkling unreality, the cold, cobalt sea stretching to sun-lit isles, and beyond, the vividly painted shore,--the setting of luxury had never been so complete. and the woman who sat opposite him seemed, like one of her own nectarines, to be the fruit that crowned it all. why not yield to the enchantment? why rebel, when nobody else complained? were it not more simple to accept what life sent in its orderly course instead of striving for an impossible and shadowy ideal? very shadowy indeed! and to what end were his labours in that smoky, western city, with its heedless dalton streets, which went their inevitable ways? for he had the choice. to do him justice, he was slow in arriving at a realization that seemed to him so incredible, so preposterous. he was her rector! and he had accepted, all unconsciously, the worldly point of view as to mrs. larrabbee,--that she was reserved for a worldly match. a clergyman's wife! what would become of the clergyman? and yet other clergymen had married rich women, despite the warning of the needle's eye. she drove him in her buckboard to jordan's pond, set, like a jewel in the hills, and even to the deep, cliff bordered inlet beyond north east, which reminded her, she said, of a norway fiord. and sometimes they walked together through wooded paths that led them to beetling shores, and sat listening to the waves crashing far below. silences and commonplaces became the rule instead of the eager discussions with which they had begun,--on such safer topics as the problem of the social work of modern churches. her aromatic presence, and in this setting, continually disturbed him: nature's perfumes, more definable, --exhalations of the sea and spruce,--mingled with hers, anaesthetics compelling lethargy. he felt himself drowning, even wished to drown, --and yet strangely resisted. "i must go to-morrow," he said. "to-morrow--why? there is a dinner, you know, and mrs. waterman wished so particularly to meet you." he did not look at her. the undisguised note of pain found an echo within him. and this was mrs. larrabbee! "i am sorry, but i must," he told her, and she may not have suspected the extent to which the firmness was feigned. "you have promised to make other visits? the fergusons,--they said they expected you." "i'm going west--home," he said, and the word sounded odd. "at this season! but there is nobody in church, at least only a few, and mr. mccrae can take care of those--he always does. he likes it." hodder smiled in spite of himself. he might have told her that those outside the church were troubling him. but he did not, since he had small confidence in being able to bring them in. "i have been away too long, i am getting spoiled," he replied, with an attempt at lightness. he forced his eyes to meet hers, and she read in them an unalterable resolution. "it is my opinion you are too conscientious, even for a clergyman," she said, and now it was her lightness that hurt. she protested no more. and as she led the way homeward through the narrow forest path, her head erect, still maintaining this lighter tone, he wondered how deeply she had read him; how far her intuition had carried her below the surface; whether she guessed the presence of that stifled thing in him which was crying feebly for life; whether it was that she had discovered, or something else? he must give it the chance it craved. he must get away--he must think. to surrender now would mean destruction. . . early the next morning, as he left the pier in the motor boat, he saw a pink scarf waving high above him from the loggia. and he flung up his hand in return. mingled with a faint sense of freedom was intense sadness. chapter viii the line of least resistance from the vantage point of his rooms in the parish house, hodder reviewed the situation. and despite the desires thronging after him in his flight he had the feeling of once who, in the dark, has been very near to annihilation. what had shaken him most was the revelation of an old enemy which, watching its chance, had beset him at the first opportunity; and at a time when the scheme of life, which he flattered himself to have solved forever, was threatening once more to resolve itself into fragments. he had, as if by a miracle, escaped destruction in some insidious form. he shrank instinctively from an analysis of the woman in regard to whom his feelings were, so complicated, and yet by no means lacking in tenderness. but as time went on, he recognized more and more that she had come into his life at a moment when he was peculiarly vulnerable. she had taken him off his guard. that the brilliant mrs. larrabbee should have desired him--or what she believed was him--was food enough for thought, was an indication of an idealism in her nature that he would not have suspected. from a worldly point of view, the marriage would have commended itself to none of her friends. yet hodder perceived clearly that he could not have given her what she desired, since the marriage would have killed it in him. she offered him the other thing. once again he had managed somehow to cling to his dream of what the relationship between man and woman should be, and he saw more and more distinctly that he had coveted not only the jewel, but its setting. he could not see her out of it--she faded. nor could he see himself in it. luxury,--of course,--that was what he had spurned. luxury in contrast to dalton street, to the whirring factories near the church which discharged, at nightfall, their quotas of wan women and stunted children. and yet here he was catering to luxury, providing religion for it! religion! early in november he heard that mrs. larrabbee had suddenly decided to go abroad without returning home. . . . that winter hodder might have been likened to a niagara for energy; an unharnessed niagara--such would have been his own comment. he seemed to turn no wheels, or only a few at least, and feebly. and while the spectacle of their rector's zeal was no doubt an edifying one to his parishioners, they gave him to understand that they would have been satisfied with less. they admired, but chided him gently; and in february mr. parr offered to take him to florida. he was tired, and it was largely because he dreaded the reflection inevitable in a period of rest, that he refused. . . . and throughout these months, the feeling recurred, with increased strength, that mccrae was still watching him, --the notion persisted that his assistant held to a theory of his own, if he could but be induced to reveal it. hodder refrained from making the appeal. sometimes he was on the point of losing patience with this enigmatic person. congratulations on the fact that his congregation was increasing brought him little comfort, since a cold analysis of the newcomers who were renting pews was in itself an indication of the lack of that thing he so vainly sought. the decorous families who were now allying themselves with st. john's did so at the expense of other churches either more radical or less fashionable. what was it he sought? what did he wish? to fill the church to overflowing with the poor and needy as well as the rich, and to enter into the lives of all. yet at a certain point he met a resistance that was no less firm because it was baffling. the word, on his lips at least, seemed to have lost it efficacy. the poor heeded it not, and he preached to the rich as from behind a glass. they went on with their carnival. why this insatiate ambition on his part in an age of unbelief? other clergymen, not half so fortunate, were apparently satisfied; or else--from his conversation with them--either oddly optimistic or resigned. why not he? it was strange, in spite of everything, that hope sprang up within him, a recurrent geyser. gradually, almost imperceptibly, he found himself turning more and more towards that line of least resistance which other churches were following, as the one modern solution,--institutional work. after all, in the rescuing of bodies some method might yet be discovered to revive the souls. and there were the children! hodder might have been likened to an explorer, seeking a direct path when there was none--a royal road. and if this were oblique it offered, at least, a definite outlet for his energy. such was, approximately, the state of his mind early in march when gordon atterbury came back from a conference in new york on institutional work, and filled with enthusiasm. st. john's was incredibly behind the times, so he told hodder, and later the vestry. now that they had, in mr. hodder, a man of action and ability--ahem! there was no excuse for a parish as wealthy as st. john's, a parish with their opportunities, considering the proximity of dalton street neighbourhood, not enlarging and modernizing the parish house, not building a settlement house with kindergartens, schools, workshops, libraries, a dispensary and day nurseries. it would undoubtedly be an expense--and mr. atterbury looked at mr. parr, who drummed on the vestry table. they would need extra assistants, deaconesses, trained nurses, and all that. but there were other churches in the city that were ahead of st. john's--a reproach --ahem! mr. parr replied that he had told the rector that he stood ready to contribute to such a scheme when he, the rector; should be ready to approve it. and he looked at mr. hodder. mr. hodder said he had been considering the matter ever since his arrival. he had only one criticism of institutional work, that in his observation it did not bring the people whom it reached into the church in any great numbers. perhaps that were too much to ask, in these days. for his part he would willingly assume the extra burden, and he was far from denying the positive good such work accomplished through association and by the raising of standards. mr. ferguson declared his readiness to help. many of his salesgirls, he said, lived in this part of the city, and he would be glad to do anything in his power towards keeping them out of the dance-halls and such places. a committee was finally appointed consisting of mr. parr, mr. atterbury, and the rector, to consult architects and to decide upon a site. hodder began a correspondence with experts in other cities, collected plans, pamphlets, statistics; spent hours with the great child-specialist, dr. jarvis, and with certain clergymen who believed in institutionalism as the hope of the future. but mccrae was provokingly non-committal. "oh, they may try it," he assented somewhat grudgingly, one day when the rector had laid out for his inspection the architects' sketch for the settlement house. "no doubt it will help many poor bodies along." "is there anything else?" the rector asked, looking searchingly at his assistant. "it may as well be that," replied mccrae. the suspicion began to dawn on hodder that the scotch man's ideals were as high as his own. both of them, secretly, regarded the new scheme as a compromise, a yielding to the inevitable . . . . mr. ferguson's remark that an enlarged parish house and a new settlement house might help to keep some of the young women employed in his department store out of the dance-halls interested hodder, who conceived the idea of a dance-hall of their own. for the rector, in the course of his bachelor shopping, often resorted to the emporium of his vestryman, to stand on the stairway which carried him upward without lifting his feet, to roam, fascinated, through the mazes of its aisles, where he invariably got lost, and was rescued by suave floor-walkers or pert young women in black gowns and white collars and cuffs. but they were not all pert--there were many characters, many types. and he often wondered whether they did not get tired standing on their feet all day long, hesitating to ask them; speculated on their lives--flung as most of them were on a heedless city, and left to shift for themselves. why was it that the church which cared for mr. ferguson's soul was unable to get in touch with, or make an appeal to, those of his thousand employees? it might indeed have been said that francis ferguson cared for his own soul, as he cared for the rest of his property, and kept it carefully insured,--somewhat, perhaps, on the principle of pascal's wager. that he had been a benefactor to his city no one would deny who had seen the facade that covered a whole block in the business district from tower to vine, surmounted by a red standard with the familiar motto, "when in doubt, go to ferguson's." at ferguson's you could buy anything from a pen-wiper to a piano or a paris gown; sit in a cool restaurant in summer or in a palm garden in winter; leave your baby--if you had one--in charge of the most capable trained nurses; if your taste were literary, mull over the novels in the book department; if you were stout, you might be reduced in the hygiene department, unknown to your husband and intimate friends. in short, if there were any virtuous human wish in the power of genius to gratify, ferguson's was the place. they, even taught you how to cook. it was a modern aladdin's palace: and, like everything else modern, much more wonderful than the original. and the soda might be likened to the waters of trevi,--to partake of which is to return. "when in doubt, go to ferguson!" thus mrs. larrabbee and other ladies interested in good works had altered his motto. he was one of the supporters of galt house, into which some of his own young saleswomen had occasionally strayed; and none, save mr. parr alone, had been so liberal in his gifts. holder invariably found it difficult to reconcile the unassuming man, whose conversation was so commonplace, with the titanic genius who had created ferguson's; nor indeed with the owner of the imposing marble mansion at number , park street. the rector occasionally dined there. he had acquired a real affection for mrs. ferguson, who resembled a burgomaster's wife in her evening gowns and jewels, and whose simple social ambitions had been gratified beyond her dreams. her heart had not shrunken in the process, nor had she forgotten her somewhat heterogeneous acquaintances in the southern part of the city. and it was true that when gertrude constable had nearly died of appendicitis, it was on this lady's broad bosom that mrs. constable had wept. mrs. ferguson had haunted the house, regardless of criticism, and actually quivering with sympathy. her more important dinner parties might have been likened to ill-matched fours-in-hand, and holder had sometimes felt more of pity than of amusement as she sat with an expression of terror on her face, helplessly watching certain unruly individuals taking their bits in their teeth and galloping madly downhill. on one occasion, when he sat beside her, a young man, who shall be nameless, was suddenly heard to remark in the midst of an accidental lull: "i never go to church. what's the use? i'm afraid most of us don't believe in hell any more." a silence followed: of the sort that chills. and the young man, glancing down the long board at the clergyman, became as red as the carnation in his buttonhole, and in his extremity gulped down more champagne. "things are in a dreadful state nowadays!" mrs. ferguson gasped to a paralyzed company, and turned an agonized face to holder. "i'm so sorry," she said, "i don't know why i asked him to-night, except that i have to have a young man for nan, and he's just come to the city, and i was sorry for him. he's very promising in a business way; he's in mr. plimpton's trust company." "please don't let it trouble you." holder turned and smiled a little, and added whimsically: "we may as well face the truth." "oh, i should expect you to be good about it, but it was unpardonable," she cried . . . . in the intervals when he gained her attention he strove, by talking lightly of other things, to take her mind off the incident, but somehow it had left him strangely and--he felt--disproportionately depressed, --although he had believed himself capable of facing more or less philosophically that condition which the speaker had so frankly expressed. yet the remark, somehow, had had an illuminating effect like a flashlight, revealing to him the isolation of the church as never before. and after dinner, as they were going to the smoking-room, the offender accosted him shamefacedly. "i'm awfully sorry, mr. holder," he stammered. that the tall rector's regard was kindly did not relieve his discomfort. hodder laid a hand on his shoulder. "don't worry about it," he answered, "i have only one regret as to what you said--that it is true." the other looked at him curiously. "it's mighty decent of you to take it this way," he laid. further speech failed him. he was a nice-looking young man, with firm white teeth, and honesty was written all over his boyish face. and the palpable fact that his regret was more on the clergyman's account than for the social faux pas drew holder the more, since it bespoke a genuineness of character. he did not see the yearning in the rector's eyes as he turned away. . . why was it they could not be standing side by side, fighting the same fight? the church had lost him, and thousands like him, and she needed them; could not, indeed, do without them. where, indeed, were the young men? they did not bother their heads about spiritual matters any more. but were they not, he asked himself, franker than many of these others, the so-called pillars of the spiritual structure? mr. plimpton accosted him. "i congratulate you upon the new plans, mr. hodder,--they're great," he said. "mr. parr and our host are coming down handsomely, eh? when we get the new settlement house we'll have a plant as up-to-date as any church in the country. when do you break ground?" "not until autumn, i believe," hodder replied. "there are a good many details to decide upon yet." "well, i congratulate you." mr. plimpton was forever congratulating. "up-to-date"--"plant"! more illuminating words, eloquent of mr. plimpton's ideals. st. john's down at the heels, to be brought up to the state of efficiency of mr. plimpton's trust company! it was by no means the first time he had heard modern attributes on mr. plimpton's lips applied to a sacred institution, but to-night they had a profoundly disquieting effect. to-night, a certain clairvoyance had been vouchsafed him, and he beheld these men, his associates and supporters, with a detachment never before achieved. they settled in groups about the room, which was square and high, and panelled in italian walnut, with fluted pilasters,--the capitals of which were elaborately carved. and hodder found himself on a deep leather sofa in a corner engaged in a desultory and automatic conversation with everett constable. mr. plimpton, with a large cigar between his lips, was the radiating centre of one of the liveliest groups, and of him the rector had fallen into a consideration, piecing together bits of information that hitherto had floated meaninglessly in his mind. it was mrs. larrabbee who had given character to the career of the still comparatively youthful and unquestionably energetic president of the chamber of commerce by likening it to a great spiral, starting somewhere in outer regions of twilight, and gradually drawing nearer to the centre, from which he had never taken his eyes. at the centre were eldon parr and charlotte gore. wallis plimpton had made himself indispensable to both. his campaign for the daughter of thurston gore had been comparable to one of the great sieges of history, for mr. plimpton was a laughing-stock when he sat down before that fortress. at the end of ten years, charlotte had capitulated, with a sigh of relief, realizing at last her destiny. she had become slightly stout, revealing, as time went on, no wrinkles--a proof that the union was founded on something more enduring than poetry: statesmanship--that was the secret! step by step, slowly but surely, the memoranda in that matrimonial portfolio were growing into accomplished facts; all events, such as displacements of power, were foreseen; and the plimptons, like bismarck, had only to indicate, in case of sudden news, the pigeonhole where the plan of any particular campaign was filed. mrs. larrabbee's temptation to be witty at the expense of those for whom she had no liking had led hodder to discount the sketch. he had not disliked mr. plimpton, who had done him many little kindnesses. he was good-natured, never ruffled, widely tolerant, hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and he had enlivened many a vestry meeting with his stories. it were hypercritical to accuse him of a lack of originality. and if by taking thought, he had arrived, from nowhere, at his present position of ease and eminence, success had not turned to ashes in his mouth. he fairly exhaled well-being, happiness, and good cheer. life had gone well with him, he wished the same to others. but to-night, from his corner, hodder seemed to see mr. plimpton with new eyes. not that he stood revealed a villain, which he was far from being; it was the air of sophistication, of good-natured if cynical acceptance of things as they were--and plenty good enough, too!--that jarred upon the rector in his new mood, and it was made manifest to him as never before why his appeals from the pulpit had lacked efficacy. mr. plimpton didn't want the world changed! and in this desire he represented the men in that room, and the majority of the congregation of st. john's. the rector had felt something of this before, and it seemed to him astonishing that the revelation had not come to him sooner. did any one of them, in his heart, care anything for the ideals and aspirations of the church? as he gazed at them through the gathering smoke they had become strangers, receded all at once to a great distance. . . . across the room he caught the name, bedloe hubbell, pronounced with peculiar bitterness by mr. ferguson. at his side everett constable was alert, listening. "ten years ago," said a stout mr. varnum, the president of the third national bank, "if you'd told me that that man was to become a demagogue and a reformer, i wouldn't have believed you. why, his company used to take rebates from the l. & g., and the southern--i know it." he emphasized the statement with a blow on the table that made the liqueur glasses dance. "and now, with his municipal league, he's going to clean up the city, is he? put in a reform mayor. show up what he calls the consolidated tractions company scandal. pooh!" "you got out all right, varnum. you won't be locked up," said mr. plimpton, banteringly. "so did you," retorted varnum. "so did ferguson, so did constable." "so did eldon parr," remarked another man, amidst a climax of laughter. "langmaid handled that pretty well." hodder felt everett constable fidget. "bedloe's all right, but he's a dreamer," mr. plimpton volunteered. "then i wish he'd stop dreaming," said mr. ferguson, and there was more laughter, although he had spoken savagely. "that's what he is, a dreamer," varnum ejaculated. "say, he told george carter the other day that prostitution wasn't necessary, that in fifty years we'd have largely done away with it. think of that, and it's as old as sodom and gomorrah!" "if hubbell had his way, he'd make this town look like a connecticut hill village--he'd drive all the prosperity out of it. all the railroads would have to abandon their terminals--there'd be no more traffic, and you'd have to walk across the bridge to get a drink." "well," said mr. plimpton, "tom beatty's good enough for me, for a while." beatty, hodder knew, was the "boss," of the city, with headquarters in a downtown saloon. "beatty's been maligned," mr. varnum declared. "i don't say he's a saint, but he's run the town pretty well, on the whole, and kept the vice where it belongs, out of sight. he's made his pile, but he's entitled to something we all are. you always know where you stand with beatty. but say, if hubbell and his crowd--" "don't worry about bedloe,--he'll get called in, he'll come home to roost like the rest of them," said mr. plimpton, cheerfully. "the people can't govern themselves,--only bedloe doesn't know it. some day he'll find it out." . . . the french window beside him was open, and hodder slipped out, unnoticed, into the warm night and stood staring at the darkness. his one desire had been to get away, out of hearing, and he pressed forward over the tiled pavement until he stumbled against a stone balustrade that guarded a drop of five feet or so to the lawn below. at the same time he heard his name called. "is that you, mr. hodder?" he started. the voice had a wistful tremulousness, and might almost have been the echo of the leaves stirring in the night air. then he perceived, in a shaft of light from one of the drawing-room windows near by, a girl standing beside the balustrade; and as she came towards him, with tentative steps, the light played conjurer, catching the silvery gauze of her dress and striking an aura through the film of her hair. "it's nan ferguson," she said. "of course," he exclaimed, collecting himself. "how stupid of me not to have recognized you!" "i'm so glad you came out," she went on impulsively, yet shyly, "i wanted to tell you how sorry i was that that thing happened at the table." "i like that young man," he said. "do you?" she exclaimed, with unexpected gratitude. so do i. he really isn't--so bad as he must seem." "i'm sure of it," said the rector, laughing. "i was afraid you'd think him wicked," said nan. "he works awfully hard, and he's sending a brother through college. he isn't a bit like--some others i know. he wants to make something of himself. and i feel responsible, because i had mother ask him to-night." he read her secret. no doubt she meant him to do so. "you know we're going away next week, for the summer--that is, mother and i," she continued. "father comes later. and i do hope you'll make us a visit, mr. hodder--we were disappointed you couldn't come last year." nan hesitated, and thrusting her hand into her gown drew forth an envelope and held it out to him. "i intended to give you this to-night, to use--for anything you thought best." he took it gravely. she looked up at him. "it seems so little--such a selfish way of discharging one's obligations, just to write out a cheque, when there is so much trouble in the world that demands human kindness as well as material help. i drove up dalton street yesterday, from downtown. you know how hot it was! and i couldn't help thinking how terrible it is that we who have everything are so heedless of all that misery. the thought of it took away all my pleasure. "i'd do something more, something personal, if i could. perhaps i shall be able to, next winter. why is it so difficult for all of us to know what to do?" "we have taken a step forward, at any rate, when we know that it is difficult," he said. she gazed up at him fixedly, her attention caught by an indefinable something in his voice, in his smile, that thrilled and vaguely disturbed her. she remembered it long afterwards. it suddenly made her shy again; as if, in faring forth into the darkness, she had come to the threshold of a mystery, of a revelation withheld; and it brought back the sense of adventure, of the palpitating fear and daring with which she had come to meet him. "it is something to know," she repeated, half comprehending. the scraping of chairs within alarmed her, and she stood ready to fly. "but i haven't thanked you for this," he said, holding up the envelope. "it may be that i shall find some one in dalton street--" "oh, i hope so," she faltered, breathlessly, hesitating a moment. and then she was gone, into the house. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . ix. the divine discontent x. the messenger in the church xi. the lost parishioner xii. the woman of the song chapter ix the divine discontent i it was the last sunday in may, and in another week the annual flight to the seashore and the mountains would have begun again. the breezes stealing into the church through the open casements wafted hither and thither the odours of the chancel flowers, and mingled with those fainter and subtler perfumes set free by the rustling of summer gowns. as on this day he surveyed his decorous and fashionable congregation, hodder had something of that sense of extremity which the great apostle to the gentiles himself must have felt when he stood in the midst of the areopagus and made his vain yet sublime appeal to athenian indifference and luxury. "and the times of this ignorance god winked at; but now commandeth all men everywhere to repent." . . some, indeed, stirred uneasily as the rector paused, lowering their eyes before the intensity of his glance, vaguely realizing that the man had flung the whole passion of his being into the appeal. heedlessness--that was god's accusation against them, against the age. materialism, individualism! so absorbed were they in the pursuit of wealth, of distraction, so satisfied with the current philosophy, so intent on surrounding themselves with beautiful things and thus shutting out the sterner view, that they had grown heedless of the divine message. how few of them availed themselves of their spiritual birthright to renew their lives at the altar rail! and they had permitted their own children to wander away . . . . repent! there was a note of desperation in his appeal, like that of the hermit who stands on a mountain crag and warns the gay and thoughtless of the valley of the coming avalanche. had they heard him at last? there were a few moments of tense silence, during which he stood gazing at them. then he raised his arm in benediction, gathered up his surplice, descended the pulpit steps, and crossed swiftly the chancel . . . . he had, as it were, turned on all the power in a supreme effort to reach them. what if he had failed again? such was the misgiving that beset him, after the service, as he got out of his surplice, communicated by some occult telepathy . . . . mr. parr was awaiting him, and summoning his courage, hope battling against intuition, he opened the door into the now empty church and made his way toward the porch, where the sound of voices warned him that several persons were lingering. the nature of their congratulations confirmed his doubts. mrs. plimpton, resplendent and looking less robust than usual in one of her summer paris gowns, greeted him effusively. "oh, mr. hodder, what a wonderful sermon!" she cried. "i can't express how it made me feel--so delinquent! of course that is exactly the effect you wished. and i was just telling wallis i was so glad i waited until tuesday to go east, or i should have missed it. you surely must come on to hampton and visit us, and preach it over again in our little stone church there, by the sea. good-by and don't forget! i'll write you, setting the date, only we'd be glad to have you any time." "one of the finest i ever heard--if not the finest," mr. plimpton declared, with a kind of serious 'empressement', squeezing his hand. others stopped him; everett constable, for one, and the austere mrs. atterbury. hodder would have avoided the ever familiar figure of her son, gordon, in the invariable black cutaway and checked trousers, but he was standing beside mr. parr. "ahem! why, mr. hodder," he exclaimed, squinting off his glasses, "that was a magnificent effort. i was saying to mr. parr that it isn't often one hears a sermon nowadays as able as that, and as sound. many clergymen refrain from preaching them, i sometimes think, because they are afraid people won't like them." "i scarcely think it's that," the rector replied, a little shortly. "we're afraid people won't heed them." he became aware, as he spoke, of a tall young woman, who had cast an enigmatic glance first at gordon atterbury, and then at himself. "it was a good sermon," said mr. parr. "you're coming to lunch, hodder?" the rector nodded. "i'm ready when you are," he answered. "the motor's waiting," said the banker, leading the way down the steps to the sidewalk, where he turned. "alison, let me introduce mr. hodder. this is my daughter," he added simply. this sudden disclosure of the young woman's identity had upon hodder a certain electric effect, and with it came a realization of the extent to which--from behind the scenes, so to speak--she had gradually aroused him to a lively speculation. she seemed to have influenced, to a greater or less degree, so many lives with which he had come into touch! compelled persons to make up their minds about her! and while he sympathized with eldon parr in his abandonment, he had never achieved the full condemnation which he felt--an impartial christian morality would have meted out. as he uttered the conventional phrase and took her hand, he asked himself whether her personality justified his interest. her glance at gordon atterbury in the midst of that gentleman's felicitations on the sermon had been expressive, hodder thought, of veiled amusement slightly tinctured with contempt; and he, hodder, felt himself to have grown warm over it. he could not be sure that alison parr had not included, in her inner comment, the sermon likewise, on which he had so spent himself. what was she doing at church? as her eyes met his own, he seemed to read a challenge. he had never encountered a woman--he decided--who so successfully concealed her thought, and at the same time so incited curiosity about it. the effect of her reappearance on gordon atterbury was painfully apparent, and mrs. larrabbee's remark, "that he had never got over it," recurred to hodder. he possessed the virtue of being faithful, at least, in spite of the lady's apostasy, and he seemed to be galvanized into a tenfold nervousness as he hustled after them and handed her, with the elaborate attention little men are apt to bestow upon women, into the motor. "er--how long shall you be here, alison?" he asked. "i don't know," she answered, not unkindly, but with a touch of indifference. "you treat us shamefully," he informed her, "upon my word! but i'm coming to call." "do," said alison. hodder caught her eye again, and this time he was sure that she surprised in him a certain disdain of mr. atterbury's zeal. her smile was faint, yet unmistakable. he resented it. indeed, it was with a well-defined feeling of antagonism that he took his seat, and this was enhanced as they flew westward, mr. parr wholly absorbed with the speaking trumpet, energetically rebuking at every bounce. in the back of the rector's mind lay a weight, which he identified, at intervals, with what he was now convinced was the failure of his sermon. . . alison took no part in the casual conversation that began when they reached the boulevard and mr. parr abandoned the trumpet, but lay back in silence and apparently with entire comfort in a corner of the limousine. at the lunch-table mr. parr plunged into a discussion of some of the still undecided details of the new settlement house, in which, as the plan developed, he had become more and more interested. he had made himself responsible, from time to time, for additional sums, until the original estimate had been almost doubled. most of his suggestions had come from hodder, who had mastered the subject with a thoroughness that appealed to the financier: and he had gradually accepted the rector's idea of concentrating on the children. thus he had purchased an adjoining piece of land that was to be a model playground, in connection with the gymnasium and swimming-pool. the hygienic department was to be all that modern science could desire. "if we are going to do the thing," the banker would, remark, "we may as well do it thoroughly; we may as well be leaders and not followers." so, little by little, the scheme had grown to proportions that sometimes appalled the rector when he realized how largely he had been responsible for the additions,--in spite of the lukewarmness with which he had begun. and yet it had occasionally been mr. parr who, with a sweep of his hand, had added thousands to a particular feature: thus the dance-hall had become, in prospect, a huge sun-parlour at the top of the building, where the children were to have their kindergartens and games in winter; and which might be shaded and opened up to the breezes in summer. what had reconciled hodder to the enterprise most of all, however, was the chapel --in the plan a beautiful gothic church--whereby he hoped to make the religious progress keep pace with the social. mr. parr was decidedly in sympathy with this intention, and referred to it now. "i was much impressed by what you said in your sermon to-day as to the need of insisting upon authority in religious matters," he declared, "and i quite agree that we should have a chapel of some size at the settlement house for that reason. those people need spiritual control. it's what the age needs. and when i think of some of the sermons printed in the newspapers to-day, and which are served up as christianity, there is only one term to apply to them--they are criminally incendiary." "but isn't true christianity incendiary, in your meaning of the word?" it was alison who spoke, in a quiet and musical voice that was in striking contrast to the tone of mr. parr, which the rector had thought unusually emphatic. it was the first time she had shown an inclination to contribute to the talk. but since hodder had sat down at the table her presence had disturbed him, and he had never been wholly free from an uncomfortable sense that he was being measured and weighed. once or twice he had stolen a glance at her as she sat, perfectly at ease, and asked himself whether she had beauty, and it dawned upon him little by little that the very proportion she possessed made for physical unobtrusiveness. she was really very tall for a woman. at first he would have said her nose was straight, when he perceived that it had a delicate hidden curve; her eyes were curiously set, her dark hair parted in the middle, brought down low on each side of the forehead and tied in a grecian knot. thus, in truth, he observed, were seemingly all the elements of the classic, even to the firm yet slender column of the neck. how had it eluded him? her remark, if it astonished hodder, had a dynamic effect on eldon parr. and suddenly the rector comprehended that the banker had not so much been talking to him as through him; had been, as it were, courting opposition. "what do you mean by christianity being incendiary?" he demanded. "incendiary, from your point of view--i made, the qualification," alison replied, apparently unmoved by his obvious irritation. "i don't pretend to be a christian, as you know, but if there is one element in christianity that distinguishes it, it is the brotherhood of man. that's pure nitroglycerin, though it's been mixed with so much sawdust. incendiary is a mild epithet. i never read the sermons you refer to; i dare say they're crude, but they're probably attempts to release an explosive which would blow your comfortable social system and its authority into atoms." hodder, who had listened in amazement, glanced at the banker. he had never before heard him opposed, or seen him really angry. "i've heard that doctrine," cried mr. parr. "those who are dissatisfied with things as they are because they have been too stupid or too weak or self-indulgent to rise, find it easy to twist the principles of christianity into revolutionary propaganda. it's a case of the devil quoting scripture. the brotherhood of man! there has never been an age when philanthropy and organized charity were on such a scale as to-day." a certain gallant, indomitable ring crept into alison's voice; she did not seem in the least dismayed or overborne. "but isn't that just where most so-called christians make their mistake?" she asked. "philanthropy and organized charity, as they exist to-day, have very little to do with the brotherhood of man. mightn't it be you who are fooling yourselves instead of the incendiaries fooling themselves so long as you can make yourselves believe that this kind of charity is a logical carrying out of the christian principles, so long are your consciences satisfied with the social system which your class, very naturally, finds so comfortable and edifying. the weak and idiotic ought to be absurdly grateful for what is flung to them, and heaven is gained in the throwing. in this way the rich inevitably become the elect, both here and hereafter, and the needle's eye is widened into a gap." there was on mr. parr's lips a smile not wholly pleasant to see. indeed, in the last few minutes there had been revealed to hodder a side of the banker's character which had escaped him in the two years of their acquaintance. "i suppose," said mr. parr, slowly, drumming on the table, "you would say that of the new settlement house of st. john's, whereby we hope to raise a whole neighbourhood." "yes, i should," replied alison, with spirit. "the social system by which you thrive, and which politically and financially you strive to maintain, is diametrically opposed to your creed, which is supposed to be the brotherhood of man. but if that were really your creed, you would work for it politically and financially. you would see that your church is trying to do infinitesimally what the government, but for your opposition, might do universally. your true creed is the survival of the fittest. you grind these people down into what is really an economic slavery and dependence, and then you insult and degrade them by inviting them to exercise and read books and sing hymns in your settlement house, and give their children crackers and milk and kindergartens and sunlight! i don't blame them for not becoming christians on that basis. why, the very day i left new york a man over eighty, who had been swindled out of all he had, rather than go to one of those christian institutions deliberately forged a check and demanded to be sent to the penitentiary. he said he could live and die there with some self-respect." "i might have anticipated that you would ultimately become a socialist, alison," mr. parr remarked--but his voice trembled. "i don't know whether i'm a socialist or an anarchist," she answered. hodder thought be detected a note of hopelessness in her voice, and the spirit in it ebbed a little. not only did she seem indifferent to her father's feeling--which incidentally added fuel to it--but her splendid disregard of him, as a clergyman, had made an oddly powerful appeal. and her argument! his feelings, as he listened to this tremendous arraignment of eldon parr by his daughter, are not easily to be described. to say that she had compelled him, the rector of st. john's, at last to look in the face many conditions which he had refused to recognize would be too definite a statement. nevertheless, some such thing had occurred. refutations sprang to his lips, and died there, though he had no notion of uttering them. he saw that to admit her contentions would be to behold crumble into ruins the structure that he had spent a life in rearing; and yet something within him responded to her words--they had the passionate, convincing ring of truth. by no means the least of their disturbing effects was due to the fact that they came as a climax to, as a fulfilment of the revelation he had had at the fergusons', when something of the true nature of mr. plimpton and others of his congregation had suddenly been laid bare. and now hodder looked at eldon parr to behold another man from the one he had known, and in that moment realized that their relationship could never again be the same. . . were his sympathies with the daughter? "i don't know what i believe," said alison, after a pause. "i've ceased trying to find out. what's the use!" she appeared now to be addressing no one in particular. a servant entered with a card, and the banker's hand shook perceptibly as he put down his claret and adjusted his glasses. "show him into my office upstairs, and tell him i'll see him at once," he said, and glanced at the rector. but it was alison whom he addressed. "i must leave mr. hodder to answer your arguments," he added, with an attempt at lightness; and then to the rector: "perhaps you can convince her that the church is more sinned against than sinning, and that christians are not such terrible monsters after all. you'll excuse me?" "certainly." hodder had risen. ii "shall we have coffee in the garden?" alison asked. "it's much nicer outside this time of year." for an instant he was at a loss to decide whether to accede, or to make an excuse and leave the house. wisdom seemed to point to flight. but when he glanced at her he saw to his surprise that the mood of abstraction into which she had fallen still held her; that the discussion which had aroused eldon parr to such dramatic anger had left her serious and thoughtful. she betrayed no sense of triumph at having audaciously and successfully combated him, and she appeared now only partially to be aware of hodder's presence. his interest, his curiosity mounted suddenly again, overwhelming once more the antagonism which he had felt come and go in waves; and once more his attempted classification of her was swept away. she had relapsed into an enigma. "i like the open air," he answered, "and i have always wished to see the garden. i have admired it from the windows." "it's been on my mind for some years," she replied, as she led the way down a flight of steps into the vine-covered pergola. "and i intend to change parts of it while i am out here. it was one of my first attempts, and i've learned more since." "you must forgive my ignorant praise," he said, and smiled. "i have always thought it beautiful: but i can understand that an artist is never satisfied." she turned to him, and suddenly their eyes met and held in a momentary, electric intensity that left him warm and agitated. there was nothing coquettish in the glance, but it was the first distinct manifestation that he was of consequence. she returned his smile, without levity. "is a clergyman ever satisfied?" she asked. "he ought not to be," replied hodder, wondering whether she had read him. "although you were so considerate, i suppose you must have thought it presumptuous of me to criticize your, profession, which is religion." "religion, i think, should be everybody's," he answered quietly. she made no reply. and he entered, as into another world, the circular arbour in which the pergola ended, so complete in contrast was its atmosphere to that of the house. the mansion he had long since grown to recognize as an expression of the personality of its owner, but this classic bower was as remote from it as though it were in greece. he was sensitive to beauty, yet the beauty of the place had a perplexing quality, which he felt in the perfect curves of the marble bench, in the marble basin brimming to the tip with clear water,--the surface of which, flecked with pink petals, mirrored the azure sky through the leafy network of the roof. in one green recess a slender mercury hastily adjusted his sandal. was this, her art, the true expression of her baffling personality? as she had leaned back in the corner of the automobile she had given him the impression of a languor almost oriental, but this had been startlingly dispelled at the lunch-table by the revelation of an animation and a vitality which had magically transformed her. but now, as under the spell of a new encompassment of her own weaving, she seemed to revert to her former self, sinking, relaxed, into a wicker lounge beside the basin, one long and shapely hand in the water, the other idle in her lap. her eyes, he remarked, were the contradiction in her face. had they been larger, and almond-shaped, the illusion might have been complete. they were neither opaque nor smouldering,--but western eyes, amber-coloured, with delicately stencilled rays and long lashes. and as they gazed up at him now they seemed to reflect, without disclosing the flitting thoughts behind them. he felt antagonism and attraction in almost equal degree --the situation transcended his experience. "you don't intend to change this?" he asked, with an expressive sweep of his hand. "no," she said, "i've always liked it. tell me what you feel about it." he hesitated. "you resent it," she declared. "why do you say that?" he demanded quickly. "i feel it," she answered calmly, but with a smile. "'resent' would scarcely be the proper word," he contended, returning her smile, yet hesitating again. "you think it pagan," she told him. "perhaps i do," he answered simply, as though impressed by her felicitous discovery of the adjective. alison laughed. "it's pagan because i'm pagan, i suppose." "it's very beautiful--you have managed to get an extraordinary atmosphere," he continued, bent on doing himself an exact justice. but i should say, if you pressed me, that it represents to me the deification of beauty to the exclusion of all else. you have made beauty the alpha and omega." "there is nothing else for me," she said. the coffee-tray arrived and was deposited on a wicker table beside her. she raised herself on an elbow, filled his cup and handed it to him. "and yet," he persisted, "from the manner in which you spoke at the table--" "oh, don't imagine i haven't thought? but thinking isn't--believing." "no," he admitted, with a touch of sadness, "you are right. there were certain comments you made on the christian religion--" she interrupted him again. "as to the political side of it, which is socialism, so far as i can see. if there is any other side, i have never been able to discover it. it seems to me that if christians were logical, they should be socialists. the brotherhood of man, cooperation--all that is socialism, isn't it? it's opposed to the principle of the survival of the fittest, which so many of these so-called christians practise. i used to think, when i came back from paris, that i was a socialist, and i went to a lot of their meetings in new york, and to lectures. but after a while i saw there was something in socialism that didn't appeal to me, something smothering,--a forced cooperation that did not leave one free. i wanted to be free, i've been striving all my life to be free," she exclaimed passionately, and was silent an instant, inspecting him. "perhaps i owe you an apology for speaking as i did before a clergyman--especially before an honest one." he passed over the qualification with a characteristic smile. "oh, if we are going to shut our ears to criticism we'd better give up being clergymen," he answered. "i'm afraid there is a great deal of truth in what you said." "that's generous of you!" she exclaimed, and thrilled him with the tribute. nor was the tribute wholly in the words: there had come spontaneously into her voice an exquisite, modulated note that haunted him long after it had died away . . . . "i had to say what i thought," she continued earnestly; "i stood it as long as i could. perhaps you didn't realize it, but my father was striking at me when he referred to your sermon, and spiritual control --and in other things he said when you were talking about the settlement-house. he reserves for himself the right to do as he pleases, but insists that those who surround him shall adopt the subserviency which he thinks proper for the rest of the world. if he were a christian himself, i shouldn't mind it so much." hodder was silent. the thought struck him with the force of a great wind. "he's a pharisee," alison went on, following the train of her thought. "i remember the first time i discovered that--it was when i was reading the new testament carefully, in the hope of finding something in christianity i might take hold of. and i was impressed particularly by the scorn with which christ treated the pharisees. my father, too, if he had lived in those days, would have thought christ a seditious person, an impractical, fanatical idealist, and would have tried to trip him up with literal questions concerning the law. his real and primary interest--is in a social system that benefits himself and his kind, and because this is so, he, and men like him, would have it appear that christianity is on the side of what they term law and order. i do not say that they are hypocritical, that they reason this out. they are elemental; and they feel intuitively that christianity contains a vital spark which, if allowed to fly, would start a conflagration beyond their control. the theologians have helped them to cover the spark with ashes, and naturally they won't allow the ashes to be touched, if they can help it." she lay very still. the rector had listened to her, at first with amazement, then with more complicated sensations as she thus dispassionately discussed the foremost member of his congregation and the first layman of the diocese, who was incidentally her own father. in her masterly analysis of eldon parr, she had brought hodder face to face with the naked truth, and compelled him to recognize it. how could he attempt to refute it, with honesty? he remembered mr. parr's criticism of alison. there had been hardness in that, though it were the cry of a lacerated paternal affection. in that, too, a lack of comprehension, an impotent anger at a visitation not understood, a punishment apparently unmerited. hodder had pitied him then--he still pitied him. in the daughter's voice was no trace of resentment. no one, seemingly, could be farther removed from him (the rector of st. john's) in her opinions and views of life, than allison parr; and yet he felt in her an undercurrent, deep and strong, which moved him strangely, strongly, irresistibly; he recognized a passionate desire for the truth, and the courage to face it at any cost, and a capacity for tenderness, revealed in flashes. "i have hurt you," she exclaimed. "i am sorry." he collected himself. "it is not you who have hurt me," he replied. "reflections on the contradictions and imperfections of life are always painful. and since i have been here, i have seen a great deal of your father." "you are fond of him!" he hesitated. it was not an ordinary conversation they were dealing with realities, and he had a sense that vital issues were at stake. he had, in that moment, to make a revaluation of his sentiments for the financier--to weigh the effect of her indictment. "yes," he answered slowly, "i am fond of him. he has shown me a side of himself, perhaps, that other men have not seen,--and he is very lonely." "you pity him." he started at her word. "i guessed that from an expression that crossed your face when we were at the table. but surely you must have observed the incongruity of his relationship with your church! surely, in preaching as you did this morning against materialism, individualism, absorption in the pursuit of wealth, you must have had my father in mind as the supreme example! and yet he listened to you as serenely as though he had never practised any of these things! "clergymen wonder why christianity doesn't make more progress to-day; well, what strikes the impartial observer who thinks about the subject at all, as one reason, is the paralyzing inconsistency of an alliance between those who preach the brotherhood of man and those who are opposed to it. i've often wondered what clergymen would say about it, if they were frank--only i never see any clergymen." he was strongly agitated. he did not stop--strangely enough--to reflect how far they had gone, to demand by what right she brought him to the bar, challenged the consistency of his life. for she had struck, with a ruthless precision, at the very core of his trouble, revealed it for what it was. "yes," he said, "i can see how we may be accused of inconsistency, and with much justice." his refusal to excuse and vindicate himself impressed her as no attempt at extenuation could have done. perhaps, in that moment, her quick instinct divined something of his case, something of the mental suffering he strove to conceal. contrition shone in her eyes. "i ought not to have said that," she exclaimed gently. "it is so easy for outsiders to criticize those who are sincere--and i am sure you are. we cannot know all the perplexities. but when we look at the church, we are puzzled by that--which i have mentioned--and by other things." "what other things?" he demanded. she hesitated in her turn. "i suppose you think it odd, my having gone to church, feeling as i do," she said. "but st. john's is now the only place vividly associated with my mother. she was never at home here, in this house. i always go at least once when i am out here. and i listened to your sermon intently." "yes." "i wanted to tell you this: you interested me as i had not been interested since i was twenty, when i made a desperate attempt to become a christian--and failed. do you know how you struck me? it was as a man who actually had a great truth which he was desperately trying to impart, and could not. i have not been in a church more than a dozen times in the last eight years, but you impressed me as a man who felt something --whatever it is." he did not speak. "but why," she cried, "do you insist on what you cell authority? as a modern woman who has learned to use her own mind, i simply can't believe, if the god of the universe is the moral god you assert him to be, that he has established on earth an agency of the kind you infer, and delegated to it the power of life and death over human souls. perhaps you do not go so far, but if you make the claim at all you must make it in its entirety. there is an idea of commercialism, of monopoly in that conception which is utterly repugnant to any one who tries to approach the subject with a fresh mind, and from an ideal point of view. and religion must be idealism--mustn't it? "your ancient monks and saints weren't satisfied until they had settled every detail of the invisible world, of the past and future. they mapped it out as if it were a region they had actually explored, like geographers. they used their reason, and what science they had, to make theories about it which the churches still proclaim as the catholic and final truth. you forbid us to use our reason. you declare, in order to become christians, that we have to accept authoritative statements. oh, can't you see that an authoritative statement is just what an ethical person doesn't want? belief--faith doesn't consist in the mere acceptance of a statement, but in something much higher--if we can achieve it. acceptance of authority is not faith, it is mere credulity, it is to shirk the real issue. we must believe, if we believe at all, without authority. if we knew, there would be no virtue in striving. if i choose a god," she added, after a pause, "i cannot take a consensus of opinion about him,--he must be my god." hodder did not speak immediately. strange as it may seem, he had never heard the argument, and the strength of it, reenforced by the extraordinary vitality and earnestness of the woman who had uttered it, had a momentary stunning effect. he sat contemplating her as she lay back among the cushions, and suddenly he seemed to see in her the rebellious child of which her father had spoken. no wonder eldon parr had misunderstood her, had sought to crush her spirit! she was to be dealt with in no common way, nor was the consuming yearning he discerned in her to be lightly satisfied. "the god of the individualist," he said at length--musingly, not accusingly. "i am an individualist," she admitted simply. "but i am at least logical in that philosophy, and the individualists who attend the churches to-day are not. the inconsistency of their lives is what makes those of us who do not go to church doubt the efficacy of their creed, which seems to have no power to change them. the majority of people in st. john's are no more christians than i am. they attend service once a week, and the rest of the time they are bent upon getting all they can of pleasure and profit for themselves. do you wonder that those who consider this spectacle come inevitably to the conclusion that either christianity is at fault, is outworn, or else that it is presented in the wrong way?" the rector rose abruptly, walked to the entrance of the arbour, and stood staring out across the garden. presently he turned and came back and stood over her. "since you ask me," he said slowly, "i do not wonder at it." she raised her eyes swiftly. "when you speak like that," she exclaimed with an enthusiasm that stirred him, despite the trouble of his mind, "i cannot think of you as a clergyman,--but as a man. indeed," she added, in the surprise of her discovery, "i have never thought of you as a clergyman--even when i first saw you this morning. i could not account then for a sense of duality about you that puzzled me. do you always preach as earnestly as that?" "why?" "i felt as if you were throwing your whole soul into the effort-=oh, i felt it distinctly. you made some of them, temporarily, a little uncomfortable, but they do not understand you, and you didn't change them. it seemed to me you realized this when gordon atterbury spoke to you. i tried to analyze the effect on myself--if it had been in the slightest degree possible for my reason to accept what you said you might, through sheer personality, have compelled me to reconsider. as it was, i found myself resisting you." with his hands clasped behind him, he paced across the arbour and back again. "have you ever definitely and sincerely tried to put what the church teaches into practice?" he asked. "orthodox christianity? penance, asceticism, self-abnegation--repression --falling on my knees and seeking a forgiveness out of all proportion to the trespass, and filled with a sense of total depravity? if i did that i should lose myself--the only valuable thing i've got." hodder, who had resumed his pacing, glanced at her involuntarily, and fought an inclination to agree with her. "i see no one upon whom i can rely but myself," she went on with the extraordinary energy she was able to summon at will, "and i am convinced that self-sacrifice--at least, indiscriminate, unreasoning self-sacrifice--is worse than useless, and to teach it is criminal ignorance. none of the so-called christian virtues appeals to me: i hate humility. you haven't it. the only happiness i can see in the world lies in self-expression, and i certainly shouldn't find that in sewing garments for the poor. "the last thing that i could wish for would be immortality as orthodox christianity depicts it! and suppose i had followed the advice of my christian friends and remained here, where they insisted my duty was, what would have happened to me? in a senseless self-denial i should gradually have, withered into a meaningless old maid, with no opinions of my own, and no more definite purpose in life than to write checks for charities. your christianity commands that women shall stay at home, and declares that they are not entitled to seek their own salvation, to have any place in affairs, or to meddle with the realm of the intellect. those forbidden gardens are reserved for the lordly sex. st. paul, you say, put us in our proper place some twenty centuries ago, and we are to remain there for all time." he felt sweeping through him the reverse current of hostility. "and what i preach," he asked, "has tended to confirm you in such a mean conception of christianity?" her eye travelled over the six feet of him--the kindling, reflecting eye of the artist; it rested for a moment on the protesting locks of his hair, which apparently could not be cut short enough to conform; on the hands, which were strong and sinewy; on the wide, tolerant mouth, with its rugged furrows, on the breadth and height of the forehead. she lay for a moment, inert, considering. "what you preach--yes," she answered, bravely meeting his look. "what you are--no. you and your religion are as far apart as the poles. oh, this old argument, the belief that has been handed down to the man, the authority with which he is clothed, and not the man himself! how can one be a factor in life unless one represents something which is the fruit of actual, personal experience? your authority is for the weak, the timid, the credulous,--for those who do not care to trust themselves, who run for shelter from the storms of life to a 'papier-mache' fortress, made to look like rock. in order to preach that logically you should be a white ascetic, with a well-oiled manner, a downcast look lest you stumble in your pride; lest by chance you might do something original that sprang out of your own soul instead of being an imitation of the saints. and if your congregation took your doctrine literally, i can see a whole army of white, meek christians. but you are not like that. can't you see it for yourself?" she exclaimed. "can't you feel that you are an individual, a personality, a force that might be put to great uses? that will be because you are open-minded, because there is room in you for growth and change?" he strove with all his might to quell the inner conflagration which she had fanned into leaping flames. though he had listened before to doubt and criticism, this woman, with her strange shifting moods of calm and passion, with her bewildering faculty of changing from passive to active resistance, her beauty (once manifest, never to be forgotten), her unique individuality that now attracted, now repelled, seemed for the moment the very incarnation of the forces opposed to him and his religion. holder, as he looked at her, had a flash of fierce resentment that now, of all times, she should suddenly have flung herself across his path. for she was to be reckoned with. why did he not tell her she was an egoist? why didn't he speak out, defend his faith, denounce her views as prejudiced and false? "have i made you angry?" he heard her say. "i am sorry." it was the hint of reproach in her tone to which the man in him instantly responded. and what he saw now was his portrait she had painted. the thought came to him: was he indeed greater, more vital than the religion he professed? god forbid! did he ring true, and it false? she returned his gaze. and gradually, under her clear olive skin, he saw the crimson colour mounting higher . . . . she put forth her hand, simply, naturally, and pressed his own, as though they had been friends for a lifetime . . . . chapter x the messenger in the church i the annual scourge of summer had descended pitilessly upon the city once more, enervating, depressing, stagnating, and people moved languidly in the penetrating heat that steamed from the pores of the surrounding river bottoms. the rector of st. john's realized that a crisis had come in his life, --a crisis he had tried to stave off in vain. and yet there was a period during which he pursued his shrunken duties as though nothing had happened to him; as a man who has been struck in battle keeps on, loath to examine, to acknowledge the gravity of his wound; fearing to, perhaps. sometimes, as his mind went back to the merciless conflict of his past, his experience at the law school, it was the unchaining of that other man he dreaded, the man he believed himself to have finally subdued. but night and day he was haunted by the sorrowful and reproachful face of truth. had he the courage, now, to submit the beliefs which had sustained him all these years to truth's inexorable inspection? did he dare to turn and open those books which she had inspired,--the new philosophies, the historical criticisms which he had neglected and condemned, which he had flattered himself he could do without,--and read of the fruit of knowledge? twice, thrice he had hesitated on the steps of the big library, and turned away with a wildly beating heart. day by day the storm increased, until from a cloud on the horizon it grew into a soul-shaking tempest. profoundly moved parr's he had been on that sunday afternoon, in eldon parr's garden, he had resolutely resolved to thrust the woman and the incident from his mind, to defer the consideration of the questions she had raised--grave though they were--to a calmer period. for now he was unable to separate her, to eliminate the emotion--he was forced to acknowledge--the thought of her aroused, from the problems themselves. who was she? at moments he seemed to see her shining, accusing, as truth herself, and again as a circe who had drawn him by subtle arts from his wanderings, luring him to his death; or, at other times, as the mutinous daughter of revolt. but when he felt, in memory, the warm touch of her hand, the old wildness of his nature responded, he ceased to speculate or care, and he longed only to crush and subdue her by the brute power of the man in him. for good or bad, she had woven her spell. here was the old, elemental, twofold contest, carnal and spiritual, thoroughly revived! . . . he recalled, in his musings, the little theological school surrounded by southern woods and fields, where he had sometime walked under autumn foliage with the elderly gentleman who had had such an influence on his life--the dean. mild-mannered and frail, patient in ordinary converse, --a lion for the faith. he would have died for it as cheerfully as any martyr in history. by the marvels of that faith holder had beheld, from his pew in the chapel, the little man transformed. he knew young men, their perplexities and temptations, and he dealt with them personally, like a father. holder's doubts were stilled, he had gained power of his temptations and peace for his soul, and he had gone forth inspired by the reminder that there was no student of whom the dean expected better things. where now were the thousands of which he had dreamed, and which he was to have brought into the church? . . . now, he asked himself, was it the dean, or the dean's theology through which his regeneration had come? might not the inherent goodness of the dean be one thing, and his theology quite another? personality again! he recalled one of the many things which alison parr had branded on his memory,--"the belief, the authority in which the man is clothed, and not the man!" the dean's god had remained silent on the subject of personality. or, at the best, he had not encouraged it; and there were --hodder could not but perceive--certain contradictions in his character, which were an anomalistic blending of that of the jealous god of moses and of the god of christ. there must be continuity--god could not change. therefore the god of infinite love must retain the wrath which visited sins of the fathers on the children, which demanded sacrifice, atonement,--an exact propitiation for his anger against mankind. an innocent life of sorrow and suffering! and again, "you and your religion are as far apart as the poles!" had he, hodder, outgrown the dean's religion, or had it ever been his own? was there, after all, such a thing as religion? might it not be merely a figment of the fertile imagination of man? he did not escape the terror of this thought when he paused to consider his labour of the past two years and the vanity of its results. and little by little the feeling grew upon him, such being the state of his mind, that he ought not to continue, for the present at least, to conduct the services. should he resign, or go away for a while to some quiet place before he made such a momentous decision? there was no one to whom he could turn; no layman, and no clergyman; not even the old bishop, whom he had more than once mentally accused of being, too broad and too tolerant! no, he did not wish a clergyman's solution. the significance of this thought flashed through him--that the world itself was no longer seeking clergymen's solutions. he must go off alone, and submit his faith to the impartial test. it was in a vigil of the night, when he lay in the hot darkness, unable to sleep, that he came at length to this resolve. and now that he had cut the knot he was too just to blame alison parr for having pointed out --with what often had seemed a pitiless cruelty--something of which he had had a constantly growing perception yet had continually sought to evade. and he reviewed, as the church bells recorded the silent hours, how, little by little, his confidence had crumbled before the shocks of the successive revelations--some of them so slight that they had passed unnoticed: comparisons, inevitably compelled; dalton street; the confessions of eleanor goodrich and mrs. constable; mr. plimpton and his views of life--eldon parr! even the slamming of the carriage doors in burton street had had a significance! might it not prove that this woman had let fall into the turbid waters of his soul the drop that was to clear them forever? he would go away. he would not see her again. over the sleeping city, unapprehended, stole the dawn. he arose, but instead of falling on his knees he went to the window and lifted his face to the whitening sky . . . . slowly out of the obscurity of the earth's shadow emerged the vague outlines of familiar things until they stood sharply material, in a silence as of death. a sparrow twittered, and suddenly the familiar, soot-grimed roofs were bathed in light, and by a touch made beautiful . . . . some hours later the city was wide awake. and hodder, bathed and dressed, stood staring down from his study window into the street below, full now of young men and girls; some with set faces, hurrying, intent, others romping and laughing as they dodged the trucks and trolley cars; all on their way to the great shoe factory around the corner, the huge funnels of which were belching forth smoke into the morning air. the street emptied, a bell rang, a whistle blew, the hum of distant machinery began . . . . ii later that morning hodder sat in his study. the shutters were closed, and the intensity of the tropical glare without was softened and diffused by the slanting green slats. his eye wandered over the long and comfortable room which had been his sanctuary in the feverish days of his ministry, resting affectionately on the hospitable chairs, the wide fireplace before which he had been wont to settle himself on winter nights, and even on the green matting--a cooling note in summer. and there, in the low cases along the walls, were the rows of his precious books,--his one hobby and extravagance. he had grown to love the room. would he ever come back to it? a step sounded in the hall, a knock, and the well-known gaunt form and spectacled face of mccrae appeared in the doorway. "ye wished to see me?" he asked. "mccrae," said the rector, "i am going off for a while." his assistant regarded him a moment in silence. although hodder had no intention of explaining his reasons, he had a curious conviction that it were superfluous to do so, that mccrae had guessed them. "why shouldn't ye? there's but a handful left to preach to in this weather." "i wouldn't go, in this sudden way, if it were not imperative," hodder added, trying to speak calmly. "why shouldn't ye?" mccrae repeated, almost fiercely. hodder smiled in spite of himself. "there's no reason," he said, "except the added work put on you without warning, and in this heat." "ye'll not need to worry," his assistant assured him, "the heat's nothing to me." mccrae hesitated, and then demanded abruptly, "ye'll not be visiting?" the question took hodder by surprise. "no," he answered quickly, and not quite steadily, and hesitated in his turn, "i shan't be visiting." "it's a rest ye need, i've been wanting to say it." mccrae took a step forward, and for a moment it seemed as though he were at last about to break the bonds of his reserve. perhaps he detected an instinctive shrinking on the rector's part. at any rate, there was another instant of silence, in which the two men faced each other across the desk, and mccrae held out his hand. "good luck to ye," he said, as hodder took it, "and don't have the pariah on your mind. stay till ye're rested, and come back to us." he left the room abruptly. hodder remained motionless, looking after him, and then, moved apparently by a sudden impulse, started toward the door,--only to halt and turn before he got to it. almost he had opened his lips to call his assistant back. he could not do it--the moment had come and fled when it might have been possible. did this man hide, under his brusqueness and brevity of speech, the fund of wisdom and the wider sympathy and understanding he suspected? hodder could have vouched for it, and yet he had kept his own counsel. and he was struck suddenly by the significance of the fact, often remarked, that mccrae in his brief and common-sense and by no means enlivening sermons had never once referred in any way to doctrine or dogma! he spent half an hour in collecting and bestowing in two large valises such articles as his simple needs would demand, and then set out for a railroad office in the business portion of the city, where he bought his ticket and berth. then, after a moment of irresolution on the threshold of the place, he turned to the right, thrusting his way through the sluggish crowds on tower street until he came to the large bookstore where he had been want to spend, from time to time, some of his leisure moments. a clerk recognized him, and was about to lead the way to the rear, where the precious editions were kept, when hodder stopped him. in casting about for a beginning in his venture over unknown seas, there had naturally come into his mind three or four works which were anathema to the orthodox; one of which, in seven volumes, went back to his seminary days, and had been the subject of a ringing, denunciatory sermon by the dean himself. three of them were by germans of established reputations, another by a professor of the university of paris. the habit of years is strong. and though he knew that many clergymen read these books, hodder found it impossible to overcome a nervous sense of adventure,--nay (knowing his resolution), of apostasy, almost of clandestine guilt when he mentioned them. and it seemed to him that the face of the clerk betrayed surprise. one of the works was not in stock; he would send the others that afternoon. mr. hodder would take them? they made a formidable parcel, but a little handle was supplied and the rector hurried out, swinging himself on a tower street car. it must not be thought that the whole of what is called modern criticism was new to hodder. this would indeed be too much of a reflection on the open-mindedness of the seminary from which he had graduated. but he found himself, now, pondering a little cynically on that "open-mindedness"; on that concession--if it had been a concession--to the methods of science. there had been in truth a course of lectures on this subject; but he saw now, very clearly, what a concerted effort had been put forward in the rest of the teaching to minimize and discredit it. even the professor who gave the lectures had had the air of deploring them. here it is, but on the whole one would better let it alone,--such was the inference. and he had let it alone, through all these years. in the seminary, too, volumes by semi-learned clergymen had been thrust into his hands, efforts which hodder recalled now, in spite of his mental state, with a smile. these invariably championed the doctrine of the virgin birth as the pillar on which the incarnation depended. a favourite argument declared that although the gospel texts in regard to it might be proven untrustworthy, the miraculous birth must have happened anyway! and one of these clerical authors whom he had more recently read, actually had had the audacity to turn the weapons of the archenemy, science, back upon itself. the virgin birth was an established fact in nature, and had its place in the social economy of the bee. and did not parthenogenesis occur in the silk moth? in brief, the conclusion impressed upon him by his seminary instruction was this: that historical criticism had corrected some ideas and put some things in their right place. what these things were remained sufficiently vague. but whenever it attacked a cherished dogma it was, on general principles, wrong. once again in his cool study, he cut the cord with a trembling hand, and while he was eating the lunch his housekeeper had prepared, dipped into one of the larger volumes. as he read again the critical disproofs he felt an acute, almost physical pain, as though a vital part of him were being cut away, as his mind dwelt upon those beautiful legends to which he had so often turned, and which had seemed the very fountain of his faith. legends! . . . . he closed the book. the clock on the mantel struck three; his train was to leave at five. he rose and went down into the silent church he had grown to love, seating himself in one of the carved stalls of the choir, his eye lingering in turn on each beautiful object: on the glowing landscape in the window in memory of eliza parr, portraying the delectable country, with the bewildered yet enraptured faces of the pilgrims in the foreground; on the graceful, shining lectern, the aspiring arches, the carved marble altar behind the rail, and above it the painting of the christ on the cross. the hours of greatest suffering are the empty hours. 'eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?' the hours when the mysterious sustaining and driving force is withdrawn, and a lassitude and despair comes over us like that of a deserted child: the hours when we feel we have reached the limit of service, when our brief span of usefulness is done. had god brought him, john hodder, to the height of the powers of his manhood only to abandon him, to cast him adrift on the face of the waters--led him to this great parish, with all its opportunities, only that he might fail and flee? he sat staring at the face of the man on the cross. did he, in his overwrought state, imagine there an expression he had never before remarked, or had the unknown artist of the seventies actually risen above the mediocrity of the figure in his portrayal of the features of the christ? the rector started, and stared again. there was no weakness in the face, no meekness, no suggestion of the conception of the sacrificed lamb, no hint of a beatific vision of opening heavens--and yet no accusation, no despair. a knowing--that were nearer--a knowing of all things through the experiencing of all things, the suffering of all things. for suffering without revelation were vain, indeed! a perfected wisdom that blended inevitably with a transcendent love. love and wisdom were one, then? to reach comprehension through conquering experience was to achieve the love that could exclaim, "they know not what they do!" human or divine? man or god? hodder found himself inwardly repeating the words, the controversy which had raged for nineteen hundred years, and not yet was stilled. perfection is divine. human! hodder repeated the word, as one groping on the threshold of a great discovery . . . . iii he was listening--he had for a long time been listening to a sound which had seemed only the natural accompaniment of the drama taking place in his soul, as though some inspired organist were expressing in exquisite music the undercurrent of his agony. only gradually did he become aware that it arose from the nave of the church, and, turning, his eyes fell upon the bowed head and shoulders of a woman kneeling in one of the pews. she was sobbing. his movement, he recalled afterward, did not come of a conscious volition, as he rose and descended the chancel steps and walked toward her; he stood for what seemed a long time on the white marble of the aisle looking down on her, his heart wrung by the violence of her grief, which at moments swept through her like a tempest. she seemed still young, but poverty had marked her with unmistakable signs. the white, blue-veined hands that clung to the railing of the pew were thin; and the shirtwaist, though clean, was cheap and frayed. at last she rose from her knees and raised a tear-stained face to his, staring at him in a dumb bewilderment. "can i do anything for you?" he said gently, "i am the rector here." she did not answer, but continued to stare uncomprehendingly. he sat down beside her in the pew. "you are in trouble," he said. "will you let me try to help you?" a sob shook her--the beginning of a new paroxysm. he waited patiently until it was over. suddenly she got rather wildly and unsteadily to her feet. "i must go!" she cried. "oh, god, what would i do if--if he wasn't there?" hodder rose too. she had thrust herself past him into the aisle, but if he had not taken her arm she would have fallen. thus they went together to the door of the church, and out into the white, burning sunlight. in spite of her weakness she seemed actually to be leading him, impelled by a strange force and fled down the steps of the porch to the sidewalk. and there she paused, seeing him still beside her. fortunately he had his hat in his hand. "where are you going?" she asked. "to take you home," he replied firmly, "you ought not to go alone." a look of something like terror came into her eyes. "oh, no!" she protested, with a vehemence that surprised him. "i am strong. oh, thank you, sir,--but i can go alone. it's dicky--my little boy. i've never left him so long. i had gone for the medicine and i saw the church. i used to go to church, sir, before we had our troubles--and i just went in. it suddenly came over me that god might help me--the doctor can do nothing." "i will go with you," he said. she ceased to resist, as one submitting to the fatality of a superior will. the pavements that afternoon, as hodder and the forlorn woman left the cool porticoes of st. john's, were like the floor of a stone oven, and the work horses wore little bonnets over their heads. keeping to the shady side, the rector and his companion crossed tower street with its trolley cars and its awninged stores, and came to that depressing district which had reproached him since the first sunday of his ministry when he had traversed it with eldon parr. they passed the once prosperous houses, the corner saloons pandering to two vices, decked with the flamboyant signs of the breweries. the trees were dying along the asphalt and in the yards, the iron fences broken here and there, the copings stained with rust and soot. hodder's thoughts might have been likened to the heated air that simmered above the bricks. they were in dalton street! she seemed to have forgotten his presence, her pace quickened as she turned into a gate and flew up a flight of dirty stone steps, broken and sagging. hodder took in, subconsciously, that the house was a dingy grey, of three stories and a mansard roof, with a bay window on the yard side, and a fly-blown sign, "rooms to rent" hanging in one window. across the street, on a lot that had once held a similar dignified residence, was the yellow brick building of the "albert hotel," and next door, on the east, a remodelled house of "apartments" with speaking tubes in the doorway. the woman led him up another flight of steps to the open door of the house, through a hallway covered with a ragged carpet, where a dilapidated walnut hat-rack stood, up the stairs, threading a dark passage that led into a low-ceiled, stifling room at the very back. a stout, slatternly person in a wrapper rose as they entered, but the mother cast herself down beside the lounge where the child was. hodder had a moment of fear that she was indeed too late, so still the boy lay, so pathetically wan was the little face and wasted the form under the cotton nightgown. the mother passed her hand across his forehead. "dicky!" she whispered fearfully, "dicky!" he opened his eyes and smiled at her; feebly. the, stout woman, who had been looking on with that intensity of sympathy of which the poor are capable, began waving gently the palm-leaf fan. she was german. "he is so good, is dicky. he smile at me when i fan him--once, twice. he complains not at all." the mother took the fan from her, hand. "thank you for staying with him, mrs. breitmann. i was gone longer than i expected." the fact that the child still lived, that she was again in his presence, the absorbing act of caring for him seemed to have calmed her. "it is nothing, what i do," answered mrs. breitmann, and turned away reluctantly, the tears running on her cheeks. "when you go again, i come always, mrs. garvin. ach!" her exclamation was caused by the sight of the tall figure and black coat of the rector, and as she left the room, mrs. garvin turned. and he noticed in her eyes the same expression of dread they had held when she had protested against his coming. "please don't think that i'm not thankful--" she faltered. "i am not offering you charity," he said. "can you not take from other human beings what you have accepted from this woman who has just left?" "oh, sir, it isn't that!" she cried, with a look of trust, of appeal that was new, "i would do anything--i will do anything. but my husband--he is so bitter against the church, against ministers! if he came home and found you here--" "i know--many people feel that way," he assented, "too many. but you cannot let a prejudice stand in the way of saving the boy's life, mrs. garvin." "it is more than that. if you knew, sir--" "whatever it is," he interrupted, a little sternly, "it must not interfere. i will talk to your husband." she was silent, gazing at him now questioningly, yet with the dawning hope of one whose strength is all but gone, and who has found at last a stronger to lean upon. the rector took the fan from her arrested hand and began to ply it. "listen, mrs. garvin. if you had come to the church half an hour later, i should have been leaving the city for a place far distant." "you were going away? you stayed on my account?" "i much prefer to stay, if i can be of any use, and i think i can. i am sure i can. what is the matter with the child?" "i don't know, sir--he just lies there listless and gets thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker. sometimes he feels sick, but not often. the doctor don't seem to know." what doctor have you?" "his name is welling. he's around the corner." "exactly," said the rector. "this is a case for dr. jarvis, who is the best child specialist in the city. he is a friend of mine, and i intend to send for him at once. and the boy must go to a hospital--" "oh, i couldn't, sir." he had a poignant realization of the agony behind the cry. she breathed quickly through her parted lips, and from the yearning in her tired eyes --as she gazed at the poor little form--he averted his glance. "now, mrs. garvin, you must be sensible," he said. "this is no place for a sick child. and it is such a nice little hospital, the one i have in mind, and so many children get well and strong there," he added, cheerfully. "he wouldn't hear of it." hodder comprehended that she was referring to her husband. she added inconsequently: "if i let him go, and he never came back! oh, i couldn't do it--i couldn't." he saw that it was the part of wisdom not to press her, to give her time to become accustomed to the idea. come back--to what? his eye wandered about the room, that bespoke the last shifts of poverty, for he knew that none but the desperate were driven to these dalton street houses, once the dwellings of the well-to-do, and all the more pitiful for the contrast. the heated air reeked with the smell of stale cooking. there was a gas stove at one side, a linoleum-covered table in the centre, littered with bottles, plates, and pitchers, a bed and chairs which had known better days, new obviously bruised and battered by many enforced movings. in one corner was huddled a little group of toys. he was suddenly and guiltily aware that the woman had followed his glance. "we had them in alder street," she said. "we might have been there yet, if we hadn't been foolish. it's a pretty street, sir--perhaps you know it--you take the fanshawe avenue cars to sherman heights. the air is like the country there, and all the houses are new, and dicky had a yard to play in, and he used to be so healthy and happy in it. . . we were rich then,--not what you'd call rich," she added apologetically, "but we owned a little home with six rooms, and my husband had a good place as bookkeeper in a grocery house, and every year for ten years we put something by, and the boy came. we never knew how well off we were, until it was taken away from us, i guess. and then richard--he's my husband--put his savings into a company--he thought it was so safe, and we were to get eight per cent--and the company failed, and he fell sick and lost his place, and we had to sell the house, and since he got well again he's been going around trying for something else. oh, he's tried so hard,--every day, and all day long. you wouldn't believe it, sir. and he's so proud. he got a job as porter, but he wasn't able to hold it--he wasn't strong enough. that was in april. it almost broke my heart to see him getting shabby--he used to look so tidy. and folks don't want you when you're shabby." . . . there sprang to hodder's mind a sentence in a book he had recently read: "our slums became filled with sick who need never have been sick; with derelicts who need never have been abandoned." suddenly, out of the suffocating stillness of the afternoon a woman's voice was heard singing a concert-hall air, accompanied by a piano played with vigour and abandon. and hodder, following the sound, looked out across the grimy yard--to a window in the apartment house opposite. "there's that girl again," said the mother, lifting her head. "she does sing nice, and play, poor thing! there was a time when i wouldn't have wanted to listen. but dicky liked it so . . . . it's the very tune he loved. he don't seem to hear it now. he don't even ask for mr. bentley any more." "mr. bentley?" the rector repeated. the name was somehow familiar to him. the piano and the song ceased abruptly, with a bang. "he lives up the street here a way--the kindest old gentleman you ever saw. he always has candy in his pockets for the children, and it's a sight to see them follow him up and down the sidewalk. he takes them to the park in the cars on saturday afternoons. that was all dicky could think about at first--would he be well enough to go with mr. bentley by saturday? and he was forever asking me to tell mr. bentley he was sick. i saw the old gentleman on the street to-day, and i almost went up to him. but i hadn't the courage." the child moaned, stirred, and opened his eyes, gazing at them feverishly, yet without seeming comprehension. she bent over him, calling his name . . . . hodder thrust the fan into her hand, and rose. "i am going to telephone dr. jarvis," he said, "and then i shall come back, in order to be here when he arrives." she looked up at him. "oh, thank you, sir,--i guess it's for the best--" her voice died away, and the rector, seeking for the cause, saw that a man had entered the room. he walked up to the couch and stood for a moment staring moodily at the child, while the woman watched him, transfixed. "richard!" she said. he paid no attention to her. she turned to hodder. "this is my husband, sir. . . . richard, i went into the church--just for a moment--i--i couldn't help it, and this gentleman--the minister--came home with me. he wanted to--he thought i was sick. and now he's going out to get the best doctor in the city for dicky." the man turned suddenly and confronted the rector. "why don't you let him die, you and your church people?" he asked. "you've done your worst to kill him." the woman put her hand fearfully, imploringly on the man's arm. "richard!" she whispered. but as hodder glanced from the derelict beside him a wave of comprehension passed through him that swept him clean of indignation, of resentment. and this man had been prosperous and happy! "there is but one way to save the boy's life, mr. garvin," he said, "and that is to put him in charge of dr. jarvis." the man made no reply, but went over to the window, staring out into the yard. there was something vaguely ominous in his attitude. the rector watched him a moment, and then turned to the mother. "you must not lose hope," he told her. she looked at him with terror-stricken eyes that sought to be grateful. he had picked up his hat from a corner of the littered table, and started to leave, when garvin, by a sudden movement, planted himself in the doorway. whether he had been drinking, or whether he were merely crazed by misfortune and the hopeless search in the heat for employment, and by lack of proper nourishment, hodder could not say. there was a light in his eyes like that in a wounded animal's; and although he was thin and slight, he had the concentrated power of desperation. "say, what church do you come from?" he demanded. "from st. john's," said the rector. "eldon parr's church?" hodder started, in spite of himself, at the name. "mr. parr is a member of the congregation." "come off! he owns it and runs it, the same as he does everything else in this town. maybe you don't think i read the sunday papers. say, i was respectable once, and had a good place. you wouldn't believe it, would you?" hodder hesitated. there was obviously no way to pass the man except by using physical force. "if you have anything to say to me, mr. garvin, i shall be glad to talk to you later. you must not stop me now," he said with a touch of severity. "you'll listen to me, right here and now," cried garvin. "if you think i am going to let eldon parr's minister, or any one else belonging to him, save that boy's life, you've got another guess comin'. that's all. i'd rather have him die--d'ye hear? i'd rather have him die." the woman behind them whimpered . . . . the name was ringing like a knell in hodder's head--eldon parr! coming, as it had, like a curse from the lips of this wretched, half-demented creature, it filled his soul with dismay. and the accusation had in it the profound ring of truth. he was eldon parr's minister, and it was eldon parr who stood between him and his opportunity. "why do you speak of mr. parr?" he asked, though the question cost him a supreme effort. "why do i speak of him? my god, because he ruined me. if it hadn't been for him, damn him, i'd have a home, and health and happiness to-day, and the boy would be well and strong instead of lying there with the life all but gone out of him. eldon parr did for me, and now he's murdered my son--that's why i mention him." in the sudden intensity of his feeling, hodder seized garvin by the arms --arms that were little more than skin and bone. the man might be crazed, he might be drunk: that he believed what he was saying there could be no question. he began to struggle violently, but the rector was strong. "be still," he commanded. and suddenly, overcome less by the physical power than by the aspect of the clergyman, an expression of bewilderment came into his eyes, and he was quiet. hodder dropped his arms. "i do not intend to go until i hear what you have to say. it would be useless, at any rate, since your child's life is at stake. tell me how mr. parr has ruined you." garvin stared at him, half in suspicion, half in amazement. "i guess you never knew of his ruining anybody, did you?" he demanded sullenly. "well, i'll tell you all right, and you can go and tell him. he won't care much--he's used to it by this time, and he gets square with god by his churches and charities. did you ever hear of a stock called consolidated tractions?" consolidated tractions! in contrast to the sordid misery and degradation of this last refuge of the desperate hodder saw the lofty, panelled smoking room at francis ferguson's, and was listening again to wallis plimpton's cynical amusement as to how he and everett constable and eldon parr himself had "gat out" before the crash; "got out" with all the money of the wretch who now stood before him! his parishioners! his christians! oh god! the man was speaking in his shrill voice. "well, i was a traction sucker, all right, and i guess you wouldn't have to walk more than two blocks to find another in this neighbourhood. you think eldon parr's a big, noble man, don't you? you're proud to run his church, ain't you? you wouldn't believe there was a time when i thought he was a big man, when i was kind of proud to live in the same city with him. she'll tell you how i used to come home from the store and talk about him after supper, and hope that the kid there would grow up into a financier like eldon parr. the boys at the store talked about him: he sort of laid hold on our imaginations with the library he gave, and elmwood park, and the picture of the big organ in your church in the newspapers--and sometimes, mary and me and the boy, in the baby carriage, on sunday afternoons we used to walk around by his house, just to look at it. you couldn't have got me to believe that eldon parr would put his name to anything that wasn't straight. "then consolidated tractions came along, with parr's, name behind it. everybody was talking about it, and how it was payin' eight per cent. from the start, and extra dividends and all, and what a marvel of finance it was. before the kid came, as soon as i married her, we began to save up for him. we didn't go to the theatres or nothing. well, i put it all, five thousand dollars, into consolidated. she'll tell you how we sat up half the night after we got the first dividend talking about how we'd send the kid to college, and after we went to bed we couldn't sleep. it wasn't more than a year after that we began to hear things--and we couldn't sleep for sure, and the dividends stopped and the stock tumbled. even then i wouldn't believe it of him, that he'd take poor people's money that way when he had more than he knew what to do with. i made up my mind if i went down to see him and told him about it, he'd make it right. i asked the boss for an hour off, and headed for the parr building--i've been there as much as fifty times since--but he don't bother with small fry. the clerks laugh when they see me comin' . . . i got sick worryin', and when i was strong enough to be around they'd filled my job at the grocery, and it wasn't long before we had to move out of our little home in alder street. we've been movin' ever since," he cried, and tears of weakness were in his eyes, "until we've come to this, and we'll have to get out of here in another week. god knows where we'll go then." hodder shuddered. "then i found out how he done it--from a lawyer. the lawyer laughed at me, too. say, do you wonder i ain't got much use for your church people? parr got a corporation lawyer named langmaid--he's another one of your millionnaire crooks--to fix it up and get around the law and keep him out of jail. and then they had to settle with tim beatty for something like three hundred thousand. you know who beatty is--he owns this city--his saloon's around here on elm street. all the crooks had to be squared. say," he demanded aggressively, "are parr and langmaid any better than beatty, or any of the hold-up men beatty covers? there's a street-walker over there in those flats that's got a million times more chance to get to heaven--if there is any--than those financiers, as they call 'emselves --i ain't much on high finance, but i've got some respect for a second story man now--he takes some risks! i'll tell you what they did, they bought up the short car lines that didn't pay and sold 'em to themselves for fifty times as much as they were worth; and they got controlling interests in the big lines and leased 'em to themselves with dividends guaranteed as high as eighteen per cent. they capitalized the consolidated for more millions than a little man like me can think of, and we handed 'em our money because we thought they were honest. we thought the men who listed the stock on the exchange were honest. and when the crash came, they'd got away with the swag, like any common housebreakers. there were dummy directors, and a dummy president. eldon parr didn't have a share--sold out everything when she went over two hundred, but you bet he kept his stock in the leased lines, which guarantee more than they earn. he cleaned up five million, they say.... my money--the money that might give that boy fresh air, and good doctors ....say, you believe in hell, don't you? you tell eldon parr to keep his charity,--he can't send any of it in here. and you'd better go back to that church of his and pray to keep his soul out of hell." . . . his voice, which had risen even to a higher pitch, fell silent. and all at once, without warning, garvin sank, or rather tumbled upon the bed, sobbing in a way that was terrible to see. the wife stole across the room, sat down beside him, and laid her hand on his shoulder. . . . in spite of the intensity of his own anguish, hodder was conscious of a curious detachment; and for months afterward particular smells, the sight of a gasoline stove, a certain popular tune gave him a sharp twinge of pain. the acid distilling in his soul etched the scene, the sounds, the odours forever in his memory: a stale hot wind from the alley rattled the shutter-slats, and blew the door to; the child stirred; and above the strident, irregular weeping rose main, in ironical contrast, the piano and the voice across the yard. in that glimpse he had into the heart of life's terrible mystery he momentarily understood many things: he knew that behind the abandon of the woman's song was the same terror which reigned in the room in which he stood . . . . there were voices in the passageway without, a woman saying in a german accent,--"it is here, sir." there was a knock at the door . . . . chapter xi the lost parishioner i hodder opened the door. in the dingy passageway he perceived a tall figure which immediately turned out to be that of an old gentleman. in spite of the heat, he wore a long coat and an old-fashioned, high collar, a black tie, under which was exposed a triangle of immaculate, pleated linen. in one hand he held a gold-headed stick, a large tall hat of which the silk nap was a little rubbed, a string sustaining a parcel, the brown paper wrapping of which was soaked: in the other, a manila bag containing lemons. his head was bent forward a little, the high dome of it was bald, but the white hair clustered thickly behind the temples. the face was clean-shaven, the cheeks touched with red, the nose high and dominating, distinctly philanthropic. and the blue eyes rested on the clergyman with a benevolence unfeigned. "good afternoon, sir," the old gentleman said; "i am told mrs. garvin lives here." before the rector could reply mrs. garvin herself stood between them. "it's mr. bentley!" she exclaimed. "i fear i'm intruding, ma'am," he said. "but some of dicky's little friends have just informed me that he is ill, and i have taken the liberty of calling to inquire." mr. bentley entered the room,--simple words to express that which was in some sort an event. he laid his parcels on the table, his hat and stick on a chair, and stood looking down in silence at the thin little form on the couch. presently he turned. "i'm afraid he's very ill, ma'am," he said gently. "you have your own doctor, no doubt. but if you will permit me, as a friend, to make a suggestion, we have in the city one of the best child specialists in the united states, who is never weary of curing these little ones,--dr. jarvis, and i shall be happy to ask him to come and see dicky." mrs. garvin glanced at hodder, who came forward. "i was just about to telephone for dr. jarvis, mr. bentley, when you arrived. i am mr. hodder, of st. john's." "how do you do, sir?" the kindly eyes, alight with a gentle flame, rested upon the rugged figure of the rector. "i am glad that you, too, agree that dr. jarvis is advisable, mr. hodder." there was a sound from the bed. garvin had got to his feet and was staring wildly, with reddened lids. "are you horace bentley?" he demanded. "that is my name, sir," mr. bentley replied. his expression of surprise was only momentary. and in all his life hodder had never beheld a greater contrast in human beings than between that gracious and courtly old man and the haggard, unkempt, unshaved, and starving outcast facing him. something like a film came over garvin's eyes. "he ruined you, too, twenty years back--eldon parr did for you, too. oh, i know his record, i've followed his trail--he got all the grantham stock that would have made you a millionnaire!" "ah," replied mr. bentley, smiling to humour him, "that's something i have no wish to be, sir,--a millionaire." he met the frightened gaze of the wife. "good day, ma'am. if you will allow me, i'll come to-morrow morning to learn what dr. jarvis will have had to say. have courage, ma'am, have courage. you may have faith in dr. jarvis." the poor woman was incapable of speech. mr. bentley picked up his hat and stick. "i've taken the liberty of bringing dicky a little ice and a few lemons." his eyes rested again on the couch by the window. then he turned to garvin, who stood mutely, staring. "good evening, sir," he said. "we must look for the best." ii they went down the stairs of the shabby and battered house, stairs by the side of which holes had been knocked through the faded wall-paper--scars of frequent movings. the sound and smell of frying came out of the open door of what once had been the parlour, and on the front steps a little girl darted past them with a pitcher of beer. when they reached the sidewalk mr. bentley halted. "if you were intending to telephone dr. jarvis, mr. hodder, there is a public station in the drug store just above here. i know that clergymen are busy persons, and i am passing it, if you are pressed for time." "my only concern is to get jarvis here," said the rector. "if i may go with you--" once again in the hot sunlight, reaction had set in. hodder was suddenly unstrung, and the kindly old gentleman beside him seemed for the instant the only fixture in a chaotic universe. it was not until later reflection that he realized mr. bentley might, by an intuitive sympathy, a depth of understanding, have drained something of his state, since the incidents which followed were to be accounted for on no other grounds. in such elemental moments the frail conventions are swept away: mr. bentley, whoever he might be, was no longer a stranger; and it seemed wholly natural to be walking with him up the street, to hear him saying, --not with perfunctory politeness but in a tone that was itself an invitation,--"with pleasure, sir, we'll go together. and let us trust that the doctor will be at home." nor did hodder stop to wonder, then, why mr. bentley should have sought in his conversation to dissipate something of the hideous blackness of a tragedy which must have moved him profoundly. how fortunate, he declared, that they should have arrived before it was too late! for it was plain to be seen that these garvins were good people who had been broken by adversity . . . . the boy had struck him particularly--a lovable, merry little fellow whose clothes, mr. bentley observed, were always neatly mended, betokening a mother with self-respect and character. he even spoke of garvin: adversity, worry, the heat, constant brooding over a happier past and an uncertain future--was it surprising that the poor man's mind had become unhinged? they must make some plan for garvin, said mr. bentley, get the man and his wife into the country for a while amongst kindly people. this might no doubt be arranged.... "here we are, sir." the familiar smell of drugs, the sound of the trickling water in the soda fountain roused hodder to reality, to action, and he hurried into the telephone booth, fumbled in the dog-eared book, got dr. jarvis's number and called it. an eternity seemed to elapse before he had a reply, heard his coin jangling in the bog, recognized the voice of the great doctor's secretary. yes, the doctor was in would he speak to mr. hodder, of st. john's? . . . an interval, during which hodder was suddenly struck with this designation of himself. was he still of st. john's, then? an aeon might have elapsed since he had walked down the white marble of its aisle toward the crouching figure in the pew. he was not that man, but another--and still mr. hodder, of st. john's. . . . then he heard the specialist say, "hello, mr. hodder, what can i do for you?" heard his own voice in reply, explaining the case. could the doctor find time? the doctor could: he was never too busy to attend to the poor,--though he did not say so: he would be there--by half-past six. the rector hung up the receiver, opened the door of the booth and mopped his brow, for the heat was stifling. "the doctor will go," he explained in answer to mr. bentley's inquiring look. "now, sir," said the old gentleman, when they were out of the store, "we have done all that we can for the time being. i do not live far from here. perhaps you would give me the pleasure of taking supper with me, if you have no other engagement." no other engagement! not until then did hodder remember his empty rooms in the parish house, and the train which was to have borne him away from all this already speeding northward. he accepted gratefully, nor did he pause to speculate upon the mystery by which the stream of his life seemed so suddenly to have been diverted. he had, indeed, no sense of mystery in the presence of this splendidly sane, serene old man, any more than the children who ran after him from the dingy yards and passages, calling his name, clinging to the skirts of his coat. these accepted him simply as an anomalous fact in their universe, grinned at his pleasantries, and held up grimy little hands for the kidney-shaped candy beans he drew forth from his capacious pockets. in the intervals he reminisced to the rector about the neighbourhood. "it seems but a short while ago when the trees met overhead--magnificent trees they were. the asphalt and the soot killed them. and there were fruit trees in that yard"--he pointed with his stick to a littered sun parched plot adjoining a battered mansion--"all pink and white with blossoms in the spring. mr. hadley lived there--one of our forgotten citizens. he is dead and gone now and his family scattered. that other house, where the boy lies, belonged to mr. villars, a relation of the atterbury family, and i can recall very well a little girl with a pink sash and a white dress who used to come running out to meet me with flowers in her hands. incredible as it may seem, she picked them in that yard. i thought of her as i went in, how fresh and happy she used to be, and what a different place this was for children then. she must have some of her own by this time." the character of the street had changed to what might be called shabby-genteel, and they stopped before a three-story brick house--one of a row--that showed signs of scrupulous care. the steps were newly scrubbed, the woodwork neatly painted. "this is where i live, sir," said mr. bentley, opening the door with a latchkey and leading the way into a high room on the right, darkened and cool, and filled with superb, old-fashioned rosewood furniture. it was fitted up as a library, with tall shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. an old negro appeared, dressed in a swallow-tailed coat. his hair was as white as his master's, and his face creased with age. "sam," said mr. bentley, "i have brought home a gentleman for supper." "yassah, misteh ho'ace. i was jest agwine to open up de blin's." he lifted the wire screens and flung back the shutters, beamed on the rector as he relieved him of his hat, and noiselessly retired. curiosity, hitherto suppressed by more powerful feelings, awoke in hodder speculations which ordinarily would have been aroused before: every object in the room bespoke gentility, was eloquent of a day when wealth was honoured and respected: photographs, daguerreotypes in old-fashioned frames bore evidence of friendships of the past, and over the marble mantel hung a portrait of a sweet-faced woman in the costume of the thirties, whose eyes reminded hodder of mr. bentley's. who was she? hodder wondered. presently he found himself before a photograph on the wall beyond, at which he had been staring unconsciously. "ah, you recognize it," said mr. bentley. "st. john's!" "yes," mr. bentley repeated, "st. john's." he smiled at hodder's glance of bewilderment, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. "that picture was taken before you were born, sir, i venture to say--in . i am very fond of it, for it gives the church in perspective, as you see. that was mr. gore's house"--he indicated a square, heavily corniced mansion--"where the hotel now stands, and that was his garden, next the church, where you see the trees above the wall." the rector turned again and looked at his host, who, was gazing at the picture thoughtfully. "i ought to have remembered," he said. "i have seen your name in the church records, sir, and i have heard mr. waring speak of you." "my dear mr. hodder, there is no reason why you should have known me. a great many years have passed since i was a parishioner of st. john's --a great many years." "but it was you," the rector began, uncertainly, and suddenly spoke with conviction, "it was you who chose the architect, who did more than other men to make the church what it is." "whatever i may have done," replied mr. bentley, with simple dignity, "has brought its reward. to this day i have not ceased to derive pleasure from it, and often i go out of my way, through burton street, although the view is cramped. and sometimes," he added, with the hint of a twinkle in his eye, "i go in. this afternoon is not the first time i have seen you, mr. hodder." "but--?" said the rector. he stared at the other's face, and the question died on his lips. "you wonder why i am no longer a parishioner. the time came when i could not afford to be." there was no hint of reproach in his voice, of bitterness. he spoke regretfully, indeed, but as one stating an incontrovertible fact. "i lost my fortune, i could not keep my pew, so i deeded it back to the church. my old friends, mrs. dimock and asa waring, and others, too, were very kind. but i could not accept their hospitality." hodder bowed his head in silence. what thundered indictment of the church of christ could have been as severe, as wholly condemning as these few words so dispassionately uttered by the man beside him? the old darky entered, and announced supper. hodder had lost his way, yet a hand had been held out to him, and he seized it. with a sense of being led, psychically as well as physically, he followed mr. bentley into a large bedroom, where a high, four-posted bed lifted a pleated canopy toward the ceiling. and after he had washed his hands they entered a dining-room looking out upon a little yard in the rear, which had been transformed into a garden. roses, morning glories, and nasturtiums were growing against the walls; a hose lay coiled upon the path; the bricks, baked during the day, were splashed with water; the leaves and petals were wet, and the acrid odour of moist earth, mingling with perfumes, penetrated the room. hodder paused in the window. "sam keeps our flowers alive," he heard mr. bentley say, "i don't know how." "i scrubs 'em, sah," said sam. "yassah, i washes 'em like chilluns." he found himself, at mr. bentley's request, asking grace, the old darky with reverently bent head standing behind his master; sitting down at a mahogany table that reflected like a mirror the few pieces of old silver, to a supper of beaten biscuits that burned one's fingers, of 'broiled chicken and coffee, and sliced peaches and cream. mr. bentley was talking of other days--not so long gone by when the great city had been a village, or scarcely more. the furniture, it seemed, had come from his own house in what was called the wilderness road, not far from the river banks, over the site of which limited trains now rolled on their way eastward toward the northernmost of the city's bridges. he mentioned many names, some remembered, some forgotten, like his own; dwelt on pleasures and customs gone by forever. "a little while after i moved in here, i found that one old man could not fill the whole of this house, so i let the upper floors," he explained, smilingly. "some day i must introduce you to my tenants, mr. hodder." by degrees, as hodder listened, he became calm. like a child, he found himself distracted, talking, asking questions: and the intervals grew longer between the recurrent surges of fear when the memory rose before him of the events of the day,--of the woman, the child, and the man: of eldon parr and this deed he had done; hinting, as it did, of closed chambers of other deeds yet to be opened, of countless, hidden miseries still to be revealed: when he heard once more the tortured voice of the banker, and the question: "how would you like to live in this house --alone?" in contrast, now he beheld the peace in the face of the man whose worldly goods eldon parr had taken, and whom he had driven out of the church. surely, this man had found a solution! . . . what was it? hodder thought of the child, of the verdict of dr. jarvis, but he lingered on, loth to leave,--if the truth be told--afraid to leave; drawing strength from his host's calm, wondering as to the source of it, as to the life which was its expression; longing, yet not presuming, to question. the twilight deepened, and the old darky lit a lamp and led the way back to the library. "sam," said mr. bentley, "draw up the armchair for mr. hodder beside the window. it is cooler there." "i ought to go," hodder said. "i ought to see how the child is. jarvis will have been there by this time, and there may be necessaries--" "jarvis will have attended to that," mr. bentley replied. "sit down, mr. hodder. i am not sure that, for the present, we have not done all in this case that is humanly possible." "you mean," said the rector, "that they will accept nothing from me." it came from him, spontaneously, like a cry. he had not meant to say it. "i don't blame them. i don't blame them for losing their faith in god and man, in the church. i ought to have seen it before, but i was blind, incredibly blind--until it struck me in the face. you saw it, sir, and you left a church from which the poor are thrust out, which refuses to heed the first precept of its master." "i saw it," answered mr. bentley, "but i could do nothing. perhaps you can do--something." "ah!" hodder exclaimed sharply, "why do you say that? the church is paralyzed, chained. how can she reach these wretched people who are the victims of the ruthless individualism and greed of those who control her? you know--that man, mr. bentley." (hodder could not bring himself to pronounce eldon parr's name.) "i had an affection for him, i pitied him, because he suffers--" "yes," echoed mr. bentley, "he suffers." hodder was momentarily arrested by the sadness of his tone. "but he doesn't know why he suffers--he cannot be made to see," the rector went on. "and he is making others suffer,--hideously, while he imagines himself a christian. he is the church to that miserable, hopeless wretch we saw to-day, and to hundreds of the same kind whom he has driven to desperation. and i--who am supposed to be the vicar of god--i am powerless. they have a contempt for me, a just contempt. they thrust me out of their doors, bid me to return and minister to their oppressors. you were right to leave, and i should have left long since." he had not spoken with violence, or with a lack of control. he seemed rather to have regained a mastery of himself, and felt as a man from whom the shackles have been struck, proclaiming his freedom. mr. bentley's eyes lighted in involuntary response as he gazed at the figure and face before him. he pressed his hands together. "if you will forgive a curiosity, mr. hodder, that is somewhat due to my interest in a church with which i have many precious associations, may i ask if this is a sudden determination on your part?" "no," hodder said. "i have known ever since i came here that something was wrong, but at first i couldn't see it, and after that i wouldn't see it. that is about what happened, as i look back on it. "but the farther in i went," hodder continued, "the more tangled and bewildered i became. i was hypnotized, i think," he added with a gesture,--"hypnotized, as a man is who never takes his eyes from a pattern. i wanted to get at this neighbourhood--dalton street--i mean, and finally i agreed to the establishment of a settlement house over here, to be paid for largely by eldon parr and francis ferguson. i couldn't see the folly of such an undertaking--the supreme irony of it, until--until it was pointed out to me." he hesitated; the remembrance of alison parr ran through him, a thread of pain. "and even then i tried to dodge the issue, i tried to make myself believe that good might flow out of evil; that the church, which is supposed to be founded on the highest ideal ever presented to man, might compromise and be practical, that she might accept money which had been wrung from a trusting public by extortion, by thinly disguised thievery such as this consolidated tractions company fraud, and do good with it! and at last i made up my mind to go away, to-day, to a quiet place where i might be alone, and reflect, when by a singular circumstance i was brought into contact with this man, garvin. i see now, clearly enough, that if i had gone, i should never have come back." "and you still intend to go?" mr. bentley asked. hodder leaned his elbow against the mantel. the lamplight had a curious effect on mr. bentley's face. "what can i do?" he demanded. the question was not aimed directly at his host--it was in the nature of a renewed appeal to a tribunal which had been mute, but with which he now seemed vaguely aware of a certain contact. "even supposing i could bring myself to accept the compromise --now that i see it clearly, that the end justifies the means--what good could i accomplish? you saw what happened this afternoon--the man would have driven me out if, it hadn't been for you. this whole conception of charity is a crime against civilization--i had to have that pointed out to me, too,--this system of legalized or semi-legalized robbery and the distribution of largesse to the victims. the church is doing wrong, is stultifying herself in encouraging it. she should set her face rigidly against it, stand for morality and justice and christianity in government, not for pauperizing. it is her mission to enlighten these people, all people--to make them self-respecting, to give them some notion of the dignity of their souls and their rights before god and man." "aren't you yourself suggesting," said mr. bentley, "the course which will permit you to remain?" hodder was silent. the thought struck him with tremendous force. had he suggested it? and how--why? could it be done? could he do it or begin it? "we have met at last in a singular way," he heard mr. bentley going on, "in a way that has brushed aside the conventions, in a way--i am happy to say--that has enabled you to give me your confidence. and i am an old man,--that has made it easier. i saw this afternoon, mr. hodder, that you were troubled, although you tried to hide it." "i knew that you saw it," hodder said. "nor was it difficult for me to guess something of the cause of it. the same thing has troubled me." "you?" "yes," mr. bentley answered. "i left st. john's, but the habits and affections of a lifetime are not easily severed. and some time before i left it i began to have visions of a future for it. there was a question, many years ago, as to whether a new st. john's should not be built in the west end, on a site convenient to the parishioners, and this removal i opposed. mr. waring stood by me. we foresaw the day when this district would be--what it is now--the precarious refuge of the unfortunate in the battle of life, of just such unhappy families as the garvins, of miserable women who sell themselves to keep alive. i thought of st. john's, as you did, as an oasis in a desert of misery and vice. at that time i, too, believed in the system of charities which you have so well characterized as pauperizing." "and now?" mr. bentley smiled, as at a reminiscence. "my eyes were opened," he replied, and in these simple words summed up and condemned it all. "they are craving bread, and we fling them atones. i came here. it was a house i owned, which i saved from the wrecks, and as i look back upon what the world would call a misfortune, sir, i can see that it was a propitious event, for me. the street 'ran down,' as the saying goes. i grew gradually to know these people, my new neighbours, largely through their children, and i perceived many things i had not dreamed of--before then. i saw how the church was hampered, fettered; i saw why they disliked and distrusted it." "and yet you still believed that it had a mission?" hodder interrupted. he had been listening with rapt attention. "i still believed it," said mr. bentley. "my conception of that mission changed, grew, and yet it seemed further and further from fulfilment. and then you came to st. john's." "i!" the cry was involuntary. "you," mr. bentley repeated. "sometimes," he added whimsically, "i go there, as i have told you. i saw you, i heard you preach. i talked to my friend waring about you. i saw that your eyes were not opened, but i think i had a certain presentiment, for which i do not pretend to account, that they would be opened." "you mean," said the rector, "that if i believe in the mission of the church as i have partially stated it here tonight, i--should stay and fight for it." "precisely," mr. bentley replied. there was a note of enthusiasm, almost of militancy in the old gentleman's tone that surprised and agitated hodder. he took a turn up and down the room before he answered. "i ought to tell you that the view i expressed a moment ago is new to me. i had not thought of it before, and it is absolutely at variance with any previous ideas i have held. i can see that it must involve, if carried to its logical conclusion, a change in the conception of christianity i have hitherto held." he was too intent upon following up the thought to notice mr. bentley's expression of assent. "and suppose," he asked, "i were unable to come to any conclusion? i will be frank, mr. bentley, and confess to you that at present i cannot see my way. you have heard me preach--you know what my beliefs have been. they are shattered. and, while i feel that there is some definite connection between the view of the church which i mentioned and her message to the individual, i do not perceive it clearly. i am not prepared at present to be the advocate of christianity, because i do not know what christianity is. i thought i knew. "i shall have to begin all over again, as though i had never taken orders, submit to a thorough test, examine the evidence impartially. it is the only way. of this much i am sure, that the church as a whole has been engaged in a senseless conflict with science and progressive thought, that she has insisted upon the acceptance of facts which are in violation of reason and which have nothing to do with religion. she has taught them to me--made them, in fact, a part of me. i have clung to them as long as i can, and in throwing them over i don't know where i shall land." his voice was measured, his words chosen, yet they expressed a withering indignation and contempt which were plainly the culmination of months of bewilderment--now replaced by a clear-cut determination. "i do not blame any individual," he continued, "but the system by which clergymen are educated. "i intend to stay here, now, without conducting any services, and find out for myself what the conditions are here in dalton street. you know those people, mr. bentley, you understand them, and i am going to ask you to help me. you have evidently solved the problem." mr. bentley rose. and he laid a hand, which was not quite steady, on the rector's shoulder. "believe me, sir," he replied, "i appreciate something of what such a course must mean to you--a clergyman." he paused, and a look came upon his face, a look that might scarce have been called a smile--hodder remembered it as a glow--reminiscent of many things. in it a life was summed ups in it understanding, beneficence, charity, sympathy, were all expressed, yet seemingly blended into one. "i do not know what my testimony may be worth to you, my friend, but i give it freely. i sometimes think i have been peculiarly fortunate. but i have lived a great many years, and the older i get and the more i see of human nature the firmer has grown my conviction of its essential nobility and goodness." hodder marvelled, and was silent. "you will come here, often,--every day if you can. there are many men and women, friends of mine, whom i should like you to know, who would like to know you." "i will, and thank you," hodder answered. words were inadequate for the occasion . . . . chapter xii the woman of the song on leaving mr. bentley, hodder went slowly down dalton street, wondering that mere contact with another human being should have given him the resolution to turn his face once again toward the house whither he was bound. and this man had given him something more. it might hardly have been called faith; a new courage to fare forth across the unknown--that was it; hope, faint but revived. presently he stopped on the sidewalk, looked around him, and read a sign in glaring, electric letters, hotel albert. despite the heat, the place was ablaze with lights. men and women were passing, pausing--going in. a motor, with a liveried chauffeur whom he remembered having seen before, was standing in front of the rathskeller. the nightly carousal was beginning. hodder retraced his steps, crossed the street diagonally, came to the dilapidated gate he remembered so well, and looked up through the dusk at the house. if death had entered it, there was no sign: death must be a frequent visitor hereabouts. on the doorsteps he saw figures outlined, slatternly women and men in shirt-sleeves who rose in silence to make way for him, staring at him curiously. he plunged into the hot darkness of the hall, groped his way up the stairs and through the passage, and hesitated. a single gas jet burned low in the stagnant air, and after a moment he made out, by its dim light, a woman on her knees beside the couch, mechanically moving the tattered palm-leaf over the motionless little figure. the child was still alive. he drew a deep breath, and entered; at the sound of his step mrs. garvin suddenly started up. "richard!" she cried, and then stood staring at the rector. "have you seen my husband, sir? he went away soon after you left." hodder, taken by surprise, replied that he had not. her tone, her gesture of anxiety he found vaguely disquieting. "the doctor has been here?" he asked. "yes," she answered absently. "i don't know where he can be--richard. he didn't even wait to see the doctor. and he thinks so much of dicky, sir, he sits here of an evening--" hodder sat down beside her, and taking the palm-leaf from her hand, began himself to fan the child. something of her misgiving had communicated itself to him. "don't worry," he said. "remember that you have been through a great deal, and it is natural that you should be overwrought. your husband feels strongly. i don't blame him. and the sight of me this afternoon upset him. he has gone out to walk." "richard is proud," she answered simply. "he used to say he'd rather die than take charity--and now he's come to it. and it's--that man, sir, who's got on his brain, and changed him. he wasn't always like this, but now he can't seem to think of anything else. he wakes up in the night . . . . and he used to have such a sweet nature--you wouldn't have known him . . . and came home so happy in the evenings in alder street, often with a little fruit, or something he'd bought for us, and romp with dicky in the yard, and i'd stand and laugh at them. even after we'd lost our money, when he was sick that time, he didn't feel this way. it grew on him when he couldn't get work, and then he began to cut things out of the papers about mr. parr. and i have sometimes thought that that's kept him from getting work. he talks about it, and people don't know what to make of him. they don't know how hard he'd try if they'd give him something.". . . . "we shall find something," said the rector, striving to throw into his voice confidence and calm. he did not dare to look at her, but continued to move the fan. the child stirred a little. mrs. garvin put out her hand. "yes, the doctor was here. he was very kind. oh, sir," she exclaimed, "i hope you won't think us ungrateful--and that mr. bentley won't. dr. jarvis has hopes, sir,--he says--i forget the name he called it, what dicky has. it's something uncommon. he says it was--brought on by the heat, and want of food--good food. and he's coming himself in the morning to take him out to that hospital beyond the park--in an automobile, sir. i was just thinking what a pity it is dicky wouldn't realize it. he's always wanted to ride in one." suddenly her tears flowed, unheeded, and she clung to the little hand convulsively. "i don't know what i shall do without him, sir, i don't . . . . i've always had him . . . and when he's sick, among strangers." . . . the rector rose to the occasion. "now, mrs. garvin," he said firmly, "you must remember that there is only one way to save the boy's life. it will be easy to get you a room near the hospital, where you can see him constantly." "i know--i know, sir. but i couldn't leave his father, i couldn't leave richard." she looked around distractedly. "where is he?" "he will come back presently," said the rector. "if not, i will look for him." she did not reply, but continued to weep in silence. suddenly, above the confused noises of the night, the loud notes of a piano broke, and the woman whose voice he had heard in the afternoon began once more with appalling vigour to sing. the child moaned. mrs. garvin started up hysterically. "i can't stand it--i can't stand her singing that now," she sobbed. thirty feet away, across the yard, hodder saw the gleaming window from which the music came. he got to his feet. another verse began, with more of the brazen emphasis of the concert-hall singer than ever. he glanced at the woman beside him, irresolutely. "i'll speak to her," he said. mrs. garvin did not appear to hear him, but flung herself down beside the lounge. as he seized his hat and left the room he had the idea of telephoning for a nurse, when he almost ran into some one in the upper hall, and recognized the stout german woman, mrs. breitmann. "mrs. garvin"--he said, "she ought not to be left--" "i am just now going," said mrs. breitmann. "i stay with her until her husband come." such was the confidence with which, for some reason, she inspired him, that he left with an easier mind. it was not until the rector had arrived at the vestibule of the apartment house next door that something--of the difficulty and delicacy of the errand he had undertaken came home to him. impulse had brought him thus far, but now he stood staring helplessly at a row of bells, speaking tubes, and cards. which, for example, belonged to the lady whose soprano voice pervaded the neighbourhood? he looked up and down the street, in the vain hope of finding a messenger. the song continued: he had promised to stop it. hodder accused himself of cowardice. to his horror, hodder felt stealing over him, incredible though it seemed after the depths through which he had passed, a faint sense of fascination in the adventure. it was this that appalled him--this tenacity of the flesh,--which no terrors seemed adequate to drive out. the sensation, faint as it was, unmanned him. there were still many unexplored corners in his soul. he turned, once more contemplated the bells, and it was not until then he noticed that the door was ajar. he pushed it open, climbed the staircase, and stood in the doorway of what might be called a sitting room, his eyes fixed on a swaying back before an upright piano against the wall; his heart seemed to throb with the boisterous beat of the music. the woman's hair, in two long and heavy plaits falling below her waist, suddenly fascinated him. it was of the rarest of russet reds. she came abruptly to the end of the song. "i beg your pardon--" he began. she swung about with a start, her music dropping to the floor, and stared at him. her tattered blue kimono fell away at her elbows, her full throat was bare, and a slipper she had kicked off lay on the floor beside her. he recoiled a little, breathing deeply. she stared at him. "my god, how you scared me!" she exclaimed. evidently a second glance brought to her a realization of his clerical costume. "say, how did you get in here?" "i beg your pardon," he said again, "but there is a very sick child in the house next door and i came to ask you if you would mind not playing any more to-night." she did not reply at once, and her expression he found unsolvable. much of it might be traced to a life which had contracted the habit of taking nothing on trust, a life which betrayed itself in unmistakable traces about the eyes. and hodder perceived that the face, if the stamp of this expression could have been removed, was not unpleasing, although indulgence and recklessness were beginning to remould it. "quit stringin' me," she said. for a moment he was at a loss. he gathered that she did not believe him, and crossed to the open window. "if you will come here," he said, "i will show you the room where he lies. we hope to be able to take him to the hospital to-morrow." he paused a moment, and added: "he enjoyed your music very much when he was better." the comment proved a touchstone. "say," she remarked, with a smile that revealed a set of surprisingly good teeth, "i can make the box talk when i get a-goin'. there's no stopping me this side of grand opera,--that's no fable. i'm not so bad for an enginoo, am i?" thus directly appealed to, in common courtesy he assented. "no indeed," he said. "that's right," she declared. "but the managers won't have it at any price. those jays don't know anything, do they? they've only got a dream of what the public wants. you wouldn't believe it, but i've sung for 'em, and they threw me out. you wouldn't believe it, would you?" "i must own," said the rector, "that i have never had any experience with managers." she sat still considering him from the piano stool, her knees apart, her hands folded in her lap. mockery came into her eyes. "say, what did you come in here for, honest injun?" she demanded. he was aware of trying to speak sternly, and of failing. to save his life he could not, then, bring up before himself the scene in the little back room across the yard in its full terror and reality, reproduce his own feelings of only a few minutes ago which had impelled him hither. a month, a year might have elapsed. every faculty was now centred on the woman in front of him, and on her life. "why do you doubt me?" he asked. she continued to contemplate him. her eyes were strange, baffling, smouldering, yellow-brown, shifting, yet not shifty: eyes with a history. her laugh proclaimed both effrontery and uneasiness. "don't get huffy," she said. "the kid's sick--that's on the level, is it? you didn't come 'round to see me?" the insinuation was in her voice as well as in her words. he did not resent it, but felt an odd thrill of commingled pity and--fear. "i came for the reason i have given you," he replied; and added, more gently: "i know it is a good deal to ask, but you will be doing a great kindness. the mother is distracted. the child, as i told you, will be taken to the hospital in the morning." she reached out a hand and closed the piano softly. "i guess i can hold off for to-night," she said. "sometimes things get kind of dull--you know, when there's nothing doing, and this keeps me lively. how old is the kid?" "about nine," he estimated. "say, i'm sorry." she spoke with a genuineness of feeling that surprised him. he went slowly, almost apologetically toward the door. "good night," he said, "and thank you." her look halted him. "what's your hurry?" she demanded. "i'm sorry," he said hastily, "but i must be going." he was, in truth, in a panic to leave. "you're a minister, ain't you?" "yes," he said. "i guess you don't think much of me, do you?" she demanded. he halted abruptly, struck by the challenge, and he saw that this woman had spoken not for herself, but for an entire outlawed and desperate class. the fact that the words were mocking and brazen made no difference; it would have been odd had they not been so. with a shock of surprise he suddenly remembered that his inability to reach this class had been one of the causes of his despair! and now? with the realization, reaction set in, an overpowering feeling of weariness, a desire--for rest--for sleep. the electric light beside the piano danced before his eyes, yet he heard within him a voice crying out to him to stay. desperately tired though he was, he must not leave now. he walked slowly to the table, put his hat on it and sat down in a chair beside it. "why do you say that?" he asked. "oh, cut it out!" said the woman. "i'm on to you church folks." she laughed. "one of 'em came in here once, and wanted to pray. i made a monkey of him." "i hope," said the rector, smiling a little, "that is not the reason why you wish me to stay." she regarded him doubtfully. "you're not the same sort," she announced at length. "what sort was he?" "he was easy,--old enough to know better--most of the easy ones are. he marched in sanctimonious as you please, with his mouth full of salvation and bible verses." she laughed again at the recollection. "and after that," said the rector, "you felt that ministers were a lot of hypocrites." "i never had much opinion of 'em," she admitted, "nor of church people, either," she added, with emphasis. "there's ferguson, who has the department store,--he's 'way up' in church circles. i saw him a couple of months ago, one sunday morning, driving to that church on burton street, where all the rich folks go. i forget the name--" "st. john's," he supplied. he had got beyond surprise. "st. john's--that's it. they tell me he gives a lot of money to it --money that he steals from the girls he hires. oh, yes, he'll get to heaven--i don't think." "how do you mean that he steals money from the girls?" "say, you are innocent--ain't you! did you ever go down to that store? do you know what a floorwalker is? did you ever see the cheap guys hanging around, and the young swells waiting to get a chance at the girls behind the counters? why do you suppose so many of 'em take to the easy life? i'll put you next--because ferguson don't pay 'em enough to live on. that's why. he makes 'em sign a paper, when he hires 'em, that they live at home, that they've got some place to eat and sleep, and they sign it all right. that's to square up ferguson's conscience. but say, if you think a girl can support herself in this city and dress on what he pays, you've got another guess comin'." there rose up before him, unsummoned, the image of nan ferguson, in all her freshness and innocence, as she had stood beside him on the porch in park street. he was somewhat astonished to find himself defending his parishioner. "may it not be true, in order to compete with other department stores, that mr. ferguson has to pay the same wages?" he said. "forget it. i guess you know what galt house is? that's where women like me can go when we get all played out and there's nothing left in the game--it's on river street. maybe you've been there." hodder nodded. "well," she continued, "ferguson pays a lot of money to keep that going, and gets his name in the papers. he hands over to the hospitals where some of us die--and it's all advertised. he forks out to the church. now, i put it to you, why don't he sink some of that money where it belongs--in living wages? because there's nothing in it for him --that's why." the rector looked at her in silence. he had not suspected her of so much intellect. he glanced about the apartment, at the cheap portiere flung over the sofa; at the gaudy sofa cushions, two of which bore the names and colours of certain colleges. the gas log was almost hidden by dried palm leaves, a cigarette stump lay on the fender; on the mantel above were several photographs of men and at the other side an open door revealed a bedroom. "this is a nice place, ain't it?" she observed. "i furnished it when i was on velvet--nothing was too good for me. money's like champagne when you take the cork out, it won't keep. i was rich once. it was lively while it lasted," she added, with a sigh: "i've struck the down trail. i oughtn't, by rights, to be here fooling with you. there's nothing in it." she glanced at the clock. "i ought to get busy." as the realization of her meaning came to him, he quivered. "is there no way but that?" he asked, in a low voice. "say, you're not a-goin' to preach, are you?" "no," he answered, "god forbid! i was not asking the question of you." she stared at him. "of who, then?" he was silent. "you've left me at the station. but on the level, you don't seem to know much, that's a fact. you don't think the man who owns these flats is in it for charity, do you? 'single ladies,' like me, have to give up. and then there are other little grafts that wouldn't interest you. what church do you come from anyway?" "you mentioned it a little while ago." "st. john's!" she leaned back against the piano and laughed unrestrainedly. "that's a good one, to think how straight i've been talking to you." "i'm much obliged to you," he said. again she gazed at him, now plainly perplexed. "what are you giving me?" "i mean what i say," he answered. "i am obliged to you for telling me things i didn't know. and i appreciate--your asking me to stay." she was sitting upright now, her expression changed, her breath came more rapidly, her lips parted as she gazed at him. "do you know," she said, "i haven't had anybody speak to me like that for four years." her voice betrayed excitement, and differed in tone, and she had cast off unconsciously the vulgarity of speech. at that moment she seemed reminiscent of what she must once have been; and he found himself going through an effort at reconstruction. "like what?" he asked. "like a woman," she answered vehemently. "my name is john hodder," he said, "and i live in the parish house, next door to the church. i should like to be your friend, if you will let me. if i can be of any help to you now, or at any other time, i shall feel happy. i promise not to preach," he added. she got up abruptly, and went to the window. and when she turned to him again, it was with something of the old bravado. "you'd better leave me alone, i'm no good;" she said. "i'm much obliged to you, but i don't want any charity or probation houses in mine. and honest work's a thing of the past for me--even if i could get a job. nobody would have me. but if they would, i couldn't work any more. i've got out of the hang of it." with a swift and decisive movement she crossed the room, opened a cabinet on the wall, revealing a bottle and glasses. "so you're bent upon going--downhill?" he said. "what can you do to stop it?" she retorted defiantly, "give me religion ---i guess you'd tell me. religion's all right for those on top, but say, it would be a joke if i got it. there ain't any danger. but if i did, it wouldn't pay room-rent and board." he sat mute. once more the truth overwhelmed, the folly of his former optimism arose to mock him. what he beheld now, in its true aspect, was a disease of that civilization he had championed. . . she took the bottle from the cupboard and laid it on the table. "what's the difference?" she demanded. "it's all over in a little while, anyway. i guess you'd tell me there was a hell. but if that's so, some of your church folks'll broil, too. i'll take my chance on it, if they will." she looked at him, half in defiance, half in friendliness, across the table. "say, you mean all right, but you're only wastin' time here. you can't do me any good, i tell you, and i've got to get busy." "may we not at least remain friends?" he asked, after a moment. her laugh was a little harsh. "what kind of friendship would that be? you, a minister, and me a woman on the town?" "if i can stand it, i should think you might." "well, i can't stand it," she answered. he got up, and held out his hand. she stood seemingly irresolute, and then took it. "good night," he said. "good night," she repeated nonchalantly. as he went out of the door she called after him: "don't be afraid i'll worry the kid!" the stale odour of cigarette smoke with which the dim corridor was charged intoxicated, threatened to overpower him. it seemed to be the reek of evil itself. a closing door had a sinister meaning. he hurried; obscurity reigned below, the light in the lower hall being out; fumbled for the door-knob, and once in the street took a deep breath and mopped his brow; but he had not proceeded half a block before he hesitated, retraced his steps, reentered the vestibule, and stooped to peer at the cards under the speaking tubes. cheaply printed in large script, was the name of the tenant of the second floor rear,--miss kate marcy. . . . in crossing tower street he was frightened by the sharp clanging of a great electric car that roared past him, aflame with light. his brain had seemingly ceased to work, and he stumbled at the curb, for he was very tired. the events of the day no longer differentiated themselves in his mind but lay, a composite weight, upon his heart. at length he reached the silent parish house, climbed the stairs and searched in his pocket for the key of his rooms. the lock yielded, but while feeling for the switch he tripped and almost fell over an obstruction on the floor. the flooding light revealed his travelling-bags, as he had piled them, packed and ready to go to the station. the inside of the cup by winston churchill volume . xx. the arraignment xxi. alison goes to church xxii. which say to the seers, see not! chapter xx the arraignment i looking backward, hodder perceived that he had really come to the momentous decision of remaining at st. john's in the twilight of an evening when, on returning home from seeing kate marcy at mr. bentley's he had entered the darkening church. it was then that his mission had appeared to him as a vision. every day, afterward, his sense and knowledge of this mission had grown stronger. to his mind, not the least of the trials it was to impose upon him, and one which would have to be dealt with shortly, was a necessary talk with his assistant, mccrae. if their relationship had from the beginning been unusual and unsatisfactory, adjectives would seem to defy what it had become during the summer. what did mccrae think of him? for hodder had, it will be recalled, bidden his assistant good-by--and then had remained. at another brief interview, during which mccrae had betrayed no surprise, uttered no censure or comment, hodder had announced his determination to remain in the city, and to take no part in the services. an announcement sufficiently astounding. during the months that followed, they had met, at rare intervals, exchanged casual greetings, and passed on. and yet hodder had the feeling, more firmly planted than ever, that mccrae was awaiting, with an interest which might be called suspense, the culmination of the process going on within him. well, now that he had worked it out, now that he had reached his decision, it was incumbent upon him to tell his assistant what that decision was. hodder shrank from it as from an ordeal. his affection for the man, his admiration for mccrae's faithful, untiring, and unrecognized services had deepened. he had a theory that mccrae really liked him--would even sympathize with his solution; yet he procrastinated. he was afraid to put his theory to the test. it was not that hodder feared that his own solution was not the right one, but that mccrae might not find it so: he was intensely concerned that it should also be mccrae's solution--the answer, if one liked, to mccrae's mute and eternal questionings. he wished to have it a fruition for mccrae as well as for himself; since theoretically, at least, he had pierced the hard crust of his assistant's exterior, and conceived him beneath to be all suppressed fire. in short, hodder wished to go into battle side by side with mccrae. therein lay his anxiety. another consideration troubled him--mccrae's family, dependent on a rather meagre salary. his assistant, in sustaining him in the struggle he meant to enter, would be making even a greater sacrifice than himself. for hodder had no illusions, and knew that the odds against him were incalculable. whatever, if defeated, his own future might be, mccrae's was still more problematical and tragic. the situation, when it came, was even more difficult than hodder had imagined it, since mccrae was not a man to oil the wheels of conversation. in silence he followed the rector up the stairs and into his study, in silence he took the seat at the opposite side of the table. and hodder, as he hesitated over his opening, contemplated in no little perplexity and travail the gaunt and non-committal face before him: "mccrae," he began at length, "you must have thought my conduct this summer most peculiar. i wish to thank you, first of all, for the consideration you have shown me, and to tell you how deeply i appreciate your taking the entire burden of the work of the parish." mccrae shook his head vigorously, but did not speak. "i owe it to you to give you some clew to what happened to me," the rector continued, "although i have an idea that you do not need much enlightenment on this matter. i have a feeling that you have somehow been aware of my discouragement during the past year or so, and of the causes of it. you yourself hold ideals concerning the church which you have not confided to me. of this i am sure. i came here to st. john's full of hope and confidence, gradually to lose both, gradually to realise that there was something wrong with me, that in spite of all my efforts i was unable to make any headway in the right direction. i became perplexed, dissatisfied--the results were so meagre, so out of proportion to the labour. and the very fact that those who may be called our chief parishioners had no complaint merely added to my uneasiness. that kind of success didn't satisfy me, and i venture to assume it didn't satisfy you." still mccrae made no sign. "finally i came to what may be termed a double conclusion. in the first place, i began to see more and more clearly that our modern civilization is at fault, to perceive how completely it is conducted on the materialistic theory of the survival of the fittest rather than that of the brotherhood of man, and that those who mainly support this church are, consciously or not, using it as a bulwark for the privilege they have gained at the expense of their fellow-citizens. and my conclusion was that christianity must contain some vital germ which i had somehow missed, and which i must find if i could, and preach and release it. that it was the release of this germ these people feared unconsciously. i say to you, at the risk of the accusation of conceit, that i believed myself to have a power in the pulpit if i could only discover the truth." hodder thought he detected, as he spoke these words, a certain relaxation of the tension. "for a while, as the result of discouragement, of cowardice, i may say, of the tearing-down process of the theological structure--built of debris from many ruins on which my conception of christianity rested, i lost all faith. for many weeks i did not enter the church, as you yourself must know. then, when i had given up all hope, through certain incidents and certain persona, a process of reconstruction began. in short, through no virtue which i can claim as my own, i believe i have arrived at the threshold of an understanding of christianity as our lord taught it and lived it. and i intend to take the pulpit and begin to preach it. "i am deeply concerned in regard to yourself as to what effect my course may have on you. and i am not you to listen to me with a view that you should see your way clear to support me mccrae, but rather that you should be fully apprised of my new belief and intentions. i owe this to you, for your loyal support in the pest. i shall go over with you, later, if you care to listen, my whole position. it may be called the extreme protestant position, and i use protestant, for want of a better word, to express what i believe is paul's true as distinguished from the false of his two inconsistent theologies. it was this doctrine of paul's of redemption by faith, of reacting grace by an inevitable spiritual law --of rebirth, if you will--that luther and the protestant reformers revived and recognized, rightly, as the vital element of christ's teachings, although they did not succeed in separating it wholly from the dross which clung to it. it is the leaven which has changed governments, and which in the end, i am firmly convinced, will make true democracy inevitable. and those who oppose democracy inherently dread its workings. "i do not know your views, but it is only fair to add at this time that i no longer believe in the external and imposed authority of the church in the sense in which i formerly accepted it, nor in the virgin birth, nor in certain other dogmas in which i once acquiesced. other clergymen of our communion have proclaimed, in speech and writing, their disbelief in these things. i have satisfied my conscience as they have, and i mean to make no secret of my change. i am convinced that not one man or woman in ten thousand to-day who has rejected christianity ever knew what christianity is. the science and archaic philosophy in which christianity has been swaddled and hampered is discredited, and the conclusion is drawn that christianity itself must be discredited." "ye're going to preach all this?" mccrae demanded, almost fiercely. "yes," hodder replied, still uncertain as to his assistant's attitude, "and more. i have fully reflected, and i am willing to accept all the consequences. i understand perfectly, mccrae, that the promulgation alone of the liberal orthodoxy of which i have spoken will bring me into conflict with the majority of the vestry and the congregation, and that the bishop will be appealed to. they will say, in effect, that i have cheated them, that they hired one man and that another has turned up, whom they never would have hired. but that won't be the whole story. if it were merely a question of doctrine, i should resign. it's deeper than that, more sinister." hodder doubled up his hand, and laid it on the table. "it's a matter," he said, looking into mccrae's eyes, "of freeing this church from those who now hold it in chains. and the two questions, i see clearly now, the doctrinal and the economic, are so interwoven as to be inseparable. my former, ancient presentation of christianity left men and women cold. it did not draw them into this church and send them out again fired with the determination to bring religion into everyday life, resolved to do their part in the removal of the injustices and cruelties with which we are surrounded, to bring christianity into government, where it belongs. don't misunderstand me i'm not going to preach politics, but religion." "i don't misunderstand ye," answered mccrae. he leaned a little forward, staring at the rector from behind his steel spectacles with a glance which had become piercing. "and i am going to discourage a charity which is a mockery of christianity," hodder went on, "the spectacle of which turns thousands of men and women in sickening revolt against the church of christ to-day. i have discovered, at last, how some of these persons have made their money, and are making it. and i am going to let them know, since they have repudiated god in their own souls, since they have denied the christian principle of individual responsibility, that i, as the vicar of god, will not be a party to the transaction of using the church as a means of doling out ill-gotten gains to the poor." "mr. parr!" mccrae exclaimed. "yes," said the rector, slowly, and with a touch of sadness, "since you have mentioned him, mr. parr. but i need not say that this must go no farther. i am in possession of definite facts in regard to mr. parr which i shall present to him when he returns." "ye'll tell him to his face?" "it is the only way." mccrae had risen. a remarkable transformation had come over the man, --he was reminiscent, at that moment, of some covenanter ancestor going into battle. and his voice shook with excitement. "ye may count on me, mr. hodder," he cried. "these many years i've waited, these many years i've seen what ye see now, but i was not the man. aye, i've watched ye, since the day ye first set foot in this church. i knew what was going on inside of ye, because it was just that i felt myself. i hoped--i prayed ye might come to it." the sight of this taciturn scotchman, moved in this way, had an extraordinary effect on hodder himself, and his own emotion was so inexpressibly stirred that he kept silence a moment to control it. this proof of the truth of his theory in regard to mccrae he found overwhelming. "but you said nothing, mccrae," he began presently. "i felt all along that you knew what was wrong--if you had only spoken." "i could not," said mccrae. "i give ye my word i tried, but i just could not. many's the time i wanted to--but i said to myself, when i looked at you, 'wait, it will come, much better than ye can say it.' and ye have made me see more than i saw, mr. hodder,--already ye have. ye've got the whole thing in ye're eye, and i only had a part of it. it's because ye're the bigger man of the two." "you thought i'd come to it?" demanded hodder, as though the full force of this insight had just struck him. "well," said mccrae, "i hoped. it seemed, to look at ye, ye'r true nature--what was by rights inside of ye. that's the best explaining i can do. and i call to mind that time ye spoke about not making the men in the classes christians--that was what started me to thinking." "and you asked me," returned the rector, "how welcome some of them would be in mr. parr's pew." "ah, it worried me," declared the assistant, with characteristic frankness, "to see how deep ye were getting in with him." hodder did not reply to this. he had himself risen, and stood looking at mccrae, filled with a new thought. "there is one thing i should like to say to you--which is very difficult, mccrae, but i have no doubt you see the matter as clearly as i do. in making this fight, i have no one but myself to consider. i am a single man--" "yell not need to go on," answered mccrae, with an odd mixture of sternness and gentleness in his voice. "i'll stand and fall with ye, mr. hodder. before i ever thought of the church i learned a trade, as a boy in scotland. i'm not a bad carpenter. and if worse comes to worse, i've an idea i can make as much with my hands as i make in the ministry." the smile they exchanged across the table sealed the compact between them. ii the electric car which carried him to his appointment with the financier shot westward like a meteor through the night. and now that the hour was actually at hand, it seemed to hodder that he was absurdly unprepared to meet it. new and formidable aspects, hitherto unthought of, rose in his mind, and the figure of eldon parr loomed to brobdingnagian proportions as he approached it. in spite of his determination, the life-blood of his confidence ebbed, a sense of the power and might of the man who had now become his adversary increased; and that apprehension of the impact of the great banker's personality, the cutting edge with the vast achievements wedged in behind it, each adding weight and impetus to its momentum the apprehension he had felt in less degree on the day of the first meeting, and which had almost immediately evaporated--surged up in him now. his fear was lest the charged atmosphere of the banker's presence might deflect his own hitherto clear perception of true worth. he dreaded, once in the midst of those disturbing currents, a bungling presentation of the cause which inspired him, and which he knew to be righteousness itself. suddenly his mood shifted, betraying still another weakness, and he saw eldon parr, suddenly, vividly--more vividly, indeed, than ever before--in the shades of the hell of his loneliness. and pity welled up, drowning the image of incarnate greed and selfishness and lust for wealth and power: the unique pathos of his former relationship with the man reasserted itself, and hodder was conscious once more of the dependence which eldon parr had had on his friendship. during that friendship he, hodder, had never lost the sense of being the stronger of the two, of being leaned upon: leaned upon by a man whom the world feared and hated, and whom he had been enable to regard with anything but compassion and the unquestionable affection which sprang from it. appalled by this transition, he alighted from the car, and stood for a moment alone in the darkness gazing at the great white houses that rose above the dusky outline of shrubbery and trees. at any rate, he wouldn't find that sense of dependence to-night. and it steeled him somewhat to think, as he resumed his steps, that he would meet now the other side, the hard side hitherto always turned away. had he needed no other warning of this, the answer to his note asking for an appointment would have been enough,--a brief and formal communication signed by the banker's secretary. . . "mr. parr is engaged just at present, sir," said the servant who opened the door. "would you be good enough to step into the library?" hardly had he entered the room when he heard a sound behind him, and turned to confront alison. the thought of her, too, had complicated infinitely his emotions concerning the interview before him, and the sight of her now, of her mature beauty displayed in evening dress, of her white throat gleaming whiter against the severe black of her gown, made him literally speechless. never had he accused her of boldness, and now least of all. it was the quality of her splendid courage that was borne in upon him once more above the host of other feelings and impressions, for he read in her eyes a knowledge of the meaning of his visit. they stood facing each other an appreciable moment. "mr. langmaid is with him now," she said, in a low voice. "yes," he answered. her eyes still rested on his face, questioningly, appraisingly, as though she were seeking to estimate his preparedness for the ordeal before him, his ability to go through with it successfully, triumphantly. and in her mention of langmaid he recognized that she had meant to sound a note of warning. she had intimated a consultation of the captains, a council of war. and yet he had never spoken to her of this visit. this proof of her partisanship, that she had come to him at the crucial instant, overwhelmed him. "you know why i am here?" he managed to say. it had to do with the extent of her knowledge. "oh, why shouldn't i?" she cried, "after what you have told me. and could you think i didn't understand, from the beginning, that it meant this?" his agitation still hampered him. he made a gesture of assent. "it was inevitable," he said. "yes, it' was inevitable," she assented, and walked slowly to the mantel, resting her hand on it and bending her head. "i felt that you would not shirk it, and yet i realize how painful it must be to you." "and to you," he replied quickly. "yes, and to me. i do not know what you know, specifically,--i have never sought to find out things, in detail. that would be horrid. but i understand--in general--i have understood for many years." she raised her head, and flashed him a glance that was between a quivering smile and tears. "and i know that you have certain specific information." he could only wonder at her intuition. "so far as i am concerned, it is not for the world," he answered. "oh, i appreciate that in you!" she exclaimed. "i wished you to know it. i wished you to know," she added, a little unsteadily, "how much i admire you for what you are doing. they are afraid of you--they will crush you if they can." he did not reply. "but you are going to speak the truth," she continued, her voice low and vibrating, "that is splendid! it must have its effect, no matter what happens." "do you feel that?" he asked, taking a step toward her. "yes. when i see you, i feel it, i think." . . . whatever answer he might have made to this was frustrated by the appearance of the figure of nelson langmaid in the doorway. he seemed to survey them benevolently through his spectacles. "how are you, hodder? well, alison, i have to leave without seeing anything of you--you must induce your father not to bring his business home with him. just a word," he added to the rector, "before you go up." hodder turned to alison. "good night," he said. the gentle but unmistakable pressure of her hand he interpreted as the pinning on him of the badge of her faith. he was to go into battle wearing her colours. their eyes met. "good night," she answered . . . . in the hall the lawyer took his arm. "what's the trouble, hodder?" he asked, sympathetically. hodder, although on his guard, was somewhat taken aback by the directness of the onslaught. "i'm afraid, mr. langmaid," the rector replied, "that it would take me longer to tell you than the time at your disposal." "dear me," said the lawyer, "this is too bad. why didn't you come to me? i am a good friend of yours, hodder, and there is an additional bond between us on my sister's account. she is extremely fond of you, you know. and i have a certain feeling of responsibility for you,--i brought you here." "you have always been very kind, and i appreciate it," hodder replied. "i should be sorry to cause you any worry or annoyance. but you must understand that i cannot share the responsibility of my acts with any one." "a little advice from an old legal head is sometimes not out of place. even dr. gilman used to consult me. i hope you will bear in mind how remarkably well you have been getting along at st. john's, and what a success you've made." "success!" echoed the rector. either mr. langmaid read nothing in his face, or was determined to read nothing. "assuredly," he answered, benignly. "you have managed to please everybody, mr. parr included,--and some of us are not easy to please. i thought i'd tell you this, as a friend, as your first friend in the parish. your achievement has been all the more remarkable, following, as you did, dr. gilman. now it would greatly distress me to see that state of things disturbed, both for your sake and others. i thought i would just give you a hint, as you are going to see mr. parr, that he is in rather a nervous state. these so-called political reformers have upset the market and started a lot of legal complications that's why i'm here to-night. go easy with him. i know you won't do anything foolish." the lawyer accompanied this statement with a pat, but this time he did not succeed in concealing his concern. "that depends on one's point of view," hodder returned, with a smile. "i do not know how you have come to suspect that i am going to disturb mr. parr, but what i have to say to him is between him and me." langmaid took up his hat from the table, and sighed. "drop in on me sometime," he said, "i'd like to talk to you--hodder heard a voice behind him, and turned. a servant was standing there. "mr. parr is ready to see you, sir," he said. the rector followed him up the stairs, to the room on the second floor, half office, half study, where the capitalist transacted his business when at home. iii eldon parr was huddled over his desk reading a typewritten document; but he rose, and held out his hand, which hodder took. "how are you, mr. hodder? i'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but matters of some legal importance have arisen on which i was obliged to make a decision. you're well, i hope." he shot a glance at the rector, and sat down again, still holding the sheets. "if you will excuse me a moment longer, i'll finish this." "certainly," hodder replied. "take a chair," said mr. parr, "you'll find the evening paper beside you." hodder sat down, and the banker resumed his perusal of the document, his eye running rapidly over the pages, pausing once in a while to scratch out a word or to make a note on the margin. in the concentration of the man on the task before him the rector read a design, an implication that the affairs of the church were of a minor importance: sensed, indeed, the new attitude of hostility, gazed upon the undiscovered side, the dangerous side before which other men had quailed. alison's words recurred to him, "they are afraid of you, they will crush you if they can." eldon parr betrayed, at any rate, no sign of fear. if his mental posture were further analyzed, it might be made out to contain an intimation that the rector, by some act, had forfeited the right to the unique privilege of the old relationship. well, the fact that the banker had, in some apparently occult manner, been warned, would make hodder's task easier--or rather less difficult. his feelings were even more complicated than he had anticipated. the moments of suspense were trying to his nerves, and he had a shrewd notion that this making men wait was a favourite manoeuvre of eldon parr's; nor had he underrated the benumbing force of that personality. it was evident that the financier intended him to open the battle, and he was --as he had expected--finding it difficult to marshal the regiments of his arguments. in vain he thought of the tragedy of garvin . . . . the thing was more complicated. and behind this redoubtable and sinister eldon parr he saw, as it were, the wraith of that: other who had once confessed the misery of his loneliness. . . . at last the banker rang, sharply, the bell on his desk. a secretary entered, to whom he dictated a telegram which contained these words: "langmaid has discovered a way out." it was to be sent to an address in texas. then he turned in his chair and crossed his knees, his hand fondling an ivory paper-cutter. he smiled a little. "well, mr. hodder," he said. the rector, intensely on his guard, merely inclined his head in recognition that his turn had come. "i was sorry," the banker continued, after a perceptible pause,--that you could not see your way clear to have come with me on the cruise." "i must thank you again," hodder answered, "but i felt--as i wrote you --that certain matters made it impossible for me to go." "i suppose you had your reasons, but i think you would have enjoyed the trip. i had a good, seaworthy boat--i chartered her from mr. lieber, the president of the continental zinc, you know. i went as far as labrador. a wonderful coast, mr. hodder." "it must be," agreed the rector. it was clear that mr. parr intended to throw upon him the onus of the first move. there was a silence, brief, indeed, but long enough for hodder to feel more and more distinctly the granite hardness which the other had become, to experience a rising, reenforcing anger. he went forward, steadily but resolutely, on the crest of it. "i have remained in the city," he continued, "and i have had the opportunity to discover certain facts of which i have hitherto been ignorant, and which, in my opinion, profoundly affect the welfare of the church. it is of these i wished to speak to you." mr. parr waited. "it is not much of an exaggeration to say that ever since i came here i have been aware that st. john's, considering the long standing of the parish, the situation of the church in a thickly populated district, is not fulfilling its mission. but i have failed until now to perceive the causes of that inefficiency." "inefficiency?" the banker repeated the word. "inefficiency," said hodder. "the reproach, the responsibility is largely mine, as the rector, the spiritual, head of the parish. i believe i am right when i say that the reason for the decision, some twenty years ago, to leave the church where it is, instead of selling the property and building in the west end, was that it might minister to the poor in the neighbourhood, to bring religion and hope into their lives, and to exert its influence towards eradicating the vice and misery which surround it." "but i thought you had agreed," said mr. parr, coldly, "that we were to provide for that in the new chapel and settlement house." "for reasons which i hope to make plain to you, mr. parr," hodder replied, "those people can never be reached, as they ought to be reached, by building that settlement house. the principle is wrong, the day is past when such things can be done--in that way." he laid an emphasis on these words. "it is good, i grant you, to care for the babies and children of the poor, it is good to get young women and men out of the dance-halls, to provide innocent amusement, distraction, instruction. but it is not enough. it leaves the great, transforming thing in the lives of these people untouched, and it will forever remain untouched so long as a sense of wrong, a continually deepening impression of an unchristian civilization upheld by the church herself, exists. such an undertaking as that settlement house--i see clearly now--is a palliation, a poultice applied to one of many sores, a compromise unworthy of the high mission of the church. she should go to the root of the disease. it is her first business to make christians, who, by amending their own lives, by going out individually and collectively into the life of the nation, will gradually remove these conditions." mr. parr sat drumming on the table. hodder met his look. "so you, too, have come to it," he said. "have come to what?" "socialism." hodder, in the state of clairvoyance in which he now surprisingly found himself, accurately summed up the value and meaning of the banker's sigh. "say, rather," he replied, "that i have come to christianity. we shall never have what is called socialism until there is no longer any necessity for it, until men, of their owe free will, are ready to renounce selfish, personal ambition and power and work for humanity, for the state." mr. parr's gesture implied that he cared not by what name the thing was called, but he still appeared strangely, astonishingly calm;--hodder, with all his faculties acute, apprehended that he was dangerously calm. the man who had formerly been his friend was now completely obliterated, and he had the feeling almost of being about to grapple, in mortal combat, with some unknown monster whose tactics and resources were infinite, whose victims had never escaped. the monster was in eldon parr--that is how it came to him. the waxy, relentless demon was aroused. it behooved him, hodder, to step carefully . . . . "that is all very fine, mr. hodder, very altruistic, very christian, i've no doubt-but the world doesn't work that way." (these were the words borne in on hodder's consciousness.) "what drives the world is the motive furnished by the right of acquiring and holding property. if we had a division to-day, the able men would come out on top next year." the rector shook his head. he remembered, at that moment, horace bentley. "what drives the world is a far higher motive, mr. parr, the motive with which have been fired the great lights of history, the motive of renunciation and service which is transforming governments, which is gradually making the world a better place in which to live. and we are seeing men and women imbued with it, rising in ever increasing numbers on every side to-day." "service!" eldon parr had seized upon the word as it passed and held it. "what do you think my life has been? i suppose," he said, with a touch of intense bitterness, "that you, too, who six months ago seemed as reasonable a man as i ever met, have joined in the chorus of denunciators. it has become the fashion to-day, thanks to your socialists, reformers, and agitators, to decry a man because he is rich, to take it for granted that he is a thief and a scoundrel, that he has no sense of responsibility for his country and his fellow-men. the glory, the true democracy of this nation, lies in its equal opportunity for all. they take no account of that, of the fact that each has had the same chance as his fellows. no, but they cry out that the man who, by the sweat of his brow, has earned wealth ought to divide it up with the lazy and the self-indulgent and the shiftless. "take my case, for instance,--it is typical of thousands. i came to this city as a boy in my teens, with eight dollars in my pocket which i had earned on a farm. i swept the floor, cleaned the steps, moved boxes and ran errands in gabriel parker's store on third street. i was industrious, sober, willing to do anything. i fought, i tell you every inch of my way. as soon as i saved a little money i learned to use every ounce of brain i possessed to hold on to it. i trusted a man once, and i had to begin all over again. and i discovered, once for all, if a man doesn't look out for himself, no one will. "i don't pretend that i am any better than any one else, i have had to take life as i found it, and make the best of it. i conformed to the rules of the game; i soon had sense enough knocked into me to understand that the conditions were not of my making. but i'll say this for myself," eldon parr leaned forward over the blotter, "i had standards, and i stuck by them. i wanted to be a decent citizen, to bring up my children in the right way. i didn't squander my money, when i got it, on wine and women, i respected other men's wives, i supported the church and the institutions of the city. i too even i had my ambitions, my ideals --and they were not entirely worldly ones. you would probably accuse me of wishing to acquire only the position of power which i hold. if you had accepted my invitation to go aboard the yacht this summer, it was my intention to unfold to you a scheme of charities which has long been forming in my mind, and which i think would be of no small benefit to the city where i have made my fortune. i merely mention this to prove to you that i am not unmindful, in spite of the circumstances of my own life, of the unfortunates whose mental equipment is not equal to my own." by this "poor boy" argument which--if hodder had known--mr. parr had used at banquets with telling effect, the banker seemed to regain perspective and equilibrium, to plant his feet once more on the rock of the justification of his life, and from which, by a somewhat extraordinary process he had not quite understood, he had been partially shaken off. as he had proceeded with his personal history, his manner had gradually become one of the finality of experience over theory, of the forbearance of the practical man with the visionary. like most successful citizens of his type, he possessed in a high degree the faculty of creating sympathy, of compelling others to accept --temporarily, at least--his point of view. it was this faculty, hodder perceived, which had heretofore laid an enchantment upon him, and it was not without a certain wonder that he now felt himself to be released from the spell. the perceptions of the banker were as keen, and his sense of security was brief. somehow, as he met the searching eye of the rector, he was unable to see the man as a visionary, but beheld--and, to do him justice--felt a twinge of respect for an adversary worthy of his steel. he, who was accustomed to prepare for clouds when they were mere specks on his horizon, paused even now to marvel why he had not dealt with this. here was a man--a fanatic, if he liked--but still a man who positively did not fear him, to whom his wrath and power were as nothing! a new and startling and complicated sensation--but eldon parr was no coward. if he had, consciously or unconsciously, formerly looked upon the clergyman as a dependent, hodder appeared to be one no more. the very ruggedness of the man had enhanced, expanded--as it were--until it filled the room. and hodder had, with an audacity unparalleled in the banker's experience arraigned by implication his whole life, managed to put him on the defensive. "but if that be your experience," the rector said, "and it has become your philosophy, what is it in you that impels you to give these large sums for the public good?" "i should suppose that you, as a clergyman, might understand that my motive is a christian one." hodder sat very still, but a higher light came into his eyes. "mr. parr," he replied, "i have been a friend of yours, and i am a friend still. and what i am going to tell you is not only in the hope that others may benefit, but that your own soul may be saved. i mean that literally--your own soul. you are under the impression that you are a christian, but you are not and never have been one. and you will not be one until your whole life is transformed, until you become a different man. if you do not change, it is my duty to warn you that the sorrow and suffering, the uneasiness which you now know, and which drive you on, in search of distraction, to adding useless sums of money to your fortune --this suffering, i say, will become intensified. you will die in the knowledge of it, and live on after, in the knowledge of it." in spite of himself, the financier drew back before this unexpected blast, the very intensity of which had struck a chill of terror in his inmost being. he had been taken off his guard,--for he had supposed the day long past--if it had ever existed--when a spiritual rebuke would upset him; the day long past when a minister could pronounce one with any force. that the church should ever again presume to take herself seriously had never occurred to him. and yet--the man had denounced him in a moment of depression, of nervous irritation and exasperation against a government which had begun to interfere with the sacred liberty of its citizens, against political agitators who had spurred that government on. the world was mad. no element, it seemed, was now content to remain in its proper place. his voice, as he answered, shook with rage,--all the greater because the undaunted sternness by which it was confronted seemed to reduce it to futility. "take care!" he cried, "take care! you, nor any other man, clergyman or no clergyman, have any right to be the judge of my conduct." "on the contrary," said holder, "if your conduct affects the welfare, the progress, the reputation of the church of which i am rector, i have the right. and i intend to exercise it. it becomes my duty, however painful, to tell you, as a member of the church, wherein you have wronged the church and wronged yourself." he didn't raise his tone, and there was in it more of sorrow than of indignation. the banker turned an ashen gray . . a moment elapsed before he spoke, a transforming moment. he suddenly became ice. "very well," he said. "i can't pretend to account for these astounding views you have acquired--and i am using a mild term. let me say this: (he leaned forward a little, across the desk) i demand that you be specific. i am a busy man, i have little time to waste, i have certain matters--before me which must be attended to to-night. i warn you that i will not listen any longer to vague accusations." it was holder's turn to marvel. did eldon purr, after all; have no sense of guilt? instantaneously, automatically, his own anger rose. "you may be sure, mr. parr, that i should not be here unless i were prepared to be specific. and what i am going to say to you i have reserved for your ear alone, in the hope that you will take it to heart, while it is not yet too late, said amend your life accordingly." eldon parr shifted slightly. his look became inscrutable, was riveted on the rector. "i shall call your attention first to a man of whom you have probably never heard. he is dead now--he threw himself into the river this summer, with a curse on his lips--i am afraid--a curse against you. a few years ago he lived happily with his wife and child in a little house on the grade suburban, and he had several thousand dollars as a result of careful saving and systematic self-denial. "perhaps you have never thought of the responsibilities of a great name. this man, like thousands of others in the city, idealized you. he looked up to you as the soul of honour, as a self-made man who by his own unaided efforts--as you yourself have just pointed out--rose from a poor boy to a position of power and trust in the community. he saw you a prominent layman in the church of god. he was dazzled by the brilliancy of your success, inspired by a civilization which--gave such opportunities. he recognized that he himself had not the brains for such an achievement,--his hope and love and ambition were centred in his boy." at the word eldon parr's glance was suddenly dulled by pain. he tightened his lips. "that boy was then of a happy, merry disposition, so the mother says, and every summer night as she cooked supper she used to hear him laughing as he romped in the yard with his father. when i first saw him this summer, it was two days before his father committed suicide. the child was lying, stifled with the heat, in the back room of one of those desolate lodging houses in dalton street, and his little body had almost wasted away. "while i was there the father came in, and when he saw me he was filled with fury. he despised the church, and st. john's above all churches, because you were of it; because you who had given so generously to it had wrecked his life. you had shattered his faith in humanity, his ideal. from a normal, contented man he had deteriorated into a monomaniac whom no one would hire, a physical and mental wreck who needed care and nursing. he said he hoped the boy would die. "and what had happened? the man had bought, with all the money he had in the world, consolidated tractions. he had bought it solely because of his admiration for your ability, his faith in your name. it was inconceivable to him that a man of your standing, a public benefactor, a supporter of church and charities, would permit your name to be connected with any enterprise that was not sound and just. thousands like garvin lost all they had, while you are still a rich man. it is further asserted that you sold out all your stock at a high price, with the exception of that in the leased lines, which are guaranteed heavy dividends." "have you finished?" demanded eldon parr. "not quite, on this subject," replied the rector. "two nights after that, the man threw himself in the river. his body was pulled out by men on a tugboat, and his worthless stock certificate was in his pocket. it is now in the possession of mr. horace bentley. thanks to mr. bentley, the widow found a temporary home, and the child has almost recovered." hodder paused. his interest had suddenly become concentrated upon the banker's new demeanour, and he would not have thought it within the range of possibility that a man could listen to such a revelation concerning himself without the betrayal of some feeling. but so it was,--eldon parr had been coldly attentive, save for the one scarcely perceptible tremor when the boy was mentioned. his interrogatory gesture gave the very touch of perfection to this attitude, since it proclaimed him to have listened patiently to a charge so preposterous that a less reasonable man would have cut it short. "and what leads you to suppose," he inquired, "that i am responsible in this matter? what leads you to infer that the consolidated tractions company was not organized in good faith? do you think that business men are always infallible? the street-car lines of this city were at sixes and sevens, fighting each other; money was being wasted by poor management. the idea behind the company was a public-spirited one, to give the citizens cheaper and better service, by a more modern equipment, by a wider system of transfer. it seems to me, mr. hodder, that you put yourself in a more quixotic position than the so-called reformers when you assume that the men who organize a company in good faith are personally responsible for every share of stock that is sold, and for the welfare of every individual who may buy the stock. we force no one to buy it. they do so at their own risk. i myself have thousands of dollars of worthless stock in my safe. i have never complained." the full force of hodder's indignation went into his reply. "i am not talking about the imperfect code of human justice under which we live, mr. parr," he cried. "this is not a case in which a court of law may exonerate you, it is between you and your god. but i have taken the trouble to find out, from unquestioned sources, the truth about the consolidated tractions company--i shall not go into the details at length--they are doubtless familiar to you. i know that the legal genius of mr. langmaid, one of my vestry, made possible the organization of the company, and thereby evaded the plain spirit of the law of the state. i know that one branch line was bought for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and capitalized for three millions, and that most of the others were scandalously over-capitalized. i know that while the coming transaction was still a secret, you and other, gentlemen connected with the matter bought up large interests in other lines, which you proceeded to lease to yourselves at guaranteed dividends which these lines do not earn. i know that the first large dividend was paid out of capital. and the stock which you sold to poor garvin was so hopelessly watered that it never could have been anything but worthless. if, in spite of these facts, you do not deem yourself responsible for the misery which has been caused, if your conscience is now clear, it is my duty to tell you that there is a higher bar of justice." the intensity of the fire of the denunciation had, indeed, a momentary yet visible effect in the banker's expression. whatever the emotions thus lashed to self-betrayal, anger, hatred,--fear, perhaps, hodder could not detect a trace of penitence; and he was aware, on the part of the other, of a supreme, almost spasmodic effort for self-control. the constitutional reluctance of eldon parr to fight openly could not have been more clearly demonstrated. "because you are a clergyman, mr. hodder," he began, "because you are the rector of st. john's, i have allowed you to say things to me which i would not have permitted from any other man. i have tried to take into account your point of view, which is naturally restricted, your pardonable ignorance of what business men, who wish to do their duty by church and state, have to contend with. when you came to this parish you seemed to have a sensible, a proportional view of things; you were content to confine your activities to your own sphere, content not to meddle with politics and business, which you could, at first hand, know nothing about. the modern desire of clergymen to interfere in these matters has ruined the usefulness of many of them. "i repeat, i have tried to be patient. i venture to hope, still, that this extraordinary change in you may not be permanent, but merely the result of a natural sympathy with the weak and unwise and unfortunate who are always to be found in a complex civilization. i can even conceive how such a discovery must have shocked you, temporarily aroused your indignation, as a clergyman, against the world as it is--and, i may add, as it has always been. my personal friendship for you, and my interest in your future welfare impel me to make a final appeal to you not to ruin a career which is full of promise." the rector did not take advantage of the pause. a purely psychological curiosity hypnotized him to see how far the banker would go in his apparent generosity. "i once heard you say, i believe, in a sermon, that the christian religion is a leaven. it is the leaven that softens and ameliorates the hard conditions of life, that makes our relations with our fellow-men bearable. but life is a contest, it is war. it always has been, and always will be. business is war, commerce is war, both among nations and individuals. you cannot get around it. if a man does not exterminate his rivals they will exterminate him. in other days churches were built and endowed with the spoils of war, and did not disdain the money. to-day they cheerfully accept the support and gifts of business men. i do not accuse them of hypocrisy. it is a recognition on their part that business men, in spite of hard facts, are not unmindful of the spiritual side of life, and are not deaf to the injunction to help others. and when, let me ask you, could you find in the world's history more splendid charities than are around us to-day? institutions endowed for medical research, for the conquest of deadly diseases? libraries, hospitals, schools--men giving their fortunes for these things, the fruits of a life's work so laboriously acquired? who can say that the modern capitalist is not liberal, is not a public benefactor? "i dislike being personal, but you have forced it upon me. i dislike to refer to what i have already done in the matter of charities, but i hinted to you awhile ago of a project i have conceived and almost perfected of gifts on a much larger scale than i have ever attempted." the financier stared at him meaningly. "and i had you in mind as one of the three men whom i should consult, whom i should associate with myself in the matter. we cannot change human nature, but we can better conditions by wise giving. i do not refer now to the settle ment house, which i am ready to help make and maintain as the best in the country, but i have in mind a system to be carried out with the consent and aid of the municipal government, of play-grounds, baths, parks, places of recreation, and hospitals, for the benefit of the people, which will put our city in the very forefront of progress. and i believe, as a practical man, i can convince you that the betterment which you and i so earnestly desire can be brought about in no other way. agitation can only result in anarchy and misery for all." hodder's wrath, as he rose from his chair, was of the sort that appears incredibly to add to the physical stature,--the bewildering spiritual wrath which is rare indeed, and carries all before it. "don't tempt me, mr. parr!" he said. "now that i know the truth, i tell you frankly i would face poverty and persecution rather than consent to your offer. and i warn you once more not to flatter yourself that existence ends here, that you will, not be called to answer for every wrong act you have committed in accumulating your fortune, that what you call business is an affair of which god takes no account. what i say may seem foolishness to you, but i tell you, in the words of that foolishness, that it will not profit you to gain the whole world and lose your own soul. you remind me that the church in old time accepted gifts from the spoils of war, and i will add of rapine and murder. and the church to-day, to repeat your own parallel, grows rich with money wrongfully got. legally? ah, yes, legally, perhaps. but that will not avail you. and the kind of church you speak of--to which i, to my shame, once consented--our lord repudiates. it is none of his. i warn you, mr. parr, in his name, first to make your peace with your brothers before you presume to lay another gift on the altar." during this withering condemnation of himself eldon parr sat motionless, his face grown livid, an expression on it that continued to haunt hodder long afterwards. an expression, indeed, which made the banker almost unrecognizable. "go," he whispered, his hand trembling visibly as he pointed towards the door. "go--i have had enough of this." "not until i have said one thing more," replied the rector, undaunted. "i have found the woman whose marriage with your son you prevented, whom you bought off and started on the road to hell without any sense of responsibility. you have made of her a prostitute and a drunkard. whether she can be rescued or not is problematical. she, too, is in mr. bentley's care, a man upon whom you once showed no mercy. i leave garvin, who has gone to his death, and kate marcy and horace bentley to your conscience, mr. parr. that they are representative of many others, i do not doubt. i tell you solemnly that the whole meaning of life is service to others, and i warn you, before it is too late, to repent and make amends. gifts will not help you, and charities are of no avail." at the reference to kate marcy eldon parr's hand dropped to his side. he seemed to have physical difficulty in speaking. "ah, you have found that woman!" he leaned an elbow on the desk, he seemed suddenly to have become weary, spent, old. and hodder, as he watched him, perceived--that his haggard look was directed towards a photograph in a silver frame on the table--a photograph of preston parr. at length he broke the silence. "what would you have had me do?" he asked. "permit my son to marry a woman of the streets, i suppose. that would have been christianity, according to your notion. come now, what world you have done, if your son had been in question?" a wave of pity swept over the rector. "why," he said, why did you have nothing but cruelty in your heart, and contempt for her? when you saw that she was willing, for the love of the son whom you loved, to give up all that life meant to her, how could you destroy her without a qualm? the crime you committed was that you refused to see god in that woman's soul, when he had revealed himself to you. you looked for wile, for cunning, for self-seeking,--and they were not there. love had obliterated them. when you saw how meekly she obeyed you, and agreed to go away, why did you not have pity? if you had listened to your conscience, you would have known what to do. "i do not say that you should not have opposed the marriage--then. marriage is not to be lightly entered into. from the moment you went to see her you became responsible for her. you hurled her into the abyss, and she has come back to haunt you. you should have had her educated and cared for--she would have submitted, to any plan you proposed. and if, after a sensible separation, you became satisfied as to her character and development, and your son still wished to marry her, you should have withdrawn your objections. "as it is, and in consequence of your act, you have lost your son. he left you then, and you have no more control over him." "stop!" cried eldon parr, "for god's sake stop! i won't stand any more of this. i will not listen to criticism of my life, to strictures on my conduct from you or any other man." he reached for a book on the corner of his desk--a cheque book.--"you'll want money for these people, i suppose," he added brutally. "i will give it, but it must be understood that i do not recognize any right of theirs to demand it." for a moment holder did not trust himself to reply. he looked down across the desk at the financier, who was fumbling with the leaves. "they do not demand it, mr. parr," he answered, gently. "and i have tried to make it plain to you that you have lost the right to give it. i expected to fail in this. i have failed." "what do you mean?" eldon parr let the cheque book close. "i mean what i said," the rector replied. "that if you would save your soul you must put an end, to-morrow, to the acquisition of money, and devote the rest of your life to an earnest and sincere attempt to make just restitution to those you have wronged. and you must ask the forgiveness of god for your sins. until you do that, your charities are abominations in his sight. i will not trouble you any longer, except to say that i shall be ready to come to you at any time my presence may be of any help to you." the banker did not speak . . . . with a single glance towards the library holder left the house, but paused for a moment outside to gaze back at it, as it loomed in the darkness against the stars. chapter xxi alison goes to church i on the following sunday morning the early light filtered into alison's room, and she opened her strong eyes. presently she sprang from her bed and drew back the curtains of the windows, gazing rapturously into the crystal day. the verdure of the park was freshened to an incredible brilliancy by the dew, a thin white veil of mist was spread over the mirror of the waters, the trees flung long shadows across the turf. a few minutes later she was out, thrilled by the silence, drawing in deep, breaths of the morning air; lingering by still lakes catching the blue of the sky--a blue that left its stain upon the soul; as the sun mounted she wandered farther, losing herself in the wilderness of the forest. at eight o'clock, when she returned, there were signs that the city had awakened. a mounted policeman trotted past her as she crossed a gravel drive, and on the tree-flecked stretches, which lately had been empty as eden, human figures were scattered. a child, with a sailboat that languished for lack of wind, stared at her, first with fascination and wonder in his eyes, and then smiled at her tentatively. she returned the smile with a start. children had stared at her like that before now, and for the first time in her life she asked herself what the look might mean. she had never really been fond of them: she had never, indeed, been brought much in contact with them. but now, without warning, a sudden fierce yearning took possession of her: surprised and almost frightened, she stopped irresistibly and looked back at the thin little figure crouched beside the water, to discover that his widened eyes were still upon her. her own lingered on him shyly, and thus for a moment she hung in doubt whether to flee or stay, her heart throbbing as though she were on the brink of some unknown and momentous adventure. she took a timid step. "what's your name?" she asked. the boy told her. "what's yours?" he ventured, still under the charm. "alison." he had never heard of that name, and said so. they deplored the lack of wind. and presently, still mystified, but gathering courage, he asked her why she blushed, at which her colour deepened. "i can't help it," she told him. "i like it," the boy said. though the grass was still wet, she got down on her knees in her white skirt, the better to push the boat along the shore: once it drifted beyond their reach, and was only rescued by a fallen branch discovered with difficulty. the arrival of the boy's father, an anaemic-looking little man, put an end to their play. he deplored the condition of the lady's dress. "it doesn't matter in the least," she assured him, and fled in a mood she did not attempt to analyze. hurrying homeward, she regained her room, bathed, and at half past eight appeared in the big, formal dining-room, from which the glare of the morning light was carefully screened. her father insisted on breakfasting here; and she found him now seated before the white table-cloth, reading a newspaper. he glanced up at her critically. "so you've decided to honour me this morning," he said. "i've been out in the park," she replied, taking the chair opposite him. he resumed his reading, but presently, as she was pouring out the coffee, he lowered the paper again. "what's the occasion to-day?" he asked. "the occasion?" she repeated, without acknowledging that she had instantly grasped his implication. his eyes were on her gown. "you are not accustomed, as a rule, to pay much deference to sunday." "doesn't the bible say, somewhere," she inquired, "that the sabbath was made for man? perhaps that may be broadened after a while, to include woman." "but you have never been an advocate, so far as i know, of women taking advantage of their opportunity by going to church." "what's the use," demanded alison, "of the thousands of working women spending the best part of the day in the ordinary church, when their feet and hands and heads are aching? unless some fire is kindled in their souls, it is hopeless for them to try to obtain any benefit from religion--so-called--as it is preached to them in most churches." "fire in their souls!" exclaimed the banker. "yes. if the churches offered those who might be leaders among their fellows a practical solution of existence, kindled their self-respect, replaced a life of drudgery by one of inspiration--that would be worth while. but you will never get such a condition as that unless your pulpits are filled by personalities, instead of puppets who are all cast in one mould, and who profess to be there by divine right." "i am glad to see at least that you are taking an interest in religious matters," her father observed, meaningly. alison coloured. but she retorted with spirit. "that is true of a great many persons to-day who are thinking on the subject. if christianity is a solution of life, people are demanding of the churches that they shall perform their function, and show us how, and why, or else cease to encumber the world." eldon parr folded up his newspaper. "so you are going to church this morning," he said. "yes. at what time will you be ready?" "at quarter to eleven. but if you are going to st. john', you will have to start earlier. i'll order a car at half past ten." "where are you going?" she held her breath, unconsciously, for the answer. "to calvary," he replied coldly, as he rose to leave the room. "but i hesitate to ask you to come,--i am afraid you will not find a religion there that suits you." for a moment she could not trust herself to speak. the secret which, ever since friday evening, she had been burning to learn was disclosed . . . her father had broken with mr. hodder! "please don't order the motor for me," she said. "i'd rather go in the street cars." she sat very still in the empty room, her face burning. characteristically, her father had not once mentioned the rector of st. john's, yet had contrived to imply that her interest in hodder was greater than her interest in religion. and she was forced to admit, with her customary honesty, that the implication was true. the numbers who knew alison parr casually thought her cold. they admired a certain quality in her work, but they did not suspect that that quality was the incomplete expression of an innate idealism capable of being fanned into flame,--for she was subject to rare but ardent enthusiasms which kindled and transformed her incredibly in the eyes of the few to whom the process had been revealed. she had had even a longer list of suitors than any one guessed; men who--usually by accident--had touched the hidden spring, and suddenly beholding an unimagined woman, had consequently lost their heads. the mistake most of them had made (for subtlety in such affairs is not a masculine trait) was the failure to recognize and continue to present the quality in them which had awakened her. she had invariably discovered the feet of clay. thus disillusion had been her misfortune--perhaps it would be more accurate to say her fortune. she had built up, after each invasion, her defences more carefully and solidly than before, only to be again astonished and dismayed by the next onslaught, until at length the question had become insistent--the question of an alliance for purposes of greater security. she had returned to her childhood home to consider it, frankly recognizing it as a compromise, a fall . . . . and here, in this sanctuary of her reflection, and out of a quarter on which she had set no watch, out of a wilderness which she had believed to hold nothing save the ruined splendours of the past, had come one who, like the traditional figures of the wilderness, had attracted her by his very uncouthness and latent power. and the anomaly he presented in what might be called the vehemence of his advocacy of an outworn orthodoxy, in his occupation of the pulpit of st. john's, had quickened at once her curiosity and antagonism. it had been her sudden discovery, or rather her instinctive suspicion of the inner conflict in him which had set her standard fluttering in response. once more (for the last time--something whispered--now) she had become the lady of the lists; she sat on her walls watching, with beating heart and straining eyes, the closed helm of her champion, ready to fling down the revived remnant of her faith as prize or forfeit. she had staked all on the hope that he would not lower his lance. . . . . saturday had passed in suspense . . . . and now was flooding in on her the certainty that he had not failed her; that he had, with a sublime indifference to a worldly future and success, defied the powers. with indifference, too, to her! she knew, of course, that he loved her. a man with less of greatness would have sought a middle way . . . . when, at half past ten, she fared forth into the sunlight, she was filled with anticipation, excitement, concern, feelings enhanced and not soothed by the pulsing vibrations of the church bells in the softening air. the swift motion of the electric car was grateful. . . but at length the sight of familiar landmarks, old-fashioned dwellings crowded in between the stores and factories of lower tower street, brought back recollections of the days when she had come this way, other sunday mornings, and in a more leisurely public vehicle, with her mother. was it possible that she, alison parr, were going to church now? her excitement deepened, and she found it difficult to bring herself to the realization that her destination was a church--the church of her childhood. at this moment she could only think of st. john's as the setting of the supreme drama. when she alighted at the corner of burton street there was the well-remembered, shifting group on the pavement in front of the church porch. how many times, in the summer and winter, in fair weather and cloudy, in rain and sleet and snow had she approached that group, as she approached it now! here were the people, still, in the midst of whom her earliest associations had been formed, changed, indeed,-but yet the same. no, the change was in her, and the very vastness of that change came as a shock. these had stood still, anchored to their traditions, while she --had she grown? or merely wandered? she had searched, at least, and seen. she had once accepted them--if indeed as a child it could have been said of her that she accepted anything; she had been unable then, at any rate, to bring forward any comparisons. now she beheld them, collectively, in their complacent finery, as representing a force, a section of the army blocking the heads of the passes of the world's progress, resting on their arms, but ready at the least uneasy movement from below to man the breastworks, to fling down the traitor from above, to fight fiercely for the solidarity of their order. and alison even believed herself to detect, by something indefinable in their attitudes as they stood momentarily conversing in lowered voices, an aroused suspicion, an uneasy anticipation. her imagination went so far as to apprehend, as they greeted her unwonted appearance, that they read in it an addition to other vague and disturbing phenomena. her colour was high. "why, my dear," said mrs. atterbury, "i thought you had gone back to new york long ago!" beside his mother stood gordon--more dried up, it seemed, than ever. alison recalled him, as on this very spot, a thin, pale boy in short trousers, and mrs. atterbury a beautiful and controlled young matron associated with st. john's and with children's parties. she was wonderful yet, with her white hair and straight nose, her erect figure still slight. alison knew that mrs. atterbury had never forgiven her for rejecting her son--or rather for being the kind of woman who could reject him. "surely you haven't been here all summer?" alison admitted it, characteristically, without explanations. "it seems so natural to see you here at the old church, after all these years," the lady went on, and alison was aware that mrs. atterbury questioned--or rather was at a loss for the motives which had led such an apostate back to the fold. "we must thank mr. hodder, i suppose. he's very remarkable. i hear he is resuming the services to-day for the first time since june." alison was inclined to read a significance into mrs. atterbury's glance at her son, who was clearing his throat. "but--where is mr. parr?" he asked. "i understand he has come back from his cruise." "yes, he is back. i came without--him---as you see." she found a certain satisfaction in adding to the mystification, to the disquietude he betrayed by fidgeting more than usual. "but--he always comes when he is in town. business--i suppose--ahem!" "no," replied alison, dropping her bomb with cruel precision, "he has gone to calvary." the agitation was instantaneous. "to calvary!" exclaimed mother and son in one breath. "why?" it was gordon who demanded. "a--a special occasion there--a bishop or something?" "i'm afraid you must ask him," she said. she was delayed on the steps, first by nan ferguson, then by the laureston greys, and her news outdistanced her to the porch. charlotte plimpton looking very red and solid, her eyes glittering with excitement, blocked her way. "alison?" she cried, in the slightly nasal voice that was a gore inheritance, "i'm told your father's gone to calvary! has mr. hodder offended him? i heard rumours--wallis seems to be afraid that something has happened." "he hasn't said anything about it to me, charlotte," said alison, in quiet amusement, "but then he wouldn't, you know. i don't live here any longer, and he has no reason to think that i would be interested in church matters." "but--why did you come?" charlotte demanded, with gore naivete. alison smiled. "you mean--what was my motive?" charlotte actually performed the miracle of getting redder. she was afraid of alison--much more afraid since she had known of her vogue in the east. when alison had put into execution the astounding folly (to the gore mind) of rejecting the inheritance of millions to espouse a profession, it had been charlotte plimpton who led the chorus of ridicule and disapproval. but success, to the charlotte plimptons, is its own justification, and now her ambition (which had ramifications) was to have alison "do" her a garden. incidentally, the question had flashed through her mind as to how much alison's good looks had helped towards her triumph in certain shining circles. "oh, of course i didn't mean that," she hastened to deny, although it was exactly what she had meant. her curiosity unsatisfied--and not likely to be satisfied at once, she shifted abruptly to the other burning subject. "i was so glad when i learned you hadn't gone. grace larrabbee's garden is a dream, my dear. wallis and i stopped there the other day and the caretaker showed it to us. can't you make a plan for me, so that i may begin next spring? and there's something else i wanted to ask you. wallis and i are going to new york the end of the month. shall you be there?" "i don't know," said alison, cautiously. "we want so much to see one or two of your gardens on long island, and especially the sibleys', on the hudson. i know it will be late in the season,--but don't you think you could take us, alison? and i intend to give you a dinner. i'll write you a note. here's wallis." "well, well, well," said mr. plimpton, shaking alison's hand. "where's father? i hear he's gone to calvary." alison made her escape. inside the silent church, eleanor goodrich gave her a smile and a pressure of welcome. beside her, standing behind the rear pew, were asa waring and--mr. bentley! mr. bentley returned to st. john's! "you have come!" alison whispered. he understood her. he took her hand in his and looked down into her upturned face. "yes, my dear," he said, "and my girls have come sally grover and the others, and some friends from dalton street and elsewhere." the news, the sound of this old gentleman's voice and the touch of his hand suddenly filled her with a strange yet sober happiness. asa waring, though he had not overheard, smiled at her too, as in sympathy. his austere face was curiously illuminated, and she knew instinctively that in some way he shared her happiness. mr. bentley had come back! yes, it was an augury. from childhood she had always admired asa waring, and now she felt a closer tie . . . . she reached the pew, hesitated an instant, and slipped forward on her knees. years had gone by since she had prayed, and even now she made no attempt to translate into words the intensity of her yearning--for what? hodder's success, for one thing,--and by success she meant that he might pursue an unfaltering course. true to her temperament, she did not look for the downfall of the forces opposed to him. she beheld him persecuted, yet unyielding, and was thus lifted to an exaltation that amazed. . . if he could do it, such a struggle must sorely have an ultimate meaning! thus she found herself, trembling, on the borderland of faith. . . she arose, bewildered, her pulses beating. and presently glancing about, she took in that the church was fuller than she ever remembered having seen it, and the palpitating suspense she felt seemed to pervade, as it were, the very silence. with startling abruptness, the silence was broken by the tones of the great organ that rolled and reverberated among the arches; distant voices took up the processional; the white choir filed past,--first the treble voices of the boys, then the deeper notes of the--men,--turned and mounted the chancel steps, and then she saw hodder. her pew being among the first, he passed very near her. did he know she would be there? the sternness of his profile told her nothing. he seemed at that moment removed, set apart, consecrated--this was the word that came to her, and yet she was keenly conscious of his presence. tingling, she found herself repeating, inwardly, two, lines of the hymn "lay hold on life, and it shall be thy joy and crown eternally." "lay hold on life!" the service began,--the well-remembered, beautiful appeal and prayers which she could still repeat, after a lapse of time, almost by heart; and their music and rhythm, the simple yet magnificent language in which. they were clothed--her own language--awoke this morning a racial instinct strong in her,--she had not known how strong. or was it something in hodder's voice that seemed to illumine the ancient words with a new meaning? raising her eyes to the chancel she studied his head, and found in it still another expression of that race, the history of which had been one of protest, of development of its own character and personality. her mind went back to her first talk with him, in the garden, and she saw how her intuition had recognized in him then the spirit of a people striving to assert itself. she stood with tightened lips, during the apostles' creed, listening to his voice as it rose, strong and unfaltering, above the murmur of the congregation. at last she saw him swiftly crossing the chancel, mounting the pulpit steps, and he towered above her, a dominant figure, his white surplice sharply outlined against the dark stone of the pillar. the hymn died away, the congregation sat down. there was a sound in the church, expectant, presaging, like the stirring of leaves at the first breath of wind, and then all was silent. ii he had preached for an hour--longer, perhaps. alison could not have said how long. she had lost all sense of time. no sooner had the text been spoken, "except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of god," than she seemed to catch a fleeting glimpse of an hitherto unimagined personality. hundreds of times she had heard those words, and they had been as meaningless to her as to nicodemus. but now--now something was brought home to her of the magnificent certainty with which they must first have been spoken, of the tone and bearing and authority of him who had uttered them. was christ like that? and could it be a truth, after all, a truth only to be grasped by one who had experienced it? it was in vain that man had tried to evade this, the supreme revelation of jesus christ, had sought to substitute ceremonies and sacrifices for spiritual rebirth. it was in vain that the church herself had, from time to time, been inclined to compromise. st. paul, once the strict pharisee who had laboured for the religion of works, himself had been reborn into the religion of the spirit. it was paul who had liberated that message of rebirth, which the world has been so long in grasping, from the narrow bounds of palestine and sent it ringing down the ages to the democracies of the twentieth century. and even paul, though not consciously inconsistent, could not rid himself completely of that ancient, automatic, conception of religion which the master condemned, but had on occasions attempted fruitlessly to unite the new with the old. and thus, for a long time, christianity had been wrongly conceived as history, beginning with what to paul and the jews was an historical event, the allegory of the garden of eden, the fall of adam, and ending with the jewish conception of the atonement. this was a rationalistic and not a spiritual religion. the miracle was not the vision, whatever its nature, which saul beheld on the road to damascus. the miracle was the result of that vision, the man reborn. saul, the persecutor of christians, become paul, who spent the rest of his days, in spite of persecution and bodily infirmities, journeying tirelessly up and down the roman empire, preaching the risen christ, and labouring more abundantly than they all! there was no miracle in the new testament more wonderful than this. the risen christ! let us not trouble ourselves about the psychological problems involved, problems which the first century interpreted in its own simple way. modern, science has taught us this much, at least, that we have by no means fathomed the limits even of a transcendent personality. if proofs of the resurrection and ascension were demanded, let them be spiritual proofs, and there could be none more convincing than the life of the transformed saul, who had given to the modern, western world the message of salvation . . . . that afternoon, as alison sat motionless on a distant hillside of the park, gazing across the tree-dotted, rolling country to the westward, she recalled the breathless silence in the church when he had reached this point and paused, looking down at the congregation. by the subtle transmission of thought, of feeling which is characteristic at dramatic moments of bodies of people, she knew that he had already contrived to stir them to the quick. it was not so much that these opening words might have been startling to the strictly orthodox, but the added fact that hodder had uttered them. the sensation in the pews, as alison interpreted it and exulted over it, was one of bewildered amazement that this was their rector, the same man who had preached to them in june. like paul, of whom he spoke, he too was transformed, had come to his own, radiating a new power that seemed to shine in his face. still agitated, she considered that discourse now in her solitude, what it meant for him, for her, for the church and civilization that a clergyman should have had the courage to preach it. he himself had seemed unconscious of any courage; had never once--she recalled--been sensational. he had spoken simply, even in the intensest moments of denunciation. and she wondered now how he had managed, without stripping himself, without baring the intimate, sacred experiences of his own soul, to convey to them, so nobly, the change which had taken place in him.... he began by referring to the hope with which he had come to st. john's, and the gradual realization that the church was a failure--a dismal failure when compared to the high ideal of her master. by her fruits she should be known and judged. from the first he had contemplated, with a heavy heart, the sin and misery at their very gates. not three blocks distant children were learning vice in the streets, little boys of seven and eight, underfed and anaemic, were driven out before dawn to sell newspapers, little girls thrust forth to haunt the saloons and beg, while their own children were warmed and fed. while their own daughters were guarded, young women in dayton street were forced to sell themselves into a life which meant slow torture, inevitable early death. hopeless husbands and wives were cast up like driftwood by the cruel, resistless flood of modern civilization--the very civilization which yielded their wealth and luxury. the civilization which professed the spirit of christ, and yet was pitiless. he confessed to them that for a long time he had been blind to the truth, had taken the inherited, unchristian view that the disease which caused vice and poverty might not be cured, though its ulcers might be alleviated. he had not, indeed, clearly perceived and recognized the disease. he had regarded dalton street in a very special sense as a reproach to st. john's, but now he saw that all such neighbourhoods were in reality a reproach to the city, to the state, to the nation. true christianity and democracy were identical, and the congregation of st. john's, as professed christians and citizens, were doubly responsible, inasmuch as they not only made no protest or attempt to change a government which permitted the dalton streets to exist, but inasmuch also as,--directly or indirectly,--they derived a profit from conditions which were an abomination to god. it would be but an idle mockery for them to go and build a settlement house, if they did not first reform their lives. here there had been a decided stir among the pews. hodder had not seemed to notice it. when he, their rector, had gone to dalton street to invite the poor and wretched into god's church, he was met by the scornful question: "are the christians of the churches any better than we? christians own the grim tenements in which we live, the saloons and brothels by which we are surrounded, which devour our children. christians own the establishments which pay us starvation wages; profit by politics, and take toll from our very vice; evade the laws and reap millions, while we are sent to jail. is their god a god who will lift us out of our misery and distress? are their churches for the poor? are not the very pews in which they sit as closed to us as their houses?" "i know thy works, that thou art neither cold nor hot. i would thou wert cold or hot." one inevitable conclusion of such a revelation was that he had not preached to them the vital element of christianity. and the very fact that his presentation of religion had left many indifferent or dissatisfied was proof-positive that he had dwelt upon non-essentials, laid emphasis upon the mistaken interpretations of past ages. there were those within the church who were content with this, who--like the pharisees of old--welcomed a religion which did not interfere with their complacency, with their pursuit of pleasure and wealth, with their special privileges; welcomed a church which didn't raise her voice against the manner of their lives--against the order, the golden calf which they had set up, which did not accuse them of deliberately retarding the coming of the kingdom of god. ah, that religion was not religion, for religion was a spiritual, not a material affair. in that religion, vainly designed by man as a compromise between god and mammon, there was none of the divine discontent of the true religion of the spirit, no need of the rebirth of the soul. and those who held it might well demand, with nicodemus and the rulers of the earth, "how can these things be?" and there were others who still lingered in the church, perplexed and wistful, who had come to him and confessed that the so-called catholic acceptance of divine truths, on which he had hitherto dwelt, meant nothing to them. to these, in particular, he owed a special reparation, and he took this occasion to announce a series of sunday evening sermons on the creeds. so long as the creeds remained in the prayer book it was his duty to interpret them in terms not only of modern thought, but in harmony with the real significance of the person and message of jesus christ. those who had come to him questioning, he declared, were a thousand times right in refusing to accept the interpretations of other men, the consensus of opinion of more ignorant ages, expressed in an ancient science and an archaic philosophy. and what should be said of the vast and ever increasing numbers of those not connected with the church, who had left it or were leaving it? and of the less fortunate to whose bodily wants they had been ministering in the parish house, for whom it had no spiritual message, and who never entered its doors? the necessity of religion, of getting in touch with, of dependence on the spirit of the universe was inherent in man, and yet there were thousands--nay, millions in the nation to-day in whose hearts was an intense and unsatisfied yearning, who perceived no meaning in life, no cause for which to work, who did not know what christianity was, who had never known what it was, who wist not where to turn to find out. education had brought many of them to discern, in the church's teachings, an anachronistic medley of myths and legends, of theories of schoolmen and theologians, of surviving pagan superstitions which could not be translated into life. they saw, in christianity, only the adulterations of the centuries. if any one needed a proof of the yearning people felt, let him go to the bookshops, or read in the publishers' lists to-day the announcements of books on religion. there was no supply where there was no demand. truth might no longer be identified with tradition, and the day was past when councils and synods might determine it for all mankind. the era of forced acceptance of philosophical doctrines and dogmas was past, and that of freedom, of spiritual rebirth, of vicarious suffering, of willing sacrifice and service for a cause was upon them. that cause was democracy. christ was uniquely the son of god because he had lived and suffered and died in order to reveal to the world the meaning of this life and of the hereafter--the meaning not only for the individual, but for society as well. nothing might be added to or subtracted from that message--it was complete. true faith was simply trusting--trusting that christ gave to the world the revelation of god's plan. and the saviour himself had pointed out the proof: "if any man do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of god, or whether i speak for myself." christ had repeatedly rebuked those literal minds which had demanded material evidence: true faith spurned it, just as true friendship, true love between man and man, true trust scorned a written bond. to paraphrase st. james's words, faith without trust is dead--because faith without trust is impossible. god is a spirit, only to be recognized in the spirit, and every one of the saviour's utterances were--not of the flesh, of the man--but of the spirit within him. "he that hath seen me hath seen the father;" and "why callest thou me good? none is good save one, that is, god." the spirit, the universal meaning of life, incarnate in the human jesus. to be born again was to overcome our spiritual blindness, and then, and then only, we might behold the spirit shining in the soul of christ. that proof had sufficed for mark, had sufficed for the writer of the sublime fourth gospel, had sufficed for paul. let us lift this wondrous fact, once and for all, out of the ecclesiastical setting and incorporate it into our lives. nor need the hearts of those who seek the truth, who fear not to face it, be troubled if they be satisfied, from the gospels, that the birth of jesus was not miraculous. the physical never could prove the spiritual, which was the real and everlasting, which no discovery in science or history can take from us. the godship of christ rested upon no dogma, it was a conviction born into us with the new birth. and it becomes an integral part of our personality, our very being. the secret, then, lay in a presentation of the divine message which would convince and transform and electrify those who heard it to action--a presentation of the message in terms which the age could grasp. that is what paul had done, he had drawn his figures boldly from the customs of the life of his day, but a more or less intimate knowledge of these ancient customs were necessary before modern men and women could understand those figures and parallels. and the church must awake to her opportunities, to her perception of the cause. . . . what, then, was the function, the mission of the church universal? once she had laid claim to temporal power, believed herself to be the sole agency of god on earth, had spoken ex cathedra on philosophy, history, theology, and science, had undertaken to confer eternal bliss and to damn forever. her members, and even her priests, had gone from murder to mass and from mass to murder, and she had engaged in cruel wars and persecutions to curtail the liberties of mankind. under that conception religion was a form of insurance of the soul. perhaps a common, universal belief had been necessary in the dark ages before the sublime idea of education for the masses had come; but the church herself --through ignorance--had opposed the growth of education, had set her face sternly against the development of the individual, which christ had taught, the privilege of man to use the faculties of the intellect which god had bestowed upon him. he himself, their rector, had advocated a catholic acceptance, though much modified from the mediaeval acceptance, --one that professed to go behind it to an earlier age. yes, he must admit with shame that he had been afraid to trust where god trusted, had feared to confide the working out of the ultimate truth of the minds of the millions. the church had been monarchical in form, and some strove stubbornly and blindly to keep her monarchical. democracy in government was outstripping her. let them look around, to-day, and see what was happening in the united states of america. a great movement was going on to transfer actual participation in government from the few to the many, --a movement towards true democracy, and that was precisely what was about to happen in the church. her condition at present was one of uncertainty, transition--she feared to let go wholly of the old, she feared to embark upon the new. just as the conservatives and politicians feared to give up the representative system, the convention, so was she afraid to abandon the synod, the council, and trust to man. the light was coming slowly, the change, the rebirth of the church by gradual evolution. by the grace of god those who had laid the foundations of the church in which he stood, of all protestantism, had built for the future. the racial instinct in them had asserted itself, had warned them that to suppress freedom in religion were to suppress it in life, to paralyze that individual initiative which was the secret of their advancement. the new church universal, then, would be the militant, aggressive body of the reborn, whose mission it was to send out into the life of the nation transformed men and women who would labour unremittingly for the kingdom of god. unity would come--but unity in freedom, true catholicity. the truth would gradually pervade the masses--be wrought out by them. even the great evolutionary forces of the age, such as economic necessity, were acting to drive divided christianity into consolidation, and the starving churches of country villages were now beginning to combine. no man might venture to predict the details of the future organization of the united church, although st. paul himself had sketched it in broad outline: every worker, lay and clerical, labouring according to his gift, teachers, executives, ministers, visitors, missionaries, healers of sick and despondent souls. but the supreme function of the church was to inspire--to inspire individuals to willing service for the cause, the cause of democracy, the fellowship of mankind. if she failed to inspire, the church would wither and perish. and therefore she must revive again the race of inspirers, prophets, modern apostles to whom this gift was given, going on their rounds, awaking cities and arousing whole country-sides. but whence--it might be demanded by the cynical were the prophets to come? prophets could not be produced by training and education; prophets must be born. reborn,--that was the word. let the church have faith. once her cause were perceived, once her whole energy were directed towards its fulfilment, the prophets would arise, out of the east and out of the west, to stir mankind to higher effort, to denounce fearlessly the shortcomings and evils of the age. they had not failed in past ages, when the world had fallen into hopelessness, indifference, and darkness. and they would not fail now. prophets were personalities, and phillips brooks himself a prophet--had defined personality as a conscious relationship with god. "all truth," he had said, "comes to the world through personality." and down the ages had come an apostolic succession of personalities. paul, augustine, francis, dante, luther, milton,--yes, and abraham lincoln, and phillips brooks, whose authority was that of the spirit, whose light had so shone before men that they had glorified the father which was in heaven; the current of whose power had so radiated, in ever widening circles, as to make incandescent countless other souls. and which among them would declare that abraham lincoln, like stephen, had not seen his master in the sky? the true prophet, the true apostle, then, was one inspired and directed by the spirit, the laying on of hands was but a symbol,--the symbol of the sublime truth that one personality caught fire from another. let the church hold fast to that symbol, as an acknowledgment, a reminder of a supreme mystery. tradition had its value when it did not deteriorate into superstition, into the mechanical, automatic transmission characteristic of the mediaeval church, for the very suggestion of which peter had rebuked simon in samaria. for it would be remembered that simon had said: "give me also this power, that on whomsoever i lay hands, he may receive the holy ghost." the true successor to the apostles must be an apostle himself. jesus had seldom spoken literally, and the truths he sought to impress upon the world had of necessity been clothed in figures and symbols,--for spiritual truths might be conveyed in no other way. the supreme proof of his godship, of his complete knowledge of the meaning of life was to be found in his parables. to the literal, material mind, for example, the parable of the talents was merely an unintelligible case of injustice.... what was meant by the talents? they were opportunities for service. experience taught us that when we embraced one opportunity, one responsibility, the acceptance of it invariably led to another, and so the servant who had five talents, five opportunities, gained ten. the servant who had two gained two more. but the servant of whom only one little service was asked refused that, and was cast into outer darkness, to witness another performing the task which should have been his. hell, here and hereafter, was the spectacle of wasted opportunity, and there is no suffering to compare to it. the crime, the cardinal sin was with those who refused to serve, who shut their eyes to the ideal their lord had held up, who strove to compromise with jesus christ himself, to twist and torture his message to suit their own notions as to how life should be led; to please god and mammon at the same time, to bind christ's church for their comfort and selfish convenience. of them it was written, that they shut up the kingdom of heaven against men; for they neither go in themselves, neither suffer them that are entering to go in. were these any better than the people who had crucified the lord for his idealism, and because he had not brought them the material kingdom for which they longed? that servant who had feared to act, who had hid his talent in the ground, who had said unto his lord, "i knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hadst not sown," was the man without faith, the atheist who sees only cruelty and indifference in the order of things, who has no spiritual sight. but to the other servants it was said, "thou halt been faithful over a few things, i will make thee ruler over many things. enter thou into the joy of thy lord." the meaning of life, then, was service, and by life our lord did not mean mere human existence, which is only a part of life. the kingdom of heaven is a state, and may begin here. and that which we saw around us was only one expression of that eternal life--a medium to work through, towards god. all was service, both here and hereafter, and he that had not discovered that the joy of service was the only happiness worth living for could have no conception of the kingdom. to those who knew, there was no happiness like being able to say, "i have found my place in god's plan, i am of use." such was salvation . . . . and in the parable of the prodigal son may be read the history of what are known as the protestant nations. what happens logically when the individual is suddenly freed from the restraint of external authority occurred when martin luther released the vital spark of christianity, which he got from paul, and from christ himself--the revelation of individual responsibility, that god the spirit would dwell, by grace, in the individual soul. ah, we had paid a terrible yet necessary price for freedom. we had wandered far from the father, we had been reduced to the very husks of individualism, become as swine. we beheld around us, to-day, selfishness, ruthless competition, as great contrasts between misery and luxury as in the days of the roman empire. but should we, for that reason, return to the leading-strings of authority? could we if we would? a little thought ought to convince us that the liberation of the individual could not be revoked, that it had forever destroyed the power of authority to carry conviction. to go back to the middle ages would be to deteriorate and degenerate. no, we must go on. . . . luther's movement, in religion, had been the logical forerunner of democracy, of universal suffrage in government, the death-knell of that misinterpretation of christianity as the bulwark of monarchy and hierarchy had been sounded when he said, "ich kann nicht anders!" the new republic founded on the western continent had announced to the world the initiation of the transfer of authority to the individual soul. god, the counterpart of the king, the ruler in a high heaven of a flat terrestrial expanse, outside of the world, was now become the spirit of a million spheres, the indwelling spirit in man. democracy and the religion of jesus christ both consisted in trusting the man--yes, and the woman--whom god trusts. christianity was individualism carried beyond philosophy into religion, and the christian, the ideal citizen of the democracy, was free since he served not because he had to, but because he desired to of his own will, which, paradoxically, is god's will. god was in politics, to the confusion of politicians; god in government. and in some greater and higher sense than we had yet perceived, the saying 'vox populi vox dei' was eternally true. he entered into the hearts of people and moved them, and so the world progressed. it was the function of the church to make christians, until--when the kingdom of god should come--the blending should be complete. then church and state would be identical, since all the members of the one would be the citizens of the other . . . . "i will arise and go to my father." rebirth! a sense of responsibility, of consecration. so we had come painfully through our materialistic individualism, through our selfish protestantism, to a glimpse of the true protestantism--democracy. our spiritual vision was glowing clearer. we were beginning to perceive that charity did not consist in dispensing largesse after making a fortune at the expense of one's fellow-men; that there was something still wrong in a government that permits it. it was gradually becoming plain to us, after two thousand years, that human bodies and souls rotting in tenements were more valuable than all the forests on all the hills; that government, christian government, had something to do with these. we should embody, in government, those sublime words of the master, "suffer little children to come unto me." and the government of the future would care for the little children. we were beginning to do it. here, as elsewhere, christianity and reason went hand in hand, for the child became the man who either preyed on humanity and filled the prisons and robbed his fellows, or else grew into a useful, healthy citizen. it was nothing less than sheer folly as well as inhuman cruelty to let the children sleep in crowded, hot rooms, reeking with diseases, and run wild throughout the long summer, learning vice in the city streets. and we still had slavery--economic slavery--yes, and the more horrible slavery of women and young girls in vice--as much a concern of government as the problem which had confronted it in . . . . we were learning that there was something infinitely more sacred than property . . . . and now alison recalled, only to be thrilled again by an electric sensation she had never before experienced with such intensity, the look of inspiration on the preacher's face as he closed. the very mists of the future seemed to break before his importuning gaze, and his eyes seemed indeed to behold, against the whitening dawn of the spiritual age he predicted, the slender spires of a new church sprung from the foundations of the old. a church, truly catholic, tolerant, whose portals were wide in welcome to all mankind. the creative impulse, he had declared, was invariably religious, the highest art but the expression of the mute yearnings of a people, of a race. thus had once arisen, all over europe, those wonderful cathedrals which still cast their spell upon the world, and art to-day would respond--was responding --to the unutterable cravings of mankind, would strive once more to express in stone and glass and pigment what nations felt. generation after generation would labour with unflagging zeal until the art sculptured fragment of the new cathedral--the new cathedral of democracy --pointed upward toward the blue vault of heaven. such was his vision --god the spirit, through man reborn, carrying out his great design . . . chapter xxii "which say to the seers, see not" i as alison arose from her knees and made her way out of the pew, it was the expression on charlotte plimpton's face which brought her back once more to a sense of her surroundings; struck her, indeed, like a physical blow. the expression was a scandalized one. mrs. plimpton had moved towards her, as if to speak, but alison hurried past, her exaltation suddenly shattered, replaced by a rising tide of resentment, of angry amazement against a materialism so solid as to remain unshaken by the words which had so uplifted her. eddies were forming in the aisle as the people streamed slowly out of the church, and snatches of their conversation, in undertones, reached her ears. "i should never have believed it!" "mr. hodder, of all men. . ." "the bishop!" outside the swinging doors, in the vestibule, the voices were raised a little, and she found her path blocked. "it's incredible!" she heard gordon atterbury saying to little everett constable, who was listening gloomily. "sheer unitarianism, socialism, heresy." his attention was forcibly arrested by alison, in whose cheeks bright spots of colour burned. he stepped aside, involuntarily, apologetically, as though he had instinctively read in her attitude an unaccountable disdain. everett constable bowed uncertainly, for alison scarcely noticed them. "ahem!" said gordon, nervously, abandoning his former companion and joining her, "i was just saying, it's incredible--" she turned on him. "it is incredible," she cried, "that persons who call themselves christians cannot recognize their religion when they hear it preached." he gave back before her, visibly, in an astonishment which would have been ludicrous but for her anger. he had never understood her--such had been for him her greatest fascination;--and now she was less comprehensible than ever. the time had been when he would cheerfully have given over his hope of salvation to have been able to stir her. he had never seen her stirred, and the sight of her even now in this condition was uncomfortably agitating. of all things, an heretical sermon would appear to have accomplished this miracle! "christianity!" he stammered. "yes, christianity." her voice tingled. "i don't pretend to know much about it, but mr. hodder has at least made it plain that it is something more than dead dogmas, ceremonies, and superstitions." he would have said something, but her one thought was to escape, to be alone. these friends of her childhood were at that moment so distasteful as to have become hateful. some one laid a hand upon her arm. "can't we take you home, alison? i don't see your motor." it was mrs. constable. "no, thanks--i'm going to walk," alison answered, yet something in mrs. constable's face, in mrs. constable's voice, made her pause. something new, something oddly sympathetic. their eyes met, and alison saw that the other woman's were tired, almost haggard--yet understanding. "mr. hodder was right--a thousand times right, my dear," she said. alison could only stare at her, and the crimson in the bright spots of her cheeks spread over her face. why had mrs. constable supposed that she would care to hear the sermon praised? but a second glance put her in possession of the extraordinary fact that mrs. constable herself was profoundly moved. "i knew he would change," she went on, "i have seen for some time that he was too big a man not to change. but i had no conception that he would have such power, and such courage, as he has shown this morning. it is not only that he dared to tell us what we were--smaller men might have done that, and it is comparatively easy to denounce. but he has the vision to construct, he is a seer himself--he has really made me see what christianity is. and as long as i live i shall never forget those closing sentences." "and now?" asked alison. "and now what will happen?" mrs. constable changed colour. her tact, on which she prided herself, had deserted her in a moment of unlooked-for emotion. "oh, i know that my father and the others will try to put him out--but can they?" alison asked. it was mrs. constable's turn to stare. the head she suddenly and impulsively put forth trembled on alison's wrist. "i don't know, alison--i'm afraid they can. it is too terrible to think about. . . . and they can't--they won't believe that many changes are coming, that this is but one of many signs. . . do come and see me." alison left her, marvelling at the passage between them, and that, of all persons in the congregation of st. john's, the lightning should have struck mrs. constable. . . turning to the right on burton street, she soon found herself walking rapidly westward through deserted streets lined by factories and warehouses, and silent in the sabbath calm . . . . she thought of hodder, she would have liked to go to him in that hour . . . . in park street, luncheon was half over, and nelson langmaid was at the table with her father. the lawyer glanced at her curiously as she entered the room, and his usual word of banter, she thought, was rather lame. the two went on, for some time, discussing a railroad suit in texas. and alison, as she hurried through her meal, leaving the dishes almost untouched, scarcely heard them. once, in her reverie, her thoughts reverted to another sunday when hodder had sat, an honoured guest, in the chair which mr. langmaid now occupied . . . . it was not until they got up from the table that her father turned to her. "did you have a good sermon?" he asked. it was the underlying note of challenge to which she responded. "the only good sermon i have ever heard." their eyes met. langmaid looked down at the tip of his cigar. "mr. hodder," said eldon parr, "is to be congratulated." ii hodder, when the service was over, had sought the familiar recess in the robing-room, the words which he himself had spoken still ringing in his ears. and then he recalled the desperate prayer with which he had entered the pulpit, that it might be given him in that hour what to say: the vivid memories of the passions and miseries in dalton street, the sudden, hot response of indignation at the complacency confronting him. his voice had trembled with anger . . . . he remembered, as he had paused in his denunciation of these who had eyes and saw not, meeting the upturned look of alison parr, and his anger had turned to pity for their blindness--which once had been his own; and he had gone on and on, striving to interpret for them his new revelation of the message of the saviour, to impress upon them the dreadful yet sublime meaning of life eternal. and it was in that moment the vision of the meaning of the evolution of his race, of the prodigal turning to responsibility--of which he once had had a glimpse--had risen before his eyes in its completeness--the guiding hand of god in history! the spirit in these complacent souls, as yet unstirred . . . . so complete, now, was his forgetfulness of self, of his future, of the irrevocable consequences of the step he had taken, that it was only gradually he became aware that some one was standing near him, and with a start he recognized mccrae. "there are some waiting to speak to ye," his assistant said. "oh!" hodder exclaimed. he began, mechanically, to divest himself of his surplice. mccrae stood by. "i'd like to say a word, first--if ye don't mind--" he began. the rector looked at him quickly. "i'd like just to thank ye for that sermon--i can say no more now," said mccrae; he turned away, and left the room abruptly. this characteristic tribute from the inarticulate, loyal scotchman left him tingling . . . . he made his way to the door and saw the people in the choir room, standing silently, in groups, looking toward him. some one spoke to him, and he recognized eleanor goodrich. "we couldn't help coming, mr. hodder--just to tell you how much we admire you. it was wonderful, what you said." he grew hot with gratitude, with thankfulness that there were some who understood--and that this woman was among them, and her husband . . . phil goodrich took him by the hand. "i can understand that kind of religion," he said. "and, if necessary, i can fight for it. i have come to enlist." "and i can understand it, too," added the sunburned evelyn. "i hope you will let me help." that was all they said, but hodder understood. eleanor goodrich's eyes were dimmed as she smiled an her sister and her husband--a smile that bespoke the purest quality of pride. and it was then, as they made way for others, that the full value of their allegiance was borne in upon him, and he grasped the fact that the intangible barrier which had separated him from them had at last been broken down: his look followed the square shoulders and aggressive, close-cropped head of phil goodrich, the firm, athletic figure of evelyn, who had represented to him an entire class of modern young women, vigorous, athletic, with a scorn of cant in which he secretly sympathized, hitherto frankly untouched by spiritual interests of any sort. she had, indeed, once bluntly told him that church meant nothing to her . . . . in that little company gathered in the choir room were certain members of his congregation whom, had he taken thought, he would least have expected to see. there were mr. and mrs. bradley, an elderly couple who had attended st. john's for thirty years; and others of the same unpretentious element of his parish who were finding in modern life an increasingly difficult and bewildering problem. there was little miss tallant, an assiduous guild worker whom he had thought the most orthodox of persons; miss ramsay, who taught the children of the italian mothers; mr. carton, the organist, a professed free-thinker, with whom hodder had had many a futile argument; and martha preston, who told him that he had made her think about religion seriously for the first time in her life. and there were others, types equally diverse. young men of the choir, and others whom he had never seen, who informed him shyly that they would come again, and bring their friends . . . . and all the while, in the background, hodder had been aware of a familiar face--horace bentley's. beside him, when at length he drew near, was his friend asa waring--a strangely contrasted type. the uncompromising eyes of a born leader of men flashed from beneath the heavy white eyebrows, the button of the legion of honour gleaming in his well-kept coat seemed emblematic of the fire which in his youth had driven him forth to fight for the honour of his country--a fire still undimmed. it was he who spoke first. "this is a day i never expected to see, mr. hodder," he said, "for it has brought back to this church the man to whom it owes its existence. mr. bentley did more, by his labour and generosity, his true christianity, his charity and his wisdom, for st. john's than any other individual. it is you who have brought him back, and i wish personally to express my gratitude." mr. bentley, in mild reproof, laid his hand upon the t, shoulder of his old friend. "ah, asa," he protested, "you shouldn't say such things." "had it not been for mr. bentley," hodder explained, "i should not be here to-day." asa waring pierced the rector with his eye, appreciating the genuine feeling with which these words were spoken. and yet his look contained a question. "mr. bentley," hodder added, "has been my teacher this summer." the old gentleman's hand trembled a little on the goldheaded stick. "it is a matter of more pride to me than i can express, sir, that you are the rector of this church with which my most cherished memories are associated," he said. "but i cannot take any part of the credit you give me for the splendid vision which you have raised up before us to-day, for your inspired interpretation of history, of the meaning of our own times. you have moved me, you have given me more hope and courage than i have had for many a long year--and i thank you, mr. hodder. i am sure that god will prosper and guide you in what you have so nobly undertaken." mr. bentley turned away, walking towards the end of the room . . . . asa waring broke the silence. "i didn't know that you knew him, that you had seen what he is doing --what he has done in this city. i cannot trust myself, mr. hodder, to speak of horace bentley's life. . . i feel too strongly on the subject. i have watched, year by year, this detestable spirit of greed, this lust for money and power creeping over our country, corrupting our people and institutions, and finally tainting the church itself. you have raised your voice against it, and i respect and honour and thank you for it, the more because you have done it without resorting to sensation, and apparently with no thought of yourself. and, incidentally, you have explained the christian religion to me as i have never had it explained in my life. "i need not tell you you have made enemies--powerful ones. i can see that you are a man, and that you are prepared for them. they will leave no stone unturned, will neglect no means to put you out and disgrace you. they will be about your ears to-morrow--this afternoon, perhaps. i need not remind you that the outcome is doubtful. but i came here to assure you of my friendship and support in all you hope to accomplish in making the church what it should be. in any event, what you have done to-day will be productive of everlasting good." in a corner still lingered the group which mr. bentley had joined. and hodder, as he made his way towards it, recognized the faces of some of those who composed it. sally grower was there, and the young women who lived in mr. bentley's house, and others whose acquaintance he had made during the summer. mrs. garvin had brought little dicky, incredibly changed from the wan little figure he had first beheld in the stifling back room in dalton street; not yet robust, but freckled and tanned by the country sun and wind. the child, whom he had seen constantly in the interval, ran forward joyfully, and hodder bent down to take his hand.... these were his friends, emblematic of the new relationship in which he stood to mankind. and he owed them to horace bentley! he wondered, as he greeted them, whether they knew what their allegiance meant to him in this hour. but it sufficed that they claimed him as their own. behind them all stood kate marcy. and it struck him for the first time, as he gazed at her earnestly, how her appearance had changed. she gave him a frightened, bewildered look, as though she were unable to identify him now with the man she had known in the dalton street flat, in the restaurant. she was still struggling, groping, wondering, striving to accustom herself to the higher light of another world. "i wanted to come," she faltered. "sally grower brought me. . . " hodder went back with them to dalton street. his new ministry had begun. and on this, the first day of it, it was fitting that he should sit at the table of horace bentley, even as on that other sunday, two years agone, he had gone to the home of the first layman of the diocese, eldon parr. iii the peace of god passes understanding because sorrow and joy are mingled therein, sorrow and joy and striving. and thus the joy of emancipation may be accompanied by a heavy heart. the next morning, when hodder entered his study, he sighed as his eye fell upon the unusual pile of letters on his desk, for their writers had once been his friends. the inevitable breach had come at last. most of the letters, as he had anticipated, were painful reading. and the silver paper-cutter with which he opened the first had been a christmas present from mrs. burlingame, who had penned it, a lady of signal devotion to the church, who for many years had made it her task to supply and arrange the flowers on the altar. he had amazed and wounded her--she declared--inexpressibly, and she could no longer remain at st. john's--for the present, at least. a significant addition. he dropped the letter, and sat staring out of the window . . . presently arousing himself, setting himself resolutely to the task of reading the rest. in the mood in which he found himself he did not atop to philosophize on the rigid yet sincere attitude of the orthodox. his affection for many of them curiously remained, though it was with some difficulty he strove to reconstruct a state of mind with which he had once agreed. if christianity were to sweep on, these few unbending but faithful ones must be sacrificed: such was the law. . . many, while repudiating his new beliefs--or unbeliefs!--added, to their regrets of the change in him, protestations of a continued friendship, a conviction of his sincerity. others like mrs. atterbury, were frankly outraged and bitter. the contents of one lilac-bordered envelope brought to his eyes a faint smile. did he know--asked the sender of this--could he know the consternation he had caused in so many persons, including herself? what was she to believe? and wouldn't he lunch with her on thursday? mrs. ferguson's letter brought another smile--more thoughtful. her incoherent phrases had sprung from the heart, and the picture rose before him of the stout but frightened, good-natured lady who had never accustomed herself to the enjoyment of wealth and luxury. mr. ferguson was in such a state, and he must please not tell her husband that she had written. yet much in his sermon had struck her as so true. it seemed wrong to her to have so much, and others so little! and he had made her remember many things in her early life she had forgotten. she hoped he would see mr. ferguson, and talk to him. . . . then there was mrs. constable's short note, that troubled and puzzled him. this, too, had in it an undercurrent of fear, and the memory came to him of the harrowing afternoon he had once spent with her, when she would have seemed to have predicted the very thing which had now happened to him. and yet not that thing. he divined instinctively that a maturer thought on the subject of his sermon had brought on an uneasiness as the full consequences of this new teaching had dawned upon her consequences which she had not foreseen when she had foretold the change. and he seemed to read between the lines that the renunciation he demanded was too great. would he not let her come and talk to him? . . . miss brewer, a lady of no inconsiderable property, was among those who told him plainly that if he remained they would have to give up their pews. three or four communications were even more threatening. mr. alpheus gore, mrs. plimpton's brother, who at five and forty had managed to triple his share of the gore inheritance, wrote that it would be his regretful duty to send to the bishop an information on the subject of mr. hodder's sermon. there were, indeed, a few letters which he laid, thankfully, in a pile by themselves. these were mostly from certain humble members of his parish who had not followed their impulses to go to him after the service, or from strangers who had chanced to drop into the church. some were autobiographical, such as those of a trained nurse, a stenographer, a hardware clerk who had sat up late sunday night to summarize what that sermon had meant to him, how a gray and hopeless existence had taken on a new colour. next sunday he would bring a friend who lived in the same boarding house . . . . hodder read every word of these, and all were in the same strain: at last they could perceive a meaning to religion, an application of it to such plodding lives as theirs . . . . one or two had not understood, but had been stirred, and were coming to talk to him. another was filled with a venomous class hatred. . . . the first intimation he had of the writer of another letter seemed from the senses rather than the intellect. a warm glow suffused him, mounted to his temples as he stared at the words, turned over the sheet, and read at the bottom the not very legible signature. the handwriting, by no means classic, became then and there indelibly photographed on his brain, and summed up for him the characteristics, the warring elements in alison parr. "all afternoon," she wrote, "i have been thinking of your sermon. it was to me very wonderful--it lifted me out of myself. and oh, i want so much to believe unreservedly what you expressed so finely, that religion is democracy, or the motive power behind democracy--the service of humanity by the reborn. i understand it intellectually. i am willing to work for such a cause, but there is something in me so hard that i wonder if it can dissolve. and then i am still unable to identify that cause with the church as at present constituted, with the dogmas and ceremonies that still exist. i am too thorough a radical to have your patience. and i am filled with rage--i can think of no milder word--on coming in contact with the living embodiments of that old creed, who hold its dogmas so precious. 'which say to the seers, see not; and to the prophets, prophesy not unto us right things, speak unto us smooth things, prophesy deceits.'" "you see, i have been reading isaiah, and when i came to that paragraph it seemed so appropriate. these people have always existed. and will they not always continue to exist? i wish i could believe, wholly and unreservedly, that this class, always preponderant in the world, could be changed, diminished--done away with in a brighter future! i can, at least, sympathize with isaiah's wrath. "what you said of the longing, the yearning which exists to-day amongst the inarticulate millions moved me most--and of the place of art in religion, to express that yearning. religion the motive power of art, and art, too, service. 'consider the lilies of the field.' you have made it, at least, all-comprehensive, have given me a new point of view for which i can never be sufficiently grateful--and at a time when i needed it desperately. that you have dared to do what you have done has been and will be an inspiration, not only to myself, but to many others. this, is a longer letter, i believe, than i have ever written in my life. but i wanted you to know." he reread it twice, pondering over its phrases. "a new point of view.... at a time when i needed it desperately." it was not until then that he realized the full intensity of his desire for some expression from her since the moment he had caught sight of her in the church. but he had not been prepared for the unreserve, the impulsiveness with which she had actually written. such was his agitation that he did not heed, at first, a knock on the door, which was repeated. he thrust the letter inside his coat as the janitor of the parish house appeared. "there is a gentleman to see you, sir, in the office," he said. hodder went down the stairs. and he anticipated, from the light yet nervous pacing that he heard on the bare floor, that the visitor was none other than his vestryman, mr. gordon atterbury. the sight of the gentleman's spruce figure confirmed the guess. "good morning, mr. atterbury," he said as he entered. mr. atterbury stopped in his steps, as if he had heard a shot. "ah--good morning, mr. hodder. i stopped in on my way to the office." "sit down," said the rector. mr. atterbury sat down, but with the air of a man who does so under protest, who had not intended to. he was visibly filled and almost quivering with an excitement which seemed to demand active expression, and which the tall clergyman's physical calm and self-possession seemed to augment. for a moment mr. atterbury stared at the rector as he sat behind his desk. then he cleared his throat. "i thought of writing to you, mr. hodder. my mother, i believe, has done so. but it seemed to me, on second thought, better to come to you direct." the rector nodded, without venturing to remark on the wisdom of the course. "it occurred to me," mr. atterbury went on, "that possibly some things i wish to discuss might--ahem be dispelled in a conversation. that i might conceivably have misunderstood certain statements in your sermon of yesterday." "i tried," said the rector, "to be as clear as possible." "i thought you might not fully have realized the effect of what you said. i ought to tell you, i think, that as soon as i reached home i wrote out, as accurately as i could from memory, the gist of your remarks. and i must say frankly, although i try to put it mildly, that they appear to contradict and controvert the doctrines of the church." "which doctrines?" hodder asked. gordon atterbury sputtered. "which doctrines?" he repeated. "can it be possible that you misunderstand me? i might refer you to those which you yourself preached as late as last june, in a sermon which was one of the finest and most scholarly efforts i ever heard." "it was on that day, mr. atterbury," replied the rector, with a touch of sadness in his voice, "i made the discovery that fine and scholarly efforts were not christianity." "what do you mean?" mr. atterbury demanded. "i mean that they do not succeed in making christians." "and by that you imply that the members of your congregation, those who have been brought up and baptized and confirmed in this church, are not christians?" "i am sorry to say a great many of them are not," said the rector. "in other words, you affirm that the sacrament of baptism is of no account." "i affirm that baptism with water is not sufficient." "i'm afraid that this is very grave," mr. hodder. "i quite agree with you," replied the rector, looking straight at his vestryman. "and i understood,--" the other went on, clearing his throat once more, "i think i have it correctly stated in my notes, but i wish to be quite clear, that you denied the doctrine of the virgin birth." hodder made a strong effort to control himself. "what i have said i have said," he answered, "and i have said it in the hope that it might make some impression upon the lives of those to whom i spoke. you were one of them, mr. atterbury. and if i repeat and amplify my meaning now, it must be understood that i have no other object except that of putting you in the way of seeing that the religion of christ is unique in that it is dependent upon no doctrine or dogma, upon no external or material sign or proof or authority whatever. i am utterly indifferent to any action you may contemplate taking concerning me. read your four gospels carefully. if we do not arrive, through contemplation of our lord's sojourn on this earth, of his triumph over death, of his message--which illuminates the meaning of our lives here--at that inner spiritual conversion of which he continually speaks, and which alone will give us charity, we are not christians." "but the doctrines of the church, which we were taught from childhood to believe? the doctrines which you once professed, and of which you have now made such an unlooked-for repudiation!" "yes, i have changed," said the rector, gazing seriously at the twitching figure of his vestryman, "i was bound, body and soul, by those very doctrines." he roused himself. "but on what grounds do you declare, mr. atterbury," he demanded, somewhat sternly, "that this church is fettered by an ancient and dogmatic conception of christianity? where are you to find what are called the doctrines of the church? what may be heresy in one diocese is not so in another, and i can refer to you volumes written by ministers of this church, in good standing, whose published opinions are the same as those i expressed in my sermon of yesterday. the very cornerstone of the church is freedom, but many have yet to discover this, and we have held in our communion men of such divergent views as dr. pusey and phillips brooks. mr. newman, in his tract ninety, which was sincerely written, showed that the thirty-nine articles were capable of almost any theological interpretation. from what authoritative source are we to draw our doctrines? in the baptismal service the articles of belief are stated to be in the apostles' creed, but nowhere--in this church is it defined how their ancient language is to be interpreted. that is wisely left to the individual. shall we interpret the gospels by the creeds, which in turn purport to be interpretations of the gospels? or shall we draw our conclusions as to what the creeds may mean to us by pondering on the life of christ, and striving to do his will? 'the letter killeth, but the spirit maketh alive.'" hodder rose, and stood facing his visitor squarely. he spoke slowly, and the fact that he made no gesture gave all the more force to his words. "hereafter, mr. atterbury," he added, "so long as i am rector of this church, i am going to do my best to carry out the spirit of christ's teaching--to make christians. and there shall be no more compromise, so far as i can help it." gordon atterbury had grown very pale. he, too, got to his feet. "i--i cannot trust myself to discuss this matter with you any further, mr. hodder. i feel too deeply--too strongly on the subject. i do not pretend to account for this astonishing transformation in your opinions. up to the present i have deemed st. john's fortunate--peculiarly fortunate, in having you for its rector. i am bound to say i think you have not considered, in this change of attitude on your part, those who have made st. john's what it is, who through long and familiar association are bound to it by a thousand ties,--those who, like myself, have what may be called a family interest in this church. my father and mother were married here, i was baptized here. i think i may go so far as to add, mr. hodder, that this is our church, the church which a certain group of people have built in which to worship god, as was their right. nor do i believe we can be reproached with a lack of hospitality or charity. we maintain this parish house, with its clubs; and at no small inconvenience to ourselves we have permitted the church to remain in this district. there is no better church music in this city, and we have a beautiful service in the evening at which, all pews are free. it is not unreasonable that we should have something to say concerning the doctrine to be preached here, that we should insist that that doctrine be in accordance with what we have always believed was the true doctrine as received by this church." up to this point mr. atterbury had had a feeling that he had not carried out with much distinction the programme which he had so carefully rehearsed on the way to the parish house. hodder's poise had amazed and baffled him--he had expected to find the rector on the defensive. but now, burning anew with a sense of injustice, he had a sense at last of putting his case strongly. the feeling of triumph, however, was short lived. hodder did not reply at once. so many seconds, indeed, went by that mr. atterbury began once more to grow slightly nervous under the strange gaze to which he was subjected. and when the clergyman' spoke there was no anger in his voice, but a quality--a feeling which was disturbing, and difficult to define. "you are dealing now, mr. atterbury," he said, "with the things of caesar, not of god. this church belongs to god--not to you. but you have consecrated it to him. his truth, as christ taught it, must not be preached to suit any man's convenience. when you were young you were not taught the truth--neither was i. it was mixed with adulterations which obscured and almost neutralized it. but i intend to face it now, and to preach it, and not the comfortable compromise which gives us the illusion that we are christians because we subscribe to certain tenets, and permits us to neglect our christian duties. "and since you have spoken of charity, let me assure you that there is no such thing as charity without the transforming, personal touch. it isn't the bread or instruction or amusement we give people vicariously, but the effect of our gift--even if that gift be only a cup of cold water--in illuminating and changing their lives. and it will avail any church little to have a dozen settlement houses while her members acquiesce in a state which refuses to relieve her citizens from sickness and poverty. charity bends down only to lift others up. and with all our works, our expenditure and toil, how many have we lifted up?" gordon atterbury's indignation got the better of him. for he was the last man to behold with patience the shattering of his idols. "i think you have cast an unwarranted reflection on those who have built and made this church what it is, mr. hodder," he exclaimed. "and that you will find there are in it many--a great many earnest christians who were greatly shocked by the words you spoke yesterday, who will not tolerate any interference with their faith. i feel it my duty to speak frankly, mr hodder, disagreeable though it be, in view of our former relations. i must tell you that i am not alone in the opinion that you should resign. it is the least you can do, in justice to us, in justice to yourself. there are other bodies--i cannot call them churches--which doubtless would welcome your liberal, and i must add atrophying, interpretation of christianity. and i trust that reflection will convince you of the folly of pushing this matter to the extreme. we should greatly deplore the sensational spectacle of st. john's being involved in an ecclesiastical trial, the unpleasant notoriety into which it would bring a church hitherto untouched by that sort of thing. and i ought to tell you that i, among others, am about to send an information to the bishop." gordon atterbury hesitated a moment, but getting no reply save an inclination of the head, took up his hat. "ahem--i think that is all i have to say, mr. hodder. good morning." even then hodder did not answer, but rose and held open the door. as he made his exit under the strange scrutiny of the clergyman's gaze the little vestryman was plainly uncomfortable. he cleared his throat once more, halted, and then precipitately departed. hodder went to the window and thoughtfully watched the hurrying figure of mr. atterbury until it disappeared, almost skipping, around the corner . . . . the germ of truth, throughout the centuries, had lost nothing of its dynamic potentialities. if released and proclaimed it was still powerful enough to drive the world to insensate anger and opposition.... as he stood there, lost in reflection, a shining automobile drew up at the curb, and from it descended a firm lady in a tight-fitting suit whom he recognized as mrs wallis plimpton. a moment later she had invaded the office--for no less a word may be employed to express her physical aggressiveness, the glowing health which she radiated. "good morning, mr. hodder," she said, seating herself in one of the straight-backed chairs. "i have been so troubled since you preached that sermon yesterday, i could scarcely sleep. and i made up my mind i'd come to you the first thing this morning. mr. plimpton and i have been discussing it. in fact, people are talking of nothing else. we dined with the laureston greys last night, and they, too, were full of it." charlotte plimpton looked at him, and the flow of her words suddenly diminished. and she added, a little lamely for her, "spiritual matters in these days are so difficult, aren't they?" "spiritual matters always were difficult, mrs. plimpton," he said. "i suppose so," she assented hurriedly, with what was intended for a smile. "but what i came to ask you is this--what are we to teach our children?" "teach them the truth," the rector replied. "one of the things which troubled me most was your reference to modern criticism," she went on, recovering her facility. "i was brought up to believe that the bible was true. the governess--miss standish, you know, such a fine type of englishwoman--reads the children bible stories every sunday evening. they adore them, and little wallis can repeat them almost by heart--the pillar of cloud by day, daniel in the lions' den, and the wise men from the east. if they aren't true, some one ought to have told us before now." a note of injury had crept into her voice. "how do you feel about these things yourself?" holder inquired. "how do i feel? why, i have never thought about them very much--they were there, in the bible!" "you were taught to believe them?" "of course," she exclaimed, resenting what seemed a reflection on the gore orthodoxy. "do they in any manner affect your conduct?" "my conduct?" she repeated. "i don't know what you mean. i was brought up in the church, and mr. plimpton has always gone, and we are bringing up the children to go. is that what you mean?" "no," hodder answered, patiently, "that is not what i mean. i ask whether these stories in any way enter into your life, become part of you, and tend to make you a more useful woman?" "well--i have never considered them in that way," she replied, a little perplexed. "do you believe in them yourself?" "why--i don't know,--i've never thought. i don't suppose i do, absolutely--not in those i have mentioned." "and you think it right to teach things to your children which you do not yourself believe?" "how am i to decide?" she demanded. "first by finding out yourself what you do believe," he replied, with a touch of severity. "mr. hodder!" she cried in a scandalized voice, "do you mean to say that i, who have been brought up in this church, do not know what christianity is." he looked at her and shook his head. "you must begin by being honest with yourself," he went on, not heeding her shocked expression. "if you are really in earnest in this matter, i should be glad to help you all i can. but i warn you there is no achievement in the world more difficult than that of becoming a, christian. it means a conversion of your whole being something which you cannot now even imagine. it means a consuming desire which,--i fear,--in consideration of your present mode of life, will be difficult to acquire." "my present mode of life!" she gasped. "precisely," said the rector. he was silent, regarding, her. there was discernible not the slightest crack of crevice in the enamel of this woman's worldly armour. for the moment her outraged feelings were forgotten. the man had fascinated her. to be told, in this authoritative manner, that she was wicked was a new and delightful experience. it brought back to her the real motive of her visit, which had in reality been inspired not only by the sermon of the day before, but by sheer curiosity. "what would you have me do?" she demanded. "find yourself." "do you mean to say that i am not--myself?" she asked, now completely bewildered. "i mean to say that you are nobody until you achieve conviction." for charlotte plimpton, nee gore, to be told in her own city, by the rector of her own church that she was nobody was an event hitherto inconceivable! it was perhaps as extraordinary that she did not resent. it. curiosity still led her on. "conviction?" she repeated. "but i have conviction, mr. hodder. i believe in the doctrines of the church." "belief!" he exclaimed, and checked himself strongly. "conviction through feeling. not until then will you find what you were put in the world for." "but my husband--my children? i try to do my duty." "you must get a larger conception of it," hodder replied. "i suppose you mean," she declared, "that i am to spend the rest of my life in charity." "how you would spend the rest of your life would be revealed to you," said the rector. it was the weariness in his tone that piqued her now, the intimation that he did not believe in her sincerity--had not believed in it from the first. the life-long vanity of a woman used to be treated with consideration, to be taken seriously, was aroused. this extraordinary man had refused to enter into the details which she inquisitively craved. charlotte plimpton rose. "i shall not bother you any longer at present, mr. hodder," she said sweetly. "i know you must have, this morning especially, a great deal to trouble you." he met her scrutiny calmly. "it is only the things we permit to trouble us that do so, mrs. plimpton," he replied. "my own troubles have arisen largely from a lack of faith on the part of those whom i feel it is my duty to influence." it was then she delivered her parting shot, which she repeated, with much satisfaction, to her husband that evening. she had reached the door. "was there a special service at calvary yesterday?" she asked innocently, turning back. "not that i know of." "i wondered. mr. parr was there; i'm told--and he's never been known to desert st. john's except on the rarest occasions. but oh, mr. hodder, i must congratulate you on your influence with alison. when she has been out here before she never used to come to church at all."