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L'axamplaira film* fut raprodult grlea t la gtniroaitt da: McLannan Library McGill Univanity Montraal Laa Imagaa auhrantaa ont M raprodultaa avac la plus grand aoln, compta tanu da la condition at da la nattati da l'axamplaira fUmt, at an eonformiti avac las conditions du contrat da fllmag*. Original copias in printad papar eovars ara fllmad baginning with tha front eovar and anding on tha laat paga with a printad or illustratad impras- slon, or tha back covar whan approprlata. All othar original copiaa ara fllmad baginning on tha first paga with a printad or illustratad impraa- slon, and anding on tha laat paga with a printad or iiluatratad Impraasion. Laa axamplalras originaux dont la oouvartura an paplar ast Imprimte sont filmta an commancant par la pramiar plat at an tarmlnant soit par la darnMra paga qui comporta una ampralnta d'impiasslon ou d'illustratlon. soit par la sacond plat, salon la cas. 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Lorsqua la documant aat trop grand pour ttra raprodult an un saui cilchA, II ast film* t partir da I'angia supAriaur gaucha, da gaucha k droita, at da haut an baa, an pranant la nombra d'imagas nicassalra. Laa diagrammaa suivants llluatrsnt la mithoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 MICtOCOfY RBOIUTION TBI CHAIT (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) ^ APPLIED IIVHGE In ^^^ 1653 EqsI Moin Street S^S Rochester. Ne« York 1*609 USA •.^S (716) *82 - 0300 - Phone ^= (716) 288- 5989 - Fox I ALL WAS GOLD-GREEN (See page 166 ~~MZ T ;-: WAY HOME A NO\ iiL \ in iHt A, iHciK or W H I ■ fc ' I |.' N I; k %4- y y N ::^ MAK'!-i;'< "I^OTHERS PI ! B I. ! S HE P'-' 1 N; , -RK AND LONDON « C M X M I i^^^cz^iii^^^:^^::^^ :d PS8621 I53W39 1813 M„. •^ino. Basil ■"'*3 McLennan ^h« way homi 717720*6 COFym.HT. I., .. .V H.i,„ . . .,„,„,„ "."TtO ,H THI U«I,.D .T« T.. or A».|„CA ruausHiD siniaai.. la,. H-N ILLUSTRATIONS ALL WAS GOLO-OXEEN CHAKUE WA. CALLEO OK X^ CO ™,0„™ ^E .AME CEKE-' '""'" MONV FOR HKS. LEORAMD . "' -"" *« ™" - "-""AKo ™„ wha't ;-ve .An.'^*""' ^ TO-NIOHT IS final" HE HAD TURNED,— TO SEE HILDA " ''° " 4S» 57657 BOOK I THE WAY HOME CHAPTER I AN incident like that of the missionary box could ? A "' 5^'" Charhe Grace's mind the approx- imate date of his first conscious wish to be a clerev- man. Thinking ,t over in after life, he reckoned t^t Lir^wtr** .k'" um?74v'''"^" ^^ "^^ five years ThIk °u^" "'"'''"''' happenings grew dim to ^SiTf t ■ °"\«°°«' °"t clearly. He came, indeed, to take it as the startmg-point of his persona acnvity, referring back to it as the beginning o things rather than to his birth. All sorts of trifles would recall it-a packing-case suit ^Za^' t>""°? °' *" P«»'™ °" W" *«Jor suit, an old fashion-plate representing ladies in chignons and Grecian bends, the scent of table Imen, a mention of the Colorado plains. The Col- orado plains in particular opened up new realms to the imagination of a little boy whose horizon had been bounded hitherto by the sky-line of Vandiver „«rM K J k '^ T" ™P«"="'t excursions into the iSi ,1 . n" "^^^ *•" '^^ horse-cars in Broadway. „„, V ^- Broadway was then what it is to-day; Ihe latter especially retained its character as one pf THE W AY HOME tho«e quiet thoroughfare* known as re«idential Ex- apt where Its uniformity was broken, on one side by a row of gray freestone dwellings in a pillared, pseudo' "^ '874. though it was one of Robertsons creations, dating only from the hfties. M an expression of architectural taste it was inspired by the Oxford Movement and the Gothic revival as then understood. It is a matter of history that Robertson took Amiens Cathedral as cirt^\ °' r- °"^^''''' ^*'"^''' »"l'"i »»'«-■ He kne7that i Twas "i^rS^T" f^''!f 8«"»»"-boolc, and that weH «»r*^ • ""^ ^^"^''^ * ^'•"" *i"t" coat, as well as the precise degree to which Tommy was hard on his boott. He knew how the babl^ S was fo r^t'!!*' 'K^'^^'T^- Mn,. Waters^woufd fee kf-T^. •'""'' '"°"'*'' ^^° '«^°«'d help her to put the child "into pants." Intimate as h. had grown Uth liberally met Books, hoots, clothes, underclothes soap 'r:„:r'''"'r"' *'^t-^^"'''^-'^««*h-S^^^ soap, flannel, candies, towels, ink, groceries soonces toy^ went into the packing-case in^urn '1!^^^^ to wftisper. Wasn t it kind of Miss Smedley to give THE W A Y HOME Berth, that nice hat, mama!" or "Georgie won't be bMide him for a minute or two, he had time to .ay. Its nice to be a clergyman and get all theie nice presents, isn't it, mama?" to which she replied: Yes, dear. It s nice to be a clergyman for a good many reasons besides that." He thought he re- membered adding. "Sha'n't I be a clergyman when 1 m big, mama, and get a nice big box of raisins and ink and tooth-brushes, too?" His mother had re- plied, I hope so, dear," or something like that, before hurrying forward to take a fur cap or a box visitor'" * °' """"^ '"^'>' «"'^'n« From vondering at the donations he fel! to think- could make such gifts without uncomfortably that in this world there were people who were rich and people who were poor, and that the rich could do things impossible to gentlemen and ladies in the posiuon of hi, parents. Perhaps he could not have lived in Vandiver Place, even as far back as 1874 Mnthout knowing it. The very children with whom he played forced the fact home upon him. Fr.2l°"i?""'- ""f? ? ^'■^"'''' governess like mine," Freddy Furmyal had observed to him one day n;t afford it "^' ^ "^ ' '"'^'' ^°"' mother can't The remark was quite irrelevant, thrown out as they raced their wheelbarrows round the bit of grass- unlr r ^^ u'*^"" '•'" '""""y »"<• the street under the south transept of Amiens Cathedral TJfElVA Y HOME Charlie Grace could only retort, "Well, your papa can t give out the hymns on Sunday and make aU f.f/°P'* 8" "P and sit down." My papa don't want to. He's a dnrtnr u Charlie Grace, not having had rice-pudding that day felt at a djsadyantage. He felt at' a d sa^dvan usfd thaf" 5"k- '"''"• *°°- A ^"^'J had been th!?h t •"'"' '"^ '^ ^^'g"*^ discomfort. Not that he knew .ts meaning-quite. It only distressed h.m. with a kind of atavistic alarm. It was as ifh had been used like a whip on all the Jneration" P ecedmg h.m, as if he had felt its scourge "n a He had It m h.s mmd as he knelt on his bed thj night to say his prayers, his mother standing beside him covering his folded hands with one of h«s riband m7t' "y'^ ""^ ''T. ="'™' '^^ ''"«"•« girl, and Mr Tomlmson, and Mr. Legrand and Mrs mT ste'df v^'i'""' "'"'J""''' -d^Remnant. and Miss bmedley because she gave me my wheel- barrow and Mrs. Hornblower because sh7gave me m rocking-horse, and make me a good boy. ^ AmeT Mama, what's 'afford'?" ^men. 1^ What's what, dear?" "•Afford ' Why can't people afford a French governess like Freddy Furnival?" frn„M ^°"^ 7'*' explained to him. He had no be a te'rmV"h''![r"'' "^ ''\ "^ ^^'^ '^ " °"« "« les. " put people and things into perspective It accounted for the strength of the strong and the O THE WAY HOME weakness of the weak. Incidentally, it ranged Freddy Furnival with the former and himself and his father and mother with the latter, and left a sense of dissatisfaction. He felt somewhat as a negro child must feel when the knowledge first comes to him that he has been born black. So from the bewildering excitement of largess his mind traveled to those who were able to "afford" it. It did so less in envy than in emulation. There was little envy in his nature. What was really instinctive was his desire to do what others did; as much as they did, if not more. He was uneasy to see that others could contribute to the wants of the Waters family while he was considered negligible, impotent. Rebellion against this paralysis of good intention grew acute when Mrs. Furnival opened a cardboard box and said : "See. My little Freddy has sent this. It will be lovely for the little boy." Charlie Grace did not have to look a second time to know that the box contained a train that would go round in a circle when you touched a spring con- cealed in the engine. He knew, too, that the ma- chinery was out of gear from over-usage, and that several of the tin wheels were off. He himself had inflicted some damage on the string of cars by kicking them over, in a moment of rage against Freddy, when they were in full career. These injuries di- minished but slightly the value of the thing as a possession, since a train may be more a train than ever after it has been in collision or has met with accident. The point that hurt was that Freddy Furnival could send a present to the Waters child while his own aid had never been invited. He felt 2 9 THE WAY HOME himself overlooked, left out of the movement. Jiven the lack of personal recognition was secondary to the slight upon his powers. In spite of his fear of obtruding himself too no- ticeably mto the group of ladies circling about the packmg-case like doves round a fountain, he glided trom his perch and approached his mother tim- "Mama," he whispered, slipping his hand into hers, can t 1 put something into the box, too?" His mother smiled. "My poor darling, I don't think you ve anything left. All your toys went to the last Chnstmas tree at the Mission Church, and all your old picture-books." Still smiling, she lifted her sweet, shy eyes on the ladies who had momentarily paused in their work. "We have to make so many clean sweeps that poor Charlie can never keep any- thing for himself." ' "I've got my wheelbarrow," he corrected, in a loud whisper. "Oh, but that's too big, dear. Besides, Miss bmedley gave it to you, and she wouldn't like you to give It away." ''Well, my rocking-horse, then." "Mrs. Hornblower gave you that. She wouldn't like It, either. "No; she wouldn't like it, either," Mrs. Horn- blower herself echoed in a deep voice. He would j^j"" «^^" attempt to plead with her had she not added : Come along, ladies. We must finish before lunch. Little boys mustn't bother," she added, crushmgly. That night he left Mrs. Hornblower permanently out of his petitions. THE WAY HOME In the mean time his energies were astir. That dogged element in his nature which opposition was always to arouse began to declare itself. He would put something into the missionary box, no matter what, no matter how. He stole back to his high seat in the comer. His plans had ripened before the last parcel was secured in its resting-place, and the whole achieve- msnt neatly covered with layers of old papers. It \.as to be Remnant's task to nail the cover on, and the rector's to write the address. The ladies could now troop off to the dining-room to refresh them- selves. Charlie Grace knew what he meant to do. Having first looked into his own small room to assure him- self that there was nothing left in his possession that could be given away, he threaded the passages lead- mg from the rectory to the church. In the church, as he expected, he found Remnant. Remnant was preparing for a funeral. Having set up uie trestles on which the coffin was to rest, he was leisurely dust- mg them. "Burying Mrs. Badger," he explained, as the hoy drew near. "That '11 be one boss the less for me. There's women as don't see anything in religion but just to boss the sexton. 'Censorious ' is what I call 'em. This here Mrs. Badger 'u'd scent a speck o' dust m her pew before she'd turned the corner of Vandiver Place. There's a lot of hollerness to re- ligion, sonny. If you was a sexton you'd know. Some people think it's a soft snap, being a sexton— just christening people and marrying 'em and bury- ing 'em, like; but. Lord! if they had this job. If some old lady's feet is cold it's my fault: and if _ THE W AY HOME there s a draught down her neck it's my fault; and If the church ,s stuffy i:'s my fault; and f the windows IS open It's my fault; and if they're shut it's my fault. I'll bet you if this here old Mrs. Bad^e rwtiTndtd''-^^ "' ^'' -"^ ^^"'^ - ^"^'^ «*- ;, if.^T'iT''''^'' ^^^ ''""" oratorically. He was a little, dark man, not over thirty-five, covered ud just now ma long black dust-cloak, like a gaberdine^ which would presently be discarded for a headless gown, m honor of Mrs. Badger. He was fond of nS \ u"/'l°™ ^ ''^"°"'" "^'^ f"her in his lifetime having had the care of St. David's, trans- mitting It to his son. hJ^^"^ *° P"^ something into that missionary box, do you sonny? Now I don't hold with them missionary boxes, nohow. I say, 'Give a man a decent salary, and let him live on it.' I say, 'Don't ask a man to get along on starvation wages, just so as you can keep him where he'll have to come and jij^'ll '"'' '" '^^ ••'"P*" °f e««'"g =• present Ihat s the way sextons is treated all over the world They re kept down. The clergy is kept down, too but not so much as sextons. There ain't an old lad^ as comes to St. David's that Jon't think she's got me and your pa m her pocket-and me more than yo^r P% And that's what they call religion." of Re Jnln^' ^^'- 'v7 ^\°P«"'"g- It was the ladies ot Remnants mshke who stood in the way of his rnaking a contribution to the missionary box SnVT' \ ' >^*'"'"^ ''" °f ^"^'■■"■■°" if by S,.^^^ m-^u '''"^' '°S«''^r they could outwit them? With some glee Remnant seized the idea before it was fully exprer^ed. THE WAY HOME Say," he whispered. "Up in the loft above the Sunday-school room there's an old chest full of stuff. The Girls' Friendlies uses the things when they get up their plays. Come along and we'll see what there is." "We haven't much time," the little boy warned him. "Unless I get it into the box while they're at lunch I can't do it at all." Remnant looked at his watch. It was already late for their purpose. "Come along," he said again; and the preparations for burying Mrs. Badger were suspended. The loft was distant and up a dark stairway. Time was lost while Remnant looked for a candle to light them along. Thus there was no leisure for selection when at last they stood by the open chest. "Just dive in your hand, sonny," Remnant counseled, "as if it was a bran-pie, like, and take the first thing you get hold of." The element of chance appealing to Charlie Grace's sporting instincts, he did as directed. Out of the dusty hodge-podge in the chest he drew forth a small, soft package, flat and shapeless, wrapped in silver paper. It was an occasion on which one thing was as good as another. The conspirators stole back to the schoolroom below "Now, let's see," Remnant said, eagerly. On examining the prize and finding nothing but a wig — a man's iron-gray wig — clum.'sily made and shaggy, but still a wig — Remnant made no secret of his disgust. "That won't do," he aid, contemptuously. "It's one of them Girls' Friendly things. It's for their plays. It '11 be no use at all in a missionary box." 13 THE WAY HOME But Charlie Grace was of a different opinion. Not only would th.s donation be on original lines dtfering from the sponges and flannel and stationerv of other contributors, but he could see already the uses to which Bertha and Georgie and Tommy would put It. To any company of children in the world a wig must be a possession, a source of inspiration, a point of departure. It could be turned to as ma^y uses as a mask. Moreover, masks were common^ toys were common, games and picture-books were ^nT°u' ^"^ ^'^'? ""^^ '"^- With a wig to put on his head and stir his fancy there was no limit to the things he, Charlie Grace, could be. He cSd be a clergyman giving, out hymns and pounding a pulpit; he could be General Grant leading the 7my to war; he could be a policeman, or a postman, oTa ga bage-man. Out on the Colorado plains a wig so to the Colorado plains it should go put It before Remnant otherwise than with the laconic assertion, "They'll like it, Remnant- I know they will," but he had his way. WithTn five minutes the wig was beneath the lowest of the layers of old newspapers with which the contents o the packing-case were protected; and Remnant, alive to the urgency of the moment, and chuckCg outLnt r' '^"^;''- ^''•'''. ^'' "''°«^''" had been outaanktd, was nailing up the box. CHAPTER II pOR a few weeks there was no sequel to the fore- *■ going incident except for certain states of mind excited in Charlie Grace. He discovered, in the first place, that by taking the initiative and keeping his counsel it was possible to get his own way even in the teeth of authority. His satisfaction with this result was all the greater since it ranked liim with that strong class represented by Freddy Fumival. It took him out of the army of the relatively powerless, into which, he felt, his father and mother had been somehow thrust. He dwelt much on this fact concerning them. He did it a little wistfully, with some sense of being dis- illusioned. He had taken them hitherto to be immense, majestic creatures to whom nothing was impossible. He began to see them now as oddly hampered in ways in which he had thought them free. There were things they couldn't command, things they couldn't "afford." The knowledge gave him a twinge of humiliation that amounted to a new sensation. He didn't like it. Social phenomena he had taken for granted began to assume significance. "Mama," he said, one evening, when his mother was putting him to bed, "whenever Fanny Horn- blower comes to play with me she comes in a carriage with two black horses." THE WAY HOME "Yts, dear?" "Well, why don't I have a carriage and two black horses when I go to play with her? I go on the horse- car, with colored people in it." He knew perfectly well by this time what the answer would be. He had asked the question partly for cor- roboration, partly in the hope of further enlighten- ment. " Fanny Homblower has a carriage, dear, because her papa is rich." This was the reply he had expected. It would do well enough as a starting-point. "Well, why isn't my papa rich.'" "Beca'.se, darling, when any one becomes a clergy- man he makes up his mind to be poor." "But why doesn't he make up his mind to be rich ?" Here, however, his mother failed him. "You wouldn't understand that now, dear. I nijst tell vo\i some other time, when you're older." He sighed the sigh of resignation. He had ceased to combat the obsession of grown-up people that little boys couldn't understand what was properly explained to them. The subject even passed from his mind for several days. He was a queer lad, with spells of being active and mischievous, and other spells in which he fell into a state of dreamy meditation. His features changed readily with the feeling of the moment. In restless days his look was eager, aggressive, pugnacious. His small, deep-set eyes, over which the eyebrows were irregular, would dance tiien, and become of a steely blue, while his shock of wavy yellow hair, too fair to be red, would be either bristling or tousled. What char- acterized him even more was die lifting of his chin— i6 THE WAY HOME the long, rather pointed chin inherited from his mother In her case the oval of the face would have been per- fect had It not been marred by this slight elongation at the op. The boy had the same oval, with the same irregularity, but he had a habit of thrusting the errant feature forward, of tilting it upward, in a manner that meant obstinacy or will-power, according to one's pomt of view. When he was naughty there was no question but that the lifted chin was stubborn; when he was simply trying to do his best it was taken to denote concentration of mind. Concentration of mind was noticeable chiefly on the days when he was "good." It was real concentra- tion, too. He would sit for long periods— five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, perhaps— with no movement to express his feelings but the swinging of his scarlet legs. His mother complained that he wore out his boots on the inner sides by scuffing them to- gether in these fits of meditation. It was curious to see then how die tilting of his chin changed in expres- sion. It became contemplative, yearning, like the chins of the cherubs in the "Madonna di San Sisto " His eyes, too, would darken to violet, and his mouth, which always drooped at the comers, would droop more. "WTiat is my little boy thinking of?" his mother sometimcL said when she found him brooding in this way. But his answer, if he answered at all, rarely gave her the information she desired. He grew shy of asking questions bearing too directly on the problems of life. Nevertheless, he responded on one occasion with: "Mama, are we like Hattie Bright.?" He was kneeling on his bed, in his night-shirt. He 17 THE WA Y HO M E ^8 ready for his prayers, though he had not yet becun them His mother's back was turned as she folded the clothes he had just taken off. She reflected a mmute, trying to catch his drift. She was obliged in the end to say: "I don't know what you mean, dear." "Why did papa say Hattie Bright's mama was so"— sensifit?" ** '''* ^°^^' '''"*'''"8 a littlc-"so "Sensitive, darling. Papa did say she was sensitive, because she is. "What is sen-si-tive, mama.?" He said the word slowly but correctly. "It's thinking that people mean to hurt your feelincs when perhaps they don't." "Does Hatrie Bright's mama think people mean to hurt her feelings? "Sometimes, dear." "Is that because she's poor?" "It's because she has to work— to keep a boarding- u"'t7"1 "'!« ^''fraid some of the other ladies in the church don t think she's just as goo-just the same-as they are. "..^V\f^^ J"" ^^^ **•"« »s ^^^y are, mama.?" In God s sight she is, dear. You'd better say your prayers now, darling, and go to sleep." He knelt erect on the bed, folding his hands, which she covered with one of her own. After he had closed his eyes devoutly he opened them again. Mama, could I say 'bless Hatrie Bright's mama' atter 1 .e said Bridget and Julia and Remnant.?" Urtainly, darling. You can always pray for any one. ' The prayers proceeded, while the mother pondered 18 "^ H E WA Y HO M E over the initial question. More than once of late she had been puzzled ,n trying to follow the workings of thi '•wi? ^j ""''*" curling down into bed: What did you mean just now, dear, when vmi asked if we were like Hattie Bright >" ^ ^ But shyness had overtaken him again. "Nothing, night. Don t you like to play with her.?" she pen^stS him S°h ^'^''''y''°"t- Freddy's mama won't let him She says Hattie Bright isn't good enoueh Freddy told me. That's what you were^ng to sVv ^metCgr'-'-'^ ''-'- >'- ^""^<^ - His perspicacity alarmed her. She wished she could have consulted his father. For the moment she fek it her duty to answer him to the best of her skill. Th,,' if %" fP'^^'j^''' dear, which we shouldn't use J-hke^Fredd T "• ^'" >'°" '^'^ P^P'^ "S L'fquiSrstr^"^^^''" "-y '-^ *^' ''No, darling. Christ was poor—" • I .^;* 0°"''' ''^''^ ''^^" "ch if He'd liked. It savs inmyAA/^StonWHecould." ^ "And He didn't care to be. That's just it It shows how htde It matters whetl.er people are rich or Bnghts mama wasn't poor she'd be g^d enough o ^e,^mTma?''^- ^^^^ B«^ -oufc to p.^t-th 19 THE WAY HOME "She does play with you, doetn't ihe? And you know she's good." "She's good when she doesn't spit and say naughty words. She said a' awful naughty word the last time. Do you want to Itnow what naughty word she said, mama?" "No, dear. It isn't nice to repeat things — " "It was 'divil,'" he insisted. "Wasn't that a' awful word, mama.'" There followed a little homily on the sin of tale- bearings subject which the boy found less exciting than the rights of man, for in the midst of it he fell asleep. The next few days saw him criticizing his mother's words as inconclusive. There was a flaw in her reasoning somewhere, though he couldn't lay his finger on the spot. She was unwilling to be definite as to the status of Hattie Bright, while rhr -lodged the whole question of his position between Hattie Bright and Freddy Furnival. It was a nice point, that, as to whether, if Hatrie Bright wasn't good enough to play with Freddy Furnival, she was good enough to play with him. A number of delicate considerations were involved -n it. It would have borne discussion — but she had dodged it. He ha-l seen her dodge it as plainly as if she had dodged in a game of "chase." He pardoned it to her, however, as one of the unaccountable weaknesses of grown- up people — part of their curious inability to be frank. He pardoned it to her the more readily because of his intuitive perception that she was not much clearer on the subject than himself. He had noriced more than once how difficult she found it to answer ques- tions which seemed to him to require but a "Yes" ao THE WAY HOME or a "No." Little by little he began to get hit mother into perspective. Little by little she ceased to be the supreme, impersonal maternal force, part of the mystery of being, part of the night of time, to take on the form, proportions, and character of a woman. She began to detach herself from the chaos of primal things to become a woman among women, a woman different from other women. When he compared her with Miss Smedley, or Mrs. Furiiival, or Mrs. Hornblower he found her of a finer essence, with a sweeter voice, a lovelier smile, and tenderer ways. He wondered sometimes if all children felt so of all mamas. Fortunately, this was a mystery that could be solved by research into the senti- ments of Freddy Furnival; and the method was simple. "I've got a nicer mother than you," he said to Freddy, one day when amusements palled in the latter's nursery. "I guess you haven't," w.s Freddy's sturdy answer. "My mother says your mother is afraid to call her soul her own." "I guess she ain't." The assertion was supported by a rush that bore Freddy to the floor. There followed some wild min- utes, in which two little sailor-suited bodies rolled together, two little voices yelled, two little heads were pulled, two little faces punched, and four little red legs kicked frantically. "You say I've got a nicer mother than you," Charlie Grace demanded as the condition of peace. "I won't. I've got a nicer mother than you." The battle would have been prolonged if Freddy's French governess hadn't rushed into the room, cry- 21 THE WAY HOME mg, "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Qu'est ce qu'il y a? Oh,U michant! Oh, U mkhant!" as she shook each or them in turn. The fight thus being a drawn one, the question was left unsolved. Later experiments on Fanny Hornblower and Hattie Bright were no more suc- cessful. To his assertion, "I've got a nicer mother than you, Fanny replied by bursting into tears, while Hattie was content to put out her tongue at him, and say, "Who cares?" In the latter in- stance, however, there was some concession, as though Hattie had resigned herself to what was beyond dispute. Nevertheless, he observed his mother quietly, in order to assure himself that there was no possible truth m the assertion that she dared not call her soul her own. He didn't need to be told what the charge implied. The figure of speech explained it- selt. A soul was something inside you, like a sprite or a monkey that would spring up to heaven when you died He knew it must be a feeble creature indeed who would not lay claim to so intimate a possession as that. He didn't find his mother a feeble creature, but he noticed in her manner hesitations, timidities, mis- givings he had never chronicled before. She would keep her sweet, shy eyes on his father, like a dog waiting for the word of command. At table she scarcely ate anything herself, so anxious was she that her husband should have what he liked. She came into the rector's study with a frightened air, and never stayed longer than the time necessary to express her errand. Even with Brid-^^t and Julia she was deferential, and when Julia said one THE WAY HOME day, That's something, ma'am, I niver cooked in anny one's house Sofore, and at my time o' life I'm not gomg to \-im," his nother rephed, "Oh, very well, Julia," : nd hurriid .rom the kitchen. With the ladies of v.hi, parish she was almost painfully eager to please, ahe toik advice from Mrs. Fur- nival, and complaints from Mrs. Bright, and snubs from Mrs. Hornblower as though any form of recog- nition were a kindness. When affection was shown her— as, it must be admitted, was often the case— her gratitude was touching, and generally accom- panied by mists of tears. These indications worried Charlie Grace. He passed many dreamy minutes pondering over their significance. He went so far at last as to bring the subject tactfully before Remnant. Remnant was in the church "cleaning the bird." The moment was favorable therefore to confidence. "Some o' them bosses," he observed, as the little boy drew near, "wouldn't think this here brass eagle was shiny enough, not if it gave 'em sunburn to sit under it. It's a regular idol to 'em, that's what it is. If they'd listen to the words your pa reads to them «'* they'd have more consideration for me." "My mama isn't afraid of them." The aggressive tone caused Remnant to cock his eye over the beak of the lectern while he said, drvlv "Ain't she, though?" ''No, she ain't." "Then she's not the woman I took her for." The boy felt his heart sink, though he stood his ground. "What woman did you take her for Remnant?" he asked, subtly. ' Remnant muttered his reply under his breath, 23 THE WAY HOME while he thrust the chamois leather between the eagle's claws. "I took her for better than some o' them as thought she wasn't good enough to marry your pa — that's who I took her for. But it's some- thing you can't understand, sonny. You're too young. There's a lot of hoUemess to religion. You've got to be a sexton to know how some of these old ar-ij-tocrats 'II feel when a country lawyer's daughter is brought in all of a sudden to rule over them, like. I never see nothing like it — the day the news come. And him a widower for seven years! — just up at Horsehair Hill for a vacation. To be bowled over by a pretty face and a slim figure as if he was a boy, when he might ha' had Miss Smedley and all her money. 'Twas against nature, in a way of speaking. I heard it said that Miss Smedley 'u'd hardly come out o' one faint before she'd go off into another — ^and there was others just as bad. I tell you it was nuts for me, sonny — though it's not to be wondered at that your poor ma don't hardly dare to call her soul her own." So that was it. The conditions were incidental to his father's second marriage. It was knowledge still recent to him that his father had married two wives. The information when it came had cleared up certain difficulties that had vexed him ever since his mind had begun to grapple with the subject of human relationships. He had never understood why it was that when Freddy Fumival had lost a sister two years younger than himself, and Fanny Horn- blower still possessed a brother two years older, his brother, Edward, should be a man grown and his sister, Emma, a married woman. From such frag- ments of their letters as he could comprehend he 24 THE WAY HOME knew them to be in the course of constructing what seemed like new worlds— Edward at Seattle, and Emma, with her husband, Mr. Tomlinson, in Minne- saba. He had never so much as seen brother Edward, or sister Emma, or brother-in-law Mr. Tomlinson, nor did their correspondence betray inordinate affection toward his mother or himself. Upon these curious conditions, so different from the phenomena of such other domestic circles as had come under his obser- vation, the knowledge that his father had had a wife and family previous to those who now occupied the rectory had produced much the same effect as a candle in a big, dark room— yielding light enough to see by, but leaving vast spaces unillumined. And now Remnant had lit another candle. There was more light— but light that put all the familiar thmgs out of proportion and cast grotesque, enor- mou.'! shadows up and down the walls. He had a distinct sense of entering on a world of things too large for him. Of Remnant's words he seized the gist but vaguely. He might have missed even that had it not been for Remnant's repetition of phrases that had already been disturbing. There was, then, some resemblance between Hattie Bright and them- selves. His mother had reason for being timid in her surroundings. "Your poor ma," Remnant had called her, with a compassion Charlie Grace resented. Nevertheless he found himself using the epithet himself: "Your poor ma." It came to him men- tally, as the only sufficient expression for his feelings, when, one day at lunch, he saw her pleading with his father to eat the portion of tapioca-pudding he had pushed away contemptuously. " Do taste it, William. I thought it was what you 8 25 THE WAY HOME ^d Jr^f^p-p, j» "^.^ 'i-f K ..id JtrfS™'"; "• "?• ' ''« "". who „S To the boy the incident was trivial Tt », of those to be dismi«P^ 2-\ u- „ ^^^ °"^ Well, mama loves her little boy " "^^ "ead. bein, BrV^^tnt" rh^Tarrt'Snt'^ the arawing-room to offer the grl^t Jadv X ^ JYou've doubtless had news of that r^issionary His mother shook her head. 26 CHARLrE WAS CALLED ON TO GO THROUGH THE SAME CEREMONY FOR MRS. UECSRAND THE WAY H OME "Then you've written?" She confessed that she hadn't. "But 111 ask Dr. Grace to write if you think I ought. "You won't think me carping, but I should wnte myself. I t/tin* I should write myself. And you 1 pardon me if 1 say I should do it at once. You 11 find that we ladies in New York take much of the burden from our husbands' shoulders. It leaves them more free to concentrate on their own affairs. You can always tell when a lady has been used to things by her efficiency." t j j t "I'll write at once, Mrs. Hornblower. Indeed 1 v^iU. I'll write to-night." "Pray do," he heard Mrs. Hornblower say as, carefully balancing himself, he carried his tray from the room again. "You'll oblige me. "Your poo. ma" came unbidden to his mind; and it came again when, not a half-hour later, he was called on to go through the same ceremony of the cake and wine for Mrs. Legrand. He d»d " the more willingly on this occasion, since he liked Mrs. Legrand and thought her the most beautiful creature in the worid, his mama excepted. "You dear little boy," she laughed, graciously, as he stood before her with his tray. "No, thank you Well, yes; I will. It's so quaint to be taking cake and wine in the afternoon, don't you know it isf You can hardly fancy how quaint it seems to me, now that every one has five-o'clock tea. I think that s such a nice custom, don't you, Mrs. Grace? Comes from England, you know. Lots of people are adoptmg it -the Prouds and the Louds and all the best houses. I wish you'd set it up, too, Mrs. Grace. Won t you? Please do. I'm dying to— only I'm afraid it would 27 THE WAY HOME look so funny for the assistant's wife to establish it before the rector's." Her light laugh kept Charlie Grace from listening to his mother's reply. Indeed, he could not have listened in any case, for in the contemplation of young Mrs. Legrand his faculties were taxed to the utmost. Politeness obliging him to stand at a dis- tance till she had finished toying with her wine- glass, his position for surveying her was advanta- geous. There was never anything, he was sure, so delicate as her features, so graceful as her hands. Her chignon seemed of spun-sugar, while her tiny hat, tilted down toward her forehead, was like some pale-blue flower. Pale blue were the serrated rows of little flounces that covered her dress in front, and pale blue the billowy effects artfully massed behind. She was sitting now, but the boy looked forward to seeing her walk — she would do it with so gracefully balanced a Grecian bend. "You can hardly fancy how funny it is to be a clergyman's wife," Mrs. Legrand laughed on. "I haven't got used to it, though I've been married nearly two months. It's quite different from any- thing I ever expected, don't you know it is? Papa and mama would never have let me do it if Rufus hadn't been — ^well, you know what the Legrands are. I think it's foolish all this caring so much about family, don't you?" Mrs. Grace thought it natural that those who came of old families should be proud of the fact. "Well, that's what papa says. He's got books and books about our pedigree — patroons and those things, you know — and Rufus is descended from the famous Lady Esther Legrand. You read about her 28 THE WAY HOME m history— how she came over from the English side and nursed the Revolutionary soldiers. But I do think it's foolish laying so much stress upon it, don't you?— esp jially when you marry into the Church. Not that I think I have married into the Church. I've married Rufus. I haven't married a clergyman, but a man." Mrs. Legrand had a way of holding her head to one side, with a challenging smile, as though to say. Now, what do you think of that?" Her words on this occasion had, however, the lack of conviction which comes from saying the same thing too often. In fact, Mrs. Grace, having heard them before, could let Mrs. Legrand run on. "So many people think that because you've mar- ried a clergyman you become a kind of curate, don't you know they do? But I don't agree with that at all. Mrs. Homblower doesn't go and help her husband at the bank. I consider a woman's duty is in her home. I consider that a model home is just as much an example to a parish as anything else. I tell Rufus I can't teach a Sunday-school or go and read to old women, but I can give him a model home. It would be very funny if I couldn't— don't you think it would .?— after the homes I'm used to. My aunt keeps thir- teen servants, and I visit a great deal there. And m a congregation like St. David's I should think it must make a difference to have people at the head of it who are— who are— well, you know what I mean." Fortunately, Mrs. Homblower had supplied the right word. "Who are used to things," Mrs. Grace was able to fill in. "That's just it. You understand so well, don't you know you do? So many of the clergy and their 29 THE WAY HOME wives nowadays— well, they're not used to things. That's all you can say about them. They come from the queerest sort of families — " "Dr. Grace's father was a carpenter." Mrs. Legrand sprang up, with a ruffle of her tiny flounces. "Oh, well, Dr. Grace! He's different. He's so wonderful. And you're so wonderful, too, Mrs. Grace, don't you know you are? There are some people who don't have to have the things other people are dependent on. They're enough in them- selves. I'm very democratic that way. I think there's a great deal too much made of family, espe- cially in New York. And Dr. Grace will be a bishop some day, besides. Oh, I hope he'll be a bishop. Do make him. Ivufus says he refused the bishopric of Southern Aiizonu, or Southern something, when it was offered him, but I hope he won't do it again. I'm going to work on old Mr. Legrand — Rufus's uncle, you know — he's something high up in the General Convention, or whatever it is — so that they'll elect Dr. Grace to the very first nice thing — really nice thing, you know — ^not like Southern Arizona — that turns up. Oh, don't thank me. It's quite selfish on my part because, you see, if Dr. Grace was made a bishop, why, then Rufus— Oh, well, we won't talk about it yet." Mrs. Legrand set her half-emptied wineglass on the silver tray and dusted the crumbs of cake from the tips of the fingers of her pale-blue kid glovfs. "Oh, you dear little boy!" she cried, patting the youngster on the head. "Isn't he cunning!" she continued, turning to the mother, "Perhaps he'll be a clergyman, too, some day. ' .•JO THE WAY HOME Mrs. Grace smiled. "I hope so." It was such a fascinating prospect that, in spite of his shyness before the visitor, the boy couldn't help whispering, "Shall I, mama?" "I hope so, dear," was the answer again, in a tone which, as long as he lived, remained a memory in his mental hearing. He carried his tray to the dining-room sideboard, and when he returned the caller was gone. His mother had reseated herself aimlessly. She rested her arm on a cold marble-topped table while she looked vaguely out through one of the Gothic win- dows to a spot of sunlight lying warm on the stunted brownstone transept of Amiens Cathedral. After the youth and beauty of the visitor she struck him for the first time in his life as faded and dejected. In her plain gray dress, which complied with the fashion of the day only to the extent of two meager rows of frills, she looked old, too, though she was just over thirty. She hadn't seen him return, so that he could watch her from the doorway. He felt once more that fear concerning her which had haunted him now for a week or two. It became alarm. It became panic. He wanted assurance, comfort. He felt his heart swelling to an irresistible need of speech. "Mama!" he cried, still from the doorway. "Mama! You're not afraid to call your soul your own, are you ?" She turned upon him fiercely. She was hag- gard. Her open hand struck the table. She had never looked at him so before. "Who said that?" He burst into loud tears. He was too terrified to 3« THE WAY HOME confess. "No one," he blurted out, digging his fists into his eyes. "No one didn't say it at ail." The sudden storm passed from her face. Look and voice grew gentler. "That isn't true, dear. Some one must have said it. Come here and tell M Still weeping — for what, he scarcely knew — he dragged himself to her knee. The storm was all over by this time, as she said with her usual tenderness: "Where's your handkerchief, darling? Blow your nose. No; mama isn't afraid to — to call her soul her own. She's only afraid of not being equal to — " He dried his tears. His sobs were subsiding. "It's the bosses, isn't it, mama.'" She looked puzzled. "The bosses.' I don't know what you mean, darling?" But he could only wipe his face on her skirt, too shy to explain. CHAPTER III AT this time, too, Charlie Grace began to see his ■*V father as a man. Up to the present the latter had been as the first of the friendly protective ele- ments that made up Vandiver Place — as the living, speaking energy of that happily constituted whole in which Amiens Cathedral, the rectory, the bit of greensward, the brownstone fronts, and the row of gray, pillared houses were all component parts. Dr. William Grace unified them and voiced them; but, like the rest of Vandiver Place, he had remained impersonal, something to be accepted, submitted to, loved, even, but too vast and remote to be within the scope of an inquiring mind. And now it was as if the dignified, portly man were advancing from the bas-relief of the background and showing himself all round. It was perhaps the boy's first registered observation concerning him, that he was dignified and portly. He had taken him so much for granted iiitherto as never to have noticed that he was slightly concave in the back, but convex in the frontal outline. He carried himself with the air of one who has a great deal that is honorable to push ahead, and who pushes it ahead with justifiable pride. He could scarcely enter a room without seeming to say, "Here comes the rector of St. David's." If he never used the words, he inspired them, since in those days the rector of 33 ija THE WAY HOME St. David's could not help being a notable figure in New York. He was still more notable in the person of a gifted man in the prime of his maturity, who to the authority of learning added the charm of a hand- some presence and a mellifluous voice. The con- gregation at St. David's wouldn't have liked it if their rector had not held his head a little above other men. It was commonly said that he had the grand manner; and St. David's as it used to be was a church to which the grand manner came as natural as its excellent quartette choir. Charlie Grace had never been afraid of his papa; he had never, in fact, thought much about him. In as far as he was obliged actively to consider him it was in respect to making as little noise as possible when papa was in his study, to "behaving" at table, and to answering "N or M" to the question "What is your name?" as well as going on with, "My sponsors in baptism, wherein I was made," etc., etc., if called on to explain the provenance of this odd two-lettered appellation. But there came a day when father and son began to notice each other a little more. Scanning his papa at breakfast one morning, the boy saw that his papa was scanning him. He himself was quite innocently employed in taking notes on the parental features. "Isn't it funny," he was saying to him- self, "when papa wrinkles up his forehead his eye- lids never move. It makes him look kind of— funny." " Supercilious " was the word he wanted, as any of the brother-clergy could have told him, but " funny " was all he found. It was a word that filled a large place in his vocabulary. He applied it now to his fathers heavy, handsome lids, to his large Roman 34 THE WAY HOME nose, to his fading mutton-chop whiskers, and to his long, c ean-shaven upper lip, of which the central po.nt slightly overhung the lower lip, tempering the solemnity of the face with a touch of naitrrf^ It was a moment however, in which the word tunny was not wholly inappropriate, for the quiver- which drooped shghtiy as his own did, was certainly a little droll. Now and then, too, he caught a glance telegraphed between his father and mother which, when interpreted, made him think that Something must be up." The phrase, recently acquired from Remnant, was admirably significant of mystery m the air. He had used it on a number of occasions, and, with some elation in his little soulj had recourse to it again. "Something's In the course of a few minutes it became clear that anything 'up" that morning must be in con- nection with the letters of which a pile lay at his fathers left hand. One of them had been passed 'u„, ! T, ''^r't '''^ '°""'"'' "D°"'» ^^y anything about It. The boy was not so intent on his por- ridge but that he could see her read it with facial expressions of astonishment, which were reflected in the countenance of his father at the other end of the table. After she had handed it back she asked for it agf/n., reading parts of it once more. 'It's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard oi, she commented. The boy's curiosity was almost unbearable, but he knew enough to apply himself to his porridge, and to take on an air of being lost in thought! Jtxperience had shown this to be the method that 35 THE WAY HOME produced the best results. But he was aware that his father shook his head and made a motion with his lips which, had it broken into sound, would have said "Sh-h." After breakfast, as his parents passed into the hall he saw his father nod backward in his direction while he said : "Do you think it could possibly be — ?" "Not possibly," his mother replied, with convic- tion. "I remember everything that happened that morning. I didn't leave the room till — " The boy caught no more, but he saw himself followed by curious looks. Within a day or two he caught Mr. and Mrs. Legrand glancing at him in the same way. As with his mother he entered the church for the forenoon service on Wednesday morning, Remnant, whom they passed in the porch, very stately in his beadle's gown, got a chance to whisper, "They're on to it, sonny," with a look of alarm which, whether real or feigned, heightened the sense of mystery. Moreover, the idiom was new to the boy, and he had a taste for linguistic novelties. He weighed it and dissected it, pondering its mono- syllables one by one, but without extracting their secret. When he found an opportunity, while his mother was turning up the hymn which Mr. Wrench was preluding on the organ, he whispered: "What does 'They're on to it' mean, mama?" "On to what, dear?" his mother whispered back. "That's what I don't know — and I don't know who they are." "Hush, darling. Stand up. ' Brief life is here our portion,'" her sweet voice began, more loudly than she would have chosen, because as rector's wife she 36 THE WAY HOME felt it her duty to lead the singing in the absence ot the choir. After service he tried to waylay Remnant in search of further explanations, but Remnant, wearing a r »^"* ^V' ^** moving down the aisle in the train of Mrs. Homblower. "You won't think me carping," the boy heard her say, but my pew is certainly not kept as a lady's pew ought to be." "Beg pardon, Mrs. Homblower," Remnant de- clared, stoutly, "but that pew's been swept twice since Sunday. There can't be dust in it. If there IS It's dust I don't know anything about." "Then it's dust you should know son- ^thing about. I thtnk you should know something about it. Will you do me the kindness to look?" The boy backed away. On rejoining his mother he found her in conversation with Mrs. Legrand. Other people stood about the church, talking to- gether in twos and threes. When they were gone he should get his word with Remnant. "Mama," he whispered, when his patience was near an end, "isn't no one ever going home?" "Hush, darling. They're coming into the house. Papa is going to read something. And so, as I was saying, I said to Miss Smedley, said I—" ''Mama, may I come in when papa reads it?" ''No, darling. Don't interrupt mama. I said to Miss Smedley, said I—" "Oh, let him come," Mrs. Legrand broke in. "If Its what you think— well, it will be such fun. Don t you know it will?" He thought Mrs. Legrand more adorable than ever. He looked up wistfully into her rosebud face, trying 37 THE WAY HOME to read there some key to the secret in the air. "Are you on to it, Mrs. Legrand?" he couldn't help asking, before his mother could begin again. The bride giggled and gasped at once. "On to it? On to what? You don't think," she added, turning to his mother, with renewed laughter, "that he can be throwing dust in all our — ?" "I'm so bewildered I don't know what to think," Mrs. Grace replied. "Run along, darling, and tell Bridget we're coming." Crossing the grass-plot, he overtook Mr. Legrand on his way to the rectory. In this tall, thin Amer- ican graduate of Oxford, carefully dressed according t? Enghsh clerical standards, Charlie Grace recog- nized a friend. He was the sort of friend into whose hand one could slip one's own and speak confidentially. "Hello, old man," the assistant rector said, jovi- ally, when first greetings had been exchanged. "How's business?" "They're on to it, Mr. Legrand," the boy ven- tured, looking up into the ascetic face to see wh» > the effect would be. " Remnant told me so," he faltered when he saw the young clergyman's comic look of surprise. "Yes; so he told me. Regular inspiration, wasn't it? All's well that ends well; only be careful what you do another rime. It mightn't work so neatly. Eh?" This was disappointing. It put him in a worse position than before. His preoccupation in trying to find a way out of it was such that he scarcely no- ticed the assembling of the ladies in the drawing- room nor his father's little speech. He had all he 38 THE WAY HOME could do, as he stood between Mr. Legrand's lone th.n fnendly knees, to puzzle „ut the pl-oblem as to were on''' ull ^'" "",! °" '.° "' ='"'' ^^^^ ^^ were on. He became subconsciously av.are that his father ceased to speak in his own person a„dwa reading from what seemed to be a letter. The f^c had no significance for a little boy occupied with important matters of his own until the repSoTof certam names forced his attention. Bertha and Geo.g.e and Tommy were spoken of in connection w.th hats, reefers, and boots in such a way as "o eave no doubt that the letter so breathlessly Hstened to by some twenty ladies and two men, In" ud"ng the reader was from the Colorado plains. ^ rhen all of a sudden, the force inherent in figure of speech got ,n .ts work. Remnant's idiom explafned Wetter "XL"' '' ""''^ ''^^^ ''^^ -^ f°"h n Webster. Ihey were on to it. What else coulrl that mean but that they were on tc^.? He feh himself growmg scarlet from the toe. upward. H s knees clave together. His heart pounded H L mouth went dry. One by one the various article graatude. Ihe stationery, the ink, the candies the tooth-brushes, each had its word of recognkion The h„,e boy clung for comfort to the fact that train ferhaps the more trifling contributions rmeef fTT"^"; 1.^"^"°' the train deceived Its meed of thanks, and then him' Hell^", *"'""" f «triburion had overtaken t H,r- f 'T'"^ ^""^ """"^ ■"■""« in advance. 39 THE WAV HOME "'But what shall I say of the wig?' " The wig? There was a movement of skirts among the ladies. The wig? There was no wig. Who ever heard of such a thing? A wig indeed. There must be a mistake. It was the handwriting. It must be pig or dig or something of that sort. Mrs. Legrand, who as the assistant's wife was in the se- cret, looked back at the ladies seated behind her for the fun of seeing their expressions. Charlie Grace was kept from absolute collapse only by the support of Mr. Legrand's sharp knees. "Allow me," the rector said, with an air of lofty amusement. "'But what shall I say of the wig? Who among our kind friends at St. David's could have heard of the illness through which I lost my hair? It is a matter of which my wife and I rarely speak even between ourselves; and still less should I think of setting it down among our needs. To do so would have struck me as unseemly. It would have provoked derision. But, now that you have divined my requirements, I may confess that my want of a wig has been sore. That which I had when I came out to the plains was blown from my head during one of the worst of last winter's storms — a storm which overtook me as I was riding home from Proctor, some twenty miles away. Since then my position has been one of considerable discomfort, not only for lack of the material covering, but because my appearance in our improvised places of worship has been such as to excite the smiles of a people none too reverent at any time, and therefore the more prone to see the grotesque in church. While I have never blamed them, I have felt that no miracle would help me more, either for my person or 40 THE W A V HOME in my work, than one which would provide me with the arnde m question. It is surely the Lord who has put the thought of it into the heart of whatever kind friend may have sent it-for, except my wife and children the Lord alone has known of my necessity. It has been necessity none the less keen for being ludicrous and if I seem too prolix in my thanks it is because I can do nothing else than look on the kind donor as an inspired instrument ' " t;„n^^ '"^"l""' ^Z^yJ' '^''' '^' indecorous exclama- tion forced from the I.ps of Mrs. Hornblower as the boys rush for the door almost carried her to the carpet. It was one of those crises in which flight is the only adequate resource, in which the only refuee safe enough ,s in concealment from the eyes of men l-ortunate y, he knew of such a shelter in the trunk- room, at the top of the house. Many a time during the course of a stormy lifetime had he hidden himself there, in moments of special shame or indignation, for purposes of communing with his own heart or of defying fate. Now he lay down there again, in a nest between two packing-cases, with a pillow of old illustrated papers. He would have been glad to be blotted out, to leave no mark on time, no record within the memory of humankind. He didn't cry There was nothing to cry for. The occasion was one transcending tears. Neither did he repent, since there was nothing in particular, except his own tolly, to repent of. He only burned-burned all over— burned with a veritable fire of humiliation at having made himself ridiculous, at having exposed his reputation forever, in the eyes of Fanny Horn- blower, on the tongue of Hattie Bright, and in * 41 THE WAY HOME twenty ways in respect to Freddy Furnival, to asso- ciation for hfe with so despicable an object as a wig When his mother found him he refused to come down to the midday dinner. He didn't want any dmner. He never wanted to eat again. He would be content co stay in his attic forever and ever If she would only go away and leave him he would be glad to starve to death. People starved to death on desert islands; he knew that; and what could be more like a desert island than a forsaken attic at the top of a rectory in New York? It would be a desert island if nobody nevtr, never came near him any more, and that was what he asked for. His mother knelt down on the dusty Suor beside him My precious, it's all right. You didn't do any harm. It was quite the other way round. You heard what the letter said— how glad Mr Waters was to get it. We all think it's wonderful. It w wonderful. Of course you shouldn't have taken anything out of the Girls' Friendly chest when it didn t belong to you. But if it was God who put it into your heart, darling—" " It wasn't. It was Remnant. He told me to dive down my hand and — " "Well, it was wonderful. And poor Mr. Waters in such need of it! An inspired instrument was what he said. A.-d you should have heard the rest of the letter, too, darling— how Mrs. Waters trimmed the wig up, and made it fit her husband's head, and found a way to fasten it on, just like a hair-dresser, you know, and everything. I must get papa to read it to you. "I don't want to!" he cried, desperately. "I'm not going down to dinner, mama. I'm going to hve 42 THE W A Y HOME up here Don't bring me nothing-nothing at all -unless." he relented-" unless there's go"ng " be Don?'b' 'Li- f "^^ ^°* «" "P' "'^^ » precious. as a convusive sob. He clurrhf.,] ,» "u«.ii nars skirt and refused to go Farther *^ '"" ""'*''"» ''Mama." "What is it now, darling"' your " ''°"'' '" '''"'" '^^" "^ Wiggy Grace, will "Call you — what?" him'w' ""^ ^'^ ^.'''=^- ^f •* ^^^ Freddy I'd call h.m Wiggy Fumival. But. oh. mama, don't le them! Promise me you won't let them." thin^oS ISg "" ^'^"'' '^^"- T''^>''« "-" les^Sk^'tlnT'" ^^- T"''*' ^''^ •""''^"^ -"Ode less talk than the hero of it expected, or whether \t never reached the ears of Freddy ' Furnivala„d Sr l:S^^-H'oUr""' ^^^ ^ -"ch minded' with V ^- • '^'."'^""•'^ ^="' never twitted with his part ,n .t. As time went on nothing but ot It. but, though the story became legendary when ever a missionary box was sent out by the adTes " St David s Church, Charlie Grace could never bt induced to tell the tale himself. CHAPTER IV pHARLIE GRACE could never be induced to ^^ tell the tale himself chiefly because his mother saw m It more than met the eye. It made him un- comfortable to be taken as an "inspired instrument" when he knew himself to have been only a wilful youngster. Nevertheless, the understanding that he was one day to be a clergyman grew out of this set of circumstances. It was clear to the mind of Mrs. Grace that a child so singularly chosen as an infant Samuel must be destined to a sacred callinit. while to her husband his own profession appeared better than any other. The fact that he himself had made a success of it was an argument m its favor when It came to a question of his son. There was no such thing as a decision on the point either on the boys part or that of his parents. The processes by which thev came to take it for granted were imperceptible to all three minds. The nearest approach ever made to a discussion of the subject was on an occasion when the lad was nine or ten years old. His mother had begun a sentence with When you re a clergyman, darling—" Into this his father had thought it well to interject. If he ever w one. •'Oh, but he will be," Mrs. Grace said, eagerly, r ou mean to be, don't 3'ou, dear?" The question— if it was a question— was put so 44 THE WAY HOME confidently that the boy could only murmur, "Yes mama." He did "mean to be," but he would have preferred a less direct way of declaring his intentions, tven so, he knew there were loopholes through which he might have crept back and changed his mind if his mother hadn't died. Charlie Grace was never very clear as to how she died or why she died. In after life he could not recall that she had been ill-exactly. She had been delicate. Every one said that. There was some anxiety about it. Julia had even gone so far as to throw the blame for it on him. "If it hadn't been for you, you rogue, she'd be as well as anny one She s niver had the look o' health since you come along. He was so sensitive to this injustice that he laid Julia s accusation before Remnant. Remnant lis- tened judicially, his eye cocked, his head to one side It isn t you, sonny," he said, at last; "it's the whole thing." ^ J* .y** P«'^''"Ps t''" summing-up which enabled Charlie Grace, years later, when he was old enough to understand, to piece together his mother's story out of all sorts of scraps, seen and heard and hinted at. It was so simple a story as to make no appeal to any heart but his own. He saw her as the youngest child of a country lawyer who had been his father's chum at college. Ihe two men had maintained an intermittent inter- course through years in which life had carried them to different spheres of action; but when chance took the New York divine on a holiday to the "up-state" village of Horsehair Hill something of the old friendship was renewed. Enough of it, at least, was 4S THE WAY HOME w"u**i *''* seven-years widower to see much of Milly Downs, and for a few infatuated weeks to think her the companion destined to console his lonehness. It was that moment of danger to an elderly life— the season of the autumn violets— when youth seems to hold out the impossible promise of a retummg spring. A month sufficed to show the reverend man his error, but before it passed the mischief was done. To the sweet girl whose life had always been too retired to be gay, and whose spirit was so gentle that it never could have been really young, the honor of kind looks, kind words, and perhaps some tenderness from a great man from a great city was overwhelming. To Charlie Grace s mind— when, as a young man, he thought it over— there were not wanting signs that his father must have been on the verge of withdrawing, perhaps with a little dismay, when he saw that withdrawal was too late. The sequel was natural enough. It was not sur- prising that the man who, according to Remnant, could have had Miss Smedley and all her money— the man who was the admiration of one of the most distinguished circles in New York— should have come in for comment when he stooped in this sud- den manner to gather a wayside flower. An elderly man, too, who might be considered to have outlived the days of poetry! Since his children were grown up there was really no reason why he should have marned again at all; and if he chose to exercise his right in this respect— why, there was Miss Smedley and her money. And yet when young Mrs. Grace actually came to the rectory she was very well received. That was 46 THE WAY HOME "u* L** R'""**'^- If St. David'» had received a shock It had that savoir oivre which enables well-bred people to surmount disturbances. St. David's was undoubtedly kind to Mrs. Grace. Miss Smedley, with a tact which all admitted to be perfect, showed her a special friendship, while Mrs. Hornblower was heard openly to express the intention "of forming her for her place." The difficulty was really with Mrs. Grace herself. More than the most exacting parishioner she was con- vinced of her insufficiency for her new life and her husband's station. New York bewildered her; St Davids appalled her. The society into which she was thrown was so intricate, so complex. When she came to see, as by the mere process of living with her husband she had to come to see, that their mar- nage had caught him at a disadvantage, there was but one way for a soul like hers to take. Charlie Grace could look back and see her taking it; he could see her taking it through the very years when he had been clinging to her skirts and lisping at her knee. There was probably some physical or tem- peramental weakness, too. He was never sure about It. He never cared to go into it. He could not remember that she was ever ill. She only grew more delicate, and then more delicate. He recalled "aI?* ^"- Hornblower say one day to his father: Mr. Rector, you won't think me interfering, but you should take Mrs. Grace away. I think you should take her away. If you don't I shall not answer for the consequences. She needs change and rest. She needs a great deed of rest." That was in the early summer of 1880, when he was eleven years old. She went to Horsehair Hill. 47 THE WAY HOME •! "J^l"?"^ *n ^^^^ '''™ ^"'' •»"' but the doctor said No. She was to go back to her fa-her's house and renew her strength by becoming a girl again. He retained no very clear recollection of the sequence of happenings after that. At first she was getting better; then she was not so well; then she was able to take a drive; then she was confined to bed. Wews came spasmodically and inconsequently, as though there were no, definite progress either up or down. In August, when his father's holiday began, he, too, went to Horsehair Hill. The boy was left m town to spend a desolate school vacation in charge ot Remnant and the servants. Now and then Mrs Furnival or Mrs. Hornblower would take him for a night or two to their places on Long Island. Then there came a time of which all his memories were blurred. A strange farmer-uncle, the husband ot a married sister of his mother's, came to fetch him from Vandiver Place. At Horsehair Hill noth- ing was as It had ever been before. His grandfather was mooning over the place half dazed. Uncles and aunts on the mother's side whom the boy scarcely knew were in attendance. His father rarely left his mother s bedside. When he, the boy, was ad- mitted to the darkened room he hardly knew her bhe was propped up on the pillows, and seemed neither awake nor asleep. She smiled faintly, though, and as he leaned clumsily across the bed to lass her she tried to lift her hand and lay it on "V?j n ^^* ^ '""^ minute before she spoke. Did Bridget get all your clean clothes from the wash, darhng? ' "Yes, mama." "That's good." It was all she had strength to say. THE WAY HOME His father nodded toward the door, and he tip- toed from the room. *^ For the rest of the afternoon he was uncomfortable 1 he attentions of so many uncles and aunts bored tion Dont you know me?" was a question of wh.ch he grew tired He could remember dis- tmctly saying to himself that he hoped it wouldn't dearlTha't ".^T"; ^''^" 9" -«= Po-t he'was clear-that ,t had nothing to do with his mother. Ihat was not his mother, that still, white form in the hlTr Hrnn'""''"^ "l^'^'f .»>««« ""ed to Horse- of whil T "°T ^"*''«='^'ng "«nd. the nature of which was a little vague; but his mother wasn't He had the same feeling about the funeral He remembered its taking place after an interval of a few days ,n which he had grown accustomed to his surroundings. He had begun to follow the dZ drama at Horsehair Hill, into the interests of which he was initiated by Cousin Bob Gunnison, also eleven years of age, with whom he slept. He heard about grandpa s horse, and his two cows, and the number of hens, chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys on the small estate. He got much valuable data, too, as to the habits and character of Stores, his grandpa's h^Zi l!"^"- 1 "\^T '"""""^ ^'^ Stores, and helped him select the broilers which the presence of so many uncles and aunts made it needful to broil. Unce. when a green goose which should by rights have bi^""^^" ""T^ ^t'^hosen to supplement the broilers. Stores allowed h,m to take the ax and cut off Its head. Of all the incidents of those days at 49 THE WAY HOME Horsehair Hill none remained more painfully in the memory of Charhe Grace than that decapitation. Ihe funeral was scarcely painful at all. It was rather an occasion of solemn stir, of awesome nov- elty, imposing and strange, but infused with that cruelly interesting quality inherent, to the mind of eleven years, m "something going on." A great people m black, both men and women. Downses and Gunnisons gathered from ail over the county. His father moved aihong them benignly, shaking every hand ca I.ng most of the connection by name He was noble, hke a prince. No one could question ^ome of the lady cousins, indeed, thought that a trifle more in the way of demonstration might have being a New-Yorker and an "Episcopal." It was wdl known that an "Episcopal" could be formal and cold in circumstances where an "Orthodock" would give way to feeling. It was a foregone conclusion that the ceremony would take place in the little Episcopal churchrb« that again was something to be borne. Most of the relauves made no secret of their preference for a m^mTrr^- !!:!^ \«"l°gy- "What's a eulogy, mama? Charlie Grace heard himself mentally ask- ing; and a lump rose in his throat. The impossi- h ! Lf""^""^ that question brought home to him nis hrst real sense of loss. foUowed the coffin, so shiny and new, out of the s^r parlor he had but little feeling that his mama was m It. His father walked with head bared and SO THE WAY HOME bowed, while he could feel himself moving alone sturdily and erect. In the village street he nc^ ticed the signs of sympathy, blinds down or shops closed, and was even a little proud of the effect. It showed the honor in which the Downses and Gunni- sons were held; but it had nothing to do with his mother. The Episcopal church stood slightly aloof from the village. The white steeples of the Methodist and Congregational places of worship shot straight up out of Mam Street, with a conscious right to the soil. The small, inexpensive wooden building dedi- cated to All Saints, quite correctly Early English, with Its lancet windows, and its spire jauntily rising from a tower at the conventional northwest corner, came shyly, as it were, over the hill from Dallinger Gap, to perch itself barely within the limits of a community where it was not entirely welcome Every one knew that if there had been no summer residents at Dallinger Gap there would have been no Episcopal church at Horsehair Hill— a circumstance which was said, in the language of people who chose their words, to have "created feeling." To reach All Saints the little procession turned out of Main Street to follow a lane all purple and yellow with Michaelmas daisies and goldenrod. A few children picking blackberries paused in their task to look. A cow came half-way across a meadow to gaze over a fence in a dumb, pitiful stare. A mare nosing her foal glanced backward with eyes timid and wondenng. Otherwise the little procession wound Its way up the hill through a shrill summer stillness. At the church door there was the usual poignant THE WAY HOME I delay. Black-coated men drew the coffin with an oily ease out of the long hearse. Father and son began to follow it up the steps. "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." The boy slipped his hand into his father's. The voice coming out of the empty church had the effect of that mysterious call which his mother seemed to have heard and followed. She was following it now— in— in— forward— forward— while they pressed along behind. He was startled, overawed. This, then, had some- thmg to do with her. After all, she was there, in that long, shiny box with the tawdry handles, and the flowers on top. She must be, for his father was crying— that is, he was blinking his eyes and wrin- kling his forehead in an effort to check more tears than the two already coursing down his cheeks. The boy himself had no inclination to cry. He was too much concerned with the Voice, which continued to roll on with a haunting solemnity: "Lord, Thou hast been our refuge from one gen- eration to another. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were made. Thou art God from everlasting and world without end. Thou turnest man to destruction; again Thou sayest, Come again, ye children of men." He could follow the words the mote easily because they were tolerably familiar. He was a choir-boy m these years and sang theai in church. He had never thought of their meaning, nor did he think THE W AY H ME of it now; but they rolled over him with a power of sonority, immensity, eternity, like the sound of the sea or peals from an organ. Then it was like an anthem, an anthem such as he had never heard and yet could imagine. "Now is Christ risen from the dead and become the first-fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead. For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive." _ He still had no inclination to cry. He sat with his hands — on which one of his aunts had pulled a pair of black cotton gloves — folded in his lap, and his feet, which now reached to the floor, kicking a hassock nervously. His head being slightly thrown back, the long, pointed chin, inherited from his mother, had the mystic, yearning expression with which the shifting of an angle could endue it. Over the altar was a stained -'glass Good Shepherd all out of proportion, carrying on his shoulder a sheep that looked like a rabbit. He traced the outlines of the rabbit with his eye, while with his ear he followed the onward sweep of the apostolic strain : "For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written. Death is swallowed up in victory." "Deatn is swallowed up in victory. Death is swallowed up in victory. Death is swallowed up in victory." His repetition of the words was purely mechanical. S3 THE WAY HOME It was but the haunting of a phrase too heavily laden vnth prophecy to be easily comprehensible. It had not more definiteness of meaning to him than any of the utterances of Job, Moses, or Jesus Christ, wh.ch had just been sweeping across his soul. Death is swallowed up in victory." He dis- covered that by repeating it in a certain way it had a sound like the booming of cannon— or was it the nnging of bells ? It had a throb and a measure to it, too. One could walk to it. One could walk to it like a soldier or a priest or a mourner. His uncle Frank might have walked to it when he marched toward Gettysburg; his father was walking to it now as they went down the aisle; he himself was walking to it, down the aisle, out into the daylight, and along the churchyard path to where a little mound of earth marked their goal. But he found himself unable to listen here as he had hstened in the church. There was too much to observe. There was the placing of the coffin on the bars across the open grave. There was the grave itself, so narrow and deep. There was the clergyman in his white surplice, looking out of keeping with green trees and the open air. Lastly, there was Uncle Frank's headstone, beside which the new grave had been made. He read the inscription once or twice. He Hked reading it. For reasons he could not fathom it appealed to him. "Francis Gunnison Downs, who, at Gettysburg, gave his life for his country and his soul to God. Aged 23 Give peQce in our time, Lord." He liked that. It was terse and manly. If he were ever to die, which seemed improbable, he would be glad of some- thing of the sort over him. 54 THE WAY HOME And then suddenly he found himself clutching his father's arm and calling out wildly: "Papal Oh, don't let them! " They had pulled away the crosspieces, and with a wriggling, irregular motion the coffin was going down. Except for that one irrepressible cry he controlled himself. He knew the coffin must go down, that it must lie there and be covered up. He was a big boy now, and must have "sense." He did his best to attain to "sense," pressing his palm tightly over his mouth and keeping back the sobs while the earth was shoveled in. It was only when they turned away from the grave, he and his father side by side, that the feeling re- turned to him again that they were not leaving his mama behind them. CHAPTER V r\N the way back to New York that afternoon ^>-^ Charlie Grace had his first feeling of respon- sibility. It came to him quite naturally as, seated in the train, he noticed his father's bowed back and bent head. He had no sense of a charge being laid upon him or of a burden to be taken up; he merely said to himself, "I must be company for papa." It never occurred to him before that a day might come when his father would look to him as he had hitherto looked to his father, nor could it be said to have occurred to him now; but, sitting in the red- plush seat, his eye roving from the green wooded banks of the Hudson on the left to the big, brooding figure on the right, he felt in a dim way that the relative positions of father and son had begun to change. After supper that evening he carried his lesson- books boldly into the study, as he had never done before, saying : "May I sit here, papa?" There was that in his tone which took the answer for granted. He knew it must be a comfort for his father to have him near, even though the latter only said: "Certainly, my boy. Come in whenever you feel lonely." Making himself snug in an arm-chair near a good light, he pretended to be studying while he watched his father sort the letters that had S6 THE WAY HOME piled up for him during the latter days of his absence. As the rector of an important city parish Dr. Grace took his correspondence seriously. He liked it to be large; he liked the sense of importance he got from being written to on a wide variety of sub- jects. Just now his letters were chiefly those of sympathy on his recent bereavement, but it was a consolarion in itself to note the extensiveness of the circle, both clerical and secular, from which they came. Following his father's preoccupation, the boy made the reflecrion — ^with a swallowed sob — that it was still possible for life to go on. Even here in this empty house, where there was no light in the big front bedroom, and no rustle of skirts on the stair, and no sweet voice to say at nine o'clock, "Now, Charlie, dear, it's time to go to bed " — even here life could go on. In the halls and the study there was a faint odor of boiling fruit and sugar, announcing the fact that at the very moment when the little black procession had been creeping up to the churchyard at Horsehair Hill Julia had been making raspberry jam. Though he was aware that raspberry jam would be appreciated during the winter, this callousness re- volted him. He got up and began moving restlessly about the room. Because he grew suddenly con- scious of a yearning in every nerve and an aching in every limb, he thrust his hands nonchalantly into his trousers pockets and began to inspect the framed photographs of St. Paul's Cathedral and the High Street at Oxford, hanging on the walls, as if he had never seen them before. It was a relief to find his father too deeply engrossed in his letters of con- 8 57 THE WAY HOME dolence to notice him. It enabled him to slip unperceived up-stairs to his mother's room, where, the bhnds bemg raised, there was light enough from the street-lamp on the other side of the greensward to enable him to move about. The place was oddly full of her presence. He could a most see her sitting in her arm-chair by the fire- ^ace. He went to it. hanging over the back lovingly. He crept about the room, fingering the things she had been accustomed to use-a pin-cushion, a hair- brush, the pens and .pencils on her desk. He smoothed her pillow and pressed his cheek down into IS cool softness He opened the door of the big closet in which her dresses were still hanging, and, gathering an armful of them to his breast, he kissed them passionately. He drew in long breaths, getting, so It seemed to him, the very smell of her p^fson-a clean, dry, country smell like that of new-mown hay Kising sobs sent him down-stairs again. .»iH '^,k*T''"^'"*' '" '!•" sympathy," his father said, as the boy re-entered the study. "The bishop IS especially kind-and the more so in that he and I haven t always seen eye to eye. I shall keep these ktters for you my boy. You'll appreciate them when you re older. "Papa, what does 'Death is swallowed up in victory' mean?" *^ He stood questioningly before his father's desk Dr. Grace lifted his fine brows with that movement which left the eyes still concealed beneath their heavy hds. He arranged his letters in little piles. When he spoke he brought out his sentences with an oratorical rotundity suggesting the repetition of phrases from old sermons. S8 THE WAY HO ME " It's the expression of an inspimtion which comes out of the very earliest yearnings of mankind. The writer of the Book of Genesis probably had it in mind when he spoke of a Tree in the midst of the Garden — that is, a force in the midst of earthly existence — which could make for immortality. Even the Greeks had some intimation — a presentiment, one might say — of the same thing, as we can read in their legends of Alcestis, of Eurydice, and of Laodamia. I know, too, of few finer passages in literature than that in the Phaedo of Plato, in which Socrates argues that death may he the greatest of all good things to men. In the life and death and resurrection of Jesus Christ the Apostles naturally saw these hopes and longings fulfilled — saw life and immortality brought to light by the Gospel, as St. Paul says — and so drew the conclusion they expressed with so much ecstasy in the cry — an echo of the prophet Isaiah — that death had been swallowed up in victory. Do you understand .'" The boy hesitated. "I understand some of it, papa — I think." " Some of it is all you can be expected to under- stand now. The rest will come when you're older." Feeling himself dismissed, he went back to his bocK with a little sigh. The haunting phrase had become curiously disappointing when historically explained. He hoped it might have had some bearing on what had happened to his mother, but apparently it had none — or very little. His father broke in on these thoughts with the observation: "Here's a letter from your sister Emma. She had just received the sad news, and writes very feelingly. She says, too, that she may 59 THE WAY HOME be able to make us a little visit before the winter. You'd like that, wouldn't you, my boy?" He answered, dutifully, "Yes, papa," but in reality the prospect of a visit from this grown-up married sister whom he had never seen stirred in him all sorts of jealousies on behalf of his mama. He knew well enough that if his mama hadn't died his sister would not have come; and, while he owned to some curiosity with regard to the person of one so nearly related to himself, he resented a sympathy that took this form. He was a little indignant that his father should not resent it, too, though he had long ago seen by intuidon that the latter, inwardly at least, jusrified the children of his first wife in their stand toward his second. It was as if he admitted that in marrying again he had wronged them. "Is Mr. Tomlinson coming, too?" he felt moved to ask. The rector answered absently, while running his eye over another letter: "Osborne will come if he gets back in time from Canada. He's been ex- ploring in the new regions they seem to be opening up in their northwest. Emma writes that he's interested in this railway business they're exploiting there. Rather a wild scheme, it seems to me. Yes, he hopes to come, and they will bring Sophy, too. You'll like that, won't you?" He said "Yes, papa" with the same air of dutiful assent, "They want to find a school for Sophy in New York," the father continued, still scanning his letters. "I shall suggest St. Margaret's. Hilda Penrhyn is there, and Mrs. Penrhyn finds it very satisfactory. There's a distant relationship between THE WAY HOME Mrs. Penrhyn and Osborne Tomlinson which will make it pleasant for the two ftirls, I want you to know the Penrhyns some d-i . You'll find them useful acquaintances when y I'i'i • c\'\'-\ T'ery dis- tinguished family. No betm iii' id in N. > York." His heart swelled agair ii ^m" a!> it' a '< ' >f new people were entering on tn \-cet\i: ju,' 'v uise his mama had left it. The • would fill \,\-< u-.- (>iace so that even her memory woi l.| St crowded out. She had been buried only tli..t i.'terT.oon, and yet his father was looking forward w'rh p!c./sant antici- pation to a future with people ■\\'-i wric strangers to her. He wondered if grown-up men could feel grief with the desolating intensity of boys of eleven. Perhaps they couldn't. It was doubtless sheer incapacity for sorrow that enabled his father to give himself to his letters and the prospect of Emma's return home with a preoccupation he himself couldn't bring to bear on the third Latin declension. Having been charged to master it during the summer, he had tackled it to-night purely because he recalled an occasion when his mama had told him not to forget it; but it was study only in name. Problems of life and death rendered grammar even duller than it had a right to be. He rose when the clock struck nine. It was what his mama would have reminded him to do had she been there. With some awkwardness he approached the desk, which stood in the middle of the room, to say good night. His father had begun to write — probably to acknowledge the more important of his letters of condolence. The boy could read the words "My dear Bishop" as he followed the tracings of the pen upside down. 6i THE WAY HOME For some obscure reason he felt that this prompt response to sympathy buried his mother deeper. It forced home on him that sense of loss against which he had been fighting for the last four days. He was shocked to hear himself saying, in a voice sharp with nsmg tears: "Papa, you're sorry mama is dead, aren't you?" Fortunately, the father saw in the question no imputation of callousness. He stretched out his right arm, and the boy slid round the corner of the f. *° ^^'^^ Kfxxgt within its embrace. ''We're both sorry," the widower said, gently. You must always remember your dear mother, my boy, and try to do all she ever told you." "I will, papa," he sobbed; "I promise you I will." He took this engagement so se 'Oi-sly that when, one day in the autumn, Freddy Furuival said, sud- denly, "I'm going to be a doctor; what are you going to be.?" Charlie Grace took his courage in both hands and replied, "I'm going to be a minister." 1 hough he was aware of difficulties in making this confession to one who knew him so intimately as turny, he was not prepared for the mingled laughter and amazement in the latter's honest freckled face, nor for the incredulity of his response: "You' A minister!" Charlie Grace could only toss his head, his hands "w n='"»,L" *?."'"' Poctets, and say, defiantly: Well.'' What of It? .'.'«??,'', """^ *°*"* enough," was the natural retort. ^^ Well, I guess I can he good enough." "I guess you can't." Thus contradicted, the lad was silent. He pre- tended to be inspecting the long gaunt arms of the 6a THE WAY HOME incipient Brooklyn Bridge, reaching toward each other from the opposite shores of the East River, but in reality he was delving in his mind for an explanation of his shyness in acknowledging the pro- fession to which he meant to gi«e himself. In Furny's presence, at any rate, he would rather have said that he wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor or a man of business. It required a strong appeal to his mother's memory to keep him stanch to his pur- pose, and yet he wondered why. They turned away from the spectacle of the giant Bridge to take the Elevated back in the direction of Vandiver Place. A trip on the Elevated was still novel enough to be an economical outing to school- boys in search of adventure. Chariie Grace re- verted to the topic he had at heart while they were climbing the stairs into the station. "Anyhow, I don't have to be good for a long time yet. You can't be a minister rill you're over twenty." "That doesn't make any difference," Fumy sniffed. "A doctor has to be good, too," Chariie Grace argued. "But he hasn't got to be better than other people. My old man's a doctor, so I know. But if a minister isn't better than other people, what's the good of him ?" "You'll find that out." The assertion expressed Chariie Grace's defiance of Freddy Fumival's opinion. It implied that he, Chariie Grace, might be wounded by that opinion, might even suffer from it, but in so far as it was a criticism on himself it could only make him the more dogged in his intentions. It was the kind of 63 THE WAY HOME thing that put him on his mettle, whatever he might feel inside. This effect was confirmed when a week or two later he walked home from Sunday-school with Hattie Bright. He did this now and then, partly because he was vaguely aware that his father dis- liked it without venturing to say so, and partly for the pleasure of the young lady's conversation. Freddy Furnival indulged in the same bit of gallantry in direct opposition to parental commands. To both young men, as to .others in Vandiver Place, the knowledge that Miss Bright was regarded by their elders as the apple in Eden added zest to her com- pany. Not that her society needed this charm to give it spice, for already, at the age of twelve, Hattie Bright, with her demure manner and long, soft, slanting regard, wa«, in a measure, mistress of the arts that captivate. No little girl ever went out of church more properly nor, with her prayer- book and hymn-book in her hand, walked up the wide pavement of Vandiver Place toward the turn- ing into the unattractive street in which her mother kept a boarding-house with less apparent thought of being accompanied, or even followed by a glance, and yet no poor child ever drew attention to herself more prophetically. " Now, Freddy, dear, go right home," Mrs. Furnival would order, perhaps with no clear idea of why she became suddenly so strict, while Mrs. Hornblower would oblige Reginald to climb into the barouche beside her, telling the coachman to drive off m the direction contrary to that which the little minx was taking, though Fifth Avenue lay that way. After Sunday-school there was, however, less sur- THE WAY HOME veillance, and young gentlemen, free of the oversight of their mamas, would find themselves, in the most natural way in the world, strolling beside Hattie Bright as they might stroll beside anybody else. On this particular afternoon she conversed genteelly with Charlie Grace on the respective merits of spell- ing and geography as studies till they were well out of Vandiver Place. The binding of the copy of The Dove in the Eagle's Nest she had taken from the Sunday-school library made a spot of olive-green and gold against the scarlet of her autumn dress. It was quite without provocation that, shooting at him a sidelong glance from her soft, mischievous eyes, she said: "/ heard something about you." The tone was meant to rouse curiosity. "What is it?" "I'm not going to tell." "That's mean," he declared. "No, it isn't. I said I wouldn't." "Then you shouldn't say anything about it." "I can say something about it so long as I don't tell you what it is. Anyhow, I'm going to." The boy reflected. "Who told you.?" he asked, at last. The tip of a teasing little tongue became visible between two cherry lips. "Shouldn't you like to know?" "I do know. It was Reggie Hornblower. / saw him — running over and whispering something to you when Miss Smedley wasn't looking." Miss Bright tossed her head. "You're quite mistaken. It wasn't him at all." "Well, then, it was Fumy." 6S iMMi^MM THE WAY HOME "That's just like you. You think everything has to be Fumy." "Anyhow," he swaggered, "I don't care. My sister Emma is coming home. She may arrive any day now. My old man says so." Miss Bright preferred to keep to the original topic. She allowed some minutes to pass in silence before saying: "It's about what you're going to be." As though some shameful secret were being dragged to light, the boy felt himself reddening all over. For the moment his imagination was too busy avenging this betrayal on Fumy's head to allow of his finding anything to say. Hattie Bright could, therefore, continue, with the same taunting display of the tip of her sharp little tongue. "I heard you were going to be a minister." The incongruity between any such career and Charlie Grace seemed to get emphasis from the rich color in her cheeks and the roguery in her eyes. She was the Scarlet Woman in miniature. It re- quired no small amount of moral courage to enable the boy to brace himself and say; "Well, so I am." "You're not!" This repetition of Fumy's incredulity would have been harder to bear had it not been for the obstinate element in the boy's character. "You'll see," he replied, holding his head proudly. liattie Bright covered her mouth with The Dove in the Eagle's Nest in order to call attention to the fact that she was smothering her laughter. She controlled herself at intervals, only to burst out with a renewed " Pf-f !" of suppressed merriment, bringing the book 66 THE WAY HOME ag»in into UM, whtk she charged him with her 'I don't see anything 'My old man is a eyes. He wirfk«4 a4(mg uneasily. so f-HiMty in it," he protested, minist*-*, and he's all right." "Pf-f!" was the only answer, while once more The Dove in the Eagle's Nest hid all but the little Scarlet Woman's glances. On the way homeward his heart burned within him, not so much from a feeling of affront as because his friends thought scorn of a project dear to his mama. While Hattie Bright had not made the charge in so many words, it was obvious that she thought him, as Freddy Furnival had thought him, "not good enough." He meditated a little on the standard of goodness required. He ran over the list of the different clergymen he knew, including his papa. It occurred to him that he couldn't have put goodness pure and simple as the leading charac- teristic of any one of them — unless he made an except- tion of Mr. Legrand. A good many of them came to the house in the course of a year. He knew them as a jolly, kindly lot of men, who smoked a great deal and told amusing stories and enjoyed them. Un- doubtedly they were "good," and yet with no such ideal of sanctity as to make him despair of ever reaching it. Even his papa had lapses — chiefly in matters of temper — from the highest conceptions of merit, for which the boy himself had all his life been accustomed to make allowance.s. Mr. Legrand was different. He could not have explained wherein the difference lay, but he wa." aware of a quality in the assistant at St. David's which gave him a standing of his own in their little world. He had 67 THE W AY H ME I heard his father speak of it, too, sometimes with a touch of impatience. And yet it was this singularity, whatever it con- sisted in, that emboldened the boy to bring his difficulties before the tall young ecclesiastic. "Mr. Legrand. do you have to be very good to be a clergyman. I suppose you do." They were walking up Vandiver Place in the direc- tion of the rectory late one November afternoon. Though there was still a dusky glimmer in the western sky, the street-lamps were lit, and a silvery crescent moon hung above the spire of St. David's. Charlie Grace was on his way home from choir practice. The yearning refrain of a medieval melody which, in view of the approaching Advent season, he had just been rehearsing, kept humming in his memory: Rejoice! Rejoicel Emmanuel Shall come to thee, O Israel! When, through the influence of Rufus Legrand, and somewhat to the irritation of the rector, St. David's suppressed its famous quartette in favor of a surpliced choir, it had been found necessary to rent a small hall in a neighboring street for the boys to practise in. It was from this hall that the boy was now on his way home, whistling the "Veni, Emmanuel" under his breath, when at the turning into Vandiver Place he ran across Mr. Legrand. During the six or seron years in which the latter had been assistant at St. David's there had sprung up between the two the same sort of matter-of-fact intimacy, on another plane, as existed between Charhe Grace and Remnant. They came closer £8 THE WAY HOME together in proportion as the boy grew up and Legrand himtelf, in the rough-and-tumble of paro- chial life in New York, lost something of the spick- and-span habits acquired at Oxford and Cuddesdon. Even CharUe Grace, catching sight of the tall, spare figure in the lamplight, couM discern in the care- lessly hanging clerical jacket and the battered round felt hat a falling away from former standards of perfection. He knew, too, that Mrs. Legiand com- plained more in earnest than in fun of her husband's indifference to social requirements, of his zeal foi working among the poor, and of his dislike of making calls in Fifth Avenue. He had once heard her declare with tears in her eyes that, after thinking she had married not a clergyman but a man, she found she had only got a clergyman. In response to the boy Legrand said nothing for a minute or two. " It isn't, in the first place, a ques- tion of goodness at all," he answered then. "No one becomes a clergyman because he's good." "What does he do it for, then?" the lad asked, in astonishment. Legrand reflected again. " Primarily, because he's willing to be used, as an instrument in a great cause — in a large movement. Before anything else it's a question of willingness." "Could he be used as an instrument in a great cause if he wasn't good ?" "He couldn't be as good an instrument, of course; but I fancy he could be used. From what we know about God we infer that He can turn any means to account. Do you remember the queer story of Balaam's ass?" The boy nodded. 69 THE WAY HOME "Well, don't you think that that may be what we're to learn from it? — that what we consider a very feeble and inferior thing can become the medium of God's power?" "And you don'r have to be good to be a minister?" "I must rep. what I said — that it's chiefly a question of vn ^.ngness. If any one is eager to serve — a miri ter, you know, is only a servant — it will generally be found that other things adjust themselves. The desire to serve comes first." At the rectory door they said good night, and Charlie Grace went in. He was quite clear in his mind as he said to himself: "That wouldn't be my reason — not the desire to serve — it wouldn't be. I should do it because mama wanted me to. But there couldn't be a better reason than that." Nevertheless, it was a relief to know that "good- ness" was no terrifying essential. As he hung up his cap and overcoat and went toward the kitchen to ask JuUa what there was to be for supper he shrilled again the medieval refrain: Rejoice! Rejoicel Emmanuel Shalt come to thee, O Israeli It was the first time there had been such happy singing in the house since his mother died. CHAPTER VI ^F his sister's visit to New York only two ^-^ isol_:ed details remained permanently in Charlie Grace's memory. He recalled, in the first place, hearing strange voices in the study on coming home from school one day early in December. The words that caught his attention, as he threw down his satchel of books on an old sofa in the hall, were: "Going into the Church? How nice!" The voice was noticeably rich and caressing. He decided to listen, as he often did when there were callers in the house, waiting for a hint to tell him whether to go in or run away. Creeping down the hall, he peeped warily into the room. His father was in his favorite arm-chair near the grate, in which a coal-fire was glowing. A short, plump lady sat beside him, a hand laid familiarly on the arm of his chair. Her back being toward the door, the boy got no glimpse of her features, but without exposing himself to view he could look squarely into the face of a stocky, thick-necked man, with a face like that of a bulldog, whom he knew from photographs to be Osborne Tomlinson. He inferred that Sophy must have been deposited at St. Margaret's School at Tubb's Ferry, on the Hudson, before her parents had entered Ntw York. "It was something his dear mother had very 71 THE WA Y HOME much at heart," the rector said, almost apologet- "Then of course you couldn't think of his doine anythmgelse— o/fottw." ^ th^*"J'i'V°"*' ''"P''**'.*''" »" "O"" of objections "Vr w ''"•'" i'^" ""»««• *"« thus overruled. llie West IS offenng wonderful opportunities for young men just now." said the stclcky man, in a to co^. ".i:'""l^°'"- "^'" ^° « ^°' ««'"« "">" to come, though it won't go on forever. Remark- able country up ,n the new regions of Canada." I ye looked at Bugler's book-rA^ Great Lone ievefnf J' ""°' '"^' ^^ ^»y °^ ''""8 "P to the level ot the conversation. "Won't be a great lone land very long. Not many of us are in the secret yet. but those of us who ^n K^"^ -5" K*"" '"""^"i^"^ °f some big fortunes will be laid there dunng the next twenty years. Very short-sighted policy on the part of our govern- ment not to work up a plan by which we mi|ht get possession of that territory. Ought to do it. and do It m^hty quick. D'ye see.? England doesn''t know yet what she s got, nor Canada, either. It will be another generation before they jump to it. If in the eTou'LhTKT '^'•' ^^Pf "P =• "'''™ ='"'1 P"sh it hard enough I believe in the long run we'd make it good." ness So^e""' '^ ^'"'^ ^' -temational righteous- There was a short harsh laugh. "Is there? Never heard of it. At least. I've never seen it-nor anybody else. JIS^A ^"u^. '" '^ '?«"!*'■ •'""neer." the lady ex- plained. He's perfectly Elizabethan. Noddy is It s no use saying he isn't, because he is t'--- 7* Three THE WA Y HOME centuries ago he would have been a Drake or a Frobisher instead of a civil engineer." another^rJir"'"*;''"''"''. '^' ^-npHrnent with anotner laugh. Some one's got to go ahead and do the pjoneenng. If we were all stay-!t-ho"es, ^^ke father Grace here there'd never be any discoveries As It .s, we've got hold of a big thing. The trouble '1 be m making people believe it. When I say p^pl" i S °" rt- • ^ ^'"^ '^' United Stated Sve New York t' ^"'""''- ^•'"'^ *''« I™ »fter I^ New York. I want to mterest some of our financial to sSasV."' "'"""'""^ "^ "'' "''"''^ ^»""« i'' going "Not by a long shot, father Grace. The news- big for the average imagmarion to take in; it will to i^ done; you can bet your life on that." 1 he boy thrilled at the words. He liked rh;« k;» way of talking. He liked, too, the ZMXl outl.J,k' over praines and lakes, over rivers and mountah« brought before the mind's eye as his broTerr- aw went on to describe the newly explored land £ plored.? Yes; they had been explored; and yet as far as that went, they srill remained an Sis t>tates. It was hard to get any one to believe that GaTnVfVr •" t."r^°"''^ ^^ - ferrile as th ^larden of Eden. The Indians had a name, now re- stricted to one relatively small province^Manitoba God s Meadow-which gave quite the most graphfc concepuon of the whole vast, flowery plain.Totted u 73 MKtOCOrr liSOlUTION TBI CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) la 12.8 US ■" |M ■ 2.2 ktsi Ina ^ L£ 1 H2.0 I 1.8 ^1^1^ ^ APPLIED IIVHGE Inc ^E*^ 1653 EasI Main Streel ^^S f*oche»t«r, N«w Yorti 1*609 USA ^S (^'^) *82 - 0300 - Phone ^^ (716) 288 - 5989 - fax THE WAY HOME with lakes and drained by rivers, lying between Lake Superior and the Rockies. And when you reached the Rockies I Great God Almighty! Talk about Switzerland! If Switzerland were the size ot the German Empire, and painted with the colors of tgypt and the Riviera and the Dolomites com- bined, and rich with the richness of California and iTance, then Switzerland might be comparable to the country stretching from the Selkirks to the Pacific pcean D'ye see? But people wouldn't beheve It. There was the rub. When he said people he meant people with money, people who could supply the few millions so desperately needed to push the Trans-Canadian from coast to coast tven a few thousands, for the matter of that' If father Grace had a little cash to spare it was Hvine htm a tip that would mean wealth to advise investing VI ^1!"^"'%*^' ""^^ °?^ °^ philanthropy almost as much as of finance. He, Tomlinson, had banked his all on it and some ten or a dozen others- Scotchmen, Americans, Canadians, but Scotchmen in particular-who were equal to the vision had done the same. It meant comparative poverty for a few years, and then . . . ! ^ } The boy thrilled again. He wanted his papa to be rich for his papa's own sake. He had got the Idea of late that money was scarcer than it used to be m the rectory, where it had never been abundant. He had heard whispers that the income of St. David s was falling off, largely because of a tendency on the part of the parishioners to move farther up-town and to attend St. Bartholomew's or St 1 homas s. He knew there had been arrears of late in the monthly instalments of his father's stipend 74 THE WAY HOME —a thing that had never been known in the old days— and he gathered that there was to be a hurried but rather belated movement to guard against further calamity by raising an endowment. He had even gone to the pains of asking Remnant what an endowment meant— getting the information that It was a fund to enable the rector and himself, Kemnant, to snap their fingers at all the bosses in JNew York, and to get their pay whether any one came to church or not. Remnant was all for an endowment, and so was Charlie Grace, till now that his brother-in-law's offer promised a more effective rehef. He was disappointed, therefore, to hear h-s .. " say, perhaps with some bitterness: "I'm afraid you're looking to the wrong quarter, Osborne. I've never been able to save more than a few hundred dollars in my life. It's been no easy matter to keep up a position like mine on four thousand dollars a year, which is the highest point my salary has ever touched. And now, even that—" The rector broke off with a sigh. The boy sighed, too. His father's words confirmed half-formed suspicions to which he had never yielded. They inspired also an immense desire to be rich himself to be safe from the kind of anxiety he had always felt hanging over the household, to shelter his father from It, too. It was a second disappointment that brother-in-law Tomlinson should not press his point. He gave in rather weakly, saying merely: "Oh, well, I'm only telling you. It's a chance that won't come again. D'ye see?" Charlie Grace's second recollection was of a few words exchanged with Emma as he came home with 7S THE WAY HOME her from church one Sunday morning after Mr. Tomlinson had finished his business in New York and gone to carry his message to other cities of the Union. Up to this time Emma had stayed vith her husband 3t the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but now she took up her abode at the rectory with her father. To Remnant and JuHa she became again Miss Emma, a personage they had been accustomed to love and fear. Remnant in particular was emphatic in his ad- miration. "There, sonny," he observed to Charlie Grace, "is a woman for you. Talk about Mrs. Hornblower — she's a boss; Miss Emma's a general. A man '11 kick against the one, when he'll be proud to serve under the other." The boy himself acknowledged by this time the justice of Remnant's analysis. Beginning with some prejudice against Emma, chiefly on his mother's be- half, he was compelled to admit that she made a pleasant addition to the family. "Seems as if she'd always been here," was the confidence he made in return for Remnant's enthusiasm. Remnant shook his head. " Pity she couldn't stay, sonny. St. David's 'u'd be another kind o' church with her on deck. She'd soon put a stop to this here work of Parson Legrand bringing in all the tagrag- and-bobtail the way he is. I don't hold with Parson Legrand nohow. I tell you, there's people I have to show into seats on a Sunday that I wouldn't want to sweep out with a broom. I'd take a pitchfork to 'em. And yet there I am, having to look at them polite and make 'em think they're welcome or else lose niy job. Religion is a holler thing, sonny. If ever you're a sexton you'll find it out. And I 76 THE WAY HOME partly blame your pa. He's too good. He don't put his foot down severe enough on this here Parson Legrand and make him keep the church respectable, hke what it used to be. Now, there's Mrs. Legrand. She s another thing. Me and she has wept tears together, like, to see the low crowd he'll get in. Sometimes I think he ain't in his proper senses! Well, anyhow, we've got Miss Emma back, and I hope she'll settle him. I call it a pity to see religion going to pieces when there's been as much money put into it as there has here." It was natural that approval froT. such an au- thoritative quarter should have its effect on Charlie Grace. In a very short time he found himself giv- ing Emma her due. She, on her part, t ..red him with distinguished consideration, taking an interest in all that concerned him and giving an attention to his private affairs, his boots and his clothes, the brushing of his teeth and the cleaning of his nails, such as they had not received since his mother died. He made no inward objection, therefore, when, as they crossed the gre ard from Amiens Cathedral that Sunday morni. ^, Emma said, in her warm contralto: ; "So you're going into the Church?" ; He answered, timidly, "I— I was thinking of i;." "It's a lovely career," Emma said, with gentle heartiness. His soul leaped within him. To be sup- ported by one so strong would in itself be strength. A minute went by before she said again: "It's a lovely career— for any one who can make the sacrifice." He felt a sudden spiritual drop. He knew what she meant. Nevertheless, he made bold to say: 77 THE WAY HOME w V) '- "What kind of sacrifice?" "Weil, money sacrifice, in the first place. And, of course, that entails the sacrifice of freedom and power and self-respect. No one who's poor can be really self-respecting. It's no use saying he can be, because he can't. His time is fully taken up with respecting those who are rich and doing what they tell him. It's a beautiful thing in its way— for those who have the meekness to accept the role." "Lots of people are poor," he ventured, "who aren t clergymen at all." "That's true. They're poor because they can't help It. But in a good many cases a clergyman is poor when he could help it. 1 hat is, he needn't have been a clergyman. There's very little doubt that if papa had been a lawyer or a man of business he would have been rich. Do you see.'" He pondered. "If I were a lawyer or a man of business should I be rich ?" "I can't say that, you know. But you'd have a chance. A clergyman has no chance. That's all I mean. He decides to abandon the cl^ance when he chooses to he a clergyman. He takes a very high stand — ^if he can keep up to it." That was some comfort, at least. A high stand was what his mama would have approved of. He was sure of that. ''She wanted it— mama did," he faltered. "And that's a reason in itself, isn't it.? That's what I want you to see. It isn't as if you were choosing this career just because you like it, is it? In a way it's chosen for you. Of course, it will keep you from doing what other boys do— and later on trom doing what other young men do. Clereymen. 78 THE WAY HOME and people who are going to be clergymen, are always so restricted. Everybody's shocked if they're not But yo« wouldn't mind all that, would you, dear? You d simply decide to-to give up, so to speak! from the start. Once you'd really decided, it wouldn t be so terrible, would it?" He tried to come up to the expectations implied m her tone by saying "No." but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He could only appeal once more to the capacity for dogged determination he knew to be withm him. He would have despised himself less tor a downright meanness than for being frightened away from fulfilling his mother's wish just because it was going to;be hard. Itwas kind of Emma to warn him, but he felt himself fortified in advance Ihey had reached the door of the rectory when Emma made a new move. "Are there never any mwe people m church than there were to-day?" Ihis was something he had never thought of no- i-nadferte"y"'' "^ ''°"'' *'''"'' '°'" P^'^'^ ^'""^ "Then the congregation must be falling off." He would probably not have thought of his re- mark again if that night at supper, after the evening service, Emma hadn't said to her father: thi'nkr *^°"^''^^**'°" ''^^P^ "P P''^"y «'ell, don't you The rector fell into her littlp trap. "H'm. Ye-es Considering." "You mean, considering — " "How people are moving away. Do you notice how many houses in the neighborhood are to let? Business creeping in, too. I must confess, however, i dont dread business so much as the boarding. ^r THE W A Y H n M E house There are two already in Vandiver Place, ft -J TL '^^ P«'"''e"°n house is likely to make a "t"j! " •"* '* P^fectly appalling." onn,i- • "°r'?'" ^'"'"'' "'''• eently, "that the ch^n ed'"" ^congregation seemed— well, rather "Oh, that's Legrand's work, and it worries me. It s somethmg I hardly know what to do about It isnt that the poor aren't welcome in God's be that. Only we've provided the Mission Chapel on purpose. I fa.l to see what's to be gained by mixmg people up, wheri all experience shows they ^et along better apart. He's very radical, Legrand rh'jnt Jti, r -1 T'^ surprising, too, when you thmk of the family he comes from. I supposed that m gettmg h,m at St. David's we'd secured a man who d— who d contmue the tradirions. But I'm dis- appomted m Legrand that way. Not that he isn't a worthy fellow. He is-a perfect saint, of his kind St David'""* ^'^^ "'^'^ " '""''^ *''^ '''^''' "*" "It seems to me there's a great deal of democratic 'e«hng m the church of late years." "Quite so, quite so. And it doesn't do. It's Tr^rf. f r *"% 'n TP'^"* "P°" legrand. Demo- cratic fee mg, I tell him, is all very well, but you've got to take the American people as you find them; and with the American people it's been proved ove^ 'ZZV ^g=»" tJ'^^where the poorer sort come in the better f^im.hes will move away. You may regret It. but so It ,s. There's a sense in which they're more anstocratic than any Europeans. Every one knows that. Where the lower classes come the 80 THE WAY HOME upper classes go; it's a law of the American tempera- ni«it; and that's what I tell Legrand." The rector spoke with animation. One could see It was a subject on which he had reflected. Emma was sufficiently of his opinion to say: 'Since the character of Vandiver Place is changing and likely to change more, wouldn't it be a good Idea, father, when another bishopric is olFered you — She stopped, because the rector, who was helping "?'ri ^^^°^^ veal-and-ham pie, paused in the act and htted his eyes on her rather piteously. The bov was not sure that he had ever reen this particular look in h.s eyes before. It led him to say to himself: i'erhaps papa thinks they won't offer him any more bishopncs. It was possible that Emma perceived something u^r **""* ''°"' *°'' ^^^ hastened to say: Naturally, after you've declined Southern An- zona and the missionary diocese of Mesaba— wasn't •t— *ey may think you don't want—" "My dear," the father said, wistfully, "I'm sixty- three years of age, and they look for bishops now among the young and vigorous. For that sort of thing I m —he swallowed hard— "I'm out of the runmng. I'm out of the running for anything you niaj' call promotion. For a rector of St. David's there w no promotion but a bishopric— and now they consider me too old. I'm not; but it's the impres- sion that has got about. No, my dear," he added, with lofty calmness, "we will not cherish illusions or vain hopes. As rector of St. David's I've lived tor twenty-seven years, and as rector of St. David's — nouh-l shall die." 8i THE WAY HOME Emma had the tact to smile, and to say, briskly, "Well, that's pretty good as it is," after which she turned the conversation on the school at Tubb's Ferry. But the consciousness of failure in his father's tone did not escape the boy. It surprised him, too, since he had always supposed that, whatever limitations his parent was subjected to, he could command any- thing he liked in the way of churchly honors. It was painful to think of one so Olympian as the victim of hopes blasted and ambitions unfulfilled. Charlie Grace could bear his own troubles and fight his own fights, he could endure to look upon his soul as a seething-pot of sin and a hotbed of incipient adolescent vices, but he hated to think that his papa couldn't have any bishopric he wanted or should have to consider himself the object of humilia- tion or ill luck. It roused his instincts of champion- ship, of protection. He wanted to be powerful^ -to be in a position to defy or command. As he went on munching his veal-and-ham pie, while Emma and her father talked of the advantages that would accrue to Sophy from daily association with Hilda Penrhyn, the boy fell to wondering whether or not, if he gave up the idea of being a clergyman and started out frankly to make money, like Noddy Tomlinson, he could be of more help to his papa. CHAPTER VII JHIS question raised itself at intervals throughout * .the next three or four yesrs, coming up chiefly during Emma s visits to the rectory (^borne's efforts on behalf of the Trans-Canadian keeping him on the move over the United States and Canadaf S frequent dashes to London. Paris, or Berlin, hi S rarely had a settled home. It was a matter of con! ^^ \: Kot" -^P-'^^'-S^ portion of Notwithstanding Emma's methods of attack Charlie Grace kept to his resolution. Not that he didnt sometimes reconsider it; but reconsideration never failed to bring him to the conclusion that to change his intentions would be treason to the memory of his mama; and he clung to that memory the more desperately because it tended to grow dim. He found, too, another fortifying influencr.~one with SA^T" ^"f^ ^""^ P"' ''''" •" ^''-h ^^hen she thought she was doing something else. bn. -yi,''^ f 'u^ ?. ^^ ** "'^ Sy™""- If I were a boy it s what I should want to be, too " This was Fanny Hornblower. Since the days when they were httle children together Charlie but rarely. The reason for this was mainly geo- graphical, since the Hornblower residence was in the Murray Hill district of Fifth Avenue, the 83 THE WAY HOME family continuing to attend St. David's from old association. It was Emma who intervened, to keep thii separation from being more prolonged. He heard her on one occasion gently chide her father for letting it begin. "Considering the future," she said, "and the combinations wrought by mere proximity, it was criminal to have neglected such an opportun- ity." In due time, therefore, when Emma had re- newed the old family ties with Mrs. Hornblower he found himself "taking tea" at the residence in Fifth Avenue, and leading out Miss Fanny Horn- blower at d<':ncing-school and juvenile parties. She was then fifteen, a year younger than himself. She was not pretty, being thin and bony, with a mere wisp of very blond hair, pale-blue eyes, and very blond lashes. Her charm lay in an appealing gentleness charged with an eagerness to do every- thing for every one, making no demands for herself. Charlie Grace would probably not have thought of her as other than a sweet little girl, unusually plain, whom he liked in a condescending way because she was generally a wall-flower at dances, if Remnant hadn't said, jocosely: "Glad to see you makin' up to little Miss Horn- blower, sonny. Go it; go it. Lots o' tin." From this moment the boy grew cold in his atten- tions, though he could not have given a reason for the sudden change. None the less, such scraps of intercourse as he allowed himself with her he en- joyed, and the more so when she ventured to sym- pathize with his plans. "If I were a boy it's what I should want to be," she declared, in her gentle way. "There's nothing 84 THE WAY HOME I can think of so really noble for a man. It's what I should want to be above all things." Confidences of this sort might have brought them nearer together if Emma hadn't said, too signifi- cantly: "I want you to be nice to Fanny." He bridled at onre. "I am nice to her." "I don't thmk you are — always." "Why should I be nicer to her than to anybody else?" "Not nicer, perhaps, but as nice. You'll find her a useful acquaintance when you're older." He bounded. The formula was one he had grown to detest. "I don't choose my friends," le said, grandly, "for the sake of making use of th( .." Emma became conciliating. "You're quite right. There's nothing I dislike more than calculation. It's such a common thing, too, nowadays. But, still, one has to look ahead, don't you think?" Since he couldn't deny this necessity, Emma was able to go on. "You especially will have to look ahead, Charlie, dear, because you have your own way to make." "I suppose I can make it as well as other people." ^ "Oh, better — that is, better than the majority. I'm quite sure of that — if you only play your cards well. You hold a good hand," she smiled, "with some of the best trumps." He looked at her with curiosity. She returned his gaze calmly. They happened to be standing in the front hall of the rectory, Emma at the door, the boy loUing over the banister, as he stood en the lowest step of the stairs. Emma had brought up the topic just as she was going out. It was part of 85 THE WAY HOME her touch-and-go system. The high-crowned hat which was the fashion of the day — something like an overturned, elongated saucepan— gave height to her short figure; and in her long sealskin coat, her hands composedly in her sealskin muff, she was the very picture of a self-possessed little lady. "In fact," she continued, using the method of mstilhng self-confidence she had practised effectively with Noddy Tomlinson— "in fact, you may be said to hold the ace. You're very good-looking. I sup- pose you know that." He did know it, in a manner of speaking. That is, he thought so himself, only he was not sure that others would agree with him. It was an immense pleasure to be corroborated by so good a judge as Emma, though all he could find to say was a sheep- ish "Oh, go on." "You are," she insisted, "and that's an enormous advantage as a start. It has to be backed up, how- ever. You'll always be welcome wherever you go; but you'll be more welcome if you cultivate your opportunities. That's all I mean. That's all I'm thmking of in asking you to be nice to Fanny." There was more of Emma's philosophy, of which it was liot difficult to catch the inner significance. If he got on his high horse about it it was chiefly be- cause he could hear a sympathetic response to it withm himself. He recognized the fact that the things that Emma wanted he, too, wanted deatly, and yet could hardly bear to make the admission to his secret soul. As a matter of fact, to his secret soul he declared that he despised them. He could pardon them to Emma because she was a Woman, after all. It was natural to a woman to care for the eew- 86 THE W A Y HOME gaws of life, and to study the arts of getting them; whereas the imputation of this weakness to a man— to a man of sixteen, especially— was little short of an indignity. During the next few weeks he was colder than before to Fanny Homblower, while he sought the soaety, notably unremunerative, of Hattie Bright This young lady, at the age of nearly seventeen was even more seducrive than she had been at twelve. Out of the little fluffy ball of 1880 she had shot up fair and lissom, like a daffodil from a bulb Kather, perhaps, it was like a hyacinth, since she had plenty of nch April tints in her complexion, while her eyes laughed unutterable things as archly as those of a Romney's Lady Hamilton. From the dingy boarding-house, dominated by the querulous nagging of Mrs. Bright, she contrived to emerge as fresh as spnngtide, and not less stylish than a colored plate m Godey's Lady's Book. To the matrons of St. David's it was no spirit of good that achieved this miracle. To the young men, on the other hand, the wonder was sufficient to itself. For Chariie Grace she was the embodiment of a principle which all his life was to be a snare to him Naturally enough, no analysis he could make of his own proclivities could tell him that just yet If he realized it at all, it was by fits and starts that came suddenly and as suddenly went— or else it was in troubled dreams that had little or no counterpart in workaday life as he knew it. And yet it was during these early months of i88c, when the whole mystery of womanhood seemed summed up for him in Hatue Bright, that he first saw the girl who personified his ideals almost before 87 THE WAY HOME m he had formed them. Vaguely, mistily, in unoc- cupied moments— in long jolting journeys on the horse-cars, or during the enforced stillness of service m church— he got glimpses of a woman who, to the patient gentleness of Fanny Hornblower and the bodily magnetism of Hattie Bright, would, add what- ever in the way of feminine virtue was necessary to unify these warring characterisrics. The vision had been a vision and no more. It was with a shock, therefore, that he saw it brought before him in the flesh in the person of Hilda Penrhyn. This occurrence, too, was due to Emma's solicitude for his welfare. It would be good for him, she reasoned, to know a girl hke Hilda, who now, at the age of eighteen, had left Tubb's Ferry and entered society. Knowing his oppositions and irritabilities, Emma told him nothing of her plans beforehand. She was content to invite him to see the opera of "Carmen" at a Saturday matinee. Excited by the movement and brilliancy of the incoming audience, as well as by the very shape and size and smell of the opera-house itself, he was twisting and turning in his seat, paying no attention to any one, when Emma leaned forward from her place in the row and said: "Hilda, I don't think you know my brother Charlie. "How d'you do?" "How d'you do?" He was not aware that the instant was, with those of his own birth and his mother's death, one of the thrc; great moments of his life up to the present time; but he was fully conscious of a desire to be at the feet of this exquisite being as a worshiper or a slave. The thought of love was as far from 88 THE WAY HOME his mind as it was with Fanny Hornblower or Hattie Bnght, but the impulse to kneel and serve was instinctive. It was all he could think of doing. He knew, of course, that there was such a thing as love, and that one day he should come to it; but he knew, too, that he was not ready for it yet. For Hilda Penrhyn there was nothing in his mind but service. If she had wanted a program he would have as gladly risked his life to get it as David's soldiers to fetch him water from the well at Bethlehem. But she had a program; she had opera-glasses; she had everything a young lady at a public per- formance could require. Moreover, during the brief ceremony of introduction she had glanced at hini but languidly, turning away at once to converse with Sophy, who sat on her other side. The boy bore her no ill will for that. It was natural that a beautiful creature of eighteen who was already going to dinner-parries should have "no use" for a callow lad mo years her junior and very much out of her "set." It was no more possible to resent her hau- teur than for a Hindu of the water-bearing caste to complain of insolence from a Brahman. Fortunately for his immediate peace of mind, the orchestra struck up the overture, and presently Minnie Hauck, a rose between her teeth and deviltry in her eyes and voice, came bounding on the scene. But so it happened that while he followed the drama on the stage he also thrilled to a drama of his own creation. It was a drama without incidents, with- out action, without words, and with no dramatis persona but himself and the silent girl beside him. It played itself in the passions of the piece, and sang itself in the gipsy airs, and took the tones 7 89 THE WAY HOME and faces of each of the performers. There was cruelty, lust, and caprice in it, lassitude and ieal- ousy, joy and death. •* During the entr'actes he stopped playing it. because as soon as the first curtain went down she spoke to him and there was .;lways the chance that sfte might speak again. "Do you like opera.?" were her words. She spoke m the dry, staccato tone which implies concession to polite conventions but bridges no inch ot the distance that separates two souls. He didn't cZ" u . ^u '=o"'l«cension enough that she should speak at all. "I like this opera," he said, trying to throw a world ot meaning into the penultimate word. I don't think I do." He was longing to ask her why, but feared to be presuming Before he could think of some other means of keeping up the dialogue she had already turned toward Sophy. Her fa-e being partially averted, he took the opportunity to get a clearer idea of her appwrance. This he could do but surrepti- tiously, as he feared that if she looked round sud- denly, she might resent his staring at her His impressions, therefore, were in general rather than in detail. Before everything else, as he thought her over afterward, she struck him as complete. There was nothing about her that was not finished, per- fected. He could see that she was not tall, but tha. she naust have the poise that gives to some women who lack height a dignity of their own. Her hair worn in a twist low on the neck, was nut-brown in color and he had already noticed the ivory tint of her skm when, m stolen glances, while the opera was 90 THE WAY HOME goinj, on, he had caught the delicate incisiveness of her prohle. He could only guess at the color of her eye^ but he was sure they must be violet-brown On the way home he braced himself to speak of her to Sophy, who was spending the night at the rectory, to go back to Tubb's Ferry on the following afternoon. He trusted to the jostling of the crowds as they walked down Broadway in the lamplight to cover any confusion into which he might be betrayed, as he said: "So that's the wonderful Miss Penrhyn." "That's her." Sophy's way of speaking was tmmas despair. She looked up at him sidewise from under a fluffy fringe of hair imperfectly held m place by the scarf she had bound round her head and neck on coming out of the opera-house. Over her flimsy dress she wore a long fur coat in which she trudged heavily. She was a little thing. Every- thmg about her was small but her mouth and her eyes, which were made for laughter and droll gri- maces. " I wouldn't be crazy about her, you know," Sophy continued. "She didn't take much notice of you, did she?" »t"J'"\.'''? ^^^^ ^''°"* *'^'''" ^^ declared, hastily. I hardly looked at her at all." "Well, you needn't be so touchy. She isn't bad- looking. "It's nothing to me whether she is or not," he asserted, loftily. "She'd make it something to you if she wanted to. But she wouldn't want to— a boy of your age. She'd hardly see you— not if yru were right under her feet, she wouldn't. She had a proposal last year—" "What do I care?" 91 THE WAY HOME I didnt say you cared, goosey. What differ- ence would It make whether you cared or not?— a young boy hlce you. You shouldn't be thinking of such things. Grandpapa 'u'd be mad if he knew it." Knew what— for the Lord's sake?" "Oh well we won't discuss it. She's got an air, too, Hilda has. She doesn't really dress well-all the girls at school said that— only she looks as if she did. I suppose you thought she was awfully stylish this afternoon.?" "I tell you I didn't look at her." "Well, she wasn't stylish; not a bit. She wore that thing all last winter. Couldn't you see how it was cut in front? They've been as poor as Job's turkey since Mr. Penrhyn .iied. That's why they're going abroad." At this information the ground seemed to sway beneath his footsteps. More than ever he wished he could put his fortune or his prowess at her disposal. He mastered himself sufficiently to say, with an air he tned to make jocular: therS"'"^ ^^^°^^' '"'* ^^^y^ ^•'^t «o°^ '" that do Sophy tittered. "It '11 do them the good that perhaps she'll get married." [] Can't she get married over here?" . ."|''"'f,r^^' - '*y ' •'"* ""t*'*'" and Mrs. Penrhyn think she 11 do better in Europe. I suppose they'll get the same idea about me. They'll want me to have a baron or a count. Well, I'd just as soon. Ihe girls at school say it's as easy as wink over there. So that s what Mrs. Penrhyn is going to make a try at for Hilda. If it doesn't succed she can bnng her back, /ou know." 92 THE WAY HOME ''And what does Hilda say about it?" ''She doesn't say anything at all. That's not her style— to say things. She's awfully provoking that way. You never know what she thinks— and yet sh- s always thinking. You can see she is. But you may talk and talk and talk to her, and in the end you re no wiser than you were before. I hate that m any one, don't you ? Not that it matters whether you do or not, because I could see she didn't like you. CHAPTER VIII QN the following evening, being Sunday, Mr. and Mrs Legrand came to supper at the rectory, after the late service, as they often did. While on such occasions the rector enjoyed his cigar and Legrand his pipe they took the opportunity to dis- cuss the incidents of the lyeek that had passed and any plans that might come up for future work, bupper ended, Emma, when there, generally retired to the drawing-room with Mrs. Legrand, the two men lingering at the table. Charlie Grace would slip mto the study to con his lessons for the morrow, but taking care to leave the door 0/ communication open frL,i'.l'"'l"'''"i'f"* ^^^^''droPPing, he not in- frequently obtained bits of information valuable to nimselt. On this particular evening he was tryine to master the provisions of the Conventicle and Five- Mile Acts as set forth in his Medieval and Modern History, when he heard his father say twJ^^ bishop writes me he will come to us on the third Sunday after Easter. I hope we shall have a good corfirmation class. We haven't had for several years past. I don't like to see things falling off. How many did we have last year? Twenty-four, ^""fort '» "^^^' "'^*' '" ^^" ^""^"^ thirty-five For Charlie Grace the Conventicle and Five-Mile Acts ceased to have an interest. He was sure that 94 THE WAY HOME something was going to happen to which he had long looked forward with a kind of dread. He would have to be confirmed. As Legrand said nothmg, the boy hstened attentively while his father went on: "There are a number of young people who ought to be ready now. There's my boy, Charlie, and young Fred Fumival, and Reginald Hornblower and his sister Frances, and Harriet Bright, and—" The boy closed his book and crept softly up-stairs to his room. He had an odd ''eeling of being trapped —not by his father, nor by the ecclesiastical usages of the society in which he had grown up, but by life Itself. In spite of his intention "to be a minister," as his phrase was, he had never relinquished, in the matter of religion, half-formed hopes of being able to drift along without declaring himself too definitely as to either faith or conduct. Now it was as though he were about to be headed off and challenged to take a stand. It made him uneasy; it even alarmed him. Some inward force that defied his control objected to taking a stand; he was far from sure that he had a stand to take. He kept silence on the subject, however, till a few days later, when he found himself, according to custom, walking home from school with Furny Haying tired of the game of clouting each other with their satchels full of books, Furny said, suddenly: My old man says I've got to be confirmed." yn the pnnciple that misery loves company this information was welcome to Charlie Grace. What- ever he might be called on to go through, he should have some one to keep him in countenance. Never- thdess, he contented himself with saying: 9S THE WAY HOME "And are you going to be?" Fumy made a dash with his satchel at a wandering dog, which, with reproachful eyes, took a wide cir- cuit into the street. "You bet! Got to be. Are you? " My old man hasn't said anything to me about it yet. But I expect he will." "Oh, well, what's the odds ? Everybody gets con- hrmed some time. My old man was confirmed when he was only fourteen. What do they do it for. anyhow?" ' "I do' know." Then, feeling the responsibility of ij !}*"7 "■■"■■ "•'■"''y "Pon ''''". Charlie Grace ' .. V ' *"PP°se they do it because it's right." Yes, but what makes it right? My old man docsn t know, and he was confirmed when he was tourteen years old. Mother just says it's the proper thing to do. Anyhow, I don't care. Besides, my old man says that if I'm confirmed I can give up botany. That's another thing I don't see the sense ot. Do you? Charlie Grace admitted that he didn't, and so the subject changed. It lay on his mind, however, and when in the course of the week the inspiration came to lay it "ifj I ^^S""*"^ ^^ acted on the impulse, c , •, ^grand, what do people have to be con- firmed for? He had been sent by his father into the vestry of bt. David s with a note. Legrand read it as he stood. In his cassock he was very spare and tall. His thin, regular features, handsome in an asceric way, got emphasis from the surroundings. When he had said there was no answer to the note the boy 96 THE WAY HOME already had his hand on the door-knob to go away. He had blurted out his question as to the necessity for confirmation before taking the time to reflect. For a minute or two Legrand was silent, trying to follow the working of the lad's mind. Tb ■ latter still stood with his hand on the door-knob, lis eyes rolling round on the familiar furnishings of the vestry— on the Gothic desk where the clergy wrote their notes, on the portraits of the three successive rectors of St. David's hanging above it, on the row rvT"^''^^*' *"' P''°»08''aphed heads of the bishops of New York, on an old print of Vandiver Place as it had been forty years before, on the assistant's sur- plice and stole, thrown temporarily over the back of a Gothic chair, as he had come into the vestry from "taking evensong." "They don't have to be confirmed," Legrand said, at last. The boy felt this to be begging the question. "I know they don't have to be unless they want to. but — " "That's just it— unless they want to. The action must be voluntary— it must spring from a desire." "Well, I haven't got any desire." Again the words were out before he knew it. If he had taken time to think he would probably have kept that special bit of information to himself. Legrand heard it, however, without sign of surprise, saying, merely: "Haven't you ? Then I dare say you'd better not be confirmed." "But papa wants me to." "I'll talk to him about that if you like." This prompt way of settling the question did not, 97 THE WAY HOME however, appeal to Charlie Grace. The matter seemed to him to require more circumlocution, per- haps more argument. "I don't want not to be con- hrmed, he stammered, "only— only— I want to keep free to do things-rm-I'm fond of doing." . iu would be— except for wrong things." Fhere was a perceptible pause before the boy said. But thats what I mean— wrong things." "Wrong things— such as—" The boy reddened. "Such as I've done— often— and other thmgs— such as I expect— I shall do 1 shall never be good, Mr. Legrand," he declared, with a catch m his voice. "It isn't in me. I'm fuU up of something else. T guess if I ever die I shall go to hell. Legrand smiled. "Isn't that traveling a little too tast.^ 1 dare say some of your trouble lies there You re not satisfied with thinking how bad you are but you must go on to imagine how much worse you re going to be." "But when \ knoto—" .u^A°' Tl ''?'?'*■. '^"^ *'°"'* ^'^ a tit better than I do. I should advise you, however, not to make the thought father to the wish. One can, you know " 1 he boy had been so near to tears that he was obliged to snuffle and blow his nose. He had a vague expectation, too, that Legrand would ask the obvious question as to how he thought of entering on his future career if he balked at its preliminaries now. He was both disappointed and relieve-a at getting away from the vestry without having the subject raised. * And yet when the third Sunday after Easter came round he was confirmed. He was confirmed 98 "^HE WA Y HOME Class was such that the boy resolved to step ud with anjT "^ y°""8 Hornblower and Ha tt?e BrX and some fifteen or sixteen others, and make one more for h.s father's sake, whatever he spiritual co"! sequence Lastly, before Easter came Rufus Le- grand had^gone away, leaving his parisl ioner mast coSl'nj'i^^'r '"'T*^ ''"^ '5"' intimation of the asZ f,. ^"*t^'°"J 'h« "P" of little Esther Legrand He Lh K°" ""' '°^'' '" "^^ '"°"'"''' drawing-f,^m He had been sent to deliver a message from the ector to the assistant, and was waiting for Mr, Legrand to come down-stairs to receive it Ihe little four-year^ld appeared shyly in the doorway, huggmg a rag-doll. ^ ^ *"' Hello. Esther." The boy leaned forward, his Sng^"^cote^::^p-«^'^«"-^^^ yo|mg one?" he had asked not'long since of H^uie J'li?'^ 1°''f ''•l". "''* '■^P''^''' "^hat you can't tell whether they're blue or black. Just when you think ttn Vll b °.T ^°"'" "^ '""'y'^' '^' "'^----d tncn .t 11 be the opposite way round. I think it's ndiclous the way Mrs. Legrand dresses her, don' 99 m THE WAY HOME I'p you? I declare that woman has so many airs she just about makes me sick." .1 "^, *'''"*' sl^^'s lovely," the boy asserted, loyally. "She's pretty, too.'' "Pretty.? So is a china doll pretty. Whatever a man like Mr. Legrand could have seen in her—" Hattie was obliged to leave her sentence unfinished, for the question had puzzled older heads than hers. Rather, it would have puzzled them if life had not accustomed them to so many queer mysteries in mating that the subject was placed beyond the scope of inquiry. There was nothing "ridic'lous," however, in the way little Esther Legrand was dressed on this par- ticular forenoon, seeing that she wore a little white silk frock, "smocked a I'anglaise," as Mrs. Legrand was fond of saying, from the wardrobe of some wealthier relative. She was acquainted with Charlie Grace well enough not to be afraid of him, and yet not so well as to be intimate. In response to his invitation she advanced slowly into the room, coming to a pause at a safe distance. "My papa 'u'd going fa-a-a' away," she informed him, with a prolonged coo on the word "fa"' to indicate distance. He continued to snap his fingers as at a little dog. "Come here, Esther, and let me look at your eyes." "Po' dolly sick," she informed him, maintaining her ground. " She wamited all night." •'Well, I'm a doctor. Bring her to me." "She wamited and wamited and wamited. My papa," she began again, more solemnly, "'u'd eoine fa-a-a' away. Po" dolly." THE WA Y HOME th.^? "'""f- "k''1"^P Mrs. Legrand came down the stairs and into the room. "Oh, Charlie, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting " for^Mr" Wa'n^'' 't" '""^ '""f ^''^^ ^^ "-"g o if h^r h^ T •• l^^' *?' "°°*^ ^•'■'^ "he listened to It, her hands in the pockets of a little apron edced with lace. Except for a slight fullness in'^^he chefks and the merest hint of an approaching double chin ^tnJ f l^- "^' '°se-petal complexion was ol holH-"' I'^K'^T''' ""'^ '^' ""' had the habi H«jl°tl'" '"' '° °"^ ''"^^ ""'' ^ ^•'^»-«-8 "Yes; I'm to tell Mr. Legrand that old Mr. Piper fol^t ' '"°"'"^' ""'^ ^;" ''^ ^•"'''^ "" =»' the house to make arrangements for the funeral. Is that it?" t>he had so long pretended helplessness with reeard sai7soSV;i!r '"^-='' ='"^^'" ''^ '"^^ ^^' ShSc"'-^ ^u""'" '""^'^'f "What does she mean.? She s said that two or three times." The mother looked down proudly. "What did yousay.darlingf Say it again to mama. There's a oblSr '"'' '""' ''""' '*"='^'" '""^ '='''" ''"''• Even the mother was obliged to think twice before catching the httle girl's drift. When she did she covered her face with her hands and threw herself sSr/h 'V T"r °' '""^ ^''f^- "Oh, that chS fot Lt f ""l^ i ""• W''" ^° y«" think she's got hold of now? Do sit down, Charlie. I simply loi '^ ^ THE WAY HOME must tell some one. You'll know it in a day or two, anyhow." He seated himself in the other corner of the sofa while his hostess ran on. "We're going away. She's heard us talking it over. Who'd have thought that a little creature like that could have been listening? Oh, she's clever. Clever isn't the word. Well, we are. Mr. Legrand made up his mind last night. He's going to tell your father to-day." "I'm awfully sorry," the boy said, sincerely. "Well, so am I — ^in 3 way. But, you see, Mr. Legrand has had this vory good offer from Trenton, and he doesn't feel it right to decline. You see, he couldn't go on forever being an assistant — don't you know he couldn't? — and this will make him his own master. And such a good position — one of the most exclusive churches in New Jersey. If he'll only keep it so. That's what I'm afraid of. You don't know what I've gone through here at St. David's — to see him throw away his opportunities. I feel it on her account," she went on, with a gesture toward the little girl. "We've no money; but we have position — don't you know we have? — and to fling it away — It's doing her a great wrong, poor lamb, only I can't make my husband understand it. Poor darling," she cried, seizing the child in her arms, "you sha'n't drop out if mama can keep you in — and she will keep you in. That's all, Charlie. Don't say anything about it till Mr. Legrand has spoken to your father; but I know he's going to do it to-day. Of course, I shall die when I leave New York; but we must get used to that, mustn't we? I hope I'm too good a wife to stand in my husband's way when he has this very good chance to pick up 102 ZJiE WAY HOME S-beft'Vru'LtT^-l^r^^ "^ ^''i" New ifyourfather was made a bishon / r"^ ''''' will bc-Mr LeeranH If M u'^~l"'' of course he yet. Only one 'lo^L TherZ-^don't''" ^t°"^ ^''^^ does.P-and w.th RuLl amecfdeVts-" 5"°" °"? may say, too-well, you can see "haTr 1?""''' ^ d? ^e^^J-^ £r "•'-, BpcJuS'lS and if irwa'n" hat T ?JJ "' ''"' " ^ew York; should have another i '° 'r"^'^' that Rufus the n,ist:tLr?^^at Wr"'' .•?^°«^ P-I'^P^ ''^^ o!;^t:ZSr''''^ in -the evening, Charlie Fa^h^an^^Tn^l-^LT'ET-'h • cently gone to Join Xr^'hu^band 7t 'SLT The rector raised his brows takinir on ^'nn'Peg. of conventional distress, Kt'reTlie^d •^'"'"^^'°" whafCtre^S^bufSL^^^^^^^^^^ grand has tried her-rather "tei; ""'' """• ^^- wan?trdo'':srgo^:,Si:r-^-°^^ at^''r°LSt,s;i;-^E^->x-."Not to be made of L<.r3'i i -^ "° criticism to question his deSo^ "^'^ °"^ '^ °"'^ ""''ged THE WAY HOME said, trying to speak as respectfully -^s indignation would let him — "I shouldn't think there was much room for discretion where the duties are so plain." "That's because you knov so little about it," the father said, sharply. "When you're older you'll see that we must take human nature as we find it. Legrand is an excellent man — perfectly apostolic— but he lacks judgment. You're old enough now to allow of my speaking to you plainly; and I will not deny that, greatly as I regret his going from some points of view — from some points of view — his de- parture will not be without a measure of relief to me. A worthy, worthy fellow, but not suited to St. David's. It's the more extraordinary when you think of the family he comes from." The boy's heart grew hot within him. "I can understand that Mrs. Legrand should feel like that because — well, because we know what she is. But that you, papa — " The rector smiled tolerantly. "There's one of Legrand's mistakes not infrequently made by people who haven't reflected. It's this — that the only souls to be saved are those of the poor. They ignore the fact that the rich and the euucated have need of the message of the Gospel as well as the worker in the factory or the dweller in the slums." "But not as much — because they've got all the advantages of money and^" "\/e're not makins; comparisons," Dr. Grace interrupted, with a dignified gesture. "I'm only saying that the well-to-do are in actual need of the message of the Gospel, and it is co the well-to-do in particular that St. David's mission has been to 104 THE WAY HOME minister. That's a condition we didn't create; we simply find It so. And till our good Legrand «me among us I think we fulfilled our responsibilit^e: with some success. Since then- Well, I need hardly discuss the matter. It merely comes to this, that while Legrand has been bringing people in a one end he's been frightening them out It the oLr with the result that our attendance is falling off, our income decreasing and I, myself, brought to a state of much anxiety of mind." "If the rich go out at one end because the poor come in at the other, then. I should think, they must have a pretty mean kind of religion." Once more the rector smiled tolerantly "We must take human nature as we find it. Man is a socia ammal. and in no country in the world do social conditions become the touchstone of conduct so generally as here in America. For this the reason Fn'T J T",^'' T ^ '■'^'"y "-eflecting mind. In England and elsewhere in Europe class distinctions are so plainly drawn that one can afl^ord on occasions to transcend them. With us it isn't so. With us each man has to be, as it were, the defender of his own order — "But I thought there were no class distinctions m religion. "Not in religion, perhaps; but in a church— that IS, m a parish— especially in an American church or an American parish-not to respect the natural lines 5>cial cleavage is to induce confusion." Ur. Grace rose with the air of onf who has said the conclusive word, and withdrew to the study. Ihe boy hngered at the table, his first feeling of re- bellious irntation dying down. Now that his father <» 105 THE WAY HOME was not actually present, it was easier to think he might be right. He tried conscientiously to feel so; but in making the attempt he found Remnant's favorite aphorism crossing his mind with disquieting insistence: "There's a lot of hollerness to religion." ill CHAPTER IX '"FHERE'S a lot of hollerness to religion." * Charlie Grace said this to himself, bitterly eighteen months later, after an experience on behalf of Hattie Bright. He had met her as she hurried homeward through the twilight of a May evening. He had not seen her for nearly a year. Both Mrs Bright and Hattie had dropped out of the habit of attending church. u " " « h'^l"^ V''^" "^ "^^^ unaffectedly glad to see .<"r> ,^ "^^^ y°" ''««" this ever so long?" Oh, I'm doing dressmaking. I'm always busy. 1 have to work very hard. And then on Sundays 1 m tired. Besides, I have to help mother. Poor mother, she's been having an awful time." He noticed now that she was not the Hattie of their last meeting. Something had come into her face, and something had gone. She was less pretty and niore beautiful. If care had driven the roguery from her eyes it had given them a look of distress of which the appeal was even more seductive. She was well dressed, of course; she would probably not have known how to dress in any other way. Charlie Orace turned to walk beside her. "^u*^^*.*^" y"" ""ean by having an awful times'" Oh, It s the house. It hasn't been paying for a ong while, and now we're terribly behind. I don't know what's to become of us." 107 THE WAY HOME Iw "Is it" — he hesitated to seem inquisitive — "is it — debt?" "Debt ? I should think so. We owe everybody— and now we can't get any one to trust us." She walked rapidly, as though trying to get away from him. "What do you do, then.'" She gave a short laugh. "Do.? We don't do. What does any one do when there's not enough in the house to eat ?" •]0h, but Hattie— " "I've seen it coming for a long time. It never really paid. If ever you're down on your luck, for God's sake don't let arty one persuade you to start a boarding-house. That's the last thing. And mother was about as well suited to it as an old hen. It wasn't so bad in the days when people wanted to live in this part of New York, but now—" "But what do you do with the boarders, if there's not enough in the house to eat? You were joking when you said that, weren't you?" "I wish I had been. But the boarders don't worry us— for the simple reason that we haven't any. The last of them went two days ago. That vas old Miss Grimes. You remember her, don't y- 1? She's been with us since I can't tell the day when. Mother thought that whatever hap- pened she'd stay. But she's gone; and I'm glad she is. We can starve ourselves with a clear conscience; but it's another thing to be starving old Miss Grimes." " But, Hattie, you must be joking." "Oh, very well. I'm joking. It's a great joke to have the butcher, and the grocer, and the fishman. io8 THE WAY HOME and the iceman, all tell you they can't supply you any more— and the landlord say that if you'll only clear out without giving trouble he'll not bother you about the arrears of rent. That's perfectly scream- ing, that joke is. But there's a good side to it, too. None of them will worry us about the past if we'll only go— and not eat anything or drink anything or live anywhere any more. It's like what they call a general amnesty, isn't it?— only an amnesty on condition that you get off the earth." The noise of the Elevated under which they were passing kept them from saying more for a minute or two. Charlie Grace was thinking hard. "How much do vou owe?" he asked, when they reached the pavemen. on the other side. She made a sound of impatience. " Pff I What's the use of counting up? We owe every one. Isn't that enough ?" "Would it be as much as a thousand dollars?" She considered. "N-no; not as much as that. It might be five hundred, though." "r-'ive hundred isn't such a lot— not when it comes to debts." "It's a lot when you couldn't raise fifty— not if your life depended on it." "If you left your present house," he asked, after more thinking, "whcio would you go?" "God only knows. I don't. I suppose there'd be some place for us, but I can't think where. I get nine a week, and mother wouldn't have any- thing. There are probably dog-holes in New York where nine a week will take care of two women, but I haven't looked for them yet." "Oh, but you can't be left like that." 109 THE WAY HOME I l: "My dear boy, we are left like that. What'* the use of talking." ^'Haven't you any relations?— any friends?" 'We've no friends, but we have a relation— ene- my father's brother. He's an old broken-down doctor, who was once in jail for something awful— I don't know what. We have nothing to do with mm, except that he somecimes comes round to the kitchen for a meal. My mother's family are farming people m Prince Edward Island, up in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. They can't help us. We should never even hear of them if the Hornblowers didn't f? u* '"'' P"" °^ ^^ summer. It agrees with Mrs. Hornblower. They see them, and Fanny tells nie. Shes real nice, Fanny is— real sweet. She often talks of the rime we were confirmed together. We were side by side. I thought they dressed her rather mean, considering their money. Reggie's fast, don t you think? I wish he wouldn't come teasing after me the way he does. What do you suppose he wants? I'm sure I don't give him any encouragement — not me." That night, as he was leaving the study to go to bed, Charlie Grace said: " Father, did you know Mrs. Bright was very hard up? She has no more boarders, and they haven't enough in the house to eat." The rector raised his head from the letter he was writmg and surve.' d his son. ''Who told you.?" he asked, after a pause. ^^ Hattie; I met her in the srreet — " "You know I've never liked that inrimacy. It doesn t strike me as seemly that a young man in your position — THE WAY HOME "There'* no question of anything like that, father. But it's true, what I'm telling you. They've no boarders; the landlord has given them notice to quit; and they're literally in want of food. Hattie is dress- making. She gets nine dollars a week; but what's that—" "I've always felt that things were on a precarious footing there. I've advised Mrs. Bright against go- ing on with that house time and again." "I suppose she couldn't do anything else. It was her plant. She'd invested her all in it, and couldn't pull out. I think we ought to do something to help her to keep in — or to make a fresh start somewhere else." The rector raised his brows, though his eyes seemed to be contemplating the desk or the floor. "We? Who?" "The church people — where Mrs. Bright has al- ways attended." "What do you propose?" "They owe about five hundred dollars. It ought not to be hard to raise that much — among us all." " Perhaps it ought not to be; it only would. Mrs. Bright hasn't made herself a favorite during the years she's been a parishioner at St. David's." " But what's that got to do with it — whether she's a favorite or not — when she's in trouble?" " It wouldn't have anything if it weren't for human nature; and, unfortunately, ypu've got to take hu- man nature as you find it. Mrs. Bright has made herself unpopular, and I fear she will be made to suffer for that mischance. I fear it. I hardly know to whom I should dare apply — " "I do." THE WAY HOME Dr. Grace looked up at his ion in turpriM at the tone of assurance. Of late years a tone of assurance in the rectory had been rare. It was perhaps for this reason that he regarded the lad with a new interest, that he saw him in a new light. Possibly he had not till this evening taken in the fact that he was nearly eighteen years of age and six feet tall. He could hold his head proudly, too, the chin thrust upward defiantly. "I couldn't help in the matter," the father warned him. "I shall have all I can do to put you through college when you enter Harvard in the autumn. I can manage it; but we shall have to pinch until you're earning somethihg for yourself. I may as well tell you now what your grandfather said the last time h. was here from Horsehair Hill. There'll be a little money coming to you from him— at his death. It won't be more than four or five thousand dollars; but I'm glad to know you'll have even that as a nest-egg. My expenses have been such that I ve never been able to save anything to speak of, ani so — " The young man flushed. "I know that, father," he said, hastily; "and if ever this money jmes to me from grandpa I shall want you to take it in re- turn for all—" "There'll be no question of that, my boy. I think I may say without undue confidence that at St. David's I'm provided for during such few years as may remain to me. I only want you to understand that in this aflFair of Mrs. Bright I shall be unable to — " "I wasn't thinking of you, father. But I should think we might apply to Mr. Hornblower, and Miss THE WAY HOME Smedley, and Dr. Furnival, and perhaps one or two others. They'd never miss it." "Very well; if you choose to ask them. I don't say 'No' to it, though I shall be surprised if you get the money. Mrs. Bright has not made herself a favorite. I regret to say it, but so it is." No later than the following afternoon Charlie Grace was admitted into the private office of Silas Hornblower, Esquire, of the firm of Weed & Horn- blower, bankers and brokers, in Broad Street. His reception was distinctly cordial. " Well, well, Charlie ? This is quite an unexpected pleasure. You don't often tear yourself away from your books, do you? How is your father? What can I do for you ? Will you sit down ? Well, well I" Mr. Hornblower rubbed his hands. His tone would have been more genial had the voice not been thin and harsh. The features, too, were thin and harsh. Thin and harsh were the lines of the body under the gray "cutaway" coat. Gray was Mr. Hornblower's predominating note. His complexion was gray; his hair was gray; and meager gray side- whiskers, clipped close to the skin, adorned the ferret- like face. It was not till he had actually sat down and begun his tale that Charlie Grace realized the difficulty of asking for money. Up to this minute he supposed he should only have to state the case for Mrs. Bright to see her fellow-parishioner write a check. It was inconceivable that she should be allowed to starve, or to be turned out of house and home, when a scratch of the pen would save her. Charlie Grace had never dreamed of such a thing. It began to seem a possibility only in proportion as he saw the 113 THE WAY HOME thin, harsh smile fade from Mr. Hornblower's face to be followed by a look as wooden and lifeless as a mask — the look of the rich man when he is being asked for money. He had never seen anything to resemble it but the stoniness of death. Its immediate effect was to make the story more dif- ficult in the telling. "You see, sir, she's always had a hard time — and she's come to our church for so many years — and now they have no boarders — and so 1 knew if I came to you — " Perhaps as he stumbled along the banker took pity on him, for he broke in by saying: "Now, Charlie, I may as well tell you straight off that you're wasting my time and your own, too." The boy shot out of his seat. At this abrupt termination to the interview he grew crimson. He was still crimson when he found himself in Broad Street. He tingled all over. It was as if he had been struck. It took some minutes of tramping along blindly into Wall Street, and then along Broadway toward the City Hall, to realize that he had asked help for a poor starving widow from a rich, generous. Christian man, and had been re- fused. He knew, of course, that rich men were pes- tered to death, as the saying went, with requests for money, but in this case the circumstances were peculiar. What did St. David's stand for? What did any church stand for? Surely if poverty were ever entitled to relief it was such poverty as Mrs. Bright's at the hands of wealthy brethren in the faith like most of the attendants at St. David's. He was dashed but not discouraged. By the time he had made his way back to Vandiver Place he had 114 THE WAY HOME accepted this preliminary defeat and taken comfort to himself by saying: "I always knew he was \n old hipor.ite— an old brute." He was not surprised to fmu Mii s Smedley really sympathetic. He knew she was at home because he saw her reading at the window as he ran up the brownstone steps. He never entered her drawing-room without an awe that dated back to his childhood. As a matter of fact, the elaborate gilt furniture covered in purple damask would have awed any one. On the mantel- piece an ormolu work of art, showing a lady drooped in an uneasy attitude over a circular timepiece, caught the eye with a sense of relief because it was not purple, the same being true of the ormolu candle- sticks with cut-glass pendants which flanked it. "Poor things! Poor things!" Miss Smedley murmured, encouragingly, as he stumbled through the tale for the second time. "I shall certainly help. How did you come to know about it?" He told of his meeting with Hattie. "Well, it isn't for me to say anything against the child," Miss Smedley said, kindly. "There are others to do that. AH the same, any one can see." She moved her head from side to side as though sniffing a bad odor. Her dress was a long loosely fitting robe of dove-colored stuff. She affected the loosely fitting possibly to modify the fact that her figure suggested a lot of carelessly adjusted odds and ends that seemed to "chasser," as dancing-teachers said in those days, when she meant to walk, and were never at ease in sitting. As she shifted rest- lessly in her seat a mauve shawl that lay in her lap 1?, m THE WAY HOME slipped to the floor. Charlie Grace darted forward to pick It up. "She's doing dressmaking now," he stated, while he performed this act of politeness. "Oh, she won't do that long. You needn't tell me. Hattie Bright '11 find something more to her taste than dressmaking, or I don't know her. Not «iat I want to say anything against the child. Ihere are others to do that. I had her in my class m Sunday-school for four years, and she's a puss That I can tell you. I never liked the niother— that I will say. She always dressed the child out of her station. I've seen Hattie Bright come to Sunday-school wearing the most ridiculous things for a girl of her class. Fanny Hornblower hadn t the like— I can tell you that. And now what has It all come to.? To this. Give me that footstool Well, I'll help," she continued, as he placed the footstool under her feet. "I'll help because it's you, Charlie. I'm glad to see you start- ing out so early on your career of mercy." "Oh, but that's not the reason I want to raise the money. Miss Smedley," he said, flushing at the words career of mercy" as if with shame. "I'm doing It because I like them— and I'm sorry for them—" 1 m not surprised at that, not a bit. They're just the kind of women whose troubles appeal to men— whether young or old. They're pusses. That 1 can tell you. As for Hattie— well, I won't say anything against her. It's the sort of thing I always leave people to find out for themselves If you weren't going to be a clergyman I should feel It my duty to warn you. As it is, I must help, now much did you say you wanted?" ii6 THE WAY HOME It occurred to him that if she was going to be generous he might as well be daring. "Five hun- dred dollars would pay what they owe, but it wouldn't leave them anything over." "Anything over? Why should it, indeed ? It seems to me we're doing a good deal as it is. No one would do it for me. That I can tell you. Leave them anything over? If it did they'd spend it on dress or going to a play. Oh, I know them. Hattie's a puss— a pretty puss, I admit— but all the worse for that. Five hundred, you said.?" With her curious sidelong gait she passed into the library, separated by heavy purple portieres from the room in which they had been sitting. Her shawl falling to the floor as she proceeded, he went after her and picked it up. Holding it re- spectfully, he watched her from a distance as, seated at a handsome library desk, she took out her check- book and began to write. It was a large flat book with several blanks on a page, suggesting opulence and a sense of power. "There," she said, blotting her signature and de- taching the check carefully. "There; and much good may it do them." The strip of pink paper being folded, he thought it good manners not to look at it in the lady's pres- ence. He wondered if she had given him the whole of the five hundred or only tlie half. From her smile and the fact that she was known to be gener- ous he felt justified in hoping he had got it all. "There, there; that '11 do," she said, impatiently, in response to the profuseness of his thanks. "Of course I must help. I always do when money is wanted at St. David's — and goodness knows the 117 THE WAY HOME calls come often enough nowadays. I can't imagine where all the money's gone tha' used to be in the church. Well, good-by. Tell your father I never expect to see him again. That's a joke, of course. 1 m not the one to complain about lack of attentions 1 only wish every one was like me. Most people think the rector of a church has nothing to do but call on them. When I see your father I want to tell him what old Mrs. Pemberton gave as he- excuse for leaving St. David's. He'll never get over It. But It '11 put him on his guard. That I can tell you. He dared not look at the check till he was out of sight of Miss Smedley's windows. It was for fifty dollars. ■' It took him the rest of the afternoon to readjust his point of view and to see that this was as much as he had a right to expect Miss Smedley to give. He couldn t call her mean, as his first impulse was to do. On the contrary, she had made what any one would call a handsome contribution, and it was w- ^^^^°'}^'''^ to ^°°^ to others to do the rest. With this conviction, and spirits considerably dampened, he wmt to see Mrs. Furnival on the following afternocn. He protected himself against further disi lusioning by saying in advance that A* ^V^ !"" '""Other fifty he would be content Mrs. Furnival was intensely interested. She was a pretty little woman, always fashionably dressed, common y reported to be drownine marital sorrows by going a great deal into society. It was said that she knew more people than any one i.i New York because she "had the art of giving herself to Her tnends. She gave herself now to Charlie ii8 I THE WAY HOME Grace, sitting wi^h hands clasped in her lap and eyes gazing earnestly into his. "Dear Charlie, I can't tell you how much I ad- mire you. Just to think of you taking all this trouble for people you hardly know. You do hardly know them, don't you.' Oh yes, I remember them; though of course I should only consider them church acquaintances — if that. In church one has to meet people you couldn't mingle with outside. I con- sider that only right. I consider that it would be snobbish to make distinctions there. Some people do, I know, but I consider it does a great deal of harm to religion. Don't you? I used to make it a point to go and sit beside this Mrs. Bright when- ever she came to our meetings. I consider that we ought to do everything we can to make people like that feel welcome. Don't you? I must say she sometimes struck me as presuming. That's the difficulty with that class. They don't know where to draw the line. Not that that should weigh with us now, when she's in trouble. Poor thing; you don't know how my heart bleeds for her. I'll tell you what I'll do, Charlie. I'll give you five dollars now, and if you find you can't make up the balance I'll give you five more. I'd make it ten at once if we hadn't so many calls on us. But five now I certainly will give. And I can't tell you how much I admire you for taking ail this trouble about it. If there were only more like you. But then, you're going to be a clergyman, anyhow. That was settled years ago, when you put the wig into the missionary box. What a boy you were!" It was once more a question of readjustment. At the end of a week, when his father asked him how 119 ! i \\ THE WAY HOME he was getting on, he was able to state that the fruit of his efforts was eighty dollars. The rector lifted his brows. "Indeed? I hardly expected you to get so much." "But why?" With his lowered lids and tolerant half-sn'iie Ur. Graces expression was one of sphynxlike benignity. "You'd have to go somewhat deep into the philanthropic temperament to explain that. 1 ve come to the conclusion that we're not a people easily touched by individual distress. We like our good deeds to be institutional, and in the mass. As with so many other things, so with that— we're attracted by size. It's to the overgrown university, or to the art-museum ali-eady teemingly rich, that our people like to give their benefactions, not be- cause they re convinced they do the most good, but because they want to put their money where other people are putting theirs. If you'd gone begging for some big institution to which this five hundred dollars would have been as a drop in fhe sea you'd have had it in no time. But when it's for an un- happy, obscure woman, whose life depends on it, it's ten to one you can't get it. It's the kind of need that^ doesn t appeal to our generosity. At least, that s been my experience." ..n,^^^ I^t^r ^^.^ y°""8 '"^" demanded again. Christ didn t work through institutions. He helped the man. Institutions, even the best of them, are surely second to the individual." Dr. Grace shrugged his shoulders. With his hands under his long black coat-tails he flapped the latter before the empty study grate. "My dear boy, when you're older you won't try to get at the I20 THE WAY HOME philanthropic temperament through reasons. It's like the proverbial woman— when it will it will and when it won't it won't. You've got to take it as you find it. Having had a long experience in doing that, I was convmced beforehand that you couldn't raise the money for Mrs. Bright." It may have been the raw irritation of personal failure or it may have been indignation of a deeper kind that caused Charlie Grace, as he stood with one hand on his hip and the other grasping the back of a chair, to tremble with anger. "Then what they call their Christianity isn't Christianity at all.?" "That's a good deal to say. It's certainly Chris- tianity of a rudimentary kind; but, then, Chris- tianity of a rudimentary kind is all the world as yet has ever attained to. The Church, in the sense of a Body worthy of the Held, is still as much an un- realized vision as the New Jerusalem— the city with foundations of sapphire and gates of pearl. But what are you to do .' You must take Christianity as you find it, or leave it alone." "Then I can understand why there should be so many who prefer to leave it alone." In the end he considered it less humiliating to return the eighty dollars to the donors, who took back their respective contributions without excessive signs of regret. It was summer before he spoke of the incident again. He would not have done so then but for Fanny Hornblower's concern as to what had become of poor^Hattie Bright. She hadn't seen her for so long. They were walking on the beach at Idlewild, Mr. Hornblower's residence in Long Island. Mrs. Horn- blower admitted calling the place Idlewild because 9 IJI THE WAY HOME one name was as good as another, and she couldn't think of anything else. The house — a cluster of red gables and yellow verandas — hung above them, at the top of a long clifF, shelving inland, and covered with olive-green scrub-oak. A schooner was beating its way down the Sound toward New York, while the mainland lay as a thin line on the horizon. Charlie Grace had come down to Idlewild to spend a Sunday. At the mention of Hattie Bright in this sympa- thetic fashion he suddenly found the strings of his tongue loosed. He told Miss Hornblower of the trouble in the Bright household as it had been a few months earlier, and of his own useless efforts to relieve it. "But why didn't you come to me?" He confessed that he hadn't thought of it. As he said so he made subconscious note of the fact that the distress in her eyes rendered her almost pretty. She was nearly eighteen now, tall and thin, her father's harshness of outline, which she had inherited, tempered by her natural sweetness into something that resembled grace. "But five hundred dollars," she continued, still with distress in her eyes, "is a mere nothing. I always have more than that in my little bank- account just for pin-money. Papa is so generous — that is," she added, coloring, "when he really under- stands. You mustn't think hardly of him, Charlie. You see, this is something he — he — he naturally wouldn't understand. But I would. Any girl would. Oh, why didn't you come to me?" It was difficult to tell her that to him, at least, five hundred dollars was a sum such as he had been 121 THE WAY HOME accustomed to associate only with grown-up people of wealth— with bankers like h r father or heiresses like Miss Smedley. He was even more ashamed of the poverty of his ideas than of that of his purse. He made the explanation somehow, though she was so little interested as to say: "Perhaps it isn't too late even now." "Oh, it must be," he declared. "They're either all right by this time or else they're dead. It's the sort of thing that has to be short and sharp, one way or the other." "I don't see that. I don't see that at all. They may have been able to scrape along up to now, and still be in debt. I wish you'd go and see." He did go and see on Monday morning, imme- diately on his return to New York. But Mrs. Bright and her daughter had gone and the boarding- house had been turned into a "three-family" tene- ment. Moreover, no one could tell him where the late occupants had found refuge. Some said in Harlem, others in Hoboken; but no one knew for sure. I .1 CHAPTER X Beck Hall, Cambridge, June 6, 1889. r^EAR CHARLIE,— My sister is in Boston for a few Ly days staying with the Crumps. Will you come here to my room to-morrow, Saturday, about five, to meet her and have tea? „ ■ Yours, R. HORNBLOWER. There were several reasons why the foregoing note should take Charlie Grace by surprise. Of these the most important lay in the separation that nearly two years at Harvard had wrought between him and the two friends with whom he had entered on his university career. Owing to the necessity of making the best clubs, and not being seen with the wrong people, Fumy and Reggie Hornblower had been obliged to drop him. The process, which had begun during the latter part of the freshn.an year, was m full operation when they returned to Cam- bridge as sophomores. That it was pleasant to the victim of it could not be admitted, and yet he was philosophic emugh to see that if his old chums were to reach the goal of their ambitions it could only be at the sacrifice of friendship. Perhaps the one marked experience of his eariier months at Harvard was in finding himself weeded out from among "the nght people" and herded with "the wrong." His astonishment was the greater in that he had not 124 THE WAY HOME supposed the process to be going on before dis- covering the fact acccinplished. The method had been as silent and mysterious as the return of winter, and as cold. At first the several hundred young men who formed the freshman class had represented multitude with- out personality, like a swarm of bees. Then had come broad and general lines of cleavage; then affiliations and selections; then elections and segre- gations; then the scorn from the top and the envy from the bottom that have characterized the social groupings of mankind since the world began. To do Charlie Grace justice, he was tolerably free from envy. He had had moments of indigna- tion and revolt, but he had learned that if his old chums were to reap the highest advantages of Harvard they must do it in the Harvard way. They could not afford to be intimate with him; they could hardly afford to know him. Perceiving this, he was able to be tolerant when he thought of them, and could even justify, from the Harvard point of view, their methods of procedure. Nevertheless, he was obliged to read Reggie's letter a second and a third time to be sure of its meaning. It could hardly be that after the embarrassing shifts to which he had driven Reggie during the past eighteen months the latter could be inviting him now to a social function. If he were giving a tea he would be "queering himself," as the phrase began to go among undergraduates, by the mere presence of such an outsider as himself. And yet what else did the invitation imply? If Fanny were coming she must of necessity be accompanied by Mrs. Crump; and in Boston Crump was a name to com- I2S THE WAY HOME mand awe. Just to be admitted where Mrs. Crump was doing the honors would !)e little short of beins "taken up." He began to pace his room, it was time for him to run out to the frugal breakfast he took at a counter in Harvard Square, but he had forgotten he was hun- gry. There was one suggestion which might offer an explanation, but which he did his best to put away. He could have done this the more easily if it had come for the first time; but, unfortunately, the suspicion that Fanny cared for him was of nearly a year's duration. It had struck him quite suddenly one day in the preceding summer when he had spent a Sunday at Idlewild in Reggie's absence. Since then it had haunted him, though whenever it came he tried to dismiss it by calling himself an ass. He called himself an ass again, but the ridiculous thought persisted. It was this persistence that finally sent him to his desk. Dear Reooie,— Awfully sorry. Very busy. Can't come. Yours, C. Grace. He felt better after that. He could even have forgotten the incident if, on coming back to his room later in the day, he had not found a note from Fanny herself, delivered at the house by hand. Dear Charlie,— Reggie telephones me that you are not coming to his rooms this afternoon. Do try to. I must see you somewhere. I have something very im- portant to tell you. Very sincerely yours, Frances Hormblower. 126 THE WAY HOME There was nothing for it, then, but to brush up his best suit, which he rarely had occasion to put on, and present himself at Beck a little after five. He had not been in Reggie's quarters since the early freshman weeks, before the process of election and predestination had begun. After his own dingy lodging he couldn't help finding the Beck Hall suite impressive, with its arm-chairs and cushions and hangings, with its handsome book-cases full of hand- some books, and its appropriate Harvard sporting trophies decoratively arranged. It being June, the windows were open, and a faint fragrance of lilac stole in. Down in the courts, between the hall and the gray-stone church, privileged, godlike youths were playing tennis. In response to his knock Reggie himself opened the door, greeting him with the over-friendliness that tries to hide constraint. "Hel-lo, old Charlie. Gad! it's good to see you! Where do you keep yourself all the time? Here's Fanny. Mrs. Crump, this is Mr. Grace. You must have heard me speak of him." Mrs. Crump, whose position at the tea-table placed her in profile toward the door, turned and surveyed him with a look that said nothing ai all. She was plain, stout, middle-aged, and dressed in white. "How do you like your tea.'" she asked, in a neutral voice, without further greeting. "Lemon or cream.?" He thanked her, and declined tea, whereupon she turned to Reggie, who had already retaken his seat beside her. "So I told her," she continued to Reggie, speaking 127 nl 1 im THE WAY HOME inhereven,neutra! voice, "that if she scattered her invitations broadcast like that she couldn't look to T,***«7f'' j" straight. She hardly could, could she? \yhat do yoM think?" Reggie, with his elbows on his knee, his saucer in one hand and his cup in the other, proceeded to give his opinion in the low tones of one who discusses a reverent theme reverently. He had all the good looks m the Hornblower family, the face being dehcate-perhaps too delicate— and not without a touch of distinction. The eyes were prominent and rather weak; but the mouth was well formed, and marked by the cohiing of a young mustache In his gray coat and trousers, relieved by a white waistcoat of the latest cut and set off by a lavender- gray tie with a pearl in it, he was immaculately spick and span. For the first time since his coming to Harvard Charlie Grace began to perceive that between the nght people and the wrong there was a gulf, to the width and depth of which he had not hitherto done justice. He questioned whether he could ever have looked like that, even with Reggie's tailor and resources. "Won't you come over here and talk to me?" He found himself sitting beside the open window with Fanny who was eating a bit of cake and sipping her tea. They talked at first of things indifferent, of his work in college, of her winter abroad. He had not seen her since the previous summer at Idlewild, and noted at once that she had changed for the better. Perhaps because the Parisian couturxere had dressed her in feathers and laces and soft swathing things she was less angular and severe. Into the creamy white of her costume the artist 128 THE WAY HO ME had introduced touches of pale-blue satin, which brought out the sweet mistiness of her pale-blue eyes. "^ Some ten desultory minutes had gone by when Mrs. Crump rose and said: "We're going down to the courts to see the tennis 1 suppose you don't want to come?" As though in response to a cue already arraneed. Fanny replied: ^ ' "No; it's too hot. We'll sit here and watch you irom the wmdow. Charlie Grace wondered what it all meant. Evi- dently tea was over, and no more guests were expected. The whole thing had seemingly been arranged for him. The very movement of the host and the chaperon toward the tennis-court looked, as he sa,d to himself, "like a put-up job." He con- fessed himself mystified. "Sit down again," Fanny said, at once, when the door had closed. "We mayn't have many minutes, and I must talk to you. I've really come to Boston on purpose. I asked Mrs. Crump to take me in, and to come with me this afternoon." Her manner had changed. As she spoke she pulled on her long gloves nervously, continuing to smooth the fingers after they were smooth already bhe had drawn down her veil so that he could see her features less distinctly. He had never seen her wear a veil before. It gave the finishing touch to her appearance as a grown-up young lady. "I suppose," she began again, "you have no idea of what 1 m going to tell you?" He shook his head. "Not the slightest— unless It IS that you're engaged." 129 ii THE WAY HO ME I ! " Please don't joke, Charlie. I've come to Boston on purpose. I was afraid" — she hesitated, looking about her as though for help — "I was afraid you might hear it in some way that would be more of a shock to you. I thought that if I told you it mightn't — it mightn't seem so hard. I dare say it will, though — " "But what is it, Fanny? What on earth is up.?" "It's about your father." He was startled. "About my father?" "Then I see you haven't heard at all. They've asked him — " , She stopped, biting her lower lip, trying to get sufficient self-control to go on. He set himself to think of the worst, of the most improbable calamity that could overtake the rector of St. David's. "They haven't asked him—" He brought out the words with some difficulty. "They haven't asked him — to resign ?" "Not just in that way. They've asked him to accept the position of rector emeritus." It was a relief to be able to say, "What's that?" She tried to explain. "It isn't resigning exactly. It's still being a sort of rector — a sort of honorary rector — though some one else would do the work." He went straight to the point he knew to be the most practical. "And get the salary?" "I — I suppose so." "And my father wouldn't have anything at all?" "They've discussed that— I understand— in the vestry. They'd be glad to give your father a salary —a large salary — only they think the income of the church — ^which has fallen off a good deal of late years — perhaps you didn't know that — " 130 THE WAY HOME "Oh yes, I did. And they put the blame on my father." "It isn't blame, exactly. It's— Oh, Charlie, I hardly know how to express it! But, you see, he's not young— and he's been rector of St. David's a good many years — " "And they want a change." "Oh, don't look like that. You make me feel as if my coming to Boston to tell you hadn't done any good." "It's done a lot of good. If I'd heard it in any other way I don't know how I should have taken it. I'll thank you later. Just now I need to get to the bottom of the thing. It's as I say, isn't it? My father has been there too long; they're tired of him, and they want a change?" "Not really a change. That's secondary. They only think that if they had a younger man— and more modem methods in the parish — " "And how do they expect my father to live?" She gazed at him wonderingly. It was evidently the sort of question she had not been in the habit of considering. "I'm afraid I haven't thought about that. I didn't ask. I suppose they think he — he has money." "He hasn't— hardly any." "Oh, Charlie, hasn't he? That makes it worse, doesn't it?" "It makes it decidedly worse. It makes it so much worse that — " He didn't finish the sentence. There was in reality no way to finish it. How disastrous the situation was no one could say just yet. He got up to go. 131 THE WAY HOME She, too, rose. "You see, Charlie," she said, with tears in her eyes and in her voice — "you see, I've heard them talking of it for some time past. I naturally would— with the interest papa and mama have always taken in the parish. But I hoped— oh, I did hope!— it wouldn't happen. And then there was a meeting of the vestry at which they decided to bring it before the parish— and the parish meeting was held on Wednesday night— and the vote was — " <.t"^ ***' ^ ^■' ■'" ^^ interrupted, wishing to spare her. 'I know he it would be done. And they told my father the next day?" "No, not the next day. Only yesterday. Papa was on the committee— so I knew it was going to be— and I came right on. I wired to Mrs. Crump- she's always been so kind — " He held out his hand. "Good-by," he said, abruptly. "Say good-by for me to Reggie. You'll excuse my running away, won't you? I've got to think it over, and see what I have to do. I shall not try to thank you yet — " He was still young enough to lose his voice in a choking sensation that sent him hurriedly away, especially after he had seen her turn suddenly to the window with her handkerchief to her lips. He was near the door before she found herself able to say: "You know, Chariie, if there's any immediate need of money— I always have some— and I could get more." He turned with his hand on the knob. "Thank you, Fanny, but there won't be any need of that sort. I've some money of my own. Perhaps you 132 THE WAY HOME didn't know that when my grandfather died Ian I X.1 tend*^: ^r^.""^^"'' ''°""^- '' — ^. "Oh, but wouldn't that be a pity? Wouldn't It be better— if it's invested— to leave it— f You'll YoTLnT/'"' interfering, won't you, Charlie? You don t know how broken-hearted I am-about the whole thing. ' "You're kinder than I can say, Fanny; but, you see, with regard to money, I must take up the responsibilities of my father's support. I don't care what I spend — " "But he has other children. I don't see why it should all come on you." "He has other children, but they're not so near to him as I am. My brother Edward doesn't seem like his son at all. He's only come to see father two or three times in the last fifteen years. He ha.n't been very successful, either. And of course I couldn t let Emma take Osborne Tomlinson's money -but there 11 be no trouble about that. It's only the Idea of the thing that I mind-the humihation for poor father. As for money in itself, I know I could make plenty-I feel it in me-if I wasn't hampered." Hampered— how?" He looked vaguely away from her. "Oh, well I don t know. I shall have to think it all over." ' m CHAPTER XI pHARLIE GRACE arrived in New York next V-J mornmg. He had taken a night train, because on leaving Beck HaU ,t was already too late for him to etch the more economical steamer by which he generally traveled He made up for that, however, by sittmg m the day coach through the night, thus savmg the expense of a bed. In spite of the warmth of the June morning he felt stiff and benumbed. The station had the empty, purposeless air that belongs to such places on Sun- day. Ihe streets, too, were long empty thorough- fares of sunshine m which the debris of Saturday lav the more sickeningly visible because of the absence ot the crowd. Now that the excitement which had brought him had died away, he wondered for what exact purpose he had come. On leaving Beck Hall on the preced- ing afternoon It seemed to him that he could hardlv hve through the hours that must intervene before he reached home; but now in the hot glare of morning he felt that if he appeared suddenly at breakfast, as he had intended, his father might be annoyed i-or nearly half an hour he stood with his bag in his hand at the door of the station, aimlessly watch- ing the few people who passed in and out, while he wondered what to do. In the end he strolled to the hotel across the street and had a cup of coffee and 134 THE WA Y HOM F i'iace, and so hung about the InhKv "^f .u l . .ion o, . ft.hUbt' srj S:*!! ~et;r" forgotten .„,h™. o^thl SA'T '"«• Prayei-bool he pushed .war if™!; '''•° T" THE WAY HOME In the back seat against the wall he was well out of sight, while commanding the chancel and two-thirds of the red-lined pews below. He saw Remnant, in his beadle's gown, slipping about silently, putting books that were out of pla^e into the racks, straight- ening hassocks, and otherwise "tidying up." Rem- nant was over fifty now, though he still retained his youthful air. His hair and mustache were slightly silvered, but otherwise Charlie Grace could see little change in his friend since the days when he himself was a child. > In the chancel Mr. Peterson, the new organist, was laying out the music. Wearing a surplice but no cassock— in order to keep his feet free for pedal- work — he presented the singular appearance of a man walking about publicly in his shirt. The rec- tor's son was but slightly acquainted with Mr. Peterson. Mr. Wrench, who had been organist for the past twenty years, had left when the vestry proposed to reduce his salary and had already, ac- cording to Remnant, secured "a dandy, high-priced church" in Philadelphia. From the schoolroom beyond the chancel, whenever the connecting green- baize door swung open and shut, came the voices of wrangling choir-boys. Later, when Mr. Peterson had finished putting out the music, one could hear them singing scales. Presently the congregation began to straggle in— singly— by twos and threes— husbands and wives, with their children, together. The men for the most part wore frock-coats and carried their silk hats carefully on a level with their left shoulders. The ladies and little girls were in light summer tints. He could call most of those who entered by name, 136 THE WAY HOME though some few were strangers. The objectionable element introduced by Rufus Legrand had almost disappeared. Tiiere were still many unoccupied seats when Mr. Peterson began to prelude the processional hymn. In the course of some minutes the green-baize door again swung open, and little boys, clad in black cas- socks and very short white surplices, began marching two and two into the church, shrilling as they came: The King of Love my Shepherd is. Whose goodness faileth never; I nothing lack if I am His, And He is mine forever. Charlie Grace did not rise, as did the congregation below, when the choir came in. For the first time in his life he felt himself outside the current of what was taking place — a spectator, a critic. The trebles were followed by the altos, the altos by the tenors, and the tenors by the basses. Then came Mr. Drew, the newest of the many assistants who had succeeded Mr. Legrand, walking by himself, and lastly Dr. Grace, also alone. Looking at him from this unusual height, his son noticed, what he had never seen before, that the rector was now a big unwieldy man, who, as he closed the procession, strutted and rolled perceptibly. The observation gave him a queer clutching at the heart. He began to ask if the action of the parish — which up to that minute had seemed so preposterously cruel — might not, from some points of view, be justified. The choir having reached their places with the words. And oh, what transport of delight From Thy pure chalice floweth, 10 137 THE WAY HOME Mr. Peterson proceeded to play the "Amen," bring- mg the hymn to a close regardless of its contents Ihe openmg part of the service was taken by Mr. Drew in tones so mouthed and mumbled as to reduce the mcomparable language as nearly as pos- sible to a hodge-podge. Charlie Grace was accus- tomed to heanng the liturgy badly read, but because on this particular morning his heart was yearning for something in the nature of a message he resented Mr. Drew s incompetence. It was a relief to come to the psalms for the day, which even the high- pitched jabbering chant of the boys could not rob of their peculiar fitness to what his father might supposedly be thinking. Put me not to rebuke, O Lord, in thine anger; neither chasten me in thy heavy displeasure: For thine arrows stick fast in me; and thy hand press- etn me sore. ... ' r I have required that they, even mine enemies, should not triumph over me; for when my foot slipped thev rejoiced greatly against me. . . . ' They also that reward evil for good are against me- because I follow the thing that good is. ^ ' ^Forsake me not, O Lord my God: be not thou far from I have declared thy righteousness in the great con- talk*h7r1.°r ^'^f'l "e''*~"»"=''«^ ^"hin my heart: my talk hath been of thy truth, and of thy salvation. . for me ™ '"" ''°°'' ^""^ "^'''^' ''"' *^ ^'^ "'«''' ur^£.^0m7G^;''^^ ^"' ''"'''^'''- »^^^ "° '''^ 138 THE WAY HOME The rector read the lessons. His son tried to hsten to him as a stranger might. It was the first time in his life he had ever attempted to judge or appraise his father. He had always supposed him to read well. He remembered that in his childhood Miss Smedley had said that Dr. Grace read the Bible as though he were "rendering Shakespeare." The son had taken this to be high praise, and had gone on ever since in the comfortable belief that it was mented. He heard now a big voice, that had once been mellow, telling the story of the fall of man —which happened to be the first lesson for the day— in tones pompous and curiously overintimate. In his sensitive state of mind Charlie Grace bent his head, blushing inwardly— for his father and himself. If this were the transmission of a divine word, he argued, it was in a way that could do little good to any one. He began to think it small wonder that those among the listless people below who cared at all should want a change. Later his father preached. He took his text from the epistle for the first Sunday after Trinity— which Sunday it was: "In this was manifested the love of God toward us, because that God sent His only begotten Son into the world, that we might live through Him." With the announcement of the text there was a momentary gleam of interest on the part of the congregation. Even though the young man could see but backs, he knew that heads were lifted and eyes turned expectantly toward the preacher. It reminded him of the patience of a dog. who, though ninety-nine times disappointed, will return the hun- dredth time still with a look of hope. Possibly, too, THE WA Y HOME there was some curioiity as to any reference the de- week. But he made none. Slowly, ponderouslv .onorously, he developed his subject, reading hi^ manuscnpt with the grand manner that had made him popular m the sixties, and was now a grand manner and no more Even with such strained and dffficult\?f'r \^'\ r". ^•'""^ Grace found Tt difficult to follow the laborious arguments. There was nothing spontaneous or living in the treatment of the theme. It was wprdyj it was dead. L7tt"e by little eyes were averted and heads bent, while a sense of weariness pervaded the church. "O M«h!r h"'' ")' '^°\' ""ft"'^"^ °"' '° ^he words U, Mother dear, Jerusalem" sung to a lilt like that of a mazurka. There being no further ue for the hymn when once the green-baize door was reached Mr. Peterson sounded the "Amen" at the "ourth .Wrr'^ .' '^n^hing in a query. With this note of nte rogation in his heart Charlie Grace stole down he little stair again and out into the street before the congregation had begun to disperse. He knew a short cut that would take him to Broadway' wherT he would be beyond the risk of recognirion. WhiV^d'!^'", T^'f.'JJ'"" P"*'"^'' •" his thoughts. What d,d I mean.? What was the good of it? Was this fomiahsm worship.? Could these dry bones hve? Was there anything but empty sound in the plns'of New V°^''°^\"""''^'* '"«"''" f-- '" With his bag soil in his hand he hurried alone the part of the city. He kept saying to himself that he 140 THE WAY HOME must think things over; and yet coherent thought would not come. He only knew that, for the mo- ment at any rate, he must get as far away as possible from Vandiver Place, and so tramped on, indifferent to the heat. It was after nine that night when he returned. He had spent the interval chiefly on the grass of Battery Park, cooling himself in the sea-breeze and watching young foreigners at play. He reacted from his spiritual depression of the morning to renewed indignation on his father's behalf. He went back to the rectory only when it became necessary to seek shelter for the night. He knew the evening service must be over, though a few lights still gleamed pictorially through the elongated stained-glass windows. He found Rem- nant about to close the big west doors. " Why, sonny !— Mr. Charlie, I mean. Good Lord, you made me think you was a ghost!" "Well, I feel like a ghost. Remnant." "So you do, Mr. Charlie; and you're not the only one. You've heard the news? Of course you have, or you wouldn't be here. Well, your poor pa 'II be awful glad you've come. I never see a man so changed. It's as if he'd got a stroke. It seems to me he don't talk sensible. What do you think he says to me this morning? He says to me, 'Rem- nant,' says he, 'the Lord's vineyard is a pretty big place; and when we find our work in one corner of it is done I guess it means there's something to do in another.' I felt awful bad, sonny— Mr. Charlie, I mean— to hear him talk like that. It was just as if he'd gone off his head. If he has, he's been drove off it— that's what I say; and there's them in St. '4« THE WAY HOME that '11 never rest till I'm drove off it, David's too.' Charlie Grace let himself into the house with his latch-key. Throwing his hat and bag on the old sofa m the hall, he went straight to the dining-room door. He found his father at table, a book propped up before him, while he ate his cold meat. There were few of the signs of depression about him that his own fears and Remnant's words had led him to expect. He seemed older, however, and perhaps weaiy. He looked up with a start when his son had been standmg some few seconds on the threshold. ''Hello, my boyl^^ What's brought you here?" "^—'^—^^mt on," the young man stammered, as they shook hands. It was all that seemed possible to say. "No trouble, I hope? You haven't got into a scraper Charlie Grace smiled dimly, shaking his head. JNo; nothmg of that kind." " Then sit down and have some supper. Get your- self a plate. There's probably something you'll like better in the way of food, if you'll forage for it. 1 told Juha there was no need for her to stay in Now that the poor old soul runs the house by herself I give her as much time off as I can." ' Charlie Grace returned from the pantry presently with a plate and a knife and fork for himself, some cake and a jar of milk. Having had nothing to eat since morning, he was hungry. "Now let's have it," the rector said, as soon as his son was seated. It was plain that any cares he might have on his own account he put aside from anxiety as to this sudden appearance of the boy. 142 THE WAY HOME "I can't let you have it all at once," the son re- plied, with a repetition of his dim smile, "because there's too much to tell." "Then begin at the beginning. Fire away." "The beginning is that I'm not going back." The rector laid down his knife and fork with an air of genuine dismay. "Not going back?" "No, father." "And may I ask why?" "Fanny Hornblower has been in Boston — " A queer expectant look came into the rector's face which caused his son some irritation and moved him to speak more bluntly than he had intended. "Fanny Hornblower has been in Boston. She told me what's been happening here. That settles it for me. I can't sponge on you any longer." " Even if you can't, you've some money of your own. I'm sure your grandfather would have liked nothing better than that you should use part of it for your education. That's always a good investment — " "Not from my point of view." "How .? — from your point of view ? I suppose your point of view is like that of any one else. If you're going into the Church — " "But I'm not." There was a long pause before the rector said, in an awed voice, "You're not?" "No, father, and what's more — I may as well tell you at once — I'm done with religion." The rector stared. He took out his handker- chief and wiped his brow. "You're . . , done with . . . what?" "I'm done with religion, father. I want to say it plainly. I've given it up." 143 THE WAY HOME So as not to meet his father's eyes Charlie Grace kept his ovm on his plate, while he ate fast and hungnly. "What do you mean by — giving it up?" "I'm not sure that I mean anything beyond what the words imply." "Do you mean that you've lost faith in it?— that you thmk it isn't true?" "I haven't gone into that. I don't know whether 1 thmk It s true or not. I see what it does. I see what it makes of people. That's enough for me No; I don t suppose I think it is true. I shouldn't think that anything that was true could work so badly. "You'll pardon me if I say that that's a very crude opinion — " "I dare say it is, father. But it's the one I hold and the one I mean to live by." There was another long silence. The young man pushed away the plate on which he had been eating cold beef, and began on cake and milk. "And how long has this— this change in your out- look been going on?" "In one sense, only within the last twenty-four hours. In another I see now that it's been mv attitude all my life." ' The rector leaned forward, his elbows on the table and scrutinized his son. "And in the sense in which It s been going on only for the past twenty-four hours, has it— has it anything to do with me?" Charlie Grace lifted his eyes and looked steadily at his father. "It has something to do with you sir, in that what's happened here has given the hnishing touch to showing me what a mockery the •44 THE WAY HOME whole thing is. In a religion of which the root-idea is love of one's neighbor every one thinks first of himself. When he thinks of his neighbor at all it's to give him a blow or a kick. I've seen a lot of it; I've suiFered a lot from it, too. I don't propose to suffer any more — at least not without claiming an equal liberty for myself." "You mean the liberty to give a blow or a kick " "\yherever they come in useful. Yes, father. That's just what I do mean. I fail to see any one who considers any one else in anything. I've lived in the heart of religion all my life, and I've seen as little consideration of others there as elsewhere. Certain good works of a missionary or philanthropic sort are earned on by an impersonal system that needs a good deal in the way of outside stimulus; but when it comes to the individual you can hardly get so much as pity. Look at what happened to the Brights. You've heard about Hattie, haven't you ?" The rector raised his brows in an expression of distress. "Rumors have reached me — " "Well, I guess they're true enough. And it needn't have happened. That's my point. She'd have gone straight if it hadn't been for poverty; and it was poverty that a very little brotherly love— if there had been such a thing — could have relieved. But, you see, there is no such thing. There may be a pretense at it, but it betrays its hollowness the minute you put it to the test. Look at what's been happening to me at Harvard. But no; I forgot. That's something you don't know anything about. I never told you." "Then tell me now." "It's almost too trivial to put into words. I HS THE WAY HOME shouldn't speak of it at all only that it illustrates what I'm trying to say. It's simply this— that Fumy and Reggie— the two chums with whom I grew up— who've had all the influence of St. David's — ^your own influence, too — ^well, they've practically cut me for the last two years — " "Cut you?" "Because I wasn't rich enough — or good enough — or something. Mind you, father, that's a detail. I mention it only to show you haw useless rehgion is when it comes to a practical bearing on the character. I'm not thinking of what we call sin— but of what to me is a good deal worse than sin— and that's meanness. I've no hesitation in saying that most of the despicable things I've seen— and I've seen a lot— and felt them— have been committed by people who keep up a fundamental connection with religion. Look at your own case. After forty years' work in the Church— after thirty years given continuously to St. David's, on what, in any other profession in the world, would have been called starvation wages, considering your position— after all that, where are you now? Kicked out without a cent. The expres- sion is not too harsh — " "It's too harsh in the sense that if I don't take it so bitterly I don't see why you should." "You wouldn't take anything bitterly, father, not if It was martyrdom. I'll bet you you're thinking now how you can pardon the whole thing—" "I should be a poor pupil of my own teaching if I were not." "So there you are. But / can't pardon it. Do you see? I don't care what the reason— I don't care what the justification they may have had— the 146 THE WAY HOME best they could do would never have offset your years of service — " It was rare in those days to see a flush in the erav cheek of the rector of St. David's, but he flushed now with a painful burning red. "The parish has been running down my boy. It's only fair to them to con- sider that I ve been sensible of it for a long time past, but I didn't know what to do. The truth is— we may as well face it— I haven't understood the con- ditions. Perhaps Legrand saw them better than I did. To niy mmd St. David's has always been St Uavid s— the parish I found when I came here. But everything has been changing right under my eyes, and I haven t seen it." Charlie Grace jumped up impatiently. "Very likely. I shall be frank enough to say, father, that 1 think you re right. But that has nothing to do with the disloyalty—" "Oh, loyalty has never been a strong point with us Amencans. We always break our idols as soon as w-e cease to worship them. I don't mind that so much as — "So much as what, father.?" "So much as the fact of having been an unprofit- able servant. It may seem rather late to come to the knowledge of it, but it's better than never A rude awakening is preferable to none at all I must be grateful for having had that, even if some other things are hard." The rector pushed his chair back from the table and advanced toward the fireplace, where his son rested his elbow on the mantelpiece. They stood »nn«! each other on the hearth-rug. "I fail to see," the young man said, "what's to be •47 THE WAY HOME gained by an awakening— rude or otherwise— at this date." The father smiled— the old tolerant smile, and yet with a new shade in it. "Yes, you would. It's probably something that no one of your age could do justice to. At twenty sixty-six must seem played out. You've got to get near to sixty-six to see how little it is played out. Moreover, one needs a larger experience than is possible at your age to realize the fact that no young man, however active, is equal to the old man whose mind and heart are open. I reproach myself with ndt having kept pace with my time as much as I might have done; but I'm good for something yet." "You're good for a great deal yet, father; but that subject is beside the mark of what we're dis- cussing." "It isn't beside the mark if I find that what you consider harsh treatment isn't really as harsh as you think it. I've been talking to the bishop during the past few days, and he's been most kind— the more so since he and I haven't at all times seen eye to eye. He advises me not to hang on as rector emeritus of St. David's, and offers me the parish of Gregory's Falls." " Gregory's — ^what ?" "Gregory's Falls; it's a small place— a manu- facturing town — " "You? You, father? In a small place? In a manufacturing town? Why, it would be an out- rage." "An outrage to work in my Master's service? — anywhere?— in any capacity? That's where you fail to understand, my boy. I don't blame you. 148 THE WAY HOME Perhaps I shouldn't have understood, either, before this thing came upon me. I used to consider it a fine thing to be rector of St. David's; but now — well, we won't talk about it. I only want you to know that I don't feel that sense of wounded pride that you might expect. I did. I felt it keenly during the first few hours — but it passed. It passed as soon as I — as I found myself ready to — to accept my Master's will — for any kind of work, however humble—" The young man made]a gesture of impatience. "Please, father, don't go on. I can't stand it. I don't sympathize with what you're saying. I feel nothing but the damned ingratitude of people to whom you'd have given your life. You needn't tell me you don't care — " "Oh, but I do care. Of course I care. In a way it will be like the tearing asunder of body and soul when I actually have to leave. But I shall be equal to it. That's what I want you to see. In the warfare in which I've been engaged all these years you can feel the impact of a shock — ^yes, you can feel that — but you can't be struck down. I should be a worse soldier than I've been not to have learned that." With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets and his head bent, Charlie Grace began pacing round the table strewn with the remains of supper. Some ten or fifteen minutes passed, during which father and son kept silence, each following his own train of thought. The younger man was near the door when he said, suddenly, "I'm going to bed." " Perhaps that's what we'd both better do." Charlie Grace raised his head with the customary defiant tilting of the chin . " But before I go, father," >49 he pursued, "I must ask you to understand that what I ve said to-night is final." "You mean that you're going to let it all— go?" "I'm going to let it all go. I'm over and done with It. Please don't argue with me— or try to convince me — " "Oh dear, no, I shouldn't argue with you, my boy. But ifyou start out on the principle you expressed just now, of giving a blow or a kick wherever they come m useful, life itself will argue with you— will show yo^ how little that method leads to ultimate success." "It's the only method,, as I see things, that leads to any success whatever. All our best civilized and Christian authorities adopt it— and, whatever the consequences, I'm going to do the same. I've been the exception hitherto; now I'm going to follow the mle. And the rule is— every man for himself, fliere s just one thing that used to hold me back- that yna mama's memory; but somehow I feel that if she knew how I'd been driven into it — " There was another long silence, during which the rector stood balancing himself on his toes and looking down at the hearth-rug, while his soft kept his place by the door. "Well, good night, father," Charlie Grace said at last. "Good night, my boy— and God bless you! You won t mind my praying for you, will you?" Clharlie Grace turned in the hall and looked back. I've parted company with the old ideas so com- pletely, father, that I wish you wouldn't. But I suppose it's no use asking you not to." No; I m. afraid I can't yield to you in that." ISO I MUST ASK YOU TO UNDERSTAND THAT WHAT IVE SAID TO-NIGHT IS FINAL" CHAPTER XII CHARLIE GRACE wished »hat his brother-in- law Tomlinson had not thought u well to talk things over" at breakfast in the presence of Miss Penrhyn. It was not that there was any secret as to his having come to Winnipeg looking for work, but he disliked appearing before her as a suppliant. It tended to keep him in that position of inferiority which, natural as it may have been on the occasion of their first meeti.ig. was slightly humiliating, now that he was twenty^ne. He had traveled far since the afternoon at "Carmen, four years earlier, and would have been glad to impress her "^'hc' didn't at all know what he wanted of Miss Penrhyn. In view of his youth and impecuniosity he would have scoffed at the idea of love, while flirtation in those solemn days would have seemed to lower both his dignity and hers. Something nevertheless, he did want, and the l=«=k of it, the impossibility of even defining it, brought the ache oT uneasiness into those first days of emancipation and hope. ^^ "So you want a billet. -j "C^ A few years ago Osborne would have said So you want a job." His use of the Enghsh vernacular, ^th its echo of military ways of speech, was a sign of the Anglicizing process which, through long THE WAY HOME sojourns in England and Canada and the accumu- lation of interests under the British flag, was gradu- ally transforming the Tomlinson family. Charlie Grace was conscious of a quickening of the pulse. He had waited a week to hear his brother- in-law say just these words. During that time he had lived in an inner stillness of expectancy, tensely patient, knowing the oracle would speak when the divine afflatus moved him. Now that the mystic moment had come, it was not dl-suited to this August morning, with the windows open to the warm and bracing prairie wind, bringing m from the unkempt garden the fragrance of verbena and mignonette. Warm and bracingwas the sunshine, too, pervading the room, from the treeless, shadeless world outside. Through the muslin curtains flap- ping in the breeze one had glimpses of a town suggest- ing the first chalk sketch of a future masterpiece. Seen by an eye which was not that of faith, the Winnipeg streets had the ugliness pertaining to most things in the making, but as a matter of fact no one in 1889 lived in the Winnipeg that actually was. Even the new-comer felt himself a dweller in the City of Destiny, modeled on Chicago or the New Jerusalem, according to personal ideals, and likely to outdo both. Discomfort and crudeness were then but as dust beneath the feet of conquerors. Not that there was any discomfort in thi house Osborne Tomlinson had rented for the summer from a colleague absent in England, or much in the way of crudeness, though the furnishings were indicative of that meeting of alien civilizations which the Trans- Canadian had made possible. Heavy mahoganies and antiquated reps, drifted from mid-Victorian IS* THE WAY HOME England or eastern Canada, found themselves here, on the virgina prairie, mingling in a common task of decoration and utility with Japanese prin^ Chinese screens, and the nameless hues of Corr... p otterie Ihe fact that on this soil, unstained :i: y m Sy ti,,! blood and traditions of men, each hp," • r.^ht o its place negatived incongruity as easii .: ,'i,pn -I,. fuchsias and dahlias and bleeding he., ls .f .i Mongolian hills came to bloom UMe. uv. ransie^ and pmks of the English cottage-g;>rd.>. Ip the center of the table a mass of nasturtiums anm^vi by Hilda Penrhyn in a dull-green bowl tu ,., Seoul TarJIri/ndT""" °' °"" •"^'•""' •'"' ■''"« -P- "So you want a billet." The fact that the subject had at last become a living issue wrought an immediate change in the group about the table. Emma went on pouring out the coffee with the intensified composure which was her sign of self-consciousness. Sophy lifted her tousled fair head like a kitten lapping milk; Hilda Penrhyn, after a look from her clear, brown eyes at the young man across the table, applied herself to peeling an orange daintily. In spite of his preoc- cupation with Osborne's words Chariie Grace re- turned the look, and even took time to speak of it to himself as a "concession." He meant that it was the first sign of interest she had displayed in him dunng the whole week he had been at Winnipeg. Osborne knocked off the top of an egg before speak- ^vf'\r- ^° ''""^ °'" ^ P'ace— at Forde," he "Can have it if you like and can do the barked work Charlie Grace threw back his head in the attitude " 'S3 THE WAY HO ME with which they were ;<11 familiar. "I can do it unless it's something that demands a lot of experi- ence and technical skill. I'm pretty good as a Jack-of-all-trades. " "Thought you might be. That's why I speak of the place at Forde. Post in which you'd have everything to do, and nothing in particular. Nom- inally you'd be storekeeper, but really you'd have to be everything between night-watchman and superintendent." Sophy Hfted her fluffy head. "But that's what you said to Mr. Mullins, father." "So I did. Saying it again." "But is it the same position you offered Mr Mullins?" "Told him about it. Didn't offer it." ^^ "But I know he expects it," Sophy persisted, "because poor Mrs. Mullins told me so. She said what a godsend it was going to be to them— with so many children — and everything." "Mullins could have had it if Charlie hadn't turned up. Now he can have it— if he wants it." ^^ "Oh, don't take it, Charlie," Sophy begged. "They're so awfully poor, you know, and they've had the most frightful luck ever since they came out from England. Mrs. Mullins said this was going to put them on their feet." There was a minute's silence, during which the young man's eyes again met Hilda Penrhyn's across the table. He had the satisfaction of seeing that in hers there was a question. He took it as a challenge to him to make good the principles by which he meant to live. There was every reason, he considered, why he should not back down. IS4 THE WAY HOME "I'll take it," he said, briefly. "Oh, Charlie!" Sophy wailed. "I'm ashamed of you. A married man with a family — " "Sophy, how you talk," Emma put in. "You can't take things of that kind into account in busi- ness. If your father had done so you wouldn't be where you are to-day— going abroad with Hilda. It's no use saying you would be, because you wouldn't. If you didn't try to get ahead of people before they get ahead of you the world would come to a standstill. It has to be that way." "Well, I don't care," Sophy insisted. "It isn't a bit nice of Charlie^not when Mrs. MuUins was counting on it to get them out of debt — and every- thing." "Oh, soinething will turn up for Mr. MuUins," the mother saij, complacently. "Your father won't forget them." "Anyhow, I call it beastly," Sophy declared, pushing away her plate and leaving the room. Osborne took on an inscrutable air, like a bulldog turned Fate. It was impossible to tell what he thought of the moral issues involved in his young brother-in-law's decision, and the latter had so far asserted his independence of judgment that he didn't care. He searched, however, for some sign of Miss Penrhyn's opinion, but found none. Trying again to catch her glance, he saw nothing but her lowered lids — lids of which the ivory deepened to bister along the curved fringe of the lashes. He attached no importance to the fact that her expres- sion had grown grave, since, in his experience, she smiled rarely. When she did, the smile came slowly and dreamily, as though prompted less by outward THE WAY HOME happenings than by inward thoughts. Neverthe- less, there was in her gravity now— or at least he thought so— an element of detachment not so much disdainful as infinitely remote. He felt that for an instant she had approached him, only to withdraw as from something too alien for contact. She didn't put him at a distance; she left him where he was; she simply retreated, as a spirit that has made itself visible for a space goes back into the unseen. He got nothing at all from studying her face. Owing to the preoccupation of Osborne and Emma with their breakfast, he could observe her intently. For the hundredth time during his week at Winnipeg he used the same adjectives to describe her features. He said to hinuelf that they were mysterious, pure, and firm. In an effort at analysis he tried to see the firmness in the quiet set of the lips and in the line by which the cheeks, their mat tint darkened by sunrimer sunburn, descended to the chin. The purity was everywhere. It was not in one detail more than in another— not in the low, broad fore- head, with its waving, simply parted, nut-brown hair, not m the straight little nose, not in the nut-brown eyes that seemed to view you from a distance, to see you without taking note ot you. The purity, he thought, was not so much an ex- pression as an aura, a defense that challenged a man to push through and break it down. And as for the mystery, he placed it in the impression she conveyed of coming from strange countries storied and remote, of knowing strange secrets, holy and pro- fane, of luring to strange joys and strange woes not to be expressed in any of the terms of common human intercourse, of carrying such a weight of the wisdom iS6 THE WAY HO ME and pain and passion of the world as to be incapable of wholly entering on the round of common human fellowship. As he saw her she stood only on the threshold of such a life as he and others lived — a strayed princess from another time — a time not modern, nor yet medievaj, nor yet of the ancient world. To his imagination she was dateless, ageless, soulless— but bringing, in her aloofness and silences and slow, lingering glances, messages, and perhaps rebukes, from far-ofF spiritual kingdoms. What he chiefly wanted was to dispute with her, to beat the questions he felt to be lying tacitly between them out in words. He resented her method of mutely condemning him. He wanted not merely to convince her, but to coerce her. His attitude was all antagonism — and yet an antagonism like that of the flesh toward the spirit, crying out in one breath for victory and self-subduction. All he could do was to watch her. He noticed her hands, small and shapely, exquisitely modeled at the wrists. He noticed the way she ate, with a leisure and a daintiness that reduced eating as nearly as possible to the non-material. He noticed her dress — a white muslin thing, of which the outline of the "basque" defined her slenderness. "Make it clear to yourself that it's a place in which you'll have to work like a dog," Osborne said, after some minutes of silence. "I guess I can do that as well as any one else." "You'll be called storekeeper, as I've said. But if the chief clerk has to go out on the road you'll have to sit at the big desk and transact business. If the cashier is called East you'll have to keep his accounts. If the telegraph-boy falls sick you'll have to know IS7 W^' i^^!m??sll^"?-vs THE WAY HO ME how to take or send a message. If the train- master drops dead you'll have to despatch the trains. D'ye see? We can't specialize yet on the Trans- Canadian. That's why we're offering to young fellows like you— provided you're willing to work day and night, and not look for extra pay— the big- gest opening on God's earth. Everything's open— and all you require in the way of qualification"— he tapped his forehead — "is right here." Charlie Grace nodded at Osborne's different points to express his comprehension and willingness. He explained how, acting on hints from Emma, he had spent the weeks since leaving Harvard studying bookkeeping and picking up some knowledge of telegraphy. Emma had told him how this one and that one had got their first real start through some chance bit of usefulness of the kind. Everything was grist to the mill of the Trans-Canadian. " a'^"*^ there's one thing more," Osborne pursued. At Forde you'll come under the eye of a man who can be to you like God. Your own fault if he doesn't promote you in time to something better. That's why Mullins will be so sick. Sophy was right there. He thought that Forde would be straight on the way to glory. Well, Mullins knows." Charlie Grace looked steadily at Miss Penrhyn. Her lids were lowered again, but at Osborne's words a little tremor passed over them. It was as much in defiance of what be took to be her judgment as in self-assertion that he said, with a nervous laugh : "I'm sorry for Mullins; but— I'll take the job." "Then thr.t's settled. Have to be at Forde by the middle of September. Give jou time to attend to something else I want to speak about " 158 iwa -y THE WAY HOME Brushing the crumbs from his white waistcoat, Osborne got up and lit his morning cigar. Emma and Miss Penrhyn left ch* roowi together. Charlie Grace remained at the table, his chair tilted back- ward and his han<*s clasped behind his head, as he wondered what was coming next. Osborne in- spected a line of Japanese prints, in plain cedar frames, hung on a level with his own eyes. To the younger man, who had glanced at them casually, they were unmeaning spots of color, representing elongated ladies in strange draperies, or beggars on lonely mountain roads, or queerly rigged sampans saiHng unearthly seas. He smiled to himself, as he caught Osborne's expression in profile, tj see the puzzled concentration in the latter's gaze. He might have been an early Egyptologist tryinr; to decipher hieroglyphics to which he possessed no key. "Got 'em from an old Japanee at Victoria," Osborne explained, over his shoulder. "Buy a few from him every time I go out there. Doing it for years. Lot more stowed away in the house in Minnesaba. Can't make much out of 'em, and yet they're wonderful. Know they are. That's a Hiroshige," he conrinued, poinring to a line of foot- passengers hurrying in a shower of rain across a wooden bridge; "and that's the best impression— the lady with the embroidered robes. She's a UtLinaro. And that," he went on, "is the rarest of the lot— that grotesque old head. Find out more about 'em before I've done. Didn't I understand," he conrinued, abruptly, "that you had some money.?" The young man let his chair descend to rest on its four legs. "I've six thousand three hundred dol- lars. Don't you 'emember.? You wrote me about mmm ^mtmL^:^^- THE WAY HOME it. You told me to sell the seven bonds that came to me from my grandfather's estate and deposit the money in the Bank of Montreal. Well, I've done that." Osborne turned slowly from the contemplation of his prints. "There's a lot of land at the corner of Higgins Street and Prince Albert Avenue. Go and buy it. Tell Hastings & Hastings I sent you. Tell 'em you'll give four thousand dol- lars." " But I thought that's just what you warned me against — wildcat speculation in real estate — " "There's another lot at the corner of Assiniboine Avenue and Lome Street. Can get it for two thousand. Buy that. Hold 'em both till I tell you to sell. Tell Hastings & Hastings who y'are. Say I sent you. They'll know. Ask for Jimmy Hast- ings. Don't talk to any one else. Tell him it's me. Go to Andrew Grant — the fellow who was here the other night — to fix up your title-deeds. Find his office over the Royal Alexandra Bank in Main Street. Tell him I sent you. He'll know who y'are. Don't put it off. Do it this morning." The great man strolled to the door. "I say, Osborne," Charlie Grace said, nervously, "you think it's all right for me to take that place away from MuUins, don't you?" Osborne stopped in the doorway. "Do you?" The young man spoke aggressively. "I do." "Then that settles it." "I do, because I've yet to see ' ''"<^«^»." she dropped it. ^^ "" '^' "«"'"^"' ^'^"^ "he had He was determined to be outspoken. "What / mean by .t," he declared, "is what the majority of Americans mean by it-material success- n other words, success ,n making money. For us any othe s~e"l V)' T' ^-«P"°nal-and'rX strained. As I understand it, material success is the one point in which we lead the world Ou supremacy i„ anything else can be challenged-bu typical of my own countrymen, can you .?" ^ out. You ask me for a reason for not marrying you and I give you one. I don't say it's the only reason ^ but since it's sufficient—" ^ reason, "I don't think it is suflicient. It wouldn't stand for a minute ,f you really cared for me." 199 THE WAY HOME She colored slightly. "As to that I must leave you to make your own deductions." He grew still more daring. "That'* just what I'm doing; and the first deduction I make is that you do care for me — a little." "I should be sorry to enter into a discussion on that point," she said, with one of her slow dreamy smiles; "but I'm willing to say this much — that even if I cared more for you than I do I shouldn't marry you. I should be afraid of you. I should be afraid that it I ever became burdensome to you — or if you ceased to — to — to have the same feehng for me — or if you came to care for any one else — " "But you wouldn't expect me to do that.'" "That's exactly what I should expect — and if it happened you'd want to sweep me out of your way as you've swept others — and I shouldn't yield to you. That's where the trouble would lie. It wouldn't be altogether with you. It would be largely with me. If I were meeker or more submis- sive it might be different. But I'm not submissive — I'm not meek — I don't easily bend to other people's wishes or take their opinions — and so I've made up my mind — or practically made up my mind — that I'm the kind of woman who'd better not marry at all." "If that's the only thing — " he began, with a laugh. "But it's not the only thing," she declared, rising, and standing before him. "It's far from the only thing — " As he got to his feet he showed some of the signs of exasperation habitual with a man to whom oppo- sition is rare. "And whatever the other things THE WAY HOME \\ are, they all merge into this-that you-distrust me. I d begun to hope that you'd got over that. I've tried to make you say it. But I see now— " She turned away from him, gazing across the room, which but for themselves was empty "I cant help-perhaps I oughtn't to say it-you're offended a ready, and you mav be more so— but 1 can t help distrusting a man who's done what you ve done~giyen up high aims in life for lower ones. I can t help it." He let that pass. "But, even so, there's a dif- fererrte between distrust and-dislike," he insisted. 1 admit the difFerence-and yet for my purpose they come to the same thing." ''That is, that you won't marry me." "That I can't." "Does that distinction mean that you would if you could.'" She looked at him with another dim, slow smile. 1 think I ve said all there is to say for the moment. 1 must bid you good-by. I'm very tired. Cousin tmma may want me, too." She held out her hand, which he took and retained SveJ" "'"^- * ^^°" '°"« '^° >'°" ^hink I've . ^^^ ."H ^.''.^"J'draw her hand, but, finding this impossible without a struggle, let it remain in his. nease don t ask me such questions as that." 1 ve loved you since the first moment I ever saw you That was twelve years ago-at a performance of Carmen. Do you remember? It was in the afternoon — "No; I don't remember— or rather 1 think I do. rlease let me go. U 201 THE WAY HOME !i "I've loved you ever since then. I shall let you go when I've told you the rest of what I have to say. I've loved you ever since then — and I shall go on loving you." He grew dominating, combative. "I shall go on, because I see that you'll come to it, too. You may go back to Nice— but you'll think of me when you're gone. When some one else asks you to marry him you'll think of me— and you'll say 'No' to him. Lots of men must have asked you to marry them during the last cipht years — " She tried to disclaim this imputation of conquest. "Only two— or three, perhaps. Do let me eo. Please." "And when they did you thought of that day on the prairie— when we talked together — and you — " "No, no. You're quite wrong. That had nothing to do with my decision — nothing. I couldn't — well, partly for the same reason that I can't now. I didn't wholly respect them — any of them — and I can't wholly respect you." ]'0h, but you will." "If I do I may change my mind" — she tried to laugh, nervously, freeing her hand at last — "but not before." "That will be soon enough. You may go now," he added, with a gesture, "if you insist on it— ^but I hope you'll -"member that this is the beginning — not the end." CHAPTER III AND yet for more than a year and a half it was ^^ the end. Hilda Penrhyn went back with her mother to Nice, and Charlie Grace returned to his woric in the Canadian northwest. There were still a few days before the separation during which thev continued to meet, but he made no effort to repeat what he had said already. Once or twice, it seemed to him, she left the opportunity open; but he pre- Jerred for the present to let the matter rest where it was. A more determined refusal might make it impossible for him to begin again, when perhaps the chances would be more in his favor. He hoped at first that he should be able to make his visit to Europe in the early part of the following yi^K^f " T''' "'*' ^"'y P"' °f »he next year- 2^ u if A '"''"^^^'^ ''■ °"""e ^^^ intervening months he had seen several changes, each in the na- ture of an advance. He had been moved, for brief periods, from Forde to Winnipeg, from Winnipeg to Montreal, from Montreal to Queen Charlotte, and from Queen Chark>tte to Quebec. From the finan- cial point of view his position on the Trans-Canadian rhoLh'h""""! "'.'""''"y '» his other interests, though his other interests were best served bv his connection with he great railway system that was so remarkably fulfilling the dreams o"^ its prolrer and helping to create a new empire. In the end it 203 THE WAY HOME was a misiion on which Osborne Tomlinson sent him to London that brought him within reach of Nice. It was a shock to him to find the woman roui d whom his dreams had so long centered living in restricted quarters in a hotel of the second or third order. Not till he entered its modest door did the realization ever come home to him that Mrs. Penrhyn was actually poor, with a genuine, undecorative poverty. He had always fancied "living abroad," "spending the winter on the Riviera," to be essen- tially conditions of gaiety and elegance. In his own expensive hotel on the Promenade des Anglais there was everything to bear out this impression; but, while he expected to find his friends less showily installed, he was not prepared for the extreme sim- plicity of their surroundings. As in a little voiture de place he drove back from the Promenade with its glittering sea, its leisured crowds, and its air of extravagant cosmopolitan expenditure, through mean and narrow streets, to stop at last before a long white, barracklike hotel, noticeably unpre- tentious, he thought at first that he nad made a mistake in the address. A spacious garden, stately with palms and gay with geraniums and mimosa, offered some consolation to the eye, but this pleasing impression was dispelled on entering the hall, with its carpet of matting, its worn wicker tables and chairs, and its odor of stale cigarettes. All at once Charlie Grace felt himself swept by a wave of indignation that the woman whom his fancy saw as almost too exquisite for earth should be forced to take refuge in this second-rate milieu. His protective instincts were stirred as they had not 204 THE WAY HOME been since his father died. Springs of tenderness were suddenly opened up that had been sealed since the day his mother was laid to rest at Horsehair Hill. For the first time he thought of Hilda Penrhyn as needing him as much as he needed her. The idea was curiously new to him. It was part of the egoism fostered by his manner of life during the past nine or ten years that in desiring her his object had been first of all to get something for himself. She was worth possession. She was an object to be won with the patience and struggle that had gone into his winning of other things on which his heart was set. While he knew she would be of help to his life. It had scarcely occurred to him that he could be u -if J *° ^^"" ^""^ '*'"' ^* perceived it, he was thrilled with a joyous sense of power. If he ex- pected much from her, he could give her r"uch in return. He could take her out of this lowly setting and put her where she would shine. He could spend nioney on her; he could dower her with the privilege of spending money on herself. He could restore her eventually to the soil to which she was indigenous, where she would be conspicuous, brilliant, dashing. He, too, would be conspicuous, brilliant, dashing, burning, as a husband should in social matters, in his wife's reflected light. On being shown up-stairs he found Mrs. Penrhyn's sttting-room empty. It was a small room, narrow for Its length, but more tastefully furnished than the rest of the hotel had led him to expect. There were flowers, books, and magazines. On an upright piano the score of an opera lay open. What specially caught his eye were the signed photographs that stood wherever there was room for them-ladies in 205 THE WAY HOME ifl'*t court dress, officers in uniform, as well as faces familiar to him through the illustrated papers, or from visits to the theater and the opera. He had a re- newal of that satisfaction in knowing people who knew the great of which he was ashamed. One side of his mind took pleasure in the thought that he, too, might some day come to know the great even while the other treated the ambition with disdain. Presently Mrs. Pcnrhyn entered from the adjoin- ing room alone. He noticed at once that her languid grace was more languid than it had been eighteen months before. Her mournful eyes were more pathetically mournful. She was paler, too— so pale as to seem waxlike, diaphanous. It was appar- ently an effort for her to hold out her hand, to speak, or to smile. He thought she did all three with the gasp of relief that welcomes rescue. The high comedy of dethronement had apparently been played to the end, giving place to a worn, pitiful reality. "Hilda isn't at home," she explained, when they were seated beside a small fire of gnarled, semi- combustible olive logs. She spoke with difficulty — a catch in her breath. "Yes; she knew you were coming, but she had an engagement at the English Church. She does a great deal of work there. Canon Langhorne thinks her invaluable. I like her to do it, because it's an interest for her; and life as we live it here lacks interests." "But I thought that's just what it didn't. I thought it was all so gay — and picturesque — and romantic — " She smiled wearily. "It would be for you— for a season or two. But you'd grow tired of it. It's 306 THE WAY HOME like always seeing the ^::r.,c play. It palls on you in the end, however .cautiful the setting or perfect the acting. I don't ■ . .ird for rnj .elf so much. I do mind for Hilda. I u.>h1 to hope-for something quite different for her. He resolved to speak plainly while he had the chance. "She could have something quite different now. I'd give it to her— if she'd take it." She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. " I can't help wishing she would." "Well, wouldn't she?" She evaded the question. "You see, if I were taken she d be so desperately alone— and— and part ot my income is only a life interest— so there'd be that, too-and-and other things. I can't help telling you, Mr. Grace-because-well, because you do seem nearer to us than any one else— through Osborne and Emma— especially over here— where every one is nice — only strangers — " The broken appeal touched him. It was as much for the sake of Mrs. Penrhyn and her daughter as for his own that he said, earnestly: "Don't you think she would now.? I asked her before— perhaps you didn't know it—" "I guessed it." "And she wouldn't. But I've given her all this time to thmk it over. If in the mean while she had preferred any one else she'd have been free to take nim;^ but since she hasn't done that — " "I'll tell you candidly— I can't make her out, Mr. Grace. And yet I should say that if there was any one, it might be you." He felt himself coloring while he said, "Do you mean that she ever speaks of me.?" 207 THE WAY HOME "Not often; but when she does — " She paused, listening. "I think I hear her now. She's talking to some one in the hall. She said she'd be back for tea — and that I was to keep you." Three weeks passed, however, before Charlie Grace ventured to renew the subject that lay silently between Hilda Penrhyn and himself. He was not without a motive in holding back, thinking it wise that she should grow used to his presence, used to his usefulness, before he risked anything further. He waited, therefore, till the evening before the date he had fixed tentatively as that of his departure for Italy. If she accepted him he would postpone his going, or would go and come back. If she persisted in refusing him the journey to Italy would be an excuse for taking himself away. He had dined with Mrs. and Miss Penrhyn in the restaurant of their hotel, coming out for the demi- tasse to a terrace overlooking the garden. Fearing the night air, Mrs. Penrhyn had gone to her room. It seemed to him there was an element of daring in the way in which Hilda led him to a table at the end of the terrace, remote from any of the groups that had preceded them from the restaurant. Possibly, he reflected, she foresaw what was coming, and was eager to get it over. As to that, however, he could only guess, since she was proof against self-betrayal. Not once during his stay in Nice had she seemed to remember that he had already asked her to marry him, and would probably do so again. The night was balmy and faintly scented with flowers. Over the flat roofs of the neighboring houses a full golden moon was coming up, throw- 208 THE WAY HOME ing palms and mimosas into relief against patches of white wall and deepening the shadows at the bottom oJ the garden. From a near-by hotel came the tmkhng of mandohns, with the voices of strolling Neapolitan smgers. It was natural that the conversa- tion should turn, as it had turned already, on the journey he was to begin next day. "So, after you've done Italy," she said, in the effort to make dialogue, "you'll go on to England by way of Vienna and Munich. Is that it.?" ''J''^''f< 'V" i"^ replied, with seeming tran- quillity; "unless I come back here." She picked up the scarf she had brought out with her and threw it over her shoulders. "Wouldn't it so wen?" ^° ^° *''^^' """^ '''^^ ^°" ''""'^ ''''' ''°^" "I shouldn't do it for the coast. It would only be in case you— you needed me." Having thrown this bomb into her camp, he pufFed quietly at his cigar. "You're very kind," she managed to sav, after brief hesitation; "but I don't think there's any hkelihood of that." "I do," he said, calmly. "I think you need me now. You re forlorn. You're lonely." She put her half-empty coffee-cup on the little iron table painted green that stood between them "I had no idea you were such a psychologist." You have no idea of a good many things I can be till you ve tried me." "Oh, but I have tried you in some things—" And found me wanting," he said, quickly, with suspicion. "Is that what you were goi^g to 209 THE WAY HOME "I wasn't going to say it; but since you've done that—" "You'll admit that it's true." "I'll admit that it's true," she said, slowly, "in certain things — that seem to me vital." He threw himself back in his seat rather wearily. " So that we come back to the same old story. We're still there." "That depends on you. We're still there — if you are." "That is, if I haven't repented and changed. Well, I haven't." She shook her head. "I've not asked you any- thing about that." "No; but I wish you would. We should be play- ing then with the cards on the table." "Oh, but I didn't know we were playing at all." "/ am," he asserted, with emphasis. "But it takes two to make a game — unless you enjoy solitaire." He looked hurt. "Surely this is no more than fencing with words — " "There's no harm in that, is there? One fences to protect oneself — " "From danger; yes. But I'm offering you safety. I wish you could believe in me." "I do believe in you — up to a point." ' Up to what point?" "That's not easy to say. It isn't necessarj', either. The fact that there's a point at all is the only thing of importance." He brushed this argument away. "That's not important. There's always a point — to every one's belief in every one. No one has absolute belief in 210 THE WAY HOME any one else. That's because we're human. There's even a point to my behef in you. Do you want to Know where I put it.'" She laughed. "I don't think I do." He leaned forward again, his arms crossed on the *L- .' TM.^ "1?^^ smoking between his fingers. "I think 1 11 tell you, just the same. I know you're good— very good— almost too gord; and yet like ^ o"theT'' ''^°'''^' ^°" ^^"^ ''''"''^ '" your judgment She weighed this for some time in silence. "That's probably true," she admitted. "But there's this dilterence between my shortcomings and yours. When I have to recognize a fault in myself I'm sorry lor It, and I try to correct it-I really do. Whereas you glory in yours with a kind of cynicism. Having started out to win, by fair means or foul, you're proud of having done it." , y^^f'^^K ^^ ™'-'-«"^'^- "I'm only satisfied to have fulfilled to some extent what the world has required of me. I didn't set the test, and so I'm not responsible for it. My part has been limited to meeting it. "Tu '"^^""S it~hy fair means or foul." There are no foul means nowadays. Every- thing has become like love and war— all's fair I dont see why you should expect me to Kve by standaras no one else is conforming to." "As far as I have a right to expect anything of you at all I hmit myself to being sorry vou're not thb Jf..^"'''^'^- ^°" ^"^ iieant for such high He broke in with an impatient gesture. "That's only the legend that has come down to you from THE WAY HOME my childhood. You've heard it from Emma — or some one else. I get awfully sick of it, even though it began with the dreams of my mother. She was a saint — the only saint I've ever known, except you — and you're different. She wanted me to go into the Church, as it's called — but she didn't know me as I really am. Let me tell you once for all that there never was a time when money and the instinct for making it weren't the first things in my thoughts. As far as my memory goes back I can see myself *^,ghting against the fact of being poor. When I decided to strike out into the world for myself — and make money if I could — I didn't fall away from anv imaginary call to higher things. I assure you I didn't. I gave up the unreal for the real; and if ever I was true to myself, as you put it, it was then." He drew two or three puffs from his cigar, waiting for her to say something. Seeing her brown eyes rest on him in distant silent wonder, he went on energetically. "I wanted to be respected; I wanted to be free. No poor man is ever respected. The saint and the sinner despise him alike. The Christian and the heathen despise him. The priest and the bishop despise him. You despise him yourself. No, no; you needn't protest. You despised me — till I did the things you disapprove of and made money. As a matter of fact, you'd never have admitted me to the equality with yourself I'm enjoying at this minute if I hadn't done it. Would you, now? You may condemn me on some fine-spun theory, but in your heart of hearts you respect me as you would never have respected me if I'd been a poor devil of a THE WAY HOME clergyman, living on a pittance, and knocked about from pillar to post. A poor man is not a free man. The rich — and those who, like yourself, belong to the side of the rich— make him either a rebel or a reptile. I've no taste for being either — and yet you blame me." For a few minutes she kept silence, sitting with face partly averted from him, in order not to look into his eyes. "There is some truth in what you say," she began, at last, "even as concerns me; but — " "Then why not take me as I am.'" he begged, vehemently. "I love you. I've loved you all these years. I've waited for you — " "You mustn't make me responsible for that," she said, hurriedly. "I don't make you responsible for anything. I want to take every possible burden on myself. I'm equal to it, too — and the more equal to it because I've never cared for any woman as I care for you." She raised her head, quickly. "But you have cared for other women?" "Not like this. It wasn't the same thing. It was nothing but — " "I don't want to know what it was. But you did care — and you went on and cared again — for some one else." She rose quietly. "Come down into the garden. We can talk there more easily." When they had descended the steps from the terrace she surprised him by taking his arm. They followed a graveled path leading into the com- parative obscurity of the palms and mimosas. "You must understand," she said, at once, "that your having cared for other women has only this to 213 THE WAY HOME do with me, that what has happened already may happen again — would probably happen again. You tell me you've — you've — thought of me for years, and yet that didn't keep you from — " "You weren't there," he objected, hotly. "You were thousands of miles away. I didn't know I should ever see you again. I was lonely — in lonely places — and young — " "Please don't explain. I'm only taking what you say as an illustration of the future from the past. What's happened once— ^more than once — would be all the more hkely to recur because — because I'm older than you." He pressed the hand on his arm close to his side as he said, impatiently, "In everything that's essential I'm much older than you." "You may feel so now. But ten years hence — when you'll still be a young man — and I'm growing to be a middle-aged woman — " "There's nothing in that argument," he declared, scornfully. "It's been refuted by h'appy marriages over and over again. You've some other objection in the back of your mind, and you're not telling me frankly. Is it that you don't want to go and live in the northwest? Because if you don't — " "No; it isn't that. Except for mama, I shouldn't care where I lived." "If you do object to the northwest I may as well tell you now that I shall be able to take up work in New York in a year or two. I've got Ellis out of the running. He's done for. They're holding the place for me — as soon as old Purvis consents to take a back seat. But in any case I'd rather have an- other two years in the west for the sake of my own 214 THE WAY HOME ^»^"^' L- *''^" '"' '" * position to give you all the things you ought lo have- -a big house, a carnage, jewelry, ai cpcra-box— " "Oh, please! I d(in't want any of those things. My tastes don't lie that way." "Nonsense! Every woman's tastes lie that wav. I want to give you all the things you've had to give up— the things that belong to you. You'll be the most talked-of woman in New York. There'll be nothing you can't have. And if you want to take Mrs Penrhyn to Florida for the winters— why, it will be just as you say." They reached a balustrade at the end of the gar- den, separating the grounds of their own hotel from those of the next. She released his arm, drawing her scarf more closely about her, and throwing one end of It over her left shoulder. There was just light enough to make the sequins on the gauze gleam faintly Charli. Grace half leaned, half sat. on the low balustrade so that, as Hilda stood facing him, her eyes were on a level with his. "You don't have to tell me all those things," she said, after long thinking, "to show me how kind you d be I know you'd be kind. That's not what 1 m afraid of. "Then what are you afraid of.?" he asked, gently. ' ''I should be afraid of— the whole thing." I see. The same old doubt." She nodded. His voice became caressing, reproachful. "Which means that you don't love me." "It doesn't ia.;an that so much as—" He leaned forward suddenly and caught her hand. 2IS THE IV A Y HOME "It doesn't mean that? Then what does it mean? You do love me then? — a little?" She withdrew her hand. "But not enough for what you want. I'll be frank with you. I admire you — I can't tell you how much I admire you. And it's quite true what you said just now — that I admire you for doing the very things I disapprove of. I don't understand myself in that respect. I'm inconsistent — but I'm telling you the truth. And because it is the truth I must ask you to believe me when I say that what I feel for you isn't enough — " He seized both her hands in both of his in an effort to draw her down io him. "It's enough if I think it is. I'm not asking for more than you can give. I should be content with anything you felt able to offer me." "But I shouldn't, you see. When a woman — I mean a woman like me — is willing to take all, she wants to give all — and I could only give with hesitations and reserves." He dropped her hands as suddenly as he had taken them, springing up from his place on the wall. The probing instrument that had hitherto been only hurting him had touched him on the quick. "With hesitations and reserves and suspicions," he said, coldly. "You might have saved yourself that repetition." She clasped her hands, looking up at him mutely for a second or two, and then, with a little cry, "Oh, Charlie, don't be angry with me." "I'm not angry," he declared, starting to walk back toward the hotel. "I'm only tired — fright- fully tired — of it all. Distrust of me has become a sort of idee fixe with you, hasn't it? It's no use 2l6 THE WAY HOME my trying to dispel it. Not that I mean to make the attempt. As I am I am. If I fail to gain your good opinion I've no doubt it's as much my fault as my misfortune; but I've neither the time nor the inclination to make mj'seif over." The change in him was so sudden that it frightened her. "You don't know how sorry I am," she faltered, trying to keep pace with his rapid, impetuous steps — ;"you don't know how sorry I am for anything I've said that has wounded you. I shouldn't have done it if I hadn't felt it my duty to make the situation clear." "Oh, you've made it clear enough — needlessly clear. But isn't it a part of rhetoric, when you've sufficiently scored your point to leave it alone?" "I should have been only too glad to leave it alone, Charlie — " "And please don't call me Charlie," he said, irritably. "Only my very best friends do that." She ignored his peevishness. " I hoped you would have included me among their number." "I hoped so, too, till you've put the ban on it yourself. You can't have friendship where there's a persistent lack of confidence." "Not geiierally," she admitted; "but I thought this case might be exceptional." He gave a short laugh. "You don't scruple to return to the charge, do you ?" "I don't scruple to do anything that will be for your good," she said, as they emerged from the friendly shadow of the palms into the light stream- ing from the hotel. "I hope you'll do me the justice to remember that whatever I've said to-night has been more for your sake than for my own. If I'd been thinking only of myself — " 15 217 THE WAY HOME "Oh, of course," he jerked out, laconically. At the foot of the steps leading up to the terrace he paused. "I don't think I need ro in," he said, still in a tone of offense. "It's too late to disturb Mrs. Penrhyn. Perhaps you'll say good-by to her for me." She nodded, trying to escape from him with some conventional form of farewell; but he began again: Do you remember that the last time we— we went over this ground— the day Sophy was married— I said It was not the end, but the beginning?" She nodded again. "I think I Ao," she answered, faintly. "Well, I don't say that to-night. To-night— as far as I'm concerned— it's the end." "}'l^ sure that's best," she managed to say. "I'm going in the morning— and I shall go for good. I shall never come back— never— unless— unless you call me." "You mustn't hope for that," he heard her whisper, as he lifted his hat and turned away. Charlie Grace left ne.\t day for Genoa. He lingered there, and also at Turin, Milan, Bologna, and Pisa. It was nearly a fortnight later that he arrived in Florence, where a telegram awaited him. It had been sent by way of his London bankers, and was dated three days earlier. Mama died in her sleep last night. Can you come to me ? Hilda Penrhyn. CHAPTER IV SO she's The rs called mc back!" thought was in Charlie Grace's mind before he had read to the end of the telegram. Everything else was secondary to it— even her be- reavement. She had called him back! He should see her, talk with her, reason with her, plead with her— renewing the struggle which in a moment of exasperation he had rashly given up. He had been cursing that rashness during the whole fortnight of his sauntering through northern Italy. In long days of heavy-hearted sight-seeing he had had time to think over some of her broken utterances, some of her half-admissions, and to extract their significance. It brought him to a per- ception of things that had escaped him in the hour in the garden at Nice. He came to believe that in the very act of protesting against him with the conscience she loved him with the heart — while he had been so dull as to hear only the protest. He could afford to smile at that if she loved him. He could even approve of it — in a woman. It was necessary, he argued, that in business, as in some other things, there should be one law for the woman and another for the man. He 'vould not have liked it if she had been able to take his cynical, dis- illusioned point of view. How could she smile in- dulgence on a life like his ' He could be tolerant of THE W A Y HOME it himself on the ground that he lived according to the standards of other men; but he knew the angels must regard it from a different angle— and so must she. There were women who didn't— who couldn't — so regard it, who accepted him as good enough as he was; and after brief, stormy intimacies he had turned from each one of them with aversion. To be loved by a woman to whom his soul was dearer than his body would be something like redemption— a redemption in which he should get a kind of vicarious justification, while still doing as he pleased. Appreciation of her loss came to him when he was shown into the long narrow sitting-room late on the following afternoon. In spite of the fact that there was no change in its arrangements, and more flowers than usual, it seemed curiously empty. She herself looked small and lonely as she rose from a chair by a window. Her pallor was perhaps in- tensified by the dimness of twilight and the severity of her black dress; but he could see she had been crying. What happened after that always defied his capacity to analyze. Between the moment of his entering the room and that when he found her in his arms there was a space of suspended mental action such as comes during a vivid flash of lightning. He could remember neither her crossing the floor nor his opening his arms to receive her. He only knew that she was sobbing with her head against his breast and that he was kissing the coils of her brown hair. How long they stood so together was not to be reckoned in terms of time. He could recall that somehow she released herself, and that they sat THE WAY HOME down with the width of the room between them. Of the two he was the more embarrassed. His heart was pounding, his blood was surging, his cheeks were hot. He could hardly listen while she talked. She had returned to her seat by the window, where her back was toward the fading light. Con- sidering what had just occurred, it seemed to him she spoke with an amazing lack of constraint. If anything, there was in her voice a note of relief. She was telling him what had happened — how well her mother had been the night before she died, how she had read, and played the piano a little, and quite late, after Hilda herself had gone to bed, had pared an apple and brought it into Hilda's room. They had eaten it together, the mother sit- ting by the bedside, chatting of the events of the day. She went on to relate those simple happenings which grief finds sacred — those last stirrings of a life's activities which become significant because they are the last. She had wakened twice, once to hear her mother coughing, and once to notice she was restless. The second time she had got up and gone to her mother's room to find her dropping off in- to a doze. That must have been about three o'clock. About six — z. little before daylight — she got up again. Her mother was asleep. She was still asleep at eight o'clock, at nine, at ten. At ten the daughter, a little alarmed, had noticed more par- ticularly, and found her dead. The doctor said she must have died between four and five. He saw it was a comfort to her to talk to him, and let her do so. His attention became active only with the words: "I wired to you at once, though I knew I couldn't 221 THE WAY HOME reach you directly. I'm sorry now I did, because I've disturbed you unnecessarily. Canon Lang- horne has arranged everything for me. He's been so kind." He passed over the reference to himself. "What has been arranged?" "She's to be laid beside my father at Tarry town. We sail from Cherbourg on Wednesday next on the Prinz August Wilhelm. Canon Langhorne has found some one to go with me. She came over as com- panion to a lady who isn't going back, and now she wants to return." "And when you get to New York what shall you do?" "I've cabled to the Merediths, asking them to take me in. They've replied at once that I'm to come to them. That will give me time to — to think." For a minute there was silence. In reply to what apparently she took as a questioning look of his about the room she said: "She's lying in the chapel of the English Church. I like to think of her there." There seemed little more to say. He, too, wanted to think. As soon as he could do so without seeming abrupt he rose. "I shall look in again this evening, if I may," he explained. "Just now I should like to go to the steamer office before it closes. I must cable to Osborne, too, so that he'll expect us." "Oh, but you're not coming with me!" she said, weakly. "I couldn't allow you to interrupt your trip." It was not difficult for him to silence this protest. "I shouldn't think of your taking the journey alone. 222 THE WAY HOME Osborne and Emma would never forgive me." It was on his tongue to add, "If there were no other reason," but he suppressed that. He suppressed even the longing to go forward and take her hand. Contenting himself with a bow from the other side of the room, he went away. He contented himself with the same attitude of distant respect all through the pilgrimage from Nice to Tarrytown. For the time being it was enough for him to take care of her. It was his first oppor- tunity of taking care of any one. His fathei had died just as he was becoming able to do it; his brother Edward, a victim of indolence and drink, asked for no more than an occasional check; Emma required nothing from him at all. It was a new luxury, an enlargement of life, to feel some one dependent on him. At each stage in the awesome journey he got pleasure from the thought that Hilda Penrhyn knew he was there, not only looking to her comfort, but seeing that everything else was done decently. While keeping himself unobtrusive, he let her perceive that he stood between her and all the trying details incidental to a journey of the kind. Two days after the return from Tarrytown she wrote him a note asking him to come and see her. He had made up his mind not to force himself on her unless she summoned him. He would take no ad- vantage of the fact that for a minute or two at Nice she had broken down. He found her alone in a threadbare, old-fashioned drawing-room. Study- ing her as she sat buried in the corner of a huge mahogany sofa, he discovered a new illumination in her eyes. They made him think of the windows of a aa3 THE WAY HOME house he had seen only by daylight when they have been Ut up at night. He noticed that she began at once on the subject for which she had sent for him, probably lest he should think she had an ulterior purpose in view. "I know you've spent a lot of money for me. I wish you'd tell me how much it is." He considered a moment. "Is that necessary?" " Don't you see it is .? I must pay it back." He considered again, looking not at her but at a point on th? wall beyond her. "I see that it might be necestL ; ," he said, slowly, "if we're not going to be any more to each other than we've been." He still didn't look at her. He knew without lifting his eyes that she was watching him con- templatively, her cheek resting lightly against her hand, her elbow supported by the arm of the sofa. "Do you think we can?" she asked, at last. "Do you.f" One could hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock for some seconds before she said, "I wish I knew." ^^ He took the line of keeping rigidly on his dignity. "I fear I can't help you in that. I've said all I can." She surprised him by being of his opinion. "No; you can't help me in that. No one can help me. Because, you see, I'm not only afraid of you, but I'm afraid of myself. That's something I haven't confessed to you yet. If I weren't afraid of myself I should be less uncertain about you." "I don't think I catch your point." "No; probably not. You couldn't, without knowing me better than you do." 324 THE WAY HOME "But I feel I know you so well." Her dreamy smile seemed to reach him like the light of a star that comes from a long way off. "You never know a person who's as reserved as I am. Even dear mama didn't know me. I used to see her yearning to understand me— but I never gave her any help. I didn't know how, for one thing; and then, children are often cruel in that way to their parents. I always presented a sort of frozen front to mama — as to most people. Some one says there are characters that seem to be made of ice — but ice beyond which there's fire — and that they're always the most dangerous." It was his turn to smile. "I shouldn't think you were dangerous." "That's just why I feel it right to warn you." "On the ground that forewarned is forearmed?" Her voice, already low, dropped lower, as s"- e said, "No; on the principle that it may be best to leave well enough alone." "And what about the fact that we're in love with each other?" He expected her to resent this, but she only said, "That's the most dangerous part of all." He got up restlessly, leaning at first on the back of the arm-chair from which he had risen. "I con- fess I don't follow you." "That's because you don't know me. And the worst of it is that I can't explain. If I could, you wouldn't believe me, because I should be speaking not from facts, but from that kind of intuition which is almost second sight. I'm one of the women of whom it can be said, as Carmen sings, 'Si je t'aime, prends garde a toil' I know I don't look the 225 THE WAY HOME "It's no use your telling me, be- believe it. You're too good to par- but that's the very reason why I'm telling you." He laughed, cause I don't be—" "Oh, I know I'm good; but a good woman can make a man's life as hard as a bad one, if her char- acter isn't suited to his. I can imagine a type of man whom I might make happy — " " Because you'd care for him more," he declared, jea'.ously, beginning to pace up and down the room. Her voice dropped again. "Perhaps because I'd care for him less." He wheeled suddenly, coming toward her. "Does that mean — " She put up a hand as if to keep him away. "I'm speaking of what might be rather than what is." "And it might be that you'd come to care for me more than — " ^ "It might be that you'd make me. That's why I'm advising you— I think I'm advising you— not to try." He took a turn up and down the length of the room before saying: "A little while ago the trouble lay with me. Now you've shifted your ground—" "Because it lies with both of us. That's what makes it so serious. I see so many reasons why you should marry another kind of woman— and why I shouldn't marry at all." He came near to the end of the sofa, along which her arm lay lightly extended. The emotion or ex- citement she was determined to suppress betrayed itself in the nervous tapping of her fingers, as well as m the proud erectness of her head. She neither 226 THE WAY HOME moved nor looked at him as he approached, but a spot of color came into her cheeks, where color was rare. Standing above her, bending slightly over her, his twitching hands clasped tightly behind his back, Charlie Grace felt, a violent renewal of the impulse always present in him, even when dormant, to subdue her spirit, to break her will. The women he had loved hitherto had been full-blown types, ready to yield. This was a strange little creature, showing fight. If she had had no other attracticn for him he must have loved her for being so game. He would have seized her now in his arms and crushed her with an overwhelming tenderness if there had not been about her that spiritual aura which awed him into conventionality. "And if you didn't marry," he asked, trying hard to keep to a conversational tone, "what should you do?" She lifted her eyes briefly, letting them drop again. "I don't know," she said, just audibly. "Should you have money enough to live on?" "I don't know." "And if you hadn't, where should you go?" " I don't know," she repeated. " I haven't thought out any of those things yet." He dropped on one knee, so as to be on a level with her — the arm of the sofa between them. "You haven't thought them out," he whispered, his face close to hers, "because you've known it wouldn't be necessary. Isn't that it?" The hand lying lightly on the arm of the sofa continued its tremulous tapping. "Everything is so strange to me," she began, brokenly, " and I'm 227 so lonely without dear mama— that I haven't been able — He bent and kissed her wrist. She surprised him by burstmg into tears. He drew her to him even as he knelt. "Oh, I wish you wouldn't be so kind," she sobbed as she allowed him to press her head down on his shoulder I wish— I wish— you wouldn't be so kind. If I married you— I— I shouldn't think it nght." CHAPTER V (^NE afternoon a few days later Charlie Grace ^-'went down to Vandiver Place for the first time since the July morning, nearly ten years earlier, when he had turned his back on it for good. He never thought of it now without the vision of his father, wearing slippers and a long black alpaca house-coat, plodding from room to room, nominally collecting his books, but really tearing his heart- strings from the places and objects round which they had clung for the best part of a lifetime. His impression on turning the corner was that of seeing old familiar things distorted in a dream. The change in sky-line struck him first. Some of the houses had apparently sprouted, and shot up like weeds in an untended garden. Others crouched low, as if shrinking out of sight. The brown-stone fronts, with their high steps and Renaissance por- ticos, had an apologetic air, as timid obstacles to the march of progress. The row of gray-stone dwellings with the colonnaded front looked like some battered, grim survival of an ancient time. Amiens Cathedral, its spires dwarfed by an adjoining busi- ness block with pointed windows considerately de- signed to harmonize with the church, seemed to wear on its facade the wrinkled frown of a sad old man. Miss Smedley's house, which he understood she still occupied, neat, furbished, with curtains at 229 THE WAY HOME the windows, alone flew the flag of defiance of Time. Picking his way past an establishment for ready- made clothing, its windows attractively filled with genteel, headless men — past a wholesale emporium for millinery, where dark-eyed, oily-skinned girls of Slavic origin were slipping in and out — between packing-cases — and across the tail-ends of drays backed up to the edge of the pavement — Charlie Grace came to the door of St. David's. It was open, and he went in. In the fading light of the winter afternoon the stained-glass windows gleamed with the ghostly radiance of old jewels. Near the chancel one or two jets of gas were burning. From his recollection of former customs he guessed there was going to be a service at five o'clock. Presently a gray head rose from the bottom of a pew, where it had apparently been intent on some task of mending or adjustment. Charlie Grace went forward. "Hello, Remnant!" he said, softly. A little old man in a beadle's gown turned round slowly to salute the stranger in the aisle. "Good afternoon, sir. If you want to see Mr. Legrand, sir, he won't be here till five o'clock." "I do want to see M; Legrand, Remnant; but I want to see you first." A slow light came into the little eyes in which the twinkle had long ago been extinguished. A slow smile, too, dawned behind the dejected gray mus- tache. "Why, if it ain't — " There was still some hesitation. "Why, if it ain't — you — sonny! — I mean — Mr. Charlie! — Mr. Grace, I mean!" There was a mutual wringing of hands. "Well, 230 THE WAY HOME well, well, well!" expressed the joyous astonish- ment in Remnant's greeting. "Well, well! I'm as gjad to see you, Mr. Charlie, as if somebody had give me a five-dollar bill. My, but you've grown — and looks handsome I — which I never thought you would! You was a pretty little boy, all right, and then you come up weedy. Ah, but I wish your pa could see you now — and your poor ma! Do you mind your poor ma, Mr. Charlie? She was a lady — too good for this world. Ah, them was times! Nothin' like it now. You'd drop tears, Mr. Charlie, to see what we've come to. They put their foot in it the day they invited your pa to skip. It's been down, down ever since. First one family to move away and then another! Now you may say as there's no one but me and Miss Smedley left— and she don't hardly count, poor old thing, with one foot in the grave. Religion is a poor investment —that's what I say. When I think of the money that's been sunk in this clurch!— and for what? For a crowd of low-down people — most of 'em furriners — that you wouldn't want to look at when you passed 'em in the street. There's no packin' o' missionary boxes now, sonny. It's t'other way round. Missionary boxes has to be packed for us. Think o' that! What 'u'd your poor pa have said to it.?— swell up-town churches sending us their cast- offs! We ain't a church any more. We're a emi- grant station. It's all sewing-classes, and cooking- classes, and classes for teaching English to Poles and Russians and Dagos and every other kind of riff- raff. Help 'em to be American citizens, Parson Legrand says. I'd American-citizen 'em if it was me. I'd jail 'em as fast as they come to the church 331 THE WAY HOME door. They don't come for nothin' but what they can get — and he don't see it, Parson Legrand don't. He's as simple as a babe unborn. They'll take him in every time, and then he'll let himself be took in again. It's all holler, Mr. Charlie, all holler. When I think of Mr. and Mrs. Hornblower sitting in the second pew from the front — behind your poor ma, that was — and Dr. and Mrs. Furnival behind them, and Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton behind them again, and Miss Smedley two pews from the front on the other side — and us looked up to all over New York — like a cathedral, you might say — and your pa preaching so loud you might ha' heard him over to Broadway — that was something like religion. There's no religion nowadays. The bottom's out of it. But it's good to see you again, Mr. Charlie. It's as auxilarating to me as if you was an angel come back from a better world." Charlie Grace was too full of the subject that had brought him to give Remnant the sympathy he deserved. "You're to be the angel from a better world. Remnant," he said, jovially. "I want you to marry me." Remnant took the information with a disappoint- ing lack of enthusiasm. "Do you now? Well, I christened you, and confirmed you, so it's nothing but right that I should have this job, too. And please God, I'll bury you, if both of us lives so long. And who might you be thinking of marrying, Mr. Charlie? There's a very nice young lady here in the rectory. You wouldn't ha' thought Parson Legrand could ha' had such a nice young lady; but she takes after her ma." Remnant's tone suggested that if the young man's 232 THE WAY HOME choice was not irrevocably made it might be worth while coiuidering Miss Legrand. "I'm afraid it's too late for that," Charlie Grace laughed. "My young lady is Miss Hilda Penrhyn, daughter of Mr. Anthony Penrhyn—" Remnant nodded approval. "He's dead. They never come to this church, but they're good people. Glad you done so well. When might it be you was thinking of, Mr. Charlie.' You'll want the bells rung, I suppose, and everything proper.'" There was further discussion of the ceremony, after which Charlie Grace went on to the rectory. On crossing the bit of greensward, now overlaid with snow, he felt curiously juvenile again. Child- hood came back to him not so much with impressions of pleasure as with those of weakness, of anxiety. His mother became vivid to his memory as she had not been for nearly twenty years; but he saw her timid, apprehensive, pained. The weight of bur- dens he had long ago thrown off descended upon him in retrospect, bringing a wave of resentment not only against the spot, but against the interests that centered round it. Whether they stood for truth or error was a matter of indifference; he hated them just the same. Though in its exterior the rectory was grimier than It used to be, he noticed at once that it displayed a more modern taste within. In the hall, where, in his time, the conspicuous objects had been an old leather-covered sofa and one or two chairs not good enough to be put anywhere else, there was a spindle-legged table holding a decorative plate as card-receiver and a grandfather's clock. In the drawing-room, which he remembered as adorned bv 16 »33 THE WAY HOME a Brussels carpet strewn with roses and ferns of gigantic size, there was now a hardwood floor sparsely covered with inexpensive Oriental rugs. Spindle-legged furniture obtained here also, while art fabrics screened the Gothic windows. He was far from expert as to interior decoration, but he gathered that, with the aid of the literature on that subject which was beginning to be abundant, some one in the house was rather pathetically trying to keep abreast of the domestic fashions of the day. Having been invited by a neat but elementary Irish girl to "put his name in the dish till she saw if there was any one at hoame," he was now waidng for the results of this mission to be made known to him. A rapid step on the stair was followed by the ap- pearance in the room of a tall girl, with reddish hair, a bright complexion, and a sweet, cheery smile. He knew her at once by the quick, lithe movements her mother had had before her. There was some- thing of animal grace in them, and yet the grace of no animal he could think of, unless it were of collies bounding on the grass. She held out her hand cordially. "I'm so sorry mother isn't at home," she said, easily, without shyness. "Won't you sit down? Father will be in after service. Service is at five." CharUe Grace felt slightly embarrassed. He was not used to young girls. The women who had at- tracted him had been more or less mature, and generally older than himself. He sat down awk- wardly on one of the spindle-legged chairs as he said: "I wuiited to see Mr. Legrand on rather im- portant business." "If you could wait till about half past five — " 234 THE WAY HOME "Oh yes, I can do that." He noticed that she was wearing a hat and gloves. He observed, too, that she was rather richly dressed, in dark-blue velvet trimmed with fur. Possibly the costume was a little worn and of a style not that of the current year. A floating recollection came back to him that when she was a child she was clad from the wardrobes of wealthier relatives. The reflection passed through his mind that it was a pity so noble a girl couldn't have what was befitting her. He saw she was a noble girl as he looked at her a second time and a tlnrd. Her coloring was lovelier than her mother's had been in that it was richer and less evanescent. Her features were stronger, too, -jfluggestive of her father's ascetic countenance, and hinting at reserves of will. The mouth had the strength and richness of the other features — ^with full red lips, like the petals of a rose. From the cells of memory he drew the recollection that Hattie Bright had once said of this girl's eyes that you couldn't tell whether they were blue or black, re- cording the fact that this was so. If he had had to affirm that they were one or the other he would have said they were of the deepest shade of purple pansies, with the softness of the velvet she had on. He reverted to the circumstance that she was wearing a hat and gloves. "I mustn't keep you in if you are going out." "I was only going into the church — to play the organ for service. I've plenty of time; and it wouldn't matter if I was late, as the hymn doesn't come till near the end. I can always slip in by the side door. I suppose you remember that?" He was able to make conversation by telling of 235 ' (J THE WAY HOME the uses to which he had been accustomed to put the side door, with its free access to Remnant. They talked of Remnant, and of his inability to adapt himself to changed times and manners. "Of course it isn't the same sort of parish at all now," she explained. "If it had been father wouldn't have come back to it. We left Trenton because at St. Philip's there was none of this kind of work. Not that he doesn't think there must be churches to minister more particularly to the rich; only he feels that his call is to the poor." She said this so earnestly that he was moved to ask: "And is yours, too.'" Her blue-black eyes flung him a glance that was both frank and good-humored. "Yes; by proxy. So long as it's father's call it's mine." "That is, you don't take to it naturally," he ventured. "Not by first nature; only by second. But sec- ond can be pretty good." "You mean that, being obUged to do it, you do it as well as you can." "Oh, you get interested. You really do. There are so many sorts — and so many needs — and they're so like children — especially when they first come here. You can't imagine anything more helpless than they are — both men and women — for the first year or so after they arrive. They're wonderfully weak and touching. You simply have to mother them — you simply have to." "And do you mother them?" "Oh, I grandmother them. You've no idea how they look up to me. I can often make them do things when father can't — and poor mother has 236 THE WAY HOME never been able to bear the smells in their kitchens. I don't wohder at that. I couldn't, either, if I wasn't used to it." "What kind of things do you do for them?" She laughed. "It would be easier to ask me what kind of things I don't do for them. I could make the list briefer. Why, I do — anything. It's never twice the same. Except for the classes in different things no two days are alike." He was growing interested. "Well, to-day, for example?" "To-day? Let me think. This morning I was in at Blum & Rosenbaum's — that's the artificial- flower place you passed just before you came to St. David's Building— the big block next the church. I was there to see a young Polish girl who's been giving her mother trouble — " "About a young man, I presume." She flung him another of her good-humored glances, this time with a dash of surprise in it. "Yes, about a young man. How well you know! You ought to be doing this work yourself. I wanted her to promise me not to go to a certain dance-hall — ^where she meets the young man, of course — ^without her mother's consent." "And did you succeed ?" "Not yet; but I shall. Halka is fonder of me than of any young man she knows — yet." "And then— after you left Halka?" "Then I went to see a woman with a consumptive son — a boy of seventeen. We want her to let us take him to a little home up in the Catskills where he'd probably get better. He's only in the first stages of it yet, and the doctor says there'd be a 237 !* ' THE WAY HOME very good chance for him if she'd let him go. But the poor thing adores him— and wants to keep him, naturally enough— and they have only one room besides the kitchen— and four other children— so you can see for yourself — " He could see for himself, and told her so. "And you're the organist, besides?" "Only on week-days. We have a man on Sun- days," she added, proudly; "but I help to train the choir. Just now I musj: help to get the tea," she went on, springing up and pulling off her gloves, "if you won't mind sitting still while I do it. We keep the tea-things right here, as it makes less trouble for Julia." "There was a Julia in my day." "Yes; Julia Corkery. That Julia died about four years ago. We used to hope she'd marry Remnant, but the question of religion interfered. And Remnant never seems to have wanted to marry. In his way he's complete in himself." With a question or two he led her back to the classes. She answered him while she spread a fancy tea-cloth on a spindle-bgged table, and took cups and saucers from their hiding-place in a comer cabinet. "Oh, we don't attempt much— just what we can do. We throw our strength into cooking and sewing and teaching English. We succeed best in the last two, because you don't need a 'plant,' as manu- facturers say. For cooking you require at least a kitchen — and we've only a couple of gas-stoves at one end of the schoolroom. Some day we hope to have a parish-house, and then we shall do all sorts of things. I want to surt a laundry claa — but, rou »38 THE WAY HOME see, we need a 'plant' for that. Don't you think a laundry class would be perfectly splendid?" Further discussion was cut short by the return of Mrs. Legrand. The girl left her task of arranging the tea-things to run to her mother in the hall. "Mother, who do you think is here? Mr. Grace- old Dr. Grace's son." There was a hurried throwing off of outer wraps, and a still more hurried entry, as a plump lady bustled in, with both hands outstretched. "Charlie, this is perfectly delightful, don't you know it is? I thought you'd forgotten all— ail- about us. We've so often talked of you, and won- dered whether we should ever see you again. But you're such a great man now— and such a rich one —and we're so out of everything we expected to be m— and so lost in this frightful slum— that no one ever— But do sit down. Esther, why doesn't Juha bring the tea? Do sit down, do I I can't half tell you how delighted I am, don't you know I can't? —and Mr. Legrand will be quite as glad as I am. Let me see! How many years is it since we've met?" He made a rapid computation while Mrs. Legrand, throwing back her veil and taking off her gloves, settUd herself at the tea-table. "Just fourteen," he replied. She examined him, while Julia brought in the tea- pot, and Esther busied herself with bread-and- butter and cakes. "And how you've changed!" "You haven't, Mrs. Legrand," he was gallant enough to declare. Her smile reminded him of the pretty giggle of former years. "Oh yes, I have. I'm stouter. Yes; I'm really stouter — " »39 THE WAY HOME "That's hardly the word; a wee bit more ma- tronly, perhaps — " "And this great girl of nearly eighteen — " "Nearly nineteen, mother." "Is it nineteen, dearest? Why, yes, it is. You see," she went on, addressing the young man, "I can't realize that she's almost grown up, because she's never come out. That's what marks the difference between childhood and womanhood to my mind. A girl who's never come out is to my mind still in the schoolroom, don't you know she is? But what can one do' in a slum of this kind? I keep asking my husband to tell me that. I keep asking him to tell me what's to become of Esther- how she's to have a life — how she's to have a life — Lemon or cream, Charlie? Cream? And sugar? No sugar. Tell me if that's strong enough. I keep asking my husband — " "Oh, mother dear, Mr. Grace doesn't care any- thing about that." "Mr. Grace cares a great deal about that," said Mr. Grace himself. "He knew you when you were in your cradle. Don't you want to come out — and have a good time?" "The two things don't necessarily go together," she replied, promptly. "Of course I should like it — if everything was different from what it is." She had taken her tea without sitting down, and now tnade an excuse for running away. "I've a lot of little things to do in the church," she explained to her mother, who protested. "I must see to the altar-Unen for Sunday — " "Another thing you do?" Charlie Grace asked, with a smile. 340 THE WAY HOME "Nominally Miss Smedley does it — you remember old Miss Smedley, don't you? But as a matter of fact the poor old thing doesn't get out very often, so I look after it for her. It gives her something to scold me about — and she likes that, the poor old dear." "Such spirits," the mother sighed, as soon as the girl had gone, "and such energy. It simply breaks my heart to see it so misapplied, so thrown away. But what can I do.? I do everything I can — I assure you I do. If it wasn't for me we should be buried alive. You know what relations can be — how un- feeling. We're both connected with all the best families in New York; but Esther is kept out of her rightful place by Mr. Legrand's madness to live in this frightful slum. You've no idea how the neighborhood has changed. I didn't know neigh- borhoods could change so. If I had the slightest no- tion of it I should never have agreed to leaving Trenton. Trenton was bad enough — so far from all the people one knows. I died of homesickness dur- ing all the years we lived there. I thought that if we could only get back to New York!— but this isn't New York. It's Poland, or Russia, or Italy, or whatever country you like— but it isn't New York. And my friends can't come here, don't you know they can't.? I might as well be in the heart of a forest, as far as they're concerned. And Esther's young life ruined. Ruined is not too strong a term. She never sees any one — or goes anywhere — or has any amusement — " " Do you mean that she never goes to the theater or the opera, or anything like that?" "Anything like that! Why, she's never been to *4i THE WAY HOME the opera in her life, and not more than two or three times to the theater. And that was in Trenton." He looked shocked. It was the sort of deprivation that appealed to his pity. "But that's perfectly awful. Couldn't she come with me.' Couldn't you both come?" The brightening of the lady's face encouraged him to continue. "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll have a little dinner first — just the three of us — at the Blitz or the Monico — and we'll go on to the opera afterward. We'll do it the very first evening you're free." "Oh, we're free any evening. Esther has her classes, of course; but we could arrange for that. It's really too kind of you, Charlie. If you weren't such a very old friend I shouldn't think of letting you — But the poor child has been longing so to go to the opera — ^just once in her life — if no more^- And so many of our relatives have boxes — only they never ask us — living in this slum — " The poor lady's lips quivered so pitifully that he interrupted her by asking for a newspaper, so that he might consult the program for the week. While she rose to find one he could note more carefully the changes which can come over a pretty woman in the course of fourteen years. His memory went back even to 1874, when she was the object of his adoration and a bride. Hi> could easily conjure up the vision of her spun-sugar chignon, her rose-leaf complexion, her rustle of blue flounces, and her Grecian bend, for the matron of forty-eight con- served as much of the archness of the bride of twenty-three as was consistent with a fretful spirit, a triple chin, and the development of embonpoint. By the time they had studied the paper and fixed 243 THE WAY HOME on "Faust" for a night in the following week as the most suitable opportunity for Esther's introduction to opera the minute had come for him to proceed to the vestry for his interview with Mr. Legrand. He felt that before going he ought to mention the nature of his errand to his hostess; but something held him back. Perhaps it was Remnant's suggestion of the nice young lady in the rectory; perhaps it was a subtle sense that the announcement might bring a discordant note into what had been a pleasant meeting; perhaps he was a little fatuous in thinking that Mrs. Legrand's imagination might be leaping ahead to future impossibilities; in any case, Mr. Legrand would be in a position to inform the family as soon as he, Charlie Grace, had gone. His reception in the vestry was not less cordial, on another plane, than it had been in the house. Time had rendered the present rector of St. David's more spare and more ascetic, but had left him just as straight and tell. Into the face— not so much wrinkled as deeply scored — life had brought some- thing which Charlie Grace did not remember as having been there before. It might have been a new gentleness or a new severity — he was not sure which. Undoubtedly the eyes were more searching — ^with the concentrated spiritual light generated by the scrutiny of souls. Wearing his cassock, and stand- ing erect beside a high-backed Gothic chair, he was, so the younger man thought, the embodiment of tho claims and exactions of the Church. Once more Charlie Grace had a curious sense of juvenility. In that vestry, which was the one un- changed spot he had seen in Vandiver Place, he went back twenty years. His figure seemed to shrivel H3 THE WAY HOME into knickerbockers, while he could again feel his soul struggling with the majestic problems which the round of Advent, Christmas, and Easter pre- sented, unable to view them otherwise than through the luridness of his youthful sins. Even before he had shaken hands with Rufus Legrand he was con- scious of a pang of pity for his childhood, for its gravity, its awesomeness, its spiritual wistfulness. He had never been wholly light-hearted, with the light-heartedness he had known as a man. Life had been solemn; death had seemed near; the very fre- quency of funerals had given his early years the accompaniment of a lugubrious pomp. The aisles and galleries, as he had passed through the nave just now, still re-echoed with chants and refrains only partially of this world. And he was wholly of this world! That was the point at which his re- sentment began. He was earthly, materialistic, per- suaded only of what his eye could see. He had attained to this freedom with difficulty, as a self- taught man acquires education. It was through conflicts, growths, and eliminations, through efforts, not always easy, to cast away the husks after con- viction that there was no fruit therein. What he re- sented was the fact that this struggle had been forced on him — not by his father, nor by any individual, but by the system into touch with which he had once more come. Had he been born free he would not have suffered from the scars he was conscious of carrying — he would not have had to recognize the harsh discrepancies between life as it had begun for him and life as he was living it. He would have liked his career to have been smooth, consistent, all of one piece, whereas it was disfigured by violences a44 JH E W A Y HOME and disruption,, which, however justifiable from hi. pomt of view, caused h.m an inner discomfort. or^senr-n K^'^t"' '^r'"'' ^""^ '''^»y* incoherently present m his heart, focused themselves during the acute feelmg of host.hty to most of the ideals the tall ecclesiastic represented and St. David's sheltered beneath it, roof. The feeling broke into words as luesday after Easter at three o'clock would be convenient for the church authorities. The impulse ^L7 tu^"^"" ^"^^ '^^^ "°^ ^="' not unlike that which, years ago-in this very room, to this to vn.~ h- *'"'"8.°" tl^'? very chair-had led him Z S 'r °''J*=""l"* to being confirmed. He tried fn rhik V ft-* °f «ns<^'entious frankness, though in the back of his mind he knew he was only seeking expressions for his aggressive repugnance to spiritual I Zhr'y^ ''''^"^u ''T f V"'^ "" •"*>' "^> that I feel 1 ought to say that I don't consider this religious ceremony necessary at aU. As far as I'm concerned a civil marriage would be just as effective and would you tha" " ™^ "'"'"*'"''• ^ *"*"' "'" """'y f"'' "> teU The tail figure in the Gothic chair bowed slightly, X J '^ ^J^'I""1" ^^ * ''™'^- Thinking it ove; afterward Chariie Grace could not say whether it was an illuminated smile, or a tolerant smile, or a sardonic smile-but he was sure there was m^re in It than just a smile. "But I presume Miss Penrhyn would consider the religious service essential?" Chariie Grace admitted that this was so 24s THE WAY HOME "Then, that's all I need to know. In cases of this kind, if one of the contracting parties desires the blessing of the Church, he or she has a right to have it." Legrand's tone as he paused seemed to imply that there was no more to be said. As on the occasion when they had talked of confirmation, the younger man felt dissatisfied with this way of letting the subject drop. He would have liked more made of it. He was not polemically inclined, but there were questions on which he enjoyed airing his opinions, especially with people who held contrary convictions. Here in this vestry, above all places, he was impelled to strike a blow at conceptions he believed inimical to progress. He tried to provoke discussion tact- fully by saying: "I thought it only right to tell you that, sir — though I suppose it doesn't make much difference." "None at all — except to yourself." Charlie Grace thought he saw an opening. "It hasn't made any difference to me whatever. Or, rather," he corrected, "it's made this difference, that since I've given up — all this" — his gesture seemed to cover the whole site of St. David's — "I've felt freer — more of a man." His tone was subtly inquiring, as though asking the quesdon "How do you account for that?" Legrand declined, however, to take the challenge up, uttering only the word, "Indeed!" very politely. Charlie Grace was impelled to struggle on. "I know you won't agree with me, sir — but you've always been a sort of father confessor to me — so I hope you won't mind my speaking out. As a matter of fact — nnce giving up the Church — or Christianity 246 THE WAY HOME —however you choose to put it— I've felt more reverent — in that I've abandoned a lot of assumptions and presumptions which, it seems to mr •v one had any right to make, in the first place." There was a pause. With his elbow i <>n che aim^ of his chair Legrand fitted the ti, • ot hta mi^-L'rs together, the glimmering smile s: I' rir: his lips. "That must fortify you in your positi.ii," lie sj • at last. Giving up as useless the attempt ro ^'law Kis old friend out, Charlie Grace turned the coiivers.iti< n on the kindly personal th-^mes in which Ih' a is more at home, and presently took his leave. On his way back to the hotel he rehearsed the incidents of the afternoon in such a way as to give a coherent ac- count of them to Hilda. In this connection he dwelt specially on the pleas- ure she would have in hearing about Esther Legrand. "I've never in my life seen a human being who tugged more piteously at one's heart-strings," were the words he used of her, as he sat beside Miss Penrhyn on the big mahogany sofa in the Merediths' drawing-room that evening. He had dined with the Meredith family for the second or third time since Hilda had become their guest. For the moment the hostess and her daughters had obligingly dis- persed in order to give the lovers a half-hour to themselves. Having uttered the words in sincere enthusiasm, he was surprised to see what he could only describe as a lick of flame shoot out of Hilda's eyes. It reminded him of nothing so much as a blaze at the window of some seemingly tranquil house, showing it is on fire within. He had an instant's fear of having 247 THE WAY HOME made some mistake, bjit became reassured when she said, quietly: "How interesting! Tell me about her." He went on to do as invited. "She's just the t}pe you'd admire. She's a beautiful girl — really beautiful — in a style one doesn't often see. I mean, one doesn't often see so much beauty with so much character — or so much character in any one so young. You see what I mean? It's the combina- tion — the whole thing. She's a creature of extraor- dinary energy— you can see that from the things she does — and yet she's touching — appealing. What do you think? She's never been to the opera in her life — and only two or three times to a theater." In making this announcement he was so overcome by the yound lady's lack of privileges as nc» to notice that the flame in Miss Penrhyn's regard was now playing on him in rapid, lambent flashes like summer lightning. She smiled, however, her slow, dreamy, distant smile, as she said; "How dreadful! I wonder you don't take her." "That's just what I'm going to do — next week — to 'Faust.'" Miss Penrhyn changed her position, sitting more erect, opening with a quick, rustling flutter, like the whirr of a rising partridge, her large black fan. She fanned herself slowly while he went on: "Don't you think that good old 'Faust' would make the best beginning for her? Melba's to sing, and Jean de Reszke, and Plan9on, and little Bauer- meister. Don't you think that that's starting in well for any one who's never seen an opera before?" She fanned herself slowly. He noticed now that he had never seen her eyes so brilliant. They shot 248 THE WAY HOME out rays like those that come from fire- opals or from amber. "Did you say anything to her about — me{ He came down from the sky of his enthusiasm to a sohd, frozen earth. He remembered with un- easmess his hesitation of the afternoon. He couldn't see at once the bearings of his omission to inform Mrs. Legrand of his engagement, but he knew vaguely that the circumstance might create mental or emotional complications. He was uncomfortable, lamel" "^ *°'** ^^^ ^''^^"'" ^^ ^^P'^'ined, " That was after, wasn't it? If I understand you rightly, you saw these ladies first. Not that it matters," she added, indiiTerently. "I only won- dered. "You set," he went on, nervously, "I knew that —with your mourning— and one thing and another— you couldn't come to dinner at the Blitz—" r j',',?^' ^^^^^'^ ^° ^^ ^ dinner, tool How delight- "Yes— a little dinner at the Blitz. At the Blitz " he repeated, apologetically. He began to wonder whether he had been guilty of some blundering social solecism. " Just a little dinner— she and her mother and I. It won't be— it won't be— Well it won t be what you'd call gay. It will be very simple —just before we go on to the opera. You under- stand, don t you.? It will be just a beginning for the evening— so as not to be too abrupt. You see she s never been to a big restaurant like that— never. It will be something new for her — " ''And for you," she said, sweetly. "Won't it?" 'It won't be hi"- ■ 17 i good fun as staying here with 249 THE WAY HOME you, Hilda, darling; but, you see, I've known the Legrandi all my life — " "I thought you said you hadn't seen this girl since she was a baby. That's hardly knowing her all your hfe, is it?" He began to feel as he had felt once or twice when lost in a fog or a snow-storm on the prairie, with a thickened atmosphere about him and neither sun nor moon to show him the points of the compass. He asked himself if it was possible that Hilda would have likpd to be included in the company. "You wouldn't come, would you?" he said, earnestly. "No; I thought not," he went on, as she shook her -head. "That's why I didn't speak of it from the first." "You're very considerate. You ahxrays are. Angelica," she called to the eldest Miss Meredith, who happened to pass the drawing-room door. " Do come here. Mr. Grace has been tdling me of such a wonderful girl he's been mectiag. She's a Miss Legrand, daughter of the present rector of St. David's." Miss Meredith came discreetly to tlte threshold, holding in her hand the book she had finished bind- ing. She was the artistic one of the talented Mere- dith sisters. She did book-binding and painted por- traits. Miss EUnor did fancy needlework and gave imitations of popular actors and actresses. Miss Edith played the violin and worked in a philan- thropic settlement. Miss Meredith was short and round, with a shortness and a roundness dissimulated just now under draperies suggestive of a Grecian peplum. They were white embroidered with gold, and fell over her plump little bosom like tapestries Zjo 1 mm^m^^if^^^^i^: THE WAY HOME ZZ ^t^ r ''"''T" ""' *'=*'^ ^''^ ^^' done in a tight httle Grecian knot in a style unbecoming to Httii 2/°""'' ^'"' ^'^^ "' ''"'* ^"""d mouth and iittle, wide-open eyes that were Hke two brand-new silver corns. She spoke rapidly, with the revolving art culaoon of a person who has something too hot •n the mouth. "Do you know her, Mr. Grace? Oh, c-lan't you get her to s.t to me? I've wanted her to sit to me ever since the evening I saw her at the Bleecker Street Settlement House. It was a concert for the girls. Edith played. This Miss Legrand was there You ought to hear Edith. She raves about her. Shes lovely, isn't she, Mr. Grace .?-Miss Legrand c^iTr'"'V';H'- N°- I don't see how you could help It It's the most c-lurious hair. If it was a httle redder it would be red. But it isn't red. It .sn t any c-lo lor I can give a name to. And then ;„ k ^l'' ^^^ '^ "^^ '^^^^ ^'°'" ^y^^ yo" read about m books and never see. And did you notice the whiteness of her skin.?-where it is white. No? why. you didn t notice anything. It's the whiteness of the white rose-not the porcelain whiteness that generally goes with reddish hair. Not that her hair ^s red. It isn t. And it isn't golden-and it isn't auburn-and it isn't chestnut, hke yours, Hilda. It s as ,f nature couldn't decide what to make it, and so made a little of all three. Isn't it a pity she has such a silly mother? It works against her. The Van Iderstmes and the Peter Legrands would do something for her if the mother didn't get on heir nerves But I c-lount on you to get her to sit tk^^f- ^"'^^ ^' '" ^"^ -^ ^^^ 'h-lance of a 2SI THE WAY HOME "So you see Miss Meredith agrees with me," Charlie Grace said, triumphantly, as that lady passed down the hall. But Hilda, from whose eyes the lambent fire had suddenly gone out, had become dreamy, silent, and let the subject drop. CHAPTER VI JHOUGH Miss Penrhyn did not speak again of the5 '"k^T"."''' ^''"'•^ Grace Hved thZzh the days that had to pass before the dinner aTthe Bhtz and the visit to the opera in a state of Ln^ resembhng that of guilt. 1^^ was not wMyTat of gu.lt .t was because he succeeded in convLcW himself of h.s freedom from social indTcrerion That was what he had charged hims. ■ "wkh £"' It orhTm' 'h ^'''"' '' ^-^^ fell^L^J t ;" mm^m-: THE WAY HOME on a private liberty which had hitherto acknowledged no restraint at all. That he should from time to time make concessions to her wishes he had taken for granted. He might accept her advice in delicate matters and submit to hei guidance in questions of right and wrong. He could also conceive of him- self as being good-naturedly led by her caprice when the woman in her called for indulgence. She should never have to fear unkindness on his part, or any- thing but the more loving forms of coercion of the will. To take every care from her heart, every burden from her shoulders, every task from her hands, and show her sumptuous and splendid and idle before the worid as the outward and visible embodiment of his success, was a large part of his ideal in marriage. It was incredible that any one toward whom his good intentions were so sincere should go out of her way to find unnecessary dis- cords. He was far from making this last assertion with regard to Hilda, but he couldn't conceal from him- self the fact that her mind was at work on the minutiae of his life. To her concern for the great principles by which he lived he had no objection. He had more than once invited her to discussion of those themes, chiefly with the desire to convert her. Even without converting her he acknowledged that the whole sphere of interest was debatable ground. But it was quite another mattci to have her enter with an inquiring mind— an inquiring mind endowed with judgments of its own — into his intimate, sacred realm of little nothings. That might become alarm- mg. He could hardly imagine an existence in which his wife would care to know how he filled in the »S4 THE WA Y H M E hours not spent .n her «K.ety. It was not so much ™, W t ^^7 ^" '^^ "«•>» '° '"'°>- -=> that he would consider the wish to know unwarrantable It would be .ntru«ve, mdclicate. Ufc w,s full of things too tnv.al to make a secret of. and yttrZ personal to share. It was also full ^f things Z .rnportant to be trivial, and yet too immatenalt exc, e opinions either pro or contra. It was under the last heading that he would have classed his mvl ation to the ladies Legrand. It was .nconceivabk to him why she should object to it; it was sclrcel^ conceivable to h.m why she should have a thought about It at all. He would have said offhand "ha t was as farouts.de the domain of her preoccupations as her discussions with the Misses Meredith as to thTdtaSL'^'^^^ '°^ "" -^"'^'"^ --^ -^ for^^h^fl "'''*" r"'! ^^ ^''^ '° ^'l™* that, except for the flames of opal and amber in her eyes-fires that were doubtless beyond her control-and a cer! ta.n brevity m response to his enthusiasm, he had no complaint to make of her as to either 'word or Son t ' Tu' u °c [""' '^' '"^^'^ °f her disappro- bation by which he felt himself interpenetrated w^ too subtle to be conveyed by word or deed, or any of the gros^r forms of communication. It came It reached h.m by avenues both extr^-mental and TenirrnrT- I' "^'^^^ ^''°"«'' ^^ had been sud- denly endued with spintual anteni,* of a delicacy seVeTher H ''" ^^'^^''''' "^ '^^ ««'' -^ s'p- sede them. He was hke one who trod on air but on an air more vitally charged with mean"^ 'th " a doud can be charged^with electnc^ty-mlLtgs TU E WAY HOME he took in by the mere contact of his being— in a manner both wonderful and disturbing. He could not walk by Hilda's side, nor sit with her at the toble, nor hear her discourse on pictures or music or Lenten services with i! ^lisses Meredith, with- out feeling his whole sr,. .xposed to the processes ot her thought on the s. ject of his dinner to Esther Legrand They swept about him and over him and through him, m hjs sleep and in his waking, in his downsitting and his uprising, wave on wave of— ^^\ "^5? M,-T" ^^^ '"^«'y censure-it was too subtly distilled to be disquietude— wave on wave of divme reproach that at such a minute— on the eve of marriage— he could have had the CMiscious- ness of any woman but herself. He reached this perception at last with delicious throbs of flattery, of security. If Hilda did him the honor to be a little jealous— the word, as applied to her, was coarse, but he could find no other— the obvious inference was that she loved him more than she had been willing to admit. The situation was Mie of which he had previous experience. He knew how to deal with it. Attentions, subservience, flowers, jewels— jewels in particular— were powerful aids in making the crooked straight. If from cer- ttin angles he saw Hilda as a goddess, he regarded her from others as a woman of flesh and blood It was from the latter point of view that he approached her now— and with some success. She liked the jewels, she loved the flowers, she rejoiced in the at- tentions and subservieace. He offered them all with a sincere humility, with a timid awkwardness, that touched her. When the evening for the dinner at the Blitz came round he felt that if he did not pre- 256 TJLLJ^AJ HOME this and be so g or ouslv care-fr»« n ! luxury moved her lessThanthr^!!" ""'^ ^"'^ .H. race, .^"«^" SS.f^r^"-™ °' en«i ,he value „f |,„ „i» p„„y c„„pk,i„X, 2S7 THE WAY HOME tempering her buxomness. Esther swam into the orbit of the diners in pale green veiled by diaphanous, lacy things that, as she moved, threw an aura round her, like a circle about the moon. At each of the small, rose-lighted tables there was a cessation of activities when she passed, eyes lifted, lips parted with a quick "Who's that?" when speech began to flow again. On taking their places at the table he noticed the details to which Miss Meredith had drawn his attention — the white-rose texture of the neck, the bosom, the ariils, the dusky bronze-gold of the hair. He might have called the latter reddish, if left to his unaided perceptions; but since Miss Meredith had given him points concerning it, he could do justice to her superior knowledge. His chief regret was that Hilda could not have been with them, to be convinced of the reasonableness of his admiration. They talked little, and only Charlie Grace himself could be said to eat. For the two women it was meat enough to gaze about them, with eyes that missed no detail of significance, from the table ap- pointments to the toilets of the ladies within their range of view. In regard to the latter Mrs. Legrand was troubled, perhaps, by the thought that their own costumes, however tarefully "freshened up," could scarcely be in the latest mode, while she specu- lated as to the possibility of any one in that gay assembly being able to recognize them as worn by belles of the Van Iderstine family two years before. It was toward the end of the dinner that Esther whispered: "Why, mother, there's Mr. Hornblower — ^with a lady and gentleman. Over there — a little behind Mr. Grace." 258 Ji^ElVA Y HOME 1 ve seen her before," she observed, "thoueh I S!/f u"""^ Hornblower, of whom the host wfs glad to obtain the latest news. Fanny was abro^" had been abroad ever since her mother's death the fn Fifth T"- ^\^i ^"""^ '" f°^ ''«h 'he houie in Fifth Avenue and the Long Island estate. She ill c'u """"fd-P^bably because she was so S ng, at ItX r\"'"2' "'^'' -"""^^ ^- ""''" i^=r^^:ve^higt±fi^ Charhe know you couldn't.^ As fa"^ as she saw he Iht l\r-7.""/ ^"""8 fellow-thoagh he UkTd a S ,fr ^u^ '^'■^"J'- ^^^y ''=«<» *«" something of him after h.s mother's death, when he and Fannv tolh^e": "pLt;"^^°^ " ^^- ^-^'••^ - ' --Ha^ fatht"anri'liV" r^^u •T"''' ■"= ^ P"ish house- conlL • u"^' ,E«''" broke in, earnestly. "We gave'^i: tSt" '=•' ^" •"'"'''•='"°"- "Suppose I ;'0h, Mr. Grace-" "Now, now, dearest! Mr. Grace is only in fun " I n, not so sure of that. Let's think ab^u " t"" *59 MiCROcorr >isoiutun test chart (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) M2S 13.6 1^ llll^ I 1.8 L25 mil 1.4 1^ i^ 1^ J /APPLIED IM/IGE Inc ^ 1653 East Main Straat •.S Rochesler, New York 5 4609 USA = (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone B (716) 288- 5969 - Fo« THE WAY HOME Aher reflection he added: "I couldn't do it now; but if, when I come back to New York, no one else has done it — " He left his sentence uncompleted, and they talked of other things. He kept saying to himself, how- ever: "Why not?" It might be the very thing he was in search of — a means of avenging his father's memory. A benevolent institution, a "William Grace Memorial," right on the spot whence he had been driven out would be coals of fire not merely on the head but in the ej'es. Unfortunately, those who had been active in bringing about his father's humiliation were dying off; but some of them were still left, and there was still left, above all, the great system that had accepted his father's services and used him up, only to cast him aside to die of what amounted to a broken heart. A William Grace Memorial might really answer many purposes. It would preserve his father's name in the very center of New York; it would do a little good; and its foundation might be for Charlie Grace himself an outlet to irritations and resentments which got no expression in his present attitude of aloofness. He didn't want to be ungenerous; he wanted only to assert himself; he wanted, as an act of sheer filial piety, to re-establish his father's fame as one who had done good work according to the lights of his day and generation. If there were people left alive who would be vexed by his so doing — then all the better. He could think of at least ten or a dozen of the former worshipers at St. David's whom he knew to be still in the flesh, and of whom he hoped devoutly that they would continue to live on. It was a secondary thought that if he were to go in for a6o THE WAY HOME philanthropic action of this sort it would give Hilda pleasure, and bring again the swimming look of iov into Esther Legrand's violet eyes that he had seen just now. The subject was not one on which he could dwell there and then. He was obliged to put it aside for further meditation as he paid his bill-as unob- trusively as possible, out of regard for his guests- and follow Mrs. and Miss Legrand from the restau- rant to be in time for "Faust." He took the op- portunity as he passed to glance in the direction of the table at which he understood Reggie Horn- blower to be sitting. One of its occupants was a stranger but he recognized Reggie by his slim, well- ta ored back. He recognized the lady, too, though full comprehension didn't come all at once She was a beautiful woman, with negligently arranged fair hair of the flaxen shade that boldly disdains the limited hues of nature, and the full but not excessive development commonly called statuesque A corsage of wme-colored velvet, cut in a simple' sweeping curve displayed the splendor of a bust on which Charlie Grace caught subconsciously the Hash of diamonds. Her eyes rested on him for a minute questioningly, as his on her. He had almost passed before she inclined her head, slowly, doubt- fully, as though not sure of his identity-possibly as though not sure of a response. He had bowed in return, doubtfu ly, like her. and had gone by before HatSrif ^^'^'"^^ ""^ "-'"' "'^ "--' It was another subject to reserve for future con- fulfilhng the usk of squire of dames, to which he was 361 1 THE WAY HOME not entirely accustomed, and in conveying his charges to their stalls. It was one of those evenings that made the nineties memorable in the history of New York. The time had not yet come when singers pieced out their talents by being singing-actors and singing- actresses. Audiences, too, enthralled by melody, were inexacting as to deficiences of c:her kinds. Using their imaginations, they beheld in a stout, middle-age Faust making love to a matronly Mar- guerite the embodiment of youthful seductiveness as easily as an Elizabethan public saw the Forest of Arden by means of the name painted on a sign- post. From the point of view of later and more sophisticated days many things may have been lack- ing to the performance of Gounod's venerable opera under the direction of Maurice Grau, but it is cer- tain that Esther saw them not. From the moment when, out of the darkness of the laboratory, Jean de Reszke's velvety voice brought the wistful despair of an old, old man — Rien! En vain finUrroge, en mon arieitte veille La Nature et le Createur — she sat as one under a spell. Having carefully studied her libretto during the day, she was trans- ported to the medieval German town as effectively as in dreams she was sometimes wafted to ball- rooms where she danced with engaging young men. Following with intensest sympathy the ancient philosopher's longings, she thrilled with the proper alarm as Planfon's giant red figure and sinister black plume suddenly sprang into the limelight. "Me voicil D'oh vient ta surprise?" Later, when a a6a THE WAY HOME lady, whose maturity of bust contradicted the youthfulness of her long fair Saxon plaits, emerged trom the wmgs, clasping a prayer-book to her breast with an air impossibly demure, Miss Leerand was lost to the world in the age-old tragedy of love, betrayal, and punishment. This absorption enabled Mrs. Legrand, who was seated on Charlie Grace's right, to whisper an occa- siotial confidence in the young man's ear without ex- posing herself to Esther's indiscreet attention. Mrs Legrand, too, was in a state of ecstasy, but a purely social ecstasy. The musical and dramatic features ot the evening were negligible elements in her con- tent. It was all one to her whether the opera were Faust or Gotterdammerung." She dismissed the celebrities on the sta^- once her curiosity was satisfied with a glimpse . them. Jean de Reszke was stouter than she had expected, and Melba not as good-looking as her pictures. Planfon she ad- mired for his height and the easy grace with which he moved. All the rest of her pleasure was in the simple fact of being there. She was in her rightful place-among the rich, the fashionable, the well- bon he was where she, a Van Iderstine, had ex- pect, to be when she married a Legrand. It could not have been predicted even of a Legrand who was a clergyman that he would contemn the privileges of which Providence had made I.im heir. He had been a handsome clergyman, and she had fallen in love with him. She had married not a clergyman but a man. If she could have chosen she would have preferred a man in almost any other of the upper walks m life. But aUowing for all this, it was beyond every possible calculation that Mr. Legtahd 363 THE WAY HOME would have put her by his own extraordinary wil- fulness in the obscure position she was now compelled to take. ,■ < u Happily, this was an occasion on which such sor- rows could momentarily be set aside. She was there. She could see and be seen. At least, she hoped she could be seen. The Peter Legrands were in their box, and the Kermit Van Iderstines in theirs. It was a burning grief that, though she was a relative of the latter family, and Rufus of the former one, neither she nor Esther had ever been asked to oc- cupy a superfluous seat in either shrine— in spite of the assiduity of her calls. It would be a genuine con- solation if, looking down from their insolent perches, her kinsfolk could see her now, with the most lovely giri in the whole house— a giri whom people were craning their necks to look at from the other end of the row of stalls— and a h'indsome young man as their cavalier. Who knew but that Esther would one day have a box of her own?— and that she, Mrs. Legrand herself, might not be emulating Mrs. Kermit Van Iderstine's languid indifference to the seat of honor in the front row, through sheer surfeit of the privilege? It was this last thought that spurred her to take advantage of the lull in the action caused by Plan^on's bows in response to the applause following on his rendering of the "Veau d'Or," to whisper to her companion: "You must come and dine with us some evening." Then, as Chariie Grace interrupted the enthusiastic clapping of his hands to nod, rather than utter, his assent, she added: "It won't be like this evening, of course. This has been such a treat— you^ can't think. But you know the old rectory— don't you 264 THE WAY HOME know you do? — and you'll have to take us as we are." The point being settled, she took the opportunity when there was nothing more lively goirg on than Melba's singing of "// Hait un roi de Thulf," to whisper further: "I'm afraid we can't ask you for a week or two, because of its being Lent. Mr. Le- grand is so particular. He wouldn't have agreed to our coming to-night only that it's such a chance for Esther." ^^ Not to lose the pathetic cadences of the phrase, "Ses yeux se remplissaient de larmes" sung in that haunting virginal voice, he nodded again, though he began to feel some discomfort. It was not till Planyon offered his arm to Mademoiselle Bauer- meister, the Dame Marthe of the piece, that Mrs. Legrand continued, always in a whisper: "The Tuesday after Easter would suit us— if you have no other engagement." His eyes followed the action on the stage while he leaned sidewise down toward her and said, "That wouldn't do, because it's the day of the wedding." "What wedding?" she gasped, in astonished ques- tionmg. He allowed Planfon to stride across the full width of the stage, with little Bauermeister clinging to his arm and pattering beside him, before he found voice to say, "Hasn't Mr. Legrand told you?" Heads were turned in the row in front, and there was a movement of disapproval in the stalls around them, so that the exchange of confidences came tem- porarily to an end. Once more his spiritual antenna found themselves in play, and while he was glad of the respite for himself, he was conscious during the 18 265 THE WAY HOME whole of the scene in which Marguerite dons her jewels, and makes ready for her downfall, of the agonized curiosity of the poor little woman by his side. Happily, hke Esther, he was still young and ardent enough to have little place in his mind for anything but what was passing on the stage. He was thinking of Hilda and his own romance all through the rapturous, languorous duet in which the two most moving voices of the age melted together in an al- most unbearable love-sweetness. His consciousness oJ Mrs. Legrand s distress was like the dull aching of a nerve in the midst of entrancing preoccupations. He could mentally postpone feeling it till he couldn't do anything else. That minute came with the falling of the curtain on the second act. Like the rattle of tiny artillery the applause swept the house from the stalls to the topmost gallery. There was no indiscretion in speaking for Esther sat rapt, her eyes on the cur- tain, as though she had seen a vision that at any minute might reappear. "Are you going to be married?" There was an imperious ring in the question. It made him feel that if he were Mrs. Legrand herself would be wronged. "I thought Mr. Legrand would tell you," he said, nervously. ' "He never tells me anything; don't you know he doesn t? Then peremptorily, -fter a pause: "Who is It to." As best he could in such a secret, whispered con- ference he gave the facts. There was no rime to do more, for when the singers had ceased to pass and repass before the curtain Esther turned to say 266 " THE W A Y HOME with glowing face, across their host: "Oh, mother isn't It wonderful? Isn't it enchantingr ' ^J^P """^f T!'' "'d of the young man's private affairs until the last curtain had gone down and thev Zu- ""S?"* °" '•'''.'. "^"P" '« 80 home. He was holding Mrs. x^egrand's cloak for her convenience in slipping ,t on when she said in a low voice, over her shoulder: "Don't tell h.r. Leave me to do that '' He nodded as though he understood, but as a matter of fact he didn't understand at all. He was bewildered, unhappy. He felt guilty again, with the unaccountable sense of guilt that had beset hiin for the last four days, and which he had only just succeeded in getting rid of. "Well, who wouldn't?" was Sophy's unsympathetic self-all round"''' """' '"'' ' ""' ''''^'^^' °^ ^°- _ Sophy and her husband had come from Ottawa, to do the theaters," and incidentally take in the wedd.„g. As the Honorable Mrs. Francis Colet! Sophy was distinctly the Englishwoman now, speat l.tr 'w"!' \"'^/^"ri„g her hair, all in the char- acter. With the high coiffure affected by the lady h?r°l^lT'' ""■T'" \^^'°"'' Q"^^" Alexandra, wn ut u^' '^"*' ."" ''•8 ^y^^ ='"d big mouth would have been top-heavy had not marrifge given if a fine K ' ^T'^^l expansion. Being the mother of a fine boy, who if enough people died, would some day be an earl, she had gained in dignity, too; so that when she delivered her opinion to Charlie Urace she spoke as one with authority Ihey were seated in that long corridor of the 267 THE WAY HOME I:: I Waldorf Hotel to which, in the nineties, people from the West and the South and New England came to wear their fine clothes and look at each other and fancy they were seeing New York. Charlie Grace himself was not yet so sophisticated as to be free from this delusion, though Sophy, with English hauteur looked on with detachment, as ladies with Nebraskan or Californian faces and Parisian frocks gathered m groups or strolled up and down, enjoy- ing the daring publicity. "I can't see that," Charlie Grace protested. "I haven t done anything — " "You've done enough to make Hilda break her engagement— if she treated you as you deserve I should like to see Frank Colet taking girls and their mothers to dinner at the Blitz— and the opera after- ward—without me." "That's another thing. Frank Colet is mar- ried — "And you're more than married. You're en- gaged. Don't you see that?" ..J?* "^^T^ "P '^'^ "'°"t''' after a fashion he had. subtil" "" ' *^^ ^^^^ ^ ^°' ^^'"'^^P^ "'* to° "It's only too subtle because you're a goose Ihere are ways in which an engaged man has to be more careful than a married one. If you were married you might— at a pinch— only at a pinch, mind you— do this very same thing— and it wouldn't be misunderstood. I don't advise you to do it; but if you did, you could only get into trouble on one side. Now you're in trouble on both sides, and you richly deserve it." He was silent a minute, lost in reflection. "You 268 THE WAY HOME talk as \(m7''\gt were a sort of signing one's soul away— he be.an, slowly. jff^° " "w*°^* ""an— almost. For a woman it's different. Marriage is an extension of a woman's privileges; but for a man it's a curtailment of his. It has to be that way." "But suppose the man says it hasn't.'" "Oh, it doesn't matter what you /ay. It just— is It would work that way even if you signed a paper beforehand that it shouldn't. It's nature; and if I were you, Charlie—" " Ves ? If you were me ?" "Well, I was only going to say— some one ought to say It, and it might as well be me— I was only going to say that if I were you I should give up that way of talking to every woman you meet as if you were in love with her. It doesn't do you any good, and Its misleading to her. The world is full of women who just want the slightest excuse to think that men are in love with them, and you're the type that makes them such geese." "-ni" ^i°" '''"'^'^ '^" '""^ ^''^^ ^*y y°" mean.?" Ihere! I mean that. I mean looking at me with pitiful eyes, as if I'd hurt you— and leaning toward me as if you expected me to stroke your hair— and speaking plaintively and timidly, like a naughty boy who s up o mischief. If I weren't your aunt, or your mece, or whatever it is-I .ever can remem- ber whether you re my uncle, or I'm your aunt-but, now that I come to think of it, you're my uncle- well It you weren't my uncle, you'd almost make me teel at times as if you were in love with me. fortunately, I m not a goose, and so I should see tnrou^h you, even if we weren't related at all. But 269 THE WAY HOME 11: all women are not like me— and Hilda isn't. She's sensitive. She'll be all the more sensitive because she s older than you are — " He moved impatiently. "That's got nothing to do with It, ' he said, shortly. "The question of aee doesn t affect either of us." "It doesn't affect her perhaps so much as you. When a man chooses— chooses, mind you— to marry a woman older than himself, he's got to be doubly ten- der with her to make her feel sure he doesn't regret "■ .J L .'. f y ^^'^ """■' ''''^•>' »" '■«8''et it than he would be if she was younger— only she'll think he is. if I were older than Frank I shouldn't let him out of my sight for an hour. I hardly do, as it is—" ^ You begin to make me sorry for Frank." "Well, I don't begin to make Frank sorry for himself; and if at the end of two years of marriage you can say the same, Charlie— But here's Frank, with the tickets. Let's see if they're for 'Zaza' or Lord and Lady Algy.' " Acting on hints in the foregoing conversation, Charlie Grace was specially considerate of Hilda dunng the two weeks that still had to intervene before the day of the wedding. That is to say, he forbore to go back to the rectory in Vandiver Place, or to mention again the name of Esther Legrand. In his heart of hearts he thought such reserves a mistake. It gave importance to a thing of no moment, and conveyed the impression of its being a topic too fragile to be aired. He yielded against his better judgment only because Sophy's kittenlike face had grown so wise and her words so imperative He would have been glad if Hilda had begun on the subject, but beyond the hope that he had had a 270 THE WAY HOME pleasant evening at the opera she had said nothing. He regretted this the more because of seeing, by the processes of supersensuous perception he had so suddenly developed, that she had not dismissed the matter from her mind. Through Holy Week he saw relativelylittle of her on account of her diligence in attending services. On the morning of Easter day he accompanied her " 0"e of the larger churches in the neighborhood of Fifth Avenue. She had not asked him to do this, but he knew his coming would please her. And yet, by a natural chain of .sociations, the service car- ried his mind to persf -nt thinking of Esther Le- grand. As, in his musical bass, he joined in the familiar hymns, "The strife is oer, the battle done" and "Jesus Christ is risen to-Jay " his thoughts traveled back to the time when he d piped them in his boyish treble in the choir of ot. David's. It was inevitable that present conditions at St. David's should then present themselves and that he should begin thinking with distress of his caddishness in not having gone again to see the Legrands. It was a? if he had accepted Mrs. Legrand's implication that his presence might be a danger to Esther. He knew It was nothing of the kind. He knew that Mrs Legrand herself didn't think so. And yet if he had gone, there would have been a renewal of complica- tions with Hilda. To a man unaccustomed to subtle- ties the situation was perplexing. For Hilda's sake he must seem to drop the Legrands and submit to their considering him a boor. He must certainly do that till after he was married, when, according to Sophy's dicta, there would be less necessity for being careful. But the day of his marriage would also 271 THE WAY HOME be the day of his leaving New York, so that atone- ment was cut off in that direction also. He could only resolve that if ever he returned he would do what he could to make amends. The service produced no impression on him at all, unless it was to confirm him in his wisdom in never attending church. It was restless, noisy, preten- tious, over-elaborate. A remarkably well-dressed assembly of gentlemen and ladies seemed to have deputed their devotions entirely to some forty men and boys, who, as he knew from his own past ex- perience, had for the most part neither knowledge of what they were doing nor heart in it, except in so far as they were paid. He took them as being on precisely the same footing as the chorus at the opera, and not so entertaining. The lessons were read in the untrained, unintelligible manner which in churches is apparently held good enough for the Word of God, though the sermon he called excel- lent unreservedly. "If they'd only clear out the choir,"- he said to Hilda, as amid the 'master throng they walked down Fifth Avenue in the direction of the cross-street where the Merediths lived, "and have something simple and sincere like the sermon, I might go again." She raised her eyes to his, timidly, mistily. "Char- lie, by this time next week we shall be married." "Yes, darling, thank God." "You say that so fervently that you make me believe you. And yet I wonder — " "You wonder," he broke in, with a laugh, "if I mightn't do better to marry some one else." "Some one younger. I do think it a risk, Charlie — both on your part and mine." 272 THE WAY HOME He slipped his arm through hers, drawing her toward him. 'All marriage is a risk, darling. But when a man adores his wife as I adore you, don't you think the risk is minimized?" _ She looked up at him and smiled through tears. I must believe that," she said, with conviction. 1 Must* Two days later Charlie Grace stood Tn the old schoolroom of St. David's listening to Remnant. I kind o thought you'd ha' had the choir and a swell weddm , Mr. Charlie. It don't seem right for you to be married in a hole and corner way like this. 1 don t believe your pa would ha' liked it, nor your poor ma. Your pa especially was a great one for having things done stylish. There was nothing he hked better than one of them great rich weddings! with people climbing over the backs of the pews to look at the bride, and the quartette singing up in the old gallery to beat the band, and all New York, as you might say, assembled in old St. David's He'd swell up then, and look as grand as if he was being married himself. They don't have 'em nowadays Marriage am t what it used to be. If it had been ™8ht ha been tempted to it myself. But as soon as I d begun to think of it I could see it was going down. It- 11 be out altogether one of these days- with all this divorcin'. I guess there's about two divorces nowadays to every marriage, and pretty soon ,t 11 be all divorces. Well, that's one thing we dont have at St. David's, anyhow. Parson dfvn?"!!' ^A^i ^'P'"' ''• "^'» ■""'•y- but he'll not divorce-and that s pretty near the only point where I agree with him." Chariie Grace cast his eyes round the old room, 273 THE WAY HOME i with its worn cocoanut matting and dingy walls. "How would you like to have a brand-new parish house, Remnant, with everything spruce and con- venient for your cooking-classes and sewing-bees and all the rest of it?" Remnant threw up his hands with a despairing gesture. "That's one thing, Mr. Chariie, as I pray the Lord '11 spare us. God knows we've got rifF- rafF enough now; but it 'u'd be all riffraff if we had one o' them things. I'vie seen 'em. I've been in 'em. They'll draw a low crowd quicker than a fat man '11 tempt mosquitoes. It '11 be boys' clubs, and girls' clubs, and teas for old women, and this one learning that thing, and that one learning another thing, till we'll be drove right off our nut. And it '11 all come on me, Mr. Charlie. I'll have to spend the rest of my life deanin' up after them as I'd like to clean off the face of the earth once for all. Not but what I'd have the rime, for I don't hardly take no pains with the church nowadays. What 'u'd be the good — ^with the low crowd that comes here? It was different in the old days, when Mrs. Horn- blower 'u'd be as partic'lar about her pew as if she meant to strip and go to bed in it. Ah, she was a lady for you! Nothin' like her nowadays! They don't make 'em, Mr. Chariie. Not but what you may have got one of the same breed yourself. I'm sure I hope you have, if there's any of that kind left alive, which I don't hardly think there is. Well, I'll just slip down to the door to see if the bride is coming. I'll let you know, Mr. Chariie; you needn't fret. You just stay here quiet till I give you the word. Then you'll go out and stand at the foot of the chancel steps rill Miss Emma's husband brings 274 THE WAY HOME her up to you. You've got the ring in your waist- coat pocket, haven't you? That's all right then. You should ha' had a best man to attend to that, Mr. Charlie. But don't fret. I'll see you through. And I'll have your hat and gloves and overcoat down at the main door, so that you won't have to worrv about nothin' after you've give the bride your arm. And you're sure you don't want the bells rung? It 'u'd be a pleasure to do it for you, Mr. Charlie; and it 'u'd seem more proper like. Ah, well! Just as you say. People don't get married nowadays like what they used to." Five minutes later Chariie Grace stood at the chancel steps, where Rufus Legrand, in surplice and stole, with prayer-book open, had already taken his place. The young man felt oddly apathetic. Con- sciously or subconsciously he had had this moment in view for nearly twelve years, but now that it had come it found him without emotion. Before Hilda appeared on Osborne's arm in the doorway at the end of the aisle there were still a few minutes, dur- ing which his eye roved idly over the little gathering of friends. In the front pew, on the right, Emma, Sophy, and Frank sat together. In the correspond- ing seat on the other side were Mr. and Miss Purvis, with two or three men with whom he was on easy terms in the New York office of the Trans-Canadian. Behind them, in the pew she had been wont to oc- cupy in former years, was Mrs. Furnival, richly dressed as usual, but showing at last, and all of a sudden, the ravages of time. Beside her was Freddy, stout, spectacled, and serious, already mak- ing a reputation for himself among the physicians of New York, Directly behind Emma and her 27S THE WAY HOME family came the ladies Meredith, the mother and three daughters, while behind them again, in the place that had been hers for fifty years and her mother's before her— old, purblind, looking as if her clothes were dangerously near slipping from her lerson— was Miss Smedley, accompanied by a tramed nurse. Far back in the church, an unbidden spectator of the ceremony, he could see Esther Legrand. Mrs. Legrand wasn't there. He was not nervous. He was, in fact, more self- possessed than he felt he had a right to be. After makmg an effort to capture the sentiment he deemed httmg to the moment, he could do no more than re- call the day when he had found Remnant, on the very spot where he himself was now standing, dust- mg the trestles on which was presently to repose the body of old Mrs. Badger. Even when the doors opened at the end of the nave, and Osborne and Hilda began to come slowly up the aisle, he could thmk of nothing but the fact that Osborne was better looking since he had grown a beard, which concealed his bulldog chin, and that Hilda's traveling- dress of terra-cotta brown, with cuffs and a sort of waistcoat of dark green, was entirely to his taste. He could scarcely see her features, partly because she walked with head slightly bowed, and partly because her face was shaded by a large, black- plumed hat. Nevertheless, he was aware of a sudden thrill wJjfn Rufus Legrand's voice began solemnly: . "'Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here, m the sight of God, and in the face of this company, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimonj','" 276 THE WAY HOME There was something primal in this, something that came down to the facts without blinking them. So, too, when the same voice, lowered till it became awesome, addressed itself personally to them: •"I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess To the best of Charlie Grace's belief there was no such im.-;.diment, and yet during the pause in which Rufus Legrand seemed to look expectantly about the church, as if waiting for some one to forbid the cere- mony, he had a foolish sinking of the heart. It was a relief when no interruption came, and the solemn voice went on. It was the more solemn in using the unaccustomed baptismal names, which seemed to isolate the Man and the Woman from the world and all its conventions, like a new Adam and a new tve, at the beginning of a new creation. "Charles Gunnison, wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife . . . ?" "Hilda Mary Antonia, wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband. . . ?" "I, Charles Gunnison, take thee, Hilda Mary Antonia, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . . ." "I, Hilda Mary Antonia, take thee, Charles Gun- nison, t J my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward. . . ." When, after the bestowal of the ring, the Man and the Woman followed the priest to the altar rail, and, kneeling side by side, repeated together the Lord's 277 THE WAY HOME [I Prayer, Charlie Grace found at last the emotion he had been in search of. In the west porch, when all was over, there was a confusion of congratulations, kissing, crying, and •hakmg hands The bndegroom had not been really nervous till then. He made now the traditional mistakes of almost embracing old Mr. Purvis, while saluting Emma with a handshake, creating the tra- ditional amusement. He was obliged, moreover, to submit to Remnant's mihistrations in the matter of overcoat, hat, and gloves. What perturbed him more, perhaps, than anything else was the sight of tstherLegrand standing against the small door that led to the old organ loft— a little aloof— lookine at the party with the timid smile of the child who has not been invited to join it. It was purely acci- dental that she had this appealing pose, this wistful air of exclusion, while her coloring was no more beautiful than it was at any other time; but some- thing in the reunion of qualities smote Charlie Grace to the heart. If it had been possible he would have caught her m his arms as he would have caught a lonely child. As it was he could only approach her circumspectly, shaking hands, thanking her in- coherently for her kind wishes, and bidding her good-by. * They were already in the carriage, and Remnant was closing the door with a "God bless you, Mr Charlie; God bkss the young lady, too," and a pathetic expression in the bleared old eyes, when tsther Legrand appeared impulsively. Her face glowed and her violn eyes grew liquid as Charlie Orace had seen th ,.n once or twice before. She stretched out her hand to Hild'^. 278 THE W A Y HOME "Oh I know you'll be happy, Mrs. Grace. You've married the kindest man in the world." As they turned to drive up Vandiver Place Charlie Orace lifted his wife's veil and kissed her. For a long time neither of them spoke. It was Hilda who broke the silence first, sai'?'^^ w beautiful-that girl-more so than you He answered, simply: "Yes, she is. And I think she s a good girl, too." "I'm sure of it." There was another long silence as they sat hand in hand, driving up the long straight line of Madison Avenue toward the station. They had almost reached shoulder ^^' "^^"^ ''«=''"" •>" "Charlie, dear, I'm so happy that I'm afraid. Are you quite, quite sure that you shouldn't have marned — some one younger?" CHAPTER VII i ^NCE she was seated in her stateroom in the ^-^ train, Hilda recovered her spirits. She did more; she became vivacious. American methods of travel being relatively new to her, she took much mterest in the details of her personal surroundings and the departure from New York. Almost for the first time since he had known her Charlie Grace found her light-hearted. There was nothing excited in her iranner, nor febrile. She was simply at ease in her new situation — more so than he. That fact was borne in on him as the train rattled northward through the wistful spring twilight, and he looked out at a windy sunset, all of dull orange barred with black. He was married I He was proud; he was happy; and yet he was— married. He began to understand that something had hap- pened to him. He had started out with the radiant young lady opposite to travel, first to Montreal, then to Winnipeg, then to the Pacific coast— and then always. He wondered whether he had ever done jusuce to this last aspect of the married state. Was it possible that he had viewed matrimony hitherto chiefly as an episode? Life as he had known it had been all episodes— brief, intense periods, each one of which had come to an end, to be followed by something equally intense, but equally fleering. He was prepared to admit that in these various 280 THE WAY HOME situations, whether of love or labor, the fleeting element had been the best. The knowledge that he would soon be up and off again gave zest to each moment of seeming repose. And now it was possible — barely possible — that he might never be up and off any more. He was proud; he was happy; he made not the slightest question of that; but he was surprised. He was surprised at the subtle change in Hilda's manner; he was surprised at her matter-of-course acceptance of the conditions which the ceremony of the afternoon had imposed on them. It was almost as if she found marriage — natural; as if she took the prospect of a lifelong intimate companion- ship without dismay. True, she had no wild freedoms, no cherished secrecies, no happy-go-lucky vagabond- ages to give up. She had always been answerable to another person, and would doubtless find a lifi, without restrictions as formidable as a canary bird a life without a cage. He began to perceive — or to think he perceived^that her happiness lay not in the fact that she had got out of the cage, but that some one else had got in. There was a minute, a swiftly passing minute, of alarm lest marriage should prove not a co-operation but a captivity. It was a swiftly passing minute because she made It so. If she took possession of him it was with a gentle, winning grace that made service the highest kind of privilege. When he pulled her dressing-bag from the rack overhead, as he had to do a good many times during the first three hours of married life, now for a book, now for a cushion, now for a bottle of cologne, the smile with which she rewarded him was more than compensation for the nuisance U 281 THE WA Y HOME In TnTi ^ *'* 1 '° '^.''^""« »•'' confounded thing up and down. It was the son of service to which he was willing to vow himself in bondage. HtyZ eag^r to fetch and carr^ and be her%Iav"in7l ma ena thmgs .f only i„ the inner life, in certain personal elements non-essential to married happi" And yet, oddly enough, from the minute when tor treedom left him There was nothing for which he wanted liberty. On the contrary, such liberty as to atrenH T-' ^''- ^' •'="' «"^i" """rings to attend, certain men to see on business, a certain time to spend each day in the offices of the Tram" Canadian. When these duties were ended he was but too anxious to return to his wife. It wasso a! own and Osborne's, took him to Seattle, San Fran- Zr: ""^'l J- K ^"«^'l?- . "" ''»'> "«^" dreamed that there could be so delightful, so intelligent a travel- irLT^K^JI"- "*' ''""^'^'^«'' "f E^^Pe^-n Coun- tries enabled her to appraise the beauties of American scenery better than he could himself. All Torte of places that he had looked at hitherto with unseeing eyes became vivid, significant, in the light of Te? power of comparison. Her power of comparison rnadeit possible for her not only to appreciate but ^o^^ aI?"^' to get relative values. A prairie- town in Alberta, a logging-camp in Washington, an orange orchard in California, became to her not much in ?^ °''J'"' f '"'"^"' represenring so much investment or such and such earning capac-tv as they had always been to him, but assets toward the 282 THE WAY HOME welfare of the race. Va«' tracts unsettled, unrilled, or uncleared were a perp ;ual joy to her. "All this for the poor old overcrowded human race still to come and occupy!" she would exclaim. There was nothing so simple that she couldn't enjoy it or so rough and crude that she couldn't take it with a smile. She had all the advantages that belong so conspicuously to an older civilization when it comes into sympathetic contact with a new one. She maintained, for example, an ext. aordinary interest throughout the journey over the desert from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City. While other passen- gers were groaning with the heat, divesting themselves of articles of clothing with a marvelous sans-gene, she sat cool, alert, fascinated by the ever-changing spectacle. Through windows hermetically sealed a fine sand sifted in, covering everything with a coat- ing of dust and filling the eyes and lungs. Outside, queer, spiny things twisted themselves painfully out of the arid, thirsty soil. Cacti, grotesquely human, stood like sentinels, like scarecrows, like ghosts, or like things long ago crucified and still hanging on their time-battered crosses. On entering Utah the country became red, blistered, sore, like a land suffer- ing from some strange earth-plague. It had none of the awesome fascination of the California desert; it lay twisted, writhing, agonized. She talked of Brigham Young, of the heroism of the early followers of the prophet Smith, who dragged themselve- over this joyless tract to force it into fertility. As fer- tility began she watched for the scrubby farms, and the tall, sad Lombardy poplars reminding her dis- antly of France. At the stations she studied the men and women, especially the women, who passed »83 m ; TH E WAY HOMF looic the rest. She speculated as to how far thev ashamJ^r . *'"''• '=""«^'y- Then, sliehtlv to re.e.ber that C^e^r. n^tTkr^; '^f to ea?'o^t„^?'"«^ ' r^''- She had ceased with rh. fi ■ T^"' '"•* °^ ''"^ ^^'f^'e "he sat erect 284 THE WA Y HO M E -scat- "Well, a man's are likely to be— a little tered. She weighed his words before she spoke "If T thought you really believed that," she laughed, "I could find It in my heart to-to kill you. And the worst of It IS, I think you do believe it " ^ He was absurdly embarrassed, but he too laughed. Oh, you needn t b- personal. I wasn't thinking ot myself, but of men in general." ar?f„r"" '^ "'u" *'"' '?''^' "'''"8 "P her knife general " '**'"' '"'" * ^"^ '""^'' =* •"=»" '" w;!'?!" T' " ""V" '*'°"?="' '" 8ene"l." he had the wit to reply, so that we're likely tc ^^et along." Does that mean that L will be my part to— to make the concessions.? Because if it does Do you remember my saying once that I could be dangerous.' . He was uncomfortable. "I remember your talk- ing nonsense By the way, suppose we go out to the Salt Lake to-morrow. In all the times I've been here I ve never seen it." She accepted the diversion, and on the following atternoon they made the excursion. earned by the train to the end of a pier Jutting out a half-mile from the shore, they found them- elves m a pavilion which seemed to them a dream- like distortion of the Pavilion de la Jetee at Nice. Brass-bands were playing; crowds were promenad- l"cl " 'D^r""^' =* ''*=^"'*= "''^ay- a Choy Chamber, a Skee Ball, a Gee Whiz Whirl, a Crystal M.«, a kiddies corner, a dancing-hall, and a photographer's 385 THE W A Y HOME i: selves in bathing-costumes along the tiny quavs Charhe Grace would have beaten a retreat to the lint^T ' '"u™ *'■="■"' ''« H'"''<> this in the hope that if Hilda saw there was nothing sinister in his lite she would be more at ease with regard to him another time. That, in spite of all her efforts, she was not wholly at ease with regard to him now he could see by all sorts of trifle^glances, intonations, sentences begun and either suppre^se<' ( r diveitcd— by which she betrayed herself. He began to fear that m a man like him for a nature like hers there would always be something to question. For this he was willing to take the responsibility on himself as tar as he was able. If he reproached her at all, it was only when he cauf' t glimpses on her part of involuntary, invincible distrust in momentt when he was doing his utmost. In spite of the assiduity of his marital attentions there came a day when Charlie Grace found him- self unexpectedly free. With certain telegrams he had received from Osborne that morning his business was completed. He had conducted it so skilfully that Osborne and he would divide some seventy or eighty thousand dollars of profits between them It was a day on which to be cheerful. His impulse was to go straight to his wife and tell her the pleasing 298 THE WAY HOME newi. They could lunch together ai- except on the two Sundays— they had not been able to do •ince their arrival, and he could uke her to dnve. ■*J'//'"*w''*"^' ''owever, that she was to drive with Mrs. Meredith, and that afterward the three Miss Merediths were coming to tea. He disliked the ladies Meredith, and he also disliked the tea scene in a tiny hotel sitting-room. It was too much like tea in a cabin on board ship. It seemed obviously permissible, therefore, to go and lunch at the Blitz, treating himself handsomely and indulging in pleasant thoughts. He liked eat- ing in restaurants, whether alone or in company. He hked this exercise especially in New York, where the surroundings added a cheerful glitter to good food, stirring the imagination, snd sometimes titil- lating the lower senses, wii.i their well-bred promis- cuities. Holding himself superior to none of these torms of appeal, he avoided the comparative gray- ness of the men's cafe, and took his seat in the gay sajcwn he had last entered in the society of Miss Perhaps his thoughts occupied themselves first with Hattie Bright. They often did so. When there was nothing else to do, it interested him to tollow the possible divagations of a career that had c u D,-**'* ^i.?^''y boarding-house to the luxury of the Blitz. The fact that he had never met h r from the evening when she had confessed that the. was nothing m the house to eat to that when he saw her nchly dressed and wearing diamonds added piquancy to his speculations. He recalled with a smUe his efforts to rai.se five hundred dollars on her 299 THE WAY HOME behalf, and his bitterness over his failure. He had not outlived that bitterness yet. Enough of his early training still lingered with him to recall the vifords: "If any man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?" He recalled them now, with one of his periodical outbursts of scorn for the people of old St. David's, who could meet Sunday by Sunday to smg their praises, and yet leave one of their own number to starve, and her daughter to go to the devil. It was a savage satisfaction to think that if she had gone to the devil, at least she had gone clad m velvets, with jewels on her breast. One of these days, he said to himself, he should look her up. Since he was not sufficiently without sin to cast a stone at her, it would be nothing but the part of loyalty to an old friend to make some sign of life. Hilda wouldn't like it if she knew— but then it wasn't necessary that she should know. There were already some things as to which he had not taken Hilda into his confidence, and among them was the possible memorial to his father in the shape of a St. David's parish-house. He had kept silent about it, not because he had abandoned the mtention, but because he feared she would associate the idea with Esther Legrand. He himself did not, at least he assured himself that he did not. It must be evident to any one that Esther Legrand might marry, or that her father might resign St. David's and go elsewhere, long before the plan for this memorial could take shape. What he was looking for was something that cjuld effectively and appropriately commemorate his father's name; and if Esther Legrand had some remote and en- 300 THE W A Y HO M E tirely n- u-esacntia! connection with it he couldn't help it. Hilda vvoul:. think, however, that he could help It; nvid so he had not been impelled to make her his coniidaiue Since she was not his confidante, he reasoned, the present afternoon, when she was pleasantly occupied with her friends, might be as good an opportunity as any for him to look over the ground. He said to look over the ground, because he meant it. He wanted to see by actual measurement, in a general way, what space there was in the plot on which St. David's and its rectory stood for an additional building. His meeting with Esther Legrand was, therefore, incidental, even accidental, to this legiti- mate design. Remnant not being on the spot, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Legrand at home, he strolled about at his ease. For what he had in mind he saw that the only site was on that part of the grass-plot between the chancel and the drawing-room end of the rec- tory. This would necessitate the demolition, or inclusion, of the old schoolroom — a small Gothic brown-stone building, consisting of one good-sized room and a loft. It was possible that the accommo- dations It afforded might be utilized in the new construction. He slipped inside to see. He had already heard the sound of children's voices, so that on entering he found the sort of scene he had expected. In the gathering dimness of the JNovember afternoon some fifteen or twenty little girls, swarthy, black-eyed elfins for the most part, were seated round a table on which stood a basket containing the usual accessories for sewing. With little heads bent sagely they worked at what might 301 THE WAY HOME have been handkerchiefs, or dusters, or pinafores 1 wo or three of the older ones were in a group by themselves. From a remote resemblance of the arti- cles takmg shape under their fingers to human legs and arms, they appeared to be modeling some ele- mentary form of garment— probably for the use of children too young to object to what was given them to wear. Throughout the room there was a steady babble of talk. The children were gathered at the farther and lighter end of the room. Charlie Grace, whose en- trance had been unnoticed, slipped into a dim cor- ner and sat down. He felt himself smiling as he watched Esther Legrand flitting from group to group, exammmg, criticizing, correcting, approving, like the patron of an atelier. Now and then she took a hand at a seam or a hem herself to show how it should be done. All sorts of observations greeted her as she passed along. "Teacher, do you like apples?" ,'.T^**^*'^'"» "^^^^ makes your hair so red.?" 117 if,^*=''"» ^^^ your grandmother fight in the Civil Warr I'l^^*^*'^''' your cheeks is just like roses." Teacher, I give my school-teacher a flower, and the next week she slapped me." ''Teacher, I like you for a teacher." "Teacher, my momma says if our house bums down I'll get a new dress." The twilight deepened, and the moment for dis- persion came. Esther seated herself at the shrill ""'*:trap of a piano, which had accompanied Charlie Grace himself when he was a boy, and they sang a hymn. 302 THE WAY HOME Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal across the sky. He couldn't help humming a bass to Esther Le- grand's fine mezzo, which was thf^ richer for the harsh, energetic shrilling of the little girls. The hymn ended, and a few words of counsel spoken as to the necessity of going directly home, the children filed away. "G'by, Miss Legran'!" Ciby, Miss Legran'!" "G'by, teacher." "G'- by, Miss Legra-an'!" They came chattering down the room, to fall silent as they caught sight of him, and stare with big, black, solemn eyes. It was doubtless the pause in their chatter that drew tsther s glance toward him. She came to him at once. "Why, Mr. Grace' How lovely!" She wore a dress of some dark stuff, partially cov- ered by a pinafore, of which the upper section was pinned against the breast. In the free grace of her movements he thought again of collies bounding on the grass. More deliberately than at any of their previous meetings he noted the shapeliness of her head. Its poise, its pride. He contrasted, too, her easy absence of self-consciousness with Hilda's tense repose He compared them as one compares an emerald with a pearl— only to get the beautiful dis- tinctions between them. "I'm so sorry father and mother are out," she went on, without embarrassment. "They'll be soriy, too. Father is out of town; but mother will be home soon, if you could come in. We had no 303 THE WAY HOME idea you were m New York. Is Mrs. Grace with you .? We should so like to see her." He explained that they were in the city for a few days only, on business, but that they were going away at once. "So this is one of the famous sewing- classes," he added, turning the conversation on her- se'f- "Do you do this sort of thing all the time.?" "This sort of thing or some other sort of thing. I get lots of variety." "Like the variety of tunes on the bagpipes. The tunes are different— but it's always the bagpipes." "And the bagpipes are beautiful— to a Scotchman. He doesn't need any other kind of music. All you require is the taste." "Which I understood you to say yea hadn't got." "Oh no, you didn't; at least if you did you followed me very inattentively. I said I mightn't have the taste by nature, but that I'd had plenty of oppor- tunity to acquire it— or something like that. As a matter of fact, our most refined tastes are generally those we've cultivated. Isn't that true.?" His eye roved over the familiar room. "So you haven't yet got your new parish-house." "No; but I think we're going to have a new sewing-machine. You can't imagine what that's going to mean to us— if we get it. If Miss Smedley buys a new one for herself she'll give us the old one. The big girls are wild to learn to work it, and of course they ought to. They get hr tter places with a little experience of that kind. Mother would let us use hers— only of course the girls would he hard on it, so I don't like to ask her. I'm so excited over the sewing-machine that I can't think about a parish-house." 304 THE WAY HOME "As much excited as over 'Faust?'" "W-well, I could hardly say that. Wasn't it lovely! And what do you think? I've been to the opera again." "What, again? Isn't that rather going the pace ?" She nodded, making an affirmative sound that might be transcribed as: "M'h! m'h! Only the other day. My cousin— my very, very distant cousin— Mrs. Peter Legrand asked me. I dined with them, too. She'd seen us the night we went with you. She didn't know me, but she recognized mother. Perhaps that reminded her to ask me But I rather think it must have been Mr.Coninesbv " Mr.— who?" ^ '' He tried to detect some trace of self-consciousness in her manner, but she answered frankly: "He's the young architect who's been doing the repairs on the church. Didn't you know we'd had the church done over this summer? Well, we had. It needed it very badly. So Mr. Coningsby used to come m sometimes to lunch. He's a friend of the Peter Legrands." "And the Rufus Legrands," Charlie Grace said, dryly. "Oh, hardly that; but he's very nice. Won't you really come in and have tea? Mother must be home quite soon now." He excused himself, however, and said good-by As he walked up Vandiver Place he recognized the plump figure picking its way rather heavily among the bales and packing-case, and dodging the groups of swarthy girls pouring out of Blum & Rosenbaum's emponum for artificial flowers. He thought again of the slim, lithe figure of his childhood, with its 30s THE WAY HOME spun-sugar chignon and Grecian bend. He won- dered If the year 1930, or thereabouts, would see Esther lumbering laboriously-disappointed, poor- as Mrs. Con.ngsby. The vi.ion displeased him; though, as he was careful to remind himself, it was no concern of his. Mrs. Legrand's greeting was distant without being absolutely cold. It was easy to see that in her eyes his value had gone down. Beneath the usual questions concerning his stay in New York and his wife s health he could almost read a dis- approving inquiry as to why he should be hanging about Vandiver Place. He thought it well to ex- plain that he had come with a view to discussing with Mr. Legrand the possibility of a parish-house in memory of his, Charlie Grace's, father. Mrs Legrand showed no more enthusiasm than he had expected. Perhaps she showed a little less, bhe looked up and down the street before respond- ing. "I hope it won't mean more work for Esther," she said, a little querulously. "She's doing too much now— with her social duties as well. She's eoine out a great deal at present-with our cousin, Mrs mer Legrand. The opera has got to be quite an old story. She was with them in their box the other night. Ihen, with dining out so much— Well you can see I don't want her to get taken up with mere slum work any more than I can help " Expressing his sympathy with this point of view, Charlie Grace took his leave, and was about to pass on when the lady, apparently struck with a new Idea, detained him. "Of course, if you should do this thing, Charlie— 306 THE WAY HOME such a noble ideal— I wish you'd think of a young archrect friend of ours, a Mr. Coninsgby. As a matter of fact, he's Ralph Coningsby— grandson of the Ralph Coningsby— and you couldn't have much better than that, don't you know you couldn't? We've been seeing a good deal of him lately— well, for one reason or another. Mr. Legrand is very much pleased with the work he's done on the church, so that if a parish-house were to be built — " Promising to take this recommendation earnestly into consideration, Charlie Grace continued on his way toward Broadway. It was the hour when the great thoroughfare was beginning to light up. To a young New-Yorker whose years were so largely spent in exile the spectacle was ever new and wonderful. It was inspiriting, too, and exciting. It brought into being a world more mysterious, more suggestive, than that of daytime— a worid in which at any mmute things might happen, incongruous witn the placid light of the sun. There was no rime at which Chariie Grace more thoroughly enjoyed a stroll through the two or three streets that made up all that was important to him in his native town. Those were the eariy days of the electric aerial advertisement. For Chariie Grace it was still so novel that as he walked northward his eye was caught by one flaming word that seemed to be written like a portent in the sky. It was Ringer It flared above the tallest ipire, and higher than any of the high buildings which at that time were just beginning to astound the pygmy sons of men. It was hke an apt title to a novel or a play. It set the mind to speculating as to what could lie behind the daring lacomc symbol. For a space of thirty seconds he J07 THE WAY HOME could not have said, till suddenly it flashed on him that it meant sewing-machines. As a sign from heaven the beacon had the efl^ect aimed at by its authors. The young man kept his eye on it till he was close beneath the tower from which it shone. As there was still a half-hour before closing-time he paused to look in at the window of a brilliantly lighted, red-carpeted salon, in which sew- ing-machines were disposed in all the attitudes and angles that could tempt one to sew. It was an affair of some ten minutes to enter and order two of the most expensive and most thoroughly equipped to be sent to Miss Esther Legrand, St. David's Rectory, Vandiver Place. The bill could be handed in at once at the hotel, where it would be duly paid. By this expedition the gift could be delivered the first thing in the morning. Pleased with his promptitude in carrying out benevolent inspiration, the young man continued on his way. It was part of his good intention toward Hilda to be scrupulous in the account he meant to give her of his day's doings. The very fact that there were details he would have preferred keeping to himself rendered him the more determined to tell her everything. He hastened to her at once on entering the hotel. Her guests having departed, she was seated alone in the embrasure of the rounded window of her sitting-room looking down on the lights and move- ment of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third Street. Except for one shaded electric lamp, the room was dim. He drew a chair close to hers, taking her hand. He began at once on the happy termination of his errand to New York. Seeing she was not 308 THE WAY HOME giving him H»r close attention, he felt his tone of triumph flag as he went on. He was doing his 1 st to spur himselt along when she broke in suddenly. "Chirlie, .!id you know that that Mr. Ellis — the one Sir William Short wanted to send to New York — was living in Brooklyn.'" The question astonished him so that he could hardly frame the answer, "No." He managed to add, however: "How should I know it.'" "He's ill — and poor. Did you know that?" He shook his head. "I haven't heard of him for oyer a year — not since he got mad and threw up his job at Winnipeg." Her next question startled him still more. "What was it you did to get him out of your way?" He was prompt in replying: "I did — hardly any- thing. Why are you asking?" She looked down at the lights lining Fifth Avenue, to where they were lost in the blur of Madison Square. His wife turns out to be a connection of the Merediths." "Well.?" "Well, they think he's been badly treated. He thinks so, too." He shrugged his shoulders. "That's quite pos- sible. Every ill-tempered, disgruntled Johnny thinks himself badly treated." "He wasn't badly treated by you, Charlie, was he?" He tried to smile. "I hope not. I didn't treat him in any way — badly or otherwise." "And yet you did something to him, because I remember your saying — it was at Nice — that you'd goi him out of the running, that he was done for." 309 THE WAY HOME He reflected a minute. "I may have said that. As a matter of fact, he was done for." "And you had done for him?" "If so — and I don't admit that it's so — I did for him before he did for me. That's all there was to it. I di&n't make him ill— if he is ill. I didn't make him lose his money, either. He had some. I suppose he must have speculated with it and chucked it away. That's the usual thing." She was still looking down at the lights of Fifth Avenue as she said: "Would you mind telling me, Charlie, just what you did do?" He pusiud back his chair and sprang up. "Look here," iie said, not indignantly, but in a tone of animated argument, "what's it leading up to? Has the old lady Meredith been putting ideas into your head about me?" "She never mentioned you, Charlie, except to say that, as you had influence on the Trans-Canadian, perhaps you could get work for him again." "Well, perhaps I can— if he isn't too ill to be fit for it." "She had no idea who had stabbed him in the back. No, don't be annoyed, Charlie! I'm not saying that; it's what she said. And because she did say it— and I knew you'd done something to this Mr. Ellis — it's very natural that I should want to be in a position to defend you." "Defend me? To whom? To old Mrs. Meredith f" She looked up at him with steady eyes. "No; to myself." He took a turn about the room, coming back and standing before her. "To yourself. Does that mean that you're inclined to — to attack me?" 310 THE WAY HOME "That's unkind, Charlie. Surely you must see that you puzzle me— that you bewilder me. I love you; I've married you; and yet you seem to be surrounded by a background of shadows, out of which anything might come. If you wouldn't mind telling me what you did to Mr. Ellis you might dispel them. Anyhow, I should know." "Very well, then; I will." He took another turn about the room, as if to collect his thoughts. "It came to my knowledge," he stated, returning to con- front her again, "that Ellis had once been dismissed from a position of some responsibility in a bank in one of the secondary towns of the state of New York. He wasn't accused of anything— publicly, that is; he was simply suspected and— dismissed. After that the thing was hushed up. I mentioned the fact to Osborne; Osborne mentioned it to Sir William Short, and Sir William Short dropped him. That's the whole story. You can see for yourself that a man who had that flaw in his record wouldn't do for the position he wanted." With his hands thrust into his trousers pockets he wheeled away from her. She sat for i. few minutes deep in her own thoughts, her eyes fixed on the floor. 'And I suppose," she said, meditatively, "that you were looking for a flaw in his record when the knowl- edge came to you." He shrugged his shoulders. "If you'd ever seen much of the men who go to the new countries you'd know that the flaw in the record is the tender point." "So that if you want to get rid of any one it's the spot at which to strike." "That's about the size of it," he said, grimly. 3" THE WAY HOME "It is a little like stabbing, isn't it?" "Not in the back." "Well, from the front, then— but stabbine iust the same." " ■• "It's what he would have done to me if he'd had the chance." "I don't see that that's exactly what we're con- "™D with. It's what you've done to him—" "But good Lord, Hilda, don't you see that a man who d had that kind of scandal behind him— how- ever carefully it had been smothered up— couldn't have represented the Trans-Canadian in New York? "Oh, if your motive was to safeguard the Trans- Canadian — " He flung out his hands impatiently. " My motive was to get ahead of him— to cut him out. Don't let us have any misunderstanding about that. I saw that I had him on the hip, and I took him there. 1 had no scruples about it, because it was the only thmg to do. It's what's been done to me a dozen times— and by fellows who've pretended to be my best friends. They were my best friends, too— only friendship can't interfere with a thing of this kind It's you do me or I do you— and if you do me first, why, then I must be a pretty poor loser if I squeal about It. Ellis did squeal— threw up his job— the job in which they'd have left him unmolested if he'd been cashiered from fifty banks— so that now I suppose he's got what's coming to him." "And you'll get what's coming to you, Charlie won't you?" ' He stared at her. "If by that you mean— New York — 312 THE W A Y HOME " Yos; that's what I do mean " He laughed hardly. " By George, I hope so." And I shall get it, too." "Get it, too.? Get it— how?" "I mean that I shall have to share it-share the results of what you did to Mr. Ellis." "Oh, come, Hilda! You can't reason that way It you did, where would any of us be.? This is nothing-no take that from me." Ihe dreary smile was still on her lips as she said. Apparently, I must take a good many things from He thought it best to ignore this thrust by goine into his room to wash his hands. That would bring the conversation to an end. He was rubbing his hands slowly on the towel, thinking of the mess women made of things the minute they peered into a man s concerns-his pipes or his boots, his business «n f 'if ^" '"^f^^ffairs-when he heard his name called sharplr "Charlie! Come here!" He hur! 2^ 313 THE WAY HOME ned to the threshold of the sitting-room. A bell- boy had entered and was standing in the middle of the room. Hilda was holding what seemed to be a telegram close to the shaded electric lamp. xt"^''*'J'" ^^""^ "Joes this mean? 'To Two W umber Three Ringers supplied to Miss Esther Legrand, St. David's Rectory, Vandiver Place- one hundred and twenty doUars.' They want to know if it's to be paid." During the reading he had time to curse himself tor his carelessness in forgetting to speak of the thing at the office before he came up-stairs. As it was, he could only stride across the room, snatch the paper from her hand, and thrust it back upon the "H7U ' P^^ "'" ^' *^'*'' savagely. What in the world are Number Three Ringers?" she gasped, before the retreating boy had closed the door behind him. He tried to be jocular. "That's what I was going to tell you if you hadn't insisted on talking of this other business. They're sewing-machines." " Swffng-machines ?" "For the sewing-classes— lot of little girls. The older ones are wild to learn to sew on the sewing- machines. They ought to learn, too. They get better places for a little experience of that kind." He tried to repeat with as much sang-froid as possible what he remembered Esther to have said Hilda listened to him with lips parted and wide-open eyes. "^ "Since when have you been taking an interest in sewing-classes for little girls?" "Oh, this ever so long. It's what they go in for now at old St. David's." 314 THE W A Y HOME "Xu" T^"" ".'* ""^^^ ^''* Legrand goes in for." Uh, she s only one of them. They've a lot of wonien working about the place-philanthropic work, don t you know— moral uplift and all that sort of thmg. Make them good American cit- izens. «'w II ^l" ""PP'^ ^^^"^ '"*'' sewing-machines?" Well, there s no harm in that, is there ? I should have said it was the very thing you would have approved of You always seem to think I'm not doing enough good. Isn't it possible that I may be doing more than you imagined—" "Oh, quite. I never imagined anything like this." ..ii7°* ^ '^"*" * Soing to teU you—" Wouldn t that have been a pity? With such generosity as yours it's surely better not to let the left hand know what the right hand is doine— " Now, now, Hilda! Why should you make a fuss? You can hardly say that a sewing-machine- even two sewmg-machines-is a very compromising She blazed. "Compromising? Who said-com- promismg? Is there any reason why it should have Deen compromising?" "Not unless you see one, Hilda." "Wh !"?''!'' " '''!" '"."« ""'* ''°^'y ''^'°« speaking. What I do see is this, Charlie-that you terrify me. 1 here s something about you strange and— mystenous-and-appalling. I don't know what you mightn t do-what you wouldn't do-what, at any minute I sha'n't learn that you have done-" It all that s because I've given a couple of sew- ing-machines to a class of little Italian girls-" 5>he moved toward her bedroom door, putting out 31S THE W A Y HOME her hand with a backward protesting gesture, as she fled. "Oh — don't!" She shut the door behind her and locked it. ' The sound of the turning of the key grated on him cunously. It was as if she were locking herself against him. He stood for some minutes in the middle of the room, rueful, disconsolate. The sense of brutality, of guilt, came over him again. He tip- toed to her door and listened. If he heard her cry- ing he would insist on being let in. But she was not crying. All was painfully still. He went back again aimlessly to the middle of the room. Aim- lessly, too, he took out his cigar-case, chose a cigar, and snipped off the end. Holding the cigar between his teeth, he fumbled absently for his match-box, only to stand with the match in his hand, without staking It. More vividly than at any previous moment it was borne in on him that Hilda was his old self risen again. She still held the ideals— the high, impractical ideals— with which he himself had started out, only to find them unsuited to American conditions, as those conditions were when the nine- teenth century was merging into the twentieth. He had no objection to those ideals in themselves. On the contrary, he would have continued to hold them had he found other men of affairs doing the same. If he discarded them it was only because they put him at a disadvantage. Hilda seemed to hold the astounding theory that one could be put at a disadvantage and make no complaint. It was the fundamental error in all her points of view; and as her husband he felt it his duty to convince her of the mistake. With this purpose he went boldly to her door, lifting his hand to knock. 316 THE WAY HOME In the end it was a premonition of the uselessness of any such attempt that withheld him. He 4' abniT'ltirfr''"'^ ■^'"""'"■"8 °f h" i-mov! him 7k ! k f *^* '!'"'"'y '^^^ '"Other had warned intr -f ^ ^.,?^tHeX; o&r E ing-room and lockmg it behind Kim. He locked it without th.nk.ng; but when he d.d think! t was to make the reflection that if his old self was ^oh^ i«rcLtt.^^--"'^^-"-«^"^u^ CHAPTER IX ■\X7'HEN Charlie Grace was next called to New ' ' York there could be no, question as to his going. Osborne and Emma had come to Minnesaba, the latter to visit Hilda, the former to discuss with his brother- in-law the plans for the acquisition by the T.-C. R. of the Buffalo & New London Railway, which would give the Canadian system its long-desired outlet through New England. Though the business would be nominally managed by Mr. Purvis, the T.-C. R. magnates at Montreal would look to Charlie Grace, who had already proved his ability "or mat- ters of the kind, to "put it through" in the more delicate details of the operation. He was not so well known a figure but that he could come and go between the parties most concerned without call- ing attention to himself either from the press or from the representatives of rival lines. Negotiations begun a few years earlier through Ellis had dropped when the latter fell into disfavor. As the matter was becoming urgent a^in, it was necessary that certain powerful persons in New York and elsewhere should be sounded without delay; and there was no one, in the opinion of the T.-C. R., so well fitted for that task as Charlie Grace. "Whole business going to be a long one," Osborne expJamed, in Hilda's presence, "so that as soon »s 318 THE IV A Y HOME your Uttle affair here is well out of the way you'd both better pack up for Manhattan." Hilda snuled, her old dreamy smile, in which there was now a shade that Charlie Grace could only qualify as b.tter-sweet. She said nothing till. O^^ hulband''^"'^ "'°'"' *''' ""' "'**"" ^^ '^' "So you've got it at last," she remarked then, the bittM-sweet smile playing on him steadily. Got what?" ' wouStveTar^ """^"^ '°'-"''" ^^^- E"" i. ^M ™j*^ y^^ a despairing gesture. "Oh, hang our lives!" " * ^ ^™&ng that up all the rest of ;;idon't bring it up Charlie. It's never down." What on earth would you h- ve me do ? Do vou TusiLT-.^' ''" ^^""^ ^ ""'^ "'"^^^*='''^ ^^ She shook her head "No. I don't see how you can do that now. That's the irony of it, isn't it? Having struck down a man who was trying to re- trieve himself-who had retrieved himself-you'r^ obliged to profit by his fall." J7"l ^f' *'^-. ^' *"^''' "° ^y of going back, why keep talking of it?" ^ "Kfep talking of it? Have I mentioned it since the one and only time we ever spoke of it? That was m New York, in November; and now it's I Sr'^' ^k' ^°" ""'^"'* ^' =>f"'«l' Charlie. 1 shall never bring it up again." "But you'll go on thinking of it" can't hel7it.''' ''™ " '° that-^xcept when I 319 THE WAY HOME He would have let the matter rest there had he not been impelled to make hir position better by a final word. "At least, I've never deceived you as to my motives in life being what you would call sor- did; now, have 1?" She admitted the truth of this. "I've never denied the fact that my object was to make money by what you've already said on one occasion was fair means or foul." An inclination of the head expressed her assent to this. "And you wouldn't have married me if it hadn't been so." She clung to the mantelpiece of the dining-room in which they had been talking. "I wouldn't have married you unless I had — had cared for you." He seemed to square himself in front of her. "But you wouldn't have cared for me unless I'd had the money. Now, would you?" She colored. "I — I don't know what you mean, Charlie. If you want to imply that I had mercenary motives — " "No, I don't," he broke in, quickly. "Your motives were neither better nor worse than those of other people in a similar position. You cared for me because I'm what I am. And I'm what I am because I've got the money. How I got it is sec- ondary to you, as it's secondary to everybody else. The world is full of high-principled, right-meaning people who haven't words enough to express their scorn of the man who grows rich by what they choose to consider improper means, but who, when it comes to personal dealings, can't show him too plainly how much they respect him." 320 THE WAY HOME She seemed to grow taller. Her eyes blazed. And you class me in their number?" "I don't put you lower, darling, than I put the whole order of bishops, priests, and deacons, and all the other idealists who are so easily outraged by our brutal modern ways of growing rich. They're aw- fully fluent in words; but once get rich, and"— he snapped his fingers— "you can do what you like with them." She still clung to the mantelpiece, looking down into the fireplace, where logs were spluttering. You don't have to tell me that to show me you've a poor opinion of human nature — " "Butlhaven't. That's just it. I'm not blaming them. On the contrary, I think their actions prove them wiser than their words. Every one is likely to speak foolishly; but when he acts with discretion ne can be pardoned. I don't care what any one thinks of the way in which I've made my little bit of money, so long as he respects me. I'm not quarreling with you, Hilda, darling. Have your own opinion. It doesn't make any difference to me whatever. I merely ask you to remember that you d never have looked at me twice if I'd been the noble, unselfish creature who wants to safeguard every one else's interests before he considers his own —and so wouldn't have had a comfortable home to otter you. You wouldn't have looked at me twice. 1 hat snot mercenary. It's only human. I admire you for It the more. Only, if I were you, I should try to admire myself— from precisely that point of view. As she stood with one foot on die fender, her fore- head bowed on the hand that still clung to the edge 321 THE WAY HO ME of the chimney-piece, he stooped and kissed her hair. Glancing over his shoulder on leaving the room, he saw, not without a pang, that she kept this attitude of reverie ^r depression. He could not, however, eat his words, seeing they were true. He could only hope that a salutary truth might help her in taking a more reasonable view of things. The subject was not renewed between them, nor did they recover from some constraint, during the days that inter- vened before his departure ;i but when he actually said good-by she hung about his neck with the silent, tearless desperateness of a woman wh" might have been seeing her husband go to exile or to execution. Leaving Emma to watch over her sister-in-law for the three months that remained of her waiting, Charlie Grace set out with Osborne for Montreal. From Montreal — after the necessary interviews with Sir William Short and other dignitaries — he passed to Buffalo, to Boston, to New London, and finally to New Yorlc. He made his visits to the secondary cides with so much caution, and used so much dis- crerion in seeing the representative citizens to whom his errands were, that on reaching the metropohs it was a relief to go about openly and do what he pleased. He argued that a thousand reasons, or no reason at all, would take one to New York, whereas one would never go to Buffalo, Boston, or New London unless one had a motive. No one would ever ask what he was doing in lower Broad- way; while his appearance in Eagle Street, or Tre- mont Street, or on the banks of the Connecticut Thames might start speculation. In New York he could therefore allow himself to relax — to visit the theaters and the opera, and take part in pleasant 332 THE WAY HOME reunions in clubs and private houses. His days being feverishly occupied, and his evenings dull, he was glad of any form of friendliness or entertain- ment. For the third time in his life he knew the lonely, yearning ache that goes by the name of homesickness. He had felt it first the summer when his mother died; it had come again the year he left his father to visit Winnipeg and finally settle at Forde. From that time to this he had been free from it, and had sometimes congratulated himself that the possibility of it was past. But now, all of a sudden, it returned— bringing memories of his father and mother which grew oddly fused with those of Hilda and the house on the hill above Su- perior. He began to recognize it as one of the penalties of being married, of being a householder, and a prospective father. It was the more to his credit, then, that he denied himself the pleasure, perhaps the solace, which drew his thoughts persistently to Vandiver Place. Not that he had any fear of it for himself; he was only determined that if, on his return to the West, the name of Esther Legrand were ever to come up, he should be in a position to say to Hilda that he hadn't seen the lady who bore it. He was the more resolved on this because he divined on Hilda's part, and al- most read between the lines of her letters, the as- sumption that Miss Legrand and he were daily in each other's company. And yet there was an occasion when the^e good intentions came to naught. It was a wild, wet after- noon at the end of February— an afternoon on which, having nothing to do, he was dull, depressed, and bored. It was one of those moments in which even 3*3 THE WAY HOME the city-loving soul finds the resources of a capital but vanity. Moreover, he was worried, tired, and not well. The thought of his old rectory home was positively comforting; and if within it he found a bright, cheery face, more lovely than any face he knew— except Hilda's, he said to himself loyally- well, hang it all! it could only do him the more Twilight was already closmg m as he drew near St. David's. The door being open, with its customary welcome, he went in. Life for the minute seemed so hollow that he would have en- joyed a few words with Remnant; but Remnant was not to be found. Amiens Cathedral was empty, and except for a solitary gas-jet beside the organ, on the right-hand side of the chancel, it was dim. The wind soughed through the old choir-loft, and along the vaulting of the aisles, while the rain rattled against the elongated suined - glass lights, now all but colorless. With an eery feeling he was about to withdraw, in order to approach the rectory by the usual way, when a deep pedal note on the organ startled him. The note w S «~-wome„ of legend, who clasped thei arm. round a man's neck in one desperate stran^linJ embrace and dragged him downward ' * « ch^fly while Esther Legrand's voice, with the mellow organ accompaniment, filled the church. It was oT her he was stil thinking when the voice cTased wei/'aVaj"' ''''" "" «tinguished, and the ^"S For a few minutes he continued to sit in the dark- enmg nave thmking vaguely of many things Wh«, tr n V}"' '' ^" '° '"™ his steps Keward He had had enough of Esther Legrand's perStv tT^dJoThim"' "' '" '''^ ^"^ -re^miSt^ rnt?" ^^"7 ^''"' ^""^ '^^ <^''"r<:'' door he en- plausibfe explanation of his presence in VanK Chariie r'" "l""''' explanation was needed, th^t Charlie Grace began at once on the subject of the memorial to his father. »upject ot the »;!l"^f ^«?,"'^''' ^y*" searched the younger man's with the kmdiy scrutiny of one with whom iTh"s become a primary habit to look behindThe out ward mask to what is hidden in the soul "Suppose you come back with me. Then we could talkTbo« So, within a few minutes, Charlie Grace found himself seated m the rectory study, which he had last seen on the day when he had^ftts father's tS VT^ir K "*" ""' «^*"'^ changed The books, the desk, the worn sofa, the leather-covered 327 THE WAY HOME chairs, the very photographs of EngUsh cathedrals on the walls, might have dated from his father's time. Youthful recollections of all kinds came con-* fusedly back to him to culminate and become dear in tha( of the night when he and his father had sat together here on the return from his mother's funeral. Possibly the present incumbent of St. David's had similar thoughts, for he said, when they had got seated, "How strange it is, Charlie, that you and I should be talking of a meihorial to your father in this particular room, which seems so full of his presence." Very affectionately they discussed reminiscences of Dr. Grace till they got back to the subject in hand. "I should like to do it handsomely," the son said, not without feeling, "and set aside a sum of money for its decent upkeep. I don't want to saddle the church with an additional item of expense." The rector expressed his appreciation of this, add- ing, "It will not only greatly facilitate our work, but it gives me satisfaction that your generosity should take this form." Charlie Grace reflected, his arm resting on the flat-topped desk near which he sat and his eyes fixed vaguely on the buff-colored blind hung flatly against the pointed window. "I'm afraid generosity isn't the word," he said, pensively. "1 feel I ought to explain that. I'm not doing the thing from generous motives." Rufus Legrand, his elbows on the arms of his chair, which stood in one of the comers of the room, fitted the tips of his fingers together in the manner traditional with ecclesiastics. A faint smile played 328 THE WAY HOME over his keen ascetic face. "You're doing it from motives that will seem generous— to us." "You mean that you'll take the donation and give me the benefit of the doubt." "If there u a doubt. But in the case of a memo- nal to your father I don't see where the doubt could come m. "I do. And yet," he added, meditatively, "I "w,, ""T ^'^ether to tell you about it or not." Why shouldn't you.?" ''Beer-use, if I did, you mightn't want the thing." In that case don't you think we ought to know?" Its something I should be quite justified in saying nothing about; and yet if I do say nothing about It I may give you a false impression. It's this," he continued, after some thinking; "in giving this building to St. David's I shouldn't like to be con- sidered as a sort of benefactor to the Church— I mean the organized Christian Church— because— well, because I'm opposed to the organized Christian L,hurch. I ve been opposed to it for a good many years, as perhaps you know." "No; I didn't know— at least, not definitely." ihen, after reflection, "And if you object to appear- 'k^ ?j ? benefactor of the Christian Church, how should I have to understand you to be offering us this aid to our work?" "I should be trying to reassert my father's repu- tation—and I should be doing it vindictively." Kufus Legrand nodded, slowly. "I see. It Siat^on"" "^ '"='''»^°'»: *>« it would be noble "Not as I should feel it. It would only be noble because I can t find any other way of doing it." ^ 3»9 THE WAY HOME "That is," the clergyman smiled, "you find that a good tree must bring forth good fruit in spite of your wishes to the contrary." "If by the good tree you mean me, sir, you're mistaken. I'm a bad lot." In hearing himself pronounce these words Charlie Grace was startled, but once they were uttered he recognized them as what, subconsciously, he had long wanted to say. It was a relief to have the thing out — not to have to suppress it or dissimulate it any longer. He had not even been aware of sup- pression and dissimulation till this minute of being candid with himself. The solace of the moment was like that from discomfort which a man has taken as a matter of course, not supposing it can be eased. Legrand continued to smile gently. "A bad lot — how?" "Oh, in different ways. Morally, for one thing." "And for another?" "Oh, I'm a rotter all round. I don't think I can express it better than that." The brief silence that ensued gave these words a sort of solemnity. "You've been a good man of affairs," the rector said, tentatively. "It depends on what you mean by good. I've been a successful one — on a modest scale." "And you're happily married." "Very." The word came out with a kind of metallic assertiveness, as though he feared con- tradiction. He couldn't have told what impelled him to add, "But I'm a rotter even there." " Do you mean that you haven't made your wife happy?" 330 THE WAY HOME I doubt if I ever could. I'm not the sort of nature a woman like her can admire." " But you've been faithful — " "Oh yes— so^ far— in the letter." He paused be- fore adding, "I'm not so sure about the spirit." "That is,youhaven't been free from temptation—" He shrugged his shoulders. "If you choose to use the word. By nature I'm a— I'm a— Turk," he declared with an embarrassed laugh. "But that isn't it." There was another pause. Now that he had begun on it, he grew interested in his own case. It was like the satisfaction he occasionally got in describing his symptoms to a doctor. "When I spoke of myself as a rotter," he went on, at last, "I meant that I might be— I may be— falling in love with another woman." Rufus Legrand betrayed neither surprise nor dis- may, though the gentle smile gave place to a look of gravity. "Is that a process like a fever that has to take Its course? Or is there a preventative—" "I don't know of any preventative but drowning— or strangulation. It's the sort of thing with which you can only take violent measures— like chokine it to death." ]|Well,^ then, why don't you take them.?" "That's more easily said than done," he returned, moodily. "Since you've given me your confidence so far, may I venture to inquire if the lady in question is what IS conventionally known as a good woman or not? "Oh, she's good. That's just it. If I were to tall in love with her, it would be in the first place with her goodness." 331 THE W A Y HOME "Then that's a safeguard, isn't it? Especially," he added, as an afterthought, "if she isn't in love with you?" "She's not in love with me," he declared, with some emphasis. Then, in qualification: "But I don't know that she mightn't be — if we were to see much of each other. You understand that I'm saying so not in fatuity, but in fear." "Oh, quite so. But isn't it the obvious inference that she shouldn't see much of you?" Charlie Grace got up and began to pace the floor. "That's one of the good' resolutions not so easy to keep. All sorts of things throw people together, whether they will or no." "And of this secondary attachment-^f it is an attachment — I presume your wife has no idea at all." "Oh yes, she has." "So soon? You've only been married — let me see — ^when was it?" "Last April. Not quite a year. But it had be- gun before that — I mean this other thing. My wife knew about it because— well, because I don't think I should have realized it myself if it hadn't been for her." , Legrand pondered. "That's a little abstruse — " "I mean," Charlie Grace continued, "that it was my wife who put the notion into my head. She let me see she was afraid of it, and so I've begun to perceive that there's something for her to be afraid of. It's action and reaction, yoH see. I dare say I should have found it out for myself sooaer or later, but I hadn't found it out wfeea HiMa k-gan — " "To show she was ualuppy." THE WAY HOME "To show she was imaginative. As a matter of fact, it wouldn't make any difference to her, because I should love her just the same even if— You see," he tossed off, as he tramped up and down, "men are bom polygamous, say what you will." The clergyman smiled. "Men may be born polygamous, as you say; and yet polygamy doesn't make for happiness, does it.' You yourself are less satisfied with life than you would be if your in- stincts were— well, let us say monogamous?" ^'I don't know. I'm all mixed up. I'm all at sea." "And probably the spring of your trouble lies there. Isn't it possible that you lack a definite guiding principle — ?" He came to a halt, in order to say, firmly: "No, sir. I don't lack that. I've a very clear guiding principle. I adopted it years ago — in this very house — after a conversation with my father. I've been true to it all along." He allowed a few sec- onds to pass before adding, "It's to consider no one but myself." "Ah? Indeed!" "I'm rather crude in expressing it, because I've never made a secret of it from the first. It was one of the things that alienated me from religion, that so- called Christians adopted the same principle with- out being frank about it. If I'm over-frank, it's only that I don't want to be like them— and not that I mean to shock you." "Oh, you don't shock me. After the life I've hved— and the many, many human souls I've had to deal with— it isn't possible to shock me at my age. I was only thinking that the principle you enunciate so— so concisely— is likely to end in com- 333 THE WAY HOME plications, isn't it? To consider no one but oneself seems relatively easy, as an academic theory; and yet when you tiy to put it into practice, in a civiliza- tion of which the dominant law is that you must consider other people too, you're very like a wild man running amuck." To this Charlie Grace made no response. For some five or ten minutes he sat staring gloomily at the floor. When he looked up it was to say, with a half-smile: "I notice you don't oflPer me any ad- vice, sir." "You haven't asked for any. But if you had, what could I say that you don't know already?" The younger man rose. "In any case, you've been awfully kind to listen to me. I don't know what's led me on to gassing in this way. I shall be sorry for it in the morning. I certainly should be, if it was any one but you." They shook hands on this, and Legrand accom- panied his guest to the hall. They were at the study door when the visitor said: "And what about the original proposal — my parish-house?" Legrand looked at him with the keen, kindly gaze that was like a searchlight. They were both so tall that their eyes were on a level. "Don't you think you had better postpone that till — till you're in a different frame of mind ?" Charlie Grace nodded. "I see. That's what I was afraid of— that if I told you what a skunk I am you wouldn't want to take it." "The point is not whether we should take it, but whether you should offer it. And as far as I under- stand you, I wouldn't offer it, if I were you, while you feel about yourself as you do." 334 THE WAY HOME .'Jm.^""'^ **' ^^^ ""*• ^'^' 8°' '•'^ money." Oh, money is not of much help. In work like ours nothing counts but good will." "Isn't that an original point of view.?— in the Church above all places?" "I dare say that's how it strikes you. It's pos- sible, too, that the Church is only beginning to under- stand that the weapons of its warfare are spiritual, not carnal. Certainly, whatever the good you can do with money that's given whole-heartedly, you can t accomplish much with what's offered with the grudge— you'll excuse the word, Charlie— which you d attach to yours. It would be like trying to make a solid tower out of defective stone. Your pansh-house, even as a memorial to your father could only be a hindrance to us—" ' Charlie Grace tilted his chin with an air of offense. "Oh, very well, then. That settles the question. "No, my boy; it raises it. It raises it for your more thorough— and may I say, for your wiser- consideration." They were moving along the hall toward the front door when Legrand said, hospitably: "There's gen- erally tea going on at this hour. Won't you go into the drawing-room and speak to Mrs. Legrand? My daughter is probably there, too. They'll like to see you." Charlie Grace excused himself with some vehe- ■"Tf- . ^> ?^""y sorry. I really can't. No, no, he insisted, as Legrand urged him toward the closed drawing-room door. "You must excuse me — But the sound of voices brought Esther into the 33S THE W A Y H ME hall. "I was sure it was you, Mr. Grace," she cried, cordially. "1 told mother so. Oh, do come in. There's something I want to ask you." "There you are, you see," the rector laughed, pushing his guest gently over the threshold of the drawing-room, and closing the door, as he himself retreated to the study. "Mother, here is Mr. Grace. Isn't it too lovely that I caught him ? Now he'll have to tell us whether or not it was he who sent the sewing-machines. But I know it was he— however he may deny it." Mrs. Legrand offered her hand elegantly from her place behind the tea-table. Her greeting had the courtesy without effusiveness which marked her bearing toward him since his marriage. "We're always glad to see you, Charlie, don't you know we are? And, oh, by the way — Mr. Grace, Mr. Coningsby — Mr. Coningsby, Mr. Grace." \ V CHAPTER X QHARLIE GRACE was quick to perceive that ^-^ by a display of fnendliness toward the younc man to whom he was thus introduced ht could kill more than one bird with a stone. He could brace up h.s vac.llat.ng loyalty to Hilda; he could please wfth her^ being C.V.1 to a man who might be in love w.tn her, and he could w.thdraw gracefully— in his own .nner consciousness, at least-from putting forth any preposterous claims on her himself. After his confession of a few minutes earlier he needed the assiirance that he was not such a rotter that he couldn t be magnanimous. Magnanimity would get h.m out of an absurd situation with honor, even though no one knew of the honor but hhnself. Ihe .mmed.ate result was, however, in another order of events. n,'S' ^°".!''* ^T .''•'""t'fy'ng our old friend St. Uav.ds, he sa.d when, h.s manners to the ladies Cornlsby"" '""^'' ^' ^^''^ '"^^'^'^ ''•--'f *° The young man blushed boyishly, taking the atten- t.on as a comphment. "Not beautifying. You can't always beautify old friends, what? They're best left to the ugline s we ve grown fond of." "guness A al! '^\ ^""^fl! "^'^ bright-blue eyes sparkling. A glance showed h.m to be the young American of 337 THE WAY HOME family traditions and Anglo-Saxon blood. With his fair skin, fair mustache, and flaxen hair already thin above the forehead, with his English clothes and way of speaking, he might have been a recent graduate of Oxford or Cambridge — except for his animation. While he was not much younger than Charlie Grace himself, the latter's larger frame and bronzed face, together with his general bearing as a man to whom things that stamp the character have happened, made the difference in their ages seem considerable. Charlie Grace laughed. . "I suppose St. David's is rather ugly, though I never thought of it before." "Of course you wouldn't," Esther declared, warm- ly, as she passed cups of tea and cakes, "not any more than I should. St. David's is to Vandiver Place what a dear old flattened nose is to a dear old face, all wrinkles and bumps. You wouldn't change a detail of it for the world. Father says the most remarkable part of Mr. Coningsby's work is the respect he's shown for the mistakes they made in 1840. He says if Mr. Coningsby had been less of an artist he would have wanted to put right some of the things they left wrong, and so have made our poor old dear look worse through having a new patch on an old garment." She held toward Coningsby the plate of bread- and-butter, looking down on him with a sort of motherly pride. It was a pride so lacking in co- quetry or self-consciousness that Charlie Grace, in spite of his determination to count himself out, was guilty of a sense of reassurance. No girl ever looked in this way at the man she was in love with, nor spoke of him in ^his way, either. And yet, having made this observation, he a 338 quickly ' THE W A Y HOME ing to him whether she was in love with any one or not. Coningsby spoke with the ardor of a man who has his subject at heart. "Oh, you can't do much with what our ancestors have left behind them but tear It down or let it alone. In France they've only got to open a new street and throw the old work into perspecuve to get all the effect they require. Even m tngland, where there's never been much in the way of native inspiration, the minute you clap a wmg in one style on to a ho-ise that's been built in another, time and climate mellow them into congruity. But at home we're hopeless, what? We ye no architecture of our own, and we haven't yet found one that looks as if it really belonged to "I don't agree with you," Mrs. Legrand said, with authonty. Surely nothing could be more New- Yorky than some of the houses lately put up in the Avenue and the streets east of the Park. You coiUdn t see them anywhere else in the world- architecture or no architecture." "Oh, there are two or three French chateaux up that way, Comngsby admitted, "that wouldn't be bad if they had four or five hundred acres of 'and tr?.iKe';i^^ ^" ^''""'' '^ '^y- '- "Oh, you will," she asserted, confidently. "He'll turn up. ^ Charlie Grace had the curiosity to ask the nature of the Pavilion de Flore, and Mrs. Legrand made the explanation. It was a little joke, she said, a little architectural joke, almost a family joke. It was 339 THE WAY HOME a house in Eait Seventy-fifth Street, for which Mr. Coningsby had been commissioned to find a pur- chaser by a gentleman who hadn't put it into the hands of the agents. Having built it for his wife, who died before it was finished, he had sentimental scruples about oiFering it for sale, and yet would be relieved to dispose of it privately. "It's one of Keene & Carstairs' things," Con- ingsby explained, further. "People I studied with —was in their office, too, for a while, after I came back from the Beaux Arts. It isn't a bad house— or it wouldn't be, with tome alteration. As it is, it's not everybody's money. Big rooms, and not enough of them — perfectly magnificent, one or two of them are — but no secondary accommodations. I call it the Pavilion de Flore— the end of the wing of the Louvre, you know, toward the Tuileries Gar- dens and the Seine — because it looks a little like it. One of the places that would only suit the right kind of people— which is why it's going at a bargain." There was more talk of the Pavilion de Flore which Charlie Grace followed but inattentively. New suggestions were rising in his mind as rapidly as a covey of startled birds. Out of their incoherence he extracted two main thoughts — that the Pavilion de Flore might be the very thing for his future home, and that if he could put something practical in Ralph Coningsby's way it would be a proof of his disinterestedness. He took into consideration the fact that it wouldn't be business to buy a house merely to do Esther Legrand's young man a favor; but allowing for that, the place itself seemed, from what he was hearing, the thing he was in search of. He was not only in search of it, but he had had some 340 THE WAY HOME doubts of getting it. While he had not yet set him- self seriously to the task of house-hunting, all such residences as he coveted had proved on inquiry to be beyond his means. He was beginning to realize that life in New York, on t'- cale on which he con- ceived of it, would be i\| to accept anything but t' I I to become involved in >.it out of, he was not wit to Brooklyn or the west •,. ic of t! i Pavilion de Flore soiuidt d r.t, sihie. fois Premier kdtel, Coniirr 'ly ".litrl he, Charlie Grace, wasn't sure of vi live. , ant v( t in Too ambitious o prudent ". his way 'i 't iig driven . .' But the A little Fran- it; and while c that meant, it sounded s'ately, and Frim! qid likt Hilda. He could much more easily see her in a little Francois Premier hdtel, whatever it might be, than in any purely American dwelling, however numerous the bathrooms. "I'm looking for some sort of shelter myself," he ventured, when he had sufficiently made up his mind. Coningsby flushed with embarrassment. "Oh, I didn't mean anything like that. I don't believe it would suit you, what?" "Very likely it wouldn't, but there'd be no harm in my seeing, would there?" "There'd be no harm in that," Esther corrobo- rated, for Giningsby's encouragement. " Mr. Grace isn't going to think that just because you happened to menrion the Pavilion de Flore you spotted him as a victim." "And I shouldn't buy it to oblige you," Charlie Grace assured him, with a laugh. "Only if it did suit me, and I did buy it, I presume we should be happy all round. When can I have a look at it?" 34« THE WAY HOME Coningsby glanced at his watch. "Well, now if you like. It's only half past five. The electric light is installed, and I've got the key in my pocket." In this way Charlie Grace became the owner of a house that particularly took his fancy. It was small in scale, yet spacious in all that met the eye, and looked its value. Moreover, since he had got it at a bargain, he could undoubtedly sell it, if he liked, in the course of the next ten years for twice what he paid. It was a home that Hilda would delight in. He had thought at first of consulting her by wire, but, as there couldn't be two opinions on the subject, and she could tell nothing from such descriptions as he could give, he judged that consultation was not worth while. The same reasoning kept him silent even when the title-deeds were in his strong-box. Since it might startle her to Icam by letter that he had taken this important step v.ithout her co-opera- tion, he considered it wiser to keep all information concerning it as the surprise of his return. With photographs to supplement his verbal accounts she would see at a glance that he had stumbled on the nest that destiny itself had prepared for their habitation. This secrecy did not, however, interfere with much private joy in his new acquisition. He di- rected conversation to householding topics at all odd moments, in the offices of the Trans-Canadian, among his friends, and in his clubs. He discussed taxes, heating, and plumbing with other house- holders, and mentally collated their experiences. When the business of the day was over he strolled up the Avenue to East Seventy-fifth Street to stand on the opposite pavement and stare at his P'.at little 34* THE WAY HOME French facade; or, letting himself in w4th his latch- key and turning on all the lights, he wandered through the empty rooms. In his mind's eye he furnished them, putting Hilda here or there, in the graceful attitudes of hospitality which he knew her so capable of taking. Without being aware of it he saw her generally en representation, receiving guests at the head of the staircase, with its sweeping wrought-iron balustrade, or surrounded by admiring friends in the silvery grisaille drawing-room, or pre- siding at dinners in the long dining-room paneled in richly toned old wood faintly relieved with gold. He had never yet seen her in surroundings that suited her. Now that he had found them, he was so moved with gratitude as to be almost capable of giving thanks ro God. Being unequal to that, he took all the credit to himself. For the first time since the beginning of his years of struggle he was able to say, with deep inbreathings of satisfaction, "I've done it — and I've done it alone." There was a grim joy in recalling the early days of pinched means — of means that seemed the more pinched because his father and mother had lived among people of wealth. He grew the less eager to reveal at once the secret of his new treasure to Hilda because of the bliss he got from hugging it awhile to himself. He had not yet outworn this rapture when, one bright afternoon in early March as he walked up Fifth Avenue in the neighborhood of hir. hotel, his attention was caught by a well-equipped motor- brougham that drew up at the curb not many yards in front of him. The vehicle was of a style still tokrably novel, and his first thought was of its ap- 343 THE WAY HOME propriateness for his wife. His second was of the lady richly dressed in furs who descended from the brougham and crossed the pavement with smooth rapid step and distinctly noble bearing. Without having positively seen her features he could have sworn that it was Hattie Bright. Since she had entered so public a place as Hender- son's Art and Auction Gallery, he had no scruple as to following her in, finding himself in a modified Oriental bazar, where furniture, porcelains, rugs, pictures, and brocades stirred the imagination with a sense of gorgeous prodigality. He dropped into the nearest folding-chair as soon as he had dis- covered the lady in furs slightly in advance of him on the other side. Though he had thus a partial «de view of her face, her thick veil kept him still in doubt as to her identity. In the camp-chairs, arranged as in a concert-hall, some fifty or sixty persoat were seated, a few of them fashionably dressed, many of them with Jewish features, and all wearing the air of being at home in auction-rooms. Even the lady whom Charlie Grace took to be Miss Bright scanned the catalogue carelessly, and looked about her with nonchalance. On a dais at the farther end of the room a broad- shouldered man with a patch over one eye stood behind a high desk and disposed of the articles which his assistants brought out from behind crimson hangings. Without the jokes or cajoleries of the traditional auctioneer he spoke impersonally, even languidly, as to connoisseurs too keen not to see for themselves the value of the things he presented. Objects appeared and disappeared with bewildering rapidity and an odd inconsequence of order. A 344 THE WAY HOME Sheraton cabinet was followed by a pair of Japanese swords, a Sevres tea-service, some old Sheffield plate, and a George Inness landscape. The bidding went on as by some mysterious mutual understanding, so swiftly and silently that Charlie Grace could follow it with neither eyes nor ears. As owner of an empty house, he would have been glad now and then to make an offer on his own account had he known how to get it in. But the man with the patch over one eye recited as in a litany: " Fifty— seventy-five— a hundred— a hun- dred and twenty-five — does any one say a hundred and fifty.? — a hundred and thirty-five — fifty — three- quarters — does any one say two hundred.' — two hundred — two hundred and a quarter — going at two hundred and a quarter — going — sold — to Mrs. H." The custom of naming habitues by initials was also puzzling — so puzzling that it came as a shock when, after the usual fluent and almost sound- less rise in price, a pair of mezzotint portraits was announced as "going— going at a hundred and twenty — sold — to Mrs. Bright." The lady in furs rose, glided forward to whisper a few words to a clerk who was taking notes or keep- ing accounts, and returned to her seat. Charlie Grace no longer had any doubt. So she was Mrs. Bright! He smiled to himself. So many possibilities were sheltered behind that par- tial nom de guerre that they were both amusing and pathetic to dwell on. By dwelling on them, in fact, he lost the immediate succession of events, his at- tention being again aroused when four stalwart henchmen carried into view a library desk of elab- orately carved oak. According to the catalogue 23 34S THE WAY HO ME I ! and the man with the patch over one eye, it had passed through the respective possessions of the Duke of WeUington and Mrs. Siddons. Each of its four carved doors was thrown open to expose the cupboards and the drawers within. It was turned round to show the elaborate Renaissance designs at either end. It was tipped sidewise, frankly, to reveal the fact that the green-baize covering would need renewal. Charlie Grace could already see this masterpiece of the cabinet-maker's art as the center of the empty library in the Pavilion de FIok; but almost before he was aware of it the mysterious bidding had be- gun, gliding upward with mute and incredible speed. "Five hundred— five and a half— six hundred— does any one say six hundred and a half.?— six and a quarter— six and a half— six hundred and seventy- five — does any one say seven .?— seven hundred- seven and a quarter — seven hundred and fifty — seven hundred and fifty— belonged to the Duke of Wellington, gentlemen, and Mrs. Siddons— wonder- ful bit of modern Renaissance carving — seven hun- dred and fifty— seven hundred and fifty— does any one say seven and three-quarters — going at seven hundred and fifty — going — " "Eight hundred," Charlie Grace shouted, dec- perately. There was a startled turning of head.s. He grew red with confusion. He had probably transgressed all the canons of auctioneering etiquette. But the man with the patch over one eye continued fluent- ly: "Going at eight hundred — going — sold to — to Mr. — ?" "Mr. Grace." Then, as if the moment had come 346 THE WAY HOME at which to announce himself definitely to New York, he added: "Mr. Charles G. Grace, of the Hotel Waldorf and East Seventy-fifth Street." The attention accorded him by this gathering of dealers in antiques and amateurs of objets d'arl gave sig- nificance to the proclamation of himself as a coming power. Having handed in his check and made arrange- ments for the removal of his purchase, he found the lady spoken of as Mrs. Bright on the point of de- parture. He was able to open the door for her as she passed out and thus catch her eye. He noticed at once that it was the same soft, liquid eye as of yore, with the same obliquj, mischievous regard. "So you're Charlie Grace!" she exclaimed, when they were outside and had shaken hands. "I shouldn't have known you — or rather I should have known you, because I recognized you that night at the Blitz — did you know me? But my! how you've changed! Have I changed? But of course I have. Only I hope I don't look so much older than my age as you do. You can't be more than — let me see! — you can't be more than — " "I'm thirty-one," he said, frankly, "and you must be about twenty-nine; although," he added, gal- lantly, "any one but an old friend like me — ^who doesn't forget — ^would say twenty-five at most." A laugh displayed the beauty of her mouth and white, even teeth. "Well, my compliments must take another turn, because you easily look forty. Only it's becoming — though I can't be the first to tell you that. Whatever you've been doing all these years, it's agreed with you." There was something about her that invited a 347 THE WAY HOME man's eyes to gaze deeply into hers. "And mayn't I say the same of you?" She laughed again, with a becoming flush. "Oh, me I I don't count. Say, why can't you drive home with me and have a cup of tea?" There was an instant too brief for measurement, but long enough in which to feel that if he accepted this invitation he might be a lost man. He was anxious not to be a more unmitigated rotter than he could help. By fumbling for his watch he tried to prelude a polite excuse, when she probed his re- luctance with disconcerting frftnkness. "Oh, you needn't be afraid. I sha'n't eat you." He smiled feebly. "I'm sorry for that. It would have been a novel experience." "I know you're married," she continued, as they crossed the pavement toward the brougham, "but I'm quite — " She seemed to search for the proper epithet. "I'm quite — correct," she concluded, with some emphasis. "You don't think I question that? — ^wiih ail tUs elegance." The chauffeur held the door open for his mistress to enter. "Oh, come along," she insisted, getring in. "The Lord only knows when I shall see you again." Feeling this reason to be conclusive, he got in. As he did so it seemed to him that Hilda's eyes fol- lowed him. Their golden gleam came suddenly out of space — solemn, reproachful. It took nothing from their appeal that they were mute, because Hilda's silences were always more eloquent than other people's words. "I know you're married," Hatde Bright repeated, when he was seated by her side and they were gliding 348 THE WAY HOME up Fifth Avenue. "Reggie told me so — and I saw the announcement in the papers at the time. I'm mariied, too — or, rather, I was." "I thought it was once married, always mar- ried." "Wen, it wasn't in my cat." "I noticed they spoke of you as Mrs. Bright." "Well, yes; I do call myself that; k's mwe con- venient." "They say a man's lume is what he choose* to call himself." "Well, I choose to call myself that. la reality I'm— Mrs. PiUsbury." He uttered a sympathetic "Oh!" so as not to be deficient in tact. "Oh, I've had my ups and downs," she admitted, with a sigh. He felt it permissible to say, "But they've been chiefly ups, haven't they.?" "That's as you happen to look at it. Let me seel When did I see you last.? Oh, I remember. It was just before we left Tenth Street. Well, I married Mr. Pillsbury after that." He felt it discreet to pass over a period which he knew must have intervened between the leaving Tenth Street and the marriage to Mr. Pillsbury, contenring himself with the remark, "I wonder I never heard of it." "Oh, well, you wouldn't. We lived in quite a — a reared way. It wasn't really the marriage for me at all; but he was a good man — and well-to-do — a fish- dealer — and poor mother had to have a home, you see — ^and so — " She allowed him to finish this part of her biography M9 THE WAY HOME for himself. After a brief silence he felt warranted in asking, "And is he dead?" "I think he is. I've heard so — and one of these days I must find out. The fact is — there's no reason whj' I shouldn't tell you — ^you know the world — we w i divorced." He fell ba.'- i^ain on a sympathetic, "Oh!" "Yes, w ' were divorced; and now — there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you that, too — only confidentially — I'm engaged to Reggie Homblower." It seenned to him a long time before he was suiH- ciendy master of himself to Say, in a tone out of which he tried in vain to keep the irony, "Then I must offer you — my congratulations, mustn't I ?" She affected nonchalance by leaning slightly for- ward and inspecting the line of pedestrians on the pavement. "Well, he says he'll marry me," she protested, as though humiliated by his words. "If so, I should jolly well keep him up to it." "Oh, I mean to — the minute he gets back from Europe. He's in Europe now." Then, after reflec- tion: "He's not so bad — Reggie isn't. He drinks too much — I suppose you know that. But he's awfully generous — and he's — he's fond of me." "And you're fond of him, aren't you?" "I could be — if he'd do what he said." "You mean — marry you." She nodded, silently, and the subject dropped. lit On leaving Hattie Bright's apartment in the Hotel Doria, situated in one of the streets running into Riventde Drive, Charlie Grace again took occasion to caH himself a rotter. Not that anything had been done or said or even hotted at to which a censor of 350 THE WAY HOME morals couid have taken exception. As the lady herself had declared, she was quite correct — she was strikingly correct. In a tiny drawing-room of un- certain taste, heavy with the scent of flowers and overcrowded with questionable bric-a-brac, she had made tea with all the forms which accompany that ceremony amid the most choice surroundings. The conversation, too, was such as goes on between real ladi>..; and gentlemen during this social hour of the afternoon, and dealt with literature, the stage, the Church, or whatever else was incidental to old memo- ries. It was largely occupied, indeed, with such harmless domestic details as to how her mother had died and his father had done the same as were likely to come up at a meeting of friends of long standing. And yet the young man had not descended in the lift as far as the street floor before he began calling himself by the opprobrious name which of late was so often on his lips. For Hattie he had not a word of blame. She was precisely what she had always been — beautiful, good-natured, a little common, above all, an amoureuse. He enjoyed the talk with her about old times, and, as a man with no preju- dices, he sympathized with her difficult situation. If anything were to come of their meeting that would make him more intensely a rotter than he was as yet, it would be his fault rather than hers. And that something might come of it had been the arrure pensee of their intercourse. It needed no words — it needed not even so much as the exchange of involuntary, disturbing glances into which they were betrayed, apparently because they couldn't help it. It was in the situation. It was in the 351 THE WAY HOME tndidoni and conventions of the world into which they entered the minute they »et off in the motor- brougham together. So long as they kept to that world they would run counter to no preconceptions and break no laws. It would be in going back to the other world — the every-day world — that trouble would come, as Charlie Grace was quick to foresee. He was a rotter, therefore, for getting himself into a position where such complications could obtain. He was a rotter because he had accepted an invita- tion to come back, on a day in the near future, and dine with her. He was a rotter above all because he was like a fly, who, knowing the dangers that beset fly-life, has let itself be caught widiin the outer convolutions of a cobweb. All that evening, all that night, all the next day, he could see Hilda's golden-brown eyes gazing at him reproachfully. They seemed to be in the air and to meet him at every turn. He saw no features — only the eyes — luminous, haunting. It was in a fever of propitiation to those eyes that during the next few days he threw himself into an ecsusy of buying for the new house. The carved oaken desk had been a point of departure. In the hours he was free from the office he frequented the merchants, 'Arho, after ransacking palaces, convents, and cathedr^ln for treasures, lined themselves along Fifth Avenue; and whatever Hilda would admire or enjoy he bought. Now it was a picture, now a rug, now a carved chest, now a pair of vases, and now a set of chairs. He bought, it is true, for the pleasure of buying, for the satisfaction the home-builder gets in preparing a nest for his mate; but he bought chiefly as a Greek might heap flowers on the shrine 3S2 THE W A Y HOME of Pallai before offering a dove to Aphrodite. When the date of the dinner in the flat near the Riverside Drive had come round the larger roomi of the Pavilion de Flore were not without a resemblance the art and auction gallery which had given He found the general to Charlie Grace his inspiration effect tasteful — and rich. It must be admitted that he bought, too, because the money he couldn't spend on the memorial to his father was burning in his pocket. It was burning in his pocket because there was something burning in his heart. He admitted as much as that to Esther Legrand, whom he met one day while making a duty- call on Miss Smedley. She had come in on some errand that had to do with altar-linen, and he man- aged to slip out with her when she went away. "You know it's all up with my plan about the parish-house," he said, as he walked slowly beside her along the crowded pavement of Vandiver Place. She looked at him with misty violet eyes. A light flush, which might have been caused by the honor of his company, threw into relief a few small primrose- tinted freckles he had never noticed by the tempered light of indoors. "No!" The brief response was full of incredulous protest. ^ "It is, though. Your father won't have it. Says I'm not good enough to build it." "Oh, but you are!" Her conviction made him smile. "It's very kind of you to think so; but I can't agree with you." "Oh, nobody knows whether he's good or not. Even father doesn't. Any one else can see that he's 353 Mictocorr hesouition test cha«t (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2| /1PPLIED IM/1GE In 1653 Eos! Main Street Rocheatef. Ne* Yofk H609 USA (716) *a2 -0300 - Phone (716) 288- 5989 - Fox THE WAY HOME !^ a saint; but you couldn't make him believe it about himself." "I guess," Charlie Grace said, dryly, "I could believe it about myself — if it was true." "Oh no, you couldn't. You wouldn't be a saint if you could. I don't attach any importance to what you feel at all." "But if your father feels so — ?" She sobered. "If father feels so — then you must have led him into some mistake." He shook his head, smiling with a dim, wry smile. "Oh no, I haven't." She stopped, confronting him, heedless of the passers-by. "But you're the best man I know — except father — and he's quite another style." "Oh, quite." "Well, then?" "Well, then — nothing." He threw out his hands with a little gesture. "Only one other woman in the world ever made your mistake about me — and she died about the time you were bom." Her brows contracted into a frown of perplexity. "I don't understand you — " "Happily for you." "It isn't happily for me, because I like to under- stand people — and — and — help them." She added, shyly: "I can, you know." "Oh, I know that well enough. You could help me — if everything was different from what it is, as I once heard you say." They had walked on for a few minutes in silence when she stopped again. "If you're not good — " she began, falteringly. "Well? What then?" 354 THE WAY HOME "Why, I know plenty of people— plenty of men — who aren't. Of course I do. I'm seeing them every day. They're not gentlemen like you — nor Americans— generally, that is— but I suppose—" He helped her out. "That human nature is much the same whatever the class or the nation- ality." "Yes; that's what I mean. And I know—" She colored, but went on bravely. "I know the sort of things that make them not good — I have to — if I didn't I couldn't help the wives and children — or talk to the men themselves — " "Oh, you talk to the men themselves, do you?" "You see, I must. Mother doesn't want me to, and father doesn't like it very much — or, rather, he doesn't know— I don't tell him, because he might think it — But, you see, I must. You can't do anything else when you live among all the things we live among— and they do listen— some of them." He was thinking of her more than of himself, as, gazing deeply into her eyes, he said: "But you couldn't talk to me — because I don't accept the grounds on which you appeal to them." She spoke quite simply. "Do you mean — about Jesus?" He nodded, smiling to himself at her directness. "Oh, don't say that," she pleaded, "because— well, because it's the beginning of it all." "Exactly. So that with me you'd have no start- ing-point." They walked on again. Presently she turned to him with one of her bright smiles. "But I know you're ail wrong. I know you're a good man — the best man in the world — except father." 3SS THE WAY HOME I couldn't be even the second best man in the world— but with some one to believe in me as you do,^ I might have been better than I am." "Then you have some one. You have me." He muttered under his breath: "But you've come too late." At the door of St. David's they found Remnant, weanng his beadle's gown in honor of the approach- ing five-o'clock service. "\Vell, well, now," he exclaimed, as the long-ex- tinguished twinkle came back into his little eyes It s as auxilarating to me, Mr. Charlie, to see you and Miss Esther together as a taste o' sperrits Seems as if you was two children, like, and I'd brought you both up. I have brought you up, in a manner of speaking— especially you, Mr. Charlie And how IS the other young lady— Mrs. Grace, that * J J ■ ^^^^ ®^*'* ^ "''^^ young lady, too," he added, with compunction. Esther said good-by, going into the church to play the organ for the afternoon service. "She's an angel, if there ever was one— Miss Esther is," Remnant declared, when the friends were alone. "If religion was all like her it 'u'd be another thing." "I guess that's right. Remnant," Charlie Grace agreed. The old man took on a ruminating air. "I've often thought, Mr. Charlie, how pleasant it 'u'd have been if you and her—" He broke off to add: Not but what you may have got a nice young lady, as it is. I'm sure I hope so. I don't say contrary to it— not a bit. Only Miss Esther- well, there's no two ways about it— she's a' aneel " 356 * THEW AY HOME It was more than a relief to Charlie Grace that the dinner that evening at the Hotel Doria was without other than pleasant incidents. Tt%^s moreover, an excellent dinner, accompanied by an exceUent champagne and the cigars of a con" studkdV arr f '"'?•"' '^" "''"'^ Bright had studied the art of making a man comfortable, even o? t t^'l \ "" '"■ "" conversation, to^, wts of the kmd that a man v/ith a good cigar could settle himself to enjoy. It was fref and r^l, S- out being improper-at least, it was not impZer so long as it was confidential and tete-a-tete There was humor in it, and naivete, and pathos, and a va« X^'Z^I r"""^ 'J^'^'?''' '"'"*='^''^«- Charlie Grace learned the startling inner histoiy of many old friends and acquaintances whose lives he had hidier- ul'hr' X ^.r'^'^K^''"^'- I^ ^^' wonder, ful how much alike people were when you really got at them. Except that some were more careS of appearances than others, there was not much difference between good and bad. Being a man who Jrrhf """u' V «"^%Bright was fond "ft"? him, he could take the information she imparted , the purely laughabfe spirit in which one follows the revelations made in a Palais Royal farce stri^aTf "T'^ TT*'"^' ^^'^ "o ornament but a E K ""if' ^^'"^ '"•«''* ''^^^ ''^^n artificial^ froT h.r ^^ """ ^"^ '«^^'^- Passing lighdj from her own sorrows, over which she shed red tea„ to some rollicking fact in the absolutely S vate life of Freddy Fumival-whose outer career ^s of the sedateness essential to a man rapidly maS a reputation for himself in the higher wX of medicm^she displayed an arriessness £ dil 3£7 THE WAY HOME armed suspicion. That is, it disarmed suspicion of design. Charlie Grace was persuaded that if "any- thing were to come" of his visits to the Hotel Doria — he used the formula again — it would be by accident. Nothing coming of his second visit, he had the less hesitation in making ^ third. Nothing coming of the third, he accepted an invitation to a fourth. The dinners continued to be excellent. He didn't know what to do with his evenings. He was lonely. Hattie was lonely, too. \ "It's all very w^ll for Reggie," she complained. "He can go and come as he likes — and always ex- pi "ts to find me here. He won't let me know a soul. Not that I want to. I could if I liked, of course. But you know the world. If we're married — I mean, uihen we're married — I don't want to be both- ered with a lot of embarrassing acquaintances. That's one reascn why I haven't gone on the stage. I could if I liked, of course. But I'd only have to drop them — and I always hate dropping any one who's been a real friend. Of course, I've had to now and then — but it always makes me feel mean. So I'm very lonely, Charlie." She dashed away a tear with a plump, bejeweled hand. "You don't know how much good it does me to see an old friend like you. You've always been so nice. So do come on Thursday. You can see for yourself that — I'm harmless." But on Thursday there was a change in the atmrs- phere. Hattie herself was pensive. She was also sumptuously dressed. The dinner was even better than usual, while orchids on the table produced an effect of prodigal display. His thoughts wandered 3S8 THE W A Y HOME to old Silas Hornblower, who had refused a few dol- lars to save from starvation the woman who was now unconsciously taking her revenge by TpendTnE h s r^oney royally. He smiled to himse'^f Tt "ha" J^^iustir''"''"''"^ '''^ '°"^'' °" ^''^ P- of h^*'A ^°°A ''■!■ •'^"'"x^*- '^^^ •'"'« fl^-t was over- rh,Th '"*^^"''''"«- ^" ~"«q"ence he drank more than h.s ordmary, temperate measure of champa^e The drawmg-room was heavy with the scent of Thr''~\"*'.''?i''"/""'^' ^-''^ '•"d indefinable Ihkh hThtd li ^' r '^' fi'" occasion on "What moods?" ^he .nade no answer, but their eyes met . 1 lieir eyes met vith that disturbing glance lineer ing and yet furtive, which alarmed him He Xd hTL'n« Vf 'rT.'-'^^ """^^ consctus that ject nowon r£ •'"!'* *"' «'^ "°^ °» ^^is ob- ject, now on that, m order not to see thaf l,^r „,, was fastened on him. He felt stup J foLli^h drunk ^ thiZr;te ""T *''=•" ^-- He trS viotndy to thmk of Hilda; he appealed desperately to Esthe^ unStt'^Tjf V' r''''-- -to the realm o ."n 7vWc The only things real and vivid were •n this room, with its heat and its flowers anJIt! sumptuous woman, with her profoundrCirclVke th^psTat^tsiir^'--'^--^ She sat still. "Oh, don't go." 359 THE WAY HOME I've been working hard all his watch. "It's getting "I'm afraid I must, day." He pulled out late." "Oh no, it isn't. Do sit down. Have you seen these?" She sprang up and came forward to the fireplace beside which he was standing. They were close together. She took into her hands one of a pair of scale-blue Worcester vases that adorned, the ends of the mantel- piece. "I bought them to-day — at the Art and Auction Gallery. Regular bargain. I'm sure they're genuine. Feel their glaze." He drew back. "It's no use my doing that," he laughed, nervously. " I don't know anything about such things." "Just feel it," she insisted, taking the tips of his fingers, and running them up and down the painted surface. "So smooth and creamy, isn't it? That's how you can tell. I want to show you something else I picked up to-day. A little bit of Sevres. It's in the dining-room. Sit down. I'll fetch it. No, come in. Come into the dining-room. I'll turn on a light." S'le pushed aside the portieres, and passed beyond them. "Come," she called, softly. Through the clamor of his senses he kept his head sufficiently to hear the two Voices within himself. The one said: "If you go in there you're done for." The other: "Hilda won't suspect you any the less if you stay, or any the more if you go. So why not — go ?" He went. As he entered the room only the low- hanging central light was burning, illumining the 360 THEWA Y HOME orchids on the table. In the dimness of a comer opened She stood facing him, awaiting him, a small ^i" ^h r' •" ''," ^'"'^'- f'-°'" its rounded Tu" But as he stalked forward he saw nothing but the welcome on her hps and the shining in her eyes 94 CHAPTER XI ON the following day, as Charlie Grace was leav- ing the building in lower Broadway in which the Buffalo & New London had its offices, he heard his name. "Hello, Grace!" The voice was surly. The man from whom it came was hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed. Neither his hat nor his overcoat was in its first freshness, and he stood out of the crowd that hurried between the street-door and the lifts like one who has been thrust aside. To himself Charlie Grace said "Damn!" but he too stepped out of the current and came to a halt. "Hello, Ellis!" For the minute it seemed all there was to say till he forced himself to add, in a tone he tried to make friendly: "What you doing here? Heard you were ill. Hope you're better. Suppose you are, or you wouldn't be about." There was a muttered, inarticulate reply, after which, with an airy, casual, "Well, so long!" Chrrlie Grace moved on. He was too uneasy to be glad of making his escape. Ellis would be the first to remember that the B. & N. L. offices were in that building, and to put two and two together. The very errand on which he, Charlie Grace, was in New York was commonly reported among people interested in the T.-C. R. to 362 THE WAY HOME be of Ellis's conception. Then there was Hilda. He had additional reasons for being sensitive with regard to Hilda, and it was possible that here was a chance of doing something that would please her. He turned back. Ellis was still watching the hurry- ing throng go by. Charlie Grace tried to make his tone even more amical. "Look here, old chap; I wonder if there's anything I can do for you?" The hollow eyes looked up. Even the sagging mustache seemed to bristle. "Do for me.'" The ligiit in Ellis's face might have been one of gratitude. It was difficult to tell. The would-be benefactor nodded. "Do for me?" Ellis repeated. "You've done for me, damn you! And, by God! I'll do for you." The sullen voice grew so loud that the attention of the passers-by was attracted. In order to keep his sang-froid Charlie Grace took on the air of a kindly fellow trying to deal with a refractory friend. "I say, old chap—" he protested, laying his hand on Ellis's shoulder. But Ellis jumped aside. "Don't touch me, you damned thief," he screamed. "Come and see the fun," one telegraph-boy yelled to another. A little crowd collected. Ellis seized the opportunity to point a bony white finger, and shout: "That's Charles G. Grace, who's putting through a damned sly job between the Trans-Canadian and the Buffalo & New London— but he hasn't been damned sly enough for me. I've dogged him like a sleuth. Look at him. Don't for- get his name. Every one will know him soon as the damnedest hound unhung." 363 THE WAY HOME For the sake of the onlookers Charlie Grace still maintained his coolness. '"Sh! 'shI old boy. Let me get a cab and take you home. No? Well, some one ought to do it." He turned to those who stood nearest him. "He won't let w^— but he ought to be got home or to a hospital. His name is Ellis, and he lives in Brooklyn, I think— though I'm not very sure. Used to know him in the Northwest. Good chap till he went this way." So he (?ot out o» the building into the stream of Broadwav without undue loss of dignity. The sense of loss was within. There the collapse of his self-assurance, of his self-respect, was such that no Dutch courage of inward cursing could jrace him up against it. His self-respect, indeed, had been gone since the preceding night; but that was some- thing with which he didn't immediately have to deal. It was degrading to have had an encounter with Ellis in a public place, before twenty witnesses at least, but even that could be brushed aside as an annoyii.j detail. The menace was in Ellis's knowl- edge of a mission to which, in its present stage, secrecy was the first element of success. That was terrifying. It might be no more on Ellis's part than guesswork leading to a bluff; it might be only the ravings of a man maddened to desperation; but either possibility was dangerous. It was not that Charlie Grace had the thing itself so much at heart, though he could see how — in case "the deal were put through" — he should be able to "play the market" to advantage. What he had at heart was the effect of the issue on himself. It was the most important task with which he had as yet been intrusted. Success would place him among 364 THE WAY HOME men recognized as able in this branch of afTain. Failure might not ruin him, but it would certainly put him back ten years, even if it didn't thrust him forever into the mass of the useful second rate. It would be curious if Ellis, of all men, should become the mstrument of this doom. Hilda would s?y it was the working out of a natural consequence; but he had seen too much of injury inflicted and never avenged to believe in any such law as that. There had been a warning current when he was a boy— was It from the Bible?— "Be sure your sin will find you out"; but it was a matter of the commonest experi- ence that your sin didn't find you out— that it could remain through life as secret as the impulse that committed it. From any such Nemesis as that he could reasonably count on imn'unity; but he was afraid of Ellis, none the less. Among the letters waiting him at the offices of the Trans-Canadian was one from Hilda. He thrust it into his pocket. It was his custom to read her letters before any others; but this morning he couldn't do so. Sickening recollections of the previous night combined with the incident with Ellis to turn Hilda into an upbraiding spirit, from whose presence he shrank. Before he could look at her words he reported to Mr. Purvis, consulted with his colleagues, and dictated to his stenographer. By following his accustomed routine he got back something of his nerve. When he felt that he dared, he withdrew into the little room allotted to his private use, and broke Hilda's seal. Her letter began with details of the domestic round at home^ It told of drives and calls and Emma's kind- nesses. Then its tonechangedsuddenly. Shecontinued: 365 THE WAY HOME Dearest Charlie, I am rot very well. I am not as well as I ought to be. I have a feeling— you will think me fanciful— that I am not going to live through it— that I shall die— that I may die even before you come home. You say in your last letter that it will not be long now before you return— but long and short are words of which I seem to have lost the meaning. Even now I feel that you have been away so long as to have become to me something like a dream. Oh, Charlie, I never should have married you. We've both made a mistake. I see that now so plainly. I am hot the sort of woman who could ever make you happy, and yet I have not the capacity to adapt myself. I could die for you— I some- times hope I shall die for you^but I shall never be able to make the sli-ht changes, the small concessions to your standards, you would like. You and I are so different- and each so incapable of crossing the gulf that separates us from each other. But what I want to say now is this —that if I do go you must marry some one whom you can truly love. It won't be enough to respect her. No woman was ever satisfied with respect. I know you have respected me, and if you haven't done more, dear Charlie, it is not your fault. You mustn't blame yourself. I am not the type of woman to call forth the thing essential. I lack something. I doh't know what it is, but whatever it is, I lack it. I knew that before I married you. Know- ing that, I should not have married you. I knew it was wroiig at the time — but so many other considerations came up that I allowed my better judgment to be over- ruled. I think the situation will right itself now; and if it does I want you to remember that I shall be glad of it— because it will be a way of making you some amends. There was more to the same purport, but he couldn't read it all at once. His eyes smarted. Something in his breathing, too, came hardly and 366 THE WAY HOME spasmodically. He crumpled the pages up, and thrust them back into his pocket. "If we've made a mistake," he muttered to him- self, "and I suppose we have, she shouldn't be the one to suffer. It ought to be me. And I am suffer- ing. My God, how I'm suffering! I'm suffering from — " He tried to be analytical, and for once he succeeded. "I'm suffering from a sense of — inner disgrace." That was it. He was defiled within. Something that was of the very essence of his nature was be- smirched. His immediate longing was to be able to plunge into some sort of moral bath — some baptism that would wash away what was otherwise indelible. There being no such fount, he could only sit down to the realization of his vileness. "My God, what a mess I've made of it!" He was not sure of the actual cause of his remorse. It couldn't be his disloyalty to Hilda, because — well, because in the back of his mind he had always expected to be faithless to her some time, and now the time had come. Neither could it be his responsi- bility for Ellis's break-up, for the reason that Ellis should have taken care of himself Neither was it this thing nor that thing nor another thing, for which a sentimental conscience might have twinges. He examined the charges categorically, acquitting himself of each in turn. "It's the whole thing," he groaned, at last. "It's — fM, He got up and walked about. It was a handsome little room, belonging to a man named Stearns — now abroad— with a pretty taste in office furnishings. There were two or three good chairs scattered about, 367 THE WAY HO ME some original racing prints on the walls, and an old Consutution mirror, in which, as he passed, Charlie Grace got a glimpse of himself at full length. There was no denying it, he was a good-looking fellow. He was even an attractive fellow. He had his father's fine, strong features, tempered by his mother's softnesses. If the mouth, with its thin, drooping lips, was stern, it was not unsympathetic, while all the rest of the face suggested good-natured kindliness. And yet, within, he was what he was. That was the curious part of it. What a ridiculous theory it always proved to be that you could judge people by their faces! Any one who judged him by his face would call him a fine, clean, strapping chap, incapable of a base acrion or an ignoble thought. What whited sepulchers people were I There was that aspect of the matter, too. He Was not the only one. He had but to recall some of the confidential anecdotes told by Hattie Bright — and not by Hatrie Bright alone, poor soul! — to realize how few there were who lived up to their reputations. There was some comfort in that. There was, in fact, a good deal of comfort in it. Leaving women out of the question, it was beyond cavil that all men had the beast in them — the beast of prey. Who was he to be better than others ? He might be in the gutter — but he wasn't there alone. Taking heart of grace from these reflections, he sent a telegram to Emma begging of news of Hilda's health, after which he went ag&m to see Mr. Purvis. He argued that matters with t'le B. & N. L. were now at a point at which, for the present, they had better be left alone. The T.-C. R., having made all 368 THE WAY HOME the advances, could reasonably wait for something to come from the other side. Too great eagerness might defeat its own ends. Mr. Purvis being of this opinion, and perhaps not unwilling to get rid of a young man generally looked upon as his heir presumptive in office, it was agreed that Charlie Grace might reasonably, for a while at any rate, return to the West. The decision came in the nick of time, for before his telegram could have reached Emma, one arrived from her. Healthy boy bom last night, two months earlier than expected. Hilda weak, but not in danger. Come as soon as you conveniently can. Before leaving for home he took the rime to send a dozen Chinese plates, which Heiligmann the expert had persuaded him to buy for the new house, to Hatrie Bright. "Poor little rat!" Chariie Grace uttered these words half aloud, as, four days later, he sat by a crib all ribbons and lace and downy stuff, and peered for the first rime at his child. He sat on a small wooden chair, his body bent forward, one foot thrust out, the other back- ward, his arm across his knee, in a position denoting eagerness. It denoted curiosity, too — curiosity mingled with sympathy. In his present state of mind sympathy dominated. He was sorry for the wee mite, whose puckered, frowning little face seemed even as he slept ,to forebode trouble. For was he not a Grace? — of the same blood and passions and weaknesses as his father. Life could be no great gift to one who 369 THE WAY HOME I I caitiie trailing clouds of iniieiirtd taint, from Charlie Grace himself, and from the rector of St. David's beyond him, and from the carpenter beyond the rector of St. David's, and from the common laborer beyond the carpenter, and from the Lord only knew what beyond the common laborer. It was almost like the propagation of sorrow to bring the poor little creature into the world. Charlie Grace had heard somewhere of a doctrine of original sin, and, though he didn't know what it meant, he was sure it musv be founded in truth, since all men— again to leave women out of the question — were conceived and bom in sin, and could never outlive the birthright. Even so innocent a thing as this couliln't escape it. Charlie Grace could look back to a time when his own soul was almost as undefiled as that of this sleeping in- fant; and now he was — what he had become. Where, then, was the good of life? It wasn't as if you could dodge the universal destiny. You might twist and double never so swiftly, but you ran into it at last — the infinite slough, in which you could do nothing but wallow. Stooping more closely, he pulled away, carefully, tenderly, an inch or two of the downy covering ftohi the little form. A tir. fist closed round his finger with tight, prehensile grasp. A thrill passed through the man's frame at the touch — a thrill not so much of joy or of pain as of awe. It was as if he felt the next generation swinging itself off the ancestral tree into futurity. It was but a short time ago that he had so swuiig himself off from the rector of St. David's, and not so long since the rector of St. David's had swung himself away from the carpenter. Still briefer Would seem the years before a new genera- 370 THE WAY HOME tion still would be springing from the wizened epitonie of the human race snuggled in this cradle, and he, Charlie Grace, would be thrust a rpw farther o»ck. Then it would be a row farther back still, and then a row farther back still, till to some Charlie Grace walking before long in Broadway he would be as dim as the carpenter and the common laborer were to him. Where were they now ?— the carpenter and the common laborer. Where was the rector of St. David's.? Wherever they were, it was where he himself should be when this child's children were sinning and suffering as he was sinning and suffering in the year of Christ 1901. There was nothing novel in these reflecrions unless It were in the degree to which they robbed sinning and suffering of such value as they had by making them fleeting. Even the wrecking of Ellis and the lapse with Hattie Bright, which loomed largest on his mental horizon for the moment, became trivial incidents in a life so essentially futile There were plenty of such happenings, and worse* in the long line stretched out behind him; there would be more to come. This very child would grow up and become guilty of them, and his children after him. It wasn't sacrilegious to predict if it was only common sense. If, tFarefore, he, Charlie Urace, had brought back to his wife the burden of a worried conscience, it was really not worth while. 5>uch ottenses as his had been committed myriads of times, and would be committed myriads of times again. Her own father had probably committed them; her own son would do the same. Best be cool about It, then, and stoical, remembering that a drop more or less in the sea was a negli^ble quantity 371 THE WAY HOME So, coolly and stoically he carried himself through- out that spring and summer while Hilda regained her strength, and married life resumed its normal course. The very normality of the course tran- quilized matters, and kept them from growing tragic. From Hilda came no repetition of the statements she had made in the letter written before the baby's birth, and from Charlie Grace no reference to the fact that he had ever read them. If her words had left any impression behind them it was in the tacit assumption on both their parts — or what he took to be on both their parts — that since ideal marriages do not exist outside the pages of romance, one could only make the best of the marriage one had let oneself in for. He used the expression of him- self. He didn't blame Hilda. He had "let him- self in for'' the situation in which they found them- selves. Hilda had warned him in advance that what they felt for each other wasn't love. She had been more skilled in her analysis than he — probably because she was a woman. He, poor blundering chap, hadn't known die difference between love and intense admiration. He had admired Hilda in- tensely; he admired her so still; but, as she had put it in her letter, that wasn't the thing essential. He saw that now. And she saw it, too. The real tragedy lay there. As far as he alone was concerned he could have jogged along in a loveless marriage — or a marriage infused with only a stinted degree of love — somehow. But it was more difficult doing it for both. If Hilda had only loved him he was sure he could have suc- cessfully concealed from her the fact that he had made a mistake on his part. But she had frankly 372 THE WAY HOME admitted that "other considerations" had over- ruled her better judgment, leading to regrets of her °7^- „ ^f*"" .'*'* thought of the "other considera- tions" his mind turned away in delicacy and pity. Motherless, homeless, moneyless, what else could a girl do but turn to the man who was urging her to let him take care of her ? A woman was naturally para- sitic. She couldn't help being so. He disliked the woman who wasn't so. He no more reproached Hilda for having made him serve her purpose in this respect than he grudged the dozen Chinese plates to Hattie Bright. But the normal course of life kept things smooth by the very force of its normality. There was a spell in rising each day to well-served meals and simple, dignified w^ys of living. The decorum of the household under Hilda's management subordinated even its master to the system of the whole, as the disciphne of an army controls the general. Charlie Grace was himself too practised in the art of organi- zation not to perceive this, and to admire his wife for It the more. If, he argued, she could accom- plish so much with Osborne's relatively modest establishment on Lake Superior, what would she not do with the rich resources of the Pavilion de Flore? As to that elegant residence, he found himself curiously timid in breaking the news to her. For one thing, his departure from New York had been so hurried that he hadn't brought the photographs on which he relied for convincing her; he hadn't even had them taken. For another thing, more than a fortnight passed before Hilda was able to discuss such matters at all, and by that time his own en- thusiasm had cooled down. For a third thing, 373 THE WAY HOME women were peculiar about domestic concerns, add had an absurd idea that men knew nothing about them. Now that Hilda was on her feet again, he could see more clearly than he had realized as yet that she was the kind of born mistress of the house who would have decided opinions as to the details I under her direction. He had no doubt about her m liking the Pavilion de Flore once she saw it— who could help liking a thing that, as he said to himself, so clearly "looked its price"?— he only feared that were be to tell her too abruptly that this beautiful home was hers, she might think he had ignored her rights in her own domain. There was one other consideration — one that he felt without being able. Without being willing per- haps, to put it into words. It was difficult to tell Hilda about the Pavilion de Flore for the teason that in his memo:y the house was connected with two other women more closely than with her. Indirectly, it was through Esther Legrand that he had acquired it; through Hattie Bright that he had partially furnished it. The shadows of these two— now one and How the other — seemed to get between Hilda and him every time he tried to bring the sub- ject up. Nevertheless, there Came a day in which he forced the topic boldly. "There's a house I should like you to look at in East Seventy-fifth Street." They had been talking of houses — oi rather, he had been doing so — and of the best part of New York in which to live. "Very well. Have you seen it yourself?" "I've — I've gone over it." 374 THE WAY HOME "If you Uke it— " "I did like it— immensely." "Then I should probably like it, too. Don't you think his nose is really a little bigger? It's so like a grain of Indian corn. Don't you think it's like a grain of Indian corn?" Having answered this question in the affirmative a good many times during the past three months, Charlie Grace felt justified in regarding it tiow as intrusive. While Hilda kissed the grain of Indian com he himself puffed silently at his cigar as he followed with his eyes the course of an ore-boat — a long black streak on the water, with the funnel at the stern— rounding the curve coming down from the Canadian shore. They sat on the veranda at the head of the green lawn, which sloped down to the lake through clumps of white and red ro^es. "It's what they call a little Franfois Premier hdtel," he said, when he judged it judicious to go on with the theme. Hilda raised her head from contemplating the baby. "What is ? Oh, the house you were speaking of.^^ Isn't that rather artificial in New York?" "I don't think so. They're very Frenchy in their taste — in the streets up there." "Oh, I know they are. But doesn't it seem tQ you rather ridiculous? French architecture belongs so essentially to the soil of France. Transplanted to New York it's as incongruous as a man wearing a papal tiara would be in Wall Street. Does he want to kick his little feet, then, the darling?" Charlie Grace could only say, with what he hoped was confidence: "Well, wait and see." So Hilda waited and saw. She waited through 37S THE WAY HOME the summer, and saw on a morning late in October, when they had been twenty-four hours in the hotel in New York. Her husband had curbed his im- patience to take her to the new house on the first day, fearing the fatigue in iJental to the long journey might render her out of sorts, and adverse in her opinion. After the conversation on the veranda at Minnesaba he had come to the conclusion that it would be diplomatic on his part to let the selection seem to come from her. He was canny, too. He purposely took her to two or three houses which he knew in advance would displease her before ordering the cabman to c'rive to the Pavilion de Flore. "This is the one I spoke of," he tried to say casually. "Shall we go in? Or are you too tired ?" "I am dred; but since we're here we might as well go in." She glanced up at the fafade. "C'est gentil," she admitted. They entered. She looked round the hall critically. Charlie Grace's heart was thumping. He loved this house, and was proud of it. "There seem to be things in it," Hilda said. "There — there are," he admitted. "In fact, it's — it's partly furnished." "They wouldn t expect us to take the furniture, I suppose." "Not unless you liked it," he found himself able to say. "We shouldn't want that." She pointed with her parasol to a marble hall table, with carved griffins as legs. He had bought it at the Art and Auction Gallery, feeling sure of the good taste of his purchase, since there was a pre- cisely similar tsble in the Waldorf. He hastened, 376 THE WAY HOME "No; we shouldn't however, to agree with her. want that." They pasted into the dining-room. Again she looked about her silently. "It isn't a bad room," she remarked at last; "but— how funny I" I' What's funny?" he questioned, timorously. "Well, these things— this heavy Jacobean table and these gimcrack Chippendale chairs. The table is a good one — for a baronial hall or a monks' refectory— but the chairs are cheap modern repro- ductions. They must have been awfully queer people who lived here." He would have told her that no one had lived there as yet had she not crossed the room to examine the butler's pantry and its connection with the kitchen. "This is awful," he heard her say. In reply to another timid inquiry on his part she explained the details in which the awfulness lay. It lay in the situation of the kitchen, in the distance of the kitchen from the pantry, in the distance of the pantry from the dining-room, in the impossibility of keeping dishes hot in traversing such spaces, in the number of steps for the servants, and in much more that seemed to him irrelevant and hyper- critical. They went up-stairs. He pointed out the fine sweep of the balustrade while she remarked that the stair itself was fatiguing. She acknowledged that the drawing-room and library were good, "but," she added, "I never saw such a house. It's like a shop. No two things in it go together. Some of the things are good, and others are trash. I can't imagine what sort of person could have collected them." 25 377 THE WAY HOME He had himself sufficiently in hand to say, "We could get rid of the stuff, so long as you like the houst." They went up the second flight "f stairs. Here there was little in the way of Chai.. Grace's pur- chases, so that the inspection was soon made. "Is this all?" Hilda asked, when they had passed through the bedrooms. "There are the servants' rooms in the attic. Should you like to see them?" -'le answered, decisively: "No; because this house won't ('o." I Perhaps his crestfallen look betrayed him, though nr t immediately. "Won't do? Why won't it do?" She laughed. "Wiiy, just see! There's that room for you, and that one for me, and that one for baby. Not another spot on this floor." " But isn't that enough ?" "Where's the day-nursery? — and the guestroom? — or a bit of extra space anywhere ? There's nowhere to live — or to put anything. And baby's room wouldn't get a ray of sun." She turned to go down the stairs. "I can't imagine," she continued, in descending, "who could have wanted such a house in the first place. For mercy's sake, who does it belong to?" He pretended to be looking at something on the stairs and to be speaking absently as he said, "It belongs to a man who bought it . . . because he thought his wife . . . would like it. . . . But she didn't . . . which is the reason why . . . it's hr sale . . . again." "I can understand that," she said, reaching the drawing-room floor and looking about hpr the 378 THE W A Y HOME •econd ume. "No," she went on, with conviction; Its juit as I said. There's nowhere to live. 1 here s not a spot in the whole house where you can fancy yourself sitting down." About ten o'clock that night Charlie Grace came ctlV. *""'' ''""" walking in the dusty coolness of fifth Avenue. He had gone out not merely to get the air, but to produce something like order in his thoughts. He wanted to detach Hilda from the foolish business of the house, and frankly to own that It was a matter in which he had been stupid. •i/u r J' <=<'"«^'"'''o" was P easy thing; for he still believed the house to be a beautiful house, full L u",j "' '*""«'• ^* was inconceivable to him that Hilda couldn't see it. He could only attribute her dwelling on such trifles as the kitchen arrange- ments and the lack of sunshine, and ignoring the fact • u* J** °"' '^°"''' '"*"" **"" *'°"** without thinking It had cost twice its value, to the circumstance of her being a woman. Who would ever know that the servants had to walk half a mile, as Hilda said, in her exaggerated woman's way, every time they con- veyed a slice of toast to the breakfast-table.? And as for sunshine in the baby'r room, how was a mite like that to care whether he had sunshine in his room or not? Then there was this talk of things not go- ing together!— of Jacobean tables and Chippendale chairsi— as if any one would ever noticr that! A u J ir""* ' "^^^^^ ^^^ ^ '^'''^ was a table. If you had them handsome and strong and expensive, who was to ask whether they came from baronial halls or Grand Rapids, Michigan? That was the worst ot living so long iil Europe, as well as of being a 379 THE WAY HOME woman, that you got finicky over trifles while you ignored the essential. Hilda had stabbed him in his little vanities, she had wounded him in his pride as the builder of a home, and yet, as the day wore on to evening, he tried to do her justice. The situation was one of his own making. He had been crass about it from the first. Without being driven to confess that his judgment had been vitally defective, he could see that he had bungled the whole thing and led Hilda into a trap. It was a trap in which he himself was taken in all sorts of ways; but that was not her fault. In the first phase of his annoyance he had declared to himself that it was her ftult — that she was perversely slighting his taste; but he had been obliged to revise so hasty an opinion as that. The tnath was that his taste was good enough; only between his likings and Hilda's there were radical and irreconcilable differences. It was one more in- dication of their common mistake in thinking they could live together. And yet they must live together. There was no question as to that. They must live together, and he must make such concessions- — ^without saying anything about it — as would make life not only tolerable, but as nearly happy as might be. He came back to the hotel with the intention of telling Hilda that perhaps, with the aid of her friend Mrs. Meredith, she might be able to find a house to suit herself. If so, he would subscribe to her choice, whatever the style or the situation, of their future home. That would mean, on his part, an act of mental abdication. On entering the sitting-room he found her in her 380 THE WAY HOME favorite comer overlooking the crossing of Fifth Avenue and Thirty-third Street, with a view of the long lines of lights. It was the suite of rooms they had occupied on their last visit to New York, en- larged now so as to take in the baby. Only the green-shaded lamp was lighted. The window beside which Hilda sat was open, the curtains blowing gently in the night breeze. ^^ He had scarcely taken off his hat when Hilda said, "Charlie, was the man who bought that house be- cause he thought his wife would like it you ?" He stood dumbfounded, just inside the door, his hat still in his hand. "Why on earth should you think that?" he managed to say at last. "Oh, for all sorts of reasons — little things I no- ticed without thinking of them at the time — and other things — since then. I've been going all over them — and putting them together — and things you hinted at as long ago as in the summer — in the West." He tried to laugh. "And you've come to this wonderful conclusion.? All I can say, dear, is that you'd better try again." Throwing his hat on a sofa, he went toward his bedroom door, but she called him. "Don't go away, Charlie. Come here. Sit down. Let us talk." He threw himself comfortably on the window-seat, where the wind blew through his hair. "I was just going to tell you," he began, "that if you could get Mrs. Meredith to help you find a house — " "No; let me speak. If you have bought that house, Charlie, thinking I might like it— I do like it." He was too sore at heart to accept this magnanim- 381 THE WAY HOME ity. "I'm sorry for that, because we're not going to live in it. You're to have the house that suits you, and no other." "But the house that suits me better than any other is the one you've selected. It must suit me better than any other for the very reason that you've selected it. Don't you see that?" "H'm! I can't say that I do. This morning you—" "Don't you think that this morning you took me at a rather unfair advantage? — perhaps a rather unkind advantage?" "I didn't mean it to be unkind, or unfair, either. I wanted you to express yourself frankly — " "I still don't think it was the way to make me do it. But since I've done it, I want you to see that all such judgments as that must be necessarily superficial. If you've really bought the house — " "I've not said so." "No; but if you have, I can see how we could make it do. I've been going over the accommoda- tions — " " But I don't want you to have a house that will only — do. I want you — " "Isn't it our first duty to be sensible? If you've bought this house you've probably spent a lot of money on it — money that we shouldn't throw away. We ought to live in it — and make the best of it." "Oh, I could get rid of it." She ignored the admission contained in these words, going on to say: "You couldn't get rid of it very easily. It was probably in the market a good while before you took it." He admitted that this was so. 382 THE WAY HOME It s a man's house," she went on. "A man must have planned it and furnished it. No woman would have been satisfied with two or three great big inconvenient rooms— and nothing else. No woman could have filled them with such an extra- ordmary lot of odds and ends, either." It must have been the look in his eyes that startled her, for she exclaimed at once: "Oh, Charlie! "^^u didn't do that, too, did you?" He raised himself from his lounging position, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, stretched out his legs, and laughed. Perhaps he laughed a little too loudly, being determined to make a clean breast of the thing once for all. "You've struck It. I'm the culprit. I got most of the things as bargains at Henderson's Art and Auction Gallery. Y^ needn't hesitate to sweep the lot of 'em out." There was a long silence. "Oh, there'll be no Hw °^ *''*''" ^^^ **''^' ^'^^ ^°^'^^^ assurance. We can make them do, too— or most of them since they're your choice. It will only need a little — contnvance. And as for the rooms, a good architect could remedy most of the trouble, and probably give us a little more space." He began to take courage. "Oh, Coningsby said we should have to make some alteration I allowed for that." He thought she straightened herself. "Who said so? "A young fellow named Coningsby — chap you don't know. I really got hold of the place through him. He had the disposal of it, and—" "And you took it off his hands." "Not that, exactly, but I—" 383 THE WAY HOME "Is his name Ralph Coningsby? Is he the Con- tngsby who Emma says is so attentive to — ?" He too straightened himself, throwing up his chin. Since so much had come out, he was r<;ady to tell the whole story. "To Esther Legrand. Yes." There was a pause and a stillness, really got it — through them." He took on an air of surprise you m'-an by — through them. 'So you " I don't know what I got it through — " "Through her, then. I supposed it was your own discovery — " "So it was. They — or she — or whatever the pronoun you like to use — had nothing to do with it beyond the initial suggestion. I should never have taken the place if I hadn't thought it was the sort of thing you'd like. Since it isn't, I should greatly prefer — " "To do something else. But I shouldn't." She leaned forward, and surprised him by seizing his hand. "Don't you see? — that's my point — that %/hatever you do, I want to accept it and make the best of it. I don't want to do it just grimly and stoically— but, since we must work out our lives together — " He was afraid she was going to refer to the sub- jects touched on in the letter she had written him before the baby's birth, and so hastened to say: "Yes; I know what you mean. Tut if there's any making the best of things to be done it ought to be by me." "I don't see that. If you've made a mistake — if we've made a mistake — we must stand by each other loyally — " 384 THE WAY HOME He drew her to him, almost lifting her from her chair. She crouched beside him on the window- seat, his arm about her. "I'll do the standing by, darling," he whispered, brokenly. "I don't want you to be worried by that. ... If we've made a mistake, it's been mine more than yours. . . . In fact, it never was yours at all. . . . You saw how things were from the beginning. . . . You warned me. . . . You said it was wrong. . . . But what were we to do.? . . . Vmo was there to take care of you.? . . . And I do love you, Hilda, darling —in my way. ... I want to take all the responsi- bility on myself. ... So please don't speak about it again Don't write to me about it, either. ..." She drew herself slowly away, looking up at h'm with head thrown back, while his arm was still about her waist. "Charlie, what are you talking about? Is it about — the house?" He was puzzled. "Why, no. I'm talking about —what you're talking about— what you wrote about." She detached herself altogether, speaking with -lore astonishment. " What I wrote about ? When ?" "Before baby was bom— the List letter I had from you — " "0\i—that!" She stood up, moving away from him toward the center of the room. "I don't remember very clearly what I said in it. I know I wrote it one evening when I was overwrought. I think I said that I shouldn't have married you — " It was to justify himself that he explained: "You said something about— about a mistake— as you've said jiist now. But if you didn't mean it—" Her voice was cold. "You're willing to let me take It back. Is that it?" 38s THE WAY HO ME He tried to recapture his position. "No. I'm only asking you not to say it again." "Because it can go without saying. I think that's what you mean, isn't it?" "Not in the slightest." She pressed a button turning on the central cluster of lights. "Then why do you speak of no blame being attached to me? — of what were we to do? — of taking the responsibility on yourself?" "For the simple reason that I thought you were repeating what you had already written — " "But I was talking of the house." "Yes; so I see. But I thought you meant — the other thing." She stood with hands folded and eyes down- cast. "Then, suppose we make it — the other thing." "I don't see the good of that, since you didn't mean it." "But I see the good of it — since you do mean it." He got up and went toward her. "Oh, come now, Hilda—" She backed i way from him to the wall, pressing an- other button and turning on the lights around the sides of the room. In the hard glare her eyes shoe out the lambent flames he had already seen in them. She stood very erect and still. "Why not face the fact, Charlie? We've made a mistake. I said so in my letter, didn't I? — and you accepted it. No; don't say you didn't. You couldn't have b'.undered on as you've been doing now unless you'd been convinced of it in your heart." "That's not fair, Hilda. I wasn't convinced of it in my heart. I only thought that as you'd laid such 386 THE WAY HOME stress on it— there might be something in it. That's She laughed hardly. "That's all! As if it were not enough. But you're quite right. There is something in it. There's everything in it. We've made a mistake — and we're sorry for it." "I'm not sorry for it." She seemed to concentrate all her forces to utter the two words, "I am." He started. "For God's sake, don't say that, Hilda, if it isn't true." "It is true. You make it true. How can I not be sorry for a mistake you're ready to recognize so promptly.'" "But I'm not. I don't recognize it. I love you, Hilda." She smiled, the bitter-sweet shiile he had come to know. "Yes, Charlie; I think you do love me— with a divided heart. Of what you ha ve to give, you do give me— something. I admit that. And when I do you justice I think you might try to do mfe justice in returr. You might try to understand how hard it is for a woman like me— a proud woman— an exacting woman— yes, I know I'm exacting— to have to see at every turn that she's sharing her husband's heart with some one else." "Oh, nonsense, HiWj— " ' It isn't nonsense. It isn't imagination or mor- bidness or any of the foolish fancies these things are so often declared to be. I know, Charlie. I know as well as if I was with you every hour of the day and entered into all your thoughts. Look me in the eyes and answer me. Tell me if it isn't so. Even in so momate a matter as our new house, our home, 387 THE WAY HOME isn't it true that another woman is connected with it in your thoughts before I am — perhaps more women than one? Answer me. Look me in the eyes." He looked her in the eyes, bracing his strength for a reply of some sort, when suddenly he found himself asking, inwardly: "What's the use?" No words of his could dispel her conviction. It would be lost labor to try. Ht wheeled abruptly from her, stalking to the comer window, where, with his hands behind hit back, he stood looking down on the street. It was not difficult to see that in her reference to the house her bow had been drawn more or less at a venture; and yet he had been hit so accurately that it revolted him to attempt a defense. As a matter of fact, he could think of no defense other than blank denial. He had been struck dumb. He felt stupefied, vacuous. It was into a totally empty mind that the words glided like a gibe, "Be sure your sin will find you out." "Oh, pshaw!" he muttered impatiently, and turned. He must say something to Hilda, no matter what. The subject couldn't be uropped there. "And if things between us are as you say — ^what would be your solution?" There was no reply. The room was empty. She had slipped away in silence, leaving the lights flaring uselessly. BOOK III CHAPTER I IN the spring of 1906 Charlie Grace began to * perceive that the unhappiness of his married ffinH^ \TT °^ u-""""" '"'"^'•■■dge among his friends. The first .nkhng of this fact came to him dunng the dinner g,ven by Miss Hornblower in honor of the visit of S.r Osborne and Lady Tomlinson coming from Montreal. The festivity being to some extent a reunion of old parishioners of St. David's. Charlie Grace found himself seated between Mrs thXr "f Mrs Legrand. The conversation o thoughts' **'*"*' ' ''^°" "' "'"^ sJ2i' "?"'"'' ^'"^ '"ji««nf my husband," she was saying. I m too good a wife to seek anything but his highest interests, don't you know I am? But no one can have been married into the Church as long as I ve been without seeing that it's frightfully he d have been as broad-minded as any one. As it IS, hes cramped-and oh, so mistaken! I follow him as far as I can; but when a woman has such iberal views as I have they can't subscribe to every- thing, now can they? And as for this going on committees against divorce and trying to put it thi2'r° ""^ ""'"' "'' "" '^'°"«' ^''" •'^ y° With a challenging little smile she held her head 39> THE WAY HOME to one tide in an attitude compelling a still youthful archness to struggle with the encumbrance of a triple chin. His reply indicated sympathy with modem views on the subject of marriage, though he re- gretted the confusion of the laws. "Oh, I don't care anything about the laws," the lady declared, daringly. "It's the thing. And where a man and woman are unhappy together I don't see any use in forcing them to keep it up. Do you?" Though he knew the topic came near home, he did not at once suspect his friend of speaking with a motive. "To force them to keep it up is one thing; and for them to try to make the best of what they've let themselves in for is another." "Oh, but when they have tried — and failed? When they've tried, and tried, and still don't suit each other? Don't you think it's pitiful then to see two human beings wasting th>nr youth — and the years that might be happy — in an effort that will never come to anything?" He acknowledged that it might be. "And I've known so many cases just like that — so many cases where, I know, Mr. Legrand has advised them to keep together, but if they'd con- sulted me I should have told them to move apart. Here you are, I should have said, both young, both of good principles, both fitted for great happiness •with some one else — but utterly and hopelessly un- suited CO each other, I should have said. What law is there of God or man that can compel you to be wretched, when you might find some one else, and begin all over again? I should have said that. You see, I'm very broad. I've been through so 39* THE WAY HOME much that I understand the world at my husband can't. A clergyman knows so little of actual life, don't you know he doesn't? He's in his study — he's removed — he hasn't got to deal with vital things like you and I do. I make allowances for Rufus. He's all theory. He see so little of the practical side of life. I come in between that and liim. I shelter him. Oh, I don't take any credit to myself. It's my duty. It's what I made up my mind to — partly — when I married into the Church. And yet I'm not sure if it isn't a mistake in some ways. What do you think? There's such a thing as sheltering a husband too much — especially when he's a clergyman. If Rufus only had some experience of Ji'\,-ce hin-iself he'd broaden out." Charlie Grace smiled. "He's not likely to get that, with such a wife as you, Mrs. Legrand." "Oh, I wasn't thinking of it in that way. But if some one — well, some one near and dear to him were to — well, come in contact with it — then Rufus would se' it as a practical thing." "But there is no on- near and dear to him but you — and Esther." Mrs. Legrand hestitated, preened herself, and said boldly: "Well, if it was Esther— he'd think dif- ferently. If she were tied to some one with whom she was unhappy — or if she were to fall in love with a man who'd been — well, who'd been — let us say released — from some one with whom he'd been un- happy — that would bring the matter home to Rufus, don't you know it would ?" His eyes wandered down the table to where Miss Legrand, seated between Ralph Coningsby and Dr. Freddy Furnival, was talking with animation, now 26 393 THE WAY HOME ^?c^\ °"*' ""^ '° ^^^ ^^^^' ="»<^ now to both, bhe doesn't look as if either fate were in store for her, just at present." Mrs. Legrand sighed. "Poor darlingi She has her troubles. And she's so brave." "I suppose," he ventured, "that one of her troubles isn't— on her left.?" "Oh, dear, no. Ralph is no more to her than a nice boy. Not that he is a boy at his age— but he seems like it. She doesn't care for him in that way at all; and if she did, Mr. Legrand and I could never consent to it. He barely makes a living; and he has no expectations." The pause preceding her next words gave them significance. "And yet I often wish that It was he." A second pause heightened the effect. "It would be simpler." He was about to ask the question "Simpler in what way?" when he caught her eye. He had never noticed before what a cold, hard eye it was. Wdw that he made the observation he could see that it had always been cold and hard, even when it had been the light of a silly, simpering face. Before he could collect his wits to analyze her hints Mrs. Fumival turned to say: "So sorry Mrs Grace isn't here. And how is she.?" He explained that the mild spring weather had tempted Hilda to take the children to their little place oh Long Island Sound, where she would probably remain most of the rime rill the autumn. Yes; she would be in town occasionally; but the house in Seventy-fifth Street was too small to be comfortable, now that there were two children run- ning about. Hilda preferred the country in any case. She had little taste for society, and less for 3M THE WAY HOME New York. If ever they built a house on Long Island she would probably make it her home. The ''u'l"^*-°"^^^ 7^^ "° '""'■^ tl^a" a bungalow, which Miss Homblower had constructed for herself dunng her parents' lifetime. Now that she owned the big house, she had been willing to sell him some twenty acres of her estate, including this picturesque little residence, all balconies and verandas It was sufficient for their present needs, but, un- doubtedly, when he could afford it he would build on a larger scale. Just now Hilda was occupied in laying out the bit of ground and making a garden «7u'. 'u "^n' ^°"°*'"g Ralph Coningsby's plans. While he talked to one neighbor he knew the other continued to hsten, and presently Mrs. Legrand broke in again. "So funny of Mrs. Grace not to care for society. With all her advantages she might become quite a leader in time, don't you know she might? I should have thought it was just the sort of thing you would have hked." He murmured something about the expense of keeping up a social position in New York, adding that money didn't go as far in that city as he sup- posed It would before settling there. She took this as a pleasantry. "Oh, moneyl A lot you need think of it. I only wish we had half your income, or a quarter of it. And young people like you and Ms. Grace aren't expected to make a splurge all at once. I think it better taste not to. My cousin, Mrs. Kermit Van Iderstine, was all ready to take you both up, when you came here six years ago, and to push you. You'd have owed that to me, she concluded, archly. 39S THE WAY HOME He forced himself to smile. "I must thank you for the will, even if nothing came of the deed." "Well, that isn't your fault or mine. And it isn't my cousin's fault, either. Mrs. Grace could have had anything she liked — which means that you'd have had it, too. I often think of what my Esther could do in that way — for the right man." He glanced down the table again. The girl was in a flashing holiday mood, as she always was when in touch with any of the gayer phases of life. " He'll turn up — the right man,'" Charlie Grace said, at last. Not to seem to mean too much Mrs. Legrand spoke lightly. "Unfortunately, in her case, the right man would be the one whom some people would think the wrong man. And she's so brave. But," she added, more seriously, "to return to Mrs. Grace. I shouldn't be the one to complain of her not liking society, should I ? — ^when we profit by it to the extent of using your box at the opera. You don't know what that has meant to Esther. And she's been so much admired — now that she's been put where people can see her. It's so kind of you, don't you know it is?" She made one of her effective little pauses. " I only hope it won't be — misunderstood." He felt obliged to say, "I don't see what there is to misunderstand." "Oh, you wouldn't, Charlie. You're so kind you never see anything but the good. I only wish there were more like you. But Esther understands. I think she does. And she's so brave." Feeling it wiser not to probe the meaning of this cryptic speech, notwithstanding the wild and foolish exultation it wrought in him, he turned once more 396 THE WAY HOME toward Mrs. Furnival, who was watching for a chance to say, in a whisper: "I've been hearing the most extraordinary things about our host." CharHe Grace's eyes traveled to the head of the table, where Reggie had been called on to play the man's part on behalf of his sister. He was no longer slim and elegant. At thirty-seven he was de- veloping a waist-line to which no tailor could lend grace. His head had grown prematurely bald, his features bloated and his eyes dulled. In response to Mrs. Furnival's confidence Charlie Grace murmured a polite, "Indeed?" "And about our hostess," the lady continued. "It's as much about her as about him." He grew visibly interested. "Do you remember a girl named Bright? They used to be at St. David's in your father's time." He admitted being able to recall her. "Well, Reggie and she have been friends — very great friends — very great friends indeed." As she waited for a response he said, "I think I've heard so." "And now Fanny says they ought to be married. Did you ever hear anything like that.? — from a sister, of all people!" He smiled as he looked into the little old painted face gazing up into his, still with a trace of the pretty appeal it knew how to make some twenty or thirty years earlier. " But if you had a brother in the .same situation, wouldn't you think so?" She was shocked. "Oh, CharHe! I know you're very advanced and free-thinking, and all that, but you shouldn't make fun of me. I'm very conserva- 397 THE WAY HOME tive and orthodox. I've no sympathy with your loose modern ways of thinking. I'm greatly sur- prised at Fanny, I must say. And yet isn't it often that way? — that the sweet, gentle creature, who stdns so good, will do the most scandalously daring th. igs.?" ' People sometimes seem daring when they're only jiave." "And you call it brave? — to urge a brother into such a match as that?" "Wouldn't a match like that be better than — well, than the match they're making of it now?" "You're really laughing at me. Oh, I know I'm old - fashioned. But it's principle, Charlie. You always come to grief when you get away from principles. And he looks so old, poor fellow, doesn't hi.? That must be — her. And I want to say some- thing else, Charlie. It's about yourself. You won't be offended, will you? You know what a warm interest I've always taken in you." He assured her of this, giving her authoiity to speak. After Mrs. Legrand's hints he was nervous as to what might be coming. "I shouldn't say anything about it at all if Freddy hadn't spoken of it first. He's spoken of it several times — almost every time he's seen you of late. And you know what an interest I always take in you, don't you, Charlie? I'm very maternal that way about Freddy's friends. It's this. You're not looking well." He laughed, not altogether mirthfully. "Oh, I'm well enough." "And you look worried, Charlie. Since you've allowed me to go so far, I'll say that, too." 398 THE IV AY HOME "That's likely enough. A man of thirty-eight, with a lot of irons in the fire— some of which persist m getting cold— has plenty of reason for looking worried." * She grew pensive. "I often think that it's not work that worries one so much as — You see, I've had such a lot of experience. My own life hasn't been always happy." From this tone she reacted quickly to say: "I wonder where Fanny gets these delicious water-ices. They're always better than any one else's." With this diversion she was able, without seeming too pointed, to beuin again on a note of sympathy. "I wish Mrs. Grace was more m town— or went about more when she is here. I feel so for young married people. If there'd only been some one to guide me in the first years of my own life! But I wish you'd see Freddy. He's said two or three times that he didn't like your looks. How funny it is that I should be the mother of a great, wise man like that. They say he's perfectly wonderful for some things— his specialty, you know. His father was a good—