£^-«*<K«ti&M# 
 
 WALKED INARDE 
 
BRA 
 0FTH1 
 
I WALKED 
 IN ARDEN 
 
NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
 SPRING, 1922 
 
 Wanderers 
 
 Knut Hamsun 
 Men of Affairs 
 
 Roland Pertwee 
 The Fair Rewards 
 
 Thomas Beer 
 I Walked in Arden 
 
 Jack Crawford 
 Guest the One-Eyed 
 
 Gunnar Gunnarsson 
 The Longest Journey 
 
 E. M. Forster 
 Cytherea 
 
 Joseph Hergesheimer 
 Explorers of the Dawn 
 
 Mazo de la Roche 
 The White Kami 
 
 Edward Alden Jewell 
 
I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 JACK CRAWFORD 
 
 new york ALFRED • A • KNOPF mcmxxii 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, Ino. 
 
 Published, April, 1923 
 
 Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. F. 
 Paper supplied by Perkins-Goodwin Co., New York, N. Y. 
 Bound by the H. Wolff Estate, New York, N. Y. 
 
 MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
961 
 
 C8987 
 
 MATOL 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I I Begin at the Beginning, 3 
 
 II I Set Out Along a New Trail, 11 
 
 III I Camp in the Desert, 22 
 
 IV I Have My First Encounter with Prospero, 40 
 V I Enter Deep Harbor Society, 61 
 
 VI I Go for a Ride on Satan, 33 
 
 VII I Have the First Great Adventure, 98 
 
 VIU I Play a Part in a Melodrama, 116 
 
 IX I Come Face to Face with the Future, 136 
 
 X We Share Our First Christmas, 160 
 
 XI We Seek and Obtain Consent, 173 
 
 XII We Pass an Ordeal and Sail for Home, 192 
 
 XIII We Arrive and Look Forward to Another Arrival, 
 
 214 
 
 XIV We Find New Life and New Love, 228 
 XV We Begin to Live, 249 
 
 XVI We Hear Sentence Pronounced, 265 
 XVII We Stand at the Cross-Roads, 284 
 Epilogue. Christmas, 1918, 294 
 
 M794968 
 
I WALKED 
 IN ARDEN 
 
Chapter One 
 i begin at the beginning 
 
 I HARDLY know where to begin, because, as I grow older, I 
 find it more and more difficult to know what really is the 
 beginning of anything. Causes are all mixed up, and 
 things that seem afterwards to have a bearing were not at the 
 time important enough to be noted. And it is probably ten to 
 one that some factors have been completely forgotten. I sup- 
 pose nobody can tell all of what happened or tell any of it 
 with absolute accuracy. At least, as I look on at life, any at- 
 tempt to record it on paper seems hopeless. Things hap- 
 pen, you don't know why — and you try to use your judg- 
 ment while they are happening, but even if you are very 
 clever, you don't know whether your judgment was the best 
 judgment. All you can observe is how things end — when 
 they do end. 
 
 And yet I know that character — whatever that is — prob- 
 ably is more important than circumstances. There's an old 
 vulgar song, something about, "It isn't what you do, it's how 
 you take things." These aren't the words, but that is the idea. 
 It's the same thing that my father used to say to me: "Play 
 fair, Ted — and then if you lose, why, you must grin and bear 
 it." I know this isn't a novel philosophy; it is a useful one. 
 Original ideas are not necessarily helpful. An honest plat- 
 itude has better sticking powers. 
 
 I must try to tell a little about the beginning. My name is 
 Edward Jevons and I was born in New York City, but I have 
 never had the pleasure of living in what, for lack of a better 
 term, I shall call my native town. At the age of six, when 
 Her Majesty Queen Victoria was seated upon the comfortable 
 
 3 
 
4 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 throne of those days, I was taken by my father and mother to 
 live in England. From the age of six to the age of eighteen I 
 was a cockney and grew up in London. In all that time 
 my eyes did not see America. 
 
 I have nothing but pleasant memories of this childhood in 
 London. We were not a fashionable family; we knew noth- 
 ing of the wealthy Anglo-American set in London; but we had 
 a comfortable house out Hampstead way, and, as the saying 
 is, "did ourselves rather well." We also had a little villa in 
 the country, near a golf-course, in Hertfordshire. The coun- 
 try place we rented for the summers. 
 
 My father was a business man, but he had tried his hand, 
 in earlier life, at writing — I believe with some success. 
 Business was more profitable than writing — and he abandoned 
 the latter. He kept up, however, many of his literary friend- 
 ships, and our house was frequented by writers of more or less 
 fame and a few theatre people. I thus became early infected 
 with a desire to write — a wish which my father encouraged. 
 He took a good deal of pains over training me in observation 
 and in arousing in me what he called, "a curiosity about life" 
 — without which, he said, no one could write anything worth 
 while. In the evenings I would bring him my day's work and 
 he would discuss it seriously with me over a pipe. 
 
 My early recollections of my mother are more vague. She 
 was a woman of strong will who rather frightened me with her 
 direct ways of getting what she wanted. Instead of waiting to 
 see what would happen, she took a hand in making things hap- 
 pen to suit her. I could never quite approve the energy she 
 put into having her own way. My way never seemed to me 
 important enough to make a special fuss over getting it. 
 One could always think to please one's self — which was a hap- 
 pier solution than to try to do the impossible. I was always 
 shy in my mother's presence. She, on the other hand, had a 
 ferocious devotion to me that was terrifying. I can remem- 
 ber being scolded and wept over for my coldness. It wasn't 
 that; I couldn't explain things. I don't know whether my fa- 
 
THE BEGINNING 5 
 
 ther understood me — sometimes I thought he did and at other 
 times I was certain he did not. I was an only son. 
 
 My sister, Frances, was much younger. I liked her very 
 much — except when she interfered with the things in my 
 room (I am speaking now as I remember her when a child), 
 and then we quarrelled gorgeously. My mother always took 
 my part, and poor Frances would end in tears. Secretly I en- 
 joyed Frances' obvious hero-worship and the fact that I could 
 make her cry. I was skilled in subtle ways of bullying her — 
 teasing is perhaps a better word. Frances is one of the few 
 persons who has ever taken me seriously. As a boy I took 
 advantage of this to harrow her feelings. She was not, how* 
 ever, an important part of my life, because of the difference 
 in our ages. 
 
 My education was rather a haphazard affair. An amiable 
 young man was my tutor, and he did his best to make me be- 
 lieve arithmetic a useful branch of knowledge. He did not con- 
 vince me. I tolerated his efforts and got along fairly well. I 
 read a great deal for myself; there were always plenty of new 
 books in the house, and my father's library of standard works 
 was larger than even an industrious reader could get through. 
 I absorbed a good deal of literary background without being 
 aware I was storing up anything. Like other boys, I read for 
 amusement — only it happened that I was amused by a fairly 
 wide range of authors. I knew few children my own age and 
 was not particularly interested in those I did know. They did 
 not read much. 
 
 It was at the beginning of my eighteenth year that my father 
 called me into his study one night and informed me that he 
 planned sending me to America to college. The announce- 
 ment was a great surprise to me, for I was happy where I was, 
 and I could remember little about America. 
 
 There was another surprise in my father's proposal. It 
 appeared that I was to be trained as a manufacturing chemist. 
 My father pointed out that he needed an expert chemist in the 
 future development of his business and had decided to make 
 
6 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 me that man. I remember I protested, pointing out to him my 
 ambition to become a writer. My protest was overruled. My 
 father said something about bread and butter coming first and 
 added that chemistry need not keep me from writing. 
 
 I went to America and spent four years at a small college in 
 one of the Eastern States — Hilltown University, it was called. 
 They were not wholly happy years, for I found myself in the 
 awkward predicament of being, because of my foreign upbring- 
 ing, a stranger among my classmates. I did not make friends 
 easily, but on the whole, I got through creditably. Summer 
 holidays during these four years I spent in England with the 
 family. 
 
 I was graduated and ready to join my father in his London 
 business. For a year I worked away at the practical side of 
 chemistry, and to my inward astonishment, my work ap- 
 peared to give satisfaction. Indeed, I was entrusted more 
 and more with tasks of responsibility and, according to re- 
 ports, acquitted myself well. I could never quite believe that 
 I was really a chemist. Sometimes I would sit, in the 
 evening, before my toy theatre and, while in the act of com- 
 posing a play with its doubtful aid, wonder if I were the per- 
 son who went to the laboratory every morning and worked at 
 chemistry. My writing made little progress; the curtain of 
 my toy theatre was more often down than up, because, as my 
 Work increased in difficulty, chemistry claimed more and 
 more of my time. 
 
 I think Sims, my mother's maid and formerly my old nurse, 
 understood how I felt. 
 
 "The dust do be gettin' that thick on some of your books, 
 Master Ted. You'll 'ave to let me 'ave a go at them one of 
 these days." 
 
 Sims's expressions of sympathy were always veiled in house- 
 hold threats. And then there was Chitty, an ex-soldier and 
 one-time officer's batman, who washed apparatus for me in 
 the laboratory. To Chitty the processes of chemistry were akin 
 to mediaeval incantations, and it was clear that he regarded 
 me as out of my element in having anything to do with them. 
 
THE BEGINNING 7 
 
 When we — my father and I, that is — went away week-ends 
 to play golf, Chitty left the laboratory and accompanied us in 
 the capacity of handy man valet. He had a large family 
 and definite views about the fitness of things. A gentleman 
 following a chemical career he considered as at variance with 
 the natural order. 
 
 "It isn't as if you was born, sir, to earning a living," he 
 confided to me one afternoon when I had cursed an unsuccess- 
 ful experiment. (It was an amiable weakness of Chitty's 
 to believe that no one that he called a "gentleman" was under 
 any actual necessity of working.) "Why don't you chuck 
 it, sir, for today and come out and 'ave a round of golf?" 
 
 Possibly his advice was not always disinterested, but I be- 
 lieve it was. Next to my sister's, Chitty's hero-worship of 
 me was the most profound I have known. In fact, as I 
 think things over, these are the only two to whom I was ever a 
 hero. Many have liked me; they had faith in me. But I am 
 wandering, as usual. 
 
 It was late in June of my twenty-third year, and exactly 
 twelve months after my graduation into the world of chem- 
 istry, that my father called me into his study, one morning as 
 I was about to leave for the laboratory. 
 
 "Sit down, Ted," he said. "I've got some news for you." 
 
 I sat down hopefully, wondering if at last he had rec- 
 ognized that I was very unhappy over my chemistry. 
 "Possibly," I thought, "I shall be relieved and allowed to take 
 up writing." 
 
 "What do you say to a run over to New York to look at 
 some new business that has cropped up there? I'm thinking 
 of sailing Saturday and taking you with me." 
 
 I was disappointed, but there seemed nothing alarming in 
 the suggestion, so I readily agreed. 
 
 My mother and sister saw us off at Euston, with old Sims 
 curtseying in the background and Chitty saluting in military 
 fashion. 
 
 On the way over my father walked the decks many hours 
 with me and told me of all his business hopes and fears. He 
 
8 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 had got together all his available capital and was contem- 
 plating investing it in an American plant. The company was 
 to be organized in London, with an American branch, and he 
 was looking forward to putting me, ultimately, at the head of 
 the whole thing. Meanwhile the new company had to be built 
 up and to fight its own way against competition. We were 
 to consider, in New York, what he regarded as a favourable 
 offer of a factory which had been made him. 
 
 Although I had been in and out of New York many times 
 while an undergraduate at Hilltown, I could never get over 
 a feeling of strange awe at its noise and confusion. In Lon- 
 don I was at home; in New York I felt alien and wondered 
 how anybody could feel as if he belonged there. "Luckily," 
 I thought, as we rode down-town on the elevated, "we shan't 
 be here long." I had a return steamer ticket for Liverpool 
 in an inside pocket. It was a question of closing a business 
 transaction and returning. 
 
 At the office where we went, I was introduced to a Mr. 
 Knowlton, our electrical engineer, who, my father told me, 
 was to be our American manager. He was a shrewd looking 
 man in the early thirties — possibly the late thirties, I couldn't 
 be certain — with crow's feet about the eyes and a disconcerting 
 grin. I saw him look at me sharply out of the corners of his 
 eyes. 
 
 The lawyers proclaimed the situation satisfactory and I 
 heard Knowlton give my father his technical opinion con- 
 cerning the merits of the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Com- 
 pany, which was the name of the property we had come to 
 see about. The factory was situated at Deep Harbor, a 
 thriving factory town on one of the Great Lakes. On the 
 strength of the two reports my father signed the papers, and 
 the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company became ours. 
 
 We were about to leave, when Knowlton turned to my 
 father and said: "By the way, Mr. Jevons, I should like your 
 authority, before you go, to employ a young research chemist 
 
THE BEGINNING 9 
 
 for our laboratory out there at the plant. Some one capable 
 of original work." 
 
 As Knowlton uttered these words a panic seized me. I 
 knew before my father spoke what he was going to suggest. 
 
 "What about letting you have my son here?" I heard my 
 father say. I could feel Knowlton looking me over, and I 
 prayed for an unfavourable verdict. 
 
 "Have you had much experience in research work?" 
 Knowlton levelled at me. 
 
 "Only a year," I faltered, wishing I could say "None." 
 
 Several other searching questions followed, which I an- 
 swered as best I could. There was a moment's silence, during 
 which I joyfully concluded that Knowlton did not care much for 
 the look of me. It is difficult, now, to explain, but I did not 
 want to go to Deep Harbor. My whole life, with the ex- 
 ception of the four years at college, had been spent in Lon- 
 don, and I had no wish to be in any other place. 
 
 "Well," I heard Knowlton say, at last. "It is up to you, 
 Mr. Jevons. I guess your son will fit the job." 
 
 My father turned to me. 
 
 "It's a heavy responsibility for you, Ted — but I had rather 
 trust you than a stranger. We've got a lot at stake — in fact, 
 all we've got in the world is at stake. Will you do it?" 
 
 I looked about the room vaguely, as if I expected to find an 
 avenue of escape miraculously open before me. Instead, I 
 saw Knowlton's shrewd face watching me. I felt an utter 
 loathing and fear of the task laid upon me; yet I did not 
 know how to refuse. 
 
 I stammered out at last: "I'll do my best, sir" — an empty- 
 sounding formula to commit one to so much. Instinctively 
 I knew that in uttering these words I was altering the whole 
 course of my life. 
 
 My father was delighted by my reply. He shook me 
 warmly by the hand and clapped me on the back. 
 
 "Ted, I know you. You'll make good out there. You've 
 got to. And when you have, why, then you can come back 
 to England and be your own boss." 
 
10 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Thus the matter was settled, without time for reflection. 
 
 That evening my father spent in giving me advice and 
 further business details. The next morning he sailed for 
 England again, and I was left behind to join Knowlton at the 
 Grand Central Station at five o'clock, when the Limited was 
 to leave that should carry us to Deep Harbor. 
 
 "The future is a terrifying thing," I thought as I went to 
 bed that night. 
 
Chapter Two 
 i set out along a new trail 
 
 SUNSET over the Hudson after a July thunderstorm; the 
 observation platform of a Pullman, rushing toward a 
 new and unknown world in the Middle West — such 
 was the first stage of the trail leading to the heart of romance. 
 Of course I did not know this then. In fact, the beauty of the 
 sunset was considerably marred by the thought that the day 
 before I had seen my father off for "home," for England, 
 while I had been condemned to indefinite exile in a lake town 
 famous for its manufacturing; and I felt much like the hero 
 at the end of a certain type of Greek tragedy. No one could 
 say when I should see England again, or once more browse 
 along the bookstalls of Charing Cross Road, or drink a glass 
 of stout at Scott's in Leicester Square. Not high ideals to 
 long for, perhaps — but Charing Cross Road, the Empire on 
 Leicester Square, or the noon-hour walks in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, pausing perhaps for a quarter of an hour at the Soame 
 Museum, or venturing as far as Chancery Lane, seemed to 
 epitomize the things for which I was desperately homesick. 
 
 It had strained my loyalty to my father to the breaking 
 point to accept the test he had put upon me. No word, how- 
 ever, of my resentment, of my sullen hatred for the task, had 
 I allowed him to guess. He had gone aboard the steamer in 
 one of his moods of extreme optimism — business would flour- 
 ish as it never had before now I was to be at the helm. I 
 had looked ruefully at the cancelled steamer ticket in my 
 hand and had resolved to try, but in very truth I was sick at 
 heart. As the boat left the dock, I turned away with some 
 boyish tears in my eyes — and they were bitter tears. I hated 
 and loathed, at that moment, the fate that had condemned 
 
 11 
 
12 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 me to the new venture. The roar and clang of the streets 
 about the docks seemed symbols of all that was unlovely, of 
 all that stood between me and what I wanted to do — symbols 
 of the things I was to be mixed up with, no one knew for 
 how long. Until I made the new business a success! It was 
 easy to say — easy even for my father to pat me on the back 
 and speak diffidently, as he looked the other way, of his con- 
 fidence in me. He had so much more in me than I had in 
 myself! I knew my own dangerous lack of ambition — my 
 fondness for remaining a spectator, for doffing the world 
 aside and bidding it pass; and here I was, entrusted with his 
 future and that of my mother and sister. 
 
 What a plague had I to do with a factory and a manufac- 
 turing town on the Great Lakes? I knew nothing of either. 
 All I asked was the moon — London, books, theatres, and the 
 gorgeous solitude of rummaging in an enchanted cockney 
 world. But that world could not be had, even in its simplest 
 form, without money, and money I had to win in order to 
 earn my right to the moon. There was nothing I had ever 
 felt so incapable of winning. I knew I was full of a kind of 
 inertia that terrified me. It would not matter to fail alone in 
 such a task, but my failure would ruin my father — and others. 
 And the inertia, the indifference, the hatred of it all fright- 
 ened me. I knew it was no mood for success; yet I did not 
 know how to fight against it. 
 
 "Now, Ted," said a crisp voice beside me, "we reach Deep 
 Harbor at five-thirty A. M. That will give us time for break- 
 fast, and get out to the factory by seven — when the whistle 
 blows." 
 
 "Good heavens!" I thought with a start, coming back t© 
 the Pullman and reality with a horrible jerk. "Seven — " but 
 words failed me. 
 
 "You'll have a chance to glance around the machine shop 
 and pick out a location for the testing laboratory before the 
 office force get down. Then we can have a look at the orders 
 on the books and start making plans." 
 
 No time to get one's breath, no chance to edge into the cold 
 
I SET OUT ALONG A NEW TRAIL 13 
 
 water inch by inch — the thing was to be done at once. I was 
 to jump from that Pullman platform into the deepest, coldest 
 part of the stream. 
 
 "As soon as we've passed Storm King we'll go into the 
 smoker and make a rough sketch of the laboratory lay-out, so 
 we'll be ready for them in the morning." 
 
 I thought again of the ocean liner plunging in the opposite 
 direction, and what my father was thinking at that moment. 
 How had he dared trust me? 
 
 "Pshaw," said my companion, reading my thoughts with 
 startling accuracy. "The Middle West isn't a bad place. 
 You'll soon get used to it. Of course, it isn't Broadway," 
 he added, with a sidelong look at me, "but you'll shake down 
 all right. What do you think of the Hudson River? Noth- 
 ing like this in England, I'll bet." 
 
 "Have you ever been there?" I parried. 
 
 "No. Little Old New York's good enough for me. I like 
 live ones — not dead ones. There's Storm King over there — 
 can you beat it? Look at the light over it — gosh, it's enough 
 to make a fellow feel queer." 
 
 I looked; and the latter part of his remark was undoubtedly 
 true. The thunder clouds still hung about in broken, irreg- 
 ular masses, through which radiated a startling copper glow, 
 tapering off at the upper edges into green. The mountain it- 
 self was a dark shape sharply cut against the light side, while, 
 beneath, the river was oily brass. All that was unknown, even 
 sinister, was bound up in fearful beauty. I could not endure it, 
 for it really frightened me. I got up hastily. "Let's go into 
 the smoker — the laboratory sketch," I faltered. 
 
 "Sure! — good work! Let's get down to business and cut 
 out the scenery." His words had a most ominous connota- 
 tion — like the symbolism which critics allege they find in 
 Ibsen's plays, I thought. The result was to drive away for a 
 moment my gloom, and I smiled at my own mental comment. 
 
 As we went forward toward the smoker, I looked more 
 closely at my new business associate, beginning with his back, 
 which was all that was visible now. He was severely dressed 
 
14 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 with a sort of fussy neatness peculiar to the work of American 
 business men's tailors. His shoes shone resplendent, his 
 trousers were creased with painful accuracy, his back was 
 erect and smooth as a duck's. Even his hair had been severely 
 disciplined by his barber, and on it my friend had placed, 
 with due care, a little checked golfing cap that might have 
 been the product of a maker of Swiss watches, so exactly did 
 the little grey and black squares match at the seams. "Engi- 
 neering efficiency applied to personal attire," I thought to my- 
 self. "His clothes remind me of those planned by the mathe- 
 maticians in Laputa, except that these American mathemati- 
 cians use formulae of scientific accuracy." 
 
 As we took our seats in two large wicker chairs in the 
 smoker I couldn't resist shaking on to the left sleeve of his 
 coat, as if by accident, a cold ash from my empty pipe. In- 
 stantly he produced a handkerchief as fine and dainty as a 
 lady's and violently flicked at his sleeve. I murmured an 
 apology and smiled to myself. Then he carefully drew up 
 his trousers so as not to spoil the crease, replaced his hand- 
 kerchief, adjusted his invisible eye-glasses, and produced a 
 pencil and paper. 
 
 "Now to business!" he said. 
 
 "One moment," I interrupted and touched the bell. The 
 coloured porter appeared. I saw my friend frown ever so 
 slightly. My sense of humour was returning fast, as I noted 
 how easy it was going to be to tease this deadly earnest, effi- 
 cient person. "Will you have a whiskey and soda or a bottle 
 of Bass?" I asked in an innocent, friendly voice. 
 
 "Neither, thank you. When I have business to discuss I 
 never touch liquor," he replied, with a most meaning em- 
 phasis upon the latter half of his statement, albeit politely 
 enough. I inwardly resented hearing Bass's ale, or whiskey 
 and soda for that matter, described as "liquor." 
 
 "Bring a bottle of Bass and a lemonade," I said to the porter, 
 without consulting my companion further. "You must drink 
 something," I added by way of apology. Actually I was un- 
 der the impression that sweet lemonade would nauseate a grown 
 
I SET OUT ALONG A NEW TRAIL 15 
 
 man, if taken so soon after dinner. I wanted revenge for that 
 word "liquor." 
 
 "Thanks — a lemonade is just a thing," he responded enthu- 
 siastically. "It's a very refreshing drink on a warm evening. 
 You are very kind — have one of my cigars?" and he produced 
 a black, oily looking object named after some Spanish infanta 
 and having about the same figure as one of those estimable 
 princesses. Now I felt toward a black cigar on a hot, stuffy 
 train, when business was to be talked, about as he did toward 
 "liquor" — and the similarity made me smile again. After all, 
 our prejudices were the same, but involved different details. 
 The lemonade arrived, he bit his aromatic monster, puffed it 
 luxuriously, waved his glass ceremoniously at me, and took a 
 deep draft of the sweet liquid, copiously mixed with Havana 
 smoke. My glass of Bass, on the way to my lips, paused, and I 
 shuddered. I began to wish, like Hamlet, that I had tried 
 some other plan of revenge for that foul epithet "liquor." 
 
 "Now we are all set," he announced cheerily, which was 
 more than I was sure my dinner was, but I said nothing. 
 "Have you thought about the dimensions?" he continued. 
 
 "Of what?" I asked, my mind still on the problem of a com- 
 pound of cigar and lemonade. 
 
 "The testing-laboratory, of course!" There was just a trace 
 of irritation in his tone. I made a guilty effort to pull myself 
 together. 
 
 "No, I haven't. But I've a list in my trunk of the machinery 
 we need and the floor space it occupies. It's easy enough to 
 figure it out from that." 
 
 "In your trunk!" he said in an awful voice. "Then what's 
 the use of talking about it tonight?" 
 
 "That's what I wondered," I remarked amiably, "but I 
 thought perhaps you had some ideas on the subject." 
 
 I could see from his expression that I had made a bad start. 
 His face was sharp, keen, shrewd, but not at all intellectual. 
 His eyes were bright and beady, and I knew, as I l'ooked at him, 
 that, for all his alert keenness and shrewdness, he knew nothing 
 about anything except the business he had been taught. The 
 
16 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 latter he knew with an almost ferocious accuracy. On a spe- 
 cific engineering problem in his own field it would be hard to 
 match him, but on constructive ideas which involved applying 
 what he knew to broader questions — I had my doubts. There 
 was no imagination, no background on which to build. I 
 began to see my father's method in picking such an associate 
 for me. On details this man couldn't go wrong — he would 
 keep my part of the work practical, whereas I knew I was 
 relied upon to see in what new paths this manufacturing com- 
 pany could be made to expand and develop. But first I had 
 to learn the business. Therefore, as the present arrangement 
 stood, I was my companion's subordinate. 
 
 "I'm sorry," I said; "I didn't think we could talk business 
 until we had seen the factory, so I put all my data in my 
 trunk." 
 
 "Well," he laughed, "I guess we'll gradually have to get you 
 used to hustling. Here's a whole evening we might have used, 
 and you've thrown it away. But I can give you some good 
 advice about your new job, anyway." 
 
 "Please do," I remarked, anxious to atone for my error. 
 
 "Ted," he went on, "I'm a New Yorker, and I've made pretty 
 good as an engineer. I've had to make my own way, and I 
 don't know much about fancy living, but I know a hell of a lot 
 about making and not making money." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'fancy living'?" I asked with genu- 
 ine interest. 
 
 "Well, for one thing, going around in musical comedy 
 clothes and drinking liquor when you ought to be on the job. 
 Do you get me?" 
 
 It suddenly dawned on me, not all at once, but little by little, 
 that he meant me! "Musical comedy clothes" rankled most, 
 for I did not at first catch the full force of his suspicions. 
 
 "I got these clothes in Bond Street," I protested mildly. 
 
 "I don't know where you got them, but they look it," he 
 said. 
 
 "Now, my boy, you're going to a town where people don't 
 understand all this fancy foreign stuff. You've got to dress 
 
I SET OUT ALONG A NEW TRAIL 17 
 
 the part and get down to being a plain American where you 
 started from. You've got to cut out the booze. I don't know 
 about women, but your clothes give the wrong idea there too." 
 
 At last the total of his suspicions penetrated, and unfor- 
 tunately I suddenly shouted with laughter. I rocked back and 
 forth in my chair in uncontrollable delight. When I at last 
 looked up, he was smoking his cigar at a most uncompromising 
 angle, with a hurt look upon his face. 
 
 "My dear Knowlton," I gasped at last, "I have no idea 
 what impression I have given you, but really your last insinua- 
 tion was too much for me. Like most young men of my age 
 I'm probably engaged or soon will be — and as for the rest, you 
 needn't worry." 
 
 "What do you mean by 'probably engaged or soon will 
 be'?" He asked, still suspiciously, but obviously somewhat 
 relieved at this announcement. 
 
 "I'm twenty-three — one usually finds the thing imminent at 
 that age." 
 
 "Hell!" he replied. "This is business, not a joke. Booze 
 and women don't mix with business." 
 
 "I've never mixed them much — even for pleasure," I retorted. 
 "I hate headaches, and uneducated people bore me so that, 
 be they as beautiful as Cleopatra, I can make nothing of 
 them. I assure you I shall be perfectly safe in Deep Harbor, 
 or anywhere else that the most ancient profession flourishes." 
 
 "I get you," he said, "and I guess it's straight all right, 
 from all I've heard. Takes you a lot of words to say it, just 
 as it takes you too much time to do things. But you'll get 
 over that. Point is, Deep Harbor won't see you at all. Not 
 in those clothes." 
 
 "They are simple country tweeds," I protested once more, 
 for the thought that I might have to wear his kind horrified 
 me. "My tailor is supposed to know his business." 
 
 "They don't fit, and they're loud enough to scare all the 
 trotting horses on State Street. Don't you ever get 'em 
 pressed? If you go sitting around in cafes drinking English 
 ale, you'll make a bad impression. We've got to build up a 
 
18 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 new business and we've got to get people's confidence in us to 
 do it. You can't float around town in the Middle West like 
 you was attending a house party and get away with it. People 
 won't think you are serious — when they don't think you are 
 worse." 
 
 "I see," I replied. "Business, as I understand it, is so 
 serious a thing out here that its pursuit means banishing from 
 one's life, as a start, all sense of humour and all the little com- 
 forts and conveniences. One can have electric light, a por- 
 celain bath, steam heat, and a bank account, but one mustn't 
 have comfortable clothes, easy-going habits, or a genial feel- 
 ing for the absurdities of solemn living." 
 
 "There you go exaggerating everything I say. No wonder 
 you know a lot about chemical experiments — your ideas tum- 
 ble all over themselves. That's all right when you've got test 
 tubes to pour 'em into, but you got to be careful how you spill 
 'em around Deep Harbor. What church do you attend?" 
 
 The suddeness with which this query came at me left me 
 floundering once more. 
 
 "Church?" I queried, as if I had never heard of the institu- 
 tion. 
 
 "Hell, yes — church," Knowlton replied. "Nothing like 
 being seen regularly at church when you hit a new town. You 
 make friends that way, and it's good for business — makes 
 people think you steady and dependable." 
 
 "Really, I had never before considered the church in the 
 light of a business associate," I answered, "but I can see 
 there is considerable point to what you say. I wonder Polo- 
 nius didn't think of it." 
 
 "One of those classical guys you learn about in college, isn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Yes — you would admire immensely his advice to his son. 
 I'll buy you a calendar with it on when we get there. It's a 
 lot like what you've been telling me." 
 
 "Well, I guess he was a wise guy, all right, and learned the 
 way I did — from being up against it. That's worth all the 
 book learning there is." 
 
I SET OUT ALONG A NEW TRAIL 19 
 
 "But you learned your profession from books." 
 
 "Sure I did — scientific books. You can't put them in the 
 same class with the stuff they fill you full of at college." 
 
 "There's a science of living — and some of that is in books 
 too." 
 
 "Well, how about church? You've got the damnedest habit 
 of steering the conversation off the subject I've ever seen. 
 There's only one science of living — get the stuff, then you can 
 live as you damn please." 
 
 "Surely you don't expect me to go to church just to help 
 business." 
 
 "You mean to say you don't go to church at all?" 
 
 "About that. Once in a while to a cathedral — when I want 
 to think or dream, and there happens to be a cathedral handy, 
 or else to some little quiet parish church that I'm certain be- 
 forehand has an eleventh century smell." 
 
 "I'm a Presbyterian," he announced stoutly, as if I would 
 dispute him, and bit off the end of another impossible cigar. 
 "Everybody ought to be something." He had ignored my 
 cathedral reply. 
 
 "True," I said, "but why Presbyterian when one might 
 choose so many other things to be? Aren't they the people 
 who believe something dreadful about babies?" 
 
 "My father was a Presbyterian — he was an old Scotch en- 
 gineer and went to sea for forty years. I've always kept up 
 what he thought, for no one ever got ahead of the old man — 
 not much." 
 
 So this man was an idealist down underneath all that hard, 
 surface veneer of remorseless business! It was quite obvious 
 that the old Scotch engineer had not laid up treasures for his 
 posterity, and yet he had left a clear impression that "no one 
 ever got ahead of him" — an ideal of success, recognized as 
 success, not built on the attainment of wealth. I felt a lot 
 better about Knowlton — we were going to get on, I was certain. 
 But I didn't dare tell him all this, for I knew he wouldn't un- 
 derstand. I was even sorry I had been flippant about Presby- 
 terians. After all, it was a silly pose to patronize a man who 
 
20 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 had made his way from the bottom to the position of a first 
 
 class engineer, whereas I had done nothing but read a few 
 
 books and drift about the world. 
 
 "Knowlton," I asked, in all seriousness this time, "will you 
 
 have another drink?" 
 
 "Thanks, I wouldn't mind one more of those lemonades." 
 Once more the porter came, and I ventured a second bottle of 
 
 "I'll be discreet in Deep Harbor," I apologized, "although I 
 won't promise to give up Bass entirely. It's a link with home 
 — almost a ceremony, you know." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, Ted. I guess I've got you sized up all 
 right. Go ahead and be your own boss. As long as you 
 deliver the goods, that's all I ask. Do it in your own way." 
 
 The drinks arrived. "Bring a box of chocolate pepper- 
 mints," he commanded the porter. "Good heavens — he's 
 going to add that to his lemonade and cigars!" I thought. 
 "What is that man's interior made of?" 
 
 "So you have already sized me up?" I asked as he munched 
 a chocolate between alternate sips and puffs. 
 
 "Sure! I got you pretty straight down in the office in New 
 York the day we signed the papers. I did think you might 
 jump the track once in a while, though. And when you blew 
 on to the train in that third act make-up, I thought perhaps 
 you'd been out for a final fling at Broadway. But you're all 
 right. Have some chocolate?" 
 
 "No, thanks. I am curious, though, to have my fortune 
 told. Will I make good, do you think?" 
 
 "Ted, I'm going to be straight with you. I don't know. 
 You may get folks sore at you, the way you always seem to be 
 laughing inside you at the people who don't talk or think the 
 way you do. You don't know it all yet, and you've got no 
 patience with folks who don't belong to your gang. You 
 haven't knocked around enough in real life to learn that there's 
 several ways of getting there besides your way. You've lived 
 abroad and picked up a lot of things I don't know anything 
 about and never will, and you're a little stuck on your cargo. 
 
I SET OUT ALONG A NEW TRAIL 21 
 
 But I'm not so sure it's worth as much as you think in the open 
 market — not in the manufacturing business in Deep Harbor. 
 Still, a couple of years on the treadmill may work wonders." 
 
 "A couple of years!" I gasped. 
 
 "Well, you don't expect to take a new concern and make a 
 fortune in twelve months the way they tell you in those story 
 books, do you? Not if you was John D. Rockefeller, which 
 you aren't." 
 
 "Two years in Deep Harbor," I murmured almost to myself. 
 
 "Oh, Deep Harbor's a pretty decent sort of a town. It's 
 up-to-date. They've got a Chamber of Commerce full of live 
 wires and the place is just beginning to hit its stride. Give 
 the plants there now ten years, and the town will be full of 
 millionaires. Of course, I can see your point — I'm a New 
 Yorker myself, and the Bush League doesn't appeal any too 
 strong to me. But the stuff lies buried out there in that burg, 
 and you and I, Ted, are going there to dig some of it up. 
 There's nothing like growing up with a town." 
 
 And with this final epigram, Knowlton got up, stretched, and 
 guessed he would go to bed. 
 
 I bade him good-night and lit another pipe. I confess 
 frankly that I found Knowlton's accurate powers of analysis 
 disturbing. I who had flattered myself that I knew all about 
 him with the first words he spoke, now made the humiliating 
 discovery that he already knew more about me than I was ever 
 likely to know about him. Furthermore, his estimate of me, 
 if not too unfavourable, was still not very flattering. When 
 at last I left the smoker for the sleeper, it was in as gloomy a 
 frame of mind as when I first boarded the train. 
 
Chapter Three 
 i camp in the desert 
 
 ABOUT an hour after a turbulent portion of my night's 
 rest, later identified as something being done to the train 
 in the yards at Buffalo, the porter aroused me, and I 
 made such preparations as a Pullman makes possible to face 
 the new day and a new world. We were rapidly drawing near 
 Deep Harbor, and Knowlton's briskness at the imminent ap- 
 proach of business increased even beyond its normal. It was 
 akin to the pawing of the mediaeval charger when he knew it 
 near the time for the oriflamme to be advanced. The diner was 
 not yet ready, so Knowlton sat beside me and pointed out the 
 potential and actual resources of the country as we whizzed 
 along. For me, my first sight of Lake Erie lying blue and 
 serene in a hot early morning July sun was sufficient. I cared 
 little for statistics in the face of that. In spite of the heat the 
 vegetation was still vividly green and fresh, washed from the 
 showers of the day before. At frequent intervals turbulent 
 and muddy little brooks rushed lakewards through red shale 
 gorges full of moss, ferns, and gorgeous old trees. From the 
 railway tracks to the mile-or-so-distant lakeshore interminable 
 vineyards stretched, interspersed with an occasional field of 
 Indian corn. On our left, low-lying hills rolled backward to 
 the horizon. The sunlight was vivid, almost painful, and the 
 whole country seemed to glow and teem with life. 
 
 The villages were less encouraging. As a rule they were 
 straggly and unkempt, with tumble-down wooden houses and 
 barns, and showed no pride in neatness, apart from a well-kept 
 school-house or other solitary public building. There 
 were few if any flowers about the cottages, and what few 
 there were were neglected. The gardens were composed of 
 
 22 
 
[ CAMP IN THE DESERT 23 
 
 grass, which the more careful owners were already out sprin- 
 kling with garden hose. In fact the garden hose seemed al- 
 most the only sign of community pride. Even kitchen gar- 
 dens were few and badly cultivated. 
 
 "What do they do with these millions of grapes?" I asked 
 Knowlton. 
 
 "Make grape- juice of them," he answered. "See — there's 
 a grape juice factory over there." 
 
 It seemed to me a strange way of repaying Heaven's bounty, 
 as I felt quite certain these same grapes would make excellent 
 claret, but I knew better than to say this to Knowlton. 
 
 "I suppose," I said at last, as the vineyards began to get a 
 little on my nerves, "that, like everything else over here, these 
 are the largest vineyards in the world?" 
 
 "No," he surprised me by replying, "the California vine- 
 yards are much more extensive." Knowlton had a weakness 
 for words like "extensive." When he abandoned slang he used 
 in its place, not always accurately, a language of almost 
 eighteenth century formality. 
 
 "There's Deep Harbor," he suddenly exclaimed in much ex- 
 citement; "you can see the towen of the Polish cathedral." 
 
 "Polish cathedral?" I asked in utter amazement, thinking 
 perhaps this was one of Knowlton's jokes. 
 
 "Sure. All the unskilled labour in Deep Harbor is Polish 
 — that's their church. Just beyond are the chimneys of the 
 Lake Board Paper Company. These are the yards — get your 
 suit-case." 
 
 "Polish!" I thought. "Here is an unexpected complica- 
 tion." There was no time to ask more about the "sledded 
 Polacks," for at that moment the train stopped with a jerk and 
 we got off. 
 
 "Right on time — 5.30 to the second," said Knowlton, con- 
 sulting his watch. "We'll just go down State Street to 
 Schaefer's Hotel, leave our grips, and get breakfast. Then 
 to work." 
 
 The train was already moving — evidently one had to be 
 quick in order to disembark at Deep Harbor. I glanced 
 
24 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 about. The platform of the station was of rotten and irregu- 
 larly laid planks. The station itself was a grey, forbidding- 
 looking structure with a tower on which was the date 1864. A 
 truck load of trunks charged us profanely, and we were just 
 able to dodge aside. A youth offered to sell me some sand- 
 wiches wrapped in tissue paper. I was seized with an irresist- 
 ible desire to test Knowlton at his own briskness. 
 
 "Why not breakfast here on sandwiches and then go straight 
 out to the factory? We can save an hour." 
 
 Knowlton snorted. *Not much. Railroad sandwiches! I 
 must have a cup of coffee; besides, we can't get in until quarter 
 of seven." 
 
 "Oh," I said, "then these people do get some sleep." Knowl- 
 ton ignored this. "Is Schaefer's far? My suit-case is heavy 
 — let's take a cab." 
 
 Knowlton laughed. "I doubt if you can get a hack at this 
 hour of the morning — and why waste two dollars? We can 
 take the trolley." 
 
 With that we dodged across a maze of terrifying tracks, be- 
 tween charging switch engines and lines of freight cars in the 
 throes of some internal convulsion, to emerge safely at last on 
 the opposite side, where a pale yellow trolley car was awaiting 
 us. As I climbed aboard, the conductor spat with amazing, 
 albeit disturbing, accuracy one inch to the right of my ear, but 
 gave no other sign in answer to our mild query if he went by 
 Schaefer's. Concluding that silence gave consent, we sat down. 
 Schaefer's proved surprisingly near — so near that the trolley, 
 which seemed to me to travel at a fearful speed, carried us one 
 street too far before the non-committal' conductor could be in- 
 duced to pull the signal bell. As we left I felt certain that, for 
 some unknown reason, we had earned his disapprobation. 
 
 Schaefer's was an old, dirty-looking building, with a large 
 plateglass window giving on to the pavement. Behind the 
 window was a row of large golden oak rocking chairs, and 
 beside each chair a highly polished brass vessel of convenient 
 height. We entered its portal to encounter a strange, musty 
 odour composed in part of sawdust, warm rubber, and genera- 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 25 
 
 tions of Dad cooking. Behind a desk, on which was spread 
 open a large book, a young man with glazed hair and an un- 
 pleasant cravat was chewing a wooden toothpick. Without 
 even glancing at us he removed a pen from a raw potato and 
 silently handed it to Knowlton. I wanted to ask why pens 
 were kept sticking in raw potatoes, but decided to wait for a 
 more opportune time. Knowlton signed his name in a fine 
 Spencerian flourish with beautifully shaded lettering, added 
 "New York," and passed the pen to me. Underneath I wrote 
 mine in a somewhat trembling hand, most self-conscious un- 
 der the eyes of the young man with the toothpick, and placed 
 "London" after my signature. The clerk suddenly revolved 
 the book as if it were on a pivot and studied our handiwork 
 attentively. When, in the course of a moment or two, he 
 reached my signature he took a pen from behind his ear — the 
 other equivalent of a raw potato, I thought — and gratuitously- 
 scratched "Canada" after the "London." I took the book, re- 
 volved it as I had seen him do it, silently crossed out the 
 "Canada" and wrote in "England." Once more the book was 
 revolved and this alteration examined. Satisfied that the 
 word was no other than the one I had apparently written, he 
 calmly looked me over from head to foot and again waited, 
 silently as before. 
 
 "Two breakfasts," said Knowlton. 
 
 "Front!" the clerk ejaculated the length of his toothpick. 
 "Show Mr. Knowlton and his friend to the dining room. 
 Check the grips." 
 
 "Front" was another pale youth, of tender years, but with 
 an evil leer in his face. He seized our hand luggage. 
 
 "This way, gents!" 
 
 We followed. 
 
 "Does the clerk know you?" I asked Knowlton. The 
 latter shook his head. "But he called you by name," I pro- 
 tested. 
 
 "He read my name in the register." 
 
 I had not thought of that. 
 
 The odour of the dining room was different, but no better 
 
26 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 than that of the office. There was evidently a closer contact 
 with the bad cooking and less of the warm rubber. There 
 advanced to meet us across the black and white tile floor a 
 tall and majestic young lady with pyramidal yellow hair and 
 a black satin gown which fitted her most snugly. She bil- 
 lowed up to us, turned upon her high patent leather heels, and 
 undulated over to a long table, her hips swinging like an 
 Oriental water carrier's. Meekly we trailed after her and sat 
 where she indicated. Just above our heads, a large wooden 
 propeller kept a swarm of flies pleasantly agitated. On the 
 table in front of my seat were a coffee stain, a jar of wooden 
 toothpicks, and a large wire fly-trap full of prisoners buzzing 
 over their misfortune. The Hebe-like personage withdrew, 
 to reappear with two very thick glasses filled to overflowing 
 with pale yellow ice water. These she casually spilled at each 
 of our places and added a dirty and grease-stained card con- 
 taining an itemized list of all the things the mind of man had 
 as yet been able to conceive as edible at breakfast. Seven 
 varieties of tea alone were enumerated, including many that 
 had a novel sound. The lady disappeared and left us to our 
 emotions in tranquillity. 
 
 While I was still marvelling at the things the menu offered 
 for breakfast, I was suddenly aware of another damsel's pres- 
 ence. As I looked up, T discovered her leaning pleasantly on 
 her elbow, looking over my shoulder, above which I noted her 
 jaws in rapid motion about a piece of chewing gum. When 1 
 finally reached her eyes, the mastication ceased, and she 
 smiled a most open and friendly smile. I did all 1 could to 
 return it as heartily. She put into its proper place an erring 
 lock of brilliant auburn hair, and in a voice that hurt, it was 
 so sharp and searching, she exclaimed: 
 
 "Well, gents — what'll it be? Baked apples, prunes, or 
 oranges?" This was completely to ignore the menu, which 
 ranged all the way from peaches to melon in its printed prom- 
 ises. 
 
 "What about cantaloupe?" I asked timidly. 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 27 
 
 "It's all out," she replied promptly; "nothin' in but baked 
 apples, prunes, and oranges." 
 
 "Then why this elaborate list?" I enquired. 
 
 "Gee whizz! What do you expect for fifty cents? This 
 ain't the Auditorium Hotel. Prunes is nice today." All this 
 she spoke in one breath. 
 
 "Bring me some prunes and milk," said Knowlton. I shud- 
 dered. I was determined not to be bullied into ordering some- 
 thing I didn't want. 
 
 "I'll take an orange, bacon and eggs, and coffee," I said 
 firmly. Her jaws slowed down almost to a pause, as she 
 looked me steadily in the eye, decided she would not fight it 
 out just then, and departed, apparently much hurt. Knowlton 
 rubbed his hands briskly, a sure sign he was preparing to utter 
 some cheerful remark. I looked at him in a way which was an 
 obvious defiance to any happy bon-mot he might conceive, so 
 he thought better of it and returned to a contemplation of the 
 menu. For some time the room was empty and silent, save for 
 the buzzing of the captured flies and the hum of the overhead 
 propeller. Then the auburn-haired maid returned, with a bowl 
 of prunes and a generous pitcher of milk, upon whose bluish- 
 ivory surface there struggled a solitary fly. 
 
 "Where is my orange?" I ventured. 
 
 " 'Scuse me — did you say 'orange'?" she asked as sweetly as 
 that acid voice would permit. "Thought you said 'ham an' 
 eggs an' coffee' " 
 
 With a whish of her skirts she was gone once more, and I 
 realized that the first step in her revenge for my ignoring 
 prunes was accomplished. Knowlton deftly removed the fly 
 from his milk with a teaspoon, flicked the creature carelessly 
 on to the floor, and poured the whole contents remaining over 
 the prunes. Next he seized a handful of crisp biscuits, 
 crushed them in the palms of his hands, and added them to the 
 mixture. The resultant compound seemed to me very nearly 
 equivalent to half a bushel, dry measure. With a large sized 
 spoon he attacked the mess vigorously. It was not wholly a 
 
28 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 silent operation. I pressed my lips firmly together and said 
 nothing as the level in his bowl rapidly diminished. 
 
 Again the lady with sunset-glow hair came back. With 
 a thump that startled me, she dropped in front of me a platter 
 on which was a thick slice of ham ornamented by two highly 
 glazed fried eggs. Beside it was deposited a plate containing 
 a pale roll, a piece of yellow corn-bread, and a muffin made 
 out of some strange refuse — all these warm and soggy. The 
 cup of coffee followed, in a cup innocent of any handle. The 
 coffee had already been diluted with milk and a spoon stuck 
 in it. 
 
 "Sugar?" and she began to ladle heaping spoonfuls of 
 granulated sugar rapidly from a glass dish. There was no 
 trace of any orange. 
 
 "Stop!" I commanded so suddenly she spilt a spoonful of 
 sugar over the table cloth. "Where is my orange?" 
 
 "Gee, did you want the orange first?" Her surprise 
 sounded quite genuine. "I thought you ordered it last." 
 
 "Never mind the orange now" — after all, I did know when 
 I was thoroughly beaten — "but I want black coffee, and I did 
 say 'bacon,' not 'ham.' Also some toast. You may leave the 
 ham, now it's here." 
 
 "Gee, you're an awfully fussy eater," was her comment. 
 "You didn't order black coffee, did you?" 
 
 "No," I had to admit. 
 
 "Well, I'm only a waitress, not a mind reader," and with this 
 unanswerable retort she scooped up my cup of coffee with a 
 skilfully perilous gesture, and resumed her quest. Knowlton 
 looked across at me and grinned. 
 
 "Having trouble with your breakfast? You can't expect 
 breakfast at Schaefer's to be like dear old London," he went 
 on, while something approaching a serious outburst was 
 struggling in me. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do — 
 that's the best plan." 
 
 "That's all very well," I said with extreme self-control, "but 
 I am not going to eat prunes if the whole Holy Roman Empire 
 ate them. I don't see why she can't bring me the breakfast I 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 29 
 
 want when everything on God's earth is on that bill of fare." 
 
 "You'll shake down all right," he said in what was meant 
 to be a soothing way. "Kicking about the grub won't do you 
 any good. They don't know any better in a place like this. 
 What's the use of getting in wrong with the waitress?" 
 
 It was hopeless to explain, so I snorted instead. Knowlton 
 took a slice of bread and polished the inside of his now empty 
 bowl until' it glistened. 
 
 "Looks as though Fido had finished that off," he remarked, 
 as he rolled and lit a cigarette; "I'll knock some ashes into it so 
 they'll have to wash it." 
 
 The waitress appeared with a cup of coffee, a plate piled 
 high with thick slices of toast on which chunks of butter were 
 still melting, another plate with two oranges, and a third con- 
 taining two rashers of coarse bacon. With the grieved air 
 of a person determined to do her duty in the face of all re- 
 buffs she silently grouped this food about me. 
 
 "What will you have, Mr. Knowlton?" There was just 
 a faint emphasis upon the "you." 
 
 "Thanks, you can bring me a steak, some German fried 
 potatoes, a couple of soft-boiled eggs, and some griddle 
 cakes." 
 
 "Do you want black coffee too?" she asked with meaning. 
 
 "No, make mine half milk, and bring along another plate of 
 rolls." 
 
 "Sure!" remarked the waitress cheerfully and vanished. 
 
 "And how did she know your name?" I asked, realizing it 
 was quite useless to question Knowlton about his theory of a 
 hot weather diet. 
 
 "Oh, she asked the clerk, I guess. Ijt's good business to al- 
 ways call customers by name. Makes 'em feel at home." 
 
 I looked around the room again and inwardly decided that 
 something more than that simple and naive process would be 
 needed in my case. 
 
 "They mean well," Knowlton went on, with his disconcerting 
 habit of reading my thoughts, "but they don't always know 
 how. Now, you're used to thinking of a girl like that as a 
 
30 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 servant. She isn't. She thinks she's as good as you are, and I 
 guess there's something in that too. You treat her all right and 
 she'll treat you the same. But don't pull any of that European 
 stuff here. They don't know what it means." 
 
 Knowlton's breakfast arrived, and he fell upon it with gusto. 
 
 "You gents come from Pittsburgh?" the waitress enquired, 
 evidently much mollified by Knowlton's treatment of his 
 breakfast. 
 
 "Nope — New York," Knowlton answered. 
 
 "Gee, I'd like to go East," she said fervently. "It must be 
 just grand. What line you gents travelling in?" 
 
 "We aren't travelling men," Knowlton replied. "I'm an en- 
 gineer, and my friend here is just a plain business man." 
 
 "Oh," she said, somewhat disappointed, I thought. It was 
 clear that she did not rank us as highly as she did travelling 
 men. "Just passin' through the city, I suppose," she continued. 
 
 "It's hard to say," said Knowlton. "Maybe we'll be here 
 sometime." 
 
 "Going to board here?" — her interest in us somewhat re- 
 newed, at this announcement. 
 
 "We haven't settled on our eating joint yet. Thought we'd 
 look round first." 
 
 "This is as 0. K. as any," she said. "The grub's nothing 
 wonderful, but it's as good as you'll get. Lou Meyer's Rath- 
 skeller hasn't anything on us, and he charges a dollar a week 
 more. 'Course, if your friend's particular, he might try the 
 Otooska House down on the park. They put on a lot of airs 
 and charge New York prices there, but it's the same old grub." 
 
 "Well," said Knowlton, "we'll see. We'll try 'em all out 
 before we decide." 
 
 At this moment another customer entered, to be conducted 
 jby the head-waitress with like ceremony, as in our case, to 
 his seat, and our blaze of glory departed to ascertain his wants. 
 As Knowlton rose, seized a toothpick, and started for the door, 
 followed by me, I heard our waitress beginning her searching 
 personal questions all over again. 
 
 We paid for our breakfasts — fifty cents apiece — at the desk, 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 31 
 
 where the clerk took the same lack of interest in the transac- 
 tion as before. Knowlton asked him the way to the Deep Har- 
 bor Manufacturing Company, our destination. 
 
 "West Twelfth Street car to the end of the line," was the 
 brief reply, and with that we set forth. 
 
 Although it was still very early in the morning, or seemed so 
 to me, unaccustomed to begin a day's work at six thirty, it 
 was rapidly growing hot with a peculiar dry, intense heat that 
 made the sunlight painful. West Twelfth Street proved to be 
 in the direction of the railway station, and, although it was only 
 two blocks from Schaefer's, I was thoroughly moist with perspi- 
 ration when we joined a throng of blue-overalled mechanics, 
 waiting with shining tin dinner pails on the corner for the ar- 
 rival of the car. There was no car in sight when we got there, 
 and as we waited I listened to the peculiarly blasphemous con- 
 versation of the men about me. Their talk was intelligent, far 
 more so than that of a corresponding class of English working- 
 men, but it was interlarded with an original and soul-curdling 
 profanity. Rates of pay, politics, baseball, their foremen, and 
 women seemed to be the staples of conversation. Young men 
 predominated. Their faces were sharp and eager, and they 
 seemed tense and alive, although affecting and even boasting of 
 their dislike for their "jobs" and their dissatisfaction with the 
 management of their factories. But it was obvious at a glance 
 that they were well fed and clothed, and were excellent work- 
 men. They played incessant practical jokes on each other, 
 rolled innumerable cigarettes, and cheered the electric car 
 when it at last arrived. Long before it stopped they charged 
 the car en masse, with rough good nature, greeting conductor 
 and motorman by name, and filled every inch of it before 
 Knowlton and I could fight our way to a bare foothold upon 
 the rear platform. 
 
 The car whizzed out a most dreary street — drearier even than 
 the streets across the river in Bermondsey or over beyond the 
 Elephant and Castle. It was six inches deep in a choking grey 
 dust which the fast moving car stirred up into a remorseless 
 searching cloud. Overhead in the hot blue sky hung masses 
 
32 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 of coal smoke, now beginning to pour from factory chimneys. 
 Parallel to the car line ran a railway track, quite unguarded 
 from the street proper, along which switch engines with 
 freight cars smoked and clanged. On either side we passed 
 an endless row of factory buildings, some of brick, but more 
 of wood — even those which were several stories high. In 
 spite of the streaming, intense sunlight and the final blue of 
 the sky, the scene was one of desolation. 
 
 The car stopped with a jerk — we had reached the end, it 
 seemed — and with great promptness we pushed one another off 
 the rear platform. This crowd of workmen simply treated 
 Knowlton and me as non-existent, and, if we happened to be in 
 front of them, attempted the physical paradox of walking right 
 through us. As I reached the pavement, I saw before me a 
 long narrow two-storied brick building, surrounded by various 
 lesser sheds and outhouses, the whole surmounted by a huge 
 sign which read "Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company." 
 This was the magic purse of Fortunatus which I had come so 
 far to seek. It looked prosaic enough, but not so dismal as 
 my ride out Twelfth Street had caused me to fear. It was the 
 last of Twelfth Street, apparently, and the last of the factories 
 at that end of town, for beyond I caught a glimpse of green 
 cornfields, grey wooden fences, and, still further on, a blue 
 sliver of the lake. "At least, there's air from the west," I 
 thought, as I followed Knowlton, my heart thumping curiously 
 now I was almost face to face with my ordeal. 
 
 We entered a door marked "Office — No Admittance Except on 
 Business," and climbed a steep flight of stairs to pass into a 
 railed-off outer room full of desks and typewriters. There 
 was only one young man, slightly bald, with his coat off, ad- 
 justing black alpaca half -sleeves over his cuffs as we entered. 
 From one lip hung the inevitable toothpick which seemed to 
 be the totem pole of these regional tribes. He looked up at 
 us and advanced to meet us, holding out one hand. 
 
 "Mr. Knowlton? I'm sure gl'ad to meet you. Walk in. 
 My name's Kane, Phil Kane, and I'm general sales manager for 
 the D. H. M. Co." 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 33 
 
 He shook Knowlton's hand warmly. 
 
 "My friend and associate, Mr. Ted Jevons, of London, 
 England," said Knowlton. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jevons," said Kane, looking at 
 me with the same curiosity I studied him with. "They tell me 
 London is some town," he added with a forced laugh and an 
 attempt at hearty conversation. "I expect we seem a little 
 out of it here by the lake, after them big cities, but Deep Har- 
 bor's pretty up-to-date at that. We have more miles of paved 
 streets in proportion to our population than any city between 
 Buffalo and Toledo. Have you seen the view from the Sol- 
 diers' Home, Mr. Jevons?" 
 
 I informed him that we had only just arrived and had come 
 directly to the factory, after a breakfast of sorts at Schaefer's. 
 
 "You'd ought to have taken Mr. Jevons to the Otooska 
 House," said Kane, laughing. "They have music with meals 
 there, just like a New York hotel'. 'Course, it's only an elec- 
 tric organ, but it makes you feel cheerful. Come right in, 
 won't you? Mr. Norwood won't be out to turn the factory 
 over to you gentlemen until about eight, but if there's anything 
 I can do to show you around first, just say the word." 
 
 As I passed through the little swinging gate that divided the 
 inner from the outer office, Kane seized my hat with a mur- 
 mured apology and hung it on a hook. 
 
 "This is the general manager's office, in there," he said, point- 
 ing through the door in a wooden partition into a cubby hole 
 containing one roll-top desk, two chairs, and a large filing 
 cabinet. "I suppose you'll use this, Mr. Knowlton. Ques- 
 tion is, where'll we put Mr. Jevons' desk?" 
 
 "Oh," I replied, "mine will be in the testing laboratory." 
 
 "Laboratory?" he repeated. "I saw something about that 
 in the correspondence over the sale of the plant, and I couldn't 
 figure out what you were going to build a laboratory for." 
 
 "To test and improve our product — also to systematize its 
 factory costs," I said. 
 
 "Well, maybe so," he remarked doubtfully, "but a labora- 
 tory seems to me like an awful addition to overhead expenses. 
 
34 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 However, I don't presume to know how to run your business, 
 Mr. Jevons. I suppose you won't make any radical changes in 
 the selling department, will you?" There was a note of genu- 
 ine anxiety in his voice. 
 
 "Not for the present," Knowlton interjected crisply. "We 
 shall continue the policy and staff of the old company until we 
 get our bearings. Then there will be plenty of opportunity for 
 good men to move up. Meanwhile, we'll size up the efficiency 
 of everybody and see what we've got." 
 
 Kane scratched the back of one ear with a pencil and turned 
 this statement over in his mind. I noticed that his eyes were 
 pale and weak, and that his manner was plainly that of a man 
 who had little faith in fortune's star. An efficiency test was 
 clearly one he was not confident of facing, but neither was I, 
 and my sympathy went out to him. I had never seen a man at 
 close range before who actually feared for his bread and but- 
 ter, and that was what Kane's face showed, as he tried to con- 
 ciliate the two of us as representatives of the new owners. It 
 was not a pleasant sight. I could tell by Knowlton's sharp 
 glance at him that our engineer was remorselessly applying 
 that uncanny faculty of his of reading men's thoughts, and I 
 guessed Kane had sealed his own doom. 
 
 But Knowlton said never a word. Instead he pulled some 
 papers from his pocket, checked his memoranda for the day, 
 and read a few documents which Kane turned over to him. I 
 took out my pipe and started to light it. 
 
 "No smoking in the factory!" exclaimed Knowlton sharply. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," I protested, "that I've got to be here 
 from seven to six each day without even smoking?" 
 
 "Just that," replied Knowlton with a grin. "We lose our 
 insurance if we allow smoking." 
 
 At that moment a steam whistle began an infernal din, ap- 
 parently over my head — a din which was echoed from every 
 point of the compass. Instantly an even worse clatter and roar 
 of machinery began under our feet, and the flimsy wooden floor 
 and partitions vibrated visibly. 
 
 "Seven o'clock!" said Knowlton, rising. "The day's work 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 35 
 
 has begun. Come, Ted, we'll take a walk through the machine- 
 shop and look things over. Never mind, Kane — we'll find 
 our own way around. Don't lose time from your job on our 
 account." 
 
 With this hint Kane went suddenly back to his desk, while 
 Knowlton and I descended the stairs and entered the machine 
 shop. As we passed through the narrow aisles between closely 
 packed lathes and planers, Knowlton made a series of rapid 
 notes on the back of an envelope. Nothing escaped his eye, 
 from a machine working too slowly to a foreman with too 
 many men to look after. At the time I had no way of judging 
 whether his inspection revealed a satisfactory condition or the 
 reverse. The factory had been bought, of course, after a 
 preliminary inventory of contents and orders on hand, but 
 Knowlton's task was to judge of its efficiency as an operating 
 plant. For over an hour we went from one department to 
 another, until Knowlton's notes had covered all the scraps of 
 paper either of us had in our pockets. 
 
 "I guess we'll go upstairs now and talk to Norwood," said 
 Knowlton. "By the way, what did you think of the plant, 
 Ted?" I felt as my old friend Dr. Watson must have felt 
 when Sherlock Holmes asked him one of those sudden posers 
 whose explanation was really so simple. 
 
 "It seems very busy," I said with conscious feebleness. 
 
 "Yes," he remarked drily, "that busyness is also costing 
 them a lot of money. I think we'll shake this old place up, 
 Ted, before we're through." 
 
 As I followed him I covertly looked at my watch. A little 
 after eight! Good heavens, how many hours to six o'clock! 
 It seemed as if I had been up since day before yesterday. 
 
 The upper office was now full of clerks and clicking type- 
 writers, presided over by some remarkably pretty girls. At 
 least three of them looked me straight in the eye as I went past, 
 and I made a mental note that they were a great improvement 
 upon the waitresses at Schaefer's. But my thoughts were in- 
 terrupted by Norwood's coming forward to greet us. 
 
 Norwood was one of the young millionaires of Deep Har- 
 
36 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 bor — the son of a father who had helped to create the town and 
 whose capital was the backbone of every enterprise of impor- 
 tance in the city. Young Norwood had recently inherited the 
 overlordship of Deep Harbor, and one of his first acts had been 
 to sell the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company to the in- 
 terests represented by my father. 
 
 Norwood himself was rather a disappointment. He was a 
 tall, weak-faced, pale young man, whose clothes, neat and 
 costly, were wrong in every particular. His seal ring was 
 too large, his watch chain too heavy, his collar too high, and 
 his cravat too loud. Even his shoes were ornamented with 
 fancy leatherwork in scroll patterns. His manner was cordial 
 to the point of oiliness, yet cold and insincere. In short, I took 
 an instant dislike to him. 
 
 Obsequiously he placed chairs for us, closed the door, and 
 produced fat black cigars, thus ignoring the office rule about 
 smoking; and while he was ostensibly listening to Knowlton I 
 had the uncomfortable feeling that he was studying me. As 
 Knowlton ran over the items of his memoranda I kept catching 
 Norwood looking me over out of the corners of his watery blue 
 eyes. It was increasingly clearer that Knowlton's questions 
 and enthusiastic exposition of plans were boring Norwood, for, 
 after fidgeting more and more, he suddenly got up. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," he said, "the business is yours now. 
 I'm sorry I've an engagement downtown. If there's anything I 
 can do, or any advice I can give you, just 'phone me and I'll 
 look in, anytime. Glad to have met you," and with a vigorous, 
 cold handshake he left. Knowlton and I faced each other. 
 We were now in command of the ship. Knowlton carefully 
 extinguished his cigar. 
 
 "Ted," he said, "I don't trust this Norwood. He's sold this 
 thing, and it looks all right, but I'm afraid there is a Sene- 
 gambian concealed somewhere in the woodpile. You noticed 
 how he dodged talking over the business?" 
 
 I nodded. Even I had noted that. 
 
 "Besides," I added, "he did not offer to put us up at his clubs 
 or in any way behave like a gentleman." 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 37 
 
 Knowlton grinned his favourite grin. 
 
 "Ted, I hadn't thought of that as an index of Norwood's 
 business ability, but damned if I don't think your reason as 
 good as mine." 
 
 With that he pressed a button on his desk and a spotlessly 
 clean young woman responded. 
 
 "Bring me the file of our customers," he said, and she with- 
 drew. 
 
 "What shall I do?" I asked. 
 
 "You — oh, yes — you go out to the drafting room and design 
 the testing I'aboratory. Come to me if you get stuck on any 
 details. As for me," he added, "I'm going to start looking for 
 that Senegambian this very minute." 
 
 My arrival in the drafting room caused a mild sensation 
 among its occupants, but a drawing table, desk, instruments, 
 and materials were speedily placed at my disposal, and as there 
 was a rule against talking in this room, I was left in silence, but 
 under close observation, to work out my problem. Furtively 
 I produced from my pocket a useful manual containing prac- 
 tical tables and formulae for nearly everything under the 
 sun, and with the help of this and my actual knowledge of 
 what a chemical laboratory ought to contain, I had made con- 
 siderable progress with my rough pencilled plan when the 
 twelve-o'clock whistle blew. I had become so absorbed in my 
 work that I had forgotten all about the noon hour. 
 
 I found Knowlton in the office where I had left him. He was 
 surrounded by piles of papers and correspondence which he 
 was reading, checking, and making notes about on separate 
 slips of paper. 
 
 "Not found him yet, but I think I'm on his trail, Ted. Let's 
 go to lunch." 
 
 There was no lunchroom in the neighborhood, so there was 
 nothing for it but to go back to Schaefer's in the broiling heat 
 of the packed trolley car, and again face the flies and perils of 
 that dining room. As Knowlton insisted upon our being back 
 at the factory before the one-o'clock whistle, there was no time 
 to change one's clothes or to see about a place to sleep that 
 
38 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 night. Never had I felt so dirty as I did after a morning in the 
 heat and soft coal smoke of Deep Harbor. Luncheon at Schae- 
 f er's proved to be "dinner," a noisy, crowded, hurried affair in 
 which the waitress made no pretence of serving one's order, 
 but brought what she considered a standard type of meal. 
 There was no time to protest or change things. Knowlton, as 
 usual, ate prodigiously, with the most annoying conceivable rel- 
 ish, of everything put before him, and gulped down in addi- 
 tion two large tumblers of watery milk. 
 
 We were back at ten minutes to one, and promptly, as the 
 whistle blew, I stood once more before my drawing table and 
 resumed the task. About three o'clock it seemed as if I could 
 not stand another moment. My knees shook with fatigue and 
 the unaccustomed strain of standing hour after hour, but there 
 were no seats in the drafting room, and every one had to do his 
 work standing up. At four I thought I should have to go to 
 Knowlton's office and beg for mercy, but I didn't, because I 
 knew he would think me unable to stick even a simple job 
 through. At five the office staff left, including the drafting 
 room, but there was still an hour for me. And this was to go 
 on five and a half days a week, month after month, I thought ! 
 How did factory workers endure it without going mad? 
 
 When the six o'clock whistle blew, I could almost have cried 
 with relief. I nearly staggered as I came into Knowlton's 
 office, and sank into a chair mopping my face. 
 
 Knowlton grinned. 
 
 "Young gentleman from London, England, finds ten hours in 
 an American factory on a nice warm July day something of a 
 physical effort — shall I have that put in tomorrow's Social 
 Notes?" he asked. 
 
 "You can't insult me, Knowlton," I said. "I am damned 
 tired, and I have sense enough to admit it. So are you, I sus- 
 pect, only you've been sitting down." 
 
 "Well," he conceded, "this elusive Senegambian I am after 
 does make me tired — especially as friend Norwood is too sly 
 a customer to be caught with the goods on him. If the Sene- 
 gambian is there — and I've already found his footprints — we 
 
I CAMP IN THE DESERT 39 
 
 can trust Norwood to have made himself safe first. Let's go 
 eat." 
 
 "Not at Schaefer's— God, not there!" I, wailed. "I've had 
 all I can stand of that hole." 
 
 "All right. We'll try the Rathskeller, but don't forget we 
 haven't, as yet, any place to sleep." 
 
 I was too tired to eat when we reached the little musty hot 
 German restaurant down under the sidewalk off State Street, 
 but the waiter did produce a large foaming mug of German 
 beer in which I blunted some of the acuteness of my physical 
 aches and pains. 
 
Chapter Four 
 
 i have my first encounter with 
 prospero 
 
 ONE evening, after we had been a few weeks in Deep Har- 
 bor, Knowlton arrived at my rooms as soon as he had 
 had supper. 
 
 "Teddy, I've got a new j ob for you and one that'll keep you 
 — well, it'll keep you pretty busy." There was one comforting 
 thing about Knowlton, he never beat about the bush. 
 
 "What is it?" I asked anxiously. 
 
 "I've just hired a chemical assistant for you." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "No, it's much more complicated than that. This fellow is 
 an old inventor — a kind of genius. At any rate, I've got faith 
 in him. He dreams dreams and sees visions, like the fellow in 
 the Bible — Job, wasn't it? I guess you know what I mean. 
 But he has two serious drawbacks. He isn't practical — not the 
 least idea of the value of money. It's up to you to see he does 
 economically what he's told. The other drawback is that he 
 drinks and is thoroughly unreliable. You've got to keep him 
 straight and keep him away from the booze. His favourite oc- 
 cupation, aside from chemistry, is alternating Bass's ale with 
 brandy and Benedictine. Then he gets ugly and his experi- 
 ments suffer. When he's sober, he's a wonder." 
 
 I still was totally at sea as to what was expected of me. 
 
 "He looks like a pirate from the Barbary coast — San Fran- 
 cisco," Knowlton went on, "and when he's full he acts like one. 
 I've rented the bedroom that opens into this study for him. 
 You can share the sitting room and work here evenings on your 
 chemical problems. Also you will be able to keep an eye on 
 him. The first time he comes home pickled, you let me know." 
 
 40 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 41 
 
 This cool way of supplying me with a roommate staggered 
 me. 
 
 "Do you wish me to cable your father to authorize this ar- 
 rangement?" said Knowlton, with his unerring skill in tracing 
 the course of my thoughts. 
 
 "Not if you honestly tell me it is for the good of the business, 
 and not because you want to tie me down." 
 
 "Well," he puffed, looking at his cigarette, "I'm frank 
 enough to say it's a mixture of both. We need this man in 
 our business and some one has got to look after him. It's two 
 birds with one barrel." 
 
 "It's very inconvenient for me," I objected. "I like to read 
 and experiment with my literary work in the evenings." 
 
 "The world is often an inconvenient place," moralized 
 Knowlton. "It might be inconvenient for several of us if old 
 Prospero gets to hitting the booze." 
 
 "Prospero?" I enquired, surprised by Knowlton's sudden 
 excursion into literature. 
 
 "That's the best name I know for him. I learned a piece 
 about him in school once, something about cloud-capped pal- 
 aces leaving a wreck behind them, or words to that effect. I 
 have a hunch that if you steer old Prospero right, he'll bring 
 one of those cloud-capped palaces down to earth. The only 
 thing that worries me is the danger of the wreck behind. 
 Shakespeare certainly knew human nature all right. He was a 
 wise boy." 
 
 Knowlton achieved his carefully planned purpose of disarm- 
 ing me. I laughed and even began to feel most curious con- 
 cerning Prospero. 
 
 "What is the real name of your genius?" I asked, still post- 
 poning my final decision. 
 
 "John de Fougere is what he call's himself, since he decided 
 he had French blood. As a matter of fact he took this name to 
 avoid an unnecessary wife in Cripple Creek. That's a piece of 
 information I've salted away for what it may be worth to us. 
 Just now he is living with an ex-circus gymnast. I'm buying 
 he lady off. and persuaded John to pay his alimony to her. He 
 
42 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 thinks I think this circus woman is his wife. Prosperous right 
 name is Donald McClintock and he hails originally from South 
 Carolina. There's still some Scotch that isn't whiskey in him 
 somewhere." 
 
 "I think you have planned a rather heavy contract for me. 
 Won't he get restless without his gymnastic companion?" 
 
 "No. You see Prospero is all hrains and no physical 
 strength. Lately the lady has taken to practicing her gymnastic 
 skill on him and beats him up every time he stays out nights. 
 He says she is too crassly material to appreciate his knowledge 
 of chemistry. If we can keep him in shape and use his brains 
 for three months, I'll be satisfied." 
 
 "All right" I agreed finally. "You may move him in here 
 and I'll stand it as long as I can. When does he arrive?" 
 
 "Day after tomorrow." 
 
 With this Knowlton rose and took himself off, leaving me to 
 meditate upon this new complication in life. 
 
 Wednesday evening brought Prospero. Knowlton escorted 
 him to my apartment, and the door between my study and the 
 extra bedroom was formally opened. Prospero revealed the 
 reason for his name. He was a tall, gaunt, swarthy individual 
 over whose sharp bones a sallow, shrunken skin clung tightly. 
 His eyes, deep sunken and brown, glowed beneath bushy eye- 
 brows. His long, lean face was adorned with a waxed mous- 
 tache and sharp pointed goatee, which, together with an ample 
 brimmed felt hat, gave him the appearance of a royalist of the 
 ancient regime. He wore a Byronic collar, above which pro- 
 truded an enormous Adam's apple resting in the folds of a 
 flowing black tie. His hands, tapering like a vulture's claws, 
 were covered with cheap imitation jewelry. A suit of out- 
 rageous checked tweeds and patent leather pumps gave the last 
 touch to his bizarre appearance. Any one seeing him would 
 seize upon him as a character newly stepped from some detec- 
 tive story or tale of mystery. His breath was strongly impreg- 
 nated with alcohol, which the smoke of a Cuban cigarette hang- 
 ing loosely from a flabby lower lip could not conceal. He 
 seemed even more out of place in Deep Harbor than I did. 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 43 
 
 Some mediaeval alchemist's cell, hung with crocodiles and 
 stuffed owls, was the only natural background for him. 
 
 With him he brought infinite luggage — everything from a 
 steamer roll to a canvas dunnage bag, all of it portable. As 
 we shook hands, an act which he performed in a most friendly 
 manner, he crossed the room, opened one of his mysterious 
 overflowing bags, and produced a box of costly chocolates. 
 These he solemnly passed — like the Dodo in "Alice in Wonder- 
 land," I thought. Like Alice I took one, fearing to offend him. 
 Then he drew his chair up to a table and announced that he 
 was ready to talk business. 
 
 Knowlton evidently understood what was expected, for he 
 took out a roll of bills and counted out a respectable pile. "I 
 think you will find the amount correct — two months' pay in 
 advance as per our agreement," said Knowlton. Prospero 
 made great ceremony of counting and recounting the bills in 
 silence, moistening his fingers frequently and getting the smoke 
 from his cigarette in his eyes at intervals during the process. 
 
 "And now, Teddy, my lad," he said suddenly to me, to my 
 intense surprise, calling me by my nickname in this unexpected 
 way, "we'll go out, get something to eat, and see the town." 
 
 I looked at Knowlton, and his expression denoted approval. 
 I fetched my hat and the two of us sallied forth. Don Quixote 
 and Sancho were not a more ill-assorted couple, and it was not 
 strange that men turned to stare at us in the street. 
 
 "You are French, I believe," I said at last in a desperate ef- 
 fort to start conversation. I didn't believe it, but I wanted to 
 know what he would say. His answer was astounding. 
 
 "I am a descendant of Charles Martel," he announced as if 
 he were stating the most ordinary fact. I let the statement pass 
 in silence. 
 
 "Are you leading me to the best restaurant in town?" he 
 queried a block further on. 
 
 "If you wish," I replied. "The best restaurant in town is a 
 relative question. We'll try the so-called grill room at the 
 Otooska House." 
 
 Our entrance together was easily the event of the evening. 
 
44 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Prospero demanded a table like an emperor issuing a procla- 
 mation. Waiters came upon the run from every nook and 
 cranny and crowded tables upon us. He was content to sit at 
 the most conspicuous. To one waiter he handed his hat, to 
 another his stick, to a third, his gloves, and bade a fourth 
 "Divest my friend of his paraphernalia." There was a distinct 
 touch of Wilkins Micawber in his make-up, I decided ; still, one 
 must expect that of a present-day relative of Charles Martel. 
 
 "Stout and oysters for two," he commanded. "I have ven- 
 tured to order stout and oysters in compliment to you," he 
 explained. "The combination is new to me, but I have read 
 about it in Charles Dickens' novels." 
 
 "We are rather inland for oysters," I said. "They have an 
 indecent habit here of serving them nude on a plate — without 
 their shell, I mean," I added, as Prospero frowned question- 
 ingly. 
 
 "You are a chemist, Edward? Am I right?" Prosper o's 
 questions sounded like those of Rhadamanthus. 
 
 "I'm trying to be one," I modestly rejoined. 
 
 "I am the greatest chemist in the world, if I choose to let men 
 know it." It seemed to me rather ill concealed for a secret of 
 such importance. "I have an idea here — " he tapped his fore- 
 head — "that will make me rich beyond the dreams of avarice. 
 Would you like to know what it is?" 
 
 "Very much," I said sipping my stout gratefully. 
 
 "Listen!" he proclaimed. "I have discovered the secret of 
 making electricity direct from coal ! What do you think of me 
 now?" And he sat back to study the effect of his dramatic an- 
 nouncement on me. I felt that common politeness compelled 
 pie in some way to rise to the occasion. 
 
 "It sounds marvellous," I said. "Have you ever done it?" 
 
 He waved this question aside with a long draft of stout. 
 1 Not yet," he sputtered through the brown foam on his mous- 
 tache, "but that is immaterial, for I know the secret." I con- 
 templated him a bit ruefully, wondering if the hardheaded 
 Knowlton had made a good bargain in saddling us with this. 
 
 "You doubt me," he remarked. "That is because you do not 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 45 
 
 know me yet. Do you know" — suddenly dropping his voice to 
 a whisper — "I am not convinced yet that the alchemist's 
 search for the philosopher's stone was vain. It might be pos- 
 sible — locked within the element radium that secret lies. And 
 if men are to find it out, I shall be that man." 
 
 "Oh, hell, Mr. Fougere!" I said much nettled, "all this has 
 very little to do with the chemistry we use in our business." 
 
 "True, my young materialist, true. He who looks straight 
 before his nose shall see but the dust. My gaze is among the 
 stars. But you need not worry. I shall give you and your 
 father every cent's value that the most exacting business man 
 could ask of me. If you care nothing for my true brains and 
 want only my routine daily labour, that will be your loss — yet 
 I shall not hold it against you. Money is the curse of the 
 age." 
 
 "Your big ideas sound reasonably profitable," I retorted, "if 
 you pull them off. How would you escape the curse?" 
 
 "I can use money wisely, for I am a great man. If I were 
 rich I should cruise in the South Seas." 
 
 "That has been done before," I murmured. 
 
 "I shall go to Tahiti and surround myself with beautiful 
 island women. There I will build the world's greatest labora- 
 tory and search for the philosopher's stone as I recline against 
 the bronze breasts of flower-decked girls." 
 
 I meditated a moment on the vision he had conjured up and 
 concluded he would look rather well in the part as outlined. 
 Finally I ventured. "Isn't Tahiti quite an out of the way place 
 for a chemical laboratory? 'Better fifty years of Europe than 
 a cycle of Cathay.' " 
 
 "I do not agree with you. The hero of 'Locksley Hall' was 
 wrong. He but reflected sentimentally the materialism of the 
 nineteenth century." 
 
 I was amused to have my quotation recognized by him. 
 What was this strange man, and what had he done with himself 
 in the world? I wondered what kind of chemist he would 
 prove. 
 
 "In spite of your youth, Edward, I see you are, like me, a 
 
46 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 thinker and philosopher; on a lower plane, of course, yet our 
 minds have much in common." 
 
 He talked after a fashion of the characters in an early 
 Victorian novel or a transpontine melodrama. Where could 
 such a creature have obtained the skill to keep consistently his 
 elaborate pose? I wished to draw him out, so I played back 
 to him: "I find the world a mildly amusing place and always 
 interesting even in its unpleasant phases." 
 
 "That is very true, Edward. At one time I was forced by 
 unusual circumstances to apply my chemical skill to the making 
 of what is known as moonshine whiskey. This was in the 
 mountains of North Carolina. Here, if you please, was one of 
 life's unpleasant phases — that I, of all men, should be techni- 
 cally classified by a capitalistic government as a criminal and 
 hence be subjected to annoyances from internal revenue 
 minions. Nevertheless, I was profoundly interested in the 
 problems involved in eluding man-made laws." 
 
 He bared his right forearm; across the drum-like skin ran a 
 long seared scar. "That was as near as the law came to me," 
 he said, and emptied a pony of brandy, which he had ordered 
 as soon as his bottle of stout was empty. I made an effort to 
 stop him by referring to the early hour at which work began 
 at the factory. There was as yet no trace of thickness in his 
 speech; only his fiery eyes were shining more and more 
 frrightly. With his next brandy he commanded Welsh rabbits 
 and chocolate ice-cream. Fortunately he made no attempt to 
 urge me to keep pace with him in drinking. As for the mor- 
 row, he dismissed it with a shrug. 
 
 "I work neither in time nor in space, Edward. My ideas are 
 flashes — gleams — from the outer Cosmos, whence time is not. 
 When they come, I work; when they don't, I await the signal." 
 
 "It sounds like an irregular schedule to follow," I smiled. 
 
 "When the hour strikes, I shall be there, Edward. Waiter! 
 Bring me another brandy." 
 
 From this time on he began to get thoroughly drunk. I 
 could only sit and watch hoping that ultimately he would find 
 his way home. When closing time came he wished to fight the 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 47 
 
 entire hotel management for suggesting that he leave. At last 
 I coaxed him to go; and, strange to say, I was not once in- 
 cluded in his outbursts of rage. Like a lamb he followed me 
 half way home; and then another whim seized him. He was 
 determined to make an excursion down an unsavoury by-street 
 whose nature he recognized. In vain I sought to detain him. 
 I reminded him that half the night was gone and that there was 
 work to do tomorrow. He would listen to no word of mine, 
 but, wrenching his arm free from me, lurched away. Whether 
 to follow or not I was undecided. He turned into an alley and 
 disappeared. The streets were dark and deserted. With a 
 final imprecation almost as picturesque as one of Prospero's 
 own, I went home and to bed. 
 
 At six, with the alarm clock still clanging in my ears, I 
 looked into his bedroom. Prospero lay across the bed with 
 most of his clothes on, unconscious. The sleeve of his left arm 
 was rolled up, and I saw that the skin was covered with small 
 puncture marks. On the floor a hypodermic syringe and his 
 Russia leather wallet, both empty, were lying. I shook him 
 savagely, but a groan was the only response. Damning Knowl- 
 ton for thrusting such a room-mate upon me, I went out to the 
 factory. 
 
 Instead of going to work I sat in Knowlton's office waiting for 
 him to arrive. I had made up my mind to have the case of 
 Prospero out with him. Promptly at eight he came, bringing 
 Prospero with him! The latter was as fresh appearing and 
 as amiable as if nothing had happened. He had changed his 
 tweeds for a long frock coat, slightly green with age, and 
 upon his head was a silk hat of a famous vintage. 
 
 "Why, Ted, I'm surprised not to find you on the job this 
 morning," grinned Knowlton. "I'm afraid Mr. de Fougere 
 kept you up too late last night. Take him out to the labora- 
 tory, and if there's anything needed, wire New York to ship by 
 express. I'll leave you two authority for any reasonable 
 order." 
 
 In silence and deep disgust I led the way. As we entered the 
 laboratory Prospero glanced about with an appraising eye. 
 
43 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Very good, Teddy, very good. A well equipped little work- 
 shop," and he removed hat and coat, soaked a towel in fresh 
 water, wrung it out, bound it about his head without further 
 comment, lit a cigarette in defiance of the factory rules staring 
 him in the face, and sat before the long bench table. I out- 
 lined the day's work and explained the experiments already un- 
 der way. He critically picked up a beaker or two, sniffed their 
 contents, and squinted at a rack of test tubes. I waited to see 
 what would happen next. Our problem was one requiring a 
 number of experiments to be performed in sequence. Among 
 the assets of our firm were certain new chemical patents which 
 were not yet in a commercial stage. 
 
 De Fougere finished his cigarette and then asked to see the 
 laboratory diary and the inventory of chemicals on hand. 
 These I placed in his hands. He smoked another cigarette in 
 silence while he l'ooked over my records. 
 
 "You appear to be a methodical boy, Teddy," he remarked 
 with a yawn, at the same time choosing a Meissen ware dish as 
 an ash tray. "I can't be bothered to write results down. I 
 carry them stored here," and he tapped his forehead. 
 
 "All very well," I replied, "but what would happen if you 
 dropped dead?" 
 
 Prospero smiled: "That is impossible. I have been sent to 
 this planet to do a great work. Not until all the world rings 
 with the name de Fougere shall I pass away. When that time 
 comes I may pass, like Arthur, into the deep. I have seen my 
 death in dreams, and it is a glorious one. There is no fear 
 of my falling in the street." 
 
 All this explanation was not so comforting to me as it was to 
 him, and I decided to add his records to mine, as far as it was 
 possible to get them from observation and question. Was he 
 a megalomaniac, or was his ego an effect of drugs upon a nerve- 
 wracked constitution? Was there any knowledge accompany- 
 ing this colossal conceit — this ego-centrism of his? 
 
 "I grant you, Teddy, that last evening has given you some 
 cause to mistrust me. As soon as this headache clears from my 
 brain, you shall see and marvel at the true de Fougere. You 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 49 
 
 imagine I am often as you saw me last night? You are wrong, 
 young man, wrong. That is the body of de Fougere struggling 
 for freedom from the mind of de Fougere. I make my body 
 so completely my slave that at times it revolts and demands 
 such food as drugs and flesh." 
 
 I was fascinated by this pompous speech, which seemed as 
 if it had been written out beforehand and memorized. A hun- 
 dred questions were on the tip of my tongue. Where had he 
 acquired this language, this farrago of phrases from Godey's 
 Ladies' Magazine? This thought kept recurring to me as 
 the most inexplicable of all the strange things about this man. 
 I turned to my morning's work and abandoned the problem of 
 Prospero. 
 
 In the evening I went to Knowlton's room at the Otooska 
 House and laid formal complaint against de Fougere. Knowl- 
 ton grinned: "It's great experience for you, Teddy boy. You 
 don't meet many jewels like Prospero at your pink teas, I 
 guess. So he hit the booze and worse, in spite of your protests? 
 Tut, tut, Teddy that's bad." 
 
 "Not only that, but I tell you he uses morphine," I said, net- 
 tled by the way Knowlton took my story. 
 
 "Our contract is only for three months, Teddy, and he has 
 forgotten more chemistry than most people will ever know. 
 Now, Ted, keep your hair on. I'm simply gambling on a l'ong 
 chance. If we keep him fairly straight for three months, he 
 can be mightily useful. If we don't, we are only out three 
 months' salary for him. He spent two months' of it last night, 
 which pretty well guarantees us against further blow-ups. I 
 wanted to pay him the whole three in advance, but the old 
 devil was too foxy to take it," Knowlton added reflectively. 
 
 Light began to dawn upon me. "So you encouraged him to 
 take that tear last night?" 
 
 "Surest thing you know. I thought it would be well to get 
 it out of his system at the start. It has been some time since 
 he has seen that much money. He didn't get you stewed, did 
 he, Ted?" 
 
50 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "No," I said shortly. Knowlton grinned. 
 
 "You sound like a hang over, but perhaps it's only your 
 moral sense, Teddy." 
 
 "The point is, have I got to have a drug fiend as a room- 
 mate?" 
 
 "I'm afraid so, Teddy. We must keep as much of an eye on 
 him as possible. He believes you innocent and guileless; and 
 he'll talk more freely to you than to me." 
 
 "Talk freely! Great heavens! I should think he did! 
 That's one of the things I complain of. Perhaps you think it 
 amusing to listen to a crazy man talk about himself night and 
 day." 
 
 Upon my return to my quarters I found Prospero, in velvet 
 jacket, cap, and slippers, smoking a peculiar pipe of a great 
 size. It was his instinct to wear a suitable costume for every- 
 thing he did, even for pipe smoking. An old cash ledger lay 
 open before him, and in this he was writing with — trust Pros- 
 pero for a dramatic effect — a quill pen! He frowned at me 
 as I entered and growled "Silence!" Somewhat bored and 
 more irritated, I lit a candle which I had bought for sealing 
 documents, set it down on the table by his book, and put out 
 the desk light. "I'll make his damned scene complete," I 
 thought. 
 
 "I thank you, Edward," he boomed at me. "Candle-light is 
 less fatiguing to the eye. You are very thoughtful." He 
 scratched abominably with his quill, which I suspected he did 
 not know how to use. I endeavoured to read and watch his 
 melodrama at the same time. 
 
 "Edward, do you know what I am writing?" 
 
 I rejoiced inwardly at this, for I was certain that my literal 
 interpretation of his injunction to silence would prove irksome 
 to him in the end. 
 
 "A treatise on chemistry?" I suggested. "Or perhaps a 
 monograph on one of the rare elements?" 
 
 "Wrong, Edward, wrong again. I am writing the philoso- 
 phy." 
 
 "The philosophy?" I queried. 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 51 
 
 "I call it the philosophy, for it is the only true one. I am 
 the only man who can explain mind and matter — of what the 
 universe is made — why it is, and what the nature of the Su- 
 preme Being is." 
 
 "What is the universe?" I ventured, hoping to draw him 
 out. Mental hallucinations were novelties to me at that time, 
 and for once Prospero had interested me. 
 
 "The universe, Edward, is a complex chemical equation 
 which I am solving. On one side of this equation you have 
 material manifestations of energy ; on the other, the manifesta- 
 tions which we call mind and spirit." 
 
 "I think I have heard something like this before," I said, 
 a little disappointed. 
 
 "The germ of my philosophy, Edward, is to be found in Con- 
 fucius and repeats itself again in the sayings attributed to 
 Buddha." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "Positive matter is the male essence; negative matter, the 
 female. The ultimate quintessence emanating from the su- 
 preme source is a wave vibration independent of time and 
 space. As this travels outward through the atoms and mole- 
 cules of the ultimate solid — these atoms and molecules which 
 we call stars and planets and which compose this solid — the 
 combinations between these positive and negative ions or 
 wave vibrations produce the varying manifestations of mind 
 and matter. They are all self-perpetuating, yet always pass- 
 ing into new forms. Thus matter begets matter; thought, 
 thought." 
 
 "It sounds as plausible as any explanation," I said politely, 
 turning over a page of my book. "I'm going to bed," and 
 I shut myself up in my bedroom. I had had philosophy 
 enough for one evening. 
 
 For a week or ten days Prospero worked steadily and amaz- 
 ingly in the laboratory. He did his experiments with skill, 
 ease, and rapidity; furthermore, he put no obstacles in the way 
 of my keeping full records of his work. One day, however, 
 
52 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 when he returned in the afternoon he was much depressed. 
 His cigarette reappeared upon his lower lip and he spilt its 
 ashes into various mixtures, until, in a rage, he hurled an egg- 
 shell Bohemian glass beaker partly full of nitric acid into a far 
 corner of the room. By acting promptly I saved the factory 
 from a fire and the room from any serious damage. Prospero 
 contemplated me gloomily when I had finished clearing up his 
 mess. 
 
 "That's a little too risky to be funny," I rebuked him, with 
 pardonable annoyance. "It's all right to have nerves for one's 
 personal pleasure, but endangering company property is an- 
 other matter." 
 
 His reply was a series of picturesque and obscene oaths. 
 The final intimation was that the next time I might expect 
 nitric acid or worse at my head, instead of at a corner of the 
 room. He flatly refused to continue any more experiments 
 that afternoon and sat until six o'clock watching a flickering 
 electric current passing through a vacuum tube. I reported 
 the situation to Knowlton at the office. 
 
 "What do you make of it, Ted?" Knowlton asked. 
 
 "Getting ready to shoot himself full of morphine, I take it." 
 
 "He hasn't any money." 
 
 "I think he probably has a reserve supply of the drug — a 
 fiend isn't likely to be without it." 
 
 "H'm," mused Knowlton. "I wish we could search his 
 baggage. Here, Ted, you'd better have this in case of emer- 
 gency," and Knowlton took a revolver from his desk and of- 
 fered it to me. I laughed. 
 
 "You are getting as melodramatic as old Prospero himself. 
 Thank you just the same, but I never use them," and I handed 
 it back. 
 
 "If he should take a dislike to you, look out, Ted. Let me 
 know if it continues. Paranoia is not a disease to ignore 
 lightly." 
 
 "Paranoia?" I gasped in surprise. 
 
 "Sure. He's got all the symptoms — big head and the rest." 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 53 
 
 Evening brought the explanation. It was not quite so bad 
 as we had surmised. Upon entering my study I found a stout 
 middle-aged woman seated there, fanning herself with a palm 
 leaf fan. I was taken aback, I confess it, and at a loss for 
 words. She saved me the trouble by saying, "Now, dearie, 
 don't you worry about me. I'm waiting for Mr. de Fougere. 
 I'm his wife." 
 
 "Yes?" I faltered. "Pray make yourself at home." 
 
 "You can trust me to do that, dearie, no matter where I am. 
 I've slept twenty-five seasons in a tourist Pullman car. Home 
 is where I find it, I always say." 
 
 "Twenty-five seasons in a Pullman?" My fatal curiosity 
 was leading me into conversation in spite of myself. 
 
 "Yes, dearie, with the greatest show on earth. Ain't you 
 never heard of la belle Helene? — well, that's me — Risley act — 
 I've been everything from the apex to the base of the human 
 pyramid." 
 
 "Good God," I thought, "the circus woman ! What on earth 
 shall we do now?" I sat down rather suddenly. 
 
 "When do you expect John home? I sent him a telegraph 
 I was coming this noon, but the skunk didn't meet me to the 
 depot as I told him. Left me to find my way as best may be, 
 the dirty hound! But I'll fix him!" and she fanned herself 
 vigorously, for her emotion caused her profuse perspiration. 
 "Has he been boozing again?" she continued. 
 
 "Mr. de Fougere should be here now," I said uneasily. "I 
 can't think what's keeping him." 
 
 "Well, I can!" she announced with vigour. "He always gets 
 drunk when he knows I'm coming — the coward!" 
 
 I thought it took some courage to drink with certain punish- 
 ment waiting at the other end. Here was more than a mere 
 headache. 
 
 "I suppose you're Teddy — just the age my oldest boy was 
 when he made his first hit — I trained him myself. John has 
 written me all about you. You won't mind me calling 
 you Teddy? — I just have to mother something or I'm all at 
 sea." 
 
54 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 The conversation was taking an alarmingly intimate turn. 
 At this opportune moment Prospero's voice was heard upon the 
 stairs, carolling at the top of his lungs "Rolling down to Rio." 
 
 "That's him," said the ex-gymnast, getting elaborately upon 
 her feet, "and he's pie-eyed!" 
 
 There was no exit through which I could retreat; Prospero's 
 entrance would be by the only door. I lacked spirit to make 
 a sudden dash by him. He arrived in the middle of the 
 chorus, his silk hat, ruffled, over one ear. 
 
 "This is a nice way to meet me, ain't it? And you call your- 
 self a man!" was his greeting. 
 
 "Woman, I defy you!" he challenged, "In the name of my 
 ancestor, Charles Martel, King of France!" 
 
 "Go on, you drunken fool! You ain't no more French 
 than what I am, except for your name, which is a fake, same 
 as my stage name." 
 
 I edged toward the door, having stealthily secured my hat. 
 
 "You stay right where you are, Teddy dearie," the virago 
 commanded. "John and me ain't got no secrets what can't be 
 shouted from the house-tops, and he knows it. You stay and 
 see justice done a poor old woman." 
 
 I apologetically referred to an engagement. It was no use. 
 
 "I want a witness to my treatment — I'm his legally, law- 
 fully wedded wife, and he deserts me — and sends me no money 
 — and gets drunk to my face. If there's justice on this 
 earth, I'll have the law on him." 
 
 "Woman, you lie!" thundered John. "You're not my wife 
 and never was. I'm sick and tired of you," he hiccupped. 
 "You've ruined my life," and he sat heavily in a chair, being 
 now in the maudlin stage. Yet his dramatic instinct did not 
 desert him. He was a fine picture of despair as he sat there. 
 
 "Wilt you listen to him denying his own kith and kin," she 
 shrieked. 
 
 "Insult me before my friend — go on, woman," moaned 
 Prospero. "Poison the mind of youth against me." 
 
 "Poison your grandfather — I wish I had when he was a boy, 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 55 
 
 and I wouldn't be troubled with you now," was her subtle re- 
 partee to this. 
 
 "I shall not lower myself to retort that you are old enough 
 to have had your wish" — Prospero uttered this dispassionately 
 and with hardly an alcoholic stumble. There I was anxious to 
 leave them, but the lady chose this opening for peculiarly 
 noisy hysterics. I brought her a glass of water; she knocked 
 it from my hands, smashing the glass to fragments. 
 
 "Better let May have it out by herself; it is easiest in the 
 end," muttered Prospero. "Edward, when you learn to know 
 the way of a woman with a man, you will lose all concern. 
 She may do this for hours." 
 
 The latter statement caused me to flee. I went to the 
 Otooska House and sought out Knowlton. He listened to my 
 tale of woe with his customary grin. "Don't worry, Teddy," 
 he said when I had finished, "she may prove a Godsend. 
 He'll have something besides himself to think about now." 
 
 "But, man alive, they are in my rooms. I can't go on living 
 there with the pair of them on my hands." 
 
 "Are you disturbed because of the proprieties?" 
 
 "Not entirely," I snapped. "Married or not, I don't care — 
 but one drug fiend plus hysterics and broken crockery is more 
 than I will stand." 
 
 "I'll move them in the morning," and that was the best com- 
 promise I could get. 
 
 Not a sound greeted my return. The lights in the study 
 were out, the bedroom door closed, and all was apparently 
 peace. With many inward maledictions on my companions 
 I went to bed. 
 
 The six-o'clock alarm brought me with a start out of a sound 
 sleep. As usual I dashed for a shower in the bathroom, to 
 reach which I had to cross my study. To my consternation I 
 encountered la belle Helene, in flesh coloured tights and little 
 else, violently exercising in the centre of the room with heavy 
 dumbbells. 
 
 "Don't mind me, dearie," she said sweetly. "I'm just having 
 
56 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 my morning bracer. I get so fleshy if I don't keep trained." 
 
 "Heaven forbid her from getting any heavier," I thought, as 
 I ducked by. Upon my return I knocked on the door; the 
 study was again empty. 
 
 I looked forward to the day's work with horror. Prospero 
 came punctually at seven and la belle Helene with him! The 
 latter, I was told, had often assisted him and knew how to keep 
 chemical apparatus clean and do many simple routine things. 
 Prospero appeared resigned to his fate, and the three of us 
 worked briskly and for the most part in silence. 
 
 "I always hold a man hasn't any sense with dishes," she 
 said early in the proceedings, "even with these chemical things. 
 Just as like as not you two will get things all mussed up. My 
 land, how that one does smell! Why you don't poison your- 
 selves I never could see." 
 
 Knowlton called upon us at eleven after he had finished the 
 morning's mail and was formally introduced to la belle Helene. 
 Curiosity had evidently overpowered him. He kept a solemn 
 face, but his eyes twinkled during the ceremony of introduction. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you," said la belle Helene to him. "So 
 you are John and Teddy's boss? My, you are a young-looking 
 man to be running a factory like this. Nice seasonable 
 weather, ain't it? Nice location out here, too, where you can 
 see the lake from the windows. I always did like a nice view. 
 I always say it makes a lot of difference what kind of a place 
 you got to work in. In my business you can't be particular, 
 though." 
 
 "I'm glad you are so favourably impressed with us," smiled 
 Knowlton. 
 
 "My land, I'm used to anything after the life I've had. 
 Brought up three boys to my business — one on 'em's been in 
 vaudeville in Europe — I ain't heard from him in ten years, 
 That's just like boys — off they go. Girls is more consoling, 
 so they say. I ain't never had no experience with girls. Boys 
 is trouble enough. Take things as they come, that's my motto 
 every time. Home is where you find it, I always say." 
 
 Knowlton excused himself and departed. 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 57 
 
 Knovrlton kept his word in a measure. Prospero and his 
 companion were moved to a little two-room apartment on the 
 floor above, and I was left in undisputed sway over my study. 
 After they had been settled in the new abode, Knowlton 
 dropped in to see me. 
 
 "Business is not in good shape, Ted," he said, lighting his 
 cigar. "I've been all over our orders and books and found we 
 are operating on too close a margin of capital. We have 
 more orders than we have machines or cash to handle." 
 
 "That seems a strange difficulty to me. We are too prosper- 
 ous. Is this the Senegambian you were looking for?" 
 
 "Exactly. Our friend Norwood, who sold us the business, 
 1'oaded the books with orders to make a good showing. Now 
 he has got out, and deliveries are up to us. Frankly, we 
 haven't cash enough to swing it." 
 
 "What is the trouble just now?" 
 
 "We can't meet Saturday's payroll — we haven't enough at 
 the bank. There's a big payment due us on a complete con- 
 tract. If that comes in by Saturday noon we are O. K. If not, 
 the bank has got to see us through; and that's where you 
 come in again, Ted. I'm going to send you to talk to the bank 
 president." 
 
 "Why me?" I protested. "Wouldn't he pay more attention 
 to you?** 
 
 "It'6 just a hunch of mine, Teddy, and it'll be a good 
 experience for you. If you don't get away with it, I'll try 
 my hand." 
 
 Saturday noon was an exciting hour. The mail came at 
 twelve; the men had to be paid off, in cash, at one. I had just 
 sixty minutes to find out whether we pulled through or closed 
 down. The post office was on the corner of State Street and 
 the Park, the latter a large unkempt square with a feeble foun- 
 tain and some fine old trees. I had made an appointment with 
 the president of the Deep Harbor National Bank for twelve- 
 
58 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 fifteen. A little before twelve I stood on the post office steps, 
 with the key to the firm's box in my hand, waiting for the mail 
 to be sorted. In my inner pocket was a statement of our re- 
 sources and a list of our contracts. 
 
 The post office at noon was a famous gathering place for the 
 citizenry of Deep Harbor. In front were a line of horses and 
 buggies hitched to posts. The owners congregated mostly on 
 the steps, chewing toothpicks and gossiping. Bootblacks and 
 newspaper boys plied their trades. Every one seemed to know 
 every one else, and each new comer was hailed by his first name 
 or otherwise familiarly greeted. I felt that a stranger was at a 
 great disadvantage in trying to conduct a factory in such an in- 
 bred community. Not one of all those men knew me or nodded 
 to me. Yet I judged from the glances directed my way and 
 the whispers that many at least knew who I was. Knowlton 
 had told me that the new owners of the factory had been the 
 subject of many rumours. It was believed we were a blind for 
 one of the large corporations about to begin operations in Deep 
 Harbor on a vast scale. 
 
 At last the mail was ready, and I opened our box. Running 
 through the pile of letters, I saw that the check was not there. 
 First I telephoned Knowlton, then crossed the street to the Deep 
 Harbor National Bank, a small box-like building built entirely 
 of white marble in vague resemblance to a miniature Greek 
 temple. My card was unnecessary. The president was seated, 
 for all the world to see, behind a low mahogany railing before 
 a high mahogany desk. He called me by name at my entrance 
 and invited me inside his pen. There was nothing formidable 
 in his appearance. My imagination had pictured the bank 
 president of the stage, an elderly gentleman with white side 
 whiskers, white spats, a sanctimonious air, and a terrible cal- 
 lousness in driving financial bargains. Instead, I beheld a 
 genial young man of thirty-eight to forty with a genial expres- 
 sion on his face. His face was tanned, his hair, just turning 
 grey at the temples, was neatly smoothed down. The eyes 
 were a little too small, almost pig-like, in fact; nevertheless 
 
ENCOUNTER WITH PROSPERO 59 
 
 his pleasant smile counteracted the unfavourable impression 
 which his eyes would otherwise have made. 
 
 "Have a cigar, Edward?" were his opening words to me. 
 The use of my Christian name encouraged me, for it seemed to 
 imply that I had been admitted to citizenship in good standing. 
 I accepted the greasy, aromatic cigar, although I feared a cigar 
 before luncheon would be disastrous. There seemed, however, 
 no escape in Deep Harbor from the offer of a cigar as a pre- 
 liminary to any business discussion. As we lighted up and the 
 sickeningly fragrant smoke oozed through my nervous system, 
 he looked keenly at me and said: "Well, Edward, what can we 
 do for you? Money, I suppose," and he glanced at the clock. 
 "You have about forty minutes in which to meet your payroll. 
 Am I right?" 
 
 "Absolutely!" I answered promptly. "And here's the rea- 
 son why you'll meet the payroll for us," and I handed him 
 our statement. He then did a slightly theatrical thing which, 
 I suppose, the role of bank president required; it was to pro- 
 duce a pair of tortoise shell goggle spectacles and study our 
 statement through them. I stared about at the onyx and 
 bronze trimmings of the little building and secretly wished I 
 could lose the cigar. 
 
 'These contracts look all right on paper, Edward, but you 
 people haven't equipment enough to put them through." 
 
 "I don't imagine that we are the first people who have come 
 to you because we are too prosperous — not in a growing town 
 like Deep Harbor," I remarked, surprised at my own diplo- 
 macy. 
 
 "That's true enough, Edward. But the way I look at it is 
 this. These contracts were made by your predecessors. If 
 you don't make good on them you won't get any more, and you 
 can't make good with your present plant. The friend who 
 sold you the plant, about whom I happen to know a lot, over- 
 sold you. In short, you were stung." 
 
 "What's to be done?" I asked, rising. 
 
 "Sit down, Edward," he replied. "Is there any truth in this 
 
60 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 story that a big corporation is behind you? I want brass 
 tacks." 
 
 "There's not a word of truth in it. We are just what our 
 books show us to be." 
 
 He smiled and chewed his cigar. "That's what I thought 
 you would say," he chuckled. "What security do you offer?" 
 
 "Our notes at thirty days backed by the contracts which you 
 will take over if we fall down." 
 
 "Not good enough, Edward. You must put up the pl'ant." 
 
 With this he handed me the telephone which stood on his 
 desk. I got through to Knowlton at the office, the while my 
 financier-friend watched and listened. In the end, we had no 
 option but to give way. 
 
 I left his office with our Saturday's payroll in a canvas bag, 
 and I left behind a memorandum concerning the mortgage and 
 security to be formally put up as soon as Knowlton could get 
 down town. 
 
Chapter Five 
 
 i enter deep harbor society 
 
 < *T~\ ON'T you think it is about time we got to know some of 
 
 I the important people in town — social stuff — country 
 
 club and so on?" said Knowlton one evening as he 
 
 looked at me through his cigar smoke with one of his quizzical 
 
 grins. 
 
 "I'm not very keen about it," I growled, for I was tired and 
 sulky from a hard day, and Deep Harbor was resting some- 
 what heavily upon my nerves. "We've been here three months 
 now, and not a solitary person has spoken to us except in the 
 way of business." 
 
 Knowlton went on: "Still, I think it's bad business to keep 
 away from them; we've got to know them. They haven't 
 chased after us, so we must chase after them." 
 
 "Is there ever any other motive in your mind than a business 
 one?" I exploded in disgust. This merely produced a par- 
 ticularly fiendish grin from Knowlton. 
 
 "Little inclined to kick over the traces tonight, aren't you, 
 Ted? I don't blame you. You've had too long a dose without 
 the right kind of relaxation. There must be plenty of nice 
 people here if we could only get in touch with them. Better 
 get out your Tuxedo and have it pressed. We'll open a social 
 campaign." 
 
 I paid little attention to Knowlton's latest plan; he was full 
 of new schemes each day, all aimed at extending the scope of 
 our business connections. Several days passed, and, as I 
 heard no more of his calculated social ambitions, I concluded 
 thai pressure of more important affairs had mercifully ex- 
 cluded this new idea from his mind. Then one afternoon my 
 call sounded on the buzzer, and I reported at the office. 
 
 Knowlton greeted me with the customary grin. "Busy out 
 in the laboratory?" 
 
 61 
 
62 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "No more than usual," I replied noncommittally. I had 
 learned that when Knowlton introduced a subject with a pre- 
 lude of this kind it usually meant extra work was about to be 
 proposed. 
 
 "No experiment that will keep you this evening?" he queried. 
 Should I start one as a measure of self -protection and then say 
 "Yes," or should I chance whatever new plan Knowlton had on 
 foot and step into his obvious trap? I decided on the latter 
 course for the sake of variety. 
 
 "No," I answered. "I shall close down with the whistle." 
 
 "Good. Then I have a dinner invitation for you — now, you 
 are to go, Ted, it's no use putting your back up. IVe practi- 
 cally accepted." 
 
 "Are you going?" I asked suspiciously. 
 
 "Why no, Ted, I'm not. In the first place I haven't been in- 
 vited ; and, second, they are not so much in my line." 
 
 "Who, where, when?" I tried to make this scornfully ironic, 
 but I only drew a broader grin than before from Knowlton. 
 
 "You owe the honour of this invitation to Mr. Hemphill, of 
 our office staff." 
 
 I snorted, this time with anger. 
 
 "That fat old bore!" I exclaimed. 
 
 Knowlton interrupted me. "Hush, Teddy. While I recog- 
 nize a certain truth in your description, still you are to know 
 that our Mr. Hemphill, although hard up, belongs to one of the 
 first families of Deep Harbor. His wife helps run the social 
 plant in this burg — she's superintendent of it, in fact, and issues 
 or cancels all permits to circulate through the labyrinth. I've 
 only recently made this important discovery. Hence your bid 
 to dinner." Knowlton grinned triumphantly. 
 
 Hemphill was a particularly disagreeable figure in the outer 
 office, for he always buttonholed one to listen to a tiresome 
 anecdote. 
 
 "It's the wife, Ted, who runs the works — not old Charlie. I 
 agree with you about him. Believe me, he's kept on his good 
 behaviour at home." Knowlton pressed his buzzer. "I'll 
 have him in and tell him you've accepted." 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 63 
 
 I saw it was useless to protest. Hemphill appeared at the 
 door, and I looked more closely than heretofore at my prospec- 
 tive host. Across his fat red face there spread an oily smite 
 which sank on each side into a coarse iron-grey stubble. His 
 forehead was high and greasy above two small blue eyes, be- 
 neath which were pouches of red skin. His hair, stiff and grey 
 like the growth on his face, was worn pompadour and trimmed 
 to make his head appear flat on top. Over the most conspicu- 
 ously Falstaflian detail of his anatomy hung a heavy gold watch 
 chain carrying many seals indicative of his membership in 
 fraternal organizations. In the lapel of his coat was an en- 
 ameled button as further proof of his fellowship. 
 
 "Mr. Hemphill," said Knowlton, "Ted accepts with pleasure 
 your invitation to dine at your house this evening." 
 
 "That's fine, Mr. Jevons," he replied. "That certainly helps 
 us out of a hole." I pricked up my ears. "Mrs. Hemphill was 
 terrible put out because one of her regular young men was 
 called to Pittsburgh to look after a pig-iron contract. His going 
 kind of bust up the dinner party. I didn't think it mattered 
 much myself, but you know what women are about such things. 
 Wouldn't do to have one of the girls left without a beau, so I 
 says, to make peace in the family, 'How about asking young 
 Teddy out to the works?' Of course Sally — that's my wife — 
 didn't care much about ringing in a stranger that way, but I 
 said to her, says I, 'Shucks, Teddy's all right — nice, quiet boy, 
 European education, and quite a swell where he comes from, 
 according to what I've heard.' Well, that sort of quieted her. 
 and finally she says to me — 'Go ahead and ask him. I can't 
 have my dinner party spoiled.' So that's how I came to put 
 the proposition up to you," he concluded. 
 
 I saw Knowlton playing with his paper knife and making 
 desperate efforts not to catch my eye or grin. My indignation 
 all but boiled over. 
 
 "I'm deeply flattered" — I began, but at this point Knowlton 
 pressed his buzzer. A stenographer hurried in. "Get me New 
 York on the 'phone," he commanded. "That's all, Teddy. Be 
 there at quarter of seven," and both Hemphill and I found our- 
 
64 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 selves dismissed without further ceremony. I surrendered in 
 despair. What was the use of righting? But I made up my 
 mind to be so silent a partner in the evening's proceedings that 
 never again would my services be in demand for filling a 
 gap at a dinner table. Really my rage at being patronized by 
 such people made my hands shake so that my work in the lab- 
 oratory was useless for the rest of the afternoon. I tingled all 
 over and longed for some way to square the score. I was going 
 to my first dinner party in Deep Harbor like a man from 
 Blankley's — practically hired out for the evening. 
 
 I left at ten minutes before six to allow myself a larger mar- 
 gin for dressing. I stopped at the office, but the wise Knowlton. 
 had eluded me by going home at half-past five. There was no 
 one with whom I could lodge a final protest. 
 
 I dressed in a savage mood. Many caustic epigrams oc- 
 curred to me as I brushed my hair. I, hoped I could remember 
 them for later use that evening. One never can remember a re- 
 hearsed conversation; it's like trying to use a handy phrase- 
 book in a foreign country. The other side never leads up to 
 one's cues. At last I was ready, and punctually at a quarter 
 before seven I presented myself before the door of a large old- 
 fashioned house set amid the maples of Myrtle Boulevard, 
 Deep Harbor's most fashionable residential street. The house 
 had been built, I judged, about or immediately after the period 
 of the Civil War. It was square, with a door in the middle 
 flanked on either side by long oval -topped windows. Project- 
 ing from the door and coming to meet one in a flight of brown 
 stone steps, was a porch heavily ornamented with what ap- 
 peared to be a Turco-Bulgarian style of design. In any 
 event, this feature of the house was compounded of strange 
 samples of the carpenter's craft, turned in oriental arabesques 
 such as an architect might dream of after a hasty reading of 
 Kubla Khan. Apart from the wanton outburst of the ap- 
 proach, the house was most solemn and dignified, with severe 
 lines, its flat roof topped off by a little square cupola from 
 which I fancied it would be fun to watch for Malbrouck's 
 return from the wars. My curiosity to see within was fully 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 65 
 
 aroused by the time I rang the doorbell. It was always a 
 bother to remember that one was supposed to be angry; I had 
 forgotten my chosen role and caught myself anticipating the 
 evening. 
 
 Hemphill himself opened the black walnut front door with 
 its silver plated knobs. As he did so a feminine voice called 
 imperiously "Charles, Mary Ellen will answer the door!" 
 "Alas for Charles," thought I, "the warning has come too late — 
 the deed is done and I am within." Mary Ellen was visible on 
 the horizon of the passage which ran straight through the centre 
 line of the house. Upon seeing what had happened she fled 
 to the rear with a report of the situation at the front. Hemp- 
 hill, much embarrassed and evidently suffering some anxiety 
 concerning the immediate future, helped me off with my coat* 
 He hung it up upon a black walnut hatrack with which its de- 
 signer had incorporated a slab of white marble. We entered 
 a room upon the right with an extraordinarily high ceiling. 
 The room was perfect early Victorian down to the last detail 
 of crocheted anti-macassars on the backs of dull red plush 
 chairs. To my great delight an engraving of The Monarch of 
 the Glen and of Dignity and Impudence occupied the posi- 
 tions of honour upon the walls. There was also a scene in 
 Venice, by Ruskin. Over all, however, was the shabbiness of 
 respectable poverty which descends upon great possessions 
 when they become relics of a vanished prosperity. I was so 
 absorbed with my delight in the room — I decided on the spot 
 to put it into a novel some day — that I overlooked for a mo- 
 ment the assembly gathered there. But I was soon aware of 
 a tall, stern-lipped woman in an evening dress corresponding 
 to the period of the room, bearing down upon me. 
 
 "Mother," said Hemphill (I was certain this was a tactless 
 epithet), "this is Teddy." 
 
 She shook hands icily as she surveyed me. My evening 
 clothes were London made ; I felt quite calm about this ordeal. 
 I noticed a perceptible thaw, although nothing excessive, when 
 she greeted me after inspection. Behind her came a tall girl 
 of about nineteen, who was already a pale replica of her 
 
66 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 mother — the same angularity, particularly about the neck and 
 shoulders, but in her eyes her father's meekness in the presence 
 of authority. It was not a house of divided counsels, I 
 decided, after another glance at the mother. 
 
 "My daughter Edith," mama announced. Edith dropped 
 her eyes and modestly resisted my efforts to shake hands with 
 her. "My sister, Mrs. Martin," was the next in line — a stout 
 elderly lady in alpaca and cameos, who walked with the aid of 
 an ivory stick. She wasn't unlike the Queen, taking her in 
 silhouette. I was much struck by the similarity in types all 
 the way from Windsor to Deep Harbor. I murmured some- 
 thing, intended as a compliment, to Mrs. Martin about the 
 resemblance. 
 
 "Good gracious, I hope I'm not so old or so fat as all that!" 
 came the crushing retort. Evidently the path of tact in a new 
 country was going to be strewn with unforeseen difficulties. I 
 reddened. It was disconcerting to break a cucumber frame as 
 soon as one entered the garden. "Miss Helen Claybourne," 
 I heard Mrs. Hemphill continue. I looked up, hope aban- 
 doned, to encounter two large serious grey eyes gazing at me 
 with frank curiosity. I started, for they were beautiful eyes 
 set wide apart beneath a high, well-modelled brow, over which 
 soft light brown hair waved most alluringly. A straight nose 
 and firm chin completed a face that was not only full of char- 
 acter, but also good to look upon. I was enough of a snob 
 to note that her clothes were right and that her athletic figure 
 carried them magnificently. She shook hands heartily and 
 frankly; her grasp was warm and pleasant, strong as a boy's, 
 but womanly too. My rout was complete; I could find words 
 in the gaze of those grey eyes which seemed to say "We be- 
 lieve in the truth." I felt humble and apologetic; one should 
 first crave audience before daring to speak to those eyes. The 
 next reaction was one of anger that a girl' — she couldn't be 
 over eighteen — had so abashed me. 
 
 There were others present, both men and women, but they 
 did not exist for me. I heard their names mentioned and 
 could not remember them; I went around the room shaking 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 67 
 
 hands and trying to repeat the necessary conventional 
 phrases, but I stammered and stuttered and bumped into the 
 furniture. Everywhere I felt two large grey eyes burning 
 holes in the middle of my back. It was a great relief when 
 we filed into the dining room. I was half hopeful and half 
 fearful that I should be given Miss Claybourne to take down; 
 I wasn't. My seat was next to Mrs. Martin for safe keeping, 
 while grey eyes sat across from me and talked to an aggres- 
 sive looking saphead in a watered silk waistcoat. My con- 
 versation was nil; my earlier break with Mrs. Martin dis- 
 couraged me there, while she was now most absorbed in her 
 food.'' I tried to hear something of what was said across the 
 table, but in vain. Occasionally grey eyes looked in my di- 
 rection, but without friendliness or even recognition. I 6ank 
 into gloom and despair. Early in the dinner I hoped for a 
 glass of wine to cheer me up. There was a slender empty 
 glass beside the iced water at my plate. That hope was 
 dashed when Mary Ellen filled these slender glasses with 
 mineral water from a bottle most artfully concealed in a nap- 
 kin. Occasionally, Hemphill burst into anecdote, but usually 
 these sallies of his were sternly suppressed by the voice of 
 the skipper at the other end of the table. The latter carried 
 on a marvellous sign language with the harassed Mary Ellen, 
 to whom dinner parties on this scale were obviously a 
 novelty. When she wasn't signalling Mary Ellen in a code of 
 frowns and nods, Mrs. Hemphill spent her time searching with 
 one foot for a mysterious bell that was concealed somewhere 
 beneath the table. At last the dinner was over, and we all 
 adjourned to the front room. There was no smoking for the 
 men; I was thus bereft of my last hoped-for consolation. 
 
 In the drawing room little tables were set out, and Mrs. 
 Hemphill announced that we would now play hearts. We 
 were given beribboned tags with our table number on them, 
 and this time luck smiled upon me; I drew grey eyes as my 
 partner. Miss Hemphill, pale and wan as a tallow candle, 
 was also at our table. The other man I have forgotten. I 
 tried to be light-hearted and amusing from the start, but made 
 
68 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 such a sad mess of it that grey eyes began to look at me with 
 unmistakable disapproval. 
 
 "Have you been in Deep Harbor long?" she asked me just 
 as I made an atrocious misplay. In some way this harmless- 
 seeming question implied censure. Like Benedick, I thought 
 "There is a double meaning in that." I retorted rather 
 sharply: "Only three months." Grey eyes lifted her eyebrows 
 the merest fraction. I regretted bitterly the tone of my reply, 
 but it was too late. 
 
 "How does it happen that, no one has met you?" she ques- 
 tioned quite calmly, without any apparent trace of rudeness 
 in her voice. The effect was withering upon me; no school- 
 girl could patronize me or cast doubts upon my social eligi- 
 bility — at least, not in Deep Harbor. She knew I was angry 
 and turned with some laughing remark to the other man, thus 
 effectually squelching my intended retort, for which, how- 
 ever, I was still groping. The hand soon ended, and partners 
 were changed. Although grey eyes was my opponent for 
 another game, she did not address any but necessary remarks 
 to me, while I continued to play badly and silently. With the 
 conclusion of this game she progressed to another table, and 
 Mrs. Martin once more descended upon me. The old lady 
 took ample revenge upon me for likening her to the Queen. 
 She commented adversely upon each play I made, and in be- 
 tween times lectured me upon might-have-beens. The result 
 was that I remained at the bottom table all the evening. 
 
 At ten o'clock the orgy was suspended, and to my amaze- 
 ment I saw grey eyes approaching me. I scrambled hastily 
 to my feet, determined to make all possible amends. She 
 handed me a little package tied with tissue paper and ribbon. 
 
 "I have been asked to present you with the booby prize," 
 she said with a dangerous twinkle in the grey eyes. My 
 chagrin almost choked me. Suddenly I felt lonely; I wanted 
 her to be friendly with me. I wanted to beg her for a kind 
 word. Instead I bowed and took my prize from her hands, 
 feeling I had richly earned it. 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 69 
 
 "And now," said her soft, gentle voice, "you may take me 
 into the dining room and get me some ice-cream." 
 
 My heart leaped with gratitude; the kind word had come 
 unsought. She took my arm quite as if we* had been good 
 friends for some time, and I floated into the other room with 
 her, trailing, as it were, a cloud of glory. We found ice-cream, 
 coffee, and marvelous rich cake oozing chocol'ate! There was 
 a couch over by a bay window, and without more words we en- 
 sconced ourselves snugly on it. Her profile was almost se- 
 verely beautiful — a classic outline like that of a Greek Venus. 
 I studied it with delight for along with its serene beauty was 
 an intellectual charm, easily recognizable, but impossible to 
 describe in specific terms. For twenty blessed minutes we 
 talked — of nothing important; yet learned to know one another 
 with bewildering speed. I have no recollection of what we 
 said; words came and were approved on both sides. Sym- 
 pathetic echoes were felt rather than expressed. We were a 
 little formal, not quite sure as yet that such sympathy was real 
 and not a dream. Then we were aware that the dinner party 
 were beginning to bid the hostess good-bye. With unspoken 
 reluctance we came out of our corner. 
 
 "May I see you home?" I whispered with anxious heart- 
 beats. 
 
 "Yes," she smiled, "I live just across the street." 
 
 Mrs. Hemphill must have been amazed at the gratitude 1 
 showered upon her for her invitation. I wrung Mr. Hemphill's 
 hand with enthusiasm, as Helen glided up to me and took my 
 arm. It was an exit in triumph. 
 
 Across the street we paused for a moment outside her front 
 door. 
 
 "Good-night," I said. "Dream true." 
 
 "I'm not yet the Duchess of Towers," came her reply, as 
 she vanished through the door. So she knew Peter Ibbetson! 
 
 Turning toward my little flat on the other side of the town 
 came to me the bitter after the sweet. She had not invited me 
 to call ! I had not liked to ask, held back by a kind of stupid 
 
70 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 pride. Besides, I had been most certain she would ask me, 
 and she hadn't. The rest of my walk was deep in gloom 
 again. 
 
 Knowlton was sitting up for me. He made free of my 
 rooms whenever he liked. 
 
 "Well," he greeted me, "how do you like the F. F.'s of 
 Deep Harbor?" 
 
 "The dinner party was rather mixed, but on the whole not 
 bad." 
 
 "From that I infer that the mixture contained at least one 
 charming ingredient." 
 
 This shot was too near home for comfort; therefore I did 
 not deign a reply. 
 
 "Don't forget to make your party call," grinned Knowlton 
 at me as I undressed. 
 
 "I am not in the habit of overlooking dinner calls," I 
 snapped back at him. 
 
 After Knowlton had grinned himself out of my rooms I sat 
 on the edge of my bed and meditated. It was good to have 
 pleasant thoughts again and to believe that a large part of the 
 world was contained in a pair of grey eyes. "I am not in 
 love," I considered, as I struggled, with the aid of a fountain 
 pen, to say something appropriate in my diary. The devil of 
 diaries is, unless one is a Mr. Pepys, that all the appropriate 
 things are said on the uneventful, unemotional days. "No, it 
 isn't love — it's recognition of kinship" — like some one in an 
 old Greek story, after many wanderings I had, quite by chance, 
 stumbled upon a woman, and when we had compared the 
 tokens each of us carried, behold, they fitted perfectly ! "I am 
 not yet the Duchess of Towers," she said. "Not yet" — then I 
 again thought of Benedick and the dangers of inference 
 founded upon feminine remarks. I had not been asked to call. 
 For all I knew it was over. I might never see her again. 
 I took down a copy of William Morris's "The Sundering 
 Flood," for I remembered the heroine had grey eyes. All of 
 William Morris's heroines had, I reflected. It was part of 
 the pre-Raphaelite scheme of interior decorating; nevertheless 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 71 
 
 it was comforting to read of grey-eyed beauty, especially as 
 the pages of the diary blankly refused to be written upon. It 
 grew late, and it was hard to separate my thoughts, my 
 dreams, and what I was reading from the other. Indeed, 
 they blended most deliciously — a sort of sentimental intoxi- 
 cation giving me a glimpse, of the earthly paradise. Yet 
 Reason kept whispering that it wasn't love; that I was mis- 
 taking sentimental self-deception for reality. "What a co- 
 lossal and ridiculous structure you are erecting upon noth- 
 ing," said Reason. "Upon a pair of grey eyes," I retorted. 
 "Empires have been built upon less." "Ah," came back Rea- 
 son, "that pair of grey eyes cared nothing for you, or they 
 would have asked you to call." That was, for the moment, 
 unanswerable. I was annoyed at Reason for waking me up, 
 and for spite decided to write a poem. I was not in the habit 
 of writing verses, for I had an abominable ear for rhythm. 
 Nevertheless, writing a sonnet was the most efficient way of 
 banishing Reason for that night. I got as far as the idea — 
 something about two travellers in the desert of life meeting 
 by chance at a well-rim, only to part again — when, mercifully, 
 sleep overcame me; disgustingly sound, dreamless sleep, and 
 I knew no more until next mornings alarm. 
 
 I got up to find Reason, reinforced by her auxiliary, bright 
 sunshine, most firmly in the saddle. Ahead loomed a factory 
 and a seven-o'clock whistle; gone were the magic shadows of 
 the night and all the enchanted garden of sentimental fancies. 
 I attacked my test tubes in a frenzy of efficiency. My eye was 
 clear and my hand steady; ideas flowed fast. Reason was 
 triumphant. Then came a telephone call for me; Reason came 
 a nasty cropper under Instinct's sudden leap. I knew what the 
 call meant before I took the receiver down. Knowlton's cyni- 
 cal eye was upon me as I answered; I cared nothing for 
 him this time. 
 
 "This is Helen Claybourne," came a soft voice over the wire. 
 
 "Yes, I know," I said ; not perhaps the right words. 
 
 "I am glad you remember" — I felt her smile, half naive, 
 half mischievous. "I meant last evening to ask you to call, 
 
72 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 and I forgot." Reason's forces fled in a panic, scattered by 
 the wild surge of my blood. "Mother will be pleased to have 
 you next Thursday, if that is convenient." 
 
 "I'm awfully grateful," I stammered feebly. Why wouldn't 
 words come? 
 
 "Until Thursday, then," the heavenly voice said calmly, and 
 there was a click in my ear. The receiver had been hung up 
 at the other end. 
 
 "Gratitude is a feeling I never before heard you express," 
 commented Knowlton drily, as I turned away with a sigh, 
 tingling from head to foot. I was reckless with a wild, joy- 
 ous insanity. 
 
 "Philosophy is a fool, Knowlton," I exclaimed gaily, "as 
 you recall Hamlet long ago pointed out to Horatio, not in just 
 these words. Nor does a peripeteia necessarily carry with it 
 a tragic catastrophe, Aristotle notwithstanding." 
 
 "You crazy idiot," remarked Knowlton, "I'm not going to 
 send you to any more parties if you come back with a hang- 
 over. You certainly have a hell of a classic education for a 
 chemist," he added, "and how you like to show it off! What 
 was that word you used — perry what?" 
 
 "Peripeteia, you mean," I condescended. "It is a reversal 
 of fortune, marking the turning point of a Greek tragedy." 
 
 "Well, I'll show you a first-class American tragedy if you 
 don't go back to your lab and work," he grinned. "I don't 
 admire the influence of the female sex upon you, Ted." 
 
 "You are generalizing from a single example," I flung back 
 as I left the room. 
 
 It was Tuesday, and Thursday seemed further away than 
 does the week-end viewed from Monday morning. Knowlton 
 pursued me remorselessly, trying to make me confess who my 
 new friend was. All his cross-examinations were in vain. I 
 took delight in hugging my happiness to myself, and in answer- 
 ing Knowlton's questions in the most extravagant and flam- 
 buoyant language I could think of. In the end I could not tell 
 whether he was amused or annoyed. I worked night and day 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 73 
 
 in the laboratory to pass the time. My hopes were soaring so 
 high that I trembled for fear that Reason's sunbeams would 
 melt the wax of their wings and send us crashing down. And 
 with my work Knowlton was content. Industry was the sure 
 pass to his favour. 
 
 On Thursday at the noon hour, however, Knowlton exploded 
 a bombshell. 
 
 "We are going to work the plant twenty-four hours a day, 
 Ted," he announced, "and I've put you in charge of the night- 
 shift, beginning tonight." 
 
 My throat went dry. Which of the seven devils of hell had 
 led him to choose this night of all nights? 
 
 "It's tough on you, Ted, for you'll have to work right 
 through the whole twenty-four hours the first day. But I want 
 you to let the lab go tonight and simply act as superintendent. 
 You'll be able to snatch some sleep in the office." 
 
 "I have an engagement this evening — it's very awkward," I 
 began. 
 
 "Well, you've got two now, and the one at the factory is 
 the one you'll keep." 
 
 In spite of Knowlton's decisiveness, we reached a com- 
 promise. He agreed to let me off from six o'clock until mid- 
 night, provided I would make up the time later, a concession 
 which I eagerly accepted. 
 
 A few minutes after eight found me walking out Myrtle 
 Boulevard, Deep Harbor's street of streets, toward the Clay- 
 bourne residence. I had dressed in dinner clothes with ex- 
 ceeding care; no one could have guessed that my business for 
 most of the night was to superintend the night-shift at a fac- 
 tory. The latter task was infinitely remote; if it crossed my 
 mind at all, it was only as something mechanical, to be wound 
 up later and left to run by itself. The important matter in 
 hand was to verify first impressions concerning a pair of grey 
 eyes. 
 
 A maid opened the door of a pleasant oak-panelled hall- 
 way, and before I had time to get my bearings the grey eyes 
 were introducing me to "Mother." In an instant I had the 
 
74 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 feeling that the latter was not prepared to be enthusiastic. 
 Strange young men from the outlands, of unknown origin, 
 were evidently to be resisted. I looked at her closely, as I 
 made my best and politest bow, hoping that my manners might 
 carry a little conviction. Mrs. Claybourne was 1 short and sal- 
 low, the latter caused, as I was later to learn, by her mania for 
 tinkering with her health. She was a little fretful, with a 
 tendency to imply that the world was not very considerate. "I 
 told Helen I was too tired tonight to be very entertaining," was 
 her wail, as I shook hands, "but she would ask you." 
 
 "We are not going to bother you at all, mother dear," Helen, 
 as I dared think of her, interposed hastily. "Now do sit down 
 in your big chair and read your magazine. We are going out 
 on the side porch." 
 
 "Mr. Claybourne is at the club playing cards. I must apol- 
 ogize for his not being here — but then he seldom is," Mrs. 
 Claybourne went on plaintively. "Helen, this room is so un- 
 tidy it's a positive disgrace. I do think you might have Jane 
 straighten it up a little when you expect callers. No one ever 
 thinks of me. My nerves make me a very poor housekeeper, 
 Mr. Jevons." 
 
 The room appeared to me most comfy and homelike. There 
 were books and magazines and the atmosphere of a place in 
 which people really lived. I murmured- some deprecatory 
 reply as Helen took me out on to the side porch. The latter 
 was a heavenly place shut in by vines heavy with the odour of 
 honeysuckle. There were deep wicker-basket chairs and a mar- 
 vellous couch-like hammock. Unlike the Deep Harbor with 
 which I was familiar, this spot was quiet and restful. The 
 early October air was tinged with a delicious hint of frosts to 
 come; the stars shone large and clear; the Milky Way seemed 
 fairly to romp across the sky. 
 
 "You mustn't mind mother," said Helen, as we sat in two of 
 the large chairs. "She isn't quite happy unless she has a 
 grievance." 
 
 I laughed. It was so like the comment I had hoped her 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 75 
 
 capable of making. "I'm afraid I'm her grievance tonight — I 
 wish I thought a happy one." 
 
 "I'm afraid that's partly true," Helen replied. "Mother is 
 an extreme stickler for the conventions. She complains that 
 no one knows who you are. It was useless for me to tell her 
 that I knew you and didn't care who you are — Mother says 
 I am hopelessly of this generation — and regards that as an 
 argument against you. I finally told her you were coming 
 anyway — and, well — ," she laughed, — "here you are." 
 
 So she had defended me and fought for me! My invitation 
 to call was therefore no mere empty social form such as com- 
 mon politeness toward a stranger, but an offer of friendship. 
 
 "I really can set your mother's mind at rest," I said. "I 
 belong to one or two decent clubs — so does my father — " 
 
 "Please don't — I'm not asking for a passport," she inter- 
 rupted. "As for mother, she will get used to you in time." 
 
 This was encouraging, for it deliberately implied other calls 
 to come. Of course, the upshot was that I told her all about 
 myself, pouring out the pent-up loneliness accumulated since 
 my arrival. She listened as only a sympathetic girl can listen 
 to a man talking endlessly about himself. At times there came 
 delicious silences during which we stared at the stars, and 
 again a gentle question from her would start me off once more. 
 It was with a shock that we suddenly noticed "mother" silhou- 
 etted in the doorway. 
 
 "Helen!" came the complaining voice. "It's half past ten." 
 "Good Lord, I groaned inwardly, "I might have stayed all 
 night." I rose hastily, Helen more deliberately. 
 
 "Very well, mother," her soft voice said, "Ted is just going." 
 It was the first time she had called me Ted. I fell over a 
 wicker tabouret in my delirium. As we passed into the living 
 room, Mrs. Claybourne buttonholed me. 
 
 "Have you a grandfather, young man?" 
 
 Helen's shocked "Mother!" was unheeded. 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Claybourne, I had. He was colonel of one of 
 your northern regiments in the Civil War. His sword hangs 
 
76 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 over my desk. I shall be pleased to show it you some day at 
 tea." 
 
 "Mother! How could you?" again from Helen, and she 
 laid her hand, just for a second, ever so lightly, on my arm. 
 
 The effect of my statement I observed to be favourable. The 
 "good-night" Mrs. Claybourne gave me was less chilly than the 
 earlier "good evenings." Helen went with me to the door. 
 
 "Do you ride?" she asked, with a change of subject that 
 surprised me. 
 
 "Yes — or, rather, I did before coming to Deep Harbor." 
 
 "Then get a horse and be here at nine next Sunday morning. 
 Good-night, Ted." 
 
 "Good-night, Helen. Thank you for tonight." 
 
 I left in such entranced good humour with the world that I 
 forgot to change my clothes before reporting at the factory; 
 and so it happened that the superintendent of the first night- 
 shift performed his duties in what my tailor had informed me 
 were "faultless" evening clothes. The result was to make 
 Knowlton's grin wider than usual when I appeared to relieve 
 him. 
 
 "Ted, you've got more nerve than I gave you credit for, 
 if you face our gang in a clawhammer. However, lots of folks 
 have original ideas when they try suicide. If you are lynched 
 before morning don't forget I warned you." 
 
 "You need not worry," I said with dignity. "I'm fairly good 
 friends with most of our men." 
 
 "All right, Ted. Some get theirs shooting tigers; others 
 falling off the Alps; still others by being just plain damn fools. 
 I'm thinking you'll look a little strange on your way to break- 
 fast aboard the seven-five trolley." 
 
 At this I turned a little pale; I had not thought of the jour- 
 ney back by broad daylight. It was too late to back out. I 
 went down to the machine shop with my fortitude somewhat 
 shaken, only to discover my fears groundless and Knowlton's 
 warning unnecessary. No one but an occasional apprentice or 
 mechanic's helper so much as bothered to look at me, much 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 77 
 
 less make any comment. The office might always have worn 
 similar regalia, as far as outward signs were concerned. 
 
 Until about one in the morning I found the factory by night 
 a picturesque place. Every machine was running at full ca- 
 pacity. Overhead blinking white arc lamps, whose rays were 
 shot through with spluttering purple, danced and hissed. At 
 the lathes grey-headed mechanics, fine-looking shrewd-faced 
 men most of them, bent and peered at the Medusa-like tresses 
 of steel the tools sheered off from the castings. Helpers 
 leaned over them with wire-enclosed electric bulbs, lighting 
 up the faces of the chief actors as in a theatre. Belts raced 
 and flapped from nosy shafts along the ceiling — a steady, un- 
 interrupted din. An occasional machine would shriek or 
 groan in the agony of its task. Further down the shop the 
 compressed air chisels were beating a devil's tattoo against the 
 rougher castings. Boys trundled trucks piled with metal 
 parts on their way from one machine to another. Foremen, 
 pad and pencil in hand, went about keeping a record of each 
 machine's progress. The place smelt of hot oil, of grimy 
 cotton waste, and of sweaty human bodies. 
 
 As the novelty of the picture wore off I became sleepy and 
 bored. By two o'clock it was clear that as superintendent I 
 had a sinecure. This automaton of a factory was quite ca- 
 pable of running itself. No one referred any questions to me 
 or asked my advice. I lingered hopefully here and there when 
 I saw a machine slow down or stop for a moment, but whatever 
 the reason of these stoppages, I was not consulted. 
 
 Upstairs to the laboratory I went, leaving word with the 
 chief foreman where I was to be found. Work was out of the 
 question ; I was too sleepy. I tried my hand at a few pages in 
 the diary — to recapitulate my thoughts on the subject of grey 
 eyes. As usual when I most wanted to write or felt that I had 
 a topic worth writing about, no words would come. I fell 
 asleep in my chair once, with my feet upon my desk, to wake 
 with a horrible start when they slid off with a thump. "Six 
 weeks of this" — I thought with a shudder — "only the other 
 
78 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 nights will' not be quite so bad, because I am to do my regular 
 work at night and sleep by day." A dreadful inversion of 
 one's normal life, whichever way one looked at it. It meant 
 bringing a midnight supper for one thing — and where was the 
 restaurant in Deep Harbor to prepare a tempting supper? 
 Then I was annoyed at myself because my mind had seized 
 upon such a petty factor as a question of supper to magnify 
 into importance. 
 
 I tried to get back to grey eyes, but I was too sleepy to be 
 sentimental. What was it we were to do Sunday? Oh, yes — 
 go for a ride. Where? I wondered. Heavens! I had no 
 riding clothes! I scribbled a hasty memorandum and heard 
 the town hall clock strike three. "Take a look around once an 
 hour," Knowlton had said. "To make sure, punch the clock 
 in the front office each time you pass." To punch a clock was 
 to register one's number on a circular mechanism which also 
 recorded the time as well. My number was seven. As I had 
 rather resented being numbered, Knowlton allowed me to 
 choose my own. His was one. I remember chosing seven be- 
 cause it was lucky. At this point I pulled myself together and 
 started another tour. 
 
 Hour by hour the endless night went by; the dawn, turning 
 the lake to mauve and next to gold, gave promise that soon the 
 factory gates would open to let me pass. I was tired — too 
 tired to think or care for anything but bed. I had still to re- 
 port to Knowlton when I successfully passed the ordeal of 
 going down-town in evening clothes. Fortunately I was able 
 to borrow a raincoat. 
 
 "Run home and get all the sleep you can. You are off un- 
 til six this evening." 
 
 At two in the afternoon I awoke ; and, try as I would, further 
 sleep was impossible. I got up, had a shower, and telephoned 
 Helen. Of course her mother answered. It appeared that 
 Helen was out, nor, to judge from her mother's explanations, 
 did there seem any likelihood Helen would ever be home again. 
 "Something will have to be done about mama," I reflected. 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 79 
 
 What was it I must do today? Oh, yes — riding clothes. I 
 hurried out in search of a tailor who would engage himself on 
 his honour to make me riding clothes by Sunday morning. Two 
 declared it could not be done by mortal man, since it was now 
 Friday afternoon; one was doubtful. He had heard of things 
 done in such haste, but was skeptical concerning results. I 
 insulted him into accepting the commission. Our contract was 
 finally settled on the basis of midnight Saturday or no pay. 
 "Where does one obtain horses in this town?" I pondered, 
 strolling down State Street, which was respectable for four 
 blocks and most ragged and disreputable top and bottom. At 
 Frazee's famous soda-water-and-candy store whom should I 
 see inside but Helen! After all, the coincidence was not so 
 remarkable, I muttered. If one were out at all in Deep Harbor 
 one was limited to State Street's four blocks of stores or to 
 Myrtle Boulevard. The rest of the town was chiefly built up of 
 slums and factories, except for one or two lesser streets on 
 which people lived, but never walked. I went in to Frazee's 
 and only needed Helen's welcoming smile to join her at the 
 little marble-topped table. 
 
 "What on earth are you eating?" I asked, not very polite, as 
 I pointed at a little mess in a dish before her. 
 
 "That is a chocolate nut sundae," she laughed. "Won't you 
 try one?" 
 
 "Are they very sweet?" I inquired doubtfully. 
 
 "Of course!" and she presented a brimming spoon to me to 
 taste. I was honored by the compliment, but the sickeningly 
 sweet compound all but did for me. I had not yet eaten, for 
 I was too tired in the morning and had forgotten about it after 
 I got up. Helen was delighted with the face I made over it. 
 
 "I think I prefer more solid food," I apologized. "My 
 education stopped with ice-cream sodas." 
 
 "I think it's a great lark meeting you here like this! Mother 
 would be furious!" 
 
 "Isn't it done?" I asked in all seriousness, looking about at 
 Frazee's unlimited display of white marble, enamel, and 
 
80 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 nickel trimmings. It seemed a harmless looking place to me. 
 
 "Of course not, you silly Ted. What do you suppose Deep 
 Harbor would say if we did this very often?" 
 
 "Is Deep Harbor loquacious?" 
 
 "Extremely." 
 
 "But the place is full of young couples — just like ourselves." 
 
 Helen laughed. "If I explain, you'll think me snobbish, 
 Ted, and I'm not, even if mother is. Don't you see — all these 
 boys and girls — well that's what Deep Harbor is like." 
 
 "I understand perfectly, now I think it over. I should 
 be very careful where I took you to tea at home — and we'd 
 have to have official sanction to go at all . . . Deep Harbor 
 is like the rest of the world." 
 
 Again she laughed, and her grey eyes danced. "Ted, you 
 really must give up thinking we are strange aborigines. But I 
 feel the same way you do when I come back from boarding 
 school — until I settle down again." 
 
 "I suppose it's the old prejudice against the new and 
 strange," I said. 
 
 "You've just said Deep Harbor is like the rest of the world, 
 Ted." 
 
 "It is," I said, looking at her until she dropped her eyes. 
 
 "Always conceding that you know the world, Ted," she added 
 slyly, looking up suddenly from under her lashes. 
 
 "I've seen quite a lot of it." 
 
 "Is that the same as knowing it?" 
 
 "No, but it's a start." 
 
 "Goodness me, Teddy, I ought to be home by now," she ex- 
 claimed, springing up. Women are apt to break off a conver- 
 sation just as it is getting interesting. 
 
 "May I walk home with you?" 
 
 "That would never do, Teddy." 
 
 I looked so disappointed that she softened. "You may come 
 part way. That will be enough for Myrtle Boulevard for one 
 afternoon." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
I ENTER DEEP HARBOR SOCIETY 81 
 
 "The porches are full at this time, Ted, and I know every 
 living soul on Myrtle Boulevard." 
 
 I walked a few paces in silence. 
 
 "I must see your father — I can show him some letters — " 
 
 "Ted, you won't do anything so insanely silly." 
 
 "But what can I do?" 
 
 "If I were you," she remarked demurely, "I'd try staying on 
 my very best behaviour." Her eyes flashed mischief as she 
 said this. 
 
 "Does every inquisitive idiot in Deep Harbor know me by 
 sight?" 
 
 "Be careful, Ted, how you refer to our upper circles," she 
 laughed. "Of course they know you, silly boy. You buy a 
 factory from one of our prominent business men, come all the 
 way from London, speak to no one, live a mysterious life all by 
 yourself, with a strange piratey-looking cutthroat — " 
 
 "Prospero!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Prospero! Delicious name!" she echoed. "Well, you do 
 all these things and then imagine you are invisible. Could 
 any one but a man be so stupid?" 
 
 "There does seem to be something in what you say," I gur- 
 gled humbly. Her laugh this time was loud and joyous 
 enough to add to Myrtle Boulevard's suspicions. 
 
 "Any one with any common sense would have presented his 
 letters of introduction at the beginning." 
 
 "How do you know I have any?" 
 
 "Oh, dad had the bank look up all your connections, of 
 course, when you borrowed money for the pay roll. He's a 
 director. He told me all about it." 
 
 "This is a chatty little village" — I said with a very feeble ef- 
 fort at withering sarcasm. 
 
 "So you see, Ted, dad and I know you are all right, — only 
 mother and the rest rather stick at your not presenting yourself 
 properly. It will take a lot of grandfather to get around 
 that!" — and she went off again into peals of laughter. 
 
 "Helen, you don't believe — " 
 
82 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 She cut me off. "Ted. I make friends with whom I please, 
 and no explanations are necessary, unless I ask for them." 
 
 "But there wasn't — " 
 
 'That will do, Teddy. You must turn back now," and she 
 went on, leaving me with one last protest hanging in mid-air. 
 I looked at my watch, as one always does in the street to cover 
 embarrassment. It was quarter to six! By dashing up a side 
 street and running after an electric car I arrived at the office 
 exactly with the whistle. 
 
Chapter Six 
 i go for a ride on satan 
 
 MY precious riding clothes were delivered Saturday night, 
 somewhat to my surprise. I tried them on at a private 
 dress rehearsal before going to bed. 
 
 By eight in the morning I was under way to a certain livery 
 and feed stable that had been recommended and found that no 
 progress had yet been made with saddling my chosen horse — or 
 even with the grooming of the angular-looking brute. A tip 
 spurred the hostler's efforts, and finally Satan was as present- 
 able as a horse possessing his peculiar anatomy could be. The 
 beast was an underfed Western broncho somewhat past the first 
 bloom of youth. His eye was not confiding, showing too much 
 white; the manipulation of his ears confirmed the moroseness 
 indicated by his eyes. The poor animal's bony frame was 
 seared all over with hieroglyphic brands proclaiming service 
 under the dynasties of many ranches; he was as interesting to 
 study as the panels on an Egyptian tomb. I suspected that 
 much of the important history of the Far West was engraved 
 upon him. The question of riding, him, however, was a 
 matter of Hobson's choice, for the other animals were fat 
 ladies' cobs mainly used in harness. 
 
 When Satan and I appeared before Helen's house there were 
 half a dozen other horses, both good and bad, tethered in front 
 or watched over by grooms. It was to be quite a large party, I 
 noted, with considerable disappointment. Helen came out im- 
 mediately, looking radiant in a linen riding habit, black sailor 
 hat, and shiny boots. Why is it that a smart riding habit is the 
 most becoming costume a woman can wear? She invited me 
 in to await the others. Her father met us in the entrance hall. 
 He was a typical clear-cut business man, with a rigid mous- 
 
 83 
 
84 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 tache, a keen eye, and a hearty hand-clasp. He looked a little 
 searehingly at me, but was friendly. Mother, on the other 
 hand, was certain it was going to rain; the whole party was 
 a foolish idea; we ought to go to church; horses were never 
 safe, and so on. Helen kept up an automatic "Yes, mother," 
 "Now don't worry about us, mother," with what I thought was 
 angelic patience. 
 
 The others were not long in getting ready. Among them was 
 Miss Hemphill; the rest were strangers to me. There were 
 two more girls, besides Helen and Miss Hemphill, and three 
 other men, one of whom was a dapper German who spoke but 
 little English. Helen told me he was a cavalry officer visiting 
 German-American relatives in Deep Harbor. I was detailed to 
 talk to him because I had fragments of his language and could 
 at least understand him. He clicked his heels and bowed with 
 the customary Prussian stiffness that carried me back at a 
 bound to a week once spent in Berlin. I was curious to know 
 what he was doing in Deep Harbor. There was, however, no 
 opportunity at that time for me to pump him, for Helen ordered 
 us to horse. 
 
 We made quite a cavalcade down Myrtle Boulevard, going 
 two by two, with Helen and me in the lead. Behind us rode the 
 German, lavishing most studied attention upon Miss Delia 
 Greyson, who, Helen said, was one of Deep Harbor's heiresses. 
 I felt quite shabby on poor old Satan alongside Helen's neat 
 lady's mare, followed as we were by two superb horses belong- 
 ing to the Greysons' stables. The German, who was called 
 Lieutenant Ludwig von Oberhausen, took pains to make his 
 horse show off, a thing which caused my Western democratic 
 beast to make vicious threats at such carryings on. I was 
 obliged to ask the Herr Lieutenant to have a care that Satan 
 did not plant his heels where they would be undesirable. 
 The Lieutenant raised his eyebrows and said "Ach so?" — 
 not very pleasantly. 
 
 "What have I done to be punished with a German?" I 
 asked Helen, after the Lieutenant had curvetted into Satan and 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 85 
 
 me for about the tenth time. Helen laughed. "Why, we think 
 him very nice. He's quite an important man in his own coun- 
 try." 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure of that," I retorted. "They all are, in their 
 own estimation." 
 
 "Now, you've got to behave, Ted, and forget your nasty Eng- 
 lish prejudices. Ludwig is a wonderful horseman and dances 
 adorably." 
 
 "Wouldn't you know it?" I thought to myself." "Of course 
 the brute has his parlour tricks down perfectly" — but I was too 
 canny to say this aloud. 
 
 "We'll ride on ahead of them, if he annoys," she conceded. 
 
 "By the way, Helen," I remarked as we reached the dusty and 
 cinder-strewn outskirts to the eastward of Deep Harbor, "where 
 are we going?" 
 
 "Haven't I told you, Ted? Oh, I always forget you don't 
 know us. We are going where we often go — to a wonderful 
 little inn to eat a chicken-and-waffle dinner." 
 
 "How far is it?" I enquired, for I was already aware that 
 it had been several months since I had ridden a horse. 
 
 "Not over fifteen miles," she replied, quite unconscious of 
 the shock her words were to me. A thirty-mile ride the first 
 day! "We'll have a late supper at my house when we get 
 back," she continued. "There's a lovely ravine north from 
 the inn; we can ride up there to a little fairy waterfall. It's 
 only two or three miles out of our way." 
 
 "It sounds delightful," I stated quite truthfully. "Satan," I 
 whispered, "you poor old beast, if you are game, I am. It 
 may kill us both, but we'll see it through." Satan shook his 
 head, insulted at the liberty I took of addressing him confi- 
 dentially. 
 
 We were now in the open country, which fairly sparkled in 
 the clear October air. The vineyards on either side of the road 
 were hung with purple clusters, the maples were giving the 
 first hints of their autumn colouring; the sumach was already 
 flaming. Beyond, the lake lay, a colder blue than I had seen it; 
 
86 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 one felt like shouting with the very joy of living. All' this, by 
 some strange twist, reminded me of Mrs. Claybourne's hostility 
 to me. I questioned Helen about it. 
 
 "Oh, mother made an awful fuss when she heard I'd asked 
 you to come. Dad spoke up for you; at least, he told mother 
 I was old enough to take care of myself. The trouble was that 
 Ludwig had asked me to go with him — " 
 
 "That German?" I interrupted savagely. 
 
 "Hush, Ted. Remember your manners. I refused his in- 
 vitation to ask you. Now are you satisfied?" Giving her 
 horse a touch with her riding crop, she cantered off down the 
 road ahead of me. 
 
 "Come Satan," I spoke to my animal, "shades of cattle 
 round-ups and the Wyoming Trail — show what you are good 
 for," and we set off madly in pursuit. It was her pleasure to 
 let us catch her, for Satan, willing enough, was beyond the 
 time of life when he could overhaul a thoroughbred. He was 
 breathing hard, but with dignity, when I pulled upon his iron 
 mouth as we came abreast. I found Helen laughing until tears 
 were in her eyes. 
 
 "What now, little woman?" I asked with the anxiety a man 
 has when a woman laughs by herself. 
 
 "I was thinking that if Satan were half a hand taller he would 
 exactly match Mr. Winkle's horse. You looked too funny 
 lumbering down the hill after us." 
 
 "Apart from the fact that it was bad form of you to canter 
 down a hill and thus imperil Satan's rheumatic joints, I hope 
 you don't intend the comparison to extend to the rider," I re- 
 buked her. 
 
 "No," pursing her lips," "you handle a horse well — a little 
 finicky, perhaps, as if you were riding in a park. All told, 
 you compare quite favourably with Mr. Winkle" — this with a 
 most merry twinkle. 
 
 "I was once in love with Arabella Allen," I remarked sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 "Isn't that just like a man? She is better than some of the 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 87 
 
 impossible good-goody ones, though. Now, I'll bet, Ted, you 
 thought David Copperfield's Agnes adorable?" 
 
 "She was my first love." 
 
 "Oh, men make me so angry!" she exclaimed fervently. 
 "They put a silly doll on a pedestal and think that the pattern 
 of what a woman should be." 
 
 "How old are you, Helen?" 
 
 "Eighteen, Ted." 
 
 "Therefore you are old enough to know what a man's woman 
 should be." 
 
 "Ted, I hate sarcasm, especially from a boy, on the subject 
 •f women." 
 
 "I'm twenty-three; that's a lot older than you are." 
 
 "No, it isn't. A girl is always older than a boy, no matter 
 what their ages." 
 
 That sounded illogical and complicated enough to be true. I 
 didn't want, however, to surrender Agnes too easily. 
 
 "What ought a woman to be?" I followed up. 
 
 "A person of commonsense; not a silly, affected creature 
 made in man's image — like Agnes." 
 
 "My truly first love was a fairy princess." 
 
 "A blonde, of course. Man again," and Helen replaced, I 
 think unconsciously, a stray lock of most delicious brown hair. 
 
 "I was only nine years old." 
 
 "I told you a man's age never made any difference." 
 
 To this I had no satisfactory reply. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Ted. I didn't mean to be rude, or imply any- 
 thing when I said that." 
 
 "I wasn't silent because you said that," I murmured. "I 
 was just thinking how different Deep Harbor seems to me now." 
 
 "Were you very bored when you first came?" 
 
 "Perhaps," I said, "or lonely — I don't know which. Yes, I 
 did find this a lonely place." 
 
 "It needn't have been. You could have met plenty of nice 
 people, if you had taken a little trouble." 
 
 "It sounds frightfully foolish — in fact, I know it doesn't 
 
88 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 sound remotely plausible* — I didn't know there were any nice 
 people here." 
 
 Helen's eyes were upon me in open astonishment, then she 
 broke into one of her merry laughs. 
 
 "You thought you were marooned among barbarians, I sup- 
 pose. How masculine and English, both together! The com- 
 bination would be disastrous anywhere." 
 
 "I don't know," I protested. "I didn't get started, that's all. 
 I had a lot to do out at the factory." 
 
 "Ted, don't lose your temper when you're teased. It's not 
 good sporting spirit." 
 
 "I think I'm honest when I say I didn't think about meeting 
 people at all. I wanted to get my work done as soon as pos- 
 sible and get away." 
 
 "I see. You were just camping in the wilderness," she 
 laughed. 
 
 "Please don't." 
 
 "I know, Teddy boy, it's mean to tease you, but you do 
 tease so easily. You don't suppose I would have asked you to 
 go riding with me today, if I had not believed you were — well 
 — nice, do you?" 
 
 And again she cantered away. 
 
 I let Satan take his time catching up. Helen's last words 
 made me so happy I wanted to think it over. We were by now 
 a long way ahead of the others; they were not even in sight. 
 Moreover, it began to be a question with Satan and me how 
 much longer we could hold the pace. Helen's instinct gave 
 both Satan and me a respite. We found her resting by an oak 
 overhanging the road. 
 
 "We must wait for the crowd to catch up with us," she waved 
 to me. I rolled painfully off Satan's back, unloosed the girths, 
 and allowed him to crop the roadside grass. 
 
 "Tie him to the fence," Helen suggested. Satan was 
 promptly made fast to one of those picturesque barriers called 
 locally a "snake-rail fence," a conglomeration of heavy split 
 timbers piled one upon the other in alternate layers, each sec- 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 89 
 
 tion forming nearly a right angle with the adjacent one. 
 Tawny golden-rod and purple asters stuck their tops through 
 the fence rails, and many kinds of creeping vines, some already 
 scarlet and yellow, helped bind the angles together. We 
 stretched out on a little grassy bank facing the far distant lake, 
 which lay about a mile away and a hundred feet or so below 
 us. The flat vineyard-covered country sloped downward, 
 away from us, to the lake shore. 
 
 "A pleasant open country;" I thought, as I relaxed my ach- 
 ing muscles. 
 
 "Wait until you see us after the first real frosts — when all 
 the maples have turned," said Helen. It seemed natural and 
 matter-of-course for her to read my thoughts. 
 
 "What a country to write a border ballad in," I exclaimed. 
 "It's a pity nothing ever happened here." 
 
 Helen's militant patriotism was up in arms at once. "If 
 that isn't like your conceited British ignorance! Over there, 
 not far from that clump of trees by the lake, is a little block- 
 house that has a story of pioneer heroism equal to — well, to 
 the bravery at the siege of Lucknow, and not many miles from 
 here the battle of Lake Erie was fought. Perhaps your Eng- 
 lish history books don't mention that fight," she flung at me 
 mischievously. 
 
 "That is naturally wasted on me, because I'm not English," 
 I answered. 
 
 "Well, you've lived there all your life and learned some of 
 their ways. You are American only in streaks — and I've 
 heard you call England 'home.' " 
 
 "That's true," I replied. "It seems curious to me some- 
 times — almost a man without a country. But when I said 
 nothing had happened in this big place we are sitting in — it 
 feels like sitting in the centre of a circle thousands of miles in 
 diameter — I was thinking of one of our little English counties, 
 Hertfordshire, for example, where, in any village you choose, 
 you'll find half the world has happened. There's St. Albans 
 — with the old Norman abbey church of Roman bricks sitting 
 
90 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 high on the hill above the land on which Boadicea and her 
 warriors held the legions at bay." 
 
 "Now I know you are a good American," she laughed. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because no Englishman is ever sentimental about England; 
 it takes an American to be that." 
 
 She had undoubtedly scored a palpable hit. I dropped lec- 
 turing on English history. 
 
 "The others should be in sight by now," Helen said after a 
 silence. I stood up and looked along the road. There was 
 no trace of them to be seen. 
 
 "Perhaps it's because we turned off on to the Ridge Road; 
 they've probably taken the shorter main road by the railroad 
 tracks. I think we'd better ride on, Ted." 
 
 Satan, although partly refreshed, allowed me to mount with 
 an ill grace; he gave a longing look backward whence we had 
 come, and set forth after Helen's Titania, his head bowed in 
 gloom. Sprinkled along the ridge, whose crest the road fol- 
 lowed, were prosperous-looking farms. The villages and 
 small towns clung closely to the railway which ran along the 
 flat shelf between the ridge and the lake. The remarkable 
 straightness and uniformity of the ridge indicated that it had 
 itself at one time been the lakeshore in the days when even 
 this great lake had been larger. After the close confinement 
 to Deep Harbor it was glorious to ride in the open country 
 with a road stretching indefinitely before one. I so far for- 
 got my aches and pains as to burst into a popular music-hall 
 song, to which Satan listened attentively through one ear 
 turned backwards towards me. As I finished, Helen said: 
 "I'm sorry I'm not musical, Ted, but I'm quite sure you have 
 one of the worst voices I've ever heard." I was not mortified; 
 my efforts at song always met with a like reception. Only 
 extreme good spirits provoked me to melodious utterance. 
 In general, I was careful to remember this particular limita- 
 tion. I apologetically explained the reason for my peculiar 
 behaviour. "It was partly the fact that we are rid of the 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 91 
 
 others for a time," I continued. "All things seem to make 
 for good." 
 
 "You won't think so when you hear what Miss Hershey says 
 ahout it." 
 
 "Miss Hershey?" 
 
 "Yes, the stout old maid on the white horse. She is a sort of 
 professional chaperone for our crowd. The boys always draw 
 lots before we go anywhere to see which one of them will 
 be her escort. It is the loser who has that pleasure. Mother 
 whispered many private instructions to her this morning." 
 
 "I shall' make love to Miss Hershey at the first opportunity." 
 
 "It can't be done," laughed Helen. "It has been tried." 
 
 "You called her a professional chaperon — just what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "Just that. She is a social secretary, and all our mothers 
 hire her to get up dances and to look after parties like ours 
 today. She is dreadfully strict, naturally, since her bread and 
 butter depends upon it." 
 
 "What an extraordinary business," I exclaimed. Here, in- 
 deed, was an inversion, so to speak of woman's oldest pro- 
 fession — a thought which could not be told to a debutante. 
 "I've heard of Spanish duennas," I went on, "but I never 
 knew you could go out into the market place and hire one at 
 so much an hour." 
 
 "She's of a very fine old Southern family — " 
 
 "All Southern families are fine — and old," I interjected. 
 
 "Stop being irreverent to Miss Hershey, Ted. Her family 
 being in reduced circumstances — " 
 
 "According to the regular formula — " 
 
 "Shut up, Ted. She came North and offered herself as a 
 social secretary." 
 
 "You have made me all curiosity for luncheon." 
 
 "I'll' give you one word of advice, Ted. You'd better be 
 awfully nice to Miss Hershey or you won't go far in Deep 
 Harbor. She and Mrs. Hemphill hold the power of life and 
 death over all bachelors." 
 
92 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "What sort of things does one do to be nice to her?" 
 
 "Oh, talk to her about her family and tell her about your 
 grandfather." 
 
 I laughed: "But my grandfather was in the Northern Army; 
 ten to one he stole Miss Hershey's grandfather's spoons while 
 marching through Georgia, or something like that." 
 
 "It doesn't matter. He was a colonel. And you're not very 
 respectful to history. We don't laugh at the Civil War." ' 
 
 I acknowledged the rebuke. We rode for a mile or two in 
 silence — a privilege which our friendship had already at- 
 tained. 
 
 "There's the inn," Helen said, pointing down toward the 
 plain on our left. About half a mile away I saw a group of 
 white buildings gathered about the main road. A cross road 
 took us to the front door. In the stable yard we saw the 
 horses of the others already there — among them, Miss Her- 
 shey's white animal looming up with horrible distinctness. 
 He looked positively symbolic. When we dismounted we 
 found Miss Hershey awaiting us. The horse had not be- 
 lied her; like it, she was broad and imposing across the 
 withers. Her black-plumed riding hat suggested one of Gen- 
 eral Morgan's raiders. 
 
 "Helen, where have you been?" she began severely. Her 
 Southern intonation added a doom-like sound to the interrog- 
 atory. 
 
 "We took the Ridge Road — it was pleasanter," Helen replied 
 with an innocent calm which I envied her. 
 
 "At least, I should think that you, Edward, were old enough 
 to have a sense of responsibility." 
 
 This sudden shift of the attack threw me into great confusion. 
 Helen pinched my arm, I didn't know why. Evidently some 
 defence was expected. 
 
 "I — I didn't know we had — er — lost you," I murmured, 
 unconvincingly and ungallantly, as I suddenly realized, for it 
 threw the onus upon Helen. 
 
 "Edward, you will ride with me going back." And Miss 
 Hershey did something I had always wanted to see: she swept 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 93 
 
 into the inn. I had often read of people sweeping away from 
 a situation and wondered how they did it. I was no longer in 
 any doubt. It really was an effective exit. Helen laughed, 
 most inappropriately, I thought. 
 
 "Ted, it's all right. You'll ride with me — if I want you to. 
 And she called you' 'Edward' twice. That's an awfully good 
 sign — she's very particular about using Christian names — 
 didn't you feel me pinch your arm when she said 'Edward'?" 
 
 The chicken dinner proved to be a wonderful affair. We 
 were each served a whole grilled fowl together with corn on the 
 cob and fried potatoes, followed by waffles and syrup, all on a 
 lavish scale. The part of me which wasn't stiff and sore from 
 riding was intensely hungry; I ate, careless of Satan's feelings. 
 The only blot upon the meal was the fact that Herr Lieutenant 
 von Oberhausen most excitedly explained America to all of us, 
 calling upon me to translate when his scraps of English failed 
 him. He talked himself into several word jams from which it 
 was difficult for my knowledge of German to extricate him. He 
 proved thoroughly to his own satisfaction the standardized 
 Teutonic thesis that America is basely commercial, material, 
 and totally lacking in ideals. When he got partly through and 
 paused for a breathing space — speaking German oratorically is 
 one of the most violent forms of physical exercise on earth, 
 particularly destructive of throat tissues — I mildly remarked, in 
 opposition, that I thought Berlin rather careful, to use the 
 Scot's phrase, how a mark was spent, and skilfully inventive 
 in discovering devices to earn those coins, considering that all 
 Germany was composed of unmaterial, abstract idealists. The 
 Herr Lieutenant did not understand the comment and asked for 
 its repetition. I stripped the statement of its Anglo-Saxon 
 irony and repeated it in bald German, containing one mistaken 
 gender and a faulty termination. The Herr Lieutenant politely 
 announced: "Es ist nicht wahr," and there we let the matter 
 rest. 
 
 After dinner he buttonholed me on the front porch. My 
 heart sank, for I supposed I was in for another lecture. On 
 the contrary, he was now in an amiable mood and wished to go 
 
94 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 in for reminiscences on the pleasures of eating in Berlin. He 
 had not had anything one could really call food in America, 
 except at a few German houses. As for the unspeakable Amer- 
 ican custom of not serving wine, guttural explosions were in- 
 adequate to express his feelings. How could one eat so in cold 
 bl'ood? It was on a par with materialism; indeed, a demon- 
 stration of it. It was "ungemutlich, unbequem" and a lot of 
 other disturbing epithets. I let him ramble on, for I had 
 learned long ago the futility of argument with his kind. Helen 
 rescued me just as we had reached Kempinski's roast partridge 
 on toast garnished with sauerkraut. It was just as well she 
 did, for I was about to say that only idealists would add sauer- 
 kraut to a delicately flavoured game bird. 
 
 "We are going up our ravine, Ted," she whispered. The 
 Herr Lieutenant was rather red in the face as we left him with- 
 out any particular ceremony. 
 
 "What have you done with Miss Hershey?" 
 
 "Oh, that's all' right. I had a talk with her while Ludwig 
 was relieving his feelings to you. She can see no objection, if 
 we all keep together going home." 
 
 Poor Satan had to have his saddle on once more. I did what 
 I could for him, rubbing his back briskly first and inspecting 
 his feet. There was no gratitude in his eye. We picked our 
 way carefully up the bed of a small, densely wooded ravine, 
 over red sandstone shale through which shallow water rippled ; 
 here and there the stream broadened out into mirror-smooth 
 pools. Ferns and other sweet-smelling growing things lined 
 the sides. Apparently we were in a primitive wilderness miles 
 from any inhabitants. Splendid oaks and chestnuts shut out 
 the direct rays of the sun, and we rode in a cool, green twilight 
 such as one might find in the forest of Arden itself. The glory 
 of this country is in its woodlands, I thought. Such a ravine as 
 this would make a fortune for any railway in North Wales. 
 Here it was one of thousands, nay millions, unsought save by 
 an occasional wanderer — simply a part of the landscape. At 
 last the ravine stopped abruptly against a sandstone barrier 
 over which the little stream fell lazily and mistily. We dis- 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 95 
 
 mounted, and the horses shoved their noses eagerly through the 
 cool water, as we lay on the mossy bank and stared at a patch 
 of blue sky through the overhanging branches. The place had 
 been made to order for sentimental young people. 
 
 "If this place were in Herr Ludwig's Harz Mountains or 
 Black Forest," I said, "there would be a little restaurant behind 
 us, surrounded by white pebbles, and a sign pointing at this 
 ravine labelled 'Wald Idyll.' " 
 
 Helen laughed: "It must be rather convenient to have your 
 emotions labelled for you." 
 
 "It is," I said, "when you are full of food and thinking is 
 painful. You have only to read the signs, such as 'Schone 
 Aussicht' or 'Rauchen verboten,' and choose pleasure or anger 
 at will." 
 
 "Ludwig must have been very annoying." 
 "He was; it's lucky you didn't understand all he said. He 
 says we are base materialists," and I slapped a mosquito. 
 
 "It does irritate, the way Ludwig puts it, of course; the mere 
 sound of his language makes one want to fight. But I wonder 
 if some of it isn't true? How big a part do spiritual things 
 play in your life, Ted?" 
 
 I sat up straight at the abruptness of the challenge. It was 
 not an easy one to meet with Helen's now solemn grey eyes 
 upon me. They were so large and clearly truthful. I was 
 curious concerning my own answer. 
 
 "Spirituality is not what one does, such as going to church; 
 
 it is the way one feels inside about things," I defended, I fear 
 
 lamely. It wasn't what I had intended the major premise to be. 
 
 "Well," Helen went on, "how do you feel inside, and how 
 
 much do these feelings shape your life?" 
 
 I was fairly cornered. I had postponed self-analysis on 
 this particular subject; I wasn't certain what, if anything, I did 
 believe. I lacked a good deal of Prospero's fluent "philoso- 
 phy." 
 
 "Perhaps I could answer better if I knew a little about your 
 opinions," I dodged. 
 "That isn't fair, because I asked first; however, I'm not 
 
96 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 afraid to tell you." She pulled a fern leaf and slowly tore the 
 fronds apart as she reflected a moment. I laughed. 
 
 "What are you laughing at, Ted?" 
 
 "Seeing you tear that fern apart made me think of Caliban 
 upon Setebos — the twenty-first crab you choose for destruc- 
 tion, while you're trying to invent what you believe." 
 
 She flung the fern leaf from her horrified. 
 
 "Ted! That's true! How could you say it?" 
 
 "Because, Helen dear, I think we'll have to find things out for 
 ourselves as we go through life; I for one can't take them 
 ready made." 
 
 She leaned forward, her chin in her hands, her elbows rest* 
 ing on her drawn-up knees. 
 
 "Yes — I was hashing over in my mind to give you as some* 
 thing original only the things I'd already heard — " 
 
 "That is my objection to philosophy — it is a hash of 
 words," I said. 
 
 "Still, one does have to have an experimental creed to go on 
 with — one to change and add to, but to keep one steadfast 
 meanwhile." 
 
 "Yes," I said. "Mine is foolishly practical: be decent, 
 play fair, and take the life of no living creature." 
 
 "You are inconsistent right at the start," she complained. 
 "If you lived up to your creed you'd be a vegetarian." 
 
 "I admit the weakness in the armour, but I mean shooting 
 and killing beasts and birds for the fun of it. Mosquitoes are 
 excepted. 
 
 "You keep your creed pretty firmly on earth." 
 
 "That's where I live at present, Grey Eyes." 
 
 "Ted, dear, I don't think you have improved upon the Ser- 
 mon on the Mount, not even for practical purposes." 
 
 "I think, Helen, you've rather shown me up," I acknowl- 
 edged. Her hand quickly sought my arm. 
 
 "No, Ted dear. I wasn't trying to outargue you; I wanted to 
 know what you really thought about things." 
 
 "I improvised my creed on the spur of the moment. Prob- 
 ably there is more to it." 
 
I GO FOR A RIDE ON SATAN 97 
 
 She got to her feet with her precious radiant laugh: "We 
 must go back to the Inn, Ted. Miss Hershey will be fuming 
 because the party can't start for home without us." 
 
 It was strange how naturally and unconsciously we had 
 grown in intimacy and friendship during the day, leaping over 
 what I had always imagined would take months of time. Yet 
 I am quite certain, as I look backward now over the entries 
 in my diary, that no serious thoughts of love had yet entered 
 our heads. We were building away at a friendship, uncertain 
 as to how elaborate the superstructure was to be, or, to be 
 more precise, not questioning the future at all. To change the 
 figure, we were quite content to explore one another's souls 
 and to marvel at the mystic things we found there. Neither of 
 us had quite reached complete frankness, but we were very 
 near. I fell asleep that night with the realization that Deep 
 Harbor had suddenly become an intimate place in which I 
 lived. 
 
Chapter Seven 
 i have the first great adventure 
 
 OCTOBER turned into November and angry hints of on- 
 coming winter almost daily shrilled across the lake, 
 scattering the heaps of yellow leaves on Myrtle Boulevard 
 or playing the dickens with signs and hats on State Street. The 
 nights were raw and cold; the night-shift at the factory ate 
 their midnight lunches in the boiler room, a place which in 
 July had seemed one of the lowest circles of the Inferno. 
 Business was at a most critical stage, and Knowlton drove away 
 at it day and night. We were, as he expressed it, just at the 
 turn of the tide; it was a toss-up whether we should be swept on 
 to the rocks or out into the sea of reasonable prosperity. I 
 saw comparatively little of him, for he had not yet released me 
 from night duty. I was getting quite accustomed to this noc- 
 turnal existence; I had actually grown to like it, because it 
 left my afternoons free to go riding with Helen. I went to bed 
 about half past seven in the morning, got up around three, and 
 three-thirty would find Helen and me trotting sedately up 
 Myrtle Boulevard — a sight to which the latter had become so 
 hardened that not a verandah fluttered as we passed by. In- 
 deed, the cool weather had driven even the most hardened gos- 
 sip-scouts within. Helen's girl friends had tacitly accepted the 
 situation, and at dinners or card parties Helen and I were 
 always paired off together by tactful hostesses. None of the 
 first riding party went with us now. Miss Hershey was chape- 
 roning at White Sulphur, although there were rumours she 
 would return for Christmas. "Mother" was querulous and 
 fretful, particularly when we rode on stormy days; otherwise 
 she had practically ceased active opposition. Her attitude 
 now was resigned, if hurt, patience, varied with occasional 
 Cassandra-like utterances of dire foreboding. 
 
 98 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 99 
 
 Saturdays were now thrice blessed, for the factory shut down 
 from six o'clock Saturday evening until midnight Sunday, 
 leaving the whole of Saturday free for me, if I kept Sunday 
 for sleeping. We therefore reserved Saturdays for our longer 
 expeditions into the rolling hill country behind us. (In the 
 geography of Deep Harbor "the front" was the lake.) Soon 
 hard frosts would come to make the roads impassable; we 
 strove to do all the exploring possible before that should hap- 
 pen. I had found another horse which a modest weekly pay- 
 ment reserved for my exclusive use. He was a small Western 
 pony, young and hard as nails. On frosty days he often tried 
 to climb into the upper air, but he was to be preferred to the 
 misanthropic Satan, who had fallen to the sad fate of hauling 
 a grocer's wagon. Nevertheless Helen and I retained a warm 
 spot in our hearts for old Satan and often carried him apples 
 and sugar. In a large measure we owed him our friendship. 
 It was an undeserved misfortune that it had come too late in 
 life for Satan to keep up with. Helen named the new pony 
 Starbright, because of the white star in the centre of his dark 
 chestnut forehead. We both agreed that the name revealed no 
 great powers of originality. 
 
 On the second Saturday in November we planned one of 
 our longest quests. We both regretfully admitted it would 
 probably be the last until spring; either snow or frozen ground 
 was due at any time. The day was gusty and overcast; 
 "Mother" tried every whine in her repertoire to dissuade us 
 from going. Helen's obstinacy refused to yield, and off we 
 went, taking our luncheons with us. On a hillside, by the 
 edge of the wood, several miles away, we dismounted and 
 built a camp fire against a large boulder. Helen endeavoured 
 to instruct me in the art of camp cooking, a skill which she 
 maintained she had learned one summer in the woods. It con- 
 sisted principally of trying to bal'ance a flimsy piece of bacon 
 on a forked stick. The instant the heat reached the meat 
 it would curl up and fall into the redhot coals. It then became 
 my duty to burn my fingers in an attempt at rescue before the 
 bacon turned to a cinder. In this way we spoiled a fair amount 
 
100 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 by the time we had each eaten two or three scorched slices. I 
 commented on the fact that camp cooking seemed uneconomical, 
 to say nothing of its lack of finesse. Helen laughingly 
 guessed she was "out of practice," so we toasted marshmallows 
 instead, a form of cooking in which we were more proficient. 
 The warmth of the fire was pleasant, and we lingered on, care- 
 less of our original purpose to penetrate far into the hills. It 
 was Helen's turn to tell me of herself, which she did, half 
 shyly, half whimsically. 
 
 The eighteen years of her life had been passed in Deep Har- 
 bor, except for two winters at a large New England boarding- 
 school', or during brief visits to school friends in New York. 
 At school she had had the good fortune to come under the influ- 
 ence of a rare kind of teacher — one with the power of reveal- 
 ing the world. Helen spoke of her with dreamy affection, as 
 of one who had opened a gate and shown the beauty of an un- 
 suspected garden lying beyond. Having shown it, she had 
 left Helen to wander in it at will. Thus it came about that 
 this young girl, native of a provincial town, had found the path 
 leading to citizenship of the world. The maturity of her judg- 
 ment was astonishing; it implied an experience of life which 
 I knew was impossibl'e. I often found myself deferring to her 
 opinion or leaning upon her advice, for her calm, level deci- 
 sions brushed aside my cobwebs of sentiment and substituted 
 truth for the meshes of whim or impulse. Day by day I had 
 grown more dependent upon her until I expressed no opinion, 
 even concerning business, without first submitting it for her 
 approval. With all this she was a fun-loving child, full of 
 mischief and humour, or occasionally tempest-swept by sudden 
 child-like anger, when the storm clouds in her eyes would 
 frighten me. After anger would follow such a melting tender- 
 ness as made me long to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness 
 for having caused her displeasure. 
 
 Curiously enough we neither of us analyzed what was hap- 
 pening to us. It seemed natural that we preferred to be to- 
 gether — even to be alone — and we were content with the word 
 "friendship" as a complete explanation. Neither of us ques- 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 101 
 
 tioned it or looked beyond our next Saturday together. We 
 must have been very young and inexperienced. Once in a while 
 Knowlton had asked me, with his Harlequin's grin, how I was 
 getting on; old Hemphill at the factory had stumbled his way 
 through a clumsy joke aimed at me: neither followed the sub- 
 ject very far. Helen was not a topic I would allow discussed; 
 there was something so far beyond the comprehension of the 
 world in our attitude toward each other. Helen's own friends, 
 I discovered, had passed from teasing to regard us as a fait ac- 
 compli, and thereafter held their peace. Here again we looked 
 upon their behaviour as simply caused by their lack of under- 
 standing. Poor old world, how we pitied it! 
 
 Today we were playing one of our new games — I don't know 
 which of us thought of it first. The game was founded upon 
 the Morte a" Arthur, and we were in search of the questing 
 beast. Helen stretched comfortably before the camp fire and 
 read aloud to me from her Mallory, which I carried in my 
 coat pocket, the description of this mediaeval animal. As she 
 finished we listened for the noise to come from the woodl'and on 
 the edge of the hillside pasture in which we were. It sounds 
 ridiculous to tell of it now, but it was as real to us as the play 
 of children is to them. Beyond the edge of the wood there lay 
 strange adventures — we had no doubt of it. Deep Harbor 
 faded from us like a conjurer's vision, and the fields, hills and 
 woods became the enchanted reality. We peopled it with all 
 the crew of fairy folk and ourselves assumed roles appropri- 
 ate to our fellowship. How could ordinary Deep Harborites 
 understand such a game or dream that this was one of the 
 secrets of our friendship — they who thought only of such 
 mundane things as love and marriage? Would they not laugh 
 at the Lady Grey Eyes on her cream-coloured palfrey, escorted 
 by her trusty knight, Edward of Over-Seas? To be sure the 
 Lady Helen's horse was light chestnut, not cream, but in her 
 magic capacity the mare assumed a new tint. 
 
 As we scanned the woodland, wondering what castle it hid or 
 whether a hermit dwelt in its shade, we were aware of a tawny 
 yellow animal approaching us. By his manner it should have 
 
102 I WALKED IN ARDElN 
 
 been a dog, but the peculiarity of its build and complexion 
 left some doubt. On the other hand, he was not the questing 
 beast, for his coming was silent. Helen clung to me with de- 
 light; the creature was unusual enough, seen through our im- 
 agination, to look like the bearer of adventure. Carefully he 
 circled us with an upstanding waving yellow signal of friendly 
 purpose. I whistled. It awoke a sympathetic response, for he 
 bounded up to us and laid his head in the Lady Grey Eyes' lap 
 in token of obeisance. Dog there was no denying he was, but 
 one whose ancestors had mingled with strange company. 
 Chief among his forebears had been a bull dog; the others had 
 been of that cadium-hued race to be found sleeping in the 
 dust of village streets. From ear to ear of his square bulldog 
 head there spread an expansive smile, whence depended a most 
 liquid tongue. He kissed my hand, thus completing his hom- 
 age. 
 
 "Ted, I want him. He's mine!" the Lady Grey Eyes 
 declared. 
 
 "On my honour as a knight, you shall have him, if no farmer 
 catches us in the theft, or if he does, we'll try what filthy lucre 
 will accomplish," I replied, somewhat diverging from the 
 purity of Mallory's style. I made fast the prize with a piece 
 of string. There seemed no need, for he accepted gratefully 
 whatever command we laid upon him. 
 
 "What name shall our new companion bear?" I asked. 
 Helen regarded her treasure trove critically. In spite of the 
 misalliance of one of his ancestors, our friend was unquestion- 
 ably mainly plebeian except for the sternness of his tenacious 
 profile. The latter gave him an air unlike any other dog. 
 His amiability, however, was unquenchable. 
 
 "He ought to be called 'Bill' if it wasn't for his face," mused 
 Helen. "What do you say to 'Sir Leonidas de la Patte 
 Jaune'?" 
 
 "It strikes me as a bit beyond his linguistic ability; how- 
 ever, just as you say." 
 
 "He is lion-coloured — hence 'Leonidas.' " she explained — I 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 103 
 
 had some doubts concerning this etymology — "and yellow paws 
 are undoubtedly characteristic of the majority of his family." 
 I nodded, for her latter argument was flawless. 
 
 "What shall we call him for short?" The practical world 
 would assert itself at times. 
 
 "Leonidas, of course," said Helen with dignity. "The rest of 
 his name is part of our secret." 
 
 I sprang to my feet. "The questing beast!" I exclaimed. 
 "Let's test Sir Leonidas on an adventure. Let him track the 
 questing beast through the forest!" 
 
 Helen gave a little cry of joy, her eyes shining. 
 
 "Come, Sir Leonoidas de la Patte Jaune!" she called. We 
 are about to lay a high adventure upon thee ! " Leonidas tilted 
 his head, listening to her, and wagged his tail at varying speeds. 
 "Over there in yonder woods is a marvellous questing beast 
 which we have taken an oath to bring to Arthur's Court ere a 
 year and a day have passed. Thou shalt aid us in the quest. 
 It is only fair to warn thee that this task is fraught with dire 
 peril, but thy cheerful soul' shall carry thee safely through all. 
 Sir Edward of Over-Seas and I, the Lady Grey Eyes, shall be 
 ever at thy side." She untied the string. 
 
 "Go get him! Sic 'em!" I said. Which of us he under- 
 stood the better, I do not know. At any rate he was off at a 
 bound toward the woods, and Helen followed with speed 
 afoot. 
 
 Back and forth we ranged through dense underbrush, Leoni- 
 das making noise enough, as he crashed over dry twigs, to 
 frighten away a menagerie of wild animals. Helen shouted 
 with laughter at his clumsy eagerness to serve us. We worked 
 our way into a clearing, and here Leonidas* excitement re- 
 doubled. This time he was clearly on the track of something. 
 Helen was just a trifle nervous at the change from make-be- 
 lieve. 
 
 "What may one expect in these woods?" I asked. 
 
 "Nothing but woodchucks and rabbits, unless — " and she 
 gave a scream that startled me. "Call him quick, Ted, quick!" 
 
104 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 she implored. What unknown danger were we walking into? 
 I wondered, but I called Leonidas, and none too soon. There 
 emerged from a thicket a small black and white animal. 
 
 "Run — run for your life, Ted!" The tone of her voice 
 brought instant obedience. We fled in miserable panic back to 
 t our pasture, followed, luckily, by Leonidas. As we reached 
 the remains of our camp fire, Helen sank exhausted with laugh- 
 ter, great tears streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 "Ted, it was a skunk," she gasped, much as Mrs. Siddons 
 must have spoken a famous line of Lady Macbeth's. Leonidas 
 lay panting, his nose between his paws. I wiped the sweat of 
 exertion and relief from my forehead. 
 
 "That's the worst of adventures," I said, after a pause. 
 "The stories never mention the unpleasant odour one is apt to 
 encounter by the way." 
 
 "Ted, that's the narrowest escape we ever had. What would 
 mother have said?" and she rocked again with laughter. 
 
 "My immediate concern would not have been 'mother,' if 
 anything had happened," I commented reflectively. "Leoni- 
 das," and I turned to him, "I hope you have learned the lesson 
 of never overplaying your hand. We sent you on one adven- 
 ture, and you got us into one not on the orthodox list." 
 Leonidas cocked one eye at me and feebly wagged his tail. 
 
 "Ted, those bushes have made my hair a sight," Helen said, 
 and without more ado, tumbled it all down on her shoulders. 
 Something caught my throat; I had never seen her with her 
 hair down, and the added beauty it gave her almost hurt. I 
 sat silent and motionless, staring at her while she combed it 
 out as if she were doing the most ordinary thing in the world. 
 
 "Don't put it up — just yet," and I made a slight gesture to 
 stop her, as she began to twist it into a mass. 
 
 "Why not, Ted? It's untidy enough as it is," and her grey 
 eyes opened wide at me. I couldn't explain. 
 
 "Please leave it." 
 
 "Silly boy, if you want me to," she laughed, and tossed it 
 back with a shake of her head. 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 105 
 
 "May I touch it?" I begged, stretching forth my hand. In-> 
 stinctively she drew away slightly. 
 
 "I don't know, Ted," and we looked at each other a long 
 minute. 
 
 "Please," I coaxed. She hesitated and then she began to do 
 it up. 
 
 "I don't think you'd better," she said so low I could scarcely 
 hear her. "It isn't like us, Ted." That answer was so final 
 that I did not dream of questioning it. 
 
 "I'm sorry I asked — forgive me, Helen dear," and I got up 
 to gather sticks with which to revive our fire. Leonidas re- 
 mained on guard by Helen's side. While I was away I led the 
 horses over to a pond at the foot of the hill and watered them. 
 Upon my return Helen was looking her imperturbable neat 
 self. We read the Mallory together before the fire until the 
 sinking November sun warned us to go. The problem arose: 
 would Leonidas follow our horses? He could not be led on 
 a leash, and without Leonidas Helen refused to return. Ex- 
 periment was necessary; to our joy Leonidas remained indif- 
 ferent whether we rode or walked afoot. He was content to 
 follow either way. With some trepidation we picked our way 
 by the first farm-house we passed, expecting either to be chal- 
 lenged to surrender the dog or else to see Leonidas dash home; 
 neither of these things happened. It was impossible to canvass 
 the countryside, house by house, looking for his owner — at 
 least, I thus stifled Helen's conscience on this point, for, faced 
 with the necessity of carrying him off, she suddenly felt we 
 ought to pay for him. Leonidas simply came. 
 
 The air grew chillier and chillier; Helen started off on a 
 brisk canter to warm us up. Along a soft dirt road we went at 
 a good clip, Leonidas trailing desperately in the rear. We 
 were on the crest of a hill overlooking distant Deep Harbor and 
 the lake. The soft coal smoke lay black over the town, blend- 
 ing with the lighter greys of the water and sky. All outlines 
 were blurred and softened in the half light, and Deep Harbor 
 might have been a city of dreams. Ahead of me, Helen must 
 
106 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 have been thinking something the same, for she pointed toward 
 it with a sweeping gesture of her arm. 
 
 As she did so her horse caught a loose stone, stumbled, and 
 fell. I had one glimpse of her lying motionless in the road, 
 after her horse scrambled up and dashed on, riderless; the 
 next I knew, I was at her side, my own horse abandoned, hold- 
 ing her tightly in my arms. 
 
 I was dazed with the suddenness of it all; for a moment I 
 could not think and did nothing but hug her close, her head 
 against my shoulder, as I bent over her face and whispered, 
 "Helen, dear! Helen!" over and over again. 
 
 At last she opened her eyes of her own accord, for I had 
 taken no rational steps to aid her, and smiled at me. I held 
 her still more closely, delirious with joy; her eyes grew serious 
 as she looked back at me, until they melted into the tenderest 
 grey any man has ever seen. Then we both understood; there 
 was no need of further words; her hand sought mine and 
 rested there with quiet confidence. 
 
 "It's my knee, Ted. I've wrenched it," she whispered. 
 "I must have fainted — that wasn't like me, Teddy dear, was 
 it?" Again she smiled such a happy little smile that actually 
 a tear from my eyes fell upon her cheek. 
 
 I laid her gently down, roused to some vague trace of com- 
 monsense. "I'll get some water," I said, looking helplessly 
 around at an arid country road. 
 
 "It's much more important, Ted, to catch the horses." 
 There was truth in this. Mine was quietly cropping grass a 
 few yards away; Helen's was doing the same about a hundred 
 yards further on. Leonidas joined us, evidently in deep con- 
 cern. It was a simple matter to catch my horse, for he had 
 been trained to come at command. Helen refused again to 
 let me help her until I had made a try for her animal. I 
 mounted and rode cautiously up to the mare; she gave a toss 
 of her head and was off for a few yards further. We repeated 
 this several times with the same results. Next I dismounted 
 and advanced with elaborate flattery. Useless; the beast 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 107 
 
 would not allow herself to be caught. I was in despair, im- 
 agining Helen to be suffering pain which somehow my presence 
 might alleviate, while this confounded horse was taking me 
 straight away. Apparently, however, the horse tired of the 
 game after a few more minutes, or else her feminine nature 
 desired to assert itself in a new way; as I was about to give it 
 up as a bad job she unexpectedly permitted me to walk right 
 up to her and seize the bridle. Needless to say, the three of 
 us were not long in returning to Helen. 
 
 She was sitting up with one foot straight out in front of her, 
 Leonidas proudly beside her. "I can stand on it, Ted," she 
 called out, "but riding is out of the question." It was rapidly 
 growing dark, and we were several miles from home. The 
 roads we chose for riding were the unfrequented by-ways; it 
 seemed unlikely, therefore, that there was much hope of any- 
 thing passing. Also it was cold. These things we ruefully 
 enumerated to each other. 
 
 "Do you feel much pain?" I asked when we had exhausted 
 the list of other disadvantages in the situation. We both 
 avoided reference to what we knew had happened when she 
 first opened her eyes in my arms. 
 
 "It hurts only if I bend it. I don't dare take my riding 
 boot off for fear I couldn't get it on again. It's only a twist 
 — nothing broken, or I couldn't stand. Isn't it ridiculous, 
 Ted?" and she laughed. 
 
 "I don't want to leave you here alone — in the dark — while 
 I get help, dearest — and yet I don't see what else to do." 
 
 "Indeed, you won't leave me alone, Ted, if I stay here all' 
 night. We'll just wait. Perhaps I'll be able to walk after a 
 little rest." 
 
 "There ought to be a farm near by — I could telephone from 
 there—" 
 
 "You'll sit right here with me, dear," she said with finality. 
 "This whole country is full of tramps — they're all making for 
 the big cities at this time of the year." 
 
 I knew this to be true; they were to be seen everywhere. 
 Deep Harbor's freight yards were a kind of clearing house for 
 
108 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 tramps stealing rides east and west. They camped, by night, 
 for miles about the town. The mere thought of them made 
 me sit promptly by Helen's side. We sat for a long time in 
 silence. 
 
 "It is true, Ted, isn't it?" she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And to think we never guessed it!" 
 
 "Not until I saw you lying in the road," I said with a slight 
 catch in my voice, as the picture flashed through my mind 
 again. Her warm, womanly hand crept into mine, and once 
 more there was silence. We were both too overwhelmed with 
 this new miracle to talk about it. I could not see her face, for 
 the night was too dark. I don't think it occurred to either of 
 us that we had not as yet exchanged a lovers' kiss or even 
 mentioned the word "love." We both wanted a little time to 
 think about and feel our happiness. Leonidas curled up at: 
 our feet and slept. She reached down and stroked his head 
 gently. 
 
 "You won't laugh at me for wanting to keep Sir Leonidas de 
 la Patte Jaune now, will you, Ted dear?" 
 
 "No," I answered, smiling in spite of myself to think what 
 strange forms the bearers of romance could take. Then came 
 a different mood. The world was glowing, building beautiful 
 fantastic shapes and sounds in my mind, in which there 
 swirled black smoke from factory chimneys, grey eyes and 
 flowing hair, the clatter of horses' hoofs, Helen's laugh, the 
 ugly square face of a yellow dog — a tumbling, changing med- 
 ley of sound and colour, half ecstatic, half terrible, for 
 through it all darted again and again the vision of Helen lying 
 still and motionless upon the road — an insistent bass accom- 
 paniment striving to drown the shriller, sweeter notes of joy. 
 I could not speak. I tried to say something to Helen, to tell 
 her something of what I felt, but I could only press her hand 
 and hold it tight. "'Here is the true beginning of life," my 
 thoughts cried to me. "Remember that with the beginning of 
 life also begins the end," rumbled that terrifying bass. Why 
 — why should fear come to me on this day of all days? Was 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 109 
 
 it some ancient racial superstition of primitive man's that 
 when the gods smiled then they plotted evil? — was it such a 
 childish inherited instinct as this that had seized me? But 
 dread would not shake off. "The Greeks believed great hap- 
 piness to be dangerous; the mediaeval monks scourged it from 
 their bodies; the Puritans cursed it," thundered that bass, cry- 
 ing down the "I love her" singing in my ears. 
 
 "If you will let me lean upon your shoulder, I think I can 
 walk now," came Helen's gentle voice, bringing me with a 
 start from the whirlpool of my thoughts. I stood up. "What 
 were you thinking, Teddy?" she asked shyly as I stooped to 
 help her to her feet. 
 
 "You know the Tannhauser overture?" I whispered. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Listen to it and you'll guess a little how my head sounds." 
 
 I put one arm around her and led the horses as best I could 
 with my left hand. We made slow and painful progress down 
 the road. Helen was as plucky as I knew she would be; al- 
 though each step was agony, not a whimper came from her 
 lips. About half a mile from where we started the light of a 
 farm appeared; we staggered through the little swinging gate, 
 arousing a pack of dogs which made more noise than the 
 Seven Champions of Christendom. With difficulty we re- 
 strained Leonidas from going to a noble death in single combat 
 against the lot. It took as heavy knocking as upon the gates 
 of Macbeth's castle to arouse the farmer within, who finally 
 opened the door a distrustful crack and stood surveying us by 
 the light of a glass oil lamp held above his head. He was clad 
 in rubber boots, trousers, and a night shirt; the expression up- 
 on his face did not indicate any anxiety to ask us to partake 
 of bread and salt with him. 
 
 "Have you a telephone?" I asked. "This lady was thrown 
 from her horse and hurt. I want to get help." 
 
 He reflectively turned all this over in his mind, evidently con- 
 sidering the request and its accompanying statement from all 
 conceivable angles. Leonidas tactlessly growled at him and 
 incurred severe reproof from Helen. 
 
110 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Please let me in," she pleaded. "I want very much to sit 
 down." I was meditating choking consent out of the impassive 
 sour-faced old man. A high-pitched nasal voice called out 
 from the head of the stairs : "Henery, don't you dast to give no 
 tramps anything to eat." 
 
 "I'll pay you for your trouble," I said, producing a few 
 bills. 
 
 "I reckon I don't have to be paid for no trouble," the old 
 codger snarled. I saw that I had made another error of tact. 
 "What you doing out gallivantin' around this time of night?" 
 he added. 
 
 "We are not out from choice," I reminded him. "This lady 
 has had an accident and is seriously hurt. All we ask is to be 
 allowed to stay here until we get help from town." 
 
 "Mary!" he turned and shouted, "c'mon down here a min- 
 ute." All this time he carefully guarded the door so that en- 
 trance was not possible. I had the intelligence at last to seat 
 Helen on the porch steps while "Mary" made suitable toilet 
 above stairs. The old woman came down in a red flannel 
 mother Hubbard, from which stray ruffles of her nightgown 
 protruded. 
 
 "What's all this foolishness about, Henry?" she inquired 
 sharply. 
 
 "Young fellow and his girl — says she's hurt," Henry re- 
 plied. 
 
 "Are they married?" 
 
 "Dunno. I don't take much stock in the story myself." 
 
 "If you'll allow me to explain — " I ventured, thinking it 
 about time 1 took a hand in the dialogue. 
 
 "Tell them my name, Ted. Every one around here knows 
 father," Helen suggested. Why had I not thought of this be- 
 fore? 
 
 "Miss Claybourne has had a fall from her horse and is hurt," 
 I began. 
 
 "Martin Claybourne's girl?" the old woman interrupted. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Lives on Myrtle Boulevard?" 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 111 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Henery, you old dumbhead, open that door and get a light 
 in the parlour. Land sakes, men is fools. Bring the child 
 right in here. Dear, dear, Martin Claybourne's little girl 
 hurt and you standing there shutting the door in her face — 
 how you expect to answer to your Maker on the great day, the 
 Lord only knows. Where are you hurt, darling?" This to 
 Helen as I almost carried her in and laid her on the best horse- 
 hair sofa. 
 
 "I've only wrenched my knee, thank you," Helen smiled. 
 
 "I'll get you a hot poultice just as soon as I get a fire in the 
 stove. We'll fix you all up while the men folks are telephon- 
 ing. I do believe I've got a bottle of arnica up in the store 
 closet," and she shooed "Henery" and me out of the room. I 
 had the luck to get Mr. Claybourne on the telephone almost 
 immediately, and partly explained to him the situation, as far 
 as the accident was concerned, while "Henery" contributed 
 directions where to reach us: "Tell him it's Five Mile Farm on 
 South Ridge— Henery Tyler's place." This done, "Henery" 
 assisted me to put the horses in the barn and to make Leonidas 
 fast to a post. I was now anxious to return to Helen, but 
 "Henery" put obstacles in the way: "Better leave the women- 
 folk alone — pertickly as you ain't married, till Mary gets that 
 poultice fixed." I brushed his objections aside and went into 
 the parlour. Mrs. Tyler let out a piercing shriek, for poor 
 Helen's bare and badly swollen knee was exposed to view. 
 Helen laughed: "It's all right, Mrs. Tyler— Ted and I— well, I 
 want him to help." 
 
 "Land sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Tyler, "I remember you in 
 short dresses — seems like it was only yesterday, walkin' down 
 Myrtle Boulevard with your dad — and do you mean to say you 
 and him — ?" 
 
 "Yes," Helen said with a dear look at me, covering her 
 knee shyly. I rushed to her side, seizing the arnica bottle to 
 disguise my confusion. 
 
 "My, my, how time flies!" Mrs. Tyler continued, moral- 
 izing the spectacle from beneath her curl papers. "Why, you 
 
112 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 ain't no more'n a child. How long you been keepin' com- 
 pany?" 
 
 "Not very long," Helen replied, her hand in mine. "You 
 won't let that poultice burn, will you, Mrs. Tyler?" 
 
 "Land sakes, no! Clean forgot all about it. To think that 
 numbskull Henery tried to shut the door in your face, and the 
 minister preachin' about the good Samaritan only last Sun- 
 day — " and she mercifully departed in search of the poultice. 
 We could hear her in the kitchen giving "Henery" an additional 
 "piece of her mind," as she would have called it. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me at first that you knew these people, 
 sweetheart?" I asked. "It would have saved you some of 
 the pain of standing." I tried to be reproachful. 
 
 Helen giggled happily. "I wanted to see if you could man- 
 age it, Ted. It was too delicious to watch you lose your temper 
 on my account because you went at 'Henery' Tyler the wrong 
 way. I'll never again send you as ambassador to one of our 
 farmers. You even offered him money!" and she laughed. I 
 felt there was a defence to my actions, but could think of none,. 
 
 "Now, Ted, do you think we ought to leave my knee alone 
 until we see a doctor, or shall we try the arnica and Mrs* 
 Tyler's poultice?" 
 
 "I don't know," I said. "I hate to experiment with a knee 
 without expert advice, but I don't believe arnica will do any 
 harm, and the poultice will be warming." 
 
 Helen promptly displayed her knee again, and I gingerly 
 applied the arnica. Mrs. Tyler returned with a steaming poul" 
 tice. 
 
 "Now, dearie, you must have it on just as hot as you can 
 stand it," she said, making a great bustle of preparation. 
 
 "Feel it, Ted, and see if I can stand it. I don't want to be 
 blistered," Helen whispered. I seized the poultice as Mrs. 
 Tyler held it in mid-air ready to apply it violently. I gave 
 an involuntary "Ouch!" it was so hot. Mrs. Tyler refused to 
 yield without a struggle. 
 
 "It's what I always do for Henery's rheumatics — catches 
 him in the back when he's splittin' wood for the kitchen stove. 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 113 
 
 Once I give him a good hot poultice he never complains of his 
 back again that season." Poor man, with such a dire penalty 
 instantly exacted, who would commit a second offence? Under 
 further protests I got the poultice sufficiently cool, and I bound 
 it in place with quite a workmanlike-looking bandage. When 
 all had been put to rights as well as it could be, "Henery" was 
 admitted. He bore a tray of biscuits, a pitcher of milk, and 
 pie. Both Helen and I recalled with a laugh that we hadn't 
 thought of food since our campfire of the early afternoon. 
 
 "We can't eat in the parlour," said the tactful Helen, aware 
 of how great an enormity this must seem to a farmer's wife. 
 
 "Now, dearie, don't you fret yourself. You ain't agoin' to 
 stir, not if I can help it. I guess the parlour can put up with 
 it for once, if a certain long-faced fool will wipe his feet be- 
 fore he comes trapesin' in." The latter part of this remark 
 was directed at "Henery" who promptly retreated and was 
 heard vigorously scraping in the passage. 
 
 "I don't suppose you have any spirits — whisky, for in- 
 stance? I think a drink would do Miss Claybourne good after 
 the shock she's had." I noticed Helen's eyes dance as I said 
 this, and she leaned forward eagerly to hear the reply. 
 
 "Spirits!" gasped Mrs. Tyler. "You mean rum?" 
 
 "Well," I said, "rum will do, if it's all you have." Helen 
 made a mysterious and unaccountable noise — something like 
 a choke. 
 
 "Praise the Lord, there ain't no liquor ever passed my lips — 
 let 'lone my threshold!" she ejaculated. "Henery" stuck his 
 head in at the door: "I've got a little somethin' I keep for 
 my backache up in the hayloft," he ventured timorously. "If 
 Miss Helen needs a little for medicinal purposes, same as I do 
 occasionally, she's welcome," and he disappeared rather 
 hastily. "There goes an example of true courage," I thought, 
 "for it's ten to one he's sacrificing the future as well as the 
 present." The look on Mrs. Tyler's face was awe-inspiring; 
 her lips closed in a firm, tight line and no sound came from 
 them. Under all the circumstances, however, I didn't envy 
 "Henery." Helen and I did not dare exchange glances; she 
 
114 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 hurriedly nibbled a biscuit, and I studied a cabinet full of 
 polished sea-shells. Mrs. Tyler suddenly left the room like 
 a shot from a gun. I turned and went to Helen. She put her 
 arms around my neck and kissed me. 
 
 "You dear, dear Ted," she laughed. "I'm going to have 
 such fun watching you put your foot in it all your life!" 
 
 "But— but — ," I sputtered. 
 
 "Yes, darling, I know. You did it for me and with the best 
 intentions. That will always be your reason, you delicious 
 thing." 
 
 "You know — that was our first kiss," I said with an abrupt 
 change of subject. 
 
 "Oh, Ted, and I had to kiss you first after all!" 
 
 "I seem to flub everything," I remarked, unaccountably 
 nettled. Helen laughed: "If I didn't love you so, Ted, I'd 
 shake you. There now! I've said 'I love you' first, too." 
 
 "Henery" entered with a familiar looking bottle, closely fol- 
 lowed by Mrs. Tyler. 
 
 "There ain't more'n a thimbleful left," he apologized hold- 
 ing it to the light. "My back's been kind of bad during the 
 damp spell." 
 
 "Henery Tyler, it ain't rained a mite for six weeks," Mrs. 
 Tyler snapped. I took the bottle from "Henery" and smelt the 
 contents; it was a cheap whisky. 
 
 "Will you take a little, Helen?" I asked. "Just to pull 
 you together." 
 
 "I don't think I need it, Ted, unless you tell me to take it." 
 I started to hand it back to "Henery," but Mrs. Tyler was too 
 quick for me. She snatched the bottle: "I'll just lock this 
 away in the medicine closet, and when Henery's back troubles 
 him again, he can have it along with one of my hot poultices." 
 
 "Henery" looked truly woeful ; it was an awful price to ask a 
 man to pay for a drink. As Helen finished the biscuit and 
 milk we heard a carriage outside, and Mr. Claybourne came 
 rushing in. He was greatly relieved at seeing Helen about to 
 eat a large slice of apple pie instead of lying crippled, as he 
 evidently expected. 
 
THE FIRST GREAT ADVENTURE 115 
 
 "Well, Ted, what have you been doing to my little girl?" 
 he asked, kissing Helen and shaking hands with me all in one 
 move. 
 
 "It wasn't all Ted's fault," Helen smiled, her eyes shining. 
 But Mr. Claybourne was too relieved and excited to notice 
 anything. 
 
 "I'll arrange the cushions in the carriage, and you and I 
 will carry her out, Ted," he shouted and dashed out again. 
 Helen beckoned me to her. 
 
 "Don't say anything tonight, dear," she whispered. "I'm 
 too tired tc face mother. Come to Sunday dinner tomorrow," 
 and she hugged my hand against her shoulder. "Let it be 
 another of our secrets until then." I bent over her and 
 kissed her hair. The Tylers were discreetly busy. 
 
 "Ted, dear?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'm so glad I hurt my knee!" 
 
 Mr. Claybourne appeared at the door. 
 
 "The carriage is ready, Ted. You'll have to take the 
 horses in by yourself. Help me to carry the patient. I 
 couldn't get Dr. Sinclair, but he'll be waiting for us at the 
 house when we get back." We gathered Helen up between us 
 and carried her out. 
 
 "You'll look after Leonidas too, won't you, Ted?" she said. 
 "My knee will be enough for mother for one day." 
 
 The carriage drove away with Mr. Claybourne still shout- 
 ing his thanks at the Tylers, with an "If I can do anything for 
 you, Henry, look in at my office Monday." As "Henery" and 
 I made our way to the barn to get Leonidas and the horses I 
 said: "Mr. Tyler, if you will also stop at my office on Monday, 
 you'll find a package of excellent medicine for rheumatism." 
 
Chapter Eight 
 i play a part in a melodrama 
 
 REGARDLESS of all excitement of the day before, and of 
 the change that had come into my life, I slept late Sun- 
 day morning. The reason was that, because of night 
 duty at the factory, it was the first sleep for twenty-four hours. 
 All the thinking and plans I had intended to do and make 
 while in bed faded into a dreamless unconsciousness. I 
 awoke without having decided on the best approach to Helen's 
 family. Business was not yet in such shape that I could offer 
 a strong financial argument to so keen a business man as Mr. 
 Claybourne, nor had I any idea what my own family would 
 think of me. Letters were not an ideal means of communica- 
 tion. Could I express in black and white how adorable Helen 
 was — she who was all intangible charm and delight? These 
 and many other disturbing thoughts came to me as I shaved. 
 It was curious that every fresh step in life opened up such vistas 
 of unforeseen problems ! Nothing was as one had imagined it 
 would be. 
 
 On my way out Myrtle Boulevard I passed a florist's — the 
 florist shops kept open until church time in Deep Harbor — 
 and bought Helen a bunch of Parma violets; they were her 
 favourites, and to me violets symbolized her. She was sitting 
 up, her foot on a rest and "Mother" hovering about, when I 
 arrived. Helen reported the doctor's opinion as favourable — 
 a bad wrench, but requiring merely rest and quiet. "Mother" 
 was more pessimistic ; with a knee one never knew what would 
 happen; a friend of hers had a daughter no older than Helen 
 who had been made lame for life by less; still, it was what she 
 had always expected, only no one ever listened to her ad- 
 vice, least of all Helen; had she not warned her again and 
 
 116 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 117 
 
 again that horseback riding at all hours of the day and night 
 was dangerous, to say nothing of being highly improper? 
 Helen buried her nose in the violets and said nothing; I, too, 
 had learned a measure of discretion where "mother" was con- 
 cerned, and sat on the edge of my chair throughout the tirade. 
 Mr. Claybourne rescued us. 
 
 "Now, mother," he said in his brisk way, "these kids want 
 to talk it all over by themselves. You come into the library 
 with me and read the scandal in the Sunday supplement. The 
 best regulated horses will fall down sometimes; thank Heaven 
 your daughter didn't break any bones, and be happy." He 
 dragged her protesting away. Helen and I looked at one 
 another, uncertain where to begin. 
 
 "It was like you, Ted, to bring me the violets, but you 
 mustn't waste money on me any more. We'll need it all," she 
 smiled — womanlike, recovering first. "Have we any money, 
 Ted?" 
 
 I was hardly prepared for so direct a poser; yet even 
 Arthur's knights sometimes had difficulties financing their 
 quests. It was distinctly her right to know the truth. 
 
 "My present salary isn't enough," I admitted, "but by next 
 summer, if the business is well on its feet, we can go to Eng- 
 land. I have an interest in the factory given me by my father. 
 It's up to Knowlton to make that good." 
 
 "England!" she dreamed. "I'll love it, Ted! It'll be 
 hard to leave my father, though. Dear old dad adores me." 
 
 "I'm not surprised," I said, taking her slender white hand 
 to my lips. 
 
 "You mustn't tease, Ted. I'm serious today. Why didn't 
 you bring me Leonidas?" It was, of course, useless to object 
 to Helen's categories of "serious things." 
 
 "I thought best to try 'mother' with one thing at a time. 
 Leonidas is chewing a slipper under my study table. In the 
 bathroom he will find a bowl of bread and milk at his con- 
 venience." 
 
 Helen laughed: "I hope you'll take as good care of me, 
 Ted." The maid announced dinner; Mr. Claybourne, with 
 
118 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 my assistance, carried Helen to the dining room, and we made 
 great to-do of propping her up with cushions. Helen sent me 
 back to the living room for her violets; they had to be at a 
 certain spot on the table in front of her. I observed Mr. 
 Claybourne pause for a second in the midst of his soup to 
 watch Helen and her flowers; she kissed them when I put the 
 bunch in front of her, which caused Mr. Claybourne to resume 
 eating with some show of violence. "Mother" did not notice 
 this by-play; she was scolding the maid because the soup was 
 too hot and hadn't enough salt, and there was a draft some- 
 where that was bringing in all the kitchen smell's, though for 
 the life of me I couldn't detect any. The maid having been 
 properly flustered and needlessly irritated, "Mother" turned 
 with a sigh toward Helen. 
 
 "Ludwig hasn't sent you any flowers for a long time; I 
 used to love those American beauties — where did he get them, 
 Rosenstein's, wasn't it?" 
 
 I looked slyly at Helen, who blushed charmingly and be- 
 came much interested in her plate. Mr. Claybourne gave a 
 loud laugh. 
 
 "Mother, I think you scored a bull's eye that time!" be 
 roared, in great enjoyment of his own joke. 
 
 "What have I said now?" "Mother" asked in her plaintive 
 way, looking from one to another of us. "I should think I 
 might be allowed to make a remark once in a while. I don't 
 expect any one to talk to me or pay any attention to me, but I 
 do claim the privilege of an occasional word in my own 
 house." 
 
 Helen's low "Mother dear" was cut short by hearty Mr. 
 Claybourne. 
 
 "Now, Lucy, don't go up in the air. No one was laughing 
 at you; on the contrary, Ted's face was solemn as a judge's" — 
 and he winked elaborately at me. By way of retort Mrs. Clay- 
 bourne burst into tears and left the table. Mr. Claybourne, 
 with a distinctly muttered "Damn" followed her at a decent 
 interval. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Ted," said Helen, in defiance of the maid, put- 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 119 
 
 ting her hand on mine. "Never let me become so spoiled, will 
 you, dear?" 
 
 "As if you could!" I said, leaning toward her. 
 
 "The worst of it is," Helen continued, "poor mother really 
 believes that she is a much neglected and abused woman, 
 whereas dad does everything on earth to please and humour 
 her. If only he would try firmness once! And she would be 
 so much happier, too, instead of imagining herself the victim 
 of 'nerves,' as she calls it." 
 
 "I'm not sure dispositions are curable." 
 
 Mr. Claybourne returned: "Go on with dinner, children; 
 mother will be down in a few minutes. I'm afraid she has a 
 sick headache; the shock of last night," he explained. 
 
 "Dear dad," Helen smiled. 
 
 "What are you dear dadding me for?" her father inquired, 
 as he sharpened the carving knife. 
 
 "I shan't tell you, if you can't guess." 
 
 "Not another hat — or more pocket money?" he said 
 seriously. 
 
 "No, father, of course not!" 
 
 He shook his head and concentrated on carving a pair of 
 ducks. In due time "Mother" returned, red-eyed and resigned. 
 She sat at table and refused all food, although both Mr. Clay- 
 bourne and I danced about the room urging this and that upon 
 her. 
 
 "I know what you need to cheer you up, old girl," shouted 
 Mr. Claybourne with hilarity that began to sound a little 
 forced, " a bottle of champagne"! 
 
 Mother protested that her head felt bad enough now ; it was 
 absurd extravagance and set a bad example in the kitchen, to 
 say nothing of champagne on Sunday being a sacrilege: her 
 husband pooh-poohed it all, and went down cellar after a bot- 
 tle. 
 
 "Here, Ted ! you open it," handing me a flagon of the widow 
 Clicquot's special brew upon his re-entry. "I'll get the 
 glasses." 
 
 "We have a waitress, Martin," was "Mother's" final protest. 
 
120 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 With much coaxing, Mrs. Claybourne was induced to sip a 
 little. Afterwards I noticed that she sipped it quite often when 
 the rest of us were talking, until she gradually returned to an 
 almost cheerful frame of mind. Mr. Claybourne's anecdotes 
 and humorous stories increased in numbers; he sandwiched 
 many toasts in between them: to "mother"; to Helen; to 
 "happy days"; to the "young people"; to "rum — down with 
 it," and like persiflage of an obvious nature. At each toast 
 "mother" raised a feeble objection, less and less prolonged as 
 time went on. We had another bottle, for Mr. Claybourne said 
 "A quart among four is only a teaser — an aggravation." 
 Once Helen risked taking my hand: "Be careful, Ted, won't 
 you?" she whispered. I nodded. Mr. Claybourne saw us. 
 "Ted is old enough to take care of himself, Helen," he ad- 
 monished, winking at me. When the second bottle was emp- 
 tied, Mr. Claybourne brought forth a humidor filled with 
 large, black Havanas. 
 
 "Now, mother, we'll carry Helen into the living room, and 
 Ted and I are going to sit here and talk business over out 
 cigars." I started, and Helen's free foot lightly touched mine 
 under the table. Mr. Claybourne was delighted with the ef- 
 fect of his dramatic announcement. His eyes twinkled as he 
 watched us. 
 
 "I guess you thought the old man was asleep," he chuckled, 
 as we picked Helen up. "I wasn't born yesterday." 
 
 "Can I stay, dad?" Helen asked. 
 
 "No, we'll attend to you later, young lady," and with this 
 cryptic threat Helen was carried off. Of course things were 
 not working out as I had planned, but I was beginning to get 
 used to Fate's perversity. 
 
 "Light up, Ted," commanded Mr. Claybourne upon our 
 return to the dining room. I obeyed; my hand was not so 
 steady as I should have wished. 
 
 "Old man Tyler let slip something last night that has set 
 me thinking, Ted," he continued, locking his hands behind his 
 head and studying my face attentively. "So that was how the 
 milk was spilt," I thought. "Of course, I must say a blind 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 121 
 
 man could have told which way the wind blew," he added, with 
 a reckless mixture of proverbs. There was a pause, during 
 which I was trying to compose a suitable speech. 
 
 "Well, Ted, so you two kids imagine you're in love with 
 each other?" 
 
 "We are," I said with a decision that surprised me. Again 
 this wasn't the speech I had been composing. 
 
 "Suppose for the sake of argument we concede this point 
 for the moment: was it playing square not to tell me?" and 
 Mr. Claybourne blew a cloud of smoke rings toward the ceiling. 
 
 "We only found it out last night," I answered eagerly 
 desirous to put myself in the right. "I came here today to tell 
 you." 
 
 He looked sharply at me, chewing his cigar. I did not 
 flinch this time. 
 
 "Some one was pretty slow," he said, breaking into a laugh. 
 "I found it out two weeks ago." I moistened my lips and 
 tried a smile on my own account. 
 
 "To come down to brass tacks, Ted, can you support a 
 wife?" 
 
 "No, sir — at least, not yet." 
 
 "Then what right have you to go putting ideas in my little 
 girl's head?" 
 
 "Because, sir, I love her, and there is good reason to believe 
 that I shall be able to support her by next summer." 
 
 "I know more about your business, through my connection 
 with the bank, than you do yourself," he commented. "May- 
 be what you say will be all right, and maybe it won't. Busi- 
 ness is a funny game, Ted; with all your eggs in one basket you 
 can't count your chickens before they're hatched." Proverbs 
 always are annoying, if quoted against me. 
 
 "Well," I retorted, "my prospects are as good as the average 
 young man's at my age, if not better." I was surprised at 
 my own self-assurance. 
 
 "All right — we'll concede that, too," he said with a wave of 
 his cigar. "Now, Ted, you know Helen's very young — only 
 just out of school. Her tastes may change — probably will. 
 
122 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 She thinks she loves you, but she's only in love with love. 
 Neither you nor she knows what love is." 
 
 "We have to take our chances with it, just as all young peo- 
 ple do. By the time we learn what love is we can preach it 
 to our grandchildren." It seemed, when I spoke, as if I were 
 listening to a third person. I really wanted to be conciliatory, 
 but the words came to suit themselves. 
 
 "You are sentencing yourselves to each other for life; it's a 
 long penalty to pay if you make a mistake. As for love, 
 that doesn't help much — not the kind of thing you imagine it 
 to be, doesn't. Marriage means a lot of plain, everyday facts 
 — a few pleasant, more unpleasant. I married for love," he 
 concluded reflectively. 
 
 "Yes — and it brought you Helen." This time I knew I 
 had scored. He laid his cigar down and looked out the win- 
 dow. Then he turned to me: "Ted, I'll put my cards on the 
 table; if Helen wants you she shall have you. I've never 
 gone against her will in anything important, and I don't in- 
 tend to. I wish she was older, but there's no use wishing 
 that now." I half rose to my feet in sheer joy. "Sit down, 
 Ted; I'm not through. I make two conditions: first, I don't 
 want you to say anything about this to any one but Helen's 
 mother until Christmas. Let's see how you get on when you 
 get to know each other better. Next, if Helen takes you, she 
 must take you as you are. Because I have been fairly success- 
 ful in business won't count at all. I'll not give her a cent be- 
 fore I go. Helen has to make her own choice and put up with 
 it, whether it is riches or proverty." 
 
 "As far as I am concerned, I agree to both conditions." 
 
 "You would," he assented drily. "Let's hear what Helen 
 has to say about it." 
 
 We went into the next room, to find Helen hugging her vio- 
 lets to her bosom. "Mother" had gone upstairs for her after- 
 noon rest. I boldly walked over to Helen and kissed her. 
 
 "Ted, I wish you'd stop all that until Christmas," Mr. Clay- 
 bourne said grimly. We sat down, but Helen left her hand in 
 mine. 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 123 
 
 "Well, little girl, Ted tells me you love him." 
 
 "Yes, dad dear." The look on Helen's face as she said this 
 brought the tears to my eyes, and even Mr. Claybourne, with 
 all his assumption of practicality, was none too comfortable. 
 
 He got up and paced the floor and gazed out at Myrtle 
 Boulevard; then he came back to us. 
 
 "You've thought it all over — and made up your mind?" 
 He stooped over her, turned her face up to his, and gently 
 pushed the hair back on her forehead. Helen's grey eyes 
 looked fearlessly into his. 
 
 "Yes, dad, I'm sure." 
 
 "What if I say 'no'?" 
 
 "You won't, dad — not when you know Ted. But if you do 
 — why, dad, you believe I love you,; don't you? — even if you 
 said 'no' I should love Ted just the same." 
 
 Mr. Claybourne turned away and twisted one end of his 
 moustache. There were no tears in Helen's eyes, only a quiet 
 conviction in her voice which indicated a strength of charac- 
 ter much like her father's. I knew that he too recognized it. 
 
 "I won't give you a penny, Helen ; you've got to take him as 
 he is, fight your own fight, and make your own way. I did it, 
 and your grandfather did it; you'll have to do it, too." 
 
 "Then I shall do it," she answered, "as you did. I'm your 
 daughter, and I'm not afraid — whatever the future brings, as 
 long as I have Teddy — and he has me." She said it simply, 
 unemotionally, like some one stating a fact. 
 
 "There's not much more to discuss, is there, Ted?" and he 
 took my hand in a grip thaj hurt. "But mind you," he ex- 
 claimed, "you'll regard yourselves as both on probation. No 
 announcement can be made before Christmas — and not then 
 unless I say the word." 
 
 "If you don't say the word then, we'll simply run away," 
 Helen came back at him with her dangerous calm. Then she 
 smiled again: "Dear old dad." 
 
 He looked at me: "I warn you, Ted! You see what you are 
 letting yourself in for. As far as I can judge, you haven't 
 been consulted any more than I have." 
 
124 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Father!" Helen interrupted. 
 
 "I hope you are prepared never to have your own way again, 
 Edward, from this time forth." 
 
 '"You can't frighten Ted that way," laughed Helen; "we 
 both want the same things." 
 
 Mr. Ciaybourne snorted: "You hear that, Ted?" 
 
 I took Helen's hand, and she held it tight against her vio- 
 lets, crushing them and staining my palm with their fragrant 
 juice. I didn't dare trust myself to speak. 
 
 "And now that it is all settled, let's break it to mother," 
 Mr. Ciaybourne exploded with a grim attempt at his usual 
 humour. He left the room without giving us a chance to 
 object. I looked at Helen's face, more beautiful now than I 
 had ever dreamed a woman's could be. A large tear rolled 
 down her cheek, and I fell on my knees beside her, burying my 
 face in her lap. She stroked my head. 
 
 "I'm not crying^ Ted dear — I'm not the crying kind. I am 
 just so happy I guess a — a little of it — overflowed." I kissed 
 her wet cheek, and we sat in silence, waiting. Sounds of sob- 
 bing came from the stairs, and of patient, consolatory remarks. 
 Helen smiled: "Poor mother — it sounds horrid to say it, but 
 she always acts her part perfectly." 
 
 "Mother" entered, with smelling salts and dainty lace hand- 
 kerchief, collapsed on her husband's shoulder, striving won- 
 derfully for hysterics. 
 
 "Ted," said Mr. Ciaybourne, leading his wife to an easy 
 chair, "I don't believe you are a very popular young man with 
 part of the family — Lucy, I want you to shake hands with your 
 future son-in-law." 
 
 I timidly advanced, an action which brought about a relapse. 
 When she was a girl, daughters had the common decency to 
 confide in their mothers; they didn't announce engagements 
 to practically total strangers; they didn't get half -killed riding 
 horseback with Tom, Dick, and Harry; they showed some con- 
 sideration — some sense of the fitness of things; they went re- 
 gularly to Church and were obedient. At this point Mr. Clay- 
 bourne admitted a damaging piece of evidence. 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 125 
 
 "We ran away to be married, Lucy, when you were seven- 
 teen and we had just one hundred and twenty-seven dollars 
 between us. What's more, I've never regretted it," he finished, 
 with unexpected tenderness in his voice. 
 
 "Mother!" Helen pleaded, and she stretched out her arms. 
 Mrs. Claybourne staggered across the room and melodramatic- 
 ally hurled herself upon her daughter. At the end of another 
 outpouring of sobs and tears, she consented reluctantly to 
 shake hands, and submitted to a formal kiss from me, at 
 Helen's command. I am afraid I did not linger very long 
 over it. With a few more remarks about no one having any 
 regard for her wishes, or taking into consideration her ner- 
 vous state, she began to cheer up remarkably. 
 
 Upon noting these favorable symptoms, Mr. Claybourne an- 
 nounced that he was off for the club, at the same time inviting 
 me to stay and "amuse Helen" until after supper. 
 
 "I hope, Martin, you are not going to play cards on Sunday 
 — at the least, not for money." Mr. Claybourne showed long 
 practice in the skill with which he evaded a direct reply, and 
 left hurriedly. 
 
 "I don't know what we shall do, Helen, when we announce 
 your engagement. Neither of us have any clothes fit to wear." 
 
 I was staggered by this transition to the practical, but at 
 least the implication was that the period of resistance was 
 over. 
 
 "We can go to New York before Christmas," Helen said. 
 
 "Your father is always complaining I spend too much 
 money," mother sighed, "although he seems to forget, Ed- 
 ward, that I have a grown-up daughter to manage. Of course, 
 now I won't be able to go to Palm Beach for the winter, as I 
 had planned, and this climate is simply killing my nerves. 
 But I don't suppose that ever entered either of your heads." 
 
 Helen's eyes danced as we stole a look at one another, but 
 Mrs. Claybourne continued, unconscious of anything but her- 
 self: "There isn't a single dressmaker in this city who can turn 
 out a decent evening dress, and all Helen's clothes will have to 
 be made to order — she can't wear jeune fiUe things any more. 
 
126 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Oh, dear, and I don't suppose I'll have any help planning your 
 trousseau — you and Edward will be off riding horseback day 
 and night — it will all be left for me to settle, and I declare I 
 haven't the health or the strength." 
 
 There was no use trying to assure her that we probably 
 should take some interest in the course of subsequent events. 
 Our engagement settled itself down as a conspiracy to prevent 
 her from going to Palm Beach; moreover, it was a deliberately 
 chosen scheme to add to her cares and responsibilities at a 
 time when her nerves were on the edge of a general break- 
 down. By some mysterious tactful process Helen persuaded 
 her mother to take another rest, and we were left alone. 
 
 I drew my chair up beside her. "Poor Ted," she smiled; 
 "you've had quite a trying day." 
 
 "Did I put my foot in it anywhere?" I asked. 
 
 She laughed: "Not once, unless you consider an engagement 
 to me, now you know the family, putting your foot in it." 
 
 "Why did Ludwig von Oberhausen send you flowers?" 
 
 "Ah, I knew you'd ask that at the first opportunity. Why 
 do you suppose he did?" she teased. 
 
 "Because you are the most beautiful girl in the world." 
 
 "Stuff, Ted, that wasn't the reason; besides, only you could 
 believe that. It was because he thought I had money; I was 
 number three on his list. Oh, he was methodical about it, Ted, 
 beginning with a formal call on mother on her day at home. 
 Every Saturday night at six a dozen American beauties arrived, 
 until you galloped over the horizon that day on Satan." 
 
 This was comforting. "Did you care for him?" 
 
 "No, you jealous pig." 
 
 "Helen," I said, with masculine solemnity and inappropri- 
 ateness, "is this really the first time — for you?" 
 
 Afterwards I was thankful she had a sense of humour; in a 
 normal frame of mind I should not have propounded such a 
 banal absurdity. It was excess of good fortune which de- 
 stroyed my sense of proportion. She flushed slightly for a 
 moment, more because it was a shock to find me so stupid 
 than because the question hurt her. 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 127 
 
 "Ted, it isn't like us," she said gently, using the phrase that 
 so many times, in the days to come, kept me steady on my feet 
 and my face in the clouds — "it isn't like us to — to doubt each 
 other even in tiny things. Of course, I've had boy friends who 
 have sat on the beach with me and watched the moon rise or 
 begged me for an extra allowance of dances." She smiled, 
 and there was a pause, during which I felt humble and guilty. 
 The back of my neck was uncomfortably hot. "I've met only 
 one Ted — my Sir Edward of Overseas," and she laid her hand 
 on mine. There followed a long silence. 
 
 "Teddy dear," she said at last. "Tell me more about Eng- 
 land." 
 
 Until after the room grew dark I told her all I could — of 
 my family; of country life in Hertfordshire, with its packs of 
 hounds, straggly villages, and grey parish churches on the 
 summits of windy hills; of London, with its mystery and 
 romance and its age-old stories. It sounds as if I lectured 
 poor Helen like a school teacher. In reality it was a true 
 lover's conversation — she questioning and curious about her 
 home-to-be, I trying to make her see it through my eyes. I 
 was young and sentimental; I had not then learned that pa- 
 triotism and love of home are suburban and unintellectual 
 emotions. 
 
 Suddenly I cried out: "Good Heavens, dearest, it's half past 
 five, and I forgot I have to go on duty at six! I can't stay to 
 supper — I must run now." 
 
 "Won't they let you off this once, if you telephone?" 
 
 I hesitated, for the temptation was strong, but it wouldn't be 
 fair to Knowlton. It would mean a twenty-four hour stretch 
 for him if I stayed away, I explained. 
 
 "Of course you must go, Ted. Let's try not to be selfish in 
 our happiness — ever." I kissed her and left with these words 
 repeating themselves over and over in my ears. 
 
 When I reached the factory I found Knowlton pacing the 
 floor. 
 
 "I've been wanting to get you all day, Ted. I didn't like 
 
123 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 to call you up at the Claybournes', as I knew you'd be here at 
 six. There's the devil to pay." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Prospero's companion, the circus woman, has gone. All 
 your chemistry notes of our experiments have disappeared too. 
 Prospero is in his room raving drunk. He swears you have 
 tricked him and stolen the secret of his great discovery. He 
 threatens law, murder, anything he can think of." 
 
 "That part is all right," I said. "The notes are serious." 
 
 "Can you reconstruct them?" 
 
 "Not all," I answered "without repeating part of the ex- 
 periments." 
 
 "How long will that take?" 
 
 "A minimum of six weeks." 
 
 "I was a triple damn fool, Ted, not to keep a copy of your 
 work in the office safe. There's the Texas contract which we 
 must begin work on tomorrow. Do you know the formula?" 
 
 "No, that was Prospero's discovery — but I know how he went 
 at it." 
 
 "Go to the laboratory, Ted, and stick at it as long as you can, 
 night and day. If you can work out that formula, you can 
 have two weeks at Christmas. If you can't, we are done for. 
 The bank is carrying us now on the strength of our Texas con- 
 tract — if we can't make good on it, you and I have finished 
 with Deep Harbor. Can I telephone for a chemist to help 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes — get me a young, trained research man — and see if 
 the Owen people will lend us one of their best laboratory men. 
 Of course, you'll have to pay like the deuce — " 
 
 "That doesn't matter — you'll get your man. And, Ted?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't tell Miss Claybourne about this — 
 her father is a director in the bank — " 
 
 "Miss Claybourne does not repeat — " I began. 
 
 "Nevertheless — why worry her with your troubles, Ted, 
 until necessary?" 
 
 "Then you know about — us?" I asked naively. 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 129 
 
 "I'm not a damned fool in everything, Ted." 
 
 "All right — I shan't tell her unless I have to." 
 
 With this I went into the laboratory. During my absence, 
 Prospero or his companion, or both together, had searched the 
 place from top to bottom. Every bottle with a paper label 
 had been carefully washed and the labels removed. Galva- 
 nometers, ammeters, voltmeters, all our delicate instruments, 
 including the chemical balances', had been rendered inaccu- 
 rate, hence useless until re-calibrated. They had worked with 
 skill, for nothing had been taken. My notes had been burned 
 one by one in a Bunsen flame, and the ashes powdered. A 
 careful inventory revealed a situation difficult to explain to a 
 court of law and still more difficult to prove. It was true the 
 documents weren't there and their ashes were. It was another 
 matter to establish these facts on a witness stand. 
 
 I sent for Joe, the day watchman, who had been detained by 
 Knowlton until my examination of the laboratory was com- 
 plete. 
 
 "Who used the laboratory today, Joe?" I asked the burly 
 Pole who looked after the plant on Sundays. 
 
 "Mr. Fougeer — an' Mrs. Fougeer — they worked here all day 
 — mos' important job, he tells me — I let 'em in building — he 
 have key to this room." 
 
 "What time did they leave?" 
 
 " 'Bout tree 'clock. I fin' door unlock' near six — Mr. Fou- 
 geer, he forgot lock him — I lock door — everything he look 0. 
 K. inside." 
 
 "All right, Joe. You did your duty," Knowlton said, dis- 
 missing him. Naturally we had given orders that Prospero 
 was to have access to the laboratory at any time, not suspect- 
 ing this form of danger. 
 
 "There are three hours unaccounted for with the door un- 
 locked. I suppose that was done with some idea of using it as 
 an alibi," I said. 
 
 "It does beat hell, the cussed things that can happen in this 
 world, Ted," Knowlton generalized. "Still, I want to go very 
 easy on any legal proceedings, for two good reasons: it's pos- 
 
130 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 sible I can talk to Prospero when he's sober, and second, any 
 publicity will put the bank wise that we're in a double extra 
 deep bottomless hole." 
 
 "You know we have to get all our chemicals from New York 
 — so the first thing to do is to make out a list, for I can't risk 
 using these unlabeiled bottles, even those that are easily rec- 
 ognized. The contents may have been tampered with." 
 
 "Can you test that?" Knowlton asked. 
 
 "Yes." I took at random two or three bottles and poured 
 some of their contents into test-tubes. I then tried a few sim- 
 ple reactions. In each case, the chemical purity of the mate- 
 rials proved to have been destroyed. Our hands were com- 
 pletely tied. 
 
 "That old devil would never have thought of that all by 
 himself," Knowlton said, after a string of complicated in* 
 troductory epithets. "The circus woman did that — I recog- 
 nize the feminine touch." 
 
 "I can't help admiring the skill with which it was done., 
 Not a bottle betrays by sight or smell, except for the missing 
 label, that the contents aren't all right." 
 
 Knowlton grinned, in spite of himself. 
 
 "Good boy, Ted. I'm glad to see you aren't panic-stricken, 
 any way. Well, I might as well go home and get some sleep. 
 You make out your list and telegraph tonight." 
 
 I began my list of needed materials, wondering the while 
 what Helen would say if she knew how the day was ending for 
 us both. The thought of her put a desperate eagerness into 
 me — I was not going to be beaten, black as things looked. 
 Then a new idea came to me. Prospero would probably 
 appear in the morning to see the results; if he found me 
 simply getting ready to begin again, he might try a new scheme 
 to injure us. On the other hand, if he saw me working away 
 with the damaged chemicals, as if ignorant of what had hap- 
 pened to them, he would conclude his devilish plan was suc- 
 ceeding and keep quiet. I left my desk, lit the Bunsen burners 
 under the sand baths, and set out several dishes of compounds 
 to stew and evaporate. I spent an hour or more in care- 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 131 
 
 fully setting my stage; under the safety hood there was a fum- 
 ing beaker; there were filtrates in various stages of progress, 
 in addition to the dishes over the flames. It was a normal- 
 looking night's work — a continuation of Friday's experiments 
 to all outward appearances. Then I returned to my real 
 work. 
 
 About four in the morning I heard a familiar step, and my 
 heart leaped to think I had so well prepared for just this 
 contingency. Prospero entered, bleary, dishevelled, his flow- 
 ing black tie loose and streaming, his brass-buttoned waist- 
 coat buttoned awry, his yellow gloves dirty and stained. On 
 his face was the leering, crafty expression of the drunkard or 
 the insane. 
 
 "You're early," I remarked drily, barely glancing at him. 
 
 "Got a big idea, Teddy — biggest idea I ever had — you know 
 that?" 
 
 "Glad to hear it," and I scratched away at my list. 
 
 "Makin' notes, Ted? That's right — always keep your 
 notes," and he roared a drunken laugh. He walked over to 
 one of the experiments and smelt the beaker cautiously. He 
 was evidently satisfied his plan was working, for he laughed 
 long and loudly again. "That's good stuff, Ted. Bril-bril- 
 liant idea — if it works. You must keep careful notes on that 
 ex — experiment." 
 
 I looked at him. "You are a great chemist, Mr. de Fou- 
 gere, but even I know enough to know you can't always tell 
 what's in a beaker by the smell." The sarcasm missed him. 
 
 "That's right, Ted — that's right. Best ex-experiments look 
 all right — good theory, but won't work." 
 
 He lit a cigarette and hummed a wabbly tune, sitting astride 
 a chair and watching me with his empty leer. 
 
 "Why did you wash all the labels off the bottles?" I asked 
 quietly. 
 
 "Secrecy, Teddy — secrecy. Important work here — worth 
 millions. Any one could walk in and find out all about it. 
 We know all the bottles, now, Teddy — don't need labels, do 
 we < 
 
132 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 The telephone stood on my desk in front of me, and I medi- 
 tated calling up Knowlton. Finally I thought better of it, for 
 my play was not to let Prospero know we had any inkling of 
 the truth. 
 
 "That's a good idea," I said,, "taking off the labels. I never 
 thought of it just that way before." 
 
 "Of course you didn't, Ted. You don't know the world. 
 "It's a rough place, my boy — a rough place." 
 
 "It has delayed me some, because you didn't tell me first," 
 I went on casually. "For instance, I want the bottle with the 
 mixture made up according to the formula you worked out for 
 the Texas contract. We have to start work on that job at 
 seven." I paused and pretended to look through my papers. 
 
 "The Texas contract, eh? You know the formula — go 
 ahead and make it." He hugged one knee and his eyes nar- 
 rowed at me. 
 
 "No," I said, "that was your work." 
 
 "It's in your notes, Ted. Look it up." 
 
 "I took a copy of them away with me Saturday morning — 
 I'll have to go down after them, if you don't tell me." 
 
 He sprang to his feet: "You lie, Ted, God damn you, you 
 lie!" My hand reached for the telephone, then paused. I was 
 puzzled about what my next move ought to be. 
 
 "Are you goin' to sit there and let me call you a liar?" he 
 challenged. I turned around in my chair and looked him 
 over. Excitement was working him up to a frenzy; his lips 
 drooled. He wasn't a pleasant sight, but, curiously, I felt no 
 physical fear; it was the critical business situation that 
 alarmed me. 
 
 "I haven't time for a personal quarrel, Fougere," I said. 
 "At present our business is to make good on the Texas con- 
 tract. It's true that I have no copy of the notes you de- 
 stroyed." 
 
 "Ah!" he exulted. 
 
 "Cut out the melodrama," I said with a pretence of bore- 
 dom, "and come back when you are sober. This is too im- 
 portant a matter to play with." 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 133 
 
 "You admit it!" he shouted. "I've beaten you at your own 
 filthy game!" He turned and crashed two of my stewing 
 beakers to the floor and trampled on the mess. "Not one of 
 your experiments will work — I've ruined them all! You 
 tried to trick me, but by God, you couldn't do it!" 
 
 "I know that you are a drunkard and a thief — and one or 
 two other things — that you break your word and have neither 
 honour nor loyalty." I was getting as eloquent as Prospero 
 himself. "Still, you'll tell me that formula or you'll land in 
 gaol." 
 
 "You can't prove anything against me — but I can prove you 
 tried to steal my great discovery — it was there, in your notes, 
 and I have a witness." He raved in his excitement, pacing 
 the floor like a wild animal. 
 
 "What discovery?" I asked, as he bore down on me. 
 "The making of electricity direct from coal." 
 "Oh, hell!" I exclaimed. "I haven't had time to waste on 
 moonshine. At your own request I recorded all your ex- 
 periments, even when I didn't know what nonsense they were 
 all about." 
 
 "I — I make nonsense — you ignorant — " 
 "Shut up! I want the Texas formula." 
 "You'll pay me my terms for it." 
 
 "No, I won't. I'll pay mine, which is the salary you were 
 hired for. You have one wife in Cripple Creek" — he started, 
 and grasped the back of a chair — "it was foolish of you to 
 marry the circus woman too. Bigamy is still a crime," and I 
 felt quite satisfied with myself as I noted the effect of this. 
 "Well," I thought, "when it comes to playing melodrama with 
 a drug fiend, you are not bad, Ted!" His hands shook, but he 
 managed to light another cigarette. 
 
 "Ted, I've been drinking," he mumbled, with an ugly grin 
 that ought to have warned me he wasn't through. "I don't 
 know what I've been saying" — he staggered to his feet and of- 
 fered his lean scraggy hand — "I'm a good friend of yours, 
 Ted. I always have been. You forget the wife in Cripple 
 Creek — and we'll mix up the Texas formula." 
 
134 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 I took his hand, feeling quite triumphant. "Knowlton will 
 be proud of me," I thought. 
 
 "I'll forget either wife you say — or both," I said. "Let's 
 get to work." 
 
 "That's it. Work. You're a good fellow, Teddy," and he 
 lurched toward the shelves of bottles. "You thought I'd 
 thrown it away?" he turned with his leer again. "You're 
 wrong, Ted. I'm too old a fox for that, eh? Here it is," 
 and he handed me a blue glass bottle with a rubber cork. 
 "Right under your nose all the time, and you didn't know it." 
 
 I snatched it eagerly from him, and he chuckled. I was so 
 certain that I was carrying all before me no suspicion crossed 
 my mind. 
 
 "Analyze it, Ted, if you don't trust me," he urged. 
 
 "It's only business if I do," I replied. 
 
 "That's right — get it down in black and white. I never 
 remember formulas." 
 
 I poured a little into a test tube; in colour and appearance 
 it was as I remembered it to be. He took the tube from me 
 and lightly passed it back and forth through a Bunsen flame. 
 The liquid bubbled and began to give off fumes whose odour 
 was queer — unlike what I expected. I felt dizzy for a mo- 
 ment, but recovered. 
 
 "It doesn't smell like the other when you evaporate it," 
 I said, with returning suspicion. 
 
 "It's all right, Ted. I added an aromatic oil to it to throw 
 curious people off the track — we haven't got our patent yet, and 
 the world's a rough place, Ted." 
 
 "I hope you haven't ruined it," I exclaimed, much angered. 
 One of the curses of his work was the fact that he never al- 
 lowed a formula to be finished, but was always adding, adding 
 to it. 
 
 "Perfectly harmless, Ted. Just a pleasant smell — that's 
 all." 
 
 He poured some more into a shallow Meissen dish and 
 placed it over the sand-bath flame. 
 
I PLAY A PART IN MELODRAMA 135 
 
 "Watch it, Ted. The crystals are long and needlelike when 
 it evaporates down. It's easy to analyse then." 
 
 I sat over it in my excitement, with the pleasant smelling 
 fumes now and then blowing in my face. The hawk-like 
 countenance of Prospero peered over my shoulder. 
 
 Why was he wearing a magician's robe, I wondered, with 
 stars of gold and signs of the Zodiac upon it? Was it drink 
 that made his eyes shine with blue fire? Opposite me Helen 
 was standing, dressed in mediaeval costume, her hair flowing, 
 violets trailing everywhere about her. I tried to speak to her, 
 and to take her hand, and could not, even when she smiled. I 
 wanted to tell her that Milton's epithet about the violet was 
 true — "the glowing violet" — there they were glowing like the 
 liquid in a test tube, or like the philosopher's stone, which 
 was it? 
 
 Then I knew no more. 
 
Chapter Nine 
 i come face to face with the future 
 
 1 OPENED my eyes, and there was Helen smiling at me — 
 not in mediaeval dress this time, but with a bunch of 
 glowing violets at her belt. How curious for her to 
 come to the laboratory at night! I looked about: there was 
 Knowlton sitting near with the cheerfulest of grins on his 
 face, and Mr. Claybourne too. What was happening? I 
 made an effort, as I realized I had something of importance to 
 tell Knowlton. 
 
 "The Texas formula — " words seemed strangely difficult to 
 say — "Prospero has it. It's in the blue bottle with the rubber 
 cork—" 
 
 "Hush, dear," I heard Helen say, "you mustn't try to talk 
 just yet," and she patted my pillow, kissed me, and gave me 
 something cool to drink. I looked blankly about, but the 
 room was quite dark — I was in bed! 
 
 "Isn't this the laboratory?" I asked helplessly. My head 
 ached and whirled; my thoughts refused to work at this new 
 problem. 
 
 "No, dearest," Helen's gentle voice said, "you are at home — 
 with me." 
 
 "Home?" I wrestled vaguely with this idea. Where was 
 home? — with me? 
 
 "At my house, Ted, dear — here in Deep Harbor," Helen 
 whispered, her lips brushing my cheek. 
 
 "Your knee — you mustn't stand," I faltered, some recol- 
 lection fighting through the chaos in my head. 
 
 "It's almost well, Ted dear. Watch me walk!" and she took 
 a few steps away, then back to me. 
 
 "But last night — ?" I gave it up as Helen put her cool 
 hand over my month to silence me. 
 
 136 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 137 
 
 "Well, well," I heard a hearty sounding voice say at the 
 door, "it's quite seasonable weather for Thanksgiving, isn't 
 it? Snowing like the deuce — whew! And how's our patient 
 this morning? I'll bet he slept all right last night after that 
 potion I gave him," and a frock-coated, checked-waistcoated 
 man walked up to my bed. 
 
 "Hello," he said quickly as he looked at me, speaking in a 
 low tone to Helen. "When did the delirium leave him?" 
 
 "He has just waked up," I heard her reply. 
 
 "Who are you?" I said, almost aggressively, to the new 
 arrival. 
 
 "Who am I? Come, that's a good one," he chuckled, 
 apparently immensely pleased. "Who am I, Claybourne, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Ted, this is Dr. Sinclair, who has been looking after you 
 ever since." 
 
 "Ever since what?" I persisted. It was all a most annoying 
 puzzle. "Helen, can't you explain? — please!" I said petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 "Now then, how's our temperature today?" — and before I 
 could say more Dr. Sinclair rendered me speechless with a 
 little glass rod in my mouth that I was mortally afraid of 
 breaking. I lay there, looking first at him and then at Helen, 
 who smiled encouragement at me; Dr. Sinclair kept his eyes 
 on a noisy gold watch. Rebellion was gathering headway 
 within: why was I being treated like a child and put to bed? 
 Some doctor's silly whim; he probably had made Helen 
 believe I'd been overworking, when there was the Texas for- 
 mula to solve. It was preposterous to lose time this way! 
 What was the matter with Knowlton, that he let them do it? 
 
 "Well!" exclaimed the doctor, walking to the window with 
 his thermometer and letting in the light. I could see snow on 
 the roofs opposite. "We are almost normal again — not quite, 
 but almost." Helen clapped her hands and gave a little cry. 
 He shook the thermometer vigorously, put it away in his coat, 
 put on his glasses, and surveyed me over the tops of them from 
 the window. "No excitement yet — no worry, remember that, 
 
138 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Miss Helen. Absolute quiet — nature's restorative, you know 
 — that's the word. Give nature a chance, that's all we need 
 now." 
 
 "You don't need to talk about me as if I were a baby," I 
 interjected, my eyes burning with a strange anger. 
 
 "Hush, dear — you trust me, don't you?" I heard Helen 
 say. 
 
 "Of course," I said, baffled and abandoning the struggle. 
 It was all right to leave it in her hands. 
 
 "That's one of the symptoms," Dr. Sinclair coughed into 
 the palm of his hand. I coul'd hear every syllable. "Ex- 
 treme excitability and irritation; the least little thing will 
 arouse it. Hence caution, my dear young lady, caution. 
 Keep on with the jellied boullion — not too much — just a few 
 spoonfuls — " 
 
 "Damn it, I'm not an invalid!" I tried to shout, but my 
 voice broke, and only husky, throaty sounds came forth. "I 
 beg your pardon, Mr. Claybourne — I didn't mean to swear be- 
 fore Helen — but I don't like that smug, oily, self-satisfied 
 man — " and I pointed my finger at Dr. Sinclair. The latter 
 took a step or two backward, like a person retreating from an 
 unpleasant footing. 
 
 "Ahem!" coughed Dr. Sinclair. "I think, Miss Helen, it 
 will be wiser to tell him — you can do it best, without exciting 
 him. Er — I'll look in again this evening." Mr. Claybourne 
 accompanied him downstairs. 
 
 "What are they planning to do with me now?" and I tried to 
 rise up on one elbow, but found it unaccountably beyond my 
 strength. Helen put one arm around me. 
 
 "You believe in me, don't you, Ted?" 
 
 "Yes," and I clutched her hand. "Please keep the others 
 away from me. I must tell you something — it's important — " 
 
 Knowlton arose. "Don't bother about that now, Ted," he 
 said. "I know all about the Texas formula — it's all right — do 
 you get me?" 
 
 "I think I'd go, Mr. Knowlton," Helen said. "Let me tell 
 him all by myself." 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 139 
 
 Knowlton bowed and shook her hand. Then he came over 
 to me and offered his hand to me. 
 
 "Ted, I'm not much of a talker; this is just to tell you I'm 
 glad." _ 
 
 I took his hand, since he seemed to wish it, and he left the 
 room. I looked around at Helen: "Why did you come to me 
 at the laboratory last night in mediaeval dress when Prospero 
 was trying an incantation?" 
 
 Her face clouded, and she hastened to me, laying her cool 
 hand on my forehead. 
 
 "Hush, Teddy, sweetheart," she put her face close to mine. 
 I could feel that her eyelashes were wet. 
 
 "It was the formula — not an incantation," I went on — " it 
 must have been the signs of the Zodiac that confused me." 
 
 "Teddy, do you know me? — it's Helen," she kissed into my 
 ear. 
 
 "I know, dear, I know," I said. "I love you, Lady Grey 
 Eyes." 
 
 She kissed me on the mouth. "Then listen, Ted, and try not 
 to interrupt. Just lie quietly here and hold my hand." 
 
 "Of course," I promised. 
 
 "Prospero was a very wicked man, Ted — " 
 
 "He drank and was a drug fiend, but he does know the 
 formula—" 
 
 "You promised not to interrupt." Every word of her gentle 
 voice was soothing; I could feel it steal over me, driving away 
 a great fatigue. "Quite quiet, Ted?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That night at the laboratory he tried to poison you 1 , Ted, 
 with fumes from a mixture in a dish. You were unconscious 
 when they found you." 
 
 I laughed weakly, it all sounded so preposterous. 
 
 "You don't know chemistry, dear," I said, feeling quite 
 superior. "He couldn't poison me that way without poisoning 
 himself." 
 
 "He did," Helen said very slowly. "When they found you, 
 Prospero was dead." 
 
140 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 It took a long time for this to get into my brain in plausible 
 shape. 
 
 "Prospero — dead?" I puzzled. 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "But there was nothing poisonous in the fumes of the Texas 
 formula — only an aromatic oil to deceive meddlers." 
 
 "Prospero used that oil as a solvent for the poison — you 
 see, Ted, I've been studying chemistry too — I shall read you 
 the analysis we had made, tomorrow." 
 
 "Analysis — then you've found out the Texas formula?" 
 
 "Yes, Ted. It's all right — the factory is making it now." 
 
 "Did you work it out?" I asked — the puzzle was only slowly 
 unravelling. 
 
 "No, dear — my chemistry hasn't gone that far! The young 
 assistant Knowlton got from the Owens' Company did it." 
 
 "And the poison?" 
 
 "That was the difficulty. When we first got to you, Ted, we 
 didn't know what it was, or what antidote to use. Your heart 
 had slowed down to almost nothing — " 
 
 "There is a poison chart with a list of the symptoms and 
 antidotes in my desk." 
 
 "Yes, Ted. I found that, and we got Dr. Sinclair quickly." 
 
 "You found it?" 
 
 "It was about five in the morning when one of the foremen 
 happened to go into your laboratory. It made him ill, for the 
 place was reeking — you and Prospero were lying on the floor. 
 He threw open the windows and telephoned Mr. Knowlton. 
 He dressed and called up father, and I went too, in spite of my 
 knee." 
 
 "But why did Knowlton call up your father?" 
 
 "To let me know, Ted. Wasn't that dear of him? And I 
 was really able to help. They wanted to take you to a hos- 
 pital, but dad wouldn't listen to that — and so here you are." 
 
 I kissed her hand and tried to put in order the story as she 
 had told it. 
 
 "I wonder why it didn't kill me, if it killed Prospero?" 
 
 I felt her clutch my hand. 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 141 
 
 "I wonder too, Ted darling," she whispered. "The doctor 
 says your youth and constitution saved you. I wonder if that 
 explains all?" 
 
 "Perhaps there was something to help — your love and care," 
 I smiled. 
 
 "Even something beyond that, Ted dear. You see, Pros- 
 pero had no chance, the doctor said, because of his drinking 
 and drug-taking." 
 
 "It must have been a shock to 'mother.' " I don't know why 
 I hadn't thought of her before, or why I thought of her now. 
 Helen laughed one of her "questing laughs," the happy kind 
 that only I was privileged to hear. 
 
 "Poor mother! She telegraphed for Miss Hershey to come 
 and chaperon me and went herself to Asheville until Christmas. 
 To have a real invalid in the house was the last straw!" 
 
 "But Leonidas!" I cried. "The poor hound is shut up in my 
 rooms." 
 
 "No, he isn't, Ted. Dad went for him. He is asleep in 
 front of the fire downstairs." 
 
 "So you are in Miss Hershey's hands?" 
 
 "Yes, but she is wonderfully tame, Ted, now she knows about 
 you." 
 
 "What a marvellous forty-eight hours it has been!" I said. 
 "We set forth after the questing beast in the morning — and 
 before two suns, find love and life and death, all very near one 
 another and each of them lurking in the most unlikely places." 
 
 "I think, Ted, that that is always the way one finds them — 
 love, and life, and death are very near together — everywhere 
 just as we have read of them in Mallory." 
 
 She went to the window and looked out. 
 
 "The snow is getting deep, Ted — you wouldn't know Myrtle 
 Boulevard." 
 
 "Yes, I should," I answered. "It is the way leading down 
 to Camelot." 
 
 She smiled, and the snow-light shone on her face, making 
 her beauty luminous. 
 
 "It's Thanksgiving Day, Ted — did you know it?" 
 
142 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Then I've been here—" 
 
 "Ten days." She came back to my side. 
 
 "Thanksgiving," I heard her murmur to herself — "dear 
 God! I'm thankful." 
 
 "And you have nursed me all this time?" 
 
 "No, dear. You have a trained nurse to look after you — it 
 was too serious to take any chances. I'm only the girl who 
 loves you," and she tucked a violet over my left ear, laughing 
 with the old ring of mischief in her voice. "Now you've 
 talked enough and must go to sleep. I'll come back soon and 
 bring you your Thanksgiving dinner — some delicious jellied 
 bouillion. No — not another word," and she was gone, closing 
 the door after her. 
 
 Naturally I could not sleep. In the first place, I argued 
 with myself, my head not only feels queer but it aches abomi* 
 nably; in the second place, enough has happened to give in- 
 somnia to all the seven sleepers of Ephesus. The latter 
 thought pleased me, and I laughed all by myself. My mind 
 began to stroll about again in a waking dream, partly caused 
 by my weakness and partly by the delirium which had ceased 
 only a few hours ago. Why had Prospero tried to kill me? 
 It seemed a motiveless thing to do, particularly as he had 
 chosen to involve himself. Must have been insane, I con- 
 cluded. He was fairly skilful about it, too — how did they 
 know I hadn't killed him? There we both were, and no one 
 to say who put the poison in the dish. This worried me. 
 Suppose they ask me awkward questions at the inquest? I 
 must talk to Helen about that. Helen ! I hardly dared think 
 about her — her love was the most wonderful thing in the 
 world — why had she given it to me? How had I deserved 
 it? It was a miracle one couldn't analyse. . . . 
 
 "Ted, dear, it's time to take your medicine." I almost sat 
 up, I was so surprised. I had slept, after all — most soundly. 
 Furthermore, I felt refreshed and stronger. There stood Helen 
 in the door, with a buxom-looking young woman in nurse's 
 uniform beside her, carrying a glass on a tray. 
 
 "This is your nurse, Miss Conover, Ted." 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 143 
 
 "How do you do?" I said to this person, who began to bang 
 my pillows about in a most business-like way, as much as to 
 imply she was not in the habit of putting up with any non- 
 sense from her patients. 
 
 "Quite well, thank you," and she presented a spoonful of 
 medicine. 
 
 "What's in it?" I asked. "I'm a chemist, and I don't like 
 to take unknown compounds." 
 
 "You aren't a biological chemist, are you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you'd better follow your doctor's orders." 
 
 I felt that curious anger against strangers coming back. 
 
 "If you don't tell me what it is — I'll— I'll spill it on the 
 floor," I said. 
 
 Helen stepped forward quickly. 
 
 "You'll take it from me, Ted, won't you?" and she offered 
 the spoon. "It's a sedative, dear — we had to give you such 
 quantities of stimulants to counteract the poison." 
 
 Calm returned, and I meekly licked the spoon. 
 
 "Take her away!" I whispered to Helen, rolling my head 
 toward the aggressively efficient Miss Conover, who was tidy- 
 ing the room energetically. 
 
 "Ted, dear, you are getting well now. You must get used to 
 strangers about you, especially when they have been so kind 
 to you as Dr. Sinclair and Miss Conover," and Helen patted 
 my shoulder. 
 
 Miss Conover joined in: "Didn't I tell you, Miss Helen, they 
 was a whole lot easier to get on with delirious than convales- 
 cent? You was wishing for him to come out of it, but you 
 ain't had my experience. I'd rather put a straight jacket on a 
 nut than fetch a pipe and tobacco for a man the day before his 
 hospital discharge." 
 
 Helen looked down at me with her eyes dancing, and the 
 black murder that had been swelling up in me, during Miss 
 Conover's disquisition on the care of men, subsided. 
 
 "I'll send her away, Ted," she said, kissing me. "I believe 
 this time you are right." 
 
144 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Mr. Claybourne came in, radiating cheerfulness. 
 
 "Well, Ted, old man, how's the boy?" he shouted. 
 
 "Quietly, dad, quietly," reproved Helen. 
 
 "He's that touchy! It's only the effect of the fever. They 
 are nearly always like that afterwards. Why, I've seen 'em 
 pass away growling at everybody right up to the finish," Miss 
 Conover threw in for good measure. 
 
 "I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Claybourne," I stammered, 
 ignoring the nurse- 
 
 "Oh, tell all that to Helen," he laughed. "She's responsible, 
 anyway. Come, little girl, it's two o'clock, and there's a big 
 turkey and fixin's waiting downstairs. You'll have to leave 
 Ted awhile to eat Thanksgiving dinner with your dad." 
 
 "There's a dramatic choice for you, Helen — parental love 
 and duty versus self-sacrifice beside the pallid cot of the lowly 
 and sick," I smiled at her. 
 
 "Dad, Ted's recovering a sense of humour — it's a little 
 clumsy and conceited still, but it's coming back! Dad, — why 
 can't we have this room cleared and our table set up here? 
 You know Ted hasn't seen a Thanksgiving turkey since he was 
 a little boy. They don't have Thanksgiving in England — and 
 it seems so mean to go downstairs and stuff all by ourselves!" 
 
 Mr. Claybourne looked doubtfully about the room. I sym- 
 pathized with his feelings, for a sick room is the last place one 
 would choose for a banquet. 
 
 "That would be too much like writing Hamlet in a charnel 
 house. Can't you carry me downstairs? and I'll sit with 
 Leonidas before the fire while the rest of you gorge," I urged. 
 
 "How about that, Miss Conover?" Claybourne asked. Miss 
 Conover looked at me, and I suspected revenge to be brooding 
 in her eye. Helen added her entreaty, and the nurse wavered. 
 
 "I suppose there'll be less trouble in the end if we carry him 
 down, though what Dr. Sinclair will say, goodness knows," 
 Miss Conover conceded grudgingly. "But it'll only be for an 
 hour, and then no more talk or visitors today." 
 
 "Agreed," I cried; "any price you say, nurse." 
 
 "Miss Conover," she corrected. 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 145 
 
 "I beg your pardon — good nature made me careless." Helen 
 giggled. I was rolled up in dressing gown and blankets and 
 carried downstairs by Mr. Claybourne, Helen and Miss 
 Conover followed with pillows and miscellaneous glassware. 
 Leonidas took a sniff at me and then greeted me with the most 
 exuberant enthusiasm, knocking over at least one piece of 
 furniture by the sheer power in his wagging tail. I had an 
 armchair before a fire of crackling hickory logs; there was a 
 small table beside me, with some of Helen's violets in a little 
 vase in the centre. 
 
 Helen, her father, and Miss Conover sat at -their gaily decked 
 table, on which was a mountain of autumn fruit piled about an 
 enormous pumpkin. The maid brought in a turkey as big as 
 a boar's head. Mr. Claybourne busied himself with opening a 
 bottle of champagne. Helen insisted that the turkey be placed 
 before me and helped me carve the first slice before it was 
 removed to Mr. Claybourne's seat. 
 
 "Isn't it a shame you can't eat any of it," Helen cried. Just 
 then I did not care to. To tell the truth, the smell of the food 
 made me feel so ill I was not certain I could stick the dinner 
 out. But I knew better than to give Miss Conover an inkling 
 of this. "It isn't as if one could make a dash for the upper 
 deck, either," I thought to myself. At a critical moment the 
 nurse placed some jellied bouillon before me and threatened 
 forcible feeding. "One inch nearer with a spoonful of that 
 stuff, and there'll be a real catastrophe," I murmured inwardly. 
 I violently waved it away. Helen flew to my rescue. "I think 
 if we leave Ted quite alone, he'll eat it by himself when he feels 
 like it," she advised Miss Conover. 
 
 "The doctor ordered him to eat it," the nurse stubbornly con- 
 tended. Helen conquered her, and I was left, not exactly at 
 peace, but in a state of armed neutrality within. By concen- 
 trating my attention on the dancing flames in the chimney I kept 
 the internal factions quiet. 
 
 Mr. Claybourne ran through his series of champagne toasts, 
 repeating all the funny ones we had heard last time. He was 
 eager for me to have one sip, but Helen stood firm. Miss 
 
146 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Conover sat in stern disapproval of the champagne, her glass 
 inverted before her, as if to emphasize with a kind of crystal 
 exclamation point her opinion of such proceedings. 
 
 "Where is Miss Hershey?" I asked, as soon as I had the 
 stomach for such a question. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Ted. She's dining out with an ex- 
 governor of Georgia — I believe a third cousin twice removed of 
 her mother's aunt, or some complicated Southern family rela- 
 tionship like that." 
 
 "I thought she said he was her cousin," Mr. Claybourne cor- 
 rected. Helen winked at me; Miss Hershey would have called 
 it "unmaidenly." 
 
 "I believe all Southerners who are anybody are each other's 
 cousins, dad. Anyway, she said they didn't pay much atten- 
 tion to Thanksgiving in the South, and she preferred not to be 
 here." 
 
 "The bloody shirt again, eh?" said Mr. Claybourne. 
 
 "I can't imagine Miss Hershey in a bloody shirt," I mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Really Mr. Edward!" Miss Conover exclaimed, half rising 
 from the table. Helen laughed. "I don't think such remarks 
 is nice," Miss Conover continued. 
 
 "H'm," said Mr. Claybourne, evidently wondering what it 
 was all about. 
 
 "How's your foot, Ted?" Helen called out. 
 
 "There's nothing the matter with Ted's foot, is there?" said 
 Mr. Claybourne. 
 
 "Not a thing!" snapped Miss Conover. 
 
 "There's your answer, Lady Grey Eyes," I laughed. 
 
 "What are we talking about?" Mr. Claybourne inquired. 
 
 "It's just a private joke between Ted and me, dad. You 
 wouldn't understand," Helen explained. 
 
 "Then I don't think it's very polite of you to refer to it be- 
 fore others," her father grumbled. "I'm surprised at you, 
 Ted." 
 
 "My opinion exactly," Miss Conover hastened to agree. 
 
 The tension was broken by the arrival of the maid with three 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 147 
 
 kinds of pie — mince, pumpkin, and cranberry. Upon the later 
 arrival of coffee, Miss Conover got up from the table. 
 
 "Time's up," she announced. "We'll carry Mr. Edward up- 
 stairs." 
 
 "A bargain's a bargain, and I'll go quietly," I said, "but 
 damn it all just the same." 
 
 "Edward, will you oblige me by not swearing before Helen," 
 Mr. Claybourne declaimed. 
 
 "I beg your pardon — and Helen's, if she wants it. Hap- 
 piness has a bad effect on my manners." 
 
 They put me away in the dark room. . . . 
 
 In the morning Knowlton dropped in to see me on the way 
 to the office. Dr. Sinclair had called first and expressed ap- 
 proval of my progress. He also gave permission to talk 
 business for half an hour, which was why I had Knowlton 
 summoned by telephone. 
 
 "Well, Ted, our friend nearly did for you," he said with his 
 diabolic grin, as he drew a chair alongside my bed. "I cer- 
 tainly was scared until the doc said he thought he could pull 
 you through." I knew that for Knowlton to admit this much 
 was for him to confess he had passed through an emotional 
 crisis. Of course the way he put it was part of the "hard- 
 headed" pose of all our race, whether English or American. 
 It is the half-unconscious way in which we hide our sentimen- 
 tality when the latter collides with reality. 
 
 "Thanks, Knowlton," I replied; "it would be awkward for 
 the business if I got out ahead of time." I could not resist 
 teasing him this much. 
 
 "Wasn't just what I meant, Ted," he said, squirming un- 
 comfortably. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter. The point now 
 is that the Owens people sent us a cracker jack, A-number-one 
 man, and he analyzed the Texas formula in a jiffy, so to speak. 
 Prospero lost us only four days, and the Owens man has 
 speeded us up so we have made that good. He costs like hell, 
 though, and as soon as you can get out again, Ted, I'll let him 
 go." 
 
148 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "When will I be back, do you think?" 
 
 "Not until after Christmas — and then no more night work. 
 We'll move you back to the day-shift. It's a damned nui- 
 sance." 
 
 "It's something of a nusiance for me, too," I said, "having 
 your pet employee trying to murder me. I hope you appreci- 
 ate it has been inconvenient." 
 
 Knowlton grinned : "Good boy, Ted, that's the stuff. Never 
 lose your nerve." 
 
 "Why did Prospero do it? — that's what I can't understand." 
 
 "Paranoia, Ted — delusion of persecution: he worked with 
 you, so he chose you for his best hallucination. Thought you 
 were stealing his great idea about electricity direct from coal." 
 
 "How do you know? Did he leave a confession sticking out 
 of his right boot?" I tried what I imagined to be sarcasm. 
 
 "No, but he used to tell me all about it. Said you dogged 
 his every step. I warned you, Ted, to look out for him. I 
 never thought he'd pull anything off in the factory with three 
 hundred workmen all around. Outside, I judged you were 
 pretty safe — besides, his time was 'most up. I guess I was a 
 little careless, Ted." 
 
 "What did the police say? Were they interested?" 
 
 "Not much, after they heard my story. The Chief is a good 
 friend of mine — I play pinochle with him Saturday nights. 
 He thinks it just as well for you to look in at the Coroner's 
 office some day when you are all right — just to dictate a little 
 account of how it happened. He wants it to complete his 
 records." 
 
 I marvelled at this easy-going, personally conducted justice. 
 
 "How about the circus woman?" 
 
 "Oh, we let her go. What was the use? She has an alibi 
 a mile long." 
 
 "Do you mean to say all this can happen without any one 
 being interested enough to require an investigation?" 
 
 "Sure— didn't I tell you I fixed it up with the Chief? He 
 knows we're on the square, Ted. The newspapers ran a peaeh 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 149 
 
 •f a story — whole front page. I gave 'em a picture of you I 
 dug out of your room. You'll find yourself quite a local hero 
 when you get out. There was some good sob stuff in it about 
 Miss Claybourne nursing you back from the Valley of the Sha- 
 dow. I don't believe her old man liked it." 
 
 "I should think not," I cried indignantly. "It was out- 
 rageous." 
 
 "Well, Ted, I don't believe you'll have to announce your 
 engagement. It's saved you that much trouble. The paper 
 said you were related to the English nobility, and hinted that 
 Miss Claybourne was the true explanation of your coming to 
 Deep Harbor. When the evening paper came out, the head- 
 line man boosted you up a notch higher — something about 
 'English peer's son nursed by local society girl' — say, you 
 furnished 'em great stuff for three days." 
 
 "That must be the real reason 'mother' went to Asheviile," 
 I reflected. 
 
 'Ted, what I don't understand is how Prospero could slip 
 anything like that over on you. As a chemist you ought to 
 know enough to look out for fumes. How'd he do it? Hyp- 
 notize you?" 
 
 "Like you," I replied, "I guess I was a little careless. You 
 see, oil of cassia has a pleasant smell — really delicious — it's 
 just like cinnamon, you know. I thought I'd bluffed Prospero 
 into doing what I wanted, and — I don't know — one doesn't ex- 
 pect murder and suicide." 
 
 Knowlton rubbed his chin. "Let's hear the whole yarn," 
 he said. I told him everything that had happened from the 
 time he left me that night until I lost consciousness. At 
 the end, Knowlton grinned: "Ted, the Eagle reporter can beat 
 you all hollow telling that story. Wait until you see what he 
 says happened. But he didn't know about the wife in Cripple 
 Creek — you've scored on the Eagle there. Now take a little 
 advice from me, Ted. The next time you try to blackmail a 
 paranoiac because he's a bigamist, don't do it." 
 
 "Blackmail him?" 
 
150 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Well, bluff him, then. It's about the same thing. You 
 turn those jobs over to me. If you tried to commit burglary 
 some one would pick your pocket and steal your jimmy." 
 
 Dr. Sinclair interrupted us at this point. "I think we've 
 talked business long enough for one day. It makes us a little 
 feverish, I fear. Just a moment; we'll have a look at our 
 temperature," and he clicked his thermometer into my jaws. 
 Knowlton both winked and grinned at me. 
 
 "I'll send the new chemist up to see you in a couple of days, 
 Ted. Give him all our formulas and experiments you can think 
 of. Good luck!" and he was gone. 
 
 Within two or three days I was allowed to come downstairs 
 and sit at the big living-room window, where one could see the 
 sleighs passing up and down Myrtle Boulevard. Helen, with 
 Leonidas at her feet, would sit beside me, and we read or talked 
 or kept silent as the fancy seized us. Miss Hershey discreetly 
 kept in the library, where she alternated embroidering with 
 copious letter-writing. Her correspondents were apparently 
 endless, for fully half her time was occupied with letters. 
 Helen and I used to try to guess their contents ; once we found a 
 half finished one on the library table, and it was only by the 
 exercise of the strongest will-power that we resisted the temp- 
 tation to read it. The handwriting was angular and large, 
 sprawling diagonally across the page: like Miss Hershey, 
 it was conscious of its excellent social connections. Occa- 
 sionally we indulged in a little teasing at Miss Hershey's ex- 
 pense, but without solving the mystery of her correspondence. 
 One thing we did that horrified her: we bought a scrap book 
 and pasted in all the lurid accounts of the "tragedy" col- 
 lected from the pages of the Eagle and Evening Star. Helen 
 was particularly fond of the passage in which she was de- 
 scribed as nursing "a scion of the English nobility back 
 from the Valley of the Shadow." We used to read it aloud 
 to Miss Hershey until the latter protested it was sacrilegious. 
 There was also a beautiful map of my laboratory, with dot- 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 151 
 
 ted lines, foot prints, and two crosses to show where Prospero 
 and I were found. 
 
 We also had some correspondence of our own on our 
 hands. There was my family to write to; the cable had al- 
 ready informed them of the accident and my recovery, but we 
 had to tell them all about our engagement and future plans. 
 Helen was shy and diffident ahout it, nor did I blame her. It 
 was no easy task to write to a mother and sister she had never 
 seen. She studied their pictures a long time before begin- 
 ning and asked for advice often as she wrote. Then she 
 wouldn't show me the finished letters, and we almost squab- 
 bled over it. She got out of it at last by telling me that some 
 of the things she had said about me would make me too con- 
 ceited. I retaliated by refusing to let her see my letters. All 
 this took the whole of a happy morning. 
 
 Although we had delayed formal announcement of our en- 
 gagement until Mrs. Claybourne's return at Christmas, all 
 Deep Harbor knew it, thanks to the Eagle, and every day 
 Helen's friends dropped in to congratulate us and give us 
 good wishes. Every one was friendly and cordial; I felt as 
 if the town had adopted me and now counted me as part of it. 
 Even the Herr Lieutenant Ludwig von Oberhausen made a call, 
 stiffer and more formal than ever, as the importance of the oc- 
 casion demanded. He was making great headway with the 
 wealthy Miss Greyson, and it was rumoured their engagement 
 would be announced at about the same time as ours. 
 
 Soon the doctor gave me permission to go out in the after- 
 noons for a short walk; Helen and I went back and forth on 
 Myrtle Boulevard, all bundled up in wraps and furs, for 
 nearly every day now a screaming north wind blew off the 
 lake. There was snow on the ground, several inches of it, 
 but not so much, Helen said, as there would be after Christ- 
 mas. The cold was greater than any I had ever experienced, 
 and in my weakened condition I felt it keenly. On some days 
 the air in one's lungs was almost painful; the snow under- 
 foot squeaked annoyingly as one trod upon it. Helen throve 
 
152 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 on these sharp days; her cheeks glowed with a rosy tint, and 
 the grey of her eyes took on new depths of color and an 
 added sparkle. I liked to watch an escaped lock of her 
 brown hair blowing across her face as I walked beside her, 
 or to see the radiant health shown by her springing step, her 
 quickly aroused laugh, and her interest in everything that the 
 earth had to offer. On these expeditions Sir Leonidas de la 
 Patte Jaune was our delighted escort. Although no person 
 passed upon the street without turning to smile at his un- 
 couth appearance, — he would not have attracted more atten- 
 tion if he had been a hippogriff, — Sir Leonidas's happy 
 spirit was irrepressible. He had a sniff and a wag for all 
 comers and an abiding faith in the goodness of human na- 
 ture. Occasionally we dropped in to return calls, stopping 
 here and there at various large piles of rough stone with 
 rounded arches which comprised the architecture of Myrtle 
 Boulevard's newer residences. 
 
 On one gorgeous sunshiny afternoon, when the breeze from 
 the lake was like iced champagne, Dr. Sinclair prescribed a 
 sleigh ride, on condition that Helen did the driving. We con- 
 sulted by telephone my old friends at the "livery and feed" 
 stable, with the result that they delivered at our front door a 
 shiny equipage all bells and fur. It was my first experience 
 with a sleigh, and I was much amused to watch Helen's prep- 
 arations. She could not have done more had we been 
 planning a dash for the Pole. Hot bricks and steamer rugs 
 were merely preliminaries. I was tucked in like a baby 
 and wrapped up until only my eyes and nose were left visi- 
 ble. All having been done to her satisfaction, this handsome 
 young lady took her seat beside me, and we were off. The 
 motor-car had not as yet become such a common experience 
 as to deaden us for all lesser forms of speed; thus it was that 
 this first sleigh-ride seemed to me a most exhilarating thing. 
 The low seat comparatively close to the ground, and the ab- 
 sence of any noise save for the bells, did much to increase the 
 illusion of rapid motion. No wonder Henry Irving had been 
 struck with the dramatic nature of sleigh bells. I told Helen 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 153 
 
 about that strange old melodrama, The Bells, as we whizzed 
 along our favourite Ridge Road. "We shall go to see Irving 
 together in it next year when we are in London, Ted," she 
 whispered. I thrilled with delight, as I always did when- 
 ever Helen referred to the golden future we were to share. 
 We were intensely happy in the present, yet "next year" en- 
 shrined everything we really wanted; we looked upon our 
 present, happy as it was, as something of a hand-to-mouth 
 existence. Next year we should begin to live. 
 
 "I think I shall take some courses at South Kensington 
 Museum," Helen remarked casually, awakening me from a 
 dream of next year. 
 
 "South Kensington — what on earth do you know about it?" 
 
 "I've naturally been looking up a few things, Ted dear, 
 about the city where I am to spend the rest of my life — " 
 
 "Yes, but what does one study at South Kensington?" 
 
 "I'm ashamed of you, Ted — particularly when you've told 
 me about the theatre things to be seen there — costumes 
 and pictures and all the Pre-Raphaelite designs for furnish- 
 ings. Well, there is also a big technical school, too, and I'm 
 going to study some of these things. I want to be useful, 
 too." 
 
 I did not reply immediately. I think it is always a shock 
 to discover that the woman one loves has a practical turn of 
 mind. As a matter of fact, it is the woman who plans life, 
 although the man is not always aware of it. 
 
 "Well, Ted, you didn't imagine life was all bread and 
 cheese and kisses, did you?" she broke in upon me. "Of 
 course, if you don't want me to study the things you really 
 like, I won't." 
 
 Woman's illogical relentless logic is always unanswerable. 
 
 "I'm sorry you took me by surprise, dear," I apologized. 
 "The truth is, I haven't planned our life very definitely." 
 
 "Then don't you think it is about time we did?" 
 
 I noted the change in pronouns. The horse slowed down 
 to a walk, his breath drifting back from his nostrils like 
 smoke from a dragon. 
 
154 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "I suppose we should," I admitted a little reluctantly. The 
 practical aspects of living I was accustomed to think con- 
 cerned only the contents of my laboratory. Once I closed 
 that door behind me, I entered another world where no prac- 
 tical matters were ever considered. For the first time I re- 
 alized that this was a sign of weakness of character. I sat 
 up disturbed at this latter thought. The horse zig-zagged 
 across the road at will. 
 
 "Chemistry isn't your real work, Ted — it never will be. 
 You've admitted that a dozen times." 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 "Not that your chemistry isn't good, as far as your temper- 
 ament will allow it to be, but there's just the trouble. It 
 ties you to a business routine in which you'll be mediocre. I 
 don't want a mediocre husband, Ted." 
 
 "What has all this to do with South Kensington?" I que- 
 ried, feeling quite uncomfortable. There was a determina- 
 tion and conviction in Helen's tone much at variance with the 
 masculine theory of the clinging vine. 
 
 "While we earn our living at chemistry, Ted dear, we must 
 get ready for our real work. That's why I'm going to study 
 at South Kensington." 
 
 A light dawned on me. Helen was going to help — to 
 work with me! I was so happy my throat hurt. 
 
 "Some day, Ted, you'll write, and we'll make the toy 
 theatre you've told me about real. I shall be able to help 
 you, for I'll learn all I can about costumes and furniture 
 and scenery. And I'm going to read every play ever writ- 
 ten!" 
 
 For a mile we rhapsodized in wild enthusiasm, building 
 one of the most astonishingly well-equipped castles-in-Spain 
 imaginable. Apart from containing the neatest little country- 
 house and garden, it had also a laboratory and a theatre 
 which was to be the world's center of all important things 
 dramatic. We didn't forget a kennel for Sir Leonidas de la 
 Patte Jaune. Curiously enough, neither of us thought of a 
 nursery. No shadow of doubt crossed our minds that every- 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 155 
 
 thing we planned would be realized. We had such faith in 
 each other we were certain anything we wished was attainable. 
 We had only to join forces to make the world bow to us. It 
 wasn't conscious conceit; we were humble in our happiness. 
 There were many things in the world which needed doing and 
 doing well; we were merely planning to do our share. We 
 thought of it all as our duty toward life; there was no wish 
 for vainglory — no longing for riches. Indeed, we did 
 already know enough to understand that the things we were 
 going to do were not the things which bring wealth — at least, 
 that it was not the easiest road to financial success. Never- 
 theless we always had in our minds, as a major premise, 
 sufficient funds for our purposes. This latter assumption it 
 did not occur to us to analyse. We could live by chemistry 
 us we went along. 
 
 We returned home to find Miss Hershey and Mr. Clay- 
 bourne awaiting us with another practical discussion. It was 
 necessary formally to announce our engagement; the question 
 of marriage was to be a subject for later negotiations. My 
 illness and Helen's care of me had, however, rather forced 
 the issue, so that Mr. Claybourne thought it wise to recog- 
 nize the engagement. Mrs. Claybourne was returning from 
 Asheville specially on this account. So much Mr. Claybourne 
 contributed. Miss Hershey took up the running at this point: 
 she had decided, upon consultation with Mr. Claybourne, to 
 have the engagement announced at a dinner party, to be fol- 
 lowed by a dance, on Christmas eve at the country club. 
 What did we think of this arrangement? To tell the honest 
 truth, we neither of us, as we confessed when alone, cared to 
 be the centre of such an elaborate show. To protest was un- 
 gracious when intentions were so excellent; with much forc- 
 ing of our dispositions we appeared delighted. Miss Her- 
 shey carried off Helen to make a list of guests ; Mr. Claybourne 
 took me into the library. We sat down, I in my usual trepida- 
 tion when confronted with practical details. 
 
 "I have had a letter from your father, Edward," he began, 
 taking out a familiar envelope. I was surprised, for as yet I 
 
156 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 had received only a cable of good wishes. "He appears 
 pleased with the step you have taken." I bent my face into a 
 smile. "I have been just a trifle uneasy for fear that his dis- 
 approval might affect your future. He is, on the contrary, 
 ready to do what he can to assist." 
 
 This time I really smiled — not that I had had any doubt, 
 but it was pleasant to learn of my father's absolute trust in me. 
 
 "He is not too encouraging over finances, but seems to think 
 he can give you employment that will enable you to take care 
 of Helen — and of any addition." 
 
 "Addition?" I asked, puzzled. Mr. Claybourne looked at 
 me over the rims of his glasses, and tapped his letter on the 
 corner of the table. 
 
 "I assume that young married people usually have addi- 
 tions to their family," he said. I blushed furiously. 
 
 "Ye-yes," I murmured feebly. "I hadn't thought of that." 
 
 "I sometimes wonder, Edward, if you and Helen think of 
 any one but yourselves," he said, gazing out the window. I 
 was stung by this rebuke, perhaps because its truth struck me 
 forcibly. "But I am not surprised; it is entirely natural for 
 young people to be selfish — " I made a gesture of protest, 
 which he ignored. "They think they can make the world over 
 in their own image. Sometimes they forget the world has 
 been in business longer than they have. The point is, how- 
 ever, that in being selfish together you mustn't be selfish to 
 each other. I am glad neither of you have much money, but 
 I also want Helen to be comfortable. That, I conclude from 
 your father's letter, will be the case. The less you have, 
 down to a certain point, the harder you will work for each 
 other. Have you anything to say, Edward?" 
 
 I thought, but no ideas occurred to me. I looked around 
 uneasily, wishing Helen were there to back me up. 
 
 "I notice, Edward, that you have already formed the habit 
 of leaning on Helen's decisions. I admit that she is a young 
 woman with force of character beyond her years." He smiled 
 slightly, with a reminiscent air. "I'm not always immune 
 myself; your engagement is proof of that," he laughed. "But 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 157 
 
 I am telling you this for your good, Ted. Be your own boss ; 
 Helen will respect you all the more, and so will I. Besides, 
 Edward, it's a pretty important element in success in life." 
 
 Again no suitable reply from me was forthcoming. This 
 rather plain hint about "success in life" fitted with the weak- 
 ness-of-character theory that had come to me upon the Ridge 
 Road earlier in the afternoon. I wondered how true it was. 
 If true, was it curable? Mr. Claybourne seemed to be wait- 
 ing, for I heard him cough. Helen saved the situation by 
 coming in and sitting on the arm of my chair. 
 
 "What have you been saying to Ted, dad?" 
 
 "One or two things he ought to know, my daughter," Mr. 
 Claybourne replied gravely. 
 
 "That's an awfully unfair advantage to take of any one, 
 dad. Of course Ted didn't know what to say back to you?" 
 she teased, rumpling my hair. 
 
 "You are both two ignorant young fools," Mr. Claybourne 
 exploded ungrammatically. 
 
 "What else do you expect us to be, dad? Besides, according 
 to Mr. Pope's famous line, it would be silly of us to be any- 
 thing else. Look it up, dad, in your Bartlett's Familiar. Quota- 
 tions." 
 
 Mr. Claybourne chewed the end off a fresh cigar, obviously 
 in a bad humour. 
 
 "Well, Helen, all I can say is that I hope the world won't 
 give you too hard a knock, when it decides to take the- conceit 
 out of you. Other people have been in love before," he added 
 with what I thought was irrelevance. 
 
 "Of course they have, dad dear. But not just like Ted and 
 me. 
 
 Mr. Claybourne uttered a pardonable snort. 
 
 "As long as we have each other, nothing can happen to 
 either of us," Helen said simply, in a tone that made me grip 
 her arm tightly. 
 
 "As long as — " Mr. Claybourne said slowly to himself with- 
 out finishing the sentence. A boy stopped outside the window 
 and lit the street lamp. The room was growing dark, and a 
 
158 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 new moon was just visible above the opposite roof. There 
 was a long silence, during which Mr. Claybourne puffed at 
 his cigar. 
 
 "Why, what a gloom you are, dad, trying to frighten us out 
 of our happiness with all your pessimistic grown-up ideas," 
 Helen cried, flinging her arms impulsively about him, knock- 
 ing the ash off his cigar, and seriously deranging his dignity. 
 Nevertheless he patted his daughter on the back and was se« 
 cretly much pleased. 
 
 "Well, little girl," he smiled, "getting 'round your old dad 
 just as you always do," and he kissed her. 
 
 "Of course!" she laughed. "That's what dads are for." 
 
 Even Miss Hershey's meticulously exact explanation, at 
 dinner, of how the lists of guests for the engagement dinner 
 and dance had been selected, together with much family his- 
 tory of the individuals, could not drive away the fit of de» 
 pression the afternoon had brought me. I had really never 
 thought of the future as something to be approached with 
 dread and suspicion; it had always seemed sufficient to blun- 
 der into it gaily and unquestioningly. I had never doubted it 
 could be other than pleasant. Forethought could always 
 prevent tragedies. . . . Could it? If one knew what tragedy 
 to expect — yes; how if there were tragedies that crept upon 
 one unawares? What was it the Bible said about "a thief in 
 the night"? It was the old peril of too much happiness. The 
 whole world was enthralled to this superstition and called its 
 childish fears "commonsense precaution." With this fairly 
 satisfactory and optimistic solution I finally went to bed. 
 
 A week before the dinner dance Mrs. Claybourne returned, 
 quite limp from her journey in a Pullman and the onward rush 
 of events at home. She felt utterly discouraged, she said, at 
 the hopelessness of it all, and the general lack of consideration. 
 Helen and I were made to feel like criminals detected in the 
 midst of some clandestine crime. Helen had to have a new 
 evening gown and an afternoon dress; she ought really to have 
 a new set of furs, but that was out of the question, because of 
 
FACE TO FACE WITH FUTURE 159 
 
 the terrible expense of the dance. Miss Hershey clicked and 
 oozed sympathy from the background. Mr. Claybourne put a 
 stop to his wife's beating of her breast by ordering Helen and 
 her mother to New York to get everything needed. 
 
 "You can send the bills to me, and I'll do the worrying up 
 at the office," he finished. 
 
 "I think I'll go along and do my shopping in New York, 
 too," I put in, without pausing to think. This produced a 
 renewed outburst. It wasn't proper, was the sum and sub- 
 stance. 
 
 "I've got something important to do in New York," I con- 
 tended stubbornly. "Helen has to have an engagement ring." 
 
 Helen and her father took my part. It was better, he 
 thought, for some one to go along who could look after the 
 party and keep Helen amused. Helen simply remarked that 
 the idea I was not to go was preposterous. Besides, the 
 change would do me good. I would come back refreshed and 
 ready to resume work. Mrs. Claybourne yielded, after first 
 fleeing to her room in tears. It was settled I was to go along. 
 
Chapter Ten 
 we share our first christmas 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE was only three days away, bringing 
 with it the formal announcement of our engagement. 
 I received several letters from my father, as well as 
 from my mother and sister. They accepted the situation, but 
 I knew the family well enough to detect considerable un- 
 easiness between the lines. My mother was once or twice 
 frankly doubtful. Did I know America well enough to choose 
 the right type? — a question- which made me smile, as I 
 thought of Helen. My. sister asked even more feminine ques- 
 tions. What was Helen like? Was she fond of sports? A 
 good sort? Or was she very serious-minded, like so many 
 Americans? My sister, who was much younger than myself, 
 had been born in England and had never set foot in America. 
 I felt a certain difficulty in explaining Helen to her, although I 
 had no doubt the two girls would be good pals on sight. My 
 father was not so disconcerting; yet there was also an under- 
 current of doubt and displeasure in his comments. Nothing 
 but taking Helen to England and displaying her there would 
 really straighten this out, I concluded. 
 
 Meanwhile I concealed all this from Helen. The family 
 wrote her cordial and welcoming letters. We were busy with 
 our preparations, and the factory was also an inescapable 
 task. Knowlton was remorseless. I received no special 
 favours at his hands in the way of extra time off. After I had 
 quite recovered from my part in Prospero's tragic melodrama, 
 the grindstone was held to my nose again. The young people 
 of Deep Harbor, particularly the girls, took an absorbing in- 
 terest in Helen and me. It was all so romantic, they said — 
 the horseback riding, the attempt to murder me, and our re- 
 
 160 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 161 
 
 solution to go abroad. "It is such a consolation for you, my 
 dear," a delicious old lady said to Helen, "that you are going 
 to live in England, for you will always have your own church 
 wherever you go." 
 
 Mr. Claybourne, having reached his decision, apparently 
 more or less dismissed us from his mind as much as was pos- 
 sible. I dined on Sundays at the house as a matter of course. 
 Mrs. Claybourne kept up her wailing, as was natural to her 
 temperament. I think she enjoyed having a standing griev- 
 ance. It saved her the trouble of inventing a fresh one each 
 day. When friends dropped in to talk matters over, a pastime 
 to which Deep Harbor was much addicted, she would burst in- 
 to tears at each mention of the word "England." What would 
 become of her, with her only daughter over four thousand 
 miles away, she did not know. But of course no one in the 
 house had any consideration for her feelings, she would go on 
 to explain — least of all her own daughter, who seemed actually 
 to be looking forward to the separation. This was not fair to 
 Helen, who loved her father with a passionate devotion and 
 was sympathetically affectionate toward her mother. As a 
 matter of fact, there were times when Helen minded the 
 thought of leaving her family a great deal, and I had, upon 
 those occasions, to paint the future in the brightest possible 
 colours. Not that Helen doubted for an instant the love which 
 had governed our choice. It was the natural reaction of a 
 young girl not yet out of her teens to the realization that her 
 new and unknown life to come would mean the breaking of all 
 her old ties. She felt it more than even her father or her 
 mother seemed to guess. 
 
 In the evening we read aloud, a rather sober occupation for 
 two young lovers. Helen was eager to know the books I liked, 
 and I to know hers, while together we explored new fields and 
 made them our own. We were given the back drawing room 
 to ourselves, and there, before a natural gas fire, which was the 
 usual Deep Harbor translation of the Yule log, we would sit 
 on a little sofa, Helen with her feet tucked up under her and 
 her head on my shoulder, while I read. We read hardly any 
 
162 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 slush and but little romance, for of the latter we had now 
 enough of our own. We were too young and eager to be at. 
 life to have any patience with slush. We did not know its 
 value as an anodyne, for we had no need of anaesthetics of 
 any kind. We wanted to get into life as quickly as possible 
 and fashion it to suit ourselves. We were therefore more in- 
 terested in Ibsen and Shaw, in Hauptmann and Nietzsche, in 
 William Morris and Anatole France, than in the current 
 novels from the circulating library. 
 
 I don't think we were priggish in our seriousness. We kept 
 our reading to ourselves and never spoke of it to others. Wft 
 looked upon it as necessary preparatory study before embark- 
 ing together upon our future. We wanted to know, as far a?i 
 we had time to learn, what writers and thinkers had to say 
 about this world that seemed so beautiful to us. When thev 
 were bitter, hard, or cynical, we laughed and pitied them. Bu I 
 most of all we enjoyed the new vistas they revealed, and neither 
 Anatole France nor Nietzsche frightened us one bit. We 
 looked upon a great man's mind as something independent of 
 his experience. That he said life was cruel did not to us imply 
 anything further than an interesting point of view which it was 
 good fun to discuss. We felt sure that William Morris was 
 right and the others wrong. We laughed over Shaw because 
 we could feel him striking into Deep Harbor's vitals — and it 
 amused us, knowing Deep Harbor, to see the skill with which 
 he did it and the latter's blissful unconcern. The Deep Har- 
 bor Eagle ran a leader one morning to prove Shaw a clown 
 and a mountebank. We were tempted to cut it out and send 
 it to Shaw, but we didn't know his address. 
 
 On Christmas eve was to be our dinner and dance at the 
 country club. The country club was situated several miles 
 out of town upon the lake shore. It was a large wooden 
 building of "Colonial" architecture, which means that it had a 
 broad verandah, facing the lake, with high wooden columns in 
 front, walls covered with white shingles, and shutters painted 
 green. You drove out via the west lake road. Its member ■ 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 163 
 
 ship was rigidly limited to four hundred, and the dues were 
 absurdly high. Only the financially elite could afford to 
 belong and play upon its tame nine-hole course. It boasted 
 a waiting list of over a hundred names. Sons were put down 
 for it before going away to college, in the hope that they would 
 be elected by the time they had graduated. All the important 
 social functions of Deep Harbor took place there, and some, 
 if gossip were true, not quite so decorous as these. 
 
 It was Miss Hershey, the professional chaperone, who had 
 decided upon the country club as the only suitable rostrum 
 from which to announce our engagement. The dinner party 
 was to be a small one, not over twenty couples, and the other 
 young people were to come in later for the dance. The flowers 
 were ordered from Buffalo and the music from Detroit. The 
 chef of the country club was to procure, by means best known 
 to himself, partridges, and a professional caterer was to fur- 
 nish the ice-cream. All this Miss Hershey was responsible for. 
 She took charge of all arrangements, and Mr. Claybourne, who 
 was a sensible man and hated display, had not a word to say. 
 Least of all were Helen and I allowed to interfere. 
 
 At six on the appointed day I reported at the Claybourne 
 residence on Myrtle Boulevard in full regalia, but withal a 
 curious dryness in my throat. Knowlton had dropped in to 
 grin at me while I dressed, and he had completed my nervous- 
 ness. "To speak your own language," he had said, as I made 
 ready to leave, "what price Deep Harbor, now, old thing?" 
 Knowlton was coming to the dance; Miss Hershey had crossed 
 his name off the dinner list. 
 
 "Go to hell, Knowlton," I replied, slamming the door. I 
 could feel his grin following me through the panels all the 
 way downstairs. 
 
 At the Claybournes' I found Mrs. Claybourne collapsed in 
 tears upon the sofa, now that she was to face the casting of the 
 die, and Mr. Claybourne bending over her trying to coax her 
 to drink a cocktail which he held in one hand. Still protesting 
 that alcohol always gave her a sick headache, she finally drank 
 it with what I thought rather practised skill. Meanwhile Mr. 
 
164 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Claybourne made violent signs at me to efface myself, which I 
 did by retreating to the back of the passage until Helen should 
 come down. Miss Hershey was out at the country club putting 
 the finishing touches to the table. 
 
 Helen appeared at last, in a really grown-up evening gown, 
 a bunch of Parma violets pinned to her bodice. My eyes swam 
 a bit as I went forward to meet her, and my legs were most 
 unsteady. 
 
 "Lady Grey Eyes," I stammered, and clung to her hand. 
 She was much more composed than I. Save for the bright 
 light that danced and sparkled in her eyes, she might have gone 
 through a hundred such affairs. 
 
 "Look, Ted," she whispered. Behind her came Leonidas, 
 new washed and with a small bunch of violets tied by a blue 
 ribbon to his collar. Leonidas sat down and tried to remove 
 the violets with his paws. We both laughed. 
 
 "Is he going?" I asked. 
 
 "Of course not, you dear idiot," Helen replied. "But I had 
 to dress him up for the occasion." 
 
 At that moment a carriage arrived containing Miss Hemphill 
 and her escort, and into this Mr. Claybourne bundled Helen 
 and me. He would follow with Mrs. Claybourne later. The 
 ride out to the country club was cold and long. The roads 
 were partly frozen and partly covered with snow. We bumped 
 in and out of ruts and the horses steamed. Inside, however, 
 we were all giggles and laughter. Miss Hemphill and her 
 young man, a clerk in the Deep Harbor Smelting Company, 
 teased us, until we reached the club, with well meant but rather 
 elephantine wit. 
 
 Soon after we got there the whole dinner party arrived, and 
 we sat down in a deafening uproar of shrill conversation and 
 laughter. The crowd was composed entirely, with the excep- 
 tion of Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne, of young friends of Helen's. 
 I was the only non-Deep Harborite present. It seemed a little 
 queer, and once or twice I thought of my father and wondered 
 what he was thinking. Was I really doing the thing he would 
 approve? Then I would look at Helen, and reassurance would 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 165 
 
 return. No one could possibly disapprove of her. The family 
 would be thankful I had been so lucky. Indeed, my luck was 
 a constant source of wonder to me. How on earth was it pos- 
 sible that Helen should love me? It was beyond reasoning 
 out. And as I pondered this miracle, I could feel Helen's 
 hand steal under the tablecloth and give mine a gentle touch. 
 It was true, then. Once we were caught at this, by the young 
 man on the other side of Helen, and a great to-do of laughter 
 and teasing followed. I was horribly embarrassed that I had 
 put Helen in such a predicament, and a little angry, but she 
 didn't seem to mind the noise at all. How they could talk, 
 those young people! The girls seemed to be screaming, so 
 sharp and shrill were their voices; my ears ached. Every one 
 spoke at once, at the topmost pitch, and no one listened for a 
 reply. I have no idea what it was all about, for I was in such 
 a daze I could neither eat nor make out what was being said. 
 Once or twice Helen said: "Steady, Ted. Try to look cheer- 
 ful," and I would pull myself together with a smile at her and 
 venture a remark. 
 
 After dinner the pandemonium increased with the arrival of 
 those invited to the dance. The orchestra played dance music 
 at what I should have thought an incredible speed. I blun- 
 dered badly in dancing and left bruises, I fear, on more than 
 one dainty instep. I was at home only when I danced with 
 Helen, but Miss Hershey's etiquette forbade that this should be 
 very often. As hostess Helen had to dance with as many of the 
 young men as possible. Sometimes I lurked gloomy in a cor- 
 ner, disliking the public display of Helen that the party im- 
 plied. Each time Miss Hershey's watchful eye would ferret me 
 out, and I would be handed over to another young creature. 
 
 Dancing in Deep Harbor was a skilful art. The young peo- 
 ple of the town approved or condemned newcomers according 
 to the measure of their proficiency on the polished floor. 
 Never did any one earn more deservedly a reputation as an ex- 
 ecrable dancer than I did that evening. Some of my partners, 
 I could see, frankly pitied Helen. In Deep Harbor, to marry 
 a man who could not dance, or was a bad dancer, was to hang 
 
166 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 a social old-man-of-the-sea about one's neck. It doomed all 
 "good times" as far as that couple were concerned. Hence the 
 genuine pity which I saw in the eyes of some of Helen's friends. 
 
 A respite came when Knowlton appeared. After he had 
 danced with Helen, I took him around and introduced him to as 
 many young ladies as I was able to identify. Miss Hershey 
 helped me out with a few names, although I was supposed to 
 know them all. Knowlton's eyes twinkled, and the crows' feet 
 at their corners were crinkled with restrained amusement as I 
 took him through the ceremonies of introduction. We escaped 
 for a few moments for a cigarette in the sun-parlour, a portion 
 of the verandah enclosed with glass in the winter time. 
 
 "Well, Ted," he grinned at his cigarette, "I certainly have to 
 laugh when I think of you doing the social honours for me in 
 Deep Harbor. I have to hand it to you, Ted, and I mean this 
 seriously. Miss Claybourne's the best of the bunch. She's an 
 A-number-one winner, and you are a damned lucky kid." 
 
 "Thanks, Knowlton; I agree with you." 
 
 Knowlton puffed his cigarette reflectively. "It's great to be 
 a kid," he said at length. "I never was," he added rather un- 
 expectedly. "When I ought to have been, I was selling goods 
 and studying to be an engineer, evenings. I'm not kicking; I 
 guess I had a pretty good time — even when I didn't know 
 where the next meal was coming from." 
 
 I was silent, for it was most unusual for Knowlton to wax 
 confidential about himself. 
 
 "But now that things are beginning to come my way, I see 
 a little what I've missed. I'm getting grey here over the tem- 
 ples, Ted, and I'm doggoned if I don't envy you," he finished 
 with queer irrelevance. We both smoked in silence. It is a 
 difficult matter for two men to say what is on their minds. I 
 liked Knowlton, and I wanted to tell him I did, but I didn't 
 dare try for the words. 
 
 "I guess we are none of us, Ted," he went on, "as practical 
 and hard-headed as we make ourselves out to be. I used to 
 think I had no time to bother with women." 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 167 
 
 "He travels furthest who travels alone," I murmured, rather 
 startled by such a quotation on such an evening. 
 
 "It's a mistake, Ted," Knowlton came back. "It isn't true. 
 The fellow who said that was trying to conceal bankruptcy 
 with a little window-dressing." 
 
 "Knowlton," I stammered, making a desperate effort, "J — 
 I—" 
 
 He cut in on me. "Thanks, Ted. I like you too. Let's let 
 it go at that," and he threw away his cigarette stub and went in 
 to the ballroom. I sat and wondered at the hint of tragedy 
 the always smiling Knowlton had shown me. "After all," I 
 reflected, "he is still young." "Ah, but he is not a kid, don't 
 you see?" my old annoyer Reason interjected. "That's the 
 point." I lit another cigarette. "I wonder why it is great to 
 be a kid?" I asked. Reason was prompt with a reply, 
 "Because kids enjoy everything without stopping to think." 
 
 I looked up, to see Helen in the doorway, surrounded by 
 formally attentive swains. 
 
 "Ted," said Helen coming up to me. "This is our dance. 
 How could you?" 
 
 It was the first time I had ever been conscious of hurting 
 her, and I was truly contrite. I explained about Knowlton as 
 we danced around the room. 
 
 "The poor old dear," said Helen. "You would never guess 
 it from those adorable crow's feet of his." 
 
 "Knowlton isn't old," I objected, almost shocked. 
 
 "Well," Helen went on, "he's almost middle-aged." 
 
 But we soon changed the subject, for we had more important 
 things to talk about. 
 
 The dance came to an end at last, since there is a limit to the 
 physical endurance of even the youth of Deep Harbor. I was 
 fagged, and, now the excitement had passed, there were deep 
 circles under Helen's eyes. "Take me home, Ted," she whis- 
 pered, and with infinite craft and skill, we eluded Miss Her- 
 shey and got a carriage to ourselves. 
 
 We sat for a long time in silence, as we bounced over the 
 ruts, her hand resting in mine. 
 
168 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "It is Christmas day, dearest," I bent over her and said. 
 She looked into my eyes. 
 
 "Our first Christmas together, Ted. How many will there 
 he?" Suddenly there came a little catch in her voice, and she 
 cried against my shoulder, as if frightened. I comforted her, 
 and she again looked up, a smile coming through wet eyes. 
 
 "Christmas. We'll never forget, will we Ted?" 
 
 We looked out at the arc lamps of Deep Harbor ahead. On 
 the left, the frozen, snow-covered lake looked like some strange 
 continent of the moon in the glowing light. The fields and 
 vineyards were dimly white, with dark patches showing. The 
 snow had been thinned by a thaw. We looked together, now 
 ahead, now left, now right, that we might impress the scene on 
 our memories forevermore. It was very still save for the 
 rattle of the carriage and the occasional voice of the driver 
 speaking to his horses. Far on the other side of the town the 
 flare of a Bessemer steel works suddenly lit up the sky, for its 
 furnaces never rested, day or night. 
 
 I kissed her good-night at her door and walked down Myrtle 
 Boulevard, in the dawn, alone. At my rooms I found a letter 
 from my father, together with a generous check. "Buy Helen 
 a Christmas present out of this," was his only comment on 
 sending me the money. I could not sleep, but the factory was 
 to be shut down on Christmas Day, so the loss of sleep did not 
 matter. The future stood before me like an impenetrable wall. 
 I wanted to see the other side. It seemed absurd, preposterous, 
 that one couldn't fathom that mystery. It was not fair to 
 make one face life without knowing what to expect. Of what 
 use were hopes or plans, if out of that void some unforeseen 
 thing struck at one? Yet fear, I knew, was more deadly than 
 any blow that could come from the dark. One must grope 
 ahead, like a child going into a cellar, but if one feared the 
 dark, then the thing would become intolerable. It would add 
 terrors that were not there and deprive one of the power to 
 deal with the things that were. 
 
 What was it Helen had asked? How many Christmas days 
 would there be for us? Granting three score and ten as the 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 169 
 
 limit, there should be not less than fifty such days. Fifty times 
 to remember all that today meant to us. "I wonder why most 
 stories stop when they are married?" I asked myself. "Don't 
 they dare tell the rest of it?" Reason refused to make any 
 comment, for Reason, too, was baffled by that mystery of the 
 future. 
 
 Christmas dinner was a solemn family function held at three 
 o'clock in the afternoon. Besides Helen, Mrs. Claybourne, Mr. 
 Claybourne, and me, there were Helen's Uncle Peter, from 
 Dayton, Ohio, and his wife. Uncle Peter and Aunt Ethel had 
 come to Deep Harbor with a double motive — to spend Christ- 
 mas and to inspect the potential nephew-in-law. Uncle Peter 
 was affable and jocose, slightly older than his brother, Mr. 
 Claybourne, but similar in type. He had not quite the same 
 force of character or skill in business, I decided after hearing 
 one of his anecdotes. Anecdotes are a sore betrayer of man's 
 mental make-up. They should be told only by persons who 
 have nothing to fear from self-revelation. Aunt Ethel was a 
 woman of firmness and impregnable self-complacency. "In 
 Dayton we — " was her regular introduction to the simplest 
 statement. She wore gold-bowed invisible glasses and had 
 pastry-coloured hair. Of the two I immediately plumped for 
 Uncle Peter and his anecdotes. They were more reassuring 
 than Aunt Ethel's views upon conduct. 
 
 Mrs. Claybourne had marvellously recovered from the day 
 before. She was in a mood as closely approximating the 
 cheerful as one could expect. In fact, I had never before seen 
 her thus close to having a good time. The shortcomings of 
 Jane, the maid, seemed the only flies in her ointment. These 
 were gone over rather thoroughly with Aunt Ethel, but were 
 mostly out of the way by the time we sat down to dinner. Ac- 
 cording to Helen, Jane was a treasure who survived endless 
 faultfinding and nagging with the patience of a saint; in Mrs. 
 Claybourne's account, she was a wilful conspirator against the 
 tidiness, peace, and happiness of the whole house. The fact 
 
170 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 that Jane had been with the Claybournes three years seemed 
 to me evidence in favour of Helen's version. 
 
 The dinner was truly marvellous. There is no other word 
 to express it. Mr. Pickwick never fared better at Dingley 
 Dell. Such turkeys as America produces do not grow again 
 until heaven is reached. Before a fine specimen of this delec- 
 table bird was eaten on this day, Uncle Peter, rather vigorously 
 prompted by Aunt Ethel, said grace. Uncle Peter spoke the 
 kind of grace that one makes up as one goes along, and he 
 landed himself in a sentence from which there was no retreat, 
 either forward or backward. Just as Helen mischievously and 
 irreverently kicked me on the shin under the table, Uncle Peter 
 cut the Gordian knot of his rhetoric by a loud "Amen." My 
 laugh, therefore, did no damage to the proprieties. Helen and 
 I were too light-hearted and hungry to be abashed by any 
 amount of family. Excitement had spoiled our appetites on 
 the day before, but now there was no stopping us. We laughed 
 so loudly at Uncle Peter's anecdotes that he gave himself an en- 
 core on several of them, and we clearly were his firm friends. 
 Our plates went back for turkey and cranberry sauce again and 
 again. Mr. Claybourne produced his champagne and ran 
 through all his favourite toasts. Mrs. Claybourne smiled at 
 least three times. Aunt Ethel declined champagne with great 
 firmness, and her eye upon Uncle Peter noticeably reduced the 
 quantity he would have drunk. He had to snatch it in nervous 
 sips when his wife seemed most engaged. He was, therefore, 
 always a glass behind Mr. Claybourne and me. I grew reck- 
 less enough, in spite of a severe shin kick from Helen, to pro- 
 pose Aunt Ethel's health. Uncle Peter enthusiastically sec- 
 onded me, seeing a chance to get down a whole glass, and Mr. 
 Claybourne joined in. Aunt Ethel was compelled to acknowl- 
 edge the compliment with rather a frigid bow, and I gathered 
 that "we in Dayton" didn't drink many toasts in champagne. 
 
 After dinner Uncle Peter forced one of his black cigars upon 
 me and imperilled all the structure of good feeling the dinner 
 had built up in me. Deep Harbor gave me many opportunities 
 to curse the proximity of the island of Cubs to the United 
 
OUR FIRST CHRISTMAS 171 
 
 States. In spite of the cigar, Helen and I skipped away, under 
 a volley of Uncle Peter's winks, and sat down to talk things 
 over. 
 
 "Do you feel any more engaged than you did yesterday?" 
 I asked. 
 
 Helen smiled and turned over the pages of a book I had 
 given her. "Yesterday," she replied, "the family tolerated 
 us, but really ignored the fact of our engagement. Today they 
 regard it as something that has actually happened — and all 
 because we sat at table with a lot of friends and told them 
 what they knew already." 
 
 "The world, it appears to me, is conducted by a series of 
 meaningless ceremonies," I remarked in my wise manner. "It 
 will be the same over our marriage. Nothing could make us 
 mean any more to each other than we do now — but the family 
 will attach great importance to the marriage." 
 
 "Don't be silly, Ted," said Helen, — unexpectedly, to me, 
 taking the side of convention. "Of course they will. We have 
 to be married." 
 
 "I'm not arguing against it," If said, and Helen gently slapped 
 me. "But I wonder why?" 
 
 "My mother," Helen answered simply, "has a genuine belief 
 in the ceremony of the church. To her, marriage is a sacra- 
 ment." 
 
 "And what do you think?" I queried. 
 
 Helen looked out of the window thoughtfully. "I don't 
 know, Ted dear. I felt it was a sacrament when I opened my 
 eyes, after the horse fell with me, and I found you holding me 
 in your arms. I know then that nothing on earth could make 
 us belong any more to each other than we did then. I think 
 that would have been all I should have asked — just to 
 know you loved me." 
 
 "That is all I want to know, Helen dear," I said, taking her 
 in my arms. "But of course we shall get married according to 
 the rules." 
 
 "You delicious idiot," Helen laughed, "of course we shall. 
 Can you imagine Deep Harbor, if we didn't?" 
 
172 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 The prospect was dazzling to the imagination. Miss Her- 
 shey and the daily Eagle between them — I laughed at the 
 thought. 
 
 "I wouldn't do anything to hurt dad," Helen added softly, 
 and I again held her close. 
 
 "I was only moralizing on this question of ceremonies, Helen 
 precious," I whispered. "It has always amazed me that peo- 
 ple attach such great value to them. I suppose it is, after all, 
 because ceremonies have to be public, and they are thus a pub- 
 lic acknowledgement of assumed obligations." 
 
 "If the church means anything to you, then its sanction must 
 be a tremendous comfort," Helen mused. "I sometimes wish 
 I knew what I believed, don't you, Ted?" 
 
 "I am trying to find out, but I don't know. Sometimes I 
 think chemistry is the key to the mystery — and then it isn't. 
 Chemistry didn't make your grey eyes, sweetheart. There is a 
 Helen in them that no chemistry made." 
 
 "I don't think chemistry made Ted, either," she smiled shyly. 
 "For if it did, he would be more logical." 
 
 "There's a nasty knock in that somewhere, young lady," I 
 said in mock anger, "but I'm blest if I know where it is." 
 
 "I never know," she came back inconsequentially, "whether 
 I love you more when you don't think, or when you tangle your- 
 self up in whimsies trying to think." 
 
 "Neither of us has the faintest idea what truth is" — I began, 
 preparing another disquisition. She cut me short: "No, Ted, 
 we haven't. We begin life with just one certain fact and no 
 more." 
 
 "What is that certain fact?" I asked. 
 
 "Can you ask, Ted? We love each other — that's all we 
 know." 
 
 "It's enough," I said, kissing her mouth. She smiled at me, 
 her face close. 
 
 "We'll begin with that, Ted darling." 
 
Chapter Eleven 
 we seek and obtain consent 
 
 DURING that winter and early spring the business, under 
 Knowlton's shrewd management, was making good pro- 
 gress. It was clear that, although it would take a much 
 greater investment of capital to turn the factory into a producer 
 of fortunes, nevertheless the plant was now on the way to be- 
 coming a steady income-maker for its owners. Knowlton 
 thought it might be possible to get local capital and expand; 
 he exchanged several letters and cables with my father in Lon- 
 don on the subject. One day authorization came to him to go 
 ahead. 
 
 "That will be one of your jobs, Ted," he remarked to me one 
 evening in my room, as he tossed over my father's cable for me 
 to read. 
 
 "What will?" I asked. 
 
 "Going around and talking to our local magnates. They are 
 all your social friends out at the country club. Let's see what 
 your friends are worth to you," and he grinned one of his 
 favourite grins. 
 
 "H'm," I said, studying the cable. "What have we got to put 
 up to them?" 
 
 "Listen to Teddy," shouted Knowlton, chuckling. "Talking 
 like a regular business man! You wouldn't have used that 
 language six months ago." 
 
 "I am beginning to pick up a few scraps of the vernacular," 
 I retorted, a little nettled. Knowlton grinned number two 
 grin. He proceeded to lecture me on the present merits and 
 future possibilities of our company. It was all to be put 
 down in black and white for me to study, with what he called 
 "the best talking points" underlined. 
 
 173 
 
174 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Go after them hard," he advised at the conclusion. "Don't 
 take 'no' for an answer, and don't be afraid of their questions. 
 We are as promising-looking an outfit as there is in town. 
 Why, they ought to swing this thing for us as a matter of local 
 pride. We'll bring money to the place." 
 
 "Since we are making a fairly good thing of it as we stand, 
 why not leave well enough alone?" I queried by way of final 
 objection. 
 
 "My boy, it can't be done. If you try to stand still, you 
 only slide down hill. It's a law of business. Get on or get 
 out — that's our American jungle law. Besides, it's a question 
 now of obeying the old man's orders." 
 
 "You mean my father?" I suggested. 
 
 Knowlton grinned: "I beg your pardon. It's our masterV 
 voice." 
 
 I got up and hunted for my tobacco. "The devil with you. 
 Knowlton, is that every time I begin to imagine everything i» 
 all right, you have some infernal new anxiety to thrust under 
 my nose." 
 
 "Shove your pipe under it instead and shut up," he laughed. 
 "That's life, my boy. You can't sit it out in a rocking chair. 
 If you try, they take away the front porch from under you 
 when you aren't looking." 
 
 I filled my pipe and studied Knowlton's face as I did so. It 
 came to me with a start that I had been taking him for granted 
 for several months now. I no longer analysed him, or tried to, 
 as I had done at first. Suppose Knowlton was not himself on 
 the square and I had been careless? The idea was disturbing. 
 There he sat, characteristically enough, with his legs crossed? 
 the tips of his fingers together, a big cigar in his mouth, and 
 his sharp eyes puckered at the corners with crows' feet. He 
 was oblivious to my scrunity, for he was turning over the new 
 proposition in his mind. He could day dream in arithmetic as 
 a poet could upon hearing the song of a lark. His face was 
 hard, but there was a rugged honesty in it, a touch of the old 
 Scots' stock from which he sprang, with the superimposed 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 175 
 
 keenness and alertness of the trail-following American. Be- 
 sides, I remembered his confidences to me that Christmas Eve 
 out at the country club. He too was a sentimentalist — and 
 such as we, who are sentimentalists, are apt to be dishonest 
 only to ourselves or to those we love; the money form of dis- 
 honesty is abhorrent to an emotional man. Knowlton was of 
 the common type who masked deep feeling by an outward 
 hard glamour of efficiency. I must have gone on too long 
 staring at him, for he suddenly turned around with a slight 
 narrowing of the eyes. 
 
 "Wondering if I am big enough for the job, Ted?" he asked 
 casually, as he tried to remedy the faulty burning of his cigar. 
 "I wondered it about you. It's only fair for you to have your 
 turn," he went on. 
 
 "I don't know," I answered. "I don't know whether either of 
 us is. It's a big responsibility we are starting out to face." 
 
 "Everything is. It's a responsibility to buy a basketful of 
 hot dogs and sell them at a street corner. It might rain," he 
 countered. 
 
 "I know," I laughed. "Hotspur said the same thing." 
 
 "Shakespeare again?" 
 
 I nodded. He suddenly laid down his cigar. "By God, 
 Ted," he exclaimed, "were you thinking I might not be on the 
 square?" 
 
 I hesitated for a second, puzzled. Either he was a very 
 clever man, or — I did not know what to think. 
 
 "You once told me to take no one for granted," I fumbled 
 slowly, "if it was a question of business. There were to be no 
 exceptions, you said." I, saw the twinkle gathering in the cor- 
 ners of his eyes. "I've known you, Knowlton, nine months, 
 but I don't know very much about you." 
 
 He laughed long and loud. "That's having a man's teach- 
 ing come home and howl on his own doorstep!" he laughed. 
 "Sometimes, Ted, I think you are the biggest damn fool I ever 
 knew, and then you'll do something else, and I say, 'No, cuss it 
 all, the boy has brains after all.' " 
 
176 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Meaning that now I am in the damn fool stage?" I 
 snorted, rather irritated. He had a way of making one feel as 
 if he held one in his hand. 
 
 "It penetrates," he shouted. "The boy is getting intelligent 
 again," and he laughed some more. "Ted," he said, growing 
 instantly serious, "since I earned my first dollar, you are the 
 only man who has ever to my face doubted my honesty." He 
 went off into a laugh again. "And to think," he roared, "that 
 I promised myself that I'd bust the first one who did on the 
 nose." 
 
 I pulled at my pipe, waiting for him to finish. I was con- 
 scious of an unpleasant glow at the back of my neck. 
 
 "Ted, you raised this issue. Let's have it out." I waved 
 my pipe deprecatingly. "No, sir," he went on, "you asked for 
 a dog fight. We'll have one. Have you ever studied the books 
 of the company?" 
 
 "No," I muttered. "It wouldn't do me any good if I did. I 
 don't know bookkeeping." 
 
 A trace of a grin returned to his face. "Well, you can hire 
 chartered accountants to do it for you," he said. "If ever you 
 do look at them, you will discover that I am a salaried man and 
 haven't one penny interest in this company except the profes- 
 sional one of making good on a job." 
 
 I was out of my depth and lacked the technical vocabulary 
 to make a suitable reply. 
 
 "Now, Ted, if we do put over this new proposition, all it will 
 mean to me will be a letter of thanks from your father. I 
 mean, legally speaking, I'll have no special claims for anything 
 I do. I have no financial interest at stake except the purely 
 human one of making a good job a better one." 
 
 I got up and held out my hand. "I'm sorry, Knowlton." 
 
 His old grin returned as he took my hand. "It's all right, 
 kid," he said. "I'm glad you're learning." 
 
 Deep Harbor I suspected to be a difficult spot in which to do 
 new financing. Probably our absentee ownership would be a 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 177 
 
 handicap. I went first to Mr. Claybourne to ask his advice. 
 He received me in his little office, which was upstairs in his own 
 factory. His face grew serious as he listened to me, and I saw 
 him watching a switch-engine through the window. 
 
 "I don't know, Ted," he said at length, after my story was 
 done. "I'll be frank with you. This isn't the time to think of 
 you as a future son-in-law. We are talking now about Deep 
 Harbor and business. We don't know much about you. The 
 company is directed from London. We don't like that. On 
 the grounds we have you and Knowlton. Now I dare say you 
 are all right as a chemist, Ted — out in your laboratory. But 
 you don't know any more about American business than a babe 
 unborn." 
 
 "That leaves Knowlton," I suggested. 
 
 "Yes, that leaves Knowlton," he echoed. "Knowlton is a 
 salaried man. He has no financial interest in your concern. 
 Supposing some one offers him a bigger salary and he ups 
 and leaves you. Where would you be?" 
 
 "Knowlton?" I gasped incredulously. "Leave us?" 
 
 "It has happened," said Mr. Claybourne drily. "And after 
 all, why not? Why should Knowlton stick with you, if he can 
 make more somewhere else?" 
 
 "But — but loyalty," I protested, "good faith — a dozen things 
 make it out of the question ! " 
 
 Mr. Claybourne shook his head slowly. "Ted, you are going 
 to get some hard knocks some day. The world isn't run the 
 way you think it is. And I don't mean any discredit to Knowl- 
 ton, either. It would only be sound sense for him to jump at 
 a better offer." 
 
 My faith in Knowlton was unshaken, but I turned Mr. Clay- 
 bourne's words over in my mind. "If that is an objection," 
 I said at last, "I'll cable my father to give Knowlton an interest 
 in the business." 
 
 "You ought to have done that long ago," replied Mr. Clay- 
 bourne. "Well, Ted, I'm sorry I can't encourage you. Com- 
 ing to dinner tonight?" 
 
 From Mr. Claybourne's factory I walked straight to the tele- 
 
178 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 graph-and-cable office. "Do it now, as Knowlton would say," 
 I smiled to myself as I walked along the street. It was quite a 
 different thing for me to walk along Deep Harbor's streets 
 now from what it had been the first few months. It almost 
 seemed as if half the persons I met knew me. "Hello, Ted!" 
 passing men would call with cheery friendliness — from the bar- 
 ber at the Otooska House to the president of the country club, I 
 was "Ted." Young ladies waved friendly hands at me from 
 front porches, or would ask after Helen as I went by. It was 
 a curiously intimate town, where men often fought each other 
 bitterly in business and played golf together afterwards at the 
 country club. We had no secrets from each other, and the 
 young people wandered in and out of each other's homes a* 
 into clubs. It was a frightfully public way to live, and yet not 
 unpleasant. 
 
 There was a special free masonry among the men. They 
 knew each other's financial standing and bank account down to 
 the last cent. They also knew each other's business capacity 
 and reliability with astounding accuracy. One heard at the 
 club startlingly frank revelations about all that was going on, 
 and nothing that happened remained long unknown or undis- 
 cussed. There were some things talked about which did not 
 reach the ears of the women — whom So-and-so visited on his 
 last trip to New York, for example. The men knew and 
 laughed at much that their code kept from their wives. On the 
 whole, Deep Harbor was a reasonably moral place, in spite of 
 much cocktail drinking and free and easy manners. But there 
 were a few notorious exceptions. And others, less notorious, 
 indulged in occasional flings in distant towns. I never heard 
 of any "prominent citizen" who kept a double establishment in 
 Deep Harbor. A double life there meant a train j ourney. An 
 actual local scandal was a six months' wonder and carried 
 with it almost complete ostracism to boot. We had had a 
 few famous divorces, but none during my time. 
 
 I was thinking of all this as I walked to the telegraph office 
 on State Street. The greetings along the way had started me 
 on my train of thought. I was a long time wording my cable 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 179 
 
 to my father and still longer reducing it to a business code. A 
 cable or telegram in plain language was not advisable. Deep 
 Harboi knew everything, even the secrets you sent or received 
 by wire. I had been casually questioned more than once about 
 sending messages in code. One advantage of so thoroughly 
 transparent a glass house was that no one cared particularly 
 about casting stones. The infinite gossip of the men, while 
 frank and outspoken in its opinions, was rarely malicious. It 
 was simply that a naked truth, deprived of the last fig leaf, cir- 
 culated concerning every one. 
 
 "All right, Mr. Jevons," said the telegraph girl, as she took 
 my coded message. "Charge it to the company?" 
 
 "No — personal," I answered. Knowlton had a way of 
 making me account for every cable. A company cable had to 
 have a copy filed at the office. 
 
 "Shall I 'phone an answer out to the Claybournes'?" she 
 asked, as if it were a perfectly ordinary matter for her to have 
 an intimate knowledge of my evening movements. 
 
 "Yes," I said, for one got accustomed to Deep Harbor's ways, 
 "but make certain you give the reply to me in person. Do not 
 leave a message or 'phone it to any one else in the house." 
 
 I took the electric car out to the factory to report to Knowl- 
 ton. 
 
 "Claybourne is rather pessimistic," I began. 
 
 "He would be," said Knowlton. "He doesn't want to make 
 himself personally responsible for your campaign. If he were 
 first in, it would commit him to us as a venture which he was 
 backing. Almost too bad you are to be his son-in-law. It ties 
 his hands." 
 
 I said nothing about Mr. Claybourne's real objections. 
 
 Mr. Claybourne left early after dinner, as was his custom, 
 to play bridge at the club. Mrs. Claybourne knitted in the 
 front room, and Helen and I had thus our evening to ourselves. 
 Leonidas curled up on a goatskin rug and snored while we 
 alternately talked and read. Spring was coming on, although 
 
180 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 April, with its cold winds off the lake, was not very spring- 
 like. But the approach of spring made us look forward more 
 definitely to a possible date for our marriage. So far I had 
 not been able to gain my father's permission either to return 
 to England or to set an actual date for the wedding. He 
 hoped that it could be arranged by mid-summer. Beyond 
 that, he refused to commit himself. Helen thought June, as 
 the most conventional time, would probably please her mother 
 best. Already Mrs. Claybourne was threatening to go to the 
 coast of Maine at the end of June and carry Helen with her. 
 We knew that nothing but a definite date could forestall this 
 plan. We figured that we could almost live upon my salary, 
 but there were practical difficulties in the way of taking 
 temporary quarters, if we were going to England soon after- 
 wards. We were therefore a little reluctant to defy matters 
 and get married at once. At least, so Helen's commonsense 
 concluded. We could not afford to quarrel with either family, 
 and a matter of a few extra weeks seemed hardly worth general 
 displeasure. I agreed with Helen, chiefly because it never oc- 
 curred to me to disagree with her. We were each so sure of the 
 other's love that we did not pass through those agonies of 
 suspense, petty jealousies, and quarrels that seem to be, ac- 
 cording to novels, the stock-in-trade of lovers' conduct. We 
 were simply, insanely, and also calmly happy. We lived in 
 our own world, allowed no one across its threshold, and never 
 dreamed of stepping* outside it ourselves. Leonidas alone was 
 privileged to share our bliss. 
 
 As we sat and talked in whispers of the days to come, the 
 telephone bell rang. It was a cable from my father, and, like 
 mine, in code. The girl at the other end spelled it out to me 
 while Helen wrote it down. At last we had it all, and it was 
 a fairly long one. I walked into the hall to get my copy of 
 the code book, and discovered that I had left it at the telegraph 
 office. Helen scolded me roundly, for our evening was spoiled. 
 It meant that I had to go back down town after the book, and it 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 181 
 
 would then be too late to return. There was nothing for it 
 but to go. 
 
 The girl at the office was quite sorry for me. She had found 
 and kept my book. 
 
 "You might have sent it out by messenger," I said reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 "I thought of it, Mr. Jevons," she said, "but I didn't know 
 if you would want it that bad. A messenger costs thirty 
 cents." 
 
 "Yes," I agreed, "but some evenings are priceless." 
 
 With this rather flat remark, I left her. I went home to 
 decode the message at my leisure. Another postponement 
 awaited me there, for I found Knowlton ensconced in my study, 
 reading one of my books, his feet upon my table. He came 
 and went as he pleased at my rooms, an arrangement to which 
 I had never objected. But I could not tell him about my 
 father's cable until I knew what answer I ; had received. If 
 my father refused my suggestion, obviously I could not let 
 Knowlton know anything about it. He sat and talked until 
 well past midnight, while the unread cable burned a hole in 
 my pocket. 
 
 "By the way," said Knowlton suddenly, "a cable came 
 through for you this evening. Anything in it?" 
 
 "From the family," I replied, mentally damning Deep Har- 
 bor's skill in publicity. "But how did you know?" 
 
 Knowlton grinned. "I, happened to be sending a telegram, 
 and the young lady with the auburn hair mentioned that she 
 had just 'phoned one out to you at the Claybournes'. In code, 
 she said. Ijt was all by way of making conversation, Ted. 
 She thought I'd be interested to know. I,'ll bet she knows the 
 day I leave off my flannels and put on my summer underwear," 
 Knowlton added, with his trenchant vulgarity. He got upon 
 his feet, stretched himself, and said good-night. I saw him to 
 the door and well on his way to the Otooska House, and then 
 returned to my code book. I,t was a slow job. Each word in 
 the code stood for either a phrase or a complete sentence. I 
 
182 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 had to look each one up in the book and then fit the meanings 
 together, bit by bit, like a mosaic. At last the whole was 
 clear. I could hardly believe my eyes. Here is what I saw: 
 
 "Good offer received for sale of business. Cancel any sub- 
 scriptions of local capital. Give K. five per cent bonus net 
 proceeds above salary. Necessary papers follow first mail. T 
 [that meant me] sail England August first. Bring H." 
 
 And all because I was such a blithering, blistering idiot as to 
 leave my code book at the telegraph office, Helen missed hear- 
 ing the good news that night. .Twice my hand reached for the 
 telephone, and twice I paused. I couldn't call Helen up at 
 one-thirty in the morning, not even to tell her she was to be 
 married in July. At least, ^ couldn't with Mrs. Claybourne in 
 the house. It would have meant an all-night session of 
 hysterics, \ felt sure, and I had to spare Helen that. But I 
 could tell Knowlton ! I grabbed the telephone and demanded 
 the Otooska House until the central operator must have 
 thought there was a madman at the other end. At last I heard 
 Knowlton's sleepy voice. 
 
 "What the hell is it, Ted? Factory on fire or Prospero's 
 ghost haunting you?" 
 
 "Neither," I shouted at him. "I'm going to be married." 
 
 "Great God, kid, are you drunk?" he came back. "Go to 
 bed and let a man sleep. It's a dirty joke getting me up at 
 this hour." 
 
 "It's the cable from father — I've decoded it." 
 
 "Hello," his voice came sharper. "I knew darned well you 
 were lying to me earlier in the evening. What is it?" 
 
 "The business has been sold," I said, waiting to hear what 
 the effect would be. 
 
 There was a moment's pause; then his voice came steady. 
 "I'm glad to hear it, kid. I guess that means your uncle 
 Dudley is out of a job." 
 
 "No, it doesn't," I cut in, a little regretful that I had teased 
 him. "I'm instructed to pay you a bonus of five per cent of 
 the net proceeds over and above your salary. Looks as if my 
 father thought enough of you to put you on something else." 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 183 
 
 There was another pause — so long a one that Central almost 
 cut us off. 
 
 "Listen, kid," came Knowlton's voice, when vigorous pro- 
 tests from us both had restored connection again. "What did 
 you cable your father early this afternoon?" 
 
 "None of your darned business," I replied. "How did you 
 know I cabled him?" 
 
 "The auburn haired little bird whispered it to me when she 
 told me about the reply that came." I could almost feel 
 Knowlton's grin travelling over the wire to me. "What did 
 you say?" 
 
 "It's a long story. I'll tell you in the morning." 
 
 I heard him laugh. "You won't be at the factory in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Why?" I, asked. 
 
 "Because you'll be out on Myrtle Boulevard telling some 
 one the big news." 
 
 "Honest?" I said. "I can have the morning off?" 
 
 "Say," he came back, "for gosh' sake cut out this me-the- 
 boss stuff. I don't give a darn if you never come out again. 
 Yes, I do; I'll take that back. You'll tell me some time to- 
 morrow what you cabled your father, or I'll sit on the door 
 step at Myrtle Boulevard until I find out. Seriously, kid, one 
 day off, then we get things in shape to turn the works over. 
 No Norwood stunts for us. It'll be a healthy, going concern. 
 August, did you say? That gives us three months clear. 
 Put your back in it and give my love to Helen in the morn- 
 ing," and he hung up the receiver with a crash in my ear. 
 
 I thought sleep was going to be impossible that night, but 
 about four o'clock, as my mind seemed in a perfect welter 
 which defied all efforts at reduction to order, I fell into a 
 dreamless slumber. It was after eight when I awoke, with a 
 curse at myself for forgetting to set the alarm. After a hasty 
 shower and omitting breakfast I dashed out Myrtle Boulevard 
 as rapidly as decorum permitted. I arrived a little after nine. 
 
184 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Mr. Claybourne had already gone to his office. Mrs. Clay- 
 bourne was anything but pleased to see me at that hour. Her 
 forehead was still adorned with one or two iron clamps in 
 which her hair was tightly wound. I tried to get* past her 
 to call for Helen. Mrs. Claybourne was firm. Helen was as- 
 sisting Jane with the house work, and I was on no account to 
 disturb her. Besides, I ought to be out at the factory at work, 
 like other sensible men. It was bad enough my calling every 
 night. If I was to be underfoot in the morning, too, things 
 might just as well stop where they were. There was a limit to 
 a mother's patience. She was accustomed to the fact that 
 neither Helen nor I ever showed her the slightest considera- 
 tion, but there was a bound set up by decency which no one had 
 a right to cross, and that bound she would defend at all costs. 
 
 Not for anything would I have told her the object of my 
 call, until Helen had first heard the news, and I was ruefully 
 considering going home and telephoning Helen, when this 
 young lady herself stuck her head over the banisters. 
 
 "What in the world, Ted, are you quarrelling with mother 
 for just after breakfast? Come upstairs and be scolded at 
 once." 
 
 Mother let out a shocked "Helen! The rooms aren't done!" 
 but I bounded by her and upstairs before Mrs. Claybourne 
 could clutch me. Helen looked adorable in a boudoir cap 
 with little pink roses on it and a Japanese kimono that trailed 
 on the floor. 
 
 "Well," she said with mock severity, "what do you mean, 
 sir, by forcing your way into the house in this fashion?" 
 
 Belowstairs Mrs. Claybourne was repeatedly ordering me to 
 come down. I wondered how long I dared ignore her. 
 
 "Helen," I gasped, "I must see you alone — my father's cable 
 — 'the best news — urgent." 
 
 Helen caught my arm, and the strength of her grasp sur- 
 prised me. "Ted — you don't mean? — is it true?" 
 
 "Yes," I choked, "as soon as we can make all arrangements." 
 
 She planted a sudden kiss square on my mouth just as Mrs. 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 185 
 
 Claybourne toiled to the top of the stairs, in breathless and 
 exasperated pursuit. 
 
 "Helen, I'm surprised at you — and at Edward. You are 
 not properly dressed — go to your room at once." 
 
 By way of reply, Helen did the most surprising thing. She 
 deliberately kicked as high as the rather tight kimono would 
 permit, threw her arms around her mother's neck, and, frantic- 
 ally kissing her, bore Mrs. Claybourne heavily to ground in a 
 sitting posture on top of a cedar clothes chest. I had never 
 seen Helen before in a reckless state of high spirits. Mrs. 
 Claybourne energetically fought off her daughter's embraces. 
 
 "Helen Claybourne," she exclaimed, "don't you dare tell me 
 that you and Edward are going to be married. I, won't hear 
 it!" 
 
 "We are, mother, we are!" cried the excited child, and flung 
 her arms about me, leading me around the hall in a wild and 
 undignified dance. I feebly protested, fearing at least double- 
 woman-power hysterics from Mrs. Claybourne. But "mother" 
 was made of sterner stuff when it came to a pinch. Her lips 
 narrowed to an ominous straight line as she got upon her feet. 
 
 "Helen," she commanded in a changed tone of voice. "Go 
 to your room! Your father will deal with you presently. 
 Edward, you will oblige me by leaving my house instantly!" 
 
 Helen released me, for we saw that, in the phraseology of 
 Deep Harbor, Mrs. Claybourne "meant business." I bowed 
 and started downstairs. I looked back at Helen from the land- 
 ing, and over her mother's shoulder I saw her mouth form 
 silently the word "dad." I took the hint, going straight to Mr. 
 Claybourne's office as rapidly as I could get there. 
 
 I rather precipitately upset the office boy's theory of etiquette 
 and literally banged into his office. He was talking over 
 the telephone with a serious face. I realized that "mother" 
 had beaten me in reaching him, thanks to the curse of the 
 modern machine. 
 
 "Sit down, Edward, and keep quiet," he commanded, adding 
 through the mouthpiece, "Yes. He's here. He has just come." 
 
186 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 After what seemed an hour, although it was only a few min- 
 utes, he hung up the receiver. Not by a single word had he 
 indicated his own state of mind, but the look upon his face 
 made me most uneasy. 
 
 "Ted, you and Helen both show a. strange lack of apprecia- 
 tion for a mother's point of view," he began, and I thought, "O 
 Lord, I'm in for a sermon on filial conduct." "I grant you 
 mother is very nervous and difficult to handle, but a little show 
 of affection, a little tact even, would work wonders." 
 
 We sat in silence for a moment. I felt rather uncomfortable. 
 
 "What possible excuse have you," he went on, "for going out 
 to my house early in the morning and upsetting Helen's mother 
 when I wasn't there?" 
 
 "I wished to see Helen. I've had an important cable from 
 my father, and I didn't stop to think of anything else." 
 
 He adjusted his glasses carefully. "No," he said, "you and 
 Helen never stop to think of any one but yourselves. Show me 
 your father's cable." 
 
 I laid my copy before him. He read it slowly, turning it 
 over once or twice. Then he handed it back to me. 
 
 "I suppose it is useless to ask you to wait until Helen is 
 twenty-one," he said, peering at me over his glasses. 
 
 "Quite," I answered firmly, for I began to feel it was time 
 we spoke for ourselves and ceased to play children to please 
 the family. 
 
 "I suppose you know that in this state a minor has to have 
 the consent of her parents before she can be married?" he said, 
 still looking steadily at me. 
 
 "Yes." I spoke rather impudently. "Helen and I looked 
 up the law for ourselves. But there is another state not far 
 away where eighteen is the legal age." 
 
 "You will do me a favour if you do not speak in that tone." 
 It was not often that he spoke sharply. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," I, apologized. "Helen and I intend to 
 get married — that's all I meant to imply." 
 
 'Ted" — he relaxed just a little — "when I gave my consent to 
 your engagement, I did so with the understanding that you 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 187 
 
 two children loved each other and intended to marry. I am 
 sorry, more sorry than I can tell you or than either of you 
 would understand, that it has happened when Helen is so 
 young. Only last year she was at school," and he looked out 
 the window at the dusty street. "I want my daughter to be 
 happy — " he paused. "There isn't a great deal of happiness 
 to be found in this world, Ted. I want her to have her share — 
 that's all." Once more he paused. "As for the date of the 
 wedding, you must settle that with Helen's mother. Your 
 father expects you in August?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," I replied, getting to my feet. 
 
 "I suppose that means it will have to be the end of July. 
 Ted, you are asking a great deal of me — she's all the happiness 
 I have." He looked around at his office. "I've never refused 
 her anything she's asked — if I could give it her. I shan't 
 now," and he held out his hand. I could think of nothing to 
 say, except silly-sounding words, so I said nothing, but took his 
 hand. 
 
 "I think I can trust her to you, Ted — that's all I'll say about 
 you, and I could hardly say more," he added. "I've got to 
 clear up the morning's mail. And Ted, when you come out 
 to dinner tonight — be as nice as you know how to Helen's 
 mother. Tell Helen, too. It will pay." 
 
 "Mr. Claybourne — ," I stammered, turning at the door. 
 
 "Don't try to say it, Ted," he called cheerily from his desk. 
 "I guess I know. I love Helen, too." He pretended to write 
 as if a matter of urgency were before him. I watched him for 
 a moment more, cursing words for their feebleness, and went.. 
 
 I called Helen up from the nearest telephone pay-station to 
 give her a summary of her father's talk, but again I had been 
 forestalled. He had talked to his daughter direct from his. 
 desk, as soon as I left. A few words only, but he had told her 
 it was "all right." Meanwhile, it seemed, "mother" had issued 
 an ultimatum that I was not to be admitted to the house 
 again. It would be necessary for me to come in through the 
 kitchen, Helen giggled over the telephone, or else to climb over 
 the railing of the side porch. There was no use in my coming 
 
188 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 at all until her father returned at dinner-time. We agreed to 
 make the best of our temporary separation. 
 
 I went next to Knowlton's office. 
 
 "Have you set the day?" he grinned, as I entered. 
 
 "Don't be an ass, Knowlton," I answered, taking the visitor's 
 chair. 
 
 "How's 'mother'?" he went on, ignoring my admonition. 
 "Did she raise the roof?" 
 
 I laughed, for Knowlton had an annoyingly successful way 
 of disarming one's dignity by hitting upon the exact truth. We 
 went into a minute examination of the company's affairs, after 
 this preliminary. Or rather Knowlton explained while X 
 listened. The stock was held by a small group of men, of 
 whom my father was the principal and the majority stock- 
 holder. Selling the company was, therefore, a simple matter 
 of the transfer of the stock to a new owner. We had neither 
 bonds nor mortgages, and we had paid off our indebtedness to 
 the bank in March. Our business was showing a healthy 
 growth, and the ultimate value of our chemical patents would 
 be considerable, if additional capital were put up for develop- 
 ment work. As Knowlton said: "At any price within reason, 
 this outfit is a damned good buy." 
 
 Until further letters and papers arrived, we had, of course, 
 no knowledge of who the new owners were to be. 
 
 "Well," remarked Knowlton, at the end of his summary, 
 "our little job in Deep Harbor is nearly over. Remember 
 how you hated to come out here? It isn't such a bad place, is 
 it? Old Helene, Prosper o's gymnastic friend, wasn't so far 
 wrong when she said 'Home is where you find it,' eh, Ted?" 
 
 I nodded in agreement. I couldn't talk about things I felt 
 the way he could. Once more he grinned. "Now, Ted. What 
 did you cable your father yesterday?" 
 
 Briefly I told him of my talk with Mr. Claybourne and the 
 latter's suggestion that, as Knowlton had no interest in the 
 business, he might leave us. Knowlton's face clouded when I 
 had ended my story. 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 189 
 
 "So Claybourne told you I might play the skunk and leave 
 you flat, eh?" 
 
 I tried to soften this epitome of Mr. Claybourne's remarks. 
 After a second or two, Knowlton's grin returned. 
 
 "It would be plain murder to leave you in Deep Harbor with 
 a factory on your hands. No, sir, you can always count on six 
 months' notice from me, if you need it. And under the cir- 
 cumstances I won't touch a cent of your father's bonus. He's 
 sending it under false pretences." 
 
 I had much argument to convince Knowlton that we were 
 not doubting his good faith. It was simple justice, I ex- 
 plained. The company owed everything to his ability and 
 good service, from the time he discovered that Norwood had 
 sold us a rather prettily plated gold brick to the success which 
 out of all difficulties had since been achieved. We ended with 
 a compromise: he would himself send my father a complete 
 statement of the matter from his point of view, and if, after 
 that, my father thought the bonus earned, then it would be 
 accepted. 
 
 "I'm not going to push good money out into the yard, Ted," 
 he concluded. "All I, want to know first is whether or not it's 
 mine. You meant well, but you may have given your father 
 the idea I'm trying to hold you people up." 
 
 That evening Mr. Claybourne himself opened the door for 
 me when I rang. 
 
 "Come right in, Ted," he greeted me cheerfully. "Don't 
 worry if mother doesn't act very pleased to see you. We'll 
 bring her around in time." 
 
 Once inside, I found Mrs. Claybourne sitting red-eyed upon 
 the sofa, flanked by Miss Hershey on one side and Helen on 
 the other. The air was slightly electrical; I walked gingerly 
 for fear of touching something off. From Helen's eyes mis- 
 chief gleamed as she sent a welcoming smile in my direction. 
 
 At dinner the vext subject was not mentioned. Mrs. Clay- 
 bourne steadily refused food; otherwise we all tried to act as 
 if nothing unusual was toward. Helen sat next me, and her 
 
190 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 foot played a silent and sympathetic tattoo upon mine all 
 through the meal. Mr. Claybourne read the evening paper, 
 or pretended to. Miss Hershey gave an occasional sigh to in- 
 dicate that her sympathies were entirely with Mrs. Claybourne. 
 Helen and I ate with splendid appetites. 
 
 After dinner we seated ourselves in a solemn circle in the 
 drawing room — a disposition of the .household that revealed a 
 careful plan on Mr. Claybourne's part. 
 
 "Now, mother," he began to his wife when we were all seated, 
 "these two young people want to get married." 
 
 At this simple statement of fact Mrs. Claybourne collapsed. 
 Through many sobs Miss Hershey at last inserted a bottle of 
 smelling salts. Mr. Claybourne waited patiently for the first 
 paroxysm to pass. I held Helen's hand. 
 
 s Tt will have to be some time in July," Mr. Claybourne re- 
 sumed, "as Ted's father has ordered him to sail for England 
 on August first." 
 
 "I — I — didn't expect you to turn against me too," sobbed and 
 choked Mrs. Claybourne, "and stand by while our only da — 
 daughter was ca — carried off to — to England." 
 
 Mr. Claybourne returned gently and patiently to the attack. 
 "Now, mother, we went all through this before when they were 
 engaged. It is natural for two engaged people to get married." 
 
 "N — not when one of them is a ch — child," she wailed. "I'll 
 never consent — never — not until Helen is twenty-one." 
 
 There was a lot more of this, but it was repetition of the 
 same statements and objections. By some mysterious process 
 of feminine tact, Helen inserted the date of July 30th into the 
 discussion, and to my intense and overwhelming amazement, 
 Mrs. Claybourne suddenly sat up and announced that there 
 wasn't a moment to lose. True, this was at the end of about 
 two hours' futile struggle; nevertheless it was the unexpected- 
 ness of the surrender that left me speechless. Mrs. Clay- 
 bourne at once launched into the subject next nearest her 
 heart — clothes; her own imaginary ailments were number one. 
 
 Helen entered the debate in earnest at this point, and once 
 
WE SEEK AND OBTAIN CONSENT 191 
 
 more I was surprised, this time at Helen's powers of argument. 
 
 In the middle of this new controversy, which was after all 
 but guerilla righting now the main action had been won, Mr. 
 Claybourne arose and announced his departure for the club. 
 As I seemed to have no share in what was going on, I likewise 
 deemed it prudent to go. 
 
 "Poor Ted," whispered Helen to me at the door, "I feel 
 awfully sorry for you. You've been a lamb." 
 
 With this enigmatic compliment and a kiss, I was thrust into 
 the night at Mr. Claybourne's side. 
 
 "Thank you," I said lamely, as we parted at the corner of 
 State Street. 
 
 "Good-night, Ted. It's been quite a day's work." 
 
 Mine wasn't over. I sat up half the night writing a letter 
 to my father. That was hard, too. 
 
Chapter Twelve 
 we pass an ordeal and sail for home 
 
 THE warm days of May and June found Helen and me 
 again riding over the low rolling country back of Deep 
 Harbor. At least, that is what we did on Saturday and 
 Sunday afternoons. On other days we rode at night, not with- 
 out protest from Mrs. Claybourne. Fortunately, however, the 
 trousseau kept her too deeply employed to offer much re- 
 sistance. 
 
 Spring in that country was the same joy and wonder that it 
 is in England. The fields stayed brown longer, perhaps, for 
 vineyards are slow in coming into leaf, and Indian corn is not 
 planted until late. The woods made up for any delay of the 
 open fields. Such brilliant, tender greens of ferns and mosses, 
 such strange and overpowering scents from grasses and leafy 
 hollows! To be sure, we watched the panorama of spring and 
 early summer with lovers' eyes, but I defy any one not to find 
 that countryside an earthly paradise. 
 
 And at night, even in the darkness when there was no 
 moon, we rode miles through velvety black, rich with the 
 odours of growing things. Dogs would bark at our horses 
 from farm-yard gates as we passed, and sleeping cattle near 
 the road would lift drowsy heads in surprise at the sound 
 of our horses' hoofs. There were no motor-cars to come roar- 
 ing down at us from around corners with dazzling glare of 
 monster eyes, or so few that they were not met on back 
 country roads. We could ride on with loose rein, certain 
 no danger was ahead. It was on these rides that we could 
 really talk and get to know one another. Not that we had 
 rushed at love in the autumn, ignorant of what we did. Yet 
 it seemed as if each day we found new depths to explore 
 and grew nearer to one another the further we went. 
 
 192 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 193 
 
 I can remember little of what we said or of what subjects 
 we talked about. Much of it was lovers' talk, sometimes 
 too absurd or trivial to put down in black and white, or else 
 too sacred to come staring at one from the pages of a narra- 
 tive. At other times we spoke of that future, now so near 
 us, and built dream plans — a little cottage with a red-tiled 
 roof to be somewhere in Hertfordshire, with a vegetable gar- 
 den and standard rose trees; or again, we wandered in fancy 
 through the mysteries of London, buying books off a stall in 
 the Farringdon Road or sitting in some old church near the 
 crossed feet of a Crusader. It was I who built up for her 
 the dream pictures of England — the England of my child- 
 hood — the London which, once it is in one's blood, is there 
 forever. Helen had never been abroad, and to her my sto- 
 ries were like those Othello told to Desdemona. She learned 
 to know England in imagination and came to speak familiarly 
 of it, as if she herself had grown up on its soil. 
 
 And yet we both loved America too. From a hilltop in 
 May, looking across miles of open country to the blue lake, 
 our hearts would swell with joy that so fair a land was ours. 
 England was to be our country of adventure, in which, side 
 by side, we were to seek fame and do our allotted task in 
 life. We thought no less of one country for the joy with 
 which we looked forward to the other. 
 
 On the first of July Knowlton and I turned the factory over 
 to the representatives of the new owners. They were a New 
 York corporation, and I was rather amused to observe that 
 the general manager arrived with the same chip on his 
 shoulder for Deep Harbor that I had first carried. He was a 
 little, fussy man of about thirty-five, with a brown Van Dyke 
 beard, and he asked me, with a haughty air, if I knew where 
 there was anything fit to eat to be found. 
 
 "You have had breakfast at Shaefer's," I said. I could 
 see Knowlton's grin over the corner of my shoulder. We 
 were in his office at the factory. 
 
 "I have," Mr. Ebling replied, with a grimace. 
 
194 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "There is no place in Deep Harbor that calls itself a res- 
 taurant where you can get anything fit to eat, Mr. Ebling." 
 I uttered this solemnly. 
 
 "Good God!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "But if you will lunch with me today, I can promise you 
 •satisfaction. I can also arrange a card for you at the club. 
 It has a rather remarkable chef." 
 
 His gratitude was overpowering. Then we proceeded to 
 sign endless papers, with some exchanges of difficulties be- 
 tween the lawyers of each party. I had a full power of attor- 
 ney from my father to sign for him, and whenever a lawyer 
 said "Here, if you please," I wrote my name with a flourish. 
 At the end a certified check was handed to me, and I passed 
 it on to Knowlton. Then Knowlton and I stood up. Our 
 tenure was over. 
 
 As Mr. Ebling followed me out, I caught Knowlton stealing 
 a last look at his little office. He lingered a moment by the 
 shop door and watched the men at the machines, as we arrived 
 downstairs. Since we were still to be in Deep Harbor for 
 another month, there was no ceremony of saying good-bye. 
 Some of the men, nevertheless, came up to shake hands with 
 Knowlton and me. I hated to turn these workmen over to 
 another management, and I saw Knowlton was thinking the 
 same thing. He had built up an extraordinarily efficient and 
 loyal set of men, — "hand-picked," he called them. I had a 
 distinct impression that Mr. Ebling would not be so good a 
 man to work for. His Van Dyke beard was against him. 
 Also his eyes lacked a twinkle; in its stead was a look which 
 showed that Mr. Ebling was the most important object to be 
 considered. 
 
 The three of us walked away together, Mr. Ebling picking 
 his way with some displeasure through the choking dust of our 
 Twelfth Street. 
 
 "Where are we going, Ted? To the club?" Knowlton asked, 
 as I kept on down Twelfth Street. 
 
 "Mr. Claybourne was kind enough to suggest that the three 
 of us take luncheon with him at his residence. I thought we 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 195 
 
 could walk to Myrtle Boulevard and point out some of our 
 important plants to Mr. Ebling on the way. Over there," I 
 said, turning to Ebling, "is the Deep Harbor Packing Com- 
 pany. Beyond is the Lakeside Casting and Manufacturing 
 Company." 
 
 "Good God," exclaimed Mr. Ebling, stumbling over an 
 empty tin can that lay in the middle of the street. Knowlton's 
 grin widened and deepened. It grew positively diabolic as 
 Mr. Ebling took a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and be- 
 gan flicking dust from his spats. 
 
 "Don't they ever water this confounded street?" he asked. 
 
 "Never," I replied. "Wait until August — this is nothing." 
 
 "Is there no way we can ride?" he inquired at the end of an 
 interminable block of noisy and dirty buildings. 
 
 "The cars don't take us where we want to go," I replied. 
 "We can soon turn down Wintergreen Street, and then we are 
 almost there." 
 
 Knowlton, by now, was signalling me to be careful, but I 
 was having too much fun. "That is a model plant," I con- 
 tinued, like a cathedral guide. "It's the Deep Harbor 
 Wrought Iron Works. I understand that their power plant 
 holds the world's record for the number of pounds of water 
 evaporated per pound of coal." 
 
 Knowlton made a noise which sounded very much like a 
 suppressed snort. Mr. Ebling politely adjusted his pince-nez 
 and gazed at the brick walls. A freight train, the engine spit- 
 ting live cinders and greasy smoke, clanged up the street be- 
 tween us and the model plant. Mr. Ebling shook cinders 
 from his light grey Fedora hat, and wiped smut from his eyes. 
 
 I took mercy upon him at this point and turned down a 
 side street leading toward the residence section. 
 
 "Really," Mr. Ebling protested, as we came to Myrtle 
 Boulevard, "I'm not presentable enough to lunch with your 
 friends. Please tell me the way back to the hotel." I would 
 not hear of this, so he again made such a toilet as he could 
 with his handkerchief. I rang the bell at the Claybournes', 
 and in we went. Mr. Ebling's affability returned at once. 
 
196 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Mrs. Claybourne was gracious and Helen deliciously demure. 
 She sensed a joke somewhere from my manner, but could not 
 guess what it was. A cocktail made Mr. Ebling expand. I 
 could see another opinion of Deep Harbor visibly forming 
 itself in his mind. 
 
 "We've just come from the plant," I said, as we sat down. 
 
 "Then you transferred across town from the square," re- 
 marked Mrs. Claybourne. 
 
 "No, we walked," I interrupted hastily. "I wanted to point 
 out some of our plants to Mr. Ebling." 
 
 "Walked!" cried Mrs. Claybourne. 
 
 "I understood we could not get here except by walking," Mr. 
 Ebling said, raising his eyebrows. 
 
 "Ted, you must be crazy," Mr. Claybourne chuckled. "You 
 ride from your plant within a block of here every day." 
 
 "Ted thought Mr. Ebling would like to see the sights," 
 Knowlton spoke in my defence. 
 
 "Yes, very interesting place from a commercial point of 
 view. I enjoyed getting a general idea of the town." 
 
 Helen pinched me under the table, and I let out an unex- 
 pected "ouch." 
 
 "Helen!" said her mother. "What are you doing?" 
 
 "She pinched me and made me scream," I said. "It isn't 
 fair." 
 
 "Those two children are engaged, Mr. Ebling," Mr. Clay- 
 bourne interposed. "You'll have to pardon their bad 
 manners." 
 
 Mr. Ebling lifted his eyebrows again. "Really? I congrat- 
 ulate you." 
 
 After luncheon Mr. Claybourne took over Mr. Ebling, and 
 Knowlton carried me away to deposit our check at the bank. 
 It was part of the agreement that Knowlton and I should work 
 beside the new management for a month, until things ran 
 smoothly. 
 
 "Don't play any more kid tricks on Ebling, Ted," Knowlton 
 warned me as we parted at the bank. "You've done enough 
 for today." 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 197 
 
 The great day was approaching; sometimes it seemed with 
 great rapidity, and again I thought the end of the month would 
 never come. The trousseau, with all kinds of shopping and 
 trying things on, took up a great deal of Helen's time, and Mrs. 
 Claybourne banished me for days on end. I did a lot of 
 work in the laboratory, with the new chemist, to keep occupied, 
 but I found it hard to take work seriously. 
 
 One morning Mrs. Claybourne informed me that she had 
 made an appointment for me at eleven to call upon the minister 
 who was to marry us. I had no chance to find out from Helen 
 what this meant, but was bundled off to keep the engagement. 
 
 I entered his study with decidedly mixed feelings. It was 
 reminiscent of going to the dentist's. He was a tall, sandy- 
 haired elderly young man, with a fine but slightly stagey face. 
 "Could play jeune premiers just as he stands," I thought, as 
 he shook my hand and seated me in a deep leathern armchair. 
 
 "So you and Helen are to be married," he began, offering 
 me a cigarette. It did not put me at my ease. The only suit- 
 able reply I could think of was "Yes — on the thirtieth." I lit 
 the cigarette, hoping inspiration from it later. 
 
 "It is a solemn step you are taking," he continued. "Are 
 you sure you have thoroughly searched your hearts?" 
 
 "If you mean, do we love each other, I think there is no 
 doubt of it," I answered, the bristles on my back rising a 
 trifle. 
 
 "Did you know I went to your college?" he asked, shifting 
 the attack. 
 
 "No. What was your class?" 
 
 "Before your time, I think." He went on to tell me some 
 reminiscences of Hilltown in his day. He had been a 'varsity 
 half-back, and I remembered now the tradition of him that 
 came down to our crowd. I was annoyed to discover that I 
 was beginning to feel at ease. At last we reached the point. 
 Would I go to communion with Helen the Sunday before our 
 marriage? 
 
 I did not know what to say. I did not wish to hurt Mrs. 
 
198 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Claybourne's feelings, but I did not see how I could, in 
 honesty. I put my difficulty to him. 
 
 "My mother belongs to the Church of England," I explained, 
 "and it is the only one I have ever attended — except cathe- 
 drals on the Continent. But I don't know what I believe." 
 
 "Do any of us?" he said with a rather wonderful softness 
 in his eyes. "Do we have to believe anything? Isn't faith 
 enough?" 
 
 I thought for a while. "I don't wish to commit perjury," 
 1 said. 
 
 He smiled. "You have faith enough to believe it would 
 be perjury?" 
 
 "Or false pretences. Your church — the Episcopal — is a 
 great tradition — one I respect as I do our other English- 
 speaking traditions — all the things we stand for that make 
 up the decent things of this world. I value all of it too 
 much to lie about it. Don't you see? — I can't come to 
 communion, for it means too much to come dishonestly." 
 
 "You are very young, Edward," he smiled with his hand 
 on my shoulder. "Will you let an older man decide?" 
 
 "I wish I could," I said. 
 
 "If Helen comes, you surely won't stand aside?" 
 
 "But will she come? Have you asked her?" 
 
 His face clouded for a moment with a genuine look of pain. 
 
 "Don't you both wish to marry with clean hearts?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, "and we shall. That is why I can't 
 lie to please you." 
 
 I knew my retort was unfair, but I wanted him also 
 to see my side. He stood a while looking down at me. It 
 was clear there was nothing theatrical about this man's faith, 
 however like an actor he might look. I knew he wanted to 
 reach out to me and hold me with the faith that held him. 
 Yet I could not yield. Had he perhaps been less in earnest, 
 less sincere, I might have offered him lip-service for the sake 
 of peace. His very strength gave me strength to resist. 
 It had to be all or nothing. I got to my feet. 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 199 
 
 "I am sorry," I said, holding out my hand. 
 
 "I think you are, Edward," he answered, taking my hand 
 in a firm grip. "You'll not urge Helen against it?" 
 
 "Helen's conscience is her own." 
 
 "Come, that's a good beginning. And because you are 
 sorry to refuse, I have still hope." He smiled at me. I 
 shook my head. 
 
 "At any rate, you'll come to church next Sunday?" 
 
 "Yes" — and with this compromise we parted. 
 
 Helen's friends vied with one another in giving us small 
 dinner parties and dances during the last two weeks. There 
 was no limit to the hospitality of Deep Harbor, once you 
 were an accepted member of what was known as "the right 
 people." If I dropped into Mr. Claybourne's down-town club 
 of a late afternoon, a dozen crowded tables would invite 
 me to sit down, with the greeting "We're just ordering a 
 round, Ted. What will yours be?" I knew all the business 
 men and the younger crowd of my own age, but none of 
 them intimately. Knowlton, curiously enough, was on the 
 same footing of apparent welcome, but he had not been in- 
 vited to join either the country club or the down-town club. 
 Miss Hershey's refusal to vise his passport kept him an 
 outsider, even with the men. No one disliked him, and 
 there was a general appreciation of his business sagacity, 
 but he simply did not belong. I made several efforts to 
 break down these bars for Knowlton. It was useless; they 
 would not give way. 
 
 The whole social organization of Deep Harbor was an 
 interesting study in practical democracy. The inner circle 
 of business men, who seemed to treat a barber with the same 
 intimate friendliness that they did each other, nevertheless were 
 a close corporation into which it was not easy to gain ad- 
 mittance. The women were, of course, even more strict. 
 A few men belonged to the down-town club whom we never 
 saw at dinners or dances. There were only three streets on 
 
200 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 which it was permissible to live; Mrytle Boulevard was the 
 chief of these, but two more, parallel to it, were allowable. 
 On the connecting cross streets the newly married couples of 
 "the right people" lived in two-family houses, against the 
 day they would move to the important thoroughfare. A 
 house anywhere else was taboo, unless one went right out 
 into the country, on the country-club side of the town. It 
 was a matter of considerable uneasiness to Mrs. Claybourne 
 that my little study and bedroom was on the wrong side of 
 State Street. I heard from her that that had been also one 
 of the earlier objections to "taking me up." I had, however, 
 stuck to my rooms, for they were both comfortable and 
 inexpensive. 
 
 I do not pretend to know how the aristocracy of Deep Harbor 
 came into being. Success, which implied the possession of 
 brains as a corollary, coupled with long residence in the 
 town, appeared to be the general basis of it. On the other 
 hand, Knowlton had brains and had made a success of his 
 work; yet he was excluded. Furthermore, the men all ad- 
 mitted that he was "a thorough good fellow" and "a good 
 mixer," as they expressed it. I could see no logic in keeping 
 him out. The essence of an aristocracy, though, is the absence 
 of any logical premise for its elections. My position, of 
 course, was solely owing to the Claybournes. 
 
 But I must not permit my reflections on the social mys- 
 teries of Deep Harbor to interrupt too long the narrative of 
 events. A day came when our wedding was but three more 
 days away. It was the last time Helen and I could ride to- 
 gether over the hills. The final hours, according to Mrs. 
 Claybourne, were to be spent in such- frenzied preparations 
 as would entirely forbid my presence at the house, to say 
 nothing of riding. We determined to make the most of 
 this ride. We packed a luncheon, bought down-town, 
 summoned Leonidas, and rode forth. 
 
 We went slowly, a little stunned by the fact that this was 
 our last ride. Up the hill, past "Henery" Tyler's Five Mile 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 201 
 
 Farm, was our way, for we wanted to retrace all the steps 
 of that day which had opened our eyes. We stopped at 
 the Tylers' for a word of greeting. "Henery" was not at 
 home — he was "in the city somewheres, most likely as not 
 wastin' his time," but Mrs. Tyler was delighted to see us, 
 in spite of her momentary bitterness on the subject of 
 "Henery." 
 
 "He'll be down-right sorry to miss you young folks," 
 she said. "It's mighty nice of you to come 'way out here 
 to say good-bye. But Henery's always gallivantin' round when 
 he ought to be at home 'tending to the farm. Men is rest- 
 less creatures anyway, Miss Helen. Won't you come in and 
 set in the parlour? I've got some new milk cooling out in the 
 shed." 
 
 We accepted and dismounted. 
 
 "Walk right in and make yourselves to home. I guess 
 you better leave the dog outside. Dogs track up a house 
 so." 
 
 With a hasty apology for her thoughtlessness, Helen tied 
 Leonidas to the fence. We entered the familiar little room 
 with its horsehair furniture and the conch shells in a glass 
 case, and sat on the very sofa where Helen had lain that 
 evening with a wrenched knee. Mrs. Tyler disappeared in 
 search of the milk. In a few minutes she returned with 
 milk, a plate of cookies, and a jar of apple-butter. 
 
 "Kind of warm today," she rattled on, busy with her 
 offering of hospitality, "but I guess we've got to expect a 
 little hot weather in July. Milk's mighty refreshing on a 
 warm day, 'specially if you been exercisin'. Help yourself 
 to the apple-butter, Miss Helen. It's a good spread on 
 cookies." 
 
 We sat and ate, grateful for her genuine friendliness. Her 
 cookies would have taken a prize anywhere. 
 
 "Seems like it was only yesterday, Miss Helen, when you 
 used to be in short dresses and drive out by here with your 
 father on the way to the old cider mill. And to think of you 
 
202 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 gettin' married and goin' off across the ocean to live! Must 
 be pretty hard on your mother to lose her daughter that way. 
 'Tain't as if you was to have your home across the street. I 
 never had any children, so I ain't had to suffer. Sometimes 
 I think it's a blessin' when I hear of the goings-on of the 
 young folk today. Well, you never know how things might 
 have been. Takes all my time to keep up with what is. 
 It's the Lord's will, I tell Henery — He knows best. Take 
 another glass of milk, Miss Helen. There's plenty more 
 where that come from. Feed's gettin' scarce, though. It 
 dries up in this weather." 
 
 We chatted awhile with Mrs. Tyler — perhaps it would be 
 more accurate to say that we inserted with difficulty monosyl- 
 lables at intervals into her monologue — and finally persuaded 
 her to let us go. 
 
 A little further up the road we paused again at what we 
 thought was about the spot where Helen's horse had fallen 
 with her. We slid off our saddles and sat on the bank by 
 the roadside, staring at the patch of dusty road where the 
 miracle had been revealed to us. 
 
 "It seems years and years ago, Ted," Helen whispered. "I 
 can't remember very much back of it. I just feel as if we 
 had always known each other." 
 
 "In Avalon a day is a thousand years," I whispered back 
 as she put her head against my shoulder. "Count up the 
 number of days and see how many thousand years we have 
 lived." 
 
 Deep Harbor lay in a smoky haze below us, and the lake 
 beyond shimmered blue and silver in the July sun. The 
 yellow road went straight down the hill toward the town. 
 Across the distant fields the steam of a passing train trailed 
 across the tops of the trees. I watched Helen's grey eyes 
 staring at each familiar detail of her home — for the whole 
 lay spread at our feet. The grey deepened and turned a 
 little misty at last. 
 
 "Forgive me, Ted," she said, clinging tightly to me, "but 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 203 
 
 it hurts a little to go, even with you." I kissed her wet eyes 
 and said nothing. "I love you, Ted. I love you," and she 
 sobbed in my arms. 
 
 We ate our luncheon in the clearing by the wood. It 
 was too hot for a camp fire, and, as the sandwiches had 
 melted, Leonidas de la Patte Jaune ate more than we did. 
 Helen was back in her usual mood of high content. Her 
 laugh, at some clumsy antic of Leonidas or some word of 
 mine, rang again and again through the solitude of our hiding 
 place. The coming of dusk and the mosquitoes drove us out 
 at last. 
 
 "Another whole day of perfect happiness, Ted," she con- 
 fided, leaning across to me from her saddle. 
 
 Only Mrs. Claybourne was displeased; we were late for 
 dinner. 
 
 And then the great day came. I had thrown one last 
 defiance in Miss Hershey's teeth by selecting Knowlton to 
 be my best man. In spite of the grin he grinned when I 
 asked him, I saw that secretly he was pleased — perhaps a 
 little moved. He came round to my rooms early in the 
 morning to lend me aid and comfort, although the wedding 
 was not to be until two o'clock. 
 
 "Keep a stiff upper lip, Ted," was his greeting, as he un- 
 packed a breakfast of sorts from various pockets. He would 
 not hear of my going out for breakfast. "Shall I make some 
 coffee?" he asked, as he took my alcohol lamp apart. "Here's 
 a cantaloupe, just off the ice," and he banged a melon down 
 on the table. "Got a knife?" 
 
 I sat up in my pyjamas and surveyed his preparations. 
 
 "Fm not an invalid, Knowlton," I protested, as he tried to 
 make a slice of toast over a gas jet. "I don't know what 
 you conceive the functions of a best man to be, but I 
 did not ask for cooking to be included in the specifications. 
 In fact, I'm not certain that even Shaefer's wouldn't manage 
 breakfast better." 
 
204 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Go to hell, Ted. I learned to cook before you were 
 born," was his rejoinder. 
 
 "That puts me under no obligation to eat it," I retorted, 
 "especially as I wasn't present." 
 
 "Shave and shut up," he replied, unmoved. Another 
 slice of bread was suspended over the gas jet. I made my 
 toilet leisurely and, at the end, ate a slice of his asphyxiated 
 toast. The coffee was excellent, thanks to the ingeniousness 
 of the machine that made it. So was the cantaloupe — but 
 Knowlton had not made that, either. 
 
 "Knowlton," I said, with breakfast over, "when you make 
 toast for me, you try my friendship far." 
 
 ''You're an ungrateful hound. I've got your railroad 
 tickets to New York. Transportation for two." He empha- 
 sized the latter statement. "By No. 46 — the 5.02 P. M., 
 Eastern standard time." Deep Harbor used both Eastern 
 and Western time. 
 
 "Keep the tickets until I want them. One thing more. 
 Do you expect me to sit here until two o'clock talking to 
 you?" 
 
 Knowlton's ancient grin crinkled his eyes. "A little jumpy, 
 aren't we? Well, I don't blame you. Listen to today's 
 Eagle — it will soothe you. 'A marriage is to be solemnized 
 this afternoon, at two o'clock at St. Asaph's Episcopal 
 Church, Myrtle Boulevard, between Helen, daughter of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Claybourne of Myrtle Boulevard, and Edward Jevons, 
 of London, England. The social prominence of the young 
 people — Mr. Claybourne is one of the most prominent busi- 
 ness men of our lake city, the president of the Claybourne 
 Manufacturing Company, of Twelfth Street, and Mr. Jevons, 
 the prospective groom, is favourably known for his connection 
 with the Deep Harbor Manufacturing Company, lately ac- 
 quired by a New York corporation — lends unusual interest 
 to this affair. The Rev. Mr. Osborough will officiate. Decora- 
 tions by Deering. A reception to a few intimate friends 
 will follow at the Claybourne residence. Catering by 
 Podalsky and Rodenheim.' " 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 205 
 
 I threw a book at Knowlton, which he skilfully dodged. 
 
 "That's nothing to what Miss Barnes, who does the social 
 notes for the Eagle, will say tomorrow. You will be worth 
 9t least three quarters of a column — not front-page stuff, 
 of course, but the feature story under 'Society,' opposite 
 the woman's page," he continued, ignoring my threats. 
 
 At twelve I insisted upon going out to lunch. Knowlton 
 stuck with me. In the grill room of the Otooska House 
 — a lonesome spot, thronged only at night — we had a 
 steak, with which Knowlton drank a glass of milk. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Knowlton," I said over cigarettes, "that you 
 won't accept my father's offer and try your luck in England." 
 
 "I appreciate that, Ted. But I guess I belong over here. 
 I'm going to take my bonus money and set up for my- 
 self as a consultant in New York. A man better stick 
 to what he knows. If I went to London, I'd have to learn 
 all over again. It's different with you — you are going home. 
 I'm going to stay here." 
 
 A little before two, one of Deep Harbor's most elaborate 
 "hacks" deposited Knowlton and me at the awning-covered 
 approach to the portal of St. Asaph's. I remember that 
 there were a few curious onlookers standing on the pave- 
 ment outside, and inside, there seemed to be music and a 
 lot of vegetation. Beyond these blurred impressions I can 
 recollect nothing until I was aware that Helen was coming 
 down the aisle on her father's arm. It flashed across me 
 that Mrs. Claybourne must be weeping somewhere near. 
 Helen looked at me steadily through her veil, a deep and 
 wonderful grey in her eyes as she came on, and I know 
 I wanted to cry out, "Oh, damn this ceremony — let's bolt 
 for the station, dearest." We did as we had been instructed 
 — just what, I don't know, but the Reverend Mr. Osborough's 
 voice got under way promptly. It was in the air above me, 
 I felt. Helen wore a wreath of orange blossoms — not un- 
 usual for a bride, of course — but I loathed their scent, 
 
206 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 as I had ever since the day of my small-boyhood when a 
 flower girl under Charing Cross station in London had thrust 
 some beneath my nose. 
 
 The questions were beginning, and I made an effort to 
 pull myself together. What was my cue? I heard Osborough 
 whispering something under his breath. I had missed the 
 first response, and he was prompting me. Would Knowlton 
 grin? I couldn't look around. I stumbled through my lines, 
 and Knowlton came forward with the ring., Helen was 
 letter-perfect; not once did she fluff her lines or miss a bit 
 of stasre business. I admired her for it. We had to kneel 
 — side by side. I saw the ring on her finger — it must be 
 nearly over. We got up again — "Now!" I thought. No, 
 Osborough was off again. What was this about? A sermon 
 specially for our benefit — we were kneeling before the altar. 
 I blinked at the candles to avoid looking at Osborough. I 
 had hold of Helen's hand. I felt her press mine gently. 
 "She's kept her head — I knew she would!" I thought in 
 an ecstasy of delight over her self-control. "Probably knows 
 everything that's happening." Ah, the benediction at last 
 — obviously the finale; that isn't the right technical word. 
 We were standing up — Helen had thrown back her veil. 
 
 "Kiss me quick, Ted, before any one else gets to me," I 
 heard her say. I obeyed with great speed. Osborough was 
 next, then Knowlton — things were growing confused again, 
 and I'm not sure of my facts. There was a fearful uproar 
 from the organ, and we were very near it. We started back 
 down the aisle, Helen on my arm. Women peered into our 
 faces. I felt that there were a great many persons treading on 
 our heels — bridesmaids, some of them, and Knowlton mixed 
 up with them. I wanted to look around, but a strange woman 
 was glaring at me from a pew near at hand. What had 
 become of my hat? It mysteriously appeared again at the 
 door — out of the void a hand passed it to me. Helen and 
 I were wafted into a carriage — I am certain our own 
 legs had nothing to do with it — rice and confetti fell into 
 our laps — and the horses started with a jerk. 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 207 
 
 "Ted, we're married," Helen said, and laid her cheek 
 against mine. I closed my eyes and held her hand tightly. 
 Some things are hard to realize. There was a clamour in 
 my brain, and I couldn't think. The carriage stopped. The 
 Claybourne house was not over a few hundred yards from 
 the church. 
 
 Knowlton helped us out. "How the devil did you get 
 here ahead of us?" I asked in terrified surprise. His grin 
 returned. It was reassuring, like finding a link with home 
 when lost in a strange place. The unseen force took us up 
 the steps and into the house — more flowers and greens. We 
 were made to stand by the drawing-room doors, Knowlton 
 close behind me. Mr. and Mrs. Claybourne were next, and 
 there were embraces; Mr. Claybourne shook my hand and 
 clapped me on the back. Then floods of people — Uncle 
 Peter and his wife, with bridesmaids and ushers. The 
 ushers kissed Helen, and I had to kiss the bridesmaids. One 
 got kissed twice, and there was a great deal of laughter 
 at my expense. They were difficult to tell apart. In the 
 background several women were weeping. After it did not 
 seem possible I could kiss another girl — for all and sundry 
 followed the bridesmaids, while Helen was kept busy by the 
 male half of Deep Harbor — we sat down to what was called 
 a breakfast. 
 
 There was a large bride's cake and champagne, to say 
 nothing of Uncle Peter's speech. It was a funny speech: 
 that is to say, each word he uttered was received with roars 
 of laughter. I don't, myself, remember it. Plate after plate 
 of various foods were put in front of us by swarthy foreign 
 waiters, and whisked away again before I got around to eat. I 
 wasn't hungry. In the midst of a particularly noisy dem- 
 onstration I became aware that I was being called on for 
 a speech. 
 
 "Get up, Ted," Helen whispered. I got up, and my teeth 
 chattered, but no words flowed through them. Knowlton 
 handed me a glass of champagne, with a grin floating across 
 it. I said something; great applause and laughter. This 
 
208 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 was encouraging, considering I hadn't any idea what I had 
 said. I went on — more applause. I pulled Helen to her 
 feet, and we drank from the same glass of champagne as a 
 climax. Tremendous hit! We sat down. 
 
 Helen went upstairs to change to a travelling frock. From 
 the top of the stairs she tossed her bridal bouquet to the 
 bridesmaids. They tore it apart like a pack of hounds 
 making a kill. Knowlton led me away to another room to 
 dress, as a policeman might help a blind man across Pic- 
 cadilly Circus. Mysteriously to me, I found my own dressing 
 bag there and all my things laid out. Knowlton sat on 
 the bed and grinned at me as I struggled into the other 
 clothes. 
 
 "Pretty good for a somnambulist," he conceded when I had 
 done. 
 
 "Knowlton," I said, trying my best to make my true 
 feelings carry, "I don't know what I should have done with- 
 out you today." 
 
 "I don't either," he grinned. "It was my toast at break- 
 fast that gave you the strength for the ordeal." 
 
 He produced a packet of papers. "Now you are coming 
 out of your trance nicely, I'll give you these," he went on. 
 "This envelope, which is green, contains your railroad tickets; 
 this blue one, your steamer tickets; the white one, the checks 
 for your baggage. Get that?" 
 
 He opened my coat and put them in the inside pocket 
 and buttoned me up again, like a child. "If you find your 
 mind gone on the train, just tell the conductor to search 
 you." 
 
 At the door of the room I had a final word with Mr. 
 Claybourne. Then the three of us went downstairs. In 
 a few minutes Helen appeared. She looked more beautiful 
 in her tailor-made travelling dress than in her bridal array. 
 My head swam again when I went to her. We were sur- 
 rounded by a babel of voices, and Miss Hershey led in Mrs. 
 Claybourne. Every one was going to the station to see us 
 off. Leonidas was howling dismally outside from the centre 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 209 
 
 of a large crate which was to be his prison as far as New 
 York. On this one point Helen was adamant. She would not 
 go to England without Leonidas. 
 
 The preliminary farewells began, and even Jane, the maid, 
 joined the chorus of feminine weepers. The Claybournes, 
 Helen, and I got into one carriage; Knowlton, with an as- 
 sortment of bridesmaids, followed in another. More rice and 
 confetti, not to speak of old shoes tied to the carriage 
 by white ribbons. We were not to be spared a single torture. 
 The crowd at the station were delighted with our arrival. 
 Leonidas and his cage gave the final touch. Some merry wag, 
 blast his eyes, had tied a large bow of white ribbon to 
 Leonidas' collar. There was no time to remove it, for the 
 New York train thundered in from the further West, and 
 the ivory flashes of a Pullman porter took over our care. 
 We left in a bedlam, Mr. Claybourne's face looking rather 
 solemnly at us, Mrs. Claybourne, quite overcome, on Miss 
 Hershey's shoulder, and Knowlton's grin frozen half way. 
 Helen and I waved as long as they were in sight, then turned 
 around in our seats and faced each other. . . . 
 
 Two days later the Cunarder backed out from her dock 
 and our voyage began. Helen and I stood on the top 
 deck, where we could see the tugs turn the ship around. 
 The fantastic skyline of Manhattan loomed over us. 
 
 "Lady Grey Eyes, I love you," I whispered, as our boat 
 went slowly down stream. "Are you glad?" 
 
 "My darling!" floated from her lips, no more than a breath. 
 I had to lean close to her to hear. "I'm so happy, Ted!" 
 
 We stood upon the upper deck until dusk, watching the 
 coast fade into the haze. At last it had gone, save for one 
 far flashing light. We were at sea. 
 
 At dinner we found ourselves seated opposite a dear old 
 English lady, who took one look at Helen and then and 
 there resolved to "mother" her. We had hoped, half seriously, 
 that we could escape passing as bride and groom. No sooner, 
 
210 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 however, had we taken our seats than a delighted steward 
 brought in a large basket of white roses, set off with 
 white ribbons. This he placed in front of Helen. It bore 
 a card, with this legend: "From the Deep Harbor gang." 
 The old English lady said, "How sweet of your friends, 
 my dear." I had another opinion of their conduct. I didn't 
 mind so much, for Helen was loveliest when she blushed. 
 
 After dinner we sat and talked a bit with the old English 
 lady — a Mrs. Parsons from High Wycombe. To tell the truth, 
 I liked to hear her call Helen "my dear." It was a good 
 omen. She asked us a hundred questions which, somehow, 
 we did not mind at all. Helen poured out her heart to her. 
 It was "Ted this" and "Ted that" until I threatened to put 
 my hand over her mouth. 
 
 "I shall call you Edward and Helen," Mrs. Parsons an- 
 nounced decisively. "It would be positively ridiculous to 
 call two such babies Mr. and Mrs. Jevons. How old are 
 you, Helen?" 
 
 "Nineteen," said Helen with absolutely her prettiest blush. 
 
 "And you, Edward?" 
 
 "Twenty-four," I confessed, as Helen most brazenly leaned 
 against my shoulder. 
 
 "What your mothers were thinking of, I can't imagine," 
 exclaimed Mrs. Parsons. "You shouldn't be out without a 
 nurse." 
 
 When we went to our cabin Helen said: "I like to have 
 people nice to us, don't you, Ted?" 
 
 "I love to have them nice to you," I answered. 
 
 A few days later Helen and I stood far forward on the boat 
 deck, straining our eyes for the first glimpse of land. She 
 was all excitement, dancing up and down with little steps 
 and squeezing my arm in between times. "It is just like 
 one of our fairy stories, Ted," she whispered, her face so close 
 that the sea wind blew a damp lock of her hair across my 
 eyes. From the ship's bridge a cynical first officer, telescope 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 211 
 
 under arm, smiled down at us. Helen turned toward him and 
 called: "Oh, please tell us as soon as you see anything." 
 He nodded and sent a sailor down to us with a pair of 
 binoculars. Porpoises were leaping and playing about the 
 ship; the sea gulls were beginning to accumulate off the stern. 
 Helen tried to focus the glasses, but her hands shook so with 
 joy and excitement, I had to help her. 
 
 Suddenly the look-out called from the crow's nest on the 
 mast. According to the experts of the sea the noise he made 
 should have been "Land-ho!" but it did not sound like any- 
 thing articulate. We could still see nothing, for we were 
 lower down. The officer on the bridge pointed the direction 
 for us; Helen and I kept snatching the binoculars from one 
 another. Then the top of a light-house stuck up above the 
 horizon. We could hear a scurrying of passengers. 
 
 "How disappointing!" exclaimed Helen. "I thought we 
 would see white chalk cliffs." 
 
 "This is Ireland— not England," I answered. "The Old 
 Head of Kinsale is dark rock a few miles behind the light- 
 house. If the Irish cliffs were like the English, Irishmen 
 would paint them a different colour." 
 
 It was not long before we were close enough to the coast 
 to see the emerald of the fields at the summit of the rocky 
 cliffs. A line of white edged the meeting of the black rocks 
 with the blue of the sea. Helen drew a long breath as she 
 gazed at the startling beauty of the Irish coast. 
 
 'Ted! Ted!" she whispered. "It makes me want to cry." 
 
 Passengers crowded about us, and the wise man who knows 
 everything began explaining in a loud voice to all and 
 sundry. 
 
 "Ted, take me away. Isn't there somewhere on this boat 
 that we can see all by ourselves?" 
 
 We found a cranny, further aft, between two life boats. 
 Helen rested her elbows on the rail, her chin in her hands, 
 and gazed, the starlight of her eyes shining. 
 
 "Don't speak to me for a while, darling," she said. "I 
 want to look." 
 
212 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 I studied the curve of the back of her neck, where the 
 light brown hair played little tricks of its own while her head 
 was bent forward. She was unconscious of what I was doing. 
 
 "Put your arm around me, Ted. No one can see," she 
 sighed from between her hands. "Don't talk." 
 
 I obeyed. I never touched her that it did not seem a 
 miracle that I should be permitted such liberty. It was like 
 touching something exquisitely delicate and sacred. Not that 
 she was "petite" in the sense in which that banal word is 
 generally used; on the contrary, she was tall and of athletic 
 figure. It was her beauty that seemed, nevertheless, dainty and 
 fragile. "You'll spoil me, Ted, if you make such a fuss over 
 me," she had once laughingly warned me. 
 
 We were wakened from our reverie by the hearty voice 
 of Mrs. Parsons behind us. "That is Ireland over there, my 
 children," she said, with the air of one giving valuable and 
 hitherto unknown information. Helen and I started apart 
 guiltily. We had not yet been married long enough to get 
 over the self-consciousness of an engaged couple. Mrs. 
 Parsons unrolled a map, with great difficulty because of the 
 wind. We were in for a lecture. "This is where we are," 
 
 She indicated a spot which would be about sixty miles in 
 circumference, out in the open sea. "Up there is Queenstown. 
 That is where we are going. Then Liverpool is up there, 
 just back of Anglesea." 
 
 Helen said the right thing, while her eyes shot a look at 
 me which only I could understand. 
 
 "See, I've brought you some chocolates, my dear," and 
 Mrs. Parsons fished in the jumbled depths of a handbag. 
 She handed them to Helen. "Mind you don't forget to come 
 down for tea. I'll send the steward when it's quite ready," 
 and she was off. 
 
 Helen laughed a laugh that was a joy to hear. "She'll be 
 bringing us bottles of warm milk next. But she's a dear, 
 Ted." 
 
 After tea we returned to the boat deck. The ship was ap- 
 proaching Queenstown harbour. There may be more beau- 
 
WE PASS AN ORDEAL 213 
 
 tiful spots on the surface of this earth than this harbour, but 
 if so, Helen and I had never seen any of them. 
 
 "Ted, did you ever dream of such green grass! And look 
 at those little white houses — like fairy houses, Ted! And 
 the trees ! What a funny shape they are, Ted. Look at them." 
 
 "I am looking, my dearest." I did not dare say what it 
 meant to me to be nearing home. I thought it would sound 
 disloyal to Helen and to the happiness we were bringing with 
 us. 
 
 "There is an English cruiser, flying the white ensign," I 
 exclaimed — a queer feeling inside me at the sight of her flag. 
 
 "Is that an English flag? I thought the English flag was 
 red, with a union Jack in the corner." 
 
 "Helen!" I cried, in a voice more shocked than I realized 
 it would sound. "You don't know the white ensign?" 
 
 "Ted, how can I possibly know all your beastly old flags?" 
 she flared up. "Please don't look at me like that, Ted. 
 What have I done?" — and a mist gathered quickly in her 
 grey eyes. 
 
 "I forgot, dearest," I said, slipping my arm tightly around 
 her. "Please forgive me. But that flag means we are home." 
 
 Her soft hand found mine and clung. "Home, Ted," she 
 whispered, "our home." She looked at the cruiser lying near 
 us. The ensign fluttered jauntily in the wind. "We are 
 Americans, Ted," she said after a long pause. "I wonder 
 if we ought to feel the way we do?" 
 
 "The best way is to love both our homes, Helen sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 She looked up at me and smiled: "Love is enough, Ted," 
 she said softly — and we both remembered the old clearing by 
 the wood back of Deep Harbor, where we had read William 
 Morris together. 
 
Chapter Thirteen 
 
 we arrive and look forward to 
 another arrival 
 
 MY father, mother, and sister met the steamer train at 
 Euston. We tumbled out of our compartment a little 
 breathless over the prospect of another ordeal. We 
 seemed hopelessly mixed up with luggage and steamer ac- 
 quaintances saying good-byes, when I saw my father pushing 
 through the crowd toward us. He hardly looked at me; it 
 was Helen he wanted to see. My mother and sister were 
 close behind. It gave me quite a shock to note that my 
 sister had her hair up and was wearing long dresses. She 
 looked almost as old as Helen, as indeed she was. The 
 family kissed Helen thoroughly, and my sister clung tena- 
 ciously to me. I couldn't think of much to say, except "Well, 
 here we are." 
 
 "What a frightful Yankee twang you have, Ted," ex- 
 claimed my sister. We made our way toward one of the 
 London and North Western's private omnibuses. 
 
 "Ted! Please don't forget our trunks," Helen cautioned, 
 as I was about to climb in. My father went with me to 
 the luggage van, a porter following. We left Helen chatter- 
 ing away at mother and sister as if there were no such thing 
 in the world as embarrassment. 
 
 "I like the look of her, Ted," my father said. 
 
 "I'm not surprised," I answered, trying to imitate one 
 of Knowlton's grins. We fished out the trunks and started 
 back. 
 
 "Pleasant passage?" my father inquired. "Helen wasn't 
 seasick, I hope." 
 
 214 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 215 
 
 "A bit off her feed one day — remarkably smooth voyage." 
 
 "Ah — it's certain to be a good crossing in August." 
 
 "Quite," I replied. 
 
 We got into the omnibus, after Helen had completed tak- 
 ing the census of the luggage. 
 
 "Don't trust Ted with anything like that," my mother 
 lemarked. "He's left my boxes all over the Continent." 
 
 I sat beside Helen, for I wanted to watch her face when 
 she first saw the streets of London. 
 
 "Ted, look!" she cried, as we emerged from the classic 
 gateway of Euston Station, "there's a huge horse with fluffy 
 feet." 
 
 "It's a Clydesdale — aren't they beauties?" 
 
 "I never saw such a splendid horse." 
 
 My mother was sitting quietly watching us. I am afraid 
 she felt I had gone a long way from her — or perhaps it was 
 the effect of Leonidas. We had forgotten to warn the family 
 he was coming. The first sight of Leonidas was always a 
 shock to any one. Even my sister, who was thoroughly doggy, 
 had recoiled when he smiled at her at the station. Helen 
 was finding a succession of wonders through the omnibus 
 window. 
 
 "We've taken a small house out Kensington way, where 
 you'll live with us for the present, Ted." I looked up in 
 surprise at my father's words. 
 
 "It will be much more economical and in every way 
 better, until Helen learns English housekeeping," my mother 
 said. 
 
 "I suppose you've some work for me to do?" I asked 
 anxiously, for I thought I saw the first trace of a cloud 
 on Helen's face. 
 
 "We'll talk about that later," my father replied, with a 
 desire to change the subject obvious in his tone. 
 
 It is a long drive from Euston to Kensington. I sat close 
 to Helen and pointed out the streets and buildings we passed. 
 Her interest was keen, eager, for the panorama contained 
 many places that we had talked about — the Marble Arch, 
 
216 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Park Lane, Hyde Park Corner, Knightsbridge. Names were 
 changing into realities before her eyes — and all the while 
 my sister and mother sat studying Helen. I was extremely 
 quick to detect my mother's unexpressed opinions and im- 
 pressions, chiefly because I had differed so often with them 
 that instinct had taught me how to anticipate, when possible, 
 her displeasure. And I could feel, with absolute certainty, 
 as our bus trotted on down Knightsbridge, that she had made 
 up her mind to be hostile. "Very well," I thought to my- 
 self, "Helen and I must fight it out alone, then." My father 
 was looking out the rear window; I recognized from his 
 attitude that he had sensed the same thing I had. Perhaps 
 the news had not been so well received as letters had led 
 me to suppose. I was hoping desperately that the sensitive 
 girl by my side would not notice the growing tension in the 
 air. 
 
 It was a pleasant house before which we stopped. There 
 were a few shrubs in front, and the yellow cream stucco 
 residence appeared to hint at a bit of garden behind. It 
 was on a quiet side street and stood in the centre of a row 
 of other houses exactly like it. 
 
 Chitty, now three years our man-of-all-work, and Sims, 
 my mother's maid, received us. Chitty drew himself up 
 and saluted me, a thing he always did on my homecomings. 
 He had been an officer's batman. "Glad to see you home, 
 sir," he said. 
 
 "Thanks, Chitty. Kiddies all well?" He had a numerous 
 family who lived out. 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Every one quite fit." 
 
 "It's good to see you back again, master Ted," Sims con- 
 tributed. Chitty and Sims attacked the pile of luggage on 
 the roof of the bus, after a preliminary run-in between Chitty 
 and the driver concerning the best method to pursue. There 
 was a new housemaid, who curtseyed to us as we entered. 
 
 "Your rooms are up here, Edward," said my mother. 
 Helen and I followed her upstairs hand in hand. My sister 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 217 
 
 tagged along in the rear. We were shown into a cozy little 
 bedroom, with a cozier study off it. The windows looked 
 out into the bit of garden which I had guessed was there. 
 All my books and furniture were arranged as I had always 
 had them, but in the bedroom there were several new things 
 for Helen. A little box of a dressing room completed our 
 quarters, which were tiny but ours. Helen's eyes lighted as 
 she looked around. Then she walked straight up to my mother 
 and kissed her. My mother received it coldly, making no 
 return. Helen was so delighted with all that had been 
 done for her that I don't think she noticed. 
 
 "Are you pleased, Ted?" my mother asked. 
 
 "Of course, mother. Why do you ask?" 
 
 Chitty arrived, bowed beneath a trunk. My mother and 
 sister left us. The total of our baggage swamped our little 
 rooms. It was all in at last and the door closed. The be- 
 lated Sims arrived with hot water, just as Helen had seated 
 herself on my lap in the study for a talk. 
 
 "Anything else I can fetch you, Mrs. Ted?" Sims in- 
 quired. We got her out of the way. 
 
 "Mrs. Ted!" Helen cried gleefully, — "what a delicious 
 name for me! I love it!" 
 
 "Old Sims is a privileged character, dear. She is one 
 of my earliest recollections. She is also the family safety- 
 valve. Every one curses her when anything goes wrong." 
 
 Helen laughed. "What a delightfully absurd country, Ted. 
 Imagine a Deep Harbor servant being any one's earliest recol- 
 lection." 
 
 She began that feminine mystery known as "changing," 
 still talking to me over her shoulder. 
 
 "Ted, I'll have to pinch myself — I can't believe I'm awake. 
 Is it all really true?" 
 
 "Absolutely true," I answered, kissing her mouth. 
 
 "And to think you never told me about Chitty. He's 
 marvellous. Where did you get him?" 
 
 "He's one of my finds," I answered. "I met this big 
 
218 1 WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 chap one day on the street — looking f'or work;. An ex- 
 soldier with a good many years in India to his credit. I 
 liked his face and the way he stood up to my questions. I 
 offered him a job, and now I don't think he could be driven 
 away. My father pays him, but when I am home, he re- 
 gards himself as my exclusive property." 
 
 "We'll take him to the cottage with us, Ted. I won't have 
 you without Chitty." 
 
 "I'd put on a dinner gown, Helen," I said, as I saw 
 her getting out one of her afternoon dresses from a trunk. 
 
 "Just to dine at home with the family, Ted?" 
 
 "My mother is rather fussy about dinner. It is the one 
 ceremony she believes in. And besides, I want Helen to 
 look her beautifullest tonight." 
 
 I helped her unpack a bit, for she began to exclaim over 
 the condition of her dresses as she took them out. 
 
 "You might as well leave them," I objected. "Sims will 
 see to them." 
 
 I made her put on all her finery, including the few pieces 
 of simple jewelry that had been among her wedding presents. 
 The total effect was most satisfactory to my eyes. Slie 
 seemed more beautiful every time I looked at her. 
 
 The dinner gong had gone about five minutes before we 
 were ready to come down. I had clumsily mussed Helen's 
 hair at the last moment, and there had been a pause to re- 
 pair the damage. 
 
 "I wish, Ted, you would try, while you are in my house, 
 to be on time to dinner," my mother said as we sat down. 
 
 The dinner began under an air of constraint, for it was 
 always difficult for me to conceal my irritation when my 
 mother rebuked me. My sister smiled sympathy and re- 
 assurance across the table at me, and Chitty hovered about 
 me with the hock. Helen felt that I had been put off and 
 kept her eyes on her plate. Right after the soup, Leonidas 
 was ordered out of the room. I was on the verge of a 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 219 
 
 protest when I felt Helen's hand on. my arm. Instead, there 
 was another silence. 
 
 "Helen, where did you and Ted get that extraordinary dog?" 
 my sister asked, meaning well. 
 
 "Let us talk about something pleasant, if we can," my 
 mother cut in. Revolt came near to breaking forth. My 
 father saved the situation this time by telling me rapidly some 
 story of an occurrence during my. absence. 
 
 The table was cleared at last, and I was left with my father 
 and our glasses of port. I could hear my mother playing 
 a Beethoven sonata, which I knew for an ominous sign. The 
 piano was her refuge in times of stress. When things were 
 very bad, she played Bach. My father and I looked at each 
 other, each waiting for the other to begin. I was damned 
 if I would, for I felt most emphatically that Helen required 
 no explanation. Any one who could not see by looking once 
 at her that she was the most adorable girl in the world — 
 words failed even my thoughts. 
 
 "It isn't Helen — it's you," my father said, studying his 
 cigar. 
 
 "I don't see — " I began. 
 
 "Steady, Ted. Listen to me. There are a good many 
 factors in the problem. Your mother idolizes you — " 
 
 "It has been fairly well dissembled tonight — " 
 
 "Be quiet, Ted! I won't have you speak in that way. If 
 you knew more about the world — or about women — you would 
 know that it is very hard for your mother to forgive the 
 woman who marries you — you are an only son — Ted, you 
 must not explode until I have finished. Last of all, she 
 can't quite forgive you for getting married when she was not 
 there. Nothing has ever hurt her so much as not being 
 at your wedding. Can't you understand?" 
 
 "Well, what am I to do? Sit quiet while she insults 
 Helen?" 
 
 "You are riding for trouble, Ted, if you go at it like 
 that. Helen will bring her around in no time, provided you 
 
220 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 behave yourself. I think your wife has commonsense — sh« 
 has a levelheaded look in her face — " 
 
 "Thank you very much," I sneered. 
 
 "She's good old American stock like the rest of us, Ted, 
 and I'll back her to win. I haven't been home much, Ted, 
 for a good many years, but I recognized her type the instant 
 I saw her at Euston. Now the thing for you to do is to 
 go out of your way to be nice to your mother — and leave 
 the rest to Helen." 
 
 "Considering everything," I replied, "I think my mother 
 might meet me at least half way. I've been out in America for 
 over a year, working ten hours a day in a bloody factory., 
 and when I come home with the best wife in the world, I 
 am regarded as having done something criminal." 
 
 "Don't be an ass, Ted — or try to make yourself sorry for 
 yourself. You had a damned good time with your ten hours 
 a day, as you call it, and you got a jolly sight better reward 
 for it than you deserve. In my humble opinion, Helen is 
 too good for you." 
 
 "We agree on one thing — that's a blessing," I answered, 
 feeling that I was losing when I really had a good case. "I'll 
 do what I can, but I won't sit by and see Helen — " 
 
 "Oh, shut up, Ted! To use plain American, you make 
 me tired. Go into the drawing room and be nice to your 
 mother. Tell her what you have been doing. She'll like to 
 hear about the ten hours a day. You can pitch it strong." 
 
 I looked up and saw Helen standing at the door. "Won't 
 you come into the drawing room, Ted? I think your mother 
 expects you." 
 
 "Come here, little girl," my father said to Helen. She 
 went and sat on his lap. "Can you manage that boy?" 
 
 Helen smiled at me and kissed her father-in-law by way 
 of answer. 
 
 "You speak American, don't you?" 
 
 Helen nodded her head vigorously. 
 
 "Well, will you please tell him to keep his hair on?" 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 221 
 
 Helen came to me with a laugh and caught me by the arm. 
 
 "Come, Ted." 
 
 I followed her meekly. 
 
 When we reached the drawing room, my sister said: 
 "Mother has gone up to bed." 
 
 We kissed Frances good night and climbed to our own 
 quarters. I went into my study to look out some of my old 
 books. Upon my return I found Helen lying on her bed, 
 sobbing. 
 
 "What is it, my love?" — I flew to her and whispered in 
 her ear. 
 
 "Ted, darling — will you ever forgive me? I'm homesick." 
 
 She sobbed herself asleep in my arms that night. I lay 
 awake, thinking of many things. 
 
 A week later the deadlock between my mother and me was 
 still unbroken. Helen, however, was rapidly finding her 
 feet in the joy of exploring London. We went the second 
 evening of our homecoming to the Lyceum to see Henry 
 Irving in The Bells and the next night to his Charles I. 
 We lunched out, sometimes at Kettner's in Greek Street, Soho, 
 or down in the City at Crosby Hall or at The Ship and 
 Turtle. Helen could not get enough of riding on the tops 
 of the busses. We used no other conveyance except for 
 going to the theatres. We did a certain standard thing each 
 morning, such as going to the Abbey, St. Paul's, or The Tower, 
 and the rest of the time we rode or walked about without 
 plan or purpose. It was enough to be in London — it mattered 
 little where one went or why, there were marvels to be 
 seen in any direction. We sat a lot in quiet old City churches, 
 particularly in St. Bartholomew's in Smithfield. The restora- 
 tion had not quite done for the simple majesty of its Norman 
 pillars. I could see London literally soaking into Helen's 
 blood. And she greeted the bookshops on Charing Cross 
 Road like a discovery of old friends. We bought all the 
 plays we could find in the sixpenny boxes. 
 
222 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 We went out each day early in the morning and returned 
 only in time to dress for dinner. The family were quiescent; 
 no comment was made on our comings and goings, except 
 the daily question whether we were to be expected at luncheon. 
 My mother never said an unkind word to Helen, but she 
 treated her with a stiff, formal politeness that resisted all ad- 
 vances. Frances, my sister, was in despair, not knowing with 
 whom to side. She adored her mother and at the same time 
 had always been a good pal of mine — as much of one, in 
 fact, as the discrepancy in our ages had permitted. Once or 
 twice she went out for the day with us, but our energetic 
 sightseeing tired her out. She had been born in London 
 and had never lived anywhere else, and its lions did not appeal 
 to her as they did to Helen. Helen and Frances were already 
 fast friends, wandering about the house in the mornings with 
 their arms about each other or exchanging mysterious 
 whispered conferences and giggles in their dressing gowns. 
 They had reached at a bound the intimacy which involved 
 borrowing each other's stockings, garters, and gloves. If 
 Helen had felt homesick again, she said nothing about it. 
 
 Then at the end of the week my father requested me to 
 see him in the library. I could tell from the way he was 
 examining a pile of papers that he had something to say 
 to me that he found difficult to express. He never smoked 
 in the morning — a habit which was in itself a handicap. 
 
 "Ted," he said at the conclusion of a few commonplaces, 
 "I am sending you to Berlin tomorrow for a month." 
 
 "What fun that will be for Helen," I exclaimed, springing 
 to my feet. 
 
 "Sit down — I haven't finished." I resumed my chair with 
 an unpleasant foreboding. "I can't afford to send Helen 
 with you — you are going alone." 
 
 "Hell!" I ejaculated impolitely. "You might have told 
 me a few days ago." 
 
 "I didn't want to interfere with your first week." 
 
 "What am I to do in Berlin?" 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 223 
 
 "I want you to learn a new chemical process we are going 
 to handle. The money from the sale of the Deep Harbor 
 factory has been entirely used to found a new company here. 
 Until we get that on its feet we shall be rather hard-up. 
 But we are playing for big stakes now, Ted. If this goes, 
 you will be free to do as you please." 
 
 "I suppose I receive a salary." 
 
 "Not enough for you and Helen to live on — that's why 
 you must live with us for the present. But I'll give you a ten 
 per cent, interest in the new company, and it will be up to 
 you to make it good. Meanwhile your salary is the nominal 
 one of two pounds a week." 
 
 "But we can't go to the theatre on that," I exclaimed. It 
 was rather a shock, for in Deep Harbor I had been well 
 paid. "I can get a better job on my own." 
 
 "I have no doubt of it," replied my father. "Your chemical 
 work is reported as expert. If you want to back out now 
 and leave me in the lurch, go ahead." 
 
 I opened my mouth to speak — and paused. A recollection 
 of my interview with Knowlton on this very subject crossed 
 my mind. I heard him say — "play the skunk and leave you 
 flat, Ted," On the other hand, what was my duty to Helen? 
 
 "We'll be paying dividends after the first twelve months, 
 Ted. Then you'll be all right. Your interest in the company 
 will be worth a lot of money." 
 
 "It's more or less of a gamble, I suppose?" 
 
 "All business is," said my father. "But I was flattering 
 myself I had a son who had the grit to gamble for big 
 stakes, and the brains to play the game." 
 
 "Damn," I said, getting up and walking about the room. 
 My father began writing with an abominably scratchy nib. 
 
 "I ought to consult Helen," I turned and shot at him. He 
 looked up from his letter and shrugged. The nib scratched on. 
 "I told her I had excellent prospects when I married her — 
 that Knowlton and I had made good with the Deep Harbor 
 Manufacturing Company — " I paused in my argument, for 
 
224 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 my father appeared to be ignoring my remarks. He began 
 another letter. 
 
 "Take it or leave it, Ted," he said after another silence. 
 "All I ask is that you let me know definitely by lunch time. 
 If you don't go, I must send another chemist to Berlin. I've 
 made you the best offer in my power. A father can't do 
 more than that." 
 
 "I wish you could see my point of view." 
 
 "I see it perfectly. Facts, however, overrule a point of 
 view. If I had the means, I'd set you free this minute. As 
 I haven't, there is nothing to argue about." 
 
 "Facts are damned unfair." 
 
 "They are," agreed my father. 
 
 "If I put it up to Helen, she'll tell me, of course, to stick 
 by you, no matter what the sacrifice." 
 
 "In that case I should decide for myself, if I were you. 
 It's a poor plan to try to shift your responsibilities on to 
 some other person." 
 
 I had a suspicion my father was secretly laughing at me. 
 I had a knack of making the worst possible showing in a crisis. 
 
 "I want to be fair to you and to Helen," I exclaimed. 
 
 "I'm not impressed by heroics," my father answered coldly. 
 "I don't think either of you is being very hardly used — you 
 have a comfortable home offered you and a good opportunity 
 to work for. I am not asking favours — I'm giving them." 
 
 In one sense this was, of course, strictly true; yet there 
 was something to be said on my side. Nothing was to be 
 gamed by stating it; I therefore kept silent. Ten minutes 
 more must have passed while I turned the problem over. 
 My father imperturbably continued to write, address, and 
 seal letters. 
 
 "Do you know which way I am going to decide?" I asked, 
 curiosity getting the better of me. 
 
 "Frankly," my father replied, "I don't. I'm not bluffing, 
 Ted. I have never understood you very well. We've always 
 been good chums; still, I have known that inwardly you go 
 your own gait." 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 225 
 
 "I don't think I have ever disobeyed an important 
 command." 
 
 "No, I don't believe you have — perhaps I have never 
 asked you to do anything I didn't think was for the best. You 
 didn't like being sent to Deep Harbor. Are you sorry now 
 you went?" 
 
 "You can't take the credit to yourself for Helen and make 
 that into an argument," I said. "Logic has its limits." 
 
 "I never went to college, so logic doesn't bother me," my 
 father smiled. It was the first time his face had relaxed 
 since I came in. 
 
 "I'll go," I announced. My father opened a desk drawer 
 and took out a bundle of papers. 
 
 "Here's your railway ticket — Harwich — Hook of Holrand. 
 You leave from Victoria. And here's your instructions and 
 a letter of introduction to the Treptow Chemische Gesell- 
 schaft. When you know how to use the process you will 
 be taught, come home. The quicker you learn, the quicker 
 you get back. But you must know it thoroughly." 
 
 "Then you did think I'd accept," I remarked, rather in- 
 dignant again. 
 
 "My dear boy, it never crossed my mind you would make a 
 fuss. You took me entirely by surprise." 
 
 "I always seem to be wrong," I growled. 
 
 "But fortunately you often end up by doing right," my 
 father smiled. 
 
 Helen was a brick. We talked the whole thing over, and 
 she scolded me for having hesitated. Helen's scoldings were 
 very affectionate affairs. She smiled and assured me she 
 would be all right. It might be the best way to win my 
 mother over, and so on. Besides she would do a thousand 
 things with Frances and would write me every day. At the 
 end I rang for Chitty and told him to pack enough things 
 for a month's journey. 
 
 "Will you be playing golf, sir?" he asked. Helen squealed 
 with delight from the bed, where she was sitting with her 
 feet tucked under her. 
 
226 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "No — business, Chitty. No riding clothes." 
 
 "Very good, sir. Thank you." 
 
 Helen saw me off the next evening, accompanied by the 
 family. Her eyes were swimming, but she didn't let go. She 
 was the last to kiss me, after a formal kiss from my mother 
 and a huge puppy embrace from Frances. 
 
 "Don't worry, Ted darling. I promise not to be homesick. 
 I love you." 
 
 A guard most unceremoniously slammed the door between 
 us. The train pulled out. I sat and swore nearly all the way 
 to Harwich. 
 
 The month did not pass quickly, although I worked hard, 
 for long hours. The process was intricate and complicated, 
 quite beyond the range of anything I had done before. The 
 German chemists did their best to help me, and at the same 
 time made no secret of their contempt for my training. 
 
 Helen wrote amusing and cheerful letters, in which Leoni- 
 das and Frances chiefly figured. She spoke little of my 
 mother, and only to reassure me that "everything was all 
 right." I knew, therefore, that no progress had been made 
 there. One piece of news, which I thought might possibly 
 come, did not. That had been one of my chief anxieties 
 over leaving Helen. 
 
 I saw a lot of Berlin and went nightly to cheap seats at 
 the theatre. My experiences of this city are not, however, 
 germane to this narrative. It was not until the middle of the 
 fifth week of my stay that the Treptow Chemische Gesellschaft 
 notified me that I had now performed the process successfully 
 several times and was in a position to return to instruct others. 
 I made one of the quickest trips to a telegraph office known to 
 German history. From there to my hotel and on to the 
 Bahnhof I at least equalled any existing record. Twenty- 
 four hours later Helen was in my arms on the platform of 
 Victoria Station. 
 
 The family were at dinner when we reached Kensington. 
 
WE ARRIVE AND LOOK FORWARD 227 
 
 I hope Gabriel's trumpet is not timed for the dinner hour, 
 for it is quite certain my mother will not allow even that to 
 postpone her sitting down. 
 
 "Have you got it, Ted?" my father asked. 
 
 "What isn't in my head is in the bag upstairs," I replied. 
 
 Right after dinner Helen and I fled to our retreat, brutally 
 closing the door in Frances's face. We sat on the floor before 
 a fire and talked. Berlin and London — we compared notes 
 until after midnight. As we were about to go to bed, Helen 
 whispered : 
 
 "There's one thing more, Ted, I haven't told you." 
 
 And then came the big news I had been expecting while 
 away. 
 
 "I just had to tell you yourself, darling. I didn't want 
 to write it." 
 
 God! If anything should happen to my Jjeloved! and I 
 went sick and cold at the thought. But she did not know this 
 fear, for I held her tight, kissing her eyes. We sat on before 
 the fire, far into the night, talking of the new future this 
 revealed, of the new wonder that had come into our lives. 
 
 "Edward Jevons, Junior," Helen murmured as she fell 
 asleep on my shoulder. 
 
Chapter Fourteen 
 we find new life and new love 
 
 THE new factory was at Willesden Junction, which I, 
 reached regularly every morning by the 8.10 from 
 Earl's Court Road, returning home to the little house 
 in Kensington about seven. It was a long day, made longer 
 by the railway journey at each end. The present equipment 
 was on a comparatively small scale, future expansion de- 
 pending largely on what it was to be hoped our laboratory 
 could accomplish. Two young English chemists, graduates of 
 a technical school, were assigned to work with me. The rest 
 of the research staff included a machinist and pipe fitter, a 
 general utility girl, a glass blower to make special apparatus, 
 and Chitty. 
 
 The latter I ruthlessly took from his duties as general 
 house man to do odd jobs for me. He gloried in his new 
 work, for he had a positive awe of chemistry. To him it 
 was the last word in the mysterious achievements of the edu- 
 cated human intellect. With his awe was a wholesome fear 
 of possible eventualities. There was not a day that it wasn't 
 his secret belief that we should all be blown to atoms. 
 Nevertheless, on the rare occasions when minor accidents did 
 occur, he was the first person I found standing at my elbow. 
 I sometimes amused myself by devising harmless bangs or 
 unexpected puffs of smoke, to see Chitty come on the run 
 to my side. The day I really spilt some acid on myself, 
 I thought the man would get his hands badly burned before 
 I could stop him from tearing my clothes off. He was, 
 however, like a perfectly trained dog. A sharp word of 
 command brought him up all standing. I saved his hands 
 
 228 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 229 
 
 from serious burns and got out of my clothes without damage 
 to myself. 
 
 "Chitty," I said another time, "if this place ever gets on 
 fire you are to get out the first window without delay." 
 
 "Not until I see you going, sir, thank you," he replied. 
 And he meant it. 
 
 On pleasant Saturday afternoons, during the early autumn, 
 Helen came out to meet me. Chitty used to prepare my 
 luncheons for me every day; on Saturdays he catered for 
 two. His army training taught him to use any utensils handy, 
 and Helen laughed until the tears came at finding his kitchen 
 a series of Bunsen burners, his crockery mainly Meissen ware 
 and Bohemian glass beakers. He could cook sausages and 
 grill tomatoes fit for an epicure. It was true his range 
 was strictly limited, being restricted to what might be put in 
 a frying pan or plain boiled, but within its limits it was un- 
 excelled. 
 
 Luncheon over, we would take the train back and prowl 
 about for an hour or two before tea or see a matinee from the 
 pit. Our finances made it necessary for us to keep to simple 
 pleasures. Still, by saving all our pennies for Saturdays and 
 Sundays we did ourselves surprisingly well. During the 
 week the company paid for my railway ticket and luncheons. 
 Thus the weekend found us with thirty or a few more 
 shillings to spend. In those pre-war days two could do a 
 lot in London on thirty shillings. For example, if we wished 
 to be really extravagant and "go a bust" we lunched at 
 Kettner's for 3/6 each, table d'hote, total 7 shillings — a shil- 
 ling for the waiter — eight; a bottle of table chianti, 3 bob; or 
 eleven in all, leaving nineteen shillings over. Setting aside 
 a half crown for tea, we still had 16/6. Suppose we went 
 to a pit — half a crown apiece; total, 5 shillings — we yet were 
 rich with eleven and six remaining. Plenty over for Sunday, 
 especially if we took luncheon with us from home. We did 
 not lack for clothes; Helen's trousseau would last a long time 
 — and the next year the company was going to pay dividends. 
 
230 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 Meanwhile there was one deep disappointment mixed with 
 our improvident happiness. I had no time for writing or 
 even for keeping in touch with my theatrical and literary- 
 friends. They had begun by dropping in at the house, never 
 to find me at home, and in a few months a caller for us was 
 rare. My absence in America had broken a good many 
 threads, and there was no opportunity to spin new ones. The 
 work and friendships we had planned to do and form together 
 while riding over the hills of Deep Harbor could not be 
 done and formed. I had to live and think chemistry. The 
 evenings were rarely free, for laboratory reports of the day's 
 work had to be prepared then. The week-ends were so 
 precious that Helen and I could not spare them for anything 
 but our own companionship. 
 
 Along with the first fogs, in November, I realized that the 
 work at the laboratory was getting on slowly. I had not yet 
 been able to begin quantity production. My father called 
 one day to ask me to look over the special expenditures oil 
 behalf of research. He wanted to know if economies were not 
 possible, and where I thought we were going. For many hours 
 I reviewed the accounts and the results to date, as set down 
 in the laboratory diary and reports. There was nothing to 
 show on the side of practical accomplishments. The ex- 
 periments gave evidence we were on the right track; it was 
 equally clear we had not arrived. The German process worked 
 well on a small scale with carefully selected chemicals; it 
 did not work at all on a commercial scale. 
 
 "Well, Ted, what are we going to do about it?" my father 
 inquired at the end of my survey. "My associates are getting 
 restless; we have spent a great deal of money. What have 
 we to show for it?" 
 
 I turned over my notes again, as one does in such cases, 
 hoping some overlooked solution will leap from the pages. 
 
 "I am certain I can do it," I said. 
 
 "When? And how much will it cost?" 
 
 "That I can't say. It may be tomorrow — it may be next 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 231 
 
 month. The answer perhaps is filtering now in the next 
 room, or it may be a question of several weeks' experiment." 
 
 "Not good enough, Ted." 
 
 "You told me it would be a year before you expected 
 results." 
 
 "A year before we paid dividends. If you can't begin 
 manufacture, how can you expect to make a profit? Your 
 experiments have eaten a deep hole in our resources, and we 
 are where we were at the beginning. In short, Ted, if you 
 don't tell me you are ready to manufacture before the next 
 three months are up, we'll have to close down." 
 
 "We might get one of the Germans over and let him 
 have a look at what I'm doing." I went into the next room 
 and came back with a sample. "Here is the stuff — I make it 
 every day in there. But when it goes through in quantity 
 downstairs, I can't get it." 
 
 "What are you doing about it?" 
 
 "Analyzing all our raw materials to see if I can trace the 
 probable impurity that is blocking us. The apparatus down- 
 stairs has been tested and examined a dozen times. I can find 
 nothing the matter there. I thought, at first, lubricating oil 
 might be leaking into the mixers." 
 
 "Suppose you can't find the cause?" 
 
 I shrugged. "If the world comes to an end, there's not 
 much good planning what you will do. There is a cause, 
 and I've got to find it. There's nothing mysterious about it. 
 Such matters are a problem of elimination. You must be 
 careful not to overlook any possibility. In the end you run it 
 down — corner it. But it may take time." 
 
 "Is there any possibility our German friends have done us?" 
 
 "I've thought of that. Yet if that is the case, why the 
 devil does the stuff come out all right on a small scale? 
 Here it is in my hand. There is such a thing. They haven't 
 faked it — there it is." 
 
 "Will you write a special report tonight for me to show 
 the board of directors tomorrow?" 
 
232 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Yes. You still own the controlling interest, don't you?" 
 
 "Up till now I do," my father replied. "I may have to let 
 that go, Ted, if you don't find the answer soon." 
 
 I gave up my Saturday afternoons and often my Sundays. 
 The answer did not appear. All this was hard on Helen. The 
 family tension did not tend to relax in the face of our dif- 
 ficulties at the factory. My own nerves were being stretched 
 taut, and I had to fight to keep Helen from noticing too much 
 the strain I was under. I laid off my two assistant chemists, 
 to reduce expenses. Their help had never been valuable ex- 
 cept for doing routine things. Occasionally, when there was 
 an experiment on that couldn't be left unfinished, I worked at 
 Willesden until late at night. It was Helen's calm faith in 
 me that kept me at it and gave me self-control. I talked 
 little with her — or with any one — about this damned problem, 
 preferring, with her, to read and dream as we had always done; 
 and I kept my mouth shut as far as possible before my father, 
 to prevent his noting that I was badly frightened. Chitty 
 realized that I had a facer. His anxiety was pathetic ; I would 
 look up from an experiment and find him watching my face 
 eagerly, to see if now I had a ray of hope. Of course, Helen 
 knew why I did not come home on Saturday afternoons, but 
 her confidence kept her so optimistic she scarcely worried at 
 all. I cursed German chemistry from A to Z before Chitty; 
 elsewhere I was grimly silent on the subject. 
 
 My mother in no wise changed her attitude; Helen was 
 treated with the formality of a guest, and I should have 
 worried more than I did about this if I had not discovered 
 by accident that she was closeted with Sims a great part of 
 each day in her own room making baby clothes. Poor mother, 
 how happy she could have made Helen by letting her know 
 this! But she didn't. Helen sat all day working in her 
 room on little things, and my mother in hers, and neither 
 woman spoke to the other of what she was doing. "While 
 I'm seeking answers to chemical riddles, I wish some one 
 would explain to me the riddle of human nature," I thought 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 233 
 
 to myself. One night I decided to act on this idea and seek 
 the latter answer for myself. I went to my mother's room. 
 
 "What do you wish, Ted?" she asked as I sat down. It 
 had been a great many years since we had exchanged any 
 confidences face to face. Her devotion to me had always 
 alarmed me — it put me off when I came near her. I knew I 
 didn't think as she thought, and I was afraid a misunder- 
 standing hopeless to reconcile would come. It sounds para- 
 doxical, I know — that I should fear her love to the point 
 that I believed it dangerous — but so it was. "If we ever really 
 quarrel," I had said to myself, "nothing on earth will patch 
 it up." So it came about that for years I had avoided in- 
 timacy with her, preferring a queer aloofness to any at- 
 tempt at understanding, since by nature we were such op- 
 posites. 
 
 "I shan't pretend, mother. It's about Helen," I said in 
 answer to her question. 
 
 "What about Helen?" my mother replied coldly. 
 
 I wondered what to say. She sat there looking at me 
 calmly, but there was a hardness in her expression which in- 
 dicated that all defences were fully manned. "I'll make a 
 mess of it — get the worst of it, I know, and go out of here 
 thoroughly in the wrong," I said to myself. "But, damn it 
 all, I ought to be able to think of the right thing." 
 
 "You wished to speak to me about Helen?" 
 
 "Helen likes you," I blurted out, at the same time realizing 
 I had made the worst of all possible starts. 
 
 "She has only to tell me this herself." My mother's voice 
 was level. 
 
 "Would it do any good?" I blundered on. 
 
 "I am sure I have not the least idea what you mean, Ted. 
 I think it would be much better if you went up to your 
 own room." 
 
 I began to be desperate. There ought to be some facial 
 flag of truce, indicating unconditional surrender, that one 
 could wave with a look. At that moment I would have given 
 
234 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 anything, except Helen's love, to have ray mother relent. In- 
 stead, she picked up a book and made an elaborate show of 
 reading. I meditated flying into a childish rage, thus forcing 
 the issue, but I was so truly hurt and angry I didn't dare. I 
 knew I should probably say something I should afterwards 
 regret. I got upon my feet. 
 
 "I am sorry you do not approve of my marriage, mother" — 
 adding mistake number three to the two I was certain I had 
 made. 
 
 "It is not for me to approve or disapprove of your marriage, 
 Edward. I was not consulted. It is no affair of mine." 
 
 "Of course, you don't mean it," I said. "That remark is 
 silly enough to have been made by me." I was quite ap- 
 palled at my boldness, but anger was fast mastering me. 
 
 "I do not wish to have any further discussion with you on 
 this subject, either now or in the future. Whatever else you 
 learned in Deep Harbor, it wasn't manners." 
 
 "Rot!" I exclaimed. She lifted her eyebrows and turned 
 a page. I stood a second irresolute. "I mean I didn't in- 
 tend to be rude — you know what I mean — only you won't 
 admit it." 
 
 "I don't expect an apology. Good night, Edward." 
 
 "Now you've done it, you blithering idiot," I said as I 
 clumped upstairs to Helen. "I knew I'd end in the wrong." 
 Helen gently told me, at the conclusion of my story, words 
 to the same effect. 
 
 "Am I a blithering idiot, Helen dear?" 
 
 "No, sweetheart, you are just a boy," was Helen's exit line 
 for this episode. 
 
 Our second Christmas together was drawing near, and it 
 promised to be far different from the one we had looked 
 forward to the year before. The factory problem was still 
 unsolved; the building which my father had anticipated would 
 be humming with prosperous activity stood silent. Only in 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 235 
 
 the laboratory upstairs was there any work being done, labour 
 which still seemed but a beating of the air. I had called in 
 more than one consulting chemist; they merely suggested that 
 I do the things I had been doing. The advice from Germany 
 was to the same effect. Analyze and search for the cause 
 among the raw materials. I had outside analyses made on 
 these, to check my own by, and no clue developed. The 
 board of directors called upon me collectively and singly to 
 offer the inane suggestions which non-technical men always 
 make when they wish to be helpful over a technical matter. 
 
 A week before Christmas I sat staring at samples of my 
 raw materials spread over the laboratory table. Chitty was 
 rinsing test tubes at the sink. 
 
 "It does beat the devil, Chitty," I said, "to think that 
 the answer to all our trouble is staring right at us from one 
 of these heaps of samples, and we can't find it." 
 
 "Yessir," Chitty agreed. "Don't give up, sir; 'ave another 
 try." 
 
 I looked at my watch. It was three o'clock; the short 
 winter day was already dusk without. A London and North- 
 western express screeched past our windows. 
 
 "I'd like my overcoat, please, Chitty. I'm going home." 
 A queer, startled look came into his face. 
 
 "You're not giving up, Mister Edward? You won't tell 
 them you're beaten? 'Ave another shot at your last experi- 
 ment. I don't mind working late tonight, sir." 
 
 "Chitty," I said, "sometimes it pays to cut your losses and 
 start afresh. We're up a blind passage. Let's turn round and 
 walk out of it." 
 
 He helped me into my great coat with a doubtful air. 
 
 "Don't let them say it's done you in, sir," he said. "Come 
 back tomorrow morning. You never know your luck, sir." 
 
 "I'll be here at the usual time, Chitty." And with this 
 I left him. 
 
 My father, luckily, was in when I got back to Kensington. 
 
236 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 I saw him studying me carefully as I came into the library 
 and sat down. He laid aside his pipe and waited. I was in 
 no hurry to begin speaking. 
 
 "Discouraged, Ted?" my father at last inquired. 
 
 "No. I'm through." 
 
 "That sounds rather tragic, Ted. Just what do you mean?" 
 
 "I have been thinking this thing over. We've reached an 
 absolutely blank wall. I can neither climb over it, tunnel 
 under it, nor walk around it." 
 
 "Facts, please," my father interrupted. "Cut your rhetoric." 
 I gave him a brief recapitulation of my failure, together with 
 my reasons for believing that it was no use going on doing 
 the same useless experiments over and over again. He 
 listened patiently, without giving any sign of emotion. 
 
 "It doesn't make pleasant telling," I ended, "to confess one 
 has failed." 
 
 "Have you your laboratory notebooks and diary here?" 
 
 "Yes," I admitted, "but they won't mean anything to you — 
 they are mainly full of chemical formulae and abbreviated 
 notes." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I wish to see them." 
 
 I went out to my bag in the passage and brought them in. 
 
 "I'm not a scientist, Ted, but it isn't common sense that 
 an experiment which you can do on a small scale should 
 fail on a large scale. You have overlooked something." 
 
 "Shall I stay and explain my notes to you?" 
 
 "No, go upstairs and talk to Helen." 
 
 I came down to dinner very glum. Helen had done her 
 best to buck me up ; this time, however, even she had failed to 
 restore my confidence. To my surprise, my father was all 
 smiles, hinting the while at mysterious delights to come. I 
 thought he was trying to cheer me up — an annoying thing 
 to have any one do when one has resolved to be miserable. 
 
 "How would you and Helen like to have a little trip all by 
 yourselves at Christmas — say to Winchester? It will do 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 237 
 
 Helen good, if you are careful not to let her get tired." This 
 he had saved up for dessert. Helen and I stared at each 
 other, not entirely certain he wasn't having a joke at our 
 expense. 
 
 "I'm serious, children," he added. "Your mother and I — 
 with Frances, of course — are going down to Hayling Island. 
 I want to get in some golf." 
 
 "I thought we were hard up," I growled, not rid of my sus- 
 picions. 
 
 "Well, we've enough for that, I think, Ted. The plant will 
 be running full blast in January." 
 
 I sat up. "What have found out from my notes? Don't 
 deceive yourself, father." 
 
 He laughed uproariously. "Thanks for the advice. But, 
 Ted, I'm an old newspaper man, and I spent a good many 
 years finding out things I was not supposed to know about. 
 When I went over your notes I observed something I think 
 you have missed." 
 
 My face burned. If true, of course it meant I was a 
 damned incompetent person to trust with a responsible job. 
 I felt Helen's hand on my knee. 
 
 "It isn't your fault, Ted — don't look so melodramatic. Now 
 listen to me. You have tested and analyzed all your raw 
 materials — and have bought different lots of them from 
 various sources?" 
 
 "Yes — I have been all over the market for them." 
 
 "But you have bought your most important reagent — a 
 commercial acid — from only one particular firm. Did you 
 analyze that acid?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I thought not. There was no record of it in your books." 
 
 The sensation of feeling an utter fool is not comfortable. 
 It was the even pressure of Helen's hand on my knee that 
 kept me from an outburst. The instant my father had asked 
 me the question about the acid, I knew he had found the only 
 untested link. But why in the name of all that is intelligent 
 
238 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 had I missed it? Simply because I had been working on the 
 set idea that the raw materials furnished contained somewhere 
 an impurity, and I had taken the reagent on faith. 
 
 "Well," my father called out gaily, "is the old man right?" 
 
 "You are right, and I have been wrong." 
 
 "Damn it, Ted, don't be so ridiculous with that long jaw. 
 It's all in the family. Take a week off with Helen and come 
 back fresh to your job. You went a bit stale, that's all." 
 
 "My going stale has cost you a lot of money," I muttered. 
 
 "Experience always costs money, Ted. I don't grudge pay* 
 ing for it, if one really learns from it. You told me some- 
 thing about the process of elimination once. The next time 
 you eliminate, go all the way." 
 
 "The consulting chemists we called in didn't find the 
 trouble." 
 
 "No, they were experts, like you." 
 
 I smiled at this, because I knew I deserved it. 
 
 "That's better, Ted," my father said when he saw me smile. 
 "The whole trouble has been that you lost your sense of 
 humour over this job. Don't lose it again." 
 
 "Suppose," I said at bed-time that evening," that we find 
 nothing the matter with the acid?" 
 
 "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Now you and 
 Helen pack up in the morning, clear out for a week, and I'll 
 have the acid examined while you are away." 
 
 Upstairs, I sat before our study fire without daring to look 
 at Helen. She stopped brushing out her hair and perched on 
 the arm of my chair, putting her cheek against mine. 
 
 "What do you want me to say, Ted?" 
 
 "If you speak the truth you'll say that you have married 
 an incompetent fool who messes up everything he tries to 
 do." 
 
 "Don't let it hurt you so, Ted, darling." 
 
 "It was my job to find out, and I didn't. You can't get 
 away from that." 
 
 Helen rumpled my hair pensively. Each of us had several 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 239 
 
 things to say; the difficulty was to say them. Helen went on 
 silently stroking my head. 
 
 "I try to think — why the devil does it always seem after- 
 wards as if I hadn't thought at all?" 
 
 I proposed this conundrum to her. Helen gave me her 
 hand to kiss. 
 
 "I won't be so stupid as to try to make excuses for you," 
 said Helen, tucking up snugly against my shoulder. "Let's 
 own up honestly we made a mistake, Ted. For I must be 
 to blame somewhere, too. Yes, Ted dear — I know it. Don't 
 go on shaking your head. It isn't comfy. We mustn't make 
 a mistake like this again — that's all. It isn't like us." 
 
 "It wasn't just a case of putting my foot in it, sweetheart. 
 I went and sat down in the spilt milk." 
 
 Helen laughed gently. "Poor old boy, your pride has had 
 a nasty knock, hasn't it? So has mine, dear." 
 
 I thought this over in silence. We were young enough to 
 take each other tragically. But I had my first doubt as to 
 whether I was of heroic stuff — I mean that for the first 
 time I wondered if success were inevitably mine. Suppose I 
 was only a commonplace person who got along amiably 
 enough, yet never pulled off anything big? In that case 
 all the hopes Helen had in me would prove to be vain dreams. 
 Then what would happen? Would she love me then — or 
 didn't love demand the heroic? It was Knowlton who had 
 made Deep Harbor a success, and now my father had stepped 
 in and saved me again. Where was the missing cog in my 
 mechanism? What could I do — what ought I to do — how 
 could I find out? 
 
 "It isn't your fault, hubby-boy," Helen said, her face 
 against mine. "You aren't meant to be a chemist. Your 
 father has had you learn a profession which at best is no 
 more than a secret anxiety to you. It haunts you with a 
 never-ending fear, because it is not really your work. It's 
 only a part you are trying to play to please him." 
 
 I sat up straight and stared at her. 
 
 "I've watched you every day, Ted, sweetheart, during these 
 
240 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 months we have been together— and I have seen you struggling 
 to fight down that fear of failure in you. You've tried to 
 hide it from me, dearest" — she smiled and shook a finger at 
 me — "you can't fool me, because I love you. I've wanted 
 to tell you I knew, and I was afraid, if I did, you couldn't 
 work at all." 
 
 "Well," I said slowly, "it's true. I hate chemistry — and I 
 have always hated it — or is it only work I hate?" 
 
 Helen shook her head: "We must get to your real work, 
 Ted, as soon as we can. There is your toy-theatre all ready 
 for you on top of the bookcase. We'll begin writing for it, 
 dear. When the company is all right, we'll give up chemistry 
 forever and begin for ourselves." 
 
 I stood up and drew her to me under the light. I took her 
 face in both my hands, turned it toward mine, and looked 
 into her grey eyes. 
 
 "Do you still love me, Helen?" 
 
 She closed her eyes. "So much, Ted, it hurts and hurts 
 clear down in me." Her hands clutched my shoulders until 
 the skin grew white over her finger knuckles. . . . 
 
 It is not possible that two persons could have been any 
 happier than Helen and I were during Christmas week at 
 Winchester. Others may have equalled our happiness; no 
 couple have surpassed it. Not only was it the first time 
 we had been by ourselves since on board the steamer, but 
 also Winchester itself, as that very Camelot we had made 
 up stories about in the woods back of Deep Harbor, was to us 
 a speechless delight. I had not been there before, and thus 
 its quaintness was as new to me as to Helen. We ate and 
 slept in a hotel somewhere off the High Street. The rest of 
 the time (despite the oncoming event of Edward Jevons, 
 Junior) we wandered about or sat in the nave of the long 
 bare cathedral. Helen actually got as far afoot as the summit 
 of St. Catherine's hill. We took a fly and drove out to St. 
 Cross, where we designed a new dream cottage from its 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 241 
 
 mediaeval gables and timbers. The same faithful fly con- 
 ducted us to other delights when I thought Helen had walked 
 enough. There are more things in Winchester than can be 
 set down, save in the book of memory. Jane Austen's house, 
 the cathedral, the school, the river Itchen where old Izaak 
 Walton fished — one can go on for a long time wandering 
 among mysteries and dreaming. We grew technical over 
 architecture and had an argument about it with a verger 
 in the cathedral. On the High Street we likewise discovered 
 a satisfactory second-hand book-shop containing a lot of 
 theatrical memoirs. Joys of joys, we bought ourselves as a 
 Christmas present Bell's British Theatre, complete with all the 
 plates! To be sure, it was but a shilling a volume; yet no 
 collector ever walked out of Christie's more proud than we. 
 Forty shillings had been set aside for Christmas recklessness. 
 Bell and his collection of plays made quite a hole in this, 
 even at only a shilling a volume. 
 
 On the night before Christmas there was a telegram from 
 my father. The trouble had been successfully located in the 
 commercial acid; there was no doubt that with pure acid the 
 trouble of manufacturing would be cleared up. More good 
 news was to come next morning. There was a letter from 
 Deep Harbor containing a present of one hundred dollars for 
 Helen, as well as the announcement that her father purposed, 
 from this time forth, to give his daughter one hundred dollars 
 a month pocket money. 
 
 "Ted, Ted!" she cried, pouring her letter and its contents 
 into my lap, her eyes dancing, "we can get all the books we 
 want! See here! And we'll have five more pounds of our 
 own to spend on our week-ends." 
 
 Curiously enough, it did not cross the mind of either of us 
 that we could possibly have any other use for that money. 
 Perhaps we had been badly brought up, both of us — I don't 
 know. At any rate we always had a lot of fun out of our 
 extravagance. And on this morning, as soon as we could 
 get there, we furiously rang the doorbell of the bookshop, in 
 spite of the closed shutters. We knew we could rout the 
 
242 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 old codger, the owner, out, if we made noise enough, for he 
 lived over his shop. He grumbled at first; then, when he 
 found us equipped to buy, cheerfully let us in. No, we did 
 not spend all of the twenty pounds, but we made a good hole 
 in that, too. He had a rather good Memoirs of Charles 
 Matthews, extra-illustrated. It was a new kind of pleasure 
 for us to own such a wanton luxury as that. 
 
 A day or two after Boxing Day we returned to London. 
 Going up in the train, I said: "Well, Lady Grey Eyes, the 
 second Christmas didn't turn out so black as we'd painted it, 
 did it?" Helen simply looked things at me. 
 
 "They'll all be as wonderful as this one, dear," I added, 
 Helen's eyes clouded. "Don't say it, Ted! Don't!" and 
 she touched the wood of the railway carriage beside her. 
 We were alone in the compartment, so my reply may be 
 imagined. 
 
 It was some time in the spring that a trained nurse came 
 to live with us in the little house in Kensington. Her advent 
 set the whole household bustling over the preparations for 
 the expected arrival of Edward Jevons, Jr. It was my mother 
 who insisted upon Helen's having a nurse, long before the 
 day was due, although she still maintained her attitude of 
 being officially polite to Helen and almost ignoring my exist- 
 ence. I had not yet atoned for my fatal attempt at setting 
 matters right. Things were going swimmingly at the factory. 
 I was naturally busy enough, for I had to train the whole staff, 
 with the result that production was not yet on a large scale. 
 But what we were making was right, orders were coming in, 
 and every week I was able to report increased production. 
 Chitty was one smile as he watched me whistling at my work. 
 
 Helen and I were now under no worry or anxiety con- 
 cerning the event to befall her. The doctor was cheery, 
 Helen's health and physique were splendid; the trained nurse 
 kept a sharp lookout. Our only regrets were over the in- 
 terruptions of our week-ends and the presence of the con- 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 243 
 
 founded nurse always under foot. A stranger in one's house- 
 hold, on an intimate footing, is a supreme test of one's for- 
 bearance. It must also be quite a test for the stranger. This 
 nurse was willing, capable, and good-humoured; yet there 
 were times when Helen and I wished her elsewhere. She 
 packed Helen off to bed at nine; Helen and I were accustomed 
 to sitting up till all hours, talking or reading in the study. 
 She frowned upon the theatre and forbade the pit altogether, 
 although, now Helen and I were in funds, that prohibition 
 did not worry us so much. We were not permitted to dine 
 of a Saturday night at the Cafe Royal or have luncheon at 
 Kettner's. Indeed, Helen's diet was prescribed for her — 
 a great hardship, as neither of us liked "wholesome" food and 
 things that "were good" for you. I had to feed Helen 
 chocolates on the sly. My own movements were curtailed, 
 because it was no fun doing things without Helen. Not for 
 worlds would I have bought an old book unless Helen were 
 along to share in the joy of the purchase. 
 
 About Edward Jevons, Junior, and his future we talked very 
 little. We were, ridiculous as it sounds, a little shy about 
 him and, again, we thought the whole idea of our having a 
 baby of our own the biggest joke imaginable. It did seem too 
 absurd. 
 
 "Ted, I simply can't imagine a baby! I'm not sure I want 
 one interfering with us, dear. Isn't it dreadful?" 
 
 I couldn't imagine one, either, looking at Helen sitting 
 there before the fire in a dressing gown with her hair down, 
 to please me. She looked almost like a baby herself. Her 
 face was still, with all its grave and tender beauty, the face of 
 a school-girl. I think the nurse was shocked at our behaviour. 
 She used to lecture us on the care and rearing of infants. I 
 gathered from her that it was a task of more complexity than 
 we had realized. 
 
 "I suppose they will get colic?" I ventured, as a contribu- 
 tion to the discussion one day. I had loosed the flood. The 
 nurse insisted upon showing me a medical book full of dis- 
 gusting pictures, containing an absolutely terrifying account 
 
244 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 of the things that could, would, and did happen to babies. 
 Helen had to rescue me. It had been in vain for me to pro- 
 test that I should always send for a doctor. My protests 
 went unheeded until Helen spared me further details. 
 
 There came a day when the doctor remained after his 
 morning call, and I found myself banished from Helen's bed- 
 side. Nor could I get at my study, because that opened off 
 Helen's room. I had time only to kiss Helen hurriedly, tell 
 her to be game, and glance at a bassinette which had been 
 placed in the room. The nurse was moving about in her 
 room, and Frances had been sent away to visit some friends. 
 The house was impossible; and yet I couldn't go out to the 
 factory at Willesden. I was driven to reading a political 
 leader in The Times. The country appeared to be in a bad 
 way, judging from what I read, so that didn't cheer me up. 
 I felt somehow that I ought to have profound emotions. 
 Instead, I was worried fearfully about Helen and wanted her. 
 I could not bear to think of pain. 
 
 Once or twice the doctor came downstairs. He seemed, 
 however, to consider brusqueness the proper professional 
 attitude. The nurse was worse, for she told me not to "bother" 
 her, when I asked her about Helen. She refused to take a 
 note up to Helen, although all I had written was "love — Ted" 
 on a slip of paper. There was only Sims, my mother's maid, 
 to sympathize with me, and I strongly suspected her sympathy 
 was tinged with dislike for the nurse. Sims had refused one 
 morning to carry up hot water for the nurse. My mother 
 had promptly squelched that incipient revolt. 
 
 "I 'ates them as gives themselves airs in other people's 
 'ouses," had been Sims' verdict on the nurse. "Fancy 'er 
 speakin' like that to you, Master Ted, when it's you givin' 'er 
 employment! Stuck up, I calls it. That's wot it is." 
 
 "You mustn't quarrel with the nurse, Sims. It would 
 make trouble for Mrs. Ted and the baby," I felt it my duty 
 to say. 
 
 "Quarrel!" exclaimed Sims; "not likely! Not with 'er. I 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 245 
 
 wouldn't stoop to give 'er that much satisfaction" — and Sims 
 reported elsewhere in answer to a bell. 
 
 The nurse and I faced each other alone at luncheon; my 
 mother ate in her room, ministered to by Sims. It was a 
 painful meal. I was not hungry, and I could think of nothing 
 at all appropriate to say to my companion. She ate copiously 
 — three glasses of milk I saw her swallow with my own eyes. 
 I must have been staring at her noticeably, for she said: "I 
 shan't get much sleep tonight, I expect. I need to save my 
 strength." I could not explain to her that drinking milk 
 always set up a barrier between me and the person who did it. 
 She would not understand. It was the nurse who gave me 
 the knockout blow, upon leaving the table. 
 
 "It's no good worrying about your wife, Mr. Jevons. They 
 all do it over the first child. You'll soon get used to it, 
 after a few more," and she hurried upstairs. I was tempted 
 to pursue her to argue this. What sort of programme did she 
 imagine that Helen and I were embarked upon? "At least, 
 now I come to think of it," I said to myself, "Helen and I 
 have never discussed this." More than one baby? — the 
 thought followed me about the room. How utterly preposter- 
 ous. H'm. I sat down in a chair by the window. The idea 
 was overwhelming. I had always thought of Helen and me 
 as two persons going through life together. We had ac- 
 cepted, without yet realizing at all what it meant, one amend- 
 ment to our original plan. But the nurse had conjured up 
 the image of an indefinite sequence. Clearly, it was unthink- 
 able. Yet I was startled to consider how many persons 
 in this world had more than one baby. There was my sister 
 — making two in this very house. Chitty had six. Examples 
 multiplied themselves before me. "Helen, of course, shall 
 decide this," was the rather unexpectedly sensible conclusion 
 I finally arrived at. It was, nevertheless, a disturbing thought 
 that the nurse had suggested. 
 
 My father and mother went out to dinner by themselves, 
 after asking me for news. None had come. The doctor 
 
246 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 urged me to "clear out for a bit." The house was really in- 
 tolerable. "Come back about ten, if you like," he said. 
 I tried to walk to Piccadilly. The task was impossible; my 
 knees were too shaky. I took a hansom to the Cafe Royal 
 and sat there drinking coffee and Benedictine. The waiter 
 brought me a French comic paper. My sense of humour was 
 not equal to it. At half past nine I bought Helen some violets 
 at the expensive little flower stall on the way out. Its 
 flowers were probably intended for demi-mondaines — at least, 
 the price indicated that fact — but the violets had as yet 
 suffered no contamination. "It will make Helen smile," I 
 thought, "when I tell her where I got them and with what a 
 knowing air the yellow-haired vulture behind the counter sold 
 them to me." At the bookstall I got Helen some French 
 papers and the Paris New York Herald. I hesitated over 
 chocolates — there was no likelihood, I reflected, of running 
 the night's blockade with them. Instead, I went back into 
 the cafe and had the waiter wrap me up a bottle of green 
 Chartreuse. Helen loved it. "C'est pour une malade" I told 
 the waiter. He grew sympathetic at once, suggesting jellied 
 bouillon in glass. I took a pint of it, as well as a truffled pate 
 of chicken, "en aspic." The waiter scratched his head, but 
 could think of nothing more. I gave him half a crown for 
 himself, while the dignified doorman called me a hansom. 
 
 It was after ten when I arrived at Kensington. Still no 
 news. I did not dare ask the nurse to take my gifts up to 
 Helen. Besides, Helen preferred to have me give her things 
 with my own hands. My mother had retired; soon after, my 
 father went. I sat down to wait. I smoked many pipes, 
 striving to keep awake. Sims, faithful soul, brought me a 
 bottle of stout with a plate of biscuits on her way to bed. 
 Twelve, one, two o'clock came. The house was quiet. Two 
 or three times I dozed off, to awake with a start. My pipe 
 failed me at last, and I fell asleep in my father's favourite 
 arm-chair. 
 
 I was aware that some one was shaking me violently by 
 
NEW LIFE AND NEW LOVE 247 
 
 the shoulder. I opened my eyes, blinking, wondering what 
 had happened. I saw the nurse standing over me. Realiza- 
 tion returned with a rush. I started to my feet, terrified. 
 
 "Mr. Jevons, you have a daughter," she said. "Mrs. Jevons 
 is all right and can see you presently." 
 
 "A d-daughter?" I stammered, not able to assimilate this 
 statement in my dazed condition. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Jevons, it's a girl. Eight pounds — a normal 
 baby." 
 
 The nurse immediately left the room, not pausing to answer 
 any further questions. "A daughter," I thought — "but we 
 haven't got a name for a girl ! What will we call it?" Helen 
 had been so confident it would be Edward Jevons, Junior! I 
 paced up and down the room. A few minutes more brought 
 the doctor, all smiles, his brusqueness vanished. He warmly 
 shook my hand, telling me I could go upstairs for a short 
 visit. I hastily gathered together my presents for Helen and 
 dashed for her room. The nurse intercepted me at the door 
 to slow me down. I entered on tiptoe. There lay Helen in 
 bed, looking more beautiful than I had ever dreamed, a little 
 smile of welcome on her lips. I laid the violets on her, but 
 the nurse snatched the other things away from me. She had, 
 however, the tact to leave us. I kneeled beside the bed and 
 held Helen's hand. We looked at each other. I kissed her 
 gently on the mouth. 
 
 "Ted," she whispered, "it's a girl." 
 
 I nodded. "I ought to feel sorry, Ted, but I don't." I 
 nodded again. 
 
 "Our baby, Ted. Ours. Just think!" 
 
 I kissed her, and then she put my hand against her cheek. 
 I leaned close and whispered things that made her smile. 
 
 "What shall we call it, Ted?" 
 
 "There is only one name for our baby — and that is Helen." 
 
 She looked wonderfully at me, her eyes shining. 
 
 "You want to call it that, Ted darling?" 
 
 I nodded and kissed her. The nurse entered. 
 
248 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Time's up, Mr. Jevons. You can look in again after 
 breakfast. I do believe you haven't seen the baby!" 
 
 Helen and I looked guiltily at each other. The nurse 
 brought a tiny bundled-up object for my inspection. 
 
 "It doesn't look like either of us," I said, rather taken aback 
 by its appearance. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a red creature!" Helen giggled. 
 
 The nurse was deeply shocked. I winked at Helen. The 
 nurse laid the baby at her mother's breast. I stood for a 
 moment, a queer feeling inside me at this sight. Then I 
 bent over Helen again. 
 
 "I love you both, sweetheart." 
 
 The nurse drove me from the room. 
 
Chapter Fifteen 
 we begin to live 
 
 TOWARD the end of the summer we were all prospering. 
 The factory business was coming up to expectations, 
 the new baby was developing into a lusty child, and 
 even my mother had ceased to be openly antagonistic. She 
 was not entirely cordial, and she still kept a certain distance 
 between herself and Helen — a distance which, strangely 
 enough, also included Helen's baby; nevertheless, there were 
 occasions when she seemed to forget her attitude. We spent 
 several week-ends in the country as a family, and no in- 
 cident occurred to disturb either Helen or me. 
 
 In fact, the prosperity and good nature were so general 
 that once or twice Helen and I slipped away to look at little 
 houses in the suburban country. We found the very thing 
 we wanted at a small village in Hertfordshire, not far from 
 St. Albans. It was a modern house, but it had a red-tiled 
 roof and a pleasant garden of its own. "Ten minutes from 
 the station," the agent said. He was a brisk walker. Helen 
 went into raptures over the interior. She counted up seven 
 bedrooms, four on the second, three above. "Just the right 
 number," she announced. It was a surprise to me that seven 
 bedrooms were our lucky quota. I was rather vague about 
 bedrooms, never having thought out how many we should 
 need. Downstairs there was a sitting-room, a dining-room, 
 another room, the kitchen, and what the agent, once more, re- 
 ferred to as "the usual offices." There was a porcelain bath, 
 so shiny and white that had we had any money the matter 
 would have been settled then and there. 
 
 We went back to Kensington with the news of our dis- 
 covery. After hearing the price — for the property was a 
 
 249 
 
250 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 freehold — my father inquired if it was actually what Helen 
 and I really wanted. We assured him it was. 
 
 "Very well," my father overwhelmed us by saying; "if 
 you want it, you shall have it." 
 
 He and my mother, it appeared, were going to Paris for a 
 year, partly for the sake of my sister's education. They had 
 already decided to give up the Kensington house, leaving 
 Helen and me on our own. Our plans fitted in with theirs. 
 
 "You may call the house a belated wedding present," my 
 father said. 
 
 In due time the agent and solicitors from far and near 
 brought their endless papers, my father wrote out a check, 
 we all signed our names a great many times, and the house 
 was ours. Nor did my father's generosity stop there. Another 
 check was handed to Helen. My father told her to furnish the 
 house as well as she could with it. That evening Helen and 
 I sat up half the night, making out lists of things. I wrote 
 them down and Helen thought them out. Pots and pans 
 seemed extraordinarily numerous. We were interrupted only 
 by the younger Miss Helen demanding nourishment. 
 
 For the next two weeks we trudged up and down Tottenham 
 Court Road shopping. Such discussions and arguments as» 
 Helen had with shop assistants; such checking of catalogues 
 and comparing of prices! I suggested getting a lump price on 
 the whole thing from one shop, thus simplifying the process. 
 My commonsense suggestion was emphatically vetoed. It 
 simply wasn't done that way — not when one furnished a house. 
 I rather liked to sit on the edge of a counter and listen to 
 Helen bullying young shopmen. I marvelled at her persist- 
 ence, to say nothing of her obstinacy in getting them around 
 to her demands. She accepted no provisos and exceptions. 
 The daily struggle would have worn me out; she returned 
 to it fresh each morning, armed at all points cap-a-pie. Each 
 evening we laid plans for the action of the following day. 
 We were buying the minimum of furniture; the rest we hoped 
 to pick up second-hand, old cottage tables and the like. We 
 did, as a matter of fact, make one or two by-excursions down 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 251 
 
 the Fulham Road to see the antique shops. We found the 
 owners of these shops, however, too canny for our purposes. 
 They fancied that Helen and I were American tourists and 
 stuck their prices up accordingly. 
 
 The family listened with obvious amusement, during dinner 
 each night, to our adventures and progress. They offered no 
 advice, nor did we seek any, for we wanted to do it alone. 
 Occasionally Helen and my mother conferred over the contents 
 of the kitchen. Not everything bore the same name as in 
 America. Helen had to ask what the English equivalents 
 were. 
 
 Coming out of Kettner's one day in Soho, I observed a 
 fascinating row of copper sauce-pans hanging in a smelly 
 little French shop. I made Helen's growing equipment a 
 present of this addition. "You can do me a poussin saute, 
 granmere, en casserole," I explained. It was Helen's turn 
 to look a little vague. 
 
 We set the first of October as the date on which we hoped 
 to move in. We were having the walls done and a kitchen 
 range installed. Time was no object whatever to the group 
 of men who had taken over these two jobs. 
 
 "Probably," I said to Helen, "they are enjoying a summer 
 in the country." 
 
 "I hope they don't remain over for the hunting," she an- 
 swered, thereby proving that she had begun to read Punch 
 to some purpose. 
 
 The day actually did come at last. We sent off one van 
 load from Kensington, said good-bye until next Sunday to 
 the family, bundled nurse and the baby into a one-horse 
 omnibus, and, accompanied by Chitty as general handy man, 
 drove off for Euston. Our village was on the London and 
 Northwestern. 
 
 We no longer had the trained nurse, of course, but a 
 plain ordinary everyday nurse, who, according to Helen, 
 was most unscientific. Helen had been reading up in that 
 abominable book on the horrors of babies. I wanted to 
 
252 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 show baby the horse, but Helen informed me the child was as 
 yet quite unable to appreciate the privilege. 
 
 All this by the way. We were more excited over the 
 journey to our new home than we had been on our wedding- 
 day. We were now definitely for ourselves. 
 
 "No one to care if I spill pipe ashes on the rugs," I said. 
 I judged from Helen's reception of this that my illustration 
 of liberty was not well-chosen. "I mean," I went on, to make 
 amends, "that you will be at home in your own house, able 
 to do just as you like." This was clearly a much better ex- 
 ample of my thought. 
 
 We went first class, because of the baby. Helen thought 
 first-class carriages would have fewer germs in them. It 
 had an added advantage: we had the compartment to our- 
 selves, except for the nurse. Chitty went third. 
 
 At the station Chitty highly incensed the only porter by 
 taking charge of all our luggage. In some miraculous fashion 
 he also packed us all into one fly, seating himself beside 
 the driver. We drove up to our new home in state, Helen 
 and I hand in hand, the baby cooing from the nurse's shoulder. 
 
 Inside we found a solitary representative of the kitchen- 
 range-and-decorating crew, who informed us that he had not 
 as yet been able to "connect the range," but that this would 
 certainly be accomplished in two or three days. Until then 
 we could not build a fire in it or do any cooking. Helen and 
 I sat down on our luggage for a counsel of war over the 
 situation. Should we send nurse and the baby back to 
 Kensington? It was Chitty who solved the problem. 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "but 
 I could build a bit of fire in the back garden, sir, and do 
 the cooking on that." 
 
 Helen and I leaped at the proposal. It was the very thing! 
 Nurse made it evident she did not approve it. We overruled 
 her, and I gave Chitty immediate instructions to prepare 
 luncheon. He took a box of matches and a frying pan and 
 stepped outside. 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 253 
 
 Soon the vans arrived, for they had left town early in the 
 morning. There also came a cook and a housemaid, engaged 
 a month ago from a local employment agency. The cook's 
 indignation at the condition of the range knew no bounds. 
 She was not pacified by being shown Chitty hard at work 
 in the garden. The smoke from his camp fire had already 
 attracted the attention of two or three female neighbours. 
 Helen's tact disposed of the cook for the time being. I 
 went out to see how Chitty was getting along. 
 
 "What are we eating, Chitty?" 
 
 "Sausages and fried tomatoes, sir," he answered with the 
 customary salute. 
 
 "Mind you do enough for the lot of us," I instructed him. 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 I carried a deal table into the dining room, for the regular 
 furniture was mostly in a chaotic pyramid on the pavement 
 in front. Helen found knives, forks, and plates. The house- 
 maid appeared to be paralyzed by circumstances. She was of 
 little or no assistance. So it was that, amid gales of laughter 
 from Helen, we sat down to the first meal under our own 
 roof. 
 
 "The devil of it all is," I philosophized to her, between 
 bites, "that nothing in this world ever turns out as one has 
 imagined it will. Now, the number of times we have pictured 
 ourselves eating our first dinner in our own home — " 
 
 "But what oceans more fun it is, like this," Helen inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 "There is a great deal in your point of view, lady with 
 the nice eyes," I agreed, carving her a wedge of bread from 
 a household loaf. "What do you think, littlest Helen?" I 
 added, turning to the baby, who sat, a solemn spectator, on 
 nurse's lap. 
 
 "Now, Ted, please don't stir the baby up when she's being 
 good," Helen cautioned. She always said that if I approached 
 the child. 
 
 "When," I asked with mock irony, "will my daughter reach 
 
254 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 such an age of discretion that I may be permitted to converse 
 with her?" 
 
 "You are* being silly, Ted. If you'll promise to carry 
 her about afterwards until she stops howling, you can speak 
 to her now." 
 
 "I refuse your terms, and repudiate the vile implied slander," 
 I returned, winking at the younger Helen. I believe the child 
 sided with me. I poured myself a glass of stout and solemnly 
 drank the baby's health. She continued to stare at me, not 
 displeased. 
 
 "Ted, you dear idiot," exclaimed Helen, jumping up and 
 kissing me in defiance of the nurse's presence. 
 
 "You have stout on your lips — serve you right," I said 
 to the now retreating Helen. She scrubbed her face violently 
 with a handkerchief no bigger than a postage stamp. 
 
 "'Men are disgusting creatures." 
 
 "They are," I mused; "yet women love them." I drank 
 deep of the stout. 
 
 "Ted, I'll shake you if you don't behave." Sftie made a 
 series of cabalistic signs at me, which, I took it, had reference 
 to nurse. "It's time for baby's nap." 
 
 "Coward woman," I ejaculated, *'y ou are afraid of me." 
 
 "Will you walk up to the nursery and set up the baby's 
 crib?" 
 
 "Not unless I am paid in advance." 
 
 Helen hastily dabbed a kiss on my cheek. "Now, Ted, 
 please!" 
 
 "I obey, Omphale. Call in Chitty." 
 
 "Call him in yourself," was Helen's parting shot. 
 
 Chitty and I laboured some time setting up beds, beginning 
 with the crib in the nursery. Though the heavens were to 
 fall, the baby had to have a nap at precisely two o'clock 
 every afternoon. We were interrupted once by Helen, who 
 reported that cook, housemaid, and nurse alike had refused 
 point blank to eat any of Chitty's cooking. It ended by our 
 sending them all off to a public house, near the station, where 
 food was obtainable. 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 255 
 
 "An ominous look-out until we get that range going," I 
 growled. 
 
 "I wish we had a Polish girl from Deep Harbor," was 
 Helen's comment after her first run-in with English servants. 
 
 "I had rather have a Pole from Deep Harbor than an 
 American from Warsaw," I amended. 
 
 "That is nonsense, Ted," Helen said. 
 
 "It isn't, if you think it over," I replied. 
 
 Chitty and I resumed setting up beds. At the end of the 
 first hour I paused. My face was moist. 
 
 "Chitty," I observed, "living is composed of a great many 
 details. Take a bed, for example. You find them in lots 
 of rooms, looking harmless enough. It is only when you 
 analyze them, or, more correctly speaking, synthetize them 
 — if that is, in fact, the word — that you realize their com- 
 plexity." 
 
 "Yessir," said Chitty. "It's 'ard work for a gentleman, I 
 dare say." 
 
 "Then dare say so no longer. On with our task." 
 
 "Very good, sir." 
 
 Gradually we reached the top of the house and the end 
 of the infernal job. Helen appeared again. "Do we have 
 tea?" she asked. 
 
 *How long since is it, madam," I asked sternly, "that after- 
 noon tea became a necessity in your life? Shall we tolerate 
 this aping of foreign customs?" 
 
 "I can easily make the madam a cup of tea, sir," Chitty 
 cut in, a shade of anxiety in his tone. 
 
 "Then let the madam have her tea," I answered, "since 
 her throat burns." 
 
 "Ted," said Helen, as Chitty disappeared, "how am I 
 going to have any discipline among the) servants if you 
 persist in making a damn fool of yourself in their presence?" 
 
 "A what, madam?" I inquired. 
 
 "A damn fool," said Helen firmly. 
 
 "You shall pay dear for that, madam," I exclaimed, seiz- 
 
256 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 ing her. It was several minutes later that we went back to 
 our dining room for tea, our arms about one another like a 
 Bank holiday couple at Hampstead Heath. 
 
 Chitty provided a tin of tea, black as Cimmerian darkness. 
 The furniture had by now been removed from the pavement 
 and piled in smaller individual pyramids in each room. 
 
 "It looks absolutely hopeless, Ted," said Helen, shudder- 
 ing over a taste of Chitty's tea, as well she might. "Shall we 
 ever get settled?" 
 
 "I am so comfortable," I replied, "that it is a matter of 
 complete indifference to me. Let's live as we are." 
 
 At this moment a surprise arrived. The family, whether 
 suspecting the result of our first day's housekeeping, or out 
 of sheer good will, had sent us a large hamper of food 
 from Fortnum and Mason's. There was a bottle of champagne 
 to give the final glow. No need for Chitty to cook any more 
 that day. We summoned him from his tea. I verily believe 
 he had consumed two quarts of that brew of his — proof 
 positive that the British army is made of stern stuff, "hearts 
 of oak and tummies of copper," Helen ventured. 
 
 "Sailors, my dear — for hearts of oak — not soldiers," I 
 corrected. 
 
 "I'm right about the tummies," Helen rebutted stub- 
 bornly. . . . 
 
 "Chitty," I commanded, "this room must be set right. The 
 madam dines here tonight." 
 
 "Very good, sir." Chitty saluted, not a trace of a smile 
 visible. In half an hour he had done wonders. Its normal 
 appearance three quarters emerged from the confusion left 
 behind by the van men. 
 
 We set the hamper in the centre of our gate-legged table, 
 Helen's especial pride. Real ones were even then becoming 
 hard to pick up. Helen lighted the candles herself, refusing 
 to hear of gas or of assistance. There followed a feast. Cold 
 pheasant, boned turkey, fonds d'artichaut, bottled asparagus 
 d'Argenteuil, cakes and wine jellies, with champagne to top 
 
WEBEGINTOLIVE 257 
 
 it all off. We made our own coffee over a spirit lamp. 
 
 With the third glass of champagne I was all for bringing 
 the younger Helen down from the nursery, as we called it, 
 to respond to her health. On this point her mother was im- 
 movable. The child's slumber was not disturbed. 
 
 "Madam" — I arose, addressing my wife — '"once more per- 
 mit me to point out to you that this is not at all like the first 
 dinner we once planned." 
 
 "I think you have had enough champagne, Ted," was the 
 woman's irrelevant response. "Let's give the last glass to 
 Chitty." 
 
 "An excellent idea and a kindly thought, worthy of your 
 woman's heart." 
 
 Once more Chitty was summoned. His eyes stared amaze- 
 ment when I poured him a glass of champagne. 
 
 "Thank you, sir. Thank you, madam," and he tossed it 
 off with a neat jerk of his head. Meanwhile Helen made 
 him up a heaping plate of food from the hamper. 
 
 "Thank you, madam." 
 
 He went out, carrying his ration carefully. We finished 
 our coffee sitting on a rug before the fire, Helen tucked up 
 comfortably against me. 
 
 We made heroic efforts all the week to get the house 
 settled by Sunday. Chitty came out by train each morning 
 to perform prodigies of strength in placing furniture. Our 
 eagerness to be ready by Sunday was owing to the fact that 
 we had invited the family to spend the day with us. Helen 
 was extremely nervous about the critical eye she knew my 
 mother would cast over our housekeeping. Poor Helen had 
 never kept house before, let alone in a land where many 
 ways and customs were still strange to her. We drew up the 
 plan for dinner a dozen times, trying to include things that 
 would please my mother's taste and rejecting everything we 
 feared was doubtful. 
 
 We explored the shops in the village, choosing a butcher, a 
 
258 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 grocer, a greengrocer, and a fishmonger after minute in- 
 vestigation. There was also the question of the baby's milk. 
 The milkman, who took Helen's searching inquiries rather light- 
 heartedly, finally told her he would "earmark" one special 
 cow for her. 
 
 "What on earth did he mean by that, Ted?" she said, as 
 we pursued our way up the High Street. "Will he brand 
 the cow in the ear so he can tell her from the others?" 
 
 I leaned against a convenient lamp-post to laugh. Helen 
 grew quite indignant. 
 
 "Ted, you are making an exhibition of yourself in the public 
 street!" 
 
 "I'm sorry, dear," I apologized. "But you conjured up a 
 vision in my mind of that good English yoeman swinging 
 on to his broncho in the early dawn to ride forth and rope 
 your cow, while the Mexican peons dash up with the branding 
 irons — and all for a cow's ear." 
 
 "It may all be very funny," Helen snorted, "but I really 
 think baby's milk is more important than your silly idea 
 of humour." 
 
 It was not often that we failed to agree on a laugh. 
 
 "What is the joke, Ted?" 
 
 "The milkman, my dear, has been reading the speeches 
 of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He is quoting a favourite 
 phrase — that a certain item of revenue has been earmarked 
 for a particular purpose. Thus he thought it good to ear- 
 mark his cows. It's awful, my dear, when a joke has to be 
 explained." 
 
 "I don't think it was much of a joke, now you have explained 
 it," said Helen. 
 
 "Probably not," I agreed. "But you put it to a very severe 
 test. It would have to be a remarkable joke to survive an 
 analytical lecture." 
 
 "You are as clumsy as an elephant this morning, Ted." 
 
 We left the joke at that. 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 259 
 
 By Sunday we had established some sort of order and 
 routine in the house. Not all the curtains were up, an 
 omission which gave Helen distress. Curtains up, it ap- 
 peared, was one of the first tests of housekeeping ability. 
 There was no rug for the dining room. Otherwise we felt 
 we had done rather well, as we surveyed our preparations. 
 From now on we should have to manage without Chitty, 
 who was to return Monday to his work at the Willesden factory. 
 
 Taking stock of our situation, we agreed that the sitting 
 room would pass inspection. There was not much furniture 
 in it, because we hoped later to pick up one or two good 
 bits for it. It had, nevertheless, curtains and comfortable 
 chairs. The extra room downstairs was our study, with all 
 our books — a decent lot, too — around the walls. It also 
 contained a good mahogany desk with over-shelves — but 
 there were no curtains here. The dining room was likewise 
 nearly done, save for the rug. Upstairs our bedroom and the 
 nursery were complete; only the guest room remained to be 
 furnished. The odd bedroom was to be turned into a labora- 
 tory for me; as yet nothing had been done to it. On the 
 top floor the cook and housemaid lived in solitary state 
 with an extra empty room between them. Such was 
 the result of our final look around before the family was 
 due. 
 
 They arrived about twelve, driven up by the station fly, 
 which worthily upheld all the conservative traditions of village 
 cabs. Napoleon might well have driven from the field of 
 Waterloo in it. 
 
 Frances was the first to rush forward to greet us, dashing 
 into the house like a Newfoundland puppy that has just been 
 let off its leash. My father and mother followed more 
 sedately. Helen took my mother upstairs, while Frances 
 was running all over the place on her own, poking into 
 everything. My father sat down in the study and got out 
 his pipe. 
 
 "Satisfied, Ted?" he asked, as he began to consume matches. 
 
260 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Yes, sir," I answered. "'I can't imagine what more one 
 could want" 
 
 "End of the chapter, eh, Ted?" 
 
 "With the addition of 'and they lived happily ever after- 
 wards.' " 
 
 My father took a wire and ran it through the stem of his 
 pipe. 
 
 "About the future which you have just mentioned. Your 
 mother and sister will be on the Continent probably for 
 several years. I shall be with them a good deal of the 
 time. I am going to make you a director in the company 
 to look after my interests and your own. That will not, 
 however, take much of your time. You'll be free there- 
 fore, to do whatever you wish. I am definitely putting you 
 and Helen on your own feet. If you need advice or help, you 
 know where to turn — otherwise, go ahead and run your own 
 show." 
 
 Any reply I might have made was cut short by Helen's 
 entrance with my mother. My father joined us in a solemn 
 visit to the whole house. The nursery received the closest 
 inspection. Nurse was holding a very pink and well scrubbed 
 baby, dressed in her Sunday best. The crib was ordered 
 nearer the window; that was the only flaw discovered in what 
 Helen and I felt to be the crucial room. We breathed easier, 
 once by that. But a difficulty developed over the proposed 
 laboratory. My mother said it was "criminal" — that was 
 her very word — to have chemical fumes on the same floor 
 with a baby's nursery. The rooms actually adjoined one 
 another, making it much worse. The laboratory, if it was 
 necessary at all to have such a nonsensical mess in a house, 
 would have to be in the unoccupied room above. How 
 Helen could in any event tolerate such a thing was beyond 
 my mother's power to see. I was liable to burn the house 
 down at any moment. If we were incapable of thinking for 
 ourselves, we might at least occasionally think of the baby. 
 The whole concluded with a peroration on my lack of any 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 261 
 
 sense of responsibility. That had always been the curse of 
 the Jevons side of the family. We humbly expressed our 
 eagerness to put the laboratory upstairs. 
 
 "Why the devil did I tell her about that blasted laboratory?" 
 I whispered to Helen as we went down into the garden. 
 Outside we paused before the spacious kennel inhabited by the 
 genial Sir Leonidas de la Patte Jaune. His welcome spread 
 from ear to ear. 
 
 "This spot has been especially earmarked for Leonidas," I 
 said to my mother, with a wink at Helen. 
 
 "Ted, what absurd words you use at times!," my mother 
 said. "I can't see what attraction there is about that wretched 
 animal. It's a loathsome yellow cur. If you are going to 
 have a dog, for God's sake get a good one." 
 
 "He matches our family crest, mother. On a field vert, 
 a hound souriant, or, enkennele." 
 
 "I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Ted. 
 You are always a bore, like all the Jevonses, when you 
 try to be amusing. The crest is certainly not a yellow 
 dog." 
 
 There had been no time, as yet, to do anything to the 
 garden. We stood, therefore, and talked of possibilities 
 rather than of facts. We hoped to afford a tennis court 
 by spring. There was just enough length, with room along 
 the sides for flowers and a vegetable patch at the back. By 
 the dining room window we were meditating a pergola. 
 
 "Amateur flowers never grow, or, if they do, they never 
 blossom," announced my mother. 
 
 The housemaid rang the dinner gong. Helen and I felt 
 we had now to face the supreme test. Our first dinner party! 
 Helen was probably nervous as we sat down, and I rather 
 wished I knew more about carving. My dear wife, not 
 thinking of me, had ordered ducklings. The soup passed off 
 very well. I had cheated there and brought some out from a 
 caterer's in town. 
 
 "Helen makes rather good soup," I remarked, while the 
 
262 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 lady of the house cast me an imploring look from the other 
 end of the table. 
 
 "It's the best soup I ever tasted," affirmed my father, wish- 
 ing to be tactful. "Very clever of you, Helen." 
 
 Helen blushed crimson, but sat silent. 
 
 "You got it at HicksonV said my mother calmly. "We 
 often have it at home, although no one notices it." 
 
 "Ted — " Helen began. My mother cut her short. 
 
 "You need not apologize for Ted, Helen. I knew him 
 before you did." 
 
 "May I offer an apology for hitting Helen with my 
 boomerang?" 
 
 "Do," my mother replied. "It is exceedingly unusual for a 
 Jevons to be aware he owes one." 
 
 The ducklings arrived at this point, and I arose to get a 
 firmer grip upon them than was possible from a chair. Deli- 
 cately I made the first incision, only to discover that duck- 
 lings do not respond to delicate treatment. I worked in 
 silence for a time upon number one. Although division into 
 his integral factors accumulated many apparent units, there 
 seemed surprisingly little of him to serve when thus reduced 
 to his lowest terms. Frances giggled. 
 
 "You look so funny, Ted," she explained, with sisterly 
 devotion. 
 
 "For that you shall have a drum-stick," I retorted. 
 
 "I can see nothing funny in watching good food being 
 ruined," my mother said encouragingly. The housemaid 
 standing at my elbow with a plate ready made me nervous. 
 
 "It is a curious fact," my mother went on, in a reminiscent 
 mood, "that no Jevons could ever carve. They are the most 
 incompetent men that ever existed." 
 
 As I knew for a certainty that the only two Jevonses on 
 earth my mother had ever seen were my father and myself, 
 I wondered whether she was drawing on state documents or 
 simply making a sweeping generalization from two examples. 
 Something told me, however, not to argue this point. 
 
WE BEGIN TO LIVE 263 
 
 "A duckling," I said, "is an act of God. Steamer tickets 
 and insurance policies specially provide for no liability for 
 such. Even a Jevons is powerless in the face of the handi- 
 work of Providence." 
 
 "Sit down, Ted, and let me finish. It makes me ill to see 
 you messing up those ducklings," my mother said. Willingly 
 I changed places. To my secret joy she splashed some gravy 
 on the table cloth. I tried to kick Helen under the table, but 
 all I did was to make an awful crash against one of the com- 
 plicated gate legs. My mother looked fixedly at me. I did 
 not move a muscle of my face. 
 
 "Sorry," I murmured. "I haven't room for my feet." 
 
 The fragments of the two ducklings were at last distributed 
 to my mother's satisfaction. The remainder of the dinner 
 was eaten without caustic. Indeed, my mother commended 
 the Burgundy, bought for her particular gratification. 
 
 It was, if the truth must be told, with mixed feelings that 
 Helen and I sat down after saying good-bye to the family 
 that evening. The day had been trying for Helen, for it was 
 like being on dress parade before a critic whose motives were 
 kindly, but who was perhaps all the more eager, for that reason, 
 to find mistakes. Never before this week had the child kept 
 house or entertained guests of her own. She could hardly 
 be blamed for uttering a sigh of relief when it was all over. 
 On the other hand, we neither of us knew when we should see 
 any of the family again, for they were leaving England at once. , 
 Eager as we had been to be our own masters, we felt the 
 isolation that was now to be ours as almost too literal a 
 response to our prayers. Our circle of friends in town was 
 neither large nor intimate; we had yet to test the resources of 
 our village. Of one thing, however, time had made us 
 absolutely certain. That certainty was concerning the stability 
 of our love. Each week, each day made that firmer and 
 more intense. We lived but for each other; we thought of 
 nothing else. . . . 
 
264 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Well, Ted," Helen smiled at me, "there is one thing we 
 can do now." 
 
 "What is that, dear?" 
 
 "Work. We have the leisure we have dreamed about. Let's 
 use it. You shall begin writing your play in the morning." 
 We went to bed very happy. 
 
Chapter Sixteen 
 
 WE HEAR SENTENCE PRONOUNCED 
 
 THREE years and a few months more went by, not un- 
 eventfully for us, yet without any striking change in 
 the happy quiet of our lives in the little Hertfordshire 
 village. We had acquired a few friends, some from London, 
 others from among our neighbours. Week-ends were certain 
 to find our guest room occupied, if we were not ourselves 
 away on a visit elsewhere. There was tennis of a Saturday 
 afternoon, golf, or a walk across the fields by the paths leading 
 Aldenham way. Often we rode horseback, particularly in 
 the autumn, when hounds were out. We were not, however, 
 hunting people, for we could not afford a pair of good 
 hunters; we contented ourselves with riding to the meets on 
 our hired beasts, with a canter through a lane afterwards. 
 
 When there was something new on at the theatre, we dined 
 in town, coming home after the performance by the late train. 
 Our gradually increasing circle of friends connected with 
 the theatres made it possible for us to obtain seats for first 
 nights — not always, of course, but for many important open- 
 ings. We came to know, by sight, at least, the perpetual 
 first night audience of London, its critics, dramatists, and 
 friendly connections. We enjoyed thoroughly whispering and 
 nudging one another: "There's So-and-So," or "look at that 
 dress Mrs. What's-her-Name is wearing." It was our way 
 of joining in the outburst of applause with which it was the 
 custom of the pit to greet the entry of each celebrity. But 
 our theatrical friends were not in this group of big-wigs. 
 We knew the younger generation — players of small parts, 
 recent graduates from the Benson company, dramatists who had 
 
 265 
 
266 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 not yet had a West End production, idealistic members of 
 the Stage Society — in fact, mostly the youngsters who believed 
 themselves "advanced." Perhaps they were; I don't know. 
 We were keen on Ibsen and smiled pityingly at the mention 
 of Pinero. We were Fabians because of Mr. Shaw. Some- 
 times we — Helen and I — dabbled a bit in writing dramatic 
 criticism. Wa began to get some articles accepted. But 
 our greatest fun upon returning from a first night was to 
 sit down and write parodies of the notice we expected to read 
 in the morning in The Daily Telegraph. We became quite 
 skilled at this latter art. 
 
 During these three years we saw my mother and sister 
 but once or twice, when they came back to London for short 
 visits. My sister was being taken to live now in Paris, now 
 in Rome, and finally in Munich, to follow out a theory of 
 education invented by the family. My father we saw more 
 often, for he came back on periodical visits to look after his 
 business. He preferred, however, his club in town to our 
 more inaccessible village. If we wished to see much of him, 
 we had to go up to London. 
 
 The baby had grown to be a constant source of surprise and 
 delight to us. Her conversation was fluent, her interest in 
 the garden intense. In violation of all the proprieties, she 
 sat in a high chair at table with us for breakfast and luncheon. 
 Leonidas also had his special chair in one corner of the 
 dining room, which he mounted at the sounding of the gong 
 and remained in until his own plate was carried out to his 
 kennel. The baby and Leonidas were most astonishingly good 
 pals. He would tolerate liberties at her hands that no one else 
 dared venture upon. The worst ordeal of the day for Leonidas 
 was to take tea with the dolls. With a napkin tied under his 
 chin, he was compelled to occupy a place at the dolls' tea- 
 table and sit there immovable until the ceremony was over. 
 No Christian martyr ever had a more expressive countenance; 
 yet he, like the martyrs, did not question the necessity for his 
 sufferings. The lump of sugar which signalized the close of 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 267 
 
 each day's tea-party would send Leonidas galloping in frenzied 
 circles about the garden in joy over his regained freedom. 
 
 Our income was increasing, not to make us rich, but to 
 keep pace with the things we enjoyed doing. In the first place, 
 there were the modest profits of our share in the Willesden 
 factory — a sum which about covered ordinary living expenses, 
 clothes, and theatre tickets. Then there was Helen's allow- 
 ance, which we used for horseback riding, week-end trips, old 
 books, and little luxuries. From time to time we sold a 
 manuscript — money which it particularly delighted us to earn. 
 The great play had not yet been written; yet we were still 
 hopeful that the future would bring us that. Several drawers 
 of manuscript plays were beginning to accumulate. Last of 
 all, a sheer piece of financial luck befell us. 
 
 A friend who was a solicitor in the City, had a client in- 
 terested in chemical patents. I was casually asked one day 
 to write a report on one of these patents. Helen and I worked 
 out a document one evening, after messing about for a few 
 days in the laboratory upstairs, sent it to the solicitors, and 
 thought no more about it. To our surprise we received a 
 check for fifty guineas a few days later, together with a request 
 for reports on other patents. We embarked cautiously on the 
 career of consultant, for, although the fees were tempting, 
 we both feared being taken again from our writing and 
 reading. We set a limit to the time to be given to this new 
 work, not thinking it right wholly to refuse such a gift at 
 fortune's hands. These occasional fees put us beyond any 
 fear of financial worry. Helen refused, on the other hand, 
 to let me open an office in the City. As long as the clients 
 were willing to submit work to me at home, well and good. 
 My mornings, she insisted, should be kept free for writing. 
 Thus our days were very full and very happy. 
 
 We made a few trips to the Continent on our own account. 
 The consulting fees made these easily possible. We went to 
 Paris and Rouen, to the French Channel watering places, 
 through Normandy, Holland, and Belgium — all at different 
 
263 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 times. We were never away longer than ten days, on account 
 of the baby, and often not more than the week-end. In the 
 same way I took Helen to see more of England, until, like 
 me, she soon came to look upon England as home. Memories 
 of Deep Harbor, in spite of weekly letters from her father 
 and mother, were growing dim. There was no question of 
 home-sickness; instead, I could see the love of England in 
 her eyes as we rode between the Hertfordshire hedgerows or 
 chatted with our friends at tea time in the garden. 
 
 There was but one thing that troubled me; in spite of our 
 outdoor life and quiet habits, the climate did not always agree 
 with Helen. In the winter she had too many heavy colds; 
 in the spring her cough lingered longer than I liked. It was 
 in June, when we were entering upon our fourth year in the 
 village, that I asked a doctor in town to come out and have a 
 special look at her. She had been a little languid, a most 
 unusual thing for her, and the cough still hung on. The 
 local practitioner, an amiable man harassed with overwork, 
 had made light of it. 
 
 "Your soil is a bit clayey," he had said. "It would be better 
 if you were on gravel, but it's nothing. Keep on with your 
 riding; it will soon pass away." 
 
 It hadn't. That is why I sent for the London man. I 
 waited downstairs for his verdict. He came in smiling, after 
 half an hour, and I could feel my heart leap at the sight of 
 his cheerful face. 
 
 "I don't think it's anything," he said. "Come, we won't 
 believe it is," he added, and a strange icy chill went through 
 me, leaving me speechless and physically helpless. I had 
 just strength to grasp a chair. "I shouldn't say anything to 
 her about it," he added — "at least, not for the present. I've 
 taken a sample of her sputum and will have it analyzed, just 
 to make certain. Still, I can't believe it." 
 
 "Believe what?" I gasped, my voice breaking in spite 
 of my efforts at self-control. 
 
 "Now don't you worry, old man. We've caught it early, 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 269 
 
 if it is anything — that's the main thing. There is a dull spot 
 on one of the lungs that will bear a bit of watching." 
 
 I think it was the first time in my life I have ever felt 
 sheer, absolute terror. My thoughts were raging like a mad- 
 man's. I could not speak a word, try as I would. 
 
 "Buck up, old chap," he said, looking curiously at me. 
 *Take a drop of brandy. You mustn't let Mrs. Ted see you 
 like that." We were old friends, this doctor and I, for he 
 had been the family specialist in town for years. "The main 
 thing is not to worry or let her worry. Mind, not a word 
 to her until I tell you." 
 
 Helen came in at this point, looking her own sweet self, 
 with a smile upon her face. She had never looked so beauti- 
 ful to me in her life. 
 
 "Ted, the doctor says you are a silly old goose to worry 
 about me. I'm quite all right. He's prescribed a tonic. In a 
 few days I'll be as well as ever. Would you like a cup of 
 tea, doctor, before you go? Do stay. We can give you dinner 
 later if you will." 
 
 "Thanks very much, I must be off. Other patients to see in 
 town, you know. You are very kind." 
 
 I detected in the doctor's manner a desire to get away 
 quickly, which I did not believe was wholly dictated by pro- 
 fessional motives. "That man believes more than he has 
 told me," I thought, "and he is not easy about this case." 
 The baby toddled in to see the guest. 
 
 "Hasn't she grown wonderfully since you saw her, doctor?" 
 said Helen, picking the baby up in her arms. 
 
 "Er — yes," said the doctor. "Er — I shouldn't lift any 
 heavy weights, if I were you — not just for the present, you 
 know." 
 
 Helen put the child down, with the slightest shadow in 
 her eyes. Something impelled me, at this, to rush to Helen's 
 side and put my arm about her. We stood facing the doctor, 
 almost defiantly. 
 
 "I think I'll have a try for the 4.50 — by the way, I suppose 
 
270 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 you'll be in town, both of you, for the horseshow at Olympia 
 next week?" 
 
 "Of course," said Helen ; "we never miss that." 
 
 "Look in at my office as you pass by. Don't fail. Good- 
 bye," and he was off. 
 
 Helen took the baby to the nurse and came back to me. 
 She put her hands on my shoulders, and said: "Now, Ted, 
 tell me what the doctor told you. No fibs, please, sweetheart." 
 
 I looked at her grey eyes and had to fight to keep the 
 tears out of my own. 
 
 "We neither of us know for certain yet, my wife dear. 
 He's having your sputum analyzed." 
 
 "Can you analyze it, Ted?" 
 
 "No, dear. I know nothing of physiological chemistry — 
 and I haven't a proper microscope for that work." 
 
 "Ted," she said, sitting down in her favourite chair, "I'm 
 not going to give in, whatever happens." She shut her lips 
 with something of the decision I had often noted in her father's 
 face. 
 
 "Dearest, we must not make mountains out of molehills. 
 Wait until we know." 
 
 "No, Ted, we must think. There's the baby to consider — 
 as well as ourselves." 
 
 I sat down beside her and held her tight. She was quite 
 dry-eyed. 
 
 "Ted, if anything should happen — I said, sweetheart, if 
 anything should happen, I want you to make me a promise." 
 
 "Yes," I said. 
 
 "Promise me that you will always take care of the baby. 
 Don't let any one else take her away. She is to stay with 
 you — and it is you, and only you, who can make her happy." 
 
 "I promise," I whispered, burying my head in her lap. 
 
 "And now, Ted dearest, we are to go on just as before until 
 we see the doctor next week. I'm going up to dress for 
 dinner. Will you telephone for the horses to be brought 
 round in the morning? Not before ten." 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 271 
 
 "Very well, dear." 
 
 She waved her hand gaily at me from the door, sending 
 me a smile and blowing a kiss with the tips of her fingers. 
 
 A week later we reported at the doctor's sanctum. He 
 greeted us cordially, and I could not decide from his manner 
 what answer he had for us. Carefully and methodically he 
 sounded Helen. It made me shiver to see the quiet remorse- 
 less way his stethoscope travelled over her beautiful bare 
 shoulders and breast. I cursed my ignorance that told me 
 nothing of what result he was reaching. 
 
 "There," he said at last, "I don't think we need to be 
 alarmed. Put on your dress, little girl, and wait downstairs 
 for your husband, will you? I want just a word with him 
 about what he is to do for you." 
 
 Helen obediently dressed and went. The doctor followed 
 her to the door, saw her downstairs, and returned to me. I 
 sat frozen in my chair. 
 
 "Ted," he said, examining some instrument on his desk, 
 "there were tubercular bacilli in her sputum." 
 
 I continued to sit in silence. The room was growing hazy, 
 and I could not struggle to any words. 
 
 "We've got the case in an early stage — so early, in fact, 
 that I don't even yet say the diagnosis is final. With open- 
 air treatment, she should be well again in a year. But you'll 
 have to be careful with her. You must leave England in 
 September." 
 
 "Leave England," I said mechanically, my tongue sticking 
 to my throat, making it difficult to speak. "Where are we 
 to go?" 
 
 "Up the Nile — Assuam is a good place — or out to the 
 desert; say your own Southern California." 
 
 "Egypt or California?" I echoed, like a ventriloquist's puppet. 
 
 "Meanwhile, live in the open all you can — but no violent 
 exercise. Don't let her ride or play tennis. A little gentle 
 walking; nothing more." 
 
272 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 I got to my feet. "Doctor, I want to know the truth. 
 What chance have we?" 
 
 "Why, the best of chances. The will to win, that will do 
 it, Ted. Keep your nerve and don't let her be frightened. 
 Cures are often made, at this stage." He added: "I'm go- 
 ing to have more analyses made. It's still possible we are 
 wrong." 
 
 "Are you certain we can fight it off?" 
 
 "Absolutely certain, if you follow instructions. Will that 
 satisfy you?" 
 
 "I don't want to be satisfied. I want the truth." 
 
 The doctor walked up and down the room for a moment or 
 two. 
 
 "Ted," he said slowly, turning to me, "I'm a doctor, not 
 a prophet. Cures are possible with modern treatment. I 
 can't say more. She is young, has lived a good, clean life, 
 and has a good physique. Everything possible is in her favour. 
 Don't leave her too long downstairs, or she may worry." 
 
 I groped toward the door, the doctor close at my elbow. 
 
 "Remember, Ted, that cheerfulness is our most important 
 ally. Whatever you feel, don't let her see you anything but 
 cheerful. By the way — " he paused. 
 
 "What?" I asked. 
 
 "She ought not to kiss her baby or be too close to it." 
 
 He studied the monogram on his cigarette case, then offered 
 me a cigarette. I pushed it away. I could see Helen's face 
 in my imagination, when I should tell her she could not kiss 
 her own baby. 
 
 "You know," the doctor went on jerkily, "you ought to be 
 careful yourself. Keep away as much as you can — at least, 
 separate bedrooms." 
 
 I looked at him. He shrugged. 
 
 "It's my duty to warn you — that's all," he said, holding out 
 his hand. "And keep her out of crowds — no horseshow — no 
 theatres." 
 
 I think I said good-bye; perhaps I thanked him for his 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 273 
 
 kindness, but I have no recollection of anything further 
 until Helen and I stood outside his house, with the June sun- 
 shine pouring down on us. I tried to smile at her as I saw 
 her grey eyes fixed on mine. It was rather a ghastly attempt. 
 
 "I want to know everything, Ted. Don't keep anything 
 back." 
 
 I told her as gently as I could, while we continued to 
 walk along Harley Street without noticing where we were 
 going. 
 
 "Ted, I'm going to fight — and fight hard. I won't be 
 beaten! I won't!" 
 
 For just a second I thought she was going to break down. 
 I should have known my Helen better. 
 
 "We must go home and make plans, dear. Call a hansom." 
 
 I looked about. We were just emerging in the Marylebone 
 Road, or was it Euston Road? Things danced a bit before 
 my eyes, but I waved my stick. A hansom drew up beside us. 
 
 "Euston," I said, helping Helen in. 
 
 At home I propped Helen up in a Madeira chair in the 
 garden while we were waiting for tea. I went into the house 
 to get our bank passbook, for there was need to find out where 
 we stood financially. I paused as I saw Helen with wistful 
 eyes watching her baby playing about the garden. The 
 flowers made bright patches of color; overhead the sun and 
 sky were glorious with an English June. The world seemed 
 such a beautiful place — there sat a beautiful mother watching 
 her baby at play— "Why? why?" I asked, "why to us?" No 
 answer came, then or since. I went into the house. 
 
 Our finances proved to be in fair shape. We had enough 
 laid by to take us overseas if we were 1 not extravagant 
 travellers. The income from the factory and Helen's allow- 
 ance would keep us comfortable, even granting considerable 
 addition to our living expenses. In any event, there were 
 two generous families to lend help. It is curious, perhaps, 
 that at first we talked only of practical problems. The reason 
 
274 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 was that we were both so determined to fight, we thought of 
 nothing except immediately planning our campaign. We 
 would let the house furnished. It was the most sensible thing 
 to do, although the first tears came to Helen's eyes when she 
 spoke of strangers using our treasures. 
 
 After tea we wrote letters to both families. There re- 
 mained the question of where to go in September. Again we 
 took an immediate decision, or rather Helen did. She felt 
 uncertain about carrying the baby to Egypt. Neither of us 
 had been there, and we did not know what Assuam might be 
 like. As for California, while it was equally a strange country 
 to us, it was at least America, and we should be, in a measure, 
 at home. We put postscripts to our letters, announcing 
 southern California as our destination in September. We 
 dined in the garden and sat late under the stars, her hand 
 in mine. 
 
 Although we spent the whole summer in the garden, or 
 taking short walks along the field-paths near by, Helen began 
 to lose strength. She seemed quite unaware of it herself, for 
 each day her word to me was that she felt much better. And, 
 mindful of the doctor's constant injunctions to me to be 
 always cheerful in her presence, I had to pretend that I, too, 
 thought her steadily improving. The doctor began to speak 
 of the benefit a change of climate would bring, by which I 
 saw that he inwardly admitted there had been no amendment. 
 But he buoyed us up with hope and optimism, telling us 
 marvellous tales of cures that the American desert had wrought. 
 Almost our whole anguish was at the thought of leaving our 
 little home; as yet neither of us had had our confidence at all 
 shaken. On the contrary, so optimistic is youth, we had in con- 
 siderable degree recovered from our first grief. We knew we 
 were fighting, perhaps with our backs to the wall, but we did 
 not doubt we should win. It was when I was alone that doubt 
 would sometimes steal in. For example, that walk Helen took 
 easily last week, she could not finish yesterday — what did it 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 275 
 
 mean? But I fought against doubt for her sake, well knowing 
 that she would instantly detect any signs of it in me. I strove 
 not to think at all, but to minister each day to Helen's comfort 
 and happiness, leaving tomorrow out of the account. 
 
 Packing up and closing the house was the hardest for Helen 
 to bear. In spite of the fatigue of climbing stairs, she went 
 with me from room to room for one last look. We were saying 
 good-bye to home alone because our letters to my family had 
 been so optimistic they fancied we were merely going away for 
 the winter. They wrote that they would come to visit us in the 
 spring upon our return. My father had sent a check, and Mr. 
 Claybourne had cabled he would meet us in New York. So it 
 came that we left our house as we had entered it, alone. 
 
 At the station many kind friends came down to see us off, 
 loading Helen with flowers. The baby was in great form, for 
 the excitement of travel was new to her. I think it was the 
 worst wrench of all for Helen to leave Leonidas, although dog- 
 loving friends were keeping him for us. Poor Leonidas! the 
 last thing we saw from the train window was the diminishing 
 wags of his tail, as he stood wondering on the platform. For 
 the first time since the doctor's diagnosis, Helen cried, leaning 
 against my shoulder as our train rushed toward Liverpool. 
 But she soon stopped, for little Helen started crying too when 
 she saw "mummy dear" in tears. Nurse sat up, rather grim, 
 trying to keep the child amused. I wondered how much nurse 
 guessed or knew. 
 
 "It doesn't seem possible, Ted, that our happy life is over," 
 Helen whispered, looking out of the carriage window. "The 
 home we had fixed up for ourselves and were going to live in 
 always — why should it happen to us, Ted? Why?" 
 
 It was the same question I had asked myself in the garden. 
 
 "We'll come back in June," I said. God knows whether I 
 thought it a lie or not. 
 
 "In June, Ted. We must. It's — it's hard to be — brave, Ted, 
 isn't it? But I won't give in! I won't!" 
 
276 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 We reached New York after a gloomy, foggy September pas- 
 sage. Mr. Claybourne met us at the dock, accompanied by a 
 Miss Brock, a trained nurse, who was to travel with us to 
 California. We paused in New York only long enough to con- 
 sult another tuberculosis specialist. This man also expressed 
 hope, sending us on our way rejoicing. Another halt of twenty- 
 four hours was made at Deep Harbor, to see Helen's mother. 
 
 It was a strange sensation to step off the limited at the 
 familiar old station which we had left under such different cir- 
 cumstances. Before us lay State Street, with its trolley cars 
 and soft coal smoke, not much altered. Yet the mere sight of 
 Deep Harbor lowered my spirits as nothing else had done. I 
 don't know why this was so. In spite of all I could do, deep 
 depression seized me as we drove to the Claybourne residence 
 on Myrtle Boulevard. I think Helen felt it, too, for her hand 
 rested on mine the whole way. Mr. Claybourne was busy with 
 his new granddaughter, whom he had deliberately spoiled from 
 the time he first saw her on the dock at New York. She was 
 chattering away to him, as we drove along, in a pronounced 
 English nurse-girl accent, a habit that gave Mr. Claybourne un- 
 ending delight. I think the trace of English in Helen troubled 
 him a little. After over four years it was not surprising that 
 Helen had acquired a few English mannerisms and tricks of 
 speech. Her slang, indeed, was quite up to date. I had seen 
 him look at his daughter more than once as if he felt that she 
 had drifted far away during the four years and over of her 
 married life. I wonder myself how it would seem if Helen 
 had been away a long time from me and returned with strange 
 speech and ways. I wanted to tell him she was a more splen- 
 did and wonderful woman than she had ever been. 
 
 I dreaded the meeting with Mrs. Claybourne. I feared her 
 tears and wailings would have a depressing effect on Helen. 
 Mrs. Claybourne was constitutionally unable to look upon any 
 but the gloomiest side of things. What would happen now she 
 had good cause for sorrow? I had already warned Mr. Clay- 
 bourne that only cheerfulness was to be about Helen, hoping he 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 277 
 
 would shield her from Mrs. Claybourne's worst. As I expected, 
 we were met with tears, to which, however, Mr. Claybourne put 
 a sudden and decided stop. It was possible to bully Mrs. Clay- 
 bourne, I observed with satisfaction. 
 
 After luncheon Miss Brock took Helen upstairs for a rest. 
 Mr. Claybourne and I faced one another, each equipped with 
 one of the oily black cigars I remembered so well. 
 
 "Ted, I haven't tried to ask many questions with Helen 
 around. What are our chances in this thing?" 
 
 "God ! I wish I knew," I answered. 
 
 He smoked his cigar a while, staring out the window at the 
 passersby on Myrtle Boulevard, much as he had done the first 
 time I told him I loved his daughter. 
 
 "I don't need to ask if you and Helen have been happy," he 
 went on, still gazing at the street. "I saw that in her eyes 
 when you brought her off the boat." 
 
 "No two people could have been — happier," I murmured, 
 my voice losing a little of its steadiness in spite of me. 
 
 "I know, Ted. Yes, I think I know — you see, she's all I 
 have, too." 
 
 I could not reply; he was looking fixedly out the window. 
 
 "I can't come with you, Ted ; my business ties me here. And 
 I won't let Mrs. Claybourne go with you — I guess you know 
 why. Don't spare expense — no matter what it is. Get the 
 best specialist and the best of everything for her. If you run 
 short, simply call on me." He fumbled in a pocket book. 
 "Here is a draft on a Los Angeles Bank. Deposit it as a 
 reserve fund." 
 
 I was surprised to see that his eyes, like mine, were wet 
 when he handed me the draft. Then he smiled : "We mustn't 
 lose our nerve, Ted. Go out there and fight for that girl," and 
 he gripped my hand. 
 
 The next day we began our long journey across the Conti- 
 nent. We had several hours to wait in Chicago before the 
 Santa Fe limited left in the evening. We hired an open cab 
 
278 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 and drove for an hour along the lake front of that amazing 
 city. Helen took her old, eager childish delight in seeing 
 something new. Her eyes danced as I had not seen them 
 dance for weeks. We astonishd passersby by halting our cab 
 to stare upward at sky-scrapers or to peer from alongside the 
 curb at luxurious shop windows. 
 
 "They wonder what curious brand of country folks we 
 are," I laughed with her. 
 
 "Ted!" Helen exclaimed, clutching my arm, "there's one of 
 those wonderful American candy shops — do buy me some 
 chocolates." 
 
 Again I laughed at the blend of the two countries in her re- 
 mark. The cab was stopped once more and a box of 
 chocolates added to our luggage. In our delight over 
 sight-seeing together, we forgot for a time the shadow hanging 
 over us. It was Miss Brock who brought us to ourselves. 
 Helen was getting dangerously excited. The cabman drove us 
 to our hotel. There we sat in a room looking out over the 
 lake until time to go to our train. 
 
 Driving to the station, Helen said : "Let's stop for a day or 
 two in Chicago on our way back next June, Ted. I think it's 
 fun," 
 
 On the train Helen and I had a little compartment to our- 
 selves, with another for baby, nurse, and Miss Brock, the 
 trained nurse. Helen insisted at once on playing house and 
 having the baby come as a caller to visit us. 
 
 "Ted — just think! We are going across the Continent. 
 It's a real adventure, dear." 
 
 "To be' anywhere with you is a beautiful adventure," I 
 whispered. It sounded banal, but I meant it. 
 
 "Dear old boy, you still pay me compliments after being 
 married to me for ages. And I like them just as much as 
 ever, Ted." She snuggled against me, saying, "Make me 
 comfy, Ted." 
 
 In spite of Helen's j oy in travel, I found my courage oozing 
 out of me on that train. The tracks stretched so remorselessly 
 and interminably away from the rear carriage, while we went 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 279 
 
 on and on. Our old life and happiness seemed to be fading 
 far off over many horizons. Ahead of us there was nothing 
 but a strange land and an unknown, perilous struggle. I won- 
 dered at the towns we passed through, and if, in each village 
 we went by, there were others fighting the same fears and 
 watching beside their beloveds. 
 
 Mother and baby often sat on opposite seats, chattering to 
 each other of the things seen out the window — gee-gees, moo- 
 cows, and all the rest that all mothers show their babies. 
 Little Helen no longer could sit in her mother's lap. 
 
 "Daddy," she asked one day, "why can't I sit in mummy 
 dear's lap any more the way I did in England?" — everything 
 now she compared with England — "and, daddy, why doesn't 
 mummy dear kiss me good-night any more?" 
 
 I held little Helen very tight at this, for a pair of grey eyes 
 opposite were staring out the Pullman window. 
 
 "Ted," said the grey eyes slowly, "tell her the truth." 
 
 "'Mummy dear is ill, little girl — and the doctor says you 
 mustn't sit in her lap or kiss her until she is quite well again." 
 
 "I want mummy dear to get well quickly, daddy. Tell the 
 doctor to make her well. I want mummy dear to kiss me 
 again." 
 
 "Ted, I'm afraid I'll have — to ask you — to — to take baby 
 back — to nurse," the grey eyes tried to smile. "I can't stand — 
 everything, dear." 
 
 Helen woke me up the second or third morning — I can't 
 remember which — calling, "Ted, do look at this wonderful 
 country — we are in New Mexico, dear. Look at it!" 
 
 I shook myself awake and climbed out of my berth. Helen 
 was sitting in her dressing gown by the window. I noticed 
 that the skin on her throat looked white and waxy. But I 
 came quickly beside her. 
 
 "It is like another world out there." 
 
 Sagebrush had begun; in the distance were strange, eerie- 
 looking mountains. Shadows were sharp and hard, with edges 
 
280 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 that looked as if they had been trimmed with a jackknife. 
 
 "It is another planet," I said, as we looked at this weird 
 panorama unfolding before us. "'It couldn't have been the 
 same God that made this." 
 
 The train stopped with a jerk at some collection of little 
 wooden houses whose gable roofs were squared off by false 
 fronts. 
 
 "It's like the Western novels, Ted. Oh, look — there's a real 
 cowboy — by Jove, Ted, he can ride!" 
 
 A man in leather chaps rode up to the little station and dis- 
 mounted with a flourish, I suspect for the benefit of the train. 
 There was, however, no doubt that he and a horse were old 
 acquaintances. Helen made me open the window. 
 
 "May I give your horse a lump of sugar?" she called to the 
 man. He looked up surprised, then grinned. 
 
 "Sure, lady, if I can coax him alongside of the train." 
 
 About this the horse was of another opinion. He reared 
 magnificently and struck out with his forefeet. 
 
 "I want to ride that horse, Ted." 
 
 We compromised by handing the man the lump of sugar to 
 be transferred to the horse. The horse sniffed it disdainfully 
 and spat it out. 
 
 "I guess he ain't used to no dainties, lady," the man 
 apologized. 
 
 The train whistled, and we were off again. The man swung 
 into his saddle, the horse bolting with him across the desert. 
 We saw him rein him in and turn in his saddle to wave his hal 
 at the train. Helen fluttered her handkerchief out the window, 
 
 "Couldn't we take a Western pony back with us, Ted? I 
 think we can almost afford it." 
 
 "If you want one, dear." 
 
 "I'd make a sensation on a horse like that af a meet of the 
 Old Berkeley East hounds." 
 
 "I think his carelessness with his forefeet would bar him 
 out," I replied. 
 
 California at last. The train climbed over a range of the 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 281 
 
 curious mountains', and then coasted down into a wide, flat 
 plain set with groves of trees. 
 
 "Orange trees, Ted!" Helen exclaimed. 
 
 "Something like the Riviera," I said, a bit doubtfully. I 
 wasn't quite certain this country was what we had expected. 
 We looked anxiously at the towns, to see what they were like. 
 I think each of us had a little the feeling we were making the 
 best of what we saw for the others' benefit. The towns were 
 — well, still like other Western small towns. The main streets 
 were a hodge-podge of rural-looking shops. From a train 
 they were not attractive. 
 
 "Of course," I said, "Los Angeles is a large city with 
 magnificent suburbs — we mustn't expect the fruit-growing sec- 
 tions to be very home-like." 
 
 "I wonder, Ted? Suppose we don't like it here?" 
 
 "Nonsense," I answered stoutly. "Think of all the fine 
 things we have heard about California." 
 
 It was dusk when the train arrived at Los- Angeles. The 
 hotel reassured us, for it was comfortable, and we were 
 pleasantly received. In the morning I was to begin my search 
 for a bungalow — one right out on the desert, if there were such 
 things here as desert bungalows. I went to bed with a shade 
 of anxiety concerning the recommendation of the London 
 doctor. I had seen nothing yet to make me think this a 
 particularly good place for an invalid. 
 
 A house agent took me in tow in the morning. We went 
 first to Pasadena, a beautiful place, as I admitted to the agent, 
 but far too town-like and civilized for our purposes. The 
 agent had much to say about the Calif ornian climate; I had 
 quite a fund of information on this subject before I had done 
 with him. I forget now his statistics: the number of days of 
 sunshine, the number of inches of rain, the number of cool 
 nights in summer. I likewise have forgotten his commercial 
 statistics concerning the thousands of carloads of oranges — 
 "citrus fruits," I believe he called oranges and lemons. 
 
 From time to time I reminded him that I was looking for a 
 bungalow. This was necessary, for he preferred to talk of 
 
282 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 California at the expense of facts nearer home. "It's the 
 garden spot of the world," he exclaimed ecstatically from time 
 to time — "the sun-kissed valleys of California." 
 
 "What I am looking for is a sun-kissed bungalow in your 
 garden spot, old thing," I remarked about two o'clock. "We 
 haven't found one yet." 
 
 He pulled himself together, and we followed another clue 
 out in Altadena. As we neared the great range of the Sierra 
 Madre mountains, I felt, as children say, we were "getting 
 warm." They towered crisp and clear, like theatrical scenery, 
 and their lower slopes lay pleasantly exposed to the sun. 
 The agent protested that I would find it unpleasant to live so 
 far out. 
 
 "What is one near, if one lives further in?" I asked, not un- 
 kindly. 
 
 I was almost ready to return to Los Angeles with the resolve 
 of seeking another agent on the next day, when we really came 
 across a charming little bungalow standing all by itself on ir- 
 rigated land. The agent was contemptuous; the locality was 
 not fashionable; he had many other objections. Overhead 
 the mountains fairly hung upon us. All around was open 
 land, unbuilt upon. The house itself was new, comfortable, 
 and of the right size. To the agent's disgust and the land- 
 lord's amazement, I paid a month's rent in advance, upon the 
 spot, and with my own hands took down the "For Rent" sign. 
 
 One difficulty developed at the last moment. 
 
 *Your wife isn't a lunger, is she?" the landlord inquired. 
 
 "A what?" I asked. 
 
 ^Lunger. Has she got T. B.? Because, if she has, I don't 
 want her in no house of mine. Can't rent a bungalow out here 
 after any one has died of tuberculosis in it." 
 
 "My wife is only slightly ill." 
 
 "They all say that," remarked the landlord. 
 
 "Will you let me have it for more rent?" 
 
 "No — but I'll sell it, young man." 
 
 We dickered a while and at last struck a bargain. I could 
 not draw from the agent any opinion concerning a fair price. 
 
WE HEAR SENTENCE 283 
 
 I had to trust to luck that I wasn't being unreasonably cheated. 
 It was a top price, I knew, but Helen could not stay in a hotel 
 in Los Angeles. A sum down, including a check, served to 
 clinch the bargain. There remained only to buy some cottage 
 furniture and install it. 
 
 On the way back the agent tried to hold me up for a com- 
 mission. 
 
 "You'll collect your commission from your friend, the land- 
 lord," I replied firmly. We let it go at that. 
 
 Three days later I got enough furniture into the place to 
 enable us to move in. My three days of preparation involved 
 a great deal of strenuous urging. But it was done at last, even 
 to a floored tent behind the bungalow for Helen and me to 
 sleep in. We had likewise a cook, a protesting coloured 
 woman from Texas, who swore many strange oaths that she had 
 never seen any one in such a mighty hurry as I was. A special 
 bribe got her from under the nose of some *f Pasadena's elite 
 who were besieging the employment agency. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when Miss Brock and I carried 
 Helen from the carriage to a long chair on the verandah and 
 propped her up with pillows. The baby had already begun to 
 play about the bungalow. Inside we could hear the cook talk- 
 ing to her pots and pans as if they were sentient beings in 
 league against her. By the verandah stood two orange trees 
 in blossom. The breeze stirred slightly in their branches, car- 
 rying a whiff of their sweet, sickly scent to my nostrils. I 
 started with a shudder, for I remembered how I had always 
 hated the scent of orange blossoms from the time I first met 
 the flower girl under the archway of Glaring Cross station. 
 Could this be why I disliked that odour? Was I to learn the 
 reason at last? Helen was holding my hand, resting quietly, 
 for the journey had tired her. I saw her look at the mountains 
 and from them to her baby at play. 
 
 "Ted," she said, so faintly I had to lean forward to hear, 
 "I want to go home — to our own little house in Hertfordshire. 
 Take me back, Ted. I'm homesick." 
 
Chapter Seventeen 
 we stand at the cross-roads 
 
 THE next day we procured a specialist from Los Angeles to 
 come out and examine Helen. He was an elderly man 
 with white hair and whiskers', together with what I 
 thought were objectionably brusque manners. I was partly 
 reassured by the speed and skill with which he worked — "the 
 old devil is efficient for all his rudeness," I thought. I had a 
 documentary history of the case, prepared by our doctor in 
 London. This I gave him. He stuffed it into his pocket 
 without so much as glancing at it. He spoke sharply once or 
 twice to Miss Brock because that young woman did not move 
 quickly enough to suit him. To Helen he said almost nothing 
 beyond asking a half dozen brief questions. When he had 
 finished — he was about an hour at it, all told — he turned to me 
 and said: "Come to my office to-morrow, Mister — let's see, 
 what is your name? ah, yes, Jevons" — (consulting his note- 
 book). "I'll give you my opinion of your wife's case then. 
 Here's the card of a local doctor — a good man. Use him. 
 I'll come out again, if you wish or your doctor sends for me. 
 Good morning." He was off without waiting for further 
 reply. 
 
 "Ted, he's a beast," Helen exclaimed. "Don't let him near 
 me." 
 
 I tried to explain that a great scientist and expert perhaps 
 lost, in time, some of his human touch. His reputation we 
 knew to be supreme in his field; it was best to take him as 
 we found him. 
 
 "I shan't worry about his manners, sweetheart, while he 
 is curing you," I concluded. 
 
 I went in to Los Angeles the next morning to call at the doc- 
 
 284 
 
WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS 285 
 
 tor's office. The waiting room was full of all sorts and con- 
 ditions of men and women, seated on chairs around the four 
 walls. I stood, for there were no more empty chairs. A 
 young lady, the doctor's secretary, took my card and laid it 
 on her desk. 
 
 "The doctor is engaged just now," she said. More arrived, 
 but none was shown into the doctor's office. I stood, my heart 
 keating wildly, almost frenzied by the delay. The door 
 opened, and the old physician looked into his waiting room. 
 He beckoned to a lady in a far corner. She arose and went 
 toward him. In my anxiety, I forgot all etiquette. 
 
 "Doctor!" I pleaded. "One moment." 
 
 "What is it?" he turned, vexed. "Can't you wait your 
 turn?" 
 
 "Just a word and then I'll wait all day, if necessary." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "My wife — you examined her yesterday — can you tell 
 me — ?" I stumbled over my words. 
 
 "Let's see — what name?" 
 
 "Mrs. Jevons," I answered. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Mr. Jevons — that case." He spoke in a loud 
 tone of voice. All the waiting room was listening. 
 
 "There's absolutely no hope, Mr. Jevons. I don't think she 
 will live three months. Good morning." 
 
 "No — no — hope! Doctor!" I knew my voice was break- 
 ing, and I could feel the eyes of all those sitting there upon 
 me. 
 
 "You came too late," he said. "What's the use of coming 
 out here with a case in its last stages? There's no hope." 
 
 He went into his room, followed by the woman patient, and 
 banged the door. I stood stunned, dazed, so weak I did not 
 trust myself to take a step; and still the eyes from all around 
 the room stared at me. "You God damned brute!" I muttered 
 under my breath, "God damn your dirty soul!" and staggered 
 toward the doctor's closed door. Then I paused. "After all," 
 I thought, "why should we matter to him?" A great rage 
 against the others sitting there seized me. Had they no decency 
 
286 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 to stare at me like that? I stiffened. "I won't give them any 
 more show for their money, the loathsome hounds," and I 
 went to the secretary's desk to pay the fee. I was surprised 
 to note that I counted out the bills with a steady hand. She 
 handed me a receipt. 
 
 "I am sorry, Mr. Jevons," she said, so the others could not 
 hear. 
 
 I looked at her blankly a moment. "Thank you." 
 
 In the street I had to lean against the wall of an office build- 
 ing for a time, for there was no strength in my legs. A police- 
 man came from the centre of the street. 
 
 "What's the matter, young fellow? Sick?" 
 
 "Just a momentary faintness," I answered. "I'm all right, 
 really." 
 
 "Well, go in there and get yourself a drink." 
 
 I saw him pointing with his club at a nearby cafe. I got 
 there somehow and sat down at a little table. 
 
 "What's yours, bud?" the bartender called with a great 
 assumption of joviality. 
 
 "A glass of sherry," I gasped. He brought it and set it 
 before me. I saw him preparing for a pleasant chat. 
 
 "I'm very sorry," I said, "but would you mind not talking 
 to me? I — I've got some business to think out." 
 
 "Oh, have it your own way," he replied, deeply offended, 
 and returned behind his bar. 
 
 There was just one problem in my mind. What was I to 
 say to Helen? Should I tell her the truth? Ought I to tell 
 her? Three months, or less, the doctor had said. Could I 
 make her happy for those three months? Was that not better 
 than telling her? But would she guess? Could I keep it 
 from her? Should I be able to play my part? Back and 
 forth these questions raced in my mind. No answer came, for 
 either choice seemed wrong. Helen and I did not lie to each 
 other. But this was a different kind of lie from any mere 
 vulgar deception. Had she the right to know? 
 
 "Say, if you're going to sit there all day, how about a little 
 action?" — this from the bartender. 
 
WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS 287 
 
 "Oh, hell," I exclaimed, "bring me anything you like — or 
 have it yourself on me." 
 
 "Thanks, I'll take half a dozen cigars," he said, rattling a 
 box. "Damned if you aren't a queer guy. From the East, I 
 guess." 
 
 'Tes — but please do me the favour to keep still." 
 
 "I'm not trying to butt in on nobody," he muttered, ag- 
 grieved again. "And I'm good enough to talk to any stuck-up 
 Eastern guy that comes along." 
 
 As I disappointed him by ignoring this last remark, he took 
 refuge in polishing glasses. I was conscious of a distant 
 rumbling inside him from time to time. But I did not dare 
 go back to Helen until I had got control of myself again. Fur- 
 thermore, I must make up my mind about what I was to tell 
 her. There seemed no way in which I could force my thoughts 
 into an orderly arrangement. Little glimpses of our life to- 
 gether — of all we had done and planned in the last four years 
 ■ — kept interposing themselves between me and the present. 
 "Helen — Helen — my Helen — my wife," was ceaselessly echoing 
 inside my head. Finally a resolve came to me. "I can't tell 
 her," I said to myself — "right or wrong, I can't." 
 
 I went to the telegraph office and sent a message to Mr. Clay- 
 bourne. Then I took the long journey back to our bungalow. 
 Helen was sitting on the verandah when I got there, the baby 
 riding a hobby-horse near her, and Miss Brock reading aloud. 
 Helen's face was thin now, but she had lost none of her delicate 
 beauty. I went up to her and kissed her. 
 
 "What did the doctor say, Ted dear? How long you have 
 been." 
 
 "He says it is all right, sweetheart. I am bringing good 
 news." I wondered that the lie did not choke me. 
 
 "Honour bright, Ted?" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. 
 Jt was our one oath of truthfulness that she demanded of me. 
 Never before had I violated it. 
 
 "Honour bright, Helen precious." 
 
 "Ted, isn't it glorious! I feel better already. Will it be 
 in June?" 
 
288 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 I kneeled in front of her chair and hid my face in her lap. 
 "Why, Ted! I believe you are crying!" 
 I clung to her hand. 
 
 "Dear old boy, Ted. I love you," she leaned over me and 
 whispered. 
 
 The local practitioner confirmed the opinion of Dr. Kreh- 
 stadt, the specialist. He and I, with Miss Brock, held a 
 council -of -war while Helen was taking her afternoon nap 
 next day. 
 
 "Why in the name of heaven did the doctors in London and 
 New York talk so optimistically to us?" I asked him, for he 
 was a pleasant-spoken young man with friendly blue eyes. 
 He shrugged. 
 
 "'Perhaps," he hazarded, "they thought it important to keep 
 your courage up. Or it is possible" — and he hesitated — "I 
 hate to say this of my colleagues — yet it may be they wished to 
 pass you along. I don't say it was the reason in your case, 
 Mr. Jevons, but I have known it to have been done with other 
 tubercular cases sent out here." 
 
 "What have you thought, Miss Brock?" I turned to the 
 trained nurse. She was a level-headed, taciturn person, with 
 a quiet way of always doing her work exactly as expected of 
 her. It suddenly occurred to me I had not asked her opinion 
 before. 
 
 "I have had a good deal of experience with tuberculosis 
 patients, Mr. Jevons. I confess I have been worried about 
 Mrs. Jevons since I first came into the case." 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me?" 
 
 "Well, Mr. Jevons — I'm not a doctor. It's not my business 
 to offer opinions or to make a diagnosis. Besides, Mr. Jevons 
 — seeing you with Mrs. Jevons every day, who could tell you? 
 I've seen a lot of death and suffering in my hospital work — I 
 thought I was callous. I guess I'm not." 
 
 A grey cloud caught on the summit of one of the mountains 
 and spread along below the topmost ridge. I watched it 
 slowly blotting out the crest of the range. 
 
WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS 289 
 
 "Do you object if I smoke?" the doctor inquired. 
 
 "No — pray do," I said. I felt tired, old — as if youth 
 had suddenly left me. Miss Brock got up and went into the 
 house. 
 
 "Doctor," I pleaded again. "Is there anything we can try 
 — however new or experimental — whatever the risk, as long as 
 it offers just one chance — one?" 
 
 He shook his head. "I know of nothing, Mr. Jevons, that 
 will cause new lung tissue to grow." 
 
 I knew my question was hopeless; I had read the best 
 medical works on tuberculosis since this had come to Helen, but 
 one struggles for a gleam of hope to the end. 
 
 "She has had no pain — or very little; no haemorrhages. 
 That, too, misled us." 
 
 "There are many cases like your wife's," the doctor said. 
 "Simply a gradual wasting away and loss of strength." 
 
 "I can't reason it out, doctor. It isn't fair." 
 
 He shifted in his chair, knocking the ash from his cigar. 
 
 "If you were a doctor, Mr. Jevons, you would come across 
 a lot of things you couldn't reason out — that aren't fair. But 
 they happen." 
 
 "Yes," I said. "I suppose, like everybody, we think our 
 own case the only important one in the world. But it does not 
 make it any easier to know there are others suffering as we 
 suffer. I am not fond of seeking that kind of sympathy. I 
 say it's a damned unfair thing all round." 
 
 "I'm afraid, Mr. Jevons, that Nature cares nothing for the 
 individual." 
 
 The doctor threw away his cigar and held out his hand. 
 
 "I'll look in every day, Mr. Jevons — but there isn't much 
 I can do." 
 
 "How long?" I faltered, as he went toward his horse and 
 buggy. 
 
 "It's hard to say — something depends, of course, on her 
 natural vitality." He stood, choosing words. "I don't be- 
 lieve you will lose her until after Christmas." 
 
 The word rang in my head, as I watched him drive away. 
 
290 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 How many Christmas days had we planned, years ago in 
 Deep Harbor? And now — I could think no longer. 
 
 Miss Brock appeared in the door. "Mrs. Jevons is awake. 
 She wants to see you." 
 
 "Pm coming." My Helen — my Helen — I could feel the 
 blood beating against my temples on the way to her tent. 
 
 November, the beginning of December — I checked the days 
 off. Helen could not stir from her chair now — the dark cir- 
 cles were deepening under the grey eyes — the cheeks that 
 once glowed on horseback in the winter fields of Hertford- 
 shire were white and drawn in the warm California sunshine. 
 
 It was pain, agony, to look at her, and yet I laughed and 
 joked with her, between our love-making, as we had always 
 done. For, strangest thing of all, Helen thought she was 
 getting better. The first day she discovered that walking was 
 too great an effort, I was terror-stricken, thinking, "Now she 
 will guess." But no, she attributed it merely to some passing 
 phase — to being overtired — and her gentle good humour and 
 faith were as steadfast as ever. She noticed that she coughed 
 more, and that the coughing spells left her exhausted. Never- 
 theless she attributed even that to the normal progress of the 
 disease toward its cure. Thus each day made it more certain 
 than ever that I could not tell her the truth. 
 
 There were many nights that I lay awake in our tent, be- 
 side Helen, and fought this question over again and again. 
 To this day I have not found the answer. Would she have 
 more directions to give me about the baby, if she knew, I 
 wondered? and several times this thought nearly forced me to 
 speak. Would it be right to let her leave her baby without a 
 word about her future? Then, when morning came, Helen 
 would talk to me about going home in June, or make plans for 
 doing something to our house in Hertfordshire, and I could not 
 speak. 
 
 Christmas day came, after great preparations on our part 
 to observe it as we always had. There was a tree for the baby, 
 and I ransacked Los Angeles for things to please Helen, or 
 
WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS 291 
 
 other trifles to make her laugh. The coloured genius of the 
 kitchen cooked a marvellous turkey. We had a plum pudding 
 all the way from England. Dinner was served on a little table 
 before Helen's tent. Miss Brock allowed Helen to eat some 
 of the white meat of the turkey. Hand in hand Helen and I 
 sat watching the baby's joy in her heap of new toys. 
 
 "Our Christmas, Ted. It's our day," Helen whispered, her 
 cheek against mine — her old trick when she was happy or 
 pleased. "Do look at baby, Ted. Isn't she a darling?" 
 
 "Mummy dear, Santa Claus brought me a real paint-box, an' 
 brushes, an' pencils, an' paper, an' a book to paint in." 
 
 "Isn't that wonderful! Show mummy all your presents." 
 
 Baby began bringing them up, one by one, laying them in 
 rows at her mother's feet. A telegraph boy arrived. I 
 snatched the message from him. I had wired Mr. Claybourne 
 a day or two before that time was nearly up. He had foreseen 
 that Helen might read it. 
 
 "Coming with mother for a Christmas visit. We leave 
 tomorrow. Love to you three." I showed it to Helen. 
 
 "How nice of dad, Ted! I'm so glad he's going to take a 
 holiday. Why didn't they plan to be here today?" 
 
 Soon after, she went to sleep, and I sat at her feet, thinking 
 of Christmas. At five the doctor dropped in. I saw Miss 
 Brock talking aside with him by his buggy. 
 
 "Don't wake her yet," he said, and led me around to the front 
 verandah. I knew what he meant. 
 
 "It may be tonight or tomorrow, Mr. Jevons," he began, as 
 he took his chair. "Miss Brock reports that she has grown 
 markedly weaker in the last twenty-four hours. The excite- 
 ment of Christmas was not good for her, but I did not want to 
 deprive her of that pleasure. I can stay, if you wish it. There 
 is nothing, however, that I can do. Miss Brock is most com- 
 petent. I shall be within call, in any event." 
 
 "Her father and mother are leaving Deep Harbor to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 "They will be too late." He said it quite gently, laying his 
 hand upon my knee. I could see him watching me narrowly. 
 
292 I WALKED IN ARDEN 
 
 "Go back to her, my boy. I mustn't keep you." He got up 
 and walked down the steps. 
 
 In the tent I found Helen just waking up. 
 
 "It was — a — beautiful — Christmas — Ted. Why — Ted — I'm 
 awfully — weak." 
 
 I gave her a sip of brandy; the doctor had authorized it. 
 Miss Brock came to the tent. 
 
 "Will you leave us please?" I asked. "Stay within call 
 with the baby." 
 
 Helen was dozing again and did not hear what I said. I 
 put her on her bed and slipped off her dressing gown, tucking 
 her in for the night. The sun was just setting, and the first 
 chill of the California night air sent shivers through me. I 
 put on a heavy overcoat and set my chair beside her bed to 
 wait. 
 
 All night I sat there, holding one of her hands. Now and 
 then Miss Brock, with a flash-lamp, came out from the bun- 
 galow. I sent her back each time. Helen seemed to sleep 
 quite peacefully. Only once did a fit of coughing rouse her. 
 It was about seven when she opened her eyes and smiled at me. 
 
 "I think I'll be able to get up today, Ted," she said, so 
 faintly, yet distinctly. I kissed her. She gave me her hand to 
 hold. As she lay there looking at me with her grey eyes, I 
 saw the expression in them change. Something had come into 
 them that I did not know. 
 
 "Miss Brock!" I called. 
 
 She stepped in instantly. 
 
 "Bring the baby here, will you? Then take her away 
 again." Miss Brock quickly returned with little Helen. 
 
 "Good morning, mummy dear," she said. 
 
 "Helen — the baby — to say good morning," I whispered in 
 her ear. Helen opened her eyes, looking at me a little 
 puzzled. The strange expression was still there. Slowly she 
 turned her head and looked at the baby. 
 
 "Good morning, baby — precious." 
 
 I signed to Miss Brock, who took the child away. For a 
 long time yet I sat, holding Helen's hand. She dozed; and 
 
WE STAND AT THE CROSS-ROADS 293 
 
 again her eyes would open, with the faintest flicker of her smile 
 upon her lips as she saw me by her. Then she opened her 
 eyes once, and I saw she no longer knew me. 
 
 "Helen — my Helen girl — it's Ted — your Ted," I whispered 
 frantically. She gave no sign — but slowly, ever so slowly, the 
 eyes glazed. Her hand was still in mine when I knew the end 
 had come. I looked at my watch on the camp table. Twenty 
 minutes to eleven. 
 
 I got to my feet, gently laying the hand I had held on her 
 breast. I stooped and kissed her lips. From the door of the 
 tent I looked back again. She was beautiful. I faced the 
 breeze and the dazzling sunshine without. A heavy scent of 
 orange-blossoms was in the air. 
 
 I walked into the living room of the bungalow. Miss Brock 
 sprang to her feet when she saw me come in. She gave me one 
 look and dashed for the tent. I sat down before the empty 
 fire place. Little baby Helen ran to me and climbed into my 
 lap. A pair of grey eyes looked up smiling at me. I think 
 that saved me. . . . 
 
EPILOGUE 
 
 Christmas Eve, 1918 
 
 "Daddy?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter?" 
 
 "Think, daddy, think!" 
 
 "My dear, I will— if you'll tell me what." 
 
 ^Tomorrow is Christmas — the first peace Christmas." 
 
 "I know." 
 
 "And daddy!" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "In the spring I shall be eighteen." 
 
 I looked at a tall girl, her cheeks aglow with the frosty 
 crimson which only English winter days can bring. In her 
 hand was a riding crop, and her riding habit sat trim upon her. 
 But it was her grey eyes sparkling fun, and a certain trick of 
 her smile that struck me most. Eyes and smile alike had 
 come straight to her from her mother. "Eighteen," I thought 
 to myself — "her mother's age when I first met her. Was she 
 then a laughing child — a baby like this?" 
 
 "Come sit by your daddy tonight, Helen," I said. She 
 flung herself impulsively on a cushion at my feet, her head 
 against my knee. 
 
 "Make me comfy." 
 
 I drew her closer to me. 
 
 V I had the most glorious ride, today, dad. All through 
 the bridle paths past Aldenham and back by King's Langley." 
 
 "There are no lanes like our Hertfordshire ones, little girl." 
 
 "I feel as if I were alive again, daddy, now the war is over." 
 
 We sat looking at the fire together — our thoughts, I knew, 
 as far apart as the poles. Our love was the common bond. 
 Deep Harbor — other Christmas days in England — and that 
 
 294 
 
EPILOGUE 295 
 
 last terrible Christmas day of all — out in California — these and 
 many other things I saw in the firelight, 
 
 "And what are you thinking of, Helen?" 
 
 Grey eyes looked up at me, smiling a little shyly. 
 
 "Do you know what I want for Christmas, dad?" 
 
 "Another bull-terrier, dear — or a new saddle?" 
 
 She shook her head vigorously. 
 
 "So wrong, daddy. Shall I tell you?" 
 
 "Please do." 
 
 *You promised once- — when I should be old enough to under- 
 stand — to tell me the whole story of you and — mummy dear. 
 1*11 soon be eighteen. Won't you tell me this story for my 
 best Christmas present?" 
 
 I bent over and kissed her. 
 
 'Tes, dear. I'll tell you. Listen, little girl—" . . . 
 
IB 32465