LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 ^'■°1 ws 
 
 Class 1^- ^^ ^ 
 
1^ 
 
" He Spoi^ij: to Me." 
 
 Facing title />agc. 
 
 {See page 143.^ 
 
EZRA HARDMAN, M.A. 
 
 OF WAYBACK COLLEGE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 SARA B. ROGERS 
 
 OF TH€ 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 150 Fifth Avenue 
 
COPYRIGHT IN THE 
 YEAR NINETEEN HUN- 
 DRED BY THE DODGE 
 PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
 
Dedicated to 
 MIRIAM. 
 
 Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 306575 
 
Contents. 
 
 PAGIE 
 
 Ezra Hardman, M. A, 13 
 
 The Light of Circumstance 37 
 
 Sylvia Graham Kimberton 53 
 
 The Giant's Strength 69 
 
 The Crime op Lois Baxter 83 
 
 In Poverty Row 109 
 
 The Chevalier D'Artois 125 
 
 Her Son 153 
 
 Poison Flowers 175 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 13 
 
OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSJTY 
 
 OF 
 
 Ezra Hardman, M.A/ 
 
 HAEDMAN told his wife that they 
 would need at least a week to get 
 fairly settled in their new quar- 
 ters at the University, and Mrs. Hardman 
 regretfully subtracted that amount of time 
 from the days she was so covetously hoard- 
 ing. When the hour of their departure 
 actually arrived, and she had watched the 
 expressman take away their few trunks 
 and boxes, and had tied the children's hats 
 securely under their firm, round chins, her 
 forced composure deserted her, and she 
 sobbed as if her heart would break. 
 
 Hardman stood looking down at her with 
 masculine perplexity. There was no time to 
 lose, and several of his colleagues w^ere al- 
 
 * By courtesy Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 15 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 ready waiting at the station to bid Mm god- 
 speed. He wanted to go away smiling and 
 to be whirled off in triumph from the ad- 
 miring and envious glances of his friends. 
 He could not understand his wife's tears; 
 why should she cry when they were coming 
 back again after he had obtained his de- 
 gree of doctor of philosophy? They would 
 be absent for only two years, and the time 
 would soon be over. It was an occasion for 
 rejoicing rather than tears. There were 
 few men who enjoyed his opportunities. 
 Ever since he had received his sheepskin 
 from the small college in southern Wiscon- 
 sin he had served as tutor at that institu- 
 tion, and had climbed slowly to the rank of 
 professor of history. It had seemed to him 
 if only he might secure a doctorate from 
 some Eastern college there was nothing he 
 might not become. He was impatient to 
 get out in the world and to try his wings, 
 and he had finally selected Maxwell Uni- 
 versity at Fairview, thinking it afforded 
 him the finest facilities for his purpose. 
 16 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 He considered it one of the leading Eastern 
 Universities, and would have been sur- 
 prised and shocked to learn that Yale and 
 Harvard regarded it as decidedly Western, 
 and spoke of it scornfully as a fresh- water 
 university. 
 
 Mrs. Hardman dried her eyes and, taking 
 the younger child in her arms, prepared to 
 follow the fortunes of her lord and master. 
 A kitten which they had presented to a 
 neighbor the previous day refused to adopt 
 its new home and ran mewing after her. 
 She tried to drive it back, but the child 
 cried so hard for it that she was forced to 
 pick it up and restore it to the baby's arms. 
 
 The professor had preceded her by sev- 
 eral blocks. He held a bird cage, partly 
 covered by a newspaper, in one hand, and 
 to the other clung tightly his older son, a 
 boy of four years. 
 
 He was very happy as he walked down 
 
 the village street in the bright sunlight of 
 
 that pleasant September morning. He sang 
 
 softly to himself in the joyousness of his 
 
 1? 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 heart, and his little boy, in childish imita- 
 tion, danced at his side and sang also. 
 
 Hardman's breast swelled with pride 
 when he found that many of the faculty 
 had honored him by appearing at the sta- 
 tion to bid him farewell; the president of 
 the college himself had called upon him and 
 had given him a hearty handshake and his 
 best wishes for success. He felt that he 
 was a very lucky fellow indeed. 
 
 The succeeding days passed like a rose- 
 colored dream to him. He did not notice 
 the fatigue of traveling, augmented by the 
 alternate boisterous mischief and fretful- 
 ness of the children. Even when they had 
 reached Fairview, and after a dreary 
 search for rooms convenient to the Campus, 
 and within reach of their pathetically slen- 
 der purse, had begun to move into a couple 
 of small, desolate apartments, Hardman's 
 cheerful courage did not desert him. He 
 sang gaily as he put up the rickety old 
 stove in the room which was to serve at 
 once for parlor, dining room and kitchen, 
 18 
 
" Hardman's Breast Swelled with Pripe.' 
 Page 1 8. 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 and when their few belongings were care- 
 fully bestowed he glanced about with an 
 air of contented pride. 
 
 The birds were singing as sweetly from 
 their cage in the window as ever they had 
 done at Wayback. The kitten was purring 
 softly on the rug before the stove, and 
 above the battered chimney-piece hung the 
 faded bit of sheepskin announcing to this 
 new world that Ezra Hardman had been 
 admitted to the degree of bachelor of arts 
 in 1877 by Wayback College, Wayback, 
 Wisconsin. 
 
 The Hardmans at best were not seriously 
 hampered with this world's goods, and of 
 their scanty supply they had brought only 
 the barest necessities. A faded "God Bles3 
 Our Home/' worked in variegated crewels 
 by Mrs. Hardman when she was Minnie. 
 Smith, was the sole ornament they per- 
 mitted themselves. They had contrived 
 some seats from the packing-boxes, and 
 these, with a couple of chairs, a table and a 
 stove, completed the furniture of the living- 
 19 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 room. A few worn text books lay piled in a 
 corner. 
 
 The bedroom was furnished with even 
 greater simplicity. Beside the bed and a 
 small cot for the children it contained only 
 a washstand with a tin basin and a cracked 
 water pitcher. It was not magniflcent^ but 
 it satisfied Hardman^ and, as one of the 
 students remarked later, "It didn't so much 
 matter about Hardman's environment, 
 since his smile was luxurious enough to 
 furnish a palace." 
 
 He had not been a conspicuous figure in 
 his native village, but, becoming trans- 
 planted to a campus so thoroughly cosmo- 
 politan as was that of Maxwell University, 
 he stood out with alarming distinctness. 
 Fortunately for his peace of mind he did 
 not comprehend this fact, being one of 
 those persons destined to go through life 
 totally ignorant of the impression they 
 create on others. He would never correct- 
 ly interpret the curious looks and sly 
 smiles and backward glances that accom- 
 20 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 panied Ms appearance on the campus. 
 
 He impressed the casual observer as at 
 once ludicrous and pathetic. His legs were 
 long and very much bent at the knees, even 
 when he stood at his straightest, and were 
 encased in trousers of a whitey-brown hue 
 of that length familiarly known as "high- 
 water.'' They supported a body at once so 
 bulky and rotund as to give him the effect 
 of an exaggerated Brownie. One felt sure 
 nature had framed his anatomy in some 
 wildly sportive humor. His head was large 
 and well shaped and lighted by a pair of 
 honest, friendly, blue eyes. A snub nose 
 and a large, smiling mouth, shaded by an 
 extensive reddish mustache exactly 
 matched by his curly hair, completed Ms 
 description. 
 
 He settled down to work with a tremen- 
 dous enthusiasm, after having squandered 
 some time in learning the routine of the in- 
 stitution, for Maxwell University had 
 among its faculty ardent admirers of the 
 system pursued at foreign universities. A 
 
 n 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 conservative professor was wont to ask, 
 with sarcastic significance, if anyone knew 
 why the University had adopted the Sem- 
 inary method of instruction, and why can- 
 didates for advanced degrees were com- 
 pelled to endure a final oral examination of 
 three hours' length. On being answered in 
 the negative, he would reply: "Because 
 they do in Germany." 
 
 The graduate students at Maxwell were 
 expected to select some subject in which 
 they were specially interested, and which 
 afforded scope for original investigation, 
 and to prepare weekly reports on the work 
 throughout the Semester. The sessions at 
 which these reports were presented were 
 strictly private, and were presided over by 
 a professor, who, together with the mem- 
 bers of the Seminary, openly criticized the 
 reports. 
 
 Hardman made his debut in Professor 
 
 Butler's Seminary with his accustomed 
 
 buoyancy. It was an utterly novel method 
 
 to him, as he had never deviated from the 
 
 32 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A 
 
 straight and narrow path of question and 
 answer, having been used to the old-fash- 
 ioned system of laboriously memorizing 
 useful information from a text book. But 
 after a time he "got the hang of the pesky 
 thing/' as he expressed it, and went to 
 work on the subject of "Slavery." He 
 thought it timely to preface his initial re- 
 port by some appropriate remarks of his 
 own on the nature of slavery, but the pro- 
 fessor cut him short and reminded him that 
 the Seminary concerned itself with facts, 
 not opinions, however valuable these might 
 be. This fell upon Hardman like lightning 
 from a clear sky, for he had spent a week 
 of solid work on the subject, and felt that 
 it was good; however, he accepted what he 
 considered the harmless idiosyncrasy of a 
 superior in good part and began again. But 
 this time he made the mistake of taking his 
 facts from secondary authorities, and so 
 lost another week before he set out in the 
 right direction. Privately he considered the 
 professor greatly in the wrong, and told 
 23 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 himself he should never require one of his 
 students laboriously to fish up facts from 
 original sources when great men like Ma- 
 caulay and Bancroft had gone over the 
 ground so thoroughly themselves. 
 
 The head of the department of American 
 history, under whom Hardman was read- 
 ing, was Professor Butler, a scholar of high 
 authority and a cultured and elegant man 
 of the world. He possessed a keen sense of 
 humor, caustic rather than kindly, and he 
 handled Hardman with the skill of the 
 scientist rather than that of the philanthro- 
 pist. The young Westerner was in decided 
 contrast to the courteous professor, and the 
 Seminary began to look ahead for sport 
 when Hardman offered his report. 
 
 It had been an unusually benignant day 
 in early October, and students and pro- 
 fessors alike were taking advantage of the 
 mild air and warm sunlight. The Campus 
 was thronged with promenaders; in the dis- 
 tance, on the broad, blue river, flashed num- 
 berless white oars. From the clock-tower 
 24 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 sounded four strokes, and simultaneously 
 Professor Butler's Seminary students 
 emerged from the library. Hardman and a 
 fellow-student, Markham, walked down the 
 Campus together. The usually cheerful face 
 of the former wore a look of hopeless per- 
 plexity. 
 
 "Thej kinder seem t' set on me," he re- 
 marked, sadly. 
 
 "What have they done now?" asked 
 Markham, sympathetically. 
 
 "Well, you heard him lay out my report," 
 replied Hardman, "an' I guess he's tryin' t' 
 lay me out, too. He's give me some more 
 French books t' read fer examination." 
 
 "Well, French is easy," said Markham, 
 consolingly. 
 
 " 'Tain't very easy fer me," sighed Hard- 
 man. "They didn't use t' make much of it 
 to Wayback, where I was learnt, and it 
 comes like drawin' teeth t' me now." 
 
 When Hardman reached home he found 
 his wife and sons preparing to set out for a 
 stroll. 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 "Oh, Ezra/' cried Mrs. Hardman, as her 
 husband's figure entered the door, "I'm so 
 glad you come; we're goin' to walk, an' we 
 want you should come, too." 
 
 "I can't go," said Hardman, gloomily. 
 "They've just give me some more work, an' 
 I dunno ez I can stop fer meals." 
 
 The children, divining with their unerr- 
 ing instinct that something troubled their 
 parent, set up a prolonged howl and were 
 sent outside by their mother. They played 
 the part of Greek chorus to Hardman, and 
 faithfully reflected his moods by smiles or 
 tears. 
 
 As soon as they were alone Mrs. Hard- 
 man put a work-roughened hand caressing- 
 ly on her husband's worn coat-sleeve. 
 
 "Ezra," she said, sadly, "let's give it up. 
 They're not like us here, somehow — they're 
 different, an' it's wearing you out. Let's 
 give it up an' go home, Ezra." 
 
 Her tired, blue eyes were full of unshed 
 tears as she lifted them to his face. 
 
 Hardman's cheerfulness, which never 
 26 
 
Ezra Hardman, M A. 
 
 long deserted him, returned. He smiled and 
 took his wife in his strong arms. 
 
 "Why, Minnie," he answered gaily, "you 
 wouldn't make any kind of a soldier if you 
 run away at the first shot. Doctor Hard- 
 man intends to earn his degree, ma'am." 
 
 She broke dowm and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 "We don't see nothin' of you now, Ezra, 
 I an' the children, an' we used t' be so 
 happy together at Wayback. Seems as if 
 we shouldn't never get back there again. 
 An' you ain't happy, neither, Ezra, I can 
 see that well 'nough. Nobody can't be 
 happy here — all a-studying till their poor 
 eyes gives out, an' they have t' wear specs, 
 an' some here that ain't no more'n boys 
 readin' till they look like old men. I tell ye, 
 Ezra, it ain't right. It wa'n't intended 
 should be so." 
 
 Ezra laughed, kissed his wife and told 
 her he "couldn't spare no more time frum 
 his work." 
 
 She dried her eyes submissively and said 
 meekly: "Well, I'll go right along now with 
 27 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 the children. We ain't ben out t'-day, but 
 I tell you, Ezra, this college ain't no bet- 
 ter'n a big old spider web made a-purpose 
 t' ketch flies an' kill 'em, an' the perfessers 
 ain't far off frum bein' spiders, neither. 
 Some day, Ezra, we'll be dreadful provoked 
 and sorry we come." 
 
 As Hardman had assured his wife on 
 leaving Wayback, the two years at Fair- 
 view were not long in passing. It was 
 now just before commencement. He had 
 labored faithfully over his thesis, and in 
 accordance with the rules of the Univer- 
 sity, had ordered it typewritten and bound. 
 He gazed at tine fresh, printed pages and 
 read the gilt inscription on the outside 
 cover announcing that the volume con- 
 cerned 
 
 SLAVERY, 
 
 A 
 
 THESIS. 
 
 Presented for the degree of Ph. D. 
 
 BY 
 
 EZRA HARDMAN, 
 
 Maxwell University. 
 
 28 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 with an air of triumphant pride. He 
 grudged sending it to Professor Butler for 
 criticism, it graced the little home so well, 
 and he enjoyed reading especially fine bits 
 from it to his wife. He felt that now the 
 struggle was happily concluded and he 
 could afford to take a well-earned rest. To 
 be sure, his oral examinations were sched- 
 uled to take place on the following day, but 
 he did not greatly fear them, although a 
 student had warned him that they were 
 "stiff," and also that Professor Butler was 
 "a holy terror.'' 
 
 "You just take your life in your hand at 
 a final under him," he had said. "He has 
 flunked more men to the square inch than 
 any professor in Maxwell. You'd better 
 spend the night in fasting and prayer." 
 
 But Hardman had no such intention of 
 investing Ms time. He romped with the 
 children until their bedtime, and after they 
 were safely tucked away in the cot he invit- 
 ed his wife to take a walk with him, and he 
 astonished her by bringing up at the village 
 29 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 pharmacy and treating her to a glass of 
 soda water. 
 
 "We'd oughter celebrate t'-morrow night 
 instead/' she said, looking fondly and ad- 
 miringly at her big, uncouth husband. She 
 was very proud of him and believed him to 
 be an intellectual giant, as well as a very 
 handsome man. 
 
 "We may not get the chance to-morrow," 
 he jested, in the happy consciousness that 
 only a day separated him from his title. 
 
 He went up to the examinations the next 
 morning with a stout heart. There were 
 three professors composing his committee 
 and he greeted them all with his broad, 
 suave smile. 
 
 The contest was pathetically unequal. 
 Against the crude immaturity of the West- 
 ern man were arrayed the keen, well- 
 trained intellects of recognized specialists, 
 who understood, perhaps too well, that 
 they held the honor of the University in 
 their keeping. Under such circumstances 
 but one result could be reached. Hardman 
 30 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 met his Waterloo, but he himself never 
 knew it. He went out from that august 
 presence without the slightest idea that he 
 had failed to take the degree. 
 
 At the official consultation that followed 
 the professors were decidedly embarrassed. 
 
 "You should have warned the poor fel- 
 low, Butler/' said Professor Morton. "You 
 might have saved him this." 
 
 "I did give him some pretty broad hints/' 
 replied he, "but he does not seem to have 
 understood. Of course the case is extreme- 
 ly regrettable, but since it has gone so far, 
 why not give him the degree?'' 
 
 "Is the University a charitable institu- 
 tion?" asked Professor Pierce. 
 
 "You know he has a family to support," 
 added Butler. 
 
 "If he had appeared at the examination 
 with a little son under each arm, and said 
 nothing, it would have been the most ef- 
 fective thing he could possibly have done," 
 remarked Professor Morton. 
 
 "Of course, we all know very well that he 
 31 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 is an applicant for the highest degree the 
 University confers/' said Professor Pierce. 
 "Are we satisfied to allow him to represent 
 the University under the circumstances ?'' 
 
 "I must say frankly that I cannot con- 
 sent to recommending him for the degree/' 
 said Professor Morton. 
 
 "Nor can I/' said Professor Pierce. 
 
 "Suppose we compromise by giving him 
 an honorary M. A./' suggested Professor 
 Butler. "I know this will be to him some- 
 thing like asking for bread and getting a 
 stone, but no better solution of the problem 
 occurs to me now." 
 
 Having agreed to this proposition they 
 separated and Professor Butler went down 
 to Hardman's rooms to announce the de- 
 cision. 
 
 "It was one of the most painful experi- 
 ences I have ever known/' he told his col- 
 leagues later. "I couldn't get him to realize 
 it at first, but after he did it was terrible. 
 They took it as they would take a funeral." 
 
 After Professor Butler's departure Hard- 
 32 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 man wearily began to pack away the hum- 
 ble household belongings he had so joy- 
 ously disposed about the rooms only two 
 years before. Mrs. Hardman silently as- 
 sisted him. She could not trust herself to 
 speak. Outside on the stone doorstep the 
 two children sat stroking the cat, who 
 purred contentedly between them in happy 
 ignorance of the crushing blow that had de- 
 scended upon the family. Nor did the chil- 
 dren realize the full extent of the misfor- 
 tune which had befallen their father, but 
 they knew that something awful had hap- 
 pened, and their little faces, so photograph- 
 ic of Hardman, wore an expression of child- 
 ish despair. 
 
 Hardman took down the rusty stove pipe 
 and gazed at it critically. 
 
 "I don't b'leeve it's wuth carryin' home, 
 Minnie," he remarked. 
 
 She shook her head in affectionate as- 
 sent. 
 
 "I don't know but it's ez wuthy of goin' 
 back ez I be," he went on, in sad medita- 
 33 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 tion. "I dunno but it's done its work ez 
 well.'' 
 
 Mrs. Hardman paused in the act of fold- 
 ing a worn little dress belonging to one of 
 the children. 
 
 "You shan't say that, Ezra," she said, 
 with a suspicious break in her voice. "You 
 done your work good an' faithful here, an' 
 nobody can't make me b'leeve you didn't. 
 Ef they won't give you the degree when 
 you earned it fair it's just because they're 
 jealous." 
 
 Hardman was too hopeless to assent to 
 this encouraging and comforting view of 
 the case. He flung the rejected stove-pipe 
 far out of the open window and watched it 
 become a magnificent ruin on the ash-heap 
 at the foot of the garden. Above his head 
 the canaries twittered apprehensively. It 
 seemed as if the peaceful landscape before 
 him was mocking him derisively. The dis- 
 tant blue river winked knowingly at him. 
 He heard the silver-tongued University 
 chimes chronicling his disgrace across the 
 34 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 Campus. Even the trees appeared to be 
 whispering together about him. He won- 
 dered how he would be received at Way- 
 back. He had taught there to the best of 
 his ability for the last ten years. Would 
 they permit him to return, dishonored as 
 he was, and take up again the sweet accus- 
 tomed life? He felt that he could not blame 
 them if they refused, and demanded his res- 
 ignation; and what institution could he 
 hope to find willing to welcome a person 
 thus doubly reproached? 
 
 He experienced a curious dislike for him- 
 self, a strange sense of a dual identity, as if 
 he were at once some poor hunted mis- 
 creant, and a member of a righteously in- 
 dignant public judging him. He turned 
 away from the window with a sudden dark- 
 ness before his eyes and a queer ringing in 
 his ears, and from out the darkness he felt 
 a pair of warm and loving arms about his 
 neck and heard a tremulous voice say: ^'Oh, 
 Ezra, I can't bear to see you suffer so; it 
 breaks my heart. It don't make no differ- 
 35 
 
Ezra Hardman, M.A. 
 
 ence t' me 'bout the old degree, Ezra, be- 
 cause you know I know you deserved it — 
 an' I love you, Ezra." 
 
 Two days later the Hardmans' rooms 
 were vacant and they were speeding away 
 to the friends at Wayback who were eager- 
 ly waiting to welcome the new-made doctor 
 with his distinguished honors. 
 
 A year after Hardman's departure as 
 Professor Butler was glancing over the 
 ^^Maxwell Herald" at breakfast his eye was 
 caught by the following paragraph: "It 
 gives us pleasure to announce that Pro- 
 fessor Ezra Hardman, who holds the chair 
 of Modern History at Wayback College, 
 Wayback, Wisconsin, has accepted the 
 presidency of that institution, and will en- 
 ter upon his new duties immediately. Pres- 
 ident Hardman received the honorary de- 
 gree of Master of Arts from Maxwell Uni- 
 versity last June." 
 
 36 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 37 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 THE University clock struck twelve, 
 announcing midnight to the little 
 college world so peacefully asleep in 
 the moonlight. Absolute quiet reigned over 
 the Campus, a quiet intensified by its con- 
 trast with the daily activity when the dark 
 and silent buildings were thronged by a 
 continual rushing to and fro of eager young 
 students. An experienced eye, however, 
 would have detected signs of life high up 
 in a remote tower of Burton Hall, the dor- 
 mitory devoted to the use of the women 
 students at Fairview University. Not even 
 the thick curtains carefully drawn across 
 the windows could conceal entirely the 
 light within, but the five girls who had rec- 
 ognized and secured to themselves the pos- 
 39 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 sibilities of this unused and distant room 
 were too popular to fear discovery of their 
 frequent violation of the college rule that 
 all lights must be extinguished at ten 
 o'clock. 
 
 The impromptu spread was in full 
 swing; each girl had contributed her fa- 
 vorite species of refreshment, and the re- 
 sult was a heterogeneous array of eatables, 
 over whose formidable test only a college 
 girl's digestion could triumph. The fur* 
 nishings of the room were as heterogeneous 
 and curiously characteristic as the refresh- 
 ments. The walls were graced by sundry 
 signs captured from the village shops by 
 daring masculine friends at extreme haz- 
 ard. In one corner the Harvard colors 
 flamed triumphantly above the framed pho- 
 tograph of the Yale crew, and beneath the 
 chandelier a huge Princeton horn, sus- 
 pended by the Fairview colors, rendered 
 more emphatic this harmonious democracy 
 of decoration. 
 
 There was a bright fire of logs burning 
 40 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 on the hearth, for, eyen though the season 
 was early in April, the air still held a hint 
 of frost. Near the fire stood a tiny tea- 
 table and chafing-dish, in which a tall girl 
 was carefully preparing a rarebit. 
 
 Anne Livingston's face was remarkably 
 sweet and thoughtful in expression, but its 
 chief charm existed not in the clear, dark 
 eyes and regular features, but in that qual- 
 ity so diflflcult to define, and so generally 
 and satisfactorily explained as ^^interest- 
 ing." People usually interpreted this 
 charm by the fact that she was one of the 
 most clever students in the University; 
 that she was the only child of Livingston 
 Livingston, the wealthy lawyer of New 
 York, who deplored and ignored as far as 
 possible his daughter's brilliant accom- 
 plishments; but the real cause lay deeper, 
 in Anne's own vivid and magnetic person- 
 ality. 
 
 At her feet sat a young girl busily en- 
 gaged in toasting rounds of bread before 
 the fire. She was the exact opposite of her 
 41 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 tall, dark neighbor, being dimpled, petite 
 and blonde. Katlierine Halliday was the 
 gayest student at Fairview, and it was a 
 matter of wonder to everyone how she man- 
 aged to retain her position in the institu- 
 tion, for no function, however small, oc- 
 curred without her enlivening presence. 
 The remaining three girls represented the 
 average type of college women and formed 
 an effective background for these two 
 prominent actors in the tiny drama of uni- 
 versity life. 
 
 ^^Yes," said Anne, giving a tentative stir 
 to the smoking, savory compound before 
 her, ^^I believe that accident teaches us far 
 more about ourselves than anything else 
 does. We really learn more objectively 
 than subjectively. The light of circum- 
 stance reveals us to ourselves more in one 
 moment than do years of self-analysis.'' 
 
 "It's against the rules to talk shop after 
 hours," objected one of the girls. 
 
 "What a false idea^ Anne," said the 
 young reprobate on the hearth rug. "I hold 
 42 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 with my friend, A. Tennyson, of whom you 
 may have heard me speak, that ^man is 
 man, and master of his fate'; likewise 
 woman/' 
 
 ^^You're in good company," replied Anne, 
 "but, nevertheless, you're wrong." 
 
 "Not in the least," asseverated Katherine, 
 stoutly. "One can't, of course, exactly 
 know w^hat will occur, but one can arrange 
 one's life within reasonable limits. For in- 
 stance, I foresee for sure that to-morrow at 
 ten A. M. I shall flunk chemistry because I 
 came to your spread instead of boning for 
 the quiz." 
 
 "No, you won't, Kittie," said one of the 
 girls; "you'll get Tom Allen to write out 
 the answer for you, as you did the last 
 time." 
 
 "But what I mean," said Anne, begin- 
 ning to drop the steaming rarebit on 
 rounds of buttered toast, "is the tremen- 
 dous surprises one is always giving one- 
 self. Now, I feel I never know what is 
 going to happen, nor what I am going to 
 43 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 do. I never can prophesy myself to my- 
 self/' 
 
 "I can, Anne," said Kuby Harding, 
 laughing. ^^You will marry the Professor 
 of Greek, since you are engaged to him, 
 and settle down in the University as Mrs. 
 Allerton. It is not difficult to be a clair- 
 voyant in your case.'' 
 
 The log rolled off the andirons and sent 
 a sudden, flickering flame forth into the 
 room, which reflected itself in a vivid red 
 on Katherine's round, young face. The 
 flame vanished almost as quickly as it had 
 risen, but that sudden, brilliant scarlet re- 
 mained on the girl's face. 
 
 •!» «1* *!• «!• ftf* •!• «£• 
 
 »J» iji wj^ »I» wji •J» Sfi 
 
 The April woods were beginning to show 
 signs of approaching summer. The bare 
 boughs were burdened with brown and 
 bursting buds, among whose cathedral-like 
 arches an occasional and early bluebird 
 was "prophesying spring" and tiny shoots 
 of tender green were beginning to push up 
 through the dark earth. There was a ca- 
 44 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 ressing softness in the air on this particu- 
 lar morning, and Anne Livingston walked 
 briskly along the little, curving path that 
 led through the forest, and felt that it was 
 good to be alive. She was in unusually line 
 spirits, born of youth, health and the pleas- 
 ant exhilaration of walking. A squirrel 
 scampered, frightened, across her path to 
 his home in a neighboring oak. The warm 
 sunlight lay in long, shining bars among 
 the dusky shadows of the wood. She felt 
 a strange sense of peace and well-being; a 
 keen appreciation of the young spring and 
 a subtle sympathy with its daw^ning beau* 
 
 An abrupt turn in the path led her into 
 a small glen made vocal by a little brown 
 brook brawling noisily over the stones. A 
 bit of verse from Browning floated lazily 
 throu2:h her mind. 
 
 *' A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; 
 
 The woods are round us, heaped and dim; 
 From slab to slab how it slips and springs, 
 
 The thread of water, single and slim. 
 Through the ravage some torrent brings." 
 
 45 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 How accurately the real scene corre- 
 sponded with the fictional one, with this 
 difference, that the lovers of the poem were 
 wanting; but, stay, surely the man and 
 woman standing alone at some distance 
 from the pathway, and of whose existence 
 she becomes at once almost instinctively 
 aware, are without doubt lovers. The anal- 
 ogy with the poem is complete. His arms 
 are about her; her head is resting upon his 
 breast, and as Anne gives one quick, fright^ 
 ened glance toward them she sees their lips 
 meet. That one swift glance assures her 
 that these Arcadian lovers are none other 
 than her own betrothed and her dearest 
 friend. She turned away, undiscovered by 
 the two, who had forgotten all the world 
 save themselves, and retraced her steps me- 
 chanically. 
 
 The suddenness of the revelation made 
 her dizzy; the singing of the birds, the mu- 
 sic of the tiny brook, the yellow, flickering 
 sunlight, to whose charms she had been so 
 keenly alive a moment before, had no 
 46 
 
j-jpSg^-r^n^ ' 
 
 " Anne Gives One Quick, Frightened Gi^ancj:— " 
 Page 46. 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 power to impress her now. She saw only 
 those familiar and well-loved figures and 
 was conscious only of that vividly remem- 
 bered kiss. 
 
 "I hold with my friend, A. Tennyson, of 
 whom you may have heard me speak, that 
 ^man is man, and master of his fate' — like- 
 wise woman." With what strange, almost 
 photographic accuracy, Katherine's light 
 words kept reiterating themselves among 
 the wild chaos of her thoughts, until at 
 length they seemed like a direct challeng- 
 ing of fate. . . . Was it only yesterday 
 since she had seen her lying in lazy luxury 
 upon the hearth rug, pretty and debon- 
 nair, and smilingly asserting her bold de- 
 fiance of Destiny? 
 
 Instinctively she managed to find her way 
 back to her own room in Burton Hall, and 
 amid the familiar surroundings her vague 
 thoughts grew clear and consecutive again. 
 She removed the diamond ring she had 
 worn for more than a year, and together 
 with some letters and photographs placed 
 •47 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 it in a neat parcel, which she directed to' 
 him in her usual firm, bold script. She put 
 on her hat and went out to attend the usual 
 recitation in Greek. 
 
 It was evening again, a cool, sweet scent- 
 ed evening, lit by a round, white moon. 
 Anne sat by the open window, waiting. She 
 felt herself far enough removed from the 
 experience of the morning to give the inci- 
 dent perspective, and to regard it in its true 
 light. She had control of herself now, of 
 her usual calm, judicious self, and she was 
 criticizing that self with the cool compos- 
 ure of philosophical analysis; criticizing 
 that part of herself which was writhing in 
 the agony of its death struggle before her. 
 She was finding it difficult to realize that 
 her idol was of clay; difficult to resign him 
 even to her dearest friend, for she, too, had 
 known the comfort of his sheltering arms 
 and the sweetness of his kiss. 
 
 She closed her eyes and summoned back 
 48 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 for one brief instant the bitter-sweet mem- 
 ory. Ah, Christ, how could men be so 
 false! Of the real man she reflected bitter- 
 ly, she knew almost nothing; he had been 
 but a semblance who had seemed such a 
 reality. She considered carefully her 
 know^ledge of him, eliminating his hand- 
 some face, and those delightful manners 
 his social opportunities had taught him, 
 and she acknowledged with a sigh that she 
 knew him not at all. She confessed her in- 
 ability to recognize him in the darkness. 
 
 But at the burial of her dead hopes she 
 was determined to permit no unnecessary 
 mourning. She lighted a candle and gazed 
 scrutinizingly at her own reflection in the 
 mirror. The beautiful, grave face looked 
 back at her in silent sympathy. She re- 
 membered a night when a young, laughing 
 face, the embodiment of perfect happiness, 
 had smiled out at her from that same mir- 
 ror, but between those two significant mo- 
 ments of self-revelation lay a fool's para- 
 dise. The theft had been pathetically per- 
 49 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 feet; not even the comfort of memory re- 
 mained. 
 
 The maid announced him, as usual, and 
 as she descended the staircase she told her- 
 self that there must be nothing unusual in 
 their parting; he must never suspect what 
 she had suffered. 
 
 He came forward to greet her with all 
 his accustomed eagerness; his handsome, 
 faithless eyes smiled fearlessly down upon 
 her as she stood quietly before him. She 
 placed the parcel containing his gifts in his 
 wondering hands and smiled back at him 
 with equal fearlessness. 
 
 "You may think me erratic/' she said; 
 "no doubt you will; but, none the less, I 
 have not reached this decision inconsider- 
 ately. Believe me, I have considered it thor- 
 oughly, and so I have come down to-night 
 to tell you that everything is at an end be- 
 tween us.'' 
 
 He stared at her in astonishment, and 
 she went on. 
 
 "Do not ask me for my reasons; I assure 
 50 
 
The Light of Circumstance. 
 
 you that they are quite sufi&cient, quite de- 
 fensible, in fact, but, possibly, it may be 
 easier for you to believe that I am merely 
 variable and inconsequent." 
 
 She stepped backward toward the door, 
 and away from him. Never had she looked 
 more beautiful and more unapproachable. 
 With an overwhelming conviction he sud- 
 denly realized how absolutely and hope- 
 lessly he loved her. 
 
 ^^Anne,'' he said, whisperingly, extend- 
 ing his eager arms toward her. 
 
 From the safe fortress of the threshold 
 she turned to smile upon him, forgivingly, 
 friendlily, but utterly dispassionately. 
 
 "Katherine was right," she said, calmly; 
 "man is master of his fate," and the next 
 instant he was alone. 
 
 51 
 
LJHfpS 
 Of rne 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 53 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 '^in HEEE was so curious an expression 
 
 X of mingled amusement, consterna- 
 tion and dread on the usually placid 
 features of Professor Burton as he sat 
 reading his letters at breakfast that the 
 trim little serving-maid gazed at him in 
 wide-eyed astonishment; for the first time 
 in her experience of him the master had 
 forgotten to eat. 
 
 He sat staring at the open letter in his 
 hand while the coffee cooled unheeded and 
 the hot rolls grew cold and hard. The let- 
 ter was a brief, innocent-seeming missive, 
 betraying no sign of its power to create 
 such dismay and alarm in the breast of the 
 popular young professor of Greek at Fair- 
 view University. It was a succinct, busi- 
 55 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. • ' 
 
 ness-like epistle, wasting no unnecessary 
 paper and ink in telling him that its writer 
 was the sister of a dead classmate, a class- 
 mate between whom and himself had ex- 
 isted only the ordinary familiarity of a 
 chance acquaintanceship; that she intend- 
 ed to enter the co-educational institution 
 over whose Greek department he had the 
 honor of presiding; that, trusting to the 
 proverbial affection of Yale men for one 
 another, she would arrive at his house 
 without delay. 
 
 ^^It would have been kinder to have men- 
 tioned the hour," he reflected, ruefully, ^^f or 
 I might have arranged to be absent." He 
 re-read the letter carefully, in a forlorn 
 hope that he might have mistaken its mean- 
 ing; it had changed everything so suddenly 
 and so radically, and had made his hitherto 
 comfortable existence seem unreal and al- 
 ready like a distant dream. 
 
 ^'By Jove, I wish she had written when 
 she was coming," he thought. "I shall now 
 tremble with terror every time the bell 
 S6 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 rings. I hope she will do me the honor to 
 remain away until I can secure lodgings 
 for her somewhere. She evidently doesn't 
 know that I am a mere bachelor.'' 
 
 As if in malicious answer to his thought 
 the door-bell pealed with unwonted dis- 
 tinctness throughout the house. It struck 
 him that there was a mischievous tri- 
 umph in its metallic tones, and he was 
 quite prepared to read upon the somewhat 
 ostentatious card the housemaid presented, 
 this legend in a bold, black script — 
 
 : SYLVIA GRAHAM KIMBERTON. : 
 
 " 'Tis a young lady, sor," said the maid, 
 "an' I tould her you'd be having your break- 
 fast, an' she said she'd had hers already, 
 and was in no hurry, sor." 
 
 He drank his coffee hastily and absent- 
 mindedly. "At any rate, she hasn't kept 
 me long in suspense," he reflected, with a 
 grim smile. "She's guillotined me with all 
 67 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 the neatness and dispatch of her native 
 West. If this is Kansas energy — give me 
 death.'^ 
 
 He walked down the brief corridor and 
 entered the drawing-room. A figure rose 
 at his entrance, a figure not at all in con- 
 sonance with the attractive and dainty ap- 
 pointments of the room. He felt an instant 
 repulsion toward the large, florid young 
 woman who was advancing upon him with 
 outstretched hand. She was everything 
 that he disliked most, being elephantine in 
 a perspiring, good-natured way, and he 
 could see at a glance that she was abso- 
 lutely devoid of that rare tact which teach- 
 es one to avoid wounding the feelings of 
 others; in short, he realized instantly that 
 she was impossible. 
 
 "Of course you got my letter?'' she in- 
 quired, genially, grasping his hand ener- 
 getically in her young, powerful clasp. "I 
 wasn't goin' to write at first — I was goin' to 
 surprise you, and make you guess who I 
 
 58 
 
-^^^^es^^l^- 
 
 ' She Was Everything He Disliked." 
 
 Page 58. 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 "I am not good at conundrums/' he an- 
 swered, smiling helplessly at the situation 
 in which he found himself. "I have never 
 guessed one in my life, so that I fear that 
 you would have had me at a disadvantage." 
 
 ^^Do you live here all by yourself?" she 
 asked, glancing about at the small, well- 
 appointed room. 
 
 He nodded affirmatively, feeling incapa- 
 ble of speech. 
 
 "Well, this is luck," she went on con- 
 tentedly. "I was afraid you boarded." 
 
 "I used," he said, finding his truant 
 tongue at last, "but I found I could not 
 control my time, nor the noise of the board- 
 ing-house, so I concluded to take this cot- 
 tage for my bachelor barracks. I'm a bit 
 of a hermit, a regular recluse, in fact; al- 
 though I do not hate my fellow-man, I can 
 manage to exist happily without much of 
 him. I — I — I really love loneliness at 
 times." 
 
 He congratulated himself upon his di- 
 plomacy. It would be well to impress upon 
 59 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 her the desirability of beating a speedy re- 
 treat from so hopelessly confirmed a Crusoe. 
 She shook her head at him jauntily. 
 
 ^^We shall change all that/' she said, con- 
 fidently. "It is not good for man to be 
 alone.'' 
 
 He stared at her aghast. Did she in- 
 tend seriously to take up her abode in his 
 bachelor household? It looked remarkably 
 like it. He felt that there was only one 
 resource remaining — instant flight. Per- 
 haps, after all, the supposition rose from 
 his overtired brain; he had been working 
 very late at night for the past week. A 
 walk through the fresh, morning woods 
 might restore his tone, and help him to dis- 
 cover some way in which to extricate him- 
 self from this mysterious and wretched web 
 which seemed to have woven itself so sud- 
 denly and subtly about him. 
 
 He had a dim recollection of pleading a 
 
 business engagement; of groping for his 
 
 hat and stick; in some fashion of getting 
 
 out of the house — his familiar, comfortable 
 
 60 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 little home — and then the welcome pres- 
 ence of the brilliant Autumn woods. 
 
 His sense of humor returned as he walked 
 briskly over the fallen leaves. He won- 
 dered ruefully why the gods had ^ver be- 
 stowed a classmate like poor Kimberton 
 upon him, and at the remembrance of the 
 recent scene in his drawing-room he 
 laughed aloud. He laughed a long time all 
 alone in the depths of the secret-safe forest. 
 It certainly was a humorous adventure for 
 a quiet, inoffensive gentleman. How few 
 of his colleagues probably had experienced 
 the like sensation of having their peaceful, 
 matin meal so effectively interrupted. 
 . . . Yes, he must decide about the dis- 
 posal of his unexpected guest. She must 
 be placed immediately in some suitable 
 lodgings. Some one must assist him — it 
 was so unusual a task. There was the kind- 
 ly wife of the President of the University — 
 no doubt she would extricate him from his 
 dilemma; she was a good, motherly woman. 
 
 He retraced his steps rapidly, and was 
 61 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 soon ascending the stone steps leading to 
 the presidential mansion, but the smart 
 maid who responded to his ring informed 
 him that her mistress had been summoned 
 suddenly to New York the day previous. 
 
 He walked down the straight brick path 
 to the road in perplexed cogitation. There 
 was no one else on the Campus who would 
 have grasped the situation so sympatheti- 
 cally and so understandingly. It seemed 
 particularly hard that she should be re- 
 moved at this critical juncture. . . . 
 There was Mrs. Leonard, the wife of the 
 Latin instructor — possibly she would come 
 to his rescue; he was quite a favorite of 
 hers. But Mrs. Leonard chanced to have 
 gone shopping in the village, and there was 
 no one left to whom he might turn for aid 
 unless — it was a forlorn hope, but, perhaps, 
 he might interest young Mrs. Lexicon in 
 the affair. She had been very cordial to 
 him at a reception given in honor of her 
 marriage a few weeks before, and he felt 
 that she liked him. 
 
 62 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 He rang her bell in no slight trepidation, 
 feeling that only his dire need exonerated 
 him. She came down to greet him almost 
 instantly. He could have wished that she 
 had given him more time to collect his 
 thoughts. She looked very sweet, and 
 youthful and gracious, as she sat opposite 
 him amid her Lares and Penates, which 
 bore unmistakable signs of being recent 
 wedding gifts. 
 
 She was smiling at him expectantly, for 
 she realized that it was something unusual 
 to be receiving a morning visit from so busy 
 a man as Professor Burton. 
 
 "I have ventured to trespass on your time 
 and courtesy," he began, hesitatingly (in 
 what an extremely difficult position he 
 found himself innocently involved!), "to ask 
 your advice — your assistance.'' 
 
 She leaned forward with genuine inter- 
 est. 
 
 "I have — that is — um — there is a young 
 woman, the sister of a classmate — " (How 
 63 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 difficult speech was becoming!) '' — um — 
 stopping temporarily at my house. . . . 
 She arrived quite — in fact, totally unex- 
 pectedly this morning. She seems extraor- 
 dinarily unaware that under the circum- 
 stances it is utterly impossible for me to 
 offer her a home. I do not seem able to 
 impress this fact upon her." 
 
 "It's odd she doesn't see it," remarked 
 the pretty young matron. "Where can she 
 have lived?" 
 
 "Ah, that's the point," he answered, sad- 
 ly; "that explains everything. She is from 
 the West — worse than from the West — 
 from Kansas." 
 
 A curious expression flitted across the 
 girlish face so smilingly turned toward him. 
 He recalled this expression afterward when 
 some one happened to mention that Mrfe. 
 Lexicon had been born and bred in Kansas. 
 
 "Then it is absolutely hopeless, I sup- 
 pose," she remarked. 
 
 "I fear it is," he assented, dolefully. "Her 
 conceptions of life are so totally unlike 
 64 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 ours. She wishes to enter the University, 
 and she intends to reside with me." 
 
 He seemed so genuinely dejected that the 
 young girl laughed — a merry laugh, full of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 "If you think you can spare her," she be- 
 gan, mischievously, "I shall be very glad to 
 offer her a home with me until she can get 
 settled somewhere. I've always yearned to 
 study the Western Girl, especially the Kan- 
 sas variety, and this will be a good oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 "Keally, you are too kind," he said, ear- 
 nestly. "You can't imagine what a relief 
 it is." 
 
 "I'll go up to the house with you if you 
 like," she said, rising to fetch her hat and 
 gloves. 
 
 As they neared the pretty, vine-clad cot- 
 tage the young professor experienced a 
 curious, valedictory sensation, as if he were 
 a ghost permitted to revisit for a moment 
 the scenes where he had been happy in life. 
 Everything seemed changed since the brief 
 65 
 
Sylvia Graham Klmberton. 
 
 time he had been absent. The shutters were 
 flung wide open to the bright morning sun, 
 and from an upper chamber floated down 
 the catchy refrain of a popular opera. Evi- 
 dently his occidental friend had wasted no 
 unnecessary time in making herself thor- 
 oughly at home. Unless the sweet, young 
 matron beside him had power to deliver 
 him from his peril, he felt that he was 
 doomed. He must say good-bye to the com- 
 fort of the dear little house; good-bye to all 
 that quiet which his scholar's soul loved; 
 good-bye to the peaceful, twilight evenings 
 in the garden, where he was wont to linger 
 over his post-prandial cigar, and watch the 
 young moon rising behind the hills; good- 
 bye to all that his heart held dear, for the 
 old order had suddenly changed. 
 
 There was no need to summon his new- 
 found friend, for she had espied their ap- 
 proach from the upper window, and was 
 rushing stormily downstairs to welcome 
 them. She flung herself enthusiastically 
 upon young Mrs. Lexicon. 
 66 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 "I haven't seen you for a coon's age/' she 
 gasped, "not since we left school. Where 
 have you dropped from?" 
 
 The young professor regarded the scene 
 with a mixture of astonishment and relief. 
 There seemed so very little in common be- 
 tween the coarse, strapping girl from Kan- 
 sas and the dainty figure of Professor Lexi- 
 con's wife. Since they were school friends, 
 however, the wretched problem seemed 
 capable of solution; fortune smiled again 
 propitious. 
 
 "I learned that you were here quite acci- 
 dentally," said Mrs. Lexicon, gently disen- 
 gaging herself from the embrace of those 
 powerful arms, "and, of course, I at once 
 made haste to call, because you must come 
 to an old friend like me until you can find a 
 place in the college." 
 
 The Western girl paused, and a cloud 
 crossed her genial, good-humored face. She 
 turned to the silent young man. 
 
 "But how will you get along all alone?" 
 she asked, 
 
 67 
 
Sylvia Graham Kimberton. 
 
 "Oh, I daresay I shall manage somehow; 
 the Lord will provide. Don't give yourself 
 any uneasiness on my account/' he an- 
 swered, with emphasis. "I daresay I shall 
 get on very well." 
 
 She gazed at him disbelievingly. 
 
 "He was poor Dick's classmate/' she said, 
 slowly, "and I feel my duty is to him first. 
 I couldn't bear to go away with you and be 
 happy, and have to think of him all lonely 
 here by himself, and out of all the fun goin'. 
 No, I ain't a-goin' to leave him." 
 
 But at length, under their united persua- 
 sions, and much against her will, she was 
 induced to accompany Mrs. Lexicon home, 
 and as the robust figure vanished behind 
 the curve of the road. Professor Burton 
 withdrew to his study and quietly locked 
 the door. 
 
 68 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 69 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 IT WAS only an hour since he had quitted 
 his study, and yet his whole world had 
 changed — his pleasant, familiar world, 
 in which he had been so content until she 
 had crossed his path. The shelves of books 
 extending around the walls, whose friendly 
 fellowship he had known so well, still wel- 
 comed him, but with a difference. He half- 
 fancied a subtle reproach in their compact 
 and glittering ranks, as if they were say- 
 ing: "You deserted us for the valueless 
 smile of a coquette, but we have remained 
 faithful to you." 
 
 Whither into the Unknown had vanished 
 
 the delightful fascination that life had 
 
 hitherto held for him? About him were the 
 
 same dear surroundings, so well known, 
 
 71 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 and yet now so strangely unfamiliar, and 
 with a sigh of sudden intuition, he 
 knew that the man who was sitting in 
 his accustomed chair before his study table 
 differed essentially and irrevocably from 
 the outwardly similar man who had occu- 
 pied the same position only an hour before. 
 A trim maid fetched his mail, and he 
 glanced at the superscriptions, ^^Dr. Hamil- 
 ton Bradford, Fairview University, Fair- 
 view, Penn.,'' with the casual regard of a 
 stranger, and then he threw them aside un- 
 opened. Where was this Hamilton Brad- 
 ford, for whose attention five letters were 
 silently petitioning? Sixty minutes ago he 
 had existed, a man, young, eager, full of 
 hope and ardent enthusiasm; now he was 
 merely a cipher, a meaningless identity, 
 robbed of the sweet significance of life. He 
 glanced about the room at his Lares and 
 Penates in a vague, helpless fashion, and 
 dimly realized that the old comfort they 
 had possessed for him was gone forever, 
 and a fire of sudden anger flashed across 
 
 n 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 the dead ashes of his consciousness. By 
 what right had she entered his peaceful 
 life, and taken away its sweetness? Surely, 
 it would have been more gracious, more 
 courteous, to have forborne to use the 
 giant's strength. He was so defenseless 
 against her power that she might well have 
 allowed the gentle dew of compassion to 
 fall upon him and balm his wound, but 
 even this she had denied him. She need not 
 reproach herself that the minutest portion 
 of her triumph had escaped her; on the con- 
 trary, the conquest had been pathetically 
 complete. 
 
 He rested his head upon his folded arms, 
 and lived the past month over again. He 
 recalled with photographic distinctness 
 their first meeting. She was walking down 
 the Campus with the venerable President, 
 whose guest she was, a.nd, as they met, her 
 gay, inscrutable eyes looked at him in that 
 brief moment as no woman's eyes had ever 
 looked at him before; they had haunted 
 him — those dark, strange, beautiful eyes, 
 73 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 and had seriously interfered with a mono- 
 graph on the enclitic which he was w^riting 
 for a journal of philology. There was some- 
 thing terrible to him even then in their bril- 
 liant magniflcencejbut that swift glance re- 
 vealed a new and enchanted world to him, 
 and he passed on like one in a dream. In 
 some curiously inexplicable fashion he 
 found himself involved in a series of col- 
 lege festivities, in which she was the cen- 
 tral figure, about whom the rest of the 
 world seemed but a confused mass of shad- 
 ows. She had seemed to like him, too; she 
 had shown a real interest in the enclitic, 
 and had even begged him to teach her 
 Greek, and through it all she had smiled 
 upon him with the wonderful beauty of 
 those mysterious, dark eyes. He was un- 
 used to women and their ways, and ac- 
 knowledged humbly that he had no defense 
 against her, but had fallen into her toils, a 
 pitifully easy prey. 
 
 Well, it was at an end, and there was 
 nothing now left but to test, for her sake, 
 74 
 
The Giant^s Strength. 
 
 the quality of his manhood. She had taken 
 the savor out of his life, but yet he was no 
 coward. . . . How benignantly the sun 
 had shone that afternoon, and how anxious- 
 ly he had watched the weather for days, so 
 greatly had he feared lest it might rain, and 
 thus spoil their last walk together. But 
 Nature had befriended him, and had sent 
 her sun to shine upon them, and had spread 
 a dainty carpet of young violets and tender 
 grass before their leisurely feet. It had in- 
 deed been a royal day, a day of days on 
 which to ask her the question that had been 
 trembling secretly in his heart so long. He 
 remembered only in an indefinte fashion 
 how he had told her how very dear she had 
 become to him, but he recalled with burn- 
 ing distinctness that she had laughed light- 
 ly, and had asked him whether he were 
 quite sure that he was not mistaking her 
 for the enclitic; and on the wings of that 
 light and heartless laugh happiness took 
 flight out of his life forever. Her gay, 
 amused eyes had looked at him with smil- 
 75 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 ing indifference. "Are you sure yourself 
 you care?" she had said^ "for the enclitic is 
 a deadly rival, and I distrust it.'' 
 
 There was no longer a fire upon the wide 
 hearth, since it was now early June, but in 
 its stead a portly jar of roses, that filled the 
 dainty apartment with a faint fragrance. 
 Miss Van Horn stood before the fireplace, 
 gazing reflectively into the flaming heart of 
 the red roses. She was in evening toilette, 
 and the glass above the shelf gave back 
 faithfully the exquisite beauty of her face 
 and throat, but for the once, a very unusual 
 one, she was not regarding her counterfeit 
 loveliness. 
 
 "It was his first experience," she told the 
 roses. "I am quite sure it was his first ex- 
 perience. There is something sad about the 
 first experience of a man of his age." 
 
 Again she was back in the golden-green 
 afternoon with this handsome young profes- 
 sor of Greek. She remembered the expres- 
 ?6 
 
' ''^iW^^WI^'i^fm'''i 
 
 ^'^■'-H- ^^'Z r^i^^^ _ 
 
 Pas^i'^^ ^^'■' "°'"' ^™°'' ^'"'°''^ """^ Fireplace." 
 
.. Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 sion of his frank face, and sighed. "Poor 
 fellow, he really seemed to take it hard, but 
 no doubt the Digamma has consoled him 
 by this time; that is the beauty of the high- 
 er education, it offers a consolation for 
 every wound — or, at least, we are expected 
 to believe it does. . . . Really, in its 
 way, it was quite an artistic triumf)h — that 
 flirtation. I should have been more than 
 human to let such a distinct challenge pass 
 unnoticed. And, then, the gentle hermit, 
 with his good looks and brilliant reputa- 
 tion, piqued me." 
 
 She drew the long folds of her white 
 cloak about her charming figure, and de- 
 scended the staircase to the waiting car- 
 riage. 
 
 "I wonder whether he will be there," she 
 said to herself; "he knows I am leaving to- 
 morrow. If he comes, will he cut his dances 
 with me?" and she wasted a smile and a 
 blush in the soft gloom of the carriage, 
 where there was no one to see. 
 77 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 The Commencement ball of the class of 
 '90 at Fairview University was a brilliant 
 success in the annals of that institution. 
 The big gymnasium had been gaily deco- 
 rated with the college colors, and the vari- 
 ous trophies won by college champions on 
 the hard-fought field. The buoyant Senior, 
 conscious of the admiring presence of rela- 
 tives and friends, was holding high carnival 
 for the last time as an undergraduate. The 
 music was all that could be desired; the 
 floor waxed to the final degree of perfec- 
 tion; youth, beauty and clouds of adoring 
 incense surrounded him, and the Senior's 
 cup of joy was full to the brim. 
 
 But the gayest dancer of all, and the one 
 most frequently upon the floor, was Pro- 
 fessor Bradford of the department of Greek. 
 He had left his eyeglasses upon his study 
 table, in company with the monograph, and 
 it was difficult to recognize in the gallant 
 young Launcelot of the ball-room the grave- 
 faced professor of the University. People 
 gazed at him in fascinated astonishment as 
 78 
 
The Giant's Strength. 
 
 he lent himself to the charm of the moment, 
 and whispered brilliant nothings into the 
 wondering ears of his partners. He suc- 
 ceeded in thoroughly amazing himself, but 
 the tall and beautiful girl, who stood wait- 
 ing for him to claim his dance with her, 
 was startled out of her accustomed compo- 
 sure by his unexpected behavior. She 
 watched his dazzling career with a sudden, 
 sad self-knowledge and pain. 
 
 "Our waltz, I believe," he said, careless- 
 ly, putting his arm lightly but firmly about 
 her waist, and guiding her skilfully down 
 the crowded room. He danced well, and he 
 was telling her an amusing story of his life 
 in Europe, but she could bear it no longer. 
 The brilliant apartment, with its gay, re- 
 volving couples, became a confused mass 
 of color. The young man's words fell upon 
 her ears in a meaningless murmur. 
 
 "Let us stop," she said, imperatively, 
 
 breathlessly. He obeyed her instantly, and 
 
 together they sauntered out into one of the 
 
 dim, cool recesses of the hall. It was a de- 
 
 79 
 
The Giant^s Strength. 
 
 serted little retreat, for the night was yet 
 young, and the orchestra was playing a 
 favorite valse. The dim, variously colored 
 lamps threw the shadows of the leaves and 
 grasses which decorated the corner upon 
 the floor at their feet. It reminded him of 
 the lights and shadows of the previous 
 afternoon, which now seemed centuries re- 
 moved. She had withdrawn her hand from 
 his arm, and stood before him, radiantly 
 beautiful in her glittering, white ball- 
 gown. 
 
 " How worth 
 That a man should strive and agonize. 
 And taste a veriest hell on earth 
 For the hope of such a prize." 
 
 Their eyes met — his, handsome, smiling 
 and courteous; hers, dark and magnificent 
 as ever, but no longer inscrutable; there 
 w^as a soft and tender light in their ex- 
 quisite depths. With absolute unreserve 
 she stood for an instant, looking full in his 
 face. 
 
 "At last,'^ she whispered, with a smile of 
 80 
 
The Gianf s Strength. 
 
 utter self-revelation and surrender, "you 
 have taught me how to love.'' 
 
 He regarded her for an instant, with a 
 grave and dignified composure. 
 
 "And you," he said, regretfully, "have 
 taught me only how to flirt.'' 
 
 81 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 83 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 LOIS paused a moment before the 
 closed door of the dining-room. She 
 stood outside in the dimly lit cor- 
 ridor, with a loud-beating heart, listening 
 to the rattle of dishes and the hum of 
 myriad voices, and then, summoning her 
 courage by a mighty effort, opened the door 
 and walked calmly down the double row 
 of tables to her seat at the far end of the 
 room. Everyone instinctively glanced up at 
 her entrance, for soup had just been served, 
 and she was undeniably late; then everyone 
 glanced away again carelessly, for Lois was 
 an unimportant factor in college life, being 
 a teacher-special, with no hope of a de- 
 gree at the end of her scholastic labors. 
 She sank wearily into her place, wondering 
 86 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 why she had not had sufficient presence of 
 mind to feign a headache, and thus spare 
 herself the tedious ordeal of dining. 
 
 Her general salutation was returned civ- 
 illy by the various persons about the table, 
 and then the waiter placed a plate of smok- 
 ing soup before her. He was a raw recruit, 
 in the shape of a Freshman working his 
 way through college, and he invariably al- 
 lowed his thumb to wander investigatingly 
 amidst the contents of whatever dish he 
 happened to serve. 
 
 ^^None genuine without Baker's trade- 
 mark," said Stanleigh, jocosely, as the 
 Freshman brought Miss Baxter's plate 
 smartly upon the table, leaving a photo- 
 graphic imprint of his thumb upon its edge. 
 Lois smiled gratefully across at the young 
 student, who had made the blunt remark. 
 It gave her an excellent excuse for refusing 
 soup, and as for Baker's omnipresent 
 thumb, she had not even noticed that he 
 possessed one. It was difficult to eat when 
 her mind was in such chaos, and so many 
 86 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 sharp and inquisitive eyes were bent intel- 
 ligently upon her. 
 
 "Baker would better mend his methods," 
 remarked Professor Butler, severely. "He 
 has just left a chicken bone in Miss Far- 
 ley's lap. She doesn't know it yet, but 1 
 watched its flight a moment since, when he 
 was taking her plate. Sometimes I think 
 he's an Anarchist, and does it on purpose, 
 in order to even up things. He is taking 
 my lectures, and I notice he always serves 
 me last." 
 
 A mild ripple of appreciative merriment 
 followed this remark. 
 
 "What have you done with Herr von 
 Arnheim, Miss Baxter?" put in Mrs. Butler, 
 tactfully. "I saw you setting out for a 
 walk after lunch, and he hasn't been seen 
 since." 
 
 Lois felt the swift crimson rush painfully 
 into her cheeks, and the knowledge of this 
 fact increased her embarrassment. 
 
 "Herr von Arnheim?" she stammered. 
 
 87 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 "Has he not returned, then? I haven't seen 
 him since three o'clock." 
 
 Her visible discomfiture caused every 
 person at the table to glance sharply at her, 
 and at that moment the door opened, and a 
 tall, blond young fellow came briskly down 
 the room and took the vacant seat beside 
 Lois. She felt the betraying crimson deep- 
 en detestably in her cheeks, and kept her 
 eyes upon the unlucky soup-plate as she 
 responded faintly to his greeting. 
 
 "We were just wondering where you 
 were, Herr von Arnheim," struck in the 
 sharp, inquisitive tones of Mrs. Butler, 
 "and I have just been accusing Miss Baxter 
 of making away with you." 
 
 "Making away with me?" questioned the 
 young German, in evident perplexity. "Oh, 
 I see — running off with me. I only wish 
 she would." 
 
 "I consider that an honorable proposal. 
 
 Miss Baxter," went on Mrs. Butler, in high 
 
 glee, while Lois sat in red, silent misery, 
 
 wondering how long her endurance could 
 
 88 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 hold out, and feverishly telling herself that 
 she must not break down and betray her- 
 self. 
 
 Dinner usually lasted an hour, for Manor 
 Hall dined better than it was served, and 
 only twenty minutes of torture were over. 
 
 The house was a quaint, rambling old 
 mansion, which had seen sumptuous Colon- 
 ial days before it had fallen from its high 
 estate to become the most fashionable 
 boarding-house in Fairview. Even in its 
 decline its "tone" was unimpeachably aris- 
 tocratic; not only were its prices exorbitant 
 enough to exclude the undesirably poor, but 
 satisfying references were required before 
 one was allowed the privilege of paying 
 twice the value of his accommodation. 
 Thus the clientele of Manor Hall was se- 
 curely satisfactory and beyond reproach. 
 
 "There's certainly something between 
 Miss Baxter and Herr von Arnheim," whis- 
 pered Mrs. Butler to her husband. 
 "They've scarcely spoken to each other, and 
 they've both got such a queer expression. It 
 89 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 doesn't seem possible that there could be 
 anything between them at her age. She 
 is years older than he is, poor boy. But 
 there's no fool like an old fool, you know." 
 
 These words spoken in Mrs. Butler's thin, 
 penetrating whisper traveled across the 
 table, and forced themselves into Lois' in- 
 dignant ear. She forgot all about her brave 
 show of indifference, her heroic attempts 
 to deceive her fellow-lodgers into the belief 
 that she was dining, and, rising with a 
 murmured, inarticulate apology, hastily 
 left the room. 
 
 "I fear Miss Baxter is not feeling well,'^ 
 commented Mrs. Butler, with an innocent 
 air. "I must call at her room after dinner. 
 Perhaps I may be of some service to her." 
 
 Von Arnheim swore imperceptibly below 
 his breath, and calmly continued his din- 
 ner. 
 
 In the safe solitude of her own room, Lois 
 
 lost no time in making ready to go to bed. 
 
 Not that she expected to sleep; she knew 
 
 only too well just how those long, dark 
 
 90 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 hours before her would be spent, but a re- 
 treat to bed was the only possible precau- 
 tion against interruption, and even this ex- 
 treme measure had been known to fail. 
 
 She stood for a moment before the toilet- 
 glass, brushing out the thick, dark splendor 
 of her hair, which, in spite of her forty-two 
 years, showed not a single thread of silver 
 in its soft masses. A handsome woman in 
 the prime of middle life, with large, dark 
 eyes, full of a certain, soft, sympathetic in- 
 telligence, which made them remembered 
 long after more beautiful eyes were forgot- 
 ten. A slender, tall, energetic woman, 
 with an expression about her thin, mobile 
 lips which won confidence, and told of un- 
 usual strength of character. A woman 
 whose previous career, she told herself, 
 would never justify her present erratic be- 
 havior. 
 
 She turned out the gas quickly, and crept 
 into bed. She was not an instant too soon. 
 A sharp, decisive rap came upon her door, 
 91 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 followed by a second, even more energetic 
 one. Then — 
 
 ^^Miss Baxter, are you ill? Can I be of 
 any assistance?" came in Mrs. Butler's 
 sharp, imperative voice. 
 
 "Thank you, no," she was compelled to 
 say through the closed door. "I am merely 
 tired and have a headache. I shall be quite 
 right in the morning, thank you." 
 
 There would be another attack upon her 
 door, she reflected, sadly, before the night 
 might be certainly her own, and then the 
 rest of the fifty persons in the house prob- 
 ably would leave her in peace. She became 
 aware of stealthy footsteps creeping along 
 the corridor, and the crisp rattle of a bit of 
 paper thrust beneath her door, and the sur- 
 prised tones of Mrs. Butler as she discov- 
 ered Von Arnheim in the passage. 
 
 "Going to read German with Miss Bax- 
 ter this evening? You're too late. She has 
 gone to bed with a bad headache ..." 
 and then the footsteps and voices died 
 away. 
 
 92 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 Left alone at last, Lois began to specu- 
 late, drearily, upon the Destiny which had 
 thrown her into her present position, and 
 to try to extricate herself, if possible. It 
 was absurd, monstrous, that a sensible, 
 middle-aged woman should have fallen 
 madly in love with a lad just twenty years 
 her junior. When she had been twenty, he 
 had not even existed. Before his existence 
 she had been considering marrying John 
 Barlow, who was now a respectable, mid- 
 dle-aged mayor of a Western town; had she 
 married John, she wondered whether she 
 could have fallen into her present senseless 
 predicament. But this was an airy specu- 
 lation intended for a lighter moment; what 
 concerned her now was the truth. She was 
 not one of those women to ignore the skel- 
 eton in her closet, but was accustomed to 
 deal with herself with frank unreserve. 
 Had any other woman been in a like case, 
 she acknowledged, honestly, that she 
 would have condemned her as an enemy to 
 society. She tried to put herself for a mo- 
 93 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 ment in the place of Von Amheim's moth- 
 er, a position, she reflected, sadly, she 
 might very appropriately assume. What 
 would her thoughts then be toward a wom- 
 an of her own age who intended marrying 
 her only child? Simply murderous! But un- 
 derneath the strenuous effort of renuncia- 
 tion floated the recollection of his dear per- 
 sonality, which in so mysterious a way 
 had become part of herself. Why had Des- 
 tiny played so cynical a joke upon her? 
 She felt conscious that she did not quite 
 deserve it. If a pair of beautiful, dark-blue 
 eyes must haunt her constantly, and the 
 touch of a certain slender, artist-hand have 
 power to thrill her, and to lend the com- 
 mon-place world a splendid fascination she 
 had never discovered in it before, why 
 might not these qualities have been be- 
 stowed upon one of the modest and suitable 
 list of lovers who had variegated her pre- 
 vious existence? 
 
 There was but one recompense she might 
 offer him in return for the sacrifice he 
 94 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 urged upon her, provided she proved weak 
 enough to listen to his pleading. The 
 money which a wealthy relative unexpect- 
 edly had bequeathed her would suffice to 
 rescue his ancestral estates, and permit 
 him to live as his rank demanded. She was 
 the sole person in the United States who 
 knew that he was a Count, possessing vast 
 estates in Prussia, which were heavily em- 
 barrassed. However, she dismissed this 
 solution as altogether too sordid an ex- 
 change for his bright, boyish years. There 
 was but one way by which she might help 
 them both now, and that was to disappear 
 quietly, and never darken his youth again 
 by her presence. Having decided to re- 
 nounce him utterly, she crept softly out of 
 bed and drew the note from beneath her 
 door. By the flickering flame of a wax- 
 light, she read the foreign scrawl. 
 
 ^^You were too abrupt with me, my 
 friend," it ran — "You do not permit me to 
 explain you. To-morrow I shall be at the 
 95 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 same place at the same hour . . . and you 
 must let me explain you." ^ 
 
 Very well, his explanation need not alter 
 her renunciation, and the temptation was 
 too great to be resisted. 
 
 Only the secret-keeping gods know just 
 why Mrs. Butler chose Washington Park 
 for a solitary ramble on the following day, 
 but, suddenly, as she was skirting a bosky 
 glen, somewhat removed from the public 
 paths, she came full upon Miss Baxter and 
 Herr von Arnheim, sitting side by side, on 
 a bank of ferns, apparently quite oblivious 
 to everything and everybody. At first, she 
 told the Professor later, she was in doubt 
 as to what she ought to do. To retreat or 
 advance would be to put them both in an 
 awkward situation, so she solved the diffi- 
 culty by ensconcing herself behind a large 
 tree, where she was completely hidden 
 from detection. However, they were so 
 near her that she found it quite unavoid- 
 96 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 able not to listen to their conversation, 
 which she did most reluctantly. 
 
 "I shall convince you yet/' said Von Arn- 
 heim, triumphantly. ^^Age? What is age? 
 It is a mere incident — how do you call it? 
 An accident. It has nothing to do with the 
 facts, which are that I love you — and you 
 love me, Lois." 
 
 "Indeed, Otto, I do love you/' said poor 
 Lois, "and that is why I cannot let you ruin 
 yourself." 
 
 "You do not love me if you can refuse 
 me," said the boy, passionately. "What is 
 all the world to me without you? You are 
 my sun, my moon, my stars, my life itself. 
 And yet you would rob me of my inherit- 
 ance. No, Lois, you cannot really love me, 
 or you could not be so cruel." 
 
 At this juncture Mrs. Butler w^as unable 
 to see what was going forward, but she 
 conjectured that the young Count took 
 Miss Baxter in his arms and kissed her. 
 She also had the vague impression of hav- 
 ing heard him whisper that he would never 
 97 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 let her go away from him again. However, 
 later she saw him striding angrily away, 
 with his hat pulled down over his eyes. 
 After a decent interval, she strolled care- 
 lessly along past the meditative figure of 
 Miss Baxter. 
 
 ^"I said I was so pleased to have found 
 her," she told her husband, in artless narra- 
 tive, ^^it was so very lonely walking about 
 all by oneself, and I asked her if she did 
 not find it so, for I would not have had her 
 suspect for worlds that I had seen Von 
 Arnheim. She rather evaded the question, 
 but seemed glad to see me, and we started 
 on together through the forest path home. 
 She asked me to give her my arm, and 
 seemed rather trembling at first, which is 
 so unlike Miss Baxter, you know; she's so 
 strong-minded. She asked me earnestly 
 what opinion I would have of a woman who 
 married a man young enough to be her own 
 son, and I was glad of the chance to tell 
 her most emphatically how wrong and ter- 
 rible I thought such a thing would be — 
 98 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 that it would ruin both their lives, and be 
 a matter of endless regret; in fact, that it 
 would be a crime. I put it as strongly as 1 
 knew how'' — here the Professor smiled, 
 grimly — "and I flatter myself I convinced 
 her. But we shall see at dinner from her 
 behavior to Herr von Arnheim." 
 
 But that evening no critical eyes had the 
 pleasure of dissecting Miss Baxter, for be- 
 fore Baker had served the coffee all the 
 boarders knew that Miss Baxter had de~ 
 parted suddenly for parts unknown, leav- 
 ing no trace of her whereabouts. 
 
 "She could leave in mid-term better than 
 most of the co-eds," commented Mrs. But- 
 ler, "because, after all, she was only a 
 teacher-special, and not eligible for a de- 
 gree." 
 
 "It was the dream of her life," said Von 
 Arnheim, suddenly, glancing up from ab- 
 sorbed contemplation of his plate, "her 
 great ambition to finish Professor Butler's 
 course in English literature. She will be 
 heart-broken at having missed it." 
 99 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 ^^But she was only a middle-aged West- 
 ern school ma'am until her cousin's death 
 left her rich," went on Mrs. Butler. ^'Of 
 course, her ambition is commendable, but 
 we must not expect her to rank with these 
 young college women, who are trained spe- 
 cialists." 
 
 ^^Her w^ork was always most acceptable," 
 put in Professor Butler. ^'In fact, she had 
 a certain clearness and maturity of mind 
 which gave her a decided advantage over 
 some of our trained college women." 
 
 Von Arnheim cast a grateful glance at 
 the benignant Professor, and then returned 
 to a prolonged contemplation of his plate. 
 At the end of a week he also disappeared, 
 and his rooms becoming immediately re- 
 rented, his memory became as vague as 
 that of poor Miss Baxter at Manor Hall. 
 Three weeks afterward Mrs. Butler took 
 the trouble to travel across the Campus to 
 her husband's lecture room. She thrust a 
 newspaper triumphantly into his hand. 
 
 ^^I knew she would do it," she said, vic- 
 100 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 toriously, gloating over his shoulder as he 
 read this announcement: 
 
 VON ARNHEIM-BAXTER. On the third 
 of September, at the Rectory of Grace 
 Church, New York, Lois Amelia, only 
 daughter of the late John and Mary 
 Baxter, to Otto Karl Hugo, Count von 
 Arnheim, of Arnheim, Prussia. No 
 cards. 
 
 "They would better have said: ^Friends 
 are kindly requested not to send flowers/ '■ 
 remarked Mrs. Butler, as her husband fin- 
 ished the paragraph. "I call it infanti- 
 cide." 
 
 "I always liked Miss Baxter/' said the 
 Professor, mildly. "I hope they may be 
 happy, and never regret it.'' 
 
 The Von Arnheims had leased a tiny fur- 
 nished house belonging to an artist, who 
 had gone back to his beloved Latin Quarter 
 for further study, and here in this little, 
 weather-stained cottage, built out into the 
 blue waters of Long Island Sound, they were 
 spending the first year of their married life. 
 101 
 
The Crime of Lois Ba ter. 
 
 It seemed easier to ignore those inexorable 
 twenty years which separated them, when 
 they watched the sunsets together, or sailed 
 out toward the purple outlines of Long Isl- 
 and lying peacefully against the distant 
 horizon. More than a year of delightful 
 idling thus passed away. One evening Lois 
 was pouring tea, as usual, in the bay win- 
 dow of the tiny drawing-room, which 
 looked directly out upon the sunset. It was 
 early October, and the sea and sky were 
 brilliant with autumn colors, crimson and 
 gold and vivid blue. The distant spires and 
 roofs of the neighboring village stood 
 etched in sharp black relief against the 
 opalescent sky. Long lines of crimson lay 
 trembling upon the breast of the blue 
 water, whose murmuring stole echoingly 
 through the silence. 
 
 The Count was sitting on a low chair at 
 Lois' feet, leaning affectionately against 
 her, as he looked out, dreamily, at the 
 changing sunset. 
 
 "I'm in a Heinesque mood," he said, smil- 
 102 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 ing up at her. "I always am when I look 
 upon the sea and sunset. Do you remem- 
 ber: 
 
 * Wer zum ersten male liebt, 
 Seis auch glucklos, ist ein Gott ; 
 Aber wer zum zweiten male 
 Glucklos liebt, der ist ein Narr. 
 
 * Ich, ein solcher Narr, ich liebe 
 Wieder ohne Gegenliebe ; 
 Sonne, Mond und Sterne lachen, 
 Und ich lache nait — und sterbe.' " 
 
 ^^I always liked Black's translation of 
 that/' said Lois, "do you know it?'^ 
 
 * Who loves a first time is a god 
 Though he should be forsaken, 
 Who, hapless, loves a second time. 
 Must for a fool be taken. 
 
 And such a fool who loves without 
 Response of love am I ; 
 Sun, moon and stars, they laugh at me, 
 And I laugh, too — and die.' " 
 
 The sunset was growing momentarily 
 brighter, the strange brightness which pre- 
 cedes its vanishing. 
 
 103 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 "And I laugh, too — and die/" said Lois, 
 reflectively. "After all, that is the best 
 way; a merry laugh like the sunset there, 
 and then the oblivion of death. L'homme 
 qui rit is the greatest philosopher in the 
 world. Otto," with a sudden change from 
 jest to earnestness, "tell me why you ever 
 fell in love with me?'' 
 
 "I should have said we had threshed out 
 that subject already rather well/' answered 
 the young man, mischievously, "but if you 
 are really serious in wishing to learn what 
 first drew me to you, it was because you 
 were so kind." 
 
 "Kind?" echoed Lois. 
 
 "Kind," affirmed he. "Do you remember 
 that first evening at Manor Hall? You 
 were the only one who did not laugh at my 
 mistakes, and, naturally, I was grateful. 
 Afterward, you were so good to teach me 
 English — and, then, dear, you were just 
 yourself; just you, and that seemed to me 
 sufficient excuse to love you. Now, tell me 
 why you ever loved me." 
 104 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 "Oh, Vve always loved you/' she answered 
 him, tenderly, "even long before I ever even 
 saw you." 
 
 "But why did you refuse me so many 
 times, Lois, only to send for me at the end, 
 after I had really given up all hope. It w^as 
 the only occasion on which I have known 
 you capricious." 
 
 The dark eyes watching the glorious, 
 golden beauty of the sunset, already begin- 
 ning to fade away upon the distant horizon, 
 contracted with swift pain, and her cheeks 
 grew suddenly pale. 
 
 "I remember I said good-bye to you for 
 ever, didn't I?" she asked, attempting to 
 smile. 
 
 "Yes," replied the young fellow, truthful- 
 ly, lifting his blue eyes to her face, "but T 
 didn't mind when the fact differed from the 
 decision." 
 
 Lois continued to regard the gay sunset 
 colors as they rapidly merged into the gray 
 shadows of the night. The evening star be- 
 gan to show itself amidst the ruddy gold. 
 105 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 At length she began speaking with a vis- 
 ible effort. 
 
 ^^I should never have altered my deci- 
 sion/' she said, "if it had not been for one 
 thing. When I left Manor Hall that night. 
 Otto, I was so wretched that death would 
 have seemed the best good in the world. In- 
 deed, such dreadful pains went through my 
 heart that I felt sure I had not long to live. 
 I consulted Dr. Graham, of New York, the 
 famous specialist, you know, and he told 
 me I had but a year to live; perhaps, not 
 that . . . and so I thought . . . since we 
 both really loved each other ... it 
 mightn't be so very wrong ... a year is 
 so short to be happy in . . . and happi- 
 ness seemed to me the best thing ..." 
 
 The sunset colors had faded suddenly 
 away into the waste of grey waters. Here 
 and there lights began to show softly along 
 the shore. The red lamp of the light-house 
 on the Point opened its cheerful eye. The 
 little, white-sailed oyster-boats were all 
 coming home across the darkening water. 
 106 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 The yellow lights of an important, fussy 
 steam-tug flashed, jewel-like, across the 
 shadows. 
 
 ^^I have lived already three months long- 
 er than I had dared hope," went on Lois, 
 more calmly, "and for that I am grateful. 
 It makes me feel as if our happiness — and 
 we have been happy, have we not. Otto? — 
 were not so wrong after all. We have had 
 our year, our dear, glad year, and you are 
 still young, with all life before you, and I 
 have not brought harm upon you, as I 
 should have done had it been otherwise." 
 
 The sunset having vanished, it was too 
 dark to read the expression on his face, 
 which had suddenly grown as gray as the 
 evening shadows outside, but he merely re- 
 mained affectionately leaning against her, 
 as he had done so many joyous evenings 
 before, and no sound broke the intense si- 
 lence about them. 
 
 One evening, a few days later, Mrs. But- 
 ler rushed into her husband's dressing- 
 107 
 
The Crime of Lois Baxter. 
 
 room, as he was busily engaged in dressing 
 for dinner. She held the evening paper in 
 her hand, and burst forth excitedly: 
 
 "Have you read it?" she cried, breath- 
 lessly, thrusting the sheet into his aston- 
 ished hand. ^'It's the first notice, obituary 
 notice.'' 
 
 The Professor ran his eye down the first 
 column. 
 
 Entered into eternal rest, on the 10th of 
 October, at 'The Sea-Urchin,' Craw- 
 ford, Conn., Lois Amelia, beloved wife 
 of Otto Karl Hugo, Count von Arnheim, 
 of Arnheim, Prussia. Funeral 
 private. 
 
 "What a fortunate escape for him," ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Butler, as the Professor laid 
 the paper down in silence. "It certainly 
 looks like the finger of Providence, doesn't 
 itr 
 
 But the Professor only said: "Poor soul,'^ 
 very softly to himself, as his wife left the 
 apartment. 
 
 108 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 109 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 IT IS strange how seldom a person recog- 
 nizes the wisdom and philosophy of 
 Destiny. She is apt to be painted 
 much blacker than she is, or to be exalted 
 to the skies on clouds of adoring incense. 
 In reality, however, she is justice incar- 
 nate. This fact has been taught me by ex- 
 perience, for, though Fate has denied me 
 health, she has softened the blow by be- 
 stowing upon me really embarrassing 
 riches; nevertheless, I am grateful, for I 
 have been enabled thus to secure a vica- 
 rious sort of satisfaction in seeing others 
 enjoy the dinners an invalid digestion for- 
 bids to me. With a subtle humor, she mar- 
 ried the one woman in my little world to 
 my dearest friend, and with logical consist- 
 lil 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 ence put half the continent between us, but 
 I do not complain, for she permits me to 
 win for others the happiness that I have 
 missed, and, after all, there is a superb 
 sense of power in feeling that you are a sort 
 of golden providence, and can buy for an- 
 other what Fate has refused to you. 
 
 One charming day in early April I was 
 strolling leisurely along Poverty Row in 
 search of my lost health in the soft, spring 
 air and genial sunlight. I went along Pov- 
 erty Row because I have discovered that 
 the sun is as warm and golden and the 
 air as invigorating there as on the Avenue 
 where the doctors have ordered me to 
 walk; and, also, I am usually at the mercy 
 of a torturing and uncompromising head- 
 ache, and I find more to distract my 
 thoughts from myself in that dilapidated 
 thoroughfare of the poor. Human nature 
 exists there in the raw, unspoiled by civil- 
 ization, and one is certain to light upon 
 something rare and interesting. 
 
 The usual number of ragged, light-heart 
 11^ 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 ed children were playing noisily together 
 along the roadside; the familiar groups of 
 bare-armed, calico-clad women were ex- 
 changing choice bits of gossip across the 
 rickety fences; life seemed sweet and care- 
 less and peaceful beneath the amethyst, 
 April sky. An enigmatical sort of envy 
 seized me as I looked at the happy, uncon- 
 scious throng. They had everything which 
 I had not — health, and an evident lively 
 enjoyment of life — and yet I experienced a 
 curious, contradictory contentment with 
 my illness and desolation, for I, too, had 
 had my day — my sweet, short day, and, al- 
 though I had experienced also the worst of 
 death, a strange peace held possession of 
 me. 
 
 Beside the doorway of a cottage rather 
 more pretentious than its neighbors I no- 
 ticed a tin sign bearing the inscription: 
 ^^Mrs. Rolf," in dingy, gilt lettering. It ex- 
 cited my curiosity, and I speculated vague- 
 ly as to its significance. Who was this Mrs. 
 Rolf, whose identity seemed so bravely in- 
 113 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 dependent? I decided that she was prob- 
 ably responsible for some of the singular 
 costumes I had observed, lending to the 
 scene an eccentric and kaleidoscopic effect. 
 But how unusual for a dressmaker of Pov- 
 erty Eow to have copied with so remark- 
 able a fidelity the customs of the grand dic- 
 tators of fashion. Could Worth himself 
 have been more composedly succinct! 
 
 I walked back again past the little house 
 whose battered sign possessed so strange 
 a fascination for me. Several persons were 
 on the point of entering; two young girls 
 were coming out; there was an awed ex- 
 pression on the face of one, and a half-de- 
 fiant laugh on the lips of the other. I was 
 encouraged to open the rickety gate, and 
 knock at the weather-worn door. A wom- 
 an with a shock of palpably artificial hair 
 admitted me. Never have I been permitted 
 to gaze upon a person so honestly meretri- 
 cious. It seemed almost as if her complex- 
 ion, teeth and hair took a mischievous de- 
 light in parading their spuriousness. 
 114 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 "There's five ahead of you," she re- 
 marked, smiling. 
 
 "But I'm in no special hurry; I will 
 wait,'' I said, carelessly. 
 
 She opened the door and ushered me into 
 a darkened room, where I groped my way 
 cautiously to a chair. There were five 
 women sitting in a solemn row against the 
 opposite wall. They were evidently not 
 working girls, and quite as evidently they 
 were not ladies in the ordinary acceptance 
 of the term, but occupied an anomalous po- 
 sition half way between. 
 
 "Ain't you scared, Molly?" asked one. 
 
 "No, indeed," replied Molly; "I've been to 
 'em too often to get scared." 
 
 She was a stout, jovial woman of thirty 
 or thereabouts, and smiled out upon the 
 world, good-humoredly, with a pair of blue, 
 Teutonic eyes. 
 
 "It sorter scares me," remarked a slight, 
 young girl. "It makes me feel so kinder 
 queer." 
 
 "The last time I went," continued Molly, 
 115 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 "was when I was to Portland, Maine. She 
 was an awful good clairvoyant. Says she 
 to me, says she, ^You're a-goin' to take a 
 long sea voyage very soon,' says she, ^soon- 
 er than you think for,' says she, and sure 
 enough I went that very night to New York 
 by the boat.'' 
 
 This bit of personal history was received 
 in the awestruck silence it merited. 
 
 "An' she tole me," went on Molly, with 
 an evident delight in the sensation she was 
 creating, "as how I was a-goin' to marry a 
 dark-complected man — an' you know my 
 William is dark-complected — an' that we 
 was a-goin' to meet to a hotel, an' that we 
 wouldn't keep company long — not more 'an 
 a month — an' every word come true, just as 
 she said." 
 
 "That swell feller's a-goin' to have his 
 tole," I heard one young woman whisper to 
 another. "I bet he's had a smash-up with 
 his girl, an' wants to know how it's a-goin' 
 to turn out." 
 
 Protected by the gloom and my heavy 
 116 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 moustache, I indulged in a quiet smile. I 
 had, indeed, had the "smash-up'' so deli- 
 cately suggested, but, unfortunately, I 
 knew only too well how it had turned out, 
 so I comforted myself with the reflection 
 that at least I had had my day, and that 
 nothing could ever take away from me the 
 reflection that once I, too, had said to the 
 flying moment: "Ah, still delay, thou art 
 so fair!" It had not obeyed my imperative 
 command, but had sped past on lightning 
 wings, yet it had left me the sweetness of 
 its memory. 
 
 The door opened slowly, and a river of 
 yellow sunlight rippled across the gloom 
 of the room. I do not know whether the 
 effect was intentionally dramatic or not, 
 but it seemed quite obviously symbolic to 
 me — ^that golden bar of light descending 
 graciously upon us from the nameless mys- 
 tery of the Sybil's apartment. 
 
 The slow clock on the shelf above my 
 head ticked away a monotonous hour and 
 a half before my turn arrived. Meanwhile 
 117 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 the room had become filled with persons 
 waiting in a patient silence to penetrate the 
 secrets of the future. We presented all the 
 impressive solemnity of a country funeral 
 without the attendant horror of the corpse. 
 
 Once more the resplendent sunlight 
 broke in upon the darkness, and the woman 
 with the artificial hair beckoned me to tpl- 
 low her. She led me to a room at the end 
 of the narrow passage, and demanded 
 twenty-five cents as the entrance fee. 
 Having accomplished this business prelude, 
 the mystic door which separated me from 
 the Sybil opened, and I stood in the awful 
 presence. 
 
 It was a simple, small apartment, fur- 
 nished merely with the bare, cheap neces- 
 sities of the poor, but it was strikingly well- 
 ordered and neat. In the centre of the 
 room sat a young woman, clad in a close- 
 fitting, black gown. She was tall and 
 slight, with a pale face, absolutely color- 
 less, except for the faint pink of her lips. 
 She lift-ed her large, dark-lashed eyes to 
 118 
 
In Poverty Rowc 
 
 mine, and the moment I looked into their 
 magnetic, wonderful depths I believed in 
 her, not, of course, in her art, but in her; I 
 had gone up to scoff, but I remained to 
 pray. She motioned me to take the chair 
 before her, and when I had seated myself, 
 she took my hand in hers. It was a soft, 
 caressing touch, inexpressibly soothing. 
 
 "I am very tired,'' she said. "I do not 
 know whether I shall be successful." 
 
 She drew one thin hand slowly across her 
 closed eyes, and I heard the sharp, crack- 
 ling sound of electricity; her warm, nerv- 
 ous fingers closed tightly upon my own. 
 With a sudden surprising sweep of her eye- 
 lids, her beautiful eyes flashed their strange 
 magnificence full into mine. I was decided- 
 ly impressed. 
 
 She began to speak in a low, dreamy 
 tone. 
 
 "You are not well," she said, "but you 
 are going to be well. You are ill now, but 
 you will recover soon; you have a long and 
 happy life before you." 
 119 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 It crossed my mind, humorously, that I 
 had paid merely a quarter to learn this, and 
 I sent a fleeting regret after the thousands 
 I had wasted on distinguished specialists 
 in order to discover that I must die) so soon. 
 I almost believed her. 
 
 "Your life has not always been happy," 
 went on the tender, soothing voice. "You 
 have met with misfortunes — you have suf- 
 fered a catastrophe." 
 
 "Yes," I assented, "I have, indeed, had a 
 catastrophe." 
 
 "But the worst is over," went on the Sy- 
 bil; "you have parted, but she will come 
 back to you. Do not forget — she will come 
 back to you soon." 
 
 In spite of the absolute impossibility of 
 the realization of her words, my heart — ^the 
 heart I had so long believed to be dead — 
 gave a mad leap at the mere suggestion. 
 
 "She will come back to you; she will 
 have suffered also, but she will be all the 
 dearer for it. You had a misunderstand- 
 ing — is it not so?" 
 
 120 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 "Yes," I said, bitterly, "we had, indeed, a 
 misunderstanding." 
 
 "But you must forgive her," continued 
 the Sybil, calmly; "she was not to blame." 
 
 "Who was?" I questioned, unbelievingly. 
 
 "It was Fate," she answered, solemnly. 
 "It had to be." 
 
 I had scarcely expected to find explana- 
 tion and consolation in Poverty Eow. 
 Through the open window rushed the 
 sweet, spring air, balmily prophetic of 
 summer. Outside the voices of the children 
 at play in the distant street echoed gayly. 
 A robin was singing fearlessly a triumph- 
 ant solo of love upon the brown-budded 
 bough near the window. The world seemed 
 so happy and full of glad, young life. 
 
 "You are going to be in comfortable cir- 
 cumstances," said Mrs. Eolf; "you will 
 never know what it means to be in need, 
 and in time you will be famous." 
 
 I could have told her I was already rath- 
 er well known as a man who had had the 
 audacity to live a year beyond the limit as- 
 121 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 signed him by world-renowned specialists; 
 a man whose case was even now cited in 
 the medical journals, but I held my peace. 
 
 "I see a letter coming to you from across 
 the sea, but, beware! It means trouble. I 
 see a dark man and a fair woman; they 
 have plotted your ruin, but you will escape 
 them. You will be in doubt, and will not 
 know which way to turn for help, but it 
 all turns out happily in the end, and you 
 will triumph." 
 
 She passed her fingers slowly across her 
 closed eyes. 
 
 "I can do no more for you,'' she said, 
 wearily. 
 
 In some blind, instinctive fashion I 
 reached the street. The sunlight was still 
 shining goldenly down upon the children 
 playing light-heartedly along the pave- 
 ments. Some kindly and protecting demon 
 must have guided my steps homeward, for 
 I was conscious of nothing but the words I 
 had just heard, and which kept echoing 
 endlessly in my brain: ^^You must forgive 
 122 
 
In Poverty Row. 
 
 her . . . she was not to blame ... it 
 was Fate." 
 
 •Jf -JS- * * * * * 
 
 "A cablegram, James? . . . Yes, you 
 may go. I shall not need you yet . . . 
 Dead? Dorothy dead? Then she must have 
 died before she knew that she was for- 
 given! . . . Dead? Impossible! So young 
 and beautiful and loved, she had nothing 
 in common with death . . . nothing except 
 that death gives us back to each other, and 
 puts an everlasting bar between us and her 
 husband who won her from me by a lie 
 I can feel again the soft, warm 
 pressure of her arms about my neck. . . 
 dead? Oh, no; asleep, perhaps, and dream- 
 ing, but not dead. Ah, Sweetheart, kiss 
 me, for it grows so dark and cold, and I 
 cannot see . . . Forgive thee, Sweet? 
 aye, for it was Fate .•*..." 
 
 123 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 126 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 THE March sunlight was smiling with 
 June suavity down upon Paris on 
 this particular morning of the year 
 of grace 1894. Innumerable ragged brown 
 sparrows were chirping and hopping about 
 the streets, lending, in conjunction with 
 the frequent flower booths and itinerant 
 violet venders, an assured and cheerful as- 
 pect of early summer, which a possible 
 morrow of chill rain and sleet might dis- 
 perse with the rapidity of a wizard's wand. 
 Outside the cafes and wine-shops a crop 
 of little, round marble-topped tables had 
 sprung up like mushrooms in the genial 
 sunlight, and about these sat indolent hap- 
 py Frenchmen, smoking cigarettes and 
 drinking red wine. It was a jovial, heart- 
 1^7 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 warming day, when rain and fogs seemed 
 bad dreams, and umbrellas a myth; a blue 
 day full of spring flowers and joyousness. 
 
 Jack Eivington was coming leisurely 
 along the Boulevard Montparnasse, gazing 
 with unaccustomed American eyes at the 
 happy foreign world about him. Just suf- 
 ficient time had elapsed between his grad- 
 uation from Harvard and an unexpected 
 bequest of a wealthy relative to remove all 
 traces of a sad satiety from European trav- 
 el. His great-aunt's fortune had become 
 his at a time when it happened to be im- 
 perative that he should earn his daily 
 bread, and had rescued him from the un- 
 congenial task of instructing the youth of 
 a provincial High School. Life seemed 
 suddenly to have blossomed as gloriously 
 about him as this genial March morning 
 about the dingy old Latin Quarter. 
 
 But there was one cloud on the fair bril- 
 liance of his heaven. She who occupied his 
 waking thoughts was not with him to put 
 the final touch to his absolute happiness. 
 128 
 
The Chevalier D'Artos.i 
 
 He had a letter in his pocket which had 
 reached him by that morning's post from 
 New York, and which seemed to radiate his 
 hopes, and to promise him their near and 
 dear fulfillment. The girl who had written 
 him that letter was not an ordinary girl, 
 but a brilliant young woman in the first 
 fiush of a successful career. He had first 
 met her by chance at a college reception, 
 but that sudden, subtle sympathy which 
 owes its existence so seldom to mere words, 
 had sprung up and blossomed into friend- 
 ship between them. She was an orphan, 
 with a su£Scient income to gratify her 
 tastes, which were those of a modern wom- 
 an of the world. She had twice been 
 around the world with her father, a fas- 
 tidious man of letters, and at his death she 
 had succeeded to his ownership and editor- 
 ship of a well-known magazine. Even her 
 friends had regarded this adventure with 
 a certain dolorous surprise, for the clientele 
 of the periodical was of a character sure to 
 miss the delicate touch of the mature, 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 cultured mind which had directed it so 
 long. 
 
 Curiously, the prophets were wrong, and 
 her father's daughter continued to manage 
 his affairs successfully. She was rather 
 proud of her success; love of reform for its 
 own sake was one of Anne Bigelow's 
 marked characteristics. She was fond of 
 experiment, of advocating lost causes, of 
 perfecting what others had abandoned as 
 hopeless. She possessed an ardent, ener- 
 getic nature, which seemed to revivify 
 whatever it touched. 
 
 Eivington was thinking about her now, 
 as he walked leisurely along the Boulevard 
 in the sunlight. Charming as the quaint old 
 Latin Quarter was, it was haunted by his 
 ever-present regret for her absence. He 
 took out her letter from his pocket to as- 
 sure himself that it was really there. What 
 a strong, bold superscription! How like 
 herself, so frankly courageous and honest! 
 That singular candor was the one trait he 
 cared for above all others in her, although 
 130 
 
The ChevalierD'Artois. 
 
 it had really prevented a definite engage- 
 ment between them. She had insisted that 
 their understanding should rest upon 
 nothing more fettering than an occasional 
 correspondence and complete liberty for 
 two years at least. He found himself ad- 
 miring even while he passionately re- 
 gretted her decision. He told himself that 
 it was far wiser for them both to expand 
 their experience before taking the solemn- 
 ly irrevocable step of marriage. And yet 
 something within him revolted against his 
 enforced freedom and reiterated incessant- 
 ly his absolute constancy and the lost time 
 of delay. For two long years, stretching 
 out in endless dreariness before him, he 
 had promised not to see her, but the world, 
 when he knew so certainly that the world 
 in comparison with her meant so absolute- 
 ly nothing to him. And yet he admired her 
 courage and honesty in forcing him to this 
 action. 
 
 He was much surer of himself than of 
 her. She was so terribly analytic, so scien- 
 131 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 tifically trained, and quite as unsparing of 
 herself as of him. If at the end of two years 
 she sent for him he could never doubt her 
 complete sincerity. But often on his lonely 
 wanderings misgivings assailed him and he 
 questioned whether she would recall him 
 at the end of those problematic two years. 
 
 But on this particular morning when the 
 balmy March world was smiling all about 
 him in this bizarre corner of the old Latin 
 Quarter he had no misgivings. There was 
 a certain warmth in the yellow sunlight 
 which melted despondent fears. Eivington 
 had left the Boulevard and wandered aim- 
 lessly down an obscure impasse which his 
 preoccupation had prevented him from per- 
 ceiving. It was only when he found him- 
 self suddenly brought up by a building di- 
 rectly in his path that he realized his mis- 
 take. An old curiosity shop blocked his 
 way, and in its narrow doorway leaned the 
 smiling proprietor, with the inevitable 
 cigarette between his lips, which he courte- 
 ously removed to make way for a genial 
 132 
 
The Chevalier D^Artois. 
 
 ^^Bon jour, M'sieu, il fait beau temps, 
 aujourd'hui." 
 
 ^'Yes, indeed/' responded the American, 
 smiling, "and have you anything so beauti- 
 ful as the weather in your shop to-day?" 
 
 "I have things quite as rare as such a 
 day in March/' said the Frenchman, "but 
 M'sieu is well aware that there is seldom 
 anything new in antiquities. If M'sieu will 
 do me the honor to enter. . . . " 
 
 Rivington went inside the shop and 
 looked with interest at the heterogeneous 
 collection. He was rather fond of antiquity 
 shops and their curious wares, always re- 
 garding them with an eye to their suitabil- 
 ity for certain artistic apartments in New 
 York. She had forgotten to forbid him to 
 send her presents, and this omission lent 
 his wanderings their sole purpose. 
 
 He wondered whether she would like an 
 odd, silver-hilted sword, which the shop- 
 keeper gravely assured him had belonged 
 to the first Napoleon. One result of his 
 Paris experience had been the implanting 
 133 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 in him a rooted distrust of what shopkeep- 
 ers told him^ and he promptly decided to 
 purchase something less authentic, some- 
 thing so genuinely antique that the voluble 
 little Frenchman would be hopelessly un- 
 able to lie about it. He wandered across 
 the shop to a far corner, and his roving eye 
 rested on a tall canvas propped against the 
 wall. 
 
 "What have you here?'' he asked. 
 
 The shopkeeper seemed strangely em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 "That is supposed to be a portrait of the 
 Chevalier d'Artois, M'sieu/' he answered, 
 hesitatingly. "It is painted by Jan Ten 
 Eyck. If M'sieu will give himself the trou- 
 ble to look in the corner he will see the 
 artist's motto, ^Als Ixh Xan,' very dis- 
 tinctly. There is no doubt that it is orig- 
 inal." 
 
 "Then it must be priceless," said Eiving- 
 ton. He had a good, although amateurish, 
 knowledge of pictures. 
 
 "M'sieu may have it at his own price," 
 
 134: 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 said the imperturbable Frenchman, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 Rivington turned from his scrutiny of 
 the portrait to stare at the shopkeeper. 
 Suddenly there seemed something more 
 uniquely rare than this ancient picture in 
 the little curiosity shop. 
 
 "I have no idea of its real value/' he said, 
 at length. 
 
 ^^Since the portrait pleases M'sieu," went 
 on the man, "I will confess its history. No 
 doubt exists of its genuineness. It has 
 been already in the studio of nearly every 
 celebrated painter in Paris, but, alas, 
 M'sieu, it always comes back. There is al- 
 ways the same story.'' 
 
 "And what is the story?" 
 
 The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders 
 as if disclaiming any responsibility for the 
 truth of what he was about to say. 
 
 "They say it is haunted, M'sieu; that the 
 ghost of Philip of Burgundy resides in it. I 
 myself do not know, M'sieu. I see only a 
 valuable portrait by the great master," 
 135 
 
The Chevalier D^Artois. 
 
 Eivington examined the picture with in- 
 tensified interest. It was a large canvas 
 representing the life-size figure of a young 
 knight of the Middle Ages. At Its best the 
 portrait could not have been brilliantly 
 distinct, hut after the lapse of centuries it 
 had faded away into a shadowed obscurity, 
 leaving only suggestions of a tall figure in 
 Flemish armor, with hands crossed before 
 him on the hilt of his sword. His face, 
 however, stood out in bold relief from the 
 dim background. Beneath his plumed hel- 
 met the beauty and audacity of his features 
 stood out with the clearness of a cameo. It 
 was a restless, dare-devil face, in spite of 
 its dark beauty, possessing a strange qual- 
 ity of actuality. Eivington shivered 
 slightly as he regarded it. It seemed to di- 
 vine his thoughts, and to answer them 
 mockingly. It fascinated him in a power- 
 ful manner, and he decided to buy it for 
 Anne, even if it were genuine or not. She 
 would be certain to be interested in its his- 
 tory and would welcome a haunted por- 
 i36 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 I rait from this out-of-the-way nook in the 
 Latin Quarter. 
 
 The shopkeeper sold it at what Eiving- 
 ton felt to be a ridiculously low figure in 
 comparison with its worth, but he insisted 
 on the finality of the bargain in an absurd- 
 ly anxious way. 
 
 "I have toM jou its history, M'sieu,"' he 
 said, frankly, "and I confess I desire to as- 
 sure myself forever against its return. Mon 
 Dieu, what scenes I have witnessed!" 
 
 "You may make your mind easy this 
 time,'' said Eivington, reassuringly; "I 
 shall send it directly to New York." 
 
 "Thank the good God!" said the French- 
 man, "but you relieve me, M'sieu." 
 
 Eivington left the shop delighted with 
 his purchase for Anne's sake. How pleased 
 she would be to possess a genuine Ten 
 Eyck. She loved old pictures, particularly 
 those of the Flemish school. He felt a 
 boundless gratitude to Destiny for leading 
 him down the quaint little impasse. 
 
 Suddenly, through his happy reflections, 
 137 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 he became aware of a childlike voice sing- 
 ing sweetly and softly out of the sunshine: 
 
 *' Sur le pont d* Avignon 
 Tout le monde y danse . . . danse 
 Sur le pont d' Avignon 
 Tout le monde y danse en rond. 
 Les beaux messieurs font comm' ga, 
 Sur le pont d' Avignon 
 Tout le monde y danse . . . . " 
 
 The young American turned about to 
 smile happily at the little unknown singer 
 who was thus joyously voicing his content, 
 but there was no child there; except for a 
 stray dog the tiny impasse was deserted. 
 
 5j» ^C SjC »i» JjC ^» ^« 
 
 Miss Bigelow was sitting in her cheerful 
 study one evening examining some MSS. 
 which had been submitted to her by the 
 chief reader of the magazine. She con- 
 tinued her father's custom of scrutinizing 
 carefully all material accepted for publica- 
 tion. She possessed an unusual power of 
 strict concentration on the subject in hand, 
 ^nd the formidable pile of MSS. was fiu- 
 
 m 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 ished as the city clocks struck midnight. 
 She took up her pen and began writing a 
 letter to Eivington. 
 
 ^^Such a busy day/' she wrote; ^^but now 
 it is midnight and over, and I am free. It 
 is just a year and six months to-night since 
 we agreed upon our ^anti-nuptial contract/ 
 as you alw^ays called it. Do you remember? 
 It was at the Crawfords' reception, and we 
 were quite alone — you and I— in a deserted 
 corner of the conservatory. We had been 
 discussing the financial condition of the 
 United States, and you changed the sub- 
 ject to a more directly personal one so mod- 
 estly and quietly that I confess I was not so 
 shocked and surprised as I felt later I 
 ought to have been. You said that your 
 financial condition had changed so abrupt- 
 ly and happily that you were in a position 
 to ask me to marry you — a question which 
 you had hoped to ask me some time ever 
 since we had met, and I remember asking 
 you whether you fancied a couple of con- 
 versations and a few dancer a sufficient 
 139 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
The Chevalier D*Artois. 
 
 basis for a life partnership. But you point- 
 ed out that a friendship like ours did not 
 depend on frequent meetings . . . and, 
 well, I mustn't remember all the utterly 
 absurd things you said. No doubt you 
 have forgotten them yourself by this time. 
 But we agreed upon a tacit understanding, 
 >that for two years we both should be free, 
 and should test the sincerity of our under- 
 standing, for I confess I felt strangely 
 drawn to you that evening in the conserva- 
 tory; and since then I have experienced a 
 sort of dual personality, as if I were with 
 you wherever you may be. I shall not send 
 you this letter, because it is too personal, 
 but you will find it when you return, for I 
 shall write to you intimately like this 
 sometimes, and when you read the emi- 
 nently proper occasional notes I send you 
 you will not dream of these different ones 
 lying here in my strong box awaiting your 
 return. This is the first time I have set my 
 thoughts in black and white, because I 
 have not felt sure of myself before. A great 
 140 
 
The Chevalier D^Artcis. 
 
 truth vanquishes us when we feel most se- 
 cure, and I would not be I if I could not 
 write you exactly what I feel. ... I 
 love you, Jack. I sit here lonely and long 
 for you, and thrill with joy to know that I 
 love you. Ah, Jack, you must love me a 
 little in return. . . .'' 
 
 She sealed and addressed this letter and 
 placed it securely in a strong box in her 
 desk. To a woman of her decision it was a 
 distinct relief to know the truth, and to 
 confess it. The last six months of sincere 
 doubt and self-questionings had robbed her 
 life of its usual serenity. She went to bed 
 happy in the sureness of her surrender. 
 
 The solitary letter with its confession lay 
 undisturbed in the strong box for a month. 
 At the end of that time Miss Bigelow 
 opened it and placed another letter within. 
 
 "I wish you were here," she wrote. ^^Such 
 strange things are happening, which I 
 scarcely dare write down on paper, they 
 are so vague and unreal. You remember 
 the beautiful old portrait by Ten Eyck 
 141 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 which you sent me from Paris — the Cheva- 
 lier d'Artois? I was charmed with it, and 
 ordered it hung in my study near my desk. 
 I did not have it ^restored/ because I love 
 the dark shadows and the singularly clear 
 effect they give the face. I would not have 
 them improved away by any "restorer" for 
 worlds. I love this portrait; it is so mod- 
 ern, so living, so absurdly real. And I love 
 the stories of its being haunted. It has ex- 
 ercised a curious fascination over me from 
 the first. It is not because of the mere 
 beauty of the dark, bearded Spanish face — 
 you know, I am not so youthfully suscep- 
 tible — but there is a certain somewhat 
 about it which holds and commands me. I 
 love this portrait, not only because you sent 
 it to me, dearest, but for the subtlety of its 
 own sake. I have even sunk so low as to 
 offer flowers before it — fresh-cut roses and 
 violets — and the Chevalier is always cour- 
 teous enough to smile his thanks in a most 
 bewitching fashion. I wish you might see 
 him do it. I am not talking absolute nou- 
 1« 
 
The Chevalier D^Artois. 
 
 sense, but this is enough nonsense for one 
 evening.'^ 
 
 The next letter in the strong box was 
 dated several months later than the last 
 one. 
 
 ^^I cannot live without telling you the 
 truth/' it began. "You will probably con- 
 sider me crazed from overwork, or the like, 
 but I swear to you solemnly that I am in 
 full possession of my mind. Last night the 
 Chevalier d'Artois spoke to me. He is not 
 a picture, but a man imprisoned in paint. 
 And he is not the Chevalier d'Artois, as we 
 had supposed. He is not even painted by 
 Ten Eyck, but by himself. 
 
 "Let me begin at the beginning. I think 
 I have written you of the curious, almost 
 human, fascination he has exercised over 
 me from the first. I used to put fresh flow- 
 ers before him every day — and that espe- 
 cial kind of fatuity is not my metier, you 
 will understand. I shall nothing extenuate, 
 but shall confess the whole truth. He used 
 to smile back at me every morning when I 
 U3 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 placed the flowers before him — I swear he 
 did — and I used to laugh at myself for im- 
 agining such a thing. It was such a cheap 
 delusion. I began to believe I was working 
 too much, and took a vacation into the 
 country. On my return I found myself talk- 
 ing to him — ^you know that is one of the 
 signs of madness, talking to oneself, and I 
 saw our doctor. He said my general health, 
 mental and physical, was never better, and 
 I came home greatly relieved. I determined 
 not to speak to the Chevalier again, when 
 one evening he spoke to me. I swear it 
 solemnly. I had been sitting in the twi- 
 light after tea thinking of you, when I 
 seemed to hear a faint, far voice, so delicate 
 as almost to be a whisper. I glanced at the 
 Chevalier and I saw his lips moving. I lit 
 the gas — all the burners, to be sure of a 
 glare — and still his lips were moving, and 
 he spoke. He used a certain softened 
 French, a patois, and if I had not studied 
 Provencal in college I might not have un- 
 derstood him. As it was I managed to fol- 
 
 144: 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 low him perfectly, although it T:as not in 
 Provencal that he spoke. 
 
 " ^Faire ladye/ he said, ^dare I hope that 
 thou wilt bestow thy gracious attention 
 upon thy faithful knight?' 
 
 "I was not conscious of being even sur- 
 prised. It seemed the most natural thing 
 in the world to be addressed by him. And 
 yet I was conscious of the actual incon- 
 gruity, for I replied: 
 
 " ^I am ready to bestow all my attention 
 upon a painted gentleman who manages to 
 speak to me from a picture,' I said, rising 
 to the occasion as best I might. At that mo- 
 ment I suspected the whole world. Perhaps 
 Collins, the sub-editor, who is a bit of a 
 wag and a ventriloquist, was daring to play 
 me a trick. 
 
 " ^Thou supposest me Philip, Earl of Ar- 
 tois and Boulogne, who was killed at the 
 siege of Aiguillon, faire ladye. Thou be- 
 lievest my kinsman, Philip of Burgundy, 
 ordered his valet de chambre, Jan Ten 
 Eyck, to paint me as I am, a Flemish 
 145 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 knight in full armour; but thou mistakest, 
 faire ladye. Thou seest in me but an ob- 
 scure artist, who has tried to paint himself 
 and failed/ 
 
 ^^I know what you and all the world must 
 think, Jack dear, but I shall put down the 
 truth, for all that. It is a satisfaction to 
 write the words, for I cannot speak of this 
 to anyone. 
 
 " ^Ten Eyck invented the art of painting 
 with oils,' went on the Chevalier, ^but I 
 invented something far greater, although I 
 was only his obscure pupil, who humbly 
 gathered up the crumbs which fell from the 
 master's table. He painted flaccid repre- 
 sentations of the living. I mixed my ma- 
 terials with blood; he his with unrespon- 
 sive oils. I painted myself — alive, actual — 
 drop by drop daily into my canvas until I 
 became the picture, and the picture became 
 me. But there was one thing I could not 
 paint with my cunning brushes that knew 
 so well how to help me to paint all else. I 
 146 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 could not paint soul; soul has always es- 
 caped me.' 
 
 " ^But the rest of you/ I struck in; ^how 
 did you manage to paint what was not 
 soul?' 
 
 " ^Ah, faire ladye/ said he, bowing and 
 smiling, ^that must forever remain my se- 
 cret, mine and that of a certain Franciscan 
 friar of Avignon, John de Kochelaillade by 
 name, who once wrote a book upon the sub- 
 ject. It would not interest thee, faire ladye, 
 to peruse this MS., for it is written in a 
 crabbed black letter which I made out with 
 the greatest difficulty. Moreover, it is writ- 
 ten in Latin, and I took care that it sliould 
 ^^anish with me. I disappeared into this 
 portrait, madame, and the MS. disappeared 
 also; but where? Who knows?' 
 
 '' 'If you had succeeded in painting soul/ 
 I asked, 'would you now be alive?' 
 
 ''You will notice, Jack, dear, I do not 
 recognize him as really alive, but as per- 
 haps the figment of my owm brain. You 
 may imagine how his reply startled me. 
 147 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 " ^I do live from time to time/ he said, 
 ^by borrowing other persons' souls, faire 
 ladye/ 
 
 ^'I was altogether too shocked to speak. 
 He was really going a bit too far. 
 
 " ^Some day/ he went on, smilingly, ^I 
 shall possess thine.' 
 
 "At this juncture I decided to go to bed.'' 
 
 The next and last letter bore a date sev- 
 eral weeks later than its immediate prede- 
 cessor. 
 
 "Dear Jack," it ran, "I have your letter 
 telling me of your safe arrival. I have just 
 answered it and sent it to your hotel. I 
 will explain it more fully when you come 
 this evening. Shall I ever dare to tell you 
 I love you, after these long, long two years? 
 Perhaps I may only put these letters in 
 your hand and leave you alone to read 
 them, for you will see how suddenly shy I 
 have become. Shyness was not a trait of 
 mine when first we met, you will remem- 
 ber. 
 
 "The Chevalier is still as smiling and 
 148 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 courteous and conversational as ever. He 
 has challenged me to kiss him. He tells 
 me solemnly from beneath his plumed hel- 
 met, that from the moment I kiss him my 
 soul belongs to him. It is such a curious 
 assertion that I intend putting it to the 
 test. You will discover that I have written 
 you a vast deal of — what shall I say? non- 
 sense — in these letters, and in a sense this 
 kiss must be my expiation, my explanation. 
 You will not be jealous if I kiss the painted 
 lips of a Chevalier who has been dead so 
 many centuries? Since I have never touched 
 those of a living man, will it destroy the 
 sweetness of the one I have kept for you so 
 long? But this is idle to write all this, when 
 I shall see you yourself so soon. It is near- 
 ly eight o'clock, and I am going into the 
 study now to kiss my Chevalier, and then 
 . . . I shall be listening for your step." 
 
 At eight o'clock precisely one clear No- 
 vember evening a tall, smiling young man 
 ran lightly up the brownstone steps of a 
 149 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois. 
 
 house in Fifty-sixth street, and rang the 
 bell. The maid who answered his ring wore 
 a troubled expression. 
 
 "Miss Bigelow is at home, sir/' she said 
 in response to his enquiry, '^but she is ill. 
 Her aunt is with her, and a physician.'' 
 
 Beyond, in the brightly lighted hallway, 
 he caught sight of the anxious face of Mrs. 
 Keeves. She came forward to meet him. 
 
 "Anne is very ill," she said brokenly, and 
 he guessed the truth from her tones. "It is 
 all so sudden, so unbelievable. She was in 
 the gayest spirits at dinner, and spoke con- 
 stantly of you, and the pleasure of seeing 
 you again. She left me only a few moments 
 ago, and shortly afterward we heard a 
 piercing shriek, and then a heavy fall. The 
 butler and I hastened upstairs to her study, 
 and there we found her lying at full length 
 on the floor just in front of that old por- 
 trait you sent her from Paris. She had a 
 small box in her hand addressed to you. I 
 suppose she must have gone to fetch it to 
 give you. We summoned a doctor at once, 
 150 
 
The Chevalier D'Artois/ 
 
 but there was nothing to be done. It was 
 heart failure, he told us, produced by some 
 sudden shock. She must have fallen against 
 the picture, because there is an ugly gash 
 in it, and the portrait is quite indistinguish- 
 able, and there are faint marks of paint on 
 her lips, where she struck it in falling." 
 
 She paused, unable to continue, and then 
 these two, who had loved Anne, went up 
 softly into the dimly lit study and looked 
 down at her in silence. The distant noises 
 from the street came up faintly through the 
 closed windows. Through the intermittent 
 monotone of rolling cab wheels Eivington's 
 ears caught the echo of a song: 
 
 " Sur le pont d* Avignon, 
 Tout le monde y danse, 
 Et les capucins font comm' ga ; 
 Snr le pont d' Avignon." 
 
 How distinctly it brought back that 
 beautiful sunny March morning in the 
 Latin Quarter. He could even see the rough 
 grey stones of the little impasse leading 
 down to the tiny antiquity shop, in whose 
 151 
 
The Chevalier D^Artois. 
 
 doorway the smiling Frenchman lazily 
 lounged and smoked his cigarette. But 
 afterward, upon mature reflection, he was 
 not altogether certain that he had really 
 heard the song. 
 
 15'^ 
 
Her Son. 
 
 153 
 
Her Son. 
 
 COLONEL CAKEUTHEES pulled at 
 his moustache nervously, in more 
 trepidation than he would have 
 cared to confess. Opposite him sat his wid- 
 owed sister-in-law, Mrs. Courtney Car- 
 ruthers, handsome and suave, as she pre- 
 sided with her accustomed well-bred grace 
 over the daintily appointed tea-table before 
 her. 
 
 "I believe you take no cream, Gerald?'* 
 she was saying, smilingly. "Eeally, it is so 
 very long since you've done me the honjor 
 to come in for tea that I fear I've for- 
 gotten." 
 
 "Just tea, plain tea, thank you," an- 
 swered the Colonel, absently. Her words 
 had increased his embarrassment, for a say- 
 ing of his was often quoted at the Club — • 
 155 
 
Her Son 
 
 ''that as a soldier he knew no fear, but as a 
 mere man he fled before women, afternoon 
 teas and cigarettes/' and he felt that his 
 present position was indefensible. 
 
 He was wondering how he would better 
 begin, for he entertained the highest re- 
 spect for Mrs. Carruthers' cleverness and 
 powers of penetration, and under the cir- 
 cumstances he felt that discretion was by 
 far the better part of valor. An inspiration 
 seized him. 
 
 ^^I suppose you hear often from Eeggie/' 
 he said suddenly. ^^Does he like Oxford ?'^ 
 
 ^^He seems quite charmed by it/', said 
 Reggie's mother, placidly. "In his last let- 
 ter he wrote me that he is leading quite an 
 ideal life there. 
 
 "Ah!" ejaculated the Colonel. He'^ad- 
 justed his eyeglass, and with a prefatory 
 sigh, crossed the Rubicon. 
 
 "I heard rather a curious story at the 
 
 Club the other evening," he remarked with 
 
 his usual, languid drawl. "It was about 
 
 a student at Oxford, er — who is in lodg- 
 
 156 
 
Her Son. 
 
 ings, er — like Eeggie, don't you know, and 
 who seems to be getting himself into quite 
 an interesting scrape; er — it's his land- 
 lady's daughter." 
 
 "It always is/' commented Mrs. Carruth- 
 ers, serenely; "when it isn't the cook. As 
 a rule, it's the cook." 
 
 "This affair," pursued the Colonel, 
 "seems to have reached the fifth chapter, 
 er — ^the impending crisis, that is to say." 
 He threw back his head luxuriously 
 against his chair. Having overcome his 
 shyness, he was beginning to realize the 
 artistic possibilities of the situation, and 
 to congratulate himself on his skill in 
 handling so delicate and painful a subject. 
 Mrs. Carruthers, still smiling serenely, 
 daintily stirred her tea. 
 
 "The worst feature about these cases," 
 went on the Colonel, moralizingly, "is their 
 insidiousness. In fact, one so seldom rec- 
 ognizes the danger that one never thinks of 
 taking precautions against it." 
 
 "Keggie is very fortunate in his land- 
 157 
 
Her Son. 
 
 lady," remarked Mrs. Carruthers, compla- 
 cently. "I selected Iter myself, and since 
 she's a ^lone, lorn widow' with no incum- 
 brances, I fancy Reggie's comparatively 
 safe.'^. 
 
 "A widow/' put in the Colonel, sen- 
 tentiously," is an incomprehensible thing. 
 I believe with the elder Weller, that it is 
 well to beware of them." 
 
 "I secured his lodgings myself," went on 
 Mrs. Oarruthers with a touch of asperity in 
 her low, even tones, ^^and I assure you Mrs. 
 Crupper is everything to be desired in a 
 landlady. A most motherly old soul, and 
 even if she had a daughter who was both 
 young and beautiful, I would trust Keggie. 
 You know his fastidious tastes, Gerald, and 
 then — he is my son." 
 
 There was such composure and signifi- 
 cance in her accents that the Colonel was 
 unable to resist a slight, cynical smile of 
 superiority, which was fortunately con- 
 cealed by his gray, military mustache. 
 
 ^Taith like that is simply superb," he re- 
 158 
 
Her Son. 
 
 fleeted, "but it's also touching," and he 
 pressed her hand with unusual warmth as 
 he took his departure. 
 
 Left alone in the dim twilight of the 
 drawing room, Mrs. Carruthers began to 
 reflect on the recent conversation. As the 
 Colonel l3elieYed, she was a remarkably 
 clever woman, and she knew very well that 
 her brother-in-law had not happened in to 
 tea without a motive. His remarks had 
 been chiefly on the subject of this entangle- 
 ment of a young Oxford student with his 
 landlady's daughter . . . and as a re- 
 sult of her reflections, Mrs. Carruthers 
 rang for her maid, and gave orders for her 
 departure for Oxford by the morning ex- 
 press from Paddington. 
 
 It was Saturday noon when Mrs. Court- 
 ney Carruthers arrived at the beautiful, 
 historical town, and taking a fly, she was 
 driven immediately to the quaint old tav- 
 ern of the "Mitre" on the High Street. She 
 159 
 
Her Son. 
 
 lost no time in informing her son of her 
 arrival, and was calmly seated at luncheon 
 when he was announced. 
 
 "Ah, mother, what a delightful surprise," 
 he said, smiling down upon her from his 
 six feet of stalwart comeliness; "but why 
 did you not wire me you were coming 
 down?'' 
 
 "It was such a vagrant whim, Keggie,'' 
 she answered, gazing fondly up into his 
 handsome face; "the vagrant whim of an 
 old lady who finds it rather difficult to 
 keep away from her only son. I wonder 
 whether you realize, Keggie, what you 
 mean to your poor old mother?'' 
 
 The lad sat down. There was a curious, 
 unfamiliar embarrassment in his manner 
 which his mother ignored. They were 
 singularly alike in appearance, these two, 
 although Keginald's blue eyes and chestnut 
 hair presented a striking contrast to the 
 dark, Spanish beauty of his mother's face. 
 Mrs. Carruthers' face was something more 
 than merely beautiful; it was the face of 
 160 
 
Her Son. * 
 
 a thinker, of a person of distinguished abil- 
 ity and determination. The significance 
 was evident of the firm, well-molded chin, 
 of the large, deep, intelligent eyes, and of 
 the broad, white forehead beneath its soft 
 waves of gray hair. It was a favorite re- 
 mark of Colonel Carruthers that the world 
 had lost a brilliant man in his charming 
 sister-in-law, but had gained a rarely inter- 
 esting woman, and since the Colonel was a 
 confirmed woman-hater, this was a conces- 
 sion not without weight. 
 
 "And are you at leisure this morning, 
 Reggie?'' asked his mother, "because I have 
 a desire to be taken all about your college." 
 
 "I'm always at your leisure, mother," 
 said the lad, and together they set out down 
 the High to St. Aldgates'. Many persons 
 paused to glance after them — the stately, 
 handsome dame attended by her tall, young 
 son. They turned beneath the Bell tower 
 gateway, and entered the great Quad- 
 rangle. The keen November air had 
 brought out an unexpected and almost ver- 
 161 
 
Her Son. 
 
 nal vividness in the smooth grass, in the 
 centre of which the fountain reflected faith- 
 fully the clear blue of the sky — a sky 
 against whose brilliancy the hoary turrets 
 and pinnacles stood sculptured with an un- 
 w^onted distinctness. 
 
 They ascended the magnificent stone 
 staircase, and passed on into the stately 
 hall. The light fell softly through the 
 oriel windows on the dark, oak roof, and 
 the long lines of portraits about the w^alls. 
 Although she was fairly familiar with these 
 distinguished paintings, Mrs. Carruthers 
 chose to be impressed. She possessed his- 
 trionic talent of no low order, and as she 
 paused, a beautiful, dignified presence, be- 
 fore the array of eminent portraits, there 
 was something at once so reverent and ad- 
 miring and sweet in her attitude, that Eeg- 
 inald burst forth impetuously: 
 
 ^^You make it seem so different, mother. 
 Although I dine here nearly every even- 
 ing, you make me feel as though I had 
 never even been here before.'' 
 162 
 
Her Son. 
 
 Mrs. Carruthers smiled. 
 
 "Perhaps you never have, Reggie," she 
 said, and with a gesture full of infinite 
 grace, she indicated the long, dim line of 
 paintings. "Do you really realize what all 
 these mean, dear?" 
 
 Her heart thrilled with pride as she 
 looked up at him standing beside her so 
 tall and athletic in his scholar's gown, with 
 the tinted light from the oriel window fall- 
 ing softly upon his brown, debonair head. 
 He glanced up at the beautiful, curved 
 roof with a gesture of impatience. 
 
 "I do, sometimes," he said; "I feel ham- 
 pered by all these venerable traditions. 
 There is something wild, untamable, Bohe- 
 mian in me that cries out for the free field 
 under the open sky — where I may be my- 
 self. Have you never felt that, mother?" 
 
 She smiled at him, and sighed. 
 
 "Ah, thai is merely youth, Eeggie. And 
 how I envy you. Think of the glory of be- 
 ing a man — young, healthy and domiciled 
 at Oxford!" 
 
 163 
 
Her Son. 
 
 Again that strange expression of embar- 
 rassment which was so foreign to him, fled 
 across his frank face, and in silence they 
 turned to leave the Hall. As they were de- 
 scending the steps, Mrs. Carruthers said 
 suddenly. 
 
 ^^Shall we not go down into the kitchen, 
 Eeggie? I must see it again.'' 
 
 Accordingly they descended into the cu- 
 rious, old apartment, and the white-capped, 
 white-aproned chef could not do enough for 
 this handsome matron who was so gra- 
 ciously honoring his domain. There were 
 some three score fowls turning slowly on 
 the quaint, old spit before the chimney fire, 
 and a faint, delicious odor was beginning 
 already to haunt the room. 
 
 "Only fancy, Eeggie,'' said Mrs. Car- 
 ruthers, "the same spit that roasted fowls 
 for Cardinal Wolsey kindly roasting them 
 for you!" 
 
 The lad had regained his usual, light- 
 hearted demeanor. 
 
 "You're really making me feel quite his- 
 164 
 
Her Son. 
 
 torical, mother/' he responded, gaily. 
 "Come away directly, or I shall begin to 
 believe I'm the great prelate himself." 
 
 They sauntered leisurely through the pic- 
 turesque old cloisters and out into the bril- 
 liant sunshine of the Broad Walk. From 
 the river came shouts of young laughter. 
 The long line of college barges flying their 
 various colors made a gay scene in the 
 golden November afternoon. Handsome, 
 athletic undergraduates with brawny 
 knees showing pinkly beneath their 
 "shorts" passed them, and doffed their caps 
 with a cordial courtesy that silently told 
 Mrs. Carruthers of the popularity of her 
 son. 
 
 As he had said, she had changed his 
 world — the little world with which he had 
 believed himself so familiar. He listened, 
 irresistibly fascinated, to her easy, brilliant 
 conversation as she related clever bon mots 
 of the distinguished persons she was con- 
 stantly meeting in town, and the sparkling, 
 cultured language made him realize his 
 165 
 
Her Son. 
 
 own crudenesses unexpectedly. But his 
 mother, serene and gracious, seemed un- 
 conscious of his emotion, and anxious only 
 to amuse him. 
 
 The following day being Sunday, Mrs. 
 Carruthers told Keggie that no excuse of 
 lectures could be urged against a long 
 walk in the country. 
 
 It was a gray day with a fine, thin mist 
 in the air which, however, did not prevent 
 them from taking a quiet stroll after lunch- 
 eon. They went along the towing-path to 
 Iflfley, and wandered about the quaint, 
 Norman church with its picturesque archi- 
 tecture, and she called his attention to the 
 wonderful beauty of the "sweet city with 
 her dreaming spires,'' as they saw it 
 through the dim, gray mist. 
 
 The cottagers, courtesying with grave re- 
 spect to this fair and stately lady, offered 
 her huge bunches of the gay Autumn flow- 
 ers from the tiny gardens before their 
 thatched cottages. Reginald's hands were 
 full of bright chrysanthemums as they 
 166 
 
Her Son. 
 
 walked along the village street together. 
 
 ^^Isn't it true, mother/' he said, hap- 
 pily, "that 
 
 * Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 And simple faith than Norman blood ? * J* 
 
 "Yes, Keggie," she assented, "but you see 
 I'm so very highly civilized that I want 
 both — the kind hearts and the coronet, 
 too." 
 
 The evening shadows were beginning to 
 enfold the classic beauty of the town when 
 they reached the "Mitre," and Mrs. Car- 
 ruthers smilingly declined to attend even- 
 song in the Cathedral. 
 
 "You know what a sybarite I am, Reg- 
 gie," she said, "and I prefer to sit by the 
 fire with the last novel from Mudies', and 
 listen for your footstep on the stairs. Don't 
 keep me waiting long." 
 
 But after he had left her, she changed 
 
 her mind, and when the chimes had ceased 
 
 ringing, and the surpliced undergraduates 
 
 were kneeling in the choir in prayer, she 
 
 167 
 
Her Son. 
 
 stole noiselessly to a seat in a dim corner 
 of the Cathedral. Only the verger noticed 
 her entrance. From her obscure niche she 
 caught a glimpse of her son's broad, sur- 
 pliced shoulders, and his princely head 
 rising conspicuously above those of his fel- 
 lows. Just beneath him, and outside the 
 choir, separated only by the oak partition 
 and its broad, iron ornamentation, sat a 
 slender, dark-robed figure in whom, al- 
 though she had never seen her, Mrs. Car- 
 ruthers instinctively recognized the enemy. 
 The girl was staring straight up at Keggie, 
 and Mrs. Carruthers caught sight of a deli- 
 cate profile, and a round, young face as 
 tenderly tinted as the inner side of a sea- 
 shell. 
 
 As if in response to the passionate gaze 
 of those dark eyes, the girl turned uneasily 
 and across the intervening space their eyes 
 met. A pair of innocent, blue eyes looked 
 questioningly for a moment into Mrs. Car- 
 ruthers' face, and were then quickly with- 
 drawn. In spite of the girl's undeniable 
 168 
 
Her Son. 
 
 beauty and general inoffensiveness, that 
 single, rapid glance showed Mrs. Carruth- 
 ers the hopeless commonplaceness of it all 
 — that strange, indefinable quality that dif- 
 ferentiated her completely from the hand- 
 some figure towering above her with his 
 regal bearing. , 
 
 Mechanically she knelt amid the kneel- 
 ing worshippers. The caressing voice 
 reading the lessons appealed to her in vain. 
 She was deaf to the sweet-voiced choristers 
 quiring beneath the superb, white arches of 
 the vaulted roof. It fell upon her ears 
 only as a vague, meaningless murmur, un- 
 til suddenly the glorious harmony was 
 hushed, and a boy's voice, pure and sweet 
 as that of a lark at sunrise, thrilled through 
 the building: 
 
 "He hath put down the mighty from their 
 seat, and hath exalted the humble and 
 meek." 
 
 The choristers caught up the refrain and 
 the vast Cathedral echoed the triumphant 
 song. Enveloped in her costly furs, ele- 
 169 
 
Her Son. 
 
 gant and stately with her inimitable air of 
 savoir faire, Mrs. Carruthers stood in her 
 dim corner, outwardly serene, but inwardly 
 utterly wretched and despairing. Her 
 dark, still beautiful eyes fixedly regarded 
 the distant head of her son. The light 
 glittered on his smooth, sunshiny hair. She 
 could see one delicate, well-set ear, and the 
 Hermes-like curve of his chin and throat. 
 The white surplice fell away from his 
 broad shoulders in full folds and made 
 them seem yet broader. 
 
 And beneath him stood this young, ple- 
 beian girl, so pretty and helpless, and yet 
 so strangely formidable. 
 
 Again the lark-like voice soared up to 
 heaven: 
 
 "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant de- 
 part in peace." 
 
 The words penetrated her dulled con- 
 sciousness, and she answered them silently 
 in a vague, sarcastic anger. Depart in 
 peace, and her only son in such danger! 
 170 
 
Her Son. 
 
 She almost laughed aloud in her obscure 
 corner. The beautiful service proceeded, 
 but she failed to follow it longer. She was 
 thinking of Reggie when he was a child — 
 a tiny, golden-haired creature with sweet, 
 attractive ways — and suddenly it seemed 
 to her as if that far-away child were near 
 and real, and Eeggie's own, and she, its 
 grandmother, again loving and dreaming 
 over it. But with a sharp and sudden 
 pain, she realized that another grandmoth- 
 er had an equal claim with hers, a good- 
 natured, plebeian grandmother who would 
 teach the child dissimulation and deceit, 
 and she saw^ a cunning, crafty look creep 
 into the hitherto innocent eyes of this fic- 
 tions baby who seemed so real. 
 
 She fell upon her knees, and prayed a 
 passionate, wordless prayer for comfort 
 and help. At the conclusion of the service 
 she hurried across the big, dark Quadran- 
 gle, dimly lit by its globes of yellow gas- 
 light here and there. The place was filled 
 with white-robed undergraduates and sob- 
 in 
 
Her Son. 
 
 erly-clad citizens. From the tower rang 
 out the sweet-toned chimes, and their light 
 music was suddenly broken by six, deep, 
 booming strokes of Old Tom. 
 
 Beneath the dark, stone gateway Mrs. 
 Carruthers paused, and sent a swift, fright- 
 ened glance into the Quadrangle. People 
 were still issuing from the entrance of the 
 Cathedral. She heard the murmur of 
 voices through the frosty air. Sauntering 
 leisurely toward her came her son with his 
 landlady's daughter. 
 
 When the engagement of Lady Sybil 
 Barrington to Mr. Reginald Carruthers was 
 announced at his Club, Colonel Carruthers 
 bit his lip to conceal his emotion. He got 
 away from the cordial congratulations of 
 his friends as soon as possible. He wanted 
 to be by himself a bit in order to recover. 
 He was in a partially dazed condition, for 
 Lady Sybil was undoubtedly the most bril- 
 liant match of the season. 
 172 
 
Her Son. 
 
 ^^By Jove, she's a clever woman!'' he re- 
 flected, admiringly; ^4n fact, quite as clever 
 as a man. . . . Egad, I'd like to know 
 how she managed it!" 
 
 173 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 175 
 
Poison-Flowers. 
 
 I. 
 
 VAN RENSSELAER leaned idly 
 across the polished, oak railing of 
 his trim little yacht ^^Nausicaa/' and 
 said good-bye to one of his particular, pet 
 convictions. He had always held that a 
 man was master of his own fate within 
 reasonable limits, and, until recently, his 
 belief had stood the test of experience; in- 
 deed, the circumstances of his life had 
 seemed emphatically to justify his creed, 
 but if any one had told him a week before 
 that in seven, short days he would be sail- 
 ing up the Sound on his wedding journey, 
 he would have stared at so reckless a per- 
 son in undisguised astonishment, and ad- 
 vised medical assistance. He had always 
 177 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 laughed at love; he argued that it was 
 merely a nervous, mental disorder entirely 
 at the control of the patient, and he was 
 wont to quote Shakespeare with great ef- 
 fect to skeptical friends, usually ending a 
 discussion with a triumphant silencing of 
 all opposition. He believed himself thor- 
 oughly, and felt a superb defiance of Cupid 
 and his arrows, and a tender, half-cynical 
 indulgence for those who were less strong 
 than himself — but this was before he had 
 met Eleanor Graham. 
 
 She had been a saleswoman in a large, 
 drygoods establishment in New York, and 
 Remington had first seen her during the 
 preliminaries of a trifling purchase. She 
 had a trick of lowering her eyelids, and it 
 was not until she offered him his parcel 
 that he realized her beauty. However, 
 when she raised her eyes, and their dark, 
 sweet splendor flashed full upon his daz- 
 zled vision, he surrendered uncondition- 
 ally. He forgot that he was the last of the 
 Van Eensselaers, and that she was a hum- 
 178 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 ble, unknown clerk; he forgot everything 
 except that those magnificent eyes were 
 smiling across a heterogeneous collection 
 of collars straight into his own, and a pair 
 of red, amused lips were asking whether 
 he wished the tiny parcel sent to his ad- 
 dress. 
 
 Van Rensselaer's fine Dutch ancestry 
 expressed itself in him in a remarkable res- 
 olution. He discovered the name and ad- 
 dress of his inamorata, and lost no time in 
 securing an introduction to her. He wooed 
 her with such passionate and characteristic 
 persistence, that in a week from the time 
 he had met her, they had been quietly mar- 
 ried, and were off for an indefinite cruise 
 in his yacht. 
 
 The marriage announcement created 
 quite a sensation among his friends. Peo- 
 ple shook their heads wisely, and said that 
 it was the result of his early orphanage; 
 what could be expected of a person who 
 had been brought up on such laissez faire 
 methods which were really no methods at 
 179 
 
Poison Flowers/ 
 
 all. He had always had his own way, and 
 that was an especially dangerous experi- 
 ment for a person with so opulent an in- 
 come as Van Eensselaer's. 
 
 Remington himself had always said that 
 he was virtuous only in a negative sort of 
 way — because he felt no temptation to be 
 otherwise. He was too innately refined to 
 feel the allurement of vice, and he had 
 never experienced the misery of unsatisfied 
 desire, for the reason that his desires were 
 of a nature wholly within his power of grat- 
 ification. He was not ambitious in a 
 worldly sense, but his natural ability had 
 secured him many prizes. He himself had 
 felt a genuine surprise when it became 
 known that he was at the top of his class at 
 Harvard, and he remarked that it was 
 merely a happy accident. He considered it 
 also a happy accident that a series of es- 
 says on literary subjects had been pub- 
 lished at the suggestion of a professor, and 
 had met with immediate success. But al- 
 though he himself regarded his prosperity 
 180 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 as purely fortuitous, those who had known 
 the intellectual brilliancy of the family for 
 generations, thought otherwise. These 
 persons said that Remington Van Eensse- 
 laer did not appreciate sufficiently the re- 
 sponsibilitj^ of being the last of a race 
 whose traditions were unusually pure. They 
 censured him as a man whose tendencies 
 were plebeianly iconoclastic, and when 
 they learned of his sudden and eccentric 
 marriage, they shook their heads appre- 
 hensively. 
 
 But Eemington told himself that the 
 world was well lost. He was superlatively 
 happy as he leaned over the railing of his 
 yacht and watched the water, blue and 
 calm elsewhere, churned into a foamy 
 whiteness beneath him. He was in an idly 
 speculative humor, born of the caressing 
 June breeze, and the poetic beauty of the 
 scene about him, and he fell to musing on 
 the curiously unexpected and trivial 
 causes which were responsible for human 
 failure or success. There was a pathetic 
 18X 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 significance, he reflected, in the fact that 
 the salvation of Kome was once dependent 
 on the cackling of geese, and that the woe 
 of all the world could be definitely traced 
 back as far as the beginning of time, and 
 located in a tiny apple in the Garden of 
 Eden — an apple confidently asserted to 
 have been no larger than the modern crab- 
 apple. And then he began to wonder 
 vaguely whether it were accident or design 
 on the part of Destiny that had led him 
 into the big drapery shop only a week be- 
 fore — an action which had altered so com- 
 pletely the whole course of his life. 
 
 The swiftly rushing water beneath his 
 gaze was suddenly shut from his dreamy, 
 questioning eyes by a pair of small but de- 
 termined hands. 
 
 ^^Guess me," said a gay voice. 
 
 "Ah, Sweetheart," he answered, "what 
 ages you have been gone." 
 
 She released him, and he immediately 
 employed his recovered vision in appropri- 
 ating her loveliness. Surely he might be 
 183 
 
Poison Flowers." 
 
 pardoned for loving so beautiful a creature. 
 She wore a simple gown of some delicate 
 fabric which revealed the faint pink of her 
 perfect arms and throat. A silver girdle 
 which he had given her clasped her slender 
 waist, and there was a silver dagger in her 
 dark hair. To Remington's fascinated vis- 
 ion, Idalian Aphrodite herself could not 
 have seemed more radiantly beautiful when 
 she sprang lightly from the foam of the 
 ocean. 
 
 "Are you sure you missed me?" she ques- 
 tioned, with a smile whose wonderful, sub- 
 tle sweetness thrilled him with joy. "Some- 
 times, Remington, I am jealous — your 
 world is so different from mine — ^your 
 thoughts and feelings are different, and 
 they take you where I cannot follow, and 
 it makes me feel lonely even while I am 
 with you.'' 
 
 For answer he drew down the young, 
 fresh loveliness of her face to his, and 
 kissed her on the lips. 
 
 The "Nausicaa" cruised about the Sound 
 183 
 
Poison Flowers^ 
 
 for several weeks, touching here and there 
 for supplies. If young Mrs. Van Kensse- 
 laer grew weary of the monotonously quiet 
 life, she gave no sign. She was always ra- 
 diantly beautiful, and always in the gay- 
 est spirits. 
 
 They were sitting together one evening 
 on deck lost in contemplation of the peace- 
 ful twilight about them. There was still 
 a faint bar of red in the w^est which marked 
 where the sun had descended. High up in 
 the heavens rode a triumphant, young 
 moon with a few dim, attendant stars. 
 Kemington glanced at his wife; her charm- 
 ing face was uplifted to the sky. 
 
 ** * Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of 
 heave , 
 Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the 
 angels,* " 
 
 he quoted softly. 
 
 She turned quickly toward him, and 
 there was an embarrassed expression upon 
 her face. He had begun to notice this ex- 
 184 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 pression whenever he departed from the 
 straight and narrow path of ordinary con- 
 versation. 
 
 ^^How could stars possibly be flowers, 
 Eemington," she remarked with a mild 
 scorn; ^^the idea!" 
 
 She had told him her short, pathetic his- 
 tory; how she had been brought up in a 
 foundling asylum in complete ignorance of 
 her parentage; how she had secured a fair 
 education in the grammar school, being 
 able to read and write correctly, and how 
 she had spent the greater portion of her life 
 as a saleswoman in shops; she w^as quite 
 proud that she had held her last position 
 for three years. 
 
 He was too intelligent to expect literary 
 appreciation from her at this early stage, 
 but he promised himself a rare and inter- 
 esting enjoyment in developing her latent 
 talent; for he believed more firmly in the 
 power of environment than in heredity, and 
 he told himself that when once they were 
 fairly established at ^^Greymere," his fine 
 185 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 country place upon the Hudson, he would 
 begin the scientific and serious method of 
 her education. He had visions of revealing 
 to her the beauties of classic literature, and 
 meanwhile he surrendered himself abso- 
 lutely to the luxury of pure physical en- 
 joyment. 
 
 If sometimes there lurked in his cup of 
 joy a suspicion that his happiness was in- 
 complete, and merely transitory, he in- 
 stantly banished these thoughts as un- 
 worthy and untrue. He was a willing pris- 
 oner in the bond of a smile, and the dear 
 enchantment of a pair of lustrous, dark 
 eyes. 
 
 IL 
 
 The wind caught up the freshly fallen 
 snow, and whirled it about in wild, white 
 wheels impalpable as smoke. Van Kens- 
 selaer buttoned his furred coat closer 
 about his throat as he descended the stone 
 steps at "Greymere" into the storm. The 
 186 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 wind welcomed him madly with a blind- 
 ing dash of flying snowflakes; they stung 
 his eyes, and powdered thickly his yellow 
 beard, but he experienced only a distinct 
 delight in battling with the rough ele- 
 ments, and feeling himself in the very heart 
 of the storm. The grey, tempestuous after- 
 noon was in strict accord with his mood. 
 He appreciated a silent sympathy in the 
 savage tumult; a subtle response that he 
 would have missed regretfully had the som- 
 bre sky been blue and brilliant with sun- 
 shine. 
 
 The ancient care-taker at "Greymere," 
 who had served the family for years, 
 watched with a vague apprehension the 
 tall figure of her master disappear down 
 the driveway. She was only partially sat- 
 isfied when he had explained his sudden 
 appearance on the ground of a desire to 
 assure himself that the place was in good 
 condition. Eumors had penetrated even to 
 the quiet little village on the Hudson of 
 the gay, frivolous life of young Mrs. Van 
 187 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 Eensselaer, and as the old retainer looked 
 after the retreating figure of her master, 
 she wiped a furtive tear from her eye. 
 
 Van Rensselaer strode rapidly through 
 the village street out into the surrounding 
 country. He was conscious only of an in- 
 definite sense of kinship with the storm and 
 of an irresistible impulse to action. He 
 struck out aimlessly across the broad, 
 snow-covered meadows, and it was not un- 
 til the wind had ceased, and the snow was 
 no longer falling, that his truant conscious- 
 ness returned. Mechanically he glanced at 
 his w^atch, and realized with surprise that 
 two hours had elapsed since he had quitted 
 ^^Greymere." All about him lay the wide, 
 white world in an unbroken silence except 
 for the swift, sudden flight of a bird, or the 
 occasional scampering of a rabbit. He 
 glanced backward at the long, irregular 
 line of his footsteps in the soft snow, and 
 wondered whether any one else would ever 
 see them, and, divining the loneliness they 
 expressed, pity him. He saw the distant 
 188 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 spires and roofs of the village silhouetted 
 against the evening sky, and remembered 
 where he was. The dull, uniform grey of 
 the clouds had gradually dispersed, and 
 through the parted rifts broke superb 
 glimpses of the winter sunset. The tall, 
 solitary figure paused in its rapid stride, 
 and hungrily watched the sudden splen- 
 dor of the heavens fade as swiftly as it had 
 come. A sense of peacefulness stole over 
 him. Why might he not regard that unex- 
 pected and beautiful sunset as an omen? 
 Let the turbulent past perish with the 
 storm, and the ruby and golden light be 
 a divine prophecy of the future. 
 
 He consulted his watch, and found that 
 he had yet time to take an express train 
 which would bring him to New York in 
 time to dine with his wife, and suddenly he 
 became as anxious to leave the village as 
 he had been eager to welcome it but a 
 few short hours before. As the train bore 
 him back to the city, he subjected himself 
 to a severe self-analysis. He reproached 
 189 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 himself as the victim of civilization. Too 
 much culture had made him over-fastidious 
 and critical. He spent altogether too much 
 time in his library over books. It was not 
 life, but a mere, spiritless imitation of ex- 
 istence. He had been too harsh with his 
 young, untrained wife — -too forgetful of her 
 youth and inexperience. A forgotten ep- 
 isode rose from his memory and stung him. 
 They were together in his library, that rare 
 room which meant so much to him, and so 
 little to her, and he discovered that she had 
 not read the books he had requested her. 
 He recalled his stern words of censure and 
 disapproval. She had turned her flower- 
 like face toward him, and there had been a 
 strange expression, half-hatred, half-fear 
 in her dark, passionate eyes. In a burst of 
 childish anger she had told him she no 
 longer loved him, and had rushed stormily 
 from the room. He had accepted the situa- 
 tion with as much philosophy as was pos- 
 sible to him, but he had abandoned his role 
 of mentor. The world with its phenomenal 
 190 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 intuition guessed at the total lack of sym- 
 pathj^ and affection between the Van Rens- 
 selaers, but as they entertained royally, 
 and paid a decent respect to les covenances, 
 Society forbore to gossip over their un- 
 happy domestic relations. 
 
 It was seven o'clock w^hen Eemington re- 
 entered his home. They usually dined at 
 eight, and he stole noiselessly upstairs to 
 his dressing-room. He was almost light- 
 hearted again as he made his careful toilet, 
 for he had determined to go to his wife, and 
 plead for some understanding, some ex- 
 planation that should relieve the dull mis- 
 ery of their existence. No doubt he him- 
 self was in a large part to blame, even 
 though so unintentionally; if he had erred 
 ignorantly, perhaps she would be frank 
 with him, showing him wherein he had 
 failed, and forgive him. 
 
 He found her in her dressing-room, lying 
 asleep on a luxurious couch of grey velvet 
 made soft with silken cushions. Her tall 
 191 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 figure was clad in a loose gown of some 
 clinging, black material which defined in 
 exquisite relief the gracious outlines of her 
 form. Her beautiful, sensuous face wore 
 an expression of almost childish innocence 
 in the abandonment of sleep. One hand 
 still held open a book which Eemington 
 recognized with a shiver of disgust as a 
 translation of a highly-spiced French novel 
 of the modern school of realism. Near at 
 hand stood a small table laden with an 
 empty champagne bottle, and some cigar- 
 ettes. 
 
 As he stood looking down upon her the 
 fringed lids slowly lifted as if in answer 
 to his gaze, and those brilliantly-splendid 
 eyes which seemed to mean so much, and in 
 reality meant so little, sparkled with dark 
 magnificence up into his own. The expres- 
 sion of dreamy tenderness in their velvet 
 depths vanished as she recognized her hus- 
 band. A cynical smile curved her lips. 
 
 "Only you, Remington?" she said, with 
 193 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 a half-scornful wonder. "I thought it 
 might be ... " 
 
 She did not announce her conjecture; she 
 was too surprised to complete the sentence, 
 for he had fallen upon his knees beside her, 
 and she felt his hot tears upon her hand. 
 
 ^^Eleanor," he whispered, brokenly, "if 
 we have made a mistake, it is not yet too 
 late for reparation; let us forgive and for- 
 get what has passed, and begin life again 
 together." 
 
 She raised herself slowly upon her el- 
 bow, and gazed at him in unfeigned aston- 
 ishment; then she laughed slightly. 
 
 "You must be mad, Kemington," she said 
 at length, "and since I have overslept, and 
 shall be late dressing for dinner, will not 
 you kindly ring for Finette?" 
 
 Her voice was sweet, but cold as an ici- 
 cle, and without a word he obeyed her. 
 
 III. 
 
 It was six months since Van Rensselaer 
 had startled the ancient care-taker at 
 193 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 '^Greymere'' by his sudden appearance on 
 that stormy December morning. There 
 was little to remind him now of his hasty 
 and unconventional visit. The smooth 
 lawns were brilliant with flower-beds and 
 down the graveled driveway a gay caval- 
 cade was riding, composed of certain mem- 
 bers of the frivolous, '^smart'' set whom 
 Mrs. Van Kensselaer particularly affected. 
 She herself led the procession, more beau- 
 tiful than ever, and riding her spirited bay 
 cob with admirable ease and self-posses- 
 sion. By her side rode a young and well- 
 known clubman, more distinguished for his 
 wealth than his brains. 
 
 The merry company had scarcely disap- 
 peared before a young girl approached the 
 house from the river side. She was a tall 
 girl with a bright, interesting face, and she 
 walked across the short grass with a light 
 step indicative of health and good spirits. 
 A housemaid was arranging the disorder 
 of the veranda, and the young girl paused 
 to question her. 
 
 194 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Van Rensselaer at home?'' 
 
 "No, Miss Dorothy, there's no one at 
 home except the master." 
 
 "And where is he?" 
 
 "In his study, where he bez mostly now- 
 adays," said the maid. 
 
 Miss Hamilton entered the cool darkness 
 of the great hallway, and slowly mounted 
 the wide staircase to her cousin's study. 
 Since his marriage Van Rensselaer spent 
 the greater portion of his time in this apart- 
 ment, which possessed the double advan- 
 tage of being remote from the gay life of 
 the mansion, and also difficult of access. 
 
 As Dorothy entered he turned to greet 
 her with a smile. He was very fond of 
 his young cousin, and they had been close 
 comrades until the last few years, during 
 which time Dorothy had lived abroad com- 
 pleting her education. Remington had 
 missed her sadly, for she had been the jol- 
 liest little companion imaginable, and her 
 recent return had given him more pleasure 
 than he had believed possible; for he had 
 196 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 begun to tell himself that he and joy had 
 bidden one another farewell forever. He 
 was desperately lonely and unhappy in his 
 beautiful and hospitable mansion since the 
 guests with whom his young wife cared to 
 surround herself were not at all to his lik- 
 ing, and he found himself more and more 
 solitary as the days progressed. 
 
 ^^ Where is Eleanor?'' asked Dorothy. 
 
 "Every one has gone to ride.'' 
 
 "And why are not you riding too? It 
 is a charming day." 
 
 "Because I must agree with Traddles, 
 Dorothy. You will remember he once said 
 ^the society of girls is a very delightful 
 thing, Copperfield — it's not professional, 
 but it's very delightful.' Now this morn- 
 ing Destiny has been lying in wait for me 
 with the proof sheets of a perfectly inexora- 
 ble and irrational publisher." 
 
 "This is a very cold, unfeeling world," 
 said Dorothy, "and you have my sympathy 
 — even to the extent of tearing myself 
 away." 
 
 196 . 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 "It would be more cousinly to stay and 
 offer to assist the laborer." 
 
 "Oh, may I, Kemington? I would just 
 love it." 
 
 She removed her hat, and made herself 
 comfortable in the quaint, book-lined room. 
 The man who had said good-bye to happi- 
 ness felt a rare content in the presence of 
 his young assistant. She seconded him so 
 ably in correcting proof that the imposing- 
 pile of copy was rapidly reduced in size 
 until at last it lay in a big, square parcel 
 ready for the postman. 
 
 Van Eensselaer leaned back in his chair, 
 and looked at the young girl opposite him. 
 Dear, kind little Dorothy! She had lost 
 none of that charming, childish naivete 
 which had made her so fascinating a com- 
 panion in the by-gone years. He realized 
 dimly that travel had transformed her in 
 a sense into a young woman of the world, 
 but he knew intuitively that beneath her 
 Paris gown beat a heart as sweet and gen- 
 uine as of old. 
 
 197 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 "I am going to be very bold, Reming- 
 ton/' she said suddenly, "but I am anxious 
 to learn what has become of the Van Rens- 
 selaer mahogany. Of course, the drawing- 
 room is much more modern in white and 
 gold, but I miss the dear, quaint, old furni- 
 ture." 
 
 "It is Eleanor's idea — refurnishing the 
 house," he answered, slowly. He did not 
 mention the fact of his ignorance of the af- 
 fair until the tradesmen's bills were pre- 
 sented, but she guessed at something of the 
 truth in his evident and embarrassed hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 "And have all the old-fashioned flowers 
 gone also?" she went on. "I used to love 
 the rows of hollyhocks and sweet peas. 
 And surely. Remington, the honeysuckle 
 and roses were far daintier and cooler than 
 those gay awnings on the verandas." 
 
 "Yes," he assented, still with that pain- 
 ful hesitation w^hich was so unusual with 
 him. "You are quite right. Dorothy. I 
 prefer roses myself." 
 198 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 A sudden silence fell upon them; through 
 the parted silken curtains flashed brilliant 
 glimpses of the blue Hudson, rippling 
 peacefully against the willows at the end 
 of the garden. The beautiful, June day 
 was full of glad life; the sunlight was like 
 a benediction. Van Rensselaer leaned 
 across the table, and seized Dorothy's slen- 
 der, ink-marked fingers in his strong clasp. 
 
 "You seem so happy, Dorothy," he said. 
 "Teach me how to be happy, too ... I 
 have been wretched so long." 
 
 "Oh, Eemington," she cried, and her 
 brown, half-frightened eyes looked pity- 
 ingly into his own. "I suspected some- 
 thing of this, but I did not dream it was 
 so bad." 
 
 And under the charm of her friendly 
 and delicate compassion, he told her the 
 story of his suffering and disappointment. 
 Of his wife's dislike and faithlessness to- 
 ward him he said little; it was rather a cry 
 of bitter, passionate regret over his own 
 mistakes. 
 
 199 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 Dorothy listened in a species of fas- 
 cinated horror. Eemington had always 
 been her ideal hero. No one else was so 
 brilliantly clever, and so beloved of the 
 gods. She had seen little of Mrs. Van 
 Rensselaer, but the fact that she was Eem- 
 ington's wife had cast a glamor over her 
 remarkable loveliness, and the young girl 
 had been prepared to w^orship her. As her 
 cousin related the history of his unhappi- 
 ness, Dorothy felt herself flush with angry 
 resentment. 
 
 "She is only a beautiful animal," she 
 thought, indignantly, "she has no soul." 
 
 And so these two — the man disheartened 
 and almost hopeless, the girl at the dawn 
 of an exquisite womanhood, and full of the 
 fresh, eager illusions of youth — set forth to- 
 gether in quest of a denied happiness. It 
 was a dangerous experiment, but in the ig- 
 norance of innocence, they felt strong. 
 
 200 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 IV. 
 
 It was June again, early June, enthroned 
 like a queen upon the young meadows so 
 blue and fragrant with violets. The birds 
 were quiring with all their might to the 
 honor of the youthful sovereign whose 
 reign though sweet, must be so short. 
 There seemed no note of discord in the 
 fresh and perfect loveliness of the day. 
 
 Van Rensselaer walked with a light and 
 rapid stride across the dewy fields. The 
 long struggle with himself was at an end. 
 He had a vague impression of the perfumed 
 beauty of the apple tree beneath whose 
 blossom-laden boughs she was standing — 
 of the wide sweep of the gracious blue 
 heavens above them, but' he was keenly 
 conscious only of her. 
 
 ^'Dorothy!'' 
 
 It was scarcely a whisper, but she heard 
 him. She lifted her eyes from the tangle 
 of wild flowers she was arranging, and as 
 201 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 she met the passionate, eager glance, the 
 little bouquet fell unheeded to the ground. 
 Pity and love for him painted themselves 
 on her round cheeks, and with a woman's 
 lightning intuition, she anticipated what 
 was about to occur, and made a futile at- 
 tempt to speak, but he interrupted her. 
 
 ^^You cannot say anything that I have 
 not already said to myself a thousand 
 times," he said. "God alone knows what 
 I have suffered, and what a struggle it has 
 been. I have tried to go away ... I have 
 tried honestly to forget ... I have even 
 tried like a coward to die . . . but love is 
 stronger than I, Dorothy . . .1 am 
 conquered ... I love you ... Do you 
 realize it, dear? . . . you have my happi- 
 ness in your keeping . . . not only happi- 
 ness, but life itself . . . You are too kind 
 and pitiful to despise me, Dorothy, but 
 even if you did, I am beyond caring . . . 
 you see, how low I have sunk . . . I do 
 not even care . . . There is only one thing 
 I care for now in all the world . • . your 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 love, Sweetheart. . . . Are you brave 
 enough to defy Destiny . . . and for me?" 
 
 He made no effort to approach her as she 
 stood with frightened, fascinated eyes and 
 parted lips, staring full at him. The color 
 had faded from her face, and she seemed 
 frozen into a statuesque silence. 
 
 ^^Are you afraid of me, Dorothy?" he 
 questioned, sadly. His voice had the low, 
 monotonous tone of despair; his handsome 
 troubled eyes regarded her sorrowfully. 
 She could not bear their gaze, and with a 
 long, shivering breath covered her face 
 with her hands. 
 
 ^^It is not you that I am afraid of, Eem- 
 ington . . . it is myself. Oh, why must it 
 be so wrong to love you?" 
 
 She lifted her face to his, and the tears 
 were rushing down her cheeks. He 
 stretched his arms toward her, and slowly 
 she took the few steps across the grass be- 
 tween them, and laid her head upon his 
 breast. It was the golden moment of 
 which he had dreamed all his life; the mo- 
 203 
 
Poison Flowers, 
 ment to which he would say with eager 
 longing, ^'Ah, still delay, thou art so fair.-' 
 His soul concentrated itself into the rap- 
 ture of that instant when her head, inno- 
 cent and lovely, rested upon his breast in 
 a divine trustfulness. He felt the rapid 
 beating of her heart, and his own an- 
 swered it. 
 
 ^^Eemington," she said, and her eyes 
 looked up into his with a fearless direct- 
 ness, "I am going home now, and I don't 
 know which way I am going to decide. I 
 shall let you know this evening — but I 
 want you to remember that whichever way 
 it is — right or wrong — it is because I love 
 you. Promise me you will never forget 
 that it is because I love you." 
 
 He stood watching her as she went away 
 from him. His heart was beating with a 
 strange, thrilling triumph. ^^Because she 
 loved him!" He threw himself at full 
 length on the soft grass; near at hand lay 
 the flowers she had forgotten; they seemed 
 
 204: 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 to repeat her parting message to him, and 
 he placed them carefully in his coat. 
 
 How sentient with glad life the young 
 world seemed! The birds were congratu- 
 lating him; he detected it in their high, 
 sweet notes. A vagrant breeze scattered a 
 shower of belated apple blossoms down 
 upon him, and he revelled in the fragrant 
 caress of the petals against his face. He 
 was astonished to find himself capable of 
 so great happiness, and he acknowledged 
 that above all else he wanted happiness — 
 and at any cost. He was beyond caring 
 for anything else now, and he felt a proud 
 scorn of the consequences. 
 
 But across the consciousness of his bliss 
 floated the recollection of his wife. He 
 knew that she would hail a legal separa- 
 tion from him with passionate relief. From 
 the proud eminence which his position had 
 afforded her, she had succeeded in secur- 
 ing a far wealthier devotee than himself. 
 Yet the humiliating details of a divorce 
 cut his pride like a sharp-edged sword. 
 205 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 Was it only three years since his unhappy 
 marriage? Had only "three April per- 
 fumes in three hot Junes burned'' since he 
 had given the best of his ardent, young 
 manhood into the careless custody of a 
 woman who had never loved him, but had 
 used her magnificent gift of beauty to al- 
 lure and deceive him? It seemed rather 
 like three centuries, and for the moment 
 he realized himself old and incapable 
 longer of those delightful, lost illusions 
 which had vanished so mysteriously with 
 his youth. 
 
 But he put away resolutely all vexa- 
 tious thoughts, and yielded himself abso- 
 lutely to the intoxication of joy. A cloud 
 of yellow butterflies hovered audaciously 
 near him as he lay motionless upon the 
 grass; a bumble bee, industrious and fear- 
 less, harvested honey from the pink clover 
 beside him. He gazed up at the flawless, 
 azure sky, and a great gratitude burned 
 like an altar-flame in his heart. 
 
 " * Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ?" 
 206 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 he quoted softly to the birds and flowers 
 and sky. 
 
 Dorothy sat in her quaint, dimity-hung 
 bedroom. There was no one to whom she 
 could turn for aid and advice in this, the 
 crisis of her happy life. Her father was still 
 in Europe, and her aunt, Mrs. Suydam — 
 who had presided over the establishment 
 ever since the death of Dorothy's mother — 
 was too thorough a woman of the world to 
 be of use to the girl in her decision. 
 
 She was in an exalted mood of love, pity 
 and renunciation, for she had determined 
 to give up her cousin, even at the cost of 
 two broken hearts. The contest with her- 
 self had been a severe one, and several 
 times she had been on the point of recalling 
 the messenger who had taken her final note 
 of farewell across to "Greymere." 
 
 ^^For myself I do not care,'' she said to 
 herself, as she lay on her little white bed, 
 and gazed with sweety, solemn eyes at her 
 20T 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 mother's portrait on the wall opposite. ''I 
 could bear anything for his sake — shame, 
 poverty/ reproach — anything, but not the 
 knowledge that I had dragged him down 
 to dishonor. If love is love, real love, it 
 will make me strong to save him rather 
 than ruin him . . . and O, God, help me 
 to be strong.'' 
 
 •I* ^£* ^Z* ^it? *Z* •Z' aZ* 
 
 •Ji •!» "X* •T* •J* •!» •!* 
 
 It was dusk when Van Rensselaer re- 
 entered the big, stone gateway at ^^Grey- 
 mere." The silver horn of the young moon 
 glittered behind the feathery branches of 
 the trees; the evening breeze from the 
 river was oppressively sweet with the fra- 
 grance of roses. As he entered the house 
 the butler gave him two letters. He rec- 
 ognized Dorothy's with a smile of triumph- 
 ant joy; he knew^ so well what it must con- 
 tain for him. The other note was from his 
 wife, and he tore it open hastily with a 
 frown of scarcely concealed surprise. It 
 was rarely indeed that she took the trouble 
 to recognize his existence so officially. 
 208 
 
Poison Flowers. 
 
 Standing beneath the dim light of the 
 Roman lantern in the hall, he read what 
 she had written him. It was brief and to 
 the point: 
 
 Since we do not love each other, I have left you for- 
 ever. ELEANOR. 
 
 OF 
 
 209 
 
^^^ 
 
 «rf X 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 ^^C 28 1384 
 
 6l&Clil DEC 21*84 
 
 ' MAR 27 1948 
 I MAR 28 i848 
 
 JUN 10 534^ 
 
 ■ a nsQ 
 
 Af»R2l196794 
 
 RECEIVE,!:^ 
 
 APR 7 '67 -9 AN 
 
 LOAN DEPT 
 
 LD 21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 
 
ucncnML 
 
 LiDnMni 
 
 - u.u. Dcr 
 
 
 iiiinin 
 
 BDDD732ES2 
 
 .^.■^t.-w 
 
 ^•^v/ .- : Hif, 
 

 c^^^^^^^B^^^ ^ 
 
 
 * 11111 t -#ii* -