NOVEL

 
 

 
 umv. 
 
 CALIF. IJ. LOS 
 
 HOME
 
 This, he suddenly perceived, was war
 
 HOME 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 REGINALD B. BIRCH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1914
 
 Copyright, 1914, by 
 THE CENTUBY Co. 
 
 Published, January, 1914
 
 HOMK 
 
 2125571
 
 " Seer, in thine eyes is wisdom and in 
 thy silvered beard. How shall I give 
 that which hath been given ? " 
 
 "My son, I read the riddle: How 
 shalt thou paint the picture and give 
 the eyes to see? This is the answer. 
 Hold thy heart in thy hand and let thy 
 words keep time to the beat of memory. 
 Thus shall the written page be pos- 
 sessed of an enduring spirit and a per- 
 vading light."
 
 HOME 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ON" an Indian summer afternoon of not very long 
 ago Red Hill drowsed through the fleeting hours 
 as though not only time but mills, machinery and rail- 
 ways were made for slaves. Hemmed in by the breath- 
 ing silences of scattered woods, open fields and the far 
 reaches of misty space, it seemed to forget that the 
 traveler, studying New England at the opening of the 
 twentieth century through the windows of a hurrying 
 train, might sigh for a vanished ideal and concede the 
 universal triumph of a commercial age. 
 
 For such a one Red Hill held locked a message, and 
 the key to the lock was the message itself : " Turn 
 your back on the paralleled rivers and railroads and 
 plunge into the byways that lead into the eternal hills 
 and you will find the world that was and still is." 
 
 Let such a traveler but follow a lane that leads up 
 through willow and elderberry, sassafras, laurel, wild 
 cherry and twining clematis ; a lane aligned with slender 
 wood-maples, hickory and mountain-ash and flanked 
 where it gains the open with scattered juniper and oak, 
 and he will come out at last on the scenes of a coun- 
 try's childhood. 
 
 At right angles to the lane, a broad way, cutting the 
 
 3
 
 4 HOME 
 
 f 
 
 length of the hill, and losing itself in a dip at each end 
 toward the valleys and the new world. The broad way 
 is shaded by one of two trees the domed maple or the 
 stately elm. At the summit of its rise stands an old 
 church whose green shutters blend with the caressing 
 foliage of primeval trees. Its white walls and tower- 
 ing steeple dominate the scene. White, too, are the 
 scattered houses that gleam from behind the verdure 
 of unbroken lawns and shrubbery, white all but one, 
 whose time-stained brick glows blood-red against the 
 black-green of clinging ivy. 
 
 Not all these homes are alive. Here a charred beam 
 tells the story of a fire, there a mound of trailing vines 
 tenderly hides from view the shame of a ruin, and 
 there again stands a tribute to the power of the new 
 age a house whose shutters are closed and barred; 
 white now only in patches, its scaling walls have taken 
 on the dull gray of neglected pine. 
 
 For generations these houses have sent out men, for 
 generations they have taken them back. Their cup- 
 boards guard trophies from the seven seas paid for 
 with the Yankee nutmeg, swords wrought from plow- 
 shares and christened with the blood of the oppressor, 
 a long line of collegiate sheepskins, and last, but by 
 no means least, recipes whose faded ink and brittle 
 paper sum the essence of ages of culinary wisdom. 
 
 Some of these clustered homes live the year round 
 at full swing but the life of some is cut down in the 
 winter to a minimum only to spring up afresh in 
 summer like the new stalk from a treasured bulb. Of 
 such was the little kingdom of Eed Hill.
 
 HOME 5 
 
 Ked Hill was very still on this Indian summer after- 
 noon as though it were in hiding from the railroads, 
 mills and highways of an age of hurry. Upon its long, 
 level crest it bore but three centers of life and a sym- 
 bol: Maple House, The Firs and Elm House, half 
 hidden from the road by their distinctive trees but as 
 alive as the warm eyes of a veiled woman; and the 
 church. 
 
 The church was but a symbol a mere shell. 
 Within, it presented the appearance of a lumber room 
 in disuse, a playground for rats and a haven for dust. 
 But without, all was as it had ever been; for the old 
 church was still beloved. Its fresh white walls and 
 green shutters and the aspiring steeple, towering into 
 the blue, denied neglect and robbed abandonment of 
 its sting. 
 
 In the shadow of its walls lay an old graveyard whose 
 overgrown soil had long been undisturbed. Along the 
 single road which cut the crest of the Hill from north 
 to south were ruins of houses that once had sheltered 
 the scattered congregation. But the ruins were hard 
 to find for they too were overgrown by juniper, 
 clematis and a crowding thicket of mountain-ash. 
 
 On these evidences of death and encroachment the 
 old church seemed to turn its back as if by right of 
 its fresh walls and unbroken steeple it were still linked 
 to life. Through its small-paned windows it seemed 
 to gaze contentedly across the road at the three houses, 
 widely separated, that half faced it in a diminishing 
 perspective. The three houses looked towards the 
 sunrise; the church towards its decline.
 
 6 HOME 
 
 The supper call had sounded and the children's an- 
 swering cries had ceased. Along the ribbon of the 
 single road scurried an overladen donkey. Three 
 lengths of legs bobbed at varying angles from her fat 
 sides. Behind her hurried a nurse, aghast for the 
 hundredth time at the donkey's agility, never demon- 
 strated except at the evening hour. 
 
 Halfway between Maple House and The Firs stood 
 two bare-legged boys working their toes into the im- 
 palpable dust of the roadway and rubbing the grit into 
 their ankles in a final orgy of dirt before the evening 
 wash. They called derisively to the donkey load of 
 children, bound to bed with the setting sun. 
 
 On the veranda of Elm House an old man in shirt 
 sleeves sat whittling on to a mat, especially laid at his 
 feet. Beside the fluted pillars of the high portico he 
 looked very small. The big, still house and the tall 
 elms that crowded the lawn seemed to brood over him 
 as though they knew that he was not only small but 
 young merely one of the many generations of Eltons 
 they had mothered and sheltered through the long 
 years that make light of a single life. 
 
 From the barn behind the house came the slam of the 
 oat-bin and a sudden chorus of eager whinnies. The 
 whinnies were answered from the roadway. The old 
 man looked up. A wagonette appeared over the brow 
 of Eed Hill. It was drawn by two lean, well-con- 
 ditioned bays whose long, quick stride reached out for 
 stables and oats. The wagonette was crowded. The 
 old man answered cries and waving hands and his eyes 
 followed the bays down the road and twinkled as they
 
 HOME 7 
 
 saw the wagonette swerve and plow through the grass, 
 surrendering the right of way to the fat donkey. 
 
 At The Firs, home of the Lansings even before the 
 Eltons had come to Elm House, the veranda was 
 vacant; but a big chair was still slowly rocking. Be- 
 side it lay a pile of snowy sewing, hastily dropped. 
 An overturned work-basket disgorged a tangled med- 
 ley of skeins, needles, pins and scraps. A fugitive 
 thimble described a wide circle and brought up against 
 one of the veranda posts. From the distant kitchen 
 came the smell of something burning. 
 
 At Elm House and The Firs there was life and 
 peace but down the road at Maple House, home of the 
 Waynes, life reigned alone on this autumn evening. 
 With the arrival of the wagonette and its load, all was 
 commotion. A stable-hand ran out to take charge of 
 the bays. Excited children left their supper and in- 
 sisted on being kissed all around by the newcomers. 
 Youth called to age and age laughed back. A hostess 
 with quiet eyes dispensed welcome, playfully affection- 
 ate to returning members of the family, seriously cordial 
 to the stranger within the gates. Then she slipped 
 away to speak a word to the kitchen and to glance over 
 the great table in the dining-room, for to-night Eltons, 
 Lansings and Waynes were to dine at a single board. 
 
 They gathered twenty strong, a sturdy lot. From 
 old Captain Wayne to little Clematis McAlpin, pro- 
 moted for a night from the children's table, they bore 
 the stamp of fighters, veterans and veterans to be. 
 Life had marked the faces of the men and time had 
 mellowed the faces of the women. In the cheeks of
 
 8 HOME 
 
 the young color glowed and in their eyes a fire burned. 
 Life challenged them. Their spirits were eager to 
 take up the gage. 
 
 On Red Hill the mountain-ash thicket that gave the 
 place its name, was in its full glory. Its carmine 
 flame called defiance at the disappearing sun. The old 
 white church caught the fiery light of the sun in the 
 small panes of its windows and sent back a message 
 too, across the valleys and over the hills, but there was 
 no defiance in it only a cry to the world that the 
 old church still stood. 
 
 Night fell on the Hill. The stars came out and 
 with them a glow of light and warmth lit up the win- 
 dows of Maple House, Elm House and The Firs. A 
 smell of hot biscuit lingered in the still air. The soft 
 voices of women hushing children to sleep came like 
 the breath of life from the quiet houses. 
 
 Here a song, sifting softly through the rustle of 
 many trees, there the crying, quickly hushed, of a 
 frightened, wakened baby, and far up the road, the 
 trailing whistle of a boy signaling good-night, passed 
 into the silence. Lastly the moon burst over the ridge 
 of East Mountain and in the path of its soft light the 
 old church stole back into the picture.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AJTUMN" passed and winter, then on a day in 
 early spring Alan Wayne was summoned to 
 Red Hill. Snow still hung in the crevices of East 
 Mountain. On the Hill the ashes, after the total 
 eclipse of winter, were meekly donning pale green. 
 The elms of Elm House too were but faintly outlined 
 in verdure and stood like empty sherry glasses wait- 
 ing for warm wine. Further down the road the 
 maples stretched out bare, black limbs whose budding 
 tufts of leaves served only to emphasize the nakedness 
 of the trees. Only the firs, in a phalanx, scoffed at 
 the general spring cleaning and looked old and sullen 
 in consequence. 
 
 The colts, driven by Alan Wayne, flashed over the 
 brim of Red Hill on to the level top. Coachman Joe's 
 jaw was hanging in awe and so had hung since Mr. 
 Alan had taken the reins. For the first time in their 
 five years of equal life the colts had felt the cut of a 
 whip, not in anger but as a reproof for breaking. 
 Coachman Joe had braced himself for the bolt, his 
 hands itching to snatch the reins. But there had been 
 no bolting, only a sudden settling down to business. 
 
 For the first time in their lives the colts were being 
 pushed, steadily, evenly, almost but never quite 
 to the breaking point. Twice in the long drive Joe 
 
 9
 
 10 HOME 
 
 gathered up his jaw and turned his head, preparing 
 spoken tribute to a master hand. But there was no 
 speaking to Mr. Alan's face. At that moment Joe was 
 a part of the seat to Mr. Alan and, being a coachman 
 of long standing in the family, he knew it. 
 
 " Could n't of got here quicker if he 'd let 'em bolt," 
 said he, in subsequent description to the stable-hand 
 and the cook. He snatched up a pail of water and 
 poured it steadily on the ground. " Jest like that. 
 He knew what was in the colts the minute he laid hands 
 on 'em and when he pulls 'em up at the barn door there 
 was n't a drop left in their buckets, was there, Ar- 
 thur?" 
 
 " Nary a drop," said Arthur, stable-hand. 
 
 " And his face," continued the coachman. " Most 
 times Mr. Alan has no eyes to speak of, but to-day and 
 that time Miss Nance stuck him with the hatpin 
 'member, cook? his eyes spread like a fire and eat 
 up his face. This is a black day for the Hill. Some- 
 thin 's going to happen. You mark me." 
 
 In truth Mr. Alan Wayne had been summoned in 
 no equivocal terms and, for all his haste, it was with 
 nervous step he approached the house. 
 
 There was no den, no sanctuary beyond a bedroom, 
 for any one at Maple House. No one brought work 
 to Red Hill save such work as fitted into swinging 
 hammocks and leafy bowers. Library opened into 
 living-room and hall, hall into drawing-room and 
 drawing-room into the cool shadows and high lights 
 of half -hidden mahogany and china closets. And here 
 and there and everywhere doors opened out on to the
 
 HOME 11 
 
 Hill. A place where summer breezes entered freely 
 and played, sure of a way out. Hence it was that 
 Maple House as a whole became a tomb on that mem- 
 orable spring morning when the colts first felt a mas- 
 ter hand a tomb where Wayne history was to be 
 made and buried as it had been before. 
 
 Maple House sheltered a mixed brood. J. Y. 
 Wayne, seconded by Mrs. J. Y., was the head of the 
 family. Their daughter, Nance Sterling, and her 
 babies represented the direct line, but the orphans, Alan 
 Wayne and Clematis McAlpin, were on an equal foot- 
 ing as children of the house. Alan was the only child 
 of J. Y. 's dead brother. Clematis was also of Wayne 
 blood but so intricately removed that her exact rela- 
 tion to the rest of the tribe was never figured out twice 
 to the same conclusion. Old Captain Wayne, retired 
 from the regular army, was an uncle in a different de- 
 gree to every generation of Waynes. He was the only 
 man on Red Hill who dared call for a whisky and 
 soda when he wanted it. 
 
 When Alan reached the house Mrs. J. Y. was in her 
 garden across the road, surveying winter's ruin, and 
 Nance with her children had borne the Captain off to 
 the farm to see that oft-repeated wonder and always 
 welcome forerunner of plenty, the quite new calf. 
 
 Clematis McAlpin, shy and long-limbed, just at the 
 awkward age when woman misses being either boy or 
 girl, had disappeared. Where, nobody knew. She 
 might be bird's-nesting in the swamp or crying over 
 the " Idylls of the King " in the barn loft. Certainly 
 she was not in the house. J. Y. Wayne had seen to
 
 12 HOME 
 
 that. Stern and rugged of face he sat in the library 
 alone and waited for Alan. He heard a distant screen- 
 door open and slam. Steps echoed through the lonely 
 house. Alan came and stood before him. 
 
 Alan was a man. Without being tall, he looked 
 tall. His shoulders were not broad till you noticed 
 the slimness of his hips. His neck looked too thin till 
 you saw the strong set of his small head. In a word 
 he had the perfect proportion that looks frail and is 
 strong. As he stood before his uncle, his eyes grew 
 dull. They were slightly blood-shot in the corners 
 and with their dullness the clear-cut lines of his face 
 seemed to take on a perceptible blur. 
 
 J. Y. began to speak. He spoke for a long quarter 
 of an hour and then summed up all he had said in a 
 few words. " I 've been no uncle to you, Alan, I 've 
 been a father. I 've tried to win you but you were not 
 to be won. I 've tried to hold you but it takes more 
 than a Wayne to hold a Wayne. You have taken the 
 bit with a vengeance. You have left such a wreckage 
 behind you that we can trace your life back to the 
 cradle by your failures, all the greater for your many 
 successes. You 're the first Wayne that ever missed 
 his college degree. I never asked what they expelled 
 you for and I don't want to know. It must have been 
 bad, bad, for the old school is lenient, and proud of 
 men that stand as high as you stood in your classes 
 and on the field. Money I won't talk of money, 
 for you thought it was your own." 
 
 For the first time Alan spoke. "What do you 
 mean, sir?" With the words his slight form
 
 HOME 13 
 
 straightened, his eyes blazed, there was a slight quiver- 
 ing of the thin nostrils and his features came out clear 
 and strong. 
 
 J. Y. dropped his eyes. " I may have been wrong, 
 Alan," he said slowly, " but I 've been your banker 
 without telling you. Your father didn't leave much. 
 It saw you through Junior year." 
 
 Alan placed his hands on the desk between them and 
 leaned forward. " How much have I spent since then 
 in the last three years ? " 
 
 J. Y. kept his eyes down. " You know, more or 
 less, Alan. We won't talk about that. I was try- 
 ing to hold you. But to-day I give it up. I 've got one 
 more thing to tell you, though, and there are mighty 
 few people that know it. The Hill's battles have never 
 entered the field of gossip. Seven years before you were 
 born, my father your grandfather turned me 
 out. It was from this room. He said I had started 
 the name of Wayne on the road to shame and that I 
 could go with it. He gave me five hundred dollars. 
 I took it and went. I sank low with the name but in 
 the end I brought it back and to-day it stands high 
 on both sides of the water. I 'm not a happy man, 
 as you know, for all that. You see, though I brought 
 the name back in the end, I never saw your grand- 
 father again and he never knew. 
 
 " Here are five hundred dollars. It 's the last 
 money you '11 ever have from me but whatever you do, 
 whatever happens, remember this: Red Hill does not 
 belong to a Lansing nor to a Wayne nor to an Elton. 
 It is the eternal mother of us all. Broken or mended,.
 
 14 HOME 
 
 Lansings and Waynes have come back to the Hill 
 through generations. City of refuge or harbor of 
 peace, it 's all one to the Hill. Remember that." 
 
 He laid the crisp notes on the desk. Alan half 
 turned toward the door but stepped back again. His 
 eyes and face were dull once more. He picked up 
 the bills and slowly counted them. " I shall return 
 the money, sir," he said and walked out. 
 
 He went to the stables and ordered the pony and 
 cart for the afternoon train. As he came out he saw 
 Nance, the children and the Captain coming slowly 
 up Long Lane from the farm. He dodged back into 
 the barn through the orchard and across the lawn. 
 Mrs. J. Y. stood in the garden directing the relaying 
 of flower-beds. Alan made a circuit. As he stepped 
 into the road, swift steps came towards him. He 
 wheeled and faced Clem coming at full run. He 
 turned his back on her and started away. The swift 
 steps stopped so suddenly that he looked around. 
 Clem was standing stock-still, one awkward lanky leg 
 half crooked as though it were still running. Her 
 skirts were absurdly short. Her little fists, brown and 
 scratched, pressed her sides. Her dark hair hung in 
 a tangled mat over a thin, pointed face. Her eyes 
 were large and shadowy. Two tears had started from 
 them and were crawling down soiled cheeks. She was 
 quivering all over like a woman struck. 
 
 Alan swung around and strode up to her. He put 
 one arm about her thin form and drew her to him. 
 "Don't cry, Clem," he said, "don't cry. I didn't 
 mean to hurt you."
 
 HOME 15 
 
 For one moment she clung to him and buried her 
 face against his coat. Then she looked up and smiled 
 through wet eyes. " Alan, I 'm so glad you 've come ! " 
 
 Alan caught her hand and together they walked 
 down the road to the old church. The great door was 
 locked. Alan loosened the fastening of a shutter, 
 sprang in through the window and drew Clem after 
 him. They climbed to the belfry. From the belfry 
 one saw the whole world with Red Hill as its center. 
 Alan was disappointed. The Hill was still half naked 
 almost bleak. Maple House and Elm House shone 
 brazenly white through budding trees. They looked as 
 if they had crawled closer to the road during the win- 
 ter. The Firs, with its black border of last year's 
 foliage, looked funereal. Alan turned from the scene 
 but Clem's little hand drew him, back. 
 
 Clematis McAlpin had happened between genera- 
 tions. Alan, Nance, Gerry Lansing and their friends 
 had been too old for her and Nance's children were 
 too young. There were Elton children of about her 
 age but for years they had been abroad. Consequently 
 Clem had grown to fifteen in a sort of loneliness not 
 uncommon with single children who can just remember 
 the good times the half-generation; before them used 
 to have by reason of their numbers. This loneliness 
 had given her in certain ways a precocious develop- 
 ment while it left her subdued and shy even when 
 among her familiars. But she was shy without fear 
 and her shyness itself had a flower-like sweetness that 
 made a bold appeal. 
 
 " Is n't it wonderful, Alan ? " she said. " Tester-
 
 16 HOME 
 
 day it was cold and it rained and the Hill was black, 
 black, like The Firs. To-day all the trees ar-3 fuzzy 
 with green and it's warm. Yesterday was so lonely 
 and to-day you are here." 
 
 Alan looked down at the child with glowing eyes. 
 
 " And do you know, this summer Gerry Lansing 
 and Mrs. Gerry are coming. I've never seen her since 
 that day they were married. Do you think it 's all 
 right for me to call her Mrs. Gerry like everybody 
 does?" 
 
 Alan considered the point gravely. 'Yes, I think 
 that 's the best thing you could call her." 
 
 " Perhaps when I 'm really grown up I can call her 
 Alix. I think Alix is such a pretty name, don't you \ " 
 
 Clem flashed a look at Alan and he nodded; then, 
 with an impulsive movement she drew close to him in 
 the half-wheedling way of woman about to ask a favor. 
 " Alan, they let me ride old Dubbs when he is n't plow- 
 ing. The old donkey she 's so fat now she can 
 hardly carry the babies. Some day when you 're not 
 in a great hurry will you let me ride with you ? " 
 
 Alan turned away briskly and started down the 
 ladder. " Some day, perhaps, Clem," he muttered. 
 " Not this summer. Come on." When they had left 
 the church he drew out his watch and started. " Run 
 along and play, Clem." He left her and hurried to 
 the barn. 
 
 Joe was waiting. " Have we time for the long road, 
 Joe ? " asked Alan, as he climbed into the cart. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, especially if you drive, Mr. Alan." 
 
 " I don't want to drive. Let him go and jump in."
 
 HOME 17 
 
 The coachman gave the pony his head, climbed in 
 and took the reins. The cart swung out and down the 
 lane. 
 
 "Alan! Alan!" 
 
 Alan recognized Clem's voice and turned. She was 
 racing across a corner of the pasture. Her short 
 skirts flounced madly above her ungainly legs. She 
 tried to take the low stone wall in her stride. Her 
 foot caught in a vine and she pitched headlong into 
 the weeds and grass at the roadside. 
 
 Alan leaped from the cart and picked her up, 
 quivering, sobbing and breathless. "Alan," she 
 gasped, " you 're not going away ? " 
 
 Alan half shook her as he drew her thin body close 
 to him. " Clem," he said, " you must n't. Do you 
 hear? You mustn't. Do you think I want to go 
 away ? " 
 
 Clem stifled her sobs and looked up at him with a 
 sudden gravity in her elfish face. She threw her bare 
 arms around his neck. " Good-by, Alan." 
 
 He stooped and kissed her.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 IF Alix Deering had not barked her pretty shins 
 against the centerboard in Gerry Lansing's sailing 
 boat on West Lake it is possible that she would in the 
 end have married Alan Wayne instead of Gerry Lan- 
 sing. 
 
 When two years before Alan's dismissal Nance had 
 brought Alix, an old school friend, to Eed Hill for a 
 fortnight, everybody had thought what a splendid match 
 Alix and Alan would make. But it happened that 
 Alan was very much taken up at the time with memory 
 and anticipation of a certain soubrette and before he 
 awoke to Alix's wealth of charms the incident of the 
 shins robbed him of opportunity. 
 
 Gerry, dressed only in a bathing suit, his boat run- 
 ning free before a brisk breeze, had swerved to graze 
 The Point, where half of Eed Hill was encamped, 
 when he caught sight of a figure lying prone on the 
 outermost flat rock. He took it to be Nance. 
 " Jump ! " he yelled as the boat neared the rock. 
 
 The figure started, scrambled to its feet and sprang. 
 It was Alix, still half asleep, that landed on the slightly 
 canted floor of the boat. Her shins brought up with a 
 thwack against the centerboard and she fell in a heap 
 at Gerry's feet. Her face went white and strained, 
 
 18
 
 HOME 19 
 
 for a second she bit her lip and then, " I must cry," 
 she gasped, and cried. 
 
 Gerry was big, strong and placid. Action came 
 slowly to him but when it came it was sure. He threw 
 one knee over the tiller and gathered Alix into his arms. 
 She lay like a hurt child, sobbing against his shoulder. 
 " Poor little girl," he said, " I know how it hurts. Cry 
 now because in a minute it will all be over. It will, 
 dear. Shins are like that." And then, before she 
 could master her sobs and take in the unconscious humor 
 of his comfort, the boat struck with a crash on Hidden 
 Kock. 
 
 The nearest Gerry had ever come to drowning was 
 when he had fallen asleep lying on his back in the 
 middle of West Lake. Even with a frightened girl 
 clinging to him it gave him no shock to find himself 
 in the water a quarter of a mile from shore. But with 
 Alix it was different. She gasped and in consequence 
 gulped down a large mouthful of the Lake. Then she 
 broke into hysterical laughter and swallowed some more. 
 Gerry held her up and deliberately slapped her across 
 the mouth. In a flash anger sobered her. Her eyes 
 blazed. " You coward," she whispered. 
 
 Gerry's face was white and stern. " Put one hand 
 on my shoulder and kick with your feet," he said. 
 " I '11 tow you to shore." 
 
 " Put me on Hidden Rock," said Alix; " I prefer to 
 wait for a boat." 
 
 " It will take an hour for a boat to get here," an- 
 swered Gerry. " I 'm going to tow you in. If you say 
 another word I shall slap you again."
 
 20 HOME 
 
 In a dead silence they plowed slowly to shore and 
 when Gerry found bottom he stood up, took Alix into 
 his arms and strode well up the bank before he set 
 her down. 
 
 During the long swim she had had time to think but 
 not to forgive. She stamped her sodden feet, shook out 
 her skirts and then looked Gerry up and down. Gerry 
 with his crisp light hair; blue eyes, wide apart and 
 well open; and six feet of well-proportioned bulk, was 
 good to look at but Alix's angry eyes did not admit it. 
 They measured him scornfully but it was not the look 
 that hurt him so much as the way she turned from him 
 with a little shrug of dismissal and started along the 
 shore for camp. 
 
 Gerry reached out and caught hold of her arm. She 
 swung around, her face quite white. " I see," she said 
 in a low voice. " You want it now." 
 
 Gerry held her with his eyes. " Yes," he answered, 
 " I want it now." 
 
 " Why did you yell at me to jump into your horrible 
 boat ? " 
 
 " I took you for Nance." 
 
 " You took me for Nance," repeated Alix with a 
 mimicry and in a tone that left no doubt as to the 
 fact that she was in a nasty temper. 
 
 " And why" she went on, her eyes blazing and her 
 slight figure trembling, " did you strike me slap me 
 across the face ? " 
 
 " Because I love you," replied Gerry steadily. 
 
 " Oh ! " gasped Alix. Her gray-slate eyes went wide 
 open in unfeigned amazement and suddenly the "tense-
 
 HOME 21 
 
 ness that is the essence of attack went out of her body. 
 Instead of a self-possessed and very angry young woman 
 she became her natural self a girl fluttering before 
 her first really thrilling situation. 
 
 There was something so childlike in her sudden tran- 
 sition that Gerry was moved out of himself. For once 
 he was not slow. He caught hold of her and drew 
 her towards him. 
 
 But Alix was not to be plucked like a ripe plum. 
 She freed herself gently but firmly and stood facing 
 him. Then she smiled and with the smile she gained 
 the upper hand. Gerry suddenly became awkward and 
 painfully conscious of his bare arms and legs. He felt 
 exceptionally naked. 
 
 " When did it begin ? " murmured Alix. 
 
 " What ? " said Gerry. 
 
 " It," said Alix. " When how long have you 
 loved me ? " 
 
 Gerry's face turned a deep red but he raised his eyes 
 steadily to hers. " It began," he said simply, " when 
 I took you in my arms and you laid your face against 
 my shoulder and cried like like a little kid." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Alix again and blushed in her turn. 
 She had lost the upper hand and knew it. Gerry's 
 arms went around her and this time she raised her face 
 and let him kiss her. 
 
 " Now," she said as they started for the camp, " I 
 suppose I must call you Gerry." 
 
 " Yes/' said Gerry solemnly. " And I shall call you 
 Little Miss Oh ! " 
 
 So casual an engagement might easily have come to
 
 22 HOME 
 
 a casual end but Gerry Lansing was quietly tenacious. 
 Once moved he stayed moved. No woman had ever 
 stirred him before; he did not imagine that any other 
 woman would ever stir him again. 
 
 To Alix, once the shock of finding herself engaged 
 was passed, came full realization and a certain amount 
 of level-headed calculation. She knew herself to be 
 high-strung, nervous and impulsive, a combination that 
 led people to consider her flighty. On the day of the 
 wreck Gerry had shown himself to be a man full grown. 
 He had mastered her; she thought he could hold her. 
 
 Then came calculation. Alix was out of the West. 
 All that money could do for her in the way of education 
 and culture had been done but no one knew better than 
 she that her culture was a mere veneer in comparison 
 with the ingrained flower of the Lansings' family oak. 
 Here was a man she could love and with him he brought 
 her the old homestead on Red Hill and an older brown 
 stone front in New York whose position was as awkward 
 as it was socially unassailable. Alix reflected that if 
 there was a fool to the bargain it was not she. 
 
 All Red Hill and a few Deerings gathered for the 
 wedding and many were the remarks passed on Gerry's 
 handsome bulk and Alix's scintillating beauty but the 
 only saying that went down in history came from Alan 
 Wayne when Nance, just a little troubled over the 
 combination of Gerry and Alix, asked him what he 
 thought of it. 
 
 Alan's eyes narrowed and his thin lips curved into 
 a smile as he gave his verdict : " Andromeda, consenting, 
 chained to the rock."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 TO the surprise of his friends Alan Wayne gave up 
 debauch and found himself employment by the 
 time the spring that saw his dismissal from Maple House 
 had ripened into summer. He was full of preparation 
 for his departure for Africa when a summons from old 
 Captain Wayne reached him. 
 
 With equal horror of putting up at hotels or relatives* 
 houses, the Captain upon his arrival in town had gone 
 straight to his club and forthwith become the sensation 
 of the club's windows. Old members felt young when 
 they caught sight of him as though they had come 
 suddenly on a vanished landmark restored. Passing 
 gamins gazed on his short-cropped gray hair, staring 
 eyes, flaring collar, black string tie and flowing broad- 
 cloth and remarked, " Gee, look at de old spoit in de 
 winder ! " 
 
 Alan heard the remark as he entered the club and 
 smiled. 
 
 " How do you do, sir ? " 
 
 "Huh!" grunted the Captain. "Sit down." He 
 ordered a drink for his guest and another for himself. 
 He glared at the waiter. He glared at a callow youth 
 who had come up and was looking with speculative eye 
 at a neighboring chair. The waiter retired almost pre- 
 cipitously. The youth followed. 
 
 23
 
 24 HOME 
 
 " In my time," remarked the Captain, " a club was 
 for privacy. Now it's a haven for bell-boys and a 
 playground for whippersiiappers." 
 
 " They Ve made me a member, sir." 
 
 " Have, eh ! " growled the Captain and glared at his 
 nephew. Alan took inspection coolly, a faint smile on 
 his thin face. The Captain turned away his bulging 
 eyes, crossed and uncrossed his legs and finally spoke. 
 " I was just going to say when you interrupted," he be- 
 gan, " that engineering is a dirty job. ~Not, however," 
 he continued, after a pause, " dirtier than most. It 's 
 a profession but not a career." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Alan. " They 've got a 
 few in the Army and they seem to be doing pretty 
 well." 
 
 " Huh, the Army ! " said the Captain. He sub- 
 sided, and made a new start. " What 's your appoint- 
 ment ? " 
 
 " It does n't amount to an appointment. Just a job 
 as assistant to Walton, the engineer the contractors are 
 sending ou.t. We 're going to put up a bridge some- 
 where in Africa." 
 
 " That 's it. I knew it," said the Captain. " Going 
 away. Want any money ? " 
 
 The question came like solid shot out of a four- 
 pounder. Alan started, colored and smiled, all at the 
 same time. 
 
 " No thanks, sir," he replied, " I Ve got all I need." 
 
 The Captain hitched his chair forward, placed his 
 hands on his knees, leaned forward and glared out on 
 the Avenue. " The Lansings," he began, like a boy
 
 HOME 25 
 
 reciting a piece, " are devils for drink, the Waynes for 
 women. Don't you ever let 'em worry you about drink. 
 Nowadays the doctors call us non-alcoholic. In my 
 time it was just plain strong heads for wine. I say, 
 don't worry about drink. There 's a safety valve in 
 every Wayne's gullet. 
 
 " But women, Alan ! " The Captain slued around 
 his bulging eyes. " You look out for them. As your 
 greatgrandfather used to say, ' To women, only perish- 
 able goods sweets, flowers and kisses.' And you take 
 it from me, kisses aren't always the cheapest. They 
 say God made everything down to little apples and 
 Jersey lightning. But when he made women the devil 
 helped." The Captain's nervousness dropped from 
 him as he deliberately drew out his watch and fob. 
 " Good thing he did too," he added, as a pleasing after- 
 thought. He leaned back in his chair. A complacent 
 look came over his face. 
 
 Alan got up to say good-by. The Captain rose too 
 and clasped the hand Alan held out. " One more 
 thing," he said. " Don't forget there 's always a 
 Wayne to back a Wayne for good or bad." There was 
 a suspicion of moisture in his eye as he hurried his 
 guest off. 
 
 Back in his rooms Alan found letters awaiting him. 
 He read them and tore them up all but one. It was 
 from Clem. " Dear Alan," she wrote, " Nance says 
 you are going very far away. I am sorry. It has been 
 raining here very much. In the hollows all the bridges 
 are under water. I have invented a new game. It is 
 called ' steamboat.' I play it on old Dubbs. We go
 
 26 HOME 
 
 down into the valley and I make him go through the 
 water around the bridges. He puffs just like a steam- 
 boat and when he gets out he smokes all over. He is 
 too fat. I hope you will come back very soon. 
 Clem." 
 
 That evening Clem was thrown into a transport by 
 receiving her first telegram. It read, " You must not 
 play steamboat again, it is dangerous. Alan." She 
 tucked it in her bosom and rushed over to The Firs to 
 show it to Gerry. 
 
 Gerry and Alix were spending the summer at The 
 Firs where Mrs. Lansing, Gerry's widowed mother, 
 was still nominally the hostess. They had been married 
 two years but people still spoke of Alix as Gerry's bride 
 and in so doing stamped her with her own seal. To 
 strangers they carried the air of a couple about to be 
 married at the rational close of a long engagement. 
 No children or thought of children had come to turn the 
 channel of life for Alix. On Gerry, marriage sat as 
 an added habit. It was beginning to look as though he 
 and Alix drifted together not because they were carried 
 by the same currents but because they were tied. 
 
 Where duller minds would have dubbed Gerry the 
 Ox, Alan had named him the Rock, and Alan was right. 
 Gerry had a dignity beyond mere bulk. He had all 
 the powers of resistance, none of articulation. Where 
 a pin-prick would start an ox it took an upheaval to 
 move Gerry. An upheaval was on the way but Gerry 
 did not know it. It was yet afar off. 
 
 To the Lansings marriage had always been one of the 
 regular functions of a regulated life part of the gen-
 
 HOME 27 
 
 eral scheme of things. Gerry was slowly realizing 
 that his marriage with Alix was far from a mere func- 
 tion, had little to do with a regular life and was foreign 
 to what he had always considered the general scheme 
 of things. Alix had developed, quite naturally, into a 
 social butterfly. Gerry did not picture her as chain 
 lightning playing on a rock as Alan would have done, 
 but he did, in a vague way, feel that bits of his impas- 
 sive self were being chipped away. 
 
 Red Hill bored Alix and she showed it. The first 
 summer after the marriage they had spent abroad. 
 Now Alix's thoughts and talk turned constantly toward 
 Europe. She even suggested a flying trip for the fall 
 but Gerry refused to be dragged so far from golf and 
 his club. He stuck doggedly to Red Hill till the leaves 
 began to turn and then consented to move back to town. 
 
 On their last night at The Firs Mrs. Lansing, who 
 was complimentary Aunt Jane to Waynes and Eltons, 
 entertained Red Hill as a whole to dinner. With the 
 arrival of dessert to Alix's surprise Nance said, " Port 
 all around, please, Aunt Jane." 
 
 Lansings, Waynes and Eltons were heavy drinkers in 
 town but it was a tradition, as Alix knew, that on Red 
 Hill they dropped it all but the old Captain. It was 
 as though, amid the scenes of their childhood, they be- 
 came children and just as a Frenchman of the old school 
 will not light a cigarette in the presence of his father 
 so they would not take a drink for drink's sake on Red 
 Hill. 
 
 So Alix looked on interestedly as the old butler set 
 glasses and started the port. When it had gone the
 
 28 HOME 
 
 round Nance stood up and with her hands on the table's 
 edge, leaned towards them all. For a Wayne, she was 
 very fair. As they looked at her the color swept up 
 over her bare neck. Its wave reached her temples and 
 seemed to stir the clustering tendrils of her hair. Her 
 eyes were grave and bright with moisture. Her lips 
 were tremulous. " We drink to Alan," she said, " to- 
 day is Alan's birthday." 
 
 She sat down. They all raised their glasses. Little 
 Clem had no wina She put a thin hand on Gerry's 
 arm. 
 
 " Please, Gerry, please ! " 
 
 Gerry held down his glass. Clematis dipped in the 
 tip of her little finger and as they all drank, gravely 
 carried the drop of wine to her lips.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 AS Judge Healey, gray-haired but erect, walked up 
 the Avenue his keen glance fell on Gerry Lan- 
 sing standing across the street before an art dealer's 
 window. Gerry's eyes were fastened on a picture that 
 he had long had in mind for a certain nook in the 
 library of the town house. 
 
 It was the second anniversary of his wedding and 
 though it was already late in the afternoon Gerry had 
 not yet chosen his gift for Alix. He turned from the 
 picture with a last long look and a shrug and passed 
 on to a palatial jeweler's further up the street. 
 
 For many years Judge Healey had been foster- 
 father to Red Hill in general and to Gerry in particular. 
 With almost womanly intuition he read what was in 
 Gerry's mind before the picture and acting on impulse 
 the Judge crossed the street and bought it. 
 
 While the Judge was still in the picture shop Gerry 
 came out of the jeweler's and started briskly for home. 
 He had purchased a pendant of brilliants, extravagant 
 for his purse but yet saved to good taste by a simple 
 originality in design. 
 
 He waited until the dinner hour and then slipped his 
 gift into Alix's hand as they walked down the stairs to- 
 gether. She stopped beneath the hall light. " I can't 
 
 wait dear, I simply can't." She snapped open the case. 
 
 29
 
 30 HOME 
 
 " Oh ! " she gasped. " How dear ! How perfectly 
 dear ! You old sweetheart ! " She threw her arms 
 around his neck and kissed him twice. Then she flew 
 away to the drawing-room in search of Mrs. Lansing 
 and the Judge, the sole guests to the little anniversary 
 dinner. Gerry straightened his tie and followed. 
 
 Alix's tongue was rippling her whole hody was rip- 
 pling with excitement and pleasure. She dangled 
 her treasure before their eyes. She laid it against her 
 warm neck nd ran to a mirror. The light in her eyes 
 matched the light in the stones. The Judge took the 
 jewel and laid it in the palm of his strong hand. It 
 looked in danger of being crushed. " A beautiful 
 thing, Gerry," he said, " and well chosen. Some poet 
 jeweler dreamed that twining design and set the stones 
 while the dew was still on the grass." 
 
 After dinner the four gathered in the library but they 
 were hardly seated when Alix sprang up. Her glance 
 had followed Gerry's startled gaze. He was staring at 
 the coveted picture he had been looking at in the gallery 
 that afternoon. It hung in the niche in which his 
 thoughts had placed it. Alix took her stand before it. 
 She glanced inquiringly at the others. Mrs. Lansing 
 nodded at the Judge. Alix turned back to the picture 
 and gravity stole into her face. Then she faced the 
 Judge with a smile. 
 
 " We live," she said, " in a Philistine age, don't we ? 
 But I 've never let my Philistinism drive pictures from 
 their right place in the heart. Pictures in art galleries 
 " she shrugged her pretty shoulders "I have not 
 been trained up to them. To me, they are mounted
 
 HOME 31 
 
 butterflies in a museum, cut flowers crowded at the 
 florist's. But this picture and that nook they have 
 waited for each other. You see the picture nestling 
 down for a long rest and it seems a small thing and 
 then it catches your eye and holds it and you see that 
 it is a little door that opens on a wide world. It has 
 slipped into the room and become a part of life." 
 
 A strange stillness followed on Alix's words. To the 
 Judge and to Gerry it was as though the picture had 
 opened a window to her mind. Then she closed the 
 window. " Come, Gerry," she said, turning. " Make 
 your bow to the Judge and bark." 
 
 Gerry was excited though he did not show it. " You 
 have dressed my thoughts in words I can't equal," he 
 said and strolled out on to the little veranda at the back 
 of the house. He wanted to be alone for a moment and 
 think over this flash of light that had followed a dark 
 day. For the first time in a long while Alix had 
 revealed herself. He did not begrudge the Judge his 
 triumph. He knew instinctively that coming from him 
 instead of from the Judge the picture would not have 
 struck that intimate spark. 
 
 The next day Gerry gave his consent to Alix's plan 
 for a flying trip abroad but with a reservation. The 
 reservation was that she should join some party and 
 leave him behind. 
 
 Judge Healey heard of this arrangement only when it 
 was on the point of being put into effect. In fact 
 he was only just in time at the steamer to wave good- 
 by to Alix. Leaning over the rail, with her high color, 
 moist red lips and big excited eyes making play under
 
 32 HOME 
 
 a golden crown of hair and over a huge armful of roses, 
 Alix presented a picture not easily forgotten. 
 
 The Judge turned to Gerry. " She ought not to be 
 going without you, my boy." 
 
 " Oh, it 's all right," said Gerry lightly. " She 's 
 well chaperoned. It 's a big party, you know." 
 
 But during the weeks that followed the Judge saw 
 it was not all right. Gerry had less and less time for 
 golf and more and more for whiskys and sodas. The 
 Judge was troubled and felt a sort of relief when from 
 far away Alan Wayne cropped into his affairs and gave 
 him something else to think about. 
 
 When Angus McDale of McDale & McDale called 
 without appointment the Judge knew at once that he 
 was going to hear something about Alan. 
 
 " Lucky to find you in," puffed McDale. " It is n't 
 business exactly or I 'd have 'phoned. I was just pass- 
 ing by." 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " asked the Judge, offering his 
 visitor a fresh cigar. 
 
 " It 's this. That boy, Alan Wayne sort of pro- 
 tege of yours, is n't he ? " 
 
 " Yes in a way yes," said the Judge slowly, 
 frowning. " What has Alan done now ? " 
 
 " It 's like this," said McDale. " Six months ago we 
 sent Mr. Wayne out on contract as assistant to Walton. 
 Walton no sooner got on the ground than he fell sick. 
 He put Wayne in charge and then he died. Now this 
 is the point. Mr. Wayne seems to have promoted him- 
 self to Walton's pay. He had the cheek to draw his 
 own as well. He won't be here for weeks but his ac-
 
 HOME 33 
 
 counts came in to-day. I want to know if you see any 
 reason why we should n't have that money back, to say 
 the least." 
 
 The Judge's face cleared. " Did n't he tell you why 
 he drew Walton's pay ? " 
 
 " Not a word. Said he 'd explain accounts when 
 he got here but that sort of thing takes a lot of explain- 
 ing." 
 
 " Well," said the Judge, " I can tell you. Walton's 
 pay went to his widow through ma I Ve been doing 
 some puzzling on this case already. !N"ow will you tell 
 me how Alan got the money without drawing on you ? " 
 
 " Oh, there was plenty of money lying around. The 
 job cost ten per cent, less than Walton's estimate. If 
 he 'd come back we 'd have hauled him over the coals 
 for that blunder. There was the usual reserve for work 
 in inaccessible regions and then the people we did the 
 job for paid ten days' bonus for finishing that much 
 ahead of contract time." 
 
 The Judge mused. " Was the job satisfactory to the 
 people out there ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, it was-," said McDale bluntly. " Most satis- 
 factory. But there was a funny thing there too. They 
 wrote that while they did not approve of Mr. Wayne's 
 time-saving methods, the finished work had their ab- 
 solute acceptance." 
 
 The Judge was silent for a moment. " You want 
 my advice ? " 
 
 " Yes, not for our own sake but for Wayne's." 
 
 " Well," said the Judge, " I 'm going to give it to 
 you for your sake. When you stumble across a boy
 
 34 HOME 
 
 that can cut ten per cent, off the working and time 
 estimates of an old hand like Walton, you bind him to 
 you with a long contract at any salary he wants. And 
 just one thing more: when Alan Wayne steals a cent 
 from you or fifty thousand dollars you; come to me and 
 I '11 pay it." 
 
 McDale's eyes narrowed and he puffed nervously at 
 his cigar. He got up to take his leave. " Judge," he 
 said, " your head is on right and your heart's in the 
 right place, as well. I begin to see that widow business. 
 Wayne sized us up for a hard-headed firm when it comes 
 to paying out what we don't have to and we are. It 
 was n't law but he was right. Walton's work was done 
 just as if he 'd been alive. Even a Scotchman can see 
 that. You need n't worry. A man tliat you '11 back 
 for fifty thousand is good enough for McDale & 
 McDale."
 
 CHAPTEE VI 
 
 IT was Alix that discovered Alan as the Elenic 
 steamed slowly down the Solent. He was already 
 comfortably established in his chair with a small pile 
 of fiction beside him. 
 
 She paused before she approached him. Alan had 
 always interested her. Perhaps it was because he had 
 kept himself at a distance but then he had a way of 
 keeping his distance from almost everybody. Alix had 
 thought of him heretofore as a modern exquisite subject 
 to atavic fits that, in times past, had led him into more 
 than one barbarous escapade. It was the flare of daring 
 in these shameful outbursts that had saved him from 
 a suspicion of effeminacy. Now in London she had by 
 chance heard things of him that forced her to a readjust- 
 ment of her estimate. In six months Alan had turned 
 himself into a mystery. 
 
 " Well," she said, coming up behind him, " how are 
 you?" 
 
 Alan turned his head slowly and then threw off his 
 rugs and sprang to his feet. 
 
 " The sky is clear," he said, " where did you drop 
 from ? " His eyes measured her. She was ravishing 
 in a fur toque and coat which had yet to receive their 
 baptism of import duty. 
 
 " Oh," said Alix, " my presence is humdrum. Just 
 
 35
 
 36 HOME 
 
 the usual returning from six weeks abroad. But you! 
 You come from the haunts of wild beasts and from all 
 accounts you have been one." 
 
 " Been one ! From all accounts ! " exclaimed Alan, 
 a puzzled frown on his face. " Just what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 They started walking. " I mean that even in Africa 
 one can't hide from Piccadilly. In Piccadilly you are 
 already known. Not as Mr. Alan Wayne, a New York 
 social satellite, but as a whirlwind in shirt sleeves. Ten 
 Percent Wayne, in short." She looked at him with 
 teasing archness. She could see that he was worried. 
 
 " Satellite is rather rough," remarked Alan. " I 
 never was that." 
 
 " All bachelors are satellites in the nature of things 
 satellites to other men's wives." 
 
 " Have you a vacancy ? " said Alan. 
 
 The turn of the talk put Alix in her element. She 
 had never been an ingenue. She had been born with 
 an intuitive defense. Finesse was her motto and 
 artificiality was her foil. It had never been struck from 
 her hands. On the other hand Alan knew that every 
 woman who accepts battle can be reached even if not 
 conquered. It is the approaches to her heart that a 
 woman must defend. Once those are passed, the citadel 
 turns traitor. 
 
 They both knew they were embarking upon a danger- 
 ous game, but Alix had played it often. No pretty 
 woman takes her European degree without ample oc- 
 casion for practice and Alix had been through the 
 European mill. 'She threw out her daintily shod feet
 
 HOME 37 
 
 as she walked. She was full of life. She felt like 
 skipping. The light of battle danced merrily in her 
 eyes. She made no other reply. 
 
 " I met lots of people we both know," she said, at 
 last. 
 
 " Which one of them passed on the news that I had 
 taken to the ways of a wild beast ? " 
 
 " Oh, that was the Honorable Percy. I only caught 
 a few words. He was telling about a man known as 
 Ten Percent Wayne and the only time he 'd ever seen 
 the shirt-sleeve policy work with natives. When I 
 learned it was Africa, I linked up with you at once 
 and screamed and he turned to me and said, l You 
 know Mr. Wayne?' And I said I had thought I did 
 but I found I only knew him tire a quatre epingles and 
 would n't he draw his picture over again. But just then 
 Lady Merle signaled the retreat, and when the men came 
 out somebody else snaffled Collingeford before I got 
 a chance." 
 
 " Oh, Collingeford," said Alan. " I remember." 
 He frowned and was silent. 
 
 " Alan," said Alix after a moment, " let me warn 
 you. I see a new tendency in you but before it goes any 
 farther than a tendency let me tell you that a thought- 
 ful man is a most awful bore. When I caught sight of 
 you I thought, ' What a delightful little party,' but if 
 you 're going to be pensive there are others " 
 
 Alan glanced at her. " Alix," he said, mimicking 
 her tone, " I see in you the makings of an altogether 
 charming woman. I 'm not speaking of the painstak- 
 ing veneer I suppose you need that in your walk of
 
 38 HOME 
 
 life but what 's under it. There may be others, as 
 you say. Pretty women have taken to wearing men for 
 bangles. But don't you make a mistake. I 'm not a ' 
 bangle. I 've just come from the unclothed world of 
 real things. To me a man is just a man and, what 's 
 more, a woman is just a woman." 
 
 " How un-American," said Alix. 
 
 " It 's more than that," said Alan, " it 's pre- Ameri- 
 can." 
 
 Alix was thoughtful in her turn. Alan caught her 
 by the arm and turned her toward the west. A yawl 
 was just crossing the disk of the disappearing sun. 
 Alix felt a thrill at his touch. " It 's a sweet little pic- 
 ture, is n't it ? " she said. " But you must n't touch 
 me, Alan. It can't be good for us." 
 
 " So you feel it too," said Alan, and took his hand 
 from her arm. 
 
 During the voyage they were much together, not in 
 dark corners but waging their battle in the open two 
 swimmers that fought each other, forgetting to fight the 
 tide that was bearing them out to sea. Alan was not 
 a philanderer to snatch an unrequited kiss. To him a 
 kiss was the seal on surrender. But to Alix the game 
 was its own goal. As she had always played it, nobody 
 had ever really won anything. However, it did not 
 take her long to appreciate that in Alan she had an 
 opponent who was constantly getting under her guard 
 and making her feel things, things that were alarm- 
 ing in themselves like the jump of one's heart into the 
 throat or the intoxication that goes with hot, racing 
 blood.
 
 HOME 39 
 
 Alan's power over women was in voice and words. 
 If he had been hideous it would have been the same. 
 With his tongue he carried Alix away and gave her 
 that sense of isolation which lulls a woman into laxity. 
 One night as they sat side by side, a single great rug 
 across their knees, Alan laid his hand under cover on 
 hers. A quiver went through Alix's body. Her closed 
 hand stirred nervously but she did not really draw it 
 away. " Alan," she said, " I 've told you not to ! 
 Please don't. It 's common this sort of thing." 
 
 Alan tightened his grip. " You say it 's common," 
 he said, " because you 've never thought it out. Light- 
 ning was common till somebody thought it out. I sit 
 beside you without touching you and we are in two 
 worlds. I grip your hand like this and the abyss 
 between us is closed. While I hold you nothing can 
 come between." 
 
 Alix's hand opened and settled into his. Alan went 
 on. " Words talk to the mind but through my hand my 
 body talks to yours in a language that was old before 
 words were born. If I am full of dreams of you and a 
 desert island, I don't have to tell you about it because 
 you are with me. The things I want, you want. There 
 are no other things in life, for while I hold you our 
 world is one and it is all ours. Nothing else can reach 
 us." 
 
 " For a while they sat silent, then Alix recovered her- 
 self. " After all," she said, " we 're not on a desert 
 island but on a ship with eyes in every corner." 
 
 Alan leaned toward her. " But if we were, Alix ! If 
 we were on a desert island you and I "
 
 40 HOME 
 
 For a moment Alix looked into his burning eyes. She 
 felt that there was fire in her own eyes, too, a fire she 
 could not altogether control. She disengaged herself 
 and sprang up. Alan rose slowly and stood beside her. 
 He did not look at her parted lips and hot cheeks; 
 he had suddenly become languid. " That 's it," he 
 drawled, " eyes in every corner. I wonder how many 
 morals would stand without other people's eyes to prop 
 them up ? " 
 
 Alix left him. She felt baffled, as though she had 
 tried desperately to get a grip on Alan and her hand 
 had slipped. She felt vaguely that it was essential to 
 her to get a grip on him. She had never played the loa- 
 ing side before and she was troubled. 
 
 But with the frank light of morning her troubles 
 melted into nothing and she summoned Alan to her side 
 whenever the whim came to her. Alix's party looked 
 on, amused. " It 's all right," said a good-natured 
 matron, " they 're cousins." 
 
 " So he 's a cousin, is he ? " remarked a discarded 
 bangle, and added cynically, " what a point d'appui ! " 
 
 Premonition does not come to a woman without cause. 
 Towards the end of the voyage Alix faced, wide-eyed, 
 the revelation that the stakes of the game she and Alan 
 had played were body and soul. " Alan," she said one 
 night with drooping head, " I 've had enough. I don't 
 want to play any more. I want to quit." She lifted 
 tear-filled eyes to him. The foil of artificiality had been 
 knocked from her hand. She was all woman and de- 
 fenseless. 
 
 Alan felt a trembling in all his limbs. " I want to
 
 HOME 41 
 
 quit, too, Alix," he said in his low vibrating voice, " but 
 I 'm afraid we can't. You see, I 'm beaten, too. While 
 I was just in love with your body we were safe enough, 
 but now I 'm in love with you. It 's the kind of love a 
 man can pray for in vain. No head in it ; nothing but 
 heart. Honor and dishonor become mere names. 
 Nothing matters to me but you." 
 
 Tears crawled slowly down Alix's cheeks. She stood 
 with her elbows on the rail and faced the ocean so no 
 one might see. Her hands were locked. In her mind 
 her own thoughts were running. Somehow she could 
 understand Alan without listening. If only Gerry had 
 done this thing to her, she was thinking, the pitiless 
 wracking misery would have been joy at white heat. 
 She was unmasked at last but Gerry had not un- 
 masked her. Not once since the day of the wreck and 
 their engagement had Gerry unmasked himself. 
 
 Alan was standing with his side to the rail, his eyes 
 leaving her face only to keep track of the promenaders 
 so that no officious friend should take her by surprise. 
 He went on talking. " Our judgment is calling to us to 
 quit but it is calling from days ago," he said. " We 
 would n't listen then and it 's only the echo we hear now. 
 We can try to quit if you like, but when I am alone I 
 shall call for you, and when you are alone you will call 
 for me. We will always be alone except when we are 
 near each other. We can't break the tension, Alix. It 
 will break us in the end." 
 
 The slow tears were still crawling down Alix's cheeks. 
 In all her life she had never suffered so before. She 
 felt that each tear paid the price of all her levity.
 
 42 HOME 
 
 " Alan," she said with a quick glance at him, " did 
 you know when we began that it was going to be like 
 this?" 
 
 " No," he answered. " I have trifled with many 
 women and I was ready to trifle with you. No one had 
 ever driven you and I wanted to drive you. I thought 
 I had divorced passion and love. I thought perhaps 
 you had too. But love is here. I am not driving you. 
 We are being driven."
 
 CHAPTEE VII 
 
 ALIX and Alan were in the grip of a fever that is 
 hard to break save through satiety and ruin. 
 They were still held apart by generations of sound tra- 
 dition but against this bulwark the full flood of modern 
 life as they lived it was directed. In Alan there was a 
 counter-strain, a tradition of passion that predisposed 
 him to accept the easy tenets of the growing sensual cult. 
 As he found it more and more difficult to turn hia 
 thoughts away from Alix, he strove to regain the clear- 
 headedness that only a year before had held him back 
 from definite moral surrender. 
 
 It was only a year ago that the table talk one night 
 had turned on what was Society's religion and he had 
 said, " Society has no religion nowadays ; it has given up 
 religion for a corrosive philosophy of non-ethics." 
 
 He had seen clearly then but not clearly enough to 
 save himself. He had played with the corrosive philos- 
 ophy until he had divorced flesh from the soul and now 
 it was playing with him. He found himself powerless 
 in the grip of his desire for Alix. 
 
 With her, things had not gone so far. From the 
 security of the untempted she had watched her chosen 
 world play with fire and only now when temptation 
 assailed her, did she realize the weakness that lies in 
 
 43
 
 44 HOME 
 
 every woman once her outposts have fallen and her bare 
 heart becomes engaged in the battle. 
 
 Lovers in possession of each other can hide their hap- 
 piness from a hurried world but it is hard to dissemble 
 the longing look and the reckless craving for bodily near- 
 ness to one's heart's desire when it is yet unattained. 
 Not many days had passed after their return when 
 Alan's constant attendance upon Gerry's wife became 
 the absorbing center of interest to their part of town 
 life. People said little enough. Their eyes were 
 too wide open watching the headlong rush towards 
 catastrophe. 
 
 One early morning Nance sent for Alan. He found 
 her alone. She had been crying. He came to her where 
 she stood by the fire and she turned and put her arms 
 around his neck. She tried to smile but her lips 
 twitched. " Alan," she said, " I want you to go away." 
 
 Alan was touched. He caught her wrists and took 
 her arms from around his neck. " You must n't do that 
 sort of thing to me, Nance. I 'm not fit for it." He 
 made her sit down on a great sofa before the fire and sat 
 down beside her. " You remind me to-day of the most 
 beautiful thing I ever heard said of you by a spiteful 
 friend." 
 
 "What was it?" said Nance, turning her troubled 
 eyes to him. 
 
 " She said, ' She is only beautiful in her own home.' 
 I never understood it before. It 's a great thing to be 
 beautiful in one's own home." 
 
 " Oh, Alan," said Nance, catching his hand and hold- 
 ing it against her breast, " it is a great thing. It 's the
 
 HOME 45 
 
 greatest thing in life. That 's why I sent for you 
 because you are wrecking forever your chance of being 
 beautiful in your own home. And worse than that, you 
 are wrecking Alix's chance. Of course you are blind. 
 Of course you are mad. I understand, Alan, but I 
 want to hold you close to my heart until you see until 
 the fever is cooled. You and Alix cannot do this thing. 
 It is n't as though her people and ours were of the froth 
 of the nation. You and she started life with nothing 
 but Puritan to build on. You may have built just play- 
 houses of sand, but deep down the old rock foundation 
 must endure. You must take your stand on that." 
 
 Her eyes had been fixed in the fire but now she 
 turned them to his face. Alan sat with head hanging 
 forward, his gaze and thoughts far beyond the confines 
 of the room. Then he shook himself and got up to go. 
 " I wish we could, Nance," he said gravely and then 
 added half to himself, half to her, " I '11 try." 
 
 For some days Alan had been prepared to go away 
 and take Alix with him, should she consent. Upon his 
 arrival he had had an interview with McDale & McDale 
 in the course of which that firm opened its eyes and its 
 pocket wider than it ever had before. 
 
 " You are out for money, Mr. Wayne," had been the 
 feeble remonstrance of the senior member. 
 
 " Just money," replied Alan. " If you owed as 
 much as I do you would be out for it too. Of course, 
 you 're not. What do you want ? You Ve got my 
 guarantee. Ten per cent, under office estimates for 
 work and time." 
 
 When Alan left McDale & McDale's offices he had
 
 46 HOME 
 
 contracted more or less on his own terms and McDale, 
 Junior, said to the Senior. " He 's only twenty-six - 
 a boy. How did he beat us ? " 
 
 " By beating Walton's record first," replied McDale, 
 Senior, " and how he did that time will show." 
 
 As he walked slowly back from Nance's, Alan was 
 thinking that after all there was no reason why he 
 should not cut and run no reason except Alix. 
 
 He reached his rooms. As he crossed the threshold 
 a premonition seized him. He felt as if some one were 
 there. He glanced hurriedly about. The rooms were 
 still in the disorder in which he had left them and they 
 were empty. Then he saw that he had stepped on a 
 note that had been dropped through the letter-slip. He 
 picked it up. A thrill went through him as he recog- 
 nized Alix's handwriting. There was no stamp. It 
 must have been delivered by hand. He tore it open 
 and read : " You said that a moment's notice was all 
 you asked. I will take the Montreal Express with you 
 to-day." 
 
 Alan's blood turned to liquid fire. The note conjured 
 before him a vision of Alix. He crushed it and held it 
 to his lips and laughed not jeeringly but in pure, un- 
 controlled excitement. 
 
 It was not a coincidence that Gerry had sought out 
 Alix at the very hour that Nance was summoning Alan. 
 Gerry and Nance were driven by the same forewarning 
 of catastrophe. Gerry had felt it first but he had been 
 slow to believe, slower to act. He had no precedent for 
 this sort of thing. His whole being was in revolt against
 
 HOME 47 
 
 the situation in which he found himself. It was after 
 a sleepless night a most unheard of thing with him 
 that he decided he could let things go no longer. He 
 went to Alix's room, knocked and entered. 
 
 Alix was up, though the hour was early for her. 
 Fresh from her bath she sat in a sheen of blue dressing- 
 gown before the mirror doing her own hair. Gerry 
 glanced around him and into the bathroom looking for 
 the maid. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Alix. " She 's not here. 
 Did you want to see her ? " 
 
 Gerry winced at the levity. He wondered how Alix 
 could play the game she was playing and be gay. Alix 
 finished doing her hair. " There," she said with a final 
 pat and turned to face Gerry. 
 
 He was standing beside an open window. He could 
 feel the cold air on his hands. He felt like putting his 
 head out into it. His head was hot. " Alix," he said 
 suddenly without looking at her, " I want you to drop 
 Alan." 
 
 "But I don't want to drop Alan," replied Alix 
 lightly. 
 
 Gerry whirled around at her tone. His nostrils were 
 quivering. To his amazement his hands fairly itched to 
 clutch her beautiful throat. He could hardly control his 
 voice. " Stop playing, Alix," he gulped. " There 's 
 never been a divorcee among the Lansings nor a wife- 
 beater and one is as near this room as the other right 
 now." 
 
 Gerry regretted the words as soon as he had said them 
 but Alix was not angry. She looked at him through
 
 narrowed eyes. She speculated on the sensation of be- 
 ing once again roughly handled by this rock of a man. 
 Only once before had she seen Gerry angry and the 
 sight had fascinated her then as it did now. There was 
 something tremendous and impressive in his anger and 
 struggle for control. A great torrent held back by a 
 great strong dam. She almost wished it would break 
 through. She could almost find it in her to throw her- 
 self on the flood and let it carry her whither it would. 
 She said nothing. 
 
 Gerry bit his lips and turned from her. " And Alan, 
 of all men," he went on. At the words the current of 
 her thoughts was changed. She found herself suddenly 
 on the defensive. " Do you think you are the first 
 woman he has played with and betrayed ? " Gerry's 
 lip was curved to a sneer. " A philanderer. A man 
 who surrounds himself with tarnished reputations." 
 
 A dull glow came into Alix's cheeks. " Philanderers 
 are of many breeds," she said. " There are those who 
 have the wit to philander with woman and those who 
 can only rise to a whisky or a golf club. Whatever else 
 Alan may be he is not a time-server." 
 
 Once aroused Alix had taken up the gauntlet with no 
 uncertain hand. Her first words carried the war into 
 the enemy's camp and they were barbed. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Gerry dully. He had 
 not anticipated a defense. 
 
 " I mean what you might have deduced with an effort. 
 What are you but a philanderer in little things where 
 Alan is in great ? What have you ever done to hold me 
 or any other woman? I respected you once for what
 
 HOME 49 
 
 you were going to be. That has died. Did you think 
 I was going to make you into a man ? " 
 
 Gerry stood, breathing hard, a great despondency in 
 his heart. Alix went on pitilessly. " What have you 
 become ? A monumental time-server on the world and 
 you are surprised that a worker reaches the prize that 
 you can not attain ! e All things come to him who 
 waits/ That 's a trite saying. But how about this ? 
 There are lots of things that come to him who only 
 waits that he could do without. The trouble with you 
 is that you have built your life altogether on traditions. 
 It is a tradition that your women are faithful, so you 
 need not exert yourself to holding yours ! It is a tra- 
 dition that you can do no wrong, so you need not exert 
 yourself to doing anything at all ! You are playing 
 with ghosts, Gerry. Your party was over a generation 
 ago" 
 
 Alix had calmed down. There was still time for 
 Gerry to choke her to good effect. The hour could yet 
 be his. But he did not know it. Smarting under the 
 lash of Alix's tongue he made a final and disastrous 
 false step. 
 
 " You try to humiliate me by placing me back to back 
 with Alan ? " he said, with his new-born sneer. Alix 
 appraised it with calm eyes and found it rather attrac- 
 tive. " Well, let me tell you that Alan is so small a 
 man that if I dropped out of the world to-day, he 'd sail 
 for Africa to-morrow and think for the rest of his life 
 of his escape from you as a close shave." 
 
 Alix sprang to her feet. She was trembling. Gerry 
 felt a throb of exultation. It was his turn to wound.
 
 50 HOME 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Alix very quietly, but 
 it was the quiet of suppressed passion at white heat. 
 
 " I mean that Alan is the kind of man who finds other 
 men's wives an economy. He would take everything 
 you have that 's worth taking, but not you." 
 
 A.lix's eyes blazed at him from her white face. 
 " Please go away," she said. He started to speak. 
 " Please go away," she repeated. Her lips were quiver- 
 ing and her face twitched in a way that was terrifying 
 to Gerry. He hurried out repeating to himself over and 
 over, " You have made Alix cry. You have made Alix 
 cry." 
 
 Alix toyed with the silver on her dressing-table until 
 he had gone and then she swept across the room to her 
 little writing-desk and wrote the note that Alan had 
 found half an hour later in his rooms.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 GERRY stood in the hall outside Alix's room for a 
 moment hoping to hear a sob, a cry, anything for 
 an excuse to go back. Instead he heard the scratch of 
 a pen but he was too troubled to deduce anything from 
 that. He went slowly down the stairs and out into the 
 street. The biting winter air braced him. He started 
 to walk rapidly. At the end of an hour he found him- 
 self standing on a deserted pier. He took off his hat 
 and let the wind cool his head. " I have been a brute," 
 he said to himself. " I have made a woman cry, 
 Alix ! " He turned and walked slowly back to the 
 Avenue and into his club but he still felt uneasy. A 
 waiter brought a whisky and soda and put it at his 
 elbow. Gerry turned on him. " Who told you to bring 
 that ? " Then he felt ashamed of his petulance. " It 's 
 all right, George," he said, more genially than he had 
 spoken for many a day, "but I don't want it. Take 
 it away." 
 
 He sat for a long time and at last came to a resolution. 
 Alix loved roses. He would send her enough to bank 
 her room and he would follow them home. He went 
 up the Avenue to his florist's and stood outside trying 
 to decide whether it should be one mass of blood red or 
 a color scheme. Suddenly the plate glass caught a re- 
 flection and threw it in his face. Gerry turned. A 
 
 51
 
 52 HOME 
 
 four-wheeler was passing. He could not see the occu- 
 pant but on top was a large, familiar trunk marked with 
 a yellow girdle. On the trunk was a familiar label. 
 He stared at it and the label stared back at him and 
 finally danced before his mazed eyes as the cab dis- 
 appeared into the traffic. 
 
 Gerry stood for a long while, stunned. He saw a 
 lady bow to him from a carriage and afterwards he 
 remembered that he had not bowed back. Somebody 
 ran into him. He looked back at the flowers massed in 
 the window, remembered that he did not need them now, 
 and drew slowly away. Two men hailed him from the 
 other side of the street. Gerry braced himself, nodded 
 to them and hailed a passing hansom. From the direc- 
 tion Alix's cab had taken he knew the station she was 
 bound for. As he arrived on the platform they were 
 giving the last call for the Montreal Express. He 
 caught sight of Alix hurrying through the gates and 
 followed. As she reached the first Pullman, somebody 
 rapped on the window of the drawing-room. Gerry saw 
 Alan's face pressed against the pane. He watched Alix 
 stop, turn and climb the steps of the car and then he 
 wheeled and hurried from the station. 
 
 Where could he go? Not to his club and Alan's. 
 His face would betray the scandal with which the club 
 would be buzzing to-morrow. Not to his big comfort- 
 able house. It would be too gloomy. Even in dis- 
 accord, Alix had imparted to its somber oak and deep 
 shadows the glow of buoyant life. When she was there 
 one felt as though there were flowers in the house. 
 Gerry was seized with a great desire to hide from his
 
 HOME 53 
 
 world, his mother, himself. He pictured the scare-heads 
 in the papers. That the name of Lansing should be 
 found in that galley! It was too much. He could 
 not face it. 
 
 He bought a morning paper full of shipping news and, 
 getting into a taxi, gave the address of his bank. On 
 the way he studied the sailings' column. He found what 
 he wanted. The Gunter due to sail that afternoon for 
 Brazil, Pernambuco the first stop. 
 
 At the bank Gerry drew out the balance of his current 
 account. It amounted to something over two thousand 
 dollars. He took most of it in Bank of England notes. 
 Then he started home to pack but before he reached the 
 house a vision of the servants, flurried after helping 
 their mistress off, commiserating him to each other, 
 pitying him to his face perhaps, or in the case of the 
 old butler, suppressing a great emotion, was too much 
 for him. He drove instead to a big department store 
 and in an hour had bought a complete outfit. He 
 lunched at one of the quiet restaurants that divide down 
 town from up. The people about him were voluble in 
 French and Spanish. Already he felt as if his exile 
 had begun. 
 
 The Gunter was to sail at three from Brooklyn. 
 Gerry crossed by the ferry. He did not get out of his 
 cab. Over his baggage, piled outside and in, he caught 
 a glimpse of the suspension bridge. Years and years 
 ago his father had led him across that bridge when it 
 was the eighth wonder of the world. Gerry gave a great 
 sigh at the memory. He had not invaded Brooklyn 
 since. As the cab threaded the interminable and reek-
 
 54 HOME 
 
 ing length of Furman Street he looked out and felt 
 himself upon an alien shore. 
 
 He had avoided buying a ticket. As the Gunier 
 warped out, the purser came to him. " I understand 
 you have no ticket." 
 
 " 'No," said Gerry, drawing a roll of bills. " How 
 much is the passage to Pernambuco ? " 
 
 The purser fidgeted. " This is irregular, sir." 
 
 " Is it ? " said Gerry, indifferently. 
 
 " I have no ticket forms," said the purser, weaken- 
 ing. 
 
 " I don't want a ticket," said Gerry. " I want a good 
 room and three square meals a day." 
 
 Long, quiet days on a quiet sea are a master sedative 
 to a troubled mind. Gerry had a great deal to think 
 through. He sat by the hour with hands loosely clasped, 
 his eyes far out on the ocean, tracing the course of his 
 married life and measuring the grounds for Alix's 
 arraignment. Gerry was just and generous to others' 
 faults but not to his own. He had forgotten the sting 
 of Alix's words and, to his growing amazement, saw in 
 himself their justification. A time-server he certainly 
 had been. But he reviewed the lives of many other 
 men in his own leisurely class and decided that he 
 was not without company. After all, what was there in 
 America for such men to do except make more money ? 
 
 For the first time he was struck by the narrowness 
 of American life. There was only one line of effort. 
 The whole people thronged a single causeway. They 
 made a provincial demand that all should dress alike, 
 look alike, think alike. They pressed on in a body to
 
 HOME 55 
 
 the single goal of wealth and when they got there they 
 were lost. 
 
 Individualists were rare and unwelcome. Boys 
 stoned Chinamen because they were different; they 
 followed a turbaned Asiatic, strayed to an unfriendly 
 shore, with jeers; an astounded Briton, faultlessly 
 dressed, found his spats the sensation of a street. Each 
 of these incidents Gerry had witnessed with amusement 
 and dismissed without a thought. ISTow they became so 
 many weather-vanes all pointing the same way. How 
 was it Alan had summed up the history of America? 
 " Men, machinery, machines ! " 
 
 With the thought of Alan his brow puckered. Here 
 he felt no impulse to indulgence. Some day he would 
 meet Alan and when he did he would break him. The 
 scorn he had expressed to Alix for Alan and Alan's 
 nature was without understanding but it was genuine. 
 He knew there were such men and he ascribed all their 
 acts to a debasement beyond regeneration and none to 
 temperament. From moral laxity there was no appeal 
 beyond the sin itself. 
 
 The landfall of Pernambuco awoke him from reveries 
 and introspection. He did not look upon this palm- 
 strewn coast as a land of new beginnings he sought 
 merely a Lethean shore. 
 
 The ship crawled in from an oily sea to the long strip 
 of harbor behind the reef. Above, the sun blazed from 
 a bowl of unbroken blue; on land, the multicolored 
 houses spread like a rainbow under a dark cloud of 
 brown-tiled roofs. Giant plane trees cast blots of shade 
 on the cobbled esplanade of the boat quay. In their
 
 56 HOME 
 
 shelter a negress squatted behind her basin of cous-cous 
 and another before a tray of fried fish. Around them 
 lounged a ragged crew, boatmen, stevedores and riffraff, 
 black, brown and white. Beyond the trees was a line 
 of high stuccoed houses, each painted a different color, 
 all weather-stained, and some with rusted balconies that 
 threatened to topple on to the passer-by. One bore the 
 legend, " Hotel d'Europe." There Gerry installed him- 
 self.
 
 CHAPTEE IX 
 
 BETWEEN" the hour of writing her note to Alan 
 and the moment when she stepped on the train 
 Alix had had no time to think. She was still driven by 
 the impulse of anger that Gerry's words had aroused. 
 She did not reflect that the wound was only to her 
 pride. 
 
 Alan held open the door of the drawing-room. She 
 passed in and he closed it. She did not feel as though 
 she were in a train. On the little table stood a vase. 
 It held a single, perfect rose. Under the vase was a 
 curious doily, strayed from Alan's collection of exotic 
 things. A cushion lay tossed on the green sofa, not a 
 new cushion but one that had been broken in to com- 
 forting. Alix took in every detail of the arrangement 
 of the tiny room with her first breath. What fore- 
 thought, what a note of rest with which to meet a 
 troubled and hurried heart! But how insidious to 
 frame an ignoble flight in such a homelike setting ! She 
 felt a slight revolt at the travesty. 
 
 Alan was standing with blazing eyes and working 
 face like an eager hound in leash. Alix threw back 
 her veil and looked at him. With a quick stride for- 
 ward he caught her to him and kissed her mouth until 
 she gasped for breath. With a flash she remembered his 
 own words, " If ever I kiss you I shall bring your soul 
 
 57
 
 58 HOME 
 
 out between your lips." To Alix's amazement she did 
 not feel an answering fire. Her body was being lashed 
 with a living flame and her body was cold. In that 
 instant this seemed a terrible thing. She had sold her 
 birthright for a price and the price was turning to dead 
 leaves. She made an effort to kiss Alan back but with 
 the effort shame came over her. There was so much 
 in Alan's kiss. The kiss had brought her soul out be- 
 tween her lips. Her soul stood naked before her and 
 one's naked soul is an ugly thing. The kiss disrobed 
 her, too, and from that last bourne of shame Alix sud- 
 denly revolted. 
 
 Gasping, she pushed Alan from her. Their eyes met. 
 His were burning, hers were frightened. She moved 
 slowly backward to the door and with her hand behind 
 her opened the latch. Alan did not move. He knew 
 that if he could not hold her with his eyes he could not 
 hold her at all. The train started. Alix passed 
 through the door and rushed to the platform. The 
 porter was about to drop the trap on the steps. Alix 
 slipped by him. With all her force she pushed open the 
 door and jumped. The train was moving very slowly 
 but Alix reeled and would have fallen had it not been 
 for a passing baggageman. He caught her and, still 
 in his arms, Alix looked back. Alan's white face was 
 at the window. He looked steadily at her. 
 
 " Ye almost wint with him, Miss," said the baggage- 
 man, with a full brogue and a twinkling eye. 
 
 " How did you know ? " said Alix, dazed. 
 
 At the strange question the baggageman's long upper 
 lip drew down to gravity. " Where d' ye think I was
 
 HOME 59 
 
 whin ye stipt off the thrain into me arms ? " he asked 
 solemnly. 
 
 Alix had released herself and his quaint question 
 brought her to her senses. She looked at him. He was 
 a mass of burly kindliness surmounted by a shock of 
 gray hair. " There, there," she said conciliatingly, " it 
 was a foolish question. Will you get me a cab? I 
 don't want a porter." 
 
 " ]STo fear, Miss," said the baggageman. " I '11 hand 
 ye over to no naygur. If they says anything to me I '11 
 tell 'em we 're friends." The smile was back in his 
 face and the twinkle in his eye. He started off, his 
 gray head cocked to one side. 
 
 " That 's right," said Alix as she followed his lead 
 to a cab. She got in and then shook hands with her 
 escort. He looked at the dollar bill her grasp left be- 
 hind. 
 
 " That was n't called for, Miss. It was enough for 
 me to have saved ye from a fall." 
 
 " You did n't save me," said Alix with a bewildering 
 smile. " I saved myself." 
 
 She left him scratching his head over this fresh 
 enigma. 
 
 Alix was tired and hungry when she got back home 
 but excitement kept her up. She felt that she stood 
 on the threshold of new effort and a new life. After all, 
 she thought, it was she that had made her dear old Gerry 
 into a time-server. She could have made him into any- 
 thing else if she had tried. She longed to tell him so. 
 Perhaps he would catch her and crush her in his arms 
 as Alan had done. She laughed at herself for wanting
 
 60 HOME 
 
 him to. She rang for the butler. " Where 's your 
 master, John ? " 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am. Mr. Gerry has n't come 
 back since he went out this morning." To John, Mr. 
 Lansing was a person who had been dead for some time. 
 His present overlords were Mr. and Mrs. Gerry and Mrs. 
 Lansing when she was in town. 
 
 " Telephone to the club and if he is there tell him 
 I want to see him," said Alix and turned to her welcome 
 tea. The sandwiches seemed unusually small to her 
 ravenous appetite. 
 
 Gerry was not at the club. Alix dressed resplend- 
 ently for dinner. Never had she dressed for any other 
 man with the care that she dressed for Gerry that night. 
 But Gerry did not come. At half-past nine Alix ordered 
 the table cleared. " I '11 not dine to-night," she said to 
 John. " When your master comes, show him in here." 
 She sat on in the library listening for Gerry's step in 
 the hall. 
 
 From time to time John came into the room to re- 
 plenish the fire. On one of these occasions Alix told 
 him he might go to bed but an hour later he returned 
 and stood in the door. Alix looked very small, curled 
 up in a great leathern chair by the fire. 
 
 " It 's after one o'clock, ma'am," said John. " Mr. 
 Gerry won't be coming in to-night." Alix made no 
 answer. John held his ground. " It ? s time for you to 
 go to bed, ma'am. Shall I call the maid ? " 
 
 It was a long time since John had taken any apparent 
 interest in his mistress. Alix had avoided him. She 
 had felt that the old servant disapproved of her. More
 
 HOME 61 
 
 than once she had thought of discharging him but he 
 had never given her grounds that would justify her be- 
 fore Gerry. ]$Fow he was ordering her to bed and in- 
 stead of being angry she was soothed. She wondered 
 how she could ever have thought of discharging him. 
 He seemed strong and restful, more like part of the 
 old house than a servant. Alix got up. " Wo, don't 
 call the maid. I won't need her," she said. Then she 
 added, " Good-night, John," as she passed out. 
 
 John held wide the door and bowed with a deference 
 that was a touch more sincere than usual. He answered, 
 " Good-night," as if he meant it. 
 
 Alix was exhausted but it was long before she fell 
 asleep. She cried softly. She wanted to be comforted. 
 She had dressed so beautifully she had been so beauti- 
 ful and Gerry had not come home. As she cried, her 
 disappointment grew into a great trouble. 
 
 She awoke early from a feverish sleep. Immediately 
 a sense of weight assailed her. She rang and learned 
 that Gerry had not yet come home. Then his words 
 of yesterday suddenly came to her. " If I dropped out 
 of the world to-day " Alix stared wide-eyed at the 
 ceiling. Why had she remembered those words ? She 
 lay for a long time thinking. Her breakfast was 
 brought to her but she did not touch it. It was almost 
 noon in the cloudy Sunday morning when she roused 
 herself from apathy. She sprang from the bed. She 
 summoned Judge Healey with a note and Mrs. Lansing 
 with a telegram. The telegram was carefully worded, 
 " Please come and stay for a while. Gerry is away." 
 The Judge found Alix radiating the freshness of a
 
 beautiful woman careful of her person, but it was the 
 freshness of a pale flower. Alix was grave and her 
 gravity had a sweetness that made the Judge's heart 
 bound. He felt an awakening in her that he had long 
 watched for. She told him all the story of the day be- 
 fore in a steady monotone that omitted nothing and 
 gave the facts only their own weight. 
 
 When she had finished the Judge patted her hand. 
 " You would make a splendid witness, my dear," he 
 said. " ISTow, what you want is for me to find Gerry 
 and bring him back, is n't it ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Alix, " if you can." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Of course I can. Men don't drop out 
 of the world so easily nowadays. But I still want to 
 know a thing or two. Are you sure Gerry knew noth- 
 ing of your er excursion to the station?" 
 
 Alix shook her head. " From the time he left my 
 room and the house he has not been back." 
 
 " Has he been to the club ? " 
 
 Alix colored faintly. " I see," said the Judge 
 quickly. " I '11 ask there. I '11 go now." He went 
 off and all that day he sought in vain for a trace of 
 Gerry. He went to all his haunts in the city he had 
 telephoned to those outside. At night he returned to 
 Alix but it was Mrs. Lansing that received him in the 
 library. 
 
 The Judge was tired and his buoyancy had deserted 
 him. He told her of his failure. Mrs. Lansing was 
 thoughtful but not greatly troubled. " Gerry," she said, 
 " has a level head. He may have gone away but that 
 is all. He can take care of himself." She went to
 
 HOME 63 
 
 tell Alix that there was no news. When she came back 
 the Judge turned to her. " Well," he asked, " what 
 did she say ? " 
 
 " Nothing, except that she wanted to know if you had 
 tried the bank." 
 
 The Judge struck his fist into his left hand. " Never 
 thought of it," he said. "That child has a head!" 
 He went to the telephone. From the president of the 
 bank he traced the manager, from the manager, the 
 cashier. Yes, Gerry had been at the bank on Saturday. 
 The cashier remembered it because Mr. Lansing had 
 drawn a certain account in full. He would not say how 
 much. 
 
 " There," said the Judge with a sigh of relief, " that 's 
 something. It takes a steady nerve to draw a bank ac- 
 count in full. You must take the news upstairs. I 'm 
 off. I '11 follow up the clue to-morrow." 
 
 There was a new look of content mingled with the 
 worry in Mrs. Lansing's face that made the Judge say 
 as he held out his hand in farewell, " Things better ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lansing understood him. " Yes," she answered, 
 and added, " we have been crying together." 
 
 Mrs. Lansing and Alix had never given themselves to 
 each other. There had been no warfare between them 
 but equally there had never been understanding. To 
 Mrs. Lansing's inherent calm, Alix's scintillation had 
 been repellent and Alix before Gerry's mother had felt 
 much the same restraint as before Gerry's old butler. 
 
 There had been strength in Mrs. Lansing's calm. 
 She had been waiting and now the waiting was over. 
 Alix had given herself tearful and almost wordless into
 
 64 HOME 
 
 arms that were more than ready and had then poured 
 out her heart in a broken tale that would have con- 
 founded any court of justice but which between women 
 was clearer than logic. 
 
 At the end Mrs. Lansing said nothing. Instead she 
 petted Alix, carried her off to bed and kept her there 
 for three days. In her waking hours Alix added spas- 
 modic bits to her confession sage reflections after 
 the event, dreamy " I wonders " that speculated in the 
 past and in the measure of her emotions. 
 
 Mrs. Lansing sat and listened and sewed. Her soft 
 brown hair just touched with gray, her calm face with 
 its half-hidden strength, her steady eyes, turned now on 
 Alix, now on her work, brought peace into the room 
 and held it there in spite of the disquieting lack of news 
 of Gerry. 
 
 When she spoke at last it was to say half-shyly, " You 
 are stronger than I had thought. I believe every woman 
 at the actual moment of surrender feels an impulse of 
 shame and fear. During that moment desire lets go of 
 her. It 's the last chance that fate holds out. The 
 women who fail to take the chance, it seems to me they 
 fail through weakness of spirit and not of flesh. 
 
 " More women are ruined by circumstance than by 
 desire. Women decide to burn their bridges behind 
 them and then they think they Ve burned them. All 
 the circumstances were against you. There was n't a 
 loophole in the net. Fate gave you your moment and 
 you tore your way out." 
 
 On the fourth day Alix got up but on the fifth
 
 HOME 65 
 
 she stayed in bed. Mrs. Lansing found her pale and 
 frightened. She had been crying. 
 
 " Alix," she whispered, kneeling beside the bed, 
 " what is it ? " 
 
 Alix told her amid sobs. " Oh, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Lansing, throwing her arms around her, " don't cry. 
 Don't worry. The strength will come with the need. 
 In the end you '11 be glad. So will Gerry. So will all 
 of us." 
 
 " It is n't that," said Alix, faintly. " Oh, it is n't 
 that. I 'm just thinking and thinking how terrible it 
 would have been if I had run away really run away. 
 I keep imagining how awful it would have been. It is 
 nightmare." 
 
 " Call it a nightmare if you like, sweetheart, but 
 just remember that you are awake." 
 
 " Yes," said Alix softly. " I am awake now. 
 Mother, I want to go to Red Hill. I know it 's early 
 but I want to go now. I want to watch the Hill come 
 to life and dress up for the summer. , It will amuse me. 
 It 's long since I have watched for the first buds and the 
 first swallows. I won't mind the melting snow and the 
 mud. It 's so long since I Ve seen clean country mud. 
 I want to smell it." 
 
 " You don't know how bleak the Hill can be before 
 the spring comes," objected Mrs. Lansing. 
 
 " Will it be any bleaker with me there than when 
 you were alone ? " asked Alix. 
 
 Mrs. Lansing came over to her and kissed her. " No, 
 dear," she said.
 
 CHAPTEK X 
 
 IN the squalid Hotel d'Europe Gerry occupied a large 
 room that overlooked the quay. Even if there had 
 been a better hotel in town he would not have moved. 
 Here he looked out on a scene of never-ceasing move- 
 ment and color. The setting changed with the varying 
 light. The false rains of the midsummer season came 
 up in black horses of cloud driven by a furious 
 wind. They passed with a whirl and a veritable clatter 
 of heavy drops hurled against the earth in a splendid 
 volley. The long strip of the quay emptied at the 
 first v, T et shot. The tatterdemalion crowd invaded every 
 doorway and nook of shelter with screams and laughter. 
 Then the sun again, and back came the throng to the 
 fresh-washed quay. 
 
 At night, life was still there. Boatmen slept face 
 down on the stones. Long, lugger-rigged craft crawled 
 heavily by on the outward tide. Smaller boats, their 
 lateen rigging creaking with every puff of air, slipped 
 by them, frailer but more eager to face the dangers of 
 the seas crashing beyond the reef. Last and most 
 wonderful of all came the fleet of tiny catamarans, 
 five long poles pinned together and a centerboard. 
 Above, a boomless sail towering to a point. On such 
 flimsy contraptions did the little brown fishermen head 
 for the deep sea, far out of sight of land, full of an 
 
 66
 
 HOME 67 
 
 unquestioning faith in the landward hreeze at night 
 to bring them home. 
 
 They did not love work, these men, but they loved the 
 long loafing after a good haul. As on the sea so on land. 
 Throughout the great, filthy, stuccoed city to its wide- 
 spread, muddy skirts, where mud-walled, grass-thatched 
 houses dotted a hundred twining valleys, nobody worked 
 for a competence. They worked for their daily bread 
 and when that was assured they turned with light hearts 
 to cigarettes and the juice of the cane time-servers 
 who denied the very existence of their overload. 
 
 Gerry was not lonely. He wandered interested 
 through all the straggling city. Its bridges ; its twisted 
 lines of bright-colored houses ; its stenches ; its ludicrous 
 street-cars drawn by jack-rabbit mules or puffy minia- 
 ture steam-engines; its wonderful suburbs where great, 
 many-windowed houses raised their tiled roofs above 
 long blank walls, glass-crested and overhung with riot- 
 ing hibiscus, climbing fuchsia and blazing bougainvillea 
 and, looming above all, the cool black domes of giant 
 mango trees, these things gave him a thousand new 
 and delicate sensations. He was a discoverer, a Martian 
 come to earth, and he forgot to look back. 
 
 When he was too lazy to go to the city he sat in the 
 precarious balcony of his room and watched the city 
 come to him. The long quay with its huge plane trees 
 was the little maelstrom of the city's life. It was not 
 the market but, nevertheless, here one could buy any- 
 thing from a gaited saddle horse to a queen ant dressed 
 up as a doll. Piles of fruit dotted the shade. Golden 
 pineapples lay in a pool of their own juice. The giant
 
 68 HOME 
 
 manga rosa, largest, most beautiful and most tasteless of 
 mangoes, nestled in banana leaves twisted to form a 
 basket, its cheeks of glowing pink turned up to catch 
 the eye of the ignorant or the devotee of beauty without 
 worth. Lesser mangoes were heaped in pyramids on 
 the bare stones. Around these gathered connoisseurs, 
 barefooted, bareheaded and with no more clothes than 
 the law demands but each provided with a long pointed 
 knife, deftly handled. Land of the Knife, the more 
 temperate sections of the South had named this sister 
 state. Lion of the North they called themselves and 
 cheerfully supported a prison island where four hundred 
 of their fellows were in durance for murder. 
 
 Threading through piles of fruit and the trays of 
 vendors of a dozen forms of mandioc came a cow with 
 her calf tied to her tail. A shrewd Portuguese attended 
 her. Customers got their milk fresh but it was mostly 
 foam. A drove of turkeys in charge of a man with a 
 whip passed by. Chickens in wicker baskets slung at 
 the ends of a pole ; parrots in hundreds, sure bait for the 
 sailor's morey; trays of stuffed humming-birds; jars of 
 dried green beetles; marmosets, monkeys, macaws, 
 toucans, snakes, a captive racoon, each in turn held 
 Gerry for its allotted time. 
 
 The better classes, Brazilians dressed as though they 
 had stepped off the boulevards of Paris and linen-clad 
 merchants of half-a-dozen nations, did not interest him. 
 They were merely familiar background to the things 
 that were new. 
 
 Gerry missed his club but for that he found a substi- 
 tute. Cluny's, next door to the hotel, was a strange hall
 
 HOME 69 
 
 of convivial pleasure. A massive square door, whose 
 masonry centuries had hardened and blackened to stone, 
 gave on to a long hallway that ended in a wider dungeon. 
 Here stood a bar and half-a-dozen teak tables. The 
 floor was all of stone flags. 
 
 The clientele had the cleavage of oil and water. One 
 section stood to their drink at the bar, had it and went 
 out. The other sat to their glasses at the tables and sat 
 late. Among these was a pale thin man of about 
 Gerry's age with a mouth slightly twisted to humor until 
 toward evening drink loosened it to mere weakness. 
 One afternoon he nodded to Gerry and Gerry left the 
 bar for the tables. After that they sat together. The 
 man was an American the American Consul. Gerry 
 liked him, pitied him, and forgot to pity himself. One 
 night he invited the Consul to his room. They sat in 
 the balcony, a bottle of whisky and a syphon between 
 them. Gerry started to put his glass on the rail. 
 
 " Don't do it," said the Consul with his twisted smile, 
 " it might carry away." He went on more seriously. 
 " It 's rotten. The whole place is rotten. There 's a 
 blight on the men and the women and on the children. 
 God!" 
 
 Gerry put down his glass untouched. "Why don't 
 you go home ? " 
 
 The Consul took a long drink, eyed the empty glass 
 and spoke into it. " I used to think just like that. 
 ' Why don't you go home ? ' I used to think I could go 
 home that it was just a question of buying a ticket 
 and climbing aboard a liner. But " he broke off and 
 glanced at Gerry as he refilled his glass.
 
 70 HOME 
 
 " But what ? " said Gerry. 
 
 " Well," said the Consul, " 1 'm just drunk enough to 
 tell you. I 'm only proud in the mornings before I 'm 
 thoroughly waked up. I used to drive a pen for a 
 Western daily at twenty-five dollars a week. It was 
 good pay and I married on it. I and the girl, we lived 
 like the corn-fed hogs of our native state. Life was 
 one sunshine and when the baby came we joined hands 
 and said good-by to sorrow forever. Then her people 
 got busy and landed me this job. The pay was three 
 thousand and if you want to see how big three thousand 
 dollars a year can look, just go and stand behind any old 
 kind of plow in Kansas. I jumped at it. We sold 
 out our little outfit and raked up just enough to see me 
 out here. The girl and the kid went to visit her people. 
 I was to save up out of the first quarter's pay and send 
 for them. That was three years ago." 
 
 He stopped, plunged in thought. Gerry said nothing 
 but lit a long cigar. The Consul went on. " The price 
 of a lunch here would give me three squares at home 
 and I could support the family for a month on the 
 price of a suit of clothes. But even so, I could have 
 sent the money if I had been somebody's clerk. Some- 
 how, we don't realize at home what position means 
 abroad. Little humdrum necessities, food and clothing, 
 the few drinks of the evening after the day's work with 
 which every man in the tropics braces mind and body 
 and no harm done, these commonplace things and the 
 decency in appearances that any official must keep up, 
 they made that big three thousand look like a snowball 
 in summer. Try ? I did try. But I could n't run to
 
 HOME 71 
 
 a dozen suits of whites and twice as many shirts. I got 
 to wearing a collar for two days as well. And let me 
 tell you that when you 're among the clean in the tropics, 
 that 's the beginning of the end. 
 
 " They could n't understand it at home. First came 
 surprise, then scolding, then just plain pleading. That 
 did for me. I left my place at the bar in Cluny's and 
 took a seat at the tables. I Ve sat there for two years 
 and nobody ever takes my chair. They call it the Amer- 
 ican Consulate. 
 
 " I Ve still got to tell you the worst. Just to speak 
 English here makes you a member of a clan. The 
 people I 'd made friends with, and some that I had n't, 
 took up a purse for me. Enough to cover my ticket and 
 a tidy sum besides. They 'd done it before. Irish, 
 Scotch, English or American, it was all one to them. 
 They gave an ex-friend the last chance of home. They 
 might have known that with me, if I was far enough 
 gone to take the money, I was too far gone to save. 
 I took it and I went to my room and blubbered." 
 
 He stopped again. There was a long silence ; then he 
 went on. " And so I took the money. The steamer 
 sailed without me. In three days the money was gone." 
 
 " You paid it back ? " said Gerry. His face was red 
 with shame. He felt as if he had helped to steal from 
 that relief fund. 
 
 " Yes, I paid it back," said the Consul, " and they Ve 
 put it in the bank. It ? s ticketed for the next American 
 that needs the last chance of home. Those fellows 
 they saw me sweat blood to pay, and so they did that." 
 
 " Do you see that steamer out there ? " said Gerry.
 
 72 HOME 
 
 " Well, she 's bound for home. I want to give you the 
 chance that comes after the last chance. I want you 
 to let me send you home." 
 
 The Consul looked around. His pendulous lip 
 twisted into a smile. " So you took all that talk for the 
 preamble to a touch ! " 
 
 " No, I did n't," said Gerry indignantly. 
 
 " Well, well, never mind," said the Consul. 
 " There 's nothing left to go back to and there 's noth- 
 ing left to go back. That little account in the bank and 
 what it may do for some poor devil is the only monu- 
 ment I '11 ever build." 
 
 The whisky bottle was almost empty but Gerry's 
 glass was still untouched. The Consul pointed at it. 
 " You can still leave it alone ? I don't know where you 
 come from, or what you 're loafing in this haven of time- 
 servers for, but 1 7 m going to give you a bit of advice. 
 You take that steamer yourself." 
 
 Gerry colored. " I can't," he stammered. " There 's 
 nothing left for me either to go home to." He said 
 nothing more. The Consul had suddenly turned 
 drowsy.
 
 CHAPTEE XI 
 
 ALMOST a month had passed since Gerry landed on 
 his Lethean shore, and it had served him well. 
 But that night on the balcony woke him up. The world 
 seemed to have time-servers in small regard. First 
 Alix and now this consul chap. Gerry began to think 
 of his mother. He strolled over to the cable station. 
 The offices were undergoing repairs. The ground floor 
 was unfurnished save for a table and one chair. In 
 the chair sat a chocolate-colored employee with a long 
 bamboo on the floor beside him. Gerry's curiosity was 
 aroused. He went in and wrote his message to his 
 mother just a few words telling her he was all right. 
 The chocolate gentleman folded the message, slipped it 
 into the split end of the bamboo and stuck it up through 
 a hole in the ceiling to the floor above. Gerry smiled 
 and then laughed at the gravity with which his smile was 
 received. The man looked at him in astonishment. 
 These English were all mad and discourteous. What 
 was there to laugh at in a man at work ? 
 
 Gerry went out and rambled over the city. Night 
 came on. He was restless. He wished he had not sent 
 the message. It was forming itself into a link. He 
 dined badly at a restaurant and then wandered back to 
 the quay. Arriving steamers were posted on a black- 
 board under a street lamp. The mail from New York 
 
 73
 
 74 HOME 
 
 was due tomorrow. The Consul's papers would be full 
 of the latest New York society scandal his scandal. 
 He went to his room and sat on the balcony watching 
 the varied craft preparing to drift out on the tide. Sud- 
 denly he got up and went down to the quay. 
 
 A long, raking craft was taking on its meager provi- 
 sions. Gerry engaged its captain in a pantomime parley. 
 The boat was bound for Penedo to take on cotton. 
 Gerry decided to go to Penedo. Two of the crew went 
 back with him to get his baggage. The hotel was closed. 
 Gerry was the only guest and he had his key. He had 
 paid his weekly bill that day, so there was no need to 
 wake any one up. In half an hour he and his belong- 
 ings were stowed on the deck of the Josephina and she 
 was drifting slowly down to the bar. 
 
 Four days later they were off the mouth of the San 
 Francisco. They doubled in and tacked their way up 
 to Penedo. There was no life in Penedo. It was 
 desolate and lonely compared with the Hotel d'Europe 
 and the lively quay ; so when a funny little stern-wheeler 
 started up the river on its weekly trip to Piranhas, Gerry 
 went with it. 
 
 Piranhas was a town of mud plastered against a bar- 
 ren cliff. It made no pretense to being alive. Here 
 a dead man could live in peace with his surroundings. 
 From fifteen miles up the river came the rumble of the 
 mighty Paulo Affonso Falls, singing a perpetual 
 requiem. Gerry established himself in a hovel of an 
 inn that even in this far retreat did not dare call itself 
 hotel. 
 
 The only industry in Piranhas was the washing of
 
 HOME 75 
 
 clothes and the women did that. Fish were caught in 
 great quantities but fishing was not an industry. Here, 
 too, man fished only when he was hungry. 
 
 Gerry chartered a ponderous canoe. At first he had 
 a man to paddle him up and down and sometimes across 
 the wide half-mile of water. But before long he 
 learned to handle the thing himself. The heavy work 
 soon trimmed his splendid muscles into shape. He sup- 
 plied the hostelry with a variety of fish. 
 
 One morning he woke earlier than usual. The wave 
 of life was running high in his veins. He sprang up 
 and, still in his pajamas, hurried out for his morning 
 swim. The break of day was gloriously chilly. A cool 
 breeze, hurrying up from the sea, was steadily banking 
 up the mist that hung over the river. Gerry sprang into 
 his canoe and pushed off. He drove its heavy length 
 up stream, not in the teeth of the current, for no man 
 could do that, but skirting the shore, seizing on the help 
 of every eddy and keeping an eye out for the green 
 swirling mound that meant a pinnacle of rock just short 
 of the surface. He went further up the river than ever 
 before. His muscles were keyed to the struggle. He 
 passed the last jutting bend that the best boatmen on the 
 river could master and found himself in a bay protected 
 by a spit of sand, rock-tipped and foam-tossed where it 
 reached the river's channel. From this point the river 
 was a chaos of jagged rocks that fought the mighty tide 
 hurled from the falls still miles above. 
 
 Gerry ran the canoe upon the shore and stripped. He 
 stepped on to the spit of sand. In that moment just 
 to live was enough. He stretched his arms out and,
 
 76 HOME 
 
 looking down, watched the fine texture of his body turn 
 to goose-flesh. Then the sun broke out and helped the 
 wind clear the last bank of mist from the river. Gerry's 
 body took on a rosy glow. He had never seen it like 
 that before and as he looked a sharp cry broke on his 
 astonished ears. 
 
 Almost at the end of the tongue of sand stood a girl. 
 A white cotton robe was at her feet. Her hair was blow- 
 ing around her slim shoulders. Over one of them she 
 gazed, startled, at Gerry. He drew back horribly con- 
 fused and mumbling apologies that she could not have 
 understood even if she could have heard them. Then 
 she plunged with a clean long dive into the river. But 
 before she plunged she laughed. Gerry heard the laugh. 
 With an answering cry he hurled himself into the water 
 and swam as he had never swum before. 
 
 The girl had further to go across the little bay, but 
 she could beat Gerry swimming and she did. Only she 
 failed to use her head and, when she found bottom, 
 started to wade. Wading is slow work in water waist 
 high. Gerry stuck to his long powerful stroke. As the 
 girl reached the bank the strong fingers of his right hand 
 closed on her bare ankle.
 
 CHAPTEE XII 
 
 GERRY'S cablegram to his mother was forwarded 
 to Red Hill on the very day that the Judge had 
 gone up to tell them that no trace could be found of the 
 missing man. The Judge was more down-hearted than 
 ever over Gerry's disappearance and when he found the 
 two women radiating happiness and excitement his 
 heart sank lower stilL 
 
 " I have-n't any good news," he said ruefully before 
 he alighted. 
 
 " Tease him," said Alix in a low tone to Mrs. Lan- 
 sing. 
 
 But Mrs. Lansing had found new lines in the Judge's 
 tired face and she whispered back, " I can't." She put 
 the cablegram in the Judge's hand. 
 
 " What 's this ? " he said and read it. Then he gave 
 a war-whoop, caught Alix around the waist and kissed 
 her. 
 
 The Firs were gay that night gay with the joy of 
 happy people happily planning. In a month, say at the 
 most, two months, Gerry could be here. Spring would 
 have come. The Hill would be decked out in full 
 regalia of leaf and blossom. It would be in full com- 
 mission to meet him. They looked at Alix and Alix 
 seemed to look at herself. He would come into his own 
 as never before. 
 
 The Judge undertook the cabling. He cabled Gerry 
 
 77
 
 78 HOME 
 
 and the message was reported undelivered. Then he 
 cabled the American Consul. There followed a long 
 series of messages ; first quick and hopeful, then lagging 
 but not doubtful, then a wearying silence of weeks, end- 
 ing with the inevitable blow. Gerry had been traced 
 to the San Francisco river. The envoy sent on his track 
 by the Judge's orders had reached Piranhas to find the 
 little town in apathetic wonder over the discovery of 
 Gerry's canoe stranded three miles down the river. The 
 paddle was still in the canoe and a suit of pajamas. 
 No further trace of Gerry had been found. His body 
 had not been recovered. The people said it was not un- 
 usual. He had undoubtedly been attacked by tiger fish. 
 In that case his bones would have been stripped of flesh. 
 It was impossible to drag the great river. 
 
 The Judge hid in his heart the harrowing details. To 
 Mrs. Lansing he told the central fact. She was struck 
 dumb with grief and then she thought of Alix. Almost 
 hastily they decided that it was not a time to tell Alix 
 and during long months they put her off with false news 
 of the search. They carried it further and further into 
 the wilds of the subcontinent. The country was so vast, 
 there was no telling when the messenger would finally 
 come up with Gerry. 
 
 Alix bore the strain with wonderful patience. The 
 truth was that her thoughts were not on Gerry. Some- 
 thing greater than Gerry was claiming all her faith, 
 all her strength of body and soul. She did not talk. 
 She was holding that final communion with her inner- 
 most self with which a woman dedicates her body to 
 pain and sacrifice. Alix was not afraid. In those days
 
 HOME ?9 
 
 the spirit of the race her race of pioneers shone 
 from her steady eyes and even put courage in those about 
 her. 
 
 Only when the ordeal was over and an heir to the 
 house of Lansing had raised his lusty voice in apparent 
 rage at having been born to so small a kingdom, did the 
 frail Alix of other days come back. As she lay, pale 
 and thin, but with the glorious light of supreme achieve- 
 ment in her eyes, Mrs. Lansing went on her knees beside 
 the bed and sobbed, " Oh, Alix, I love you so, I love 
 you so ! " 
 
 Alix smiled. Slowly she reached one hand over and 
 placed it in Mrs. Lansing's. " You are crying because 
 you are a granny now," she said, softly, playfully. 
 
 Then came the day when Alix was strong strong 
 enough. Mrs. Lansing told her in a choked voice what 
 they knew and what every one believed. She cried 
 softly in Alix's arms. 
 
 " Poor Mother ! " said Alix, her lips against the wet 
 cheek. " How strong you 've been ! How you hid it 
 from me ! What a burden to carry in your heart, and 
 smile. But listen, dear Mummy. You are all wrong. 
 Perhaps I would not have known it if you had told me 
 then but I know it now. Gerry is not dead. 
 There is no river that can drown Gerry." 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Lansing, frightened, " you 
 must not think that. It 's always the best swimmers 
 that risk the most." 
 
 " It is n't that he can swim," said Alix. Her eyes 
 turned slowly till they rested on her son. Her bosom 
 swelled at the memory of the travail the terrible tra-
 
 80 HOME 
 
 vail that she had borne, not for the child alone, nor for 
 Gerry alone, but for them both. " Swimming has noth- 
 ing to do with it. Somehow I know that Gerry is all 
 right, somewhere on this little world. Only, dear," and 
 here her voice faltered and her eyes shone with tears, 
 " this little world seems mighty big when hearts are far 
 apart." 
 
 Alix clung to her belief. So strong was her faith that 
 Mrs. Lansing became infected, but the Judge held out 
 against them. " My heart is with you," he said, at the 
 end of months, " but my head won't turn. A naked 
 man even in South America would have caused remark. 
 Why should n't he have come back for his clothes, for his 
 money ? After all, he was n't a fugitive from justice. 
 He was a man wandering over the earth in pursuit of 
 a mere whim and a whim does n't last forever." 
 
 Alix interrupted him. " Judge, I have never been 
 angry with you. We all owe you too much. But if you 
 ever say ' was ' about Gerry again " She stopped 
 and bit her lip but her eyes spoke for her. 
 
 " My dear girl," said the Judge and only his color 
 showed that he was hurt, " don't be angry with me. It 
 shall be as you say. I Ve only been trying to save you 
 from years of weary waiting. If you have the courage 
 to wait for sorrow, I shall wait too." 
 
 Alix kissed him. " There," she said, " I 'm sorry I 
 was rough." 
 
 " You ! rough ! " laughed the Judge. Then he 
 jumped up. " I 'm forgetting my duties. I have a 
 guest of my very own over at Maple House and I must 
 go to him."
 
 HOME 81 
 
 A few weeks before, the Hon. Percy Collingeford had 
 looked up the Judge. It was as much a pleasure to the 
 young man as a duty he owed to his father, whose 
 friend the Judge had been for many years. 
 
 Collingeford was no stranger to America but he knew 
 far more about dodging arroyos in New Mexico on a 
 cow pony than he did about dodging the open trenches 
 and debris of Fifth Avenue on the trail of a tea-party. 
 He was an Englishman, a younger son with enough 
 money to put him above the remittance class, and he 
 was possessed of far more intelligence than he had been 
 born with, for, from his youth up, he had sought out 
 experience in many places. He came back from the 
 Klondike with more money than, he needed for his 
 passage but only a few kindred spirits knew that he had 
 made it hammering the piano in The Fallen Star of 
 Hope. He had the English gentleman's common creed : 
 ride straight, shoot straight, tub often and talk the 
 King's English. That creed fulfilled, nothing else 
 seemed to worry him. 
 
 He was dining with the Judge at the club one night 
 when the name of Wayne Alan Wayne floated over 
 occasionally from a neighboring table. Later as they 
 sat over their coffee and cigars Collingeford said ab- 
 ruptly, " I know a chap named Wayne." 
 
 "So?" said the Judge. 
 
 " Heard those people mention Alan Wayne," ex- 
 plained Collingeford. " I wondered if it was the same 
 one Ten Percent Wayne of Africa." 
 
 " That 's the one," said the Judge and watched Col- 
 lingeford's face.
 
 82 HOME 
 
 " Hum," said Collingeford. " When I saw Wayne lie 
 was in shirt sleeves and a battered sun helmet. There 
 are some men that won't shake hands with him, but 
 I 'm not one of them." 
 
 It was then that the Judge decided to take Collinge- 
 ford to Maple House for over Sunday.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 GERRY LANSING was sitting alone in the shade 
 of a bush, his knees gathered in his arms and his 
 head bowed down. Great quivering sighs that were 
 almost sobs were shaking his strong body. In one ter- 
 rific swirl life had wrenched him from the moorings of 
 generations, tossed him high and dropped him, broken. 
 He had after all been only a weakling, waiting to fall 
 at the first temptation. It seemed as if it could not be 
 true. The sun had only just risen. The mist still hung 
 in the air in wisps. It was still early morning the 
 morning that he had found so glorious the morning 
 in which just to live had seemed enough. But it was 
 true. Between the moment when he had plunged from 
 the sandspit and the moment when he and the girl had 
 stood on the river bank and laughed together to see 
 the canoe, worked adrift by the eddy, swirl out into the 
 river and away, eons had passed. In that laughing 
 moment he had stood primeval man in a primeval world. 
 With the drops of water from the river he had flicked 
 off the bonds it had taken centuries to forge. And now 
 the storm was past, the elation over, and his truant 
 conscience returned to stand dismayed before the devas- 
 tation of so short a lapse. 
 
 The girl, dressed in a homespun cotton robe belted at 
 
 the waist, came back down a half-hidden path, shyly 
 
 83
 
 84: HOME 
 
 at first and then with awe to see him weeping. She 
 tossed him a cotton jumper and trousers and then drew 
 back and waited for him in the path. He picked up 
 the garments and looked at them. They were such 
 simple clothes as he had seen laborers wearing. He rose 
 slowly to his feet, dressed and followed the girl. 
 
 She led him along the path through the brush and out 
 into a little valley made up of abandoned cane and rice 
 bottoms. In the center was a slight elevation, too low to 
 be called a hill, and on it was an old plantation house, 
 white stucco once, now sadly weather-streaked, its tiles 
 green-black with the moss of years. 
 
 She pointed to the house and then to herself and 
 smiled. He understood the pantomime and nodded. 
 When they reached the house a withered and wrinkled 
 little woman came out to the arched veranda to meet 
 them. She looked Gerry over shrewdly and then held 
 out her hand. He shook it listlessly. They walked 
 through a long dividing hall. On each side were large 
 rooms, empty, save one where a big bed, a wash-stand, 
 and an old bureau with mildewed glass, were grouped 
 like an oasis in a desert. They reached the kitchen. It 
 was evidently the living-room of the house. A ham- 
 mock cut off one corner. Chairs were drawn up to 
 a rough, uncovered table. A stove was built into 
 the masonry and a cavernous oven gaped from the 
 massive wall. 
 
 At the stove was an old negress, making coffee with 
 shaky deliberation. On the floor sat an old darky clad 
 only from his waist down in such trousers as Gerry was 
 wearing, except that they were soiled and tattered. He
 
 HOME 85 
 
 looked up and fastened his eyes on Gerry and then 
 struggled to his feet. Dim recollections of some bygone 
 white master brought a gleam into his bleary eyes. He 
 raised his hand in the national gesture of child to parent, 
 slave to master. " Blessing, Master, blessing." Gerry 
 had learned the meaning of the quaint custom. " God 
 bless thee," he answered in badly jumbled Portuguese. 
 The girl and the wrinkled little woman looked at him, 
 surprised, and then smiled at each other as women smile 
 at the first steps of a child. 
 
 They made him sit down at the table and placed be- 
 fore him crisp rusks of mandioc flour and steaming 
 coffee whose splendid aroma triumphed over the sordid- 
 ness of the scene and through the nostrils reached the 
 palate with anticipatory touch. It was sweetened with 
 dark, pungent syrup and was served black in a capacious 
 bowl, as though one could not drink too deeply of the 
 elixir of life. 
 
 Gerry ate ravenously and sipped the coffee, at first 
 sparingly, then greedily. The old negress fluttered 
 nervously about the stove, nursing its inadequate fire of 
 charcoal. Her eyes were big with wonder at the 
 capacity of the white master. The old negro had sunk 
 back to his seat on the floor. The two white women 
 stood and watched Gerry. The more he ate the more 
 they urged. 
 
 Gerry set down the empty bowl with a sigh. The 
 rusks had been delicious. Before the coffee the name 
 of nectar dwindled to impotency. Its elixir rioted in 
 his veins. At the sigh the girl had deftly rolled a cig- 
 arette in a bit of corn husk, scraped thin as paper.
 
 86 HOME 
 
 Now she slipped it into his fingers. The old negress 
 picked up a live coal and, passing it from shaky hand 
 to shaky hand, deposited it on his plate. Gerry lit the 
 cigarette. With the first long contented whiff he smiled. 
 The smile brought stinging recollection. With a frown 
 he threw away the cigarette and rose from the table. 
 " The brute is fed and laughs," he said aloud and strode 
 from the room. The girl and the little wrinkled woman 
 looked at each other in dismay. They seemed to sense 
 the unintelligible words. The old darky crawled across 
 the floor and possessed himself of the cigarette. 
 
 Gerry went to seat himself on the steps of the veranda. 
 Before him stretched the fallow valley, beyond it 
 gleamed the black line of the rushing river. To the 
 right were the ruins of a sugar mill and stables. To 
 the left the debris that once had been slaves' quarters. 
 The fields still bore the hummocks, in rough alignment, 
 that told the story of past years fruitful in cane. All 
 was waste, all was ruin. 
 
 The girl slipped to a seat beside him. She rolled a 
 fresh cigarette and then shyly laid a small brown hand 
 on his arm. Gerry looked at her. Her big brown eyes 
 were sorrowful and pleading. She held out the cigarette 
 with a little shrug that deprecated the smallness of the 
 offering. 
 
 Gerry felt a twinge of remorse. He patted the hand 
 that lay on his arm, smiled, and took the cigarette. The 
 girl's face lit up. She called and again the negress 
 brought fire. This time Gerry smoked gravely. The 
 girl sat on beside him. Her hand lay in his. 
 
 So they sat until the sun passed the zenith and, slip-
 
 HOME 87 
 
 ping over the eaves, fell like fire on their bare feet. 
 Gerry stood up, pointed to himself and then down the 
 river to the town. The girl shook her head. She made 
 him understand that he was cut off from the town by 
 an impassable tributary to the great river that he 
 would have to make a long detour inland. Then she 
 swept her hand from the sun to the horizon to show 
 him that the day was too far gone for the journey. 
 
 He was not much concerned. An apathy seized him 
 at the thought of going back. He felt as though shame 
 had left some visible scar on his countenance that men 
 must see and read. As he stood, thoughtful and de- 
 tached, the girl grasped his arm with both her hands and 
 drew his attention to her. Then she gave one sweep of 
 her arm that embraced all the ruin of house and mill 
 and fields. She pointed to herself. He understood: 
 these things were hers. Then she folded her hands and 
 with a gesture of surrender laid them in his. 
 
 It was eloquent. There was no mistaking her mean- 
 ing. Gerry was touched. He held both her clasped 
 hands in one of his and put his arm around her 
 shoulders. She fixed her eyes on his face for the answer. 
 Once more Gerry's eyes wandered over all that ruin. 
 After all, he thought, why not ? Why not bury his own 
 ruin here in company? But she read no decision in 
 his face though she watched it long. What she saw 
 was debate and for the time it satisfied her. 
 
 Gerry all that afternoon was very silent and thought- 
 ful silent because there was no one he could talk to, 
 thoughtful because the idea the girl had put into his 
 head was taking shape, aided by a long chain of circum-
 
 88 HOME 
 
 stances. He looked back over his covered trail. If he 
 had been some shrewd fugitive from justice he could not 
 have planned it better. His sudden flight without visit- 
 ing his home, his failure to buy a ticket, the subornation 
 of the purser with its assurance of silence as to his 
 presence or destination, all that had been wiped out by 
 his cablegram to his mother. But then fate had stepped 
 in again and once more blotted out the trail. Gerry 
 pictured the finding of the canoe and paddle with his 
 pajamas miles away from the spot where he had left 
 them. Supposing there were any search for him from 
 home, and there was no reason to believe there would 
 be since he had cabled reassurance to his mother, it 
 would come up against a blank wall with the tracing 
 of the canoe, the pajamas and the paddle. They formed 
 a clue which could lead to but one conclusion. 
 
 His mother would have understood his flight from the 
 disgrace that undoubtedly had flaunted itself in every 
 one of his familiar haunts. Secure in the retreat of 
 Red Hill she had probably truly pictured him fleeing 
 from the memory of Alix and the fall of the name of 
 Lansing. Then there was the cablegram to reassure her. 
 In all probability there had been no search, but even if 
 there were, it must in the end come up against this new 
 obliteration of the trail ! The fact recurred again and 
 again in his thoughts. In the terrible hour after the 
 scene of Alix's surrender to Alan he had longed to hide 
 from his world, from his mother and from himself. 
 Some genius had heard his wish. The old Gerry Lan- 
 sing was dead. Even from himself the old Gerry 
 Lansing had been torn away in a chariot of fire. Pas-
 
 HOME 89 
 
 sion had swirled its flame about him and left ruin, 
 ashes. 
 
 In the cool of the evening he looked about him. The 
 tiny world into which he had fallen was penurious but 
 self-contained. Such fabrics as there were, were home- 
 spun from the bolls of a scraggy patch of cotton bushes. 
 The beans of castor plants, those giant weeds that haunt 
 all scenes of ruin in the subcontinent, supplied oil for 
 feeble lights at night. A little oil in a clay dish with 
 a twisted wick of cotton giving forth more smoke than 
 light seemed to fix him in his setting of prehistoric man. 
 The rice, gathered from an enduring bottom, cultivated 
 by no effort aside from the impassive rise and fall of 
 the river, formed with mandioc, the backbone of the 
 household's sustenance. From the outcrops of the 
 abandoned cane fields, with the assistance of an antedi- 
 luvian hand-mill and an equally antiquated iron pot, 
 they made the black syrup that served for sugar. Salt, 
 slightly alkaline, was plentiful. A few cows and their 
 progeny lived in the open and lived well, for, even un- 
 tilled, the lands of the valley were rich. An occasional 
 member of the herd was carried off to market by the 
 old darky. The proceeds bought the very few contribu- 
 tions of civilization necessary to the upkeep of the lenten 
 life. 
 
 Gerry decided. He looked at the girl and she ran 
 to him. He put his arms around her and gazed with a 
 sort of numbed emotion into her great dark eyes. Those 
 eyes were wells of simplicity, love, fidelity, but below 
 all that there were depths of unmeasured and unmeasur- 
 ing passion that gave all and demanded all.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 COLLINGEFOKD gave a sigh of relief when he 
 saw what manner of place was Maple House. 
 As they gathered around the great table for dinner 
 he was the only stranger and he did not feel it. Nance 
 was there with the faint smile of a mother that has 
 just put her children to bed. Charley Stirling, teasing 
 Clematis, tried to forget that Monday and the city were 
 coming together. Mrs. J. Y., with Collingeford on her 
 right and the Judge on her left, held quiet sway over 
 the table and nodded reassuringly at the old Captain 
 who was making gestures with his eyes to the effect that 
 a whisky and soda should be immediately offered to the 
 guest. J. Y., pretty gray by now, sat thoughtful, but 
 kindly, at the other end of the table. Clem was beside 
 him. 
 
 It was not until the men were sitting alone after the 
 glass of port, in which all had drunk Collingeford's wel- 
 come to that house, that the Judge said casually, " Col- 
 lingeford saw Alan in Africa." 
 
 " Eh ! What ? " said the Captain aroused to sudden 
 interest. " What 's that about Alan ? " 
 
 " I ran across Alan Wayne in Africa," said Collinge- 
 ford, smiling. " Do you want me to tell you about 
 it?" 
 
 90
 
 HOME 91 
 
 ISTance called Charley Stirling out. " You shirker," 
 she said, " come and sit with me in the hammock." 
 
 " Collingeford was just going to tell about meeting 
 Alan in Africa," said Charley indignantly. And then 
 ISTance said " Oh ! " and wanted to send him back but 
 he would n't go. 
 
 " Yes," grunted the Captain in reply to Collingeford's 
 question and J. Y. nodded as he caught the young man's 
 eye. " Wish you would," he said and leaned forward, 
 his elbows on the table. 
 
 Collingeford was one of those men who are sensitive 
 to men. His vocabulary did not run to piffle but he 
 loved an understanding ear. He looked at the Judge's 
 keen but restful face, at the Captain's glaring eyes, which 
 somehow had assumed a kindly glint, at J. Y.'s rugged 
 figure, suddenly grown tense, and he knew that Alan 
 Wayne was near to the hearts of these three. He 
 fingered his wine glass. " If I was one of those men," 
 he began, looking at nobody, " who dislike Ten Percent 
 Wayne I would n't tell you about him. But I 'm not. 
 It took me only two hours to get over hating him and 
 those two hours were spent in a broiling sun at the 
 wrong end of a half -finished bridge. 
 
 " Prince Bodsky and I were on shikari. We were 
 headed home after a long and unsuccessful shoot in new 
 country and we were as sore and tired and bored with 
 the life of the wild as two old-timers ever get. On the 
 day I 'm telling you about we were trekking up a river 
 gorge to a crossing. After lunch and the long rest we 
 still had ten miles to go to cross and it did n't help 
 things to know that once over we had to come straight
 
 92 HOME 
 
 back on the other side. During the first hour's march 
 in the afternoon we heard the strangest sound that ever 
 those wilds gave forth. It was like hammering on steel 
 but we refused to believe our ears until a sudden curve 
 brought us bang up against the indisputable fact of a 
 girder-bridge in the throes of construction. Before the 
 thought of the sacrilege to the game country before 
 we could see in this noisy monstrosity the root of our 
 recent bad luck came the glad thought that we did n't 
 have to do ten miles up that gorge and ten back. We 
 would have whooped except that men don't whoop in 
 Africa it scares the game. 
 
 " I said the bridge was in the throes of construction. 
 It was just that. Its two long girders, reaching from 
 brink to brink, with their spidery trusses hanging under- 
 neath, fairly swarmed with sweating figures, and the 
 figures were black. It was that that brought us to a 
 full stop and just when our eyes were fixed with the 
 intensity of discovery, one of the workers looked up, saw 
 us, relaxed and gave the loud grunt which stands in 
 Landin for ' Just look at that ! ' in English. 
 
 " The babbling and hammering around him ceased, 
 but while he still stared at us, we saw a veritable appari- 
 tion. A white man, hung between heaven and the 
 depths of the gorge, was racing along the top of the 
 slippery girder. His helmet blew off, hung poised, and 
 then plunged in long tacking sweeps. The man was 
 dressed in a cotton shirt, white trousers and thick woolen 
 socks. ISTo boots. Of course, I didn't notice all that 
 till afterwards. In his hand he carried a sjambok. 
 Suddenly the staring darky seemed to feel him coming
 
 HOME 93 
 
 but, before he could turn, the sjambok quirt came down 
 with the clinging sting of hide on flesh. We saw the 
 blood spurt. The negro toppled without a cry. He 
 fell inside, caught on a truss, clung, and finally with a 
 struggle drew himself up on to a stringer. A shout of 
 laughter went up from his fellows. Bodsky and I had 
 heard it often the laugh of the African for his brother 
 in pain. And then they fell to work again. The black 
 with the blood trickling off his back rested long enough 
 to get his breath and then climbed back to his place on 
 the girder. He was grinning. Don't ask me to explain 
 it. Men have died trying to explain Africa. 
 
 " The white man had stopped and half turned. He 
 stood, a little straddling, on the girder, and switched 
 the sjambok to and fro. His eyes were blazing. From 
 his lips dropped a patter of all the vile words in Lan- 
 din, Swahili and half-a-dozen other dialects, the words 
 that a white man learns first if he listens to natives. 
 The jargon seemed to incite the blacks. They worked 
 as clumsily as ever but harder. They started to sing, as 
 the African does when he 's getting up a special burst of 
 speed. Then the white man walked off the girder on 
 our side, out of the way. ' Now 's our time,' I whis- 
 pered to Bodsky. He shook his head slowly from side 
 to side but I was already under way. I walked up to 
 the white man and. asked him if he could let us across. 
 He glanced around as if he had n't seen our outfit till 
 that moment and then he looked me square in the eyes. 
 ' We knock off at six,' he said, and that was all. 
 
 " I turned back. I 'd been angry before but never 
 as angry as that. Bodsky was already getting up the
 
 94 HOME 
 
 fly of a tent. ' I saw it coming,' he said with his quiet 
 little laugh that you never hear when there 's anything 
 to laugh at. ' Look here, Bodsky,' I said, ' let 's walk 
 to the old crossing.' And he answered, ' My dear chap, 
 I 'm going to sit right here. I would n't miss this for 
 a shot at elephant. That man is Ten Percent 
 Wayne.' 
 
 " ' Where 'd you meet him ? ' I asked. 
 
 " t Never met him/ said Bodsky, ' but I Ve heard of 
 him.' So had I. We sat down together under the fly 
 on a couple of loads and propped two whiskies-and- 
 warm-water on another load in front of us and watched 
 Wayne while Wayne watched his men. 
 
 " { Suppose we offer him a drink,' I said and ran the 
 sweat off my eyebrows with my finger. 
 
 " Bodsky looked at me pityingly. t So you want to 
 get burned again. Does that man look to you as though 
 he was thinking about a drink ? Well, let me tell you 
 he is n't. Every bit of him is thinking about that bridge 
 every minute. God ! I have n't seen men driven like 
 that since I was a boy. Once more there 's something 
 new in Africa ! And I Ve never seen a man drive him- 
 self like that, anywhere.' All the Mongolian and Tatar 
 that is said to lurk in every Russian seemed to be leak- 
 ing out of Bodsky's narrowed eyes. 
 
 "We sat there and drank and smoked and sweated, 
 and I sulked. Every once in a while Bodsky would 
 say something. First it was : ' Those boys are from 
 the South. Must have brought them with him.' Then 
 it was : ' He knows something about the sun. He keeps 
 his head in the shade-spot from that lonely palm.' And
 
 HOME 95 
 
 finally : ' Collingef ord, I never despised your intellect 
 before. What are you sulking for? Can't you see 
 what 's up ? Can't you understand that if a man will 
 stand for two hours shifting an inch at a time with 
 the shade rather than disturb half-a-dozen niggers at 
 work to go and get a helmet he is n't going to call those 
 niggers off to let a couple of loafers like us crawl across 
 his girders? What you and I are staring at is just 
 plain common garden Work with a capital W, stark 
 naked and ugly, but by God, it 's great.' 
 
 " And right there I saw the light. To us two the 
 mystery of Ten Percent Wayne was revealed. He could 
 drive men. He could make bricks without straw. 
 While work was on, nothing else mattered. Eight and 
 wrong were measured by the needs of that bridge and 
 death was too good for the shirker. And with the 
 light I forgot the brute in the man tearing along the 
 dizzy height of the girder to lash a loafer and only 
 remembered that he had risked his life to avenge just 
 one moment stolen from the day's work." 
 
 The stem of Collingeford's wine glass snapped be- 
 tween his fingers. " I 'm sorry," he said, laying the 
 pieces aside. He smiled a little nervously on the three 
 tense faces before him. " I don't tell that story often. 
 It goes too deep. Not everybody understands. Some 
 people call Wayne no better than a murderer ; but I 'm 
 not one of them. And Bodsky says there have been a 
 lot of murderers he 'd like to take to his club." 
 
 " J. Y., there 's somebody listening at the door," said 
 the Captain. " Been there some time." 
 
 J. Y. swung around and threw open the door. He
 
 96 HOME 
 
 sprang forward and caught Clem in the act of flight. 
 He brought her back into the room and sat down, holding 
 her upright beside him. J. Y. was proud and for a 
 moment Collingeford's presence galled him. "What 
 were you doing, Clem ? " he asked. 
 
 Clematis was in that degree of embarrassment and 
 disarray which makes lovely youth a shade more lovely. 
 Her brown hair was tumbled about her face and down 
 her back. Her cheeks were flushed and her thin white 
 neck seemed to tremble above the deep red of her slightly 
 yoked frock. Her lips were moist and parted in excite- 
 ment. She was sixteen and beautiful beyond the reach 
 of hackneyed phrases. The four men fixed their eyes 
 upon her, and she dropped hers. " I was eavesdrop- 
 ping," she said in a voice that was very low but clear. 
 
 " Why, Clem ! " said J. Y. gravely. 
 
 Clem looked around on the four men. She did not 
 seem afraid. Unconsciously they waited for her to go 
 on, and she did. " Mr. Collingeford was telling about 
 Alan. I haard Charley say he was going to. I shall 
 always eavesdrop when any one tells about Alan." 
 
 For a second her auditors were stunned by the audac- 
 ity. Collingeford's face was the first to light up and 
 his hand came down on the table with a bang. " Bully 
 for you, young 'un ! " he cried and his clear laugh could 
 be heard on the lawn. Before it was over, the Judge 
 joined in, the Captain grunted his merriest grunt and 
 J. Y. patted Clem's shoulder and smiled. 
 
 Clem was of the salt of the earth among womankind 
 the kind that waits to weep till the battle is over and 
 then becomes a thousand times more dear in her weak-
 
 HOME 97 
 
 ness. Her big eyes had been welling with tears and now 
 they jumped the barrier just as Nance rushed in and 
 cried, " What are you all laughing at ? " Then she 
 caught sight of Clem. From her she looked around on 
 the men. " You four big hulking brutes/' she said. 
 " Come to me, Clem, you darling. What have they been 
 doing to you ? There, there, don't cry. Men are silly 
 things. What if they did laugh at you ? " 
 
 Clem was sobbing on Nance's shoulder. " It is n't 
 that," she gasped. " I don't mind that ! But 
 Mr. Collingeford ca-called me a ' young one.' ' 
 
 The three gray-heads kept their faces with difficulty. 
 Collingeford leaped to his feet. " My dear young lady 
 Miss Clematis " he stammered, " my word, now ! 
 I did n't mean it. Swear I did n't. I '11 do anything 
 if you '11 only stop crying. Do stop and listen to me. 
 I '11 grovel." 
 
 It took him an hour to make his peace.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MANY they were who drank at the fountain of hos- 
 pitality in Maple House and to all, quiet Mrs. 
 J. Y. held out the measured cup of welcome with im- 
 partial hand. But once in a while one came who made 
 the rare appeal to the heart. Such a one was Collinge- 
 ford. For all his wanderings, his roughing, and his 
 occasional regression to city drawing-rooms and ultra- 
 country houses, Collingeford fitted into the Hill he 
 belonged. 
 
 On Sunday night they were gathered on the lawn, all 
 but Clem who sat at the piano beside an open window 
 and poured her girl's voice out over the rippling keys. 
 Her voice was thin and clear like a mountain brook 
 hurrying o TT er pebbles and like the brook it held the 
 promise of coming fullness. 
 
 Collingeford sat by Mrs. J. Y., a little apart from the 
 others. They had not talked. Mrs. J. Y. broke a long 
 silence when she said, in a full low voice that somehow 
 seemed related to Clem's thin trill. " We are very quiet 
 here." 
 
 Collingeford looked thoughtfully at his glowing cigar- 
 end. " The best parts of life are quiet," he answered. 
 
 "Do you really like it?" said Mrs. J. Y., almost 
 shyly. " Englishmen of your class generally fall to the 
 
 lot of our landed and chateauxed." 
 
 98
 
 HOME 99 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wayne," said Collingeford, " I 've 
 been sitting here in a really troubled silence trying to 
 think out how to ask you to make it a week for me in- 
 stead of a week-end." 
 
 Mrs. J. Y.'s laugh was happy but low. It did not 
 disturb the others. Collingeford went on. " I know 
 America pretty well for an Englishman. I thought I 
 had done the whole country, from Albuquerque to New- 
 port. But you are right. When we 're not roughing 
 it out West, we visiting Englishmen are pretty apt to be 
 rubbing up against the gilded high-lights of the landed 
 and the chateauxed. This " Collingeford waved his 
 cigar to embrace the whole of Red Hill " is something 
 new to me and old. It 's the sort of thing English- 
 men think of when they are far from home. I have 
 never seen it before in America." 
 
 " And yet," said Mrs. J. Y., " there are thousands 
 of quiet homes in America just like it in spirit. In 
 spite of all our divorces all our national linen-wash- 
 ing in public our homes are to-day what they always 
 have been, the backbone of the country. The social 
 world is in turmoil everywhere and America is in the 
 throes no less than England. Our backbone is under 
 a strain and some think it is breaking, but I don't." 
 She turned her soft eyes on Collingeford and smiled. 
 " There," she added, " I have been polemic but one 
 seldom has the chance to spread the good fame of one's 
 country. I am glad you can give us a week instead of 
 a week-end." 
 
 Collingeford heard some one speak of Mrs. Lansing 
 and he said to Mrs. J. Y., " I know a Mrs. Lansing
 
 100 HOME 
 
 a beautiful and scintillating young person the sort of 
 effervescence that flies over to Europe and becomes the 
 dismay of our smart women and the fate of many men." 
 
 Mrs. J. Y. for a second was puzzled. " That is n't 
 Mrs. Lansing it 's Mrs. Gerry you 're thinking of. 
 Mrs. Lansing is her mother-in-law. They live next 
 door." 
 
 The next morning, with Clem as cicerone, Collinge- 
 ford went over to The Firs to pay his respects to Alix. 
 They found her under the trees. 
 
 " How do you do ? " said Alix. " The Honorable 
 Percy, is n't it ? " 
 
 " What a memory you have for trifles," said Collinge- 
 ford, laughing. " May I sit down ? " 
 
 " Do," said Alix. She was perched in the middle of 
 a garden seat. On each side of her were piled various 
 stuffs and all the paraphernalia of the sewing circle. 
 Collingeford sat down before her and stared. Clem 
 had gone off in search of game more to her taste. Alix 
 seemed to him very small. He felt the change in her 
 before he could fix in what it lay. She seemed still and 
 restful in spite of her flying fingers. Spiritually still. 
 Her eyes, glancing at him between stitches, were amused 
 and grave at the same time. 
 
 " Doll's clothes ? " said Collingeford, waving at a 
 beribboned morsel. 
 
 " No," said Alix. 
 
 Collingeford stared a little longer and then he broke 
 out with, " Look here, what have you done with her ? 
 Over there, the young Mrs. Lansing spice, deviltry, 
 scintillation and wit blinding. Over here, Mrs.
 
 HOME 101 
 
 Gerry demure and industrious. Don't tell me you 
 have gone in for the Quaker pose, but please tell me 
 which is the poseuse; you now or the other one." 
 
 Alix laughed. " I 'm just me now, minus the devil- 
 try and all that. Come, I '11 show you what I 've done 
 with it." 
 
 They threaded the trees and came upon a mighty 
 bower, half sun, half shade, where in the midst of a 
 nurse and Clem and many toys a baby was enthroned 
 on a rug. " There you are," said Alix. " There 's 
 my spice, deviltry, scintillation and wit all done into 
 one roily-poly." 
 
 " Well, I 'm blowed," said Collingeford, advancing 
 cautiously on the young monarch. " Do you want me 
 to to feel him or say anything about his looks ? I '11 
 have to think a minute if you do." 
 
 " Booby," said Alix, " come away." 
 
 But Collingeford seemed fascinated. He squatted 
 on the rug and poked the monarch's ribs. Nurse, 
 mother and Clem flew to the rescue, but to their amaze- 
 ment the monarch did not bellow. He appropriated 
 Collingeford's finger. " I wonder if he 'd mind if I 
 called him a ' young 'un/ " soliloquized the attacking 
 giant. Then he pulled the baby's leg. " When he 
 grows up tell him I was the first man to pull his leg. 
 My word, he has n't a bone in his body, not even a 
 tooth." 
 
 " Silly," said Clem, " of course not." 
 
 " What are you staring at him that way for ? " said 
 Alix. "Can a baby make you think ? A penny for 
 them."
 
 102 HOME 
 
 " I was just thinking," said Collingeford gravely, 
 " that a baby is positively the only thing I 've never 
 eaten." 
 
 A horrified silence greeted this remark. The nurse 
 was the first to recover. She strode forward, gathered 
 up the baby and marched away. Alix and Clem fixed 
 their eyes on Collingeford. He slowly withered and 
 drew back. 
 
 Then the Judge and Mrs. Lansing came out to them. 
 Collingeford was introduced. Mrs. Lansing turned to 
 Alix. " Have you asked Mr. Collingeford to stay to 
 lulich ? The Judge has asked himself." 
 
 " No, Mother," said Alix. " I 'm afraid we could n't 
 give the Hon. Percy anything new to eat. He says " 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Lansing," interrupted Collingeford, 
 " it's all a mistake. I positively loathe eating new 
 things, no matter how delicious and rosy and blue-eyed 
 they look." 
 
 " Are you speaking of cabbages ?' " inquired the Judge. 
 
 " No, babies," said Clem. " He wanted to eat the 
 baby." 
 
 Mrs. Lansing laughed. " I don't blame him," she 
 said. " I Ve often wanted to eat him myself." 
 
 Collingeford spent a good deal of his week at The 
 Firs. Clem went to see the baby daily as a matter 
 of course and he went along, as he said himself, as 
 another matter of course. Clem talked to the baby, 
 Collingeford to Alix. He said to her one day, " I Ve 
 read in books about babies doing this sort of thing to 
 gad-abouts ' 
 
 " Gad-abouts," interrupted Alix, " is just, but cruel."
 
 HOME 103 
 
 "Well, butterflies," compromised Collingeford. 
 " But I never believed it really happened." 
 
 " Oh," said Alix, " it was n't the baby. Not alto- 
 gether. You see, Mr. Collingeford, Gerry Lansing 
 I 'm Mrs. Gerry disappeared over a year ago be- 
 fore the baby came. He thought I didn't love him. 
 I might as well tell you all about it. I believe in tell- 
 ing things. Mystery is always more dangerous than 
 truth; it gives such a lead to imagination." 
 
 So she told him and Collingeford listened, interested. 
 At the end he said nothing. Alix looked at his thought- 
 ful face. " What do you think ? Is n't there a chance ? 
 Don't you think he 's possibly probably alive ? " 
 
 The Judge was not there to hear the meek appeal of 
 faith for comfort. Collingeford met Alix' eyes frankly. 
 " If I were you," he said, " I would probably believe as 
 you do. I 've met too many dead men in Piccadilly 
 looking uncommonly well ever to say that a man is dead 
 because he 's disappeared. Then there 's the other side 
 of it. Bodsky says a man is never dead while there 's 
 anybody left that loves him." 
 
 " The Judge told me about Bodsky. He 's the man 
 that said there had been lots of murderers he 'd like to 
 take to his club. He must be worth while. I 'd like 
 to talk to him." 
 
 " I don't suppose," said Collingeford absently, " that 
 Bodsky has talked to a woman since he killed his mis- 
 tress." 
 
 Alix started and looked up from her work. " Don't 
 you think you had better come back and bring the 
 talk back with you ? "
 
 104: HOME 
 
 It was Collingeford's turn to start. " I beg your 
 pardon," he said. " You are right, I was in another 
 world. Only you must n't get a wrong impression. 
 Everybody says it was an accident except Bodsky. 
 He has never said anything."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ALAN WAYNE had been away for a year. He 
 had not returned from Montreal but had gone on 
 from there to work in South America and, later, to 
 Africa. 
 
 He had been in town for several days when he met 
 the Judge one afternoon in November on the Avenue. 
 
 " Judge," he said without preamble, " what 's this I 
 hear about Gerry disappearing." 
 
 " It 's true," said the Judge and added grimly, 
 " he disappeared the day you went to Montreal." 
 
 Alan colored and his face turned grave. " I am 
 sorry," he said. " I did n't know it." 
 
 " Sorry for what ? " asked the Judge, but Alan re- 
 fused the opening and the Judge hardly regretted it. 
 They were not in tune and he felt it. His heart was 
 heavy over Alan for his own sake. He had broken 
 what the Judge had long reverenced as a charmed 
 circle. He had exiled himself from that which should 
 have been dearer to him than his heart's desire. The 
 Judge wondered if he realized it. " You 're not going 
 out to Eed Hill ? " he asked, trying to make the ques- 
 tion casual. 
 
 Alan glanced at him sharply. What was the Judge 
 after ? " No," he said after a pause, " I shall not break 
 the communal coma of Eed Hill for some time. I 'm 
 
 105
 
 106 HOME 
 
 off again. McDale & McDale have loaned me to Ellin- 
 son's. I 've become a sort of poolibah on construction 
 in Africa. They get a premium for lending me." 
 
 Alan's speech habitually drawled except for an oc- 
 casional retort that came like the crack of a whip. The 
 Judge looked him over curiously. Alan's dress was al- 
 most too refined. His person was as well cared for as 
 a woman's. Every detail about him was a studied 
 negation of work, utility, service. The Judge thought 
 of Collingeford's story and wondered. 
 
 They walked in silence for some time and then Alan 
 took his leave. The Judge followed his erect figure 
 with solemn eyes. Alan had deteriorated. One can- 
 not be the fly in the amber of more than one woman's 
 memory without clouding one's own soul, and a clouded 
 soul has its peculiar circumambiency which the clean 
 can feel. The Judge felt it in Alan and winced. 
 
 If Alan did not go to the Hill, the Hill, in certain 
 measure, came to Alan. The next afternoon found the 
 Captain once more established in his chair in a window 
 at the club with Alan beside him. The Captain had 
 not changed. His hair was in the same state of white 
 insurgency, his eyes bulged in the same old way, and he 
 still puffed when he talked. His garb was identical and 
 awakened the usual interest in the passing gamin. 
 
 " You '11 never grow old, sir," said Alan. 
 
 " Old I " said the Captain. " Huh, I grew old be- 
 fore you were born." The Captain spoke with pride. 
 He straightened his bullet head and poised a tot of 
 whisky with a steady hand. " What did I tell you ? " 
 he said into space.
 
 HOME 107 
 
 " How 's that, sir ? " 
 
 " What did I tell you," repeated the Captain swing- 
 ing around his eyes, " about women ? " 
 
 Alan flushed angrily. He had no retort for the old 
 man. He sat sullenly silent. 
 
 The Captain colored too. " That 's right," he said 
 with a surprising touch of choler. " Sulk. Every 
 badly broken colt sulks at the grip of the bit. What 
 you need, young man, is a touch of the whip and you 're 
 going to get it." 
 
 And then the old man revealed a surprising knowl- 
 edge of words that could lash. At first Alan was in- 
 different, then amazed, and finally recognized himself 
 beaten at his own game. He came out of that inter- 
 view thoroughly chastened and with an altogether new 
 respect for the old Captain. No one knew better than 
 Alan that it took a special brand of courage to whip 
 him with words but the Captain had not stopped to 
 stuff his own ears with cotton wool before engaging the 
 enemy. He had risked all in one liquid, stinging, over- 
 whelming volley and he had won. 
 
 The Captain's code was peculiar, to say the least, and 
 held the passionate pilgrim in ample regard but, as he 
 pointed out to Alan, it was a code of honor. It played 
 a game within rules. He further remarked that the 
 hawk was a bird of evil repute but personally he pre- 
 ferred him to the eagle that fouls its own nest. There 
 were other pregnant phrases that hung in Alan's mind 
 for some time and half awakened him to a realization 
 of where he stood. Many a man, propped up by the 
 sustaining atmosphere of a narrow world, has passed
 
 108 HOME 
 
 merciless judgment on such sins as Alan's metal, un- 
 proved, sitting in judgment over the bar that twists in 
 the flame. But the Captain was not one of the world's 
 confident army of the untested. He had roamed the 
 high seas of pleasure as well as the ocean wave. Alan 
 would have struck back at a saint but he took chastise- 
 ment from the old sinner with good grace. 
 
 Alan left the Captain and presented himself at the 
 downtown offices of J. Y. Wayne & Co. They were 
 expecting him and he was shown in to his uncle im- 
 mediately, to the exasperation of several pompous, wait- 
 ing clients. It was the first time that uncle and nephew 
 had been face to face since their memorable interview 
 at Maple House. 
 
 J. Y. Wayne was aging. He had lived hard and 
 showed it, but there was no weakness in his age and he 
 met Alan without compromise. He nodded toward a 
 chair but did not offer his hand. When he spoke his 
 voice was low and modulated to the tone of business. 
 " I wanted to see you to tell you that you have over- 
 paid your account with me. The balance has been put 
 to your credit. You can see the cashier about that. 
 I want to tell you, too, that I have made too much 
 money myself to admire a surprising capacity in that 
 direction in any one else. 
 
 " Don't think that I don't appreciate the significance 
 of your wiping out a debt which you incurred unwit- 
 tingly. I can see that you had to do it because a Wayne 
 must carry his head high in his own eyes. But " and 
 here J. Y. 's eyes left his nephew's expressionless face 
 and looked vaguely into the shadows of the room. His
 
 HOME 109 
 
 voice took a lower key. " With all your sacrifice to 
 pride you have failed in pride. You have not been 
 proud in the things that count." 
 
 J. Y. 's voice fell still lower. His words hung and 
 dropped in the silence of the room like the far-away 
 throb of a great bell on a still night. " Yesterday Clem 
 was crying because you had not come to the house. I 
 try to think, Alan, that it 's because Clem is there that 
 you have not come. If I could think that " J. Y.'s 
 eyes came slowly back to Alan's face. A dull red was 
 burning there. J. Y. went on, " Shame is a precious 
 thing to a man. Different creeds different circum- 
 stances carry us to various lengths. Ethics are elastic 
 to-day as never before but, as long as shame holds a bit 
 of ground in a man's battlefield, he can win back to any 
 height." 
 
 Eor a long minute there was silence, then on a com- 
 mon impulse they both arose. Alan's eyes were wide 
 open and moist. He held out his hand and J. Y. 
 gripped it. It was their whole farewell. 
 
 Back in his rooms Alan sat down and wrote to Clem ; 
 " Dear Clem : We are all two people. Uncle J. 
 Y. cut his other half off about thirty years ago and 
 left it behind. The Judge has his other half locked 
 up in a closet. He has never let it out at all. And 
 so on, with every one of us. This sounds very funny 
 to you now but some day when you are grown up you 
 will catch your other self looking at you and then you 
 will understand what I mean. I am two people too. 
 The half of me that knows you and loves you and Red 
 Hill and that you love has been away longer than the
 
 110 HOME 
 
 rest of me. He only got back twenty minutes ago, and 
 it is too late for him to come and see you because he 
 and the rest of me are off to-morrow on another trip. 
 But he wants you to know that he is awfully sorry to 
 have missed you. Next time I shall bring him with 
 me, I hope, and I '11 send him to you the day we arrive."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THERE is no stronger proof of man's evolution 
 than his adaptability, his power of attainment 
 through the material at hand, however elementary. 
 From the very beginning, the necessities of his new 
 life called to Gerry's dormant instincts. For the first 
 week he would not hear. The past loosens its tendrils 
 slowly. He was listless and loafed restlessly about the 
 house. The two darkies worked for his well-being, the 
 two white women waited on him hand and foot. At 
 first it was lulling ; then it was wearying. He began to 
 wander from the house. 
 
 But the week had not been altogether lost. He had 
 gathered desultory but primitive information. Occa- 
 sional reoccuring words began to be more than mere 
 sounds. The girl's name was Margarita. The 
 wrinkled little woman was her aunt, Dona Maria. The 
 two darkies were lingering relics of slave days. They 
 had been born here. They had gone with emancipation, 
 but they had come back. The name of the plantation 
 was Fazenda Flores. To them it was the world. They 
 had wandered out of it hand in hand with liberty but 
 they had come back because freedom was here. They 
 needed some one to serve. Margarita had long been 
 an orphan. The place was hers and had once been rich. 
 
 But before her day water had become scarce. The place 
 
 111
 
 112 HOME 
 
 was uncared for and had fallen into its present ruin. 
 It was well, she said, for if she had been rich suitors 
 would have searched her out long since. She was 
 eighteen. She had been a woman for years ! 
 
 These things, some of them distinct, some only half- 
 formed impressions, ran in Gerry's head as he wandered 
 over the fazenda. It had once been rich, why was it 
 not rich now? Fertility sprang to his view on every 
 side save one. This was the gentle slope away from the 
 river and behind the house. Even here he discovered 
 hummocks in alignment, vague traces of the careful 
 tilling of another time. He climbed the slope till he 
 came to a depression running parallel to the river. It 
 made a line and beyond that line was desert untamed. 
 Cactus and thorn dotted its barren soil. Gerry fol- 
 lowed the depression down to its end, then turned back 
 and followed it up. It wandered among rocks and 
 hillocks to a natural cleft in the banks of the great 
 river. 
 
 The cleft was long and straight and at its end he 
 saw the turmoil of the rushing current. The water 
 surged up the cleft to the gentle slope of sand at his 
 feet in an eternal come and go. What a place for a 
 bath, he thought, and then found Margarita panting 
 beside him. She had followed him. She had been 
 running. She held one hand to her heart and with the 
 other clutched his arm. When she had got her breath 
 she motioned him to stand still. Then she picked up a 
 large stone and, running down the hard sand bank be- 
 hind a receding wave, dropped it and ran back. The 
 water rushed after her, picked up the stone, played with
 
 HOME 113 
 
 it, and then the terrific undertow carried it whirling 
 down the cleft and away. Gerry smiled and nodded 
 his thanks and comprehension. 
 
 He climbed a point of rock and gazed around him. 
 Far down to the left gleamed the old plantation house 
 in the midst of its waste lands. His eye followed the 
 long depression and he began to understand many 
 things. The ruin was a young ruin like himself. In 
 itself it contained the seeds of rejuvenescence. It had 
 been robbed of its talisman and its talisman was water. 
 Tons of water flowed past it and left it thirsting for 
 drops. Irrigation is coeval with the birth of civiliza- 
 tion. It had been here in this depression, lived, and 
 passed away before he and the girl were born. He 
 tried to explain to her what once had been, but she 
 shrugged her shoulders. She was not interested; she 
 did not understand. Together they walked back to the 
 house. Gerry was silent and thoughtful. He saw a 
 vision of what Fazenda Flores had once been, what 
 work could make it again. 
 
 The following day he rooted out two rusty spades 
 from the debris in the old mill, fitted new handles to 
 them and took the old darky, Bonifacio by name, off 
 with him to the depression. They began the long task 
 of digging out the silt of years. Day after day, week 
 after week, they clung to the monotonous work. The 
 darky worked like an automaton. Work in itself to 
 him was nothing beyond the path to food and rest at 
 night. Labor made no demands on courage it had 
 no end, no goal. But Gerry's labor was dignified by 
 conscious effort. His eyes were not in the ditch but
 
 114 HOME 
 
 on the vision he had seen of what Fazenda Flores might 
 be. He had fixed his errant soul on a goal. The es- 
 sence of slavery is older than any bonds wrought by man. 
 The white man and the black in the ditch were its 
 parable. The dignity and the shame of labor were 
 side by side, paradoxically yoked to the same task. 
 
 Margarita and her aunt looked on and smiled and 
 joy began to settle on the girl. During Gerry's first 
 restless week she had steeled herself each night to the 
 thought that she would wake to find him gone. But 
 now he was taking root. It amused him to dig. Well, 
 let him dig. There was no end to digging. 
 
 Gerry occasionally varied the work of digging with 
 making some knick-knack for the house. The twisted 
 limbs of trees became benches to supplant the rickety 
 chairs, clumsily patched and totally inadequate to his 
 weight. In the same way he made the massive frame 
 of a bed and Bonifacio remembered an art and filled 
 in the frame with plaited thongs. Work inspires emu- 
 lation. The women got out their store of cloth. They 
 made clothes for Gerry and 'fitted out the new bed. 
 Pillows and mattress were stuffed with dry bur-mari- 
 golds that faintly scented the whole room. With each 
 achievement the somber house seemed to take a step 
 toward gaiety. Ruin and dilapidation put forth green 
 shoots. The gaiety was reflected in the household. 
 They were united in achievement. Quiet smiles were 
 their reward to each other and sometimes a burst of 
 wonder as when Gerry found some old bottles and with 
 the aid of a bit of string cut them into serviceable mugs. 
 
 Margarita was happy. Her cup was full. All the
 
 HOME 115 
 
 dreams of her girlhood were fulfilled in Gerry. A 
 silent and strange lover, but a man such a man as 
 she had dreamed of but never seen. To herself she 
 sang the old songs he should have sung to her and then 
 laughed as he nodded mild approval. 
 
 One evening he sat on a bench on the veranda, fitting 
 a handle into a dipper made of a cocoanut-shell. Mar- 
 garita sat on the steps at his feet. She stayed herself 
 on her hands and leaning back gazed on the starry sky 
 and sang: 
 
 Brunette, Brunette, 
 Thy sparkling eyes, 
 To grace a world, 
 Have robbed the skies. 
 They are two stars, 
 That shine and see. 
 Brunette, Brunette, 
 Have pity on me! 
 
 Her young voice bubbled up from a full heart. It 
 was joy bubbling from a well of happiness. 
 
 Brunette, Brunette, 
 Those dreaming eyes, 
 Your eyes, Brunette, 
 They are my skies. 
 They are my sins, 
 Such eyes as they, 
 I look and sin, 
 And then I pray! 
 
 She leaned back further and further until she sank 
 against his knees. He stooped over her. She threw up 
 her arms around his neck, locked her hands and drew 
 him down. He kissed her lips and sighed. 
 
 " Ah, do not sigh," she wailed. " Laugh ! Laugh 
 but once ! "
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII 
 
 GEEEY did not grudge the months of toil in the 
 ditch. As he worked he thought and planned. 
 This ditch was the very real foundation for the attain- 
 ment of his vision. Deep and strong and carefully 
 graded it must be before he cleared the sand barrier 
 to the river's surge. The ditch was slow of growth 
 but there was something about it which held his faith. 
 It was rugged and elemental. It was the ugly source 
 of a coming resurrection. 
 
 When it was all but done he took Margarita and 
 showed her his handiwork. He pointed out the little 
 sluiceways, each with its primitive gate, a heavy log 
 hinged on a thole-pin with a prop to hold it up and a 
 stone to weight it when down. On the Fazenda side 
 were innumerable little trenches that stretched down 
 into the valley. 
 
 But not until he led her to the cleft in the river 
 gorge and showed her that half an hour's work on the 
 sand barrier would let the river into the great ditch 
 did she understand. And then she caught his arm and 
 burst into violent protest and pleading. " IsTo, no," 
 she cried, " you shall not do it. You shall not let in 
 the river. The river is terrible. You must not play 
 with it. It does not understand. You think it will 
 do as you wish but it will not. Oh, if vou must, please, 
 
 116
 
 HOME 117 
 
 please play with it below the rapids. There it is kinder. 
 It lets one bathe. It lets one wash clothes." 
 
 Gerry got over his astonishment and laughed. Then 
 he soothed her. Already the simpler phrases of her 
 tongue came easily from his lips. He told her that she 
 was foolish and a little coward. She must watch and 
 see how tame the river would be. As he talked a 
 strange figure approached on the other side of the 
 ditch. 
 
 " Father Mathias," said Margarita, " it is Father 
 Mathias. He will help me dissuade you." 
 
 Gerry looked with awe on the spectacle presented by 
 the newcomer. An old man, rubicund of face, his flat, 
 wide-brimmed hat pushed well back on his gray head, 
 was ambling towards them on a mule. A long cassock, 
 half unbuttoned and looped about his waist, was sup- 
 plemented by black trousers and flaring riding boots. 
 Over his head for protection against the sun he held 
 an enormous white cotton umbrella lined with green. 
 The mule stopped abruptly on the very brink of the 
 ditch. The old priest shot off and rolled down the bank 
 to the bottom. The mule stood still, his fore legs 
 slightly straddled; his pose was one of mild surprise. 
 
 Before Gerry could jump into the ditch the priest 
 had scrambled to his feet. 
 
 " Blessing, Father," said Margarita, gravely. 
 
 " God bless thee, daughter," replied the priest calmly, 
 " but not this accursed ditch. My hands are soiled, 
 nay, worse, scratched ! " With the help of Gerry's 
 strong grip he climbed to the top of the bank on which 
 they stood. He smiled on them benignantly. " A
 
 118 HOME 
 
 strange welcome to the old Father, children. What 
 devil dug this pit for rectitude ? " 
 
 " Oh, Father," cried Margarita, " curse the ditch if 
 you will, but do not call my man a devil. Look at 
 him. Is he not good to see ? I found him at the river. 
 He is mine." 
 
 Gerry smiled at the girl then at the priest. The 
 priest smiled back. " Thou didst find him at the river, 
 thou daughter of Pharaoh ! " cried the priest, a twinkle 
 in his eye. " A fine babe. May he grow to be a leader 
 of his people." 
 
 Together they walked down to the house. Bonifacio 
 was despatched to fetch the mule and then Margarita 
 drew the old priest into a vacant room. Over her 
 shoulder she said to Gerry, " I am going to confess." 
 
 Gerry flushed and nodded. He wished that he could 
 subject his own conscience to so simple a rite. He 
 walked about nervously, wondering what the priest 
 would have to say to him when he came out. But when 
 Margarita and Father Mathias finally emerged they 
 were already talking of other things. The household 
 gathered in the kitchen and there the old Father retailed 
 the gossip of a vast country-side. 
 
 It was almost a year since he had visited this off- 
 shoot of his parish and he had much to tell. The 
 Father was a connoisseur in gossip for women. He 
 touched lightly on tragedies and moral slips in his com- 
 munity but dwelt at length on funerals, births, mar- 
 riages, where rain had fallen and where it had not, 
 the success or failure of each of the great church fetes 
 and all kindred subjects. This was the link, mused
 
 HOME 119 
 
 Gerry, that joined Fazenda Elores to the world and the 
 world to Fazenda Flores. 
 
 The next morning Gerry was up early. He was ex- 
 cited. From this day the ditch, the parched slope, the 
 valley would know thirst no more. With the long dry 
 season even the green bottoms had begun to wilt. He 
 called Bonifacio and as they started off Father Mathias 
 and Margarita joined them. 
 
 " You will not let him do it, Father ? " the girl was 
 saying. " The ditch is accursed. You yourself have 
 cursed it." 
 
 " That was but a playful anathema," said the priest, 
 smiling at the recollection of his introduction to the 
 ditch. " Stay thou here, child. Perhaps I shall find 
 that to solemnly bless in your man's ditch." 
 
 The girl went slowly back to the house and the priest 
 walked on with Gerry. " Irrigation," he began, " is des- 
 tined to be the salvation of all this country. Water, 
 we have in plenty ; but it rushes by in great rivers leav- 
 ing the overhanging land thirsty. I picture all these 
 barren cliffs leaning over, longing for a drink. Where 
 else can you see cactus overhanging torrents and cattle 
 starving to death on a river bank ? " 
 
 Gerry was surprised. " So you bless my ditch ? " he 
 asked with a smile. 
 
 " Yes," replied the priest. He had dropped the 
 " thou " that the church accords her children only. He 
 talked like one man of the world to another. " Your 
 ditch, I can bless." Gerry had led him to the point 
 of rock from which he had first conceived his vision. 
 " You have not been a slave to haste," continued the
 
 120 HOME 
 
 priest. " The curse of my people is that they toil to 
 avoid work but you have worked to avoid toil." 
 
 " It is true," said Gerry, " though I had never 
 thought it out. I am striving to make nature do the 
 toiling. Man, toiling alone, has always been a pigmy." 
 
 Under his direction Bonifacio was digging a great 
 hole just at the back of the sand-bank. Gerry meas- 
 ured its capacity and finally called the old darky out. 
 He jumped down on to the sand-bank himself and dug 
 a small trench to the water. The river surged through 
 it gently. Gerry climbed out. With each pulse of the 
 come-and-go a wave rushed through the little trench, 
 widening it and occasionally carrying away a block of 
 the sand-bank into the hole. Gradually, then in rapid 
 progression, the barrier was leveled. The hole filled 
 with water that rose till it began to trickle down the 
 long length of the ditch. They followed the tiny 
 stream. Soon it came in rushing surges. Hours 
 passed. Bonifacio slept, but Gerry and the priest had 
 forgotten time. The ditch filled. The water started 
 to flow back into the river. Along all its length the 
 ditch held. Gerry heaved a great sigh. The priest 
 gave him his hand. 
 
 " Wonderfully graded," he said. " You are a born 
 engineer." 
 
 Gerry started opening the sluice gates, the lowest 
 first. The water gurgled out into the main trench and 
 from there was distributed. At first the thirsty soil swal- 
 lowed it greedily but gradually the rills stretched further 
 and further down into the valley. Under the blazing 
 sun they looked like streams of molten silver and gold.
 
 HOME 121 
 
 Margarita came running up to them from the house. 
 She looked reproachfully at Father Mathias. Gerry 
 put his arm around her and made her face the valley. 
 The priest stretched out his arms and blessed the water. 
 Then he looked at the girl and smiled. She smiled 
 back at him but trouble was still in her eyes. 
 
 Gerry left them to start on the work of fitting the 
 ponderous sluice-gate of hewn logs that he had pre- 
 pared for the mouth of the great ditch. It was a 
 triumph of ingenuity. He never could have evolved 
 it without the aid of a giant ironwood wormscrew taken 
 from the wreck of a cotton press. The screw was so 
 heavy that he and Bonifacio could hardly carry it. 
 
 At the end of three days the great gate was installed. 
 He and Bonifacio toiled like sailors at a capstan. 
 They drove the heavy barrier down into the sand with 
 a last turn of the screw and shut out the river. Mar- 
 garita came and saw and was pleased.
 
 CHAPTEE XIX 
 
 UNDER the broad dome of a mango tree on the 
 banks of an unnamed African river Alan 
 Wayne had pitched his camp. The Selwyn tent and 
 the projecting veranda fly were faded and stained. 
 The bobbinet mosquito curtains were creamed with age 
 and service. Two camp chairs and a collapsible table, 
 battered but strong, were placed before the tent. Over 
 one of the chairs hung a towel. On the ground squatted 
 a take-down bath tub, half filled with water. In the 
 deep shadow of the tree the pale green rot-proof can- 
 vas of the tent, the fly, the chairs and bath tub, gleamed 
 almost white. 
 
 On the farther side of the great trunk of the tree 
 was the master's kitchen, three stones and a half-circle 
 of forked sticks driven into the ground. On the sticks 
 hung a few pots and pans, a saddle of buck, bits of fat 
 and a disreputable looking coffee-bag. Between the 
 stones was a bed of coals. Before them crouched a red- 
 fezzed Zanzibar!. 
 
 From under a second tree, fifty yards away, came 
 the dull, rhythmic pounding of wooden pestles in 
 wooden mortars. The eye could just distinguish the 
 glistening naked torsos of three blacks in motion. 
 They were singing a barbarous chantey. At the pauses 
 their arms went up and the pestles came down together 
 
 122
 
 HOME 123 
 
 with a thud. The blacks were pounding the kaffir corn 
 for the men's evening meal. 
 
 Down the river and almost out of sight a black, 
 spidery construction reached out over the water 
 Alan's latest bridge. Men swarmed on it. 
 
 Six o'clock and there came the trill of a whistle. 
 Suddenly the bridge was cleared. A babble of voices 
 arose. There was a crackling of twigs, a shuffling of 
 feet, here and there a high, excited cry, and then the 
 men poured into camp. A din of talk, held in check 
 for hours, arose. Glistening black bodies danced to 
 jerky, fantastic steps. Songs, shouts and impatient 
 cries to the cooks swelled the medley of sound. 
 Through the camp stole the acrid odor of toiling Africa. 
 
 Behind the men marched the foreman, McDougal; 
 behind him came Alan. At sight of him the Zanzibar! 
 sprang into action. He poured a tin of hot water into 
 the bath tub and laid out an old flannel suit. Beside 
 the suit he placed clean underwear, fresh socks and, 
 on the ground, a pair of slippers. 
 
 Alan stripped, bathed and dressed. The Zanzibar! 
 handed him a cup of hot tea. By the time the tea was 
 drunk the table was freshly laid and Alan sat down 
 to a steaming bowl of broth, and dinner. 
 
 After dinner McDougal joined him for a smoke. For 
 a full half hour they sat wordless. Darkness fell and 
 brought out the lights of their fitfully glowing pipes. 
 From the men's camp came a subdued chatter. The 
 men were feeding. As they finished they lit fires a 
 fire for every little group. The smell of the wood fires 
 triumphed over every other odor.
 
 124 HOME 
 
 McDougal had met Alan first in a bare room at an 
 African seaport. The room was furnished with a chair 
 and a table. At the table sat Alan, busy with final 
 estimates and plans for supplies for his little army. 
 The interview was short. McDougal had asked for a 
 job and Alan had answered, " Get out." McDougal 
 had repeated his request and the rest of the story he 
 told the next morning before the Resident Magistrate 
 in the chair and Alan in the dock. 
 
 " Aweel, your honor, it was this way : I went into 
 Mr. Wayne's office and asked him for worruk and he 
 said, ' Get out.' I asked him again and he said, ' I '11 
 give you two to get out One Two,' and with that 
 he cooms on to the table and flying through the air. I 
 had joost considered that it was best I should let him 
 hit me first aince that I might break him with justice 
 when he struck me face with both fists, and his knee in 
 the pit of me stummick. And that 's all, your honor, 
 savin' the Kaffir that I woke up to find watering me 
 and a rose bush, turrn by turrn aboot." 
 
 " I suppose," said the Magistrate, covering his twitch- 
 ing mouth with his hand, " that was the Kaffir I signed 
 a hospital pass for last night." 
 
 " It may weel be," replied McDougal dreamily, " It 
 may weel be." 
 
 " Well, McDougal, I think this is a matter that can 
 be settled out of court " 
 
 McDougal held up a vast hand in interruption. 
 " Begging your pardon, your honor, there '11 be nae 
 settling of this matter out of coort between Mr. Wayne 
 and mysel'. Aince is enough."
 
 HOME 125 
 
 Justice and the prisoner in the dock surrendered to 
 laughter. McDougal stood grave and unperturbed. 
 
 "What I meant," said the Magistrate when he re- 
 covered, " is that Mr. Wayne will probably give you a 
 job and call it all square." 
 
 " That 's it," said Alan. 
 
 " I asked Mr. Wayne for worruk and if it 's worruk 
 he is giving me I '11 nae be denying it is a fair answer," 
 replied McDougal, and forthwith became Ten Percent 
 Wayne's gang-boss and understudy in the art of driving 
 men with both fists and a knee. 
 
 McDougal knocked out his third pipe. " The Deil 
 of a country is this," he said ; " in the seas of it a life- 
 preserver holds you up handy for sharks and in the 
 rivers does swimming save your life ? Nae. It gives 
 you a meal to the crocs." 
 
 They had lost a black that day. He had slipped 
 from the bridge into the water. He had started to swim 
 to shore and then suddenly disappeared in a swirl. 
 
 Conversationally, McDougal limited himself to a sen- 
 tence a day in which he summed up the one event that 
 had struck him as worthy of notice. Having delivered 
 himself of his observation for the night he lit his pipe 
 once more and relapsed into silence. 
 
 McDougal's was a companionable silence. Alan 
 could feel him sitting there in the dark, raw-boned and 
 dour but ready at the word of command. 
 
 It was after eight when Alan called for a light and 
 drew from a worn letter case the correspondence that a 
 runner from the coast had brought in that day. He 
 glanced over official communications, blue prints and
 
 126 HOME 
 
 business letters and stuffed them back into the leather 
 case. One fat letter, note-paper size, remained. 
 
 " McDougal," said Alan, " hush up the camp tell 
 'em it 's nine o'clock." 
 
 McDougal arose and picking up a big stick strode 
 over towards the men. The stick was so big that he 
 had never had to use it. At the mere sight of it the 
 men desisted from clamor, dance and horse-play. 
 
 Alan drew the fat letter from its envelope and for 
 the second time read, " Dear Alan : As you see, this 
 is from New York. We came down yesterday. All 
 summer I have been watching for my second self because 
 I 'm just about grown up now outside, I mean, 
 inside is different somehow and three days before we 
 left I really caught her looking at me while I was sit- 
 ting on the old stone bench down by the pond. 
 
 " I jumped up and ran after her all the way down 
 Long Lane and up the Low Road to where the red 
 cow broke her leg that time and there I lost her. I 
 did n't find her again and had to come away without 
 her and now I feel so queer sort of half-y, just like 
 you. 
 
 " Somehow I can't blame her. She did n't want to 
 leave the Hill in the Gorgeous Month so she just stayed 
 behind. Do you remember 
 
 This is the gorgeous month when leafy fires 
 Mount to the gods in myriad summer pyres . . . ? 
 
 " A few hours ago when I was doing my mile on the 
 Avenue I almost got run down and Mam'selle gave me 
 an awful scolding for being so absent-minded. It was
 
 HOME 127 
 
 a true word. I was just that absent-minded be- 
 cause my mind was off chasing that other half. I 
 could see her so plainly! She had on the cinnamon 
 linen with the white collar and tabs but I forget 
 you don't know it. She was bare-headed and her feet 
 and skirt were wet because it had been drizzling before 
 the sun came out in an evening salute to the flaming 
 trees. I saw her tumble down jumping the stone wall 
 in the bushes at the foot of old Bald Head and then 
 some one picked her up, helped her over and together 
 they climbed to the top. It was your other half. Have 
 you missed him? I liked the way he treated mine. 
 Just like a boy. Somehow he 's younger than you and 
 sometimes he laughs right out. 
 
 " Then I saw her get home, change her things and 
 
 shall I tell you ? fish out the old doll yes 
 
 Bessy. I left her telling Bessy one of those stories 
 you used to call Tales of the Very Real Things That 
 Are Not. Remember? And then I came back and 
 there I was on the Avenue with people staring at me 
 more than they ever have before. I suppose it was 
 because I was out of breath with chasing in my mind. 
 Good-by, Alan. Clem." 
 
 Alan sat in the circle of light from the hanging lamp 
 and stared into the darkness. From the river came 
 the sound of sucking mud, then a heavy tread. A 
 monster hippo blundered through the bushes in search 
 of food. On the other side of the tree trunk the Zan- 
 zibari was snoring. The fires were burning out at the 
 men's camp. Once more the odor of their bodies hung 
 in the air.
 
 128 HOME 
 
 Alan arose and dragged his chair to the outer edge of 
 the mango tree. He sat down and with hands locked 
 and elbows on knees gave himself up to memory. He 
 forgot the sounds and smells of Africa, the black-green 
 of over-hanging leaves, the black shadows of the swirl- 
 ing river, the black-bronze of the men about him. For 
 an hour he tore himself away from the black world to 
 wander over the beloved hills in New England where 
 summer dies in a burst of light. 
 
 Red Hill, crowned with mountain-ash, called to his 
 spirit as a torch in the night to a lost wanderer. The 
 thirty months that had passed since last he saw its 
 budding promise were swept away. He imagined those 
 very budding leaves at the end of their course, the pale 
 amber of the elms, the deep note of the steadfast firs, 
 the flaunting fire of the brave maples. 
 
 Maple House arose before him, its lawn carpeted with 
 dry leaves. From the leaves floated an incense, dusty, 
 pungent. The cool shadows of the great, rambling 
 house beckoned to him. Here is peace, here is rest, 
 they seemed to cry. The memory of home gripped him, 
 held him and soothed him. His head nodded and he 
 slept only to awake with a start, for he had dreamed 
 that he had lost the way back forever.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ONE day as Gerry was pottering about a log bridge 
 he had thrown over his ditch, a shadow fell across 
 his path and he looked up to find Father Mathias, mule, 
 umbrella and all, looming over him. 
 
 " I am on the way back," said the priest, " and I 
 have stopped to have a chat with you." 
 
 " Won't you come down to the house ? " said Gerry. 
 " Margarita will give you a warm welcome." 
 
 " And you ? " said the priest, smiling. 
 
 " I ? " said Gerry. " I am but a wayfarer. I can 
 only welcome you to my ditch." 
 
 " What, again ? " said the priest as he slid cum- 
 brously off his passive mule. With cassock still looped 
 up about his waist he came to meet Gerry. " Let us 
 sit down on this log," said the priest, " and you can 
 listen to the water while I listen to you." 
 
 They made a strange picture sitting side by side on 
 the twisted log. Gerry was looking more and more like 
 a Greek god. His hair, close cropped by Margarita, 
 seemed to have bronzed with his skin. The cotton 
 jumper and trousers had molded themselves to his limbs. 
 His body was trimmed down to perfect lines. 
 When he moved one could see muscles rippling as though 
 work were play. His eyes were deep and clear. They 
 
 had forgotten the look of whisky. On his feet were 
 
 129
 
 130 HOME 
 
 rawhide sandals. Like a native he had learned to keep 
 them on with the aid of a leather button held between 
 his toes. His feet were white. His face like his body 
 was alive. He held his big palm-leaf hat in his hands, 
 for he was under the shade of the priest's great cotton 
 umbrella. 
 
 Father Mathias, too, had taken off his hat and laid it 
 carefully on his pudgy knees. With a vast red bandana 
 handkerchief he mopped his gray head, his glistening 
 tonsure and his fat jowls. About him there was noth- 
 ing in training except his eyes. They gleamed and 
 flashed from a passive mask; they swept Gerry from 
 head to toe. " Flesh is not thy burden, my son." 
 
 Gerry knew himself in the presence of a father con- 
 fessor. He began to tell his story dreamily. In that 
 blaze of tropical light, perched beside his own handi- 
 work; a f rocked priest at his side; a mule, with head 
 and ears pendent, before him ; and down in the valley, 
 the plantation house, Margarita, the river, it was hard 
 to picture Alix. He seemed to be in the free swing- 
 ing orbit of another sphere. He told a lucid story but 
 as he spoke he seemed to see himself and Alix dimin- 
 ished by a greater perspective than mere time flies 
 buzzing under glass. Vaguely he felt that he must still 
 love Alix were Alix of his life. But she was not. She 
 belonged to a mechanism of life the whirring of whose 
 tiny wheels drowned out the low tones of elemental 
 things which, once heard, left no place in a man's heart 
 for lesser sounds. Gerry did not picture himself as 
 entranced by the simple life, but he felt subconsciously 
 that while once Nature's music had seemed but the shrill-
 
 HOME 131 
 
 ing of cicada?, matching the acute note of an artificial 
 whirl, now it sang to him in the deep tones of a resonant 
 organ sang with him for he felt that he was of 
 the music, that his body was a vibrating, naked cord in 
 a monster harp. 
 
 The priest did not watch him as he talked, but, when 
 he had finished, turned and seemed to drill him with" 
 his piercing eyes. " It is well," he said. " Life has 
 buffeted you that later you may buffet Life. But it is 
 not with that distant future that I would meddle. To 
 me you are only a sudden factor in the life of one 
 of the most innocent of my flock. Some people have 
 an exaggerated idea of innocence. Not I. Margarita 
 is innocent to me. She has married you in her heart. 
 Some day you will go away Gerry shook his head 
 in denial but the priest resumed, " some day you will go 
 away and it will kill her. But in the meantime you 
 make her live a life of sin. Why do you ? Why not 
 marry her ? " 
 
 Gerry looked around in surprise. " Marry her ! 
 Have n't I just told you that I am married ? " 
 
 The priest shrugged his shoulders. " All that, my 
 son, is locked in the confessional. Why make a moun- 
 tain of a distant molehill ? Need your two worlds ever 
 clash ? You lose nothing. You give peace to the girl 
 who is ready to renounce the rights and privileges of 
 Mother Church rather than say a word that might 
 frighten you away. She made me swear that I would 
 never breathe to you of marriage." Gerry smiled but 
 the priest continued calmly, " the girl is all I am think- 
 ing of the girl and the children."
 
 132 HOME 
 
 " Children ! " exclaimed Gerry. Years with Alix 
 had relegated children to a state of remote contingency. 
 
 It was the priest's turn to smile. " Yes," he said, 
 " children. They happen, somehow." 
 
 Gerry did not smile. He was trying to picture him- 
 self in relation to children. 
 
 " It would not be fair," continued Father Mathias, 
 " to the children. This place is Margarita's. It was 
 worth nothing without your ditch. It will soon be 
 worth a great deal. Say you died say you left her 
 with children they could not inherit. After all, it 
 is a small thing for you to do. You and I will know 
 the marriage is illegal, but it is big odds that the law 
 will never know it." 
 
 " Where are your morals, Father ? " said Gerry, smil- 
 ing. " Do you counsel me to live a lie ? " 
 
 The priest snapped his fat fingers. " In the balance 
 against peace of mind, lies are feathers. Besides, we 
 all live a lie anyway. Our ambition should be to live 
 a big, kindly lie and not a mean, self-centered one. The 
 ideal, the absolute in anything, is fleshless bloodless 
 We speak as man to man, eh ? Well, when years have 
 spread out life behind you, you will look back and see 
 this lesson; happiness contains content, but happiness 
 is the enemy of content. They who pursue the greater 
 may lose all ; they who pursue the lesser sometimes ob- 
 tain the whole. Behold my major and my minor prem- 
 ise and the conclusion is : The part is greater than the 
 whole ! Thus it is with life, my son. The part is al- 
 ways greater than the whole and a small lie may help 
 on a great truth."
 
 HOME 133 
 
 Gerry smiled at the Jesuitry. It appealed to him. 
 It fitted in with the inverted order of things. He rose 
 and held out his hand. " If children come," he said, 
 " I will marry her." 
 
 The priest scramhled to his feet, his face wreathed 
 in smiles. The slanted umbrella framed him in a 
 gigantic aureole. " One more indiscretion," he said, 
 " and this time the confessional is not the source, that 
 is, not directly. My son, you had better marry her 
 straight away." 
 
 By the time all he inferred had reached Gerry's brain 
 Father Mathias had climbed his mule and was off to 
 the house. Gerry followed him slowly. He did not 
 feel as though he were about to pay a price. The 
 marriage brought thus suddenly to his contemplation 
 would be no meaningless or unlawful form to him. He 
 would make it a solemn consecration to fatherhood. 
 
 When he reached the house, Margarita, standing pant- 
 ing and frightened beside the priest, one hand on her 
 breast, the other held out as though groping, studied his 
 face for a long moment and then hurled herself into his 
 arms. He held her close and laughed. His laughter 
 was low, strong like himself, reassuring. Margarita 
 was quivering and sobbing. He had never heard her 
 weep before. Suddenly she stopped and raised her eyes 
 to his. His laughter ceased. Their looks intermingled 
 and held. Each made to the other an unspoken promise. 
 
 The next morning the priest left them again. He 
 held his weight almost jauntily on the ambling mule. 
 His wide-brimmed, clerical hat was pushed back to the 
 verge of a fall and the great umbrella was slanted to
 
 134 HOME 
 
 meet the level rays of the rising sun. Priest and mule 
 combined to give the impression of a sea-going tub 
 rigged in rakish, joyous lines. The priest was jubilant. 
 He had married the lovers and carried with him the 
 documents for registry. Gerry walked beside the mule 
 as far as the bridge. There the tub turned laboriously 
 and its convoy with it. The two men looked over the 
 valley and smiled. The valley smiled back. Already 
 it was robed in a wide-spread flush of green. The priest 
 nodded slowly. " It is good," he said. " Farewell, my 
 son," and he turned to sail ponderously out into the 
 barren lands of cactus and thorn. 
 
 Gerry watched him out of sight and then turned to 
 his work of tilling the soil. He cut the best of the 
 cane and Bonifacio planted the joints at a slant with 
 knowing hand. He sorted the bolls of cotton. The 
 women studied the fiber and when it was long, silky and 
 tough they picked out the seeds with care and hoarded 
 them, for their time was not yet. One duty urged an- 
 other. The days passed rapidly. 
 
 One morning Gerry looked up from his labor to find 
 a mounted figure just behind him. An elderly man of 
 florid face sat a restive stallion of Arab strain. The 
 stranger's note was opulence. From his Panama hat, 
 thin and light as paper, to his silver spurs and the 
 silver-mounted harness of his horse, wealth marked him. 
 He was dressed in white linen and his flaring, glossy rid- 
 ing-boots of embroidered Russian leather stood out from 
 the white clothes and the whiter sheep's fleece that 
 served as saddle cloth, with telling effect. In his hands 
 was a silver-mounted rawhide quirt. His face was
 
 HOME 135 
 
 grave, his eyes blue and kindly. As Gerry looked at 
 him he spoke, " I 'm Lieber from up the river. Father 
 Mathias told me about you." 
 
 Gerry started at the familiar English and frowned. 
 At the frown the stranger's eyes shifted. " I did n't 
 come down here to bother you," he went on hastily. 
 " Father Mathias told me about the green grass and I 
 could n't keep away. I 've got cattle and horses up my 
 way and they 're dying starving. I came down to 
 make a deal. I 've picked out a hundred and twenty 
 head with blood in 'em horses and cattle. If you '11 
 take 'em and feed 'em through to the rains I '11 give you 
 ten out of the hundred. Some are too far gone to save, 
 I 'm afraid." 
 
 Gerry looked at his tiny plantations which showed 
 up meanly in the great expanse of waste pasture. 
 " I 'm sorry," he said, " but I 'm afraid I can't. You 
 see, I can't afford to fence." 
 
 Lieber looked around and nodded. " That 's all 
 right," he said, " I 've got a lot of old wire that 's no 
 use to me and a lot of loafers to tear it down and put it 
 up. I '11 fence as much pasture as you say and throw 
 in the fencing on the deal." 
 
 " That 's mighty fair," said Gerry; " I '11 take you." 
 He dropped his. hoe. "Won't you come down to the 
 house and have a bite to eat ? " He turned and Lieber 
 started to follow. " By the way," said Gerry over his 
 shoulder, " you 're not a German, are you ? " 
 
 Lieber stopped his horse. His eyes wavered. " No," 
 he said shortly, " I 'm not. I 'm an American. After 
 all, I don't think I ought to waste any time. Hours
 
 136 HOME 
 
 tell with starving stock. I '11 just get back in a hurry, 
 if you don't mind. My men and the wire will be here 
 just that much sooner." 
 
 Gerry frowned again but this time at himself. He 
 felt that he had stepped on another man's corns while 
 defending his own. " All right, Mr. Lieber," he said. 
 " The sooner the better. I '11 do all I can to help." 
 
 The next morning the men came accompanied by ox- 
 carts loaded with fencing, posts and all. Lieber was 
 with them. He sat his horse through the hot hours and 
 drove his men steadily. Gerry threw himself into the 
 work as foreman. The fence grew with amazing rapid- 
 ity. From the bridge they carried it in a straight line 
 past the house to the river. It cut off a vast triangle 
 whose two other sides were held by the ditch and the 
 river. By night the work was almost done. Gerry was 
 tired and happy, but he sighed. How many weeks of 
 toil would not he and Bonifacio have had to put in to 
 accomplish that fence ! Money assumed a new aspect in 
 his thoughts. What could he not do if he had money 
 to buy material and to pay labor ? How he could make 
 a little money grow! He thought of the bank account 
 at home that must be piling up in his name. But some- 
 how the thought of that money was not tantalizing. 
 That solution had nothing to do with his present prob- 
 lem of life. That money seemed unrelated to himself 
 now unrelated to effort. It did not belong in the 
 scheme of things. 
 
 Lieber stayed the night with them and Gerry studied 
 and imitated the older man's impersonality. Lieber 
 kept his eyes on his plate or in the vague distance while
 
 HOME 137 
 
 the women attended them and as soon as the business 
 of eating was over he retired to the room that had been 
 allotted to him. 
 
 He was up early in the morning and away to meet the 
 coming herd. First came the horses, neighing and 
 quickening their weak trot at the smell of grass. Far 
 away and like a distorted echo sounded the lowing of 
 the slower cattle. The little herd of Fazenda Flores 
 caught the moaning cry and lifted lazy heads. One or 
 two lowed back. 
 
 The horses were rounded up at the bridge to await the 
 cattle. They stretched thin necks toward the calling 
 grass and moved restlessly about with quick turns of 
 eager heads and low impatient whinnies. Lieber sat 
 his stable-fed stallion stolidly, but his eyes grew moist 
 as he looked over the bony lot of horses. " They must 
 wait for the cattle," he said to Gerry. " A fair start 
 and no favor. God, if you could have seen them three 
 months ago ! " 
 
 The cattle came up in a rapid shamble that carried 
 them slowly for they were staggering in short, quick 
 steps. Their heads hung almost to the ground. They 
 had no shame. They moaned pitifully continually. 
 
 Gerry opened the wire gap. The horses gave an 
 anticipatory whirl and then dashed through. They for- 
 got their weakness. They galloped down the slope, 
 spurning beneath their feet the food they had longed 
 for. They did not stop till they reached the rich bot- 
 toms. Lieber smiled affectionately. " There 's spirit 
 for you," he said. 
 
 The cattle followed but the men had to beat the first
 
 138 HOME 
 
 through away from the gap. They had stopped to eat 
 and had blocked the way. At last they were all in and 
 the gap closed. One or two stood with straddled feet 
 and continued to low, their lips just brushing the lush 
 grass. " Poor beasts," said Lieber, the smile gone from 
 his face, " they are too weak to eat." 
 
 He and Gerry went back to the house for breakfast. 
 The herders sat and smoked. They had had coffee; it 
 would see them through half the day. Before Lieber 
 left, the horses were herded once more and with much 
 trouble driven out upon the desert. Lieber turned to 
 Gerry. " Don't let them back in until to-morrow, 
 please," he said. " If you do, they '11 founder." 
 
 " What about the cattle ? " asked Gerry. 
 
 " The cattle are all right. They have n't enough 
 spirit left to kill themselves eating. They '11 begin ly- 
 ing down pretty soon. Good-by, and remember, you '11 
 get a warm welcome up at Lieber' s whenever you feel 
 like riding over." 
 
 " Thanks," said Gerry. " Good-by." 
 
 He watched Lieber ride away on the road the priest 
 had taken. Pazenda Flores, his isolated refuge, was 
 beginning to link itself to a world, Man, like a vine, 
 has tendrils. To climb he must reach them out and 
 cling.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE horses picked up rapidly, the cattle more 
 slowly. Two calves, added to the herd over 
 night, aroused memories of the home farm in Gerry's 
 breast. Every morning he stood by the pasture fence 
 and gazed with a thrill on the new life in the scene. A 
 fluttering corn husk or the wave of a hand was enough 
 to start the horses careering over the fields. Life had 
 sprung up in them anew. They played at being afraid. 
 They leaped mere hummocks as though they were walls. 
 Heads and tails held high, they breasted the morning 
 breeze in a vigorous, resounding trot. Here and there 
 heels were flung high. The trot echoed in a rapid cres- 
 cendo that broke and was lost in a wild clatter of hoofs, 
 beating out the music of a mad gallop. The cattle, 
 all but a few that still hovered between life and death, 
 now stood sturdily on four legs. They lifted their 
 heads slowly and gazed mild-eyed at the romping horses. 
 Resurrection was becoming a familiar miracle to 
 Gerry a sort of staccato accompaniment to life. 
 Like himself, like Fazenda Flores, all these had been 
 plunged in young ruin. He began to see the line be- 
 tween ruin and death. Ruin is fruitful. It holds a 
 seed. He could see it in Fazenda Flores, in the horses 
 and cattle, and give it a name but he had not visualized 
 it in himself. He had no time and no inclination now 
 
 139
 
 140 HOME 
 
 for introspection. Without analysis he felt that he was 
 at one with the world into which he had fallen. It 
 held him as though to an allotted place. 
 
 The reward of those long months of preparation was 
 at hand. Once every spade thrust had seemed but the 
 precursor to barren effort. Now every stroke of the hoe 
 seemed to bring forth a fresh green leaf. Life fell into 
 an entrancing monotone. It became an endless chain 
 that forged its own links and lengthened out into an end- 
 less perspective. Days passed. The arrival of Lieber's 
 foreman to see how the stock was progressing was an 
 event. He brought with him an old saddle and bridle 
 - a gift from Lieber to Gerry. " He says," the fore- 
 man remarked with a leer, on making the presentation, 
 " you can ride anything you can catch." 
 
 Gerry felt the foreman needed putting in place. He 
 went into the house and reappeared carrying something 
 in his hat. He climbed the fence and called. The 
 horses raised their heads and looked. Some were lazy 
 after watering but the others trotted over toward him. 
 They stopped a few yards off and scrutinized him as 
 though to divine his intentions. Then they approached 
 cautiously, with tense legs, ready to whirl and bolt. 
 A greedy colt refused to play the game of fear to a 
 finish. He strode forward and was rewarded with a 
 large lump of sugar. The sugar was coarse and black, 
 first cousin to virgin molasses, but it was redolent. The 
 horses crowded around Gerry. They pawed at him. 
 He had to beat them back. They made a bold assault 
 on the empty but odorous .hat. Gerry laughed and 
 cleared the fence to get away from them. "I think
 
 HOME 141 
 
 your master must be mistaken," he said with a smile to 
 the foreman. " Some of these colts can never have 
 been backed." 
 
 The foreman looked his admiration. He began to 
 take Gerry seriously; it was man to man now. He 
 pointed out the horses that were broken to saddle and 
 named their gaits and mettle. Then his shrewd eyes 
 looked around for further details to add to his report 
 to his master. He noted that a few, a very few, of the 
 cattle were still lying down when they should have been 
 on their feet and eating. These were herded into a 
 corner of their own and old Bonifacio was tending them. 
 Beside each was a pile of fresh cut grass. As they ate 
 they nosed it away, but Bonifacio made the rounds and 
 with his foot pushed back the fodder, keeping it in easy 
 reach. 
 
 The foreman's eyes caught on the two new-born calves. 
 They had been taken from their weak mothers and were 
 in a rough pen by themselves. The foreman did not 
 have to count the stock to see that none was missing. 
 He was cattle bred. A gap in the herd or the bunch of 
 horses would have flown at the seventh sense of the stock- 
 man the moment he laid eyes on the field. Instead there 
 were these two calves. " Master," he said to Gerry, 
 " you have made up your mind not to lose a head. You 
 would save even these little ones, born before their 
 time!" 
 
 Gerry nodded gravely. He had worked hard to save 
 all. He winced at the mere thought of death at 
 Fazenda Flores even down to these least weaklings. He 
 himself had fed them patiently from a warm bottle. In
 
 142 HOME 
 
 trouble and valuable time they had cost him an acre of 
 cotton. But an acre of cotton was a small price to pay 
 for life. 
 
 A grip of the hand and the foreman was off 
 in a cloud of dust. At the bridge he pulled his horse 
 down to the shambling fox trot that spares beast and 
 man but eats steadily into a long journey. A bearer of 
 good tidings rides slowly. 
 
 Gerry turned to his work but a cry from the house 
 arrested him. He listened. The cry was followed by 
 a moan. He dropped his field tools and ran to the 
 house. All was commotion. The day of days had 
 come to Margarita with the appalling suddenness of an 
 event too long expected. She called for Gerry. He 
 went to her. She looked a mere child in the big rough 
 bed he had made with his own hands. Suffering had 
 struck the light from her face. She was frightened 
 and clung to him. 
 
 Joana, the old negress, and Dona Maria made 
 methodical haste about the room. At the second cry 
 from Margarita Gerry lost his head. These women 
 were hard, they were iron. They paid no attention. 
 " Something must be done. Something must be done," 
 he said aloud in English. The aunt and the negress 
 worked on in silent preparation of the preparations of 
 many days. Margarita screamed. They paid no heed. 
 Her frenzied grip bit into Gerry's hand. " We must 
 have a doctor," he shouted in their own tongue to the 
 women. " Do you hear ? We must have a doctor ! " 
 Cold sweat was gathering on his brow. He too was 
 frightened.
 
 HOME 143 
 
 Dona Maria glanced at him. " A doctor ? " she cried 
 impatiently. " What for ? The girl is not ill." 
 
 " Not ill ! Not ill ! " roared Gerry. 
 
 Dona Maria picked up two towels and tied them to the 
 bed's head. She tore Margarita's hands from Gerry's ; 
 then she twisted the towels into ropes and gripped the 
 girl's hands on them. " Hold on to those," she com- 
 manded. " Towels have some sense." Then she 
 clawed Gerry out of his seat by the bed and hustled him 
 out of the room out of the house. The door slammed 
 behind him. He heard the great bar drop. He was 
 locked out. 
 
 Gerry paced angrily up and down the veranda. 
 Calm came back to him. He saw that he had been a 
 fool. He stopped and sat down on the steps of the 
 veranda. Here, before he had made his benches, she 
 had often sat beside him, caressed him, sung to him. 
 How cold he had been. How little he had done for 
 her and now she was doing this for him ! He remem- 
 bered that as she had worked on baby clothes she had 
 said she wished she had some blue ribbon. They had 
 all laughed at her, but she had nodded her girl's head 
 gravely and said, " Yes, I wish I had some blue ribbon 
 a little roll of blue ribbon." What a brute he had 
 been to laugh! 
 
 The cries ceased but the door did not open. Gerry 
 still waited. He knew he was waiting and that the 
 women in the house were waiting. It was terrible to 
 wait more terrible than the cries. Then she called 
 to him, " Geree ! Geree ! " He leaped up and pounded 
 on the door but nobody came. Yesterday they had all
 
 144 HOME 
 
 been servile to him ; to-day he was nothing. He shouted, 
 " I am here 1 I shall always be here." She did not 
 call again. He paced up and down the veranda saying 
 to himself, " A little roll of blue ribbon a little roll 
 of blue ribbon I " He stumbled on the saddle that 
 Lieber had sent him. It held his eye. He picked up 
 the bridle and ran down to the pasture. He caught the 
 oldest and gentlest of the horses, opened a gap in the 
 fence and led him out. Then he called Bonifacio. 
 " Listen," he said, " you must take the fattest of the 
 steers the red one with the blazed face you must 
 drive him into the town and sell him." 
 
 The darky demurred. " It is too late for market, 
 master." 
 
 " It does not matter. You must do as I say," said 
 Gerry angrily. " You must sell the steer. If you can 
 not sell him you must give him for blue ribbon. Do 
 you understand ? You must bring back blue ribbon for 
 your mistress. She says she must have a little roll of 
 blue ribbon." 
 
 The darky acquiesced. Together they saddled the old 
 horse and Bonifacio, armed with a long bamboo to prod 
 the fat steer, mounted and cut out his charge from the 
 herd. Gerry accompanied him to the bridge. " You 
 understand, blue ribbon. A roll of blue ribbon," he 
 shouted. 
 
 The old darky nodded gravely and repeated, " Yes, 
 master, a roll of blue ribbon. The mistress wishes a 
 roll of blue ribbon. I '11 not forget." 
 
 The steer looked back from the desert to the green 
 of the pasture and lowed. The darky prodded him
 
 HOME 145 
 
 with his stick. The steer lowed again and then 
 shambled off down the trail. Horse and rider followed 
 slowly. Gerry watched them until they were a mere 
 patch of dust in the distance; then he hurried back to 
 the house and sat down to wait again. 
 
 Night came and with it horror. The ordeal was on 
 in earnest now. Gerry stopped his ears with his fingers 
 and sat doggedly on. Hours passed and Bonifacio re- 
 turned. He laid a little package and some money beside 
 his master. He unsaddled the old horse and turned 
 him into the pasture; then he came back, sat down at 
 Gerry's feet and slept. Gerry looked with wonder on 
 his nodding head. He took his fingers from his ears. 
 On the instant a high, unearthly shriek seemed to rend 
 itself through flesh through walls and then tore on 
 swift wings into the vast silence that stretched away into 
 the" night. The ear could trace the eye could almost 
 follow the terrifying flight of this demon of sound as 
 it hurtled out over the valley, over the still trees and the 
 black water, until it crashed against the far banks of 
 the river and died. Gerry dropped his face in his 
 hands and sobbed. A low moaning was coming from 
 the house and then a new, strange sound a sound that 
 struck straight at the heart the first wail of the first 
 born. The moaning caught on that cry, stumbled and 
 recovered into a thin, weak laugh. Pain had passed and 
 with the child was born laughter. 
 
 Gerry sat stunned. It seemed incredible. That 
 shriek and then moaning and laughter in one weak 
 breath ! Was pain such pain so short lived ? 
 The echo of the terrible shriek still rang in his ears.
 
 146 HOME 
 
 Then the door opened and Dona Maria came bustling 
 out. " Come in," she cried ; " thou art the father of 
 a man child." 
 
 Gerry went in and knelt beside the bed. Margarita 
 looked at him and smiled faintly, proudly. He laid 
 the little roll of blue ribbon in her weak hand. She 
 turned her head slowly and looked down. She saw the 
 glint of blue and understood. She turned her eyes, 
 swimming black pools in a white, drawn face, to Gerry. 
 To sacrifice she added adoration.
 
 CHAPTEE XXII 
 
 THE calm which had settled on Alix's life puzzled 
 her. She wondered if she was beginning to miss 
 Gerry less. And then she remembered that she could 
 never have really missed him because she had never 
 really known him. Collingeford had brought a fresh 
 note into existence. She felt that at the end of his week 
 on the Hill he had fled from her fled from falling 
 in love with her. She knew that he would come back. 
 How should she meet him? 
 
 She was still debating the point when Collingeford 
 arrived in the city. Upon arrival he called on Mrs. J. 
 Y. and then on Nance and then, of course, on Alix. As 
 she came into the room he felt a strange fluttering in 
 his throat. It stopped his words of greeting. He stut- 
 tered and stared. He had never felt so glad at the sight 
 of any one. 
 
 " What are you looking so dismayed about ? " cried 
 Alix with a smile and holding out her hand. " Has a 
 short year changed me so much ? Am I so thin or so 
 fat?" 
 
 Collingeford recovered himself. " Neither too thin 
 nor too fat. It is perfection, not imperfection, that dis- 
 mays a man. You call it a short year ? " he added 
 gravely. " It 's been an eternity not a year ! " 
 
 But Alix was not to be diverted from her tone of 
 
 147
 
 148 HOME 
 
 badinage. She looked him over critically. "Well," 
 she said, " I congratulate you. I did n't know before 
 that bronze could bronze. What a lot of health you 
 carry about with you." 
 
 Collingeford smiled. " Clem said I looked as though 
 I had been living on babies." 
 
 " Clem ! " said Alix. " Well, I never knew that 
 young lady to stoop to flattery before. Anyway, she 's 
 wrong. You 're not pink enough." 
 
 " Pink ! " snorted Collingeford. " I should hope 
 not." 
 
 They sat and stared at each other. Each found the 
 other good to look upon. Seen alone, Collingeford's 
 tall, tense figure or the fragile quality of Alix's pale 
 beauty, would have seemed hard to match. Seen to- 
 gether, they were wonderfully in tone. Alix grew grave 
 under inspection, Collingeford nervous. " There is no 
 news ? " he asked. 
 
 " None," said Alix and a far-away look came into her 
 eyes as if her mind were off, thousands of miles, intent 
 on a search of its own. 
 
 Collingeford broke the spell. He jumped up and 
 said he had come for just one thing to take her out 
 for a walk. It was one of those nippy early winter 
 afternoons cut out to fit. a walk. Alix must put on her 
 things. She did and together they walked the long 
 length of the Avenue and out into the park. 
 
 By that time they had decided it was quite a warm 
 afternoon after all almost warm enough to sit down. 
 They tried it. Collingeford sat half turned on the 
 bench and devoured Alix with his eyes.
 
 HOME 149 
 
 A full-blooded, clean young man in the presence of 
 beauty is not a reasonable being. Collingeford was try- 
 ing to be reasonable and was failing utterly in spite 
 of the fact that he did not say a word. And just as he 
 was going to say a word Alix gave him a full, measur- 
 ing look and said, almost hastily, " It is too cold, after 
 all. Quite chilly. It was our walking so fast deceived 
 us." She rose and started tentatively toward the gate. 
 " Come on, Honorable Percy," she said playfully. 
 
 Collingeford caught up with her and said moodily, 
 " If you call me Honorable Percy again I shall dub 
 you Honest Alix." 
 
 They were walking down the Avenue. " Honest Alix 
 is n't half bad," he continued thoughtfully. " The race 
 has got into the habit of yoking the word honest to our 
 attitude toward other people's pennies but it 's a good 
 old word that stands for trustworthy, sincere, truthful 
 and all the other adjectives that fit straight riding." 
 
 " Speaking of riding, Mr. Collingeford, you 're riding 
 for a fall." Alix glanced at him meaningly. 
 
 " How did you know ? " he stammered and then went 
 on rather sullenly, " Anyway, you 're wrong. I 'm not. 
 But I was just going to." He prodded viciously at the 
 cracks in the pavement with his stick. 
 
 "Don't," said Alix. "Don't do that, I mean. 
 You '11 break your stick and it 's the one I like." 
 
 Collingeford turned a flushed face to her. " Look 
 here, Alix," he said, " you are honest and sincere and all 
 those things I said. Don't let 's hedge not just now. 
 If your bad luck does n't let up if you learn anything 
 anything you don't want to know I can't say it
 
 150 HOME 
 
 right out would you d' you think you ever 
 would" 
 
 Alix did not smile. He was too much in earnest and 
 she liked him too much was too much at one with 
 him not to feel what he was going through. " I like 
 your Honest Alix/' she said, after a pause, " and I 'm 
 going to let her do the talking for a moment. If I 
 learned absolutely that that Gerry can never come 
 back to me, there is no man that I would turn to quicker 
 than to you." Collingeford gave her a grateful look 
 and the flush under his tan deepened. " Don't mis- 
 understand me," she went on. " I like you a whole lot, 
 but I have never thought of marrying any one but Gerry. 
 I 'd like to marry Gerry. I 've never married him yet. 
 Not really." 
 
 They walked on for some time in silence. Collinge- 
 ford's thoughts had raced away southwards and Alix's 
 followed them unerringly. " Don't make one horrible 
 mistake, Percy," she said when she was sure. " Don't 
 imagine that I could ever love the bearer of ill tidings." 
 
 Collingeford flushed, this time with shame. " No, of 
 course not," he stammered. 
 
 " You see, or can't you see ? " she went on, " that 
 all this new life of mine I 've hung on to a single hook 
 of faith. If the hook breaks and sometimes it seems 
 as if it must be wearing pretty thin this new me 
 must tumble. I have spun about myself a silky dark- 
 ness and I have waited to break into light for Gerry. I 
 could not break out from this probation for any other 
 man. I do not mean that a woman can love but once 
 not necessarily. But I do think that one's life must
 
 HOME 151 
 
 spring from a new chrysalis to meet a new love fairly. 
 Second loves at first sight have a tang of the bargain 
 counter and the ready made. Love is not a chance 
 tenant. He must build or grow into a new home." 
 
 They walked on in a full silence. Collingeford's 
 shoulders drooped. For the first time in his life he felt 
 old. " You are right you are always right," he said 
 at last. " I shall go away somewhere where it 's 
 easy to sweat." 
 
 " Somewhere where it 's easy to sweat ! " exclaimed 
 Alix. " What an ugly thought." 
 
 " It 's only Bbdsky," said Collingeford reminiscently. 
 " Bodsky says you can drown any woman's memory in 
 sweat. Good old Bod! I wonder where I shall find 
 him." 
 
 " Oh," said Alix, " if it 's Bodsky's, one must n't 
 quarrel with it simply because it is ugly. But " 
 
 " But what ? " said Collingeford. 
 
 " I was going to say, ( But what naked language ! ' 
 Perhaps it is one of those truths one shrinks from be- 
 cause it starts in by slapping one's face. Anyway, even 
 if it is a truth, it 's horrid. It hurts a woman to be for- 
 gotten." 
 
 Collingeford smiled. " Just so," he said and stopped 
 before an up-town ticket agency. " Do you mind ? " 
 he asked, with a wave of his hand. They went in and 
 he bought a passage for England. He was to sail the 
 following afternoon. He looked so glum over it that 
 Alix consented to lunch with him and see him off. 
 
 He came for her the next day a little late but, when 
 she saw his face, she felt a shock and forgot to chide
 
 152 HOME 
 
 him. Her eyes mirrored the trouble in his but some- 
 how she felt that it was not the parting from her that 
 had turned him pale in a night. He helped her into the 
 waiting cab and then sank back into his corner. 
 
 Alix laid her gloved hand on his knee. " What is 
 it ? " she asked. 
 
 Collingeford's face twitched. He fixed his eyes 
 through the cab window on nothing. " Bodsky," he 
 said, " is dead. He has been dead for months." 
 
 " Oh," cried Alix, " I 'm sorry. I 'm sorry for you." 
 She did not try to say any more. She had put all her 
 heart into those few words. 
 
 Collingeford drew out his pocket-book and took from 
 it a soiled sheet of paper a leaf torn from a field 
 note-book. He held it out to her with trembling hand. 
 " I would n't show it to any one else. Trouble has 
 made you great-hearted. When you said you. were sorry 
 you felt it so that the words just choked out. I need 
 to tell you all about it. I must talk talk a whole 
 lot. Sometimes a man must talk or blubber. Read 
 it." 
 
 Alix puzzled over the slip of paper. " What 's the 
 name of the place ? I can't make it out." 
 
 " It 's a little hole on the borders of Thibet. That 
 paper 's been handed along for five months. The en- 
 velope it came in was in tatters." 
 
 " Dear Old Pal," read Alix, " Do you remember 
 what I used to tell you ? When a man has seen all the 
 world he must go home or die. When we last parted I 
 had three places left to see, but they have n't lasted me 
 as long as I thought they would. I have sent you my
 
 HOME 153 
 
 battery. The bores are a bit too big for the new powder 
 and you can't use the guns, I know, but you '11 have a 
 home, old man, and you can give them a place in a rack. 
 They will make a little room as wide as the ends of the 
 earth. I did n't kill her. I made her kill herself. 
 Bodsky." 
 
 Alix was puzzled again but then she remembered. 
 " So he did n't kill her, after all," she said. 
 
 " Kill her ! Kill what ? " said Collingeford. " Oh, 
 yes. I remember. As if that mattered." 
 
 " It matters. It does matter," cried Alix, outraged. 
 
 " Forgive me," said Collingeford. " I had forgotten 
 that you never knew Bodsky. You said yesterday that 
 Bodsky used naked language. You were right. Bod- 
 sky undressed things. Just as some people see red 
 and some blue, Bodsky saw things naked. He could 
 look through a black robe of rumor spangled with lies 
 and see truth naked. He was naked himself naked 
 and unashamed. It 's hard for me to make you see be- 
 cause you did not know him. Bodsky was one of those 
 men who could have accomplished anything only he 
 didn't. He sifted life through a big mesh. All the 
 non-essentials the trivialities fell through. An 
 act with Bodsky was a volition, measured, weighed, and 
 then hurled. That 's why if you knew him you knew 
 that in his hands a crime was not a crime. That 's 
 why I know that he is dead. He never used a stale 
 cartridge his gun never missed fire." 
 
 Alix mused. " I can't see him I can't quite see 
 him. A man who can accomplish anything and does n't 
 seems wrong a waste."
 
 154 HOME 
 
 " You can't see," said Collingeford, " because you are 
 facing my point of view. You must turn around. 
 Bodsky used, to say that all humanity had a soul, but 
 it took a tragedy to make a man. His tragedy was that 
 life cut him out from the herd. He was n't a creator, 
 he was a creation. Generations, races, eons, created 
 Bodsky and left him standing like a scarred crag. He 
 had but one mission to see and understand. Have 
 you ever sat in the desert on a moonlit night and looked 
 at the Sphinx ? It holds you it holds your eyes in 
 a vice. You wonder why. I '11 tell you. It knows. 
 That 's the way it was with Bodsky. He only towered 
 knew understood. If that is nothing, Bodsky was 
 nothing." 
 
 They were silent. Presently Collingeford helped her 
 out and together they passed through the rich foyer, the 
 latticed palm room, and up the steps into the latest cry in 
 dining-rooms. A little table in the far corner had been 
 reserved for them. As they crossed the crowded room 
 a hush fell over the tables. Some looked and were 
 silent because Alix was beautiful and daintily gowned 
 and Collingeford all that a man should be, but 
 those who knew looked because Alix was Alix and Col- 
 lingeford was Collingeford. These soon fell to whisper- 
 ing, predicting a match. Alix bowed abstractedly here 
 and there as she followed the head waiter to her seat. 
 
 They sat down, each half facing the room. Alix 
 caught her breath. " Whining the old air ? " asked Col- 
 lingeford. 
 
 " No," answered Alix. " Only sighing. I feel so 
 out of it and that always makes one sigh whether one
 
 HOME 155 
 
 wants to be in it or not. I know it all so well that 
 this amounts to a disillusion. Time and absence have 
 turned into a binocular and I 'm looking through the 
 wrong end. I see things clear but tiny. There 's 
 little Mrs. Deathe, pronounced Deet, and she isn't a 
 day older. But now I see that she was born as old as 
 she '11 ever be." 
 
 " Good/' said Collingeford. 
 
 " And with her is Mrs. Remmer. She 's gone in for 
 the little diamond veil brooches. They ruin the effect 
 of a simply stunning hat but, as always, she has rushed 
 at the newest, expensive fad. I didn't know why be- 
 fore, but somehow I can tell you now. She is the shop- 
 ping instinct incorporated. To spend money is her only 
 sensation. The lines of worry are in her face because 
 she has bought all and still craves to spend." 
 
 Alix paused. " Go on," said Collingeford. 
 
 " There are only a few men in the room, but almost 
 all of these women have husbands. The husbands are 
 in two tenses past and future. There must be a 
 present but it is nebulous. I did n't know before but 
 I know now that in time these women will go back or for- 
 ward to their husbands. Some day they will get dizzy 
 and fall and the shock will wake them up. I used to be 
 patronizing to divorce, like all these, but divorce has 
 taken on a new face all of a sudden. I see that it is 
 a great antidote to its own evil. While we laugh and 
 play with it, it is herding us on to a sane adjustment. 
 We are tearing down the fence of the pasture and rush- 
 ing out to scatter over fields that are free and barren. 
 By and by we '11 come back tired and hungry and thirsty
 
 156 HOME 
 
 and we '11 see that the pasture 's the thing green and 
 fresh and sustaining and the fence, nothing." 
 
 " You see, you understand, you are prophetic," said 
 Oollingeford, smiling. 
 
 " But I do not tower like your Bodsky," said Alix and 
 then bit her tongue at the slip. 
 
 A shadow seemed to fall on them. The room's high, 
 delicate paneling and the painted oval of the ceiling 
 seemed to hover over a suddenly darkened emptiness. 
 The hum and chatter of the throng became little and 
 far away. Collingeford and Alix felt as though they 
 sat alone and yet not alone. Collingeford nodded as 
 though Alix had spoken. " Yes," he said, " Bodsky has 
 come back to us. Don't regret it. I don't know how 
 it is with you but I feel that we two are alone with 
 him and that it 's worth while. He 's come on us like 
 a cloud. 
 
 " But I like clouds," he continued, " big black clouds. 
 If it were not for them you could n't see the lightning 
 or hear the thunder. They make lightning and thunder 
 the arm and the voice of the gods. Bodsky was n't 
 divine; he couldn't create and he knew it and felt it. 
 But he could echo the roar and reflect the light. I re- 
 member a duffer making a careless remark about a 
 woman's travail. Bodsky looked him over and said, 
 ' Some day you will see and hear and know and the 
 memory of that remark will bring you on to your knees. 
 But this much I can tell you now, young man. I would 
 rather have been the man who produced the first wooden 
 spoon than Alexander the Great. From a spoon to a 
 baby is a long step up. That 's why we have made a
 
 HOME 157 
 
 shrine for mothers. Generally speaking, women are 
 despicable. But a mother has passed through cruci- 
 fixion to transfiguration.' I think it was about the 
 longest speech he ever made. To him that was one of 
 the things too big to drop through the mesh of his sieve 
 of life unnoticed. 
 
 " Bodsky was elemental. He was an element. He 
 could not produce but he could make fertile the lives of 
 lesser men. I was the duffer that made the careless 
 remark. That was the first time he ever spoke to me. 
 I 've sat at his feet ever since. I did n't know I was 
 doing it but I can see it now. And the result is this: 
 Bodsky could n't go home. But I can and I 'm going 
 home before I 've seen the whole world. Only only 
 I wish I could take you with me." 
 
 " There, there," said Alix, playfully, but her eyes 
 were soft. " We must go now or you will miss your 
 ship."
 
 AS Alix and Gollingeford left the dining-room she 
 said, " They were n't all butterflies after all. I 
 saw a man and a woman." 
 
 " Not really ! " said Collingeford. -" Who ? " 
 
 " Alan Wayne and Dora Tennel." 
 
 At Alan's name Collingeford's face lit up with inter- 
 est. " Ten Percent Wayne, eh ? Yes, you 're right. 
 He's a man. And Dora Tennel, ex-Lady Braeme. 
 Yes, she 's a woman too, in a way." 
 
 " Has she a tarnished reputation ? " 
 
 Collingeford stopped short in his stride and looked 
 keenly at Alix. " My dear lady," he said, " that is a 
 question one does not put to a man. However, it 
 does n't embarrass me to answer it in this case. She has 
 not. What on earth put it into your head ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Alix. "Oh, yes I do. I 
 remember. Some one told me once that Alan sur- 
 rounded himself with tarnished reputations." 
 
 Each followed the train of his own thoughts until they 
 reached the pier. Alix did not get out of the cab. She 
 leaned from the window and said good-by. Collinge*- 
 ford held her hand and her eyes long, then he turned 
 away and hurried into the elevator. 
 
 When Alix got home she sat down and wrote a note 
 to Alan just a line to tell him that she was ready 
 and wished to see him. He came the following after- 
 
 158
 
 HOME 159 
 
 / 
 
 noon. At first he was a little awkward, straining just 
 the least too much not to betray his nervousness. But 
 the sight of Alix put him at his ease. Once it had been 
 with a fine art that she had pampered the ill-at-ease 
 into well-being but as Alan crossed the room and stood 
 before her he knew that art had been banished and that 
 a new Alix, simple and secure in the unassailable at- 
 mosphere that guards true women, held out her hand to 
 him from beyond an invisible barrier. She had become a 
 true woman true in the sense of honor and she was 
 tempered as steel, but soft with the softness of mother- 
 hood. About her there was the peace of an inner shrine. 
 She drew him into it unhesitatingly and he suddenly 
 felt unclean just as he had felt unworthy on that other 
 day when he had recoiled from Nance's loving arms 
 around his neck. 
 
 " You 're not looking very well, Alan," said Alix 
 when he was seated. 
 
 " No, I 'm not on the top of the wave just now," 
 replied Alan. " Touch of river fever. It 's like 
 memory a hard thing to shake." 
 
 " I 'm not trying to shake mine," said Alix calmly. 
 " My memories have made me." 
 
 " No wonder you don't quarrel with them," said Alan 
 in frank admiration. 
 
 " Life," said Alix, " is beginning to pay dividends 
 not much, just a competence. Enough to live on." 
 She smiled faintly. 
 
 " It is well," said Alan, " to be satisfied with sanity 
 if you can only keep sane. You could and did. You 
 decided to stick to the legitimate and you have your
 
 160 HOME 
 
 steady and lasting reward. The other pays in a 
 lump. It's easy to lose a whole nugget." 
 
 " Alan, when are you going to come back to the legiti- 
 mate? Don't you ever tire of life as a variety show? 
 Wouldn't you rather have one real steady star in life 
 than a whole lot of tarnished tinsel ones ? " 
 
 Alan jumped to his feet, stuck his hands in his coat 
 pockets and started walking up and down the somber 
 room. They were in the library. " A steady star," he 
 repeated. " What a find that would be ! I 've raised 
 many a star on my horizon, Alix, but the longer I look 
 at 'em the more they twinkle back. It 's easier to down 
 conscience than to down blood." 
 
 " In the end," said Alix, " a man must down blood 
 or it downs him downs him irretrievably. Blood un- 
 checked is just common beast." 
 
 "Do you think I don't know it?" flashed Alan. 
 " Each day I find an old haunt denied to me. I am ill 
 at ease. My world has left yours behind. There is a 
 pale. Behind it lies Red Hill. Do you know I have n't 
 been to the Hill for three years ? Behind it lies Nance, 
 the faithfullest, most trusting foster-sister a waster ever 
 had. And now you. You lie behind it and toy with 
 my soul through the bars." 
 
 Alix sprang to her feet and laid strong, nervous hands 
 on Alan's shoulders. She shook him and turned him so 
 that he faced the light. Alan did not laugh. There 
 was fire in Alix's eyes. "You little thing," she said 
 tensely, "not to see that the bars are down." 
 
 He turned under her hands and she let him go. He 
 stood looking out of the window at the bare trees.
 
 HOME 161 
 
 watched him. " Alan, you can come to the Hill to- 
 night. They we are all going to be together here. 
 It 's Clem's birthday. If you can feel the pale, that 's 
 enough for me. I want you to be with us." 
 
 " Alix, believe me or not, it 's because I feel the pale 
 that I won't come. If there 's a ship sailing for the 
 ends of the earth before night it shall carry me. This 
 big city is n't big enough to hold all the Hill and leave 
 me room to wander outside." 
 
 " Then why why " 
 
 " I '11 tell you. The last time I saw J. Y., he said to 
 me among other things, ' Yesterday Clem was crying 
 because you had not come to the house. I try to 
 think, Alan, that it is because Clem is there that you 
 have not come.' Those were his very words. The rest 
 passed but that stuck. It stuck because it was the 
 truth and" I had been blind to it. What did you say a 
 little while ago ? Blood unchecked is just common beast. 
 Well, there it is in a nutshell. I bear the mark of the 
 beast. Do you think I want Clem to see it ? " 
 
 Alan's hands were locked behind him. He turned 
 from the window. " Alix, I can't see Clem yet. She 
 is expecting me. I told her that the better half of me 
 would look her up as soon as I got back. But what if 
 somebody that does n't know my better half at all should 
 see me riding walking with Clem ? I can't risk that. 
 Do you understand ? " 
 
 " But oh, Alan," said Alix. " If you could only see 
 Clem now. She 's glorious. Why it 's three years, 
 three years since you saw her. You used to think me 
 beautiful "
 
 162 HOME 
 
 " Used ! " protested Alan, casting a valuing glance at 
 Alix's pale beauty. 
 
 " Well," conceded Alix, " you think me beautiful. 
 Beside Clem with her heaps of brown hair and deep 
 blue eyes, I am nothing. I am worse I am a doll. 
 And she was born with a strange wisdom and strength of 
 her own. The world has never reached her will 
 never reach her. She 's made her own world and she 's 
 made it right. And yet the wisdom in her deep eyes, 
 Alan. She knows she knows it all and you know 
 that she knows, only, faith sits enthroned." 
 
 " Faith sits enthroned," repeated Alan ; " that 's why 
 I can't come to-night." He looked around for his hat 
 and stick. 
 
 " By the way," said Alix, " why J. Y. and why Mrs. 
 J. Y. ? I Ve always wondered." 
 
 " I don't know," said Alan. " I Ve always wondered 
 too, I suppose. But here 's the Judge. He can tell 
 
 you." 
 
 " Tell what ? " asked the Judge as he walked in and 
 took Alix' outstretched hand. 
 
 " Why there 's no Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Wayne 
 only J. Y.'s." 
 
 "And you don't know, Alan?" asked the Judge. 
 " Well, I '11 tell you. Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Wayne - 
 they were Alan's father and his young wife. Their 
 life was a hot flame that suddenly smothered itself in 
 the clouds of its own smoke. The memory of the clouds 
 passed with them but the flame the flame burns on in 
 the hearts of all who knew them. It will burn on.
 
 HOME 163 
 
 That 's why J. Y. is J. Y. and that 's why it will always 
 be J. Y. and Mrs. J. Y. to the Hill." 
 
 Alan said good-by in a hurried low voice and started 
 for the door but the Judge called to him : " Just a 
 moment, Alan, I 'm coming with you." Then he turned 
 to Alix. " I just dropped in to tell you I am delighted 
 to be able to come to-night." 
 
 " I am glad," said Alix. " Perhaps you could per- 
 suade Alan to come too if you think " 
 
 " If I think what ? " The Judge eyed her steadily. 
 
 " If you think he is ready," finished Alix. 
 
 The Judge found Alan waiting for him on the steps 
 as he hurried out. " What are you doing for the rest 
 of the afternoon ? " he asked. 
 
 " I 'm sailing for South America if there 's a con- 
 nection." 
 
 The Judge looked up surprised. " I did n't know you 
 had anything urgent on." They walked on in silence 
 for some minutes, then the Judge said, hesitatingly, 
 " Alan, you 're rushed, of course, but if you could if 
 you can do one thing and put it down to my account. 
 Just drop in and see J. Y. for a minute. Somehow I 
 feel that you can't see J. Y. the way he really is, the 
 way I can. That 's natural, too, I suppose. But if you 
 knew him, Alan, the way I do, you 'd know it 's an honor 
 for any man to shake hands with J. Y. Wayne. And 
 to have J. Y. Wayne want to shake hands with you is 
 a thing that comes to most men as a reward. 
 
 " Have you ever figured it out that there 's only one 
 man in a million that knows when to refuse to shake 

 
 164 HOME 
 
 hands and has the courage to back his judgment ? You 
 hear flippant people saying every day that they would n't 
 shake hands with such a one but when it comes to the 
 showdown their arms suddenly limber. J. Y. is one in 
 a million. He has a rare thing an untainted hand. 
 There is a tale on 'Change to the effect that a firm was 
 saved from a smash because J. Y. walked up to its head 
 and shook hands with him on the floor." 
 
 " I don't know," said Alan, " that J. Y. wants to 
 shake hands with me." He spoke almost questioningly. 
 " You know, Judge, there have been days when he 
 would n't." 
 
 " I don't know that he wants to, either, my boy. But 
 I do know this. He's a busy man, but there 's never 
 a day that he 's too rushed to think of you." 
 
 Alan stopped and held out his hand. " I am much 
 obliged to you," he said. " I 'm sorry I did n't think 
 of it myself. I 'm off to his office now, as soon as I 've 
 telephoned Swithson." 
 
 A few minutes later found Alan explaining to a new 
 office boy that he wished to speak to the head of the 
 firm. The boy judged himself in possession of a green 
 one and grinned. " Certainly," he said. " You wish 
 to speak to Mr. Wayne. Are you in a hurry ? " 
 
 Alan was offering to start the boy with his foot when 
 the head clerk, passing through the hall, caught sight 
 of him and hurried up. " Mr. Wayne is just going, 
 sir. Shall I stop him ? " 
 
 " Please," said Alan and followed the clerk. The of- 
 fice boy fell to stamping letters with unwonted diligence. 
 J. Y. received his nephew with outstretched hand.
 
 HOME 165 
 
 His rugged face was lit up with the rare smile that came 
 to it seldom, for it was the far-flung ripple the visible 
 expression of a deep commotion. 
 
 " I just dropped in, sir," said Alan, " to say good-by. 
 I 'm off again to South America. Africa seems to be 
 taking a year off." 
 
 " When are you leaving ? " asked J. Y. 
 
 " This evening," said Alan. " The boat 's already 
 pulled out but I '11 catch her at Quarantine. She 'a 
 waiting for her papers." 
 
 They sat and looked at each other for a moment and 
 then J. Y. arose and held out his hand again. " If 
 that 's the case," he said, " I won't keep you. Good-by 
 and good luck." 
 
 " Good-by, sir," said Alan. 
 
 As he reached the door J. Y. spoke again. " Alan," 
 he said, " I 'm glad you dropped in." 
 
 " I am too, sir," said Alan. As he went out he for- 
 got to deliver a word he had prepared for the office boy. 
 J. Y. had said he was glad he had dropped in. There 
 was nothing in the words to brood over, but J. Y. could 
 make a simple phrase say a world of things and Alan 
 was thoughtful almost depressed as he hurried off. 
 
 He was just leaving the sedate old office building, 
 sandwiched in between modern towers of Babel, when 
 a cab drew up at the curb. The door opened and a girl 
 stepped out. She suddenly stood still. Alan's eyes 
 were drawn to her and found hers fixed on him. He 
 drew a quivering breath. " But, oh ! Alan, if you could 
 only see Clem now ! " Alix had said and had tried to 
 tell him of the beauty of Clem. Now Clem stood be-
 
 166 HOME 
 
 fore him. How weak were words ! How futile to try 
 to convey the essence of Clem's beauty in words! He 
 stepped towards her hesitatingly. She saw his hesita- 
 tion and a cloud came over the light in her face. Her 
 moist lips trembled. Their hands met. 
 
 " Alan ! " she said and he answered, " Clem ! " 
 
 And so they stood, his eyes fixed in hers that were 
 blue and deep. He felt his soul sinking, sinking into 
 those cooling pools. He did not wish ever to speak 
 again ever to think again. 
 
 And then Clem laughed. Her eyes wrinkled up. 
 There was a gleam of even teeth. The wind blew her 
 furs about her and lit the color in her cheeks. " How 
 solemn we are after three years ! " she cried. " Three 
 years, Alan. Are n't you ashamed ? " 
 
 Alan felt a sense of sudden insulation as though 
 she had deliberately cut the current that had flowed so 
 strongly between them. He rebelled for once against 
 flippancy. Unknowingly he tried to bring his and 
 Bodsky's world of naked things into the city. He 
 failed to answer to Clem's mood because he would not 
 believe in it. " I am going away," he stammered 
 weakly and waved at an approaching four-wheeler, 
 piled high with traveling kit and convoyed by his hur- 
 ried but never flurried servant. 
 
 But Clem stuck to her guns. " Really ? " she said 
 with a glance at the loaded cab and with arching eye- 
 brows. Then her smile burst again. " You can't ex- 
 pect me to be surprised, can you ? We seem to have a 
 habit of meeting when you are on the point of going
 
 HOME 167 
 
 away. There. You must be in a hurry. Good-by," 
 and she held out a gloved hand. 
 
 Alan's spirit was ever ready for war and this, he sud- 
 denly perceived, was war. He braced himself and 
 smiled too. " Twice hardly amounts to a habit," he 
 drawled. He had never drawled to Clem before but 
 then Clem had never before taken up the social rapier 
 with him. " Besides," he went on, " there 's a differ- 
 ence. Last time you ran after me." 
 
 Clem's smile trembled, steadied itself and then fought 
 bravely back. " Yes," she said, " yes." And then her 
 eyes wavered and wandered. She dropped his hand. 
 " Good-by," she said again, the faintest catch in her 
 voice, and hurried away to seek <J. Y. 
 
 Alan stood and watched her. What shoulders she 
 had and what a swing to them. Slim of hip and foot 
 and ankle it was the body of a boy a boy god. A 
 body, a life, a soul of promise, of treasures garnered 
 and enshrined. Alan cast his mind back over his own 
 life. He felt a sinking within him. " For a mess of 
 pottage," he muttered and then his servant touched his 
 arm anxiously and held out his watch, face up. 
 " You '11 never make it, Mr. Wayne." 
 
 Alan turned on him but not angrily. '" Perhaps not, 
 Swithson, and perhaps yes. You may go back to the 
 flat. I '11 get along all right." And with that he 
 hurled himself at the cab. " Double fare if you make 
 the Battery in ten minutes," he shouted to the driver 
 and then settled back in the seat to ponder.
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV 
 
 AT last the rains came to the valley and Fazenda 
 Flores. Gerry spent long hours beside his sluice- 
 gate watching for a rise in the river, but it did not 
 come. The torrent of rain was local and he remem- 
 bered that Lieber had told him that the floods the 
 great floods came from hundreds of miles up the 
 river and generally under a brazen sky. Night, black 
 night, had fallen with the rain and he was just turning 
 to seek shelter from the unbroken downpour when a 
 voice raised in song reached his ears. He waited. 
 The voice drew nearer. In a nasal tone, which some- 
 how sounded familiar though it was unknown to him, 
 it was chanting a long string of doggerel ending in an 
 unvarying refrain. Finally Gerry could make out the 
 long-drawn tail-end of the song : " comin' down the 
 drawr." 
 
 English! American! Cowboy music! The im- 
 pressions came in rapid succession. Gerry strove to 
 pierce the darkness. He could hear the near-by splash 
 of careful mules, picking their way through puddles 
 with finicking little steps. He felt a shadow in the 
 darkness and could just see above it a blur of yellow. 
 Behind it, more shadows. On an impulse he did not 
 stop to measure, he shouted in English, " Hallo, there! " 
 
 The doggerel was choked off in mid-flight. The yel- 
 168
 
 HOME 169 
 
 low blur came to a sudden stop and the nasal voice 
 rang out in quick staccato, " Speak again, stranger, and 
 speak quick ! " 
 
 " It 's all right," Gerry laughed back. " Where are 
 you bound for ? " 
 
 " I 'm headed down the drawr lookin' for a chalk 
 line where I c'n dry my feet. What do you know ? " 
 
 " Can you see the water in the ditch at your right ? " 
 
 " Yasser, I can. I c'n see you, too." 
 
 " Well," shouted back Gerry, " your eyes beat mine. 
 Follow the ditch until you come to a bridge. I '11 meet 
 you there." 
 
 Gerry found the little cavalcade waiting for him, six 
 pack-mules, a native driver and, towering above them, 
 a great lanky figure in a yellow oil-skin slicker topped 
 by a broad-brimmed Stetson. Gerry looked over the 
 outfit as carefully as the darkness would allow and then 
 said tentatively, " There 's a house down there in the 
 valley." 
 
 " Is the' ? " drawled the stranger spitting deliber- 
 ately into the ditch. " Well," he volunteered after a 
 further pause, " my name 's Jake Kemp. The rest of 
 this outfit is six mules packin' orchids and the greaser 
 packin' the mules." 
 
 " That 's all right," said Gerry, " I guess we can put 
 you up." 
 
 He led the way and the pack-train splashed along 
 after him. The mules were soon relieved of their bur- 
 dens and turned into the pasture. Bonifacio took the 
 native muleteer away to his quarters and Gerry and 
 the stranger passed through the house to the kitchen.
 
 170 HOME 
 
 A patriarchal hospitality came naturally to the in- 
 mates of Fazenda Flores. It was a tradition not only 
 on that plantation but throughout a vast hinterland, 
 where life was rude and death sudden, to be gentle to 
 the stranger, to feed him and his beast and to speed 
 him on in the early morning. There was but one rule 
 to the stranger: He must keep his eyes to the front. 
 Jake Kemp had evidently learned the brief code. He 
 ate ravenously, poured down coffee with the recklessness 
 of a man that draws on a limitless power to sleep, 
 and made his few remarks to Gerry and to Gerry 
 alone. 
 
 Gerry was feeling a strange elation that he strove 
 in vain to account for. This was an American but be- 
 yond that they had nothing in common. New York 
 and Texas are connected only by fiction. Perhaps it 
 was just curiosity. Curiosity invaded him. What was 
 a Texas cowboy doing on the road past Fazenda Flores 
 with a mule train of orchids? As an opener he de- 
 clared himself. " My name 's Gerry Lansing," he said. 
 " I 've settled down here." 
 
 " So ? " said Kemp, as he drew from his vest pockets 
 the makings of a cigarette. Gerry had seen the yellow 
 papers and the little bags of flaked tobacco. They 
 struck convincingly the note of the West. Kemp him- 
 self was gotten up in the same key* Stetson hat, shirt 
 sleeves, unbuttoned vest, collarless shirt, high-heeled 
 boots and the yellow slicker tossed on the floor, all were 
 in strict keeping with type. " Eeckon you 're f'm the 
 States," drawled Kemp as he accomplished the cigar- 
 ette.
 
 HOME 171 
 
 " Yes," said Gerry and added, with an idea to estab- 
 lishing a link, " like you." 
 
 " Naw," said Kemp, " I ain't f m the States." 
 
 Gerry looked incredulous. " Are n't you an Amer- 
 ican ? " 
 
 " Sure am," replied Kemp, unperturbed. " But I 'm 
 fm Texas leastways I was f 'm Texas. Our folks 
 wagoned over to New Mexico when I was a yearling." 
 
 Gerry had been West more than once. He slowly 
 recollected that Easterners came into Texas and the 
 Territories " from the States " and were considered 
 but once removed from foreigners. 
 
 " Reckon you 're f'm Noo Yawk," was Kemp's next 
 deliberate contribution to the conversation. 
 
 " You 're right," said Gerry. " How did you guess 
 it?" 
 
 " I b'en thar," said Kemp. 
 
 With that, talk lagged. Gerry instinctively avoided 
 the question direct and Kemp vouchsafed nothing more. 
 Not till Gerry came upon him hitching up his loads 
 early next morning did he speak again and then he said 
 with a glint in his eye that was almost a smile, " I 
 guess them 's the first orchids that ever traveled to 
 ma'ket under a diamond hitch." 
 
 Here was an opening but it came too late. Gerry 
 did not try to follow it up. Once more in the saddle 
 Kemp seemed to acquire a sudden new ease of body 
 and mind. He hung by one knee and a stirrup and 
 leaned over toward Gerry. " Stranger," he said, " I 'm 
 much obliged to ye. It 's a long way f'm the Alamo to 
 ISToo Yawk, but the hull country 's under one fence."
 
 172 HOME 
 
 He waved his hand and was gone after his pack-train, 
 lifting his mule with his goose-necked spurs into a pro- 
 testing canter. Gerry followed him with his eyes. He 
 felt a sense of loss and failure. Kemp had been like 
 a breath of air laden with some long-forgotten scent that 
 defies memory to give it a name. 
 
 For days Gerry's mind kept going back to his lodger 
 for a night. This stranger had broken the quiet flow 
 of life. He had gone, but the commotion he had caused 
 lingered on. Two weeks after his passing, as evening 
 was settling on Fazenda Flores, the echo of a mule's 
 mincing steps on the bridge made Gerry look up from 
 his work. Kemp was riding towards him. It was as 
 though he came in answer to Gerry's constant thoughts. 
 Gerry hurried forward to meet him. 
 
 " Howdy," said Kemp and paused on that to measure 
 his welcome. He was satisfied and urged his tired mule 
 on towards the house. Gerry walked beside him and 
 learned that the shipment of orchids had just caught 
 the steamer at the coast. Kemp unsaddled his mule 
 and tossed the harness and slicker upon the veranda. 
 Gerry opened the gap into the pasture and the mule 
 nosed its cautious way through to water and the grass. 
 As Gerry was closing the gap Kemp came up and 
 stood beside him. He cast a knowing eye over the 
 fat stock. " You done a good job for Lieber," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 Gerry nodded a little sadly. " Yes," he said, " the 
 contract's filled. Lieber 's sending for the stock day 
 after to-morrow." 
 
 As they sat on the veranda that night smoking end-
 
 HOME 173 
 
 less cigarettes, Kemp turned to his host. " D 'ye mind 
 if I stay over a day with you ? Truth is, I want to 
 he'p drive that stock up to Lieber's. I want to he'p 
 whistle a bunch o' steers along once more and smell 
 the dust an' the leakin' udders, an' I should n't wonder 
 if I let out a yell or so, corralin' 'em at the other end." 
 
 Gerry nodded understandingly. " Why did you 
 leave it ? " he ventured and then regretted and mur- 
 mured, " Never mind." 
 
 But Kemp was not offended. " Naw," he said, " I 
 hain't killed my man not lately nor anything 
 like that. I left it," he went on reminiscently, " be- 
 cause I could n't he'p it. I got to dreamin' nights of 
 pu'ple cities." 
 
 " Purple what ? " exclaimed Gerry. 
 
 Kemp took a cigarette from his mouth and almost 
 smiled. " Never did hear of The Pu'ple City, I 
 reckon ? " 
 
 Gerry shook his head. Kemp drew a well-worn wal- 
 let from the capacious inner pocket of his vest and took 
 out a ragged clipping. One could read in the glaring 
 moonlight and Gerry glanced through the printed lines. 
 Then he read them through again. 
 
 THE PUEPLE CITY. 
 
 As I sat munching mangoes, 
 
 On the purple city's walls, 
 I heard the catfish calling, 
 
 To the crawfish in the crawls. 
 I saw the paper sunbeams, 
 
 Sprouting from the painted sun; 
 I saw the sun was sullen, 
 
 For the day had but begun.
 
 174 HOME 
 
 Of dusty desert sky-road, 
 
 Ten thousand miles and more, 
 Stretched out before the morning, 
 
 And the sun sat in the door. 
 He sweated seas of sunshine, 
 
 As he started up the sky, 
 And he drowned the purple city, 
 
 In a tear-drop from his eye. 
 
 No more shall purple pansies 
 
 Look up at purple pinks, 
 Nor purple roses rival, 
 
 The cheeks of purple minx. 
 Alas! for purple city, 
 
 And its purple-peopled halls! 
 Alas! for me and mangoes, 
 
 On the purple city's walls! 
 
 Gerry looked upon his guest with new wonder as he 
 handed back the clipping. Kemp put it away care- 
 fully, rolled a fresh cigarette, and blew a thick puff 
 of smoke out into the moonlight. " Can't say it 's 
 po'try and I can't say it ain't. All I know is it roped 
 me. I know that writer feller never munched no 
 mangoes, 'cause mangoes don't munch. I know he never 
 sat on no wall an' heerd catfish callin' cause catfish 
 don't call. But he seen it all, stranger, jest the way he 
 writ it down an' I b'en dreamin' pu'ple cities ever sence 
 I read his screed." 
 
 " Did you start right out to look for them ? " asked 
 Gerry gravely. 
 
 " Naw," said Kemp, " I did n't have nothin' to go 
 on. But one day a drummer feller thet I was stagin' 
 across the White Mountains give me A plant magazine, 
 and it had an article on commercial orchids with pic-
 
 HOME 175 
 
 tures in colors. They was mostly kinder pu'plish an' 
 I reckon it was that what got me started. It was the 
 foreman pointin' out my mount to me an' I did n't lose 
 no time. I drapped my rope on him an' I 've been 
 ridin' him ever sence." 
 
 " Found any purple cities ? " 
 
 " Not rightly. I seen 'em more'n once. But 
 I guess pu'ple cities is always yon side the mountain. 
 You can't jest ride up an' put your brand on 'em. 
 They 're born mavericks and they die mavericks. An' 
 I say, good luck to 'em." Kemp rose, tossed away his 
 cigarette end and stood leaning with crooked elbow and 
 knee against a veranda pillar. His keen aquiline fea- 
 tures and deep-set eyes were lit up by the moonlight 
 and seemed scarcely to belong to his great, loose-jointed 
 frame. He was loose- jointed but like a flail strong 
 and tough. " There 's one thing about the pu'ple 
 cities," he added, "the daylight always beats you to 
 'em jest like in the po'm." He turned and went off 
 to bed. 
 
 Gerry sat on in the moonlight seized by a strange 
 sadness the sadness the spirit feels under the troubled 
 hovering of the unattainable and the mirage. Life had 
 queer turns. Why should a cowboy start out to look 
 for purple cities ? It was grotesque on the face of it 
 but, beneath the face of it, it was not grotesque. 
 
 Margarita stole out to seat herself beside him. She 
 slipped her hand into his. She was worried. She was 
 always worried when Gerry's thoughts were far away. 
 " The Man," she said, for thus she had christened her 
 baby boy from the day of his birth, " the Man sleeps.
 
 176 HOME 
 
 He cried for thee and them didst not come. So he 
 slept, for he is a man." 
 
 Gerry's thoughts came back to his little kingdom. 
 He sighed and then he smiled a smile of content. " It 
 is late then, my flower ? " He put his arm around her. 
 " Let us go to bed, for to-morrow there is work." 
 
 " To-morrow there is always work," said Margarita. 
 " I am not afraid of work, Geree. The end of work 
 never comes. It is the things that end that make me 
 afraid." She, too, had felt the fluttering wings of the 
 unattainable. Unknowingly she stood beneath the 
 shadow of the stranger's purple city's walls. 
 
 The next day Kemp tried honestly to help Gerry with 
 the tilling of the soil but the effort was still-born. 
 Kemp had almost forgotten how to walk and his high- 
 heeled boots fell foul of every hummock. " Look'y 
 here, Mr. Lansing," he said after half an hour's toil, 
 " ain't there no colts bad uns you want backed 
 nor calves to brand ? This here' diggin' wakes up the 
 rheumatiz in my j'ints." 
 
 " What about milking the cows ? " suggested Gerry. 
 
 Kemp actually blushed. He cast a quick glance at 
 Gerry to see if this was some weak witticism to be 
 promptly resented but was reassured by the surprise 
 in Gerry's face. " Stranger," he said, " I ain't 
 never touched no cow with my hands. If you want 
 I should rope 'em an' hog-tie 'em, I 'm your man 
 but some missus will have to take the milk away f'm 
 'em." 
 
 Gerry threw back his head and laughed but his laugh 
 was stopped short by the glint in Kemp's eye. " That 's
 
 HOME 177 
 
 all right, Kemp," he said. " The missus is milking 
 them, right now. What 's the matter with you just 
 taking a holiday? You've done a hard ride and it 
 won't hurt you to have a loaf." 
 
 Kemp wandered off to the house with solemn face. 
 When Gerry came in to the midday meal, he found 
 him with a saddle propped on the arm of a bench giving 
 the delighted swaddled heir to Fazenda Mores his first 
 lesson in equitation. 
 
 That night they sat again on the veranda steps but 
 Kemp was not talkative. He whittled a stick until 
 it disappeared in a final curly shaving and then im- 
 mediately started on a fresh one. 
 
 " Known Lieber long ? " asked Gerry at last. 
 
 " Goin' on two years," replied Kemp. 
 
 " Does he live off his stock ? " 
 
 Kemp looked up. " Have n't you ever b'en up to 
 Lieber's?" 
 
 " No," said Gerry, " it 's two years since I came 
 here and I 've never been off the place. Lieber 's been 
 down here a couple of times." 
 
 Kemp grunted but asked no further question. 
 " Lieber," he said, " c'tainly don't live offen his stock 
 - he plays with it. Lieber is the goatskin king. Ships 
 'em by the thousand bales. If you or any other man in 
 these parts was to sell a goatskin away f'm Lieber, you 'd 
 be boycotted. Lieber on this range is God you 're 
 fer him or you 're ag'in' him an' there ain't be'n any 
 one ag'in' him for some spell now." 
 
 " Oh," said Gerry. 
 
 " As fer knowin' him," continued Kemp, " everybody
 
 178 HOME 
 
 on this round-up knows Lieber but there ain't anybody 
 knows why he is. Lieber holds questions and small- 
 pox about alike. He ain't thar when they happen."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 LIEBER, accompanied by two herders, came early 
 for his stock. He greeted Kemp warmly. 
 " Going my way ? " he asked. 
 
 " I b'en loafin' around here with that in mind," 
 drawled Kemp. " I '11 take a hand if you '11 allow me 
 a mount." 
 
 " You can take your pick," said Lieber, " that is, 
 after Mr. Lansing has had his." 
 
 The three of them walked into the pasture. Lieber 
 looked at the stock with kindling eyes. He turned to 
 Gerry and held out his hand. " Shake," he said, and 
 Gerry did. " What do you say to the first five of the 
 horses out and the last ten of the cattle for your share ? " 
 
 Gerry flushed. " That 's more than fair," he said. 
 " You know the best of the horses will lead the bunch 
 and the fattest of the cattle will lag behind. You see, 
 they 're all strong now." 
 
 " That 's just it," said Lieber. " They 're all strong 
 now and if you had n't taken 'em over they 'd have been 
 mostly dead by now. I 'm satisfied more than sat- 
 isfied and if you are too, why it 's all right." 
 
 The herders were sent to the upper gap to head in 
 the first five out. Kemp, who had seized one of the 
 saddled horses and was already mounted, cut horses 
 out from cattle and with a whoop carried them towards 
 
 179
 
 180 'HOME 
 
 the lower gap. A beautiful iron-gray gelding broke 
 away from the bunch and trotted up to Gerry to nose 
 at his pockets. Five horses sprang through the gap and 
 Lieber headed back the rest. He turned to Gerry with 
 a smile but the light had gone out of Gerry's face. He 
 stood, with head hanging, his arm across the arched 
 neck of the iron-gray. Lieber strode over to him, his 
 silver spurs jingling. He laid a big hand on Gerry's 
 shoulder. The gelding sprang back with a snort. 
 "That's all right, boy," said Lieber. "I wouldn't 
 give the roan out yonder for two of him. Will you 
 trade even ? " 
 
 " You can have the lot for this one," said Gerry with 
 a laugh. 
 
 " No," said Lieber gravely, " just the roan." 
 
 Kemp had gone off to round up his mule. He came 
 up from the river driving it before him. At every 
 jump he caught the mule a flick with his rope and the 
 mule kicked and squealed but came on with long, stiff- 
 legged strides. " Hi-yi ! " yelled Kemp and snatched 
 off his hat to beat his mount while he kept the rope- 
 end flickering over the mule. 
 
 Gerry and Lieber laughed. Kemp was like a mummy 
 come to sudden life. " Do you know what ? " said 
 Gerry, " I think I '11 come along with you." He led 
 the iron-gray out by his forelock and old Bonifacio 
 hurried to help bridle and saddle him. Lieber mounted 
 his stallion and turned the horses as they came out. 
 Kemp suddenly sobered down to business. When 
 Lieber had thrown back the last ten of the cattle, Kemp 
 came out and closed the gap behind him.
 
 HOME 181 
 
 " I think I '11 go ahead with the horses," said Lieber. 
 
 " You go and take yo' men with you," said Kemp. 
 " I could drive this fat bunch from here to Kansas with 
 nary a hand to spell me." 
 
 " Well, you '11 have Mr. Lansing to help you," said 
 Lieber and rode on to where his men were holding the 
 horses in a milling, kicking mass. They passed over 
 the bridge and away in a moving pillar of dust, for the 
 desert had swallowed the first rains and was already cry- 
 ing for more. The cattle strung out and followed 
 slowly in their trail. With whistle and yell Kemp 
 urged on the laggards until he had the whole string well 
 in hand. He kept them all traveling, slowly but 
 steadily, and with never a word to Gerry. Toward 
 evening his eye caught the glint of the sun on the white 
 pillars and walls of a distant house* The house was 
 in the midst of the desert. Beyond it loomed a single 
 big joa tree. " Lieber's," said Kemp and Gerry 
 nodded. 
 
 Gerry had expected a surprise of some sort when 
 at last he arrived at Lieber's but the things he saw 
 there, stranger than anything he could have imagined, 
 left him calm and unmoved as though some prescience 
 had prepared him. The house was built on the usual 
 solid lines of plantation headquarters. Great, rough- 
 hewn beams ; towering rafters, built to carry the heavy 
 tiles and to bear their burden for generations ; unceiled, 
 vast rooms with calcimined walls; all these were not 
 outside Gerry's experience in the new land. The 
 strangeness came with the rugs and the linen, the etch- 
 ings and the furniture, and last and most significant,
 
 182 HOME 
 
 the shelves and shelves of books and the tables piled 
 with magazines in three languages. ' Everything bore 
 the stamp of quality, everything had the distinction of 
 a choice. 
 
 Gerry did not let his curiosity carry him beyond a 
 rapid glance around the great living-room where they 
 found Lieber, bathed and freshly dressed, superintend- 
 ing the making of ice in the latest ingenious contrivance 
 for the pampering of the pioneer. The three men 
 gathered about the curious machine and watched its 
 jerky sway and swash. At one end was a great demi- 
 john of acid, at the other a vacuum carafe, half filled 
 with water. Their throats were parched and as the 
 ice began to form and solidify they maintained a 
 silence that was almost ceremonial. 
 
 Ice to them was a sort of national emblem. It 
 carried them back. Varied memories accompanied each 
 stage of its formation memories of frost and the blaz- 
 ing woods, of cool long drinks and half-forgotten revel- 
 ries. Lieber broke the silence, offering a choice of wine 
 or whisky, but Gerry shook his head at both and Kemp, 
 after a lingering look at the squat bottle, followed suit. 
 Lieber half filled three glasses with the ice and added 
 filtered water. They drank and filled again. Ice 
 water in the desert ! It made them smile on each other 
 as though they had found some undiscovered elixir. 
 " Ice water in the desert," thought Gerry and the phrase 
 seemed to him more than words it seemed to paint 
 Lieber dimly, but as the mind saw him. 
 
 The veranda at Lieber's was like that of Fazenda 
 Elores only much bigger. It looked out upon a wide
 
 HOME 183 
 
 stretch of desert but away at the rim of the desert one 
 could feel the river. The roar of the falls mumbled 
 in the ear. It came from so far away that one had 
 to strain one's ears to actually define it. After supper 
 they gathered on the veranda. They sat in rude, raw- 
 hide chairs which were comfortably strong and tilted 
 them back to the national angle. Lieber and Gerry 
 smoked corn-husk cigarettes but Kemp stuck to his yel- 
 low papers. Gerry did not want to talk. He sat where 
 he could watch the strange pair whose companion he 
 was for a night. Into the souls of Lieber and Kemp 
 the long silences of solitude had entered and become at 
 home. They were patient of silence. Speech had its 
 restricted uses. They still had their hats on. Lieber's 
 was pushed back, Kemp's was drawn forward. Kemp 
 was whittling. Kemp's words of farewell came back 
 to Gerry, " It 's a long trail from the Alamo to New 
 York but the whole country 's under one fence." 
 Texan, Pennsylvania Dutchman and New Yorker might 
 be social poles but to-night they seemed strangely near 
 to each other. 
 
 Lieber stopped plying a toothpick and broke the si- 
 lence. " Did you find this tenderfoot any help to you, 
 Kemp ? " 
 
 Gerry had noticed from the first a certain hesitancy 
 in Lieber's speech and a slight accent that was not so 
 much foreign as colloquial. Lieber's talk was the talk 
 of a man self-educated in culture. The books back 
 there in the big living-room explained it. He had 
 learned to talk from books. 
 
 Kemp closed up his knife deliberately, stuck his
 
 184 HOME" 
 
 hands in his pockets and stretched out his legs. His 
 chair was tilted back in defiance of the laws of gravita- 
 tion. " Consider'ble time ago now I used ter sling the 
 name of tende'foot around pretty free," he remarked in 
 his low drawl, " but a little shrimp f 'm the States, beg- 
 gin' your pa' don, Mr. Lansing, come out to Coaltown 
 some years back and taught me 'nd some others that 
 the 's some tende'foots born west of the Mississip'." 
 
 Kemp paused to give comment a chance to shut him 
 up but Lieber and Gerry sat like relics of a stone age. 
 Kemp went on. " This young feller was a lunger 'nd 
 thin so you c'ld look through him and even in health he 
 c'ldn't a b'en bigger than a minute. He was so in- 
 signif'c'nt that nobody took notice on him, even to frame 
 up a badger fight. He jest natu'ally was n't wo'th the 
 trouble. The' was only one thing he c'ld do. He c'ld 
 ride and Sam Burler said he c'ld n't rightly do that. 
 Sam explained that the bosses thought he was only a 
 fly and never done no more'n whisk the' tails to get 
 him off. 
 
 " Well, one afternoon the' was ten of us sittin' on 
 the gallery of The Lone Star, some waitin' fo' some- 
 body to set 'em up and some fo' the poker game to sta't, 
 when along comes this here shrimp on Crossbreed, the 
 pride qua'terbred race-hoss of the hull range.. The' 
 was n't man ner woman in the township that would n't 
 a-backed Crossbreed to beat the sun to daylight and 
 Crossbreed knowed his dooty he brought the money 
 back every time. Well, 's I say, along comes the Shrimp 
 a-ridin' in f m the Gap, lookin' kin' o' white around 
 the gills. We'd seen the hoss whu'l with him some
 
 HOME 185 
 
 ways down the road 'nd he 'd only saved himse'f by the 
 ho'n, 'nd pullin' leather gene'ally. 
 
 " * Well, young feller,' says Sam Burler, ' 'ol' Cross- 
 breed 's some playful to-day. You b'en holdin' him in 
 consider'ble I s'pose 'nd he 's gettin' onpatient.' 
 
 " ' Holdin' him in ! ' says the Shrimp. ' He don't 
 need no holdin' in, 'nd the only thing he's ever onpa- 
 tient about is his feed ! ' 
 
 " At them words we all rared up. All on us knowed 
 that when Crossbreed was a bit playful he c'ld side- 
 step over a house x absent-minded like. Sam Burler 
 looked the Shrimp over kind o' evil 'nd says, ' I s'pose 
 you seen lots o' hosses that c'ld beat him.' 
 
 " ' Yes,' says the Shrimp, ( I have 'nd what 's more I 
 got twenty dollars in my pocket that says that with two 
 hund'ed ya'ds sta't I c'n beat him to the Gap on my ol' 
 cayuse.' 
 
 " Well, strangers, there ain't no tende'foot anywheres 
 too insignif Vnt to rob. We all dug out money or bor- 
 rowed it and sure enough the Shrimp he took us fo' two 
 dollars each. They picked on me to ride Crossbreed. 
 The' was the usual conditions bareback and stockin' 
 feet 'nd a quirt but no spurs. 
 
 "Well, the' ain't much mo' to tell. Sam Burler 
 paced off the Shrimp's sta't and placed him 'nd then 
 Shorty Doolittle let off a shotgun and we was away. 
 Ol' Crossbreed was sure hungry. He chawed up that 
 road like it was carrots in spring and befo' the Shrimp 
 'nd his sleepy cayuse was half way to the Gap we passed 
 'em an' then somethin' happened so terr'ble sudden that 
 I 'm wonderin' about it yet. All I know is that one
 
 186 HOME 
 
 minute I was facin' the same way as Crossbreed an' the 
 nex' I was in the air facin' his tail. I landed in the 
 ditch about the time he got back to the boys that was too 
 ho'ified to stop him an' when I looked up I seen the 
 Shrimp beatin' his cayuse past me. An' jest then my 
 eyes an' nose opened. I made out to discover the ca'cass 
 of Sam Burler's ol' gray that me an' Sam had dragged 
 into that ditch three days befo'. I don't have to tell 
 you that no boss with blood in him will pass a ca'cass. 
 
 " It took the Shrimp conside'able time to get even 
 his old cayuse past it, an' it took him some longer to 
 ride to the Gap an' back than it did me to get to The 
 Lone Star 'nd I was walkin' slow with some limp. 
 When he finally did get back he was lookin' jest a shade 
 meeker'n his old cayuse, an' he got a solemn welcome. 
 Sam Burler ma'ched in behind the bar an' we followed 
 him. He handed over fo'ty dollars to the Shrimp an' 
 he says, says Sam, ' Gent'men, I reckon the drinks is 
 on all on us but the house sets 'em up.' An' that 
 Shrimp says he was n't drinkin' but he 'd have a two- 
 bits segar if Sam did n't mind. The 's tende'foots 'nd 
 tende'foots." 
 
 There was a broad grin on Gerry's face when Kemp's 
 low monotone faded out altogether and a smile in Lie- 
 ber's blue eyes but neither said a word. From the cor- 
 ral came the grunts and sighs of cattle bedding down. 
 Horses stamped in the stables. Over the great ware- 
 houses where Lieber stored and sorted his goatskins the 
 moon crept into view. From the men's quarters came 
 the throb of a guitar accompanying a wailing, plaintive
 
 HOME 187 
 
 voice. There was the smell of living things in the air. 
 Through it all and so interwoven with life that its 
 solemn undernote was forgotten, sounded the distant, 
 incessant boom of the falls.
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI 
 
 THE next morning Gerry was up early, nervous 
 after his first night's absence from Fazenda 
 Elores. Kemp watched him saddle his horse. " That 
 ain't one of the five," he remarked. 
 
 " No," said Gerry. " I traded the roan for the iron- 
 gray. Do you think I was done ? " 
 
 " I ain't sayin'," said Kemp cautiously. " I don't 
 want you should think I was teachin' you, Mr. Lansing, 
 but that hoss ain't no iron-gray. There ain't no such 
 color for a hoss as I ever heern tell on. That hoss is 
 a blue an' he's a true blue." 
 
 " All right, Kemp," said Gerry, smiling. " You 've 
 named him true blue and True Blue he is from this 
 day." 
 
 Lieber came out in pajamas and called them for 
 coffee. When they were seated he proposed to Kemp 
 that he make his headquarters at the ranch for a while. 
 The advantages were evident. It was a congregating 
 point for the natives from miles round. Goatskins 
 came into Lieber's from hundreds of miles up country. 
 They came singly, in donkey loads or in whole pack- 
 trains. Sometimes they passed directly into his hands 
 from the producer ; sometimes they ran through a chain 
 of transfers, from hand to hand. All news centered 
 at and radiated from Lieber's. The same men that 
 
 188
 
 HOME 180 
 
 brought in goatskins would be glad to add orchids to 
 their stock in trade. 
 
 Kemp grunted his thanks. He had waited two years 
 for this offer. The realization of the obligation Lieber 
 was putting him under embarrassed him. He began 
 to talk. " These greasers," he said, " take a lot o' 
 teachin' sometimes, an' sometimes they don't. P'r in- 
 stance, you can tell 'em that Cattleyas are wo'th money 
 and that the rest o' their parasites ain't, 'nd after they 
 seen you throw Bu'lin'tonias an' Oncidiums an' Mil- 
 tonias into the discard fo' three months steady, they 
 begin to sober down to jest Cattleyas 'nd realize that 
 it 's no use holdin' a four-flush against a workin' 
 pair." 
 
 At the scientific names dropping so incongruously 
 from Kemp's lips, Gerry stopped eating and looked up. 
 Lieber's face wore the smile of one who had heard it 
 before but is quite willing to hear it all over again. 
 
 " But," continued Kemp, " yo' c'n pull till you 're 
 blin' an' you can't head 'em around to see that onless 
 a Cattleya has eight leaves, it 's too young to be packed 
 an' no good to the market besides bein' a victim to race 
 suicide. 
 
 " As to their bringin' in Bu'lin'tonias an' Oncidiums 
 an' Miltonias, I never get onpatient o' that. How 
 c'n a greaser ever learn that a Miltonia Spectabilis 
 Moreliana that looks like pigeon's blood in a pu'ple 
 shadow ain't a commercial proposition, while the Cat- 
 tleyas is ? When he 's in the woods an' a smell straight 
 f'm heaven draps its rope on him an' he looks up an' 
 sees a droopin' spike o' snow, how you goin' to teach
 
 190 HOME 
 
 him that a Bu'lin'tonia Fragrans ain't just as good busi- 
 ness as a Labiata ? 
 
 " Time was when orchids was an ambition ; now 
 they 's jest a business. If God-a'mighty had n't a scat- 
 tered 'em through the ends o' the earth an' given 'em 
 wings to fly an' claws to hold on half way up to heav'n 
 the 'd be an orchid trust right now an' orchids would 
 be classed on the ma'ket with bananas. Last time I was 
 hum I seen a bunch o' Cattleyas in O'Riley's window in 
 El Paso. Seemed like a bit o' po'try had jumped the 
 fence 'nd landed in D'Hiley's heart. In my mind's eye 
 I seen him impo'ting them plants an' nursin' 'em an' 
 turnin' out early in the mo'nin's, watchin' fo' 'em to 
 bloom. I went in an' had a talk. Well, gent'men, the' 
 wasn't no po'try in O'Eiley's orchids. It had been 
 strained out with a separator. Them plants was growed 
 by a nursery back East and shipped out to O'Riley by 
 fast freight when they was in bud at so much per plant. 
 When the blooms was used up, he shipped the plants 
 back an' got a fresh lot. He put a price of two fifty 
 a bloom on the flowers an' when he found they was sellin' 
 he put it up to five dollars. He said them flowers was 
 wo'th more'n a column o' advertisin' space in the El 
 Paso Blizzard an' cost a dern sight less. 
 
 " In Eurup, it 's some different. They 's collectors 
 hankerin' after new varieties an' houses that keeps men 
 lookin' for 'em but in America, you ma'k me, if an 
 orchid don't make up well on the missus' bodice or on 
 the table, it ain't business ; an' they 's a few million chil- 
 dren growin' up to the idea that if it ain't a Cattleya 
 it ain't an orchid.
 
 HOME 191 
 
 " When I come out the fust time the house told me 
 I c'ld shove in a few samples of the varieties outside the 
 reg'lar line ; they 'd come in handy for flower shows 
 'nd an occasional collector. An' I did. I shoved 'em 
 in plenty. An' the house wrote me they was n't runnin' 
 a curiosity shop an' that Americans was n't buyin' gold 
 bricks so 's to exhaust the stock they had on hand an' 
 if I did n't mind would I please confine myse'f to com- 
 mercial orchids. Commercial orchids. That 's my 
 mount an' I 'm ridin' him steady but I can't he'p think- 
 in' that they 's many a missus back hum, an' man too, 
 that would catch the' breath to see the blood pu'ple of 
 a Miltonia lookin' up from its green leaves or to smell 
 the smell of the Bu'lin'tonia a smell that can talk an' 
 say things that a man can't." 
 
 Kemp came to himself, blushed and hurried out as 
 if on urgent business. Lieber looked at Gerry's thought- 
 ful face and smiled. " Who 'd have thought he 'd ever 
 talk that way in daylight ? " he said. 
 
 " I think," replied Gerry, " it was your offering to 
 let him make this place his headquarters. It rattled 
 him and started him off. I could see he was grateful." 
 
 " Perhaps that was it," said Lieber. " He 's a queer 
 one. He never asked me. It just occurred to me to 
 suggest it because I 'm getting to enjoy having Kemp 
 around. Look at last night." 
 
 Gerry nodded. His eyes fell on the clock and he 
 got up with a start. The sun was at its highest when 
 he reached Fazenda Flores. He caught sight of Father 
 Mathias' great white umbrella on the bridge and urged 
 True Blue into a final gallop. But Father Mathias was
 
 192 HOME 
 
 not under his umbrella. Instead, Gerry found Mar- 
 garita and her toddling son. " Thou hast been away 
 a long time," said Margarita reproachfully. " The 
 priest is at the house and I took his umbrella that I and 
 the Man might watch for thee in the sun." 
 
 Gerry jumped off his horse and kissed her. Then 
 he picked up his son and set him in the saddle. Mar- 
 garita screamed. True Blue arched his neck and looked 
 cautiously around at his featherweight burden. The 
 young horse stood very still while Margarita fought past 
 Gerry's arm and dragged the Man from his perilous 
 perch to her bosom. And manlike the Man protested 
 with a bad-tempered, whole-lunged wail that rent the 
 air and brought Dona Maria and the priest to the corner 
 of the house to peer at them with eyes shaded under 
 cupped hands. 
 
 A few days later the- rains came in earnest. Un- 
 ceasing torrents that drew a continual hum from the tiles 
 of the roof, sought out cracks, forgotten during the long 
 dry season, and dripped in to remind the cozy house- 
 hold that outside the whole world was wet. 
 
 Gerry spent two days in the wet closing his sluice- 
 gate and shoring it from the inside against eventualities. 
 Then he repaired to the house and after lavishing his 
 enforced idleness on his son for a day or two, began to 
 work feverishly on further knick-knacks for the house. 
 Occasionally he sallied out and climbed the slippery 
 roof to mend a leak, Margarita, frightened, taking her 
 stand in the rain to guard over him with disconcerting 
 cries and warnings. When, occasionally, there hap- 
 pened to be a truce to the downpour, he hurried out with
 
 HOME 193 
 
 Bonifacio to battle against prolific weeds that sprang to 
 weird heights in a night. 
 
 The rains passed. Gerry contracted with Lieber for 
 labor to be paid for in produce. Fazenda Flores blos- 
 somed and bore fruit. People began to come in from 
 afar to barter for produce and a buyer appeared and 
 took over the whole of the little cotton crop. Gerry 
 poured money into Margarita's lap more money than 
 she had ever seen and sent her under escort of Dona 
 Maria and Bonifacio and the Man to purchase all of 
 comfort and furbelows that the tiny market of Piranhas 
 could supply. 
 
 They were to be gone two days and Gerry left the 
 Fazenda in charge of his foreman to go and spend the 
 time with Lieber and Kemp. He found Kemp in a 
 sort of controlled elation over the greatest shipment of 
 commercial orchids the trade had ever known. Just 
 after Gerry's arrival two men appeared bearing a mon- 
 ster plant of over two hundred leaves strung, like the 
 grape cluster of Eschol, on a pole. 
 
 Kemp's deep-set eyes seemed to grow out of his head 
 as he made out their burden. " Hi-yi ! " he yelled and 
 rushed off to the corral where he threw himself on to 
 an astonished heifer. For one second she squatted and 
 then went mad. With yell and flogging hat Kemp 
 poured oil on the fire of her frenzy. She bucked and 
 twisted and all but somersaulted in her efforts to rid her- 
 self of the demon on her back. On the veranda, Lieber 
 and Gerry held their sides and roared at the most 
 grotesque fine riding they had ever seen. Finally, with 
 a desperate lunge, the heifer breasted the corral fence.
 
 194 HOME 
 
 It caught her middle and she teetered over. Kemp 
 turned a handspring from her back and landed on his 
 feet. The heifer scrambled free from the fence and 
 tore, wild-eyed, out into the desert. Laughter rang 
 from every side. Three herders threw themselves on 
 to their horses and rode, shouting, after the heifer. 
 Kemp straightened out his hat, put it on, and walked 
 sedately over to the veranda. There was only a faint 
 glint in his eye as he bought the monster plant to 
 crown the monster shipment.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 ON Red Hill it was raining, not in a downpour but 
 in vast veils of mist that swayed to the breeze, 
 caressing the hills and hiding the valleys. It had been 
 raining for three days. 
 
 After lunch Clem had gone to her room and then 
 had come down again and wandered from window to 
 window, tapping the panes, and with her forefinger 
 tracing the course of the drops of water hurrying down 
 outside. 
 
 She went to the veranda at the back of Maple House 
 and searched the west in vain for a gleam of sunlight, 
 then she came in again and sat down before her little 
 writing-table in the corner of the library. She dropped 
 the lid. On the blotter lay an opened letter. She had 
 read it before. She picked it up and read it again. 
 " I do not write," it ran, " to the Clem I met the other 
 day as I stepped out from J. Y.'s building. I do not 
 know her and she doesn't know me. I am afraid of 
 her, not for what she is but for what she can steal from 
 me. I write to the little Clem the Clem of the days 
 that won't come back the Clem that has stood at my 
 knee and clapped her hands and wept at the same time 
 over the fate of a Very Real Dragon That Was Not. 
 Dear Little Clem, what bewildering company you are 
 keeping! What has become of those lanky legs, those 
 
 195
 
 196 HOME 
 
 thin bare arms and those flouncy short skirts that were 
 so very much out of the way ? You have abandoned 
 them. How could you when you knew I loved them 
 just so ! And you are hiding in the vision of flesh and 
 furs and broadcloth that put me to rout in front of J. 
 Y.'s. that tied my tongue and twisted it so that when 
 it got loose it said the things that were furthest from my 
 heart. I know you are there because the eyes that 
 looked out at me before they crinkled up were your very 
 own. 
 
 "Clem, it 's hard for me to spread my heart on paper. 
 Warm words get chilled in the tub of ink and belie 
 themselves. There is only one way and that is just to 
 tell you that in spite of how things may look and seem 
 my heart is warm. Without understanding you can 
 forgive a warm heart, can't you ? 
 
 " I told you I 'd bring back my other self and send 
 him to you. I failed. Not because I did n't have him 
 with me but because I wanted to send him to you with- 
 out the rest of me and could n't. 
 
 " I can't tell you why I could n't. You must under- 
 stand it without telling. I can only say that even to- 
 day men are tested by fire. It's a fire one can't 
 smother it would only smolder on. One must let it 
 burn out. It burns out the half of a man and some 
 men don't know which half is going to be burned out 
 until it 's all over. It is that way with me. My soul 
 is a furnace. I could n't bring it too near for fear it 
 would scorch you. There, I have written too much. 
 If you find that the words are cold when they get to 
 you, warm them at the fire of your child heart. Alan."
 
 HOME 197 
 
 The Clem that read this letter looked very much a 
 woman. She was nineteen, her hair was coiled up at 
 the back of her neck, and her frock when she stood up 
 almost hid her slim ankles. Alan's letter troubled her 
 and made her feel even older than she was. It brought 
 to her white forehead a tiny frown. Clem was as 
 tanned as a long summer could brown her but above her 
 brows the skin was quite white because she had such 
 a lot of hair that there was always some of it breaking 
 loose to shade her forehead. 
 
 Suddenly the frown vanished. Clem's full lips 
 opened in a little smile and a glow stole into the tan 
 of her cheeks. She jumped up and ran to the old pier 
 glass in the parlor, otherwise known as the Seldom 
 Room, so rarely was it invaded. 
 
 Clem pulled down her hair and shook it out. Then 
 she took a bright red ribbon from a whisk broom hang- 
 ing on the wall and gathering her hair at the back of 
 her neck, tied it with a bow. With the instinct of a 
 woman she looked for pins and found them. She 
 turned up her skirts in a broad pleat and pinned them. 
 She had to do it several times over to get the tucks 
 just right and the hang just so. She shook her head to 
 tumble her hair and turned for a last look in the glass. 
 She was a little girl once more. Her eyes laughed back 
 at her. They were half light, half shadow. They 
 seemed to understand her. 
 
 Clem ran back to the library. A shaft of sunlight 
 struck across Alan's open letter. She snatched up the 
 letter and tucked it in her bosom. Then she followed 
 the shaft of sunlight on to the back veranda.
 
 198 HOME 
 
 For a moment she stood poised before sinking to a 
 seat on a bench. She crossed her knees and smiled 
 at her slim, well-shaped legs. It was so long since she 
 had consciously seen them that they were almost 
 strangers. Then she forgot them, braced her hands on 
 the bench at each side of her, threw back her head, 
 filled her lungs with the keen air and felt her heart begin 
 to pulse with the pulse of the living Hill. 
 
 Her eyes grew large and dreamy. In their depths 
 were swirling clouds, chased by a growing light. Her 
 eyes mirrored the world of Red Hill after rain. Clem's 
 head slowly dropped until her chin rested on her bosom. 
 She locked her hands about her knees. Then, with a 
 last look about her, she rose slowly, slipped in and sat 
 down at her desk. 
 
 " Dear Alan," she wrote, " this is not a letter about 
 you and me but just only about Red Hill. We 've had 
 a Northeaster not a blusterer, but one of those sleepy 
 ones that rains and rains like a baby crying because 
 it 's lonely. And now the third day and the storm are 
 over and the sun has come out. You know what that 
 means, Alan. Eed Hill is n't exactly laughing but it 
 is smiling with that sweet first smile that comes to 
 babies and hills while their cheeks are still wet with 
 tears. 
 
 " The maples are still dripping, mostly at the edges, 
 like big umbrellas. The firs look as if they had taken 
 their bath in black paint and are busy making every- 
 thing else in sight look white. The elms are waving 
 their plumes at the vanishing plumes of mist as though 
 they wanted to be polite but are n't very sorry to say
 
 HOME 199 
 
 good-by. The sun, I am sorry to say, looks as if he had 
 been drinking too much. He 's very red and he 's wear- 
 ing a great spiked halo of rain shafts tipped at an ab- 
 surd, rakish angle. He does n't seem a bit ashamed and 
 the smile on his face looks as if he meant to make a 
 night of it somewhere out of sight. 
 
 " Outdoors there 's quite a nip in the air that makes 
 you feel as though with the rest of the world you had 
 just stepped out of a cold bath. But inside, Maple 
 House is cozy and warm and I know that when presently 
 I curl up on the lounge I shall feel like a chick nestling 
 against its mama hen where the feathers are downiest. 
 
 " Maple House is very lonely just now because there 
 are n't any other chicks about. Nance has taken her 
 lot back to town because Charlie Sterling says they are 
 quite full of health and he 's fuller of loneliness. As 
 for grown-ups, Uncle J. Y. is in town a great deal this 
 summer on account of other people's money and the old 
 Captain never gets out of bed since he had a stroke. 
 He says there's nothing the matter with him; it 's the 
 modern whisky that has lost its tone. 
 
 " So I 'm mostly alone with Aunty, and Maple House 
 seems almost too big to fit. But it is n't a bit too big 
 when I stop to think because I know that the old house 
 does n't stand for any one of us alone, it has to keep 
 a nook for every one of its scattered brood. 
 
 " That 's the dear thing about Maple House it is 
 always waiting. And that 's what makes it Home. 
 Sometimes in the lonely nights I wake up into a dream 
 and the old house is ringing with the sounds of the 
 children of a hundred years at play. They laugh and
 
 200 HOME 
 
 sometimes they cry but there is one that never laughs 
 or cries. He is a chubby little boy with awfully staring 
 eyes for a baby and he carries a wooden sword and a 
 paper drum. It 's the old Captain, I 'm sure, and once 
 you have seen him as a chubby soldier of three you '11 
 begin to know the secret of Maple House that it 's 
 waiting for us to come back young or old. And if you 
 are very, very still for a very long time you can hear the 
 old house breathe, and then you know that in every 
 closet and in every corner it has hidden away a beat- 
 ing heart. It never loses one. 
 
 " Dear Alan, when I started to write this letter I 
 was quite a little girl now I find I 'm quite grown 
 up. I 'm sorry. But it only goes to prove that you are 
 wrong, and that it takes more than a half to make up 
 one's self. Clem."
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII 
 
 THAT dry season saw the beginning of a drought 
 that will long hold the blackest page in the annals 
 of the San Francisco basin. It seemed but days after 
 the rains when the sparse grass and new-leafed bushes of 
 the wilderness began to shrivel up. Day after day the 
 sun leaped brazen, from the horizon to the sky, his 
 first level rays searching out the scant, stored moisture 
 of wilting foliage, and the very sap of the hardy brush. 
 While the cattle were still fat they became weak and 
 turned to cactus for nourishment. They broke down 
 the sickly branches with their horns and rubbed them in 
 the sand to free them of the worst of the thorns. 
 Herders rode the rounds on weakening horses and dis- 
 mounted time and again to pull out spines from the 
 snouts of passive, panting cows. Bulls died of broken 
 pride. They would not subject themselves to the pain 
 of eating cactus. The river the great river was 
 no longer great. It grumbled with a weak voice from 
 deep down in the gorge. Gerry watched its falling level 
 with anxious eye and one day sent an urgent call to 
 Lieber for help. 
 
 Laeber came. He brought with him an army, every 
 man bearing with him the tool that had come soonest to 
 his hand. Spades were few and hoes ; the bright shares 
 of a pick or two caught the light like lances. Most of 
 
 201
 
 202 HOME 
 
 the men depended on the heavy sheath knives they 
 carried at their sides. They looked like an army of 
 sanscullottes as they swarmed into the ditch and began 
 to dig. In two days they had sunk it to the required 
 level. When they finished Gerry rode back with them 
 to help bring down Lieber's weakening stock. 
 
 Kemp had stayed in sole possession at Lieber's. 
 Digging was not in his line, so he had volunteered to 
 hold the fort against the return of the garrison. He 
 welcomed Lieber and Gerry to a supper of his own 
 making in approved cowboy style: sour-dough biscuits 
 made by a master hand, steaks cut from a freshly killed 
 calf and fried before toughness set in, a pile of creamy 
 mashed spuds. There was a homeliness about the meal 
 that made them eat in silence. They felt as though for 
 years they had been worshiping false culinary gods. 
 The pile of steaks, the heaped potatoes, the hot biscuit, 
 were exotics, strayed into a land of pepper sauces and 
 garlic. The supper seemed to the three men to take 
 on a personality and to be ill at ease, but it was they 
 that were ill at ease for the supper reminded them that 
 they were exiles. 
 
 The silence on the veranda that night was even longer 
 than usual. Gerry's mind went back to a French book 
 that he had bought in desperation at Pernambuco. He 
 had ploughed through half of it and with a catch in his 
 thoughts he remembered that it lay open on the table 
 when he left his little room in Piranhas on the morning 
 of mornings that had broken life in two. Some of 
 its phrases, conned over and over again in his struggle 
 with the half-forgotten idiom, came back to him. " La
 
 HOME 203 
 
 parole est du temps, le silence de I'tiernite." He 
 smiled to himself at the twisted meaning the long silence 
 of his companions gave to the words. 
 
 Then the smile left his face. He remembered the 
 argument. The instinct we all have for superhuman 
 truths tells us that it is dangerous to be silent with 
 those we would keep at a distance, for words pass and 
 are forgotten between men, but silence active silence 
 is forever ineffaceable. True life the moments of 
 life that leave a trace is made up of silence. Not 
 passive silence ; that is but another name for sleep. But 
 the active silence that breaks down barriers, pierces 
 walls, and turns the life of every day into a life where 
 all is intense, where there is no ban nothing for- 
 bidden where laughter dare not enter, where subjec- 
 tion is submerged and where all all, is remembered. 
 
 Gerry felt that this active silence had come upon 
 them. These men were being borne into the silent 
 sphere of his own soul. He felt restless afraid. He 
 decided to speak. He was on the point of speaking 
 when Lieber let down his chair softly, clasped his hands 
 and broke the silence. 
 
 "Last night I dreamed I heard the blast of a 
 steamer's horn and when I woke up the cold sweat was 
 on my forehead because I know that there is no desert, 
 no wilderness, so far from the things you would forget 
 that dreams cannot follow you to it." 
 
 He stopped and silence fell upon them again. Lieber 
 stared straight in front of him, out into the night. His 
 face worked as though he were struggling to keep his 
 lips closed. When he began to speak again, the words
 
 204 HOME 
 
 were scarcely audible. " I don't know why I want to 
 tell you two about why I am here, unless it is that as 
 we sat here so quiet I felt that you knew it all that 
 you knew all that I know and that I was on the point 
 of knowing all that you have known. The little lies 
 of life suddenly became big and hateful and I saw in 
 my life a monster lie that the silence was exposing. 
 
 " There are lots of men with the beginning of my 
 story. It 's common and takes little telling. I was 
 born in Pennsylvania. We were mighty poor farmers 
 but I got all the schooling there was within walking 
 distance of home. My old man saw to that. When 
 I was still a boy our little bank took me in. It was n't 
 doing much business then but a couple of years later 
 the region struck oil and the bank's business soared by 
 leaps and bounds. It turned into as good a spouter as 
 any of the wells. The family that ran it became rich 
 and went to higher jobs or out altogether. The staff 
 was shoved up and about the time I was of age I was 
 handling more money than I 'd ever known was in the 
 world. The amount I stole was an even thirty thousand 
 and I got away with it. It was easier to do thirty 
 years ago than it is to-day. I got away with it and then 
 it got away with me. It lasted me a year and four 
 months and I saw the end of it up the coast at Pernam- 
 buco. 
 
 " I date my birth from the day I spent the last dollar 
 and woke up. I worked. Nothing was too small or 
 too big for me to handle. I got something to risk and 
 then I risked it. I risked it again and again. After 
 ten years I could draw my check for thirty thousand plus
 
 HOME 205 
 
 interest and I did. I sent the check to the little bank 
 back home. I waited two months for the answer and 
 then it came; my check torn across and a short letter 
 saying that the loss had already been met by a bankers' 
 surety association. I wrote the association a dozen 
 letters and some of them took some writing. In the 
 last I offered fourfold the theft. There had been 
 plenty of Bible in my bringing-up. They wrote back 
 that it was no use that I could keep on climbing in 
 price but it was their business to jail me for fifteen 
 years the first chance they got and they 'd do it the 
 minute I set foot where they could grab me. 
 
 " That letter frightened me. I began to realize that 
 what I 'd been working for was n't money, or honor, or 
 rehabilitation but just the right to go back the right 
 to go back home. 
 
 " Nobody had been harder on me than my old man. 
 For years nobody in the house was allowed to say my 
 name and if he saw a letter from me he threw it in the 
 fire, opened or unopened. But somehow it got to him 
 that I had offered to pay fourfold and that I 'd been 
 refused and that turned him. It was the fourfold that 
 did it the divine and sacred measure of justice. He 
 started to fight for me as hard as he'd ever fought 
 against. And then he died and my old mother died. 
 Letters stopped. My brothers and sisters were coming 
 up in the world. They could n't afford to own a thief 
 much less fight for him. So the letters stopped. 
 
 " I spent money then. I built me a house in Per- 
 nambuco that was a wonder palace and I started in to 
 forget. But when you've been remembering with all
 
 206 HOME 
 
 your might, the color of the paper on the walls of home, 
 the lay of the wood-pile, of the sheds and the tumbling 
 barn and stables, the holes in the fence, the friendly 
 limbs of apple trees and the smell of hay ; when you 've 
 been coddling bare memories of simple things like those 
 for fifteen years, you can't turn around on your inside 
 self and forget. 
 
 " There 's a flag the sight of which makes my heart 
 come up into my throat and tears to my eyes. You 
 think I mean the Stars and Stripes, but I don't. I 
 mean the Blue Peter that flies at the halliards of big 
 ships and says to everybody that takes the trouble to 
 look, ' We sail to-day.' Over the tops of the houses I Ve 
 seen that flag blinking in the heavens like a bit of deep 
 blue sea married to a white cloud and to me it always 
 said, ' We sail for home to-day.' I 'd shut my eyes or 
 close the blinds but what was the use of that ? Night 
 and day I could hear the bellow of the great horns 
 a blast for good-by and another for a challenge to the 
 sea as the big boats headed out for home. 
 
 " I could n't stand it. I came up here. And now, 
 last night, I dreamed that I heard it in my sleep up 
 here. Gentlemen, a man without a country is in a bad 
 way but a man without a home even if it 's a hovel 
 well we all know the old song." He paused to 
 master his voice. Then in a whisper that they just 
 caught he added, " Home is the anchor of a man's soul. 
 I want to go Home." 
 
 Lieber stopped talking. The revealing silence had 
 done its work. It had brought them close so close 
 that he had spoken lest they take his soul by assault.
 
 HOME 207 
 
 He left them and went to his own room. They saw he 
 was an old man, beyond the years he had disclosed. 
 
 They did not speak. They were nervous. Kemp 
 made a cigarette, puffed at it once or twice and then 
 threw it away, to roll another a moment later. His 
 thoughts were winging away to the fork of Big and 
 Little Creek where a three-room shack stood in the 
 shadow of the White Mountains of New Mexico. He 
 had thought it small, miserable, cramped. But out here 
 in the wilderness, thousands and thousands of miles 
 away, it came back to his vision, glorified. 
 
 The purling, gentle waters, fringed near the moun- 
 tains with tall, still pines, banked down the valley with 
 friendly cottonwoods, seemed another element from the 
 sullen river rumbling across the night from its cruel 
 gorge. The billowing range, stretching away from 
 Little Creek till it met the sky, crested with twisted 
 junipers and evergreen cedars, with its famous gramma- 
 grass undulating under cool breezes from the snow- 
 capped mountains, seemed to call to his lungs with soft, 
 breathing noises. And the Mountain the Mountain 
 that winter and summer had kept its white, dazzling 
 summit before him, leading him back from the far 
 round-up and the trail to the little shack in its shadow. 
 A swelling came into his throat. He tried to cough 
 it up. But as long as he thought of the Mountain, the 
 thickness stuck in his throat. He took from his pocket 
 a treasured cake of tobacco and with strong teeth tore 
 off a generous portion. Then he rose and walked off 
 to the corral. 
 
 Gerry sat on alone. Thoughts were troubling him,
 
 208 HOME 
 
 too. What was he doing here ? Who was this Marga- 
 rita that had twined herself into his life ? Was it his 
 life? And her little boy black-haired, black-eyed, 
 olive-tinted he was his boy, too. He was Gerry Lan- 
 sing's son. 'No, not that not Gerry Lansing's. 
 Gerry Lansing belonged to a time that was far away, to 
 a hill where white houses with green blinds peered out 
 from the darkness of domed maples, from the long 
 shadows of up-pointing firs and from the eaves of flar- 
 ing elms, the wine-cups of heaven. 
 
 Gerry felt his spirit flying away to wander in cool 
 lanes where birch and sassafras and rioting laurel 
 burned incense under a kindly sun and slender wood- 
 maples bent under the breeze against sturdy hickory 
 and ash. It led him to look back upon the glory of the 
 mountain-ash in autumn and of the turning of the 
 leaves. A sigh came quivering through all his body 
 and escaped from his trembling lips. " I am alone," 
 he breathed to himself. 
 
 Never had he been alone before never like that. 
 For the first time in over two years he thought of his 
 mother, of the Judge who had been a father to him, of 
 all the Hill, of Alix, and then, of Alan. Where were 
 Alix and Alan ? Suddenly the vision of Margarita and 
 her boy pushed in between him and memory. He 
 sprang to his feet. His manhood rose within him and 
 battled with her and the child against memory. He 
 started off into the wilderness. His sandals shot spurts 
 of sand and dust into the air behind him at every step. 
 He smelt the dust. Above him, the myriad stars shone
 
 HOME 209 
 
 dry and far, far up in the heavens. Heaven was 
 farther from the world to-night than ever before. 
 
 Gerry came back at dawn. The herders were mount- 
 ing to round up the stock. Gerry saddled his horse 
 and went with them.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 DEEP in South America, on the ragged fringe of 
 the outskirts of progress, Alan Wayne was push- 
 ing a long bridge across a dried-up watercourse. He 
 was sick, tired, disgusted. Over and over again he had 
 grumbled to McDougal that it was a job for a mason 
 and McDougal had patiently answered, " I 'm the 
 mason, Mr. Wayne. Do you lie bye a wee and gie the 
 fever a chance to get out of the body." But Alan 
 stuck jealously to his job. Ten Percent Wayne might 
 retire on his laurels but he could never be beaten. 
 
 Every third day the fever in his bones seized his 
 body in a grip that could not be denied, shook it till it 
 rattled and cast it down limp, cold and hot, teeth chatter- 
 ing and then clenched, and then chattering again. But 
 on the days between Alan made up for the lapse. He 
 became a devil hanging on the backs of his men and 
 driving them to superhuman efforts. Terror held them. 
 They were Italians, far from home. A wilderness 
 stretched between them and the sea. The sea itself 
 was none of theirs; it was but an added barrier. A 
 madman had them in thrall. Terror drove them. It 
 was a race to finish the bridge before he killed them. 
 " I am going to be sick," he had told them in cold, rapid 
 words, " I am going to be sick but before I 'm finished 
 the bridge is finished or ." He smiled and made a 
 
 210
 
 HOME -211 
 
 gesture with his hand to show how he would brush 
 them all off into the dry gorge. His smile terrified 
 more than the raised hand. 
 
 The giant gang-boss, McDougal, stood by and nodded 
 solemn confirmation. When Alan was ill by day, Mc- 
 Dougal left him and drove the men in his stead but 
 when the hour for knocking off came with the sudden 
 eclipse of the sun by the horizon, he hurried to Alan's 
 tent, fished him out from some corner on the floor, 
 wrapped him in blankets, dosed him with quinine, 
 tempted him with poor, weak broths and nursed him, 
 unprotesting, through the night. 
 
 McDougal had followed Alan into strange lands and 
 strange places and seen him in many a deep hole, and 
 through it all Alan had been the same a purring 
 dynamo at work. He had been the same until this 
 damned trip into the Brazilian wilderness and here a 
 change had come over him. There were times when he 
 talked and what he said was, " !No more trips for me, 
 McDougal. I 'm a consulting engineer from this on." 
 McDougal had heard more than one man talk like that 
 under fever and he frowned, trying to remember one of 
 them that had ever come back. 
 
 Alan was inured to river fever. He had fought it 
 often and when he saw the fetid pools of stagnant 
 water in the dried-up water course he knew he would 
 have to fight it again. Somehow, some night, a mos- 
 quito was bound to get at him, and the fever would 
 begin. He doubled his preventive dose of quinine but 
 he could not double his spirits for the battle. He came 
 to the field with a gnawing at those sources of health,
 
 212 HOME 
 
 a calm mind and sure sleep. Sleep did not come as of 
 old after the day's work. Instead he tossed and twisted 
 on his narrow cot and finally would turn on the electric 
 torch to read two letters over and over again. 
 
 One he read with a curl of the lip. It was from a 
 pretty woman that had fluttered into his life and out. 
 He had forgotten her and now she had come back to 
 buzz words in his buzzing ears. She said, " It costs a 
 woman to learn that happiness is not really tangible. 
 Between being fortunate and happy a gulf is fixed. I 
 was fortunate just not miserable and stood on the 
 brink of the gulf. Happiness brushed me with its 
 wings. I reached out to catch it and the gulf took me. 
 How long will it be before I climb back to the height 
 that seemed not so very high when I possessed it ? I 
 don't know ... I do not hate you, only myself. 
 You have known many women but you have not known 
 me. That is the bitter part. You do not know what 
 I gave you. One thing I ask you and the words as I 
 write are blurred with tears like my eyes if ever a 
 foolish woman, honest and true as I was, offers you the 
 same sacrifice, do not take it. I have suffered for all 
 the women you will meet." 
 
 " Fool," said Alan to himself, " fool not to see that 
 I turned her wish-washy weakness into strength and 
 loosed a dumb tongue." 
 
 And then he drew out the other letter and the curl 
 in his lip straightened out to a line of sweetness and the 
 light in his eyes turned to a fiery, blind adoration. The 
 letter had been sent to him, sealed, by J. Y., who had 
 accompanied it with a note. The letter began, " To
 
 HOME 213 
 
 my boy at Thirty," and ended, "With undying love, 
 your friend and Mother." In life he could not remem- 
 ber his mother but he saw her now in three pages of 
 laboring words traced by a dying hand. In herself, 
 dying at thirty, she had seen her boy revealed. She had 
 had no strength no time left for slow approaches. 
 With the first words of her letter she laid a cooling hand 
 on his burning soul. She spoke the all-seeing wisdom of 
 death. She held him close to her heart and fed him 
 with her life's blood. All that she had been, all that 
 she had learned, all that she foresaw, was crowded into 
 those three pages. They were brittle with age, the ink 
 yellow and faded in words that no eyes but his and 
 hers had ever seen. They gripped his soul and held 
 it steady. Without this letter he would have torn up 
 the other. But the other had come as a complement 
 and he kept it because it helped him to see himself. 
 
 As Alan weakened, the bridge approached completion. 
 Batches of men, as special work was finished, were 
 despatched to the coast. With each batch McDougal 
 strove to send his master but Alan was too weak to go 
 though he did not say so. He had realized it with 
 terror and then with calm. " ISTo, McDougal, not this 
 time," he would say, and finally, " I think I might just 
 as well stay on till they send up to take over. It 's 
 unprofessional to chuck it before. It won't be long 
 now." And McDougal had cursed low rolling oaths 
 and taken it out on the men. 
 
 Alan seemed to have become childish in his weakness. 
 He spent what strength he had left in cutting words 
 into a board ripped from a kerosene box. When he had
 
 214 HOME 
 
 finished he called McDougal and showed him his handi- 
 work. " McDougal," he said, " if anything should hap- 
 pen to keep me here permanently just cut these words 
 into some big rock and lay me under it. Be careful 
 you get them just so. The French are mighty par- 
 ticular about the way we use their lingo and while it 
 was n't a Frenchman that wrote this bit I guess he 'd 
 be just as particular." 
 
 " Aweel, sir," said McDougal, stifling his rage within 
 him, " I '11 do as you wish." He took the board and 
 looked at it. The words meant nothing to him but the 
 scene meant much. He went out and concluded his 
 agreement with twelve quiet, lowering men gathered 
 from the country side. They were pioneers without 
 knowing it. They and their fathers and their fathers' 
 fathers had held these far depths of the world against 
 wild beasts and drought and flood since, centuries ago, 
 the Jesuits swept through the subcontinent and left a 
 trail of settlers behind them. They were proud, nar- 
 row, independent. They were uninventive, unimagina- 
 tive. No man among them had ever thought to lie. 
 They did not steal though they were robbed whenever 
 they invaded civilization with their wares. 
 
 From them McDougal had learned that due east, 
 halfway to the sea, was a place called Lieber's and that 
 this Lieber was known as the Americano and had fame 
 as a curador of fevers. Four men could carry a 
 sick man to Lieber's in a hammock in four days. 
 Twelve men could do it in two, and quicker than that 
 a hundred men could not go. For the price of three 
 steers each two-year olds they would undertake
 
 HOME 215 
 
 to deliver the sick man at Lieber's in two days. Mc- 
 Dongal pondered. It was a chance. If he sent Alan 
 to the rail-head there wouldn't be even a chance. 
 There was no one who could help at the rail-head, nor 
 along the thin line, nor even at the coast. 
 
 " In two days," said he despairingly, " the master 
 will be dead." 
 
 They gathered at the door of Alan's tent and looked 
 in at him as he lay half comatose. " No," said the 
 oldest of them, " he will be dead in seven days' time." 
 
 As McDougal picked him up and laid him gently in 
 a hammock, Alan came to. The hammock was padded 
 with pillows and blankets and strung on a stout bamboo 
 pole with two men at each end supporting it. 
 
 " What are you doing with me ? " he asked angrily 
 and sank back into the pillows. From there his eyes 
 glared up at McDougal. 
 
 " I 'm sending ye home," said McDougal gently but 
 firmly. 
 
 Alan smiled a twisted smile. " Sending me home," 
 he repeated and added resignedly, " Oh, all right." 
 Then he started up. " Bring matches," he said. 
 McDougal took matches from his pocket. Alan drew 
 two letters from inside his coat. " Burn them." He 
 held them out and watched jealously as McDougal 
 opened out the sheets with averted eyes and set fire 
 to the thin paper. The filmy cinders blew hither and 
 thither under the light breeze. The men under the 
 pole moved nervously, anxious to be off. Their eight 
 companions wheeled their flea-bitten ponies and headed 
 for the trail. "No, you don't," shouted McDougal
 
 216 HOME 
 
 and explained with many gestures that they were to ride 
 behind on account of the dust. 
 
 " We know, master," answered one quietly, " we 
 would but start." 
 
 McDougal held out an awkward hand in farewell. 
 " You 're ready, Mr. Wayne ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Alan between chattering teeth, and then 
 cried, " No, I want the board my epitaph thing, you 
 know." 
 
 McDougal dived into the tent and brought out the 
 board with the roughly cut words that he could not 
 read but somehow began to understand. He slipped it 
 into the hammock behind the cushions and then just 
 touched Alan's hand and gave the word to the men. 
 They started off in a shambling, rapid trot. The horse- 
 men fell in behind. A cloud of dust cut them off from 
 McDougal's gaze. He turned and fell upon his labor- 
 ing squad with a rolling flood of curses. To them the 
 words were Greek, but nevertheless, their blood curdled 
 and they worked as only Wayne had taught them.
 
 CHAPTEE XXX 
 
 LIEBEE, with Gerry and Kemp, sat in the shade 
 of the veranda, smoking after the midday meal. 
 The stock had been corralled but, on Kemp's advice, the 
 start for Fazenda Flores was to be made half-way 
 through the afternoon. There was to be a great moon 
 that night and the drive would be robbed of the perils 
 of darkness to cattle as well as of the horrible heat. 
 
 The three were silent, half somnolent, when a pass- 
 ing herder grunted and pointed westward with his chin. 
 Lieber stood up and looked. A pillar of dust was com- 
 ing across the desert. He could see men riding and 
 something else. He took his field-glasses from a peg 
 and looked again. " Funeral, or a sick man," he said 
 and sat down to wait. Kemp started whittling to keep 
 himself awake. Since the hour of Lieber's confession 
 he had hardly spoken. 
 
 When the cavalcade came within easy view Gerry 
 stood up and watched. He could not hide his curiosity 
 like Lieber and Kemp. In front of the horses came 
 four men bearing a sagging hammock on a pole. They 
 were running in quick, springy steps that made the 
 hammock sway gently from side to side. The pace 
 they kept up under the burden was marvelous. They 
 were followed closely by eight horsemen. At the first 
 signs of faltering among the bearers, four of the riders 
 
 217
 
 218 HOME 
 
 would throw themselves off their ponies and run under 
 the pole. The change of relay was made without a stop, 
 without a pause. The freed ponies stood with hanging 
 heads and straddled legs. Even from a distance one 
 could see that the burdened men had run the wiry 
 little beasts off their feet. They were all in, but the 
 men were still erect keen. With a final spurt the 
 cortege drew up before the veranda. Lieber stood up. 
 " Dead or dying ? " he asked. 
 
 " Master, we do not know," answered the oldest of 
 the men, their leader. 
 
 " Fever or smallpox ? " asked Lieber. 
 
 " Fever." 
 
 With a look of relief Lieber went down the steps 
 to the hammock. A sheet had been thrown over the pole 
 to keep off the worst of the sun. He pulled it off. A 
 ghastly sight met his eyes, but he did not shrink. 
 " Bring him up here," he said, springing up the steps 
 and sweeping a saddle harness and some old magazines 
 off a great rawhide settle on the veranda. 
 
 They laid the sick man on the settle and Lieber 
 started to strip him with gentle, deft hands. Kemp 
 strode forward and helped but Gerry stood by, power- 
 less to move. He had recognized Alan, the man he 
 had sworn to break if ever he met him. Somebody else 
 had broken Alan, terribly, pitilessly. Gerry's eyes 
 shrank from the sight. A lump came into his throat. 
 Alan was dead. Alan with whom he had wandered 
 barefoot through those quiet lanes of home, with whom 
 he had fished and swum, and once had fought. What 
 a little fury Alan had been in that boys' battle ! It had
 
 HOME 219 
 
 
 
 not been fought to a finish. On one impulse they had 
 stopped and looked at each other and turned away, 
 ashamed to shake hands. 
 
 Lieber, once heavy, florid and clumsy, was trans- 
 formed. He worked quickly with sure hands. The 
 body lay stripped on the settle. Under it still lay the 
 hammock and dusty blankets. The pillows and a 
 board had been tossed on the floor. Lieber examined 
 his patient minutely, without haste. The spleen was 
 frightfully distended and pushed out across the abdo- 
 men. He could feel its hard, unyielding margins. 
 The feet were swollen. The face was yellow with the 
 sickly gray-yellow of molded straw. Coma had set in. 
 
 Lieber dragged a great medicine chest out from his 
 room. With alcohol he rapidly washed out the dust- 
 filled nostrils of the stricken man and bathed the face 
 and then the limbs and body. Then he took out a 
 hypodermic syringe and a graduated glass. In the 
 glass he dissolved a powder and with steady hands added 
 measured drops of a liquid of faint amber hue. 
 
 Gerry found his tongue. " What is it ? " he asked. 
 
 " Quinine and arsenic," said Lieber shortly. 
 
 " Arsenic ? Is n't that dangerous ? " said Gerry. 
 
 Lieber glanced at him. "It will probably kill 
 him." 
 
 "Then why why " protested Gerry. A great 
 desire to protect what was left of Alan had come over 
 him. 
 
 "Why?" said Lieber dryly, "I'll tell you, Mr. 
 Lansing. Because it is less cowardly to kill a man than 
 to let him die."
 
 220 HOME 
 
 He mixed the solution in the syringe and then, grasp- 
 ing Alan's thin arm, he pressed it until the veins came 
 out in a swelling network. " Hold his arm like that," 
 he commanded Kemp. Kemp clutched the arm. The 
 bones seemed to bend to the grip. Lieber chose a 
 swollen vein and pierced it with the needle. He 
 forced the dose into the blood. " There," he said with 
 a smile to Gerry, " that 'a what 's known as an intra- 
 venous administration of quinine and arsenic. If an- 
 other paroxysm hits him he 's done for but we '11 know 
 all about that in forty-eight hours' time." ( 
 
 He went into the house and brought out clean sheets, 
 soft woolen blankets, pillows, and pillow-slips. Kemp 
 had never seen such linen; Gerry had almost forgotten 
 the feel of it. Gerry came to life. With one hand 
 under Alan's shoulders and another under his hips, he 
 lifted him as though he were an empty shell, while Kemp 
 and Lieber drew out the dust-caked blankets and ham- 
 mock and spread first a cane mat over the settle and 
 then a blanket and, on top of that, a sheet. The touch 
 of Alan's dry, crackling skin seemed to Gerry to be 
 burning his hands. " It is as though there were fire 
 in him," he said to Lieber. 
 
 Lieber looked at his patient with an all-seeing eye. 
 He paused before covering him up. " That 's it," he 
 said. " There 's fire in him the worst kind and 
 he 's been playing with it, just tickling it with stale 
 quinine." His eye ran rapidly over the thin body. " I 
 said the dose I gave him would probably kill him but 
 I 've changed my mind. I 'm betting the other way, 
 now I really look at him. There 's no flesh on him,
 
 HOME 221 
 
 but he does n't look like a skeleton. Why ? Because of 
 the sinews and bones of him they 're perfect. Look 
 at the way the sinews hold his neck and the way the 
 neck carries the sinews. Look at the flat bulge of his 
 ribs and the breadth of his shoulders over the hips. 
 That means heart and lungs and vitals. That man's 
 been a fighter and, unless I 'm a bigger fool than I was 
 yesterday, he 's a fighter yet." 
 
 " Cover him up, for God's sake," said Gerry. 
 
 Lieber dropped the sheet and went off to the kitchen. 
 Gerry and Kemp covered the stripped body and tucked 
 many blankets over it. Lieber came back and took off 
 half the blankets. " Must n't tire him with weight," 
 he explained. " If he 's going to sweat, he '11 sweat all 
 right. Malaria malignant fever is the tiredest 
 disease in the world. When they get too tired to 
 breathe, that 's the end." He took hold of Alan's 
 wrist. " To feel his pulse, you 'd say he was dead 
 now." 
 
 " 'Bout time we was startin'," remarked Kemp with 
 his eyes toward the declining sun. 
 
 Gerry's first impulse was to say he would stay but 
 he suddenly remembered Margarita. How far away 
 from life she seemed! Alan and Margarita could not 
 crowd into one day or even into one world it was 
 against the order of things. But facts do not stand on 
 the order of their coming, they simply come and against 
 the protest of man's will they present his fate; 
 against the cry of the troubled and displaced soul they 
 voice the eternal j'y suis, j'y reste of inanimate things. 
 One cannot go around a fact. One must either break
 
 222 HOME 
 
 one's head against it or swallow it and let it take its 
 course through the mental gorge. 
 
 Gerry longed to stay by Alan's side and through his 
 returning consciousness, as through a magnifying glass, 
 gaze upon the world he had forsworn the heritage 
 he had abandoned. But the fact of Margarita and her 
 boy suddenly declared itself demanded digestion 
 and Gerry turned his back on Alan. He mounted and 
 with the silent Kemp reversed the drive they had made 
 together months before. 
 
 Lieber did not go with them. When he had seen 
 them off, he busied himself giving orders for the tidying 
 up of the veranda, the feeding of Alan's convoy, beast 
 and man, and the preparation of a room for the self- 
 invited guest. From the pile of dusty pillows a servant 
 was picking up, fell a board. Lieber glanced down at 
 it. Words were cut roughly but clearly into its surface. 
 They spoke to him. They held his eyes. He stooped 
 laboriously and picked up the board. He took it into 
 his private room, propped it up against some books on 
 the table and sat before it with his face dropped in his 
 hands. To his closed eyes the words seemed no longer 
 carved in wood. Against the inward darkness of his 
 brain they shone out in points of light. He could not 
 shut them out. " Qui de nous n'a pas eu so, terre 
 promise, son jour d'extase, ei sa fin en exilf " 
 
 At sundown Lieber came out to his patient. He had 
 him moved, settle and all, into a room whose windows 
 opened upon the veranda. Lieber sat beside him and 
 nursed him through the long hot night. To the deft- 
 ness of his hand had been added tenderness and into his
 
 HOME 223 
 
 face a new determination had come a resolve to win 
 Alan's battle for him whatever the odds. 
 
 Gerry did not sleep that night. He lay on the little 
 extra bed he had made upon his son's arrival and, 
 propping himself on his elbow, gazed around him. The 
 moon shone through great cracks in the warped shutters 
 and filled the vast room with a glow that, as his eyes 
 dilated, became a revealing light. In one corner was 
 an iron wash-stand with its vessels of coarse enameled 
 metal, a recent purchase. In another corner stood a 
 grotesque clothes-rack. It looked like a young pine 
 with irregular branches and top lopped off. On the 
 stubs or pegs, hung his clothes and Margarita's and, on 
 the lowest peg of all, the Lilliputian garments of the 
 Man. The floor was bare and rolling, for the boards, 
 rough-hewn from hard-wood giants of the forest, had 
 warped steadily through many years. In its center 
 stood the great rustic bed that Gerry had made from the 
 twisted limbs of trees and Bonifacio had plaited with 
 thongs. By raising himself to the full length of his 
 arm Gerry could see Margarita lying uncovered on the 
 coarse, yellowish homespun. On her bare brown arm 
 lay the black head of her son. 
 
 Gerry shuddered at the nearness the familiarity 
 
 of everything. The seams of elementary life stood 
 out brutally. For the first time he saw them. From 
 the touch of the coarse homespun that covered him, his 
 mind went back to the feel of Lieber's fine linen and 
 from that it poised on Alan and then flew back to Alix 
 
 Alix who, seen through the years, became doubly 
 ethereal and flower-like. Where was Alix ? What had
 
 224 HOME 
 
 Alan done with her? He must ask him. That, at 
 least, he must know. But before he could ask he 
 must decide about Margarita and steel himself to his 
 purpose. He thought of the long still days at Fazenda 
 Flores before Alan had come to Lieber's the struggle 
 and the reward that had been his and the firmness in 
 him, the steadfastness that had led Alan to name him 
 The Rock, rose up in defense of Margarita and her 
 son. 
 
 Gerry was up early. As he was saddling True Blue, 
 Margarita came on to the veranda. " Where art thou 
 going ? " she asked. 
 
 Gerry looked up. He was a little pale from the 
 wakeful night and there were slight shadows under his 
 eyes. " I am going to Lieber's. There is a sick man 
 there he is dying and I must help. He is my fellow- 
 countryman." 
 
 Margarita's eyes searched his face. Her bosom rose 
 and fell rapidly. " Do not go," she said, and Gerry 
 started at the passion in her voice. 
 
 He looked at her and smiled. " I must see this man 
 before he dies," he said, half to himself. 
 
 " Ah," said Margarita, beating with her little brown 
 fist on the veranda pillar, " I know. I know. It is 
 not death that calls thee. Why should one turn from 
 things that live to fondle death? It is the stranger 
 thou wouldst see." 
 
 Gerry dropped the reins of his horse and, hurrying 
 up the steps, took Margarita in his arms, " And why 
 not, my beloved ? Why does thy heart beat so ? It is
 
 HOME 225 
 
 not a woman I go to see, but a man. Shall I not talk 
 with a man that is at death's door 2 " 
 
 " Let him but die," pleaded Margarita ; " let him but 
 die and thou shalt go and bury him. See, the day is 
 beautiful. There is a cloud. Perhaps it will rain. 
 Come, my Geree, let us go down to the river and swim. 
 We will take the Man. He shall sit on the bank and the 
 river will play with his bare toes. He will laugh." 
 
 Gerry smiled but shook his head. " To-morrow, my 
 beloved, to-morrow we shall play with the Man and the 
 river." 
 
 Margarita's arms fell to her sides in pathetic sur- 
 render. She watched Gerry mount and ride slowly up 
 the slope to the bridge where Kemp awaited him. Then 
 she went back to the veranda steps, sat down and wept 
 with her face hidden in her hands. She did not know 
 why she wept but she knew she wept for things that 
 were going to be. The Man came toddling out to her, 
 fell on her shoulders, dragged her hands from her face 
 and crowed with delight. It was an old game, played 
 often before, except that this time when the game was 
 over his little fists were wet.
 
 CHAPTEE XXXI 
 
 ALAN was struggling back from coma. He was 
 passing through what Lieber termed to himself 
 a stage of reflex cerebral phenomena. He muttered, 
 he talked, but the words were rendered unintelligible by 
 his thick dry tongue. Lieber listened. When his 
 patient could speak clearly, he would give him broth 
 even if he had to rouse him. But before Alan could 
 speak clearly, he awoke. Lieber found his sunken eyes, 
 the pupils appearing almost concave, fixed on him with 
 a seeing gaze. It was like resurrection. A spirit had 
 come down upon the body. Eye to eye, mouth to mouth, 
 heart to heart, it had given sight, breath, life. 
 
 The eyes closed. Lieber hurried away. From the 
 kitchen he brought a bowl of broth. It was steaming 
 and filled the room with an odor of rich essence. It 
 was in itself a concentration of life. Lieber held Alan's 
 unwilling head on his left arm and with a small spoon 
 carried drops of the broth to his dry lips. At first 
 Alan scarcely swallowed them. They stayed in his 
 mouth or trickled unaided down his throat. But 
 gradually his tongue softened. He could feel the con- 
 traction of his throat giving way to the oils of the broth. 
 He tried to reach a weak hand towards the bowl. 
 Lieber smiled and fed him with a larger spoon. The 
 
 bowl was emptied. Alan sank back into the pillows. 
 
 226
 
 HOME 227 
 
 His eyes wandered wistfully over the bare walls, the 
 high tiling of the strange room. "<I would have, 
 great gods ! but one short hour of native air let 
 me but die at home,' ' he murmured and Lieber 
 heard. 
 
 The words clutched at his own heart but he answered 
 cheerfully, " You shall, my boy, you shall die at home 
 if you like, but you 're going to have years to think it 
 over. Sleep, that 's the word. And sleep it is," he 
 added to himself as Alan's eyes closed and his chest 
 began to rise and fall in healthy breathing. Lieber 
 held his wrist. The pulse was taking on strength. 
 
 Alan was still sleeping when Gerry arrived. Lieber 
 looked up, surprised. " You 've come all the way back 
 from Fazenda Flores ? " 
 
 Gerry nodded. " How is he ? Has he come to, 
 
 yet?" 
 
 " Yes," said Lieber in a low, modulated tone. " He 
 came to, all right. But the fight 's not over yet. Fever 
 goes and comes, you know. If another paroxysm seizes 
 him, he '11 not have the strength to pull through. It 's 
 a question of hours now." 
 
 " You 've been up all night," said Gerry. " Go and 
 lie down for a while. I '11 call you if anything 
 happens." 
 
 Lieber rose reluctantly. "Don't fail to call me," 
 he said. " I '11 leave my door open." 
 
 Gerry sat down in a chair beside the settle. He 
 had not known how tired he was himself. Soon he 
 drowsed. His head fell forward on his chest. Sleep 
 came to him and then a great trouble came to his sleep.
 
 228 HOME 
 
 He roused himself from a nightmare and, suddenly 
 wide awake, found Alan's eyes fixed on his face. 
 
 " You," murmured Alan. 
 
 Gerry did not answer. His face became a mask. It 
 seemed to him that only Alan's eyes were alive, and to 
 Alan that Gerry had projected his spirit to his bedside 
 to watch him die. 
 
 Alan tried to smile in defiance. " Can't you speak ? " 
 he whispered hoarsely. 
 
 Gerry leaned forward. The question he had to ask 
 was stronger than he. It forced its way through his 
 lips. " Alan, what did you do with her ? Tell me that 
 and I '11 go away." 
 
 A troubled look came into Alan's thin face. He 
 frowned. " Do with her ? Do with whom ? " 
 
 " Alan," said Gerry, his suppressed voice trembling, 
 " you know. With Alix." 
 
 " Oh," said Alan, still struggling on the verge of 
 consciousness. " I remember. I did nothing with her. 
 She would n't go with me." 
 
 " Alan," groaned Gerry. " I saw you. I saw you 
 and Alix on the train." 
 
 The frown was gone from Alan's forehead. He felt 
 sleep coming back to him and he was glad. " Yes," he 
 said, " she was on the train with me. I remember. 
 She jumped off. A baggageman caught her." He 
 dropped off to sleep again. 
 
 Lieber stepped catlike across the floor. He caught 
 Gerry by one ear and with the other hand over his 
 mouth, led him out of the room. Gerry went tamely. 
 When they were on the veranda Lieber looked at him.
 
 HOME 229 
 
 " So," he said, his blue eyes blazing, " you only want to 
 kill him." 
 
 " No," said Gerry, dazed, " not now." 
 
 " Mr. Lansing," said Lieber, " you get out of here. 
 We '11 settle this business some other time." 
 
 Gerry's lip trembled. " You 're right, Lieber," he 
 said. " You 're right, only you don't know it all. That 
 chap in there we were boys together. He ran away 
 with my wife. That 's why " Gerry suddenly 
 stopped. Alix had not run away. She had jumped off 
 the train. Where was she then ? What had she done 
 through the years he had been away? Why had she 
 jumped off the train ? He struck his hand to his head 
 and stumbled off the veranda. 
 
 Lieber's anger died in him, but he turned and went 
 back to Alan. 
 
 Two hours later he came out again to find Gerry 
 crouched on the veranda. The spirit had gone out of 
 him but he turned on Lieber with a determination in 
 his tired eyes. " You told me to get out and I have n't. 
 There are things I 've got to know. I '11 wait." 
 
 " I spoke in haste, Mr. Lansing," said Lieber. " I 
 want you should forgive me. You are all in, too. 
 Come with me." 
 
 He led him into his own room, made him lie down, 
 and closed the shutters. Gerry threw himself across 
 the bed, arms outstretched, face down. Lieber slipped 
 out and noiselessly shut the door. Gerry lay exhausted. 
 He could not think any more. A great weight lay on 
 his brain. The ten minutes' doze in the chair at Alan's 
 bedside had not been rest, but a nightmare. Presently
 
 230 HOME 
 
 he fell into sleep, a deep sleep that was all unconscious- 
 ness. 
 
 It was almost night when he awoke and with the 
 awakening, the weight settled back on his brain, only 
 now he had the strength to think in spite of it. He 
 got up and went out in search of Lieber. Lieber heard 
 him and came out into the hall. Gerry nodded towards 
 Alan's room. " It 's all right, Mr. Lansing. He must 
 have a solid mind. Your talk did n't excite him 
 did n't even disturb his sleep. He 's on the road up 
 weak, a baby, but he 's started life again. He 's asked 
 for you twice. Seems to have something he 's got to 
 get off his chest to you. You 'd better go in." 
 
 Gerry sat down once more beside Alan. The ques- 
 tions he must ask crowded to his lips but he forced them 
 back. He tested his strength with resolutions and held 
 them. It was his way of reassuring himself. He 
 wanted to feel his firmness rising in him to meet the 
 struggle he felt must come when Alan spoke. 
 
 Alan knew he was there. He saw him through half- 
 closed eyes but, more than that, he felt him. His 
 brows puckered in a frown. It was still hard to use 
 words. " Gerry, last night I wanted to tell you more 
 only I could n't. I had to sleep. Alix did n't go with 
 me. She only came to the train. When I kissed her 
 she woke up and found she was n't carnal after all. 
 She went back home. You did n't turn up. You never 
 turned up. They traced you to a river, an empty canoe 
 pajamas you know." He stopped and sighed as 
 though his task were over. 
 
 The veins on Gerry's forehead stood out in knots.
 
 HOME 231 
 
 His chin rested on his clenched hands, his elbows on 
 his knees. "Alan," he said, "where is Alix now? 
 What has she done ? " 
 
 Alan opened his eyes and looked at him. " She is 
 waiting. She has always waited for you to come back. 
 She would not' believe you were dead, because of the 
 boy." 
 
 " The boy ! " groaned Gerry. " What boy ? " 
 
 " Yours," said Alan. " He is a great boy. There is 
 a new Alix since he came. She is as far from me and 
 what she was as the stars. She is a steady star. But 
 it 's all right now. You '11 go back to her." 
 
 " I can't," whispered Gerry hoarsely, more to him- 
 self than to Alan. " I 've got a wife here. I Ve got 
 a child here. To me he is my first-born." 
 
 Alan's eyes opened, this time in wonder. A twisted 
 smile came to his lips. " You ! " he said. " You ! " 
 and then the smile changed to a faint disgust. He 
 turned his head on the pillow away from Gerry and 
 slept. 
 
 The next morning found Gerry still at Lieber*s. He 
 knew he must go back to Fazenda Flores in the end 
 but just now his soul was too raw. He hung around 
 waiting for Alan to wake up. There was only one 
 way to soothe the pain of his wound and that was to 
 add vinegar to it. He wanted to hear more and tell 
 more. It seemed a terrible affront that Alan Alan 
 of all people should sit in judgment over him. Alan 
 awoke at last to a ravenous appetite and a desire for 
 the open. They moved him, settle and all, out upon
 
 232 HOME 
 
 the veranda. " What a murderous day ! " he said, his 
 eyes turning, blinded from the blaze of sun, to rest in 
 the shady nooks of the veranda. 
 
 Outside, the heavenly bowl of blue was virgin of 
 clouds. It stretched and domed in a sphered eternity 
 of emptiness. Through its depressing void the sun 
 swam slowly, pitilessly, as though it were loth to mark 
 the passing minutes. The whole earth baked. Strong 
 trees wilted and turned up the wrong sides of their 
 leaves on the sea of heat like dying fish turning up 
 their white bellies at the last gasp. Not a breath of 
 air stirred. Heat rose from the ground in an un- 
 broken, visible wave. " My God," said Alan, gazing 
 with wistful, far-seeing eyes beyond the familiar, re- 
 pellent scene, " ' a homeward fever parches up my 
 tongue.' ' There was such an agony of longing in the 
 words that Gerry was frightened. He looked ques- 
 tioningly at Lieber. 
 
 " No," said Lieber, " he 's not dying. He was dy- 
 ing, but he 's changed his mind. He 's going to go 
 home instead." 
 
 " I believe he 's right, Gerry," said Alan with a faint 
 smile. " But I did n't change my mind. He did it 
 for me. He 's in line for a life-saving medal. Lie- 
 ber 's all right." He stopped, tired out. 
 
 Lieber began to talk to Gerry. " How 's the water 
 in the ditch, Mr. Lansing ? " 
 
 " Mighty low," said Gerry. He spoke almost ab- 
 sent-mindedly. For the first time in months the ditch 
 was far from his thoughts. 
 
 " It 's hard luck," said Lieber. " The river 's never
 
 HOME 233 
 
 been so low before not in the memory of man. We 
 do not hear the falls any more. The river is asleep. 
 Do you want me to send my men down again ? " 
 
 " It 's no use," said Gerry. " I don't dare deepen 
 the ditch any more. It ? s way below the normal level 
 now." 
 
 Alan stirred. " What 's that about a ditch ? " 
 
 In unhurried phrases and a low voice Lieber told 
 him the history of Fazenda Flores since Gerry's ad- 
 vent and of the great part the ditch had played in bring- 
 ing resurrection to the abandoned plantation and life 
 to the neighboring stock. 
 
 Alan cast a curious glance at Gerry. " Dangerous 
 business," he said, " fooling with the normal level in 
 flood country." 
 
 Lieber nodded and went on. He told his tale well. 
 He had seen more than Gerry could have put into 
 words. Gerry listened for a while but he soon wearied. 
 What had all that to do with him now ? He wandered 
 off and started to saddle True Blue. He must get 
 away from Alan. Alan was drawing him but he was 
 bound in chains. He must remember that. Then, 
 too, what Alan had said about fooling with the normal 
 level worried him. He must go back and station a 
 guard at the great sluice-gate. 
 
 A sudden puff of air, then a breeze, then a gale, 
 swept down on Lieber's from the southwest. The wind 
 was hot, a furnace blast from the torrid wilderness. 
 It carried with it swirls of dust, light dry sticks, and 
 finally, small pebbles that hurtled along the ground. 
 Gerry and his horse sought shelter by the house.
 
 234 HOME 
 
 Herders came running out from their quarters and 
 gathered in front of the veranda. The wind suddenly 
 turned cold, dropped and ceased. The dust settled. 
 The sun blazed as before. There was not a cloud in 
 the sky. The herders all looked at Lieber. They did 
 not talk. They were waiting. 
 
 Lieber shrugged his shoulders. " Somewhere," he 
 said with a wave of his hand to the southwest, " there 
 has been rain and hail and that sort of thing. Tem- 
 perature fell and drove the hot air off the desert." He 
 told the men but they did not go away. They stood 
 around, their eyes sweeping the horizon to the south- 
 west. At last one of them grunted. His eyes were 
 fixed on a distant pillar of dust. It came towards 
 them. Lieber used his field-glasses. Without taking 
 them from his eyes he spoke. " It 's a man, riding. 
 Looks like he 's riding for life. Something is up. 
 He 's riding to kill his horse." 
 
 As the man approached, a dull rumbling filled the 
 ears of the watchers. So gradual was its crescendo that 
 they did not notice it. The rider spurred and beat 
 his horse to a final effort. They could see he was 
 shouting. He drew nearer and they heard him, 
 " Mood ! Flood ! " Then they noticed the rumbling. 
 It became a roar. Far away on the horizon rose a 
 white, advancing mist. The rider rolled off his stag- 
 gering horse. " The flood," he gasped. " Never be- 
 fore has there been such a flood." 
 
 Before the words were out of his mouth there was 
 a frenzied rattle of hoofs and Gerry on True Blue tore 
 off in a mad gallop down the trail towards Fazenda
 
 HOME 235 
 
 Flores. Almost at his heels followed the first mounted 
 of the herders, riding all they knew to cut across to 
 Piranhas ahead of the wall of water. 
 
 Lieber's eyes followed Gerry's flight. Then he 
 turned them on Alan. " That hollow down there," he 
 said, " will be turned into a rushing river in half an 
 hour perhaps less. We 're just safe here, and that 's 
 all. You see Mr. Lansing ? He 's the spot furthest 
 down the trail. I 'm thinking we '11 never see him 
 again." 
 
 A faint flush came into Alan's cheeks. It was a 
 flush of pride pride in Gerry. Gerry had not hesi- 
 tated. He had not ridden off like a laggard. Even 
 now they could see that he was riding for life rid- 
 ing with all his might for the lives that shackled him.
 
 CHAPTEK XXXII 
 
 GERRY had never ridden a horse to death before. 
 When True Blue first staggered he put spurs 
 to him and laid on his quirt right and left. 
 
 The roar of the river was so loud that he could not 
 tell if he had really heaten the flood or not, though he 
 could see just before him the long, snaky ridge of the 
 main ditch banks. He must get on. 
 
 But True Blue only came to a staggering stop un- 
 der the quirt. With his forefeet he still marked time 
 as though with them he would drag his heavy body and 
 master one step nearer home. From his loins back he 
 was paralyzed. 
 
 With a last desperate effort he straddled his fore 
 legs but he could not brace himself against the back- 
 ward sag of dead weight. Gerry felt him sinking be- 
 neath him and suddenly found himself standing over 
 his prostrate horse. Of True Blue, his forefeet out- 
 stretched, his head and breast still held high, there was 
 left only a great spirit chained to a fallen and dying 
 body. 
 
 A cry escaped Gerry's lips a cry of horror at what 
 he had done. Then he remembered why he had done 
 it and ran not for the sluice-gate but for the bridge. 
 As he reached it the roar became deafening. There 
 was a splintering, crackling sound that, measured by 
 
 236
 
 HOME 237 
 
 the great commotion, seemed like the tinkle of a tiny 
 bell. But there was something in the sound that 
 called to his brain. He cast a glance over his shoulder. 
 The monster beams of his sluice-gate, hurled, splintered 
 into the air, were still hanging against the blue sky. 
 Under them surged an angry white wall of racing 
 water. Even as he started to run down the long slope 
 to the house Gerry thought with a great relief that if 
 the gate had been closed it would have gone even so, 
 like match-wood. 
 
 Below him Fazenda Elores lay peaceful, still, under 
 the blazing sun. The cotton was a little wilted but 
 high and strong, the cane stunted but alive. Only in 
 the pasture bottoms the stock had gathered in frightened 
 clumps. Their instinct had told them that danger 
 hovered near. Suddenly from the quiet house burst 
 Margarita carrying her son on one arm. She had seen 
 Gerry from a window. While the others watched the 
 rising river, and now this terrifying torrent bursting 
 down upon them from above, she had slipped out to 
 run to him. 
 
 The house at Fazenda Flores stood on a domed 
 mound. Behind the mound was a slight hollow before 
 the steady rise to the bridge began. Gerry caught sight 
 of Margarita as she ran down towards this hollow. 
 Terrified, he cast a glance at the descending flood and 
 his eye measured its pace against hers. " Go back ! 
 he shouted with all the strength of his lungs and waved 
 his arms. It was as though he had not spoken. 
 Through the din and roar of the flood the sound of the 
 words scarcely reached his own ears.
 
 238 HOME 
 
 At the very bottom of the hollow Margarita felt that 
 she was stepping in water. She took her eyes from 
 Gerry who she thought was beckoning to her and 
 looked down. A hurrying rivulet whose swift flow 
 carried it before the churning crest of the flood, tugged 
 at her ankles. She looked up toward the thundering 
 wall of oncoming water and knew that she was lost. 
 
 She stopped and fixed her eyes on Gerry who was 
 plunging down the slope in a mad effort to reach her. 
 She called to him but she knew he could not hear her. 
 With arms stretched to their highest she held up the 
 Man. The Man was not frightened. His black eyes 
 were fixed on his running father. Margarita could 
 feel him gurgling with joy in the new game. Then 
 suddenly he cried out. It was a wail of fright. The 
 wail was cut short. Broken in two, it rang terribly 
 in her ears as she went down. 
 
 The water had felled Margarita and the Man. 
 Gerry saw them flung down against the ground and 
 then high on the crest of the wave. They became sud- 
 denly a twirling, sodden mass, inanimate save for the 
 fling of a loose limb into clearer view against the blue 
 sky or the uncoiling of long black hair on the seething 
 water. 
 
 Gerry reached the torrent. Margarita and the Man 
 had already been whirled far towards the great river. 
 He plunged into the flood. The water was thick with 
 earth, sticks, up-rooted plants and debris of every sort. 
 Conflicting, swirling currents tugged at heavy stones, 
 rolled them along and sometimes even tossed one to 
 the surface.
 
 HOME 239 
 
 Gerry's struggling body was hurled hither and 
 thither. A stray current shot him to the surface but, 
 before he could take breath, other currents sucked him 
 down and dragged him along the rough surface of the 
 crumbling soil. He felt as though he were being torn 
 limb from limb. 
 
 Then suddenly he was cast into an eddy that in com- 
 parison with the maelstrom, was almost peaceful. For 
 an instant he felt like one who awakes from a terrible 
 dream, but with the sigh that trembled to his lips came 
 realization. 
 
 From head to toe he was battered and bruised. His 
 cotton clothes were in tatters. His chest heaved in 
 great, spasmodic gasps. Breath whistled through his 
 wracked lungs. His eyes protruded. His head ached 
 till it seemed on the verge of bursting. But to his mind 
 pierced a thought sharper than pain the thought of 
 Margarita and the Man. With clenched teeth he 
 struck out for the current. 
 
 Far^ far away rose a dusty line of mist. It marked 
 the head of the flood the meeting of water with the 
 accumulated dust of rainless months. Gerry recognized 
 the meaning of that line. Somewhere there in the 
 turmoil of the first rush of the mad flood were Mar- 
 garita and the Man what was left of them. The 
 distance dismayed him, but he swam on. Then he felt 
 the fast approaching end of endurance. A sob choked 
 him. 
 
 It was only minutes till his arms refused to answer 
 to his will. They moved so weakly that more than 
 once his gasping mouth sank below the water. He
 
 240 HOME 
 
 swallowed great gulps of the turgid flood. Then an 
 up-rooted tree brushed by him. He clutched its 
 branches. 
 
 When all else in the world has passed from a man's 
 brain there remains the life instinct the will to fight 
 for the last minute of his allotted being. The life in- 
 stinct was all that still lived in Gerry. It urged him 
 to a last effort. He dragged his body upon the tree 
 where the branches forked from the main trunk. Ut- 
 terly exhausted he sank into their embrace. They held 
 him as though in a cradle. 
 
 The rush of the waters began to slacken. They 
 stretched out over the valley and crept up its sides. 
 They did not flow so much now as rise. The valley 
 became a moving sea. On its flowing surface beasts, 
 fowls and reptiles struggled, mad-eyed, for life. Here 
 and there a floated carcass, brought down from far 
 up the river, blundered blindly through the living and 
 brought screams of terror from the swimming horses, 
 and gasping lows from the struggling cattle. 
 
 From the middle of the sea rose the old plantation 
 house still high and dry on its mound. It seemed very 
 tiny a toy house on a lonely islet. 
 
 A great, open, white umbrella lined with green 
 sailed gaily along. It caught in the branches of 
 Gerry's tree. Up-rooted cotton bushes floated by, and 
 cane, snapped off, sometimes torn up in whole hills, 
 banked up against the tree and formed a vast, unstable 
 island toward which swam the deluded stock. 
 
 From the mouth of the cleft in the river gorge is- 
 sued a thundering cataract. It had burst through the
 
 HOME 241 
 
 walls of the ditch and even unseated a section of the 
 rocky crag against which the sluice-gate had been but- 
 tressed. The ditch was gone. It could never be again, 
 for the water was tearing the channel of the cleft 
 deeper and deeper. The turbid flood devoured the silt 
 of the valley, accumulated since man was, and carried 
 it, seething, out towards the river. The valley would 
 be left naked, stripped of the source of life. 
 
 Gerry's tree had crawled away from the main cur- 
 rent. In a vast eddy it approached the mound where- 
 on squatted the old plantation house. Dona Maria 
 stood at the edge of the waters. Her two hands were 
 clenched and held above her gray head. Thin wisps 
 of hair hung about her face. Her face was distorted. 
 She was cursing Gerry, cursing the day of his birth, 
 the day of his coming, the day he had opened his ditch. 
 She swept her arms over the terrible scene and called 
 down the curse of all the ruin and death on his head. 
 But Gerry was beyond hearing. In all the world there 
 was none to hear the old woman. She stood alone; 
 about her the silent waters, above her the blazing blue 
 sky. 
 
 The tree shot out of the eddy. The current, the 
 main current from the cleft, caught it squarely and 
 swept it away. It suddenly shook its long trail of riff- 
 raff and turning and turning, more and more swiftly, 
 swam out on to the churning bosom of the great river. 
 
 The valley had disappeared. Squatting on the very 
 level of the far-flung waters, the old house still stood. 
 The bright sun struck a glint of light from its white 
 walls and gave rich colors to its moss-grown tiles. The
 
 242 HOME 
 
 roof was crowded with fowl and a strange medley of 
 heavy flying birds, glad of a perch on which to rest. 
 Dona Maria went into the house. She closed the great 
 board shutters. The house looked as if it had closed 
 its eyes in a last renunciation. 
 
 Gerry's tree floated down the river. It swung 
 slowly along near the north shore. Just below it were 
 houses. They were perched on the cliff. Below them 
 were more houses and under these the tiled roofs of 
 still other houses just topped the flood. The houses 
 were what was left of Piranhas. 
 
 From the shore canoes in search of loot began to 
 shoot out on to the quietening waters. One of them 
 happened upon Gerry's tree and then upon Gerry. 
 Gerry's eyes opened and then closed again. He 
 scarcely felt the arms that lifted him. They carried 
 him to the old inn, the miserable little inn he had left 
 behind on that glorious morning of so long ago.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 A SHARP attack of fever followed Gerry's expo- 
 sure and immersion. The old woman of the inn 
 knew no medicaments, but she knew fever. She piled 
 blankets on Gerry and let him sweat it out. On the 
 third day nature, assisted by his magnificent physique, 
 finally routed the attack. Gerry began to feel hungry. 
 He called the old woman and ordered food. For once 
 food in Piranhas was plentiful. Mandioc, sweet po- 
 tatoes, pumpkins, as well as fowl, marooned on trees 
 and wreckage, had stocked the town as it had never 
 been stocked before. Gerry ate heartily. 
 
 Then he began to think. The nightmare was all 
 true. From his window he looked out on the slowly 
 receding waters of the greatest flood the San Francisco 
 had ever seen. Fazenda Flores was no more. With 
 it three years of his life had been wiped out. Out- 
 wardly he was back where he had begun. But in- 
 wardly he was eons away from the starting-point of 
 three years ago. Alix had waited for him but he had 
 not waited for her. He had given himself to Mar- 
 garita and to Margarita's son. Margarita and the Man 
 were dead but the fact of his gift of himself remained. 
 What had he but the shell, the husk of himself, to take 
 back to Alix ? 
 
 He called the old woman. He asked her if she re- 
 
 243
 
 244 HOME 
 
 membered him. She peered at him. " No, master," 
 she said, " I do not remember you. You are like the 
 foreigner who was drowned, but he is dead." 
 
 Gerry shook his head. " Not dead," he said, " only 
 disappeared." 
 
 " You are not he," said the old woman. " He could 
 not talk words that one could understand." 
 
 Gerry nodded gravely. He felt as though words 
 could never make him smile again. " I have learned," 
 he said. " Now tell me what became of the things I 
 left here ? " He went through the list. 
 
 The old woman checked off each item and then 
 shrugged her shoulders. She led him to a little dark 
 room whose only light came from the interstices of the 
 tiled roof. As his pupils expanded he began to make 
 out one after another of the bags that had made up his 
 traveling kit. 
 
 " There is a letter," she said, and went off to fetch 
 it. Gerry dragged the bags out into the light. Their 
 locks were all sealed with the seal of the American 
 Consulate at Pernambuco. He started knocking off 
 the brittle wax. The old woman came back with the 
 letter and handed it to him. He tore it open. It 
 was a note from the consul saying that by order of 
 Gerry's wife his things had been sealed and left at 
 the inn, and telling him where to find the keys. The 
 room, he learned from the old woman had been paid 
 for regularly, at first by the month, then by the year. 
 She felt no resentment at his return, only resignation. 
 " You are the only guest I Ve had since you went 
 away," she said quaintly and with a sigh.
 
 HOME 245 
 
 "Fear nothing," said Gerry kindly. "You have 
 been faithful. You may consider the room engaged 
 by me for the next ten years." 
 
 He carried his bags into the room overlooking the 
 river and then lay down. He was too tired after the 
 fever to open them. He knew that the opening of those 
 dust-covered bags with their rusted metal fittings was 
 going to be another ordeal. 
 
 The next day Gerry sat before his unpacked bags. 
 He had turned out all their contents. On the bed, 
 the floor, the table and the chairs was piled such an 
 array of linen and shoes and suits of various cut and 
 weight as he had once deemed the minimum with which 
 a man could decently travel. Now they seemed to him 
 wasteful and futile. The clothes did not carry his 
 mind back as he had expected. The starch in the 
 linen had gone yellow. He had always hated yellow 
 collars. The suits struck him as belonging to some 
 one else all except one. One sturdy suit of tweed 
 had a cut that was different from the others. Of all 
 the clothes it alone seemed to have a personal note 
 the note he had expected to find in the bags and had 
 shrunk from. 
 
 Then he remembered. This suit had been made by 
 his own tailor. He had worn it during a flying visit 
 to Eed Hill. He had had it on the day he left New 
 York. He had worn it that morning in Alix' room. 
 Red Hill came back to him, Alix stood before him. 
 Through the suit he saw her room, the shimmering blue 
 of her dressing-gown, her crown of hair and her thin 
 fingers busy with it. He felt again the nip of the
 
 246 HOME 
 
 clear air as it had streamed in through the open win- 
 dow. 
 
 How calm Alix had been " under his arraignment. 
 How curious had been her eyes as he raved at her. 
 Would she have been calm and curious like that if 
 she had really loved Alan ? He remembered the 
 shameful things he had said before he could lash her 
 into an answering temper. He heard again the scratch- 
 ing of a pen as he had heard it that morning, stand- 
 ing in the hall outside her door. How blind he had 
 been ! She had been writing to Alan writing to him 
 in the white heat of anger. He had driven her to it 
 with his shameful words. He had left her no other 
 answer. And after all, she had waited! Gerry put 
 his hands to his forehead. It was wet with cold sweat. 
 He got up and went out. 
 
 The worst of the flood was over. Gerry engaged a 
 search party. All day long they sought for Mar- 
 garita and her child. Towards night they found them, 
 the little boy tight clasped in his mother's arms. Gerry 
 laid them tenderly in the canoe and in silence the party 
 crawled back up the river to Piranhas. No one looked 
 curiously at the burden they carried up through the 
 main street. Eyes were tired of the familiar sight. 
 The hour of weeping, the allotted tears, were long since 
 spent. They buried them that night. Gerry went 
 back to his room. He could not eat. He sat for a 
 long time looking out on the starry river. Then un- 
 consciously he picked up the old tweed suit and hung 
 it carefully on a chair. The rest of his scattered things 
 he swept unceremoniously upon the floor and threw
 
 HOME 247 
 
 himself full length on the bed. He was exhausted and 
 slept. 
 
 He was up early the next morning. He made the old 
 woman bring water and bathed in his room. "It is 
 wise," she said. " For many days there will be poison 
 in the river." Gerry did not answer. He closed the 
 door and went through his ablutions and toilet with 
 great care. His beard he had always kept close- 
 clipped. Now he shaved it off. The tan of his face 
 looked like a mask above the fresh white of his newly 
 shaved jowls and chin. He picked out the best of his 
 linen and dressed. Lastly, he put on the old tweed 
 suit. It fell naturally to the lines of his body all ex- 
 cept the waistband of the trousers. He drew the back 
 strap as close as it would go. Still the trousers were 
 a little loose at the waist. At first he was puzzled, 
 then he understood. He looked at himself in the 
 broken glass with a gorgeous but sadly tarnished frame 
 that hung on the wall. His shoulders seemed to carry 
 the coat better than before. He could hear Jones & 
 Jones say, " A splendid fit, sir. You can't pick it up 
 anywhere." 
 
 Gerry turned from the glass with a sigh. He was 
 restless. The heavy tweeds seemed to bind his limbs 
 and chest, but he would not take them off. He sat at 
 the window and watched the little stern-wheeler splash 
 up to the bank. Luckily for her, she had been three 
 days late in starting up the river; else that trip would 
 have been her last. Gerry tried to exert himself to 
 the trouble of packing and getting on board but he 
 felt listless. Why should he hurry back? Alix had
 
 248 HOME 
 
 waited, was waiting, but not for him. He had not 
 waited for her. He must go back and tell her, of 
 course, but what then? 
 
 A cavalcade came down the street. At its nead was 
 carried a litter and on the litter lay Alan. He had 
 refused to ride in a hammock again. Behind him rode 
 Lieber and Kemp. Gerry drew back from the win- 
 dow and watched them make their way down to the 
 little stern-wheeler. She had brought little freight, 
 there was none for her to take away. By three o'clock 
 she gave a long shriek of warning and half an hour 
 later she warped out into the river and chugged away 
 down stream. At the last moment, Gerry had sent 
 down to Alan a note addressed to Alix. 
 
 Lieber turned from watching the boat out of sight. 
 It was bearing Alan away with Kemp installed as nurse 
 as far as the coast. Lieber stumped heavily up the 
 street, leading his horse. From his window Gerry 
 called to him. Lieber took the reins from his arm 
 and handed them to a boy. He climbed to Gerry's 
 room and sat down on the bed. Gerry had never seen 
 him look so tired. 
 
 " So," said Lieber, " you escaped." 
 
 Gerry nodded gravely. Lieber looked at him with 
 dull eyes. " We passed Fazenda Flores. The house 
 still stands. It's on a little island." Gerry nodded 
 again. Lieber shrugged a shoulder impatiently. 
 " Why are n't you up there ? " 
 
 Gerry braced himself and told him. In a dispas- 
 sionate tone he told him the history of those terrible 
 moments of destruction and death. " I am not there,"
 
 HOME 249 
 
 he finished, "because there is nothing left. Three 
 years all my life here have been wiped out. 
 Margarita she knew from the beginning. From the 
 beginning she hated the ditch. I have been a curse. 
 I have brought ruin." Gerry stared before him. His 
 face was white and drawn. 
 
 Lieber shook his head judicially. " !Nb, it would 
 have been the same except that without you there would 
 have been nothing to sweep away. Margarita would 
 still be alive. There would have been no boy." He 
 paused. " Somehow," he went on, " I don't believe 
 Margarita would have chosen to have things different. 
 She got her jour d'exidse and died before it was over. 
 I I don't think we need be sorry for her. Why 
 did n't you go away on the boat ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Gerry. " I tried to, but I 
 could n't. I just buried her and the boy last night. I 
 could n't run away like that as though it were all over. 
 Of course, I know it is all over but when one falls an 
 endless depth in sleep and suddenly wakes in a cold 
 sweat it takes time for the mind to catch its balance. 
 It's that way with me. I've fallen from a height. 
 I 've waked to a cold sweat. I must take time to get 
 the balance of life and get it right. You can't hurry 
 over these transitions, because somehow it would n't be 
 decent." 
 
 Lieber nodded. "You don't feel like riding back 
 with me ? " he asked hesitatingly. 
 
 Gerry shook his head. "No," he said. "I can't 
 do that. I'm just going to sit here and wait for a 
 while and then I 'm going home. There 's something
 
 250 HOME 
 
 I 've got to straighten out. After that, I don't know. 
 But there 's something I wish you 'd do for me, Lieber, 
 and that is to look after old Dona Maria and those two 
 old darkies at Fazenda Flores. They won't last long, 
 any of them, and I don't want them to lack for any- 
 thing. I '11 square up with you." 
 
 Lieber nodded listlessly. " I '11 look out for them." 
 
 The next morning early, Gerry saw him off. There 
 was a wistful look in the old man's eyes as from the 
 top of the cliff he turned and gazed down the river. 
 " Lieber," said Gerry, " you can count on me to do 
 what I can for you when I get home. Do you under- 
 stand ? " 
 
 Lieber flushed. Their eyes met. He took Gerry's 
 outstretched hand and gripped it hard. Then he rode 
 away without a word. 
 
 Lieber threw his horse into a rapid rack that was 
 faster than a gallop. It was a killing pace but he 
 knew the mettle of his mount. Late in the afternoon 
 he came to the confines of his ranch. The broad-eaved 
 house in the distance looked very still and deserted. 
 Beyond it loomed the solitary joa tree. Something 
 had happened to the joa tree during the two days he 
 had been away. It had become a beacon. He re- 
 membered the giant Bougainvillea vine that covered 
 the tree. The Bougainvillea had bloomed into a tower 
 of mauve flame. It stood out in daring contrast to 
 somber desert and brown-tiled roofs. Its single, de- 
 fiant and blaring note struck an answering chord in 
 Lieber's heart. He took courage of that brave burst 
 of color, so jarring in a garden, but in the desert, a
 
 HOME 251 
 
 thing of glory. Lieber passed into the loneliness of 
 his deserted house with a firm step. 
 
 Gerry spent many days at Piranhas as he had 
 planned, in thought. He went over his life in a pains- 
 taking retrospection. His mind lingered long on the 
 last three years, their fullness, their even upward trend. 
 Could a man live three such years and lose them ? In 
 a ghastly half hour the flood had wiped out the tan- 
 gible results of three years of labor. But what about 
 the intangible? He had sinned against Alix and 
 against her faith but had he sinned against himself? 
 He felt infinitely older than the first Gerry Lansing 
 but would he change this thinking age for his unthink- 
 ing youth ? What if he had learned three years ago 
 that Alix had saved herself and his name? Would 
 it have meant loss or gain to him to-day? Something 
 within him cried, " Loss ! Loss ! " but he dared not 
 take courage from the inward cry. He could not know, 
 he reasoned, until he had seen Alix. 
 
 Until he had seen Alix. That thought haunted him. 
 It drove him. He must see Alix. He must start by 
 the very next boat but when the next boat came some 
 gnawing fear of unreadiness held him back. His fear 
 was greater than the compelling thought of Alix. 
 
 Twice, three times, the little stern-wheeler drove her 
 nose into the mud bank at Piranhas, called her hoarse 
 warning and departed. From some distant cliff Gerry 
 saw her come and go or, miles away, walking himself 
 tired across the desert, heard her throaty siren cry and 
 did not heed it.
 
 CHAPTEK XXXIV 
 
 IT was with some misgivings that Kemp left Alan 
 at the coast. Alan was still very weak. Kemp 
 stood, more incongruous than ever, against the rail of 
 the little coaster bound for Pernambuco and eyed Alan 
 whom he had made comfortable in a camp bed on the 
 deck. 
 
 " It seems to me, Mr. Wayne," he said, " that there 
 mought be business waitin' fer me at Pernambuco thet 
 I do'n know nothin' about. I 've got a hunch I 'd best 
 go along of you and see." 
 
 Alan smiled. " I know what your hunch is, Kemp, 
 and it 's a wrong one. I 'm all right. Weak, but I '11 
 make it. Don't worry." 
 
 Kemp was standing in angles. His hands were 
 thrust in his trouser-pockets but even so his elbows 
 were crooked. One foot was raised on a rail. He 
 was coatless as usual. His unbuttoned vest stuck out 
 behind. His Stetson hat was pulled well down over 
 his eyes. His eyes had taken on the far-away and 
 slightly luminous look that always came into them when 
 he was about to speak from the heart. 
 
 " Mr. Wayne/' he said, " I 've tol' you some things 
 about Lieber an' you 've seen some more. You know 
 how he stands. Lieber 's livin' in Hell, like the rich 
 
 greaser in the Bible with his tongue stuck out beggin' 
 
 252
 
 HOME 253 
 
 for one drop of water, only Lieber hain't got his tongue 
 stuck out he 's bitin' it." 
 
 Kemp paused and Alan nodded. 
 
 " I was thinkin'," Kemp continued, " thet perhaps 
 you 'n Mr. Lansing with yo' folks he'pin' mought chuck 
 him that drop o' water when you get back to Heaven, 
 meanin' Noo Yawk." Kemp brought his eyes slowly 
 around and rested them on Alan. 
 
 " Kemp," said Alan, " don't you worry. If J. Y. 
 Wayne & Co. have n't gone to smash or the world other- 
 wise come to an end you can be sure Lieber will get 
 his water in a full bucket." 
 
 Kemp nodded and with a " S'long and good luck," 
 disappeared down the gangway. 
 
 At Pernambuco Alan found an accumulation of mail 
 awaiting him and a liner bound for home. The liner 
 was too big to get into the little harbor behind the reef. 
 She rode the swell a mile out from shore. 
 
 Alan lost no time in making his transfer. From the 
 tender he was winched up to the deck in a passenger 
 basket. As he left the wicker coop he smiled at him- 
 self in disgust. Ten Percent Wayne had often jumped 
 for a gangway from the top of a flying sea; never be- 
 fore had he gone on board as cargo. But the smile 
 suddenly left his face. He reeled and put out one hand 
 toward a rail. Somebody caught his arm and led him 
 to a long chair. He sank into it and shivered. 
 
 It was a girl that had helped him. As soon as she 
 saw he was not going to faint she left him, to come 
 back presently with the doctor and a room steward. 
 They took charge of him.
 
 254 HOME 
 
 Day after day Alan lay in his cabin, listless, before 
 he thought of his batch of letters. They were still in 
 the pocket of his coat. He asked the steward to hand 
 them to him, looked through them, picked out one 
 and laid the rest aside. The one he picked out was 
 Clem's. 
 
 With her own peculiar wisdom Clem had written not 
 about him or herself, but about Red Hill. Alan read 
 and then dropped the letter to his lap. His hands fell 
 clenched at his sides. His eyes, grown large, stared 
 out down the long vista of the mind. Walls faded away 
 and the sounds of a great ship at sea were suddenly 
 dumb. To his ears came instead the caroling of birds 
 in evening song after rain, to his eyes a vision of Red 
 Hill dripping light from its myriad leaves and to his 
 heart the protecting, brooding shelter of Maple House 
 of home. 
 
 It cleanses a man's soul to have been at death's door. 
 Sickness, more than love, leads a man up. Alan was 
 feeling cleansed like a little child so that it seemed 
 a quite natural thing that the girl who had taken charge 
 of him on his arrival on board should knock at his door 
 and then walk in. She drew out a camp-stool and sat 
 down beside him. 
 
 She was very small and very young, not in years 
 but with what Alan termed to himself acquired youth. 
 Her near-sighted eyes peered out through big glasses. 
 They seemed to see only when they made a special 
 effort and yet they seemed to give out light. 
 
 " You are better ? " she asked and smiled. 
 
 Alan caught his breath at that smile. " Yes," he
 
 HOME 255 
 
 said, " I am much better to-day. I have had a letter 
 from home." 
 
 " You must get up now and come up on deck," said 
 the girl. " I '11 wait for you outside." Her voice had 
 a peculiar modulation. It attracted and soothed the 
 ear. 
 
 Alan frowned and then smiled. " All right," he 
 said, " wait for me." He dressed laboriously. His 
 hands seemed weighted. 
 
 On deck she had his chair ready for him beside her 
 own. She tucked his rug about him and then sat down. 
 " Don't talk ever, unless you want to," she said. " Si- 
 lent people are best." 
 
 "Why?" asked Alan. 
 
 " They are springs. Their souls bubble." 
 
 " And the people that chatter ? " asked Alan. 
 
 " They are geysers," said the girl and smiled. 
 
 Alan was entertained almost amused. " What do 
 you do when a geyser spouts ? " he asked. 
 
 " What do you do ? " replied the girl. " I run." 
 
 " I 'm afraid I have n't run always," said Alan. 
 " I generally try to clap a tin hat on them." 
 
 " You must be strong to do that. I 'm not very 
 strong." 
 
 Alan glanced over her frail body. " What are you ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " I'm a missionary. At least, I was a missionary. 
 I 've had to give it up. One needs so much to be a 
 missionary." 
 
 " I never thought of it that way," said Alan. " I 
 always thought that it was the people that were unfit
 
 256 HOME 
 
 for almost anything else that turned to missionarying 
 as a last resort." 
 
 " Oh, no! " said the girl, sitting up very straight in 
 her chair and fixing her eyes on his face. " How 
 wrong you are! Missionarying, as you call it, is just 
 another name for giving, and how can one give a great 
 deal unless one has a great deal to give strength and 
 youth and vitality ? " 
 
 " And you have given all ? " asked Alan. 
 
 The girl's eyes filled. 
 
 " No, you have n't given all," went on Alan quickly. 
 " You are still giving. I must not borrow your last 
 mite. But your voice is like a nurse's hand." 
 
 When Alan went to bed he could not sleep. For a 
 while the little missionary girl held his thoughts. He 
 was filled with wonder, not at her, but at himself. For 
 once in his life he had not been flippant before grave 
 things. 
 
 From the girl his thoughts turned to Alix. He 
 could have cabled to her about Gerry from Pernambuco 
 but he had not done so. The note that he was carry- 
 ing for Gerry was light only a half sheet probably. 
 The lightness of it told Alan that the things Gerry had 
 to say to his wife could not be put on paper. Alan had 
 almost cabled. Now he was glad he had not done so. 
 " Alix," he said to himself, " is n't waiting, she 's trust- 
 ing. A cable would have lengthened waiting by a 
 month." 
 
 Then, without volition, his mind wandered from Alix 
 and raced ahead to the goal of his journey. What was 
 the goal of his journey ? Whither was he bound ? He
 
 HOME 257 
 
 reached for Clem's letter and held it in folded hands. 
 He had no need to read it again. The words were noth- 
 ing ; the picture was all. It stretched before his mind, 
 a living canvass. 
 
 Once when Alan was wandering with an Englishman 
 in the hills above Granada, a faint odor had brought 
 them to a sudden halt. It was the Englishman who 
 made the surprising discovery first. " Blackberries, by 
 Jove ! " he had exclaimed. " Good old blackberries." 
 And then they two had stood together, yet half a world 
 apart, and stared long at the berry-laden bush. What 
 vision of a tangled, high-walled garden burst upon the 
 Englishman Alan never knew but to himself had come 
 a memory of East Mountain in autumn, so clear, so 
 poignant, that it had brought his throbbing heart into 
 his throat. 
 
 It was so now with Clem's letter. The words were 
 but a hurried daub but they touched his eyes with a 
 magic wand. The daub became a scene, a picture, a 
 world his world. 
 
 Eed Hill was spread out before him, a texture where 
 the threads and colors of life were blended into a car- 
 pet soft but enduring. Men walked and little children 
 played on it. Alan closed his eyes and sighed. What 
 had he been doing with life ? Making sacking ? Sack- 
 ing was commercial. It paid in cash. It was the na- 
 tional industry. But what could one do with sacking 
 on Red Hill ? 
 
 Then, almost suddenly, the full spirit of Clem's let- 
 ter seized him. One did not take gifts to Red Hill. 
 To every one of its children Red Hill was the source of
 
 258 HOME 
 
 all gifts the source of life. On that thought he 
 slept. 
 
 When he was back once more in his rooms, before 
 Swithson had had time to open a bag, Alan redirected 
 Gerry's note to Alix to Eed Hill and sent Swithson out 
 to post it. He did not try to temper the shock of the 
 note with a covering letter. He was too weak and 
 tired. Besides, he felt that the note carried its own 
 antidote to joy.
 
 CHAPTEE XXXV 
 
 THE next morning a message came by hand to 
 Alan's rooms. Alix had come to town and 
 wished to see him at once. Would he please come 
 around? He replied that he was too ill. Half an 
 hour later Swithson answered a ring at the door and 
 Alix slipped quickly past him into Alan's sitting-room. 
 There was a flush of anger in her cheeks but Alan was 
 pleased to see no trace of tears in her eyes. A woman's 
 crying always touched him on the raw and seldom 
 awakened his pity. 
 
 At sight of him Alix forgot her concern for herself. 
 " Why, Alan ! " she cried, " what is the matter ? " 
 
 Alan laughed. There was a pleasant note in his 
 laugh she had never heard before. " I 'm all right, 
 Alix. Don't make any mistake. I 'm a resurrection 
 in the bud. Doing fine. I don't have to ask how you 
 are. You 're well. You 're looking just as well as 
 a little slip like you can ever look. Sit down, do." 
 
 Alix' thoughts went back to herself and immediately 
 the flame burned again in her cheeks. She pulled 
 Gerry's crumpled note from her glove and tossed it 
 open on the table before Alan. He read the two or 
 three lines in which Gerry told her he would arrive 
 shortly. The brief note was intentionally colorless. 
 "Well? "he asked. 
 
 259
 
 260 HOME 
 
 Alix turned flashing eyes on him. " Well ? Is that 
 all you have to say ? Alan, it is not well. I 've come 
 here because you must tell me somebody must tell me 
 now all the things that that note hides behind its 
 wonderfully blank, weazened, little, hypocritical face." 
 
 Alan's eyes gleamed with amusement at the rippling 
 words. Alix was certainly well. Then suddenly she 
 collapsed into a chair. " Three years ! " she gasped. 
 Her hands went up to hold her head and she began to 
 cry in a way Alan had never heard a woman cry before. 
 The gasping sobs racked his nerves. He felt as though 
 the sobs were tearing their way up from his own breast. 
 He gripped the arms of the chair in which he sat. His 
 body telephoned to his brain that he was going to faint 
 and at such astounding news Ten Percent Wayne woke 
 up and took charge. " Alix ! " the word snapped out 
 like the crack of a whip. " You stop crying or I '11 
 slap you, and when I slap I slap hard." 
 
 Alix choked, swallowed and looked at him, outraged 
 and unbelieving. Alan's eyes were blazing. " You 
 listen to me," he commanded, " listen to every word I 
 say. You 've gone through a lot in three years but just 
 fasten your mind on to this : so has Gerry. That note 
 is colorless because Gerry made it colorless. It does n't 
 tell anything, because Gerry is n't a coward and because 
 there are things he must tell you face to face to get 
 your answer clear in his own mind. I 'm making you 
 curious with every word. All right, be curious. But 
 you can be sure of one thing ; if Gerry had wanted me 
 to tell you his story he 'd have asked me to, but he 
 did n't. He did n't even ask me not to. He was stand-
 
 HOME 261 
 
 ing in deep waters but he had his head and shoulders 
 out. He was n't asking for my, or anybody else's hand 
 to help him up the bank. He did n't ask me not to 
 meddle because he knew I was man enough to see where 
 he stood without words. He trusted me." Alan's voice 
 trailed off weakly. He closed his eyes. 
 
 " But, Alan," said Alix, " I must know something. 
 Is he well ? Is he " 
 
 Alan held up his hand. " Just one thing and then 
 I 'm going to sleep. I never thought the old Eock 
 would ever loom so big." 
 
 Alix watched him doze off. She felt strangely com- 
 forted by the crumb he had tossed her. She went back 
 in her mind to a dinner of long ago when she had de- 
 fended Gerry's placid weight against Alan. She sat on 
 for half an. hour busy with varying thoughts. She 
 looked curiously around Alan's sitting-room. How 
 strange that she should be here and yet how natural. 
 How safe she felt. She wondered if it was all because 
 of the defenses she had raised up in herself or whether 
 any woman would feel safe with the new and weakened 
 Alan. She slipped out without waking him and sent 
 a cable to Pernambuco. By night she had an answer. 
 Gerry had not yet sailed ! 
 
 Days passed. She went out only for exercise. Her 
 mind was busy with wondering. The Judge called 
 regularly. He had put off going to Red Hill. He 
 wanted Alix to feel that a friend was at hand and, be- 
 sides, he had Alan on his hands. Alan was worrying 
 him in a new way. Something had gone out of him. 
 Sometimes he seemed to the Judge a mere shell a
 
 262 HOME 
 
 blown egg, robbed of the seed of life. The Judge talked 
 of him often to Alix but she could not fasten her mind 
 on Alan. " Take him to the Hill," was her listless 
 advice. 
 
 " I 've tried," said the Judge, " and he says he 's not 
 ready not strong enough. I told him that 's what he 
 ought to go for to get strong and he said a funny 
 thing. l There 's a kind of strength we must generate 
 or borrow. I did n't borrow, so now I 'm generating. 
 It takes time.' And then he dropped off to sleep. Be- 
 fore, he used to run you through with his tongue when 
 he wanted to stop a conversation. Now he just goes to 
 sleep. It 's just as effective and almost as original." 
 
 One afternoon the Judge came in with a smile on his 
 face. " Alan is better," he announced. 
 
 " Is n't he better every day ? " asked Alix. 
 
 " ~Not like this," said the Judge. " You know 
 Fleureur ? Of course you don't. You would n't. 
 Can't imagine how he ever got into the club, but he did. 
 Well, it 's a long time since Mr. Fleureur has been asked 
 to cut in at bridge at the club or anywhere else. Yester- 
 day he came in and saw Alan for the first time since his 
 return. ' Hallo, Wayne,' he said, ' back again and do- 
 ing the heavy swell as ever only not quite so heavy inside 
 the clothes now, eh ? ' Alan is getting touchy over being 
 a weakling. That 's a good sign too, by the way. He 
 looked sideways out of his sleepy eyes at Fleureur and 
 you bet everybody listened." The Judge paused at thus 
 forgetting himself ; then he went on. " Alan said, ' Do 
 clothes matter such a lot? Somehow it seems to me it 
 does n't make any difference how much a man waxes
 
 HOME 263 
 
 his mustache as long as he does n't wax his finger 
 nails.' " 
 
 Alix' face lit up. "Oh, that is Alan." The 
 Judge's eyes twinkled. "Yes," he said, "and then 
 Alan went off to sleep like a shot and Eleureur remem- 
 bered an engagement. The whole club's cheered up. 
 The club did n't know what was the matter with itself 
 but it knows now. It was missing Alan after he had 
 come back." 
 
 Alan had written to Mrs. J. Y. that he was planning 
 to motor from town to Eed Hill. Clem, as Mrs. J. Y.'s 
 deputy, had answered his letter, promising him a warm, 
 and long welcome at Maple House. She gave him a 
 way-bill. " It 's the simplest way-bill in the world," 
 she wrote, " out of town and along the Sound till you 
 come to The River, then up the valley till the bald top 
 of East Mountain signals you from the left. Climb the 
 mountain and from there the old church will lead you 
 home." 
 
 " The old church will lead you home," Alan repeated 
 to himself as he let his relaxed body lounge across the 
 tonneau and trusted to cushions and springs to take up 
 the bumps. His thoughts raced ahead of him to Red 
 Hill. In memory he plodded over dusty roads and 
 through mossy lanes, swam, fished and loafed, wept and 
 laughed. He was going back to the cradle of all his 
 emotions. 
 
 The wind and the motion of the car made him sleepy. 
 He dozed. He awoke to see East Mountain looming in 
 the distance. Steadily the car drew into its lee. Alan 
 sighted a climbing road and called directions to the
 
 264 HOME 
 
 driver. From the bare top of the mountain he made 
 out the old church, a white speck on a far-away hill. 
 He stood up and traced the course they were to follow. 
 He was filled with a strange excitement. " Never mind 
 the bumps open her up," he ordered and sat down 
 and closed his eyes. 
 
 The car shot down into the valley, rattled across one 
 bridge and then another, sped along the Low Road, over- 
 shot the embowered mouth of Long Lane, protested with 
 the grinding of changing gears, backed, turned, and then 
 lurched forward again and up. Long Lane was as cool 
 as memory and as balmy with the twining odors of birch 
 and sassafras and laurel as childhood's recollection. 
 Alan drew a long, full breath and then the car ran out 
 on to the top of Red Hill, swerved to the right and 
 turned in under the low hanging limbs of the maples. 
 
 It was early afternoon. The old homestead was very 
 still. As the car drew up at the curb a girl rose from a 
 deep chair on the veranda and stepped forward. Alan 
 caught his breath and stared. He felt himself a little 
 boy. Nance, a mere rosebud of a girl, stood before him 
 and smiled at his bewildered face. " You 're Uncle 
 Alan, are n't you ? " The soft voice sustained illusion 
 but the words brought him to himself made him feel 
 suddenly older by a generation. Then he smiled back 
 at her and chaffed, " You have been busy since I saw 
 you last. Have I the honor of presenting myself to 
 Miss Sterling ? " 
 
 " The same," replied the girl, laughing, " and your 
 niece." 
 
 " Come. That 's enough. Don't rub it in. Besides,
 
 H O M E 205 
 
 you're only niece by courtesy. By the family tree 
 we 're cousins." 
 
 " All right. I '11 be a cousin to you if you like it 
 better," remarked Nance, Junior, demurely. 
 
 Alan had sprung out. He caught her hands and 
 kissed her. Her fresh mouth brushed his cheek. 
 
 " Yes, I like it better," he said. " It 's some fun kiss- 
 ing a cousin." 
 
 Nance, Junior, snatched away her hands and dashed 
 into the house. " Mother, Clem, he 's here. Unc 
 Cousin Alan 's come." 
 
 From upstairs came a sullen but feeble roar, as 
 though a bull had bellowed and only echo had come 
 forth. From a hammock under the trees, J. Y. tumbled 
 his stiffening limbs and with a quick shake of his broad 
 shoulders strode across the lawn. There was a patter 
 of women's feet. Clem burst out of the house, caught 
 both of Alan's hands and shook them. Her lips opened 
 but she said nothing. Her eyes and her heart were full 
 of welcome. Alan felt them speaking for her. Then 
 came Mrs. J. Y. and J. Y. and Nance, the mother of 
 four. There arose a babel of hearty greetings but 
 through them all could be heard the rumble of the echo- 
 like bellowing. 
 
 " Ssh ! " said Alan, holding up his hand. " What 's 
 that noise ? " 
 
 Clem laughed. " It 's the Captain," she said. 
 " Listen." 
 
 In the silence the rumbling became vociferation. 
 " Bring him up here. Bring him up here. Bring him 
 up here, dammit."
 
 266 HOME 
 
 " You 'd better go quickly," remarked Nance, Junior. 
 " He 's begun to swear and Mother does n't like us to 
 hear it." 
 
 Alan hurried into the house and up to the Captain's 
 room. The grown-ups followed but stopped below and 
 waited. Nance, Junior, remained to direct the chauf- 
 feur to the barn. 
 
 " Excuse me, miss," said that worthy, " but Mr. 
 Wayne has n't had a bite to eat since seven this morn- 
 ing. You might not think to ask him, you see, so I 
 thought I 'd tell you." 
 
 " I see," replied the young lady and added with 
 ready wit and a smile, " just find the kitchen and tell 
 the cook." 
 
 Alan found the Captain propped on many pillows. 
 His bulging eyes had the same old glare, his close- 
 cropped hair still made an effort, though feeble, to in- 
 surgency, but his corpulence was gone. He had col- 
 lapsed at last and was bedridden after his severe stroke. 
 " Huh ! " was his greeting. 
 
 Alan sat down beside the bed. " How do you do, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Do ? I do all right. It 's the liquor in this 
 country that 's gone off, sir. Corked whisky. That 's 
 all that 's left. I '11 show you, Alan." And he roared, 
 after a preliminary puff, " Two whiskies." 
 
 Mrs. Wayne appeared. " Now, Captain," she said 
 softly. " What 's this. Two at a time ? You 're get- 
 ting better." 
 
 The Captain subsided. " One for Alan," he grunted. 
 
 The drinks came. Alan welcomed his. He was
 
 HOME 267 
 
 tired and faint after the long journey. The Captain 
 gazed on his own glass defiantly but ordered the maid to 
 set it on the table at his side. Alan waited long for 
 him to take it up and then he saw that the Captain had 
 fallen asleep. Alan sipped his drink. The Captain 
 was right, it was flavorless. But Alan remembered that 
 he had thrown away his last cigarette for the same 
 reason. He sighed.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 IN spite of the Judge Alix was feeling very lonely, 
 abandoned, unloved. She sat on the little veranda 
 at the back of the town house and day-dreamed. Across 
 her knee lay the morning paper. A word caught her 
 eye. Elenic. Half unconsciously she read : " Among 
 the arrivals by the Elenic . . . Hon. Percy Col- 
 lingeford." 
 
 Collingef ord ! She started to her feet and then with 
 what seemed a perceptible click her mind repeated, 
 "Elenic." She sat down again. The hand that held 
 the paper was trembling. She sat for a long time look- 
 ing at her hand. The telephone bell rang but she did 
 not hear it. Old John came and stood beside her. 
 
 " Mr. Collingeford telephones to know if you are in 
 town." 
 
 A frightened gleam showed in Alix' eyes. It passed 
 and a flame of color came into her pale cheeks. " Yes," 
 she said, " I am at home. Tell him I will see him at 
 any time to-day." 
 
 Collingeford lost no time. When he arrived Alix 
 was still sitting on the veranda. She received him 
 there. He came upon her with a rush like a fresh 
 breeze. " What luck ! " he cried. " Really in town on 
 a hot summer's day ? Which is it ? Frocks or the 
 
 dentist ? " 
 
 268
 
 HOME 269 
 
 Alix rose and held out her hand. A faint smile came 
 to her face, lingered a moment and passed. " I am 
 glad you have come," she said and then paused. Her 
 eyes wavered. Was she glad he had come ? 
 
 Collingeford caught her mood. " Just what do you 
 mean by that ? " he asked gravely. 
 
 Alix' eyes came back to his face. "I I don't 
 know," she stammered. 
 
 They sat down. Collingeford dropped his hat and 
 stick and leaned forward. A dull color burned in his 
 cheeks. " Alix," he said, " has has anything hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " No," said Alix, " not what you mean. Gerry is 
 alive. He has written. He says he is coming back 
 sometime." 
 
 Collingeford sprang to his feet, his eyes flashing. 
 
 " -Sometime ! Did he really write that ? Some- 
 time ? " 
 
 There was a petulant look about Alix' mouth that be- 
 longed to an Alix of long ago. She tried to shake it 
 off with her mood. " No," she said dully, after a pause. 
 " He did n't write just that but it amounts to the same 
 thing. He wrote but he has not come." 
 
 Collingeford paced up and down the little veranda, 
 his arms crossed and one hand pulling nervously at his 
 mustache. He came to a stop before Alix and stood 
 looking down at her, his eyes eager but questioning. 
 " Well ? " he said. 
 
 Alix made a little gesture of despair with her two 
 hands. "I I don't know," she repeated. Then, 
 quite quietly, she began to cry.
 
 270 HOME 
 
 Collingeford caugLt her hands and drew her to her 
 feet. He put his arms around her. She laid her head 
 against his shoulder and sobbed. Collingeford's heart 
 was beating furiously. His arms trembled. He longed 
 to strain her to him but he only held her firmly and 
 patted her back. Some instinct told him that this was 
 not the moment of possession. 
 
 When Alix could talk he knew that his instinct was 
 true. " Oh," she said, " what a little beast I am ! Un- 
 fair to you, unfair to myself." 
 
 She disengaged herself and sat down. With a tiny 
 square of cambric she dabbed at her eyes. 
 
 " Here," said Collingeford, and held out a big fresh 
 handkerchief. 
 
 Alix took it and used it solemnly. Then its bulk 
 struck a sudden "note of humor. She laughed and Col- 
 lingeford smiled. As she gave back the handkerchief 
 she pressed Collingeford's hand. " I have been a little 
 beast." 
 
 " No" said Collingeford gravely, " you have been un- 
 speakably lovable." 
 
 " It would have been that if I loved you. But I 
 don't. That 's why I Ve been a beast. To make you 
 think" 
 
 Collingeford interrupted her. " You made me think 
 nothing. Somehow I knew. I knew it was just lone- 
 liness running over from a full heart." 
 
 Alix nodded. " How wonderful of you to under- 
 stand," she said. " Lonely. Yes. I Ve been terribly 
 lonely. Never before so lonely." 
 
 "You shall not be lonely any more," said Collinge-
 
 HOME 271 
 
 ford. " Every day I '11 come and talk to you, take you 
 out anything. I 'm yours." 
 
 Alix shook her head from side to side. Her eyes 
 refused him. 
 
 " Alix," cried Collingeford, hurt, " don't you want 
 me even for a friend ? " 
 
 " Don't mistake what I 'm going to say, will you ? " 
 said Alix. 
 
 Collingeford shook his head. 
 
 " Gerry is coming back," went on Alix, " but I 
 don't know what he is bringing back. Perhaps it is 
 something he can't share with me; perhaps it is some- 
 thing I do not want. When you went away I had only 
 faith; now I have only doubt. Such a big doubt. 
 That 's why I said to you, * I don't know.' And while 
 I don't know I will not have you even for a friend." 
 Alix flushed and fixed her eyes on Collingeford's face. 
 " Do you understand ? " 
 
 Collingeford's eyes were glowing. "Yes," he said, 
 " I think I do. You mean that perhaps later on 
 you will send for me." 
 
 " Perhaps only perhaps," whispered Alix. 
 
 Collingeford picked up his hat and stick. He took 
 Alix's hand and held it long. She would not look up. 
 He stooped and kissed her fingers. 
 
 " I shall be waiting," he said.
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII 
 
 THE peripatetic, pathogenic agent of malarial 
 fevers possesses the prime attribute of a bad 
 penny it comes back. Alan had often fatted himself 
 to receive the prodigal and he was not now at a loss 
 to account for the sudden lassitude, the deadened palate 
 and the truant sense of smell that had come upon him. 
 He turned to Mrs. J. Y. " I 'm afraid I '11 have to lie 
 down. I hate to be a nuisance but I Ve got a touch of 
 fever." To the initiated " a touch of fever " means 
 anything from a slight indisposition to a knock-out blow 
 delivered below the belt. It is the sole phrase of con- 
 fession recognized by the malarial cult. Happily for 
 Alan, the expression on this occasion was no euphemism. 
 He was suffering from a touch of fever and nothing 
 more, brought on by too continued exertion. He was 
 shown to his room, his old room with its old-fashioned, 
 many-paned windows, its enormous closet and, under 
 recent coatings of white enamel paint, the many marks 
 with which in boyhood he and his forebears had branded 
 the ancient wood-work. 
 
 A flutter and then a sigh of disappointment went 
 through Maple House at Alan's immediate eclipse. 
 The children foresaw an order for silence or a veto on 
 the afternoon's excursion to the lake. J. Y. became 
 restless and wandered noiselessly about from room to 
 
 272
 
 HOME 273 
 
 room. Clem sat in the great window and dreamed and 
 listened for Alan's bell. She would not go to the lake. 
 The children were solemnly grave and then giggling by 
 fits and starts. 
 
 The Eltons had come back from abroad. Prom Elm 
 House Cousin Frances Elton, commonly known as Tom, 
 ghort for torn-boy, came racing across the lawn waving 
 towel and bathing clothes and in a high treble giving a 
 creditable imitation of an Indian war-whoop. At Tom's 
 cry the children stampeded on to the veranda with sib- 
 ilant cries of, " Sshsh ! " Mrs. J. Y. looked at Nance 
 and Nance smiled resignedly. They put away their 
 work, ordered the wagonette and the colts colts no 
 longer, alas, save in name and departed with a wagon- 
 load of suppressed youth. From Long Lane floated 
 back peals of young laughter, breaking bounds as the 
 overhanging trees hid the Hill from view. 
 
 Clem sat on the vast window-seat and toyed with a 
 book. J. Y. came and dropped down beside her. 
 " Well, Clem, he 's come back." 
 
 Clem nodded. " Are you sure he does n't want any- 
 thing, Uncle John? He hasn't had a thing to eat 
 since seven o'clock this morning." 
 
 Alan's bell tinkled. Clem started to her feet and 
 then sat down again. " You 'd better go." But when 
 J. Y. strode off she followed. 
 
 " Why is the house so quiet ? Is it on account of the 
 Captain ? " asked Alan. 
 
 " Bless you, no. The Captain sleeps for a week at 
 a time. The children have gone over to the lake." 
 
 " I just wanted to tell you that I like their noises
 
 274 HOME 
 
 they 're new. There 's nothing really the matter 
 with me except that I 've got to take things in turn, and 
 lying still and sweating comes first. After that, per- 
 haps to-morrow, I 'm going to eat. The penultimate 
 act on my list is a cigarette and the ultimate is to get 
 up in the old belfry and yell." He turned over and 
 sank his head into the pillows. 
 
 " All right, my boy," said J. Y., smiling. " There 's 
 only Clem and myself here and we '11 go and try to 
 make noises like the children." He came out of the 
 door in time to catch sight of Clem's skirt as it whisked 
 around the corner of the hall. He followed and found 
 her already seated at the piano. Her fingers wandered 
 over the keys and then her soft, full voice broke out in 
 one old song after another. She was happy because 
 she felt that singing she was with Alan. 
 
 Alan stirred in his bed and listened. He determined 
 that to-morrow he must be well. Robbed of this after- 
 noon, he was being robbed of half of life. He cursed 
 the fever and then, as he felt how near Clem's voice 
 brought her to him, he blessed it. 
 
 At night when all the rest of the household had gone 
 to bed, J. Y. softly opened Alan's door and looked in. 
 Alan was awake and nodded. J. Y. came in and pot- 
 tered about the room. He rolled a bit of paper into 
 an ampler shade and further veiled the night lamp. 
 The lines in J. Y.'s rugged face were softened to lines 
 of sweetness. He asked if there were nothing he could 
 do and then turned to leave the room. With his hand 
 on the door, he paused and smiled down on Alan. " My 
 > J ou have been far, far away."
 
 HOME 275 
 
 " Far away," replied Alan drowsily, " but I have 
 come back." 
 
 The bracing air of Red Hill and a long night's sleep 
 enabled Alan to keep his word with himself. He was 
 up and out on the day following his arrival but he still 
 felt delightfully lazy and pitifully weak. Clem took 
 charge of him. First she tried to settle him in a ham- 
 mock with many pillows but Alan shrank from the 
 hammock. They spread rugs instead in a nook under 
 the trees and Alan stretched himself out amid a riot of 
 many colored cushions while Clem sat close by in a low 
 rocking chair and talked and read and talked. 
 
 Talking or reading, Clem was a source of unvarying 
 delight to Alan. Was it possible that one could live 
 twenty years in an old world, rub elbows with life for 
 twenty years, and remain so fresh, so untainted? His 
 own life rose up before him and mocked at him. Was 
 it possible that one could live thirty years in this same 
 world and be so old? He shrugged a shoulder petu- 
 lantly. He would not think he refused to think 
 while he was so weak. 
 
 When Clem talked, it was like a child dreaming aloud : 
 when she was silent, one felt the presence of womanhood, 
 wise with the unconscious accumulations of generations 
 and unabashed. When Clem talked, Alan was at ease 
 but when she was silent, he was moved troubled. A 
 scarred man may play with a child and no harm to 
 either. He can detach himself from his past as from 
 the child and at a safe moral distance turn to watch its 
 unconscious gambols. But with a woman it is different. 
 Womanhood is a force ; its mission to embrace, to sacri-
 
 276 HOME 
 
 fice. It is unreasoning. Like fundamental man it de- 
 mands a god and worships the god that comes to its 
 need. Alan felt this force hovering in Clem's silences 
 and was troubled. 
 
 The subjectivity of a sick man disarms woman; she 
 knows she is safe and abandons her weapons of attack 
 and defense as long as the invalid is taken up with the 
 state of his insides. Clem was unaffected, even tender, 
 with Alan as long as he was weak but as his strength 
 returned to him she withdrew, one by one and gently, 
 the intimate attentions a woman accords to babes and 
 the related helpless. But there was nothing absolute in 
 her withdrawal ; it was more a temptation than a denial, 
 born of woman's innate desire to be pursued. While 
 Alan was merely convalescent it contained a suppressed 
 gaiety, half demure, half mischievous, but when his 
 full strength came back and he failed to pursue, the 
 gaiety arrested itself, turned into a questioning wistful- 
 ness and ended in the secret shame and blushes of the 
 repulsed and undesired. 
 
 Clem saw Alan build a barrier against her, a barrier 
 of little things each insignificant in itself but each lend- 
 ing and borrowing the strength of accumulation. Alan 
 spent hours with the old Captain, walked, rode and 
 talked with J. Y. and the Judge. Between them, J. Y. 
 and the Judge had fixed up Lieber's affair and Alan had 
 cabled. 
 
 In the midst of women Alan seemed to be able to for- 
 get woman to forget her intentionally. There was 
 nothing pointed in his avoidance. He kept his distance 
 from Alix and Nance and Jane Elton in the same
 
 HOME 277 
 
 measure as from Clem. There was thus none of the 
 single avoidance of the shy swain who lavishes attentions 
 on all but her whom he would most dearly sue. Clem, 
 least vain of beautiful women, sat long hours before her 
 glass. Never before had the charms it revealed been 
 questioned, never had she been forced to close in the 
 ranks and call up the reserves and now she felt at a loss, 
 unaccustomed to the ready moves of the coquette. 
 Clem dropped her face in her hands and cried.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVin 
 
 CLEM'S was not the only troubled heart on the 
 Hill. At The Firs Mrs. Lansing moved rest- 
 lessly from room to room and stopped often to read and 
 re-read a crumpled note Gerry's note to Alix. 
 
 Alix was still in town. Mrs. Lansing had written 
 to her and then wired. Alix replied telling her not to 
 come, that she wished to he alone. For hours at a time 
 Mrs. Lansing replaced the nurse at Gerry, Junior's, 
 side. He helped her. She felt that he could help Alix. 
 
 She was almost glad when he developed some trifling 
 ailment becoming to his years. She wired again and 
 this time Alix came, frightened. Alix was like a wilted 
 flower but she braced herself until Gerry, Junior, recov- 
 ered into his healthy self. Then she drooped once more 
 and refused to be comforted. 
 
 If it had not been for Alan, Alix's trouble would 
 have cast a gloom over the rest of Red Hill, but it was 
 known that Alan had sought out Mrs. Lansing and told 
 her that not even he knew just how Gerry's battle stood, 
 but that he did know that there was a battle and that 
 Gerry would surely come back as soon as he had fought 
 his way clear. 
 
 So the Hill in general went almost untroubled on its 
 way trying to forget that it was still awaiting a ful- 
 filment and even Alix began to glean a little comfort 
 
 278
 
 HOME 279 
 
 from the thought that hope was but deferred. Her 
 heart was sick, her faith weak, but hope still lived. 
 She clung through the long days to Gerry, Junior, and 
 waited. 
 
 At Maple House the beating of young hearts 
 amounted to a din but it was suddenly stilled by a day 
 of drenching rain. After the very tame excitement of 
 seeing J. Y. and the Judge off for the city, gloom settled 
 in the faces of the children. Cousin Tom, in rubber 
 boots and coat, came down the road from Elm House 
 to find company for misery. The barn was requisi- 
 tioned and became the scene of a subdued frolic but it 
 afforded meager diversion. The hay was not in yet, 
 the empty lofts were dreary. In the afternoon Mrs. 
 J. Y. was besieged to surrender the house and finally 
 did. Alan had gone to his room and closed the door. 
 The Captain was plunged in invulnerable slumber. 
 
 Somebody rapped at Alan's door and he called, 
 " Come in." The door opened and revealed Nance, 
 Junior. Behind her was a giggling, whispering throng. 
 The spirit of fun danced in Nance's eyes. Her cheeks 
 were flushed and her golden head was in disarray. 
 " Oh, Cousin Alan," she cried, " Grandma 's given us 
 leave for Hide and Seek and we 're all going to play 
 except Mother and Grandma and the Captain. Please 
 come too, Cousin Alan." 
 
 Prom behind her came a modified echo, " Pleath do, 
 Couthin Alan." Alan smiled and laid down his book. 
 " All right," he laughed. 
 
 Maple House was a rambling abode that had grown 
 and spread like the giant maples that sheltered it. In
 
 280 HOME 
 
 what age the Captain had demanded a wing or some by- 
 gone Nance a nursery for her children, was chronicled 
 in the annals of the house itself, to he revealed only to 
 the searching, architectural eye. The key to the ram- 
 bling structure lay in the thick-walled dining-room, the 
 parlor, one bedroom and the kitchen. 
 
 From the nucleus of these four rooms Maple House 
 had grown, imposed and superimposed, until it over- 
 flowed the arbitrary bourne of kitchens and front doors 
 and like some mounded vine rippled off on all sides, in 
 vast living-room, sunny nurseries and a broken fringe 
 of broad verandas. There were nooks that were satis- 
 fied and held back from further encroachment and 
 there were outstanding corners that jutted boldly out 
 over the sloping lawns and threatened a further 
 raid. 
 
 Inside, the paths of daily life ran clearly enough 
 through the maze but on their flanks hung many a 
 somber den for ambush or retreat. Cavernous closets, 
 shadowy corners, lumbered attics, and- half-forgotten 
 interstices of discarded space opened dark gorges to the 
 intrepid, and threatened the nervous and unwary with 
 what they might bring forth. The gods of childhood's 
 games themselves could not have builded a better scene 
 for that most palpitating of sports, Hide and Seek on a 
 rainy day. 
 
 Alan soon entered into the spirit of the game. He 
 found himself recollecting things about Maple House 
 that he had more than half forgotten ; strange by-ways 
 under the roof; a vacant chamber, turned into a trunk 
 room because one by one it had been robbed of its
 
 HOME 281 
 
 windows ; and lastly the Little Attic that had heen, as it 
 were, left behind a wall. 
 
 Through this dreamland of a hundred children flitted 
 the brood of the day, marshaled rather breathlessly by 
 Clem and Alan. Anxious whispers, the scurrying of 
 lightly shod feet, then a sudden silence but for the flute- 
 like counting of some juvenile It, were followed by 
 sudden screams and a wild race for the goal. Maple 
 House had never countenanced the effete and diluted 
 sport of I Spy; it was all for Hide and Seek where 
 you had to hold your man when found or beat him to 
 the goal. 
 
 Great was the excitement when the Littlest It of all 
 caught Cousin Alan by a tackle around the ankle that 
 spoke a volume of promise for the Littlest It's academic 
 career and brought a glow of achievement to his perspir- 
 ing face. Alan was placed at the newel at the foot of the 
 great staircase and duly admonished in treble voices not 
 to look. The treble voices rained excited instructions 
 on him, carried away by youth's confidence in its ability 
 to teach its grandmother how to suck eggs. Alan started 
 to count slowly in sonorous tones. With a last shriek 
 and the patter of many feet the trebles faded away into 
 silence. 
 
 Alan crept stealthily up the stairs. Out of the corner 
 of his eye he caught sight of the twitching jumpers of 
 the Littlest who was too fat to quite fit the retreat he 
 had chosen. But Alan did not quite see until it was too 
 late. The Littlest exploded the vast breath he had been 
 holding in and plunged headlong down the stairs. As 
 he rolled by the newel he stuck out a sturdy arm and
 
 282 HOME 
 
 held fast. He shouted a pean of victory and once more 
 palpitating silence fell on the house. 
 
 Alan wondered if he could find the way to the Little 
 Attic. He hurried along the twisted halls, up a tiny 
 flight of steps, turned, dived through a low, narrow 
 tunnel and threw open the long-forgotten door. It was 
 as though he had suddenly opened a portal on his own 
 childhood. A great pensioned rocking chair held the 
 middle of the floor as within his ken it always had held 
 it. Ancient garments hung from pegs on the walls and 
 from hooks on the rafters. A box or two and more dis- 
 abled furniture littered the floor. The whole was 
 faintly lit up by the light from a little dormer window. 
 Nothing stirred. Alan drew a long breath. He was 
 not disappointed. No one had thought to come here 
 but himself. 
 
 Suddenly a bit of the pendent wardrobe was flung 
 aside and an apparition dashed for the door. Alan 
 sprang in front of it, threw his arms around it, held it 
 tight. It struggled, laughed, ceased to struggle, and 
 looked up as Alan looked down. Clem's face was very 
 near to his. Her body, still throbbing with excitement, 
 was in his arms. Alan felt such a rioting surge in his 
 blood as he had never known before. He wanted to kiss 
 Clem. He felt that he must kiss her, that there was 
 not strength enough left in him to do anything else. 
 Then his eyes met hers and he forgot himself and re- 
 membered Clem. His soul cried, " Sacrilege," and he 
 dropped his arms from about her and stepped back. 
 
 Clem stood before him, dazed. She was in her stock- 
 inged feet. In each hand she held a little slipper. Her
 
 HOME 283 
 
 eyes were big and full of the soft reproach of the 
 mortally wounded. Alan felt ashamed and looked 
 away. He had to break the silence. " Well, you 're 
 caught," he said lamely. 
 
 Clem dropped one slipper, threw up her hand and 
 brushed the disordered hair from her forehead. " Yes, 
 I 'm caught," she said and her lip trembled on the 
 words.
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIX 
 
 O!N"E day in midsummer Alan, to his disgust, was 
 summoned peremptorily by McDale & McDale. 
 Half an hour's consultation was all they required and 
 Alan was pleased to find as he left their offices that he 
 still had plenty of time to catch the early train back to 
 Red Hill. There were only two afternoon trains for 
 that difficult goal. 
 
 As he strolled up the Avenue he was arrested by the 
 sight of a tall figure standing on the curb watching the 
 swirl of the traffic. The figure was dressed in a heavy 
 whipcord suit and a Stetson hat, uncompromisingly 
 domed in the very form in which it had been blocked 
 by the makers. A street gamin yelled, " Hi I fellers, 
 look what 's got away from Buffalo Bill I " Kemp 
 gazed sad-eyed but unmoved over his drooping mus- 
 taches, doubtless mourning the passing of the shooting 
 iron and the consequent unanswerable affronts of a 
 fostered civilization. 
 
 Alan elbowed his way across the stream of pedestrians 
 and clutched him by the arm. Kemp whirled around 
 as if to meet attack but smiled when he saw Alan's 
 faca " I was jest calculatin' on roundin' you up," he 
 drawled. 
 
 " Where did you come from ? Where are you off 
 284
 
 HOME 285 
 
 to ? " cried Alan and without waiting for an answer he 
 hailed a cab, hustled Kemp into it, and ordered it to 
 his club. He forgot his early train. 
 
 In the club lobby Kemp surrendered his hat 
 reluctantly to the ready attendant and followed Alan 
 across soft carpets to a quiet corner where two enormous 
 chairs seemed to be making confidences to each other. 
 One could imagine them aggrieved at being interrupted 
 and sat upon. 
 
 " Well, Kemp," said Alan, " I 'm glad to see you. 
 What 's yours ? " 
 
 " Rye 'nd a chaser," said Kemp. 
 
 " Same for me, waiter," ordered Alan. " Now, 
 Kemp, tell me all about it." 
 
 " I jest blowed in from Lieber's, Mr. Wayne, and 
 I 'm headed West." 
 
 " How 's Lieber and where 's Gerry ? Did Lieber 
 get my cable ? " 
 
 Kemp looked sadly out through the window. 
 " Lieber 's dead." 
 
 "Dead? Lieber dead?" 
 
 Kemp nodded. " I found him with everything fixed 
 for kickin' the bucket. He knew what was the matter 
 but he did n't tell me what it was. Said it had been 
 comin' on him for some while an' thet the' wa'n't no 
 he'p for it. But he got your cable, Mr. Wayne, and he 
 wanted I should tell you that what you done wa'n't 
 wasted. He said there wa'n't nothin' thet could he'p 
 him through the way that cable did. He said it was the 
 passpo't he 'd been waitin' for an' thet you wa'n't to 
 think it come too late because he reckoned he was
 
 286 HOME 
 
 goin' to use it. Said it kinder cleared his trail for 
 him. Them was all the things he said I should tell 
 
 you." 
 
 Kemp stopped talking and downed his drink. Alan 
 sat silent and thoughtful. Lieber was gone and made 
 a gap in his life that he never knew had been filled. He 
 wanted to know more. He turned to Kemp. " Well ? " 
 
 " You remember the joa tree at Lieber's, Mr. Wayne ? 
 One o' the lonesomest trees on earth, I reckon, except 
 when the Booganviller comes out an' then it 's a happy 
 mountain o' red pu'ple that kind o' lights up the hull 
 desert." 
 
 Alan nodded. 
 
 " Well, then, you remember the big boulder of gray- 
 wacke under the tree. That 's Lieber's headstone. He 
 had a mason up from the coast and he made us carry 
 him out under the tree to watch the man work. He 
 give him a model cut into a boa'd to copy f m. I 'm 
 some reader but them words beat me every time. I 
 corralled 'em on a bit o' paper though, an' here they 
 be." 
 
 Kemp drew a slip of paper from the same old wallet 
 that housed " The Purple City." He handed it to Alan. 
 " Wish you 'd put me on," he said. " All I know is it 
 ain't American an' it ain't Mex." 
 
 The words on the slip looked as if they had been 
 printed by a child with painstaking care. Alan stared 
 as he saw them. " Qui de nous n'a pas eu sa terre 
 promise, son jour d'extase, et sa fin en exil?" he read 
 slowly to himself and then, with his eyes far away, 
 translated for Kemp, " ' Who of us has not had his
 
 HOME 287 
 
 promised land, his day of ecstasy, and his end in 
 exile ? > " 
 
 Kemp nodded and held out his hand for the slip of 
 paper. He put it back in his wallet and said, " I sup- 
 pose the feller thet wrote that was thinkin' mostly of a 
 man's mind but when it comes to facts them words don't 
 fit Lieber. He got more exile than was comin' to him ; 
 it et up the ecstasy an' most of the promised land. But 
 I don' know. They 's lots of folks that needs to worry 
 more'n Lieber over crossin' the divide." 
 
 They sat thoughtful for some time and then Alan 
 remembered Red Hill. "Where are you staying, 
 Kemp ? " 
 
 " Astor House." 
 
 Alan looked at his watch. " Come on," he said. 
 " We 've got to hustle. We 've just got time to rush 
 down and get your bag." 
 
 " What for ? " drawled Kemp. 
 
 " I was bound for our place out in the country when 
 I found you. We Ve got just forty minutes to catch 
 the train. You 're coming with me." 
 
 A wary look came into Kemp's eyes. " Your folks 
 out there, Mr. Wayne ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes," said Alan and then added, " Kemp, do you 
 take me for a man that would steer you up against a 
 game you don't hold cards in ? " 
 
 " No," said Kemp, " I don't," and then found himself 
 hatted and hurried into a taxi before he could further 
 protest. 
 
 If Alan had any qualms about introducing Kemp to 
 Red Hill they were soon allayed. Kemp was duly pre-
 
 288 HOME 
 
 sented on the lawn at Maple House. To everything in 
 petticoats he took off his hat and said " ma'am " but be- 
 fore the men he stood hatted and vouchsafed a short 
 " Howdy ! " accompanied by a handshake where it was 
 invited. 
 
 Strange to Kemp must have seemed the group of 
 which he found himself the center. At a tea-table 
 under the biggest maple sat Mrs. J. Y. She called 
 Kemp and motioned to a chair beside her. Kemp let 
 his lanky frame down slowly on the fragile structure, 
 took off his domed hat and laid it on the grass at his 
 side. For an instant Mrs. J. Y. fixed her soft, myopic 
 gaze on him and then looked away. Clem brought him 
 a cup of tea and a biscuit. Kemp held the cup and 
 saucer in the hollow of his hand and looked dubiously 
 at their contents. " Would you like something else, 
 Mr. Kemp ? " asked Mrs. J. Y. softly. " Some other 
 drink, I mean ? " 
 
 Kemp's quick eye roved over the group. He saw that 
 nobody was taking anything but tea and at the same 
 time he noted gratefully that nobody was watching 
 him. The Judge and J. Y. were talking to each other. 
 Nance, Junior, and Cousin Tom were kneeling before 
 Gerry, Junior, stolen for a short hour from Alix. That 
 dwarf Moloch, arrayed in starchy white that stuck out 
 like a ballet skirt above his sturdy fat legs, was gravely 
 devouring a sacrifice of cake. Charlie Sterling lay full 
 length on the ground while his brood, with shrill cries 
 at his frequent eruptions, buried and reburied him with 
 sofa pillows. Nance, Alan and Clem sipped tea and 
 cheered on the children's efforts.
 
 HOME 289 
 
 Kemp turned a twinkling eye on Mrs. J. Y. " I 
 ain't sayin', ma'am, thet this mixture is my usual 
 bev'rage but a man don't expect to have his usual handed 
 down f 'm a pulpit and likewise I see no call for folks 
 turnin' their front lawns into a bar." 
 
 Kemp could feel a scene; his strange nature was 
 moved at finding itself rubbing elbows with such a group 
 and when Kemp was moved he always talked to hide 
 his emotion. Mrs. J. Y.'s kindly eyes led him on, made 
 him feel weirdly akin to these quiet, contented men and 
 women and clean-frocked, rosy-cheeked children frolick- 
 ing against the peaceful setting of shady trees, old lawns 
 and the rambling house that staidly watched them like 
 some motherly hen, wings out-spread, ever ready to 
 brood and shelter. 
 
 Kemp's eyes left Mrs. J. Y.'s face and swept over 
 the scene again. " Speakin' of bars," he went on in his 
 soft drawl, " I don't think a missus ever has no call 
 to handle drinks over an' above what goes in 'nd out of 
 a milk-pail, which is n't drink in a manner o' speakin'. 
 I can't rightly rec'llect that I ever seen a missus leanin' 
 over either side of a bar in this country but I 've strayed 
 some from the home fence an' you may be su'prised, 
 Mis' Wayne, to know thet they 's lands where no one 
 ain't never heered tell on a barman an' where barmaids 
 is some commoner'n the milkin' brand." 
 
 " Yes ? " said Mrs. J. Y. encouragingly. 
 
 " Sho' thing," replied Kemp ; " I seen 'em. I won't 
 forget the fust time because I was consid'able embar- 
 rassed. ! missed a steamer in Noo Yawk an' the firm 
 was in a hurry so they sent me acrost to S'uthampton
 
 290 HOME 
 
 an' while I was waitin' for the Brazil boat a feller I 'd 
 picked up on boa'd showed me around some. Well, it 
 wa'n't long before he corralled me, quite willing in a 
 bar. I pulled off my hat and he says, ' Why d'you take 
 off yo' hat?' and I says, 'Why don't you take off 
 yourn ? Don't you see they 's a lady hea' ? ' Then he 
 bust out laughin' and everybody that was nea' enough 
 to hea' bust out laughin' an' the missus behind the bar 
 laughed too though somehow it did n't sound as if she 
 laughed because she could n't he'p it." 
 
 Kemp paused to blush over the memory. He did not 
 notice that the Judge and J. Y. had drawn quietly 
 nearer and that the rest of the group of grown-ups were 
 intent on his words. " They 's times," he continued, 
 " when it 's fittin' that a man should be without shootin' 
 irons an' that was one of 'em. I can't rightly say what 
 would have happened but guessin's easy. When he was 
 through laughin' the feller that was showin' me around 
 slapped me on the back and sez, ' That ain't no lady ; 
 it's a barmaid.' An' then they all laughed some mo' 
 and the missus just kind o' laughed an' I mought 'a' 
 been dreamin' but I thought I seen a look in her eyes 
 thet says she was n't laughin' inside at all. Ever sence 
 then I 've been of opinion that a missus has no call to 
 handle drinks an' I ce'tainly hope I '11 never see one 
 a-doin' of it under the home fence." 
 
 Kemp stayed at Maple House for a week. Before he 
 left he was known throughout the country side. His 
 lanky figure, drooping mustaches, domed hat and the 
 way he held out the reins in front of him when he rode 
 marked him from the start and when the youth of the
 
 HOME 291 
 
 surrounding farms learned that he was a genuine cow- 
 boy that had ridden everything with four legs, they 
 worshiped from afar and gloried in casual approaches. 
 
 Just before he went away Kemp took it upon himself 
 to call on Alix. Alan led him to where she sat on the 
 lawn among the trees at The Firs and left him. Alix 
 looked up in wonder at his tall, lank form. Kemp held 
 his hat in his hands and twisted it nervously. 
 
 " Mis' Lansing," he said, " I want you should let me 
 say a few words to ye. I seen Mister Lansing 'bout 
 five weeks ago." 
 
 Alix sprang to her feet, her pale cheeks aflame. 
 " Yes ? " she said. " When when is he coming ? " 
 She sank down again and buried her face in her hands. 
 The shame of putting that question to a stranger over- 
 whelmed her. 
 
 Kemp sat down near her. " Sho, Mis' Lansing," he 
 said, " don' you take it hard that you 're getting word of 
 Mr. Lansing through me. Him an' me an' Lieber 's 
 ben 'most pardners." 
 
 Tenderness had crept into Kemp's drawl. Alix 
 looked up. " Please," she said, " tell me all about him 
 all about these years." 
 
 Kemp hesitated before he spoke. " I ain't got the 
 words ner the right to tell you all about them three 
 years, Mis' Lansing, an' I can't tell you all about Mr. 
 Lansing 'cause the biggest part o' some men don' meet 
 the eye it 's inside on 'em. Thet 's the way it is with 
 Mr. Lansing. I c'n tell you, though, thet Mr. Lansing 
 is well an' strong strong enough to swing a steer by 
 the tail.
 
 HOME 
 
 " That 's what I know. Now I '11 tell ye some o' 
 my thoughts. Mr. Lansing wan't horn to he a maverick. 
 Eight now, I 'm willin' to wager, he 's headed fer home 
 and the corral hut he ain't comin' on the run he 's 
 hrowsin' and chewin' his cud. 
 
 " When I seen him five weeks ago I thought on hog- 
 tyin' him an' bringin' him along, 'cause Mr. Wayne had 
 tol' me about you an' the two-year-old. But it come to 
 me that a woman of sperit one of ourn would n't 
 want her man should be brougJit in. She 'd sooner he 'd 
 hog-tie hisseff." 
 
 Alix' head hung in thought. Her hands were 
 clasped in her lap. As Kemp's last words sank in, the 
 first smile of many days came to her lips. 
 
 Kemp rose and said good-by. With his hat pulled 
 well over his brows and his hands in his pockets, he 
 slouched toward the gate. 
 
 Alix jumped up and followed him. She laid her 
 thin, light hand on his arm. " Thank you," she said, 
 a little breathlessly. Kemp's deep-set eyes twinkled 
 down on her. He held out his big, rough hand and 
 Alix gripped it. 
 
 " Not good-by," she said.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MAPLE HOUSE was riding the crest of a happy 
 wave. In a body it advanced on the lake to pic- 
 nic and supper by moonlight and in a body it returned ; 
 the little ones excited and wakeful, the grown-ups tired 
 and reminiscent. Days followed that were filled with 
 laziness and nights that rang with song. The cup of 
 life was filled to the brim with little things. Sudden 
 peals of unreasoning laughter, shrieks of children at 
 play, a rumble of the piano followed by a rollicking 
 college song, ready smiles on happy faces, broke like 
 commas into the page of life, and turned monotony into 
 living phrases. But beneath the gaiety ran the inevi- 
 table undertone. When joy paused to take breath it 
 found Alan half aloof and Clem wistful behind her un- 
 varying sweetness. 
 
 One evening Alan found himself alone with Nance. 
 She had frankly cornered him, then as openly led him 
 off down the road towards Elm House. 
 
 " Alan," she said, " you Ve turned into a great fool 
 or a great coward. Which is it ? " 
 
 Alan glanced at her. " What do you mean ? " he 
 stammered. 
 
 " You know what I mean. Clem. You 're breaking 
 
 her heart." 
 
 293
 
 294 HOME 
 
 She felt Alan's arm stiffen. For a moment he was 
 silent, then he said : " Don't worry, Nance. You 're 
 wrong, of course, but any way, no harm is going to 
 come to Clem through me. I 'm going away. I 've 
 meant to go for ever so long but somehow I could n't. 
 Something seemed to hold me. I tried to think it was 
 just the Hill and that it would be all right for me to 
 stay on until the general break-up. But you have 
 wakened me up and the proof that I 'm not quite a 
 coward yet is that I 'm going to get up and run." 
 
 They came to the entrance to The Elms but ISTance 
 led him on down the road. " Run ? Why are you go- 
 ing to run ? Alan, don't you love her ? " 
 
 A tremor went through Alan's body. " I don't 
 know," he said, " whether I love her or not. If I ever 
 loved any one before, then I don't love her, for the thing 
 that has come over me is new newer than anything 
 that has ever happened to me. I would rather see her 
 come down from her room in the morning than to have 
 watched the birth of Aphrodite and yet I would rather 
 see myself damned, once and for all, than touch the 
 hem of her frock." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because it is not for me. Once Alix called her 
 glorious. I don't know whether that was a bit of hyper- 
 bole on her part or not but to me she is just that. There 
 is a glory about Clem the glory of pure light. Do 
 you think I dare to walk into it ? Me, with my scarred 
 life, my blemished soul and the moral rags that only 
 half hide the two ? That would be cowardly. I 'm 
 not coward enough for that."
 
 HOME 295 
 
 Nance sighed. " I 'm disappointed in you. I 
 thought that if ever man lived that knew a little about 
 women it must be you. I won't say any of the things 
 I was going to say. Instead, I just tell you that you 
 don't know women." 
 
 They walked back in silence. Nance went into the 
 house but Alan said good-night and started thought- 
 fully down the road. His step quickened and walking 
 rapidly, he passed over the moonlit brow of the hill and 
 down, down into the shadows of the valley. Hard is 
 the battle that has to be won twice but when in the 
 s.mall hours of the morning Alan returned and crept 
 noiselessly to his room he felt that he had won, that he 
 had put the final seal on the renunciation Nance's words 
 had well-nigh recalled. Still wakeful, Alan started 
 packing. He left out his riding kit. 
 
 That day awoke to clouds that lowered and hung 
 about waiting for the fateful hour of seven when they 
 might with due respect to atmospheric tradition start 
 in with an all day rain, but long before the hour struck 
 Alan had foraged for a biscuit and a glass of milk and 
 was mounted and away for a last ride. 
 
 Alan rode with the ease of one born to the saddle. 
 There was nothing of the cowboy in his get-up. He 
 used a mere patch of a hunting saddle, fitted like a glove 
 to his horse's back, and rode on the snaffle with a light 
 hand. The curb rein, that last refuge of a poor horse- 
 man, hung loose and forgotten. Alan himself was 
 dressed in well-worn whipcord breeches, short coat, soft 
 hat, and close-fitting boots adorned with rowelless spurs. 
 Tor his health Eed Hill had done wonders. His body
 
 296 HOME 
 
 was trim, supple, and as vibrant as the young horse 
 under it. 
 
 But Alan's thoughts were far from saddles and saddle 
 gear as he walked the restive animal down the dipping 
 slope of Long Lane and with his riding crop steadily 
 discouraged the early morning flies, intent on settling 
 down to the business of life on his mount's arched neck 
 and quivering quarters. He was thinking of Clem. 
 Where could he go to get away from Clem? Not to- 
 morrow, not sometime, but to-day. Where could he go 
 to-day ? Once the world had seemed to him a fenceless 
 pasture where it was good to wander, where every un- 
 discovered glade promised fresh morsels to an unwearied 
 palate but now in his mind the whole world had shrunk 
 to the proportions of Red Hill. Where Clem was, there 
 was the whole world. Already he felt the yearning 
 with which his heart must henceforth turn to its sole 
 desire. 
 
 He crossed the valley and, as his horse breasted the 
 opposing hill, he thought he heard an echoing hoofbeat 
 behind him. He turned and with one hand resting on 
 the horse's quarter gazed back through the gray light 
 but Long Lane was veiled from view by overhanging 
 trees. As he lifted his hand, its impress, clearly de- 
 fined as an image, caught his eye. How strange. He 
 had ridden a thousand times and he had never noted 
 such a thing before. It was simple when reduced to 
 physical terms. The horse was warm and moist, the 
 hair cool and dry. His hand pressed the hair down 
 into the moisture. But when he had reasoned out the 
 why and wherefore and ticketed the phenomenon, the
 
 HOME 297 
 
 impress still stared back at him. To his mood it seemed 
 an emblem of isolation, a thing cut off, discarded, use- 
 less. With a smile of rebuke at his fancies he touched 
 the horse with his crop and gave him his head. The 
 horse sprang forward, cleared the top of the hill and 
 the rhythmic clatter of his hoofs as he dashed along 
 the pebble-strewn road seemed to cleave the still morn- 
 ing in two.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 ALAN did not draw rein until he reached the top of 
 the bluff dividing the valley from West Lake. 
 Then for a moment he sat and stared down the long 
 slope. There was a smell of moisture in the air. The 
 valley, the whole world, was expecting, waiting for rain, 
 and even as he stared the rain came in a fine, veil-like 
 mist that steadied the tones of earth and sky to one even 
 shade of endless gray. Out of the gray came the click 
 of iron on pebble. Alan recognized the quick, springy 
 tread of a climbing horse. He turned and faced Clem. 
 He felt the slow color rising in his cheeks and his hands 
 trembled. 
 
 They did not smile at each other; they even forgot 
 to say good-morning. Alan licked his thin lips. They 
 were as dry as ever they had been with fever. 
 " Where 's your hat ? " he asked. 
 
 A flicker of amusement showed in Clem's eyes. She 
 was quite calm and she could see that Alan was not, 
 that he was biting his tongue at the feeble words he had 
 saddled on a heavy moment. " Hats are for sunny 
 days," she said. " I like rain on my head. Have you 
 anything special to do ? Don't let me bother you." 
 
 " No," stammered Alan, " nothing that can't be put 
 off." 
 
 298
 
 HOME 299 
 
 " Do you remember," Clem went on, " years ago I 
 asked you to take me for a ride, and you said not then 
 but sometime ? I 've never had my ride with you. I 
 want it now." 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on his and held him. " I am 
 ready," he said through dry lips. 
 
 She turned her horse and he followed. They rode in 
 silence at a walk and then at a trot. Clem turned into 
 a wood-road. Her horse broke into a gallop. She 
 flicked him with her whip and his gathered limbs sud- 
 denly stretched out for a free run. The going was soft. 
 Alan had fallen behind. Clots of mossy loam struck 
 him in the face. Swaying branches showered drops of 
 water on him. He lost his hat. Then his lips tight- 
 ened, his eyes flashed and he began to ride. He was 
 himself again. 
 
 He urged his horse forward but he could not get on 
 even terms ; Clem held the middle of the narrow track. 
 Suddenly they burst into the broad Low Eoad. With a 
 terrific clatter of flying stones and slipping, scrambling 
 hoofs they made the turn. Alan rode at last on Clem's 
 quarter. " Clem," he cried, " stop ! It is n't fair to 
 the horses." 
 
 But Clem only laughed. Her slim body swayed to 
 the bends of the road; her shoulders were braced; she 
 leaned slightly back, steadying her horse with a taut 
 rein. Alan tried to draw even but every time he urged 
 his horse into a spurt Clem's spurted too. Alan grew 
 angry. He watched Clem's whip but it never moved. 
 He settled into the saddle and rode blindly. His horse 
 must catch up or he would kill him. He was gaining.
 
 300 HOME 
 
 A moment more at the same pace and he could reach 
 Clem's reins below her horse's neck. Then Clem 
 swerved again into a half hidden wood-road and Alan's 
 horse plunged through the brush, broke out, and fol- 
 lowed, a poor second. 
 
 Alan's face and hands were badly scratched but he 
 rode on doggedly. It never occurred to him to give up 
 the chase. In the end he would catch up ; he knew that, 
 but what puzzled him was what he should do to Clem 
 when he caught her. Any one else, man or woman, he 
 would give a taste of their own riding whip for their 
 own good but not Clem. Alan suddenly knew that there 
 was something in Clem that a man could not break. 
 
 The wood-road made a gradual ascent that the willing 
 horses took at a steady, hard gallop. They left the 
 tree-line of the valley below them, scurried across an 
 ancient clearing, pushed through brush and branches, 
 and burst out on to the long, bald back of East Mountain. 
 Then came another clear run over crisp sod dangerously 
 interspersed with wet, slippery stones and hindering 
 boulders. 
 
 At the highest point in all the country-side Clem 
 suddenly drew rein and slipped from her horse before 
 Alan could reach her. She stood with one arm across 
 the saddle-horn and waited for him. 
 
 Alan threw himself from his horse and rushed up to 
 her. His hands were itching to grip her shoulders and 
 shake her but he held them at his side. " What did you 
 do it for ? " he asked with blazing eyes. 
 
 Clem looked him over coolly. " Ever run after any 
 one before, Alan ? "
 
 HOME 301 
 
 " What ? " stuttered Alan. He felt foundations slip- 
 ping from under him. Here was a person who could 
 look Ten Percent Wayne at his best in the eye and 
 never turn a mental hair. 
 
 " How do you like it ? " continued Clem in an even, 
 firm voice. Then she turned her square back to the 
 saddle and faced him fairly. " I '11 tell you what I did 
 it for. All my life I 've been running after you. Last 
 night I heard you packing. I knew what you were do- 
 ing you were getting ready to go away. Before you 
 went I wanted you to run after me just once. A 
 sort of consolation prize to pride." 
 
 Alan's face hardened. " Stop, Clem. You can't 
 talk like that to me and you can't talk like that to your- 
 self." He looked at Clem and the blood surged into 
 his neck and face. At that moment Clem was beautiful 
 to him beyond the wildest dreams of fair women. She 
 was dressed in a close-fitting long coat that buttoned 
 down the front. Her riding skirt, of the same dark 
 stuff, she had hitched up at one side to a silver hook. 
 From under the raised skirt peeped a straight riding 
 boot and on the heel of the boot was a tiny, right-an- 
 gle spur. Alan's quick eyes hung on that spur; it ex- 
 plained the lead Clem had held through the headlong 
 ride. 
 
 Clem's right arm was still hooked over the double 
 horn of her saddle and her left hand holding a slim 
 riding whip hung at her side. To the velvet lapels of 
 her coat clung little drops of rain. Her hair was 
 braided and firmly tied in a double fold at the back of 
 her neck, but short strands had escaped from durance
 
 302 HOME 
 
 and played about her head. Her head, like the velvet 
 lapels, was dusted with little silvery drops of water and 
 little drops of water perched on her long, up-turned 
 lashes. Her cheeks were flushed, her bosom agitated, 
 her lips tremulous. Only her eyes were steady. 
 
 Alan took off his coat and threw it over a rock, 
 " Will you please sit down ? I must talk to you." 
 
 Clem strode to another rock and sat down. " You 
 are absurd. Your coat is as wet as the stones. Put it 
 on." Alan hesitated. " Put your coat on." 
 
 Alan obeyed ; then he sat down before her but turned 
 his eyes away and gazed rather vacantly over the whole 
 wet world. " If ever two people have known each 
 other without words, Clem, it 's you and me. Never 
 mind the grammar. Even unshackled words are a 
 dribbling outlet for a full heart and my heart 's as full 
 to-day with things I Ve never said to you as the clouds 
 are with rain. 
 
 " Nature, taken by and large, is a funny outfit and 
 the funniest things in it are the ones that make you want 
 to cry. The world sees a good man, clean and straight, 
 married to a faithless woman and laughs. Men see a 
 pure girl give her all to a cad and they say, i It 's al- 
 ways the rotters that get the pick,' and they laugh too. 
 But down in the bottom of our hearts we know that 
 these things are things for tears." 
 
 " Yes, Alan," said Clem as he paused. She was no 
 longer imperious, only attentive with chin in hands and 
 elbows on knees. 
 
 "You know me," went on Alan, "but there are 
 things about me that you do not know things below
 
 HOME 303 
 
 you that you have no understanding for, thank God. 
 I don't even know how to picture them to you." 
 
 " Yes, Alan," said Clem softly. 
 
 Alan picked a bit of huckleberry bush and twisted 
 it nervously in his hands. " First of all I 've got to 
 tell you what I thought you knew, that what there is of 
 me is yours over and over again and then I 've got to 
 tell you why you can't have it." A light came into 
 Clem's eyes, trembled, flickered and then settled to a 
 steady flame. 
 
 " You 've seen people smile every one has a smile 
 of sorts," went on Alan. " Did you ever think that a 
 smile had body and soul ? To me it has. It starts out 
 in life like a virgin with a body to keep pure and a 
 soul to guard unstained. There are smiles that illu- 
 mine a face, that shine with essential purity, that glorify. 
 Nobody has to tell you that they have never pandered 
 to a ribald jest or added cruelty to denial. They are 
 live smiles and they are rare among women and rarer 
 among men. For one such you '11 find a thousand liv- 
 ing faces with dead smiles smiles that have scattered 
 their essence like rain on the just and the unjust, that 
 have rolled in filth and wasted their substance on the 
 second best. You'll find them flickering out in the 
 faces of young men and at the last gasp in the faces 
 of lost women whose eyes hold the shadows of unfor- 
 gotten sins." 
 
 "Well?" said Clem. 
 
 Alan sighed. " Between the lines of my words you 
 must read for yourself. My smile is dead I killed 
 it long ago. Yours is alive alive. You have kept it
 
 304 HOME 
 
 pure, guarded its flame and you shall hold it high like 
 a beacon. You are ready to give all and you have all 
 to give. I have nothing but the empty shell. I have 
 kept nothing. I have gained the whole world and 
 lost it. The little strength left to the pinions of my 
 soul could carry me up to clutch your beacon and drag 
 it down, but Clem dearest of all women I love 
 you too much for that. You 've got to trust me. The 
 things I know that you do not know shove the duty of 
 denial on to my shoulders. I could give you an empty 
 shell but I won't." 
 
 Alan had not looked at Clem. He had talked like 
 one rehearsing a lesson, with his eyes far away in the 
 gray world. He dropped the bit of bush, and his hands, 
 locked about his knees, gripped each other till the 
 knuckles and fingers showed white against the tan of his 
 thin wrists. When he stopped speaking Clem turned 
 curious eyes upon him. " Is that all ? " she asked. 
 
 Alan sprang up and faced her. " All ? All ? " he 
 cried. " Is n't it enough ? " 
 
 Clem rose to her feet. In her uplifted right hand 
 she held her agate-headed riding whip. Alan's eyes 
 fastened on it as she meant them to do. Then with a 
 full, free swing she flung it from her. The whip, 
 weighted by the agate head, described a long curve 
 through the air and plunged into the brush far down 
 the mountain side. " That," said Clem, her eyes flash- 
 ing into his, " for the beacon. I kept it for you. It 
 was too good for you; you would not take it, so there 
 it goes." Her lip trembled and she snapped her fin- 
 gers. " It is not worth that to me,"
 
 HOME 305 
 
 " Clem ! " cried Alan, protesting. 
 
 " Don't speak," said Clem ; " you have said what you 
 had to say. Now listen to me. You are blind, Alan, 
 or worse than that, asleep. I 'm not a thin-legged elf 
 with skirts bobbing above my knees any more. You 
 can't make me swallow my protests to-day with, Clem, 
 you must n't this and you must n't that. There 's one 
 thing you Ve closed your eyes on long enough. I 'm 
 a woman, Alan, bone, spirit and a great deal of flesh. 
 I love you and you say you love me." 
 
 Alan started forward but Clem held him off with a 
 gesture. " What do you think I love in you ? The 
 things you have spent? The things you have thrown 
 away? Has a woman ever fallen in love with a man 
 because he was perfect ? " Clem made a desponding 
 gesture with both hands as though she sought words 
 that would not come. " Some men clap a wife on to 
 themselves," she went on, " as you clap a lid on to a 
 hot fire. If the fire grows cold quick enough the lid 
 cracks. Some just let the fire burn out and take 
 the dross with it. A woman knows that there is always 
 something left in the man she loves. And even if she 
 did not know it, it would be the same. She would 
 rather give all for nothing than never give at all." 
 
 Clem's voice fell into a lower key. "The things 
 you know that I do not know ! What a child you are 
 among men. A half-witted woman is born with more 
 knowledge than the wisest of you ever attains and the 
 first thing she learns is that life laughs at knowledge." 
 
 Clem stopped speaking and her eyes that had wan- 
 dered came back to Alan's face. She drew a quiver-
 
 306 HOME 
 
 ing breath. Her face had been pale but now the sud- 
 den color surged up over her throat and into her cheeks. 
 She put up her hands to her forehead. " Oh," she 
 gasped, " you have driven me too far. I am a mean 
 thing in my own eyes as I am in yours." 
 
 At first Alan had stood stunned by the words in 
 which she had poured out her overburdened heart but 
 as she went on pitilessly laying bare her subjection a 
 flame lit up his eyes and fired his blood. Xow he 
 sprang forward and dragged her hands from her face. 
 " Mean, Clem ? Mean in my eyes ? " Then his tongue 
 failed him. He sank to the wet grass at her feet, 
 took her knees in his arms and hid his hot face in 
 her skirt. " My God, my God," he cried. " / am 
 mean but what there is of me has knelt to you by night 
 and worshiped you by day. When you were little you 
 were in my heart and you have grown up in it. When 
 you were little there was room there for other things 
 but now that you have grown up you have filled it 
 all of it every nook and cranny." 
 
 A tremor went through Clem's body. She rested the 
 fingers of one hand on Alan's head and tried to turn 
 up his face. But he held it close to her knees. " If 
 you want me, Clem, if you want me, then there must be 
 things left things I have never could never give 
 to any one else. But I am ashamed to pour them into 
 your lap I must pour them at your feet." 
 
 " No," said Clem gravely, " I do not want you to 
 pour things at my feet. It 's got to be eye to eye or 
 nothing, and if there 's any man left in " 
 
 " Clem," broke in Alan, " there is enough man left
 
 HOME 307 
 
 in me if you '11 only give me time. Time to groom 
 him. You can understand that, Clem? You know 
 what grooming and a clean stable will do for a shaggy 
 horse ? " 
 
 Clem nodded. " How much time do you want ? " 
 
 Alan hesitated. " A year," he said. " I '11 make 
 a year do it." 
 
 " You can have six months," replied Clem and ad- 
 ded with a smile, " That 's ten per cent under office 
 estimates." 
 
 Then forgetful of hours and meals and the little 
 things in life that do not count when human souls 
 mount to the banquet of the gods, they sat side by side 
 and hand in hand on a big rock and stared with unsee- 
 ing eyes at the gray world. "With you beside me," 
 said Alan, " all skies are blue and filled with the light 
 of a single, steady star." 
 
 Clem did not answer, but in her eyes content and 
 knowledge, tenderness and strength, pleasure and pain 
 played with each other like the lights and dappled 
 shadows under a swaying bough.
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 WHEN Clem and Alan reached home long after 
 the lunch hour, they found the Hill athrill 
 with news. Alix had received a cable and had left at 
 once for town. She had gone alone. That could mean 
 but one thing Gerry was at last coming back. 
 
 It was from Barbados that Gerry had cabled. Ever 
 since he had written his short note to Alix, through 
 long doubting weeks at Piranhas and longer days of 
 questioning and hesitation on board the slow freighter 
 that was bearing him home, Gerry had been fighting 
 himself. Only Lieber's sudden death and his burial, 
 to which Gerry had ridden post-haste, had come in be- 
 tween as a solemn truce. 
 
 On the freighter he had had time enough and to 
 spare to think. He had spent hours going over the 
 same ground time and time again. Eor days he sat 
 in his chair on the short bridge-deck, staring out to sea, 
 making over and over the circle of his life from the 
 time he had left home. He remembered sitting thus 
 on the way out. He remembered the turmoil his mind 
 had been in and the apathy that had followed, the 
 long rest at Pernambuco, the trip down the coast and 
 up the river, the glorious misty morning at Piranhas, 
 Margarita, catastrophe, awakening. What did that 
 
 308
 
 HOME 309 
 
 awakening stand for? Again he thought, if he could 
 choose would he wish to he hack as he was before 
 as he was on the way out? A voice within him said 
 " No." 
 
 In those days when once more his thoughts demanded 
 to be seen in their relation to Alix, that steady voice 
 within him was his only comfort. The flood at 
 Fazenda Flores had swept away all that his hands had 
 done but the things that Fazenda Flores had done for 
 him could not be swept away by any material force. 
 They stood and feared nothing except Alix. 
 
 Wherever his mind turned, it came back to Alix and 
 found in her an impasse. Alix assumed more and 
 more the portentous attributes of one unattached, sit- 
 ting in judgment over his acts. His memory of her 
 frailty, of her flower-like detachment from the bones 
 the skeleton of life, her artificiality, made her 
 seem ludicrously incongruous in the role of judge. He 
 could not picture her, much less estimate the sentence 
 she would pass. His thoughts led him daily up to 
 that impasse and left him. Then came the doubt and 
 the question why should he lead himself bodily to 
 the impasse at all ? 
 
 He was still fighting this point when he reached Bar- 
 bados but there an incident befell which brought a new 
 light to his mind and then a new peace to his soul. 
 
 He had gone ashore at Bridgetown simply because 
 his whole body, perfectly attuned by three years of long 
 hours of toil, was crying out for more exercise than the 
 narrow decks of the freighter could afford. 
 
 When the little group of passengers reached shore,
 
 310 HOME 
 
 with the exception of Gerry and an old returning Bar- 
 badian, they all turned in the same direction as if by 
 a common impulse. 
 
 The Barbadian glanced at Gerry and jerked his head 
 at the disappearing group. " Men of the world in the 
 big sense," he said. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Gerry. 
 " Son," said the old Barbadian, who was very tanned 
 and whose kindly eyes blinked through thick glasses, 
 " when a chap tells you he 's a man of the world you 
 ask him if he ever had a drink at the Ice House. You 
 don't have to say ' in Bridgetown.' ' Ever have a 
 drink at the Ice House ? ' Just like that ; and if he 
 says, ' No/ you know he meant he was a town rounder 
 when he said he was a man of the world." 
 
 Gerry smiled and fell naturally in step with the 
 Barbadian as he moved slowly on. 
 
 " Yes," said the old man. " It 's a sure test. The 
 man that has n't crooked his elbow at the big, round, 
 deal table in that old ramshackle drink-house, can't say 
 he's really traveled. Long lost brothers and friends 
 have met there and when men that roam the high seas 
 want news of some pal that 's disappeared down the 
 highway of the world they drop in at the old Ice House 
 and ask what road he took. It ? s the halfway house to 
 all the seven seas." 
 
 " Have you lost any one ? " asked Gerry. 
 
 " No, I 'm not thirsty for drink just now," said the 
 Barbadian with a smile. " And you ? " / 
 
 " Nor I," said Gerry, laughing. " I 'm out to 
 stretch my legs."
 
 HOME 311 
 
 "You can't do that here," replied the old man. 
 " You don't know our sun. Come with me." He 
 hailed a ramshackle victoria. 
 
 Gerry hesitated. " You must have a home you want 
 to go to and friends to see. Don't worry about me. 
 I '11 be careful about the sun." 
 
 " Boy," said the Barbadian, " I Ve got a home and 
 I 'm going to see it but there 's no reason why you 
 should n't come along. As for friends the ones I 
 left here won't get up to meet any one till the last 
 trump sounds. Come along. You are the only com- 
 pany and I 'm the only host in our party." 
 
 They climbed into the rickety cab and the Bar- 
 badian gave directions to the driver. The driver 
 answered in the soft guttural of the West Indian 
 black. 
 
 Slowly they crawled through the crooked streets of 
 the town. Gerry leaned back and gazed at the freak- 
 ish buildings. They were all of frame work. Some 
 swelled at the top and Gerry wondered why they did 
 not topple over; some swelled at the bottom and he 
 wondered why these did not cave in. 
 
 The Barbadian watched his face. "Funny town, 
 eh?" 
 
 Gerry nodded. 
 
 Presently they found themselves on a country road. 
 It was so smooth that the weighted carriage pushed the 
 old horses along at an unwonted pace. Little houses 
 hundreds of them that looked like big hen-coops lined 
 the road. Suddenly the carriage came to a halt. One 
 of the little houses was trying to straddle the road.
 
 312 HOME 
 
 From around it came screams and cries. " Now, then, 
 yo' Gladys, when ah say heft, yo' heft." 
 
 The driver poured out an angry torrent of words 
 that tried their best to be harsh and failed. From 
 around the obstructing house came an old darky. When 
 his eyes fell on the Barbadian he rushed forward. 
 " Lor, Misteh Malcolm, when did yo' get back ? " 
 
 " Just now, Charles," said the Barbadian. " What 's 
 the matter here ? " 
 
 The darky's eyes rolled. " Mattah, Misteh Mal- 
 colm ? Why that ole Gunnel Stewaat he 's jes' so 
 natcherly parsonmonious that he requires me to pay 
 rent fo' havin' ma house on his Ian' so I says to ole 
 Mammy, we '11 jes' move this here residence on to a 
 gentleman's Ian', and Misteh Malcolm me 'n mammy 'n 
 the chile are jes' a-movin' it on to yo' ole cane fiel'." 
 
 The Barbadian laughed a little dryly and shrugged 
 his shoulders. The driver got down, protesting, and 
 helped the family carry the house across the road. 
 Then the cab went on and soon turned up an avenue 
 under a fiery canopy of acacia flamboyante. 
 
 As they progressed, thick twining growths spangled 
 with brilliant blooms, walled in the avenue. The air 
 grew cool but heavy with scents and the full-flavored 
 spice of a tropical garden under a blazing sun. 
 
 The air made Gerry dreamy. He woke with a start 
 when the Barbadian said to the cabman, " This will do. 
 You needn't drive in. Wait here." 
 
 The cab stopped. Just ahead was the ruin of a great 
 gate. The two pillars still stood but they were almost 
 entirely hidden by vines. To one of them clung the
 
 HOME 313 
 
 rusted vestige of a gate. Beyond the pillars there was 
 a winding way. Once it had been a broad continuation 
 of the avenue, now it was but a tunnel through the 
 densely crowding foliage. Along the center of the 
 tunnel was a narrow path. Even it was overgrown. 
 The Barbadian led Gerry down the path. 
 
 They came out under a grove of mighty trees whose 
 dense shade had kept down the undergrowth and beyond 
 the trees Gerry saw a vast, irregular mound of vines 
 with which mingled giant geraniums, climbing fuch- 
 sias, honeysuckle and rose. Then he spied a broad 
 flight of marble steps ; at one end of them an old moss- 
 grown urn, at the other, its fallen, broken counterpart. 
 Above the mound rose the roof of a house ; through the 
 vines, as the two drew nearer, appeared shuttered win- 
 dows and a door, veiled with creepers. 
 
 The Barbadian went up the steps and tore the 
 creepers away from the door. Then he drew from his 
 pocket an enormous key. With a rasp the lock turned 
 and the door opened, letting a bar of light into a wide, 
 cool hall. 
 
 Gerry followed the Barbadian through the hall to a 
 broad veranda at the back of the house. A large liv- 
 ing-room faced on to the veranda. The Barbadian en- 
 tered it, opened the French door-windows and, dusting 
 off two lounge chairs, invited Gerry to sit down. 
 
 Gerry looked around curiously. The living-room 
 was comfortably furnished. There were one or two 
 excellent rugs on the waxed floor; a great couch, set 
 into a bow-window; lace curtains, creamy with age; 
 a wonderfully carved escritoire in rosewood; a side-
 
 314 HOME 
 
 board, round table and chairs of mahogany that was 
 almost as dull and black as ebony. Over all lay a coat 
 of dust. 
 
 The Barbadian walked to the round table and with 
 his finger wrote in the dust, then he sat down in a 
 worn and comfortable chair, a companion to Gerry's. 
 He fell into so deep a reverie that Gerry thought he 
 was asleep. 
 
 Gerry got up and walked around the room. His eye 
 fell on the table. He saw what the Barbadian had 
 written; simply the date of the day. But above the 
 freshly written date showed another, filmed over with 
 dust, and above that another almost obliterated. Gerry 
 leaned over the table. He could see that a long suc- 
 cession of dates had been written into the thick-laid 
 dust. Beginning with the fresh numerals staring up 
 at him they reached back and back through the years 
 till they faded away into a dim past. 
 
 Gerry tiptoed out on to the veranda. Before him 
 was a ruined lawn ; in its center a cracked, dry, marble 
 fountain. Off to one side was a giant plane tree. 
 From one of its limbs hung two frayed ropes. Against 
 its trunk leaned a weather-beaten swing-board. Under 
 the ropes, a wisp of path still showed, beaten hard in 
 a bygone day by the feet of children. Beyond the lawn 
 stretched wide hummocky cane-fields. They were 
 abandoned save for little patches of cane here and there, 
 bunched up against little hen-coop houses. 
 
 " Got a home, boy ? " 
 
 Gerry turned and found the Barbadian standing be- 
 side him. " A home ! " he answered, his thoughts fly-
 
 HOME 315 
 
 ing to Bed Hill, " I should think I have and it 's a 
 li " Gerry caught himself but not in time. 
 
 The Barbadian nodded slowly. " I know," he said, 
 "you were going to say it's a live one. Well, as to 
 that, don't you make a mistake. This home is alive 
 too just exactly as alive as I am, for I 'm the last 
 of the Barbados Malcolms. 
 
 " Home," he went on, " is n't altogether a matter of 
 cash, comfort and cool drinks. Sometimes it's just a 
 gathering place for memories. 
 
 " There was a time when we whites stood fifteen to 
 one over the blacks on this island. Now the tables are 
 turned. A chap that only takes a drink every time he 
 sees a white man would have to go to a mass meeting 
 to get drunk. 
 
 " Lately they 've been sending out scientific commis- 
 sions from England to sit like coroners on this mound 
 in the sea. They say they 're going to bring tjie 
 corpse back to life. I 've been offered a big price for 
 this old place but I 'm not selling." 
 
 Gerry looked at the Barbadian's rather shabby 
 clothes. " Why don't you sell if you don't want to 
 work the place? It's worth money. I know enough 
 to tell you that." 
 
 The Barbadian rested one hand high on the thick 
 trunk of a wistaria. A slow smile drew the corners 
 of his mouth. "Worth money?" he echoed. "My 
 boy, not every man kills the thing that he loves best. 
 This is my home. You read those dates written in 
 dust and still you thought my home was dead. But 
 it is n't dead. I have n't killed the thing that I love
 
 316 HOME 
 
 best. You can get cash, comfort and cool drinks al- 
 most anywhere, but I have remembered that memories 
 travel only beaten paths." 
 
 Even as Gerry picked his way back to the waiting 
 cab he felt Red Hill reaching out for him, drawing him. 
 And during the long, slow drive to the quay he learned 
 that he had passed the crossroads that had given so 
 long a pause to his troubled soul. The Barbadian had 
 opened his eyes. Doubt left him. There was but one 
 road the road back and it was open. He wrote his 
 cable to Alix with a firm hand. 
 
 The freighter reached quarantine after a quiet voy- 
 age twelve hours ahead of time and just at sundown. 
 A tug hurried down the bay to tell them their berth 
 was not ready. The freighter was forced to anchor 
 at the mouth of the Narrows. Gerry watched the lights 
 spring out from the shadowy shores. They beckoned 
 him to familiar scenes. Staten Island had been to his 
 boyhood an undiscovered land and the scene of his first 
 wanderings. Bayshore he knew through constant pass- 
 ing by. In the sky beyond it, hung the glow of the 
 summer city, here and there pierced with the brighter 
 flame of some grotesque monstrosity. 
 
 Up the bay the dark waters forked into two bands 
 that lost themselves in a sea and sky of twinkling lights. 
 He could just determine the sweeping arch of Brooklyn 
 Bridge and the presence of more than one new tower 
 of Babel that broke the ever-changing skyline of his 
 native city and made him feel, by that much, forgotten 
 and an alien. But from all the myriad lesser lights 
 his eyes turned gratefully to the high-held torch of
 
 HOME 31Y 
 
 Liberty. Beneath it, the familiar, tilted diadem, the 
 shadowy folds draping the up-standing pose, the 
 strength and steadfastness and the titanic grandeur of 
 the statue, carried their message to him as never be- 
 fore. It became to him what its creator had con- 
 ceived, an emblem, and the myriad little waves of the 
 bay, rushing to fling themselves at the feet of the God- 
 dess, became a multitude, eager for attainment, ready 
 for sacrifice.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 IT was ten o'clock on a morning in early autumn 
 when Gerry finally got free of the freighter and 
 took the ferry for the other side of the river. He had 
 left all his baggage to be delivered at the house later. 
 The morning was clear but sultry. In the city the 
 apathy of summer days had settled down. People 
 glanced at Gerry's heavy tweeds and antiquated hat 
 but they did not smile, for Gerry himself was such a 
 sight as makes men forget clothes. The tan of his 
 lean face, the swing of his big, unpadded shoulders, 
 his clear eyes, carried the thoughts of passers-by away 
 from clothes and city things. They seemed to catch 
 a breath of spicy winds from the worn garments that 
 clung to the stranger's virile body and in his eyes they 
 saw a mirage of far-away places. 
 
 As Gerry reached his own house, he was outwardly 
 calm, even deliberate, but inwardly he was fighting 
 down a turmoil of emotions. What was he to find in 
 Alix? Had he anything to give in exchange? Had 
 he too much ? He climbed the steps slowly. His hand 
 trembled as he reached out to raise the heavy bronze 
 knocker. Before his fingers could seize it, the door 
 swung softly inward. Old John bowed before him. 
 For a moment Gerry stood dazed. The naturalness of 
 
 that open door, of the old butler, of the cool shadows 
 
 318
 
 HOME 319 
 
 in the old familiar hall, struck straight at his heart 
 with the shrewd poignancy of simple things. Old 
 John raised a smiling face to greet him but down one 
 wrinkled cheek crawled a surprised tear. 
 
 Gerry held out his hand. " How do you do, John ? " 
 
 "I am very well to-day, sir," said John. "Mrs. 
 Gerry is in the library. She told me to telephone to 
 the club and if you were there to say she wished to 
 see you." 
 
 Gerry was puzzled. Why should Alix think he 
 would go to the club? He handed the butler his old 
 hat and strode to the library door. The door was 
 closed. He knocked. Somebody said, " Come in." 
 The words were so low he hardly heard them. He 
 opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind 
 him. 
 
 Alix, dressed in a filmy blue and white house-gown, 
 stood in the middle of the room. With one hand up- 
 raised, the other outstretched, she seemed to be poised, 
 equally ready for advance or flight. Her eyes passed 
 swiftly over Gerry's face, swept searching down to his 
 feet and back again to his face. For weeks she had 
 been wondering. Terrible things had come to her 
 mind. Alan and Gerry, with his heartless note, had 
 conspired to mystify, to terrify her. All the joy she 
 had looked forward to in Gerry's home-coming had 
 turned into a bitter pain. They had not known on the 
 Hill how she was suffering. Only Kemp had seemed 
 to understand a little and had brought his drop of com- 
 fort to her. 
 
 As her eyes searched Gerry the sense of impending
 
 320 HOME 
 
 calamity left her. He was well, well as she had never 
 seen him before. Except for that he seemed almost 
 weirdly familiar, as though only a good night's sleep 
 lay between him and the morning of three years ago 
 when he had bullied her until she had fought back and 
 overwhelmed him. 
 
 A hundred little differences went to make up this 
 solitary change. The flush of too many drinks had 
 given way to a deep healthy glow, the eyes were deep 
 and grave instead of deep and vacant, the broad 
 shoulders that had taken to hanging were braced in 
 unconscious strength. Every line in the body that she 
 had seen start on the road to grossness had been fined 
 down. The body was no longer a mere abode for a 
 lingering spirit. It had become a mechanism, tuned 
 to expression in action. It was not the body of a time- 
 server. Alan's sole word of comfort came back to 
 her. " I never thought the old Rock would ever loom 
 so big." What force had done this thing to Gerry? 
 She felt a pang, half envy, half remorse. If she had 
 been wise, less than that, if she had been merely sage, 
 could she not have saved Gerry to himself and spared 
 her faith the test of the three long years lost out of 
 their youth ? 
 
 Gerry stood erect by the door, one hand still holding 
 the knob. Why was he waiting? Alix's raised hand 
 went slowly out to him in welcome but he did not 
 move. She smiled at him but his eyes remained stead- 
 fast and grave. A lump rose in Alix's throat and then, 
 as pride came to her aid, a flare of color showed in her 
 cheeks. Her lips opened. What could she say to hurt
 
 HOME 321 
 
 him enough, to pay him back for this added, unjust 
 rebuff? She knew so little about this new Gerry. 
 How could she wound him? 
 
 And then he spoke. "Will you please sit down? 
 There are things I must tell you." 
 
 Gerry had blundered on magic words. There is no 
 moment so emotionally tense that a true woman will 
 not drop the immediate issue to sit down and listen 
 to the untold things she has wanted to hear. Alix was 
 a true woman. The flare died out of her cheeks. She 
 sank into a chair beside the dully shining mahogany 
 table and with a nod of her golden head motioned Gerry 
 to a seat opposite her. She watched the easy swing of 
 his body as he moved across the room. Gerry's mind 
 was in sore conflict, but a body in perfect health has a 
 way of taking care of itself. 
 
 Gerry sat down and gripped the edge of the table 
 with outstretched hands. He looked steadily into Alix' 
 eyes. The moment he had foreseen had come. Alix 
 sat in judgment. She planted her bare elbows on the 
 table, laid one hand, palm down on the other and on 
 them both rested her cheek. Her head with its heavy 
 crown of hair was thus to one side but also tilted 
 slightly forward. That slight forward tilt gave 
 strength to the pose and intensity. A curious, measur- 
 ing look came into Alix's eyes. She was silent and she 
 was waiting. 
 
 Gerry dropped his eyes to the table and began to 
 talk. "The things I have got to tell you," he said, 
 "begin with that day our last day. T went out 
 and walked for hours and realized that I had been
 
 322 HOME 
 
 rough and unjust and to blame. I came over to the 
 Avenue and was standing looking at some flowers when 
 you passed. I saw you in the plate-glass of the win- 
 dow. I turned around to make sure. I recognized 
 your trunk. I followed you to the station. I saw 
 Alan signal to you. I saw you get into the train." 
 
 Gerry stopped. His premise was finished and he 
 found that he had no tongue to tell the things he had 
 thought the long argument of the soul. He realized 
 that all that must be left out. He must confine him- 
 self to mere physical facts, let them troop up in the 
 order in which they had come upon him and file naked 
 before Alix. She must dress them as she saw fit, as 
 her sympathies and her justice directed. He would 
 give her but the ground-work, plain simple words such 
 as he could command, telling the events that had come 
 upon him and how he had met them. 
 
 Of the trip out he had nothing to say but of Pernam- 
 buco he told her in detail. Somehow it seemed the 
 least he could do for the filthy and beautiful city that 
 had given him an unquestioning asylum. He told her 
 of the quay, the Lingueta, with its line of tall, stained 
 houses, its vast plane trees and its cobbled esplanade, 
 the stage where the city's life was in perpetual review. 
 His words came slowly but they left nothing out. Un- 
 consciously he created an atmosphere. A light of in- 
 terest burned in Alix's eyes. She saw the changing 
 scene. It charmed her to restfulness as it had Gerry. 
 
 She smelt the stacks of pineapples, the heaped-up 
 mangoes, the frying fish, and through his eyes she saw 
 the blue skies dotted with white, still clouds and
 
 HOME 323 
 
 glimpsed the secret, high-walled gardens with their 
 flaring hibiscus, trailing fuchsias, fantastic garden 
 cockscombs and dark-domed mango and jack trees. She 
 sat with Gerry beside the wreck of a consul and, later, 
 on the long slim coasting craft she listened with him 
 to the creak of straining masts and stays and to the 
 lap of hurrying waters. She followed him up the San 
 Francisco, felt his impatience with Penedo, took the 
 little stern-wheeler and learned the fascination of a river 
 with endless, undiscovered turns. They came to 
 Piranhas. Here she felt herself on familiar ground. 
 Letters from the consul's envoy had made this place 
 hers. Unconsciously she nodded as Gerry described 
 the tiers of houses, the twisted, climbing streets, the 
 miserable little inn. 
 
 Gerry told of the happy days of ponderous canoeing 
 and of the unvarying strings of fish. He lingered over 
 those days. Thus far he had brought Alix with him. 
 He felt it. Now he came to the morning when he 
 must leave her behind. He told her of the glorious 
 break of that day, of the sun fighting through swirling 
 mists. She saw him standing stripped on the sandspit. 
 She saw the canoe nosing heavily against the shore and 
 his pajamas tossed carelessly across a thwart. She 
 knew that she had come to the moment of revelation. 
 She breathed softly lest she should lose a word for Gerry 
 was speaking very low. Then he showed her Mar- 
 garita, Margarita as he had first seen her, kissing and 
 kissed by dawn. 
 
 A hard light came into Alix's eyes. Gerry felt him- 
 self suddenly alone. He went doggedly on. He told
 
 324 HOME 
 
 of the chase and the capture, of how he and the girl 
 had seen the canoe drift out into the clutch of the eddy 
 and swirl out into the river and away. He told her 
 of how they laughed and Alix shrank. Gerry paused, 
 his brow puckered. He wished he could tell in words 
 the battle of his spirit, the utter ruin of his downfall. 
 He could not and instead he sighed. 
 
 There was something in that sigh so eloquent of de- 
 feated expression that it succeeded where words might 
 have failed. It called to Alix with the strong call of 
 helpless things. It drew back her mind to Gerry. 
 With him and the girl she threaded the path to Fazenda 
 Flores. Its ruin sprang upon her through his eyes. 
 With him she discovered the traces of an ancient ditch, 
 with him and the old darky she dug along that line 
 through long, hot months. She met Father Mathias 
 and found no flaw in his logic, she grew to know Lieber 
 as the tale went on and finally to love him because of all 
 things Lieber seemed to need love somebody else's 
 love most. She amused herself with Kemp and his 
 drawl. She tried to keep her thoughts away from Mar- 
 garita and at the coming of Margarita's boy, she winced. 
 
 As he finished telling of the coming of the Man, 
 Gerry stopped short. The thought came to him with 
 tremendous force that Alix too had gone through that 
 for him. The impulse to get up and throw himself be- 
 fore her and on his knees to thank her almost tore him 
 from his seat but he fought it down. He hurried on 
 with his story. He told of the coming of Alan and of 
 the revelation he had brought. And then in a choked 
 voice and only because he had set himself to tell the
 
 HOME 325 
 
 whole truth he pictured the flood, the death of True 
 Blue, and the overwhelming by the waters before his 
 very eyes of Margarita and the Man. Then he arose 
 and with hands braced on the table leaned towards 
 Alix. " I have told you all this so that perhaps you 
 may understand what I am going to tell you now. If 
 the flood had not come if Margarita and the Man 
 had lived I would not have come back." 
 
 Alix sat very still and studied Gerry's face. He 
 had finished the task he had set himself to do and he 
 was suddenly very tired. His eyes dropped as though 
 from their own weight and then he raised them again 
 to her inscrutable face. 
 
 " Well ? " he asked after a long pause. 
 
 " Well ? " replied Alix. 
 
 Gerry's stalwart figure drooped. " It is quite just," 
 he said, " after all that, that you should not want me. 
 I have spent the last weeks making myself ready for 
 that. You waited for me ; I did n't wait for you. If 
 you do not want me, I will go away." 
 
 Alix rose slowly to her feet. She looked very slim 
 and tall in her clinging gown. To Gerry she looked 
 very cold. " Before you go," she said, " there is just 
 one thing. I wish you would kiss me once." 
 
 Gerry's body straightened and stiffened. He stared 
 at her grave face with wondering eyes. Then he felt 
 a strange tingling ripple through his blood and before 
 he knew what he did he had swept her from her feet, 
 crushed her to him, brushed the crown of hair back from 
 her brow and kissed her eyes, her mouth, her throat. 
 He was rough with her. He was bruising her body,
 
 326 HOME 
 
 her lips, but Alix clung to him and laughed. Then 
 suddenly all her slim body relaxed and slipped through 
 his arms to a little white heap on the floor. She began 
 to sob. Gerry stooped down, picked her up tenderly 
 and laid her on the great leathern couch. He knelt be- 
 side her. On one arm he pillowed her head, with the 
 other hand he sought hers. " Please, Alix," he begged, 
 " please don't cry." 
 
 " I 'm not crying," sobbed Alix, " I 'm laughing." 
 
 Gerry smiled and waited. Soon Alix became quiet. 
 Her eyes closed. She drew a long, quivering breath 
 and then she opened her eyes again and her lips broke 
 into the old dear smile, the smile of an opening flower. 
 " I am tired tired," she said, " but I believe I 'm al- 
 most hungrier than I am tired." 
 
 " I 'm glad you said it first," replied Gerry giving 
 serious thought to the fact that he was faint with 
 hunger himself. " Ever since some funny Johnny 
 wrote, 'Eeed the brute,' we men have been shy about 
 echoing our stomachs. It 's four o'clock. Hours after 
 lunch time." 
 
 " Really ? " said Alix, nestling down closer to his arm 
 and letting her smiling eyes wander over him. " How 
 well this suit fits you. There 's something about it 
 It is n't, is it ? " 
 
 Gerry nodded. " Same old suit. By the way, when 
 I came in John said you told him to telephone to the 
 club and say you wished to see me. What made you 
 think I would go to the club first ? " 
 
 Alix looked puzzled. " I did n't. I did n't think 
 you would go to the club and I did n't tell John to
 
 HOME 327 
 
 telephone." She paused, still puzzling, then her face 
 cleared. " Why poor old John he 's getting very 
 old, you know, Gerry. That was three years ago I 
 told him to telephone the day you never came back. 
 It must have been the suit. He saw you standing there 
 in the same suit and three years became as one day 
 to the old fellow." 
 
 Gerry sighed. " Alix, do you want those three years 
 to become as a day to us ? " 
 
 Alix shook her head slowly from side to side. " No, 
 dear, I don't. They have given me given us both 
 far more than they took away." She put her bare 
 arms around his neck, drew him down and kissed him. 
 " You do not know yet all that they have given you. 
 You think you have come back and found me, a fritter- 
 ing butterfly in a great empty house. But you 've 
 found only my abandoned cocoon. I 'm not here at 
 all. I 've packed myself into the dearest little bundle 
 of pink fat, yellow curls and chubby legs, and left the 
 bundle on Red Hill." 
 
 Gerry nodded but he was grave and silent. Not in 
 a day nor a month could he altogether forget the Man.
 
 GERRY had always been quiet but during the long 
 drive from the station to The Firs, his silence 
 amounted to a penetrating stillness. Alix felt it but 
 it did not depress her; she knew herself to be in the 
 presence of a communion. Gerry was devoting the 
 hour of his return to the scenes of his boyhood to a 
 silent consecration. These cool valleys and hollows; 
 the Low Road, with its purling accompaniment of hid- 
 den waters; the embowered still nave of Long Lane, 
 were as the ancestral halls of the Lansings. It was 
 right that he should do homage to the memories they 
 evoked. 
 
 To his mother Gerry made no explanations. He 
 knew that to her it was enough that her boy had come 
 back. When Mrs. Lansing released him, Alix caught 
 his hand and led him up to the nursery. Together 
 they looked down upon their sleeping child. 
 
 Gerry, Junior, was fat to the verge of a split. His 
 curly tow head was tousled and on his brow a slight 
 perspiration testified to the labor of sound sleep. His 
 arms were outstretched. His legs had kinks at the 
 knees, they were so chubby. His petulant little mouth 
 was half open, disclosing tiny teeth. 
 
 " Is n't he a beauty ? " asked Alix a little loudly, 
 
 wishing he would awaken. 
 
 328
 
 HOME 329 
 
 Gerry nodded. With his eyes still on the child he 
 put his arm around Alix and drew her to him. What 
 Margarita had done for him, Alix had done. As he 
 felt her frail body quivering in his embrace, as he 
 looked back and measured the sacrifice by what the aw- 
 ful night of the coming of the Man had taught him, 
 he was overwhelmed by a new humility. He turned 
 Alix's face up to his. His lips moved in an effort to 
 thank her but words failed him. Alix understood. 
 She lifted her arms around his neck and drew his head 
 down. He held her body very close as he kissed her, 
 softly, adoringly. Alix hid her face against his 
 shoulder for a moment and then threw back her head 
 and shook the tears from her eyelashes. She smiled 
 through wet eyes. " I am afraid he 's not quite per- 
 fect inside. Such a temper, Gerry. I 'm afraid 
 he '11 grow up into a man about town and awfully wild." 
 She turned grave eyes on Gerry, Junior, and her brows 
 puckered. " What do you think ? " 
 
 Gerry smiled. " From the looks of him I predict 
 he gets his letter in Freshman year center on the 
 football team." 
 
 "Yes, perhaps," said Alix thoughtfully. "Every- 
 body calls him Fatty already." 
 
 It was from Alan that Gerry learned that Kemp was 
 still in town closing up his connection with the orchid 
 firm. Gerry wired him, begging him to come to The 
 Firs for a few days before he went West. Alix had 
 told of Kemp's word of comfort. 
 
 After the first excitement of getting home was over 
 Gerry found himself restless with the same restlessness
 
 330 HOME 
 
 that had attacked him during the days at Piranhas. 
 He tried for a solution in the same way. Day after 
 day, long before the rest of the Hill was awake, he was 
 off for a ten mile walk. 
 
 At first it was with head dropped and eyes on the 
 ground that he plowed his way through a dew-soaked 
 world, but there came a time when he walked with head 
 thrown back, full lungs and level eyes. 
 
 Then Kemp arrived. Gerry tried to get him to join 
 him in his walks but Kemp shook his head sadly. 
 
 " Ef yo' can't let me have a hoss, Mr. Lansing," he 
 said, " I '11 ride the cow." 
 
 Gerry laughed. They saddled the horses themselves 
 and started out. On the top of old Bald Head Gerry 
 dismounted and sat down on a rock. Kemp followed 
 suit. 
 
 " Kemp," said Gerry, " I want to thank you for the 
 things you said to my wife Alix." 
 
 Kemp flushed and waved a deprecating hand. 
 
 " You saw things straight," went on Gerry, " and I 
 want to thank you, too, for letting me hog-tie myself." 
 
 " I ain't curious about that, Mr. Lansing," said 
 Kemp, " so much 's about what you 're goin' to do when 
 yo' untie yo'seff." 
 
 "Well," said Gerry, "I've thought that out too. 
 For a while it used to break my heart to think about 
 Fazenda Flores but it came to me the other day that 
 what there is of me that amounts to anything is just 
 Eazenda Mores. 
 
 "When a man learns to eat work just like he does 
 food because he 's hungry for it, there 's bound to be
 
 HOME 331 
 
 a place for him anywhere. It has struck me there are 
 a lot of fields around here, some of them mine, that are 
 about ready for resurrection, and resurrection is my 
 job. 
 
 " I don't know exactly how I 'm going to start but it 
 may be planting potatoes. You can begin a resurrec- 
 tion with any one of a number of simple things. It 
 does n't matter much which one you pick on as long as 
 you start right down at the bottom and spread your- 
 self in the subsoil of things. Everything that grows 
 starts down deep except your orchids and they are 
 parasites " 
 
 " Easy on orchids," interjected Kemp. 
 
 " Sorry, Kemp. Orchids are ornamental but ex- 
 cepting your favorites they 're not even beautiful. 
 Look at a Cypripedium Vexillarium " 
 
 " Hybrid," grunted Kemp. 
 
 " A man in his D. T.'s could n't beat it for gorgeous 
 horror," finished Gerry. " But that 's neither here nor 
 there. What I 'm driving at is this. If I had never 
 been tossed over the home fence I would have lived and 
 died an ornamental citizen with the girth of a beer bar- 
 rel. But now my eyes are a bit open and I can see 
 that the simple things of life are the big things. 
 Growth from the roots is the strength of a man and of 
 his people. I 've come home in more senses than one. 
 I 'm going to send down my roots right here." 
 
 Kemp had been whittling. When Gerry had finished 
 he pocketed his knife and gazed thoughtfully down the 
 valley. "It seems to me, Mr. Lansing, that you 'nd 
 me have been travelin' diff'rent trails but come together
 
 332 HOME 
 
 at the same gap. You remember ' The Pu'ple City ' ? " 
 
 Gerry nodded. 
 
 " Wai, seems to me thet 'ceptin' in a man's own mind 
 the' ain't no pu'ple cities. What a man 's got to find 
 ain't pu'ple cities but the power to see one when he 's 
 got it. You had yourn right here in this valley an' yon 
 side on Red Hill. You growed up in it but you never 
 seen it not till you learned how. What you been 
 sayin' about the simple things of life the things thet 
 is at the bottom has he'ped my seein' parts a power- 
 ful lot. I knowed before I come to Red Hill that I 
 was goin' out West to stay but I did n't rightly know 
 why. Now ef you ask me what I know I can tell you 
 I know consid'able. 
 
 " Out in Noo Mexico they 's a ranch in the fork of 
 Big and Little Creek that 's the greenest patch in the 
 shadow of White Mountain. It 's mine and it 's got a 
 three-room shack on it that could grow if need was. I 
 know a girl that 's been holdin' a four-flush against an 
 orchid's weak pair till she 's jest about sick of the game, 
 but she 's drawed and filled on the last hand though 
 she hain't had a chanst to look at her cards yet. 
 
 " For some while the 's been a pu'ple light hangin* 
 over Big and Little Creek an' I reckon I '11 be able to 
 see it plainer an' plainer the nigher I get to it an' if 
 the girl will he'p me I reckon that in a small way we '11 
 soon be growin' a pu'ple city that will feed from yo' 
 hand. Ef ever you feel the need of some bran' new 
 air, Mr. Lansing, you come out to Big and Little. 
 There won't be much besides air but it '11 be fresh made 
 on White Mountain an' you can smell it comin' down
 
 HOME 333 
 
 through the pines an' see it playin' with the leaves on 
 the cottonwoods an' plowin' through the tops of the 
 sorghum." 
 
 They sat for some time in silence then Gerry said, 
 " I 've been calling you ' Kemp ' since I first saw you 
 but you still hang on to the ' mister ' when you talk to 
 me. Cut it out, Kemp." 
 
 Kemp flushed slightly. " Some things is fittin' an* 
 some ain't," he said, " an' we can't always rightly say 
 why. Some folks is governed by conscience but most 
 by pride. It 's goin' to be ' Kemp ' and ' Mister Lan- 
 sing ' to the end of the chapter, Mr. Lansing, an' no 
 friendship lost either. Shake." 
 
 They shook hands solemnly, mounted and started 
 back to Eed Hill. Gerry had found the key to Kemp's 
 strength. It was the key to all strength. Kemp be- 
 longed on the Hill, and with the people of true blood 
 anywhere, not only because he was himself always but 
 because he defended what he could hold and no more. 
 He was a definition for independence.
 
 CHAPTEK XLV 
 
 IT was late afternoon of a day in the Gorgeous 
 Month. A shower had fallen on Red Hill and after 
 it had come the sun. Wisps of mare's-tail cloud hur- 
 ried across the clean-washed heavens as though they 
 were ashamed to be caught in their ragged clothes under 
 a blue sky. Downy-topped masses of cumulus poked 
 drowsy heads over the horizon and watched them run. 
 Out of the dome of heaven filtered a single trill of song. 
 
 The Hill was very still but presently from far away 
 on the West Lake Road came the whinny of a horse ; a 
 little later, a little nearer, a peal of laughter; then 
 the sound of wheels and chattering voices. A wagon- 
 ette, two spring wagons and a pony cart burst from 
 Long Lane and wheeled right and left. They were 
 full of grown-ups turned young for a day and youths 
 that thought they would be young forever. 
 
 The wagonette, swinging down the road toward 
 Maple House, suddenly swerved and plowed through the 
 tall grass. Alan and Clem on the end seats were al- 
 most thrown out. Alan looked back at the road and 
 stared. A fat donkey had claimed the right of way 
 and held it. Several lengths of legs stuck out from 
 her bulging sides. Behind her hurried a panting nurse. 
 
 Alan turned to Clem. " Do donkeys never die ? " 
 334
 
 HOME 335 
 
 " Oh ! I hope not," said Clem gravely. " You 
 change them. We changed ours while you were away." 
 
 " So she has been changed," said Alan. " Well, 
 that 's something." 
 
 " Silly," said Clem, " you 've been seeing that donkey 
 every day for weeks." 
 
 " No" said Alan, " this is the first time I Ve really 
 seen her." 
 
 The sun took a last long look at Red Hill and dropped 
 out of sight. Then, as though he would come back and 
 look again, he sent up a broad afterglow that climbed 
 and climbed till the tip of the very clouds that peeped 
 over East Mountain were tinged with the rosy light. 
 
 From an open up-stairs window came Clem's soft 
 voice. " Yes, dears, pink night-caps. Those big 
 sleepy clouds are putting them on because they are just 
 glad to go to bed." 
 
 " I wanta pink night-cap." 
 
 " Why, darling, night-caps are only for white-headed 
 people and white-headed clouds. Just wait until you 're 
 white-headed. Now climb into bed and I '11 tell " 
 
 Beyond the mountain-ash thicket a love-sick Bob- 
 White kept saying " Good-night Good-night," to his 
 mate. She answered sleepily. 
 
 From Maple House, The Firs, and far down the 
 road, from Elm House warm lights flashed out and 
 settled down into a steady glow. A burst of young 
 voices swept into the night and died away, followed 
 into the silence by soft laughter. From The Firs came 
 the last angry wail of the fat young god, choked off 
 in mid-flight by the soft hand of sleep. Then the scur-
 
 336 HOME 
 
 rying of many feet along the dusty road, silence, and 
 last of all, the trailing whistle of a boy signaling good- 
 night sound saying good-by to a happy day. 
 
 Hours passed before the moon popped into the sky, 
 hurrying just at first as though she knew she were 
 forty minutes late again. One by one lights went out. 
 Other lights gleamed from upper windows; then they, 
 in turn, went out. Red Hill had gone to bed. 
 
 From Maple House Alan slipped out to smoke a last 
 cigar. He hesitated a moment and then strode through 
 the long grass laden with seed and just decking itself 
 with dewy jewels for the night. He crossed to the old 
 church. The door was open. He entered and climbed 
 the crumbling stairs to the belfry. He jumped into 
 one of the arches and sat down, his legs dangling. 
 
 His eyes wandered slowly over the familiar scene. 
 From behind their trees Maple House, The Firs and 
 Elm House blinked up at him dreamily. Before them 
 ran the ribbon of road, white under moonlight, dipping 
 at each end into the wide world. Up and down the 
 road before The Firs, paced two figures Gerry and 
 Alix. Gerry's arm was around her. Long black shad- 
 ows, all pointing to the west, like fallen silhouettes cut 
 the moonlight. Above them, the autumn-painted trees 
 gave out a golden echo of light. 
 
 Alan drew a great, quivering breath. " My boy, you 
 have been far, far away," J. Y. had said and he had 
 answered, " Yes, but I have come back." But it was 
 only now, to-night, that he had really come back. 
 
 Alan's wandering eyes settled on Maple House.
 
 HOME 337 
 
 " Even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her 
 wings," he whispered. 
 
 And then the peace of home descended upon him. 
 On his scarred spirit he felt the touch of the healing 
 hands of home. Its sweetness and its power, its love 
 everlasting demanding love forever, knocked at his wak- 
 ing heart and found the door open. Far, far had he 
 wandered in the world of mind and the world of men, 
 but in the end he had come back like a Wayne to the 
 eternal mother of the Waynes. To-night he knew that 
 his drifting soul had dropped anchor at last.
 
 " Seer, Behold the picture." 
 " My son, there is that which bounds 
 and is unbounded, that measures and is 
 unmeasured, that limits apparition and 
 delimits occultation, that divides but is 
 undivided. Thou hast stood on the 
 place where thy heart is and drawn 
 a circle."
 
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