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ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A 
 YOUNG MAN 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE 
 OF A YOUNG MAN 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRY JAMES SMITH 
 
 A uthor of ' 'A midee's Son " 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
COPYRIGHT, 191O, BY HARRY JAMES SMITH 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published August iqio 
 
 c^ 
 
 ^ rf^ ci-j^ 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 318603 
 

 ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Where the rivers meet the sea stands the City. 
 The great ships come to her from the four comers of 
 the earth ; they wait, straining at the leash, innumer- 
 able, along her proud shores. Over bridges that 
 hang, Hke dream-phantoms, high above the waters, 
 through tunnels that plunge deep below the waters, 
 where no living thing ever moved before, she draws 
 in her countless hosts of toil. The sun, lifting his head 
 out of the deep, hangs shields of gold upon the fretted 
 windows of her soaring towers, and flings his javelins 
 of splendour against her domes and pinnacles. 
 
 In her teeming streets all nations of men traflfic with 
 one another. The rich and the hungry poor are jostled 
 together. Poverty and nakedness stare with wild 
 eyes from her noisome alleys; wealth such as the 
 Orient never knew is daily amassed, daily dispended, 
 in her markets. It is a City of Power, a City of con- 
 suming Ambition, a Babel that would ravish heaven 
 of its secret and silence. 
 
 It is a City of Youth. Like the fabled bird of Arabia, 
 she renews herself in the ashes of her past. Age is 
 
 3 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 cast off and forgotten. Age has no place in her schemes 
 of power. But Youth — how ravenously she reaches 
 forth to seize it, and to draw it to herself. Youth it 
 is, everlasting Youth, that feeds her dreams, that rears 
 her towers yet higher, flings yet wider her bridges, 
 and piles up her wealth until there is no counting 
 thereof for its immensity. 
 
 Thither go the young men, with the hope and 
 dream of the future in their eyes. They come down to 
 her out of the land of hills and from the broad plains, 
 irresistibly drawn by her fair promises ; and there is 
 no going back. While Youth lasts, the City does not 
 release them from her spells. 
 
 Her spells are Ambition and Opportunity. It is 
 these that make light for Youth the burden of labour, 
 that cause sacrifice and hardship to be welcomed, 
 that strengthen him to face disappointment, neglect, 
 and loneliness. Pleasure also has her palace there, 
 and sings her magical song in the ears of Youth. In 
 the garish, never-sleeping streets of night she walks 
 abroad, attired with witcheries, casting a glamour 
 upon his eyes. And in the City, far from the Land of 
 Hills, here, where the ties of the old life are relaxed 
 or broken, what shall restrain the feet of Youth from 
 following after? 
 
 The City is the place of testing. She is lavish of 
 opportunity ; equally lavish of seduction. She preaches 
 strength and endurance, and she preaches indul- 
 
 4 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 gence and forgetfulness. In her streets you may 
 hearken to all the jangled, conflicting voices of hu- 
 man life, and you may obey those you will. In the 
 City, Youth is privileged, nay, compelled, as no- 
 where else to make his own decisions, to choose his 
 own courses. Here it is that he comes preeminently 
 to his own, stripped of all hampering traditions, re- 
 leased from all surveillance, hurled relentlessly into 
 the very presence of the true gods and the false, — 
 to choose. It is for him to find himself here, or to 
 lose himself, as he will. 
 
 Only, to guide him, he brings with him to the City 
 of the Test, Hke the Pilgrim, equipped for his long 
 journey of struggle, temptation, and victory, a scroll in 
 his bosom. A seal, too, has been set upon his brow ; 
 and to his ears has the warning been confided, by 
 those wise shepherds of the mountains, that he should 
 not sleep upon the Enchanted Ground. 
 
II 
 
 It had for a moment threatened to be a grave acci- 
 dent; but thanks to the courage and address of one 
 of the passers-by, this outcome had been averted. 
 Without an instant's hesitation he had leaped into 
 the midst of the tangle of frightened horses, and suc- 
 ceeded in freeing the tongue of the coupe from the 
 heavy pole of the lumber truck, over which it had 
 become firmly locked by the pole-chains. Seizing the 
 bridles of the rearing chestnuts, he had held them 
 from backing the carriage across the sidewalk into 
 a cellar excavation, and had afforded the red-faced 
 Hibernian drayman a chance to get his team under 
 control, haul them off, and continue on his way, still 
 noisily ejaculating strange imprecations. Then the 
 young man had brought the coupe once more into 
 the street, and led up the chestnuts alongside the curb. 
 
 He was talking to them in a soothing, familiar 
 voice, and patting their superbly arched necks with 
 a confidence and gentle authority that the animals 
 were quick to recognize. Their quivering flanks 
 grew quiet, the dilated nostrils relaxed; and finally, 
 when he drew temptingly from his pocket two lumps 
 of sugar, they were soon nibbling out of his palms 
 like old pets. 
 
 6 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 As he stood there below the curb, he seemed utterly 
 oblivious of the little inconglomerate throng of spec- 
 tators swiftly assembled on the sidewalk, oblivious 
 too of the sheepishly grinning coachman, who had re- 
 appeared from nobody knew where and was fussily 
 examining the harness. The warm breath of the horses 
 on his hands, and the caressing eagerness of their 
 damp noses had transported him far from city streets. 
 With his luxuriant black poll bent close to the cheek 
 of the nigh mare, he was affectionately combing out 
 her forelock with his fingers and talking to her in 
 the wheedling, foolish, delightful way of mothers to 
 babies and sweethearts to one another. 
 
 It was the voice of a woman that recalled him with 
 a certain shock to the situation of the moment. 
 
 "Oh! you must let me say thank you to you for 
 your brave, splendid act. Oh, it was wonderful! 
 How did you ever, ever have the courage?" 
 
 With a flush of quick embarrassment the young 
 man looked up, to see her standing on the curbing 
 in a shimmering afternoon toilette of pale olive ; and 
 the same glance informed him with dismay of his own 
 bespattered appearance. 
 
 *'0h!" he stammered, "it wasn't anything, hon- 
 estly, — not if a man happens to know horses." 
 
 Instinctively raising his hand to lift his hat, he dis- 
 covered that he had lost it. It lay unrecognizable in 
 the gutter at his feet. 
 
 7 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "I thought I was going to be killed/' she went on, 
 with an odd, beguiling accent that was not in the 
 least American. '^The horses get frightened some- 
 how back there. They start to run. When I see 
 Thomas jump I hide my face, — oh, I was paralyze' 
 with fright ! — and the next I know, there is a crash, 
 and I feel the carriage tip, and know it is going back, 
 back across the sidewalk." 
 
 She turned a shuddering look toward the excava- 
 tion behind them; then fixed her eyes, filled with 
 quick tears of gratitude, on the young man's face. 
 
 "Oh, how can I ever, ever thank you!" she ex- 
 claimed in a low, smothered voice. — "I was going 
 to be there P^ 
 
 At the first sight of her mud-spattered, hatless 
 rescuer, she had half opened her purse; but some- 
 thing — an undisguisable distinction — in the man's 
 face and manner had already caused her to shut it 
 again. The little group of spectators, evoked in an 
 instant from nowhere in particular, had already dis- 
 persed, and the two were left to themselves. 
 
 "It's thanks enough," said the young fellow, "to 
 have had this chance to make friends with your 
 lovely horses. I noticed them last Saturday in the 
 Park, and I noticed too that your driver did n't know 
 how to handle them." 
 
 The coachman coughed deprecatingly as he buckled 
 a girth into another hole. 
 
 8 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "But I'm going to attend to that," she answered, 
 exhibiting a small, resolute fist. "I don't intend to 
 have my poor little bones risked again. But come, 
 you must let me drive you home at all events. You '11 
 feel more comfortable than afoot." 
 
 "Behind him? Not down in my part of town," 
 declared the young man sturdily, while his dark eyes 
 danced. "I think you'd better let me get into his 
 uniform and take you home. It would be safer." 
 
 "Oh, for that, I live right near by," she returned. 
 "I'd only started out. Come, give me the honour of 
 your company; and I promise to fit you up with a 
 new hat and a pair of gloves. I know my husband's 
 will go you to perfection. And then you may travel 
 where you like." 
 
 The young man surveyed himself with a rueful 
 smile. "I own I should feel more at ease," he said, 
 "with my clothes brushed and a hat on." 
 
 "Then you'll come?" she urged. 
 
 She turned to the coachman, who had regained his 
 seat and wore the imperturbable look of a man always 
 on duty. 
 
 "Listen, Thomas," she directed, in a low but per- 
 emptory voice. "You're to drive straight back home 
 again ; and mind you don't do anything foolish, or 
 you'll be sorry. I'm very, very angry at you." 
 
 "Very well, ma'am," replied the driver, with per- 
 fect professional unction. 
 
 9 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The young man handed his companion into the 
 carriage, and she gathered her skirts a little closer to 
 make room for him beside her. There was a frank, 
 captivating familiarity in her manner that quite re- 
 lieved him of the embarrassment he would ordinarily 
 have experienced under such circumstances. The 
 carriage turned about and began to retrace its course 
 northward. 
 
 **0h, you have a bruise on your temple," cried the 
 woman in her delicious foreign-sounding voice. She 
 put the tip of a white-gloved finger to it. *'Does it 
 hurt much, — he?^' she asked, soHcitously. 
 
 The man felt his nerves tingle at the light touch. 
 
 "On my word," he replied, as offhandedly as pos- 
 sible, "I would n't even know I had it." 
 
 "But it might grow worse, for all that," she ob- 
 served, ingenuously, with a series of confirmatory 
 nods. "Listen. I think I shall have to do it up for 
 you in vinegar and brown paper. Would you not like 
 that, — ;^^.?" 
 
 The young man looked into her changeful, impish 
 eyes, narrowed between golden lashes that flickered ; 
 and they both laughed, like children at play. 
 
 "By all means," he agreed. "And if your hus- 
 band's hat does not fit me, you will doubtless lend 
 me one of yours. Oh, I shall get home in excellent 
 shape, I am sure." 
 
 "Ah, but the hat will fit, my dear. I can tell." She 
 
 lO 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 looked at his head critically. "You must wear a 
 seven, — he?^' She always brought out her little in- 
 terrogatory syllable with a sort of bird-like chirp that 
 was irresistible. 
 
 "I do," he answered, laughing. 
 
 "But that is my dear, dear Frederic's size," she 
 afi&rmed, with another series of emphatic nods that 
 made the white and green plumes on her hat brush 
 his cheek lightly. "And his gloves, — I do not know 
 the size; but look, spread out your hand — so! 
 Oh, yes, they will fit, I give you my word. Ah, but 
 your hands are very artistic. Are you an artist, my 
 frien'?" 
 
 "Only an impecunious young architect," answered 
 her companion. 
 
 "Ah, well, it is all the same," she declared. "Is 
 not the architecture an art ? But for Frederic — it 
 is too bad he will not be at home to-day. He is always 
 away somewhere on these long business trips, you see." 
 She fingered her muff demurely. 
 
 "You must miss him very much," were the words 
 that came, quite unpremeditatedly, from the young 
 man's lips. His manner had the same apparent in- 
 genuousness as hers. 
 
 He looked at her, and saw her purse her mobile 
 lips the least bit in the world, while she dug two fin- 
 gers into the depths of the silver-furred muff. 
 
 "Oh, very'' she murmured, not raising her eyes. 
 
 II 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Very, very much." The innuendo was just detect- 
 ible in the little drawl of her utterance. 
 
 "And then, you would admire him, too," she went 
 on, naively. "He is just as beautiful and handsome- 
 looking, my dear, as — as what am I going to say ? 
 — as one of these models — dummies, you know, — 
 M? — you see in the window of a clothier's. I al- 
 ways say to him, 
 
 " Frederic, my cherub, you should go into comic 
 opera. You would make your fortune as the tenor.' 
 
 "To be sure, he cannot sing; but what difference 
 does that make, nowadays; and besides, I am sure 
 there is more money in it than in these races. Don't 
 you think so, my frien' ? — But wait, I am going to 
 show you Frederic's picture, and then you can tell 
 better." 
 
 She opened a jewelled locket that hung from her 
 neck, flecked her web of a handkerchief across it, 
 and turned it to his gaze. 
 
 "There!" she said. "I will make you introduce'. 
 Frederic, my dear, this is the noble young gentleman 
 who rescue my li^e. Mister — What is your name, 
 my frien'?" 
 
 She looked at him with demure seriousness. 
 
 "Wetherell," he replied, "Philip Wetherell, at your 
 service." 
 
 "Ved — Wederell," — She made a pucker of de- 
 spair at the Saxon consonants. "Oh, what a name! 
 
 11 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Say, that is very, very American, — he ? Well, Mr. 
 Wet'erell, this is my husband, Mr. Frederic Orlando 
 Murchard Brace. Look at him. Is he not a treasure, 
 then?'' 
 
 Her companion had to bend very close in order to 
 get a good view of the miniature. 
 
 "It flatters him a ver' little," she commented, with 
 a regretful shake of the head. "One must admit, 
 you know, that his nose is becoming too red. I sup- 
 pose it is the sun-bum. That is what he tells me. Is 
 not the sun hot in New Orleans and those places 
 down there?" 
 J. "I have heard so," was the sage reply. 
 
 "I tell him, 'Frederic, my dear, you must have a 
 little par'sol made for your nose, — you see, so!'" 
 — She shaped it with her fingers — " ' like this, with 
 two little wings that would look like a butterfly quite 
 naturally alighted on it. You must save your complex- 
 ion, my chile,' I say, 'or those nice Creole girls will 
 not fall in love with you any more. And what would 
 you do then?'" 
 
 She closed the locket with the ghost of a sigh ; then 
 flung herself back with abandon into the deep-cush- 
 ioned seat. 
 
 "That is the kind of husband I like," she con- 
 cluded, crisply, with a short, descriptive gesture. — 
 "He make no trouble for you at all. He says, 'Look, 
 my dear Katrinka, I go my way, and I do not 
 
 13 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 kick if you go yours/ — and so we rest always, oh, 
 such good frien's. — Look, my man, here we are 
 arrive', at last. Now you come with me and I fit you 
 to a fine hat and some lovely, lovely gloves." 
 
 The coupe had come to a stop before a pretentious 
 apartment hotel on one of the avenues northward 
 from the Park. The door was opened. 
 
 *^You wait one little second, Mr. Wet'erell," said 
 his companion, "while I have one word with my 
 curse of a coachman." 
 
 Once outside, the young man was irresistibly drawn 
 again to the horses' heads. He petted the lovely crea- 
 tures with enamoured admiration, and found another 
 lump of sugar for each of them. He felt singularly 
 elated, without quite knowing why. 
 
 "You like animals, — he?^^ asked his friend, join- 
 ing him shortly. 
 
 He gave her a radiant smile. "When I was a young- 
 ster," he said, "I used to live on a horse's back. These 
 are beauties." 
 
 "Listen," she said, with a little touch of difiidence 
 that flattered him: "some day, — would you like it? 
 — we have them put to a nice little cart, just you 
 and me, and we go for a lovely, lovely drive in the 
 Park. Would you not like that, he?'' 
 
 She was leading the way into the hotel, and he 
 followed her, observing for the first time the supple 
 coquetry of her figure. Every movement seemed 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 alive, individually expressive. Her small foot, shod 
 in green suede, set itself with elastic firmness and 
 precision on the pavement. There was something 
 compact, resilient, magnetic about her physique that 
 waylaid the imagination. 
 
 She nodded affably to the coloured door-boy, who 
 brought out an admiring, "Howdy, Mis' Brace. Say, 
 but you sho look c?e-licious ! " and they entered the 
 elevator. 
 
 "Dat nigger," declared the elevator-boy, as he 
 pushed the crank, "he suttenly mus' have a bug, 
 Mis' Brace. I tell him he gwine get kicked out o' 
 dis yer place for sho if he talk that-a-way to a lady. 
 He's too familiah, that's what he sho is, ma'm." 
 
 The woman laughed in perfect good humour. 
 "But I'm afraid you're one little bit jealous, Alex- 
 ander," she said. "Do you think it's wrong for him 
 to tell me the truth ? Or perhaps you think different ? " 
 
 The darkey beamed above serried ivories. "Me 
 think different ? Oh, Lordy, Mis' Brace ! You sut- 
 tenly is the mos' beautiful lady in this whole univer- 
 sal city." 
 
 "Ah, that's good," she laughed. "Now I'm sure 
 of it. There, Alexander, there's something for telling 
 the truth. Always tell the truth, and some day you '11 
 go to darkey heaven." 
 
 She slipped a coin into his pocket as they emerged 
 from the elevator on the ninth floor. 
 
 15 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Wetherell recognized in the easy familiarity of her 
 demeanour the self-confidence of one perfectly habit- 
 uated to deference from the other sex. In many 
 women there would have been a needful taint of 
 effrontery in such facile camaraderie; in her it was 
 only an additional fascination. 
 
 They were admitted to a luxuriously furnished 
 apartment by a middle-aged, discreet-visaged person 
 whom she addressed as Susan. 
 
 "Oh, such a time, Susan, my dear!'' she cried: "I 
 came within a hair of losing my precious little life. 
 Oh, I never had such a fright, I swear to you ! And 
 this is the young man that rescue me. Don't you feel 
 ver', ver' grateful to him? — There, that's a dear." 
 
 She tossed her hat nonchalantly into the woman's 
 hands, threw off her furs, and sank with a sigh of 
 fatigue into a deep chair. 
 
 "Susan, will you bring us a little pot of tea, like a 
 good soul ? And oh, I 'm so glad you have lighted the 
 fire. I never was so done up since the day I was 
 bore, I swear to you!" She added some directions 
 in a language that was strange to her companion's 
 ears. 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested Wetherell, audaciously, "she 
 might bring me a clothes-brush. I should truly like 
 to present a somewhat more respectable appearance." 
 
 Without Hfting her head from the back of the 
 chair, Katrinka gave him a languidly critical regard. 
 
 i6 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Oh, you look ver' charming, my dear," she averred, 
 impersonally. "An artist would admire you much 
 better like this than with all the character brushed 
 and smoothed out of you. Your hair is positively 
 splendid. It looks like the under side of the wing of 
 a — what do you call one of those things in English? 
 — krage is the word in Danish. Corbeau ? No, that 's 
 French." 
 
 "How about crow?" laughed Wetherell. 
 
 "Ye-es," she agreed. "That is it. Crow. I can 
 see blue in it, even, — indigo ! And such a nice horsey 
 smell! No, you shall sit down first and get rested 
 while you are still my brave chevalier. — Say, have 
 you Italian blood in you? Surely your eyes came 
 from Naples ! Oh, you could be terrible if you were 
 angry;" she repeated the word with a prolonged trill; 
 ^^ ter-r-reeble P^ 
 
 Susan entered with the tray ; and the tea was poured. 
 "See, and there goes a wee dash of joy into yours," 
 she said. "You may have more if you like." 
 
 They sat most cosily before the fire, sipping and 
 smoking and chatting. The young man felt im- 
 mensely at ease, as he watched her over the rim of 
 his cup, and laughed at her incessantly delightful 
 originaKties of speech and facial expression. 
 
 No, she was not exactly beautiful ; but there was a 
 spell about her that dazzled him more from minute 
 to minute. Her skin was quite colourless, of exquisite 
 
 17 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 texture, with an elusive, transparent radiancy, over 
 blue veins, faintly visible; and her small but won- 
 drously mobile features were set off by coiled hair of 
 a glinting grey-brown, instinct, like her lustrous skin, 
 with an elusive vitality, and of a web-like fineness, 
 — masses of it, only half subjugated to braid and 
 nacre comb, and strangely enmeshing the light, 
 either the cold, white November daylight, in which 
 she might have been a sprite from some storied 
 forest, or the ruddy flickerings of the wood-fire that 
 transformed her into an enchantress of the Venus- 
 berg. 
 
 "And now tell me," she said, "oh, wonder of a 
 man, what happy, happy chance brought you to that 
 particular corner of West Central Park at that par- 
 ticular moment this afternoon when little Katrinka 
 was going to be hurled into that big cellar?" 
 
 She drew up her feet under her like a little forest 
 animal, and lighted another cigarette. 
 
 "'Tis a short and simple tale," responded the 
 man, setting down his empty cup with something of 
 a flourish. "But such as it is, you shall have it. For 
 it came to pass that the partner in a certain architect- 
 ural firm was dead, after many months ; and therefore 
 unto all the employes — draughtsmen, stenographers, 
 nay, even bell-boys — was a half-day of mourning 
 accorded. And one and all gladly went forth to enjoy 
 themselves. And a certain draughtsman, being but 
 
 i8 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 newly come to the city and still destitute of friends, 
 had wandered from his lowly abode in Greenwich 
 Village to take the air in the Park, tease the squir- 
 rels, and watch the horses. He has left the Elevated ; 
 already he has turned his steps toward the East. Lo, 
 a sound of runaway hoofs, a crash, a commotion, 
 curses, plunging steeds ! — '' 
 
 "Splendid, my dear! Admirable F' cried his audi- 
 tor, clasping her hands dramatically. "I see it all 
 again. The driver gone ! The coupe going back, back, 
 bump! — tipping over oh, frightfully! — and inside 
 there, a white face and a crouching form, — that's 
 me, — he — believing that the end of the world had 
 come, sure, sure. And then a firm, brave, manly 
 voice; a hand at the bridles — Oh, my splendid 
 hero!" 
 
 She sprang with impetuous abandon from her 
 chair, touched her fingers lightly to his shoulders, and 
 kissed him. 
 
 "There, you won't refuse that poor little token of 
 gratitude from Katrinka Brace, will you, mon petit ?" 
 she laughed, as she danced out of the room. — "Now 
 I'm going to hunt for the gloves and the hat." 
 
 Philip Wetherell caught his breath, and sat motion- 
 less for a few dizzy seconds. Then he looked about 
 him stupidly, ran his hand through his hair, as if to 
 assure himself that he had not been dreaming, and 
 rose to his feet. His knees were trembling oddly under 
 
 19 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 him. Automatically, scarcely noticing anything upon 
 which his eyes rested, he made a tour of the room. 
 He glanced out of the window into the bleak, wind- 
 swept street far below ; but he could not have told what 
 he saw. There were jars of flowers on the window- 
 ledge, and on the table ; but though he stooped to in- 
 hale their fragrance, he did not observe whether they 
 were chrysanthemums or roses. A tiny oil painting 
 on the wall near the piano caught his eye, and he drew 
 near to examine it. 
 
 Wetherell knew something about pictures ; and his 
 first glance at this one restored him to his wits, for 
 he recognized that the workmanship was quite ex- 
 ceptional. It was a little idyll, deliciously executed 
 in the spirit of a miniature : — a woodland pool, over- 
 hung by dank, gleaming rocks and bosky foliage ; and 
 at one side, in a white light so without warmth that 
 it seemed to have emanated, somehow, from the still 
 heart of the pool itself, a nymph, kneeling, and hold- 
 ing out her hand invitingly to a tiny green enamelled 
 frog that sat on the yellow pad of a lily. The vibrant 
 lustre of the white flesh, the seductiveness of the 
 slender, elf-Hke physique, the singular luminosity 
 of the hair, which, hanging almost to the water's 
 touch, seemed to have something of the very sub- 
 stance of Hght in it, possessing no particular colour 
 more than an admixture of all colours — 
 
 In the midst of his admiration of these traits, the 
 
 20 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 painter's subject suddenly flashed itself upon his 
 perception. 
 
 **Well, and how do you like it?" inquired his 
 hostess, who had returned to the room without his 
 knowledge. 
 
 Confusion tied his tongue for the moment. 
 
 "But it's not at all bad, — he?^^ she went on, in a 
 perfectly offhand manner, coming to his side. "Poor 
 old Butscha ! — you never knew him, of course. He 
 did that. Oh, he was crazy about me. For a year, 
 more than a year, I was his only subject. Always 
 nymphs or dryads, you know, always that white light, 
 — and oh, such original ideas ! That was in Paris, 
 you know. Butscha saw me on the street in Copen- 
 hagen one day, and followed me for two miles. He 
 told me I must go to Paris with him, or he would 
 shoot himself. Poor old wild darling ! Every one said 
 he would have made a tremendous success in a little 
 longer. — It was absinthe, you know." 
 
 A sudden wave of tenderness came over her; she 
 turned her back in silence, glided across the room, 
 and took a cigarette from the chased silver box that 
 lay on the tabouret. 
 
 "Is n't it terrible," she said, in an altered voice, after 
 a few seconds, "oh, is n't it ter-r-rihle, my dear, to think 
 that some day we must all die like that, and be put down 
 under the ground where the worms are ! Oh ! I saw 
 them put Butsch down there ! I shall never forget it ! " 
 
 21 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Turning, Philip saw a shudder pass over her throat 
 and shoulders ; and a fleeting horror enlarged the whites 
 of her eyes through the tears that still lingered. 
 
 "Oh, if you could only have seen Butschy," she 
 went on, with a dim smile, "you would understand. 
 He was such a love of a man, — so gay, so jolly, so 
 hot-tempered, so artistic, and with hair — my dear 
 man, you have hair just like that! It was the first 
 thing I noticed. Everybody in the Quartier adored 
 Butsch." 
 
 She tossed her cigarette into the fire, and watched 
 in silence the vivid yellow flame that licked it up. 
 
 A strange embarrassment came over the man. In 
 the silence he became conscious of tameless impulses 
 astir within him, and he was afraid. "I must be going 
 along," he said, in a forced voice. 
 
 "Oh," she said. "Must you?" 
 
 She raised her face to him with an odd smile that 
 might have been regret or surprise or even pity. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Philip, rising with abrupt reso- 
 lution. 
 
 "Well, here are the articles out of my family ward- 
 robe." She tried to speak gaily; but there was a soft- 
 ness in her voice that belied her. "Come, my frien', 
 see if I am not right about the fit." 
 
 Five minutes later he was ready for the street again, 
 brushed, combed, and properly habited. He had 
 not dared look once into the woman's eyes. Now that 
 
 22 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the moment for saying good-by had come, he was 
 almost impotent to utter the words. An immense 
 awkwardness seemed to glue his feet to the ground. 
 
 "Well, good-by!" he managed to bring out at last, 
 offering his hand. 
 
 She pushed it away from her with a little reproach- 
 ful gesture. "I believe you have no heart at all," she 
 said. 
 
 She saw the muscles of his cheeks and neck flicker. 
 Her manner changed at once. "I did not mean that," 
 she said softly. "Listen, — I was going to say some- 
 thing. Let me see. What was it ? You have sent it 
 out of my head." 
 
 Almost timidly she put out her hand to his coat 
 collar and flecked away a bit of dust. "Well, listen," 
 she said, ingratiatingly. "Did you have any engage- 
 ment for this evening?" 
 
 "No," he replied. 
 
 The word came out with fatal, automatic prompt- 
 ness. Something deep within had bidden him per- 
 emptorily to say yes ; but a whole battery of quickly 
 arrayed instincts had delivered the contrary response 
 before he was aware. 
 
 Two bright spots had appeared in her cheeks, and 
 she did not look at him directly as she continued, 
 haltingly: "Well, this is what I was going to say. 
 Listen. Why would n't you perhaps come up here 
 about eight o'clock, or nine, and we have a little 
 
 23 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 supper, say, — just the two of us, you know, like in 
 a studio, — and a nice little good time. Would you 
 not like that, — /^e?'' 
 
 Seizing her hand he crushed it to his lips. Without 
 another word, as if seeking refuge from some dis- 
 aster that threatened, he abruptly quitted the apart- 
 ment, shutting the door after him with unintentional 
 violence. 
 
 The woman gazed an instant, with an inscrutable 
 smile, at the red mark on the back of her hand, then 
 pressed it with a little sob against her cheeks and 
 mouth. 
 
 "He will come," she said to herself, almost aloud. 
 — "He does not want to come ; but he will come." 
 
Ill 
 
 As Wetherell made his way, half-dazed, down the 
 windy avenue and into the Park by one of its north- 
 em entrances, the only clear sentiment in his mind 
 was one of deliverance. A spell had been broken. 
 The drug he had been tasting and which had so dizzily 
 mounted to his head appeared to have lost its potency 
 as soon as he found himself out of doors. He filled his 
 lungs with deep draughts of the bracing November 
 air; he scarcely succeeded in repressing an impulse 
 to run and shout. 
 
 The insidious witchery of the warm, flower-scented 
 atmosphere, of changeful firelight, of physical near- 
 ness, had all but worked its way with him. The thing 
 he had escaped from looked ugly to him now, deformed 
 and loathsome, hke the false Duessa, whom the Red 
 Crosse Knight saw at last stripped of her enchant- 
 ments ; and he wondered how he could have come so 
 near succumbing to it. 
 
 With hands unconsciously clenched, he breasted a 
 little wooded knoll and seated himself on a secluded 
 bench, — a favourite resort of his, sheltered from the 
 wind and quite cut off from the world of the city, 
 except for a glimpse it gave, through bare branches, 
 of the constant flight of automobiles along a curving 
 
 25 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 driveway far below. He felt the necessity of getting 
 his mind in order, of comprehending what he had 
 just been through, and assuring himself of where he 
 stood. 
 
 *^I can tell her everything. I can tell her every- 
 thing," was the thought that declared itself, over and 
 over, in his mind, as clearly as a voice. 
 
 Half -automatically he put his hand to his inner waist- 
 coat pocket and drawing thence a small leather folder, 
 opened it, and gazed with devouring intentness upon 
 the photograph it contained. It was of a girl still in 
 the first full radiance of womanly beauty, not older 
 certainly than twenty-two or twenty-three years, and 
 of a proud, candid, high-spirited mien that infallibly 
 betokened race, yes, and not that alone, but the 
 cherished consciousness of it, too. Other generations 
 than hers looked out from those deeply shadowed 
 eyes, and breathed in the sensitive, slightly lifted 
 nostrils ; and the evenly arched mouth, with its short, 
 clear-marked upper Hp, seemed to have more in it 
 of the will to plan and execute than of the sub- 
 missive softness commonly considered a grace in 
 woman. 
 
 Yet despite the somewhat aggressive pose of the 
 aristocratic young head and the noticeable elevation 
 of the finely modelled chin, there was an expression 
 distinct, yet hard to analyze, of wistfulness ; as if the 
 soul behind these outward lineaments could not quite 
 
 26 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 conform itself to their demands. Possibly this hint 
 lay in the slight parting of the lips, or perhaps in a 
 certain liquid gentleness of the eyes that seemed to 
 have sought refuge rather than to have made their 
 home by choice under their noble brows: at all events, 
 the spiritual incongruity was there, and served to 
 enhance the loveliness of the face, by affording just 
 that quick human appeal that is so often lacking in 
 the features of high-born maidens. 
 
 The minutes passed, and Wetherell still gazed 
 with uninterrupted absorption at the face before 
 him ; but his mind was not at all occupied in decipher- 
 ing the enigma of its beauty. 
 
 He was remembering the hour, almost a year ago, 
 now, when he had said good-by to Georgia Raebum. 
 It was night on the hills of northwestern Connecti- 
 cut, and the snow lay still unbroken under the cold 
 moonlight. She had come out to the porch with him, 
 a filmy scarf over her abundant dark hair; and for 
 one ineffable moment he had held her in his arms, 
 her lips yielded to his own. 
 
 There are moments in every life that time never 
 effaces the perfect memory of, — moments to which 
 all external circumstances seem to contribute their 
 measure of appropriate beauty. Philip saw, as clearly 
 as if it had been yesterday, the gleaming radiance of 
 the snow on the lawn, and of the white rim that every 
 branch and twig lifted into the moonlight. The tall 
 
 27 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 colonial columns of the porch, the dark tangle of the 
 bare wistaria, icicle-hung, that festooned their capi- 
 tals, the long black shadows on the floor, — even the 
 sound of his mare restlessly pawing the snow of the 
 driveway, — it all made a complete and thrilling fact 
 of memory. 
 
 With a quivering sigh he had released her at last. 
 "IcanH say good-by," he had whispered. '^What am 
 I going to do without you?" 
 
 The brave, resolute smile she had returned to him, 
 through eyes that glistened, illumined dark places 
 in his heart. "You will not have to do without me, 
 Philip. I shall be with you all the time." 
 
 He had quickly risen to the height of her own noble 
 spirit. "I know you will," he had said. "I can share 
 everything with you. I shall have something fine to 
 live for, — to make you proud of me ! " 
 
 "You are going out into the world to do splendid 
 things," she said. "You are my knight, Philip; and 
 I sit in my tower, waiting for your return. I can wait 
 a long time, because I know you will come." 
 
 He pressed her hand reverently to his lips. 
 
 "Have you decided to tell the Colonel?" he asked, 
 using the appellation for her father that he had used 
 since childhood. 
 
 "I rather think I won't — not yet, Philip," she 
 had answered softly. "I have the feeling, — I don't 
 know if I 'm right, — that just now he wants me all 
 
 28 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 for himself. You understand what I mean ? But you 
 know how fond he is of you; — he likes us to be 
 friends." 
 
 It had been easy enough for him to apprehend her 
 position. Colonel Raebum had been a virtual invalid 
 for some years. Of late his invalidism had become 
 almost complete. Georgia was his devoted nurse, his 
 inseparable companion. She adored her father. She 
 had willingly sacrificed the last years of a college 
 course to be with him. His minute exactions upon 
 her strength and affection, which would sometimes 
 have seemed tyrannical to any heart less generously 
 dedicated than hers, were always gladly responded 
 to. She was proud to know herself necessary to him. 
 There was no rebellion in her soul against the isola- 
 tion of her lot ; nor was it indeed in any desire for 
 freedom nor in hunger for a new and different love 
 that she had given her promise to Philip Wetherell. 
 
 They had always been friends. For some years 
 she had felt herself to be singled out in a pecuKar sense 
 by his heart. And she knew that she loved him. His 
 fineness and generosity of spirit, his courage, his tal- 
 ents, and the glowing intensity of his affection were 
 all very precious to her. She loved him most for the 
 qualities in which he most resembled the one object 
 of her adoration. Philip knew that her father held 
 first place in her heart, and he was too generous to 
 be jealous or to claim more for himself — now. Be- 
 
 29 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 sides he had no right, he believed, to ask for more. 
 His career was all ahead of him ; he was only at the 
 beginning. He had nothing to offer her but hope 
 and dreams; and it made him proud that she was 
 willing to share these with him. 
 
 Consequently when she had told him of her decision 
 to say nothing to her father, he had immediately 
 acquiesced. "You know better than I what is best," 
 he said. "Everything will be between ourselves as 
 long as you wish." 
 
 Their talk had been interrupted by the tinkle of 
 a bell from within the house. 
 
 "I must go," she whispered, and turned her face 
 quickly to him for the parting kiss. "Good-by, 
 Philip." 
 
 An instant later he had leaped to Griselda's back, 
 and was tearing away through the powdery snow, 
 which broke into a cloud under her flying hoofs. 
 
 The months that followed had seen the completion, 
 with high honours, of his graduate course at the Poly- 
 technic; a brief, memorable pilgrimage to the chief 
 architectural shrines of France and Italy ; and his es- 
 tablishment, now six weeks old, in the draughting- 
 room of a downtown firm, where flattering prospects 
 partly compensated for a meagre salary. Shortly 
 before his return from the other side, Georgia had 
 accompanied her father to a sanatorium of the middle 
 west, in the hope that the change of air and routine 
 
 30 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 might bring some benefit to his valvular trouble ; and 
 lately the news that had come to Philip had been 
 most gratifying. 
 
 He was better, yes, it did really seem so, than for 
 many months. He could walk about with compara- 
 tive ease ; he could see people without being exhausted 
 by it; his appetite was improving; he was sleeping 
 well ; his spirits were less clouded, — he laughed often, 
 and seemed happy to talk of old times. They were 
 even making plans to return to Highstone for the 
 winter. Philip would be coming home perhaps — 
 could n't he manage it ? — for the holiday and week- 
 end. There would be long rides together over their 
 favourite roads, and a tramp to the top of dear old 
 Yelping Hill, where the witch-hazel would be sure 
 to be in blossom. 
 
 Philip had not delayed to assure her that he could 
 manage it. By putting in several evenings at the ofiice, 
 he had already guaranteed himself the extra day 
 and a half. For the past fortnight the thought of the 
 return to the hills and of seeing Georgia again had be- 
 come a preoccupation with him, filling every moment 
 of leisure, and often intruding unbidden upon his 
 working hours. He was hungry for her. He trembled 
 at the idea of holding her in his arms once more, and 
 of feeling her cheek close to his own. The intimacy 
 and freedom of talk they would have was most de- 
 lightful to him in anticipation, — the mere being again 
 
 31 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 with some one who cared for him, who shared his 
 ideals and ambitions. 
 
 Still new to the life of the metropolis, he had not 
 yet recovered from the cruel loneliness that a sensi- 
 tive nature always experiences in the presence of 
 countless thousands of fellow- beings utterly unknown 
 to it. Never a face out of all those multitudes that 
 he recognized ! He was quick to sense the vast, multi- 
 plex, enthralling life of the total organism; but still 
 he was outside it all. He did not yet belong. He had 
 not formed any intimate ties. His shyness stood in 
 his way, and an instinctive fastidiousness which de- 
 manded a something in friendship that none of his 
 new acquaintances seemed ready to afford. 
 
 Loyal moreover to the principles of his New Eng- 
 land upbringing, he had not yielded to any of the 
 city's facile seductions, despite a temperament whose 
 ardour was almost meridional, and a craving for plea- 
 sure that corresponded in its intensity to the freedom 
 and masculine vigour of his imagination. But this 
 loyalty had been maintained only at the price of se- 
 vere and costly struggles, — the more severe and the 
 more costly from the fact that they must always be 
 most resolutely persevered in when discouragement, 
 or loneliness, or fatigue was heaviest upon his soul. 
 
 Then it was that the impulses to let go, to drink 
 deeply of the cup of indulgence, had been most im- 
 perative; and there were more than a few nights al- 
 
 32 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ready in the tale of these six weeks when he had bound 
 himself remorselessly to the perusal of the pages of a 
 technical treatise, not daring to let his mind out of its 
 leash for an instant ; or had paced up and down West 
 Street with clenched hands, timing the journey to 
 the Battery and back. On such occasions the thought 
 of Georgia and his hope of seeing her before many 
 weeks and the pride he had that he could tell her 
 everything without shame or apology were his great- 
 est moral reinforcements. It was just these, indeed, 
 that had plucked him to-day, a craft already caught 
 in a maelstrom, from the most vertiginous temptation 
 of his life. 
 
 He realized it with a new keenness now as, having 
 replaced the leather case, he continued to sit there 
 on the Park bench and began a mental review of the 
 scenes through which he had so lately passed, — the 
 street accident, the drive in the coupe with its first al- 
 luring intimations, then the cosy, familiar, audacious 
 tete-a-tete by the fire, — a whole procession of mem- 
 ories flashed before him with a faint, dangerous revival 
 of the warmth and colour of the original scenes them- 
 selves; and he found himself looking once more at 
 the small, elfin face of Katrinka, with its white skin, 
 golden-grey eyes, and strange, light-filled hair; saw 
 the flickering of each changeful mood across the 
 mobile lips; heard the odd music of her voice, with 
 its delicious ^^he's^^ and ^^my deafs^^; felt the whole 
 
 33 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 captivating abandon of her demeanour, the idolatry 
 of her regard, and the delirious, siren-like spell of 
 her invitation. 
 
 Philip picked up the hat, which he had laid beside 
 him on the seat, and looked at it intently. He won- 
 dered why he had consented to accept it, in view of 
 the thing it clearly implied: that he would return. 
 He could not quite have recognized it at the moment. 
 Yes, he had recognized it ; he had known perfectly 
 well what he was doing ; the fact was, he had not 
 had the will to refuse. There had been something 
 automatic, trance-like, about the whole operation. 
 Yet at no time had he really intended to go back. 
 
 Fortunately there were other means of returning 
 the articles than carrying them in person. He won- 
 dered whether she would be surprised that night when 
 he did not come. He had given no promise. On the 
 contrary, though he had said nothing, his fantastic 
 exit would certainly have indicated a clear refusal. 
 
 And it suddenly came over him that it must have 
 seemed very absurd to her — that vehement outbreak 
 of Puritanical virtue in him, the sincerity of which was 
 practically belied by his demonstrative farewell. No 
 doubt she had enjoyed a good laugh over it after he 
 had disappeared, or perhaps pondered, with that 
 sphinx-like smile of hers, on the weakness of a certain 
 type of man that desired what other men desired, yet 
 lacked the courage to enact the desire. What else 
 
 34 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 indeed could scruples mean to her than mere con- 
 ventionality and cowardice ? 
 
 A shiver passed over him as he suddenly became 
 aware of the insidious quality of the reverie upon which 
 his emotions had launched him. He must shake it off. 
 He felt in his pocket for his pipe, intending to fill it 
 and continue his walk southward through the Park; 
 but as he did so, his hand encountered an envelope ; 
 and with a start he remembered that it was a letter 
 from Georgia Raebum. The postman had handed it 
 to him just as he was quitting his lodgings that after- 
 noon, and he had saved it to read at leisure in this 
 very spot. 
 
 He drew it out, studied the superscription for a 
 moment, opened it with his penknife, inhaled the deli- 
 cate perfume of the faintly tinted pages, and began to 
 read. . . . 
 
 Five minutes later he still sat there, as in a stupor, 
 his eyes fixed absently before him, regarding nothing, 
 the letter held listlessly on one knee. 
 
 Well, they were not coming home, after all. 
 
 The Colonel was worse. The doctors advised them 
 to spend the winter in one of the cottages near the 
 sanatorium. They would probably do so. She won- 
 dered whether he would still plan to go up to the 
 country for Thanksgiving. She would be thinking 
 of him. ... 
 
 35 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Thinking of him. . . . Thinking of him! . . . 
 Much good that would do ! . . . 
 
 A bitter, choking resentment surged up in him 
 against the fate that held her away, just at the time 
 when most of all he needed her, when most he had 
 counted upon her to save him. The mockery of it! 
 What use was there in keeping up the thankless, hate- 
 ful struggle any longer, when this was the reward ! 
 
 He had never felt so wretchedly lonely before. He 
 saw the winter stretching ahead, dull, grinding, 
 monotonous, utterly barren. He was young; he was 
 full of Hfe; his whole being ached for pleasure. It 
 came blindly over him that he had a right to it. What 
 would it signify in the end whether he had slaked his 
 thirst now and again at forbidden fountains? Ka- 
 trinka had invited him to come back. She would be 
 waiting. . . . 
 
 The trees were dancing before his vision. With a 
 sudden horror of the step made so easy for him and 
 which he seemed to feel he was destined to take, 
 sooner or later, whether he would or no — Why not 
 sooner, since things had turned out this way ? — why 
 not ? — why not ? — He sprang to his feet, and set off 
 at a determined pace across the Park. 
 
 He told himself that he was going to fight off the 
 temptation; that nothing in heaven or earth would 
 make him yield to it. 
 
IV 
 
 In the kitchen of the old brick house on Mullin 
 Street, where Philip Wetherell had lodgings, matters 
 had come to a very bad pass, indeed. Victorine stood, 
 immensely agitated, before her glowing range, the 
 ruddy gleams from which, as she thrust her poker 
 vindictively through the bars of the grate, served 
 to heighten the already high colour of her broad 
 features. 
 
 "Ah, and is it not always like that nowadays!'' 
 she declared. "I tell you he cannot be trusted any 
 longer to do one little errand." 
 
 There was a sigh, slight as a breath of wind through 
 a key-hole, from a comer of the room where the low- 
 burning gas-jet failed to penetrate clearly. 
 
 "And what am I to do now, will you tell me?" went 
 on Victorine, putting down the poker noisily, and turn- 
 ing with arms defiantly akimbo toward her invisible 
 auditor. "What will become of the dinner? Does he 
 want to ruin it, — the papa Victor? What will one 
 do with a fish when he is cooked already and must 
 wait, wait, wait for his sauce ? No mustard, no sauce ; 
 no sauce, no fish ! " She spread her capable arms with 
 a gesture of tragic finality. "And Jenny is having 
 guests to-night!" 
 
 37 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 A thin, cricket-like voice came with feeble protest 
 out of the obscurity. 
 
 "Patience, a little patience, my Victorine. The 
 papa is old; you must remember he cannot march 
 like one time. Perhaps he need a little rest some 
 place." 
 
 Victorine gave a skeptical hunch to her stocky 
 shoulders. "Some place!" she grunted. "Yes, al- 
 ways some place ! It is not enough to sit all day by 
 the fire ; but when he go for a little box mustard he 
 must stop some place for a rest. Say, do I ever deny 
 him his little glass cognac when he come home tired ? 
 Was ever a daughter more devoted than me? No. 
 Yet always he will be stopping at that some place. — 
 Well, the fish will be ruined." 
 
 There was high tragedy in the set of her heavy brow. 
 
 "It is not your fault, petite," came the cricket-voice, 
 soothingly. "We must be patient wuth these men. 
 Life is full of troubles." 
 
 A step was heard outside the basement grill. 
 
 "Ah, there he comes!" cried Victorine. Her face 
 cleared; then fell again. "No, it is not the papa's 
 step. Who then?" 
 
 She listened anxiously. 
 
 A familiar voice called her. "May I come in, 
 mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Oh, it is Monsieur PhiUppe," she exclaimed. — 
 "Yes, monsieur. The gate is not latched. Come in." 
 
 38 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She hastily mopped her face with her apron, gave 
 a straightening touch to her small knob of hair, and 
 turned up the gas-jet. The gate squeaked and slammed 
 to, and an instant later Wetherell entered the kitchen. 
 The colour in his cheeks was high. 
 
 "Good-evening, mademoiselle. — Good-evening, 
 madame." He turned to the comer where a tiny, 
 white-coiffed old woman was discovered, deep in the 
 recesses of a padded arm-chair. "How is the old 
 maman to-night? And where is the papa Victor?" 
 
 He had the manner of being quite at home in this 
 savoury-smelling apartment. 
 
 "Oh, for him!" replied Victorine, with scornful 
 lightness, "he is taking his little glass some place. 
 All a half-hour ago he went to the comer for some 
 mustard. He does not care if the dinner is ruined." 
 
 " It does n't smell mined," observed Philip, seating 
 himself in the papa's chair at one side of the range. 
 "It smells like a cuHnary masterpiece. Some day you 
 will be worshipped as goddess of the cuisine, made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 One would have said that the contriver of this 
 compliment must have some object in view. He had, 
 indeed, the look of wanting to say something more, if 
 only the opening would offer itself. 
 
 But Victorine's temper was not greatly mollified. 
 "Oh, it would not be too bad, I dare say, if it must 
 not wait, wait till the end of the world. It is a dis- 
 
 39 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 grace, the way he has deserted me, and him a cook 
 too, by profession, and the inventor of the famous 
 Sauce of the Cafe Antoine!" 
 
 "Come," proposed Philip, in a voice that was in- 
 tended to be bold, but seemed all the more shy on 
 that account ; "I will make a bargain with you, made- 
 moiselle. I will go for the mustard myself. I will find 
 the papa and bring him home. Everything will be 
 saved." 
 
 Victorine clasped her stout hands. 
 
 "Oh, monsieur! You are too obliging. Oh, I could 
 never have the heart to permit you ! I would go my- 
 self, you understand, only I dare not leave my kitchen 
 at this moment. The dinner requires to be looked 
 after incessantly." 
 
 "Ah, but this is a bargain I am proposing," he pro- 
 tested with a laugh of some embarrassment. "I am 
 not generous. I demand my pay. Do you agree?" 
 
 She gave him a look in which a consuming desire 
 for a box of mustard struggled with a sudden mis- 
 giving. 
 
 "Surely, monsieur, it's not another of those sick 
 dogs!" 
 
 Philip opened his coat with a half-defiant, half- 
 apologetic smile, and bent his head solicitously over 
 a small bundle of grey fur. 
 
 "It is! It is!" ejaculated Victorine, despairingly. 
 
 "No, mademoiselle, it is not. See!" — he drew 
 40 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 it out tenderly. "It's only a little cat. — A poor, 
 harmless little innocent of a cat!" 
 
 "A cat! Oh, my God, what a horror!" she cried, 
 throwing up defensive hands. "But it is impossible, 
 monsieur. You promised me — have you forgotten 
 then ? — that a dog and a pigeon would be all. And 
 now we must have a cat! Never! Ney-vairT^ 
 
 He gave her a look of urgent supplication. "I know 
 it's not very clean," he admitted, in the most ingrati- 
 ating of voices. " I would n't have brought it, honestly, 
 only one leg seems to have been broken somehow, 
 and I thought I ought not to miss this chance to see 
 if I could splint it successfully. There were some boys 
 throwing pieces of brick at it." 
 
 "The world is too full of cats," asseverated Vic- 
 torine, crisply. She tested a boiling potato with a 
 long fork ; then clapped the cover noisily on the pot. 
 
 He gave her a reproachful look which the steam 
 absorbed before it reached her. "See, mademoiselle, 
 when it is washed up, and has a nice white ribbon 
 round its neck, it will not look so bad. It will be 
 quite pretty, in a way, quite chic. You wouldn't 
 mind very much, surely, would you?" 
 
 There was a sharp ring at the upstairs door-bell. 
 
 "Those are Jenny's guests," gasped the woman. 
 "No mustard ! No mustard !" She wrung her hands 
 dramatically. 
 
 "I am going for it," said Philip, seizing his advan- 
 41 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 tage. "See, I will leave the kitten in the papa Victor's 
 chair. What shop do you get it at?" 
 
 "The little delicatessen, monsieur, just around the 
 comer. Oh, you are kind ! — And if you see the old 
 papa some place, tell him he has perfectly ruined the 
 fish!" 
 
 The young man, stooping over his little foundling, 
 gave it a monitory pat or two, to impress it with the 
 need of good behaviour. "I'll be back in three min- 
 utes," he promised, and made a hasty exit from the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Victorine busied herself noisily at the stove. "What 
 a man! What a man!" she exclaimed, disgust and 
 admiration vying in her tone. " Can any one say what 
 he will bring into this house next ? — A monkey, I 
 wouldn't be surprise'!" 
 
 "Torine, ma fille, you are too impatient," chirped 
 the old woman, who till now had taken no part in 
 the argument. "You must expect a little trouble in 
 this world. No one pretends that life is easy for us 
 women." 
 
 Victorine did not think it necessary either to agree 
 or to disagree with this favourite sentiment of the 
 maman Susanne's, but continued her monologue, as 
 she stirred the potage, tasted it, and added an extra 
 shake of cayenne. 
 
 "First a pigeon with a torn wing; then a dog with 
 one ear bitten off in a fight — oh, such a dog ! a 
 
 42 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 veritable disgrace, in God's name! — and now" — she 
 turned accusingly on the newcomer, and her voice 
 rose to a desperate pitch — ^^you /" 
 
 The kitten was busily licking its injured member, 
 and only paused to give her a look of grave inquiry. 
 Victorine bent a little closer to examine its appear- 
 ance, her nose knotted with disgust. 
 
 "You are im-pos-seeble!'' she announced, finally, 
 with three Rhadamanthine shakes of the head, each 
 more terrible than the last. 
 
 "Monsieur Philippe is a very nice young man, — 
 tres gentil," put in the tiny voice, faintly. 
 
 "Oh, I do not say he is too bad," consented the 
 younger woman, guardedly. "He has not the abomi- 
 nable habits of some young men. He never has a dozen 
 companions in his room at night to sing and get drunk 
 and smash the furniture like that monster who had the 
 mansarde last summer. He always brings his rent 
 every two weeks." 
 
 "Ah, but that is something, Torine," observed 
 Mother Susanne, deeply, "in a world like ours, where 
 so many never pay rent at all. Yes, my Torine, that 
 is something in this world." 
 
 There was a rattle at the gate-latch, and the sound 
 of voices. 
 
 "The mustard!" ejaculated Victorine, making 
 ambling speed out of the room. 
 
 "The papa!" piped the shrivelled little creature in 
 43 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the white Norman coiffe, pressing her gnarled hands 
 together. 
 
 Philip reentered the kitchen before the others, 
 gathered up his new charge with eager tenderness, 
 and waited for the verdict. 
 
 Mademoiselle followed closely. "Yes, it is the 
 right species," she declared. "The dinner may be 
 rescued yet." Already she had pried open the yellow 
 box and was measuring out the precious powder. 
 "You are very kind, monsieur." 
 
 "And the cat may stay?" 
 
 Victorine was strangely absorbed in her culinary 
 duties, and vouchsafed no answer. Philip finally 
 repeated his question. 
 
 "And the cat may stay, mademoiselle?" 
 
 She did not look at him. "One night, monsieur." 
 The words seemed to have been forcefully jerked 
 out of her. "Put a little box in the rear basement. 
 That is our hospital nowadays." 
 
 Taking advantage of the entrance at this moment 
 of the papa Victor, Philip hastily left the kitchen, 
 and made his way to the extension basement. As he 
 opened the door, One-Ear bounded to meet him with 
 a yelp of impish pleasure. No, you could not much 
 blame Victorine La Bergere for not being drawn to 
 her lodger's pets. One-Ear was a rakehell cur. 
 Worse than that, he took a shameless satisfaction in 
 being one. A runaway kinetoscope could not have 
 
 44 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 attributed him with a greater number of grotesque 
 poses per minute than he was capable of assuming, 
 by the aid of his squat legs, impudent, bristly tail, long 
 neck, and solitary auricular appendage. 
 
 But to-night, instead of the customary romp, for 
 which he was ready, he heard himself peremptorily 
 ordered to his box, and with tail suddenly limp, ren- 
 dered obedience. Philip did not wish to be inter- 
 rupted in the surgical attentions which he was about 
 to administer to the kitten's leg. He whittled some 
 splints ; he brought hot water, soap, and rags, and for 
 the next hour was completely absorbed in his under- 
 taking, quite forgetting that he had had no dinner, 
 forgetting indeed for the time being that the world 
 offered any more serious problem than that of secur- 
 ing night's lodgings for abandoned cats from recal- 
 citrant landladies. 
 
 With Mademoiselle Victorine, as may readily be 
 inferred, his difficulties had already been pronounced, 
 though by the employment of assiduous tact, flattery, 
 bribery, and persuasiveness, he had so far won her 
 consent to his projects. 
 
 "But, monsieur," she had said to him one day, 
 with a supercilious gesture, "but, monsieur, you have 
 the heart of a young girl. It is an absurdity!" 
 
 Philip had flushed to the roots of his hair. 
 
 "Not at all," he had replied, defiantly. "You do 
 not understand, mademoiselle. My interest in these 
 
 45 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 things is scientific. I watch the healing of wounds, 
 the knitting of broken bones, with the most profound 
 attention. What reason should I have, pray, for want- 
 ing to keep a dirty little beast around, if it were not 
 that each case presents some new problem?" 
 
 Victorine grunted skeptically. "You are a scien- 
 tist?'' she asked, with a masterful innuendo. 
 
 "Not by profession," replied Philip. "But science 
 has always been one of my greatest interests." 
 
 "In that case," said Mademoiselle La Berg^re, 
 "you should be dear, dear friends with that tall, 
 silent Monsieur Barry who has the room next to you. 
 Every night he is at work, sometimes till one o'clock, 
 over his microscope. You must tell him about your 
 science." 
 
 Victorine could be magnificent, when the mood 
 was on her. Philip shuddered at the approach of the 
 day, certainly not far ahead, when all his arts would 
 not avail to extract another favour from her crisply 
 shut Hps. He resolved, indeed, that he would save 
 himself from the mortification of a refusal. This 
 would be his last folly. 
 
 After the new charge had been fed with warm milk 
 and put to bed in a small carpeted box next to the 
 furnace, Philip stopped to have a little talk with One- 
 Ear, who cocked his evil head on one side like a bat- 
 tered gargoyle and raised such a bedlam of barks 
 that he had to be sent back into retirement for fear of 
 
 46 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 disturbing the household. Then he shut the door of 
 the rear basement and ran up to his room. 
 
 Before he had reached the top of the second flight, 
 he remembered the problem that had been sleeping 
 in the back of his mind for almost two hours. In the 
 interval it seemed only to have gained a fiery intensity 
 of life. It was not to be put out of his head by merely 
 declaring that it had been already decided. It had 
 not been decided, nor would it be so long as alter- 
 native lines of action were open to him. What was 
 he going to do ? 
 
 At this moment he found it possible to say to him- 
 self that he was going to stay quietly at home with a 
 book. It came to him that it would be pleasant to 
 run downstairs every hour or so to have a look at 
 Cassee, — he had chosen the name because of the 
 broken leg, — and something warm and tender that 
 had stirred at his heart had appeased, to a certain 
 extent, the loneliness and hunger that had preyed 
 upon him that afternoon. He would read for a while ; 
 and then he would write a letter to Georgia, telling 
 her as many amusing things as he could. — Why 
 had n't she been sorrier, he wondered, at giving up 
 the home trip? Probably because she was so ab- 
 sorbed in her father's troubles that she had not had 
 much time to think about the other thing. Yet it 
 seemed as if she might have said a little more, if only 
 for his sake, for she must have known that to him, 
 
 47 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 at least, it would be a terrible disappointment. — 
 But perhaps she had not thought of that, either. 
 
 Arrived in his snug little mansarde, he lighted his 
 green-shaded lamp, stirred up the fire in the Frank- 
 lin stove, donned bath-robe and slippers, and pro- 
 ceeded to assemble from closet and chiffonier the es- 
 sentials of a very simple repast. He told himself that 
 he was not going to take the trouble to go out to a 
 restaurant to-night. 
 
 That is what he told himself. In reality he was obey- 
 ing a precautionary instinct. Without acknowledging 
 it to himself, he had a vivid sense of the instability 
 of his present mood, and he wanted to guard it in 
 every way he could. For deepest of all his desires — 
 and he knew it — was the desire to be loyal to the best 
 that was in him. So slight a thing as the thought of 
 the little sick cat in the box by the furnace, if he 
 could only hold it in his mind, might be enough to 
 carry him through the ordeal of these next two 
 hours. 
 
 But he by no means said all this to himself. He 
 did not pose in his own eyes as a St. Anthony. He 
 did not look for melodramatic elements in the situa- 
 tion. He was as healthy-minded as most healthy 
 young men ; not in the least given to pr)dng into the 
 recesses of his own mind. But he knew that there 
 was a seething flood of dangerous desire within him, 
 and that it might boil up at any moment and over- 
 
 48 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 whelm him. Instinctively he grasped at whatever 
 seemed to promise security. 
 
 Having finished his meagre supper, he took up a 
 treatise on Reinforced Concrete Construction, found 
 his place in it, and set himself earnestly to read. 
 
 The attempt was a failure. For a few minutes, 
 while he forced his attention resolutely on the scent, 
 he could follow the author's exposition ; then insen- 
 sibly, without being aware of the relaxing process, 
 he would be merely reading the words with his eye, 
 grasping nothing of the ideas behind them. When he 
 recognized what had occurred, he would conscien- 
 tiously go back to the point of wandering and begin 
 afresh. But it was no use. He grew more and more 
 out of patience with himself, and at last, with an ex- 
 clamation of disgust, flung the book across the room 
 at a pile of couch-cushions. 
 
 Next he drew out a sheet of writing paper, and with 
 great precision penned the date ; then sat impotently 
 before the white sheet for ten minutes, without an 
 idea in his head, biting the end of his pen. At last he 
 tore the thing angrily to pieces ; threw off his lounging 
 robe, and got out his drawing-board, upon which he 
 had a partly traced elevation of the design he meant 
 to enter in the Terra Cotta Competition. At least, 
 he said to himself, he could ink. That did not re- 
 quire thought: merely mechanical dexterity and 
 patience. 
 
 49 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 For twenty minutes he worked furiously and with- 
 out a moment's relaxation, his lips pressed white 
 together, his feet drumming nervously on the floor. 
 He heard a clock downstairs buzzing for the hour, and 
 counted the strokes as they tinkled briskly into the 
 silence. Eight. 
 
 Eight ! He dropped his pen and stared blankly at 
 the opposite wall. 
 
 Just now she was beginning to expect him. He 
 could see the glittering, luxurious apartment, fragrant, 
 inviting abandon; and her, the elusive, bewildering, 
 irresistible spirit of it, sitting in the deep chair by the 
 hearth, her little feet drawn up under her, her dream- 
 like hair ruddy in the glow of the fire. . . . 
 
 He set his teeth into his lips till they hurt, and bent 
 more fiercely than ever over his drawing-board. He 
 felt himself slipping, slipping, — as if an invisible, re- 
 sistless net had fallen about him, and were drawing 
 him off his feet. Was this the end of the struggle ? he 
 asked himself. Was this the final subjugation of the 
 spirit in him ? His brain seemed to be growing numb. 
 
 A knock at the door startled him almost out of his 
 chair, and he had only time to recover a semblance 
 of composure, before his gaunt fellow-lodger, John 
 Barry, entered the room. 
 
Although for six weeks the two men had occupied 
 adjoining rooms, this was the first time they had in- 
 terchanged more than a perfunctory word of greeting 
 on the stairs or at the door. There was something 
 in the mien of the older man that discouraged ad- 
 vances, — a certain defiance, if not contemptuousness, 
 in the carriage of the head, the slight dilation of the 
 nostril, and the habitual curl of the thin lip under its 
 sparse, discoloured beard. 
 
 "Won't you have a chair?" asked Philip, some- 
 what at a loss for his visitor's business. 
 
 "Thank you," repUed Barry, with a negative 
 gesture of his lean, long-fingered hand. "I came in 
 only to inquire whether you possessed such a com- 
 modity as a bottle of India Ink. My own seems to 
 have run dry. — Ah, but I see you are doing some 
 drawing, yourself." He made a movement.to go. "I 
 trust you will pardon my interruption." 
 
 There was precision about the man's language 
 that contrasted oddly with his negligent, threadbare 
 clothes, soiled collar, and unkempt hair and beard. 
 
 "Hold on," cried PhiUp. "I'm only fiddling. I don't 
 care when I do this. I wish you'd take the ink." 
 
 "You call that fiddling, eh?" asked the other, ap- 
 
 51 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 preaching the desk with interest. "It looks very much 
 like work to me, — workmanly work, too," he added, 
 taking a puff at his black stogie, ''if I may presume 
 to an opinion without knowing anything of the sub- 
 ject." He surveyed the elevation intently. ''Is it a 
 practical design?" 
 
 "No," answered Philip, more gratified than he 
 could account for by the man's appreciation. "At 
 least not specifically so. Expense is not a factor in 
 the problem. The aim is merely to illustrate the 
 architectural possibilities of terra cotta. My idea is 
 to confine colour and ornament to the apertures, the 
 frieze, and the cornice — you see ? — here, and here. 
 The larger surfaces are left entirely plain." 
 
 Following the lead of an intelligent question or two, 
 he embarked upon an absorbed discussion of the 
 design. Before he had done, he had brought out the 
 whole series of tracings and explained them with 
 fevered volubility and enthusiasm. It was not cus- 
 tomary for him to talk like this. He wondered at it 
 himself as he heard the words come and recognized 
 in his voice an odd dry heightening of its usual pitch. 
 
 "No, a considerable number of the features are de- 
 liberate adaptations," he proffered, in answer to a 
 question of his guest's. "For example, that treatment 
 of the window cornice, — see, it's virtually the same 
 motif as in this Municipal Palace of Perugia." 
 
 He opened a sketch-book that lay on the table, and 
 
 52 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 exhibited a pencil study of the decoration in ques- 
 tion. The record had evidently been made rather 
 hastily; but there was a sure intellectual tact in the 
 rendering that could not be mistaken. Equally char- 
 acteristic of the artist's temper was the running ac- 
 companiment of thumb-nail sketches, remarques, that 
 filled in every comer of his book, — here a woman 
 with a jar of water on her shoulders, the vigorous 
 movement of her limbs revealed with almost uncanny 
 dexterity by a few drapery lines ; there a young girl 
 with a large, flat basket of flowers ; again an old man, 
 double-bent over a heavy stick and accompanied by a 
 droop-tail dog ; crowded into a lower comer, a scrawny 
 goat drinking out of a richly sculptured fountain. 
 
 "You have a rare talent for all that," said Barry, 
 with the first smile Philip had ever seen on his haughty 
 face. 
 
 The young man was too thoroughly the artist to 
 have recourse to any false modesty. 
 
 *' Yes," he admitted, frankly. "I have. And I take 
 an uncommon amount of pleasure in it." 
 
 "But you like your architecture better?" said 
 Barry. 
 
 The dark eyes of his companion glowed with en- 
 thusiasm. "It's the biggest, superbest thing in the 
 world!" he declared. "But it tests a man out relent- 
 lessly. I have n't yet proved myself. All I have so 
 far is my ambition." 
 
 S3 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The older man turned a penetrating scrutiny upon 
 him, but made no comment. 
 
 *^I must not impose further on your patience/' he 
 broke off. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll fetch my 
 ink bottle and half fill it from yours, if that's agree- 
 able to you." 
 
 He left the room for a moment. Philip caught out 
 his watch and stared at it. Only twenty minutes after 
 eight! He thought he had been talking an hour. 
 There was a seething tumult through his whole being 
 that made utterly impossible the thought of further 
 work that night. What was he going to do? What 
 was he going to do ? 
 
 "I had a few little histological diagrams I was 
 anxious to get completed," explained Barry, reen- 
 tering. "This is a genuine accommodation on your 
 part." 
 
 Philip took the bottle from him; but in filling it 
 from his own his hand shook so violently that some 
 of the ink was spilled. 
 
 "That's abominable!" he exclaimed, in dismay. 
 "I'm downright mortified." 
 
 Barry fastened steady, deep-seeing eyes upon his 
 face. "I observe," he remarked, quietly, "that you 
 are a very tired and distraught young man." 
 
 "I don't know what's the matter with me," said 
 Philip, stupidly. 
 
 "You can't bum the candle at both ends," com- 
 
 54 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 merited Barry, wiping the bottle on the lining of his 
 ragged coat. "A young man like you needs relaxa- 
 tion. Take my word for it, you won't achieve that 
 ambition of yours any the quicker for trying to 
 achieve it too quick." 
 
 "You may be right," consented his auditor. "I 
 had the feeling that I ought to stick to it to-night." 
 
 "Ought! Ought!" echoed the older man with a 
 harsh laugh. "Where did you learn that word, pray? 
 Are you from New England?" 
 
 "Yes; all my ancestry is New England," rejoined 
 Philip. "I'm proud of it." 
 
 "Be as proud of it as you like, young man; but 
 don't let your precious inheritance of oughts be the 
 wreck of you. Did n't you say just now that your am- 
 bition was the biggest thing in your life ?" 
 
 His listener nodded, dully. 
 
 "Well, then, there's conscience enough for you. 
 Don't worship a fetich. Do you keep your old New 
 England religion?" 
 
 "No, not most of it." 
 
 "You've freed yourself from the letter of it : that^s 
 all. The chains of its hell-fire code are still on you. 
 They hamper you all the time. You haven't the 
 courage to live up to your ambition and to let that 
 become your morality. Did you ever make excur- 
 sions into natural science?" 
 
 "Very little into the philosophy of the thing." 
 
 55 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "It might have been a good antidote for some of 
 these moral superstitions." 
 
 The man's voice had an almost wounding caus- 
 ticity. " Go to Nature for your moral code, and she '11 
 offer you one that has its foundations on rock-bottom 
 facts. It may not be dainty or poetic. — Shocking, 
 perhaps, to the delicate sensibilities of the moral sen- 
 timentalists. But sound ; verifiable ; and if your eyes 
 are opened you can read it authoritatively in all the 
 operations of human society to-day, despite the pretty 
 masks and disguises that philosophies and religions 
 have drawn over it. Leave philosophies and religions 
 to the ignorant, the weak, and the timid. Concede 
 them their world of illusions." 
 
 Barry was speaking with the fervour of a prophet, 
 his proud head thrown back, a sneer of bitterness 
 and disenchantment on his sensitive lips. Philip had 
 not in the least been prepared for such an outbreak. 
 He was in no condition to criticize the man's declara- 
 tion of unfaith, or to take issue with it. He could not 
 think. He felt himself swept along on the wave. 
 
 "Nature blessed me with a very particular, unusual, 
 and precious birthright," declared Barry, with a jar- 
 ring, metallic laugh. "And in return, I take every 
 opportunity that comes to me to preach her gospel. 
 — One law, one gospel, namely, and to wit: Get! 
 operative in plant, animal, anthropoid, and homo 
 sapiens." 
 
 56 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 He brought his two hands together with an abrupt 
 gesture of finaHty ; then, with a shrug of the shoulders 
 that might have been a shudder, fastened upon his 
 physiognomy its habitual mask of restraint and hau- 
 teur. 
 
 "My harangue is done for this time," he said. 
 "Once I get launched it's not easy to stop me." 
 
 Philip had sunk into a chair, overcome by a strange 
 weakness. There was not a ghost of protest in him. 
 The cynical dogma he had just listened to was terri- 
 fyingly welcome at this moment ; all the wild desires 
 of his nature, struggling in their leash, shouted and 
 danced as they felt the hand that had checked them 
 slowly, certainly relaxing its control. 
 
 "Don't work any more to-night," directed Barry, 
 sternly, as he quitted the room. "Your New Eng- 
 land conscience has been doing its best to strangle you. 
 Take it in hand while there is yet time. And if you 
 ever want any more of the New Law and Prophets, 
 come to me. — Good-night." 
 
 Philip continued sitting in his chair after his guest 
 had departed, staring dully at the closed door. Some- 
 thing had happened. He was free, — free. The tor- 
 menting struggle within him had subsided. He was 
 only dimly conscious that time was passing. A de- 
 licious, drug-like lassitude rippled and flowed over his 
 senses. 
 
 Finally, with a start, recollecting himself, he drew 
 
 57 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 out his watch again. Eight-forty! He would be late. 
 But what of that? 
 
 Springing to his feet, he hastily slipped off his busi- 
 ness clothes and proceeded to don a scrupulous even- 
 ing costume. At three minutes to nine he stood be- 
 fore the glass, administering the final judicial touches 
 to tie and hair. Then he threw on his muffler and 
 surtout, set his opera hat over his crisp, black locks, 
 and took his gloves. He was ready. He turned down 
 the light automatically, opened the door, and had 
 reached the head of the stairs, before a sudden, ar- 
 resting afterthought struck him. 
 
 He retraced his steps hurriedly; reached up his 
 hand to the key of the chandelier ; hesitated a second ; 
 shivered; extinguished the light; and once more left 
 the room. 
 
VI 
 
 Because she had noticed that he loved flowers, 
 she had filled the room with luxuriant ferns and jars 
 of rare chrysanthemums and orchids until, under the 
 dim illumination of its opal-shaded lamp, it resembled 
 some exotic grotto, touched into enchantment by the 
 fitful, ruddy flashes of the fire. She had not doubted 
 his coming. It had never occurred to her that her 
 invitation might be rejected. 
 
 She was accustomed to be desired. It was the at- 
 mosphere in which she had always lived. She was 
 accustomed to be sought after, to be sued by every 
 device known to the men who trade in love : flattery, 
 gold, adoration, jewels, threats. She had seen men's 
 faces distorted and wolfish with the hunger of love. 
 And now, for the first time in her life, she was waiting 
 for a lover who did not come. 
 
 When the Sevres clock on the mantelpiece uttered 
 its soft, unobtrusive note of the half-hour, the sound 
 brought dismay into her heart. 
 
 "Susan," she called. 
 
 The domestic appeared at the door. 
 
 "Please telephone to the Central, like a good girl, 
 and ask for the exact time." Her voice had the leaden 
 inexpressiveness of great fatigue. 
 
 59 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Nervously rising to her feet, she switched on a sun- 
 burst of ceiling lights, crossed the room, and sur- 
 veyed herself critically in the handsome pier-glass 
 that was placed between the windows. In the diffuse 
 brilHance of the artificial light, a very different love- 
 liness lay upon her from that of the November after- 
 noon, yet one equally strange and indicible. The low- 
 cut gown of filmy frost-green revealed a neck and 
 shoulders of alabaster whiteness and whose perfec- 
 tion of contour was enhanced by the single medallion 
 of limpid beryl that hung from a thread-like chain 
 and half concealed, half emphasized the delicious 
 hollow in which it rested. The exquisite outlines of 
 the lips had been more clearly defined by a touch 
 of carmine ; but her cheeks still retained their trans- 
 parent, lustrous pallor. She had drawn down her hair 
 smoothly over her ears, and fastened it in a low knot 
 at the nape of the neck ; and about it she had bound, 
 for sole ornament, a narrow ribbon of green velvet. 
 
 With leisurely, dispassionate attention she passed 
 every detail of her toilette in review. She was satisfied. 
 
 "If he could only see me now!" she said to her- 
 self ; and a wave of longing enveloped her that made 
 the tears start. She bent intently toward the mirror, 
 until her face almost touched the reflection of itself. 
 
 "You are beautiful, my dear. You are beautiful, 
 beautiful!'^ she declared, half defiantly. "Oh, he 
 must come!" 
 
 60 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She remembered again how he had left her; and 
 with that memory she tried to regain her assurance. 
 It was only some delay ! It could not be that he would 
 not soon arrive! 
 
 Susan reentered the room. "It is twenty-five min- 
 utes to ten, madam," she announced. 
 
 "Ah, then the clock is right," answered Katrinka, 
 mechanically, while her hope faded. "I do not know 
 that we shall need the supper. Probably not." 
 
 "Shall I put away the things then?" 
 
 "No. Don't put away the things. Not quite yet. 
 Wait just a few minutes more. There may have been 
 some mistake. — Oh /" 
 
 There came an impetuous ring of the bell. 
 
 "Let him in, Susan." 
 
 A sudden weakness sent her to the mantelpiece 
 for support. She leant upon it heavily with one elbow, 
 and put her hand with a quick gesture of suffocation 
 to her throat. 
 
 The next instant Wetherell entered the room. His 
 face was set and bloodless; but his eyes burned. 
 
 "Oh — " was all she could gasp. — "You came!" 
 
 He darted forward, speechless, and caught her 
 in his arms, while his lips buried themselves in 
 her hair. For an instant she abandoned herself to 
 his embrace; then she liberated herself, and stood 
 back. 
 
 " Oh, — stop ! " she cried, faintly. 
 6i 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 With damp hands clenched, he dropped into a deep 
 chair before the fire. 
 
 There was a silence of some duration, while each 
 strove to regain a measure of composure. Katrinka was 
 experiencing what was, perhaps, the first real shyness 
 of her life. She realized that she had triumphed ; but 
 a flash of insight had been vouchsafed her into a trag- 
 edy that appalled her spirit. She was vaguely aware 
 that the moment just passed stood for an epoch in 
 the life of the man she had so lightly enticed thither, 
 — a crucial capitulation. Forces quite beyond her 
 comprehension had battled with her for the mastery. 
 There had been not only a victory, but a defeat also. 
 
 In the firelight she saw the beads of moisture gleam 
 redly on his forehead, while he sat there staring, im- 
 movably, into the blaze. The silence became intoler- 
 able. It echoed and beat through the room, drowning 
 the tick of the clock. 
 
 At last she murmured, "I was angry at you for not 
 coming; but now, — oh, my dear, I am almost sorry 
 you came." 
 
 Her utterance had the timid simplicity of a child. 
 There was nothing left in her of the coquette; no 
 archness; no double meanings; only the frightened 
 tenderness of utter adoration. 
 
 * * Sorry ! — Why ? ' ' The man brought out the words 
 with an effort, not turning his head. 
 
 " Because, — Oh, I did n't understand, my dear. 
 
 62 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 I don't now. Only, some way, I know that you 're dij- 
 ferent. You're too good for me." 
 
 He was on his knees beside her, pressing her cold 
 hands to his temples. "Too good for you!" he 
 groaned. "Haven't I sold my soul for you? Have 
 n't I done it of my own free will, knowingly, deliber- 
 ately ? What is there left of me now that 's too good 
 for you? — I'll sell that too!" 
 
 She passed her fingers gently through his raven- 
 black hair. "Come, we are going to be sensible, my 
 dear," she said, very softly. "You will go back home. 
 You are not going to stay any longer. We will forget 
 each other." 
 
 The man raised his face to her with an agonizing 
 inquiry. "Do you mean that?" he asked, through 
 lips that only half shaped the words. 
 
 The woman shuddered. "No," she answered 
 faintly. 
 
 She put back his hair from his damp brow, and 
 kissed it very lightly; then made a movement to 
 rise. 
 
 "There," she said, gently. "Now you know every- 
 thing. — Listen. We are going to have a little supper. 
 Promise me you will behave very, very proper, like 
 my good little boy — he? You will not make me 
 reproach you once." 
 
 She went to the door. "Susan, we will have supper 
 at ten o'clock." She turned to Philip with a bright 
 
 63 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 smile. "And now/' she said, "you must admire my 
 flowers. I get them all for you. — Listen, my dear, 
 I shall call you Lippo, because I am sure you were 
 bore in Naples. '^ 
 
 "If I was bom in Naples, you were bom in some 
 lovely cave, deep, deep, under the sea. To-night 
 you make me think of a wave crowned with foam 
 far out from shore. — Or else you came into being 
 in the heart of a magic forest, where a little sunlight 
 filters down only at mid-day, the trees are so tall." 
 
 "Ah, that is pretty," she cried. "I am glad you Kke 
 the woods. I was in the Black Forest once. Oh, it 
 was superb. And again, one time, I was in the Forest 
 of Fontainebleau. It was not so magnificent, no, 
 but oh, my dear, if you could see Barbizon, — even 
 to-day, when the great artists are gone! And oh, 
 my Lippo, such a cunning Httle restaurant out under 
 the trees at the end of the village, in a sort of grove. 
 Shall I ever forget it ? Such venison patties as I had 
 there will never be again, I swear to you." 
 
 Philip had been at Barbizon, too, traversing the 
 forest on his wheel; but he did not recall the restau- 
 rant. 
 
 "No? How funny!" she exclaimed. "A big grey 
 stone wall, don't you remember it ? and such a pretty 
 gate, with vines that hung down — so ! — and little 
 pink blossoms like tiny insects with wings. And oh, 
 my dear, the moon at Barbizon ! Do you remember ? 
 
 64 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 They never have a moon like that anywhere else in 
 the world, almost as bright as the day, and so calm, 
 so still, like a dream. I do not wonder those artists 
 fell in love with Barbizon, do you ? Poor old Millet, 
 with all his children, — how many of them ? Nine ? 
 What an absurdity, he, for an artist, who should be free 
 like a bird. — And never a sou to support them with ! " 
 
 Katrinka had succeeded in regaining much of her 
 customary vivacity. But she was far from being the 
 woman of the afternoon. The manner of the siren 
 had been laid by and forgotten as soon as the lure of 
 the siren had done its work. More than that, some- 
 thing in the intensity and abandon of the man^s 
 adoration had wrought a change in her attitude 
 toward him, which had become timid, veiled, girlish, 
 even, as if the sophistication of all her earlier experi- 
 ences in love had quite evaporated, and she were 
 knowing for the first time its thrill and wonder. 
 
 They examined the flowers together with unaffected 
 delight ; and she made him shift the jars about from 
 one position to another, to try the effects of different 
 lights and combinations. She made him admire her 
 new player-piano, and gave him a very creditable per- 
 formance of two of Moszkowski's Spanish Dances. 
 Then she began a roll of Oberon selections ; but broke 
 off suddenly, and half turned her face to him, with a 
 pensive, far-away expression that he had not seen 
 before. 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ^'I had a little sylvan dance I used to do to that, 
 oh, long ago, six, seven years. It was one winter in 
 Copenhagen at a big cafe-theatre. And there was a 
 lovely, lovely Kttle song in Danish that went with 
 it. Wait a minute : this is how it went." 
 
 She sang a few words in a low, memory-haunted 
 voice, that quenched itself finally in a shiver. 
 
 "Ugh! That does not make me feel very gay, 
 after all. I do not Uke to remember those days to- 
 night. I was so poor, my dear ! As poor as a goat in 
 an alley ! Sometimes I could not even keep warm. My 
 fingers would be blue, — often, often !" 
 
 She was inserting another roll, when Susan an- 
 nounced supper. 
 
 "Oh, good!" she exclaimed. "I never was so 
 hungry since the day I was bore. Come, Lippo, you 
 will see what lovely, lovely things that dear soul of a 
 Susan can cook!" 
 
 She gave him a luminous smile of invitation, and 
 led the way out of the room, her shimmering, pale- 
 green robe rippling behind her like a broken wave 
 that clings with cool foam-fingers to the sand as it 
 retreats. 
 
 To Philip, casting a final backward glance into the 
 apartment she had quitted, it appeared already bar- 
 ren and commonplace. A light, a magic had been 
 taken from it. He would have had a horror of being 
 left alone there, where the elfin music of her voice was 
 
 66 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 not, nor the forest mystery of her eyes, nor the dream- 
 like beauty of her hair. Where she was, were dazzle- 
 ment, intoxication, and a little forgetfulness ; where 
 she was not, were staring, remorseless truth, trampled 
 honour, and agonies of spirit. 
 
 On the hearth the fire blazed more and more fit- 
 fully, more and more uncertainly, falling slowly into 
 embers, which glowed, grew dull, and turned to 
 ashes. Ashes, after the enchantment of the fire had 
 ceased. 
 
vn 
 
 It was already past the ColonePs prescribed bed- 
 time ; but for once Georgia permitted herself to offer 
 no protest. She saw that he was in no humour for 
 sleep. He had something to say to her. She guessed 
 what it was, and had instinctively sought to delay 
 the moment of confidence. She had continued read- 
 ing to him until the three quick flickers of the elec- 
 tric lamp had announced the retiring hour. Then 
 she had carefully inserted a marker in the volume, and 
 laid it by. The furtive hope had come to her that 
 possibly her father would wait until the next day. 
 
 "But I am not going to bed yet," Colonel Raebum 
 had observed, quietly. "I want to talk with you a 
 little while." 
 
 The subdued intentiveness of his voice told her 
 that nothing would be gained by objecting. She knew 
 every mood of her father's. It was only by a constant 
 observance of his moods and a tactful adaptation of 
 her manner in accordance with them that she had 
 succeeded in achieving in him a measurable degree 
 of submissiveness to the petty tyrannies of invaHdism. 
 She knew when a little wheedling and petting would 
 make him amenable to the hated orders of his doctors ; 
 she knew when pleading, when arguing, or dire threats 
 
 68 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 might severally be of avail; and she knew equally 
 well — which was, perhaps, her chief genius as a 
 manager — the moods in which no tactics of diplo- 
 macy need be resorted to, the Colonel's resolution 
 having been immovably taken contrariwise. 
 
 To-day he had been exceptionally docile. Since the 
 doctor's visit that morning there had been a quiet, 
 meditative abstraction in his manner that she under- 
 stood only too well the meaning of. This evening she 
 knew that he had not been listening to her reading. 
 She had not given attention to it herself. Every time 
 that her eyes had turned to him, sitting there so pa- 
 tiently, so calmly, in his invalid chair, under the shaded 
 lamp, she had felt the choke come in her throat. 
 
 She loved him for being so difficult and restive 
 under the galling exactions of sanatorium routine — 
 like the stricken captain of Syria who had journeyed 
 to the Hebrew prophet and could scarcely be per- 
 suaded to follow out his fantastic, childish-seeming 
 prescription. But she adored him for the simple 
 dignity and quietness with which he could receive 
 any of the great shocks of human life, making no 
 vain protest, indulging in no womanish emotion. 
 
 That too was the warrior in him ; the imperturb- 
 ability of a soul that had seen Death stalking down 
 Antietam's Bloody Lane, and reaping his thousands 
 in the slaughter-pen of Fredericksburg. What terrors 
 had the grim spectre for him ? 
 
 69 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She wished that she could face the future with equal 
 serenity. Since the moment for his confidence had 
 come, she inwardly braced herself to receive it with 
 the dignity and self-possession, at least of manner, 
 that befitted his daughter. 
 
 There was a brief silence, while the Colonel gazed 
 thoughtfully into the obscurity of the farther part of 
 the room. At last he remarked, in a casual tone : — 
 
 "Dr. Tyler told me that he had had a long talk 
 with you yesterday." 
 
 He had spoken casually ; and it gave her the excuse 
 to answer in the same fashion, disregarding, for the 
 moment, the under-meanings. She would not be 
 the first to commit herself. 
 
 "Yes, I had a long talk with him," she affirmed. 
 "He wanted to know more about your army record; 
 and I gave him good measure. Before I finished, I 
 had told him about Antietam and Fredericksburg 
 and Gettysburg and the Wilderness. He appeared 
 immensely interested, and kept asking questions. 
 His father was in the Pennsylvania Bucktail Regi- 
 ment at Gettysburg; and he remembered having 
 heard from him, years and years ago, the story of 
 how you captured the flag of the Fourteenth Ten- 
 nessee." 
 
 Even as a child Georgia had been proud to recite 
 this brilliant exploit of her father's, which had won 
 him the United States Medal of Honor. 
 
 70 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 It was during Pickett's historic charge. The 
 Connecticut regiment, reduced to but a few more 
 than a hundred men, was firing from behind the 
 famous stone wall. Twice the oncoming lines of 
 Confederate infantry had wavered and broken at the 
 rail-fence under the raking fire, only to be succeeded 
 by the next in order. At last they had halted in the 
 shelter of the fence. In pursuance of some earlier 
 command the colour-bearers and their guards had 
 still advanced, and planting their flags, had dropped 
 to the ground beside them to escape the storm of 
 musketry. One colour-bearer, more reckless than the 
 rest, had advanced to within ten rods of the Union 
 line. 
 
 "We must have that flag," declared Colonel 
 Bright. "Who will volunteer?'' 
 
 In an instant Major Raeburn and two others 
 dashed over the wall and were off. One fell dead 
 before he had gone twenty paces. The second was 
 wounded in the leg. By a miracle Raeburn had es- 
 caped the shots of the enemy and, waving his sabre 
 over the prostrate colour-guard, seized the colours with 
 a shout of triumph and started again for the stone 
 wall. The same moment a minie ball shattered his 
 right arm. The sabre fell from his grip ; but the flag 
 was saved. He achieved the Union lines again, thrust 
 the colours into the hands of Colonel Bright, and fell 
 unconscious into the arms of a fellow-officer. 
 
 71 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Twice already he had been wounded in the defence 
 of his country. In his very first battle, Antietam, a 
 rebel ball had fleshed his leg, and he had lain for forty 
 hours in the rain and cold of the terrible Ploughed 
 Field, without any further attentions than those 
 which a prostrate, comrade, crawling to his side, had 
 been able to administer. And yet (this was to Georgia 
 the most thrilling story of all) when the troops were 
 moved across the Potomac two weeks later, he had 
 marched at the head of his company, marched there 
 without giving a sign of pain or fatigue, until uncon- 
 sciousness came upon him, and he dropped to the 
 roadside. She liked to tell, too, how a poor old coun- 
 try-woman, Granny Creeling by name, had let them 
 carry him into her bare little cottage, and how she 
 and her daughter, Judy, had tended him through the 
 fever that followed, until, six weeks later, refusing a 
 furlough, he had been able to join the regiment again 
 at Bolivar Heights. 
 
 ^^ Hotspur" was the name he had won for him- 
 self in the regiment. He had seemed actually to be 
 courting death, so uncannily audacious were many 
 of his exploits. Who could blame Georgia for being 
 proud of her father? 
 
 Just now he listened to her with fond attention as 
 she offered her eager recital of her talk with the 
 doctor; but when she had done he made no comment ; 
 and she realized, with a certain mortification, that she 
 
 72 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 had gained nothing by this obstinate delay. The 
 truth was to come out. 
 
 "But he told me," pursued the Colonel, with quiet 
 decisiveness, "that he had spoken to you on another 
 subject. There is therefore no need of repeating what 
 he said to me." 
 
 She gave him a grave look which no longer evaded 
 the issue. 
 
 "Yes, he told me," she said. "He asked if you had 
 better be informed. I said, ^ Certainly,' — that what 
 he had to say would be neither much of a surprise 
 nor much of a shock to you. I knew you would want 
 to know the truth." 
 
 Her voice was quite calm, almost matter of fact, 
 in its tone; but in the silence of the apartment it 
 seemed to acquire a startling loudness which dis- 
 mayed her. 
 
 "I did want to know the truth," he said. "I'm 
 glad I know it now. He gives me six months ; perhaps 
 a year ; possibly even more. I could almost hope not 
 more." 
 
 He sighed, and leaned his head, with an air of great 
 fatigue, against the cushions of the chair-back. 
 
 For a moment the girl gave no sign of having heard 
 the words, only sat there motionless in the stiff little 
 chair, her hands limp in her lap. 
 
 "Did he not tell you that, daughter?" asked the 
 old man, finally, turning his tired eyes upon her. 
 
 73 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 *^No," she replied, dully, '^not that. — I mean, 
 not that about the six months." 
 
 "I pressed him for a statement, and that was his 
 answer," he explained, gravely. ^^I thought best that 
 you should know. I see no reason for telling anything 
 to any one else, do you ? Aunt Min would make a 
 tragedy out of it. She'd be brooding over it all day 
 long, and lie awake with it at night. But I knew you 
 could be trusted to take it sensibly." 
 
 The girl was looking hard at the window-curtain 
 across the room. She noticed that the pattern on it 
 was in little clocks, connected by zig-zag threads. It 
 was not a very pretty pattern, she thought. She felt 
 as if she were suffocating, and was surprised to hear 
 herself giving an automatically appropriate answer 
 to her father's words. 
 
 "Yes, we will keep it to ourselves," she said. "That 
 will be the most sensible way." 
 
 As she spoke, a thrill of pride came over her at the 
 thought of the high place her father was according 
 to her in his confidence. They two, and no one else ! 
 They two, while the weeks grew into months, to watch 
 the appointed day creep closer and closer, and to 
 watch it with no betraying fear. 
 
 "When a man gets to be seventy-three," said the 
 Colonel, quietly, "he knows that at best his course 
 is almost completed. Though by reason of strength 
 his years may pass the allotted three-score and ten, 
 
 74 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 yet is their strength but labour and sorrow. What does 
 a year, more or less, matter?'' 
 
 The girl looked at him with a steady, courageous 
 smile out of eyes in which there was no sign of tears. 
 
 "It matters, father. Everything matters to those 
 who love you. But what matters most of all, since 
 the time is short, is that you should be just as happy 
 and comfortable as possible." 
 
 "Not that! — Not that, girl!" cried the Colonel, 
 with a sudden, inexplicable outburst of feeling. 
 "What matters most is that I should be at peace with 
 my Maker!" 
 
 His eyes flashed, and he brought his hand down 
 heavily on the arm of his chair. 
 
 Georgia was not unaccustomed to vehement de- 
 clarations of this sort on the part of her father; yet 
 they always disquieted her strangely. She could never 
 quite reach up to the Sinaitic fervour of his religion : 
 there was a passionate intensity, a prophetic zeal in 
 it that was all outside the range of her own experience, 
 and which she could only regard from afar. It was 
 not a religion of comfort. It often seemed to her that 
 it was more a whip across bleeding shoulders than a 
 balm for wounds. Yet she knew that nothing was 
 more vital in the composition of his character than 
 this austere, eloquent, consuming faith. Warrior 
 and prophet — that was her father. 
 
 But at the present moment she felt only a fleeting 
 
 IS 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 pain that he should have so sternly corrected her in 
 her attempt to ease his burden. The Colonel must 
 have seen the betrayal of it in her countenance, for 
 his manner altered at once. 
 
 "But next to that duty," he said, in a more gentle 
 voice, "which throughout life is the thing that mat- 
 ters most, what you say may be true. It is at least 
 worth taking into account. There is no reason why 
 I should not be where I am most comfortable and 
 happy. There is one place, Georgia, and only one, 
 where I long to be." 
 
 There was no need to speak the word. The girPs 
 thoughts flashed back to their beloved hill country 
 with a yearning that rivalled his in its intensity. 
 
 "I asked Dr. Tyler about that, too," he went on, 
 after a brief silence. "He agrees with me that I 
 shall be better off there. I think we may as well go 
 at once." 
 
 "At once!" The girl echoed the words faintly, 
 scarcely daring to believe them. 
 
 "He said it would make very little difference — if 
 any difference at all — in the progress of events. 
 When I needed it, he said, I should have a trained 
 nurse. But there was nothing to be gained now, he 
 said, by medical advice. ^You will be less restless at 
 home,' he said, ^amid familiar surroundings.' He gave 
 you, Georgia, a very hearty word of praise for your 
 intelligent and devoted care." 
 
 76 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Did n't he think you were worth it?" demanded 
 the girl, with a luminous smile. 
 
 "These last months have been a heavy strain for 
 you," the Colonel pursued, ignoring her question. 
 "And those ahead will not be easier, I fear. But there 
 will be more compensations." 
 
 "When shall we start?" asked Georgia. 
 
 "The sooner the better. Could we get off to-mor- 
 row night, do you think, by the Bay State Special? 
 I am jealous of every day." 
 
 Georgia believed she could get the packing done 
 in time. She would make a beginning that night. 
 
 "Perhaps I should take that as a hint to be off to 
 bed," said the Colonel. "Give me a hand, will you, 
 my girl?" 
 
 She offered a little support behind the shoulder 
 from which hung the empty sleeve, and he rose to his 
 feet. At the door of the inner room he halted, and 
 gazed solemnly into her strong, beautiful countenance. 
 
 "God has been very good to me," he said. "I 
 praise him daily that since, in his Infinite Wisdom, 
 he took your brother from us, he blessed me with a 
 daughter who is both son and daughter to me." 
 
 She drew down his stern, fond face to hers, and 
 kissed him tenderly. A few minutes later, as soon as 
 he had been settled for the night, she was free to with- 
 draw to her own little bedroom, on the opposite side 
 of their living apartment ; and without turning on the 
 
 77 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 light, she sat for a long time on the broad bare window- 
 ledge, gazing out into the palely luminous night. 
 
 How baffling and mysterious life was, bringing 
 thus to her, in equal hands, and at the same moment, 
 grief and joy! The two emotions did not neutralize 
 each other. Nor did either drown the other or obscure 
 it, for more than an instant, from consciousness. 
 
 Her father had six months to live ! — She was going 
 to see Philip again ! — Six months ! — Six days ! — 
 
 She had not recognized until that moment how 
 deep had been the disappointment of sacrificing the 
 home trip. She had dismissed it from mind as simply 
 and resolutely as she could, seeing the incontestable 
 necessity of the change of plan. Her letter to Philip 
 had been cold, almost. She could not have borne to 
 have him think that she was not glad to be where her 
 father needed her. But now ! — 
 
 Oh, now she would open her whole heart to him, 
 telling him everything except the one thing that was 
 to be told to no one. A great longing for him came 
 over her, as she pondered on the meeting so soon to 
 come. His love was going to be so dear to her, so 
 strengthening, in the months through which she was 
 about to pass. 
 
 She wondered whether she had ever given him any 
 idea of how much he did mean to her already, how 
 much that was rich and new he had brought into her 
 life — without her asking for it ! — how much she re- 
 
 78 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 lied on him in her heart for strength and sympathy. 
 She would try to tell him that — something of it — 
 to-night, before she began her packing; and the rest 
 she would tell him six days hence, amid their dear 
 hills, where the witch-hazel would be blooming under 
 the white-gleaming sky of November. Oh, how 
 happy, how happy, she would be to feel herself once 
 more in his strong, protecting arms, that gave her 
 courage for every hard duty, that restored her faith 
 in herself, and made her sure that life was rich and 
 beautiful ! 
 
 She switched on the light, and seated herself at the 
 little writing-desk; but it was midnight before the 
 short letter was completed. 
 
 "Oh, Philip, dear," ran the last, eager paragraph 
 of it, "are you half as happy, I wonder, as I am, at the 
 thought of what is ahead for us ! I have sat so long in 
 the tower, — how long I have not known till to-night ! 
 — and now my knight-errant is coming home to me 
 from his roaming afar, bringing his first trophies of 
 conquest and achievement. I shall be counting the 
 hours of every day, dear knight, blessing them as they 
 go, because each brings you nearer, nearer, to 
 
 "Your loving Georgia." 
 
VIII 
 
 About four o'clock in the morning Victorine, who 
 had just carried in a hot soapstone to the old maman, 
 heard the turn of a latch-key in the front door and cau- 
 tious steps mounting the stairs. Her first thought was 
 that it might be her brother Victor, returning late from 
 the kitchen of the hotel. But she had never known 
 him to be so late as this. She listened attentively for 
 the opening of the door of the second-floor apartment 
 which he and Jenny occupied ; but no, the steps con- 
 tinued. 
 
 There was the creak of the loose board in the second 
 flight. Well, it could not be the strange Monsieur 
 Barry, for he had not gone out at all, she was certain. 
 But there was only one other lodger in the mansarde. 
 
 Victorine' s philosophy of the other sex was not 
 without its touch of GalHc cynicism. ^^They are only 
 men," she was wont to say. *'They must have their 
 pleasures, I suppose." Nevertheless there came a 
 httle pang of disappointment with the discovery she 
 had just made; and before she settled herself com- 
 fortably for her final sleep, she heaved a deep sigh. 
 She had believed, somehow, that the new young man 
 was a httle different. He had seemed so. There was 
 a frank, boyish charm about him that had won a place 
 
 80 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 in her heart, in spite of his way of filling the house 
 with pests. 
 
 As for Philip, he had hastily flung off his clothes in 
 the dark mansarde and crawled into bed. Five min- 
 utes later he was asleep. And no one was left in the 
 house to listen to the sounds of the city's awakening 
 life — the rumble of the milk- wagons and the market 
 trucks on the paving-stones outside, the first click of 
 the mail-box at the next corner — except the little old 
 maman, whose feet would not get warm, and who 
 kept up a fretful, worried cough, much like the scratch- 
 ing of a fowl on gravel. 
 
 It was the pale glare of sunlight on his pillow that 
 roused the boy at last from a drug-like sleep which 
 still hung numbly upon his limbs and eyelids. At 
 the moment of waking there comes into the face of 
 every human being, no matter what his character 
 or condition, a fleeting look of simple wonder and 
 inquiry which is utterly childlike. The eyes have 
 opened upon a world still strange, the lineaments 
 of which only gradually interpret themselves into a 
 known order. For a few seconds Philip saw nothing 
 but the odd light that poured over his bed from the 
 southward-facing window; then, automatically, he 
 reached for his watch ; and the next instant, still in a 
 daze, he was sitting upright in bed, gazing about him. 
 
 Something cried out to his bewildered conscious- 
 ness, like a voice just too far away to be distinguish- 
 
 8i 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 able. He had been somewhere. Something had hap- 
 pened to him. A dim impression of distaste invaded 
 his mind. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes fell with recognition upon his 
 evening clothes lying in a negligent heap on the table ; 
 and at once, with a sharp, agonizing dismay, he re- 
 membered: remembered everything with the vivid, 
 total clarity of a photographic record. The whole ad- 
 venture assailed his mind with terrible, overwhelming 
 effectiveness, as if it had been taking up a position of 
 vantage during the hours of slumber, lying in wait, 
 training its deadly artillery upon him for the moment 
 when he should come to himself. 
 
 He had a sickening fear of the day ahead that 
 must be Hved. The world was loathsome to him. He 
 believed that he must carry in his countenance the 
 brand of his baseness ; and on an impulse of morbid 
 curiosity, like one who studies a facial disfigurement 
 to discover whether it is truly as bad, or not quite so 
 bad as his memory of it, he leapt out of bed and con- 
 fronted himself in the mirror. Was there a treacher- 
 ous expression about the mouth that he had not seen 
 before ? It might be a trick of the muggy light, which 
 gave a yellow, sickly look to his skin. Yet even after 
 he had been brought back more into the current of 
 everyday sensation by a cold plunge, the conviction 
 remained that an actual change to something meaner 
 and uglier had taken place in him. 
 
 82 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 He had proved that he was as weak as the weakest. 
 Weaker. He had been given every bond, every prop 
 to keep him loyal to the best that was in him ; and he 
 had lightly broken away from them all. Where was 
 the honest, manly pride he had rejoiced in but the 
 previous afternoon, that he could tell her everything 
 without shame? Would he jever be without shame 
 again? His soul would henceforth be the home of 
 shame. 
 
 He had aspired to be her knight, without fear and 
 without reproach. Though she might never have 
 known what the cost of the conflict had been to him, 
 he had made a vow to carry himself stainless and unat- 
 tainted in his lady's honour. And now, deliberately, 
 with full knowledge of what he was doing, he had 
 flung off her token and trampled it in the mire. 
 
 Two lines of a poem he had once cut from a maga- 
 zine awoke somewhere in his memory and repeated 
 themselves over and over with horrible distinctness 
 while he was dressing. 
 
 I bear her promise in my heart; 
 Her kiss upon my brow. 
 
 Her kiss ! How jealous he had been of the honour ! 
 
 Whose kiss now ? — He sickened as he felt a flood 
 of new memories inundating his mind, memories that 
 he knew would fester there always, even though the 
 flood might subside. Thenceforth he must be their 
 
 83 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 prey. Like the hideous offspring of Sin and Death 
 they would feed upon their progenitor. 
 
 "Her kiss upon my brow!" 
 
 Well, that dream was over. Georgia must know, 
 she had a right to know, that her true knight was 
 a libertine. He would tell her. The conviction 
 came that she would never forgive him. He knew so 
 well the high-mettled spirit of the girl, her sensitive- 
 ness, the fine, jealous purity of her nature. He con- 
 ceived the shuddering recoil she would have from 
 the mere idea of further relations between herself and 
 him. The chasm between them was one that could 
 not be passed over. 
 
 The paltry speciousness of the excuses he had 
 made the previous day was mercilessly revealed to him 
 now. The fact that she could not come home for the 
 holiday — he had actually used that as a license ! She 
 was in trouble. Then, if ever, it had been laid upon 
 him to be loyal ; to show her that he could be as brave 
 as she in accepting a harsh necessity. Instead he had 
 thrown his birthright and his high privilege to the 
 winds. 
 
 And whatever permits Nature might stand ready to 
 issue, there was a law written in his own heart, the 
 letter of which he could never doubt, — never had 
 doubted, — only sought means of evading. 
 
 There was not one thought, one memory, that could 
 relieve the bitterness of that hour. His treachery had 
 
 84 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 been complete, voluntary, even striven for, and car- 
 ried out in the full light of the facts. 
 
 Dressing with unusual haste, because of the ad- 
 vanced time, Philip allowed himself just two or three 
 minutes to look at his pets before rushing away to the 
 ofl&ce. 
 
 Victorine, who was in the kitchen when he entered, 
 discreetly contented herself with a " Good-morning, 
 monsieur. Are you not a little late to-day?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered curtly. "I overslept." 
 
 "Ah, I see," she said. 
 
 He gave her a sharp look ; but her face was perfectly 
 expressionless. 
 
 "How was the fish?" he demanded. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. "Not too bad," she 
 replied. 
 
 Papa Victor was in his chair by the stove, a relic of 
 a man, all legs and arms, now, Hke a spider, but once 
 
 — as you might infer from the pendulousness of the 
 skin about his cheeks and neck — of rotund propor- 
 tions. He was by no means satisfied with Victorine's 
 account of the fish. Perhaps he aimed at a restoration 
 of himself into her good graces. 
 
 "Oh, de fish!" he declared, rubbing his brown 
 hands over one another with reminiscent reHsh. "He 
 was mos' appetissant, monsieur. And his Sauce 
 Cafe Antoine was precisely to the just consistence 
 
 — eh, Susanne, were we not agree' as to dat? Our 
 
 85 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Victorine is in fact of a marvellous skill wid de 
 fish/' 
 
 Victorine hunched her neck contemptuously. 
 " What is a fish ? " she demanded. Evidently the papa 
 Victor was still out of favour. 
 
 The old man protested in a thin, cracked voice, 
 while his head wagged a little on its shrivelled stalk. 
 "Non, non, ma Torine. De fish, he eez difficile — 
 ver' difficile! He tak' a good cook. I would razzer a 
 tousan' time do a meat dan a fish. De fish, monsieur, 
 he have a delicatesse, a — " 
 
 "Tiens, mon pere," interrupted Victorine, authori- 
 tatively, "you are talking too much. Mister Philip 
 wishes to visit his hospital." 
 
 She made a great clatter in the dish-pan, and added, 
 without looking around, "The cat is dead, I see." 
 
 "What!" cried Philip, in dismay, and darted from 
 the room. 
 
 It was true. He only stopped to assure himself of 
 the fact. 
 
 "When did it happen, do you know?" he de- 
 manded, hoarsely, reentering the kitchen. 
 
 Victorine 's dishes ceased their clatter only long 
 enough for her to reply, without turning her head, 
 
 "No, monsieur, I know nothing. About eleven 
 o'clock I hear a terrible noise of cat and dog. I did 
 not know what it could mean. I thought perhaps it 
 would be better to tell you about it, in case there 
 
 86 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 might be some trouble ; so I go to call you ; but I think 
 you are not at home." 
 
 A horror came over the boy. This too ! It seemed 
 so appropriate a retribution that he had no protest 
 to offer. He did not even ask Victorine whether she 
 had made any effort to avert the catastrophe. His 
 little charge was dead, and it was because he had 
 neglected it. 
 
 Drawing out a half dollar from his pocket, he of- 
 fered it shyly to the papa Victor. 
 
 "Would you have the leisure, sir, to dig a little 
 grave for it, some time to-day, in the garden?" 
 
 "Under ze fence, where one day it would be so 
 happy to been walking, mon ami?" supplied the old 
 man, quick to appreciate the sentimental possibilities 
 of the situation. " Wid pleasure ! And if Torine has 
 catch a mouse in her trap, I bury de mouse wid him 
 — between his two little pattes, so ! — de mouse dat 
 he never, never will eat — hein?" 
 
 All that day Philip's soul was in torment. Times 
 beyond number he must go over the same round of 
 cruel reflections that he had entered upon with his 
 first waking thoughts. There was no relief ; no forget- 
 fulness. Every fact stood out with merciless distinct- 
 ness in a light without shadows. A crushing fatigue 
 that had no drowsiness in it came upon him as the 
 hours passed. His eyes ached ; his head throbbed with 
 pain ; remorse and shame lacerated his mind. Only 
 
 87 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 a nature of noble susceptibilities could have felt so 
 pitilessly the irretrievableness of the thing he had 
 done. Many men of his acquaintance — self-respect- 
 ing men, working beside him there in the draughting 
 room — would have seen nothing very reprehensible 
 in his misstep. For him, too, time might dull the 
 shame, and ingenuity find apology. But not yet. Just 
 now he could only remember that he had proved rene- 
 gade to a high pledge ; that he had been false to the 
 best thing in his life. 
 
 A half hour before closing time, feeling quite unable 
 to keep at his draughting any longer, he quitted the 
 office, and walked home alone by way of the water- 
 front. In the murky yellow twilight, he felt himself 
 passing through a city of lepers. The din of the ferry- 
 whistles, the rumble of the drays, the rough, profane 
 voices of stevedores and truckmen, the rush and bang 
 of the elevated trains a block or two distant, assaulted 
 his ears hke some fever nightmare, confused, terrific, 
 overwhelming. A great horror of life settled upon 
 his spirit. How brutal, how crude, how pitiless ! He 
 knew it now, to the rotten core of it ! 
 
 There was one thing that he must do. He must 
 write to Georgia. Once he had done that, he did 
 not care much what might happen afterwards. 
 
 Reaching his MuUin Street lodgings at last, he no- 
 ticed a letter on the hall-way stand. It was too dark 
 to distinguish the address. Pressing the envelope to 
 
 88 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 his nostrils, he recognized the faint fragrance. He 
 could make out a special-delivery stamp in the corner. 
 — It flashed over him that the Colonel must have had 
 a relapse. Perhaps at this very moment Georgia was 
 anxiously waiting by his bedside. 
 
 With the envelope tight clutched in his hand, he 
 rushed up to his room, Ht the gas, and read the joyful, 
 loving paragraphs the girl had written in the mid- 
 night silence of her little chamber. An unstayable 
 flood of tears welled into his eyes. He flung himself 
 on the bed, and sobbed, like a broken-hearted child. 
 
IX 
 
 He did not write the letter after all. He tried more 
 than once, but without success. The thought that he 
 was going to see her so soon stood in his way. All 
 these hard things of which she must be told could be 
 better spoken than written. It was a franker, simpler, 
 more manly way. To write them seemed an attempt 
 to evade the humiliation of telling them. He was not 
 seeking to evade humiliation. He was in a mood even 
 to welcome it. Before her very eyes he would bare his 
 shame, sparing himself no infliction of veracity. 
 
 And beyond, who could say? The hope began to 
 grow in him that perhaps there might yet be forgive- 
 ness. If she saw how cruelly in earnest he was ; if she 
 could only comprehend the quality of his resolutions 
 for the future ; and if — possibly — she could recog- 
 nize how peculiarly belaying was the mesh of circum- 
 stances in which he had been taken, he felt almost 
 confident that she would not refuse him another 
 chance. His disloyalty might have been as deliberate 
 and calculated as it had seemed to him in his worst 
 moments of self-contempt. At the same time there 
 could be no denial of the fact — he saw it plainly 
 enough as the intensity of his first mood gradually 
 subsided — that the series of incidents which had 
 
 90 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ended by throwing him out of his bearings was almost 
 as if prearranged for that purpose, so insidious was 
 its adaptation to the quality of his own tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 Georgia must see that. If he told her everything 
 exactly as it had come to pass, he believed that she 
 would be able to make allowances. He had no 
 thought of excusing himself ; he did not desire to make 
 wrong seem right; but he had confidence that the 
 truth, scrupulously and unreservedly uttered, might 
 justify a hope of forgiveness. 
 
 And he wanted to be forgiven ! He had never loved 
 Georgia so much as now, when he felt himself cast 
 out from her presence. She became synonymous in 
 his mind with everything that was beautiful and noble 
 and of good report in his own heart ; she was his aspi- 
 ration ; his religion ; the thing he prayed some day to 
 be worthy of. 
 
 Instead of the letter, therefore, he sent a note, wel- 
 coming her home, and telling her that he would ride 
 out to Highstone for a little first visit Wednesday 
 evening if his railroad connections did not fail him. 
 They did not. About eight o'clock in the evening he 
 descended at Folkbridge, went directly to the livery 
 stable, and hired a mount. 
 
 He was not going to take time to drop in at Judge 
 Burchell's first. He knew that his mother and step- 
 father would be indifferent as to the hour of his 
 
 91 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 arrival; and he dreaded the delays of greetings 
 and the conspicuousness of a hasty departure for 
 Highstone. 
 
 In a peculiar degree the Burchells seemed to him 
 not his own people. Since the remarriage of his mo- 
 ther, ten years ago now, new children had been born 
 to her. An utterly different set of ties and interests ab- 
 sorbed her. At first PhiHp had been acutely and pain- 
 fully conscious of the relaxation of the old intimacy ; 
 but he had ended by accustoming himself to it and 
 asking nothing more from her than she was able to 
 give. That was not much. A woman of self-centred 
 and rather petty disposition, it was inevitable that her 
 heart should be engrossed with present concerns of 
 which he knew little, and that the gulf between them 
 should widen. 
 
 The tie of the past that meant most to him in the 
 home town was his affection for Httle Aunt Prudence, 
 his father's sister, who still kept the old Wetherell 
 house, and with whom he could freely talk of other 
 days, and of the brave, handsome, ill-fated young 
 father who had been the god of his boyhood's idolatry. 
 But Aunt Prue also he would see to-morrow. To-night 
 there was other business on hand. 
 
 Drawing on a pair of borrowed riding-boots, he 
 mounted the little roan, and was off, — down the 
 quiet, lamp-lit street, across the bridge, and into the 
 open country. It was a mild November night, with a 
 
 92 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 creeping, dream-like mist in every hollow, under a 
 moon almost full. He felt the physical exhilaration of 
 the vigorous exercise. The rhythmic pound of his 
 horse's hoofs on the dry roadway was the sweetest 
 music he had heard for many months, and his whole 
 being yielded to it with the joyful ease and alacrity of 
 old custom. 
 
 How tall and still the East Woods appeared in the 
 moonlight! How magically lovely was the veiled 
 gleam of the old mill-pond through the serried tree 
 trunks ! 
 
 Out of the woods, — up and up, slowly, through 
 broad, moon-flooded fields ! In one of them the great 
 autumnal shocks of com were still standing, evenly 
 distanced from one another, ranks of wild, tattered 
 women, wind-blown, and with arms flung abroad. 
 Here and there he saw a shock that had been beaten 
 down and that crouched, with its head almost to the 
 ground, a Hagar in efi&gy, bewailing the outcast chil- 
 dren of summer. 
 
 The man's soul leapt and thrilled before the mel- 
 ancholy beauties of the autumn night. For a few brief 
 minutes he had forgotten everything, except that he 
 was once more on a horse's back and passing through 
 the country of heart's desire. But not for long. As 
 he drew nearer to the Raeburn estate the horrible 
 business he must transact crowded upon his con- 
 sciousness with crushing force. How brutally out of 
 
 93 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 accord with such a night of dreams ! — but he must 
 tell her. 
 
 At a tall gateway, topped with broken lanterns, he 
 turned in. His mare fell into an easy trot ; and they 
 passed up the neglected avenue that had once been 
 the pride of the county. At a turn of the drive the 
 house came suddenly full into view, a tall colonial 
 structure, moon- white under a tangling mantle of wis- 
 taria and woodbine that had mounted ambitiously 
 from porch to roof, and hung in dark, luxuriant 
 streamers from the lofty eaves. 
 
 There were Hghts in the downstairs windows. That 
 was the library — the Colonel's favourite retreat. Per- 
 haps she was there with him at this moment. Perhaps 
 she had already heard the dull clatter of his horse's 
 hoofs. Of a sudden his teeth began to chatter, as if 
 with fear. He locked his jaws fast together, drew rein 
 before the porch, and leapt to the ground. 
 
 Before he had reached the steps, however, the tall 
 front door opened and shut, and in the momentary 
 flash of light from within, he saw Georgia coming to 
 him. For an instant his hmbs refused to move, and he 
 stood there, shaken with a nervous chill, in the drive- 
 way, looking at her and trying to speak. He saw her 
 dimly as she crossed the dark porch ; and then she 
 emerged into the full light of the moon, radiant, daz- 
 zling, a creature of that dreaming night, and yet flesh 
 and blood, ready to be taken into his arms. She de% 
 
 94 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 scended the steps with swift, easy grace and came 
 toward him, her eyes alight with the rapture of the 
 meeting. 
 
 "Philip — oh, Philip, — how dear of you to come 
 way out here to-night !" 
 
 He had tried to speak. He had tried to cry out, 
 " Stop. Don't come near me ! " But the words would 
 not utter themselves from his paralyzed lips. He no 
 longer knew what he was doing. The touch of her 
 hand, the welcome of her waiting lips, robbed him 
 of his last shadow of reason. With a smothered 
 cry, he enfolded her in his arms. The wild thought 
 came to him that it was for the last time ; that never 
 again would she come to him like this, inviting his 
 embrace. 
 
 " Oh, you are shivering," she said, at last, in a voice 
 of tender reproach. "How rash of you to come out 
 on such a night without warm gloves and a riding- 
 coat. You must have forgotten what our country 
 November is like." 
 
 The man answered her in a dazed, absent voice, 
 like one but partly awakened from a trance. " Oh, — 
 yes, — I must have forgotten. I did not know it would 
 be so cold." 
 
 She gave him an anxious look and was about to 
 speak, when a bell rang inside the house. 
 
 "That's father," she said. "He probably thinks I 
 ought not to be out here without something on my 
 
 95 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 head ; but, oh, I could n't wait when I heard you. 
 Now you're going to come in and talk to him, are n't 
 you? He's been asking about you." 
 
 "Yes," answered Philip, automatically. "If he'd 
 like to see me, — of course." 
 
 In his mind he saw the purpose of the evening 
 already miscarried. If the Colonel was there, and 
 wanted to see him, there would be no chance to tell 
 Georgia — unless, possibly, the chance might come 
 after the invahd had retired. There was the quick 
 lifting of a load from his spirit, as from that of a con- 
 demned prisoner, granted an hour's reprieve. 
 
 "Just tie her in the bam, Philip," she said, "and 
 come right into the library. We'll be waiting for 
 you." 
 
 She turned and ran up the steps into the house. 
 When he followed her, a few minutes later, he was 
 conscious that his pulses were running under pressure. 
 A clear, brilliant excitement, an unnatural ease had 
 taken possession of him. 
 
 As Georgia rose to admit him, it came to her that 
 she had never seen him looking so handsome or so 
 happy. How well the new life must be agreeing with 
 him! 
 
 Colonel Raeburn was comfortably settled in a deep 
 easy-chair before the library fire, with a blanket about 
 his knees. He smiled in a most friendly manner as 
 Philip entered, and extended his left hand. 
 
 96 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "You will excuse my not getting up, Philip," he 
 said. "But there's all the hands I possess, and I'm 
 right glad to welcome you." 
 
 "Is n't it splendid, sir," said the young man, "that 
 they consented to let you come home after all ! It must 
 mean that you are much better than some of us had 
 begun to fear." 
 
 The Colonel regarded him with another frank 
 smile. "Yes," he replied, jocosely, "I esteem myself 
 fortunate to have escaped from that place with my 
 skin. I began to think they had given me a life sen- 
 tence. — Eh, Georgia?" 
 
 "Father does not take kindly to sanatoriums," she 
 laughed. "I am glad you were not there, Philip, to 
 see the horrible fuss he made over every littlest thing 
 the doctors ordered." 
 
 The Colonel grunted. " It 's no life for a man of my 
 years," he declared. "It may do very well for women 
 and for the puling, round-shouldered youth of the 
 present generation." 
 
 At the girl's direction, Philip drew up to the fire, 
 and while he was warming himself, she gave him an 
 account of the home trip and of the plans for the 
 winter. 
 
 "You're going to be here right along now?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She nodded, and for an instant an expression came 
 into her eyes that he did not know how to interpret. 
 
 97 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Yes," she said, "right, right here. They're not go- 
 ing to get us away again, are they, dad?" 
 
 "No one can guess," said the old man, "save he 
 who has languished in a sanatorium, how good it is to 
 be on our own heath, under our own roof." 
 
 A little later the conversation turned to Philip and 
 his life in town. 
 
 "Georgia has been singularly reticent," declared 
 the Colonel. "I believe I do not even know where you 
 live. Is it in the newer up- town region?" 
 
 Philip volunteered a vivacious description of his 
 lodgings in Greenwich. 
 
 "You may recognize the house," he said, "by a 
 little sign in the front window : ^ The New York Cor- 
 respondence Institute of Auto-health.' What auto- 
 health may be, or why it needs an institute, I cannot 
 say. So far I have seen only two persons who appear 
 directly connected with the concern, — a tall, dark, 
 non-committal-looking man, and a fair, pug-nosed 
 stenographer, who collects the mail from a special 
 mail-box in the front hall and seems to feel very heav- 
 ily the burden of the world's woe. I call her a steno- 
 grapher. For aught I know she may be a priestess." 
 
 He went on to describe his landlady, the stolid, 
 shrewd, unsentimental Victorine. 
 
 "Behold," he said, taking his blank-book from his 
 pocket, and rapidly sketching down a few telling lines. 
 "Her proportions are about as four to one, — thus. 
 
 98 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Here is the boundless waist-line ; here stand the shoul- 
 ders. This hand brandishes a long spoon dangerously ; 
 the other clutches a mustard-box — so !" 
 
 The Colonel was immensely entertained. " But you 
 must give us some features/' he demanded, not satis- 
 fied with the vacant oval by which the countenance of 
 Victorine was indicated. 
 
 "That's not so easy," said Philip. "However — 
 here's the mouth," — he drew a single short, straight 
 line, — "set like the two jaws of a pair of pincers. 
 There are the eyes," — he put in two dots, — "small 
 and hard as shoe-buttons, under a low, level brow-line, 
 thus. — There, I think that will do for the redoubt- 
 able Victorine La Bergere." 
 
 Charmed with the young man's facile talent at cari- 
 cature, of which he had often heard, the Colonel would 
 not let him stop until he had accorded similar treat- 
 ment to the other members of the MuUin Street house- 
 hold : the papa Victor, the maman Susanne, the young 
 Victor, who was one of the cooks at the Lafayette, and 
 Jenny, his ill-assimilated wife, whose maiden name 
 had been Mahoney, and who had very red hair, and 
 who had persuaded her husband, for social, unprofes- 
 sional uses, to change his name to Shepherd, which, 
 she said, was the same thing as the French word, 
 which she could n't and would n't pronounce, and 
 made quite as decent, American-sounding a name as 
 Mahoney. But Victorine had scornfully averred that 
 
 99 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 if she wanted to be honest, she must change her name 
 to Shepherde^^; and refused to be persuaded that such 
 an act was not quite as suitable as the other. 
 
 PhiHp had never talked so freely and engagingly 
 before. No one could have been more surprised than 
 he ; but as the Colonel constantly pressed him forward, 
 he let the words carry him along. 
 
 "Are n't there any other lodgers?" inquired the in- 
 valid, reluctant as a child to see the boy closing his 
 book. 
 
 "Why, yes, there 's one on my floor. But he's not 
 the sort to be inconsiderately put down on paper and 
 dismissed. In fact I have come to believe that he is 
 quite a wonderful man. I never exchanged half a 
 dozen words with him before last week ; but since then 
 I've seen him several times. Barry, his name is, — 
 tall, gaunt, ragged, but withal very distinguished- 
 looking." 
 
 He made a few half-random strokes in the middle 
 of a page ; then appeared to be seized with an idea. 
 
 "I think perhaps I could hit off his profile, — it's 
 very pronounced, very unusual." 
 
 "What's his business?" inquired Georgia, as he 
 bent over his sketch. 
 
 " I don't know about that. I think he 's in some com- 
 mercial laboratory. But I suspect somehow that 's not 
 his real vocation. There 's something a Httle mysteri- 
 ous about him." 
 
 lOO 
 
ENCHANTED GKOtJriJD 
 
 ^'A mystery! Delightful!" cried the girl. ''Do tell 
 us some more.'* 
 
 "In the evening," pursued Philip, disjointedly, not 
 relaxing his attention, " he 's always doing microscopic 
 work on some embryological cross-sections — some 
 obscure class of tunicates, I believe." 
 
 "Tunicates? What are those, pray?" quizzed 
 Georgia. 
 
 "Nothing, he says, of the least importance to any 
 one, now or ever, except as a bit of research for pure 
 science. He says that if he ever found it was going 
 to do anybody any good, he'd drop it. Oh, he's no 
 humanitarian, I can tell you. He's utterly noncom- 
 municative about himself; but I fancy his life has 
 been a peculiarly hard one." 
 
 He held out the beginnings of his sketch for scrutiny 
 at arm's length. 
 
 The girl gave a low exclamation. "I believe you've 
 forgotten what you're doing, PhiHp. — Look there." 
 
 She sprang to her feet and turned the Colonel's 
 head with her two hands so that its patrician profile 
 was revealed to him. 
 
 "You've borrowed father's forehead and nose." 
 
 Philip had to admit the resemblance. 
 
 "I had never thought of it before," he said, "but 
 there is a kind of similarity in the profiles. The build 
 of the Colonel's face is much more rugged, though, 
 and his chin, if I can judge of it fairly through the 
 
 lOI 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 beard, heavier and firmer. Indeed, I lose the resem- 
 blance entirely as soon as your father's head is turned 
 toward me." 
 
 ''How old is he?" put in the Colonel. ''Not my 
 three-score, I take it." 
 
 "Forty-odd, I should venture. But often he looks 
 much older than that. He seems to me the most em- 
 bittered man I ever have known." 
 
 "Not much like daddy in that, at all events," put in 
 Georgia, proudly, with a light kiss upon the Colonel's 
 forehead. 
 
 Philip agreed with her emphatically. "It does n't 
 seem to be anything forced on him by adversity," he 
 pursued ; "but as if it were a very part and parcel of his 
 personality. I don't know how to describe it. I think 
 he must have been at odds with the world from the 
 start." 
 
 "You've no idea where he comes from," inquired 
 the Colonel, who was following the conversation with 
 unrelaxed interest. 
 
 "He spoke one day of a collection of beetles he had 
 made when he was a boy in Maryland, — I think it 
 was Maryland, I'm not sure. He's the sort of man 
 who might have come from almost an)^where." 
 
 He gave another examination to his sketch; then 
 tore it from the book with disgust, crumpled it, and 
 threw it into the fireplace. 
 
 "I can't make poor old Barry look right," he de- 
 
 I02 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 dared. "You put it out of my head, Georgia, with 
 that unhappy comparison." 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said, apologetically. "I should n't 
 have interrupted ; but all of a sudden it happened to 
 strike me. — Why, father, what's the matter?" 
 
 With dismay Philip perceived that the Colonel had 
 sunken back weakly among the cushions, with his 
 hand caught spasmodically to his heart. His face 
 was deathly white. 
 
 "You're quite tired out, daddy," she cried, coming 
 solicitously to his side. "It was wicked of me to let 
 you talk so much. I don't see how I could have for- 
 gotten to keep watch of the time." 
 
 She turned with an accusing smile upon their 
 visitor. 
 
 "That's your fault, Philip, for being so interesting. 
 That can't be excused." 
 
 "I'm all right," said Colonel Raeburn, smiling res- 
 olutely. " It was just one of those childish faint turns I 
 have sometimes. It 's not Philip's fault at all. — Don't 
 let her blame you, my boy. You ' ve given us a delight- 
 ful evening." 
 
 "But you must be good, now," added the girl, with 
 gentle peremptoriness, "and let me see you to your 
 room." 
 
 The old man made no protest. Philip gathered 
 from Georgia's look that she felt more concern than 
 her words implied; and he judged it expedient to 
 
 103 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 hasten his own departure, that she might be at liberty 
 to devote herself to the invalid. 
 
 '^I must be off," he said. '^ On my word, I had not 
 intended to stay half so long. I hope your father is not 
 seriously overtired." 
 
 ^^Not at all," put in the Colonel, stoutly. 
 
 The girPs look thanked him for his timely appre- 
 hension of the situation. "A night's rest, and he 
 will be all the better for this Httle visit, — won't you, 
 father?" 
 
 She went with Philip to the outer door. 
 
 *^It's nothing," she said, confidently. *^It's gone 
 already. He often has these troublesome turns of 
 weakness — sometimes, like this, lasting only a few 
 seconds. But they always make me a little anxious to 
 get him quiet." 
 
 "If I come over to-morrow, after dinner," sug- 
 gested the man, "can we have a tramp together?" 
 
 "That will be lovely," she said, and added, after a 
 little pause, "Oh, Philip, dear, I'm so glad you could 
 come!" 
 
 He would not touch her lips again ; but he seized 
 her hands and kissed them, while a hot mist, which 
 she did not see, blinded his eyes. The next instant 
 he was gone. 
 
Georgia returned to the library to find her father 
 on his feet, leaning against the mantelpiece. 
 
 "Are you feeling better again, dear?" she asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 He nodded but did not speak. 
 
 "It was my fault," she said. "I'm so sorry. I 
 never noticed how tired you were getting, until all 
 of a sudden when the attack came on. I ought n't 
 to have let — " 
 
 She was continuing ; but he turned upon her a look 
 of tragic tenderness that caused the words to die on 
 her lips. 
 
 "Georgia! Georgia!" he cried out, in suffocated 
 accents. "What deserts of mine ever won me from 
 God the blessing of such a daughter!" 
 
 The dread she always felt of his exalted moods 
 came upon her. She tried weakly to turn the torrent. 
 She put out a hand lightly, caressingly, to the collar 
 of his dressing-gown. 
 
 " Come, dear daddy," she said. "Let 's not talk any 
 more now. It's bed-time." 
 
 He paid no attention to her words, but seized her 
 hand in his own, and gave it a vise-like pressure. 
 
 "Not deserts! No!" he broke out with burning 
 105 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 fervour. "Infinite riches of Grace! Abundance and 
 superabundance of his Mercy! Everlasting Love, 
 ever vouchsafed freely, yea, even unto the chiefest of 
 sinners!'* 
 
 In terror she strove to release her hand from his 
 clutch. " Father, father," she pleaded. "If you Jove 
 me, do not say any more now. Come to bed.'' 
 
 He stared vaguely for an instant upon her quivering 
 lips, before he seemed to understand what she had 
 said. Then the blaze died from his eyes, and bending 
 to her, he placed a solemn kiss on her brow. 
 
 "Praise ye the Lord," he murmured, in a voice of 
 unaffected devoutness, "for he is good ; for his mercy 
 endureth forever. — Remember that, Georgia, — for- 
 ever ! — forever ! — Oh, how wonderful are God's 
 promises!" 
 
 He allowed her to lead him to his room, and so long 
 as she was with him was satisfied to talk quietly of in- 
 different topics. Georgia believed that she was leaving 
 him in something like his normal frame of mind ; and 
 after a Httle chat with Aunt Min — who had been sit- 
 ting in the dining-room all the evening with her knit- 
 ting — she retired to her own chamber, a lofty, nar- 
 row apartment, just across the hall from her father's. 
 
 She lighted the lamp, shpped into a kimono, loos- 
 ened her luxuriant dark coil of hair, and sat for a long 
 time in a little low rocker brushing it out, and think- 
 ing. It had been a memorable evening in more ways 
 
 1 06 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 than one. Being relieved of any immediate anxiety 
 in regard to her father, her thoughts turned first to 
 that last strange, inexplicable outbreak of his in the 
 library. What could have so profoundly moved him 
 just then ? He had been going to say something more, 
 — she had seen it plainly, — when she had implored 
 him to desist. Perhaps about PhiHp. 
 
 It seemed more than possible to her that he had in- 
 ferred the relationship that existed between them, and 
 that this discovery had for a moment overwhelmed 
 him. There had been an accent of gratitude, certainly, 
 in his voice, quite as clear as the stern, Calvinistic 
 self-humiliation before God. 
 
 She asked herself whether it were quite fair to 
 have excluded him from her secret so long. At all 
 events, now that the end of the way was distinctly in 
 sight for him, she believed that he could only be happy 
 in sharing it. The day was past when he could any 
 longer be jealous. He knew that she was his for as 
 long as it was in her power to be his. And she de- 
 termined that on the next day, when they came back 
 from their walk, if her father seemed in good spirits, 
 they would tell him, together. 
 
 How proud she had been of Philip that evening, — 
 of his charm of manner, of his versatility, of his physi- 
 cal beauty, and most of all of his candid manhness. 
 For the first moment of their meeting his manner 
 had puzzled her — his seeming hesitation, his silence, 
 
 107 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 and then his embrace, so consumingly eager that at 
 the memory of it she shivered, half with fright, half 
 with rapture. But now she thought that she could 
 understand even that ; and she felt very happy in the 
 understanding. How much he loved her ! What won- 
 derful, mysterious riches of love he had to offer her ! 
 
 She seemed to feel herself at the threshold of a new 
 experience, vaster and more beautiful than anything 
 she had known hitherto. She would trust herself to it 
 without fear or hesitation, believing that she could 
 grow to the measure of its demands. Love had never 
 seemed so precious nor so sacred to her as just now. 
 
 The flame of her lamp grew murky, and a tenuous 
 corkscrew of smoke began to rise from the chimney. 
 The odour brought her with astonishment to notice 
 the time. It was already past midnight. 
 
 Hastily extinguishing the light, she made ready for 
 bed by what pale irradiance of the moon reached her 
 through the bare branches of the locust tree outside 
 her window. Then she softly opened the hall-way 
 door, made sure that her night-slippers and bed- 
 wrapper were within reach, and crept into bed. 
 
 For a time she lay very quietly, and the last vague 
 reveries that precede slumber had already begun to 
 possess her mind, when she was startled back into full 
 consciousness by a sound. What had it been? She 
 searched the lingering sensation of it, quivering in the 
 recesses of memory. A low cry ? A groan ? Words ? 
 
 io8 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 No, not words. Perhaps her father had coughed. She 
 tried to assure herself that it had been nothing more 
 than that, and resolutely closed her eyes once more. 
 
 But every impulse of slumber had fled afar. She 
 was pretematurally alert. There was an acute yet 
 nameless impression of fear upon her mind : a dim, 
 formless premonition of something. The horror of it 
 grew until she thought it would stifle her. Her brain 
 ached with listening. A fit of shuddering came upon 
 her. She lay there in a veritable panic of groundless 
 terror, unable to think, waiting — waiting — for 
 what ? The midnight silence of the great house, with 
 its tall, vacant hall-ways and spectral stairs, invaded 
 her imagination like a hostile being, ready to leap 
 upon her and annihilate her. 
 
 Trembling from head to foot, but resolved at all 
 costs to master her causeless fright, she slipped from 
 bed and noiselessly groped her way into the hall. 
 Directly opposite she could make out the tall black 
 oblong of an open doorway. She tiptoed across to it, 
 and stood for a few seconds crushed against the wall, 
 listening in the darkness for her father's breathing. 
 
 Yes, she could distinguish it now. But it was not 
 the regular, placid breathing of sleep. It was spas- 
 modic, hard, broken. The skin of all her body 
 prickled as she suddenly realized to what she was 
 listening. In the darkness and solitude of midnight 
 her father was sobbing. 
 
 109 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Her blood ran cold. She would have fled to her 
 room again; but she was powerless to move. She 
 could do nothing but listen, in an anguish of helpless 
 s)mipathy, to a sound more tragically heart-breaking 
 than ever in her life she had heard before, — yes, even 
 than the delirious screams she had once heard from 
 the fever-stricken chamber of her dying mother. 
 
 There was the slight sound of a creaking bed-spring 
 as the old man changed his position, and then a 
 strained, pulsing silence, in which she pictured him 
 struggling, with all his titanic force of will, to regain 
 his self-control. Then, through the darkness, he cried 
 out: — 
 
 "O God, cast me not away in thine anger!" 
 
 The words of his supplication were uttered scarcely 
 above a whisper; but they shivered through her soul 
 like destroying lightnings. She reeled, and caught 
 herself by the baluster-post, which creaked ominously. 
 She had a horror of being found there, eavesdropping 
 upon her father's agony. Feeling her way along the 
 floor with her hands, she half crept, half flew to her 
 room, and hid herself among the bedclothes, her chat- 
 tering teeth crushed against the pillow. 
 
 The house was very still again, with the pregnant, 
 heavy stillness that follows or precedes tragedy. The 
 white moonlight still poured in a level flood through 
 the bare branches of the locust tree and fell in broken 
 radiance over the foot of the bed. She heard one of 
 
 no 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the horses moving restlessly in his stable, far from 
 the house. She thought of Philip, and wished that his 
 arms might be about her in that hour of dread. And 
 with the thought of the enfolding strength and cour- 
 age of his love, which was hers wherever he might be, 
 through whatever dark ways she might have to tread, 
 her exhausted senses began to relax, and a solemn 
 peace came over her, which once more prepared her 
 for the healing ministrations of sleep. 
 
XI 
 
 If for appearance* sake Philip was a nominal guest 
 of the Burchells during his rare visits to Folkbridge, 
 it was at Miss Wetherell's that he was most frequently 
 to be found. With Aunt Prudence he came very close 
 to the old hfe that meant so much to him. The house 
 was full of happy memories, tinged with a melancholy 
 of time and change that even more endeared them. 
 
 Reminders of his father were on every hand, jeal- 
 ously cherished by little Aunt Prue. She even pre- 
 served on the walls of her tiny sewing-room upstairs 
 the yellowed certificate of his graduation from Phil- 
 lips-Andover and his Yale diploma. She had a fond, 
 familiar way of talking of him, too, almost as if he 
 were still a living presence in the house. The fact that 
 he was dead had never become so much a reality to 
 her as the fact that he had been alive. 
 
 It had been so untimely, his death, so utterly with- 
 out warning, that even now it often seemed to her that 
 perhaps it had not really happened at all, and that at 
 any moment he might come with his alert, athletic 
 stride up the front path from the gate, and enter the 
 house as in the old days, whistHng. 
 
 A group of half-drunken strikers had gathered in 
 the mill-yard, and they had sent in a brawling chal- 
 
 112 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 lenge to the officials of the company to come out and 
 talk terms with them. No one had made a move to 
 accept their invitation. The men were known to be in 
 a dangerous mood. At last the newly appointed super- 
 intendent, John Wetherell, had risen to his feet with 
 an abrupt, confident determination. 
 
 "If we lack the courage to put trust in the honesty 
 of the men, how can we ask them to put trust in our 
 honesty?" he had demanded, and with a fearless 
 smile he had gone out, to fall dead, shot through 
 the heart, before he had spoken another word. 
 
 Philip would never forget, so long as he lived, the 
 gallant beauty of his father's dead face as the men 
 who brought him home Hfted the dark blanket that 
 covered their burden. The day was the eleventh of 
 May, thirteen years ago, and the meeting-house clock 
 had just struck noon. Everything that went before 
 that moment in the boy's life was sharply distinct 
 from everything that came after, wearing a soft, far- 
 away radiance, as if belonging to another sphere of 
 existence. 
 
 No day of the year's cycle could call old memories 
 more potently into life than Thanksgiving, the high 
 ancestral feast. In New England it is preeminently 
 the day with the home-feeling. It is the reunion day 
 of past and present : the celebration of the past's no- 
 bility, the declaration of the present's loyalty. No day 
 could so thrill Philip with pride to know himself a 
 
 "3 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 product of New England's three centuries of struggle 
 and faith. And another quality of the feast that 
 greatly appealed to him was its cheerful, robust this- 
 worldliness, its wholesome savour of the soil. No crav- 
 ing of release from our poor mortality, but rather an 
 honest glor)dng in its rich possibilities ! Let us bless 
 God together that the fruits of the ripened year are 
 garnered and heaped by, and that we may properly 
 enjoy them ! 
 
 To-day, until it should be time to make ready for 
 church, Philip gave his assistance to Aunt Prue in her 
 garden, tying up her precious rose-bushes in sheaves 
 of straw, and setting out a new border of daffodils 
 between the path and the grape-arbour. 
 
 "How I delight in the November garden," said 
 little Aunt Prue. " It reminds me of a child's nursery 
 at the end of the afternoon, where playthings of all 
 sorts are left scattered about, waiting quietly for the 
 mother to come and put them away for the night." 
 
 Aunt Prue had a vein of whimsical, wayward 
 humour and she liked to indulge it with her nephew. 
 She stood beside him in apron and dog-skin gloves, 
 a man's working-cap with ear-lappets absurdly pulled 
 down over her small head ; and she punctiliously in- 
 dicated, with the tip of an old umbrella, the spot 
 where he was next to place a bulb. 
 
 "It always seems to me," said Aunt Prue, digging a 
 neat little hole with her indicator, "an explicit act of 
 
 114 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 faith to put a seed or a bulb in the ground at this time 
 of year. I believe the Lord must attribute it unto 
 us for righteousness. What reason have we for be- 
 lieving that this lump of brown scales, with its white 
 heart, will sleep safe and warm through the frozen 
 months ahead, to wake with the first rains — * before 
 the swallow dares'? I vow, it astounds me every 
 day to see how much faith we unregenerate creatures 
 have, after all. Every act of the day is an act of 
 trust — an expression of confidence in the honesty 
 and reliability of the Universe. Did you ever think 
 of that?" 
 
 She was a rare little personage. Aunt Prudence, 
 still scarcely beyond middle age, trim, dainty, choice 
 of diction, sincerely pious, devoted to good works, a 
 visitor of the sick, a friend of the needy. Secretary of 
 the Home Missionary Society, and President of the 
 local branch of the Seaman's Gospel Association. 
 The latter was by all odds her favourite philanthropy. 
 Had God willed her to be a man, she declared, she 
 would certainly have stuffed her clothes into a pillow- 
 case and run away to sea — a hardy stowaway. Life 
 before the mast appealed to her much more power- 
 fully than the life of the saints in bliss. All seamen, 
 indeed, were the adopted children of her heart ; and 
 it was an inconsolable regret of hers that Providence 
 had ordained her lot among inland hills, far from 
 sounding surf and white sails. 
 
 "5 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 One of her first questions to Philip that morning 
 had been in regard to the life of the water-front in New 
 York. Did he often see the ships come in? Did he 
 sometimes hear the sailors talking their quaint jargon 
 along the wharves? Portuguese, she thought, must 
 be a very interesting language. 
 
 But just now her mind was absorbed with the set- 
 ting of bulbs. 
 
 "I wonder," she ventured, with a pensive smile, as 
 she put the last of her store into Philip's hand, ^'I 
 wonder is the little bulb conscious, somehow, of the 
 lovely secret in its heart? Does it feel the stirring 
 within it of the Resurrection Day as the cold earth 
 closes in over its head ? With us it is only that know- 
 ledge that makes death anything else than a terror. It 
 does not seem to me, indeed, that I could bear to be a 
 bulb unless I knew that some day I should hear the 
 voice of Life, bidding me come forth from the tomb. 
 Did it ever occur to you, nephew, that in their first 
 appearance above ground the little spring things 
 still seem to be wearing their grave clothes tight 
 bound about them, like so many lowly brothers of 
 Lazarus?" 
 
 "You ought to have been a poet. Aunt Prudence," 
 said Philip, with admiring affection, as he completed 
 his labours. 
 
 She beamed with pleasure. "Do you think so?" 
 she asked. "I have my little ideas, which amuse me; 
 
 ii6 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 but I don't seem to find it easy to talk of them to most 
 people. With you it's different. I know you won't 
 laugh at me. In that you're like your father." 
 
 They walked leisurely toward the house. She felt 
 very proud of her manly nephew, and looked up at 
 him, from under the enormous visor of her working- 
 cap, with glistening eyes. 
 
 "You're so like him in many ways, Philip. You 
 have his modesty. I verily believe you've no least 
 notion how handsome you are. I don't see how the 
 young belles of the city can help losing their hearts to 
 you. I dare say they do, for that matter, but that 
 you're too shy to know it." 
 
 Philip blushed hotly, and was glad that Aunt Prue 
 had stooped to peer under a great soap-box at a clump 
 of foxglove. 
 
 "By the way," she said, very demurely, — "or 
 rather, apropos of nothing, as they say, have you hap- 
 pened to see Georgia Raebum yet?" 
 
 "I am going out to Highstone this afternoon," an- 
 swered Philip. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the little lady, with the most be- 
 guiling simplicity in the world. 
 
 They resumed their walk, and had almost reached 
 the house before she spoke again. 
 
 "By the way," she said, — "or rather, apropos of 
 nothing, I heard some one come cantering down the 
 bridge road last night about half-past ten. I wonder 
 
 117 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 who it would have been, there 's so little riding here- 
 abouts at night." 
 
 They looked at each other, and Philip surrendered 
 with a laugh and a blush. The next instant he realized 
 with painful acuteness that he had seemed to admit 
 more than he had any right to admit now. But before 
 he could find words to correct his error, his aunt 
 turned to him with a look of tenderest affection. 
 
 "Georgia is a wonderful girl, my boy," she said, 
 "a very capable girl, intelligent, beautiful, devoted, 
 and above all — good. I don't know what better prize 
 I could covet for you." 
 
 At twenty minutes past ten they were ready to set 
 out for church. Aunt Prudence had donned a deli- 
 ciously old-fashioned bonnet, with velvet strings under 
 the chin, and her small hands, delicate and soft as a 
 girl's, wore gloves of white silk. It was one of her 
 whims to be a little quaint ; and the fashion of another 
 day became her marvellously. She gave Philip her 
 Bible to carry, and they joined the village procession 
 already on its way toward the white meeting-house. 
 
 Neighbours greeted each other at gateways, and fell 
 into line. Philip was recognized and welcomed all 
 along the route by old friends, who invariably ex- 
 pressed astonishment at the way he had grown. 
 
 "So ye 're livin' way off to New York," quoth old 
 Sally Blodgett, almost bent double over a cane. " Well, 
 well!— Well well!" 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She indulged in a wise cackle of laughter through 
 mumblecrust gums. It seemed to Philip that she was 
 the one thing that remained unchanged out of the old 
 world. She had always been just as old, just as bent, 
 as that. He remembered how, at the funeral of his 
 father, she had hobbled up amongst the throng for a 
 last look at the dead face, and suddenly broken out 
 into wild sobbing. 
 
 Sally was shaking her head still, with a sage doubt 
 of these modem ways. "I never could see," she prof- 
 fered, **why anybody wants to live clear way off there 
 for.'' 
 
 In every face that morning, so Philip thought, there 
 was to be seen a subdued, self-respecting joyousness. 
 The slanting sunlight of Indian summer filtered its 
 soft radiance through the intemetted branches of the 
 tall elms that lined the street. In front dooryards the 
 grass was yet green, and Aunt Prudence discovered, 
 with a little cry of delight, a belated dandelion, blos- 
 soming close to the ground by the sidewalk. She made 
 Philip put it in his buttonhole. 
 
 "I suppose," said she, "that finding itself alone, all, 
 all alone in a leafless, flowerless world, it must think 
 mighty well of itself. Probably it imagines it is the 
 first of its kind in creation, instead of being only the 
 last and least of the year." 
 
 As they reached the little ascent that led to the 
 ancient meeting-house, a severe, square-windowed, 
 
 119 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 green-blinded structure like all of its kind in New 
 England, but fronted and set off by a steeple of beauti- 
 ful proportions and exquisite delicacy of ornament, a 
 phaeton passed them ; and Philip turned just in time 
 to see Georgia and Aunt Min. Georgia held reins 
 and whip handsomely. He had always loved to see 
 her with a horse. The pose was one that became her 
 well, answering to the aristocratic distinction of her 
 beauty, — erect, confident, with animated counte- 
 nance into which the November air had brought a 
 vivid bloom, her lips superbly arched, her head 
 slightly thrown back, her gauntleted hands held well 
 forward on the lines. His heart bounded with pride 
 as she gave him a quick, smiling salutation ; then the 
 same old mantle of shame enveloped him. 
 
 How vile, how inexplicably perverse his secret 
 seemed on a day and in a setting like this ! He could 
 almost believe that the thing had never taken place. 
 A furtive impulse came to him to put it away from 
 him, to say nothing, to act as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. But the impulse passed as quickly as it came. 
 They had always been honest with each other. He 
 would not embark upon deceit now. He would let 
 this lie live in his bosom no longer. 
 
 After Aunt Prue he walked soberly down the red- 
 carpeted aisle and entered the pew of memories, sit- 
 ting in the place his father had always occupied. The 
 congregation rose for the singing of Old Hundred and 
 
 1 20 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the invocation ; then followed the responsive reading 
 from the Psalter. 
 
 "I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into 
 the house of the Lord. Our feet shall stand within 
 thy gates, O Jerusalem." 
 
 The rich familiar words fell upon his ears like 
 voices out of another world ; and a choking sensation, 
 which he could not get rid of, came into his throat. 
 Once more he was a very small boy, sitting between 
 stately Aunt Prue and his heroically proportioned 
 father, waiting in eager expectation for the dramatic 
 moment when old Dr. Stickney should portentously 
 unfold the Governor's Proclamation, sealed with the 
 great seal of the State of Connecticut. Whither had 
 the years swept it all away? Where v\rere the other 
 three of the five who had once filled the pew? And 
 what had happened to Aunt Prue, whom he now per- 
 ceived beside him, a mere mite of a lady, demurely 
 munching a meeting-seed ? 
 
 And himself ! How abundantly he had eaten of the 
 Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, the first fruits 
 of which were Shame ! How little he had dreamed, in 
 those days, that a day would come when he should be 
 sitting here alone with Aunt Prue, devoured by a fes- 
 tering secret that made every observance of the festi- 
 val a mockery! The anthem, the scripture lesson, the 
 sermon, all were lost upon him. He was thinking bit- 
 terly, while the tears still itched at the back of his 
 
 121 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 eyes; and a resolution for the future, stronger than 
 any that had preceded it, was taking form in his heart. 
 But this was in the land of hills and memories. It 
 was within sight of the girl who was going to forgive 
 him and would be henceforth a strength and inspira- 
 tion that had never been possible before. And it was 
 far away — farther in years than in miles — from the 
 subtle nets of temptation, spread day and night in the 
 City for the feet of the Young Men. 
 
XII 
 
 They were sitting on a knob of rock just below the 
 crest of Yelping Hill. Already the afternoon was far 
 spent, and across the purple meadows below, a thin 
 trail of mist was gathering. The rays of the sun came 
 to them wanly from a point close to the western moun- 
 tain-rim. 
 
 The man was staring hard at the ground. His face 
 was set in lines of pain that distorted the mouth and 
 put deep creases about the eyes. His companion sat 
 a little distance from him, with her back partly turned ; 
 and she was gazing out across the dream-like country 
 below, seeing nothing. The silence that had come be- 
 tween them since he had ceased speaking had grown 
 almost terrifying; yet no words would form them- 
 selves on her dry lips. 
 
 "Georgia, Georgia!'* he groaned, at last, digging 
 his heel hard into the damp earth. "Are n't you going 
 to say anything?" 
 
 Another silence. She sat there like one petrified. 
 Her stunned brain seemed to know nothing but a dull 
 suffering. Yet she must speak. Something must be 
 said. She clutched her hands together until they hurt, 
 struggling to force down the strangling knot in her 
 throat. 
 
 123 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ''What is there to say — Philip?'' she asked. Her 
 voice did not seem like a real voice: it was the 
 shrunken, bodiless ghost of a voice, blown to him 
 across countless miles. 
 
 "Say that it's not all over," he cried, with impas- 
 sioned vehemence. "Can't you say that? Surely, — 
 Georgia! — can't you say that?" 
 
 "No," — she answered with a shudder — "I can't 
 say that." 
 
 " Do you mean that it is all over ? You 're not going 
 to let me try again?" 
 
 She set her chin upon the back of her hands, and 
 stared unseeingly at the dimmed horizon. 
 
 "I mean that you've killed everything in me that 
 once cared for you." 
 
 Each word was heartlessly distinct, articulated 
 with a separate and painful effort. 
 
 The man let his head sink between his knees, and 
 his body was shaken with uncontrollable spasms of 
 emotion. But no betrayal of it issued from his locked 
 lips. It may be she guessed that her words had broken 
 him as his, but a few minutes earlier, had broken her ; 
 but she took no pains to inform herself of the fact. 
 Still her eyes gazed eastward undeviatingly. 
 
 "Perhaps what you did, didn't seem like very 
 much to you," she forced herself to continue, finally, 
 believing that he had a right to know her thought. 
 "Oh, I dare say I'm old-fashioned and provincial. 
 
 124 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 I know it does seem a small thing to a great many 
 people." 
 
 "It did n't seem small to me," broke out her com- 
 panion. "I tried to tell you that. I thought I had 
 made that clear. It seemed to me the most degrading, 
 most disloyal thing I had ever done or could do." 
 
 She gave a little mirthless, cutting laugh. 
 
 "And you chose to do this most degrading, most 
 disloyal thing the very night you heard I was in 
 trouble." 
 
 There was an interval of silence. Her accusation 
 was unanswerable. He had no thought of going over 
 the ground again. To urge mitigating circumstances 
 would be only cowardice at this point. The bare fact 
 was as she had declared it. She was not unjust, even 
 if she was without pity. 
 
 "And after you had done it," she went on, — "how 
 many days after ? — six ? — five ? — you came to me, 
 and took me in your arms, and — " She choked at the 
 word, and it was never uttered. 
 
 The man groaned. "I insulted you in every way I 
 could devise. I hate myself for it. I loathe myself for 
 a sneak and a cad." 
 
 "And so," she asked, after another brief pause, in 
 a voice of unsparing irony, "and so you think it would 
 be natural and altogether desirable for me to keep on 
 loving you." 
 
 "I don't ask that. No, — not love me, — you 
 125 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 could n't do that now. I see it well enough. I did n't 
 see it at first. But at least be a little sorry for me, — 
 could n't you be that? And trust me a little?" 
 
 "I don't see any grounds for trusting you again. I 
 do not see what better reason I could offer you now 
 for being true than I have offered in the past. You 
 chose to do what you did. You took time — several 
 hours — to think it over first. — No ! No ! everything 
 inside me is hard, hard, hard toward you. Oh, it 
 makes me sick to think I let you touch me, and that 
 I was so — so happy,^^ 
 
 A spasm of revulsion seized her, and she sprang to 
 her feet, saying in a voice of ice, "I suppose we might 
 as well be going home." 
 
 This was the man she had given herself to ! This 
 was the man the very sound of whose voice had 
 thrilled her with ecstasy ; the man whose arms she had 
 longed for, to be her strength and protection through 
 the dark valleys ! 
 
 They took their way down through the fields on 
 the shadowed side of the hill. There was a creeping 
 frostiness in the atmosphere that made her pull her 
 sweater tight about her neck. There was nothing 
 to say, and in mutual recognition of the fact they 
 avoided the mockery of empty small talk, and walked 
 in silence. 
 
 So they came to the border of the first field, where 
 a thicket of alder and witch-hazel screened an an- 
 
 126 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 cient stone wall. The alder thrust sturdily aloft, like 
 tiny mailed fists, a thousand iron-black, rust-tipped 
 cones. The witch-hazel hung out upon its slender 
 branches a countless multitude of exiguous pale yel- 
 low bannerets, shyest yet hardiest blossomings of the 
 annual pageant, shedding upon the November air a 
 faint, arresting fragrance, once known, never to be 
 mistaken. While winter even now jangles his icy 
 manacles in the valley below, creeping stealthily, 
 resistlessly to the hill-tops, bringing captivity and 
 death, this debonair rearguard of the flown season 
 flings undauntedly back her final challenge. *^ These 
 lives shall yet be numbered for me," she cries; and 
 still the white tyrant stays his work. 
 
 As the pungent fragrance of the mysterious flower 
 struck upon her sense, Georgia caught her breath 
 with an involuntary sob. This was among the dear 
 delights they had projected — to stand together in 
 the presence of the witch-hazel, to gather an armful 
 of it for the beautification of the house. 
 
 Philip turned upon her a look of shy appeal, nurs- 
 ing in his bosom a quick, inarticulate hope that she 
 would remember, and give a sign. But he saw no 
 sign. With head thrown back and lips confidently 
 set, she deliberately pressed ahead of him, parted 
 the thicket with her hands, and leaped upon the 
 stone wall, agile, assured, with the lithe grace of a 
 chamois. His last hope had been slain. 
 
 127 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Two more fields, each with its bounding stone wall, 
 and they gained the highway. 
 
 The dusk had fallen rapidly. They seemed to be 
 the only two living beings abroad in all that melan- 
 choly land, so terribly alone together, and yet so 
 many leagues asunder. Here and there a light, ap- 
 pearing in a farm-house window, bore witness to the 
 homely cheer within. 
 
 This was Thanksgiving Day. The thought came 
 to Georgia with a sudden, cruel poignancy. This 
 was the ancestral feast, the feast of loyalty and grati- 
 tude. Every one else was rejoicing. They two only 
 were outside, — outcast. 
 
 They reached the dismantled gates of Highstone 
 and entered the dark avenue under the evergreens and 
 locusts. Still not a word had been exchanged between 
 them. At moments a grim humour in the situation 
 came to her so forcibly that she could almost have 
 burst into mirthless, sardonic laughter. But even the 
 cynic in her could not quite laugh while the sting of 
 anguish was still in this first intensity. 
 
 They came within sight of the house. A ruddy 
 light shone through the windows of the library. Her 
 father was there, doubtless, awaiting their return. A 
 stem, bitter thankfulness rose up in her that she had 
 not told him of her engagement. Ah, this was her 
 Thanksgiving! She was not excluded from the feast 
 after all ! Whatever there was to be suffered, she was 
 
 128 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 able to suffer alone and in secret. She remembered 
 her father, wrestling with some nameless angel of 
 despair in the solitude of night. The same blood 
 ran in her veins. Her despair should be as nobly, 
 as proudly entertained, as resolutely confined to her 
 own bosom. 
 
 At the porch Philip turned to her with an air of 
 studied indifference, and tried to say good-by. He 
 failed dismally. He would not have recognized his 
 own voice for its throaty dryness. 
 
 "Well, I suppose this is good-by," were his words. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, hardly, not offering her hand. 
 "I suppose it is. I hope I shall never have to see you 
 again." 
 
 She mounted the steps with the leisurely, confident 
 grace of a king's daughter, and entered the house 
 without turning her face. 
 
XIII 
 
 From young Victor, Victorine and her sister-in-law, 
 Jenny La Bergere, alias Shepherd (or, as Victorine 
 stoutly maintained, Shepherdess), had received the 
 present of two balcony tickets to the Hippodrome, 
 for the afternoon after Thanksgiving. Victorine, who 
 was rarely to be found outside her kitchen, was 
 declaring that she did not see how she could possibly 
 arrange to go to that place, leaving the old papa and 
 the old maman all to themselves. 
 
 "What does my brother think, I wonder!" she de- 
 manded. — "That I have nothing to do but go running 
 around after mermaids and trick horses and all those 
 fooHsh things? If you will tell me how I can find 
 time for that, I will be thankful." 
 
 Although she did not deign to look up from the 
 kitchen table which she was vigorously scrubbing 
 with a pumice-stone, her challenge was presumably 
 addressed to Jenny, who stood languidly in the door- 
 way, dressed in a much-beruffled morning-wrapper, 
 her red hair still in crimpers. The two old ones 
 occupied their customary stations, the papa at one 
 side of the range, his two gnarled hands resting on a 
 stout cane, his head trembling slightly, as always, on 
 its pipestem of a neck; the maman Susanne deep 
 
 130 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 in her padded chair in the comer. The energetic 
 scrape of the pumice-stone and the scrub-brush, 
 ocular proof of her immense business, belonged pro- 
 perly to Victorine's sentence. The muscles stood out 
 on her large arms ; her face was red with exertion 
 and defiance. 
 
 For an instant only she relaxed her labour, to rest her 
 hands on her hips and accord a rapid, contemptuous 
 scrutiny to Jenny's matutinal attire. 
 
 "For some people," she announced, crisply, with 
 a little snort, ^'who have nothing to do in the world 
 but dress styUsh and spend money, those Hippo- 
 dromes may be all very well." 
 
 Between the Shepherdess and the thrifty, indefati- 
 gable Victorine existed an ever-smouldering hostility 
 which sometimes came near to flame. The two were 
 well matched, however. If Victorine had her con- 
 temptuous little snort, Jenny had her supercilious 
 little sniff, and used it with especial readiness because 
 she knew that it was excessively well bred. 
 
 "Yes, my dear," she added, with a smile of superior 
 amusement. "I know just how hard it must be for 
 you to get off. Perhaps after all it will not be worth 
 the trouble. I hope you will feel perfectly free to give 
 it up." 
 
 Victorine gave her a crushing look. "Will you tell 
 me," she demanded, '^you who know all about such 
 things, if it would be good manners for me to give it up, 
 
 131 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 when my poor brother has already bought the ticket 
 forme?" 
 
 To give it up was indeed the last thought in Vic- 
 torine's head. She was consumed with curiosity in 
 regard to these wonderful soaring ladies, diving mer- 
 maids, and dancing flowers of which she had heard 
 so often, and which Jenny authoritatively declared to 
 be the swellest thing that had ever hit New York. 
 But to make admission of that curiosity was by no 
 means Victorine's way. 
 
 ^*0h, for that matter," said Jenny, with mordant 
 gentleness, "I'm sure Victor wouldn't mind if you 
 returned the ticket, my dear, and spent the money for 
 some useful thing. He is very sweet in those ways. 
 Though I can't tell you how I'd hate to have to go 
 without you." 
 
 Victorine clicked her teeth together, and seemed 
 to speak without so much as opening her mouth. "At 
 half-past one I shall be ready, my dear. Voila !" 
 
 The scrubbing was resumed so vindictively that 
 Jenny's final retort — if she made one : she probably 
 did — was quite lost in the uproar. At last, however, 
 the labour of cleanliness was completed, and a strange 
 quiet supervened. Jenny had disappeared. Victor- 
 ine's temper had evidently worked itself out. 
 
 Turning solicitously to her father from the sink, 
 over which she had just replaced her housewife's bat- 
 tery, she inquired, — 
 
 132 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "You will be comfortable, mon p^re? Since it ap- 
 pears to be necessary for me to go to that Hippo- 
 drome of theirs, you promise that you will be good — 
 tres, tres sage — that you will not go to the corner?'' 
 
 The old man nodded with the most irreproachable 
 docility. 
 
 "Oui, ma Torine," he replied, reassuringly. "You 
 may trust the old papa. He will not do anything." 
 
 " Good," she commented. "And is the little mother 
 going to be sage, too? She will not get to coughing 
 — no? — while her Torine is away?" 
 
 " Non, ma Torine," came the thin, faithful response. 
 "You may trust the old maman. She is going to be 
 good, good." 
 
 "Well, then," said Mademoiselle, with a sigh of 
 seeming reluctance, "well, then, I suppose it will be 
 all right if I let them persuade me to go, since Victor 
 wishes it." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, ma Torine," urged the old man. 
 ''You must go for Victor' sake. We promise to be 
 sage — eh, Susanne ? " 
 
 "Victorine can trust the old ones," agreed the Nor- 
 man coijffe. "They are going to be sage, sage." 
 
 Promptly therefore at the appointed moment, Made- 
 moiselle was in readiness. She entered the kitchen 
 magnificent, incredible, in a black suit that seemed on 
 the point of bursting for the extreme snugness of its 
 fit, and a broad hat towering with white plumes. 
 
 .^33 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The old man rubbed his hands together with 
 paternal admiration. 
 
 "You are beautiful, my Victorine! Eh, Susanne, 
 are not you proud to be the mother of our Torine 
 there?" 
 
 "She could have five husbands any day if she 
 wanted them," chimed in the little creature. 
 
 Victorine gave a smiling grunt, as she struggled 
 with a refractory glove. "I know too much about 
 husbands," she said. 
 
 "There is plenty time yet," put in the papa, know- 
 ingly. "But, however, you are going to enjoy your- 
 self well this afternoon." 
 
 "Oh, as for that," conceded Victorine, doubtfully, 
 "I do not care much about all those absurd things at 
 the Hippodrome. But Victor will be pleased, I hope. 
 I am doing it for him. — You may light the gas, fa- 
 ther, at half-past four." 
 
 "Very well, my Torine. At half-past four. You 
 can trust us to be sage." 
 
 In another minute the ancient pair heard the shut- 
 ting of the front door. They were alone. 
 
 " Eh bien," observed old Victor, taking a little pinch 
 of snuff. "The young people must have their good 
 times, I suppose. One of these days the good times 
 will come to an end. They will grow feeble and old 
 and have to sit beside the stove all day." 
 
 "Yes, my Victor," sighed Susanne. "Life is not 
 134 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 gay. For a little time there is singing and happiness ; 
 but not for long. Well, one must bear it with patience." 
 
 The papa Victor gave a rebellious rap of his cane. 
 *'But for all that," he remarked, "it seems to me that 
 Torine is a little too severe with the old ones. Why 
 does she refuse to let me get a little glass sometimes 
 at the corner? Why, I say? — Even at my age I 
 might have a Httle pleasure in that." 
 
 "For one thing, my Victor, she does not like to 
 have you spend money." 
 
 "A little glass — that is only ten sous." 
 
 "Yes, my dear man, if it would only be one little 
 glass. But always where there is one, there is two, 
 sometimes three. That costs." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Torine is too severe," reiterated the 
 papa Victor, in an injured voice. "She forget the 
 days of the Cafe Antoine. She think she owe nothing 
 to her poor old father." 
 
 Susanne, perceiving that nothing was to be gained 
 by argument, only sighed a little ghost of a sigh, and 
 continued her knitting. 
 
 "But an idea has come to me," pursued the octo- 
 genarian, darkly. "I am thinking about it since two 
 days. Surely there can be no harm in amusing our- 
 selves a little when they have gone off like that and 
 left us all alone." 
 
 "If Torine would not object," put in Susanne, 
 timidly. 
 
 135 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Tonne ! Always Torine !" — He snapped his fin- 
 gers contemptuously. "I am not afraid of Torine." 
 
 The little woman drew a tremulous breath of ad- 
 miration. "Ah, you never were a man for being 
 afraid, my Victor." 
 
 The old papa smiled complaisantly. "No," he 
 agreed. "I do not believe anybody ever accused the 
 proprietor of the Cafe Antoine of being timid ; and all 
 Rouen knew the Cafe Antoine. — Besides, in her 
 heart, Torine would be glad. She would only pre- 
 tend to be angry." 
 
 "What do you mean, mon ami ?" inquired Susanne, 
 scenting evil. 
 
 The old man gave a confident toss to his head. "She 
 does not like to have him out there," he said, with a 
 gesture of a long bony finger toward the yard. "He 
 will never fly, that is certain. His wing is not going 
 to be strong again. He only eats and eats and grows 
 fat, — oh, my Susanne, so fat ! so fat ! — a veritable 
 marvel!" 
 
 He produced a curiously succulent sound between 
 his scanty teeth. A first clear hint of the devilish de- 
 sign flashed into the old maman's brain. 
 
 "The pigeon!" she gasped. "Oh, my friend, you 
 would never dare ! " 
 
 "No?" — The papa Victor drew himself up im- 
 perially. "Who says I would not dare ? — Listen, my 
 Susanne, do you remember the famous pigeon-pasties 
 
 136 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 of the Cafe Antoine ? Do you remember the universal 
 admiration they evoked? Do you remember how 
 Victor Napoleon La Bergere, who is now an old, old 
 man, huddling by the stove with his cane, used to create 
 them in that fine little cuisine behind the restaurant ? 
 Ah, those were the good days. There was glory then ! " 
 
 "Glory! Ah, my man!" exclaimed Susanne, with 
 an outburst of febrile enthusiasm. "In all Rouen one 
 used to hear, ^ Oh, the wonderful pates de pigeon of 
 the Cafe Antoine ! Oh, the lovely sauces of the Cafe 
 Antoine ! Oh, the fried potatoes, so delicate, so tender, 
 of the Cafe Antoine ! ' No one talked in Rouen of any- 
 thing else!" 
 
 A flush of new life had appeared in her sunken 
 little cheeks. Her two hands, freely gesticulating, 
 shook with excitement. The old Victor agreed with 
 her, rapping his stick on the floor. And then a look 
 of Machiavellian subtlety came into his glittering 
 eyes. 
 
 "Attend, my wife," he whispered, significantly. 
 "I knov/ something about Victorine, and she suspects 
 that I know it. — How did the dog of Monsieur 
 Philippe run away yesterday? He did not get out on 
 the street himself. Neither did the grocer boy let him 
 out, as Torine declare. — / know how he get outT^ 
 
 She gazed at him with eyes wide-set, comprehend- 
 ing, reasoning. 
 
 "Go, my Victor," she directed, with sudden reso- 
 137 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 lution. "Take the pigeon. Yes, yes, why should we 
 not amuse ourselves a little ? We will tell Monsieur 
 Philippe that it flew away while you were feeding 
 it." 
 
 "That is what I am going to do," announced the 
 hero of the Cafe Antoine. "We will have once more a 
 little pate — just me and you, hein? — Wait, I am 
 going for him. Will you get ready the little black ket- 
 tle, my dear ? We will boil him for fifteen minute in 
 water with a small little onion and some salt." 
 
 It was a labour of but a half hour to prepare Co- 
 lumba for the pot. Susanne sat close by during the 
 entire process, proudly, eagerly watching, until the 
 last joint had been separated by the old man's skilled 
 fingers, and put over to seethe. Next the paste must 
 be mixed, and sauce prepared. With excited, fevered 
 devotion she responded to his every request, hovering 
 about like a timid winter bird. She fetched flour and 
 butter, fetched stock, whole cloves, mace, cayenne, 
 bay leaves, and a precious dark little bottle of herb- 
 extract that had come from Rouen twenty years ago ; 
 she buttered a tiny baking-dish, found a piece of 
 brown paper to cover the pie, and stood with raised, 
 tremulous hands beside the old Victor while the pate 
 was compounded. He was a general ; she his devoted 
 adjutant. 
 
 "Ah, my Victor, you are a marvel of men," she 
 protested, while her sunken eyes glowed with adora- 
 
 138 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 tion. *^One would believe you were not a day older 
 than thirty to see the address with which you work. 
 It is the Cafe Antoine once more alive!" 
 
 The old man gave a deprecatory shrug. "Oh, this 
 is nothing/* he asserted, magnificently. "This is the 
 simplest of all my creations. However, it is something, 
 my friend, to be free once more. Tonne will never 
 remember that her father is an artist supreme. She 
 believe he is the same as any old man." 
 
 "Tonne forget the Cafe Antoine," put in Susanne, 
 antiphonally. 
 
 "But it is going to be all different in the future," 
 declared the papa Victor, defiantly. "After this I am 
 going to have my own way whenever I want it. It will 
 be, * Tonne, this!' — ^Torine, that!' She will soon 
 learn that things have changed." 
 
 There were two bright red spots at his cheek-bones ; 
 his eyes flashed with authority ; his voice had lost its 
 old-time tremolo, and was once more that of a com- 
 mander of men's stomachs. The years had rolled 
 from him like magic. Even Susanne seemed a quar- 
 ter-century younger. 
 
 "Voil^!" he announced, grandly, as he put the last 
 decorative touch to the crimped edge of the pasty. 
 "Voila! It is done! — Open the oven!" 
 
 The oven was opened. In went the masterpiece of 
 the Cafe Antoine. Click shut the heavy door. The 
 deed was accomplished. The inspiration had come 
 
 139 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 to its fruition. The genius of the papa Victor, 
 evoked from its long slumber, had been vindicated. 
 
 "And now, my man," said Susanne, with hectic 
 briskness, "we will have a little wee rest for one min- 
 ute in our chairs ; and then we will gather up the cook- 
 ing things and put them away. Later we will eat the 
 pie." 
 
 "Yes," said the papa Victor. "A minute or two of 
 rest; and then we will finish." 
 
 They resumed their accustomed places; and a 
 silence fell upon the room, broken only by the ticking 
 of the clock. The afternoon was slipping away. Al- 
 ready the basement kitchen had grown a little dusky. 
 A great fatigue began to envelop the ex-proprietor 
 of the Cafe Antoine. His limbs, that so short a time 
 before had thrilled with imperial energy, felt like 
 dead things. He wondered how he could ever get 
 up from his chair again. 
 
 The fire began to glow with a ruddier gleam 
 through the little chinks of the stove. The kettle 
 hummed with a soft, insistent monotony. And still 
 the clock ticked on. The shadows were ranked deep 
 in the corners of the room. It was almost time to light 
 the gas. The dishes and utensils were still lying in 
 disorder on the table. The thought suddenly came to 
 him that before very, very long Victorine would be 
 coming home ; and with the thought a pall of dread 
 fell upon his spirit. Victorine would be oh, so angry! 
 
 140 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She would scold him. Perhaps she would refuse to 
 give him his little glass cognac before he went to bed ! 
 
 Oh, they must clear away the dishes at once. Vic- 
 torine must not find things in disorder. 
 
 "Susanne," he called feebly. "We have had our 
 rest now, hein ? We must be putting away the things." 
 
 For the space of several seconds he waited for an 
 answer. It was very dark in the corner where Susanne 
 was sitting. He could not see her. 
 
 "Susanne," he called again. "Do you hear? We 
 must be putting away the things now." 
 
 The reply came so faint as scarcely to be audible. 
 *'Yes, my friend. We must put away the things at 
 once, — at once, — in just a little minute." 
 
 But neither made any movement to get up. The 
 room grew darker. It was night in the comers. Vic- 
 torine's white apron hanging on the back of the door 
 looked like a ghostly visitant, come upon them una- 
 wares. The shadows were full of things that got on 
 one's nerves. 
 
 "Susanne," he said, finally, in a strange, mufHed 
 voice that tried to be resolute. "It is time to light the 
 gas now. We must be busying ourselves. The dishes 
 must be washed and put away now." 
 
 "Yes, my Victor," came the response, scarcely 
 louder than the whirr of an insect's wing. "We 
 must not sit here any longer like this. We have had 
 our rest." 
 
 141 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 There was a little break in her words; while the 
 clock ticked tyrannically. 
 
 "Ah, my friend/^ she concluded. "Life is very 
 hard. It is not an easy thing for the poor old ones." 
 
 The room was all dark now, save for the mocking 
 little chinks of the fire. The pate was surely burned 
 to a crisp. Even the kettle was beginning to boil away, 
 as you could tell by its eager, hoarse song. Decidedly 
 old age had once more claimed its victims. 
 
 The maman Susanne sat huddled among the cush- 
 ions of her deep chair, gazing at nothing out of vague, 
 frightened eyes. She began to feel cold. She knew 
 that soon she would begin to cough. Ah, life was not 
 gay at all, just now. She wished they would come and 
 put her to bed. She was very tired. 
 
 "Why does not our Victorine come back?" she 
 murmured, feebly, at last. "I am getting frightened, 
 it is so dark. And I am very tired." 
 
 "Yes," came the papa's voice, quaveringly, 
 through the darkness. "I wish she would come. I 
 wish she would come and Hght the gas. I do not like 
 to sit here so long, just us two, in the dark. It is not 
 kind to leave the old ones so long without attention.'' 
 
XIV 
 
 Friday afternoon Philip appeared again at the of- 
 fice, considerably to the surprise of the head-draughts- 
 man, who had not expected him until the following 
 week. He took up his work directly and seemed at 
 once to become completely absorbed in it, exchanging 
 scarcely a word with any of the other men. Gradually, 
 as he worked, the tumult that still remained in his 
 mind from the previous afternoon subsided. Only a 
 deep, sullen bitterness was left. 
 
 For a time Georgia's accusations had overwhelmed 
 him. He had left Highstone under the crushing con- 
 viction that his hope of forgiveness had been only a 
 final proof of his baseness. He had ridden aimlessly, 
 blindly, for miles up and down the silent, night- 
 shrouded country, dazed by the thought that he was 
 now a branded outcast. Before that one judge whose 
 judgment could turn the scales of his Hfe, he had been 
 arraigned and found guilty of a crime that could not 
 be atoned for, the punishment of which was that he 
 must always carry in his heart the memory of the 
 thing he had lost. 
 
 Georgia had never seemed so wonderful to him as 
 at that first moment when, in the recital of his confes- 
 sion, he had sensed, rather than seen, the wave of re- 
 
 143 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 vulsion that swept through her whole being. He must 
 have been dull not to have known earlier the irrevoca- 
 bility of his sin in her eyes. How could he have failed 
 to know it, knowing her ? In her soul there were no 
 compromises. Lovely flower that she was of the rock- 
 founded New England hills, there was in her nature 
 also something of their unbroken sternness and 
 strength. He had had the temerity to aspire to her; 
 he had breathed her fragrance; he had worshipped 
 her high beauty, her fineness of soul; but he had 
 proved unworthy of the quest, and had been sent 
 away into the outer darkness of his deserts. 
 
 Late in the evening he had stabled his horse and 
 gone directly to his room, seeing no one. As an excuse 
 for leaving by the first train the next morning, he had 
 urged anxiety about his work. He did not care whether 
 the excuse were lame or not. People could think what 
 they chose. It was nothing to him any longer. 
 
 For one minute, on his way to the station, he had 
 stopped in at Aunt Prue's. He could not have brought 
 himself to go without a good-by to her. 
 
 "Why, Philip, dear, what has happened?" she 
 asked, noting with quick concern the signs of unhap- 
 piness in his face. 
 
 "It's only a personal matter, aunt," he had ex- 
 plained, hastily. "It concerns just two individuals." 
 
 "Oh, I 'm sorry!" she said, with a smile of tender 
 comprehension. 
 
 144 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Don't feel sorry for we/" he broke out. "Every- 
 thing is my fault. I'm going back now to work and 
 try to forget." 
 
 Stooping quickly, he had pressed her little hand to 
 his lips. She saw that his mind was made up. She saw 
 that he had nothing to tell her, and made no effort to 
 detain him further. 
 
 But Philip was by nature too candid with himself 
 to entertain for long any morbid conception of his own 
 baseness. He had done wrong ; but he had done his 
 best to atone for it ; and he could not believe that there 
 was not a charity in the truest love which would have 
 taken him back and put trust in him anew. 
 
 He did not blame Georgia. She had never been 
 truer to herself than just in this. But he wished that 
 she could have understood. 
 
 It came to him that the people who could under- 
 stand were precisely the people who were weak like 
 him. The strong ones, the free-minded ones, the 
 stainless ones were removed by the very mettle of their 
 natures from comprehending what the ferocity of 
 temptation might be with another. Because temptation 
 never came to them, or because, when it came, there 
 was always at hand the force to overcome it, they 
 could not see how another might struggle in the dark, 
 weaken, loose his hold blindly, and be swept away. 
 
 On MuUin Street, where he arrived early in the 
 evening, troublous tidings awaited him. For one 
 
 H5 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 moment Victorine was a little disconcerted by his un- 
 expected appearance. She had not looked for him 
 until Sunday night. Her story was not quite on her 
 tongue's end. But it came quickly. 
 
 "I am so sorry, so sorry," she declared with a look 
 of solicitude such as he had never before seen in her 
 face. ^^ Always I tell that grocer boy to be sure he 
 shut the gate carefully when he go out. But yesterday 
 he forget ; and a little later, when I notice it, the poor 
 little dog is already run away. I do not see him 
 again." 
 
 The papa Victor set down his empty little glass on 
 the table with a sigh of regret. "Yes," he corrobor- 
 ated, earnestly. "It was that grocer boy. I see the 
 dog run out. I call to him. But it is no use. He is gone. 
 He is disappear some place. And for the pigeon, alas, 
 my frien', he get out the box this morning while I feed 
 him, and fly away." 
 
 Old Susanne, who had not yet been put to bed, was 
 sipping a cup of hot tea in the depths of her chair. 
 Her voice was fainter than usual; but she piped up 
 loyally, — 
 
 "Fly, fly, fly, m'sieu!" She made a descriptive 
 gesture with one hand. " I see him fly — dere — way 
 above de roofs, m'sieu." 
 
 "No, my Susanne," corrected the papa Victor with 
 extreme scrupulosity. "Not above the roofs. He 
 could not fly so well as dat. His wing was not strong 
 
 146 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 enough. First on the ground — so ! Then a little 
 higher ; then a little higher — roun' and roun' — 
 and then off t'rough de hair. I try to catch him ; but 
 it don't be no use." 
 
 "Yes, the poor old papa was quite exhausted by 
 all that," said Victorine, with a confirmative nod. 
 *^When I come home I find him there in the chair. 
 He can hardly speak for being tired. It is useless to 
 try to catch a bird, monsieur, by running after it. The 
 papa would have needed wings." 
 
 The compact of deception was complete. The 
 armour of falsehood was impenetrable. Had it not 
 been that Philip, stepping out into the extension base- 
 ment to dispose of the relics of his hospital, perceived 
 on the floor a few tell-tale feathers which had escaped 
 the papa's sedulous notice, he would have had small 
 enough ground for suspicion. As it was, he only 
 smiled grimly, bit his lip, and went up to his room 
 without further words. 
 
 The incident affected him so triflingly, one way or 
 another, that he believed he must be growing callous. 
 It only meant that he was a little more friendless than 
 ever. There had been only one real incident in his 
 life. He wondered whether anything would ever seem 
 important to him beside that. 
 
 Entering his room, he dropped sullenly into a chair, 
 without lighting the gas, and indulged himself for a 
 little time without restraint in gloomy reflections. 
 
 H7 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Three nights before, when he had last sat here, a ta- 
 per of hope had still burned in the inmost recesses of 
 his mind. That had been extinguished now. The gust 
 that blew it out had gone by. Darkness and dull re- 
 sentment were left. 
 
 "Is that you back again, Wetherell?'' inquired a 
 voice from the open doorway, and he recognized the 
 glow of his neighbour's stogie. 
 
 "It is," he replied, springing up not without mor- 
 tification, and striking a light. 
 
 "Well, well, what brought you back, pray, at this 
 early date?'' 
 
 Philip did not look at him directly, but reached for a 
 cigarette. " Oh, I just thought I 'd come," he answered. 
 
 "Too much Thanksgiving, perhaps," ventured his 
 friend. 
 
 Philip nodded. 
 
 "It's a pretty custom, that of giving thanks," ob- 
 served Barry dryly. "Charmingly pretty. The Big 
 Bow-wow must be hugely gratified. What did you 
 have to thank him for this time?" 
 
 "I was interrupted in the midst of the service," 
 answered the young man with a flippancy which did 
 not conceal bitterness. "I'm afraid I neglected to 
 resume it later." 
 
 "It's a very long service, if it's put through consist- 
 ently," said Barry, spitting into the fire. "Thank him 
 for flowers ; thank him also for lice and scale and blight 
 
 148 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 and slug. Thank him for the inestimable gift of health ; 
 thank him equally for tuberculosis bacilli, hookworm, 
 leprosy, and the rest. All these are showered upon 
 us freely out of the cornucopia of the same Infinite 
 Goodness. What I never could understand is why, 
 if we appoint Thanksgiving Days, we don't also 
 appoint Cursegiving Days to even up the balance. 
 The logic of both would be the same." 
 
 He broke off with a mirthless chuckle, and there 
 was a silence, while he took a few puffs at his cigar. 
 Finally he turned an intent look upon the boy's coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "Can you make terms," he asked, "with a world 
 in which an all-wise, all-powerful Creator sends blight 
 and pestilence upon the children of his creation?" 
 
 With a jarring start of surprise Philip remembered 
 that only the day before, he had been listening to little 
 Aunt Prudence in her garden. For an instant he saw 
 her again, standing beside him in her absurd working- 
 cap, her grey eyes lighted with happiness as she 
 chatted of her bulbs and of the goodness of the natu- 
 ral order. Under Barry's immovable scrutiny, the 
 vision vanished as suddenly as it had come. 
 
 "For myself, I don't see how," he admitted, hon- 
 estly. "But I know some who do." 
 
 His visitor laughed. " I suppose they term pain and 
 disease a mysterious discipline of Providence. That 's 
 the usual evasion." 
 
 149 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Philip did not answer. He wondered what little 
 Aunt Prue would say about pain and disease. 
 
 "I knew a man once," said Barry, "who replied, 
 with a solemn shake of the head, when I put that query 
 to him: ^Ah, that's the mystery of it all, my friend. 
 That's where we are called upon to have faith.' — 
 Faith! I thought that unsurpassable as a statement 
 of the piddy widdy orthodox view. Shut your eyes 
 to facts : take faith ! For myself, I prefer to have facts, 
 even though they may not be pretty." 
 
 A feverish, bitter eloquence suddenly laid hold of 
 the man. He rose from his chair, threw his cigar- 
 stump into the fire, and paced up and down the room, 
 forcefully gesticulating. 
 
 "Look abroad, with wide-open, seeing eyes on the 
 kingdom of nature," he cried, passionately, "and tell 
 me what you discover. Teeth to tear, fangs to poison, 
 hooks, tusks, to rend and gore, stings, claws, venom- 
 pouches, suckers : — oh, yes, a thousand convincing 
 evidences of God's peace and good-will! Go to the 
 Parasites, O true believer, consider their ways, and 
 be wise. Acquaint thyself with all their diabolical 
 machinery of destruction ; survey those thousands of 
 species utterly incapable of life save by sapping the 
 life of another, — Ah, Nature 1 — What is Nature but 
 conflict, pitiless, murderous, uncompromising, un- 
 remittent conflict, where one out of five, one out of 
 ten, — yes, in lower species, one out of miUions, — 
 
 150 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 survives, and the rest feed the Cosmic Process. By 
 all means, let us return thanks, thanks, for the in- 
 ejffable beauties of Nature ! Let us go humbly to Na- 
 ture, and through Nature humbly to Nature's God!" 
 
 Philip shivered in spite of himself as he felt the 
 man's burning eyes fixed upon him. Where had he 
 seen those eyes before, that proud, backward fling of 
 the head? With an uncanny shock of memory he 
 placed it, and heard Georgia Raebum saying again 
 — **Not much like daddy in that, at all events." No, 
 not much alike in the character of their faith ; and 
 yet how strangely akin by the fire and vehemence 
 of their temper. Gerizim and Ebal, blessing and 
 cursing, yet mountains of prophecy both. 
 
 "If that is your world," demanded Philip, intently, 
 "what terms do you find for making your life worth 
 living?" 
 
 "Terms? — My will! My desire P^ retorted Barry, 
 throwing out his gaunt hands with an imperial ges- 
 ture. "What more do I need than that to justify ex- 
 istence for me, individually ? I see everything strug- 
 gling for the thing it wants — food, light, pleasure, 
 what not. It may get what it wants. It may lose it. 
 While the chance of getting it remains, life means 
 something, is desirable. Look at me ! I Ve lost once, 
 lost twice, lost thrice. I 'm at the bottom of the ladder. 
 But only three years ago I was climbing, climbing 
 toward the top — I mean the top of my particular 
 
 151 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ladder. Well, I may get there yet. I have n 't given up. 
 So long as it has n't been proved to me that I can't get 
 there, I have hope ; and so long as I have hope, I can 
 accept life on its own harsh terms and be glad of it. If 
 I win my victory in the end, I shall have the satisfac- 
 tion of having won it over every obstacle that the world 
 and the social order and my own recalcitrant instincts 
 can have put in my path. If I lose — if the hope that 
 now lights me fails and is extinguished — that is 
 where I cease to struggle." 
 
 "If the hope that now lights me fails," — the words 
 echoed through Philip's brain long after his guest had 
 said good-night and withdrawn to his own room. It 
 seemed to him that he had uttered them himself. 
 
 "If the hope fails, there I cease to struggle." He 
 had nursed hope, the hope of being found worthy ; and 
 the hope had failed. Other hopes remained, to be 
 sure; but that one which came closest of all to his 
 heart was dead. The struggle which it had inspired, 
 was there anything in him now to give it continuance, 
 to make it worth while? 
 
 Had not the prophet of the Mount of Cursing 
 spoken truly? The struggle ceases when the hope 
 that lights the soul is extinguished. 
 
XV 
 
 They sat at one of the little tables in the balcony at 
 the Boulevard. Through the warm, smoke-wreathed 
 atmosphere were borne the subdued strains of the or- 
 chestra below — some languorous waltz, that pulsed 
 lullingly on the senses, and seemed to absorb into 
 itself and transmute into an original element of the 
 music the chatter and laughter of the throng of diners 
 and the ceaseless tinkling of glass and silver. 
 
 Leaning forward on her elbows and resting her chin 
 on linked fingers, the woman gazed into his face 
 through narrowed eyelids, and smiled a smile of the 
 eternal Sphinx. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 There had come a slight pause in their talk. It was 
 the first since they had met, in response to his note of 
 invitation, at the restaurant. Till now Katrinka's de- 
 lightful, inconsequential chatter had left no spaces 
 for reflection. There had been no explanations, no 
 references even to the events of a fortnight previous. 
 But at last the inevitable moment had come. 
 
 The narrowed, drawn-out eyelids flickered slightly 
 over the Hquid eyes of grey-gold ; but the gaze of the 
 eyes did not deviate. He felt an old Egyptian spell 
 in them lay hold of him. 
 
 ^53 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "I was sure I would see you again," she said. 
 
 There were both welcome and challenge in her in- 
 finitely flexible voice. 
 
 The man advanced his hand involuntarily to her 
 empty glass and spun it toyingly in his fingers, while 
 the colour mounted to his handsome face. 
 
 "In that case, you knew a lot more than I did," he 
 said, watching the rim of the glass intently. " I did n't 
 have any expectation of seeing you again. But I was 
 a fool. I might have known better." 
 
 He gazed at her directly, and the fires that are 
 burned before strange gods were lighted in his dark 
 eyes. "Who could keep away?" 
 
 She smiled again, with unparted lips, and tilted 
 her small head a httle more on her hands, so that the 
 long, swan-like throat was strained to a new curve of 
 beauty. 
 
 "But why did you want to keep away so, my 
 Lippo?" 
 
 The man hesitated, seeking an answer in vain. 
 
 She dropped her hands to the table, and leaned for- 
 ward on her elbows, opening her eyes wide, and speak- 
 ing with a childish wistfulness. 
 
 " Did you think I was so very, very, very wicked that 
 you must n't come near me?" 
 
 For the merest instant the man let his strong hand 
 close hard over one of hers, as it lay with relaxed fin- 
 gers on the cloth. 
 
 154 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "There was a reason," he brought out between lips 
 almost shut. " It was a good reason too ; but it doesn't 
 exist any more. Now it is for me to choose what I 
 want." 
 
 The woman had a thrill of exultation. He belonged 
 to her now. He had tried to get away; but he had 
 come back. It was a vindication of her power. And 
 more than that ; it was the fulfilment of her most cher- 
 ished wish. 
 
 "Ah, my dear, what good, good times we are going 
 to have together — he? I am so happy. You make 
 me glad I am alive." 
 
 She gave him a shining look that caused the words of 
 his reply to die on his lips. To be loved, to be coveted, 
 to be petted and adored, and to offer all this in like 
 measure to another, ah, was there not compensation 
 here, after a sort, for what he had sacrificed ? What 
 signified any license he might give himself now ? The 
 lofty white summits to which he had not been able to 
 attain no longer beckoned him. He no longer had a 
 loyalty or a pledge to fight for. Nothing now was to 
 hold him back. The struggle was over. 
 
 "You like the opera ? " she asked. " Oh, I am glad ! 
 We will go often, often together — he? I adore it, — 
 not those dull German things. No, I swear to you I 
 went sound asleep when I heard that old * Lohengrin.' 
 What a little simpleton was Elsa — he? And the swan 
 — oh, mein Hebe Schwann!" — she rolled her eyes 
 
 155 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 droUy — "the swan what creaked when it came in 
 from the coulisses, — oh, I swear to you, my dear, I 
 never will be so bored again till my dying. 'Tann- 
 haeuser' was a little better. There was a pretty ballet 
 in the first act — the mountain cavern, you remember ? 
 — where that lovely young knight was captivated by 
 that fairy woman of the cavern. Fremstadt was the 
 Venus the time I saw it. Oh, my dear, she was beauti- 
 ful ! — It was a nice story too, the story of the knight 
 and the two women." 
 
 Their eyes suddenly encountered with a shock; 
 she read something in the man's, and after a pregnant 
 pause, bent toward him intently, with the question, 
 
 "Tell me, my Lippo, is there an Elizabeth, then, 
 waiting somewhere for you?" 
 
 A slight shiver crossed his shoulders. "There was," 
 he muttered. 
 
 "But there isn't now?" 
 
 She hung on the answer. He shook his head with a 
 bitter smile. 
 
 Her voice softened strangely. " Oh, the women like 
 Elizabeth, they do not ever understand how the world 
 is made. Listen, my dear : you would have flung away 
 your little fairy of the Venusberg for ever and ever and 
 ever, would not you, if your Elizabeth had said, Xome 
 back, my knight, — I forgive you.' " 
 
 Philip could not hide from her the tears that for an 
 instant welled hotly into his eyes. The memory of 
 
 .156, 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 what he had lost stabbed his soul with intolerable 
 pain. Where was he now ? To what had he come ? — 
 To this : a return to the thing that had cost him the 
 other. An instinct of revulsion seized him, a wild 
 impulse to leap up from the table and make his 
 escape. 
 
 But the arresting thought was only a second behind. 
 What he had lost was lost. He could not be again what 
 he had been. There was no power now that could 
 hold him from being what he was to be. 
 
 "I know it/' she declared. "You are that kind of a 
 man." 
 
 "What kind of a man?" he asked, dully, for his 
 thoughts had swept him far away. 
 
 "There is something like rock inside you that is dif- 
 ferent from any one I have known : something strong, 
 and which does not bend, and which — what am I 
 going to say ? — which does not give itself to pleasure 
 — do you see? — no matter how much you may 
 try." 
 
 "Nonsense!" came the bitter retort. 
 
 "No, my dear, not nonsense. It is the trut^" she 
 protested. "You have a voice in there " — she struck 
 her bosom — "that says 'no' — 'no,' always. That 
 is why, for my part, I cannot help always being a little 
 afraid of you. I have no conscience, me. I do what I 
 like. I have no fights like that inside. You have great 
 storms- — hurricanes — there. I know. You had one 
 
 IS7 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 just now. I could see it. And for one second — two 
 seconds — you hated me, oh, so cruelly!" 
 
 "I don't hate you now," he broke out, in a hoarse 
 whisper, leaning toward her. 
 
 She drew herself away with an enigmatic smile. 
 
 "You think you don't," she corrected, very calmly; 
 "but that's only because you want me, my dear. Some- 
 thing in you hates me, and hates yourself for wanting 
 me. I am just beginning to understand." 
 
 "Don't ! " he cried, beseechingly. "What 's the use 
 of understanding?^^ 
 
 She paid no attention to his words. For the instant 
 she was completely given to the truth that had flashed 
 upon her. 
 
 "Some day," she said, quietly, in the same tone as 
 before, "the Voice will take you away from me." 
 
 "Don't, Katrinka, don't!" he pleaded, in accents 
 which she could no longer disregard. "Don't make 
 me miserable ! I came to you because I needed to be 
 happy. I could not stand being so lonely and unhappy 
 any longer. I swore to myself I would n't come back, 
 — yes, even after I had lost everything else, I swore I 
 would n't come back. I fought against it for nine days 
 and nights. Then I could n't stand it any longer. I 
 wrote you. Here we are/" 
 
 "Ah, Philip, dear," she murmured, "how lonely 
 your little Trinka would have been if you had never, 
 never come to her again!" 
 
 158 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "We are going to be happy," the man declared. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she repeated. "Happy!" 
 
 There was a second's silence, while the word, 
 which had taken on an unintentional eloquence of its 
 own, echoed itself harshly through both minds. 
 
 Driven by an indefinable fear, she made a desperate 
 effort to get back on comfortable ground. 
 
 "Do you know ^Thais'? We will go to ^ Thais,' 
 Lippo; it is adorable. Massenet's music seems to 
 me all colours — pale blue, red, purple! — and oh, 
 that Renaud is superb ; a giant, my dear, all artist, 
 t'rough and t'rough. — And Tagliacci,' that is my fa- 
 vourite opera of all ; it is so pathetic. — Oh, how many 
 things there will be to do. We will have our nice 
 drives in the Park — he — and always you shall take 
 your lumps of sugar for the horses ; that is such a cute 
 little way of yours. And ever so many nice little din- 
 ners Hke this. I have plenty of money to spend, plenty, 
 plenty; all I want. We can do anything we like." 
 
 She had managed to dispel the atmosphere of 
 dread and gloom that had for a moment enveloped 
 them. Philip became exuberantly cheerful, witty, 
 responsive, full of laughter. The shadows had been 
 driven back into the innermost places of his soul. 
 
 In the two months that followed they were much 
 together. 
 
 The fascination of Katrinka never diminished. 
 There seemed to be in her an almost miraculous power 
 
 159 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 of metamorphosis. She was never twice the same 
 being : now sophisticated, subtle, as a serpent of old 
 Nile ; now like a child in her freshness and simplicity ; 
 now a happy boy in her camaraderie, her droll faces, 
 her delight in adventure ; now — and in this guise, 
 most of all, she could charm him to the brink of the 
 abyss — an elusive wood-sprite, half hidden in the 
 shadows of tall trees, and gazing at you out of shy, 
 wondering, unhuman eyes that seemed to know all 
 the mysteries of the happy, fabled Hfe of dryad and 
 faun which the clutter of our modern world has driven 
 so far, so very far from us. 
 
 She could be difficult, too, querulous. Philip was 
 captivated by her little fits of sulkiness, quick moods 
 of jealousy, hours, or evenings, of frigidity — a frigid- 
 ity which he could always tease or woo away, and 
 which lent a new delightfulness to the shy, lovely 
 abandon that came later. Her moods were strangely 
 without taint of vulgarity or calculation. Nothing 
 more sincere had ever come into her life than the un- 
 premeditated and unreserved idolatry which Philip 
 evoked. Her solicitude for his health, her sympathy 
 for his artistic ambition, and her utter confidence in 
 his success, were all very appealing to him. He told 
 himself that he was glad he had returned to her. He 
 reiterated to himself that he was happy. 
 
 What the inner effect of it all was on him, precisely 
 what it meant to him as a living soul, it would be 
 
 1 60 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 hard to determine. A man of coarser fibre, more of 
 the brute type, would have accepted it merely as a 
 transitory and trifling episode, would have derived 
 what gratifications it offered while it lasted, and when 
 the moment of inevitable -break came, would have 
 dismissed it promptly and without regret from his 
 mind. You would have looked in vain for a scar. 
 
 But with a man of fine organization, taught to rev- 
 erence ideals, taught to cherish the integrity of his own 
 personality, no such radical departure as that adopted 
 by Philip could fail to work some deep effect, — deep 
 and very obscure. For in his professional work he 
 was as assiduous and efficient as ever. Those who 
 knew him only casually, his fellow-employes in the 
 draughting-room, might have noticed even an in- 
 creased sociabihty and self-confidence of manner. 
 The great accuracy, rapidity, and distinction of his 
 work had won him the respect of the entire force ; 
 and his readiness to accept criticism and to offer as- 
 sistance only enhanced the esteem in which he was 
 held. 
 
 His health too was excellent. His sleep was sound. 
 His head was clear. The constant and wearing con- 
 flict between the hot blood of youth and the austere, 
 repressive idealism that was his Puritan inheritance 
 appeared to be at an end. Affairs were, so to speak, 
 on a practical basis ; and no one was the worse for it. 
 
 Yet for the seeming ease of his present circum- 
 i6i 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 stances he was paying a price. He could not long 
 blind himself to the fact. He had deliberately sent an 
 old ideal to the gibbet ; but he had not succeeded in 
 slaying it. It writhed in the pangs of death. It would 
 not die. Even if hfe should finally go out of it, it 
 would continue to hang there in the wind of memory, 
 a hideous mockery, spreading pestilence. To have 
 known it once as a living, dynamic being, regnant 
 in his bosom, binding his conduct to nobility and 
 self-control ; and to know that he had sacrificed it to 
 covetousness and appetite, could never bring him 
 anything but misery. 
 
 Ideals that we have worshipped and betrayed do not 
 let us escape from them. They continue to judge us, 
 to mete out condemnation. "Why, this is hell, nor am 
 I out of it," cried the great Mephistophilis, supremely 
 tragic conception of the elder drama. 
 
 " Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God 
 And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven, 
 Am not tormented with ten-thousand hells 
 In being deprived of everlasting bliss ? " 
 
 Philip's defection was not to Georgia now ; it was to 
 the thing that was best in himself. All day long, from 
 week-end to week-end, he was obscurely conscious — 
 sometimes actively, poignantly conscious — of the 
 bitter fact. He flung himself into his work to stifle the 
 discontent that never left him. He flung himself into 
 pleasure to find forgetfulness. For a little time the 
 
 162 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 voices of reproach would cease ; but only for a little. 
 He tossed to the watch-dog at the gate the familiar 
 sops that men have tossed always since the day of 
 Adam's fall: how barren and empty is the canting 
 sound of them to an honest mind ! Beggars they are, 
 that wear on their breasts the placard — "Blind'' — 
 but that wink knowingly if you show them a coin. 
 
 When you are seeking to capture and stifle that 
 most imperial of despots, Conscience, not reason, but 
 all the false shadows of reason, — plausibility, adage, 
 analogies, sophistry, — must be your allies. Let them 
 invade the lofty hall of the mind; let them swarm 
 upon the gaunt figure that sits yonder upon the dais ; 
 let them bind and trample it. So shall the revelry pro- 
 ceed. Lights, ho, music and wine ! While we live, let 
 us live. The banquet is waiting. 
 
 Thus is Conscience left alone in its dim hall, while, 
 for a time. Instinct and Desire have their way. Yet 
 always, above the blare, even, of the Bacchanalian 
 laughter and the song, its stem monitory voice is 
 heard. This is their condemnation, that they knew 
 the light, but that they chose darkness rather than 
 light. 
 
 The revelry is over. The torches bum sickly and 
 pale in the white dawn. The drunken senses, stupe- 
 fied for a time, awake with a start of horror and re- 
 vulsion at the spectacle before them — the spilled 
 wine, the shattered goblets, the withered garlands — 
 
 163 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 and still, through the murky silence, sounds on the 
 pitiless voice from the deserted upper hall, — "Now 
 therefore if that light which is in thee be darkness, 
 how great is that darkness." — Save as ye may flee 
 from the Palace of Consciousness itself, ye cannot 
 flee beyond the reach of that voice of judgment. 
 
XVI 
 
 Coming in from work one February afternoon 
 shortly after five, Philip encountered an unexpected 
 and embarrassing obstruction to his progress upstairs, 
 — nothing less than the form of a woman, young, if 
 he might infer, seated on the bottom step in an 
 attitude of extreme woe. There was no sign of a 
 head: only an enormous beaver hat that seemed 
 to lie quite flatly on the knees. Somewhere, too, be- 
 neath that all-concealing disk, with its sable ribbon 
 and large gilt buckle, hands were presumably to be 
 found. 
 
 The brown, pleated skirt, not carefully prearranged 
 for this particular scene, he judged, had been drawn 
 up decidedly askew by the knees, and disclosed two 
 feet in high-heeled, run-over Oxfords, turned in 
 sharply one upon the other, and tightly pressed back- 
 ward against the riser of the stair. 
 
 The figure gave no sign, made no movement, as he 
 opened the door, but seemed to be so completely ded- 
 icated to Grief that not all the king's horses nor all the 
 king's men could have haled it from its Slough of 
 Despond. A gentle, rhythmical, rocking motion, and 
 an occasional smothered snuffle were the only evi- 
 dences, indeed, that it possessed life, and was not 
 
 165 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 merely some ingenious counterfeit presentment of 
 Melancholia, worthy of the Eden Musee. 
 
 Philip's hasty scrutiny of the huddled object left 
 him in no little doubt as to its identity; but to his 
 likeliest supposition it was none other than the young 
 woman he had occasionally seen opening the mail- 
 box of the New York Correspondence Institute of 
 Auto-health. A great uncertainty as to his proper 
 course of procedure came upon him. Should he in- 
 trude upon its woe with an apology, and a request to 
 be allowed passage up the narrow stairs ? Or should 
 he boldly attempt to pick his way by, or over, the ob- 
 ject, refraining from desecrating these doleful rites? 
 
 He was about to attempt the latter manoeuvre 
 when the thought came to him that — in a figurative 
 sense — this might be a wanton passing by on the other 
 side ; that possibly it was high time for the offices of 
 some Good Samaritan to be offered, pouring oil and 
 balm upon a lacerated heart. The function of Good 
 Samaritan did not much appeal to him, somehow, 
 just at the present moment. He felt no strong natural 
 aptitude for the role of comforter to an unknown young 
 person of the opposite sex. But he knew that if he went 
 up to his room, attempting nothing, his heart would 
 smite him. The least he could do was to ascertain 
 whether he could do anything. 
 
 Therefore he withdrew his foot from the stair, 
 stood back two or three paces, and reluctantly and 
 
 i66 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 rather faintly cleared his throat. There was no re- 
 sponse. He began to feel embarrassed and a little 
 worried. 
 
 "Excuse me," he said, finally, in the most defer- 
 ential voice in the world. "But I wondered if there 
 was anything — the matter." 
 
 The figure rocked, snuffled, and was silent. 
 
 The young man felt himself seriously at a loss. 
 The thought came to him that he might run down- 
 stairs and tell Victorine about it. But that seemed 
 heartless. Or he might withdraw from the hall by 
 the way he had come, take a little walk, and hope that 
 when he should return, the obstruction would be 
 gone. But that seemed evasive. He would make one 
 more attempt. 
 
 He cleared his throat with somewhat more deter- 
 mination. 
 
 "You seem to be in trouble," he said. "Is there 
 anything I can do?" 
 
 Melancholia stirred; then slowly unfurled herself; 
 the wide brim of the hat flopped backward ; and there 
 was revealed to him a small, homely, tear-soaked 
 visage, across which the principal elements of what 
 had once been a pompadour straggled in wild dis- 
 array. 
 
 There was a moment of silent mutual inspection, 
 while the lady of the mail-box — for it was she — 
 mopped her grief- furrowed cheeks. A final pair of 
 
 167 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 snuffles joined the countless host that had already 
 gone unrecorded into oblivion; and lastly came out 
 the long-drawn, wailing announcement, — 
 
 "I-I-I'm fi-i-i-ired." 
 
 Two ranks of tiny puckers drew the freckles of her 
 small broad nose out of their usual pattern ; and her 
 mouth pulled itself into the most doleful of inverted 
 crescents. Again came the fatal words, pregnant 
 with despair, addressed not primarily to Philip, but 
 to the unjust, pitiless, implacable, never-to-be-circum- 
 vented Universe. 
 
 "He-e-e's fi-i-i-ired me." 
 
 "Brute!" declared Philip, sturdily. Knowing 
 nothing of the facts of the case, he naturally took up 
 cudgels in behalf of the worsted party. 
 
 She looked at him skeptically through red eyes. 
 "He ain't a brute," she responded. ^'I-I-Pm a fool.^' 
 
 Another torrent seemed on the verge of bursting 
 forth. Dismay filled his heart at the prospect. The 
 floodgates must be held, somehow. 
 
 "You 're more of a fool to sit there like that," he 
 announced, rather severely. "You're very likely to 
 catch cold." 
 
 "I don't care if I do-o-o-o," she wailed. 
 
 "Well, I care if you do, even if you don't." His 
 tone was such as to command respect. " Come. Are 
 you ready to go home? Some fresh air will do you 
 good." 
 
 i68 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The girl surveyed herself for the first time, straight- 
 ened her belt with unsteady fingers, reached up rue- 
 fully to her hat, and attempted to correct its rakish 
 angle. But the ravages of her sorrow would not be 
 so easily dispelled. 
 
 "It ain't no use," she moaned, finally. "I'm a 
 perfect sight, and I know it." 
 
 "Have n't you got a mirror in there ?" asked Philip, 
 authoritatively, indicating the door of the New York 
 Institute of Auto-health. 
 
 "He's locked the door on me and gone away. — 
 Gee, my rat's most tumbled out! Ain't that the 
 absolute limit?" 
 
 She gave him a look of vague despair. She seemed 
 devoid of plan, resigned to staying there in the hall- 
 way, mourning, till Doomsday. 
 
 "Hold on," directed Philip. "Wait here a minute, 
 and I'll run up and fetch you a glass. Do you want a 
 comb, too?" 
 
 She gave him a look of submissive gratitude. He 
 took the stairs three at a bound, and was back in 
 twenty seconds with the proffered articles. She took 
 the mirror obediently, and surveyed her swollen 
 physiognomy. Dismay stared in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, my!" was all she could say. 
 
 She drew the pins out of her hat, threw it down on 
 the hall chair, and while Philip held the mirror for 
 her, hastily combed out her straggling fringe of front 
 
 169 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 hair, readjusted the rat, drew the fringe deftly over 
 it, and tucked the ends snugly under the scanty knot 
 of pale yellow. 
 
 "Gee!" she exclaimed, with another hopeless sur- 
 vey of herself in the glass. "Don't it make your face 
 look blotchy and awful to cry like that! I suppose 
 I'd ought to have learnt better." 
 
 "Could you use some talcum powder?" suggested 
 Philip, deferentially. "I'm sorry I have n't got such 
 a thing as a puff." 
 
 "Oh, a handkerchief 'ud do first-rate," she replied. 
 
 He mounted the two flights again, and returned 
 with new contributions. 
 
 "You'd better take this handkerchief," he said, 
 offering her a fresh one. "Yours is pretty much used 
 up, I guess." 
 
 She bestowed a dismal look on the damp wad in her 
 hand, and accepted his offer. Again he held the 
 mirror, while she shook out powder on the handker- 
 chief and applied it with wholesale assiduity, turning 
 her countenance critically this way and that. 
 
 "Well, that's the best I c'n do," she sighed, after a 
 minute, lifting a dubious pasty-white glance upon him. 
 
 "Oh, that'll go splendidly," he said, with paternal- 
 istic encouragement. 
 
 A first wave of self-consciousness came over her. 
 An anomalous expression, which might have been 
 some poor relation of a smile, appeared on her lips. 
 
 170 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Say, I hope nobody butts in on us here." 
 
 '* Better now," was her cavalier's comment, "than 
 five minutes ago." 
 
 "There's something in that," she remarked, re- 
 placing her hat with studied care. 
 
 "Now if I'd only brung my veil," she added, "I 
 would n't mind so awful." 
 
 "You don't need to mind as it is," protested 
 Philip, with well-meant gallantry. "You look first- 
 rate." 
 
 "Oh, say!" she broke out, between teeth that held 
 an enormous imitation-turquoise hatpin. "Is that 
 what you call a compliment ? Oh, I ain't much of a 
 Venus de Milo even when I 'm all there ; but at least 
 I don't look exactly like — like this!^^ 
 
 They could both laugh now; and the laugh com- 
 pleted the rout of the snuffles. 
 
 "Come along," said Philip, slipping the toilet 
 articles into various pockets. "I'll walk a way with 
 you, if you don't object. Which direction do you go ?" 
 
 "Smilax Street. Way down th' other side o' Hud- 
 son. You don' need to come, too." 
 
 "Had you rather I did n't?" he asked. 
 
 "Gee, no! I'm tickled to death." 
 
 Stepping out into the nipping February evening, 
 they made their way westward until they came to the 
 great thoroughfare of the West Side, where the clang- 
 ing of street-cars, the rumble of belated trucks, and 
 
 171 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the cries of the innumerable children playing jump- 
 rope and hopscotch under the very feet of the hurrying 
 throng, combined to produce that pleasant, pande- 
 moniac din which is the breath of life to every true 
 inhabitant of Manhattan. Philip heard his compan- 
 ion inhaling it with an eagerness that meant restored 
 spirits; and they plunged merrily into the swirling 
 human current. 
 
 On Hudson Street it is mostly a procession of the 
 poor. Labourers and workmen, hands in pockets, 
 shoulders hunched forward, shuffling dully home- 
 ward, with sullen, lack-lustre visage ; work-worn wo- 
 men with burdens, — piles of clothing on their heads, 
 or large baskets under their arms; young sales-girls, 
 in twos and threes, chewing gum, and talking in loud, 
 nasal voices above the roar of the street-trafiic ; little 
 boys and girls, raggedly dressed, carrying pails of 
 foaming beer to the tenement supper ; newsies yelling 
 at the top of their lungs, "Woild, — Joinal, — One 
 cent ! — Woild, — Joinal, — One cent ! — Buy a 
 poiper, mister?" — the whole teeming, squalid, 
 flashy, humorous, pathetic life of the great West Side 
 flows in ceaseless double tide through this broad, 
 unlovely Way of Common Humanity, which has its 
 origins amongst the gaunt warehouses and loft-build- 
 ings of the lower city and its termination at Four- 
 teenth Street, where Christmas shopping may be done 
 on the instalment plan, and where the tawdry splen- 
 
 172 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 dours of Moving Picture Shows and Dime Vaude- 
 ville outstare criticism and admiration alike. 
 
 Ahead of the two pedestrians, far to the South, the 
 fretted outlines of the lofty Singer tower suddenly 
 flashed into view, a cage of light, pendent from the 
 clouds, swung high above the dark roofs of the city. 
 
 ^*Gee, ain't it grand?" broke out the girl. "New 
 York for mine!" 
 
 She had scarcely spoken till then ; she had appeared 
 to her companion to be lost in some intent preoccu- 
 pation of her own. But the realization had evidently 
 come to her now that she owed some tribute of con- 
 versation to her new friend. 
 
 "I suppose you don't know much about this part 
 of the city," she ventured. 
 
 "On the contrary," responded Philip, "it's one of 
 my favourite streets — this and West Street. I almost 
 always walk home by one of them from the office. 
 You 're so likely to see something interesting : a nice 
 fight, or a good game of hopscotch, or a funeral. And 
 I love to watch the truck-horses, three abreast. If 
 I were n't working in an office, I think I 'd rather 
 drive a three-horse truck than do anything else I can 
 think of." 
 
 "Say, that's terrible funny," she observed, soberly. 
 "I thought you was quite a swell, from the looks." 
 
 Philip laughed. "It's a pity to disappoint you so," 
 he said. 
 
 173 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Oh, no," she hastened to explain. "I ain't dis- 
 appointed at all. I meant one of these bone-fide 
 swells that goes sportin' round in limousines. You 
 do honestly look like one; but I'm right glad you 
 ain't." 
 
 There was a little break, while they scuttled across 
 Christopher Street between two trolley-cars. 
 
 "I might have known you was n't," was her next 
 breathless contribution to the dialogue. "Because if 
 you had been, you would n't have been so nice to me. 
 Lots of fellers would 'a' died laughing." 
 
 "I don't see anything to laugh at," said Philip. 
 "You did n't look very funny." 
 
 She disregarded his observation. "I'm so terribly 
 emotional," she elucidated, frankly. "It gets me into 
 a heap o' trouble. My sister Queenie's a good deal 
 that way, too, only not so much so. She 's more the 
 happy type. We get our temperaments from mother. 
 She's sort of an invalid; at least she thinks she is. 
 You know what I mean; I ain't saying anything 
 against her ; only you sort o' got to take her word 
 for it. Gee! that's what makes it rough for me to go 
 and lose my job just now. We ain't paid last month's 
 rent yet." 
 
 "Don't you think perhaps they '11 take you back 
 again?" suggested her companion, hopefully. 
 
 She gave a defiant toss to her head. "Me go back 
 there ? I swore up and down I 'd never set foot again 
 
 174 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 inside the cursed door." There was a hint of melo- 
 drama in her accent. 
 
 "Why," said Philip, slightly bewildered. "I 
 thought you said he fired you." 
 
 "He did fire me. He does every once in a while, 
 because he knows I'll be sure to come back again; 
 and he counts on my doin' better for a few weeks 
 after that. But I won't go this time, and I told him 
 so to his face. UghT^ — She screwed up her face into 
 a knot of disgust, and clenched her fists. 
 
 "You don't like it there, then?" pursued Philip. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do, in a way. — I'd like it well enough 
 if it was n't for Tibbs." 
 
 "Tibbs?" inquired her escort. 
 
 "Yes, Tibbs. Oh, say, don't you know Tibbs? 
 Well, you certainly miss it, not knowing Tibbs!" 
 
 "Is he the tall man with the black beard?" 
 
 "He sure is, and don't you forget it. That's Tibbs 
 all right. He makes life a veritable tormentation for 
 me. If I go and make the least little bit of a mistake, 
 say like sendin' off a letter in the wrong envelope, he 
 goes and gets crazy mad about it. Oh, we have ter- 
 rible scenes in there, I can tell you. I always get to 
 bawling like Niagara Falls, he excites me so. I never 
 could see that it made so much difference about the 
 letters. It's all the same line of rot — about thinkin' 
 harmony thoughts, you know; drawin' currents out 
 o' the Infinite, and all that. But Tibbs says, 'It's the 
 
 175 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 touch of personality that counts, Miss Muller.' Well, 
 p'raps it does. I ain't got no natural aptitude at all 
 for business." 
 
 "Your tastes lie elsewhere, I take it," remarked 
 Philip, more amused than he thought quite justifiable 
 in the girPs confessions. 
 
 "Yes, they certainly do," she replied, with a deep 
 sigh. "But I ain't got the face for the stage. That's 
 the place where emotional people get a fair show, you 
 know. My sister Queenie 's on the stage ; she's got a 
 job in the chorus of the ^ Pink Butterfly.' But Lord, 
 Queenie can do something with her face. She's 
 pretty as a picture. But I ain't even got what you'd 
 call a good foundation for a face. So what can I do ?" 
 
 No helpful suggestion came at once into Philip's 
 mind ; and they had turned into the squalid dinginess 
 of Smilax Street before she resumed. 
 
 "I kind of thought some of goin' into settlement 
 work. But they say you got to have a terrible pull to 
 get in: so I don't suppose there 'd be any show for 
 me." 
 
 She heaved another deep sigh. "Oh, well, Tibbs 
 may win out again, for all I know. I'm in the man's 
 clutches, as you might say, on account of the rent not 
 bein' paid. Seems to me I'm fated to be Tibbs's 
 slave, struggle as I will.^^ 
 
 They came to a halt outside a rather ramshackle- 
 looking apartment house. 
 
 176 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "You'd better come up a little while," she said, 
 turning to him with a frapk smile of invitation. "You 
 might find Queenie. All the fellers get stuck on her. 
 And then there's ma. She's a terrible picnic if you 
 happen to be in the right mood." 
 
 He hesitated, vaguely groping for an excuse. 
 
 "Oh, come on!" she urged. "Just a few minutes. 
 I'm sure you got the time for it." 
 
 The earnestness of her request surprised him ; and 
 he followed her up three flights of dimly lighted 
 stairs, odorous of the West Side. 
 
 "Look here," she remarked, softly, as they reached 
 the second landing. "You ain't told me what your 
 name is." 
 
 He gave it to her, and was informed in return that 
 his companion's was Irene Muller. 
 
 "Don't tell ma," she cautioned, "how we got ac- 
 quainted. She'd think I was fresh to beat the band. 
 And say, don't let on I'm fired, either. I suppose I'll 
 be goin' back to-morrow." 
 
XVII 
 
 A MIDDLE-AGED woman in a much-belaced tea- 
 gown, which looked frayed and soiled even under the 
 gaslight, rose from a sofa as they entered, and laying 
 by a well-thumbed paper-covered volume, greeted 
 the girl with languid effusion. 
 
 "Home again, Irene! — You are late to-night. 
 The time has seemed long." 
 
 She placed a lingering kiss upon the girl's brow, 
 and looked down into her face with fond yearning. 
 Philip felt as if he were in a Third-Avenue Theatre, 
 witnessing the entrance of the heroine. Such a touch- 
 ing demonstration of maternal affection would not 
 have gone unrewarded there. As it was, he thought 
 he detected in Irene a certain restiveness under the 
 protracted embrace — or was it only self-conscious- 
 ness at being observed by a young man ? 
 
 "Yes, ma, dear,'' she replied, as soon as release 
 was granted. "I could n't help it. There was a lot of 
 letters to finish up." 
 
 "You look white and tired, my dear," said the 
 mother. "Are you ill?" 
 
 The girl had a rather wry smile. "No, I'm fine," 
 she answered. 
 
 "Good! — And whom," went on the mother, 
 178 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 seeming to catch sight of the stranger for the first 
 time, "whom have you brought with you, little girl?" 
 
 "Why, this is Mr. Wetherell, ma," responded 
 Irene, promptly. "Don't you remember Mr. Wether- 
 ell ? He was in my class to the Commercial College, 
 you know." 
 
 The invalid had an air of searching through the 
 recesses of memory ; then a gracious smile dawned in 
 her face. "Ah, to be sure!" she said. "That explains 
 the haunting familiarity of his features. They seemed 
 to cry out to me when he first entered. Wetherell, of 
 course. Now I recall perfectly. It is a pleasure to 
 welcome you once more, Mr. Wetherell, into our 
 little home." 
 
 "I was sure you'd like to have a Httle chat with 
 him," explained Irene, solicitously. "So I persuaded 
 him to come up. I met him to-day just by accident. 
 Were n't you just awfully surprised, Mr. Wetherell, 
 when you saw me?" 
 
 "On my word, I hardly knew whether it was you 
 or not," declared Philip, truthfully, wondering upon 
 what seas of subterfuge he had unintentionally em- 
 barked. 
 
 "Ah, what a mystery it all is!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Muller, with affecting eloquence. "What a mystery! 
 To think that you two young creatures, after all these 
 months — so many months ! — of separation, should 
 again be brought face to face ; again exchange greet- 
 
 179 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ings; again share in each other's lives. — Chance! — 
 Chancel — Is this Chance?" 
 
 Rendered vaguely uncomfortable by so inspired a 
 demand, Philip could find no more appropriate re- 
 joinder than to admit that it was indeed very strange. 
 
 *^ Ships that pass in the night," sighed his hostess, 
 "and signal each other in passing! How often life 
 proves the poet's words to be true." 
 
 She disposed herself once more, in an attitude of 
 beautiful languor, amongst the sofa-pillows, and 
 drew a faded afghan over her feet. 
 
 *^My little Reny has doubtless explained to you," 
 she murmured, "that I am one of the Shut-Ins. The 
 same old story : nerves ! — You were very, very kind 
 to give us this little visit." 
 
 Before Philip could reply, the door behind him 
 opened, and a young woman of prodigiously modish 
 appearance made a brisk entrance. 
 
 "Ah, it is our Queenie," came from the statuesque 
 figure on the sofa. "Dear, you will excuse me this 
 once for not rising. The mother is tired to-night." 
 
 "Sure, ma, that's all right," responded the new- 
 comer, in a business-like tone, throwing off her furs, 
 negligently, and struggling with the knot of a won- 
 drously dotted veil. — "Hello, sis! Say, who's the 
 sport?" 
 
 "Irene has brought us one of her old college cronies 
 for a little visit," explained Mrs. Muller. "Mr. 
 
 1 80 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Wetherell, this is my other little girl, Queenie. You 
 may not remember her, so great have been the changes 
 of two years." 
 
 Philip saw a rapid look of intelligence flash be- 
 tween the sisters ; and the question that was on the 
 younger's lips remained unspoken. 
 
 "How de do !" said Queenie, offhandedly. — "Say, 
 sis, give me some help, will you, with this lid. It's 
 caught in my net, somehow." 
 
 While the two girls were busy over the intricate 
 manoeuvre, Mrs. Muller beckoned Philip to her side. 
 
 "What a picture of youth and health and innocence 
 they present !" she whispered. "Have I not reason to 
 be proud of my little brood? " 
 
 Philip could but be aware that he was being mi- 
 nutely studied by Queenie, and when, for an instant, 
 he returned her gaze, she made a quick, teasing little 
 pout, intended to convey to him that he need not have 
 looked at her ; but that if he would look at her, despite 
 all she could do, why, she supposed she must submit. 
 Queenie was evidently accustomed to being looked 
 at, despite all she could do. 
 
 Mrs. Muller bent on him a smile that glistened 
 with maternal fondness. 
 
 "So alike," she murmured, "and yet so different. 
 One so airy, so joyous, so thoughtless. I call Queenie 
 my little sunbeam. The other like an April day, — 
 moods, all moods ! — changeful, restless, yet withal 
 
 i8i 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 such a sturdy, brave little being. I call Irene my little 
 staff. — Ah, how can I ever express to any one, dear 
 friend, what my two little girls have meant and do 
 mean to their mother!" 
 
 She dashed a quick shower of happy tears from her 
 eyes. "You will excuse a mother for being perhaps 
 too fond," she apologized, impulsively. "The tears 
 will not be held back." 
 
 Philip perceived that any embarrassment on his 
 part was quite uncalled for. The shower was a feat- 
 ure of the play. He found it hard not to smile as he 
 recalled what Irene had said to him of her maternal 
 heritage of emotion. 
 
 "A young man may well be proud," went on Mrs. 
 Muller, regaining her self-possession with a notice- 
 ably painful effort, "to have my little Reny for a 
 friend. Some day she should make the right man 
 very, very happy, — don't you think so?" 
 
 Her auditor squirmed inwardly, but conceded the 
 expected smile of acquiescence. "Yes, very happy," 
 he murmured. 
 
 By this time, the hat having been disengaged, it 
 was permitted him to admire the startling edifice of 
 golden puffs which had been concealed beneath it as 
 fritters under a dish-cover. 
 
 "Got anything to eat, ma?" inquired Queenie. 
 "I sure am hungry." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry, my dear," replied the 
 182 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 lady on the sofa, pressing the back of a hand wanly 
 to one temple. "But this has been one of my days. 
 All jangled, girlie, all jangled, like an instrument out 
 of tune. I can't describe it. I Ve scarcely left the sofa 
 since breakfast. I thought maybe you and little 
 Reny would n't mind scratching together something 
 to-night." 
 
 From the utterly matter-of-fact fashion in which 
 this announcement was received by the girls, Philip 
 concluded that it was not an unprecedented house- 
 hold situation. 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, ma," said Queenie. "But 
 we'd better be gettin' a move on. I got to be to the 
 theatre early to-night." 
 
 "Mr. Wetherell," put in the mother, "you will not 
 deny us the pleasure of your company at our simple 
 home supper? My little girls will be delighted." 
 
 "Oh, I'm afraid I'd be in the way," said the 
 visitor. 
 
 "Not at all," protested Irene. "We'll make you 
 useful. We '11 send you down to the delicatessen shop 
 for some things, — eh, Queenie?" 
 
 "Sure, let him stay," agreed that young woman, 
 with a careless little toss of the head, which implied 
 to the visitor that she did not care a rap whether he 
 stayed or went, even though he was so persistent in 
 looking at her. "Though for that matter," she went 
 on, "he won't get a very swell layout. — You see, 
 
 183 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Mr. Wetherell, as I 'm on the stage, we never have 
 anything very hearty at night." 
 
 The two sisters retired to investigate the larder, and 
 Philip was left, for a short time, alone with Mrs. 
 Muller. 
 
 "These strange nervous times of mine," she began, 
 confidentially, with a reviving sniff at a tarnished 
 vinaigrette. "The doctors are completely baffled. 
 They tell me some of the symptoms may pass off; 
 but I can see from the way they say it they scarcely 
 expect a change for the better." 
 
 She dropped her voice. "The heart is affected, 
 too." She pressed one hand to it. "To-day it has 
 fluttered like a frightened bird from the moment I 
 awoke this morning. But I would not have my little 
 girls know it for worlds." 
 
 "I will not tell them," promised Philip. 
 
 "Ah, that is good of you! They idolize their 
 mother," she murmured; and once more resorted to 
 her handkerchief. 
 
 Philip suspected that he was called on to exclaim, 
 "No wonder!" but he could not quite bring himself 
 to it. 
 
 "I am a very faulty mother to them," she confessed. 
 "I fall short of my ideal in a thousand ways. And 
 yet, Mr. Wetherell, our home life is beautiful beyond 
 words. You have had a little glimpse of it already. 
 You shall see more. I cannot bear to think that some 
 
 184 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 day it must be broken in upon ; but of course changes 
 must come, sooner or later, in this mysterious world 
 of ours." 
 
 There was a pregnant silence, while Philip listened 
 enviously to the chatter of the girls in the kitchen, 
 wondering how long it would be before they returned. 
 
 "I suppose it would be vain to deny," said Mrs. 
 Muller, "that Queenie is the superior in looks; but 
 am I wrong, Mr. Wetherell, in claiming that my little 
 Irene has one of the most charming, interesting, un- 
 usual personalities in the world? You, who know 
 her so well, will agree with me, I am sure. She is all 
 emotion. — But hush, I hear her coming!" 
 
 She put two fingers with a theatrical gesture to her 
 lips, and murmured, "The rest another time," as 
 Irene entered. 
 
 "Well, well, I guess it's time I came," said the 
 girl, "if that's what you're up to. — Come, Mr. 
 Wetherell, I'm going with you. I'm afraid you 
 could n't choose things right." 
 
 He followed her with relief; and they scampered 
 down the stairs to the street. There she turned 
 shortly upon him. 
 
 "Look here," she said. "Do you think this is just 
 an awful joke I'm putting up on you?" 
 
 "If it is," he replied, laughing, "I'm getting my 
 share of fun out of it." 
 
 "Well, it is n't a joke," she said. "PFe're kind of a 
 185 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 joke — as a family, I mean ; but that 's not the point. 
 I Ve got a queer proposition to make to you. Are you 
 game?" 
 
 "If it 's anything in my line," answered her com- 
 panion, promptly, unable to make the least conjecture 
 as to what was coming. 
 
 *'Well, listen then," she began, seizing his arm 
 familiarly, both to dispel her embarrassment and to 
 get closer to his ear. "You know the way you treated 
 me this afternoon? Well, that made an awful deep 
 impression on me. I've been thinkin' about it ever 
 since. I said to myself, ^That man must be on the 
 dead level, or he would n't have gone and took all 
 that trouble for a perfect fright of a girl like you. It 
 was just because he was kind-hearted that he done 
 that,' I said to myself. And I felt sure that if I told 
 you about somebody who was awfully up against it, 
 you'd be willin' to do what you could to help. Ain't 
 I right, Mr. Wetherell?" 
 
 There was a pleading, tremulous earnestness in her 
 tone that went straight to the man's heart. He would 
 not have been himself if he had not said what he did. 
 
 "Of course I would," he answered. 
 
 She gave a grateful pinch to his arm. "I knew it," 
 she cried. " Oh, I just knew it ! " 
 
 There was a little pause, while she sought words 
 to go on. It evidently was not easy, the thing she 
 had to say. 
 
 i86 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "It's me that's in trouble, Mr. Wetherell." 
 
 "About Tibbs?" he asked. 
 
 "Tibbs! Oh, say, Tibbs is a joke. That don't 
 worry me at all. That was only one of my emotional 
 fits. What I mean is something dead serious, Mr. 
 Wetherell. You won't mind if I'm awful frank, will 
 you?" 
 
 He reassured her. 
 
 "Well, you must have seen already what an awful 
 fool ma is. You don't need to tell me so ; because I 
 know it. Well, you don't know much about Queenie ; 
 but she takes after ma something surprising. She 's 
 only a kid, you know; and about the limit when it 
 comes to common sense. She's pretty interested in 
 her job, and I think she's goin' to get on all right 
 with it. But that's not everything — gettin' on — is 
 it, Mr. Wetherell?" 
 
 She turned her homely Httle face up to him, ur- 
 gently, in the hope that he would be quick to under- 
 stand her drift. Yes, he did understand. She plunged 
 at once into the heart of her problem. 
 
 "You know it's different, Mr. Wetherell, when it's 
 your own sister. I see other girls make fools of them- 
 selves, and I don't seem to care very much; but 
 Queenie 's different. I sort of feel as if she belonged 
 to me, you know, she's such a kid, and I've had to 
 look out for her so much, myself, what with mother 
 being the way she is, and all." 
 
 187, 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Philip looked down at his companion, certainly 
 less than twenty, still, herself; and a stanch, moth- 
 erly quality in her that he had not felt before struck 
 him with peculiar emphasis. 
 
 ^^Queenie's nice inside, you know, Mr. Wetherell. 
 She's only silly. She's the kind that ought to keep 
 straight and marry a nice man some day. Gee! I 
 think it would kill me, I do honestly, if little Queenie 
 went wrong." 
 
 "Is there danger of it?" Philip asked. 
 
 The girl nodded, dully, and kept her eyes straight 
 ahead of her, while she went on in a strained voice, 
 
 *' Queenie 's got the idea that she can't get on, un- 
 less she does like the rest — you know what I mean. 
 Say, is that true, Mr. Wetherell?" 
 
 Again she looked up at him pleadingly from under 
 her flopping beaver-brim, and her clasp on his arm 
 tightened. 
 
 "It can't be," he answered. "I 'm sure it can't be." 
 
 The clasp relaxed, and he heard a sigh of reassur- 
 ance. 
 
 "But that's her idea," said Irene. "And there's 
 a man who's after her, and he's bound to get her. 
 He's got money to burn, and he'll give her all the 
 automobile rides she'll stand for, and supper after 
 the show, and buy her anything she wants. Oh, Mr. 
 Wetherell, ain't there any way of keepin' her back? 
 Are n't you goin' to try to help me ? I know I 'm fresh 
 
 i88 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 as the dickens to ask you ; but honestly, I don't know 
 who to go to if you turn me down." 
 
 The man gave her a dubious look. "But do you 
 think I could have any influence?" he asked. 
 
 "That's just it," she rejoined, eagerly. "Oh, I'm 
 sure you could. You've made quite a hit with her al- 
 ready. She just says to me out there in the kitchen, — 
 
 "^Say, Reny,' says she, there's something you 
 can always tell a real gentleman by, ain't they?' 
 
 "'Why,' says I, 'what do you mean?' 
 
 "'Did you notice,' says she, 'the way your friend 
 behaves so nice to ma ? — He 's the real cultured 
 thing, he is.' 
 
 "Say, Mr. Wetherell, that ain't bad, is it, for seven- 
 teen? She's there, all right, Queenie is, when she 
 wants to be." 
 
 They arrived at the delicatessen shop, and it was 
 not till several minutes later that Reny had a chance 
 to return to the subject. Meanwhile her companion 
 was making a rapid mental review of her proposal. 
 
 He saw himself placed in a dilemma. If he refused 
 to put at her disposition what assistance he might 
 — conceivably — have to offer, if he turned his back 
 on her plea, he would be doing violence to the thing 
 in himself that was most truly and deeply himself. 
 Certainly it was audacious of her to address herself 
 thus to a comparative stranger in so highly personal 
 a difficulty ; yet her very audacity, her tremulous as- 
 
 189 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 surance that he would not refuse her nor misunder- 
 stand her, touched all the chivalry of his nature. 
 How could he refuse? 
 
 On the other hand, if he accepted, and earnestly 
 undertook to do something that would help Queenie 
 hold her own, how anomalous, how absurd, how 
 impossible, was the moral situation in which he would 
 be placed. Having adopted a compromise in his own 
 plan of life, he would yet be posing as a preacher and 
 exemplar of social morality. To pretend to be what 
 he was not was again to violate one of the deepest 
 qualities of his nature. 
 
 Yet in all his life he had not wilfully left helpless 
 any creature that had appealed to his impulses of 
 protection. And it occurred to him now that some 
 way might still be found of reconciling what at first 
 blush appeared to be irreconcilable demands. At all 
 events, he would — must — go ahead, and the situa- 
 tion could be left to work itself out as it would. 
 
 He accepted from Irene a large paper bag, in which 
 the red-faced German behind the counter had skil- 
 fully stowed away an assortment of comestibles, — 
 calf's tongue, potato salad, cheese, bread, and jam, — 
 and the two left the shop. At once the girl turned to 
 him with a look of hungry question. She knew from 
 his silence that he had been thinking. 
 
 "Well?'' she asked. 
 
 For a moment he did not answer. She clutched 
 190 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 his sleeve, and peered into his face, with an expression 
 of fright and despair. 
 
 "You ain't goin' to throw me down, Mr. Weth- 
 erell?'' 
 
 "I have n't any right to believe there's anything I 
 can do," replied Philip, gravely. "But I promise 
 you I'll do the best I can." 
 
 Her homely features grew almost beautiful for the 
 radiance of gratitude that illumined them. 
 
 "Oh!" she broke out, "that's fine! I'm tickled to 
 pieces! I was sure you wouldn't leave me in the 
 lurch." 
 
 He asked her what she proposed doing. 
 
 "The thing is, Mr. Wetherell, she picks up ideas 
 terrible quick. She wants to be exactly like other 
 people. Just now she 's got the idea that all men are 
 alike, you know, and that it don't pay to hold on. Now 
 I think all she needs is for a nice, refined man, a man 
 who's all on the level, to be a friend to her. You've 
 no idea what a lot o' influence you can have." 
 
 Recalling what he had seen of Queenie's behaviour, 
 Philip could but entertain his doubts of the efiicacy of 
 Irene's prescription. But he held his peace, and 
 showed himself amenable to her eager proposals. 
 
 Before they reached home, she had suggested to 
 him that he should see the kid to the theatre that 
 evening, and make a date with her for some Sunday 
 afternoon in the near future. 
 
 191 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Just you two, you know," she explained, simply. 
 *^ She '11 have a better time than if any one else was 
 along. And she'll feel sort o' flattered because you 
 took her, don't you know, and I stayed to home." 
 
 Philip would have protested; but she headed him 
 off. 
 
 "This ain't no tea-party, Mr. Wetherell. It's 
 business for both of us ; and you an' me are goin' to 
 work it for all that's there." 
 
XVIII 
 
 Despite the grotesque absurdities of her get-up, 
 Queenie Muller was undeniably a beauty. Her 
 features were small, and as faultlessly regular as 
 those of a wax-model. Her complexion, still unrav- 
 aged by the cosmetics of the theatre, had the satiny 
 freshness of a flower. Her eyes had a way of open- 
 ing very wide, with a beguiling expression of wonder 
 and innocence ; and when she smiled, a double row 
 of pearly white teeth, like the milk-teeth of a child, 
 peeped into view. 
 
 A hundred times on the course of their journey to 
 the theatre PhiHp found himself wondering that she 
 should even have reached the age of seventeen without 
 having accepted the bait which the city so cunningly 
 and so pertinaciously offers to youthful beauty. Her 
 eyes were never for a moment quiet, but wandered 
 curiously up and down the car, casting conscious, 
 demure glances at the various men ranged opposite; 
 and if a glance were returned, she would drop them 
 at once, with a look of modest denial, to the floor, 
 while two little white teeth were set reprovingly upon 
 her under lip. She had a trick, too, of advancing her 
 tiny feet, in their impossibly high-heeled shoes and 
 yellow-clocked hose, inch by inch into the aisle ; then, 
 
 193 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 as if suddenly becoming aware of their conspicuous- 
 ness, drawing them quickly back, and making a mani- 
 fest effort to cover them from view with her much- 
 abbreviated walking skirt. If ever a moth played 
 with flame, 't was Queenie. 
 
 Yet she clearly was gratified by his company ; and 
 when he suggested that they take a little jaunt to- 
 gether on Sunday, she gave vent to an exclamation 
 of spontaneous delight that surprised him. 
 
 ** Just you an' me ? Do you mean that, Mr. Weth- 
 erell?" she added, as a doubt arrested her enthusiasm. 
 
 *^ That's what I meant," he replied. "Would you 
 rather have some one else along?" 
 
 He hated the necessity that made him seem to 
 slight the lonely sister at home ; but this was accord- 
 ing to the prescription ; and the prescription was to 
 be given a fair trial. 
 
 "Oh, no! Just ourselves!" He could read the 
 flattered comment she was inwardly making. "It 
 will be perfectly bully!" 
 
 Bidding her au revoir at the stage door, Philip set 
 out afoot upon his homeward way, so deeply immersed 
 in depressing reflections that he scarcely gave any no- 
 tice to the gay throngs which were beginning already 
 to flock into the garish parade of Broadway. 
 
 Foolish and empty-headed as she was, Queenie's 
 youth and her defencelessness had profoundly 
 touched him. How hungry for her was the pitiless, 
 
 194 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 careless city; how eager to fling her upon the insati- 
 able altars of Pleasure, a victim of those barbarous 
 rites that accept no other sacrifice than quivering 
 human hearts. This was civilization, reflected 
 Philip : a figure that Hfted on high the cross and the 
 lamp, while under its feet it trod to death its own 
 offspring. 
 
 Had humanity no palace in which some remote 
 apartment was not dedicated to the four-footed Mino- 
 taur of appetite ? Even now, in dark side streets, in 
 poverty-stricken tenements and murky dance-halls, 
 the hostage of youth and ignorance was being drafted 
 for him. 
 
 He remembered what Barry had said of the talon, 
 the tusk, and the fang. Was it, after all, the same 
 here as in the dank corridors of the jungle, — inex- 
 orable instincts, hunger, lust, destruction, wreaking 
 their will upon the weak ? To attempt to hold them 
 back from their chosen prey — was it not as vain as 
 to attempt to thwart the law of gravitation? The 
 predatory instinct was a fact of nature. 
 
 Perhaps. And yet — how the heart cried out in 
 protest ! If at one moment Philip could say to himself 
 that the lamb frisking gayly down the jungle path 
 was sure to be pounced upon, sooner or later, by the 
 wolf in waiting, — such was the inalterable mandate 
 of the Social Order, — at the next, he must remember 
 with a pang the white, stricken, pleading face of 
 
 ^95 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Queenie's youthful protector, as she had looked up 
 at him with the words, — 
 
 "It makes a difference, don't it, Mr. Wetherell, 
 when it's your own sister?" 
 
 No thought of the ultimate wisdom or folly of his 
 enterprise really concerned him, or could affect the 
 spirit of his endeavour. He had given his promise to 
 Irene. He had seen for himself, only too well, the 
 danger in which Queenie was placed, and which she 
 aggravated by every possible effort of her own. And 
 he was going to do what he could, — what though 
 failure might be the issue? 
 
 Arrived at his lodgings, he lighted his pipe, and 
 settled himself for an evening of study, partly to ease 
 his mind of its burden of conflicting thoughts, partly 
 in pursuance of a carefully chosen programme of 
 home reading. His bank design had won a mention 
 in the competition, and the fact had given him an 
 additional impetus to master, in so far as he could, 
 the secular architecture of Renaissance Italy. He 
 longed to imbue himself with the spirit, so robiist, 
 yet so delicate, of those Italian builders ; to see life, in 
 some measure, with their enamoured eyes. Just now 
 he was deep in a second volume of critical studies of 
 the palaces of Florence. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had he turned the second page 
 in his evening's reading, when there was a knock at 
 the door, and his fellow-lodger entered. 
 
 196 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Working?" asked Barry. 
 
 It was perfectly evident that Philip was working. 
 Under ordinary circumstances Barry would have been 
 prompt to apologize for the interruption, and to with- 
 draw. But the tone of his question betrayed, to the 
 young man's mind, the hope of a negative answer. 
 
 "No," he replied. "Just fooling a little with the 
 same old picture-book." 
 
 He flopped the volume shut, left his chair, and took 
 a favourite attitude of his when in talk — standing with 
 his back to the stove, legs apart, hands joined behind 
 him. 
 
 An odd sort of non-committal intimacy had grown 
 up between the two men in the past months. Each 
 knew the quality of the other's mind with surprising 
 fulness ; yet there had been from the first a complete 
 reticence as regards matters distinctively personal in 
 nature. Philip knew no more now than he had at the 
 end of the first week of their acquaintance what his 
 neighbour's story might be — whence he came, what 
 he was doing, and what was the tragic burden that 
 so often visibly excoriated his spirit, bringing the 
 sardonic, contemptuous challenge into his cavernous 
 eyes. In return, too sensitive to force an intimacy 
 where it was not mutually desired, the young man 
 had entertained an equal reticence in regard to him- 
 self. He sometimes wondered whether this detached, 
 guardedly partial fellowship — a fellowship purely of 
 
 197 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 mind, it seemed to him — had enough warmth in it 
 to deserve the title of friendship. He could not help 
 being a little resentful, indeed, of Barry's unimpeach- 
 able reserve. More than once he had seemed to be 
 conscious of a contrary impulse straining at the leash ; 
 but if such were the case, the impulse had till now 
 always been sternly repressed. Passionately vehe- 
 ment, often, in thought and behaviour, his neighbour 
 had yet kept himself arrogantly aloof in every personal 
 interest. His passion appeared to spend itself ex- 
 clusively upon ideas. 
 
 But to-night, for the first time, Philip detected a 
 quite different quality in the man's voice. A second 
 glance at him discovered a haggard, nervously dis- 
 traught expression of countenance that made him 
 wonder if he were ill. 
 
 "I can't work," said Barry, curtly. "I can't read. 
 I can't sleep. I can't loaf. Don't you want to amuse 
 me?" 
 
 The forced flippancy of his visitor's manner was 
 jarringly out of accord with the intense earnestness of 
 his accents. 
 
 "I don't know that I'm well qualified for court en- 
 tertainer," rejoined Philip. "What do you want me 
 to do?" 
 
 "D' you play poker?" asked Barry. 
 
 "Sure. — Want a game?" 
 
 "Good!" said Barry, twisting his stogie ner/ously 
 198 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 between his thin lips. "Will you come into my 
 shebang?" 
 
 Philip followed him into the front apartment, 
 whose severely bare walls and sparsity of furniture 
 would have befitted the abode of an anchorite. A 
 single shelf of biological pamphlets and reference 
 works ; a wall case containing microscopic apparatus 
 and supplies ; and the large, bare work-table, on one 
 end of which lay a heap of portfolios and some draw- 
 ing materials, constituted sufficient evidence of the 
 tenant's avocation. The bareness of the room was un- 
 relieved by any disguising touch. A pair of wrinkled 
 congress boots stood beside the bed ; a time-yellowed 
 overcoat and a slouch hat were thrown negligently 
 across its footboard; and over the back of a chair, 
 in a far corner of the room, dangled several nonde- 
 script articles of underclothing. The appearance of 
 the counterpane indicated that the occupant of the 
 room had been lying there with his shoes on. 
 
 Philip detected a strong odour of coffee in the air, 
 and noticed a tin pot still steaming on the little gas- 
 stove that stood on a chair by the washstand. An 
 unwashed cup had been set down on the bureau. 
 
 He could not account for it to himself; but he had 
 the sudden impression of entering a chamber of tor- 
 ture : a place where the soul of a man had been drawn 
 on the rack. 
 
 Barry jerked open a drawer, and flung things 
 199 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 about this way and that in his search for cards and 
 chips. 
 
 '*I must have them somewhere," he declared, 
 harshly; then stopped and shoved his hand through 
 his unkempt hair. "I believe I have n't, after all," he 
 said. "Here's some chessmen; but, hang it all, I 
 don't feel like chess, do you?" 
 
 Philip fetched the requisites for the desired game 
 from his own room, and they sat down to play. For 
 the next half hour the only sounds to be heard in the 
 apartment were the whirr and snap of the cards as 
 they were shuffled, cut, and dealt, the click of the 
 chips, and the terse, stereotyped phrases of the game : 
 — "How many?" — "See you!" — "Take it," — 
 "Your deal," — and the rest. 
 
 Barry devoted himself to the business in hand with a 
 stem, unremitting intentness that was as far as possi- 
 ble, apparently, from enjoyment. The veins stood out 
 on his temples in blue ridges ; his hands trembled as 
 he took up or threw down his cards ; and whether he 
 won or lost, the fixed, white set of his lips on his cigar 
 never relaxed, save as he occasionally removed it an 
 instant to cough or to spit out a chewed shred of to- 
 bacco. There was an electrical tension in the atmos- 
 phere, as if something startling might be expected to 
 happen at any moment. Philip felt himself becoming 
 keyed up to an intolerable pitch of excitement, he 
 could not have told why. 
 
 200 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Suddenly, without a word of warning, Barry flung 
 down his cards and jumped to his feet. 
 
 "I can't do this any more," he announced. 
 "That ends it for to-night. Do you want some 
 coffee?" 
 
 He lighted the gas-stove; and while the beverage 
 was heating again, he paced up and down the 
 room, with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 "What are we going to do next?" he demanded, 
 roughly. 
 
 "How about a little walk?" suggested Philip, 
 feeling an extreme hunger for fresh air and open sky. 
 
 His companion flashed him a penetrating look. 
 "Did you say you wanted to go to walk?" he asked. 
 
 "Not unless you feel inclined." 
 
 "Will you stay with me till we get back home?" 
 
 "Certainly I will," answered the other, in some 
 surprise. 
 
 "Let's go. — Here, — there's your coffee." 
 
 He filled the cup with a steaming black fluid and 
 offered it to his guest. Philip declined. Barry gulped 
 it down with avidity; filled and emptied a second 
 time, and replaced the cup on the washstand. The 
 boy heard it rattle on the marble slab, and knew how 
 unsteady must be the hand that held it. An instant 
 later the two sallied forth. 
 
 Barry gripped his companion's arm almost savagely. 
 They turned down toward the North River docks. 
 
 20I 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The night was nipping cold. West Street was well- 
 nigh deserted. A great assemblage of drays and 
 market-trucks, untackled for the night, and covered, 
 many of them, with sheets of canvas, filled the middle 
 of the wide thoroughfare. Innumerable ranks of 
 barrels, stacks of crates, pyramids of baled hay, were 
 ranged along the pier fronts, casting odd shadows 
 under the hissing arc lights. Against a luminous sky 
 the wide steamship piers cut sharp, blocky outlines; 
 and here and there, above the pattern, the funnel of 
 some ocean greyhound threw out a short, black 
 spoke. Overhead a multitude of stars kept watch. 
 
 The two men walked rapidly, almost without 
 speech, for a long time ; and as they walked, Philip, 
 his arm closely locked by the older man's, grew aware 
 that the crushing weight of the other's tragedy was 
 slowly transfusing itself over his spirit. Whatever it 
 was, it was terrible. The consuming presence of it 
 appalled him ; and yet he felt a secret, thrilling delight 
 in the consciousness that somehow or other a barrier 
 that had separated them was being demolished ; that 
 after this, the old impersonal reticence, which he had 
 found so uncongenial, could never again be what it 
 had been. Their relationship was altering from minute 
 to minute. He had a premonition that he was on the 
 brink of some momentous revelation. 
 
 It came sooner than he expected, even. His com- 
 panion suddenly flung the butt of his cigar into the 
 
 202 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 gutter, and broke out in a voice of despair that could 
 be no longer suppressed. 
 
 "Oh! How I hate it! How I despise it all ! " 
 
 "What?" said Philip. 
 
 "Life ! Death in life ! The curse of it ! What right 
 has life to put shackles on me ? What right ? Have n't 
 I my claim to freedom like another? Why should a 
 past, for which I am in no way responsible, hold me 
 with unbreakable fetters?" 
 
 Philip had no answer to make ; and they pursued 
 their way with unrelaxed speed down the deserted 
 thoroughfare. Out of a sailors' grog-shop a short 
 distance ahead lurched two men in mariner's slops, 
 singing thickly. With a convulsive movement of re- 
 coil, Barry swung his companion abruptly round, and 
 they began to retrace their steps. A horror settled upon 
 the boy's mind. 
 
 "Two years ago," said Barry, in a low voice, 
 shaken with excitement, "I was the coming man in 
 my university. Every one knew that. I was winning 
 a national reputation among biologists. I was in a 
 position of influence and respect, with a splendid 
 future ahead of me. And I 'd earned it — my God ! 
 I 'd earned it. I 'd fought every step of the way — do 
 you understand ? — fought with my bare hands ! I 'd 
 wrenched my success out of the very jaws of privation 
 and opposition, with everything against me from the 
 start. Not a soul in the world ever rendered me any 
 
 203 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 help. What I had done I had done alone! — Well, 
 look at me!" 
 
 He separated himself an instant from his compan- 
 ion, and spread his hands with a gesture of self- 
 derision. 
 
 "Cursed, sir; cursed and shackled from my birth. 
 One of my titles I received as a birthright; the 
 other is a maternal heirloom. I like to say them over 
 to myself. Bastard. — Drunkard. — Drunkard. — 
 Bastard. — Ha, very pretty, don't you think?" 
 
 Philip thought he saw the man totter, as a hor- 
 rible laugh shook his gaunt frame. He caught him 
 by the shoulder, and half pushed him onward 
 until he had regained possession of his quailing 
 limbs. 
 
 "Don't think about it, old man," he directed, 
 mandatorily. "You're making good now. You're 
 going to win out in spite of everything." 
 
 "Oh, yes, this time. I may stave it off this time," 
 replied Barry, weakly. "But what about next time? 
 And what about the time after ? The curse does n't 
 depart." 
 
 Philip's arm was across his shoulders like that of 
 a brother. "You'll have it under your feet before 
 you're done," he said. 
 
 There was a bracing, restorative confidence in his 
 voice. Barry made no answer ; but Philip heard him 
 filling his lungs with the crisp night air. As they left 
 
 204 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the water-front and turned up into the city, he felt the 
 man's shoulders taking a determined set. 
 
 "I think that 's over for this time," said Barry. 
 "For eight months I have n't taken a drop. And I 
 don't intend to, if I have to stay in hell for the rest of 
 my life." 
 
 "You'll succeed," said the younger man. "You 
 can't fail." 
 
 "I can manage all right usually; I'm sure of my- 
 self," said Barry. "But then, some day, all of a sud- 
 den, the thing takes hold of me. It's like a mirage in 
 the Sahara, when the traveller is dead from thirst. 
 The very desire is an intoxication; it's an enchant- 
 ment, a dazzling obsession that will not leave you, no 
 matter how you fight against it. You 'd sell your 
 clothes off your back, the brains out of your head, 
 for one drop." 
 
 The tide of pity in the young man's heart found 
 no eloquence of words, yet the older man felt it and 
 took strength from it. As they reached the house 
 on Mullin Street, he turned upon him to say, with 
 simple directness, — 
 
 "It's you that got me through this; and if I 'm in 
 need, I'm going to come to you again." 
 
 At the top landing they separated with nothing 
 more than the customary good-night; but as Barry 
 turned away to his room, his eyes, which had not 
 known tears since childhood, were wet. 
 
 205 
 
XIX 
 
 The singular missionary enterprise to which, at the 
 solicitation of Irene Muller, Philip had reluctantly 
 committed himself, was by no means a task of facile 
 accomplishment. It is one thing to bear succour 
 to those who fly signals of distress, quite another to 
 urge it upon those who feel no apprehension of dan- 
 ger and are quick to resent any semblance of offi- 
 ciousness or zeal in another. Queenie had no desire 
 to be made an object of philanthropy. She was per- 
 fectly competent, in her own eyes, to look out for 
 herself. 
 
 She immensely enjoyed finding herself the recipient 
 of Philip's attentions, so long as she could believe 
 them to be entirely the attentions of gallantry. It 
 flattered her to be seen in the company of so distin- 
 guished-looking a young man ; she clearly recognized 
 the superiority of his breeding over that of the other 
 gentlemen friends who offered themselves through 
 the medium of her profession; and she liked to feel 
 that her charms were potent in that higher sphere of 
 culture, good-manners, and education to which he 
 belonged. 
 
 To be sure, he did not have much money to spend 
 on her, not nearly so much as the others. He could not 
 
 206 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 take her out in his own touring-car, nor treat her to 
 lovely lobster- suppers. Indeed, she suspected he must 
 be downright poor, despite what Irene told her to the 
 contrary. But what if he was? There were always 
 others who stood ready to do the swell thing by 
 her. She would accept what she could get of both 
 sorts : culture and looks on the one hand ; handsome 
 presents, feeds, and the real thing in the way of good 
 times on the other. The schedule was quite to her 
 liking. 
 
 And she did honestly admire Mr. JVetherelPs refine- 
 ment. For one thing, she always felt at ease with him. 
 He was not continually asking her to laugh at coarse 
 witticisms, nor seeming to urge, by each hint and look 
 and gesture, a something which she did not want to be 
 bothered with. So long as she could be coveted, and 
 petted, and talked about, without going, as she put it, 
 the whole figure, she had a distinct preference for vir- 
 tue. A girl who kept straight had a better chance of 
 marrying well some day ; and Queenie was not with- 
 out dreams of seeing her own name headlined in 
 the New York " Journal" in connection with the en- 
 trancing statement, "Millionaire Weds Chorus-Girl," 
 — or, better yet, an announcement that it had been 
 ''officially admitted" at the box-office of such and 
 such a theatre that Queenie Muller, the popular comic- 
 opera star, had been privately married to a certain 
 millionaire stockbroker — always a millionaire, you 
 
 207 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 may be sure — of Chicago. "This is considered by 
 all odds the most sensational match of the current 
 dramatic season/' etc., etc. 
 
 Oh, yes, Queenie Muller of Smilax Street had her 
 ambitious dreams — what chorus-girl has not ? — 
 Yet it demanded no very keen observation to ascer- 
 tain that she was quite destitute of the shrewdness, 
 persistence, and concentration of purpose that alone 
 could make such dreams effective. With a small 
 number of reservations, she always did the thing that 
 was easiest. She wanted a good time. She had been 
 fed with pampering and flattery until her head was 
 completely turned. She was quite the vainest little 
 creature Philip had ever encountered, always posing 
 for the glance of admiration, — fingering her golden 
 puffs, readjusting her sparklet earrings, dabbing at her 
 eye with a point of her handkerchief for an imaginary 
 cinder, — an act which drew attention to the extreme 
 length of her lashes, — absently tapping her tiny, even, 
 milk-white teeth with one finger. Her little tricks 
 of this sort were infinite in number, and practised 
 with incessant assiduity. 
 
 As soon as she ceased to hold the centre of the stage 
 in a conversation, her interest grew extremely languid. 
 Her small foot would play a restless tattoo on the floor; 
 she would gaze round the room, making covert ex- 
 periments in attracting the notice of some other man ; 
 work up a fit of coughing which would eventually 
 
 208 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 compel her to retire from the scene, the object of uni- 
 versal notice. 
 
 Philip found her, indeed, a most embarrassing 
 companion, either in the restaurant or on the street. 
 The modish absurdity of her costume made her 
 everywhere — even in New York — a mark for 
 comment, not always of a very respectful character. 
 Her nasal piping voice could be heard from a distance ; 
 her laugh was loud ; she must always have her gum 
 with her. Wherever they went, men would turn to 
 stare at her. There could be no question, in the mind 
 of the onlooker, as to her profession. Equally un- 
 questionable, Philip knew, was the role imputed to 
 her escort. The knowledge made him wince. All his 
 natural fastidiousness was in arms. It seemed to him, 
 as the weeks went by, that he had made a serious 
 mistake in committing himself to the business. The 
 task was both ungrateful and ineffectual. It could 
 bring no possible benefit either to Queenie or to 
 himself. 
 
 He confessed as much one day to Irene, who, having 
 promptly reentered the employ of the hated Tibbs, 
 found many occasions for talking things over with her 
 friend, beside the mail-box of the New York Cor- 
 respondence Institute of Auto-health. 
 
 "You mean" — she asked, anxiously — "you 
 mean she ain't biting at all." 
 
 "It's no fault of hers," answered Philip, grimly. 
 209 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ''The trouble is that there's nothing to bite — at 
 least, that's largely it. What can I really do? What 
 am I really there for ? I ' ve nothing to offer her that 's 
 of any particular influence or desirability." 
 
 ''Isn't it something, Mr. Wetherell, just to be a 
 nice, true friend to her?" demanded the girl, with a 
 beseeching face. "If you only knew what some of her 
 other friends are like!" 
 
 "I do know," rejoined Philip. "And I am sure 
 that I count with her merely as one of them." 
 
 "Oh, that's not true, indeed it's not, Mr. Weth- 
 erell," protested Irene, eagerly. "You mustn't let 
 yourself think that. She says you're in a class all by 
 yourself. She talks about you all the time to home. 
 She says you 're the most beautifully cultured man 
 she ever knew. Really, Mr. Wetherell, you've no 
 idea how much ice you cut with little Queenie." 
 
 Her assurance failed to reassure him. An uncom- 
 fortable intimation sprang up in his mind. Queenie 
 might not be quite so simple as she appeared to her 
 sister. Perhaps she had suspected something. Per- 
 haps she, too, had some ulterior object. 
 
 "I may be pessimistic," he said, kicking the carpet 
 vindictively with his toe, "but I can't resist the belief 
 that somehow or other it all misses fire." 
 
 Irene sighed heavily. "Queenie is silly," she con- 
 ceded. "But oh, Mr. Wetherell, I honestly don't 
 think she's bad." 
 
 2IO 
 
ENCHANTTED GROUND 
 
 She seemed to him at that moment like a mother, 
 pleading at the bar of justice for her own flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 "I'm sure she's not that," he agreed, honestly. 
 There was a lump in his throat which he hotly re- 
 sented the presence of. He wished that for once he 
 could keep his sympathies free from idiotic entangle- 
 ment. 
 
 ''She's just kind of weak," went on Irene. "I don't 
 know how it is ; but somehow or other nobody seems 
 to have learned her any principles. She got sort of 
 spoiled to home, I guess, ma bein' what she is, and 
 all. Queenie likes a good time; and that's about all 
 there is to it." 
 
 There was a silence, while Irene looked hard at the 
 floor, summoning courage for her next move. Philip 
 could see a flush of embarrassment spreading over 
 her homely features. At last she looked up, with a 
 diffident, apologetic smile, into her companion's face. 
 
 "Mr. Wetherell, pardon me for bein' so bold as to 
 ask, but did you ever try talkin' straight goods to 
 little Queenie about them things?" 
 
 "No, I never quite saw how," admitted Philip. "I 
 don't think she enjoys being talked to in that way." 
 
 Irene gave him a direct scrutiny, in which there 
 was more than a hint of reproach. 
 
 "It don't seem to me, Mr. Wetherell, as if you 
 really cared very much about doin' anything for her, 
 
 211 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 if you dare n't say a little something now and then 
 that she don't like the sound of. I thought you was 
 more in earnest than that." 
 
 The man bit his lip. *^I am in earnest," he said. 
 "But I haven't felt sure that that was the way to 
 accomplish anything." 
 
 "But how can you tell unless you'll try," urged 
 Irene, anxiously. "You 're so much older 'n her, an' 
 she respects you such a lot, I can't help thinkin' it 
 might count — I mean, just if you'd tell her, as 
 friendly as you could, what you thought about those 
 things ; how you thought a girl ought to act, don't you 
 know, and all that." 
 
 There was another pause. Philip held a sullen si- 
 lence. There were reasons enough in his mind against 
 adopting the course Irene was pressing upon him. 
 He perceived confusedly that it would be evocative 
 of a profound and painful upheaval in another de- 
 partment of his life. He wanted to avoid that. He 
 resented her interference. 
 
 Irene looked at him with a lip that quivered. "I 
 know I got no business at all to put the thing up to 
 you like this; but oh, I've been so terrible worried, 
 Mr. Wetherell. One o' them men is hangin' around 
 her all the time ; and I can see that he 's made sort of 
 an impression with his helHsh arguments, and — and, 
 oh, Queenie's such an awful fool, and she ain't got 
 no one but me and you to hold her right." 
 
 212 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She put out a supplicating hand to his coat-sleeve. 
 *'You ain't goin' to leave me all alone now, are 
 you?" 
 
 Her eyes were blinking with tears. There was no 
 possibility of denying her. Philip grimly yielded. He 
 promised that he would make another effort. He had 
 a date with Queenie for the following Sunday after- 
 noon. He would not let the opportunity slip by. 
 
 "Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times, Mr. 
 Wetherell. I 'm sure we are goin' to save our little 
 Queenie." 
 
 She seized one of his hands with a quick, affection- 
 ate pressure, and darted into the Institute. Irene had 
 her sense of the dramatic, no doubt inherited, and 
 she never failed to make the most of her scenes with 
 Philip. She was consumingly in earnest; no one 
 could doubt that for an instant. But the fact did 
 not keep her from appreciating the fascinating pos- 
 sibilities of the situation in which she found herself, 
 that of seeking to save an innocent young sister from 
 the machinations of villainy, and of having for ally 
 one of the handsomest, most aristocratic-looking men 
 she had ever seen. The quick pressure of gratitude 
 she gave his hand was unmistakably spontaneous, a 
 gage of confidence which helped to hold him, more 
 than any other one thing, perhaps, to the very letter 
 of his promise. And if the perfervid "we are goin' 
 to save our little Queenie" had in it an obvious sug- 
 
 213 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 gestion of footlights, yet even so, reflected Philip, it 
 was not utterly out of keeping with the rather melo- 
 dramatic nature of the whole enterprise to which he 
 was committed. 
 
 One point was made inescapably, relentlessly clear 
 to him by the new promise that had been wrung from 
 him. He could not preach to Queenie until he had 
 first put his own house in order. The figure of the 
 mote and the beam came to him in all its drastic 
 appositeness. Supposing that his words — as he 
 could scarcely believe — should have some influence 
 with the wayward Queenie, what would the reflex ef- 
 fect of that be upon himself but a new self-contempt, 
 knowing that if the facts of his conduct were once 
 exposed to her, the words would be worse than a 
 mockery. Indeed, it would be perfectly just for her to 
 accuse him of being the falsest of all her friends — in 
 that he had set himself up to be better than the rest. 
 
 During the past months he had, perhaps, struck an 
 ignoble pact with his conscience. He had, perhaps, 
 knowingly, wilfully accepted the maxims of sophis- 
 try ; he might even have been aware, deep down in his 
 heart, that there was no possible reconciliation be- 
 tween his ideals and his practical conduct. Yet until 
 this moment nothing had compelled him to write the 
 word hypocrite against his name. 
 
 Henceforth, if he were to live up to his promise, he 
 could no longer evade that shameful necessity: the 
 
 214 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 intolerable reproach of it would be ever present in his 
 mind. 
 
 Before he had reached the top of the second flight 
 of stairs on the way to his room, he realized that only 
 one course of action was open to him : he must break, 
 once and for all, the net that enmeshed him. He 
 must do it, and he must do it immediately. He had 
 planned to go to Katrinka's Saturday evening. He 
 would not go. He would end the affair now. 
 
 It was a moment of high, unsparing resolution. He 
 was rendering obedience to a voice sterner than any 
 he had heretofore hearkened to ; and the voice was 
 bidding him tear from his bosom a thing he loved 
 and crush it under his heel. He knew that if he 
 waited he should not have the strength to obey. 
 
 He lighted the gas in his mansarde, took out his 
 note-paper, and began to write. He was surprised to 
 find himself so calm. His mind seemed to be per- 
 vaded by a dry, white, pitiless light in which no illu- 
 sion, no mirage, no self-deception could have being. 
 The stern daughter of the Voice of God had spoken 
 peremptorily ; there was no shadow of doubt within 
 him as to the necessity of the step he was taking. The 
 hopeless, consuming longing and regret might follow : 
 it was sure to follow; but that was a problem for 
 the future. When he had once taken the irrevoca- 
 ble step, he could set out to adjust himself to the 
 new conditions. 
 
 215 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The note he wrote was courteous, explicit, and 
 honest. It told her that whatever might be right or 
 wrong for others in these concerns, he knew that it 
 had been wrong from the first for him to do as he had 
 done; and that to break things off at once was the 
 only way in which he could be square by himself. — 
 There it stood, at last, a statement of the truth as he 
 knew it. It was a grim satisfaction to see it set down 
 in words that he could not honestly retract or go back 
 from. 
 
 There was little more than that in the note. He did 
 not dare indulge himself in any words of regret. He 
 knew that he must not yield an inch to sentiment. In 
 the treacherous valley where he stood, one step either 
 to the right or to the left of the bare, rock-grounded 
 path he had chosen to follow, would mean his ruin. 
 Quagmire, pitfall, and gin were on every hand. 
 Harsh, unlovely Truth must be his guide before, while 
 Duty remorselessly laid the whip to his shoulders. 
 
 He sealed the missive dully, and addressed it. 
 Then he broke the envelope, and read the letter 
 through again, — read it twice. Slowly, and with 
 fingers that shook a Httle, he slipped it into a second 
 envelope, and rewrote the address. 
 
 He stared at it lying there on his desk, and thought 
 of all it meant in the baring and narrowing and rough- 
 ening of his Hfe thenceforth. Every hour passed with 
 Katrinka was, in its way, an hour of beauty. Every 
 
 216 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 word from her lips, every movement of her body, v^as 
 music. And now these hours of music and beauty, 
 this devotion of sense and imagination that appealed 
 so potently to the artist in him, — that child of love 
 and sunshine so often cruelly at variance with the 
 other ruler of his soul, the stern hill-dweller, — it was 
 all to be destroyed, cast away, and for the sake of a 
 silly, rattle-brained little flirt, who was destined to 
 go her own way just as heedlessly for all that he 
 might sacrifice. 
 
 "No, not for this," answered the voice from the 
 hills. "It is the inevitable struggle of that ideal which 
 you have, for a time, dethroned, to regain once more 
 its ascendancy over the soul. If the struggle is lost, 
 you will be forever in your own eyes a creature of 
 weakness and contempt." 
 
 Philip sprang to his feet, caught up the envelope, 
 sped down the stairs, and sought the nearest mail- 
 box. He opened the slot and, as it shut, heard the 
 soft, dull fall of his letter amongst the other letters 
 that were waiting there, with their messages of glad- 
 ness and tragedy, of despair and hope, until the time 
 should come for them to go forth upon their myriad 
 ways. 
 
 It seemed to him, suddenly, as he stood there on 
 the cold street under the flickering arc-light, that he 
 had slain a lovely and precious thing. A great misery 
 and loneliness settled upon him. There was no one 
 
 217 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 in the world who cared for him as she cared. If he 
 had made a triumph in the cause of Morality, it was 
 the barrenest, dreariest triumph that had ever been 
 made in that stern cause. 
 
XX 
 
 It was late winter in the country of hills. A waste 
 of pale, waterish snow, only half concealing the dead 
 earth, was flung abroad like a tattered and discarded 
 mantle under a grey sky. Each gleaming tree-trunk 
 stood in the centre of a little snow-bared circle; 
 each skeleton stalk of wild carrot or goldenrod rose 
 through a tiny, cup-like aperture of its own. In the 
 hollows of the lawn grey streaks showed where the 
 water had drained out of snow that lay higher and 
 whiter. 
 
 Everywhere was the soft, dull sound of dripping 
 moisture, — from the wet branches to the wet sod ; 
 from the high, flat roof of the house to the tin roof of 
 the porch ; from the roof of the porch to the steps and 
 flagstones below. Now and again, while Georgia had 
 been reading to her father in the library, a splash of 
 dampness would come down the chimney and fall 
 with a hiss and a jet of steam into the smouldering 
 wood fire. 
 
 She sat by the window, for the wan afternoon light 
 — though it was not yet four o'clock — soon lost itself 
 in the dusky spaciousness of the apartment. The 
 reading was over now. Beside her lay a closed volume 
 of War memoirs. She had reached the end of the 
 
 219 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 chapter ; and the book would not be taken up again 
 until after supper. In its place she was indifferently 
 busying herself with a piece of embroidery intended 
 for an old school friend who was soon to be married. 
 
 The room was very quiet. The Colonel's chair had 
 been let back into a recHning position, and he lay 
 very still, while an expression, which had lately be- 
 come customary with him, of melancholy and weak- 
 ness, slowly dominated his countenance. During the 
 winter his condition had changed but little. The 
 valvular trouble was slightly more pronounced. 
 Debility was gaining on him. The processes of dis- 
 solution were at work, but imperceptibly to any but a 
 watchful eye. It was a gentle, unpainful relaxation 
 of life. The tender solicitude of his daughter, who 
 was always beside him, making him her first thought 
 in every concern of the day, should, it would seem, 
 still more have eased the slow steps that led him 
 down toward the dark river. 
 
 Yet Colonel Raeburn seemed not to know that 
 happy fortitude which is characteristic of his race and 
 of his religion in the presence of death. He was not 
 rebellious ; but he was not content. Georgia was con- 
 stantly aware of it. Something more than his body, 
 it seemed to her, was in the clutch of disease. He was 
 the prey of strange fits of despondency. A gloom, 
 rarely hfted, had settled upon him, a cloud of dark 
 thoughts which, except for the brief hours when she 
 
 220 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 managed to distract him with reading or chat or ar- 
 gument, did not release him from its heart of despair. 
 
 What the subject of these meditations might be, 
 Georgia could not conjecture. Since the terrors of 
 that November night, when her father^s soul had 
 bared itself for a lurid second to her gaze, no revealing 
 words had passed his lips. Whatever his grief might 
 be, it was deeply and resolutely locked in his breast. 
 
 Georgia entertained, indeed, a proud, sensitive 
 reluctance to pry curiously into her father's secrecy. 
 She reverenced him too deeply for that. She believed 
 in him too implicitly. If he wished to make her a 
 party to his confidence, he knew that she was ready 
 to take upon her shoulders whatever burden he could 
 entrust to her. If he told her nothing, it was because 
 he knew the burden to be for him alone. 
 
 She too had her unshared, unshareable burden; 
 and her strength often flagged under it. Just now it 
 seemed to her that it was too heavy to be borne. Ah, 
 why, why, she asked herself, bitterly, as she raised her 
 eyes from her work and gazed vaguely out of the 
 window across the melancholy waste of snow, under 
 the dripping evergreens and locusts — why must her 
 chiefest support and stay have failed her just at the 
 moment when most she needed it. 
 
 How she had come to love him! How she loved 
 him still, how she longed for him, at the moments 
 when forgetfulness sealed the poisonous, love-slaying 
 
 221 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 realities from her thought ! Ah, but the sealing was 
 never for long, except in dreams, and the waking al- 
 ways followed ; the return of the bitterness and shame. 
 While she had known the anguish of the olive-garden, 
 he had slumbered and slept, nay, he had drunk freely 
 the cup of pleasure, unable to hold the watch one 
 hour. How often she had reexperienced that first 
 shuddering recoil that had seized her on the blighted 
 summit of Yelping Hill. It was as if something at 
 the very fountain-head of life in her had been 
 stricken with pestilence, and could never be healed. 
 
 Out across the waste of pallid snow wandered forth 
 her solitary spirit, beyond the veiled, mist-banked 
 horizon, upon a mournful journey of doubt, conjec- 
 ture and bitter regret, where no other soul could 
 give her companionship. This was loneliness ! Lone- 
 liness had been her only companion for all these 
 months, yet accepted proudly, without a quiver of 
 the lip, because of the blood that was in her. 
 
 Suddenly there fell upon her ears the sound of a 
 splashing trot in the driveway, and peering out toward 
 the gate, she perceived a chunky, furry-legged pony 
 and an old-fashioned low-bodied chaise drawing near. 
 Every one in the vicinity of Folkbridge knew that 
 chunky pony and the ancestral chaise. What could 
 Miss Wetherell be wanting out here? She rarely 
 drove so far from the village in winter, when the roads 
 were bad. The vehicle, Georgia could see, was 
 
 222 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 splashed to the top of the calash ; Peter looked as if 
 he had been wading. 
 
 Could it be news? Had something happened to 
 him? Or had she come, perhaps, with some kindly 
 plan to propose for a reconciliation ? The girl's back 
 stiffened involuntarily, as a host of vague possibili- 
 ties, all of them related in one way or another to the 
 subject of her interrupted reverie, flashed across her 
 mind. Except for the exchange of a casual word 
 sometimes at church, she had not had any speech 
 with Miss Wetherell all winter. 
 
 The Colonel had noticed her movement of atten- 
 tion, as she bent toward the window. 
 
 "Is some one coming?'' 
 
 "Miss Wetherell, father." 
 
 "What! Prudence Wetherell? A very strange day 
 ior her to be driving out here, I should say." 
 
 "The roads must be in terrible condition," said 
 Georgia, dully. 
 
 The Colonel turned a glance of keen inquiry upon 
 his daughter's face. 
 
 "I wonder what can be her object," he said. 
 
 His glance told him nothing. Georgia's face evinced 
 no disquietude. Dread may have tightened at her 
 throat ; but there was no external sign of it. Since the 
 day when Georgia had told him, with perfect sim- 
 plicity and composure, that she and Philip Wetherell 
 were no longer friends, his name had not been men- 
 
 223 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 tioned between them. That she was not happy he 
 had guessed, because the cheerfulness of her words 
 and manner seemed too calculated, prompted by a 
 resolution to be cheerful, rather than by the inward 
 spirit of joy that had once irradiated all that she did. 
 To him, too, at this moment, came the thought that 
 Miss Wetherell's visit might concern her nephew. 
 
 "I'm sure I can't imagine," said Georgia, with a 
 nervous little laugh. "It seems an odd day to choose 
 for a call." 
 
 The chaise drew up at the porch ; but the occupant 
 did not descend. Summoning all her self-control, the 
 girl went to the door. 
 
 "Why, how do you do, Georgia," said Aunt Pru- 
 dence, from the depths of a queer great-coat that 
 muffled her to the ears. "I thought I would n't climb 
 out until I had put Peter in the barn, if it was agree- 
 able to you." 
 
 "Certainly, Miss Wetherell. How nice it is to see 
 you out here ! Wait till I slip on some rubbers, and 
 I'll go with you." 
 
 Her manner was the perfection of affability, while 
 in her mind the disconcerting question repeated itself 
 again and again : "What can she want ? — What can 
 she want?" 
 
 "By no means, my dear," protested the visitor, 
 smiHng. "Do you think I require your assistance in 
 tying my restive, mettlesome Peter? No, into the 
 
 224 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 house with you at once; you'll be taking cold. In 
 twenty seconds I shall be along." 
 
 Her news could not be bad news, Georgia told her- 
 self, with quick relief ; else she could not have spoken 
 so gayly. 
 
 "You'll see her, father?" she asked, reentering 
 the Hbrary. "I take it it's a family call." 
 
 There was a suppressed urgency in her voice that 
 did not escape him. 
 
 "Surely I will," he answered. "It's ten months at 
 least since I've set eyes on Prudence Wetherell." 
 
 The back of the reclining chair was slightly raised, 
 another cushion slipped under his shoulders, and the 
 afghan over his knees adjusted. By the time Aunt 
 Prue reappeared at the door, he was ready to see 
 her. 
 
 "You're going to come right into the library," said 
 Georgia, with a charming smile. "Father is sitting up 
 to-day, and it will do him good to have a little visit 
 with you." 
 
 Aunt Prue had doffed her great-coat and her heavy 
 driving gloves in the barn, and her costume now 
 revealed the prim daintiness that was so peculiarly 
 appropriate and becoming to her. They entered the 
 library, and for a few minutes the conversation, start- 
 ing with the unseasonable weather, the shocking con- 
 dition of the roads, and the state of Colonel Raebum's 
 health, followed consecrated hues. At last, after a 
 
 225 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 momentary lull, the visitor broached the special 
 occasion of her visit. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you, Georgia, if you v^ould take 
 charge of a Httle booth at the bazaar we are organizing 
 for the Seamen's Gospel." 
 
 The girl replied with an eager alacrity that sur- 
 prised no one so much as herself : — 
 
 ''Oh, a bazaar! How perfectly lovely! When is it 
 going to be?" 
 
 She felt her pulses leaping, as if at the reception of 
 joyful tidings. 
 
 Aunt Prue was immensely gratified by the unex- 
 pected reception of her proposal; and she beamed 
 happily at the girl. 
 
 "You love the dear sailors, too, don't you?" she 
 asked. '^I was thinking about them all the way out 
 this afternoon, wondering what such weather as 
 this must be on the ocean. What a brave, hard life 
 they lead, out there, so far from the comforts of home ! 
 And I could but picture the satisfaction some of them 
 would find — at least I hope so — in the comfort- 
 bags I thought we could make up out of the proceeds 
 of the bazaar. In War days, Colonel Raeburn, did 
 you not find the comfort-bags that our Union women 
 provided truly a comfort?" 
 
 The Colonel gave an emphatic affirmative to her 
 question, and was led to recount a couple of reminis- 
 cences of the quaint letters that often accompanied 
 
 226 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the patriotic gifts. Georgia was delighted to hear him 
 talking so much Hke his old self, though it bespoke 
 more clearly than anything else could the heavy 
 change that had come over him during the past 
 months. 
 
 '^And I have been thinking," resumed Aunt Pna- 
 dence, ^^of the articles that we could most profitably 
 include, — warm socks, of course ; a snug sweater in 
 one of the brighter colours that sailors are so fond of, 
 green, or red, perhaps; a New Testament, inexpen- 
 sive, but with large, clear type, for the light in the 
 fo'c'sle" — Aunt Prue did not fail to do homage to 
 the term — "is certain to be poor and smoky, at least 
 on the sailing vessels; a neat little sewing kit, with 
 coarse needles such as a man likes; a tiny mirror, a 
 nice comb and brush, writing materials for the home 
 letters, — let me see, what else ? — oh, I thought, in 
 case our money held out, a compact little medicine- 
 case — just the very simplest remedies, you know, in 
 some condensed form like pellets ; though I 'm sure I 
 don't know whether the dear lads could be persuaded 
 to use them. Sailors are very fatalistic, according to 
 the reports, in such matters ; and the most they will 
 do, only too often, is to take a swig from the gin 
 bottle." 
 
 She sighed heavily, and asked for the ColonePs 
 opinion in the matter of the medicine-cases. 
 
 "Of course," she concluded, "everything is still 
 227 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 very vague and uncertain. Much will depend upon 
 the success of the bazaar. Georgia, I wondered 
 whether you would be willing to take charge of the 
 candies, — or would you rather have the souvenirs ? 
 I thought we might have one booth devoted to little 
 curios, such as pretty shells and such things from the 
 sea ; some of them made over, perhaps, into little fancy 
 articles, like pincushions, others decorated with oil 
 paints. I have an idea such a feature would prove 
 very attractive. You would, of course, be dressed in 
 some appropriate sailor costume. I have an old neck- 
 lace of shark's teeth you could wear, if you fancied it. 
 It is a real curiosity." 
 
 For the next quarter-hour the conversation con- 
 fined itself to plans for the bazaar, which Aunt Prue 
 thought might be held in the early spring, just after 
 Easter. 
 
 *'It seemed to me important," she said, "that we 
 should be getting preparations under way, so as to 
 make as sure as possible of success. It is a great en- 
 couragement to me to find at least one enthusiastic 
 helper." 
 
 There was an odd little pause, while she still de- 
 layed her departure. Aunt Prudence cleared her 
 voice, and seemed on the point of saying something 
 else ; then altered her mind, and was silent, occupying 
 herself absorbedly in drawing on her black silk gloves 
 a little more snugly. 
 
 228 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Georgia got up abruptly to mend the fire, and pro- 
 longed the task until pride sent her back once more to 
 her seat. She made some painfully obvious remark on 
 the condition of the roads, that mortified her, and 
 that made the little eddy of talk it aroused seem only 
 an impertinence in the silence which promptly settled 
 down again. Georgia felt her fingers tingling ner- 
 vously under the protracted strain of it. 
 
 ^^Well," said the little woman at last, with a faint 
 smile, "I think I had better be running along. The 
 afternoon is far on the wane." 
 
 She bade the Colonel good-day in her quaint, 
 charming fashion, and Georgia quitted the room with 
 her, forcing herself, despite Miss Wetherell's protest 
 that it was not in the least necessary, to accompany 
 her as far as the barn. 
 
 They picked their way across the area, where the 
 slush lay deep, and entered the carriage-shed. A few 
 meaningless words passed between them. That was 
 all. The subject that had not been mentioned lay like 
 a load of lead on the girl's heart. The triviality of 
 every other subject made her ashamed, almost, to be 
 talking at all. 
 
 Aunt Prue muffled herself in her grotesque driving 
 costume, untied the chunky pony, and backed him 
 out into the drive, with many sturdy cries of "Back, 
 Peter, back, I say!" and many caressing pats upon 
 the neck. It took her a very long time. Georgia stood 
 
 229 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 by, watching. She longed to have Miss Wetherell 
 depart; and yet she could not bear the thought of 
 being left alone, — left alone without a word. She 
 had been stricken with dread lest Aunt Prue should 
 speak of the subject that most intimately concerned 
 them both. Now she dreaded even more painfully 
 to see her leaving Highstone without even a hint or a 
 question — as if he had never existed. 
 
 "Well, good-by, Georgia," said Aunt Prue, taking 
 the girl's hand. For an instant she held it, and with a 
 pressure that was unmistakable, while her grey eyes 
 were lifted to her companion's face with a look of 
 timid appeal. 
 
 Georgia felt herself choking. She could not face 
 those eyes. She could not respond to the pressure of 
 the hand. She had nothing to say. With a new pang 
 she realized that her secret was not to be shared. 
 
 "Good-by, Miss Wetherell," she said. "I am sure 
 we are going to make a real success of it. It will be 
 great fun." 
 
 The little woman in the enormous great-coat 
 dropped her hand, and put one foot on the step of 
 the chaise. Then with a quick revision of her thought, 
 she turned once more to the girl. 
 
 "You never hear from him, now?" 
 
 The words had a frightened sound. Georgia shook 
 her head, with lips tight pressed to keep back the sob 
 that swelled in her throat. 
 
 230 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Two tears suddenly appeared in Aunt Prue's grey 
 eyes. She turned quickly and climbed into the chaise. 
 She backed Peter a little farther, then headed toward 
 the gate. Still Georgia looked on in silence. 
 
 Aunt Prue started up the pony, but pulled him 
 abruptly to a halt as she came up by the girl. She 
 leaned from the low seat as far as she could toward 
 her ear, and whispered, — 
 
 ''Georgia, dear, whatever it may be that has hap- 
 pened, I — I " — but the girl could not hear the low 
 words that followed. 
 
 Miss Wetherell gathered the reins quickly, and 
 flapped them upon the back of the chunky pony. 
 
 "Get up, Peter!" she cried. 
 
XXI 
 
 Sunday afternoon, when Philip called in at the 
 Smilax Street tenement to take Queenie for her '^mis- 
 sionary outing," — as he sardonically termed it to 
 himself, — she was still at her toilet. Irene, who 
 came to the door, garbed in a kitchen apron, would 
 not permit him to give her a hand with the dinner 
 dishes. 
 
 "Well, I guess not," she declared. "You just run 
 into the front room and have a nice little chat with ma. 
 I'll be along in a jiffy." 
 
 Reluctantly he obeyed her. At his entrance the in- 
 valid put by her novel with a smile of welcome, and 
 murmured a request that he draw up the ottoman 
 beside the sofa. 
 
 "It will make you seem not so far away, somehow," 
 she explained. 
 
 Philip seated himself, and made the conventional 
 inquiry as to her state of health. 
 
 A heavy sigh preluded her response. "Only an- 
 other of my foolish little turns," she elucidated 
 bravely. "I dare say it means nothing." 
 
 The look she gave him, and the almost impercepti- 
 ble shake of the head, indicated that the truth might 
 be far otherwise; and she proceeded to recount to 
 
 232 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 him, with considerable detail, the strange, baffling, 
 unprecedented symptoms of this latest attack. Her 
 voice dropped to an intimate whisper. 
 
 "I would not care for myself," she confided. "But, 
 my brave little girls ! — they have so much to bear as 
 it is!" 
 
 Several painful seconds passed before she could 
 speak again. Philip hoped against hope that the af- 
 fecting part of the interview was over ; but when the 
 invalid invited him, by a fond, maternal gesture, to 
 give her his hand, he knew that worse was yet to 
 come. 
 
 "You will not mind an old woman's whim," she 
 begged. "I feel, somehow, as if something were 
 bringing us very close together." 
 
 She turned a look of meaningful intentness upon 
 him, which for an instant he was quite at a loss to 
 interpret. Surely she could not imagine — oh, the 
 idea was preposterous! He waited stupidly for her 
 to go on. She gave his hand a gentle pressure. 
 
 "I thought at first," she murmured, "that it 
 was the oldest of my little blossoms ; but now I see 
 that it is the youngest: my Httle Queenie. Am I 
 right?" 
 
 Philip stared at her in dismay. "Indeed, Mrs. 
 Muller, you are in error," he exclaimed. "We are 
 good friends, — nothing more, I give you my word." 
 
 She released his hand suddenly, and pressed her 
 ^33 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 fingers lightly to her heart to stay its wild fluttering. 
 "Oh, I have been indiscreet!" she gasped. "What 
 have I said!'' 
 
 "Pray don't let it disturb you in the least," inter- 
 jected Philip, soothingly. "It's a matter of small 
 moment." 
 
 "Ah," she said, "you know how to make allow- 
 ances for the mother heart. Its only crime is that of 
 being perhaps too fond." 
 
 Philip was uncomfortably conscious that his face 
 had flushed hotly, and he could but suspect that his 
 hostess would interpret the fact after her own fashion. 
 But her next remark indicated that she could adapt 
 herself with perfect grace and ease to the diplomatic 
 demands of any situation. 
 
 "At all events," she said, "I may tell you how 
 sincerely glad I am that you two are good comrades. 
 Queenie is my special pride, my little sunbeam. It 
 delights me that she has found a friend who is in 
 every way so worthy of her!" 
 
 She smiled at him mistily over a bosom that lifted 
 and fell, and concluded the dialogue in the approved 
 fashion : — 
 
 "But hush! I think I hear her coming." 
 
 The little sunbeam entered; and an instant later 
 followed the Httle staff, to give assistance with the 
 veil. Queenie had never succeeded in making such a 
 marvellous creation of herself as to-day. Philip had 
 
 234 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 been till now unaware that the feminine toilet com- 
 prised so many possibilities of modish horror. The 
 thought that they were to take tea together at the 
 Casino struck him with dismay. But his dismay was 
 unshared by any other of the company. 
 
 *'Oh, you look just too lovely for anything, dearie," 
 was Irene's comment. ^^ Don't she, Mr. Weth- 
 erell?" — And she sent a look of sisterly pride over 
 Queenie's shoulder at her friend. 
 
 The invalid was favoured with a demonstrative 
 embrace of farewell; likewise Irene; and then they 
 were off. 
 
 Queenie was in the most radiant spirits. She had 
 never been so loudly herself as that fateful afternoon. 
 When they hailed the Fifth Avenue 'bus at Eighth 
 Street, she protested that she never, never in the 
 world, could climb those dreadful stairs. Philip sug- 
 gested that they go inside; but no, she must have a 
 seat on top if she croaked for it ; and with many little 
 shrieks of mingled fright and mirth, she was helped 
 up. At once she fell Hmply into a seat, panting for 
 breath, fanning herself with her muff, and declaring 
 between gasps, that she certainly had tumbled to that 
 for fair. 
 
 Since Philip had last seen her, he had attended the 
 **Pink Butterfly," and she was full of eagerness to 
 know if he did n't really think it was the swellest show 
 yet. 
 
 235 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ^^And say," she pursued, shifting her gum to the 
 other side, 'Mid you notice that kid next to me in the 
 Ponies — the one at the end? That's Gertie Beau- 
 champ. Gertie's the real article, all right, all right. 
 Pretty off as she is on, too. Oh, she and I are the 
 greatest chums : we're perfectly inseparable ! There's 
 an old mutt that's perfectly crazy mad about her. He 
 always sets there in the front row, way over to the 
 left, and cheese! don't he blow in the bright yellow 
 coin on Gertie ! Every night there 's a box of American 
 Beauties on Gertie's table in the dressin' room, and all 
 the suppers she wants to Rector's. Say, Gertie Beau- 
 champ certainly struck it rich." 
 
 As Queenie's conversation was by no means pitched 
 in a subdued key, Philip felt an intense relief when 
 they quitted the 'bus at Seventy-second Street, — 
 again with many little shrieks, — and made their way 
 afoot into the Park. 
 
 The keen, dramatic beauty of the wintry afternoon 
 colouring, the Moorish fretwork of leafless branches 
 against a west of gold and turquoise, — how Katrinka 
 would have loved it ! — was quite lost on his com- 
 panion ; but she was not without occupation, for she 
 had an abundance of criticism to offer upon the cos- 
 tume of every woman they encountered. 
 
 **Say, did you ever in your life see such a laugh 
 of a hat?" she would demand, with a superior toss 
 of the head. ''That woman must like to make a 
 
 236 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 spectacle of herself. It's utterly impossible to wear 
 those new willow plumes, you know, with that sort 
 of a figure." 
 
 Philip registered a grim vow that he would broach 
 the subject of the day to his companion as soon as 
 they were well settled at tea. Till then he would 
 submit unprotestingly to anything. 
 
 They followed a curving avenue up a gentle slope 
 of brown lawn and red-stemmed shrubbery, until 
 they attained the little eminence where the famous 
 luncheon-house is situated. Seats were secured in a 
 comer of the Palm Room, and English breakfast, 
 toasted muffins, and Bar-le-Duc ordered. 
 
 Philip lighted a cigarette, leaned forward intimately 
 on the table, and began. It was the only way. With 
 Queenie there could be no such thing as diplomatic 
 preparation. 
 
 "What do you honestly think," he demanded, "of 
 this Gertie Beauchamp? Is she a good sort?" 
 
 Queenie opened astonished eyes upon him. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Wetherell," she returned. "Whatever 
 do you mean by such a question as that?" 
 
 " Just what I say," he rejoined. "Is she a girl with 
 good principles — the kind of girl you want for a 
 friend?" 
 
 Queenie pouted, and her eyes grew rebellious. 
 
 "Well, I 'm sure ! " she said. "That 's a very strange 
 question indeed!" 
 
 237. 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 '^It may be strange," agreed Philip. ^^But I'm 
 in earnest about it. I want to know what you 
 think." 
 
 Queenie gave him a stony look. ^'I can't see any- 
 thing the matter with Gertie/* she retorted. ^'She 
 may not be a saint." 
 
 Philip cast about desperately for a cue. "Would 
 you Hke to have your mother know her?" he asked. 
 
 It was an unfortunate venture. 
 
 "Mother? Why, ma knows her. Ma thinks she's 
 the real thing. Say, Mr. Wetherell, I wish you 'd tell 
 me what you're drivin' at. I don't understand you 
 at all." 
 
 Queenie drew herself back with a hint of offended 
 dignity. 
 
 Her companion was not to be so easily daunted. 
 "Does your mother know about her friend — the one 
 who sits in the front row?" 
 
 The girl's face grew very red. She turned at bay 
 with the hot admonition, — 
 
 "Mr. Wetherell, I beg you to remember that Gertie 
 Beauchamp is my particular friend. Be careful what 
 you say." 
 
 The man hated to take advantage of the opening 
 she gave him ; but it was his cue to speak. "And you 
 have for your particular friend," he broke out, vehe- 
 mently, "a girl who lives that kind of a life! Does 
 that help you to keep good?" 
 
 ^38. 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Queenie bit her lip with anger. "You have no right 
 to talk like that to me," she declared. 
 
 "I have the right/' rejoined Philip. "My friend- 
 ship for you gives me that right. I hate to see you 
 running into danger.'' 
 
 "Danger!" echoed the girl, derisively. "Do you 
 mean you think I'm such a fool that I can't keep 
 straight myself, just because a friend of mine does the 
 other thing?" 
 
 "I mean," cried Philip, with impassioned earnest- 
 ness, "that none of us is so strong that he can afford 
 to play with fire. We're all weak somewhere. In this 
 particular matter I'm weaker than you are, because 
 I've gone wrong already. I hope I shan't again; I 
 don't mean to. And so far as the world's way of look- 
 ing at it goes, it's a lot worse if a girl once makes a 
 mistake, because she's never going to be given an- 
 other fair chance. The world never forgives her, no 
 matter how much she may want to be good again." 
 
 Philip heard his own voice ringing honestly; and 
 no reflections of shame were evoked in his mind by the 
 words he had uttered. There was a stern satisfaction 
 in being able to speak so. 
 
 Queenie took a new tack. "Oh, well, Gertie ain't 
 so bad," she announced, guardedly, "even if some 
 people may n't approve of everything she does. 
 There's a lot of lovely things about Gertie. She'll 
 do absolutely anything for you, if you get up against 
 
 239 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 it. She 's lent me money over and over. She's awfully 
 generous to her friends. I never heard her say any- 
 thing mean and nasty about any one. There's a pile 
 of girls that call themselves good that ain't half so 
 good at heart as Gertie Beauchamp, if I do say it." 
 
 "That may very well be," consented Philip; "but I 
 don't think it makes her any the better friend for you. 
 It makes her worse. Unless you're prepared to go as 
 far as Gertie goes, you'd better not be too intimate." 
 
 The girl had a burst of sullen defiance. She hated 
 to be preached to. She had not supposed her escort 
 was that kind of a man. She had come out for a good 
 time; and he had spoiled everything. 
 
 "Well, what if I do go the whole figure some day?" 
 she demanded, hotly. "That's my own business, ain't 
 it ? I don't know as I 'm so terrible sure it matters like 
 you say. It's different on the stage than what it is 
 anywhere else. Everybody knows that. In our busi- 
 ness it's 'most like you was expected to do that way. 
 Nobody blames you at all. Now look at Gertie — 
 Gertie 's the most popular girl in the chorus. I never 
 heard anybody say a word against her till this 
 minute. I don't believe you understand at all what 
 the stage is, Mr. Wetherell. It ain't Hke other pro- 
 fessions, not the least bit in the world." 
 
 Philip had no opportunity to reply, for at this mo- 
 ment the waiter appeared with the tea-things ; and for 
 a short time the conversation returned, though rather 
 
 240 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 constrainedly, to its usual basis of trivialities. But 
 Queenie was out of spirits. She was not having a 
 good time at all. She wished she had accepted an- 
 other invitation she had had for that afternoon. She 
 would n't have been preached to like this, not a bit 
 of it. 
 
 Rather listlessly she devoted herself to a survey of 
 the room. She was sitting in the corner, and could see 
 everything. While she poured the tea, she made com- 
 ments on the various little groups of people who were 
 seated at the small tables by the windows. Some 
 looked like the real thing to her. Over there was a 
 woman who ought to have had a part in the "Old 
 Homestead." Those two men in uniform must have 
 come off'n one of the warships. Did n't a uniform 
 make a man look awfully different, though ? Prob- 
 ably in regular, everyday clothes they would n't be 
 nowhere near so stunning. 
 
 "And now I wonder who those people are," she 
 continued, "clear over there by the door." 
 
 Philip did not turn around, for he knew that a 
 description would follow. 
 
 "There's a gent and two ladies. He looks some- 
 thing like the man who plays the drum in our orches- 
 tra, only he ain't so fat and don't wear a solitaire. I 
 wonder would one of the women be his wife. The 
 older one, I guess. She kind of looks that way. Seems 
 to me you can 'most always tell; they're so sort o' dull 
 
 241 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 lookin\ The other's a regular peach. Graceful! — 
 say, that's no word for it at all! I never saw the beat 
 of it. But say, Mr. Wetherell, if you had hair that was 
 the colour of mashed turnip, would n't you try tintin' 
 it or something?" 
 
 A sudden, ungovernable curiosity compelled the 
 man to turn his head — an instant only, but long 
 enough to send the blood flying out of his cheeks. 
 His eyes had encountered Katrinka's. 
 
 She had been in animated conversation with the 
 woman opposite ; but he had seen the words falter on 
 her Hps, and one hand leap to her throat. The instinc- 
 tive gesture was so quickly disguised that it appeared 
 to be merely some slight readjustment of the high 
 collar she wore ; but Philip had understood it. 
 
 "Don't you think that's positively the weirdest hair 
 ever?" pursued Queenie, munching a large mouthful 
 of muffin. 
 
 With a concentrated effort of self-control, Philip 
 managed to give a satisfactorily matter-of-fact answer 
 to her question. It was a crucial moment. He knew 
 that he must not lose grip on himself, whatever the 
 cost. 
 
 "Well, I don't know why she needs to stare at me 
 like that," observed Queenie, with a conscious little 
 toss of the head. "She looks as if she'd eat me up. 
 My goodness, but I bet you that woman got the 
 temper of a wild-beast. — Say, Mr. Wetherell, is 
 
 242 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 anything the matter with my hat? Does it look 
 crooked?" 
 
 "It looks perfectly straight to me," answered 
 PhiHp, through lips that felt cold. 
 
 "Well," flung out his companion, "if she thinks 
 she can fuss me, she's mistaken. I guess two can 
 stare as well as one. Cat!" 
 
 Queenie held her eyes brazenly fixed on the comer 
 of the room, while she sipped superciliously out of 
 her cup. Philip thought he had never seen her look 
 quite so vulgar. And it came over him suddenly what 
 Katrinka's interpretation of the scene would be. At 
 the thought a flood of flame mounted into his neck 
 and face. His head began to swim. 
 
 When Queenie at last deflected her gaze — it 
 seemed minutes later — she noticed her companion's 
 embarrassment ; and a quick feeling of regret came 
 to her for having been the cause of it by her bad 
 manners. 
 
 "Honestly, Mr. Wetherell," she apologized, "I'm 
 sorry I did that. It was n't refined at all, and I know 
 it. When I get my back up I don't seem to have no 
 self-control; and that woman just made me stark 
 crazy mad." 
 
 If Philip was singularly unresponsive during the 
 remainder of their repast, Queenie attributed it to 
 the offence he had taken, and did her best to make 
 up for it by an unexampled docility and sweetness. 
 
 243 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She agreed with every remark he made; she fairly 
 hung on his words; she kept her eyes devotedly 
 turned upon him. 
 
 At last, *'I beheve you were right, Mr. Wetherell," 
 she said, contritely, "about that thing we was dis- 
 cussin' — you know what I mean. No, a girl cer- 
 tainly can't be too careful, as things are nowadays. I 
 don't know but I'll have to give Gertie the go-by 
 after all." 
 
 "All I wanted," said Philip, resolutely forcing him- 
 self into the subject, telling himself that it didn't 
 matter any more what the woman across the room 
 might think of the spectacle before her, — that was 
 over ! — "all I wanted was that you should keep your 
 eyes open; be on the watch, you know. You don't 
 mind my taking that much friendly interest in you, 
 do you?" 
 
 She gave him a sugary look of gratitude. "I feel 
 very proud," she said, "that you would go to all that 
 trouble for poor little me." 
 
 The affectation in her voice did not escape him. 
 He had a sinking conviction that nothing he had 
 managed to say had been of the least avail. At the 
 same time, he had apparently won his point ; and he 
 knew that nothing would be gained by pursuing the 
 discussion further. In any case his present mood 
 made it impossible for him. There was only one 
 thought in his mind — that Katrinka would believe 
 
 244 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 he had lied to her; that everything she had witnessed 
 during these last minutes would only confirm that 
 belief. 
 
 *^I declare," said Queenie, ^^if that cat isn't still 
 watching me out of the tail of her eye. Say, do you 
 mind, Mr. Wetherell, if I go to the dressing-room and 
 take a snook in the glass? I'm sure something's 
 wrong." 
 
 ^^Don't worry," said her companion. ^^Isn't my 
 word good enough for you?" 
 
 ^^Oh, a man never knows about those sort of 
 things," she repHed. ^^I could have my hd on upside 
 down, and you'd think it looked just exactly as well. 
 I'll be back in a minute." 
 
 *^You know best," conceded Philip. 
 
 A queer panic seized him at the thought of being 
 left alone ; but there was nothing that he could say to 
 Queenie. 
 
 The girl bent toward him ingratiatingly. "I 
 promise you I won't make up a face when I go by her 
 table." 
 
 She rose, gave him a soft little smile, and departed. 
 
 Philip sat in his chair, moveless as a wooden image, 
 not touching his food, overcome with a mortification, 
 a sense of having disgraced himself, that was as cruel 
 as it was irrational. 
 
 But he had not long to sit thus. He heard light 
 steps behind him, and the next instant an apparition 
 
 245 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 dropped into the unoccupied chair opposite. It leaned 
 toward him with a smile ; but behind the smile, in the 
 depths of the panther-like eyes of gold-grey, there were 
 both contempt and wild anguish. Two words came 
 from her white lips, hissed so low that no ear but his 
 would have known she had spoken ; yet they shivered 
 through his being. 
 
 ^^You lied." 
 
 His eyes fastened upon her with tortured pleading, 
 and would not let go. 
 
 *Tlease! — Please!" he begged, in the words a 
 child might employ, seeking to be spared a punish- 
 ment. ''It's not true, Katrinka. You don't under- 
 stand. What I wrote you was true — every word of 
 it. This can all be explained." 
 
 ''That's very easy to say," she retorted, icily. 
 
 " It 's the truth ! It 's the truth ! I give you my word 
 of honour." 
 
 "Will you explain it to me, if I offer you the 
 chance?" 
 
 The man did not realize what he was saying. "Yes, 
 give me the chance. Give it to me. I would be killed 
 sooner than have you think I lied to you." 
 
 The woman's eyes narrowed. Her face was at once 
 terrible and tender. "I would kill you, Philip," she 
 said, "sooner than have you leave me for a girl like 
 that. If you do not come to-night, I shall know why." 
 
 Without another word she departed. He did not 
 246 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 look around, but continued sitting there with his el- 
 bows on the table, his eyes bhndly on the empty chair, 
 until Queenie returned — he did not know how long 
 after. 
 
 "Much good that trip did," she announced, dryly, 
 as she flounced down into her chair, and began preen- 
 ing her feathers like a little bantam hen. "The hat 
 was all right. Tea's got stone cold, I suppose; and 
 now she's gone into the bargain, along with the rest. 
 Say, ain't that the absolute limit?" 
 
XXII 
 
 Philip ordered a taxicab for the home trip. In his 
 present turbulent state of mind he could not endure 
 the thought of making himself again an object of 
 common curiosity. He wanted to bring the futile, 
 disastrous afternoon to as prompt a close as possible. 
 
 Queenie's spirits had suffered only a transitory 
 depression. At the sight of the taxicab she was quite 
 herself again, and during the entire journey chattered 
 with the blithe inanity of a magpie. It was an addi- 
 tional sop to her vanity that her escort would not 
 accept her invitation to come upstairs to supper, since 
 it showed conclusively that his main interest was 
 centred in herself. 
 
 "Well, it's been a perfectly grand time," she said, 
 giving him an astonishing arm-length, crook-wristed 
 grip of farewell. "Good-by, Mr. Wetherell; and I'm 
 goin' to remember what you said." 
 
 She whisked into the narrow, dimly lit corridor of 
 the tenement. Philip dismissed the cab, and set out at 
 a stiff pace down the street, careless of where he was 
 going. All he wanted was to get his excitement into 
 harness. Just now it dominated him to the point of 
 making rational thought impossible. 
 
 What a gruesome mockery the whole enterprise 
 248 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 had been from the start ! He cursed himself for having 
 gone into it. The memory of what it had vainly com- 
 pelled him to sacrifice blasted his pride, and blew to a 
 flame resentment and desire. This was all that it had 
 come to : he was branded as a liar and a hypocrite. 
 
 The ferocious impulse seized him to throw up the 
 whole ridiculous game, to trample underfoot his new 
 pretensions to a morality that was not of the heart, 
 and to make terms once more with the goddess of his 
 idolatry, his lovely serpent of old Nile, his sprite of 
 the forest of dreams. Was it not this very impulse, 
 obscure at the moment and unrecognized, that had 
 caused him to accede to her challenge that afternoon ? 
 
 Something more, certainly, than a jealousy for his 
 honour, a mere desire to be vindicated in her eyes, had 
 prompted the impassioned promise. — Ah, to be once 
 more where she was, to surrender to the subtle, 
 capricious magic of her voice, to have the storm 
 within him lulled by her tenderness, and to drink yet 
 once again at the fountain of forgetf ulness ! . . . 
 
 He became aware of an echo in his brain that would 
 not be silenced : words that had awakened, and that 
 reverberated harshly, imperiously upon the barriers 
 of consciousness. The hill-dweller had pitched his 
 tents under the very walls of the city; and he would 
 not be driven back. 
 
 So the host of the stern God of Sinai encamped 
 before Jericho; and so they made the circuit of the 
 
 249. 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 doomed ramparts, blowing the trumpets of ram's 
 horn, marching resolutely, undauntedly, resistlessly 
 upon the fateful journey of conquest, high-ordained. 
 Within the gates of the city of pleasure were defiant 
 laughter, sullen disbelief, and, deep in the heart, fear. 
 And the city was circuited seven times, — seven days. 
 
 ^^ Whatever may be right or wrong for another, I 
 know that for me this has been wrong from the first 
 day." ... 
 
 Something stem and lofty in the man's soul was 
 thrilled by the echoing declaration, — a declaration 
 to which he had committed himself, and which he 
 knew to hold the truth as he had seen it at a moment 
 of clearest, most dispassionate vision. His vision was 
 not dispassionate now. He had only the explicit 
 declaration, and his knowledge of what it stood for, 
 to hold him. His nimble reason had been brought 
 once to bay, and this is what it had given utterance to. 
 It was his option now to crucify his honesty of soul, or 
 to subjugate the enemy. 
 
 He felt the sinews of his mind grow tough as iron. 
 Here was a conquest that called for strength and man- 
 hood and an austere, unflinching nobility of resolu- 
 tion. There ran in his veins the blood of those who 
 had crossed storm-vexed seas for a moral ideal, and 
 had praised God that he accorded them a place to set 
 up their rest amongst the ice-clad hills of a desert 
 land. For an ideal, once it had irrevocably called him, 
 
 250 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 he could be cruel; he could tear his own flesh from 
 his bones; he could strangle every desire for easeful 
 softness, pleasure, and forgetfulness. 
 
 Philip took no supper that evening. When the stars 
 came out he was still walking. 
 
 Shortly before nine o'clock he found himself stand- 
 ing on the threshold of Katrinka's apartment. She 
 did not rise to greet him, but continued to sit in silence 
 in the deep chair by the fire, with her eyes fixed 
 upon him. 
 
 She was garbed in a sheeny gown of dull yellow 
 that clung audaciously to her supple figure and fell in 
 luxuriant drapery folds over the base of the chair. 
 The expression in her face was veiled ; but he had never 
 felt so powerfully the indicible spell of it. Such a face 
 might have peered for an instant into the eyes of some 
 ruthless woodsman in the forest, as he felled the secu- 
 lar oak — an instant only, with a faint shriek of pain 
 and fright, from among the debris of leaves and 
 branches, but to haunt him for the rest of his life. 
 
 A crushing misery that was closely akin to shame 
 and remorse came upon him. For a time — it seemed 
 minutes — he could not speak. He had an almost ir- 
 resistible impulse to fling himself at her feet, burying 
 his face in the folds of her gown and imploring 
 her forgiveness. Yet he remained standing, motion- 
 less, on the threshold. At last words came to his 
 lips. 
 
 251 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 '^Do you want me to explain that thing to you?" 
 he asked. 
 
 Slowly, very slightly, she shook her head, while 
 her tired, frightened eyes clung to his, as might the 
 eyes of a doomed prisoner to the last gleams of sun- 
 light. 
 
 *^No," she answered, in a strangely quiet voice. 
 */I know you have never lied to me. — What does it 
 matter about that?" 
 
 *'Then what did you want me to come here for?" 
 he demanded, dully, struggling to master the anguish 
 in his throat. 
 
 She opened her eyes wide with a dimmed wonder. 
 
 *'Why? — Because I love you, my Lippo. Is not 
 that reason enough ?'' 
 
 The man drew his hand vaguely across his brow, as 
 if to dispel the quivering mirage that dazzled and 
 beckoned. 
 
 '^But you knew I could not stay," he responded, 
 hoarsely. '^It only makes good-by the more cruel, the 
 longer it is put ojff . I see the way I must go, and it is 
 too late to draw back now." 
 
 He started abruptly for the hallway, holding the 
 wall with one hand. But a low, pleading cry arrested 
 him. 
 
 "Philip — Come back." 
 
 He turned, automatically. 
 
 **Sit down. — I want to speak to you." 
 252^ 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 He obeyed with the uncanny docility of one in an 
 hypnotic trance. 
 
 ^^I know we must say good-by to each other, — 
 dear. I know I cannot make you happy, no matter 
 how hard I try. There is something in you that can- 
 not be satisfied except in some more noble way than 
 mine. But I do not want you to think I have not 
 any heart. If you suffer, Lippo, I am suffering, too. 
 It is not very pleasant to feel that the one man in 
 the world you love has cast you away. I do not want 
 you to think that I am small and mean ; and that 
 I try to keep you against your will. Look, dear, — I 
 send you away. Our lives are different. You have not 
 truly belonged to me even for a day. I have known 
 it; but I did not want to confess it. You have be- 
 longed to the other one — the one I took you away 
 from. Go back to her, Philip. It is she can make 
 you happy." 
 
 "I cannot go back to her," groaned the man, star- 
 ing blindly into the fire. ^^She has sent me away, too. 
 I am not worthy of her." 
 
 "Then there is no one?" she asked, with a quick 
 lift of one hand to her bosom. 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 "And you go away to be all alone?" 
 
 He nodded mechanically. 
 
 The next instant she was on his knees, her white 
 arms flung endearingly about his neck. 
 
 253 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Lippo, — my Lippo, — why will you not stay 
 with me then just a little longer?" 
 
 Her warm fragrance enveloped him. Her soft 
 hands were in his hair. 
 
 "Listen. Next week — only eight days — I go 
 away from here, perhaps for always and always. I 
 just have a letter from Frederic that he wants me to 
 meet him at Monte Carlo in April. Come, my dear, 
 say we will still have a few happy times together, 
 he?'' 
 
 He buried his face, sobbing, on her shoulder, while 
 his senses almost swooned with yearning. She patted 
 his shoulder fondly. 
 
 "That would not do much harm to your poor little 
 conscience, he — not so very, very much. You could 
 do that for your little Trinka who adores you?" 
 
 He held her close in his arms with a pressure that 
 meant surrender; but something in him had not yet 
 surrendered. Something in him was sternly, tyran- 
 nically crying out to his reeling spirit. Remembered 
 words of fiery import seared his consciousness and 
 dissipated its delirium. The hill-dweller was arising 
 in the might of those who thanked God for an icy 
 desert, if so be that truth might prevail ; and he bade 
 the man be cruel, that he might be true. 
 
 Blindly Philip released himself and sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 I can't. I can't," he cried. "I said it must be 
 254 
 
 a 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 good-by now. It must be good-by now. This is the 
 end." 
 
 The woman sank upon the lounge, as if dealt a 
 numbing blow, shielding her white face with her 
 hands, making no sound. 
 
 And in the stricken silence that followed, Philip 
 made his way, steadily and without quailing, into the 
 hall, put on his coat and hat, opened the door of 
 the apartment, and went out. The hill-man, with 
 the sinews of iron, had won again. Was it the final 
 victory ? 
 
XXIII 
 
 For five nights and five days Philip's soul walked 
 alone through a dark valley of desolation. He had 
 won a victory ; he had put to the test the stern mettle 
 of his inheritance, and it had not been found wanting ; 
 he had had the courage to do the thing he knew he 
 ought to do. 
 
 But how empty, how barren it all was in its frui- 
 tion! Starvation ravened at the very centre of his 
 being. The famine-stricken heart found no suste- 
 nance in the consciousness that the behests of duty 
 had been obeyed. The memory of his last sight of 
 Katrinka, sunken to the couch as if mortally hurt, her 
 white hands raised defensively to shield her face from 
 the next blow, — Katrinka who loved him, and who 
 had tried to make him happy, — this memory and a 
 thousand others haunted him. 
 
 He worked ferociously both at the office and at 
 home. Work was like a drug. It brought a momen- 
 tary alleviation of his wretchedness; it enabled him 
 for a little time to forget. 
 
 His heart seized upon what humble forage it could 
 find along the highways and hedges. At noon he 
 lingered wistfully about the north side of the Post- 
 Office, where the great mail-wagons were standing 
 
 256 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 in a long row; and he surreptitiously made over- 
 tures of affection to the horses, bribing them with 
 quarters of apple and lumps of sugar. Their dumb, 
 wise-eyed responsiveness was not without its balm 
 for his spirit. Much to her disgust, Victorine found 
 herself again compelled to open a cat and dog ward 
 in the basement extension, but her thrifty soul could 
 not resist the weekly lure of an extra dollar and a 
 half. 
 
 Philip encountered Irene Muller only once. He 
 had hoped to avoid her entirely. He felt as if he could 
 never endure to hear Queenie's name again. Every 
 morning he left the house early, and he did not return 
 until after dinner. But Irene lay in wait for him. She 
 had something to tell him, which she believed would 
 make him happy. She arrived at eight o'clock one 
 morning and camped out beside the mail-box until 
 her friend descended. 
 
 "I was just bound I would n't miss you again,'' she 
 declared, loyally. "You're gettin' away terrible early 
 these days, ain't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Philip, "early for me. I'm crowding 
 on the work just now." 
 
 "You look awful tired," she ventured, with sisterly 
 concern. "I do hope you ain't overdoing." 
 
 "Oh, it's good for me," he replied, offhandedly. 
 
 He made a movement to open the door. She gave 
 him a half-reproachful look. 
 
 257 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "I wasn't goin' to keep you but a minute/' she 
 said. "But p'raps you ain't got the time." 
 
 He drew back his hand from the knob. 
 
 "Of course I have. Is it something about your 
 sister?" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 Her voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "Oh, 
 do you know, Mr. Wetherell, I believe we've saved 
 our little Queenie." 
 
 Her auditor had only a sinking sensation at the 
 eager words ; but he smiled with a semblance of grati- 
 fication. 
 
 "Indeed, I hope it may be true," he replied. 
 
 "I'm sure it's true. She told me you were just like 
 a brother to her. She said you done her such a lot of 
 good. Oh, Mr. Wetherell, I don't know how I'm ever 
 goin' to thank you." 
 
 Her eyes were swimming, and she made haste to 
 mop them violently. 
 
 "I'm an awful cry-baby," she explained candidly, 
 "when my emotions get played on." 
 
 Philip blushed deeply. "I don't flatter myself that 
 I deserve your gratitude," he remarked. "But if any- 
 thing I said really counted, I'm sure I'm very glad." 
 
 Irene was the picture of radiant confidence. She 
 asked Philip to take supper with them that evening. 
 
 "I just want you to see for yourself how she's 
 changed already," she urged. 
 
 258 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Philip declined her invitation on the plea of his 
 work ; but he promised to come to Smilax Street the 
 subsequent week. He told himself that he would be in 
 a better mood for it by that time. Just now even 
 Irene's sturdy friendship was like apples of Sodom to 
 his hunger. 
 
 "We want you to feel," she said, in conclusion, with 
 a luminous, dramatic smile, "that our home is always 
 open to you." 
 
 But if circumstances for which she was not respon- 
 sible had for the moment cast a blight upon his rela- 
 tion with Irene, there was one personal relation that 
 had quite escaped that fate. The new intimacy that 
 had sprung into being between himself and John 
 Barry was entirely outside their influence, and daily 
 grew more precious to him. The barrier which this 
 haughty recluse had so jealously guarded had been 
 demolished now by his own hands, and he opened 
 his heart to the lad with an undisguised affection 
 which was the more appealing because of its diffidence 
 and awkwardness in self-expression. One could 
 almost believe that this was the first time a sentiment 
 of human tenderness had blossomed in the bitter 
 soil of his heart, he seemed so at a loss what -to make 
 of it. 
 
 The quick lighting up of his furrowed countenance 
 whenever Philip entered the room, the solicitous in- 
 terest with which he inquired after the success of the 
 
 259 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 day's labours, the unaffected pleasure he evinced in 
 reporting any slight, amusing incident of his own 
 day, — all so sharply contrasted with his earlier 
 aloofness and reticence, — deeply touched the boy's 
 sympathies. The man seemed to be surprised him- 
 self at his change of attitude, and at times, in the 
 midst of some personal reminiscence, as they sat, late 
 in the evening, before the glowing Franklin stove in 
 Philip's room, he would abruptly check himself, and 
 gaze for a time in meditative silence into the fire. 
 
 ^*I can't imagine," he said one evening after such a 
 pause, "why I like to tell you all these things. I never 
 talked so to any one else." 
 
 He laughed awkwardly, and spat into the fire. 
 Philip took several puffs at his pipe before he found an 
 explanation to offer. 
 
 "It's partly that your other friends have had more 
 intellectual interests in common with you," he sug- 
 gested. "You can't talk shop with me." 
 
 "My other friends!" echoed Barry, with a mirth- 
 less laugh. "I never had any. I've never desired 
 friendship. I've never known what it was. That's 
 what makes it so surprising that it should have come 
 to me, unasked." 
 
 Though he never offered the younger man a con- 
 nected narrative of his life, he no longer entertained 
 the least secretiveness in regard to it. He seemed anx- 
 ious to be understood. He seemed to covet Philip's 
 
 260 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 respect, to want to prove to him, if he might, that he 
 was not entirely unworthy of the friendship so freely 
 offered. Bit by bit Philip came into possession of the 
 harsh outlines of his history ; and, in measure as he 
 did so, he ceased to wonder at the cynicism of the 
 man. 
 
 Before her love-child was five years old, his mother, 
 an ignorant country girl of the Potomac highlands, 
 had found a husband, and followed him up the Shen- 
 andoah Valley, leaving the child in the possession of 
 a shrewd, heartless grandmother. 
 
 ^^If among all my precious fellow-beings I have 
 despised one more than the rest," said Barry, bit- 
 terly, "it is the man who was responsible for my exist- 
 ence, — some sneaking, Psalm-singing captain in the 
 Army of the Potomac, whom granny nursed in her 
 own cottage. It does n't matter to me whether the 
 old woman had some diabolical scheme of her own 
 or not: she was capable of it; it's certain she black- 
 mailed him for twelve years, perhaps longer. I ran 
 away at the age of twelve, and never saw her again, 
 nor my mother ; and from neither of them had I ever 
 learned my father's name. I don't know whether 
 he's alive or dead; but I've cursed him all my life 
 for a sneak and a coward. If his eternal happi- 
 ness hung on a word of mine, I would n't speak the 
 word." 
 
 Something Philip learned of the terrible struggle 
 261 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the proud, friendless lad had made, finding his way 
 barefooted to Baltimore, penniless, ignorant of the 
 world, with nothing to support him in the fight except 
 an indomitable resolution to win out. 
 
 "At eighteen,'^ he said, "late one night in the little 
 room behind the drug-store, where I was boning away 
 by myself for some college examinations, I came upon 
 that first soUloquy of Gloucester's bastard son in 
 " King Lear." Do you remember it? 
 
 " Thou, Nature, art my goddess. To thy law 
 My services are bound. Wherefore should I 
 Stand in the plague of custom ? — " 
 
 He recited a dozen lines of the famous speech with 
 impressive fervour. 
 
 "For me," he observed, "that was a declaration of 
 faith. It was a truth I had always felt, always believed, 
 always known, indeed, — that, bastard though I might 
 be, I was not of baser, but of nobler composition than 
 the rabble. I had the unconquerable conviction in 
 me that I could achieve something, arrive somewhere, 
 be some one. Already I had cHmbed from starving 
 errand-boy to apothecary's clerk; I had educated 
 myself until I was nearly ready for college, — late at 
 night, often after one o'clock I was studying ; and long 
 before daylight, winter mornings, after I had swept 
 out the shop and built the fire, I would plunge into 
 my books again. I went without shoes to get books, 
 
 262 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 especially Darwin and Tyndall and the other natu- 
 ralists of the revolutionary epoch. Huxley was my 
 idol ; it was he that determined me, at whatever cost, 
 to force my way into the domain of science, — the 
 domain of my natal goddess." 
 
 Some glimpses Philip had into the turbulent, auda- 
 cious years that followed: the brief enrolment as 
 scholarship student at a sectarian college, where his 
 radical views, arrogantly asserted, came promptly 
 into fatal clash with the rigid conservatism of the 
 teaching; then years of undaunted self-preparation 
 for the university, while from morning till evening he 
 slaved over druggist's prescriptions and account- 
 books to lay by a scanty hoard ; the proud day when 
 he saw himself listed as a candidate for an advanced 
 degree at a prominent institution of learning; the 
 brilliant promise of his scholarly career, and then — 
 in the midst of it — the falling of a new, blasting 
 shadow across his life, a shadow that had come upon 
 him insidiously, almost unawares, until its blackness 
 enveloped him. 
 
 ^'I had the curse — the inherited predisposition in 
 me. And I was overworking. The thing was always 
 waiting there to give me rest, to make me forget 
 fatigue and discouragement, a good familiar creature, 
 as lago terms it. It never seemed to be my own hand 
 that reached out and took it; it was some shadowy 
 hand out of the undying past. I say that not to excuse 
 
 263 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 myself, but in the attempt to account for the fact that 
 it seemed to be the one point where my volition was 
 of no avail.'' 
 
 And the curse had wrought disgrace at the very 
 moment when a success more conspicuous than any 
 that preceded seemed to be within his grasp : a pro- 
 motion to full professorship in the large western uni- 
 versity where he held an appointment. 
 
 "Only three persons in the world," said Barry, 
 "know what has become of that man." 
 
 Philip looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 "Three men," repeated Barry; "my lawyer, the 
 dean of the faculty of science, and you." 
 
 "How long ago was that?" 
 
 His companion made a brief mental calculation. 
 "Two years, eight months, thirteen days," he an- 
 nounced, grimly. "Having concluded that the game 
 was up, I dressed myself Hke a hobo, got away at 
 night before the trustees had time to take any action, 
 beat my way to Seattle, and shipped on a lumber 
 schooner, under a new name, for Sitka. I roughed it 
 down there for a year and seven months. I thought 
 I'd abandoned the other thing — the intellectual 
 thing — forever ; but it would n't release me. 
 
 "Finally I saw that I must get back into it or die 
 in the effort. I had to come back. I chose New York 
 because of the libraries and museums, and also be- 
 cause nobody knew me here, though for that matter 
 
 264 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Alaska had put a beard on my face and pretty much 
 changed my complexion." 
 
 *'How long have you been here?'' asked Philip. 
 
 *^Ten months. I earn twenty-two fifty per week at 
 a wholesale drug-house, and outside I'm working up 
 a bit of embryological research I was engaged on 
 when the smash-up came. I 've gone under only twice. 
 I have n't taken a drop for eight months. I 'm hold- 
 ing my own. I may win yet." 
 
 *^Win!" said Philip, admiringly. "You'll win all 
 right!" 
 
 "It's not hard to be confident," observed Barry, 
 critically, "when you don't fully know the nature of 
 the difficulties. On a night like this assurance and 
 hopefulness come readily. But who can say when the 
 next madness may descend upon him ? I ' ve been in a 
 restless, ticklish condition of mind all this week. It 
 disturbs me a little. The end has n't come yet — I 
 know that much." 
 
 Philip had an impulse to say something; but he 
 did not. Barry perceived the promise of loyalty in his 
 face, and no words were needed. 
 
 It was a source of genuine comfort to the boy to 
 know that in at least one human relation he held a 
 positive and useful standing. It came to him also that 
 there was a strange fellowship in the struggles they 
 were making. What was the snare from which he was 
 forcing himself to break free but a species of intoxica- 
 
 265 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 tion, a cup that beaded to the brim with exhilaration 
 and rapture, but that held in its dregs shame. He did 
 not tell Barry of the conflict that was racking his 
 own soul, for he was reluctant to add to the older 
 man's burden of bitterness; but he derived a secret 
 inspiration and reinforcement from the thought that 
 they were standing together for an ideal of self- 
 mastery. 
 
 Yet how slowly, how heavily and thanklessly, the 
 week crawled by. Every night the thought over- 
 whelmed him that another day had been subtracted 
 from the fateful sum. It was an unspeakable relief 
 to know that the end was near. It was also anguish 
 of heart. 
 
 The thought never left him that still, still there 
 would be time to return to Katrinka. She would have 
 a welcome for him even to the final hour. She would 
 forget his cruelty. She would sing again the old, 
 oblivious Siren-song that his senses were famished 
 to hear. A dozen times he was on the point of writing 
 to her. He seemed to know that, before the week was 
 out, he was going to write to her. A deep, unac- 
 knowledged intimation came to him that his strength 
 was not going to hold out much longer. The strug- 
 gle was too ruthlessly exhausting; the yielding too 
 easy, too excusable, so to speak, to be forever resisted. 
 But the shackled, heavy-footed days crawled by; and 
 still he had not yielded. 
 
 266 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Friday evening, as he mounted the second flight of 
 stairs, his nostrils detected a remembered aroma. His 
 neighbour was making cofifee. A quick, anxious sus- 
 picion hurried his steps. He threw down the port- 
 folio he was carrying, upon his table, in the dark, 
 and entered the front apartment. 
 
 Barry was lying on the bed, fully dressed. But for 
 his eyes, which were wide open and glowed with 
 feverish brightness, he looked like a dead man, with 
 colourless, sunken features, and a posture of unnatural 
 rigidity. At the sight of the boy he half rose, putting 
 a hand roughly, vaguely, to his brow. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "you've come." 
 
 Philip threw off his coat, and sat down on the edge 
 of the table. 
 
 "Sure," he said. "And I'm going to stay awhile, 
 if you'll let me." 
 
 The older man stared at him, without smiling. 
 "I'd made up my mind," he muttered, hoarsely, 
 "to wait until eight o'clock; and if you hadn't 
 come by then, I 'd have gone. I had only ten more 
 minutes to wait. I hoped you would n't come till 
 afterwards." 
 
 "But I did come," said Philip. "So now you can't 
 get rid of me." 
 
 He saw the muscles of the man's ashen face working 
 spasmodically, as he braced himself for the new 
 battle. 
 
 267 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "That's good of you," said Barry, resolutely. 
 "Perhaps I shall pull out of it yet." 
 
 "Why don't we go to the theatre?" suggested the 
 boy. — "Some noisy, trashy thing, with cheap music 
 and a lot of horse-laughs. Don't you think that would 
 be sort of fun?" 
 
 "Let's try it," said Barry, rising to his feet and 
 shaking himself. "I don't care much what we do, so 
 long as we do something. I think I'd like to see a 
 show." 
 
 They went to a music hall on Eighth Avenue. 
 They sat in the dirty second balcony and smoked, 
 and Philip plunged into a hot argument, between the 
 acts, with a couple of newsboys over the respective 
 merits of the various performers. Barry appeared to 
 be amused, though he maintained an almost unbroken 
 silence ; and his companion was hopeful. 
 
 Shortly after eleven they were on the street again. 
 They walked for an hour before returning home. The 
 evening was behind them. Yet Philip knew that 
 Barry was still in the midst of his ordeal. He con- 
 tinually felt his arm shaking vnth a nervous chill. 
 Once he had perceived his teeth chattering, though 
 the air was mild. When they reached the head of the 
 stairs, Philip suspected a reluctance on the man's 
 part to be left alone. 
 
 "Wait," he said. "Why don't I tow my cot into 
 your room? I'd sleep just as well there." 
 
 268 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Oh — are you sure?'' asked Barry, intently. 
 
 They took up the narrow couch and carried it in, 
 setting it down alongside the other. Then they went 
 to bed. Philip pretended to go to sleep; but he did 
 not, in reality, for a moment. He heard Barry's rest- 
 less breathing ; he heard him turn and toss ; more than 
 once he heard him muttering incoherent things to 
 himself. Perhaps two hours passed. Then the man 
 had a protracted chill. The trembling of the bed was 
 communicated. Philip even heard the chattering of 
 his teeth. He lay there, for a time, motionless, in 
 aching sympathy; but at last he could endure it no 
 longer. He slipped without a word into the next bed, 
 and took the suffering man in his arms, warming him 
 with his own body. 
 
 "Poor old chap!" he muttered. "It's pretty 
 damned rough." 
 
 After a while Barry grew quiet again, and fell off 
 into a restless slumber. Philip returned to his cot; 
 and when morning came, no mention was made by 
 either of them of the circumstance. 
 
 Barry looked sick, and utterly discouraged. 
 
 "You'd better let me go," he said. "It's no use 
 trying to stave it off any longer. The game's not 
 worth the candle." 
 
 "That's not proved yet," said Philip. "I 'm not 
 going down to the oflSce this morning. What do you 
 want to do?" 
 
 269 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "I don't know anything to do," answered the 
 other, dully. 
 
 "Why not run up to the Bronx," proposed Philip, 
 "and hang around the Zoo? I've never seen it." 
 
 Barry's face lightened. "First-rate," he said. 
 "They have some good things there. The bird-house 
 is superb. I have n't visited it but once." 
 
 The morning went by more tharw satisfactorily. 
 Barry seemed to become more and more himself. 
 He talked volubly, offering a thousand curious and 
 interesting comments. He was in his element. He 
 discussed the relative cranial development of the 
 various anthropoids, and pointed out the homologies. 
 As they wandered through the reptile-house he was 
 insensibly led into a fascinating disquisition on pro- 
 tective coloration. Later he developed the various 
 theories of sexual selection in birds, and while they 
 were taking lunch at an obscure dairy restaurant at 
 West Farms, fell into a long, earnest exposition of the 
 problems of migration. 
 
 Then, of a sudden, almost between sentences, the 
 shadow fell again upon him. The light died in his 
 eyes, and a savage, wolf-like craving peered wildly 
 out. 
 
 "I believe I'm mad," he muttered, through lips 
 that were white. "I could kill you for hanging on to 
 me Hke this." 
 
 Philip shuddered in spite of himself at the man's 
 270 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 look of desperation. He doubted whether he pos- 
 sessed the power, after all, to hold that ruthless appe- 
 tite in check much longer. 
 
 *^What do you propose to do now?" demanded 
 Barry, harshly. 
 
 "Go home and play chess," said his companion. 
 
 "I can't play chess," retorted the other, defi- 
 antly. 
 
 "That's nonsense," rejoined Philip. "Of course 
 you can. You can put your mind on it, if you '11 only 
 make the effort; and it'll give you something to think 
 about." 
 
 "I'm not going," said Barry. "Go along yourself. 
 You've been very kind to me, and I'm deeply obliged. 
 I'll get on all right now without you." 
 
 "Don't be a fool!" cried Philip, roughly. "Are 
 you going to come with me, or not?" 
 
 A hunted look came into the other's eyes. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I 'm going with you," he answered, resent- 
 fully submissive. 
 
 They reached Mullin Street about three o'clock. 
 There was a letter waiting for Philip on the hall stand. 
 A wave of dizzy emotion surged over him at the dis- 
 covery of it. 
 
 "Get the things ready," he said to Barry, as they 
 reached the top floor. "I'll be with you in a minute 
 or two." 
 
 He dashed into his room, shut the door, and tore 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 open the envelope. There was a shimmering, colourful 
 mist before his eyes. He leaned against the door, 
 holding the sheet of paper in both hands, for steadi- 
 ness, while he read what Katrinka had written. It 
 was a short note, very simple, altogether like her in 
 its expression. 
 
 "My own dear Lippo," it began. "I know you will 
 not be so cruel as to let those last words of yours be 
 our good-by. I want something happy to remember 
 for the end. I cannot tell you, dear, how I have suf- 
 fered all this long week. Oh, how can you be so hard, 
 my own dear boy, to your poor little Katrinka, who 
 cannot live without another sight of your dear face. 
 I am going to tell myself that you will come sure, 
 sure, Saturday night. Oh, my Lippo, you must not 
 stay away this once." 
 
 Delirious longing took possession of him. No, it 
 was true, he could not stay away. He must go to 
 her ; he must go to her, this once — this once more. 
 He crushed the perfumed missive to his lips. He was 
 sick for her caresses. He was going to her. 
 
 His ear caught the sound of a creaking board in the 
 stairway. Dread leaped into his mind. He flung 
 open the door. Barry was half-way down the stairs, 
 in hat and coat. 
 
 "Look here!" cried Philip, harshly. "Where are 
 you going?" 
 
 The man gave him a look of hate. 
 272 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "None of your business,'^ he retorted. "I go 
 where I please." 
 
 Philip darted to the head of the stairs. 
 
 "Come back, you coward," he commanded. 
 "Are n't you man enough but you must sneak away 
 while I'm not looking?" 
 
 Barry returned a defiant gaze into the flashing eyes ; 
 but the next instant the defiance disappeared, and a 
 look of cowed, sullen submission took its place. 
 Silently he remounted the stairs and entered his 
 room. Philip followed him. It was a quarter past 
 three. 
 
 They sat down at the chess-board. They played 
 without a stop until half-past six. Philip had never 
 fought so hard in his life as during those hours. He 
 was fighting for a man's soul. He knew that a min- 
 ute's relaxation would mean defeat. 
 
 At half-past six he proposed that they forage for a 
 bite of supper. 
 
 "I have a few eatables in my room," he said, "and 
 you can make some coffee." 
 
 He went to the speaking-tube in the hall, and asked 
 Victorine if she could spare them a bowl of soup and 
 some dishes. 
 
 They laid out the meal in Philip's room, and lin- 
 gered over it until eight o'clock. 
 
 "And now," said the boy, "how about that rub- 
 ber?" 
 
 273 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 He felt as if the words were choking him. Every 
 desire of his being cried out in wild protest against 
 the thing he was so calmly proposing. What it was 
 that made him utter the words he could not have ex- 
 plained. It was as if another personality, relentlessly 
 determined, implacable, had hypnotized his will. He 
 obeyed, fighting every inch. 
 
 Barry consented, dully, and they returned to the 
 chess-board. Philip knew now how Barry must have 
 felt when he said that he could kill him. He hated the 
 man for chaining him thus to an ungrateful, torturing 
 pastime, when love and pleasure and beauty were 
 waiting for him in a room of flowery fragrance and 
 magic light. 
 
 He heard the clock downstairs strike eight-thirty, 
 nine, nine-thirty, ten, ten-thirty, eleven. With lips 
 tight shut and beads of sweat on his forehead, he 
 continued playing, while every now and then black 
 shadows obscured the board from his view. And for 
 another hour two human souls agonized in that upper 
 chamber, wrestling grimly, death-grappled, each with 
 his demon of desire. 
 
 The little clock below tinkled out midnight, just as 
 the fourth game was completed. Philip put his hand 
 suddenly to his forehead, sprang to his feet, reeled, 
 and fainted. 
 
 In an instant Barry was bending over him, on the 
 floor. He loosened the boy's collar, lifted him ten- 
 
 274 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 derly to the cot, applied a wet towel to his forehead, 
 and chafed his hands. It came to him with dismaying, 
 humbling force that he had not suffered alone. Till 
 that moment he had given no thought to his compan- 
 ion's state of mind. He had not noticed the killing 
 tension under which he had been labouring. His own 
 conflict had utterly absorbed him. He had even 
 cherished a weak, peevish hatred against him for his 
 interference, only conscious, at the instant, that he 
 was being kept back from the thing he was famished 
 to have. 
 
 But with this startling flash of perception, some life- 
 long, rigid bar in his heart snapped in two. He 
 buried his rough face in the boy's cold hands, and 
 sobbed. 
 
 Philip opened his eyes wonderingly, saw the man 
 kneeling beside him, and felt the hot tears on his 
 fingers. 
 
 "Why,*' he said, in a vague, uncertain voice, "I 
 did n't know I was such a fool as all this." 
 
 Barry looked very far away to him, although he 
 knew that he was by the bed, holding his hand. 
 Everything danced oddly. 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh. "Did we beat 'em, old 
 man?" he asked. 
 
 Barry was patting his hand, awkwardly. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, in a choked, unnatural voice, 
 "we did." 
 
 27s 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Philip blinked, and shut his eyes again. "Gee, 
 but I feel damned funny!" he said, faintly. 
 
 "I'm going to put you to bed right away," as- 
 serted Barry. "You have gone through more than 
 your share to-day." 
 
 Philip's eyes opened in vague surprise. "Why, 
 how did you know about that?" he inquired. 
 
 "Well, I should think I'd know, if anybody," 
 declared Barry, with a smile. 
 
 "I never knew I'd told you anything about her," 
 said Philip. "I didn't think anybody but myself 
 knew about Katrinka." 
 
 It was Barry's turn to be puzzled. "Katrinka? 
 No, I did n't know about that. I only knew about 
 the other thing — the way you stood by me. Who 's 
 Katrinka?" 
 
 A great desire, which he suspected to be rather 
 childish, came to Philip to confide in his friend. It 
 seemed to him as if it would make things a great deal 
 easier, somehow, now that it was all over. But a 
 certain hesitation — a doubt, possibly, as to the deli- 
 cacy of such a confession — still withheld him. 
 
 Barry must have noticed some sign of the repressed 
 impulse, for as he unlaced the boy's shoes, he said, — 
 
 "It's hardly fair, do you think, for me to blab out 
 everything about myself to you, and for you to be so 
 damned close with your own affairs?" 
 
 Philip resisted the inclination no longer. Half an 
 276 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 hour after he was in bed, covered up warmly, and 
 dosed with hot lemonade by Barry's insistent hands, 
 he was still deep in the story. A peace which he had 
 not known for months had descended upon him as he 
 proceeded, a gentle, pleasant lassitude, a deep, quiet 
 satisfaction that things had turned out as they had. 
 
 Barry sat by the table, smoking, with his feet on 
 the chair opposite, and interrupting every now and 
 then with a question or a grunt or a comment. He 
 found it difficult to believe the story he was listening 
 to. He had not once suspected the fiery conflict that 
 had been engrossing the boy's strength and courage 
 for so long. It seemed very wonderful to him that one 
 could suffer like that, and yet remain so gentle in 
 spirit, so stanch and devoted a believer in the valiant 
 ideals of our humanity. 
 
 When the recital was over, he went to bed himself. 
 The room was perfectly dark except for a tremulous 
 white patch that the street lamp below threw on the 
 ceiling. 
 
 "It was out of friendship for a nameless drunk- 
 ard," said Barry, 'Hhat you forced yourself to forego 
 the other thing." 
 
 "I'm glad I stayed home," said Philip, with quiet, 
 deep conviction. "I'm glad you gave me the chance. 
 It was my chance to win out." 
 
 He felt very tired. It seemed to him that sleep 
 would come soon and be pleasant. 
 
 277 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "I have always believed," said Barry, solemnly, 
 *Hhat the more closely you became acquainted with 
 your fellow -men, the less you respected them. I've 
 always seen a mask, and under the mask, ugliness and 
 greed. I never suspected that one day I should come 
 to reverence a human being. To-night you have 
 brought me to that." 
 
 A bo)dsh sigh of comfort and fatigue was the only 
 answer. The next instant Philip was asleep. 
 
XXIV 
 
 After a quiet Sunday of rest, reading, and good 
 talk, Philip went back to work again with restored 
 body and mind. He even found himself looking for- 
 ward with a certain pleasurable curiosity to his pro- 
 mised supper on Smilax Street. But an event of far 
 more dramatic significance than a mere supper en 
 famille was billed for special performance that week. 
 
 To Irene, Queenie, and himself. Fate committed 
 the leading roles, and they were played with admir- 
 able dash, energy, and emotional expression. The 
 story is as follows : — 
 
 Philip was studying Tuesday evening in his room, 
 when the whistle of the speaking-tube summoned 
 him into the hall. 
 
 "Hello," he answered. 
 
 Victorine's voice came faintly but clearly to him 
 from regions below. 
 
 "Is it Monsieur Philippe?" 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle." 
 
 " There is a young person in the front hall who want 
 much to talk with monsieur." 
 
 "A young person?" 
 
 "Mees Muller, of the Institute, monsieur." 
 
 "I'll be right down." 
 
 279 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 He flung off his lounging-robe, donned a coat, and 
 precipitately descended the stairs, wondering what in 
 the world could bring Irene at this hour. She was 
 standing under the gas-jet near the door, her small 
 face turned upward, pinched and drawn. 
 
 *^0h, Mr. Wetherell!" she ejaculated, tragically, 
 before he had reached the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "Has something happened?" he demanded, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 She wrung her hands and brought out the one 
 poignant word, — 
 
 ''Queenie!" 
 
 She appeared unable to say anything more for the 
 time being, but stood there staring up into his face 
 with an expression of supplication. Finally she seized 
 his hand, and pressed it mutely between both of hers. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, with quick sympathy. "Has 
 something happened to her?" 
 
 She squeezed his hand still harder. 
 
 " Oh, — Mr. Wetherell ! " she gasped. — " Oh ! " 
 
 Despite the vagueness of his information, it was 
 clear enough to him that some catastrophe had come 
 to pass. His imagination was quick to supply shape 
 and substance to it. 
 
 "Is it the thing you were afraid of?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded, blindly. "Death would be prefer- 
 able!" she declared. 
 
 Her words had the unintentional effect of allaying 
 280 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 his worst fears. If Irene could so well remember her 
 footlights, Queenie could not yet be utterly beyond 
 the reach of salvation. He subtly contrived to release 
 his captured hand, and seated himself on the bottom 
 stair. 
 
 ^' You'd better sit down," he suggested, indicating 
 the solitary chair against the wall. 
 
 She took it obediently, pressing one hand to her 
 bosom. 
 
 '* Oh, I Ve flown every step of the way," she panted. 
 "Heaven grant I may be in time!" 
 
 *^Give me your news," directed Philip, with some 
 peremptoriness. 
 
 Irene turned wild eyes upon him. Her broad little 
 nose was puckered with emotion. 
 
 *^Run away!" she announced, with an accent of 
 high tragedy. — "Our little Queenie!" 
 
 She buried her face in her handkerchief and sobbed, 
 unrestrainedly, in a very ecstasy of woe. For a season 
 Philip, recognizing the futility of remonstrance, held 
 his peace. But when two minutes or so had thus 
 elapsed, and still no sign appeared of a shutting of 
 the flood-gates, he ventured diffidently to interfere. 
 
 "We'll never get anywhere this way," he averred, 
 robustly. "You'd better stop crying and think about 
 business. How long ago did it happen?" 
 
 She withheld her sobs for an instant, and gazed at 
 him through swimming eyes. 
 
 281 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 '*It ain't hap-p-p-pened y-y-y-yet," she brought 
 out, chokingly. 
 
 *^Well, well," rejoined Philip, in as comforting 
 accents as he could command. ^^Then there must be 
 a chance of preventing it." 
 
 Irene gave a desolate shake to her small head. 
 
 "I v^ish to Heaven I had your hopeful disposition," 
 she said. " Seems like I always got to look on the dark 
 side of things." 
 
 ^Tome," said Philip, ^^f you'll tell me all about 
 it at once, we'll know better what's to be done." 
 
 "Oh, that's just what I come here for," agreed 
 Irene, mopping her red eyes, and making a rueful 
 effort to smile. '^I says to myself, 'I'll fly to Mr. 
 Wetherell. If any one can help me in time of trouble, 
 it's him.' But oh, — oh, — I was 'most sick for fear 
 you would n't have been to home. I don't know I'm 
 sure what I'd have done then." 
 
 The young man's ear caught the sound of a dis- 
 creetly turning door-knob on the floor above, where 
 the redoubtable Jenny moved and had her being ; and 
 it occurred to him that the front hall was not the pre- 
 eminently suitable place for so intimate a conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Look here," he broke in. "Why don't I run up- 
 stairs for my hat and overcoat? We'll take a little 
 walk, and you'll find it simpler to tell me about 
 things." 
 
 282 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Oh, that would be just lovely," she said, grate- 
 fully. "I think I'd feel a good sight more at my 
 ease." 
 
 He had got up to go ; but she detained him still an 
 instant, with an outstretched hand. 
 
 "Say, Mr. Wetherell," she asked, rather hesitat- 
 ingly, "would you mind tellin' me whether my face 
 has got all puffy from cryin' so?" 
 
 He accorded it a hasty critical scrutiny. "A little," 
 he admitted, honestly. "But not nearly so much as 
 the first time I saw you. Shall I bring down the tal- 
 cum powder?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm afraid it would be too much trouble," 
 she answered, with a look of longing. "You're 
 terrible kind to suggest it." 
 
 Philip denied that it would be too much trouble, 
 and a little later returned with the useful box. In five 
 minutes they were on the street. She seized his arm, 
 after her wont, and they turned eastward toward 
 Greenwich Avenue. The night was foggy and mild. 
 Without further parley Irene plunged into her tale. 
 
 "It's like this," she began, in a strained, rapid 
 voice. "I did n't get away from the Institute till ter- 
 rible late to-night, on account of havin' to do up a lot 
 of extra typewriting for that monster of a Tibbs ; and 
 when I got home, ma was there all alone, — which 
 was only what I'd expected, seein' it was 'most nine 
 o'clock. So I was out in the kitchen huntin' around 
 
 283 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 for something to eat, when ma pipes up from the other 
 room, and says, — 
 
 "'Little Queenie is n't coming home to us to-night 
 after the theatre,' she says. 
 
 "'No?' says I. 'And why's that?' 
 
 "'Why,' says ma, 'Gertie Beauchamp, her dear 
 friend, has invited little Sunbeam to spend the night 
 with her.' " 
 
 Irene's hand gave a quick squeeze to her escort's 
 wrist. 
 
 "Mr. Wetherell, do you know anything about that 
 Gertie Beauchamp?" she asked, raucously. 
 
 "Enough," said Philip, "to be sure it's a bad 
 sign." 
 
 " Oh ! — that's just what I said to myself," went on 
 the girl. "But though I was 'most crazy with anxiety, 
 I did n't let on to ma, for fear she 'd have one of her 
 hysterics, and I could n't get away. So all I done was 
 to dash on my hat and coat and come along. If 
 Queenie and Gertie Beauchamp are together some 
 place, you can be dead sure they ain't alone, and 
 oh, — " 
 
 She broke off with a little gasp ; and they proceeded 
 a few steps in silence. 
 
 "And oh, Mr. Wetherell, I'm just frightened and 
 worried to death. I'm sure Queenie 's been prevailed 
 on at last by some of their fiendish arguments. I'm 
 afraid she's not going to hold on any longer. I just 
 
 284 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 seem to know it in my bones; and if it's true, it will 
 kill me dead." 
 
 Her dread was only too fully shared by the man at 
 her side. 
 
 "Has she been around much with Gertie lately?'' 
 he asked. 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. Wetherell. She ain't talked 
 much about her. She 's been awfully sweet and nice to 
 home. Oh, I'm afraid it was all a blind. I was too 
 credulous. And yet it don't seem like she could be 
 capable of such a thing. It's just those miserable, 
 wicked men, Mr. Wetherell. If it was n't for the men, 
 Queenie would n't never think of goin' wrong. She 's 
 so easily led, that's the trouble. I just know in her 
 heart she don't want to be bad." 
 
 "Have you hit on a plan of campaign yet?" in- 
 quired Philip. 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 "That's what I was countin' on you for," she said. 
 "I've been so upset, I couldn't seem to work my 
 grey matter at all." 
 
 "Well," said Philip, "the first step is plain enough. 
 We must find out whether she's at the show to-night." 
 
 They took the Elevated to Thirty-third Street; 
 turned up into the glare of Broadway, and were soon 
 approaching the theatre, in front of which an enor- 
 mous butterfly, outlined in tiny, rose-coloured incan- 
 descents, was slowly fluttering its broad wings. 
 
 285 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 *' Let's not go to the stage door/* said Irene, 
 cautioningly. "She might find out some one had been 
 inquiring for her." 
 
 Philip purchased two balcony seats, far back, in 
 M; and they hurried inside. The performance was 
 already in the second act. The stage was dark, save 
 for a mobile circle of blue moonHght, in the centre of 
 which Mellicent Greeley, the star, was singing her 
 famous waltz-song, "Why the Lover loves the 
 Moon.'' 
 
 "Wait," whispered Irene. "The chorus comes in 
 at the end of the verse. Then we'll know." 
 
 The moonlight followed the agile singer hither and 
 thither about the stage with great docility, until she 
 finally came to a halt, left front, clasped her hands, 
 extended them with yearning, and waited. The whole 
 stage suddenly became flooded with a pale blue radi- 
 ance ; the orchestra played a few connective measures 
 with a softly pronounced rhythm, hung on the final 
 throbbing note; and then, from the wings, entered 
 a tripping procession of happy lovers, two and two, 
 arms affectionately intertwined. 
 
 Philip's wrist was spasmodically clutched. 
 
 "Look! Look!" whispered Irene, dramatically. 
 "It's her! Do you see? — next to the head of the 
 line. That's Gertie in the lead." 
 
 The first move of the campaign was completed. 
 What next? They sat there until the performance 
 
 286 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 was nearly over, while Philip devised various schemes 
 of procedure, and dismissed them one after another 
 as preposterous. It came to him finally that it was 
 perfectly useless to make plans. They must be ready 
 to take whatever cue the occasion might offer. The 
 one thing obviously essential was to keep Queenie in 
 sight, to watch all her movements. 
 
 She would in all probability, he thought, be going 
 out to supper somewhere with Gertie and two men as 
 soon as the show was over. If it was true that Queenie 
 had determined to go the whole figure at last, he felt 
 confident that before the supper was over, she would 
 be a little frightened. That would be their chance to 
 surprise her. Philip dreaded the scene which his 
 imagination only too easily conjured up ; but this was 
 no time for squeamishness, and he hardened himself 
 against it. 
 
 "Let's go out," he suggested to Irene, shortly 
 before the finale. "I want to talk things over." 
 
 The girl had forgotten even to unbutton her coat, 
 despite the heat of the theatre. She jumped to her 
 feet with electrical abruptness, and they made their 
 way to the street. He took her into a drug-store, and 
 while she nervously gulped down an egg-chocolate, 
 he told her of the next move. 
 
 "I'm going to engage an auto," he said. "We'll 
 wait near the stage door; and when they come out, 
 we'll follow them. We've got to act cautiously. 
 
 287 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 There's nothing to be gained by rushing things. It 
 may be, you know, that we're mistaken." 
 
 "If we only was!" she exclaimed. "But oh, I 
 know we ain't!" 
 
 Irene had reached the supremely dramatic moment 
 of her eighteen years. She could scarcely speak for 
 excitement. Philip put her into a taxicab, and gave 
 brief directions to the chauffeur. He found some grim 
 comfort in the memory that he had a week's pay 
 snugly tucked away in his wallet. 
 
 They took up a position not far from the stage 
 entrance, which was located on a side street ; and the 
 door of the cab was left open for the sake of unob- 
 structed view. The crowds had begun to pour out 
 of the second-balcony entrance close by. 
 
 "Oh, — oh!" gasped Irene, almost beside her- 
 self. "How much longer do you think it will be, 
 Mr. Wetherell?" 
 
 In less than ten minutes the stage door began to be 
 very busy. Women, closely mufBed in evening capes 
 and filmy scarfs, tripped out, escorted often by men 
 in opera hats, who saw them into waiting cabs, 
 entered after, and were driven into the rush of Broad- 
 way. Now and then a girl would come out alone, 
 glance up and down the street, lift her skirts, and turn 
 into the brilliant thoroughfare. Sometimes a friend 
 would be waiting in the shadow, and quietly join her. 
 The stage-hands and chorus-men came out, two and 
 
 288 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 three together, laughing boisterously over some inci- 
 dent of the evening. 
 
 Suddenly Irene caught her breath. "Look ! — Oh ! 
 — There they are!" 
 
 A party of four had crossed the sidewalk and were 
 entering a handsome closed car. Philip gave the word 
 to the chauffeur, and they were under way, close behind 
 their quarry. 
 
 Irene held her hands rigidly clenched in her lap. 
 
 "Oh, you don't think he'll lose sight of them, 
 do you, Mr. Wetherell? I think I would never get 
 over it." 
 
 They turned up Broadway and crawled slowly, 
 with many delays, northward. Philip's mind was 
 rapidly running over the various possible destinations 
 of the big green car ahead ; but one by one, as they 
 left Forty-second Street, and then Fifty-ninth Street, 
 and then Sixty-sixth Street behind, the number was 
 reduced, until, by the time they were crossing the 
 Harlem Viaduct, he was completely at a loss. What 
 could it mean? 
 
 Still the green car sped northward. Clearly it was 
 bound out of town. With horror Philip realized that 
 the chase he had so confidently undertaken might 
 lead him fifty miles — very possibly more — up state. 
 The snug little sum in his wallet dwindled pitifully in 
 his dismayed estimation. 
 
 "Oh, where, where can they be taking her?" 
 289 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 wailed Irene, through teeth that chattered. ^'I'm 
 dead sure we can't keep up with them much longer; 
 and it's so foggy you can't hardly see a thing ahead.'^ 
 
 Philip set his teeth hard and resigned himself to the 
 worst. They were speeding along a deserted stretch of 
 the Boulevard, somewhere in the neighbourhood of 
 Point Washington, when he became abruptly aware 
 that the machine was slowing down. In another mo- 
 ment they had come to a halt. He opened the door 
 and peered out. 
 
 ^'There's some sort of a breakdown across there," 
 said the driver with a curt gesture. 
 
 Through the blanketing mist, vaguely illumined 
 by a sputtering street-light, Philip discerned the dark 
 bulk of the green car, and the figure of a man kneel- 
 ing in front of the cylinders. 
 
 ^^This is our chance," he muttered to the trembling 
 girl at his side. "Are you game?" 
 
 "Y-y-y-yes," she returned, scarcely able to utter 
 the word. *^I am." 
 
 "Stay here," he directed, "until I've spoken to 
 them." 
 
 He leaped out, and crossed the street to the green 
 car. Without addressing a word to the chauffeur, he 
 approached the door, and gave a peremptory rap on 
 the panel. 
 
 There was a little burst of exclamations from inside, 
 and then a man's face appeared at the glass. 
 
 290 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ^'Well," he said. "What's wanted?" 
 
 "I want to speak to Miss Queenie MuUer," an- 
 nounced Philip. 
 
 His ears detected a smothered '^Oh!" which he 
 seemed to recognize, and which reassured his failing 
 confidence. 
 
 The door was flung open, and a large, rather fat 
 man, with a heavy black moustache, made a quick 
 descent. 
 
 "Who the devil are you?" he demanded. He was 
 evidently very angry. 
 
 "A friend of Miss MuUer's." 
 
 "There's no Miss MuUer in there," retorted the 
 man. "If you'll take my advice, you'll mind your 
 own business." 
 
 "This is my business," cried Philip, with an oath. 
 "I'll take no lies from any one. I know she's in 
 there, and I intend to speak to her." 
 
 His fists were clenched for a fight. He would have 
 loved to knock the man down. He was confident he 
 could. Another word of provocation, and he would 
 have tried it. 
 
 But before the man could respond to his challenge, 
 Philip became aware of a clutch at his arm. 
 
 "And this," declared the voice of Irene, loudly, 
 and shrill with excitement, "this is Queenie Muller's 
 sister, who has the right, if any one in the world, to 
 speak to her. I demand to see her at once." 
 
 291 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She advanced a step toward the black moustachio. 
 "Back from the door, I say!" 
 
 The man looked considerably astonished at being 
 so impressively addressed; but he did not offer to 
 move. At the same instant there was a cry from be- 
 hind the closed door; again it flung open, and a figure 
 closely muffled in a white fur cloak leaped to the 
 ground. It was Queenie, hysterically sobbing. 
 
 The man wheeled upon her with a snarl of anger 
 and disgust. "Here, you! Don't make a fool of your- 
 self. Get back inside." 
 
 He seized her by the shoulders, and was roughly 
 shoving her backwards, when Philip landed him a 
 staggering blow on the side of the head. 
 
 "You dirty scoundrel!" he cried. "Take your 
 hands off her." 
 
 The man reeled over against the car, clutching the 
 rim of the rear wheel to save himself. 
 
 "Ow!" he ejaculated. 
 
 He turned toward Philip, and made a slight placat- 
 ing gesture. "I say," he brought out, "don't do that, 
 you know!" 
 
 Philip was so astounded at this reception of his 
 violence that he could find nothing to say for a few 
 seconds. An absurd desire to break out laughing came 
 to him. 
 
 Meanwhile Irene had stretched forth her arms with 
 a sob of yearning affection toward her sister. 
 
 292 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Queenie!" she cried. *' Little Queenie! We've 
 come to take you home!'' 
 
 The next instant they were fast locked in each 
 other's arms. Hats were knocked sadly awry by the 
 loving collision; but no note was taken of that by 
 either of them. 
 
 '^Oh, take me home," moaned Queenie. "I'm 
 frightened. I want to go home." 
 
 "You shall go home," sobbed Irene, thumping her 
 sister's back violently. "They shan't take you away: 
 no, they shan't. So there!" 
 
 In the midst of his excitement, Philip found time 
 to be thankful that they were upon an almost deserted 
 highway, veiled by a kindly fog. Several automobiles 
 had passed them, flying northward; otherwise there 
 had been no external interruptions to the engrossing 
 scene that was being enacted. He found himself 
 wondering whether this were real life at all, so per- 
 fectly did it answer all the requirements of melo- 
 drama : the heroine and her sister sobbing profusely 
 in each other's arms ; the black-moustachioed villain 
 looking on in cowed, angry silence, while the hero — 
 Philip felt a little ill at ease in the noble role — stood 
 by with clenched fists and flashing eyes, ready to de- 
 fend at cost of life and limb the sanctity of the home 
 and the honour of the innocent. 
 
 But the chauffeur of the green car crawled out 
 from under the cylinders, where he had been lying, 
 
 293 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 face upward, for several minutes; threw a couple of 
 tools into the tool-box; readjusted the hood, and 
 jumped to his seat. 
 
 ''All ready, sir," he announced. 
 
 Another masculine voice called from the interior 
 of the car, — 
 
 "Well, Roily, if she's goin' to be such a puss, you'd 
 better let her go. Come an' get in. I know where we 
 can fill her place quick enough." 
 
 The villain snorted and produced a volley of oaths. 
 
 "Look a-here, Queenie," he ejaculated. "Don't 
 be a sniveUing baby. Come along. You're keeping 
 everybody waiting." 
 
 Queenie released herself from her sister's embrace 
 and faced him with tearful defiance. 
 
 "You can wait till to-morrer for all I care," she 
 asserted, between sobs, with a dramatic wave of one 
 hand. "I'm a-goin' home." 
 
 "I thought you was a better sport than that," de- 
 clared Roily, contemptuously. "If I'd known you 
 was going to renig right in the middle o' the game, do 
 you think for a minute — " 
 
 The rest was lost upon the retreating trio. The taxi- 
 cab had already been headed for home by the diplo- 
 matic chauffeur. Queenie was half shoved, half lifted 
 into it by her devoted sister ; Philip exchanged a brief 
 word with the chauffeur, then entered hastily himself, 
 drew the door shut, and they were off. 
 
 294 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 The sisters promptly fell into a renewal of their 
 sobs and embraces. For a long time nothing was said. 
 The lights of the city began to flash into view more 
 numerously, more brilliantly. Again they fled across 
 Sherman Square, under the Elevated; then the mid- 
 night flamboyance of Columbus Circle, with its rim 
 of restaurants and cafes, burst upon them. They 
 turned down Eighth Avenue. 
 
 "Will ma — forgive — me, — too?" asked 
 Queenie, brokenly. 
 
 "Ma! Oh, gee!" exclaimed Irene, in dismay. "I 
 forgot all about ma. She'll be stark crazy wonderin' 
 whatever has become of me." 
 
 "Why, did n't she know what you was ninnin' off 
 for?" 
 
 "No, I never says a word. I just clapped on my 
 duds and hit the trail for Mullin Street." 
 
 "Cheese!" said Queenie, aghast. "Ma '11 be in 
 fits, sure. What '11 you tell her?" 
 
 Irene shook her head in momentary despair. 
 
 "She'll see we've been bawlin'," added Queenie. 
 
 The other contradicted her stoutly. "No, she 
 won't. Mr. Wetherell 's got some powder in his 
 pocket. Here, I'll do your face, and then you can 
 take a try at mine." 
 
 By the time they reached Smilax Street, the ravages 
 of emotion had been considerably repaired ; hats had 
 been set straight, and veils readjusted. 
 
 295 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "You'd never guess a thing, would you, Mr. 
 Wetherell?" demanded Irene; and Philip assured 
 her that he never would in the world. 
 
 "But what are we goin* to tell her?" persisted 
 Queenie, nervously. 
 
 "That's just what I'm givin' my mind to," replied 
 her sister. "We can't tell her the truth, because it 
 would bring on a palpitation, sure." 
 
 Queenie had the inspiration. "I know what!" 
 she cried, joyfully. 
 
 But a sudden sh)mess seemed to hold her back. 
 
 "What is it, dearie?" 
 
 "If Mr. Wetherell would n't mind," parried 
 Queenie, timidly. 
 
 " Oh, I 'm sure he would n't. Would you, Mr. 
 Wetherell?" 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all," replied Philip, loyally. 
 
 "I thought," said Queenie, "you could tell her 
 Mr. Wetherell had asked you to invite me to go for 
 an auto ride with him to-morrow afternoon, and you 
 thought you 'd ought to tell me about it to once so that 
 I would n't be makin' some other engagement." 
 
 "Oh, that's just fine!" cried Irene. She grasped 
 the cue, and hurried on with the narrative. "So 
 when I got to the theatre," she supplied, "I found 
 that poor Gertie was terrible sick; and we've been 
 lookin' after her together ever since, takin' her to the 
 hospital, and all that, you know." 
 
 296 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 *^It's sort of a whopper," said Queenie, dubiously. 
 
 "It's because we love her so," responded Irene, 
 sententiously. "We would spare her from needless 
 suffering." 
 
 "And if she does think we've been cryin', it'll be 
 because we was both so terrible worried about poor 
 Gertie," added Queenie. "And of course that 
 knocked out the invitation for to-morrow afternoon. 
 But just the same it was awful kind of Mr. Wetherell 
 to ask me ; and I '11 be very glad to accept some other 
 time." 
 
 "That's good," said Philip, properly. 
 
 Queenie's thoughts had suddenly been deflected. 
 "Say, I wonder what Gertie '11 say to me to-morrow 
 night. She '11 be sore as a goat. Well, I don't know as 
 I blame her." 
 
 At the door of the tenement they left him. 
 
 Irene wrung his hand adoringly. "I won't ever for- 
 get it, Mr. Wetherell, as long as I live!" 
 
 Queenie also wrung his hand. "I never, never can 
 thank you half enough," she declared, humbly. "It's 
 you and Reny that have saved me." 
 
 Her words lingered in his mind as, alone in the 
 now historic taxicab, he was borne swiftly homeward. 
 
 " Saved her ! " he repeated to himself, with a cynical 
 amusement that was strangely mingled with pity and 
 doubt. " Saved her ! " — Yes, till when ? 
 
XXV 
 
 Winter had again manacled the hill-country. Its 
 glittering spears were hung along the lofty eaves of 
 Highstone. The vines of the porch, outside the 
 Colonel's window, were sheathed in brittle armour. 
 It was the bitter season's last battle for supremacy. 
 
 Colonel Raeburn's chamber was very quiet. The 
 March afternoon was nearing dusk. The fire in the 
 wood-stove crackled softly. In a neighbouring apart- 
 ment steps could be heard going to and fro. There 
 was no other sound in the great house. The Colonel 
 lay as motionless in his bed as if wrapped in profound 
 sleep; but he was wide awake. 
 
 His hollow eyes stared fixedly at the high, water- 
 stained ceiling. There was an expression in them of 
 unspeakable melancholy. The expression rarely left 
 them nowadays. It seemed to indicate a dreary pre- 
 occupation of spirit ; it had become an obsession. 
 
 Persistent, unrelieved, tyrannically engrossing, it 
 had wrung his daughter's heart a thousand times 
 during the past months. She had grown afraid of it. 
 It was an alien, hostile thing that had taken her 
 father in thrall. He was no longer himself. He was 
 dying — she had learned to endure that thought 
 with fortitude and resolution; but he was dying 
 
 298 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 under a blighting cloud of misery and despair which 
 she could not understand, and which cruelly vitiated 
 for her all the daily offices of love. Once her devotion 
 had brought her an incalculably rich reward ; of late, 
 though she could not bear to confess it to herself, she 
 felt in it only the contagion of her father's gloom. 
 She could not shake it off. She found herself con- 
 stantly hungering for fresh air and the solitude of 
 open country, freedom at any cost for a little time 
 from the haunting presence. In such brief hours of 
 release she regained courage to return to duty with a 
 smile. 
 
 At the sound of a door shutting heavily the Colonel 
 turned his head slightly on the pillow and breathed a 
 profound sigh. He reached out his emaciated hand 
 to the little bell that stood on the chair by the head of 
 the bed, and rang it. A woman of advanced middle 
 age appeared in the doorway. 
 
 "Did you ring?'' she asked. 
 
 "I thought I heard some one coming in," said the 
 Colonel, feebly. 
 
 "It was the stable-boy. He came for the milk- 
 pail." 
 
 "Did she say how long she expected to be out?" 
 
 "No. She spoke of taking a short walk, I think. 
 She said she was a little tired and wanted some exer- 
 cise. I dare say she'll be back any minute now." 
 
 The Colonel sighed again. 
 299 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Is there anything you want?" suggested the 
 woman, kindly. 
 
 "You might bring me a little glass of water, Min. 
 There isn't anything else." 
 
 She disappeared. The Colonel pressed his hand to 
 his forehead as if to allay some throbbing pain, and 
 in the solitude a low groan escaped his lips. 
 
 "I must tell her to-night," he muttered, dully. 
 "She can go to-morrow. The next day she will be 
 back again." 
 
 Aunt Min returned with the water, and lifted his 
 head while he took a sip of it. The Colonel was quite 
 helpless. He did not chafe any longer against staying 
 in bed. 
 
 "Thank you, Min," he said. "And when she 
 comes, please tell her I wish to see her." 
 
 "She always comes directly to your room," replied 
 the woman, as she left him. "But if I see her first, I 
 will tell her." 
 
 Again silence fell. The Colonel was painfully in- 
 tent upon the passing of the minutes. How slow the 
 time went by! How long it seemed since Georgia 
 had gone out! She must be taking a very long 
 walk. 
 
 He shivered. The thing he had to say to her lay 
 like a cold, crushing weight on his heart. How could 
 she bear it ? Would it be the end of her love for him ? 
 He had tried to tell her before, and she had frightened 
 
 300 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 him silent, with her pleading words, and her look of 
 solicitude and adoration. He had not had the courage 
 to go on. 
 
 But it could be no longer put off, now; else he 
 might die with the curse on his soul. He might die 
 any minute. He might die even before Georgia came 
 home. Death had knocked imperatively at his door 
 only three days before, and had scarcely been per- 
 suaded to delay still a little longer. The Colonel had 
 prayed God, with agonizing supplication, that a few 
 days might still be granted him. To-day he felt well 
 enough to say what must be said. The moment had 
 come. 
 
 The front door opened, and Georgia entered the 
 house. He heard her lay off her wraps in the hall; 
 counted the seconds while she gave the rearranging 
 touch to her hair before the tall mirror under the 
 staircase ; shivered as her steps finally approached his 
 chamber. 
 
 ^^ How's the father?" she inquired, with a gentle 
 lightness of manner which she never permitted to 
 desert her. **Did he get a little nap?" 
 
 He answered her in a feeble negative. How beau- 
 tiful she was, he thought, how proudly self-confident, 
 how faultlessly, splendidly loyal in her devotion to 
 him. A tall, gracious flower she seemed to him, 
 shedding beauty and perfume in the garden, tragi- 
 cally unconscious of the whirlwind about to sweep 
 
 301 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 upon it and which would fell its proud crest to the 
 earth. 
 
 "I'm going to change your pillow, daddy," she 
 said. "I have a nice fresh one here that will feel good, 
 I know." 
 
 She slipped her hand gently behind his shoulders, 
 lifted him, and deftly made the substitution. 
 
 "There," she said. "And now would you like me 
 to light the lamp?" 
 
 "No, not quite yet, Georgia. Shut the door, will 
 you, and sit down. Sit there by the window, will you, 
 not too close to me." 
 
 The girl obeyed him silently, enveloped by a strange 
 dread. She felt that some terrible crisis was lying in 
 wait, just behind the trembling, half-transparent bar- 
 rier of the minutes. 
 
 The sick man sighed drearily. "I have not long to 
 live, Georgia. I do not know how long; but I have 
 besought God in his mercy to spare me until, with 
 your help, I have lightened my spirit of the curse that 
 has blasted it. Will you strive to remember, while I 
 discover to you the blackness and great darkness of 
 my soul, that the man who addresses you is already 
 sealed with death, and that if anguish and torments 
 of spirit can in any sort atone for sin, he has paid the 
 price, lo, these many years? — Will you strive to 
 remember that, Georgia?" 
 
 "I will," she answered, faintly. 
 302 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 *^Do you recall the occasion of Philip WetherelPs 
 last visit in this house — the night before Thanks- 
 giving?" 
 
 "I do. I remember it very, very distinctly." 
 
 **Will you open the top drawer of the dresser and 
 take out the letter-box that Hes on the left-hand side ? " 
 
 Mechanically she obeyed. 
 
 "Will you open the box and remove the crumpled 
 sheet of paper that lies on top?" 
 
 She followed his direction. 
 
 "Do you recognize it?" 
 
 She stepped to the high window for additional 
 light. A low, smothered cry escaped her. 
 
 "It is the man who lived in the next room to him," 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 "It is my son." 
 
 She made no movement. An icy, death-like hand 
 seemed to have glided up her spine, freezing sense. 
 She understood nothing. A blank, white silence in- 
 vaded her mind. 
 
 "I — I don't know what you mean," she said, at 
 last, in a weak, puzzled voice. "I can't seem to un- 
 derstand very well." 
 
 She put damp fingers to her forehead, and tried to 
 think clearly. What had her father said? "My 
 son"? But he had no son. Her brother had died 
 thirteen years ago. There had been no other children. 
 
 In the silence she heard herself babbling foolishly. 
 303 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Arthur is dead, father," she was repeating. 
 ''Arthur is dead. He died thirteen years ago next 
 month. He was only twenty-one years old. Even if 
 he were living, he would not be so old as this man. 
 There must be some mistake." 
 
 With limbs that quailed oddly under her, she re- 
 turned to the dresser and replaced the crumpled sheet 
 of paper, noting mechanically for the first time that 
 its edges had been charred. She remembered that 
 Philip had thrown it upon the hearth. 
 
 "This man," rejoined her father, in a pitiless, 
 desolate voice, "is the offspring of sin. He does not 
 bear my name. But he is my own child." 
 
 Georgia leaned weakly against the tall dresser. She 
 remembered her father's groans in the dead of night. 
 She remembered the momentary seizure he had had : 
 — ah, it was just as they had been talking of this man. 
 She had attributed it to fatigue and excitement. 
 
 "Are you sure?" she asked, still staving off the 
 ultimate fact. 
 
 The man in the bed groaned. "Utterly," he re- 
 plied. " Philip offered details which put the truth of it 
 beyond a peradventure." 
 
 "What details?" she demanded. "I do not re- 
 member any." 
 
 "That he was a naturalist. That he was born in 
 Maryland. That he was singularly reticent as to the 
 facts of his history." 
 
 304 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ^'I do not make anything of all that," said the 
 girl. 
 
 **I have told you this much, only that I might 
 tell you more," responded the Colonel. "If you 
 will sit down again, I will not keep you long in 
 suspense." 
 
 She resumed her chair. The room was nearly dark. 
 She turned her face toward the window, and gazed 
 out upon the heavy, ice-hung vine, and beyond, into 
 the shadows that had gathered densely under the tall 
 trees. 
 
 "Do you recall what occurred to me after the 
 battle of Antietam?" 
 
 "To be sure I do," she replied, with strained volu- 
 bility. "You had a slight flesh-wound of which you 
 said nothing. When the regiment was transferred to 
 the heights above Harper's Ferry, you marched with 
 your company. On the way you fainted; and they 
 left you at a tumbledown httle farmhouse. You were 
 sick there." 
 
 He interrupted her. "There were two persons in 
 the family." 
 
 "An old woman," she supplied, dully, "named 
 Granny Creeling, and her daughter, Judy." 
 
 " Judy Creeling was the mother of my son." 
 
 There was a long, crushing silence. Georgia felt as 
 if the soul had suddenly been torn out of her and flung 
 into a pit of quaking darkness. Why — this was a 
 
 305 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 story she had repeated a thousand times. It had been 
 among her most precious possessions. The names of 
 Granny Creehng and her daughter had come fluently, 
 gKbly from her Hps since early girlhood. Ah, — and 
 after all, — it was nothing but a story of shame. Was 
 all the nobility of life nothing but a story of shame ? 
 Was there nowhere, then, the honour and integrity of 
 soul she had always so proudly imputed to her life's 
 idol? All her life she had worshipped at this shrine 
 — worshipped there the more proudly, the more in- 
 veterately, when everything else had failed her — and 
 now, the shrine was empty. A death's-head grinned 
 at her from the altar whereon she had lavished the 
 choicest offerings of her heart's devotion. 
 
 But the dreary voice from the bed was going on. 
 
 *^She was a broad-spoken, illiterate country girl, 
 with a sort of florid beauty that came from work in 
 the hayfields and the garden. When I began to get 
 better of my fever, her mother left me entirely to 
 her care, while she was away, often for entire days at 
 a time, with a load of vegetables. We were both 
 young; once the thought had awakened in us, there 
 was no putting it out of mind. I do not know whether 
 repentance ever came to her or not ; I know that to 
 me, thenceforth, from that day of sin, my life was 
 accursed. When I found out, after my return to camp, 
 what fruit our guilt was to have, I resolved that I 
 would number myself among those slain in battle. 
 
 306 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 For three years I courted death, flung myself upon 
 it, — only to be remanded, at last, to a life that has 
 been a living death : a slow, incurable mortification of 
 the soul. God willed that I should be punished by 
 my life." 
 
 "Did mother know?" asked Georgia, in a voice 
 that had sternly subjugated pain and horror. 
 
 "I never told her. Till this moment I never told 
 any one. But I think she knew. She said something 
 in her delirium that led me to believe that she had 
 known it for a long time, and kept silent." 
 
 Georgia shuddered and buried her face in her" 
 hands, making no sound. There were no tears in the 
 emotion that racked her. It was dry, cruel, irrepa- 
 rable — a general uprooting of all that she had most 
 honoured and cherished. 
 
 The darkness had deepened in the lofty apartment. 
 She suddenly threw back her head and stretched out 
 her arms with a gesture of hopelessness and barren 
 sorrow. But her lips, opened to a cry of anguish, gave 
 no audible betrayal of what destruction the whirl- 
 wind had wrought. Very quietly she asked, — 
 
 *'What happened to Judy?" 
 
 "I never saw her again. For years I sent money to 
 the old woman for her. Then I found out that Judy 
 had married and gone somewhere up the Shenandoah. 
 The old woman had been using the money for liquor. 
 The boy, who had been left with her by Judy, had 
 
 307 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 run away, and for years I could get no track of him. 
 It was not until eighteen ninety-five, when I saw in a 
 newspaper, among the number of those who had been 
 accorded degrees at his university, the name of John 
 Creeling, that I knew whether he were alive or dead. 
 I did not know then whether it were truly he or not. 
 The inquiries I made convinced me. That was the 
 year Arthur died." 
 
 The girPs eyes burned and tingled with dryness. 
 She shuddered at the knowledge of what her father 
 had suffered ; but there was no pity in her breast. 
 He had wrought the iniquity: he had yielded the 
 penalty. What lighter fate could he have asked for 
 or desired? 
 
 ''From that time," pursued the Colonel, in the 
 same monotonous voice of hopelessness, "I watched 
 his every movement. My only son ! With what pride 
 and with what agony of shame I followed his pro- 
 gress, always secretly, always in silence, disguising 
 my purpose. He was a briUiant scholar ; an audacious, 
 atheistical thinker, reverencing nothing, unloved by 
 his fellows, but universally admired for his superior 
 intellectual gifts. I found his picture in a magazine, 
 cut it out, and put it away under lock and key, not 
 daring to be found with it, because of the resemblance 
 it betrayed to my own face. Six years ago he was 
 appointed to an assistant professorship out west. I 
 heard a rumour that he was drinking heavily. Then he 
 
 308 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 disappeared. The theory was that he had committed 
 suicide. That was three years ago. Do you remember 
 the name Philip called him by?" 
 
 "No," answered the girl, apathetically. — "Mur- 
 ray? Mowbray?" 
 
 "Barry," said her father, "John Barry. He is 
 evidently living in deliberate obscurity. I have 
 thought that perhaps he might be seeking to reha- 
 bilitate himself. Philip told us he worked in some 
 laboratory. I know nothing beyond that. I did not 
 see Philip again. I have been too ill to set on foot 
 any inquiries." 
 
 There was a long silence. The room had grown 
 chilly. The girl rose, with a shiver, to her feet, and 
 lighted the lamp. She opened the stove-door, and 
 threw in two or three pieces of wood. Her movements 
 were perfectly automatic. 
 
 The man in the bed uttered a groan. — " Georgia." 
 
 "Yes, father?" 
 
 "Do you know why I have made all this confession 
 of shame to you after so many years of silence ? " 
 
 She gazed at him vaguely. "No, — no, — I had 
 not thought of that, yet." 
 
 "Do you recall what I asked you to bear in mind 
 while I spoke to you?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Does it make no difference in your feeling?" 
 
 Her mind groped blindly for an answer. "It only 
 
 309 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 makes it all seem the more terrible. Perhaps it does 
 something besides that. I don't feel sure yet." 
 
 The Colonel groaned again. ^^ Georgia! Daughter 1 
 Have you no pity? Have you no softness? Is there 
 naught of woman in your heart ? Do you desire me 
 to enter into my grave with the curse still upon my 
 soul?'' 
 
 ''What can I do to take it off, father?" she asked 
 in an altered voice. "You must know I would help 
 you if I could." 
 
 By a relentless effort of will she was holding herself 
 from yielding to paroxysmal sobs. She felt all the 
 wild, primal impulses of woe in her : to tear her hair, 
 to shriek aloud, to rend her garments, to fling herself 
 upon the ground. But she sat quite motionlessly in 
 her chair, making no sound, while her fingers played 
 vaguely with the chain of her watch. 
 
 " My son is in New York. We know where he 
 lives." 
 
 "You want me to get some word to him?" 
 
 "I want you to go to him and beg him, on your 
 knees, to forgive me. I must have his forgiveness 
 before I die. I cannot die without it. This is my 
 last request of you, Georgia." 
 
 She rose and readjusted the wick of the lamp. She 
 made an effort to speak; but her tongue refused to 
 move. She swallowed hard, and made another effort. 
 
 "When do you want me to go?" 
 310. 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ''I want you to go to-morrow morning by the early 
 train. You will not need to be away but for one night. 
 You will bring me word the second day. You will tell 
 me that he has granted me his forgiveness." 
 
 *'I will go," she said, quietly. "I will do the best 
 I can." 
 
XXVI 
 
 She reached the city early in the afternoon. She 
 went directly to a quiet hotel on Irving Place, where 
 some years before she had stayed for several days with 
 her father. Since then she had not been in New York, 
 and the roar of its traffic, the flux and confusion of its 
 heedless multitudes, enhanced her feeling of solitude 
 and helplessness. The errand upon which she had 
 been sent appalled her. She was totally unquaHfied 
 for it. In vain she sought words for the fateful inter- 
 view. The shadowy spectre of the man she was to 
 face — to kneel to — stood ever in her mind and put 
 rational thought to flight. 
 
 Her plan was to go first to Mullin Street, and from 
 his landlady to secure his business address. It was 
 well after three o'clock before she reached the house. 
 Economy had restrained her from hiring a convey- 
 ance. More than once she had lost her way in the 
 network of irregular streets west of Greenwich Avenue, 
 and had been compelled to soHcit the good offices of 
 policemen. She was very tired. At last she espied the 
 sign of the New York Institute of Auto -health. As 
 she mounted the steps, an unbidden thought flashed 
 into her mind and made the hand tremble that 
 reached for the bell-pull. This was where Philip lived 1 
 
 312, 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She waited a short while, two minutes, possibly, 
 and rang again. She heard the sharp, impetuous 
 summons of the bell far in the interior of the house ; 
 but it was not answered. Her heart sank within her. 
 She tried a third time. 
 
 A window opened in the Institute, and a young 
 woman with a pug nose and a pompadour thrust out 
 her head. 
 
 "I guess there ain't nobody to home," she ob- 
 served, sympathetically. 
 
 Georgia turned a hopeless look upon her. *^I 
 wanted to see the landlady," she said. 
 
 The girl in the window surveyed her pale, high- 
 bred face with interest. 
 
 "You mean Mademoiselle?" she asked. "Oh, 
 she 's Hkely to be in and out all through the day. You 
 just ring the basement-bell, and I guess one o' the 
 old folks '11 let you inside to wait." 
 
 Georgia thanked her, and observed her direction, 
 while the pompadour looked on with friendly solici- 
 tude. 
 
 "She so rarely has any visitors," she explained, 
 affably. "I suppose that's why." 
 
 After a brief delay the basement-door was slowly 
 opened, and a very aged man appeared behind the 
 grating. 
 
 "Ees it something de lady desire?" he inquired, 
 in a thin, quavering voice. 
 
 3^3 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 *^I wanted to see the landlady," replied Georgia. 
 
 "De landlady? But dat's my daughter, mees. She 
 ain't at her home just now. She gone off some place ; 
 I don' know when she be back again." 
 
 He seemed about to withdraw into the house with 
 a vague, apologetic smile, when the pompadour in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 "It's only some little errand or other, ain't it?" 
 
 The old man advanced his wrinkled face till it 
 touched the grill, and peered upward. 
 
 "Good-day, mees! Yes, mees. Some little errand. 
 I t'ink she want some chicoree for the salade. She 
 might be home any time. She don' tell me about 
 dat." 
 
 "Well, you'd better let the young lady in," advised 
 the girl. "She can sit down and get warm. Say, it 
 certainly is cold as the dickens, ain't it ? — Yes, sir, 
 right away!" 
 
 The last remark, in a very different tone of voice, 
 seemed to have been addressed to some one inside. 
 She shut the window abruptly and disappeared. 
 
 The old man put out a shaking hand to the knob, 
 and opened the gate a little crack, with a look of 
 immense caution. 
 
 " My Victorine tell me not to let nobody inside ; but 
 I don' t'ink she know a fine young lady would ring de 
 bell." 
 
 With some diflSculty and considerable inward hesi- 
 
 3H 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 tation Georgia passed through the narrow aperture 
 afforded, and entered the dark basement-hall. 
 
 ^^Mademoiselle will like to come in and get warm ? " 
 he asked, with diffident hospitality. **My old woman 
 and me, we be all alone. I don' t'ink Victorine care 
 very much if you come in de kitchen.'' 
 
 He led her dodderingly into the rear apartment, 
 where an old-fashioned range, set deep under the 
 chimney-hood, displayed many ruddy chinks. A 
 most savoury-smelling kitchen it was, spotlessly clean, 
 floor, table, and sink attesting to much vigorous 
 scrubbing. The girl did not at once notice a tiny, 
 white-capped old woman, deep-buried in the recesses 
 of a padded arm-chair in the corner. 
 
 "Dis be my ole wife, mees. We come from the ole 
 country, us, — Rouen, mees. Was you ever hear talk 
 of Rouen ? It is a city ver' magnifique." 
 
 The old woman had risen, and made a quaint 
 little curtsy. 
 
 " Mademoiselle will tak' a seat, yes ? " she said, in a 
 chirping, friendly voice. 
 
 Upon a sudden, grateful impulse Georgia drew a 
 chair beside her and sat down. Something of the 
 dread that crushed her seemed, for the moment, to be 
 lifted by the gentle, unaffected cordiality of her recep- 
 tion. Beside the old maman's chair, in front of the 
 gleaming range, with its softly humming kettle, shut 
 off even from the sounds of street-traffic, she had the 
 
 315 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 sense of being secure, for a little interval, from the 
 terrors that preyed upon her. It was like one of the 
 fleeting spaces of sunshine and warmth that some- 
 times come in the midst of a day of low-hung, tem- 
 pestuous clouds. 
 
 A yellow kitten with a green ribbon round its neck 
 rose from the hearth, where it had been napping, 
 stretched itself, and walked noiselessly across the 
 room, rubbing familiarly against her skirts. She 
 picked it up and caressed it, delighting in its soft, 
 responsive purr. 
 
 "Well, well," exclaimed the old man, who was 
 looking on with interest from his chair beside the 
 stove, "how it be true, hein, as they tell, that a hani- 
 mal know his friends. When our Victorine come in — 
 pouf ! — ze kitty always run off some place." 
 
 "Do you know our Victorine, mees?" inquired 
 Susanne. 
 
 "No, I do not," she replied. "But I have heard of 
 her." The words brought her an odd little pang as 
 she uttered them. 
 
 "There is a woman for you!" asserted the papa 
 Victor. "Wonderful for keeping the house ; a veritable 
 marvel to cook; always, always making her econo- 
 mies. — But she is, perhaps, a little too severe, 
 sometimes." 
 
 He affirmed the criticism with a dogged nod or 
 two, while he took a small pinch of snuff. 
 
 316 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 ^*Ah, but you are too ready to find fault, my Vic- 
 tor," put in Susanne, soothingly. "Torine is very 
 good to the old ones. What do you expect, then, my 
 man? Life is not easy. You must have a little 
 patience." 
 
 ^^Nevertheless, she might not refuse to let me go to 
 the corner for a little glass, sometimes. Even at my 
 age, I could enjoy that." 
 
 Susanne sighed, resignedly, offering no protest. To 
 change the subject was more profitable than to argue. 
 
 "And again," she went on, with a confiding look 
 at the girl beside her, "our Torine cannot endure 
 hanimals. I do not know however Monsieur Philippe 
 persuade her to keep dis cat. It was sick once ; but 
 now it is well." 
 
 " I know how ! " said the old man, sagaciously. " He 
 persuade her wiz money. Victorine cannot refuse 
 dat." 
 
 "Monsieur PhiHppe has a love for his animals of 
 the most devote," pursued Susanne, sociably. "He 
 is a very nice young man." 
 
 The papa Victor interrupted with an air of au- 
 thority. "Mademoiselle does not know Monsieur 
 Philippe, my Susanne. You are talking about things 
 she cannot understand. That is not the way." 
 
 Susanne turned a humble, apologetic look upon 
 the guest. 
 
 "You must excuse a poor old woman," she said, 
 
 317 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 plaintively. ^^I do not remember very well. Mon- 
 sieur Philippe has been so kind to us, you see. He 
 give me this lovely rosary for the Christmas." 
 
 She fumbled for her treasure in a pocket, and dis- 
 played it proudly. ^^ Monsieur Philippe is the kindest 
 young man I ever know. Even Victorine confess dat." 
 
 The girl had bent her face down close to the kitten's 
 silky fur. Its gentle purring did not cease. She felt 
 the warmth of its body through her clothing. An 
 emotion of longing which she had no power to repress 
 flooded over her. 
 
 In the presence of the new, pitiless, heart-slaying 
 disillusion, the shattering of her life's idolatry, the 
 offence that he had committed against love seemed 
 curiously unimportant, almost trivial, to her. It was 
 the first time such a thought had been admitted to 
 her mind. 
 
 She was quick to realize what had evoked it : her 
 loneliness, her helplessness. She reproached herself 
 for it. Because she was in trouble, because life had 
 led her within the doors of its charnel-house and 
 displayed to her the livid horrors concealed there, 
 now she would forget ! But the nature of his offence 
 was in no wise altered. If she had condemned him 
 for it once, when she was strong, what excuse other 
 than weakness could she offer, were she now to relent 
 toward him ? Weakness and humbled pride — were 
 these arguments? 
 
 318 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She raised her head again, and occupied her hands 
 in rebuttoning a glove ; but she did not put the little 
 visitant from her. It still lay there contentedly in her 
 lap, looking up at her with grave, inexpressive eyes. 
 
 "I t^ink I hear our Torine," said the old papa, 
 suddenly, as there came a rattle at the basement- gate, 
 outside. 
 
 "I mus' go let her in," he added, getting to his feet 
 and making what halting speed he could out of the 
 room. 
 
 "Oui, — oui, ma fille," he called, quaveringly. 
 " Je viens. Me voila ! " 
 
 The kitten jumped abruptly from Georgia's lap 
 to the floor, and sought the shelter of the dark hall. 
 Susanne nervously set her cap a little straighter, and 
 sat forward in her chair, in an attitude of expectancy. 
 
 ^'Now you are going to see our Torine," she whis- 
 pered. "I hope she will not be severe with the poor 
 papa." 
 
 Georgia heard some low words interchanged at the 
 gate ; and then Victorine entered. Before she could 
 say anything, the girl had risen and made her apology. 
 
 "I trust that I have not done wrong in intruding so 
 unceremoniously," she said. *' But I was most anxious 
 to see you as soon as possible." 
 
 Victorine nodded, without smiling. ^'I under- 
 stand," she rejoined. ^'And what is it I can do?" 
 
 Her disposition was clearly not of the most cordial. 
 
 319 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She did not sit down, nor even remove her gloves, 
 Georgia also remained standing. The two aged ones 
 sat silent, with rather guilty looks, in their chairs. 
 
 "I have a very important communication," said 
 Georgia, "to make to Mr. John Barry, who, I under- 
 stand, lodges with you. I came here to secure from 
 you, if you would be so kind as to give it, his business 
 address." 
 
 "But I do not know it," retorted Victorine, coldly. 
 "I do not know anything about Monsieur Barry. I 
 have not the least idea of his business." 
 
 Georgia could scarcely credit her ears. She had 
 counted upon this first step as the easiest and most 
 secure of all. But if she could not go to him, what 
 was there left but to wait for him to come to her? 
 Philip might come, too. He might find her waiting. 
 Dismay seized her at the mere thought of such an 
 encounter. 
 
 "Ah," she cried, "then you cannot help me?" 
 There was an unintentional accent of supplication in 
 her voice. 
 
 Victorine studied the girl's face skeptically. She 
 had her opinion of unknown young women who came 
 to the door with inquiries after men-lodgers. Even 
 the Httle cry that had escaped her at the discovery of 
 Victorine's inability to be of service was susceptible 
 of a certain interpretation. 
 
 The girl had an intimation of the ground of the 
 320 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 other^s hostility. She saw that she must say more, or 
 lose everything. 
 
 "I have come to-day," she said, appealingly, ^^from 
 my home in Connecticut, over a hundred miles away, 
 to bring Mr. Barry a message from my father, who is 
 dying. It is a matter of life and death. I have pro- 
 mised my father to see him. And to-morrow I must 
 return to his bedside." 
 
 The appeal was not lost upon Victorine. The 
 noble, candid beauty of the girl's face, and the look 
 of desperation in the deep eyes completed the con- 
 quest. 
 
 "Indeed, mademoiselle," she responded, ''if I had 
 the address, I would give it to you. But I have not. 
 What then ? — I will tell you what I will do. Mon- 
 sieur Barry always comes home at quarter past five 
 every night. I will be listening for him, and will tell 
 him a message from you. Mademoiselle is doubtless 
 at a hotel in the city?" 
 
 The girl nodded. "But I am afraid he would not 
 come to me," she said. "He does not know who I am. 
 He has never seen me." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 Victorine's small eyes opened wide in an astonish- 
 ment that was not without a revival of suspicion. 
 
 "I cannot explain to you," said Georgia, beseech- 
 ingly. "I must ask you to trust me. I must wait 
 here until he comes." 
 
 ; 321 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "No one shall say," asserted Mademoiselle, "that 
 Victorine La Bergere is not ready to help those in 
 trouble. I will do what I can for you." 
 
 "Ah, dat is good, my Torine," put in the old Su- 
 sanne. "I am sure you will not be sorry for dat. Life 
 is not too easy for any of us. We must do what we 
 can." 
 
 "I suppose you wish to see Monsieur Barry alone ? " 
 asked Victorine, meditatively. 
 
 "I must see him alone." 
 
 "I have not any sitting-room," explained Made- 
 moiselle. "Upstairs, in the extension, I have a little 
 room for sleeping. There is nothing else. I think it 
 would be decent, if you did not object." 
 
 "Oh, you are kind," exclaimed Georgia, reckless 
 of everything except the opportunity afforded. "It 
 will do perfectly, I am sure." 
 
 "You will be waiting there," said Victorine. "And 
 when he arrives I will send him to you." 
 
 Georgia wrung the woman's hand gratefully. "I 
 shall never forget this act of generosity," she said. 
 
 The old Victor had risen from his chair, and came 
 forward with some ceremony to wish her farewell. 
 
 "Good chance, mees!" he said, with a bow that 
 had in it a pathetic reminder of the grand days of 
 the Cafe Antoine. "You will still find the happy 
 times." 
 
 She went quickly to the old maman, and took her 
 322 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 shrivelled little hand, a bird's claw, in her own. 
 Susanne looked up wistfully into her face. 
 
 "It is a mission that the good God approve, 
 mees?'' she asked. 
 
 Georgia nodded, blindly. 
 
 Susanne lowered her voice to a timid whisper. "I 
 am going to say a rosary to your intention. Perhaps 
 that will help, who knows?" 
 
 The girl could make no reply. She gave a quick 
 pressure to the small hand, and darted from the room 
 after Victorine. 
 
 She was led up a narrow, dark flight of stairs, and 
 shown into a rear chamber. Mademoiselle lighted 
 the gas. 
 
 *^It is all I have," she said. "I am sorry." 
 
 She hid away a pair of bed-slippers, drew a screen 
 in front of the washbowl, and straightened the heavy, 
 quilled counterpane on the four-post bed in the corner. 
 
 "And now," she said, "I am going to leave you. 
 You will not have very long to wait, — half an hour, 
 perhaps. I will be watching for him, I promise you." 
 
 Without waiting for any further words of gratitude, 
 she quitted the room. 
 
 The girl sat down in a narrow, high-backed chair, 
 by the wardrobe, facing the door. Her mind was a 
 chaos, in which a single fact stood out with preter- 
 natural definiteness : that at the end of a half hour, 
 perhaps sooner, perhaps later, the door would open, 
 
 3^3 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 and the man would be standing before her. How he 
 would contemn her when he learned her business! 
 What means had she of appealing to him? What 
 reasons could she urge in behalf of her strange re- 
 quest ? 
 
 None ! None ! She could only throw herself upon 
 his pity. She could only humble herself before him, 
 suing like a criminal for mercy. She had always 
 prided herself upon the rationality of her relations 
 with others. She had been scrupulous to yield what 
 they might rightfully expect from her. She had 
 demanded from them only what she had a right to 
 demand. 
 
 She was now about to demand a boon which was 
 completely outside the high pale of justice. Argu- 
 ments could not help her. There were none. She 
 was unsupported. Her mind groped, and lost itself, 
 in this ahen, dim-lighted territory where reason must 
 be left behind. She was very frightened. 
 
 She heard a clock upstairs tinkle out five strokes. 
 Fifteen minutes more! Then the door would open. 
 The spectre would be on the threshold. She would 
 have to speak. Her mind was vacant and staring. 
 She grasped the arms of the chair with damp fin- 
 gers, and waited. 
 
XXVII 
 
 At twenty minutes after five Barry entered, closing 
 the door behind him. He had not taken off his faded 
 overcoat. His slouch hat hung in one hand. 
 
 "You wished to speak to me?" 
 
 His question was put in a perfectly matter-of-fact 
 tone. There was no look of surprise or curiosity in his 
 haughty features; but he fixed an intentive, undevi- 
 ating scrutiny on the girl's face, which almost put to 
 rout her courage. At the first sight of him she seemed 
 to know that her mission would be in vain. 
 
 She rose from her chair, holding lightly to the back 
 of it with fingers that trembled. Her first words had 
 been given her by her father. 
 
 "Professor Creeling?'' she asked. 
 
 She did not fail to note the almost imperceptible 
 start and recoil, instantly controlled, that caught him 
 at the name. He smiled deferentially. 
 
 "I fear there must have been some error," he re- 
 plied. "I was informed that you wished to see Mr. 
 Barry. Miss La Bergere evidently misunderstood." 
 He bowed with unrelaxed dignity, and turned to 
 
 go- 
 
 "Mr. Barry," she called, with an arresting gesture, 
 
 "it was indeed you for whom I made inquiry. I bring 
 
 3^S 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 you a request from a man who lies on his death-bed. 
 You will not refuse to listen to me." 
 
 He faced her again. She detected a shght stiffening 
 of his neck and shoulders. 
 
 "You speak very strangely," he observed. "I do 
 not know any man who could have death-bed favours 
 to ask of me." 
 
 "Colonel Raeburn, of the Grand Army of the 
 Republic." 
 
 She named the regiment of Connecticut Volunteers 
 in which he had held his commission. 
 
 "I know nothing of any such man," responded 
 Barry, coolly. 
 
 "Until after the battle of Fredericksburg his rank 
 was that of captain." 
 
 Again Barry shook his head, tapping his knee 
 impatiently with the crown of his hat. 
 
 "After the battle of Antietam," went on the girl, 
 in a voice scarcely above a whisper, yet unnaturally 
 distinct, "during a fever, he was cared for in a small 
 farmhouse that stood on the line of march to Harper's 
 Ferry." 
 
 A slight, sudden lifting of the hands was the only 
 sign he gave of having understood her. 
 
 "A house that belonged to an old woman," he 
 supplied, in a cold voice. 
 
 She nodded. "An old woman and her daughter 
 were the only inhabitants." 
 
 226 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Well, and what is your message to me?" he de- 
 manded, as if desirous of making a peremptory dis- 
 position of the affair in hand. 
 
 "My father is dying. For forty-five years he has 
 suffered the tortures of remorse and shame. He has 
 sent me to you to beg your forgiveness. He cannot 
 die without it." 
 
 "Cannot?" retorted her auditor. "That is too 
 bad." 
 
 "Surely," she cried, "you cannot wish to make his 
 sufferings still more terrible by refusing this boon." 
 
 "May I inquire," asked Barry, ignoring her re- 
 monstrance, "how it comes about that after these 
 forty-five years of paternal pangs, he happens to be 
 informed of his dearly beloved son's address?" 
 
 "I am prepared to tell you everything," replied the 
 girl, simply. "Shall we sit down?" 
 
 She resumed the high-backed chair. 
 
 "No, thank you, I don't care to sit down," he 
 rejoined. "But you're quite welcome to do so." 
 
 He locked his hands behind him, and began pacing 
 back and forth from one end to the other of the room. 
 Every now and then he would abruptly halt at one 
 limit of his confine, lean for a few seconds against the 
 wall, and cross his arms haughtily in front of him, his 
 head thrown back. During the course of her long 
 recital, he made no comment. 
 
 She told him how her father, for years after Judy's 
 327 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 marriage, had continued to send sums of money to 
 the old woman for the child, until he learned of the 
 boy's flight. She told of his futile efforts to get a 
 clue to his son's whereabouts, and of his final redis- 
 covery of him, through the newspaper item. She 
 dwelt with impassioned volubility upon the yearning 
 interest with which he had secretly followed his career, 
 of the pride he had felt in his brilliant success, and of 
 the dismay with which he had learned of his strange 
 disappearance. 
 
 *^He assumed, as the rest did, that you had taken 
 your own Hfe," said Georgia. 
 
 She had talked rapidly, breathlessly, whipped by 
 excitement. She had the cruel intuition that she was 
 failing utterly, that she had made no slightest im- 
 pression upon his sympathies. The arrogant back- 
 ward thrust of his head, the undisguised curl of the 
 lip, the cold, unrelenting gaze of the dark eyes, 
 brought to her soul terror and despair. Her words 
 seemed to be sent out against an unhearing, stony 
 barrier. They fell back upon her, faint, ineffectual, 
 stricken with death. 
 
 "As winsome a tale as one could ask to hear," 
 observed Barry icily, with crossed arms, as she 
 paused. "Courage, and nobility, and a sensitive 
 regard for honour and justice — how admirably 
 Colonel Raeburn's history exemplifies all these!" 
 
 The girl rose hotly to his taunt. "You shall not 
 328 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 assail his character!'' she cried. "I grant you that 
 it bears this single dark stain; but aside from that, it 
 is the noblest, truest, bravest character in the world. 
 My father was worshipped by his subordinates in the 
 army; he was accorded the United States Medal of 
 Honor for acts of signal courage ; he has held a posi- 
 tion of high respect and dignity in his town and native 
 state; his name is synonymous, and justly so, with 
 those very qualities which you so impertinently deny 
 him." 
 
 She stood before the man, quivering with anger 
 and defiance. He extended a calm, placatory hand. 
 
 "And doubtless," he observed, with cutting com- 
 posure, "if all the facts of his career were known in his 
 home town, he would be held in still higher esteem." 
 
 She fell back with a low cry of mortification, and 
 sank into her chair. 
 
 "You forget. Miss Raebum," he went on, remorse- 
 lessly, "that so far as your present auditor is con- 
 cerned, only one little episode in your worthy father's 
 career has the least interest or significance. His nobil- 
 ity of soul, his piety, his patriotism, I have no reason 
 to doubt; I do not doubt either that he has suffered 
 many painful moments of regret for his Httle escapade 
 with poor Judy Creehng — " 
 
 "Regret !" she interrupted. "It has killed him." 
 
 He granted the point with a slight movement of 
 deference that seemed to mock her fever. 
 
 329 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "But how, may I ask, does all this concern me? 
 Only one fact concerns me, — that, thanks to him, I 
 was ushered into this fair world with a curse upon me. 
 His fond paternal solicitude, of which you make so 
 much, never did me one jot or one tittle of benefit ; I 
 was alone, unbefriended, hated, despised, an outcast 
 from my birth. Whatever place I finally succeeded in 
 winning for myself, I won alone, by unceasing, ruth- 
 less struggle, against odds insuperable. My first con- 
 scious thought of the man who begot me, an accident 
 in his pleasures, was a thought of hatred and con- 
 tempt. Nothing that you have yet told me leads me 
 in any respect to revise that thought." 
 
 "But I have not finished yet," cried the girl, in a 
 voice of despairing supplication. "You will not re- 
 fuse to hear me to the end." 
 
 She knew that nothing she had still to say might 
 be expected to move him, when she had come so far, 
 and only encountered failure. But she could not yet 
 give up. 
 
 "I have still to tell you," she urged, vehemently, 
 "about these last months. Surely, surely you cannot 
 be without pity when I tell you of his broken spirit, 
 of his agonies in the night, of the black cloud that has 
 settled upon him. The thought that his son is yet 
 alive, and that the curse of that son's hatred is fol- 
 lowing him to the grave devours him unceasingly. 
 Since he learned, some four months since, that your 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 sudden disappearance, three years ago, was not the 
 end, he has not known a moment of peace." 
 
 *'I fear that it will avail you but little," said Barry, 
 with a caustic smile, *^to bring your report down to 
 date ; but at least it will then have the merit of com- 
 pleteness agreeable to a scientific mind Hke mine; 
 and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that 
 you have done your best to soften an obdurate and 
 deeply embittered nature." 
 
 "It is not easy," began Georgia, with a sudden 
 access of timidity that strangely altered her voice, 
 though her resolution never flinched or wavered, "it 
 is not easy for me to tell everything ; but I am going 
 to be absolutely frank with you ; and if you think it 
 indelicate of me to be so personal, I only hope you 
 will appreciate that the story cannot otherwise be 
 made coherent." 
 
 "Go on," he said, once more commencing his 
 caged movements up and down the room. 
 
 "It was the evening before last Thanksgiving," she 
 said, "and a young man, who was a very dear friend 
 of mine, was making us a brief visit. He was em- 
 ployed in an architect's office in New York, and had 
 lodgings in this house." 
 
 She paused a moment to gather courage. The man 
 had suddenly ceased his pacing, and stood stock- 
 still, watching her. She knew that he was watching 
 her: she felt his gaze; but a weight on her eyelids 
 
 33^ 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 seemed to render it impossible for her to look up into 
 his face. Her neck and cheeks mantled with self- 
 consciousness. The room was so still that she heard 
 for the first time the breathing of her auditor. 
 
 "My father, who has been an invalid for a consid- 
 erable time, was very much entertained by — by our 
 guest's — skill at making little impromptu sketches 
 of the various occupants of the house where he lived. 
 He drew several — the landlady, her old father and 
 mother, and a young woman named Jenny — I do 
 not recall who she was — and finally a hasty profile, 
 with which he was not satisfied, of his fellow- lodger. 
 The resemblance to my father's features struck me at 
 once; and I began, out of aimless curiosity, to ask 
 questions about him. The answers to these questions 
 and to a few others, put by my father with what ap- 
 peared to be a perfectly casual interest, gave him the 
 information that has led finally to my errand. But at 
 that time I had not the least — " 
 
 Her Hstener interrupted her with a gesture of 
 impatience. 
 
 "No matter about that," he directed. "I want you 
 to tell me something further of this friend you have 
 mentioned. You say he was your friend. Do you 
 mean that he is not, now?" 
 
 She raised her eyes to him for the first time since 
 entering upon this most difficult stage of her recital. 
 He was looking at her with consuming attentiveness ; 
 
 33'^ 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 the cold, contemptuous expression had vanished from 
 his features. He appeared to be hanging upon her 
 answer. She could not understand it at all. But the 
 instinct that tutors suppliants to grasp an advantage 
 too slight to be perceptible, even, to others, impelled 
 her to indulge his curiosity, at whatever cost to her- 
 self. The present was no moment for reticence. Her 
 father's soul might be the price. If her stern judge 
 showed any least hint of relenting, she had no right to 
 withhold aught from him. 
 
 *^No," she answered, candidly. "He is not my 
 friend now. We parted the next day. I have not seen 
 him since, nor do I expect to see him again." 
 
 **He had offended you in some way, I take it," 
 pursued Barry, mercilessly. 
 
 Her pride rose fiercely in revolt against the inso- 
 lence of the man's curiosity ; but she quelled it, an- 
 swering him again with unflinching directness and 
 honesty. 
 
 "He had not been true to me." 
 
 "You mean that he had become entangled with 
 some other woman?" 
 
 Tears of hot indignation rose into her eyes. She 
 clutched her resolution desperately. 
 
 "Only the previous week he had — been with her. 
 Then he came to me." 
 
 "Oh, I see. He told you nothing of it all. He 
 made a secret of it. You found out by some accident." 
 
 333 ' 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She grasped the arms of her chair to brace herself. 
 
 "On the contrary, he told me everything." 
 
 Looking into the man's face through tingling eyes, 
 she saw a triumphant smile upon his proud lips. She 
 could bear the torture no longer. Again she sprang 
 to her feet, aching with rage, her fists unconsciously 
 clenched. 
 
 "What right have you to look at me like that?" 
 she cried. "Have you no regard for a woman's feel- 
 ings? Does it delight you to see me suffering?" 
 
 The man stood back imperiously, and raised his 
 gaunt hand with a silencing gesture. 
 
 "Philip confessed everything to you, and begged 
 you to forgive him. He offered every reparation in 
 his power ; and you hardened your heart against him. 
 You come to me suing forgiveness in the name of a 
 man who has hidden his guilt until the grave is about 
 to close over his head, who has lived a lie for half a 
 century. How do you reconcile, may I ask, these two 
 courses of action ? Either you are not in earnest about 
 your father, or you must admit to having worked a 
 grievous wrong to the man who loved you, who — as 
 I know well, though he has never mentioned your 
 name to me — loves you now, better than his life. 
 What is this forgiveness you talk of?" 
 
 He stopped, with an extended hand that called upon 
 her for an answer. She was silent, staring at him 
 blindly, her jaw slightly dropped. He folded his arms 
 
 334 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 once more, and leaned against the door, watching her 
 inflexibly out of denouncing eyes. 
 
 Seconds passed before she could find words; and 
 even then they were only words of evasion. 
 
 "I do not understand," she protested, weakly, 
 "why you should so concern yourself with my private 
 affairs." 
 
 She realized the cowardice of her feint; but she 
 had been brought to bay. She knew herself without 
 further resource. Her response was nothing more than 
 a vague, meaningless contorsion of spirit, like the 
 death-throe of some beautiful creature of the deep, 
 cast by the tide upon a rocky shore, vainly struggling 
 to return to the element that can sustain it. Georgia 
 made this final blind effort to recover herself, and 
 failed. Before the words were out of her mouth, 
 she knew that she had put herself in her antago- 
 nist's power. But she was totally unprepared for 
 the flaming invective which he poured out upon 
 her. 
 
 "Your private affairs!" he cried, scornfully. 
 " Your affairs ! And pray what makes them yours ? 
 Are they not equally my affairs, concerning as they 
 do the one being in the world whom I love ? The man 
 you have cast off as unworthy your exquisite, dainty 
 purity and blameless virtue is the man who has gone 
 down after my soul into its black pit of despair and 
 darkness, and who, at the price of his heart's blood, 
 
 335 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 has borne it back into the light of day. Thanks to him, 
 and to none other, I am rescued from a curse that has 
 been a thousand times worse than death. 
 
 *^Who warmed me with his own body when the 
 chill of the pit was upon me ? Who welcomed my 
 hatred and my curses when the craft of the fiend had 
 shut up my reason and turned me into a starving 
 beast? Who trampled underfoot, for my sake, the 
 most seductive and tyrannical desire of youth, that he 
 might stand by my side when the battle was desper- 
 ate ? The man whose touch brought soilure to your 
 fair white hands." 
 
 The girl buried her face in terror as his denuncia- 
 tion was heaped upon her. She felt herself being 
 annihilated with the thunderbolt. A paroxysm of fear 
 shook her. She did not raise her head, when he 
 paused ; but she heard his panting breath close above 
 her, and her muscles quivered and stiffened like those 
 of an animal who sees the whip raised for the pun- 
 ishing stroke. 
 
 "Somewhere in the Bible," resumed Barry, more 
 quietly, but with bitter incisiveness, — "a book which 
 I assume you are more familiar with than I, — there 
 is a passage about judgment, and sheep on the right 
 hand, and goats on the left. Do you, by any chance, 
 recall the strange words which the Eternal Arbiter 
 pronounces to the sheep?" 
 
 His voice assumed a prophetic fervour, so like her 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 father's in its tones, that it struck her with an uncanny 
 dismay. 
 
 *^ I was a stranger, and ye took me in ! '' cried Barry, 
 solemnly. *^ Naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, 
 and ye visited me ; I was in prison, and ye came unto 
 me. — In prison ! — In prison I — Ah, it was he, it 
 was PhiHp, who had the key to my prison, and who 
 flung wide its door. So long as I possess his love, I 
 shall be free!" 
 
 The girl could no longer support her anguish. The 
 strength went out of her quailing limbs; she sank 
 to the floor, reaching forth her hands, vaguely, 
 with bUnd supplication toward the knees of her 
 judge. 
 
 "I have done wrong," she moaned. "My heart 
 has been hardened with pride. Oh, — have pity!" 
 
 There were tears in his own eyes, as he lifted her to 
 her feet. The flame of anger had died out of him at 
 the sight of her humiliation — proof uncontrovertible 
 of the nobility and truth of her soul. 
 
 "If I have been cruel," he said, in an altered voice, 
 "it is because the boy is very dear to me, and because 
 I long to see him happy. You are the only one in the 
 world who can make him happy. For the salvation of 
 his own honour and integrity, he has broken the net 
 that bound him. If ever a man's hands were clean, 
 his are. His soul is starving and crying out for you." 
 
 She gazed up at him with swimming, doubtful eyes. 
 337 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 "Do you think he will forgive me?" she asked. 
 
 "He believes that he has nothing to forgive. He 
 has never had one thought of blame for you. — Will 
 you tell your father that he has my pardon, fully and 
 freely offered, and that he owes it not to any deserts 
 of his, nor to the unflinching devotion of his daughter, 
 nor to anything in heaven or earth except my boy?'* 
 
 Georgia reeled, and caught herself by the corner- 
 post of the bed. Had she heard aright ? Had he truly 
 uttered the words that, but a few minutes before, had 
 seemed as far and unrecoverable as the voices of 
 Creation Day? 
 
 "Did you give me a message for my father?'' she 
 gasped. "Did you say you would forgive him?'* 
 
 The man smiled at her with a lofty illumination of 
 visage that she would never forget the splendour of. 
 
 "I did; and I said that it was for Philip's sake." 
 
 She sat down weakly on the bed, and buried her 
 face on her arm, against the footboard, overcome by 
 uncontrollable sobs. The man watched her for an 
 instant only ; then quietly withdrew from the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 He went up two flights of stairs, and knocked at 
 the first door. A voice bade him enter. 
 
 Philip had just come home from work, and was 
 washing his face at the washbowl. 
 
 "Hello, old man?" he said, blinkingly. "How 
 goes it?" 
 
 338 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 **Fine," replied Barry. 
 
 He seated himself familiarly on the table, and 
 calmly took out a stogie from an inner pocket. As he 
 lighted it, he said, — 
 
 "Do you want to do something for a person who 
 needs your help?" 
 
 The boy was vigorously toweUing his face. He 
 looked at Barry in amused consternation. 
 
 "I hope it's not a girl," he said, with a wry smile. 
 
 "I won't tell you who it is," said Barry, mysteri- 
 ously. "All I can tell you is that it's a case that re- 
 quires your help — that no one can help but you." 
 
 "What can I do?" demanded Philip. 
 
 "You can put on your collar and coat as fast as 
 you damned can ; run down to the ground-floor ; and 
 knock at the door of the extension chamber." 
 
 "Go on!" asked the boy, gasping. "Are you in 
 earnest?" 
 
 "I never was more so," replied the man with an 
 inscrutable smile. "There's no time to be lost. 
 Explanations can be deferred till later." 
 
 Philip followed directions wonderingly. He could 
 not conceive what singular vagary had seized his 
 neighbour. The extension chamber! But that was 
 Victorine's room. Could she have been taken ill? 
 Was she in some trouble ? But why was this business 
 for him, and no one else? 
 
 "Well, here goes, old man!" he announced. "If 
 
 339 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 it's a put-up job, why, you catch it later; that's 
 all." 
 
 He hastened down the two flights ; he stepped shyly 
 to the extension door, and knocked. A faint voice, 
 that somehow awakened vague thrills of memory in 
 him, told him to enter. He turned the knob timidly, 
 opened the door, went in, and shut it softly behind 
 him. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 Before March was out, the Colonel had been 
 gathered to his fathers. His last weeks were serene. 
 Georgia was constantly at his bedside. Death no 
 longer appeared to him in any other guise than that 
 of a welcome release from life's weariness. No curse 
 was following him into the dim land beyond the 
 crossing. His daughter's devoted ministrations 
 evoked no bitterness or humiliation of soul. She knew 
 the worst ; and still she loved him. For the first time 
 since his young manhood he knew the comfort and 
 peace of an affection founded on truth. 
 
 It was moreover an immense joy to him to know 
 of the relation that obtained between Philip and 
 the girl. At his explicit direction, she had given him 
 all the details of her interview with Barry, holding 
 nothing back out of any fallacious desire to spare him 
 possible mortification ; and he knew not only what he 
 owed to the young man, but also the reason for the 
 debt. For the first time, as well, he learned some- 
 thing of the tragic events of Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 ^'I sacrificed to my pride," she said, *^the richest 
 privilege of my life. It was left to a flighty little 
 chorus-girl and to his fellow-lodger to give him the 
 help he needed." 
 
 341, 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 They had many talks together in the quiet of the 
 Colonel's chamber. They opened to one another, as 
 had never before been possible, their inmost hearts. 
 Each had quaffed to the last drop a dark cup of suffer- 
 ing; to each had been accorded a new and exalting 
 vision. Reticence was unnatural, full communication 
 imperative, with the love of the years behind and the 
 day of ultimate separation so close ahead. The sweet 
 solemnity of those weeks sank deeply into the fabric 
 of the girl's being, staining it with a richer, more 
 royal hue than any it had before revealed. 
 
 It was not until the middle of April — more than 
 a fortnight after Colonel Raeburn's death — that 
 PhiHp was able to leave town. He came out to High- 
 stone in the early afternoon, and they took a long 
 walk together through familiar woods. 
 
 In the woods of mid-April, Hfe and death, dissolu- 
 tion and growth, oblivion and promise, find a mystic 
 intermingle and fusion that tutor the susceptive 
 spirit to new faith. The earth is still cold ; remnants 
 of the winter's snow linger on the northward side of 
 each little ledge and boulder ; everywhere is the sound 
 of drip and trickle and ooze. The buds on the ash 
 trees and the beeches are swollen; here and there a 
 swamp-maple has begun to veil itself in faint scarlet ; 
 rusty catkin banners are half unfurled in the alder 
 thickets ; but still there is no green, no open declara- 
 tion, no panoply of the oncoming season. The naked 
 
 342 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 branches overhead still rattle in the wind. There are 
 no songs amongst them. Underneath, the dead leaves 
 lie thick. 
 
 Yet it is just here, under the very pressure of this 
 mantle of death, that the new spring is teeming. 
 Her first shy children have been brought forth, sweet 
 pledges of affection, fragrant gages of the multitu- 
 dinous beauty held in store. What an inexpressible 
 delight, like the first kiss of love after long absence, 
 to discover, under the decaying leaves of the previous 
 year, the small, pink, waxen clusters of the arbutus, 
 distilling an ambrosial perfume. 
 
 On the edge of a piece of timber-land, above the 
 second pasture, a well-remembered haunt of other 
 springs, they had found it that afternoon, dearest 
 flower of all to the children of New England. A little 
 deeper within the covert of the woods, amid rocky 
 clefts, they had surprised the pale liverworts, and the 
 tender, spirit-white blood-root, ichor-nourished, still 
 clasped in its natal sheathing-leaf. 
 
 It was a day of lowering clouds and rising wind; 
 and before supper was ended, a pelting rain had set 
 in. As they sat alone, later, before the open fire in the 
 library, they heard the storm moan and whine about 
 the lofty eaves of the house. The invalid chair had 
 been removed. Georgia was in black. Her face had 
 grown pale under the fatigues of the long winter ; but 
 it wore an expression of serenity which was new to it. 
 
 343 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 She sat in the deep arm-chair; and at her feet, on the 
 hearth-rug, sat her lover, his head against her knees, 
 one of her hands clasped along his cheek, and pressed, 
 at times, caressingly to his lips. 
 
 The fire flashed fitfully in the gusts of the storm. 
 Now and then a splash of rain would be flung against 
 the tall window. There was no sound of Hfe in the 
 great house. 
 
 Georgia remembered how, as they had made their 
 way homeward, that Thanksgiving afternoon, it had 
 seemed to her that there were no other living beings 
 in all the world but they two. Now, once again, they 
 were alone together. But how different the solitude! 
 
 An unspeakable gratefulness, that brought the mist 
 to her eyes, welled up in her, as she listened to the 
 dismal mutterings of the storm, that she had Philip 
 again. Together! — Ah, nothing else seemed to 
 matter any more. 
 
 She wondered how she had ever been able to carry 
 her burden through the barren, despairing months 
 without him. She ran the fingers of her uncaptured 
 hand gently through his gleaming hair. If he were 
 to be taken from her now ! — She shuddered. 
 
 The man at her feet shuddered responsively, — 
 had some kindred thought perhaps at the same mo- 
 ment fled across his own mind ? — and pressed her 
 slim fingers to his lips. It seemed a promise; more 
 potent than words, to assure her. 
 
 344 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 Ay, let the storm rage as it would ! She cared not. 
 With her hand in his, what was there to affright? 
 With his arms to comfort and cherish, how could she 
 be dismayed? 
 
 And for him? — Her heart was confident. He 
 knew that she needed him. Ah, she had not let him 
 guess that before. Her pride, her jealous independ- 
 ence had blinded her own spirit and dulled her per- 
 ceptions. She had not known even — until too late — 
 that she needed him. But now! — he had come to 
 her when she had been crushed and fainting and for- 
 spent with anguish, and she had given herself to his 
 strength. He would never forget that. He had never 
 been disloyal to this deepest instinct of his being, an 
 instinct that had sufficed to tear him from the nets of 
 enchantment, and set him upon his feet, even when 
 love had withdrawn its offices of aid. 
 
 No words were spoken between the two. But the 
 silence was full of voices. The storm without, the 
 dark night, and the glowing, faithful fire were speaking. 
 A thousand memories — memories shared by both, 
 memories unshareable — were speaking. A presence 
 felt, though not to be perceived by the outward eye, 
 was delivering its solemn exhortation. The strong 
 brown hand that held the white one so tenderly, 
 reluctant ever to release it, was communicating a 
 world-old, new-bom mystery, far beyond the compass 
 of utterance. 
 
 345 
 
ENCHANTED GROUND 
 
 When so many voices were to be listened to by the 
 spirit, some still understood but dimly, others enter- 
 tained by perceptions love-tutored to their message, 
 words of mortal speech could seem but a desecra- 
 tion of the timeless silence. 
 
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