THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 8ERTRAND SMITH - 
 ACRES OF SOOKS 
 PACIFIC AVENUJf
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY EDGAR FAWCETT, 
 
 Author of "An Ambitious Woman," "A New York Family, 
 "Women Must Weep," "An Heir to Millions," "The House 
 at High Bridge," "A Gentleman of Leisure," etc. 
 
 F. TENNYSOX XEELY, 
 
 PUBLISHER . 
 LONDON. XEW YORK.
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 
 by 
 "F. TENNYSON NEELY, 
 
 in 
 United States 
 
 and 
 Great Britain. 
 
 All Rights Reserved.
 
 5 7 
 
 TO HENRY JAMES: 
 
 With the touch of a Velasquez you have painted many 
 portraits. No living Briton or American ranks above 
 you in your art* And so with reverence for the depth 
 and reach of it, I venture to make you my modest 
 offering, as one to whom your gifts have been for years 
 a delight, and by whom your fame, now strengthening 
 
 with time, was long ago foretold. 
 
 E. F. 
 
 Venice, April, J898.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT was one of those lovely April nights that sometimes 
 bend over New York with the sparkle of winter in their 
 stars and the blanduess of late spring in their large-flow 
 ing breezes. Clock was answering clock throughout the 
 vast town; and each, in big tolls, or low throbs, or far 
 away fairy trebles, counted eleven strokes before it ceased. 
 
 A j'oung man paused at the gateway of Abingdou 
 Square park. A few people were scattered here and there 
 among the benches, dusky shapes of either sex. A tree or 
 two in the little triangular park sent out plaintive rustles. 
 If you had a turn for analogies you might have thought 
 their boughs were shuddering at all the bitter poverty 
 near by. For Abingdon Square, though far from being 
 a grossly squalid quarter, is still girt with haunts of 
 pinching want. Near it is Bethune Street, and Bank 
 Street, and Horatio Street, and Jane Street, and many 
 another shabby biding-place of those for whom life 
 means only struggle and fear. But the sweet, cool star 
 light romanticized all dinginess. Hudson Street and 
 Eighth Avenue, sweeping to left and right, lost their 
 daytime look of commonness, and the ungainly cars had 
 become merely fire-specked ghosts of themselves, with 
 ghosts of jaded horses to draw them. Now and then rose 
 long, mellow booms from craft on the neighboring river, 
 dying softly away like mystic laments that seemed to de 
 plore something which they could not explain, to ask 
 something of the immense, shadowy, life-packed city 
 which it either could not or would not answer. The 
 young man, though strong of frame, was tired, and he 
 leaned on the old iron railing at the edge of the gateway.
 
 4 NEV7 YORK. 
 
 Just then a policeman, burly in his official buttons, with 
 an auburn cataract of mustache, came sauntering up. 
 
 "Can't loaf on the railing like this. Either go in or 
 out." 
 
 "I I was going in," hesitated the young man. Then, 
 as he was about to pass through the gateway, a hand 
 caught his arm. 
 
 "Oh, it's you?" said the policeman, with a veiled sneer. 
 "You'd better get home, George Oliver. We don't want 
 no fellers like you loafin' round here." 
 
 The young man faced the policeman, though not at all 
 defiantly. He was tall and of compact build a figure so 
 clean-limbed, broad-chested, slim of waist, spare of thigh, 
 that his ill-fitting rusty clothes could not hide these 
 phj'sical graces. Beneath his slouched hat was a glimpse 
 of curly brown hair. His face, full of fatigued pallor, 
 had few flaws in its regular moulding. Yet it was not a 
 face that made you think of beauty no doubt half bo- 
 cause of its fleshly thinness and half because of its grave, 
 fagged, troubled look. He had not passed his twenty- 
 fifth year, though then and there he seemed ten years 
 older. 
 
 "You know me, officer?" he said very quietly. "I 
 thought I'd changed too much for that." 
 
 "You've changed some yes. But I knowed ye. 
 I've seen ye round here sev'ral times. When did ye get 
 out?" 
 
 "Three weeks ago." 
 "Sent up for three years, wasn't ye?" 
 
 "Yes. But good conduct Oh, never mind, though. 
 I'm out now, and much it profits me! Even if work 
 wasn't so hard to get nowadays, I don't suppose I could 
 find anything decent to do. The brand of the jailbird 
 is on me." 
 
 George Oliver spoke these words in a cold, slow mono 
 tone. But the next moment his dark eyes very dark 
 blue they really were, but black in the lamplight kindled 
 a little as he ran them over the policeman's features, 
 naturally genial, though now puckered into a dogged, 
 suspicious cramp. 
 
 "Oh, I remember you perfectly. You're Garrety.
 
 NEW YORK. 5 
 
 You were on this same beat when I was going to the New 
 York College." 
 
 The other nodded, with haughty solemnity. "I guess 
 that's so. And they used to say your father, 'fore he 
 died, was a kind of a gentleman, one o' the broken-down 
 sort. ' ' 
 
 "He was. He died when I was seventeen. He came 
 to this country in 1867, from England. He had success 
 in business at first. Then bad health overtook him, and 
 he moved from West Ninth Street, over between Fifth 
 and Sixth Avenues, to lodgings in "West Twelfth Street, 
 a short walk from here. It was a better part of the town 
 then than it is now. My mother's there yet. . I'm living 
 there, too, since I left Sing Sing. She's not in any need ; 
 her wants are small. There's eleven hundred a year in 
 surance money." 
 
 Garrety measured the speaker with a gaze of incredu 
 lous scorn. George Oliver did not seem in the least 
 offended by it. Ever since his release from prison he 
 had never met any one who knew him and yet treated him 
 at all differently. His pride, in a certain sense, had long 
 ago been deadened; there were times when every manful 
 impulse in his soul struck him as having lost the faintest 
 power of assertion. The libers of his native virility were 
 like some elastic substance that could no longer spring 
 back when pulled, like some ball that failed to rebound. 
 He had been speaking with a certain careless apathy. 
 He did not expect to be believed. Everybody who knew 
 him either doubted what he said in such a way that he 
 guessed distrust or in such a way that distrust was flaunt- 
 ingly manifest. 
 
 Garrety chose a kind of middle course. 
 
 " 'Leven hundred dollars a year, eh? That coat ye got 
 on, and them pants, and them shoes, don't show it. You 
 ain't dressed like a tramp, but then you ain't dressed 
 first-class." 
 
 A strange dignity flashed up in George Oliver, and 
 then quickly faded. It was hardly explainable save per 
 haps by a slight back-throwing of the head, and yet his 
 observer noted it and inly scoffed at it. But the young 
 man's next words were patient, stolid and colorless as 
 before.
 
 6 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I don't touch a cent of that money (though I could 
 have it all, if I chose) except for the barest necessities 
 washing, car fare, and a few small needs like that. If I 
 did otherwise it would take from my mother's comforts 
 in the end. As it is, she has all that she requires, and 
 a companion to watch her as well. I sleep there and get 
 my meals there, but that's about all. My poor mother 
 never really knows me." 
 
 "How's that? Never knows ye?" growled Garrety, 
 as if each new word fed his skepticism, and as if he were 
 telling himself that this ex-convict wished to palm off on 
 him "a pack o' lies." 
 
 George Oliver's garrulity bad something primitive and 
 elementary in its lack of all reserve. This officer of the 
 law was a human being, such fact for the time sufficed 
 him. His social instincts, repressed for three years, and 
 always with gruff contempt as a prime factor of the sub 
 jugation, broke out now with a random, weed-like wildness. 
 At twenty-two, with his education and his sense of dis 
 tinct superiority, he would not have dreamed of mention 
 ing his own affairs, the antecedents of his father, the 
 name of his mother, to an illiterate person like this 
 policeman. But now all had changed. The world, the 
 new world on which he had emerged from prison walls, 
 was made up of two classes those who despised him to 
 the verge of shutting their ears against him altogether, 
 and those who did not despise him enough to let him 
 hear the sound of his own voice. It had been stifled so 
 many months, that voice, in the austere glooms of cell 
 and corridor, under the cold frowns of keepers! He 
 felt a certain vanity in using it; often he did so mechani 
 cally, as an athlete, long debarred from exercise, will 
 loosen or tighten his muscles for the very joy of hearing 
 them creak, of seeing them swell and dwindle. His can 
 dors, as at present, were often irrepressible as they were 
 pathetic and unartificial. He loved his regained free 
 dom, and sometimes had almost hysteric desires to test it. 
 Calamity, that terrible socialist, had taught him scorch 
 ing precepts. He had often hungered, during these three 
 past weeks of liberation, for the vital flesh and blood 
 testimony that he was no longer a caged and driven and 
 dominated slave.
 
 NEW YORK. 7 
 
 "No," he now went on, "my mother never knows me any 
 more. She lost her mind after my trial and conviction. 
 She thinks I am somebody else. Or, not quite that, but 
 somebody very different from what I really am." 
 
 "Umph," grunted Garrety. He surveyed the tall, 
 lithe shape, the pallid face, the demeanor of humility 
 and sincerity so clearly mingled, crestfallen yet somehow 
 dignified, wistful yet somehow touched by courage. 
 
 But concerning all men with records like George 
 Oliver's, he was (and who shall say how unjustly?) a 
 doubter to the bone. He had seen so many of them; he 
 had so often looked straight into the rottenness below 
 their most decorative and enticing plausibilities. He 
 rolled the quid in his plump, florid cheek, spat on the 
 ground with a hint of so treating the late recital of his 
 interlocutor, and brought out, in a throaty, satiric mum 
 ble : 
 
 "O' course ye were innercent. The likes o' you al 
 ways is!" 
 
 "Innocent?" said George Oliver. Then, steadily, 
 after a slight silence, he added: "No oh, no. I was 
 guilty. At the trial I wanted to say so, but the lawyers 
 kept me silent. I did all I was accused of doing, and got 
 precisely the punishment I deserved." 
 
 Garrety stared at him aghast. In all his experience of 
 criminals (and it had been a wide one, dating back into 
 a personal past of the grimiest character) he had never 
 before heard so prompt and frank an admission from any 
 body whom the prison shears and the degrading stripes 
 had marked as their own.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 II. 
 
 A SPECIES of pity and even respect wakened in the cal 
 lous nature of this listening policeman. Perhaps una 
 ware of the softened note or two in his voice, he queried : 
 
 "So ye got sent up square and just, eh?" 
 
 "Yes. There might have been a little more mercy 
 shown to my youth. Some people, I believe, thought 
 there was too much. I was only twenty-two years old, 
 you know." 
 
 "That ivas young, wasn't it?" 
 
 Garrety could not have told why, instead of muttering 
 this sentence, he did not say something professionally 
 curt and brusque, like "move on, now," or "get along 
 with ye." But a queer spell thralled him one which 
 he would have defined as mere curiosity, scarcely 
 aware of humane sympathies at root of it. 
 
 "You see," said George Oliver, with a ruminative look 
 that seemed to seek some goal far off beyond one of the 
 policeman's stalwart shoulders, "I got into the company 
 of three men that were each ten years older than I. I'd 
 left the college. I'd been out nearly two years; I gradu 
 ated at about twenty, seventh in a big class. They were 
 
 fellow-employees in the National Brooklyn Bank. It 
 
 was my duty to make certain entries. Their names were 
 Gleene and Brigham. But perhaps you remember." 
 
 "M No. I guess I don't." Garrety stroked his 
 fleshy chin with a hand each finger nail of which was a 
 black arc of dirt. "I may have. But I guess I don't any 
 more." 
 
 "Gleene and Brigham each got twenty years. You 
 see, they thought they'd be safe if they could have those 
 entries made on two or three of the books in my hand 
 writing my figures. They had erasing acids so it 
 came out in the trial and they were ready to use them 
 on my penmarks the minute I'd consent to write what
 
 NEW YORK. 9 
 
 they wanted where the acids made blanks. They first 
 tempted me by being nice to me. I was flattered ; I 
 hardly knew what drink was, and they gave me two or 
 three suppers, where I lost my head and behaved silly. 
 It was champagne; I'd seldom touched it before, and I 
 liked it, as most boys do for, after all, twenty-two isn't 
 much past boyhood. It seemed to me that the3 r stood so 
 high at the bank, and were so kind to take a fancy to me 
 like that. I came home, once or twice, befuddled with 
 the wine, to my mother. She scolded me, and almost pxit 
 me to bed poor mother! and yet, when I told her in 
 whose company the thing had happened, and how fine the 
 supper had been, she forgave me, or at least softened in 
 her judgment of the whole folly. It went on like that 
 for several months. I never suspected what they wanted. 
 I never suspected when they had a woman, one evening, 
 at a supper in a private room a woman whom I thought, 
 then, the most charming lady I had ever seen. Gleene 
 introduced her to me as his cousin, a widow, Mrs. Car 
 son. It came out in the trial that her past record was 
 horrible, and that her real name but this doesn't matter. 
 "Well, Mrs. Carson and I got to know one another well. 
 I thought her the sweetest and purest woman on earth. 
 It wasn't love it was a coarser kind of fever. One day, 
 over in Brooklyn, she told me that if she could not get 
 five hundred dollars she would have to leave the city. 
 This agonized me, but I felt I could do nothing. I was 
 so crazed by the feelings she had roused in me that I 
 would have begged my mother for the money if I had 
 not known that she was powerless to give me so large a 
 sum out of her insurance income, paid only by instal 
 ments. Meanwhile Gleene and Brigham pretended not 
 to know that I had ever seen Mrs. Carson after the first 
 night on which I met her. She had slipped her address 
 into my hand under the table, as if with the most im 
 mense secrecy, and later she begged me not to tell her so- 
 called 'cousin' that we had ever afterward crossed one 
 another's paths. Gleene would be very angry, she said, 
 and I believed her what villanous lies did I not believe, 
 in those doomful days! Both Gleene and Brigham 
 stood high at the Brooklyn bank. One was cashier, and
 
 10 NEW YORK. 
 
 the other was the vice-president's nephew. A little while 
 after Mrs. Carson's imploring request, we three had an 
 other supper together. It was in a private room in the 
 Hoffman House. I met them downstairs by appointment, 
 and drank with them at the bar there, just opposite that 
 beautiful picture of Bouguerau's bathing nymphs. I 
 think, sometimes that if I should see it again, great work 
 of art that it is, I should try in some mad way to tear the 
 canvas from the frame. For it reminded me aided by 
 the fiery little glass of drink I took with them of " 
 
 Here George Oliver, pausing suddenly, passed a hand 
 once or twice with speed across his forehead. "But 
 never mind that, either. It wasn't till we three were 
 seated together in the gilded little room, and I saw the 
 red wines and the yellow wines in their decanters, and 
 observed that there was no lady present, no particular 
 reason evident why such a feast as this should be spread 
 for just us three, that a real doubt crept into my stupid 
 young head. But, Gleene and Brigham were very shrewd. 
 They talked about their recent successes in "\Yall Street, 
 and said not to me, but as if they were careless whether 
 I listened or no that by a certain turn in stocks that, 
 day they must have made a great deal of money. And I 
 thought of Mrs. Carson and her pleading face and tearful 
 blue eyes, and wondered if either of them would lend me 
 five hundred dollars. Then such a request seemed the 
 height of boldness to me, for how on earth could I repay 
 any sum like that? With my small salaiy it would have 
 taken me months to repay even a hundred. 
 
 "I forget just how they brought the conversation 
 round to that one main point. The wine caused me to for 
 get. But of course they began by making me realize that 
 I could earn a large amount of money if I did for them a 
 certain thing. I asked them, then and quite hotly and 
 proudly, too if it was any thing wrong. Then I recollect 
 feeling sure it was wrong, but that I would at once re 
 ceive a thousand dollars in cash if I did it. A thousand 
 dollars! The very thought of it set my head swimming 
 more than did their champagne. And at length they 
 told me what it was they wanted rne to do. 
 
 "I was very angry at first. I longed to fling myself 
 out of the room ; I felt as I would have felt if they had
 
 NEW YORK. 11 
 
 struck me across the mouth, or kicked me. I seemed to 
 see my mother's face arid to hear her voice, as she called 
 'George, George come away.' 
 
 "But another face pushed hers back Mrs. Carson's. 
 I heard them through, and understood just how easy it 
 would all be. Gleene, the cashier, could go into the 
 Brooklyn bank at any hour of the night he wished; the 
 watchman wouldn't dream of preventing him. He had, 
 also, the keys of certain safes. A particular ledger my 
 own was just where he could lay hands upon it. Would 
 I go over there with them that night and make the en 
 tries? They could have made the erasures with their 
 acids, they explained, and made their own false entries 
 afterward. But I would have detected this (or so they 
 feared) and have raised an alarm about it. 
 
 "Well, I did the vile thing, and before midnight I'd 
 got my wage. But I never saw Mrs. Carson again. 
 When I went to her house I found she had gone no one 
 could tell me anything. It was just that; she had gone. 
 There was my money, but I cursed it as Judas did his 
 thirty silver pieces. I put it into a bank a New York 
 one, not the Brooklyn one, where I was clerk and vowed 
 I would not touch a cent of it till I could get some trace 
 of her. After awhile I ventured to ask Gleene concern 
 ing her. He laughed in my face when I called her his 
 'cousin.' 'She was no more to me than a street-lamp, ' 
 he said scoffingly. And he said other things, and I felt 
 like killing him when I saw how devilishly he had fooled 
 me. Then I taxed him with the meanness and baseness 
 of his behavior, but he only laughed again in mockery, 
 and dared me to expose either himself or Brigharn, since 
 I was as deep in the mud as they were in the mire. 
 This was true enough. I had restless, tortured feelings 
 for weeks afterward, and drew the money from the New 
 York bank by a hundred or thereabouts at a time, and 
 spent it in vicious ways, trying to lull my inward pangs. 
 I hid it from my mother, but she saw the effects of it in 
 my mode of life, and grieved greatly. It was nearly all 
 spent when the crash came. Gleene and Brigham were 
 arrested while trying to reach Canada. The police got 
 hold of me more easily. . . . After that the Brooklyn
 
 12 NEW YORK. 
 
 prison mother's awful sorrow, and her harrowing 
 visits then the trial, then Sing Sing, and now " 
 
 He paused broken!}'. There was not an emotional 
 quiver in his voice. It was all one colorless monotone. 
 
 His eyes were fixed in a musing stare on the blank dim 
 ness; he now seemed quite to have forgotten the police 
 man's presence, as perhaps he had done quite awhile ago. 
 Garrety gave a husky cough as he stopped speaking, and 
 then slowly reached out a hand and laid it on his arm. 
 
 "That's the way the thing happened, eh?" 
 
 George Oliver started at the man's touch. Then he 
 smiled faintly as he caught a certain look in Garrety 's 
 eyes. "My talk runs on like this," he said, with a shade 
 of apology in his voice. "You must excuse me; it's be 
 ing so long shut up, I suppose, and having no one near 
 me, except," here he stopped short, and ended with a 
 slight sigh, "convicts like myself." 
 
 "If what ye've said is true," said Garrety, "ye'dnever 
 ought to been a convict. And I believe it is true, every 
 word of it." 
 
 His hand dropped from George Oliver's arm, and the 
 latter instantly caught it. He strained it for a moment 
 between tense fingers. His dark-blue eyes were shining 
 moistly. 
 
 "Thank you, ihank you," he said. 
 
 "See here," proposed Garrety, the next minute, with 
 a sidelong jerk of his head. "Ye look tired, and a drop 
 o' something wouldn't hurt ye. I know a place not far 
 off where we C9uld have a drink together in the family 
 entrance, if it happens to be empty, and no blabbin' from 
 the barkeepers, neither. Come along." 
 
 As Garrety turned, the other plucked him lightly by 
 one blue-braided sleeve. "Thank you again, officer, but 
 I think I won't." His tones were very firm. "While 
 I'm like this looking round for some sort of honest work, 
 and terribly anxious in my mind, I'm sure it's best I 
 should keep from all drink. I'm sure it's best unless I 
 give right up altogether, you know, and drop down into 
 the gutter itself that I shouldn't let that sort of danger 
 ous comfort have its wa>- with me. I'll go straight home, 
 now. Thank God I've got a bed there and cleanness and
 
 NEW YORK. 13 
 
 comfort beside. If it wasn't for this one brace to keep 
 me from going all to pieces, I believe I'd throw up the 
 whole game in no time, and either put a bullet through 
 my brain or else get myself back to the hole I've just 
 quitted. And drink, nowadays, would make me do one 
 thing or the other, there's not the ghost of a doubt!" 
 
 Soon Mr. Garrety stalked slowly and martially away. 
 If he had wanted any fresh proof that the young man 
 was a martyr, the fact of his having refused "a drink" 
 would have clinched conviction. He did not move in a 
 circle of society where alcoholic potations are often de 
 clined when proffered. He went to the saloon of which 
 he had just darkly hinted, and swallowed there a clan 
 destine tumblerful of raw whisky. His sympathies, 
 made inactive by experience, and lying under deep crusts 
 of cynicism, had nevertheless been strongly moved. He 
 thought George Oliver's case a fiercely cruel one. It did 
 not occur to him, however, that the object of his pity was 
 not by any means so great a criminal as himself. Now a 
 roundsman, after twelve years' service on the "force," 
 he forgot to consider that he was receiving from this very 
 liquor seller whose draughts of whisky were always 
 gratuitous a regular monthly sum as security against 
 arrest for continuous breaking of the law both on week 
 days and Sundays. He also forgot other payments from 
 other liquor-sellers, and many a banknote of hush-money 
 that harlotry had slipped into his hand. He was an evil, 
 this Garrety, that but yesterday flourished in poisonous 
 hardihood, and that to-day, as they tell us, has been dur 
 ably exercised. At least until his return falsifies this 
 affirmation, let us gratefully endeavor to believe it. 
 
 Meanwhile George Oliver had passed homeward 
 through the April starlight. He entered with his latch 
 key the small brick house in West Twelfth Street, climbed 
 two pairs of dark stairs, and opened the door of his neat 
 little bedroom. There were four rooms on the floor. 
 His mother had lived here for years, though several times 
 the proprietor had changed. In all respects it was a 
 second-rate boarding-house, exclusive of this one suite, 
 for which Mrs. Oliver paid a moderate though very reg 
 ular weekly amount. Her rnealb were served her by the
 
 14 NEW YORK. 
 
 landlady, and those of her faithful nurse as well. When 
 George had come back from his long absence a new ar 
 rangement had been made regarding his meals also, and 
 he had been given his former quarters at the rear of the 
 house. . Beyond was a sort of sitting and dining room, 
 next the sleeping apartment of the "companion," and 
 finally the front room, where Mrs. Oliver spent most of 
 her time. 
 
 "Mr. George!" 
 
 The young man, with a despondent droop of his frame, 
 had just seated himself, after lighting the gas, and was 
 gazing at his small, white, cleanly bed. It was always a 
 grateful sight, nowadays, that bed, though it evoked 
 dreary memories of another, hard and harsh as the life 
 he had lately left. 
 
 "Mr. George!" 
 
 He had not heard the first summons, perhaps because 
 it was so gentle, like the little knock that went with it 
 or perhaps because the roar from an onsweeping train of 
 the neighboring elevated deadened it. He went at once 
 and opened the door that led into the next room. 
 
 "You, Lydia?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How is mother? I was just going to find you and 
 ask." 
 
 "After you went away, this evening, one of her attacks 
 came on. It's very bad, this time." 
 
 "Bad? How do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, you know how I mean! She wouldn't let me put 
 her to bed. She insisted on waiting up for you. She's 
 waiting now. I've had to dress her, and get the crown, 
 and the jewels, and all that!" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I see!" George covered his face, and for 
 an instant the tremors that with a woman would have 
 been tears, jarred his body. 
 
 Lydia laid her hand on his shoulder. As it slid down 
 his arm George seized and pressed it. His underlip 
 shook as he spoke. 
 
 "Good God, Lydia! To think that I made her like 
 this!" 
 
 "No, no," urged the other in a quick, soothing, fluty
 
 NEW YORK. 15 
 
 tone. "You can't be sure of that! Remember wh:it I 
 told you the doctors have said when I asked them. Each 
 one seemed to think the same that in any case it would 
 have come upon her. And remember, we know that her 
 mother and one of her aunts died insane." 
 
 "But ihisjorm of insanity !" George shook his head 
 mournfully incredulous. Then, as if pulling himself to 
 gether: "I'll go in, Lydia. There's no other way, is 
 there?" 
 
 "Oh, no other. I could do nothing with her till dawn, 
 if you didn't. She'd keep awake till sheer exhaustion, 
 made her drop asleep and that wouldn't be for hours 
 yet." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "You're tired," said Lydia, with soft sympathy. 
 
 "Oh, no more than usual. I've been trudging around 
 all day, looking for something to do. They all want rec 
 ommendations, of course even the 'longshoremen's em 
 ployers. And I can't give them mine. I've tried that 
 too often. It always means one answer the door. 
 Come, now, we'll go in." 
 
 "One moment, please," said Lydia. "I oughtn't, 
 perhaps, to tell you now, but it's better you should be 
 prepared if anything happens suddenly." 
 
 "Happens suddenly?" George repeated, while their 
 eyes met.
 
 16 NEW YORK. 
 
 ni. 
 
 LYDIA Lad beautiful eyes, large, and of starry and vel 
 vety blackness. She was a mulatto, and about four years 
 older than her mistress' son. Her features were not per 
 fect, but the African coarseness was utterly absent in them, 
 and the delicate carmine-tinted mouth, with its glimpses 
 of dazzling teeth, rivaled in charm the curled thinness 
 of nostril. At times her coloring was a perfection of 
 damask richness, though usualb' there stayed but a dim 
 hint of pink on the rounded olive of either cheek. But 
 what gave her face its choicest attraction could not easily 
 be put into words. One might safely call it, however, 
 the intelligence of an awakened and enlightened soul. 
 
 George Oliver's father, like many Englishmen, had 
 been totally without prejudice against the negro race. 
 Long ago a certain curiosity had spurred him, in his 
 more prosperous days, to make trial of a full cultivating 
 influence upon one of her degraded class. His wife, 
 agreeable to the plan, stipulated that their adopted child 
 should be a girl, and Lydia, a foundling, was brought 
 to live with them while yet but two years old. Her edu 
 cation cost Robert Oliver more money than he could 
 spare; for he did not trust to the public schools when 
 their doors began to admit negro children, but caused the 
 girl to receive private tuition, in which music and French 
 were comprised. Her career as a scholar was odd. At 
 first she showed discouraging dullness; then some barrier 
 seemed to break away in her brain, and she astonished 
 by her deft aptitudes. "Perhaps her white blood is as 
 serting itself," Robert Oliver would now say, and a 
 little regretfully ; for he had desired to produce a living 
 disclosure of the refinement and superiority which could 
 be wrought in one of purely African blood. But his wife, 
 though sympathetic with his designed experiment, had 
 been charmed by the child's yellowish baby tintings, and
 
 NEW YORK. 1? 
 
 had shrunk from the adoption of a ward whose personality 
 might develop into thick-lipped and squat-nosed ugli 
 ness. As it was, Lydia sweetly rewarded her benefactor, 
 some time before his death, by appealing to him as a far 
 more attractive young creature than he had expected to 
 make her. She had grown into a dark, tall, slender damsel, 
 with all the graces and felicities of deportment and con 
 versation which many of her white sisters, having had 
 equal advantages of training, conspicuously lacked. Her 
 musical talent was marked, and her mastery of the 
 piano distinct if far from thorough. She had a sweet 
 contralto voice, and sang with taste and finish many 
 songs which Mrs. Oliver who had once been an almost 
 brilliant vocalist rejoiced to hear. This lady loved her 
 with so maternal a fondness that she might easily have 
 forgotten her racial stamp if the outward world had not so 
 constantly reminded her of it. George always had 
 treated her as a sister, and her form of address to him as 
 "Mr. George" had latterly been quite of her own choos 
 ing. As lie grew older, and during the years that im 
 mediately followed his father's death, he found himself 
 pronouncing the girl's mode of bringing up "& sad mis 
 take. 
 
 Others had already so pronounced it. Albert Josselyn, 
 a cousin of the Olivers, quarreled with George's father 
 because he invited himself and wife to dine one day, and 
 had Lydia seated at table. The cousins never afterward 
 spoke, but Mrs. Josselyn was much more indignant than 
 her husband. She had been a dressmaker before her 
 marriage, and a rather obscure one, but she was now the 
 wife of a dry goods merchant who cleared his ten thousand 
 a year. 
 
 "I'm told," she bristled, "that a brother of mine is a 
 rough-and-tumble miner, somewhere out in the wild west. 
 But even if he eats with his bowie-knife and wears his 
 boots outside his pants, Albert, I don't believe he'd stand 
 having a negress dine at the same table with him." 
 
 Other acquaintances of the Olivers, much more thought 
 ful and dispassionate, resolved their verdict into this : 
 
 "Lydia is just what her guardian calls her, an experi 
 ment. And as such, she is a failure. With all her fine,
 
 1$ NEW YORK. 
 
 and pretty ladyhood she might much better have beeri 
 taught a little arithmetic, spelling and geography, and 
 left the normal associate of her own people. What, in 
 heaven's name, have they now made of her? A kind of 
 social monstrosity. If Robert Oliver could settle any 
 fixed income on her after his death, it would be different. 
 But when he and his wife die, and the hedging-in proc 
 ess by which they have reared her is ended, how can her 
 life be anything but a misery? Granted that they have 
 made her a lady, and a very charming one. What self- 
 rospecting white man would marry her? Is she fit to be 
 a lady's maid? It's doubtful, for she's never been taught 
 to humble herself in the least. As a common servant, 
 too, she would be almost ridiculous. But provided she 
 remains an honest woman she must put up with the most 
 hateful stings and humiliations. Oh, it's all one of the 
 results of forcing civilization! You can't do that kind 
 of thing without committing wretched blunders. No 
 doubt the poor girl is beginning to feel herself, what a 
 lonely, pitiable person they've turned her into." 
 
 Lydia, of late, had indeed been forced to look at life 
 with all the lines of it sternly hardening. But the sor 
 row of Mr. Oliver's death had first taken her mercifully 
 out of herself, and then, not so long afterward, had come 
 the worse calamity of George's ruin. This, too, had 
 been simultaneous, or nearly so, with his mother's mental 
 wreck. The last three 3 r earshad been to her an incessant 
 self-surrender. There were times when she almost felt 
 thankful for the vigilance and care-taking demanded of 
 all her days. They kept her from brooding and repining 
 from realizing into how strange an anomaly fate had 
 fashioned her. 
 
 "It's something," she now said to George, "that may 
 happen very suddenly, and at any time. And, as I've 
 told you, it's better you should be prepared. You know 
 how quiet and docile your mother is, for days at a time?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But Dr. Win gate, who "was hero to-day, spoke quite 
 frankly with me. He says that all the while her system 
 is growing weaker, and that the end of paresis is nearly 
 always a sudden paralytic stroke. She has paresis, you
 
 NEW YORK. 19 
 
 know, and in her it has taken a strange form, though one 
 that is quite similar, after all, to the ordinary patient's 
 great hopefulness of the future and belief in great pros 
 perity, both present and to come." 
 
 George was silent for awhile. "Poor Lydia!" ho at 
 length said. "If that should happen 3'ou will be left 
 without support of any kind. The insurance money goes 
 with mother's life. I know you you know this. But 
 have you thought of it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And /should have stood between you and poverty 
 penury! I would have done so, with all my will, and 
 with all my affection and fondness, born in our dear old 
 playfellow days, and fostered through the years that fol 
 lowed! I would have done so, Lydia, if I hadn't turned 
 out the infernal scamp and rogue 
 
 "Hush, George," she said, grasping his hand for a 
 moment with her slender fingers, and calling him by the 
 unprefixed name of earlier times. And just then they 
 both heard a distant voice. 
 
 "Lydia!" it called, "Lady Lydia!" 
 
 "Hear! Lady Lydia! Oh, I have an immense rank to 
 night." The next words came after a strangled sob. 
 "I'm Heiress Presumptive to the throne, in case you die 
 childless. Come." She turned, glancing at him across 
 one shoulder with her dusk, plaintive eyes. 
 
 George waited a few seconds, after she had quitted the 
 room, as though trying to nerve himself for what he must 
 meet. Then he went forward into the presence of his 
 poor demented mother. 
 
 "My dear prince! I felt sure you would be late to 
 night. Lady Lydia and I both told ourselves that you 
 would surely be late. There is my hand to kiss. You 
 see, I have on my crown and my robes of office, in which 
 to welcome you. " 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Oliver laughed. The pathos of her lunacy was 
 infinite. George and Lydia stole glances at one another. 
 Extremes meet; in their heart-wrung pity each, perhaps, 
 felt the saturnine humor of this distraught woman's de 
 lusion, and checked the hysteric impulse to echo her 
 ludicrous yet awful mirth,
 
 20 NEW YORK. 
 
 "You may think it foolish in an invalid like myself to 
 employ this almost idle piece of ceremony. But I could 
 not go myself with you to the grand ball given by that 
 grim Duke of Sing Sing" (here George and Lydia ex 
 changed a quick look), "who is, by the way, one of my 
 least lovable courtiers. Yet I have thought it best, and 
 Lady Lydia has thought it best, for me to assume these 
 robes" (they were the flimsiest of pink paper-muslin 
 fineries), "and this crown, which you will recognize as one 
 of our most precious royal belongings, in order to greet 
 you on your return. " 
 
 Mrs. Oliver had thus far spoken in a standing posture, 
 but she now sank feebly back into her armchair. When 
 George's crime first broke upon her there were only faint 
 gray tinges in her hair; now it was white as snow. She 
 had one of those fragile, windflower sorts of faces that 
 grief always sags and furrows and blanches with such 
 ghastly effect. Her tawdry crown of gilt paper made 
 wofuller the ravaged face beneath it. A necklace and 
 girdle of big, gaudy stage jewels flared from her thin 
 throat and waist. 
 
 "I see you are dressed to meet me, mother, " said 
 George, as if dragging out each word. "It is very kind. " 
 
 "Kind! Hear him, Lady Lydia! My boy, it is court 
 etiquette! Once a queen, always a queen." And the 
 crazed woman gave a laugh meant for one of amusement, 
 perhaps, yet cracked and wailful, and dying in a short 
 gasp. 
 
 "His grace of Sing Sing," she went on, with the sud 
 den petulant frown of the insane glooming her features 
 and causing her lips fiercely to purse themselves, "owes 
 us an apology for having kept you so long in his castle, 
 my son. You were rash to visit him, even though this 
 great ball ia evidently given with a wish to propitiate us 
 for past misconduct. He is, when all is said, a rebellious 
 fellow, and before long we shall find means to level his 
 audacious pride. Oh, and we can find means, too, never 
 fear! Long ago secret dispatches were brought us Ladj r 
 Lydia has them telling of his efforts to head a revolt 
 against our throne." 
 
 "Your medicine," said Lydia, drawing near the self-
 
 NEW YORK. 21 
 
 believed monarch with a tumbler of liquid and a spoon. 
 In these acute attacks the doctor had ordered a certain 
 drug, to be taken at somewhat brief intervals apart. 
 
 Mrs. Oliver drew herself up proudly in her chair. She 
 stared for a moment at Lydia, with glazed and haggard 
 eyes. "Taste it yourself first," she enjoined, with great 
 haughtiness. "It is court etiquette." 
 
 Lydia drew back the glass, and made a feint of tasting 
 its contents. George stood watching, with a sick feeling 
 of -horror. He could never get used to these eerie mani 
 festations; they were pregnant for him with a mighty re 
 proach. But for his breaking away from the loving and 
 noble precepts of this same shattered brain, it might still 
 have stayed unharmed through many peaceful years! Oh, 
 the agony of such overthrow! And he had caused it all! 
 He was the viper that had stung so cruellj' his was the 
 poison that had wrought such heart-breaking wreck! 
 
 Mrs. Oliver closed her eyes, soon after this, and let her 
 head fall softly against the back of her chair. 
 
 "Is she asleep?" George whispered to Lydia. 
 
 "It may be. These attacks nearly always end in ex 
 haustion." 
 
 "I'll steal away, then," said George. His face was 
 glistening with sweat-drops. "It's all such torture to 
 me, Lydia you know why " 
 
 And then Mrs. Oliver reopened her eyes and regathered 
 herself into the former forlornly dignified pose. 
 
 "We had forgotten to tell you, George, that we have 
 lately discussed with Lady Lydia, our beloved ward, the 
 question of our succession. You, of course, are our 
 lineal heir. But since there is a chance of j*our not 
 marrj'ing, and also a chance that you may marry without 
 having issue, we have determined to make Lady Lydia 
 heir presumptive to our throne. Long ago, if you re 
 member, it was decided that the sovereign had power, in 
 case the direct line became extinct, to appoint from among 
 his subjects one whom he deemed worthy to wear the 
 crown." And now, again rising, the speaker moved a 
 few paces toward Lydia with steps that plainly tottered. 
 She lifted both hands, and took from her white head the 
 brittle bauble of pasteboard. Her motions were full of
 
 22 NEW YORK. 
 
 a delicate majesty. At the same moment a new slant of 
 light on. her hollowed cheeks showed George that they 
 were strangely, spectrally pale. 
 
 "Bow your head, my dear, "she said to Lydia, who 
 obeyed her. Then she placed the gilt thing on the girl's 
 dark ripples of silky hair. In the moderate light of the 
 room it became Lydia's swart beauty wonderfully, while 
 she looked with a pained, deploring smile at George. 
 
 "In the presence of my actual heir, Lady Lydia, I 
 name you heiress presumptive to our realm, touching for 
 this brief while your brow, my dear, with what is per 
 haps the most sacred relic of our august house." The 
 afflicted lady drew backward now, and clasped her hands 
 in ardent admiration. Then, turning to her son, she 
 continued; "Look, prince, is she not lovely? Why 
 should you not make her, at some day, when I am laid 
 with our forefathers, your consort queen. Surely a 
 marriage like this " 
 
 "Oh, no, no!" struck in Lj'dia, flushing with a sudden 
 unconquerable shame, and impetuousl}' tearing the frail 
 toy from her head. But hardly had her lips framed one 
 cry when another, full of fright, left them. 
 
 In an instant the foretold stroke came. George dashed 
 to his mother and caught her as she was falling to the 
 floor. He and Lydia thought, at first, that she had 
 simply swooned. But all that night and all the next 
 day she lingered unconscious. Then, toward evening, 
 her faint breathings became a silence. 
 
 "She is dead," George faltered very low, standing at 
 Lj^dia's side while she stooped and kissed the white, 
 waxen forehead. Then, still lower, he added : "And I 
 have killed her." 
 
 Though racked with sobs at the loss which meant for 
 her an almost incomparable calamity, Lydia looked up 
 at him and answered abidingly : 
 
 "You should not go through the rest of your life with 
 that thought! You should not, and you must not!" 
 
 "The rest of my life!" he said, with the irony of de 
 spair. "And how must I go through it, branded as I 
 am? How except crawling and shambling and stumbling 
 and cringing? For me there's no other way!"
 
 NEW YORK. 23 
 
 IV. 
 
 AFTEK the quiet little funeral was over, and he and 
 Lydia were again alone together, George regretted what 
 seemed to him the parading selfishness of those bitter 
 words. 
 
 He said as much, and with a tang in his tones of 
 gloomy remorse. "My fate, after all, is not so hard as 
 yours I realize it," he told her. "Beside, it is de 
 served; yours is not. " 
 
 "You have no pity for youself, " she said. 
 
 "None." 
 
 "You don't believe in fate, then? that we are what we 
 must be, and do what we must do? You think human 
 will can make or mar a life, as it pleases?" 
 
 "I don't think this, Lydia, and I do believe in fate. 
 Not to believe in it seems like saying that you doubt if 
 effect follows cause. But, nevertheless, when I look 
 back on what happened three years ago, and remember 
 how I let the clouds of my own wickedness slowly gather 
 over every reminder of truth and honor and goodness 
 my dead father, my devoted mother, you, our quiet and 
 happy and virtuous little home then it seems to me as 
 if my sin must have been purely voluntary a wanton, 
 willful choosing between right and wrong. But I wanted 
 to speak of your own plans for the future, Lydia. Have 
 you formed any?" 
 
 She gave a slight sigh. "There is but one thing for 
 rne to do; I must go into service." 
 
 "You a real servant! You're as much of a lady as any 
 mistress you could find." 
 
 Lydia slightly shuddered. "There's the horror of it," 
 she murmured. 
 
 "The horror of it?" he said quickly. "What do you 
 mean?" Then he suddenly understood.
 
 21 NF,W YORK. 
 
 "If I were less of a lady," she went on, her voice 
 quivering before it gained firmness, and the new lines of 
 grief on her face giving to its mellow-tinted pallor a 
 fresh and unwonted tragic beauty, "I might screw up my 
 courage and be content with the prospect of menial r/ork. 
 But my strength isn't equal to that; I've been too tenderly 
 reared. Oh, the truth is, I've been reared in the most 
 horribly unfortunate way!" She checked herself, biting 
 her lips and lowering her soft, splendid eyes as though 
 in guilty regret. 
 
 "I follow you perfectly," said George, with deep 
 sympathy. "My father and mother should both have 
 considered " 
 
 "No!" she broke in eagerly; "I have nothing for their 
 memories but the most exquisite gratitude! They gave 
 me a childhood full of unforgetablo joy; they made my 
 girlhood sweet for me with hundreds of precious pleas 
 ures. It was only when womanhood began that I looked 
 in the face of my first sorrow your father's death." 
 
 "Then came another my crime." 
 
 She hurried on, ignoring his somber interjection. 
 "Oh, no, if all the rest of my life were one misery, I 
 should still be thankful to them both, as my blessed 
 benefactors! And yet my rearing has been unfortunate 
 I can't help but feel so now. Here I am, brought into 
 direct contact with a world that has for me neither coun 
 tenance, help nor hope. I cannot go and live with my 
 own kind there are reasons why I cannot, reasons which 
 are sternly separative, which I need not explain. And if 
 I live with those who are not of my own kind I must do 
 so only on the conditions of an abasement that will gall 
 and wound. Your dear mother saw no difference. But 
 everyone else saw it and told me of it, by acts and looks, 
 if not by spoken words. Long ago I was forewarned of 
 this absolute isolation. Now it has come it is here; 
 and I must bear it as best I can." 
 
 She was looking down again, her glance resting on her 
 tawny hands, slender and shapely, as they lay half-folded 
 in the lap of her black gown. Perhaps the deep-tinged 
 rose of their taper nails fascinated her as a sort of sym 
 bol ; its very charm told of that unique isolation to which 
 she had just referred.
 
 NEW YORK. 25 
 
 "Poor Lydia!" said George, with a great kindliness of 
 compassion. "/ can't blame the "world for ranking me 
 an outcast, and you are just good and patient enough not 
 to blame it. If I could only smooth the way for you as 
 mother did! If I could only take up her work where 
 she left it off! I'd still give you all the brotherly feeling 
 I've ever had for you, and in return you'd be like the 
 sister j'ou've always been, and in some pleasant home 
 you could seem to outsiders a servant, while in reality 
 you were the sister still. Dreams, dreams! But now," 
 he broke off, with a forced yet energetic brightening of 
 mien, "for the practical side. You may be lucky in find 
 ing some employer who will fully recognize your excep 
 tional position and comfort you, shield you, beyond your 
 wildest present hopes." 
 
 "I've thought of that!" she exclaimed; "I've prayed 
 for it!" Her eyes burned with a melancholy longing, a 
 slumberous gladness, as she raised them once more. "Oh, 
 if there could be some such path as that out of the ter 
 rible tangle !" 
 
 "Let me think, " mused George, gaining relief from 
 his own corosive anxieties in concerning himself with 
 those of this old-time associate, this familiar and 
 cherished friend. "You spoke of your own kind. You 
 might be greatly aided by one of them " He saw a 
 change cross Lydia's face, and swiftly pursued: "I 
 mean, if you knew one, say of your own sex, who was at 
 all lifted beyond the general class, like yourself." 
 
 "I do not know one," she said decisively. "Here, 
 it seems to me, they scarcely exist. In Europe, lam told, 
 there are many, scattered about through its various 
 countries. And here, of course, their admission into the 
 public schools will soon accomplish much. But I have 
 not shrunk, as I think you know, from going among them 
 in charitable ways. Even against your mother's wish, 
 though not disobediently, I have seen a great deal of 
 their life here in this huge town." 
 
 "Yes, I remember. " 
 
 "A kind of race-instinct has spurred me to it, I 
 imagine. And I have felt for them great compassion, 
 great humane impulse. It has all been one of those more
 
 26 NEW YORK. 
 
 recent sorrows of -which I just spoke. For everywhere 
 I have found such a terrible tyranny of caste. They 
 have gained something here in New York; they can ride 
 in street cars; they can send their children to the com 
 mon schools; they can sit in theaters; they can drink 
 (often more's the pity I) in certain saloons; they have 
 white people as superintendents of certain of their 
 asylums and hospitals. But in general their condition 
 is still one of scorn, avoidance, neglect. The Jews of the 
 old European Ghettos were far more persecuted, yet they 
 were not more socially despised. I suppose hundreds of 
 years must elapse before they will cease to engender, by 
 the very fact of what they arc,, a shadow of the real 
 equality which their share in the wide humanity of the 
 world ought to give them." 
 
 "They must have seen, in many instances, Lydia, that 
 you were very far from being one of themselves." 
 
 "Yes, and in many instances, too, they despised me 
 for that same aloofness. Often it excited their con 
 temptuous distrust. They connected it with something 
 corrupt, licentious." 
 
 "What insolence!" 
 
 "Still, excusable. Oh, the enormous pity of it all! 
 For me to go among them with their own blood evidently 
 in my veins, and yet to possess the breeding and manners 
 they had seen only in white women, has affected their 
 foolish ignorance as a proof of my depravity. They 
 imagine, poor things, that I couldn't be as decent and 
 civilized as I am without some sort of mysterious bad 
 ness having made mo so. And as for their own morals! 
 Ah, it has set my heart bleeding again and again," cried 
 Lydia, while her eyes lightened and her nostrils trem 
 bled, "to see the actual swinishness in which many of 
 them live! Their political liberty cost them oceans of 
 tears, and now they must confront a new, inexorable 
 slavery that of caste! Their young women grow up in 
 the slums of the side streets passionate, hot-blooded 
 creatures, full of powers for good, and yet from their 
 birth breathing evil as they breathe the tainted air of 
 their hovels. It is thought nothing for them to sin; 
 their own parents conone and even smile at their loosest
 
 NEW YORK. :;? 
 
 laxities. And with their young men it is the same. 
 Always that horrible pressure pushes them to the wall. 
 No wonder so many of them are thieves and house 
 breakers. Dishonesty is e.rpt><i t '<l of them; if they do 
 not steal they must be prepared for astonishment rather 
 than praise. The summer hotels not all, but a few 
 give them brief employment as waiters. Here their pay 
 is wretched, and the quarters into which they are thrust 
 often surpass for dirt and discomfort those city lairs 
 which they call 'homes.' Now and then they will per 
 suade white women to marry them, but nearly all who take 
 this step belong among the ranks of the abandoned. If 
 a reputable white woman takes it she is cut. by all her 
 relations held up to her sisters and brothers as a wrong 
 doer worthy of only odium and disgust. And to both 
 sexes, as a rule, none but the meanest forms of work aro 
 possible. Scullions, whitewashes, porters, scrubbers, 
 scavengers, keepers of cheap and ramshackle little inns 
 if they strive to be more than these they are soon thrust 
 back agaiu by the great, unfeeling masses of their op 
 pressors!" 
 
 "A sad picture," sighed George. 
 
 "But is it not terrible, too?" And Lydia lifted one 
 clinched hand for a second, letting it fall with the heavi 
 ness of despair. "Terrible, I mean, when you think of 
 all those great men Garrison, Sumner, Beecher, Phil 
 lips, Emerson, "Whittier, and a score of others, who 
 fought for them so fiercely and nobly ! And old John 
 Brown, who died for them! And Lincoln, greatest of 
 all, who freeil them first and died for them after! And 
 to this petty and foul and dismal result! The stigma of 
 the captive has been taken away, but the stigma of 
 poverty and prejudice remains. You may tell me it will 
 not last. I believe it will last hundreds of years, if in 
 deed it ever fades. Not long since, a negro in a little 
 Sixth Avenue stationery shop said to me: 'I come of a 
 respectable Brooklyn family that has been known for 
 two generations in the quarter where it has lived. I am 
 not of the class. that you find hanging about the corners 
 of restaurants. My grandfather managed to save a cer 
 tain amount of money, and we, his descendants, have all
 
 28 NEW YORK. 
 
 received benefits from his tbrift. I am fairly well edu 
 cated, and witb my wife and tbree little ones I bave 
 come over bere to New York to make a living. But it's 
 no use. Customers drift into my shop, get \vbat tbey 
 want, see my color, and never appear again. I am frozen 
 out, boycotted, wbatever you please.' And tbis from a 
 negro wbo would almost bave been called a gentleman if 
 bis skin were wbite. " 
 
 Tbey talked on like tbis for a long wbile, Lydia dis 
 closing melancholy trutbs and ber bearer botb heeding 
 and sympatbizing. 
 
 At last George said: "You know, I suppose, Lydia, 
 just bow motber's affairs are left. Had sbe any saved 
 mone3 r any to apeak of?" 
 
 "Yes. I can sbow you ber tbree savings bank books. 
 Let me get tbern for you." Lydia disappeared, soon re 
 turning. "Tbere," sbe said presently, pointing to cer 
 tain pages, one after auotber. "Your motber bad been 
 very economical. Sbe was always tbinking of you. And 
 after your misfortune bappened, sbe was even more care 
 ful of every dime." 
 
 "Here," said George presently, "is a record of twelve 
 hundred dollars yet to ber credit." 
 
 "Yes twelve buudred dollars. Sbe saved tbat 
 amount." 
 
 "There's a will?" asked George, after a pause. 
 
 "No. I'm sure sbe made none. It's all yours." 
 
 "All mine, Lydia! Not a cent of it! All yours, you 
 mean!" 
 
 "No. You are ber natural beir." 
 
 "Her it?matural beir!" 
 
 "Wbile you were away," besitated Lydia, "she often 
 spoke of dying and leaving you something in ber lucid 
 moments, I mean." 
 
 "I will not touch a coin of it!" asseverated George. 
 But in the end he did take three hundred dollars, leaving 
 Lydia the remaining nine. She implored him to take 
 more, but he resolutely refused. There was some trouble 
 with the payments from the banks, but at length all was 
 settled. Lydia bad meanwhile advertised for a situation, 
 and secured one. George was glad enough to get the
 
 NEW YORK. 20 
 
 three hundred dollars when it finally came to him in cash. 
 Of ready money there had been about fifty dollars, and 
 this sum was nearly exhausted by the time that he and 
 Lydia, who had divided it between them, separated on 
 the first of May, giving up the apartments which Mrs. 
 Oliver had occupied so long. Already murmurs of 
 scandalous import had swept through the boarding-house. 
 But George, until the banks finally disgorged, had only 
 his former sleeping room, and with Lydia it was the 
 same. 
 
 They parted affectionately, one with her nine hundred 
 dollars, the other with his three. George kissed Lydia 
 on the lips as naturally as if she had been his sister by 
 blood. He promised to write her soon, taking her new 
 address, which was Nyack. She was going into a family 
 there, as nurse to three or four young children. She had 
 liked the- lady who had answered her advertisement, and 
 hoped for a contented life in her country home. 
 
 "But I will have my wages, " she pleaded to George 
 just before they parted. "And you give me this nine 
 hundred dollars beside! Let me give you back at least 
 two hundred more!" 
 
 "No. Not another dollar more, " he said, with calm 
 decision. "You should really have the whole twelve 
 it's your due." 
 
 "And you'll write me soon?" questioned Lydia. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Even if you're unfortunate about getting something 
 to do?" 
 
 "Yes I'll write you."
 
 30 NEW YORK. 
 
 V. 
 
 BUT George did not keep his word. Pride swayed 
 him in the matter of neglecting it, and tender regard, 
 beside, for Lydia's sensitive concern with his welfare. 
 As days passed on it seemed to him all the harder to tell 
 her that he had tried and failed that he was forever try 
 ing, forever failing. He found fair lodgings in a small 
 Bowery Hotel, where his room cost him fifty cents a day. 
 After the discomforts of prison life, these accommoda 
 tions did not strike him as particularly repellent. He 
 had his papers of dismissal in his pocket, and at any 
 time could have sought assistance from the home of ref 
 uge for discharged convicts in Houston Street. But 
 shame always kept pulling him back. There were 
 moments when he told himself that if he could not ob 
 tain work otherwise than by making this sort of applica 
 tion, he would sweep streets, clean gutters, do anything 
 abjectly servile. But to such a pride as his came the 
 desolating thought, was even this form of self-humilia 
 tion possible? Employment of any sort was hard enough 
 to get ; but when the chance of it seemed most relieviugly 
 imminent there was one perpetual question waiting to 
 dash his hopes : "What recommendations can you give 
 us?" He could give none; he could only prevaricate 
 and quibble, and covertly long for a leniency that was 
 never accorded. 
 
 Soon he drifted among the worst dens of the poor. 
 Indeed, at that time the brand of his disgrace always 
 stung less when he was in company with those .who would 
 have looked lightly on it had they known he bore it. 
 His feeling of fellowship for the castaways of society 
 was just now intense. Had not they, like himself, been 
 tempted and fallen? Nearly all of them were doubtless 
 far lesa blamable thaa he. The bitter despotisms of birth
 
 NEW YORK. 31 
 
 and environment had allowed them no choice. Their 
 evil had been a necessitous heritage; it would have 
 seemed incredible if they had trodden straight paths 
 when every baleful force of circumstance had dragged 
 them into the zigzags of crooked ones. He had a pas 
 sionate desire to earn something by actual toil, no matter 
 how low or slavish. He would have shrank from a task 
 handsomely salaried if given him as a discharged convict. 
 He loathed the prison taint so deeply that any sort of 
 prosperity connected with it would have irked and pained 
 him. The policeman, Garrety, had recognized him and 
 remembered his immediate past. Hence he had spoken 
 frankly of that past; to all ignorant of it he now wished 
 to clothe it with the most jealous reticence. He was be 
 ginning at last to feel a real sense of freedom. May had 
 arrived hot and humid, as it so often does in New York. 
 In the east side streets life expanded, amplified, desert 
 ing its narrow indoor haunts. The sidewalks were 
 populous with ragged children. Innumerable babies 
 were carried here and there in the frail arms of their 
 little sisters. Tiny two-year-old shapes tottered about 
 in constant peril of overthrow. The doors of vile taverns 
 were opened, and inside you could catch glimpses- of 
 piled barrels and cobwebbed ceilings and grimy floors. 
 Often, too, in the dusk beyond their thresholds, you 
 could see the inalienable patron of the "dead house," an 
 old woman, it might be, with snowy hair straggling 
 down over a bloated face, or a man so thin that his filthy 
 garb hung loose round every shrunken limb, either of 
 them lifting to avid lips the five-cent glass of liquor 
 which had death in it, yet a kind of deatli that for some 
 mocking reason killed slowly. Girls and boys, carrying 
 cans of beei', mounted the stairs of tenements and entered 
 rooms where fetid beds, crawling with vermin, were sui'- 
 mounted by flaring prints of Christ and the Holy Virgin. 
 Brawny men, out of work, would loll at the narrow win 
 dows, their hairy breasts half exposed by the sagging 
 undershirt which alone clad their torsos. Pinched, 
 cadaverous women, with sick infants in their arms, 
 would sit on the stoops and shriek staccato reprimands to 
 others of their offspring whom the slimy gutters too
 
 32 NEW YORK. 
 
 forcibly lured. Along Hester Street, and in parts of 
 Baxter and Bayard Streets, the odors grew sickening as 
 the sudden heat persevered. Perhaps for this reason 
 George struck toward the river in his morning wander 
 ings. These often began very early, for though he usually 
 went to bed late, the closeness of his little room scarcely 
 gave him more than six good hours of sleep. The first 
 raw discords of the elevated as its trains began to rush 
 past his windows, would wake him. And always with 
 waking a pang of dread would come in fact, of actual 
 affright such as visits nearly everybody whom remorse 
 torments or whom fear of starvation frets, at the advent 
 of a new day. Then he would rise, dress, and go out 
 into the still 3 r ellowish air of the ugly Bowery. Drunk 
 ards, men and women, would totter past him on their 
 homeward routes. The denizens of the tweuty-five-cent 
 lodging-houses would steal forth, unkempt and laggard. 
 Once, among these, he saw a lad of not more than sixteen 
 pause before a little coffee-house whose shutters had but 
 lately been unclosed. He had a long, pale face, with 
 ears" awkwardly outjutting from it, and a chin that was 
 one nebula of scrofulous pimples. But his eyes were 
 brown and softly brilliant, and filled with a kind of dog- 
 like honesty and sweetness. He was fumbling in one 
 dirty hand three cents. George, across his shoulder, 
 saw that they were only three. 
 
 "That's all you got?" he said, affecting this form of 
 speech, as he nowada3 r s often did, because it suited 
 better his shabbiuess of garb, and because educated par 
 lance and accent would have roused attention and prob 
 ably pricked curiosity. 
 
 "Yes, that's all," said the boy, with a start. 
 
 "You'd like to have a cup o' coffee, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, yes wouldn't I?" came the eager response. 
 
 George pointed to the narrow doorway of the lodging- 
 house, with its glimpse of steep and soiled staircase. 
 
 "Do ye mostly sleep like that?" he questioned. 
 
 "No no, indeed! Las' night father come home 
 drunk. He's a terror, sometimes, when he's like that. 
 Mother ain't afraid of him, but she's afraid o' what he 
 may do to me. He hurt me once very bad, when I was
 
 NEW YORK. 33 
 
 'bout nine; I had to stay in the hospital for two months. 
 Las' night he went for me with a knife; he'll be sony 
 when he gets sober; he always is. I'd 'a stayed, though, 
 an' took the risks; but mother, she got all of a tremble, 
 an' slipped a quarter into my hand, an' shoved me out 
 inter the entry, an' begged me not to come home agin 
 till noon. That quarter was all she had, an' I knowed it, 
 an' didn't want to take it a bit, for I was sure she'd 
 need it awful bad to-day, an' I don't believe she found a 
 cent in father's pockets after she got him asleep. An' 
 my little sister's sick she's been kinder wastin' away 
 for a year past an' all the medicine give out yesterday 
 afternoon. " 
 
 "Don't you work none yourself?" said George, rather 
 gruffly. 
 
 "I lost the job I was at three weeks ago. I helped on 
 an ice cart, pullin' out the ice an' gettin' it indoors, 
 while another feller drove round. I got a dollar a week, 
 an' it was hard on my arms an' chest, you can bet yer 
 life. The other feller the boss'- son, had a pal o' his 
 that he wanted for the place. One day, when I hadn't 
 had any sleep the night afore 'cause o' my sick sister 
 who'd been took terrible bad an' kep' mother an' me 
 awake right straight along till morniu', I fell asleep in 
 the cart. An' then the boss' son told his father I had 
 a load o' beer on, an' got me bounced. An' since then 
 I ain't been able to get a new job, an' I ain't strong 
 enough for bricklayin' such as father does. Beside, 
 ho wouldn't let me. He sez it ain't respectable. He 
 carries the hod himself, he sez, but he don't want no son 
 o' his to begin so low down in the world. And father's 
 awful kind when he ain't drinkin'. He'll be as sorry 
 to-night, when he's slept off his racket! I guess he'll 
 take me to the dirne-mooshmn down by Chatham Square. 
 Anyhow, he'll gimme ten cents to go." 
 
 "Here's ten cents to get some coffee and a roll," said 
 George. The lad's charming eyes brightened gratefully, 
 above his pimply chin and between his uncouth ears. 
 George watched him pass into the greasy little hostelry 
 and seat himself with a relieved and piteously self-im 
 portant air at one of the coarse wooden tables.
 
 34 NEW YORK 
 
 "I don't think he lied," mused his almsgiver, while 
 walking onward. "So many of them do, however. I'd 
 be glad to make that dime I gave him. It would some 
 how comfort me to feel that I could earn anything, no 
 matter how small the sum. I'm reaching that pass when 
 a situation seems like an impossible dream. I'm ready 
 to take any chance of picking up almost any sum, as re 
 ward for work, given me by somebody who doesn't know 
 I'm an ex-convict and pays it me for honest service hon 
 estly rendered." 
 
 This feeling with him was a part of his mordant re 
 pentance, and seemed to increase with every fresh day 
 of his release from prison walls. His surrender of the 
 nine hundred dollars to Lydia had been an act of quiet 
 nobility which he himself did not pause to rate at its 
 truly magnanimous worth. But he very clearly under 
 stood that with the whole twelve hundred dollars he 
 could have traveled many miles into the West and gained 
 there an emancipation which would have been of infinite 
 comfort. Still, the comfort, after all, could never have 
 coexisted with the thought that his mother's devoted 
 nurse and companion had gone penniless to face the 
 altered conditions of her life. He could think of her 
 now with a certain glow of joy at her present security 
 against those very terrors which in a little while he him 
 self might be forced to face. And he was mercilessly 
 judicial regarding his own deserts. Lydia had done her 
 duty, and never swerved from it. Whatever misfortune 
 came to her would be fraught with the pathos of an un 
 merited scourge. Depths of unexperienced suffering 
 might be awaiting him, and yet they could hold no throb 
 of pain which he might reasonably declare an unjust in 
 fliction. 
 
 That same morning he struck eastward toward the 
 river, and then, on gaining the ferries and wharves of 
 South Street, moved slowly along. Presently he came 
 to the Brooklyn Bridge, and stood directly beneath it, 
 gazing up at its wondrous combination of delicacy and 
 strength, like a long dark cobweb, spun from shore to 
 shore of the river by some mighty spider. He thought 
 of how the placid old South Street merchants of seventy
 
 NEW YORK. 35 
 
 years ago would have marveled to see this miracle of 
 engineering cut the blue sky above them. They would 
 have regretted, too, the shut-in, unlovely aspect of the 
 bank, now one succession of wooden structures where 
 formerly thousands of masts clustered, and the flags of all 
 countries flew at their tops. Of all maritime cities in the 
 world, New York has been the most insultingly careless 
 of its water fronts. Even nowadays, up at Riverside 
 Park, she tries ineffectually with landscape gardening 
 to conceal the ugliness of the Hudson shore lying below, 
 and allows railway trains to rush along its edge instead 
 of sinking them into tunnels with grassy riparian roof 
 ages. 
 
 Presently George saw a big, pink, blonde German 
 struggling with several empty kegs of beer. He drew 
 closer to the doors of the low-ceiled tavern. They had 
 just been unclosed; a foul smell told that. The sawdust 
 on. the floor was clogged into stale masses, as though 
 from tobacco juice or spilled beer probably both. A 
 broom was slanted against the clumsy little wooden, 
 streaky-grained bar. While pausing at the threshold, 
 something made George speak, and he spoke very gently, 
 in his new artificial patois: 
 
 "Hot work, ain't it? Can I give ye a hand?" 
 
 The man's puffy cheeks were streaming with sweat. 
 He stopped rolling his empty keg toward a bevy of its 
 mates, and eyed George with critical good-humor. 
 
 "Ye look strong." 
 
 "I am," said George. 
 
 The other stood upright, and began to mop his face 
 with a red kerchief. His bulge of stomach was evident 
 now, and the shortness of his legs. These, surmounted 
 by a moony and rosy face, too small for his rotund body, 
 suggested the shapes astride of casks in Teuton pictures. 
 
 "Fact is, " said Mr. Conrad Schnoor, whose name in 
 small, black letters, gleamed from his lintel, "de man as 
 vas allus doin' dese odd jops rouut here iss deat. He 
 diet yesteray night, suddent. His name vas Tally Ho. 
 Dey callt 'im dat 'e^rybody, I duuno why. I gif him 
 a qvarter to tidy up de sthoremornin's. He doan come 
 no more, ye see ; he diet very suddent, iudeet. I guess
 
 36 NEW YORK. 
 
 it vas trink. 1 nefer gif him no trink; but he got his 
 loats outside, an' dey must 'a kilt 'un. 
 
 "I'd tidy up the shop for a quarter," said George. 
 "I*guess I'm as strong as Tally Ho was. I don't ever 
 drink anything but soft drinks." 
 
 The beady wine-red eyes of Mr. Schnoor twinkled. 
 
 "Dat's vat dey all say." 
 
 "Try me a mornin' or two." 
 
 Mr. Schnoor grinned negatively. But it was very hot, 
 and the past services of the deceased Tally Ho were 
 acutely missed. 
 
 "Look here," he said, sticking a plump thumb into 
 each waistcoat armhole, and letting his head droop side 
 ways. "I doan mean I gif Tally Ho a qvarter cffry 
 mornin'." 
 
 George met this burst of economic bargaining with 
 meek bluff ness, "Oh, very well. Let it be fifteen cents 
 to-day and a quarter to-morrow, if I suit ye. P'raps we 
 can talk terms afterward. I'll turn up reg'lar, if ye 
 want me, and do my best." 
 
 He caught the broom, as he ended, and began to sweep 
 up the soggy sawdust. Schnoor mopped his face and 
 watched him. He was very quick and thorough with 
 this task, and equally so with the piling of the kegs. 
 Afterward, when Schnoor offered him a glass of beer, he 
 took seltzer instead. When the fifteen cents were handed 
 him he felt a thrill of triumphant pride. Somebody had 
 paid him something for a piece of fair and square work 
 not out of pity, but just as value received! His eyes 
 misted with furtive tears as he felt the two little coins 
 touch his palm. 
 
 "Auspicious omen!" he thought. That clime and that 
 five-cent piece began a new life for him. Every morning 
 for two weeks he appeared punctually at the door of the 
 shop as soon as Schnoor opened it. On the second day 
 he got his quarter, and on the third fifteen cents. On 
 the fourth day Schnoor agreed to give him twenty cents 
 each morning for a fortnight to come. This was because 
 he had shown himself exceptionally handy and brisk. 
 Schuoor was not prosperous enough to employ a bar 
 tender. Back of his shop were three rooms, in which he
 
 NEW YORK. 37 
 
 and his wife and six children lodged. Upstairs was a 
 sailors' boarding house, kept by a Polish Jewess, whom 
 Schnoor detested. The feud between them had lasted for 
 over a year. As Mrs. Volaski showed him signs of liking 
 George fancied that perhaps he might mend the feud, 
 and in doing so aid his own poor fortunes. 
 
 But this, he soon saw, was a futile hope. The Polish 
 woman's black ej r es would flash, and her lean, pale face 
 (not unhandsome in its cold, severe way) would wrinkle 
 into a sneering smile. She had a very repellent smile, 
 had Mrs. Yolaski, and it was only then that she showed 
 her teeth, which were pointed, like a cat's. 
 
 "Do not tell me there is anything good in the 
 Schnoors, " she said, with one bony hand, palm outward, 
 jerkily oscillaut. "Before they came I had decency and 
 peace. But they turned the little grocery shop into a 
 beastly den." She had an accent so sibilant as to make 
 one think, at times, of whistling steam, and her voice, 
 when raised, was nearly as harsh as a parrot's croak. 
 "They've hurt my house horribly, with their drunken 
 noises, their songs and shouts and rows, half the night 
 through. I used to have twice as respectable a custom 
 as I've got now. And when I've told them I'd make 
 charges against them in the courts they've laughed in 
 my face and said I didn't dare. They'll see, some day, 
 if I dare or not!" finished the speaker, with a snarl and 
 a flash of spite from her biack eyes. Schnoor, on the 
 other hand, declared that Mrs. Volaski was known as the 
 meanest woman for "miles aroundt." But this was not 
 all. She did not merely go to Fulton Market and buy 
 there stale fish and meat and half-rotten vegetables for 
 her boarders, but she was suspected of stealing their 
 valuables beside. 
 
 "Yes," chimed in Mrs. Schnoor, who chanced to be 
 present, with a baby in her arms and a child at either 
 side clinging to her skirts. "Three sailors, as I know, 
 has lost money an' vallerbles up in them rooms. One 
 was a Spaniard, an' he out with a knife to her, last June, 
 an' swore she was the thief an' nobody else. She locked 
 herself in the front room she calls her parlor" this word 
 was pronounced by Mrs. Schnoor with the most scornful
 
 38 NEW YORK. 
 
 of nasal twangs, for she had been a typical east side girl, 
 born in Heury Street, "an* she screamed down to poor 
 old Tally Ho, that was loafin' somewheres near, to go an' 
 get her brother. An* he got him, over in Pike Street, 
 where he keeps a kind of a junk shop. He's a thin, tall 
 Jew, with a face all black hair an' two big black eyes 
 glitterin' out of it, an 1 they say he owns three tenner- 
 mint houses just here, two in Koosevelt Street an' one in 
 "Waiter Street. Well, he come, an' he brought a cop with 
 him, an' the Spaniard was ketched kickin' at her parlour 
 door, with his drawed knife in his hand. They took 
 hira off, but I guess he wasn't locked up. I heard his 
 ship was leavin' the same day, an' John Lynsko that's 
 the brother's name paid him somethin' an' got him 
 free in time to sail on her. Oh, that air woman had 
 better keep her mouth shut about the rackets in our 
 place. "We've got character, an' that's inore'n she can 
 say. Her bizniss is fallin' off, an' no wonder, with them 
 scandals. She's jealous, that's what she is. She don't 
 want her sailors to spend down here; she's got bottled 
 beer an' likker for 'em upstairs. But I'm tole the likker 
 'd pizen rats, an' as for the beer, who don't like it 
 foamin' out o' the keg?" 
 
 George remained wholly neutral in the quarrel. He 
 found that many of these people whom he now met, in 
 their gross ignorance and animal crudity, could often 
 wake his most sympathetic regard. But circumstance 
 vetoed his revelation of it; he was forced to masquerade 
 as one of them, and he must conceal his education, re 
 finement and culture with careful heed. He had care 
 lessly given .himself the name of Jack Jackson, though 
 not with an air of wishing any one to believe that he 
 really owned it. He breathed an atmosphere of aliases, 
 as he well knew and a sense of surrounding criminal dis 
 repute was here more often manifest for him than it had 
 been among the guarded and repressed rogues of his 
 prison. He soon realized that he had the power of 
 making himself popular here, as much by his fine ath 
 letic presence as by the few discreet words which he al 
 ways clad with a good humor, gay yet false. One dom 
 inant purpose kept ruling him to prove that he could
 
 NEW YORK. 39 
 
 live without tasting in the bread he ate a tincture of con 
 descending charity. He was in the gutter, and felt it, 
 and hated the thought of it; but here he could at least es 
 cape the intolerable sting of being "helped along." 
 Now he was helping himself along, the feeling cheerfully 
 counteracted physical disgust at his environment. He 
 Avas quite aware that nobody really trusted him, not even 
 the Schnoors, by whom, in a sinister kind of social man 
 ner, he had been introduced into the neighborhood, 
 lance there, and carelessly, jauntily vouched for. But 
 then everybody in this new sphere distrusted everybody 
 else. To have shadowy antecedents meant no more than 
 to wear cracked boots. And as for the future, it was like 
 an opaque blank of fog to him. Not the hint of a star 
 pricked its gray monochrome. He had moments of ter 
 rible despair moments when he cursed his own health 
 and strength, loathing the vitality which might insure 
 him years of this weightsome exile. Then came the 
 magic murmur of hope, ftuty and mellow amid the tur 
 moil and discord of his wretchedness. "You are saving 
 something now every day," it said. "If it is only very 
 little, you are still so young that in rive years, at the 
 most, it will be enough for you to cast off these gyves of 
 poverty and go into the far West and buy a patch of land 
 there, and build on it a house, and till its soil, and live 
 truly free once more, satisfying your slight wants, happy 
 below the unscandalizing and helpful sun, below the 
 meek, pardoning stars, and with the rude, honest winds 
 of that far-away land seeming to cleanse, in every new 
 bluff gust they brought, this hateful stain of past guilt 
 from flesh and spirit alike." 
 
 So he dreamed and longed and hungered, between in 
 tervals of suicidal despondence. And meanwhile he had 
 changed his lodging from the Bowery hotel to a room in 
 Water Street, not far from the Schnoors'; and as "Jack 
 Jackson," whom nobody disliked, and many cared noth 
 ing about, and a few had a lurking, growing regard 
 for, he would sometimes tell himself, in a grimly satiric 
 way that his prospects were brightening.
 
 40 NEW YORK. 
 
 VI. 
 
 CERTAINLY he now had a good deal of work given him, 
 however ill-paid, occasional and scrappy. Often his 
 earnings passed a dollar a day; sometimes they fell 
 lower; now and then they reached the hopeful sum of 
 two dollars. "Odd jobs" would have been the best name 
 for them, though this did not always express their keenly 
 distasteful quality. He cleaned out cellars that were 
 damp and foul; he lent a hand to the loading and un 
 loading of trucks; he helped families that were moving 
 into new quarters and families that were quitting old 
 ones; he put up stoves and took them down; he dis 
 jointed old beds and erected those of recent purchase; 
 he got medicine for the sick, and sometimes kept vigil 
 near them for several hours, if they chanced to be of his 
 own sex. Only in desperate cases would he procure 
 drink for those whom drunkenness had prostrated. And 
 drunkenness was everywhere, and the sloth engendered 
 by it often brought him outside errands and tasks of 
 household aid which he could not afford to refuse. He 
 scrubbed and mopped filthy floors, and shoveled coal into 
 bins, and swept sidewalks and stoops. Wherever he 
 knew of a house that was either being built or torn down 
 he would haunt its region with a deep canvas bag and 
 gather therein all the loose wood he could find, selling 
 it afterward at profit small yet distinct. He was invari 
 ably kind to children, the birth-cursed, heart-breaking 
 children of the poor though never sentimentally kind. 
 His gruffuess and sharp chiding would not seldom make 
 them like him the more. He always parted the boys 
 when he came across them with their little dirty fists 
 battering one another's faces, and would not shrink from 
 administering a sharp slap or two when some puny glad 
 iator resisted his peace-making interference. Often he 
 met both boys and girls foraging for wood where he him-
 
 NEW YORK. 41 
 
 self had come to fill his bag; and then he would pick out 
 for them the fragments best suited to their slim enclasp 
 ing arms, and arrange their shaky bundles so that they 
 could stagger home with some practical chance of not 
 spilling half on the homeward route. 
 
 He saw many terrible and doleful sights, but no ele 
 ment in the whole sad, ceaseless drama of poverty so 
 moved his soul as that where childhood played its part. 
 These little blameless heirs of so dread and dreary a 
 future! And there were children only a few streets 
 away not those in mansions of the wealthy and luxu 
 rious, but in clean, happy, reputable homes, whose par 
 ents treasured and tended and trained them. But here! 
 Besotted mothers had often given life to these poor starve 
 lings, and suckled them afterward with drink-tainted 
 nourishment. The missions were doing their good work 
 and it jo"3'ed him to note how their humane efforts would 
 sometimes push into the very fetid hearts of the worst 
 brothels, lairs and dens. But in certain places vice 
 grinned stealthy defiance at them, goaded by that most 
 fearful of all human impulses, the desire to keep its off 
 spring prisoned and poisoned through its own corrupt 
 tutelage. 
 
 George watched good men and good women at work in 
 their various earnest ways. With fine fearlessness they 
 would force themselves where the feet of mercy had not 
 yet gone. But they could not by any means get every 
 where, and he might in some cases have easily turned 
 reformer and told them just how certain most reckless 
 cruelties and iniquities could be reached. And yet he 
 shrank from such a part; him, of all others, it seemed 
 glaringly to misbecome. He was not here in these rank 
 purlieus to point at the sins of his co-dwellers; had he 
 not come hither, indeed, to use their very vagabondage 
 and disrepute as a screening cloak? 
 
 The tenderness and courage of these charities touched 
 him deeply; but certain features of them filled him, at. 
 the same time, with an astonished regret. "Why did the 
 whole pitiful movement exist at all unless with more 
 ardor, more energy of altruism? If it was a Christian 
 effort, why did it not reveal more of Christ's intense self-
 
 42 NEW YORK. 
 
 abnegation? Money "was behind these eleemosynary 
 plans and purposes, but why not more money, why not a 
 stronger power of push, resulting in a larger effect of 
 succor and regeneration? Uptown he knew of handsome 
 and almost gorgeous churches, where prosperous people 
 met and prayed. That was the devotional side of reli 
 gion; here, in these plain and shabby little meeting 
 houses one saw its practical side that of works and 
 deeds. Admitting all the generosity and unselfishness 
 of these, why were they not ampler and more strenuous? 
 Had not Christ insisted on works and deeds as the one 
 certain testimony of his worshipers' faith? Had he not 
 clearly said: "Leave all and follow me?" But did 
 these, his modern adorers, obey that precept except with 
 lukewarm languor? Some of them, who had many 
 millions, assumed to "follow" Christ, and certainly did 
 "give," as he had commanded. But how much did they 
 give? Would Christ have been satisfied with the amount 
 of their giving? George, who knew a good deal of the 
 New Testament by heart, and had read every page of it 
 many times during boyish days whether with motives 
 compulsory or spontaneous need not be said now felt 
 only too confident that an earlier impression of his had 
 been the right one. Of actual Christianity in the world 
 there was only a very small residuum. Of half-hearted 
 Christianity, now timorously and now perhaps brazenly 
 shamming, there was a large and conspicuous amount. 
 
 He had never dreamed of securing any aid from the 
 missions, or presenting himself at all personally to their 
 notice. But he would now and then slip past the doors 
 of a particular one, not far from Water Street, seating 
 himself as retiredly as he could, and breathing with a 
 deep sense of relief, its restful atmosphere of humanity 
 and loving kindness. Here was the one potent spell with 
 him. He knew that he was not of the stuff from which 
 zealots are fashioned, yet the question of religious fer 
 vor or the lack of it did not now concern him. What 
 he sought and enjoyed was the conception of being able 
 to pass, by a slight act of will, from indecencj- to decency, 
 from beuightedness to enlightenment, from dull and 
 niggard struggle to at least a transient appreciable calm.
 
 NEW YORK. 43 
 
 One Saturday afternoon, in what was now midsummer, 
 he entered the hall, took a seat near the doorway, and 
 joined with unwonted zest in the hymn that was just 
 then softly rising from a small assemblage. He had the 
 feeling of one who dips a soiled body in cleansing water, 
 and because of experiences during the past three or four 
 days which had been specially taxing. He had heard ter 
 rific cries at midnight, not long ago, in a house on Water 
 Street opposite his own. Dashing out of bed and gar 
 menting himself with wild haste, he had been one of fire 
 or six others who witnessed a burlj' and drink-crazed 
 giant cleave in twain the head of his wife with an ax, 
 before there was time to stop the horror. Later, he had 
 been present in a room where a drunken mother shrieked 
 oaths to a policeman who presently dragged from beneath 
 a filthy mattress her smothered baby. It had somehow 
 seemed to rain sickening episodes like these through the 
 past week; crime had been epidemic in the neighbor 
 hood; he had felt, now and then, that "Jack Jackson" 
 must seek his hard-earned bread elsewhere. 
 
 Often before now he had joined in the song at these 
 meetings. He had no trust in his voice, which was a 
 natural baritone, fairly sweet and full, though not cul 
 tured into any range of skill, and he had always till now 
 let it merge into the general chorus. He was not even 
 aware that he had to-day raised it higher than of old, till 
 a girl just in front of him a madcap creature whom he 
 knew well, with far more fun than badness in her nudged 
 her companion and whispered loudly enough for him to 
 hear : 
 
 "Jus' listen, Kate. Jack Jackson's got religion all of 
 a heap, sure's we're born!" 
 
 The color mounted to George's face. He stopped 
 singing forthwith, and the hymn soon ended. Through 
 the silence that ensued a man's clear voice sounded. He 
 was evidently in current phrase, a gentleman. He had a 
 tall figure, attired with faultless neatness, and a face of 
 mild composure set between two whitish puffs of side 
 whiskers. His slender hand played with an eyeglass, 
 whose delicate gold chain gave out little random flickers 
 against the black smoothness of his garb. His voice
 
 44 NEW YORK. 
 
 struck George as peculiarly monotonous and chill. What 
 he said was the veriest commonplace of religious ex 
 hortation, though delivered with an accent of almost 
 lifeless self-repression. George asked himself if this man 
 could possibly believe that his chill, apathetic monologue 
 carried any cheer to the wrung and weary and want- 
 stabbed hearts of those who heard him. Presently he 
 retired to the rear of the platform, whence he had 
 emerged, among a little group of seated women and men, 
 chiefly the former. Then two or three women descended 
 and several figures rose from the pews, and whispered 
 confabs were held between those who had help to give 
 and those who craved it some of the last, no doubt, with 
 that oily mock-penitence and snivelling hypocrisy which 
 draw so dark a line between the deserving and the un 
 deserving poor. 
 
 Into George's pew a tardy visitor had just moved. 
 He turned, and recognized a religious enthusiast of the 
 district a man who sometimes headed the Salvation 
 Army gatherings there. He was past sixty, and had a 
 shrivelled, mummy-like face, quite bare of all beard. 
 He had led for years a frightful life among these same 
 parts of the town, and frequently declared so in his 
 bleating, falsetto tones when grouped sidewalk Salvation 
 ists called upon him for an oratorio burst. It was 
 cynically cried by some that that he was in the pay of 
 these, and that they used him as a public shrieker of 
 their temperance tenets. But George, with others less 
 bitterly inclined, believed his reform, however hysteric 
 in its outflow, at least for the time sincere. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Tom Glyn?" he said. 
 
 "D'ye know who's just spoke?" 
 
 "Do I know?" Tom Glyn returned, at once inflated 
 with reverence. "I guess so, Jack Jackson ! That's no 
 body else but Mr. Lucian Reverdy. Ain't you never 
 hoard o' him?" 
 
 George had heard of him. Even the one-cent news 
 papers to be bought thereabouts frequently printed his 
 name. To-day they told of how he had spoken at some 
 anti-Tammany meeting in Cooper Union; to-morrow of 
 how he had gone in his huge steam yacht to cruise along
 
 NEW YORK. 45 
 
 the upper New England coast; again, of how he had taken 
 some positive stand as president or vice-president or 
 secretary of this or that benevolent and rescuing body ; 
 still again, of how he had joined his family at his tine 
 Newport villa for a week of long -needed rest; still again 
 of how he had given some large amount say ten thousand 
 dollars, or even more to some church organization, some 
 asylum, or public library. Then, still again, he had 
 gone to Europe for several months; and still again, he 
 was spending the late autumn or the early spring on his 
 lordly Hudson estate. Who that ever glanced at the 
 Daily News or the Evening World did not know Lucian 
 Eeverdy ? 
 
 "I guess he must be worth twenty million, 3 ' volunteered 
 Tom, with the momentary pride of a showman. "Some 
 folks puts him down for twice that. But he spends a 
 good deal of it, God bless 'im, on the poor, an' his great 
 riches don't make 'im forget 'em. He wouldn't give to 
 you nor me, Jack, if we was to ask him plump out. 
 That ain't his way. He serves the Lord after his own 
 style o' thinkin', an' he's wiser than we be, an' if all the 
 nice things that's said of him is true, he'll have a good 
 sight wider entrance into heaven than fifty times the eye 
 o' the biggest darnin'-needle ever was made." 
 
 All this from Tom Glyn in an awed whisper. "God 
 bless him, indeed!" thought George. "The income of 
 twenty millions, at five per cent, (and this man has rail 
 way shares that must yield him eight or ten at the low 
 est), means one million a year. What hint of real sacri 
 fice is there in his donations? Does God, or would God, 
 bless him, as poor old Tom Glyn suggests?" 
 
 Soon afterward, to George's dismay, a gentleman left 
 the platform and walked down the middle aisle, pausing 
 suddenly at his side. He was young, hardly past thirty, 
 to judge by his smooth, healthful face. It was a face 
 George instantly liked, not handsome in the least, but 
 full of the charm that goes with a fine spirituality of ex 
 pression diffused over features rugged and virile. He 
 stooped at George's side, addressing him in a low, soft 
 voice. "Wasn't it you whom we heard singing so well 
 just now?"
 
 46 NEW YORK. 
 
 Feeling the nearness of an equal, George answered, 
 in his confusion without the "dialect" which for weeks 
 past he had been assuming : 
 
 "I sang a little louder than I usually do. I I don't 
 sing icell at all. It was pleasant to be here, out of all the 
 noise and shabbiness of the streets near by, and so, for 
 a moment, I I forgot myself. " 
 
 The young gentleman stared at George with a gentle 
 consternation that somehow deepened the benignity of 
 his look. 
 
 "You belong here, then?" he said, stooping a little 
 lower. 
 
 "Yes," answered George. "I " 
 
 But now Tom Glyn, pushing forward, broke out in un 
 couth compliment. "There's no better man for many a 
 block round here, sir, than Jack Jackson. Everj'body 
 likes 'im an' everybody's got a kind word for 'm. If 
 he'd only join the great army of the Lord, Dr. Crevel- 
 ling " 
 
 Smiling, the young gentleman raised a finger. "Never 
 mind that, Tom. Perhaps he's a belter soldier there 
 than you are. It isn't always the noisiest recruits that 
 make the best ones. And beside, my friend, don't call 
 me Dr. Crevelling. I'm plain Mr. Frank Crevelling, 
 pra3 r recollect, preacher in a small Unitarian church." 
 
 He now turned his large, kind brown eyes upon 
 George. The latter felt himself color and then grow 
 pale; every nerve seemed to writhe under this new 
 scrutinj r , albeit so mild and genial. He had the fancy 
 that his secret might be torn from him at any moment. 
 He longed to rise and fly. Of course the next words 
 spoken to him would concern his mode of work; and 
 how could he answer them? By saying that he was the 
 drudge and factotum of these surrounding streets?
 
 NEW YORK. 4? 
 
 VII. 
 
 BUT Frank Crevelling's next words were of quite an 
 other nature. "We want a good, full manly, cheering 
 voice like yours, " he said. "I wish you would always 
 sing when you come here, and remember that you are 
 always welcome." He hesitated, and George was try- 
 ingly sensible, once more, of something surprised and 
 interested in his manner. But Crevelling appeared to 
 divine his discomfiture, and to treat it with easy and 
 graceful tact. 
 
 "We aim to help everyone," he went on, "so far as we 
 are. able. We are a little humanitarian body that calls 
 itself The Clasping Hand. Of course our powers are lim 
 ited; we can only do our best while heartily wishing it 
 were better. But any of us any of the ladies or gentle 
 men here, I mean would gladly listen to you if you so 
 desired. We can't promise much except sympathy where 
 we feel it is due and assistance in procuring work when 
 we have satisfied ourselves that a case is deserving." 
 
 The last sentence ended with an amiable, half-wistful 
 inflection that stirred George's heart. "This Frank 
 Crevelling," he thought, "is of very different breed from 
 Mr. Lucian Eeverdy, I'll be sworn!" 
 
 Aloud he said: "Thank you thank you very much." 
 The "sir" somehow stuck in his throat; he had no clear 
 idea why; doubtless he would have pronounced it glibly 
 enough if he could have assumed and retained the mode 
 of speech that chance, in the shape of his sudden embar 
 rassment, had wrested from him. He threw a glance to 
 ward the place in which Tom Glyn had been seated, and 
 was glad to find it vacant. Tom had risen and strayed 
 forward, probably for social and colloquial reasons; there 
 was a scattering of his fellow Salvationists present. 
 
 "I don't need help," George continued. "There are 
 many, all about me, who need it, however, and if you
 
 4$ NEW YORK. 
 
 will let me say so, I often wonder that it is not given 
 with a freer hand." 
 
 Crevelling started. "A freer hand?" he repeated. 
 His face became frowningly serious, though its rich, 
 sympathetic attractiveness deepened. He folded his 
 arms and slanted his strong young body a little against 
 the edge of the pew. To look at him then was to feel 
 how humanely alive were all his faculties both of brain 
 and heart how every appeal or hint or theory or dis 
 sension bearing upon the one great question of his fel 
 low-creatures' advancement toward a higher life was of 
 value and import to him. At least his observer now read 
 him that way, and with secure confidence that he did 
 not err. 
 
 "A freer hand yes I see," the young Unitarian 
 again repeated. "You mean that we might try and urge 
 the great plutocrats. But they're not to be urged. We 
 pull them just as far as we can" (and here his face charm 
 ingly softened with merriment), "to ninety-nine hun- 
 dredths of an inch." 
 
 George's dark-blue eyes kindled. He forgot himself 
 wholly. "The strange part to me is," he rather tumult- 
 uously began, "that they do anything if they don't do 
 all. And the 'all' would be so magnificent! This city 
 now contains men whose incomes are actually vast; they 
 draw each year from railways or real estate or commer 
 cial trusts, amounts which are in themselves huge fortunes. 
 Their charities could be colossal, and yet they need not 
 give up even the costliest of their luxuries, or dream of 
 giving them up. Far from that, they could still leave 
 enormous legacies to their heirs. The satisfaction of 
 being thought prodigiously rich the pride of posses 
 sion would still remain." 
 
 Crevelling, deeply attentive, watched the speaker with 
 a new amazement. "Who was this man, clad in the livery 
 of utter want, showing the air and phrase of education, 
 betokening a fresh individualism of thought on the very 
 subject dearest to his own philanthropic heart? 
 
 "Imagine," George hurried on, "what one large slice 
 from the mere annual returns of such a man as this Lu- 
 cian Reverdy might accomplish, if four or five other men
 
 NEW YORK. 40 
 
 of like wealth abetted him in some tremendous enterprise! 
 It takes my breath away to think of what six millions of 
 dollars might do, exploited by financiers of his class with 
 the same shrewdness and ability they bring to bear on 
 their private plans and schemes." 
 
 He threw back his shapely head and laughed, the flash 
 of his strong white teeth being glimpsed in the dimness. 
 He was speaking with the abandon and vivacity of earlier 
 and far happier days, as he had spoken to his mother, to 
 Lydia, to his college friends, to the men at the bank. 
 For awhile the curse had been lifted from his life; the 
 immediate past had perished; the prison brand had 
 ceased to scorch and sear his soul. 
 
 "How splendid, for example, would be a monstrous 
 marble edifice built somewhere up on the shores of the 
 Hudson, with baths in which the poor could wash off 
 their filth, with schools for the young, with long galleries 
 of books for students and all intellectual stragglers, with 
 asylums and sanitariums for the feeble and sick! It 
 would not require such a co-operant effort of charity, 
 half as much real momentum as that which goes nowa 
 days to the making of huge oil trusts and mining com 
 panies and railway capitalizations. But these men have 
 no time for it, no will for it, no true Christian spirit. 
 They endow a hospital, an academy; they found free in 
 stitutions of relief; they donate personally this sum or 
 that to one charity or another. But their movements are 
 not undertaken and organized with the right self-effac 
 ing impulse. Aristocracy prevails in their gifts; these 
 should be democratic, in the sense of one mammoth and 
 vigorous coalition. Well, in the end they'll have to pay 
 the cost not they, perhaps, but their children, grand 
 children, great-grandchildren. It's sure to be levied in 
 time." 
 
 "Ah, then you're a socialist?" said Grovelling quickly. 
 
 "Not in the least. I've seen too much weakness in 
 mankind, young though I am, to believe in their strength 
 as governors of themselves. I'm willing to grant that 
 the socialists are as wrong in their moderate creeds as the 
 anarchists in their savage ones. But ignorance and 
 misery make a terrible partnership. I see a good deal of.
 
 60 NEW YORK. 
 
 both, and I ought to know. If education cannot keep 
 pace with the fast-increasing population of the civilized 
 world (and it certainly cannot, to all present appearances), 
 that fierce pair will have their will in a way to make 
 angels weep. They will do harm, with wild masses at 
 their backs, which it may take centuries to repair. And 
 when the bloody tide begins to rise, human skill can rear 
 no dikes against it. They must be fashioned now or 
 never!" 
 
 He sank back on the seat of his pew, rather pale, and 
 with a strained smile flickering at his lips. He had 
 given leash to slow-formed convictions of the recent past; 
 and yet only a few minutes ago it would have seemed to 
 him impossible that he could have vented them with this 
 self-forgetful candor. 
 
 "I understand you," said Frank Grovelling, every 
 word touched with a new respect that dealt secret pain 
 to his listener's calming senses. The fine gray eyes came 
 nearer to George's face, and they seemed not only to 
 imply but positively to reveal funds of rich and sweet 
 strength in their possessor's character a strength infused 
 with manly purity and scorn of all evil, yet no pharasai- 
 cal scorn either, but one whose reverse side might well be 
 inferred, as shining with the most patient and wholesome 
 pity. 
 
 "Thoughts like these of yours have often corne to me 
 lately," he pursued, "though you put them with a direct 
 ness, vehemence and picturesqueuess that make them seem 
 wholly new. Pardon me if I tell you also that they are 
 greatly unexpected. Old Tom Glyn's little praiseful out 
 burst did not prepare me for them, I assure you." 
 
 George furtively gnawed his lips, dragging his brains 
 for some sort of non-committal yet appropriate answer to 
 the delicate challenge in Crevelling's final sentence. 
 What should he say? What could he say? Why had 
 he roused an astonishment which might in turn provoke 
 sudden friendliness, yet could onb r end in suspicion? 
 
 "I have been a fool," he told himself, "a hasty, head 
 long, self-betraying fool." 
 
 Just then the turmoil of his mood was touched by a 
 peculiar lulling spell. It came from a feminine voice,
 
 NEW YORK. 51 
 
 from the voice of a young girl in a light, pale summer 
 gown, with two or three pink roses gleaming at her 
 breast. George's keen, youthful eyes were near enough 
 to note that her hair was chestnut of shade, and that it 
 grew low over her forehead in that waved, springy way 
 which allowed her to brush it back carelessly with one 
 hand yet produce no real effect of displacement. Her 
 face was an almost fragile oval, but sweet eyes burned 
 largo from it, whose color he could not tell, though their 
 pupils would now and then catch the light of a side win 
 dow and refract it in soft lusters. 
 
 Her manner pleased him with the unconscious grace of 
 ita simplicity. It was wholly colloquial; she stood for 
 ward on the low wooden platform, too sincere to be em 
 barrassed, too heedless of how she spoke to concern her 
 self with anything save the gist, amicable and intimate, of 
 her utterances. 
 
 "I've run down here from the country for a day or two, 
 my friends, and I want to tell you that after living among 
 the trees and fields it gives me .a guilty feeling to find 
 you have none of you shared with me their happy holi 
 day freedom." 
 
 She took the roses from her breast and tossed them to a 
 trio of ragged children in the nearest pew, nodding gayly 
 while they caught them with enraptured grins. "But 
 I wish you to believe one thing that I am using all the 
 influence I can muster, with those far more powerful 
 than myself, to have as many children got into the 
 country for two weeks as our accommodations will per 
 mit. It isn't so very long ago since /was a child, and 
 my heart goes out to your little ones. My heart 
 goes out to you all, as well. Most of you know 
 me, I think." Here a low murmur of acknowledgment 
 sounded through the room. "I recognize a good many 
 faces of those with whom I've talked during the past 
 year or two. I wish I had some new ideas to give you. 
 But old ones, after all, are as good as any, provided they 
 have the right ring in them. And most of you will re 
 member that I've never sermonized to you that I don't 
 know how to do that. All I have done is to beg that 
 you will bear in mind two great truths. The first is that
 
 52 NEW YORK. 
 
 \vhen your lives are most wretched and dreary you can 
 gain comfort by seeking to make some other life a little 
 less forlorn. Oh, I do so want you to realize this! 
 The helpfulness toward one another means so much! It's 
 a kind of medicine that you can take and feel ever so 
 much better for the taking; it's the blessed medicine of 
 self-forgetfulness. When you sit and hug your own sor 
 rows they don't thank you for it a whit. They merely 
 grow uglier armfuls, and tire you to hold them, and 
 whimper and scowl at you. But if you once put them 
 firmly aside and go to some one else who is suffering, and 
 do little acts of goodness for him or her, then you will 
 be surprised to find how much lighter is that load of 
 your own affliction when fate again forces you to take it 
 up. But of course you must be brave ^very brave, in 
 deed in order to do this. It isn't easy to love your 
 neighbor. Perhaps it's the hardest thing in the whole 
 world. But nevertheless, my friends, it is seeking the 
 greatest happiness in the whole world, and it means the 
 finding of that happiness if you only seek hard enough! 
 The trouble with so many of us is that we grow faint 
 hearted, and falter in our seeking. But persevere 
 there's the sweet and lovely solving of the whole sad riddle. 
 Forget all envies and spites and grudges; go to those from 
 whom the evil in you makes you shrink the most, and lay 
 low your pride before them, whisper kind words of com 
 fort to them, do them little acts of aid and cheer. In the 
 end you will gain such peace and it will come to you 
 suddenly, like a burst of sun from sluggish clouds that 
 you will wonder why you have not seen sooner the path 
 which now seems so straight! Your narrow rooms, and 
 your toilful days, and your hardships of life, will all be 
 touched with the most beautiful and holy consolation. 
 Try it only try it! Say to yourselves now, this mo 
 ment, that you will strive with all your might to forget 
 your own troubles in the effort to lighten those of some 
 fellow-creature! Promise yourselves that 3'ou will strive 
 for one week, each of you. And then, at the end of that 
 week I shall be here, in this place, just as you see me 
 now, and any one of you that chooses may come to me 
 or I will go down among the benches to you and, well, 
 we'll talk it over."
 
 NEW YORK. 53 
 
 The speaker gave her head a light, quick toss, as 
 though she had been saying to some one that she would 
 keep some engagement to breakfast or dine. But the 
 most careless eye could detect behind this mere superfi 
 cial levity a strong force- of significance and emotion. 
 George, captivated and enthralled, leaned forward with 
 parted lips. He forgot even the presence of Crevelling, 
 which so recently had been as a thorn in his flesh. 
 
 "Then, my friends, there's the other great truth. So 
 many of you want, and almost claim, charity from those 
 whom you believe are in honor bound to give it you 
 those who have the power to give it in money and food 
 and clothes and shelter. But whether you secure such 
 charity or no, look well into j r our own hearts and ask 
 yourselves if you are worthy of obtaining it. For you 
 also have alms to- offer everyone of you. I mean the 
 alms of mercy and forgiveness." 
 
 George felt a mist of tears float before his eyes. He 
 felt his heart-beats quicken, too, till they shortened his 
 breath. What was this fair young slip of a girl saying? 
 Could it be possible that she had the power, with her 
 maidenly inexperience, however dauntless its sincerity, 
 to thrill and re-arouse that deep-buried grievance lying 
 below the roots of his deathless remorse? 
 
 "There may be thosa among you, my friends, whom 
 you judge with great harshness and perhaps because 
 you feel that harshness arnplj' deserved. These people 
 may have done something which you cordially despise 
 them for doing. But if it belongs to their past and not 
 to their present, if you have no evidence that they are 
 still soiling themselves by the commission of it, whatever 
 it is, whether a large sin or only a minor fault, then you 
 will be acting far more wisely and humanly and nobly 
 by treating them with constant kindness. Not with the 
 kindness that stoops, that appears to reach out a hand 
 from some little height above them; this is always a dis 
 tress rather than a relief. No; treat them as if you did 
 not know, or at least did not pause to recollect that there 
 were any dark stains upon their lives. There is no 
 better and surer way of keeping them from going back 
 into their old paths of wrong. Let them see that you
 
 54 NEW YORK. 
 
 do not judge or condemn them for what they were that 
 you accept and greet them for what they are. You don't 
 know you can never know ; how they may have strug 
 gled against temptation before they yielded to it or how 
 some weakness inherited from their parents may have 
 followed them all through life till that very hour in which 
 it broke forth, like a sudden disease or how others may 
 have been more to blame than they you can never find 
 out such things as these, because you cannot look into 
 their souls or read the wondrous and mysterious work 
 ings of their hearts. And therefore be lenient, since 
 whatever pardon or punishment they may secure, it is 
 not for you to accord them. And never forget that your 
 leniency can do them far more good than harm. Every 
 smile and kind word you bestow upon any sinful fellow- 
 creature, my friends, will help to make the rungs of a 
 ladder by which they can mount toward a safer self-re 
 spect and from which they can look down with a happier 
 confidence. And oh, be certain of this: you lift your 
 selves while you seek to lift your fallen or contaminated 
 neighbor! At such times you will be more generous to 
 yourselves than you guess. They tell us 'a man is known 
 by the company he keeps.' That's a poor proverb, to my 
 thinking. I would like to alter it thus: 'A good man 
 should be known by the company he is not so proud as 
 to shun!' ' The girl looked smilingly down at her au 
 dience, then receded a few steps. Several persons on 
 the platform rose and shook hands with her congratulat- 
 ingly. But Mr. Lucian Keverdy, the charitable multi 
 millionaire, sat quite still, with a somewhat sour tight 
 ness about his thin lips. 
 
 Meanwhile George had a hungry desire to go and 
 snatch one of those pink roses from the childish fingers 
 that held it. More than this, he felt capable of flinging 
 himself at the girl's feet, there before everybody, and 
 kissing the hem of her white gown. She had left him 
 in a daze of passionate reverence. The ceasing of her 
 voice became swiftly a pain to him. All those latter 
 words of hers had seemed specially addressed to his own 
 hidden revolt and despair. For awhile he had believed 
 this ; he half-believed it still ; the hazes of a delightful
 
 NEW YORK. 55 
 
 dream were vanishing from his brain as he heard Frank 
 
 Crevellirig say, close at his ear: 
 
 "A very charming appeal, was it not? She speaks 
 right from the heart, you know. Would you like to 
 meet her?" 
 
 George looked into the good gray eyes. He did not 
 answer. "Meet her!" he thought "I! Her purity, if 
 I went closer to it, might kill me with shame!" 
 
 Then, seeing that his ill-timed silence had brought 
 into Crevelling's face a rebuffed though far from angered 
 expression, he said stammeringly : "No thank you 
 not now." 
 
 "Perhaps you have heard her before?" said Crevelling. 
 "All through the winter and spring she would often 
 speak here." 
 
 "I haven't heard her no." Fearful, now, that his 
 inward- excitement would betray itself, George mastered 
 his mood into the quiet question: "Could you tell me 
 her name, please?" 
 
 "Her name? She's Miss Josselyn, the daughter of Mr. 
 Albert Josselyn, once a prominent merchant here, though 
 now retired. She " 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Crevelling," said a stout lady with a sweet, 
 infantile mouth, moving rather ponderously down the 
 middle aisle, "we've been wondering where you'd flown. 
 It's your turn, now. You must say a few words. You 
 always speak to them nearly as well as our dear Doris 
 does. You see, I say 'nearly,' for she is one of my pet 
 enthusiasms." 
 
 Crevelling moved forward to answer the lady. As he 
 did so George slipped out of his pew and went down to 
 the door that gave on the street. He could hear his own 
 heart-beats, and his eyelids felt heavy as with the weight 
 of crowding tears.
 
 56 NEW YORK. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE ugly street glared at him in the late, sultry light, 
 with its fetid gutters, its bleared window-panes, its 
 slovenly passers, its castaway dilapidation. Like a deli 
 cate, inalienable fragrance her voice followed him, "how 
 ever, and incongruous as though it were an urn of Easter 
 lilies glimmering from the doormat of some open grog- 
 gery, her virginal presence kept haunting his gaze. By 
 and by he had pushed his way out upon one of the South 
 Street wharves, and seated himself at the base of a burly 
 wooden mooring-log. The dark river below him, crink 
 ling into snaky flashes of gold from the slanted sunshine, 
 was alive with craft. The clash of traffic was all about 
 him; cries of men mixed with the creakings of ropes 
 the thuds of luggage unloaded from barges, the bell-peals 
 and steam-shrieks of coming or departing ferryboats. 
 But these familiar noises he no longer heard. His eyes 
 were fixed on the red-towered brick factories and tawny 
 lumber piles and black massed docks of the opposite 
 Brooklyn shore, though he saw them all, perhaps, in only 
 a dreamy blur. Miss Josselyn 'Albert Josselyn's 
 daughter. Yes, there could be no mistake. "Once a 
 prominent merchant here, though now retired. " That 
 told the entire tale. This charming creature was his 
 cousin; the same blood ran in their veins. 
 
 Then, as his nerves were steadying ho remembered that 
 the stout lady with the pretty mouth had called her 
 "Doris," and a new wave of recollection broke upon him. 
 
 This was not his near cousin at all; it was Albert Jos- 
 selj r n's ward, a somewhat distant relation of the same 
 name, whom he had adopted jiist as his own father had 
 adopted Lydia (yet with such a radical difference!) when 
 almost a babe. He recollected hearing of how Albert 
 Josselyn had said to his father in the wrath of their first 
 and last quarrel: "If you wished to adopt a child, why
 
 NEW YORK. 57 
 
 did you not act as I did, and choose one that would not 
 make you the ridicule of your friends?" 
 
 Yes, this was Doris; the real daughter's name had been 
 Grace. As a boy he had met them both, two girls almost 
 of an age, Grace a little the elder. Doris had light hair, 
 then, and a sweet smile, though her body was very frail 
 and her health poor. Grace had long curls, disagreeably 
 red, and an air of pride. He never got on very well with 
 either of them, and had seen them but a few times before 
 the fiual estrangement of the family quarrel. 
 
 During his imprisonment and trial Albert Josselyn had 
 behaved with merciless reserve. His mother, in her 
 agony, had written him an imploring letter, to which he 
 had coldly replied. He offered the aid she had asked for 
 the purpose of employing good legal ability to defend 
 her son, but he offered it with what she esteemed an air 
 of such icy hardness that it wounded her worse than a 
 blunt refusal. Then, as she was about to steel her tor 
 tured nerves into acceptance, an old friend of her hus 
 band, a lawyer of some eminence (now dead), had volun 
 teered to defend her boy. She had written Josselyn a 
 brief note of thanks, telling him that his services were 
 no longer the grim necessity they had seemed. But dur 
 ing one of her sad visits to George in his prison cell, she 
 had said, while speaking of his father's cousin : 
 
 "He is a man of good impulses. He has a sensitive, 
 kindly heart. I am certain that he suffers with me in my 
 grief. But circumstance never permits him to be himself. 
 In his relations with the big world this force has helped 
 him wonderfully pushed him toward the fine success 
 he has won, buoyed, stimulated, nerved him for all sorts 
 of skirmishes and conflicts. But morally it has enslaved, 
 degraded him." 
 
 "What force do you mean?" George had asked. 
 
 "His wife. It was she. who wrote me that letter, not 
 he, though the handwriting was his." 
 
 "Ah, then, you think that she bullies him?" 
 
 "Not at all, in any vulgar sense. She mesmerizes him. 
 A man sometimes fails in love with his evil genius, and 
 marries her, and cleaves to her, and pays her devout 
 homage, till both he and she are wrinkled wrecks, Ai-
 
 58 NEW YORK. 
 
 bert Josselyn did that with the astute and brainy little 
 dressmaker, "whom he had the bad luck to adore and 
 wed." 
 
 How vividly these words of his clever and brilliant 
 mother came back to George now! She had spoken them 
 only a few weeks before her dreadful mental disease 
 broke forth. And for that curse he had been account 
 able! What torments this realization had cost him 
 through the dragging months of his captivity! There 
 were times when its heavy anguish had made him resolve 
 that since all means of self-destruction were debarred 
 him, he would use an immense effort of will, and so cease 
 to breathe. But those had been the first wild horrors of 
 his prison life. Later there had come the inevitable 
 truce that misery, in cases of youth and health, must 
 make with madness and death. He could say to his own 
 thoughts now, "But for my crime she would still be liv 
 ing on, her old, sweet, precious self, " and say it with a 
 stolid composure that in no way partook of callousness, 
 and was only born from the dreary habitude of repent 
 ant suffering. Here was all he knew of Albert Josselyn 
 the little he had seen and the slight yet suggestive de 
 scription supplied by his mother. And now he longed 
 to know everything concerning the man's adopted child. 
 "Why had Gravelling referred to her as Josselyn's 
 daughter? Or had he meant to explain their true rela 
 tions in his next interrupted sentence? 
 
 For several days George found himself stirred equally 
 by a new happiness and a new discontent. The convic 
 tion came upon him, with slow surety, that he had fallen 
 in love with Doris, and that this fact was one colored for 
 him Toy hues of fresh calamity. Even if she had be 
 longed amid all this ugliness and poverty that compassed 
 him he would scarcely have thought it much better than 
 insolence to tell her of his love. What pure girl, among 
 the few that dwelt hereabouts, would not have held it a 
 distinct downward step to link her fortunes with those 
 of an ex-convict like himself? 
 
 And yet the elevating power of this new passion filled 
 him, at times, with a strange joy. The prison, the trial, 
 the conviction, and again the prison, had all intellectually
 
 NEW YORK. 59 
 
 deadened him. At twenty-two he Imd met disgrace, but 
 for several previous years bis mind bad been brightly 
 alive to the best awards of meditation and study. His 
 place was high as a college graduate, but it might have 
 been even higher if the routine process of learning and 
 recitation had proved more to his taste. An overplus of 
 imagination, of literary emotion, had hampered his native 
 mental keenness, and this stood in the way of his becom 
 ing a student or scholar of the first rank. All through 
 the academic course he had read and loved books, whose 
 very existence most of his co-disciples did not know by 
 name. 
 
 Books! He began to think of them now, under the rea 
 wakening spell of a lofty and holy sentiment. Histories, 
 records of travel, biographies, romances, poems, all thrust 
 into his roused spirit their tender and thrilling reminders. 
 Could it be possible that this glorious company of past 
 associations had so long stayed banished from his daily 
 thought? Now they burst softly in upon him as if 
 through some shattered portal of the soul. There were 
 moments when he trembled below the stress of this ex 
 quisite resurrection. And what agency, simple yet di 
 vine, had wrought it? A slender damsel in a white frock, 
 who had told him, with terms of simple eloquence, that 
 he was not quite the outlaw and churl and "peasant 
 slave" he had deemed himself. 
 
 "For you also have alms to offer everyone of you. I 
 mean the alms of mercy and forgiveness. And oh, be 
 certain of this : you lift yourselves while you seek to lift 
 your fallen or contaminated neighbor. They tell us 'a 
 man is known by the company he keeps.' That's a poor 
 proverb, to my thinking. I Avould like to alter it thus: 
 'A good man should be known by the company he is not 
 so proud as to shun.' ' 
 
 How those words had burned themselves into his being ! 
 They had seared, with a delicious pain, deeper than the 
 social branding-iron of Sing Sing. This candid and in 
 tensely human young preacher had dawned upon his 
 darkness first in the guise of hope, then speedily with 
 all too enchanting an expedition! in the guise of love. 
 
 She had said to her listeners that she would again
 
 60 NEW YORK. 
 
 come to them in another week. George would have given 
 the rusty clothes off his back, the worn shoes off his feet, 
 for courage enough to glide past those doors of the mis 
 sion once again and bask in the angelic sympathy of that 
 cherished voice, visage and presence. But, no ; he let 
 the week go by, and many succeeding days as v/ell. 
 Meanwhile he strove to content himself by feeling that 
 he was spiritually regenerated, and that the tedium of 
 his toil had become flooded with comfort, that the vul 
 garity and commonness of his fate had grown etherealized, 
 as by a sort of mysterious moonlight renovation. Odd 
 fancies, indeed, for a factotum of the east side slums a 
 "Jack Jackson," heir presumptive to the dead drudge, 
 "Tally Ho!" But George crushed its mask tighter over 
 the lineaments of his doom, and plied his mean tasks 
 while dreaming heavenly dreams. "If I only had some 
 of iny old books back!" he kept thinking. But before 
 the autumn brought its healthier coolness to the reek and 
 fester of those dens and lairs which he was forced to fre 
 quent, circumstance, by a curious and unforeseen deflec 
 tion of its current, bade him forget this haunting desire. 
 He had made his one small room in the Water Street 
 tenement-house as clean and decent as effort would allow. 
 Now and then he would smilingly boast of its tidiness to 
 the Schnoors or Mrs. Volatski or others of its patrons. 
 
 "I guess you've always been used to having things 
 neat and nice, ain't you?" the Polish woman said to him 
 one day, when he had finished for her certain decidedly 
 menial labors. 
 
 George broke into a laugh, for this observation struck 
 him as so peculiarly out of tune with his relations toward 
 the speaker. 
 
 "You're the last one to say so," he answered, "seein' 
 what dirty work I do for you and the rest o' the folks 
 round these parts." 
 
 "But I do say so." Mrs. Yolatski's black eyes 
 wandered over his face and figure with a searching 
 though covert intensity that he had frequently noted and 
 always disliked. "A young, hale, handsome fellow like 
 you," she \vent on, "oughtn't to be doing poor old Tally 
 Ho's work. He was over twice your age, and all gone to
 
 NEW YORK. 61 
 
 seed. He did what he did because he couldn't do noth 
 ing else for a living. It hadn't ought to be like that with 
 1/011. They used to say (I don't know, I've only heard) 
 that he'd served his time somewheres in some prison, 
 I mean and that this was the reason he never tried any 
 more to get a steady job." 
 
 "Oh, was that it?" murmured George. "I never knew 
 him, I never seen him," he added aimlessly, and with 
 secret misery staring from one of Mrs. Volatski's parlor 
 windows on half the dull band of the river, lapsing drab 
 along its Brooklyn side below a sullen zinc sky. 
 
 "Yes, I guess that was it. People that's been in prison, 
 you know, ain't got much chance afterward." 
 
 "No. I s'pose they haven't. Well, I'll bid you good- 
 mornin', ma'am. You won't be wantin' me any more to 
 day." And George moved toward the door. 
 
 "Oh, "look here," said Mrs. Volatski, growing affable 
 in her crisp, keen, black and white, staccato way. "I'll 
 want you to come in, if you care to, for our little party 
 to-night. It's only going to be a few. I'll have a 
 bowl o' rum punch, and about four or five ladies, and a 
 half-dozen o' my boarders. You don't drink nothing 
 strong, I know. But I'll be glad if you'll drop in. I 
 guess you've got a better coat than that, ain't you? Oh, 
 yes; I seen you in one, two or three Sundays, Jack. 
 You'll come, won't you? My brother, John Lynsko, he's 
 coming. He says to me the other day that he liked you 
 and wouldn't mind if he seen more o' you. Your room, 
 you know, is in one o' his houses. He owns two in 
 Roosevelt Street, and the Water Street one where you 
 are. I guess he must be awful rich. But he goes on 
 with his junk-shop there in Pike Street, just the same. 
 That's the way with us Jews, all over the world!" And 
 Mrs. Volatski's black eyes wore a proud glitter, while she 
 showed the feline teeth in one of her quick, chill grins. 
 "It's what's kept us alive for near two thousand years. 
 We don't go under because we don't never miss a chance 
 to make money. That's why they can't kill us. We're 
 a wonderful people. Any other, stamped on, spit on, as 
 long as we've been, would have died out ages ago. My 
 brother's a truer Jew than I am, though; he's full o' the
 
 62 NEW YORK. 
 
 old tough smartness; he can smell a dollar ten times 
 further than I can see one. But then I'm only a woman. 
 Look here, Jack Jackson, you ought to know my brother 
 better. He might do you a good turn put you in the 
 way o' something handsome. You come, now, to the 
 party to-night. You needn't stay long if you don't want 
 to. Say. you will come." 
 
 George, half-consenting, wondered at the woman's 
 urgency. What motive could she have for bringing him 
 self ai;;t her brother into closer contact? He had already 
 quite made up his mind regarding John Lj-nsko. The 
 man was a nnoerly, bloodless creature, in whom all the 
 worst characteristics of his race seemed concentrated. He 
 had been bitterly cruel to his tenants; his meanness as a 
 landlord was proverbial; he had been known to eject 
 from his tenements more than one workman whom illness 
 had impoverished. Not long ago he had turned from his 
 Water Street building a bricklayer, whom a recent fall 
 had seriously injured in the spine. The poor man had 
 punctually paid him every month for three past years, 
 and now owed him for but one month's rent. George 
 had seen the haggard, shivering wretch, engirt by his 
 four wailing children and his pale, tearful, terrified wife, 
 with all their paltry family chattels lumped near them 
 on the pitiless outer sidewalk whither they had been 
 banished. His indignation had almost forced him to 
 leave this house of John Lynsko's there and then. But 
 he had somehow stayed on, though with the latent intent 
 of leaving soon. 
 
 The Schnoors, below stairs, had learned of Mrs. Yolat- 
 ski's intended party, and scornfully explained to George, 
 a little while afterward, her reasons for giving it. She 
 wanted to increase her custom among a certain set of 
 Cuban sailors belonging to a prosperous line of ships. 
 Trust them, her rum punch would be of the sorriest 
 qualitj r . And those Cuban fellows would turn up their 
 noses at the Polish Jewesses she would have to meet 
 them. She couldn't have any other women at her ban 
 quet, loudly affirmed the Schnoors, for no others would 
 come. All the Irish and Germans and Americans round 
 about hated her, and she knew it. Oh, it was going to
 
 NEW YORK. 63 
 
 be a fine 'party!' The Schnoors only wished it would 
 end in a grand row. Then they would have their re 
 vengeful innings for all the malicious complaints she 
 had made against them! If the police should happen to 
 be wanted they'd be got quick enough. They'd whis 
 pered a few words of warning to Eyan and Bafferty, 
 as it was. Let her and her hairy brute of a brother look 
 sharp how their punch played tricks with them hot- 
 blooded Cuban chaps!"
 
 64 NEW YORtf. 
 
 IX. 
 
 BUT Mrs. Volatski meant to run no risks. Urged by 
 curiosity and a certain self-admitted wish to remain in 
 her good graces, George appeared at the festivity, 
 though somewhat late. He found his hostess in a flutter 
 of excitement. One of the Cuban sailors had brought an 
 accordeon, and had insisted on playing it while his com 
 rades danced with the Jewish girls. Two of them were 
 angular, with tallowy skins and obtrusive noses, while 
 another was fairly pretty, and a fourth had rich damask 
 skin and liquid ebon eyes. But all were treated with an 
 equal gallantly by the six swarthy male guests. They 
 were spinning about the room, with this or that partner, 
 to the wails and squeaks of the accordeou as George en 
 tered. 
 
 Mrs. Volatski greeted him joylessly, and pointed to a 
 table in one corner of the room. Her sharp, hard face 
 was screwed into a worried scowl. 
 
 "This is a plot against me a plot," she fumed to 
 George, "and them Schnoors downstairs is in it. They 
 want to give my place up here a bad name. I wanted to 
 have a nice, quiet little party, and please my Cuban 
 customers with a sight o' these good, well-behaved young 
 ladies, and make 'em tell how pleasant and sociable a 
 boarding-house I kept. But what does them Schnoors 
 do? They go and give these sailors drink, and send 'em 
 up here all gay and frisky at the start." 
 
 "They ain't doing nothin' very bad," said George, 
 careful of his vernacular. 
 
 "They're all full o' rum," bleated Mrs. Volatski, husky- 
 toned and dramatic. She again pointed to the punch 
 bowl. George looked into it and saw that it was nearly 
 void. "My punch was mild stuff; I made it so on pur 
 pose. They swigged it down like water in ten minutes,
 
 NEW YORK. 65 
 
 and before I knew what they was up to they'd filled the 
 bowl again with flasks from their own pockets flasks the 
 Schnoors had given 'em and was calling to me for water 
 and more lemons. " Here Mrs. Volatski shut her eyes 
 and shuddered. "Ugh! I could screech I'm so mad!" 
 her choked voice went on. "And them's your friends, 
 Jack Jackson!" she frowned, with whimpering contempt. 
 
 "How d'ye know the Schnoors done it?" said George, 
 cloaking a real doubt below his clumsy English. 
 
 "Know! Why, didn't I read his name on the label o' 
 one o' the flasks? I've got sharp eyes, and I seen with 
 'em. Ain't that enough?" 
 
 A sudden hilarious yell made George turn. One of 
 the sailors was pirouetting now, in the center of the 
 room, throwing up both his hands and kicking his feet 
 into the air with mad celerity. The Jewish girls, gig 
 gling frightenedly,.had all withdrawn from their partners, 
 leaving this bacchanal tumbler in full sway of the floor. 
 Soon a comrade joined him, and together they danced a 
 riotous saraband, twitching kerchiefs from their pockets, 
 one yellow and another red, and waving them banner-like 
 in the dull, lamplit air, which the smoke of their strong 
 Honradez cigarettes had already thickened. 
 
 Mrs. Volatski clutched George's arm. "It's a plot 
 a plot don't you see it is? Oh, if my brother, John 
 Lynsko, was only here! I don't know what keeps him. 
 He said he'd come. Ah!" 
 
 This last cry from the hostess was a sort of veiled 
 shriek. The accordeon, plied by its loud-laughing 
 player, emitted a falsetto turbulance of whines and yells. 
 Another sailor caught the prettiest of the girls round the 
 waist and dragged her into the dance. She resisted, 
 and her companions rushed terrified toward the door, 
 disappearing into the outer passage. 
 
 "Rachel! My dear Eachel!" cried Mrs. Volatski, and 
 dashed to the rescue of her young guest. She fought for 
 a moment tigerishly with the sailor who had possessed 
 himself of Rachel, and at length tore her away. Then 
 she pushed her out of the room, and disappeared after 
 her, closing the door. George stood with his buck 
 against the wall, and watched the Cuban sailors. The
 
 66 NEW YORK. 
 
 whole six now began a furious dance, pounding on the 
 floor with their heavy-heeled boots, -whirling here and 
 there in one another's embrace, and uttering sentences 
 in Spanish, at the top of their voices, which ended with 
 strident shouts. Suddenly one of them produced a dark- 
 hued flask from his pocket and waved it in the air. All 
 the rest rushed upon him, and there followed a furious 
 scrimmage, mixed with cries yei more acute. One of the 
 gang flung himself into a chair and picked up the deserted 
 accordeon, drawing from it a blare of quick, palpitant dis 
 cords. The man with the flask, still clutching it, fell 
 with a heavy thud upon the floor. Two of his mates 
 were soon rolling there in his company. Good humor 
 was fast vanishing. One of the three fallen men struck 
 another a light, half-angry blow. It was returned with 
 rageful violence. Then the two clinched and grappled. 
 Higher rose the cries of all. The two that still stood up 
 right stooped and joined in the melee, their white teeth 
 flashing, their black eyes ablaze. They tried to wrench 
 the contestants apart. Failing in this design, one drew 
 forth a knife and threateningly brandished it. 
 
 "Here's no place for me, " thought George. "I can 
 do no good, and can merely court danger." He opened 
 the door and slipped out into the hall. There stood Mrs. 
 Volatski, wringing her hands. Behind her were the 
 Jewish girls, all clinging frighitenedly together, their 
 pale Oriental faces picturesque in the vague light. 
 Every minute the uproar of the parlor swelled in volume. 
 As there came a crash like that made by an overturned 
 table, and then another, like the splitting and shattering 
 of a chair, Mrs. Volatski, with both hands raised high 
 above her head, gave an undulating wail. She spoke in 
 Polish, and what she said sounded like a prayer, and the 
 huddled girls answered it, all together, with shivering 
 plaintiveness. 
 
 "If 'twas only winter and the windows were shut!" she 
 moaned to George. "I guess there's a crowd round the 
 nouse already. Do go for my brother!" she caught 
 George's hand almost frenziedly, fumbling with its 
 fingers. "You know where he lives; do go." 
 
 George was not sure just where he lived, but he knew
 
 NEW YORK. 67 
 
 it Avas in one of the two Roosevelt Street houses that 
 stood together. He hastened down the stairway that led 
 to the street. As he opened the door below, a little crowd 
 surged toward him. Foremost among thorn was Mrs. 
 Schnoor, with a baby in her arms and two small children 
 clinging to her skirts. 
 
 "Oh, it's 3'ou, Jack Jackson?" she cried, with a queru 
 lous plaint in her tonea that instantly struck George as 
 affected. "Here's a fine hullabaloo for such a highly re 
 spectable boardin'-house! An' she's the Avoman that 
 complains of us!" 
 
 "Complainz of uss yes!" grunted Schnoor, who had 
 just joined his wife. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and 
 puffing at a big cigar. His plump, curled hands rested 
 on his hips, and his round face wore a leer of triumph 
 that George easily explained. " Juss lizzen to dem noises 
 upshtairs. She complaiuz of uss makin' rackets uss 
 hurtin' her bizness. " Then he winked at his wife, and 
 burst out Avith "Ho! ho! some o' the ma tain's barty vill 
 get shpilt onto de sitevalk pretty quick, I guess!" For 
 the tumult up behind the open w r indoAvs of the second 
 floor had now waxed into a vocal tangle of oaths and 
 screeches. 
 
 In the gathering crowd below, excitement spread like 
 a swift infection. Hoots and yells began to rise from 
 both male and female throats. George recognized a few 
 faces of desperate characters those on whom the law 
 kept steady and stealthy watch. It Avas not yet late ; one 
 or two fruit-sellers near by had not extinguished the 
 yelloAV plumes of lamp-flame above their heaped oranges, 
 peaches and bananas. The light from their stands mixed 
 Avith the elfin silver of a neAv-risen moon. The arch of 
 the great bridge loomed coal-black, HOAV in the strip of 
 delicate amethyst air overhead. Suddenly, just as 
 George Avas about to go in search of Lynsko, tAvo police 
 men pushed through the croAvd, scattering it right and 
 left Avith their brandished clubs. 
 
 "Aha, here they come!" exulted Mrs. Schnoor. She 
 caught one of the big fellows familiarly by the sleeve of 
 his coat. He looked at her with a fierceness that soon 
 melted from his surly features. And Avell it might so
 
 68 NEW YORK. 
 
 have fled. Poor as was her husband, many a dollar had 
 both this man and his mate levied from him in shameless 
 blackmail. 
 
 "You're just in time, Ryan," she said. "I told ye 
 there'd be a big row up there to-night. Just hear 'em." 
 
 "You got your revenge, didn't ye, Schnoor?" grinned 
 Rafferty, the other policeman. 
 
 "Revench?" innocently murmured Schnoor. "How 
 you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, I seen ye loadin' them niggery-skinned sailors 
 this evenin'. No wonder ye warned us." And then 
 Rafferty bowed his tall frame and muttered something 
 which George could not catch into the ear of Schnoor. 
 
 "Well," said the liquor dealer, with discomfort cloud 
 ing his victorious look, "if I got to I got to, dat's all. 
 Negd veek I guess I can manach. But reggolegd I've 
 gif alreaty " 
 
 "Oh, never mind what you've give," snorted Rafferty, 
 in bluff interruption. "These jobs is expensive. You'd 
 ought to know'd so when ye started in to raise the devil 
 with that Jew woman's boarders." 
 
 "Come along," said Ryan, giving the knob of the 
 street door a twist. It yielded, and he plunged into the 
 dark passage beyond, Rafferty following. 
 
 The crowd, no longer fearful, seeing its late assailants 
 disappear, regathered beneath the two clamor-venting 
 windows. In another minute a lean man, of marked 
 height, with his face almost shrouded by a black beard, 
 pushed past George. 
 
 The Schnoors, recognizing Mrs. Volatski's brother, 
 shrank several paces sideways toward the open door of 
 their saloon. 
 
 John Lynsko, one hand on the door knob, turned and 
 envisaged George with his glittering black eyes. He 
 spoke English almost perfectly, and with none of his 
 sister's hissingly harsh accent. It was said of him that 
 he had both brains and education of superior kind, and 
 no one doubted, in these courts of destitution, that he 
 had amassed astonishing wealth. 
 
 "It's you, eh?" he said, not unpleasantly. George had 
 met him two or three times in his sister's company, and
 
 NEW YORK. 69 
 
 secretly detested Lira, half because of his clear-proved 
 cruelty as a landlord, and half because of something 
 keenly repulsive in his face, voice, demeanor. 
 
 "Yes," replied George; "it's me." 
 
 "What's the trouble here?" 
 
 Tersely and non-committally, George told him. He 
 soon gave an angrj' snarl, and vanished into the passage. 
 
 And then, in a little while, there happened precisely 
 what George had expected to happen. The Schnoors, 
 in their craft3 r spite against Mrs. Volatski, had reckoned 
 without this powerful brother powerful because far 
 richer than themselves. 
 
 Quite soon the uproar dwindled very appreciably. In 
 a few more minutes both the windows were closed and 
 their shades drawn. The crowd reluctantly dispersed; 
 the Schnoors returned to their tavern. Conrad, grumb 
 ling and suspicious of defeat, reinstalled himself behind 
 his bar, where a slim youth, with a wide, tired smile, 
 had been reigning in his absence. Mrs. Schnoor called 
 to the rear of her lodgings by the screams of two older 
 children, whom she found at rageful fisticuffs with one 
 another presently came back after sounds of hot blows 
 from a probable slipper had reached the front shop and 
 joined her husband in vituperation of Mrs. Volatski and 
 her brother. She still held her baby (who crowed and 
 smirked as though he had enjoyed the recent castigation 
 of his relatives) and a child still clung to either side of 
 her gown. 
 
 The brother had come with his money. Oh they knew 
 how it would be! No arrests would take place, of course 
 not! Kyan and Kafferty would each get a ten- dollar 
 bill perhaps more. The Cuban sailors would be put to 
 bed with broken heads or blackened eyes, and that horrid 
 woman would soon be giving herself the same old airs as 
 before!. And that was what came of trying to fight 
 against the bullying impudence of the rich. No 
 wonder those socialist fellows Herr Most and the others 
 fumed and raved as they did in the Third Street and 
 Fourth Street beer saloons, uptown neai Second Avenue! 
 Money was the curse of the world; it kept forever grind 
 ing the poor into the gutters! 
 
 George, who stood in the open doorway of the shop,
 
 70 NEW YORK. 
 
 had an impulse to ask why, if this were true, both Con 
 rad and his wife had relied on money as a means of mak 
 ing Ryan and Rafferty the envoys of tbeir vengeance. 
 But he controlled this question, and with slight difficulty; 
 for he felt fatigued by a day of specially bard work, and 
 he was pierced by an indifference born of disgust. Why 
 should these people, whom Avant was forever buffeting, 
 make for themselves new and needless battles with one 
 another? Mrs. Volatski was arrogant and insulting, but 
 the Schnoors, on their side, were obdurate and spiteful. 
 A. little kindliness either way would long ago have 
 leavened the whole heavy and sullen dispute. 
 
 "If j'ou're goin' to stay here and watch," he said to 
 Mrs. Schnoor, "let me take them two children and put 
 'em to bed." 
 
 He had performed this office several times before, while 
 Conrad's wife was ill for almost a week and could 
 scarcely stir from her bed. The children were fond of 
 him, and now, as they heard his words and understood 
 them, the clasp of their little hands on their mother's 
 skirts relaxed. 
 
 But Mrs. Schnoor chose suddenly to be sarcastic. "Oh, 
 no, Jack Jackson," she sneered. "You better go upstairs 
 an' offer yer services to them Jewish ladies. I guess 
 they'd rather walk home with you than a p'liceman. " 
 
 George saw the jealous animus in these words. But 
 he knew that Mrs. Schnoor liked him, and he forgave her 
 for what he judged as only a random spurt of pique. He 
 made no answer, but crossed the threshold and passed 
 out into the warm, still air of the street. Just then these 
 same Jewesses flitted by, all arm-in-arm, a close-pressed 
 group, volubly chattering to one another in their native 
 tongue. 
 
 George began slowly to walk homeward. He had no 
 desire to wait any longer. He had nodded good-night to 
 Schnoor, but his greeting had not been returned, ad ap 
 parently for obvious reasons, three or four customers 
 having just sought his bar. The sidewalk was void, now, 
 of all curious loungers; the windows upstairs were dim 
 and inscrutable behind their opaque shades; the revel 
 had subsided ; the plot of the Schuoors had ended in dis 
 tinct fiasco.
 
 NEW YORK. 71 
 
 George wended his way toward Water Street. Just as 
 he turned a corner he perceived, in the brightened moon 
 light, a mob as large as that which had recently massed 
 elsewhere. 
 
 "Come to Jesus now," cried a voice, high-keyed, 
 lugubrious, yet unmistakably Tom Glyn's. "Don't de 
 lay another minute! He's callin' ye, callin' ye! He 
 loves ye all, an' He wants ye! Oh, it's so ellergant, it's 
 so comfortin'! Ye can face every sorrer if ye've once 
 give yerselfs right square away to that blessed mercy 
 an' love an' help Jesus Christ! Oh, say ye Avill! I've 
 been soaked in rum fur years. I don't touch a drop now 
 an' I don't need to, neither. Jesus fills me with all 
 the drink I should want if I was a Vauderbilt or an Astor. 
 It's the drink o' salvation the blood o' the lamb, better 
 ner all the cocktails money can buy!''" 
 
 At this point he saw John Lynsko walking along South 
 Street between the two policemen. They were all three 
 laughing, the Pole most heartily. At length they paused 
 within a few yards of George, and he saw Lyusko draw 
 out a dark wallet. Then George moved on, asking him 
 self if there would ever come a time when this infamous 
 dishonesty among the police no longer dared even iu 
 secrecy to exist. 
 
 He walked slowly, for this night of late August grew 
 sultrier while it deepened. "Nearly de whole houseful 
 is goin' to sleep on de roof to-night, "he heard one young 
 man say laughingly to another. 
 
 Every stoop and alley and doorway was crowded with 
 people. And such people! "If their Avould-be bene 
 factors," thought George, "could see them now, when 
 the careless nakedness of their poverty is manifest!" 
 
 Children were sent to near saloons with pitchers that 
 they brought back full of beer. Often they brought back 
 flasks full of spirits as well. Mothers nursed their babies 
 in the intervals of drinking. Here the warm weather 
 revealed what was occurring through all seasons of the 
 year, since these same mothers were feeding their young 
 on milk poisoned with alcohol, in various forms. 
 Fathers, equally infected by the vile stuff sold either as 
 malt or stronger stimulant, sat and puffed bad tobacco
 
 72 NEW YORK. 
 
 through clay pipes or wooden ones reeking with nicotine 
 oil. 
 
 "The mother makes us most," said George to himself, 
 remembering a line from his best-loved poet of former 
 days. "These fathers," his thoughts went on, "often 
 work off in toil the venom of their appetites, and yei how 
 vitally must they, too, influence the unborn child! And 
 how constantly their drunkenness must wreak on their 
 offspring curses of untold terror!" 
 
 In the stillness a voice now sharply cried to him : 
 "Jack Jackson!" it hailed; and with surprise he. turned 
 and saw John Lynsko, pushing on rather hurriedly at his 
 heels. 
 
 George waited. As the tall shape came up to him and 
 joined him, he had a strange desire to rush away. He 
 could not then account for this odd repulsion, and after 
 ward tellingly remembered it. 
 
 To his surprise Lynsko laid a hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "I wanted to see you this evening. I was kept away 
 from my sister's till much later than I expected." 
 
 "I noticed you wasn't there, " said George, stopping 
 before the house in which he lived. 
 
 Lynsko laughed. He had the same feline teeth as his 
 sister, but they were bigger and whiter than hers, and 
 now gleamed clearly in the moonlight through the vapory 
 black plenitude of his beard. 
 
 "No; but I got there in time to spoil the Schnoors' 
 little game. "What spiteful fools! Their own license 
 may be taken from them if the building is pronounced 
 disorderly. And my sister's complaints have been sen 
 sible enough. Her side is the right side; it isn't because 
 she's my sister that I say this. There's been rioting 
 down in that barroom of the worst sort, and it has lasted 
 quite often till daybreak and even later." 
 
 George could not dispute this. He simply nodded, and 
 Lynsko went on : 
 
 "I fixed it all, and I dare say you know how. Money, 
 -of course. In this world there's one great power 
 money. I haven't got so very much, and I wish I had 
 more. But I've got a good deal more than these mali 
 cious Schnoors, and well, ray sister is my sister. We
 
 NEW YORK. 73 
 
 Jews are clannish ; we stick together. The Cubans were 
 scared to bed in no time, and I bid so much higher with 
 Ryan and Rafferty the damned pair of rascals that 
 they'll snap their big Irish lingers at the Schnoors to 
 morrow. Every man has his price, my young friend." 
 
 George spoke indignantly and forgetfully. 
 
 " 'Every man has his price,' Mr. Lynsko, is a most 
 devilish proverb. I don't believe it's true I hate to 
 dream of believing it's true. And if I did believe so" 
 (George lifted his hand, pointing toward the glimpse of 
 southern moonlit sky which housetops left evident), "I'd 
 feel like jumping off that big bridge as soon as I could 
 get the chance." 
 
 Lynsko heard him calmly. "Why do you give your 
 self away like that?" he presently asked. 
 
 "Give myself away?" faltered George. 
 
 "Yes that's what I said. Look here; I want to have 
 a little talk with you. I know all about you. What the 
 devil is the use of your living this infernally low kind of 
 life? You're a gentleman or icere one. What you 
 need is a friend. I'll be your friend. Take me upstairs 
 to your room and let me talk with you. This thing is 
 all wrong. You're playing a foolish game. Perhaps you 
 think you can't play any other. I understand why you 
 think so. The whole game, you say to yourself, is lost. 
 At your age bosh! You can begin again, if you want." 
 
 George felt his heart stand still. Somehow he never 
 for an instant doubted that this man (whom he had al 
 ready decided to be able and clever and of powerful per 
 sonality) was an agency for evil. He admitted a certain un 
 canny fascination in Lynsko. The fellow smelled, as one 
 might say, of cleanliness; his linen was neat; his breath 
 had the wholesome fragrance of health ; his airy dark 
 beard gave evidence of attention. And all this meant so 
 much in surroundings like these, where a bath tub or a 
 toothbrush was rarity supreme. Still, there was also 
 that repugnance, that sense of being near some presence 
 malign and sinister. 
 
 "I can begin again if I want?" George murmured. 
 
 He spoke with an excessive dread. Had this John 
 Lynsko discovered his past? What else could his lan 
 guage mean?
 
 74 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Yes, yes, yes, you can begin again if you want, 
 George Oliver!" And Lynsko caught him by the lapel 
 of his coat and peered into his face with the two dark 
 diamonds of his eyes, inscrutable because of their small- 
 ness, yet singularly bright and acute, above the tossed 
 cloudlike dusk of his plenteous beard.
 
 NEW YORK. 75 
 
 X. 
 
 GEORGE thanked the moonlight. It could not show the 
 flush of shame and consternation that was flooding his 
 face. 
 
 "So, you know me, then, Lynsko. " 
 
 "Don't get excited." 
 
 "I'm not excited." 
 
 "Why, your voice quivers like a girl's! Take me up 
 to your room. I know just where it is; I own the 
 house." 
 
 "Yes, I know you own the house." 
 
 "You say that very offishly. Come, now, I'm not going 
 to give you away. What good would it do me?" 
 
 "Yes what good?" George stood with arms fallen 
 helplessly at his sides, the very picture of quiet despair. 
 "Must the curse follow me to my grave, or drive me there 
 sooner than death's natural course?" 
 
 He spoke those last words very low, but Lynsko's 
 quick ear caught them. 
 
 "The curse, as you call it, will pursue you everywhere. 
 The brand of Sing Sing is on you, my lad, and you might 
 as well try to avoid the air you breathe. Of course, I'm 
 referring to this part of the world. It's a big ball of 
 dirt, when all is said. You could go away. But the 
 devil of that is, to find means of going away. A man can 
 take a train at cheap rates he can cross the ocean as a 
 steerage passenger. But afterward there's the nuisance 
 of it! How is he going to live when he's reached his 
 new destination?" 
 
 "Will you tell me in what way," said George with an 
 abrupt, direct look, full both of sorrow and perplexitj-, 
 "you learned my name and my past?" 
 
 "Yes if you'll take me upstairs to your room." 
 
 "Very well."
 
 ^6 NEW YORK. 
 
 They mounted two pairs of stairs together, and entered 
 an apartment so small that its bed, bureau and couple of 
 chairs almost crowded it. George lit a lamp. Then he 
 sank, in sitting posture, on the lower edge of the bed. 
 Lynsko had meanwhile taken a chair just opposite him. 
 
 "You asked me a certain question and I'll briefly an 
 swer it. The first time I saw you iu my sister's 
 rooms I paid no attention to you "whatever. Later, 
 Maria spoke of you with praise as brisk, active, 
 intelligent and handsome. She also expressed sur 
 prise that one of your youth and vigor should be con 
 tent with so low a grade of work. The next time we met 
 I observed you rather carefully. You interested me be 
 fore I'd given you three minutes of real attention. I 
 read you like a book; you were playing a part; you had 
 had some severe set-back. Everything about you 
 breathed of masquerade. In my day I've seen all sorts 
 of people; I've mixed with the classes, though I mix 
 only with the masses now. As I said, you roused my 
 interest. I perceived your cleanliness under your out 
 side soilure; you had the air of a gentleman who strives 
 to conceal himself; there were little touches about your 
 dress, little irrepressible movements of j'our body, that 
 betrayed you. I noticed that your curl}' hair showed 
 signs of the brush and comb that your finger-nails, de 
 spite all the rough tasks their hands had to deal with, 
 were not the flat, stubby growths of the ordinary laborer. 
 As I said, you roused my interest. And so, I made in 
 quiries. " 
 
 "Inquiries?" breathed George, while he hid a shud 
 der of hate. 
 
 "They were not hard to push. I had only to speak a 
 few words, and for a few dollars a man was ready to track 
 you everywhere you went. He took four or five snap 
 shots at you with a kodak the artful young devil of a 
 detective! while you were on the docks, walking the 
 streets, doing this or that bit of a job for j'our various 
 employers. One day you went up the Bowery, and 
 stopped at a certain small hotel there, and talked with 
 the man at the desk. You were followed by the detective, 
 and afterward he showed your pictures and asked who
 
 NEW YORK. 77 
 
 you were. The man at the desk said you'd stayed there 
 for some time early in the summer, under the name of 
 'G.Oliver.' That was a clew. The detective (with a 
 professional sleuth-hound shrewdness which I can't ex 
 plain, and of course aided by his photographs) worked it 
 all up. He came to me, after about two weeks and told 
 me you were George Oliver, a gentleman by birth and 
 education, who 
 
 "Stop," said George. His face was ghastly in the 
 feeble lamplight. "You played the spy on me like this. 
 "Well, for what purpose?" 
 
 Lynsko leaned back in his chair. Now that his hat 
 was removed, he showed a head almost totally bald. The 
 black copiousness of his beard, reaching literally to his 
 flamy and inky eyes, produced the oddest effect; it was 
 like some gnomish thing done by a fantastic draughts 
 man in pen and ink. 
 
 "I said to myself 'here is a man who can help me.' " 
 
 "Help you? How?" 
 
 "Ah, there's precisely the point. "We two are quite 
 alone together. I have very little fear that you will go 
 and give me away after I have said what I wish. Be 
 cause your word, you know, wouldn't be taken. I 
 should deny ; you might affirm. They would believe my 
 statement before that of an ex-convict." 
 
 George's lips were white, and his nostrils trembled, as 
 he said: "I am induced to suspect that j-ou have some 
 proposition of a most revolting kind to make me. If so, 
 I prefer you should not make it." 
 
 Lynsko 's red tongue became visible almost to its roots 
 in an eldritch grimace. George thought of a tiger 
 gaping. 
 
 "Oho, we're going to play the virtuous young man, 
 are we? Perhaps you'll be saying, next, that you didn't 
 deserve those three years you got in Sing Sing." 
 
 "I deserved them," replied George "every month, 
 day, hour of them ! Nevertheless, my crime had a certain 
 excuse; for a wicked woman charmed and tempted me 
 into committing it." 
 
 "A woman yes." Lynsko sat, now, with one hand 
 clasping his kneo.
 
 78 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I heard the "whole story. From my point of view 
 yon've been a martyr an actual martyr." 
 
 "Your point of view is no doubt very different from 
 mine." 
 
 "Not, I should venture to think, on the question of 
 your deserving to be treated like a dog during the rest of 
 your life. For that is precisely what is going to happen 
 with you. I find you driven into a hole, and you repulse 
 me because I've hinted that I can drag you out of it. 
 Before a word of explanation from me, you assert that I 
 am probably about to make you a revolting proposition. 
 Allow that, in one sense, it is revolting, though you 
 haven't auy right to declare so till you've heard it." 
 
 "Your reputation is that of a very hard and avaricious 
 man. I have seen, with my own eyes, some of the cruel 
 things you have done to your tenants." 
 
 "Without the least irate sign on his countenance, and 
 with a voice almost gentle of tone, Lynsko answered : 
 
 "You're quite right. I am cruel. I probably get my 
 perfectly bloodless and heartless way of looking at people, 
 at life, from hundreds of persecuted Hebrew ancestors. 
 You can't expect grapes from thistles. I dare say that I 
 represent the accumulated spite and rancour of many 
 centuries. The Italian and Spanish Jews had a hard time 
 of it for hundreds of years,but the Polish Jews were even 
 worse off. However, I haven't meant any cruelty to you. 
 I meant and I mean only friendliness. Of a source 
 entirely selfish, I admit. I found you out because I 
 needed just some such man as yourself a man at war 
 with society." 
 
 "I am not at war with society," protested George. 
 
 "Then it's at war with you which amounts to the 
 same thing." 
 
 "Not at all," said George, with defiant haughtiness. 
 "If it fights me I will not fight it back. I will simpb' 
 try to live." 
 
 "To live by it and through it, which is the same as 
 fighting it. Now, suppose I told this wretched little 
 community round about here just who and what you are. 
 Low as it is, it would turn on you the cold shoulder at 
 once. My sister, to whom as yet I have saicV nothing,
 
 NEW YOUR. 70 
 
 would begin. The Schnoors would copy her course, 
 much as they dislike me. Everybody else would shortly 
 follow suit. You'd be driven out of this quarter as 
 far as concerned the chances of your making here any 
 sort of livelihood." 
 
 "This is meant for a threat, no doubt," said George, 
 his manner dry and blunt. 
 
 "A threat? No; an explanation." 
 
 George gave his companion a long, steady look. 
 "There is something you want me to doforyou,"he said 
 measuredly. "What is it?" 
 
 Lynsko, with quick-moving fingers, began to caress 
 his beard. "There is something I want you to do for 
 yourself. " 
 
 "Well, "returned George coldly, "I will not do it." 
 
 "Not .for ten thousand dollars? That is what you will 
 get." 
 
 "I have done all the wrong things that I ever intend 
 to do " 
 
 Then, suddenly, George paused. His indignant loath 
 ing of this man made a certain thought flash upon him. 
 Might he not expiate his own past crime, now, in the 
 sight and sanction of his own spirit? Was not a chance 
 being offered him to pluck the sting from remorse? 
 Granting that his lost self-respect was like a stairway 
 down which guilt had flung him and at whose base he lay, 
 maimed, incapable of reascent, might he not snatch from 
 circumstance a means of mounting those steps once again ? 
 Doubtless the world would never know if he succeeded 
 or failed. But some day, who could tell? he might find 
 the opportunity of making everything plain to Doris 
 Josselyn. He felt certain she would give him her sym 
 pathy, her commendation. These would surely be a 
 guerdon worth the winning! To have triumphed over 
 some villainy no matter if by stratagem and cunning 
 would bring him such glorious thrills of moral emancipa 
 tion! Here a divine spark of possibility struck into the 
 deadness and degradation of his present life. She would 
 be glad if she knew glad merely through compassion for 
 him as a struggling human life! That reminder, that 
 certainty, nerved him wondrously. It made him sirnu-
 
 80 NEW 
 
 late confusion, doubt, hesitation, even temptation, and 
 with a nicety far from the bungling of the tyro mas- 
 querader's and hypocrites.' 
 
 "You say that I would get so large a sum?" he mut 
 tered, breaking quite a long silence, during -which Lyn- 
 sko's eyes watched him with what he felt to be a terrible 
 veiled vigilance. 
 
 "In a period of about one year yes. It would come 
 to you by instalments. The money, in each case, though, 
 would be a neat pile." 
 
 George lowered his gaze, staring at the floor. He 
 knew that if he acted his part at all he must act it well. 
 One reason why he avoided Lynsko's look was dread that 
 the scorn and disgust which filled him might leap betray - 
 iugly forth. 
 
 "It's a great amount of money," he pretended to muse 
 aloud. "It would let me begin life all over again, hun 
 dreds of miles away." Then he made a despairing ges 
 ture, and with head still drooped, he went to the one win 
 dow of the narrow room, and drew aside its coarse cur 
 tain so that with strangely discordant result the yellow 
 lamplight and silver moonlight mingled. Then he flung 
 the curtain back, and turned with impulsive swiftness, 
 and once again looked Lynsko full in the eyes this time 
 anxiously, wistfully, excitedly. 
 
 "Well, then, what would you have me do for you at 
 that price?" 
 
 It was all very neatly managed ; a trained actor could 
 not have gone through it as well, for he might have been 
 too obviously professional. George was just enough of 
 the amateur for his sincerity to seem unmistakable. 
 
 "Sit down," said Lynsko, and he pointed to the only 
 other chair in the room. 
 
 George obeyed him. Presently, by slow degrees, he 
 heard something unfolded that was indeed a revolting 
 proposition.
 
 NEW YORK. 81 
 
 ONCE or twice during the revelation of itLynsko's proj 
 ect struck his listener as so cold-bloodedly diabolic that 
 he had a fierce desire to leap from his seat and cry shame 
 at its fiendishness. The whole truth soon came out, 
 hideous yei simple. This man wanted a human tool to 
 aid him in a series of what are perhaps, when all is said, 
 the most infamous crimes known to modern society. He 
 was the owner of this Water Street tenement, as we know, 
 and of two others in Eoosevelt Street. He had just be 
 come possessed, also, through a foreclosed mortgage, of 
 a large shirt factory in White Street, and he owned two 
 or three small residences on the lower west side of the 
 town. All these were heavily insured. His own real es 
 tate belongings ended here. But he had four friends, 
 two of whom were his near relation, each the owner of 
 several buildings, scattered between the Battery and Har 
 lem. These, too, were heavily insured. He would not 
 mention names; George need never have any dealings 
 with a single individual save himself. He, Lj'nsko, 
 would act as agent the agent of five people, including 
 himself. He admitted the formation of a little conspir 
 acy; there was always safety in numbers, and if this 
 week a fire occurred here, say in Water Street, and a fort 
 night hence another occurred in some house far away, 
 owned by a different proprietor, suspicion could be all 
 the more easily averted. George would now begin to un 
 derstand? Or did he wish plainer disclosure? That 
 would come, of course ; a great deal more must come. 
 But had he, thus far, in the phrase of the day "caught 
 on?" 
 
 "Oh, I've caught on," said George, with volcanic heat 
 below an outer crust of coolness. "You mean that you 
 aim to be the head of a gang of firebugs."
 
 82 NEW YORK. 
 
 Lynsko lifted both hands and made them vibrate with 
 sharpest speed. "Not so loudly," he said, "not so 
 loudly." 
 
 "I did not speak loudly," replied George in his gov 
 erned undertone. "Not half so loudly as you spoke just 
 then." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I know. But your word, my boy, was a a 
 sort of loudness in itself, don't you see?" 
 
 "I see, perfectly. Well, go on." 
 
 And Lynsko, with a new lease of volubility, did go on. 
 His fresh admissions were like the lifting of heavy fogs 
 and hazes above some foul swamp, each withdrawal dis 
 closing a noisome tract or pool, haunted by reptile life. 
 His project was loathsome in its villainy. It was worse 
 than mere murder, because it took murder for granted, 
 and treated it as a probability that should be held in con 
 tempt. To get the insurance money on these buildings, 
 whole families would be reckless^' imperiled. If they 
 were burned to crisps in their beds, or if they were forced 
 to fling themselves down upon the deadly pavement from 
 smoke-belching windows, all the more luckless they. 
 The horror of this "lirebug" atrocity burned into George's 
 soul while he hearkened. If Lynsko had miraculously 
 shot out a pair of clammy, batlike wings, and had pro 
 jected a curled horn from either temple, the metamor 
 phosis would hardly have amazed his watcher. Though 
 George had read in the newspapers of such phenomenal 
 deviltry, this being brought face to face with it, this 
 hearing it speak, this seeing the physical and tangible 
 source of it, dazed him with detestation. And there 
 were men living in a so-termed enlightened century who 
 could calmly plot such sickening crimes! To run the 
 risk of slaying little children at their mothers' breasts 
 fathers, sleeping off the fatigue of honest toil feeble or 
 bedridden old women and men perhaps the sick and 
 maimed on beds from which they could only rise and 
 stagger into an agonizing death and to risk these deeds 
 of incomparable vileness through hist of lucre! What 
 circle in all Dante's complicated hell would not be for 
 such heartless assassins a merciful bourne? What poign 
 ancy of torment could one conceive that would ade 
 quately punish these monstrous acts?
 
 NEW YORK. 83 
 
 Between Lynsko and himself was to exist a constant 
 bond as of roaster and servant, though the Pole would so 
 represent those whom he in turn served that their un 
 known personalities would, through his agency, make 
 themselves felt. Lynsko was the only living proof 
 George would receive that a body of men could so steep 
 itself in turpitude. His confederates would stay aloof, 
 curtained in shadow a dimness typical of their satanic 
 sin. One by one each "job" would be pointed out for 
 George, quite unaided, to execute. The needed qualities 
 were marked intelligence and great caution, supple 
 mented by youth, health, agility. One blunder, and the 
 whole splendidly hellish game was lost. In this case 
 Lynsko would alone be endangered, since all those allied 
 to him would remain beyond George's powers of expo 
 sure. But on George, if caught, enormous odium would 
 surely fall". A life-imprisonment must result, if not death 
 itself. Still he must think of the prize for which he 
 plaj-ed. His money would come to him in amounts of 
 eight, nine, twelve, or even fifteen hundred dollars at a 
 time. Lynsko had agreed with his dastardly mates that 
 the first fire should occur here in this same Water Street 
 house. Hence, for their selected young myrmidon, his 
 first task would be his easiest. A kind of distinct crim 
 inal programme had been arranged. The next fire should 
 break out in property owned by another member of the 
 gang, and located far away ; the next in still a totally 
 different quarter. And so, with excessive prudence, the 
 entire scheme of rascality had been worked out. 
 
 Before Lynsko left him, that night, George had given 
 full seeming consent. His effort to conceal agitation, to 
 restrain inward rage, to appear really dazzled and fas 
 cinated by the proffered prize, was fraught, toward the 
 last, with so intense a difficulty that once or twice he was 
 on the point of shouting forth, "You scoundrel, get from 
 my sight before I lock you in this room and alarm the 
 house!" 
 
 And when, with his smiles of suppressed triumph and 
 his nods of abhorred amiability and patronage, Lynsko 
 had finally departed, a sort of shivering weakness came 
 over George that made him recall certain awful hours in
 
 84 NEW YORK. 
 
 the dock while lawyers pleaded for and against him, and 
 spectators ruthlessly stared, and his agonized mother sat 
 pale and tearless, as close to him as the law would let her 
 sit, without a sign, so far, of the mental ruin that must 
 even then have been secretly at work in her brain. 
 
 Slowly an exhilaration succeeded George's collapse. 
 He had fallen into a chair after bidding Lynsko good 
 night, and had covered with both hands a face whose 
 film of icy sweat chilled fingers and palms. But at length 
 he straightened himself, drew in a deep breath, and 
 folded his arms, resolutely thinking. For nearly an hour 
 he remained almost motionless. Then he rose and pre 
 pared for bed, feeling the tyranny of sleep beginning to 
 assert itself, though confident that it would be one broken 
 by grisly dreams. Meanwhile he had clearly determined 
 on a certain prompt and immediate course. It was one, 
 he felt stanch enough to assure himself, from which John 
 Lynsko, with all the powers of darkness for leaguers, 
 would not have strength enough to drag him.
 
 NEW YORK. 85 
 
 XII. 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING a fevered night, his head was clear 
 next morning, and his nerves were firm. All perturbation 
 born of shock had now passed from him; he could look 
 unflinchingly on his future plan of action, and almost 
 wondered that even the dynamic stress of Lynsko's base 
 ness had bee-a able so to disarray him, sudden and unfore 
 seen as were its overtures. 
 
 "The wretch is a tiger," he mused, "but a fox as well. 
 By his own confession he has already spied upon me, and 
 learned my record. Last night, just before leaving this 
 room, he told me that I would not see him again for three 
 days, business calling him to Philadelphia. But he is no 
 more going to Philadelphia than I am going to the moon. 
 During these next three days he means to watch every 
 movement I make. He will place some one on my tracks, 
 and if I stir beyond my usual daily or nightly rounds he 
 will know it. Nevertheless, there is an uptown journey 
 that I must and shall take, and between us there will at 
 once begin the fight of cunning against cunning, wit 
 against wit. Let us see, at this first stage of conflict, 
 who shall prove winner." 
 
 For several hours that day George went about hia 
 ordinary occupations, thankful (as were doubtless thou 
 sands of others throughout the huge metropolitan area) 
 that yesterday's hateful heat had given place to an al 
 most autumnal change of weather. He found the Schnoora 
 f urioua at their defeat ; they could not coin invective 
 enough to shower upon Lynsko. These maledictions 
 pleased their hearer, though in a way far different from 
 any of which they dreamed ; they sounded to his ears like 
 his own abomination made audible. Still he had no 
 sympathy with the rage of the Schnoors. It had been a 
 fair fight all along between Mrs. Volatski and themselves,
 
 86 NEW YORK. 
 
 and one side was probably as much to blame as the other. 
 They had certainly held revel at the most abnormal hours, 
 and she had certainly blamed them, very often, for luring 
 her boarders into their inn when these marine roysterers 
 had been very hard to drive out before five in the morn 
 ing. But the Schnoors had made it no longer a fair 
 fight, and their treachery in giving free liquor to the 
 Cuban sailors on the night of the party upstairs had been 
 observed by George himself, and their chuckles of mali 
 cious glee had not escaped him either. 
 
 But he held his peace, equally while listening to their 
 snarls and to Mrs. Volatski's exultations. Yet from 
 either of the contestants he received slurring innuendoes 
 that filled him with annoyance. He had to pay the for 
 feit, as it were, of his prudent neutrality. This was con 
 strued unkindy both by victor and vanquished. 
 
 "Perhaps I may soon lose my chances of work, " he 
 reflected, "with either of the enemies." Then a con 
 science-twinge hurt him at the thought of taking a dime 
 of payment from the sister of Lynsko. 
 
 Meanwhile, all through that day, he kept wary watch. 
 Wherever he went, whatever was the labor he performed, 
 always were his faculties on the alert for some evidence 
 that his movements were being observed. Finally, a 
 little past noon, he noticed, on one of the South Street 
 corners a short, thin man in a gray suit, buying a peach 
 at a fruit stall. The man's appearance could not well have 
 been more inconspicuous. His narrow, clean-shaven face 
 was neither bright nor dull; his motions were neither 
 brisk nor slow; his garb was neither shabby nor spruce; 
 his air was neither cheerful nor sad. He ate his peach, 
 after buying it as if it were neither flavorous nor insipid. 
 "Just the man to pass in a crowd," thought George. 
 "But for all the commonplace that invests him, I'm nearly 
 sure I saw him throw a keen glance at me a minute ago, 
 and I've a dim recollection that I saw somebody very 
 much like him standing on the opposite sidewalk while I 
 was cleaning the windows of Dick Slocum's grocery." 
 
 Three hours later George's doubt became surety. 
 Dining at a small restaurant, he went forth and perceived 
 the same man getting his boots blacked a few yards off.
 
 NEW YORK. 87 
 
 Going into a second-hand clothing store and spending a 
 good while over the weeding out and grass-cutting of its 
 sickly little back yard, he emerged to find the same man 
 leaning against a lamp post, deeply absorbed in one of 
 the cheaper daily journals. And all through the rest of 
 this day, go whither he would, the man was somehow and 
 somewhere within the radius of his vision. "The most 
 admirable of detectives," he decided, "past question. 
 How I wish I could use him myself against Lynsko! ' He 
 is sinuous and supple enough to slip through a needle's 
 eye. Were it not that suspicion of his employer had pre 
 pared me for him, I would no more have given him a 
 glance than if he were my own shadow into which, by 
 the way, he has contrived most skillfully to turn himself. " 
 Later that afternoon, George made up his mind that he 
 would subject the man to an ultimate test. He went to 
 Fulton Ferry, purchased a ticket and boarded a boat for 
 Brooklyn, which he barely had time to secure. Just as 
 the boat left its landing he saw the now familiar shape 
 pass at an easy pace into the ladies' cabin. This struck 
 him, at first, as almost marvelous; but then he remem 
 bered that it was his own rigid policy to seem as though 
 perfect!}* oblivious that he was being waylaid. And hence 
 his follower had had a chance to use the evident nimble- 
 ness shown, in that slender, compact little shape. Ar 
 riving at Brooklyn, George took a rather crowded car. 
 He was obliged to stand, and did so with an abstracted 
 air, clinging to one of the straps. Presently, just behind 
 him, he saw (though with the careless aspect of quite 
 failing to see) his ineludible pursuer. This discovery 
 made him nervous, for the reason that it warned him of 
 how he might soon convince the man he was conscious of 
 being dogged. And that result he specially wished to 
 avoid. After all, had he not been foolish in faying to 
 make this last test? And what step should he now take? 
 Suddenly a side glance into Fulton Street from one of the 
 car windows gave him an idea. They were tearing down 
 a large edifice in the middle of a block, and the dust of 
 its demolition filled the air, while masses of lath and 
 other burlier wood cumbered the street. George nodded 
 quickly, as if in recognition of the place which he had
 
 88 NEW YORK. 
 
 come to seek. Then he hastily quitted the car, and for 
 ten good minutes haunted this scene of ruin. He took 
 up certain fragments of wood and examined them as 
 though to make sure of their quality; he asked three or 
 four workmen questions regarding the salability of the 
 debris, in case he brought a cart to carrj' it off. Their 
 answers, not all of which were very civil, he scarcely 
 heeded. And at length, without a look to right or left, 
 he quietly strolled back again through Fulton Street to 
 the ferry. While waiting for the boat, and after having 
 stepped upon its deck, he feigned a sort of drowsy ab 
 sorption. He was quite certain that the ordinary little 
 man in gray was not far off, but he had not the least de 
 sire to verify this belief. All he had wished to learn he 
 had learned. John Lynsko, fearful of the very treachery 
 that he meditated (if treachery toward such a scoundrel 
 were the proper term), had resolved that all his goings 
 and comings, for at least the next three days, should be 
 diligently noted. 
 
 Returning to New York, he deported himself precisely 
 as he had always been accustomed to do until the hour 
 for entering his Water Street lodgings. Rarely had this 
 hour been later than half-past seven, for in general the 
 fatigue from his drudgeries had enforced his going early 
 to bed, after he had eaten a light supper. Till nine 
 o'clock or thereabouts he would usually read by the light 
 of his lamp some one of the cheap paper novels or mem 
 oirs (often worthy of a far better binding) which bounti 
 ful bookstalls near the ferries had enabled him to procure. 
 
 But to-night he did not read. He lit his lamp for the 
 waning summer had now markedly shortened the days. 
 Then he changed his working clothes for others, and 
 after a few little unwonted self-attentions of the toilet, 
 looked astonishingly changed. Past years may have had 
 much to do with this rapid alteration; but George was 
 still a man of that flexible build which any nicety of at 
 tire easily set off and improved. He had no awkward 
 angles, no fleshly protuberances. His tall, harmonious, 
 compact body gave grace to what he wore, even though 
 it may have fitted him ill. There are some men thus 
 physically fortunate, just as there are some women,
 
 NEW YORK. 80 
 
 He decided to leave his lamp burning. The shadeless 
 window was draped with the outer curtain of dark, flimsy 
 stuff, which he himself had nailed there. If his watcher 
 knew his room, that continued light would mean that he 
 still remained in it. But he had no intent of remaining. 
 He brought forth from a box under his bed a low black 
 felt hat which contrasted strikingly with the slouched 
 and rusty one he had doffed, and prepared to quit his 
 room. 
 
 After he had locked his door on the outside he listened 
 for a few minutes in the darkness. Gruff-toned oaths 
 reached him from apartments just across the narrow 
 hall. Mike Giunerty was quarreling, as usual, with his 
 wife, who would have tried a saint's patience by her 
 drunkenness. Mike was no saint, but then he often kept 
 sober for a fortnight. His wife never did, though she 
 would swear that she hadn't touched a drop since her 
 last vow of abstinence was given the priest, and so swear 
 with a frying-pan of blackened beefseak in one hand, a 
 red-hot brandished poker in the other, and both feet un 
 stable and haphazard on the boards whose very carpet 
 had long ago been pawned for drink. 
 
 George's room was on the third floor of the five-storied 
 tenement. He passed down to the lowest hall, meeting 
 nobody. If he quitted the building at all that night he 
 must do so, beyond question, by the rear courtyard, 
 getting thence into the next street. Thither he now 
 glided. The place was fairly familiar. Behind him, tier 
 after tier, glimmered the lights from kitchen windows; 
 beyond him was a wooden wall, at least eight feet in 
 height, and impossible to climb; above him was a strip of 
 light blue heaven, sown with a few stars that sparkled as 
 if burnished anew by the breeze of this immature, salu 
 brious night. 
 
 George knew the whole spot well enough to lay his 
 hands on the crumbled edges of a fissure, breast-high, 
 which he had more than once noticed by day and which 
 gross proprietary neglect had left unrepaired. The 
 opening was too narrow to let him clamber through it, 
 but he soon found that the board which formed its under 
 portion was surprisingly loose. The mode of egress \vas
 
 90 NEW YORK. 
 
 therefore much easier than he had believed, and with 
 slight real effort he made use of it, dropping into another 
 space larger than that in which he had just stood. Other 
 lighted windows now faced him, but the coolness of the 
 evening caused them all to be closed. He saw the shadowy 
 entrance of an alleyway, and boldly plunged within its 
 gloom. Slipping straight on, he came to another open 
 space, which he expected, knowing that the stretch be 
 tween his own street and the one beyond was packed 
 with inner buildings. But the coolness saved him; 
 everybody was indoors. Then another alleyway met his 
 gaze, and he struck into its dimness. At its end he 
 glimpsed a street lamp and heard the rattle of a cart. 
 Just as he neared freedom, a figure pushed cumbrously 
 toward him. 
 
 "Well, who are you?" grumbled the voice of a man, 
 whose face he could not see in the dusk. 
 
 "Who are you?" he shot out laughingly, with a dart 
 forward. 
 
 The man turned, growling an oath. George gained 
 the street, and hurried westward. After he had gone a 
 block he turned and looked behind him. The moon had 
 risen. Long, somber, sagging house fronts loomed black 
 in its delicate azure shine. A few people were moving 
 to and fro; but there was no sign of pursuit. 
 
 George smiled, faintly nodding, as if to his own 
 thoughts. "John Lynsko, " these thoughts ran, "will 
 find I've a head on my shoulders before he's done with 
 me. Now for an hour or two of real liberty, while that 
 fellow watches the lighted lamp in my room window (I've 
 no doubt he's been told just which one it is), and con 
 cludes I'm getting safely into bed, and goes to his em 
 ployer with a full report of every step I've taken from 
 early morning till now. For I can hardly believe he'll 
 wait outside much longer. If he does he'll have a sur 
 prise, as I shall run no risks, on my return, in dark alley 
 ways, where I don't belong."
 
 NEW YORK. 91 
 
 XIII. 
 
 GEORGE took the east side elevated, soon after this, and 
 journeyed uptown for quite a long time, seeking a certain 
 address which he had found in a druggist's directory. 
 He got out at Fifty-ninth Street and walked to Fifth 
 Avenue, reaching it in the great square, blazing with elec 
 trics and bordered by Central Park, the Plaza Hotel, 
 the New Netherlands and the Savoy. All these build 
 ings, with their glimpsed interiors full of light and lux 
 ury, thrillingly impressed him; and the dense, vague 
 umbrage of the Park, softly overflooded by moonlight, 
 gave him longings to search its leafy mysteries, to spend 
 hours the whole night, even in wandering paths where 
 he could touch the barks of trees and hear the night-wind 
 flute among their leafage. What a contrast to the squal 
 ors of South Street! Had he time for just a brief dive 
 into yonder verdurous arcade, where he saw dim figures 
 strolling? He knew just how to find the Mall, and the 
 fountain overbrooded by the bronze angel, and the lake 
 beyond, with its swans and boats. How lovely they 
 must all look in the moonlight! What memories of 
 youthful, innocent years they were waiting to lavish upon 
 him! How delicious would be the pain of seeing them 
 once more, phantasmally transfigured, pale negatives of 
 that sunny photography by which they had appealed to 
 him in a happier past! 
 
 But, no; he had another errand, commanding and far 
 less pleasurable. Moving up past the Lenox Library, 
 he marked with admiration the solid, classic dignity of 
 its structure, like a bit of the old Appian Way (the 
 princely villa say, of some patrician Roman translated 
 here), all its heavy angles chastened and softened by the 
 witching argent light. Then, turning into a side street 
 full of smart, homogeneous houses, he came to one whose
 
 92 NEW YORK. 
 
 stoop he ascended. Ib had an air of elegance, and the 
 panes of its front door were of rich stained glass. He 
 pulled the bronze knob of a bell and heard a mellow 
 clang follow. A maid-servant, in iluted cap and big white 
 apron, soon answered. "Can I see Mr. Courtelyou?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir; I think so. What name, please?" 
 
 "He would not know my name, " said George com 
 posedly. Then, detecting in his portress a perplexed 
 civility, "but you might say to Mr. Courtelyou that I 
 would like to see him on some legal business." 
 
 The woman shook her head, though not ill-naturedly. 
 
 "I'm afraid he wouldn't see you unless he knew you, 
 sir. He is dining still, though I think he has almost 
 finished. But he never sees strangers, unless they have 
 some message from persons he knows." 
 
 George pushed into the hall with gentle desperation. 
 "\*Vill you not be kind enough," he said, "to tell Mr. 
 Sourtelyou that I am not a beggar, that I want very much 
 a few minutes' conversation with him, and that circum 
 stances will make it impossible for me to see him, just 
 now, in his office downtown?" 
 
 The woman stared him full in the eyes for a moment. 
 He divined her thoughts. Ho had not quite been able 
 to make himself look like a "gentleman," although he 
 somehow did look like one, and his speech had caused her 
 to feel that he was one. And yet between speech and ap 
 pearance there was a peculiar discord which her practiced 
 eye perceived. But she was very good-hearted; her 
 round, bland face told 3*011 that; here, in any event, was 
 no personal conquest to be proud of. 
 
 "I'm veiy sony," she said, drooping her eyes a little, 
 "but my orders are strict. If you had a card or a written 
 message 
 
 "What is it, Alice?" 
 
 Osborne Courtel3 r ou, master of the house, had just 
 emerged from the near drawing-room door. He was in 
 full evening dress. He had a long face with a jutting 
 forehead, made more prominent by premature baldness ; 
 for he could not have been over thirt3 r -six. His lips, 
 clean-shaven, were thin and pallid; he wore a little tuft
 
 NEW YORK. 93 
 
 of black whisker below each temple. His chin, almost 
 acutely pointed, was out of harmony with his large, cold, 
 steel-bright eyes. You might have said of him : 'A 
 mans who can both think and feel, but one in whom 
 reason long ago crushed emotion.' 
 
 The girl went up to him and spoke a few low words. 
 He nodded, but his gaze turned toward the drawing 
 room the next instant. A woman's voice was calling to 
 him as though from the dining room beyond. What it 
 said was inaudible. 
 
 Laughing, Osborne Courtelyou went to the half-open 
 door and cried quite merrily : 
 
 "This isn't the last you shall see of me. I've one or 
 two important letters, but will join you soon again. I 
 promise, Miss Doris." 
 
 "Doris?" said George to himself. "How strange." 
 
 Courtelyou turned toward the maid-servant once more. 
 "Ah, 3 r es, Alice." He stroked his sharp chin, and 
 glanced over at George, who stood somewhat in shadow. 
 He half addressed Alice, half Geroge. "I am much oc 
 cupied at present." 
 
 George at once went forward, fully revealing himself. 
 
 An immediate look of recognition crossed the gentle 
 man's face. 
 
 "Oh, it's you?" 
 
 "I did not wish to send in my name," George hurried, 
 his tones almost a whisper. "I feared you might not 
 care to see me " 
 
 "I do not." 
 
 "But my visit has a peculiar reason. It is not any 
 matter that directly concerns myself. It is something 
 that I feel sure will greatly interest you." 
 
 Courteb'ou's manner was freezing. He dismissed the 
 servant by a gesture. "This is certainly bold your 
 coming to me here in my house." 
 
 "I don't think your father would have said that," re 
 plied George, with a bitter smile. "He was one of my 
 father's dearest friends." 
 
 "Quite true." 
 
 "And he defended me at my trial." 
 
 "Yes. He chose to do that. It was an affair hardly
 
 94 NEW YORK. 
 
 so creditable to you that you should wish " Then the 
 speaker stopped dead short, with a shrug and a furtive 
 sneer. 
 
 "That I should wish to refer to it, Mr. Courtelyou?" 
 said George, gulping down a resentment which he real 
 ized but too sternly that thousands of his fellow-men 
 would denj' him the right to feel. "Well, I came here 
 with no reserves." 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 "Yes, naturally, as you say, since you were pointed 
 out to me in the court as Aaron Courtelyou 's son, and 
 since, having seen you there more than once, I knew that 
 you would be familiar with my entire case." 
 
 "lam familiar with it, of course." George gnawed 
 his lips for a moment. "Are you unwilling to give me 
 an interview?" 
 
 The bright, merciless eyes envisaged him. There was 
 no sneer now, but the slim, chill thread of smile in place 
 of it was even more repelling. 
 
 "I would have given you one Mr. Oliver, at my office." 
 
 "And you refuse it here?" 
 
 "I have never yet been approached like this, in my 
 own house, excuse me by an ex-convict." 
 
 George receded a step or two, half-turning. "Excuse 
 me," came his a slow, firm answer. "I did not know 
 that you father's son was a man of ice. I could not pos 
 sibly have gone to your office, and I had something of 
 great importance to communicate, though something 
 which did not at all concern my own profit. I am sup 
 porting myself, by the meanest labor, it is true, but still 
 by honest labor. I have discovered that a great crime is 
 about to be perpetrated, and I wished j r our help in avert 
 ing it. If you had chosen to treat me with I will not 
 saj' courtesy, but charity, I might soon have made plain 
 to you how thoroughly disinterested is my motive. But 
 now " George lifted one hand, slightly waved it, then 
 let it fall. His other hand, in the next second, had 
 grasped the knob of the hall door. He did not say "good 
 night, " for the civility stuck in his throat. 
 
 "Stay, please," fell from Courtelyou. "I will speak 
 with you, if you wish, upstairs."
 
 NEW YORK. 95 
 
 "No," said George, resolutely. He looked across one 
 shoulder with dark eyes aflame, though not in anger. "I 
 can only regret my mistake, and leave you to the enjoy 
 ment of your own handsome self-righteousness. Such 
 men as you, sir, unless I judge wrongly, are living 
 reasons why the world hasn't fewer convicts and ex-con 
 victs than it now holds." 
 
 "Stay," repeated Courtelyou, and moved coolly up to 
 the door, planting himself in front of it. 
 
 He was interested, though not at all moved. He did 
 not believe George's avowal, and suspected that some 
 artful trick of beggary was behind it. But the young 
 man's bearing and physical fineness had touched his 
 artistic sense, which was keen. Here he saw a far differ 
 ent fellow from that haggard, crestfallen creature at the 
 trial, whom his dead father, against his will and in the 
 teeth of his entreaties, had so ably yet vainly defended 
 over in Brooklyn. Beside, his curiosity had been 
 piqued, and his ambition (always an inflammable part of 
 him, lodged like dry tinder in a glacial nature) had begun 
 to take fire. Incessantly on the lookout for greater pro 
 fessional distinction as a lawj'er than he had yet achieved, 
 he saw now a possible chance to focus his marked intel 
 lectual forces upon some "case" of extraordinary value 
 and aid. 
 
 "You took me by surprise," he went on, "and perhaps 
 you'll accept my apology." He did not in the least mean 
 regret for what he had said, but it suited his convenience 
 to seem penitent. "On my own side I will accept your 
 rebuke as having been deserved. If, as you tell me, 
 your motive is disinterested, then you can afford to 
 smother whatever annoyance I may have caused you. 
 There, now; will you come upstairs into my library and 
 talk this matter over? You heard me say, a minute or 
 two ago, that I had letters to write. It's quite true, and 
 they are important letters beside, for I am an extremely 
 busy person. But I can spare you at least a half hour if 
 you'll agree to my proposal." 
 
 George's hand fell from the door-knob. "As you 
 please," he said. "But I prefer no apology from you, 
 since I have not the right to resent your mode of meeting 
 
 aae."
 
 96 NEW YORK. 
 
 They immediately passed upstairs together. The soft 
 carpet felt strange to George's feet. In the rear of the 
 house was a spacious lamplit room, full of large leathern 
 chairs, glimmering rows of books, etchings, a few choice 
 bronzes, an array of dim, rich rugs. Here they entered ; 
 and on George, after his long absence from all such 
 scenes, the mere visual effect smote like some pleasure so 
 cruelly keen that it ends in pain. His sight grew hazed 
 with tears. Such charms of living were lost to him, and 
 perhaps forever! But in that very "perhaps" throbbed 
 the pulse of inextinguishable hope. His youth and health 
 and strength, blent with the genuineness of his radical 
 remorse, bade hope refuse to perish. 
 
 "Be seated, please," said Osborne Courtelyou, and 
 pointed to one of the big shiny russet chairs. He him 
 self sat down before an immense central desk, loaded 
 with papers. The light of a green-shaded electric lamp 
 struck full on his cold, heavy-browed face, with its taper 
 ing chin and its large, metallic, unsympathizing eyes. 
 
 "You called me a man of ice," he said, looking full at 
 George, "and you were perfectly right." He paused 
 for a moment, and during this slight interval George 
 made no attempt to contradict him.
 
 NEW YORK. 97 
 
 XIV. 
 
 "You called me a man of ice," he repeated, "and I 
 fancy there are numerous people among my acquaintance 
 who share your opinion. But like the best quality of ice 
 I am decidedly transparent. My concealments are few, 
 and I am neither proud nor ashamed of my rather wide 
 spread repute for coldness. And yet I do not recall 
 having ever refused a fellow-mortal the pity logically his 
 due. There is far too much wasted pity in the world, 
 and few. kinds of extravagance, to my thinking, are as 
 dangerous. Take, for example, j r our own case. You 
 had affectionate parents, refined surroundings; you were 
 not even hampered by the temptations that come of 
 wealth. In college your excellent mental gifts brought 
 you stimulating rewards. Altogether your advantages 
 were remarkable. If you will consider the enormous 
 number of young men in the world with smaller brains, 
 weaker bodies and lighter purses, you must admit how 
 remarkable those advantages really were." 
 
 "I do not deny it," said George, almost below his 
 breath. 
 
 "But you called me a man of ice." Cortelyou lifted 
 from the table a quill pen, and held it by its nib, and 
 cut the air with it, as if for added emphasis, while he 
 further spoke. "Now, Oliver, I insist that to pity such 
 men as you, when society teems with those who would 
 give a finger, an ear, almost an eye itself, for the same 
 opportunities that you squandered, is helping to drench 
 society in that surfeit of sentiuentalism from which it 
 already suffers far too much." 
 
 "May I ask you if you believe in free will?" said 
 George very gently and humbly. The lawyer started. 
 He liked that answer. It made him feel that he was not 
 wasting his precious time on a man whose brains had
 
 98 NEW YORK. 
 
 been benumbed by imprisonment, and vho bad the in 
 tent of placating and mollifying him for some purpose no 
 subtler than a loan or an almsgiving. 
 
 "Free will? It's an endless metaphysical matter." 
 
 "I don't wish to cloak my criminality behind it, how 
 ever," said George. "But there has been with me an 
 intense moral reaction. And now, in contemplating 
 what I did to receive the perfectly just punishment meted 
 out to me, I can't help asking myself, sometimes, 
 whether, in the given circumstances, it would have been 
 possible for me to act differently." 
 
 "A moral reaction, eh?" muttered Courtelyou, flinging 
 down the pen, with some impatience. His tones were full 
 of smoldering distrust. And yet George's perfect sim 
 plicity of candor his use of the word "criminality" 
 his freedom from the faintest effort to employ those cut- 
 and-dried methods of self-defense so dismally common 
 place with one who daily looked upon culprits of all 
 classes these features and revealments produced their 
 unavoidable effect on his hearer. They did not engender 
 compassion, but they roused a kind of unconquerably 
 respectful surprise. 
 
 "Well, if Sing Sing did that for you, " he continued. 
 
 "Sing Sing," said George, his quick interruption 
 stabbing the air like a dirk, "did nothing for me except 
 to deepen my sense of self-degradation." 
 
 "And yet," smiled Courteb'ou mercilessly, "it left 
 you with a belief that you were the victim of fate rather 
 than your own folly." 
 
 "It left me with nothing of the sort," replied George, 
 haughty though not hostile. 
 
 "But your doubts regarding free will " 
 
 "Were and are philosophical doubts. I can't help 
 having them." 
 
 "Naturally you are thoughtful, ruminative, reflective. 
 You were graduated high in your class at ths New York 
 College. Doubtless you there went through a most 
 instructive course of ethical teaching." 
 
 "One which should have guarded me against temptation. 
 It did not." 
 
 "No, it certainly did not."
 
 NEW YORK. 99 
 
 "You raerelj' repeat my words, and refuse to answer 
 my question." 
 
 "Your question was ?" Here Courfcelyou smiled 
 down at his profusion of outspread letters and legal 
 documents. "Oh, .yes, I remember. Free will." He 
 lifted his e3*es. "I must answer your question somewhat 
 parryingly, if you please, yet altogether practically. I 
 believe in the agencies and coercions of education. Of 
 these you cannot deny that you received the amplest 
 benefits. Justice, equity, law, must stop there. It is 
 unable to concern itself with abstruse problems." 
 
 "And yet " 
 
 "There is always," and 3 r et, "with every criminal of 
 your higher grade." 
 
 "I am not defending myself; but the fact remains that 
 I fell under the influence of a most treacherous, fas 
 cinating, unprincipled woman." 
 
 "I recollect perfectly. Here in this very room my 
 father urged that excuse for you." 
 
 "Your father pitied me; 3 r ou did not. There lay and 
 lies the mighty difference between you." 
 
 Courtelyou shut his pale lips tightly together. Then, 
 with a little backward motion of his head, he exclaimed: 
 "I recollect very well what I said on the subject to my 
 father in this same room. 'You give this 3"oung man,' I 
 told him, 'what you might far better give to a wrongdoer 
 born in the slums, without chances of shirking the evil 
 that has driven him into crime. And if you treat George 
 Oliver's course with so much leniency, how greater should 
 have been your kindliness to many a plaintiff whom you 
 Lave legally prosecuted, with vice and guilt and harlotry 
 and drunkenness for his nurses and tutors. ' Those were 
 almost my precise words to my father, and he could not 
 answer them except with what /call sentimentalism." 
 
 George did not speak, gazing somberly at the floor. 
 
 Courtelyou watched him, with a serene, victorious 
 hardness. "What," he resumed, "does the common 
 clod know of free will of all these subtle and hair 
 splitting abstractions when he is sandbagging a fellow- 
 citizen or picking his pocket? But you, forsooth, had 
 actually concerned yourself with deep moral problems.
 
 100 NEW YORK. 
 
 and yet you went and played second fiddle to a pair of 
 arch-swindlers. Ah, no, Oliver. It won't do to show men 
 like you mercy till \ve can find something to take its place 
 among others who really deserve it. If the betterment 
 of mankind can only be brought about by education (and 
 none but fools are aware of any wiser way) then at educa 
 tiou we must draw the line of tolerance and clemency. 
 It's the old story some that have eyes will not see, some 
 that have ears will not hear. For my own part I'd 
 rather the jails and penitentiaries were given up solely 
 to these, and that all ignorant malefactors were treated 
 in asylums and hospitals, were included among the 
 world's unfortunates rather than its culprits." 
 
 The cold undertone that clad these clear-cut sentences 
 had for Georgo a terrible stress of reproach. He felt as 
 if some glaring light were being plunged into the abysses 
 of his helpless and guilty spirit. For many months past 
 he had surveyed his own fault, as we know, with un- 
 pardoning scrutiny. He found himself admiring the 
 man who could thus reach the very inmost sore of his 
 lacerated conscience, yet as a sufferer he realized with 
 repulsion how heavy was the touch it now encountered, 
 how devoid of all human tenderness, how reckless in the 
 infliction of added pangs. Slowly raising his look, he 
 fought against inward agitation, and spoke with what 
 proved at first only a succession of husky gasps, though 
 soon his voice grew firmer, his aspect regained control. 
 
 "Allow what you say of human volition that reform 
 has no concern with such recondite inquiries your points 
 may be well taken I don't dissent from them let all 
 that rest. But how about the merited term of punish 
 ment for a man like me? Should it be lifelong? I 
 maj' live on for half a century. And yet a burden of 
 dishonor must clog me, drag me down, wherever I go and 
 whatever I seek to do. My one possible refuge is 
 hypocrisy assuming another name in an environment 
 of strangers. But even then there would be the continual 
 dread of discovery the discharged felon's dread. Be 
 side, the risk of positive starvation would at first be 
 great, even if I succeeded (almost a pauper as I am) in 
 locating myself where I ain totally unknown. Such a
 
 NEW YORK. 101 
 
 plan I have in view, and mean hereafter to try. But is 
 there not cruelty in the idea that a boy's crime (for I 
 prefer this word, and never shirk it when thinking of my 
 past) should so stick to his life, his hopes, his every 
 struggle to gain social release, after he has paid to the 
 law of his land its allotted penalty? Should there be no 
 asylums and hospitals (invisible, intangible, if you will, 
 yet existed somehow in the humanity of his fellow-men) 
 for those afflicted like myself? That very education of 
 which you spoke makes the sufferings of such as I all 
 the more acute! Your ignorant ex-convicts are far too 
 blunted to feel it. Experience, you will concede, has 
 brought me very close to their callousness." 
 
 Courtelyou was smiling when George finished, and the 
 smile made him think of a sword-blade. "Folk sow the 
 wind and reap the whirlwind, a threadbare phrase 
 enough, yet inexorably true. Education is forewarning 
 and forearming. You were praemonitus, therefore prae 
 munitus. The world will never forget what you did, 
 will never trust you again, will always look at you as 
 kance, with a dubious if not a deriding eye. And I cannot 
 see any real injustice in its doing so. Call life a stream 
 and birth a ship. One by one we are tossed overboard 
 into the- current, and for some inconceivable reason 
 (which religion explains best of all other systems because 
 it does not attempt to explain) a few are provided with 
 life preservers and multitudes are not. It is with those 
 who loosen their life preservers and fling them away that 
 I have my undying quarrel," ended Osborne Courtelyou, 
 and his curiously frigid smile deepened. He did not 
 look as though he were desirious of quarreling with 
 any one, however; he had the impregnably secure and 
 convinced air of being unwilling ever to commit himself 
 by an impulse, either friendly or mimic. 
 
 Meanwhile his words had dropped like leaden bullets 
 into George's heart. By a sudden mysterious reversion 
 of thought, perhaps an automatic effort of his gloom- 
 steeped soul to seek some relieving light, he recollected 
 Doris Josselyn's tender and frank appeal, a few weeks 
 ago at the mission. How measurelessly different was it 
 from these sentences just heard, unanswerable as logic
 
 102 NEW YORK. 
 
 itself, with the cut and thrust of the scalpel in them, 
 each a stimulus to dispair and an overthrow to hope! 
 
 "But I have forgotten," said Courtelyou, breaking a 
 silence, "the object of your visit." 
 
 "True," George returned. "It has to do, I should 
 judge, with precisely that sort of evil for which you 
 admit no excuse. The man of whom I came here to tell 
 you is plainly of the educated minority. He lives iu the 
 slums as I myself live but it is not hard to see that he 
 has passed years elsewhere. He has a sister, evidently 
 younger than himself, in whom I notice the same traces 
 of refinement, though she shows them in less degree, as 
 though her brother's lost position, whatever it was, had 
 affected her at an earlier, more susceptible age. He is 
 not, like myself, a poor man, a worker with his hands for 
 daily bread. I am that, though I do not say it at all 
 vauntingly, as though to put in more pathetic colors the 
 sad result of my new gained freedom. Indeed, I have 
 chosen this routine of manual toil among lowly and needy 
 people in preference to fighting that very prejudice you 
 have described that ineffaceable remembrance of the 
 prison stigma, where all who hear my name will at once 
 connect it with the cropped head and the striped clothing. 
 But this John Lynsko, a Pole, with a past probably ten 
 times darker than my own, is nevertheless a property 
 holder, and a person of supposable political strength. 
 But he is also a man of the most infamous character, and 
 he has tried to make me his tool in a secret act of such 
 horror and outrage that I greatly long to expose him. 
 This, I realize, will be hard. But I recalled your in 
 fluence and position as a lawyer, and I believed that my 
 story, if j r ou heard it, might carry more weight with you, 
 in spite of ruined character, because of your father's long 
 friendship for mine." 
 
 Courtelyou, in his revolving chair, wheeled himself 
 round till he directly faced George. On the heavy arm 
 of the chair ho planted an elbow, and sat with one hand 
 propping his slanted head. 
 
 "I wish you would be quite explicit," he said, "and I 
 promise ycu that I will listen with great attention." 
 
 George then began and told everything. All that
 
 NEW YORK. 103 
 
 he knew of Lynsko or bis sister he disclosed, even 
 touching upon the latter's feud -with the Schnoors, and 
 their accusations against her honesty. Then, with 
 extraordinary clearness of memory, he narrated the en 
 tire recent conversation between himself and the Pole, 
 often repeating whole passages of it, word for word. 
 Finally, in tones free from the slightest resentful tinge, 
 he said : 
 
 "But perhaps you discredit all this, coming, as it does, 
 from my lips. If so, I will not blame you, since I have 
 no such right." 
 
 He had not expected a sign of sympathy, and he re 
 ceived none. Still the answer of Courtelyou pleasantly 
 disappointed him. 
 
 "I do not discredit a word that you have spoken. I 
 have not a doubt that your statements are perfectly true. " 
 
 "That surprises me, after what you have lately said." 
 Here George smiled, and the smile was both weary and 
 patient. "All this, you know, might be falsehood, told 
 for private ends of malice, revenge heaven knows what 
 else?" 
 
 "Might be yes," retorted the other, with a staccato 
 gruffness new to him. He rose, and with hands clasped 
 behind his back walked toward the rear part of the room 
 "By the way," he asked, speaking from that distance 
 and in the shadow left by the one brilliant lamp on the 
 middle table, "do you require any personal help? Can 
 laid you at all with money? I might spare you, say 
 thirty, fifty dollars, if you feel pi'essed by immediate need. " 
 
 George gave a quiet laugh. He half turned himself in 
 his chair and answered : 
 
 "Do you say that to 'test' me, Mr. Courtelyou? Have 
 you suspected that, after all, I am only a more artful 
 beggar than most outcasts of my type?" 
 
 His host made no response. He was staring up at a 
 picture off there in the gloom a portrait, and a very 
 excellent one, by the way of his dead father. He may 
 have been recollecting also (who shall say) that although 
 Aaron Courtelyou was one of the most famous lawyers of 
 his laud and time, he had left behind him a sweet and 
 wholesome repute for deep benevolence and large, sensi 
 tive compassion.
 
 104 NEW YORK. 
 
 XV. 
 
 AT length Osborne Courtelyou turned away from the 
 picture, and reseated himself in a light chair which he 
 caught with one hand from its place beside the wall, and 
 which he drew very close to George, so close that their 
 knees almost touched. 
 
 "You refuse any aid, then, of that sort?" 
 
 "Yes with thanks." 
 
 "You have all that you want?" 
 
 "By no means. I have very much less than I want." 
 
 "But, according to your own admission, you are living 
 almost a dog's life there in the slums." 
 
 "There are dogs in the neighborhood that live a much 
 easier life." 
 
 "And yet " 
 
 "And yet I will not accept charity while I have hands 
 to work with. There's nothing ideal or heroic about this 
 attitude. I'm not at all like the theatrical starveling 
 who says to the generous millionaire, 'Keep your gold,' 
 in the accents of that sentirnentalism which you so 
 cordially hate." 
 
 Courtelyou visibly winced. He threw back his head 
 with a soft laugh, perhaps meant to hide chagrin. 
 
 "Well," he said, somewhat roughly, the next instant, 
 "does your hatred of sentimentalism reconcile you to 
 this horrible drudgery by which you tell me that you 
 earn only a few dollars a week?" 
 
 " Nothing reconciles me to it. I abhor it. But what 
 other course can I decently take? Ah, sir, I'm a strange 
 kind of jail-bird! The sin I committed has brought 
 disgrace on my name, but it has somehow left me with 
 a soul, a heart, a conscience redisciplined by remorse. 
 Days and days of mental misery have told me one satisfy 
 ing ti'uth : there is no such help possible for a man like
 
 NEW YORK. 105 
 
 me as to lift up his own self-respect, cleansed by tears of 
 suffering, from the mud and mirk into which he has let 
 it fall." 
 
 "Very wise, very brave," replied Courtelyou, color 
 lessly, though without a hint of cynicism. "But I should 
 think, if you will let me say so, that you might employ 
 a more politic wisdom combined with an equal pluck. 
 The monotony of your martyrdom must now be intense." 
 
 "It is' if you call it martyrdom." 
 
 "I call it so because it is a voluntary acceptance of 
 painful conditions. It's your imprisonment over again, 
 with a few altered features." 
 
 "In my slight and pitiable way I've gained a kind of 
 independence." 
 
 "I should call it a worse captivity." 
 
 "No, since I'm among those who could not, for the 
 most part, afford to despise me, even if they were not 
 ignorant of my disgrace. And somehow I feel that the 
 filth of the gutters I live near cannot soil me half as 
 much as the thought that I'm cringing to the whims of 
 other people's contempt taking a loaf or two flung me 
 now and then from sheer condescension, and perhaps by 
 those" (here George's dark-blue eyes gave a passionate 
 flash) "whose own records, were everything told, would 
 not prove cleaner than mine!" 
 
 "You're an odd mixture of resignation and revolt." 
 
 "Practically I'm resigned enough; in theory I'm re 
 bellious. Meanwhile if I can get somewhere, and escape 
 it all, and begin life over again, I want to do so by an 
 output of my own unaided force. This may be pride, 
 but I don't seem to find it the wrong kind. The other 
 kind you know what I mean would seem to me the 
 wrong kind. And now, as to this John Lynsko. " 
 
 "Yes as to this John Lynsko." 
 
 Courtelyou repeated the words a little absently, but 
 still with vehemence. He had not yet recovered from the 
 consternation George had wrought in him. He was now 
 certain of the man's utter integrity, though he disliked 
 being certain of anything without cogent proofs. He had 
 never, in all his exemplar life, been conscious of the least 
 temptation to do wrong. His passions had been dis-
 
 106 NEW YORK. 
 
 tinctly palpable to him; he knew that they existed, and 
 that they were an evidence of his rleshl.y susceptibility to 
 error. But, all in all, they irritated rather than tempted 
 him. He could not understand how others yielded to 
 their lures. They were like beautiful enticing shapes of 
 shadow, "with woven paces and with wreathing arms." 
 He admitted their charm, but they seemed forever aloof 
 from him comfortably so like mimes and dancers be 
 hind the forbidding glare of footlights. And these foot 
 lights one might call his unquenchable "principals." 
 They appeared to have been enkindled in his nature at 
 some early stage of infancy, and were doubtless an inher 
 itance from an excessively self-righteous and ascetic 
 mother, whose death had been to his father the keenest of 
 reliefs. His virtue resembled some investment in a val 
 uable stock; he drew interest from it and calmly gloried 
 in the revenue thus obtained. He did not flaunt the fact 
 of its possession, but made it a kind of daily common 
 place disclosure, like the glimmer of his watchchain or 
 the neat knot of his necktie. His marble and 
 monumental honesty had already become a public 
 municipal landmark. He presided at reformatory, 
 political, or charitable meetings with an unerring 
 conservative tact. He was immensely trusted as one 
 swayed in all aim and purpose by the most stringent 
 moral code. Accredited with emotions, he was held by 
 his admirers as their rigid master, as incapable of ever 
 becoming their slave. He had many tepid acquaintances, 
 but not a single friend. Kich, important, a matrimonial 
 parti, it had caused slight surprise that he had not yet 
 married. Of course, it was taken for granted, hundreds 
 of well-born women would have married him. But then, 
 on the other hand, where was the woman so talented, so 
 unflippant, so generally sterling and irreproachable, to 
 whom this distinguished and rising young lawyer would 
 extend the favor of an alliance? Women were noto 
 riously weak, and being himself devoid of all weaknesses, 
 how could he either endure or condone them in another. 
 True, he might fall in love; but, after all, would "fall 
 ing" be the proper term with one so sagaciously self- 
 governed? Would he not rather "drop" into love,
 
 NEW YORK. 10? 
 
 watching with cautious glances the probable foothold 
 sentiment might secure, and thus, before the final event, 
 make certain that it lauded on no perilous quicksand, but 
 met the firm support worthy of its deliberative and hon 
 oring descent? 
 
 Yet now George had struck a queer note of discord 
 through the faultlessly correct harmony of his tenets. 
 It is always this way with the man of stifled sympathies, 
 lie could not understand, in a fellow spirit, that back 
 ward swing of the pendulum which means resuscitation 
 honor, re-emancipation from evil. But George had 
 somehow passed between his sturdy gateways without 
 for an instant making their solidity tremble. He in 
 wardly conceded that an intuitive perception of charac 
 ter had conquered him; and though prepared to "figure 
 it all out" hereafter by the most unrelenting rules of his 
 ethical and sociological arithmetic, he let himself be con 
 trolled, for the present and living hour by a faith which 
 must soon pay the penalty of microscopic dissection. 
 
 "Yes, as to this John Lynsko, " he again repeated, 
 leaning back in his chair and joining at their tips the 
 fingers of either lifted hand. "Now, I believe him as 
 vile a rascal as you do, and I would like greatly to entrap 
 him. But evidently he is as cunning as he is depraved. 
 And beyond doubt he wishes to make you, in case of 
 discovery, the sole person on whom the law can lay its 
 grasp. For this reason it will be far the most prudent 
 plan that I should begin to act without again seeing 
 you. It is very likely, however, that certain agents of 
 mine may find the chance of communicating with you." 
 
 "Even that might put Lynsko on his guard, I fear." 
 
 "Whatever messages or instructions you receive will 
 be delivered very skillfull}' rest sure of that." 
 
 "Shall you have Lynsko shadowed?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly." 
 
 "But will not that be like putting one bloodhound on 
 the track of another." 
 
 "Perhaps. Only, my bloodhound, I trust, will be 
 shrewder than his. Beside, if he has you watched for 
 two or three days, and discovers nothing suspicious in 
 your deportment, he will hardly be on the lookout for my 
 retaliating tactics."
 
 108 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Yes, you are right." 
 
 "Now, my first object is to find out who this John 
 Lynsko really is, and what causes a inan of his alleged 
 culture to live iu so anomalous a way. I must learn, 
 too, the names of his hidden friends. No doubt some 
 of them are old firebugs, already known to the fire mar 
 shal. Others are perhaps public adjusters men, that 
 is, who represent the public as against the insurance 
 companies. These adjusters, on one or two other such 
 horrible occasions, have been known to make terms with 
 the people who wish to have fires consume their houses." 
 
 "Make terms?" 
 
 "They looked to the getting of policies from the in 
 surance companies, so that a large enough amount of 
 money could be gathered from them after the fires had 
 done their deadly work. Men in the employ of the insur 
 ance companies and men attached to the department of 
 the fire marshal, were approached by these same ad 
 justers, and seduced, through promise of gain, into co 
 operation. But those conspiracies have collapsed, though 
 many a fire may have sprung from others never exposed. 
 Arrests have been made, confessions have been obtained 
 the latter appalling for the deeps of human wickedness 
 they reveal. One or two of the monsters are still at large 
 in foreign countries. Those who were caught have had 
 to plead to their indictments before the grand jury, and 
 their trials have resulted in long, if not life-long im 
 prisonments. " 
 
 "Why not in death?" asked George, shuddering. 
 
 "The punishment for arson is not death, and it was, 
 I believe, impossible to connect that special band with 
 one or more fires in which several persons lost their lives. 
 The cleverness of these rogues almost passes credence. 
 They contrive, at the time of the fires, to be always at a 
 safe distance away, and provided, each of them, with an 
 excellent alibi. The adjusters of insurance, I mean, and 
 the holders of the policies. With the mechanics, as 
 they are called, it is not so easy a matter." 
 
 "The mechanics?" 
 
 "That is the prettily euphonius name given to the 
 actual firebugs themselves the incendiaries Avho steal
 
 NEW YORK. 109 
 
 into hallways and cellars with their bottles of benzine 
 and other inflammables. It is as a 'mechanic' that Mr. 
 John Lynsko evidently desires your services. But in 
 this case there is a different species of plot. Have you 
 not already guessed it?" 
 
 Courtelyou put this question with sudden stinging 
 directness. A lawyer of great acumen, one almost un 
 rivalled at cross-examination, his look, the poise of his 
 head, the very disposition of his limbs, now implied that 
 he inwardly bristled with professional zest and zeal. It 
 was like the pose oi' the warhorse, scenting battle. 
 
 "Do you mean," said George, "that I am to be their 
 sole deputy their one single 'mechanic?' ' 
 
 "I mean precisely that. Lynsko's words to you leave 
 slight doubt of it. He tells you that you are at war with 
 society, and when you den3 r this he answers that society 
 is at war with you. He requires your services, at a 
 wage of ten thousand dollars, for a period of about one 
 year, paid by instalments. He has spoken of four 
 friends, each the owner of several buildings between the 
 Battery and Harlem, and he has stated that you would 
 never have any dealings with a single individual save 
 himself." 
 
 "Perfectly true." 
 
 All this points to but one conclusion. A new band of 
 firebugs of which Lynsko is the accepted leader have 
 resolved on a new scheme of villainy. You have been 
 selected by their chief as the very man fitted for their 
 uses. The Pole watched you and suspected that you 
 were living under an alias and that you had some former 
 fault to conceal. He took secret measures and learned 
 just who and what you are. Then he tempted you and 
 was met by your apparent consent to his proposals. But 
 so important did he hold the actual sincerity of this 
 consent that he had you dogged in the adroit viay you 
 have described. No; there is not a shred of doubt that 
 he intends you for his only employee his unassisted 
 factotum. And why? But no doubt you have already 
 guessed." 
 
 "I think I have guessed," said George, coloring a little, 
 whether with indignation or shame.
 
 110 NEW YORK. 
 
 In case the incentive of the big bribe may not so stim 
 ulate your trusted and selected intelligence that success 
 shall follow each attempt you make, in case to-day, or 
 next week, or a fortnight later, failure and capture befall 
 you, then he can quietly place your tarnished reputation 
 between himself and disaster. He can claim that what 
 ever testimony you may chose to furnish against him is 
 wholly worthless; he can point to your past, and scorn 
 fully inquire (through his counsel, of course) whether 
 one who has swindled a bank by having made 
 false entries in its books, and been convicted of this 
 offense by a jury of his peers, and suffered afterward a 
 three years' imprisonment, should be held a witness 
 against him of the faintest real account. And to those 
 who know the law as I know it, Oliver, this attitude, this 
 plea, however brazen, must seem of vast importance." 
 
 "I can imagine that. But Lynsko's own past reputa 
 tion " 
 
 "Would tell against him, of course, if it be a soiled 
 one and I have not a doubt that it is noisome. But he 
 would nevertheless cook up something quite creditable in 
 the way of a defense be sure of that." 
 
 Here Courtelyou looked at his watch. "I have not 
 much more time to spare you," he said; and George 
 thought of the words he had spoken downstairs through 
 the drawing-room door and the sacred name of "Doris," 
 that had fallen from his lips. \Yho could his Doris be? 
 Had she a hundredth part of the loveliness of his own? 
 Courtelyou pointed to the vacant chair at the desk. 
 "Suppose," he continued, "you write me a full state 
 ment of everything, just as you lateb r told it me. Then 
 sign, and give the date. Do you agree?" 
 
 "Certainly." And George at once made an exchange 
 of chairs. There was plenty of paper within reach; ink 
 and pens were beside it. In college, and for two years 
 after graduation, he had been a rapid and fluent writer. 
 Now his hand faltered, and he felt for a "moment seized 
 by despairing inability. 
 
 "It is so long since I wrote anything," he stam 
 mered, with a scared, piteous look at Courtelyou 's com 
 posed face.
 
 NEW YORK. Ill 
 
 "I understand. Wait a moment; it will come." And 
 the lawyer went to another table, near the wall, and took 
 from it a pamphlet, slowly turning its leaves. 
 
 It did come, though at first only by degrees. A kind 
 of terror preceded the formation of two or three initial 
 sentences a dread of having lost power to recommand 
 old disused energies, both manual and mental. Then 
 the change followed, hailed with inward thankfulness. 
 George's pen sped along the paper with all its old facile 
 vigor. He had covered two large foolscap pages when 
 Courtelyou, throwing down his pamphlet, again glanced 
 at his watch and said: 
 
 "You're getting along better than you expected?" 
 
 "Oh, yes very much." 
 
 "Well, I must leave you here for a short time. No 
 doubt you will have it all done when I return. I 
 
 A knock sounded at the closed door just behind 
 Courtelyou. He turned and opened it. A figure brushed 
 past him, and then stood still. 
 
 "Oh, you're not alone. Martha said she thought there 
 was somebody with you. But I'm going now; the cab 
 is waiting for me. I ordered it early, because I haVe a 
 busy day to-morrow at the little charity festival we're 
 getting up. Mr. Crevelling and Mrs. Stanfield and your 
 sister Martha, and three or four others, are going to ac 
 company the newsboys personally to loua Island. 
 Martha has just consented." 
 
 "You made her, of course," laughed Courtelyou. 
 
 "She's agreed to postpone her trip to Newport for one 
 day. And in the height of the season, too! What a 
 triumph, isn't it?" 
 
 Here Doris Josselyn glanced at George, whom she had 
 already caught sight of, though merely in a swift glimpse. 
 He was leaning back a little in his chair, and had slightly 
 averted his face. But she saw even his profile only in 
 shadow now; the lamplight flooded merely his arms and 
 hands. 
 
 "I do so wish you to speak to them afterward at the 
 home in St. Mark's Place. I know you're alwaj-s very 
 bus}'; but we want to end the day with something that 
 will leave a serious impression after their fun. Can't you
 
 112 NEW YORK. 
 
 arrange to be there at about half -past seven? or say 
 later, if you please." 
 
 She looked at him with a pleading smile, her head a 
 little on one side that aerial head, almost too heavily 
 weighted by its chestnut strands of low-growing hair. 
 He watched her face for a moment, with its pensive little 
 mouth that could yet so flower out into jo.yous smiles, its 
 breadth at the temples narrowing down to so slender a 
 chin, and lastly the glistening gray of its eyes, that 
 sometimes seemed too large and luminous for its wild- 
 rose delicacy. 
 
 To-morrow evening he had an engagement of the most 
 pressing kind one which concerned a lawsuit of exces 
 sive difficulty, only a part of whose obstinate tangle he 
 had thus far unwoven. On the other hand, though a 
 capable and effective speaker at charitable meetings, and 
 relishing the exercise for good of gifts that he was well 
 aware he possessed, Courtelyou had never liked address 
 ing children. The most ignorant adults he did not mind; 
 he would sometimes take keen pleasure in simplifying for 
 these his thought and language with a skill rare among 
 the ablest of orators. But an audience of children did 
 not rouse him, and perhaps for the very reason that his 
 rectitude had in it no streak of compassion; his morality 
 was brightness without warmth ; it could guide,, but could 
 not comfort. Nevertheless, he gave contsent, and 
 slowly left the room with Doris Josselyn, promising that 
 he would join herself, his own sister, Martha, and the 
 others of her party by surely eight on the following 
 evening. 
 
 George saw them leave the library side by side. For 
 a little while they stood together in the outer hall. He 
 heard Doris' fluty laugh. Perhaps ten minutes passed 
 before Courtelyou returned. 
 
 George started from his reclining posture. He made 
 a feint, and a consciously forlorn one, of resuming his 
 task. He had been having the oddest fancies; they were 
 like a gentle delirium. The walls about him, in their 
 glimmers of books and bronzes and deep-crimson up 
 holstery and gilt mouldings, had melted into the plain 
 plaster ones of the mission, and another visionary Doris,
 
 NEW YORK. 113 
 
 wearing a gown of paler fabric than this which clad her 
 now, had seemed to come forth from a big carved Venetian 
 cabinet just opposite him, and repeat that unforgettable 
 monologue of cheer and good will from deliciously 
 ghostly lips, and with a knot of deliciously ghostly roses 
 at her breast. These she was just plucking forth and 
 throwing toward him, so that one struck him full on the 
 mouth and left an enchanted thrill there, while another 
 lodged itself below the black sphinx head of a massive 
 inkstand, when Cortelyou's reappearance broke the spell. 
 
 "I suppose you have nearly reached the ending, have- 
 you not?" he asked, pausing at George's side and look 
 ing over his shoulder. 
 
 "There isn't very much more to do, I think." 
 
 George raised one of the sheets, but his hand trembled 
 so thai he let it fall upon the table again. 
 
 "Why, you seem ill." 
 
 "I I was a little.. But it will soon pass; it's pass 
 ing now," said George, not looking up, but feeling the 
 hard stare that must have leveled itself upon him. 
 
 "It's not drink, I hope." 
 
 These words had a buffet in them of bludgeon-like 
 brutality. He shot up at his companion a hostile look. 
 
 "I've never touched stimulant, in any form, since I 
 left prison. You can imagine that I'd no chance of doing 
 so in the time I was there. The truth is " 
 
 He stopped short. "Well?" asked Courtelyou, after 
 a slight silence. 
 
 "The young lady who was just here her presence, 
 quite unforeseen, upset me, no doubt." 
 
 Instantly, and with chilling haughtiness, while he 
 drew backward, Courtelyou said : 
 
 "What possible concern can you have with that young- 
 lady's entrance into my library? It strikes me as a most 
 peculiar piece of boldness that you should refer to her 
 at all." 
 
 "Oh, it does, does it?" burst from George, as he sprang 
 up and faced the other. "You may not remember, or 
 you may not know; but Doris Josselyn is the adopted 
 daughter of my cousin, Albert Josselyn. She is also a 
 relation of his, on his father's side, and therefore, in a 
 way, related to myself a kind of cousin, in fact,"
 
 114 NEW YORK. 
 
 Courtelyou, grown somewhat pale, gave one or two 
 slow nods. 
 
 George's anger, showing itself for the first time, waxed 
 hotter. "You talk and most arrogantly, of my peculiar 
 boldness in referring to her at all. Let me say this to 
 you, sir : If I had gone up to her, and told her who I 
 am, and asked her to take my hand, I am certain she'd 
 have done so." 
 
 Courtelyou smiled brightly. This was his usual mode 
 of concealing any intense annoyance. Of course he 
 should have recollected, he was telling himself, that kin 
 ship between the Olivers and Josselyns. His father had 
 spoken of it during the trial. But for reasons which he 
 could well understand, neither Doris' guardian, nor his 
 wife, nor his daughter Grace had done so. And as for 
 Doris, well it must merely have escaped her memory; for 
 was there any kind of candor concerning her family 
 antecedents that Doris would for a moment have shirked? 
 
 "You speak of telling her who you are," he said. "So, 
 then, that would have been necessary, eh?" 
 
 "We've not mot since we were children," replied 
 George, his voice harsh and hard. 
 
 "Oh ah I see." 
 
 "You don't see, however." 
 
 "No? Really?" 
 
 "Is this man trying to make me strike him?" thought 
 George, still throbbing with rage which he would have 
 denied as even vaguely jealous in its origin. 
 
 "No, really," he said aloud, with a mocking abandon 
 ment in accent and air. "As it chances, I heard her 
 speak at a down-town mission, not long ago, and speak 
 with great sweetness, humanity, tenderness." 
 
 "Now you make things clearer," returned Courtelyou. 
 He chose to ignore George's ruffled temper. "She has 
 been down from Lenox, where the rest of the household 
 have spent the summer, several time since June, and 
 alway on kindly errands like that. She immerses her 
 self in charities. She is very devoted to all that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 George flung himself back into the chair he had 
 quitted. He felt desperate, defiant, stubborn. Till now
 
 NEW YORK. 115 
 
 this Osborne Courtelyou had been a person whom he 
 could dislike discreetly and un explosively one whose 
 cleverness and assurance and gelid tranquillity he could 
 even admire while disapproving. But now his insolent 
 rebuke regarding Doris had set every nerve a-tingle. If 
 he had delivered it with regard to any other man or 
 woman on earth! But this adorable girl, who had been 
 for him a delightful companioning phantom through 
 dreary past weeks! As if he did not know he was un 
 worthy to loosen the latchet of her shoe! But to be told 
 so by this bloodless moralist, this autocrat of self esteem, 
 who had presumed to state, not long ago, that his 
 presence in the house was a pollution of it! 
 
 "There," he said, gathering up the two sheets he had 
 written, and tossing them sideways. "You can use 
 those or not, as you please. Here on this page are a few 
 sentences to be added." He at once began to write 
 again, but in a dashing, insecure hand. Then he signed 
 his name, and wrote the date below it. Afterward he 
 rose and caught up his hat. 
 
 "I wish to leave your house, Mr. Courtelyou. Per 
 haps it would be better for you to go before and recon- 
 noiter a little. There's a chance, you know, that I might 
 come across someone whom you objected to my meeting. 
 Your sister, for example. A glimpse of me in one of the 
 halls might be positively compromising." 
 
 Courtelyou saw that the man, for "two pins," would 
 have thrown aside all further connection with this affair 
 of unmasking Lynsko and his allies. But the lawyer had 
 no desire now to relinquish either the course of exposure 
 itself or George's aid in the pursuit of it. 
 
 "If I have again given you offense," he said, "I must 
 again ask your pardon." The words look humble as 
 written, but they were filled, as Courtelyou pronounced 
 them, with a perfunctory and rather weaned conde 
 scension, and they served to exasperate their hearer more 
 than if they had teemed with belligerence. 
 
 "I shall not trouble you," said George, "to apologize 
 a second time. It is very clear to me that you have ex 
 plained yourself in most accurate terms. I can hardly 
 imagine how the poor,, the unfortunate or the sinful could
 
 116 NEW YORK. 
 
 gain any help from your harangues, whether you vented 
 them in the humblest lecture halls or to audiences of in 
 fluential reformers. It seems to me that your self-satis 
 fied egotism must crop out there, just as it does else 
 where disagreeably in one case and impertinently in 
 the other." 
 
 Courtelyou played with his watchchaiu a moment, 
 looking studiously down at its minute gold links. 
 
 "You are that impossible person one who has made 
 his own bed and refuses to lie in it." 
 
 "I am nothing of the sort. But I insist on your 
 brutality in reminding me that the bed is a hard one, and 
 trying to scrub my flesh with the coarse serge of its 
 sheets. There are the papers." George jerked one 
 thumb toward the table. "Tear them up or utilize them, 
 as you see fit. " 
 
 Courtelyou 's smile had become a sort of glitter. He 
 lifted his shoulders, and then gave one hand a quick, airy 
 little flourish. 
 
 "Am I to understand, then, that you refuse me your 
 co-operation?" 
 
 "For the sake of bringing to earth a gang of rascals I 
 won't refuse it. But its powers are intensely limited, as 
 I think I have shown you." 
 
 "Then you agree to act if you receive instructions to 
 act?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I have your address." 
 
 "I gave it j'ou. " 
 
 Cortelyou drew forth a little notebook from an inner 
 pocket. "Yes," he said, scanning a certain page; "I 
 have it here." Then he read it aloud, and the "Water 
 Street," coming from his lips, was to George like a sneer 
 made vocal. "Since you are bent on rushing away," 
 Courtelyou pursued, a little absently, and as though 
 other notes on other slow-turned pages were absorbing 
 him, "Why er good-night to you." 
 
 Without any reply, George left the room and soon after 
 ward the house as well. But as he passed the drawing- 
 room doors, which were now wide open, with a flood of 
 soft light pouring from them, and glimpses of silk-shaded.
 
 NEW YORK. 11? 
 
 lamps visible bej'oud, he saw a young woman, richly 
 dressed, standing near the threshold. 
 
 "Osborne," she said and then recoiled, murmuring, 
 "Excuse me." 
 
 She was tall, graceful of build, and with hair fashion 
 ably massed high on her head, above a keen, pale, some 
 what pretty face Courtelyou's made feminine, though 
 without the jutting forehead. 
 
 "His sister, Martha," thought George, as he got him 
 self into the street. "They're as like as two icicles, ex 
 cept in point of size. And she's going to-morrpw with 
 a crew of newsboys to lona Island. God help the poor 
 newsboys! Oh, yes, by the way, God is going to help 
 them. Doris Josselyn is going, too!"
 
 118 NEW YORK. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 ONCE in the Third Avenue elevated, being hurried 
 downtown, George found himself surveying his late 
 wrath subjectively, as though it were a volume of fog that 
 floated away from him in misty curves and spirals. He 
 saw distinctly now that Doris had been the sole cause 
 of his shattered self-control. It seemed to him that he 
 could have borne with patience almost any other kind 
 of rebuff from this man, whom he had already grown to 
 regard with antipathy. 
 
 On alighting from the train and beginning his home 
 ward walk, he took stealthy pains to note if he were 
 being watched by any one in the moonlit and half-de 
 serted streets. Not till he had reached his own door did 
 he desist from this covert yet vigilant survey. And on 
 going upstairs to his room he had gained the firm assur 
 ance that his maneuver of departure, during the early 
 evening, had effectually fooled the spy set on his tracks. 
 
 "To-morrow,"' he concluded, "I shall probably be let 
 alone or at best watched with far less diligence." 
 
 To-morrow, as it turned out, he gradually received the 
 impression that he was not watched at all. The weather 
 changed during the night, and was drenchingly rainy 
 all day, with wild gusts of wind. He had got to detest 
 such days of storm, for they made his work far more 
 difficult while decreasing his profits by giving him much 
 less to do. But this day he greeted with satisfaction ; 
 it allowed him to stand under awnings or in doorways 
 without fear of seeming to suspect that he was observed. 
 The next day, thoiigh hot and humid, was clear again. 
 In South Street he suddenly came face to face with 
 Lynsko. "Be in your room at eight o'clock to-night," 
 said the Pole, and passed on, with his diamond eyes 
 a-glitter just above his black mist of beard, and not wait 
 ing for either refusal or assent.
 
 NEW YORK. 119 
 
 All tbe rest of that day George kept wondering if Os- 
 borne Courtelyou had yet put his mode of warfare into 
 any definite system of attack. Not to have heard from 
 him would be embarrassing indeed if Lynsko's overtures 
 should take an urgent form. 
 
 But that evening, on entering his room, he was aston 
 ished to find an envelope lying on the floor. Beyond 
 doubt the crevice under the door accounted for its pres 
 ence there. 
 
 The envelope contained these words: "Much was 
 done yesterday. Lynsko's associates are being looked 
 up, and wherever he goes he is spied upon. Get from 
 him any handwriting with reference to this matter that 
 you can possibly induce him to give you. It will be one 
 of our strongest proofs. Continue to be very careful 
 about going away from your usual haunts. You may be 
 watched, for all you know, by a different person and in 
 a different way. Enough has been unearthed concerning 
 tins Lynsko to render it certain that if he turns out as 
 clever a firebug as he has been a real estate swindler he 
 will make his mark in the latter profession. His record 
 is odious, but no more so than those of several political 
 rogues who have been his backers for several years past. 
 Two of these are high in office one is a Tombs lawyer, 
 hand-and-glove with a most corrupt district assembly 
 man, and the other is a deputj r county clerk of shadiest 
 character. Whether these two men have agreed to share 
 his spoils or no, I cannot say. But it is probable that 
 he has an insurance adjuster and a clerk of the fire mar 
 shal himself, both deeply concerned in his scheme. If 
 he pushes you toward immediate action, write me, and 
 mail the letter with all the privacy you can manage. As 
 you see, I am working with great energy. "Within the 
 past ten minutes I have learned that on the very floor you 
 occupy is a suite of rooms lately vacated. I shall at 
 once do my best to place there a family of three or four 
 people. These will be your invaluable assistants as wit 
 nesses. The case fascinates and absorbs me. I have 
 postponed and no doubt at great personal loss other 
 employment which would mean thousands of dollars if I 
 promptly carried it on."
 
 120 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Self-worshiping egotist!" thought George. "He 
 cannot refrain from telling me this. He would like it to 
 be cried from the housetops, as it will be, if his eager en 
 deavors succeed. Howl read him! A real power for 
 good a passionate hater of evil and yet brimming with 
 vainglory, having not a spark of Christian modesty, 
 adamant to the appeals of those whom temptation has 
 overthrown, and because he has never yet faced a 
 temptation which his own congenital reverence for 're 
 spectability' did not toughly arm him to overthrow!" 
 
 Then George read the remainder of the letter, Avhich 
 was brief enough. "Do not tear this up, but burn it, 
 and burn it completely to ashes. 
 
 "Yours, O. C." 
 
 He had obeyed that final demand, and was seated be 
 side his lamp, thinking one minute of his self-sought 
 crusade against human depravity and ruminating, the 
 next, as to whether he might not hav been wiser to 
 leave the whole diabolism severely alone, when Lyusko's 
 knock sounded at his door. 
 
 "Brutal day, yesterday, wasn't it?" began his detested 
 guest. "My spirits w ere indigo." He reached toward 
 the table, being now seated near it, and took up one of 
 George's books. "'Jean Valjean' m yes; but you 
 shouldn't be reading such books as 'Les Miserables. ' 
 The woes of outcasts will no longer concern you. You 
 are going to turn over a new leaf of prosperity." 
 
 "The woes of outcasts," said George, "would in any 
 case concern me." 
 
 "Philanthropic, eh? Well, there's no harm in being 
 that, if it brings amusement." 
 
 "Eather a light word to explain the gratification of 
 doing one's duty." 
 
 "Duty!" "With a curious mellow chuckle, Lynsko 
 pulled down two thick locks of his fleecy beard and 
 stared at the finger tips that clutched them. "Bah! 
 duty to what? Duty to whom? Look here. He flung 
 one leg across the other, let both the locks fly back into 
 place amid the big smoke-like floss whence he had 
 dragged them, and raised one hand, vertically sawing 
 the air with it while he again spoke,
 
 NEW YORK. 121 
 
 "I've seen all kinds of life the lowest, as you know, 
 and (in Europe) sometimes the highest, as you don't 
 know. Before I was thirty I'd breathed the atmosphere 
 of two courts, and talked, now and then, with two kings. 
 I've met men of all types, all grades, and exchanged 
 ideas with them in four different languages) apart from 
 my own Polish) either of which I speak equally well. 
 And now, at the age of fifty-three, I'm able to say this, 
 and say it with the truth born of deepest conviction. 
 Never have I yet come across a man who hadn't his 
 price." 
 
 George merely replied with a faint, neutral nod. 
 
 "Duty, indeed! It's the same sham as Christianity. 
 How many so-called Christians would openly hate God 
 instead of worshiping him, if they were not afraid? 
 Duty is the same sort of fear, till greed steps in and 
 changes it to courage. And why should it be otherwise 
 to-day with the whole mass of mankind,? Your Shake 
 speare speaks somewhere of money as "the yellow slave." 
 Perhaps it was a slave, in his time. The world was't so 
 densely overpopulated, then. Now r , in every city and 
 town and village, it's a master, and a tyrant as well. 
 Everybody is hungering for money, struggling after it, 
 straining to get it. There is no such thing any more as 
 respectable poverty. To be poor means to be as badly 
 off as the inmates of jails and worse. Look at Wall 
 Street a pack of gamblers, all crowding round one huge 
 faro table, all with greedy eyes fixed on the next card 
 that turns up. London, Berlin, Vienna, each has its 
 Wall Street, and the Bourse of Paris is a hell of hazard 
 that Monte Carlo itself can't match. Yellow slave, 
 indeed! Money is a yellow despot, a yellow czar! 
 Look at De Lesseps, dying smirched with shame after a 
 life of honor! See the men that were ruine4 by that 
 whole Panama exposure paragons, autocrats of probity 
 and principle! Mark the plunderers that have ruled us 
 here in New York for so many years, and are ruling us 
 still, in the same bold, venal way, despite Tweed's over 
 throw and the transient rage of swindled citizens!" 
 
 George was turning over the pages of "Jean Valjean." 
 "Would you then say," he asked, with neatly assumed.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 indifference, "that there are no honest men just now in 
 habiting the planet?" 
 
 "Oh, lots of them," laughed Lynsko, softly "lots, 
 until they are tempted. Some die without ever being 
 tempted enough." 
 
 "But, as you've stated, they all have their price." 
 
 "Yes why not? Religion used to be a force; it's 
 now only a sentiment. Men once died for it; they now 
 forget its very existence six days in the week and recol 
 lect it on the seventh because it produces a lull in the 
 jingling dens of the money changers. Formerly, gold 
 was less adored because it could buy so much less happi 
 ness. Now it is the universal God, because it can bribe 
 into abject submission everything except disease and 
 death. In many cases it can even stave off these for 
 years, the push of science having produced brilliant 
 medical specialists, where once there were only dull- 
 witted leeches. Railroads and steamships have made it 
 possible for the rich to gather thousands of luxurious 
 things, useful things, beautiful things, from lands that 
 it once -took weeks or months to reach. Comforts and 
 grandeurs and splendors of surrounding are now pro 
 curable for the millionaire, which his forefathers, if 
 equally wealthy, might have desired in vain. The whole 
 world has altered its allegiance. High birth is a trivial 
 ity where of old it was a reverenced creed. Italians 
 with the blood of the Caesars, Spaniards with ancestries 
 of nine centuries, Frenchmen who can trace back beyond 
 Charlemagne, Englishmen, whose pedigrees begin almost 
 with Egbert, are coming over here in search of heiresses, 
 whose grandfathers were stablemen, butchers, pork- 
 puckers, or even horse thieves! The enormoiis passion 
 ate craving grows with furious speed. Its a mighty 
 international scramble for what we are all realizing as the 
 one prize of true importance that life can hold out to us. 
 Give me a million, and I'm a prince; give me five, and 
 I'm a king; give me ten, and I wouldn't change places 
 with an emperor!'' 
 
 George raised his eyes from the book in his lap, and 
 said quietly : 
 
 "JIow is it, then that you who have so keen an appre-
 
 NEW YORK. r;';J 
 
 elation of what money can bestow and who must have 
 acquired enough to taste some of these pleasures you 
 describe live in the shabbiest quarters as the proprietor 
 of a junkshop while your sister Mrs. Volatski keeps a 
 sailors' boarding house in South Street?" 
 
 This cool question seemed to stagger its recipient for 
 a moment. He closed his eyes threw back the lapels of 
 his coat, and drew in a long audible breath 
 
 Suddenly with a radical change of manner conse- 
 quental swaggering, bravadoish, he retorted: "That's 
 my business." 
 
 "Oh I don't say it isn't," George replied with an air 
 of easy security. "But you were certainly not minding 
 your own business when you set a detective on my track, 
 and your assumption of dignity and mystery both in one 
 is a little amusing to say the least." At once Lj'nsko 
 recoiled before this bluff snub. His face softened into a 
 conciliatory smile, and soon he leaned toward George, 
 putting his arm with one outstretched hand an act that 
 made him feel as though a serpent were offering him 
 caresses. "I only meant this New York is hateful to 
 me. I stay here as long as necessity compels. Then, 
 pouf, I vanish back to Europe, and take my sister with 
 me. You see, now, my friend? You understand?" 
 
 George made no answer, and the Pole, after a brief 
 pause, continued: "With you it will be the same. 
 "When you have got that big sum of money you will go 
 away. All in all, you have been very wise." 
 
 "Wise?" 
 
 "To accept my terms yes. And now let us talk of 
 our affairs. " Here Lo'nsko rose from his seat, went to 
 the door, opened it, stood peering out into the hall for 
 two or three minutes, and then, reclosing the door, 
 strolled back to his chair. 
 
 "The first attempt had better be made, we have de 
 cided" (George noticed the "we") "here in this house. 
 It will be easier for you to get your hand in, that way; 
 it will make you feel more practiced, so to speak, for the 
 other and harder attempts." 
 
 "Yes. Well?" 
 
 "Note this memorandum. You will purchase, at
 
 124 NEW YORK. 
 
 different drug stores, so much benzine, so much naphtha. 
 The quantity of each is -written down here." Lynsko 
 laid a paper on the table. "These two ingredients must 
 be gradually bought, till they amount to a gallon. 
 Gasoline has been employed on other occasions, but it's 
 an explosive, and explosives are not in our line. Kero- 
 sine can take the place of it this time, anyway. After 
 ward' you'll get a gallon of that, and mix the three 
 ingredients. It will make a very inflammable compound. 
 Store the whole liquid away in two gallon cans, and hide 
 them under your bed, or in any safer spot3 r ou can think 
 of. This must be done within the next three days. 
 Thursday morning, at three o'clock, is the hour decided 
 on. I shall then be in Boston; you follow me?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "Everybody else who will have any interest in the 
 matter will be a good distance away." 
 
 "Except myself," George tranquilly interjected. 
 
 "Except yourself, of course." 
 
 "And how am I to use this compound?" 
 . "Ah, I was coming to that. By about half-past two 
 you must begin drenching the entire first stairway with 
 it. At the back of this second hall there's a window, 
 with a fire escape just outside. Am I not right?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "By the time you begin operations everybody Avill be 
 fast asleep. Of course there's a chance of some belated 
 or drunken tenant coming in and surprising you. 
 Against this risk you must guard; I have little doubt, 
 however, that you will find, at such an hour, no obstacle 
 of any kind. From the head of the staircase in this hall 
 you can throw a blazing newspaper, letting it drop on 
 the soaked woodwork below. Ignition may not be rapid ; 
 that will depend on your own speed. The stairs must 
 be in a roar of fire, understand, before you dream of 
 giving any alarm. And whether or no you do give any 
 alarm is not a matter of my of our concern. You will 
 have your window and your fire escape. It is for yon to 
 determine the efficacy of your own work. If there is 
 only a partial fire, put out by the engines before it con 
 sumes the property totally, your wage is lost. We want
 
 NEW YORK. 125 
 
 no bungling. The thing must be done thoroughly or 
 not at all, in so far as relates to your reward. This is a 
 ramshackle building a mass of tinder. The destruc 
 tion of it is by far the easiest task you'll have to per 
 form. That back window will afford you ample means of 
 flight. But you must give no alarm till you are sure the 
 fire has got tremendous headway. As regards scaling 
 the back fence, you must make your own preparations. 
 You are young, active and vigorous. A few sharp in 
 struments would enable you to cut certain notches, be 
 tween now and Thursday " 
 
 "Thursday is too soon," said George, thinking of 
 Courtelyou's letter. "I must have a longer time. I de 
 mand a week from Thursday." 
 
 Lynsko lifted his night-black eyebrows and softly 
 whistled. "Oho! We're getting cantankerous so soon, 
 are we?" 
 
 "Cantankerous, if you please. I refuse to be pushed 
 like this. " 
 
 "Pushed, eh?" 
 
 "Yes." George went on in an explanatory vein, 
 stating the intense difficulty of making the notches in 
 the rear wall without being observed. "And then," he 
 added, "this question of buying benzine and naphtha. I 
 refuse personally to do it. The material, as you call it, 
 must bo brought me. I will buy nothing. You can 
 bribe detectives; bribe other agents. I shall not tempt 
 arrest by being traced to drug stores. If you refuse 
 these terms, let the whole matter end between us." 
 
 Lynsko musingly caressed his beard. His next words 
 were sibilantly whispered. 
 
 "I see. You don't want iowork for the ten thousand. 
 You only want to get it." 
 
 George had a feeling that verged on nausea as he 
 replied : 
 
 "Either have the stuff brought here to my room or 
 count me out of the whole business." 
 
 Lynsko scowled. His white, feline teeth flashed in the 
 lamplight behind his veiling beard. 
 
 "You mean that?" he presently jerked out, with 
 hoarse gruffness. "I mean that," said George, "every 
 word of it."
 
 126 NEW YORK. 
 
 A terrible oath left Lynsko, though he did not raise 
 his voice in the least. "It's a part of the danger you 
 , agreed to face; it's in the compact." 
 
 "I deny your statement." 
 
 For a moment the Pole's brows grew so black with 
 threat, and there came such a look of fierceness to his 
 half-hidden mouth, that George expected from him some 
 burst of bodily violence. But he met his gaze with 
 great firmness and an answering touch of anger beside. 
 
 He next spoke in surly semitone. "I should have 
 known beforehand just what forma your whims would 
 take." 
 
 "It is ridiculous to call them whims. They are 
 natural precautious. As for danger, I shall be brought 
 in contact with quite enough of it. Placing me in such 
 a position that apothecaries can't identify me as the 
 purchaser of these chemicals, I hold to be a needless 
 measure. And I also insist upon a week from next 
 Thursday. If you supposed I would be your servile 
 puppet, permitting you to pull my wires just as your 
 caprices prompted, you have been grievously mistaken!" 
 
 Before Lynsko let him, that evening, George had 
 carried both points. He had gained time, and he had 
 avoided any future charge of personally abetting a crime 
 which he had no intention to commit. He had tested, 
 too, the intensity of Lynsko 's desire for his services. At 
 the same time he was aware that the Pole had quitted 
 his room with fresh doubts and suspicious of his loyalty 
 to the whole infamous cause. Three daj-s passed, dur 
 ing which he did not see Lnysko. Whether or no he 
 was still watched he took slight pains to observe. The 
 man who had formerly followed him everywhere, how 
 ever, had now disappeared; of that fact he felt thor 
 oughly confident. If he were made the object of a closer 
 and more subtle system of surveillance he did not choose 
 to perturb himself by seeking to discover. 
 
 On the afternoon of the first day he wrote a note to 
 Courtelyoii, stating how he had postponed the time for 
 setting fire to the tenement in which he lived, and how 
 he had insisted that the inflammables should be brought 
 to him instead of his being compelled to procure them
 
 NEW YORK. 12? 
 
 in person. This note he dropped into one of the South 
 Street lamp post letter-boxes with an almost juggler-like 
 dexterity and quickness. On the afternoon of the second 
 day he chanced to pass his own Water Street lodgings 
 while a cart of furniture and household chattels was 
 being unloaded at the doorway. Instantly he remem 
 bered a certain passage in Courtelyou's missive. Did 
 this mean that the rooms on his own floor, just across 
 the hall, were to be occupied by tenants, whom the 
 lawyer had sent there? 
 
 Showing no special curiosity, George moved onward. 
 That evening, while he was unlocking the door of his 
 chamber, a man emerged from one of the opposite door- 
 ways. He was elderly and quite gray, with a mild intel 
 ligent face. 
 
 "Is this Jack Jackson?" he asked, with a faint smile. 
 
 "Yes," said George. 
 
 He at once produced a letter, without superscription 
 of any sort, handed it to George, and disappeared again 
 while he was tearing open its blank envelope.
 
 128 NEW YORK. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 "An imprudence," thought George, looking about 
 him in the void, narrow hall. "I should not have opened 
 the letter here. " He at once went into his own room, 
 locked its door on the inside, and was soon reading 
 these lines : 
 
 "I am glad 3 r ou secured the postponement and refused to 
 purchase the combustibles. This will be given you as 
 soon as possible by Joseph Bigsbee, who moves to-day in 
 to the vacant rooms with his wife and sister. He is em 
 ployed as a baggageman at one of the riverside depots a 
 few blocks away. He bears an excellent character, and 
 understands precisely what I want him to do. When he 
 is away his wife and sister will act in his place. They 
 are a three quick-minded and capable; my having got 
 them at such short notice is a great stroke of luck. Talk 
 with them as often as you please between now and Thurs 
 day, but use every care in your communications. This 
 is probably the last letter I shall send you. Preserve 
 carefully the memorandum he gave you; it will be evi 
 dence of value. He will no doubt buy the chemicals him 
 self and bring them to you with his own hands, for he is 
 afraid to trust any one. I have placed three detectives 
 upon all his doings, and each is a man of great shrewd 
 ness and experience. They know just how to deal with 
 so wily a subject, and he cannot enter any drugshop 
 without their knowledge. If possible, some one of the 
 three Bigsbees will see him carry the cans to your door. 
 Should he leave the city on Thursdaj' it will be a bad 
 blow for us. But I think he will stay at his place of 
 business in Pike Street. Your mode of action, in that 
 case, will be to send him, at about midnight, a 
 message " 
 
 "A message!" repeated George, astonished, keenly 
 interested.
 
 NEW YORK. 139 
 
 "A message," he continued reading, "in which you 
 will beg him to join you immediately, as something very 
 strange has happened, and you do not wish to act with 
 out his advice. He will obey your summons curiosity 
 will force him. Meanwhile in the Bigsbee's rooms there 
 will be two policemen (not uniformed) waiting. You 
 will then tell Lynsko that you suspect the Bigsbees of 
 being set to spy upon you. This will greatly surprise 
 him, of course. You will pretend extreme nervousness, 
 and insist that he remain and aid you for this once. If 
 he refuses, desist from pressing him too far; it might 
 rouse fears of your treachery. 
 
 "If, however, he consents, the beginning of your 
 operations cannot, I think, be so stealthy that they will 
 escape my two men, intently listening near by. Then he 
 will be caught in the act, and arrested. The officers will 
 perfectly understand your own position, and leave your 
 liberty unmolested. Eight on from the next morning 
 until the end of Lynsko's trial I will support you with 
 my own testimony regarding your complete innocence, 
 and also with whatever influence, my legal and social stand 
 ing may possess. "But if, on the other hand, he quits 
 the house, refusing the slightest co-operation, I advise 
 you to waive the whole affair, voiding the vessels of 
 their liquid and placing them somewhere outside your 
 apartment with as much expedition as you can manage. 
 Thenceforward I shall work with what information you 
 have given me, and only ask your aid at some future 
 time possibly mouths hereafter when my constant 
 espionage may have resulted in finding the Pole at some 
 new 'firebug' trick, and when your evidence may assist 
 in bringing the viperous creature to the justice he so 
 richly merits. "And let me write you, in ending this 
 lengthy screed, that I have lately discovered the reason 
 why a man of his outward refinement and inward culti 
 vation lives as he does, keeping a shop full of second 
 hand rubbish in Pike Street. His swindling games in 
 the real estate market are not the sole cause of this 
 shabby retirement. Those very nearly put him in 
 prison, and would have done so but for the help of his 
 venal political friends. But since their occurrence he
 
 130 NEW YORK. 
 
 was concerned in a bank-robbery which he contrived to 
 operate, as far as I can learn, very much as he is now 
 seeking to operate his present loathsome design. Two 
 victims of the law are now serving long sentences. That 
 they were his minions many people have no doubt. He 
 was arrested, gave bail, and lack of definite proof, com-^ 
 bined with the assistance of those fellow scamps whom I 
 have twice before mentioned, saved him. He is now 
 very well aware that if he appears in the more reputable 
 parts of the town he runs the chance of recognition and 
 open abuse. Something, too, I have got hold of regard 
 ing his past life in Europe. During his earlier life ho 
 secured a diplomatic position in Berlin, through the aid 
 of a Russian nobleman whose natural son he is said to 
 be, by a Polish Jewess woman of some rank. But al 
 though his abilities were widely admired and he was 
 sent on a mission to Italy that involved the settlement of 
 certain moderately important affairs, a shady and damn 
 ing scandal something as bad as cheating at cards, or 
 the taking of a proffered bribe to betray state secrets 
 caused his flight over seas. The alleged sister, whose 
 name I do not recall, is probably some woman of his own 
 country, who followed him here, and for whom even his 
 depraved nature reserves a few sparks of real human 
 affection. 
 
 "This is all. I am compelled to write in haste, as 
 other engagements claim me. But believe firmly in my 
 unwavering zeal inspired by no other motive than 
 hatred of wickedness like this Lynsko's and a desire to 
 punish it, to make of it a crying and reformatory exam 
 ple. O. C." 
 
 "No other motive?" said George to himself. "Ah, 
 my gentleman, you forget one other ambition." It 
 was after nine o'clock at night when Lynsko and George 
 again met, and nearly four days had elapsed since their 
 previous meeting. He carried two gallon cans full of the 
 deadly fluid, and appeared excessively nervous as he de 
 posited them on the floor of the little room. 
 
 George had meanwhile seen all the three Bigsbees on 
 several occasions. The women were both commonplace
 
 NEW YORK. 131 
 
 persons enough. Mrs. Bigsbee, stout and meek-e3 r ed, 
 had a much more timid air than her somewhat gaunt 
 sister-in-law. It was plain that none of the three 
 relished the position in which fate had put them. Still, 
 they were clearl3 r bent on the most faithful discharge of 
 their assigned task, and understood just the combina 
 tion of self-effacement and vigilance for which thej' were 
 being liberally hired. 
 
 Lynsko did not remain long in George's room after 
 conveying the cans there. His vivacity had all gone, 
 and a sullen gloom replaced it. He curtly told George 
 that there would be no need of meeting him again until 
 Friday morning. 
 
 "By the way," he asked, as they went out into the 
 hall together, "do you know anj'thing of your new oppo 
 site neighbors?" 
 
 "Very little," George replied. 
 . "The janitor tells me they're rather quiet people." 
 
 "Very, as far as I know." 
 
 "And also that the man, Bigsbee, is employed not far 
 away." 
 
 "Oh, is he?" 
 
 "You haven't come across him, then?" 
 
 "We spoke a few words together here in this hall, not 
 long ago." 
 
 "I'd rather not have had them come in yet, Lynsko 
 muttered. "If I hadn't been afraid of making the 
 janitor suspect, I'd have kept them out until after" he 
 paused, as if struck by something absurd at the end of 
 his phrase. 
 
 "Next Friday morning," supplied George; "I see. 
 But, really," he went on, "there doesn't seem to be the 
 faintest danger." 
 
 "Still, better if those rooms had stayed empty that's 
 all. By the way, one of the women saw me when I came 
 to you with the cans. 
 
 No sooner had Lynsko gone than George knocked at 
 the Bigsbees door. He explained to Mrs. Bigsbee that 
 she had just seen the proprietor of the house and that he 
 was carrying a combustible fluid which was meant for 
 setting fire to it. "Would you know him again, Mrs, 
 Bigsbee?" asked George,
 
 132 NEW YORK. 
 
 ""Why, yes, I I guess I would," quavered the woman, 
 all plumpness and timidity. 
 
 "Amelia, you know you would," said her sister-in-law, 
 with the grimmest of nods to George. 
 
 "Yes, Jane, I I guess I would, too." 
 
 "It's not a question to feel uncertain about if you were 
 ever asked it in court," laughed George. 
 
 "My!" shivered the sweet-faced, fleshy creature. 
 "Court!" 
 
 "Never mind," nodded Jane Bigsbee; "I seen him, 
 too, through a crack o' the door. I'd swear to him 
 quick enough. Trust me. My sister-in-law 'd faint 
 awaj- if a lawyer said 'boo' to her." 
 
 "I hope not," answered George. 
 
 "You go along, Jane!" And Mrs. Bigsbee amiably 
 slapped her kinswoman's arm. "I'll bet I'm nervier 
 than you, when the time comes." 
 
 "Nervier!" solemnly jeered Jane. 
 
 "You, Amelia!" 
 
 "I hope you will all three show nerve enough to testify 
 against this man, as far as you are truthfully able," said 
 George, with great seriousness, quite throwing aside his 
 "dialect," as he had done from the first with these people. 
 For the crime which he wishes to commit, as Mr. Cour- 
 telyou has already told you, is among the most horrible 
 any human being could conceive. Here in this house he 
 will never commit it, for I, his intended agent, will pre 
 vent that. But we four may also find means of keeping 
 him from ever repeating his vile attempt, by bringing 
 him, through our testimony, to the cell of a felon 
 though death would be his far juster sentence." 
 
 George had not ventured to ask Lynsko whether he 
 would remain in the city or depart from it. When 
 Thursday came he was still ignorant of the Pole's inten 
 tions. But by eight o'clock on Thursday night he had 
 received from Bigsbee a few lines in the handwriting of 
 Courtelyou : 
 
 He has given no sign of leaving town to-day. Send 
 your message a little before midnight." 
 
 George found a lad of about sixteen years, whom he 
 knew he could trust, and by nine o'clock had given him
 
 NEW YORK. 133 
 
 this message, with instructions to deliver it at the Pike 
 Street residence a few minutes before midnight. If 
 Lynsko was in bed he must be rung up, and if he were 
 reported out of town by any one in his lodgings over the 
 shop, then the youth must return with the letter. 
 
 Thursday night was in early September, mild and 
 starry. By eleven o'clock George saw two men, both 
 rather burly of build, slip silently upstairs and pass into 
 the Bigsbee quarters. Here, he thought, might lie ruin 
 to the whole undertaking, provided Lynsko's distrust of 
 himself still continued and the Pole had put watchers at 
 work to note signs of foul play. In that event it was 
 easy to surmise what might follow. Lynsko might at 
 once assume the defensive, demand his room to be 
 searched, denounce him as a would-be "firebug" 
 assume any conceivable posture of malicious and venge 
 ful audacity. 
 
 The hours of waiting were long. After his final inter 
 view with the Bigsbees, during which the two non- 
 uniformed policemen stood mute in the background, and 
 during which he gave warning against any sort of ob 
 servance or eavesdropping except that of the most cau 
 tious kind, George seated himself quietly in his room 
 and prepared for future developments. He felt keenly 
 excited, yet undisturbed by the least physical tremor. 
 He was satisfied with the steps he had taken, and be 
 lieved there was no fair-minded man alive who would 
 not approve of the deceit he had practiced toward Lyn 
 sko. It had been his only weapon against a miscreant 
 of blackest purpose, and he could reflect with unsullied 
 conscience on the impulse which had swayed him in its 
 use. He asked no public acceptance of the service he 
 might do society in ridding it of so fell an enemy, but 
 his veins were stirred with the hope that some sort of 
 pardoning grace might drift to him as product of an 
 effort made in the cause of right. He longed to have 
 honest fellow-mortals, his former peers, look him in the 
 eyes and clasp his hand and say, "Well done." A 
 source of deep regret to him had been the underhand 
 nature of the whole proceeding. It thrilled him to 
 think of a far more open conflict with this ruffian soul, to
 
 134 NEW YORK. 
 
 whom the slaying of his kind was of so much less import 
 than the stuffing of his pockets. And Poris Josselyn, 
 who knew of George Oliver yet for years had never con 
 sciously seen him -what tender and unspeakable victory 
 might there be in even imagining her sanction of his 
 course and her sympathy with it, provided he could 
 only strike, now, toward the last, bold and unconcealed 
 strokes or even die, for that matter, in some struggle 
 that would bathe with expiation his memory as a kins 
 man stained and disgraced! 
 
 Lynsko, if trapped, would fight hard. He was the 
 kind of man, also, to carry hidden weapons. But George 
 had no implement of self-defense, and would have re 
 fused to carry one if so counseled. 
 
 "After all," he thought, as midnight sounded in the 
 intense stillness of the autumn air outside, "perhaps he 
 will not come. Indeed, the chances are all against it, 
 even if he has not fled the city so as to prove the most 
 irrefutable alibi." 
 
 He rose, went to his door, and listened. Not a sound. 
 The hard-working people on the upper floors those 
 whom this awaited wretch was willing to burn in their 
 beds were doubtless all the sleep of the tired if not 
 the just. 
 
 But suddenly it seemed to George that he heard a 
 step, yards aloof, at the further end of the hall. It was 
 slow and light, but the extreme silence loudened it. 
 Soon it drew nearer, stopping at his door. Then came a 
 knock, which proved Lynsko's. 
 
 As the two men faced one another in the still little 
 room, George perceived that his visitor had a most 
 wrathful look. 
 
 "What do you mean by sending for me like that?" 
 came the quick hiss of his whisper. "Why do you 
 think these Bigsbees are playing spies upon you?" 
 
 George, under a mask of meekness, gave some reasons 
 which he made intentionally lame. 
 
 Lynsko's eyes glittered scorn. He struck the foot of 
 the bedstead with one hard-knotted fist. 
 
 "Bosh! flummery! You're a cow.ard that is all." 
 
 George pretended anger, mixed with sham, "Oh, 
 come, now; that's no way to talk,"
 
 NEW YORK. 135 
 
 Lynsko snarled at him, and then scowled. "Coward, 
 coward!" he jeered. George gave his head a sulky toss. 
 
 "I may have got a little nervous," he said, as if drag 
 ging the words forth inortifiedly. "There's nothing so 
 very queer in that." 
 
 "Nothing so queer, eh? When the bargain, square 
 and fair, had been fixed between us! I wish I had gone 
 out of the city as I thought of doing. Then you'd have 
 behaved yourself less like a cursed baby." 
 
 "I I'm afraid I shouldn't have done anything at all, 
 without your help," said George, half sighing the answer. 
 
 "My help!" And then the oaths seemed to crackle 
 between his cattish teeth and bearded lips. "My help, 
 eh?" 
 
 "I thought you wouldn't object to helping me this 
 first time. Afterward I would have more more self- 
 reliance, don't you see?" 
 
 The word "coward" again leaped from Lynsko. Then 
 he abruptly started, and drew slowly back, staring at 
 George. 
 
 "Is there any trick here?" he asked. 
 
 "Trick?" grumbled George, feeling his pulses quicken 
 with anxiety. The game had so nearly been won the 
 plot had given such fine promise of not falling through 
 that failure now looked doubb" exasperating. "I hardly 
 know what you mean, Lynsko. You've called me a 
 coward, and I suppose I am in this instance. But I did 
 want you with me or somebody, to relieve the awful soli 
 tude and perhaps I have exaggerated a little my feelings 
 about the Bigsbees. " 
 
 If those poignant eyes had been knives how they would 
 cut into his brain and heart! Lynsko 's brows grew 
 slowly less stormful. Duplicity had gained a point 
 with him. He still sneered, but not half so irately as 
 before. 
 
 "You got me here, then, by a deception " he began. 
 
 "No; don't say that." 
 
 "I do say it. What else has it been? Awful solitude, 
 indeed! Ah! Do you think, my good sir, for one in 
 stant, that if I assist you in this job I'll give you a dollar 
 for it afterward?"
 
 136 NEW YORK. 
 
 George appeared to ponder this retort. "Well," he 
 suddenly said, "let it be like that." 
 
 "Let it be like that, eh? You're willing to dispense 
 with all reward?" 
 
 "For this once yes. If you'll stay through it with 
 me this one night, I'll agree that the payment shall not 
 begin till afterward." 
 
 Here George half unclosed his door. "See, " he said. 
 "The hall is quite dark; they turn out all lights, you 
 know, at ten o'clock. It's well after midnight now. 
 Why on earth should we wait any longer? It's only on 
 Saturday night that any of the laboring men who live 
 here come in later than eleven. I'm certain that they 
 have all been in bed hours ago and their families, too." 
 
 "Shut that door." 
 
 The Pole gave his command in a guttural monotone. 
 George obeyed him, and immediately he burst into a 
 low laugh, teeming with contemptuous irony. 
 
 "Why on earth should we wait any longer!" Another 
 low rattle of oaths followed. " We!" The next second 
 he sprang toward George, and clutched him by either 
 shoulder, trying to shake his tall, strong, young body 
 but not budging it an inch. 
 
 "Hands off, please," said George, coolly, and before 
 Lynsko knew it he was pressed with an iron gentleness 
 into one of the two chairs. Just as George receded a 
 few steps he saw the Pole make a slight gesture in the 
 direction of his breast. But it was quickly controlled, 
 and only a keen eye could have caught its broken upward 
 swerve. 
 
 "Oh, I know you're stronger than I am, Oliver! It's 
 a pity your strength doesn't go with a little more manly 
 courage. It's a pity " 
 
 "Come, there's no use of your calling me a coward 
 again, and all that," George calmly struck in. "I've 
 liad a good deal of abuse from you, as it is. If you re 
 fuse to work with me I'll not work at all there. You 
 can go back home and I'll go to my bed. Which shall 
 it be?" 
 
 He spoke with great sternness and stubbornness now. 
 The whole affair had begun to sicken him ; this night
 
 NEW YORK. 137 
 
 must mean the climax of his deceptive course. He felt 
 ready to end it forthwith, either in fiasco or success. It 
 would not be the former, however, no matter what might 
 occur; it would merely be the shifting of all further 
 personal effort upon Osborne Courtelyou, so stirred by 
 moral or ambitious aims, or by both subtly intermingled. 
 Lynsko got up from the chair into which he had been 
 firmly and forcibly thrust. He was very pale, and ho 
 trembled as if with inward rage. 
 
 "How can I help you. One works at this business 
 better than two. You don't need an.y light. You can 
 drench the staircase in no time. Then, as I told 
 
 "But I do want a light," said George. "A candle, 
 like this." He took a tallow candle from his bureau 
 while he spoke, and lit it with a match. The two cans 
 were near, and in full evidence. He raised one. "Will 
 you carry this," he said, "and the light? You can 
 watch at the lower end of the second staircase while I 
 pour the contents of the other can all over the steps, 
 beginning with the top one on the third floor, and smear 
 ing the banisters, too." 
 
 He extended the candle toward Lynsko, prepared to 
 have him savagely dash it on the floor. But, to his sur 
 prise, the Pole took it, with a low, clicking sound, as if 
 made by gnashed teeth. 
 
 "Now is even safer than three o'clock would be," 
 George continued, hardly daring to trust his voice be 
 cause the rapid pulsations of his heart almost threatened 
 to stifle it. Not that he had any physical fear; in place 
 of that were thrills of wild gladness at the thought of 
 this reprobate's capture. But the moments were so big 
 with opportunity, the scales of triumph and defeat still 
 hung so tremulously uncertain; and then there was the 
 chance that his companion's acquiescence might be cover 
 ing some crafty and even murderous fraud. "Will you 
 take the other can?" he next said. "You can hand it to 
 me when I've emptied mine. That lighted newspaper 
 you spoke of I don't think there'll be any need of it. 
 The candle will serve our purpose quite as well." 
 
 Lynsko looked down at the can, but did not attempt
 
 138 NEW YORK. 
 
 to lift it. The light that he held streamed in among the 
 meshes of his beard, showing behind them the hidden 
 contour of his chin, which sloped, as George now saw 
 for the first time, in a feeble, abnormal way, more like a 
 rabbit's than a man's, totally at variance with the power 
 in brows and eyes. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, with a sidelong dash of one 
 hand, "you've got your means of escape made good for 
 you over yonder." 
 
 George nodded. He had really nothing of the kind, 
 however. 
 
 "Well, and how about mine?" 
 
 "Why, a few steps, you know, into the street, and 
 you're safe." 
 
 "Safe yes! In the arms of a policeman!" 
 
 "Nine chances in ten you'll get away without a soul 
 seeing you." 
 
 "I don't care to take that tenth chance." He grinned 
 tigerishlj'. "There's just my reason for getting you to 
 carry out the whole job." Then another furtive volley 
 of blasphemies. "If I thought " 
 
 George faced him with an unflinching look. "If you 
 thought what ? ' ' 
 
 "Never mind." 
 
 "Put down that candle," said George with stern care 
 lessness, "or give it to me, and I'll blow it out. Either 
 do as I ask of you or let the whole thing end, now and 
 at once. You can go as you came. There will be no 
 fire no attempt at one. I haven't a shred of proof 
 against you, if you fear I'll turn informer. Come, de 
 cide quickly." 
 
 Lynsko stared, for a moment, at his light, and even 
 leaned his lips a little closer to it as though resolved to 
 blow it out. Then straightening himself, he threw at 
 George a glance of contempt, irritation, disgust. 
 
 "Well," he said, with infinite gruffness, while stoop 
 ing and lifting the can by its slim, stout handle. "Come 
 along. But recollect for this night's work, however it 
 turns out, you don't receive a dollar!" 
 
 George softly opened his door. He advanced first into 
 the dark hall. Lynsko, carrying the candle, walked a
 
 NEW YORK. 13 9 
 
 few feet behind him. The candle, with its wavering 
 flame, at once wrought weird illuminations and goblin, 
 erratic, dancing shadows. The dingy tenement-house 
 hall, where everything was one gaunt plainness, became 
 transiently romantic as though it had been the corridor 
 of some Gothic abbey or castle. The opposite walls and 
 doors of the Bigsbee's lodgings were one fatastic flurry 
 of glimmers and glooms. 
 
 "Don't tread so loud," came Lynsko's whisper, acutely 
 sibilant in the deep hush. 
 
 "I won't," said George, though his answer was so 
 intentionally high-keyed that it brought from the other 
 a harsh "ha" of warning. And this reproof, as it 
 seemed, was the signal for those who watched to spring. 
 Whether or no they came from one of the opposite doors, 
 or whether they had been crouched in some dusky wing 
 of hiding, could not be told. In the glow of his candle 
 Lynsko saw a man's face. From the other side of him a 
 hand snatched the candle itself. Then the vessel that 
 he carried, dropping from his loosened hold, made a 
 heavy thud on the bare wood floor. The light, spilling 
 its wax, flickered to a star, and swiftly brightened again. 
 A patter of steps now sounded. The Bigsbees, all three 
 of them, were at work with matches at the hall gas je^s. 
 Joseph, his wife and Jane had three lighted in almost as 
 many minutes. 
 
 Confronted by a sudden group of five unexpected per 
 sons, Lynsko stood terror-stricken, spectral in his pallor. 
 
 One by one, he scanned each new face the rugged, 
 plebeian features of either officer on either side of him 
 the placid mask of accusation worn by Joseph Bigsbee 
 the alarmed yet resolute visage of his wife the solemn 
 and austere look of his sister-in-law. George stood 
 furthest away. He had a tired yet relieved air, without 
 a gleam in it of triumph or exultation. Suddenly 
 Lynsko burst into a shrill cackle of laughter. "Well," 
 he said, flinging out his words to no single selected 
 auditor, "what's the meaning of all tbis?" 
 
 George spoke, then, and with much composure. 
 
 "The meaning of it is, Lynsko," he said, "you made 
 to ine a horrible proposal- that of setting fire to this
 
 140 NEW YORK. 
 
 building with all its inmates asleep in it and that I 
 used against you the only weapons I could use the same 
 weapons you have used against myself those of 
 stratagem." 
 
 George's words had been slow, and for this reason 
 (and perhaps, too, because of a certain high and gentle 
 dignity about their utterance) every eye of those present 
 was turned toward him while he made his answer. 
 
 And therefore no doubt the imp of ire and vengeance 
 in the Pole had time to wreak its baleful will. One 
 hand slipped into the breast of his coat; he drew it 
 forth, with something flashing in its grasp. Then two 
 bullets, each with the hoarse crash that these jets of 
 death make as they split the air, sped toward George. 
 
 Lyusko would doubtless have fired again if one of the 
 officers had not wrenched the weapon from his clutch. 
 Then two pairs of stout arms caught him ; there came a 
 struggle, passionate, brief, absurdly, unequal, a click of 
 steel followed, and with twisting shape and glowering 
 face, he stood handcuffed. 
 
 Meanwhile Joseph Bigsbee had hurried to George. 
 "You ain't hurt, are ye?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," said George, whitened to the lips. 
 
 "Bring a chair, quick!" called the man to his wife 
 and sister. But before the chair could be brought, 
 George had dropped limply and heavily down upon the 
 floor, in spite of all poor Bigsbeo's frantic efforts to buoy 
 him up. 
 
 "Is he dead?" cried one of the officers, leaving the 
 prisoner and hurrying to where George lay. 
 
 "I guess he must be," shuddered Bigsbee. "Look 
 there." 
 
 The blood, flowing from George's breast had already 
 darkly drenched his waistcoat, and now made a glitter 
 ing scarlet pool at his side.
 
 NEW YORK:. 141 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 I. 
 
 "THE whole unexpected burst of feeling," said Frank 
 Crevelling, "astonished me so at the time I heard it that 
 I've remembered it ever since." 
 
 He had just recited, with a fair amount of literalucss, 
 George Oliver's fervid outflow respecting the churlish 
 charity of the very rich, delivered fully six months ago 
 in the little mission house near South Street. 
 
 He had been a most faithful oral reporter, and had 
 forgotten scarcely a single detail of the whole passionate, 
 spontaneous avowal. Conversation was almost always 
 general in his charming drawing rooms at the parsonage 
 of his small Lexington Avenue Church, not far from 
 Central Park. But this evening or this Wednesday 
 evening, it should be more definitely stated, since his 
 "at homes" were never held save on the middle day of 
 the week an unusual attendance had occurred. And 
 having begun his recital to a group of three or four men 
 (the assemblages were always of men only) he soon found 
 that his full, sweet, voice had attracted other listeners. 
 "Begin all over again," somebody had pleasantly com 
 manded, and Crevelling had obeyed. 
 
 The two long rooms were .furnished with simplicity, 
 but in faultless taste and with touches of great distinc 
 tion. For a man not yet thirty-two, Crevelling's suc 
 cess, in a certain social way, had been widely discussed. 
 But once, when that word "success" had been employed 
 by aa admirer who presented it to him besugared with 
 an encornpassment of complimentary gratulation, he had 
 frowned one of his exceedingly rare frowns and made 
 this offhanded yet earnest reply :
 
 142 NEW YORK. 
 
 "To talk of my 'success/ Atherton, is ridiculous. In 
 the first place I've never striven for any, as regards 
 being a person of prominence. I've never wanted to be 
 anything whatever but 1' ce wanted to do a great deal, and 
 little enough, as yet, have I practically done. In the 
 second place, I was 'backed' by a moderate inherited 
 fortune at the time I left Harvard, ten years ago. Many 
 a poor fellow must have envied me my power to go 
 abroad and spend two years roaming over Europe. 
 The res atiyus'a never bothered me a bit; what perpetu 
 ally kept bothering me was a desire to reach, by some 
 vital and active process of comfort, the masses of my fel 
 low-men. In Boston my family was well known, though 
 I chanced to be almost the last left scion of it. Of all 
 things it had never been religious, and when I began a 
 course of Saturday afternoon talks under the "protec 
 tion" of my dear old dead friend, Dr. Transome, a popu 
 lar Unitarian clergyman, I am afraid there were many 
 wicked smiles I did not see, and there was much derisive 
 laughter I did not hear. But I have somehow never 
 been a zealot in the black art of making foes; the sowing 
 of dragons' teeth is a form of agriculture for which I 
 possess only the most limited talent. Whenever I heard 
 that any fellow had pitched into me with either language 
 or pen on the subject of what I said at those Saturday 
 afternoon talks, I always wanted to get hold of him, but 
 tonhole him, and fight it out amicably. You see, I could 
 afford to take things in this easy, genial way. If I'd 
 been a poor man, with my philanthropy tormentingly 
 overshadowed and perverted by the need of bread and 
 cheese, I might have turned into the most aggressive 
 sort of snarler. But you speak of success. Why, I 
 had only to shake the bough and down came the plums. 
 Not liking the idea of being assassinated, some evening, 
 within sight of my doorstep, I'll grant that I grew tired 
 of spouting in Boston, and longed for a more capacious 
 tank into which the crystal stream of my eloquence 
 might radiantly pour. But one of the plums I just men 
 tioned was this charming Lexington Avenue church, 
 with this attractive parsonage attached. The congrega 
 tion had just lost their pastor by a sudden caprice of
 
 NEW YORK. 143 
 
 death. Nil de mortuis but I fear me they were all a 
 trifle bored by the old gentleman's rather colorless dis 
 courses and languid energies. They desired "new 
 blood," in a clerical sense. At a small salary I was pre 
 pared to supply them with it. This parsonage in which 
 we now talk together, was a dreadful barn when I first 
 entered its doors. I had to erase and blot out a good 
 deal of hard-grained ugliness, I can assure 3-011. But 
 how sweet and fine 1103' reward for having simply let 
 myself drift along as fate willed! I deserve not an atom 
 of credit for anything I have done. Mission work, you 
 say? Visiting the sick? Going about among the poor? 
 Preaching to my flock what I believe the essence of 
 Christianity? Why, these, my friend, are the kinds of 
 pursuits that make life to me endurable. They are my 
 dissipations my tobacco, my brandy, my morphine 
 habit what you will. All the Titians and Eaphaels, all 
 the Apollos and Dianas, couldn't wean me, while in 
 Europe, from the wish to return among them." 
 
 Crevelling's personal charm was in itself, if you please, 
 no remarkable fact. Yet very remarkable was his ability 
 to bring, not merely under one roof but into terms of 
 positive intimacy, men whose views and opinions bristled 
 antagonistic as opposing bayonets. You could not de 
 fine the spell which he exerted. "We may want to tear 
 one another's eyes out when we meet elsewhere," said a 
 certain frequenter of the parsonage, "but at Crevelliug's 
 we are always meek as lambs." 
 
 And it was not at all that their host nailed figuratively 
 to his lintel any motto about tolerance or loving-kind 
 ness. This would have been fatal indeed to the very 
 harmony which he managed to secure. No; by some 
 delicate yet emphatic dower of individualism he was 
 enabled to impregnate the very atmosphere of his parlors 
 with a courteous loyalty toward their presiding genius. 
 He who entered there by no means left hope behind; for 
 he seldom rang the doorbell without an expectancy of 
 much solid enjoyment. But he left something else be 
 hind, as definitely as though it had been his cane or 
 umbrella, deposited in the hall before crossing the young 
 clergyman's threshold. What was the something? A
 
 144 NEW YORtf. 
 
 large part of bis self-esteem ? A huge fragment of his 
 prejudice? Well, whatever it was, there it -waited for 
 him to reassume when he returned to the hall, just as if 
 the process of doing so had been no harder than to 
 thrust both feet into a pair of self-adjustable overshoes. 
 And out of the doorway he popped, reapparelled in all 
 his wonted tenets, convictions, bigotries, to come back 
 at some future time and doff them as heretofore. One 
 somehow took an unconscious pledge of good-tempered 
 serenity on becoming the transient slave of this peculiar 
 and sunny despotism. 
 
 And yet greater laxity of opinion and discussion could 
 not be conceived, inside the bounds of ordinary refine 
 ment and decorum. All kinds of thinkers would congre 
 gate at these nodes Atticae a name given the Wednes 
 day meetings by an enthusiast who had a classic turn. 
 Crevelling never explained one guest to another; his 
 buoyant, expansive manner had never the faintest apolo 
 getic or condoning tinge. Perhaps the very equipoise 
 of his cordiality, diffusing itself with so steady and yet 
 generous a radiance, was the chief secret of this extraor- 
 dinarj 7 salon. You came there to get his warm hand 
 shake and to air your ideas if you desired. But you must 
 air them civilly or not at all, and somehow the droop of 
 the draperies, the soft lusters of the lights, had stolen a 
 trick of tenderly enforcing upon you this gentle com 
 mand. But the true authoritative source of the influence 
 could be found, if searched for, in that young face of 
 your entertainer, far from handsome yet more winning 
 than if real beauty belonged to it, telling of its owner's 
 unobtrusive dignity, his intense humanity, his facile and 
 felicitous and stingless humor. 
 
 The recital of George Oliver's declaration at the mis 
 sion house, as given by Crevelliug, had roused universal 
 interest. About ten men were present. One of them, a 
 pronounced socialist, made the first comment. 
 
 "Magnificent charity might of course take palpable 
 shape through a coalition of this sort on the part of our 
 multi-millionaires. But an unfortunate result might 
 follow. The poor would become pauperized. We don't 
 want to help the poor except in the direction of helping
 
 NEW YORK. T.45 
 
 themselves. Poverty is a curse that should not be 
 fostered; it should be eliminated." 
 
 "How true how entirely true!" came an answer. 
 And smiles of amusement flickered on more than one 
 pair of lips; for he who had just approved the socialist's 
 affirmation was the only multi-millionaire present, and no 
 less a personage than Mr. Lucian Beverdy. "I believe," 
 pursued that gentleman, with the characteristic fondling 
 of his thin gold eyeglass chain, "that this monstrous 
 marble palace would contain, before many years, a num 
 ber of exceedingly shrewd loafers of both sexes. They 
 would resemble, I fear, those wretched tramps who have 
 proved such a scourge to our public libraries and read 
 ing rooms ^people who enter them to draw books and 
 survey journals, over which they too often fall into 
 drunken dozes." 
 
 "More than that," said Osborne Courtelyou, with an 
 applausive nod to Mr. Beverdy, who sat just at his 
 elbow; "the administration of such a colossal charity 
 would in time run terrible risks of official malpractice, 
 dishonesty and degeneration." 
 
 "Past a doubt, sir, you are right, there," said a social 
 economist of some note, with a globular forehead and an 
 immense, clean-shaven upper lip. "The history of 
 nearly all large co-operative charities tells us that their 
 tendency is to encourage fraudulent clerical manipula 
 tion. The original founders die; their heirs succeed 
 them; and it is alwaj r s not only a case of other times 
 and other manners, but of other times and inferior 
 morals." 
 
 "Ah, yes," explained Crevelling, leaning forward a 
 little in his chair, "but how about the splendid ethical 
 essence of the whole conception? Ought not that alone 
 to be educating and exalting? Beside, if our ideal 
 marble palace fell into disrepute, here would be a fine 
 stimulus for unborn reformers. Take as an example our 
 own city politics. "We had the Tweed ring, and groaned 
 under it. Then came a sturdy revolt against it, followed 
 by a relapse. But now there are signs again of a waken 
 ing public conscience. No; I think that progress, in 
 these days, lias gone too far for all the people, as Liu,-
 
 146 NEW YORK. 
 
 coin put it, to remain fooled all the time. I believe, " 
 (and here lie laughed blithely) "that the visionary mar 
 ble palace of my friend, Jack Jackson, would shelter 
 fewer thieves among its employees than could be said of 
 our tagible marble City Hall." 
 
 "And was Jack Jackson," asked a comic writer, "the 
 name of this lofty being? What a disappointment! It's 
 like hearing somebody call Milton 'Johnny' or Shakes 
 peare 'Bill." 
 
 Courtelyou had started at the name when Crevelling 
 first pronounced it. 
 
 "I can't help believing it was an alias," the latter 
 said. "He had a very candid and manly face, however 
 a face that I think I should know again; for the eyes, 
 of a dark, rich sea-blue, had gleams in them brave yet 
 singularly sad. Odd as it may sound to some of you 
 more practical gentlemen, they were eyes that told 
 equally of endurance and suffering." 
 
 "I have seen such eyes," murmured a notorious pessi 
 mist. "They belonged to a butler of mine who robbed 
 me, one day, of half my family silverware.". 
 
 "I feel sure," said a young novelist of the romantic 
 school, "that Jack Jackson must have been an alias. 
 Was this your onlj r meeting with him?" 
 
 "Yes. I made inquiries of a certain Tom Glyn, there 
 in the district, a most fanatical Salvationist, who often 
 haunts the mission, and who has been, if reports are 
 true, a terrible rascal in his time. But old Tom could 
 tell me nothing except that the young fellow did all sorts 
 of slavish work thereabouts for nobody in particular 
 was, in fact, a very factotum of the most menial 
 drudgeries." 
 
 "And yet," said the romantic novelist, "he must have 
 been cultured in striking degree to have spoken to you 
 with all that delightful eloquence. It is just what I am 
 forever insisting upon the unexpected portions of life 
 are those best worth chronicling, and life teems with 
 the unexpected." 
 
 "It seems to me," said an elderly novelist of marked 
 realistic trend, "that if you assert life to be teeming 
 with the unexpected you leave no room in it for the ex 
 pected, the ordinary."
 
 NEW YORK. 14? 
 
 "You," said a popular poet, "are the oracle of the 
 ordinary- I've given you that name," lie went on, with 
 a disarming smile, as the realistic novelist winced some 
 what painfully, "but only with a most respectful 
 meaning." 
 
 "It's a wonderfully apt definition!" exclaimed the 
 romanticist, with perhaps a trifle too much visible enjoy 
 ment of what he hailed as its pregnant appropriateness. 
 
 "I've always insisted," said a literary critic, who had 
 long ago had many an anonymous lling in newspapers at 
 the famous realist, "that as the writing of a piece of 
 fiction is as much a work of art as the painting of a pic 
 ture or the chiselling of a statue, one should employ the 
 same selection in creating a novel as does either the 
 artist in either color or form. And it will not do for a 
 writer of fiction merely to claim that he has been true to 
 life. The camera is that. But what is the camera, after 
 all, but a kind of reporting journalist?" 
 
 "Oh, don't sneer at journalism," said an editor of 
 some importance. "We are beginning to call ourselves 
 the leadiyg novelists of the age." 
 
 "And so you are," said the realist, looking at him a 
 little pensively. "Only," he added, under his rather 
 copious mustache, "I wish you would exploit your Xe\v 
 York with more artistic care and patience. Less of the 
 camera, I mean, and more of the etcher's prudent and 
 studious pen." 
 
 "To my mind," said a statesman, a big man with 
 shaggy hair and the most voluminous of basso voices, 
 "I believe you novelists are very much like us poli 
 ticians; each one of you is trying to poll the largest 
 number of votes. We all abuse Popularity behind her 
 back, but when she rings our doorbell and pays us a call 
 we generally give her a chair and a glass of wine." 
 
 "Oh, it's he who gives the wine, I should judge," 
 said the pessimist, who was also something of a rank 
 cynic. "It's usually a rather strong potion, too, and it 
 goes to the head of the drinker." 
 
 "And why not?" said the literary critic. "The man 
 who can write a truly amusing novel is a Pasteur or 
 Koch, in his way. He has found a deadening lymph for 
 the bacillus of ennui,"
 
 MS NEW YORK. 
 
 "I shouldn't care much for a novel," said the realist, 
 gravely, "that was written only to kill ennui. I fear 
 that in my own case it would only make boredom more 
 operative." 
 
 "Ah, yes," cried the literary critic, "that's the shib 
 boleth of the modern tale-teller!" 
 
 "And a very natural one, "said the romanticist. ""We 
 don't want to be classed with the bromides and other 
 anodynes." 
 
 "I'm afraid," said the comic writer, "that for "a thor 
 oughly good doze even laudanum isn't 'in it' with some 
 of our reigning fictionists. " 
 
 "Such authors, then," smiled the realist, though quite 
 mirthlessly, "should be bought of the chemists rather 
 than the booksellers. I confess that I know a few who 
 might be safely handled, in a commercial sense, side and 
 side with 'rough-on-rats' and exterminators of roaches." 
 
 "Fiction," said the socialist, "should not be too 
 serious. It trespasses, then, on the domain of history." 
 
 "Only the historical novel does that," said the realist. 
 
 "Ah," said the romanticist, "a perfect historical 
 novel is food for the gods!" 
 
 "Then the gods," answered the realist, "can't be par 
 ticular about their form of diet, and are willing to swal 
 low what is neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red 
 herring." 
 
 "Give me," declared the literary critic, "a novel that 
 seizes my interest, no matter how one may classify it." 
 
 "Give me," said the realist suavely, "a novel that 
 seizes my interest in the right way. If it captivates me 
 through the medium of curiosity, as so rnanj' novels do, 
 it is no better than a prize puzzle." 
 
 "Ah," rhapsodized the literary critic, "I don't ques 
 tion the divine art of story -telling about what special 
 mental faculty it appeals to! I simply allow it to en 
 thrall me by its delightful magic. And alas! I can't 
 help adding that the necessity of any such surrender is 
 sadly rare!" 
 
 "Everything divine, "said the pessimist, "ought to be 
 rare. The only book I ever read twice was 'Robinson 
 Crusoe.' I devoured and digested it at ten years old, but 
 at twenty-five it gave me dyspepsia,"
 
 NEW YORK. 149 
 
 The literary critic ignored the pessimist. He bristled 
 with challenge toward the realist, who detested, as he 
 knew, mere "plot" and "story." 
 
 "We see enough," he continued, "of life's minor joys 
 and miseries. We want to read of the important ones, 
 the dominating and salient ones, when it's an affair of 
 inventive portrayal." 
 
 "'Don't underrate the minor miseries of life," ob 
 jected the comic writer. 
 
 "They're no less poignant because they seem to parody 
 their grim superiors. I fancy that Hamlet might have 
 got off a good round oath at finding a hair in his butter, 
 and that poor Abelard might have deeply resented the 
 navigation of a roach through his soup." 
 
 "Ah," lamented the poet, "that is modern humor! 
 Hood, an-d Lamb, and even Dickens, made us laugh. 
 The new-fashioned humor, like that of Gilbert and his 
 imitators, only makes us giggle!" 
 
 "For my part," said the social economist, "I don't 
 care an old glove to what 'school' a novel belongs, pro 
 vided it takes me away from the dullness and tedium of 
 life." 
 
 "Precise!}', " said the realist, "and you could not do 
 your author a greater injustice than by treating him thus. 
 His province is no more that of amusing you than your 
 physician's." 
 
 "But what shall we do," said the statesman, "if we 
 want to be diverted, eased, rested?" 
 
 "Read bad novels," was the answer, "not good ones. 
 Leave the good ones for your less fatigued hours. Treat 
 them with the same intellectual respect that you bestow 
 on Spencer or Mill." 
 
 "Or that you pay our poets!" added the romantic 
 novelist. 
 
 "Who on earth," said the pessimist, "ever dreams of 
 reading poetry nowadays?" 
 
 "I do," said Crevelling gayly. 
 
 "Your life is a poem in itself," said the poet, with rev 
 erential tones. 
 
 "There's no going against theAvill of the masses, " here 
 announced Osborne Courtelyou, with his far-reaching
 
 150 NEW YORK. 
 
 though moderated voice and his clean-cut manner. "If I 
 were asked what chiefly sways them I should say the 
 desire to make money and the retroactive impulse to be 
 amused. And the story, pure and simple, as old as 
 Boccaccio, as old as the Iliad and Odyssey, amuses them 
 most. After they have finished making money, or trying 
 to make money, they don't want to take up a novel and 
 read of how one male psychological study wasn't quite 
 sure Avhich of two feminine psychological studies he had 
 fallen in love with. They prefer battle, murder and 
 sudden death." 
 
 This caused a laugh, and Courtelyou rose in the midst 
 of it, going up to Crevelling with his farewells. He was 
 gratified by being thus enabled to make a happy and dis 
 tinctive exit. But while he shook hands with his host, 
 the poet tragical^' said : 
 
 "Ah, that money-making! It is the curse of all art." 
 "I joined a set of literary gatherings once," said the 
 pessimist, "and I certainly found it so. We were ex 
 pected to discuss great subjects. We were to have nodes 
 cenaeque deum, and all that. But, instead, the talk was 
 almost totally mercenary. 'So-and-so,' protested one, 
 'is the meanest publisher alive.' 'Yes,' agreed 
 another; 'what do you think he had the impudence to 
 offer me for my last book?' A third would say, 'The 
 "Transcontinental, " pays better for poetry than any of the 
 other magazines;' and then he would state for how much 
 a line he had sold the last holy message from his muse. 
 A fourth would tell of how a certain syndicate had prom 
 ised him twenty-five dollars per thousand words for a 
 manuscript and then cravenly refused him more than fif 
 teen. And so it went on," continued the pessimist, with 
 a forlornly droll look. "I had joined the society with 
 aims of mental improvement. I resigned from it, three 
 months later, having learned why so many authors aim, 
 as the phrase runs, above the heads of the crowd. They 
 evidently conclude that the crowd hasn't any brains, 
 and shoot lower, so as to hit their pockets." The states 
 man and the political economist both greatly enjoyed 
 this, and led with sonorous, effect the laughter that fol 
 lowed.
 
 NEW YORK. 151 
 
 A faint annoyance touched tbe corners of Courtelyou's 
 clean-shaven lips. He was still standing beside Crevell- 
 ing, and perhaps it stung his egotism not to have made a 
 departure more neatly timed, vanishing before these plau 
 dits, given to another, had tarnished the prestige of his 
 own. 
 
 "I hope," said Crevelling, low-voiced to him, while 
 the conversation progressed, "that you have not been 
 driven away by this thickening atmosphere of 
 tobacco; for I remember that you never smoke." 
 
 "No; it is not that, " replied Courtelyou. "I meet 
 tobacco smoke wherever I go, and you manage to keep 
 your apartments more free of it than are several larger 
 ones at my various clubs." 
 
 "I have a servant who is a magician at ventilation." 
 
 "Does he also employ his necromancy in keeping your 
 punchbowl forever filled." 
 
 "Do you know," laughed Crevelling, putting his hand 
 on Courtelyou's shoulder an act which few men would 
 have attempted and which in many he would have coldly 
 repelled if they had done so "do you know, my friend, 
 that there are several members of my congregation who 
 would like to empty that punchbowl out of the win 
 dow?" 
 
 "I haven't a doubt of it." 
 
 "Strange, is it not, that because a man tries to help 
 his fellow creatures a little and uses a church and a pul 
 pit partially for that end, he should be expected to live 
 as though he were the sworn foe of all sociality and saw 
 vice in a cigar and damnation in a friendly glass of 
 punch? The other night I went to admire Irving in 
 'The Bells,' and found myself stared at with undis 
 guised horror by three or four people who too evidently 
 recognized me. But before you go, my dear Courtelyou, 
 I must tell you how glad I am that you won your case 
 against that horrible 'firebug,' Lynsko. I read your 
 speech against the prisoner with intense interest. It was 
 magnificent, and altogether worthy of your great 
 abilities." 
 
 "Thanks, most heartily," said Courtelyou. "But I 
 don't feel that I really won my case, Lynsko gets five
 
 152 NEW YORK. 
 
 years for attempted arson. What are five years for such 
 a villain? Unfortunately the testimony of George Oliver, 
 my chief witness, was tarnished by his having served 
 three years in Sing Sing " 
 
 And here Courtelyou suddenly paused. A gentleman 
 was approaching Crevelliug to bid him good-night. And 
 this gentleman was none other than Mr. Albert Josselyn, 
 cousin of George Oliver, a tall man with snow-white hair 
 and mustache, amiable blue eyes, and an expression 
 somewhat careworn, which his frequent benevolent smile 
 would cause wholly to vanish. 
 
 As Courteb'ou passed into the hall, Josselyn followed 
 him. "I suspect," said the latter, "that you are going 
 over to tlio Patriarchs' ball." 
 
 "Yes I thought of dropping in therefor a little while. 
 Are you going?" 
 
 "Yes. I promised to meet my people there. Shall 
 you walk?" 
 
 "Oh, decidedly. I wish Delmonico's were further 
 away. " 
 
 "Then," said Josselyn, "with your permission I'll 
 accompany yofc." 
 
 "It will be a great pleasure." 
 
 And then, in his thoughts, Courtelyou added: "Con 
 found him, blood's thicker than water. He's never 
 shown it, though. I may be the 'man of ice' that his 
 cousin, George Oliver, called me, but I doubt if in a 
 similar case I would have acted with his utterly indiffer 
 ent aloofness." 
 
 The two men left Crevelling's house side and side. 
 And Courtelyou was right; for they had hardly walked 
 twenty paces along the lamplit streets before Josselyn 
 referred most pointedly to his kinsman.
 
 NEW YORK. 153 
 
 II. 
 
 "I TAKE for granted," the elder man pursued, after a 
 few sentences had been exchanged between Courtelyou 
 and himself, "that you know I am related to George 
 Oliver." 
 
 "Yes," answered the lawyer, -with an intentional hesi 
 tation. "It er came out during the trial, if I am not 
 mistaken. " 
 
 "It did. One of that scamp's counsel drew it out dur 
 ing a cross-examination. You know my wife every well, 
 of course, Courtelyou. It shocked Mrs. Josselyn 
 greatly." 
 
 "I'm sorry to hear that." 
 
 "My wife and my daughter, Grace, are exceedingly 
 sensitive about such matters." 
 
 "I think I understand you." 
 
 "Doris, now, is so different. She thought it splendid 
 of the young fellow." 
 
 "I see," said Courtelyou, with dry quickness. "Miss 
 Doris herself has told me something of the sort." 
 
 "Ah, then you and she have talked about it? Doris 
 has such such boundless sympathies! She believes, you 
 know, that young Oliver must have been more sinned 
 against than sinning. She declares that there was an 
 effort on his part to redeem himself in the eyes of society. 
 Poor fellow! God help him, if he had any such delu 
 sion!" And the old man heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 Courtelyou surveyed him in the dimness with a swift 
 look of surprise. "I see, " he said; "you mean that 
 there is no pardon possible." 
 
 "None." The next moment Josselyn hurried along, 
 with rapid and eager speech. "There were reasons, 
 Courtelyou well, family reasons, as you will no doubt 
 guess why, after his narrow escape from death, I did.
 
 154 NEW YORK. 
 
 not publicly visit him at the hospital where he lay. And 
 tell me for I have never till now had a chance of asking 
 you was his wound so very severe a one? 
 
 "It's a marvel he lived, Mr. Josselyn. That devil's 
 second bullet narrowly missed his heart. Almost a hair's 
 breath nearer would have been his death. 
 
 "And a very long illness followed?" 
 
 "It was months before he could rise from bed." 
 
 "And Josselyn stroked his chin with one gloved 
 hand "his support during that time?" 
 
 "Oh, there was hardly any real 'support' possible. As 
 soon as he was able to speak for himself he insisted on 
 being taken from the private room where I had had him 
 placed, and included among the patients in the charity 
 wards." 
 
 "With what motive?" 
 
 "Independence." 
 
 "He still retains it, after " 
 
 "Those three years in prison ?" Here Courtelyou smiled 
 to himself. "My dear Mr. Josselyn, he has, for an ex- 
 convict and particularly for one who admits his guilt 
 an amazing amount of independence. I needed him at 
 Lynsko's trial, as you know, but I feared, at one time, 
 that his wound would never heal and that sudden blood- 
 snffusion of the lungs would carry him off. I often 
 visited him at the hospital. The truth is, he's a superb 
 fellow, and that stigma upon him is a fearfully unfor 
 tunate event. I never realized till now that so much 
 moral weakness could coexist with so much strength of 
 character. His courage, for weeks, was marvelous. 
 There were hours at a time when he gasped so for breath 
 that to look upon hirn was torturing in itself. Yet I 
 never saw him show a sign of that hysteria which, in the 
 circumstances, would have been thoroughly natural. 
 Well, Mr. Josselyn, it only makes clearer to me what 
 awful power a bad woman can wreak upon a good man. 
 You remember Oliver's trial?" 
 
 "Yes, yes," replied Josselyn, his tones nervously flut 
 tered. "A woman was mentioned there, I recall men 
 tioned by the defense a woman whom they could not 
 procure as a witness, though they greatly desired her."
 
 NEW YORK. 155 
 
 Courtelyou looked at him steadily in the dusk as they 
 were crossing Madison Square, going toward Delmonico's. 
 
 "You seem a little excited, Mr. Josselyu. It'sabad 
 thing before entering hot ball rooms. Perhaps we should 
 not have spoken of George Oliver. I didn't know that 
 you took any interest in him whatever." 
 
 "Interest? Ah, Courtelyou, I've suffered yes, suf 
 fered keenly, because of the indifferent part the seem 
 ingly indifferent part which I've been compelled to play 
 toward one of rny own blood." 
 
 "Compelled, sir?" 
 
 "Mrs. Josselyu is is imperious, on certain points. 
 And then, you know, there is Grace, our daughter. She 
 always kept bringing up Grace " 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "And so, then, you really believe George Oliver a good 
 man?" 
 
 They had reached the Fifth Avenue side of Delmoni 
 co's. It was now half-past eleven, and Twenty-Sixth 
 Street so short a passage, just here swarmed with car 
 riages. They saw the lighted restaurant, filled with 
 feasters who would soon be turned out, if they did not 
 choose to go before midnight and make way for the sup 
 per with which the Patriarchs, at numberless small 
 tables, would provide their guests. And here the 
 grouped or moving carriages were almost as dense. 
 
 "I think George Oliver a good man," said Courtelyou. 
 "I think him, too, in many ways, an extraordinary man. " 
 
 He spoke with slowness, and a marked emphasis on 
 each word. 
 
 "Take my arm as we cross, will you not, Mr. Jos- 
 salyn?" he added, in a tone light and colloquial. "The 
 cabs and coaches hereabouts are having it all their own 
 way." 
 
 Who does not know a Delmonico Patriarchs' ball? 
 Many thousands of New Yorkers do not, might be the 
 answer. And yet, nowadays, the newspapers have so 
 entirely usurped, in a descriptive sense, all this gay ele 
 ment of New York life that there are doubtless young 
 girla and young men in flats on. Second or Third or
 
 156 NEW YORK. 
 
 Seventh or Eighth Avenues wbo. could tell you all about 
 Lander's band concealed behind palms on the upstairs 
 balcony, and how the yellow-shaded chandeliers became 
 the ladies' complexions, and whether it was Mrs. Van 
 Wagenen or Mrs. Moneypeuny, who went down to sup 
 per on the arm of the great arbiter eleyantiarum, and 
 who were her and his chosen associates at the one sacred 
 table d'honneur. The realistic novelist whom we met at 
 Crevelling's this same evening, may have been perfectly 
 right in granting that the newspaper writers are the great 
 novelists of the age. There surely is not a doubt that 
 they deal with all the "material" here which Balzac 
 treated in his Paris. And, as it happened, while Jos- 
 selynand Courtelyou were ducking their heads under the 
 awning of the Twenty-Sixth Street entrance, a story- 
 writer and a reporter were having the hottest of discus 
 sions over their brandy and soda( of which both had 
 taken quite too much) in the Broadway cafe. 
 
 "Damn it," said the story writer. "You newspaper 
 fellows are taking the ground right from under our feet. '' 
 
 "We wouldn't," smiled the reporter, "if you could 
 claim the ground and keep it." 
 
 "Ah," sneered the story-writer. "It isn't that!" 
 Then he grew a bit abusive in his cups, as gentlemen of 
 the "artistic temperament" are wont at whiles to be 
 come. "Fools," he cried (and I am afraid he pro 
 nounced it "foolsh") "rush in where angels fear to 
 tread." 
 
 The reporter puffed at his cigarette. "All right. But 
 if you literarj' chaps are really angels, why be afraid of 
 us fools? Show your divinity, if you've got any there's 
 the point ! Knock us head-over-heels with the cartila 
 ginous parts of your wings. I should hate an angel that 
 hadn't spunk enough to fight for his rights." 
 
 Meanwhile Courtelyou and his elderly companion had 
 gone into the grandeur and pomp and falsitj' and snobbery 
 and plutocracy and very delightful brilliancy of the ball. 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn was seated near the edge of the entrade 
 reserved for dowagers when her husband joined her. 
 She hid been a dressmaker at the time of her marriage, 
 and not in her early youth at that, and she was very well
 
 NEW YORK. 15? 
 
 aware that everybody knew her origin. But she was 
 a woman of great energy and push. For years until 
 her daughter, Grace, AVUS almost fourteen she had 
 failed socially to succeed. Then had come the triumph 
 of the millionaires, rising like a wave and sweeping 
 victoriously over the old conservatisms of the Knicker 
 bockers, and this new movement had carried her straight 
 onward past the forbidden gates. She had now arrived, 
 at last. She could hold her head as high as almost any 
 body except the great moneyed autocrats. Her husband 
 was worth precisely a million hardly ten thousand more 
 now that he had retired from the drygoods trade. 
 But she would not have had this fact known for a finger 
 or an ear. Indeed, by every subtle and noncommital 
 means in her power, she strove to have it believed that 
 he was worth five millions, if a dime. She drew the line 
 there; but it should be said expatiatingly of her that she 
 pressed it to this distance because of her daughter 
 Grace. 
 
 At once she said to her husband, with the blandest of 
 smiles on her fatally sagged and time-ruined face a face 
 that an Englishwoman of fashion would have rouged and 
 "made up" to any remorseless extent: 
 
 "You came a little later than I expected. Have you 
 been at Crevelling's? Yes? Dear Grovelling! How 
 long he kept you! Mr. Van Corlear is going to take me 
 down to supper. So sweet of him, isn't it? "Whom shall 
 you take down? You've asked nobody yet? Why not 
 ask this lady on my right? We both know her, you 
 know Mrs. Tomlinson Clinch. She's a perfect hag, 
 but look at those emeralds. And she hasn't an escort; 
 I happen to know it. Don't appear so bored, Albert; 
 you always do, at these places. The Clinches are doing 
 wonders this year; her daughter, Sadie, is a great belle. 
 He's the Chicago grain man, you know. They say it's 
 seven millions, but who can tell? Ask her, Albert. I 
 do so want you to get somebody, and not stand all alone 
 downstairs near the sideboards, looking melancholy and 
 deserted." 
 
 Josselyn obeyed his wife, now as always. No sooner 
 had Mrs. Clinch smirked assent, in her scraggy but be-
 
 158 NEW YORK. 
 
 jeweled ugliness, than Mrs. .Tosselyn, pretending half to 
 have guessed what she was well aware of, very beamingly 
 said : 
 
 "Am I right in fancying that I heard 1113* husband ask 
 for the honor of taking you .down to supper? Yes? 
 And you were good enough to accept his services? How 
 kind of you, my dear Mrs. Clinch!" And Mrs. Josselyn 
 looked at the wondrous emeralds flashing on the skinny 
 neck, and thought of how nobody else had thus far 
 desired this lady as a supper companion, notwithstand 
 ing all her glory of raiment and gems. 
 
 "Times are so changed," Mrs. Josselyn continued, 
 knowing that her listener was "new" herself and had 
 probably not heard of her own newness. "We 'mammas' 
 have to look out for ourselves, nowadays, and get part 
 ners for supper; otherwise we must endure the humilia 
 tion of going downstairs with our own husbands." 
 
 Mrs. Tomlinson Clinch appeared to think this highly 
 funnj-. "Dew yew know, " she replied, "I was saying 
 tew my Sadie, only this very day, precisely the same 
 thing? And Sadie answered : 'Why, mammar, half the 
 time we gurls have tew look out for two partnerrs, one 
 tew dance the Gerrman with us and one tew take us down 
 tew suppurr. " 
 
 Here was indeed the Western vocal "burr," most 
 vigorously developed. Never having heard Sadie speak, 
 Mrs. Josselyn could not help asking herself if the burr 
 could possibly thrive in close proximity to those pretty 
 roseleaf lips. But doubtless in the young girl's case, 
 with her reported semi-foreign education, it did not exist 
 at all. It was perhaps as non-evident as her descent 
 from so unbeautiful a mother. 
 
 "I remember the most fashionable balls, a few years 
 ago," romanced Mrs. Josselyn, who had never been to 
 them and only heard of them, "where the ladies sat along 
 the walls of the supper-rooms and were waited on by the 
 gentlemen. It wasn't half so luxurious or so convenient 
 as the present custom of small tables with servants for 
 each, but then it somehow brought out the gallantry 
 of the men a good deal more strikingly." 
 
 "Why, yes, indeed," said Mrs. Clinch. "That's the
 
 NEW Y@RK. 159 
 
 way they like tew dew it still, forr the most parrt, in 
 Chicawgo. " 
 
 "Grace," soon said Mrs. Josselyn to her husband, "is 
 having a lovely time. The Earl of Brecknock has actually 
 asked her for the German." 
 
 This was held to be a potent compliment, for Lord 
 Brecknock had of late been a dazzling star in the social 
 New York skies. He was the eleventh earl of his line, 
 and related to half the greater dignitaries of the English 
 peerage. But he was poor, and he had not denied the 
 report that he was in New York this winter seeking to 
 marry an American heiress. Grace Josselyn, with her 
 milky skin and red-gold hair and charmingly curled 
 mouth and shell-pink ears and laughing, silver-blue eyes, 
 had attracted him for several past weeks. He had, in 
 deed, fallen in love with her. But he had nevertheless 
 made efforts to find out the amount of her father's for 
 tune, though without any definite success. And Grace, 
 on her own side, was very much in love also passion 
 ately, if you please, yet with a sense of the romanticism 
 of becoming Lady Brecknock grown intertangliugly, 
 inextricably, a part of her fervid sentiment. The earl 
 was a handsome, well-knit fellow, hardly more than 
 twenty-five, with a blond crop of wavy hair and a fine, 
 arched nose, just large enough for his fresh-tinted face, 
 growing almost transparently thin at either curved 
 nostril. 
 
 "He dances badly," said a rich man who was making 
 his position, to a bachelorman-about-town who had made 
 his thirty years ago. "But all Englishmen do dance 
 badly, I've observed." 
 
 "Quite true yes," replied the man-about-town. 
 
 Here the rich man who was making his position felt 
 his coat-tails gently pulled. He turned, and looked into 
 the eyes of his wife. 
 
 "William?" she whispered. 
 
 "Well, my dear?" 
 
 "Can't you manage to get lord what's-his-name in 
 troduced to our Bertha? Just see her! She's dancing 
 again with that fellow who writes poetry for the maga 
 zines. William, I positively think she likes him."
 
 160 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I'm afraid," replied William, "that his lordship also 
 likes Miss Josselyn. " 
 
 "Pooh. Everybody says he came here for one pur 
 pose. And if he supposes the Josselyns are so very rich, 
 he'd better be put right. Our Bertha would have a dot 
 six times larger than " 
 
 "Stop, my dear. Not that you're being overheard; 
 you're far too clever for that. But even to one another 
 don't let us appear any more vulgar than we can help. 
 Heaven knows, society in this lovely town is all vulgar 
 enough; but let us try to cultivate a decent medium." 
 
 And the rich man who was making his position lifted a 
 monitory forefinger clad in creamy kid, and shook it 
 gently at his spouse, who wore a gorget of rubies almost 
 as big as the emeralds of Mrs. Tomlinson Clinch. 
 
 "See old Van Lerius, " said one male guest to another, 
 amid that swarm of black coats which usually haunts the 
 main doorway. "How he enjoys himself, dancing about, 
 though he'll never see sixty again!" 
 
 "Van Lerius," replied the other, "is the most envia 
 ble New Yorker I know barring, of course, his years, 
 which he wears, however, so gracef ullj r . " 
 
 "Why the most enviable?" 
 
 "Because he is the richest of all the real swells a 
 Knickerbocker multi-millionaire. Nobody can sneer at 
 him as a pushing parvenu. He traces back to one of the 
 Signers; his people were as much in the swim a century 
 ago (if then there was any 'swim' to be in) as they are 
 to-day. His wife is over there, talking to a Croesus, 
 whose father carried the hod; his sons and daughters are 
 scattered about the rooms, each having, I'll dare swear, 
 a remarkably good time. The Van Leriuses always do 
 have a remarkably good time, because they're sensible, 
 and don't oppose the inevitable. Look, on the other 
 hand, at certain other Knickerbockers. The Van Cor- 
 lears, now " 
 
 "They're not so rich as the Van Leriuses." 
 
 "Not quite, perhaps, but they almost keep out of 
 society because they say that upstarts have begun to 
 rule it." 
 
 "Begun!" the other echoed. "By the time that 'fin
 
 NEW YORK. 161 
 
 de siecle* means an end of the century in good earnest, 
 these upstarts will be calling themselves old families. 
 And they're perfectly entitled to their success. Most of 
 the men are as refined as any American men ever are, 
 and some of the women are completely charming. And, 
 when all is said, what was New York society until these 
 same upstarts appeared in it?" 
 
 "Well, their opponents claim that it was much simpler 
 and less pretentious." 
 
 "It was simpler in the sense of being marked by fewer 
 luxurious and brilliant functions. But it certainly was 
 not less pretentious in the sense of snobbery and provin 
 cial exclusiveness. The Knickerbockers (many of whom 
 were not Knickerbockers at all) had, about fifteen years 
 ago, everything their own way. And a very stubborn 
 and stupid way it was. I, for my part, am glad their 
 rule has ceased." 
 
 "Then yon like to think that the two or three wives of 
 the two or three richest men in toAvn are the leaders of 
 society by right of money alone?" 
 
 "I don't see why money, it wedded to culture (as it 
 certainly is in the cases you mention) has not as strong 
 a claim as alleged 'birth,' in a country founded on purely 
 unpatrician principles. But we are growing rather 
 philosophic, Tom, for a Patriarchs' ball. Introduce me, 
 you promised you would to that nice California girl, 
 whose father bought a Nevada silver mine, they say, for 
 five hundred dollars borrowed mone3 r , at that and 
 found himself a millionaire ten times over in the course 
 of one afternoon." 
 
 "I will if I can," was the answer. "But the devil of 
 it is, she's so surrounded. She makes you think of the 
 box-office at a theater during a play that's proved a hit; 
 you have to stand in a kind of line and take your turn." 
 
 Courtelyou had meanwhile moved about the large, 
 crowded room, pausing here and there for a word or a 
 hand-clasp. He had no real friends, if you will, but he 
 had scores of acquaintances, and many of them warm 
 admirers as well. Not a few women would have liked to 
 know him better, but it had begun to be said of him that
 
 162 NEW YORK. 
 
 no woman could know him very well except Doris Jos- 
 selyn, provided she chose. But Doris, who went little 
 into the fashionable world, was to many merely a name. 
 
 His late "raid on the firebugs," as somebody called it, 
 had given him just the new sort of glittering distinction 
 that he desired. Before he found Doris, seated with two 
 gentlemen in one of the smaller apartments, he had 
 received numerous gratulations on his last eloquent and 
 scathing speech. Doris gave him her hand as he joined 
 her, and one of the gentlemen rose, gliding away with 
 an almost bashful bow, as if awed by the presence of this 
 eminent lawyer. Courtelyou took his seat, but it was 
 some time before he had a chance of talking privately 
 with the girl whom he had come to seek. For on Doris' 
 other side was a fleshy and florid man, of advanced years, 
 who bore an old and honored family name, had a sten 
 torian voice with which he only spoke inanities, cum- 
 brously and pompously taking for granted that he wearied 
 no woman whom he condescended to approach, though 
 he seldom talked of anything but himself. 
 
 "I'm so glad he's gone," murmured Courtelyou, at 
 length "the elephantine bore! He's been lumbering 
 through ball rooms for forty years, with his self-assur- 
 rance as massive as his physique. Didn't he tire you 
 horribly?" 
 
 Doris gave her head a negative shake. "Why, no. 
 I never thought about it, either way. At these places 
 I never expect to be amused. Cousin Ellen had an extra 
 card, and so I went with her and Grace." 
 
 "Against your will?" 
 
 "Oh, no. Mrs. Josselyn and I are great friends, you 
 know. I don't do eveiything she wants me to do, but 
 we get on very happily together, nevertheless. "When 
 I'm disobedient she forgives me. Of course we're dif 
 ferent. So are Grace and I different. But I love them 
 both dearly, just as I love Cousin Albert. That means 
 so much. I dare say that if I didn't love then and they 
 did'nt love me, we should have dreadful family quarrels, 
 and all that. But as it is, and as I just said, we get on 
 delightfully. We're a very happy household. But you 
 know this, of course."
 
 NEW YORK. 163 
 
 Courtelyou watched her in silent homage. To him she 
 was by far the most beautiful woman in the rooms that 
 night. This was far from true, and yet she was perhaps, 
 in a way bafliingly difficult to define, the loveliest and 
 most winsome. 
 
 "You radiate peace and good will and loving kind 
 ness," he said. "I can't conceivo of you as not 'getting 
 on' with anybody. And yet it does seem so queer that 
 there is no clashing between you and your kindred. For 
 they, you must admit Mrs. Josselyu and Grace, I mean 
 are a trifle worldly." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Doris, with gaze on her lap, where 
 lay a big bunch of orchids and pink roses. Then she 
 suddenly raised her eyes to him, full of soft, floating 
 grayish lusters. "But I don't scold them for that, and 
 they only scold me now and then, a little, for my oddi 
 ties." 
 
 "You said," began Courtelyou, after a slight pause, 
 "that you never expected to be amused at places like 
 these. For a girl of your youth and health and powers 
 of attraction, that sentiment seems to me oddly dirge- 
 like." 
 
 "And why, pray?" 
 
 "The lights, the jewels, the flowers, the music, the 
 dancing, the gayety j r ou are not yet old enough, by at 
 least ten years, to feel bored among their blithesome 
 boundaries." 
 
 "Ah," cried Doris, with a sad flash of smile on her 
 lips, "I don't find that 'blithesome' applies to them." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No emphatically. It is all an artificial merry-mak 
 ing, and I dislike artificiality. Here nobody is himself; 
 still less, I should say, is anybody herselL The revel 
 lers all wear masks, yet not so discreetly that one cannot 
 catch glimpses of their true faces behind them. No ; it's 
 not even successful as a masquerade. It has one big 
 pivotal impulse pretentiousness. " 
 
 "Oh, come, now! There must be society. We can't 
 do without it." 
 
 "We ought to have it of the better sort." 
 
 "Of course we ought. Everybody will secretly agree 
 with you. Everybody thinks, at heart, just as you do."
 
 164 NEW YORK. 
 
 Doris laughed. "Only they're not prigs and prudes 
 like me. That is what you moan, I suppose." 
 
 "The words are 3-0111- own. You mustn't call yourself 
 names, however. It's an injustice which I shall resent if 
 persevered in. May I ask who gave you those charming 
 flowers?" 
 
 She started, her face lighting. "Somebody who 
 shares my contempt for this foolish brummagem glitter." 
 She lifted the bouquet and hid her face in it, all but the 
 two gray eyes, that shone starry above its tangle of 
 pinks and purples. "Can't you guess?" 
 
 "Frank Crevelling?" 
 
 She nodded merrily. Then her look grew grave, in 
 an instant "I dare say he sent them as a kind of con 
 solation, knowing that I had no will to go here, among 
 the attitudinizers. "We've talked 'society' over, you 
 know, a good deal, he and I." 
 
 "You've talked nearly everything over, I suspect," 
 said Courtelyou, his tones dry and chilly. 
 
 "He once thought of writing an essay on society for 
 one of our metropolitan magazines or reviews. The 
 editor had asked him for something of the sort. But he 
 gave up the work, not wishing to be cross, yet feeling 
 that if he wrote it at all, he must. I was disappointed. 
 I wanted him to be cross just for once." 
 
 "And you offered, I suppose, to give him lots of 
 points." 
 
 "Yes if he needed them. I suggested a name for his 
 essay, too. That was decidedly cross." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "'The curse of caste. " 
 
 "Hardly a benignant title." 
 
 "Benignant? No, indeed!" Doris drew herself up; 
 the plaint line of her lips took a transient sternness." 
 There are times when a spade should be called a spade, 
 just like that! Oh, if you knew what heart-burnings I 
 have seen what miserable struggles and sorrows! 
 These multi-millionaires, as they are called, have brought 
 financial ruin, I am told, into certain households; the 
 desire to keep pace with their modes of living has in 
 duced reckless disbursements. But it is not that sort of
 
 NEW YORK. 105 
 
 effect to which I refer. I mean the withering blight 
 that falls upon certain lovable natures. There at Lenox, 
 this last summer, I saw it happening to more than one 
 charming girl; here in town I can point to others whom 
 I knew such a short while ago in all the bloom of sincer 
 ity, charity, loving kindness, but in whom not a vestige 
 of either now stays. Pride has frozen them all ; they 
 look coldly on old friends ; they care for nobodj- who is 
 not of their little exclusive, haughtj- set. The curse of 
 caste, as / call it, has withered their humanity. They 
 .still remain Christians that is the strange part of it. 
 They go to their churches, and pray. They assume to 
 worship a God whom they believe to have been, here on 
 earth, the humblest in rank, and who took for his dis 
 ciples those as humble as he. And yet they worship 
 much more devoutly this idol of caste, and sacrifice to it 
 all genuine friendships, emotions, desires. Ah, it's a 
 kind of contagious moral malady! They take it from 
 one another, like diphtheria. I know its symptoms so 
 well! I've watched them so often! the beginning of 
 that slow change which is like a very ossification of the 
 soul!" 
 
 'Keallj'," said Courtelyou, as he studied her glistening 
 eyes, "I think you take your 'curse of caste' quite too 
 seriously. There is my sister Martha, now " 
 
 "Oh, your sister Martha has never been harmed bj r it. 
 She has only a sort of humorous respect for the entire 
 movement, and frankly admits that it appeals to her 
 imagination. It has never in the least interfered with 
 her finer instincts. Martha is fascinated by the pic- 
 turesqueness of it all, but its falsity is patent to her. 
 She never bends to it; she roundly abuses it; and you 
 know with what a funny audacity she openly ttlls people 
 that association with the swells is something that she 
 always has on her conscience." 
 
 "Yes. I'm afraid Martha is a good deal of a trifler. " 
 "She's like you, "said Doris, obeying a sudden impulse 
 of intense candor,"and yet radically unlike you, as well. 
 She is what you would be if you had more humanity." 
 
 "Am I inhuman, then?" 
 
 "You're wnhuman, very often. There's a difference.
 
 166 NEW YORK. 
 
 You have no sympathy with your fellow-men, and you 
 have an immense sympathy with yourself." 
 
 He tried to laugh lightly. "How you misunderstand 
 me, Miss Doris!" 
 
 "Oh, we've talked it all over before now. I've told 
 you how greatly I respect your intellect. But intellect 
 without heart goes for so little." 
 
 Courtelyou gnawed his lips. There was not another 
 woman living from whom he would not have turned on 
 his heel, resolving never to speak to her again, if she had 
 thus addressed him. 
 
 "Of all persons," he brought out, gracelessly and 
 against his will, as men like him say things like this, 
 "you are the last who should accuse me of wanting a 
 heart." 
 
 Just then two men of fashion almost simultaneously 
 joined them, and a few seconds later Martha Courtelyou, 
 on the arm of a famous ballroom beau, stopped and mur 
 mured a few words to Doris, after tapping her brother's 
 arm with her fan, and saying, in sharp staccato : 
 
 "Well, Osborne, I'm glad you turned up. It looked 
 positively disreputable for me to be darting about like 
 this, without any visible protector; for how on earth are 
 people going to know that I begged Mrs. Frothingham, 
 this afternoon, for a seat in her carriage, with Emily and 
 Caroline? And I'm sure Caroline is secretly furious ; 
 the dear girl has a new frock from Paris, all puffings and 
 flutings, and had set her mind on occupying a whole 
 seat to herself. I squeezed myself into a corner as well 
 as I could, but Caroline spent nearly twenty minutes in 
 the dressing room, preening her plumes, and there's now 
 an unforgiving glitter in her smile. This comes of hav 
 ing a brother who deserts you at the eleventh hour!" 
 
 Then to Doris her undertone was full of dainty re 
 morse : "I know, dear, why you came out of pure 
 amiability to Mrs. Josselyn and Grace. But I bless 
 me, I was crazy to come, and am having a perfectly 
 delicious time! I despise it all, just as you do. And 
 this ball is the most utterly vulgar splurge I've ever yet 
 seen. There are certainly five women here who look as 
 if Tiffany had hired them for walking advertisements.
 
 NEW YORK. 167 
 
 But oh, I do so enjoy it all! It exhilarates me, it en 
 trances rne, and yet I'm privately furious at myself that 
 it does!" 
 
 And Martha, with smiles and frowns chasing one 
 another across her plainish though fresh-tinted face, 
 which combined dignity and jollity in the oddest and 
 yet most harmonious way, moved off on the arm of her 
 cavalier.
 
 168 NEW YORK. 
 
 III. 
 
 COUKTELYOU, soon deprived of all further chance to 
 continue his tete-d-tete with Doris, presently took down 
 to supper a woman in whom he had no interest, and who 
 wearied him to death with her ill-hid joy at having 
 secured him for an escort. She was sprightly, somewhat 
 engaging, not without a fair share of wisdom and wit. 
 
 But what Doris would have termed the curse of caste 
 had mastered her with iron t3 r rauny. She might have 
 shone in her own circumstantial sphere, being the wife 
 of a cotton broker who seldom made more than ten thou 
 sand yearly, and often considerably less. She lived in a 
 small house, could not afford a carriage, had few serv- 
 vants, and endured agonies of terror regarding the 
 amounts of her dressmakers' bills. But nowadays, since 
 the longing to go out and be seen among folk of the first 
 fashion had savagely gripped her, she would have 
 suffered still keener torments if forced to discontinue 
 her struggles. Nobody wanted her in the cliques which 
 she passionately strove to enter. She could not entertain 
 except in a style where effort was pathetically manifest; 
 she had really nothing to give in return for the splendid 
 hospitalities that she craved. She was forever asking 
 people to get her, and her rather dull husband, cards for 
 this affair or that. She had been snubbed innumerable 
 times, but no amount of rebuff could dishearten her. 
 Two or three years ago she had been quite bloomingly 
 pretty, and had possessed, in no slight degree, the con 
 versational art. But now anxiety and yearning had 
 stolen the roses from her cheeks and replaced by a wist 
 ful stare the dark sparkle of her eyes. Instead of talk 
 ing, too, with her old vivacious cleverness, she kept up 
 an incessant prattle of the most fatuous gossip. 
 
 "Poor little woman," thought Courtelyou, while he
 
 NEW YORK. 169 
 
 ate his hot duck and took a few prudent sips of exces 
 sively dry champagne, "she is trying to make me tell 
 her that I will use my influence with Mrs. Van Lerins 
 and procure her two tickets for the next Assembly ball. 
 But though her hints became sharper than needles, my 
 tough epidermis, she'll find, can resist them. Yes, 
 Doris Josselyn is right. There are people whom this 
 'society' madness has cursed and blighted." 
 
 He never danced the German, and meant to get away 
 soon after supper. But seated in one of the smaller 
 rooms, he chanced to see Doris, quite alone. She gently 
 beckoned to him with her fan, and in a moment he was 
 at her side. 
 
 "You are staying for the German, I suppose?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes; what can I do? Grace is dancing, and I 
 must stay on with her and her mother." 
 
 "Your partner?" 
 
 "He's gone to get chairs for us." 
 
 "May I ask his name?" 
 
 She told him, and he made a little moue. "You'll 
 have to talk gossip or else remain mute. He under 
 stands nothing else." 
 
 "I don't talk gossip, and I told him so. He takes me 
 at his peril. But then he is greatly sought after 
 heaven knows why " 
 
 "Plutus would know why. He has fifty or sixty 
 thousand a year." 
 
 "So, you see, he will be taken out all the time, and I 
 shall escape him for long intervals. But that," she 
 added, self-correctively, "is both bitter and ungrateful, 
 and I don't wish to be either, even behind his back." 
 
 "And yet, "said Courtelyou, not without a trace of 
 animus, "you can be very severe to people, now and 
 then, before their faces." 
 
 "I was more than that to you, a little while ago," she 
 said, with abrupt repentancce. "I was impertinent yes, 
 really. Do forgive me." 
 
 He seemed to be intently examining her bouquet. 
 "And with whom does Miss Grace dance. Lord Breck 
 nock?" 
 
 "Yes, I believe so. Indeed, I'm sure of it."
 
 170 NEW YORK. 
 
 "You say that regretfully." 
 
 "Oh, well; you know I don't like the whole affair. 
 Grace is too interested, and he what may happen if he 
 should mean marriage and yet find her not half the heir 
 ess that her mother has foolishly led him to think her? 
 There! that is a little burst of family confidence, isn't 
 it? But then I look on you as a family friend, and I'm 
 ever so devoted to your sister Martha, as you're aware. 
 And both these facts are powerful reasons why I shouldn't 
 have told you that you lacked humanity. After all, what 
 on earth do I know? Martha dotes on you, and then" 
 (here her voice lowered, though there was no potential 
 listener within many yards of them) "and then you have 
 surely shown courage and high-mindedness in your 
 dragging of that wretched houseburner to justice. Do 
 you know, I believe firmly in that George Oliver's per 
 fect honesty of motive? And you, of course, are con 
 vinced of it." 
 
 "Oh, of course." 
 
 "And he consented to take that means of exposure 
 the only means. I read those answers he gave the cross- 
 examining lawyer with keenest interest. They were so 
 clear, direct, brave. And what he said of his own past 
 of his fault, his crime! It was all so tragic in its un 
 complaining acceptance of the shame that had befallen 
 him. You saw how it came out that he's a cousin of Mr. 
 Josselyn's and hence a relative of my own. Poor J/;\s. 
 Josselyn was furious at that. But you must have known 
 a long time ago. And yet you've never spoken of it at 
 least not to me." 
 
 "I did not imagine you would find it a pleasant sub 
 ject." 
 
 "Pleasant? No surely not. But with how many 
 miserable people am I brought into contract every month 
 whom it's not pleasant to meet? Still, I should have 
 loved to visit him when he was so ill. I wish you had 
 told me. You know how I go to all sorts of places. I 
 feel for him the deepest sympathy perhaps because of 
 our relationship, though by no means altogether. I 
 used to know him when Grace and I were little girls, but 
 I can't recall his face. There was a family quarrel be-
 
 NEW YORK. 171 
 
 tween Cousin Albert and his father. The Olivers had 
 adopted a mulatto child, and treated her as an equal, 
 and had her at dinner one day when the Josselyns went 
 there as guests. I should like to ask him what has be 
 come of her. And I never knew till afterward that his 
 poor mother died insane from grief [at her son's convic 
 tion and imprisonment." 
 
 Here Doris laid a hand on Courtelyou's arm. "Cousin 
 Ellen," she said, with excessive seriousness, "would be 
 very angry with me for making you this request. But 
 can't you ai-range to have me meet George Oliver at your 
 house? Martha won't mind; Martha never minds any 
 thing I ask her to do for me. She lets me drag her to 
 lectures and charity festivals and heaven knows where 
 else, at five minutes' notice." 
 
 "You met George Oliver at my house," said Courtel- 
 you, to his own thoughts. But aloud : 
 
 "I'm afraid, Miss Doris, that he would not consent to 
 any such arrangement. For one thing, he is excessively 
 retiring, this kinsman of yours, and for another, he and 
 I well, we are not on terms of very good acquaintance 
 ship, notwithstanding our mxitual detestation of that 
 scoundrel, Lynsko. I am very certain that he doesn't 
 like me, and I doubt if I shall even have a chance of 
 knowing his future whereabouts, now that the trial is 
 over." 
 
 "How strange!" murmured Doris. "I supposed you 
 and he were on the friendliest of terms." 
 
 "Oh, decidedly not," said Courtelyou, with a little 
 thin, harsh laugh. And just then Doris' partner came 
 to claim her.
 
 173 NEW YORK. 
 
 IV. 
 
 IT WAS thoroughly true that George disliked Courtel- 
 you; and of late, moreover, he had shown his antipathy 
 with more openness than he himself perhaps realized. 
 He was now living in a small room in a small lodging- 
 house not far from Third Avenue on the east side of the 
 town. His expenses at the hospital had been almost 
 nothing, and his present funds amounted to a little over 
 six hundred dollars. The frightful sufferings through 
 which he had passed and the intense stoicism with which 
 he had borne them, were still evident on his thinned and 
 hollow-eyed face. There was that look about his brows 
 and temples, a certain look of dreamy pensiveness, which 
 those are apt to wear who have gone deep down into theVal- 
 ley of the Shadow. He had been marvelously strong and 
 patient during his worst agonies, and that exertion of 
 strength and patience still seemed to haunt his features 
 in some delicate unexplainable way: At the hospital 
 his beard had grown copiously, but before final recovery 
 he had shaved it off, rather through an impulse of habit 
 than from any clear-felt motive. Still, when the time of 
 the trial came, he was almost agreeably reminded of this 
 act. For in the courtroom there were men whom he had 
 known during former times, a few of his college asso 
 ciates among them; and he preferred greatly that these 
 should have remarked in him no sign of facial conceal 
 ment. Nevertheless, he had noted well the disguising 
 effect of the beard. 
 
 At the trial he had stood simply as a witness for the 
 people against Lynsko, and unilinchingly had told the 
 truth, though Iaw3 r ers adroit in every species of chicanery 
 had striven with all their evil arts to shake his evi 
 dence. They coukl not shake it, for he fought them 
 with an impregnable honesty. But what they could
 
 NEW YORK. 173 
 
 do was to parade in most glaring colors his unhappy 
 past, and this, with ferocious energy, they did. No 
 detail of his crime did they leave untouched. They 
 knew, in their merciless arrangements, how to pierce their 
 auditors with mirth or fret them into audible sneers. 
 George saw his boyish passion for an unprincipled 
 woman held up before him in flaunting mockery ; he was 
 forced to wrench from his lips humiliating admissions, 
 till the whole crucial business eclipsed, for sheer nervous 
 strain, that fateful trial which had sent him to Sing 
 Sing. Then, after having seen what supple pugnacity 
 the New York lawyer of a certain type can exploit for his 
 client under the stimulus of a fat fee, he was regaled 
 with disclosures of how vilely this same personage can 
 corrupt a group of paid witnesses, making them lie with 
 an assurance born of deft previous "coaching." Mrs. 
 Volatski, the " sister" of Lynsko, coolly testified to 
 George's frequent fits of drunkenness, his constant pro 
 fanity, his generally immoral life. Several other denizens 
 of South Street and its neighborhood declared him a 
 sneak thief by his own occasional confession and a pick 
 pocket as well. One, a young man, whom he had more 
 than once helped to gain a night's lodging or a much- 
 needed meal, brazenly affirmed that he had brought him, 
 one evening, into a low dance house and there had caused 
 two disreputable women to ply him with drugged beer, 
 inducing a stupor from which lie had waked with pockets 
 emptied of a day's hard earnings. This witness had 
 always been clad like the sorriest of tramps when George 
 had hitherto seen him ; but now he wore a good coat and 
 a clean shirt indisputably gifts of his bribers. 
 
 With all this bevy of falsifiers Courtelyou dealt in 
 magnificent manner. His legal reputation, during a 
 space of three hours, seemed to augment with every tick 
 of the courtroom clock. There were silences, terrible 
 silences, in which these ticks could be heard, while the 
 stammering, squirming liars stammered and squirmed 
 under his steely eye. George, like others, watched him 
 with deep admiration. One after one, he shattered their 
 testimony by his rapier-like questions; one after one he 
 made them slink away amid the jeering laughter of those
 
 174 NEW YORK. 
 
 whom his splendid acumen delighted. He used logic 
 and language with an ease and strength that tore away 
 their masks and left them shivering in dire discomfort. 
 The district attorney gave him gratulatory nods; bursts 
 of ardent applause had to be repressed by the gavel, 
 sharply sounded; the defense gnawed their beards in 
 sullen wrath ; and Lynsko, glowering on the dock, looked 
 whiter and fiercer than even at the moment which had 
 almost made him a murderer. George, intently observ 
 ant, paid silent homage to the intellect, though not to 
 the man. "It is not Lynsko, the black scamp," he 
 thought, "whom these wonderful tactics are seeking to 
 crush. It is himself, Osborne Courtelyou, the glacial 
 moralist, the self-revering reformer, whom they are eager 
 to elevate and advance. He would scorn the putting of 
 these great gifts to base uses; but without the reward of 
 personal fame he would be languid in employing them. 
 If he were as fine a general as he is a lawyer he would 
 never fight except in a true cause. But he would fight 
 first for renown, and instinctively make the very virtue 
 of the cause a secondary concern." 
 
 In his final trenchant and scorching speech Courtelyou 
 made much of Lynsko 's attempt to kill. The words 
 could not well have been less rhetorical ; at times they 
 did not seem even like language, but rather like plunges 
 of a dirk. That speech sent the Pole to prison, and but 
 for the tainted character of George's testimony it would 
 have sent him there for double the time he got. 
 
 George, realizing the new exhaustive strain put upon 
 him, the revived scandal and odium of which he had been 
 made an object, told himself, with pangs of dejection, 
 that he had been rashly unwise. What good had he 
 gained by seeking to punish Lynsko's villainy ? None. 
 It seemed to him that his position was only injured the 
 more, now that fresh publicity had been flared upon it. 
 
 Still he resolved to make test of this fact. He had 
 seen in the courtroom a certain Charles Churchley, his 
 former college classmate and once his intimate friend. 
 Churchley had been absent in Europe throughout his 
 trial and conviction. Recently, while on the witness 
 stand during his arduous later ordeal, George had more
 
 NEW YORK. 175 
 
 than once caught the man's familiar gaze, fixed upon 
 him with a compassionate interest there was no mistak 
 ing. "I will go and see Charlie," he decided. "Meet 
 ing him again will be hard, but I will go." 
 
 Meanwhile he had taken final leave of Osborne Courtel- 
 you, and in this wise : A few days after the trial he held 
 with him a private interview in his downtown office. 
 
 They discussed for some time the details of the imme 
 diate past. At length Courtelyou said, fumbling with a 
 paper weight on the desk near which he sat: 
 
 "And your own plans. May I ask what they now 
 are?" 
 
 "1 have made none," George answered. "As you 
 know, I am 'Jack Jackson' no longer. I am living up 
 town since I left the hospital." 
 
 Conrtelyou nodded. "You refused my help there. 
 You preferred to go among the charity patients." 
 
 "Yes; I thought it best." 
 
 The other made an irritated gesture, which he in- 
 otantly controlled. "I know, of course, that you thought 
 it best. But now at this moment will you think it 
 best to accept aid from me?" 
 
 "In money?" asked George. 
 
 Courtelyou gave him a bewildered stare. "Money?" 
 he repeated. "Why yes. "What other aid could I give 
 you?" 
 
 "A most material one," replied George. 
 
 "I don't understand," said his interlocutor, with a 
 dazed shake of the head. 
 
 "It's easily explained, Mr. Courtelj'ou. I have now 
 quite enough money to last me on through several months 
 almost a year, in fact, living as frugally as I live." 
 
 "Yes. Well?" 
 
 "Money from you," George went on, "is something 
 that I should not care to accept otherwise than as wages 
 for future services." 
 
 "Future services? But there are no more possible 
 future services between you and. me. All is over, as you 
 must admit. The execrable Pole has gone to prison " 
 
 "Oh, I was not alluding to Lynsko, nor do I regard 
 what I did in the way cf sending him to prison as a serv-
 
 176 NEW YORK. 
 
 ice rendered yourself. It was merely the discharge of 
 duty which I owed ray own conscience." 
 
 "Yes, of course, I follow you. And yet " 
 
 "You have it in your power to help me greatly," said 
 George with calm directness. "I mean by giving me, 
 here in your office, some position of trust. For three 
 months six, if you desired I would ask no salary what 
 ever. But I would wish it to be known that you gave 
 me the position, and that you fully relied on my honesty 
 in discharging its duties." 
 
 Courtelyou colored. He rose from his chair, and 
 walked past George, who still remained seated. For 
 some time he stood at a large table in an opposite corner 
 of his little office, fingering certain papers, glancing at 
 them abstractedly, and then tossing them aside. 
 
 "I can't do what you ask of me, " he presently said, 
 returning to George, who at once rose on hearing these 
 words. "But I might procure j r ou a place elsewhere, 
 perhaps outside of New York. I should have to be re 
 sponsible for you, in that case. Candidly, it would 
 amount to this I must make it an 'object' with some 
 firm of good repute to employ you. Even such a pro 
 ceeding would have difficulties in its way ; I am by no 
 means sure that I could compass it." 
 
 "Nor should you do so with my sanction," replied 
 George. He spoke haughtily, but his tones did not sur 
 prise their hearer, who now knew him too well for any 
 thing he might say to cause astonishment. "It is quite 
 clear to me that you have solely served your own ambi 
 tion in sending Lynsko to prison." 
 
 "Thanks, "replied Courtelyou, with scorn in his quick- 
 fading smile. 
 
 "From the whole affair you have reaped fresh distinc 
 tion deservedly, beyond doubt. I, who am the cause 
 of your new legal success, have reaped what? Weeks 
 of acute physical pain, apart from the wide public re 
 minder of my sin and its punishment. You tell me with 
 prompt decisiveness that you cannot do what I asked of 
 you. And yet in court you defended my worth as a wit 
 ness by referring in terms of commiseration to my youth 
 aa a wrongdoer and my severe atonement under the law."
 
 NEW YORK. 17? 
 
 ''Quite true. I worked the points of the case. "What 
 lawyer would have done otherwise? But to associate j r ou 
 with my professional business is quite another affair. 
 You have stated I will not say you have insultingly 
 stated that in seeking to benefit my fellow-citizens I 
 have solely served my own ambition. Why, then, since 
 you hold me so abandoned in selfishness, should you ex 
 pect of me an unselfish course of action? Thus, it would 
 seem, you contradict your own theory." Here the 
 speaker waved both hands, for an instant, then letting 
 them drop at his sides. "The fact is, Oliver, there's 
 nobody whom you can find (whether you believe it 
 or no) more distinctly sorry for your lot, in every way, 
 than am I. If I mentioned the payment of any sum, 
 leaving you to name it, and promising that, almost how 
 ever large, I would seriously consider it, you would no 
 doubt repulse me just as you repulsed me in the matter 
 of your private tendance at the hospital. Still, if some 
 future mood " 
 
 "There could be no future mood," George broke in. 
 ""What I did was done in a spirit of justice, purely dis 
 interested. I could not see my way to taking a wage for 
 it, and any such wage I of course refuse." 
 
 Courtelyou laughed, as if to himself. The laugh was 
 low but not bitter, and seemed merely like a tribute of 
 amusement paid to an entertaining joke. 
 
 "Pardon me," came his answer, delivered with sober 
 ing face. "But, really, Oliver, you are more droll than 
 I take for granted you intend to be. One minute you 
 speak most contemptuously of my motive, and the next 
 you exalt your own. I shall not venture to disparage 
 that as you disparaged mine. But how can I see so 
 vast a difference between your unwillingness to take 
 what you term a wage and your very evident willingness 
 to receive from me another sort of payment one com 
 pelling me to run risks of actual ridicule?" 
 
 George looked at him for a moment with melancholy 
 sternness. 
 
 "Do you then feel assured," he said, "that such a 
 result would follow if you took me here into your office 
 as one of your clerks?"
 
 1?8 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Past all question it would," returned Courtelyou, 
 icily genial. "The word 'ex-convict' is one which I 
 wish to avoid. And yet I can use no other, for it is the 
 word they would use." 
 
 "And if they did what then?" 
 
 "What, then?" 
 
 "What, then?" repeated George, his nostrils grown 
 tense, his lips curving downward at either corner. 
 "Would you not have been strong enough to stand their 
 paltry mockeries? Good God, man, where's any use in 
 your straining so for superiority, if it keeps you, after 
 all, a slave to other men's creeds and customs? Is this 
 what you lawyers spout your hj-pocrisies for? I wish, 
 now, that you'd damned my character before the jury 
 deeper than it's damned already. Even that were better, 
 by all means, than having you whitewash it, as you did, 
 for your own greedy profit." 
 
 So speaking, George had turned on his heel and at 
 once quitted the presence of a man whose mental powers 
 he respected, but whose moral nature he despised. 
 
 Afterward he forced himself to visit Charles Churchlej'. 
 He found his old friend greatly surprised at his appear 
 ance. But an excess of cordiality veiled fairlj* well 
 Charles' amazement. His father owned large coal yards 
 near the west side docks, and Charles himself held an 
 important position in the wealthy firm. 
 
 This interview proved a very peaceful one. George 
 told the object of his coming, and soon received the reply 
 that it was quite futile. His father could not, he was 
 perfectly certain, be prevailed to give any kind of a 
 clerkship. Coloring to the roots of his curly flaxen hair, 
 Charles made this admission. And then there were two 
 other partners, both strait-laced and excessively pious. 
 George smiled faintly as that word "pious" fell from his 
 friend's lips, and Churchley, understanding the smile, 
 gave a little helpless gesture of sorrow. 
 
 "But, George, old fellow, " he began, with his gay 
 blue eyes clouded and troubled, "if I can be of service in 
 another way you know what I mean command me." 
 And he caught George's hand, wringing it with fervor. 
 
 "I'm in no immediate need of money, thank you,
 
 NEW YORK. 179 
 
 Charjie. Beside, I hate borrowing. What, I want 
 what I crave and long for is to be trusted, openly 
 trusted by some one whose repute is honorable and 
 clean. I am trying to get back the good name I've lost. 
 It begins to look as if this were the wildest of dreams." 
 
 "I'm afraid it is. I'm afraid it is," said Charles, with 
 drooped head. Then, suddenly becoming urgent and 
 vehement "George," he said, "why not go far off 
 somewhere say into the West as far as Montana, 
 Colorado, or some such place as that? I could let you 
 have say three thousand, and you could change your 
 name, and try your luck there." 
 
 Charles Churchley had a face made for smiles; its 
 beardless mouth was rosy as a girl's, with a short upper 
 lip always glimpsing milky teeth. His intimates would 
 sometimes say of him that he was destined never to grow 
 old. But they might have judged oppositely now, his 
 look was so worldly wise in its sorrowful eagerness. 
 
 "Charlie, " answered George, "your goodness is like a 
 benediction to me. If I'm ever really starving, dear old 
 fellow, and you'll let me come, I'll come to you again. 
 That is, perhaps." Here George paused, swallowing 
 his tears, while the dry glitter from his eyes gave to 
 every other feature an added accent of leanness. "But 
 if I borrowed that sum, Charlie " He stopped dead 
 short, and then, laughing bleakly, went on: "I should 
 feel like a thief again. No; the money I get to go away 
 with, like that, must be money I honestly earned. If I 
 failed out there in some such place, and couldn't pay you 
 back, it would seem to me like like taking a new lease 
 of crime." 
 
 Charlie gave a prosaic grunt, full of childish impa 
 tience, instantly bringing old times and scenes back to 
 his hearer. "Crime, George! Damn it all, 1 know 
 what a bad woman can do with a fellow. Your answers, 
 there in court, were splendid. They cut mo to the soul. 
 Since we last talked together, I came near But never 
 mind. Do you ever think about her now?" 
 
 "Sometimes yes. With loathing." 
 
 "M m m. I see." 
 
 "Now and then I dream of her, Charlie. And it's
 
 180 NEW YORK. 
 
 strange. In my dreams I always seem to find her ten 
 times handsomer than she Avas, and ten times handsomer 
 than I ever thought her. But her beauty has the most 
 horrible nightmarish effect on me. It's like that of a 
 cobra, coiled and about to spring. I've waked from 
 those dreams in a cold sweat of horror." 
 
 George made other efforts. There was no more of 
 Courfcelyou's temporizing subtlety; there was no more of 
 Charlie Churchley's generous helplessness. Men whom 
 in the past he had known well enough to approach now 
 simply held him at arm's length, some with politeness, 
 others with an astonished semicivility, one or two with 
 uncompromising rebuff. 
 
 "There's no living it down, "he at length told himself. 
 "No doubt I've been a fool not to takeCourtelyou's bank 
 check for as much as he chose to give. But that's just 
 the kind of fool I am and shall remain till the end." 
 
 The end! What was it destined to be?
 
 NEW YORK. 181 
 
 V. 
 
 HE SHRANK from beginning the "Jack Jackson" role all 
 over again in some other quarter of the town. Beside, 
 he might not be able to repeat it anywhere else with his 
 former dismal success. And as for securing any repu 
 table place without a distinct recommendation from some 
 previous employer, it was like looking for a purse of gold 
 in the gutters. 
 
 He spent many a weary hour wandering along Third 
 Avenue and other less prosperous thoroughfares. The 
 great masses of men and women "seeking employment" 
 grew every day to him a fact intenser and more dismay 
 ing. The silent, perpetual turmoil of their struggle for 
 existence was even vivider here than in the meaner dis 
 tricts he had quitted; for here was greater physical 
 worthiness, far less abandonment to the deadening lures 
 of drink, far greater willingness to fight the savageries of 
 life, could weapons only be gained with which to wage a 
 sturdy warfare. 
 
 But what added to his despair was an incessant envy. 
 All these hordes of starvelings, all these would-be work 
 ers, in so far as he knew, were unhampered by any burden 
 of disgrace. They had a surging flood to swim, if you 
 pleased, but their arms were at least free. Thousands of 
 them, when asked "who are you?" could truthfully an 
 swer, "I am an honest man." 
 
 Spring came again, and his stock of money had grown 
 lower, like that of his good spirits. One bright April 
 day he decided to go for awhile among his old South 
 Street haunts. He did not wear the "Jack Jackson" 
 garb of former times, but was considerably better 
 dressed. And yet he had made himself shabbier than 
 was usual with him nowadays, wishing to avoid com 
 ment because of smarter gear. He had reached the door
 
 183 NEW YORK. 
 
 of the Scbnoors' tavern before meeting any one whom he 
 knew, though his course in getting thither, had been 
 somewhat roundabout, as a feeling of diffidence swayed 
 him. The hostelry doors were wide open on the street 
 as usual. He caught a glimpse of the sawdusted floor, 
 and the two or three round tables of commonest wood, 
 and the raw-colored sporting pictures of prizefights and 
 horseraces hung along the walls. Then he glanced up 
 ward at the windows of Mrs. Volatski, and saw that they 
 were shadeless and grimy, as though the rooms beyond 
 them were untenanted and the sailors' boarding-house 
 had no longer either patrons or landlady. Of this fact 
 he became sure in another instant, for "to let" was 
 posted on the door of the narrow passageway leading up 
 stairs. Conrad Schnoor chanced to be alone behind his 
 bar as George crossed the familar threshold. Short, 
 moon-faced, big of stomach, he looked precisely as when 
 last beheld. George went up to the bar and said, quite 
 as if they had only parted yesterday : 
 
 "Well, Mr. Schnoor, how are ye?" 
 
 Schnoor gave him a careless nod. "I'm bowd de same 
 ass uzul, I guez. Fine tay, ain't id?" 
 
 "Very fine day," said George. 
 
 "Vat can I giff you?" asked Schnoor, in his politest 
 business-like tones. "Glaz o' peer, eh?" 
 
 "No, thank ye, Mr. Schuoor. I'll take some seltzer, 
 though, if ye don't mind." 
 
 And then the voice wrought piercing recognition, 
 though the face had failed to do so. Schnoor gave a 
 backward start and then cried, crimsoning : 
 
 "You'll get no trink of any kint agroz dis par, Mizder 
 Chorch OJifer for dat's vat your ride name iz no, sir! 
 You'fe made dronple enough rount here an' pesites you 
 peen for dree yearss in brizzen an' we dunno it. You neffer 
 tole no one." 
 
 "If I had told it," said George, "I could have got no 
 work. You must see that my silence was simply self- 
 protection." 
 
 But Schnoor shook his head. "Wad you schteal for 
 in de furst plaze, hein? Dey doan sent beople to Zing 
 Zing for nudding. "
 
 NEW YORK. 183 
 
 "I don't deny that I was guilty of the crime they 
 charged mo with, Schnoor, and perhaps my being very 
 young when I committed it isn't any excuse. But at 
 least you can't accuse me of any dishonest act during all 
 the time I was down here in these parts." 
 
 Schnoor 's face was one glower of sullenness. "You 
 vass a chailpirt all de vile; an' I doan lige chail-pirts. " 
 He looked full at George with his round, babyish eyes, 
 and it seemed as if the changed visage of the latter, 
 with its appalling evidence of an illness brought about 
 by the satanio Lynsko's pistol, was on the verge of 
 touching him into a tenderer mood. But no; he either 
 could not or would not forgive George's alias of Jack 
 Jackson and the "jail-bird" reputation it concealed. 
 Many a man and woman wearing the stain of the prison 
 had stood on those same floors before now. But he had 
 trusted none of them, had been warned against many by 
 the unhidden facts of their former misdeeds. Here was 
 another affair altogether; hypocrisy had imposed upon 
 him, and made him entertain a criminal unawares. And 
 all through the quarter George either met an equally 
 chill reception or one that bordered upon actual insult. 
 He found himself, as it were, disclassed among even the 
 lowest classes. Not a few pitied his altered aspect, tell 
 ing so clearly of the ravage his late ordeal had caused. 
 But it was not, in any instance, a pity unmixed with 
 scorn. Charlatans regarded him as a charlatan worse 
 than themselves; hardened sinners felt that they could 
 afford to greet him with a shrug of contempt; not a few 
 honest toilers turned their backs upon him in silence. 
 His good deeds, which had been many, were forgotten 
 with a general arrogance of ingratitude. The popularity 
 which once engirt him had vanished, and in its place 
 brooded and smoldered a prevalence of mockery and 
 resentment. He went uptown, that day, feeling himself 
 cut off forever from the old life, even if he should be 
 urged by desperation to resume it. And then followed 
 for him a period of many weeks during which his fellow- 
 lodgers at the cheap boarding-house found him dreamily 
 yet amiably taciturn, and pronounced him the dullest of 
 mortals. Here ho had not dared to give his own name, 
 fearing expulsion by his landlady.
 
 184 NEW YORK. 
 
 All this while he was playing, so to speak, with the 
 idea of suicide. He had no dread of death, and yet the 
 naked and positive act kept repelling even while it 
 tempted him. For a good while he could not explain 
 this double sensation of desire and disgust. Then, after 
 an interval of stem self-analysis, the truth became clear. 
 
 It was a world that refused him any haven of vantage 
 a world that did not care whether he lived or died a 
 world that looked on his repentance as indifferently as 
 though it had been his continued guilt. And yet it was 
 a world that contained Doris Josselyn! 
 
 Often the most passionate longing came upon him to 
 seek her presence and find out whether or no she had 
 formed against him the same harsh opinion which now 
 seemed ubiquitous. He was related to her by blood, if 
 somewhat distantly. This would form his sole right to 
 approach her, provided any such right could be said 
 really to exist. Then the temerity of his meditated im 
 pulse would pierce him with shame. And yet he felt 
 confident that after a short interview he could convince 
 her that he was not deservedly the pariah society had 
 been so merciless as to make him. She had revealed to 
 him her lovely and charity-brimming soul ; he seemed, 
 at certain moments, to know her with an awesome and 
 thrilling intimacy. He could never wholly disbelieve in 
 the goodness of his fellow-creatures while he communed 
 spiritually with her simple yet lofty nature. And he was 
 certain that all her counselings to him would tend one 
 way; she would bid him fight it out to the very bitterest 
 end. She would never sanction self-destruction; coward 
 ice was not in her philosophy, and she would call it 
 cowardice for all he might strive to convince her that it 
 was only the natural surrender of a life pitted against 
 implacable odds. As for the chance of her giving him 
 some aidful push toward a securer footing, he had neither 
 hope nor wish for such result. To help her in any way 
 would have been exquisite ; to be helped by her, except 
 through the subtler method of moral betterment, he did 
 not relish half so well. 
 
 One spring day he found himself in Central Park, and 
 soon became so delighted by the revival of old memories
 
 NEW YORK. 185 
 
 it induced, that often afterward, both day and night, he 
 would haunt its eight hundred odd acres of undulation 
 and shade. By and by there was not a path or nook in 
 the whole great inclosure unknown to him. He would 
 spend hours in reading there, hours in sitting unoccupied 
 there, but by far the greater number of hours in rest 
 lessly roaming there. The amazing beauties of this 
 domain, which is destined so soon to be encompassed by 
 a vast city, and to make a sweet, huge green heart, as it 
 were, within all the artificiality and luxury and squalor 
 beyond, kept forever working xipon him new spells of 
 enticement. There is perhaps no lovelier park in the 
 wo Id, and as he got to know it better he felt that this 
 must be true. The maturing springtide was with him in. 
 this recognition of its delicious charms. Every new day 
 that he went there his fondness deepened. Up at the 
 One Hundred and Tenth Street end he grew to love the 
 wildwood tracts where it was easy to fancy himself, in 
 certain stretches of forest or copse, miles from any settle 
 ment larger than a village. Then lower down, to meet 
 the northern lake, or Harlem Meer, with its bowery- 
 banks, its fleets of greening lily pads, its occasional 
 clusters of light-tinted feathery willows, offered a fresh 
 pleasure. Here cultivation became apparent, yet so 
 skilfully was it mingled with nature's own adorable rude 
 ness that the meeting was one incessant grateful harmony. 
 And then how enchanting spread the sweeps of level ver 
 dure, densely surrounded with trees that were leafy 
 shorelands to immense pools of grass! Every bridge, 
 too, spanning the subways or the roads for equestrians, 
 caught the eye with a peculiar airy grace. And then the 
 miniature sea of the upper reservoir, bordered by its 
 delicate balustrade and its firm, commodious path! 
 Under a blue sky it beamed like a monstrous turquoise 
 shield and how many an eye, wearied with sights of 
 stark ugliness, had gazed upon it with gladdest relief! 
 The rich might roll past it in their coaches and scarcely 
 give it a glance. But to the poor it had been, it would 
 for centuries remain, a blessing andabenignancy untold, 
 with its azure waters crisped and crinkled by every pass 
 ing breeze, and its sunny breadth bringing dreama of
 
 186 NEW YORK. 
 
 seashores and rivers that the niggard narrowness and 
 captivity of their lives would always forbid them to 
 behold! 
 
 Further down lay the more public portion of this noble 
 estate dedicated to the people that in which art had 
 made itself more evident, and with a secure dignity of 
 triumph. Here glimmered the Mall, leading so proudly 
 between branch-euwoven elms to the magnificent terrace, 
 with its lordly flights of rich-carven stone stairs that led 
 in turn to the grand esplanade beneath. And here, from 
 its big stone basin, rose the bronze Bethesda angel, with 
 bowed head and unfurled wings keen against the sky. 
 Then, to the northward, one saw an incomparably per 
 fect lake, dotted here and there with swans, its curvili 
 near silver now pushed below green slopes overshadowed 
 by patriarchal trees, now slipping along the bases of 
 dove-gray granite bluffs. 
 
 George had never seen the famed parks of European 
 cities, but he could not have lighted on any park fairer 
 than this, though he had wandered from London to tho 
 Levant. In his melancholy, his misery, with the senso 
 of his savings lapsing away from him, with the menace 
 of beggary growing slowly more definite, its loveliness 
 became at once a consolation and a taunt. There were 
 moments when he felt jealous of the very trees and plants, 
 tended and watered, in their indifferent ease. Again 
 rich flashes of comfort would visit him, when he would 
 silently boast that here was his Newport, his Lenox, his 
 Saratoga, supplied without the silly vainglory by which 
 the newspapers told him that these watering places were 
 infested. And at so short a distance away from all the 
 bustling turmoil of town, one could reach, among these 
 placid glades and sleepy coverts, a refuge of priceless 
 repose. Even on Sundays he could steal, if he chose, 
 among certain unfrequented haunts. But there were 
 times when the great holiday throngs pleased in him a 
 gregarious mood; and then he would join the masse:* 
 gathered near the gay and gilded pavilion, whence music 
 that was often admirable floated through leafy arcades 
 and over shining tides. In blossom time it seemed to 
 him that this expanse could not possibly know a phase
 
 NEW YORK. 18? 
 
 more lovable. The flowering boughs and trilling birds 
 were not all, nor was the intense emerald silkiness of the 
 grass; for at many a turn in your path lilacs peered at 
 you in their bloomy laughter, or an arbor caught your 
 vision smothered in the misty and heavenly blue of lavish 
 wistarias. 
 
 But when June came, with its exuberance of foliage, 
 George confessed that the oaks and maples and elms, the 
 sycamores and cypresses and tulip trees, made a still 
 more fascinating companionship, with their largess of 
 fresh leaves, depth on depth, growths all flawless as the 
 satin skin of the young children romping or drawn in 
 carriages below them leaves untouched, as yet, by the 
 faintest hint of ill-treatment from that early summer 
 which would soon parch the delicate velvet of their new- 
 spun fabrics. When the heat of real summer began he 
 would sometimes go into the park at twilight and watch 
 the skies gloom over the landscape in leisurely changes 
 of dimming pearl or gold or rose. Then, as the stars 
 came hurrying or loitering to that sublime assemblage at 
 which they all, sooner or later, kept their mystic appoint 
 ments, he would realize how here below, in countless 
 coverts, another human assemblage was being formed. 
 Gradually the dark benches would find occupants, till at 
 full nightfall the great dusky iuclosure literally swarmed 
 with lovers. Every breeze that swayed the innumerable 
 balmy branches had grown lyric with the undj'ing pas 
 sion of humanity. To move along the sweet-scented 
 alleys meant an incessant glimpsing of men and women 
 in attitudes languidly fond. Often where an almost 
 utter darkness prevailed, the eye could vaguely trace 
 these ever-recurring shapes; now and then, some sudden 
 interval of relative brightness would reveal an ardent 
 embrace ; at whiles a tearful feminine voice could bo 
 heard; at whiles a male murmur, expostulating, affection 
 ate or smotheredly stern. The shadowy park had become 
 one enormous rendezvous of jo3~ous or sorrowing or per 
 chance sinful souls. "If the motives of all these tryst- 
 keepers could be known," thought George, "how harle 
 quin a motley would we have of tenderness, devotion, am 
 bition, duplicity, despair, dissoluteness and knavery
 
 188 NEW YORK. 
 
 past belief!" Still, that power which draws sex to 
 sex, that power we call love, now because it is the 
 rightful name and now because it is, alas, only the make 
 shift euphemism for a worse, struck here the one domi 
 nant note. Life lived itself through these summer even 
 ings with a prodigal importance, a kind of reckless yet 
 secretive publicity, below the mystic stars. And in turn 
 it was mystic as they, as bafflingly indefinable. Mighty 
 and problematic laws were being obeyed hei'e as in the 
 stealthy revolutions of those worlds above. And some 
 times the long winds that shuddered with such volumi 
 nous music through depths and heights of the luxuriant 
 trees, would seem to challenge that answer which eter 
 nity has thus far hidden from our mortal ken with so 
 austere a reserve. George never felt so lonely as when 
 he passed through the park on nights like these. To 
 stand beside the lake under the great terrace was to see 
 boats laden with happy couples perpetually embark, per 
 petually be rowed forth again, as though the sculptured 
 stairs just beyond the statued basin dropped downward 
 from the portals of some palace aglow with festivity, and 
 these merry dames and swains were guests of its proprie 
 tary lord. In the uncertain dusk one could easily fancy 
 them as Venetian, as Florentine or as early English as 
 one pleased. Sixth Avenue or Eight Avenue modernities 
 of costume were beglamored and romanticised. The light 
 that never was fell with impartial charity on paper collars 
 and pinchbeck breastpins, on second-hand trousers 
 and chipstraw hats. 
 
 Through these days and nights his love-haunted heart 
 would often feel the need of an affection like that which 
 Lydia, his sister in spirit, had once so bounteously given. 
 Often he thought of her, and would long ago have written 
 her in shame at his own continued failure and defeat had 
 not restrained him. He still kept in mind her Nyack ad 
 dress; this might help to find her if she had gone else 
 where. But it struck him as strange that she should 
 not have sought him at the hospital after the news of his 
 wounding by Lynsko had got so widely abroad in the 
 newspapers. And yet no word from her had reached 
 him, no sign that she knew of his racking and almost
 
 NEW YORK. 189 
 
 fatal Illness. Sureb r , he at length decided, the accounts 
 in the newspapers must have escaped her. And for what 
 reason? Perhaps distance; perhaps even death why 
 not? 
 
 There came a certain day when he had a sense of past 
 neglect so onerously on his conscience that he resolved 
 very soon to go to Nyack and make inquiries. On the 
 evening of this very day he drifted, as it chanced, into 
 the park. It was one of those faultless evenings in June 
 when only trouble-borrowers remember the sultry afflic 
 tions of heat to which corning weeks must doom us. By 
 sunset a great gray moon hung high in the eastern 
 heaven, and had gathered soft glories into her globe be 
 fore the first star had dawned. Later, the cool breeze 
 swept levels and hillocks and became transfigured by a 
 steady splendor, pouring bland effulgence on every open 
 space and leaving black arabesques of shade below 
 myriads of intercepting boughs. More than ever to 
 night was the place alive with seated occupants. George, 
 feeling a little tired from an unusual amount of tramping 
 in lower portions of the town (his narrow quarters at the 
 boarding house having seemed especially cramped during 
 the delicious weather of the day), sank on a segment of 
 bench which he was glad to find vacant. Near him, in 
 the unobstructed moonlight, he saw an old man with an 
 alert manner, a short whiteboard and brilliant dark eyes. 
 His practiced glance caught marks of poverty in the man's 
 dress, and traces of rustiness in his slouched hat. He 
 had talked with hundreds of male strangers here, both 
 by night and clay. Sometimes their discourse, though 
 rude and uncultured, woke his interest; again, despite 
 touches of culture in their manners, he would quickly 
 weary of them and lapse into silence. Now and then 
 he would hear from them harrowing tales, and with an 
 extraordinary certitude, born of past associations, he 
 would pronounce such disclosures either true, partially 
 true, or altogether false. Many a time he had been 
 touched into practical charities that his lessening re 
 sources warned him he could ill afford. Occasionally 
 grossness and vulgarity had not only sealed his lips but 
 sent him to seek some other resting-place. Yet, all in.
 
 190 NEW YORK. 
 
 all, pain and persecution had roused within him large 
 ardors of human tolerance and fellowship, and dis 
 ciplined him, so to speak, in the democracy of a sympa 
 thy almost universal. For he had long ago realized how 
 many good men there are in the world whom circum 
 stance rather than inherent morality has prevented from 
 being bad, and how bad men coexist with these whom 
 circumstance, witli its curious tricks of ethical architec 
 ture, might have made pillars of society rather than its 
 crumbled adjuncts of decay. 
 
 To-night he found the old man with the short white 
 beard and the brilliant dark eyes and the dingy demean 
 or, a person not devoid of attractiveness. He was a 
 Bavarian, speaking English with slight foreign accent. 
 He had lost, during the past two years his wife and three 
 sons. He was partly paralyzed, his right arm being 
 useless and one leg incessantly heavy and benumbed. 
 He had nothing left him to live for, and said so frankly. 
 He was not starving ; he was not even in want. He lived 
 with a relative on the upper west side of the town, in 
 Amsterdam Avenue, a woman who had been good to him 
 but who could not help feeling him a burden on her, as 
 she was a widow with three small children, whom it cost 
 her a hard struggle to support. Of his own accord he 
 fell to talking about certain suicides that had lately 
 occurred here in the park. George always afterward 
 remembered this, as a peculiar and appealing coinci 
 dence. 
 
 "I only wonder," the old man said, "that more people 
 don't do away with themselves in this miserable world." 
 
 "But to many it's a very pleasant world." 
 
 "Of course so it once was to me. I had my wife and 
 my boys; I had my health; I could work for those I 
 loved ; I was happy. Sometimes it seemed to me that 
 my heart would almost break with the love in it for that 
 wife, those little ones. 'But now I have no rest from 
 grief except when I sleep, and often for hours I cannot 
 sleep, thinking about them. It is very painful not to 
 get a sleep when you want, but it is more painful to wake 
 up and remember. I can't lie in bed then. My cousin 
 thinks me half-crazy, I rise so early. Often I slip out
 
 NEW YORK. 191 
 
 of doors just as dawn is breaking. To lie in bed makes 
 me feel as if I would go mad. And I hate the idea of 
 going mad and being sent to some place where doctors 
 and nurses will watch me. So I try to keep sane all I 
 can. Once I believed in a God, but now I believe in 
 nothing. If I could believe in a God I would kill my 
 self." 
 
 "That is a strange reason for avoiding suicide," said 
 George, deeply moved. 
 
 "It is my reason," insisted the old man, with a kind 
 of solemn pettishness, infinitely pathetic. "For I can 
 not think of a God who -would not be merciful to me if I 
 took my life in my own hands and met him face to face. 
 But dying and not finding them not finding anything 
 but darkness! ah, mein Gott, finding not even that!" 
 And here the old man slapped one slim knee with a bony 
 hand, and gave a fretful, eerie little laugh that sank into 
 a sob. "Oh, it's foolish, foolish, I know;" and with a 
 gentle wildness his black burning eyes roved George's 
 face and figure. 
 
 "Perhaps," George said consolingly, after a pause, 
 "the great mystery will give you back your wife and 
 boys, and give them back sooner if you wait patiently 
 the summons which comes to us all. Perhaps and there 
 he stopped. Somewhere behind him, among the denser 
 trees between the outer stone wall and the Ramble in 
 which he sat, a sharp sound rang out. He started to his 
 feet in a second. The sound teemed with reminder. He 
 had never heard one like it since that night in the Water 
 Street tenement, months ago. 
 
 Quickly, from other benches, forms also rose. 
 
 "That was a pistol shot," some one cried. 
 
 Then there was a little excited tumult of voices men's 
 and women's. George was almost first to reach the spot 
 where a woman lay, with blood oozing from her breast. 
 The trees all about her were dense in their ebon shade, 
 but the moonlight flooded her where she had dropped, 
 still gasping, with a telltale, steely gleam on the sward at 
 her right side. George knelt down. The face, with its 
 closed eyes and strained features, could scarcely have 
 been clearer to him at midday than it was now. Above
 
 192 NEW YORK. 
 
 him the voices, loudening into a still more excited babble 
 were quite meaningless. He felt giddy and sick; for a 
 few moments he doubted if the gallop of his heart would 
 not choke him. 
 
 A man in the gray-blue garb of the park police came 
 pushing the crowd aside. Then another joined him, 
 and the two officers raised the woman. George staggered 
 to his feet. Somebody spoke of the arsenal, and some 
 body else of an ambulance. He clutched the low bough 
 of a tree, and saw the crowd surge off. Presently 
 strength returned to him, and he hurried after the mov 
 ing mass of people, who in turn were hurrying after the 
 two policemen with their burden. The latter shouted 
 "Stand off" and "get back," but nobody seemed to obey 
 these commands. George kept the whole moving cohort 
 in sight, but the apathy of his horror still clogged 
 motion. It seemed hours before he stood outside the 
 arsenal. He made no attempt to enter its frowning and 
 fortress-like structure. At length the ambulance came 
 rattling and clanging to a certain door that gave upon a 
 roadway. Then again it seemed hours before the woman 
 was borne out and placed there. 
 
 "Is she dead?" he asked one of the men who carried 
 her, making a great effort and pressing close to him, 
 through an assemblage which had now grown immense. 
 
 "No," replied the man. "Pretty near it, though, I 
 reckon." 
 
 Then, across the man's shoulder, George caught sight 
 of a still face, piercingly familiar, with a hue upon it of 
 olive-tinted whiteness that he had never seen there 
 before. 
 
 He saw a policeman hurrying toward him with up 
 lifted club. The crowd, parting before the menace of 
 this weapon, swerved alarmedly to left and right. 
 George flung out the quick question: 
 
 "What hospital?" 
 
 The man told him. It was the same in which he had 
 passed so many wretched weeks. Only a brief while after 
 the ambulance got there he himself reached the door. 
 He had been popular at the establishment; nearly every 
 body had regretted his going away; the porter admittc.l 
 him with a brightening face.
 
 NEW YORK. 193 
 
 For a little time lie talked with one of the head nurses, 
 who had readily come to him at his request. "What he 
 asked of her she promised to accomplish, if it lay in her 
 power. Meanwhile he must wait; she could not say how 
 long. Two doctors were with the poor thing now. They 
 thought she must die soon. Still, there was a chance. 
 The bullet had just missed the heart, but caused severe 
 internal hemorrhage. It was a wound very much like 
 George's own, the nurse further volunteered. 
 
 "If that be true," said George, half to his own 
 thoughts, and mindful of his past agony, "I hope she 
 may die before morning." 
 
 He waited for over an hour. Then the nurse came 
 back and brought him into a corner of one of the women's 
 wards. It was very quiet there. The glimmering white 
 beds; the austere simplicity commingled with spacious 
 ness; the occasional moan, or heavy sigh, or faint heard 
 outburst of some one talking in sleep ; the snowy-capped 
 figures of the nurses, moving placidly among their 
 patients; the odor of drugs, not aggressive, and as 
 though half-conquered by by forces of careful cleanliness; 
 the feeling that human misery was here being vanquished 
 by human pity in its one most potent form of scientific 
 contest; all this appealed to George with acutest strin 
 gency of reminiscence. 
 
 "You see," his companion whispered, "her eyes are 
 open, but they have a glassy look. That is due, I think, 
 to the morphine. It has eased her wonderfully. She is 
 conscious, but still she may not recognize you. The 
 doctors say they can do nothing more to-night, and have 
 given us instructions in case she has another attack of 
 pain. Take this chair and sit down beside her. She 
 may turn and know you at once. She may look straight 
 into your face and either call you by some strange name 
 or not pay you the least notice. That is the way with 
 morphine Avhen it stupefies without bringing sleep." 
 
 George took the chair. For some time he sat quite 
 motionless. Then he lightly touched one of the slender 
 hands lying outside the coverlet. 
 
 "Lydia, " he said, with extreme softness. 
 
 The dark head moved on its pillow, and the lovely,
 
 194 NEW YORK. 
 
 refined visage, thin nostriled, full of tender sculptural 
 curves, slowly fronted him. 
 
 "You're George?" The words were low, timid, 
 dubious. 
 
 "Yes, Lydia." 
 
 "I I am very glad. You never wrote me, George, 
 did you?" 
 
 Stabbed with remorse, he said brokenly: "I was 
 always waiting to write some some pleasant news to 
 you. But that wasn't possible and so I kept putting it 
 off " 
 
 "Yes?" she answered dreamily, but without a trace 
 of reproach. "I knew you hadn't forgotten me." 
 
 "Never, dear Lydia never!" He spoke with lips 
 close to her ear, his voice the mildest of murmurs. For 
 many minutes she held his hand with no sign of tensity, 
 saying nothing, and letting her altered eyes (glassj' 
 indeed, as the nurse had named them) devour his bowed 
 face. Then, suddenly, her grasp tightened. 
 
 "I I can't remember it all, George, for it's all far 
 away and strange to me, now, as though it had happened 
 to some one else. I was there at Nyack, you know. It 
 was there that I met him. " 
 
 "Yes, Lydia. Who was he? Do you remember hia 
 name?" 
 
 "He was there at Nyack. I shrank from him, at 
 first. I couldn't help caring for him, though, and he 
 knew it. And I was only a servant a children's nurse. 
 Oh, I fought so hard, George so hard against myself! 
 He wanted me to go South with him and pass myself off 
 there as a Frenchwoman a Creole. He kept urging this. 
 I speak French well, you know. And it looked an easy 
 thing, just as it looked a sinful thing. But I kept say 
 ing "No, no," and at last he told me that if I would go 
 alone to New Orleans my mind wanders, now, " she 
 faltered, with a plaintive smile. "Where was I, George? 
 You are George really he? Yes? I felt sure of it! 
 Where was I?" 
 
 "He told you, Lydia, that if you would go alone to 
 New Orleans?" 
 
 "Ah, yes. He would meet me there, and marry me.
 
 NEW YORK. 195 
 
 'No one need know,' he said, 'that you've a drop of negro 
 blood in your veins. Many a Creole is as dark as you 
 and many a South American woman is darker. We will 
 go abroad, afterward, and as my wife, my Louisianian 
 wife, you will be received without suspicion. But even 
 if they did suspect, a few of them, it would make no 
 matter. There they have not the same feelings and, 
 beside, they would have no proof. And then you are 
 so beautiful, Lydia, that even those who might suspect 
 and might be prejudiced, would not care.' He pleaded 
 with me like this, George, and at length he won me over, 
 and I went to New Orleans I went alone. And after 
 that, in a few more days, he met me. But soon I saw 
 that he had never meant marriage. He had got me to 
 make that concession, and it was a point gained by him. 
 Ah, yes a point gained by him! And when I knew 
 there was no hope of ever being his wife I should have 
 come back Eorth again. But I stayed on I stayed with 
 him!" 
 
 She closed her eyes, like one falling asleep gently, 
 from sheer fatigue. George, Avith his free hand, stroked 
 the silky and tumbled waves of hair on her forehead. 
 He forgot to blame himself, so fiery had grown his 
 hatred of this nameless persecutor. 
 
 "Lydia," he presently said, with great tenderness of 
 tone. "Are you asleep?" 
 
 "No," she answered, while her eyes still remained 
 closed. "No, George; I am only very tired. There is 
 not any more to tell you, is there?" 
 
 "Yes, a little more," he pleaded. 
 
 She spoke in a voice of strange, drowsy querulousness, 
 looking full into his eyes again with a new spark, vivid 
 as a tiny flame point, pricking through the velvety gloom 
 of her own. 
 
 "Oh, I know! You want me to say that I loathe him 
 for leaving me when those few mouths had passed! You 
 want me to curse him before I die. Yet, no I can't do 
 anything but love him and forgive him. I should have 
 taken his money, perhaps, and come home here with it, 
 and^got work again, after'it was all spent 'Or long before. 
 He offered me a great deal of money I forget how much.
 
 196 NEW YORK. 
 
 Nobody need have known the truth. Hundreds of 
 women would have acted like that. But I loved him too 
 well! Your father and mother, George I don't reproach 
 them but they had changed in me what might always 
 have been coarseness and bluntness to something sensi 
 tive and delicate. They'd made me a lady. A lady! I, 
 a mulatto girl a negress think of it! God bless them 
 both, George, but their kindness ruined me. If I'd 
 grown up ignorantly, among my own kind, that frightful 
 agony when he left me would have been only a passing 
 trouble. I'd have taken his money, and never dreamed 
 of doing what I did. But I loved him with my soul, not 
 my senses, and they had wakened that soul! God for 
 give them, and God bless them, too! I tried twenty, 
 fifty times to keep from killing myself. But all the while 
 I felt there must be only one end to it all ! I could not 
 live without him, and he had left me! Perhaps if I'd 
 met you a few weeks ago, when I first came back 'but 
 never mind. Ah! " 
 
 That last monosyllable was a smothered shriek of tor 
 ment. The morphia had begun to lose its power; the 
 dreadful wound in her side had reasserted itself. George 
 rose, horrified at her ghastly, twitching features, and 
 the blood ooze staining her lips. In a trice the nurse 
 came gliding forward. She knew just what to do; it 
 was a repetition of the former soporific injections. Peace 
 followed it, and, for the first time, absolute slumber. 
 George lingered near her bed till dawn. The anodyne 
 saved her from the least death struggle, as nowadays it 
 so often does. The summer sunlight had filled the great 
 hall with mocking radiance when she ceased to breathe. 
 
 George had money enough to save her from a pauper's 
 funeral. Certain questions were asked of him by legal 
 authorities, and these he answered non-commitally 
 enough, merelj' stating that he had known the suicide, 
 in former days, as a servant of his mother. As for her 
 motive in seeking self-destruction, he unhesitatingly said 
 that it was quite a mystery to him. 
 
 Throughout the next fortnight, and longer, he was 
 plagued by the most poignant repentance. Those words 
 of the dying "sister" whom he accused himself of having 
 deserted, rang always in his ears :
 
 NEW YORK. 197 
 
 "Perhaps if I'd met you, a few weeks ago, when I first 
 came back but never mind 
 
 "Never mind," indeed ! Who on earth would really 
 "mind" save himself? And yet how many horrors even 
 worse than poor Lydia's must spring from the gradual 
 amelioration of her race! In this one isolated instance 
 to educate had been to destroy. She did not reproach 
 his parents, and yet "they had changed in her what 
 might always have been coarseness and bluntness to some 
 thing sensitive and delicate." Well, and the final ameli 
 oration was that possible? Could black and white ever 
 mingle? What was the doom of these millions of people 
 in a vast country that contemned them after having 
 shattered their shackles of bondage? Was Lydia the 
 protomartyr, and would a mighty congregation of un 
 fortunates follow after her? Here, rose the new problem ; 
 the old terrible one had been solved. Our public schools 
 admitted the so-called "colored" race. New York, and 
 all the great Northern cities, had consented to their social 
 equality. And yet what a monstrous mockery was the 
 word! In reality their new boon was only a continued 
 phase (even here in the North) of popular scorn. It was 
 doubtful if education would not prove their bane rather 
 than their benefit. For the tough old prejudice would 
 not die. Apparently the future had not centuries 
 enough in which to annihilate it. The Jews had been a 
 persecuted people, but enlightenment was now changing 
 their status with extraordinary speed. Such persecution 
 as they had suffered was no longer possible with the 
 negro race. Their struggle had been briefer, however 
 stern. But now came a liberation that threatened to 
 make their men perpetual unmanacled serfs and their 
 women forever beset with just such temptation as that to 
 which Lydia had succumbed. Their inferiority in the 
 way of numbers would always preclude any conquest of 
 their social oppressors. There could never be a "negro 
 question" any longer, in the old abolitionist sense. 
 They must obey a relentless law the non-survival of the 
 xmfittest. They must perish, but before such demolition 
 what pathos both of mutiny and extinction would result! 
 And how many a generation would live and die before
 
 198 NEW YORK. 
 
 they indeed actually perished! Charity, mercy, philan 
 thropy would go on educating them. And the hardier 
 they mentally grew the more would they realize that 
 insuperable barrier between themselves and their bene 
 factors. They would mass together, perhaps, and try to 
 fight it all out, as many a white multitude of their pre 
 decessors had done, against pitiless odds. Bui, that 
 would be in the far future, and they would fall, inevit 
 ably, overwhelmed by suffocating majorities. And iu 
 the meantime they must endure horrible indignities the 
 fate of poor Lydia pointed to this woeful consequence. 
 The insult of passion would be offered to their women, 
 the privilege of intermarriage would be, to both their 
 women and men, forever denied. 
 
 "Lincoln freed them," thought George, as he stood 
 beside the grave of Lydia, staring down at a few flowers 
 which he had thrown upon its fresh-made mound. "But, 
 in the end, what will his noble effort really have accom 
 plished? Avarice may no more pursue their women, but 
 lust will not leave them unmolested. No more will their 
 men be bought and sold like cattle, but for every species 
 of brain-toil caste will refuse them their due award. And 
 all this while how anomalous, how self-contradictory, how 
 tragically absurd, will be their position!" 
 
 Then a sudden thought, half-ironical, half-serious, 
 crossed George's mind: "Unless, like the Jews, they 
 should develop a genius for making money. Ah, that 
 scurrillous Lynsko was right! Money is 'a master, and a 
 tyrant as well,' now, and 'everybody is hungering for 
 money, struggling after it, straining to get it. ' There 
 were times when for a Christian to marry a Jew would 
 have been thought no less outrageous than it is held, at 
 the present period, for a white to marry a black. But 
 nowadays a rich Jew can make almost whatever matri 
 monial choice he pleases. Who shall say if hereafter a 
 rich negro may not be likewise privileged? We can 
 shudder, we can raise horrified hands of protest, now, 
 but stranger things have happened in the evolution of 
 races. And is there any kind of strange thing that the 
 possession of great wealth may not bring about?" 
 
 He gave a last look at the fresh sods on poorLydia'a grave
 
 NEW YORK. 199 
 
 and turned from it while a summer sunset had begun to 
 burn in scarlet and gold beyond the pale, innumerable 
 tombs of beautiful, mournful Greenwood. Here was 
 another New York, a vast and eternally silent one, its 
 swarms of slabs filled with the names of those who were 
 living out their lives all sorts of lives, from earnest to 
 flippant just across yonder purpling river, but who 
 would one day come to lie down beside their kindred, 
 mute and quiescent as these. Many of their resting- 
 places would be amid stately vaults or in fair flowery 
 plots, far different from this one poor isolated grave pur 
 chased for Lydia. And yet, in the end, what mattered 
 it ? Their sleep would be no more dreamless and profound 
 than hers! 
 
 Oh, the mockery it meant to watch our huge city from 
 these heights beyond that shining stream, and to think 
 how one slow, perpetual transfer was going on, bringing 
 hundreds hither each year, feeding the metropolis of 
 death from the metropolis of life! And in the soft gray 
 of the southern sky George could see countless church 
 spires pointing upward emblems of hope reared by those 
 cloae-huddled multitudes of humanity who called the 
 awful and imperious Unknown by this creed name or that, 
 and built to It their various temples, typifying each one, 
 as much the feverish revolt against despair as the patient 
 acceptance of faith. What intensity of contrast! Over 
 there the loudness, here the silence; over there the vivid 
 and eager wakefulness; here the deep and unremitting 
 slumber ! And those church-spires did they not portray 
 the sole reason why this immense cemetery was not still 
 more enlarged by suicidal throngs? Would not thousands 
 come and lay themselves down here if they once grew 
 convinced that this terrestrial life were all? "Suppose," 
 George mused, "that science should one day make indis 
 putable the fact that it wall?" Allowing, with certain 
 thinkers, that immortality is a lie, does not mankind need 
 that lie to protect itself against madness and self-mur 
 der as much as it needs thick raiment to protect itself 
 against rigors of cold? Or would the innate fear of 
 death prove savingly operative with great majorities? 
 Animals are agnostics and atheists m their dumb, puv-
 
 200 NEW YORK. 
 
 blind ways, and yet they shrink from death and are 
 appalled by it. 
 
 The smoldering sunset had turned to such fiery crim 
 son as he quitted the cemetery that it made him think, 
 somehow, of a symboled Eevenge. Later he saw it flame as 
 if directly above the spot where he had left Lydia lying. 
 
 "It is better, "he murmured aloud/'that I did not learn 
 the name of the man who drove her to this deed. If she 
 had told me his name I believe that I must have sought 
 him out and given him quicker and heavier punishment 
 than fell to the lot of Lynsko. And heaven knows, this 
 poor life of mine, considering I've yet but barely passed 
 the youth of it, has known more than its rightful share 
 of gloom and storm. And so, peace rest you, sister 
 Lydia! Yours has been the saddest yet most curious 
 of dooms! The very charity that lifted you above the 
 life you were born for proved the instrument of your 
 ruin and early death!"
 
 NEW YORK, 201 
 
 VI. 
 
 "!'D almost forgotten the dinner party for this even 
 ing, Cousin Ellen," said Doris to Mrs. Josselyn. 
 
 The latter tried to look annoyed, though her beloved 
 relative usually made this a difficult affair. "Oh," she 
 said, with a playful tartness, "I suppose Frank Crevell- 
 ing reminded you of it." 
 
 "He reminded me that you'd asked him," said Doris. 
 
 "You've been together for the past four or five hours, 
 no doubt." 
 
 "Yes ever since he called for me after luncheon." 
 
 "Roaming together the most unheard-of byways, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 Doris laughed, seating herself on the edge of the lounge 
 in Mrs. Josselyn 's dressing-room, as though she would 
 only be allowed to tarry here for a brief chat. She her 
 self had on some trim gray street costume that con 
 trasted sharply with the velvets and feathers and jewels 
 of the other. ?or it was November now, and Mrs. Jos 
 selyn 's worldly goings and comings had begun. She 
 had long ago ceased to attempt anything like Doris' con 
 version. The girl had irritated her, at first, before the 
 coming of maidenhood, and war had darkened the air, and 
 with trembling lips Doris had said to Mr. Josselyn: 
 "Cousin Albert, I have my four thousand a year, you 
 know, and am quite independent enough to live, at a 
 pinch, if you call it so, all alone by myself. " Then, 
 somewhat mysteriously, bayonets were lowered and a per 
 manent truce was established. More than that, it should 
 be added a firm friendship ensued. Ellen Josselyn was 
 a woman of strong ambitions, but of deep affections as 
 well. In a manner she had educated herself, like many 
 another American woman, her birth having bordered on 
 the humblest. Before her eighteenth year she had been
 
 202 NEW YORK. 
 
 a bread-winner, and now, past middle age, the wear-and- 
 tear of that earlier past showed only on her lined face, 
 leaving not a hint of former trials and vexations in her 
 placid bearing, full of elegance and equipoise. She 
 despised the falsities of fashion, though its picturesque- 
 ness and power self-admittedly lured her. She had none 
 of Doris' expansive humanitarianism, but she was capa 
 ble of great love and loyalty to those who had once 
 gained her heart. Outsiders thought her cold, but her 
 husband, whom she often ruled despotically, knew that 
 she would have gone through thick and thin to serve or 
 aid him ; and once, when he was desperately ill, she had 
 almost killed herself nursing him night and day. Her 
 strong maternal fondness for Grace would have been per 
 fect i^f too ardent a desire that she should marry bril 
 liantly had not married it. Her respect and regard for 
 Doris were equally sincere. They had not merely learned 
 to disagree agreeably ; they were the stanchest of friends ; 
 neither's disapprobation offended the other, and they 
 could have wrangled for hours, had they chosen, with a 
 mutual smile and kiss at the end. Decidedly she was a 
 woman whom Doris' "curse of caste" had done its best, 
 in that young lady's opinion, to spoil. Only when all 
 was said, the injury had failed to become radical. To 
 the world at large (doubting it, contemning it, forever 
 secretly if not overtly satirizing it, while at the same 
 time paying it steady perfunctory deference) she turned 
 always a chill, hard, amiable, hypocritic side. To her 
 immediate surrounders her home, and a few friends 
 removed from its sacred limit, though still not far re 
 moved, she turned all that was warm and sweet in her 
 character and temperament, radiating love and receiving 
 it, even if sometimes mixed with an element which 
 resembled fear. 
 
 But Doris had never been in the least afraid of her, as 
 she was doutless well aware. "Roaming the most un 
 heard of byways!" the girl now repeated, with mock 
 indignation. 
 
 "Why, we've been to a gathering at Sherry's." 
 
 "At Sherry's?" 
 
 "I thought I told you about it. "
 
 NEW YORK. 203 
 
 "You tell me of so many 'gatherings,' my dear. But 
 they are usually in places 
 
 "Very much less respectable than the corner of Fifth 
 Avenue and Thirty-Seventh Street. See how I anticipate 
 your crushing sarcasm. But surely you were asked to 
 this. Yes, I remember you received your notice, and 
 resolved to ignore it. This new proposed appeal at Al 
 bany, you know, for the granting of suffrage to women." 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes! It all comes back now. I advised 
 you to keep utterly clear of the thing." A smile of grim 
 amusement played on Mrs. Josselyn'slips. "You treated 
 my counsel with your usual disdain." 
 
 "I felt the force of the movement immensely," said 
 Doris. "I feel it now more than ever. You'd have 
 enjoyed the meeting, I'm sure." 
 
 '*J/V 
 
 "Martha Courtelyou was there, and told me she 
 wouldn't have missed it for worlds. I told her in reply, " 
 continued Doris haughtily, "that she would have 
 missed it, in a minute, for some fashionable tea, provided 
 the season were not still too early for a sign of one." 
 
 "Poor Martha Courtelyou!" said Mrs. Josselyn. 
 "She adores you, Doris, and you're forever winding her 
 round your finger 'making her do the most absurdly 
 uncharacteristic things and then snubbing her without 
 mercy afterward. So you dragged her there?" 
 
 "Not at all. She went of her own free will, and found 
 a number of friends in the assemblage. That's why I 
 said, Cousin Ellen, that you would have enjoyed it. 
 There was quite a sprinkling of your beloved swells." 
 
 "M m, yes. I've heard the idea has gained a few 
 respectable supporters beside yourself, dear." 
 
 "Thanks," laughed Doris dryly, "for your polite after 
 thought. It was very considerate. But I'm keeping 
 you from somewhere." 
 
 "Only from some shedding of pasteboard at a place or 
 two where I've recently dined. It's such a lovely 
 autumn afternoon that they'll all surely be out." 
 
 "Shedding pasteboard at the houses of other dear 
 friends whom they in turn expect to find 'out!' Oh, the 
 touching sincerity of society!"
 
 204 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Dear Doris, we've talked all this over so often! 
 Pray, did Frank Crevelling speak?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That interested you, of course. He always speaks 
 so well on any subject." 
 
 "It didn't interest me," said Doris, without the 
 phantom of a blush, though she somehow felt that her 
 observer was looking for one. "You see, I had my own 
 speech to think about, and I came immediately after 
 Frank." 
 
 "Your own speech! Oh, Doris! You didn't you 
 surely didn't take the platform for Woman's Eights, 
 there at Sherry's!" 
 
 "Yes more's the pity. I'm convinced that every 
 thing I said was idiotically commonplace." 
 
 Mrs. Joselyn was clasping her gloved hands together, 
 and giving her modish-bonneted head a series of tragic 
 shakes. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say you were very clever indeed! You 
 always are when you speak at those charitable meetings. 
 But there! Why, it will all be in to-morrow's news 
 papers." 
 
 "Yes," Doris nodded. "Reporters rush in where 
 angels fear to tread. There was simply no keeping 
 them out. But I shan't be in such bad company." 
 And she mentioned the names of several other women, 
 young and old, who had spoken beside herself. 
 
 "Beally?" Mrs. Josselyn wondered aloud. "It makes 
 me feel very old when I see and hear of women like 
 these doing things they'd have thought abominations 
 ten years ago. Of course Frank Crevelling wants the 
 women to vote." 
 
 "Ho thinks that they should vote if they wish." 
 
 "And Osborne Courtelyou, very probably, thinks that 
 they should not wish." 
 
 Doris flushed a little. "Why do you dart from one 
 name to another? Surely the bearers of them have very 
 little in common." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn went up to Doris and patted her enkin 
 dled cheek. "They have one thing in common: they 
 are both in love with you."
 
 NEW YORK. 305 
 
 Doris got up from the lounge. She began to arrange 
 some laces on the front of her relative's gown. "You'll 
 not have time to shed any pasteboard whatever, Cousin 
 Ellen, unless you're careful." 
 
 "Oh, it's hardly five yet, and our dinner is not till 
 eight. "Which is it to be, Doris? Tell me." 
 
 Doris made no answer. 
 
 "Haven't you decided, my dear? Or shall you refuse 
 them both? It would be just like you to refuse them 
 both. Come now, don't even hint to me that both 
 haven't asked you, and more times apiece than once." 
 
 The girl drew herself up, and quite proudly. "I 
 think it always the best plan for every woman to keep 
 perfectly silent on such subjects. For if she says that 
 a man has asked her she not only betrays his confidence 
 but runs the risk of being thought a mere boaster; and 
 if she denies that he has asked her when people strongly 
 suspect it, she's either rated as subtle and sly and a 
 serpent of deceit, or laughed at as poseuse. " 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut, my dear," said Mrs. Josselyn. "You 
 are talking of 'people,' now. I am not 'people;' I'm 
 your cousin and loving friend. No such grand airs 
 with me, if you please." 
 
 Doris snatched another kiss from the faded cheek. 
 "Oh, Cousin Ellen, you know they've both asked me! 
 yes, more than once." 
 
 "Well?" said her companion inexorably. 
 
 "I've never made up my mind." 
 
 "And you've never dreamed of asking me to help 
 you!" reproached Mrs. Josselyn, with some rather genu 
 ine bitterness. "Not you, indeed! My counsel wouldn't 
 be up-to-date enough." 
 
 Doris, with her gray eyes humid, gave a long sigh. 
 "What counseling but one's own can suffice, in a case 
 like this? One knows her own heart or doesn't know 
 it." 
 
 "And you don't know yours?" 
 
 The girl went to a window and looked out through its 
 misty curtains on the gentle bluish twilight of what had 
 been a benign November day a New York November 
 day, full of dreamy sunshine and of still air, just touched
 
 06 NEW YORK. 
 
 with delicate crispness, preluding, but as yet only 
 vaguely, the sharper "Thanksgiving weather, " to come. 
 Slowly, after a little silence, she turned again and 
 said : 
 
 "I'm afraid, Cousin Ellen, that I know my own heart 
 only too well." 
 
 "I see, Doris. You don't love either of them. 
 Strange girl! They 're both excellent matches. Courtel- 
 you is the better, in a worldly sense, of course. But 
 you would make Crevelling an almost ideal wife." Mrs. 
 Josselyn said these words with an unwonted excitement. 
 "And he is such a lovable fellow," she went on. "Yes, 
 with all his intellectuality, so lovable! Think of an old 
 woman like me, having lost her heart to him long ago!" 
 
 "Oh," said Doris, trying to laugh yet failing, as 
 though her mood were too serious, "in your sense, I've 
 lost my heart to him also." 
 
 "I see, Doris, I see. You're waiting for a passion." 
 
 "A passion?" said Doris, starting. "No not that. 
 I never thought of that." 
 
 "But you've all the while been waiting for it, never 
 theless. Oh, I know you girls! You differ in this trait 
 or that, but in the main you're all alike. I was once a 
 girl myself, please remember, centuries ago. Now, I'd 
 have married Courtelyou I confess that I would. You 
 shrink from marrying either because you're not con 
 tented with the rich and sweet sentiment Crevelling has 
 aroused in you." 
 
 Doris looked as if she wanted to make some eager and 
 significant reply. But she only said, with a wandering 
 vagueness : 
 
 "I might explain to you. I think I might make it all 
 very clear." 
 
 "Then you shall explain you shall make it very 
 clear!" 
 
 "Your carriage is waiting, Cousin Ellen. I saw it as 
 I came in. " 
 
 "Did you, indeed, you little temporizer! Well, let it 
 wait." And Mrs. Josselyn caught both the girl's hands 
 and drew her to the lounge. When they were seated 
 close beside one another, she exclaimed with an auster-
 
 NEW YORK. 207 
 
 ity that could not hide the affection throbbing beneath 
 it. 
 
 "Now, tell me, Doris tell me, I insist, why you don't 
 marry the best and noblest man in the world and a man 
 whom you've confessed that you're devotedb' fond of, 
 even if your actions hadn't shown it me months before 
 to-day!"
 
 208 NEW YORK. 
 
 VII. 
 
 THUS arraigned, Doris at first drooped her eyes. Then 
 fihe lifted them hesitantly, while their gray seemed alive 
 with little mellow dancing lights. "It seems to me, 
 Cousin Ellen, that I could give Frank Crevelling every 
 thing I should like to give the man I married, if 
 only " 
 
 "If only, Doris?" 
 
 "There are two lines in Tennyson's Maud 
 
 " 'The least little aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 
 From which I escaped heart-free " 
 
 Please don't stare at me as if I were objecting to Frank 
 Crevelling's nose. I'm not, nor to any of his physical 
 attributes. Indeed, I think his personnel quite engag 
 ing. Mentally, I admit, he fills me with fascination. 
 His intelligence is the widest, the most sympathetic, the 
 most sensitive to impressions, of any that I have ever 
 met. But I don't think, for all this, that I have the 
 right to become his wife." 
 
 "What a roundabout way of saying that you don't 
 love him!" 
 
 "I do love him " 
 
 "Well, then!" 
 
 "Sometimes, I mean." Doris joined the finger tips 
 of either hand together, and gazed down at their pretty 
 little complicated arch. "Oh, but it's all so strange 
 with me!" came her next feverishly plaintive words. 
 "I somehow resent his success, his prosperity, his secure 
 achievement, all the friends he has, all his power of win 
 ning friends, everything about him that is so secure, so 
 enviable to his fellow mortals." 
 
 "Doris! I've spent a good deal of time in being sur 
 prised at you, but you've reserved for me one final aston-
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 ishment. What kind of a man do you want to fall in 
 love with, since you are certainly not in love with Crevel- 
 ling? For love, my dear, never analyzes and ruminates 
 like this. It '' 
 
 "It loves! You're right, Cousin Ellen. It just loves, 
 and there's an end." 
 
 "But with Osborne Courtelyou? Have you for him 
 some other queer collection of emotions?" 
 
 Doris gave a repelling start. "Love for Osborne 
 Courtelyou! Good heavens! I'd marry him to-morrow 
 if I were ambitious. He told me so, the other day. He 
 knows what a match he is. He knows everything, for 
 that matter; he's a mine of the most amazing informa 
 tion on all subjects. Nothing escapes him; I don't pre 
 tend to have escaped him, in any of my minutest details. 
 He strikes me as the keenest person that ever existed. 
 I'm certain he could tell me just what kind of frock I 
 wore six mouths back from any given date, and accu 
 rately describe its trimmings. But to fall in love with 
 him, Cousin Ellen! It would be like falling in love 
 with a city directory, or the catalogue of an auctioneer!" 
 
 "That finishes him. Off with his head, so much for 
 Courtelyou! But your objections to Frank Crevelling 
 affect me, Doris, as unpardonably absurd." 
 
 "So they often affect me. " Here Doris began to un 
 button her gloves. "I sometimes fancy, Cousin Ellen," 
 she pursued, with eyes intent on the unsheathing of her 
 flexile fingers, "that I could never really love a man 
 unless I had some kind of pity for him some desire to 
 help him to see him righted, or to prevent him from 
 being wronged." She raised her look, and it was 
 sparkling half-soberly, half-mirthfully. " That you may 
 denounce and with justice, as both unpardonable and 
 absurd." 
 
 Mrs. Jo sselyn pursed her lips with an intolerant air. 
 " Icertainly do." She gave a light, irritated laugh, and 
 rose again. "The next thing, my child, you'll be 
 plighting troth with some of your numerous blind men 
 or cripples, or hospital patients, or bah! you make me 
 wish you were ten, and I had the authority to put you 
 in a dark closet."
 
 210 NEW YORK. 
 
 "You never did that to Grace," said Doris, smoothing 
 out her gloves and neatly bagging them together. "You 
 were always the sweetest and kindest of mothers." 
 
 "Grace never had such wayward and whimsical 
 fancies. " 
 
 "Oh, I admit that mine is only a fancy." 
 
 "When you're a spinster of forty you'll admit it with 
 penitence, perhaps." 
 
 "Penitence! Never!" And laughing, Doris tossed her 
 bundled gloves high in the air and caught them with no 
 mean skill. The next minute she joined Mrs. Josselyn 
 near the door. 
 
 "Speaking of Grace is Lord Brecknock to dine 
 with us this evening?" 
 
 "Yes," came the answer, with a slight self-satisfied 
 heightening of Mrs. Josselj'u's head. Then, as if some 
 impulse to change the subject swayed her and possibly 
 because it was one for which she had neither the time 
 nor mood to deal with it : 
 
 "Oh, I forgot, Doiis. Cousin Albert has decided on 
 taking an uptown secretary.. As you know, he has been 
 for some time thinking about it. I opposed the idea, at 
 first." 
 
 "Yes, I recoll'ect you mentiond to me that you had 
 opposed it." 
 
 "But Cousin Albert is not so strong now as he was 
 then. Dr. Lyudsay has been giving me rather bad 
 accounts of him." 
 
 Instantly Doris' face brimmed with solicitude. 
 "Cousin Ellen! You don't mean he's in any danger?" 
 
 "Oh, no. But he has a weak heart; that's all. Peo 
 ple live to ninety with weak hearts, I also learned. 
 But his going downtown every day, Dr. Lyndsa3 r says, 
 is a rash exertion. The new secretary can make these 
 journeys/o?' him, if needful." 
 
 Doris brightened. "I breathe again. You know 
 how dearly I love Cousin Albert! And he has looked 
 pale, and seemed less strong, of late. But he would 
 never allow that he was the least bit ill." 
 
 "He isn't ill. But I made him see Dr. Lyndsay. We 
 wont together, and afterward I managed a little stolen 
 chat with the doctor."
 
 NEW YORK. 211 
 
 "And has the new secretary arrived?" 
 
 "He spent an hour or two with Cousin Albert to-day." 
 
 "Keally? And you've told me nothing about it all 
 till now?" 
 
 "My dear Doris, you're forever on the go. [ some 
 times feel as if we didn't live together. Talk of Grace 
 as fashionable! Your hands are twice as full as hers. 
 Well, I suppose your'sare full of good works. Au revoir 
 till dinner time." 
 
 "But, tell rne, Cousin Ellen, about the secretary. 
 Have you seen him? Is he nice?" Doris caught her 
 cousin's velvet sleeve as she was opening the door." 
 
 "Have I seen him? Is he nice? Oh, Doris, you 
 democratic plebeian minx, how like you!" Mrs. Josse- 
 lyn's face grew mildly ferocious. "Yes, I've seen him, 
 and he struck me as a vigorous young fellow with a 
 brown beard. His name, I believe, is George." 
 
 "George what?" 
 
 "Why, George, Mr. George." 
 
 "Oh." 
 
 The mild ferocity deepened. "He isn't, as far as I 
 have yet been able to perceive, the sort of person whom 
 you could pity, or desire to help, or see righted, or pre 
 vent from being wronged." 
 
 Doris raised one hand as if in act to strike. " TJiat's 
 the way you treat my sacred confidences! And did 
 Cousin Albert advertise for him?" 
 
 "No, you incarnate curiosity! He simply got him I 
 haven't inquired how; no doubt somebody downtown 
 recommended him. Yes, I recall now it happened 
 like that. Have you any more questions?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Doris, with one of her breezy laughs. 
 "Is he to live here?" 
 
 "Live here!" scowled Mrs. Josselyn, though with a 
 smile faint yet betraj-ing. "Not at all. Do you imag 
 ine I'd have you and him forever popping up against 
 one another till the poor fellow began to grow hollow- 
 cheeked and to make mistakes in his commercial 
 arithmetic?" 
 
 "Oh, then he's just to come here each day?" 
 
 "That's the arrangement,"
 
 212 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I shall certainly get a glimpse of him to-morrow," 
 said Doris, with a triumphant nod. "I always dart in 
 and out of the library two or three times a day when 
 I'm at home." 
 
 "But you're never at home any longer," said Mrs. 
 Josselyn, with plaintive sarcasm, while disappearing. 
 "You forget that." 
 
 At dinner Doris wondered whether her aunt had de 
 signed bringing matters to a climax by placing her be 
 tween Frank Crevelling and Osborne Courtelyou. If so, 
 she swiftly decided, no such point would be gained. 
 For that matter, there was to be no "climax" at all un 
 less Doris' own designs were harshly thwarted. She 
 knew very well that both men were in love with her; 
 she knew very well that she would never, at any future 
 period, bring herself to marry either of them. Mean 
 while they were excellent friends with one another, and 
 she strongly wished them both to remain excellent 
 friends with herself. She had not said to either of them, 
 "I do not love you and hence I cannot marry you;" she 
 had merely stated and restated her conviction that she 
 would never marry at all. But if they did not believe 
 her it was because of no coquetry on her own side or of 
 as little as she could avoid, being a woman. "I often act 
 with those two men," she once said to Grace, "just as if 
 they were two women friends." 
 
 "Why not put it the other way?" Grace had replied, 
 slanting her small dark head archly, and showing her 
 milky teeth in a full smile. "I mean, just as if you 
 were all three of you men together." 
 
 Doris pinched Grace's pink and white cheek. She 
 thought the cheek a beautiful one, and her cousin, who 
 was insipidly pretty as some waxen lady in the window 
 of Macy's or Altaian's, a lovely minature divinity. She 
 would have scouted the idea of being better looking 
 herself, though in reality a glance at her finely intelli 
 gent face and the sweet fire of its big gray eyes, was 
 worth twenty that might be given her young kinswoman, 
 with plumpish, neaty-molded little person and babyish 
 curves of cheek and chin. 
 
 "I hope, Grace, that you're not presuming to call me 
 mannish!"
 
 NEW YORK. 213 
 
 "Nobody could call you that, Doris, though it might 
 be said of some other girl if she went about in so queerly 
 enterprising a way." 
 
 Doris folded her arms and looked at the floor. "I 
 dare say it seems 'queerly enterprising,' just as you say. 
 But I often think I haven't seen half enough of this 
 monstrous New York that surrounds me, with all its 
 lights and shades of human living. And oh, the trage 
 dies that are forever going on among the poor! No 
 doubt you're much happier not to bother yourself about 
 them as I do." 
 
 "You bother yourself about them to some purpose!" 
 cried Grace, who admired her cousin almost more than 
 she loved her. "But what can / do, with my teacupful 
 of brains, except hold my tongue and keep in the back 
 ground?" 
 
 "Still, Grace," said Doris, pointedly and measuredly, 
 "you have your ambitions." 
 
 "Oh, social ones, if you please." She looked like a 
 large, graceful, animated doll as she shook her dainty 
 little head from side to side. "But societj' is all I'm fit 
 for, you know." 
 
 "You're fit for a happy life," said Doris, below her 
 breath, and with a deeper significance than her listener 
 may have dreamed of suspecting. She was thinking of 
 Lord Brecknock, whose attentions were at this time 
 growing more distinct every day. 
 
 To-night, at the dinner, Doris shone with a good deal 
 of careless and unconscious brilliancy. She was a little 
 excited, and somewhat annoyed beside, at being placed 
 between Crevelling and Courtelyou. The result of these 
 combined emotions had been to make her more volubly 
 expansive than usual, and to draw forth from her that 
 vivacity which we call Americanism in our women, and 
 of which the reader, provided he has not understood her 
 ill, must already have recognized that she possessed an 
 abundant share. 
 
 It is the sort of quality that most Englishmen are be 
 lieved to find fascinating; and now, as the conversation 
 became general, under Doris' quite spontaneous and 
 unforced leadership, Lord Brecknock, who was present
 
 214 NEW YORK. 
 
 and who sat beside Grace, felt himself rather pleasurably 
 stirred. "She's awfully clever," he whispered to Grace, 
 above a lifted wineglass, "isn't she? Fancynow! Fora 
 girl as young as that to talk so about your Wall Street! 
 And all the while she's such good form ^not the least 
 like those ladies that hire halls and spout in 'em." 
 
 Grace frowned. "Mercy! I should say she wasn't!" 
 
 At this point Courtelyou was saying across the table 
 to a Wall Street man of some prominence: 
 
 "Beally, Blashfield, if I'd known how your guild was 
 going to be abused I should never have dared to take 
 Miss Doris within a mile of the Stock Exchange. " 
 
 "Somebody else would have taken me there. You, 
 for instance." And Doris turned to Crevelling. 
 
 "What! a clergyman!" said Lord Brecknock. 
 
 "He isn't a clergyman," said Doris; "he's only a 
 preacher. And he's been in places almost as bad as 
 Wall Street, to find his texts. Chinese opium joints, 
 for instance, and the east side sweat shops." 
 
 "Almost as bad!" gasped Mr. Blashfield, who had 
 made several millions in Wall Street, below his big 
 blond mustache. 
 
 "Doris, dear," smiled Mrs. Josselyn, "be as convinc 
 ing and amusing as you please, but do try to avoid the 
 sensational." 
 
 Doris flashed a look at her cousin, which the latter 
 clearly understood. "You've put me here, with horrible 
 cruelty," the look affirmed, "between two men who both 
 want to marry me, as you're very well aware. So now I 
 shall take my revenge by becoming a public chatterbox, 
 and not giving you the chance of watching how I dispose 
 my civilities between these two interesting rivals." 
 
 "Yes," Doris went on aloud, "almost as bad, but not 
 quite. My glimpse of the Stock Exchange wasn't very 
 surprising. I found it just the pandemonium I expected. 
 The inmates, I believe, were having a specially busy 
 day 
 
 "You were fortunate, then," laughed Mr. Blashfield, 
 "you saw them in all their glory." 
 
 "Or shame. " 
 
 "Come, come, now, [Doris," said Mr. Josselyn, "you,
 
 NEW YORK. 215 
 
 mustn't forget you're talking to one of our most brilliant 
 Wall Street financiers." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Blashfield won't care for anything / may 
 say," returned Doris. 
 
 "I care for everything you say," protested Mr. Blash 
 field. 
 
 "Then," said Doris, touched by a certain genuine 
 heartiness in the man's tones, "I won't speak out my 
 bad opinions; I'll keep them concealed." 
 
 "Not on my account, please. I'd very much like to 
 hear you run down Wall Street as hard as you could. 
 I'm doubtful if your bad opinions can possibly equal my 
 own." 
 
 "There's a challenge," saie Courtelyou, "and one 
 which certainly bristles with the element of the unex 
 pected." 
 
 "Still, they tell me you have made lots of money in 
 Wall Street," said Doris, looking at her challenger with 
 a demure defiance that roused general laughter. 
 
 "I've lost twice as much there as I've ever made, " 
 said Mr. Blashfield ruefully. 
 
 "Ah, what agreeable tidings!" broke from Doris. 
 
 "Isn't that as cruel as it is impolite?" asked Mrs. 
 Josselyn. In days before the coming of Lord Brecknock 
 she had thought of this middle-aged bachelor capitalist 
 for Grace. 
 
 "If everybody always lost, " said Doris, "that mael 
 strom of gambling would cease to exist. Cousin Albert 
 has just called you, Mr. Blashfield, a brilliant Wall 
 Street financier. Tell him that this 'brilliancy,' of 
 which people talk, is only avarice in one of its nimbler 
 forms. For how are your 'great men' different from 
 misers except that they have quicker, more sinewy 
 fingers in the gathering together of dollars? And again, 
 how were your railroad-wreckers different from burglars, 
 except that instead of breaking locks and safes they broke 
 the hearts of men and women? And such people as 
 these did they deserve, in any fair sense, to be called 
 gamblers? Did they not play, as it were, with marked 
 cards? Having mighty capital at their command, they 
 knew just how and when particular stocks would rise or
 
 216 NEW YORK. 
 
 fall. They spread abroad deceitful rumors, they created 
 untold mischief and ruin and despair. They plunged 
 families into penury by their subtly circulated false 
 hoods; in hundreds of cases they drove men to forgerj' 
 and embezzlement, caused banks to be shattered, sowed 
 suicide and disgrace broadcast. Happily, as I have 
 heard, these czars and tycoons of finance no longer reign 
 except in their natural heirs, who appear to be rather 
 proud of them as progenitors. But the whole hateful 
 system of hazard yet reigns, and continues an enemy of 
 society, an incessant threat to the youth of our present 
 and coming generations." 
 
 Doris finished with sparkling eyes and a mutinous 
 look about the lips. 
 
 "I'm inclined to think," said Lord Brecknock, glanc 
 ing at Mr. Blashfield, "that you can't pitch into poor 
 Wall Street very much stronger than that." 
 
 Before Mr. Blashfield could reply, Crevelling, who 
 feared that Doris' outburst had dashed if not angered 
 its chief recipient, and who was forever tending, in his 
 kindly way, toward the part of pacificator, said merrily : 
 
 "My dear Blashfield, there's no help for you! You 
 must endow my church with a few millions or so, and 
 I'll build a bigger parsonage and reward you by allow 
 ing you to occupy a nice suite of apartments there." 
 
 "I'll keep my ill-gotten gains, thank you, "said Blash 
 field dryly, nibbling at an olive. 
 
 "There, now!" cried Doris. "You told me to say 
 what I chose, and you're annoyed that I took you at 
 your word." 
 
 "Not at all," replied Mr. Blashfield. "I could say 
 even bitterer things about the whole institution you so 
 despise, Miss Doris. But if the gambling there could be 
 crushed to-morrow it would surely break out somewhere 
 else, and probably in some worse form. You remind me 
 of those who dream they can suppress drunkenness by 
 closing all the liquor-shops." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not a prohibitionist, if you mean that!" de 
 clared Doris. "I approve high license, and I think the 
 Puritan Sabbath a tyranny." And then the conversa 
 tion became animated on this new subject, nearly every 
 body Joining in it,
 
 NEW YORK. 217 
 
 "How I wish I were as clever as my cousin!" Grace 
 murmured to Lork Brecknock. 
 
 "/don't," was the prompt answer. 
 
 "Then you prefer me stupid as I am?" 
 
 "I prefer you gentle and feminine as you are." 
 
 Grace instantly resented the would-be compliment, 
 springing to arms in the cause of Doris. 
 
 "You don't mean that she isn't gentle and feminine? 
 For if you do, sir, you're horribly mistaken!" 
 
 "No of course I meant no such thing," said the 
 Englishman, his fair-skinned face coloring. "But then 
 she knows such an awful lot, and she likes to talk on 
 such tremendously deep questions, and she goes for a 
 fellow right between the eyes, don't you see, and downs 
 him in no time. I wonder if she's always doing that to 
 the .clergyman and the other chap; But if she does I 
 fancy they like it, don't you?" 
 
 "They like her," said Grace primly. "Everybody 
 who knows her likes her. And excuse me but I think 
 your pugilistic way of describing our darling Doris by no 
 means in the best taste." 
 
 After dinner, while the ladies were alone together, 
 Mrs. Josselyn, without seeming to neglect the guests 
 who claimed her courtesy, seized a chance of saying to 
 Grace : 
 
 "You went with him this afternoon to the picture 
 show?" 
 
 "Yes, mamma." 
 
 "Did he er -say anything more, my dear?" 
 
 "Yes." And then, for several minutes Grace went on 
 speaking, in a voice as low and rapid as her mother's 
 had been. 
 
 "Oh, really ?" said Mrs. Josselyn, at length, with a 
 flash of telltale gladness in her discreetly veiled gaze. 
 ""Why, then he will very soon see your father." 
 
 "I think so, mamma. To-morrow he is going on that 
 coaching party to Tuxedo. It's a men's affair, you 
 know." 
 
 "Schuyler Charlton's yes I remember. By Fri 
 day he will be back in town." 
 
 "He may stay over till Saturday,"
 
 218 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Grace, my child, "Mrs. Josselyn's lips were now very 
 close to her daughter's delicate little ear, "you feel, 
 doii't you, that he is thoroughly in earnest?" 
 
 "Oh, thoroughly!" 
 
 "There, that will do, my dear. Go over and talk with 
 Mrs. Abercrombie. Doris looks as though she wanted 
 to get away from her, and whenever Doris looks so I'm 
 always afraid she may say something queer. She gave 
 me actual shivers at dinner, with her 'new woman' 
 kind of talk about the evils of Wall Street, and prohibi 
 tion, and all that." 
 
 "Truly, mamma," smiled Grace, "I thought she 
 made things go off with such a nice sort of snap!" 
 
 "M m perhaps. But never try to imitate her, 
 my dear. Recollect there's only one Doris in the world. 
 Two like her, for all that I love her so, would be more 
 than I could possibly bear. And Grace," Mrs. Josselyn 
 tapped the girl's creamy shoulder with the tip of her fan. 
 
 "Well, mamma?" 
 
 "Be careful, if any one speaks of an engagement, to 
 seem very surprised, and to act as if it were the very 
 furthest thing from your thoughts, and then to keep 
 perfectly silent on the whole subject perfectly, you 
 understand." 
 
 "Yes, mamma." 
 
 "I hardly got a word with you at dinner," said Cour- 
 telyou, seating himself beside Doris, a little later, and 
 so pointedly that the ladj' at her other elbow rose and 
 glided away. "You seemed piqued at something 
 were you?" 
 
 "What an idea!" said Doris impenetrably. "Oh, do 
 you mean at Wall Street?" 
 
 "Bother Wall Street. Your tirade seemed to conceal 
 something. I hope it wasn't any annoyance at Crevel- 
 ling." 
 
 "Dear old Frank Crevelling! Of course not." 
 
 "He isn't old. Is he very, dear?" 
 
 "We've been friends for ages excellent friends, as 
 you know." 
 
 "You went with him to Sherry's this afternoon, of 
 course, as you intended?"
 
 NEW YORK. 219 
 
 "Yes. He spoke admirably. I made a few fatuous 
 remarks. But you should have seen how some of the 
 other Woman's Vote women outshone me." 
 
 "I should have liked to see how you probably out 
 shone them." 
 
 "Nonsense. You were expected to be there and to 
 speak against the movement. Why didn't you appear?" 
 
 "I couldn't. Some hard work at the office claimed 
 me." 
 
 Doris gave him one of her gentle yet subtle smiles. 
 "I've been flattering myself that I wrought your conver 
 sion, the other day, when we had that hot argument." 
 
 "Oh, " said Courtelyou, with a mellowness of manner 
 that would have astonished some of those who believed 
 him all legal acumen and cold-cut rectitude, "I'm pre 
 pared to call black white when you really command it of 
 me. ' 
 
 Doris knit her brows in an offended way. "No won 
 der you don't approve of giving women their civic rights 
 when you're willing to try and please them with such 
 mere sugared triviality." 
 
 He changed color, biting his lip. "Most men are 
 fools when they're in love. You must pardon me on 
 that score. If you consented to marry me you might 
 convert me for good and all." 
 
 Doris said nothing. 
 
 "Have you forgotten your promise?" he presently 
 asked. 
 
 "What promise?" she asked in reply. Just then 
 Grovelling approached, and with the faintest gesture she 
 pointed to the vacant chair at her other side. "Oh, 
 yes," she exclaimed, with great abrupt amiability. 
 "But 3 r ou should refer to it as your own kind offer. He 
 means, Frank, my going with him to-morrow to that 
 police captain's trial? Of course I will go, Mr. Courtel 
 you, and I am grateful for your goodness in taking me." 
 
 Courtelyou hated to hear her call Crevelling "Frank." 
 She had never addressed him by his first name; the 
 intimacy with Crevelling had dated from her early girl 
 hood. Perhaps Courtelyou would have cared less for 
 this difference if it had not occurred to him, just then,
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 that nobody except his sister, Martha, and a small group 
 of near relations ever called him "Osborne. " Nobody, 
 indeed, had so far presumed. Aud a thrill of uncharac 
 teristic regret assailed him at this realization, for the 
 first time in his life. Even the most self-contained man, 
 the one most buoyantly satisfied with his own distinc 
 tion and dignity, Avill sometimes feel a qualm of regret 
 that he is outside the pale of all familiar intimacies and 
 fondnesses while in the presence of a woman whom he 
 loves. 
 
 "Half-past nine, then, sharp, to-morrow morning," 
 Doris said, giving him her hand as he presently rose to 
 take his leave. He still liked Crevelliug as much as 
 ever, still believed in him as a spirit of high and noble 
 effort. But an irrepressible jealousy had begun to sway 
 his strange austere heart, while now, as somehow never 
 before, he began to face the fact of his impossible suit, 
 in all its baffling and humbling mockery. 
 
 "Martha would know if she cares for Crevelling, " he 
 told himself, during his homeward walk. And Martha, 
 as it chanced, having just returned from another dinner, 
 met him when he entered the dim-lit drawing room. 
 
 "I waited for you a few minutes, Osborne, " she said, 
 some clustered brilliants flashing from her corsage and a 
 little hiss breaking from her silken skirts, while she 
 turned and left the ruddy remnants of an almost extinct 
 wood fire. "You're always so punctual; I was sure 
 eleven wouldn't find you away from home. Did you 
 enjoy it at the Josselyn's?" 
 
 "Did you enjoy it at the Armstrong's?" 
 
 He spoke absently. 
 
 "To-night was the Vanderwater's; you're thinking of 
 to-morrow night, when we are to feast at the same 
 mahogany." 
 
 "Yes, true." 
 
 "Enjoy it," laughed Martha. "Oh, yes, immensely. 
 Such frivolity, though! Not a person worth talking to. 
 I felt ashamed of myself all the time I was amusing my 
 self." 
 
 "That's the way you constantly speak nowadays," he 
 said, with a touch of chilly censure. "Since you've got
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 so to admire Doris Josselyn you act as though you were 
 ashamed of being seen in society." 
 
 "Dear Doris! Well, she has given me ideas. But 
 the trouble is, I can't live up to them." 
 
 "Then don't try- Be yourself. Doris makes great 
 mistakes; she's a dangerous model." 
 
 "Dangerous!" cried Martha. "Oh, Osborne, how can 
 you? She's the loveliest, the most sincere, the most 
 purely womanly creature But there; I'll stop. You 
 know you agree with me. The onlj r difference between 
 us, Osborne, is that I'm in love with her and admit it, 
 while you're in love with her and won't." 
 
 "Oh, won't I?" muttered Courtelyou, while his sister 
 started. For Osborne to admit or even hint that he was 
 in love with any living woman struck the girl as amaz 
 ingly odd. 
 
 Then Courtelj^ou went on, with quick, neutral-toned 
 query. "Tell me, by the way, do you think she cares 
 for Frank Ore veiling? Loves him, I mean?" 
 
 "No," instantly answered Martha. Then, with head 
 posed sideways, as if delivering sapient and valuable 
 intelligence concerning her idol : "Doris is in love with 
 no man, as yet." 
 
 "As yet?" said Courtelyou. For a second he almost 
 detested his sister, though Martha's verdict and that of 
 the onlookiug world would exactly have tallied as to his 
 being a model brother. "Pray, how is that?" 
 
 "Why, simply, Osborne, that Doris has never met the 
 man whom she could marry. Not that she is waiting for 
 him; not that she expects him to arrive; but only that 
 she has never met him." 
 
 "She's told you this?" 
 
 "In no definite way in fifty vague ones." With a 
 sudden emphasis, both of irritation and regret, Martha 
 continued: "Oh, how I should love to see her your wife! 
 And why not? Are you not the two people on earth of 
 whom I'm fondest?" 
 
 Courtelyou turned almost rudely from her as she 
 stretched forth one hand to lay it on his arm. He had 
 grown pale, and his heart felt leaden. As he went out 
 into the hall she cried after him, following him : "Os-
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 borne! you haven't told me how you liked me in this 
 new gown." 
 
 But he made her no answer. In truth he did not even 
 hear her voice. A stubborn reaction had set in with 
 him. Beaching his library the room in which he had 
 held that memorable interview with George Oliver, an 
 interview destined to increase and strengthen his fame 
 as a lawyer more than any single event which had be 
 fallen him he sank into a chair, and involuntarily 
 clinched both hands till their palms were wounded by 
 their nails. 
 
 "An imagined rival is no rival, " he thought. "Bah! 
 I'll have her yet!" And then Martha, highly offended, 
 broke into the room. 
 
 "I don't care about my gown, Osborne, " she cried 
 tearfully. "But I'm afraid I've wounded you. And 
 we've always been such chums!" She threw both arms 
 about his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Still hold 
 ing him thus, she drew back and peered into his re 
 served, unsympathetic face, with its jutting forehead, its 
 thin lips, its pointed- chin. "People may be afraid of 
 you because you're so grand and clever. But I'm not 
 afraid, am I? You've always been sweet and brotherly 
 to me! And if I guessed the soft place in j r our heart 
 (why shouldn't I guess it when I know that I possess at 
 least a share of it?), and if I was cruel enough to wound 
 you there, please forgive me! Perhaps I didn't do so 
 quite unwittingly. Perhaps I I wanted to icarn you, 
 Osborne, having so thoroughly fathomed her nature 
 certain depths of it, I mean. Still, I may be wrong 
 there's always a doubt in such cases and you ivill for 
 give me, I'm sure." 
 
 He drew her arms from about his neck, and then rose, 
 holding her hands. Quite gently, and with a composed 
 and critical smile, he pushed her away from him, and let 
 his gaze sweep the tasteful n't and folds of her attire. 
 
 "Your gown is very good, "he said, in an odd, hushed 
 voice "decidedly good. I hope you may look as well 
 'sent out,' Martha, to speak in modern phrase, the day 
 you are bridesmaid for Doris at her wedding and 
 mine."
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 She stared at him incredulously. "Oh, Osborne, if I 
 could only believe it ever would happen!" 
 
 "There; it's threatening midnight. Go and get some 
 beauty-sleep, since you are always telling me you've no 
 beauty." He touched her lips with his own. "I 
 more's the pity must sit up two good hours yet over 
 some knottj" law papers." 
 
 But he made a sad failure of his work that night. His 
 mind, usually like a well-oiled machine, of the most 
 complicated yet agile capacity, refused, for once, to obey 
 the impetus of his powerful will. And at last he rose 
 from his desk with brows clouded by self-annoyance, 
 while his own recent thought kept reiterating itself 
 through certain mysterious echo-chambers of the brain : 
 "An imagined rival is no rival. Bah! I'll have her yet 
 unless Frank Crevelliug forestalls me."
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "AND so you're going to Captain Commisky's trial to 
 morrow?" said Frank Crevelling to Doris, after Courtel- 
 you had left them alone together. I often wonder what 
 new experience you will hunger for next." 
 
 She looked full into his earnest brown eyes for a 
 moment. She loved their honesty and manliness and 
 sweetness, all commingled. But to Crevelling these fre 
 quent glances had grown of late discomfortingly bold. 
 He would have liked them to be shyer, and it cost him 
 occasional pangs to find that they were not. Their very 
 candor of comradeship confessed, in their charming 
 donor, that absence of all passion for which immensities 
 of friendliness could no longer console him. 
 
 "I hunger for countless experiences," Doris answered, 
 between a sigh and a smile. "One might not construct 
 from them a theory of life, but one might evolve a theory 
 of human help. Courtelyou thinks I may be shocked 
 and want to go home. But I doubt it. However, the 
 whole affair for me will be like having an electric bell at 
 my finger-tip. I have only to touch it and avoid the 
 unbearable. " 
 
 "I should have liked to go with you," said Crevelling. 
 "Yonr surprises, even your disgusts, would have inter 
 ested me. " 
 
 "Why didn't you ask me first, then?" she quickly 
 replied. 
 
 "Courtelyou was more fortunate. He often is." 
 
 "You're both busy men," she said evasively, "in 
 your different ways." 
 
 "His way of being busy I mean his brilliant, nota 
 ble, mundane way is one that would naturally attract 
 most women." 
 
 "Most women yes. But not me, as you know."
 
 NEW YORK. 225 
 
 "You prefer, then, my lame efforts at godliness." 
 
 "If I thought them lame I should pity you but not 
 respect you a whit the less. As it is, I do nothing but 
 envy you. If a fairy should give me a wish I honestly 
 believe that I should ask to be a man with just your 
 talents, just your great religion of charity, and just your 
 splendid range and depth of the finer, wholesomer social 
 success." 
 
 "Ah, that fairy!" said Crevelling, with a sad smile on 
 his rugged features, all so richly bathed in kindliness 
 that to his many admirers they produced the effect of 
 being delicateb', subtly illumined by a mysterious inner 
 light. "How I should like to buttonhole her catch her 
 by one gossamer wing and detain her for a few precious 
 moments before your fateful interview! Given a fairy, 
 you know, given the omnipotence of magic, I'd pray to 
 her that she'd make you wish something else." 
 
 "Well and what?" 
 
 "Not to be the man you so foolishly admire, but to 
 share his future fate." Crevelling was pulling at his 
 tenuous thread of watchchain, and looking down on ifc 
 as though murmuroiisly scolding it for some misde 
 meanor in its tiny links. 
 
 Doris did not even faintly color. She had so lately 
 heard Courtelyou ask her for the fifth or sixth time to be 
 his wife, and now she was hearing her treasured Frank 
 Crevelling make her, here in the same evening, and for 
 possibly the seventh or eighth time, a similar proposal. 
 And she was thinking that if it were a question of being 
 wife to either of them, how much rather she would 
 choose such a fate with him who now addressed her than 
 with the other ambitious and talented and self-circum 
 scribed wooer. And yet to neither would she give her 
 hand, for to neither did any real passion the kind of 
 passion she understood but had never felt, nor, for that 
 matter, had ever desired to feel respond. "My dear 
 Doris," said Mrs. Josselyn, sweeping softly up to her, at 
 this point, "poor abused Mr. Blashfield is about to de 
 part. Wouldn't it be a little nice of you if you'd just 
 cross the room and say a kind word to him after your 
 barbaric behavior during dinner? I'm sure he'd ap-
 
 226 NEW YORK. 
 
 preciate it; he's so good natured and forgiving. Leave 
 me with dear Frank Crevelling. I'll try to amuse him 
 till you return. I'll tell him how I condemn all the 
 prattle talked about his Wednesday punch-bowl, and how 
 your Cousin Albert, for reasons which I fear are entirely 
 too gross and earthly, is one of its ardent supporters." 
 
 When Courtelyou called for her on the following 
 morning, Doris met him with a smile sweeter than the 
 drowsy November weather and much more lively. They 
 drove in a cab to the scene of Captain Cumrnisky's trial. 
 During their downtown journey Doris confined her talk 
 to certain stringent comments and inquiries. 
 
 "He's been a very trusted officer for ten years, has he 
 not?" 
 
 "About twelve, I think." 
 
 "He's grown rich?" 
 
 "Apparently. He has a house uptown, on the west 
 side, near the park. A rather handsome house, 1 hear." 
 
 "And he's married, is he not, and he has several chil 
 dren? How terribly sad for his wife! Howl pity her 
 and the children!" 
 
 "That is so like you," said Courtelyou. 
 
 "Before you have heard a word of the evidence against 
 him you begin to pity him. Suppose it should be 
 damning, as it probably is, would you pity him still?" 
 
 "Yes, why not? I don't suggest that he shouldn't 
 receive punishment on that account. Punishment for 
 crime means nothing of any import to the culprit him 
 self. It's only benefit is a warning to society. But 
 think of the forces of heredity, which may have pushed 
 him to his present state!" 
 
 Courtelyou leaned back in the cab. He relished so 
 the sound of her sweet, eager voice that he forgot to 
 answer it. Everything she might say in this vein was 
 familiar to him as any argument of the great modern 
 thinkers, with their multitudinous followers. But to 
 hear her reproduce the shallowest platitudes would have 
 been delightful just then. 
 
 "He is acaused, isn't he," Doris soon pursued, "of 
 taking bribes from people whom he should have arrested 
 for violations of the law he was appointed to enforce?
 
 NEW YORK. 22? 
 
 That, ir the main, covers his declared criminality. Am 
 I not right?" 
 
 "Perfectly right." 
 
 When they reached the courtroom and had found 
 comfortable seats there, only certain tedious prelimi 
 naries of the trial had begun. Doris looked about her 
 with a keen curiosity, sharpened by her inveterate sym 
 pathy for human nature in all its multiform present 
 ments. She did not see a single familiar face, but she 
 saw a good many that interested, surprised, shocked. 
 More than half the assemblage was feminine. And such 
 curious types of womanhood! From what quarters of 
 the town had they gathered here? Some were dressed 
 in gaudy robes, with jewels, probably spurious, glittering 
 from ears, fingers, bosoms. Others were of neat attire 
 and modest aspect. Others, again, were wofully shabby. 
 Still others were living betrayals of shame, with their 
 painted lips and cheeks, their aggressive exposures of 
 breasts, their reckless daring of posture, laugh or smile. 
 And others were of the pauper class, quite forlorn or 
 even ragged in gear, intensely curious to note every 
 thing that went on around them, mostly huddled together 
 in groups, with their pale and pinched faces expressing 
 the deepest concern, like that of children at the begin 
 ning of some longed-for pantomime. 
 
 The culprit struck Doris as a superb human animal. 
 He was shorn of his uniform now, but she could imag 
 ine how its gilt buttons must have become him. He had 
 the face of a German demigod, though he was an Irish 
 man, aa his name denoted. He was large and tall of 
 stature, with big hands, a magnificent chest, a short, 
 curled auburn beard, a face of generous yet regular out 
 line, such as Eubens loved to paint. He might have 
 stepped, in his modern garb, from one of the Antwerp 
 canvases, a towering, sensuous, virile shape, incontesta- 
 bly handsome and suggesting the ropy muscles, the 
 dominant physical coarseness that some women dislike 
 and by which others are enchanted. 
 
 The first questions addressed to him he met with an 
 insolence so marked in its bravado that the judge had 
 repeatedly to chide him. The ebullience of his Irish wit
 
 228 NEW YORK. 
 
 called forth applause from evident friends and support 
 ers, and here again a reprimanding gavel was briskly 
 employed. 
 
 "The man is really nervous and unstrung," said Doris 
 to Courtelyou, during a pause in the proceedings. "He 
 has steeled himself to carry it all off in this jaunty way, 
 but I can trace s can't you, a great underlying agitation?" 
 
 "Frankly, no; I can't. You're a wonderful observer. 
 I only hope the fellow will get his rightful punishment. 
 I think there can be no concealing his rogueries. The 
 New York police are being brought to account at last. 
 These investigations were needed long ago. Examples 
 should be made terrifying ones; there is no other way 
 of stinging into action the apathetic voter." 
 
 "I somehow feel sorry for this Captain Cummisky," 
 said Doris. 
 
 "Sorry?" 
 
 "Yes. What conscienceless folk were most probably 
 his predecessors for generations past! If he is guilty of 
 all these charges laid against him, is he guilty as you or 
 I would be? They trained the Spartan boys to steal, 
 who knows if he were reared much differently? I 
 can imagine that for years he has been surrounded, as a 
 police captain, by people who applauded his chicaneries, 
 and even envied the lucre they won for him." 
 
 Later the trial grew highly dramatic. Damning testi 
 mony was given against the prisoner. Proprietors of 
 liquor saloons affirmed under oath that he had levied 
 large monthly taxes upon them. Then from shopkeep 
 ers and street venders of various wares came minor com 
 plaints. Finally three women were called in succession 
 as witnesses. All declared that they had paid him large 
 sums to save from exposure the unholy haunts over which 
 they presided. The first might have been taken for a 
 reduced gentlewoman, so refined if threadbare was her 
 apparel, so timid were her voice and manner, so correct 
 was her syntax. Hers was an instance of depravity vest 
 ing itself in the most hypocritic guise. Between what 
 she revealed and her manner of revealing it there was a 
 gulf of astounding contrast. Then came a woman of the 
 people, flashy and fleshy, and bold of tongue. She bore
 
 NEW YORK. 239 
 
 herself with a bacchanal sort of abandonment, cracked 
 vulgar jokes, bared her red guins in cackling laughter, 
 ogled the judge, simpered saucily at the jury, the law 
 yers, the spectators. Toward the prisoner she showed a 
 certain furtive sympathy and the worst admissions wrung 
 from her regarding his ruthless blackmail were tinged 
 with a matter-of-course exculpation, as though he had 
 only done what any official in his tempted position might 
 have been expected to do, and no more than what she 
 herself might have done if their sexes and mutual rela 
 tions had been reversed. 
 
 "I warned you, "muttered Courtelyou, embarrassedly, 
 to Doris. "We can go at once if you wish." 
 
 "No not yet. " He thought he had never seen her 
 so pale, and at the corners of her mouth was a peculiar 
 tensity that implied mental suffering. "It is horrible, 
 yet it's life. If she were a man I might go. But we 
 women have always shirked too much the degradation of 
 our own sex. If I fight fastidiousness and disgust now, 
 I may gain a certain strength of aid hereafter. Perhaps 
 you don't understand, but let it pass." 
 
 Courtelyou made no reply. He felt, however, that he 
 did understand. Martha had told him of Doris' almost 
 secret work in a certain Magdalen asylum, and of her 
 self-confessed personal associations with women there, 
 her pleadings, arguments, entreaties, and actual offices 
 of affectionate fellowship. Of all this Frank Crevelling 
 was well aware, and had held with her serious talks con 
 cerning it. The next woman called to the witness-chair 
 was a hag of skinny features, with big, rolling black 
 eyes that were/ lairs of rage and spite. She flashed with 
 them her hatred at the prisoner, who had now become 
 tremulous and disarrayed. Doris, from her standpoint 
 of compassion, pitied him more than ever. All his 
 athletic grandeur had undergone a wilting change. An 
 anxious stoop had got into his shoulders, a frown scared 
 and peevish, puckered his brows; on either cheek burned 
 a vivid scarlet spot. 
 
 The woman with the malevolent eyes and lean face 
 had repeatedly to be called to order, so abusive was the 
 language in which she recountered her persecutor's cruel
 
 230 NEW YORK. 
 
 briberies. But in spite of their vindictive savagery both 
 her speech aud presence carried conviction. Twice or 
 thrice she lifted her clinched bony hand and shook it at 
 Cummisky. There was never, she averred, a meaner or 
 more cowardly wretch. She, and not a few maltreated 
 beings like her, had helped to pay for this villain's big 
 new house up near the park and the diamonds that blazed 
 on his wife's person. His salary could never have 
 brought him the luxuries he lived in, and he knew that 
 others knew it and talked of it, but what had he cared? 
 For such as himself, he had thought, there would never 
 be a day of reckoning. But once, about three years ago, 
 she had warned him, threatened him. He had laughed 
 in her face, and snapped his fingers in it; and afterward, 
 with his brazen impudence, he had "put the screws on 
 her," as he called it, tighter than ever. 
 
 This witness, because of her furious gestures and 
 gnashing of teeth, narrowly missed being imprisoned 
 for contempt of court. But despite all its venomous 
 ferment, its palpable personal grudge, her evidence told 
 fearfully against the prisoner. A recess was taken after 
 she quitted the stand, and Courtelyou then said to Doris. 
 
 "Surelj- you don't care to stay longer." 
 
 "No," she replied, her low voice unsteady. "Thank 
 you for not having sooner insisted on my going." Here 
 a smile flitted across her pale lips a smile, he could not 
 help deciding, of delicate dissent. And at once confirm 
 ing this swift impression, she added while she rose from 
 her seat: "I should have opposed you, for I was bent on 
 remaining. But now, as you suggest, let us go." 
 
 That afternoon, when the session of the court broke 
 up, Captain Commisky slipped out into the street, fol 
 lowed by his wife, his boyish-looking son, and a daughter 
 just past her girlhood. They all four entered a carriage 
 with much expedition. Several friends and adherents, 
 wearing looks of condolence and compassion, strove to 
 detain him on the sidewalk. But he shook his head, as 
 though denying them all privilege of converse. And 
 then, while he was stepping forward into the carriage at 
 whose open door waited his son, two newspaper reporters 
 beset him.
 
 NEW YORK. 231 
 
 "Captain Cummisky, " began one, "will you " 
 
 "No, no," he said, with a wave of his high-lifted 
 hand. "I ain't got anything to say not anything at 
 all." 
 
 Then the other: "Captain, just a word, if you 
 please " 
 
 But the next instant his large frame stooped and shot 
 plunging into the carriage, where his wife and daughter 
 were already seated. Then his son darted in after him, 
 and closed the door with a bang. A shade was hastily 
 pulled down ; the carriage rolled away. 
 
 Captain Cummisky 's home was far uptown, a modern 
 structure of whitish stone, with rich carvings on stoop 
 and facade. He entered it wearily, watched by the 
 worried looks of his kindred. All were what might be 
 called vulgar people; not so very long ago he had been a 
 common policeman. But the interior of the house 
 breathed refinement, except for a few gaudy or graceless 
 details. Talented architects and upholsterers had waited 
 his command. Their taste, and not his or his family's, 
 reigned everywhere. 
 
 He had spoken only in monosyllables during the home 
 ward drive. He appeared stunned, though little bursts 
 of rage had varied his torpor. He went at once upstairs 
 into the front room, beautifully appointed and furnished, 
 and said to his wife, with a hand on the knob of the 
 door: 
 
 "I guess I'll lay down on the sofa here for a little 
 while. Don't you come in, Ann. It's all right. I'll 
 brace up before long. And I won't see any one, you 
 understand." Then he paused for a moment, and his 
 mouth twitched nervously. "Unless " he commenced. 
 "But never mind that, " he suddenly hurried on. "Re 
 member, if anybody comes, I won't see 'em, no matter 
 who." 
 
 Then he closed the door, and soon he had unlocked a 
 cabinet and poured himself from a handsome cut-glass 
 decanter a copious draught of liquor. The stimulant 
 composed him, and also set him thinking with clearness 
 of just what had happened. The bail he had given weeks 
 ago was exceedingly large. He knew that punishment
 
 232 NEW YORK. 
 
 and reform were in the air, that old Tammany usages 
 were being sternly menaced, that New York was waking, 
 governmentally, from the lethargy which had succeeded 
 its passionate arousal after the overthrow of the Tweed 
 infamies. But so many other malefactors were "in the 
 same boat" with himself, and those Avho might be 
 dragged forth as his accusers were so steeped in wrong 
 doing, that he had gone to court, that morning, with 
 slight fear of the Draconian tactics which were destined 
 to make him their first victim. Doris, if she could then 
 have looked into his sinful soul, would have pitied him 
 more than ever. He reviewed his past, from the time 
 that he sold papers in lower Broadway, with a drunken 
 father to beat him every night that he brought home less 
 than a certain expected number of cents, to the time 
 when he walked proudly in his gold buttons, conscious 
 of how they became his manly beauty. Everything that 
 he had done of an immoral sort had seemed to him as 
 natural as breathing. Nobody had ever blamed him; it 
 had all literally been with him, as Doris had said to 
 Courtelyou, like the teaching of the Spartan boy to steal. 
 Toughs and roughs and thugs and heelers had been his 
 intimates. The pride of increased wealth had created in 
 him exclusiveness, as it nearly always does with his 
 most educated superiors. He had married a woman of 
 the people, but he had loved her, and been a good hus 
 band to her, though not any more faithful a one than 
 hundreds of his associates, and the two children she had 
 borne him he had paternally treasured from the hours of 
 their births. 
 
 Disgrace? He had never given it a thought. Black 
 mail had seemed his proper prerogative. If he had 
 grown richer at it than a few others who plied the same 
 trade, so much the luckier he. Being a Catholic, he had 
 often given considerable sums to the church. He had 
 not the religious ardor which sends Catholics to confes 
 sion, but if he had gone at certain intervals to a priest 
 and disburdened his soul of its sins, he would never 
 have dreamed of mentioning these hideous crimes for 
 which he was now being so fiercely arraigned. The dis 
 gusting perquisites attached to them had for him no
 
 NEW YORK. 233 
 
 taint of real theft. He scarcelj r ever spoke to a man 
 who would have taken, under like conditions, a different 
 course from his own. Morally he had grown as unepi- 
 curean as the hog that quaffs the swill thrown to it and 
 has no concern with the daintier animals bent on choicer 
 diet. The blackness of municipal politics did not trouble 
 his conscience in the least. And when we reflect that 
 men held as gentlemen were conscious of his rascalit3 r 
 and yet solicited his power of controlling a distinct 
 plenitude of votes for their party, how can we marvel 
 that no self-accusing pangs assailed him? Beside, in a 
 way, he had served the city with valor and fidelity. 
 Long ago it had been said of him that his record, as a 
 breaker up of desperate and unruly gangs had become a 
 "handsome" one. Praise for gallantry, for efficient 
 sentinelship and vigilance had rung incessantly in his 
 ears. Till the crash came he had not merely deemed 
 himself safe; he had no more anticipated the first lash- 
 stroke dealt him by this whip of scorpions than he had 
 expected, any morning, to see a lizard swimming in his 
 coffee cup, or a rattlesnake coiled at his bedroom door. 
 And now a great gulf of horror yawned before him. 
 Arrest was imminent. The steadying brandy had 
 lulled his sharper aches of fear, but unassuagable 
 qualms continued. 
 
 Meanwhile his wife and son and daughter were seated 
 together, not far away from him. They stared into one 
 another's faces with an immense, unspeakable dread. 
 They, too, expected an arrest, in spite of the enormous 
 bail. The woman trembled and sighed; the girl wept at 
 intervals; the boy's face was white and set. They 
 looked into one another's eyes and could not forget the 
 shame that had fallen upon themselves. They communi 
 cated it, each to each, in this piteous way, and then 
 dropped their gaze, ashamed of the shame that made 
 them even transiently unmindful of his torturing solitude. 
 But he had commanded of them this solitude; they 
 dared not disturb it; they had no power to relieve it. 
 
 His influence was strong upon them all three- They 
 thought him infamously wronged, just as he then 
 thought himself. Those devilish anti-Tammanyites,
 
 234 NEW YORK. 
 
 with their committee of investigation from that self-ad 
 miring and rottenly corrupt Republican hole of an Albany 
 were martyrizing him for their own party profit. This 
 is what he had told them, and this is what they believed ; 
 and in asserting him a victim rather than a criminal they 
 were far more right than they guessed. He was the 
 spawn of an evil code, a political civic grossness, which 
 Lad nourished him from its poisoned paps and then 
 reared him for the commission and perpetuation of its 
 own beloved misdeeds. His ignorance was the excuse of 
 his vileness; be had been the pupil of blackguardism, 
 not its master. 
 
 "You go in and see him, Lucy," at length murmured 
 his wife. "I guess you might say something to cheer 
 him up." 
 
 Lucy rose. She stood hesitatingly for a moment. 
 Then, with sudden fervor, she said: "Mother! Fred! 
 Each of you!" The tears were strangling her voice. 
 
 They both rose, pierced by a novel note in her tones, 
 a note insistent, summoning. She caught a hand of 
 each, drawing them quite close to her. 
 
 "Mother Fred let's all three go together. He's 
 never given us anything but love and kindness. I can 
 count on my fingers the times he's spoken harsh!}' to me, 
 and, Fred, so can you! And every time we know we 
 deserved it. Never mind if he wants to be alone. Let's 
 all three go right into the room. He couldn't be really 
 unkind to us; it isn't in him. He's afraid of breaking 
 down before us. And it would be so much better if he 
 once did break down! Then we'd all feel nearer to him, 
 whatever happens. Come, now; let's go right in." 
 
 And here Lucy, with a faint cry, flung away both the 
 hands that she held. 
 
 "What was it? what was it?" she gasped. 
 
 Fred had even now dashed forward. Lucy and her 
 mother, clinging together, waited in speechless terror. 
 A certain sound had come to them, deadened as by a 
 closed door, yet thrillingly ominous. They listened 
 for another sound, in their anguish of suspense. And 
 soon they heard it Fred's cry, full of agonized discov 
 ery. And then, still clinging to one another, they stag-
 
 NEW YORTC. 235 
 
 gered toward the frightful Something that they knew 
 would soon rack and appal them. 
 
 Next morning the front pages of the newspapers told 
 in mammoth headlines of Captain Cummisky's death by a 
 self-inflicted pistol shot, almost at the very moment when 
 officers of the law had mounted the stoop of his fine up 
 town residence for the purpose of presenting him with a 
 warrant of arrest and dragging him to the Tombs that 
 prison to which he had consigned so many a culprit in 
 the past years of his bad eminence, his dauntless and 
 unmolested glory.
 
 236 NEW YORK. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 I come in, Cousin Albert?" 
 
 Doris spoke, standing a 4 : the door of Mr. Josselyn's 
 library. Then a little laugh followed, aa she coolly 
 opened the door. "I did't wait for permission, did I?" 
 she went on. 
 
 "You're not usually even so ceremonious as this, 
 Doris," her cousin smiled. 
 
 "Don't paint me in unpleasant colors to Mr. George," 
 she said, "before you've made me acquainted with him." 
 
 The new secretary had risen. He held some loose 
 papers in his hand. He had been seated at Mr. Josse 
 lyn's side, and had been reading aloud from these to his 
 employer, who now slowly rose also, with a curious 
 timid and hesitant loo 1 :. 
 
 For Josselyn the moment was keenly awkward, though 
 he had prepared himself some time ago to meet it, know 
 ing it inevitable. One could never tell what marvels of 
 discovery that penetrant young gaze of Doris' might not 
 accomplish. With his wife it would all be a careless, 
 taken-for-granted affair, he had felt assured, and such it 
 indeed had proved. 
 
 He acquitted himself, however, with a good deal of 
 unuspicious ease. "Let me then make you acquainted 
 with Mr. George at once," he said, and added, carelessly 
 jocose: "This is my cousin, Miss Josselyn, who could 
 stand being painted in unpleasant colors if anybody were 
 so cruel as to do her that injustice." 
 
 Doris and the secretary looked full into one another's 
 eyes. Then she held out her hand to him, and gave his 
 a quick, social little shake. In "her own house" this
 
 NEW YORK. 237 
 
 seemed neither bold nor modest, but merely the natural 
 act of greeting. Beside, there was something about his 
 face that had instantly pleased her. With its short 
 though dense and high-growing brown beard, it some 
 how made her think of a soldier one who might be very 
 brave but was never cruel. 
 
 "I suppose you're a New Yorker, Mr. George?" she 
 said, when they were all three seated. 
 
 "No," he replied, and here his glance caught that of 
 Josselyn, though swiftb' withdrawn from it the next 
 second; "I belong to the the the interior of the 
 State. I a was born there." 
 
 "Yes, I see," said Doris, "and you afterward drifted 
 here. So many people do, don't they?" Her look 
 floated away from his face, which she had found, in this 
 brief time, peculiarly interesting because of a certain 
 union in it of strength and patience. It did not appear 
 old at all, and yet it appeared to wear the wisdom of 
 suffering if not of maturitj'. 
 
 "I have had such an exciting and saddening time to 
 day with Osborne Courtelyou," she said to Josselyn. 
 Mr. George started a little, but she did not observe him. 
 "He took me to Captain Cummisky's trial." 
 
 "Good heavens, Doris! "Where will you be going 
 next?" 
 
 Doris unpinned her hat and took it off. She let it lie 
 in her lap while she smoothed the wavy chestnut hair 
 back from her transparent temples, each with its vague 
 branchwork of blue veins, fine as the traceries of frost 
 ferns. She was still far from passing that age( perhaps 
 she would never think about either passing it or not) 
 when a beautiful woman is afraid of sitting with the 
 light on her face. And a rather strong light from two 
 large windows now played full upon her pearl-pure 
 throat, lifting, as a stem lifts a tea-rose, the choice and 
 chaste symmetries and tintings above it. You could not 
 have called her by so weighty a word as "handsome"and 
 yet you must have resented simply calling her pretty. 
 She challenged with her commingled assertion of femi 
 ninity and dignity, of loveliness and power, the finding of 
 some new and subtler intermediate term.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I'm not sorry I went," she said, "though I shall 
 dream of it all to-night. I suppose," with reminiscent 
 shudders. "This Captain Cummisky is such a pitiable 
 case! Of course he has been guilty of the very worst 
 official venality. But all the while I kept feeling how 
 much less blamable he is than if he were some really 
 educated man, with educational advantages, who had 
 gone only a few steps on the road of wrongdoing." 
 
 Albert Josselyn gave an uncomfortable cough. He 
 kept his eyes averted from Mr. George, who in turn 
 stared down at the loose papers which he still held. 
 
 And then, with her wonted freedom and frankness, 
 Doris had a great deal more to say. She described all 
 that she had seen of the trial with a graphic and often 
 brilliant realism. She touched upon the manners and 
 aspects and seeming credibility of the most noteworthy 
 witnesses in a way that suggested their grossness with 
 out portraying it. The rapid sentences fled from her 
 lips with a volubility plainly stimulated by the most 
 intense moral earnestness and regret. "Ignorance, 
 ignorance, " she ended, "was everywhere. I saw indig 
 nation on the faces of certain respectable-looking persons, 
 but for myself I felt none whatever. Indeed, apart from 
 the compassion which at times almost stifled me, I had a 
 sense of compunction, of actual shame. It was part, I 
 suppose, of the natural debt which we all owe these be 
 nighted creatures, who have so much excuse for their 
 depravity a recognition that some power in the past 
 had pulled me out of the mire in which they were 
 plunged, and that this power had been human sympathy, 
 and that I in turn had not taken my full individual share 
 of the saving work which must go on from generation to 
 generation till all society has grown fortressed against 
 the possibility of such heathen crime." 
 
 She was addressing her cousin; she had often talked 
 to him like this before; he was familiar with her present 
 mood, the eager staccato of her tones when it possessed 
 her, the vivid play of her features, the lucid dilation of 
 her large gray eyes. She had almost forgotten that the 
 new secretary was also her listener, and now turned 
 toward him with a startled motion as he said :
 
 NEW YORK. 239 
 
 "You have so much pity for the ignorant criminal that 
 I am led to believe you would hare none at all for the 
 educated one." 
 
 "What a strange thing for you to say to her!" the soft 
 eyes of Albert Josselyn now seemed mildly to flash at 
 Mr. George. 
 
 "The greater one's enlightenment, " said Doris, "the 
 lesser one's temptation. Don't you agree with me?" 
 
 "On general principles yes. " He fancied, in his in 
 ward nervousness, that his voice shook a little; but he 
 was wrong; it was quite firm. "Still, temptation as 
 sumes emotional forms, now and then, and there are 
 many examples, I think, where culture has not proved 
 against it a stout enough safeguard." 
 
 Doris knit her brows musingly for a moment. "Oh, 
 yes." -Then she gave a slight, plaintive laugh. "Ah, I 
 fear that my pity for all who are tempted is very quick 
 to leap forth. I should make an absurdly lenient judge. 
 The instant I had any clear perception of actual human 
 struggle against evil I am sure I should feel immensely 
 sorry for the struggler in his weakness and defeat." 
 
 "God bless you! I knew it," said Mr. George. But 
 he did not say this aloud. 
 
 Doris looked at her cousin. "There is a case in point. 
 George Oliver," she added, speaking the name very 
 swiftly and with lowered key, though Josselyn was not 
 alone in catching it. Then, immediately afterward, she 
 turned again to the secretary. "Mr. Josselyn and I 
 know of a young man who had every incentive to remain 
 honorable, having been graduated from the New York 
 College here, and with a fine record beside. If I told 
 you whom I mean you would probably recall the person 
 at once, for a new distinct notoriety just now clings to 
 him of a peculiar sort. And he, in spite of marked in 
 telligence, respected position and refined family in 
 fluence, allowed himself to be led into a defalcation for 
 which three years of prison were the punishment." 
 
 There was silence. Mr. George dropped all his papers 
 on the floor, and while he was picking them up, Doris 
 rose. 
 
 "Well," she continued, "I must be going. I really
 
 240 NEW YORK. 
 
 think, Cousin Albert, that I shall try how it feels to take 
 a nap in the daytime. Excitement has for once tired 
 me out; and they are giving, you know, a little festival, 
 this evening at one of the 'homes' downtown." 
 
 She vanished with a nod and a smile to each of them. 
 Hardly had she quitted the room, when Josselyn said, 
 in an agitated murmur "How strange! You under 
 stood, of course, that she meant " 
 
 "Understood!" shot in George Oliver. "I heard her 
 pronounce my name, though she spoke it so low and 
 quick." He had laid, now, the gathered-up papers on 
 the table near by. He sank into his chair again ; he was 
 pale, and seemed unstrung. "So soon as this!" he went 
 on, under his breath. 
 
 Josselyn drew close to him and touched his arm. 
 "George," he said, "you would come here, remember. 
 I'd have helped you. to get away to get far away if 
 you'd only chosen to accept my offer. But if you fore 
 see trying future embarrassments, and all that, it isn't 
 too late to change your resolve. You and Doris will 
 often be brought face to face. She's keen wonderfully 
 keen. The whole truth might flash upon her at an in 
 stant's notice. Not that she'd ever mention it to my 
 wife or my daughter. Her first impulse, I'm certain, 
 would be to guard the secret. And, as I told you, she 
 has been anxious for some time to meet you, face to face, 
 the Lynsko trial having roused her deepest interest in 
 both 3 r our past and your future. Still, if you now feel 
 that my other proposed plan would be preferable " 
 
 George's look had been lowered, but he now lifted it, 
 and meet Josselyn 's kind, anxious eyes. 
 
 "No; I'll stay on, if you'll let me."
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 n. 
 
 LATER, that same afternoon, while George walked home 
 to his lodgings, which were only a few blocks away, the 
 November suu had almost died in the hazy heaven. At 
 one or two street crossings he saw its big disk of blurred 
 gold poised above remote Hudson shores. The air was 
 wooingly bland ; people moved past him with a slowness 
 that seemed borrowed from its lazy repose. But George 
 had caught no indolent contagion ; he could have danced 
 along the pavement for sheer triumph and joy. And 
 now that he was alone with the whirl and tremor of a 
 new beatitude for his sole company, recent words that 
 he had spoken to Albert Josselyn seemed inconceivably 
 tame and chill. How could he ever have controlled him 
 self like that? By what lucky resource of composure 
 had he profited? Why did his precious concealed pas 
 sion for Doris not leap forth, shattering all attempted 
 restraint? "No, I'll stay on if you'll let me, "he had 
 said; and then, just like a man whose nerves were not 
 in an antic tingle and whose veins were not in a tropic 
 glow, he had gone on saying: "What money I get I 
 want to earn. Your salary is very liberal. I can save 
 a great deal out of it. We've talked this all over, you 
 will recollect. When I do go away I'd like to feel that my 
 own efforts have enabled me to make the change, and not 
 your charity, however benign. And then there's your 
 Denver property that you want looked after. If you 
 consent to put me in charge of it at some future day, I 
 should like you to do this with some sort of practical 
 certainty that the confidence you now place, in me haa 
 not been too rashly bestowed." 
 
 "Deceitful words!" George now told himself. "For 
 why did I ever seek Albert Josselyn 's help at all except 
 through a burning desire to be somehow nearer to 
 her?"
 
 NEW YORK. . 
 
 After Lydia's lonesome little funeral he had endured 
 agonies of depression. There was no further visible 
 chance of his finding any one who would trust him under 
 his own name, and to assume an a/;'as and seek a situa 
 tion was from lack of all recommendation, equally futile. 
 It now all came to this: Should he use -what money was 
 left him and travel hundreds of miles into the interior of 
 the country, or should he make an immediate end of his 
 life? Almost he had concluded to take the latter course. 
 "What keeps me from taking it?" he yet found himself 
 asking, and the answer, which was "Doris Josselyn," 
 burned sharply forth from that dubious mist of reluct 
 ance which he knew was neither hate of death nor fear 
 of it. He still clung to life because it encompassed love. 
 Every other hope or incentive or desire would bo com 
 paratively easy to quit. Still, however, he stood for a 
 long and desolate interval on the verge of self-destruc 
 tion. Then, one day, in a paper, he read that the Josse- 
 lyns had returned to town. 
 
 It cost him a hard struggle to approach Albert Josse 
 lyn, but at last youth and love conquered pride, and he 
 yielded. Meanwhile, for weeks past, he had let his 
 beard grow, and now felt confident that it would disguise 
 in him a strong resemblance to his father. As it 
 chanced, the day of his visit was one of Josselyn 's "down 
 town days." George's name was brought to him in his 
 private office as simply "Mr. George/' He was never 
 an unapproachable man, and straightway consented to 
 see the person thus calling himself. The next hour had 
 been perhaps the most memorable in Albert Josselyn's 
 life. 
 
 People had often called him the slave of his wife, and 
 in a manner this was true. But his slavery had, never 
 theless, been a somewhat willing one. Still, it had 
 known moments of rebellion ; and non-interference with 
 the affairs of his unhappy nephew had sharply marked a 
 mood of this combative kind. He had been very fond of 
 George's father in former years. The quarrel about 
 Lydia had been chiefly of Mrs. Josselyn's making. 
 George's trial had proved a stern one to himself sterner 
 than his staying away from Eobert Oliver's funeral,
 
 NEW YORK. 243 
 
 which had cost him pangs. But always his wife's "No" 
 stood forcibly obstructive. She was a cruel woman with 
 lovable qualities a tender tyrant in the sense of a 
 spouse, yet tyrannical, none the less. He feared her, 
 yet he was very fond of her so fond that dread of her 
 displeasure came natural to him. If she had been a 
 mere domestic shrew and despot he might long ago have 
 openly opposed her will. 
 
 The Lynsko trial had softened his heart afresh toward 
 George, as we have seen in his pointed and feeling ques 
 tions to Courtelyou. And now, at the very time when 
 he had wanted a secretary, George came to him with this 
 appeal : 
 
 "Yes, I am George Oliver, as I have just told you. I 
 stand here before you as a living example of the horrible 
 down-treading curse which attaches to a man whom the 
 prison taint has once touched. To my great surprise 
 you have told me that you are regretful of your former 
 treatment of both my poor father and myself. To my 
 great surprise, also, you have heard with the richest sym 
 pathy my whole miserable story. The bold, undaunted 
 help that I have been wanting I cannot find. You will 
 not give it me you, the last of them all. For you shall 
 be the last, Albert Josselyn; I am resolved never to try 
 again. But if you will let me serve you under a false 
 name I will consent to such a plan. The secret can stay 
 between ourselves. I think that my past experience in 
 the bank, and certain natural business aptitudes beside, 
 will combine to render me a real practical aid in the 
 future management of your affairs. There need be no 
 compact between us. Osborne Courtelyou, as you tell 
 me, is an acquaintance whom you never meet except dur 
 ing social hours. But even if he and I were brought 
 together, now, however, I doubt if he would recognize 
 me, so much am I changed by this new growth of beard 
 on my thinned face the face in which you admit that 
 you can see scarcely a vestige of resemblance to my dead 
 father." 
 
 And so, for the first time since his marriage, Albert 
 Josselyn had taken an important step without consulting 
 his wife. But also it was a step which he knew she
 
 244 NEW YORK. 
 
 would veto and condemn. And yet the man's conscience 
 quivered applaudingly at his new act. There was repa 
 ration in it, and a species of comfort and consolation 
 as well. 
 
 Doris, with a vague idea of taking her nap, that after 
 noon, went upstairs to her own pretty and commodious 
 quarters. At the landing of a final stairway, however, 
 she came into full view of Mrs. Josselyn. 
 
 "Cousin Ellen! You look strange worried not your 
 self, what is it?" 
 
 "I heard you'd got home, Doris. Have you had 
 luncheon?" 
 
 "Why, yes, of course. You gave orders that I should 
 be served with luxuries, as usual. I'm so sorry to have 
 been late. But, answer me are you not well? You 
 have such an odd, anxious look." 
 
 "Luxuries! You ate a morsel of chicken, nibbled at a 
 roll, and then went up to your Cousin Albert. Doris, 
 you're exciting yourself out of your natural appetite by 
 this search for adventure." 
 
 "Adventure! What a name for it! Whore were you? 
 I wanted to tell both you and Grace how stirring a time 
 I have had. Bnt I could only find Cousin Albert, seated 
 beside his new secretary. I think Mr. George very at 
 tractive. Do you know, his eyes " 
 
 "Oh, never mind Mr. George. I was sure that you'd 
 discover something remarkable in him. He is simply a 
 tall, clean-limbed young man, with a nice curly brown 
 beard. My dear girl, you didn't find me when you came 
 home late for luncheon, as you so constantly do, because 
 I was with Grace in her own room, trying to console 
 her." 
 
 "Console her? For what?" 
 
 "Come in here, and I'll tell you. I mnst tell you." 
 And they passed together into the sitting room of Doris, 
 light-tinted and tasteful. 
 
 "Lord Brecknock had a talk with me this morning," 
 Mrs. Josselyn soon recommenced. 
 
 "You mean the important talk, Cousin Ellen?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I supposed he would go to the father first. Isn't 
 that customary with English suitors?"
 
 NEW YORK. 245 
 
 "No doubt it is. But I told Grace to drop him a hint 
 that he had better come to me. It was simply saving 
 time, you know, and sparing her father needless trouble. " 
 
 "Oh, certainly," said Doris, with an amused little 
 smile, faint and satiric. 
 
 "Well, my dear, he presented himself this afternoon, 
 and asked for Grace, who held a short talk with him, 
 and then went upstairs and said to me that his lordship 
 would like a few minutes' converse with myself. Grace's 
 eyes were sparkling and her cheeks wore two rosy spots. 
 Poor, dear child, I'm so sorry for her I'm so sorry for 
 her!" And here Mrs. Josselyn, bursting into tears, 
 leaned her head on Doris' shoulder. 
 
 The recital that followed might be treated more 
 clearly by an impersonal chronicling of the actual facts 
 with which it dealt. 
 
 Lord Brecknock had shaken hands with Mrs. Josselyn 
 in a somewhat embarrassed way. It was not long, how 
 ever, before he said, with fair composure : 
 
 "I have done myself the honor of asking your daughter 
 to be my wife, and she has given me the happiness of 
 granting her consent." . Mrs. Josselyn tried not to smile 
 too radiantly. "I can't say, Lord Brecknock, that this 
 is quite unexpected news." 
 
 "No no. I fancied it would not be, my dear Mrs. 
 Josselyn. Miss Grace er as you must have seen, has 
 permitted mj r attentions for some time." 
 
 "You have been kind enough to extend them, as I 
 could not help observing. A mother's eyes are keen, of 
 course I preferred that you should address me first, 
 and frankly told my daughter so. Mr. Josselyn is not 
 very strong, just now, and I thought it best that I 
 should announce this happy event to him before you and 
 he spoke together." 
 
 Lord Brecknock nodded amiably, and smoothed, for a 
 moment, the bridge of his impressive arched nose with 
 one dogskin-clad hand. The nose was hereditary a 
 kind of birthright, like his earldom of Brecknock, his 
 more ancient barony of Meadmere, and his still more an 
 cient baronetcy which also m-ade him Sir Alfred Aber- 
 gavenny.
 
 246 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Then you mean, my dear Mrs. Josselyn, that it's 
 best you and I should discuss together the entire prac 
 tical part of the engagement?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Grace's mother, with a secret bristling 
 at the word "practical," though she kept every feature 
 inscrutably serene. "I hope the discussion may not 
 prove too serious." 
 
 "Serious?" laughed Lord Brecknock, in a joyless, 
 vacant way. He began to slap the arm of his chair, and 
 gazed diligently at that part of it which he smote. "I'm 
 not in the least a man of business, myself. I I hate 
 money, except for what it'll bring, don't your know?" 
 
 "Most of us do, in reality." 
 
 "Do you think so, now? do you truly think so? I've 
 found such a lot of people who don't. Money with 'em 
 is more the haviu' than spendin' it. But of course one 
 must have, you know, or one can't spend." Here the 
 young man appealed, with a sudden wistful look, to his 
 auditor, who bowed approbation of this profound finan 
 cial idea. 
 
 "I'm so awfully fond of Grace," he went on, after a 
 silence allowed by Mrs. Josselyn to widen between them 
 for reasons which she herself best understood "so tre 
 mendously fond, you know, that I hate to think of er 
 settlements in any way whatever. Still, they've got to 
 be thought of some time or another." 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Josselyn. "You're aware of 
 course, though, Lord Brecknock, that here in America a 
 girl's dowry is not by any means taken for granted." 
 
 He looked surprised, then embarrassed, then jocular. 
 
 "Oh, ah, yes I've heard there were no regular settle 
 ments here. We manage differently in the old country 
 I don't say it's any wiser of us, but we do. And as 
 for my own case ; I well, really, you may perhaps have 
 heard that I'm not more than fairly well off for a man of 
 my rank or whatever one pleases to call it." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn knew the value of dignity, and just 
 when its value was most telling. "If I had 'heard' 
 anything about your private affairs I should have lis 
 tened very carelessly to the gossipmouger who might 
 have volunteered as my informant please be sure of
 
 NEW YORK. 247 
 
 this. But I think you will recall having told me, not 
 long ago, during a little talk, that you are not a rich 
 man in the sense of being also an English nobleman." 
 
 "True true. I remember perfectly. And I I re 
 member findin' you so er sympathetic. I told you 
 about the expenses of keepiu' up my place, Scrope House, 
 in Nottin'hamshire, and my other smaller place, Aber- 
 gavenny Lodge." 
 
 There was now a second silence, which Mrs. Josselyn 
 chose rather loiteringly to break. "It seems, then, that 
 you would expect some sort of settlement to use your 
 own English phrase?" 
 
 "Expect it?" said the young man, with a sort of sud 
 den reproachfulness in his disturbed manner. "I'd I'd 
 thought you wouldn't put the matter so so formally 
 upon my word, I had!" It was easy to see that he felt 
 dashed and shy and awkward, and that the present inter 
 view was rapidly becoming tinged for him with disap 
 pointment and annoyance. 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn laughed, though very genially. "If 
 there's any question of putting the matter. Lord 
 Brecknock, I should say that you and not I should do 
 the ice-breaking. But I'll take the initiative if you so 
 wish. You care for Grace and want her to be your 
 wife?" 
 
 "Oh, yes indeed, yes!" 
 
 "Well, then. You think she should go to you wifch a 
 dowry a settlement?" Here Mrs. Josselyn surveyed 
 the clasped hands in her lap, and refrained from further 
 speech. She had somehow contrived to make the air of 
 the room pregnant with demand, imperative yet suave. 
 
 "That's that's what I've taken as a certainty, " al 
 most stammered the young man. Then, with a success 
 ful effort to control his disarray, he said, much more 
 tranquilly: "My dear lady, sinee it must be a confab 
 about dollars and cents, pounds and shillings, with you 
 instead of my hoped-for-father-in-law, pray let us get it 
 over as soon as possible!" 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn raised her eyes. "You request a dot 
 with Grace? How much? How much in " She 
 paused, filling the pause with a bright, cold smile
 
 248 NEW YORK. 
 
 "hard cash?" Lord Brecknock became a tremor of un 
 easiness, moving in his chair as though it teemed with 
 pin-points. 
 
 "Ah, won't you say how much?" he flung out, half- 
 pleadingly. 
 
 "Yes, if you prefer. We will settle on Grace two 
 hundred thousand dollars. The income, ten thousand a 
 year, or thereabouts, will be hers for life. The principal 
 she cannot touch. In case of her death without children, 
 it goes to you. If she has children it will be divided 
 equally among them, according to American custom and 
 by American legal prearrangement. " 
 
 "Mrs. Josselyn! Can you mean it?" The young 
 man, with a forearm on either knee, was staring aston- 
 ishedly into the face of his interlocutress. 
 
 "You seem bewildered." 
 
 "I I'm more than that. Two hundred thousand 
 dol forty thousand pounds! No, no; you can't mean 
 it!" 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn felt her face harden, her lips tighten. 
 "You anticipated more?" 
 
 "More! Oh, come now, you're joking. You must be 
 joking." 
 
 "I don't quite like your telling me so, if you please. 
 The dot is a very handsome one." 
 
 "Handsome!" the young man shivered palpably. 
 "Lord bless me, Mrs. Josselyn, do you want us to wait 
 for your husband to die?" 
 
 "I don't understand you." She spoke austerely. 
 
 "But I didn't wish to be uncivil please believe that 
 I didn't!" 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn 's chin was in the air. "What on earth 
 did you expect Grace to cross the ocean with?" 
 
 He straightened himself in his chair, grasping both 
 arms of it. He looked agitated, irritated, even defiant, 
 but somehow he did not look in the least ungentleman- 
 like. 
 
 "I supposed her dower would be a million." 
 
 "A million? Are you dreaming?" 
 
 His fresh young features grew oddly resolute. "A 
 million at least^"
 
 NEW YORK. 249 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn was pressing a handkerchief against her 
 lips, and so strenuously that she seemed to be restrain 
 ing a shriek. Soon she dashed aside the light cambric 
 filament. She was bitterly angry. She had not always 
 been what is termed a "ladj'." The old life of struggle 
 as a dressmaker had put into her temperamental fihre a 
 certain coarseness never eradicated. Deep as was the 
 crust of latter-day self-culture, certain volcanic emo 
 tional stress could crack it, and with big, ugly fissures. 
 One of these spiritually yawned in her now, as she sat 
 trembling before her guest. 
 
 "Do you love my daughter?" 
 
 "Ah, Mrs. Josselyn, what a question. ' 
 
 "Then, if you love Grace, you should be willing to 
 take her without a dollar." 
 
 "From parents like hers?" He spoke with an almost 
 beseeching gentleness. "From parents of very great 
 wealth, to whom a million as dowry would mean so 
 little?" He could not have said anything to distress his 
 hearer more keenly and to change more speedily her 
 wrath into a mask of deceptive pride. 
 
 It flashed through her now, with pangs of savage 
 sorrow, that she had for some years past subtly aided 
 the popular exaggeration of her husband's fortune, and 
 done her deceitful best to make people believe him far 
 richer than he really was. This very duplicity, at a 
 time when the possession of great wealth was the one 
 surest passport to fashionable distinction, had aided her 
 in marked degree. Nearly all large fortunes, in New 
 York, are doubled if not quadrupled by rumor. One 
 day at a reception Mrs. Josselyn, standing in the thick 
 est of the crush, had heard two women speak of 
 herself and husband, a few inches behind her back. 
 "Thej'say, "muttered one, "that he took out of his busi 
 ness a clean five million." One million was all he had 
 taken out, and yet the currency of this falsehood had 
 proved a pleasuring bit of knowledge. The prospect of 
 Grace becoming Lady Brecknock had dizzied her with 
 delight; but ever since the young Briton's attentions had 
 grown emphatic, she had dreaded some such demand al 
 most as exorbitant as the present one though not quite.
 
 250 NEW YORK. 
 
 "There are very few parents," she now said, "to whom 
 a million would mean little. Grace is our only child, 
 our sole heir. Hereafter, if she survive us, she will have 
 much more, of course. But any different arrangement 
 is at present impossible." 
 
 "I'm so sorry I'm so sorry!" said Lord Brecknock, 
 stroking his chin while he leaned dejectedly forward 
 with an elbow on his knee. 
 
 "Sorry? and for what?" exclaimed Mrs. Josselyn, her 
 ire again kindling. 
 
 "Why, simply because I'm compelled to give up all 
 thought of marrying your charming daughter." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn rose. "Then you admit yourself a 
 mere fortune-hunter." 
 
 Growing very red Lord Brecknock rose also. "My 
 dear madam, is not this terribly unkind?" 
 
 "On your part it is terribly cold-blooded. If you 
 really loved Grace " 
 
 "I love her dearly. I long to make her my wife!" 
 
 "With a million dollars thrown in.' 
 
 "That is a necessity." 
 
 "Call it rather an audacity." 
 
 "Since you have told me that I am a fortune-hunter, I 
 am prepared for any kind of cruelty." 
 
 "Cruelty! Preposterous! Look me in the eyes, 
 please, Lord Brecknock. There yes like that. Are 
 you not ashamed of yourself?" 
 
 "Not in the least, ' came the young man's firm answer, 
 which he had evidently pulled himself together with 
 much resolute energy in order to make. "If I lose 
 Grace it will be a great trial. But marriage to a man of 
 my position must mean either freedom or captivity. I 
 cannot choose the latter course. If you knew more, 
 understood more, about the requirements, the necessi 
 ties, of one who bears in ray country such a name as I 
 bear, you would see very clearly the the insurmounta 
 ble objection you have raised." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn made an impatient gesture. "I know a 
 great deal about your country and its aristocracy as well 
 what modern American does not? Even putting the 
 question brutally, as you have put it <"
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Even putting the question brutally, I say, you are 
 not a duke, nor are you a marquis. You are an earl, of 
 good, though not remarkably good, ancestry. You can 
 make my Grace a countess. Come now, vulgarity for 
 vulgarit}'. What rich daughter of what rich brewer, 
 collier, commoner of any sort you please, in your own 
 England, would sell you his child on better terms than 
 I've offered mine?" 
 
 The flush faded from Lord Brecknock's face; anger 
 turned him pale, now. "I have not sought any such 
 alliance," he murmured. 
 
 "No and why, if you please? I can tell you why. 
 You dislike plebeian connections among your own coun 
 try people. A rich American wife is another affair. 
 Three thousand miles of ocean will lie between her un 
 pleasant kinsfolk and yourself. And then we are all 
 alike over here, in your estimate of us; the mistress and 
 the maid, so to speak, are one. That word 'American' 
 covers a multitude of matrimonial embarrassments." 
 
 "You've you've been makiu' a study of it all, haven't 
 you, now?" he muttered. "I confess I'm no match for 
 you." 
 
 "No; and apparently not one for poor Grace, either." 
 
 "Ah, you pity her! That's an encouraging sign." 
 He tried to smile, and perhaps at the dictate of pure 
 policy; yet his lips were still so stiffened by pique and 
 chagrin that the smile almost failed to relax them. 
 
 "I should pity her more if I let her go to you bought 
 in that shamelessly 'expensive' way. I will not let her 
 go, and you will have on your conscience, if you possess 
 one, the tragedy of her suffering. For you have won 
 her to be fond of you very fond. You told her that 
 ehe was dear to you, but till now you refrained from 
 stating just how dear you regarded her. It strikes me, 
 as it will certainly strike her, that a million's worth is 
 by no means cheap." 
 
 This sarcasm, quietly merciless, cut and stung. "You 
 seem to have the art of insult at your finger-ends, Mrs. 
 Josselyn." 
 
 "Insult! Bah, sir! not I!" she went up to him and
 
 25$ NEW YORK. 
 
 struck his arm with an actual roughness. "Reprimand 
 3 r es! I'd like to bring you to your senses. I can't be 
 lieve that you really mean to play this shabby part. I'll 
 give you the rest of to-day and all of to-morrow, if you 
 please, for reflection. You can come to me afterward 
 with your decision. I'm sure I cannot have been so mis 
 taken in you as to find it then unchanged." 
 
 "There's no use of enterin' into any such compact 
 with you," he said, stubbornly and sullenly. "I'm not 
 the fortune-hunter you've called me, and I'm prepared 
 to make Grace a most lovin' sort of husband. But I've 
 got to behave with prudence, in spite of my deep affec 
 tion." 
 
 "Your prudence!" came Mrs. Josselyn's fiery sneer, 
 "is nothing but avarice, and your affection is only 
 cowardly deceit go from my house! I despise you, 
 and I hope I am confident that Grace will soon de 
 spise you as well!" 
 
 He passed out of the room, and as she heard the hall 
 door close behind him it carried to her the death-knell 
 of a passionately proud ambition.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 III. 
 
 "I'vE been fearing it all along," said Doris, while her 
 gray eyes glittered with tears. "Let me go to Grace, 
 Cousin Ellen. She's in her room?" 
 
 "Yes. And so wretched so broken! It's dreadful 
 to see her!" 
 
 "She'll soon recover, poor dear," said Doris, drying 
 her eyes, and giving a few quick, wise nods. 
 
 "Recover!" moaned Mrs. Josselyn. "She loved him 
 the wretch." 
 
 "Her pride loved him, not her heart. Oh, I know! 
 I've watched her. She'll live to be the happy wife of 
 Mr. Somebody, let us hope, and laugh at the thought of 
 how "Lady Brecknock ever caused her a foolish thrill." 
 
 Then their eyes met, and Doris gave her cousin's wife 
 a little mock slap on one faded cheek. "How can you 
 feel your pangs of regret? How can you, when he's 
 proved himself such an avaricious monster?" 
 
 "Oh, Doris, don't scold me! I won't stand it, even 
 from you ! We women are not all of us made of your 
 finer clay. I want sympathy, even if I don't deserve it!" 
 
 Doris put both arms round Mrs. Josselyn 's neck, and 
 kissed her, twice, thrice. "You goose! as if I were not 
 brimming with sympathy! I know just how you feel, 
 though I couldn't feel so myself to save my life!" 
 
 "Oh, you!" faltered the other, beginning to weep 
 again, strong and proud and hard though she was held 
 by so many, and perhaps with strictest justice. "You'd 
 refuse the Prince of Wales, if he were a bachelor and 
 twenty years younger, and you didn't find him engag 
 ing enough!" 
 
 "Recollect how lots of these international marriages 
 have turned out," said Doris, with speed and heat. 
 "Scarcely a single Englishman with a title ever marries
 
 354 NEW YORK. 
 
 an American girl except from the most sordid motives. 
 Look at poor Lily Gordon, neglected and broken-hearted. 
 Think of Margaret Van Corlear, coming home to her 
 father with almost the marks of her drunken husband's 
 blows yet showing on her body. Think of Cecilia Liver- 
 more, driven ~by ill-treatment into her dreadful folly. 
 Think of Augusta Lee, with her notorious divorce. 
 Think of others I could name Ladies This and Ladies 
 That why, it's grown with us almost a by-word that to 
 marry an English title means to marry mortification if 
 not misery I'll go at once to Grace. I know she needs 
 me whether she'll say so or not." 
 
 Grace, who adored Doris, received her with a paroxysm 
 of tears. But Doris proved no ordinary consoler. Her 
 instinct had been right; the girl's pride was bleeding, 
 and her more spiritual nature had received no wound. 
 For a long time Doris sat near her bed, speaking softly 
 yet firmly. Grace had said to her mother that she 
 would not dine that evening, she would not dress, she 
 would not even rise from her bed. In truth, however, 
 she did all three, and not with an air quite so inconsola 
 ble, either. Before the servants that very pride which 
 ached from its hurt naturally bore her up. "Tell me," 
 she at last said, with a desperate plaintiveness to Doris, 
 "when I meet him at places how shall I act?" 
 "As if nothing whatever had occurred." 
 "But if there is any bowing I must bow first." 
 "Bow, and bow first. Behave as if your mother had 
 not told you a word about their meeting. Then, if he is 
 lured by your air of innocence to draAv near you, freeze 
 him with your indifferent bearing. I don't counsel re 
 venge, dear Grace, but I counsel as much punishment 
 as it's in your power to administer. The amount will 
 depend on his actual feeling for you ; and hence I fear 
 the punishment will be only too slight." 
 
 But Lord Brecknock gave Grace no such opportunity. 
 It is quite possible that the loss of her cost him a hard 
 blow. But he either would not or could not look upon 
 his fate as a deserved one. He still haunted society all 
 that season, though with locked lips concerning the 
 estrangement. It began to be whispered about that he
 
 NEW YORK. 255 
 
 had made an enormous demand upon the Josselyns, and 
 this report infected with the most harmful mercenary 
 suspicions every smile that he bestowed on any new girl 
 who even approached the dignity of an heiress. He 
 rapidly became so unpopular that before the end of an 
 other month he quitted New York. But instead of sail 
 ing eastward he took a train into the West. He had 
 come to America with the intention of marrying a mil 
 lion, and as much more as he could secure. Only, he 
 drew the line at a million. He was perfectly well aware 
 that his motive had become transparent to certain 
 observers. But he did not mind that very much. He 
 clearly understood that if he brought back to England a 
 bride with two hundred thousand pounds, very much the 
 same felicitations would greet him as if he had bagged 
 several mammoth Australian gold nuggets. His titles 
 were for sale, and nobody "on the other side" would 
 dream of blaming him for having made with them a 
 clever bargain. The intense picturesqueness and roman 
 ticism of their attraction in a country which forever 
 shouted its democracy to the remaining three-quarters 
 of the globe, had keenly penetrated his intelligence. In 
 having something that he believed highly salable, and 
 in resolving to get its full commercial value even unto 
 the last penny, Lord Brecknock was perhaps a stancher 
 "Yankee" than he might have cared to own. 
 
 "I should like to see Grace once really in love," said 
 Doris to her mother, one day. "But you would feel like 
 walling her up alive, or some such dreadful thing, 
 Cousin Ellen, if she should declare to you a genuine 
 passion for some 'ineligible. ' Say Cousin Albert's secre 
 tary, for instance Mr. George." 
 
 "Doris! How can you?" 
 
 "I knew I'd shock you," laughed Doris. 
 
 "Shock me! Not a bit of it. But how often you 
 mention Mr. George, of late! Yesterday you spent a 
 long while there in the librarj'-" 
 
 Doris nodded blithely. "Yes. Cousin Albert played 
 propriety. That is, we put him to sleep, and then had a 
 very pleasant talk." 
 
 "Put your Cousin Albert to sleep, Doris! What are, 
 you saying?"
 
 25G NEW YORK. 
 
 "He felt drowsy, poor old dear. So I made him lie 
 on the lounge, and Mr. George found me a woolen table 
 cloth that drooped unsuspected from a small table in an 
 obscure corner. We covered him with this, and then we 
 had a long chat, of course, employing discreet under 
 tones. " 
 
 "Which means that Mr. George interests you." 
 
 "Decidedly." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn seemed to muse. She knew very well 
 that however prodigal the girl might be with both her 
 time and attention in respect to paupers, invalids, pris 
 oners, and other objects of her warm and wealthy com 
 passion, she would not speak thus of an acquaintance 
 met on social terms unless he were a person rather 
 prominently unordinary. 
 
 "Your Cousin Albert," she said, has never mentioned 
 him as at all remarkable. Indeed, he appears to think 
 him of no importance whatever. " And not long after 
 this Mrs. Josselyn said to her husband: 
 
 "What is there about that secretary of yours that 
 should make him so attractive to Doris?" 
 
 "I truly don't know," replied Josselj-n, inwardly 
 tingling with guilt. The secret he was keeping from his 
 wife weighed upon him like the albatross which his 
 fellow-sailors hung against the ancient mariner's breast. 
 There were moments when he felt as if this woman whom 
 he both loved and feared this woman who had so long 
 been his second self would discover all, by a flash of 
 clairvoyance, and accuse him of it, charge him with it. 
 
 "You find him satisfactory as an assistant?" she 
 pursued. 
 
 "Eminently so. He could not be better. He he is 
 everything I desired." 
 
 "Doris, for all her charity, you know, wouldn't single 
 him oat like this unless he were somehow remarkable. 
 She likes intellectual men." 
 
 "Yes naturally thinkers, you mean, of course." 
 
 "Is he intellectual? Is he a thinker?" asked Mrs. 
 Josselyn, a little sharply. Then, receiving only a queer 
 kind of affirmative head-shake, she went on with more 
 asperity. "Upon my word, Albert, you sometimes act
 
 NEW YORK. 25? 
 
 to me as if there were a species of of mystery connected 
 with the young man." 
 
 "I? mystery? Why, how is that, Ellen?" 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps it's merely a fancy. Of 
 course, Albert, it must have been! To-day you seem to 
 have had no employment for him." 
 
 "No. There was nothing for him to do. He'd set 
 tled up everything yesterday. He's so quick and prompt 
 and intelligent about all his work." 
 
 "H m yes. And Doris has availed herself of his 
 holiday. She's taken him with her to the Tombs, of all 
 places." 
 
 "He has merely joined her usual visiting charity 
 there. You know how they wander everywhere that 
 little society of which she and Creveliing are members 
 the 'Clasping Hand,' they call themselves, do they 
 not?" 
 
 "How absent you sometimes appear lately, Albert! 
 Hasn't Doris dragged us both to their meetings at 
 various times? I suppose 'dragged' is a pagan sort of 
 word to use in this connection, and Doris, with all her 
 obstinacies and prejudices is an angel at heart. But 
 that damp, ghastly, disreputable Tombs! I think she 
 must have fascinated Mr. George very thoroughly to in 
 duce him to go there. Does it strike you by the way, 
 that he's fallen in love with her?" 
 
 "Fallen in love?" gently gasped her husband. "Why 
 no not in the least! What what an astonishing ques 
 tion, Ellen!" 
 
 "Oh, nothing of that kind could be astonishing wher 
 ever Doris was concerned." She took her husband's 
 hand, and lighty laid two finger tips, with a physician's 
 air, on his pulse. "Not quite right, Albert. And ever 
 since we began talking together I've noticed in you an 
 unusual, flurried, bewildered manner. Tell me, now 
 has anything happened, within a few past hours, I mean, 
 to disturb, unnerve you?" 
 
 "No, Ellen." 
 
 The something had happened within a few past 
 minutes. Whenever she referred to "Mr. George," he 
 felt as if her eyes were seeing into the depths of his soul.
 
 258 NEW YORK. 
 
 For years past he had so absolutely surrendered himself 
 to her counsels, dictations, and decisions, that now, 
 while conscious there was not a taint of real dishonesty 
 in what he was doing for his ostracised kinsman and 
 also that he was doing it deceptively because of her fore- 
 Been displeasure alone, he had the sense, whenever she 
 made the least reference to George, of a prisoner who 
 who converses with his jailer after having just concealed 
 a telltale file. Her despotism had never been onerous 
 to him ill now. Long ago it had begun by amusing 
 him; later it had become for him a helpful habit, tinged 
 with devout allegiance. And now to break through its 
 trammels affected him almost like the commission of a 
 crime, though incessantly he kept urging upon himself 
 the absurdity of this idea. 
 
 The comparatively few talks that Doris had held with 
 George had interested her in a mystic and rather irri 
 tating way. She had not the clairvoyance to hear 
 rhythms of hidden passion beneath his often ordinary 
 and even commonplace sentences. But somehow the in 
 tensity of his love for her, not increased but constantly 
 kept kindled by her presence, her personality, her near 
 ness, had been replete with baffling yet delicate be 
 trayals. Once she said to herself that she had never 
 met a man more spontaneously and perfectly courteous. 
 Again she decided that "this Mr. George" quite over 
 rated her intelligence, paid it a respectful homage which 
 was far aloof from anything like flattery, and yet, while 
 paying it, sometimes irritated her by swift glimpses of a 
 mental power which made it doubly dear. 
 
 "You strike me as a person strangely reserved," she 
 had said to him only yesterday, as it were, while Josse- 
 lyn had left them alone together, called away by a meet 
 ing of bank directors. 
 
 "Is that," he asked, "only a civil way of pronouncing 
 me stupid?" 
 
 Doris gave a negative nod. "I don't waste time on 
 stupid people." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "Oh, I meant no veiled compliment." 
 
 "Your meanings are never veiled," he said. "Your
 
 NEW YORK. 259 
 
 frankness is one of your choicest refreshments." Then 
 he added, a little confusedly: "Life does not give to all 
 of us, Miss Josselyn, your forces either of action or feel 
 ing. Perhaps that is fortunate. It makes suffering less 
 common. " 
 
 "Would you have me believe," said Doris, very 
 quickly, Avith one of her impulses, "that you haven't 
 suf ?" And then she stopped dead short. 
 
 "Suffered?" he replied, mending the broken word. 
 "I?" 
 
 She was biting her lips, and there had come into the 
 gray lights of her look a little dance and flicker, coy, 
 abashed. "Of course I can't know. I can only sur 
 mise." 
 
 George thought of Albert Josselyu's recent words: 
 "She's keen wonderfully keen. The whole truth might 
 flash upon her at an instant's notice." 
 
 Now that he was here as the employee of his relative, 
 he felt consumed by a desire to remain indefi 
 nitely where fate had fixed him. These occasional visits 
 from Doris were divine episodes. He had become an 
 impassioned bridge-builder; he crossed from one meet 
 ing to another on structures wrought of hope, love, ex 
 pectancy. And now, he reflected rapidly, to tell her 
 that he had suffered might mean to challenge that very 
 acumen of which her cousin so pointedly had hinted. 
 An 3 r et how charming had been her discernment, just re 
 vealed ! It thrilled him with fear while it also pierced 
 him with admiring delight. 
 
 "In one breath you tell me I am reserved," he ven 
 tured, "and in the next you decide that I wear my heart 
 on my sleeve." 
 
 "Not at all," she contradicted, with a sedate positive- 
 ness. "I pretend to be no seer but unless I am much in 
 error your life has not by any means been a happy one, 
 as far as you have lived it." 
 
 "Well, you are right." 
 
 "Ah!" she said, with a little touch of triumph. 
 
 "Would you affirm that some sentiment of the heart 
 had wrought me trouble?" 
 
 "Surely, no," she loitered, scanning his features with
 
 2GO NEW YORK. 
 
 a brief critical boldness. And yet I don't affirm how 
 can I possibly do so? The traces of suffering in human 
 countenances have interested me ever since I went among 
 miserable people. But they are all just as indefinable, 
 I have found, as mournful music. They stand for 
 sorrow in the abstract; to discover their causes would 
 be to flounder in a sea of speculation." 
 
 "Perhaps I have had enemies." 
 
 "It's probable. You look too courageous, though, to 
 have let them overcome you. The number of enemies 
 we make is often a numeral that indicates the degree of 
 our self respect." 
 
 "Circumstance can crush courage." 
 
 "Oh, I realize its tyrannies. Usually the unsuccessful 
 man is he who believes in luck. When we have once 
 thoroughly succeeded in life we will not hear that any 
 agency but that of our own native thrift and persever 
 ance was gone to the making of our fortunes." 
 
 "How is it," asked George, "that a woman of your 
 youth can speak of human life so wisely?" 
 
 "Oh, if you call it speaking wisely, it comes to me, I 
 suppose, because my youth and experience have not 
 kept equal pace." 
 
 "Indeed they have not! "he exclaimed, off his guard, 
 and thinking of her speech, so lovely and human and in 
 spiriting, that day at the mission the day when his 
 soul, as he might fervidly have phrased it, had fallen at 
 her feet, devoutly abiding there ever since! "It was 
 born in you to acquire an experience far beyond the 
 natural endowment of your years. You've sought it 
 through the sweetest of motives a heavenly compassion 
 and it becomes you, still scarcely more than a girl, 
 with a wonderful delicacy of dignity!" 
 
 Doris drew back, as if frightened. "How do you 
 know, "she said, "that I am anything even remotely like 
 the person you paint me?" 
 
 George colored and stammered : "Why, have you not 
 told me of your of your constant charitable aims and 
 thoughts?" 
 
 "Told you? Hardly that. I have mentioned to you, 
 'The Clasping Hand,' of which I ana a member, and a 
 very unimportant one."
 
 NEW YORK. 261 
 
 Her startled eyes, full of gentle yet commanding 
 curiosity, arraigned him. He felt that he must give her 
 some sort of satisfying answer, and before he was well 
 aware of just what words left him he had told her of his 
 presence in the mission w T hen she had once spoken there, 
 even repeating some of the sentences that had fallen from 
 her lips. 
 
 "And were you there?" she murmured, smiling, 
 keenly pleased, and yet racked with surprise. "I re 
 member the day perfectly. I had come down from the 
 country. It was a visit of 'The Clasping Hand' to that 
 particular place. AYe go everywhere everywhere they 
 will let us go. And you were among our listeners you! 
 How strange! Pray, what brought you there? Tell me 
 about it." 
 
 Her last phrase invited his full confidence. But at 
 first he could only droop his eyes and feel that he had 
 grown pale, and wonder if she did not think strange and 
 imperilling things. 
 
 "Oh, it is no mystery," he at length managed, with a 
 smile strained and slight. "I happened, one day, to be 
 in the neighborhood of the mission, and merely by 
 chance I dropped in." 
 
 She seemed to take this explanation as wholly credible 
 and satisfactory. "What a curious occurrence, was it 
 not? And that I should be talking with you afterward, 
 here in my own home! So it turns out, doesn't it, that 
 you met me before I met you? Then you must have 
 seen Mr. Crevelling," she went on '"or perhaps you 
 didn't know him." 
 
 "Yes; I saw him, though I left before he began to 
 speak. I learned his name from a person near me in the 
 same pew. He was admirable, I don't doubt, though I 
 feel sure you must have eclipsed him." 
 
 "Ah, don't say that! If you'd ever heard him you 
 couldn't!" 
 
 "I have heard him a Sunday or two ago, in his own 
 church." 
 
 "And you didn't think him very fine?" 
 
 "I was impressed," George answered, with a pang of 
 sharp jealousy.
 
 262 NEW YORK. 
 
 "That sounds BO cold! He is such a marvelous man! 
 For myself, I can say honestly that whatever practical 
 good I may have done he has stirred me into doing. I 
 fell in with him when I was the merest girl. He has 
 been my my spiritual salvation." 
 
 "That is a great deal to be," said George, feeling his 
 heart turn lead in his breast. 
 
 "I wish you would let me bring you and him together 
 will you not?" She leaned forward, eager and wide- 
 eyed. "He, you know, is the very soul of 'The Clasping 
 Hand.' The rest of us are only satellites that revolve 
 round him." She ran over several names of people, 
 names which George had never before heard. ''Then 
 there is old Lucien Eeverdy the millionaire. He would 
 have broken Avith us long ago but for Frank Crevelling's 
 magnetism, tolerance, boundless geniality. He is such 
 an old Pharisee! He believes he is doing wonders of 
 holiness and beneficence, when really but there I'll 
 stop. Dear Frank Crevelling's face rises reproachful. 
 Till some great ethical optician,' I once heard him say, 
 'invents a microscope for the discernment of human 
 motives, let us be content with our present makeshift of 
 charity, whose very mistakes are sure to do more good 
 than harm. ' Then there is a Mr. Courtelyou perhaps 
 you've heard of him." 
 
 "Yes," said George faintly. 
 
 "The famous lawyer, you know. He sometimes goes 
 with us on our rambles a most brilliant man, and an 
 accomplished speaker; although " And here Doris 
 suddenly paused. 
 
 "Although?" George repeated. 
 
 "I was thinking, " the girl pursued, taking from her 
 cousin's near desk a pen-wiper, and beginning to play 
 with it abstractedly, "how I I could best bring you 
 two together " 
 
 "Courtelyou and myself!" cried George, again un 
 guardedly and with great vehemence. "No, no, no!" 
 
 She threw back her head, and stared at him in bewil 
 derment. George answered her look helplessly, with 
 thoughts of what relief it would bring if the floor con 
 sented quietly to swallow him.
 
 NEW YORK. 263 
 
 IV. 
 
 "I DIDN'T mean for yon to meet Mr. Courtelyou, " 
 presently said Doris. "I was thinking altogether of 
 Frank Crevelling. Mr. Courtelyou I can hardly imagine 
 your liking. But why do you so shrink from his ac 
 quaintance?" 
 
 "I I have heard about him. I I dislike his methods, 
 his character." 
 
 "But his character is faultless." 
 
 "Faultily faultess." 
 
 "Then," she said, with her consternation becoming 
 puzzlement, "you have met him! No? Ah, I see! 
 You were at that trial in which he so distinguished him 
 self." 
 
 "Yes, "answered George, with inward desperation; "I 
 was there." 
 
 "You really went? You did not simply read of it in 
 the newspapers?" 
 
 "I was there." 
 
 "All the time it lasted?" 
 
 "Yes; all the time it lasted." 
 
 "Then it interested you very much?" 
 
 "Very much. " 
 
 She was looking at him so intently, now that he ex 
 pected every instant to hear some realizing, detecting 
 cry leave her lips. But, instead, she exclaimed, with 
 marked feeling : 
 
 "How I wish that 1 had been there! But there were 
 reasons for my not going. Tell me; did you observe 
 closely one of the witnesses a young man named George 
 Oliver?" 
 
 For a few seconds he shaded his face with a hand. 
 This gesture, as he forlornly hoped, might pass for one 
 of reflection.
 
 204 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Ob, yts. The witness, you mean, against Lynsko." 
 
 "The man who seut that horrible 'firebug' to prison," 
 said Doris. >She lightly touched George's arm. "He 
 was a cousin of mine once or twice removed." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Yes. And you remember his story? How he had 
 served a term of imprisonment?" 
 
 "Yes, yes I remember it." 
 
 "Everybody does," said Doris, after a little silence. 
 "And I have wanted to know him to meet him again, 
 since his imprisonment very much indeed? I I wish 
 you knew him; but you don't, I suppose do you?" 
 
 "N no," somberly lied George. 
 
 "Mr. Courtelyou does, of course. You recollect how 
 this George Oliver was his chief witness for the prosecu 
 tion?" 
 
 "I recollect perfectly." 
 
 "Not long ago I asked Mr. Courtelyou to bring us to 
 gether. But he said that George Oliver and he were not 
 good friends now, or something of that evasive sort. I 
 used to know George years ago, when we were both chil 
 dren, but I almost forget how he looked even as a child. 
 There was some estrangement between our families I 
 won't dwell upon that." 
 
 "Pray do not," said George, mechanically, now, "if 
 it's at all painful." 
 
 "Oh, everything about him is painful! I need not 
 repeat to you his history that all came out, as it were, 
 but yesterday." 
 
 "True 'but yesterday." 
 
 "In my talk with Mr. Courtelyou I told him what I 
 tell you now. It seems incredible to me that this man 
 could have had any other than a brave and noble motive 
 in seeking to expose that dreadful Polish incendiary." 
 
 "Lynsko?" 
 
 "Yes that was his name. And there were things 
 which George Oliver said, under fiery cross-examination, 
 that moved me to the soul." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "I mean his full admission of former guilt and his 
 statement that he deeply repented it. But that is not 
 all."
 
 NEW YORK. 265 
 
 "Not all?" 
 
 "He spoke of the frightful, branding stigma that he 
 must go on bearing till he died. Oh, the miserable 
 hopelessness of his words! And he hinted more than 
 hinted that a wicked woman was the cause of his dis 
 grace and ruin. He would not give her name. I liked 
 him better for that, though it made me hate her the 
 more." 
 
 Doris glanced up at the sky through the broad rear 
 window just at her side. It still wanted a good half 
 hour of sunset, but a spectral, rayless moon already 
 floated high in the darkening blue above massed lines 
 and angles of brick and stone. 
 
 "I must go," she said, rising. "Affairs, of no great 
 consequence I admit, claim me. I'm such a busy person 
 for one who achieves nothing important. Still, I must 
 go. Good-afternoon." And she gave him her hand as 
 he in turn rose to receive it. 
 
 George, in a daze, followed her toward the door. 
 "Oh," she said, pausing, "I forgot about your meeting 
 Frank Crevelling. Next Wednesday "The Clasping 
 Hand' as much of it as we can muster for so grim a 
 pilgrimage will go to the Tombs. We've secured 
 special permits, and all that. We're to meet at Mrs. 
 Oleeve Prescott's house at eleven in the morning. Will 
 you join us there? I'll give you the address or send it 
 you before then. It's only a few streets from here. 
 We shall take a light lunch a cup of bouillon and a bis 
 cuit and by twelve o'clock go downtown unassumingly 
 in the cars. Meanwhile you will have a chance of know 
 ing and talking with him." 
 
 "With your ideal," fell faintly from George. She 
 slanted her beautiful fragile head for a minute, as 
 though in doubt just what answer to make. "Yes," she 
 suddenly announced, with strong decision, "my ideal, if 
 you please." 
 
 George could not help it. "Then you mean to marry 
 him some day?" he wildly questioned. 
 
 She gave a cloudy and haughty look for answer. 
 "Perhaps," she said measuredly, going nearer to the 
 door, "you may feel like refusing my proposal."
 
 266 NEW YORK. 
 
 "No," he hurried. "I'll go anywhere meet anybody 
 in order that I may be nearer you! I'll I'll go to 
 the Tombs -with pleasure or to any horrid hole like it 
 that you may be pleased to name!" 
 
 "Oh!" said Doris. No descriptive trick could quite 
 describe the peculiar curtness of that monosyllable. And 
 at once she disappeared.
 
 NEW YORK. 267 
 
 V. 
 
 GEORGE flung himself on a sofa, when sure she was 
 gone, and covered his face with both hands. It was al 
 most dark when he arose, and the phantasmal moon, 
 clearly visible through the broad back window, had be 
 gun to gather within her disk its wonted noturnal fire, 
 elfin and lovely. 
 
 "I should have got out of here long before this, " he 
 thought; and at once he stole downstairs, dreading 
 observance and luckily escaping it. 
 
 He had no doubt that Doris was offended, and with 
 throes of shame he kept wondering if she were not dis 
 gusted as well. Her cousin's secretary, a fellow Avhom 
 she scarcely knew and had treated with kindness for 
 which he should be duly thankful, to snap at her this 
 precipitate jack-in-the-box of personal compliment. 
 What ludicrous familiarity! No wonder that subtle 
 "oh," packed with many meanings, haunted him like 
 an inflamed hurt. 
 
 He went to a theater that evening, in the hope of 
 deadening his mental worriment. The piece was an 
 English one, of the strongly emotional school, which had 
 been very popular in London. It teemed with "Lon 
 donisms," and was put together with a fair amount of 
 skill. In one of the lobbies, after the third act, he 
 noticed a young man with a very excited air, and heard 
 him say, in fiercely voluble tones to a companion : 
 
 "What snobs New York theater-goers are! Now just 
 imagine a play of ours being greeted like this in Lon 
 don! The more it represented New York life and man 
 ners, the more Piccadilly and St. James's yes, and Ken 
 sington and Hammersmith and 'passionate Brornpton,' 
 too would turn up their noses at it." 
 
 "True enough," came the reply. "But don't you 
 forget "
 
 26$ NEW YORK. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Charlie, I forget nothing! I remember 
 onb* too well that we Americans, in all dramatic matters 
 are the most infernal lot of toadies. Why, only the 
 other day I had a piece handed back to me by no less 
 renowned a New York manager than Mr. Thompson Tom- 
 linson. 'I like this,' he said, 'and I like it very much. 
 If you could get it out in London and it should have 
 a, success there, I'd be ever so glad to do it for you here.' 
 Now, Charlie, those were his actual words! And what 
 do you think of them? Don't attempt to excuse them. 
 You know you can't. And they clearly express, in their 
 cruel, unpatriotic, inartistic commercialism, the whole 
 modern New York managerial spirit." 
 
 George went back to his seat and witnessed another 
 act of the play. Then, dreading a restless night, he 
 sought his present lodgings. On the pin-cushion of his 
 bureau he saw with surprise a letter which bore no post 
 mark ; it had plainly been left for him during his ab 
 sence at the theater. Opening it, he read : 
 
 "MY DEAE MR. GEOEGE: Our 'Clasping Hand' com 
 pany will meet at Mrs. Cleeve Prescott's house, next 
 Wednesday morning, at eleven o'clock, as I told you. 
 (Then followed an address.) I shall be very glad if you 
 can and will meet us there. You need not answer this 
 note, but join us if possible. Sincerely yours, 
 
 " DORIS JOSSELYN. " 
 
 George kissed the note many times in an ecstasy of 
 relief. He slept, that night, however, with a delicious 
 calmness. Next morning he read in a newspaper that 
 the play he had seen was a work of surpassing merit. 
 The plot was carefully described, but he discovered with 
 astonishment that much of it hud quite escaped his at 
 tention, and that two or three scenes, declared "thrill 
 ing," had had for him no significance whatever. 
 
 On Tuesday evening he mentioned to Josselyn the in 
 vitation of Doris. "Eleven o'clock to-morrow?" came 
 the reflective answer. "Yes ye, George;, I think you 
 can be spared quite easily." 
 
 At the same time he strove to hic.e all signs of the
 
 NEW YORK. 269 
 
 worriment that oppressed him. This intimacy seemed 
 to foreshadow trouble, though of what precise nature he 
 shrank from trying even vaguely to guess. 
 
 The residence of Mrs. Prescott Cleeve was a gallant and 
 commodious one, east of the park, and in sight of its leaf 
 less trees. The hostess was a tall, thin, homely lady, 
 with beautiful dove-brown eyes and the meek smile of a 
 nun. Doris glided forward, in the most opportune way, 
 and said, "This is Mr. George, of whom I told you," 
 just as her guest felt an embarrassing moment imminent. 
 Five or six women and four or five men were already 
 scattered about the room. Other arrivals soon followed 
 George's, and the assemblage finally made eighteen in 
 all. 
 
 "Come and see this lovely vaseful of orchids," Doris 
 proposed, and George willingly followed her into a kind of 
 alcove. While they were looking at the strange blooms, 
 voluptuous in their gaudj r tintings and yet ethereal 
 in their delicacy, Doris continued : 
 
 "Frank Crevelling is here, and he will soon join us. 
 We haven't much time before our departure, at quarter 
 to twelve." 
 
 George stared at the orchids. "It was very good of 
 you to write me, Miss Josselyn." 
 
 "I always keep my promises." 
 
 "I was afraid you would not keep this one." 
 
 "Why, pray?" 
 
 "You seemed offended when you last parted from me 
 I mean when you last left the library." 
 
 "Did I? You were mistaken. I wonder if I'm mis 
 taken now, in thinking you very ill at ease." 
 
 He gave her a sudden forlorn look. "I am. It's so 
 long since I've gone at all into society." That simple 
 phrase had for him such depth of import that he felt as 
 if she must gain some glimpse beyond its little outward 
 commonplace crust. For it really hid a tragic recogni 
 tion of the fact that these gathered guests would all turn 
 from him in horror if they knew his actual past. 
 
 "This poor little 'Clasping Hand' of ours," laughed 
 Doris, "doesn't merit the name of 'society' Ah, here 
 is Mr. Crevelling, now."
 
 270 NEW YORK. 
 
 And then George saw a bright, earnest face, and soon 
 received a hearty hand-shake. 
 
 "The boullion and biscuits are coming," said Doris. 
 "I must take mine with poor, dear old Mrs. Singleton, 
 and thank her for having risen from a sick bed to accom 
 pany us." 
 
 "While Doris disappeared, Crevelling said to George : 
 
 "I suppose your experience of prison life is somewhat 
 limited?" 
 
 The words, carelessly spoken, gave George a thrill of 
 positive torture. He could not repress a start; then self- 
 control rescued him, and he answered, with a fair show 
 of coolness : 
 
 "I've seen a little of it." 
 
 The two men looked full into one another's eyes. An 
 odd, new feeling made George hurry on : 
 
 "I I have enjoyed hearing j r ou in your church, Mr. 
 Crevelling, though as yet only once." 
 
 "Ah, 3 r es? Did you come to me. It's hardly a church 
 in the ecclesiastic sense more like a lecture hall. Or 
 perhaps more like the sort of thing one sometimes hears 
 at a mission." His words were so pointed and measured 
 that George felt his cheeks blanch. In another instant 
 Crevelling's hand firmly pressed his arm. And, then, 
 again, the two men looked full into one another's eyes. 
 "I rarely forget a voice," Crevelling said, very gently. 
 "Or a face, either," he added. 
 
 "You recollect me, then, at the mission that day," 
 faltered George. "But I have changed since then." 
 
 "You have changed greatly. You have changed, too, 
 since the last time I saw j r ou the second time." 
 
 "The second time?" George repeated. "You mean 
 that you saw me in your congregation that Sunday." 
 
 "No," said Crevelling. "I did not see you then." 
 
 "Not then? "Wh ere else?" A throe of hate, defiance, 
 revolt, cleft George's heart. "Where else?" he again 
 said, with the agonized sense of a fugitive at bay. 
 
 "I went one morning to the lo'nsko trial " 
 
 "Ah, you did!" burst from George, his nostrils tense, 
 his lips twitching. Then the great human sweetness of 
 Crevelling's face calmed him. In an instant he found
 
 NEW YORK. %n 
 
 himself comprehending that though all the world should 
 hound him down this man neither could nor would ever 
 join its hue and cry. "Trust me," said Crevelling, 
 putting out his hand. 
 
 George took the hand. His own felt to him limp and 
 lifeless. But the clasp of Crevelling's was all strength 
 and warmth and support. 
 
 "Of course, you see, now, that I know and realize 
 every thing." 
 
 "Everything yes. " 
 
 "That. day of which I speak you underwent your cross- 
 examination. You stood it splendidly. You showed mo 
 how much you had suffered how intensely you must 
 have repented. I wanted to meet you and know you; I 
 kept saying to myself for days afterward, 'There is just 
 the kind of man I should like to talk with make ruy 
 friend!' ' 
 
 "Your friend?" 
 
 "Indeed, yes! You spoke there, if you remember, of 
 the world's pitiless attitude toward one who had gone 
 wrong and then striven to right himself. A hundred 
 other concerns forced you out of my mind. And yet in 
 more than one way it is all so strange! I did not recog 
 nize you at the trial as the man with whom I had spoken 
 at the mission." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No. It is my nearness to you now that has brought 
 back the remembrance. My recognition has been a 
 double one. You have grown your beard since the trial. 
 You are wonderfully changed, since then, because of it. 
 But now I perceive that he who gave me some of his 
 views and theories on human charity is the same George 
 Oliver who " 
 
 "Hush; I beg of you!" 
 
 "We are not overheard; I have no intention that we 
 shall be. Let me hasten to tell you that my little dis 
 covery will remain the closest of secrets between our 
 selves. I surmise the reason of your alia* and also of 
 your secretaryship with Mr. Josselyn. I know Albert 
 Josselyn well; for a long time we have been the warmest 
 of friends. This thing that ho undoubtedly has done is
 
 ST2 NEW YORK. 
 
 tlie kind of thing he would be apt to do. Naturally, his 
 wife does not know the truth." 
 
 "Naturally?" George murmured. "You put it that 
 way, I suppose, because you have measured the narrow 
 ness of Mrs. Josselyn's character. Yet perhaps I should 
 not presume to judge her," he added, as if in repentant 
 afterthought. "There are so few women of her place and 
 fair repute who would not have rebelled against the plan 
 of having me cross their thresholds as I now daily cross 
 hers." 
 
 "There are few," assented Crevelling. "And yet 
 your cousin's wife is a woman of many sterling traits. 
 Only she cannot broaden her sympathies; instinctively 
 she keeps them constrained, centralized. " He paused, 
 and smiled, a little sadly. "She is not like Doris." 
 
 "Was there ever a woman like Doris?" George said, 
 below his breath. 
 
 "A radiant intellect an unfathomable charity ! How 
 mighty and yet gentle is the force they make!" 
 
 "True." 
 
 The two men searched each other's faces. Crevelling's 
 eyes drooped; he had grown paler in a few swift seconds. 
 George had a sudden impulse to cry out "You and she 
 were born for one another you are fated to marry, and 
 I can only tell you that from my soul I would bless so 
 perfect a union!" But he kept silent, and heard Crevel 
 ling say, in musing voice, while he touched the petals of 
 an orchid with one outstretched finger : 
 
 "I must assure you that what I have just found out 
 fills me with the intensest interest. In the first place it 
 brings me closer to Albert Josselyn. I want to grasp 
 his hand and thank him with all my heart. Do I err in 
 stating to you that I perceive the full situation?" Then 
 he spoke a few rapid sentences, and George at length 
 replied: 
 
 "Yes; you are right. It has happened that way. My 
 stained name kept dogging me till I threw myself on his 
 mercy. He gave it." 
 
 "He did not give you enough," said Crevelling. 
 "You deserved more." 
 
 "Deserved? I?"
 
 NEW YORK. 273 
 
 ''You. He had read he must have read those dis 
 closures at the trial." 
 
 "He had read them. He knew many of my sentences 
 almost by heart. It was because of this knowledge, and 
 the compassion roused by it, that he 
 
 "Gave you the position you now hold. But the falsity 
 of it the alias, and all that should have struck him as 
 ill-advised. For things like these cannot last, as you 
 well know. They are makeshifts, marked at the outset 
 with impermanence. " 
 
 "Ah," said George, with a deep sigh, "starvation and 
 the gutter are makeshifts as well!" 
 
 It suddenly struck him that to no other man whom he 
 had ever met would he have used, at this time and in 
 this place, a species of rejoinder so replete with the 
 humility of- despair. Yet Crevelling, though he seemed 
 not only the fated suitor but the fated husband of Doris, 
 had caught him in a magic web of attraction, admiration, 
 allegiance, respect. The mobile, irregular features 
 the lucid, steadfast brown eyes the air of calm courage 
 and prodigal helpfulness, how evinced it was impossible 
 to discern the winning, unconscious cadences of voice 
 the serious yet humorous lips, and the brow broad as 
 with rich stores of wholesome thought all these per 
 sonal qualities had quickly drawn large draughts upon 
 George's willing ..and spontaneous esteem. It was the 
 old spell with Crevelling one that flowed from him as 
 its odor from a flower, never exerted, never "tried for," 
 always an effortless and artless charm. "For a time, 
 then, let it continue," he said. "But I feel sure you 
 would not wish it to go on a great while." 
 
 "N no. Meantime I am saving money. My salary 
 is generous. I am saving money to get away with and 
 try life in some other part of the world." 
 
 Crevelling bowed his head, slowly and ruminatively. 
 Then, on a sudden, with sharpness, he replied: "Why 
 not face it all out here? I believe in you, and I'm ready 
 to attest my belief. Every word of your confession if 
 you care to let me call it that is clear in my memory as 
 if I had studied it by heart from some written page. 
 Frankly, the truth is this : I often act on impulse, and.
 
 274 NEW YORK. 
 
 I'm prepared so to act now. My secretary (for I'm a 
 busy man and need one, and he in turn sometimes needs 
 an assistant), is a most competent and intelligent man. 
 But long ago I told him that he was worthy of a better 
 position, and that I could and would secure him one. 
 Within the next month I will make strenuous efforts to 
 place him in the office of a certain banker whom I know, 
 where his exceptional business abilities trained by 
 several former years of service in a like capacity will 
 soon be rated at their proper worth. And you, if you 
 choose, can then fill the vacancy. Fill it, I mean, under 
 your own name. This act on my own part will doubtless 
 cause comment, discussion, censure, even a sort of scan 
 dal. But all that I am prepared to face. In a way this 
 proposal contains a touch of egotism." 
 
 "Egotism!" said George, with moist and glistening 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes there's no other word. I have resented, for 
 some time past, the cruel social edicts against men of 
 just your youth and wretchedness. It is horrible that 
 society should refuse ever to trust them again. I want 
 to prove society in error; I want to show it a test case. 
 There's the touch of egotism to which I referred. Let 
 hundreds rave and storm ; I'll be perfectly impregnable 
 to all taunts. I will give you my entire confidence. 
 You shall have large sums of money pass through your 
 hands. I will repose in you absolute faith. The world 
 will look on and with all my soul I hope it may be 
 taught a lesson in the dignity of mercy. Whether it 
 will thus be taught or no must largely depend on your 
 self. That is, provided you consent. Do you consent?" 
 
 There seemed to George a kind of earthly heaven in 
 the sweet, grave manful countenance at which he now 
 gazed. 
 
 "Consent! In spirit, Mr. Crevelling, I am on my knees 
 before you ! In spirit, I a 
 
 "Will neither of you take a cup of bouillon and a bis 
 cuit?" said Mrs. Cleeve Prescott, "or have my servants 
 passed you by, here behind these obscuring curtains?" 
 
 "We'll both have some bouillon, thanks," answered
 
 NEW YORK. 275 
 
 Crevelling, "if Mr. George will permit me to accept in 
 both our names." 
 
 Just then Doris' voice sounded rallyingly and blithely, 
 a little distance away. 
 
 "Come, come, messieurs and mesdames. Our time for 
 starting has already passed.'
 
 276 NEW YORK. 
 
 VI 
 
 "Is there anyone save Doris Josselyn, " George had 
 thought, "whom I would follow inside a prison?" 
 
 One no longer enters the Tombs by its great portico, 
 mightily pillared, on Center Street. For some reason 
 the doors of egress and ingress are small and unimpos- 
 ing, hardly noticeable as you stand a little aloof from 
 the structure and contemplate its dull, massive solem 
 nity. The town has nothing like it, nothing in architec 
 ture at once so true, so repelling and so anomalous. 
 The shanties that environ most of the great European 
 cathedrals make hardly as strong an effect of incongru 
 ity as the mean tenements and pinchbeck taverns within 
 a stone's throw of this grim Egyptian pile, erected more 
 than half a century ago. The encompassments of higher 
 buildings exert upon it a fatally dwarfing influence. 
 Translated to the desert spaces of the Nile, you feel that 
 it would flavor no longer of oddity and grotesqueness. 
 The electric chair at Sing Sing has shorn it of those 
 ghastly associations which frequent hangings of criminals 
 caused to cluster about its walls. But nevertheless, all 
 sense of modern doings, however stern and barbaric, 
 seems to consort most ill with its Oriental lineaments for 
 the thoughtful looker-on from without. In beyond these 
 big lotos-leaved columns, these plinths and entablatures, 
 the Ptolemaic friezes, this low, squat granite solidity, 
 tragedies should occur, you tell yourself, far more picture 
 sque than the condemnation of Barney O'Hara to "ten 
 dollars or ten days." 
 
 None of the gatemen seemed at all surprised as "The 
 Clasping Hand" trooped decorously past them into the 
 prim stuccoed corridors. An "open sesame" of the most 
 powerful sort had been obtained; keys grated submis 
 sively in their locks as soon as it was shown. Several of
 
 NEW YORK. 277 
 
 the little company were familiar with the place from 
 previous visits, Doris among them. 
 
 "This used to be Murderers' Kow, " she said to 
 George, as they stood together in a narrow but very high 
 hall, with three iron-galleried tiers of cells rising above 
 them, like decks of a steamer. "Think what anguish 
 has been endured here! I could feel the death-watches 
 when I first came being held in this very spot, and hear 
 the hammerings at scaffolds off in the execution yard. 
 But all that has ended now. The condemned wretches, 
 you know, as soon as they are sentenced, go to Sing 
 Sing." 
 
 At the name "Sing Sing" George felt the corners of 
 his mouth tremble. That late talk with Crevelling had 
 had its drastic, exhaustive results. Beyond doubt he 
 could better have borne these prison environments, 
 that so "teemed for him with miserable reminiscence, 
 were his nerves less unstrung by recent thrills. Of 
 course, if this had been the jail where he had spent his 
 earlier term of captivity he would have faced a fire- 
 belching cannon rather than come here to-day. But, 
 after all, the similitudes on every side were poignant in 
 their appeal, savage in the force of their incessant 
 mementoes. He regretted having accompanied the party, 
 dear as it was to go anywhere with Doris. "Shall you 
 talk with the prisoners?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, yes. That is why we have come. The last time 
 I was here I selected the most desperate-looking 
 persons." 
 
 "Have you no fear of insult?" 
 
 Doris gave a faint shiver. "Indeed, yes! But that 
 hasn't come yet. They say it does, sometimes. Mr. 
 Lucian Keverdy had a shocking experience during our 
 last little pilgrimage. He was so terribly abused that 
 he made a pointed complaint to one of the keepers. I 
 don't know why. It seemed so funny, his sanctimonious 
 horror. He didn't appear to know just what fresh 
 punishment he wanted to have inflicted upon his abuser. 
 I suggested to Frank Crevelling that he should build a 
 new Tombs for the defiant culprit and have him placed 
 there. It would appease his wrath and do a world of
 
 278 NEW YORK. 
 
 municipal benefit. But Frank reminded me that this is, 
 after all, only a prison of temporary detention, and that 
 even an insulted millionaire magnate might find the cap 
 tive flown long before so useful a Yengeance could be 
 accomplished." 
 
 "We are going to visit the female department first, " 
 said one of the ladies to Doris; and soon they all passed 
 into another quarter where a kind-faced matron received 
 them. 
 
 They first paused before a large barred space filled 
 with women old and young One of the gentlemen said 
 to George : 
 
 "We feel a little out in the cold here. At least I do." 
 
 "Shall none of you gentlemen address any of these 
 prisoners?" George asked. 
 
 "N no. I think not. There may be three or four 
 of us who will. But Mr. Crevelling certainly will. He 
 makes no difference between sexes here or anywhere. 
 And it's marvelous how his face and voice and presence 
 win them all. He speaks to them in low tones. I've 
 seen them scowl at first, and half turn away. But the 
 change quickly comes it's like a sort of mesmerism. Ah, 
 he's our real 'clasping hand.' 
 
 "And Miss Josselyn?" said George. 
 
 "Oh, she's the other, if you please. But then, you 
 know, it's Crevelliug's tutelage with her at least, in a 
 great measure. They're engaged, / believe, or soon will 
 be. /hope so, for one. Such a marriage would be per 
 fection." 
 
 "I think you are right," said George, with a great 
 sinking at the heart. 
 
 Most of the women gathered in the long, narrow court 
 were woebegone creatures, whether old or young. It 
 was the "ten days" department, so called; every variety 
 of feminine depravity met and mingled there. Some sat 
 on the benches with bowed heads; others glared about 
 them with insolent, aggressive eyes; others wore plain 
 tive looks ; and a few betrayed the ravaged remnants of 
 beauty that had been their curse. In all womanhood 
 there is something exquisite and tender and lovable that 
 the worst wickedness cannot wholly destroy. Women,
 
 NEW YORK. 279 
 
 when they drink and sin and steep themselves in deg 
 radation, never quite lose their inherent divinit.y. Men 
 will grow, sometimes, absolutely like beasts, and often 
 sink lower than bestiality itself. But women, even when 
 they are bloated hags, with a few wisps of blanched hair 
 straying over flushed and mottled foreheads, retain an 
 inalienable piteousness the ruined memories, perhaps, 
 of their wifehood, motherhood, sisterhood of all the 
 infinite sweetness and comfort and benignity they once 
 had power to bestow. Men fall in the mud and grovel 
 there, and we give only loathing to their lewd abase 
 ment. But to women, though fallen just as low, our 
 compassion and regret are always a spontaneous and in 
 stinctive benison. Man's overthrow is that of strength 
 and sturdiness; woman's is that of purity and innocence. 
 We pass by a stalwart tree that storm has shattered, and 
 deplore its ruin. We see a flower lying smirched in some 
 slimy pool, and long to pluck it forth from soilure. 
 
 Upstairs, among the galleries, Doris, Chevelling, and 
 not a few of the ladies beside, found their chances of 
 converse. George, with nearly all the gentlemen, moved 
 apart from the inmates of the cells. Mrs. Cleeve 
 Prescott, who was fervidly religious, found one of these, 
 who consented to pray with her, and knelt down, with 
 clasped hands before the iron grating. 
 
 "Oh, Jesus," George heard her murmur, "fill with 
 Thy sweet glory the heart of this lonely and misguided 
 soul. Teach her to struggle for Thee through all mists 
 of unhappiness and error, till at last she finds Thee, 
 precious for comfort, a light, a balm, a benediction past 
 all human and earthly aid." 
 
 There sounded a sob from the kneeling figure behind 
 the grating, and George, who heard it, said to one of 
 the keepers : 
 
 "Why iss/iehere?" 
 
 "She's a bad case, sir. She's the mother of two well- 
 known burglars, both serving long sentences, and she 
 herself has spent eight or nine years in prison already, 
 for shoplifting and other kinds of theft." 
 
 Soon he saw Doris having speech with a tall, stout, 
 black-eyed woman, whose lower jaw was brutish and
 
 280 NEW YORK. 
 
 whose nose had the look of being smashed into her face 
 by some savage blow. 
 
 "Why d'ye stop to talk with the likes o' me, Miss 
 Pretty?" he heard the woman growl. "Nobody ever 
 does." 
 
 "Then all the more reason that /should," answered 
 Doris. 
 
 "Well, I guess I don't care much about your company. 
 Look out, or I ',11 scare ye with some talk tougher nor 
 ye've ever heard." 
 
 "Then, of course, I should have to go. I could slip 
 away quite easily you know, and leave you abusing not 
 me, but the empty air. I haven't come here to preach, 
 or to talk religion. I don't ask you to tell me what 
 you've done why you're here." 
 
 The woman put a hand on each hip. "I guess if ye'd 
 had my hard life ye might 'a been here yerself. " 
 
 "No doubt, " said Doris. "Life isn't fair to us. It 
 gives some of us great chances, and from othera it takes 
 away all. Perhaps I might have been far wickeder than, 
 you are if life had treated me unkindly." 
 
 "What d'ye want o' me ennyhow?" demanded the 
 woman. She grinned, showing two rows of yellow and 
 broken teeth, and her tones had perceptibly softened. 
 
 "Oh, I don't wa,nt anything. But I thought it might 
 please you to see the face, to hear the voice, of a woman 
 who has only kindness in her heart for you." 
 
 "Kin'ness, eh?" 
 
 "Oh, yes a very deep and tender kindness! Do you 
 know, I've thought there might be somebody who hasn't 
 heard you are here, and whom you would like to have 
 come and visit you?" 
 
 "Yes," said the woman slowly, drooping her head. 
 "There's som'un. He don't know, but if he did I guess 
 he wouldn't come." 
 
 "Is he?" 
 
 "He's my son, miss. He's a bricklayer, and a decent 
 man. He left me when I began to drink hard that's 
 three years ago. " She began to whimper, and emotion 
 made her ugly face positively gnomish. "I ain't seen 
 much of him since. He's twenty -three years old, God 
 bless him! And I says this that ought to curse him!"
 
 NEW YORK. 281 
 
 "Have you written to him?" asked Doris. 
 
 "I can't write, miss." 
 
 "Do you know where he lives? Yes? Then perhaps 
 I could go to him and beg him to come and see you. 
 "Would it comfort you at all if he came?" 
 
 The woman was now racked with sobs. "Oh, miss, if 
 he'd only come! But he won't! My Hughey's heart is 
 hardened against me, and wonder. But if I could see him 
 here before my trial! If I only could! Now the drink's 
 out o' me the mother's love has got its way again. Ye 
 see I nearly killed, one night, a girl almost as pretty as 
 yerself though not o' your quality, miss, of course. And 
 she was his sweetheart. And he won't never forgive me! 
 Oh, no never!" 
 
 "You must tell me all about it," said Doris, "and 
 when 3 r ou have told mo I'll go to Hughey, and have a long 
 talk with him, and " 
 
 Here the girl paused, for her interlocutress had sud 
 denly perceived George, and leveled upon him an in 
 surgent scowl. George at once retired, but at a distance 
 ho saw the strange confab continued, and presently 
 watched Doris as she drew forth a little notebook and 
 began to write in it. 
 
 Later he said to her : "lam afraid you thought me a 
 most impertinent eavesdropper." 
 
 "No, " she smiled; "bub I can't say as much for Mrs. 
 Mouahan. She had no intention of being expansive in 
 her confidences." 
 
 Doris' cheeks wore an excited pink, and in the gray of 
 her eyes floated tiny sparks, like the minutest spangles. 
 
 "It's unnerved you a little, hasn't it?" said George. 
 Her beauty, in this new phase, burned toward him in- 
 toxicatingly. He felt like dropping at her feet and 
 crushing her joined hands against his lips. 
 
 "Oh, it always does," laughed Doris. "I selected 
 this poor woman because she seemed so utterly repellant 
 and companionless. I didn't care what she was or what 
 she had done. The lower down they get the more I 
 somehow want to try and use 'the clasping hand.' And 
 I've found her after all, remarkably human. She really 
 adores her only sou, whose sweetheart she almost mur-
 
 282 NEW YORK. 
 
 dered while in drink. Her poor, wicked, perverted soul 
 is longing to have him come here and listen to her 
 passionate penitence." At this point Doris raised her 
 delicate, slim-throated head, and gave it an obstinate 
 toss. "And I'm determined to find 'Hughey' out, and 
 beg him to come here and see her!" 
 
 "You wrote down his address?" 
 
 "Yes and I shall soon make use of it." 
 
 "A New York one?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." She took out her little notebook and read 
 from it. George heard a street and a number mentioned 
 that were only a few hundred yards from the house 
 where he and Lynsko had held their fateful meetings. 
 
 "Ah, there!" he said, with an inward shiver. "But 
 you won't go alone, surely!" 
 
 "No. Frank Crevelling will go with me some 
 evening." 
 
 "Evening! You certainly wouldn't dare " 
 
 She looked at him with a confident smile and nod. 
 "Mr. Crevelling must be persuaded a little, but I'm sure 
 of overruling him in the end. And it must be evening, 
 because in the daytime we would be sure of not finding 
 Mr. Hugh Monahan at home." 
 
 "Since she is bent on going," thought George, "how 
 I wish I could take Crevelling 's place!" 
 
 Two o'clock was the imperative hour of retirement 
 from the prison, and in view of this fact "The Clasping 
 Hand" soon repaired to the section for males. "Mur 
 derers' Row" was again passed, and here some of the 
 party lingered, while others went up into the three 
 brighter and airier corridors above. In the second of 
 these corridors Crevelling joined George. 
 
 "Does this strike you," he asked, "as a futile effort?" 
 
 "Frankly, yes," was the answer. 
 
 "Still, there is the effort. That is something that 
 means humanity." 
 
 "We have really done good elsewhere. But here I 
 feel a great hopelessness. If they would let us go into 
 the cells and speak with these unhappy people! But the 
 iron bars are such palpable and mocking reminders of our 
 superior state. They clothe us with an indestructibly
 
 NEW YORK. 283 
 
 air of condescension. And the secret of all worth in 
 proffered comfort and encouragement emanates, I think, 
 from an impression of mutual equality, even though this 
 be vague and factitious. Our little cornpanj', you know, 
 does not call itself the Helping, but rathei the Clasping 
 Hand. Much practical help has been given by it; but 
 the chief object of its union is to aid through moral 
 stimulus of counsel, monition, friendliness, cornradry, 
 sympathetic warmth." 
 
 "I see," said George. He hesitated a moment, then 
 added: "Miss Doris and I have already talked it over. 
 You are sadly handicapped here. But then personal 
 safety would be involved by your going inside some of 
 these cells, even if you could." 
 
 "True. I should not care for that should, indeed, 
 rather relish the danger, if such one might call it, with 
 those keepers at their constant vigil. But you are right. 
 Notice," he went on, in a whisper, "these two men just 
 yonder. They are both lawless criminals, and the visit 
 of such a throng has roused them into a sort of sarcastic 
 astonishment. This putting of two into one tiny cell, 
 by the way it seems to me so barbarous!" 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "They surely cannot fraternize the little dark man, 
 with his long, narrow face and wolfish eyes, and the 
 burly blond man, with his thick-lipped, sensual slug 
 gishness. I wonder if I could say anything to them that 
 they would remember anything that might return to 
 them hereafter if only to one of them at some future 
 hour of contempt for good and thirst for evil." 
 
 The narrow hallway was quite crowded now. 
 
 "Are they not a horrible looking pair?" whispered 
 one of the ladies to Crevelling. "And such opposites, yet 
 both wearing so strong a stamp of wickedness!" 
 
 Others, too, had noticed them. Nearly all the ladies 
 held aloof from all the male prisoners, though Doris, not 
 far off, could be seen exchanging words with a meek- 
 faced elderly man, who bore on one cheek a hideous open 
 cut. 
 
 "I'll try a sentence or two, anyway," muttered Crevel 
 ling; and as he drew near the bars of the cell whose
 
 284 NEW YORK. 
 
 inmates had caused this special heed, both men pressed 
 forward with scorn aud arrogance keenly marked on their 
 differing visages. 
 
 A strong curiosity seized George. He knew the 
 desperado types to which either man belonged one wily 
 and malign, like a snake, the other ferocious aud pon 
 derous, like a bear. He waited for a few moments after 
 Crevelling began speech with them. Meanwhile he had 
 not observed a man in the next cell (which was the last 
 on this corridor) staring at him with fixed intentness. 
 The unobserved watcher was perhaps of his own age, 
 with a hard face, tinted as though cut from some light- 
 hued bronze. He slowly reached forth the fingers of one 
 hand between the bars of his cell and plucked the skirt 
 of George's coat. Then he laughed, with tones low yet 
 sharp. 
 
 "Say, old feller, what are you doin' here, eh? Don't 
 ye know me, number eighty-six? You and me was both 
 together in Sing Sing once, and not so long ago, 
 neither." 
 
 George had turned by this, and recognized the speaker 
 in an instant. If the words had not been so loud if a 
 swift agony of dread lest Doris might hear them had not 
 assailed him he would have minded them far less. As 
 it was, in abrupt torment, he dragged his coat from the 
 maliciously tight clutch. And then a great guffaw of 
 laughter, utterly pitiless and mocking, rang through the 
 hall. 
 
 Crevelling veered round and saw George's white face. 
 
 "I know I see," shot from him. "You're try in' the 
 respectable dodge, Eighty-six? Damme if I can recol 
 lect yer name, or I'd shout it out so's it could be heard 
 by all those ladies and gents you've rung in with." A 
 broadside of blasphemy was rattled out the next minute. 
 "But I'll swear it's you that beard and them fine togs 
 can't fool me. You was always an airy cuss up there on 
 the river. Ho, ho, ho! So ye've come here to preach 
 and pray, have ye, among us miserable sinners? What 
 a joke! What a big joke! Ho, ho, ho!" 
 
 "Go forward; leave it all to ine, "said Crevelling, very 
 quickly, in George's ear.
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 Everybody along the corridor had heard. It seemed 
 to George, while he moved past his companions, as if 
 scores of eyes were stabbing him with astonished and 
 contemptuous looks. But, all the time, he thought only 
 of her. His feet felt numb as they struck the second 
 step of the narrow stair leading below; his hands had a 
 desire to grasp something, as though for suppdrt; he 
 clinched his lips together, to keep them from fluttering 
 and sagging apart. 
 
 Oh, the mortification of it! Oh, the savage unex 
 pectedness! Here, once more, was the curse of his 
 stained name. How could he have dreamed that this 
 fresh torment lay in ambush for him? If he had spent 
 his earlier term of imprisonment in this jail instead of a 
 Brooklyn one, no power could have induced him to pass 
 within these walls. Here he had had no reason to suspect 
 the dimmest chance of exposure. And yet exposure had 
 come. It was alwa3'S waiting for him, in loathed ambush 
 like this it would always be waiting, somehow, some 
 where, from now until his death ! 
 
 He had reached the lower floor of the prison, and stood 
 there, inwardly shivering, undecided whether to remain 
 or depart. Suddenly the thought of Crevelling recurred 
 to him. An infinite sense of aid, sympathy, friendship, 
 swept through his heart. "Go forward; leave it all to 
 me!" In his perturbation, his misery, he repeated that 
 gentle command, whispering it to his vexed and 
 anguished spirit. A keeper approached him. "You 
 ain't goin' to quit, I s'pose," he asked, sociably and half 
 questioningly, "without the comp'ny you come with?" 
 
 "N no," said George, scarcely sure if his 'no' were 
 not a 'yes.' Then the thought smote him that he must 
 "quit, "and very promptly. What other course could 
 he take? How could he face again those men and 
 women upstairs? Just at this point Crevelling dawned 
 on hia view. As they met Crevelling caught his hand, 
 pressed it for a moment, and then murmured: "You're 
 knocked over I see that by your face." 
 
 "Why not? Why not?" 
 
 "You're safe perfectly safe." 
 
 "Safe?"
 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Yes. Nobody except myself really heard any con 
 nected series of words. I assure you of this on my 
 honor it is true." 
 
 "No no; you must be wrong, Mr. Crevelling!" 
 
 "I ara not wrong. Miss Doris, who was just beyond 
 me, heard the scornful laughter and caught some frag 
 ments of sentences. But I almost pushed her away from 
 the cell near which she stood, and told her that there 
 was an impudent fellow a few yards off who had the wish 
 to make himself hostile and who had just flung a blast of 
 insult at both you and myself. I asked her to warn the 
 others to get them out of the corridor as soon as possi 
 ble. She at once acted on my request. It is almost 
 time for us to depart, anyway. I then told them so, and 
 emphasized the little alarm which I knew she had al 
 ready spread. Result they are all coming downstairs. 
 See here they troop. Nobody, believe me, for I speak 
 with certainty, has a glimmer of suspicion. If you are 
 spoken to on the subject it will be only with regret that 
 you should unluckily have fallen in with a prisoner who 
 lacked decent civility and your misfortune will be 
 classed with my own." 
 
 Even if he had doubted this declaration, George must 
 soon have seen the truth of it. Doris presently came up 
 to him, her smile radiant with a kind of amused condo 
 lence. "I hope you were not seriously disturbed," she 
 said, "by that very explosive person. Mr. Crevelling 
 tells me that he attacked you both in the most offensive 
 way. I'm afraid you will feel like scolding me for hav 
 ing brought you here. If so, have it out with me at 
 once, and don't regard me with that hurt, reproachful 
 air." 
 
 The intensity of George's relief made him break into 
 a joyful laugh. "I'll postpone my scolding," he said, 
 "with j'our permission." 
 
 "That sounds ominous," she replied archly. "Will 
 the postponement last long?" 
 
 "I'm afraid," he said, "it will be indefinite." 
 
 As she echoed his laugh he felt his ej'es moisten. 
 And mixed with his new happiness was a sense of almost 
 reverential gratitude toward Crevelliug.
 
 NEW YORK. 287 
 
 VII. 
 
 "WHAT a day!" thought George, when once more 
 alone in his lodgings. "What a day!" 
 
 Of course he must accept the grandly generous propo 
 sition which Crevelling had made to him. And yet, 
 while feeling like the worst of ingrates, he determined to 
 ask for time. 
 
 "You shall have all the time you want," Crevelling 
 said to him, when they met by appointment, that even 
 ing, at the home of the latter. "Say a fortnight?" he 
 added. "Or would a longer term suit you better?" 
 
 "A fortnight would be ample," George said. He was 
 thinking of Doris of what he should say to her when 
 the occasion came for a full avowal of his identity of 
 how he would bring about the shock of so stinging a 
 revelation. 
 
 At this moment a most painful and unforeseen thing 
 happened. A servant appeared, and handed Crevelling 
 a card. He glanced at it, paused, looked at George, and 
 then said: "Tell Mr. Courtelyou I am here." As the 
 servant was vanishing, George exclaimed : 
 
 "Osborne Courtelyou! I did not want to meet him 
 it will be almost a misery for me to meet him now!" 
 
 "Really? I thought you and he were the best of 
 friends. Did you not appear at the trial of Lynsko as 
 chief witness for the prosecution?" 
 
 "Yes yes," George faltered. "But we have never 
 been friends. And, beside, my alias my position as 
 Mr. Josselyn's secretary he knows nothing of either 
 fact. Of course he will recognize me at once, in spite of 
 my changed aspect." 
 
 But Courtelyou, who soon afterward entered, gave not 
 a sign of such recognition. Crevelling merely said "Mr. 
 George Mr. Courtelyou/' and bows were exchanged.
 
 288 NEW YOkK. 
 
 "He doesn't know me," George told himself, thank 
 fully. 
 
 "I hoped to find you in," said Courtelyou to Crevel- 
 ling, "but still I felt doubtful. You are a man of so 
 many engagements, you know. And now " Here he 
 looked full at George, with a glance that made its recipi 
 ent coucious of every hair of his concealing, disfeaturing 
 beard. "This gentleman claims you, I fear," he added, 
 with placid politeness. 
 
 "N no," loitered Grovelling, .whose expressive face 
 was now a study. "Mr. George and I have finished our 
 discussion not so important a one, after all." Here he 
 smiled his candid, brilliant smile. "My dear Courtel- 
 you, I know that yon have come to talk with me aboub 
 the case of that poor Italian woman, concerning which I 
 wrote you. It is all just as I stated. She has been 
 horribly persecuted by the family of her infamous hus 
 band. I am convinced that they have got her into 
 prison on a totally false charge." He continued to 
 speak in a rapid, earnest way, telling how the relatives 
 of the woman's husband were, to the best of his belief, a 
 bad set, with a certain sum of dollars to spend in trying 
 to turn the tables upon her and cause her to receive a 
 sentence which should far more justly be passed upon 
 her drunken and blackguard lord. "You," he added, 
 "could drive this little bevy of persecutors into the limbo 
 they deserve. Your legal lightning would shrivel them. 
 I know how expensive it is, my dear Courtelyou, when 
 required by those who can pay for it, and yet how 
 philanthropically you sometimes discharge it at the 
 entreaty of beggars even as audacious as myself." 
 
 George felt that here was a hint of departure which ho 
 could opportunely take, and he soon got himself away 
 with more felicity than he had believed the whole awk 
 ward situation would permit. 
 
 "I met your friend, Mr. Courtelyou," he said to Doris 
 a day later, while she was paying one of her visits to the 
 library of her cousin. Then he looked at Josselyu, who 
 was absorbed in a letter, several yards away. "He did 
 not recognize me." 
 
 "Did not recognize you?" queried Doris, with sur 
 prised air. "You haveinown him, then?"
 
 NEW YORK. 289 
 
 George, inwardly agitated, feeling himself at the com 
 mencement of an unmasking process which he wished to 
 make as gradual as its inseparable violence of disclosure 
 would allow, gave a little flourishing gesture with one 
 hand. 
 
 "Yes before I grew this big disguising beard, I 
 knew him rather well." 
 
 "Knew him personally you!" 
 
 "Yes. Please promise me that for the present you 
 will not speak of our having ever been acquainted." 
 
 "I will promise," she answered slowly. Then, with 
 decision and gentleness oddly mixed: "I dislike, how 
 ever, to make such an agreement." 
 
 "May I ask you why?" 
 
 "It flavors of deception." 
 
 "Not culpably, I hope." 
 
 "No no. I can't distrust you, if you mean that. I 
 can't believe you would stoop to anything like false 
 hood." 
 
 George felt himself turning pale. But with resolute 
 ness that had in it a kind of secret heart-failure, he 
 went on : 
 
 "May you not err in your estimate of my honesty? 
 Or have you not cared to give that subject any special 
 thought?" 
 
 "I somehow believe in you that's all. It's instinc 
 tive, 1 suppose." 
 
 "Are these intuitions which we call instincts alwaj's 
 trustworthy?" 
 
 "Come, now," she said, challengiugly and a little 
 curtly, "do you wish to make me think you less honora 
 ble than you seem?" 
 
 "And do I then seem honorable?" he asked. 
 
 "Seem! You are! I know it!" 
 
 She spoke impetuously, and then burst into a little 
 nervous laugh, as though ashamed of her ardor. George 
 meanwhile watched her with covert agony. 
 
 "I'll keep my promise regarding yourself and Mr. 
 Courtelyou, " she continued, with a levity for which he 
 was totally unprepared, "provided you will appear down 
 in our drawing rooms, this evening, and make yourself
 
 290 NEW YORK. 
 
 conventionally civil to a handful of very stupid people. 
 It will be the meeting of the Tuesday Evening Club. 
 You don't know anything about the Tuesday Evening 
 Club? Neither do I; neither does anybody. It is a 
 collection of fashionables, and it meets at certain houses 
 of its members with an idea that it is somehow intel 
 lectual. Cousin Ellen Mrs. Josselyn belongs to it, 
 and to-night is her turn to entertain it. Somebody, I 
 have heard, is to read a paper on the flora and fauna of 
 Japan. Everybody will say 'how delightful/ when it 
 is finished, though it may have been the sorriest of 
 bores. Have I frightened you into refusing my invita 
 tion, or will you be brave enough to come?" 
 
 "You are more than good to ask me, " said George, 
 "but this fashionable world and I have little in common." 
 
 "Hardly less than the same world and myself. Then 
 I have frightened you?" 
 
 "I should cut the most incongruous figure." 
 
 Doris frowned. "Why, pray? You have the man 
 ners of a gentleman." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "You speak like one you dress like one. Ah, I see: 
 the flora and fauna of Japan appal you. But there is 
 always conversation afterward." 
 
 "Conversation in which I could bear no part." 
 
 "Is not that a trifle arrogant?" 
 
 "Arrogant?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Have you no adaptability? Can't you sometimes 
 descend gracefully to your mental inferiors?" 
 
 "I meant no such view of the case. That would in 
 deed be arrogance." 
 
 "How you wrap yourself in mystery!" 
 
 "I?" 
 
 "Cousin Albert, there, knows scarcely anything about 
 you." 
 
 "Did he tell you that?" queried George quickly. 
 
 "Not in so many words. But I inferred it." 
 
 "Do j r ou want me to tell you all about myself?" came 
 the slow response, leaving his lips lingeringly like a sigh. 
 
 "You can tell me at the Tuesday Evening Club to 
 night. I'll give you a long audience. There's conde 
 scension, isn't it?"
 
 NEW YORK. 291 
 
 "1 should call it simple graciousness. But the place, 
 the hour 'Would they not be inappi'opriate?" 
 
 "How can I tell?" Her voice and eyes now equally 
 softened. "Is it something very sorrowful?" 
 
 "Yes something very sorrowful indeed." 
 
 She made no answer, though he saw a sympathetic 
 tremor steal into her closed lips. "Suppose," he 
 pursued, "you consented to go with me on that visit to 
 Mrs. Monahan's unrelenting son? Or am I too audacious 
 in seeking to take Mr. Crevelliug's place?" 
 
 She started. "To go with Frank Grovelling would be 
 like going with a brother!" 
 
 "I understand. Pardon me." 
 
 His apologetic humility seemed to vex her. "Beside, 
 how could this possibly concern the question?" 
 
 "What question?" 
 
 "That of your volunteered revelation. No! I must 
 learn more about you first. I must hear your history, 
 however sorrowful. Come this evening or not, as you 
 please. I shall welcome you if you do come. You need 
 not talk to the fashionables unless you please. As for 
 my visit to Hugh Monahau, I could only make it in your 
 company with both my cousins' full consent; and even 
 then " Here she paused, drew out a little watch, 
 and looked down at it. "I'm darting off now. If you 
 appear this evening I shall be very glad. You need not 
 come till nine. The lecture usually begins even later." 
 She glided over toward Mr. Josselyn, rested an arm on 
 his shoulder, and spoke with him for several minutes in 
 low tones. Then, with a nod and smile for George, she 
 quitted the room. 
 
 Josselyn had already laid down his pen. When left 
 alone with George, he rose, and said in rather flurried 
 accents : 
 
 "You've interested Doris; do you know it?" 
 
 "She has interested me," George murmured. 
 
 Josselyn gave him an odd stare. "She does that to 
 everybody whom she talks with at all seriously, I've 
 noticed. And she has talked somewhat seriously with 
 you, has she not?" 
 
 "Yes,"
 
 292 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Ah I see. She wants you to make one of the guests 
 to-night at this entertainment my "wife is giving." 
 
 George looked intently for a moment into his kinn- 
 man's mild, worried eyes. "I haven't agreed to appear, " 
 he said. "How could I do so without your consent?" 
 
 "Oh, you have it, you have it," said Josselyn, with 
 an uneasy lifting of both hands. 
 
 "Thanks," George answered. He was on the verge 
 of making a full disclosure of Crevelling's noble proposal 
 and his own acceptance of it. But Josselyn repelled this 
 impulse by almost fretfully muttering: 
 
 "Don't in heaven's name, let yourself be foolish 
 enough to fall in love with Doris. Crevelling is daft 
 about her, and so is Courtelyou, and so are three or four 
 other men, unless I'm wrong. She isn't in the least a 
 coquette I don't mean that. But she fascinates with 
 out knowing it; her cruelty is unconscious; she doesn't 
 realize her own coldness." 
 
 "Coldness!" 
 
 "A kind of virginal coldness yes. Oh, I've studied 
 her well! I believe she will never marry; she has pas 
 sion, if you please, but it is spiritual, not sexual. In 
 other times she might have made a sublime nun or 
 priestess. To-day she will live and die a fervent humani 
 tarian." 
 
 "Thank you for your warning," said George gloomily. 
 "I should be a fine fool to fall in love with her I!" He 
 gnawed his lips for a moment, keeping back a tumult of 
 what he deemed futile words. "I feel," he went on, 
 "that my presence among your wife's guests to-night 
 cannot please you. Why should it? You bargained for 
 no such deception. Mrs. Josselyn would bitterly resent 
 my coming if she knew the truth. And so I will stay 
 away. It is best. There; the whole matter is settled. 
 Let us not refer to it again." 
 
 "No, no," Josselyn said. "Doris will smell a mystery 
 and torment me with questions and you as well. Per 
 haps, after all, it is safer for you to appear. I I wish 
 it. Yes, on the whole, George, I really request it." 
 
 George's later preparations for the coming reception 
 were mingled with sharpest pity. By what right, he
 
 NEW YORK. 293 
 
 asked himself, should he distress still more this man who 
 had accepted the worriment and dread of his secretary 
 ship? Josselyn had given him refuge at a time when all 
 society bristled toward him like a phalanx of hostile 
 spearmen. Was it just, was it even honorable, not to 
 make, now, a firm stand of refusal, withdrawal, avoid 
 ance? 
 
 And yet the thought of soon again seeing Doris, no 
 matter among what kinds of unsatisfactory and disheart 
 ening environments, teemed for him with delicious temp 
 tations. He had no evening gear of the needful sort; he 
 was compelled to get it at short notice and with extreme 
 haste. But past experience aided him in conforming to 
 current modish demands. His tall, flexile figure needed 
 no artful efforts of tailoring. When he presented him 
 self in. Mrs. Josselyn's drawing rooms with white necktie 
 and a pair of light-tinted gloves he had not the air of one 
 to whom life has imparted many of its disrnaler secrets. 
 People looked at him with curiosity, it is true, but often 
 with admiration as well. 
 
 It annoyed him that Mrs. Josseiyn should smile so 
 cordially as she gave him her hand. 
 
 "Doris told me you were coming, Mr. George," she 
 said. "I am so pleased that you accepted her invitation, 
 which I beg you will also look upon as my own." 
 
 And then another arrival pushed George aside. He 
 marveled at this graciousriess from a woman notoriously 
 cool to 'nobodies' like himself. Doris, he felt, had been 
 at the root of it; and he was right. 
 
 Not long ago the girl had said, in plaintive explosion 
 to her cousin: "There! You don't like my having asked 
 him, and I am sorry I did, and you will be frigidly 
 polite and make him wish he hadn't come." 
 
 "Suppose I disappoint you," Mrs. Jossel.vn had said. 
 No one could sting her worldliness into conscience pangs 
 like this beloved relative, whom she disapproved yet 
 adored. 
 
 "That's right," cried Doris, "do disappoint me. I 
 shall expect it of you now that you've hinted it." 
 
 "My social tendencies are exclusive, Doris, as you 
 know."
 
 294 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Oh, Cousin Ellen! There will be men in your draw 
 ing rooms to-night without half Mr. George's brains, 
 education or breeding." 
 
 "But they are in society. They have been accepted. 
 I put it cold-bloodedly, like that, for the simple reason 
 that there is no other way to put it. I meet society on 
 its own terms, my dear, as you are well aware, and be 
 cause I believe there is no other way of meeting it." 
 
 "But if you would only look into your naturally kind 
 heart " 
 
 "How often must I tell you that as a woman of the 
 world I have no heart at all?" 
 
 "And how often must I answer you that you are far 
 too good and lovable too lower yourself by being a 
 woman of the world at all?" 
 
 "Lower myself ? Impudent vixen! Since you are so 
 captivated by this young man, where on earth is your 
 policy? Do you want me to give him uncomfortable 
 twinges? Take care, or I will." 
 
 Doris raised a forefinger, looking very serious. "If 
 you do, you'll try my affection for you. And I'm per 
 fectly certain you're too fond of me to take any such 
 rash step. Eecollect our fondness for one another wasn't 
 born yesterday. If I can't reform you I can at least 
 make you feel that my regard for your real self not 
 your 'society' self is worth preserving." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn attempted a frown, but it ended in a 
 smile. "Upon my word, Doris," she said, "you're be 
 ginning to frighten me. I must study this Mr. George, 
 in order to see whether your fancy for him can have any 
 deep foundation. It surely seems peculiar in a girl who 
 need but to choose between two men who are rated, in 
 their different ways, among the best matches in town." 
 
 But Doris had no intention of giving her cousin, that 
 evening, any opportunity to "study" the guest under 
 discussion. She swept up to him, all smiles, a moment 
 after he had received Mrs. Josselyn 's greeting, and 
 brought him to a pleasant nook under a bower of palms, 
 and sat there with him, saying light, graceful things on 
 no subject in particular till the rooms had filled with 
 ladies in splendid gear and gentlemen with snowy ovals
 
 NEW YORK. 295 
 
 of shirt-bosom, and the lecturer (a sallow man -whose 
 head was too small and whose hands were too big) com 
 menced his Japanese discourse, zoologic and botanic. 
 
 It was excessively interesting, and everybody enjoyed 
 it except George, whose attention did not wander but 
 remained permanently null. He had ears and eyes only 
 for Doris, in a violet-hued gown with pink roses at her 
 breast. She seemed to him the most simply dressed 
 woman in the room, though by all odds the most beauti 
 ful. Before the lecture began she said to him : 
 
 "There are some charming ladies here. Can I not 
 make you acquainted with two or three of them?" 
 
 "Why?" he answered. "To have them wonder how I 
 managed to get within their sacred limits, and to feel 
 that they would almost openly curl their lips at me if 
 they knew I am your cousin's secretary?" 
 
 "Oh, they're not all like that." 
 
 "No? Well, unless you prefer to escape from me, I'll 
 forego the honor of their acquaintance." 
 
 "You're quite without social ambitions, then? How 
 refreshing! And I've not the least wish to escape from 
 you. Don't you remember what I said this afternoon? 
 That I'd give you a long audience on a certain 
 subject?" 
 
 "Yes but I can't claim it now, can I? The lecturer 
 is about to begin." 
 
 "You can claim it afterward, if you please. There will 
 be time." 
 
 "Here comes Mr. Courtelyou," said George. "He 
 sees you. There you have exchanged bows." 
 
 "Afterward, as you say I maybe left quite in the cold. 
 He will probably want you all to himself." 
 
 "And he shall not have me. It's a promise." 
 
 Hardly three minutes later Courtelyou was shaking 
 hands with Doris. He appeared not to notice George's 
 presence at her side. Nearly everybody was seated. A 
 few yards away the lecturer, standing where two rose- 
 shaded lamps could pour the most effective beams upon 
 an upheld manuscript, had audibly and significantly 
 cleared his throat. "You must hurry and find a seat," 
 George heard Doris say to Courtelyou. "There are none 
 here, you see, even if you cared to take one."
 
 296 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I should very much like to take one." 
 
 While he thus spoke, George glanced at him, and 
 their eyes met. Courtelyou's were mercilessly accusing. 
 George at once understood that he had not only been 
 recognized but that behind such recognition lurked 
 savage disapproval. In another minute Gourtelyou had 
 turned on his heel and moved away. Something made 
 George say to Doris: "I have not seen Mr. Crevelling as 
 yet. Do you think he will come?" 
 
 "No; he cannot. Important engagements \vill pre 
 vent." 
 
 When the lecture was over every body rose, and a babble 
 of conversation at once ensued. Doris pointed with her 
 fan toward two empty chairs in a remote corner, half 
 concealed by a massive cabinet, "We can have it out 
 with one another over there," she said, "provided you 
 are willing." 
 
 "Have it out with one another?" George faltered. He 
 followed her, and in a trice they were again seated side 
 by side, this time very obscurely. 
 
 "Did I speak with too much brusqueness?" she asked, 
 while his gaze fell before the search of her own. "If so, 
 pardon me." 
 
 "I I can't tell you here, " he said brokenly. "It is 
 no time no place." 
 
 He did not lift his eyes, but felt the steady scrutiny 
 of hers. 
 
 "Just as you please," he heard her say, quite softly. 
 *'But you seem disturbed even agitated." 
 
 "lam." 
 
 "Is it because of what you might have to tell me?" 
 
 ' ' About my past ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is partly because of that." 
 
 "Do you mean " She suddenly paused. 
 
 "Oh," he said, with a great throb in his throat, "I 
 mean that my past, as you yourself phrase it, has been 
 one of which I terribly, torturingly repent." 
 
 They looked at one another in silence for a longer 
 time than perhaps either guessed. 
 
 "Is it something," she presently asked, "that you 
 think I would not be willing to forgive?'*
 
 NEW YORK. 297 
 
 "I know you are wondrously merciful. And yet 
 
 "And yet?" 
 
 "Spare me do! he pleaded. And then a new thought 
 struck him, and his low words rushed forth in tumult. 
 "If you would consent to go with me there to-morrow 
 evening instead of with Mr. Ore veiling! I feel I know 
 that I might speak then as I cannot speak now!" 
 
 "Then? While I went with you into those dismal 
 and dangerous quarters alone? What are you saying?" 
 
 "You would understand if you went with me." 
 
 "More mystery?" 
 
 "Yes, if you please. But my reasons are not idle 
 ones." 
 
 "And I must take them on trust?" 
 
 "Take nothing on trust, " he answered, with altering 
 tones. "Of course you would not, could not go. Even 
 if your cousins acceded, you could not. I have been 
 very wrong very insolent. You should have frowned 
 down my proposition at the outset." 
 
 "Quite true. " 
 
 "You say that coldly and chidingly. Let me make 
 you my most earnest apologies and then slip away." 
 
 "Wait a moment. " Her mild voice teemed with com 
 mand. "Tell me your past history now. Tell it in a 
 few words. You have done something or been some 
 thing you are horribly ashamed of. What is it? or, 
 rather, what was it? Never mind time or place. Here 
 is the place and now is the time." 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "Well, as you will," came her next words, full of 
 smothered indignation. "This evening must end all 
 further trifling. I cannot know you any longer 
 
 "Ah, don't say that!" 
 
 "I do say it. This is the end of our acquaintance, 
 unless you choose a franker course with me." 
 
 The pallor and resolution in her face dizzied him, for 
 an instant, with distress. Furtively he knotted both 
 hands where they hung at his side. Then he leaned a 
 little nearer to her, and said, with the speed and fire 
 born of great suffering : 
 
 "Courtelyou recognized me, just now. Crevelling has
 
 298 NEW YORK. 
 
 already both recognized and pitied me. I wonder if you 
 will be merciful as he. Your cousin, Albert Josselyn, 
 was merciful ; he gave me the place I hold with him, but 
 because of his wife, because of public opinion, he would 
 not have the real truth transpire. Still, I don't reproach 
 him. There was a bond of blood between us, but what 
 did that mean, after all? He did marvels, and I bless 
 him for it. Every man's hand was against me; I would 
 have killed myself if he had not stretched out his. Not 
 so long ago you said that you knew of his having spoken 
 certain things which moved you to the soul. Now you 
 have guessed, of course, who I am." 
 
 She drew back from him. A shadow of rose color 
 swept up over her pale features, dim as if some far-away 
 passing lamp had reflected it there. 
 
 "No, no, " she said. "Who are you? You you tell 
 me that I said of you Ah! I see! You are " 
 
 "George Oliver," he supplied. 
 
 He heard her give a short, faint cry as he rose. Press 
 ing out among crowded forms and genial faces, he felt 
 the bright lights of the festal rooms swim before his 
 eyes. He had but one idea to escape from the house, 
 to reach the open street. The humiliation of having 
 told her of knowing that she knew at last ravaged 
 him, soul and body. 
 
 "Pardon me," said a voice, low and cool. 
 
 Courtelyou stood before him, barring the way. 
 
 Once more their eyes met. George, by a sudden pang 
 of realization, comprehended that from this man he had 
 now nothing further to fear. And in consequence his 
 own look, as he paused and let it clash lance-like with 
 Courtelyou 's, was no less bold than sad.
 
 NEW YORK. 29D 
 
 VIII. 
 
 UNDER his breath, yet with much distinctness, the 
 lawyer said : 
 
 "I must tell you that I know who you are," 
 
 "That does not surprise me." 
 
 "I knew on seeing you at Mr. Crevelling's. " 
 
 "You .chose to give no sign of it." 
 
 "No. This evening is different, however." 
 
 "Yes? And why?" 
 
 "Because your presence here is an unwarrantable 
 deception. " 
 
 "To whom?" asked George, with a smile that seemed 
 to glitter visible scorn. "Your faultless and immaculate 
 self?" 
 
 Not a trace of anger was disclosed in the answer. "I 
 resent your appearance here under an alias." 
 
 "One of which my host and cousin Mr. Josselyn, is 
 aware?" 
 
 "Yes notwithstanding such fact. You are 'Mr. 
 George,' Josselyn's secretary. I heard as much, after 
 you quitted Crevelling and myself; Josselyn may know 
 everything; lam far from doubting your statement to that 
 effect provided you actually make it and not hint it." 
 
 "Thanks; you are really most benevolent. I do make 
 it." 
 
 "Very well. But does Mrs. Josselyn know?" 
 
 "You are not privileged to inquire." 
 
 "Does Miss Josselyn know?" 
 
 "Again, you are not privileged to inquire." 
 
 "Ah, I see. You choose to be high-handed." 
 
 "I choose to tell you that you are posing as an insolent 
 meddler."
 
 3oO NEW Yoktf. 
 
 " 'Posing, ' seems a strange word from the lips of a 
 man who enters this sort of society well aware that if his 
 real name were known here not a person in the rooms 
 would associate with him." 
 
 "This is your way of showing your wrath. It's a 
 calm way, I admit, but it is also the way of a coward." 
 
 "How purely ridiculous! Miss Josselyn is one of my 
 dearest friends. Do you suppose I will endure having 
 you deceive her, as you have no doubt deceived Grovel 
 ling? I had every sort of sympathy for you till you at 
 tempted to impose (as too evidently you have done) on 
 poor Josselyn's weakness." 
 
 "Sympathy! your sympathy !" sneered George, under 
 his breath. "It's like hearing a toad boast of quick cir 
 culation! But, after all, you are no doubt acting from a 
 sense of duty your sort of duty. I read your character 
 long ago. In a way, sir, you are a man of principle, 
 you are even what the world at large might call a good 
 man. But I showed you, some time since, that your 
 goodness and your principle were of the kind I dislike 
 and shun. As we stand, you are my debtor, and I owe 
 you nothing. Now please to cease from ever addressing 
 me again." 
 
 "Debtor? I your debtor? How?" broke from Cour- 
 telyou, as George was passing him. 
 
 "How? Why, simply through the use you made of 
 me in advancing your legal reputation." 
 
 George had turned again. His interlocutor was now 
 smiling and shaking his head. "My dear man, you can 
 not behave like this with me. I am accustomed to 
 bravado. You must leave this house. You must leave 
 it at once. My feelings toward .you are of the kindest. 
 I have offered to aid you in any reasonable way. But I 
 do not tolerate imposture, and I will not tolerate it any 
 the more because you choose to call me names." 
 
 George knew that he must now be very pale. But he 
 knew, also, that he was guarding every feature from the 
 least disclosure of what rage and couteDipt surged within 
 him. As for any shadow of publicity in this quick con 
 fab they might both have been whispering together in 
 some corner. Amid the polite and copious chatter that
 
 NEW YORK. BOi 
 
 surrounded them their words were unnoticed, unnoticea- 
 ble, as though concerned with some appointment to 
 lunch or dine on the morrow. 
 
 "You will not tolerate it?" said George. "Does that 
 mean that you desire me to give you a little more 
 notoriety?" 
 
 "I have told you," Courtelyou softly insisted, "that 
 you must leave this house, and leave it at once. Other 
 wise " 
 
 "Otherwise?" queried George, with a hearty ripple of 
 laughter or one that he at least made appear so. "Ah, 
 come, now. You're talking seriously at last. Otherwise 
 you will do what?" 
 
 "I will expose you." 
 
 As Courtelyou made this reply, his tone and mien 
 underwent a wavering change. George's defiance, tran 
 quil yet clear, had told upon him. Beyond all question 
 he believed himself wholly in the right. At this very mo 
 ment he would have given George a sum of money large 
 for a man of his income, have given it with motives of the 
 purest charity, have given it despite recent language 
 which he held to be packed with the most unprovoked 
 insult. And yet he had morally sprung to arms at what 
 he deemed a scandalous imposition, a brazen hypoc 
 risy. 
 
 "You will expose me?" said George. "How, and to 
 whom? Will you mount a chair like an auctioneer and 
 shout out, or will you glide to this person and that, like 
 a wily sneak, and whisper your precious little budget of 
 information?" 
 
 "These questions are evidently cast in the form of a 
 threat." 
 
 Again George laughed. "What a figure you cut, with 
 your pompous morality!" And now he leaned his lips 
 close to the other's ear. "I dare you to make a public 
 show. Understand I dare you. As for your demand, 
 I would no more think of acceding to it than I would be 
 stupid enough to slap your face or kick you." 
 
 At this the cold eyes flashed. "Do either, and you 
 may again get a taste of your old prison life not so un 
 familiar, as yet, I should judge."
 
 302 NEW YORK. 
 
 "True. Not so unfamiliar that I care to risk a recur 
 rence of it in so mean and petty an encounter. But 
 you've waved your little flag. Now stand to your little 
 gun. Consider my fingers, if you please, snapped in 
 your face." At this point George folded his arms, and 
 intentionally loudened his voice, though its key still 
 stayed moderate. "All in all, do you know, you strike 
 me as the most preposterous bully of whom I have ever 
 heard or read? And please listen to this: I shall now 
 insist on your carrying out your brutal and idiotic 
 menace. Insist, you will be good enough to compre 
 hend. You shall not back down and slink off. You 
 must do something. I refuse, and with utter disdain, 
 to leave this house. But you must either try to have me 
 ordered out of it by some one in authority here, or you 
 must admit to me that you have merely flaunted before 
 me the flimsiest braggadocio." 
 
 Just then a gentleman jovially slapped Courtelyou on 
 the shoulder. He was a big, florid man, with a visage 
 whose amiability might instantly change, you felt, to 
 haughtiness. 
 
 "Ah, Courtelyou," he said, "so your growing legal 
 greatness does not yet prevent you from honoring our 
 humble Tuesday Evening Club?" 
 
 "No no Onderdonk, " almost stammered Courtel 
 you. He was smiling, and while the gentleman shook 
 his hand he made a receding movement, away from 
 George. 
 
 But the latter, every nerve strung to its tensest pitch, 
 inwardly boiling with rage and challenge, took a new 
 chance and shot a new sentence into the ear of his late 
 assailant. 
 
 "Now now is your time! Tell him. Tell whom you 
 will ! I'm waiting. I have called you by two rather 
 unflattering names. Prove you're something at least a 
 little less debased!" 
 
 But Courtelyou turned his back upon the speaker, and 
 with some words which George failed to catch, walked 
 away, his arm linked in that of Mr. Onderdonk a per 
 son of high social place.
 
 NEW YORK. o03 
 
 "Triumph!" George said to himself. "I shall stay 
 here now till the last guest goes." 
 
 But he did not keep this resolve. The thought of see 
 ing Doris again dismayed him. In less than five 
 minutes longer he had quitted the house. Let Courtel- 
 you, he decided, claim the exit as a flight. In doing so 
 he could not shirk the actuality of his own distinct re 
 pulse and retreat. 
 
 Meanwhile, as refreshments were being served the 
 guests, Courtelyou espied Doris, still seated in the corner 
 where George had left her. Straightway he took the 
 empty chair at her side. 
 
 "I'm fortunate in finding you here alone," he said. 
 
 "It strikes mo that you're somewhat unlucky," she 
 answered him, with an absent, colorless air. 
 
 "Why? You're feeling unsocial?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "I should judge so, from the extreme retirement of 
 this nook, which I've ventured to invade. Pray tell me 
 has Mr. George been sharing it with you?" 
 
 She started, then gave a slow nod. "Yes." 
 
 "You er seem to have dismissed him." 
 
 "No he went of his own accord." Suddenly her 
 languor disappeared. She fixed an intent look upon him. 
 "By the way, he tells me that he thought you recognized 
 him a little while ago." 
 
 It was Courtelyou's turn to show surprise. "Becog- 
 nizedhim? He told you that? Then you know who ho 
 is?" 
 
 "I I've just found out," she replied unsteadily. 
 
 "Ah he's made an open confession, then? No doubt 
 you sent him away after hearing it. If so you were very 
 sensible." 
 
 "He went of his own accord." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "Yes." She leaned forward, looking into a section of 
 the crowded room beyond. "But perhaps he will return 
 soon," she added, with an evident nervousness. "And 
 if so I want you, please, to leave us together." 
 
 "Leave you together!" he exclaimed. "Leave you 
 with George Oliver!"
 
 304 NEW YORK. 
 
 She drew herself up and stared at him. "George 
 Oliver is my cousin." 
 
 "A sort of cousin, I believe yes." 
 
 "A cousin twice or thrice removed, perhaps, but still, 
 a cousin. "We are, more or less, of the same stock, the 
 same blood. " 
 
 Courtelyou repressed a gathering frown. "That is 
 strange talk, surely. These rooms are no place for him, 
 and I made it very plain to him just now that I thought 
 so. He responded with insolence; he defied me. But 
 of course I could not publicly resent his attitude. I lost 
 no time, however, in seeking to inform you " 
 
 "Of what I already knew, " she cut in sharply. "So 
 you were cruel to him, then?" 
 
 "Cruel? You call it so?" 
 
 "I do call it so." She gathered her brows, and the 
 thin curves of her nostrils tightened. "I call it most 
 officious and self-righteous as well! How dared you do 
 it, Osborne Courtelyou? Are you the host here? How 
 dared you persecute him like that?" 
 
 "You think it persecution!" he said, aghast. 
 
 "Worse!" She dashed a handkerchief across her eyes, 
 and they shone brighter for the tears thus swept from 
 them, their brightness being that of wrath. "I shall 
 never forgive you. It was infamous! What earthly 
 right had you to bid him go." 
 
 "The right, as I thought, of protecting you and other 
 reputable people against unfit associates." 
 
 "Unfit! And you can talk like that, knowing all he 
 went through! 1 only read his words at the trial that 
 trial where you were aided by his evidence to shine as a 
 legal craftsman and win a difficult case! You heard his 
 words, and you must have known him beforehand, in all 
 the pathos of his remorse, his despair! No wonder he 
 did not like you. He said to me once that he did not, 
 when I hadn't a suspicion who he was. No, I shall 
 never forgive this meanness in you never! And you 
 came here to me as an informer against him! Shame!" 
 She rose now. "Where is he? I wish to see him. I 
 am certain he had more spirit than to take orders from 
 you to leave a house in which you have no authority
 
 NEW YORK. 305 
 
 whatever. He responded with insolence, eh? You pre 
 sume to term it insolence! What, pray, was your de 
 mand? He defied you, eh? You presume to term it 
 defiance? Shall I tell you what / term it? Honest and 
 natural anger mixed, no doubt, with a great deal of 
 wholesome disgust." 
 
 "Doris, I 
 
 "Do not ever again dare to call me Doris. Be as 
 much of a personage among others as they will permit 
 you to appear. But please remember this : you will seem 
 to me a very small and petty creature, now and for the 
 future. I have not the power to insist on your leaving 
 this house, but I have more power so to insist than you 
 had in your recent contemptible course toward him. 
 And slight as that power is, I should like you to consider 
 that I use it now. I should like you to feel sure that as 
 the cousin of Albert Josselyn who gave George Oliver 
 shelter here I heartily wish you would make a speedy 
 departure." 
 
 She hurried away, and left Courtelyou stung by the 
 first real anguish of his life. In a flash he had perceived 
 that her auger against him was unpropitiable ; but in the 
 same flash he had also perceived not only that she had 
 never loved him but that she now despised him, once and 
 for all. 
 
 And yet he loved her, and must go on loving her, go 
 on longing to make her his wife. And such was the 
 shape, the poise, the plan, the bent of his nature, that 
 no earthly persuasive force could ever convince him he 
 had not acted, in this recent affair, with soundest moral 
 motive, with stanchest moral support.
 
 306 - NEW YORK. 
 
 IX. 
 
 "SHE has at least told him nothing, " thought George, 
 during the first hour of his intercourse, on the morrow 
 with Albert Josselyn. "He is such a kindly simple old 
 fellow that he would be sure to show me whether she 
 had given him her confidence or no. Not a sign of it, 
 however. And will she appear to-day? Well, I have 
 only anticipated Crevelling's future revelation. And 
 what an answer that will be to Courtelyou's audacious 
 impudence! God bless Frank Crevelling! And yet he 
 loves her. What if he knew I loved her as well? Would 
 lie not shirk this noble design? Would he not be saint- 
 lier than humanity may allow if he failed to shirk it?" 
 
 Josselyn had some hard work for his secretary all 
 through that special forenoon, and George was compelled 
 to fight valiantly with jarred nerves and a buzzing head 
 while he supplied certain marked deficiencies in his em 
 ployer's epistolary dictations. For the merchant had 
 already grown to place signal reliance on the quickness 
 and capacity of his clerk. But at length, to George's 
 acute relief, he said : 
 
 "There, that will do for to-day. I'm a little tired by 
 the late hours of last night. I think I shall take a long 
 nap after lunch, and you can either give yourself a half 
 holiday this afternoon or unravel that tangle of the 
 Dempster mortgage. I dare say it will keep, however; 
 do just as you please. We shall have to come to law 
 about it, in the end, more's the pity and I do so hate, 
 at my time of life, these real-estate litigations." 
 
 "Dempster has a bad case, I should say," answered 
 George, "but he seems just foolhardy enough to get 
 himself in a worse muddle by refusing sane compromise." 
 
 "True confound him! By the way, you left rather 
 early last night, did you not?"
 
 NEW YORK. 307 
 
 "Yes. I saw yon speaking with some ladies and I 
 didn't want to disturb you with my farewells." He 
 added, a little confusedly: "It was the same more or 
 less with Mrs. Josselyn." 
 
 "M yes." Josselyn took out his watch, stared down 
 at it obviously longer than was needful, and then closed 
 its gold case with a click that startled even himself. 
 The next minute he transferred his look to George's face. 
 But the eyes of the latter were drooped. 
 
 "Lunch-time, "said Josselyn. "Well, good-day, 
 George." 
 
 "Good. day, Mr. Josselyn." 
 
 Seated at his desk, George scanned certain papers. As 
 Josselyn neared the door, he paused. 
 
 "George," he said, in a new voice. 
 
 "Yes,." his kinsman answered, looking up. 
 
 "I I should like to tell my wife everything, and take 
 the chances with her." The bland eyes were full of a 
 gentle, sympathetic light; the weak yet sweetly amiable 
 mouth trembled. George rose at once and went close to 
 the speaker's side. 
 
 "I feel it would be of no use," he said. "But I thank 
 you for the impulse, sir I thank you from my soul!" 
 
 When alone in the library he muttered half-aloud to him 
 self. "Hypocrite that I am! How far he is from sus 
 pecting that I will soon tell him of Crevelling's priceless 
 proposal." Usually, by about this hour, he went and 
 lunched at his own lodgings. But to-day he forgot 
 appetite in the sense of another gratified sort of hunger 
 that of being left to the solitude and idleness which 
 brought him such unexpected repose. And yet repose 
 was not the word! How his heart throbbed with 
 anxiety! How the image of Doris loomed austere to him 
 one minute, forgiving the next, and still the next a sub 
 tle blending of clemency and rebuke. 
 
 He did not know how long he had sat with face shaded 
 by one hand, when suddenly, lifting his head, he per 
 ceived that a white square of paper gleamed near the 
 threshold of the door. 
 
 In surprise he went forward, picked up a letter, and 
 his own name. Doris had written him these lines:
 
 308 NEW YORK. 
 
 "What you told me last night you should have told me 
 before. My pity for you is very great, and my sympathy 
 as well. You should have known this earlier, because of 
 certain words I spoke, not dreaming to whom I spoke 
 them. Last night I saw Osborne Courtelyou, and ho 
 made me aware of his conduct to you. He supposed, no 
 doubt, that I would approve it. His disappointment 
 must have been sharp; I reproached, upbraided him; I 
 was very accusative, very condemning. I think the 
 course he took unpardonable. In explicit terms I made 
 him understand that our further acquaintance must 
 cease. 
 
 "Perhaps, however, I was wrong. When we are angry 
 we are nearly always wrong, and I have never in my life 
 been more angry. Afterward I remembered his sister, 
 Martha, whom I love, and on her account I felt repent 
 ant. She adores him ; he is the apple of her eye. This 
 morning, while I was thinking of her, and wondering if 
 we were to be divided forever by her brother's hateful 
 conduct, she wrote me the sweetest of notes, stating that 
 Osborne had disclosed everything to her on the previous 
 night and that she was plunged in grief by what had 
 occurred. But she also informed me that her brother 
 had suddenly been called to Boston for two or three days 
 by legal business, abrupt and pressing. And so I went 
 to her, and we have had a long talk, and our friendship, 
 as I am happy to think, remains unmarred by the rup 
 ture between Osborne and myself. 
 
 "Of course I can understand your reluctance to enter 
 his house. But if you will go there this evening by 
 seven o'clock you will find that I have dined there with 
 Martha Courtelyou, and that I shall be ready to accom 
 pany you on that 'downtown' trip to poor Mrs. Mona- 
 han's implacable son. It is absolutely certain that you 
 will not meet Osborne Courtelyou ; if there were the 
 vaguest chance of it I would not make this request. I 
 no longer hesitate to go with you; our blood-relationship 
 makes the sanction of others needless. And here I must 
 add that your reticence has astonished me. Not dream 
 ing who you were, I spoke to you so frankly of yourself 
 - of my belief in the sincerity of your sorrowful admis.-
 
 NEW YORK. 309 
 
 sions at the trial of Lo r nsko. It seems to me that I made 
 it very plain how savagely life had scourged you for an 
 offense grave indeed, yet not so grave as your tragic and 
 palpable repentance of it. 
 
 "Well, come to me at seven this evening, and forget 
 for a time that it is his house in which you will find me. 
 I must not break faith with Mrs. Monahan, and I can 
 find her son only at night. Frank Grovelling will go 
 with me to-morrow night if I ask him, but I prefer your 
 company to his. We can jingle down there slowly in a 
 horse-car; steam and electricity have not yet quite de 
 stroyed, I believe, this mode of conveyance. Let us 
 therefore be thankful, since a long and earnest talk with 
 you is deeply desired by 
 
 "Your cousin, 
 
 "DOBIS JOSSELYN. " 
 
 George read this letter three times without realizing 
 that he had read it even once. Then he fell to pas 
 sionately kissing it. Then, with tears in his eyes, he 
 concealed it, and told himself that he had somehow got 
 an appetite for lunch and would go and find a quiet 
 restaurant where he could mingle meat and drink with 
 many beatific repei'usals of these precious lines. 
 
 Courtelyou's house, forsooth! What did he care for 
 that? Was there any kind of tenement that could stand 
 in the way of his keeping so treasured a tryst? 
 
 The hours dragged cruelly with him from then till 
 seven. And at last, in the still autumn starlight, while 
 he ascended Courtelyou's stoop, a tide of embittering 
 recollections beset him. With what trustful and hopeful 
 feelings, in the recent past, had he sought this same 
 door, and how keenly disappointed had he afterward 
 quitted it, stripped of every illusion which had clad for 
 him the son of his father's old and honored friend! 
 
 Scarcely had he entered the dim, rich-tinted drawing 
 room, when Doris rustled toward him enchantingly, 
 dressed with great plainness in bonnet and street gear. 
 
 She gave him her hand. Then he was vaguely con 
 scious that they sat together on a lounge. But her voice 
 was very clear to him, and not a word of what she was 
 saying escaped the almost avid hunger of his hearing.
 
 310 NEW YORK. 
 
 "Poor, dear Martha thinks it best she should not come 
 to receive you. Her position, you know, is difficult. 
 My quarrel with her brother is a great blow; she is so 
 attached to us both. But she does not defend Osborne. 
 I almost wished that she. would; it might have given me 
 a chance to appear meek, and so convince myself that I 
 had a vestige of self-control left. For last night, I fear, 
 I was very eruptive, very volcanic in your behalf, or at 
 least in your cause, as I wrote yon." 
 
 "Yes you wrote me I know," he floundered help 
 lessly. Then a great sigh left him, and in the dimness 
 he searched her face, flowerlike for loveliness yet to him 
 lovelier than any flower. "You have made me very 
 happy you have given me great courage and hope." 
 
 "Shall we go?" she said, a little primly, rising. "We 
 need not get there, you know, till about eight. He will 
 be in, then, and not supposedly have gone to bed yet. 
 I shall carry him his mother's message, and beg him to 
 forgive her, at least partially. Of course, you know, 
 what she did was horrible in the extreme. Hughey, she 
 admits, was a decent, hard-working fellow, and for three 
 years after her confirmed drunkenness forced him to 
 leave her she kept constantly tormenting him by all sorts 
 of rowdy and untimely visits. And at last, knowing he 
 was on the verge of making a certain good and harmless 
 girl his wife, she sought this poor j'oung creature out, 
 while in a state of crazy intoxication, and narrowly 
 missed becoming a murderess. Hughey is not to be her 
 prosecutor at the coming trial; his sweetheart's relations 
 and friends are very fiercely massing together. Mrs. 
 Monahan has no sort of defense, and freely admits it. 
 She expects to go to prison for a long term of years. 
 But she wants an audience with her son before the trial 
 occurs. She maintains that except while the curse of 
 drink has had its clutch on her she has never been a bad 
 mother to him, and her desire to remind him of earlier days 
 when she was both devoted and tender days which she 
 insists he must agree to have filled a large part of the 
 mutual lives strikes me as intensely pitiful." 
 
 "You are right it is," George answered. They had 
 left the drawing room and gone out into the hall. Dorig
 
 NEW YORK. 311 
 
 herself opened the door leading into the street. When 
 they had descended the stoop she slipped her arm into 
 his with a prompt naturalness. And while the}' walked 
 eastward together she somehow directing their course, 
 though not with any marked decisiveness her tones 
 continued: 
 
 "I had thought of one of those Second Avenue horse 
 cars; it will not be much of a walk before we reach one. 
 You know, I've an idea of persuading this Hughey 
 Monahan not only to see and talk with his miserable 
 mother .but to induce the prosecution, as well, to with 
 draw its charge. Why not? His sweetheart is now 
 quite recovered from her dangerous wound or so Mrs. 
 Monahan states. If this is true Hughey might be pre 
 vailed upon to induce leniency in the rageful relatives. 
 And The Clasping Hand will take charge of his mother. 
 It has dealt with worse cases." 
 
 'And so," said George, after a silence, "j'ou've a 
 great deal to say to Hughey when you meet him." 
 
 "Oh, a great deal." 
 
 "More, apparently, than you have to say to me." 
 
 "You! Well, no." He felt her arm press against his 
 own, and as it did so the light of a near street lamp 
 dimmed before his misting eyes. "It's so utterly differ 
 ent! There are things I want to axk you things that 
 puzzle me. Say frankly thix, will you? Do you still 
 care in the least for that woman who tempted you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Not in the least?" 
 
 "I abhor her." 
 
 They walked on in silence. Then she amazed him by 
 saying: 
 
 "You and I are cousins twice removed isn't it? 
 Well, no matter, we are cousins, and I can speak now as 
 I could not, would not, have spoken when we last met. 
 Was this woman the one to whom you referred at the 
 trial your " She stopped short. 
 
 "Yes," he returned. "For a time a rather short 
 time. But it's true. I want to keep nothing back. " 
 
 She drew her arm from his. He turned toward her 
 with an imploring look. He did not really know where.
 
 312 NEW YORK. 
 
 they were. But Doris, who knew very well, was hailing 
 a Second Avenue horse car. 
 
 It stopped, and they entered it, and found comfortable 
 seats in its half-filled interior. "Tell me," said Doris, 
 after a few minutes of silence, "just what the circum 
 stances were that brought you to engage yourself with 
 Cousin Albert Josselyn under an assumed name." 
 
 Just what the circumstances were! George mused, 
 for a moment, his heart swelling, his nerves tingling. 
 He wanted this woman whom he loved to know all the 
 agony that his stained name had cost him, and he slowly 
 poured forth to her listening ears a recital at once terri 
 bly real and terribly pathetic. A sort of solemn ecstasy 
 seemed to possess him. He spoke with great uncon 
 scious fluency and with a simplicity born of his vital 
 earnestness. Every incident of his struggle from the 
 time of his leaving prison, parting from Lydia after his 
 mother's death and seeking to secure some sort of decent 
 foothold, was dwelt upon with its due desert. Only 
 once Doris gave any answer, and then she did so with 
 bowed head and in set murmur: 
 
 "You make me despise Osborne Courtelyou more than 
 ever. But go on, please." 
 
 George had finished it all by the time the car was at 
 its terminus. After this they walked for quite a dis 
 tance. Doris had remained silent, and he suddenly 
 broke his own silence by telling her so. 
 
 "What can I say?" she exclaimed. "I pity you from 
 my soul!" 
 
 She had not taken his arm again till now, but now she 
 took it, and in the lamplight he caught a glimpse of 
 tears on her cheeks, just as he had heard them in her 
 voice. 
 
 When they got to Hughey Monahan's residence Doris 
 made clear to him how distinct had been her information 
 from that person's mother. "Here we are," she said, 
 "and happily the door is open, with nobody prowling 
 near it to watch us. We go up two stairs, and turn to 
 our left. It's the first door, after that, and it's near the 
 second landing." 
 
 They ascended the first staircase, meeting no one.
 
 NEW YORK. 313 
 
 Then, as they were about to pass onward toward the 
 second staircase, a door opened, and in the extremely 
 dim light of this narrow hall they saw a woman's shape. 
 
 "Mr. Hugh Monahan lives up on the next floor, doesn't 
 he?" said Doris politely, addressing the vague feminine 
 presence. 
 
 "He used to live there," was the answer, "till about 
 four days ago. He's gone away I don't know where. 
 There's somebody else in his old room now." 
 
 George, who was several paces ahead of Doris, turned 
 and looked at the speaker. As it chanced, he was just 
 below a gas jet, whose rays, 3 r ellow and feeble, were still 
 sufficient to flood his face. 
 
 Something in the tone and accent of the woman's 
 speech had oddly reminded him of his past life in this 
 same riverside district. But the reminiscence was just 
 as faint to him as the visage and form of the woman 
 herself. 
 
 "Don't you think," he asked, "that the person who 
 now has Hugh Monahan 's room could tell us where he 
 has gone?" There was no response. Doris, who stood 
 directly opposite the woman, made out a pale, thin face, 
 lifted on a paler stem of throat and lit by a flash or two 
 as of big black eyes. 
 
 She was on the verge of repeating George's question 
 when an answer came. 
 
 "Yes. It's a laborer like himself. He may be out, 
 though. I think his name is Lynch. You might knock 
 on his door and see." 
 
 "I will," said George. He turned to Doris. ""Will 
 you wait here for a moment?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 George moved upstairs, and as he did so the strangest 
 of mental operations took place. Something in the 
 voice of the woman had struck him as remotely and 
 bafflingly familiar. Whose voice was it? He had heard 
 it down here in these quarters. Had he heard it often? 
 Yes, surely yes, or its echoes would not so haunt his 
 ears. 
 
 By this time he had reached the upper hall. He re 
 membered Doris's instructions received from Mrs,
 
 314 NEW YORK. 
 
 ban. He knocked at the first door on bis left. No 
 answer came, and lie gave a louder summons. Then, 
 while waiting, the conviction flashed upon him that the 
 voice just heard downstairs had been that of his old 
 acquaintance, the Polish woman, Mrs. Volatski. This 
 conception, so to speak, shaped itself, rounded and com 
 plete, within his intelligence. Then, sharpened by fear, 
 another thought pierced him. She was the sister (actual 
 or spurious) of Lyusko, and he had left Doris alone with 
 her. What vengeful hate might she not bear toward 
 bim at the present time? He had been the means of 
 consigning Lynsko to a prison. 
 
 And yet had she recognized bim? Why not, if by 
 her voice alone he had recognized her? 
 
 A few seconds longer he stood irresolute. Then, just 
 as he was on the point of turning away from the door 
 near which he stood, it opened, and a young man, stal 
 wart, rather handsome, with the look and dress of a 
 laborer, came forth. He had a drowsy air, but the mists 
 of sleep seemed already quickly clearing from eyes 
 that gleamed big and honest below a shock of somewhat 
 tumbled flaxen hair. 
 
 "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but I'd got into a kind of 
 doze. Did you want me for anything?" 
 
 "I wanted to ask you about Hugh Monahan," said 
 George, rattling off the words in his new mood of dread 
 and doubt. "You're not he, I suppose, are you?" 
 
 "Me? Oh, no, sir. I'm James Lynch. This was 
 
 his room, though. I've got it now, since he went away. 
 j 
 
 "Hark!" 
 
 George tossed off the word in wild interruption. He 
 had heard downstairs a cry, low yet keen. All he had it 
 in him to do, after that, was to make a flourish of both 
 hands as he swerved back toward the staircase just 
 mounted. There are swift' signals like these that for 
 clarity and conciseness almost transcend even the curtest 
 monosyllables of speech. 
 
 " Tiiat cry was hers," leaped through his brain. 
 "She is inside dragged there, perhaps, and that woman 
 is capable of killing her because of me."
 
 NEW YORK. 315 
 
 X. 
 
 As it happened, George had no sooner disappeared 
 upstairs than Mrs. Volatski had said most suavely to 
 Doris "Come in here, won't you, while the gentleman 
 is finding out what he wants to know?" 
 
 Doris stood so near the threshold that as her new com 
 panion now pushed the door backward she could get a 
 glimpse of shabby interior, where a consumptive lamp 
 struggled, illuminatively, with a little red-heated stove. 
 
 "Thank j r ou," she said, feeling not a shade of 
 suspicion. 
 
 "He may be quite awhile up there," came the urging 
 answer. "And here it's chilly too chilly for so delicate 
 and refined a young lady as yourself." 
 
 "I don't feel it so at all," said Doris, in kindest tones. 
 She had already noted that the woman's face, with its 
 great dusky eyes, looked both haggard and woebegone. 
 But now she saw a change cross it one of stubborn 
 fierceness. 
 
 "Come in you must." 
 
 And then her wrist was tensely clutched. Between 
 her feet and the threshold were only a few inches. She 
 felt herself dragged but stood her ground firmly. 
 
 "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" 
 
 At this, mad with the sudden wrath of a long-nursed 
 hate, Mrs. Yolatski released her. But it was only a re 
 coil of the kind that seeks to gain fresh force.. The 
 Polish woman seemed to herself as though transformed 
 into a tigress. She flung her slim shape upon Doris, 
 with rageful purpose of capture in both lean, strong 
 arms. 
 
 Somehow Doris felt less fear than anger. She strug 
 gled with the engirding, tugging clasp. Then a force 
 beset her that had in it hopeless vehemence. But still
 
 316 NEW YORK. 
 
 she steadied herself against it, and now a curious reluct 
 ance to cry out, in such a place and at such a time, 
 tinged with strange prudence her indignation and 
 revolt. 
 
 "Let me go," she again said, gasping the words. 
 "You know I could call for help, and get it, too, in an 
 instant. But I " 
 
 With a dizzying whirl she was spun through the open 
 space. Hurled upon the floor of the room, she gave an 
 unconscious cry of affright and despair. 
 
 This was the cry heard upstairs by George. 
 
 Mrs. Volatski now sprang to the door, and closed it 
 with astonishing softness and speed, turning a key on 
 the inside and then snatching it from its lock. When she 
 faced Doris the girl had already risen. 
 
 She was terribly frightened. But she did not even 
 speak; she simply stood erect, with her hands tight 
 knotted, her breath making low, short rushes. 
 
 "That man up yonder cares for you, I know," said 
 Mrs. Volatski, her white face grown demoniac, her lower 
 jaws oscillant, as though some grotesque palsy had come 
 upon them. "He took from me a man 1 cared for put 
 him into a prison by his treacheries, his sneaking, 
 cowardly tricks!" 
 
 Courtelyou's account of this woman's relations with 
 Lj'nsko, although vague, had been true. The ruin of 
 the Pole had been more than her own. It had filled her 
 with a fiery thirst for vengeance upon George which at 
 times had literally deprived her of reason, and made 
 those nearest her believe she was not fit to live at liberty. 
 Fearing to be called as a witness against Lynsko after 
 his arrest, she had fled and remained somewhere in hid 
 ing till his condemnation occurred. Afterward, though 
 but recently, she had taken two rooms in this same 
 building, and dwelt here solitary, suspected, pinchingly 
 poor. Loathing of George, and a passionate longing to 
 deal punishment upon him, had so possessed her Aveak- 
 eued mind that there had been, for months past, no 
 criminal act toward him of which, in certain lurid moods, 
 she was not capable. 
 
 Lyusko, who had scarcely more than just permitted.
 
 NEW YORK. 317 
 
 her to state that he was her "brother, " had been, and 
 still remained her worshipped idol. She was not the 
 only woman he had fascinated and subjugated, but in 
 none had he ever wakened a devotion at once so servile 
 and so dominant. She had been contented, for several 
 years, to live aloof from him, and to see him only at in 
 tervals. But while he was comparatively near by she 
 had regarded her fate as a measurably blessed one, and 
 had gone on in the administration of her modest sailors' 
 lodging-house with characteristic Hebrew greed and 
 thrift. Some day, she had always told herself, he would 
 want to let her dwell with him as his wife even if he 
 should not care legally to make her so. She knew the 
 full depth and breadth of his depravity, and often had 
 thrilled with dread of the very downfall which had 
 finally overtaken him. And when it did overtake him 
 the anguish of her spirit became a power to craze or kill. 
 At -first she had hoped fiercely for his release ; then she 
 had gone through agonies of doubt; then despair had 
 brought its horrible glooms. A kind of dementia had 
 dwelt with her, like a skulking shadow, for weeks past. 
 At this vivid and unforeseen time the shadow had assumed 
 giant and tangible shape. 
 
 "If you are mad, " said Doris, gathering herself to 
 gether, with knit brows and clinched hands, "I can only 
 try to fight you as we fight all mad things." 
 
 And with these words, poor girl, she dashed toward 
 the locked door. Again and again and again she cried 
 "Help!" Each instant she expected some sort of new 
 dire assault, while her hands pounded on the wooden 
 panels. 
 
 The Polish woman meant to kill her, and was even 
 then intent on how most quickly to achieve such ghastly 
 work. She sought for a great knife which she knew lay 
 somewhere near one that cut her daily meat or bread, 
 meager as must have been the supply of either. She 
 meant to end her own life afterward; it was a sudden 
 hideous project born of a slow-growing madness that the 
 sight of George had pushed from surly bud to baleful 
 flower. A kind of clear reasoning process, however in 
 furiate, swayed her design. She could not kill George,
 
 318 NEW YORK. 
 
 but she could possibly deal him a still deadlier stroke ; 
 the grace and beauty of Doris had seemed to flash upon 
 her that belief. And now, not lighting on the knife, 
 yet knowing it somewhere near, she saw a means of stop 
 ping Doris's further handstrokes against the door. A 
 coil of rope glimmered like a snake beside the red glow 
 of the stove. She caught it up, and like a living snake 
 she strove to make it aid her. Hurling it round Doris 
 she tightened it there in the fashion of a lasso, darting 
 closer to the girl's form. Doris felt one arm corded 
 tight against her side. Then, while reeling backward, 
 she clutched the next fly ing circlet of rope, abrading palm 
 and fingers. But the outward push of her clasp had no 
 mean power. She divined the devilish import, and 
 struggled with the strength of health, youth, and a sense 
 of odious outrage. 
 
 And even while she thus struggled it chanced that 
 George himself saw her peril from the stairs he was de 
 scending. Like the outer doors of nearly all tenement 
 houses, this of Mrs. Yolatski had a transom. It was cur 
 tained, but something, very probably the agitation 
 wrought by Doris' blows, had caused a good half of its 
 flimsy draping to sag from the pane. George, pausing 
 a moment, looked down on a sight that froze his blood. 
 
 He turned, and saw James Lynch a few steps above 
 him. What he said to the young man he could never 
 afterward recollect or if indeed he spoke at all. The 
 next thing that his memory could ever in later time deal 
 with was the presence of both himself and Lynch close 
 at the stout-locked door. 
 
 "We must break it open, if we can," George said. 
 "Quick quick. Come like this shoulder to shoul 
 der." Lynch, an alert and splendid ally, did his best. 
 His force, blended with George's, made the woodwork 
 tremble and crack. Still, however, a new strain was 
 needed. Both men drew back. "Help! help!" rang to 
 them from within. They looked into one another's eyes. 
 George's face was ghastly. 
 
 "Once more," he said. 
 
 This time the heavy and stubborn lock still stayed ob 
 durate, but the wood fell splitting and crashing. George 
 was first to dash through the splintery aperture.
 
 NEW YORK. 319 
 
 He was in time, yet bareb r so. Mrs. Volatsld had 
 overthrown Doris, and might in another second have 
 gored her throat with a tigerish clutch deadly as any 
 stab of the knife she had failed to find. 
 
 George caught her. In his grasp she was like a 
 scratching, snarling animal, yet helpless because rela 
 tively so feeble. 
 
 "You can't even bite me, you devil," he said; and 
 then Lynch took her from him, and pushed her into a 
 corner, careless of her writhings and twistings, and well 
 on guard against the rabid snap and twitch of her jaws 
 and lips. George flung himself down at Doris' side. 
 But even as he did so the girl, with her one freed hand, 
 was lifting herself from the floor. 
 
 "I I'm not much hurt," she stammered bravely. 
 "I don't think, really, that I'm hurt at all. This 
 arm " 
 
 But already George had made the bound arm free. 
 "Now if we could only get away together!" she went on, 
 her excitement oddly intense behind her measured tones. 
 
 Just then a growing murmur of voices met them from 
 the hall beyond. Doris' cries, her beatings at the door, 
 the loud ruin of the door itself, had all served to rouse 
 the other inmates of the house. Through the big, 
 ragged opening figures now began to press. 
 
 "Keep close to me, " said George, in eager whisper, 
 and we may slip out before they know it. 
 
 Doris obeyed him. They had hardly got forth into 
 the hall when a rough-looking man fronted George. 
 
 "What's all this row? An' who are you?" 
 
 "I came here with this lady," returned George, "and 
 left her a moment in this hall here, while I went upstairs 
 to find a certain Mr. Hugh Monahan, who lives on the 
 next floor. Then, while I was away, a kind of mad 
 woman came from that room and tried to make the lady 
 her prisoner. Luckily, James Lynch, who now occupies 
 Monahan 's former room, came and helped me to release 
 the lady." 
 
 His listener scowled dubiously. He was large of 
 stature, looming above George. 
 
 "Jus' like that furriner!" cried a stout woman, with
 
 320 NEW YORK. 
 
 flashing black eyes. "I've hated her ever since she 
 come! I knowed she'd soon be up to some mischief. 
 They say she was in with a gang o' firebugs, and kep' a 
 sailors' boardin '-house somewheres near here. I dunno 
 if it's true, but I shouldn't be surprised she's acted 
 strange enough to be anything. Are you hurt, ma'am?" 
 pursued the woman, sympathetically, to Doris. "Why, 
 your hand's all bleedin'. " 
 
 "It's because of a rope she threw round me," replied 
 Doris. "She wanted to tie me hand and foot, I think, 
 and then But don't let them keep us!" she pleaded, 
 seeing a look of mingled wrath and pity on the woman's 
 face. "I only came here with this gentleman to find 
 Hugh Monahan. I've never before even seen the woman 
 who attacked me. It was a charitable mission with both 
 of us. I I'm a person who goes about, you know, 
 among prisons, and places like that, trying to do what 
 little good I can. The other day, in the Tombs, I saw 
 Hugh Monahan's mother " And then, bridling her 
 passionate desire to escape as best she could, Doris gal 
 loped through the rest of the story. 
 
 By the time she had ended it there were at least twenty 
 gaping auditors grouped round herself and George. 
 
 "We only want to get away, " she hurried on. "I 
 would rather make no complaint against the foreigner, 
 as you called her. I think she must be quite out of her 
 mind. Please let us go, will you not?" 
 
 "Why, o' course, you poor thing!" cried the stout 
 woman, warmly compassionate. "Now, you stop, Jim!" 
 she went on, as the large, rough-looking man gave a 
 growl of dissent. "It's a good deal better they should 
 get off. I guess I know a real lady when I see one ! 
 No, no, Jim Strickny. You ain't goin' to make it 
 worse for her nor the gentleman than 'tis already. 
 There, ma'am there, sir!" And with both hands she 
 caught her husband's sleeve as he was pointing to the 
 shattered door and arraigning George with a frown of 
 fresh obstinacy and suspicion. 
 
 "Of course they're following us, some of them," said 
 Doris, after an interval during which it had seemed as if
 
 NEW YORK. 321 
 
 George were supporting her along the pavement so that 
 she needed only to use her feet and nothing more. 
 
 "Let's be hopeful," he said. "You saved the situa 
 tion. I could never have done it. You found a woman 
 who had in her a touch of yourself. That was great 
 good fortune for both of us." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not so rare a type. Beside, she hated my 
 enemy. I can imagine it. And she was your enemy, 
 too, I found." 
 
 "God pardon my stupidity yes." 
 
 "Your stupidity?" 
 
 "She wanted to harm you because of her hate forme." 
 
 "Yes I found that out." 
 
 "She told you?" 
 
 "Quickly and surely. She told me you had taken 
 from her a man she cared for put him into a prison by 
 your treacheries and sneaking, cowardly tricks. I am 
 quoting almost her precise words. "Why shouldn't I? 
 They're burned into my memory. Of course I knew she 
 meant Lynsko. And what was she to that villainous 
 Lynsko?" 
 
 "Nothing to him, I suppose. But he to her poor, 
 mad wretch was everything." 
 
 "She recognized you, and you failed to recognize her? 
 But the light was dim I see. And yet, where she 
 stood, some accidental flood of it must have shown her 
 your face. Stop, now stop just here. I can see the 
 water beyond those dark buildings. What street is this? 
 Oh, I know; it must be South Street." 
 
 "It is. A little further on, toward the bridge the 
 Brooklyn Bridge, you know we can find a cab. Are 
 you very tired?" 
 
 "Tired? No. I'm unstrung, that's all." 
 
 "Why should you not be? You're trembling. Let 
 me hold you just like this for a short while. I've looked 
 back. We're not followed. They have let us go in 
 peace thank heaven!" 
 
 Doris laughed, a little dismally. "Thank that woman! 
 I dare say she's a termagant I seemed to see it in her. 
 But even termagants have their uses, have they not? 
 Think what might have happened! The police the
 
 322 NEW YORK. 
 
 newspaper publicity oh, how precious a deliverance! 
 Shall we not go on now?" 
 
 "You're trembling. I thought " 
 
 "Never mind my trembling. It's only a kind of reac 
 tion. Don't heed it. Still, I do wish we were nearer 
 that cab you spoke of. Let us move forward. Ah, that 
 arch of lights yonder! They mean the Bridge, do they 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And they are further away than they seem?" 
 
 "Not so much." 
 
 In silence they now pushed onward. Not long after 
 ward, with a great heart-throb of relief, George saw a 
 cab and hailed it. 
 
 "Tell him Courtelyou's house," said Doris. Her 
 voice came resolute, yet somewhat pantingly and feebly. 
 "I shall stay all night with Martha. I'll get her to 
 write my cousins that I'm there with her. It will not 
 be very late by the time we " 
 
 Her tones died away, and she did not speak again till 
 they were side by side in the cab together, being driven 
 uptown. 
 
 "Do you know," she then said, with a wandering 
 slowness of intonation that she seemed to try and resist 
 "do you know, I have never fainted in my life, and yet 
 I I felt like it a few minutes ago?" 
 
 "No wonder, " said George, peering into her dim face. 
 He saw her eyes close ; already her head had fallen back 
 ward against the cushioned rear of the carriage. He 
 caught her left hand, the one that was unhurt, and drew 
 off its glove. Then he began to chafe it between both 
 his own, inwardly horrified at its coldness. She re 
 mained quite motionless while he did this, and by transient 
 gleams from the street lamps he saw that her eyes were 
 still shut. Then he took her other hand, lifting it with 
 great tenderness. She started, at this, and sat upright, 
 her eyes unclosing and a smile parting her lips. 
 
 "That's wounded," she said, making no motion, how 
 ever, to withdraw it from his gentle touch. "I I got 
 the glove off, somehow I can't remember when or how. 
 But I don't think it's bleeding any longer, is it?"
 
 NEW YORK. 333 
 
 "No, "he said. 
 
 "And the cut of the rope wasn't severe." She laughed 
 again, with a fresh blitlmess that gladdened his anxious 
 heart. "Oh, its nothing. The pressure of your fingers 
 on the swollen place gives me very little pain. She drew 
 in a deep breath, and once more laughed, this time with 
 all her natural gayety. "Oh, I'm ever so much better, now 
 ever so much! I'm coming round. How nice, isn't 
 it, that we're rolling quietly up town like this! I'm 
 sure you are just as delighted as I am." 
 
 "I'm delighted that you feel like yourself again." 
 
 "Dear, dear! how soberly you say that! I can hardly 
 recognize your old voice. Now don't worry about me 
 an instant longer. I'm a strong, healthy girl stronger 
 and healthier, no doubt, than I look. I : ve had a hard 
 shock, but its effects have passed. I can feel them de 
 part from me. I shall reach Martha quite fresh and well 
 again." 
 
 George lifted the hurt hand to his lips. Tears fell 
 upon it. "Doris, Doris, how I love you! How I have 
 loved you from the first moment I met you at the mission 
 here, in this very quarter of the town we have just left! 
 And to think of your danger! I'd have given twenty 
 lives, if I'd had them, to save you from it! And after 
 to-night I must never see you again!" 
 
 She drew away her hand. They sat together in dark 
 ness and silence for some time. 
 
 "You must never see me again?" she presently said. 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Why? Because I love you can't you understand?" 
 
 He waited for her answer. It came after a long pause. 
 "No." 
 
 He leaned closer to her. "Doris, Doris, I've told you 
 that I love you 1! Think of it ! " 
 
 "I have thought of it," she said. 
 
 "And yet you Oh, Doris, spare me! To see you and 
 feel that you never could, never would, be my wife! To 
 go on realizing that if I asked you I would insult you!" 
 
 A new passing gleam on her face made him feel like 
 crying out. But he sat perfectly still, with his heart in 
 his throat.
 
 334 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I should not take it as an insult," she 
 
 "Doris! You're torturing me!" 
 
 "No; you're torturing yourself, George and needy 
 lessly. " 
 
 "Needlessly! Ah, what are you saying? If I did not 
 know that you and coquetry were like oil and water 
 
 "Well? What then?" 
 
 "I might imagine" he broke off, with a sigh just 
 loud enough for the clash of the wheels not to drown it. 
 
 "Then you do imagine," she said, with a sweet stern 
 ness, "that I am leading you into an avowal for the 
 pleasure of my own vanity." 
 
 "You haven't a shred of vanity in your composition!" 
 he cried. "You're the soul of honesty and truth and 
 purity!" 
 
 "Idealize me that way if you will. And yet I'm very 
 human." 
 
 "Ah, not human enough to " 
 
 She laid a hand on his arm. "Do you mean not 
 human enough to love you? Not human enough to take 
 your name if you asked me to take it?" 
 
 "My name! Good God! My name! My stained 
 name! You!" 
 
 He felt her hand her wounded hand slip into his. 
 From its delicate fingers an arrowy fire seemed to sweep 
 toward his brain. 
 
 "I deny that the stain on your name is ineffaceable, 
 George. Or, if the world says so, I deny that the world 
 has a right to say so. If you ask me to bear that name 
 I will not refuse. And I will not refuse because I would 
 rather bear that than any other. My reason is simple 
 enough. In the first place I believe that a great and 
 terribly sincere remorse has long ago washed you clean 
 from guilt. And in the second place well, in the 
 second place, George I love you." 
 
 He shuddered for an instant. The heart is sometimes 
 like a harp, and life smites it, now and then, with a 
 stress of joy that becomes intolerable pain. Then the 
 pain dies, as with George it soon died, and a splendid 
 happiness blossoms out of torment, like a sweet 
 melody shattering its way through discord.
 
 NEW YORK. 325 
 
 In the gloom their lips met. He did not know, while 
 his arms wrapped her, that great, slow tears were drop 
 ping from his eyes. But Doris knew. They blended with 
 his kisses and made them all the dearer, all the more 
 sacred !
 
 326 NEW YORK. 
 
 XI. 
 
 "DoRis," he said, at length, '"our uptown journey is 
 more than half done. Before it ends before we meet 
 again I must tell 3 r ou of a late interview I held with a 
 man I myself revere a man whom I believed that you 
 could not help loving a man who has offered you his love, 
 unless I am in error a man infinitely worthier than I to 
 be loved by you in return." 
 
 "Crevelling?" she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Her tones were a trifle imperious. "How do you 
 know that he has ever cared for me like that?" 
 
 "Even if Albert Josselyu had not more than hinted it, 
 I think I should have guessed it from merely watching 
 you together." 
 
 "Well and this interview?" 
 
 George spoke unreservedly of all which had passed of 
 late between himself and Crevelling. 
 
 "God bless him!" said Doris, with shaken voice. 
 "How magnificent, yet how like Frank!" 
 
 "And now I have only oire course open to me." 
 
 "One course? You mean that you will accept the pro 
 posal. Of course, George, you mean that you will accept 
 it." 
 
 "How can I? How could he Jet me, even if I would?" 
 
 "He will let you," she said slowly, after a silence. 
 "He will let you, and you must." 
 
 "What are you saying, Doris? This man loves you; 
 he has asked you to be his wife. I I suspect that he 
 has asked you more than once." 
 
 "That will not matter with him. Your chance is 
 marvelous." Her tones rang excitedly now. "Your 
 marrj'ing poor me is nothing compared with it." 
 
 "And you would martyrize him like that."
 
 NEW YORK. 327" 
 
 "Oh," she laughed, with little catchings of the breath, 
 "you accuse me, do you, of cruelty at this early hour? 
 Well, it will be a cruelty in your own cause. I will give 
 you up if you refuse. There!" 
 
 "Not that not that!" 
 
 "Listen. I would never have married Frank Crevel- 
 ling anywaj'. In his heart of hearts I think he knows 
 this. I adore him, in one sense; in another I do not 
 love him. He is doing a brave and glorious thing. It 
 makes me adore him all the more, in one way, but it 
 does not make me care for him a jot the more, in another 
 way. Come now : I will put the case to you selfishly. 
 Admit that I, by becoming your wife, astonish society 
 or, as you, in your humility would brutally put it, lower 
 myself. Soil, as the epigrammatic Gaul says. I take 
 you on your own terms. Marry me after you. have been 
 a year with Crevelling, openly acknowledged by him as 
 one whom he trusts and respects. Call me politic and 
 self-serving, if you please. Agree that I am worldly- 
 wise and circumspect enough to wish to make a better 
 match than you would be if you stood at the altar beside 
 me without this handsome and lordly indorsement " 
 
 "Hush, Doris! Don't try to mask your noble, beauti 
 ful, generous love! I will consent, dearest, though the 
 ordeal of telling him everything will cost me greater 
 pain if he now concedes than if he should roundly 
 refuse." 
 
 But Doris' pity was grand and fine as her love. Be 
 fore she parted with George that night she had made a 
 resolve, and before the following night she kept it. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the morning of the next day, she had a 
 stern trial to face. Arriving home at about eleven 
 o'clock, she went straight into the presence of Mrs. 
 Josselyn. 
 
 "Doris!" exclaimed that lady. "Your note last night 
 startled me. Why on earth did you staj- all night with 
 Martha Courteb'ou?" 
 
 "To console her," said Doris, rather griinlj'. 
 
 "Console her! For what, pray?" 
 
 "Oh, because I've made a final resolution never to 
 marry her brother."
 
 328 NEW YORIi. 
 
 "How strangely you speak! Those words are not like 
 you. What has happened, my child?" 
 
 "A great deal has happened, Cousin Ellen." 
 
 "You said in your note that Mr. Courtelyou had been 
 called to Boston." 
 
 "Yes. I knew it before I went to Martha. I would 
 not have gone if I had not known it. Sit here beside 
 me, Cousin Ellen, for a few minutes, please." And 
 Doris motioned toward a lounge in the daintily appointed 
 bedroom. "At least," she added, while Mrs. Josselyn 
 wonderingly obeyed her, "sit beside me until you have 
 heard dreadful things that will make you rise in wrath 
 and scorn." 
 
 "My dear girl! what are you saying?" 
 
 "Oh, I've said nothing, as yet. It is what I am going 
 to say." And then, for many minutes, Doris spoke on 
 and on, with lowered eyes that seemed to follow assidu 
 ously the plaits she made and unmade in the lap of her 
 gown. 
 
 A cry from Mrs. Josselyn caused her to lift her look. 
 The faded face was filled with asonishment and anger. 
 "He my husband has deceived me like this! He has 
 brought that young man into our house under a false 
 name! Ah! the thought of it all sickens me!" Here, 
 regaining her feet with visible effort, "I do rise, Doris," 
 she said, "but rather in sorrow than either wrath or 
 scorn." 
 
 "Sorrow!" broke from Doris, as she hurried toward 
 her. "No no, Cousin Ellen ! Call it pride. Your hus 
 band brought him here in secret because of that pride. 
 You had stood between him and his natural impulse of 
 helpfulness. You have played a wrong, almost a sinful 
 part." 
 
 "Doris! How dare you " 
 
 "Oh, you know how much I dare both do and say 
 when I feel my cause a just one." 
 
 "A just one! To consort with a criminal!" 
 
 "There's many a criminal whom it would be far more 
 of honor than shame to consort with. George Oliver was 
 of Cousin Albert's blood my blood as well. You knew 
 his youth at the time he was so terribly tempted ; you
 
 NEW YORK. 329 
 
 knew his mother's agony; you knew of her pathetic 
 insanity. And yet, with your great influence over your 
 husband, you kept him from plying the humane part his 
 gentle and genial spirit longed to play." 
 
 Mrs. Josselyn's lips had blanched, and she was gnaw 
 ing them. "Doris, by what right do you presume to 
 lecture me like this?" 
 
 "By what right have you presumed, thus far, to keep 
 from a repentant man his one chance of social redemp 
 tion?" 
 
 "Kepentant, indeed! What knowledge could I possi 
 bly have had that his so-called repentance was sincere?" 
 
 "You read his words at the trial of that man, Lynsko. 
 They sent a thrill of pity through many hearts, but they 
 sent none through yours. You were obdurate when 
 Cousin Albert begged you " 
 
 "Doris, this must not go on. I will not endure it!" 
 
 "You must endure it, because you deserve it," said 
 Doris, pale and resolute. "We love one another. 
 Cousin Ellen, but in a certain sense we have never been 
 friends. Often I have been frank with you, but never so 
 frank as I shall be now. You are a product of this big 
 little New York this New York where two or three 
 enormously rich families hold an absurd position of dic 
 tatorship, autocracy. There was never, I believe so large 
 a city with so small a provincialism. Not to know one 
 particular family here means not to hold (in the opinion 
 of many actually sensible people) any position whatever. 
 To know this family fairly well confers a certain cachet. 
 To know jt fairly intimately confers partial distinction 
 that and that alone. To know it intimately means to 
 bear the royal stamp. It is all too preposterous too un 
 speakably stupid! And yet you, a woman of force, of 
 striking character, of marked personality, have wasted 
 half your life for what purpose? To push yourself in 
 side a certain fashionable circle where some Chicago 
 millionaire, with more money than Cousin Albert's, 
 would be welcomed at a waving of the hand. This im 
 pulse in you has crushed ail your native charity ; it has 
 made you regard me, in my aims and efforts, as a mere 
 curious fanatic. It has made you crush in your hus-
 
 330 NEW YORK. 
 
 band the noblest and finest impulses. It has dwarfed 
 and deformed you, in a spiritual and moral sense. It 
 means all that is deplorable in your character, your tem 
 perament, your will, purpose, energy. AVhat has sur 
 vived in you I esteem and treasure yet what, after all, 
 does survive? Love for your husband, whom you bend 
 into submission. Love for your child (poor Grace ! ) whom 
 you have educated with shameless worldliuess. For me 
 some love unless these words kill it. For your fellow 
 creatures the immense suffering mass of them, many of 
 whom a walk of ten minutes will let you look upon no 
 love whatever. Ah, here is Cousin Albert; I asked him 
 to come." And Doris went to meet Josselyn as he 
 entered the room. "I have told her," she said, with a 
 little dramatic sweep of the hand toward Mrs. Josselyn. 
 "She is very angry. But we expected that, did we not?" 
 
 " We !" fell from Mrs. Josselyn, coldly and bitterly. 
 
 "I wish I were he!" Doris exclaimed. "I wouldn't 
 be half so meek with you as Cousin Albert." 
 
 "Ellen!" said Josselyn, looking imploringly at his 
 wife. "After all, you know, he was my kith and kin." 
 
 "Don't attempt to excuse yourself!" burst from Doris. 
 "It is for her to approve, to justify you!" 
 
 "You still go on teaching me my proper paces, then?" 
 flared Mrs. Josselyn, with knotted hands and gathered 
 brows. "I have had enough of this from you Doris. It 
 is intolerable. I will bear it no longer." 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Doris, with a slight high laugh. 
 "You wish me to leave you alone with Cousin Albert, 
 that you may cover him with undeserved reproaches." 
 
 "Ah," cried Mrs. Josselyn, "do you want me to hate 
 you?" 
 
 "No; I want you to hate yourself, or rather, the hate 
 ful part of yourself. What Cousin Albert did to his 
 kinsman, George Oliver, was a right and honorable thing 
 to do. If you blame him for it I shall think less of you, 
 Ellen Josselyn, than I think now. You must not forgive 
 him ; you must ask him to forgive you /" 
 
 "Doris," said Mrs. Josselyn, trembling, "I will not 
 allow from you another such insolent sentence. You 
 may speak on, if you please, but if you do our friendship 
 ends forever."
 
 NEW YORK. 331 
 
 "Then let it end. I will go a\vay from this house at 
 once. You know very well I am no dependent here. 
 But even if I were I would go, just the same." 
 
 "Doris! No! no!" said Mrs. Josselyn, springing 
 toward her. And then there was an embace, passionately 
 clasping on the elder woman's part. Between tears and 
 laughter Mrs. Josselyn broke forth, kissing Doris on 
 cheeks and forehead, "You impudence! you audacity! 
 you living torment! Think how scandalously you've 
 lectured me me, old enough to be your grandmother." 
 
 Doris returned the kisses. "Old enough to be more 
 human and more humane, Cousin Ellen. Here!" and 
 she motioned imperiously toward Josselyn, who obeyed 
 the gesture. 
 
 "Now tell him you are sorry for having forced him to 
 deceive you for the first and only time in his life." And 
 she widened her young, strong arms, closing them with 
 husband and wife in the outward embrace. 
 
 "There that's right!" she said, as Mrs. Josselyn let 
 her husband's lips touch her own. "That's my begin 
 ning as it were. There's a hope for me, now. Clemency 
 and reconciliation are in the air. It's quite possible 
 that my coming disclosure may have a dim chance of not 
 being shrieked at with horror." 
 
 Josselyn's hand had stolen into his wife's and now 
 held it firmly clasped. But they both turned toward 
 Doris, interrogation on either face. 
 
 "Your coming disclosure?" breathed Mrs. Josselyn. 
 
 "Yes," said Doris meekly. "I have been asked by 
 George Oliver to marry him, and I have agreed to be 
 come his wife."
 
 332 ttEW YORK. 
 
 xn. 
 
 THAT afternoon Frank Crevelling came, by appoint 
 ment, to Doris. She received him in the second draw 
 ing room. A faint fire crawled in snakes of flame about 
 a few black blocks of coal on the hearth. Its fitful glim 
 mers lit pictures and bronzes, giving glimpses of elegance 
 and luxury here and there. 
 
 "Frank!" she said, "I have had a dreadful time." 
 She had risen from a sofa while speaking, and had 
 warmly clasped his outstretched hand. Then she 
 dropped the hand, shudderingly, and for a second hid 
 her face. 
 
 "I know I understand, " he said. "You have found 
 him out. He has either told you or you have guessed. 
 Then has come your 'dreadful time 1 with Mrs. 
 Josselyn." 
 
 "Wizard!" she answered, staring at him. "Have you 
 seen George Oliver?" 
 
 "No not to-d.ay. He missed an appointment with 
 me." 
 
 "And yet you " 
 
 "And yet I divine your agitation." He smiled, giv 
 ing his lithe, strong body an impatient motion. "Of 
 course the discovery was certain, sooner or later. Did 
 he aid you in it?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Naturally, all things considered. Then he has told 
 you of my proposal." 
 
 She spoke with speed and great eagerness. "Yes 
 he has told me! Ah, you glorious Frank. It's so like 
 you!" She saw him change color. Then he receded 
 from her a little. 
 
 "Doris!" 
 
 She had drooped her head, but raised it the next in-
 
 NEW YORK. 333 
 
 stant, with a sudden piteous kind of defiance. And then 
 they gazed steadily into one another's eyes. 
 
 "Doris," he said again, brokenly. "Well," she fal 
 tered. Once more came the earnest meeting of their 
 look. Her glance fell; she sank upon the sofa. With 
 out seeing him she knew that he was seated at her side. 
 "Doris," came his voice, seeming to sweep with its soft 
 ness through depths of her soul, "do you mean that you 
 love this man?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She turned and fingered a bit of tapestry at the win 
 dow near her. As if speaking to the dim figures on the 
 heavy folds, she murmured many sentences. 
 
 "He has my heart," she tremulously finished. "No 
 one else can ever have it." Then she veered closer to 
 the tape.stry arid almost smothered in it her next words. 
 "I suppose I fear that you will not do this greatly 
 generous thing, now. I know you care for me; you 
 have said so more than once. I care for you, too, Frank, 
 but not in that one way. Act as you please I shall 
 never dream of blaming you. I should have loved you ; 
 I should have been gladly grateful to become your wife. 
 But that is one of human nature's many mysteries. 
 Him, a criminal, with his stained name a name you 
 have so nobly offered to cleanse him I love yes, I love, 
 in that other strange, unexplainable way." 
 
 Then she shrouded her face in the curtain and waited. 
 She waited thus, racked with pity and sympathy, and 
 yet quivering inwardly with a hope that she felt impious 
 in its selfish demand. 
 
 Crevelling's voice came to her after a few more 
 minutes. 
 
 "You love George Oliver, then, Doris? You mean to 
 marry him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She heard him rise. She knew that he was standing 
 near her. She knew that he had not left her. She sat 
 perfectly still, and she was also aware that he was per 
 fectly still. 
 
 On a sudden she whirled round, sprang up, and faced 
 him. His pallor made her almost stumble backward. 
 "Frank!" she said, "you must not you need not!"
 
 S34 NEW YORK. 
 
 "I will," he said; "George Oliver's place is ready for 
 him." 
 
 "Frank! After what I've told you!" 
 
 He lowered his head a little. "After what you have 
 told me. Delay your marriage, Doris, for a year. Let 
 him serve his time with me through that year. At the 
 end of it the marriage could take place." 
 
 She lifted both arms. She had never looked so beau 
 tiful to him. With her eyes swimming in tears, with a 
 great eglantine-tinted rose spot in either cheek, with 
 parted lips, with every marble outline visible of back- 
 thrown throat and clear-curved cheeks, strained into a 
 more exquisite oval than their wonted one, she had per 
 haps never at all before looked so beautiful. "You will 
 do this for me, Frank! You will help him like this! 
 You will do it for me because you love me!" 
 
 "Because I love you," his answer slowly came. 
 "It is not easy, Doris, but I will do it!" 
 
 "Kiss me, Frank kiss me on the lips! Yes, I com 
 mand I " 
 
 But he drew away. In a kind of delicate blaze refusal 
 and denial flashed from his face. 
 
 "If I kissed you on the lips, Doris, I might lose power 
 to make this sacrifice." 
 
 "Frank, it is a martyrdom!" she cried. "I know how 
 you love me! I realize what you are consenting to! 
 Frank, I I beg of you to let him and me fight our way 
 together! Eefuse to aid him with your power and posi 
 tion. I will make it all plain. He will not reproach 
 you; he will understand. Reproach you, indeed! What 
 am I saying? What conceivable right could he have? 
 Frank, I spoke to-day with Martha Courtelyou about it. 
 She, too, advises me to beg of you that you shall relin 
 quish your plan. You know how kind and good and 
 disinterested Martha is. And you have not in the world 
 a more devout admirer. Frank! You can't do it! You 
 can't you can't. It is too big a strain, with all j-our 
 work, so absorbing, so compelling! Let our marriage 
 take place privately. Cousin Albert has that Denver 
 property, which needs to be looked after. When George 
 and I are married we will start at once for Denver. The
 
 NEW YORK. 335 
 
 marriage itself will mean much for him, in the way 9f 
 restitution, rehabilitation. Come, now; give up your 
 plan of making George your secretary! I am terriblj' 
 candid, as you see; I realize only too well that you 
 must suffer unspeakably. Frank, I love you 
 
 "Doris!" 
 
 "With my soul, Frank, but not that other way not 
 that other way!" 
 
 "Doris!" 
 
 He sprang toward her and took her straiuingly in his 
 arms. "You asked me to kiss you on the lips. " And 
 he kissed her so, vehemently, once twice. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 She turned and dashed back from him, fiery, both 
 hands clinched. 
 
 "I 7-1 hate you that way, Frank! It's horrible to 
 me!" And she burst into tears, sinking upon a chair. 
 
 He stood close to her, his face working, his beautiful 
 eyes full of passion, his lips so tremulous that he could 
 not control their twitchings. 
 
 "I love you that way. There's the difference. It's 
 life, Doris it's one of life's mysteries!" 
 
 She saw him draw away from her, and a certain look 
 of spiritual sweetness swept across his face. 
 
 "Very well," he said, "George Oliver shall be my 
 secretary, publicly proclaimed so. For a year I will 
 keep him in this capacity. It is better. I will do every 
 thing. Of course the postponement of your marriage 
 with him will be far more desirable, in every sense. I 
 will do this. Doris, I insist upon doing it. Your mar 
 riage will wear a wholesomer color, so to speak. I need 
 not explain; you must see. Do not think of my suffer 
 ing more than you can help. I know you so well that I 
 know you will think of it " 
 
 "As I do now!" cried Doris. She sprang up from her 
 seat and flung both arms about him and kissed him on 
 either cheek. 
 
 "As I do now," she repeated, her eyes streaming with 
 tears. "That, Frank, is how I love yon! A loftier way, 
 after all a way of the spirit, not of the flesh." 
 
 "The flesh," he answered, covering his face for an
 
 336 NEW YORK. 
 
 instant, "is an unconquerable element. The boundary 
 between spiritual love and physical love who has ever 
 defined it? It's like the boundary between motion and 
 stillness between light and darkness between silence 
 and sound. I love you, Doris, with the flesh, and I love 
 you with the spirit also. You lovo me, as .you say " 
 
 "With the spirit, Frank! With the spirit!" she cried. 
 
 He smiled, and his sinila was filled with an infinite 
 sadness. "Which means," he murmured, "that you do 
 not love me at all." 
 
 "No, no," she urged. "I " 
 
 "Enough enough, my dear Doris." His face to her, 
 at this instant, was somehow sublime. "You shall have 
 the man whom you love with the spirit and flesh both 
 together. You shall have him I promise him to you. 
 But if you are wise wise in what I would call the world 
 lier wisdom you will let me take him and keep him 
 near me, and wait for him till I give him you with 
 that stain on his name washed away. Not absolutely 
 washed away, Doris, but cleansed better than the sud 
 den marriage and the sudden flight to Denver could 
 possibly do." 
 
 "Frank, Frank," she sobbed, "you make me hate my 
 self that I have not loved you that other way!" 
 
 "It will be a year," ho answered, as if communing 
 now with his own thoughts. His face was grave, medi 
 tative, but wholly unemotional, as he pursued "Can 
 you live this year through without too much mental 
 tumult and longing?" 
 
 "Every day of it, Frank," she answered, "I will 
 shower blessings of gratitude on your head!" 
 
 When Doris and George met again almost her first 
 words to him, after she had told him of the late interview 
 between Crevelling and herself, were these : 
 
 "He is less man than god. You know^it, now, since 
 I've told you evei'y thing. Do you not admit it?" 
 
 "Yes," George answered, with drooped eyes. "Why," 
 he slowly added, "do you not give yourself to him?" 
 
 "Why? To quote his own words, 'it's life it's one 
 of life's mysteries. ' ' 
 
 "He is so much worthier of you, Doris, than I am!"
 
 NEW YORK. 337 
 
 "He is worthy of the best woman that ever lived." 
 
 "You are that or almost that!" said George. "How 
 can we ever be sure on such a question? But you are 
 very lovely, humane, charitable, self-effacing. The pic 
 ture I make of you is perfection. Just that, and noth 
 ing less. " 
 
 "Hush. I hate to hear you speak so, George." 
 
 "I can't help it. The truth claims a hearing." 
 
 "Ah," she said, catching his hand, "save all your 
 eulogies for him!" 
 
 "I have many." 
 
 "It's arranged. You're to accept the secretaryship 
 publicly, with your past known with everything 
 known." 
 
 "Yes. And " he paused, looking searchingly at her. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Our marriage, Doris?" 
 
 "It is to be delayed for a year." 
 
 "So long?" 
 
 "For a j r ear yes. A thousand times better." 
 
 "And meanwhile?" he asked. 
 
 "Meanwhile?" she repeated. 
 
 "You have quarreled with your cousin." 
 
 "With Albert Josselyn! Quarreled with him! George! 
 What are you saying?" 
 
 "No no. I did not mean him, of course. I 
 meant " 
 
 "Cousin Ellen? Oh, yes. I've quarreled with her. 
 But then we've had so many disturbances, don't you 
 know? This evening I shan't go down to dinner unless 
 she comes up and asks me. If she doesn't it will be im 
 mensely serious. I shall think of packing up my things 
 and going somewhere else. After all. I'm not afraid of 
 living alone for a year to come." 
 
 "I don't want you to live alone," murmured George, 
 with his lips laid on her joined hands. "I I somehow 
 can't consent to it." 
 
 Just then a knock sounded at the door. Doris rose 
 with a smile and a lifted finger. "Perhaps that is she 
 now. Perhaps, having learned that you are here, she 
 has come to make peace with us both who knows? She.
 
 338 NEW YORK, 
 
 is a very proud woman, and a very faulty one. But she 
 has her good side, after all." 
 
 Doris went to the door. She opened it slowly, and 
 Mrs. Josselj-n came into the room. 
 
 In a minute more, after scanning her face steadily, for 
 a moment Doris kissed her. Then she took both her hands 
 and drew her not by any means with difficulty toward 
 George. As Mrs. Josselyn began to address her hus 
 band's kinsman (which she did with distinct effort 
 though marked courtesy) Doris perceived Grace iu the 
 aperture of the half-opened doorway. 
 
 "Grace," she said, advancing. 
 
 "Doris, Martha Courtelyou is here. Perhaps she had 
 best not come to you now, however." 
 
 Doris slipped instantly out into the hall. There stood 
 Martha, her face flushed, her eyes misted with tears. 
 
 "Oh, Doris! Osborne is home!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yes. And he is overwhelmed by the news. I have 
 never seen him so unstrung so agitated. He keeps 
 walking up and down his library with clouded brows 
 and clinched hands, muttering to himself that it shall 
 not be, it cannot be. Doris, he he terrifies me!" 
 
 Doris took Martha's hand and gently patted it. 
 "Don't allow yourself to feel the least alarmed," she 
 said. Then her face flushed a little, and her e3'es caught 
 an indignant sparkle. "Tell him, if his imperious and 
 indignant mood continues, to go and have a talk with 
 Frank Crevelling. He can teach him lessons in manli 
 ness, dignity, generosity, humanity that all his fine in 
 tellect has yet failed to make him learn!" 
 
 "Ah, Doris, if you could but see him now I know you 
 would pity him. I I truly believe that his heart is 
 broken. ' ' 
 
 "His heart? Then the accident cannot prove fatal. 
 For his heart is the least important organ possessed by 
 his anatomy." 
 
 "Oh, Doris, you're speaking of my brother!" 
 
 "I know, dear and you're right to resent my words. 
 Assail me as violently as you will." Here, by the hand 
 that she still clasped, she drew Martha toward the near
 
 NEW YORK. 339 
 
 doorway. "Only postpone your reproaches for a little 
 while, please, till I've given mj'self the great pleasure of 
 presenting to you the man I've chosen for my future 
 husband." 
 
 But Martha recoiled. "Remember, Doris, I'm his 
 sister." 
 
 "You are my friend." 
 
 Just then Albert Josselyn appeared in the hall. Doris 
 held out to him her other hand. Then, between her 
 cousin and Martha, and seeming to lead them both, she 
 passed into the room where Mrs. Josselyn, Grace, and 
 George stood together. Her face was radiant; her gray 
 eyes glittered with joyful light. "Our little group is 
 complete!" she murmured. "I wanted just such a meet 
 ing as this at the beginning of my engagement." 
 
 "Do you not forget one absentee?" whispered Martha, 
 with a touch of mingled irony and humor in her tones. 
 
 "Nol Whom?" returned Doris, dubiously, at first. 
 Then her face on a sudden blended gravity with its glad 
 ness. 
 
 "Oh, I see," she said. "You mean Frank Crevel- 
 ling! But in spirit he is with me now ! And in spirit 
 he shall be with me always."
 
 340 NEW YORK, 
 
 xm. 
 
 SLOWLY the year lapsed for our two lovers. For 
 Crevelling every day of it seemed to leap along. He 
 sometimes felt that the relations which he now held 
 toward George were almost too arduous. Then there 
 came periods of joyous exultance. The stained name 
 was being cleansed. He trusted this man. Not only 
 that: the man's quick perceptions and deep intellectual 
 sympathy proved of a worth which constantly augmented. 
 His new position brought him into contact with people 
 of highest repute. Each new week lessened the darkness 
 of the curse. Crevelling 's indorsement and protection 
 were mightily aidful. This great benefaction was liter 
 ally bathing George in its light. 
 
 "With a lesser soul than Crevelliug's, " George said 
 one day to Doris, "the situation would be impossible." 
 
 "Such grand charity and self-effacement as his," 
 Doris answered, "make the impossible, in even this 
 curious case, a shadow. Well, I'm ready for our walk." 
 
 They made it a long one, that afternoon. The weather 
 was mild, the sky brilliantly blue. Nor was it altogether 
 a walk. "I would like, just for once," Doris said, "to 
 be near those old haunts again. Heaven knows they are 
 hideous enough. But the memory of your sufferings 
 will for me always touch them with a sort of sacred 
 appeal." 
 
 "Sacred, Doris? No, no!" George spoke below his 
 breath. At this time the elevated was speeding them 
 downtown. "'I will not go there, " George added, after 
 awhile. "But we can survey the whole wretched region 
 from a distance, if so you please." 
 
 A half-hour later, perhaps, they were standing on the 
 Brooklyn Bridge. It was one of those hard, dry, scintil- 
 laut New York days. There seemed to be the vaunt of
 
 NEW YORK. 311 
 
 democracy in it. To their right they saw Staten Island, 
 cut cameo-like against the sternly lucid horizon. Just 
 below them shimmered the beautiful confluence of East 
 and Hudson rivers, its twinkling azure dotted with 
 countless dark craft. The glorious expanse of bay was 
 overstrewn with sailboats, tugs, barges, and occasional 
 black bulks of ocean liners. Doris and George glanced , 
 overhead. Vast slanted networks of cordage made them 
 conscious of how prodigious was the masterpiece of en 
 gineering on which they stood. Throngs of people were 
 moving past them along this cyclopean passage one 
 which the Hudson, after centuries of human struggle, 
 had alone been allowed to behold, which the Nile, in all 
 its pride, had never looked upon, nor the Danube, nor 
 the storied Ehine, nor even the tropic yet stupendous 
 Amazon. Civilization had come to this, and civilization, 
 in its imperious westward march, had wrought the bril 
 liant, audacious, vulgar, yet terribly appreciable New 
 York, which loomed its immediate cause. Here was a 
 monstrous town the Greater New York, as already it 
 had begun to be called, with Brooklyn yonder, with 
 Jersey City not far away, at this moment eclipsing in. 
 size all other cities of the world save one, and promis 
 ing, within a decade or so, even to eclipse that. What 
 was its destiny? Other like cities had, in a sense, 
 achieved theirs. Surely Home, on her seven hills, had 
 told in terms of anguish, superstition and bloodshed, 
 the tale of her long and awful life. Paris, London, Ber 
 lin, even St. Petersburg, had all vestured themselves in 
 the robes of history. And such history! Such unuttera 
 ble crime and misery and despair! 
 
 The lovers looked into one another's eyes; they read 
 one another's thoughts; in murmured words they trans 
 lated their meditations each to each. The tremen-, 
 clous flux of life had hurled itself hither, over seas. 
 Westward had been the march of progress in good sooth, 
 for everywhere below the two watchers its mysterious 
 and herculean energy seemed to throb and twinkle. 
 This New York, a boiling point of human power, fated 
 to contain twenty millions of inhabitants hereafter, what 
 would it ultimately become? What promises had it al 
 ready given and how would these be fulfilled? The
 
 342 NEW YORK. 
 
 lovers' thoughts were in curious harmony. During the 
 silence which had now grown up between them, like 
 some delicate, diaphanous breadth of screening, it was 
 almost as if their souls dealt in some sort of mutual 
 clairvoyant intercourse to which spoken language would 
 coarsely have compared. The memory of each was at 
 work, and the experience as well. George felt the vital 
 ity of the vague metropolis assault him as never before. 
 He measured it, so to speak, by the suffering which it 
 had cost him. He glanced at Brooklyn, and thought of 
 his early crime, engendered by the passion which har 
 lotry had laid in wait to kindle. He swept his eyes 
 toward the Hudson, and remembered those anguishful 
 months of durance, repentance, self-disgust. He sur 
 veyed the dim lines of roofage that had meant more 
 months of servitude and disgrace. Then, as his gaze 
 wandered further northward, came memories of pain still 
 more intense. That episode of Lydia's desperate death! 
 What ghastly problem must spring from the education 
 of the negroes here and elsewhere? And was not New 
 York already filling her poverty-stricken districts with 
 their dusky faces? Did such horror as that which had 
 beset Lydia not point to thousands of like horrors yet 
 unborn? Was this advancement? Was it not retrogres 
 sion? Then he recalled Lynsko, the infamous, the dis- 
 picable. Here was the nineteenth century and here was 
 an enormous city boasting with an openness that too 
 often ran like rank braggadocio in the ears of Europe 
 that she represented this nineteenth century's loftiest 
 ideas and ideals. Was the turpitude of Lynsko, and of 
 "firebugs" like him, an evidence of such healthful 
 growth? If not, where could the real evidence be found? 
 In the brutal "morality" of Osborne Courtelyou, who 
 clad with fancied righteousness his ichor-blooded wor 
 ship of self? And alas! there were so many Courtelyous, 
 with faults more or less salient, in this New York, that 
 claimed to stand before all Christendom as the noblest 
 municipal development of the noblest republic ever yet 
 established within the knowledge of mankind. Could 
 not one plunge back into the past hundreds of years and 
 find prototypes of just such cruelty as either Lynsko 's or
 
 NEW YORK. 343 
 
 Courtelyou's? Chasms of difference might divide them; 
 but was not their essential kinship patent? To the 
 northward George perceived a white speck which may or 
 may not have been the City Hall. He thought of the 
 suicide of Captain Cummisky, and of the vile civic con 
 ditions that had caused it. This New York, ah, this im 
 perially insolent New York! Had it not already a polit 
 ical past more packed with shame than that of any 
 republican city the world had yet seen? And to think 
 that thousands were immigrating to it every year! Im 
 migrating in the hope of a larger liberty! And what 
 did it make of them when they came? Cummiskys, or 
 men of his hateful stamp. Cummiskys, or corruption- 
 ists, either smaller or greater in their potencies of 
 traitorous crime! 
 
 He turned to Doris. Their hands stole together, for 
 a moment, then fell apart. "You are thinking?" she 
 said softlj-. 
 
 "Of this massive monument stretched all about us. 
 What is its meaning, Doris? Can it have a meaning for 
 good ? The old republic, a hundred years ago, seemed 
 KO splendidly promiseful. But now! Is there much 
 apparent hope? Is there?" 
 
 "Not apparent, George. I, too, have been musing, 
 marveling, asking myself bitter and mournful questions. 
 A thousand years hence possibly two thousand this 
 bridge may still be spanning the wide stream below it." 
 
 "Say three thousand even five. Nothing but an 
 earthquake could destroy it. An earthquake, or \var. " 
 
 "I have been thinking of all the mad sin I have seen, 
 George, over yonder, beneath some of those dim-seen 
 roofs. And of the folly, too the infinite selfishness 
 fashion, society, struggling pretension, overbearing 
 plutocracy, stony-hearted aristocracy. I have been 
 thinking of how evil thrives, of how good lies abased. All 
 the darkness and melancholy of it has pierced me! And 
 yet I cannot despair. There ivill be a change, George, 
 however long delayed. It may take centuries in coming, 
 but the real result is sure. I will tell you why." She 
 leaned closer to him, with parted lips. "Already, amid 
 all that gross wprldliness, there are higher, wiser.
 
 344 NEW YORK. 
 
 brighter spirits at work. I know of one, George so do 
 you as well." 
 
 "Your own, Doris!" 
 
 "Not mine, not mine." 
 
 "Whose, then?" 
 
 A pink veil of color seemed flung across the eager face. 
 "His! Need I name his name?" 
 
 "No," said George. And in a sanctity of silence their 
 eyes again met. 
 
 THE END.
 
 A NEW ARISTOCRACY. 
 
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 For sale everywhere, or sent postpaid on receipt of price, by the publisher, 
 
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 96 QUEEN STREET 114 FIFTH AVENUE 
 
 LONDON NEW YORK
 
 Latest Novels of 
 
 ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE, 
 
 Author of DOCTOR JACK." 
 
 In "A Bar Sinister," St. George Rathborne has hinged the leading- dramatic 
 features of his romance upon a remarkable decision of a New York judge, 
 whereby a man was declared to have committed bigamy with one wife, and which 
 strange charge was borne out by the laws of the State. The scene of action is 
 transferred from beautiful Naples, under the shadow of Vesuvius, to the wonder 
 land of Peru, where, amid the towering Andes, the various interesting characters 
 work out their destiny. 
 
 " Masked in Mystery, A Romantic Story of Adventure under Egyptian 
 Skies," is another of those readable, up-to-date romances of foreign travel and 
 strange intrigues, from the pen of St. George Rathborne, who has given the 
 reading public many bright tales of American pluck and heroism the world over, 
 among which we recall his " Doctor Jack" and a volume recently issued called 
 " Her Rescue from the Turks." 
 
 " Her Rescue from the Turks," by St. George Rathborne, is the very latest 
 romance of foreign adventure, written by the well-known author of " Doctor 
 Jack." The field chosen could hardly have been more timely, since the eyes of 
 the whole civilized world are at present turned toward the Orient, and armed 
 Europe might be compared to an arch of which Turkey is the keystone. This 
 story is rapid in action, with a vein of comedy illuminating the whole. 
 
 Uniform editions, cloth, $1.00; paper, 5 oc. 
 5QUIRE JOHN. 
 A SON OF MARS. 
 A BAR SINISTER. 
 A GODDESS OF AFRICA. 
 MASKED IN MYSTERY. 
 HER RESCUE FROM THE TURKS. 
 
 For sale everywhere, or sent post-paid on receipt of price; 
 
 F. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher, 
 96 Queen Street, London. 114 Fifth Avenue, New York.
 
 Two Famous Authors. 
 
 To lovers of military tales and stories of romantic adventure 
 the world over the names of 
 
 AND 
 
 ST. GEORGE RATHORNE, 
 
 Author of Dr. Jack," 
 
 have indeed become household words. Their widely circulated 
 novels may be found wherever the English language is spoken, 
 and have served to while away the tedium of many a long rail- 
 way journey or ocean voyage. The public seem to eagerly wel 
 come each new story from these travelers who have searched the 
 strangest corners of the earth for new scenes and remarkable ex 
 ploits with which to entertain their legion of readers. Mr. F. 
 Tennyson Neely has pleasure in announcing that the very latest 
 and best productions of these wizard pens are now appearing in 
 his attractive list of publications, and may be found on every 
 book-stall here and abroad. 
 
 THE LATEST BOOKS by Capt. King. 
 
 WARRIOR GAP. Cloth, $1.25. 
 FORT FRAYNE. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 50c. 
 AN ARMY WIFE. Fully Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 50e. 
 A GARRISON TANGLE. Cloth, $1.25 ; paper, 50c. 
 TRUMPETER FRED. Illustrated. Gilt top, 50c. 
 
 NOBLE BLOOD AND A WEST POINT PARALLEL. By Capt. KING and 
 ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH of the German Army. Gilt top, 60o. 
 
 THE MOST RECENT NOVELS by St. George Rathborne. 
 
 Author of " Doctor Jack." 
 Uniform Editions. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 500. 
 SQOIRE JOHN. 
 A SON OF MARS. 
 A BAR SINISTER. 
 A GODDESS OF AFRICA. 
 MASKED IN MYSTERY. 
 HER RESCUE FROM THE TURKS. 
 
 Others in preparation for early issue. 
 
 For sale everywhere, or sent post-paid on receipt of price. 
 
 F. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher, 
 96 Queen Street, London. 114 Fifth Avenue, New Yot k,
 
 Father Stafford. 
 
 By 
 
 ! ANTHONY HOPE. 
 
 The Most Remarkable of Mr. Hope's Stories 
 
 Neely's Prismatic Library. 
 
 Gilt Top, 50 cents. 
 
 MINNEAPOLIS TRIBUNE : " This story is in the genuine Hope style and fof 
 4hat reason will be widely read." 
 
 PUBLIC LEDGER, PHILADELPHIA: " 'Father Stafford 1 is extremely clew 
 * bold privateer venturing upon the high seas." 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE : " It is a good story, the strong- parts qi 
 which are the conflict between love and conscience on the part of a young Angli 
 can priest. The charm of the book, however, lies in the briskness of the dialogue, 
 which is as finely finished as any of Hope's novels." 
 
 NASHVILLE BANNER: "' Father Stafford' is a chai ming story. Thewhoie 
 book sustains the reputation that Anthony Hope has made, and adds another 
 proof that as a portrayer of character of sharp distinctness and individuality ha 
 has no superior." 
 
 EVENING WISCONSIN : " A write' of great merit. . . . Mr. Hope's 
 work has a quality of straightforwardness that recommends it to readers who 
 have grown tired of the loaded novel." 
 
 PHILLIPSHURGH JOURNAL : " This is considered by his critics to be one of 
 the strongest, most beautiful and interesting novels Mr. Hope has ever written. 
 There is not a dull line in the entire volume. 
 
 VANITY, NEW YORK :" A very interesting narrative, and Mr. Hope tells 
 the story after that fashion which he would seem to have made peculiarly his 
 own." 
 
 KANSAS CITY JOURNAL: "There is something more than the romance of 
 ihe action to hold the reader's mind. It is one of the author's best productions." 
 
 EVERY SATURDAY, ELGIN, ILL. : " Anthony Hope is a master of dialogue, 
 and to his art in this particular is clue the enticing interest which leads the reader 
 on from page to page." 
 
 HEBREW STANDARD : " The strife bet-ween the obligation of a vow of cell 
 bacy and the promptings of true love are vividly portrayed in this little book. 
 ... It contains an admirable description of English country life and is well 
 written." 
 
 BOSTON DAILY GLOBE: "It has enough of the charm of the author's 
 thought and style to identify it as characteristic, and make it very pleasing." 
 
 For sale everywhere, or sent post-paid on receipt of price. 
 
 F. TENNYSON NEELY, Publisher, 
 96 Queen Street, London. 114 Fifth Avenue, New York*
 
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