THE ETERNAL MAGDALENE 
 ROBERT H. MCLAUGHLIN
 
 THE ETERNAL 
 MAGDALENE 
 
 By ROBERT H. McLAUGHLIN 
 
 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THE MACAULAY COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1915, 
 
 GZOKCE H. DORAN COMPANS
 
 M. N. M., 
 
 7VHSE SWIFT COMPASSION FOR THE UNFORTUNATE, 
 
 AND WHOSE BROAD TOLERANCE OF THE SINS 
 
 THAT FOLLOW IN MISFORTUNE'S WAKE, 
 
 ARE REFLECTED UPON MANY OF 
 
 ITS PAGES; THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS LOVINGLY 
 
 INSCRIBED. 
 
 2136947
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE HUNTING OF THE WOMAN - - J - II 
 
 H. THE UPRIGHT MAN - - ^ 31 
 
 in. YOUNG LOVE AT SPRING - - - - 52 
 
 IV. THE BITTERNESS OF FATHER-LOVE - - 62 
 
 V. THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT SMILE - - 78 
 
 VI. THE CURSE - - - - - QO 
 
 VII. THE STORM-CLOUD .... 105 
 
 Vm. A PRIESTESS OF APHRODITE IN A LIMOUSINE - - 123 
 
 IX. GRAY THREADS OF A SPIDER-WEB - - - 142 
 
 X. THE YOUNG GENERATION .... ^O 
 
 XI. THE MOTH AND THE FLAME .... 179 
 
 XH. THE BLACK DAYS - .... jgi; 
 
 Xm. THE GIRL WHO HAD BEEN PROTECTED - - - 211 
 
 XIV. A SINNER? ...... 227 
 
 XV. THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER .... 243 
 
 XVI. THE REFORM BOOMERANG .... 260 
 
 xvn. "HE THAT is WITHOUT SIN "- - 272 
 
 XVm. IN A MYSTERIOUS WAY ..... 286
 
 THE ETERNAL MAGDALENE
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE WOMAN 
 
 JOHN BELLAMY had been connected with the Star 
 in some editorial capacity or other for nearly nine 
 years. When he graduated from High School at the age 
 of eighteen, it had been his ambition to go to college, but 
 his father had died suddenly during the vacation which 
 had followed his commencement, and six months later, 
 his mother, who had been unable to withstand the shock 
 of her husband's death, succumbed, partly of a broken 
 heart, partly of ill-health. Bellamy was then thrown on 
 his own resources ; his ambition was swallowed up in the 
 necessity of making his own living. Duncan Harrison, 
 the owner and proprietor of the largest and most influen- 
 tial newspaper in the city where Bellamy lived, had been 
 an old and intimate friend of Bellamy's father, and it 
 was natural that he should have taken the young man 
 under his protection and made a place for him on the 
 staff of his publication. 
 
 At first Bellamy had chafed under the routine, for it 
 was not what he had planned for himself. But, as the 
 years went by, the great newspaper game, with its 
 struggles and its hardships, its interests and its rewards, 
 
 II
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 had taken hold of him and fired his imagination. He 
 came in touch with the undercurrents of life; the veil of 
 hypocrisy was snatched from the external manifestations 
 of existence ; and Bellamy could look deep into the heart 
 of the world, its high hopes and aspirations, its sordid- 
 ness and its defeats, its struggles and achievements. 
 More and more he felt that he was penetrating to the 
 very heart of all human endeavour. Gradually he had 
 acquired a truer perspective of things. He saw beneath 
 the surface. And this vision, coupled with the con- 
 stant battle which one day would bring success, an- 
 other day defeat, gave a new colour and meaning to his 
 life. 
 
 Many men, caught in the vortex of news-gathering, 
 become cynical, but in the case of Bellamy this did not 
 happen. To the contrary, that youthful buoyancy which 
 had always been a part of his nature, became accentuated. 
 His sympathies were intensified, and, far from losing that 
 point of view which with him occasionally approached 
 near the brink of sentimentality, he grew more tolerant 
 of the human struggle. 
 
 His mind was quick and probing. He had rarely at- 
 tached moral values to people's actions, but unconsciously 
 had made allowances for the weaknesses which com- 
 panioned even the strongest natures. He weighed care- 
 fully all the problems which presented themselves to him, 
 gave few hasty judgments, and developed an almost 
 divine leniency toward people and their actions. It was 
 not lack of strength ; rather was his attitude the result of 
 an inherent and deep understanding an understanding 
 made deeper by the organisation of his new environment. 
 Then, again, there was a certain congenial element in 
 the mechanism of his new line of endeavour. He had 
 
 12
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 always beea fond of writing. The instinct of visual 
 thought had, from his earliest infancy, been part of 
 him. 
 
 At first he kad taken little interest in his work be- 
 cause his aspirations had been so passionate that he un- 
 consciously revolted against the necessity of serving a 
 tedious apprenticeship. In the beginning he had been 
 given literary criticisms to do. He had had to rewrite 
 and elaborate other men's stories; he had had to build 
 up the flesh of narrative structures which at the last 
 moment had come over the wires. But after a few 
 years of such tasks he had been placed on the City 
 Editor's staff and given assignments along with the 
 other men whose business it was to go forth at a mo- 
 ment's notice and develop a story from a slender thread 
 of suggestion. 
 
 Bellamy's maimer was pleasing, his imagination active, 
 his mind precise, and he had that inborn quality which 
 animates all good writers for daily papers a news 
 sense. At this time he was only a "cub," and his assign- 
 ments were not important, but his attitude was always 
 fresh and original, and his stories had the charm of won- 
 derment as of a child who looks for the first time upon 
 the world. Instinctively he went to the heart of his 
 story ; he was able to eliminate the unimportant and un- 
 essential ; and it was not long before he was given more 
 valuable assignments. 
 
 In the years following his first real taste of newspaper 
 life he had covered the City Hall, the Court House, the 
 Police Coarts, and at the end of his seventh year with 
 the paper he was its chief political writer. But politics 
 did not satisfy his eager appetite, and gradually he had 
 worked himself into special stories which by their dra- 
 
 13
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 matic simplicity, their colour, their true sense of balance 
 and their descriptive brilliancy, had opened the eyes 
 of Duncan Harrison to the fact that he was in posses- 
 sion of one of the best reporters in the country. 
 
 For two years thereafter Bellamy was called upon to 
 cover every important case which found its way into 
 the office. He wrote three-fourths of the feature stories 
 for the Star, and whenever there was an assignment 
 which required unusual perspicacity and intelligent treat- 
 ment, he was chosen for it. 
 
 It was for this reason that, for a week past, Bellamy's 
 time had been given over to writing up all- the develop- 
 ments of the moral campaign which now occupied the 
 foremost place in the interest of the quarter of a million 
 inhabitants of the city. 
 
 For over a year Edenburg, like many other cities of 
 its size and character, had been in a state of agitation 
 over its morals. When the new reform administration 
 had been inaugurated into office, the "cleaning up" of 
 the Tenderloin had been promised. The local papers, 
 avid for sensation and inspired more by a desire for 
 circulation gains than by the spirit of cleanliness, had 
 devoted considerable space to the question. Statistics 
 were bandied about freely. Photographs of certain 
 quarters of the city, which had heretofore been a closed 
 book to the great majority of the population, were dis- 
 played on front pages. Politicians were interviewed. 
 Their private actions were investigated and brazenly 
 printed as news. The local clergymen, seeing a new 
 field of endeavour opening up to them, founded their ser- 
 mons on texts whose relevancy to the existing conditions 
 was obvious, while some of the more radical and out- 
 spoken ministers painted lurid pictures each Sunday
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 morning of the vice which was being condoned by the 
 police. 
 
 The moral wave had grown and gathered momentum; 
 accusations were hurled back and forth; all the details 
 of civic sordidness and squalor became the familiar 
 property of the man in the street. Investigating com- 
 mittees were formed. The names of men prominent in 
 business life were connected with the crusade. Meet- 
 ings were held and reports read. Quickly conceived and 
 fantastic ordinances were presented to the City Council, 
 and back of them were threats and promises. 
 
 Withal the campaign had made little headway. The 
 mud in the spring had been stirred up, but it had not 
 been eliminated. Influences and counter-influences were 
 at work ; the matter became almost inextricably involved, 
 and the net results were meagre. The trouble lay in the 
 fact that there was no dominating personality, no leader 
 who could point the way, no man strong enough to 
 carry forward to a conclusion the many activities which 
 had been set in motion. To be sure, there were in the 
 city certain men of powerful influence who perhaps 
 could accomplish what the reformers demanded, but 
 these men hesitated on the edge of final action. Their 
 other interests intervened; and so the tumult went on 
 with little or no definite achievement. 
 
 It was at this time, when the public interest and ex- 
 citement was at its height, that Elijah Bradshaw pro- 
 posed the hiring of a nationally famous professional re- 
 former to gather up the loose ends of their work and to 
 bring about a consummation. At one of the meetings 
 of which he was chairman, he spoke eloquently of the 
 need of such a man as the Reverend James Gleason, 
 an evangelist whose life work it was to go from city 
 
 15
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 to city, takes notes of the local conditions, and plan a 
 practical campaign which would result in the purifica- 
 tion which that city needed. 
 
 Jimmy Gleason, as he was called by erery one, was 
 not merely a theorist. He had made the study of munici- 
 pal vice his profession, and he had perfected methods 
 for its elimination which had produced practical results 
 in every city which had secured his services. He was 
 a vulgar man and uneducated, but he was possessed of 
 the gift of simple and compelling oratory, of picturesque 
 and insinuating diction. He knew all the ramifications, 
 legal and psychological, which were demanded by his 
 profession. In the newspapers he had received as much 
 publicity as any other public citizen in the United States. 
 He was a clever advertiser, a man who profoundly 
 knew his public, and though his methods were such 
 that he had made many enemies among the more con- 
 servative reformers, in point of results he had no com- 
 petitor in his field. His price was high, but that price 
 had grown out of his own achievement. Where other 
 men failed he succeeded. 
 
 It was obvious that such a man as Jimmy Gleason was 
 needed in Edenburg to complete the work already begun 
 by the local reformers, and there was little hesitancy on 
 the part of the other influential citizens in agreeing to 
 send for him, once Elijah Bradshaw had suggested it 
 and had agreed to guarantee the enterprise financially. 
 
 Bradshaw was a man who commanded the respect of 
 all who knew him, and there were few in Edenburg who 
 did not. He had lived in the city all his life. He was a 
 leader in all civic and commercial undertakings. Eden- 
 burg in fact owed much to Bradshaw. He was one of 
 its few millionaires, and he had made his money through 
 16
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 honesty and hard work and business acumen. The in- 
 terests of the city had always been his personal interests. 
 Tie had given much to charity. One of the largest 
 parks in Edenburg was Bradshaw's donation, and had 
 been named after him. His family was prominent in 
 the social life of the city. He was the head of the Board 
 of Trustees of Edenburg's largest church. His life had 
 been exemplary, and he had come to be looked upon 
 as one of the founders of the city's prosperity. He had 
 never run for office, although his success politically 
 would have been assured. He contented himself with 
 a semi-private life ; and yet, despite his refusal to accept 
 important political nominations, the people of Edenburg 
 felt that they owed as much to him as if he had actively 
 allied himself with its government. 
 
 It was not therefore inconsistent with his public- 
 spirited attitude and his generosity that he alone should 
 have offered to shoulder the entire financial responsibili- 
 ties of carrying out on a big scale this new plan of re- 
 form, and of making it possible for the city to have the 
 one man in America who was able to do the work which 
 had now superseded all other local affairs in point of 
 interest. 
 
 Jimmy Gleason, as a direct result of Elijah Bradshaw's 
 suggestion, had been in Edenburg for a week, and his 
 whirlwind campaign against the evils in that city was 
 well under way. Because of the spectacular value of 
 the campaign and because of the prominent men of the 
 Bradshaw type who were back of it, the newspapers were 
 lending every effort to put it through to a successful 
 conclusion. Bellamy had attended all the meetings at 
 the Tabernacle, had written columns upon columns of 
 publicity, had taken into consideration its human side 
 
 17
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 and had found and made many intimate stories of seem- 
 ingly insignificant details which had been overlooked by 
 his less imaginative and more cynical confreres. 
 
 Gleason had not confined himself entirely to preach- 
 ments and exhortations. Already he had begun work 
 on the more practical side of his crusade. He had de- 
 manded that the police give him assistance in closing 
 up the houses of ill fame against which his slangy philip- 
 pics had been hurled. Behind these raids was the influ- 
 ence of the newspapers and of those citizens who gov- 
 erned public opinion. The police, as always, were reluc- 
 tant to carry out these drastic measures, but the pressure 
 behind the demands was so strong that they had no alter- 
 native. Already two of the best-known Tenderloin es- 
 tablishments had been temporarily closed. The women 
 had been taken into court and fined. The lessees of the 
 houses had been dispossessed. Gleason himself had led 
 the raids, and Bellamy had witnessed them at the evan- 
 gelist's side. The young reporter had made little per- 
 sonal comment on the affair, but his stories of the epi- 
 sodes had been such that both Gleason and Bradshaw, 
 as well as Duncan Harrison, had been more than well 
 pleased. 
 
 On a night in late October, eight days after Jimmy 
 Gleason had come to Edenburg, Bellamy sat at his desk 
 in the Star office preparing a special feature story for 
 the following Sunday edition. It was the first night 
 since the vice crusade had started that he had not at- 
 tended the meeting at the Tabernacle. The first cold 
 breath of winter was in the air. A gusty wind had 
 arisen earlier in the evening, and along the side streets 
 where there were still trees to mark the rapidly passing 
 youth of the city, the dry leaves were scurrying about. 
 18
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 All day the sky had been overcast. A disconsolate 
 autumn bleakness had settled over the city. 
 
 When Bellamy had finished his story he took it into 
 Duncan Harrison's office and laid it on the desk. 
 
 The older man looked up. 
 
 "I was about to send for you, John," he said in the 
 quick staccato voice which had been his great asset in 
 making men obey his orders. "I've just received word 
 from the Chief that Blanche Dumond's house is going to 
 be pulled to-night. You know the old girl a picturesque 
 character. There ought to be a good story in it. Nobody 
 has been tipped off, and if things go through smoothly 
 it'll be a big haul. You'd better run over to Headquar- 
 ters and go with the boys personally. Get your story, 
 and taxi back to the office. We ought to have two 
 columns on it. There'll be a photographer there, and 
 we'll have a three-column lay-out. Write a banner 
 head yourself and shoot the story down not later than 
 one." 
 
 "I'm on," Bellamy replied breezily, "although, to tell 
 you the truth, I don't like the whole business." 
 
 Bellamy had reached the point where he subordinated 
 his private beliefs and prejudices to the policy of his 
 paper. His loyalty to his publication and the public was 
 unassailable, and although his experiences as a news- 
 gatherer in all walks of life had taught him to see 
 things clearly and to penetrate to the shams and hypocrisy 
 which often underlay the real motives of many benefac- 
 tions and philanthropies, in a crisis he would not have 
 permitted this knowledge to jeopardise the paper to 
 which he owed his allegiance. Despite this fact he was 
 frank and fearless in his personal acts and beliefs. 
 
 Harrison looked at him a little quizzically. 
 
 19
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Well, neither do I think much of it," he replied. 
 "But, after all, we are not critics, but chroniclers." 
 
 "Perhaps so," Bellamy reluctantly agreed with a smile. 
 "Only I'd like a chance to tell what I really think of 
 the whole affair. Gleason's too cocksure. No one can 
 tell whether he is fundamentally right or wrong it's 
 too big a problem to be decided off-hand. But I've seen 
 some things happen here that I know are wrong. The 
 theory back of them is sound, no doubt, but human na- 
 ture is too complex to fit into an ethical theory." 
 
 "I know all that, my boy," Harrison responded good- 
 naturedly, "but it's not our funeral. Our circulation this 
 last week has taken a big jump." 
 
 "What would happen, sir," Bellamy asked deferen- 
 tially, "if we should take an impartial or let us say a 
 controversial stand on this business?" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the older man. "With Bradshaw 
 and the Citizens' Committee and all the ministers on 
 the other side of the fence!" 
 
 He looked at Bellamy amusedly. 
 
 "You can write well enough, John," he added with 
 a touch of condescension, "but I'm afraid you wouldn't 
 be a good business man. The newspaper game, from 
 the owner's standpoint, consists in knowing how to jug- 
 gle a thousand balls. Diplomacy brings us our readers 
 not opinions. . . . Now get out of here and do the best 
 that's in you. It looks like the biggest story so far in 
 the crusade!" 
 
 Bellamy went to the telephone and called up the Chief 
 of Police in order to make sure a seat would be saved 
 for him in one of the machines. Then he put on his hat, 
 buttoned his coat around him tightly, and went down- 
 stairs unenthusiastically. 
 20
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 As he stepped out into the cold air he met Arnold 
 Macy, who was on the point of entering the building. 
 The young men were close friends ; they had been in the 
 same classes together at school. It was with Macy as a 
 room-mate that Bellamy had planned his college career, 
 but though Macy had possessed a measure of wealth, he 
 had preferred spending it in travel rather than on a uni- 
 versity training. When Bellamy had entered the em- 
 ploy of the Star Macy had sailed for Europe, and for 
 five years thereafter the friendship of the young men 
 had been kept alive through correspondence. During 
 that time Macy had spent his money prodigally and in 
 the end had been compelled to return to America. Again 
 in Edenburg, he had entered a broker's office, and for 
 nearly two years had made an excellent living as a bond 
 salesman. 
 
 "I was just coming up to see you," Macy greeted Bel- 
 lamy cheerily. "Are you busy to-night?" 
 
 "Always busy with Jimmy Gleason in town," the other 
 returned. "I am his chief press agent, you know. There's 
 going to be another raid to-night, and I'm on my way 
 over to cover it now. If you've nothing better to do, 
 why don't you come along ?" 
 
 "Nothing I'd like better," Macy replied. "Can you 
 take me without any trouble?" 
 
 "The Chief's my friend," Bellamy replied airily. "He 
 has an idea that if he isn't good to me he may lose his 
 next appointment. Publicity, newspaper influence all 
 that sort of thing. Why, he's even going to take me 
 to the raid to-night in his own car. If you don't mind 
 sitting on my lap, I'll make him let you in." 
 
 "This will be my first experience at eye-witnessing 
 the clash of the powers of evil against the hosts of 
 
 21
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 righteousness," Macy remarked as they walked briskly 
 toward the Police Station. 
 
 Bellamy had no trouble in taking his guest along with 
 him. The Chief of Police had assented good-naturedly. 
 Bellamy was an influential publicist, besides being liked 
 by the Chief personally. 
 
 "How do you like all the new excitement?" Bellamy 
 asked of the grizzled old officer who, on this occasion, 
 was more silent than was his wont. 
 
 "I'm not saying anything, son," the old man answered 
 after a pause. "I've seen too much of this thing before 
 in my day; but if this is what they want, I'll give it to 
 'em right. I'm not the Mayor or the head of the Police 
 Commission. I take my orders and do the best job I 
 can." 
 
 'What is the system in these raids?" asked Macy. 
 
 "Well, they vary," the Chief explained. "We sur- 
 round the house generally, force an entrance, rustle the 
 girls into patrols, and give 'em a joy-ride to the night 
 court. That's the way it always used to be when the 
 reformers made so much noise that we had to do some- 
 thing to shut 'em up. The Madam, of course, paid the 
 girls' fines, and the next night everything was run- 
 ning the same as ever. But this Gleason has got some 
 new ideas. Now we not only arrest the girls, but 
 throw 'em out, bag and baggage, close the house, and 
 then keep on pulling the girls wherever we find 'em. 
 The second time they don't get off with a fine. They 
 get sent up. The idea now is to run 'em out of 
 town." 
 
 "Isn't dispossession under those circumstances illegal ?" 
 inquired Macy. 
 
 "Sure it is; but what are the girls to do about it?" 
 
 22
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 The old Chief turned and looked at the young man. 
 "These girls haven't got any rights in court. None of 
 'em dare make a fight. The landlords don't kick ; you'd 
 be surprised if you knew who some of 'em were. The 
 whole thing's one-sided ; the girls haven't got a chance. 
 They make the best of it by scattering or going to an- 
 other town." 
 
 "You'll see how it is to-night," Bellamy put in to 
 Macy. "There'll be men stationed at every exit so none 
 of the girls can escape. Then a squad will enter the 
 house, drag the inmates out, pack them in the wagons 
 while the crowd gathers. The Madam may protest, but 
 that's all the good it'll do her." 
 
 "Sounds like great sport," commented Macy, trying 
 with great difficulty to light a cigarette against the 
 wind. 
 
 Bellamy looked at his friend sharply, and a slight 
 frown darkened his forehead. Something in the other's 
 tone displeased him. 
 
 "Yes, it will be sport," he commented dryly. "But it 
 will be the saddest, crudest sport you've ever looked on 
 at. Here are these girls, without money, thrown o.ut into 
 the streets and hounded out of town. They haven't a 
 friend in the world ; everybody is their enemy. Even 
 the men and saloonkeepers who make a living off of them 
 use every trick they know to swindle them. Talk 
 about your Roman circuses and your Neronian orgies ! 
 Believe me, Arnold, this new form of sport isn't lacking 
 in racy cruelty. I'll grant we would be better off with- 
 out these girls, but it seems to me there ought to be a 
 less heartless way out of it. Somehow I can't get my 
 mind in the attitude to see the justice of it all." 
 
 The machine was drawing near to the railway station 
 
 23
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 at not too high a speed to attract attention. They were 
 already in a poor and sordid part of the city. The 
 houses were old and ramshackle, and the streets were 
 ill-kempt and rough. Turning by the station, they went 
 north into Bridge Street. There were several factories 
 ahead of them, and in between there stood several old 
 residences which, even in their present squalid surround- 
 ings, attested to a bygone splendour. The shades of these 
 houses were all drawn. Here and there could be dis- 
 cerned tiny cracks of orange light where the shades had 
 blown away from the windows. The entrances to the 
 houses were dark and inhospitable save for a tiny red 
 light which hung immediately above the number. On 
 nearly every corner of Bridge Street was a noisy, garish 
 saloon. 
 
 "We'll wait here a minute until the rest of the boys 
 come up." The old Chief spoke quietly and glanced at his 
 watch. "Dumond's joint is the brick house just the 
 other side of the gas jet." He pointed down the street 
 to an old four-story dwelling house, about midway of 
 the block. 
 
 Hardly had the words left his mouth when another 
 machine drove up. In it were several plainclothes men, 
 a sergeant in uniform and two patrolmen. 
 
 The sergeant jumped out and came to the Chief. 
 
 "The wagons are round the corner," he said in a 
 guarded tone, saluting. "I told the boys to wait for 
 the whistle." 
 
 "All right, O'Connor," said his superior officer. "How 
 about Gleason ? Is he on the job as usual ?" 
 
 "Sure he is," laughed the sergeant. "You couldn't 
 keep him away with a team of mules. That must be 
 him and a couple of his henchmen down there in the 
 24
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 doorway." He pointed to the factory opposite the gas 
 jet, where three figures were standing in the shadow. 
 An empty taxicab waited nearby. 
 
 "Well, don't get him sore," the Chief admonished, 
 with irritation, and there was in his voice a sign of sup- 
 pressed antagonism for the man of whom he was speak- 
 ing. "If he doesn't get all the credit for this to-night, he 
 will raise the devil with the police and we will have more 
 trouble than we've got now. . . . Send three of your 
 men up the alley to cover the fire-escapes. Take three 
 of 'em and come with me. We'll tackle the front." 
 
 A hurrying taxicab drew up suddenly and three young 
 men jumped out. They were joined by two other young 
 men with cameras. 
 
 "We're just in time for the first act," said one of them, 
 laughingly. Then he caught sight of Bellamy and greeted 
 him pleasantly. They were police reporters and photog- 
 raphers from the other papers. 
 
 "This town is a regular one-ring circus," remarked 
 the old Chief gruffly, as he gave a signal to the chauffeur. 
 
 As the machine stopped suddenly in front of Blanche 
 Dumond's house, the three figures who had been waiting 
 in the doorway opposite came across. One was Gleason. 
 With him were the Reverend Birmingham Smollet and 
 Judge Amos Bascomb, both leaders and co-workers in 
 the campaign. 
 
 "Howdy, Chief!" exclaimed Gleason, slapping the old 
 man on the shoulder. "No fouls to-night, now ! A safe 
 infield hit'll slam us on third. Then it'll be a cinch to 
 steal home." 
 
 The sombre old Chief of Police nodded without reply- 
 ing, and with his men walked quietly up the stone stairs 
 of Madam Dumond's. He knocked on the door loudly, 
 
 25
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 and one of the panels swung back, making a rectangle of 
 yellow on the deep grey of the house. 
 
 "Open up, Blanche," came the Chief's voice, grave and 
 peremptory. "I'm sorry, but it's got to be done. And 
 there's no chance for any getaways. Come, open up like 
 a good girl and save us the trouble of breaking in." 
 
 As the door was thrown open, the sergeant blew a 
 shrill call on his whistle. There was a sound of hurry- 
 ing horses and revolving wheels at both corners of the 
 street. The Chief and the men had scarcely entered the 
 house when three patrol wagons were backed into place. 
 
 "You, McCurdy and Elliott, look upstairs," ordered 
 the Chief. 
 
 He himself with one of the men turned into the room 
 at one side of the hall, while the sergeant and two other 
 men took the opposite door. 
 
 Blanche Dumond had not spoken a word. She still 
 stood with her hand on the door-knob, looking on at 
 the drama with an expression of dignified and almost 
 philosophical amusement. There was no surprise in her 
 expression. She was a tall, graceful woman and showed 
 no outward signs of her profession save in her eyes, 
 which were cold and penetrating. There was even a 
 refinement in her manner and bearing. As the scantily 
 attired girls, one after another, were roughly thrown 
 through the door and shoved into the yawning wagons, 
 she gave them a smile of calm assurance, as if she was 
 sorry for their fate and wished to promise, without 
 words, that she would do all she could for them. 
 
 Scarcely had the wagons appeared in front of the house 
 
 when a crowd began to gather. It was only a little after 
 
 midnight and the nearby saloons had been well filled by 
 
 the motley hangers-on of the Tenderloin. All of them 
 
 26
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 had poured out at the first signal, and now stood about 
 the wagons looking on with morbid curiosity. There 
 were women too in the gathering denizens of the all- 
 night cafes. Their faces were serious and fearful, as if 
 they sensed in the event before them a presage of their 
 own fate. The men, for the most part, however, were 
 jocular. There was noisy laughter among them, hoot- 
 ing, cat-calls and jeers. As they recognised certain of 
 the women who were being arrested they greeted them 
 good-naturedly, calling them by name and commenting 
 facetiously on their tragedy. A man now and then sig- 
 nalled seriously to one of the girls, making pantomime 
 gestures indicative of his intention to help her later. 
 Several of the older men political bosses in their little 
 circles commented sarcastically on the moralists who 
 had instigated the proceedings. 
 
 The girls themselves were, as a whole, silent. They 
 accepted their fate stolidly as something not altogether 
 unexpected. They were used to being brow-beaten by 
 society; no cruelty from the world of respectability 
 would have astonished them. So long had they been 
 told through the papers that they were outcasts that they 
 had come to believe it themselves ; and, as outcasts, they 
 knew they could expect no consideration or quarter. 
 Their shame, too, had disappeared. They did not shrink 
 from the glances of the curious bystanders: they were 
 public in every sense of the word. One or two of them 
 protested at the manner in which they were handled ; but 
 they knew their protestations were futile, and there was 
 a brazen sense of comedy beneath their words. They 
 were acquainted with most of the officers personally and 
 called them by their first names when addressing them. 
 
 Gleason, the Reverend Smollet and Judge Bascomb
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 stood together, looking on intently, passing indistinguish- 
 able remarks to one another. They seemed well pleased 
 with what was taking place, and occasionally Gleason 
 would smile with satisfaction as an officer forestalled 
 the attempt of a girl to wrench herself free from her 
 captor's hold. 
 
 In the yard at the foot of the steps the newspaper 
 men were grouped* If they saw any humour in the hap- 
 penings before them there was no indication of it on 
 their faces. None of them had spoken ; one or two made 
 hurried notes on a piece of folded copy-paper. An occa- 
 sional flash of illumination told that the newspaper pho- 
 tographers were not idle, although no one paid the 
 slightest attention as the flash-lights were taken. The 
 police were used to it, and the girls did not care. 
 
 The last girl to be taken from the house struggled 
 furiously. There was an officer on either side of her, 
 and she hung between them with her legs drawn up so 
 that it was with difficulty that she was carried along. 
 Her language was violent the heated expression of 
 her anger. 
 
 "Thought you'd hide from us, did you, Mabel?" one 
 of the officers was saying with a kind of triumphant 
 amusement 
 
 The girl ignored his taunt and began screaming and 
 struggling anew. 
 
 Her blasphemies were drowned by the jeers of the 
 crowd. 
 
 "Say, you!" roared the old Chief. "Shut up!" 
 
 "Shut up?" cried the girl. "I've only just begun. . . . 
 I thought you and Billy was my friends. Well, I'm not 
 through with you yet. I've got a few things to tell when 
 I get a chance." 
 28
 
 The Hunting of the Woman 
 
 "Don't take it so hard, girlie," Blanche Dumond said 
 to her serenely, as the other was being dragged across 
 the porch. 
 
 "You're a swell madam, you are !" the girl flung back 
 at her angrily. "Not having enough pull with the police 
 to be tipped off! Huh!" 
 
 Blanche Dumond looked at her sadly and said nothing. 
 
 "Come on, you little devil !" snarled one of the officers. 
 
 The girl had managed to get hold of the porch railing 
 and clung to it desperately. She was roughly jerked free, 
 and again she burst forth in a wild paroxysm of threats. 
 
 The crowd now was laughing, yelling and whistling in 
 derision, like the excited spectators at a prize fight. Bel- 
 lamy and Macy were standing very close to her. They 
 could see her distinctly by the light of the gas jet, and 
 could hear her words. She was a pretty girl and did not 
 look over seventeen years old. Her features were pretty 
 but heavy, dark-tinted with olive, and her cheeks were 
 red enough without the use of rouge. She resembled the 
 women of Spain or Southern Italy. Her hair was long 
 and black and hung down her back in disarray. Her 
 eyes were unusually large. 
 
 As she pulled herself around to hurl a final sneer at 
 Blanche Dumond, she caught sight of Gleason looking at 
 her complacently. Suddenly she drew herself up and 
 narrowed her eyes. 
 
 "So, there you are, you hypocrite!" she screamed, 
 shaking her fist at him. "You're to blame for this. But 
 you wait; I'll fix you and I'll fix you right, you four- 
 flusher, you beast! . . . Nobody was troubling you 
 and I'll get even with you, remember that! . . . My 
 name's Mabel Mordaunt, and don't you forget it. ... I 
 
 know your kind. You just wait, you " 
 
 29
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The officers lifted her up bodily and forced her into 
 the wagon, where she broke down and cried hysterically. 
 
 Blanche Dumond was put into the wagon next to her. 
 She was quiet, even a little proud, and something in 
 her manner made the officer release her arm as she 
 stepped firmly to her seat. She was still calm and com- 
 posed. Both Bellamy and Macy saw her put her arm 
 around the weeping girl's shoulder and speak comfort- 
 ingly. Then the two young men turned again into the 
 house. 
 
 The lights were being put out. The Chief himself was 
 the last to leave. He closed the doors personally and 
 ordered one of his men to nail on an emergency lock. 
 Then he turned with a slight shrug of the shoulders and 
 waved his arm to the drivers to be off. 
 
 Gleason rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. 
 
 "Are you sure you nabbed them all, Chief?" he asked 
 with satisfied jocularity. "None of 'em hidin' in ward- 
 robes?" 
 
 "I think we got 'em all, Mr. Gleason," the old man 
 replied with dignity. 
 
 "And have you got all the men?" 
 
 The Chief merely nodded as he stepped down the 
 stairs and gave his orders to his men. 
 
 The crowd dispersed, muttering and commenting inco- 
 herently. The windows along the streets were slammed 
 down. The newspaper men jumped into their machines 
 and drove quickly away. 
 
 "Hurry me back to the ofHce, will you, Chief ?" asked 
 Bellamy. "I've got to write a lurid account of this es- 
 capade of Gleason's." 
 
 The old man merely grunted as he mounted his car 
 and told the driyer to hurry to the Star office. 
 30
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE UPRIGHT MAN 
 
 THE following evening Elijah Bradshaw sat in his 
 study working upon a statement for the news- 
 papers. He was a large, severe man, typical of the 
 American captain of industry. His hair was slightly grey 
 and his features were straight and implacable. He was 
 smoothshaven and had quiet, dominating eyes, a strong, 
 powerfully built nose, a firm, broad mouth, and a square, 
 protruding chin. His face was rugged and creased. 
 Worry and hard work had given it an impervious char- 
 acter. It was by no means a vicious face and there 
 were undeniable marks of good breeding in it. His eyes 
 and mouth were slightly cruel, like those of a man who 
 had fought hard and had put self-preservation above all 
 else. 
 
 In his office and in his home he ruled with an iron 
 hand. His opinions had all been formed, and he would 
 not listen to argument. He was proud, and with his in- 
 feriors a little overbearing; but he had qualities which 
 commanded respect and admiration. He dressed well 
 but never foppishly. His parents had been poor, but they 
 had possessed a degree of culture, and though Elijah 
 Bradshaw had built his own fortune through hard work 
 and competition, he had lost little of his inherent refine- 
 ment and suavity. 
 
 His ideal was success, and he had no patience with 
 
 31
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 men who failed. He lived by a strict moral code which 
 he enforced among his employes and in his home. In 
 his religion he was orthodox, just as he was in his busi- 
 ness. He had never deliberately done a dishonest act, 
 not, perhaps, because of any innate scrupulousness, but 
 because he had always been taught that honesty was the 
 best policy. This teaching had become a belief with him 
 and finally a conviction. 
 
 Morally he was not abnormal. In his youth he had 
 sown his wild oats, but since his marriage (which took 
 place in his late twenties) he had not deviated from the 
 world's ethical and moral standards. He hated sin both 
 in the abstract and in the individual, for it spelled to 
 him a weakness which he could not tolerate. To him it 
 was synonymous with inefficiency and therefore not to 
 be condoned any more than he would condone commer- 
 cial inefficiency. 
 
 His position in the life of Edenburg was an established 
 one. He was envied and looked up to. His name on 
 any public enterprise was a guarantee that the enterprise 
 would be accepted respectfully ; and when a dominating 
 personality was needed to head the Citizens' Committee 
 in their investigations of the local vice conditions, there 
 was no other man but Elijah Bradshaw whose name 
 would have carried with it such weight and dignity. 
 Furthermore, he was personally in sympathy with the 
 aims of the Committee. He was a religious man and not 
 only attended church regularly himself but demanded the 
 same from all members of his family. 
 
 His wife was a quiet, sweet, competent woman, ad- 
 mired and loved by all who knew her. She was fifty- 
 five, Bradshaw's junior by five years. She had been 
 poor when he married her, and she loved him with an 
 32
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 all-embracing affection. She had taken part in her hus- 
 band's early struggles, had followed him sympathetically 
 in every advance, had helped him and worked for him. 
 She was his best ally, and over and beyond her love she 
 was also his most enthusiastic admirer. She was prac- 
 tical and sane in all things, tender and loving, and her 
 participation in the local charities was animated by a 
 genuine desire to help those who were in need. 
 
 Although in later years her husband had become 
 wealthy Martha Bradshaw had never become a social 
 climber in any sense of the word. She received into her 
 home the best element in Edenburg, and her presence was 
 sought after by those who made social activities their one 
 aim in life. But under all circumstances she was the 
 same simple, genuine, spontaneous, unaffected. She 
 preferred, as she had always done, her own home and 
 its responsibilities to the usual social diversions of the 
 other women with whom she associated. She had no 
 great animating interest in life aside from her husband 
 and the two children whom she had reared tenderly and 
 affectionately. She was a comely woman with sensitive 
 features and a pleasing and unstudied manner. Judged 
 by modern standards, she was a trifle old-fashioned. 
 
 Her son and her daughter were now grown. Elizabeth 
 was eighteen; Paul was twenty-four; but the motherly 
 instinct in Martha Bradshaw had never diminished. 
 Elizabeth and Paul were still children to her, and she 
 looked after them with the intimate care she had always 
 given them. For this reason, perhaps, both of them were 
 somewhat spoiled. Paul had just graduated from a local 
 university, and through his father's influence had been 
 given a responsible position in a large local bank. He 
 dressed stylishly and carried himself in a manner which 
 
 33
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 suggested a proud, well-schooled and worldly-wise youth. 
 He had imbibed many of the newer ideas, and there was 
 a continual temperamental clash between him and his 
 father. There was a streak of wildness in his nature, 
 and back of it was the confidence of his position. 
 
 Elizabeth was a beautiful girl. She attracted the 
 attention of all with whom she tame in contact and was 
 universally popular in the younger set. She had inherited 
 from her mother traits of tenderness and compassion as 
 well as a simple sweetness and faith which she always 
 retained even when under the influence of the frivolous 
 young people to whom she had taken a liking ever since 
 her graduation from an exclusive Edenburg boarding- 
 school. 
 
 These four constituted the Bradshaw household. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw spent his money freely on his family, 
 buying for them the best that could be had and taking a 
 pride in his expenditures. In the matter of personal 
 bank accounts he was strict. His son had a good posi- 
 tion, and he believed that outside of the home the young 
 man should live within his means and should make his 
 own fortune or fail according to his abilities. 
 
 In his recent activities Bradshaw had been influenced 
 largely by a desire to protect his children. In his son 
 he had absolute confidence, and in his daughter also ; but 
 he believed that, were all evil influences removed, it 
 would be better for both of them. He had often said 
 to his business associates : "The cleaner the town, the 
 cleaner its people." And when he had applied this maxim 
 to his own immediate family circle, it had taken on a 
 new meaning and had inspired him with a desire to elim- 
 inate every vicious commodity which might at some time 
 or other react upon his children. 
 34
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 Following out this same desire, he had always been 
 unusually strict with them. He allowed his daughter but 
 few liberties, attempting to mould her into the pattern 
 of his wife. His ambition was that some day his son 
 Paul would step into his own place ; and when he should 
 be too old to carry on the battle, he hoped the young man 
 would shoulder the burden of responsibility. He made 
 no allowances for the social changes which had swept 
 over the world since he was young. In all his dealings 
 with his children he had unconsciously patterned his 
 actions on those of his own father. 
 
 As he sat at his desk the night after the raid on 
 Blanche Dumond's house, preparing a statement, he was 
 unconsciously doing what he thought best for his own 
 flesh and blood. After a half hour's work he glanced at 
 the clock and rang for the butler. 
 
 "Otto," he said, when the man entered, "I am expect- 
 ing the Reverend Smollet and Mr. Gleason to-night. 
 When they come, please show them in to me at once." 
 
 He then resumed his work. 
 
 A half hour later the Reverend Mr. Smollet was an- 
 nounced. He walked in confidently and extended his 
 hand with effusive friendliness. He was a man in the 
 neighbourhood of forty-five, the pastor of Bradshaw's 
 church and the most influential minister of the Gospel in 
 Edenburg. He belonged to the new school of ministers, 
 was alert, fearless, frank, outspoken and, from the con- 
 ventional point of view, broad-minded. There was about 
 him an air of prosperity. He was, in fact, subsidised 
 by his wealthy parishioners and had the largest and 
 costliest church in the city. His sermons were always on 
 modern themes, and even in the pulpit he dressed 
 smartly, so that he looked more like a well-groomed 
 
 35
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 businessman than an orthodox clergyman. He had a 
 frank, insinuating manner which was calculated to im- 
 press the casual person with a sense of unalterable con- 
 fidence and genuine sincerity. 
 
 "I'm sorry I'm late, Bradshaw," he said, sitting down. 
 "Gleason will be with us in a few minutes. We ran 
 into a lot of reporters up the street, and they held him 
 up. The man's personality is simply astonishing. It was 
 a master idea of yours to get him for Edenburg. If he 
 cannot crown our campaign with success the case is 
 indeed hopeless. His methods may be questionable, but 
 after all it is results which count. Don't you think so?" 
 
 "If a man's methods are honest," Bradshaw answered 
 a little sententiously, "we can well overlook his manner- 
 isms. ... I saw by the papers that another nail was 
 driven into the coffin of the Tenderloin last night." 
 
 Smollet beamed. "More than a nail," he said pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 "In fact, a bolt was put on literally and figuratively. 
 The raid went through in short order. Gleason and I 
 and the Judge were there and marvelled at the smooth- 
 ness with which the business was carried through. As I 
 said to Gleason: 'It's not that we haven't a capable 
 police force; it's the moral apathy of the public.' In 
 twenty minutes one of the most notorious and disgraceful 
 houses in the city was emptied and locked up. And there 
 wasn't a hitch no trouble. It was accomplished quietly 
 and with despatch. Only one of the girls tried to make 
 a scene a little girl; looked like a foreigner. You 
 should have heard her threaten and scream. She actually 
 shook her fist at Gleason ; told him he must never forget 
 her name; said it was Mabel Mordaunt and that he 
 would hear from her again." Smollet laughed quietly. 
 36
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 "Such things are to be expected, of course. . . . And by 
 the way, that was a first-rate story young Bellamy wrote 
 for the Star this morning. He told me you were pre- 
 paring a statement for that paper. How goes it?" 
 
 Bradshaw gathered up from his desk some loose pieces 
 of paper on which was a great deal of writing. 
 
 "It's to be a kind of resume," he said. "The papers 
 seem to think that I should give them a personally signed 
 statement. Perhaps, after all, it is a good idea. Gleason 
 isn't one of our citizens, you know, and maybe it would 
 have more weight coming from me. Just a minute ago 
 the Star 'phoned me, asking if I would hurry it up for 
 them. However, I think I'll hold it up a few days until 
 we are further along in the campaign. This isn't quite 
 the psychological moment. What do you think of 
 it?" 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," Smollet agreed. "Our work 
 is only well begun. We may need it later as a kind of 
 wedge to pry up some of the indifference in certain quar- 
 ters. You are making it strong?" 
 
 Bradshaw smiled confidently and glanced down at the 
 pages in his hand. 
 
 "You may rest assured of that, my dear Smollet. This 
 is no time for half measures. I feel that the thing must 
 be done now or never. I am preparing the statement as 
 a kind of final blow at segregated vice in this city, and I 
 realise that it must come straight from the shoulder. 
 There are too many factions working against us. Do you 
 know, Smollet, that I am inclined to believe that the 
 Mayor and the Chief of Police are not as enthusiastic 
 about it as we have a right to expect?" 
 
 "Neither one of them would dare go against us," the 
 other assured him. "Didn't we help put the Mayor in 
 
 37
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 office? He has his eye on the next election, too, I'll 
 warrant. If he antagonises us now it will go hard for 
 him later." He rubbed his hands together almost ec- 
 statically. "What a victory!" he commented, as if to 
 himself. "What a victory !" 
 
 Bradshaw arose and advanced toward the other. 
 
 "Victory, yes ; I think we can almost call it that, even 
 now. But, at that, we mustn't give the Mayor a chance 
 to recant. That's the reason I'm getting this paper ready. 
 The minute I see signs of weakening on his part it will 
 go into every newspaper in the city. After his reading 
 it I doubt if he would have the nerve to go against us. 
 At all events we must clinch the thing. We must apply 
 the 'sleep wallop/ as Gleason would say." 
 
 Both men laughed a little. 
 
 "Splendid!" exclaimed Smollet, beaming. "I've al- 
 ways held that all the church needed were up-to-date 
 business methods." 
 
 Bradshaw sat down again at his desk and arranged 
 the papers before him. "Would you like to hear some 
 of what I have written? The report will be brief 
 comparatively brief, that is but to the point." 
 
 "By all means," replied Smollet enthusiastically, 
 drawing up his chair. "Let me hear what you have 
 written." 
 
 Bradshaw began reading. " 'To the people of Eden- 
 burg: As Chairman of the Citizens' Committee, I de- 
 sire now to congratulate the members of this community 
 on the great victories which they have won and are win- 
 ning over the powers of Satan. The final and inevitable 
 elimination of the segregated vice district, which, from 
 every indication, will be but a matter of a short time, 
 will crown with success the crusade which we have 
 38
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 waged for weeks prayerfully and, with God's help, po- 
 tently. Already the doors have been closed on many of 
 the dens of depravity which have so long corrupted our 
 city; and it is safe to predict at this time that within 
 the next fortnight all of these dens will be driven out 
 of business and that their shameless inmates will no 
 longer menace the youth of our city. . . .' " 
 
 "And you are right," interrupted Smollet heartily. "It 
 will be in even less than a fortnight though, or I greatly 
 err in my estimation of Gleason's ability." 
 
 "So much the better then," Bradshaw answered. "But 
 it would not do to be too sanguine. I have endeavoured 
 throughout this statement to be at least conservative. 
 Here, however, is a passage which I think will forestall 
 any backsliding on the Mayor's part. Listen : 'As head 
 of this Committee I have been subjected to much criticism 
 by sentimentalists who profess to believe that these 
 women have certain rights, that they should be coddled 
 and pampered and paraded as martyrs. I am 
 disturbed by no such convictions. When a leper 
 comes into our midst the law does not inquire how he 
 came to be a leper, but it says : "Banish him instantly." 
 So say I of moral lepers. I believe in giving sin 
 no quarter, in holding no parley with evil-doers. A 
 clean sweep of the Tenderloin has been my goal in this 
 fight, and I praise God that we are on the eve of victory. 
 Too often have we been told that such a campaign as 
 ours was impracticable, that it was impossible to suppress 
 the viciousness which has been flourishing ; but that state- 
 ment is no more than a superstition, as has already been 
 proved by the fact that a good portion of the Tenderloin 
 is already closed and deserted. When the inmates of 
 these houses begin to realise that their position here is 
 
 39
 
 Eternal Magdalene 
 
 dangerous and that they will be shown no consideration 
 and are unable to demand protection from the police, 
 they will go elsewhere, and those of them who brazenly 
 remain, hoping for leniency, will be forcibly ejected. 
 That has already been the case in several instances. I 
 seriously doubt if there are a dozen men or women in 
 the entire community who, in his or her heart, at least, 
 is not in sympathy with our great and purifying work. 
 The dissenters are, almost without exception, from that 
 class of people who, either for personal or business 
 reasons, profit by the presence of these women. But they 
 are no better than the women themselves.' " 
 
 Bradshaw looked up in time to receive a nod of appro- 
 bation from the Reverend Smollet. 
 
 "You see," he explained, "I am, in a way, putting the 
 people of this city on their honour. You might say I am 
 classifying them. But I am not even leaving it at that. 
 I shall take no chances with the political ring at the 
 Court House. I make a direct appeal to the Mayor." 
 He cast his eyes again to the loose papers in his hand 
 and began to read : " 'I take this occasion to thank the 
 Mayor and members of the Committee who, to a man, 
 have given and are giving their best efforts to this cause, 
 and to all others who, by their encouragement and pray- 
 ers, have assisted us in our fight !" 
 
 "Excellent !" Smollet smiled reassuringly. "But what 
 did you say of Gleason?" 
 
 "This," said the other, reading: "'But most of all I 
 wish to thank the Reverend James Gleason, the great 
 evangelist whose inspiring words have awakened this 
 city to a realisation of its sinfulness, and whose fearless 
 actions have gone so far toward a practical consumma- 
 tion of the desires of every decent-minded citizen. With- 
 40
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 out the Reverend Gleason no such crusade as ours could 
 be triumphantly accomplished.' " 
 
 Bradshaw laid the papers to one side. 
 
 Smollet said nothing for a moment. It was obvious 
 that something had displeased him. 
 
 Bradshaw looked at him closely and asked, "What did 
 you think of it?" 
 
 The other merely inquired in return : "Is that all of 
 your statement?" 
 
 A shrewd smile spread over Bradshaw's face. He un- 
 derstood Smollet's disquietude. 
 
 "No, no, of course not," he said. "What I read you 
 is a mere beginning. As I go along I shall review every 
 phase of the movement from its inception; and rest as- 
 sured, my dear sir, that I shall see you get full credit 
 for your part in it." 
 
 Smollet pretended not to be affected by that for which 
 he had been listening all along. 
 
 "I have really done nothing worth speaking of," he 
 said carelessly. 
 
 "Ah ! but you have !" Bradshaw insisted. "My friend, 
 you are the real pioneer. That series of sermons you 
 preached last year set the ball rolling." 
 
 "I beg of you !" protested the other. 
 
 "And surely you have not forgotten your New Year's 
 Eve grillroom expeditions your expose of the dance 
 halls, the poolroom, the theatres. . . ." 
 
 "My dear Bradshaw !" Smollet held up his hand depre- 
 catingly. 
 
 "Those sermons were the sparks that set off this town's 
 moral magazine." 
 
 The minister brightened and sat up a trifle straighter 
 in his chair. 
 
 41
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "I'm overjoyed to know that you think so," he said, 
 with an attempt at modesty. "But you, Bradshaw 
 without you and your great generosity and influence if 
 all would have been impossible. Even in my little ex- 
 peditions, as you call them, I attained no final results. 
 In a month things were as bad as they ever were. I 
 didn't have you behind me then." 
 
 "But now we are all together," the other man said 
 confidently. "You, in a measure, furnish the prestige, 
 and aid by your sermons and personal energies. Gleason 
 is the dynamic factor. He is the man at the wheel who 
 assumes the responsibility and steers the ship to safety. 
 All that I have really done is to put up the money. But, 
 after all, that too was necessary. One cannot expect a 
 man like Gleason to work for nothing. But I am wealthy 
 enough and how could any man spend money to better 
 purpose? I don't regret a dollar of it." 
 
 Smollet advanced and shook the other's hand. 
 
 "I know you don't, Bradshaw, and your attitude is 
 anything but commercial. Behind it is a high and noble 
 spirit. This work will be a lasting monument to you, and 
 rightly so." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw had come quietly downstairs and now 
 stood in the doorway looking in upon the two men. 
 During her husband's crusade she herself had taken a 
 hand; that is, she had interested herself in the problem 
 from the women's point of view. With two women 
 friends of hers who were closely associated with her in 
 her charity work, she had gone personally into the slums 
 and the Tenderloin, making inquiries, discussing mat- 
 ters with the women, and doing what she could to alle- 
 viate their conditions. 
 
 For weeks she had worked hard. Whenever she had 
 42
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 found sickness and disease, she had telephoned for her 
 own doctor to come down and give her assistance. Where 
 she had found poverty and want she had contributed 
 judiciously from her own funds. In a feminine way she 
 had studied the environmental conditions of those people 
 whom her husband sought to drive from the city. She 
 had attended the local Missions, and on two occasions 
 had appeared in the night court. Through a lawyer 
 whom she had taken with her she had arranged bail for 
 two of the girls who had been deserted by their pro- 
 tectors. These girls she had cared for afterwards. She 
 had bought them clothes, and through her influence had 
 secured them positions. 
 
 The work in its externals had been distasteful to her. 
 She received from it little satisfaction from the stand- 
 point of the morbid interest which motivated the actions 
 of many of the women who worked among the cast- 
 aways of society. However, she wanted to do good, and 
 her capability and practicality were valuable assets. She 
 was not a strong woman physically, and the work had 
 been tiring, but she had been willing, even eager, to 
 continue it, for she felt that it was for the best, 
 and that she was needed. She avoided publicity as 
 much as possible. She had a genuine distaste for the 
 spectacular and flamboyant accounts in the newspa- 
 pers of the charitable activities of prominent society 
 women. 
 
 Her husband at first had tried to discourage her. He 
 did not believe in her methods. His attitude toward 
 social problems was more rigorous and severe. He was 
 sceptical as to the beneficial results of gentleness in deal- 
 ing with the members of the underworld. But so per- 
 sistent had Mrs. Bradshaw been that he ceased his ob- 
 
 43
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 jections, and went ahead with the campaign in his own 
 manner, leaving his wife to do what good she could 
 according to her vision. 
 
 As she entered the room that night, she was a trifle 
 pale. She had had a busy and trying day, and her health 
 had begun to give way under the strain. She greeted 
 the Reverend Smollet pleasantly, and sat down near her 
 husband. 
 
 "You are going to the Tabernacle, aren't you?" he 
 asked her. 
 
 "Of course," she replied at once, as if there should 
 have been no doubt in his mind concerning it, but her 
 voice was a little tired. 
 
 She turned to the Reverend Smollet. 
 
 "I haven't missed one of the meetings yet. I wish 
 every one in Edenburg could say as much." 
 
 "Well, my record is perfect," the minister replied 
 lightly. "I am on my way there now. I was waiting 
 here for Gleason." 
 
 "I am glad he's coming here, if only for a minute," 
 Mrs. Bradshaw returned quietly. "He hasn't been here 
 for nearly a week. But I suppose he's terribly busy. 
 When my little work takes so much time I can well 
 imagine that he hasn't a minute to spare, with all the 
 big things he's doing. . . . What a wonderful man he 
 is! And tireless, it seems. Somehow I don't see how 
 he stands it." 
 
 Smollet smiled. "Neither does any one else. He's a 
 human dynamo one might almost say a human per- 
 petual-motion machine. But you too are kept busy, 
 Mrs. Bradshaw. In the papers this afternoon I saw 
 that you and some of the other ladies from the church 
 had visited the unfortunate women again to-day. . . . 
 44
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 Tell me, just what do you think of their situation? A 
 woman's point of view is always valuable." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw frowned and looked troubled for a 
 moment. She was thinking of some of her recent ex- 
 periences, and the memory troubled her. 
 
 "I don't know what to make of them," she at length 
 answered slowly. "I am completely upset over the whole 
 matter. Only last night I told Elijah that I couldn't make 
 up my mind whether or not we were doing just the 
 right thing the Christian thing in driving them out." 
 
 She looked inquiringly at the man to whom she was 
 speaking and then turned to her husband. 
 
 Smollet cleared his throat a little, and after a slight 
 hesitation said politely: "Really, your words astonish 
 me, Mrs. Bradshaw. I was under the impression that 
 we were following the only true Christian course in 
 stamping sin out of our midst at any cost. But tell me, 
 what has happened to make you feel like this ?" 
 
 Bradshaw, seeing that his wife was in a quandary, felt 
 called upon to say something. 
 
 "I think," he put in pleasantly, "that perhaps Martha 
 has a touch of that sentimentality I referred to in this." 
 He indicated the pile of papers from which he had 
 recently read excerpts. 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw smiled faintly. 
 
 "Call it what you like," she said, in a tone of tender 
 resignation. "Perhaps it is sentimentality perhaps it 
 is something else. Only I have talked to a great many 
 of these women. . . ." She paused, and then added : 
 "They are all so different from what I had been led to 
 expect." 
 
 "In what way are they different ?" It was Smollet who 
 put the question. 
 
 45
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Well, they are human," explained the woman, "and 
 I had hardly thought of them in that light. You see, we 
 read such terrible things about them in the newspapers, 
 and when I have heard you and my husband speak of 
 them I got the impression that they are not like other 
 women. . . . Do you know, I have met scarcely one of 
 them in my whole experience who is not supporting 
 children, or an old father or mother, or is not taking 
 
 care of sick relatives Oh, I know what you are 
 
 going to say," she continued hurriedly, raising her hand. 
 "You are going to accuse them of telling me untruths 
 for the sake of arousing sympathy. But I did not learn 
 this from the girls themselves. I learned it from the 
 women who ran the places, and I have seen letters some 
 of them have received." She looked quickly at the two 
 men to see how they would receive her remarks. 
 
 Her husband did not reply, and the Reverend Smol- 
 let, feeling her inquiring eyes on him, said in a flat, 
 noncommittal voice: "Well, that may be barely pos- 
 sible." 
 
 The woman then went on: "I talked a long time to 
 one girl, and I know she is not altogether vicious. She 
 was pretty and there was something sweet about her ex- 
 pression. She had brown eyes and the face of a little 
 child. Do you know what she told me ? She said, 'I got 
 into this life rather by degrees, and if I ever get out of 
 it, it will be in the same way.' Of course I could give 
 her no comfort or hope, knowing what Elijah's and Mr. 
 Gleason's plans were. Even to-night she may be locked 
 up in jail with no chance of getting out of her present 
 life by degrees. I offered to help her financially, but 
 she said she couldn't accept any help that it wouldn't do 
 her any good anyway. I think she meant it would be 
 46
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 taken away from her. What she wanted, I believe, was 
 something that wasn't measured by money." 
 
 Neither of the men spoke. Elijah Bradshaw tapped 
 quietly on the desk. It was an indication known to all 
 his business associates that he was irritated and an- 
 noyed. 
 
 "At another house," the woman went on, "we heard of 
 a poor girl who is soon to become a mother. I had 
 never thought of one of those girls as a mother. Some- 
 how the wonder of motherhood seemed so far removed 
 from anything in their sordid lives. We went to the 
 woman in charge of the house and offered to take care 
 of the girl. It was all we could do. But even that was 
 not permitted us. 'No, thank you/ the woman said to 
 us, somewhat coldly. 'Don't let such things as that 
 worry you. The girl will be cared for. The Tenderloin 
 takes care of its own. . . . Even we good people 
 don't always go as far as that.' " 
 
 "They have their own system of ethics, I imagine." 
 It was Elijah Bradshaw who spoke. "Those are minor 
 things a sort of honour among thieves. The whole 
 question goes much deeper than that." 
 
 "I suppose it does." His wife's tone was hopeless. 
 "Everything I've done has seemed so futile. Every- 
 where we went to-day we were treated civilly, but coldly. 
 It was the same story over and over again. They didn't 
 want money ; they didn't want anything that we could do 
 for them in that way. What they seemed to want was 
 human compassion a chance. We could make no head- 
 way. I have a feeling to-night as if our mission had been 
 a failure." 
 
 "It serves you right." Bradshaw's tone, for the first 
 time during the interview, was stern. "I told you not to 
 
 47
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 go prowling around down there. Those people are be- 
 yond help. Their sense of decency is dead. They be- 
 long to the pest-house, and the sooner they are sent there, 
 the better." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw drew herself up as if she resented 
 her husband's words, and when she spoke, her voice had 
 lost its tentativeness. 
 
 "I am not so sure, Elijah," she said, looking straight 
 at him. "My experience to-day has given me a broader 
 vision. I have come to the conclusion that I am no bet- 
 ter than the women of the underworld, only that I have 
 been more fortunate than they in that circumstances have 
 not at any time put me face to face with the necessity of 
 earning my living in their way." Then she cautioned 
 quickly: "Don't misunderstand me nor you either, Dr. 
 Smollet." 
 
 She turned for a moment to the other man and then 
 faced her husband again with a little defiance in her atti- 
 tude. 
 
 "Because I have been spared such an existence it 
 seems to me now that I ought to deal gently with those 
 of my sisters who have not been so fortunate as I. They 
 are human just as I am human, and they should be 
 treated humanely." 
 
 Bradshaw tried to pass the matter off lightly and 
 shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. He refused to 
 take her words with any marked degree of seriousness. 
 
 But Smollet was genuinely shocked. His instinct was 
 to rebuke the woman before him, but that he could not 
 do, so he said merely : "Mrs. Bradshaw, I am surprised 
 to hear you talk this way." 
 
 The woman glanced at him sharply. She was defend- 
 ing a cause which she believed in, and there was a little 
 48
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 excitement in her voice. She arose and turned to the 
 minister. 
 
 "You shouldn't be surprised, Dr. Smollet," she said 
 resolutely, "for what I say is true. With men, perhaps, 
 it is different, but when I look back over my youth I can 
 see now that there were times when, if circumstances 
 had not intervened, I would have made a false step a 
 step that might have led to just the sort of thing I have 
 seen to-day." 
 
 Bradshaw was now on his feet. He smiled broadly 
 at his wife's words, and going to her put his arm around 
 her. 
 
 "Can you imagine such a thing, Smollet?" he asked 
 laughingly. 
 
 The other man caught the tenor of Bradshaw's re- 
 mark and smiled also, shaking his head. 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Bradshaw," he said in mock serious- 
 ness, "if you persist you will have your husband curious 
 as to details." 
 
 As he spoke the bell rang. 
 
 "Hello! that's probably Gleason now," he remarked. 
 "Are you going over with us, Bradshaw ? . . . And you, 
 Mrs. Bradshaw will you be ready to go with us? We 
 will gladly wait for you." 
 
 Outside in the hallway a boisterous, good-natured 
 and confident voice was saying : "Never mind, my man. 
 I know the combination." 
 
 At almost the same moment Jimmy Gleason, the evan- 
 gelist, entered the room briskly, his soft felt hat in his 
 hand. He was a large, athletic-looking man with loose- 
 fitting clothes and a low collar. His hair gave signs of 
 having been combed hurriedly. His features were rough 
 and had about them a certain aggressive power. He 
 
 49
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 came of a different class of society from that of either 
 of the two other men in the room. He possessed none 
 of the quietness and dignity which characterises the man 
 of cultural training. He might have been a successful 
 contractor, an overseer of workingmen, or a foreman in 
 a factory where heavy and difficult work was done. 
 
 "Hello, everybody!" he called swaggeringly, as he 
 entered. "Howdy, Mrs. Bradshaw. . . . Ready, Smol- 
 let? We're 'way behind the schedule. Couldn't shake 
 those newspaper guys off. They're a pest. Some day 
 I'll clean them up too. But say! You should see the 
 crowd righting to get into the show to-night. It'll be 
 the biggest camp-meeting yet. That raid last night got 
 'em all stirred up. To-night there'll be another big blow- 
 off. We'll ring the curfew on our scarlet sisters before 
 they have time to comb their hair." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw, with a pleasant nod, left the room 
 quietly to put on her coat and hat. 
 
 When she had gone Smollet said to Gleason: "You 
 should have been here five minutes ago and heard a re- 
 port on the human side of these women." 
 
 "Heard 'em all my life," Gleason replied impatiently. 
 "Platitudes never yet cleaned up a town. Bradshaw 
 knows that. Didn't he try it for three weeks before I 
 went to bat here?" 
 
 "By the way, Gleason," Bradshaw answered, "the 
 Star wants a statement from me 
 
 "Give it to 'em, give it to 'em!" The evangelist 
 laughed and waved his arms. "And put plenty of shrap- 
 nel and nitro-glycerine in it. Every little bit helps." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw re-entered the room. 
 
 "I'm ready, gentlemen," she announced. 
 
 "Where's Paul and Elizabeth?" Bradshaw asked. 
 SO
 
 The Upright Man 
 
 "They'll leave for the Tabernacle in five minutes," the 
 mother said. "Elizabeth is going to wear a new dress 
 to-night, and it's taking her longer than usual to get it 
 ready. I told Paul to wait for her. They'll join us 
 presently." 
 
 "Well, then, we're off, friends !" sang out Gleason 
 jovially, putting on his hat. 
 
 The four walked out into the cold October night.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 YOUNG LOVE AT SPRING 
 
 SCARCELY had they quit the house, when Bellamy 
 came up hurriedly and rang the bell. 
 
 "Otto," he said to the man, "tell Miss Elizabeth I'm 
 here." 
 
 Otto turned and went upstairs, a faint and sagacious 
 smile on his face. 
 
 Bellamy walked into the living room and looked out of 
 the window guardedly at the retreating figures. He had 
 met Elizabeth Bradshaw four years before. She was 
 then only a little girl in short dresses and with curls 
 hanging down her back. Her prettiness had attracted 
 him ; and on many occasions, because of his intimacy with 
 Paul, her brother, he had been thrown in contact with 
 her. He had treated her like a big brother, had helped 
 her sometimes with her school tasks, and had held her 
 spell-bound with stories of adventure connected with his 
 newspaper work. She had liked him genuinely from the 
 first. 
 
 When she was older Bellamy would sometimes come 
 to the boarding-school in the afternoons and walk home 
 with her. For many reasons he never spoke of love to 
 her. First, she was too young. Again, she had never 
 given any indication that she considered him other than 
 a jovial companion, and he was afraid of spoiling the 
 friendship which, more and more as the months went by, 
 52
 
 Young Love at Spring 
 
 became an integral and important part of his life. He 
 hesitated also because of her position and that of her 
 father. 
 
 Like most young newspaper men he was poor, even to 
 the point of finding it difficult to live within his income. 
 He had nothing to offer her but himself, and he was not 
 at all sure that she desired him. And again, the fact that 
 she was the daughter of a very wealthy man brought to 
 the fore in him a sense of chivalry which made him hesi- 
 tate in taking the initiative in so unequal an alliance. 
 But a deeper reason than all these held him to the pres- 
 ent course of his platonic relations with the girl he did 
 not know whether he himself truly loved her or not. 
 She fascinated him, and her beauty appealed to him. 
 Her sweetness and tenderness, too, affected him deeply. 
 She was such a child ; there was so little of the woman 
 in her that he often wondered whether his infatuation 
 was not, after all, superficial. 
 
 During the last year, however, all doubts as to the 
 genuineness of his affection vanished. He could not 
 banish the girl's features from his mind. She was con- 
 stantly before him in the office, when he walked the 
 streets, even during his moments of diversion. He 
 dreamed of her constantly. Often his mind would un- 
 consciously go off on a train of thought, and he would 
 catch himself dreaming of their future together, plan- 
 ning splendid and fantastic hours of pleasure with her 
 as his sole companion. 
 
 He called as often as he dared at the Bradshaw home. 
 Sometimes he was able to be with the girl alone, but it 
 was only for brief intervals. There was always some one 
 else nearby, and he was unable to tell her what was in 
 his heart, even if he were sure that he wanted to. Al- 
 
 53
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 ready a feeling of protection and loyalty had grown up 
 in him. Although he did not admit it to himself, he 
 knew that the day would come, as inevitably as death, 
 when he would go to her and pour out all the pent-up 
 emotions which she had aroused in him. 
 
 One day, on an excursion down the river In which a 
 number of the young people participated, he was left 
 alone with her. Together they had walked along the 
 green and mossy shore until the others had been left be- 
 hind. When they had come to an old white bridge below 
 the city, where the water was deep and calm, they had 
 stepped out on it and leaned over the railing, watching 
 their reflections in the water. She had woven for him a 
 wreath of wild flowers, and some of the petals had fallen 
 into the water and floated silently away. As they stood 
 watching, a silence had crept between them, and some 
 subtle impulse had drawn him to her. He felt the warm 
 touch of her body against his, and he had looked up at 
 her face suddenly, as if she had been some wild creature 
 who had just appeared to him out of the purple fast- 
 nesses of the cool wood. 
 
 The sunlight fell upon her hair, which was a mixture 
 of gold and bronze. Her large leghorn hat hung about 
 her shoulders, held by a black satin ribbon. A serious- 
 ness, which he had never noted before, had come into 
 her expression. Though apparently she was looking 
 down at the surface of the river, her eyes seemed to see 
 things which were far beyond her range of vision. The 
 air was still with the lassitude of mid-summer. A slight 
 haze of heat hung about the tops of the surrounding hills. 
 From the distance came the perpetual murmur of the 
 city, and the inarticulate talk and laughter of the other 
 members of the party. Overhead in the tall trees an 
 54
 
 Young Love at Spring 
 
 occasional bird would start singing, but would suddenly 
 become silent as if it were unable to combat the lethargy 
 of the season. 
 
 Bellamy had taken the girl's hand in his, where she let 
 it rest passively without so much as looking at him or 
 making a movement to indicate that she had been aware 
 of his action. At that moment he knew that his whole 
 life had been but a prelude to the possession of the girl 
 at his side. All that was best in him came to the surface. 
 But although many w r ords of endearment crowded to his 
 lips, he was caught in the mesmerism of the silence about 
 him and uttered no sound. 
 
 As they stood close to each other, held in the silent 
 spell of young love, a squirrel leapt from a branch of a 
 tree overhanging the bridge and ran along the railing 
 toward them. The girl moved quickly and laughed joy- 
 ously. Her hand was withdrawn. The mood was bro- 
 ken ; and they began to chatter of impersonal things. 
 
 From that day forward, although no direct word of 
 love had passed from one to the other, an unspoken 
 understanding had grown up between them. They had 
 always called each other by their first names that is, 
 Bellamy called her Bess, after the manner of the mem- 
 bers of her family; and she had always called him what 
 her brother called him Jack. But even into this familiar- 
 ity, which had heretofore carried with it no significance, 
 a new meaning had entered. When Bellamy brought her 
 flowers, or did little favours for her, there was an added 
 intimacy and tenderness in his actions. And when she 
 thanked him she would look at him with eyes into which 
 had crept a new point of view. 
 
 Thus, with no word or action indicative of their pas- 
 sion, they had in their hearts drawn close and closer to 
 
 55
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 each other. Bellamy was able to understand the psycho- 
 logical development of the situation, but the girl had not 
 questioned the atmosphere which surrounded their rela- 
 tionship. The thought of love had not presented itself 
 to her. Due to the strictness with which she was guarded 
 by her father, the younger men of Edenburg had never 
 been able to carry on a flirtation with her. She knew, 
 however, that she liked Bellamy, that she felt happy and 
 secure when he was near her, that when he touched her 
 she experienced a new kind of thrill. At the private 
 dances which the young people of the city gave, and 
 which she was sometimes permitted to attend, she ac- 
 cepted without self-inquiry the fact that she preferred 
 to dance with Bellamy. 
 
 She never analysed her emotions. She accepted them 
 as a desirable addenda to her girlhood. Therefore, in 
 her desire to see Bellamy as often as she could, she was 
 franker than she would have been had she known of the 
 great current of sex which ran beneath her desires. 
 Often she would call up Bellamy by telephone on nights 
 when her father was to be away, and ask him to call. 
 The presence or absence of Elijah Bradshaw had become 
 a joke with them, and without consciousness of disloy- 
 alty she frequently planned to see Bellamy at times when 
 her father could not interfere. Such meetings were not 
 in any sense clandestine, for they were always in her 
 home. At bottom they were sufficiently innocent to 
 lay at rest any qualms which Bellamy might have 
 had, had it occurred to him that he was acting under- 
 handedly. 
 
 For instance, to-night Elizabeth had asked Bellamy to 
 call and go with her to the Tabernacle. She had told 
 him to wait until her mother and father had left, so that 
 56
 
 Young Love at Spring 
 
 she might walk over with him alone and be beside him 
 during the meeting. She had purposely delayed her toilet 
 lest she should be compelled to go with the others. 
 
 Bellamy had fallen in with her scheme without a sense 
 of guilt. In his heart he was loyal to the girl. He would 
 have fought as hard as her father before he would have 
 let any harm come to her. Paul, too, knew of his sister's 
 little deceits, but he liked Bellamy more than any young 
 man he knew, and trusted him implicitly. The brother 
 therefore often assisted good-naturedly with their plans. 
 He sympathised with his sister's lack of freedom, often 
 protesting to his father about it. 
 
 "Things have changed, father," he would say, "since 
 you and mother were young. A girl ought to be allowed 
 to go out and have friends and meet people and not be 
 treated like a nun. Bess is the only girl in Edenburg 
 who is kept in all the time and forbidden to do every- 
 thing she wants to do." 
 
 And Elijah Bradshaw had answered: "Customs may 
 have changed, but what is right never changes. It is 
 proper for a man to have more or less freedom, but I 
 won't have any daughter of mine running around, pick- 
 ing up false ideals and losing all her modesty. . . . Now 
 go on about your business." 
 
 As Bellamy turned from the window, Elizabeth came 
 running down the stairs. 
 
 "Hello, Jack," she called, giving him her hand. "I 
 came pretty near not seeing you to-night. Mother in- 
 sisted that I go with them. . . . Mr. Gleason himself 
 was here." 
 
 "Don't 7 know?" Bellamy laughed back. "I waited 
 ten minutes round the corner till I saw them come out". 
 I thought maybe they were waiting for you and wouldn't 
 
 57
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 leave without you. ... I was awfully glad when I saw 
 they had left you behind." 
 
 "Well, if it hadn't been for this new dress," the girl 
 explained, "I'm afraid mother would have gotten angry 
 and suspected something. . . . How do you like it?" 
 
 She turned gaily around two or three times, stopping 
 now and then to pose like the models she had seen in the 
 fashion shows. 
 
 "Beautiful!" commented Bellamy. "You are beautiful 
 to-night . . . but you would be beautiful in anything." 
 
 "You mustn't talk that way," the girl admonished him. 
 "Not even mother is in the house to-night. Paul is our 
 only chaperon." 
 
 "Well, if that's the case, Bess," Bellamy replied, smil- 
 ing, "I'll just think how beautiful you are and always 
 are, and how wonderful you are, too, and how sweet you 
 are. You can't scold me if I don't say those things, can 
 you ? So, I'll just think them all to myself." 
 
 The girl pretended to pay no attention to his remarks 
 or to take him seriously. 
 
 "I wish we didn't have to go to that old meeting to- 
 night anyway. I'd love to sit here with you and have 
 you read to me and tell me stories. But it's no use wish- 
 ing. If I didn't go to the meeting father would be back 
 after me in a minute to find out what was the matter. 
 Then we would catch it !" 
 
 Bellamy looked seriously at the girl. 
 
 "Would you really like to sit here alone with me?" 
 he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Of course, I would," she answered lightly. "I think 
 you're lots more interesting than Jimmy Gleason." 
 
 "Is that the only reason?" The young man looked 
 straight into her eyes. 
 58
 
 Young Love at Spring 
 
 "Why, of course, silly!" She tried to hide her em- 
 barrassment, for something in the man's eyes made her 
 feel uneasy. "Why otherwise should I want to be with 
 you?" 
 
 Bellamy snrugged his shoulders and laughed. 
 
 "Oh, well, I guess that's as good a reason as any. 
 Anyway, the fact remains that you'd like to be with 
 me, and that's consolation enough for a poor reporter. 
 However, perhaps we can arrange to be together to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The girl's face brightened. 
 
 "How, Jack ?" she asked, not trying to hide her eager- 
 ness. "To-morrow's a holiday, and you know father'll 
 be here all the time. It's no fun with him around ; he's 
 such a grouch." 
 
 "Well, just because it's a holiday is the reason that 
 maybe we can be together. I'll tell you what the plan 
 is. Arnold Macy you've often heard me speak of him 
 has a new machine, a little touring car which looks 
 almost like a real automobile; and he wants to initiate 
 it by taking us out to the Country Club you and Paul 
 and me." 
 
 "Oh, wouldn't that be lovely !" the girl exclaimed. "I 
 really think if Paul went with us mother would give her 
 permission, and if she'd consent I don't think father 
 would object. . . . But how does Mr. Macy know about 
 me? I've never seen him in my life." 
 
 Bellamy smiled. 
 
 "You're all that I talk about to him or to any one 
 else, for that matter. He wants very much to meet 
 you. He's an awfully nice chap I've known him for 
 years. He was the fellow I was going to college with 
 once. He met Paul the other night and maybe that gave 
 
 59
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 him the idea about asking us. ... What do you say} 
 Will you go?" 
 
 "Will I!" The girl clapped her hands together in 
 anticipation. Then of a sudden her face darkened. "If 
 only mother will let me. . . . I'll tell you what I'll do 
 I'll have Paul ask her." 
 
 She ran to the foot of the stairs. 
 
 "Paul! Paul!" she called. "You old slow-coach! 
 Jack's down here waiting, and if you don't hurry father'll 
 be back for us. ... And anyway," she added, "I've got 
 something most important to ask you ; so hurry up." 
 
 "I'm coming, sis," answered a voice from upstairs. 
 "Hang these old meetings, anyway! I wish I didn't 
 have to go." 
 
 In a moment he was hurrying downstairs, pulling an- 
 grily at his cravat. 
 
 "If I didn't have to dress up I wouldn't care so much. 
 . . . Hello, Jack!" he greeted Bellamy with a friendly 
 hand-shake. "How do you like going to the big show 
 every night?" 
 
 "Part of my job, old man," the reporter answered, in 
 good humour. "At any rate, I get paid for going. . . . 
 Now listen, Paul ; I want you and Bess to convince your 
 parents that it will be perfectly proper for you both to 
 spend the day at the Country Club with Arnold Macy 
 and me to-morrow. We can have a good time, and 
 there'll be plenty of old snoops out there who will act as 
 unofficial chaperons in case your mother has any objec- 
 tion." 
 
 "You can make mother let us go, can't you, Paul ?" the 
 girl put in pleadingly. "I never get out of this old house 
 to see anybody or have any fun." 
 
 "Sure I will, sis," her brother assured her seriously. 
 60
 
 Young Love at Spring 
 
 "And if mother refuses to let you go, I'll threaten to 
 leave home." 
 
 "There, there!" laughed Bellamy. "Don't take it so 
 seriously. . . . But really I don't see what harm there 
 could be." 
 
 "Well, it makes me sore the way they treat Bess." 
 Paul went into the hallway and got his hat. "But we'd 
 better hurry now or father will lock us both up in our 
 rooms for six months, and then we won't go anywhere. 
 ... It makes me sore, I tell you!" 
 
 As they went out Bellamy took the girl's hand and 
 pressed it tenderly, and she returned the pressure, so 
 that all that evening during Gleason's sermon, he knew 
 that the speaker was wrong that Heaven, in fact, was 
 on earth. 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BITTERNESS OF FATHER-LOVE 
 
 THE next morning Arnold Macy and Bellamy called 
 at the Bradshaws'. Elizabeth had telephoned 
 earlier that her mother had given permission for her 
 and Paul to go on the proposed trip. During the night 
 the Indian Summer had made its arrival. Warm, gentle 
 breezes stirred along Edenburg's streets. The sky was 
 almost cloudless, and the sunshine was mellow and pleas- 
 ant. The autumn leaves were ablaze with red and yel- 
 low. 
 
 "What a wonderful day for a ride!" Elizabeth ex- 
 claimed happily as she settled herself in the rear seat with 
 Bellamy, while Paul sat in front next to Macy. 
 
 "The day would make no difference," Bellamy told 
 her tenderly, so that the others could not hear. "Any day 
 would be wonderful with you." 
 
 The girl did not answer, but turned her head away. 
 After Bellamy had left her the night before she had 
 remembered his words, and they had affected her 
 strangely. Now, for the first time, she felt self-conscious 
 with him. When he spoke as he had just done it made 
 her uncomfortable and ill at ease. Yet she would not 
 have had it otherwise. 
 
 They were soon in the country beyond the straggling 
 houses of the city's suburbs. The hills loomed before 
 them like red banks of flame, and there was just enough 
 62
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 crispness in the air to be invigorating. Withal the decay 
 of the year made the girl a little sad; but it was a sad- 
 ness which she liked, for it brought with it a feeling of 
 tenderness toward Bellamy. Even now she did not know 
 why she felt toward him as she did. He had uttered no 
 word of love to her, and she was unconscious that the 
 great emotion had entered her heart. There was, per- 
 haps, too much familiarity in their relationship. She 
 had known him too long; the growth of her love had 
 been too gradual for her to realise it fully. It lacked 
 the novelty of a sudden and tempestuous courtship. But 
 her feelings made her content, and the freedom she felt 
 in being away from her home and from under the super- 
 vision of her parents, added to this contentment. To-day 
 she was at peace with the world. 
 
 For nearly two hours they drove about the hills, on the 
 open roadways, over the crackling leaves, along yellow 
 meadows, beside the deep green river, through lanes of 
 overhanging trees. Elizabeth and Bellamy talked little. 
 All words seemed inadequate to express the magic of 
 her emotions. Sometimes when a beautiful vista ef 
 colour appeared before them, she would call his attention 
 to it, and he would look at it with her and comment 
 briefly. Once, when they were passing along a precipice 
 over the river, she drew back a little in fright, so that 
 her body was close against his. Bellamy's arm went 
 about her protectingly, and she accepted his action as a 
 natural thing, and did not object. When the precipice 
 had been passed she drew gently away. During the trip 
 she reached out from time to time and broke off little 
 branches of crimson leaves. When she had reached the 
 Club House her lap was filled with the last colourful 
 glories of the passing year. 
 
 63
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "I am so happy to-day!" she breathed gently, as they 
 turned into the long gravel roadway which led through 
 the Club grounds. 
 
 Bellamy looked at her, seriously wondering to himself 
 how far he might be responsible for her happiness. He 
 loved the girl deeply, and that love had become a vital 
 and accepted factor of his life. Not once had he let 
 himself think that she did not care for him also, for the 
 thought would have pained him too profoundly. As he 
 looked at her it suddenly occurred to him that he had 
 never spoken to her of his love, and he resolved that, 
 before the day was over, he would tell her everything 
 all his hopes and dreams. 
 
 The machine drew up suddenly and Macy leaped out, 
 apologising for his inexpertness as a driver. 
 
 "I'll warrant I have bumped you people frightfully!" 
 His tone was pleasant, a little too pleasant ; but there was 
 in his manner that assurance which was one of his chief 
 attractions with everybody he met. 
 
 He was a handsome man and dressed in good taste. 
 He had about him a Continental air and a distinction 
 which made him conspicuous even among the better class 
 of young men in Edenburg. His eyes were grey and in- 
 different. His features were regular, and there was a cleft 
 in his oval chin. His hair was very dark and always care- 
 fully combed. He wore a slender moustache which was 
 always kept carefully waxed, giving him a nonchalant 
 and somewhat rakish appearance. He was well-informed, 
 quick at repartee, genial, and, at times, brilliant in his 
 speech. He had a decidedly cosmopolitan bearing, was 
 plausible and convincing, and adjusted himself nicely in 
 any gathering in which he found himself. 
 
 At first Elizabeth Bradshaw had paid but little atten- 
 64
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 tion to him, secure and content in her liking for Bellamy ; 
 but at luncheon, when Macy began to talk, she found her- 
 self giving him most of her interest. He easily domi- 
 nated the conversation by talking of things with which 
 the others were unfamiliar. He spoke of the cities of 
 Europe and of his five years of travel, telling of the cus- 
 toms abroad, and painting glowing pictures of the little 
 out-of-the-way places in Europe. He compared the Con- 
 tinental customs with those of America, and always there 
 was in his remarks a little deprecation for the country 
 of his birth. He was an interesting talker and seemed 
 to know intuitively the things which would fire the girl's 
 imagination. 
 
 For a long time he dwelt on the beauties and charm of 
 Paris. He depicted the attractions of Saint-Germain in 
 the springtime, the wonder of Sevres and of St. Cloud. 
 He told of the little boats that went down the Seine 
 carrying picnickers to the quaint restaurants in the gar- 
 dens below the city, of the crowded boulevards on fete 
 nights, of the funny New Year's celebrations along the 
 Avenue du Maine, of the multicoloured bazaars about the 
 Madeleine, of the fountain in the Luxembourg mottled 
 with the sailing boats of children, of the reckless and 
 care-free student life of Montparnasse, of the frank 
 joviality of the Bal Bullier, of the great lines of chestnut 
 trees in the Petit Luxembourg, of the quaint old book- 
 stalls along the quays. . . . 
 
 Elizabeth Bradshaw listened intently, fascinated by his 
 recital of the wonders which she had never beheld. All 
 the while she was comparing his descriptions of Paris 
 with the scenes of Edenburg; and her heart beat a little 
 faster and a flush of joyous excitement came into her 
 cheeks as she looked forward with glad anticipation to 
 
 65
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 that day somewhere in the nebulous future when she 
 herself would see and be part of the life which Macy 
 limned. 
 
 She asked him many questions of Europe, about 
 Vienna and Berlin and London. He answered her readily 
 and enthusiastically, aware that his words were thrilling 
 her and that he had caught her in the mesh of his vivid 
 descriptions. He painted pictures for her of the dance 
 carnivals of Vienna, of the mask balls and the flower 
 parades during "Faschingzeit," and of the many pleas- 
 ures in the Kaisergarten during the summer evenings. 
 He related how in the early mornings the German re- 
 cruits in their new uniforms came out to parade over 
 the dewy lawns in the Englishergarten and of breakfast 
 under the trees. And when she asked him about Berlin, 
 he told her of the extravagant beauties of the "Palais 
 de Danse," of the parades along Unter den Linden, and 
 of the wonderful drives among the trees and monuments 
 in the Tiergarten. 
 
 And all the while the girl was becoming more and more 
 enthralled. Her present life for the moment appeared to 
 her cramped and unlovely. She had a sudden intense 
 longing to get away from it all, to go to these cities of 
 which she had heard, to forget that there ever was such 
 a place as Edenburg Edenburg with its paltry parks, 
 its uninviting streets, its narrowness and gossiping, its 
 deep concern with things which did not seem of matter, 
 its lack of charm and its petty ways and habits. 
 
 During the luncheon Bellamy had said little. He him- 
 self had been interested in Macy's talk, but he had seen 
 its effect upon the girl and he was not altogether pleased. 
 He knew he was not Macy's equal in point of physical 
 attractiveness, and he was conscious of the fact that he 
 66
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 lacked the suavity of manner which characterised the 
 other. And what he thought to be the narrowness of his 
 own life, as compared with that of Macy's, had its effect 
 upon him. He did not resent Macy's presence personally ; 
 he liked the man. But he felt that a dangerous element 
 had temporarily entered into his relationship with the 
 girl an element which might influence her when he 
 should tell her of his love. 
 
 He had made his resolve, however, and that after- 
 noon as they walked along the shaded hedges around the 
 Club House he had an opportunity. Paul and Macy 
 had diverged from the path to reconnoitre among the 
 burrs beneath an old chestnut tree. Bellamy put his 
 hand on the girl's arm and drew her around so that she 
 faced him. 
 
 "Bess," he began tenderly, but with determination, "I 
 want you to marry me. I have never had the courage to 
 tell you before to-day, but it seems as if I could wait no 
 longer. . . . You do care for me, don't you ?" 
 
 A perplexed look came into the girl's face, as if she 
 had not altogether understood the import of his words. 
 
 "It will mean," the young man went on, "that we will 
 always be together, that we won't have to wait to see 
 each other, and plot and plan as we do now. . . . Maybe 
 you have never thought of me in just the way I have of 
 you, but I will make you happy, dear child. I'll take 
 care of you and look after you. . . . Tell me, may I go 
 to your father to-morrow and tell him that I love 
 you?" 
 
 Something caught in the girl's throat. His words had 
 inspired her with fear. And yet the realisation slowly 
 came to her that she had always been waiting for him 
 to say just the thing he had. Even now she did not look 
 
 67
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 upon his request altogether with seriousness, nor did she 
 stop to consider the tremendous importance which his 
 words carried. She only knew that she would like to be 
 with him always. 
 
 "If you really want me, Jack," she answered tenderly, 
 and her eyes dropped before his, "you can have me." 
 
 Bellamy would have taken her in his arms had not the 
 others joined them at that moment. 
 
 The afternoon was well along and Macy asked : "Shall 
 we drive back now ? We can take a long detour through 
 the Arden Woods, and that will just get us home before 
 dark." 
 
 The others agreed and they turned their steps back to 
 the Club House. 
 
 "Won't you let Miss Bradshaw sit in front with me?" 
 Macy asked pleasantly when they were about to enter 
 the machine. "It's only fair, you know, Bellamy. You 
 had her company all the way out." 
 
 Bellamy, secure and happy in his love and the girl's 
 promise, agreed pleasantly. In another minute they were 
 on their way home. 
 
 During the ride Macy asked Elizabeth if he might call 
 that evening. She wanted to hear more of his stories 
 about Europe and of the great pageant of splendid life 
 in which she had never shared ; so she told him he might 
 come, and in her consent was no sense of disloyalty to- 
 ward the man to whom she had plighted her troth. Her 
 permission had been given simply and spontaneously. 
 
 Macy came early that night. Elijah Bradshaw and 
 his wife had driven to Judge Bascomb's for dinner, and 
 when Macy arrived they had not yet returned. 
 
 "It's good of you to let me come," Macy said easily, 
 as he sat down near the girl. "Do you know, I really 
 68
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 feel jealous of the fact that Bellamy has known you so 
 much longer than I have." 
 
 His words and manner confused her, but she answered 
 pleasantly: "I really feel as if I had known you ever 
 so long. I have heard Jack speak of you so often. . . . 
 And my brother likes you too. So you see, we are not 
 exactly strangers." 
 
 "I have known Bellamy a good many years," Macy 
 returned. Then he looked at her in mock concern. "I 
 hope his reports have been favourable." 
 
 "You know they have, or he wouldn't have introduced 
 you to me to-day. He likes you very much." 
 
 "I am glad of that." Macy drew a little nearer to her 
 and leaned forward. "Particularly if his opinion is 
 likely to be endorsed by those to whom he gives it." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled reassuringly. "I have heard father 
 speak of you too. You do some business with him, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "I sell him bonds occasionally," the man told her. 
 "That is," he added with a laugh, "I try to sell him 
 bonds. . . . Tell me what does he think of me?" 
 
 The girl smiled. "Oh, father approves of you, I 
 think. If he didn't you can rest assured he would have 
 said so, for father well, you know what fathers are. 
 . . . He's not as broad-minded as Paul." 
 
 "I know what you mean." Macy leaned back and put 
 his hands in his pockets. "You mean that if he likes me 
 he is very successful in concealing it." 
 
 The girl was obviously a little embarrassed. "Oh, 
 hardly that, Mr. Macy." 
 
 After a brief silence the man looked at her seriously, 
 and his tone changed as he asked : "And now that we 
 are on the subject, what do you think?" 
 
 69
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The girl felt the instinct of evasion. "Of what?" 
 
 "Of me." Macy's voice was very low. 
 
 The girl knew that in some way she was being led onto 
 dangerous ground, and intuitively she extricated herself 
 by laughing and talking in a bantering tone. 
 
 "Surely you can't expect me to make up my mind in 
 a minute about anything so very, very important," she 
 replied. 
 
 The man refused to meet her mood. 
 
 "Why not ?" he asked, almost indifferently. "First im- 
 pressions are always the safest." 
 
 Elizabeth was piqued, but she did not know just why 
 she should have felt so. After a moment she said in a 
 matter-of-fact voice: "Do you want me to tell you, 
 really?" 
 
 Macy simulated an air of martyrdom. 
 
 "Yes, tell me," he replied tragically, "my head is bowed 
 to receive the blow." 
 
 "Don't be foolish," the girl told him, "because I like 
 you very much . . . that is, I think I do. . . . You see 
 I have a lot of faith in Jack's judgment." 
 
 Macy arose quickly. "If you like me, then suppose 
 you prove it by going with me to the theatre to-night?" 
 
 "I'd love to, but I couldn't dream of it," the girl an- 
 swered at once. "With this great moral upheaval in 
 town, the theatre is out of the question." 
 
 Macy turned and looked out of the window. 
 
 "Oh, yes, the moral upheaval I had forgotten that. 
 It's really too bad, and I'm awfully sorry. But this man 
 Gleason is certainly a wonder. They say he cleaned up a 
 cool fifty thousand in his last town." He turned and 
 laughed lightly. "That goes far ahead of selling bonds." 
 
 "Shh !" warned the girl, holding up her finger. "You
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 mustn't let father hear you say that. He is the Chairman 
 of the Citizens' Committee. It was father who brought 
 Mr. Gleason to town. He thinks the sun rises and sets 
 in Jimmy Gleason." 
 
 "Well, I guess it does," Macy commented indifferently. 
 "He certainly stirs them up in every town. . . . I'm 
 really awfully sorry about the show. You see, I am 
 leaving town at the end of the week." 
 
 Elizabeth did not understand why she should feel a 
 pang of disappointment when Macy told her this. She 
 knew instinctively that she must not let him discover the 
 fact that she cared, and she forced herself to say lightly : 
 "Can't even Mr. Gleason keep you here?" 
 
 Macy came very close to her and put his hand lightly 
 on her shoulder. She wanted to draw away from him, 
 but an expression in his eyes held her. 
 
 "If I stay," he said very slowly and earnestly, "it 
 wouldn't be Gleason who would keep me." 
 
 The intimation in his words made her subtly happy, 
 and yet she welcomed her brother's entrance into the 
 room at that moment. 
 
 Macy turned, fully at his ease, and said pleasantly: 
 "Bradshaw, I've just been trying to induce your sister 
 to go with me to the theatre." 
 
 "Soft pedal on the show stuff, if you want to sell dad 
 any more bonds," Paul warned him dryly. 
 
 "Well, anyway," said Elizabeth, "if we can't go we 
 can at least have a little music here. . . . Paul, start the 
 phonograph, like a good boy." 
 
 Her brother went to the machine which stood in the 
 hallway, and, winding it, put on the first record which 
 came to his hand. It was a lively modern dance number. 
 
 Macy held out his arms. 
 
 71
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Shall we?" he asked. 
 
 The girl nodded her approval. Without a word they 
 began dancing. 
 
 They had scarcely commenced when the front door 
 opened and Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw entered. 
 
 "Bessie!" exclaimed her father. 
 
 The girl, a little flushed, turned quickly. "Mother, 
 this is Mr. Macy. . . . Father, you know Mr. Macy, I 
 believe ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw acknowledged the introduction pleas- 
 antly; but Elijah Bradshaw stiffened perceptibly and said 
 merely, "How do you do, Mr. Macy," without offering 
 his hand. 
 
 "I'm afraid I must be going," Macy said with a dig- 
 nified smile. 
 
 When he had departed Bradshaw turned angrily to his 
 daughter. "Turn off that everlasting machine." 
 
 She obeyed him, and then asked : "Why did you act 
 that way to Mr. Macy, father? I think he is very nice, 
 and you yourself have spoken of him to us." 
 
 "Because I do business with him, does that give him 
 the right to call on you here?" Elijah Bradshaw asked 
 irritably. "I will tell him to confine his affairs with this 
 family to me at my office." 
 
 "Why are you so hard on Bess?" his wife asked him. 
 
 "It seems as if you go against me in everything, Mar- 
 tha." Bradshaw sat down at his desk. "Who is this 
 Macy, anyway ?" he continued. "He may be married for 
 all I know." 
 
 Elizabeth went over to her father and put her arms 
 round him tenderly. "Dad, you are cross to-night." 
 
 Bradshaw seemed not to be affected by his daughter's 
 devotion. 
 72
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 "None of that now," he said peremptorily, taking her 
 arms from about his shoulders. "I know the world and 
 you don't, my child. I've seen Macy's kind before, and 
 I don't want him here again. . . . That's final." 
 
 The girl pouted. Crossing the room, she sat down by 
 the table. 
 
 "That's always the way of it," she complained. "Here 
 I am, shut up in this house day in and day out. Some- 
 times I think I'll go crazy with the loneliness of it. Other 
 girls go out and have fun, but here I have to stay. I wish 
 I could go away to Europe, or somewhere. I might 
 as well be in Sing Sing as to be here. I might better 
 be there, for there are lots of interesting young men 
 there." 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw glanced at his daughter but did not 
 answer. He had had scenes like this before, and his 
 experience had taught him to keep silent. So to-night 
 he turned to his work, resolved to ignore the girl's com- 
 plaints. 
 
 She, on her part, picked up a newspaper from the table 
 and held it in front of her ostentatiously. 
 
 "Jimmy Gleason ! Jimmy Gleason !" she went on fret- 
 fully. "Nothing in the papers but sermons. . . . How 
 very exciting!" Her tone was mocking and sarcastic. 
 "Sermon for to-night : 'Double-Crossing the Devil !' ' 
 Then she read aloud, imitating Gleason's manner : " 'All 
 there is in the Bible I am going to preach. I'll give you 
 enough Hell before I am through." 
 
 Bradshaw struck his desk with his fist. "Elizabeth!" 
 
 "I am reading from this sermon," the girl replied 
 sweetly. 
 
 "Well, don't read it in that spirit!" Bradshaw com- 
 manded sternly. He glanced at the clock. "It's nearly 
 
 73
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 eight," he said. "You had better get ready. You will 
 go to the Tabernacle with your mother to-night. Un- 
 fortunately, I have to stay here and work." 
 
 Elizabeth arose and left the room resignedly. 
 
 "Come on, mother," she said affectionately to the 
 older woman. "Father is as cross as an old bear." 
 
 During the little scene between Elizabeth and her 
 father, Paul had been standing at the window, frowning 
 angrily. His sympathies were all with his sister. When 
 she and the mother had gone upstairs he walked down 
 to his father's desk. 
 
 "And how about me?" he asked, in a surly voice. 
 "Have I got to go to the Tabernacle again to-night?'' 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw leaned back in his chair and re- 
 garded the young man fixedly. 
 
 "Paul, what has come into you two children ?" he asked 
 in pained anger. "Haven't I done everything I knew 
 how for you and Bess? I've worked all my life for you. 
 I have built up a position for you. I think of your wel- 
 fare first and foremost. But what thanks do I get for 
 it? ... You combat me and find fault constantly. You 
 treat me as if I were your worst enemy." He brought 
 his hand down on the arm of the chair. "But it's going 
 to end here and now. I am going to run things the way 
 I want to in my own home. I know what's best for you 
 and I'm going to see that you act accordingly. Heaven 
 knows you are treated leniently enough. Half the time 
 I don't know where you are. Before Gleason came to 
 town neither I nor your mother knew where you spent 
 your evenings." 
 
 He leaned forward. 
 
 "Now, listen to me. You are going to the Tabernacle 
 to-night, and you're going every night that Gleason's in 
 74
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 town. No arguments will help you. Here I've devoted 
 weeks of my time and given my money to pushing for- 
 ward this work of reform, and what will people say when 
 my own children don't take enough interest in it even 
 to attend the meetings ? Do you think I will permit you 
 or Bessie to make a laughing stock of me?" 
 
 Paul scowled and folded his arms. 
 
 "I have been to these meetings often enough to save 
 your reputation," he answered ironically. "I've been 
 every night for four nights, and I think " 
 
 Bradshaw arose and faced his son across the 
 desk. 
 
 "No matter what you think, young man : you're going 
 just the same. You know I can't go to-night. Already 
 my work is piled up so that it'll take me weeks to catch 
 up again, and if I can't go it would be a nice thing 
 indeed if my family wasn't represented." He sat down 
 again in his chair. "I suppose your mind is on that 
 burlesque show that's playing here now. But I thank 
 God for your sake that this city is in for a moral house- 
 cleaning. Every father in Edenburg should be glad for 
 his son's sake. In two weeks there won't be a remnant 
 of the vice district left." 
 
 Paul looked past his father and sighed wearily. The 
 older man scrutinised him for a moment. 
 
 "I hope, my boy," he said, in a severe tone, "that you 
 have never been guilty of going down there." 
 
 The young man was about to protest, but Elijah Brad- 
 shaw held up his hand for silence. 
 
 "Don't answer me," he said. "Whether you went or 
 not you'd say you didn't. ... At any rate, I hope you 
 have more respect for your mother and sister. No father 
 is sure of his children. He hopes, but he isn't sure. . . . 
 
 75
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Here come your mother and sister now. Get your hat and 
 go with them to the Tabernacle." 
 
 "Very well," the young man answered indifferently. 
 
 He joined the others at the door and went out with 
 them. 
 
 Elijah Bradshavr was left alone. He worked for a. 
 moment, then rang for Otto. 
 
 "Put out the lights in the hall," he ordered. "I don't 
 want to be disturbed. I'm not at home to any one 
 you understand ? . . . You may go now." 
 
 He moved the desk lamp nearer him. It was the only 
 light in his room. He drew in front of him the state- 
 ment he was preparing for the newspapers. He wrote 
 steadily for a few minutes. Then he put his pen aside 
 and held what he had written nearer to the light. He 
 was evidently pleased with it, for a look of satisfaction 
 came into his face. 
 
 He began reading it aloud : " 'In spite of the silly sen- 
 timentality that prevails in certain quarters, these women 
 who ply their unspeakable trade must be shown no pity. 
 They have forfeited all right to human sympathy. One 
 and all, they must be driven from the city ruthlessly, 
 remorselessly, as we would drive from our dooryards a 
 pestilential criminal who sought to do us bodily harm. It 
 is not pertinent to say that misfortune drove them to 
 this, or poverty, or betrayed love, or a predisposition 
 passed down from immoral parents. We have to deal 
 with effects, not with causes. And I seriously mistrust 
 if any of these alleged causes may be substantiated in 
 fact. Our misfortunes are all of our own making. Pov- 
 erty is a disease bred by laziness; "betrayed love" is a 
 nickname for lust, and "predisposition" is a cowardly 
 excuse for hiding our own crimes behind the tombstones 
 76
 
 The Bitterness of Father-Love 
 
 of our ancestors. And so we call upon the officials of 
 this city to do their full duty not merely to close up 
 these houses of infamy, but to see to it that their inmates, 
 these women with the scarlet letters on their breasts, are 
 banished forever from the community. . . .' " 
 
 77
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE WOMAN WHO DID NOT SMILE 
 
 A LTHOUGH there had been no sound in the house 
 ** other than his voice, Elijah Bradshaw all at once 
 became conscious of a presence in the room. He ceased 
 reading and raised his eyes guardedly. 
 
 Before him stood the dim figure of a woman. 
 
 For a moment he was too astonished and too angry 
 to speak. He had made it explicit that he was not to be 
 disturbed, and here some one had found her way not only 
 into his house but into his very study. He was startled 
 too at the unusualness of the event ; for even his closest 
 friends were never ushered into his room without first 
 being announced. There was something strange and ir- 
 regular and sinister in the appearance of the silent wo- 
 man facing him from out the darkness of the room. 
 
 She was a young woman, somewhere between twenty- 
 five and thirty. Her face was calm and divinely peace- 
 ful. She had a wistful, almost sad expression in her 
 eyes, suggestive of mysterious depths. World-old trag- 
 edy and compassion were written on her features, which 
 resembled the portraits by which the old masters depicted 
 the Magdalene. She had the appearance of belonging 
 to another world and age. She was pale, and on her 
 cheeks was a touch of rouge which harmonised illy with 
 the softness and tenderness of her look. Her limpid, 
 exotic eyes were set well apart; her nose was straight 
 78
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 and sensitive, her mouth exquisitely modelled. She stood 
 erect, poised gracefully. 
 
 About her was a black mantle of many folds which 
 reached the ground. Its hooded cloak had partly fallen 
 back from her forehead, revealing a mass of dull bronze 
 hair. Her hands were bare and hung passively at her side. 
 They were graceful hands, white and conical, and they 
 showed no signs of having laboured at even the ordinary 
 tasks of life. There was a certain archaic mystery in her 
 bearing, an almost esoteric aloofness, as though she had 
 looked on at the sad struggle of life throughout all the 
 centuries and had shared the world's sorrows. . . . 
 
 After Elijah Bradshaw's first wave of bewilderment 
 had subsided, he summoned his speech and asked : "Who 
 are you?" 
 
 The woman waited for the fraction of a minute. Then 
 her lips parted slowly and she replied in an even, rich 
 voice, at once dignified and humble : "A Woman." 
 
 Bradshaw now had himself in hand. He sat upright 
 and frowned impatiently. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I can see that," he remarked hastily. "But 
 who are you, and what are you doing here?" 
 
 The Woman's composure remained inviolate. 
 
 "My name?" There was a suggestion of a mirthless 
 smile at the corners of her mouth. "What does that 
 matter ?" 
 
 Her complacency and coolness had now angered the 
 man. When he spoke again it was with acerbity. 
 
 "You needn't tell me if you don't want to. In fact, I 
 don't care to know it. ... But how did you get in 
 here?" 
 
 The grotesque singularity of the situation came to him 
 all at once, and he made a move to ring for the servant. 
 
 79
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The Woman stepped toward him impulsively and put 
 up her hand in a gesture of protestation. 
 
 "Please don't do that," she pleaded. "I'll go." 
 
 As she spoke she wavered slightly like one who has 
 been overcome by weakness, and steadied herself on the 
 edge of the desk. 
 
 "I thought perhaps you might help me," she added. 
 
 Bradshaw did not ring the bell. He checked himself, 
 although he did not know exactly why, for he had fully 
 intended to have Otto show the intruder out. He now 
 looked at her curiously. His fears had been dissipated. 
 
 "What made you think I could help you?" he asked 
 irascibly. "Why did you come to me? . . . How can I 
 help you?" 
 
 The Woman raised her head wearily. "You can help 
 me to get employment, perhaps." 
 
 At her words, the man sat back in his chair, smiling 
 at his visitor's unusual manner in applying for work. 
 He was irritated at the thought of her disturbing him in 
 this manner, but realising she must be desperate to have 
 broken into his house for such an object, he softened his 
 tone a little, although even now when he spoke he was 
 stern and businesslike. 
 
 "Well, perhaps I can give you something to do. But 
 this is no time or place to apply for work. Go to my 
 store to-morrow and if you can convince my Superin- 
 tendent that you are willing and honest " 
 
 The Woman emitted a hollow laugh. 
 
 "So that's your answer, is it ?" She looked at him with 
 ironical amusement. "I'm afraid I can't do that." 
 
 The other did not understand and answered her with 
 an air of finality. "Very well. If you can't do that, that 
 ends it." 
 80
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 But the Woman made no motion to go. 
 
 Bradshaw was profoundly puzzled. "Aren't you will- 
 ing to work?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said wearily. "I am willing enough, but 
 I could never work in your store. I must have a place 
 not so public. You see, what you suggest would be out 
 of the question." 
 
 Bradshaw arose angrily. "No, I don't see! What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that I am too well known. I would be recog- 
 nised and that would make it hard for both of us. ... 
 Oh, it wouldn't do!" She looked around her. "Now a 
 place here in your home. . . ." 
 
 The man had decided that she was a crank. He had 
 no intention of prolonging the interview. Already he had 
 begun to feel uneasy. 
 
 "We are not taking unknown women into our home," 
 he said, looking at her glaringly. "And it strikes me you 
 have considerable presumption to ask for work and then 
 dictate just what kind of work you are going to do. I 
 want you to go now before I call and have you put out. 
 I'm too busy to be bothered any more." 
 
 The Woman scrutinised him gravely, but even now she 
 made no sign that she was ready to depart. The low, 
 gentle quality of her voice had not changed its timbre 
 when she explained, looking him straight in the eyes: 
 "I came to you because you were responsible." 
 
 For a moment Bradshaw was taken aback. He did not 
 grasp her meaning, but her words had in them an un- 
 pleasant implication. 
 
 "Responsible ?" he demanded, losing his temper. "Re- 
 sponsible for what? Tell me quickly and get out of 
 here." 
 
 81
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 But no display of anger on his part seemed to affect 
 the Woman in the least. Again she replied gently: 
 "Responsible for my being in the streets to-night, home- 
 less." 
 
 It occurred to the man now that he was the victim of 
 some mistake, that the woman was sincere but had erred 
 as to his identity. 
 
 "I?" he said conciliatingly. "What have I to do with 
 it? Who do you think I am? . . . My name is Elijah 
 Bradshaw." 
 
 Again the Woman smiled slightly. "I know who you 
 are. There has been no mistake. And it is you who 
 have everything to do with it. Can it be that you don't 
 know that hundreds of women like me are cursing you 
 at this very moment?" 
 
 Bradshaw laughed in derision. Now he was sure that 
 his conclusion about her being a crank was correct. But 
 jsomehow her seriousness interested him. 
 
 "Cursing me? And, pray, for what?" 
 
 "I'll tell you." The Woman drew nearer to him. 
 "For having thrown them out of their homes into the 
 gutters. For having taken away from them their last 
 shred of hope of getting out of the life they were living. 
 For hounding them from cover to cover. For making 
 them outcasts even more than they were. That is why 
 hundreds of women are cursing you. Don't you suppose 
 that they know it's your money that is paying for all 
 this, that it is through your efforts these infamies are be- 
 ing perpetrated, that you and you alone are the one 
 to blame?" 
 
 The cynical smile faded from Bradshaw's face. The 
 whole matter appeared plain to him now. 
 
 "I see," he commented with contempt. "You mean 
 82
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 the women of the district. Well, my answer to your 
 information is, let them curse. My conscience is clear. 
 They have received only what they deserve. . . . But 
 how does this matter concern you? You are surely not 
 one of them?" 
 
 "How little you know of them! With what little au- 
 thority you speak!" The Woman shook her head sadly. 
 
 Bradshaw was genuinely astonished. "Do you mean 
 to imply that I am to believe that you are a " 
 
 "Oh, you needn't say it." The Woman's voice was 
 tired. "But the fact remains that I am one of them." 
 
 The man looked at her incredulously. His interest in 
 the situation made him forget his anger. He had for- 
 gotten even the unusualness of their meeting. 
 
 "You don't look like a vicious woman." He turned 
 the light so that it might fall on her face. 
 
 As he looked at her his wonder grew. 
 
 "Why, your face reminds me of some one I once 
 knew a good woman she was. . . . And your eyes !" 
 
 After a moment's scrutiny of them he forced himself 
 to laugh unbelievingly. 
 
 "You are an impostor," he added. 
 
 He dropped back into his chair and his eyes were look- 
 ing far away. The figure before him had brought back 
 to life a memory which he had thought irretrievably 
 dead. 
 
 Then slowly the woman drew back her cloak, and shook 
 the hood from her head. She stood revealed in a gaudy 
 red satin dress, trimmed with lace and gold braid. It was 
 cut extremely low, and fitted her snugly, revealing the 
 lines of her figure. She wore red satin slippers to match 
 her gown. Her hair was combed loosely in an accen- 
 tuated style, and was adorned by a large comb of imita- 
 
 83
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 tion diamonds. With all of its gorgeousness, her attire 
 was slovenly and shoddy, and attested, only too well, to 
 her membership in the profession she had claimed. 
 
 "Now will you believe it?" she asked defiantly. 
 
 Bradshaw took one look at her, then leaped to his feet 
 in rage. 
 
 "How dare you profane my home! How dare you 
 come here and contaminate this very room where only 
 a few minutes ago my wife and children were !" Before 
 she could protest he had rung the bell violently. 
 
 The Woman did not heed the summons he had given. 
 
 "The children ?" she repeated after him, quietly. "Per- 
 haps a daughter?" 
 
 The man was white with fury. 
 
 "Daughter yes, a virtuous girl, thank God!" he re- 
 sponded loudly. 
 
 "And a son, too, perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes, and a son!" the man flung back. "A boy who 
 has never met such as you." 
 
 Once more a weary smile spread over the Woman's 
 face. "These two are they your only children?" 
 
 Bradshaw rang the bell again. 
 
 "Yes," he blurted. "How dare you question me?" 
 
 The Woman did not shrink from him. On the con- 
 trary, she approached to the edge of the desk and leaned 
 over it, facing him and looking directly into his eyes. 
 
 "Are you sure quite sure?" 
 
 The servant entered the room quietly. He was star- 
 tled at seeing the Woman, but recovered his composure 
 and stood waiting. 
 
 "Otto, how did this woman get in here?" Bradshaw 
 demanded. "I told you I was to see no one to-night." 
 
 The servant approached, bewildered. 
 84
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 "I don't know, sir," he said in a frightened voice. "I 
 heard no one come in, and the side and rear doors are 
 locked, sir." 
 
 The Woman at the desk had taken no notice of the 
 servant's entrance. She was now leaning closer to Brad- 
 shaw, and said evenly: "Look at me again before you 
 order your man to put me out. . . . Are you sure these 
 two are your only children?" She spoke so that the 
 servant could not hear her. 
 
 Bradshaw, startled again by her voice, looked at her 
 fixedly as the direct rays, from the lamp fell full upon 
 her features. For a moment he seemed as if hypnotised. 
 Then a great fear arose in his heart. His lips trembled, 
 and his hands clutched tightly on the edge of the desk. 
 As the servant approached, Bradshaw waved to him me- 
 chanically to leave the room. 
 
 When he had gone the man laughed nervously, passing 
 his hand across his eyes. 
 
 "No!" he said, "I will not believe it!" 
 
 But the Woman did not shift her gaze or make a move. 
 
 "Look at my face again." This time there was a com- 
 mand in her voice. "Look at it and then tell me that you 
 do not remember the woman whose look you saw there." 
 
 Bradshaw looked again, fascinated. The muscles in 
 his face began to twitch, and he shrank back as if stricken, 
 covering his face with his hands. 
 
 "Ruth! My God! . . . But she has been dead for 
 twenty years !" 
 
 "You do remember then, don't you? Will you dare 
 deny it now?" There was a note of victory in her voice. 
 
 "She your mother ! I do dare to deny it !" Bradshaw 
 rose again, his face tense with emotion. "You're trying 
 to blackmail me ! Some one had told you. . . ." 
 
 85
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The Woman shook her head. "I needed no one to tell 
 me. . . . Do you recall when you met her?" 
 
 The man was taken off his guard. "In the autumn, at 
 Blenheim," he said softly. 
 
 His mind had drifted back twenty years. An old page 
 of the story of his youth had again been opened under 
 his eyes. Every passage in that forgotten story now 
 came to him, distinct and accusing. Again he saw a girl 
 with a plain white dress standing in a woodland. There 
 were autumn leaves all about her, touched by the gold 
 of an autumn sunset; they seemed to be everywhere, in 
 her hair and her dress, banked behind her, glorified by 
 some unusual splendour. Again he held out his arms to 
 her, and she stepped into them trustingly. She was in- 
 terwoven with the saddening world, the drear skies, the 
 browning meadows and the falling leaves. Bradshaw had 
 been young then, and the infatuation of his first real pas- 
 sion was in his veins. He had taken her to Montreal, and 
 for a week they had been happy. But the tide of his love 
 had receded, and one night he had left her, without 
 thought of the consequences of his act. He had never 
 seen or heard from, her since. But to-night the whole epi- 
 sode had come back to him vividly, raised from the grave 
 of the past by the Woman who had come into his house. 
 
 "You do remember!" The Woman's voice brought 
 him back. "Love comes quickly in hazy autumn days. 
 . . . Were you fair to her?" 
 
 Bradshaw had been deeply shaken by the memory. 
 When he spoke, in an effort to justify himself, his voice 
 was uncertain. 
 
 "I had heard that she was dead." 
 
 "But they did not tell you that she had left a child?" 
 the Woman asked. 
 86
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 The man tried to shake himself free from the hand 
 of destiny which he felt tightening about his life. 
 
 "No no; I never knew," he replied earnestly. "I 
 will not believe it. It cannot be possible. . . . And yet 
 your eyes ! . . . My God ! I must believe it." He leaned 
 toward the woman. "You are my daughter." There was 
 a silence. "What am I to do. ... And you, to what un- 
 speakable depths have you fallen?" 
 
 The Woman looked at him compassionately. 
 
 "A little while ago," she began, "I heard you read 
 that our misfortunes are of our own making. But that's 
 not altogether true in my case, is it? You see, I had no 
 chance no mother's love no one to point the way." 
 She held out her arms to him appealingly. "But 
 now " 
 
 Bradshaw now remembered her saying that she had 
 come to him for help; and in her appeal he read of her 
 desire that he should acknowledge her as his daughter. 
 The disgrace which would follow any such action was 
 too great for him to consider. He drew away from her. 
 
 "No, no never! Not that!" His voice was broken 
 with fear, but he caught himself up sharply. "But I pity 
 you God knows I pity you, and my duty demands that 
 I provide for you." 
 
 He reached in his breast-pocket and drew forth a 
 purse. He looked in it and saw that it was full of 
 bills. 
 
 "Here," he said, handing it to the Woman. "Now you 
 must go away. When this money is gone, I will send 
 you more." 
 
 The Woman drew herself up and looked at the man 
 disdainfully. 
 
 "I want no money," she answered with scorn. "It is 
 
 87
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 the cheapest thing in the world. What I want is a home, 
 a father's love." 
 
 "But you can't have that here, my girl," Bradshaw 
 replied, trying to hide his fright beneath severity. "That 
 is impossible." He turned away from her and his man- 
 ner changed. "I could not face it." 
 
 "You will have to face it," the Woman said calmly. 
 "For I shall remain. It is my right." 
 
 Bradshaw was about to protest further, but when he 
 looked into the Woman's eyes he saw that he was beaten. 
 
 "It's my punishment," he murmured. "God's ven- 
 geance !" 
 
 "But no one need ever know," the Woman went on 
 tenderly, putting her hand on his arm. ... "I shall re- 
 main here as a servant. And your son and daughter 
 shall not be harmed. No one shall ever know who I am. 
 You can explain it easily to your wife. You can say to 
 your wife that I came to you highly recommended. 
 Some one to whom you are indebted asked you to take 
 me. . . . Don't you see how easy it will be for you to 
 do your duty?" 
 
 The man protested again, weakly, like one who hopes 
 against hope. "But my children to think of you here 
 with them a woman of the streets !" 
 
 "And yet," she answered gently, "by your own con- 
 fession, your own daughter." 
 
 "God help me !" breathed Elijah Bradshaw, as he rang 
 again for the servant. 
 
 "I have other clothes with me." The Woman in- 
 dicated a small, shabby handbag which she had brought. 
 "You need have no fear; these clothes I wear shall be 
 put aside." 
 
 As Otto entered, Bradshavr forced himself to say in 
 88
 
 The Woman Who Did Not Smile 
 
 a matter-of-fact voice : "Show Miss this young woman 
 to the spare room at the rear of the second floor, and 
 see that she is made comfortable. She is to be a new 
 maid. The others will all remain and she is to be treated 
 with every consideration." 
 
 Otto hid well his amazement as he left the room with 
 the Woman and ascended the stairs. 
 
 When she had gone Bradshaw sat for many minutes 
 as one dazed. Then, with a quick, impulsive movement, 
 he opened a secret drawer of his desk and took out a 
 package of old faded papers which were covered with 
 dust. His hands trembled as he ran his fingers along 
 them. Finally he drew forth a photograph and held it 
 under the light. For thirty years he had not looked at 
 the picture, yet he had always kept it, along with her 
 letters. For some reason which he could not understand, 
 he had never been able to bring himself to destroy these 
 records of his early romance. They had always seemed 
 to epitomise his youth, his first wild taste of love, the 
 great awakening of his young manhood. 
 
 As he looked at the picture now, after all the inter- 
 vening years, he said half aloud in a broken and defeated 
 voice : "It is true. They were her eyes." 
 
 ;He bent his head forward in his arms. 
 
 "Ruth, Ruth, forgive me! I will make amends. . . . 
 Forgive me I never knew."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE CURSE 
 
 BRADSHAW passed a troubled, restless 
 night. Precipitously and without warning his life 
 had been turned upside down. Although he was well 
 along in years he had never before felt the ruthless 
 and inevitable retribution of his acts. He had imagined 
 himself secure from the hand of fate, and had come to 
 look upon himself as his own destiny. His power had 
 always given him a feeling of security. He had feared 
 neither problems nor obstacles the problems he could 
 solve; the obstacles he could eliminate. Nothing had 
 ever got the upper hand of him before. He had always 
 met life honestly and in the open, shrinking from noth- 
 ing, walking boldly into the face of danger, taking his 
 chances with other men, serene in the knowledge of his 
 strength and ability. Thus far in all his grapplings with 
 the forces of existence he had been victorious. His con- 
 science had been clear. He had looked life squarely in 
 the face with an indomitable and austere bearing. 
 
 But now he had tasted the bitter acid of his own sub- 
 merged weakness. The unknown and unrecognised can- 
 ker which for thirty years had been eating away in the 
 depths of his nature had suddenly and without fore- 
 shadowing symptoms undermined his prowess. His life's 
 edifice, which he had carefully and painfully been build- 
 ing from his early manhood, had been based on a founda- 
 90
 
 The Curse 
 
 tion wherein there had been a flaw ; and the mighty 
 structure now gave signs of falling about him, burying 
 him and his family beneath it, and leaving him a wreck 
 with nothing to show for his long years of labour and 
 struggle. The safety of his future depended solely on 
 the Woman who had come to him so mysteriously, bear- 
 ing in her bosom the dread secret of the accumulated 
 effects of his boyhood's misdeed. 
 
 Something in the Woman's words and attitude, how- 
 ever, gave him a sterner hope. She had in a measure 
 made him feel that he could trust her that so long as 
 he did his duty by her, according to her own terms, she 
 would not betray him. But the danger would always be 
 present and imminent. His security and self-confidence 
 had partially disappeared. He tried to convince himself 
 of the injustice of it all, but when he thought of that 
 girl whom he had betrayed in the long ago, he found little 
 consolation in self-pity. He had done wrong. He knew 
 that. He told himself it was a sin of his youth, com- 
 mitted when he had only inadequately understood the 
 seriousness of his culpability. Were there not hundreds 
 of men men honoured and respected and living upright 
 lives who had been guilty of just such a misdemeanour 
 somewhere back in their past? Were there indeed any 
 men who had attained to his estate of worldliness and 
 success that did not have hidden away some secret fully 
 as reprehensible as his own? Was he so different from 
 all other men? 
 
 In such questions as these he sought for consolation. 
 In the quietude of early morning, he resolved to con- 
 tinue his life and work as if nothing had happened, 
 and trust to the Woman's honour. It was the only 
 course open to him. Something indeed might happen 
 
 91
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 to extricate him from his predicament. In the mean- 
 time he would have to depend on the Woman's loyalty. 
 
 Before breakfast, he went to his wife's room and ex- 
 plained, as best he could, the presence of the Woman in 
 the house. The fact that he had always done as he 
 pleased in his home made easier his task. His wife had 
 implicit faith in him. She never questioned his actions ; 
 and when he told her that it was a necessity that the 
 Woman should remain, that she had been sent to him by 
 some one whom he could not afford to antagonise by a 
 refusal, she accepted his words with the same silent con- 
 fidence which she had always manifested toward his 
 decisions. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw had at first shrunk from the decep- 
 tion of this explanation. He had never lied to his wife. 
 But when he reasoned that her happiness, as well as the 
 happiness of his children, depended upon his falsehood, 
 he felt justified in his conduct. On first thought he had 
 decided to go to his wife and tell her everything. He 
 felt that she would have understood and forgiven him. 
 But he knew it would break her heart and that the 
 Woman's presence in the house would be a perpetual and 
 ever-present tragedy from which she could never recover. 
 He loved his wife and shrank from giving her pain. For 
 that reason alone he did not do the brave and heroic thing. 
 
 At breakfast the Woman appeared in a plain black 
 dress and black shoes. Her hair was combed simply 
 and neatly and the rouge had disappeared from her 
 cheeks. She wore a small white apron with white soft 
 cuffs and collar. Her attire was that of the other maids 
 in the Bradshaw household. Nowhere in her appear- 
 ance was there the slightest indication of the life from 
 which she had come. She took her orders from the but- 
 92
 
 The Curse 
 
 ler and went willingly about her work, performing her 
 duties silently and capably. Before the meal was over 
 Elijah Bradshaw had been inspired with new confidence. 
 Neither his wife nor his children suspected that anything 
 was amiss, and it was evident from the Woman's actions 
 that she had no intention of doing aught save what she 
 had promised. 
 
 As he passed into his study, preparatory to going to 
 his office, the bell rang and Bellamy was announced. 
 The young man knew of the difficulty of obtaining a 
 private interview with Bradshaw in his office, and his 
 mission was such that he did not care to take any chances 
 of being interrupted. He had come early in order to 
 catch the older man before he had left. 
 
 "Hello, Mr. Bradshaw," Bellamy greeted him pleas- 
 antly ; but when he saw the troubled look on the other's 
 face he hesitated. Then he said: "The City Editor 
 has sent me over for that statement." 
 
 Bradshaw, sitting at his desk, did not look up. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Bellamy, but it isn't ready. As a matter 
 of fact, I don't think this is just the time to publish it. 
 I am going to hold it up for a few days. I know you 
 won't mind. Dr. Smollet and I decided it was best for 
 the cause if it didn't appear until there were signs of 
 weakening on the part of our enemies. I know you and 
 your paper want to do what's best." 
 
 ''Certainly," Bellamy agreed. He was not at all inter- 
 ested in the statement anyway. In fact, before he had 
 come he had had no intention of speaking of it. "Let 
 me have it when you think it will do the most good," he 
 added casually. 
 
 Then he paused for a moment and regarded the older 
 man critically. 
 
 93
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "By the way, Mr. Bradshaw," he began again hesitat- 
 ingly, "do you mind if I speak to you about quite an- 
 other matter . . . about Bess?" 
 
 "Bess? What about her?" 
 
 "The fact is, Mr. Bradshaw," the young man said 
 earnestly, stepping closer, "I love your daughter. I have 
 loved her for many years. ... I want to marry her." 
 
 Bradshaw was astonished. He looked at Bellamy as 
 if he could not have heard the words correctly. "You 
 want to do what?" 
 
 The young man did not hesitate. He walked still 
 closer to the desk. 
 
 "I said, Mr. Bradshaw, I want to marry her." 
 
 Bradshaw had recovered himself now and showed signs 
 of anger. "So you have been making love to her behind 
 my back!" 
 
 Bellamy only smiled. 
 
 "Not exactly, sir," he returned jokingly. "I tried to 
 keep farther away from you than that." 
 
 Seeing that his efforts at intimidation had been unsuc- 
 cessful, Bradshaw asked calmly: "Does Elizabeth know 
 that you were going to speak to me ?" 
 
 Bellamy nodded. "I told her yesterday I would take 
 the first opportunity." 
 
 "Yesterday eh?" Bradshaw frowned unpleasantly. 
 "That's what comes of letting Elizabeth run about. I 
 told her mother she shouldn't have gone." Then he 
 changed his tone. "How much money do you make ?" 
 
 "Fifty dollars a week." There was no shame in the 
 young man's voice. 
 
 "Umph !" Bradshaw smiled in mild derision. "With 
 that salary you couldn't keep my daughter in shoes. How 
 do you expect to support her ? . . . You have nerve com- 
 94
 
 The Curse 
 
 ing to me and asking me for my daughter's hand when 
 you haven't even enough money to take care of your- 
 self." 
 
 Bellamy was not abashed. 
 
 "I heard that you were a poor man once yourself," 
 he said. "I believe that you are even proud of it. Come 
 to think of it, I have heard you say so. ... Did you have 
 such a sumptuous salary when you got married?" 
 
 "Times have changed," Bradshaw answered quickly, 
 "and it makes no difference what I had when I married. 
 My wife wasn't used to luxury and that made a differ- 
 ence. But Elizabeth is used to it but we won't argue 
 the point." 
 
 Bellamy regarded him a moment. "Then your answer 
 is no?" 
 
 "My answer is no," replied Bradshaw emphatically. 
 
 Still Bellamy hesitated. 
 
 "And there is no possibility of any change?" he per- 
 sisted. 
 
 "None whatever." The older man's voice was irritable 
 and determined. 
 
 Bellamy shrugged his shoulders a little hopelessly and 
 started toward the door. In the hallway he hesitated 
 again. Then he turned once more toward the other man, 
 who had busied himself with his work and seemed al- 
 ready to have dismissed the whole matter from his mind. 
 
 "May I ask of you," Bellamy began, "if you have any 
 objections to me personally? You see, I want to get 
 all my facts in hand before I go ahead." 
 
 Bradshaw was annoyed. Laying his pen aside, he 
 asked with no little exasperation : "Why do you persist 
 on this tack? ... I have given my answer and I have 
 given sufficient reasons for my answer. You certainly 
 
 95
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 can expect no more. Personally, however, I have no 
 objection to you except," he added qualifyingly, "I think 
 you are too smart for one thing." He thought a minute 
 and then explained. "I've sized you up as one of those 
 young fellows who think they know more than their 
 fathers. I don't know where they get it. Even Paul 
 seems headed in that direction. He picked it up at col- 
 lege perhaps, but I can't account for it in you and others 
 like you. All the young men of to-day are chock-full 
 of scepticism and pessimism. They are agnostics and 
 unbelievers. They refuse to take anything in life seri- 
 ously. They poke fun at the churches and scoff at sacred 
 things generally." 
 
 "Please, Mr. Bradshaw," protested the young man, 
 "don't put me in that class. Where did you get the idea 
 that I am of that sort?" 
 
 "From you yourself," Bradshaw answered. "Remem- 
 ber, I have known you for a number of years, and I've 
 heard you talk. Why, only the other night the way you 
 opened up on Gleason was disgraceful. It struck me 
 you had a lot of impertinence to talk to him the way 
 you did. You were interviewing him for your paper, and 
 you showed him no more respect than if he had been 
 some kind of a labour agitator." 
 
 Bellamy smiled faintly. "I did lose my head a little 
 then, didn't I? But the truth of the matter was he got 
 my goat, telling how God calls him from one city to 
 another. And we know especially you ought to know 
 that he couldn't hear God calling with a megaphone if 
 they didn't show him the colour of the coin." 
 
 Bradshaw struck the desk with his flat hand. 
 
 "You see!" he exclaimed. "That's the sort of '.rreli- 
 gious talk I mean. If I had never heard you make state- 
 96
 
 The Curse 
 
 ments like that before, you have given me sufficient evi- 
 dence right now, here in this room, to justify my attitude 
 toward you." He shook his head, and said somewhat 
 paternally, "Yqu've got the wrong angle, my boy." 
 
 "And what about Gleason's angle?" Bellamy tried to 
 hide his resentment toward the older man's accusations. 
 "And what of his irreligiousness ? . . . Listen here." He 
 drew from his pocket a galley proof on which was much 
 fine writing. "Here's an excerpt from his sermon to- 
 night advance copy sent around by his press agent. 
 He's telling the story of David and Goliath." Bellamy 
 drew up his sleeves and squared himself in imitation of 
 Gleason's aggressive manner, and then began reading: 
 " 'Oh, little Dave soaked old Goliath on the coco, be- 
 tween the lamps, and he went down to the mat for the 
 count. Dave took his sword and cut the big fellow's 
 block off, and the rest of the Philistine gang beat it.' " 
 
 Bradshaw could not restrain a smile. 
 
 "That's Gleason's style," he commented. "He means 
 it the right way." 
 
 "Give him credit, boys!" Bellamy said sententiously, 
 laughing. Then he turned to the older man and sat down. 
 His tone was serious again. "I suppose, Mr. Bradshaw, 
 you think my angle on the Tenderloin question is all 
 wrong." 
 
 "I certainly do," answered Bradshaw. "I heard you 
 talking lo Gleason on that subject too, and I was shocked 
 to think that a young man like you would defend any- 
 thing so infamous." 
 
 Bellamy did not hide his resentment this time. "I 
 wasn't defending it, sir. I was only citing some rather 
 convincing crime statistics from other cities which eradi- 
 cated their Tenderloin districts several years ago and are 
 
 97
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 now balancing up their police court records." He turned 
 quickly to Bradshaw. "But don't get the notion I am 
 trying to be smart, for I'm not. It is my conviction that 
 there are two sides to this question, just like every other 
 question, and I told Gleason so. I know the one side is 
 rotten enough. Any reporter who has ever done police 
 court knows that. But if I were in the mayor's place and 
 had it in my power to close 'em or let 'em run, and 
 I wanted to be on the square with my own con- 
 science " He stopped and thought a moment. . . . 
 
 "Well, I swear I don't know what I'd do." 
 
 "It's extremely fortunate for this community," Brad- 
 shaw commented ironically, "that you are not the mayor." 
 
 "Maybe," acquiesced Bellamy, with a whimsical smile. 
 "Still, I don't know I might get by. I had some good 
 lessons at mayoring once." 
 
 Bradshaw snorted with contempt. "Lessons, huh? 
 From whom?" 
 
 "From old Sam Jones in Toledo," replied the other, 
 arising and facing Bradshaw. "I went there once on 
 some political work and met Jones. You remember him 
 they called him Golden Rule Jones because he operated 
 on the do-unto-others-as-you-would-be-done-by plan. His 
 police court was a court of rehabilitation. He found the 
 good that is in every man and built on it. And Toledo 
 was what they call a wide-open town. There were a lot 
 of reformers and shouters busy, of course. A commit- 
 tee just like yours called on Jones one day to ask him 
 to close up the Tenderloin." Bellamy chuckled. "I was 
 in the office at the time. Jones listened patiently to 
 their argument. When they got through, he grinned 
 pleasantly. 'All right, fellows/ he said. 'Let's shut her 
 up. I don't want the Tenderloin here any more than 
 98
 
 you do.' The committee beamed on him. 'Now,' said 
 Jones, 'there are only two ways to do it' 'Well?' said 
 the committee, congratulating themselves on the ease with 
 which they had converted the Mayor. 'The first way,' 
 explained Jones, 'is to chloroform all the inmates that 
 would be murder, and we can't do that, can we?' The 
 committee shook their heads. 'And the only other way,' 
 continued Jones, 'is to drive these women from our town 
 into surrounding towns ; and that would be like dumping 
 our garbage over our back fence. It would be un- 
 neighbourly and an unchristian-like proceeding, and I am 
 sure that none of you fellows would think well of that.' 
 The committee were nonplussed. 'So,' said Jones, aris- 
 ing, 'I guess we had better just let things be as they are.' " 
 
 Bradshaw sniffed contemptuously and went back to his 
 work, indicating that he did not wish to hear any more. 
 
 But Bellamy ignored his action, and continued: 
 
 "The committee got as far as the door when Jones 
 had an idea. 'Hold on, you fellows,' he said. 'There 
 might be a way out of it after all. Now, just supposing 
 we good citizens of Toledo take these women into our 
 homes as guests or servants, and let our wives and daugh- 
 ters reform them. Now you can put Mrs. Jones down 
 for two. How many will your wives take ?' " 
 
 Bellamy slapped his knee and laughed. 
 
 "Say," he went on, "the Chairman of that committee 
 hit the ceiling like a skyrocket. 'Take these women into 
 our homes!' he hollered. 'I've always heard that you 
 were a fool, Jones, and now I know it first hand !' And 
 the meeting busted up right there." 
 
 Bradshaw was secretly impressed. A new point of 
 view had begun to creep in his calculations since the 
 experience of the night before. But when he spoke he 
 
 99
 
 Tiie Eternal Magdalene 
 
 gave no indication of having capitulated even in the 
 slightest degree. 
 
 "So," he remarked, "that's where you got your ideas 
 from a mountebank mayor?" 
 
 Bellamy arose. 
 
 "Some of them," he answered carelessly. "But," he 
 added, like a man who had forgotten something and had 
 it suddenly occur to him, "we're off on a tangent. Have 
 you given any thought to the question I asked you a little 
 while ago? . . . Have I any chance?" 
 
 "I told you you haven't," Bradshaw said angrily. 
 
 "Just the same," the other said, smiling, "I'll ask you 
 again and I'll keep on asking. Maybe you'll change 
 your mind about that and other things. You may even 
 change your mind on this social cleaning-up proposition ; 
 at any rate, I hope you will." 
 
 Bradshaw now saw a way to close the discussion. 
 
 "My dear young man," he said, "I think I am safe in 
 promising that if I do change my mind on that question, 
 I will on all others." 
 
 Bellamy caught up his words eagerly. "That's a bet! 
 I will hold you to that promise." 
 
 He held out his hand and Bradshaw shook it reluc- 
 tantly. 
 
 Five minutes after he had gone, Otto entered the room 
 with a letter. 
 
 "This just came for you, sir," he said, handing it to 
 Bradshaw. Then he left the room quietly. 
 
 The man looked at the envelope curiously. It was 
 unlike the other letters he received. It was on cheap 
 stationery, and the writing was round and unformed as if 
 a child might have written it. It was blotted, too, and 
 his name was misspelled. He opened it with a feeling 
 100
 
 The Curse 
 
 of alarm, although he could not account for his emotion. 
 There was nothing on the outside to indicate what was 
 within. Yet he had a feeling that the contents held 
 something unusual and unpleasant. As he glanced down 
 the page he saw that the letter was unevenly written and 
 poorly punctuated, as if its author had been struggling 
 with an unfamiliar medium. 
 
 It ran: "Mister Bradshaw. Last night I was ar- 
 rested and thrown into jail. This morning the madam 
 came and paid my fine. I went back to my house on 
 Bridge Street, everything I had, clothes, etc., was throwed 
 out in the street. I didn't have any money and I haven't 
 got any friends. There was nowhere for me to go. I 
 went out in your park and met a man, he gave me 
 five dollars. In the afternoon the coppers come to me 
 and said you get out or you'll be put in jail. This is all 
 your doing, you and Gleason are to blame. I wasn't 
 troubling any one and I have a brother I am sending to 
 school, and don't think I'll ever forget you or your 
 friend Gleason. Look what you have done to me and 
 my little brother. This is my home town like it is yours 
 and I'm going to stay here as long as I want to in spite 
 of you and the rotten police, and I'll curse you every 
 minute of the time and this will be the curse which I 
 will work on you your own daughter will be ruined, 
 your son will turn out a thief, and your wife will die and 
 you will die also hated by everybody. Now that is my 
 curse and it will come true. I know it will come true, my 
 mother was a Spaniard, and she always taught me that a 
 curse comes true." 
 
 The letter was signed "Mable Mordaunt." 
 The letter fell from Bradshaw's fingers. Ordinarily 
 such a communication would not have affected him, but 
 
 TOI
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 the crudeness and simplicity of this epistle planted an 
 uncanny fear in his heart. He remembered the words 
 of the Woman when she had told him that there were 
 hundreds like her who were cursing him for what he had 
 done. The tragedy of the night before had unstrung him, 
 and this letter, coming, as it did, when he was shaken 
 and unnerved, frightened him almost like sorcery. He 
 was not a superstitious man, but the strangeness of the 
 events during the past twelve hours had brought him 
 face to face with those hidden mysteries of life at which 
 heretofore he had been inclined to scoff. 
 
 As he sat looking at the letter his face was tense and 
 pale. He thought of the Woman now in his home, and 
 was overpowered by some unaccountable horror, as if the 
 veil had been snatched from the serene surface of life 
 and there had been revealed to him those cryptic currents 
 which lay beyond the understanding of man. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw entered the room unnoticed. 
 
 "I thought you had gone to the office," she began. 
 Then she saw the look on his face, and the terror in his 
 eyes, and came toward him quickly. 
 
 "What is it, Elijah?" she asked, frightened. "What 
 has happened?" 
 
 He drew himself together and smiled weakly. 
 
 "Nothing of any importance," he said, "only this letter 
 gave me a shock for a moment. ... I suppose I was 
 foolish to give it a second thought." 
 
 Alartha Bradshaw read it and said nothing for a long 
 time. Her hand, too, trembled a little, and the colour 
 went from her face. 
 
 "It's awful!" she breathed. "It frightens me. What 
 a terrible curse !" 
 
 The sight of his wife's condition made the man forget 
 1 02
 
 The Curse 
 
 for the moment his own feelings. He went to her and 
 patted her on the shoulder. 
 
 "There, there," he said consolingly, laughing a little, 
 "it means nothing. I suppose I ought to expect this sort 
 of thing." He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. 
 "You always did have a touch of superstition in you," 
 he added. . . . "Now I must be off." 
 
 He rang for his hat and coat. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear," he said, trying to appear indifferent. 
 
 When he had gone, Mrs. Bradshaw sat very still for 
 some minutes, gazing fixedly ahead of her. 
 
 The Woman entered noiselessly and came down the 
 room to where the other sat. There was grief in her 
 eyes as she looked at the seated figure. She paused behind 
 Martha Bradshaw's chair as if she desired to offer com- 
 fort but did not know how to approach her. 
 
 "Are you troubled about anything ?" she asked, after a 
 moment's hesitation, in a voice fraught with compassion. 
 
 The seated woman turned and looked into her serv- 
 ant's eyes. Some deep understanding passed between 
 them. All consciousness of caste fell from them. They 
 were merely two women bound together by the common 
 tie of some unspoken grief. 
 
 "My husband has received a girl's curse in the form of 
 a letter," Martha Bradshaw answered simply. 
 
 "And it has made you suffer," the Woman answered. 
 "It may be all for the best," she went on gently. "It may 
 be part of some great plan to bring your husband, through 
 the fire of suffering, to a truer understanding of the 
 tragedies of others. ... I am sorry for your sake. But 
 it is always the woman's part to help bear the burdens 
 for those they love." 
 
 "You believe that ?" asked the other. 
 
 103
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "I know it," the Woman answered. 
 
 "I don't understand you or why you are here," Mar- 
 tha Bradshaw said slowly. "But somehow I feel that 
 you belong here that we have always been waiting for 
 your coming, and never knew it." 
 
 104
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE STORM-CLOUD 
 
 JUDGE AMOS BASCOMB sat in his luxurious offices 
 talking with his architect and builder. His hand- 
 some terraces on Livingston Avenue had just been com- 
 pleted, and already the tenants were moving in. Every 
 suite of rooms had been taken months before the build- 
 ings were completed. Livingston Avenue was one of the 
 handsomest residential streets in Edenburg, and although 
 the property owners had at first objected to the Judge's 
 scheme of erecting his terraces, they had given in when 
 they had seen the houses' prospective beauty in the plans. 
 The erection of these modern and expensive flats had 
 been a fond desire of the Judge's ever since he had re- 
 signed from the Judiciary. He had always wished to 
 build in Edenburg a group of the most beautiful apart- 
 ment buildings which the city had ever owned. 
 
 To-day his favourite enterprise had been completed. 
 When he spoke to his builder it was with unfeigned de- 
 light and satisfaction for what had been accomplished. 
 BraMshaw, as a friend of Judge Bascomb's, had used his 
 influence to make them a success, and the Judge had 
 been grateful. When Bradshaw in his turn had called 
 upon the Judge to lend his name to the vice crusade, 
 the latter had readily acquiesced. He was far from 
 being a devout man, but he did not let his personal 
 prejudices and habits stand in the way of allying himself 
 
 105
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 with so valuable a constituency as the citizens who were 
 back of the reform movement. To be sure, the Judge 
 attended Smollet's services, but even in this practice he 
 was simply following out the indications of a commercial 
 compass. 
 
 When he retired from membership in the Judiciary he 
 was a much wealthier man than when he had entered it. 
 No one seemed to know just where he had acquired his 
 money. And although there was some hint of irregulari- 
 ties and briberies, no charges against the Judge had ever 
 been substantiated. His social popularity had tended to 
 discourage any unpleasant speculations on the part of 
 those who knew him, and the subject of his wealth had 
 become an accepted and commonplace fact to which 
 attached no stricture. During the ten years of his retire- 
 ment he had devoted himself to many business enter- 
 prises, had taken elaborate quarters in one of Eden- 
 burg's largest office buildings, and had become an im- 
 portant factor in Edenburg's commercial life. 
 
 He was now a man of about sixty-five, white-haired 
 and smooth-shaven. He was robust and hearty, with a 
 slight leaning toward corpulency, and was considered a 
 jovial and pleasant companion. Though he had never 
 married, he was fond of women impersonally and in the 
 aggregate, and they on their part found him agreeable 
 and attractive. He lived extravagantly, enjoyed the good 
 things of life, and entertained lavishly. He was an in- 
 timate friend of Elijah Bradshaw and other prominent 
 citizens of Edenburg, had always contributed generously 
 to charity, and was much sought after as an after-dinner 
 speaker, no matter what the occasion. In some way or 
 other he had a hand in all the important movements of 
 the city's social and economic life. But in his activities 
 1 06
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 he always had a shrewd and penetrating eye on his own 
 welfare and the advantages to be gained by his popular- 
 ity. He had lined himself up with the reformers for 
 the same reason that pirates sometimes consider it ex- 
 pedient to wear masks when scuttling a ship. 
 
 The younger men of Edenburg looked upon him as a 
 gay and worldly old gentleman worthy of emulation. And 
 though there were extant many tales of unconventional 
 escapades in which he played the part of host, his hearty 
 and good-natured manner was such that his acts were al- 
 ways forgiven. He drank much, though he rarely showed 
 the effects of this indulgence. Being unmarried, he was 
 a victim of corrosive gossip. There were times when 
 he had been on the brink of ostracism in certain of the 
 more strait-laced quarters of the city, but it always 
 happened that he managed to escape that fate and suc- 
 ceeded in reinstating himself to the good graces of 
 those who had questioned the propriety of his pri- 
 vate life. 
 
 His name appeared regularly in the public prints. 
 When he walked down Edenburg's business streets he 
 was accosted familiarly but with respect by most of thef 
 prominent men who met him; and in all the principal 
 cafes and restaurants he was treated deferentially. He 
 was generous in his expenditures and paid his bills 
 promptly. For this reason much was forgiven him ; many 
 concessions were made him. He was active, too, in the 
 sporting life of Edenburg, and seemed to have many 
 secret wires which he could pull with its government 
 when occasion demanded it. 
 
 "By the end of the week, Arthur," he said to his 
 builder, checking off the floor plans of his terraces, "every 
 suite will be occupied and by the best class of people 
 
 107
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 it is possible to get. Smollet has sent me a dozen. Good 
 old Smollet ! He should have been a business man, not a 
 minister. And what do you think, Arthur? I offered 
 to pay him an agent's commission on the side for using 
 his influence among his parishioners, and he refused to 
 take a cent! . . . No; after all," he laughed, "I guess 
 Smollet wouldn't make a good business man. He's too 
 damned conscientious." 
 
 He paused a moment and drew before him an estimate 
 which his contractor had made for the garden work of 
 the terraces' lawns. 
 
 "I have decided, Arthur, to let you go ahead with 
 your ideas," he said abruptly. "The price is high, but I 
 don't want any competition in other quarters. Put in 
 those imported trees, and get to work on the job at once. 
 I want the yards in ship-shape condition by the end of 
 the week." 
 
 "You're doing the right thing, Judge," the other as- 
 sured him. "You've got a gold-mine in those houses, and 
 there's no excuse for economy." 
 
 "That's the way I figured it," the Judge replied. "Now 
 get busy." 
 
 After a few minutes' scrutiny of the plans before 
 him, he put on his silk hat and drove to Bradshaw's 
 office. 
 
 "Bradshaw," he announced suavely, when he had been 
 admitted, "I want to get a big story in the newspapers 
 about my new terraces. I wouldn't trouble you, only I 
 know that you stand pretty close with young Bellamy, and 
 he seems to have things his own way on the Star. If he'd 
 write the story for me it would suit me down to the 
 ground. . . . Do you feel like asking him?" 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw smiled craftily. "The easiest thing 
 108
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 in the world, Judge. And what's more, I can promise 
 you that Bellamy will do it. Only this morning he asked 
 to marry my daughter Elizabeth. . . . Come to my house 
 this evening, and I'll have Bellamy there." 
 
 The Judge thanked him and departed. 
 
 All that morning Bradshaw had tried to work, but 
 the events of the night before, coupled with the letter he 
 had received that morning, so occupied his thoughts that 
 it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could keep 
 his mind on his tasks. Several times he had taken the 
 letter from his pocket and reread it. It had cast a spell 
 over him, and though he strove to throw it off, he could 
 not react from its influence. 
 
 As he was about to go to luncheon one of his fore- 
 women asked to see him. She held in her hand a news- 
 paper. 
 
 "Mr. Bradshaw," she asked, placing the paper on his 
 desk, "what do you want me to do about this?" 
 
 The item to which she pointed told of a Mrs. Young 
 on Orchard Street who was suing her husband for 
 divorce. It was a spectacular case which the papers were 
 playing up because of certain racy details in the woman's 
 petition. 
 
 "You know," the forewoman explained, "Mrs. Young 
 is the girl who works in the jewelry department. Her 
 prettiness has already attracted enough of atten- 
 tion and I know how you feel about these things. 
 Her husband is one of the Chipping clerks here, and 
 it looks as though the store might be in for a little 
 scandal." 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw had always been strict when it came 
 to the private actions of his employes. Before he would 
 give a girl or a man a position his first demand on them 
 
 109
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 was a recommendation of character. It was in line with 
 all his theories and beliefs, and the papers had often 
 commended him for his attitude. 
 
 When he had finished reading the story, which was 
 accompanied by a large cut of the girl, he answered 
 harshly: "Of course, we can't stand for this. We must 
 get rid of both of them at once. . . . You should have 
 attended to it without coming to me." 
 
 The woman hesitated. 
 
 "The fact is, Mr. Bradshaw," she said, "I did go to the 
 girl and tell her she would have to go, but she cried and 
 said she had no money and no other way to support her- 
 self especially now that she had left her husband. She 
 told a pitiful story of his abuse; and inasmuch as there 
 seemed to be extenuating circumstances I thought it best 
 to consult you. . . ." 
 
 "I see," Bradshaw replied imperturbably. "But, after 
 all, it's no fault of ours. The good name of the store 
 comes first. This is not a philanthropic institution. The 
 girl will have to look out for herself. Let her check in 
 at once." 
 
 He waved his hand in dismissal, and the woman left 
 the room. 
 
 The next moment the incident was forgotten, so far as 
 Bradshaw was concerned. 
 
 That afternoon he went home early. His head had 
 ached and he had been unfit for work. He had tele- 
 phoned to Bellamy and asked him to call that evening. 
 In his study he met the Woman arranging flowers on his 
 desk. 
 
 "Well, how do you find it?" he asked her. 
 
 "I like it here," the Woman answered serenely. "But 
 I could see this morning that you were worried. Per- 
 no
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 haps you weren't sure of me keeping your secret. I don't 
 want you ever to give that a thought. I shall never break 
 my word. I like your wife and your children. I shall 
 do nothing to give them pain." 
 
 Bradshaw regarded her closely. "I am glad of that. 
 Do you think you will be content here under the circum- 
 stances ?" 
 
 "Quite content," the Woman answered. "You see, I 
 have a mission here." 
 
 Bradshaw did not understand. "A mission?" 
 
 The Woman smiled enigmatically. 
 
 "I want you to see things in their true light," she said. 
 Then she looked at him fixedly. "Have you done any- 
 thing to-day which might hurt your conscience ?" 
 
 For the first time since the forewoman had left his 
 office to carry out his instructions, Bradshaw thought of 
 the girl he had discharged. Why that should have come 
 to his mind at this moment he did not know. Yet the 
 Woman's gaze on him, together with the memory of his 
 act, made him feel a slight tinge of guilt. Could she in 
 any way have found out ? The question flashed through 
 his mind, but went as quickly as it came. He dismissed 
 it as an absurdity. Then he smiled. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 "Are you sure ?" the Woman asked him. 
 
 "Of course, I am sure," he replied quickly, resentful 
 because of her question. "Now leave me. I want to 
 rest a while before dinner." 
 
 The Woman turned without a word, a look of hope- 
 less sorrow on her face, and walked silently out of the 
 room. 
 
 Bradshaw watched her until she had disappeared. 
 Then with a shrug he dismissed any suspicion which 
 
 in
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 might have been in his mind, and sat down in an easy 
 chair. 
 
 An hour later, when he went into dinner, he noticed 
 that his son's chair was vacant. 
 
 "Where's Paul?" he demanded. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw looked at him sadly. "I don't know, 
 Elijah, Paul seems to be drifting away from us. Lately, 
 when I have asked him where he has been, he has been 
 irritable and evasive. Sometimes, I think we are too 
 strict with him. I think he'd stay home more if the 
 atmosphere were different. He's twenty- four now and 
 resents being treated like a child." 
 
 "Resents my treatment of him?" Bradshaw flared up 
 angrily. "He's a young ingrate ! Only last night he tried 
 to argue with me that he shouldn't go to the Gleason 
 meeting. . . . I'll give him something to resent when I 
 get hold of him. This is downright disobedience. I told 
 him to come home to dinner and to go with you and 
 Elizabeth to the Tabernacle to-night, and here it is seven 
 o'clock and he hasn't turned up yet. He gets out of the 
 bank at five o'clock, and there's no excuse for his not be- 
 ing here now. . . . But he'll show up for the meeting," 
 Bradshaw added. "Sometimes I wonder if there isn't a 
 
 woman at the bottom of his recalcitrance. If there 
 j s 
 
 He clenched his fist and snapped his teeth together. 
 He would have said something more, but he felt the som- 
 bre eyes of the Woman on him. He looked up and met 
 her gaze for the fraction of a second. There was a 
 reprimand in her eyes, as if she had suddenly become an 
 intermediary between him and his son a protector of 
 the young man. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw shook her head a trifle hopelessly. 
 
 112
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 "You're too hard on Paul," she said; "he's not a bad 
 boy." 
 
 "Of course he's not," put in Elizabeth, "but Paul likes 
 to have fun. Why shouldn't he ? You don't know, dad, 
 what it means to be shut up here all the time and made 
 to do this and that." 
 
 "That will do!" Bradshaw brought the discussion to 
 an end. Throughout the rest of the meal no further 
 reference was made to the subject. 
 
 During the coffee, the door bell rang. Bradshaw 
 turned to the Woman. 
 
 "Answer that," he said. "It is probably Judge Bas- 
 comb. I am expecting him and Bellamy to-night. Tell 
 him to wait for me in the study." 
 
 The Woman went as she was bid. Judge Bascomb 
 and the Reverend Smollet were outside. She held the 
 door open and led them into the study. 
 
 "Mr. Bradshaw has not quite finished his dinner," she 
 said, taking their hats. "He asks that you be so kind as 
 to wait for him." 
 
 The Judge regarded her critically, letting his twinkling 
 eyes run up and down her. He chuckled a little as he 
 sat down. 
 
 "Thank you very much," he said courteously, almost 
 sweetly. As she left the room his eyes followed her. 
 
 "Rather attractive young person, Smollet," he com- 
 mented with a grin. 
 
 "Quite," returned Smollet stiffly. Then he added : "I 
 never saw her before. She's a new addition to the house- 
 hold." 
 
 The old Judge was rubbing his hands together, still 
 looking down the hall after the retreating Woman. 
 
 "Something of a beauty, too, I should say, Smollet.
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 . . . Are you anything of a connoisseur in these mat- 
 ters?" 
 
 Smollet, pleased at the Judge's assumption of his 
 worldliness, replied: "Hardly; I leave that to your 
 judicial discretion." 
 
 Bascomb laughed. "I am afraid I am prejudicial 
 where pretty women are concerned. As for discretion 
 well, that comes with years, and you know I am still 
 in my early twenties." He arose and walked up and 
 down jauntily, in the imitation of youth. 
 
 Smollet laughed at his antics. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Judge," he agreed smoothly. "You get 
 younger every day." 
 
 The Judge turned, his face bright with having received 
 this compliment. "But I hope the time will never come 
 when I can't admire a pretty face or figure." 
 
 The Reverend Smollet was a little shocked, but he 
 nevertheless said "Amen" with forced facetiousness. 
 
 The Judge's manner became serious. He knitted his 
 brow as if trying to remember something. 
 
 "This girl looks familiar. I've seen her somewhere, I 
 think." He was confused by the startled look on Smol- 
 let's face. "Some other home," he supplied hastily. 
 "She's simply a housemaid, isn't she ?" His tone became 
 penetrating once more. "It shows how much confidence 
 Mrs. Bradshaw has in her husband, having such pretty 
 girls about." 
 
 "Bradshaw never gives her cause to worry on that 
 score," Smollet assured the Judge with seriousness. He 
 felt that his friend should be defended from any sug- 
 gestion of calumny. 
 
 "Oh, of course not, Smollet," the Judge replied. "That 
 was only a little joke of mine." He looked around the 
 114
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 room. "Bradshaw has a very pleasant time here. . . . 
 Well, he deserves it. He's what I call a self-made man, 
 if there ever was one. Full of real American stuff. 
 Has the courage of his convictions, too and that's what 
 a lot of us lack." 
 
 To all of that Smollet agreed enthusiastically. "Gen- 
 uinely successful, I call him. He has plenty of money 
 which he earned himself honestly. He has a remark- 
 able family, too a wife any man would be proud of, 
 a sweet and beautiful daughter, and a promising son." 
 
 The Judge sat down. "Yes, he seems to have achieved 
 happiness if there is any such commodity in the world. 
 He is certainly to be envied." 
 
 "And furthermore," added Smollet, "what is of more 
 importance of all he is a God-fearing, charitable citi- 
 zen." 
 
 The Judge drew up his mouth queerly and said : "Let 
 us hope that God will not play the trick on him he did 
 on our old friend Job." 
 
 " 'Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,' " quoted the 
 other. 
 
 At this moment Bellamy rang and was admitted. 
 
 "Good evening, gentlemen," he said pleasantly. He 
 looked at the Judge in quizzical good humour. "Ah, I 
 smell a plot. . . . Well, whatever it is, Judge, you'll find 
 me a willing and ready victim." 
 
 "I must say, Mr. Bellamy," the minister hastened to 
 put in, seeing his friend's abashment, "that you have 
 acted splendidly during our campaign. You have helped 
 us a great deal." 
 
 "Tut, tut!" the reporter replied. "That's part of my 
 business. If you were in favour of segregation, I would 
 help you just as much perhaps a little more."
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Smollet. "Do you mean to tell 
 me you are not in sympathy with us?" 
 
 Bellamy thought a moment. "Has it ever occurred to 
 you, gentlemen, that there are two sides to the Tender- 
 loin question?" he asked. 
 
 "To be sure," the Judge agreed readily. "The right 
 side and the wrong side." 
 
 "Just that !" replied Bellamy, smiling. "There are lots 
 of people of intelligence, doctors among them, and cer- 
 tainly many mothers, who believe that the whole crusade 
 is a big mistake." 
 
 "But you are certainly not one of them, Mr. Bellamy," 
 protested the Reverend Smollet with assurance. 
 
 "Why, I'm not so sure of that." The young man drew 
 up a chair and sat down. "In my business I get a pretty 
 good slant of both sides. You know, don't you, that these 
 women are not leaving town ; they are simply scattering. 
 Lots of people are hollering to the police already because 
 their neighbourhoods are being invaded." 
 
 The Judge laughed heartily. "Let 'em holler! Eh, 
 Smollet?" 
 
 The minister pursed his lips. 
 
 "Well," he drew out slowly, "I hope what Mr. Bellamy 
 says isn't altogether true. In fact, I am inclined to doubt 
 it. The Chief of Police assured me that most of the 
 women would be forced out of town." 
 
 "That's probably what the Chief hopes, but I bet he 
 knows better," Bellamy replied. 
 
 Bradshaw entered the room. 
 
 "Ah", good evening, gentlemen," he said, without en- 
 thusiasm. "Smollet, I'm glad to see you." 
 
 "I met Smollet on his way to the Tabernacle, and 
 brought him along. In a case of this kind it is good 
 116
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 perhaps to have moral support." The Judge looked at 
 Bellamy jocularly. 
 
 "Perhaps," Bradshaw commented. "By the way, 
 Bellamy, the reason I asked you to come here to-night 
 is because I wanted you to do a little favour for the Judge 
 and me. You see, the Judge's new terraces on Liv- 
 ingston Avenue have been finished to-day. They are 
 very beautiful flats the finest in Edenburg and I want 
 to make sure that they are given the proper display in 
 the papers. I knew you would be glad to see to this in 
 the Star" 
 
 "Certainly, Mr. Bradshaw," Bellamy answered lightly. 
 "We strive to please. Now, Judge, give me a picture of 
 your elevations oh, don't tell me you haven't them with 
 you : I know you have ! and I'll write a story about 
 them that will make the descriptions of Gautier read like 
 a first reader." 
 
 The Judge handed the young man a roll of pic- 
 tures. 
 
 "Very good of you, Bellamy," he said, offering his 
 hand. 
 
 "Don't mention it, Judge," the other replied humor- 
 ously. Then he smiled broadly and significantly. 
 "There's not any of your other property you'd perhaps 
 like to have written up, is there?" 
 
 Bascomb's manner suddenly changed, and he frowned. 
 
 "No, thank you certainly not," he replied curtly. 
 
 "Well, now that my usefulness is over, I'll be off," 
 Bellamy announced, bowing adieu to the three men. 
 Then he paused, looking first at the Judge and then 
 to the Reverend Smollet. "I'm sorry we can't prolong 
 that argument on the Tenderloin. I've got facts up 
 my sleeve that would amaze you." 
 
 117
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "You newspaper men are a menace to the community," 
 the Judge declared banteringly. 
 
 "Except when you run for office, or want your en- 
 terprises written up eh, Judge?" he asked in good 
 humour. Then he turned to the minister. "Or when 
 Good Samaritans like Dr. Smollet need publicity for 
 their New Year's Eve grill-room crusades eh, Rever- 
 end? . . . Good night." 
 
 In the hallway he met Elizabeth. 
 
 "What was father's answer, Jack?" she asked him. 
 
 "His answer was 'No' ; but I'm not through with him 
 yet." 
 
 "I'm afraid he'll never change his mind." The girl 
 looked at him wistfully. "I have never known him 
 to." 
 
 "Well, we'll see," said the young man, and he stole 
 a kiss from her as he went out. 
 
 "He's a precocious young fellow," Smollet remarked 
 in an attempt to recover his composure. 
 
 "Precocious?" The Judge's tone was a little angry. 
 "He's positively pestiferous. He's actually been tell- 
 ing us, Bradshaw, that we've made a mistake in this 
 whole campaign, Gleason and all." 
 
 Bradshaw did not reply at once. He bowed his head 
 as if in thought. "We have made no mistake, gentle- 
 men " 
 
 The Woman came into the room quietly and drew the 
 heavy curtains at the window. She crossed to the fire- 
 place and put on another piece of wood. Then she went 
 out without having looked at any one. 
 
 Bradshaw had watched her. "That is," he corrected 
 himself, "I hope we have made no mistakes. But some- 
 thing has happened that makes me wish I had not taken 
 118
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 such a prominent part in it. ... I had a great sorrow 
 come to me last night." 
 
 The Reverend Smollet arose and crossed the room 
 to where Bradshaw sat. 
 
 "Why, my dear friend," he said consolingly. "I 
 never dreamed that anything had happened." 
 
 The Judge also arose. "I am sorry to hear you say 
 this. . . . Smollet, I think we had better be going. 
 It is almost time for the meeting, anyway. Will you 
 join us later, Bradshaw?" 
 
 The man addressed looked up. 
 
 "I shall try to. But before you go I want to show 
 you a letter I received last night." 
 
 He took Mabel Mordaunt's communication from his 
 pocket and handed it to Smollet. 
 
 The minister had just begun to read it when he was 
 interrupted by the hearty voice of Gleason, who had 
 admitted himself by the front door without ringing 
 and stood at the entrance of the study. 
 
 "Hello, every one !" he called. "I dropped in to make 
 sure Bradshaw wouldn't slip one over on me again 
 to-night. . . . You should have been there last night, 
 friend," he added, coming down the room. "Two hun- 
 dred and eighty hit the trail. . . . Say !" He waved his 
 arms. "In another week we will ring the curfew on 
 our scarlet sisters." 
 
 "I was just showing Smollet a letter I got this morn- 
 ing," Bradshaw replied quietly. 
 
 "Oh, a squawk, eh?" Gleason laughed boisterously. 
 "Don't let that worry you. You ought to see some 
 of my mail. Say, I get junk every day that would 
 tie a can to anything you ever saw." He turned to 
 Smollet. "Let's see it, friend. I'll bet it's a riot." 
 
 119
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Gleason took the letter and began reading it aloud. 
 At first his tone had been derisive, but as he read on 
 down the page his face grew more solemn, and his voice 
 became low and monotonous. 
 
 When he began the Woman had appeared in the hall- 
 way, unseen by those in the room. She stood there un- 
 til the man had finished, a troubled look on her face. 
 
 Gleason studied the letter a few moments before he 
 said anything. 
 
 "This is a stiff one," he had to admit. Then he threw 
 his head back and laughed, assuming his usual hearty 
 and cocksure manner. "Oh, well, what's the dif? . . . 
 Anyhow, you'd better cross your fingers, Bradshaw." He 
 went to the man to whom he had spoken. "Here, put 
 this in your vanity box, and forget it." 
 
 He turned and started for the door. 
 
 "Come on, Smollet, it's getting late. When I passed 
 the Tabernacle the customers were coming in bunches. 
 Keep your eye peeled for the fireworks to-night. . . . Are 
 you coming, Bradshaw?" 
 
 "In a little while; in a little while," the other re- 
 plied, preoccupied, again held under the spell of the 
 letter. He did not move or look up as the other three 
 men left him. 
 
 The Woman came slowly down the room to where 
 he sat. 
 
 "I'm very sorry about that letter," she said compas- 
 sionately. "I was standing in the hall, and I heard Mr. 
 Gleason read it. You shouldn't let it trouble you. If 
 these things are to happen to you, they will happen. 
 If not, no curse can bring them about." 
 
 Bradshaw looked up at her sharply. For the first 
 time he associated the letter in some way with the pres- 
 120
 
 The Storm-Cloud 
 
 ence of the Woman in the house. Perhaps, this too was 
 a part of her scheme, he thought. It might have been 
 she who had instigated it. She might even have writ- 
 ten the letter. She at least had it in her power to fulfil 
 some of its threats. His expression of worry changed 
 to one of hatred. 
 
 "You know something about this letter," he accused 
 her. "Tell me what it means." 
 
 The Woman studied him pityingly. 
 
 "I know nothing of the letter," she replied calmly. "I 
 once saw the girl who wrote it that is all. Haven't 
 I told you that I am not here to harm you, but to help 
 you?" 
 
 Something in her voice reassured the man. "I am a 
 fool to give the letter a second thought. Only, I worry 
 so about my children. My daughter is irreligious, and 
 my son disobeys me. I told him to be here to dinner 
 to-night, and here it is time to go to the Tabernacle, 
 and he has not appeared yet. And since you came I 
 have felt all the time as if I were on the point of being 
 exposed and disgraced." 
 
 The Woman touched him gently on his arm. 
 
 "If you are disgraced it will not be because of me. 
 And as for your children, they are unhappy and rest- 
 less because of your demands on them. You show them 
 too little tenderness and human kindliness. Have you 
 ever thought of that?" 
 
 Bradshaw arose and brushed the Woman aside. 
 
 "What business have you criticising me ? Why should 
 you preach to me in this manner? All I want from you 
 is silence and you have given me your word to keep 
 it. For the rest, I can take care of myself and my 
 own." 
 
 121
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 He put on his hat and went out. 
 
 The Woman drew back the curtains of the window 
 and watched him until he had disappeared in the shad- 
 ows. When she turned again into the room there was 
 a sadness and disappointment in her look, as one who 
 had hoped greatly for something and had been defeated.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A PRIESTESS OF APHRODITE IN A LIMOUSINE 
 
 IT was after midnight when Paul walked cautiously 
 up the front roadway to his home. He looked up 
 at the windows anxiously. There was no light and he 
 gave a sigh of relief. He stepped on tiptoe across the 
 front porch, but hesitated before ringing the bell. He 
 was afraid the sound of his entrance would arouse his 
 father ; and to-night he did not feel like having a scene. 
 If he could go in unnoticed, he planned to leave for his 
 office early the next morning, so that he might avoid 
 altogether coming face to face with the older man. As 
 he paused undecidedly before the door he was paler than 
 usual, and his hands worked nervously. He was obvi- 
 ously under some strain, and he had the appearance of 
 one who had gone through an unpleasant ordeal. 
 
 As he approached nearer the door, endeavouring to 
 make no sound, he was astonished to find that some 
 one from the inside was opening it noiselessly. In the 
 faint cool moonlight of October he could discern dimly 
 the Woman standing with her hand on the knob, holding 
 the door so that he might enter. 
 
 "Be careful," she warned him in a whisper, as he 
 stepped into the room. "Your father was restless to- 
 night, and he may be awake. If he hears you he will 
 come down." 
 
 "How does it come that you were here to let me in ?" 
 
 123
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 the young man asked, dum founded at so unusual an 
 occurrence. 
 
 "I knew you were out," she whispered. "I sat up 
 waiting for you. Now you had better go to your room 
 and try to get a good rest." 
 
 She closed the door and locked it softly. Then she 
 stood aside while the man walked up the stairs, won- 
 dering. 
 
 The next morning his mother came to his room. 
 
 "When did you come in, son ?" she asked him tenderly. 
 "I didn't hear you last night." 
 
 He told her how he had been admitted and repeated 
 what the Woman had said to him. 
 
 "There is something strange about it," Martha Brad- 
 shaw said, as if to herself. "I do not altogether under- 
 stand her. She is an unusual woman. But somehow I 
 feel safer and more peaceful when she is around." 
 
 There came a knock on the door. The Woman her- 
 self entered. 
 
 "I hear your father rising," she said, addressing her- 
 self to the young man. "He will be downstairs in half 
 an hour. I thought, perhaps, you would want to know." 
 
 She turned and went out, closing the door behind her 
 softly. 
 
 "Say, she's a wonder!" commented Paul to his mother. 
 "How did she know I wanted to get out before dad 
 came down?" 
 
 He finished his dressing hurriedly. 
 
 "I'll try to be home for dinner to-night," he said, 
 kissing his mother. 
 
 He went below and hurried out of the house. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw sat a while in her son's room. Then 
 she rang for the Woman. 
 124
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 "I don't feel that you are a servant," she said, hesi- 
 tatingly, when the Woman had entered. "I wish you 
 would tell me something about yourself." 
 
 The other smiled quietly. 
 
 "There is nothing I can tell you," she said. "I am 
 a servant in the house, and because I love your 
 children and want to help them you mustn't think that 
 I am anything else." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw was not entirely satisfied with her 
 answer, but she felt that, even had the Woman some- 
 thing more to tell her, it would not be told. There was 
 about her something unfathomable something provoca- 
 tive of speculation. 
 
 "That was all I wanted," she told the Woman with 
 undisguised embarrassment. 
 
 After breakfast, as she was putting on her hat and 
 coat preparatory to going out, the Woman came into 
 the room again. 
 
 "You are going down there again to-day?" she 
 asked her. 
 
 For some unaccountable reason Martha Bradshaw did 
 not resent this curiosity on the other's part, although she 
 realised that had any of the other servants made a simi- 
 lar enquiry she would have reprimanded them. Now, 
 she merely nodded her head. 
 
 "I am glad you are going," the Woman said. "Don't 
 judge them quickly. They suffer enough, God knows, 
 even if they are unmolested." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw scrutinised the Woman closely, but 
 saw only serenity and tenderness in the other's gaze. 
 
 "I want to help them," she said, a trifle impressed. 
 She had never before spoken of these matters with her 
 servants. "I want to do what I can for them." Then 
 
 125
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 some impulse made her add: "I sometimes feel that my 
 husband is too severe in his judgments of them." 
 
 "I am glad you feel that way," the Woman remarked, 
 as she opened the door. "I wish he, too, might feel 
 the same." 
 
 All that day the Woman's words remained in Martha 
 Bradshaw's mind. The incident, simple and genuine as 
 it was, had been too singular to be forgotten. It left her 
 with a feeling which she could not analyse. Now, even 
 more than was her wont, she was charitable and for- 
 giving to those whom she interviewed. Her desire to 
 help all who needed her was stronger than it had been 
 formerly. But, because of this reanimated desire, her 
 task seemed more hopeless than ever. On every hand 
 she heard stories of the misery being wrought by the 
 crusade of which her husband was the instigator. At 
 many places, when it was learned who she was, the door 
 was shut on her. But these acts did not anger her. They 
 only made her suffer the more. 
 
 Late in the afternoon she found herself in a little 
 apartment near Bridge Street. In one of the houses 
 which she had previously visited, the woman in charge 
 told her of a young girl who, for a year, had been a con- 
 sumptive. So quickly had the disease taken hold of her 
 constitution that she was unfit to be around. The woman 
 had been on the point of sending her to a public sana- 
 torium when another woman, whose house had been 
 closed by the police, offered to take the girl and care 
 for her. Mrs. Bradshaw had been deeply interested in 
 the story. It seemed unusual that a keeper of a house 
 of prostitution should have attempted to save a girl 
 from a charitable institution. She asked for the woman's 
 address, and it was given her. When she arrived at 
 126
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 the place she had been admitted by a maid. She was 
 now waiting to see the woman. 
 
 The room in which she sat was small but tastefully 
 furnished. There were many books on the shelves, and 
 near her was a piano, on the rack of which stood music 
 which she had never associated with that part of the 
 city selections from the better-class operas, selections 
 from Mozart, a transcription of a Beethoven sonata, and 
 others of a like nature. The furnishings of the room 
 were quiet and unostentatious and breathed forth an at- 
 mosphere of culture. 
 
 As she sat wondering at the uncommonness of her 
 surroundings, the curtains parted and a tall, quietly- 
 dressed, refined-looking woman entered. 
 
 "I am Miss Dumond," the newcomer said graciously, 
 approaching the other woman. "Blanche Dumond per- 
 haps you have heard my name." 
 
 The visitor introduced herself also. 
 
 "It was very good of you to come, Mrs. Bradshaw," 
 the woman said politely. "Is there anything I can do 
 to help you? I have heard of your work here among 
 the women, and I have read a little of it in the news- 
 papers. ... I believe you are doing the right thing." 
 
 Martha Bradshaw was taken a little aback at the 
 other's quietness and good-breeding. 
 
 "I came to enquire about the sick girl you so gen- 
 erously offered to care for," she explained. "I wanted 
 to know if there isn't something I could do, or some help 
 I can give." 
 
 "You are very good," Blanche Dumond replied, seat- 
 ing herself. "But I have quite a little money, and as 
 long as that lasts the girl will need no other help. . . . 
 I am leaving the city very soon, and I shall take the 
 
 127
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 girl with me. The air in this quarter, you know, isn't 
 very healthful." 
 
 It was over an hour later that Martha Bradshaw went 
 out to her waiting car. During that time she had learned 
 much. She had found in Blanche Dumond a woman of 
 education and broad sympathies. She had been more 
 than interested in this new acquaintance personally as 
 well as sociologically. After the first half-hour's chat 
 the restraint and formality, which at first existed between 
 them, had drifted out of their speech and they had 
 talked together intimately and seriously of their widely 
 separated walks of life. 
 
 Blanche Dumond had told her of cases in which help 
 was sorely needed, cases which ordinarily would not 
 have been revealed to an outsider. But, curious as it 
 seemed to her later, Martha Bradshaw had taken a liking 
 to the woman, and the woman in turn had appeared 
 to like her. Several times she found herself comparing 
 this woman of the Tenderloin to the good women she 
 herself associated with daily, and, save for her con- 
 scious knowledge of this one's profession, she could see 
 little difference between her and them. Blanche Dumond 
 was well informed, quiet and sympathetic, gracious in 
 her bearing, and possessed of an unmistakable air of 
 gentle upbringing. 
 
 "Are there many of your profession who are like 
 you?" Martha Bradshaw had asked her naively. 
 
 "We are not all so bad as we are painted," the 
 woman had answered, smiling faintly at her joke, just 
 as if it had not been founded on a serious and tragic 
 fact. 
 
 "Will you come to my house to tea," Mrs. Bradshaw 
 had asked her on parting, "say, to-morrow? I really 
 128
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 feel as if I would like to know you better. There are 
 so many things you can tell me things of which 
 I am terribly ignorant. And I want you to meet my 
 husband, too. I am sure he has the wrong idea about 
 some of you. You will be a revelation to him. And," 
 she added, smiling to herself, "if you will let me, I shall 
 invite one or two others. I feel that you could do them 
 more good in five minutes than I could if I talked to 
 them a year." 
 
 More than ever she was convinced now that there 
 was some great mistake being made in the manner in 
 which the crusade was being carried on; and again she 
 thought of the Woman's words to her as she had left 
 her home that morning. 
 
 "You will come to-morrow, won't you ?" She held out 
 her hand to Blanche Dumond. 
 
 "I really believe you want me, too," the other replied 
 after a moment. "And if you think I can help to give 
 your husband and perhaps some others a little differ- 
 ent point of view, there would be nothing in the world 
 I'd like better." 
 
 On her way home Martha Bradshaw was inclined 
 to regret the hasty impulse which had led her to invite 
 Blanche Dumond to her house. When she had spoken 
 to'the woman about having others present at the tea, she 
 had had in mind Judge Bascomb and the Reverend Smol- 
 let. After consideration of what she had done she was 
 afraid of the way her husband would take it. Yet the 
 woman's personality had appealed to her strongly. 
 Blanche Dumond had put into words the half-formulated 
 thoughts and opinions which for weeks had been gath- 
 ering in her own mind thoughts and opinions which she 
 believed to be right, but which she had not dared admit 
 
 129
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 even to herself. All the facts of her weeks of inves- 
 tigation had led her to just these conclusions, but, be- 
 cause they were diametrically opposed to those of her 
 husband and to the work to which he was giving his 
 energy and money, she had hesitated to accept them as 
 part of her creed. 
 
 That night she said nothing to her husband of her 
 afternoon's experience, or her plans for the following 
 day. She wrote notes to the Reverend Smollet and 
 Judge Bascomb, asking them to call, but giving them 
 no hint of why she wished to see them. At breakfast 
 she asked Elijah Bradshaw to come home early from the 
 office, explaining that she was having some people to 
 tea. It was not an unusual request, and he did not ques- 
 tion her as to details. 
 
 In the afternoon he returned before the others had 
 arrived. Martha Bradshaw went to him. 
 
 "Elijah," she said, putting her arms about his shoul- 
 ders, "I don't want you to be angry with me for what 
 I have done." 
 
 He looked at her a little surprised and waited. 
 
 "The fact is I have asked some one to come here 
 this afternoon to see you some one of whom you will 
 not approve. You know how I have been working here 
 among the women, and I believe I have found some one 
 who can tell us things we have never guessed a woman 
 who can throw a new light on a great many phases of 
 our problem to which we have been blinded. I have 
 also asked Dr. Smollet and the Judge to come. I want 
 you all to meet her. No one will know that she is 
 here, and Elizabeth and Paul will be out. But I want 
 you to listen to her. I want you, just for a half hour, 
 to hear the other side of the case." 
 130
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw drew away from his wife in a state 
 of deep perplexity. 
 
 "Who is it you have asked?" His voice was cold. 
 
 The woman hesitated. Now, at the last moment, she 
 feared to tell him. She regretted her act, and wished 
 that she might retrace her steps. But she knew it was 
 too late; so she looked her husband squarely in the 
 eyes. 
 
 "It's Blanche Dumond," she said. 
 
 The man was too astonished to speak. When finally 
 he had gained control of himself he demanded in a 
 tone which he had never used to his wife before : "What 
 do you mean by bringing this woman here to my house ? 
 . . . Where is your sense of decency?" 
 
 His manner cut the woman. A flush of resentment 
 arose to her cheeks. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I bring her here?" she asked hotly. 
 "It is my home as much as it is yours. You talk of 
 your justice in all things, and yet you are horrified when 
 I ask you to hear, first-hand, the other side of this 
 question. You are as ignorant now as I was a month 
 ago. That was before I went down there and found 
 things out for myself. It would have been better if 
 you had done the same. Perhaps, then, you would pos- 
 sess more mercy now, more tenderness and human kind- 
 liness." 
 
 Her last words startled him. They had been the same 
 words that the Woman he had taken into his house 
 had used to him. 
 
 "Are you any better than I am?" Martha Bradshaw 
 went on. "If I am willing to have a woman like this 
 in my home because I think it is for the best, why 
 shouldn't you?"
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 As she spoke the bell rang. The Woman passed 
 through the room to go to the door. The sight of her 
 sent a pang of conscience through the man. Had he 
 himself not brought a woman of the streets into his 
 home ? And had he not lied to his wife about it ? Now 
 when she, out of the bigness of her heart and her desire 
 for justice, had invited another woman of the same kind 
 for a brief visit, what self -justification did he have for 
 resenting his wife's act? 
 
 "I understand why you brought her here," he said, in 
 a modified tone, "and I'll see her." 
 
 The Reverend Smollet entered. Shortly after the 
 Judge came, beaming and jovial. 
 
 They had chatted but a moment when there was a 
 sound of a machine outside. In a moment the bell rang 
 again. The Woman went to the door and opened it. 
 When she saw Blanche Dumond she stepped back in- 
 voluntarily, and her free hand went to her breast. The 
 visitor, however, looked at her without a word, although 
 when she entered she smiled enigmatically. 
 
 The Woman took the card and brought it to Martha 
 Bradshaw, who excused herself and greeted Blanche 
 Dumond at the doorway. 
 
 "Gentlemen," she said, as she re-entered the room, 
 "I want to introduce some one who I dare say has a 
 vital interest in your campaign." She approached her 
 husband. "This is Miss Blanche Dumond," she an- 
 nounced. 
 
 Bradshaw looked at the visitor curiously, and said 
 stiffly : "How do you do." 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw then turned to the Judge and the Rev- 
 erend Smollet: "Gentlemen, I am sure you have heard 
 of Miss Blanche Dumond." 
 132
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 She stepped to the woman's side. "This is the Rev- 
 erend Smollet, the pastor of our church and one of 
 the leaders in the campaign. . . . And this is Judge 
 Bascomb, who is also interested in Mr. Gleason's cru- 
 sade." 
 
 Smollet was shocked and did not acknowledge the 
 introduction. The Judge, however, bowed, despite his 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "I am pleased to know you, Madam that is, Miss Du- 
 mond," he said, with an attempt at gallantry. 
 
 The newcomer smiled pleasantly. 
 
 "I have heard much of both of you gentlemen," 
 she said with perfect composure, as she seated 
 herself. 
 
 "Miss Dumond has called in response to my invita- 
 tion," explained Mrs.. Bradshaw. 
 
 Smollet, who had been standing during the introduc- 
 tion, now drew his chair back a little from the circle, 
 and sat down. 
 
 "She returns your call, I suppose," he said, and, de- 
 spite his effort to be natural, a touch of irony crept into 
 his words. 
 
 Miss Dumond looked at him with suave amusement. 
 "Precisely, Dr. Smollet." 
 
 The minister cleared his throat. 
 
 "I had thought," he said, "that you had left the 
 city." 
 
 "And no doubt you had hoped so, as well," the woman 
 returned lightly. "But certain duties have kept me 
 here. I shall leave very soon, however." She arched 
 her eyebrows. "In the light of recent events I think 
 it better, don't you ?" 
 
 Smollet struggled hard to regain his self-composure. 
 
 133
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Undoubtedly you are acting wisely," he answered 
 perfunctorily. 
 
 The Judge had been inspecting her closely. His eyes 
 twinkled. 
 
 "And may I be so bold as to enquire," he put in in- 
 gratiatingly, "where you propose locating?" 
 
 Mrs. Bradshaw regarded him with undisguised dis- 
 pleasure. It had been her first inkling of the Judge's 
 character. She had always taken him at her husband's 
 valuation and had accepted his sincerity in the movement 
 as a matter of fact. She glanced quickly at Elijah Brad- 
 shaw, but he was looking away. 
 
 "Most certainly, Judge," came the pleasant, quiet voice 
 of Miss Dumond. "I have just bought a very attractive 
 country place near Sedgwick, only a few miles west of 
 the city. I shall raise lots of chickens, and serve dinner 
 to automobile parties." 
 
 There was something in her words that made the 
 Judge chuckle. 
 
 "I see," he commented. "A roadhouse, they call 
 it, don't they?" 
 
 She smiled again. "I see you understand, Judge. 
 May I count on your patronage?" 
 
 Bascomb was now embarrassed. 
 
 "Why, you see," he stuttered, "I hardly " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I see perfectly," the woman responded, 
 dropping her eyes. 
 
 Smollet, conscious of his friend's predicament, said 
 stiffly: "I trust that you are glad to get into other 
 fields that is, out of your old environment." 
 
 Blanche Dumond had dropped her bantering style 
 now, and said seriously: "Yes. Personally, I am glad; 
 though, of course, I can't speak for the others. And, 
 134
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 personally, I hope that you gentlemen are acting wisely, 
 although I 4iave told Mrs. Bradshaw I have my serious 
 doubts." 
 
 For Smollet the ice was broken. He felt more secure 
 in the present situation. He resented the woman's com- 
 ments and remarked coldly: "It is because women like 
 you feel that we are wrong that makes us so certain that 
 we are right." 
 
 But Blanche Dumond refused to take offence at his 
 words. She merely smiled winningly and replied: 
 "That's really ungallant, Dr. Smollet. You at least 
 should be generous enough to believe that my doubts 
 are based upon considerations other than my own pri- 
 vate interests." 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw now took part in the conversation. 
 
 "These other considerations may I ask what they 
 are?" The woman's personality interested him. 
 
 Blanche Dumond turned to him quickly. 
 
 "The facts of thousands of years of experimenting 
 in just this sort of thing, Mr. Bradshaw," she said ear- 
 nestly and with conviction ; "experimenting in ways and 
 means to do away with the so-called social evil. You 
 surely realise that in the older civilisations of Greece 
 and Rome, for instance the courtesans were accepted 
 as a prominent factor in the social organisation. To 
 serve in the Temple of Venus was in those days an 
 exalted calling. Dr. Smollet knows well that the Bible 
 is filled with stories of concubinage, illicit loves and 
 crimes of lust; and coming down to later days, I find 
 in the history of New England that our virgin country 
 was over-crowded with prostitutes as far back as 1630. 
 ... It looks as if some of the sly old Puritans had 
 smuggled some of their English cousins over in the 
 
 135
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Mayflower. . . . Oh, I've been reading a lot on this sub- 
 ject lately." 
 
 Bradsjiaw leaned forward. He had forgot^n his 
 resentment at his wife's having brought the woman 
 into the house. He found himself listening to her words 
 with much interest. She was so different from what 
 he had expected. Even her point of view was differ- 
 ent. He had thought that she would defend the city's 
 prostitutes on sentimental grounds, and would attempt 
 to make an appeal to his sympathies. 
 
 "And what is your conclusion, Miss Dumond?" he 
 asked her, as he might have spoken to one of the Di- 
 rectors of his corporation. 
 
 The woman drew her chair around, ignoring the others 
 present. 
 
 "My conclusion is," she said firmly, "that, if it were 
 possible to stop prostitution, it would have been stopped 
 long ago; and in my humble opinion it can never be 
 stopped until we change human nature. And," she 
 added, "I hardly think we can do that." 
 
 "No, hardly; not all at once," Bradshaw agreed. 
 
 "And so," she continued, "if you will grant that the 
 elemental things in human nature can not be changed to 
 any great extent, is it not logical to conclude that it 
 is impossible to stamp out the sins which arise from 
 those natural impulses which go deep into the very 
 springs of all human causes? These points admitted, 
 the only thing left to decide is whether it is better for 
 a city to set apart a district where all women who elect to 
 lead this historic calling must reside, or do as you are 
 now doing, wipe out such a district and drive its 
 residents to al lother parts of the city. . . . I'm on 
 one side of the question, Mr. Bradshaw, and you on 
 136
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 the other." She arose. "So there is no more to be said." 
 
 Bradshaw did not reply. He was thinking deeply. 
 
 Smollet, taking advantage of the silence, asked with 
 severity: "And have you no sense of shame for the 
 part that you have played no desire to lead a good 
 life?" 
 
 Blanche Dumond became whimsical again, and smiled 
 ingratiatingly. 
 
 ''Possibly," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "But 
 I'm like many of your parishioners always putting it 
 off until to-morrow." 
 
 Smollet was angered. He felt that the woman was 
 in some way getting the better of him. The evenness of 
 her temper infuriated him. 
 
 "And the stigma of it!" he exclaimed sharply, rising 
 and facing her. "I should think you would blush to 
 be abroad in the daylight." 
 
 Martha Bradshaw also arose. Her face was troubled, 
 and she looked at the minister reprovingly. She would 
 have said something had not the woman replied quickly : 
 
 "Blush! Indeed, I am glad not to have forgotten 
 how. I am blushing for you now, Dr. Smollet, to think 
 that you have so far forgotten your gallantry." 
 
 Smollet was confused, and flared up hotly. "You 
 may spare your blushes if they are for me," he 
 told her with an attempt at withering scorn. "I 
 have no gallantries for women of your profes- 
 sion." 
 
 Blanche Dumond smiled again, and replied banter- 
 ingly: "You may insult me, Dr. Smollet, but do not 
 slander my profession. You know, it is the oldest in 
 the world; it's older than history itself. It's. as old as 
 mythology. Venus, the Aphrodite of the Greeks, is 
 
 137
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 its Goddess ; and temples have been raised to her in 
 all ages. History is filled with the names of*her illus- 
 trious devotees.'* 
 
 Smollet sat down and sniffed contemptuously. 
 
 "And among her devotees," went on the other, "are 
 names that have changed the map of the world women's 
 names, disciples of Aphrodite." 
 
 The Judge was heartily enjoying Smollet's anger, and 
 sought to feed fuel to the flames. 
 
 "What names, Miss Dumond ?" he asked slyly. 
 
 Still keeping her eyes on the Reverend Smollet, the 
 woman answered : "The old friend of our school days, 
 Helen of Troy, is one." 
 
 The minister now saw an opening, and said senten- 
 tiously, waving his arm : "A myth, like your Aphrodite." 
 
 Blanche Dumond was not shaken. "Well, perhaps," 
 she said seriously. "But Cleopatra was real, wasn't 
 she ?" She smiled at Bradshaw. "At least Marc Antony 
 found her so." 
 
 Smollet did not reply, and the woman held up her 
 neatly gloved hand and began counting off the names 
 on her fingers as she spoke them. 
 
 "And there was Sappho, one of the world's greatest 
 poets, and Phryne, the model of Praxiteles, and Aspasia, 
 the classic mistress of Pericles, and Lais, the official 
 mistress of the Eleusinian Mysteries, and the Pompa- 
 dour, and Madame du Barry, and Catherine of Russia, 
 and Ninon de L'Enclos, and Diana de Poitiers, women 
 who have made and shaken empires. And then there 
 was Lola Montez, and Nell Gwynne, the pet of 
 princes. . . ." 
 
 "A brilliant constellation," agreed Smollet irritably. 
 "But haven't you forgotten Mary Goode?" 
 138
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 "I was just coming to her when you interrupted," 
 Blanche Dumond answered, smiling sweetly. 
 
 Smollet made a deprecatory gesture and turned away, 
 as if tired of the argument. 
 
 On seeing this the Judge remarked coolly : "Permit me 
 to say, madam, that, while I cannot agree with you, I 
 must observe that you are a woman of considerable 
 cultivation." 
 
 "Thank you so much," she replied with exaggerated 
 gratitude. "I have had many advantages. My story 
 might interest you, Judge, but it is too long to tell 
 to-day. When you come to my farm, perhaps " 
 
 The Judge lifted his hand protestingly. 
 
 "Oh, don't be afraid," the woman hastened to as- 
 sure him. "I have entertained in my home men occupy- 
 ing the highest social positions." She was smiling again. 
 
 Then, before the Judge could answer, she turned to 
 Mrs. Bradshaw. "Thank you so much for allowing me 
 to come." 
 
 The other woman took her hand warmly. "We shall 
 all be interested to hear how you get on in your new 
 field." 
 
 "I forgot to tell you gentlemen," she said, turning 
 to the others, "that Miss Dumond has stayed in the 
 city so that she might help a poor girl who has con- 
 sumption." 
 
 The Reverend Smollet was not impressed. 
 
 "There are plenty of institutions that would have 
 taken care of the girl," he informed them curtly. 
 
 "No doubt," Blanche Dumond answered. "But when 
 a girl enters such an institution it is with a label at- 
 tached to her. She is treated like an outcast, and -I 
 have had more than one girl say to me that she couldn't 
 
 139
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 stand to pass under that legend: 'Home for Fallen 
 Women.' Do you think a girl could ever recover her 
 self-respect after that stigma?" Then her manner 
 quickly changed. "But I really must be going. I thank 
 you all so much for letting me talk." 
 
 She bowed graciously to Elijah Bradshaw, and went 
 to the door, Mrs. Bradshaw following her. 
 
 She was about to go out when she turned. 
 
 "I have my car in front," she said, with a pleasant 
 intonation, "if either of you gentlemen wish to go over 
 town." 
 
 Smollet drew himself up, and answered tartly : "Thank 
 you, we have an appointment." 
 
 "Oh, don't be afraid," she laughed. "It's a closed 
 car." 
 
 But when neither of them made a sign, she turned 
 to Martha Bradshaw and bade her good-bye. 
 
 When she had gone Mrs. Bradshaw did not return 
 to the men, but went upstairs to her own room. 
 
 "So that's the notorious Blanche Dumond," Brad- 
 shaw remarked, obviously impressed. "I've been sit- 
 ting here trying to figure her out." 
 
 The Judge was again on his dignity. 
 
 "What do you make of her, Bradshaw?" he asked. 
 "Rather unusual woman, I should say." 
 
 The other hesitated a moment, and then said slowly : 
 "She upsets a lot of my ideas. She's so different from 
 what I had imagined." 
 
 Smollet looked at him with marked astonishment. 
 
 "That's what makes women of her type so dan- 
 gerous," he remarked. "She wears a veneer of culture 
 
 and gentility, and beneath it is " He floundered 
 
 about for a word. 
 140
 
 In a Limousine 
 
 Bradshaw arose and caught him up rather sharply: 
 "Is what?" 
 
 Then he walked to the window, his hands behind him. 
 "I imagine that, after all, she is a good deal like 
 other women. No doubt she has her own ideas of 
 honesty." 
 
 He thought of the Woman in the house. 
 
 "If we knew more about her we could, perhaps, judge 
 her better." 
 
 141
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 GREY THREADS OF A SPIDER-WEB 
 
 WHEN Bellamy went to his office at the Star the 
 next morning, he found a note on his desk saying 
 that Duncan Harrison wished to see him immediately. 
 The summons was out of the ordinary, and Bellamy 
 sensed trouble at once. 
 
 When he entered the manager's private office that 
 man wore a troubled look and sat toying with his pencil 
 an unusual state of affairs, for Harrison was a hard 
 worker, and none of his staff had ever found him idle. 
 
 "Sit down, Bellamy," he said, without looking up. 
 "Things are in a mess, and there's hell to pay. I don't 
 know just what to do, and I want you to undertake 
 a delicate, diplomatic job for me." He hesitated, not 
 knowing just how to proceed. 
 
 "Anything the matter with the paper, sir ?" the younger 
 man asked anxiously. 
 
 "No, not the paper. I almost wish it was." Harri- 
 son dropped his pencil, and looked around squarely. 
 
 "The truth is," he announced, "young Bradshaw is an 
 embezzler." 
 
 Bellamy was too startled to speak. 
 
 "Paul Bradshaw a thief!" he exclaimed incredulously. 
 "I can't believe it, Mr. Harrison. There is some mis- 
 take." 
 
 "No, my boy, there is no mistake," the other man as- 
 142
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 sured hjm. "At first I was inclined to feel as you 
 do, and I went down personally to verify it. ... No; 
 there is no mistake," he repeated. "It's the truth." 
 
 Bellamy now thought of the girl he loved and of 
 the suffering this thing would bring her. His first im- 
 pulse was to find ways and means of keeping it from 
 her. 
 
 "Who knows about this?" he asked, with deep con- 
 cern. 
 
 "As yet," Harrison replied, "nobody knows except 
 the bank directors, the city editor and myself. Not even 
 Bradshaw's father knows it." 
 
 "Then it can be hushed up ?" Bellamy asked eagerly. 
 
 The other man shook his head dubiously. "I don't 
 know. That's the worst of it. You know old Bradshaw. 
 When he finds out, he will go up in the air. There 
 is no telling what he will do. His code is so strict 
 that he may demand that the thing be given publicity 
 in order to punish his son." 
 
 "I know what you mean," Bellamy returned. "He's 
 not a man who would spare himself if he thought, by 
 doing so, it would be wrong. He's an old walrus 
 you can almost admire him for it." Then he said, as if 
 to himself : "Poor Bess !" 
 
 "Well," remarked the other, "I am not going to run 
 the story until I find out what Bradshaw's attitude is 
 in regard to the matter. . . . Now, what I want you 
 to do, Bellamy, is to go and break the news to him. 
 Tell him the circumstances, and see what he says. . . . 
 Gad! it will put a crimp in this campaign if the mat- 
 ter ever gets out!" 
 
 "What are the circumstances?" Bellamy asked. 
 
 "Simple enough," Harrison told him. "Perkins, the 
 
 143
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 inspector, came in suddenly yesterday after banking 
 hours and went over the books. He was going to Cali- 
 fornia for a trip and didn't know when he would get 
 back, so he thought he'd check things up before he went. 
 Well, it didn't take him long to find that young Brad- 
 shaw was considerably short. The boy had not tried 
 to doctor his books. It looked as if he had taken the 
 money in a hurry and had intended to fix up the short- 
 age when he got a chance. Perkins telephoned Quincy, 
 the President, as soon as he found the deficiency; and 
 last night Quincy got in touch with me, just as I imag- 
 ine he did with the rest of the Directors. He was 
 furious about it, especially as there seemed to be no 
 reason why young Bradshaw should have dipped into 
 the bank's funds, and had got the job on his father's 
 pull. He was going up to old Bradshaw at once, but 
 I held him off and asked him to let me see about it 
 this morning. He told me he'd keep the thing quiet 
 until he heard from me. As a result, the other papers 
 haven't got it yet. As I told you, I was a little sceptical 
 on the matter, anyway; so this morning early I went 
 down to the bank. The boy had done a crude job. 
 There was no chance of there being any doubt of his 
 guilt. He simply took the money, stuffed a lot of 
 one-dollar bills into hundred-dollar holders, and entered 
 it up as correct. There is no telling exactly when it 
 happened probably yesterday or the day before. . . . 
 What do you make of it, Bellamy ?" 
 
 The young man shook his head. 
 
 "It gets me," he answered. "Paul always seemed 
 happy. His father gave him everything he wanted, and 
 God knows his old man has enough money. Paul al- 
 ways struck me as being straight. I can't dope it out." 
 144
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 "Well, anyway it's gone, and we've got to take some 
 kind of action on it right away," Harrison responded 
 gravely. "Now, here's what you are to do, Bellamy. 
 You're to go out to Bradshaw's right away, break the 
 news to him, and see what he wants done about it. 
 If he is willing to square the thing up with the bank, they 
 won't prosecute. Bradshaw's got too much influence and 
 is one of the bank's biggest depositors. As for the 
 paper, of course we'll say nothing about it unless it 
 leaks out in some other channel which I don't think 
 it will. If you let me know soon enough, I'll start the 
 wheels going to keep it quiet." 
 
 Bellamy arose. "I'll go immediately only, for God's 
 sake, do what you can to hush it up." 
 
 Duncan Harrison looked up at him with a sardonic 
 smile. 
 
 "I see that you, too, are willing to suppress a few 
 little things. Remember your curtain lecture to me about 
 strict honesty in the Star?" 
 
 Bellamy was embarrassed. 
 
 "This is a little difficult matter," he said. "You see, 
 Mr. Harrison, I am hoping to marry Elizabeth Brad- 
 shaw one of these days, and she'd be the one that 
 would suffer if this got out. She's only a kid, and it 
 would break her heart to think her brother was a crook." 
 
 "Well, I hope you get her, Bellamy," the older man 
 said, in a fatherly tone. "Anyway, you see, circum- 
 stances alter cases. Now, you have your excuse for 
 suppressing the truth in the paper, and I have my ex- 
 cuse. You're young, and you think love is the impor- 
 tant thing that's your standard. I'm older, and I have 
 gotten over being foolish. I suppress things because 
 of the money side that's my standard." 
 
 145
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Well, by your own confession," the young man pro- 
 tested, "your point of view is selfish, and mine isn't." 
 
 "All points of view are selfish, my boy," Harrison 
 returned cynically, drawing a pile of proofs in front 
 of him. "However, we won't argue it. Hurry up to 
 Bradshaw now, and come back here to the office as 
 soon as you can. This is ticklish business." 
 
 "Are you sure Paul doesn't suspect anything?" Bel- 
 lamy asked. 
 
 "Not a thing. Perkins was not due for two weeks." 
 
 Bellamy hurried out into the street with a heavy 
 heart. All the way out to the Bradshaw home he specu- 
 lated as to what excuse Paul could have had in appropri- 
 ating the bank's funds. He thought back over his friend- 
 ship with the young man, but could find in it nothing 
 which would give him the slightest hint as to the cause 
 of his defalcation. Had the information come from 
 any other man save Duncan Harrison, he would have 
 doubted its authenticity, but he knew how careful and 
 exact that man was. Harrison would have left no 
 loophole for a possible error before sending him on 
 his present disagreeable mission. 
 
 What worried him most was Elijah Bradshaw's char- 
 acter. Bellamy knew him to be hard and obdurate, 
 fearless and unforgiving, ready to sacrifice even those 
 whom he loved to a principle. If Bradshaw demanded 
 an exposure of the whole thing, it would mean sorrow 
 and pain for his daughter; and this possibility cut 
 Bellamy more deeply than any other phase of the 
 situation. 
 
 As he stepped up to the front door he met Elijah 
 Bradshaw on the point of leaving. 
 
 "I have come to you on a matter of vital importance, 
 146
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 Mr. Bradshaw," he said, without even greeting the older 
 man. "You can't go just yet; I must talk with you 
 alone." 
 
 "What's the trouble, Bellamy? Ride with me down- 
 town, and we will discuss it." 
 
 "That wouldn't do," the other persisted. 
 
 "It will have to do," the man returned curtly. 
 
 Bellamy took him by the arm. "Mr. Bradshaw, you 
 will be sorry if you don't listen to me at once." Some- 
 thing in his tone made the other hesitate. 
 
 "Well, Bellamy," he said, "if you are going to scare 
 me into submission, I suppose I'll have to do what you 
 ask." 
 
 He turned and re-entered the house. 
 
 "Now, what is it?" he demanded, with considerable 
 annoyance, when they were alone in the library. 
 
 "I am here on a tough job," the young man began 
 earnestly. "I'd rather take a licking than tell you. But 
 I'm here from the paper it's about Paul." 
 
 Bradshaw showed surprise. "Paul? What about 
 him?" 
 
 "Well, it's the bank. An investigation was held late 
 yesterday afternoon." 
 
 The other man could not understand Bellamy's deep 
 concern. To suspect his son was the farthest thing from 
 his thoughts. 
 
 "Investigation about what?" he asked. "What are 
 you driving at? Why do you come in here and drag 
 me back from my work to talk about bank transactions ? 
 Why don't you talk to Paul? He tends to that end 
 of it." 
 
 Bellamy sighed heavily. The interview was more diffi- 
 cult than he had imagined. 
 
 147
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "I know all that, Mr. Bradshaw," he said, after a mo- 
 ment. "But it is about Paul that I have got to tell 
 you, there has been a shortage." 
 
 Still Bradshaw did not understand. "Well, what of it ? 
 Paul's merely the assistant cashier. He is not morally 
 responsible for any irregularity of that kind. If some 
 one is short or has stolen from the bank, there is no 
 occasion for any alarm. The bonding company will 
 make that good. They certainly can not attach any re- 
 sponsibility to my son. They will have to go higher 
 up." 
 
 Bellamy clinched his teeth resolutely. He was wast- 
 ing time. He turned to Bradshaw resolutely. 
 
 "It is not a question of responsibility," he said firmly. 
 "It is a question of guilt. Don't you see I have been 
 trying to break it to you as gently as I can? Paul is 
 charged with the shortage! Everything is being held 
 up until your decision is heard." 
 
 The older man's face went pale. He sat down in his 
 chair heavily, as if he had been struck a violent blow. 
 
 "Paul charged with it!" His words were scarcely 
 audible. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Come, young man !" he said, but his voice was with- 
 out conviction. "This is too serious a thing to joke 
 about." 
 
 Bellamy went over to the stricken man. 
 
 "Can't you see I'm not joking?" he asked sorrow- 
 fully. "It is because it is so serious that I have come 
 to you. We must do something." 
 
 Bradshaw narrowed his eyes, and thought a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "Wait!" he exclaimed, and there was a note of hope 
 148
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 in his tone. "Who told you this? Who says my 
 boy " 
 
 "Perkins," Bellamy cut in. "He tipped the Directors 
 off last night. This morning at the office Harrison sent 
 for me. He is one of the Directors, you know, and 
 he put a brake on the whole affair, and hustled me over 
 to you. If we act quickly, and in the right way, the 
 whole thing can be hushed up without a whisper. It's 
 up to you." 
 
 Bradshaw had heard only the one word, "Perkins." 
 There was no doubt now in his mind as to his son's 
 guilt. Bradshaw knew Perkins well. He was a care- 
 ful, conscientious and honest man. 
 
 "So Perkins examined the books, did he?" His tone 
 was hopeless and resigned. 
 
 He looked down at the floor, and all the strength 
 seemed to have departed from his body. He thought 
 of the letter which the girl, Mabel Mordaunt, had sent 
 him. It was still in his pocket. The words of her 
 curse were written indelibly on his mind ; and now 
 they flashed out in his brain in symbols of fire. He 
 thought also of his son's disobedient conduct for the 
 past few days, of his late hours, and of his refusal 
 to stay at home. 
 
 For a moment his emotions were many and dissimilar ; 
 but as he sat, letting his mind go over the many recent 
 events, they resolved themselves into a single wave of 
 anger toward his son. Slowly his relaxed muscles be- 
 came hard. His hands clinched, and he arose to his 
 full stature, looking straight ahead of him with fierce 
 determination. 
 
 "If it's true," he said slowly and deliberately, "it 
 shan't be hushed up. Hushing it up won't help here." 
 
 149
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 He struck himself on the heart. 
 
 Bellamy feared his decision, and came to him quickly. 
 
 "But it isn't as bad as you think. It's only a small 
 amount," he said, attempting to console the other. 
 
 "The amount doesn't matter," Bradshaw flashed back. 
 "You say my son's a thief. That's the thing that stabs 
 me like a knife. And if he is a thief, he shall pay for 
 it. I won't condone his sin." 
 
 As he spoke, the Woman entered from the hallway, 
 carrying a fresh bouquet of flowers. She walked si- 
 lently over to the desk, and began arranging them in 
 a vase. 
 
 The two men had not observed her, but she stood for 
 a moment, watching them closely. 
 
 "You wouldn't let Paul go to jail," Bellamy protested. 
 
 "I'd send him to jail myself," Bradshaw replied un- 
 yieldingly. "Even though he's my son, I shall have no 
 mercy. Because he is my son is no reason he should 
 go free. I have always taken my medicine. He must 
 take his." 
 
 A look of infinite grief came into the Woman's face. 
 She clasped her hands on her breast, as if fighting with 
 a secret pain. Impulsively she stepped toward Brad- 
 shaw, and put her hand on his arm. 
 
 "Your wife," she reminded him, meeting the man's 
 eyes. 
 
 Bradshaw started like a man frightened by some 
 supernatural apparition. His jaw dropped, and his lips 
 trembled. 
 
 "Remember!" the Woman went on in a voice which 
 Bellamy could not hear. "The sins of the fathers !" 
 
 Then she turned and walked to the window, where 
 she stood waiting expectantly.
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 Bradshaw followed her with his gaze, and for a min- 
 ute he stood transfixed. 
 
 "If I save him," he said aloud, as if in conclusion 
 to some decision which had taken place in his mind, 
 "it will be for his mother's sake." 
 
 His manner had changed. His severity had left him; 
 and he crossed the room slowly and looked down into 
 the open fire. 
 
 "What can he have done with the money?" he asked, 
 wonderingly. "I have never allowed him to want for 
 anything. He has had everything he asked for every- 
 thing." 
 
 He thought a moment. 
 
 "Gambling!" he exclaimed suddenly. "The stock mar- 
 ket or worse. That's what's done it! ... But why 
 didn't he come to me?" 
 
 "My suggestion is," Bellamy said, "that you see Paul 
 right away. Then I can go back to Harrison before 
 it goes any further. He'll quash it with the bank 
 officials." 
 
 Bradshaw pulled himself together and looked up* 
 "That's the thing to do. Moralising won't help us. You 
 hurry back to the office, my boy, and I'll 'phone you 
 by the time you get there. Do what you can." 
 
 "You know I'll do that, Mr. Bradshaw," the young 
 man said as he went out. For Elizabeth's sake he was 
 happy. 
 
 Bradshaw turned to the Woman. 
 
 "Tell my son to come here quickly." He had already 
 determined on a course of action. 
 
 But the Woman did not obey him immediately. In- 
 stead, she approached him ; and, despite the grief in her 
 eyes, she looked at the man fearlessly.
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Does it occur to you," she asked, in an even voice, 
 "that your son might have stolen this money for a 
 woman? Before you see him it might be well for you 
 to know the reason for his guilt." 
 
 Bradshaw regarded her intently. "What woman could 
 he have stolen for? The notion is preposterous!" 
 
 "To the contrary," came the gentle voice of the other. 
 "He took this money for a woman a married woman. 
 I believe your son loves her." 
 
 This possibility had never presented itself to the man. 
 He rebelled at believing it. 
 
 "You don't know what you are saying," he flung back 
 angrily. "How dare you suggest such a thing to me?" 
 
 The Woman was not perturbed. 
 
 "How little you know those whom you judge," she 
 told him with mild pity. "I myself know the girl who 
 has brought your son to this. And it was not her fault, 
 either. Her name is Young. Up to two days ago she 
 lived in a poverty-stricken little flat on Orchard Street. 
 She was married to a man who abused her. They both 
 worked in your store. When she could bear the igno- 
 miny and suffering no longer, she left him and tried to 
 support herself alone. She was young and pretty. Your 
 son had noticed her at her work. He had spoken to 
 her often, and sometimes he waited and took her home 
 at night. When she lost her position she was penniless, 
 and your son had no money with which to help her, al- 
 though he wanted to, for he felt sorry for her. Finally 
 he stole from the bank that he might save her from 
 starvation and give her a pleasant home in which to 
 live. That's what your son did with the money. He 
 intends to marry her when she gets her divorce." 
 
 "If this is true," the man declared, looking through 
 152
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 narrowed lids, "he shall go to jail. The bank can prose- 
 cute. I wash my hands of him/' 
 
 He took the Woman roughly by the arm. 
 
 "But how do I know you are telling me the truth?" 
 he asked brutally. "It's all been so strange your com- 
 ing here to this house. . . . And now this. How could 
 you know these things? . . . I'll not believe it; I'll not 
 believe it." 
 
 The Woman smiled hopelessly. "Then why don't you 
 find out the truth from him?" 
 
 "I will. I'll ask him at once. Tell him to come here." 
 
 The Woman started to go, but stopped and looked 
 back. 
 
 "Remember he is your son," she said pleadingly. "Re- 
 member Blenheim." 
 
 While Bradshaw was waiting for his son he tried to 
 straighten out the tangled skein of the new events which 
 had taken place in his life. Although, in a measure, he 
 felt guilty, he could not shake off his anger towards 
 the boy's actions. Some instinct told him to forgive 
 his son. But, on the other hand, he felt the urge of a 
 strong determination to punish the young man. 
 
 In a few minutes Paul Bradshaw entered, collarless 
 and in his dressing gown. 
 
 "What's up?" he asked irritably. "Couldn't you let 
 me finish my toilet?" 
 
 The older man attempted to control his temper. He 
 did not want to give free rein to his feelings. In a 
 moment he had himself partly under control. 
 
 "My boy," he said, "you have been found out." 
 
 Paul started slightly, but recovered himself at once. 
 
 "What do you mean, 'found out'?" he asked, simu- 
 lating indifference. 
 
 153
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Bradshaw came close to him. "The bank there was 
 an investigation yesterday afternoon. The shortage 
 was discovered." 
 
 Even at this the young man put on a brave front. 
 "There was no shortage that I know of. What are you 
 driving at?" 
 
 The older man put his hand on his son's shoulder. 
 
 "It's no use, my boy," he said. "Perkins was there 
 yesterday. He's at the bank now." 
 
 Paul's self-composure left him at once. He dropped 
 into a chair. 
 
 "Then the jig is up," he muttered. 
 
 "You mean you are guilty," Bradshaw corrected him. 
 
 "I mean I am short," the other fenced doggedly. 
 "God knows I meant to make it good." 
 
 Bradshaw looked at him and spoke bitterly. "You 
 meant to! You meant to! It doesn't matter now what 
 you meant to do." 
 
 There was a pause in which the father regarded criti- 
 cally the broken figure of the young man. 
 
 "Why didn't you tell me before it came to this?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I couldn't. I was ashamed to," the other answered, 
 gulping painfully, without looking up. 
 
 Bradshaw's voice changed. "I want you to tell me 
 what you did with the money." 
 
 "I spent it that's all," came the feeble answer. 
 
 Bradshaw watched him angrily. "You won't srfy? 
 Are you ashamed to tell me how you spent this money ?" 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Then I'll tell you," the father said. "I heard, but 
 I wouldn't believe. You spent it on a woman a mar- 
 ried woman " 
 
 154
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 At this the young man leapt up. 
 
 "It's a lie!" he shouted. 
 
 "I believe it's the truth," Bradshaw continued, with- 
 out changing his tone. "You spent it on a woman in 
 Orchard Street." 
 
 Paul Bradshaw saw now that there was no need of 
 further dissembling. His fear turned into defiance, and 
 he faced his father belligerently. 
 
 "Well, now that you know it," he asked challeng- 
 ingly, "what are you going to do about it ?" 
 
 As his father did not reply immediately, he went on : 
 "But it makes no difference what you do, I'll never give 
 her up." 
 
 At this sudden change in front on the part of his son, 
 Elijah Bradshaw lost his self-control. His instinct to- 
 ward forgiveness left him. 
 
 "When you are in jail, you will change your mind," 
 he answered harshly. 
 
 The young man had been unprepared for this pro- 
 nouncement. He did not believe his father would take 
 such heroic measures. His defiance left him as quickly 
 as it had come. He saw that it was no use to combat 
 the older man. When he spoke again his voice was 
 broken and frightened. 
 
 "You won't let me go there, father/' he begged. 
 "Think of your own pride and position! Besides, you 
 know it would kill my mother." 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw hesitated and thought a moment. At 
 his son's reference to Martha Bradshaw his determina- 
 tion once more broke down. He felt himself weak- 
 ening. He thought again of the Woman and of her 
 words exhorting him to remember Blenheim. For some 
 reason, which he could not understand, he knew that 
 
 155
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 he would be unable to carry out his resolve to punish 
 the boy. 
 
 "If I save you," he said slowly, weighing each word, 
 "it will be for your mother's sake. But you must prom- 
 ise me, if I get you out of this, that you will give the 
 girl up." 
 
 The young man forgot his fear. 
 
 "Never!" he cried. "I'll marry Ruth as soon as sl.c 
 is free." 
 
 "Ruth!" exclaimed Bradshaw. "Is her name Ruth?" 
 
 The young man was startled by his father's voice, and 
 the look on his face. 
 
 Before he could answer the Woman appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 "Did you call?" she asked. 
 
 Receiving no answer, she added: "That's strange. I 
 thought I heard some one call my name." 
 
 "Your name! Is your name Ruth?" Bradshaw 
 looked at her as if her words had contained something 
 sinister and terrifying. 
 
 "Yes," said the Woman, "my name is Ruth." 
 
 Bradshaw wavered slightly and dropped into a chair 
 as if stunned. His mind had gone back thirty years. 
 The girl whom he had deserted in Montreal had been 
 named Ruth, and only a few days before he had read 
 that name at the end of her old love letters which 
 he had brought forth from their hiding-place the night 
 the Woman appeared to him. 
 
 "That is all," he said feebly, waving his hand for 
 the servant to go. 
 
 He then looked at his son. A great change had come 
 over the older man. 
 
 "Now listen," he said, and his voice was no longer 
 156
 
 Grey Threads of a Spider- Web 
 
 cold. "I'm going to make good this money. I'm going 
 to see that the matter is hushed up. You will be asked 
 to resign from the bank. I will insist that you leave, 
 for it was through my personal influence you were given 
 the position. And I think it would be best for you 
 to go away from Edenburg for a while. I want you 
 to go to some other city to start in again alone, with 
 a clean slate. I want you to do it without help. I want 
 you to prove to me that this has only been a slip. I 
 think I can explain the matter to your mother so she 
 will not suspect that anything is wrong; but I don't 
 want you here in my house until you have proved your 
 good faith. I couldn't face you, knowing that you were 
 a thief. . . . It's the only thing to do. Go and pack 
 your things at once and God grant that you may make 
 good !" 
 
 "Don't send me away, father," the young man pleaded. 
 "Let me stay." 
 
 "It's no use," his father told him. "You have dis- 
 graced me with many of my business associates. I shall 
 always blush whenever I meet one of the bank's di- 
 rectors. There is no place for you here in my house at 
 present. You must go, that is the condition on which 
 I am willing to help you." 
 
 Without a word the young man went to his room and 
 began making ready for his departure. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw found his wife in the garden, and 
 told her that their son had decided to try his hand in 
 other fields. As he was explaining to her, he saw a 
 look of doubt and disbelief come into her eyes. When 
 he had finished she turned to him sorrowfully. 
 
 "If you think it is best, Elijah," she said, "of course 
 I will not offer any objection." 
 
 157
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 She asked no questions, but Bradshaw felt uneasy, 
 for somehow he felt that the gentle woman was uncon- 
 vinced by his explanation of why Paul was going away. 
 However, he called up Bellamy and explained what had 
 been done. 
 
 Then he drove downtown and arranged for his son's 
 transportation. 
 
 That night after dinner, when Paul had bade his 
 mother and sister good-bye, he took his father aside. 
 
 "Was it Bellamy who told you about the girl?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No, it was not Bellamy," the older man told him. 
 
 "But there was no one else here this morning," the 
 other protested. "Bellamy and the servants were the 
 only ones " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for he had seen the Woman 
 pass into the library at the far end of the hall. 
 
 "I know who it was!" he announced. "It was that 
 new maid you have here. I have seen her somewhere 
 before. Who is she, anyway ? There's something mighty 
 strange " 
 
 "There is nothing strange," put in Bradshaw, with an 
 attempt at unconcern. "And it makes no difference who 
 told me." 
 
 He glanced at the clock. 
 
 "I am going to walk with your mother and sister 
 to the Tabernacle. I'll be back in half an hour. Then 
 I'll go with you to the station." 
 
 Bradshaw had not intended that there should be any- 
 thing even approaching a reconciliation between him and 
 his son. But all that day, as the time drew near for 
 the young man to go, his conscience had troubled him 
 more and more. As his anger had subsided, his love for 
 158
 
 Grey Threads of a Spicier-Web 
 
 his son again came uppermost, and so, at the last mo- 
 ment, he had decided not to let Paul go alone, but to 
 accompany him to the train. The decision for this act 
 had been inspired by a sudden wave of tenderness a 
 tenderness which heretofore had been alien to his nature. 
 
 When he told his son of his decision, the young man 
 in a degree understood the motive that was back of 
 it, and something gripped at his throat. 
 
 When his father had gone to the Tabernacle, he 
 went into the library to await his return. 
 
 There he found the Woman. 
 
 159
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE YOUNG GENERATION 
 
 FOR a moment Paul paid no attention to her. She 
 was arranging some books on the shelf, and her 
 back was to him. He had just beheld a new phase of 
 his father's character, and it had mellowed him in his 
 attitude toward the older man. Elijah Bradshaw's offer 
 to go with his son to the train, with the touch of sym- 
 pathy a"nd paternal affection which it implied, was incon- 
 sistent with all that obdurate man's previous acts. Paul 
 wondered what could have brought about the change 
 in him; and, for the first time in his life, he felt a sense 
 of shame and regret at having caused the other any 
 suffering. His attitude toward his father had always 
 been an antagonistic one. Now, as the two were about 
 to separate, perhaps for all time, this attitude disap- 
 peared. Paul felt that he had come closer to an un- 
 derstanding of his father's nature than ever before. 
 
 As he sat awaiting the other's return, going over 
 in his mind the details of the day, he again wondered 
 how his father had learned of the girl for whom he 
 had taken the money. He looked at the Woman who 
 stood a little way from him, and could not help feel- 
 ing that in some way she was responsible. 
 
 At first he had accepted her presence in the house 
 without question, but, ever since the night when she 
 had sat up for him and admitted him, he had felt that 
 160
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 she was not merely a common servant. He believed that, 
 no matter how deceived his father or mother might 
 be, there was a mystery attached to her presence. By 
 nature he was sceptical and a little suspicious, and as 
 he watched the Woman arranging the volumes of books, 
 some impulse prompted him to question her. 
 
 "Look here," he said, not unpleasantly, "I want to ask 
 you a few questions." 
 
 When the Woman had turned to him he looked at 
 her sharply. 
 
 "Who are you, and why did you come here ?" 
 
 "You know that I am a servant," she answered, meet- 
 ing his eyes steadily. "And your father gave me a place 
 here because he knew where I came from." 
 
 Paul Bradshaw was not satisfied. 
 
 "Of course, I know you pose as a servant," he said, 
 "and I presume my father knew who you were before 
 he engaged you. But that isn't all there is to it. You're 
 not like any other servant I've ever seen." Then he 
 remarked : "There's something wrong somewhere." 
 
 "Yes, there is something wrong somewhere," the 
 Woman agreed, with a slight smile. 
 
 She looked away and added, as if to no one in par- 
 ticular: "But perhaps things will be better some 
 day." 
 
 Paul scrutinised her curiously. "I knew there was 
 something the matter. . . . Come, tell me what it is. 
 I'm going away, and I won't tell the governor." 
 
 "I know you are going," the Woman replied, "and I 
 am sorry. I had hoped your father would let you stay. 
 If things vrere not wrong here you would be stay- 
 ing." 
 
 "You seem to know a lot of things," the young man 
 
 161
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 answered her with sarcasm. "I suppose you know why 
 I am going away." 
 
 "Yes, I know that, too," the Woman responded 
 quietly. 
 
 The young man leaped to his feet 
 
 "What do you know?" he demanded angrily. 
 
 His suspicion that it had been the Woman who had 
 informed his father about the girl in Orchard Street 
 flashed back over him suddenly. 
 
 "Say, look here; did you tell my father anything?" 
 
 "You mean about Ruth Young? . . . Yes, I told him." 
 The Woman's voice was calm. 
 
 "You told him!" Paul swung around and glared at 
 her. "What business have you interfering in my af- 
 fairs. . . . Who are you, anyway?" 
 
 "Perhaps you have seen me before," tb.e Woman 
 answered, coming closer to him. 
 
 He studied her face a moment. 
 
 "You do look familiar," he drew out slowly. "Your 
 eyes! I have seen you somewhere." Then his 
 anger returned to him. "But that doesn't tell me why 
 you should go blabbing to my father. I'll fix you for 
 tipping him off to my business." 
 
 "How?" the Woman asked quietly. 
 
 "I'll have you fired that's how." Paul's anger had 
 got the better of him. "I'm beginning to get wise 
 to you. You're too smooth to suit me. Do you know 
 what I think you are? I think you are a plant here 
 for some crook, and I'm going to put the old man 
 next when he comes back." 
 
 "I shouldn't advise you to speak to your father about 
 me," the Woman admonished him indifferently. "Per- 
 haps he knows more about me than you do." 
 162
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 The young man was not sure of himself. There 
 was something in the situation of the Woman being 
 in the house that he could not fathom. He knew how 
 careful his father was about servants, how strict he 
 was in regard to their references. Also he knew that 
 Elijah Bradshaw was shrewd, and it seemed unlikely 
 that he could have been deceived about any of his 
 employes. 
 
 "Well, at that," he admitted, "maybe the old man does 
 know what he is about. Only, what I'd like to know 
 is how you found out about me, and why you should 
 try to get me into trouble ?" 
 
 "I didn't try to get you into trouble," the Woman 
 answered tenderly. "I wanted to help you. I've wanted 
 to help you ever since I have been here. I thought 
 maybe your father would be more lenient with you if 
 he knew that you had stolen for a woman. I had my 
 reasons for thinking so. Perhaps, after all, he might 
 have let you go to jail if he hadn't known the truth. 
 He's hard and unforgiving. Things have to be 
 brought home to him very closely before he will give 
 in." 
 
 The young man was silent. 
 
 "You see," she went on, "I wanted him to know 
 that your theft wasn't altogether a selfish one, but that 
 it was due to weakness to the weakness of your love; 
 and I wanted him to know, too, that even that love of 
 yours was a weakness. I wanted him to realise that, if 
 he sent you away or let the bank prosecute you, you 
 would not be the only one who would suffer, that also 
 the girl would be left alone and hopeless. If he knew all 
 these things he would understand that, in sending you 
 away or letting you go to jail, he would be forcing you 
 
 163
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 to desert some one. I had cause to believe that, when he 
 knew this, he would let you stay." 
 
 "Gad, that was decent of you!" the young man told 
 her. "But, you see, it did no good. He's sending me 
 away just the same, and Ruth will be as bad off as if I 
 went to jail." 
 
 "You mean," the Woman asked incredulously, "that 
 he has acted without making any provision for her, that 
 your father has not thought of her, that he has said 
 nothing to you about her ?" 
 
 "Why, no," the young man replied. "He even told 
 me I would have to give her up." 
 
 "But he gave you some money, didn't he?" the Woman 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," Paul admitted. "He gave me enough to get 
 started with where I'm going. But that was all." 
 
 "You are not going to take it all with you, are you?" 
 The Woman looked at him expectantly. "That would 
 hardly be fair, would it? You know the girl has no 
 money to live on?" 
 
 The young man frowned. "I hadn't thought of that." 
 
 "You must go to her," the Woman said. "You must 
 do what you can to help her. She loves you, and it 
 will be hard enough for her to bear your absence. What 
 is she to do? It will be difficult for her to get work 
 under the circumstances. Your father will not let her 
 work for him. The fact that he has discharged her 
 will make every one else in Edenburg turn her away. 
 It will be hard on you, I know, to go without money ; 
 but had you thought that it will be much harder for her ? 
 After all, she is the weaker, and you owe something to 
 her for her love." 
 
 The young man sat for a long time in deep thought, 
 164
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 his face in his hands. The Woman's words had stirred 
 him strangely. They awakened in him a point of view 
 which, during the stress of his own misfortune, he had 
 lost sight of. 
 
 But he could not altogether shake himself free from 
 the mystery attaching to the Woman, who had now 
 stepped back into the shadow of the portieres and was 
 watching him anxiously. How did she happen to know 
 so much about his personal affairs ? Why was a woman 
 like her playing the uncongenial role of a servant ? What 
 could be the meaning of her presence in his father's 
 house? And why should she have taken so vital an 
 interest in the things which did not affect her personally ? 
 
 Before he had brought himself to answer her, Otto 
 entered the room. Despite his calm demeanour, his 
 voice shook nervously when he announced that there was 
 a police officer at the side door who wished to see Elijah 
 Bradshaw. 
 
 The young man's face grew pale. He clasped his 
 hands nervously, and sprang to his feet. 
 
 "What does he want?" he asked shakily. 
 
 "He didn't say," replied the man. "He asked to see 
 your father." 
 
 The other hesitated, and looked at the Woman as 
 if for help. But she did not move or change her ex- 
 pression. It occurred to him that there had been some 
 miscalculation on the part of his father, that the bank 
 officials had taken action without waiting for Elijah 
 Bradshaw's decision. He knew his father would be 
 returning from the Tabernacle very soon, and he de- 
 cided it were best to see the officer and detain him until 
 the older man should return. 
 
 He lighted a cigarette with trembling fingers, and 
 
 165
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 tried to reason the matter out; but his brain was in a 
 panic. 
 
 "You'd better have him come in here, Otto," he said 
 in a strained voice. "I'll see him until the Governor 
 returns." 
 
 He threw his cigarette away nervously, and lighted 
 another. 
 
 "Perhaps it's about something else," came the steady 
 voice of the Woman, although she did not move from 
 where she stood half hidden in the gloom of the heavy 
 curtains. 
 
 "What else could it be?" His voice still shook. He 
 looked fearfully toward the door through which Otto 
 had gone. 
 
 At that moment the man reappeared, accompanied by 
 an officer. 
 
 "You may go, Otto," he said, assuming an easy 
 air. 
 
 The officer was a heavy-set Irishman, with a close 
 black moustache. He wore civilian clothes and a soft 
 black hat. His appearance was aggressive and formi- 
 dable, and he looked at the other man with a little 
 surprise. 
 
 "You're not Mr. Bradshaw, are you?" His words 
 were cold and businesslike. 
 
 The young man had put on a brave face. He half 
 leaned and half sat on his father's desk. 
 
 "I am Mr. Bradshaw, junior." 
 
 "Oh, I see !" replied the officer. "But it was your old 
 man I wanted to speak to." 
 
 "He's not here now." Despite his efforts, there was 
 a tremor in his voice. "But you can tell me, I guess. 
 . . . What's the trouble?" 
 166
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 The other man hesitated. Then he jerked his head 
 slightly, as if he had made a decision. 
 
 "I guess I can tell you about it. It's about a woman 
 you've got working here. I was sent to get a line on 
 her. My name's Burke; I'm from headquarters." 
 
 Paul Bradshaw was noticeably relieved. He straight- 
 ened up and puffed vigorously at his cigarette. 
 
 "Oh, is that what you have come here for? A girl? 
 We have several girls working here. What one do you 
 want to know about?" 
 
 The officer reached in his pocket and drew forth a 
 note-book. 
 
 "Accordin* to our dope sheet," he said, looking at 
 the book, "her name's Packard. We got the tip that 
 she come here yesterday. Did you have a dame start 
 workin' then?" 
 
 The young man glanced at the Woman. 
 
 "Yes, I believe so. What about her?" 
 
 "Well, accordin' to this," the officer explained, read- 
 ing, "her height's five foot four inches, weight about 
 a hundred and thirty, red hair, eyes uncertain colour, 
 rather good looking, age about twenty-five." 
 
 The young man smiled slyly. He was thinking that 
 his suspicions about the Woman being a thief's accom- 
 plice were about to be realised. 
 
 "Yes, that description fits her," he said with guarded 
 irony. "What has she done?" 
 
 "It's up to me, Mr. Bradshaw," the officer announced 
 confidentially, "to tip you off that up to last Tuesday 
 she was an inmate of a house of prostitution run by 
 Daisy Stafford on West Street." 
 
 The young man whistled softly and shook his head 
 several times in wonderment. 
 
 167
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "So that's it, is it !" 
 
 "If the Jane's here," the police informer went on, 
 "I'd like to look her over." 
 
 At these words the Woman stepped from out the 
 darkness, and confronted the officer. 
 
 "Here I am," she announced resignedly. 
 
 The man regarded her with triumphant amusement. 
 
 "Sure, you are," he said ironically. "I made you the 
 minute I lamped you." 
 
 He turned to Paul Bradshaw. 
 
 "You see, sir, we know 'em by sight." 
 
 "What is it you want me to do?" the Woman asked 
 quietly. 
 
 The officer refused to be impressed by her manner. 
 
 "The first thing," he said, "I'm going to wise these 
 people up to who you are ; and then I want you to report 
 to headquarters just where you beat it to next." 
 
 "But suppose I stay here?" the Woman asked. 
 
 "Well, if you stick here, you're to kick in with a weekly 
 report just the same." 
 
 He laughed cynically. 
 
 "Say, you've got a swell chance of staying here when 
 old man Bradshaw gets hep," he told her. 
 
 "Gad! Father'll have seven kinds of fits when he 
 finds out who she is," the young man put in, eyeing the 
 Woman amusedly. 
 
 "Well, it's up to you to tip him off," said the officer, 
 folding up his paper and giving the Woman a warning 
 look. 
 
 "Now get this," he added to her, "and get it straight : 
 it's little bright eyes to the station once a week, 
 or we'll be backing the wagon up for you. Remem- 
 ber!" 
 
 168
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 "I'll remember," answered the Woman, as the officer 
 went out. 
 
 When he had gone the young man scrutinised the 
 Woman closely, and a smile spread slowly over his 
 face. 
 
 "So that's who you are!" His tone was a trifle 
 arrogant. "Thought you'd pull the wool over my eyes, 
 did you? Well, you're pretty slick, at that. Now I'll 
 show you how I'll get even with you for blabbing to 
 the old man. You know what he thinks of girls in 
 your line of business. Why, he's bossing this whole 
 campaign right now to put the Tenderloin out of busi- 
 ness." 
 
 He laughed heartily. "Say, it's a great joke on him, 
 to have you here." 
 
 "You'd better take my advice and not bring the mat- 
 ter up with your father." 
 
 There was something in the Woman's voice that made 
 the man wonder if, after all, she was not right. But 
 after a moment's thought he dismissed the possibility 
 of his father knowing the true state of affairs. 
 
 "Well, I'm not going to take your advice," he said 
 airily. "You might fool the old man, but you can't 
 fool me." 
 
 The Woman ignored his remark. 
 
 "What about the girl ?" she asked. 
 
 "Well, what about her?" The man was in a different 
 mood now. "I guess she can take care of herself. She 
 always has. Suppose she had never met me? She'd be 
 in a worse fix, wouldn't she ? At least she's got a decent 
 place to live now." 
 
 "You're not going to help her?" asked the Woman 
 sorrowfully, "and you are not sorry?" 
 
 169
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Sure, I'm sorry," he replied indifferently. "She's a 
 good sort. But where do I get off if I give up 
 my money? I've got to look out for number one, 
 haven't I?" 
 
 "But what's to become of her?" 
 
 "What's that to me?" The man spoke irritably. "I 
 guess she can win another home with her looks, it's 
 a cinch." 
 
 "And yet she gave up everything for you, didn't she? 
 She gave up her friends, her respectability, her good 
 name. And she was a good woman before you came 
 into her life." 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so," the man agreed. "But what's 
 the idea? . . . Say, you've got your nerve pulling this 
 kind of talk with me." 
 
 He looked at her threateningly. 
 
 The Woman stood a little in the shadow. The 
 beauty of her face was made even more beautiful by 
 the soft lighting. Her hair glowed dully. Her eyes, 
 full of sorrow and appeal, were on the man's. 
 Her lips were slightly parted and seemed unusually 
 red. 
 
 As Paul Bradshaw looked at her he was startled by 
 the picture she made. His resentment toward her died 
 away, and he was conscious only of the Woman's physi- 
 cal attractiveness. 
 
 "Gad, you're pretty!" he exclaimed. "Somehow, you 
 remind me of Ruth." 
 
 He approached her, feeling in some strange and in- 
 describable manner that the girl who loved him was 
 in the room. 
 
 "Come, give me a good-bye kiss," he said. 
 
 As he approached her, she stepped back. 
 170
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 "None of that now," he commanded sharply. "Who 
 do you think you are?" 
 
 He reached for the Woman, but she drew away from 
 him. 
 
 The man was piqued. 
 
 "You're going to kiss me good-bye do you hear?" 
 he said sharply. "I'm not the kind that takes 'No' for 
 an answer especially from your kind. If you put up 
 a fight, I'll tell the old man who you are and that 
 goes !" 
 
 "Don't ! Don't touch me," the Woman breathed, pity- 
 ingly, rather than angrily. 
 
 The man was not deterred. He caught the Woman in 
 his arms, and tried to force her to turn her lips to 
 his. 
 
 At that instant, unheeded by those in the room, Elijah 
 Bradshaw entered. He took one look at his son, and 
 turned purple with rage. 
 
 "Paul!" he shouted. 
 
 The young man sprang away from the Woman, and 
 met his father's horrified gaze. 
 
 "How dare you do a thing like this in my house?" the 
 other cried out, enraged. "An hour ago I saved you 
 from the penitentiary saved you, a thief, a common 
 thief! And now I come and find this. I could for- 
 give you the other, but for this bestiality there is no 
 forgiveness. . . . Now, take your things and get out! 
 Get out and stay out !" 
 
 He pointed toward the door. 
 
 "But, father, you don't know," the other stammered. 
 "You don't know who this woman is." 
 
 Bradshaw squared himself angrily. "And I don't 
 care." 
 
 171
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "But you would care, if you knew. Only a minute 
 ago an officer " 
 
 "Will you go?" roared the older man. "Or must I 
 put you out by force ?" 
 
 He went to the door and opened it. 
 
 "Pick up that suitcase." 
 
 His son obeyed him mechanically. 
 
 "Now then, out of that door, and so long as I am 
 alive, never enter it again!" 
 
 Abashed and frightened, Paul Bradshaw went out 
 without a word. 
 
 As he started down the front steps some impulse made 
 him turn round. At the window stood the Woman 
 looking at him. She wore an expression of tremendous 
 pathos, and, although he could not account for it, he 
 again saw in the Woman's face something that reminded 
 him of Ruth Young. 
 
 He went slowly down the street from his home. All 
 bitterness had left him. He was ashamed of. his actions 
 and of the pain he had given his father. As he walked 
 in the cool air, pity for the girl he loved took posses- 
 sion of him. He was broken and depressed, and the 
 tragedy of his life weighed heavily upon him. He looked 
 back at the house his home from which he had been 
 driven and his eyes lingered along the familiar street 
 with its rows of denuded maple trees. Hot tears started 
 to his eyes and blinded his vision. 
 
 A terrible loneliness swept over him. His downfall 
 had come so suddenly and so precipitously that he could 
 hardly grasp the full meaning of it. He wanted to go 
 back and beg his father for forgiveness for the sorrow 
 he had caused him, and, strangely enough, he wanted 
 to apologise to the Woman, for, despite the revelations 
 172
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 of the officer, he was unable to look upon her as what 
 she was. But he knew he could not go back. The world 
 of his maturity lay before him, cold and inhospitable. 
 He would have to face it alone, without assistance, with- 
 out friends. 
 
 And on the top of the wave of self-pity which swept 
 over him rode the sad face of the girl he was leaving 
 behind. What of her? She must face the cruelty of 
 life, just as he was now facing it; only he had every 
 advantage. She was helpless, almost an outcast; and 
 to her condition he had contributed much. Something 
 tightened about his heart, and he was brought up sud- 
 denly by the realisation of the girl's helplessness. 
 
 He glanced at his watch. It was an hour before train 
 time. He could still feel the eyes of the Woman on 
 him, and her appeals came back to him, subtly accusing 
 him and directing his sympathies. 
 
 Some power, stronger than he was, took him in hand, 
 and turned his face toward the girl's house. 
 
 He hailed a passing cab and gave the driver her 
 street number. Why was he going to her? he asked 
 himself on the way. Why did her sorrow for the mo- 
 ment transcend his own? Why did he resolve to give 
 her what little money he had? He could not answer 
 these questions. He only knew that these were the 
 things he was going to do the things which something 
 deep within him was forcing him to do. 
 
 In ten minutes he stood before her door, and it seemed 
 as if he had never loved her so much as now. He left 
 his suitcase in the hallway and entered without knocking. 
 
 Ruth Young sat before the fire which was the only 
 light in the room. She was scarcely more than a girl, 
 but she wore a look of wistfulness and submission, as 
 
 173
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 if life had been cruel to her as if she were in posses- 
 sion of tragic secrets which did not belong to her youth 
 secrets which only older women should know. She 
 was a slender, pale girl, whose spiritual strength seemed 
 to have been called upon to bear burdens for which 
 she was not yet ready. Her eyes were large and deep ; 
 her mouth was frail and gentle, like the mouths of the 
 old paintings of the Madonna. She wore a simple dress 
 which half concealed and half revealed the lines of her 
 girlish figure. 
 
 When Paul Bradshaw entered she glanced around 
 quickly. Her face brightened, with a look of love and 
 happiness. 
 
 "Something told me you would come to-night, dear," 
 she said simply. "I have been sitting here for an hour 
 thinking about you. It is so hard when you are away." 
 
 The man kissed her gently, and sat down by her side, 
 taking her hand in his. 
 
 She looked at him from under her long lashes. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she asked sympathetically. 
 "You look worried. Has anything gone wrong? ... It 
 would break my heart if anything happened to 
 you." 
 
 "Nothing serious has happened," he said, assuming 
 as easy a manner as he was able. "I knew you would 
 need some money, and I came to bring it to you." 
 
 The girl did not answer for a moment. 
 
 "If you only knew how I hate all this," she said, 
 looking fixedly into the leaping flames. "It wouldn't be 
 so bad if I could have you all the time. ... I have no 
 one now but you." 
 
 "I know," the man answered gently. "It is hard on 
 both of us." 
 174
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 Then he forced himself to add : "Things will be better 
 later on; I'm sure they will." 
 
 "And yet," she said wistfully, "when I plan for our 
 future, or dream about it, there always seems to be 
 some terrible cloud hanging over our lives. I know it's 
 foolish, but I can't seem to get the idea out of my foolish 
 head that I'm going to lose you. You'll meet some one 
 else, perhaps some one who can make you so much hap- 
 pier than I. And then, there is your father if he should 
 ever find out of our love, he'd never forgive you. He'd 
 do everything he could to take you away from me. I 
 think that's what worries me more than anything else." 
 
 There was a silence, broken only by the sporadic sput- 
 tering of the fire and the distant noises of the street. 
 
 "There is something the matter, isn't there?" she in- 
 sisted at length in a frightened voice. "Ever since the 
 other day when you took me away from Orchard Street 
 and got me this place to live in, you have acted strangely. 
 . . . Tell me, dear; where did you get the money for it? 
 You always told me how strict your father was about 
 what you spent." 
 
 The man moved uneasily. "It was money I have had 
 a long time money I had been saving. . . . You mustn't 
 worry about it : I told you everything was all right." 
 
 The girl sighed a little, not altogether satisfied. But 
 she saw it was no use questioning him. 
 
 "To-morrow," she told him, "I shall have my divorce. 
 The lawyer said there would be no trouble about it. 
 Then, somehow, I will be happier. I won't feel so guilty 
 being with you. What we are doing is wrong and you 
 know it, dear. Sometimes I wish that we had never seen 
 each other until this whole terrible affair was over." 
 
 The man tried to comfort her. He knew that in a few 
 
 175
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 minutes he must tell her of his going away. He shrank 
 from the task. But he resolved to have it over at once. 
 
 "Ruth," he began, in a voice of calm determination, 
 "now listen to me, and try to understand what I am going 
 to say. Try to be brave, and don't make it harder for 
 me than it is." 
 
 The girl drew back from him, frightened, for in his 
 words she felt a premonition of disaster. 
 
 "I've got to go away," the man continued in a steady 
 voice. "It can't be helped. I am going away on business 
 for my father. I don't know how long I'll be gone it 
 may be for long. But I want you to know that, if I could 
 stay, I would on your account. I can't take you with 
 me, for I won't have enough money. Father has allowed 
 me barely enough for my expenses. It all came very 
 suddenly, and there was no way of putting it off, or of 
 getting out of it." 
 
 The girl began to sob gently. 
 
 "I knew it I knew it," she said. "Tell me why you 
 are going. There's something you are keeping from me." 
 
 "I am telling you everything," he answered resolutely. 
 
 He could not bear to admit the truth the girl's suffer- 
 ing would have been too keen. He felt that, at all costs, 
 he must deceive her as to the real reason of his departure. 
 She must never know that the comfort of the home he 
 had secured for her had been paid for with stolen money, 
 for he knew she then would have given it up. 
 
 "The thing is very simple," he explained. "Father 
 has interests in Chicago, and he is too busy to leave here 
 just now. Something came up very suddenly some- 
 thing which needed attending to. It was only natural 
 that he should have sent me. That's why I'm going. I 
 only found it out to-day, and this is the first opportunity 
 176
 
 The Young Generation 
 
 I've had of telling you. . . . But you mustn't worry," 
 he went on, putting his arm about the girl. "You know 
 I love you better than anything in the world, and, 
 somehow, I don't feel that we have done wrong. You 
 mustn't ever think that. If circumstances had been dif- 
 ferent we would be married now. But, even so, we 
 couldn't love each other any more than we do. I'll come 
 back to you as soon as I can. We'll write to each other 
 often. I shall never forget you. I shall never love 
 any one else as long as I live." 
 
 "You talk as if you were never going to see me again," 
 the girl sobbed. 
 
 "Of course I shall," the man forced himself to 
 say. 
 
 Already he was planning to work hard and diligently. 
 He wanted to succeed so that he might send for the girl 
 and marry her. 
 
 "We are both young," he went on, trying to convince 
 himself also. "Our whole lives are before us, and, even 
 if I can't come back, you will come to me, and we will be 
 happy. It may be that I'll have to stay in Chicago and 
 take over my father's affairs, but before very long there 
 will be enough money for both of us to live on. And 
 the minute that day comes I will send for you. You will 
 wait for me, won't you, sweetheart? . . . You won't 
 forget me ?" 
 
 "I'll come to you whenever you want me," she an- 
 swered brokenly. "I'll wait for you always." 
 
 She did not suggest that the money he was going to 
 give her now might be used to take her with him. Nor 
 did she suggest that she too could seek employment in 
 Chicago and help support herself. She felt that there 
 was something back of his decision, which she did not 
 
 177
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 understand and which he did not care to tell her. She 
 accepted his words quietly, and without protestation. 
 
 The man arose and took her in his arms. 
 
 "It won't be long," he said again, and his voice trem- 
 bled. 
 
 She turned away from him to hide her grief ; and all 
 the money which his father had given him he took se- 
 cretly from his pocket and laid on the table. 
 
 The girl went with him to the door and kissed him 
 bravely. 
 
 When he was out of sight she turned again into the 
 room and sat down before the fire. She struggled for a 
 moment against her emotions ; but they were too great 
 for her slender power of resistance. 
 
 She buried her face in her arms, and wept bitterly. . . . 
 
 178
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE MOTH AND THE FLAME 
 
 T^LIZABETH BRADSHAW was lonelier than ever 
 *-^ after her brother's departure. She never realised 
 before how much she had counted on his companionship. 
 Formerly, Paul had accompanied her to all the parties 
 she had been allowed to attend. Her father would let 
 her go nowhere without her brother as an escort; and 
 now she knew that these few pleasures would be denied 
 her. 
 
 She envied Paul's going away, for, since her talk with 
 Macy, she had dreamed much of those splendours of life 
 which had been denied her. With thrills of intoxication 
 she had projected herself into the world which had been 
 described to her. Heretofore there had been compensa- 
 tions in her life in Edenburg. Her mind had been dis- 
 tracted from her pleasant visioning by the gatherings of 
 young people in her home, or by her occasional attend- 
 ance at informal parties at the homes of the other 
 young people in the city. But when she realised that 
 these diversions had suddenly been cut off, she began to 
 brood more than ever. Her environment became de- 
 testable to her, and she found herself thinking more and 
 more of Macy and all that he epitomised. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw noticed her gloomy disquietude after 
 his son had gone, but had said nothing about it, ascribing 
 it to what he thought a natural grief in having lost her 
 
 179
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 brother. Her mother too was inclined to attribute her 
 melancholy to the same reason. They both endeavoured 
 to cheer her up ; but their efforts were unsuccessful. They 
 did not worry about her condition, though, for they felt 
 that, in time, she would regain her normal spirits. 
 
 Another thing, Elijah Bradshaw was too absorbed in 
 his own thoughts to give much attention to her. He had 
 suffered considerably since driving his son away. His 
 feeling was neither one of anger nor yet of pity, but was 
 a combination of both. His wife's sorrow and her tears 
 at night affected him. He felt that he was in some meas- 
 ure guilty for the suffering she was undergoing. But, 
 however hard he might try, he could not put his finger 
 on anything which might, even indirectly, place the blame 
 on him for the desolation which had fallen upon his 
 house. For two days after his son had gone, he stayed 
 away from his home as much as possible, leaving early 
 in the morning and returning late in the evening just in 
 time for dinner. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw had changed greatly since her son's 
 departure. There were times when she sat abstractedly, 
 her eyes gazing far ahead. She did not refer to the 
 matter which weighed on her mind ; and more than once 
 her husband wondered secretly if she suspected anything 
 out of the ordinary in the fact that Paul had gone to 
 Chicago. However, instinct told him to keep his silence. 
 
 And so the subject was not brought up, except when 
 Elizabeth would mention it. But, even then, it was not 
 pursued to any length. She, too, was glad not to be 
 reminded of her brother's absence, for, when she thought 
 of him as being somewhere out in that big world of 
 which she longed to be a part, she grew melancholy over 
 her own condition. 
 180
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 The Woman in the house, however, seemed not to be 
 deceived by the girl's sombre quietness. She spoke to 
 Elizabeth often, and the girl, hungering for companion- 
 ship, talked to her and confided in her. 
 
 "I know how hard it is for you here," the Woman 
 would tell her maternally, "and I am sorry for you. I 
 wish there was something I could do to help you. But 
 you must try to be happy." 
 
 "How can I ?" the girl asked. "It isn't as if the other 
 girls in the city couldn't go out either. I get terribly 
 blue reading in the papers of their parties and their 
 dances. If only I could travel, or go somewhere ! But 
 mother is such a home-body: she never wants to go 
 away, and father is always too busy. I wish I were a 
 man, like Paul. Maybe father would have to send me 
 away on business too. . . . How I'd love it!" 
 
 "Things may change some day," the Woman answered. 
 "Your father may change, too." 
 
 The girl shook her head sadly. 
 
 "I'm afraid he never will," she said hopelessly. "He 
 never seems to change. And, even if he should, I'll be 
 too old to enjoy it there won't be any life left in me. 
 Father was even cross when Mr. Macy called and Paul 
 and mother were both here." 
 
 The Woman glanced at the girl. 
 
 "Do you like Mr. Macy?" she asked. 
 
 "He's awfully nice," the other answered. "And he's 
 been everywhere. He knows all about Europe and 
 Paris." She thought a moment. "He's different, too, 
 from the other men in Edenburg. . . . Yes, I think I 
 like him very much." 
 
 "I'm sorry." The Woman turned away. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be sorry," the girl said, 
 
 181
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 a little resentfully. "I thought you sympathised with me ? 
 Maybe, after all, you're no different from father and 
 mother. Every one's against me." 
 
 "He may be all right," the Woman remarked cryptic- 
 ally. "If things are going to happen, no power in the 
 world can stop them." 
 
 "What do you mean?" the girl asked, annoyed and 
 puzzled. 
 
 "Some day you will know." The Woman looked at 
 her sorrowfully. "There are things which every woman 
 must find out for herself." 
 
 "I don't understand you," the girl remarked petulantly, 
 "and you're not pleasant to-day." 
 
 The Woman left the room without another word. 
 
 Elizabeth had been on the point of confiding to her 
 how, when she had been shopping the day before and had 
 been waiting for her mother to join her so that they 
 might come home together, she had accidentally met 
 Macy, and how happy he had appeared to see her. But 
 something in the Woman's remarks had made her hesitate 
 to relate the incident, simple and unpremeditated as it 
 had been. 
 
 After the Woman had left the room Elizabeth went to 
 the book-shelves and took down a volume of travel. She 
 had read a great deal in such books lately. They had 
 filled her with wonderful visionings, and set her heart 
 beating faster. She always felt a little guilty when read- 
 ing them, and once, when she had heard her father com- 
 ing, she had hurried and put the book in its place, 
 although she did not analyse the motive behind her 
 act. 
 
 That afternoon she thought much of the Woman's 
 question as to whether she liked Macy. She had been 
 182
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 fascinated by him, but she had never even asked herself 
 if she liked him or not. Now she began thinking of the 
 man, of his appearance, of his pleasant manners, of his 
 descriptions of Europe, of the delight he had displayed 
 when he had met her accidentally. The realisation sud- 
 denly came to her that she wanted very much to see him 
 again ; and at the Tabernacle that night she looked care- 
 fully at all the faces within her range, hoping that she 
 might find him among those present. But he was not 
 there, and she was disappointed. 
 
 She awoke earlier than usual the next morning and 
 discovered that her mind was again on the man. After 
 breakfast, when her mother and father had both gone 
 away, she went into the library and began reading a 
 travel book. 
 
 She had read only a short time when some impulse 
 made her go to the window and look out. She did not 
 understand the impulse, and although she was filled with 
 some abstract expectancy, her emotions were vague and 
 indefinite. It was with a little start of pleasant surprise 
 that she saw Macy outside, walking briskly toward the 
 house. 
 
 "Are you expecting some one?" came the voice of the 
 Woman behind her. 
 
 The girl was startled, and looked around quickly. 
 "No; what makes you ask?" 
 
 The Woman did not reply and Elizabeth turned again 
 to the window. 
 
 Macy caught sight of her and waved to her pleasantly 
 as he turned up the walk which led to her home. 
 
 "You had better open the door for Mr. Macy," she 
 said to the Woman. 
 
 "Then you were expecting some one." 
 
 183
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "What impertinence !" the girl exclaimed angrily. "Go 
 to the door." 
 
 The Woman obeyed sadly; and in another moment 
 Macy had entered. 
 
 The Woman went out. 
 
 "Good morning, Miss Bradshaw," the man greeted 
 her, with exaggerated amiability. "You know I told you 
 I was leaving the city very soon. Well, to-day is the 
 day, although I hadn't imagined it would really be quite 
 so soon. ... I dropped in to say good-bye." 
 
 His words, for some reason, made her unhappy. 
 
 "I'm sorry that you are going," she said. 
 
 Then, as he gazed at her intently, she became a trifle 
 embarrassed. 
 
 "I am glad, though, that you came to say good-bye," 
 she went on lightly. "Won't you sit down ? . . . This is 
 a surprise." 
 
 The man seated himself without taking his eyes off her. 
 "A pleasant surprise?" 
 
 "Of course," Elizabeth answered. "But hardly a sur- 
 prise at all. . . . Do you know, something told me you 
 were coming." 
 
 "A sort of presentiment of evil?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, no," she answered, confused. "But it's the strang- 
 est thing I was reading just now, and, all of a sudden, 
 I felt that you were near. I stepped to the window 
 and there you were!" 
 
 The man smiled at her ingenuousness. 
 
 "Just like a jumping- jack," he said. "You press the 
 button and there he is!" 
 
 The girl didn't know what to say to this, so she 
 laughed. 
 
 "Even the maid noticed it," she added, just as if he 
 184
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 had made no facetious interpolation. "She asked me if 
 I were expecting some one." 
 
 Macy asked her if he might smoke, and, being given 
 permission, he lighted a cigarette. 
 
 "Well," he asked, after he had taken a few puffs, "are 
 we going to be friends?" 
 
 "Surely we are," the girl answered, in an unserious 
 tone. 
 
 "Good friends?" 
 
 "The very best." 
 
 "Let's shake hands on it," the man laughed. 
 
 The girl gave him her hand, and he took it warmly. 
 But, when he did not release it, she forced herself to 
 withdraw it, and went to her father's desk, where she 
 sat down. His action had both intrigued and frightened 
 her. 
 
 Macy smoked for a while in silence. Then his manner 
 became serious. 
 
 "Tell me something," he said. "How can you bear to 
 live in this detestable town?" 
 
 "That's simple enough," Elizabeth answered. "It's not 
 a case of bearing, it's a case of having to. . . . It's my 
 home." 
 
 "And don't you ever feel that you would like to get 
 away ?" he pursued. "Doesn't the idea ever come to you 
 of how pleasant it would be to go somewhere else to 
 see more of the world?" 
 
 "Does it ever come to me!" The girl frowned and 
 looked away. "It never leaves me." 
 
 "But surely you have travelled some," said the man. 
 "You certainly have been to other places with your 
 people." 
 
 "Oh, yes," the girl answered, without any enthusiasm.
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "I've travelled a little with mother and father. I went to 
 Chicago once, and to New York, and even to New Or- 
 leans. . . . But trips like that only make things worse/' 
 she added gloomily. "New York seemed like Heaven 
 to me; but we were only there a few days. I never 
 wanted to leave it. After New York, Edenburg seemed 
 like a village." 
 
 "I can't imagine," Macy remarked, "what the people 
 in Edenburg find to do all the time. Where on earth do 
 they keep themselves? Although I've lived here a long 
 time, I know very few people. I don't go about 
 much." 
 
 "They keep themselves home mostly, I presume." 
 There was disparagement in the girl's voice. "And Sun- 
 days they always go to church." 
 
 Macy regarded her appraisingly. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, drawing his chair nearer to her, 
 "would you like to get away from this place? Would 
 you like to go out and see the world and be free and 
 have a good time, and maybe never set foot in Edenburg 
 again?" 
 
 "Would I!" she smiled, with a touch of happy cyni- 
 cism. "I'd like to have some one give me a chance." 
 
 Macy stood up. 
 
 "You poor child!" he exclaimed. 
 
 He hesitated a moment ; then he said resolutely : "I'm 
 going to give you a chance." 
 
 The girl was startled. She looked at him wonderingly, 
 fearing and hoping at the same time that he was able to 
 do what he promised. 
 
 "You are going to give me a chance ?" she asked slowly. 
 "How?" 
 
 "I'm going to make it possible for you to go away." 
 186
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 He threw away his cigarette and leaned toward her, 
 clasping his hands behind his back. 
 
 "To go away? But how? With whom?" 
 
 "With me." 
 
 She was now thoroughly frightened, but she forced 
 herself to laugh, pretending that his words had been a 
 huge joke which, by no possible stretch of the imagina- 
 tion, could be taken seriously. 
 
 "You will come?" the man persisted, ignoring her 
 laughter. 
 
 "How funny!" She half believed that, after all, he 
 was joking. "An elopement you mean?" 
 
 Macy came nearer to her. 
 
 "Just that," he said gravely. 
 
 Elizabeth resolved to treat his words lightly, like some 
 game in which the imagination plays the largest part. 
 
 "But in elopements they marry, don't they?" she asked, 
 as one who would ask questions about a fairy tale. 
 
 The man refused to meet her mood. 
 
 "Of course," he agreed seriously. 
 
 "Then this is a proposal !" she exclaimed, with childish 
 delight, still keeping up the spirit of an impossible and 
 fantastic game, though all the while she felt that she was 
 defending herself from some impending danger. 
 
 "Yes," the man agreed soberly, in a low voice. "This 
 is a proposal." He looked at her smiling face, and 
 added fervently: "A real one." 
 
 The girl became nervous, but she forced herself to 
 retain her air of levity. 
 
 "I know you are joking," she said with a laugh, "but 
 do you know ? I have a good notion to take you at your 
 word just to see what you will say." 
 
 Macy came very close to her. "I dare you !" 
 
 187
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Elizabeth was unable to continue in her former strain. 
 The man's tenseness and gravity began to tell on her 
 emotions. 
 
 "You are really in earnest ?" she asked ; and her man- 
 ner was no longer frivolous. 
 
 "Of course I'm in earnest," he assured her. "I was 
 never more in earnest in my life ; and I want you to come 
 with me. . . . You are going to come, because you mean 
 everything in the world to me, because I love you." 
 
 "You're in love with me!" Her words, scarcely audi- 
 ble, were filled with wonderment and alarm. 
 
 "You know I am in love with you," he told her. "You 
 have known it from the first. Why do you try to deceive 
 me and yourself ? I've thought of nothing but you since 
 the day we rode into the country. Why cheat yourself 
 out of life and all the things that you deserve? Why 
 stay here in Edenburg, when the whole world is waiting 
 for you and me? If I didn't have to go away at once, 
 I would wait and tell you these things later, when they 
 wouldn't frighten you when you had gotten used to me. 
 But I can't wait it is now or never. . . . You must un- 
 derstand. . . . Will you come?" 
 
 The girl had been struggling with her emotions during 
 his speech. She liked him, and secretly his words thrilled 
 her. But she thought of her mother and father, of her 
 home and its strictness. What he proposed was so alien 
 to the very fabric of her life. It was too big for her to 
 grasp; but she felt its enormity and importance. She 
 was afraid to face it. Her training had not prepared her 
 for this step. And yet, she knew she could not argue 
 with the man, for she wanted to go if only she dare. 
 
 She sat for some time trying to think of an answer, of 
 some way to refuse him. His eyes were on her, watching 
 188
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 her closely and eagerly; and she felt his fascination. 
 Then, when she could find no adequate reply, she in- 
 stinctively fell back on her old defence of bantering 
 lightness. 
 
 She made herself laugh. 
 
 "Of course, I'll not go with you. How absurd !" Her 
 external mood was frivolous again. "What a silly thing 
 to suggest. . . ." 
 
 But when the man did not take his eyes from her or 
 change his expression, she was unable to retain the ar- 
 tificiality of her pose. 
 
 "And yet," she went on, in a more serious voice, "do 
 you know, I have another strange presentiment that I 
 shall do the very thing you ask me ?" 
 
 "I knew you would, all the time," Macy answered con- 
 fidently. 
 
 He stepped quickly toward her and reached out his 
 arms for her ; but she leapt to her feet and stepped away 
 from him. 
 
 "Don't please don't," she begged in fright. "You see, 
 my presentiment has not told me whether / love you or 
 not." 
 
 The man was not discouraged. "But it will tell you. 
 . . . Why do you try to avoid me? Why do you lie to 
 yourself? I know that you love me and you know it, 
 too. . . . And you are going with me," he repeated 
 firmly. 
 
 He watched to see how his words would effect her. 
 She did not answer, but stood with her head bowed. 
 He now went to her softly and put his arms around her. 
 She no longer resisted. 
 
 "Where shall we meet, sweetheart ?" he asked tenderly. 
 
 "Am I going really ?" she whispered. 
 
 189
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Of course, you are going," he told her gently. "We'll 
 take the Limited this afternoon, and in two days we'll 
 be on the boat sailing for Europe." 
 
 She let' him kiss her, and he held her close in his arms 
 for a long time. 
 
 "But you have forgotten the most important part 
 our marriage," she told him. 
 
 He held her at arm's length. 
 
 "You foolish girl, we shall be married to-night. If we 
 should be married here it would be found out. Your 
 father would know about it, and he would stop us. Once 
 we are away, everything will be safe." 
 
 "I don't see why I should let you do this," the girl per- 
 sisted. "But somehow, when I am with you, I seem to 
 lose my self-control. ... I never felt this way before. 
 . . . What can it be?" 
 
 "My dear," said the man, "it's the sweetest thing in fh* 
 world it's love." 
 
 "I'm not so sure. . . . Oh, Arnold, I'm so afraid!" 
 
 "Of me?" he asked, in pained surprise. 
 
 "Yes, of you, dear," she answered. "And of myself. 
 It isn't that I don't trust you but still, I'm afraid. It 
 would kill my mother. And father " 
 
 "But what right have they to interfere," Macy asked 
 her, a little angrily, "when your happiness is at stake?" 
 
 "None, I suppose," she answered weakly. "But I know 
 nothing about you. It is all so strange, and so sudden." 
 
 The man smiled confidently. 
 
 "Well, look at me," he said lightly. "I'm fairly pre- 
 possessing don't you think so? My family's one of the 
 oldest in Manchester; and, as for money " 
 
 "Arnold! You know I don't mean that," Elizabeth 
 reprimanded sweetly. "I mean about yourself, your life, 
 190
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 your love affairs. . . . Oh, I'm not silly enough to think 
 you haven't had them." 
 
 They were sitting close to each other on a davenport, 
 her hand held in his tightly. The man looked away and 
 frowned slightly. 
 
 "Why, yes, of course I've had love affairs. I won't 
 try to deceive you about that. But there have been no 
 real ones. . . . And what of you?" He tried to put the 
 girl on the defensive. 
 
 "You know well enough what my life has been in this 
 cloister," she replied, in an injured tone. 
 
 "But you have had Bellamy," the man suggested. "You 
 loved him, didn't you?" 
 
 "I thought so, until you came," she said, suddenly 
 remembering. 
 
 For the last two days she had forgotten the other man 
 and his love for her. She had, however, never taken 
 that love seriously; and when he had told her that her 
 father had refused to let her marry him, she had dis- 
 missed the matter from her mind. 
 
 "Then you will come, won't you, dear? The man had 
 seen the troubled look on her face at the mention of 
 Bellamy, and wished to be reassured. 
 
 "Yes," she said firmly, as if her first conscious decision 
 had just been made. "I'll come to escape from Eden- 
 burg, to escape from myself. If it is to be, the sooner 
 the better." 
 
 Macy arose. 
 
 "I shall be waiting for you," he said. 
 
 He took her in his arms again and pressed her lips to 
 his. 
 
 When he had released her, she suddenly covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 191
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "How can I ever break it to my mother ?" she said, with 
 a slight sob. 
 
 "We'll write to her," the man returned quickly. "Or 
 better still, you leave a note to be delivered to her after 
 we are safely away. Will you do that?" 
 
 "Yes," she replied with resolution. Then she added in 
 a broken voice : "It will be terrible but I'll do it." 
 
 "Good !" The man looked at his watch. "It's almost 
 ten o'clock," he said. "You had better go and get ready. 
 At exactly four o'clock leave the house and walk to the 
 corner. I will be waiting for you there in an auto. We 
 will just be in time to catch the Limited from the West." 
 
 Still the girl hesitated. "But father will follow us. I 
 think he would kill us both if he caught us." 
 
 "Let him follow," Macy said reassuringly. "He will 
 never get us. He won't know where we have gone ; and 
 once on board the boat, we can laugh at all of them." 
 
 "I'll go," breathed the girl. 
 
 She rang the bell, and the Woman answered. 
 
 "Get Mr. Macy's hat and coat," she said. 
 
 The Woman said nothing, but walked into the hallway, 
 followed by the man, as Elizabeth ran upstairs. 
 
 In the hallway the Woman turned and looked at Macy 
 accusingly, without a word. 
 
 "By Jove, where have I seen you before!" he ex- 
 claimed, as he met her eyes. 
 
 "In Paris, perhaps," she answered insinuatingly. "Or 
 Berlin. Or Moscow." 
 
 Macy gave a troubled laugh. "Now you're joking." 
 
 "No, indeed," the Woman replied. "I am not joking. 
 You see, I have travelled a great deal; so it is possible 
 that we have met before." 
 
 Macy studied her a moment. 
 192
 
 The Moth and the Flame 
 
 "It is hardly probable," he said stiffly. "But your eyes 
 do look deucedly familiar, somehow. . . . Please give me 
 my things; I must be off." 
 
 The Woman took down his hat and coat, but did not 
 hand them to him. Instead she looked at him question- 
 ing^. 
 
 "When is she going ?" There was a hidden accusation 
 in her query. 
 
 Macy started a little, but did not reply. 
 
 "When is she going?" the Woman repeated. "Is it 
 to-day, or to-morrow?" 
 
 The man gritted his teeth. 
 
 "You have overheard you eavesdropping devil! I 
 have a good mind to " He stepped toward her men- 
 acingly. 
 
 The Woman was unmoved. "Poor girl ! She doesn't 
 know." 
 
 The man's face paled. 
 
 "Know about what ?" He tried to be indifferent. 
 
 "About your wife in Southampton," the Woman said 
 softly. 
 
 At these words Macy lost his self-control. 
 
 "Shh !" he warned her excitedly. "How did you know 
 that?" 
 
 "I told you it is likely that we have met before." The 
 Woman's voice was serene. 
 
 "It's a lie !" the man said, his lips twitching spasmodic- 
 ally. "I have no wife." 
 
 The other laughed lightly. 
 
 Macy scrutinised her. Then, seeing that deception 
 was hopeless, he changed his manner. 
 
 "Now, see here," he asked earnestly. "Are you going 
 to give me away or not?" 
 
 193
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The Woman shook her head hopelessly. 
 
 "What would be the use?" she, in return, asked. "If 
 it is fate that she is to go away, she will go. Nothing 
 can stop her. Every one must pass through fire. Every- 
 thing that is to happen in the world, must happen. Even 
 I cannot change that. . . . Poor girl!" 
 
 The man was puzzled, and looked at the Woman more 
 sharply. 
 
 "I see you are the right sort, after all," he stammered. 
 "See here, did you say you saw me in Paris?" 
 
 "I said I was in Paris," the Woman answered. 
 
 "How long ago?" 
 
 She reflected a moment. 
 
 "Was it five years ago ?" she asked, as if uncertain. 
 
 The man started a little. 
 
 "By Jove, that's strange!" he said. "There's some- 
 thing about you that reminds me of " 
 
 "The little girl you deserted in St. Cloud?" she fin- 
 ished. 
 
 "My God! How did you know that?" Macy's voice 
 was frightened, and his body trembled perceptibly. 
 "Who are you?" he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "An old friend, and your very humble servant," an- 
 swered the Woman. 
 
 She handed him his hat and coat, which he accepted, 
 as in a daze. 
 
 "And you are not going to tell?" he asked incred- 
 ulously. "On your honour?" 
 
 "On my honour," she said. 
 
 Macy's lips moved, but no sound came from them. 
 With a last close look at the Woman he turned and went 
 out. 
 
 194
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE BLACK DAYS 
 
 WHEN Elizabeth reached her room she sat down 
 and cried for a half hour. She was not un- 
 happy, but apprehensive. In her tears there was no weak- 
 ening of her determination to go away. She did not 
 know what it was that made her cry : her emotions were 
 too confused. The coming event was all so wonderful; 
 yet, at the same time, it was terrible and tragic. In- 
 stinctively she knew she was doing wrong, but her desire 
 for a change was stronger than her conscience. She told 
 herself that she was going to be happy, that she was in 
 love with Arnold Macy, that she had a right to break 
 the manacles which bound her to the quiet and unevent- 
 ful life of Edenburg. She recalled Macy's words to her, 
 and they gave her strength. 
 
 She knew her life had been drab and filled with dep- 
 rivation. Inwardly she had always revolted against it; 
 and yet, as she looked round her, the little white bedroom 
 seemed suddenly to have become very dear to her. The 
 brass bed with its pale blue satin canopy and its lace cov- 
 ering, the French windows through which filtered the 
 sunshine, the low dressing-table with its swinging mir- 
 rors and its neatly arranged silver toilet set which her 
 brother had given her on her sixteenth birthday, the 
 quaint Watteau prints with their curious little gold 
 frames, the great soft blue rug, the bookcase with her 
 
 195
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 own books all these things seemed to be interwoven into 
 her life and dreams. They were an intimate part of her 
 earliest memories. But not until to-day did she realise 
 the sweetness of their associations. 
 
 Now that she was about to leave them all, she knew 
 for the first time how much they meant to her. She 
 would have been happier if she could have taken them 
 all with her, and already she, began wondering if, per- 
 haps, later on, her father would not forgive her and let 
 her come back to them. She knew there was little chance 
 of this, once she had taken the step; but she could not 
 rid herself of the longing and attachment for the familiar 
 objects in the room. 
 
 She did not regret leaving her father. He was hard 
 and cold, and his demands on her had always seemed 
 unreasonable. Though she loved him, it was with a love 
 in which her respect for his authority played a large 
 part. Only at times had she felt tender toward him, and, 
 strangely enough, this was not one of the times. She 
 asked herself why it should be necessary to run away 
 with Macy. Why could she not have gone to her father 
 and received his consent? Surely she was no longer a 
 little girl. But she knew from past experience that such 
 a request would have been fatal. He would have told 
 her that she was too young to consider marriage; he 
 would have become infuriated at the mere suggestion 
 of it. 
 
 But, when she thought of her mother, her feelings 
 were different. Martha Bradshaw had always been ten- 
 der and generous. There was a close bond between the 
 girl and the older woman a bond of sympathy and 
 understanding. Elizabeth looked at her mother's picture, 
 which she always kept on her desk in a little silver frame, 
 196
 
 The Black Days 
 
 and the hot tears started to her eyes afresh. She knew 
 her act would break her mother's heart, and she knew, 
 too, that the other woman was not strong and would 
 suffer intensely. But even this knowledge did not deter 
 her from carrying out her plan. Her desire for free- 
 dom, and for the splendid adventures which lay beyond 
 Edenburg, was the strongest dictate in her heart. She 
 tried to seek comfort by telling herself that her mother 
 would understand and forgiye her, though, in the very 
 process of this self-assurance, she realised that she was 
 seeking solace in sophistry. But she hoped, despite her 
 own inner conviction, that her mother's suffering would 
 not be so great as she feared. 
 
 She brushed her tears away, and went to the window. 
 For a long time she stood looking out into the barren 
 street. It was cold and desolate, although the sun was 
 shining. A young man and a girl, both of whom she 
 knew, passed by, laughing and talking. She looked at 
 them with envy. They caught sight of her, and waved 
 pleasantly. Their presence had a strengthening effect 
 on the girl at the window, for it intensified her resent- 
 ment against the austerity of her father's prescriptions. 
 She had never been allowed to walk the streets alone 
 with the young men of the city; and the fact that this 
 other girl was doing it now, set in motion within her a 
 wave of indignation at her father's rigid and dictatorial 
 supervision. 
 
 She turned again to the room, and began to get ready 
 for her first great adventure. From the closet she took 
 a little hand-bag into which she put the few articles she 
 would need. She knew she could not take any clothes 
 with her there would not be room. For an hour she 
 packed and repacked her things, changing one article for 
 
 197
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 another as she projected her imagination into the future 
 and tried to determine the things she had to have and 
 the things she could do without. 
 
 All the while she was becoming more and more intoxi- 
 cated with the idea of her elopement ; and when, at last, 
 she had closed the bag and locked it, she was trembling 
 with excitement. She started to change the house-dress 
 she was wearing for a suit in which to travel ; but she 
 thought it would create suspicion if her mother should 
 come home to lunch, and she decided to wait. 
 
 Her mother did not come home, however. The girl 
 ate alone. She was glad of this, for she shrank from 
 seeing her mother again before going away. She felt 
 she might weaken in the other's presence. She ate little, 
 for she was too nervous. Her cheeks burned with ex- 
 citement, and she could hardly wait for the hour when 
 she would step forth from her lonely and shut-in exist- 
 ence into that world of freedom and romance which 
 Macy had held out to her. 
 
 Throughout the meal she was conscious of the Wom- 
 an's eyes on her. They made her restless and uneasy. 
 Her feeling of guilt was such that she imagined the 
 Woman suspected something perhaps this servant had 
 overheard Macy's words and her own promise to meet 
 him at four o'clock. But, again in her room, she dis- 
 missed these suspicions as an impossibility. 
 
 The hours went slowly until the time when she was to 
 steal forth and meet the man who would be awaiting 
 her. She tried to read, but the words became a jumble 
 before her eyes, and she could not keep her mind on the 
 printed page. Every little commonplace noise in the 
 house startled her. Once, when Otto came to deliver 
 her a letter from a relative, she trembled so she could 
 198
 
 The Black Days 
 
 hardly hold it. She watched the clock constantly, and, 
 whenever she heard a footstep on the street beneath her 
 window, she looked out guardedly, fearing it might be 
 her mother or father. 
 
 When there were but fifteen minutes before she was 
 due to go, she remembered that she had not written the 
 note she was to leave behind. Going to her desk she sat 
 down and drew a piece of paper in front of her. A mist 
 of tears filled her eyes as she began to write. Before she 
 had finished she was sobbing brokenly. Now, at the 
 very moment of departure, she felt her strength give way 
 and her will weaken. As she had finished writing, her 
 head fell forward on her arm ; and for five minutes she 
 wept bitterly. The reaction past, she raised up again 
 and brushed her tears away. She looked down at the 
 letter and reread it. 
 
 "Dearest, dearest mother," it ran. "Please try to for- 
 give me for what I am going to do. I don't want you 
 to suffer, and if you will try to understand, I know it 
 will not seem so terrible to you. I am going away. 
 When you get this note I will be on my way, and you 
 will not be able to find me. I am going with Mr. Macy. 
 He loves me, and I love him. I can't stand it here any 
 longer. In a short time we will be in Europe. I know 
 I am going to be happy, and I want you to be happy, too. 
 That you will forgive me will always be the prayer of 
 your loving daughter Elizabeth." 
 
 The girl looked up at her mother's picture, which stood 
 facing her. She took it down and kissed it. Then she 
 unlocked her bag and put the picture inside. It lacked 
 only a few minutes of being four o'clock. Going back 
 to her desk, she folded the letter hurriedly and placed it 
 in an envelope. 
 
 199
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 At that moment the door opened, and the Woman en- 
 tered. She stood with one hand on the knob, looking at 
 the girl sorrowfully and pityingly. 
 
 Elizabeth jumped to her feet, startled and frightened, 
 holding the letter behind her. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, is it !" she exclaimed in surprised anger. 
 "Spying on me as usual!" 
 
 "I am not spying," the Woman answered gently. "You 
 wanted me, didn't you?" 
 
 "No, I didn't want you! When I want you, I'll ring 
 for you." 
 
 "I was sure you wanted me," the other persisted, with- 
 out moving. 
 
 The girl looked at her, wondering. Could it be that 
 this woman suspected something? Why should she have 
 come just at four o'clock? 
 
 "What made you think I wanted you?" Elizabeth 
 asked her cautiously. 
 
 "I felt that you did." She remained at the door, mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 "Was that all ?" The girl still feared that her secret 
 had been overheard. 
 
 The Woman nodded. 
 
 "Well, since you are here," the other said hesitatingly, 
 "you may give this note to my mother to-night after 
 dinner." 
 
 "You see, you did want me, after all," the Woman 
 said, taking the note. 
 
 "Give this note to my mother as I directed you 
 to-night, when she has finished dinner. Not a minute 
 before. You understand?" 
 
 "I understand perfectly," replied the Woman. "Will 
 you be safely away by then?" 
 200
 
 The Black Days 
 
 "Who told you I was going away?" asked the girl, 
 taken off her guard. 
 
 "No one told me," the Woman answered sadly. "Nor 
 did I listen to anything he said to you. Only, I felt that 
 you were going away." 
 
 "Well, I'm not," asserted Elizabeth resentfully. "That 
 note is something else." 
 
 "You need have no fear," the other told her comfort- 
 ingly. "I shall tell no one. It would do no good. But 
 I know you are going oh, you needn't take the trouble 
 to deny it. I know a great many things, but there is 
 nothing I can do about them. I must wait. The time 
 may come some day. ... It will be hard on your mother 
 your going." 
 
 The girl was perplexed. She would have insisted in 
 her denials, but she felt that they would be futile. She 
 decided to ignore the other's remarks. 
 
 "All you have to do," she said, "is to give that note to 
 my mother, as I told you to. You are sure you will do 
 that?" 
 
 "I will give it to her as you have directed me," the 
 Woman responded. "Not a minute before." 
 
 "Thank you. That is all." 
 
 The Woman went out, leaving the door open. 
 
 Elizabeth waited until the Woman's footsteps had died 
 away at the far end of the hall below. She slipped on 
 her coat and hat, put on her gloves, and, going to the 
 door, listened intently. Everything was quiet. The serv- 
 ants were all in the rear of the house. She looked once 
 more at the little intimate room which she was leaving 
 forever. ... It was neither a sob nor a moan that 
 escaped her lips, but it was something between the 
 two. 
 
 201
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 She walked very quietly down the carpeted stairs, 
 pausing every few steps to make sure that she was not 
 being observed. Cautiously she opened the front door 
 and let herself out. The chill air sent a shiver through 
 her feverish body, but at the same time it braced her and 
 gave her new strength. She hurried across the lawn, 
 turned at the street, and half ran toward the corner 
 where she was to meet Macy. She kept on the edge of 
 the yards so that her feet would make no noise on the 
 pavements. She was out of breath when she reached the 
 machine which was waiting for her a little way off the 
 main street. 
 
 Macy jumped down from the car and met her, taking 
 her bag and pressing her hand fervently. 
 
 "I'm so frightened, Arnold !" the girl said, as she took 
 her seat beside him. 
 
 The man laughed derisively and triumphantly as he 
 shot away. 
 
 "Nonsense, child!" he told her. "Of course you may 
 feel a little frightened now, but once we are safely away, 
 you will be the happiest girl in the world." 
 
 "I hope so," she breathed sadly. 
 
 The train was at the station when they arrived. Macy 
 had the tickets, and they immediately entered the private 
 drawing-room which had been reserved for them. The 
 girl was pale with fright, and very silent. When they 
 were alone and the man attempted to take her in his arms 
 and kiss her, she drew away from him, though she did 
 not know why. Macy smiled, as if he understood her 
 action, and did not urge her. 
 
 In a few minutes there was a noisy releasing of brakes, 
 and the train gave a little jerk, preparatory to moving 
 out. 
 
 202
 
 The Black Days 
 
 The girl leapt to her feet, and started for the door. 
 
 "I can't go I can't go ! Oh, do let me get off !" she 
 cried, as Macy intercepted her. 
 
 "Sweetheart!" he said reprovingly. "Don't be a fool- 
 ish child. Think how happy we are going to be." 
 
 She wavered; and this time he took her in his arms. 
 She became suddenly limp, and her head dropped on his 
 shoulder. She cried, broken-heartedly. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw did not return home until just before 
 dinner time, and his wife, too, was late. She had spent 
 a busy day, and her work had detained her. 
 
 As they sat down to table, Bradshaw said irritably: 
 "Why isn't Elizabeth here? She certainly could hear 
 the gong." 
 
 He turned to Otto. "Go upstairs and tell my daughter 
 to come down at once." 
 
 The man left the room, returning in a few moments. 
 
 "She is not upstairs," he announced. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Bradshaw. "She must be!" 
 
 He himself arose and went to the foot of the stairs. 
 He called his daughter by name several times, but re- 
 ceiving no answer he returned to the dining-room, frown- 
 ing deeply. He looked at his wife. Her face was trou- 
 bled, but she said nothing. 
 
 "Did you see my daughter go out?" he demanded of 
 the servant. 
 
 "No, sir," the man replied. "But she was in earlier 
 this afternoon." 
 
 Bradshaw sat down angrily. 
 
 "She's probably out with some of these young run- 
 abouts," he commented, as if to himself. "If you'd stay 
 home more, Martha," he said to his wife, "and give up 
 
 203
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 this silly charity work of yours, a thing like this wouldn't 
 happen." 
 
 He ate a moment in silence. 
 
 "She'll defy me, will she!" he exclaimed bitterly. 
 "Well, I'll teach her a lesson about staying out! She 
 shan't leave her room for a week and she'll eat there, 
 too." 
 
 "It may be all right," his wife put in pleadingly. 
 "Elizabeth's not a bad girl. She wouldn't disobey you 
 deliberately. She may have gone over to one of the 
 neighbours, and forgotten the hour." 
 
 There was little conviction in Martha Bradshaw's 
 voice. She herself was worried deeply, but she tried to 
 keep it from her husband. 
 
 "It makes no difference," the man replied imperturb- 
 ably. "She has no business running around. I've told 
 her not to go out without permission. There can be no 
 excuse. Mark my words : She'll regret this act." 
 
 The meal proceeded in silence. As the time went by 
 Martha Bradshaw became more and more worried. She 
 ate her food abstractedly, glancing constantly at the clock. 
 Bradshaw's anger grew as the meal progressed. At the 
 sound of every footstep which passed in the street he 
 paused and listened intently. 
 
 At eight o'clock he went into the library. He paced 
 up and down, his wrath growing steadily. His wife went 
 in to him and tried to console him, at the same time de- 
 fending her daughter. But he was irritable, holding her 
 blameworthy for Elizabeth's absence. She saw it was no 
 use to endeavour to calm him; so she went upstairs to 
 her room. 
 
 A moment later the Woman passed through the hall- 
 way, quietly and with bowed head. Slowly she mounted 
 204
 
 The Black Days 
 
 the stairs and went in to where Martha Bradshaw sat 
 looking sorrowfully out of the window into the dark- 
 ness of the wide street. In the Woman's eyes was great 
 pity. 
 
 "Here is a note your daughter asked me to give you." 
 
 Eager and frightened, the seated woman turned and 
 took it. 
 
 "Why didn't you give it to me sooner?" she asked. 
 
 "Your daughter asked me to hand it to you after din- 
 ner not a moment before." 
 
 There was a pathos and tenderness in her voice, which 
 kept the mother from reprimanding her for the delay. 
 
 The Woman hesitated a moment, and then left the 
 room. 
 
 Martha Bradshaw read the tear-stained paper. . . . 
 
 A sudden convulsive movement shook her fragile body. 
 An icy hand clutched her heart. The room grew black, 
 and the whole house seemed to sway drunkenly and 
 crash about her. The letter fell to the floor, and her 
 hands dropped in her lap, the palms up-turned, the 
 fingers furled rigidly. In a moment the lights flared up 
 again, but they seemed miles and miles away, and not a 
 part of her life. She tried to cry out, to call to her hus- 
 band. But no sound came from her lips. It was like the 
 terrible mesmerism of a nightmare. She attempted to 
 raise her hands, but could not move them. They were 
 like some one else's hands over which she had no control. 
 The Woman came to the door again and spoke. She 
 could see and hear the other, but could make no sign. 
 
 The Woman gasped and hurried downstairs to the 
 library. 
 
 Elijah Bradshaw was still walking up and down, his 
 hands working nervously behind him. 
 
 205
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "What do you want?" he snapped, before the Woman 
 had a chance to speak. "Go ; I want to be alone." 
 
 "Your wife needs you," the Woman answered. "You 
 had better go to her at once." 
 
 He saw by the look on her face that something was 
 seriously wrong. He did not hesitate, but went quickly 
 upstairs. The sight of Martha Bradshaw huddled in her 
 chair her staring eyes, her half-open mouth, the gro- 
 tesque attitude of her hands filled him with horror. 
 
 "Martha !" he called huskily. "What is it?" 
 
 She made no move, and the man hurried toward her, 
 dropping down on one knee and taking one of her rigid 
 hands in his. 
 
 "Martha ! Martha !" he cried. "My God ! Speak to 
 me for God's sake!" 
 
 Still the woman made no sign. 
 
 Panic-stricken, Bradshaw arose and rushed into the 
 hall. The Woman stood before him, waiting. 
 
 "The doctor!" he cried. "Telephone for the doctor." 
 He was beside himself. His face was ashen, and his 
 eyes glared abnormally. 
 
 The Woman hurried below, and in a moment he heard 
 her talking on the telephone. 
 
 "This is Mr. Bradshaw's residence," the voice said. 
 "Come at once. It is imperative. . . . Mrs. Bradshaw 
 a stroke of paralysis, I think. . . . You must hurry." 
 
 Bradshaw returned to his wife's side. "A stroke of 
 
 paralysis " The words went through him like shafts 
 
 of flame. He knew his wife had not been strong, but he 
 could not understand what had brought about this sud- 
 den collapse. He lifted her up tenderly and placed her 
 on the bed, placing her arms at her side and straighten- 
 ing out her sinister, crooked fingers. 
 206
 
 The Black Days 
 
 The Woman came in again, and her appearance com- 
 forted the man. He knew now that he needed her, and 
 that he could trust her. He felt his dependence on her, 
 and was glad she was there. 
 
 "There's nothing you can do now," the Woman said. 
 "You had better go downstairs and wait for the doctor. 
 I will take care of your wife till he comes." 
 
 He obeyed her without a word. 
 
 When he had gone the Woman very tenderly and 
 lovingly took off Martha Bradshaw's clothes, drew on 
 her nightdress and put her under the covers. Then she 
 sat down and waited. 
 
 In five minutes the door bell rang. Bradshaw an- 
 swered it himself. 
 
 "Come in," he said to the doctor, in a strained, broken 
 voice. "Something terrible has happened. My wife has 
 collapsed." 
 
 Dr. Stoner, a portly, middle-aged man, with a com- 
 petent, serene face and a close-cut black beard, jerked 
 off his coat hurriedly and threw it, with his hat, on the 
 chair. He did not reply to Bradshaw's greeting. 
 
 The two men hurried above. As they entered the room 
 the Woman arose and stood to one side. The doctor 
 leaned over the bed and looked at the helpless figure, 
 but made no comment. He sat down, raised her lids 
 and for a moment inspected her eyes. Then he registered 
 her pulse, lifted her arms, moved her fingers a little, and 
 tested her reflexes. 
 
 Bradshaw watched, transfixed and breathing heavily. 
 He had forgotten about his daughter, about his son, about 
 all the past incidents in his life. His every interest was 
 now deputised to the tragedy of the prostrate form on 
 the bed. 
 
 207
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The doctor turned to the Woman, as naturally as if 
 she had been one of his own trained nurses, and gave her 
 instructions as to what to do. Then he took Bradshaw 
 by the arm and led him downstairs. In the library he sat 
 down, frowning. 
 
 After a slight pause he said and it was the first word 
 he had spoken to the other man since his arrival : "Brad- 
 shaw, you must prepare yourself for bad news. Your 
 wife has had a paralytic stroke. I can't account for it ; 
 but she must have received some awful shock which 
 suddenly snapped her resistance." 
 
 The husband was white and trembling. "You mean 
 she will never get well ?" 
 
 "I didn't say that," the doctor returned. "But her 
 condition is serious. She must be looked after all the 
 time. You understand, Mrs. Bradshaw was a weak 
 woman, and a shock which other women might have 
 withstood, she was unable to cope with. She will get 
 better, I can assure you of that. She may partially re- 
 gain her muscular control. A great deal of it, I am in- 
 clined to think, is psychological. If her mind is relieved 
 of this thing which has caused her collapse, her recovery 
 is possible. I do not know what it is that has brought 
 about her state, and I see that you do not wish to tell 
 me " 
 
 "I don't know what it is," Bradshaw interrupted. "I 
 give you my word, I don't know. My wife had dinner 
 with me to-night. Afterward she went upstairs. I was 
 sitting here in the library, and one of the servants came in 
 and told me to go to her at once. I found her just as 
 you see her now." 
 
 "Well, whatever it is," the doctor replied sceptically, 
 "the fact remains that the tragedy is still on her mind. 
 208
 
 The Black Days 
 
 And as long as it is there, I can offer you little hope." 
 
 He arose. "I will be in to-morrow. I have left orders 
 for to-night. Everything that can be done will be done 
 you know that." 
 
 When he had gone Elijah Bradshaw sat at his desk, 
 his eyes gazing straight ahead of him, unseeing. Why 
 should he feel guilty? that was the thought that tor- 
 tured him. His mind went to the Woman. Her presence 
 in the house seemed to have made his conscience hyper- 
 sensitive. Her manner was always accusing toward him. 
 Her words had aroused in him a sense of blame for all 
 that had happened to him. He could not understand it. 
 He had never felt that way before. But how could he 
 possibly be at fault in regard to this present awful catas- 
 trophe ? 
 
 An hour later he went softly to his wife's room. The 
 light was very low, and the Woman sat at the edge of 
 the bed. 
 
 "She is resting," the Woman whispered. "The doctor 
 left something to make her sleep." 
 
 He looked at his wife without replying, and going to 
 the window, sat down in the chair in which he had found 
 her that evening. His eyes fell on the letter which lay 
 at his feet, and something told him that here lay the ex- 
 planation for his wife's condition. He picked up the 
 letter, almost afraid to touch it. 
 
 The Woman was watching him closely. 
 
 There was not enough light in the room for him to 
 read by, and he took the paper downstairs into the library 
 and read it. 
 
 "The curse I" he exclaimed aloud, like a man who has 
 been victimised by black magic. "Good God !" 
 
 When he had partially recovered from the uncanny 
 
 209
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 fear which gripped him, a terrible rage seized him a 
 rage directed at his children, at the son who had dis- 
 graced him, at the daughter who had run away. 
 
 In his grief and wrath he arose, and announced fer- 
 vently to the empty room: "They shall never put 
 foot in this house again. They shall go down to their 
 graves unforgiven. To think that I should have brought 
 into the world a thief and a strumpet! Henceforth, I 
 have no children!" 
 
 He raised his right hand, as if pronouncing an oath. 
 
 210
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE GIRL WHO HAD BEEN PROTECTED 
 
 ^ I A HE next morning Bellamy called at the house early. 
 -*- Otto hesitated before announcing him. Bradshaw 
 had not left the library all night. He had sat at his desk, 
 his head in his arms. The old servant had looked in on 
 him several times, and finally, long past midnight, had 
 entered quietly and turned out the lights. Bradshaw was 
 still sitting at his desk when Bellamy arrived. 
 
 The young reporter seemed to understand the serv- 
 ant's hesitation. 
 
 "Tell him who it is, Otto," he said. "I'll only be a 
 minute. If he doesn't want to see me, I'll go." 
 
 Otto went into the library. 
 
 "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," he said, as the seated 
 man moved and looked up inquiringly. "Some one wants 
 to see you Mr. Bellamy." 
 
 For a moment it appeared that Bradshaw had not un- 
 derstood the other's words. He shook himself a little 
 and sat upright. 
 
 "Bellamy? Bellamy?" he repeated, as if trying to re- 
 call where he had heard the name before. "Oh, yes," he 
 added, when his mind had been cleared of sleep. "He's 
 a good boy. Let him come in." 
 
 The young man entered. 
 
 "Don't get up, Mr. Bradshaw," he said. "I merely 
 want to inquire about Mrs. Bradshaw. ... I met Dr. 
 
 211
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Stoner late last night, and he told me she was ill. I didn't 
 want to say anything about it in the paper," he explained, 
 "until I had seen you." 
 
 "Of course, of course," the man replied wearily. "You 
 came to inquire about my wife." 
 
 He paused as if trying to collect his scattered thoughts. 
 
 "Yes, Bellamy," he went on, "she is very ill a stroke 
 of paralysis. It was very sudden. . . . That's all you 
 need say in your paper." 
 
 "I'm very sorry, sir," Bellamy answered earnestly. 
 "My deepest sympathies." 
 
 Another matter came into his mind. 
 
 "It will be very hard on your daughter," he remarked 
 with deep sincerity. 
 
 "My daughter!" Bradshaw exclaimed fiercely. Then 
 he uttered a hoarse laugh. 
 
 "I have no daughter!" he said. 
 
 "What do you mean?" gasped Bellamy. "Where is 
 Elizabeth?" 
 
 Bradshaw suddenly thought of his position, of the 
 scandal and disgrace which would attach to his name if 
 it was learned of his daughter's action. 
 
 "I don't mean what I was saying," he apologised, sorry 
 that he had spoken as he had. "I really meant nothing. 
 I had a terrible night I am all unstrung this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Bellamy was not satisfied. He knew by the older 
 man's words and look that something was wrong, that 
 there was an attempt to hide something. 
 
 "Mr. Bradshaw," he said, approaching the other, 
 
 "something has happened to Elizabeth, and I want to 
 
 know what it is. You know I love her, and whatever 
 
 you tell me will be a sacred confidence. . . . And if you 
 
 212
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 don't tell me, I shall make it my business to find out." 
 
 "No, no ! You mustn't make inquiries," Bradshaw re- 
 plied, frightened. "That wouldn't do." 
 
 "Then you must tell me at once." 
 
 The seated man looked at Bellamy. There was some- 
 thing in the younger man that inspired trust. Bradshaw 
 was afraid, too, that the reporter would stir matters up 
 unpleasantly, and that after his own inadvertent remarks 
 the truth would come out. This, he had decided, must 
 never happen. The outside world at least must remain 
 in ignorance. 
 
 "I'll tell you on one condition, Bellamy," he announced, 
 at length, "and that is that the matter does not go beyond 
 you. Give me your word of honour." 
 
 The other gave it. 
 
 "Elizabeth has run away she went yesterday after- 
 noon. She went away with that rat, Macy. God knows 
 where she is!" 
 
 He fumbled about his desk. 
 
 "Here's a letter she left. ... It was this that caused 
 her mother's illness." 
 
 Bellamy read the letter in silence. Then he reread it, 
 to make sure that his first impression had not been some 
 frightful mistake. His lips were compressed, and his 
 hand involuntarily crumpled up the sheet of paper it 
 held. 
 
 When he had regained his self-control he said in a 
 serious, almost dictatorial voice: "You must let no one 
 know of this. You must be careful. Her absence will 
 create suspicion, but it must be explained away somehow 
 for the present. The papers would go crazy if they 
 got a story like this. You must say that she has gone to 
 visit relatives, on account of her mother's condition or 
 
 213
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 that you have sent her away to school. Tell them any- 
 thing." 
 
 "No one will know unless you tell them," Bradshaw 
 replied. 
 
 "I tell them!" The attitude of respect which Bellamy 
 had always taken toward the older man now left him. 
 "Do you think I am mad? I'd be the last to tell any 
 one." 
 
 He thought a moment. Already his mind had gone to 
 work on a plan of action. 
 
 "What time did she leave here?" he asked suddenly. 
 
 "I don't know," the man replied with bitterness. "And 
 I don't care. She has gone and she shall never come 
 back." 
 
 "She went at four o'clock." It was the voice of the 
 Woman who spoke. She had entered the room quietly 
 and stood by the door. 
 
 "Four?" repeated Bellamy. "Of course. Just in time 
 to catch the Limited for the East." 
 
 He started for the door. 
 
 "Advise your servants, Mr. Bradshaw," he said, look- 
 ing at the Woman with suspicion. "Tell them where 
 your daughter is visiting, lest they wag their tongues 
 and create a scandal. I must be off." 
 
 He went out hurriedly. 
 
 For the first time in his acquaintance with Macy he 
 had doubts as to the man's honesty. Nothing had ever 
 arisen between the two which had involved a point of 
 honour, and he had given little thought to Macy's charac- 
 ter. But somehow the present matter filled him with 
 grave doubts. He did not trust the other man, although 
 he had no definite reason for his attitude. He had always 
 liked Macy as a companion, but he suddenly realised that 
 214
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 there had never been any intimate interchange between 
 them. Macy had been abroad for five years, and on his 
 return the two young men had seen little of each other 
 outside of casual meetings. Now his act filled Bellamy 
 with hatred and disgust. It was underhand and deceitful, 
 even if Macy intended the best by the girl. He had ob- 
 viously taken advantage of her youth, of her innocence 
 and faith. 
 
 Bellamy went directly to the station and made inquiries 
 at the ticket office. At first the man whom he questioned 
 was brusque and discourteous. But the reporter told him 
 who he was. Bellamy's name was known to nearly every 
 one in Edenburg who read the paper; and after his 
 identity had been established he was treated with 
 courtesy. 
 
 "It's hard to give you any definite information, Mr. 
 Bellamy," the ticket agent told him. "There are many 
 tickets sold for the Limited. . . . Just what do you want 
 to get at?" 
 
 "Simply this," the young man replied eagerly. "I want 
 to know if a pair of tickets were sold yesterday to any 
 intermediate point between here and Albany. The Lim- 
 ited makes stops between here and there, doesn't it ?" 
 
 "One or two," the other replied. "But most of the 
 passengers from here go through to Albany. I'll see if I 
 can help you out." 
 
 He opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope 
 from which he withdrew a large pile of coupons. He 
 looked them over carefully for nearly five minutes. 
 
 "There was only one ticket sold," he announced at 
 length, "to an intermediate point yesterday, on the Lim- 
 ited. It's a special-fare train, otherwise I wouldn't know 
 which tickets " 
 
 215
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Only a single ticket?" Bellamy asked, interrupting 
 him. 
 
 "That's all." 
 
 Bellamy thanked him and went to the Pullman office. 
 There he learned that one private compartment had been 
 sold for Albany on the Limited, the day before. 
 
 Bellamy then returned to the Star. It was now obvious 
 to him that Macy and the girl had gone to Albany. With 
 / this information in hand, he sat a long time at his desk, 
 thinking deeply. His first impulse was to follow, but it 
 suddenly occurred to him that he could do nothing if he 
 found them, provided Macy had played fair and married 
 her. This was by no means improbable, for Macy may 
 have loved the girl, and she may have loved him. Le- 
 gally she was of age; and even if she hadn't been, it 
 would have to be her father who would take action. 
 
 But on the other hand, things might be different from 
 what he hoped. He could not crowd the doubt from his 
 mind that Macy might have tricked the girl into an elope- 
 ment. Macy always seemed to have plenty of money. 
 The girl's attractiveness might have led him into an un- 
 worthy and disgraceful act. That was the thing that 
 worried Bellamy. And, if it proved true that Elizabeth 
 had been deceived, then he himself could act. He could 
 help her, provided he could reach her in time, for he 
 believed that, if Macy's intentions had been dishonour- 
 able, he would not remain with her in America, but would 
 take the first opportunity to go abroad. 
 
 His doubt was what decided him. He must take no 
 chance. He went to Duncan Harrison. 
 
 "I want a vacation, Mr. Harrison," he announced 
 abruptly. 
 
 Harrison wheeled round and looked at him in surprise. 
 216
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 "What the devil did you say ?" he asked. "A vacation 
 at this time of year! What's the idea?" 
 
 He knew that Bellamy did not merely want a pleasure 
 vacation, and he sensed that something was wrong. 
 
 "The only id^a is," the young reporter answered, "that 
 I want a rest for a little while. I work hard " 
 
 "Don't tell me what you've done!" Harrison cut in 
 gruffly. . . . "But this isn't any time for vacations. Wait 
 till next summer, and I'll give you a long one. You've 
 got it coming to you then." 
 
 "I can't wait," Bellamy told him sharply. "I want it 
 now or I don't want it at all." 
 
 "Well, suppose I don't give it to you ?" 
 
 "Then I'll quit," the other told him. 
 
 "The hell you'll quit!" Harrison roared. "Do you 
 think I'm going to let you quit this paper after all these 
 years I've trained you into the work ? Not on your life !" 
 
 He smiled paternally. 
 
 "Take your vacation, and be damned." 
 
 "Thank you," Bellamy answered. "I won't be away 
 long." 
 
 "How long?" 
 
 "Well, we'll say a week." Then Bellamy added : "Or, 
 maybe a little longer." 
 
 "What's up your sleeve, my boy?" Harrison's tone 
 expressed more than a mere business interest. 
 
 "I don't know yet," the other answered honestly. 
 
 "Oh, well, keep it to yourself. But before you go, I 
 wish you'd " 
 
 "Before I go," the reporter interrupted, "there's just 
 enough time to catch my train." 
 
 "A hurry call, eh?" snorted the older man. "Well, 
 good luck to you." 
 
 217
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Say !" he called, when Bellamy was at the door ; and 
 his eyes twinkled wisely. "If you don't send me an in- 
 vitation, you don't get a present." 
 
 After the other had gone Harrison wondered why his 
 words seemed to have pained the other. 
 
 Bellamy went direct to the bank and withdrew what 
 little money he had saved. Then he hurried home and 
 packed a few things. He reached the station only a 
 few minutes before the train left. 
 
 When he stepped off at Albany, late that afternoon, 
 he realised the hopelessness of finding Macy and the girl. 
 He had no clue to go on. He might make a canvass of 
 the hotels, for even had Macy not registered in his own 
 name, Bellamy knew his handwriting sufficiently well to 
 have detected it. But this plan he dismissed. There 
 were many hotels in Albany, and the task would consume 
 too much time. Also, it was more than likely that Macy 
 had not remained in Albany, but had gone direct to New 
 York or Montreal for the purpose of sailing abroad. 
 If indeed this had been the case, what little hope there 
 was of intercepting him before he sailed would be gone. 
 
 Confronted with the outlook of failure, Bellamy again 
 tried to reason with himself that Macy cared for Eliza- 
 beth and that she was safe in his hands. But he found 
 little comfort in such reasoning. Though, for the mo- 
 ment, he had almost decided to return to Edenburg and 
 to give up his difficult quest, he could not bring himself 
 to turn back until he was sure that the girl he loved had 
 come to no harm. 
 
 As he stood on the sidewalk in front of the station, 
 deliberating what he should do, it occurred to him that 
 he could find out fairly definitely about the girl's mar- 
 218
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 riage, although he might not be able to trace her and 
 Jearn it from her own lips. He knew Macy had not mar- 
 ried her in Edenburg. The man would not have dared do 
 that, for it would have gotten into the papers through 
 the license bureau. Another thing, between the time 
 Elizabeth had left the house and the time when the 
 Limited was due to go, there had been less than half an 
 hour. They had arrived in Albany the previous night, 
 too late to obtain a license, but had they remained there 
 until the next day they might have been married that 
 morning. If not, and they had gone directly to New 
 York, in order to take their boat, then that city would be 
 where the license had been issued. 
 
 Bellamy hurried to the Court House, arriving just be- 
 fore it closed. He went eagerly over the records of the 
 day, hoping that he would find a sign of Macy's good 
 faith. But it was not there. Then he went to the tele- 
 graph office and sent a message to an old newspaper 
 man he knew on the New York Times, telling him Macy's 
 name, and asking him to wire back immediately if there 
 had been a marriage license issued that day. 
 
 While he was waiting for a reply he bought a paper 
 and studied the list of sailings. A slow boat had left 
 New York that day at noon, and another boat, even 
 smaller and slower, was due to sail from the same city 
 the next afternoon. He turned to the Montreal depar- 
 tures. There he discovered that one of the largest boats 
 on the line between Montreal and Liverpool sailed early 
 the following morning. 
 
 Bellamy pondered over the frugal facts at his disposal, 
 weighing all their possibilities ; but he knew he could 
 arrive at no conclusion until he had heard from New 
 York. If Macy had married the girl there, then they 
 
 219
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 had probably already sailed, and there was nothing for 
 him to do but to return. If, however, there was no 
 record of their marriage, then it would seem that the 
 man had taken her to Montreal with the intention of 
 sailing on the following morning's boat. Even if this 
 were the case, there was yet a chance that Macy had 
 played fair, for he might have taken her to Montreal 
 before their marriage, to escape the possibility of being 
 followed by Elijah Bradshaw or his agents. And even 
 had Macy not intended marrying the girl, it was more 
 than likely he had gone to Montreal in order to escape 
 from the country. However, Bellamy did not give up 
 his hope that his friend in New York would send an 
 affirmative answer. 
 
 Two hours later the telegram came. There had been 
 no marriage license taken out in New York under the 
 name of Macy. Bellamy was disappointed, but did not 
 give up hope of the girl's safety. There was nothing 
 more now for him to do in Albany. The one chance 
 open to him was to hurry to Montreal, and try to reach 
 there before the boat sailed. He felt convinced that Macy 
 had gone there, no matter what his intentions. 
 
 He at once returned to the station. There was a mid- 
 night train for Montreal, and, if it was on time, it would 
 put him in that city an hour before the boat was due to 
 sail. 
 
 The hours dragged themselves out slowly until mid- 
 night. Bellamy walked about the bleak streets, trying 
 to prepare himself to receive with equanimity the disap- 
 pointment which might be awaiting him. There were 
 many other possible courses which Macy might have 
 taken, but Montreal was the most plausible one, and, in 
 case the man was dishonourable, the safest. As Bellamy 
 220
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 thought of the girl his tenderness toward her grew. 
 His protective instinct became emphasised to a degree 
 which he had not formerly experienced. Primarily, he 
 wanted her to be happy. That was the animating purpose 
 of his mission. If he found that Macy's affection for her 
 was genuine and that the girl reciprocated that love, he 
 would have no word to say; and, under the circum- 
 stances, he secretly hoped that such would be the case, 
 despite the fact that it would spell the greatest sorrow 
 that had thus far come into his life. 
 
 He was too nervous and anxious to sleep on the train 
 that night. He did not even take a berth, but sat in the 
 smoking car, looking out into the blackness. 
 
 Shortly after the Canadian Customs Inspectors had 
 passed through the car, the first glimmer of dawn showed 
 above the horizon. He became more and more uneasy 
 as he approached his destination. An official passed him, 
 and he made inquiry as to whether or not the train was 
 on time. He learned that they had lost over an hour 
 during the night, but that there was a hope that some of 
 the time would be made up before they reached Montreal. 
 When Bellamy learned of the delay a black fear swept 
 over him that, in case things were not as they should be, 
 he might be too late. 
 
 The world outside grew lighter and lighter. Brown, 
 barren fields stretched away into the low distances. A 
 white mist hovered about the trees and the scattered 
 houses. The cold, wind-swept landscape cast a spell of 
 gloom over him, and he consulted his watch with some- 
 thing like terror. 
 
 "Are we making up time?" he asked another offi- 
 cial. 
 
 "A little," came the other's indifferent answer. 
 
 221
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Two hours later they came into the outskirts of Mon- 
 treal. The streets were narrow, the houses low and in a 
 state of dilapidation. Save for the few people who were 
 astir, these tottering houses and unkempt streets might 
 have belonged to a deserted city. For half an hour the 
 train passed slowly through the sordid suburbs, and then 
 came to a standstill. 
 
 Bellamy started to leave the train, but an official told 
 him that they were several miles from the station, and 
 that they were waiting for another train to pull out. It 
 was barely half an hour before the boat was due to 
 leave, and he paced up and down in nervous alarm. He 
 looked out of the windows for some kind of a public 
 conveyance that might take him directly to the docks. 
 He knew there was little hope of finding one in that 
 section of the city. Only two lumbering carts ap- 
 peared. 
 
 Twenty minutes went by before the train began to 
 move again. He was too late now. The boat would be 
 gone before he reached it. He felt utterly fatigued, 
 broken and defeated. The strain of the day before, the 
 long, hopeless hours of the night, the nervous tension he 
 was under all reacted on him suddenly. But he tried 
 to encourage himself with the thought that, when at last 
 he should arrive, he would discover a record of the girl's 
 marriage. 
 
 When he stepped down from the train into the sprawl- 
 ing Grand Trunk Station, he decided to hurry to the dock 
 anyway, on a chance that the boat had been delayed. 
 But when he arrived he learned that it had been outward 
 bound for nearly an hour. He attempted to get hold of 
 a sailing list but was told he would have to go to the 
 main offices of the Steamship Company when they opened 
 
 222
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 at nine o'clock that morning. It was already after eight 
 now, and he took a fiacre to St. James Street to the 
 address that had been given him. He was haggard and 
 white and discouraged, and, as his finger ran down the 
 booking register, it shook so violently that the clerk at 
 the counter stopped work and gazed at him. 
 
 After a moment's search an inarticulate exclamation 
 escaped his lips. He had discovered something which 
 had not been in his calculation he had found Macy's 
 name registered alone. Feverishly he searched for that 
 of the girl, but it was not there. Nor was there any other 
 name of a single woman travelling alone. The list was 
 small at that time of year. There were few bookings to 
 Europe in the late fall, and, with two exceptions, all of 
 the names were those of men. The two women regis- 
 tered were married and occupied staterooms with their 
 husbands. 
 
 Bellamy walked out of the office in a daze. It was 
 obvious that Macy had sailed without the girl. What 
 could have become of her? What tragedy could have 
 befallen her? Perhaps Macy had refused to marry her, 
 and she, in turn, had refused to accompany him. This 
 was the first thought that occurred to Bellamy as he 
 stood on the narrow pavement, jostled by the hurrying 
 pedestrians. 
 
 He turned suddenly back into the Steamship Com- 
 pany's office, and, with eager, trembling fingers, wrote 
 Macy a wireless message: 
 
 "Inform me immediately where Elizabeth is or you 
 will be arrested in Liverpool." 
 
 He signed the message "Elijah Bradshaw," giving the 
 address of the Hotel Windsor, Montreal. 
 
 When he had deposited the message, he went to the 
 
 223
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 hotel and waited. He knew that under the circumstances 
 Macy would answer: he would have everything to gain 
 and nothing to lose by so doing. And if the man thought 
 that Bradshaw was in Montreal and had become cog- 
 nisant of the desertion, he also would realise that it would 
 be possible for him to be taken into custody when he 
 landed. 
 
 A little after noon the answer came, stating that the 
 girl was at the Place Viger Hotel. 
 
 Bellamy lost no time. Jumping into a carriage, he 
 gave directions to the driver. It was a long ride from 
 the Windsor to the Place Viger. The latter hotel, one 
 of the largest in the city, was far over in the French 
 quarter ; and St. Catherine Street was busy and crowded, 
 so that they made slow headway. Bellamy urged the 
 driver on incessantly, but, despite his efforts, the trip 
 seemed interminable. Finally they turned down a small 
 street for a few blocks and skirted the little park which 
 faces the hotel. 
 
 Bellamy paid the man liberally, and went in. The girl 
 had not been registered in her own name, and he had 
 difficulty in explaining to the clerk whom he wanted to 
 see. At length, however, after much consultation and in- 
 quiries with the other men behind the desk, the clerk 
 returned to him. 
 
 "You probably mean Mrs. Moore," he announced. 
 "Her husband, I believe, sailed this morning. She herself 
 left immediately after breakfast." 
 
 He looked into a little book on the desk. 
 
 "She didn't leave any forwarding address," he said. 
 . . . "That's as much as I know." 
 
 Bellamy left the hotel in a state of bewildering disap- 
 pointment. He crossed the street and sat down hope- 
 224
 
 The Girl Who Had Been Protected 
 
 lessly on a bench in the little park. The air was cold and 
 biting, and the chill wind rattled the dead leaves and sent 
 them eddying about his feet. But he was oblivious to 
 everything save the problem of rinding the girl he had 
 come for. She was somewhere in the city, alone and 
 deserted. He knew she would not return to her home 
 after her disgrace. He knew, too, that she would not 
 even attempt to communicate with her father or with 
 any one she knew, For the first time in his life he con- 
 sidered her critically, weighing the many points in her 
 character, trying to determine what she would be most 
 likely to do under the circumstances. 
 
 Bellamy at length reached the conclusion that, despite 
 the cruelty of the situation, she would try to find some- 
 thing to do, some way to support herself, for by nature 
 she was proud, and not the kind that would give in sub^ 
 missively to fate. From her many talks with him about 
 the various phases of the newspaper business, he knew 
 that she was familiar with the purpose of "want adver- 
 tisements." Under the circumstances, he reasoned, it 
 would be the most natural thing for her to do to search 
 through the papers for some kind of employment. He 
 did not fear that she would kill herself. She had too 
 much fortitude ; and she was too much in love with life ; 
 and he knew her too well even to consider that she would 
 turn to anything else, or let herself be drawn into the 
 pitfalls which lay in wait for her. 
 
 He determined on a course of action, and, driving over 
 to St. Laurence Street, he rented a front parlour in one 
 of the old residences which had been turned into a better- 
 class boarding house. Then he went to every newspaper 
 ofHce in the city and, after much consideration and re- 
 vision, inserted the following advertisement : 
 
 225
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "WANTED A young girl about twenty, as a 
 companion to a child. Must have had high-school 
 education and been reared in gentle surroundings. 
 No references will be required, for the girl's breed- 
 ing and education will speak for themselves. A 
 pleasant home to the right applicant, who will be 
 treated as one of the family. Preference will be 
 given to a girl who, if she should fill all the require- 
 ments, would like to be adopted and cared for." 
 
 He gave the address of the house where he had taken 
 quarters. 
 
 Then he went to his room and waited. 
 
 226
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A SINNER? 
 
 WHEN Macy and Elizabeth had arrived in Albany 
 it was late at night. The man had left her in the 
 ladies' waiting room at the station, telling her that he 
 was going out to get a minister to marry them. He had 
 been very gentle with her on the trip, and the secret 
 doubts and suspicions which had kept her in a state of 
 anxiety and fright were finally dissipated by the time they 
 had reached Albany. The man's words about the minis- 
 ter gave her much comfort and peace, and she waited for 
 him in almost happy serenity while he was away from 
 her. 
 
 An hour later he returned and took her hand. 
 
 "It's all right, dear heart," he told her. "I've found 
 one. I had to wake him up. He was irritable at first, 
 and said we would have to wait till morning. But I 
 finally persuaded him, and he will be ready for us by 
 the time we get there." 
 
 He led her out to a closed carriage; and they drove 
 for half an hour before they drew up before a little brick 
 house. 
 
 They were met at the door by a man who was little 
 older than Macy. He was very thin, and the yellow 
 light in the dingy hallway accentuated the lines of dissi- 
 pation on his face. 
 
 Macy presented him to the girl, and when he acknowl- 
 
 227
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 edged the introduction, the thought came to her of how 
 different he was from Dr. Smollet. But she felt very 
 happy, and the unusualness of the. man's appearance was 
 at once forgotten. 
 
 It was a simple and brief ceremony, unlike the wed- 
 dings the girl had seen at home. She regretted that hers 
 could not be public, that there were no flowers, no music, 
 no formality, and when, as they came out of the house 
 together, she expressed her regret to Macy, he patted 
 her gently on the arm and told her that when they were 
 in England they would have a big wedding the kind 
 that she wanted, but that this was all they had time for 
 now, and that she must be content for the present. 
 
 She was content in her heart, and said nothing more 
 for a long time. They drove to a little station on State 
 Street and waited for the electric car. At Ballston they 
 changed to another trolley line. When they arrived at 
 Saratoga it was nearly one o'clock in the morning, but 
 the girl was not sleepy or tired. She was too happy and 
 excited to be fatigued. The wonder of the adventure 
 thrilled her. She felt that, at last, she had found the 
 romance for which she had always waited and of which 
 she had so fondly dreamed. 
 
 They went to a large, old-fashioned hotel with great 
 white pillars and long stretches of verandas. It was 
 surrounded by giant maple trees, and faced a roadway 
 wider than any street the girl had seen in Edenburg. 
 
 Late the next morning they took a train for Montreal, 
 arriving there in the bleak twilight. Macy had been 
 very quiet on the trip, as if he had something on his 
 mind which was troubling him. 
 
 "What's the matter, dear? Aren't you happy?" the 
 girl asked. "You're as gloomy and cross as father." 
 228
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 The man tried to comfort her and assure her that he 
 was happy, but his words sounded only half-hearted. 
 
 Toward evening, after many attempts to draw him out 
 of his mood, the girl lapsed into silence, unable to under- 
 stand the change which had come over him. After din- 
 ner that night, at the Place Viger Hotel, she had wept 
 a little, and Macy had spoken to her irritably. Some- 
 how she was not so happy as she imagined she would 
 be. But, when she thought of Europe and of the ocean 
 voyage, she brightened. 
 
 "When does the boat go to-morrow?" she asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 Macy had looked at her and hesitated before answer- 
 ing. 
 
 "About noon," he said. "There will be plenty of time." 
 
 She fell asleep dreaming of the wonders that awaited 
 her on the morrow. 
 
 When she awoke in the morning she discovered, with 
 no little alarm, that she was alone. She was frightened 
 for a moment and worried, but in a moment she had 
 dismissed her fear. Macy had probably gone out on 
 some business perhaps to arrange about their tickets. 
 She smiled happily and waited. At nine o'clock, when 
 he did not return, she dressed and went below. She 
 would wait there for him. He would surely be back to 
 have breakfast with her. But when at ten o'clock he 
 did not come, she went to the desk and made enquiry as 
 to what time he had gone out. He had told her that 
 he was going to register under the name of Moore, so 
 that, in case her father followed, they could not be 
 found. 
 
 "Mr. Moore left about seven," the clerk told her. "He 
 said he was sailing on the Scotland." 
 
 229
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 A black mist passed before the girl's eyes. She felt 
 herself swaying, and caught hold of the edge of the 
 counter. In a moment she had summoned all her self- 
 control. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, as if there had been nothing 
 unusual in his words. Then she asked, with a supreme 
 effort at indifference: "Is there another boat leaving 
 to-day?" 
 
 "No, madam," the clerk replied politely. "There is 
 not another one until day after to-morrow." 
 
 She thanked him again and walked blindly to her 
 room. 
 
 She was too shocked to think rationally. Nor could 
 she find any relief in tears. Hardly knowing what she 
 was doing, she packed the few things she had with 
 her and walked out of the hotel, avoiding the gaze of 
 all she passed. She felt that her shame was written 
 indelibly on her face, and that every one who saw her 
 could recognise at a glance her tragic humiliation. Her 
 only idea was to get away, to shake off the horror of 
 that hotel. 
 
 She walked aimlessly through the park and entered 
 a long, narrow winding street, whose stone houses, cold 
 and severe, were built out flush with the sidewalk and 
 shouldered each other closely, with rarely an inter- 
 vening space. She did not take note of where she was 
 going, nor of the people who passed her, but went on 
 and on like an automaton. 
 
 Finally, after half an hour's dazed wandering, the 
 hand-bag she carried began to grow heavy. She was 
 conscious that her shoulders ached and that she was 
 fatigued. She began to look about her. The houses 
 on either side of the street were symbols of poverty. 
 230
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 They were substantial houses, however, of the kind which 
 shelter the middle lower classes in big cities. Some of 
 the basements had been converted into little shops 
 grocery stores, carpenter work-rooms, cleaners' and dy- 
 ers' establishments. In many of the windows were little 
 white placards bearing the legend, "Chambre meublee a 
 louer." The French attracted the girl's eye, and she 
 stopped in front of one of the signs and looked at it 
 curiously. 
 
 She was in the European quarter of Montreal, and the 
 afUches seemed to taunt her with that which she had 
 hoped for and lost. The irony of these signs whipped 
 her into a realisation of her condition. The thought 
 suddenly came to her that she must have a place to live. 
 What better place than the one before which she now 
 stood? It was far away from the busy thoroughfares, 
 in the part of the city where no one would ever find 
 her, where the people were not even her countrymen. 
 She had a little money, and here she might hire a room 
 in which she could collect herself and plan for the 
 future. 
 
 She turned to the house nearest her, and struck the 
 knocker. 
 
 A kindly and capable bourgeoise in a cooking apron 
 answered the door, and spoke to her in French. Eliza- 
 beth had studied a little French at school, but she could 
 not understand the woman's rapid words. 
 
 "I I don't speak French," she stammered. "Do you 
 speak English?" 
 
 "I ought to," the woman returned quickly, smiling. 
 "I have lived in this country for twenty years." 
 
 "I'm so glad !" the other said. "You see, I wanted to 
 get a room." 
 
 231
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The woman led her in to a dark, musty hallway, and 
 her manner was almost maternal when she said : "I 
 have a very nice little room for you." 
 
 She looked at the girl sadly, as if she understood 
 her affliction ; but, without any further comment, mounted 
 the narrow stairs, motioning the other to follow. 
 
 It took most of the girl's money to pay for her room 
 and board in advance for the week, and when the woman 
 saw how little she had left, she patted her on the shoul- 
 der with rough and primitive tenderness. 
 
 "Don't worry, mon enfant," she said, consolingly. 
 
 With that she left the room. 
 
 After an hour Elizabeth regained her mental equilib- 
 rium. She was able to look at the events of the last 
 few days with a clear vision. The shock of the revela- 
 tion of Macy's duplicity had passed, leaving her de- 
 pressed and fatigued. Her infatuation for the man had 
 entirely departed. Now she had only resentment and 
 hate for him. So strong was this new emotion that 
 she began to feel her own potentialities and initiative 
 and action. All her life she had been pampered and 
 subjugated, but she had always inwardly revolted against 
 the restrictions which had been placed on her. She had 
 the vitality of impetuous and daring youth ; yet she had 
 had no channels through which to express it. Now, un- 
 restricted by any exterior influences, her nature asserted 
 itself. Despite her tragic sorrow, there was a certain 
 zest in her new independence ; and she determined at once 
 to meet the game that had been placed before her, and 
 to play it with fortitude. 
 
 The woman brought her up a little breakfast, and 
 it strengthened her. Shortly after, she went forth to 
 seek employment. She knew how the girls applied for 
 232
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 work in her father's store, and she went directly, after 
 making enquiry, to two of the largest establishments 
 in Montreal. At one they took her application and told 
 her there was little chance of a position until the holi- 
 day season. At the other they held out more hope, tell- 
 ing her to call again in a fortnight. She was some- 
 what discouraged, for she had walked miles and felt 
 exhausted. She turned again toward the street in which 
 she lived, intending to rest the remainder of the day 
 and to go forth again in the morning. 
 
 Passing a news-stand, she thought of Bellamy; and 
 in that instant he seemed dearer to her than ever be- 
 fore. She bought several papers, intending to look 
 through them in the hope that she would find some 
 opening. When she was in her room again she read 
 them carefully. There were several advertisements 
 that attracted her attention, and before dinner that night 
 she had answered them all. But to each place she went 
 she was too late : the papers had been morning papers, 
 and it was now late afternoon. She decided to arise 
 early the next morning, so that she might have a better 
 chance making her applications. 
 
 She went to bed early, but slept little. When the 
 darkness enveloped her the horror of her situation came 
 back to her afresh. She thought of her mother with 
 great tenderness, and of the home which had been 
 forever left behind. Her loneliness seemed more than 
 she could bear. 
 
 In the morning, after many restless hours during 
 which she had dozed off occasionally through sheer 
 physical fatigue, she arose at dawn. She went to the 
 corner and bought all the newspapers. During the night 
 it had grown colder. There was an unmistakable touch 
 
 233
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 of the approaching winter in the air. It frightened 
 her not a little when she thought of the severity of 
 the northern colds, for she had brought with her no 
 heavy suit 
 
 When she re-entered her room the woman was there 
 with a cup of steaming tea and two little croissants. 
 She saw the papers under the girl's arm, and shook her 
 head sadly. 
 
 "It's hard work finding anything to do this time of 
 year," she said. "But don't you worry. Maybe my hus- 
 band knows of something. I'll speak to him to-night 
 when he comes home." 
 
 Elizabeth was confused and ashamed. 
 
 "Why don't you let your friends know?" the woman 
 asked, after regarding Elizabeth closely. 
 
 The girl looked up at her, frightened. 
 
 "No! I can't do that," she said, impulsively. 
 
 "Then you have friends, haven't you? I thought so 
 the moment I saw you. Well, maybe you'll change your 
 mind. . . . Come, tell me all about it, and we'll see 
 what can be done." 
 
 "Nothing can be done," Elizabeth protested. "I've 
 got to get some kind of work. . . . And I'll get it, too !" 
 
 The woman did not press her. She merely patted 
 the girl on the shoulder and shook her head knowingly. 
 Then she went out 
 
 Elizabeth did not wait to drink her tea before she 
 opened the papers and began to read the advertisements. 
 
 An hour later, with high hopes in her heart, and on 
 her face something which resembled a smile, she walked 
 out into the wintry air. In her hand was a little clip- 
 ping she had cut from one of the papers. At the corner 
 was a police officer, of whom she enquired the way to 
 234
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 St. Lawrence Street. He pointed the direction brusquely, 
 and she hurried on, forgetting to thank him. 
 
 When at last she came to the turning, her heart was 
 beating fast, and her lips trembled with excitement. 
 Maybe she would be too late! Maybe they would ask 
 her questions about herself and her life ; and she would 
 not know what to say. The hope held out to her by 
 the clipping seemed impossible of fulfilment. She looked 
 at the numbers of the houses and then again at the 
 advertisement. She was a long way from her destina- 
 tion, and she quickened her steps, fighting against the 
 sharp wind which blew in her face. 
 
 After nearly a half-hour's walk she came to a stand- 
 still, in order to collect her thoughts and regain her 
 breath. The house to which she was going was in the 
 next block, and she wanted to be calm and collected 
 when she entered. Suppose this quest should prove fu- 
 tile that was a possibility which frightened her. After 
 tarrying a few moments she went on slowly, scrutinising 
 each number she passed. When she came to the place 
 which might mean everything to her, she hesitated. A 
 wave of faintness passed over her, and she was almost 
 afraid to enter. 
 
 As she stood there, her hands clasped tightly, her 
 breath coming and going in little quick gasps, the front 
 door opened and a young man rushed down the steps, 
 bare-headed, and came up to her. 
 
 So suddenly had it all happened that the girl's mind 
 could not immediately grasp the apparent miracle of 
 what she saw. But when she felt his arms around her 
 and looked up into his strained, happy face, she sensed 
 the reality of it all. Her heart seemed to stop beat- 
 ing. Her knees grew weak, and only with difficulty 
 
 235
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 could she stand. In another instant she was sobbing 
 almost hysterically. 
 
 Bellamy led her into the house tenderly and without 
 a word. He placed her in a big chair and knelt down 
 at her side. Her happiness had been so sudden and 
 overpowering that she had forgotten her shame. Now 
 it came back to her, and she covered her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 "There, there, dear child!" the man's voice was say- 
 ing. "Thank God, I have found you! There's nothing 
 to cry about any more." 
 
 She could not bring herself to look at him. 
 
 "You mustn't be ashamed for what you have done," 
 he went on tenderly. "All will be forgotten. The min- 
 ute I found that you had gone, I came after you. I 
 couldn't let you go without knowing that you were safe 
 and happy. ... I would have stayed here in Montreal 
 the rest of my life until I found you." 
 
 Still she could not speak, or look at him. She only 
 knew that she loved him, that she had always loved him 
 from her early girlhood. And that very love, because 
 of the memory of the past days, made her draw away 
 from him. 
 
 Bellamy mistook her attitude. He had never hoped 
 that she loved him as he did her, and when she had 
 gone away with Macy he felt that for years he had nour- 
 ished a vain hope. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid of me," he said. "I shall ask 
 nothing of you. I only want to help you. I want you 
 to know that I understand, and forgive you, too. I 
 knew you would never come back, or let your people 
 know what had happened. And I knew you would be 
 alone here and I was afraid for you." 
 236
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 "I am so ashamed of myself," the girl sobbed. 
 
 "You mustn't be ashamed, child," he told her. "You're 
 so young and you are not to blame for what you have 
 done." 
 
 The girl did not think of her guilt other than that 
 in deserting her mother and father. Her humiliation at 
 being duped was what had hurt her the most. Bellamy's 
 words gave her comfort. 
 
 "I did wrong in leaving my home," she said, with 
 all the bitterness of contrition. "But I knew they would 
 never let me marry him if I told them and I was so 
 lonely and unhappy. I thought I loved him," she went 
 on, brokenly, "and that he loved me. That wasn't wrong, 
 was it?" 
 
 Bellamy was a little startled by her words. 
 
 "There is nothing wrong in love," he said reprovingly, 
 "but it was wrong to go with him without marrying 
 him." 
 
 "I did marry him !" the girl exclaimed. Bellamy's re- 
 mark had hurt her deeply. 
 
 "You married him!" Bellamy stood up and looked 
 at her in amazement. "Where did you marry him?" 
 
 "Why, in Albany," the girl replied, angered and grieved 
 at the man's doubts. "We were married that same 
 night. Do you think I would have gone with him if he 
 hadn't married me?" 
 
 Bellamy was too surprised to speak for a minute. 
 Could it be that Macy had taken out a license before 
 he had asked the girl to go with him? Could he him- 
 self have overlooked the name on the records? . . . 
 Then the terrible suspicion came to him that Macy had 
 tricked her by a false marriage. 
 
 He looked down at her pityingly. 
 
 237
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Tell me all about it, Bess," he asked, "and we'll see 
 what can be done." 
 
 "I'll tell you everything, Jack," she answered, after 
 a moment, looking away from him. "Only only you 
 must tell me that I didn't do wrong." 
 
 "I can tell you that now," the man replied tenderly. 
 "You did nothing wrong. You might have been a little 
 foolish, but that was all." 
 
 He sat down opposite her and took her hand in his. 
 
 "I thought I loved him," the girl began. "He was 
 so gentle, and he told me he loved me. I thought he 
 meant it. He told me stories about Paris and said he 
 would take me there if I would come away with him. 
 He told me to leave a note for my mother, so that no 
 one could find us until we were safely away. Then 
 then we came here and yesterday early we were to 
 sail." 
 
 She stifled a sob as she thought of her awakening 
 the preceding morning. 
 
 "In Albany we went to the minister's and were mar- 
 ried." 
 
 "Where in Albany did you go?" Bellamy put in. 
 
 "Why, I don't know. We drove there in a car- 
 riage " 
 
 The man compressed his lips tightly, and then asked : 
 "Who saw your marriage? . . . Tell me all about it." 
 
 "No one," the girl answered sorrowfully. "We and 
 the minister were all. It was over in a very few min- 
 utes, and then we left for Saratoga " 
 
 "Wait a moment," Bellamy interrupted. "Did you 
 sign anything at the minister's?" 
 
 "Why, no," the girl answered, puzzled. "Why should 
 I sign anything?" 
 238
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 "It's customary sometimes," he answered. 
 
 The girl looked up at him, frightened. 
 
 "Why do you ask me these questions? Is there any- 
 thing wrong? Wasn't our marriage all right?" 
 
 Bellamy pressed her hand. 
 
 "Of course of course." He could not bear to tell 
 her that her marriage had been a farce, that the man 
 who married them was an accomplice of Macy's. He 
 saw that the girl had entered into it in good faith, 
 and that she believed Macy. 
 
 "You see," he explained, "marriages differ. I 
 just wanted to know what kind of a marriage yours 
 was." 
 
 "He told me that when we got to London he would 
 have a big wedding with music and flowers. ... I be- 
 lieved him." She began to cry again. 
 
 "Of course, you believed him, child. What else could 
 you do?" 
 
 "He was so kind," the girl repeated. "And I was so 
 happy." 
 
 "What happened after your marriage ?" the man asked 
 softly. 
 
 "We went to Saratoga," the girl went on. "We stayed 
 there till the next day. Then we came here and went 
 to a hotel. He told me the boat would leave the next 
 day at noon. When I woke up yesterday morning he 
 was gone. But I thought he would come back I thought 
 he loved me." She was speaking with difficulty, trying 
 to stifle her sobs. "Then I found out that he had gone 
 that he had gone on the boat, and that there was no 
 other boat. . . . He had deserted me " 
 
 She could speak no more. Her shoulders moved con- 
 vulsively. She struggled a moment, but her self-control 
 
 239
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 went. Bellamy put his arms around her, and she lay 
 close to him, weeping like a little child. 
 
 "I didn't do wrong did I ?" she wailed. "Tell me I 
 didn't do wrong!" 
 
 Bellamy's eyes were moist. He did everything he 
 could to comfort her. He told her that she was good, 
 that whatever she did was right that it could not be 
 otherwise. 
 
 "But what am I to do now ?" she asked at length. 
 
 "You're going back home with me," the man told her 
 firmly. 
 
 "I can't go back," she sobbed. "You know I can't go 
 back. Father would never speak to me again. I would 
 only disgrace him if they found out in Edenburg what 
 I have done. I couldn't face it." 
 
 "He'll forgive you, just as I forgive you," the man 
 consoled her. "And no one will ever know why you 
 went away. No one knows it now. . . . You must come 
 back." 
 
 "Do you want me to come back?" she asked, without 
 looking up. 
 
 "If you don't come back," Bellamy said, "then I shall 
 remain here. I shall always stay near you. Nothing 
 else matters but your happiness." 
 
 The girl now turned to him. 
 
 "How can you care now?" she asked unbelievingly. 
 "After what I've done after my marriage, and all " 
 
 "I care more than ever, dear," the man said earnestly. 
 "Don't you see? you need me now. I never thought 
 the day would come when you would really need me. 
 And I never knew that I could love you so much." 
 
 "You still love me?" she asked. She thought of her 
 marriage, and a new grief came to her. She had not 
 240
 
 A Sinner? 
 
 cared on his account before. Now her love for him 
 seemed to her the dominant note of tragedy in the whole 
 episode. 
 
 "I love you more than I have ever loved you before," 
 he told her. "And it makes no difference whether you 
 love me or not I shall always stay by you and help 
 you when I can." 
 
 "But I do love you," the girl answered. "I have al- 
 ways loved you, I think. But I never really knew it 
 
 until Oh! it was you I loved when I went away. 
 
 I have been such a child. I didn't know how much 
 you meant to me. Now when it's too late I realise 
 it." 
 
 "It's not too late, dear heart," the man breathed, gath- 
 ering her close to him. "It's not too late." 
 
 "But I I am his wife." At the sudden memory of 
 this, she drew away out of the man's arms. 
 
 "But that means nothing," Bellamy said, his heart 
 full of happiness at the girl's confession. "Such a mar- 
 riage doesn't bind you." 
 
 He looked at her incredulous face. 
 
 "When we go back to Albany," he added, "we 
 can have it annulled. I know just what to do. It 
 will be wiped out as if it had never taken place and 
 then- 
 
 The girl hid her face in her hands. 
 
 "Oh, I understand I understand!" she cried bitterly. 
 "It was no marriage, was it ? You're trying to keep that 
 from me. And all your questions ! He tricked me into 
 thinking it was a marriage, and the minister wasn't a 
 minister at all Oh, tell me the truth!" 
 
 Bellamy struggled hard with himself for a moment. 
 But when he took the girl's hands from her face and 
 
 241
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 looked into her eyes, he knew that deception would be 
 futile. 
 
 "It was all a despicable ruse," he confessed softly. 
 
 She shuddered and became hysterical. 
 
 "Oh, the shame of it! To think he would do that! 
 To think that I trusted him! . . . What have I done 
 what have I done?" 
 
 "What every other sweet, loving child in the world 
 would have done," the man answered. "You believed 
 in him, and you thought you were married to him." 
 
 "What shall I do now? ... I can never look you in 
 the face again after this," she moaned, between her 
 sobbing. 
 
 "But if I forgive you," the man protested eagerly, 
 "surely you can forgive yourself. You acted in good 
 faith. You thought you were married and that was 
 the thing that counted. It wasn't as if you had delib- 
 erately done wrong." 
 
 She did not answer for a long time. Then she drew 
 close to the man and put her head on his breast. 
 
 "You are so good," she said in a whisper, "and I love 
 you oh, how I love you !" 
 
 For a long time he held her, his lips on her hair. 
 They were oblivious of the passage of time. For them 
 the world seemed to have stood still. 
 
 The man's voice broke the silence. 
 
 "You are going back with me," he told her, and in 
 his tone there was something which she could not 
 disobey. "I shall take you to my aunt's first. Then I 
 shall go to your father. I will make him understand 
 and he too will forgive you." 
 
 242
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER 
 
 THE next morning they arrived in Edenburg. Little 
 had been said on the journey. The girl had been 
 sorrowful and apprehensive as to what would befall 
 when they arrived; and Bellamy respected her silence, 
 doing all he could to make it comfortable for her. In 
 Edenburg he took her directly to his old aunt, with whom 
 he lived. Then he went to the Bradshaw home. 
 
 The Woman met him at the door. 
 
 "You have found her?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 Bellamy looked at her with suspicion. 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 The Woman smiled sadly. 
 
 "I know the truth," she said. "I knew it before you 
 did. She went away with Macy. She thought she loved 
 him, and he deceived her. It was not her fault she was 
 a good girl. . . . You have nothing to fear from me," 
 she went on. "I loved her like a mother. I have waited 
 anxiously for you to come back. I prayed that you 
 would find her safe, that you would be good to her." 
 
 Bellamy could not doubt the Woman's sincerity. He 
 knew that she was telling him the truth. He could de- 
 duce from her voice that it was her heart which spoke ; 
 and, when he answered her, all suspicion had gone 
 from him. 
 
 "Yes, I have found her," he said. "She was in Mon- 
 
 243
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 treal. Macy had deserted her; he had led her into a 
 fake marriage. She is at my house now. That's why 
 I'm here I want to see her father, and find out if he 
 won't take her back." 
 
 "Pray God that he will!" murmured the Woman, as 
 she led him into the library. 
 
 A moment later Elijah Bradshaw entered. He pre- 
 sented a different appearance from that of a week ago. 
 He looked older; the lines in his face seemed deeper. 
 His resolute self-confidence had gone. 
 
 "Well, Bellamy, my boy?" he asked as the younger 
 man entered. His voice echoed despondency and dis- 
 couragement. 
 
 "I think I've got some good news for you," Bellamy 
 said. 
 
 Bradshaw laughed bitterly. 
 
 "Good news ? Is there such a thing in the world ?" 
 
 "I have found your daughter," the other told him. 
 
 "My daughter! Which daughter?" Then Bradshaw 
 corrected himself. "I have no daughter." 
 
 "Your daughter Bess." Bellamy attempted to be calm. 
 
 "I told you I have no daughter," the other man re- 
 plied irritably. 
 
 The reporter ignored this remark. 
 
 "I have found Bess. I got trace of Macy. He de- 
 serted her in Montreal." 
 
 Bradshaw turned, his face livid. 
 
 "Montreal !" he cried hoarsely. "Great God ! The 
 sins of the fathers !" 
 
 "She was not with him when I found her," Bellamy 
 went on. "I found her in a little boarding-house 
 alone. I brought her back. She is coming here " 
 
 Bradshaw struck the table with his fist. He had re- 
 244
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 covered himself. Once more he was bitter and ada- 
 mant. 
 
 "She is not coming here!" he cried angrily. "She 
 shall never come into this house again !" 
 
 "Do you mean that?" asked the other. 
 
 "Mean it! Of course, I mean it." Bradshaw's face 
 was purple with rage. "Do you think I would take her 
 back after what she's done? Don't you know that she's 
 wrecked her mother's life, and made an invalid of 
 her?" 
 
 "I wouldn't say that, if I were you," Bellamy warned 
 him. 
 
 "Why shouldn't I say it?" growled Bradshaw. "She 
 did it I tell you she did it as surely as if she had 
 stabbed her with a knife." 
 
 Bellamy shook his head. 
 
 "I am sorry. I thought you would be glad to know 
 that Bess was safe ; that she was coming back to you." 
 
 "I am glad that she's alive, I suppose," Bradshaw 
 said, involuntarily. "But that is all." 
 
 "And you will not forgive her?" the younger man 
 asked. "Not when you know that she was tricked, 
 that it wasn't her fault altogether?" 
 
 "No, I'll never forgive her." 
 
 "Your mind's made up?" persisted Bellamy. 
 
 "My mind is made up," Bradshaw answered, uncom- 
 promisingly. "Tell her not to come here." 
 
 "I'll not do that, Mr. Bradshaw," the other answered 
 firmly. "She has a right to come here. If you send 
 her away again, that will be on your own conscience. 
 And if you do send her away, then I'll take her to my 
 aunt's. She'll have a home there, and she'll be cared 
 for." 
 
 245
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 The older man looked up in surprise. 
 
 "After what she's done, would you take her in? Do 
 you mean to say that you still care for her?" 
 
 Bellamy came closer to the man, and looked him 
 straight in the eyes. Then he said, with marked ear- 
 nestness: "Mr. Bradshaw, I believe that a girl that's 
 made one mistake is still good enough for any fellow. 
 If she hasn't, she's too good for him." 
 
 Bradshaw said nothing for a moment. "Oh, very 
 well," he remarked, at length. "Do what you please." 
 
 "The day will come, Mr. Bradshaw, when you will be 
 very sorry for this decision," the reporter said, as he 
 went toward the door. 
 
 "I want no advice from you," the other returned 
 sharply. 
 
 Then a change came over his manner. 
 
 "Bellamy," he called, "don't you see how impossible 
 it would be for her to stay here after what she has 
 done? How could I be kind to her, knowing, as I do, 
 the affliction she has brought on her mother? . . . But 
 I'm glad you feel the way you do about her. I hope 
 you will take good care of her. If you need any 
 help " 
 
 The front door bell rang viciously. 
 
 The Woman crossed the hallway. 
 
 "It's Judge Bascomb to see you," she announced. 
 
 Bradshaw arose and crossed to the door which led 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 "That tiresome old fool! . . . Tell him I'm not in 
 tell him I'm sick. Tell him anything." He turned to 
 Bellamy. "I don't want to offend him, but you see him 
 for me, will you?" 
 
 The young man nodded as Bradshaw disappeared. 
 246
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 The Judge entered hurriedly, stamping angrily with 
 each step. He was in a rage. 
 
 "Where's Bradshaw?" he demanded. "I want to see 
 him at once." 
 
 Bellamy regarded him cynically. 
 
 "Mr. Bradshaw's ill," he said pleasantly, "and he can't 
 see anybody." 
 
 "He'll have to see me if he knows what's good for 
 him." The Judge stamped up and down the room. 
 
 Bellamy seated himself and lighted a cigarette, with 
 annoying nonchalance. 
 
 "What is it, Judge? Anything wrong?" 
 
 The other man drew up to a sudden halt in front of 
 him. 
 
 "Wrong! Oh, no, nothing's wrong! Nothing at all," 
 he stormed. "Only a lot of these women Bradshaw has 
 driven out of the Tenderloin have settled in a big house 
 right next to my terraces on Livingston Avenue, and 
 all my tenants are getting ready to move out. . . . Hell, 
 no! Nothing's the matter!" 
 
 At this Bellamy threw back his head and laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 "Funny, ain't it, you young ruffian? Say, look here," 
 he announced, ignoring the other's mirth. "I've got to 
 see Bradshaw. Tell him I want to see him. I don't care 
 if he's dying." 
 
 Bellamy only continued to laugh. He was enjoying 
 the situation immensely. 
 
 "What do you expect Mr. Bradshaw's going to do 
 about it?" he asked. "What you want is a man who 
 can move houses. Why not put your terraces down 
 in the Tenderloin? All the women have left there." 
 
 Bascomb ignored the other's taunts. 
 
 247
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Bradshaw had better do something about it," he said, 
 "and do it pretty quick. He stirred up this mess, and 
 he's the man I'm going to hold responsible." 
 
 "Where do you want these women to go, Judge ?" the 
 reporter asked him. 
 
 "I don't care a tinker's dam where they go," the other 
 roared, "so long as they don't come alongside of my 
 property." 
 
 Bellamy sobered and turned round in his chair, so 
 that he could face the other man. 
 
 "Judge," he said, "you're getting pretty particular 
 all of a sudden. If I remember rightly, you owned 
 a couple of houses in the old segregated district, and 
 you didn't have any objection to renting them to these 
 women at about four times what you could get from 
 anybody else. I've got all the dope on it down at the 
 office, and it may be that I'll find space to run it one 
 of these cold autumn days." 
 
 "Your threat doesn't worry me," Bascomb replied, 
 irritably. 'I know how to keep things out of the news- 
 papers. Anyway, I came here to talk to Bradshaw, not 
 to be cross-examined by a whipper-snapper like you." 
 
 "Don't get sore," Bellamy chided him, with easy good 
 nature. "As Socrates says, 'Things are not always as 
 bad as they seem.' . . . Come, what kind of a place have 
 they started over on Livingston?" 
 
 "Don't know what they call it." The Judge sat down, 
 tattooing nervously on his knees. "All I know is, I 
 want it closed up. ... A lot of young girls running 
 in there at all hours taxicabs dropping men off a block 
 or two away, so as not to excite suspicion. Suspicion 
 humph !" 
 
 "That's a call-house," explained Bellamy. "Scores of 
 248
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 them have sprung up in town lately. Apartment houses 
 are full of them." 
 
 "A call-house?" the Judge asked, with interest. 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you," Bellamy said. ' "The woman who 
 runs it has a list of telephone numbers. The girls give 
 them to her so that she can call them up if they are 
 wanted. Many of the girls work in stores, and don't 
 earn enough to live on. A swell place of that kind in 
 Milwaukee was pinched a while ago, and some scandal 
 sheet got hold of the woman's telephone list and pub- 
 lished it names, numbers and all. Say! It pretty 
 nearly disrupted the town. That list was so long it 
 looked like a young directory. And some of the names 
 on it zowie !" 
 
 "Oh, so that's it !" muttered the other. 
 
 "That's only one way," added Bellamy. "There's lots 
 of others." 
 
 Judge Bascomb thought a moment. Then, as if re- 
 membering something, he sprang to his feet. 
 
 "Well, if Bradshaw is going to side-step this mat- 
 ter," he announced, "I'll see the Chief of PoHce." 
 
 "That's a good idea," the reporter answered, ironi- 
 cally. "Tell your troubles to a copper!" 
 
 The Judge went out without replying, slamming the 
 the door after him. 
 
 Bellamy waited a moment, then he, too, went, going 
 straight to Elizabeth. 
 
 "Your father is in a bitter and unforgiving mood, 
 dear," he told her. "But I can't believe he's altogether 
 sincere in it." 
 
 He hesitated. Sooner or later the girl must know 
 about her mother's condition; and Bellamy believed it 
 
 249
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 would be better if he told her now, so that she would be 
 prepared when she returned to her home. 
 
 He came near to the girl, and put his hand on hers. 
 
 "Bess," he began, "you've got to know something 
 something that will hurt you; but you must be brave 
 about it. ... Your mother has had a breakdown." 
 
 "My mother?" 
 
 The girl's grief was quick and overpowering. She 
 no longer thought of herself and her own tragedy. She 
 was all love for her mother. 
 
 "Is it anything very serious?" she asked, frightened. 
 "Tell me, Jack I can bear it." 
 
 "It may not be serious," the man answered. 
 
 "When did it happen what was the cause of it?" 
 
 Elizabeth had a premonition that she was to blame, 
 that it was her act which had affected her mother. 
 
 "It happened the day you went away." 
 
 "Then I was to blame, wasn't I ? It was my note, my 
 leaving that did it. ... Oh, my poor, dear mother!" 
 
 "That's the reason your father is so bitter toward 
 you," Bellamy explained tenderly. "But, when he sees 
 you, I think he will soften. He loves you I know 
 that. He offered, through me, to help you. . . . He will 
 be downtown at the office, probably all day to-day; but 
 I want you to go back home this afternoon. I want 
 you to be there when he arrives." 
 
 "How can I face him after what I have done?" the 
 girl sobbed. "And my mother " 
 
 "You mustn't think of it like that," the man told her. 
 "You must go back and be brave. And if your father 
 is hard and doesn't relent, you are to come back here 
 at once. This will be your home. You will always 
 be cared for. My aunt will look after you." 
 250
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 "But I want to go to my mother now," begged the 
 girl. "I want to ask her forgiveness. I want to tell 
 her how sorry I am." 
 
 Bellamy could not bear to tell her of her mother's 
 inability to speak or move, and of the extreme danger 
 of another shock. But he saw it would be necessary 
 to do so in order to keep the girl away until her home- 
 coming could be prepared for. So he told her as best 
 he could, trying to make it as easy for her as possible. 
 
 She understood, but did not answer. 
 
 Bellamy then went down to his office. 
 
 "Back already, are you ?" Harrison greeted him, good- 
 naturedly. Then he looked at his reporter's haggard 
 face. "You don't look as if you'd had much of a 
 rest." 
 
 "I didn't," Bellamy told him. "I didn't go for a 
 rest either. But I accomplished what I set out for. 
 Don't question me. Maybe I'll tell you more about it 
 some day. . . . And now I'm ready for work again." 
 
 Harrison chose to ignore the mystery in the young 
 man's words. He could see that the other was under 
 a severe strain, and assumed a matter-of-fact air. 
 
 "The paper has missed you a lot these days," he 
 remarked. "Things have been happening fast since you 
 went away. The situation here is getting interesting. 
 God knows how it'll all turn out. This town is a 
 shambles." 
 
 "What's happened?" Bellamy asked. 
 
 "Well, to begin with, we've had raids every night," 
 Harrison answered, with no attempt to conceal his dis- 
 gust. "Hundreds of women have been turned loose 
 on the town. The whole city is a big brothel now. 
 The women are in the hotels and the apartment houses 
 
 251
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 they've even scattered through the residential sec- 
 tions. They're getting beyond the power of the police. 
 The Chief is working hard, but it would take a young 
 army to handle the situation. Everybody is kicking, ex- 
 cept the reformers. You meet the women in the res- 
 taurants, at the theatres, in the parks everywhere you 
 go. I worry every time my wife and daughter go out. 
 . . . And the complaints! People are howling on all 
 sides. There's a constant stream of good citizens pour- 
 ing into the police station, raising hell about the fact 
 that their neighbourhoods are being invaded and that 
 nobody is safe." 
 
 Bellamy laughed a little. 
 
 "I was just up at Bradshaw's," he put in, "and old 
 Judge Bascomb came in, hot under the collar and fum- 
 ing. He said he held Bradshaw responsible because 
 some of the women had moved in next to his terraces, 
 and his tenants were getting ready to move out. The old 
 hypocrite! It did me a lot of good to hear him carry 
 on. I warned him a week ago what would happen ; 
 but it never occurred to him that he himself might get 
 it in the neck." 
 
 "For two days," Harrison caught him up, "he has been 
 bothering the old Chief, cursing and ranting around. 
 He's even been in here to see me. It's a shame to 
 have those nice terraces ruined, but what can be done? 
 You know how hard it is to get evidence on a call- 
 house. If the one next to him was the only establish- 
 ment of its kind, it could be watched and nabbed. But 
 he's only one of the many property-holders who are 
 demanding action." 
 
 "It serves him right!" Bellamy commented, without 
 sympathy. "He's an old rake himself. He merely went 
 252
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 into this crusade because he thought it would help him. 
 He'll be the leader of the opposition here in a short 
 time, and then there will be a mess." 
 
 "Old man Barnes, too," supplied the other, "is up in 
 arms because his hotel clerks can't tell these women 
 from respectable guests. Jennings and Stillman, too, 
 are raising particular hell and all three of them are 
 members of the Citizens' Committee. They helped sow 
 Gleason's wind, and now they are reaping the cyclone. 
 I told them candidly they themselves were to blame, 
 but they can't see it. They're as hot for reform as 
 ever, and are railing at the police. . . . Why, do you 
 know," Harrison went on, "that there are suspicions 
 about the tenants who have moved into the big house 
 next to the Girls' Collegiate School!" 
 
 "There'll be something doing soon, believe me!" 
 Bellamy commented. "There'll be a reaction against 
 this whole crusade, just as there has been in every other 
 city where Gleason's methods have been carried out." 
 
 "Well, our little game," smiled Harrison, "is to sit 
 tight, and follow the crowd. But," he added medi- 
 tatively, "if I was a millionaire and didn't give a damn 
 about the future of this paper, I'd print some stuff that 
 would make them sit up and take notice." 
 
 Bellamy did not answer, and the other grinned. 
 
 "I hear no objections from my young moral friend," 
 he chuckled. "You've learned a couple of lessons your- 
 self, haven't you, my boy?" 
 
 "I've got nothing to say now," Bellamy answered, 
 resignedly. 
 
 He went out to his desk and sat down to think things 
 over. He looked carefully through the papers which 
 had appeared since his absence. Despite the conserva- 
 
 253
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 tism of the editorial policy, he could read undeniable 
 evidence of the crusade's fell results. The meetings at 
 the Tabernacle had declined. There were anonymous 
 letters in the "From Our Readers" department, con- 
 demning the new conditions. One minister had preached 
 a sermon against the inefficiency of the police. It was 
 a subtle rebuke for Gleason, for any sane man knew that 
 the police were inadequate to cope with every phase of 
 the vice which had now been scattered all over the city. 
 The Mayor, taking strength from the general dissatis- 
 faction of the property owners, had modified his tactics, 
 and was on the verge of coming out squarely and openly 
 against the campaign. But the reformers were still push- 
 ing ahead, maintaining that things would adjust them- 
 selves, that right would be sure to triumph in the end, 
 that the powers of darkness should not be met with 
 compromise. 
 
 The one fact that stood out from all the reports was 
 that the women were not leaving the city, but were in- 
 sinuating themselves into every phase of its life and 
 into every district. They were getting beyond con- 
 trol, for they were practising under cover. 
 
 Bellamy smiled cynically, and began to plan for his 
 next day's story. Now that he had returned, the bur- 
 den of the campaign's publicity had fallen again on 
 his shoulders. 
 
 After a few minutes he went to the City Editor to 
 obtain a copy of Gleason's sermon of the night before, 
 hoping to find therein something which would give him 
 an idea for his "feature." The subject of the sermon 
 was "Back-sliding into Hell." It was one of those per- 
 sonal exhortations for which Gleason was notorious, 
 and it carried insinuations concerning prominent men 
 254
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 of Edenburg. It was a crude attempt to frighten many 
 of the prominent local merchants into stepping in line 
 with the crusade. 
 
 Bellamy read it with a weary smile until he came to 
 the passage : "And there is among us an arch back-slider 
 a hypocrite of the deepest dye. Although he has 
 shelled out for the cause of righteousness and more 
 than once swung his arm to upper-cut the devil, he 
 yet is guilty of a crime so unthinkable that I wouldn't 
 believe it until I had the goods on him personally. This 
 whited sepulchre has taken into his home a woman 
 of the streets, and is harbouring her." 
 
 According to the newspaper account, Gleason had, at 
 this point in his sermon, dropped on his knees and of- 
 fered up a prayer for the soul of the accused. 
 
 Bellamy whistled softly and went to Harrison. 
 
 "Here's a hot one," he said, pointing to the passage 
 he had just read. "Is this buncombe, or has Gleason 
 got any facts? If he has, there might be a good story 
 in it." 
 
 "I don't know what there is to it," Harrison replied. 
 "Several people have spoken to me about it. There's 
 a rumour around that Gleason was referring to Brad- 
 shaw." 
 
 "Bradshaw!" 
 
 "It's only a rumour," Harrison explained, noting the 
 young man's shocked expression. "The story was prob- 
 ably started by some of the City Hall crowd that's got 
 it in for Bradshaw. Personally, I don't think Gleason 
 was referring to anybody. ... In any event, even if 
 such a thing were possible in the case of Bradshaw, Glea- 
 son wouldn't open his mouth. He knows which side his 
 bread is buttered on." 
 
 255
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Anyway, I'm going around to see Gleason this after- 
 noon," Bellamy answered angrily. "This sort of rough 
 stuff is going a little too far. I'm going to ask him a few 
 questions." 
 
 Gleason was not in his office when Bellamy called, 
 and the young man went home, leaving word that he 
 would return to see the evangelist later in the after- 
 noon. 
 
 "Bess, I want you to go to your father," he told the 
 girl. "I want you to go back and ask his forgive- 
 ness. I just called up the store, and they told me he 
 had left for home. If if things are not all right, you 
 must give me your promise to come back here." 
 
 The girl gave her promise, and Bellamy walked with 
 her to the car. 
 
 When she came within sight of her own house, she 
 was frightened and wanted to turn back ; but she thought 
 of her mother and of Bellamy's words, and she stepped 
 upon the front porch, her head bowed with shame. She 
 started to ring the bell, but was afraid. Withdrawing 
 her hand, she tried the knob. The door was unlocked, 
 and she stepped quietly and tentatively into the hallway. 
 She looked into the living-room, but there was no one 
 there. A great weakness overpowered her, and she sat 
 down in a chair near the door, covering her face with 
 her hands. 
 
 Some one touched her gently on the shoulder, and she 
 looked up, startled. 
 
 The Woman stood by her. 
 
 "Where's my father?" the girl asked, frightened. 
 
 "He's in the library," the Woman said. "I shall call 
 him." 
 
 Elizabeth put out her hand to restrain her. 
 2516
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 "No not yet." 
 
 The Woman looked at her with pity. 
 
 "You're tired," she said tenderly. "Hadn't you bet- 
 ter come to your room and rest before you see him?" 
 
 The girl stood up with resolution, and reached for her 
 hand-bag. 
 
 "No! I mustn't see him!" she said, with repressed 
 excitement. "I can't face him! I thought I could but 
 I can't. I can't face any one. ... I must go I must 
 go!" 
 
 She looked about her wildly, and started to the door. 
 
 The Woman put out both her arms. 
 
 "Wait a little," she begged. "You're home now, don't 
 you see home. Your father will be so glad ! We'll go 
 to your own room, and you'll change your things and 
 rest. . . . Then everything will be all right. Come." 
 
 "I can't I can't! I must go!" the girl wailed, in 
 broken whispers. 
 
 But the Woman would not release her. 
 
 "Your father is alone now. Your brother is not here, 
 and your mother is silent and helpless. You are the 
 only one he has. Do you think it would be fair to 
 him if you should go away now? . . . And your mother 
 I think if she knew you were back, she would get 
 better. It's the worry that keeps her the way she is." 
 
 At the mention of her mother, Elizabeth sank back 
 into the chair and began to weep quietly. 
 
 "When did she when did it happen? Does she still 
 love me? . . . Do you think she could forgive me?" 
 
 "She has already forgiven you," the Woman replied. 
 "I have been with her every minute during these last 
 days." 
 
 "If she had only known that I was not altogether 
 
 257
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 bad," sobbed the girl. "I thought I was married to 
 him I believed and trusted him." 
 
 "She knows all that," the Woman answered. 
 
 "You told her?" Elizabeth asked, wonderingly. "But 
 you didn't know ?" 
 
 "Yes, my child, I knew," said the other. 
 
 "And you told her that I had been tricked and de- 
 serted?" the girl asked, incredulously. "You told her 
 that I had not intended to be bad, and that I have 
 paid? Oh, how I have paid! You told my mother all? 
 . . . How did you know?" 
 
 "I told her all," the Woman answered. "And I asked 
 her to move her hand if she forgave you." There were 
 tears in the Woman's eyes. "It was an effort for your 
 mother to move, for she is paralysed. But she did move 
 her hand, and a different look came into her face. So 
 I knew that she forgave you." 
 
 Elizabeth stifled a great sob. 
 
 "You will stay now, won't you?" implored the 
 Woman, holding out her arms entreatingly. "There is 
 nothing to fear. Your father is much changed. He 
 needs you. . . . Come, you will stay?" 
 
 The girl arose slowly and moved toward the Woman, 
 as if in a daze. 
 
 "You are a servant in my father's house," she said, 
 in an awed voice, "and yet, when you spoke just now, it 
 seemed to me I heard my mother's voice, and it was she 
 who said, 'Come, you will stay.' " 
 
 "And you will stay?" 
 
 "Yes if you think it best. Something tells me I must 
 do as you say now, because " 
 
 She broke down, and walked into the waiting arms 
 .of the Woman. 
 258
 
 The Prodigal Daughter 
 
 "Because I understand," the other finished, drawing 
 the weakening girl to her breast. 
 
 When they had reached the head of the stairs, the 
 girl said : "I want to see my mother. I can't wait." 
 
 The Woman hesitated, and then said, as if to her- 
 self: "Perhaps, after all, it is best." 
 
 Together they entered the room where Martha Brad- 
 shaw lay. The girl rushed to the bed and knelt down. 
 The Woman turned her head away. 
 
 "Oh, dearest, dearest! I am so unhappy!" the girl 
 sobbed. "Try to forgive me try to forgive me. I 
 didn't know " she ran on, incoherently. 
 
 A convulsive movement shook Martha Bradshaw's 
 frame. A strange light showed in her eyes. Her lips 
 moved, and slowly her fingers relaxed. She raised her 
 hand and placed it on the head of her daughter. 
 
 "My little girl!" 
 
 The Woman started, and turned about joyfully. 
 
 "Those are the first words your mother has spoken 
 since she read your note !" she exclaimed. "The doctor 
 said " 
 
 "I heard what the doctor said," Martha Bradshaw 
 spoke again. "And he was right. My little child is 
 back, and a great peace and relaxation have come over 
 me. I can speak and move my arms " 
 
 She sank back, as if the effort had exhausted her, 
 and closed her eyes. 
 
 The Woman leaned over her and listened. 
 
 "Your mother is sleeping," she whispered to the girl. 
 "Come, we will go to your own room. She will be bet- 
 ter when she awakens. It was you she needed all the 
 time in order to get well." 
 
 259
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE REFORM BOOMERANG 
 
 / T*HAT afternoon Bellamy returned to Gleason's 
 J- office. The evangelist was still away, but the 
 reporter waited. When the man came in, he greeted 
 Bellamy pleasantly. 
 
 "Say, son!" he exclaimed. "To-night we start the 
 ninth inning; and in another week or two we'll win the 
 game, hands down. This bush-league town hasn't got 
 a look-in. . . . Come into the other room, and I'll hand 
 you some hot dope for your Sunday story." 
 
 Bellamy was not pleased with Gleason's good nature. 
 The resentment he had always felt toward the evange- 
 list was now, for some reason he could not explain, 
 greater than ever before. He disliked the cowardly man- 
 ner in which Gleason had attacked the men of Edenburg 
 in his sermon of the previous night, and he resolved 
 to put some pointed questions to the reformer. He be- 
 lieved that Harrison's frame of mind was such that 
 the wily newspaper proprietor might be induced to open 
 the Star's columns to a little anti-reform material. 
 
 The citizens of Edenburg had already begun to react 
 against the effects of the campaign. In certain quarters 
 enthusiasm had markedly died away; and there were 
 many indications that Gleason's popularity was already 
 on the wane. For many of the inhabitants especially 
 those of the residential section the whole campaign 
 260
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 had been something of a boomerang. If an honest vote 
 could be taken, Bellamy believed they would express their 
 contentment at having conditions the way they were be- 
 fore the moral upheaval. The reporter was convinced 
 that Gleason was a mountebank, and that his interests 
 were largely commercial. 
 
 When he was seated in front of the evangelist's desk, 
 he drew out the newspaper which contained a record 
 of the sermon he had read that afternoon at the office. 
 
 "See here, Mr. Gleason," he began, a little peremp- 
 torily. "I'd like to know the names that you omitted 
 from this sermon. If what you say here is true, the 
 matter should be made known unless there is a good 
 reason for hiding it. It isn't altogether square to hide 
 behind innuendoes ; and if you've got the goods, I wish 
 you'd let me know." 
 
 Gleason was taken aback by the young man's ag- 
 gressive manner. He had come to look upon Bellamy as 
 one of his strongest supporters, and he realised how 
 much Bellamy's writings had helped the cause. Now he 
 felt that the young man had suffered a change of heart ; 
 and the fact irritated and angered him. 
 
 "I don't pull anything, son," he answered, hotly, "un- 
 less I have got the goods. And, another thing, I am 
 the umpire in this campaign not you. I'll tell you just 
 what I want to tell you and no more. Get me?" 
 
 "Suit yourself, Gleason," Bellamy answered, rising. 
 "You may be able to flim-flam the other citizens of this 
 town, but your four-flushing doesn't get over with me. 
 I got your number the first time I saw you. I helped 
 you out in this campaign because it was my duty to 
 my paper not because of any love I bore you or your 
 cause. But there's a lot of people in this town that 
 
 261
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 are sick of your hypocrisy, and I'm one of them. The 
 Star has stood by you; but, so far as I am concerned, 
 you'll have to get another publicity organ. I'm going to 
 tell the truth about you. I'm going to lay you wide open 
 in to-morrow's paper. I've called your bluff on those 
 insinuations in last night's sermon, and if you don't want 
 to open up, I'll make you open up. You'll be the laugh- 
 ing stock of this town." 
 
 Gleason was red in the face. His first instinct was 
 to tell Bellamy to get out and do his worst. But, when 
 he thought of what that might mean, he forced his 
 diplomacy to the front. He did not want to lose the 
 Star's support; he needed it to cement the finish of his 
 campaign. The Star was too influential to be turned 
 into an enemy at just this stage of the game. 
 
 "Look here, Bellamy," he said conciliatingly. "Every- 
 body in Edenburg will know to-night who the guy is I 
 refer to. I'm saving it for the blow-off. That's why I 
 didn't want to put you wise right now. . . . But, if you 
 think I'm bluffing, listen, and I'll shoot." 
 
 Bellamy waited without a word. 
 
 "It's Elijah Bradshaw!" Gleason spoke the words 
 dramatically, and sat back to watch the effect upon the 
 young man. 
 
 "I've heard that before," the reporter returned, un- 
 moved. "But you know it's a lie, as well as I do." 
 
 "A lie !" cried the other, starting to his feet. "It's a lie, 
 is it? Well, listen to me, and you'll learn something. 
 I got a straight tip that Bradshaw had a bad woman in 
 his house. I didn't believe it till I snouted around and 
 found out for sure. I went to the police, and they 
 verified the story. You know this woman he's got work- 
 ing for him the new one. Well, she's an old-timer. 
 262
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 Every man on the force knows her. The Chief even 
 sent a guy around to put Bradshaw wise, in case he 
 didn't know it. Did Bradshaw drive her away when 
 he found out? Not that old hypocrite! And she's in 
 his house now. Judge Bascomb knows about her. So 
 does Doc Smollet; and a whole lot of other people in 
 town know about her." He paused. "It's a wonder 
 you newspaper men wouldn't get wise," he added. "If 
 I didn't know any more about my business than you 
 do about yours, I'd choke myself to death." 
 
 Bellamy was too stunned to reply. He had wondered 
 a little at the presence of the new maid in Bradshaw's 
 home, but that there had been anything irregular in her 
 being there he had not once imagined. If what Gleason 
 had told him just now were true, he thought it obvious 
 that Bradshaw did not know the true state of affairs. 
 There surely was some mistake, or some reasonable 
 explanation for it; and he determined to find out what 
 he could from Gleason and then make an investigation 
 of his own. 
 
 "What do you propose doing, Gleason ?" he asked, non- 
 committally. 
 
 "Well, I thougnt I'd first pull what I did last night," 
 the evangelist answered. "Then I'd wait and see if Brad- 
 shaw had sense enough to get rid of her. But he wasn't 
 even at the meeting. To-night, son, I'm going to make 
 an example of him. After the meeting at the Tabernacle 
 I'm going to lead a procession over to Bradshaw's house. 
 I'm going to demand a public explanation. I'll show 
 'em how much I'm influenced by his money. That's 
 me!" 
 
 "You'd better go easy, Gleason," Bellamy warned 
 him. "If what you say about Bradshaw is true, you 
 
 263
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 know, as well as I do, that there's some good reason 
 for what he's done." 
 
 "Sure, there's a reason !" Gleason answered, with sat- 
 isfied conviction. "He's a hypocrite. That's reason 
 enough." 
 
 "When it comes to hypocrisy," Bellamy said angrily, 
 "you've got him lashed to the mast twenty different 
 ways." 
 
 With that, he left the office. He went direct to 
 Police Headquarters to verify Gleason's accusation. 
 When he discovered that there was good cause for 
 the evangelist's belief, he returned to the Star, intending 
 to speak to Harrison before taking any action. There 
 he met the Reverend Smollet. 
 
 "I was waiting for you, Mr. Bellamy," Smollet an- 
 nounced, with repressed excitement. "I don't know what 
 to do, and I thought I'd talk the matter over with you 
 before taking any steps. You're pretty close to Brad- 
 shaw." 
 
 "I know what you refer to," Bellamy told him. "It's 
 the girl he has in his home, isn't it? . . . Well, how 
 do you account for it?" 
 
 "I can't, I can't," replied the minister, in distress. 
 "It seems incredible. I am completely upset. Ever since 
 Gleason's sermon last night I have been too worried 
 to know what to do. And now he tells me that he is 
 going to exhort Bradshaw publicly, that he is going to 
 march to his house to-night and make a scene. Some- 
 body ought to warn him. . . . Only," he added, "it's a 
 very delicate matter. I was thinking that maybe you're 
 the best person to do it." 
 
 Bellamy thought a moment. 
 
 "I don't know about that," he remarked slowly. "I 
 264
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 don't stand very strong with Bradshaw. As a matter 
 of fact, I think you'd be the best one. My suggestion 
 would be that you go to Bradshaw at once and find out 
 the inside of this affair. Tell him what Gleason pro- 
 poses to do, and see if it can't be avoided." 
 
 "I hate to do it," Smollet answered, hesitatingly. "It's 
 so personal a matter." He frowned deeply. "But, after 
 all, it may be my duty. No one else will tell him; and, 
 as you say, the trouble might be averted. Do you really 
 think it's the thing for me to do?" 
 
 "By all means," the reporter assured him. "Don't 
 waste a minute. See Bradshaw, and then telephone me 
 if there is anything I can do. This oughtn't to get into 
 the newspapers. It might ruin Bradshaw and his 
 family." 
 
 "But, if it is true," the Reverend Smollet remarked 
 caustically, "he deserves to be ruined! I can't under- 
 stand a man like him harbouring a woman of her type 
 in his home. It's a disgrace a scandal! I, myself, 
 would be tempted to denounce him if he doesn't drive 
 her out at once. . . . It's unspeakable!" 
 
 "I wouldn't give any snap judgments," Bellamy told 
 him. "You are condemning him without a trial. I 
 always thought that Christ taught mercy and forgive- 
 ness. Here you are planning a man's ruin because 
 he does something you don't like." 
 
 The Reverend Smollet arose with injured dignity. 
 
 "I act according to my conscience," he remarked 
 coldly. "There is nothing in the Bible that says we 
 must condone and harbour sin. . . . However, I shall 
 go to him and do what I can." 
 
 He walked stiffly down the stairs, and went directly to 
 Bradshaw's house. 
 
 265
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Bradshaw was in the library, plunged deep into a chair, 
 his head resting on his hands. 
 
 "My dear friend," Smollet began solicitously, "I am 
 sorry to find you like this." 
 
 "Why should I be made to suffer this way ?" the other 
 asked without looking up. 
 
 " 'Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,' " the min- 
 ister quoted. 
 
 Bradshaw now raised himself and looked at the man 
 at his side. 
 
 "I tell you, Smollet," he said, earnestly, "I believe 
 it's God's punishment for my pride, my colossal pride. 
 You don't know all that I have suffered I hope to God 
 you'll never know. My wife's collapse was only the 
 end of a long series of terrible misfortunes all due 
 to my pride, I tell you my own smug, serene, sanc- 
 tified satisfaction in my religion, which hasn't been reli- 
 gion at all, but a canting hypocrisy." 
 
 "Don't say that," Smollet put in, reprovingly. 
 
 "I do say it!" insisted the other. "I can see it now. 
 I saw it a few days ago when I looked into the face 
 of my dear, stricken wife and felt the props fall from 
 under my money-made faith the holier-than-thou kind 
 of religion that comes with mahogany pews and subsi- 
 dised sermons." 
 
 Smollet was horrified at his words. 
 
 "I am sorry to find you in this frame of mind," 
 he commented. 
 
 "So! You are sorry that I found myself out, are 
 you?" Bradshaw asked, bitterly. "Well, it's time I re- 
 alised my great mistake." 
 
 "Nonsense, my dear friend," the other returned, diplo- 
 matically. "You have been the very corner-stone of our 
 266
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 church. Look at the splendid revival which will be 
 closed in a few days! You were instrumental in bring- 
 ing this great evangelist here." 
 
 "Yes, I have written checks," the other agreed, "if 
 that is what you mean; checks that caused me no more 
 effort or sacrifice than if I were to snap my fingers." 
 
 "Thousands have been converted," Smollet insisted, 
 making allowances for the other's mental state. "There 
 is no need to tell you what a noble work has been 
 done." 
 
 Bradshaw arose wearily and paced up and down the 
 room. 
 
 "If it's so, Smollet," he said, abstractedly, "I am very 
 glad." 
 
 There was a silence. The minister stood up nervously 
 and began laboriously to fit his fingers together. Finally, 
 he looked at the other man determinedly. 
 
 "And now," he began, in a different tone, "if I may be 
 so bold, as your pastor, to speak of a thing that brought 
 me here to-night. It's a matter which brooks no de- 
 lay." 
 
 Bradshaw came to a hale and listened, knowing what 
 was coming. 
 
 "It's this young woman in your household," Smollet 
 continued. "I have heard " 
 
 "I know what you have heard," Bradshaw broke in, 
 angrily. "You have heard that she is a poor unfortu- 
 nate who is trying to redeem herself from a life of 
 shame. Well, Smollet, it's true. There is no need 
 to talk about it. 
 
 Smollet looked at him in angry indignation. 
 
 "But I marvel at your permitting her to remain in 
 your home," he answered, trying to control himself. 
 
 267
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Does it not occur to you that this woman's evil pres- 
 ence may have been the cause of your misfortunes ?" 
 
 "Smollet," the other man replied, earnestly, "if God 
 has rebuked me for doing an act of simple kindness, 
 then I won't want His clemency. If God is a bigot, a 
 tyrant, an oppressor of the weak, I am sorry I ever 
 spent an hour in His worship. . . . Now is no time to 
 harangue me with this matter. The woman is here, 
 and she is the kind of woman you think she is. But 
 she stays and that's the end of it." 
 
 Smollet was amazed, but he held himself well under 
 control. 
 
 "I must press you to listen to me further," he re- 
 sumed, with tolerant earnestness. "I had hoped to get 
 you to take the advice of your pastor without my having 
 to present the serious phase of the matter. You per- 
 haps don't know it, but your extraordinary conduct has 
 been made a sensational subject for gossip in certain 
 quarters for the past two days. It promises to become 
 a scandal which, due to your importance in the com- 
 munity, will assume alarming proportions. Gleason 
 knows of it, and he went so far last night as to hint 
 broadly at it in his sermon and to pray that you might 
 be brought to a realisation of your offence against the 
 decency of the community." 
 
 Bradshaw sprang to his feet. 
 
 "He dared do that!" 
 
 "He dares do anything you know that," the minister 
 told him. "He stops at nothing. And just a little while 
 ago I learned that he plans to follow up his meeting 
 to-night by coming here to exhort you publicly. Mind 
 you, I do not approve of everything this man does. 
 I told you that when we discussed bringing him here. 
 268
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 So to-night, unless I can take him a message from you, 
 he and some of his followers will halt in front of your 
 house, and he will demand that you drive this woman 
 from your roof." 
 
 Bradshaw clenched his fist. 
 
 "He will demand it, will he?" His voice was hard, 
 and he looked at the minister through narrowed lids. 
 
 "That is why I beseech you to turn her out now," 
 Smollet continued. "I want to go back to him and 
 tell him that she has gone. You are my friend, and 
 such a thing as he proposes to do would hurt me 
 deeply." 
 
 Bradshaw did not shift his position. 
 
 "Turn this woman out," he began, with slow reso- 
 lution, "this woman who has sat day and night at the 
 bedside of my poor wife repay her tender devotion by 
 throwing her into the street? Never, Smollet! You 
 may go back to Gleason and tell him that for once Elijah 
 Bradshaw is going to do the decent thing. He may in- 
 voke the divine wrath against me. He may kindle for 
 me the fires of Hell. But, just so long as I have a roof 
 and this woman desires its protection, she may stay. 
 The world holds little for me now save the thought of 
 my wife's tender devotion. If it were not the sustain- 
 ing influence of her virtuous and beautiful life and the 
 fact that she needs me now more than ever, I would end 
 it all, I think. But, while I live, I shall follow the 
 dictates of my own conscience and not be bullied by this 
 hired exhorter who seems, by some strange coincidence, 
 always to find the fields fertile for soul-saving where 
 they are also fallow for dollar-getting." 
 
 When Smollet answered, his tone was cold and formal. 
 
 "I regret exceedingly your alarming attitude," he said, 
 
 269
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 going to the door, "and I can't promise you what the 
 results of your very unusual behaviour will be." 
 
 "Don't spare me." Bradshaw laughed with bitterness. 
 "You have said that the Lord loveth whom He chas- 
 teneth. Pray, therefore, that He may love me over- 
 much, but not more than human endurance can stand." 
 
 "Be assured, Elijah, that I shall pray for you." 
 
 "And I shall pray that your prayers may reach the 
 divine ear." 
 
 Smollet opened the door. 
 
 "Shall you be with those of our friends to-night who 
 will come to disgrace me?" Bradshaw asked. 
 
 "I shall be on the side of righteousness," replied the 
 minister, as he went out. 
 
 No sooner had he gone than the telephone rang. 
 Bellamy had called up to warn Bradshaw, fearing that 
 Smollet might have changed his mind about doing so. 
 
 "I have heard about it," Bradshaw told him over the 
 wire. "But don't worry about me. I shall meet them, 
 if it is my last act on earth. I have been everything 
 else but a coward. I would like to quit feeling that 
 at least I am not that. Don't try to do anything about 
 me, my boy. There is no use. I know that crowd. 
 Haven't I been the ringleader of them?" 
 
 He hung up the receiver and sat back in his chair 
 for a long time, thinking. It had now grown quite dark. 
 The wind had died down, and the air outside was crisp 
 and still. 
 
 Bradshaw looked out of the great French window 
 which faced his open front porch. He could see the 
 houses on the opposite side of the street distinctly sil- 
 houetted in the cold moonlight. The world seemed 
 serene now, although he knew that, in a few hours, 
 270
 
 The Reform Boomerang 
 
 Gleason and his followers would invade the serenity 
 which had settled over the world about him. 
 
 Otto came in to turn on the lights, but Bradshaw 
 restrained him. 
 
 "I want to be alone," he said. "I won't have dinner 
 to-night. You may bring me some coffee in here. That 
 will be all." 
 
 A little later the Woman entered noiselessly and was 
 about to speak to the man, but when she saw the look 
 on his face, she went out without a word, returning 
 to the girl upstairs. 
 
 "The time has not yet come," she told Elizabeth. 
 "Your father is sitting in the library alone in the dark. 
 Something is troubling him deeply. Perhaps it is bet- 
 ter that you wait. Stay here in your room. When 
 the time comes, I will let you know." 
 
 271
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 *HE THAT IS WITHOUT SIN- 
 
 FOR two hours Bradshaw sat in the darkness. When 
 the servant brought in the coffee, he paid no atten- 
 tion. At half -past ten he arose and began to walk up 
 and down. There was in his eyes a fierce determina- 
 tion. His jaw was set hard, and the muscles in his 
 arms were rigid. He was like a condemned man wait- 
 ing for his execution a brave and unflinching man who 
 had resolved to meet death courageously and with his 
 head held high. There was neither cruelty nor aggres- 
 siveness in his manner, merely a calm and unswervable 
 determination. There was something bordering on the 
 tragic in his bearing; it was the tragedy of the defeated 
 giant who bows at last to the inevitable, but whose inner 
 strength remains serene and unconquered to the end. 
 
 Many things passed through his mind as he walked. 
 He reviewed the whole of his life. In the darkness of 
 the room he saw himself more clearly than he had ever 
 done before, even in the brilliant light of noonday. He 
 thought of his son, and lived again the events which 
 terminated in the boy's departure. He thought of his 
 daughter and of her weakness. He recalled the terrible 
 night when he had found his wife stricken and helpless. 
 All the details of the Woman's association with him 
 rushed back vividly across his mind. 
 
 There was no rancour in his soul now. He thought 
 272
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 of the sorrows of the past weeks without animosity. 
 The weakness of those he loved filled him with pity. 
 He became more profoundly conscious of his own 
 strength than ever before. But it was not the strength 
 which his position in the community gave him. Nor 
 was it the strength of his money or of his pride. It 
 was such a strength as the old martyrs possessed when 
 they walked to the stake with a smile and laid down 
 their life all they had to give for a belief and a 
 principle. 
 
 At a quarter of eleven there was a sound of music 
 far down the street in the direction of the Tabernacle 
 a murmur and a staccato tramping of feet. As the 
 band came nearer, the angry mutterings of the crowd 
 grew more and more distinct. One or two voices, 
 sharper than the rest, raised themselves above the mo- 
 notonous murmur. The sounds that came to Bradshaw 
 were angry. They were not the sounds of a happy 
 crowd rejoicing at some victory, but the growling of 
 the beast of prey filled with a lust for blood. 
 
 Bradshaw came to a sudden halt. He drew himself 
 up straight and squared his shoulders. 
 
 The old servant came into the room hurriedly. 
 
 "What is it, sir ? What is it ?" he asked, excitedly. 
 
 "Pull those shades quickly, Otto!" Bradshaw com- 
 manded. 
 
 The man obeyed with trembling hands. 
 
 "Now, bring me my revolver from the cabinet. My 
 friends are paying me a call." 
 
 Otto hesitated, but then did as he was told. 
 
 "My God! What is it, sir?" he asked, as he handed 
 Bradshaw the weapon. 
 
 "Nothing for you to worry about, Otto, my man," 
 
 273
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 Bradshaw told him. "Now, go to the rear of the house 
 and stay there. If I need you, I will ring. There may 
 be some danger in this room." 
 
 The crowd drew nearer. Their footsteps echoed along 
 the street. The band was playing one of Gleason's fa- 
 vourite songs, "The Brewer's Big Horses." 
 
 Bradshaw stood by the desk and listened. He could 
 hear Gleason's lusty voice leading them, and now the 
 words of the chorus came to him distinctly. 
 
 The Woman came into the room and leaned against 
 the mantel, her hands clasped tightly on her breast, 
 her lips blown apart by her quickened breathing. 
 
 "I knew they would come ! I knew they would come!", 
 she cried fearfully. "They have come for me they have 
 come to stone me !" 
 
 Bradshaw turned to her. The red glow of the fire 
 fell on her face, and to the man it seemed that she had 
 never been so beautiful. 
 
 "Let them try!" he said challengingly and with reso- 
 lution. 
 
 He glanced down at the pistol in his hand, and turned 
 the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. 
 
 The crowd was now outside his house. The band 
 was still playing, and all the voices seemed to have 
 caught up the militant chorus. 
 
 At the end of the last line a stentorian voice cried, 
 "Silence!" It was Gleason's voice, and the crowd be- 
 came still. 
 
 "My friends," Gleason ordered, "stop here a while. 
 This is the home of Elijah Bradshaw. . . ." 
 
 The angry mutterings of the crowd recommenced. 
 Words and phrases detached themselves from the gen- 
 eral noise. 
 274
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 "Ah-h-h!" 
 
 "Bradshaw ! Bradshaw !" 
 
 "Come out!" 
 
 "Say! Where's your manners ?" 
 
 "Come out and show yourself!" 
 
 "Don't be backward!" 
 
 "Ho, Bradshaw!" 
 
 "We're your friends!" 
 
 Again the voice of Gleason took the ascendancy, and 
 the crowd became silent. 
 
 "Elijah Bradshaw, the city's most illustrious back- 
 slider !" Gleason went on loudly. "Judas bought a ticket 
 to Hell for thirty pieces of silver. Bradshaw here has 
 bought his ticket, and he's paid his price. Judas was 
 the arch traitor of his town Bradshaw is the arch 
 traitor of his. From a leader of the Hosts of God he 
 has fallen into the abyss of sin. At this moment he 
 is harbouring under his roof an unspeakable creature 
 with Hell's seal upon her." 
 
 The excited crowd, inflamed by the fervour of the 
 evangelist's words, began calling and yelling again. 
 
 "Send her out!" 
 
 "Bradshaw the Judas !" 
 
 "Shame!" 
 
 "Come out, you traitor!" 
 
 Once more Gleason's angry voice overpowered them, 
 and they were subdued. 
 
 "Let him hide in the shadow of his own infamy," 
 cried Gleason. "And, while he is in hiding, let us pause 
 a moment to pray that this man may be snatched like 
 a brand from the burning." 
 
 He raised his arms and looked up passionately at 
 the stars. 
 
 275
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "Dear God," he began, "incline Thine ear as we be- 
 seech Thee " 
 
 Up to this point Bradshaw had listened without a 
 word. He had not been visible to those outside, nor 
 had he been able to see them. When Gleason began 
 to pray, however, he rushed to the window and spread 
 the curtains. Then he threw open the glass doors and 
 stood out upon the porch, facing the crowd. 
 
 "Stop!" he commanded. "We need no prayers of 
 yours." His voice was louder than Gleason's. 
 
 The crowd forgot the evangelist's praying and turned 
 to the accused man. 
 
 "Ah, Bradshaw!" 
 
 "There he is!" 
 
 "That's him!" 
 
 "There's Judas now !" 
 
 "Bradshaw! Bradshaw!" 
 
 Bradshaw was calm. He stepped toward the 
 crowd. 
 
 "Well, what do you want with me?" he asked. 
 
 The cries died down to inarticulate murmurs. Some- 
 thing in the man's manner affected them with reverence. 
 He had always commanded their respect, and now they 
 felt again the power of his personality. 
 
 Bradshaw scanned their faces for a moment. 
 
 "Ah, Barnes!" he called, pointing to one of the 
 men. . . . "And Jennings! And Stillman! All my 
 friends! . . . And Smollet, too!" 
 
 He had caught sight of the minister standing near 
 the evangelist. 
 
 Gleason had by this time recovered himself. He had 
 felt that his hold on the crowd had gone temporarily, 
 but now he stepped toward Bradshaw. 
 276
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 "Never mind them!" he cried. "The woman let her 
 stand forth!" His domineering voice inspired his fol- 
 lowers with a new confidence. They had swayed away 
 from him for the moment, but they were again on his 
 side, and caught up his remarks. 
 
 "Never mind them!" 
 
 "The woman! The woman!" 
 
 "Let her stand forth !" 
 
 "The woman!" 
 
 Bradshaw eyed them unflinchingly. He waited a mo- 
 ment for their voices to die down. 
 
 "She shall not !" he then answered. "This is my home, 
 Gleason." He pointed a threatening finger at the evan- 
 gelist. "And I want you to go before I send you and 
 some of your saintly crew to face the God you talk 
 to so glibly." 
 
 "The nearer we get to God," answered Gleason 
 angrily, "the more elbow-room, and the smaller the 
 crowd. Send the woman out!" 
 
 The voices broke forth again. The crowd's excita- 
 tion had been rising rapidly. A frenzy seemed to have 
 swept over it. It had become cruel and hysterical, and 
 was dominated by the spirit of the mob. 
 
 "Yes, send her out!" 
 
 "Send out the woman !" 
 
 "Where is she ?" 
 
 Elizabeth had sat at her window upstairs watching 
 what was going on below. At first she had not under- 
 stood. When Gleason and his band had first come to 
 the house, she had thought it was some friendly demon- 
 stration. But when the evangelist had begun to accuse 
 her father, she was seized with fright. She wanted 
 to go down to him, but was afraid. 
 
 277
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 When the voices in the crowd had become louder and 
 angrier, she at last slipped tremblingly down the dark 
 stairway. Slowly she crossed the room. She had not 
 seen the Woman, nor had she been seen. She knew 
 there was nothing she could do; and yet, some instinct 
 of protection drew her to the man on the porch. She 
 was white and trembling. Her hair was down her back, 
 and she wore a loose dressing gown which fell in long 
 folds about her. 
 
 She came to her father and knelt down behind 
 him. 
 
 When those in the crowd saw her dimly in the shad- 
 owy light, they mistook her for the woman they had 
 come for. 
 
 A sudden burst of anger arose from them, as from 
 a single throat. 
 
 "There she is! There she is!" 
 
 "There's the woman!" 
 
 "For shame, Bradshaw !" 
 
 Then some one in the crowd raised his roice abore 
 the others. 
 
 "Stone her!" 
 
 The others in the crowd caught up the words excit- 
 edly. 
 
 "Yes! Stone her! Stone her!" 
 
 A missile crashed through the window opposite Brad- 
 shaw. Then another, and another. 
 
 The girl screamed and caught hold of her father. 
 
 He put his left arm before his face, and with the 
 other he raised the revolver he was holding behind 
 him. A stone struck him on the breast. He winced 
 with pain, but did not step back. 
 
 There was a general clamour and angry calls. Soon 
 278
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 other windows crashed, and a heavy missile flew into 
 the room and broke a vase on the desk. 
 
 Bradshaw levelled his revolver at the evangelist. 
 
 "Pray now, Gleason!" he exclaimed, in a voice which 
 trembled far out into the night above the calls and hoot- 
 ings of the crowd. "And this time for your- 
 self!" 
 
 Elizabeth sprang to her feet and caught her father's 
 arm in both her hands, pulling it down to his side. 
 
 At the sight of the revolver the crowd had stood 
 back, awestruck. 
 
 When there was no report Gleason laughed. 
 
 "So you thought to frighten me!" he called trium- 
 phantly. "Ah, my friends, the Word of God is mightier 
 than all the hosts of sin." 
 
 The crowd recovered from its shock and began call- 
 ing again. 
 
 "Send the woman out !" 
 
 "Shame!" 
 
 "Why didn't you shoot, Bradshaw?" 
 
 "Coward!" 
 
 "Make her come out !" 
 
 "Stone her! Stone her!" 
 
 Bradshaw stepped a little to one side, that he might 
 better protect the crouching figure behind him, whose 
 hands still tightly clutched his arm. Then he raised his 
 free hand above his head, and looked out fearlessly. 
 
 "Stop!" he ordered. "I command you in the words 
 of Christ!" 
 
 A hush fell over the crowd at the name which Brad- 
 shaw had uttered. Their frenzy had been a religious 
 one, and this appeal had touched the deepest spring^ 
 of their actions. 
 
 279
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "The Word of God is mightier than all the hosts of 
 sin!" exclaimed Bradshaw, repeating Gleason's own 
 words. "Therefore, I call to you in Christ's own 
 words 'Let him among you who is without sin first cast 
 a stone at her.' " 
 
 He stood majestically confronting the mob. 
 
 For a moment there was no response. Then there 
 began low murmurs, but they were not the murmurs of 
 anger, but of uneasiness. The hysteria of the crowd had 
 been spent. A reaction had settled over them. 
 
 A shrill voice called out: "Come on, Jimmy! Can't 
 you see he's beat you at your own game ?" 
 
 There were sounds of approval. Other voices 
 joined in. 
 
 "Ha ! He got you that time." 
 
 "Good for Bradshaw!" 
 
 "What have you got to say now, Jimmy?" 
 
 Gleason, confused by this sudden change of events, 
 hesitated. Then he turned to the crowd with his old 
 self-confidence. 
 
 "Come on over to the Tabernacle," he called out dic- 
 tatorially. "We'll pray for him there, though I think 
 he's past redemption." 
 
 He took a step forward, and the crowd began to move 
 with him, following by blind instinct their leader. 
 
 "Quit shoving!" 
 
 "Who's shoving?" 
 
 "You are." 
 
 "Get off that flower bed!" 
 
 "What's the matter with the band?" 
 
 "Spiel, can't you?" 
 
 "Hey, what's your hurry?" 
 
 Gleason called angrily to the musicians. 
 280
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 "Are you hypnotised, you fellows ? Toot her up there, 
 and be quick about it !" 
 
 At once the bank struck up the tune they had been 
 playing earlier in the evening. The crowd fell into 
 step and marched down the street, some muttering, others 
 laughing, still others silent. 
 
 The noise grew fainter and fainter in the distance. 
 Bradshaw stood at the window and listened. 
 
 When the sounds had died away, he turned slowly. 
 He slipped the revolver in his pocket, and put both 
 his hands on the head of the kneeling figure. Then he 
 raised her slowly to her feet. The room was dark and 
 he could not see her face. He thought it was the 
 Woman before him, and led her tenderly to the desk. 
 
 "You see, I would not let them harm you," he said 
 gently. "I was ready to protect you with my own 
 life." 
 
 The girl did not speak. Both hands were pressed 
 close to her face, and she was sobbing audibly. 
 
 Bradshaw switched on the desk lamp and drew the 
 girl's head back, that he might look into her face. 
 
 Then, for the first time, he saw who she was. He 
 realised that, all the time, he had not been protecting 
 the Woman, but his young daughter. 
 
 For a moment he could not speak through sheer won- 
 der and amazement. Then something inside of him 
 seemed to burst, and a great wave of tenderness swept 
 through his whole body. 
 
 "Bess my daughter! My own little girl!" he cried. 
 "I thought I didn't know my baby!" 
 
 He clasped her to his breast with such overpowering 
 love as he had never felt for her before, and she clung 
 to him, weeping bitterly. 
 
 281
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "There! I know I know," he consoled her. "You 
 have come back to me and you shall stay with me my 
 baby girl." 
 
 He looked about the room for the Woman, but she 
 had gone. 
 
 "And you forgive me?" the girl sobbed. 
 
 Bradshaw held her very close to him and kissed her. 
 
 "Yes, I forgive you," he said, and his voice shook. 
 "May God forgive you as I do." 
 
 He sat down and drew her to his knees, holding her 
 in his arms as he might have held a baby. 
 
 When her weeping had ceased, he arose and led her 
 to the stairway. 
 
 "And now," he said, kissing her again, "go to your 
 room your old room. We shall begin anew and all 
 the past will be forgotten. . . . Good night, my little 
 child." 
 
 She looked up into his eyes with calm and ineffable 
 happiness, and went slowly up the stairs. 
 
 Bradshaw sat down at his desk. He was a different 
 man now. The many tendencies which had been at work 
 in him during the last two weeks had been unified by 
 the event of that night. He realised how little his 
 former life had meant to him. Somehow, he did not 
 care what the world thought of him, or what the pa- 
 pers would publish on the morrow. He felt more secure 
 than ever before, for now his security came from within, 
 not from without. 
 
 He rang the bell, and in a moment Otto came in, trem- 
 bling and white with fright. 
 
 "It's all right, Otto," Bradshaw said. "There is noth- 
 ing to fear now. They have gone away. Close the 
 windows and draw the shades." 
 282
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 The servant did as he was bidden. He picked up 
 the pieces of broken glass and gathered up the debris 
 from the desk where the vase had been broken. 
 
 "Is that all?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes. You may go to bed now," Bradshaw told him ; 
 and even Otto was conscious of a tone in his master's 
 voice, which he had never heard before. 
 
 He was about to leave, when some one knocked at the 
 front door. 
 
 It was Bellamy. 
 
 The young man walked in, hurriedly, without waiting 
 to be announced. 
 
 "What happened, Mr. Bradshaw ?" he asked excitedly. 
 "Tell me everything. I've got to say something about 
 it in the paper only, God knows, I wish I didn't have 
 to." 
 
 "Say whatever you choose, my boy," the older man 
 replied, with grave serenity. "It makes no difference. 
 I feel happier now than ever in my life before." 
 
 Bellamy looked at him wonderingly. 
 
 "You see," Bradshaw went on, "I had everything sized 
 up wrong before. It isn't what people say about you 
 that matters it isn't even what they think of you. It's 
 what you feel here." And he struck his breast with his 
 hand. 
 
 The reporter waited. 
 
 "Gleason came," the other man continued. "He tried 
 to bully me, and the crowd demanded that I send the 
 woman out to them. But I defied them, and quoted the 
 words of Christ to them; and they went away." 
 
 "What did you say ?" Bellamy asked, in an awed voice. 
 
 "I said : 'Let him who is without sin among you cast 
 the first stone at her.' " 
 
 283
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "You said that!" Bellamy cried, in happy admiration. 
 
 Then his newspaper instinct rose uppermost. 
 
 "My God ! What a story that will make!" 
 
 "Don't spare me, my boy," Bradshaw told him. "I can 
 bear it now. . . . This will be a fight worth while." 
 
 "Don't spare you!" repeated the reporter, surprised. 
 "Why, man, I'll make you the hero of this city. Already 
 the tide has begun to turn against Gleason. This story 
 will be the end of him. You've done the biggest thing 
 that any one in this city has ever done before you've 
 won the biggest victory. To-morrow there won't be a 
 man or woman that reads the Star who won't thank God 
 that they know you. . . . Leave that to me I know how 
 to write a story. All this other stuff of mine has been 
 insincere. Now, for the first time, I can put my heart 
 into it." 
 
 "And the woman?" asked Bradshaw. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Bradshaw," Bellamy exclaimed enthusi- 
 astically, "that will be the big climax in the story ! When 
 I tell these people that you have taken her into your 
 house to try to help her instead of hounding her out 
 of town, they'll learn a lesson in Christian sympathy 
 that they never thought possible before. And to think 
 that you protected her against the vicious cruelty of 
 Gleason's mob! They'll love and admire you for it." 
 
 He leaped to his feet. 
 
 "I must run along and get to work. This is almost 
 too good to be true !" 
 
 He went out hurriedly. He hailed the first taxicab 
 he saw, and drove to the other newspaper offices. He 
 went to the City Editors who knew him and liked him. 
 He told them the story from his own point of view. 
 They listened with keen interest. Like the majority 
 284
 
 "He That is Without Sin" 
 
 of newspaper men who had had practical experience 
 with vice conditions, they were not any too strongly in- 
 clined toward Gleason's methods, and were glad of an 
 opportunity in the form of a straight news story which 
 would tend to reflect unpleasantly on the evangelist. 
 
 The wheels having thus been set in motion, Bellamy 
 rushed to his office and set to work with an energy he 
 had rarely displayed before. 
 
 285
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN A MYSTERIOUS WAY 
 
 THE following morning the newspapers with one ac- 
 cord commended Bradshaw's action. They did not 
 deprecate Gleason, except by intimations ; but there were 
 few men in the city whose sympathies were not with 
 Bradshaw. Heretofore his actions had nerer been ques- 
 tioned ; eren those who disagreed with him respected 
 his sincerity. They remembered Edenburg's debt to him. 
 They remembered, too, his past conduct, his honesty, 
 his uprightness ; and while there were some who, on read- 
 ing the stories in the morning's papers, questioned the 
 wisdom of his act in taking a woman of the streets 
 into his home, they did not doubt for a moment his 
 good faith. 
 
 As Bellamy had told Bradshaw, the tide against Glea- 
 son had begun to turn. The conditions which the 
 evangelist had brought about through his moral cam- 
 paign had not been, from a civil point of view, alto- 
 gether satisfactory. Adverse criticism had been grow- 
 ing rapidly during the few days preceding Gleason's 
 procession to the merchant's home. The more cynical 
 citizens of Edenburg laughed at the evangelist's defeat, 
 and even the members of the Citizens' Committee, along 
 with those who had contributed to his campaign, ad- 
 mired Bradshaw for his act. 
 
 As early as half-past eight that morning, prominent 
 286
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 men and women of the city began calling Bradshaw 
 by telephone to express their approval and admiration 
 for what he had done. Several of them asked him if 
 he would advise them to follow the same course and 
 attempt a similar reformation of some woman of the 
 Tenderloin. They said that, if he was willing to take 
 such a woman into his home, they would be glad to 
 follow his example. 
 
 "I have come to the conclusion," he answered them, 
 "that there is too much cruelty, and too little charity, 
 in our former method of driving these women out of 
 town. As to what should be done that I will leave 
 to your own conscience. The whole problem is so com- 
 plex that the most we can do is to experiment." 
 
 As he sat in the library, waiting for breakfast to be 
 announced, the door opened, and Martha Bradshaw, sup- 
 ported by the Woman, entered the room. 
 
 The man leapt to his feet with a cry of joy. 
 
 "Martha !" he exclaimed. "What miracle is this ?" 
 
 "It is no miracle," the Woman answered. "The only 
 miracle is in the change of your own heart." 
 
 Bradshaw remembered the doctor's words that his 
 wife's condition was due to some terrible shock, and 
 that, were her mind relieved of its tragic suffering, her 
 recovery might be assured. 
 
 He crossed the room and took his wife in his arms. 
 She was still very weak. Her face was white and 
 drawn and she could stand only with support. He 
 carried her to a large chair and placed her in it tenderly, 
 kneeling down by her side, his arms still about her. 
 
 There were tears in Martha Bradshaw's eyes. 
 
 "My little girl has come back to me," she said. "She 
 is safe, and I am happy. When I saw her, a great 
 
 287
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 weight seemed to lift from my body and from my mind. 
 It was as if I had been bound down by heavy shackles 
 which fell from me at the sight of her. ... I am so 
 happy! I know now I shall get well. ... If only my 
 son were here, too !" 
 
 She turned to the Woman. 
 
 "And you have been so good to me," Martha Brad- 
 shaw said to her. "I haven't been able to thank you 
 before." She smiled sadly. "Oh, Elijah! If you only 
 knew how tender and solicitous she has been during all 
 my helplessness!" 
 
 She put her arms around the kneeling man. 
 
 "And last night!" she went on. "That made me 
 happier " 
 
 "You heard? You know?" Bradshaw asked, in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "How could I help it?" she replied. "I lay in bed 
 and prayed that you would do just what you did." 
 
 The man could not speak for a moment. He looked 
 first at his wife, and then at the Woman who stood 
 near him, with her head bowed. 
 
 "I am glad," was all he could say. 
 
 At that moment the doctor arrived. During Mrs. 
 Bradshaw's illness he had called regularly each morn- 
 ing. When he saw her now, he did not seem surprised, 
 but came to her and held out his hand. 
 
 "Doctors are not much good, after all," he said pleas- 
 antly. "I told you, Bradshaw, that she would only 
 get well if we could discover and rectify the cause 
 of the shock." 
 
 Then he assumed his professional air. 
 
 "But, you must be very careful," he said, turning 
 again to Mrs. Bradshaw. "Rest as much as you can. 
 288
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 Naturally, the shock has racked your system, and it 
 will take some time for you to recover completely. I'll 
 come in every day or two and see that you are mind- 
 ing me." 
 
 He then turned to the Woman. 
 
 "You have been very good and very careful," he said. 
 "I was going to send a trained nurse, but I believe you 
 have been even better than she would have been." 
 
 He shook hands with Bradshaw, and went out. 
 
 "Where is Elizabeth now?" the mother asked, when 
 he had gone. 
 
 "She will be down very soon," the Woman told her. 
 "I heard her moving about her room when we passed 
 it." 
 
 "Tell her to make haste," Bradshaw said, and his 
 voice was very gentle. "We shall all have breakfast 
 together." 
 
 An hour later the Reverend Smollet rang. 
 
 "Bradshaw," he said humbly, "I have come to offer 
 you my apologies. Last night you taught me something 
 me, who was supposed to be a teacher of His word. 
 You opened my eyes to a Christian point of view which, 
 I regret to say, I had lost sight of. Your conduct was 
 splendid noble! You were in the right, and I am 
 ashamed to think that I was allied against you with Glea- 
 son. I have spent most of the night in prayer and in 
 contemplation of what you said and did. ... I had my 
 sermon all prepared for this morning, but I am going 
 to change it. I am going to take my text from your 
 words last night: 'Let him who is without sin among 
 you first cast a stone at her.' And I shall tell what I 
 saw and what happened. I shall make it a personal ser- 
 mon. And I shall confess the unworthiness of my own 
 
 289
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 conduct last night. I shall make the people who hear 
 me realise, more than they do now, the great lesson 
 in Christian charity which you have taught them. I am 
 on my way to services now, but I could not refrain 
 from dropping in and telling you this. . . . Will you at- 
 tend this morning?" 
 
 Bradshaw hesitated. 
 
 "Not this morning, Smollet," he said. "I want to 
 stay with my dear wife and my daughter. You see, 
 Smollet, the Lord chasteneth whom He loveth, but He 
 also rewards us. Mrs. Bradshaw was able to come down- 
 stairs this morning. The doctor was here, and he said 
 that her complete recovery would be but a matter of 
 a short time." 
 
 The minister was deeply moved. 
 
 "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I am happy beyond 
 words. That, too, shall go into my sermon. . . . Ah, 
 Bradshaw! we never grow so old that we cannot learn 
 more of His infinite mercy." 
 
 "But no man, I believe, Smollet," Bradshaw replied 
 earnestly, "has learned as much as I have during these 
 last two weeks. I have changed from the very founda- 
 tion. I have found how narrow, even despicable, my life 
 has been. The values I attached to things were all 
 false. I have been hard and unforgiving. There has 
 been no charity in my soul no leniency or compassion 
 in my heart. I have worshipped at the feet of false 
 gods. . . . But that is all over now. I realise that my 
 misfortunes have been of my own making, that it was 
 I who brought disaster, not only on myself, but on those 
 I loved. My house has been cursed. . . . Do you re- 
 member the letter I showed you some time ago from 
 a young girl who had been thrown out into the streets ? 
 290
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 ... It frightened me, although I am not superstitious; 
 and when my sorrows came to me, I was inclined to 
 think that this girl was directing some sinister powers 
 against me. But now I know that the germ of her 
 curse was in my own blood, that my own harshness and 
 blindness brought about my misfortunes." 
 
 When the minister had gone, Bradshaw went in to 
 his wife. Few words passed between them ; words were 
 unnecessary to express the peace and happiness which 
 both of them felt. 
 
 When, later, she had gone to her room to lie down, the 
 Woman came in to Bradshaw. 
 
 "What about your son ?" she asked him. 
 
 "My son?" The man looked at her wonderingly. 
 
 "Can you not forgive him, too?" the Woman asked, 
 in a pleading voice. 
 
 Bradshaw studied her for a moment. 
 
 "It was because of what he did to you " he be- 
 gan. 
 
 "Oh, but, you see, I understand," the Woman said. 
 "And because I understand, I forgave him. Your son 
 is not bad. He sinned because of his tenderness and 
 love for the girl." 
 
 "If he loved her so," Bradshaw demanded, "how 
 could he have " 
 
 "He saw in me the girl he loved," the Woman ex- 
 plained. "He saw in my eyes her look, just as you 
 saw in my eyes the look of the woman you loved long 
 ago." 
 
 "I don't understand it all," Bradshaw commented 
 in a low, awe-struck voice. "It all seems so strange." 
 
 "But 7 understand," the Woman went on, "and that's 
 why I want you to forgive him. You must believe me 
 
 291
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 when I tell you that he loves this girl, and that she 
 needs him. She is only a child, like your own daughter. 
 She has already suffered much. Her misfortunes were 
 not of her own making." 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" the man asked. 
 
 "I want you to send for him," the Woman replied. 
 "You know where he is. He has written to you. . . . 
 Tell me, what is he doing how is he?" 
 
 "He is working hard," Bradshaw answered. "I be- 
 lieve he is trying to do the best he can." 
 
 "I knew it! I knew it!" the Woman said. "I told 
 you he was not bad. And is he not sorry for the suf- 
 ferings he has caused you?" 
 
 "Yes," the man admitted. "He says he is very 
 sorry." 
 
 "Then you will send for him, won't you ?" she pleaded. 
 "He will be happier here. He, too, has learned a lesson. 
 And you can help him. He would be better off here, 
 near you." 
 
 Bradshaw looked into the Woman's eyes for a mo- 
 ment. He found it impossible to resist her request; 
 and, deep in his heart, he was glad of his inability to 
 do so. 
 
 "I will send for him," the man said. 
 
 "Thank you," the other answered simply, as if he 
 had performed some personal favour for her. 
 
 At noon that day, Bellamy came to the house. Brad- 
 shaw greeted him heartily. 
 
 "Thank you, my boy," he said, "for what you did. 
 It was more than I could have expected. Last night 
 I thought the entire town would turn against me that 
 I would be disgraced." 
 
 "That's what made your conduct so fine," the reporter 
 292
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 answered admiringly, shaking the other's hand. "But I 
 told you that I would make a hero of you that is," 
 he corrected himself, "that I would make these people 
 realise what a hero you are. Gleason won't open his 
 mouth. He's too wise for that. He knows that he's 
 licked. I dropped in to see him this morning, and tried 
 to get some statement out of him. All he did was to 
 sidestep, and say that there were certain iniquities which 
 God must deal with direct. His time here is up to- 
 morrow, and I guess he'll be glad to move on to an- 
 other town. He's made his little pile, anyway; and 
 that's all that interests him." 
 
 He looked up at Bradshaw with a touch of embar- 
 rassment, and smiled. 
 
 "Where's Bess?" he asked. "May I see her?" 
 
 "Of course, you may," the older man said pleasantly. 
 He started to ring for Otto. 
 
 "Just a minute, Mr. Bradshaw," Bellamy said. 
 "There's a question I want to ask you first. . . . How 
 do you feel about this whole Tenderloin question?" 
 
 The other frowned and thought for a moment. 
 
 "I don't know exactly," he answered, after a slight 
 pause. "One thing is sure, however: that statement I 
 was writing for your paper is never going to be pub- 
 lished. I have come to the conclusion that this is a 
 matter which can't be settled as simply as Gleason 
 imagines." 
 
 "Then you have changed your mind somewhat, I pre- 
 sume," Bellamy commented, in a matter-of-fact voice. 
 
 "Yes, you might say that I have," Bradshaw agreed. 
 
 The reporter beamed. 
 
 "Remember your promise, Mr. Bradshaw!" he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 293
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "What promise?" 
 
 "Don't pretend you've forgotten it," Bellamy laughed. 
 "That wouldn't be fair. You remember you told me 
 that if you changed your mind on this subject, you would 
 on another subject as well about Bess and me." 
 
 Bradshaw smiled graciously. 
 
 "You know, my boy," he said. "I am a man of my 
 word. . . . And, anyway," he added, "even if I hadn't 
 changed my mind on the Tenderloin question, I'd want 
 you for a son-in-law." 
 
 He sobered immediately. For a moment he had for- 
 gotten his daughter's running away. 
 
 "Bess is a good girl," he said soberly, "in spite of 
 what she's done. I think she'll be worthy of you. She 
 loves you, too. I have forgiven her; and I want you 
 to know how deeply I appreciate your attitude. I am 
 proud of you. I only hope my own son will always 
 be like you. . . . Go to her now, my boy. I was about 
 to send for her ; but I think she's in the living-room. Go 
 in to her, yourself." 
 
 Bellamy found Elizabeth alone. 
 
 "Are you happy?" he asked her, sitting down beside 
 her. 
 
 "Almost," the girl answered. "Oh! If I had only 
 not gone away! . . . But father was so good and kind 
 to me. ... I am going to try so hard to forget what 
 I did." 
 
 "And I am going to help you to forget it," the man 
 answered, taking her hand. "I have just had a talk with 
 your father. He has changed his mind about a lot of 
 things and about me. He sent me in here to you now. 
 I really think he is glad that I love you the way I do." 
 
 The girl looked away. She was still trying to fight 
 294
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 down her shame, for she could not put from herself 
 the memory of her disgrace. 
 
 Bellamy understood, and drew her to him. 
 
 "Listen, Bess," he began earnestly, "you mustn't be 
 foolish any more. You were only a child when you 
 went away, and no one in the world could blame you 
 for doing it. We are going to put it out of our lives. 
 You mustn't ever think about it, and you mustn't ever 
 imagine that I am going to think about it. If any one 
 was to blame, it was I for having brought him here. 
 I didn't know what a beast he was I thought I could 
 trust him. But he has gone now, and I don't think 
 he'll come back. You must let the memory of him 
 go out of your life just as he has gone out of your 
 life. I shall be very good to you, and we are going 
 to be happy. In a very little while we shall be mar- 
 ried. . . . Now, tell me that you are happy." 
 
 She looked up at him and tried to smile, but, despite 
 her efforts, tears forced themselves to her eyes. 
 
 "I am happy," she managed to say. 
 
 He drew her head to his shoulder. 
 
 "Then, if you are happy," the man whispered in her 
 ear, smiling whimsically, "you mustn't cry. That's no 
 way to be happy. When people are happy, they smile 
 just as I am smiling." 
 
 She raised her head, and touched his cheek with her 
 lip. Then she too smiled through her tears. . . . 
 
 The next evening Paul returned to Edenburg. Elijah 
 Bradshaw met him at the door. Putting his arm around 
 his son, he led him into the library. 
 
 "I wired you that I had forgiven you, my boy," the 
 older man said gently, "and now I want you to hear 
 it from my own lips. That is why I sent for you to 
 
 295
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 come back. I want you to start all over again here with 
 my help. And whenever anything troubles you, I want 
 you to come to me and tell me all about it. Things will 
 be different now I think I'll understand you. I want 
 your confidence." 
 
 "I would always have come to you, father," the young 
 
 man told him, "but I was afraid to. You were always 
 ^^ 
 
 "Go ahead and say it," Elijah Bradshaw put in when 
 the other hesitated. "I was hard and unreasonable, 
 wasn't I ? . . . Well, I am not going to be that way any 
 more." 
 
 "And Ruth?" 
 
 "Do you love her?" his father asked him. 
 
 "I love her very much," the young man said simply. 
 "And you would, too," he added, "if you knew her." 
 
 "I think I Know her better now than I did before," 
 the older man said. 
 
 "You T iave met her?" 
 
 "No, but I have been told about her." 
 
 "You mean the new woman here in the house told 
 you?" Paul looked at his father, puzzled. 
 
 The other nodded. 
 
 "Who is this woman, father?" the son asked. "There's 
 something strange about her. She is so different from 
 any of the other servants." 
 
 Bradshaw did not answer. He put his hand on his 
 son's shoulder. "Go to your mother, now," he said. "Be 
 very good to her. She has been ill. Thank God, she is 
 better now. She will be glad to see you." 
 
 The young man turned to leave the room, but his 
 mother stood in the doorway, smiling with a new hap- 
 piness. 
 
 296
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 "My son! My son!" she cried, gathering him in her 
 arms. "I was afraid you weren't coming back." 
 
 There was something in her words that actualised 
 Bradshaw's suspicions that his wife had not believed 
 him when he had explained why Paul was going away. 
 
 That night, after dinner, Bradshaw sat alone in his 
 study. Bellamy had come to the house, and was sit- 
 ting with Elizabeth by the open fire in the living-room. 
 Martha Bradshaw was resting in her room, and her son 
 sat close beside her. 
 
 Bradshaw had felt the need of being alone, and had 
 gone to his study. He wanted to think over the miracu- 
 lous events of the last few weeks. A great peace and 
 contentment had entered his soul. There was a smile 
 of happiness about his firm lips. 
 
 He smoked a while in silence. There was only one 
 dim light glowing in the room. 
 
 Some one entered and drew near to him. He looked 
 up, and there stood the Woman. She wore the long 
 cloak in which she had first appeared to him. The hood 
 was pulled over her hair. 
 
 Before the man could speak, she said: "I am going 
 now. My task is done." 
 
 "You are going?" He became suddenly aware of his 
 great need for her. "You mustn't go." 
 
 "Yes," returned the Woman quietly. "I must leave 
 you now. It is time. Your wife has recovered. Your 
 son is home again. Your own daughter has come back 
 to you." 
 
 "My own daughter!" exclaimed the man. "But you, 
 too, are my daughter!" 
 
 "No," said the Woman, "I am not your daughter." 
 
 Bradshaw arose, dumfoundtd. 
 
 297
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 "You are not my daughter!" 
 
 The Woman shook her head. 
 
 "Then you deceived me!" 
 
 "I never told you I was your daughter," she replied. 
 "You, yourself, said it. It was yoiv conscience that 
 spoke." 
 
 The man looked at her, dazed. 
 
 "I don't understand. My punishment seems greater 
 than I deserved, for I have grown to love you ; and now 
 you say you must leave me. My heart goes out to others 
 who suffer as I have suffered." 
 
 "That is why my task is done," the Woman answered. 
 "When you stood there last night and spoke His words, 
 I knew that I need stay no longer." 
 
 "But I want you to stay," Bradshaw persisted. 
 
 "I have no choice," the other returned, moving away 
 from him. "I only obey. I have my work to do." 
 
 "Stop!" cried Bradshaw. "If you are not my daugh- 
 ter, who are you ? You come into my house like a thief 
 in the night, and you bring with you a curse, a curse 
 that has sent me through Hell. And now you say your 
 work is done, that you must go. ... Tell me, why did 
 you come here?" 
 
 The Woman looked at him resolutely. 
 
 "I came here to reach your heart and to humble your 
 pride. I came here, not to teach you that you should 
 condone sin, but to awaken you to a sense of your 
 own un worthiness to sit in judgment on your fellow- 
 creatures. I came here to prove to you that our mis- 
 fortunes are not always of our own making." 
 
 The man sank back in his chair. 
 
 "And you have taught me that lesson well," he said. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 298
 
 In a Mysterious Way 
 
 Then Bradshaw suddenly drew himself up. 
 
 "But you have not explained to me who you are," 
 he said sternly. 
 
 He arose and, going to the Woman, put both his hands 
 on her shoulders. 
 
 "Before you go," he commanded her, "before you pass 
 that door, you shall tell me who you are." 
 
 The Woman drew herself up and raised her head. A 
 divine light shone in her eyes, as if her face had been 
 illumined by some supernatural power. 
 
 "Listen," she said, and her clear voice filled the room 
 with its resonant richness: 
 
 "I am the eternal Magdalene, made immortal by the 
 touch of His hand, two thousand years ago. When they 
 that would have stoned me turned sullenly away, He 
 raised me up, saying: 'Woman, I appoint thee My mes- 
 senger. Go thou down the centuries and bear witness 
 to this that thou hast seen. In every clime and in every 
 season thou wilt find those who have sinned as thou 
 has sinned. Stand between them and their persecutors 
 as I have stood between thee and thine. And upbraid 
 them not, for are they not all children of the same Fa- 
 ther? There are among my disciples those who will 
 preach of many things, but to you I entrust this text, 
 "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a 
 stone at her." : And He departed and I stood as one 
 transfixed, gazing after Him. And my brow burned 
 from His touch, and through my veins flowed blood that 
 had been cleansed as by fire." 
 
 When she had finished speaking, Bradshaw dropped 
 down in a chair at his desk, and covered his face with 
 his hands. He had been awed by the vision of the 
 Woman, and her words had penetrated to the innermost 
 
 299
 
 The Eternal Magdalene 
 
 depths of his consciousness. He was inspired by a rev- 
 erence which he had never before felt. He had hid his 
 face, as from something too holy to be desecrated by 
 mortal eyes. 
 
 After a time he took his hands away, and glanced 
 again out into the room. 
 
 The Woman was no longer there. 
 
 He sprang to his feet and called to her, but no one 
 answered. He went to the front door and, opening 
 it, looked into the cold, starry night. 
 
 The street was empty. 
 
 THE END 
 
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