THE CHAMELEON
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 By 
 
 James Weber Linn 
 
 Author of The Second Generation 
 
 ALDI 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 McCujRE, PHILLIPS & Co. 
 1903
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY 
 McCLUKE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
 
 Published, February, 1903, R
 
 To my two friends, with whom 
 I have so often swapped aspirations, 
 
 JQott flint, 
 STosep!) jfftars&all jflint, 
 
 I dedicate this book 
 
 2136762
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. BRADFORD 3 
 
 II. BRADFORD READS His LETTER ... 26 
 
 III. A LITTLE SINGING 44 
 
 IV. AFTER THE WRECK 63 
 
 V. SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS .... 78 
 
 VI. THE PRESIDENT AND AMY .... 96 
 
 VII. ENTER CLARGES 120 
 
 VIII. THE RULES OF THE GAME . . . .146 
 
 IX. TEN MILLION AND A GIRL . . . .168 
 
 X. PILGRIMS IN BROWN 192 
 
 XI. TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY . . . .213 
 
 XII. AMY is WARNED 223 
 
 XIII. A GIRL AND TEN MILLION .... 234 
 
 XIV. THE AWAKENING OF AMY .... 254 
 
 [vii]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. MAKRIAGE 274 
 
 XVI. AND AFTER 296 
 
 XVII. DRIFTING 314 
 
 XVIII. MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT . . .328 
 
 XIX. THE INEVITABLE 358 
 
 XX. THE RECTOR SPEAKS 382 
 
 XXI. THE ROAD Our . 406 
 
 [viii]
 
 THE CHAMELEON
 
 Chapter One 
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 Though there were a good many passengers on the 
 Pullman, Francis Bradford had mentally labelled 
 them all uninteresting. At first, two young fel- 
 lows, travelling with a mandolin-case and five hand- 
 satchels, had attracted him for a moment. Their 
 rough and knowingly shapeless garments rendered 
 superfluous the information conveyed by the labels, 
 "Hotel Cecil, London," "King's Arms, Cam- 
 bridge," and the rest so artfully disposed upon the 
 suit-case of one. Surely they were college men. 
 Bradford watched them because he could not de- 
 cide whether they were of Harvard or Yale; but 
 later, as he passed their section, he glimpsed the 
 hose one of them wore, and knew immediately that 
 both his guesses had been wild ; the boys were from 
 Princeton. He saw, too, another label, informing 
 the world that the owner of that suit-case was a 
 member of some freshman team ; but that, too, was 
 [3]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 redundant information to such as perceived the 
 striped hose. When he had catalogued the two, so 
 to speak, Bradford lost interest in the Princeton- 
 ians, save as he reflected cynically on the unparal- 
 leled haughtiness of red-cheeked youth which has 
 nothing to boast of except that it goes to college 
 and possesses fathers who have sold a million hogs, 
 or ten million packages of tobacco, or a hundred 
 million tenpenny nails, as the case may be. In 
 his leisurely survey of the car Bradford also 
 passed over the woman with the freckled little girl, 
 praying only that the child would not become 
 troublesome. Opposite the small potentiality of 
 discomfort sat an old woman in a black gown, orna- 
 mented by fringes of tubular jet beads. The 
 small child was attracted to these beads, and was at 
 length allowed to pass them through her fingers, 
 an occupation which seemed to fulfil her highest 
 dreams of enjoyment. Bradford was well aware 
 that the owner of the beads permitted this liberty 
 as a substitute for a more formal introduction ; and 
 presently, as he expected, the freckled little girl's 
 mother was drawn into conversation. While they 
 discussed the obvious stupidity, futility, and igno- 
 [4]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 bility of physicians, pointing out with a responsive 
 alternation cases in which they had known the doc- 
 tors to fail of success or to be over-greedy for op- 
 eration, Bradford listened with a superior amuse- 
 ment ; but as they launched upon the tamer if wider 
 waters of infantile ailments, he lost interest once 
 more, and yawned out of the window. 
 
 Very little rewarded his gaze there, either. Pos- 
 sibly an eye keen for scenic distinctions might, even 
 from a flying express on a wobbly and underbal- 
 lasted railway, note the points which individualize 
 a landscape and differentiate the smoothness of 
 Ohio from the flatness of Illinois, the dulness of In- 
 diana from the monotony of Iowa ; but Bradford's 
 eye, quick as it was for humanity, closed to snoring 
 slumber upon Nature alone. Away and away fold- 
 ed the low ridges, green with grass, brown with 
 stubble, or yellowed with the heavy oats; over and 
 over recurred the white farmhouse, the red barns, 
 the gaunt old windmill like a grimly protecting 
 skeleton towering above all that remarkable 
 group which typifies, in its endless reappearance, 
 throughout the whole Middle West, the monotonous 
 comfort and prosperous dulness of the " bulwark of 
 [5]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 the American nation," the well-to-do farmer. 
 Neither the bulwark nor his environs amused Brad- 
 ford, who was quite ready to turn back to the car 
 when he heard the rustle of a gown along the aisle. 
 A girl was passing. 
 
 It is as easy for us to say we like this and hate 
 that as it is difficult to give any adequate reason. 
 In this truth, no doubt, lies the financial salvation 
 of the critics of all kinds, for we read their works 
 to find out why we think as we do. Bradford, of 
 course, could not whirl round like a top ; therefore 
 he saw, not the girl's face, but only her hair and 
 the strong, young outline of her figure, and the 
 gray travelling-gown she was wearing ; yet, though 
 the combination was nothing unique or new to him, 
 he was sure at once that he liked it immensely. 
 She went on out of the car, which disappointed him 
 a good deal, until he reflected that he would see 
 her in the dining-car in a few minutes. He went 
 thither among the first, and dallied over his cinder- 
 speckled dainties (which he conceived of as repre- 
 senting geological epochs, from the Pliocene can- 
 teloupe to the coffee of the glacial period), until 
 the waiter despaired of two tips from his seat, and 
 [6]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 could only hope the one would be a large one ; but 
 still she did not come in, and Bradford had to go 
 out without seeing her again, a circumstance which 
 annoyed him so much he almost forgot to tip the 
 waiter at all. He walked very slowly back through 
 the aisle, as, indeed, the swaying train made it im- 
 perative for him to do, looking carefully about in 
 his eagerness to see whether or not her face really 
 matched the ideal he had composed of her, but still 
 she evaded him in some way. He knew that they 
 had stopped a short time before, but the town had 
 been merely a speck, a water- tank town, a town 
 printed in small letters on the largest maps, and to 
 Bradford it was inconceivable that a girl with such 
 a carriage and such a gown could be willing even to 
 hesitate there. He felt irritated, and even a little 
 defrauded. 
 
 Some time later in the evening, keeping his bal- 
 ance with difficulty as the car increasingly rocked, 
 he went forward into the smoking-compartment. It 
 was then about nine o'clock, and the train was due 
 to reach Carfax in twelve hours more ; nine in the 
 morning, unless one of the not infrequent delays of 
 the C. & A. occurred, would see them in the old city
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 where he expected to live. He had a letter to read 
 a letter about which he had been speculating for 
 a good many years; a letter which was likely to 
 prove deeply personal, and from a woman whose 
 opinion, when she was alive, he cared more about 
 than any other person's in the world from his 
 mother. To-night, on this rattling, slinging train, 
 among total strangers, was the time appointed for 
 its perusal " the night," as she said, " before he 
 began the practice of his profession." He found 
 three men sitting talking in the smoking-compart- 
 ment, and, as he had gone there especially to be 
 alone, he decided to wait until they went away. 
 He was going to receive a message from a past 
 which his life could never duplicate, and he wished 
 to receive it by himself. Although the delay made 
 him frown a little, he was not unready to endure it ; 
 partly because he wanted instinctively to put his 
 letter off till the last possible moment, as he liked 
 to put off most things which threatened to be at all 
 disagreeable. He was keenly curious, but he had 
 an uncomfortable sensation that possibly his moth- 
 er's message might be severe. She had been an odd 
 woman, his little mother. 
 
 [ 8]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 Moreover, he was not disinclined to listen to one 
 of these three men a man whose strong, smiling, 
 plebeian face he had half -recognized in the din- 
 ing-car an hour or two before. After a while he 
 had said to his waiter, " Who is that big man with 
 the spotted vest, Charley? Do you know his 
 name?" "That genel'man, seh? " replied the 
 waiter, adjusting the spoons that he might lower 
 his tone to the confidential, " yes, seh ; that's Mis- 
 teh Murdoch, seh, the pickle-makeh." Bradford 
 had known at once whence his vague half-recog- 
 nition sprang from; he had recollected at once 
 those lithographed billboards wherefrom that same 
 strong, smiling, plebeian face, pictured in three 
 colors, greeted the public of every city in the 
 United States every day. Bradford had seen those 
 lithographs in New York from the windows of the 
 cab which took him from the steamboat pier; he 
 had paced the depot platform in Philadelphia, and 
 beheld through a vista of iron arches a street at 
 the end decorated by the same design; in Carfax, 
 the actual home of " Misteh Murdoch, the pickle- 
 makeh," no doubt but they would be legion. Now 
 in the smoker he noted once more, with an amused 
 [9]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 flick of his eyelids, the wide expanse of Murdoch's 
 dark-green, crimson-spotted waistcoat, so wide and 
 so crimson that it reminded him irresistibly of the 
 fields of poppies he had just left in France. Just 
 because Murdoch was so huge a man the other de- 
 tails of his appearance were noticeable, too. He 
 was tall, and he was bulky; still, he was not 
 paunchy ; if the line from his shoulder to his hips 
 did not angle in, at least it was perpendicular. The 
 short neck promised a big head, and there it was, 
 big as Daniel Webster's. Altogether, Murdoch 
 completely filled the eye of a casual observer, 
 though Bradford knew well enough that an artist's 
 glance would never hesitate on such a comfortably 
 common figure. The man, like his lithographs, 
 had been done in the primary colors. 
 
 " We are told," said one of the other men, who 
 was staring aimlessly into the darkness, pressing 
 against the window, " that as soon as we have 
 reached a land where the ground is flat and the 
 people are not, we may know we have come to the 
 West? Is that your opinion, sir? " 
 
 The pickle-maker laughed. " Well, not alto- 
 gether," he said. " We've got some hills, and 
 [10]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 some fools even in the West. But I reckon they've 
 both got New England ancestry, maybe." He 
 laughed again, joyfully. He had a rich slow- 
 ness of speech which could not be called a drawl 
 because he clipped off the ends of his words so 
 sharply. 
 
 " The door-yard of the universe," said the other 
 man, meditatively, still gazing out of the window. 
 " Good name for this section. When I make the 
 transcontinental jump, I feel as if I was in the 
 door-yard until I pass Omaha." 
 
 " And yet Omaha is a long way from Boston, 
 too eh, professor? " 
 
 The window-gazer turned lazily about. He was 
 smoking a cigarette. He wore a dark beard, cut 
 to a point, and possessed the thin cheeks and large 
 nose which suggest cynicism. 
 
 " So I am to be classed as a professor ? " 
 
 Murdoch nodded imperturbably. The third man 
 winked at Bradford. 
 
 " Of what, sir? You know there are professors 
 and professors, now. Am I a professor of pres- 
 tidigitation, of saltation, or of the genus ton- 
 sorialae? "
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " About that," remarked the pickle-maker, cau- 
 tiously, " I wouldn't undertake to say. But I'll 
 bet you that I can tell one kind of a professor that 
 you're not, and that is " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " What the old ladies call a professor of relig- 
 ion." 
 
 The man who had winked now slapped his leg. 
 " He's got you sized, Bates," he declared. " He 
 certainly has you under glass." He knocked the 
 ashes of his cigar to the carpet, and scattered them 
 neatly with his toe. 
 
 " Did you say you were bound for California? " 
 asked Murdoch. The man addressed as Bates 
 nodded. 
 
 " How do you like California? " 
 
 He meditated without apparent enthusiasm. 
 " So-so. I've been there only once. When I com- 
 pared it to Boston I seemed to find some advan- 
 tages, and then some disadvantages. Did you ever 
 hear the story of the sinner who was being urged 
 to reform, after a beautiful purple life? They 
 gave him the hot hereafter pretty straight, and 
 when they finished he hesitated; then he said, 
 [12]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 * Well, parson, though heaven's got the climate, 
 after all, you know, hell's got the company.' " 
 
 " I'd hate to tell that story either in Boston or 
 in California," said the third man. 
 
 " I'd hate to tell it in Boston, anyhow," assented 
 Murdoch, recovering from his laughter. " But 
 now you let me tell you, gentlemen " he leaned 
 forward and tapped the professorial knee with a 
 ponderous but prepossessing forefinger " you let 
 me tell you that the State of California is destined 
 to become the State of the Union ; the State of the 
 Union or pretty near. You take those orange 
 groves and lemon groves, and solid miles and miles 
 of walnuts, and grapes counties full of grapes, 
 ' tangling themselves in their own rich tendrils,' as 
 the poet says and then do you think you've got it 
 all? You take their gold mines and their silver 
 mines and their jewel mines their mountains of 
 hematite, and mountains of copper, and mountains 
 of the Lord knows what that's valuable " 
 
 " Mountains of brass," murmured Bates. 
 
 " Eh? I didn't catch it. Well, then do you 
 think you've got it all? You take their wheat like 
 the Dakotas, and their barley like Ohio, and their 
 [13]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 oats like Iowa, and then do you think you've got it 
 all? You take their fisheries, and their factories, 
 and then do you think you've got it all? No, 
 sir!" 
 
 " When may we expect to get it all? " politely 
 inquired he of the whiskers. 
 
 " When you go north ! " replied the pickle- 
 maker, unexpectedly. " When you go north, up 
 among the mountains, where the trees grow ; where 
 the trees grow that are unequalled anywhere now 
 the pines, the straightest-backed, cleanest-hearted, 
 honestest trees anywhere on God's green earth to- 
 day." 
 
 " California man, I presume? " suggested Bates. 
 But Murdoch shook his head. 
 
 " No. I belong here in Carfax. It's just the 
 thought of those pines that sets me off. I believe 
 a man who would cut one of those pines unneces- 
 sarily would kill his mother; I really do." The 
 pickle-maker's eyes glowed with enthusiasm. 
 
 " What a set of potential matricides there must 
 be in this country, on that showing ! " 
 
 " You're down on the lumbermen, hey ? " 
 
 " Well, no, I'm not ; I'm not at all," answered
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 Murdoch. " If we've got to have the timber, why, 
 somebody's got to cut it. But I'm glad I don't 
 have to. I'll tell you something. Up here in the 
 north a ways I've got a house cost me ten thou- 
 sand to put up; right spang in the heart of a 
 grove of pines little fellows enough, compared to 
 those California giants but anyway, I only cut 
 down four trees to make room for that house; I 
 dodged the rest, and saved every one of 'em. Now, 
 what do you think of that? " 
 
 " Stone house? " 
 
 " No ; it's wood." He caught his questioner's 
 eye, and laughed. " But, as I say, the sin ain't on 
 my conscience, and if I'd cut any more of my pines 
 than I had to it would have been." 
 
 Presently, after some desultory conversation, the 
 professor, if such he were, and his friend rose to 
 go to bed, only to be dropped back upon their 
 seats as the train shot round a curve. 
 
 " It's early, gentlemen." 
 
 " It will be late enough before I get to sleep," 
 answered Bates. " Morpheus never travels on the 
 Carfax and Albans Railroad, I have observed." 
 
 " / go by it for the exercise I get," said his 
 [15]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 friend, clutching at the wall. " I find it keeps 
 down my fat. Good-night, boys." 
 
 Bradford had taken no part in the conversation ; 
 and now that they were left alone the big man 
 sprawled his big body silently over the seat, while 
 Bradford watched him unobserved. He seemed not 
 more than forty years of age. His face, though 
 it was full and smooth, was not mottled by high 
 living, and the heavy lips under his dark mustache 
 were cleanly cut. At some inward flash of remi- 
 niscence they curved into a smile, and then the 
 large brown eyes, as steady and honest as a St. 
 Bernard's, carried so agreeable a light that Brad- 
 ford smiled in turn. Suddenly the big man looked 
 down, and saw him. 
 
 " Well, young man," he said, abruptly, " life 
 going pretty well, eh? " 
 
 " Pretty well, Mr. Murdoch," replied Bradford, 
 amiably. He pronounced the man's name in the 
 expectation that it would surprise him a trifle; 
 Bradford liked to do the slightly unexpected. He 
 was not disappointed. Murdoch looked at him with 
 a sharper interest. 
 
 " You know me, do you? " 
 [16]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 " Homo Americanus sum," observed Bradford. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 Bradford risked an impertinence. " Well, sir, I 
 can read." 
 
 "Read?" 
 
 " The billboards." 
 
 Murdoch broke into his deep laughter. " Ho ! 
 ho ! " he chuckled. " So you see the billboards, 
 eh? Knew me from the pictures, eh? You ain't 
 the first, young man, nor you won't be the last. 
 Who's the best-known woman in the United States 
 to-day? Who's the woman, if she was to step 
 out on a railroad platform, every man, woman, and 
 child within sight would recognize her? The 
 President's wife ? Not she. I'll tell you who it's 
 Lydia Pinkham. Lydia leads; the rest nowhere. 
 That's advertising. Well, do you know what I set 
 out to do, when I had those pictures of me printed ? 
 I said to myself, I'm going to be as well known as 
 Lydia Pinkham! And the time's coming on 
 eh?" 
 
 " I believe you, Mr. Murdoch." 
 
 " I went to a dozen photographers, gave 'em 
 each a dozen poses, and then picked out the one 
 [17]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 nearest like me, and had it printed horns, hoofs, 
 and all. I don't wonder you knew me. I wonder 
 more people don't." 
 
 " I didn't see the lithographs in Europe ? " 
 
 " You will next year. They haven't been out 
 very long. You just back from Europe? " 
 
 " Just back." 
 
 " Well, I've never been over. That might sur- 
 prise you somewhat? I know all the corners of 
 America, but Europe I haven't got round to, yet. 
 I've been cultivating nature so much I've rather 
 crowded out art, so far. But it's a grief to me ' 
 a real grief." 
 
 "Ah?" 
 
 " Yes," said Murdoch, comfortably, " I want to 
 get across and see all those countries Italy, you 
 know, and France, and all the rest Spain, and 
 what not. America is a wonderful nation the 
 most wonderful, of course; but they do have cer- 
 tain matters we haven't got, and sha'n't have for a 
 while yet. Art, I was just speaking of painting, 
 you understand, and sculpture, and architecture. 
 We're moving on ; but speaking in an artistic 
 sense we haven't arrived yet." 
 [18]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 " You are an adherent of art, sir ?** 
 
 "I? Every time. You know my business, of 
 course, if you've seen my pictures. I make pickles 
 just pickles. All kinds of pickles big and lit- 
 tle, chowchow, relishes, dill, watermelon, chutney, 
 everything. You wouldn't suppose that gave a 
 man much opportunity to do art a friendly turn, 
 would you? I didn't think so, either, for a long 
 time; and the fact is, till I got on my feet, I 
 wasn't so much anxious to help art as to help my- 
 self." He chuckled again. " But one day, a while 
 ago, a man came to me, and he had a suggestion. 
 He proposed that he should pick me out a little bit 
 from Shakespeare to illustrate each sort of pickle; 
 we'd have it printed on the cans, underneath a 
 picture of his house at Stratford, and call the 
 whole thing the Shakespeare Brand. I saw at 
 once what a scheme it was, and gave him carte 
 blanche to find the mottoes, which he did. Now 
 we have one from King Henry V. on the baked 
 beans 'I eat and eat, I swear ' that one I al- 
 ways laughed at." He laughed now. " Then there 
 is ' Manna in the way of starved people,' that's 
 from the Merchant of Venice; it's on the water- 
 [19]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 melon pickles. And we have ' The strength of 
 twenty men ' on the mustard Romeo and Juliet, 
 that is. You wouldn't think a scrap of poetry like 
 that would do any good, eh? And yet I've had 
 letters from all over the country all over the 
 country commending that idea, and thanking me 
 for it." 
 
 " And the Shakespeare brand sells ? " 
 " Sells very well. But that isn't all. I try to 
 make my advertising artistic, too. There's a field 
 for art in advertising, eh? At least a man can 
 keep all that's coarse and vulgar out of it, can't 
 he? I tell you, I'm friendly to art do you know 
 why? " He moved a little closer. " To my mind, 
 there are places and people and sounds in America 
 that are grander and deeper and sweeter than any- 
 where else in the world. It isn't only in keenness 
 and sharpness that America leads ; we've got higher 
 possibilities over here, in all ways. Only, we've 
 found out how to express our keenness and sharp- 
 ness, through trade and commerce, do you see? 
 All the rest is here, too, but we can't express it 
 yet. Say, young man, have you ever seen those 
 mountain meadows in Colorado green as sea- 
 [20]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 water, and springing right from among them 
 snow-white cliffs hundreds and thousands of feet 
 high? Have you ever seen the deserts in the 
 southwest so big and raw and terrifying I 
 never see 'em without thinking ,of the earth as God 
 made it and before he turned the water on ? Have 
 you ever stood among those pines I was just talk- 
 ing of, and watched 'em till you felt yourself 
 getting smaller and smaller, and honester and hon- 
 ester, till finally there was no more of you, seemed 
 like, than a pin-head, but it was clean stuff all 
 through, anyway? I have. And I've thought 
 well, I guess there's nothing like this anywhere else 
 but in America ; and it won't be long till the man 
 comes along with his brush or his piano or his pen 
 who can set it all down in paint and paper and 
 music, so that there won't be anything in art like 
 that, either. And when he comes America will 
 lead the world in all ways, as she ought to, and 
 John Murdoch is going to do all he can to bring 
 it about. Well that's why I'm friendly to art." 
 His big brown eyes kindled, and he spoke with the 
 eagerness and confidence of a child. 
 
 " I am sure you are," consented Bradford. He
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 perceived, without a too open smile, the pickle- 
 maker's eagerness, and his colossal ignorance of 
 the artistic problem which confronted America. 
 He wondered what Murdoch would say if some- 
 one should tap him on the shoulder, and tell him, 
 " My dear fellow, you and your cursed lithographs 
 you are so proud of you, and the kind of men 
 you represent are doing more to lower the stand- 
 ards of America in art and literature than even 
 the daily newspapers are. You might publish fifty 
 thousand dietetic epigrams from Shakespeare, and 
 if the great bard learns of it he will only turn 
 in his grave. You are prostituting art, Mr. Mur- 
 doch; you have turned the poor lady to harlotry, 
 and she is dying by inches, like other harlots." 
 Bradford himself was conscious of a strong desire 
 to make these or similar observations, not because 
 he resented this utilization of Shakespeare, but be- 
 cause it would be amusing, to say the least. But he 
 restrained himself. 
 
 " Going far ? " asked Murdoch. 
 
 " No. I'm going to live in Carfax." 
 
 " So ? Do you know the place ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I went to college there." 
 [22]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 " I was an eighty-blank man." 
 
 " At Carfax ? I know, sir." Bradford nodded. 
 " I was only ten years after you, sir." 
 
 " Going into business? " 
 
 " In a way. The lamb and the law are to try 
 lying together, I believe." The whim seized him, 
 and he pulled out his card-case, extracting one of 
 his new cards. The pickle-maker glanced at it. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Bradford, 
 especially as we're both Carfax men. I won't say 
 I've heard of you before, though I've no doubt if 
 I'd had more time to get down to the old college 
 when you were there I should have done so. But 
 I'm sure I'll hear of you again." 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " Of course, since you were to be a lawyer you 
 naturally went to college," went on Murdoch. 
 " But what I wish is, that I could fix it so every 
 young man worth his salt would go, whether he 
 wants to be a minister or a manufacturer. Now 
 you take me. College needed four years, right out 
 of the best part of my life. I never intended to 
 be a professor, or a learned man of any sort just 
 a business man. I mowed lawns and tended fur- 
 [23]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 naces to get through. Suppose I had spent those 
 four years in business ? Maybe I should have suc- 
 ceeded sooner. I can't tell; but anyway, I'd have 
 lost something that I wouldn't sell now, any more 
 than I'd sell my word, and that is, the conscious- 
 ness of being educated ! " 
 
 " It is a great privilege," assented Bradford. 
 
 " You'll never know how great until you reach 
 my age. Fourteen years I've been working since 
 then, and I've made Carfax what she should have 
 been long before the centre of the pickle business 
 in the United States. But I want to tell you one 
 thing : the opportunities ain't all gone. Any other 
 young man, if he's got energy, and believes that 
 when you see a chance then is the time to take it, 
 and when you don't see it then is the time to make 
 it, can succeed just as well as I have. They'll tell 
 you the law is overcrowded, for instance. Shucks ! 
 You ask a man digging a sewer what he thinks 
 about the trade, and ten to one he'll tell you there 
 are too many sewer-diggers. All professions are 
 overcrowded; the world's overcrowded, unless you 
 get in and shove. What do you suppose God gave 
 you elbows for? You remember one thing his 
 [24]
 
 BRADFORD 
 
 profession don't make or break the man; it's the 
 men who make or break a profession." 
 
 The reeling car swung him forcibly against the 
 window, and he swore a little. " Next time I'll 
 put my elbow through it," he said. He looked at 
 his watch. " Well, I'll say good-night, Mr. Brad- 
 field. I must go forward and look after my 
 women folks. You say you live in Carfax? Like 
 to have you call round at the factory some time; 
 it's really worth going over." 
 
 " Bradford," murmured the owner of that name 
 gently. Then, at last, he was left alone with his 
 letter. 
 
 [25]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 He sat some time with the letter in his hand, hesi- 
 tating. The superscription told him that now 
 was the time to open it. " To my son. To be 
 opened on the day before he begins the practice 
 of his profession." That was the curious way in 
 which the address ran curiously reminiscent, in 
 its quaint particularity, of the mother who had 
 died five years before. He was at college then. 
 They sent for him to come home, and on the jour- 
 ney he counted the minutes one by one so many, 
 so many, so very many, the long night, the end- 
 less day ! and, at last, in the long afternoon, he 
 had reached the little prairie city in which she 
 lived. The minister met him at the door. That of 
 all men it must be that minister, with his subdued, 
 come-let-us-be-cheerful-at-all-hazards air, and the 
 dull snuffle in his voice ! Bradford took his offered 
 [26]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 hand mechanically, conscious in his preoccupation 
 that the sleeve had a speck of egg on the end of 
 it. " My mother ? " he asked, breathlessly, taken 
 out of himself at the moment. " My boy," the 
 minister had said, " this is a vain world, a world 
 
 of shadows " " My mother? " Bradford had 
 
 interrupted intensely. " Sorrow comes to us all," 
 went on the minister, monotonously, " and we 
 
 must bear it with what fortitude we " " Curse 
 
 you and your fortitude ! " broke in Bradford. His 
 voice was wavering, thrilling; the suspense was 
 tearing the heart out of him, yet he knew it was 
 not suspense, either, but certainty that lay con- 
 cealed behind the man's even, dull consolation. 
 Bradford had not eaten since the afternoon be- 
 fore. " Is my mother dead ? " The shocked min- 
 ister nodded feebly ; Bradford's hands dropped at 
 his side. 
 
 He recalled his thoughts with a start, and smiled 
 cynically. It had not really happened so. His 
 entrance to the house had borne no such touch of 
 fervor. The minister had told him simply and at 
 once. Yet Bradford had loved his mother, and so 
 to find her dead, cut off from him forever, to speak 
 [27]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 to him no more, to kiss him no more, to love him 
 no more such a homecoming he could not forget. 
 It had been dull in the event, but the latent pos- 
 sibility of drama was there. Bradford had merely 
 imagined what might have been. 
 
 " To be opened on the day before he begins the 
 practice of his profession." They had always 
 known that he was to be a lawyer. After she went 
 away he had continued in the idea; finished his 
 college course, finished his law course, taken his 
 year abroad, and now was come back, to enter 
 upon the practice of his profession. He did not 
 contemplate the future with that sinking of the 
 heart which besets so many young lawyers. Brad- 
 ford professed disbelief in his own cleverness, but 
 the chorus of voices about him which chanted it 
 and called his attention to it had ended by fasten- 
 ing belief upon him unaware, and even against 
 his judgment. He admitted to himself that he 
 would probably succeed. He would not achieve 
 the raw, huge, unworked success of such crude fel- 
 lows as Murdoch, but he would get along. He in- 
 tended to make his life a smaller, finer thing, cut 
 and set as a jewel should be, and in proportion far 
 [28]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 more valuable than the big ugly masses of clay 
 and carbon which the world was always finding on 
 hill-sides and triumphantly holding up for dia- 
 monds. Such a man as Murdoch was remarkable, 
 no doubt, but how unfortunately rough ! As Brad- 
 ford remembered Murdoch's phrase about " the 
 consciousness of being an educated man " he 
 laughed quietly the laugh which he had courteously 
 repressed before the man himself. The pickle- 
 maker's ideas of art were Patagonian ; yet he sub- 
 limely believed himself an educated man ! 
 
 He recalled those tremendous lithographs, plas- 
 tering the bare walls and the billboards which 
 between them successfully hid any chance pictu- 
 resqueness Carfax might otherwise have had. 
 When Bradford had first seen the lithographed 
 picture he had thought, as he had thought to-night 
 at the sight of the man in the flesh, this Murdoch 
 would be a good sort to clash a stein with. There 
 was something taking in the width between the 
 eyes, the solidity of the chin, and the upward twist 
 at the corner of the mouth a kind of aggressive 
 good-humor and powerful joviality, which slaps 
 you on the back with amazing heartiness, and is 
 [29]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 not at all bad when found in certain wide spaces 
 of life. But one would hardly care to live with 
 such a man, Bradford thought, shudderingly, and 
 began to imagine the family Mrs. Murdoch, 
 thin-chested, but bearing the honors of the pickle- 
 making business with a querulous dignity ; a 
 woman to blush and cry, " Oh, husband ! " when 
 the cheerful John was too obscene in his humor, 
 but a woman to boast, in every ring and thread of 
 lace she wore, of the wealth which immensely to 
 her surprise had come upon her. There would be 
 children, and yet more children Mrs. Murdoch 
 would get her thin chest from the constant bear- 
 ing of them; she would be always in an Empire 
 gown. And these children would be what? The 
 typical American brats, no doubt, loud-voiced, 
 French in their impudence if their nurse were 
 French, Irish if she were Irish, but rampantly im- 
 pudent and American through either veneer, al- 
 ways ready to show off and to interrupt as he 
 himself had been, thought Bradford with a reminis- 
 cent shiver and intrusive as young pigs. Les 
 Americains nouveaux riches grandfatherless ! 
 With minute carefulness he clipped the end 
 [30]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 from his letter, so that the thread of paper curled 
 up and followed the knife-blade. His eyes fol- 
 lowed the curl, but his thoughts were far back in 
 the past again. After all, then, he remembered bit- 
 terly, he had reached home too late. When he saw 
 her that day, his mother's eyes were shut upon 
 him. Her last words had been for others. But 
 when they gave him this letter he knew at least 
 that her last thoughts had been of him. That was 
 five, nearly six years ago now. It was strange, 
 this word of his mother's coming to him, unheard 
 by anyone else across the spaces of six years. 
 This, which he was about to read, she had left him 
 for a little piece of herself. What had she chosen 
 to say to him counsel, denunciation, revelation, 
 or perhaps praise? 
 
 " You are going to begin your life to-morrow ; 
 I am leaving mine behind me to-day. Francis, will 
 it help you to know that you were a good son to 
 me ? " If his mother should say that ! His heart 
 was warm within him at the thought. That mes- 
 sage would nerve a man for life, would it not? 
 Had he been a good son to her? At least he felt 
 that he had not been evil. He did not pray for 
 [31]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 forgetf ulness of what he had done ; but then, there 
 was the other half of the petition: had he left 
 anything undone? The answer was not so ready 
 this time. Yet he was sure that he had been, on 
 the whole, a good son, and his heart leaped up 
 when he remembered how he loved his mother. She 
 had married so early in life that there were only 
 twenty years between her and her son ; yet her hair 
 was snow-white when she died, and even earlier he 
 could recall it in the firelight, when she used to sit 
 in her chair with him at her knees, his head in her 
 lap, while she stroked his head and told him 
 stories of his father, who had died when Francis 
 was quite a little boy. The light brought out the 
 gentleness of her face as she talked. How he loved 
 his mother ! Surely she could not be about to scold 
 him now ! Slowly he took out the letter and began 
 to read. 
 
 " My dearest, as I write you are far away from 
 me, but when you read this you will be how much 
 farther! I am going to die. Just how soon I do 
 not know, but I think very soon. We shall not 
 often see each other again, I am afraid " had 
 they ever seen each other, Bradford wondered, 
 [32]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 after she wrote that ? " and even if we should, I 
 have something to tell you which I do not wish to 
 tell you while I am alive. Just now it will do you 
 no good, possibly even harm, and it would cause 
 you suffering. Yet you ought some time to know. 
 So I am writing this, which you will not see until 
 I am gone, and you are ready to begin your work 
 in life. 
 
 " You are going to be a lawyer, and I hope you 
 will be, not necessarily a great one, but a good one. 
 I know that the life is hard at first, but you will 
 have it made easier for you than many have, 
 easier indeed than your life is now while I am 
 alive, for the two thousand dollars a year which I 
 have remaining will of course go to you. I am 
 glad, dearest, that you are not going to endure 
 hardships, and yet I am not altogether sure some- 
 times that to escape hardships is wisest for any of 
 us. If this money, which will come in so steadily 
 without your troubling yourself about it, should 
 make you less energetic, less ambitious, less eager 
 in your pursuit of the very best that is to be got 
 out of life, I should feel no, I will say I shall 
 feel, for I know that I shall be permitted to watch 
 [33]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you I do not care how happy heaven may be, I 
 shall feel unhappy ; I shall feel sorry that you did 
 not have actual necessity to force you forward. I 
 am not afraid that you will do anything to make 
 me unhappy, any more than you have ever done; 
 but sometimes, dear, I am a little afraid that you 
 will not care enough about doing something to 
 make me glad. 
 
 " And now I must tell you what no one else 
 knows, and not even you should know if it were 
 not that I hope it may help you a little as well as 
 pain you. I have begun to write you this many 
 times, but I have always stopped when I came to 
 this point, for it seems to me as if I could not go 
 on, and yet as if I must. It is about your father. 
 
 " You did not know that your father was not a 
 happy man. You were too young when he died 
 to remember him well, and he was so careful before 
 you and all the world not to show exactly what he 
 thought that you would perhaps not have guessed 
 at his unhappiness even if you had been older. 
 But I knew it, of course. And I knew, too, what 
 no one else on earth suspects no one till you read 
 this. Your father I must tell you bluntly, or I 
 [34]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 cannot tell you at all he was not drowned by ac- 
 cident, as they have always thought. He killed 
 himself, and he did it because he feared that he 
 was going insane. 
 
 " I have told you very often how he and three 
 of his friends went out in a little yacht on Lake 
 Onondaga. The wind was strong, but nothing 
 dangerous. As the boat turned the boom swung 
 round, knocking your father overboard, as they all 
 thought. They thought he must have been 
 stunned. They did not see him come to the sur- 
 face, and in any case none of them could swim. 
 So they lost him. Later his body was found, and 
 though it was thought surprising that there were 
 no bruises on his forehead, they concluded that he 
 must have been hurt in some fashion. No one ever 
 hinted at suicide. He was popular and he was not 
 poor, and he was thought to be very happy. Yes, 
 they none of them dreamed of intention except me. 
 I was as certain, when they brought me the news 
 of his death, that he had killed himself as cer- 
 tain as I was next morning, when I had the letter 
 he himself had posted before he left the shore. 
 
 " His planning of it was deliberate and very like 
 [35]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 him. He had been very careful for us you and 
 me and for all his relations; he had taken every 
 precaution which would make death certain and 
 yet apparently quite accidental. When he organ- 
 ized the party he asked only men whom he knew 
 could not swim. He gave one of them the tiller, 
 took the position he had planned to take, and 
 waited, and when the minute came he went to his 
 death as quietly as if he had been going to sleep. 
 But, for all his care, he wanted me to know 
 nobody else but me. Till now no one else has ever 
 known. When the mail brought me the letter in 
 the morning I was so sure, even before I opened it, 
 what he had written, that I might have burned it 
 without reading it, and still I should have known 
 all I know now. I knew your father, dear, you see. 
 
 " Do you wonder, Francis, why I am telling this 
 to you now? So much as I have already written 
 you had a right to know. This much, after all, I 
 never hesitated to tell you. It is what remains to 
 tell that hurts me so. But I have prayed how I 
 have prayed! and I seem to be doing right. 
 I know that it is hard enough to do. 
 
 " I have been Mrs. Bradford so long now, and 
 [36]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 since your father died I have grown so close to 
 him, that it is hard for me to realize that once I 
 meant to leave him. But it is true. I was not 
 happy with him ; I do not think that any woman 
 could have been happy with him. Dear, if you 
 think my unhappiness was all my own fault, you 
 will hurt me very much. I know that in many little 
 things I was quite, quite wrong, but I always loved 
 your father very much, even when I meant to leave 
 him. And I did not nag him. I was tactful. No, 
 I cannot reproach myself. He was not happy, but 
 he made his own unhappiness, and some day he will 
 tell you so, too. 
 
 " I find it very difficult to explain to you why he 
 made us both unhappy, and yet I must, for to tell 
 you this, and to warn you, is my only reason for 
 writing to you now. For sometimes, as you have 
 grown older, I have feared, good as you are to me, 
 that you might inherit a little of your father's 
 weakness ; and then I have thought that at any cost 
 when you were old enough I would tell you what 
 that weakness was. 
 
 " You know that your father was not very suc- 
 cessful in the businesses he undertook, and that 
 [37]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 finally he retired from them all and lived upon the 
 rest of the money which he had inherited, joined 
 to mine. It was not a very great deal at the be- 
 ginning, but of course it became smaller and 
 smaller, until when your father died they found 
 only enough to settle this two thousand dollars a 
 year upon us. It was rather a surprise to the 
 world, but it has been enough for us, and it will 
 be enough for you till you are able to earn more. 
 Your father's lack of success did not come from 
 indolence, and I haven't any fear of indolence in 
 you. One of the delusions which beset him was 
 the fear that he was a coward, but that was not 
 true, either. Many times, it is true, he shirked do- 
 ing what he might have done, and many times 
 oh, so many times that toward the end of his life 
 he was hardly able to do otherwise, he did one of 
 the most cowardly things in the world he told 
 what was not the truth. Yet it was not cowardly, 
 exactly, as he did it. But it was the knowledge 
 that he was doing it which terrified him and 
 hounded him, until at last he felt that he could 
 stand it no longer, and he went away. 
 
 " There were two things that never let him rest. 
 [38]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 He always wondered what people were thinking 
 about him, and he always hoped they were prais- 
 ing him. They are little things, and in many peo- 
 ple they may honestly do good, but they were so 
 developed in your father that they did him great 
 harm. He could not do the simplest thing in 
 any company, but especially in the company of 
 strangers, without being fully conscious of their 
 attitude toward him; and in great things he was 
 just as conscious. When he asked me to marry 
 him we were at a dance; we were sitting out, and 
 there was some girl near us whom neither of us 
 knew. Your father told me long afterward, one 
 day when he was in one of his self-reproachful 
 moods, that at the time he was asking me he was 
 wondering whether that girl guessed what he was 
 talking of, from the expression in his eyes, and he 
 smiled to deceive her, though he wished at the 
 same time that she could hear him. The story may 
 have been true, or he may just have been seeking 
 some striking way of expressing his detestation of 
 his own insincerity. I cannot tell. But of course 
 it was this insincerity which made us both un- 
 happy. When one is really insincere, what is there 
 [39]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 left in life? I do not mean that your father was 
 either hypocritical or malicious. He was always 
 gentle-natured. But he was never real. He did 
 what seemed to him dramatically right to do, and 
 his intuition was so true and fine that nearly every- 
 one approved of everything he did. I think that 
 he might have made a great actor. Some men, he 
 used to tell me, saw through the veil he hung up, 
 but no woman ever did except myself, and he said 
 that was because almost all women were afflicted 
 with the same fault. It may be so, but I do not 
 think so. 
 
 " Well, dear, in the end he tired of everything, 
 you see. Of course one tires of everything, of 
 every emotion, unless it is real. If it is not a part 
 of him, if he can stand on one side and look at it 
 and estimate it, he must tire of it some time. And 
 nothing was ever real with your father. Nothing 
 ever came so close to him that he could not watch 
 it and balance the meaning of it. Once, a little 
 while after you were born, I was very ill. Your 
 father was very sorry for me, but I saw that he 
 was thinking, too, how he ought to act and what 
 he ought to do. He did the right things always, 
 [40]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 but not because he could not help it, only because 
 he saw they were the right things to do. I began 
 to wonder and watch then. It was a great pity 
 that I ever guessed. If I could have been kept 
 from seeing we might have turned our lives very 
 differently. Yet I am not sure. The worst is, I 
 am not sure of anything about him. I am not sure 
 that he loved me. I am not even sure that, with 
 all his careful planning, he wanted to die. He 
 must have been really in earnest he must have 
 been, he must have been! He couldn't have 
 thought of anything then, except that we were 
 estranged, and life meant nothing more to him. 
 Yet if he did not care for anything but death, why 
 did he write me at the last? Why did he not leave 
 me to think it was accident? I should not have 
 thought so, but I should have been able to hope 
 so. It is terrible to write so. I do it only that you 
 may see how much I care about what I am going 
 to tell you now. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, be honest with your- 
 self ! Don't speak, or act, or think for any effect 
 upon anyone else! If you sacrifice your reputa- 
 tion, if you sacrifice a friendship, still keep true to 
 [41]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 yourself. Dear boy, is it foolish to tell you this? 
 I know that it is needless ; I know that you will be 
 genuine and sincere. This is only my heart's cry 
 to let you know what my sorrow would be if you 
 were not. For I love you, dear. Aimee Curtis 
 Bradford." 
 
 He shuffled the sheets together mechanically and 
 replaced them in the envelope. " To my son. To 
 be opened on the evening before he enters upon 
 the practice of his profession." The handwriting, 
 with its firm, fine delicacy, was very like the little 
 mother, whose eyes especially he remembered 
 eyes which looked so clearly out upon the world. 
 This, then, was why she had been so uncompromis- 
 ing with the people about them and with him. 
 This was the source of her reputation for severity 
 and hardness. She insisted upon exact justice at 
 any cost. She had shut herself away from him 
 for three days once when he told her a little lie. 
 He had repeated an experience of his in school, and 
 a clever thing he had said. There had really been 
 a foundation for his story, only he had misstated 
 a little to make it sound better. He winced still 
 at the scorn in her eyes when she found him out. 
 [42]
 
 BRADFORD READS HIS LETTER 
 
 " It takes courage to lie boldly," she said ; " but 
 any coward can twist the truth a little." How 
 often he had thought of that since then! And 
 this was her reason. His eyes dewed over as he re- 
 membered her, and he dashed his hand across them. 
 " At least one thing about me was genuine my 
 love for her," he thought, proudly. " Anyone 
 could see that." 
 
 As he looked at his watch it was five minutes to 
 one, and he rose, meaning to think the letter over 
 in his berth. There was a sudden upbending of 
 the seat on which he sat. " Something wrong ! " 
 flashed through his mind, so quickly that it pre- 
 ceded the grinding roar, the smashing, tossing 
 lurches, the rapid dislocating series of jolts, which 
 told him what the trouble was. He was shaken to 
 the floor, and dug his nails into it. The cover of 
 the ice-water stand struck him and bruised his face. 
 The lights, which had hitherto endured, now shot 
 suddenly out. There was a crash, and a choking 
 stream of cold water deluged him as the stand fol- 
 lowed the cover. Then, by a final twist and heave, 
 Bradford was thrown violently against the side 
 opposite to the window, lay an instant conscious of 
 stillness, fell and fell endlessly into oblivion. 
 [43]
 
 Chapter Three 
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 The instant that he recovered knowledge and 
 scrambled to his feet every square inch of his body 
 seemed alive with nerves sharply acute, so that he 
 could feel and hear and even smell more keenly 
 than ever before. The car, though it was at rest, 
 quivered under him; a very faint shrill snarl of 
 steam pierced to his ear-drums, and he knew that 
 somewhere the pipes were twisted off. He fancied 
 the pungent odor of it in his nostrils. A quick 
 vision of flame bursting out past him, of red 
 tongues flicking closer and closer, swam so vividly 
 before his eyes that he shut them involuntarily in 
 the darkness. A scream the first human sound he 
 had heard from somewhere in the car drove them 
 open with a wedge, and spurred every fibre of him 
 to escape. The flames were not in the compart- 
 ment, as he saw, looking fearfully around, yet it 
 [44]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 was not so black as he had remembered it. He 
 looked up. The car was so turned that the win- 
 dow slanted toward the sky, and there, round as 
 the bull's-eye of a target, the moon, was shining in 
 at him. He tried the door, but the wrenching had 
 jammed it in some way, so that it would not open. 
 He lifted the broken water-cooler, and with all his 
 strength slammed it against the window, so that 
 both panes broke outward and fell with a clatter, 
 leaving ragged edges of heavy glass all around. 
 Bradford hammered feverishly at them with his 
 clumsy tool until most of them were beaten away. 
 Then he sprang and clutched the lower side and 
 drew himself up. Slivers of glass remaining 
 slashed his hands, tore his clothes, caught at him 
 everywhere, but he paid no attention to them. The 
 inward vision of those flying flames was hurrying 
 him forward as automatically as a machine. . It was 
 easy for him, out of training though he was, to 
 pull his slim body through the opening, to jerk his 
 long legs after him, to slide down the steep angle 
 of the car. He lighted upon his feet, and the 
 danger for him was over. 
 
 This is what he saw. On one side of him, 
 [45]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 dropping away, sloped a gully bank, at an angle 
 of forty-five degrees, to a little stream choked with 
 bushes, where the water gurgled in the moonlight, 
 and shot distorted images of her silvery roundness 
 back to him. Beyond the creek rose another bank, 
 but not bare and gravelly, as this was; all dark 
 and gloomy, rather, with underbrush and trees. 
 Because Bradford had landed facing all this he 
 saw it peaceful and lonely and quite unterrify- 
 ing. Then he turned. The wheels of the Pullman 
 stuck out helplessly before him. Farther forward 
 another car also lay upon its side, nose pointed 
 downward. They were pathetically like struggling 
 animals which had fallen and could not rise again. 
 Still farther on, at the foot of the slope, the 
 stream was crammed with debris piled, box-like 
 masses of wood and iron, here huddled shapelessly, 
 and there flinging out a gesticulatory timber or an 
 iron rod, silhouetted insanely against the pale gray 
 of the sky. Every detail was tossed to him with 
 a relentless clearness. And, as he looked, the ter- 
 rible loneliness of mystery and fear enthralled 
 him. Not a human being was in his sight. He 
 guessed that he had fainted, but he had no way of 
 [46]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 telling for how long ; it seemed to him wholly pos- 
 sible that it might have been for hours, and again 
 the visions assailed him visions of all the men and 
 women he had passed among and listened to and 
 wondered over, so short a while ago, now all lying 
 crumpled and dead in this heap of ruins. He 
 sweated so that his eyes filled, and he pulled his 
 sleeve across them to clear them. When he looked 
 again the wreck was alive with people, bleeding 
 and crying and crawling toward him. 
 
 But it was only one man. As he came closer 
 Bradford saw that it was the conductor of the 
 Pullman. One of his arms hung limp. Bradford 
 ran a step or two toward him. " My God ! My 
 God ! " he cried, involuntarily. " You've broken 
 your arm ! You've broken your arm ! " The crip- 
 pled limb fascinated his eyes. 
 
 " Have you got a match ? " asked the con- 
 ductor. 
 
 Bradford stared at him in wonderment. Yet he 
 thought, stupidly, if this was a dream one question 
 was as sensible as another. 
 
 The conductor's voice went up an octave, and 
 broke into a scream. " Got any matches, you of 
 [47]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 careless parentage? you unfortunate, predestined, 
 unmentionably qualified fool? Quick, can't you? 
 Do you think this is a sky-rocketted, roman-can- 
 dled, powder-magazined Sunday-school picnic? " 
 Bradford, still in a daze, felt mechanically in his 
 pocket and found his match-safe, which he drew 
 out and offered to the conductor. But the latter 
 motioned it back. 
 
 " Can you run? I can't; my leg's to the bad." 
 
 Bradford shook himself all over, tentatively. 
 " I think I'm all right ; I can run." 
 
 " Then run like hell, will you ? Get down the 
 track a quarter-mile and build a fire between the 
 rails. God knows what we'll have on top of this 
 mess next. Eleven is due in thirty minutes. Watch 
 the fire, and when you see a headlight stand be- 
 tween it and the fire and wave at 'em so." 
 
 Bradford began to run, in a daze, away from 
 the wreck. When he had gone a hundred yards he 
 stopped irresolutely. The thought struck him that 
 he ought to go back and try to get some of those 
 women out. That was the least a man could do. 
 The girl in the gray dress ! She, too, was in that 
 hopeless welter! As, with her, the passengers lost 
 [48]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 their vagueness of outline, and became individual 
 Murdoch, and Bates the college professor, and 
 the woman with the little freckled daughter, and 
 the two boys from Princeton, and the old lady with 
 the grudge against the physicians he looked un- 
 steadily back. A light two lights were moving 
 about the wreck now. He groaned and ran on. 
 When he judged that he had gone a quarter of a 
 mile into the darkness he collected leaves and twigs 
 and set fire to them. The road followed the gully 
 backward, so there was plenty of brush. Pres- 
 ently he had the flames leaping and glowing red 
 up and down the rails. The glare was like blood, 
 and it acted on him curiously, suggesting what he 
 feared to see when he went back, so that he turned 
 very sick. But he worked on, staring all the time 
 down the glimmering path for the coming of the 
 headlight, half dreading it and half hoping for it, 
 as knights of old waited and watched for the eye 
 of the dragon they had to fight. Still the light did 
 not come, and presently a brakeman with a lantern 
 relieved him. 
 
 "How is it back there?" asked Bradford, 
 eagerly. 
 
 [49]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Bad," answered the brakeman, curtly. " You 
 go back ; maybe they can use you, if you got your 
 head with you. Most of 'em ain't." 
 
 So Bradford ran back. First he looked at his 
 watch, wondering if it were not nearly morning, 
 but it was only half-past one. Less than an hour 
 ago he had been quietly reading his letter. He re- 
 called that in a daze, it seemed so long since then. 
 
 The moon, almost down, showed him a very dif- 
 ferent scene when he turned the curve which had 
 thrown them off. The gully below, the bank above, 
 and the wreck itself were swarming with figures, 
 thick and restless as ants. Here a small man, clad 
 only in the upper half of a night-shirt, was aim- 
 lessly running to and fro, crying inarticulately. 
 His bare feet were bleeding, but it was not pain 
 which ailed him. A woman wrapped in a blanket 
 sat, a triangle of misery, upon the ridge of one 
 of the cars, whither she had climbed, and rocked 
 to and fro moaning. Two men chopped away the 
 sides of each car, searching for someone possibly 
 still prisoned there. But the crowd was forward, 
 near the water, where the engine, the baggage and 
 mail-cars, and the day-coach had gone down to- 
 [50]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 gether in inextricable destruction. Snapping their 
 couplings, they had plunged right down forty feet 
 to the bottom of the ravine. There was the raw 
 force of the accident. There the three doctors 
 were busy. There, as he hastened forward, Brad- 
 ford could see Murdoch, stripped to his shoes and 
 trousers, the enormous chest of him heaving and 
 sweating and straining; now he was lifting at an 
 improvised lever, now encouraging some poor fel- 
 low underneath, now directing the efforts of a vol- 
 unteer gang which worked at the other end of the 
 car; never stopping, never wasting a motion, ex- 
 haling confidence from his mere mass and strength. 
 Bradford stopped a second, terrified yet fasci- 
 nated, as he had been at the first glimpse of the 
 conductor's broken arm, where the doctors were 
 doing their work. A voice at his elbow, inde- 
 scribably piercing, altogether inhuman, smote on 
 his strained ears, and he jumped around. The man 
 in the torn night-shirt had followed him, and now 
 laid a shaking hand upon his arm. 
 
 " I never believed in a hell ! " he cried, shrilly. 
 " I never believed in it ! " He stared at the doctors 
 with frightened, unreasoning eyes the eyes of a 
 [51]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 wild animal in terror. Suddenly he flung up his 
 hands. " I never believed in it ! " he repeated, in- 
 sistently. 
 
 The doctor nearest Bradford turned. " Hold 
 him," he said, sharply, and Bradford, though his 
 flesh crept, seized the man in both arms in spite of 
 his struggles. The doctor caught the man's little 
 finger in both hands and wrenched it backward 
 once. The sharp snap of a breaking bone fol- 
 lowed. The man cried out in agony, but the shock 
 had recalled his wits, and it was the cry of a man 
 in pain, no longer a brute only. Bradford shiv- 
 ered so that he lost his hold upon him, and the man 
 in the night-shirt, nursing his broken finger, 
 stumbled away quietly. The doctor watched him 
 a moment. " I thought that would do it," he said, 
 in a satisfied fashion, and turned again to his 
 work. Bradford said nothing. He wondered 
 blankly of the girl in gray had she still been on 
 the train? Where was she now, and in what 
 plight? There was no way for him to look for 
 her. None of his thoughts were clear, though his 
 senses remained almost preternaturally fine. 
 
 The hurly-burly continued, till the moon had 
 [52]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 slipped down the sky the crash of axes and the 
 ripping of wood, the oaths of those who worked 
 and the moans of those who waited; the plash, in 
 every silent second, of the water where it strug- 
 gled by its sudden barriers. Bradford, in a dream, 
 all the intellect of him vanished, sat and saw and 
 heard it all. When the others noticed him they 
 thought him hurt, perhaps, or even out of his 
 senses for the time. But every tiny fraction of his 
 emotional being was keenly alive. His nerves an- 
 swered to every stroke of the axe, and every cry 
 was like a call to him while he sat helpless and 
 staring. An Irishman from the day-coach, who 
 had gone to sleep drunk, and with the luck of 
 drunken men come out from that hell of tangled 
 cars unscratched, strode unsteadily by, singing: 
 
 " An? the garmints that he wure, 
 They was not at all befure, 
 An 1 rather liss than half 'uv that behind." 
 
 Thus he warbled. " Bedad, 'tis thrue uv me- 
 silf ! " He craned his neck backward earnestly 
 to contemplate the damage he had sustained in the 
 rear, and one of the doctors laughed. Bradford, 
 taking his cue, unconsciously threw back his head, 
 [53]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 too, and laughed laughed at great length, un- 
 musically, loudly, till the doctor cried sternly, 
 " Here, stop that ! " Bradford's laughter ceased 
 as suddenly as water turned off at the tap, and he 
 fell to wondering who had laughed. And then, 
 when he was rapidly nearing the border of the land 
 whither the man with the torn night-shirt had 
 wandered, a question, flung out to anyone, pierced 
 through to his understanding. 
 
 " Can't somebody sing? God above, men, sing 
 something ! " The voice was resonant and com- 
 manding; there was nothing despairing or queru- 
 lous about it. Bradford knew it for Murdoch's. 
 He jumped up as if some spring within him had 
 been pressed. 
 
 " Why, I can sing," he said aloud. He waited 
 for a moment, and then, without premeditation, en- 
 tered upon the first bars of " Mandalay." But his 
 voice was not quite at his bidding, and wavered. 
 
 " Shut up that d d cheeping ! " shouted one 
 
 of the axe-swingers near him, and Bradford paused 
 obediently. But a moment later he heard Murdoch 
 cry out in hearty encouragement, " Go on sing ! " 
 and he called himself together and sang. 
 [54]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 Bradford could sing. There had been mo- 
 ments, in the old days, when the diapason of his 
 bass went rolling and rolling through the hall, 
 and women leaned forward and men held their 
 breath to miss no note of it; when he found their 
 hearts and played upon them, till their eyes were 
 bright and wet by turns, and the little concert of 
 the college Glee Club was transported out of the 
 realm of comedy into the country of Song. There 
 had been a time when the president's wife, after 
 they lost their little girl, had come up to him very 
 quietly and said, with a break in her voice, " Thank 
 you, Mr. Bradford," and he had stammered, for 
 once at a loss for words, " Why, we all loved her, 
 Mrs. Craven; we couldn't help it," and she had 
 answered simply, " I knew that from your sing- 
 ing ; it is that that comforts me." There had been 
 a time when the team won in the face of what 
 seemed sure defeat, and at the celebration after- 
 ward they put Frankie Bradford up on a barrel 
 beside the bonfire, and he gave them their trium- 
 phal marching-song, till they rocked the sky with 
 their cheering, and drowned the verses, and 
 snatched him from the barrel and charioted him 
 [55]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 about on their shoulders with the captain of the 
 eleven, shouting that never, no never, no never, 
 till the sun grew old and the stars grew cold, 
 should the fame of Frankie Bradford die. But as 
 Bradford stood there on that torn gullyside, with 
 the moon down now, while the axes fell and the 
 shouting died away, he felt that he had never sung 
 before. This, this was living to pour himself 
 out, while all around him listened and were soothed 
 and comforted ! He sang them all the songs he 
 knew, grave and gay, quick and slow, the marches 
 and the lullabies, cradle-songs and serenades. And 
 then he turned to hymns. He blessed the days 
 when he had sung in the college choir. He gave 
 them now the odd old melodies that are the echoes 
 of our childhood to us all if they are doggerel, 
 why, childhood is bathos, then the dear old melo- 
 dies which confute so wholly, so serenely the ma- 
 terialism and paganism and agnosticism and isms 
 one and all which we have learned to turn to in 
 these latter reasoning days. He gave them " Rock 
 of Ages," " Nearer, my God, to Thee," " Jesus, 
 Lover of my Soul," " Shall We Gather at the 
 River " ; he sang on, the steady, strong, compel- 
 [56]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 ling undertone to all the wild ugly noises of that 
 night of terror. And at last came the wrecking- 
 train, with the reporters and the doctors so runs 
 the order of rescue nowadays and the work was 
 taken out of the hands of the volunteers. 
 
 So many were hurt that it was quite impossible 
 for all the men to find places in the car. Murdoch 
 and some of the others volunteered to walk down 
 the track four miles to the little town, whence one 
 of the train crew had telegraphed for help. Mur- 
 doch, now wrapped in a blanket, came up and 
 shook hands with Bradford. 
 
 " I never saw a better gang of men than this," 
 he said ; " but you are worth a dozen of us. By 
 the Lord Harry, if it isn't the young fellow in the 
 smoker ! " He shook hands again. " What's your 
 name Bradford, ain't it? I've got my niece back 
 here no, she's not hurt a particle, not even 
 scared, she says she wanted me to thank you for 
 your singing. Won't you come back and let me 
 introduce you, eh? " 
 
 Bradford was shaken, now that the glow was 
 gone, and he was only one unnoticed among the 
 others. The size and calm of the pickle-maker 
 [57]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 grated upon his nerves. There were dead and 
 dying people all around them ; in the name of God, 
 was this a time for introductions? 
 
 " I I'm afraid I don't feel quite up to it," he 
 said. " I'm well, I'm rather shaky, you know." 
 
 " Not hurt much? " 
 
 " No, not hurt. But shaky." 
 
 Murdoch smiled contentedly. " I understand. 
 We've all been on the stretch, and now we're let go, 
 so we're crumpled just like a string, that's all." 
 
 Some one touched Bradford's arm. 
 
 " I am the correspondent for the Carfax Mer- 
 cury. Do any of you gentlemen happen to know 
 the name of the man who was singing just now 
 cheering on the work of rescue, and that sort of 
 thing? " 
 
 " No," said Bradford, curtly. He felt amuse- 
 ment in the man's tone, and it jarred on him. 
 
 " I know it ! " said Murdoch, turning back. He 
 laid his hand on Bradford's shoulder. " This is 
 your man, and unless you give him a good send-off 
 you'll settle with me. His name is Bradford. I 
 had his card a while ago, but I've left that and my 
 other valuables in the care of the Carfax and Al- 
 [58]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 bans Railroad." He pointed back to the tumbled 
 cars. " But I think I'll not need it to remember 
 him by. Whenever I begin to forget his name 
 I'll just think of him halloing there in the moon- 
 light like a d d pipe-organ, and the rest of us 
 
 rested just to hear him. He was worth a dozen of 
 any of us." 
 
 " Say twenty," observed the whiskered Bates. 
 He was badly cut over the eye, but appeared to 
 ignore the fact. " Can you oblige me, sir, since 
 you have your information, with a cigarette? I 
 fear that mine are crushed. Moreover, I never 
 carry any in my pajamas, which is an oversight 
 when one travels on the Carfax and Albans Rail- 
 way." 
 
 The correspondent felt in his pocket eagerly. 
 " I'm awfully sorry, but I haven't got one, sir. 
 What did you say your name was ? " he asked 
 Bradford. 
 
 " Francis Howell Bradford." He felt odd to be 
 giving it so, and yet not unpleased, either. " I 
 have some cigarettes here, by the way." He passed 
 out his box, and they fell upon it. 
 
 " Did I say you were worth twenty of us ? " 
 [59]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 mourned Bates. " Pardon me ; I meant a hun- 
 dred." 
 
 " I make it two ! " cried somebody else, gayly. 
 Somehow their banter lightened the situation for 
 Bradford and lessened the tension of his nerves; 
 he became completely at his ease again. He an- 
 swered the reporter's questions readily and care- 
 lessly. When they had all given their names, and 
 spoken as they felt inclined, they felt better. 
 
 " I woke up on my head," said the man with the 
 professor, " and the first thing I thought of was 
 that it served me right for travelling on the Car- 
 fax and Albans." 
 
 Then they set forward up the track. They had 
 witnessed blood and death, and just missed the clip 
 of the final shears, but they were Americans, and 
 so the past was past. Half of them were bare- 
 footed, and some wore nothing but a blanket. 
 Only one man beside Bradford was fully dressed. 
 With them trudged the little man with the broken 
 finger; he was now entirely recovered from his 
 madness, and cherished his hurt tenderly. 
 
 " I don't know how I came to break that ! M he 
 repeated, in a troubled fashion. " No, gentlemen, 
 [60]
 
 A LITTLE SINGING 
 
 I don't know how I came to do that at all." Brad- 
 ford laughed finally. " / know," he said, and told 
 them. He told the story dramatically and well, 
 adding a little color here and there; they all lis- 
 tened, and stared at the little man all except 
 Bates, who looked at Bradford instead, and puffed 
 away on his cigarette. " You don't say ! " was the 
 little man's only comment. He had picked up 
 somewhere a blanket and a straw hat, and con- 
 fronted the coming dawn, a comical figure. But 
 somehow the humor of it lessened as one saw the 
 trouble in his eyes. " You don't say ! " he whis- 
 pered under his breath, and looked himself over 
 curiously. No doubt he wondered where he had 
 been in those few minutes. No wonder the prob- 
 lem puzzled him. 
 
 The walk was long. The dark east grew 
 streaked and then rosy before they ended it. When 
 they reached the village of Hoopsboro, their desti- 
 nation, Murdoch took command. 
 
 " We want a drink first and then some clothes." 
 
 Early as it was, half the town was up to greet 
 
 them, and an excess of guides piloted the whole 
 
 company to the only saloon in the town a grimy 
 
 [61]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 building, half hotel, half bar. Many of the bu- 
 colic inhabitants crowded staring in behind. With 
 their glasses before them, Murdoch made them all a 
 little speech. 
 
 " Boys, we're safely out of a bad hole. But 
 there's a lot back there still as good as we are, 
 not so fortunate, that's all. We did all we could 
 for them ; we needn't reproach ourselves. Still, it's 
 a sorrowful time for many a man and woman. 
 There's only one toast we can drink now, boys ; I'd 
 say drink it hats off, but I see we're all of us bare- 
 headed, anyway. It's pity for those who are 
 gone, and gratitude to God, who pulled us 
 through." His big, strong voice was reverent. 
 They drank silently. 
 
 Murdoch wiped his lips. " Now," he said, " for 
 some clothes." 
 
 [62]
 
 AFTER THE WEECK 
 
 The little freckled girl, whom Bradford had prayed 
 might not become a nuisance ere the journey's 
 end, would prove no annoyance to anyone again. 
 Her mother sat tearless in one of the coaches, while 
 the old lady who denied the utility of physicians 
 tried feebly to comfort her. The two Princetoni- 
 ans turned out to be much like other boys, ready 
 with sympathy a little touched by awe. Tragedy, 
 sweeping into the lives of all of them, brushed 
 away the little affectations one constructs with so 
 much care, and left each man or woman as he was 
 weak or strong, silly or sensible, callous or loving. 
 Some joked, some swore, some wept, some worked. 
 They had the papers at a little junction whither 
 they had crawled by noon, and there learned first 
 the full force of the accident, and the names of 
 [63]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 their fellow-passengers who had so abruptly been 
 hurried upon a longer journey than they meant 
 to take. There were fourteen dead in the two 
 mournful cars ahead; there were forty-two hurt. 
 But of those in the Pullman, only the little freckled 
 girl had been killed. Bradford saw, in one 
 glimpse, the girl whom he had noticed and won- 
 dered over the afternoon before. So she had not 
 left the train, he speculated. He still wondered 
 who she was, but the shock of the accident dulled 
 the edge of his wonder. He saw Murdoch go up 
 and speak to her, and she smiled as she answered. 
 He reflected with half a sneer and half a smile 
 that Murdoch had probably spoken to every man, 
 woman, and child on the train. There were few, 
 indeed, whom he had not pressed to drink of the 
 fusel-oil which passed in Hoopsboro for whiskey. 
 He wore a black alpaca coat, of the sort book- 
 keepers affect; a tie of all the colors of the rain- 
 bow garnished his throat. He had led the raid 
 upon the " general store " of Hoopsboro, and these 
 were among the spoils of war. The big pickle- 
 maker put in the morning in exhortation ; " no 
 compromise for injury " was his theme. He of- 
 [64]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 fered to advance money to fight any and all cases, 
 and damned the railroad interminably. 
 
 Rapid events had left Bradford little time to 
 think over his letter. Yet all the time it was in 
 the back of his head; and on the slow journey 
 home he found a spot where he could be alone to 
 consider it. So he fancied ; but he reckoned with- 
 out the pickle-maker, who routed him out, and 
 insisted once more upon shaking hands. 
 
 " If the papers don't give you a send-off that'll 
 keep the town awake," he said, " my name isn't 
 John Murdoch. Have a drink." Bradford de- 
 clined, but was overborne, and drank, shuddering, 
 wishing that Murdoch might be drowned in his own 
 pickle-vats a sentiment which, however, he took 
 some pains to conceal. When the papers came, he 
 discovered that Murdoch had been right. There 
 was the send-off indeed. Like the rest, he hurried 
 through the long accounts to find his own name. 
 He passed over the solemn roll of the dead, with 
 all its scrupulosity and its inaccuracy, and its sad 
 and fatal prophecies " cannot recover " ; " will 
 die." In the florid and spectacular account which 
 followed, he read of himself under the head-line 
 [65]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Singing Amid the Sorrow " ; and editorially, too, 
 he found that he was commented upon. He and 
 Murdoch were singled out for praise. " Nowhere," 
 ran the curious journalese, " as in scenes of suffer- 
 ing and sorrow can we so plainly discern that tie 
 of brotherhood which unites all men, from the emi- 
 grant in the smoker to the aristocrat in the Pull- 
 man. . . . Where all were heroes 
 it would be invidious to praise individuals. Yet 
 the names of some stand out, bright spots even 
 amid the brightness. . . . Francis H. Brad- 
 ford. . . ." There was much more. He read 
 with avidity ; he smiled his superior smile at the 
 frescoed English, but he was immensely pleased. 
 It was while he was perusing the account of his 
 own deeds that he felt a hand on his shoulder, and 
 looking up saw again the beaming face of Mur- 
 doch. 
 
 " Well, they've done well by us, haven't they ? I 
 must have scared that young chap last night 
 when I threatened him with sudden death if he 
 didn't give us three cheers, eh? What do you 
 think of it? " 
 
 " They've made me a tenor, for some reason," 
 [66]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 laughed Bradford. " What a pity a man can't 
 have his name copyrighted, so that the newspapers 
 couldn't print it without his consent." 
 
 " You like people to let you alone, do 
 you? " 
 
 " I won't say that. But I don't care to have a 
 reporter's finger-marks all over my concerns. Does 
 anybody ? " 
 
 " Why not, when it's so much advertisement? 
 Now they play me up in here ; I suppose you no- 
 ticed it. What of it? After all, it's true; I was 
 there, and I pulled a few out. Why shouldn't I 
 have the credit of it? Somebody must toot my 
 horn, if people are to know that I'm around, and 
 when I can get it tooted for me, I don't see why I 
 should object." 
 
 " Neither do I, if you like the tunes they play. 
 Personally, I'd rather make my own music, I 
 think." 
 
 " I saw last night," said Murdoch, reminiscently, 
 " that you hated to give that chap your name. I 
 liked that. It wouldn't sell many pickles, that 
 policy, but I kind of liked it just the same. Oh, 
 don't deny it. You ain't the first man I've met 
 [67]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 who thinks my billboards are too numerous." He 
 chuckled. " Man said to me a few months ago, 
 * What do you stick your face all over the country 
 for? It's not yourself you're trying to sell; it's 
 pickles. Then why don't you advertise pickles ? ' 
 I told him what I tell you it's not only pickles, 
 but my pickles, I want to get rid of. If you know 
 a grocer you'll buy at his store, eh, in preference 
 to another man's that may be just as good, but 
 that you don't know? Well, that's the tack I'm 
 on. People get to know who I am ; then they buy 
 my goods. They're good pickles, but they're no 
 better than any others, I suppose. They're Mur- 
 doch's, that's all, and folks know who Murdoch is. 
 You say you're going to be a lawyer? How do 
 you expect to get started in the law if you don't 
 advertise? " 
 
 " I'll do it in the old fashion," replied Bradford. 
 " I'll hire an office, buy a sign, and put mucilage 
 on the seat of my chair." 
 
 " Do ! " cried Murdoch, contemptuously. " Do, 
 and sit and watch the spiders on your desk. I 
 tell you, my boy, things aren't done that way in 
 this generation. You might as well expect to win
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 a race by wishing. You go on that course, and 
 you'll starve in a year." 
 
 " Then I shall be starving for principle," said 
 Bradford. 
 
 " Bah ! " replied the pickle-maker, and abruptly 
 went away. 
 
 Bradford read again the account of the accident, 
 no more able to resist the fascination of seeing his 
 name in print than anyone else is. We may 
 grumble and grow angry, but we are attentive 
 until we have reached a certain stage of ennui, at 
 which we may be sure we have become really 
 famous. He could not help glancing furtively 
 around, either, to see whether others were also in- 
 terested in his doings. Alas, he discovered that as 
 usual they were intent only upon their own. Yet 
 he could not help hoping that a few two or three 
 one, at least of the lot wondered who he was. 
 If only the girl in gray, instead of Murdoch's 
 niece, had sent him her thanks and wanted to meet 
 him! Or even if he had the serene confidence of 
 the pickle-maker, and could speak to her off-hand, 
 as Murdoch had been doing and, by Heaven, was 
 doing now! Why did he not go and minister to 
 [69]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 the wants of his own angular, thin-chested, red- 
 headed Bradford ran out of epithets relative, 
 whoever and wherever she was, without forcing him- 
 self upon the company of other women? If Brad- 
 ford could have found any pretext, he would have 
 gone up and interfered; but he could think of 
 none, so he sat still, fuming, instead. Presently 
 Murdoch broke off his conversation, and returned 
 again to Bradford's seat. 
 
 " Why don't you get in with a good firm, and 
 begin that way ? " he remarked, as if there had been 
 no break in their conversation. 
 
 " Why not, indeed ? You know the old proverb, 
 Mr. Murdoch * First catch your firm.' ' 
 
 " Don't you know any ? " 
 
 " No, I don't. And you'll pardon me, Mr. 
 Murdoch, if I say that I don't see 
 
 But the pickle-maker waved his hand. 
 
 " Now you're going to ask me what business it 
 is of mine. Why, bless your heart, boy, of course 
 it's my business. We lived pretty fast last night, 
 so we've known each other a long time. We're old 
 friends, you and I. Not but what I like your 
 spirit; I do, by the Lord Harry! I don't believe 
 [70]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 in cackling till I've laid an egg, but by George, 
 you go me one better ; you wouldn't cackle at all, 
 if you had your way. Somebody's got to take 
 care of a man like you, and I swear I'm going to 
 try the job." 
 
 " And suppose I prefer to take care of myself? " 
 
 " You don't know how. Listen here ; do you 
 know Barrett, Barrett and Cooper? " 
 
 " Do I know the Trinity, Mr. Murdoch? I as- 
 sure you I had a religious bringing-up." 
 
 Murdoch laughed. " Barrett, Barrett and 
 Cooper that's what they call 'em, the Father, the 
 Son, and the Other Fellow. You've heard of 'em, 
 eh? Well, what do you think of that firm? 
 How'd you like to go in with them, hey ? " 
 
 " I should like it, of course ; but " 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " They don't know me, you see ; my valuable 
 talents are hid under a bushel, as far as they're 
 concerned." 
 
 " Mine ain't ! They do my law business," said 
 Murdoch, sententiously. 
 
 Now Barrett, Barrett and Cooper are as well 
 known in Carfax as the King of England, or the 
 [71]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 captain of the Carfax College eleven. They are 
 the leading law firm; they are supposed to receive 
 in fees and commissions considerably over two hun- 
 dred thousand dollars a year. Their office, more- 
 over, has for long been known to afford the best 
 training and opportunity a young lawyer can by 
 any means secure. Bradford knew this as well as 
 anyone; and knowing it, he said lightly, 
 
 " Really, Mr. Murdoch, I am glad to hear it ; 
 but your name and mine are pronounced differ- 
 ently, you know. It is quite possible that they 
 may know you without being aware of my exist- 
 ence." 
 
 It amounted to a flippant rejection of Murdoch's 
 implied offer. The moment he had said it Brad- 
 ford was sorry; but only for a moment. The 
 pickle-maker went serenely on. " Yes, but sup- 
 pose I say to Barrett, Barrett and Cooper, ' Here's 
 a young man, Mr. Bradfield ' ' 
 
 " Bradford," insisted the young man. 
 
 " Bradford, I should say. He's going into the 
 
 law. Take him into your office and try him. If 
 
 he's what I think he is, you'll have a good man, 
 
 and he'll have some of John Murdoch's law busi- 
 
 [72]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 ness. If he turns out bad, there's no harm done.' 
 Suppose I say that you wouldn't refuse the job, 
 would you, my independent young friend? " 
 
 " See here, Mr. Murdoch," said Bradford, not 
 knowing whether to be annoyed or amused, " you 
 showed me a minute ago that you didn't even know 
 my name yet. Are you trying to make fun of me ? 
 Because, if you are, I'll laugh. If you're not " 
 
 "Well, if I'm not?" 
 
 " Then I won't laugh." 
 
 " What will you do? " 
 
 " Thank you and tell you it's impossible." 
 
 " And then I'd laugh," said Murdoch. " Why 
 is it impossible? I like your looks; I like your 
 actions; I like your voice. I don't have to have 
 a printed card handed me before I dare say good- 
 morning to a man, do I? You think I'm making 
 a snapshot judgment? Well, I'll tell you. For 
 one thing, you're from Carfax College; that's in 
 your favor. I like the boys from there. For 
 another, you've got a tongue in your head ; and for 
 a third, you know how to keep it there. But the 
 best thing, and the biggest thing, is this ; you don't 
 have to be told what is to be done. Take last 
 [73]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 night, for instance; you were the man who set the 
 signal behind, weren't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, but " 
 
 " But nothing. I thought of it, and then I 
 heard a man had gone back already, so I did some 
 other things that needed to be done. Don't tell 
 me, young man. I don't make mistakes in men; 
 I can't afford it. If you'll take this job with Bar- 
 rett, Barrett and Cooper, you can have it." 
 
 " Fll take it if they offer it to me." 
 
 " Give me your address ; they'll write to you." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " And by the way can't you find time to come 
 around and see me some evening? I'd like mighty 
 well to hear that voice of yours again, and so would 
 Amy. I was too busy last night to get it all, I 
 reckon." 
 
 " I'd be delighted." He wondered what sort of 
 person Amy might be; what sort of company he 
 would be likely to find gathered at Murdoch's man- 
 sion that sort of person always lives in mansions, 
 he reflected. His original portraits of Murdoch's 
 family were now slightly rose-colored, the hue being 
 transferred as his kindliness toward Murdoch in- 
 [74]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 creased. Even the niece, he suspected, might be 
 roughly presentable, now that her uncle had recog- 
 nized so quickly the sterling mark in Bradford's 
 metal. And the pickle-maker's wife began to 
 abate her querulousness ; her thin bosom amplified, 
 her face sweetened, her garments shaped them- 
 selves to a less gorgeous splendor. The incredible 
 offspring grew possible; if there was a little girl, 
 Bradford determined heroically that he would take 
 her in his lap, and tell her the story of the Prin- 
 cess and the Frog. He began to recall the details 
 of this story, many of which he had forgotten; 
 but Murdoch interrupted him by leaving. They 
 had another drink together from Murdoch's flask, 
 and Bradford said something rather witty about 
 the exhaustless cruse of oil " fusel-oil," he ex- 
 plained, under cover of which Murdoch got away 
 without subjecting either of them to what seemed 
 to Bradford the embarrassment of thanks. 
 
 The afternoon drew on, and they were nearing 
 Carfax. They all began to exchange good-bys 
 hearty good-byes, full of meaning, because they 
 had stepped out of the commonplace together. 
 This evening they would go their ways, and most 
 [75]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 of them would never see each other more, yet they 
 would always cherish a subconscious friendliness 
 for those who had come through safely, and a sub- 
 conscious sorrow for those who had not. Many 
 of the passengers, before they left, hunted up 
 Bradford to tell him how much they were indebted 
 for his singing; and he thought them typical, 
 whole-souled, generous-hearted Americans, and 
 liked them all, unless indeed it were Bates, the 
 man with the whiskers. Bates remarked, as they 
 shook hands, 
 
 " I shall always hope for the company of a wan- 
 dering minstrel when I travel on the Carfax and 
 Albans, Mr. Bradford. How does it seem to be a 
 bright spot amid the brightness ? " 
 
 " Reporters are past-masters of the art of em- 
 barrassment, aren't they ? " 
 
 " They are," said Bates. " And the worst of it 
 is, that sometimes they don't mention us at all." 
 
 Then the train drew into Carfax, and among 
 the crowd that pranced in impatience behind the 
 railings, sternly held in check by the gateman, in 
 spite of oaths and adjurations and tears among 
 this mob of relatives, as he phrased it, Bradford 
 [76]
 
 AFTER THE WRECK 
 
 saw Slim and Kate and Shedsy; and when they 
 perceived him they rent the air of the station with 
 their cries. 
 
 " Which is Frankie Bradford, the bright spot? " 
 they demanded. " Yonder is Frankie Bradford, 
 the bright spot." 
 
 " Shut up, you turgid idiots," he muttered. 
 " There are dead people back here. Oh, if I 
 could get to you ! " He was hastening to do so, 
 when he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and turn- 
 ing, saw Murdoch again. 
 
 " Found your friends? " asked the pickle-maker. 
 " I won't detain you ; but I thought I'd like to 
 introduce you to my niece. Amy, this is Mr. 
 Bradford." 
 
 She bowed ; Bradford's head whirled about un- 
 certainly. This the niece he had been avoiding 
 this girl in gray? He stammered, and the crowd 
 swirled them about, and separated them, and he 
 went on to join his friends. 
 
 [77]
 
 Chapter Five 
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 The big arms of Kate went promptly round Brad- 
 ford's neck. In this there was nothing improper; 
 Kate's name in full was Cato Henry Strong, and he 
 had been too unsophisticated when he came up to 
 Carfax College to suppress the first part. Later, 
 when he became an integral part of the football 
 team, the nickname turned to a badge of honor. 
 
 " Dear old boy," he said, softly, " we are glad 
 to see you! And how did you leave the royal 
 family ? " 
 
 Shedsy his name was Edward Baker Barnes on 
 the college books Shedsy seized a free hand and 
 wriggled it up and down energetically. He was a 
 round, stout young man. Women who heard of 
 his popularity among men marvelled, and said, 
 " That Mr. Barnes ! " incredulously. But the 
 men explained vaguely that he fitted. He was the 
 round peg in the round hole, someone once said. 
 [78]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 His friendliness defied analysis. There is a popu- 
 lar belief that the talkative man lacks balance. 
 Quite unconsciously, Shedsy Barnes employed him- 
 self in refuting this theory. He talked so fast he 
 stammered ; the big words tumbled over each other's 
 backs clumsily, like young puppies. 
 
 " Frank, for any sake, come from out this heav- 
 ing multitude before you are recognized," he said. 
 " Our congratulations and our ch-cheerful assur- 
 ances of h-health must all await a more ap-appro- 
 priate moment. The insatiate re-reporters will 
 mangle you limb from limb if you tarry. Come, 
 O Atrides, sons of Olympus ! For heaven's sake, 
 g-get a move on ! " 
 
 Slim said nothing at all, after Slim's slow fash- 
 ion. When he had an opportunity he shook 
 hands, in his own way ; he gave Bradford's fingers 
 one tremendous clutch, looking squarely in his 
 eyes, then dropped them. They tingled after- 
 ward. Women have been known to scream when 
 Slim shook hands with them much to his embar- 
 rassment and fright. He too was round; round 
 and very earnest. Youth was serious business to 
 Slim. 
 
 [79]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Now the impetuosity of Shedsy carried them 
 away. Bradford tried to give a hotel address to 
 the transfer agent, but they laughed at him, and 
 substituted another, away out collegeward. 
 
 " If you fellows think," protested Bradford, 
 " that I am going back to boarding-housing, now 
 that I am a free man " 
 
 Shedsy interrupted. " You are going," he de- 
 clared, with joyful deliberation, " to assist in the 
 formation of the Residuum." 
 
 " AVhat is the Residuum? " 
 
 " It's a new kind of Welsh rabbit," answered 
 Kate, seriously. Shedsy grinned. But when Brad- 
 ford demanded to know more, they hooted at him, 
 and refused to tell him anything. They hurried 
 him across the city, and northward till the houses 
 thinned, and in the east one had a glimpse now 
 and then of the splendid, sullen river rolling on; 
 and north still, till the old wooden buildings, and 
 new stone buildings, and the brick buildings of 
 doubtful age, like independent spinsters who make 
 up in respectability what they lack in beauty till 
 the buildings one and all of Carfax College greet- 
 ed him across the windy, electric-lighted prairies. 
 [80]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 They whisked him round a corner and up a stair 
 and into an apartment. 
 
 " Now while my Lord the Globe-trotter takes 
 his bath and makes himself like one of the 1-lilies of 
 the field, let us see to the p-preparation of a feast 
 meet even for s-such as he." 
 
 " Is this the Residuum? " 
 
 " Hustle, Frank ; we're dying to hear about it 
 all, especially the singing." 
 
 So he went to his bath. But they were too impa- 
 tient to wait, these children of twenty-six or so 
 Kate would take his Ph.D. in less than a year; 
 Shedsy was a " business man," in a bank some- 
 where among the commercial jungles of Carfax; 
 and Slim taught in a girls' school. It was the 
 reaction from the clatter there, said Kate, which 
 made Slim so silent elsewhere. They all came and 
 sat upon the edge of the tub where Bradford re- 
 clined at ease while he rehearsed the story of the 
 wreck. 
 
 " Here was the side of the ravine, you see, 
 
 shelving so, and curving so. The engine left the 
 
 track, and pulled the rest of us after her. I was 
 
 in the last Pullman; both Pullmans turned half 
 
 [81]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 over and then stopped. That left the window in 
 the roof, so to speak. I was all dressed I'd been 
 sitting up and I just climbed through, and there 
 I was, monarch of all I surveyed; not a person 
 could I see, except the woman in the moon she 
 was there, looking as curious as usual. I tell you it 
 was eerie. I thought for a minute of course I 
 was half -crazy, and I just sort of wondered it 
 that all the passengers but me were killed. It 
 made me sick, I think." 
 
 " But what did you think of before you got 
 out, Frank while you were 1-lying there in 
 the smoker? " Shedsy's blue eyes were very 
 eager. 
 
 Bradford hesitated. " Well, I don't know ex- 
 actly. There was a girl I had noticed before a 
 smooth girl, mighty smooth. I think I just won- 
 dered, for a minute, whether she had been hurt or 
 not, and if she could get out." 
 
 Shedsy shot a significant, affectionate look at 
 Kate. " Of course you did ! Most of us would 
 have been wondering which was the quickest way 
 out, I'll bet ; but I said to Kate " 
 
 " Bosh ! " interrupted Bradford, quickly. " You 
 [82]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 would all do just what I did. Now get out of here, 
 or I'll splash the pretty clothes of you." 
 
 " But about the singing? " 
 
 " I'll tell you when I've adorned my beauty." 
 So they went reluctantly out, and Bradford, splash- 
 ing in his tub, carolled lustily. 
 
 " I arise from dreams of thee, in the first sweet 
 sleep Kate? " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " You haven't told me a wofd of anybody." 
 
 "I will, though. Who, for choice?" 
 
 Well how's Ethel Blayne? " 
 
 " She's engaged to Champ." 
 
 "Champ Rogers?" 
 
 " None other." 
 
 " Champ is really engaged ? " 
 
 " 'Tis true, 'tis pity ; pity 'tis, 'tis true." 
 
 " When the winds are breathing low, and the 
 stars are Kate? " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "How's Roger Van?" 
 
 " Roger isn't expected to recover." 
 
 "Wha-at?" 
 
 " True as Gospel, Frank." 
 [83]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " But, Great Scott, Kate why, what's the mat- 
 ter with him ? " 
 
 " Matrimony." 
 
 "Not really?" 
 
 " As thy servant liveth, O King." 
 
 " Battle, murder, and sudden death for poor old 
 Roge! Where the champak's odors blow say, 
 my Katrine ? " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " And is Bob really engaged, as you wrote me, 
 or was that a fake? " 
 
 " Wait till you see the foolish look in Bob's eye, 
 and you'll know." 
 
 There was renewed sound of splashing from 
 within. Then came mournfully, "But Kate?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Who in heaven's name is left to us ? Have 
 the waves swept all the beaches clean? " 
 
 " There yet remain some few pebbles." 
 
 "Who, then?" 
 
 " Yourself, for instance." 
 
 "Yes I am faithful, thank God." A swift 
 flash of memory made Bradford blush a little here, 
 but his voice was determined. 
 [84]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 " And myself." 
 
 " Not you, Kate. You never mentioned Marion 
 Craven to me, all the letters you sent me in a year." 
 
 Kate, too, reddened ; and unfortunately for him, 
 he was under the eyes of both Slim and Shedsy. 
 Yet he maintained stoutly, 
 
 " Myself, I say. And Shedsy, and Slim." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad there are even four righteous 
 in this hymeneal Gomorrah. * And a spirit in my 
 feet hath led me ' " the voice died away. 
 
 The three outside exchanged glances. " He'll 
 go in ! " said Shedsy, triumphantly. 
 
 At dinner he told them all over again about his 
 singing. That was a most unpretentious little 
 dining-room. At the side it looked out across a 
 waste of lots and streets, flat and ragged, but with 
 outlines softened in the coming evening. Beyond 
 glittered white and green the cottonwoods, those 
 complaisant trees which will grow in any soil, and 
 demand only the privilege of showering just and 
 unjust with their fluttering fuzz. Within there 
 was a table, a side-board, and four pictures ar- 
 mored young Sir Galahad staring pensively into 
 the dimming woods ; two petulant-looking lions 
 [85]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 issuing from an enormous cave ; a sepia sketch of a 
 girl; and a framed photograph of Borden Hall. 
 But three, at least, of these men were used to 
 the bare dreariness of Borden from the inside; 
 it stands mellowly enough in the shadowy photo- 
 graph, but within are many a crack and many a 
 soiled wall. And all of the four knew well the 
 dreary inhospitality of the Carfax boarding-house. 
 This spot was far more to them than the glory of 
 gilt or the grandeur of horse-hair. The napkins 
 were their own napkins, the dishes their own dishes 
 some by right of purchase, and more by virtue 
 of the quick fingers and easy morality of the un- 
 dergraduate. " I've fed for many years," said 
 Shedsy, " and now, by G-Gosh, I'm going to eat." 
 " We three," said Shedsy, " are believers in 
 bachelorhood though we have our doubts about 
 Kate. But we can't see why, because we are bach- 
 elors, we should therefore be de-deprived of all the 
 comforts of home. So we rented this palatial resi- 
 dence, securing a m-ministering angel in the shape 
 of a h-housekeeper, and named ourselves the Re- 
 siduum. We counted on you, of course. Will you 
 join us? " 
 
 [86]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 " Why the Residuum, Shedsy? " 
 
 " Well, because we th-think we're like the g-gold 
 that's left when all the less valuable stuff is drained 
 away, don't you see? " 
 
 " Cradled away, you mean." 
 
 " S-since I'm speaking of marriage, I suppose 
 I do." 
 
 " I'll come in, of course." 
 
 " Three ch-cheer& for you ! Let's drink to our- 
 selves with one foot on the table. In sickness or 
 health, in poverty or wealth, till death do us part 
 to the Residuum ! " 
 
 " To the Residuum ! " they cried, standing and 
 waving their glasses. Thus easily was formed 
 what Shedsy fondly imagined would endure. 
 Poor Shedsy! Any philosopher could have told 
 him that he was opposing his puny efforts to the 
 forces of the universe. Kate, even, might have 
 confessed but Kate would have been the first to 
 deny that he had anything to confess. And Brad- 
 ford was so far from suspecting the grip which 
 fate had suddenly laid on him, that he began to 
 speak carelessly of the girl he had met that day. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " there is no country like 
 [87]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 America for royal roads royal roads everywhere; 
 short cuts to learning, and to wealth, and to power, 
 and to fame. Once, when a man wanted an educa- 
 tion, he devoted the good years of his life to get- 
 ting it; now he reads the fifth page of the news- 
 paper. A woman turns over the sheet, and finds 
 out in five minutes how to be beautiful though 
 ugly, and how to be married though poor. In 
 Europe a man makes a hundred thousand dollars 
 in twenty years, here he picks up a million in half 
 an hour. While you wait you can be provided 
 with a full set of teeth or a full set of ancestors. 
 I talked with a man to-day who boasted that 
 eleven years ago he hadn't a cent, and now he 
 doesn't know what to do with his money. He is 
 ignorant, blatant, and rich as Croesus. He had 
 originally, I think, all the virtues ; he hasn't added 
 a single grace. He makes pickles; he confers 
 favors on poor young men with the air of a king 
 and the tact of an Afghan, and his name is Mur- 
 doch." 
 
 " What the hero of the accident ? " 
 " Precisely so ; the hero of the accident. Un- 
 derstand, I just admitted that he had all the virt- 
 [88]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 ues. All I say is, that he has come to his present 
 place by a short cut, like ten thousand others, and 
 what he has gained in speed he has lost in knowl- 
 edge. Take two men who set out for the same 
 spot; one has plenty of time, sees the country- 
 side, hears the birds singing, picks a few flowers, 
 and by and by in the twilight comes to his rest, 
 peacefully and full of pleasant memories. The 
 other never gets out of the dust he makes himself. 
 He arrives ; that is all you can say for him. Well 
 that's Murdoch." 
 
 " Did he tr-tread on your corns, my saunterer? " 
 
 " On the contrary, he was very nice to me. I 
 am merely moralizing, Shedsy. I haven't yet got 
 to my point which is this. Of all the American 
 short cuts, there is nothing to compare with the 
 American girl's short cut to style. Did you fel- 
 lows notice a little girl at the station to-day who 
 wore gray, and had Eyes ? " 
 
 " Was she with a st-stupendous friend in al- 
 paca ? " 
 
 " She was. I saw her yesterday on the train, 
 and I thought, ' Here is some princess in dis- 
 guise. Here is a girl who can give Lady Clara 
 [89]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 Vere de Vere, the daughter of a hundred earls, 
 half the pack and beat her.' She looked to me like 
 the real thing. Do you want to know who she is? 
 She is none other than the niece, as I learned to- 
 day, of my pickle-maker ! " 
 
 " Is she any the less the real thing, Frank ? " 
 
 " I wonder ! Can the American girl take the 
 short cut, and still gain all the advantages of the 
 long way round? She is hardly one remove from 
 the vinegar, Kate; will one generation do away 
 with the odor? Is she the real thing? That is 
 what I complain about in our life here. We can't 
 tell the real thing from the imitation. We haven't 
 any final standards of judgment. When the mar- 
 ket is full of counterfeit money, you may be fooled, 
 but when in doubt you can at least go to the bank 
 and learn wisdom. But with men and women there 
 is no cashier to consult." 
 
 " Your problem settles itself, Frank. If you 
 can't tell the real from the imitation, take both 
 with a light heart." 
 
 " My dear Kate, that's just where I can't agree 
 with you. When I wear diamonds, I want to 
 know their value. If I choose to exhibit paste to 
 [90]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 the world, I am glad if the world is deceived; but 
 when I have the sneaking knowledge that I don't 
 myself know the stone from the paste, then I'm 
 uneasy. Take this girl. It seems impossible that 
 she can be real; yet we are so wonderful a nation 
 that she may be. How is one to discover? You 
 are about to tell me that tests can surely be ap- 
 plied, and you are right. But they take a long 
 time. Suppose one should devote his life to em- 
 ploying them, and discover at the end that his 
 diamond was paste? " 
 
 Shedsy came round the table and put his hand 
 on Bradford's shoulder. " Frankie," he said, 
 sadly, " Th-that way madness lies. The nebular 
 hy-hypothesis is a bagatelle to the problem of 
 Woman. Did you never hear the little story of 
 the cat and the fox? Th-the fox said he knew a 
 hundred ways out of tr-trouble; the cat said he 
 knew only one, and that was to climb a tree. Pr- 
 presently trouble came : the cat climbed a tree, and 
 the f-fox, while he was th-thinking which way to 
 take, g-got it in the neck. When Woman gets 
 into the game, Fr-Frankie dear, profit by this little 
 fa-fable, and climb a tree." 
 [91]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Shedsy believes that because seven devils were 
 once cast out of one woman, the same number are 
 still in all the others." 
 
 " I d-don't ; I don't at all. I respect the sex 
 highly, and I admire them, too, in a way. But 
 I see them c-coming and c-catching all my friends, 
 and d-doing something to them so that they're not 
 friends of m-mine any more; and I'm frightened, 
 that's all. What b-bosh you are talking ! Frankie, 
 you haven't told us about your singing." 
 
 " Nothing to tell. Music was requested, and I 
 was too lazy to work, so I sang instead." 
 
 "Y-yes!" 
 
 " That was all there was to it, honestly." 
 
 "Did they like it? " 
 
 " Seemed to." 
 
 " If you were so la-lazy, why did you run back 
 half a mile and kin-kindle the beacon, my son? " 
 
 Bradford hesitated ; then he smiled. " If a 
 Pullman conductor came at you with a pistol, and 
 told you to take your choice of going back or stay- 
 ing where you were permanently which would 
 you choose ? " 
 
 "He didn't!" 
 
 [92]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 " I'd rather you didn't mention it, because it 
 might be misinterpreted; but he did." 
 
 " But w-why shouldn't you go back? " 
 
 " I had a theory, until I saw him, that I could 
 do more good by pulling someone out, perhaps." 
 
 Shedsy's face cleared. " Of course ! " he medi- 
 tated, softly. " I might have known." Still, 
 there was a little awkward pause, till Bradford 
 broke it by laughing. 
 
 " You were thinking I had been afraid of the 
 dark, perhaps? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " protested Shedsy. 
 
 They sat a long while over their coffee and cigar- 
 ettes, finding each other out afresh after Brad- 
 ford's long absence. Later, when they had grown 
 reacquainted, Kate went off to study, and Slim 
 slipped away to bed, and finally even the indefati- 
 gable Shedsy, cursing the early hours he had to 
 keep, retired ; but Bradford sat up. He had a 
 letter to write, he said. 
 
 Yet he waited an hour before he wrote it. He 
 began to speculate once more concerning the girl 
 in gray ; his thoughts wandered far afield, and be- 
 fore he was aware he had made her acquaintance, 
 [93]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 found her all his instant fancy guessed, and begun 
 telling her his dreams. Then he stopped and 
 laughed. Nothing so gauzy as a dream, he told 
 himself, would hold the attention of a pickle-mak- 
 er's niece. She would want material things: Posi- 
 tion, in particular. Possibly she even read Debrett 
 and aspired to a title by marriage. That would 
 depend on the continued success of the Shakespeare 
 Brand, and the financial measure of her uncle's 
 affection for her. A man who could dower un- 
 known young men with golden chances would not 
 be likely to haggle, however, over any bargain con- 
 nected with his niece. Bradford had no scruple in 
 accepting Murdoch's favor. He did not analyze 
 his own motives, or perhaps he might have dis- 
 covered that he scarcely regarded it as a favor at 
 all. There are men born to give, and men born to 
 receive, just as in the economy of nature there are 
 lakes as well as rivers ; their functions are different 
 but equally creditable. 
 
 At length he came to the letter he had received 
 from his mother. He thought it over, at this re- 
 moval from the heat of perusal, with some re- 
 luctance. He felt no desire to read it again. 
 [94]
 
 SPEAKS OF PASTE DIAMONDS 
 
 Long as the time seemed since he had opened it, 
 Bradford had not forgotten a bit of it. It had 
 disappointed him, though this he did not admit to 
 himself. The news of his father's suicide and its 
 cause came to him with a detached and impersonal 
 effect. Bradford could barely remember his father. 
 He was interested as a man might be in reading 
 a story which was engrossing in itself, and whose 
 author was known to him; that was all. There 
 remained, then, only the part of the letter made 
 personal his mother's hopes and fears for him. 
 Bradford was a man who followed, or thought he 
 followed, the advice of the old Greek " Know 
 thyself." The letter only gave a fillip to his self- 
 analysis. When he had pondered a long time, he 
 took pen and paper and began to write. " To my 
 mother in heaven," was the address he set at the 
 head of the page. He wrote for some time, and 
 very steadily. Then he stopped, and read over 
 what he had written; added a few more lines, 
 signed it ; seized a match and set fire to the corner. 
 But before the paper had more than flickered into 
 a blaze, Bradford, on second thoughts, extinguished 
 it, folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and put it 
 
 carefully away. 
 
 [95]
 
 Chapter Six 
 
 THE PEESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 "Belle mere!" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " I'm growing old." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " And this afternoon " The president's 
 
 daughter paused. Mrs. Craven, the president's 
 wife, continued to arrange the china buckets into 
 which, later, she would pour the tea. Her teapot, 
 which was shaped like a pump, was bizarre in ap- 
 pearance but oh, the tea she poured thence! 
 
 " And this afternoon," Marion Craven con- 
 tinued, " I decided that it was high time for me to 
 begin to rouge." 
 
 " Marion ! " 
 
 " 'Sabelle ! Call me no more Marion ; call me 
 Mary Ann, for great waters have gone over my 
 head." 
 
 The president's wife came round the table, her 
 [96]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 buckets being now arranged to her liking, and took 
 her step-daughter firmly by both shoulders. Mrs. 
 Craven was used to Marion's vagaries of speech, 
 yet she fancied that for some reason this was a 
 time for sympathy. "Marion, what's the mat- 
 ter? " 
 
 " Matter enough, my dear. Two days ago I 
 was I was ' 
 
 " I know, dear." 
 
 " Let me say it while my courage endures, 
 'Sabelle. I was thirty-four." 
 
 " But / am forty-six." 
 
 " You have a right to be. Alas, I have no right 
 to be thirty-four." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I'm a single woman ; and no single woman has 
 a right to be her age if she looks it. Yes ; it is 
 time for me to begin to rouge." 
 
 " You don't look your age, dear." 
 
 The president's daughter returned her look wist- 
 fully. " Honestly, now? " Then she shook her 
 head. " That remark would be malicious from any 
 other woman that you, ma mere. It implies what 
 I was hoping wasn't true." 
 [97]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " That I am so old I am afraid people will find 
 it out." 
 
 " Afraid who will find it out? " 
 
 " Nobody in particular. Still, it is true that I 
 saw somebody this morning. He was an old pet 
 of yours of ours, I mean." 
 
 " We have had so many old pets, haven't we? " 
 
 " But this is a special one." 
 
 The president's wife considered. " Harry 
 Ford?" 
 
 " The aw-tust ? No, no. I never cared what 
 he thought." 
 
 "Who then?" 
 
 " Frank Bradford." 
 
 " Oh Mr. Bradford? I think I heard that he 
 was back." 
 
 Marion nodded. "Yes, he is back. And so 
 good-looking! And so polite! And so old! 
 Why, I remember him as a little boy, almost. It 
 is dreadful to have antediluvian memories. When 
 one cannot forget the vision of one's admirers in 
 knickerbockers one realizes bitterly her tale of 
 
 years." 
 
 [98]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 " I should like to see him." 
 
 " You will, dear. I asked him to come this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " Fm glad you thought to." 
 
 The president of Carfax College, coming in 
 with a letter in his hand, interrupted them. " Isa- 
 belle," he said. 
 
 " Yes, Doctor." 
 
 " Langton writes me that he will be in Carfax 
 on the 29th. I have asked him to stay with us, of 
 course." 
 
 " Of course, Doctor." 
 
 The president's daughter patted down his black 
 tie affectionately. " You do tie ties so well, 
 father. I often think that if the demand for col- 
 lege presidents lessens, you could make such a 
 lovely clerk." 
 
 Dr. Craven shook his white head meditatively. 
 " I'm afraid not, Marion. They want young men 
 now, I hear. Isabelle? " 
 
 " Well, dear? " 
 
 " You remember Langton, don't you? He was 
 here in '79, I think." 
 
 " But I wasn't, Doctor." 
 [99]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " So? Why, of course." 
 
 " / remember him, father. But don't you dare 
 let him know it." 
 
 Her father contemplated her, a trifle puzzled, 
 but his thoughts refused to busy themselves with 
 her remark, and presently his brow cleared. He 
 looked at the table approvingly, as it shone with 
 glass and silver filigree and blossomed with china, 
 and said, irrelevantly, 
 
 " Isabelle, did you know that Mr. Murdoch was 
 elected yesterday to the board of trustees ? " 
 
 " Yes, doctor ; you told us. The pickle-maker." 
 
 " I believe he does manufacture something of the 
 sort yes." 
 
 " Will he set up vats in the dormitories, father? " 
 
 " Marion ! " 
 
 " Well, dear, I didn't know. I really don't see 
 why he should be on the board, otherwise." 
 Marion's voice was a little acid. 
 
 " He has deserved the election," answered the 
 president, with sudden spirit. " He is the most 
 prominent graduate we have." 
 
 " The richest, father." 
 
 " It comes to the same thing, apparently," ob- 
 [100]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 served Dr. Craven, quietly. His wife crossed over 
 and took his arm. 
 
 " Do you mind his being on the board, dear? " 
 
 " I ? No. He will represent the younger men. 
 I fear there may have been stagnation in the affairs 
 of the college. I may have been too anxious to 
 progress safely, and have ended by not progressing 
 at all. We must keep up with the procession, you 
 know." 
 
 " I wish he had stayed in his own business, and 
 not meddled with ours." 
 
 " Marion ! " rebuked the president once again. 
 " The college is not mine, you know; it belongs to 
 us all. It is his business. Besides, he is to be our 
 guest." 
 
 " Is he coming this afternoon ? " 
 
 The president nodded. 
 
 Dr. Craven's name had been associated with 
 Carfax College for thirty-seven years eleven as 
 professor of Greek, twenty-six as president. The 
 time is now past when instructors in ancient lan- 
 guages are considered fit persons to head our insti- 
 tutions of learning. It passed when the emphasis 
 was transferred from " learning " to " institu- 
 [101]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 tion." Moreover, Dr. Craven was unsuited in 
 many ways to modern methods. To begin with, he 
 was a minister. And more than this, he was a 
 minister who for twenty years had been engaged 
 with a " Commentary on the Four Gospels," and 
 still hoped to finish Matthew by the end of the next 
 long vacation. In the second place, he was sixty- 
 five. In the third place, he cherished the old the- 
 ory of a college, which is, to put it alliteratively, 
 boys, books, and benches so far had the times 
 drifted by him! With such a steward, and sur- 
 rounded by other graybeards like him on the board 
 of trustees, slumbered Carfax College. Like the 
 princess in the fairy-tale, it slept while the chang- 
 ing years passed unheeded. 
 
 But meanwhile no such enchanted lethargy pos- 
 sessed Carfax the city. Every year smoke came 
 coiling from a hundred new factories, and soiled 
 the fa9ades of ten thousand new houses. Rail- 
 roads shot from the four quarters of the country, 
 and found their target in Carfax. One fancied 
 they came in every day, like monstrous commercial 
 travellers, and registered a fresh steel signature on 
 the welcoming guest-book. With the growth of 
 [102]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 business came the clamor that Carfax College 
 should grow too. Wanted a Fairy Prince to wake 
 the Sleeping Beauty ! Carfaxians were aware that 
 a college was out of date; a university was their 
 desire. At first the whitehaired trustees resisted, 
 but the pressure was becoming very strong. John 
 Murdoch, Carfax Eighty-blank, manufacturer of 
 pickles, was among those who had voiced most stren- 
 uously the need for new plans and new life. Now 
 John Murdoch had been elected to the board of 
 trustees. The camel's head was in ; would the beast 
 ultimately possess the tent? What Dr. Craven 
 thought no one knew. Yet it is true that Dr. 
 Craven had been gently pessimistic for some years 
 ever since the death of his second little girl, the 
 child of his old age. He had given a kind of 
 grandfatherly adoration to this little Isabelle. 
 When she went away from him he grew older fast. 
 He lived now only in the college. That, too, was 
 his child ; it was part of him. Perhaps because he 
 saw a day coming when the college too would be 
 taken away from him, he loved it all the more. He 
 never allowed himself to wonder about that day, 
 however. He saw the signs of coming change, but 
 [103]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 it seemed impossible that the change could come in 
 his time. 
 
 The guests began to dribble in. These Thurs- 
 day afternoon teas of the President's wife were 
 features of Carfax College life. Of old she had 
 held them on Saturday, but they interfered so seri- 
 ously with the football games that popular request 
 succeeded in setting them back to Thursday. 
 They had not the charm of selectness, these teas; 
 anyone on the faculty was welcome to drop in; 
 students were frequently invited; now and again 
 townspeople were there, or visitors who came bear- 
 ing the passports of Scholarship or Art. Yet the 
 rooms were somehow never crowded, as they were 
 never less than charming. The president's wife, 
 in a mysterious fashion of her own, kept the as- 
 semblages as she wanted them, and they remained 
 in memory with a queer grateful fragrance, like 
 lavender sachets. Even the tea was different and 
 better than that one drank elsewhere a kind of 
 Russian blend. Mrs. Craven liked to have you 
 praise it, but when you asked her where she got it 
 she only smiled. Indeed, some of her many lovers 
 said you might as well ask her where she got her 
 [ 104 ]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 still, placid, satisfying manner, her sympathetic, 
 low voice, her delicious attar-of -roses conversation 
 so pleasant and so rare. That tea, they insisted, 
 was the common garden Hyson of the grocer's 
 shop ; but in Mrs. Craven's hands it became what 
 you knew. What could you expect since the 
 hands were Mrs. Craven's? 
 
 Bradford and Kate came in togather. Kate 
 was the Doctor's ewe lamb. Looking at Kate's 
 thews and sinews, one doubts the applicability of 
 the metaphor. Let us then say simply, Kate was 
 the one graduate student in Greek. The Doctor's 
 Greek was his wine of life; Kate was the spice in 
 the wine. 
 
 Bradford and the Doctor everyone called him 
 the Doctor, even his wife he was that kind of 
 man fell into shop-talk, while Mrs. Craven wel- 
 comed Bradford, poured him a cup of tea, and 
 asked about his European journey. Her words 
 were the simplest possible, but somehow Bradford 
 felt that she was really interested. That was Mrs. 
 Craven's way. But presently he was driven away, 
 and found himself talking to a woman of a very 
 different sort. Miss Mangier was the one woman 
 [ 105 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 member of the faculty of Carfax College. She 
 was an assistant in history. The undergraduates 
 called her " The Curse." 
 
 She included in her vestal smile both Bradford 
 and the tall' assistant-professor of mathematics. 
 " Have you seen our author? " she inquired. " No? 
 Oh, you must." She showed her teeth, of which 
 she was justly proud. " Very handsome, very ma- 
 licious, and very popular of course. But not with 
 me; not with me." 
 
 " Why not ? " politely inquired the assistant- 
 professor of mathematics. (His name was Car- 
 hart, by the way, but so few people knew him that 
 it had almost fallen into disuse.) 
 
 " He quotes Longfellow," she shuddered. 
 " Longfellow is the curse of America. We cry to 
 our poets for meat, and are fed on mush." 
 
 " William Longfellow is captain of the eleven," 
 murmured the assistant-professor of mathematics. 
 " I must inquire whether they are related." 
 
 " At least they are not the same," retorted Miss 
 Mangier, tartly. 
 
 " I know, I know," placidly responded the as- 
 sistant-professor. 
 
 [106]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 " But which of these people is the author? " 
 asked Bradford, with an appearance of interest. 
 
 " The one with the pink eyes," she snapped. 
 " You should meet him. He borrows his style, 
 steals his incidents, and copies his characters. Sec- 
 ond-hand literature is the curse of America." 
 
 " Have you met him ? Will you present us ? " 
 
 " I have not," she answered ; " nor do I expect 
 to." Miss Mangler's air was that of one who 
 would resist to the uttermost any attempt to force 
 the acquaintance. At this moment a woman in 
 the group around the author beckoned to The 
 Curse. Miss Mangier left them almost with a 
 rush. The next instant they beheld the author's 
 introduction, and Miss Mangier in animated con- 
 versation with him. 
 
 " The curse of America," muttered the assistant- 
 professor of mathematics. 
 
 " The curse of Carfax," responded Bradford. 
 Carhart's eye, revolving in his direction, kindled 
 slightly, though his sad mouth remained un- 
 changed. "What do you think?" he asked, 
 with grave irrelevancy, " of the chances of the 
 eleven? " 
 
 [107]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I think more of the chances than I do of the 
 eleven," answered Bradford. " But I really don't 
 know. I only got back two days ago." 
 
 " Really? " inquired the assistant-professor, with 
 mournful courtesy. He seemed to ponder the 
 statement in all its bearings. Then he remarked, 
 " We should win from Upton, however." 
 
 " We should," said Bradford; " but shall we? " 
 
 "I think we shall," replied Carhart. " I 
 think we shall." He observed the tea-table, or 
 its whereabouts, narrowly, and fell silent once 
 more. 
 
 Suddenly Bradford ejaculated something. Car- 
 hart, turning his head, seemed mildly to interro- 
 gate him, and he went on, with a laugh, 
 
 " There's Murdoch, the pickle-maker." 
 
 " Proprietor of the Shakespeare Brand yes," 
 admitted Carhart, without turning his glance that 
 way. 
 
 " What is Tie doing here ? " 
 
 " He has been elected, I believe, to the board of 
 trustees." 
 
 " Murdoch? " 
 
 " Yes. He used to play guard on the eleven ; 
 [108]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 left guard, I think it was; but I cannot seem to 
 remember." 
 
 To this athletic reminiscence Bradford paid no 
 heed. " Curious, that ! " he remarked. 
 
 The assistant-professor digested this. " Not cu- 
 rious," he replied at length. " He was a good 
 guard. I wish we had as good a one now." He 
 sighed gently. " What do you think of the 
 chances ah, pardon. I think I asked you that be- 
 fore." 
 
 " I must be hunting up other friends, I am 
 afraid," interrupted Bradford, rapidly. " Social 
 duties, you know. Good-afternoon, Mr. ah 
 Carhart; I'm awfully glad to have seen you." 
 
 Carhart's sad eyes followed him as he hastened 
 away. They saw everything; they had seen the 
 indifferent curve of his lips. "But this, of course, 
 Bradford did not know. He was looking for 
 Marion Craven, and presently he discovered her, 
 in a corner with Kate. Kate was talking animat- 
 edly, and Miss Craven was flushed a trifle. 
 
 " Hope I don't interrupt? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Miss Craven, I wish you would do me a great 
 [109]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 favor the kind of favor which will deliver me 
 helpless into your hands." 
 
 " I sha'n't know what to do with you, but I'll 
 be glad to grant the favor." 
 
 " Do you see that little girl in gray ? " 
 
 " Which little girl in gray ? Even I am wear- 
 ing gray. This is a gray year, Mr. Brad- 
 ford." 
 
 " I mean the one with her uncle, the pickle- 
 maker, yonder. The one who makes the gray look 
 spring-like ; you can't miss her." 
 
 " Do you mean to imply that the rest of us make 
 it look sere, Mr. Bradford? In the name of the 
 Prophet thanks ! " 
 
 Bradford reflected that he had never liked 
 Marion Craven which was not true ; it was merely 
 the reflex of his embarrassment. But he hastened 
 to say, with a smile, 
 
 " I've met her, you see, but I'm afraid she may 
 not remember it ; it was hurried. I want somebody 
 influential to vouch for me." 
 
 Miss Craven vouched for him, and in a moment 
 he found himself bowing to the young woman he 
 had been speculating about. Her name, he learned, 
 [110]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 was Power Amy Power. For the first time he 
 could see her fairly. 
 
 She was very young not more than nineteen. 
 When she spoke his name her voice was as cool as 
 a trout-brook in August. For a description of her 
 face as it appeared to Bradford one must refer to 
 the dictionary, in the vague hope, as Mark Twain 
 put it to the Interviewer, of treeing her in the 
 appendix. But then Bradford was quite ready to 
 be impressed. To Marion Craven she seemed a 
 pretty, quiet, well-bred young woman, with a 
 good deal of strength ready to show itself in the 
 curves of the mouth some day; and Miss Craven 
 was a much closer observer than Bradford was. 
 She talked with them a moment, and then, like a 
 tactful hostess, slipped away. 
 
 " I asked her to introduce me," said Bradford, 
 " because I thought in the hurry of the station the 
 other night you probably didn't notice my face, 
 and might not remember me." 
 
 " I remember you very well," she answered. 
 
 " You live in Carfax ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " Have you been coming out to Mrs. Craven's 
 [111]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 teas often ? It's odd we haven't met. She is very 
 good to me; she lets me ramble among the salted 
 almonds as I please." 
 
 " I have never been here before." 
 
 Just out, Bradford fancied; she had probably 
 been in boarding-school fifteen months before, when 
 he had left Carfax. He dredged his brain for 
 something admirable to say, but brought up only 
 commonplaces, which he hesitated to offer her. 
 The more he looked at her, the more he was in- 
 clined to believe that America had found a way to 
 abrogate the laws of heredity. She was no more 
 like her mountainous uncle than a pearl is like a 
 brick. She seemed not to mind the silence, and 
 they sat quietly a moment. Across the room that 
 uncle was holding sonorous conversation with Dr. 
 Craven, and the words came to their ears with no 
 diminution of force. 
 
 " Expansion is the motto of the country," they 
 heard him say. " Everything is branching out. 
 We need to follow the rule of the times. Why 
 should Carfax young men go away from Carfax 
 to study law or medicine or theology? Young 
 men from the outside ought to be coming here for
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 those branches. Carfax is the centre of the coun- 
 try's manufacturing, in some lines at least " he 
 was thinking of the pickle business, reflected Brad- 
 ford, cynically " why shouldn't we make it the 
 centre of the country in education as well? " He 
 squared his shoulders till the president was hidden 
 from view, and the " we " seemed to represent only 
 Murdoch's massiveness. Probably the President 
 made some reply, but it failed to reach Bradford 
 and Miss Power. 
 
 " Your uncle makes himself heard, doesn't he ? " 
 ventured Bradford. 
 
 " Such men as that," a voice cried in his ear, 
 " are the curse of America. They are raw mate- 
 rialism. They have no ideals, because ideals have 
 no price on the stock-exchange." Miss Mangier 
 stood before them. 
 
 " Miss Mangier present Miss Power," mur- 
 mured Bradford, gently. Never before had he 
 welcomed the coming of The Curse. 
 
 " You were speaking of my uncle? " inquired 
 Miss Power, indifferently. Miss Mangier heard, 
 looked, comprehended, gasped, and fled. Bradford 
 chuckled. 
 
 [113]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " You did that beautifully," he commented. 
 
 " She seems a foolish woman," said Miss Power. 
 Bradford could have applauded her serenity. He 
 was growing surer every moment that this diamond 
 was not paste. 
 
 " At any rate," he said, " I am glad you re- 
 membered me." 
 
 She smiled slowly. " For two days ? I shall 
 remember you longer than that, Mr. Bradford. 
 It is you who have forgotten that I heard you 
 sing." 
 
 " You have remembered that, too? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It is odd," said Bradford, irrelevantly, " that 
 Mr. Murdoch should be your uncle." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I don't know why," he confessed, foolishly. 
 He stared from her fresh young beauty to Mur- 
 doch. Alas for him! the pickle-maker caught his 
 glance, and came over. He seized Bradford's 
 hand with so loud an expression of good-will that 
 it might almost have been called a cheer. " Ha ! 
 It's young Bradford ! Well, this is agreeable." 
 
 " I'm glad to see you, Mr. Murdoch," answered 
 [114]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 Bradford, uneasily. He felt somehow effaced 
 rubbed away. 
 
 " How's all with you? " inquired Murdoch, with 
 cheerful heartiness. " Been in any more wrecks, 
 eh? You've discovered Amy, I see. She has 
 talked enough about you the last day or two. I 
 got jealous finally. I said, ' Look here, I pulled 
 two or three out myself; give me a little credit, 
 won't you? But it didn't do a bit of good." 
 
 Bradford dared to glance at Amy. To his sur- 
 prise, she was regarding him without a touch of 
 embarrassment; looking at him, he fancied, indig- 
 nantly, as if he had been a giraffe, or a calf with 
 two heads, or any other object of legitimate curi- 
 osity. She was sitting in judgment on him, he 
 fancied. Uncle or no uncle, she saw this man's 
 innate vulgarity as clearly as he did, and saw, too, 
 that he did not know how to repel it. Bradford 
 pulled himself together. 
 
 " I congratulate you on your election to the 
 board of trustees, Mr. Murdoch," he said. 
 
 "Eh? What? Oh thank you, thank you. 
 Yes, I'm to be a new broom. I may have a little 
 sweeping to do ; I don't know. By the way have 
 [115]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you heard from Barrett, Barrett and Cooper 
 yet? 
 
 " Yes. I had their letter this morning." It 
 was no use, thought Bradford, bitterly, to divert 
 the attacks of this behemoth; he patronized and 
 exhibited others just as he patronized and exhib- 
 ited himself. He dragged everything into garish 
 light, and pointed to it, lest somebody should miss 
 it. Bradford resolved instantly to throw Barrett, 
 Barrett and Cooper to the winds before he would 
 be indebted to a fellow like that. Murdoch would 
 advertise him as he did the pickles " our own 
 manufacture " the Murdoch brand would be on 
 him. 
 
 " I thought you would. Now, if you can argue 
 a case as well as you can sing " he turned to 
 the nucleus of a group which his prominence had 
 collected. " Ever hear Mr. Bradford sing? " he 
 demanded; and then, laying his hand on Brad- 
 ford's shoulder, he described the events of the 
 wreck ; Bradford with a half-pleased, half-indiffer- 
 ent smile the smile he thought he ought to wear 
 upon his lips, and shame gnawing at his heart. 
 
 " Stood there like an archangel like an arch- 
 [116]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 angel," the pickle-maker cried. " I've heard 
 good singing, but I tell you I never heard singing 
 like that before." 
 
 " I hoped that perhaps Mr. Bradford would 
 sing for us, as he used to do," said Mrs. Craven's 
 quiet voice behind him. 
 
 " No, no," he began. 
 
 " But yes, yes," interrupted Murdoch. " Go 
 on, young man; you haven't any right to deprive 
 us of it." 
 
 The chorus about him urged him on a chorus 
 he could not help believing ironical; for he would 
 have begged ironically under similar circum- 
 stances, and when do we ever judge others save 
 by ourselves? Not, at least, until we are older 
 and wiser than Bradford was. 
 
 " I'm afraid my voice will prove that Mr. Mur- 
 doch is a bad judge of singing," he protested. 
 
 " Please sing, Mr. Bradford." Miss Power 
 somehow impressed him with her sincerity. He 
 had often sung to Marion Craven's accompani- 
 ment. Now he chose from her music a little song 
 of Nevins's " Dites-moi, belle enchanteresse " 
 and she played while he sang it. Out of the cor- 
 [117]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 ner of his eye he glanced at Miss Power. She was 
 sitting, her face turned directly toward him, her 
 hands folded quietly in her lap, given up to the 
 music and forgetful of everything else around 
 her. What a blissful unconsciousness of self! 
 he thought. And he sang tenderly, caressingly. 
 The tinkle of teaspoons stopped entirely, and he 
 knew that he held the company. Then he played 
 with them, as he loved to do made them smile 
 and frown and sigh as he chose. And as he sang 
 on, he forgave Murdoch for undoubtedly the 
 pickle-maker meant well, if he were clumsy as a 
 hippopotamus in showing it; he forgot that he 
 had intended to refuse Murdoch's offer. What he 
 remembered was that everyone in the room was 
 thinking of him and his song. He smiled with the 
 pleasure of it, letting his voice wander softly 
 through the notes, stealing a look now and then 
 at the little girl in gray, till he almost fancied that 
 he was singing to her only, and she knew it, and 
 would answer when he finished. He ceased ab- 
 ruptly. After a moment, people moved restless- 
 ly, as those do who are gently waked, and two or 
 three tried to tell him of their enjoyment. But he 
 [118]
 
 THE PRESIDENT AND AMY 
 
 put them aside, and went confidently to Miss 
 Power. 
 
 " Did you like it ? " he asked, under his breath. 
 
 " Very much," she answered, quietly. It affected 
 Bradford as cold water would have. 
 
 [119]
 
 Chapter Seven 
 
 ENTER CLAEGES 
 
 Barrett, Barrett and Cooper spread their law- 
 offices over the top floor of the Galton building. 
 To have office room at all in the Galton building 
 is a certificate of character. Galton's is almost 
 the smallest of the structures which have made 
 Carfax celebrated. It has been said that mer- 
 chants in Carfax have no chance of seeing into 
 heaven except from the tops of their own build- 
 ings ; and there are architectural monstrosities 
 which climb to such a lofty height that the state- 
 ment is given point. But the Galton building is 
 low five stories in all. Old man Galton made a 
 fortune in plumbers' supplies. He was a whimsi- 
 cal old Scotchman, of the kind who save heroically 
 until they are ready to spend, then spend, with 
 equal heroism, to suit themselves. He determined 
 to erect a building of a sort new to Carfax. 
 [120]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 " We'll have na cheap- Johns in the place," he 
 observed to his architect. " Ma buildin'll hoose 
 only the honest men o' Carfax, and man, we'll mak 
 it sma' accordin'." Small it was made; high of 
 rent; it is always full, too, in spite of the old 
 man's jest, and in spite of the rigid examination 
 into business antecedents which every new appli- 
 cant for space must undergo. The untried lawyer 
 and the surgeon who has yet to flesh his instruments 
 are ruled out of Galton's as sternly as the pro- 
 moter is, and men of all sorts whose mercantile or 
 professional morality will not stand investigation. 
 Consequently an office in Galton's is better than 
 standing in Bradstreet's. 
 
 Perhaps the perfection of its cleanliness, the 
 modernity of its elevators, the precise completeness 
 of its whole equipment have as much to do with 
 filling Galton's as the desire a man has to be 
 known by the company he keeps. Certainly Alex- 
 ander Galton was no jerry-builder. The architect 
 ventured to point out that in various fashions 
 money might be unostentatiously saved here and 
 there, but Galton shook his head serenely. 
 
 " I'll be gettin' ma sax per centum yet," said 
 [121]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 he, " an' as for the rest, I'll gie it up for the 
 preeveleege of bein' oreeginal." Which he did, 
 and went to his reward well content, appar- 
 ently. 
 
 You entered Galton's by two great doors which 
 swung easily and noiselessly on pivots, into a cen- 
 tral court paved with gray marble in small squares. 
 A bronze statue of the old man, in a frock coat, 
 with every wrinkle of his Caledonian face present 
 at the roll-call, ornamented the centre of the court, 
 and the names of Galton's tenants were arranged 
 upon the pedestal. Galton lay underneath. " Ay, 
 man, put me there," he said, " with honest men all 
 around me ; 'twill be a treat to me I'm no so used 
 to have in Carfax." Gray marble stairs, made 
 broad and easy, climbed quadrilaterally about the 
 court, and slow, silent, comfortable elevators were 
 ranged on one side. By one of these you were 
 carried to the fifth floor, if your errand was to 
 Barrett, Barrett and Cooper's. 
 
 Their offices take up three sides of the square. 
 
 You behold a door beneath the comforting legend, 
 
 blazoned in gilt, " WALK IN," and find yourself 
 
 part of a large room. It is panelled in redwood, 
 
 [122]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 a redwood bench runs round two sides of the pol- 
 ished floor, and beyond is a Japanese railing. 
 There sits an attendant in a dark-red uniform, an 
 urbane and courteous young man always, not to be 
 irritated or discomposed. He places your name in 
 a tiny redwood box and releases a spring, where- 
 upon the redwood box disappears. When it re- 
 turns, if you are permitted to pass the railing, 
 you go through a solid and smoothly swinging 
 door, to find yourself in another ante-room, red- 
 wood like the first, but smaller, and furnished with 
 chairs instead of a bench. Through one door of 
 this room, if it chances to stand ajar, you may see 
 into a very large apartment, occupied by numerous 
 desks. This is the famous Heaven which the 
 Trinity rule over; the room of the young men of 
 Barrett, Barrett and Cooper; the room to which 
 Bradford was admitted by virtue of the pickle- 
 maker's favor. A desk in this room was held to 
 insure a man's future, if he had the stuff in him. 
 Next to the door of Heaven another door allowed 
 entrance to the offices of the firm? Not at all; 
 to the offices of their private secretaries. Beyond 
 that, however, at last, was a hallway, from which 
 [123]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you were received into the sancta of (1) Barrett 
 Junior, (2) Old Tom Cooper, (3) Barrett Senior 
 the Carfax Trinity. 
 
 And when you went out? This ultimate hall- 
 way ended in a door which opened from the inside 
 only. Passing through, you found yourself be- 
 fore the elevators again ; you had gone round three 
 sides of a square, and you were close enough to 
 touch, if you were so minded, that beautifully 
 gilded sign which hospitably urged you to 
 " WALK IN." 
 
 So Bradford explained it to the Residuum on 
 the evening after the Craven's tea. He smoked 
 meditatively as he estimated the partners. 
 
 " I didn't much care about ' Son ' young Bar- 
 rett, that is. He has a black little, spiky little 
 beard, and a black spiky eye like a tack, to match. 
 But the old gentleman is wonderful. I wish you 
 could see him, Shedsy". I was called into his office, 
 of course, to be exhorted. After all those barriers 
 and fortifications, what sort of a man would you 
 naturally expect? a snaky-headed dragon with a 
 Medusa glare was about what I was looking for. 
 My knees wobbled as I walked, and I muttered 
 [124]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 prayers. Behold a white-haired, clean-shaven, 
 pink-cheeked, blue-eyed old boy, like Friar Tuck, 
 only not fat ; complexion like a girl's ; and a sense 
 of humor that must be fatal to the business. He 
 talked to me like a father ; told me a long story to 
 illustrate the ways in which I could help out the 
 firm. You see we are all on salary, and any busi- 
 ness we get goes to the firm's exchequer. He said 
 that forty years ago he began just as we were 
 beginning now. He used to be sent with blanks, 
 and briefs, and so on, to the printer's, and he got 
 to be a friend of the printer's and secured his con- 
 fidence. So, in a few weeks, Mr. Printer gave him 
 some bills to collect old dead dogs, that no man in 
 his senses would expect to get the money out of. 
 But Barrett said he hammered away at them, in 
 season and out of season. One of them was for 
 thirty dollars, against a contractor named Mc- 
 Guirk, who came to see Barrett, said he couldn't 
 pay that or any other of his bills anyway, and 
 asked what it would cost to put him into bank- 
 ruptcy. Barrett knew as much about putting a 
 man into bankruptcy as a hen does about swim- 
 ming-lessons ; so he looked wise, and said he'd do 
 [125]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 the job for seventy-five dollars. McGuirk snapped 
 him up. Barrett put in the night in the calfskin 
 library, and next day he was ready for anything. 
 He bankrupted McGuirk, drew the seventy-five, 
 gave thirty of it to the printer, and turned in 
 forty-five to the firm. The contractor swore by 
 him, and so did the printer. They brought him 
 some more business, and of course he turned that 
 into the firm too. Presently the firm it was Ran- 
 dolph and Eastman in those days called him into 
 the office. 
 
 " ' Mr. Barrett,' says Randolph, * how much are 
 we giving you? ' 
 
 " ' Fifty dollars a month,' says Barrett. 
 
 " ' And you have been with us ? ' 
 
 " ' Ten months, sir.' 
 
 " ' I find,' says Randolph, ' that you have turned 
 in, in that time, six hundred and forty dollars in 
 fees.' 
 
 " ' Yes, sir,' says Barrett, wondering what was 
 coming, but bracing himself to bear it, even if it 
 was a full partnership. 
 
 " ' H'm, h'm,' says old Randolph, nodding at 
 him. ' Under those circumstances under those 
 [126]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 circumstances,, we have decided to make your 
 salary thirty dollars.' 
 
 " * In that case,' says Barrett, very blank, you 
 may be sure, ' I'll ' 
 
 " ' A week,' continues Randolph, placidly. ' 
 
 " ' Be much obliged to you,' finishes Barrett, 
 with a rush. 
 
 " * Very well, sir,' answers Randolph, without a 
 twinkle. * I have only one suggestion, Mr. Bar- 
 rett; a verdict should not be rendered until the 
 evidence is all in.' A year later they made him 
 a junior partner. ' And now,' he told me this af- 
 ternoon, * I have nothing to do but sit here and 
 tell this story to young men. I have told it to 
 forty-five already; you are the forty-sixth. Go 
 thou and do likewise.' ' 
 
 " He must be a Nonesuch," said Shedsy. " I 
 sh-shall recommend to our firm that we do b-busi- 
 ness with him." 
 
 "What is Cooper like, Frank?" 
 
 " All the rest of the firm," answered Bradford, 
 
 " make me think of overcoats and heavy frosts. 
 
 I haven't seen Cooper at all. They say no one 
 
 ever does, at the office. Cooper is the firm's con- 
 
 [127]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 nection with society; he's the man who gets them 
 all the swell divorce suits." 
 
 " What p-puzzles the Court is to understand 
 h-how your valuable services g-got recognition, 
 Frank. If Barrett And-so-forth had known you 
 as long as that g-good fortune has been vouch- 
 safed to us, I c-could easily see through it ; but not 
 at all. You reach these sh-shores from Europe's 
 happier clime, and b-behold a menial domestic 
 bearing a note upon a silver salver, who awaits 
 y-your arrival. The best firm of lawyers in Car- 
 fax will be d-desolated unless you can spare them 
 the loan of your talents. Luck, luck, luck ! You 
 have my Lady Luck h-hypnotized to a f-finish, 
 Frank." 
 
 " Yes, I think I must have," answered Bradford, 
 gayly. " Pray for me that she doesn't go back 
 on me, Shedsy. But this wasn't luck altogether. 
 Do you remember the large and genial pickle- 
 manufacturer I was telling you about Mur- 
 doch?" 
 
 " The one with a p-paste-diamond niece? " 
 
 " The one I was telling you about yes," re- 
 plied Bradford, hurriedly. " Well, he spoke a 
 [128]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 good word for me; he liked my singing, so he 
 thought I must be a good lawyer." 
 
 " He got you in there? " 
 
 Bradford nodded. 
 
 Shedsy shrieked with laughter. " L-lucky he 
 didn't hear your remarks," he cried. " Aren't you 
 re-repenting in sackcloth and ashes, though, 
 Frankie?" 
 
 Bradford reddened. He had begun to feel a 
 superior kind of friendship for Murdoch, but he 
 was not ready to acknowledge obligation. That 
 last is not true, either; he was ready to acknowl- 
 edge obligation, but not to have the obligation ad- 
 mitted by other people. For the first time since 
 his return he began to wonder whether business 
 was not changing Shedsy for the worse destroy- 
 ing a little of his old-time delicacy of feeling. 
 But the unconscious Shedsy lay on his back on the 
 couch, and lifted his heels comfortably into the air. 
 
 " There is an innocuous intellectual exercise 
 which s-some call a game," he announced. " What 
 s-say you, merry men of the Residuum; does 
 d-deep call unto d-deep Whist ? " He smoked in 
 joyous puffs. " Oh comfort, comfort scorned of 
 [129]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 d-devils of boarding-house keepers! Life Hooks 
 bright at last." 
 
 " Not any whist for me," said Kate. " I must 
 go over to Dr. Craven's." 
 
 " I've an errand into the world too. I must go 
 down and see Mr. Murdoch." 
 
 " L-look out for the paste-diamond," murmured 
 Shedsy. 
 
 " Shut up, Shedsy," said Kate, good-humor edly. 
 Shedsy looked up quickly at Bradford, who was 
 staring uneasily at the stolen steins on the mantel- 
 piece, his face still flushed a little. A look of won- 
 der, and almost of sorrow, came into Shedsy's 
 round blue eyes. 
 
 " F-Frank," he said, in a moment, in a tone of 
 abstraction, " they s-say that your p-pickle-maker 
 is going to introduce the methods of the sh-shop 
 into the university. They say mine alma m-mater 
 is going to be run on b-business principles. How 
 about it?" 
 
 " It's about time," said Bradford, starting up. 
 " Come on, Kitty." 
 
 " Slim," said Shedsy, when the two were gone 
 out, " do you think Kate meant anything? " 
 [130]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 " Meant anything? " 
 
 "By t- telling me to sh-shut up, 'just now?" 
 
 " I didn't hear him," answered Slim, seriously. 
 " But I suppose," he added, in a moment, " you 
 must have been making a noise, weren't you ? " 
 
 " No, I wasn't," snapped Shedsy. Even a 
 momentary ill-humor was so rare with him that 
 Slim looked up in astonishment. But Shedsy in 
 turn was staring uneasily at those stolen 'steins; 
 seeing, not them, but a face which might lie be- 
 hind them a face with Eyes, as Bradford called 
 it. The Residuum was four days old, and poor 
 Shedsy had begun to worry. But Eve entered 
 Paradise on the day after its completion. Shedsy 
 should have congratulated himself on having 
 gained three days. 
 
 Kate and Bradford made their way to the car. 
 That part of Carfax had a curious look to the 
 stranger. It was all in the country when the col- 
 lege settled there, forty years and more ago. A 
 farm-house, the rendezvous of duck-hunters in the 
 sixties, still stands not above two hundred yards 
 from the Carfax athletic field, in acres which are 
 sadly shrunken, but grown very valuable now. 
 [131]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 When Murdoch was in college the swells of Carfax 
 College used to meet there twice a year for duck- 
 feasts spring and fall in fond recollection of 
 the feats of their fathers; and they would grow 
 hilarious as they toasted the ghostly memory of 
 the mallards. The proprietress no longer allows 
 these riotous banquets ; she is far along in years ; 
 she wears a black silk dress on week-days, and, some 
 say, has a card with " Wednesday " on the lower 
 left-hand corner though no one is ever expected 
 or ever comes. Now there are rows of cottonwoods 
 and willows, gaunt as suburban trees always are, 
 but still unvanquished ; they keep guard over the 
 high-stilted sidewalks. One needs to know the 
 region well after dark, or he may find himself tum- 
 bled six feet or so into a ditch, and fortunate if 
 he has no broken bones. The section produces 
 more municipal damage suits than any other in 
 Carfax. The city is always about to grade and 
 repair, but never does like a boy who grows so 
 rapidly he cannot find time to mend the rips in 
 his trousers. Carfax is spread well to the north 
 of the college now, along the river-bank. Flats 
 occasionally garnish the nearly vacant squares.
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 The casual college oarsman, toiling up against the 
 current, beholds Irish ladies, in scanty garments, 
 attending to the family wash or the family disci- 
 pline, in unsavory rear areas, and he cries encour- 
 agingly, " Go it, Bridget ! Go it, Mrs. Mul- 
 doon ! " so that she stops to shake her red fist, 
 impotent to seize him. 
 
 " Do you think, Frank," asked Kate, as they 
 made their way along in the September half-dark- 
 ness, " that this talk of Carfax College being 
 turned into a university amounts to anything? " 
 
 " Yes, I do. It's bound to come. Carfax is 
 getting too big to be content with a college." 
 
 " But the other plan takes money and where's 
 the money? " 
 
 " The money evolves, in a case like this. If we 
 had a president who knew how to ask for it, we 
 should have had the money long ago." 
 
 " Craven is the finest Greek scholar in the United 
 States," said Kate, defiantly. 
 
 Bradford laughed. "What of it?" he asked, 
 
 tolerantly. Kate was silent; the question struck 
 
 home; the problem was stated in three words. 
 
 Kate felt a singular sympathy with the old regime, 
 
 [133]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 which, he reflected sadly, placed scholarship above 
 buildings. Not for the first time he began to 
 wonder if his own nature and feelings were out of 
 date. He looked at his own carefully gloved 
 hands ; he felt the spring and quiver of his muscles 
 under his light clothes, and the oddity of his own 
 vocation in the light of the new Carfaxian ideals 
 became apparent to him. A little loneliness 
 that loneliness of mind which besets the scholar 
 sometimes crept over him. He became aware of a 
 rush of pity for Dr. Craven ; but with it came an 
 unreasoning anger also against the men who 
 wanted expansion and extension. Kate's glove 
 half-closed into a fist. He could have argued 
 with a blow. 
 
 " I suppose you're right," he answered, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " Yes, I'm right," answered Bradford. " Schol- 
 arship is what it always was, but it has nothing 
 to do with organization, my son." 
 
 " I turn off here," said Kate, abruptly. " I'd 
 wait, but I see your car is coming." 
 
 A maid took Bradford's card at Murdoch's, and 
 ushered him, without preliminary announcement, 
 [134]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 into a little sitting-room. There was a little 
 square table in the middle, with a lamp, and beside 
 it Amy Power, reading. She looked up as the 
 door opened. Bradford saw her eyes. The be- 
 ginning of love is as dateless as the beginning of 
 reforms, otherwise one would say that Bradford's 
 story began there. 
 
 " I came to see your uncle," he said, awkwardly, 
 and cursed himself for the speech. 
 
 " I will tell him," she answered, rising. 
 
 " Don't go," he begged her. " It it's nothing 
 particular. I only came down to thank him for a 
 kindness he did me." 
 
 " He is always doing people kindnesses, but not 
 all of them thank him," she replied. 
 
 " This was an unusual kindness." He had not 
 meant to tell her, but he found himself going on. 
 " He has given me the ring of Opportunity, like 
 a fairy godmother, don't you know." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 He told her about Barrett, Barrett and Cooper. 
 
 "I know Mr. Barrett," she said. "The old 
 gentleman, that is." 
 
 Bradford laughed. " He's a funny old chap," 
 [135]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 he said. " He told me a story about him- 
 self to-day about a contractor, and a printer, 
 and the first case he ever had. 'But we three 
 came to very different ends,' said he. ' The 
 printer is dead, the contractor is in the peniten- 
 tiary, and I have nothing to do but tell this story 
 to young men. You are the forty -sixth I have told 
 it to.' It was amusing." 
 
 " I've heard the story," she smiled, " but I 
 never knew that the contractor was in the peni- 
 tentiary before." 
 
 Bradford felt a strong desire to bite his tongue 
 out. Of course she would have heard the story 
 that, he might have known. And he would be ex- 
 tremely fortunate if she did not hunt that tale 
 down, just from the naive interest she had in her 
 discovery. Bradford knew well enough the con- 
 tractor was not in the penitentiary. It was his 
 beastly luck, he reflected forlornly, to make a break 
 like that at the very beginning of acquaintance- 
 ship. However, he rushed on, feeling that he 
 might blot out this detail. He might have airily 
 intimated that he had put the contractor behind bars 
 because the story seemed to need that touch, but 
 [136]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 he felt instinctively that airy intimations of that 
 sort would be unpopular with this particular young 
 woman. So he piled up reminiscence after reminis- 
 cence, until his rapid talk seemed to have thorough- 
 ly interested her. He was again occasionally aware 
 that he made too much of this detail or not enough 
 of that as when he told her of his shooting- 
 scrape in Fairfield, Wisconsin. He had not really 
 struck the lumberman with a chair, nor, on the other 
 hand, had he really dodged behind a friend when 
 the man drew a revolver. But he was in a hurry, 
 and her gray eyes were wide. Moreover, that was 
 Bradford's way. He wanted his colors deep and 
 cleanly contrasted ; he had the instinct of the artist, 
 it is true, but on the other hand, whether heroic or 
 unheroic, he had to contrive somehow to be the 
 central figure. Except in eyes, he had little use 
 for gray ; small care for punctilious accuracy, un- 
 less it served his purpose, when his meticulous mem- 
 ory stood close to his elbow. Besides, this girl was 
 no prig, and to accuse her of priggish particular- 
 ity in detail seemed disagreeable to him. 
 " I wish I could have seen it." 
 " You would have screamed," he laughed. 
 [137]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 She shook her head slowly. " Were you really 
 not hurt at all ? " she questioned, after a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Just grazed; just so as to scar up my shoulder 
 enough to show." 
 
 Her eyes involuntarily turned toward his 
 shoulder, and were as quickly withdrawn, but not 
 before Bradford with real pleasure recognized her 
 interest. He thought with amused relief that it 
 was lucky she could not see through his coat. 
 After all, though there never had been a scar, it 
 is true he had been missed very narrowly. 
 
 " I don't know why I tell you this story," he 
 said, after an instant, hesitating. " You'll think 
 me a frightful egotist. Really, though, I tell it 
 to very few people. And I'd much rather you 
 wouldn't mention it, if you please." 
 
 " My uncle said you would not give your name 
 to the reporter the other night, after you sang." 
 Her look rested on him with a young approval of 
 the hero who was also modest. " So I certainly 
 won't speak of this," she smiled. Bradford felt 
 anything but heroic. 
 
 Murdoch came in then. A man was with him in 
 [138]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 sacerdotal uniform. Bradford, who was accus- 
 tomed to loosely costumed Congregationalists, or 
 Methodist exhorters, who took off their coats to 
 spread the gospel, took him for a priest. " My 
 minister, Father Clarges," which was the intro- 
 duction, did not serve for enlightenment. " My 
 minister," who was a dark young man of thirty, 
 shook hands carelessly. " Glad to meet you. I 
 saw that you distinguished yourself the other 
 night. Come here, Amy." He engaged her in 
 low-voiced conversation at the end of the room, 
 leaving Bradford to the tender mercies of Mur- 
 doch. Even the knowledge that priests are celi- 
 bate did not wholly comfort Bradford, who did 
 not glower at Father Clarges only because he did 
 not dare. 
 
 " I didn't know you were a Catholic, sir," he re- 
 marked, under his breath. 
 
 " Catholic ? " Murdoch laughed till the room 
 was full of it. " Father, the young man takes you 
 for a Catholic." Bradford writhed. 
 
 " It's a great church," the minister tossed them. 
 " But it's not mine. I have bestowed blessings on 
 people who thought it was, before this, however." 
 [139]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 He went on talking to Amy, and Bradford apolo- 
 gized. 
 
 " That don't matter," Murdoch assured him. 
 " I guess you pleased him. We're high, we are ; 
 so high we may fall over any day, now. I'm in 
 it for Amy ; she likes the singing. How's Bar- 
 rett, Barrett and Cooper getting on? " 
 " I'm barely started. I went in to-day." 
 " You'll find them good men." Bradford began 
 to thank him, but Murdoch waved him away. 
 " Nonsense, young man. They'll be thanking me 
 some day. You won't have much chance for after- 
 noon teas, though. It's pull, pull one foot after 
 the other, and the top of the hill getting farther off 
 every day, seems like. Say, do you like hills? 
 Come up to my country place some time. It's 
 northwest about eighty miles. There I've got 
 hills hills and trees, the best we can raise in this 
 section. I won't have a foot of timber cut on my 
 land till it's absolutely necessary. A tree's got 
 more soul than most men ; got as much soul as a 
 dog, by the Lord Harry! It takes one of those 
 pines of mine three hundred years to grow three 
 hundred years of snow and sunshine; head up, 
 [140]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 heart clean all the time, till it gets to where it can 
 see the world. And then do you think I'm going 
 to let some whipper-snapper of a man come along 
 with an axe and a saw and turn those three centu- 
 ries into joists and firewood? No, sir; when God 
 wants those trees down, he can blow 'em down." 
 Thus the pickle-maker rambled on, thrusting pos- 
 sible gratitude farther away from him for a while, 
 but gradually growing unconscious of anything 
 but his own enthusiastic admiration for his pines. 
 
 " Of course, it's the associations of those trees 
 that count," suggested Bradford. 
 
 " That's it, associations. What they've seen 
 and outlived that's the thing." 
 
 " And yet I've heard rumors " Bradford 
 stopped. 
 
 " Well, sir? " 
 
 " I've heard rumors that the associations you 
 speak of are going to get a shock." 
 
 " How so ? How so ? " 
 
 " Not of the trees ; but of something else that's 
 seen quite a bit of life, too." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Carfax College."
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " What do they say about Carfax College? " 
 " They say it may turn into a university, one of 
 these days." 
 
 " They do, do they ? " The pickle-maker 
 looked at Bradford keenly. " Now, Mr. Brad- 
 ford, you let me tell you a story. I started in 
 business in a small way, as maybe you know, and 
 I hadn't much of a plant just one building, and 
 it was out west of here about four miles. Well, 
 I made money out there ; and what's more, I got to 
 love the place. Seems mighty funny to a young fel- 
 low like you that anybody could love a pickle-fac- 
 tory, now don't it? I went out to that old place 
 every morning, pretty near, for six years. I knew 
 every board in her, and every spot where the paint 
 was off. It was mine, mine, don't you see? Don't 
 you know that sensation, where you've done some- 
 thing d d good " Bradford glanced at the 
 
 minister, but Murdoch never noticed. "Something 
 you didn't know whether you could do or not, and 
 everybody said you couldn't do? That was me. I 
 was born to love or hate, you know ; I never can do 
 with half-way emotions. I never had a child, but I 
 reckon I know what it would be to love one, just the
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 same. Mind you, I was going out to that old fac- 
 tory for years. I had a partner third partner 
 fine a young fellow as ever was, but a bit conserva- 
 tive ; he'd rather walk than run, even if he knew his 
 road; that sort of man. Well, after a while I 
 began to see that my old place was just about at 
 the end of her usefulness to me. If I wanted to 
 get on, I'd have to branch out. My, but I hated 
 to think of breaking up and getting out! You 
 won't believe that either, perhaps, but I did. But 
 what was there to do? Things were moving; I 
 had to move too." 
 
 " I see," said Bradford, as the pickle-maker 
 paused. 
 
 " But that partner of mine," the big man re- 
 sumed, musingly, " he couldn't look at it just as I 
 did. He'd been working out there too; he was 
 part of it; he felt toward it just as I did. Only 
 he wasn't as sure as I was that it would pay to 
 tear down and build bigger. I argued and ar- 
 gued, but I couldn't convince him, though I man- 
 aged to make him believe I was in earnest finally. 
 So I said to him one day, ' Sam,' I said, ' will you 
 shoot, or will you give the old man the gun ? ' He 
 [ 143]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 looked me right in the eye. I tell you he was a 
 first-class young fellow. * John,' says he, * is it 
 one or the other? ' ' Yes, it is,' says I. ' Take 
 the weapon, John,' says he, ' for I'll bet I never 
 could hit your target.' And he drew out, and 
 went on by himself, and he's doing well fairly 
 well. He spoke to me about it once, three years 
 ago or so. ' I guess you hit the bull's-eye, John,' 
 he said, ' but I'm not a bit sorry I kept off the 
 range.' That was Sam; he knew his own mind." 
 " Good-night, Amy," said the minister, ab- 
 ruptly, and came over toward them, leaving Miss 
 Power. " Murdoch, I must be going. Will you 
 come along, Mr. Bradford ? " He took a pipe 
 from some mysterious pocket and filled it carefully. 
 " Got a match? No? Then I must just use one 
 of my own." He lit his pipe, puffing vigorously, 
 and at some sign of disapprobation in Miss Pow- 
 er's eyes he smiled. " Never mind, Amy ; I'll be 
 gone in a minute. Come along, Mr. Bradford, 
 if you've said good-night." Bradford allowed 
 himself to be led away. It was too obvious that 
 Clarges was privileged in Murdoch's house. Some 
 men might have resisted, run the chance of making 
 [144]
 
 ENTER CLARGES 
 
 themselves ridiculous, and ended by certain knowl- 
 edge where Bradford possessed only uncertain 
 fear. 
 
 " Fine night," said the minister, contempla- 
 tively, when they were in the street. He smoked 
 like an engine for two squares ; neither said a word. 
 " I turn off here ; good-night, Mr. Bradford." He 
 nodded and was gone, leaving Bradford to two 
 thoughts : 
 
 (1) Carfax College was likely to see a revolu- 
 tion. 
 
 (2) What was the exact relation of this free 
 and easy minister, who was not a priest, to the 
 Murdoch household, and particularly to Amy 
 Power? 
 
 This second thought lasted Bradford all the way 
 home and after. 
 
 [145]
 
 Chapter Eight 
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 " Carfax College," said Bradford to Amy Power, 
 " takes its football as a passion, not as an amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 " But it is only a game, after all." 
 " No ; there you are wrong. It isn't a game, 
 it is an outlet for the feelings. Tennis is a game ; 
 horse-racing is a gamble; but football and bull- 
 fighting are neither the one nor the other. In the 
 Middle Ages, when the knight was in one mood he 
 flew a falcon, and in another he smacked his 
 neighbor over the head with a battle-axe. Now- 
 adays, to express the same moods, we play golf or 
 go to a football game, as the case may be. Watch 
 the people, if you think they are here to see the 
 teams play. After the game is over one side is 
 jubilant and condescending, the other unhappy 
 and ashamed. Yet both sides have done as well as 
 [146]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 they can. The fact is, of course, that winning 
 and not playing well is their aim which proves 
 what I have just said. So long as the knight 
 could smash his neighbor's skull, he cared very little 
 whether he smashed it gracefully or ungracefully ; 
 in fact, one may say he didn't care at all. That's 
 the way with us. Now and then you'll hear a man 
 maintain that the temper and tone of the game 
 are everything, and the accident of winning is 
 nothing at all. Who agrees with him? The side 
 that has been licked, every time. The winning 
 side packs away any such theories in the camphor 
 of conceit, for possible use next year." 
 
 "But," she protested, "I don't think I quite 
 understand." 
 
 They two, in common with all Carfax, were at 
 the Upton game, the game of the year. Bradford 
 had known Miss Power for at least two months, 
 in every day of which he thought of her, and 
 would have given all he had to know that she was 
 thinking of him. Poor Bradford! He had been 
 used all his life to drop the acquaintance of girls 
 who did not show him promptly that they enjoyed 
 his company. If you wished Bradford to like you, 
 [147]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you must let him know that you liked him. Alas, 
 he had found, by the irony of fate, a girl whose 
 acquaintance he could not bring himself to drop, 
 although she did not show she enjoyed his com- 
 pany at all. Did she? Sometimes it seemed im- 
 possible to him, she was so unmoved when he came ; 
 and yet she let him come, and listened closely to 
 all he had to say, and seemed a little sorry when 
 he went. He could have echoed her last remark; 
 he did not quite understand. 
 
 As if in derision of that remark, a long sustained 
 hiss ran about the crowd, and ended in a deep, 
 guttural, angry, contemptuous " ah ! " A slight 
 pause followed, and then came the thunderous beat 
 of the Carfax College yell. It rolled about them 
 like a wave; and then broke into a foam of indi- 
 vidual cries. " Bragg ! Bragg ! Bragg ! " they 
 shouted. 
 
 " Look there ; that will explain it," spoke Brad- 
 ford, his lip curling a trifle in amusement. 
 
 "What is it? What are they hissing for?" 
 
 " That man Bragg, whom they were just cheer- 
 ing, is one of the best players we have ; he's a nice 
 fellow, they say, but he has a nasty temper. The 
 [148]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 man on the other team tackled him foul a moment 
 ago, and Bragg hit him. That is against the 
 rules, and the umpire put Bragg out of the game, 
 as football law requires him to do. You see the 
 jesult hisses for the craven umpire, cheers for the 
 heroic Bragg." 
 
 " Eloquently put," said a voice behind him. 
 " What a pity that the umpire saw him isn't it ? " 
 They turned ; Father Clarges bowed, his dark eyes 
 resting momentarily on Bradford ironically, 
 Bradford thought. " How are you, Amy ? Is 
 Mr. Bradford lamenting the regrettable absence of 
 the true sporting spirit? " 
 
 Clarges's remark was the most harmless possible, 
 yet Bradford was instantaneously sure that the 
 minister saw to the bottom of his heart. If not, 
 whence rose the tone in Clarges's voice, so glibly 
 expressive of amusement ? " Aha, Mr. Bradford ; 
 I see that you really don't care a hang about 
 sportsmanly ethics," said that tone. " But the 
 thing nowadays is to be a sportsman, and you wish 
 to keep up with the leaders." The exactness of 
 Clarges's insight amazed and frightened Bradford, 
 who for a short time failed to reflect that after all 
 [149]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 he did not really know whether Clarges fancied 
 anything of the sort. But this reflection came to 
 him presently, and he sneered a little at himself. 
 He knew that ordinarily he would have cared very 
 little whether or not Clarges penetrated his arcana. 
 Bradford was always fancying that people had 
 fathomed him ; it gave him a pang for a moment, 
 then he avoided those people in the future. But 
 Amy Power was there, and Amy Power knew this 
 dark-faced, saturnine young clergyman intimately, 
 that was plain ; and so Bradford was uneasy lest 
 his real colors, or real lack of any colors, be re- 
 vealed to her. He seized upon his customary 
 resource, rapid talk, and with a skilful ignoring of 
 Clarges expounded to Miss Power the merits of 
 the game. Coincident with the dismissal of 
 Bragg the half came to an end. Neither Carfax 
 nor Upton had scored. Armed neutrality took the 
 place of combat for a season. Bradford felt much 
 as he imagined the Carfax eleven did. He, too, 
 was engaged in a contest. He had a wholesome 
 fear of his opponent. Only one thing he was sure 
 of: Clarges and Amy were not engaged. Whether 
 they were likely to be was another matter; not 
 [150]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 if he could prevent it, Bradford determined 
 fiercely. 
 
 Amy was wearing gray again gray furs and 
 a little gray hat. The sweep of sunshine, falling 
 from the west, dazzled her eyes so that she put up 
 a gray muff to shade them. Below them, above 
 them, across from them, surged the crowd, with 
 that uneasy, slightly rocking motion so inevitable 
 where many Americans are gathered together; it 
 is the epitome of the nation's nervousness. 
 
 " See you again," remarked Father Clarges. 
 " Must have a little constitutional." He made his 
 way unconcernedly down among the people, who 
 drew themselves out of his path, and looked up at 
 him annoyed. He wore no overcoat, though the 
 wind was brisk. Soon they saw him stop to light 
 his pipe; then he strolled away. 
 
 " Curious chap," said Bradford. He tried hard 
 to keep his voice even. He felt impelled to say 
 something of Clarges. It is certain that in the 
 spring-time the song of the longing male robin 
 concerns the other intrusive suitors. " I thought 
 he was a mission clergyman, at first." 
 
 " No," answered Amy, " he has our church. It 
 is very large and rich." 
 
 [151]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Did you notice his unconsciousness ? " asked 
 Bradford, speaking lightly. " That's a great 
 trait, don't you think? When he went down just 
 now did you see? He paid no attention to any- 
 body ; what he wanted was to get his pipe lighted. 
 That's the kind of man who succeeds. We get 
 our toes trodden on, but we admire in the end." 
 
 " Do you think so? " 
 
 Bradford knew very well that he liked Amy 
 Power against his will. He confessed it miserably 
 to himself sometimes. For instance, such remarks 
 as her last, without a particle of inflection whereby 
 he might guess what she really meant, annoyed 
 him horribly. He was aware that, under such an- 
 noyance, his custom was to flash back something, 
 careless whether it wounded or not, and betake 
 himself to more congenial company. Now he suf- 
 fered, but he stayed; and knew that he wanted to 
 stay ; and cursed himself for wanting to stay. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. " Individualism is all 
 that makes the world go round. You can call it 
 selfishness, or you can call it concentration, just as 
 you please, but a man must be mindful of himself 
 and unmindful of others, if he is to get on. He's 
 [152]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 here to be interested in what he himself is doing. 
 That is the spirit which in war we call Napoleon, 
 and in literature, Shakespeare; Sir Isaac Newton 
 had it and discovered the law of gravitation, 
 Columbus had it and discovered America, Nero had 
 it and lent Christianity just the impetus it wanted, 
 and Father Clarges " he broke off and laughed. 
 He was doing a contemptible thing and he knew 
 it. 
 
 " I don't think you really believe all that," she 
 answered, looking at him with a puzzled light in 
 her eyes. He laughed again defiantly, then more 
 softly. At least he had interested her. " Well, 
 perhaps I don't," he confessed. They dropped 
 the subject. He was conscious that he had told 
 Amy Power of his own dislike for Clarges; had 
 spoken ill of Clarges which all the laws of honor 
 forbade a man in his circumstances to do. But 
 his chief concern was what did she think? And 
 again he would have given all he had to know. 
 
 " See old Carhart," he exclaimed, presently. 
 
 " He's the queerest fish in the basket, Miss Power. 
 
 Do you know that he knows the name, age, height, 
 
 and weight of every player who ever wore the Car- 
 
 [153]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 fax green? If you give him time, he'll tell them 
 all to you, and tell you just what every one is 
 doing now. The night I met you, at Craven's 
 do you remember? I asked him, as you came in 
 with your uncle, whether he knew Mr. Murdoch. 
 * Murdoch ? ' said he. * Yes ; he played left guard 
 three years; he was twenty-seven his senior year, 
 six feet three, weighed two hundred and twelve.' 
 How's that for accuracy, Miss Power? " 
 
 She laughed her slow little laugh. " Uncle will 
 be glad to get those details, if I can remember 
 them," she said. " He's very proud of his foot- 
 ball, but I'm afraid he's forgotten those things. 
 Will you tell them to me again? " 
 
 Bradford, reduced to the necessity of saying 
 that he was not quite certain they were accurate, 
 was floundering the least bit, when Clarges re- 
 turned. The intermission was over; the game was 
 on. Bradford had an uncomfortable feeling that 
 in the game he was playing he had to some extent 
 violated the rules. 
 
 Yes, the game was on; and a cry went up from 
 a dozen keen-eyed watchers in the front row. 
 " Bragg ! Bragg ! Bragg ! " It grew in volume, 
 [154]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 and was tossed up and down, growing still, till 
 it ended in one vast, inarticulate roar of joy. 
 
 " What is it ? " cried Amy, her eyes shining with 
 excitement. 
 
 "Why why " said Bradford, doubtfully, 
 " it seems to me yet it can't be it is Bragg 
 is back in the game! Bragg! Bragg! We have 
 a chance now." 
 
 " But the ethics ? " Clarges's face was inscrut- 
 able. 
 
 "Ethics?" snapped Bradford. "The umpire 
 put the man out; if he found that he did him an 
 injustice he can put him in again, can't he? " 
 
 " Not according to the rules, I believe." 
 
 " The half was up as Bragg was put out ; there 
 was no more playing. If the umpire chooses to 
 rule that he was wrong to disqualify the man, it is 
 his own business." 
 
 " True," responded Clarges. " But I believe we 
 are accessories after the fact." 
 
 Amy continued to watch the game ; whether she 
 understood the bearing of the conversation it would 
 be difficult to say. 
 
 It sometimes happens that when two teams are 
 [155]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 very evenly matched a single slight matter will be 
 enough to turn the scale completely It seems as 
 if the balance, when pulled just a little, tips more 
 and more of its own weight, so that in the end it 
 has dipped away down. It happened so now. 
 Carfax, which had despaired of winning without 
 Bragg, was restored to complete confidence when 
 it had him back. Upton was massacred. The 
 final score was twenty-four to nothing. And Car- 
 fax went crazy; the air was thick with banners; 
 long files of men wavered, shouting, in and out and 
 up and down the field, while the poor Uptonians 
 hung their heads and disappeared, miserably con- 
 tent if they might escape without attracting at- 
 tention. 
 
 " Tell me," said Amy, " I don't know the rules, 
 you see tell me, was this man, Mr. Bragg, taken 
 back according to rule ? " 
 
 " It's hard to say. A man who has been taken 
 out can't go in again. But the officials may have 
 agreed that the half was really over before Bragg 
 was put out; and in that case " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " In that case, technically, he may be said not to 
 [156]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 have been put out at all, and to have a perfect 
 right to play on." 
 
 " Technically ? But what do you really think ? " 
 Bradford laughed. " I think we won the game," 
 he said. 
 
 Clarges smiled. " Facts are more blessed than 
 much theory," he said. " Good-night, Amy. I'm 
 sorry there are so few supporters of your ethics in 
 Carfax, Mr. Bradford." He touched his cap and 
 was gone into the crowd. Amy's eyes followed him 
 questioningly. Did she want him back? Brad- 
 ford would have liked to strike him. Do not think 
 the worse of Bradford; he did not show his desire. 
 And if our own secret inclinations were habitually 
 apparent to the world, we should stand lower, most 
 of us, than we do, by just the distance that sav- 
 agery stands below civilization. The years have 
 taught us nothing but concealment. 
 
 " Didn't I see you with Miss Murdoch at the 
 game, Frank ? " 
 
 " Her name is Power, Shedsy." 
 
 " She's a s-stunner. But whoso t-touches fire 
 is liable to be scorched, Frank." 
 [157]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " She's no fire, Shedsy ; she's snow ; cool, 
 p ure 
 
 " Are you fellows going to the m-mass-meet- 
 ing?" 
 
 " I'm going, but not with you ; I make part of 
 the fringe, with Dr. Craven," said Kate. Shedsy 
 glanced up at him, but answered onl}- 
 
 "You'll go, Frank?" 
 
 Bradford knew from experience that Carfax 
 mass-meetings, after a big game won, were worth 
 attendance. The students took them seriously. 
 Bradford could remember the days when he had 
 been lifted up and borne about on young shoulders, 
 while he clung to any convenient hair, and rejoiced 
 to be the centre of it all. 
 
 To-night across the Carfax quadrangles the 
 howl drifted not the strong, sonorous cheer, but 
 the faint, indiscriminate, unblended shriek which 
 said, " Here we are ! We have won, won, won, 
 and we mean to let you know it." Snatches of un- 
 intelligible songs reached them down the wind. As 
 they approached, the glare of the fire against the 
 dormitory windows met them first, red as blood ; 
 then, as they rounded a corner, they saw the fire 
 [158]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 itself, the centre of a thousand dancing, shrieking, 
 destructive students of the liberal arts and the 
 sciences, who were celebrating the one thing which 
 man will continue to celebrate until Culture, with 
 its last delicate touch, shall snick his arteries and 
 let out his blood. They were celebrating the 
 triumph of brain and body. 
 
 "Looks like hell and the devils, doesn't it?" 
 said Slim. 
 
 By the fire, not too close, but still broad in the 
 glare, stood a big hay-wagon, in which the sheep- 
 ish but happy eleven had been hauled to the scene ; 
 some of them were still in it, but most had escaped. 
 In it stood also one William West, master of cere- 
 monies, who from time to time introduced certain 
 students who essayed to address the mob of der- 
 vishes around ; the joyful dervishes mocking thereat. 
 Beyond, on the edge of darkness, stood the spec- 
 tators of the scene townspeople, faculty, and 
 maidservants. 
 
 " Boys," cried the stentorian voice of West, " it 
 is said that some in this vast assemblage are un- 
 acquainted with the score of to-day's game. Will 
 you enlighten them ? " 
 
 [159]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 They counted in unison. " One, two, three, 
 four, five. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Twenty- 
 one ! Twenty-two ! ! Twenty-three ! ! ! Twenty- 
 four ! ! ! ! " And then the powerful Carfax cheer. 
 
 " Who is Billy West? " cried a voice in the 
 crowd. 
 
 " Who, indeed ? " came a squeak from somewhere. 
 There was a roar, and West blushed in the fire- 
 light. 
 
 " I have the honor, gentlemen and ladies " 
 
 " Nine rahs for the ladies ! Rah, rah, rah ! 
 Rah, rah, rah ! Rah, rah, rah ! Ladies ! " 
 
 " gentlemen and ladies, to present Mr. Richard 
 Brown, who will " 
 
 " Dick, Dick, we want Dick f Dick, Dick, 
 we want Dick ! " The staccato applause rose, 
 drowning everything else. Mr. Brown, very neatly 
 dressed, and with a perfunctory smile, advanced 
 to the end of the wagon. Alas for him; he wore 
 a light waistcoat, and they would not let him begin. 
 
 " Remove the vest ! Oh-h, Dick, remove the 
 vest!" 
 
 " Remove the smile ! Oh-h, Dick, remove the 
 smile!" 
 
 [160]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 " If your sweetheart could see you now, Dicky 
 dear!" 
 
 " Dicky by any other name would smell as 
 sweet " 
 
 At last he found a lull. " Fellows, I only want 
 to say " 
 
 "Say it!" 
 
 " Spit it out, Dick." 
 
 " Let us know your mind, old man." 
 
 " I only wanted to say, Three cheers for Car- 
 fax ! " And the crowd roared forth the three, and 
 three more to keep them company, and still three 
 for good measure; and Brown descended and 
 Green took his place; and the endless whirling 
 farce went on, while the fire blazed high in the air, 
 and shoved the people back and back, like a huge 
 red-haired policeman, as its heat increased, and its 
 light threw their faces into ghastly white relief. 
 
 " Much the same thing as ours used to be," said 
 Bradford to Barnes, " only I think we made a little 
 more noise, perhaps. And there is nobody here 
 now like Pudding Thomas to make the crowd 
 laugh." 
 
 "True, O King!" 
 
 [161]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " It makes me melancholy, though," went on 
 
 Bradford. " Et ego in Arcadia vixi ; d d 
 
 smoky Arcadia, but I'm sorry to be out of it so 
 soon ! " He sighed. 
 
 " Go, then, my son, and h-howl among the 
 h-howlers." 
 
 " They don't know me any more, Shedsy ; they'd 
 put me out." 
 
 Shedsy chuckled to himself. Then he slipped 
 away a moment into the darkness. 
 
 " I am informed," thundered the master of cere- 
 monies a few minutes later, " that Francis Howell 
 Bradford, ninety-blank, hero of the Carfax and 
 Albans wreck at Hoopsboro, is in the audience. 
 Will Mr. Bradford come forward or would he 
 prefer to be brought ? " 
 
 " Here he is," shouted Shedsy, seizing him, while 
 others took up the cry. Bradford resisted, but 
 faintly ; presently he was in the wagon, facing the 
 crowd, as he had often been years before. The 
 suddenness of it, however, was a trifle surprising. 
 From the wagon the fire-lit area appeared smaller, 
 the faces more ghastly in the glare, the ring of 
 darkness more sharply cut. 
 
 [162]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 " Gentlemen, Mr. Bradford ; Mr. Bradford, 
 gentlemen," trumpeted West. There was an ex- 
 plosion of cheers, and then silence. 
 
 It shut down around them so unexpected and so 
 profound that the crackling of the fire seemed to 
 amazingly increase, and became like innumerable 
 pistol-shots in a high wind. Bradford stood there, 
 facing them all, in his element; at ease, and com- 
 pletely happy. 
 
 " Sing ! " cried a voice. Bradford held up his 
 hand. 
 
 " Join in the chorus, boys." His voice found 
 even the limit of the crowd, where the wives of 
 the professors stood. He sang them the old march- 
 ing-song, as he had sung it years before, and they 
 joined in the chorus crashingly, till the snapping 
 fire wavered so it almost seemed the stars were wav- 
 ering too. 
 
 Walk around, boys, walk around t 
 Walk around, boys, walk around ! 
 
 Hit her up a little, boys, hit her up a little, boyt, hit her 
 up a little, boys, 
 
 Walk around ! 
 
 Drink her down, boys, drink her down I 
 Drink her down, boys, drink her down I 
 
 [163]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Drink her down to Carfax, drink her down to Carfax, drink 
 her down to Carfax, 
 
 Drink her down I 
 So here's to you and here's to me, and here's to Carfax, that 
 
 makes three, 
 And you never will discover a finer trinity, 
 
 So drink her down. Walk around ! 
 
 He still stood in the wagon, and at the end of 
 the final chorus, suddenly that extraordinary, ex- 
 pectant silence fell again something tangible; 
 the silence of curiosity. Then Bradford leaned 
 forward and began to speak. As he waited for 
 the chorus to finish, the thought had come to him 
 and set his pulses beating. Looking away into 
 the darkness, he saw, as plainly as if it had been 
 in reality there, the dark face of the priest, with 
 the tiniest trifle of an ironical sneer; and he saw, 
 too, a face with gray eyes. What was this clam- 
 orous crowd to Bradford? Only the stage and 
 the audience. The joy -light, the battle-light, 
 flickered unseen in Bradford's eyes; he felt the 
 racing blood in his veins, and braced himself for 
 what he was to do. He would prove to Clarges 
 
 " Boys ! Fellows of Carfax ! Most of you 
 
 don't know who I am " 
 
 [164]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 " Oh-h, yes, we do ! " 
 
 " Only that I'm an old glee-club man who 
 wanted a chance to air his voice. But I'm a Car- 
 fax man all right; I have the credentials in my 
 trunk. I see Dr. Craven out there; he used to 
 shake dice every Saturday afternoon for four years 
 to see whether I got through or not; but the 
 dice fell my way somebody had loaded them 
 and I came through." He dropped his voice a 
 trifle. " And you don't know though you will 
 when you've been out four years, as I have what 
 old Carfax is to me. Well that's all right, you 
 think; but this meeting isn't an autograph album 
 for me to write a sentiment in. So there's only 
 one thing I want to say. It's a strong thing, and 
 I'm afraid you'll think it's an ungrateful thing; 
 but I believe it's a right thing, and so, strong 
 and ungrateful if it be, I want to say it. I have 
 been thinking about it all the evening. Understand 
 this first: I make no reflections on the attitude of 
 any man here. I state my own feelings merely. 
 And it is this: Jimmy Bragg should never have 
 been allowed to go back into that game to-day." 
 
 There was a silence then ! Not a single spurting 
 [165]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 cheer; not a groan; not a sound. Every person 
 there was listening. 
 
 " He is a player whose skill needs no words of 
 mine to praise," hurried on Bradford intensely. 
 " He is a man who is justly popular wherever he 
 is known. The umpire himself, in reinstating him, 
 admitted that he had been unjustly taken out. 
 But, fellows, to put a man back is against the rules 
 of the game ! To take advantage of a technicality 
 is against the spirit of the game! You say, per- 
 haps, it is the umpire's business, and that is true; 
 but it is our business also your business, and my 
 business, as square men and lovers of square, clean 
 sport. You see by the score we could have won 
 anyway. We had them beaten in that second half. 
 Well, we have the victory now ; the banner is float- 
 ing over us ; but, fellows, what would you give to 
 have it floating there without the stain ! " 
 
 Still there was dead silence. In the same un- 
 natural quiet Bradford bowed, easily and grace- 
 fully; his face was flushed but unexcited. The 
 clapping of a single pair of hands fell upon their 
 ears, and everybody turned. Dr. Craven's white 
 beard was plain to be seen; standing tall in the 
 [166]
 
 THE RULES OF THE GAME 
 
 firelight, he was clapping heartily. One and an- 
 other, here and there, took it up, but only a few. 
 And Bradford got down from the wagon and 
 crossed the firelit space; and all the way his blood 
 was racing, and his eyes were shining, and he was 
 thinking, 
 
 "I did it! I did it! I did it!" His steps 
 kept time. 
 
 Shedsy seized him by the arm. " R-raving 
 good, oh, r-raving good, Frank! You're just ex- 
 actly right! I f-felt that way, too, but I didn't 
 know h-how to say it. It was fine ! " 
 
 Bradford gripped his hand. His voice was re- 
 strained and tense. 
 
 " A man has to speak sometimes, when his heart 
 is full, Shedsy!" 
 
 [167]
 
 Chapter Nine 
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 The breakfast room at Murdoch's was small and 
 almost as simply furnished as the dining-room of 
 the Residuum, but the simplicity was that of cost- 
 liness. Anyone may gain a reputation for taste 
 nowadays if he goes to the right shop, as Murdoch 
 made a habit of doing. The room was six-sided, 
 and panelled nearly to the frieze with silver birch. 
 The three windows all looked out upon the lawn, 
 one to the east, two to the south. Opposite, fast- 
 ened to the space above the panelling by some in- 
 visible contrivance, hung three pictures, all water- 
 colors, and all of Murdoch's woods and river " up 
 north." 
 
 Murdoch's face appeared suddenly from a cloud 
 of Sunday newspaper. " Amy," he asked, " did 
 you go to the football game yesterday with young 
 Bradford?" 
 
 " Yes, Uncle." 
 
 [168]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 " Have a good time ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." She might have answered as en- 
 thusiastically had he asked her if she liked choco- 
 lates, or whether it was a fine day. 
 
 " That's a nice boy," consented Murdoch, begin- 
 ning to smile. " Say, Amy, when I think of him 
 singing away that night, I love him ; I really do." 
 
 " What makes you think of him now ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh here's something about him in the paper. 
 He's been distinguishing himself again, but he 
 seems to have made sort of a mess of it this time. 
 I'll back him to be right, though. All he needs 
 to learn is that there's a time to tell the truth, and 
 a time to " 
 
 "To lie, Uncle Jack?" 
 
 The pickle-maker laughed his big laugh, got up, 
 and tossed her the sheet. " Not a bit of it ; a time 
 to keep still, that's all. Here; you see. By the 
 way, you'll have to go to church for both of us, 
 girlie I'm busy this morning. You may have a 
 surprise before long you and Carfax. I'm not 
 saying anything definite, but I tell you maybe. 
 I hope you'll like it when it comes. Say, Amy ? " 
 [169]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I'm all the father and mother you've got, you 
 know. Is there anything you want that you 
 haven't got? " 
 
 " Nothing that you can give me, Uncle Jack." 
 
 " Try me and see." 
 
 " Well," she said, considering, " I wish I had 
 a quicker way of drying my hair, it's so thick." 
 She looked at him gravely. " Nothing else." 
 
 " That stumps me," he admitted. " But, Amy 
 you know I care about you, don't you? " 
 
 " Yes, dear," she answered, a trifle surprised. 
 
 " You know that whatever I do I'll be thinking 
 about you, don't you? " 
 
 Amy's caresses were very rare. Now she put 
 her hand on his, while he stood by her. " Yes, 
 dear," she said again, and his face cleared. When 
 he had gone, she wondered what was bothering him ; 
 he was seldom so serious. The thought crossed 
 her mind that he might have made some mistake 
 in the business " the business " was quite vague 
 and formless to Amy and she looked after him 
 affectionately. In a moment she took up the 
 paper, and read the account of Bradford's speech 
 [170]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 at the mass-meeting. His position was very 
 plainly sneered at by whoever had written the 
 article ; she could catch the contempt even through 
 the veil of technicalities which obscured it. She 
 read the bit over two or three times. Then she 
 nodded decisively, put her elbows on the table and 
 her chin in her hands, and stared for some time 
 across the breakfast-china. 
 
 Afterward she muffled herself in her furs, and 
 went to church. She was a very constant church- 
 goer. St. Hilda's is a curious structure to the 
 casual and uninitiated stranger. It is very long, 
 very high, very narrow, very white. There are 
 altars, little and big; mysterious doors, whence 
 unexpected chanting processions issue; and a pro- 
 fusion of well-meant mortuary adornment. The 
 acoustics are so bad that Father Clarges has hung 
 over the lectern an old-fashioned, ungilded sound- 
 ing board, which seems almost the one touch of 
 solidity among the filigree of St. Hilda's. 
 
 Clarges never read his ten-minute sermons, but 
 
 delivered them with a straightforward spontaneity. 
 
 Christ, in a crimson robe, blessed the kneeling John 
 
 in a stained-glass window behind him ; and on sunny 
 
 [171]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Sundays a shaft of crimson, striking down across 
 the minister's shoulder, splashed his hands red as he 
 laid them flat before him on the gilded railing. His 
 clean-shaven lips were almost gloomy as he urged 
 upon his congregation the necessity of sincerity. 
 The sharp little sentences flashed in and out like so 
 many needles. 
 
 " Sincerity is life. Insincerity is death. One 
 is growth and flow; the other decay and stagna- 
 tion. Half a loaf is worse than no bread; and 
 just so half a heart is worse than no heart. Say 
 what you mean; be what you are. The religion 
 of Christ began in a small country and among a 
 humble folk. It spread till it filled the whole 
 world. Why? Because the men who believed in 
 it believed in it sincerely ; preached it whole-heart- 
 edly ; died for it cheerfully. Now, they tell us, 
 our religion is passing away. Substitute religions 
 are springing up, as well as dull, dreary creeds 
 which substitute no religion. Unfaith, they tell 
 us, is supplanting faith. Is it so? Perhaps not 
 all; but a part of it, I believe. Has something 
 dropped out of the religion of Christ, then? Or 
 have we grown so complex, latterly, that the sim- 
 [172]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 plicity of Christ's message no longer fits our emo- 
 tions? No. Jesus is the same yesterday, to-day, 
 and forever; his word is as efficacious, if we ac- 
 cept it sincerely. But do we? How many of us 
 live our religion? How many of us would even 
 die for it? And how many would be dying, not 
 for their religion, but for their pride's sake? It 
 is time for us to range ourselves. It is time for 
 those who believe heartily to show it; and for 
 those who believe conventionally to confess it 
 openly and without shame. The man who pro- 
 fesses that which he ought to believe, whether he 
 believes it or not, is almost beyond hope. There 
 is far more chance for the man who honestly be- 
 lieves nothing at all. An open enemy is respected ; 
 a half-hearted friend is despised." 
 
 Amy sat wondering in her pew. Father Clarges's 
 words, for the most part, passed her unheeded. 
 True, he was giving voice to her sentiments, but 
 words count for little with woman, who would 
 rather change her opinions to agree with a man 
 she likes than admit that she agrees with a man 
 she is indifferent to. 
 
 Amy's mother had possessed the admirable qual- 
 [173]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 ity of directness, but unfortunately for herself she 
 had also been what we call breezy. Unfortunately ; 
 for breeziness in our confined, delicate lives re- 
 sembles too closely a gust in a boudoir to be agree- 
 able. Crash ! Over goes the table. Flutter, 
 scatter, the papers are whisking out of the window. 
 When Mrs. Power had paid a visit the air was 
 left a trifle fresher, but certainly, too, some ideas 
 were always left in disorder, some cherished con- 
 ventional principles were temporarily overturned. 
 The principles could be easily righted, but no one 
 likes to be constantly readjusting one's mental 
 furniture though it is occasionally amusing to 
 see such a necessity overtaking a neighbor. So 
 Mrs. Power had never been a popular woman. She 
 seemed to care little about this, and went cheerfully 
 on her hearty way. Amy was born; and her 
 mother, a little later, came to die. Before she 
 went away, she said to her husband, 
 
 " Henry, I hope the little girl won't grow into 
 such a tearer as I've been." 
 
 Her husband, who was a notably quiet man, 
 merely closed his hand upon hers. 
 
 " It does no good," she continued, reflectively, 
 [174]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 " to be always trying to show people what is 
 right. I see that now. Your way is better, Hen- 
 ry." 
 
 " My dear ! " he answered her softly. " My 
 dear!" 
 
 " Yes, much better. I should try it if I had 
 another chance. Don't contradict me, Henry 
 Power; I know your way is better." Saying this, 
 with somewhat feeble positiveness, she went to 
 sleep, and soon afterward died. As such a woman 
 is generally the object of dislike, so her husband 
 is usually the target for ridicule. Probably he 
 deserves it. Power, at least, never seemed to mind. 
 For some ten years he was, if possible, more quiet 
 than before; then he, too, died, and bequeathed 
 his daughter, Amy, to his wife's brother. In those 
 ten years the little girl had received the seal of 
 silence. Her subsequent association with her 
 uncle developed her inherited straightforwardness, 
 but did nothing to teach her expression. Murdoch 
 usually talked for both of them. Amy was at this 
 time nineteen; short as the young giantesses go 
 now, when girls are bred for bone; brown rather 
 than dark ; and quite ignorant of what she expected 
 [175]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Life to bring her, yet anxious at least to see it 
 a child, if you please, on the night before Christ- 
 mas. But Amy would never have dreamed of 
 analyzing herself in such a fashion. Self-analysis 
 was what she had no turn for. She lived on 
 quietly. 
 
 She went home from church and dined with her 
 uncle and his lawyer, Barrett Senior. Murdoch 
 was in high spirits. Their business was not yet 
 finished, he declared, but when it was Amy should 
 know, provided she did not become too obviously 
 inquisitive ; and he winked at Barrett Senior. Im- 
 mediately after dinner the two retired once more, 
 leaving Amy alone. A little later, however, the 
 rector of St. Hilda's dropped in. Over his robes, 
 suspended from his neck, he wore a gold chain sup- 
 porting a long jet cross, on which was carved the 
 figure of a writhing Christ. As Clarges strolled 
 across the room the outstretched arms lay helplessly 
 against his breast. 
 
 " Well, Amy. I have an hour between services, 
 you see." Thus he explained his coming. She 
 nodded and went on reading ; he, too, picked up a 
 book, but presently he looked up to say, 
 [176]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 " What did you think of my sermon ? " 
 
 " I didn't hear much of it. I was thinking." 
 
 " It wasn't meant for you, anyway." He turned 
 a page carelessly, and after a moment or two she 
 resumed her reading. Shortly he came round be- 
 fore her and laid a hand on her book. She looked 
 up; her eyes were so cold that Bradford would 
 have shivered to see them, but Clarges seemed not 
 to mind. " Talk to me," he said, abruptly. She 
 let her hands clasp above the book in her lap, and 
 stared at him serenely and contemplatively. He 
 gave a short laugh. 
 
 " You are growing up, Amy. You are no 
 longer my little girl." 
 
 " I have never been your little girl." 
 
 The writhing Christ hung just before her face 
 as he stood over her. " Never? " 
 
 " Never, Father Clarges. I have never liked 
 you as I think you know." 
 
 He laughed again. " Oh, yes ; I know. You 
 have a way of letting people know, Amy. But 
 you never told me so before." 
 
 " I never shall again, Father." 
 
 " What don't you like about me ? " he urged, 
 [177]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 with a queer smile. " My looks ? My profes- 
 sion ? " 
 
 " Oh, your profession ! " she cried, suddenly. 
 " I wonder if you care a particle about your pro- 
 fession ? " 
 
 The writhing Christ on his breast slowly, im- 
 perceptibly lifted, as he drew a long breath. 
 " Why do you wonder that ? " 
 
 " See how you treat people ! You ride over 
 them; you do not turn aside at all for them. 
 Do you ever care for anyone beside yourself? Do 
 you really care whether anyone is ever saved or 
 not ? " The downrightness of her words was em- 
 phasized by their calm ; she struck hard and indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 " Don't you know, Amy," he answered, staring 
 at her steadily, " that there are only two classes 
 of ministers nowadays those who are bullied by 
 their congregations, and those who bully? We 
 must choose one thing or the other. Morally, as 
 well as in other ways, it is better for us and for 
 them that we should bully." His dark eyes were 
 narrowed; she was looking down, not at him, and 
 his lips worked nervously. But as she glanced up, 
 [178]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 the same ironical, confusing smile which Bradford 
 hated quickly resumed its place. " Profession of 
 faith," he said, harshly. " To bully or not to 
 bully, that is the question. I bully." 
 
 " Yes," she said, clearly and indifferently still, 
 " you bully." 
 
 " Why do you choose to-day to tell me this, 
 Amy ? " he asked, more gently. 
 
 " I thought you asked me," she said, surprised. 
 
 " Yesterday he said, and stopped. She 
 waited. " Amy," he began again, " I hope that 
 in my bullying you don't think I'm rude? You 
 don't think I contrast too strongly with with the 
 other young men whom you meet? " She made no 
 answer. 
 
 " Do you ? " he urged, still with his sardonic 
 half-smile. 
 
 " I think you are rude yes," she said, wearily. 
 " Why do you force me to say unpleasant 
 things? " 
 
 " You might have told an untruth to save my 
 feelings, perhaps." Amy passed this over in 
 silence. 
 
 Clarges walked to the window and stood looking 
 [179]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 out. The sun was bright on a world made raw 
 by the damp Carfax wind. Murdoch's house was 
 not commensurate with the size of his fortune, but 
 it stood in large grounds. At the side the bare 
 syringa bushes bowed and shivered. Late fallen 
 leaves whipped suddenly across the lawn, testify- 
 ing to the carelessness of Murdoch's gardener. 
 Beyond, the edge-row of elms gauntly displayed 
 their withered charms. Carfax is seldom beautiful 
 in November. Suddenly Clarges turned, as if he 
 hoped to find the girl's eyes on him ; but Amy was 
 quietly reading. 
 
 " They told me your Uncle was busy." 
 
 " Yes. Mr. Barrett has been with him all day." 
 
 " I must be going to my service." 
 
 " Good-afternoon, Father." 
 
 " You will not come with me? " 
 
 " No, thank you, Father." 
 
 The rector went out, pulling his flat, clerical hat 
 well down, lest the wind seize it from him. St. 
 Hilda's and the clergy-house were five blocks from 
 Murdoch's. He walked the whole distance with 
 his eyes on the sidewalk. He passed several of his 
 parishioners, who waited for a word, but received 
 [180]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 none. One woman stopped her carriage, and, 
 having called to him, beckoned him to come, but he 
 shook his head unsmilingly and went on. 
 
 " He is so odd," she said to her companion, half- 
 vexed. " But such a dear ! " 
 
 Clarges, when he had reached his rooms, removed 
 the jet Christ, and hung it carefully upon a sil- 
 vered nail above a little oratory. He went into 
 another room, and stripped the upper half of his 
 body bare. His chest, beneath the spot where the 
 cross had lain, was seamed and scarred, as if it had 
 been cut with knives. He knelt before the ora- 
 tory, and, raising his hands to the writhing Christ, 
 he prayed silently. But as he prayed his thoughts 
 began to wander. 
 
 " Yesterday," he thought, " she watched that 
 man as as she has never looked at me. He cares 
 for her, that is plain, as much as he can care for 
 anyone. Am I mistaken in him? Has he the 
 honesty to love her as she must be loved? O God, 
 God ! " He shivered. " Am I so little of a man 
 that while I am kneeling before Thee I must be 
 abusing in my thoughts another man because she 
 loves him ? Forgive me, forgive me ! " He rose, 
 [181]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 and took from a drawer a curious instrument, a 
 strigil with a square, narrow handle and dependent, 
 sharp-edged steel fringe. With this, in utter 
 silence, he lashed himself and relashed himself 
 upon the old scars of his breast, until the blood 
 sprang freely. Then in the next room, when he 
 had sponged the cuts and laid a thick cotton cloth 
 above them, he resumed his robes. Before the ora- 
 tory he knelt once more a moment; then with his 
 slow step and his half-smile, the rector of St. 
 Hilda's went down to service. 
 
 In the shadow of ten million dollars, most of us, 
 in spite of the mighty fortunes of this epoch, grow 
 a trifle awed. Ten millions tower so ! Even Mur- 
 doch, though he had it to give, shivered a little 
 when he considered it directly. But Barrett 
 Senior, " The Father," in Carfax slang, hummed 
 a tune when the business was finished, and he gath- 
 ered certain papers together. 
 
 " This will certainly rouse talk, John," he said, 
 in a slow, old, soft voice, with a humorous twinkle 
 in his blue eyes. His was a pleasant, innocent 
 face. " Yes, this will certainly rouse some talk." 
 [182]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 " None till we're ready for it," cautioned 
 Murphy. " I don't want it to get out just 
 yet." 
 
 Barrett contemplated him. " Did you know 
 that Harley Schaef er was looking for a divorce ? " 
 he asked. Murdoch's attention was set upon the 
 ten million his ten million and the question did 
 not come home to him for a minute. Then he 
 cried, " Harley Schaef er ! " 
 
 " He's not, you know," said Barrett, placidly. 
 " To the best of my knowledge, he believes his wife 
 to be a highly estimable woman. But if he were, 
 and if our firm had the case, you would hardly ex- 
 pect me to speak of it, would you? " 
 
 Murdoch grinned. " Well, I'm sorry I hurt 
 your feelings, Mr. Barrett. But this will cause 
 talk, eh?" 
 
 "Talk? They'll talk like" But the inno- 
 cent old gentleman's simile is best left to the imag- 
 ination, as possibly someone may wish to send this 
 story through the mails. " Why, my dear John, 
 when Carfax hears about this money, Carfax will 
 get upon its hind legs and bay the moon. The 
 whole country will." 
 
 [183]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I hope so," said Murdoch, decidedly. " It 
 ought to be a great ad., eh? " 
 
 " It will be." 
 
 " The time's come," went on the pickle-maker, 
 firmly, " when Carfax College has got to move up 
 if she means to be in the procession at all." 
 
 " You're quite right, John." His finger-tips 
 together, the careful nails the object of his con- 
 templation, the lawyer listened approvingly. 
 
 " And she's not only going to be in the proces- 
 sion, she's going to head it. I don't see any reason 
 why Carfax shouldn't lead Harvard, or Columbia, 
 or any of the rest of 'em. All it takes is money, 
 and here's the money." 
 
 " Here," said Barrett, " is a gob of it to 
 phrase it vulgarly." 
 
 " You don't seem to think much of it," said 
 Murdoch, with a distant reproach in his tone. 
 
 " Of ten million, John ? I think a lot of it ; I 
 think so much of it it makes my mouth water ; and 
 therefore, with your permission, I think I'll just 
 have a cigar." 
 
 " Something with it? " 
 
 " Something with it, as you say, John." So 
 [184]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 the lawyer and the ordinary American citizen who 
 had just made arrangements to give away ten mill- 
 ion dollars to Carfax College and the cause of 
 education with perhaps an incidental eye upon 
 the advertisement sipped a little whiskey-and- 
 water together on the raw, bright Sunday after- 
 noon. 
 
 " It strikes me, John," suggested the lawyer, at 
 length, " that you have left one thing out of con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " What's that ? " demanded Murdoch, hastily. 
 
 " Well, after all, it's a little thing, but I haven't 
 heard you speak of it. No ; I'll not have any more 
 whiskey, thanks. If you'll forgive me, John, this 
 whiskey of yours reminds me a little of some that 
 an old client of mine gave me on a fee once. He 
 owed me five hundred dollars, and he offered me 
 twenty-five gallons of rye, which he said was twen- 
 ty-five years old. It was all he had in the world, 
 so of course I took it. About a year afterward 
 my brother-in-law happened to be visiting me, and 
 I thought of this whiskey and gave him some. He's 
 a great judge of whiskey. I told him it was twen- 
 ty-five years old, and asked him what he thought 
 [185]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 of it. ' Well,' he said, ' Mack, I don't doubt it is 
 twenty-five years old, but I doubt if it was any 
 
 d n good in the first place.' That discouraged 
 
 me a little. But I found a use for it finally. I 
 had a hen-ranch down south of here then. I had 
 a new breed of hen; Barred Spanish Rocks; I 
 never saw such hens to lay. They'd lay day and 
 night. The only trouble was, they got cramps 
 from sitting still so much. So I used the whiskey 
 for liniment, and it worked like a charm. Killed 
 two birds with one stone, as you might say." 
 
 Murdoch's laughter over this story was a little 
 uneasy. He thought that Barrett was merely 
 gaining time. " What's the thing I haven't pro- 
 vided for? " he demanded. 
 
 Barrett ruminated. " The old Doctor," he said, 
 at last. 
 
 Murdoch's face clouded in an instant. 
 
 "You think?" 
 
 " You'll have to get rid of him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Bless my soul, he can no more do what you 
 want done than " Again one of the unprint- 
 able similes. 
 
 [186]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 " I was thinking the same," admitted Murdoch. 
 
 " How are you going to get rid of him, if he 
 wants to hang on ? " 
 
 " That's for the board to say." 
 
 " Nonsense, John. When you have given them 
 this money, you'll be the boss; you know that. 
 What you say will go. What you say will 
 go, John." 
 
 " Do you think he'll insist on staying ? " 
 
 " No-o ; I don't believe he will. That's why I 
 say this is a small matter, after all. But he won't 
 be feeling very pleasantly toward you, John." 
 
 " Why not ? " Murdoch was genuinely puz- 
 zled. 
 
 " Why, bless my soul," chuckled the old lawyer 
 again. " Why, bless my soul, boy ! Don't you 
 see you'll be putting him out of his job? He'll be 
 fancying Providence has gone back on him about 
 that time." 
 
 Murdoch sighed. " I suppose you're right," 
 he said, sadly. " Well, he'll have to go, but I'm 
 mighty sorry about it. He's a fine old man, the 
 Doctor; not a thing the matter with him, except 
 that he's past sixty-five." 
 
 [187]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Barrett coughed affectedly. " Yes, we old men 
 have to go to the wall," he said. 
 
 " Can't I pension him off some way? Ain't 
 there a thing they call emeritus, or something of 
 the sort an honorary job?" He pronounced it 
 with the accent on the third syllable emer-i-tus; 
 it sounded like some strange disease. The lawyer 
 nodded. 
 
 " Well," continued the pickle-maker, " we'll 
 make an emer-i-tus out of him then." His face 
 grew bright again. " By the Lord Harry, I'd 
 give him five thousand a year for grubbing up 
 his Greek before I'd hurt his feelings the old 
 Doctor! We'll turn him out to pasture, and 
 get some young fellow to do the work. By 
 the way how's that chap I sent you doing 
 Bradford?" 
 
 " Begins mighty well." Barrett smiled remi- 
 niscently. " He put us on the trail of something 
 big a while ago if it turns out." 
 
 " What was that? " 
 
 The fresh-faced old gentleman winked very 
 slowly and very expertly winked. 
 
 " But there's a good deal of fireworks about that 
 [188]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 young Bradford, too," he continued, irrelevantly. 
 " I should judge that he was a better starter than 
 a stayer." 
 
 " If," returned Murdoch, impressively, " if you 
 don't find that boy, in ten, fifteen years, head of 
 your shop call me a clam." 
 
 " Whatever I call you, John," amiably replied 
 Barrett, " it will not be a clam." 
 
 " There goes a fine man," said the pickle-maker, 
 watching Father Clarges striding down the walk. 
 Murdoch had completed a hard day's work, and 
 he had every reason to believe that his reputation 
 was soon to be greatly exalted by it. He was a 
 generous man who had just done a generous deed, 
 on a tremendous scale. Therefore all men were 
 fine men to him. Moreover, he rather liked the 
 minister. 
 
 " Don't know him," observed the lawyer. 
 " Seems to be some sort of priest." 
 
 " He is the rector of St. Hilda's ; Clarges is his 
 name. Comes over here a good deal to see Amy, 
 I guess; I know it ain't to curry favor with me. 
 By the Lord Harry, Barrett you like independ- 
 ent men, you'd like to see him stand up to his con- 
 [189]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 gregation. He doesn't give a continental d n 
 
 for any of us." 
 
 " Except the females, eh ? You know the 
 old saying look for the shepherd among the 
 ewes." 
 
 " No ; this chap's a different breed. If he was 
 like some ministers, I wouldn't let him into my 
 house. But I've seen him summer and winter now, 
 for years, and he'll do. I'd like to have you meet 
 him ; he'd give you a slap in the face of some sort." 
 Murdoch chuckled. 
 
 " Rare bird for a minister," observed Barrett, 
 comfortably. " Very rare bird. I've seen 'em 
 here and I've seen 'em there, but I never saw one 
 yet that didn't grin when he shook hands. By the 
 way, I didn't know you were a religious man, 
 John." 
 
 Murdoch smiled. " Nature is God enough for 
 me. But I like music, and singing, and a little 
 show, you know; so I go to the Episcopalian 
 church. It's as good as a play. I'll tell you what 
 I believe, Mr. Barrett; if a man keeps a clean 
 body, and clean hands, and likes the out-doors, and 
 treats women like a man and not like a brute, he 
 [190]
 
 TEN MILLION AND A GIRL 
 
 can go to what church he pleases, or to none at all, 
 and yet sleep nights like a child." 
 
 " Surely, surely." The old lawyer nodded, and 
 puffed at his cigar. " John, these Perfectos are 
 better than mine. Where'd you get 'em ? " 
 
 [191]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 Bradford, that day after a lazy Sunday evening 
 tea, lay on the couch for a few minutes and medi- 
 tated. Then he asked, " Shedsy, come to church 
 with me to-night? " 
 
 " Is thy servant " 
 
 " Come on, Shedsy. It's to St. Hilda's, and 
 they have singing, playing, and dancing." 
 
 "A b-ballet, quotha? Certainly I'll go." 
 
 What drew Bradford to St. Hilda's? One might 
 call it the fascination of the snake for the bird. 
 There was no man he liked less, and none he 
 thought of more, than the rector of that fashion- 
 able congregation. He was sure that Clarges and 
 he were opposed to each other, and he feared that 
 Clarges had the superiority at least he feared 
 that Clarges knew something to his discredit. He 
 wondered whether the minister had read of his 
 [192]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 speech at the mass-meeting the night before; and 
 what he thought of it whether he fathomed the 
 motives that lay behind it. Bradford was not at 
 all certain, as he tried to consider the matter in 
 cold blood, what those motives had been. Brad- 
 ford never wished to deceive himself, and he had 
 a habit of questioning himself before an alter ego 
 which generally revealed the truth. But in this 
 case he was honestly in doubt. How much did he 
 care for the ethics of sport? Little, he might 
 have contemptuously acknowledged to himself 
 twenty-four hours previously; but last night the 
 ring in Shedsy's congratulations had waked some 
 echo in his heart, at the strength of which he was 
 now astonished. The more he reflected the surer 
 he grew that his speech had been the outgrowth 
 of a solid conviction ; that Bradford One had been, 
 in attributing to Clarges a justifiable contempt of 
 his honesty, unjust to Bradford Two. So reas- 
 suring himself, Bradford grew at once more ami- 
 ably inclined to the minister, though no less sensi- 
 tive to his judgment. At this point in his musings 
 he made up his mind to go to church and see the 
 man again. 
 
 [193]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " By the way, Frank," Shedsy interpolated, 
 " g"gi ye me a stamp, will you? " 
 
 " Ever since I knew you, Shedsy," said Brad- 
 ford, lazily, " you've written one letter just one 
 on Sunday, and borrowed a stamp to send it. 
 You'll find some in my coat, which you'll be a good 
 fellow and bring me afterward." 
 
 " They're in a g-good cause," laughed Barnes. 
 " It's to my m-mother. Which pocket? " 
 
 " Inside." 
 
 " Nothing here but a letter," reported Shedsy, 
 from the next room. " It hasn't any stamp, 
 either. Do you want it " As he read the 
 address on that letter his voice died off suddenly, 
 and Bradford jumped up and took a step toward 
 the room. Then he stopped himself. 
 
 " The other pocket," he said, with an effort. 
 There was no answer from Shedsy ; but in a 
 moment he came out, with self-consciousness red- 
 dening his face, and handed Bradford the coat. 
 When they were on their way he said, stumblingly, 
 
 " I didn't mean to p-pry> Frank." 
 
 "You saw the letter addressed to my mother?" 
 
 " Yes." He stopped. At length he added, 
 [194]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 " Does she still seem so near as that to you, 
 Frank? F-forgive me if I'm clumsy, but of 
 course, I remember when she died, and all, and it 
 brought it up so to see that address, I c-couldn't 
 help speaking of it." 
 
 " That's all right. It was just a whim of 
 mine, one night ; the night I came back. She was 
 so near me, somehow, I thought perhaps she would 
 know what I had written." 
 
 " I believe she d-did." Shedsy found himself 
 wondering what Bradford had written ; he put the 
 wonder away shamefacedly, but it returned again. 
 Shedsy, after nine years away from home, still 
 wrote dutifully, as Bradford had said, once a week 
 to his mother; there was a kind of heroism in his 
 regularity, for there was a perfunctoriness in it, 
 too, very far removed from the sentiment expressed 
 in this letter's address " To my Mother in 
 Heaven." And Shedsy felt very tenderly toward 
 Frank Bradford in that moment. For this reason, 
 and because he felt sure that Bradford was em- 
 barrassed, Shedsy began to ask him about the 
 office. 
 
 "How are you g-getting on?" 
 [195]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I haven't done much yet. Still 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 " Well, I have done one pretty fair bit of work." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 Bradford hesitated. He knew he had no busi- 
 ness to speak of office cases, but he had a double 
 temptation. He feared that Shedsy might be 
 thinking him foolish and sentimental; and, more 
 than that, he was especially anxious these days to 
 convince himself as well as others that he was worth 
 while. 
 
 " You're sure you'll let this go no farther? " 
 Shedsy desired unhappy death if he did; and so 
 Bradford told him. The case was that of which 
 Barrett had a few hours before hinted to Murdoch. 
 
 " We have a matter up for action in which a 
 deed is offered in evidence. We think the deed 
 is forged ; in fact, we must prove that it is forged, 
 or false in some way. There's a big lot of money 
 involved half a million, in fact." 
 
 Shedsy opened his eyes. " It's the Barton 
 case ! " 
 
 " Yes. But you needn't advertise it. Well, as 
 I was saying, the question is, did Mrs. Barton sign 
 [196]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 this deed? She's dead now, and so can't testify. 
 But the notary whose name is signed to the ac- 
 knowledgment is alive, and ready to swear himself 
 blue in the face that she signed as the instrument 
 purports." 
 
 " Haven't you called in h-handwriting ex- 
 perts?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. Our men swear that she probably 
 didn't sign it; their men swear she probably did. 
 For a cautious but diplomatic liar, give me a 
 handwriting expert. Now what are we to do? " 
 
 " That's very s-simple," replied Shedsy. " Imi- 
 tate the c-cat again, and climb a t-tree." 
 
 Bradford laughed. Shedsy's confession was 
 wine to him. " The firm was looking for a tree, 
 I think, when I made a suggestion." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Swear you'll never peep ? " 
 
 " On honor." 
 
 " One day, when I was looking at a deed-form, 
 I happened to notice that not all the letters were 
 printed clean. A capital T had a flat top, and a 
 little s was minus a tail; and so on. It occurred 
 to me right away that I had hit upon a method 
 [197]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 of identifying a deed, after a fashion. You know 
 the firms which manufacture them run them off in 
 big lots, and then distribute the type. Of course, 
 the next form will have defects of its own in the 
 printing, but the defects will be in different letters. 
 The casual reader will say that the lot which were 
 run off in April were exactly like those in March, 
 but he will be wrong there will be little differ- 
 ences. Well, then, in thinking that over, it seemed 
 to me that if we could find out just what lot the 
 particular deed-form we were interested in was 
 part of, we might prove something. The deed 
 was dated January, 1885. Mrs. Barton died in 
 May of 1886. Suppose we could show conclu- 
 sively, by this scheme of mine, that the particular 
 set of forms of which this form was a part had 
 been run off in January of 1889, say? Obviously 
 we should prove that Mrs. Barton's pretended sig- 
 nature was a forgery; she couldn't very well sign, 
 in 1885, on a form which wasn't printed till four 
 years later. That was what I suggested to Mr. 
 Barrett." 
 
 " So you've got the case won ! " said Shedsy of 
 the simple mind. 
 
 [198]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 " Not exactly ! We've still got to find out just 
 what lot this deed- form was a part of, and to make 
 sure it was issued after the pretended date of Mrs. 
 Barton's signature, or we're no forrarder than be- 
 fore. But the firm has all kinds of men working 
 now along just those lines. Of course, the forgers 
 had been crafty enough to cut the name of the 
 firm who printed the form off the bottom, so it 
 wasn't as simple as you'd think. Besides, we 
 couldn't go round asking openly, or the other side 
 would find out our game and work up some scheme 
 to block it. But the old man Barrett discov- 
 ered that one phrase in the Barton deed-form was 
 always used in the forms of a certain firm, and 
 very seldom by any other, and that helped us. So 
 we're getting on." 
 
 " I c-comprehend. And you're in this still 
 hunt for the d-deed, of course?" 
 
 " Oh, that's hackwork, Shedsy. They've put 
 clerks on that." 
 
 " Still, I should think you'd b-be so interested, 
 you'd want to be in at the d-death." 
 
 " Now don't you mention this, even to the fel- 
 lows." 
 
 [199]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I won't, of c-course." 
 
 Even-song at St. Hilda's was not conducted by 
 Clarges himself, but by a curate. So Bradford 
 was disappointed in his wish to see the rector. 
 But he gladly gave himself up to the sensuous en- 
 joyment of candle-flare and rolling music. He 
 could always think better when music was in his 
 ears; though it was not, after all, thinking that 
 came to him at such times, rather a series of pict- 
 ures in which he was always the central figure, and 
 of which at the same time he yet stood by observ- 
 ant. He shut his eyes, determined not to be dis- 
 turbed by uprisings and downsittings ; and Shedsy, 
 after a vain attempt to follow the motions of the 
 other worshippers, gave it all up as a bad job, and 
 imitated Bradford. The service was very new to 
 Shedsy ; in the twenty-five years of his life he had 
 never before penetrated to the interior of an Epis- 
 copalian church, and he was constantly and freshly 
 amused. But Bradford refused to respond to his 
 requests for information, and at length Shedsy 
 grew interested in a particular choir-boy, who was 
 tickling another with a feather in the pauses of 
 seraphic singing, and left Bradford to himself. 
 [200]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 What did Bradford see? A broad, dark-green 
 floor of sea, which ran out to the edge of the world 
 and ended abruptly in a red circle of sun. Black 
 against the red, a boat drifted. Bradford held 
 one hand upon the idle tiller, and with the other 
 clasped the hand of a girl ; she had gray eyes. A 
 black-barred gate opened into the sun, and they 
 drifted through. It swung to behind them; they 
 were alone. 
 
 He saw a great square house at night. Beside 
 its door were narrow panes of glass, flushed scarlet 
 by a light behind such glass, he remembered, had 
 been in their old hallway at home. The door 
 opened, and from innumerable lights within a gush 
 of radiance sprang out, so strong that the grass 
 beside the path was green as in the daytime, and 
 black columnar trees leaped into view all round 
 him. He walked down the path, among the trees, 
 and with him this girl with gray eyes. The door 
 closed in the lights, and once more they were alone. 
 
 He saw an interminable procession, two by two, 
 
 in dusty, yellowish-brown clothes, a procession 
 
 which crawled on a winding yellow road through 
 
 flat brown land. The sun above beat straight 
 
 [201]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 down upon them all. A nasty wind spat whorls 
 of dust. Bradford walked at the head of this pro- 
 cession; the minister walked with him. They 
 turned their bodies slowly, as men do in the ex- 
 treme of weariness, and saw beside them a girl with 
 gray eyes in which the weariness was as great as in 
 their own. Bradford would have gone to her, but 
 a river ran between them somehow, and when he 
 would have plunged in she waved him away. 
 She faded slowly out of his longing sight; and 
 Clarges opened his lips in a sneer. " Is she for 
 you, then? " cried Bradford, fiercely. 
 
 He was not aware that he had spoken aloud, but 
 Shedsy gripped his arm. " Wake up, Frank ! 
 Don't be talking in meeting ! " Bradford ob- 
 served heads turning his way, and huddled abashed 
 in his corner. When the service was over they 
 hurried out. At the door Bradford started. His 
 memory had not played him false, for here was the 
 very face he had seen in that final vision. Clarges 
 bowed; then, seeming to alter his mind, advanced 
 toward them and shook hands with Bradford. 
 Shedsy stared at him furtively. 
 
 " Father Clarges, let me present my friend, Mr. 
 [202]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 Barnes." Mr. Barnes also shook hands with be- 
 coming gravity, but the vestments were plainly 
 heavy on his mind. 
 
 " Doing anything in particular? Glad to have 
 you both come up to my rooms a while," said 
 Clarges, abruptly. 
 
 " I'm afraid we can't do that," began Bradford, 
 but Shedsy interrupted. " If you're thinking of 
 me, Frank, I can wait p-perfectly well," he said, 
 innocently, and Bradford could only follow the 
 rector up the stairs. 
 
 " I hated to go back on you," explained Shedsy, 
 afterward, " but I've never had a chance to see 
 that sort of animal in his den before, and I 
 c-couldn't pass it." 
 
 "What a frabjous c-cave!" was his admiring 
 remark when they had reached the rector's rooms. 
 " Did you see the p-pipe-rack ? " he demanded of 
 Bradford afterward, " and that little lady-bull 
 pipe with amber and s-slab-gold m-mounting? 
 When I saw that p-pipe I wished I was a minister ; 
 yes, sir, I'd be willing to wear w-worse aprons than 
 he wore to g-get it. And did you see that gold 
 chain h-hanging over the hole in the wall with an 
 [203]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 image in it? He's g-got so many, likely, he 
 h-hasn't room to put them all away. And did 
 you see the c-curtains? And the rugs? C-call 
 me a Hebrew pedler if one w-wasn't Daghestan. 
 And the b-books, books yes, sir, a r-rector's life 
 is the life for m-me, a home by the p-parish 
 church ! " 
 
 Bradford and Clarges talked, but Bradford 
 talked very badly, and felt cheap and dull. He 
 was like an actor at rehearsal, where nobody is 
 present but the disillusioned stage-manager. Brad- 
 ford could never do his best unless he had his 
 audience. Clarges, however, was wonderfully po- 
 lite and tactful. And one matter of the interview 
 must be chronicled the conversion of Shedsy 
 Barnes to Episcopalianism. Shedsy made no 
 secret that he went up to the rector's rooms pos- 
 sessed of the idea that the man was a curiosity ; at 
 the very least, a foreigner of some sort ; at the worst, 
 a Jesuit. Shedsy had never beheld a Jesuit with 
 his naked eye, but he was well aware that they 
 had horns and a tail, and occupied themselves in 
 whispering dark plots. But he left Clarges's 
 rooms satisfied that this man, though he chose to 
 [204]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 dress like an ass (the phraseology is that of Mr. 
 Barnes), was nevertheless an American gentleman. 
 For it happened that Clarges mentioned football, 
 and spoke of it, not tentatively as women do, but 
 with apparent authority. He could even compare 
 certain teams with others. In so doing he and 
 Shedsy found themselves at variance. 
 
 " I dislike to contradict, Mr. I mean F-Father 
 C-Clarges," said Shedsy, " but I'm p-perfectly 
 sure that no team has ever beaten that p-particular 
 university two years in succession." 
 
 "Certain of it?" 
 
 " M-might' nigh." 
 
 " Yet we beat them in '88, and again in '89," 
 the rector insisted. " I ought to know, Mr. 
 Barnes ; I played in both games." 
 
 " You p-played in both g-games? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The sun rose in Shedsy's face. " L-look here ! 
 You're not C-Clarges of Yale '89? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Well, by Jove!" cried Shedsy. "Well, by 
 Jove ! " He looked the rector carefully up and 
 down. " I see now ; I see now. I b-beg your par- 
 [205]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 don, s-sir." Shedsy dropped out of the conversa- 
 tion, but ^ever and anon his eyes remeasured the 
 rector, and his lips murmured again in admiration 
 and enjoyment, " C-Clarges of '89!" There was 
 no doubt of it; Shedsy was converted to Episco- 
 palianism. But Bradford could not rid himself of 
 the idea that the rector was weighing him, estimat- 
 ing him, luring him on to commit himself to some 
 stupidity ; and he was cautious and flippant by 
 turns, till Shedsy looked a little surprised. 
 
 When the two had gone Clarges sat for some 
 time looking at the cross above his little shrine. 
 Then he shook his head slowly. 
 
 " I wish it might have been the other one, even," 
 he muttered. " Boy as he is, I wish it had been 
 the other one. And yet isn't it possible that I'm 
 mistaken, even now? " 
 
 Whatever it was which had led Clarges to ask 
 Bradford to his rooms continued its influence 
 throughout the winter. Bradford came again, 
 always against his will and his judgment, and yet 
 inevitably. And the minister went to the Resi- 
 duum. Kate was like Shedsy; Clarges the rector 
 might be looked upon with suspicion, but Clarges 
 [206]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 of '89 was welcome wherever they had a voice. He 
 appeared not infrequently, though irregularly; 
 sometimes, after weeks of absence, he would turn 
 up unexpectedly, and smoke for an hour without 
 saying a word. That appealed to Slim; Slim set 
 before kings a man who could do that. The boys 
 all liked Clarges. But Bradford was known to be 
 his especial friend. Often they sat up late, when 
 the others had slipped away to bed. Bradford 
 was bound by his curious fascination ; Clarges by 
 what spirit? That last was a question which 
 Bradford asked himself over and over. What did 
 the man mean by offering his friendship in this 
 fashion? What end was he seeking? Was he 
 searching for evidence that should prove Bradford 
 unworthy? And if he found it, how did he mean 
 to use it? Bradford, with a daring which sur- 
 prised himself, though it was only the bravado of 
 any man who fancies himself discovered in some- 
 thing he is ashamed of, used to talk to Clarges 
 sometimes about sentiment, and diplomacy, and 
 various kindred subjects which relate more or less 
 directly to the great topic of sincerity. 
 
 " There is such a thing," he said, one night, 
 [207]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " as the prostitution of tact ; but after all I fancy 
 most people would prefer a lie to rudeness. I am 
 certain that women do." 
 
 " Some women," corrected Clarges. Brad- 
 ford thought of Amy, and wondered if Clarges 
 were not thinking of her, too. He laughed de- 
 fiantly. 
 
 " Most women. What sort of a monstrosity 
 would a straightforward courtship be in which a 
 man told the woman of his choice just what he 
 was thinking of her? * You are not the most 
 beautiful woman in the world; you are not even 
 the most beautiful in this block. Amanda Brown, 
 round the corner, has larger, more dove-like eyes; 
 Susanna Jones, across the street, has a more 
 charming complexion. It is true that I love you 
 more than I do any other ; but I know several who 
 are cleverer than you. I want you for my wife, 
 because I am tired of living alone; clubs are 
 inadequate, and a man cannot manage a house- 
 keeper.' How great success would such a wooer 
 achieve? " 
 
 " What do you argue from that ? " 
 
 " That a man must conceal his sentiments, and 
 [208]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 suit his emotions to the occasion. Nowadays one 
 who exhibits his real self is considered by men 
 uncouth, and by women brutal." 
 
 " I saw a man last week," said Clarges, irrele- 
 vantly, " who is supporting the only surviving 
 member of his family a brother, who is helpless 
 and almost insane from his own excesses. He re- 
 tains two feelings; one, a hatred of institutions; 
 the other, a hatred of this man I am speaking of, 
 who supports him. He will not speak to him; he 
 not infrequently spits at him. Yet my man, who 
 is a clerk in a small way, works his fingers to the 
 bone to keep his brother comfortable. I happen 
 to know him well; and I happen to know that he 
 gave up all thought of marriage, though the girl 
 would have taken him even with his encumbrance. 
 He told her bluntly that he would neither leave 
 his brother nor subject any woman to constant as- 
 sociation with such a beast. He never complains; 
 but he knows me, as I say, and when I asked him 
 last week how matters were going he only said, 
 ' The doctor says that with fair luck I ought to see 
 the last of Jim in about ten months or so.' * What 
 do you think ? ' I asked him, and he shook his head. 
 [209]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 ' God knows ; I ain't as sanguine as the doctor ; I 
 know Jim's cussedness.' What would you have 
 advised him, Bradford to back up the heroism of 
 his acts by a suitable phraseology ? " 
 
 " What became of the girl he was to marry ? " 
 
 Clarges smiled his dark little smile. " Why, 
 for some reason, she made up her mind he was 
 worth having; and she's waiting for him," he 
 answered. 
 
 " And when she gets him when the encum- 
 brance is dropped," said Bradford, ironically, 
 " will she be any the happier for owning a husband 
 who eats the burnt chops, and damns her bad cook- 
 ing at the same time? I don't believe she will. I 
 think she will regret that her lot is not cast with 
 a man who would praise them, and diplomat- 
 ically give them to the dog when her back was 
 turned." 
 
 " But suppose that afterward she discovered the 
 dog bolting them?" asked Clarges. Bradford 
 shrugged his shoulders. " Talking in parables is 
 dull work," he said, " but the man would be duller 
 who let himself be discovered." He looked Clarges 
 momentarily in the eye, then turned to poke up the 
 [210]
 
 PILGRIMS IN BROWN 
 
 soft-coal fire which was the glory of the Resid- 
 uum. 
 
 " I'm off," said the rector. 
 
 " Lord love you, listen to the storm ! Surely 
 you'll stay the night, old man ? " One of the Jan- 
 uary blizzards had shut down on Carfax. The 
 sleet was howling like wolves across the river in 
 unending lines; the icy cottonwoods were swaying 
 to the ground, and it was very cold. But the rec- 
 tor shook his head. Bradford insisted, but his 
 will was no match for that of Clarges of '89. He 
 was used to walking on bad nights, he said; and 
 he ploughed out into the drifted city. When he 
 reached his room he was exhausted, powerful man 
 though he was. He undressed at once. The 
 cloth upon his breast was stuck to his body with 
 dried blood. He tore at it fiercely, but it would 
 not loosen, so he let it remain. He dropped on 
 his knees before his little shrine, and prayed 
 prayed as fiercely as he had striven with the wind, 
 or as he had tortured himself that day. " Keep 
 this tragedy from coming into her life, O God ! " 
 he cried. " I ask nothing for myself ; I swear it 
 before your throne! Do to me as you will, but
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 keep her from this sorrow ! " His voice died away, 
 while the screams of the wind continued up and 
 down the street, and round the gargoyled cornices 
 of St. Hilda's. The morning found the rector 
 still before his shrine. 
 
 [212]
 
 Chapter Eleven 
 
 TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY 
 
 That winter, Shedsy Barnes lost no opportunity of 
 declaring, was the finest of his life. 
 
 " C-college," said he one evening, philosophi- 
 cally, " is ideal, except that n-nobody works. You 
 have a 1-lovely time, but there's no contrast to it. 
 Now you have the atmosphere just the s-same, and 
 you come back to it every night from the st-storm 
 and st-stress of the world, just t-tired enough to 
 know how h-heavenly it all is." 
 
 " You're lucky to be out of college, if you fancy 
 the old way is ideal," Kate contributed, cynically. 
 " We're going to have a regeneration, they say, 
 and the modern laboratory method of education. 
 The Alma Mater idea is about played out ; we're to 
 be fed from a bottle, hygienically and econom- 
 ically, now." 
 
 " They've been telling you yarns, K-Kitty, 
 [213]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 dear," soothed Shedsy. " Carfax isn't to be 
 changed. The r-revolutionary pickle-maker has 
 kept his hands in his p-pockets, after all." 
 
 " It's a pity if he does," broke in Bradford. 
 " Oh, I know, Kate ; you think all that Dr. Craven 
 does is right, and I don't blame you. But you 
 know very well we're behind the times here. 
 There's no place in the West for a college of Car- 
 fax's sort; a man who wants that sort of thing, a 
 man who can afford to loaf along four agreeable 
 years, will go east to Amherst or Williams, where 
 they loaf genteelly and in some style. It's the or- 
 dinary man in money-matters, the man who wants 
 an education at all hazards, that the western col- 
 lege must cater to, if it is really doing its duty. 
 It is bound to furnish him the best in the market, 
 at a price within his reach. It's all very well to 
 talk about the passing of romance, and the death 
 of Alma Mater; but the true object of an educa- 
 tional centre is to forward the progress of thought 
 by all means in its power, not to furnish athletic 
 amusement with a dash of sentiment and a tincture 
 of book-learning to a lazy lot of male children." 
 
 " So you think that's Dr. Craven's ideal?"
 
 TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY 
 
 " Don't get huffy, my Kate. I think Dr. Craven 
 is one of the finest old gentlemen living. But 
 without the slightest disrespect to him every dog 
 has his day, you know." 
 
 " And now that he has given the best of his life 
 to Carfax College, you would say to him * Your 
 time's come ; get out ! ' Is that your idea, Frank? " 
 
 " Does it sound brutal? And yet you've just 
 said the word, Kate ; he's given the best of his life 
 to his work. Presently another man will be called, 
 who must give the best of his life, and so on ; that's 
 the way the world manages to progress at all, isn't 
 it? " 
 
 " Is that the world ? Then I'm sorry I'm in it ; 
 it sounds more like the car of Juggernaut to me." 
 Kate, after a moment, rose and went out. 
 
 " I don't think you ought to p-put it so strong, 
 F-Frank," said Shedsy, soberly. " Of course, 
 you've g-got all the reason on your side; b-but 
 for some cause or other, K-Kate feels pretty fierce 
 about this, and your having the r-reason makes it 
 all the worse." 
 
 " Oh, you're right, of course. But somehow, I 
 seem to be in a nasty mood this winter. Shedsy ? " 
 [215]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Shedsy was filling a pipe carefully. " What is 
 it?" 
 
 " Haven't you ever been in love ? " 
 
 The tobacco spilled over the edge of the pipe, 
 but Shedsy answered lightly, " Never ; but I got 
 drunk once, to see what it was like." 
 
 " What would you say if I told you I was in 
 love? " 
 
 " Hope for the b-best, I reckon." 
 
 " There's only one best, and that's out of my 
 reach." 
 
 Very slowly, very mechanically, Shedsy rammed 
 the tobacco into the bowl with his thumb. Once 
 more he saw the futility of his opposition to the 
 laws of nature; once more he saw this cherished 
 Residuum of his crashing about his ears ; once more 
 he listened to the rustle of skirts, as Eve entered, 
 Eve the eternal, dragging the serpent. Was there 
 no touch of the sublime in the answer Shedsy made ? 
 
 " Want to t-tell me all about it, F-Frank? " 
 
 " You've seen her," answered Bradford, accept- 
 ing the invitation with the eager, careless selfish- 
 ness of a man in love. " Her name is Amy 
 Power." 
 
 [216]
 
 TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY 
 
 " The girl you m-met on your way b-back last 
 fall ? " questioned Shedsy, carefully. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And? " 
 
 " Sometimes I think she cares a little, Shedsy ; 
 mostly I don't dare believe she does. I haven't 
 dared to say anything to her, yet; but she must 
 know ; don't you think she must know ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid I d-don't know much about it, old 
 boy." 
 
 " Yes ; but when I'm hinting at it all the time ? 
 When I go 'round there as much as I do? She 
 can't think I come to see her uncle, can she? He 
 calls me by my first name, now. Do you think 
 that's a good sign, Shedsy ? " 
 
 " You aren't c-courting the old man, are you, 
 Frank?" 
 
 " Don't be funny, Shedsy. You're a cold- 
 blooded little brute; you don't know what this 
 means to me. Didn't you see her at the football 
 game? Don't you remember what she looked 
 like? Why, Shedsy, I haven't been like half the 
 men I know, making love to every nice girl I've 
 seen; there's no girl living can say honestly that 
 [217]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 I've made love to her seriously. That makes this 
 all the worse ; that's what makes me so sure about 
 myself this time. Every time I'm with her, I re- 
 alize what a cheap, worthless sort of chap I am 
 how worthless we all are, compared to a girl like 
 her. I never felt that way, before. Do you ever 
 feel that way with girls, Shedsy ? " 
 
 " I told you b-before, Frank ; I always c-climb 
 a tree." 
 
 " I'm not joking, Shedsy." 
 
 " I know, F-Frank ; I know. Only this has 
 come a little s-sudden, you see; I hadn't been 
 g-guessing it." 
 
 " It seems to me anybody could see it ! Why, 
 what do you think brings that man Clarges 'round 
 here? " 
 
 " C-Clarges ! " 
 
 " Yes, Clarges. He's in it, too ; sometimes I 
 think he has the inside track. He doesn't care a 
 hang about me, or any of the rest of you either ; 
 he only comes to keep an eye on me, to see how 
 I'm getting on. I go and see him for the same 
 reason." Bradford smiled forlornly. 
 
 " C-Clarges! Now you are joking, F-Frank." 
 [218]
 
 TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY 
 
 " No, I'm not. I've seen them together ; a man 
 in my position can't be fooled. I know what he 
 thinks about her, but I don't know what she thinks 
 about him. You haven't told me what you thought 
 of her when you saw her, Shedsy?" Bradford 
 hung on the answer jealously. 
 
 Shedsy braced himself unseen. " I thought she 
 was a w-winner, Frank." 
 
 Bradford nodded. The spell of confession 
 seemed to be lifted. He sighed, and soon he fol- 
 lowed Kate's example and left the room. Shedsy, 
 lying on the couch, heard him putting on his over- 
 coat and gloves; presently the door slammed; 
 Bradford was gone. Shedsy turned over and laid 
 his face upon his arms. 
 
 The slam of the door roused Kate, who issued 
 forth from the room where he had been studying, 
 and came in, a green-paper shade on his brow, a 
 book pinched between his fingers. He shook 
 Shedsy by the shoulder. 
 
 " Here, old boy, don't go to sleep in here ; go to 
 bed like a Christian." 
 
 "Shut up, will you?" 
 
 "What's the matter, Shedsy?" 
 [219]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 The boy sat up defiantly, and brushed his hand 
 across his eyes. " N-nothing." 
 
 Kate eyed him keenly. " Did Frank go 
 out? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Has he been trying to row with you ? " 
 
 " What do you t-take me for? " 
 
 " Then what's the trouble, Shedsy? " 
 
 " I'm 1-lonely ! " cried Shedsy, suddenly and with 
 passion. " I'm lonely, if you've g-got to know, 
 and be d-damned to you! No, we didn't row; he 
 told me his troubles, and of course they were about 
 a g-girl ! Another friend g-gone, or going ; that's 
 all. G-God ! I used to think, when I was a boy 
 in college, that the f-friends I'd make there would 
 be my friends all our Hives. I thought we'd g-go 
 on together, and g-grow old together, and sort of 
 f-find out what life m-meant. What did I know 
 about it? Roge is g-gone; Champ's g-gone; I 
 never see them any more. I g-got you fellows 
 into this R-Residuum scheme, and in four months 
 Frank c-comes and tells me, as if I ought to s-sym- 
 pathize with him, that he wants to go t-too. He's 
 not the only one, I suppose; you'll go, and Slim; 
 [220]
 
 TROUBLE COMES TO SHEDSY 
 
 and I'll plug along, and t-try to make some other 
 f-friends, if I c-can. But I c-can't; nobody can 
 be to me what you f-fellows are; the men are all 
 too busy fighting each other, and c-competing with 
 each other down there " Shedsy pointed toward 
 Carfax " to get close to each other, as we have. 
 I t-try not to be mean ; I try to realize that it all 
 m-multiplies the fellows' h-happiness, and only 
 subtracts from m-mine; but it gets d-damned hard 
 sometimes. What is it that's left out of m-me? 
 I can love the fellows; why is it I d-don't want 
 these experiences that c-come to them all, and 
 seem to drive out everything that's gone b-before, 
 so that they h-haven't any room left in their hearts 
 for their friends? I c-can't talk their language; 
 I c-can't really s-sympathize with them ; the women 
 they care so much about d-don't like me, and th- 
 there you are ! " 
 
 " Poor old Shedsy ! " said Kate, softly. 
 
 " Yes, pity me ! " answered Shedsy, bitterly. 
 " That's about all I'm d-due for in life, I guess 
 a little p-pity ! " 
 
 Kate sat down by him, moving the boy's legs 
 to make room. " Shedsy," he said, " don't you 
 [221 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 think you do your old friends an injustice? " But 
 Shedsy shook his head. 
 
 " You don't know ! " he answered, mournfully. 
 " You d-don't know. As like as not, you're 
 p-planning to leave me yourself only you haven't 
 t-told me yet." And he turned once more, and 
 laid his face on his arm. Perhaps it was fortu- 
 nate; it prevented him from seeing Kate's face. 
 After that evening Shedsy was himself again ; but 
 he ceased declaring that this was the finest winter 
 of his life, and there was something a little furtive 
 in the occasional glance which he bestowed on 
 Clarges, during the rector's visits to the flat of 
 the Residuum.
 
 Chapter Twelve 
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 When Bradford received a formal invitation to 
 dinner at the Murdoch's he was a trifle surprised, 
 and he immediately began to wonder about the 
 other guests. He was of course not at all aston- 
 ished to find Dr. Craven, with his wife and daugh- 
 ter; nor did the presence of Clarges and Barrett 
 mystify him in the least. The pickle-maker was 
 not a step removed from that country hospitality 
 which finds room always for the professional ser- 
 vants of the family the doctor, the lawyer, and of 
 course the minister. When he recalled Miss Man- 
 gler's malediction on such crude types as Murdoch 
 represented he was, however, amazed to find her 
 seated opposite him, smiling her vinegary smile. 
 An ample woman, with bare and billowing shoul- 
 ders, who followed in the wake of a small, ener- 
 getic, elderly, iron-gray husband, were the only 
 [223]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 other members of the party. He was presented to 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gaines. Mrs. Gaines bowed with an 
 obvious timidity in sharp contrast to the immen- 
 sity of her proportions. She wore ear-rings 
 diamond circlets. Bradford wondered who they 
 were, and learned later that Gaines, like Murdoch, 
 was a trustee, and, like Murdoch, rich " vulgarly 
 rich," Miss Mangier told him. " Do you see her 
 ear-rings? They say she was his housekeeper 
 once ! " 
 
 " Well, if one must be vulgar, I should rather be 
 vulgarly rich than vulgarly poor," answered 
 Bradford, amiably. She was unable to restrain a 
 sharp look. At the time he fancied that he had 
 scored on The Curse; but he came to regret the 
 remark later. 
 
 The dinner was exceedingly good, and two maids 
 served it exceedingly well. Bradford was taking 
 care of Marion Craven, and should have enjoyed 
 himself. Moments of pleasure he did have, as he 
 saw Clarges punctiliously attentive to the trans- 
 lated housekeeper, if such she were, while the 
 spare trustee, from Marion Craven's other side, 
 watched him jealously, inattentive to the conversa-
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 tion of Miss Mangier. But a tremendous centre- 
 piece hid Amy from Bradford's view, which an- 
 noyed him. He could see Dr. Craven, whose tired 
 face brightened with a fatherly smile as he talked, 
 but he could hear nothing of what they said, 
 though, like the spare trustee, he strained his ears. 
 At last Marion sat back in her chair with an air of 
 finality, and Bradford turned to face her guiltily. 
 
 " I don't blame you a particle," she said. " I 
 should do the same in your place. But really, Mr. 
 Bradford, you ought to trust me; you ought to 
 throw yourself on my mercy. I asked you three 
 times in succession whether you preferred pie or 
 Swinburne, and twice you said, ' Yes, indeed,' and 
 once, ' Oh, are you sure? ' Now, I ask you seri- 
 ously whether acting like that would deceive any- 
 body?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Miss Marion," he answered, 
 in some confusion. 
 
 " You needn't. I tell you I sympathize with 
 you altogether ; only, as I say, you ought to trust 
 me. Who knows but that I might help you in 
 some way? You know what the mouse did for the 
 lion? " 
 
 [225]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " What do you want me to trust you in ? " 
 
 " Oh, well, if you are going to ask that, I shall 
 merely go back to pie and Swinburne. No, I shall 
 not ; I shall desert you altogether, as I ought, and 
 talk to Mr. Gaines, who is worried because he 
 thinks the minister is flirting with his wife. Who 
 is that minister, Mr. Bradford? Do you know 
 him?" 
 
 " Yes, in a way. I have seen him pretty often." 
 
 "Here?" 
 
 " Sometimes here." 
 
 " Is he really making love to Mrs. Gaines? " 
 
 " No ; his abilities are engaged in another direc- 
 tion, I assure you." 
 
 Marion Craven nodded. " Well," she added, 
 " which do you choose confession, or abandon- 
 ment? " 
 
 " You are right, as usual," he admitted, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Should you like to change seats? I can see 
 her from here; she is looking very well to-night." 
 
 " No, thanks ; I can see your father, and he is 
 looking very well, too." 
 
 Marion's face clouded a little. " Poor old 
 [226]
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 father ! I wish he were, Mr. Bradford. But you 
 are a nice sort of lover to have round the house 
 willing to put up with the president of a college 
 when you might be watching Her ! " 
 
 " If I must surrender entirely," returned Brad- 
 ford, " you know very well I would rather be 
 watching Her." 
 
 Miss Craven clapped her hands softly. " I won- 
 dered if you would be honest ! And now, to reward 
 you I shall let you talk about Her to me." 
 
 Murdoch was in high spirits higher than usual. 
 He proposed a toast to Dr. Craven ; and another to 
 the future of Carfax College. Over the latter he 
 grew almost boisterous, and winked at old Barrett, 
 while the lawyer regarded him with an amused, un- 
 comprehending stare. If Bradford had been no- 
 ticing, just then, he might have connected the act 
 with the speech Murdoch had made to him once 
 about expansion, and been freshly sure that Carfax 
 was likely to witness a revolution. But he and 
 Marion were by this time deep in talk, and neither 
 of them observed. The minister wondered a little, 
 but the matter was out of his field, and he soon 
 ceased to think of it. Clarges was solving a puzzle
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 of his own. He had arrived before Bradford did, 
 and so witnessed Amy's reception of the young 
 man. Moreover, he was not so engrossed in his 
 attentions to the portly and bediamonded Mrs. 
 Gaines as not to notice Bradford's preoccupation. 
 He had not, of late, seen the two together very 
 often Bradford and Amy. He had no way of 
 knowing how matters stood between them. To- 
 night, as he watched them, he began to doubt 
 whether he was wholly right in his estimate of the 
 outcome of their relations. He felt certain that 
 Amy cared for Bradford; he began to wonder if 
 Bradford did not care more for Amy than he had 
 supposed. Hitherto, Clarges had thought that 
 Bradford's feeling for Amy was merely fancy; 
 possessed of no more depth than half the airy theo- 
 ries Bradford often propounded, merely for amuse- 
 ment or the attraction of attention : that Bradford 
 liked her because she obviously liked him. The 
 possibility began to dawn upon him now, that 
 Bradford was in earnest at last; felt at last a real 
 emotion ; loved Amy because he could not help lov- 
 ing her. And Clarges groaned in spirit. This 
 made no easier for Amy the tragedy which must 
 [228]
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 inevitably follow their marriage, if married they 
 were ; it only increased the tragedy to Bradford. 
 
 When dinner was over, and the men had joined 
 the ladies which was soon, for the spare trustee 
 was obviously uneasy out of his wife's company 
 Clarges said to Amy, in his odd, abrupt fashion, 
 
 " I want to talk to you a little. May I ? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Then come here, Amy." He drew her away, 
 and after a moment's hesitation she followed. 
 Bradford, with a pang like a sword, watched them 
 go. She cared nothing for him, he thought; this 
 hypocritical, sneering minister satisfied her entire- 
 ly. Miss Mangier began to talk to him, and he 
 answered her savagely enough to satisfy even her 
 love for acrid condemnation of the world. They 
 talked of Carfaxians; and Bradford flung out at 
 them left and right, while she applauded his bru- 
 tality until he had almost forgotten his ill-humor 
 and forgiven her for existence. 
 
 Meanwhile Clarges and the girl faced each 
 other, Amy indifferently, Clarges outwardly as 
 usual, but with a sombre, unquiet light in his eyes 
 which showed the fires within him. 
 [229]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Amy," he said, abruptly, when they were 
 alone, " why do you hate me ? " 
 
 " Must we talk about each other ? " she asked, 
 but without pleading. He nodded stubbornly. 
 " I don't hate you," she continued, wearily. " I 
 don't think about you." 
 
 " Put it as you please," he answered. " You 
 don't like me. Is it because I show you that I 
 love you? " 
 
 She shivered a little, but she neither rose nor 
 answered. After a moment, he went on, " You 
 must have seen that. Yet I have never told you of 
 it. I resolved never to insult you by telling you, 
 since I dared not marry you. Now I have broken 
 my resolve; but only because I was sure you dis- 
 liked me, and would not grieve to think that I 
 had suffered." 
 
 " I do dislike you," she answered, raising her 
 eyes to meet his. " I do not think I have done 
 anything to you which deserves this insult from 
 you. If you have quite finished, we will go back. 
 And please do not speak to me again, Father 
 Clarges." 
 
 " I will not," he answered, under his breath, 
 [230]
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 " after I have finished this once. Amy, tell me, 
 tell me I will swear to you on my knees if you 
 want tell me that you do not care for that man 
 yonder; for Bradford? Promise me you will not 
 marry him! It would be certain unhappiness to 
 both of you certain, certain! Think what you 
 please of me; think that I am merely trying to 
 slander a better man than I am; think that I am 
 the meanest and lowest man on earth, but believe me 
 when I say it would be certain unhappiness for 
 him as well as for you if he loves you ! You can- 
 not help seeing what I mean ! You cannot help 
 seeing that he does not ring true, and that you 
 do! You cannot believe him sincere and genuine 
 in all he does, as the man who marries you must 
 be ! You cannot, I say " 
 
 She had heard him so far with a paling face. 
 Now she rose. " I think you must be ill," she 
 interrupted, curtly ; " ill, or mad. Will you let 
 me pass, Father, or shall I call to my uncle ? " 
 
 He stood aside and bowed, and she hurried by 
 him. She paused a moment in the doorway to 
 calm herself; then she walked across to where 
 Bradford and Miss Mangier were sitting; walked 
 
 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 as steadily and quietly as when she had moved out 
 to dinner on Dr. Craven's arm. Bradford, with a 
 recurrence of hope, saw her come back alone, and 
 jumped up to make room for her. 
 
 " We were discussing the statue of Garibaldi in 
 the Pantheon at Rome," said Miss Mangier, with a 
 quick glance at Bradford. " I was just saying to 
 Mr. Bradford that to see it there gave one such a 
 feeling of the tolerance of the Italian in political 
 matters, hot-headed as he is; and he quite agrees 
 with me. By the way, I have forgotten where 
 does it stand, Mr. Bradford to the right or left 
 of Victor Emmanuel's tomb? " 
 
 Bradford for the life of him could recollect no 
 statue of Garibaldi in the Pantheon, but Miss 
 Mangier was a student of Roman history, and 
 never made mistakes. " To the right, I think, but 
 I am not sure," he answered. 
 
 " You remember the statue, of course ? " 
 
 " Oh, perfectly." 
 
 Miss Mangler's eye was full of triumph now. 
 " Now that I recall," she said, musingly, " is it in 
 the Pantheon, though? Isn't it on that open space 
 back of the Colosseum? " 
 
 [232]
 
 AMY IS WARNED 
 
 " Perhaps there is one there ; I don't seem to re- 
 member." 
 
 " But you are perfectly sure, you say, of the 
 one in the Pantheon? " 
 
 Bradford, half-amused and half-fearful, since 
 Amy was there, saw Miss Mangler's little game, 
 and blocked it by impudence. " Yes ; quite sure." 
 
 She turned with fresh zest to the minister, who 
 was just then in the doorway. 
 
 " Father Clarges, do you remember any statue 
 of Garibaldi in the Pantheon? Is there one there? 
 Mr. Bradford assures us he has seen it, though, so 
 of course there must be." 
 
 Clarges saw the malice sparkling in her look, 
 and bowed gravely, while Bradford began rapidly 
 planning how to pass his statement lightly off. 
 " He is quite right," answered the rector, " ac- 
 cording to the best of my recollection, Miss Man- 
 gler." 
 
 Bradford could scarcely believe his ears. 
 
 [233]
 
 Chapter Thirteen 
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MIL-LION 
 
 " It's very curious," said Miss Craven, earnestly, 
 " but I do like you ; yes, I do." She looked at 
 Amy solemnly. 
 
 Amy pondered. " I suppose it is curious," she 
 admitted, thoughtfully, " but other people have 
 liked me, Miss Craven." 
 
 " You are an adorable child ! " cried Miss Cra- 
 ven. " As if anyone could help liking you ! I 
 only meant that it was curious in my case, because 
 because well, you know why." 
 
 " I don't," answered Amy. " No ; I don't." 
 
 " You," explained Miss Craven, " have an uncle, 
 while I have a father." 
 
 There was obvious bewilderment in Miss Power's 
 eye. 
 
 " Well ! " Marion answered her look. " Don't 
 you know that your uncle stands for one set of 
 [234]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 theories, and my father for another? Your uncle 
 is in a hurry; he wants to run, and my father is 
 too too careful to run. He would rather walk. 
 And then your uncle thinks he is only crawling. 
 And so " She spread her hands in a dramatic 
 gesture. 
 
 " Do you mean," Miss Power asked, with her 
 customary directness, " that they don't get on well 
 your father and Uncle Jack? Don't they like 
 each other? " 
 
 Miss Craven, thus reduced to particularity, 
 laughed again. " No," she admitted, " I don't 
 mean that. I think your uncle is fond of my 
 father, and I know that the Doctor respects Mr. 
 Murdoch very highly. Of course we all do. They 
 are as friendly as as can be. But after all, you 
 know, they are looking two different ways; they 
 want different things ; and one of them has got to 
 give in." 
 
 " What different things? " 
 
 Marion regarded her with amused eyes, in which 
 a trace of pity lingered. " Don't you know why 
 your uncle was put on the board of trustees ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 [235]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Uncle Jack never talks to me about business." 
 " Well ! He represents a lot of people who 
 think my father ought to give up the presidency." 
 Said Amy, simply, " I don't believe it." 
 Miss Craven wagged her head. " Ah, my dear, 
 but it's true, though it's not usually put in just 
 that way, and though perhaps even your uncle 
 doesn't see it so. There are a great many people 
 in Carfax who want a different sort of college 
 here. No; I don't know what kind they want; I 
 don't believe saving your presence, child they 
 do either. But I know this Carfax College is 
 the kind of college my father loves and under- 
 stands, and the only kind he is willing to be at the 
 head of. He isn't a beggar; he can't go out and 
 wrench money from people, like an Italian with a 
 hand-organ." Miss Craven's voice was not with- 
 out scorn and bitterness. " He is only a scholar 
 and a gentleman, and that, it seems, isn't enough 
 nowadays in a college president." 
 
 " I hope you don't mean," said Amy, with her 
 fatal feminine instinct for the redtictw ad per- 
 sonam, " that Uncle Jack is not a gentleman, be- 
 cause he is a business-man." 
 [236]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 " A million times no ! " cried Miss Craven. She 
 cried it all the more eagerly because of a little sub- 
 consciousness that she might have meant exactly 
 that. " A million times no ! I like your uncle im- 
 mensely. That is another curious thing. I don't 
 want to like him, for I know that he is bound to 
 have his way sooner or later. Father is only 
 standing still, I suppose. He is standing on solid 
 ground, and nobody quite knows where all the 
 people who want to progress are going to progress 
 to. But they will get their progress, of course. 
 All I hope is that it won't come just yet." 
 
 " But if it's bound to come some time ? " Amy 
 Power was incapable of understanding a person 
 who could not bravely face the future, good or 
 bad. 
 
 " It needn't come in father's time," Miss Craven 
 answered, obstinately. " He isn't a young man 
 any more. He has lived his whole life in the col- 
 lege, and for the college, and if they turn him out 
 now, I call it downright inhuman." 
 
 " But they won't turn him out," objected Amy. 
 "Why should they? Anybody can get money, if 
 that is what they need ; I'm sure Uncle Jack could 
 [237]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 give them any amount, if he chose. If they all 
 want a larger college, and that seems to be what 
 you mean, why shouldn't they give the money to 
 Dr. Craven, and let that end it? " 
 
 Dr. Craven's daughter smiled a little sadly. 
 " They think that he is an old man, dear. They 
 think that he is behind the times. They think that 
 even if he had the money, he couldn't take care of 
 it; and so nobody will give it. They are quite 
 right. It would frighten my father to be dealing 
 in millions, such as colleges are getting nowadays. 
 He would not know what to do. But," she went 
 on, rapidly, eagerly, " why need they have this 
 new university this year or next? That is what I 
 can't see. There is plenty of time. My father 
 has taken plenty of responsibility for the college; 
 hasn't the college any responsibility toward him? 
 Hasn't he deserved anything for all the years he 
 has worked? Suppose they are right, and he is 
 old-fashioned and slow he's given his life unself- 
 ishly, and it would kill him if they told him to go 
 now, like a servant who is too old to work." 
 
 " They never will ! " said Amy, positively. 
 
 " Yes, they will if they can." Miss Craven 
 [238]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 opened and shut her eyes rapidly several times, 
 to wink away a tear. Then she leaned forward, 
 smiling brilliantly. " Why am I talking so ab- 
 surdly? You are actually looking downhearted, 
 Amy. I beg your pardon, my dear. It slipped 
 out. Do you mind if I call you Amy? " 
 
 " I wish you would, please." 
 
 " Well then, I will Amy. I chatter like an old 
 woman as I am, all about my own concerns, and 
 never a word of yours. What have you been do- 
 ing? " 
 
 " The same things all winter." 
 
 "Has it been long?" 
 
 " Not very." 
 
 " Let me see." Miss Craven appeared to medi- 
 tate. " I have seen you five no, six times. Once 
 I called with Isabelle, and someone came to bring 
 a book, he said. Twice you have been to tea on 
 Thursdays; both times someone else was there. 
 Once we went skating four of us. Once we were 
 here at dinner. And now I'm calling on you, and 
 no one else is here. Is there anything in this re- 
 cital, my dear Amy, to cause a blush that blush 
 which I seem to see? " 
 
 [239]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Nothing." The blush was very faint, if it 
 was there at all. 
 
 " And you haven't any particular reason to give 
 a friend why the winter hasn't been long ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I have been busy ; and it has been 
 pleasant to know more people you, for example, 
 Miss Craven. I never went out much before this 
 winter." 
 
 " Don't you know that my friends call me 
 Marion ? " 
 
 " I should like to be a friend, too." 
 
 "Too what?" 
 
 " To Miss Craven." 
 
 Marion Craven laughed. She really laughed a 
 great deal. " Amy," she said, " I am thirty-four 
 years old. I have been engaged to three men. 
 The first time was in the moonlight. Afterward 
 I lay awake all that night, and next day I wrote 
 and told him I had been mistaken; I was not in 
 love with him, but with the moon. So he forgave 
 me. The second one well, never mind him, dear." 
 Her voice softened regretfully. " I treated him 
 badly, I'm afraid. Yet what could I do, when I 
 found out? The third was Platonic. We under- 
 [240]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 stood, both of us, that, if we saw anyone else we 
 preferred, we were free. Meanwhile, he was to 
 play no more poker, which was bad for him. When 
 he came and told me about another girl that he had 
 met as he did the only thing I said was, * And 
 the poker? ' He looked at me reproachfully. So 
 I gave them both my blessing; and that was the 
 end of him. Now will you tell me about Mr. 
 Bradford?" 
 
 " I have nothing to tell." 
 
 " My dear, don't you know he's in love with 
 you? " 
 
 " I think he likes me." 
 
 "And?" 
 
 " There is no and. He hasn't told me so." 
 
 "But what shall you say when he does?" 
 
 " I'll tell you " Amy paused. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " When I've told him." 
 
 Chagrin, curiosity, and amusement struggled 
 for expression in Miss Craven's face, and amuse- 
 ment conquered. " Amy," she said, soberly, " I 
 never hesitated to talk about my men. From 
 
 which I judge " 
 
 [241 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 "What?" asked Miss Power, unwarily. 
 
 " That I never was really in love," finished Miss 
 Craven. And this time the blush was plainer to 
 be seen in Miss Power's face. Miss Craven smiled. 
 " I must be going." 
 
 " I wish you would stay." 
 
 " My dear, I wish I might. But I only came, 
 after all, to bring Isabelle's excuses. She goes out 
 so little, now; we don't like to leave the Doctor 
 alone any more than we can help. In the first 
 place, he's not feeling very, very well, and in the 
 second, he's grown so absent-minded that I am cer- 
 tain he has already patted the wood-box and put 
 the cat into the fire. Good-by, Amy. It is curious 
 but I certainly do like you." 
 
 At dinner that evening, Amy told her uncle of 
 Miss Craven's call. " She is nice, Uncle Jack. I 
 think she is funny." 
 
 " She's the finest old maid in Carfax." 
 
 " She isn't old to look at." 
 
 " She's no spring chicken, Amy ; she's older than 
 she looks. What did she have to say? " 
 
 " Nothing especial. We talked a little about 
 the college."
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 " Did she have any news for you ? " 
 
 No, sir." 
 
 The pickle-maker leaned back, shoving his hands 
 into his trousers pockets. He liked to sit so at 
 the end of a meal, and let his big chest expand 
 while he looked about the dining-room and revelled 
 silently in the consciousness of his own success. In 
 his own phrase, he got down to the sugar in such 
 moments. Relieved of the instant necessity of 
 toil, he could cast his eyes back over what he had 
 accomplished, like a ploughman at the end of a 
 long furrow. At last he said, 
 
 " Well, I have some for you." 
 
 " Yes ? " She was pouring hot water into a re- 
 ceptacle like the inverted top of an hour-glass. 
 Now she reversed it, and let the water strain 
 through the orifice. Murdoch's coffee in the even- 
 ing Amy always made. 
 
 " Amy, girl, do you know I'm a rich man? " 
 
 She glanced up, surprised. " Why, I hadn't 
 thought much about it, Uncle Jack. But of 
 course, I supposed so." 
 
 " A pretty rich man. Do you know how 
 rich a man has to be to think of giving away ten 
 [243]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 million dollars ? " His voice lingered caressingly 
 on the last words, as a violinist sighs his whole heart 
 into the last strain of his sonata, or a sculptor 
 draws the reverent cloth from the masterpiece of 
 his art. And he had from Amy the long, aston- 
 ished look he coveted. 
 
 " To give away ten million ! " 
 
 The pickle-maker pursed his lips and nodded, 
 not looking at his niece. Oh, the pride and self- 
 control in that little nod ! 
 
 " But," she asked, after a moment, in a puzzled 
 voice, " why should you give it away, Uncle 
 Jack? " Her feminine mind was lost in the vast- 
 ness of the sum. Although she was far from imag- 
 inative, she saw the whole world spinning with 
 silver dollars, and greedy hands clutching at each. 
 It never occurred to her that her uncle meant to 
 bestow the mass in a lump. 
 
 " The college needs it, and I've got it to give." 
 
 "The college!" 
 
 " Yes, child. It's for the college, of course. 
 I've been thinking of it for a long time." 
 
 She looked at him fixedly. She was recalling 
 what Marion Craven had said that afternoon. He
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 fancied she was waiting for details, and he poured 
 them out like water. 
 
 " You see, Amy, we've been running behind here 
 at Carfax. When I go out and meet men from 
 Yale and Harvard, and tell them I come from Car- 
 fax College, they wonder where it is. Nobody 
 has heard of it, you might say, outside the State. 
 It rubs along with the old buildings, and now and 
 then a new library, or something of the sort, and 
 every year it has maybe ten more men in the fresh- 
 man class than the year before, and that's the end. 
 It's a fine old college, and I love it, and I wouldn't 
 tear down one of those old buildings if I had to 
 spend ten thousand bracing the walls till they'd 
 hold up the ivy. But it can't stand still this way ; 
 it's either got to grow, or it's got to die, one or 
 the other, like all the rest of us. We've got to 
 swim or we've got to sink, my dear; and by the 
 Lord Harry, we're going to swim! You under- 
 stand, I have only given them the endowment, not 
 the principal ; that stays in my hands for the pres- 
 ent, though they get it outright when I die. But 
 I can turn over a good, solid seven per cent." He 
 spoke proudly, as well he might. " Seven hun- 
 [245]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 dred thousand dollars a year Carfax College is to 
 spend. There aren't a great many incomes like 
 that, Amy. She'll have the endowment she has 
 already, and she'll have some income from tuition, 
 and she'll have my money; and it'll foot up to 
 precious near a million a year. What can't they 
 have for that money? They can have a technical 
 school, and a law school, and a school for saw- 
 bones, and then put a lot into buildings to keep 
 the students in. There'll be plenty, I fancy, with 
 a million a year. Carfax will be the biggest thing 
 in the country, Amy; no doubt of it. She's only 
 waiting for the word. And the contract is all 
 ready signed, sealed, and well, it ain't delivered 
 yet, but it's going to be soon, now. I just wanted 
 to tell you first, you see. There are a few details, 
 but they'll soon be fixed. The Murdoch Fund, it's 
 to be called. The Murdoch Fund. I reckon that 
 will make a noise when it gets into the newspapers 
 eh, Amy? And it's to be as free as air to them. 
 I haven't tied it up with conditions. I ain't the 
 sort of man that gives with his right hand and 
 takes away with his left. We must find the right 
 man to spend it, and then he gets the loot seven 
 [246]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 hundred thousand dollars a year, cash down on the 
 nail. Little over eleven years ago it was I began 
 the business. I fought along for two years, and 
 then you came, little girl, and fetched the luck with 
 you. More than a million to give away for every 
 year since then. How does that sound, Amy? 
 By the Lord Harry by the Lord Harry, I say, 
 my dear, I think I've done pretty well, eh? " 
 
 Put two marks of exclamation after the ques- 
 tion ; put three. This was the reward of Mur- 
 doch's labors. To say these things, in this tone, 
 to his niece, and to the world, was John Murdoch's 
 triumph. He spent fifteen hundred a year on him- 
 self, fifteen thousand on his niece and his house 
 and the rest, so far as it was merely money, he 
 cared no more for than the dust in the street. He 
 would have liked to spend thirty thousand on Amy 
 instead of fifteen, but he did not know how. He 
 was a man who tipped a porter five dollars, where 
 other men gave a quarter. Was there ostentation 
 in him? Not the least of the least. He had the 
 money, and he spent it happily, gleefully. When 
 the bucket runs over, it is a mean man who watches 
 the drops. This speech of Murdoch's was his 
 [247]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 paean, his song of victory, his lo triumphe! He 
 thrust his hands deeper into his trousers pockets. 
 The gesture was the only expression he could think 
 of for the emotion which ruled him. The pickle- 
 maker was a king a modern king; and royally 
 he looked upon the world. 
 
 " Here is your coffee, dear." Amy seldom called 
 him so ; Murdoch knew that she was glad with him. 
 
 "Uncle Jack?" 
 
 "Yes, Amy?" 
 
 " Does nobody else know about this yet? " 
 
 " Only old Barrett, my dear." 
 
 " Do you mean to give it to the college right 
 away ? " 
 
 Murdoch's face clouded a little. " Amy," he 
 said, with perceptible hesitation, " you don't think 
 I'm ungenerous to you, giving this away, do you? 
 Why, little girl, you're my luck, you know ; you've 
 always been my luck, since you came to me, with 
 your short dresses and your long legs. Always, 
 Amy, girl. You don't think I ain't looking out for 
 you, do you? " 
 
 She rose, and came round to him. "Sit so," 
 she commanded. She sat upon his lap, and put 
 [248]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 her arm around his neck. " Uncle, dear," she said, 
 " do you think I'm only joking when I tell you I 
 love you ? " 
 
 " No, I don't, Amy." 
 
 "Well, then. Isn't the money yours? You 
 got it; I never even knew where. I know that I 
 have had more of it than I could use. If you told 
 me you were all of a sudden poor, I could stand 
 that very easily, couldn't I? You needn't be 
 afraid for me. But " 
 
 "Well, Amy?" 
 
 " I was only thinking of Dr. Craven." 
 
 If Amy herself had not been where she was, 
 and Amy's arm had not been lying on his shoulder, 
 the pickle-maker might have said something 
 stronger than " Craven again ! " For, when one 
 really desires and is determined to do a generous 
 thing, it is certainly trying to find an insignificant 
 obstacle always in the way. 
 
 " Yes, Uncle Jack. When you give this ten 
 million think of it ! ten million ! ! when you give 
 it, Dr. Craven will leave, you know." 
 
 " And suppose he does, Amy ? " 
 
 "Won't he think it's rather cruel?" 
 [249]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Cruel ? " The pickle-maker spoke with vehe- 
 mence. " He'll be a doddering old fool if he does, 
 Amy. It's all arranged about Craven ; he's to 
 have a pension of oh, whatever he wants; four 
 thousand, if he'll take that much. That'll be all 
 right, won't it? He can't ask more than that? " 
 For Amy's sake, Murdoch made his answer as gentle 
 as he could; though secretly he was hurt that his 
 own niece should fail to appreciate his benefaction 
 more highly, he would not let her see it. But 
 Amy's vision was at once clear and narrow. When 
 her eyes were opened upon a matter, she could 
 neither close them to it, nor easily see it from 
 another angle. Now the vision of the old Doctor 
 was vivid to her ; she saw him as his daughter had 
 pictured him. 
 
 " He is an old man, Uncle Jack." 
 
 " Sixty-six or seven, I reckon." 
 
 " If you had built up a business, would you 
 want to leave it when you were sixty-six or seven, 
 and take a pension, Uncle Jack ? " 
 
 Murdoch stirred uneasily. The point of view 
 was not new to him. But what could he do? Are 
 we to delay the car of Progress because its wheels 
 [250]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 run over an old scholar? The idea is patently 
 absurd. Such is not the law of the road. In 
 other words, and still gently, he showed her this. 
 But still she was unsatisfied and persistent. 
 
 " He isn't very strong, Uncle Jack ; Miss Craven 
 told me so to-day." 
 
 " She stretched it, likely." Murdoch was trying 
 not to lose his temper. 
 
 "Uncle Jack!" 
 
 " Well ; maybe I shouldn't have said that. 
 But " He relapsed into silence. 
 
 " Dear, couldn't you put this off for a year? 
 Nobody knows about it but us. Would a year 
 make much difference ? " 
 
 " Amy ! " 
 
 " I was only wondering. Of course, I suppose 
 you couldn't." 
 
 "But what good would that do?" 
 
 " Dr. Craven might find that he wasn't able to 
 carry on the work, and resign. That wouldn't 
 make it seem to him as if he were driven out, you 
 see. If you told him about this right away, of 
 course he would go, but everything would be so 
 different to him, wouldn't it? " 
 [251]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Murdoch drew himself together, and pondered 
 while his niece sat quietly on his knee. In his 
 mind's eye he saw the flaring headlines which an- 
 nounced his enormous gift : 
 
 TEN MILLION DOLLAR GIFT OF JOHN 
 MURDOCH 
 
 WELL-KNOWN MANUFACTURER DONATES TEN MILL- 
 ION DOLLARS TO CARFAX COLLEGE, HIS ALMA 
 MATER. SKETCH OF THE BENEFACTOR'S LIFE 
 
 One of the sweetest drops in Murdoch's cup was 
 the quickness of his success. Now every month he 
 delayed made his announcement more common- 
 place. Soon he would be forty years old, and 
 perhaps no one would know of his generosity and 
 ability by then ! He sat in silence long, long 
 minutes, with Amy's fingers in his own. She 
 waited, ready to accept unquestionably his deci- 
 sion ; she believed in her uncle, as he knew. 
 
 " All right, little girl, for a year, then," he 
 said. 
 
 " I think it will be nicer so, dear," Those were 
 [252]
 
 A GIRL AND TEN MILLION 
 
 all his thanks. She failed entirely to appreciate 
 the strength of his desire and the measure of his 
 sacrifice. Her nature was as simple and clear as 
 her gray eyes. To Amy Power, even at nineteen, 
 a situation was something to be faced, finished, for- 
 gotten. She saw always two paths stretching out 
 before her ; one was right to choose, one was wrong. 
 Happy Amy ! So, therefore, because Marion 
 Craven happened to call that day, and a girl's 
 nature happened to be sweet, and a strong man 
 happened to be great-hearted, the progress of 
 education must be delayed a while; the ten million 
 dollars which was to put Carfax College where it 
 belonged, must remain for a time unheralded. It 
 is a tremendous sum, ten million dollars. An em- 
 pire has been wrecked by a desire for less. And 
 yet there are greater matters simple human kind- 
 ness, for example. 
 
 [253]
 
 Chapter Fourteen 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 May days in Carfax. Buds turning into blossoms, 
 wind sparkling on the river, a wild largess of sun- 
 shine, and the last gray goose gone north. Oh, the 
 hint and promise in the cherries! Oh, the bright 
 gold of the dandelions! Oh, the small Irish lads 
 unclothed and shivering to the first chilly plunge ! 
 Oh, the quintessential sweetness of the year! 
 
 So one might think. But modern America de- 
 sires in her cities no such glory. Celebrate instead 
 the slush, clogging the high-piled van which moves 
 from undesirable house to undesirable flat. Sing 
 rather the long-drawn, unintelligible scream which 
 heralds the approach of the rag-and-bottle-man 
 or is it the Italian with strawberries? Who knows 
 till he comes in sight ? Groan lamentably with the 
 lamentable groaning of the street-piano and its 
 Neapolitan parasites what a taste the Latin 
 [254.]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 nations have in torture since the Spanish inquisi- 
 tion ! Cry aloud of the bargain sale, and the 
 lawn-sprinklers, and newly spread ingathering 
 banana-peel. These are the signs of May in Car- 
 fax. Amy fled them, going to Murdoch's country 
 place, where she liked the stillness and the trees; 
 and there, one Saturday afternoon, Murdoch took 
 Bradford, too. The pickle-maker never thought of 
 asking his niece whether or not he should bring 
 the young man. He liked Bradford, and rather 
 fancied Amy did, and what other chaperon than 
 liking could be desired? Any author, writing 
 short stories of society for seven dollars a page, 
 could have told him glibly of his error, had he but 
 asked. Bradford went with joy and hesitation. 
 He hoped, he wondered ; sometimes he only feared. 
 When Amy Power saw the two drive up, in the 
 early twilight, she thought who may say what a 
 maid thinks, whose eyes are clear and gray as water 
 in a spring, and whose face is untroubled by a line? 
 Not Bradford, at least, could tell. 
 
 The pickle-maker's country house was a ram- 
 bling, one-storied, slate-colored bungalow, standing 
 on the roll of a wide and shallow hill. To the 
 [255]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 north and east pine-woods clustered right up to 
 the house, the great trees solemnly looking down 
 upon the house, and in a wind leaning over to drop 
 cones down the chimneys. South and west sloped 
 the lawn, broad and riotous in flowers, and ended in 
 both directions at the river, which here swung 
 round a curve. The river was six feet deep and 
 ninety wide, and ran full and strong like a race- 
 horse. Beyond the river again, reached by two 
 log-buttressed bridges, the land climbed to a ridge, 
 and all the pines seemed hurrying to the top to 
 look over. Thus, it is plain, on all sides the 
 pattering stillness of the forest shut in the clear- 
 ing. 
 
 An elderly grumbler by the name of Lowton 
 lived at the place, and with his daughter and two 
 grandsons, aged respectively five and nine, took 
 care of it in winter. He was wholly independent 
 in speech, but as faithful as a watch-dog, if he were 
 given his leave to growl. He growled in particu- 
 lar at the woods. Bradford, fraternizing with 
 him, thought to please him by remarking on the 
 beauty of the place, but Lowton could not agree. 
 
 " There ain't a speck of cut wood on the place," 
 [256]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 he declared, " that's fit to burn, an' yet miles of 
 trees right on top of us ! Mr. Murdoch, he won't 
 have a one cut, an' why? He's so fond of his 
 darned old blooming Nature, ez he calls it, that he 
 wants 'em all to stand. ' There's lots of dead 
 trees fallen,' he sez ; * jest use them, Lowton.' How 
 kin I use them ? Rotten wood won't burn ; 's agin 
 Nature. It's all right fer you folks in summer, 
 with the sun a-shinin' and the river dancin' and 
 your old Nature jest a-caperin' like a young calf, 
 but you'd oughto be here in winter and watch her 
 prance ! Them old snags behind the house there " 
 (Lowton referred to the majestic pines) " 'ith their 
 tops all full of snow, a-bowin' and a-bendin' by 
 gosh, ever' time the wind comes up, an' it always is 
 up, I kin jest hear 'em snap! Then crash! '11 go 
 one off in the woods som'ers, and me expectin' ever' 
 night that one'll slosh down onto the house and cut 
 our beds right clean in two. How'd you like a 
 four- foot pine fallin' on your bed? Where's your 
 old Nature then? I swear to gosh hang I won't 
 stay here another winter like last yes, sir, I swear 
 to gosh hang. You wait a minnit, an' I'll show 
 you somethin'." 
 
 [257]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " He says the same thing every year," observed 
 Amy. " But he always stays." 
 
 " Look a' here," said Lowton, coming back. 
 " You wanto see what sort of winters we get here ? 
 That there's a calendar for March, an' I put down 
 every day right there what happened. You look 
 at that, an' then you talk about Nature." 
 
 " You had troubles of your own, sure enough ! " 
 said Bradford. " Look, Miss Power." And he 
 showed her Lowton's curiosity of annotation. 
 Each day had its comment. 
 
 March 4. snow 
 " 5. snow 
 " 6. set one hen 
 " 7. snow 
 " 8. rain and snow 
 " 9. perfectly lovely 
 " 10. set hen 
 " 11. snow and rain 
 " 12. heavens will it ever quit 
 " 13. rain 
 
 " 14. one hen off spoiled thirteen eggs 
 drat her 
 [258]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 March 15. rain 
 " 16. fair day 
 " 17. fair day. 
 " 18. bad cold and snow oh well 
 
 *' Thank you," said Bradford, choking. He 
 returned the calendar to Lowton and fled behind 
 the house. " Christian resignation ! " he pro- 
 claimed to Amy. " Christian resignation ! It 
 ought to be framed ! " And that final heart- 
 broken " oh well " made even Amy laugh. 
 
 Sunday morning was consecrated to Murdoch. 
 The pickle-maker led Bradford everywhere, expa- 
 tiating in the pride of ownership. He exhibited 
 horses and a cow, chickens and miniature falls, 
 pigeons and a distant hill all purple in the haze, 
 the river and the bridges, all the rooms in the house, 
 and a new wagon-brake of his own invention; 
 and he filled in with praises of the pines. Mur- 
 doch revelled in his pines ; he gloated over the huge 
 ones, telling fabulous stories of their height and 
 age, and mourned like Damon over some ancient 
 Pythias he found lying prostrated by the wind. 
 There was a real religious fervor in the man; he 
 [259]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 might have been a Druid at his worship, save for 
 the keen proprietary interest that intensified his 
 happiness. He kept Bradford busy with his un- 
 conscious demands for exclamation ; and Bradford 
 exclaimed with such fineness and propriety of feel- 
 ing that the pickle-maker heard him affection- 
 ately. 
 
 Dinner was served in the largest room of the 
 house, a room whose wide south windows looked 
 upon the lawn and the river running below. Mur- 
 doch supplied the talk. In a pause of it Bradford 
 let his eyes wander idly toward the stream. It 
 flowed dark against the green ; as he saw it he was 
 reminded suddenly of the river he had visioned in 
 the church, the river which sprang out of nothing 
 and divided him from Amy. But a small figure 
 appeared upon the bank, before which symbolism 
 fled. It was Lowton's youngest grandchild, 
 dressed in strapped blue overalls, laboriously pick- 
 ing daisies. He somehow made Bradford aware 
 that the sun was full upon the slope, and the air 
 quiet and warm, and the surroundings not of a sort 
 to encourage allegory. Much of the day, Brad- 
 ford reflected, had been quite wasted, for he had 
 [260]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 got hardly a glimpse of Amy since breakfast-time. 
 He stole a glance at her small head, with the dark- 
 brown hair drawn to some sort of picturesque knot 
 upon it. He drew a long breath with the ecstasy 
 of his delight in the simple line of her cheek and 
 throat, outlined against the window. Then, as 
 she turned her eyes toward him, he let his wander 
 quickly away toward the river again. The sun 
 was as full, and warm, and pleasant, and sleepy, 
 as before; but Bradford's chair clattered on the 
 floor as he sprang up and rushed to the door. 
 
 " What is it? " the other two cried together. 
 
 " The kid's in the river ! " shouted Bradford. 
 In an instant he was running hard across the lawn, 
 with no time for anything but the comforting real- 
 ization that he had acted rapidly. He reached the 
 spot. Ten yards down the stream the baby's face 
 was white on the water. The swift sullenness 
 of the current might have easily daunted him, but 
 it did not. He ran along the bank, dived in, and 
 had the child in his grasp before he realized the 
 power of the water. It was fed by the snows, and 
 its chill was so instant that he cried out. It caught 
 at his heart and cramped his muscles. He felt it 
 [261]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 binding his chest as rigid as an iron bar, and when 
 he tried to take a stroke his legs were powerless 
 and disobedient. He half-released the child, vainly 
 feeling for the bottom; then his fingers tightened 
 again. By God, with her looking on, he would 
 die game! They were setting out into the middle 
 now ; he could not tell whether he had been in that 
 frightful cold ten seconds or ten minutes, but he 
 felt that his chances were going with his strength, 
 and wondered how soon he should begin to choke, 
 and know that the end was coining. Then they 
 were at the lower bridge, and Murdoch, leaning 
 away down, clutched him and held on. Bradford 
 passed over the boy, whom Murdoch lifted with his 
 free hand. The next instant they were both safely 
 on the bridge. The dripping baby burst into a 
 monstrous wail. 
 
 " I want my f 'owers," he said. Surely 
 enough, the daisies were careering down the stream. 
 
 " Well, it was a lucky thing for that kid you 
 saw him go in," cried Murdoch, heartily. " He 
 might have been drowned, like as not. Pity you've 
 spoiled your clothes, though." 
 
 " I've got another suit at the house," answered 
 [262]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 Bradford, blushing shamefacedly, as he estimated 
 the distance from the bridge to the spot where the 
 child had fallen in. It was perhaps forty yards. 
 The size of the river seemed to diminish as he 
 stared at it. 
 
 When Bradford came downstairs again he had 
 recovered his equanimity. The pickle-maker had 
 disappeared somewhere. Amy was sitting on the 
 piazza, gazing at the river where it rippled in the 
 sun. He stood in the doorway and watched her. 
 She was wearing gray again. Oh, color of the 
 silver shining moss, of hills at sundown, and of 
 Amy's eyes ! Her breast rose and fell. The curl- 
 ing tendrils of her hair clung dark against her 
 neck's whiteness. The roundness of her figure was 
 as delicately imperious as the challenge of the 
 spring. She was a girl-woman " the sweetest 
 thing God ever made." 
 
 When a boy loves a woman, to him is given to 
 see in her only what he wishes there. Slowly the 
 man learns that what is written is written. Brad- 
 ford stared at her long; he observed the steady, 
 firm line of the chin, the little determined, down- 
 ward droop of the mouth, the clear, high arching 
 [263]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 of the eyebrows, and all those signs which had whis- 
 pered so truly to the rector " we are strong ! " 
 To Bradford they whispered only, " We are 
 sweet ! " Had he heard their other message 
 well, what then? Nothing then. He was in love, 
 and it would have whistled down the wind. 
 
 He stepped forward. " Thinking, Miss Pow- 
 er? " 
 
 She sprang up, her face alight, and all the deli- 
 cate hardness gone. " Oh, Mr. Bradford ! It was 
 brave of you ! " 
 
 " It was really nothing at all. Your uncle did 
 most of it." 
 
 " My uncle ! He would have been too late." 
 
 " At least you can guess that I like to hear you 
 say so." 
 
 " Anyone would say so, Mr. Bradford. You 
 thought just what to do. If you had not think 
 what might have happened ! " 
 
 He sat down by her in silence, thinking of his 
 thoughts in that moment when he had exagger- 
 atedly given himself up for lost. He said nothing 
 of these to her ; but in a moment he asked, " Will 
 you come for a walk? " 
 
 [264]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " I know a beautiful place we saw it this morn- 
 ing. You ought to know it, too, I should think; 
 at least your uncle called it Amy's Bower. Shall 
 we go there? " 
 
 " Yes," she said. She did not quite know what 
 she was saying or doing or feeling. A new sense 
 had come over her with a great sweep, an emotion 
 like the rush of the river, bearing her on and on 
 and on. She did not wish to resist. She gave 
 herself up to it, as confidently, as happily, as only 
 strong natures can yield. The ineffable delight 
 of surrender was in her soul. They reached the 
 Bower almost in silence; only the crying of the 
 blue- jays in the woods disturbed their thoughts. 
 
 The Bower was a spot beside one of the two 
 brooks which fed the river. Leaf-bearing trees, 
 the only group among the pines, watched there 
 beside a pool, and the sunshine lay lazily upon the 
 grass just beyond their shade. Bradford spread 
 a shawl for her carefully, and she sat down, right 
 by the edge of the water, where, he told her, she 
 might look in, like Narcissus, until she fell in love 
 with her own shadow there. But she looked up at 
 [265]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 him instead, and he forgot Narcissus, and lay 
 down beside her on a corner of the shawl. The 
 sun gleamed. 
 
 " It's almost June," she ventured, slowly. 
 
 " Almost." He wondered what was she think- 
 ing now? 
 
 " I like this spot so much, they named it for me." 
 
 " It is beautiful." Would she like it still, if he 
 asked her asked her 
 
 " Did you know this brook had an Indian 
 name? " she questioned, dreamily. 
 
 " No. What is it? " Am I really afraid? 
 
 " Tu-see-alusa." 
 
 " What does that mean ? " Oh, take your cour- 
 age in both hands, faintheart! 
 
 " The stream of white water." 
 
 " I can see why they named it that." She does 
 not care at all for me ; she is not thinking of me ; 
 she is thinking only of the hateful woods and the 
 brook ! 
 
 " Yes ; it is foamy up above. But it is very 
 still just here." 
 
 " As still as your eyes almost." Now will she 
 understand me? 
 
 [266]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " Amy ! " 
 
 Silence. 
 
 " Amy, don't you know that I love you? " Oh, 
 fool, fool, he thought, to throw away even hope ! 
 
 " You really love me ? " 
 
 " Oh, Amy, Amy, Amy ! " 
 
 " I am very glad, dear." Still she sat with her 
 face averted, looking into the water ; and her voice 
 was so low that he feared he was dreaming, till 
 he, too, looking into the water, and saw that she was 
 crying silently. Then, with a surge of his heart, 
 he took her in his arms, where he had longed to 
 hold her, and kissed her eyes, her hair, her lips, 
 as he had longed to kiss her. And she smiled at 
 him through her tears, and thanked God. 
 
 Shall we never be done with hurrying to our 
 joy, though we know so sorrowfully well how soon 
 we must hurry away from it? Or are we wiser 
 than we know, and is delay so fatal to the capture 
 of the rainbow's gold? 
 
 " Oh, little girl ! " 
 
 She drew herself from him gently and sat up 
 straight, the tears running down her face, and her 
 [267]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 eyes still smiling through. " I don't know why 
 I am so foolish," she told him, brokenly, " un- 
 less because I am so very happy, dear! Are 
 you?" 
 
 Was Bradford? 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " I thought you didn't care 
 you never told me ! " 
 
 He had never told her! Had his eyes, his lips 
 even, ever told her of anything else? 
 
 " But I thought men always said those things 
 to girls." 
 
 Not as he had said them. Men did not look at 
 girls as he had looked at her. 
 
 " Oh," she cried, " teach me to tell you I love 
 you so! It is all shut up here." She laid her 
 hand upon her bosom while it rose and fell. " I 
 can't speak. I thought that you must think I 
 hated you or something because I was so dumb, 
 and yet I couldn't say anything different. Shall 
 I learn some day to tell you how I love you ? " 
 She shook with her vehemence till Bradford was 
 amazed. He soothed her, and whispered to her, 
 till she grew calmer by and by. " I have never 
 talked to anyone," she said. " I don't know how. 
 [ 268 ]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 Why, I never had anything to say, till you came, 
 dear! You are so clever can you teach me a 
 little? I feel I feel as if there had been some- 
 thing in my heart that cried, cried, and nobody 
 came; and now you've come. Ah, dear, I'm glad 
 you've come ! " 
 
 He teach her a little? He clever? He was not 
 clever to-day, nor was he thinking of himself. He 
 was humble and afraid. Already he loved her a 
 thousand times more than he had dreamed before ; 
 and was it for that reason he was afraid? 
 
 " You are so good to love me ! " she told him. 
 He good? He took her hands almost timidly, and 
 showed her how white they were against his own. 
 And that was her goodness and his. No; he was 
 base, ill-tempered, ungenerous so he was running 
 on to enumerate all the bad qualities in the list ex- 
 cept ah, that exception we all make ! except the 
 one he sometimes feared, when she drew her hands 
 away, and laid her fingers lightly on his lips. 
 
 " Hush, dear ! " she asked. " I can't hear you 
 
 speak so. You must hush. You are brave and 
 
 strong and true. Oh, 7 know. I know what you 
 
 have done. Don't you remember the very first 
 
 [269]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 time I ever saw you when you sang to those poor 
 people on the train? Was that ungenerous, and 
 base, and ill-tempered? I pitied them all just as 
 you did, but what could I do ? I was too weak even 
 to help with the hurt ones; I only sat there and 
 cried, till you began to sing, and then somehow I 
 felt, even when I could hardly hear you for the 
 noises, that someone was there, strong and brave 
 and steady, and things couldn't go all wrong." 
 
 " But, sweetheart. It isn't that I mean. I 
 
 don't think I'm a coward. But He paused, 
 
 unable to find words, and she interrupted him. 
 
 " A coward ? Dear, do you remember a night 
 when you made a speech to the men out at the col- 
 lege, and told them what was right, though you 
 knew they would hate you for it ? I think I think 
 that I began ought I not to tell you that? And 
 to-day, when you jumped in to get that little boy 
 do you think it was selfish and cowardly of you 
 do you know that I should have hated him always if 
 you had been hurt ? do you think it was selfish and 
 cowardly of you to do that? No, dear; you must 
 just hush, please ! " 
 
 Bradford heard her. There were many things he 
 [270]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 might have told her then. Reproach him who can 
 because he was silent. Alas, instead of remaining 
 humble and afraid, he felt as he always felt when he 
 was praised, and momentarily took her words for 
 truth poor young hero, who had so much to fight 
 against that one can hardly deny him admiration 
 even for the broken, unfinished effort he had made an 
 instant before. 
 
 They sat there while the sun dropped and dipped, 
 and the gray twilight crept slowly out of the woods 
 and sprang on them suddenly; and Bradford lis- 
 tened to what not many of us are allowed to hear, 
 and saw what few of us ever see. It is true that, 
 when all is said, mankind is still pretty close to nat- 
 ure. There are few men and not many more women 
 who will not stop to watch a bud unfolding to a 
 flower. But to Bradford was given to watch the 
 heart of a girl unfolding to the flower of woman- 
 hood. The sight is rare. Buds open naturally, 
 but we have civilized the girls, until such as Amy 
 do not, in the old simile, grow on every bush. She 
 spoke to Bradford as freely as she thought more 
 freely than she had ever thought before. She did 
 not know of the proverb that a woman should be 
 [271]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 kissed, but a man crossed. She knew only that she 
 had discovered love. 
 
 " Is it evening? Why, it can't be evening! Well, 
 come, Francis, and we will tell uncle." 
 
 " Do you think that we had better, to-night ? " 
 " He would see it anyway ! " she laughed. But 
 as they walked to the house, Bradford was not so 
 confident as she. Amy was, presumably, heiress to 
 millions, and he had a little more than three thou- 
 sand dollars a year. Would Murdoch approve of 
 him ? Bradford reflected hopefully that the pickle- 
 maker was a " self-made " man ; and then uneasily 
 that he had made himself very vigorous and direct. 
 The blood came to the boy's face as he thought what 
 Murdoch might say. But perhaps he would only 
 tell them to wait. Bradford scarcely feared more, 
 certainly hoped no more than this. They two came 
 up the lawn, in the Sunday evening peace which 
 seems to lie even upon the open country. On the 
 piazza was Murdoch, smoking and waiting for them. 
 Bradford never in his life forgot the sheen of the 
 sun in the low windows as they slowly approached. 
 How should he begin? In what words should he 
 frame his news ? How account for his precipitation ? 
 [272]
 
 THE AWAKENING OF AMY 
 
 He had known Amy scarcely eight months alto- 
 gether. Would Murdoch grow angry 
 
 Amy's hand slipped into his. " Uncle you see 
 I have promised to marry Mr. Bradford." 
 
 "Hey? What?" The pickle-maker got up 
 hastily. 
 
 " We love each other," she said, proudly and sim- 
 ply, looking up at Bradford. Murdoch stared into 
 his eyes till Bradford almost winced. Into what 
 depths of his nature did the older man see? Or 
 did he see only the handsome face, the open look 
 returning his. He held out a hand to each. 
 
 " That's good hearing," he cried, enthusiastical- 
 ly. " By the Lord Harry, but that's good hear- 
 ing!" 
 
 [273]
 
 Chapter Fifteen 
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 The engagement was received with pretty general 
 acclamations, and not many seriously objected to 
 the announcement of their marriage for the com- 
 ing August. There was no reason why they 
 should wait. Amy made no pretence of coquetry. 
 She was only twenty, but her mother had married 
 as young, and so had Bradford's, which seemed suf- 
 ficient. And Bradford had certainly no wish to 
 wait ; he was in love. The Barton case turned out 
 fortunately, being won on the lines of attack he 
 had laid down, and the Trinity promptly advanced 
 his salary. With one thing and another, Bradford 
 had forty-five hundred dollars a year. Could Amy 
 live on forty -five hundred dollars a year? She could, 
 she said, but she saw no necessity for doing so, nor 
 did her uncle. He wished to continue his present 
 policy of' giving her all she wanted and a little 
 more. 
 
 " You know, Francis," she urged, " that I would 
 [274]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 live anywhere with you, even in a hut " and Amy 
 meant her words, though her ideas of a hut were 
 primitive " but why should we not live with 
 Uncle? " That made decision easy, and a speedy 
 marriage wholly desirable. It would certainly be a 
 shame to leave Murdoch in loneliness. So it ap- 
 peared that Amy's life was outwardly to undergo 
 little change, and Bradford was to take up the bur- 
 den of living with the pickle-maker, a burden he had 
 shuddered at in his imagination eight months be- 
 fore. The enormous lithographs, and the quota- 
 tions of the Shakespeare brand, still ornamented 
 not only the Carfax billboards, but the whole coun- 
 try, and accessible parts of Europe, as the business 
 spread; but Bradford looked at them with more 
 amusement and less asperity. He did not mind 
 living with Murdoch now. Indeed, he had com- 
 pletely forgotten that inward vision of the thin- 
 chested wife and the intolerable offspring. 
 
 Miss Craven, her eyes full of laughter, shook 
 Amy gently. " You promised to tell me, you 
 know, after you told him," she reminded. " Now, 
 what did you say to him, Amy ? " 
 
 " I told him that I loved him very much," an- 
 [275]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 swered Amy, tranquilly. " And so I do. You 
 wouldn't have me marry him otherwise ? " 
 
 " Heaven send you told it to him more enthusi- 
 astically than that, or he'd never believe you ; he'd 
 go off and commit suicide," cried Miss Craven. 
 
 " I think he believes it, though." 
 
 Miss Craven looked her over critically. " What 
 has come to you, my dear? You are a different 
 woman from the one I made the acquaintance of 
 last fall. Has he done it? And what has he 
 done?" 
 
 " Loved me," said Amy, tranquilly again. She 
 returned Marion's look, and the older woman threw 
 her arms around her neck, and kissed her. 
 
 " Dear," she whispered, softly, " he will be very 
 happy. And so will you." Miss Craven's eyes 
 were wet. 
 
 Kate gave Bradford the solid grip of friendship. 
 " I think you're lucky, old fellow. A man needs a 
 woman to keep him up to the mark." He did not 
 joke at all. But then he had been serious all win- 
 ter almost as serious as Slim. He was to take his 
 degree in June, and Shedsy said it would be ten 
 below zero, unless Kate cheered up a bit. Shedsy's 
 [276]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 jocosity was, however, a trifle forced. The shadow 
 of Woman fell across the Residuum, and made him 
 shiver. The horse-haired boarding-houses, with 
 their loneliness, seemed perilously near. He ad- 
 mitted, when Bradford took him to call on Amy, 
 that she was charming, and he kept Bradford from 
 perceiving any undertone of sorrow in his congrat- 
 ulations, but he lamented afresh to Slim. " I sup- 
 pose," he ended, " that it multiplies their happi- 
 ness, and it only subtracts a little from mine. I 
 suppose I'm a d-dog in the manger. B-but I've 
 always s-sympathized a little with that d-dog. 
 Maybe he was only c-cross because there was n-noth- 
 ing at all for him to eat. By and by he went away, 
 and the r-rest got what they wanted, but what b-be- 
 came of him? Oh, he only starved to d-death in 
 some c-corner, I suppose." 
 
 " How did you like her? " 
 
 " Oh, you know m-me ; before any woman, m-my 
 flow of spirits dries up ; I s-sit quiet, or else I 
 m-murmur, * Yes, ma'am ' and ' No, ma'am,' with all 
 the exhilaration of an automatic d-doll. B-but she 
 seemed to be as b-bad off as I was, so I felt better, 
 and we really h-heard each other's voices once or 
 [277]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 t-twice before I left. I Hiked her. I don't be- 
 lieve you've g-got many of her sort d-down at your 
 emporium of 1-learning, old man." 
 
 Amy's comment on that visit had been singularly 
 like Shedsy's own. " I didn't think he was unso- 
 ciable, dear," she said. " He was shy, but then so 
 am I with everybody but She stopped. 
 
 " With everybody but who? " asked Bradford, in 
 happy jealousy. 
 
 " You know who." Yes, he knew ; in those golden 
 days his betrothed wore her heart upon her sleeve 
 for him. 
 
 Amid the general approval, there was one man 
 who in his heart mourned over the engagement, and 
 cursed himself for doing so. Only a coward, he 
 told himself, cried over spilt milk; and only worse 
 than a coward refused to take an honest beating like 
 a man. Yet he knew himself a shade more brusque, 
 a shade more sardonic than before. The women of 
 his parish were more in love with Clarges than ever. 
 All he could do was to confine expression of his 
 thoughts and feelings to the four walls of his room. 
 These latter might have heard him cry out some- 
 times, and seen him torture himself as vainly and 
 [278]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 unsparingly as a monk of La Chartreuse ; then robe 
 himself and go down to lead his flock to God. But 
 they could hear and see quite safely ; had they told, 
 who would have believed? What? the rector of 
 St. Hilda's, who sat high and lay soft, to humble 
 himself in the night-watches? What? Clarges of 
 '89, who had played unmoved through the bitterest 
 crises of four hard-fought seasons, and heard over 
 and over the long yell that ended in his name ; 
 Clarges of '89, who had been twice suspended, and 
 still held the university record in the broad jump 
 Clarges of '89 to be a mediaeval fool? What? 
 Father Clarges, who met with a calm forehead the 
 storm of adulation that swept up to him from the 
 wives, sisters, daughters, of his church, and beat 
 it back Father Clarges disturb his rest for the 
 welfare of a snippet of a girl? What? That 
 Clarges, the most open champion of the principle 
 that an Episcopalian congregation is a business 
 corporation, not a religious body ; the head and 
 front of the pernicious doctrine which was commer- 
 cializing the church that Clarges bow contritely 
 and repent with blood and tears before his God? 
 Go to ; are we all fools ? Doubt that the stars 
 [279]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 are fire, but never doubt we know our respective 
 Clarges. 
 
 Still, whether the walls heard and saw correctly 
 or not, whether their gossip should or should not 
 have been believed, it is true that the summer was 
 a hard one for Clarges, and he grew a little thinner 
 in the heat. Had it not been for a strike among 
 the street-car men during July, he would probably 
 have given up his pastorate and gone to Europe 
 for a while. But he was drawn into the settlement 
 of that strike, and, after much backing and filling 
 among the powers of both sides, succeeded in the 
 appointment of a board of arbitration to settle it. 
 His efforts elicited some reluctant admiration, and a 
 great deal of spirited condemnation from all quar- 
 ters. Murdoch, in common with all other successful 
 men, had almost a religious horror of arbitration, 
 
 which he characterized as " d d meddling." 
 
 Still, if arbitration were to succeed, he admitted 
 that Clarges was cut out for its operator. And he 
 gave his unqualified respect to a man who, un- 
 armed, stood off a mob of three or four hundred 
 workmen and toughs, who were attempting to as- 
 sault a car. That kind of personality Murdoch 
 [280]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 could both understand and approve of. When the 
 strike was over August had nearly come, and the 
 wedding was close at hand. Clarges had been 
 asked to officiate, and to retreat was apparently out 
 of the question. Therefore he stayed on. 
 
 Amy had not wished Clarges to marry them. 
 " He doesn't like you, Francis," she said. " He is 
 unfair. I should rather have someone else." But 
 Bradford drew her to his way of thinking. " We 
 really ought to ask him, dear," he told her. " It 
 would be almost an insult not to, since he is the 
 rector of your church, and is known to be a friend 
 of your uncle's. As for what he thinks about me, 
 that's hardly the question, is it? It doesn't bother 
 me, Amy. There is only one like or dislike that I 
 care about, lady mine." What Bradford meant 
 was, that having won Amy, he felt at least cordial 
 toward a man whom he could not help thinking a 
 discomfited rival. Moreover, it is possible that he 
 may have desired to exult a little. 
 
 During his engagement, Bradford learned that 
 
 after all he was not to marry an heiress, as he had 
 
 supposed. The information did not annoy him in 
 
 the least ; in fact, he wasted very little thought on 
 
 [281]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 it. He was not marrying Amy for her money ; he 
 was neither a fortune-hunter nor a lover of ostenta- 
 tion. Perhaps, if Amy had had no money at all, 
 he might have tried not to fall in love with her; 
 and perhaps, again, he might not have succeeded 
 in his attempt. It was Murdoch who suggested 
 that Bradford should be told of the pending gift to 
 Carfax College. For one reason, Murdoch was so 
 honest a man that he disliked even the semblance of 
 deceit toward Bradford, in money matters or in any 
 other respect ; and for another, he was in a way so 
 vain a man that he eagerly desired all who could 
 safely do so to know his secret. If he might not 
 yet inform the world of his success, he might still 
 gather a few witnesses who could testify in the 
 future. Amy was perfectly willing that Bradford 
 should be told. It all seemed to Amy a detail. She 
 mentioned it to Bradford in the pause of a conver- 
 sation on matters which half the world knows al- 
 ready and the other half will never understand. 
 
 " Uncle Jack means to give a great deal of money 
 to Carfax College, Francis did you know that? " 
 
 " So I have heard rumored. He's made up his 
 mind, has he? " 
 
 [282]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 " Yes. He is going to give ten million dollars." 
 
 Bradford's eyes widened. " Impossible ! Ten 
 million ! " he repeated, staggered. 
 
 She nodded. " Yes. Ten million. But he is 
 going to wait a little before he gives it." 
 
 Bradford smiled, thinking he understood. " Go- 
 ing to wait till he makes it, you mean ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. He has it ; he could give it right away. 
 He had intended to give it this summer, but he 
 thought it was better to wait a year." 
 
 "Why should he wait if he really wants to give 
 it? The amount seems impossible to me, though." 
 
 Amy was a little surprised. " Why, don't you 
 see," she said, " if he gave the money now, Dr. 
 Craven would have to resign, and uncle thought it 
 would be a pity to force him out before he was 
 ready to go." 
 
 " I call it rather cheap of the old Doctor to hang 
 on, when he knows what will happen to the college 
 as soon as he leaves." 
 
 " Oh, he doesn't know, Francis. That is why 
 Uncle Jack hasn't told anyone so that Dr. Craven 
 will not find out. Nobody knows but the lawyers 
 and you and I." 
 
 [283]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " How long did you say Murdoch had been 
 thinking of this ? " 
 
 " Uncle Jack ? A long time. Six months, any- 
 way. It was before I knew " 
 
 " Knew what, sweetheart Amy ? " 
 
 " Knew why I was so happy, dear." 
 
 " Amy ! " 
 
 " That is I think I knew, but I was afraid." 
 
 " But, little girl ! " The stupendous fact which 
 Bradford had just learned was working in his brain. 
 " Do you actually mean to tell me that your uncle 
 can put his hands on ten million dollars and turn it 
 over to Carfax to anybody and have enough 
 left to run his business? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " It's unbelievable ! But the other is more un- 
 believable still that ten million should wait till 
 that old man gets ready to resign ! " 
 
 "Why shouldn't it wait, dear? If Dr. Craven 
 were turned out, think how cruel it would be ! He 
 is an old man, and he has been with the college all 
 his life. Oh, it would be very nasty of Uncle Jack 
 wouldn't it?" 
 
 " Amy," demanded Bradford, acutely, " who 
 [284]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 thought of holding up this gift of waiting ? Was 
 it your uncle or was it you ? " 
 
 " I spoke of it, I think. But, of course, Uncle 
 Jack was glad to wait, as soon as he thought of it." 
 Amy believed this entirely. 
 
 " Little girl," said Bradford, kissing her, with a 
 touch of his former awe, " do you think you can 
 lift me to your skies, or shall I only drag you 
 down ? " She looked into his eyes mutely ; then 
 she smiled. Bradford kissed her again for that 
 smile. The pathos and the obvious comedy of the 
 whole situation touched Bradford's instinct for the 
 dramatic very keenly. What a situation, he 
 thought! what possibilities for a story! He 
 chuckled at a vision of Murdoch and Craven to- 
 gether at a trustees' meeting : the pickle-maker esti- 
 mating Craven's age, speculating like a life-insur- 
 ance agent, and trying not to hint at the propriety 
 of resignation in the aged ; Dr. Craven stately, ab- 
 sent-minded, quite unconscious of the sword sus- 
 pended over him. The next time Bradford saw 
 Dr. Craven, he looked at him with renewed interest, 
 and even with tenderness. Murdoch's chances were 
 good, apparently. The President was not wear- 
 [285]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 ing his years lightly like a flower. He stooped ; the 
 kindly eyes behind the glasses were dim ; he hesitated 
 a trifle in his speech. The gift may soon fall in, 
 thought Bradford, with a little rush of pity. There 
 was another way than resignation; Craven, after 
 thirty-eight years of service, might die in har- 
 ness after all, and Bradford hoped the kindly fates 
 would permit it. Yet, when he talked to the pickle- 
 maker, Bradford saw very clearly Murdoch's posi- 
 tion. Suppose Dr. Craven should outlast the year 
 or two or five, or even ten ? His powers of in- 
 tellect seemed unabated by his years ; and even 
 his appearance had been much as it was for a 
 decade. 
 
 Meanwhile, was Murdoch's glory to be shad- 
 owed, and his laurel to wither before he could pluck 
 it? Men who had given away ten million dollars 
 were rare, yet they existed, and not so innumerously. 
 But no man had ever given away ten million dollars 
 which he had amassed before his fortieth birthday. 
 True, this desire to splurge was cheap enough, and 
 any really great man, Bradford mused, would have 
 stood far above it. True, newspaper notoriety and 
 the reputation of a dazzlingly successful youth were 
 [286]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 small matters. But the pickle-maker wanted them 
 savagely, and nevertheless forebore to seize them 
 when they lay in reach of his hand, because, if he 
 took them, an old man might suffer a little in his 
 pride. It was all very funny, and a little pathetic, 
 too and it would make a splendid story, Bradford 
 thought. 
 
 June lapsed into July. Commencement time had 
 come and gone, and Kate stood up among the 
 younger men, who were receiving their careless 
 bachelor degrees, to take his doctorate of philos- 
 ophy, which the President conferred upon him with 
 fine old-fashioned dignity and pride. 
 
 " Ad te, Catonem Henricum Strong," he said, 
 and his voice lingered on the little Latin pronoun 
 as if he loved it. Few such degrees had he the 
 opportunity to give ; never one to a man he cared 
 so much for. " Ad te, Catonem Henricum Strong," 
 and as he pronounced the strange foreign syllables 
 the boys cheered Kate wildly. He was very popu- 
 lar, was Kate. 
 
 "Kit! Kit! Kitty!" 
 
 " Here, pussy ! Me-ow-w-w ! " 
 
 " Buck the tackle, old man ! " 
 [287]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Don't trip on the gown, Kate ! Hold her up, 
 boy!" 
 
 But Kate never smiled, looking straight before 
 him into the tall Doctor's eyes, which had once been 
 a little above the level of his own. He received the 
 appointment as instructor of Greek, in Dr. Craven's 
 own department; he was to continue as teacher 
 where he had been student, and they cheered that, 
 too. 
 
 Then July passed, and August came, and Brad- 
 ford and Amy were married at St. Hilda's, with a 
 flame of candles and a glory of music round about. 
 Murdoch insisted on the most gorgeous of weddings. 
 " People out of town ? " said he. " By the Lord 
 Plarry, we'll give 'em something to come back for." 
 Amy came up the long aisle on her uncle's arm, to 
 where Bradford stood with Kate and Clarges. 
 Bradford took two quick steps down to meet her; 
 even at that moment she was calm enough to look 
 her happiness into his eyes one instant. They were 
 facing the altar. 
 
 Who giveth this woman to be married to this 
 man? I, her uncle, and with good will. 
 
 Do you, Francis, take Amy to your wedded wife ? 
 While all the world looks on, I do. 
 [288]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 Do you, Amy, take Francis to your wedded hus- 
 band? I do. 
 
 Then you are pronounced man and wife. What 
 God hath joined together, who shall put asunder? 
 
 Then Clarges prayed. His dark face was un- 
 moved ; he finished the ceremony methodically. 
 
 " The rector does everything on business prin- 
 ciples," whispered a man among the guests, to his 
 wife. " Bet you he is thinking now how much his 
 fee will be. I would as soon be married by machin- 
 ery." 
 
 " Isn't he handsome ? " 
 
 " Who the groom ? Matter of taste, my dear. 
 7 was, to you." 
 
 " I mean Father Clarges, of course ! Bow your 
 head, Harry, and stop whispering ! Don't you see 
 he's praying? " 
 
 " What a looker she is isn't she ? " 
 
 " I never did like little women." 
 
 " She's not a hair shorter than you are, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Indeed, she's a good inch ! It's only her gown 
 makes her seem so tall. I looked perfectly enor- 
 mous in my train." 
 
 [289]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " You were just the right height, I remember. 
 Now they're coming down ! " 
 
 " Don't stare at her so. It embarrasses a bride." 
 
 " Mighty few of 'em need worry. But this one 
 sees not me ; she sees only her husband as a wife 
 should." 
 
 " What nonsense as if you wanted to cage 
 us!" 
 
 Thus Mr. and Mrs. Bradford came down the 
 aisle together. 
 
 " Mercy, Harry, look at the carriages ! " 
 
 " There's a reception at the house, of course ? " 
 
 " Only to particular friends." 
 
 " I'll bet the pickle-man wishes his place was 
 bigger now. Really, I'm surprised he don't hire 
 a hall." 
 
 The particular friends gathered at the reception. 
 Miss Mangier was there, and congratulated Amy 
 warmly. " Such a charming man, my dear! I 
 know scarcely a woman who would not tell you the 
 same thing, and with reason. But do be careful! 
 Those are the dangerous sort to wives, you know. 
 Keep a tight rein, my dear ! " Over the punch she 
 confided certain views to a young man whom she 
 [290]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 captured easily, and held with her glittering eye, 
 though like the other wedding-guest he beat his 
 breast. " Champagne punch, of course ! One 
 wonders that they do not serve it in gold goblets. 
 This sort of display is the curse of America don't 
 you think so, Mr. Barnes? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " You know these two ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Which the bride or the groom ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." With a wild plunge past her, 
 a hot heart, and some exculpatory murmur on his 
 lips, Shedsy disgracefully escaped. 
 
 " Come along, oh c-come along, K-Kitty dear! 
 Females surround me; my c-collar melts; agony 
 grips my h-heart. Come with me and we'll get a 
 g- glass of beer ! " 
 
 " I can't, Shedsy. The best man can't go off 
 like that." 
 
 " The worst man can and does. G-good-by. 
 K-kiss the bride for me." 
 
 " Kiss her yourself." 
 
 " God forbid ! " said Shedsy. " And yet I don't 
 know b-but I'd like to." Alas, Amy did not hear 
 [291]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 that compliment, the sincerest she received through- 
 out the gratulatory day. 
 
 Miss Craven came in late, and kissed Amy almost 
 in tears. " Not to see you married, my darling ! 
 It was hard. The Doctor had one of his bad turns 
 again, and I couldn't leave him. Isabelle is with 
 him now. She sends you both her dear love. I 
 had to come for just a moment. Not to see you 
 married after all ! " 
 
 " Is Dr. Craven very ill, Marion ? " 
 
 " N-no ; I don't think so. He has had one of 
 these attacks before. We were a little afraid it was 
 his heart. He is getting old poor daddy ! " Miss 
 Craven's eyes were full of tears now. " And I had 
 to miss your marriage, Amy ! " 
 
 " Never mind, Marion dear. I know you wanted 
 to be there." 
 
 " Isn't that the first time you've called me 
 Marion? I'm a fool, Amy; an old fool. It is all 
 out of fashion to cry at weddings, I know. Well, 
 you may be sure I sha'n't cry at my own." 
 
 And last of all, the rector of St. Hilda's attended 
 the reception. 
 
 " I congratulate you heartily, Bradford." 
 [292]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 " I think I deserve congratulation, Father 
 Clarges. I know you have done service to the whole 
 community this summer, but I fancy you haven't 
 done as much for anybody as for me to-day." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Bradford, where is she? " 
 
 " Just over there you will find my wife, I be- 
 lieve," laughed Bradford. Clarges looked, and 
 took a step or two in that direction ; but he never 
 reached Amy. She had asked him not to speak 
 to her again. He had, indeed, forfeited the right 
 to speak to her. He watched her a moment. The 
 marriage was over, now; done by his own hand; 
 they had taken each other for better or worse. He 
 looked round the crowded and glaring rooms, so 
 familiar to him, and yet so unfamiliar in their holi- 
 day dress, and reflected that of the company he 
 was probably the only one to be fearing the outcome 
 of this ceremony. 
 
 " It is done," he thought. " What remains for 
 me? To hope for them both; to pray for Amy; 
 and to take myself out of her sight." 
 
 Bradford drove away, alone in the carriage with 
 his wife. " Don't you want to know where we are 
 going, wife of mine ? " 
 
 [293]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I am going with you." 
 
 There was an interval. Then Bradford, " A veil 
 is such a nuisance ! " 
 
 " Are we going far, Francis ? " 
 
 " Aha ! You are curious, after all ? Yes, sweet- 
 heart, very far to the Hills of Joy, and beyond ! " 
 
 " I don't call that far." 
 
 " Ah, my little, little, little wife ! " 
 
 When they reached the station, Kate met them 
 with tickets, which he thrust into Bradford's hand. 
 " Your baggage is all right. Yes, I attended to 
 the fee. Good-by, Frankie. God bless you both. 
 Au revoir. Oh, you lucky, lucky dog! Oh, you 
 lucky dog ! " Kate stared after them. Then he 
 threw back his head. " God willing, I'll be going 
 off that way myself soon." 
 
 She said to him on the train, " I know where we 
 are going, Francis." 
 
 " No! " Bradford was profoundly surprised. 
 
 "And Uncle Jack?" 
 
 " Uncle Jack has turned the place over to us for 
 a while. He will not come up till we send for him." 
 
 " I am glad my wedding was on such a perfect 
 day." 
 
 [294]
 
 MARRIAGE 
 
 " Mine must have been perfect, since it was to 
 you, Amy dear." 
 
 They drove to the bungalow through a narrow 
 way among the sweet-scented trees. Blue flower- 
 eyes, sleepy in the warm late afternoon, nodded up 
 at them drowsily. Cones mysteriously dropped. A 
 rabbit ran across the road in front of them. 
 
 " See, Amy ! " 
 
 " They say that is bad luck, Francis." 
 
 " We shall change the meaning of the omen, 
 dear." 
 
 The long, low, slate-colored bungalow, their des- 
 tination, dreamed in the August haze. 
 
 " We are here, Amy where we were engaged." 
 
 She looked up at him, mutely ; he kissed her with 
 his old faint, sweet touch of awe. 
 
 [ 295 ]
 
 Chapter Sixteen 
 
 -AND AFfER 
 
 " There was a girl who owned a doll 
 
 All daubed with liquid glue, 
 But she was not so stuck on that 
 
 As I am stuck on you, Mrs. Bradford." 
 
 " That's a silly verse, Francis." 
 
 " That, my dear, is why I sing it." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bradford sat upon the lawn, among 
 the daisies and tufted dandelions. They had been 
 married nearly one day. There is no disguising 
 the fact that he held his wife's hand. She wore a 
 white summer dress, cut deeply enough to show the 
 firm outline of her young throat and the whiteness 
 just below. Bradford lay upon his back, thinking 
 of nothing but his own happiness. A shadow fell 
 across his eyes, and he looked up to bebold the 
 smallest Lowton, very scantily clad, who was sur- 
 veying them doubtfully. 
 
 [296]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 " Go away, young man, go away. If you stay 
 where you are, I shall put you in a bag and throw 
 you in the river." 
 
 " Let him alone, Francis." 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bradford, he is the scion of a 
 worthy house, I admit. But even a Lowton must 
 know his place. There is a time coming in his life 
 when he will regret having stared at us." 
 
 " Don't you like children ? " 
 
 " I adore them; but not just now." 
 
 "He will tell on us?" 
 
 " Precisely. He is the advance-agent of con- 
 ventionality, and therefore I shall dismiss him, if I 
 can. Youth, begone ! Scatter ! Abi, evasi, erupi 
 or words to that effect." 
 
 No fear, only disgust, was evident in the eyes of 
 the youngest Lowton, as he turned away. There 
 was nothing in this scene for a man of parts to 
 contemplate except contemptuously. 
 
 " Francis, Lowton worships you did you know 
 that? " 
 
 " The heathen in his blindness bows down to 
 wood and stone ! " 
 
 " Hush ! You know I don't like to have you 
 [297]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 make fun of yourself. He is quite right to care 
 about you. Think what would have happened to 
 that child but for you." 
 
 " Among other things, I should not have been 
 enjoying the present pleasure of your society, 
 Amy." 
 
 " Why not? " 
 
 " Confess that you never cared about me until 
 you saw me jump into the river." 
 
 She laughed. " As if that mattered ! You 
 couldn't help jumping in. It only made me a little, 
 little surer that you were everything I thought 
 you." 
 
 " Don't you praise me, my wife ; it isn't good 
 for me." 
 
 " Why not, if I think it? You know I think it. 
 Francis, do you remember the day you sang, at the 
 Cravens' tea? " 
 
 " That was the day I fell in love with the woman 
 who subsequently married me." 
 
 " You couldn't have so soon ! " 
 
 " If it was not that day, little girl, I swear I 
 don't know when it was." 
 
 " I wonder when I began to care for you ? " 
 [298]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 " I tell you it was the day I jumped into the 
 river." 
 
 " Perhaps," she continued, " it came to me, too, 
 that day at the Cravens'. I wonder? I know that 
 I was glad that someone could really show what 
 he thought and felt, as you were doing, and sorry 
 that I was so dumb. You know I was always a 
 dumb thing. I could never even let Uncle Jack see 
 that I cared for him though I did, tremendously. 
 And the girls fancied I wanted not to be with them. 
 It wasn't true, but how could I tell them so? That 
 day, when I heard you singing, so unconscious of 
 everything except what the song meant to you, I 
 remember I held my breath; I couldn't think of 
 anything, only wonder why it seemed so sweet. And 
 then do you remember you came and asked me how 
 I liked it ? And I said oh, I don't know what, but 
 I could see that you were hurt, and I hated myself. 
 I wanted to cry out, and say ' I loved it, I loved 
 it ! ' but I couldn't very well do that, could I ? I 
 almost wish I had ! " She laughed again, merrily. 
 Then she went on, more thoughtfully, " I wonder if 
 I really did care for you from that very time? If 
 I did I didn't know it ; not for a long time. I 
 [299]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 began to suspect you cared for me, but I couldn't 
 see why; I was such a dumb little thing, and you 
 were so clever and strong. Sometimes I wanted to 
 scream at you * Oh, don't believe that I'm just 
 stupid! Don't fancy I'm heartless because I can't 
 speak! I do care about things; I want to speak, 
 but something something ' *' She broke off, and 
 looked away into the deep blue beyond the ridge so 
 thick with yellow-pines. " Dear, how did you ever 
 guess? How did you know that poor Amy had a 
 heart like other girls? It must have been because 
 you are so strong and sure yourself, that you could 
 understand and sympathize with me. You love me, 
 don't you, Francis? And I I love you, my hus- 
 band, my king, my king! " 
 
 "Please don't, Amy!" 
 
 a Why do you cry when I tell you I love you ? 
 Do you mind it? I will try not, but really, I can't 
 help it, dear. I do love you, so I have to tell you. 
 Why, I love to love you ! I never loved before. Do 
 you see the sun shining, and the river running away, 
 and the wind down there in the grass ? I saw them 
 all my life, and never knew, never knew that they 
 all had a soul, and were part of my soul, too. I 
 [800]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 never guessed what life was. I watched it, but it 
 went by me, and how was I to know what it meant? 
 And then you saw me watching and knew how 
 did you know? I was only a girl in a window, 
 and I couldn't speak, couldn't even wave my hand 
 to you as you rode by; but you loved me, and 
 beckoned to me and I came. Of course I love 
 you, dear." 
 
 What did Bradford see as she spoke? Gone from 
 his vision was his poor, shivering self; clothed with 
 the purple and samite of his wife's love, he beheld 
 himself royal like a prince, and was deceived, of 
 course. We should have known better. Yet let us, 
 in our strong self-knowledge, spare a little pity 
 for Bradford. 
 
 " Amy dear," he asked, presently, " do you know 
 that I have never told you my mother's first name ? " 
 
 " What was it? " 
 
 " Aimee. Aimee Curtis Bradford." 
 
 " The same as mine ! " 
 
 " Yes ; the same as yours." 
 
 "Amy Bradford," she pronounced aloud. "Amy 
 Bradford she was, and now here is Amy Bradford 
 come again. Amy Bradford! I have been Amy 
 [301 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Power so long, I hardly feel acquainted with Amy 
 Bradford!" 
 
 " So long? " he laughed. 
 
 " I shall be twenty-one my next birthday." 
 
 " Which comes in July, and we are now in 
 August. Why in a hurry to grow up, my wife? " 
 
 " I am grown up, dear. Amy Power was a little 
 girl, if you wish. But Amy Bradford is grown 
 up quite grown up." 
 
 " You want some inches of six feet still, I fear." 
 
 "Was she tall?" 
 
 " Who, dear? " 
 
 " Your mother." 
 
 " About your height, my wife." 
 
 " She loved you very much, I know? " 
 
 " I think she did yes." 
 
 " And she has been dead six years. Do you 
 think she knows that you are happy, Francis? 
 You are happy, aren't you ? " 
 
 " On such a fine day yes, my wife, I am. If 
 the sun were a trifle less warm, I may say I should 
 be completely happy." 
 
 " My mother has been dead twenty-one years 
 next July." 
 
 [302]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 " She died when you were born, didn't she? " 
 
 " Very soon after. I wonder what she was like ! " 
 
 " Small and still and beautiful and good, 
 Amy." 
 
 " You mean that I am those ? Dear, I love to 
 hear you call me beautiful. It makes me think I 
 am!" 
 
 " Do you believe so truly in my word ? " 
 
 " Yes, Francis." 
 
 " Thank you, my wife." 
 
 "And Francis?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I am not beautiful, I am afraid ; nor good. 
 But I think I know what truth is. I think, in just 
 that one thing, I am worthy of you, my husband. 
 Francis, do you think I ought to tell you every- 
 thing? " 
 
 " That, my dear, I will leave to your judgment." 
 
 " There was a man once," she said, after a pause, 
 " who told me he loved me." 
 
 " How could he help it? " 
 
 "I hated him!" 
 
 " I know him, my dear ; or one of him." 
 
 " There was only one." 
 
 [303]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " And you hated him ? Did he did he say any- 
 thing by chance about me, Amy ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " What? " 
 
 " I have forgotten. No ; I have not forgotten. 
 But he will not speak to me again." 
 
 " Are you so unforgiving, little wife? " Brad- 
 ford spoke with a lazy content. He bore no ill- 
 will to Clarges. In fact, he was a little pleased 
 that the rector, too, should have transgressed the 
 rules of the game; it marked a score off his own 
 book. But Amy did not answer the smile in his 
 voice. Her lips were firm as she repeated, 
 
 " He will not speak to me again, Francis." 
 
 Lowton, that ancient servitor, here appeared, 
 axe in hand. 
 
 " Mirabel, she says it's dinner-time, an' she's 
 gen'ally right. I dunno 's I ever saw you lookin' 
 better, Miss Amy." 
 
 " Mrs. Bradford, Lowton. Don't forget 
 that." 
 
 " Mis' Bradford, I should say. I was remarkin' 
 to Mirabel that marriage agrees with some folks, I 
 guess, but it never agreed with me much." 
 [304]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 " What have you been cutting? " 
 
 " Cuttin' ? " Lowton's voice was dramatic in 
 the intensity of its scorn. " I hain't been cuttin' 
 nothin'. I been hammerin' an ol' dead log to pieces 
 for firewood, same ez a man lookin' fer grub- 
 worms ! " 
 
 " Come, Amy. A voice crieth dinner ! " 
 
 There is an infinitely complex joy to see one's 
 wife at such a simple matter as the washing of her 
 face and hands, and the adjustment of the ripples 
 of her hair. 
 
 Luncheon was made momentous by the present 
 of a cake a mighty cake, which bore the legend, 
 " Welcome, F. and A.," done in red peppermints. 
 The younger Lowton carried this in, his mother 
 following to explain. " And we hope it ain't a 
 libaty, which it is ; but we're so fond of Miss Amy ; 
 an' what you did for us, sir, can't be told. So I 
 thought how a cake " 
 
 " It was a fine thought," answered Bradford, 
 heartily, " and this is a fine cake. Will you have 
 a slice, A. ? " 
 
 " Yes, F., if you please." 
 
 They went for a long walk after luncheon. Amy 
 [305]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 attired herself in a blue waist and a short blue 
 skirt. Blue became Bradford's favorite color 
 next to gray. 
 
 " Welcome, huntress of the ancient woods. Shall 
 I take a rifle? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Why, indeed ? We will let Cupid walk between 
 us, Amy, and use his bow and arrows if any game 
 turns up." She laughed gayly for answer. The 
 mildest humor found her favor, if it was Brad- 
 ford's. Let us rise up and call blessed the wife 
 who laughs at her husband's wit. There is more 
 contentment in such a household than when stalled 
 oxen are the daily food. 
 
 They took the " high trail," across the river, and 
 along, by bushes of russet and bushes of green, 
 through colonnades of fir and pine. Away below 
 the river crept and sparkled, now leaving them, 
 now as suddenly returning. Bradford declared 
 that it was spying on them a detective river, set 
 to watch their doings by some envious and inimical 
 god. 
 
 " May not my wife and I walk where we please ? " 
 he questioned, disdainfully. 
 [306]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 By and by they reached a small ravine, descended 
 it, and found a creek wending along. He made a 
 cup of his hands, and she drank. 
 
 " How funny it tastes ! " she cried. He put 
 some to his lips. " Im-h'm ! Amy do you see 
 that place where it shallows to the shore there 
 where the rock is? And from there do you see 
 that scar, like a road almost, up the side of the 
 ravine? Deer made that scar. This is a deer- 
 lick. Here they come, early in the morning, and 
 take their Congress water. There was one like this 
 up north, where I used to camp out. If I had a rifle 
 now, and there was a deer there, and it was in sea- 
 son, and I could hit him bang ! Venison for din- 
 ner? Will you have yours broiled or fried, my 
 wife? " 
 
 " Did you shoot them up north ? " 
 
 " I shot at them. My shooting was always better 
 when I had left the rifle in camp as now. Did I 
 ever tell you about my guide's Winchester? He 
 had a wonderful Winchester, only he hadn't it with 
 him. * That thar gun,' he told us, ' she'd shoot 
 five hundred yards on a dead level, and then, boys, 
 she'd raise a leetle.' " 
 
 [307]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Was that the time you had the fight at the 
 dance? " 
 
 " That was the time, oh, Amy." 
 
 She was sitting on the rock above the spot to 
 which the deer were used to come. The sunlight, 
 flinging recklessly down the hill among the trees, 
 checkered the water and barred the skirt of her 
 gown. No word whispered to Bradford " Be 
 careful ! " No thought of the possibilities of the 
 moment, no thought of sorrow, came into his mind ; 
 he only smiled to see the sweetness of this young 
 girl, his wife. 
 
 "Francis?" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I remember that story about the dance so well ! 
 I have often thought of it since. You were so near 
 death and then I might never have known you, 
 never have known you." Her voice dropped softly. 
 " I want to ask you something funny." 
 
 " The half of my kingdom? " 
 
 " No, dear. But you told me once about that 
 scar on your shoulder, where you were shot." Her 
 voice sank a little lower still. " To-night, Francis 
 when we are alone will you show it to me, 
 
 please ? " 
 
 [308]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 The question struck home so suddenly, he could 
 scarcely gather his wits to meet it. His wife 
 waited, her hand busy idly with the moss upon the 
 stone, and a lovely shyness in her gray eyes ; and he 
 thought rapidly and hard. There was no scar 
 upon his shoulder. Should he tell her that the mark 
 had disappeared? But what had he told her less 
 than a year before? Bradford understood very 
 clearly with what ease one may draw about him a 
 network of lies, and with what difficulty he escapes 
 from it. Had he but known, he might safely have 
 explained the matter so, for she would never have 
 dreamed of doubting his word. But again he 
 judged her by himself. He thought of pretending 
 that she must have been mistaken, and that he had 
 never told her the scar was there. But he dared 
 not do it. So, at length, driven to honesty, he 
 said, his voice a little strained, as even he could 
 tell, 
 
 " Why, my dearest, I would, but you see " He 
 broke off. This was not, after his wife's words of 
 the morning, the easiest task he had ever had to do. 
 She looked at him, a little frightened. 
 
 " Francis shouldn't I have asked? " 
 [309]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Oh, Amy ! " The realization of her delicious 
 charm caught at his heart afresh ; and yet it is true 
 that even in the moment he wondered whether he 
 might not escape so. He may be forgiven ; he was 
 a hunted man. And he knew at once, with his keen 
 judgment in such matters, that no loop-hole opened 
 in that remark. Poor fellow, he was used to esti- 
 mating the chances of a lie. " It is only, dear, that 
 well, I stretched that matter a little, I'm afraid, 
 when I told you." It was very hard to say. And 
 the bullet had really gone very close. What is the 
 distance from the truth to a lie? " There isn't 
 really any scar. The bullet didn't quite hit me; 
 or it just grazed me, rather." 
 
 She stared at him, not quite understanding. 
 " Then there is no scar? " 
 
 " None, dear." 
 
 Her brain wrought over this puzzle. He, her 
 husband, had said and now he unsaid. " Then 
 there was no fight at all? Wasn't any of it 
 true? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, it was all true," he assured her, hastily. 
 " All true. The fellow fired, and as I dodged down 
 the bullet went right over the corner of my shoulder 
 [310]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 see, just here!" But this time he caught no 
 glance of absorption in his story. Yet he hurried 
 on. " I heard it go smash ! against the wall, and 
 I saw that my coat was torn. It felt as if some- 
 one had suddenly drawn a pin across my shoulder 
 that's all." Even now, though he longed to 
 stick exactly to the truth, he did not quite. If you 
 will fancy yourself in Bradford's place, you may 
 appreciate the quickness of his shifts, the sureness 
 of his adapted details ; and you may understand 
 then the dramatic vividness of imagination which 
 Bradford had to combat. How he hung on Amy's 
 next word ! 
 
 " This rock is growing cold," she said. " Let's 
 walk on, dear." He helped her down, and they 
 walked on at first in silence, but soon that became 
 unbearable, and he talked and talked the fiercest 
 effort, so far, of a fiercely clever life. She answered 
 him ; but did he imagine it? He felt as if she had 
 slipped back somehow into the old Amy Amy 
 Power the Amy of his first love, not the Amy he 
 had married. Was this his imagination only? 
 During all the afternoon the question tormented 
 him. What was she thinking of him? She had 
 [311]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 said that she believed herself beautiful because he 
 told her so. It would be hard to overestimate the 
 sensitiveness of Bradford's nerves. He went on 
 loving his wife more and more dearly. But he did 
 not know what she thought of him, and he dared 
 not ask. 
 
 That night, as he lay awake, the buzzing of the 
 river in his ears, he saw again that recurrent vision 
 of the pilgrims on a yellow, winding road over 
 brown, flat land. His wife slept peacefully beside 
 him; yet again when in the vision he would have 
 gone to her, the river sprang between, and when 
 he would have plunged in, behold, again she waved 
 him away and disappeared! So certain was the 
 picture that in an agony of fear he reached out 
 his hand and touched his wife's cheek upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 " What is it, dear? " 
 
 " Nothing, Amy." So she had not been asleep, 
 then? 
 
 They remained a month at the Ridge. His wife 
 
 was very sweet. As he grew to know her in the 
 
 intimacy of marriage, he only loved her more and 
 
 more. The memory of that first day and night 
 
 [312]
 
 AND AFTER 
 
 faded out of his thoughts almost entirely almost. 
 Yet there came now and then the haunting, harry- 
 ing wonder what did she think of him ? For she 
 had never spoken of the story of the scar. 
 
 [313]
 
 Chapter Seventeen 
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 A few people live their lives like a novel, knowing 
 that every chapter has a bearing on the whole, and 
 that a continuous thread runs through all. But 
 most of us pass our days as if we thought them a 
 volume of short stories, which have not necessarily 
 any connection with each other. This is fortunate^, 
 no doubt. If we incessantly realized that the events 
 of last week, or last year, were to play a part in 
 to-morrow's experience, we should be in a state of 
 intolerable hesitation, timidity, and depression. If 
 Bradford, for instance, had been forced constantly 
 to remember, every day and all day, that a certain 
 difference between his own character and his wife's 
 had been made plain early in their married life, and 
 if, in love with Amy as he certainly was, he never 
 could have got away from the impression that she 
 distrusted him, he would have done one of two 
 [314]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 things : hated her, or hated himself. Either result 
 would have seemed unendurable, or at least distress- 
 ing. As it was, the shadow-memory fell across 
 his path quite frequently enough to annoy him. 
 Instead of careering on comfortably, he was now 
 and then conscious, with a sort of passionate irrita- 
 tion, of slight errors in his statements of fact, or 
 slight variations, under the influence of some out- 
 side suggestion, from his normal procedure. The 
 fact that he seldom talked so well to his friends as 
 to a stranger; the fact that a sneer acted like a 
 drink of whiskey on his nerves ; and the fact, above 
 all, that once or twice under such circumstances he 
 had intercepted his wife's glance and looked quickly 
 away these matters troubled him occasionally. 
 But for days and weeks he forgot them altogether, 
 and lived in a happy unconsciousness of them, and 
 walked on air. 
 
 Among these times of doubt, he wondered, now 
 and then, what it was the rector had said of him 
 to Amy, and once or twice he asked her; but Amy 
 put the question by, and Bradford did not like to 
 press it, though he momentarily, at least, despised 
 himself for not liking to. It is true, he never went 
 [315]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 so far as to admit to himself that he was afraid of 
 Clarges, and did not even dream that he was afraid 
 of his wife. The fact that in his only struggle with 
 the rector if his suit for Amy's hand could be 
 regarded as such a struggle he had come off vic- 
 torious, disposed of the former idea, to his mind; 
 and the latter he would merely have said was absurd, 
 laughed, kissed his wife with a keener pleasure, and 
 told her about it with a delightful confidence in 
 her answering smile. Nevertheless, he suggested 
 that Clarges should be invited to dinner. Amy 
 wrinkled her brows into a question, but Bradford 
 assured her that they could do no less the rector 
 had undoubtedly married them, and anybody who 
 had done him such a service as that, he wanted to 
 reward. So Amy acquiesced quietly, without 
 showing that the acquiescence cost her anything, 
 and stipulated only that the dinner should include 
 others besides Clarges. The minister relieved her 
 by pleading a previous engagement, in which she 
 took the liberty of disbelieving the more when he 
 failed to call. His failure to call, half the women 
 of St. Hilda's would have told her, was nothing; 
 he never called, save when the spirit moved, and it 
 [316]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 was immovable by dinners; but Amy would have 
 kept her own opinion still. She did not like Father 
 Clarges, she did not even wish to like him, but she 
 thought she understood him. 
 
 A certain opposition to the rector showed itself 
 in some of his flock at this time. The fact that he 
 had conducted the negotiations which resulted in 
 ending the street-car strike was cherished against 
 him in some quarters. There was a general feeling 
 that the men had got no more than was fair, and a 
 widespread satisfaction in the resumption of unin- 
 terrupted traffic ; but what, argued Mr. Gaines the 
 trustee and others, was to become of capital if out- 
 siders meddled with its concerns ? The privilege of 
 conducting a man's business to suit himself was one 
 which should not be denied lightly to anybody. 
 And, moreover, that a minister should have stooped 
 to deal with practical affairs was also considered 
 unwise. Mr. Gaines was as astounded as any 
 knight of old might have been if a herald, sud- 
 denly ceasing to blow his trumpet and proclaim the 
 greatness of his master the king, had rolled up his 
 sleeves and taken a hand in the battle. Clarges's 
 action was incongruous ; it was radical. Mr. 
 [317]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Gaines, and those who agreed with him, began to 
 hint that possibly an older and steadier man should 
 be found for St. Hilda's ; a man who knew, without 
 dropping it, on which side his bread was buttered ; 
 a man, to use Mr. Gaines's phrase, who could be 
 trusted. Bradford told Murdoch that half Gaines's 
 insistence sprang from the fear that Clarges would 
 alienate his wife's affections ; and Murdoch, who had 
 been trying hard not to sympathize with the atti- 
 tude of his co-trustee, roared with laughter, and 
 clapped his leg, and openly arrayed himself on the 
 side of the rector. But indeed, if he were expect- 
 ing gratitude for that, he must have been disap- 
 pointed. Clarges made no effort to conciliate his 
 enemies, if they could be called such, nor to thank 
 his friends; and, so far as could be judged, was 
 quite as unaffected by one as by the other. 
 
 It was this opposition which Bradford alleged 
 to himself for excuse, when he dropped into 
 Clarges's rooms one November evening. He had 
 been working late at the office, and had telephoned 
 to Amy saying that he should not be out till nine ; 
 but after all he found himself in his own neighbor- 
 hood by eight o'clock. As he would have put it, 
 [318]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 the whim seized him to look up the rector, whom 
 he had scarcely even seen for a month; church- 
 going was not precisely one of Bradford's affecta- 
 tions. When he knocked, a voice cried " Come in ! " 
 and he entered, to find the rector, with his feet on 
 a chair, smoking a cigar. He rose, however, and 
 shook hands cordially enough, offered Bradford a 
 cigar, and then slipped into his previous attitude. 
 For a few minutes they smoked in silence. 
 
 " I saw a thing to-day," said the rector, present- 
 ly, as if they had been discussing personal experi- 
 ences, " that interested me a good deal. I was down 
 in Boxtown, and I happened to notice a very small 
 boy, perhaps four or five years old, who was crying 
 on the edge of the sidewalk. While I was looking 
 at him another boy, a size smaller, came up behind 
 and gave him a push which sent him flat into the 
 road. There happened to be a truck passing, as 
 usual, and if the little beggar hadn't been snatched 
 out of that in a hurry he would have been run over. 
 I tried to find out what the trouble was, but the 
 first child was crying too hard to talk, and the 
 second was stubborn, and wouldn't say a word. So 
 I asked an older boy, who was watching it, if he 
 [319]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 could explain. He said, * Sure ! Don't yer see 
 one of dem kids is a sheeny and de other's a dago ? ' 
 I was still a little in doubt, and he enlightened me 
 further. * De sheeny's off his beat ; he don't be- 
 long on dis street; he'd better be moseying out of 
 dis if he wants ter keep his nut on.' The sheeny 
 evidently quite agreed, for he suddenly ceased his 
 tears, and attached himself so firmly to my leg 
 that I had to escort him home to get rid of him." 
 
 " Was it a race war? " 
 
 " Something of the sort, I gathered." 
 
 " What takes you into Boxtown? Do you think 
 it's part of the * highways and the hedges ' ? " 
 
 " Not exactly. I had a little business there." 
 
 " Connected with your dear strikers, I suppose," 
 laughed Bradford, tolerantly. " Well, I wanted 
 to tell you I haven't had a chance before that 
 you did a mighty fine thing in settling that strike." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " You're thinking I'm some days after the fair, 
 aren't you, considering the strike has been over so 
 long? I admit it. But it hasn't been our fault 
 that we haven't seen more of you, Clarges. Why 
 don't you come to dinner when you're asked ? " 
 [320]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 " I was sorry to be unable." 
 
 Bradford laughed again. " Well, you may have 
 been. I don't want to boast about my wife, but I 
 haven't forgot the obligation you put me under 
 when you married us." 
 
 Clarges smoked gravely. 
 
 " Is there anything," went on Bradford, " that 
 wakes a man up to the possibilities of life like get- 
 ting married? I remember what I used to think 
 about it, when I was a bachelor like you, you old 
 celibate, and I stand dumb before my own foolish- 
 ness. There were times when I used to wonder 
 whether any kindness was in the Power that ruled 
 the world or not. It used to seem probable that 
 there was none ; we were pitchforked into existence 
 by some law of ultimate progress, which would 
 probably end in something great, but which was 
 mighty hard on us intermediates. I had aspira- 
 tions and dreams, and no earthly chance to satisfy 
 them, as I very well knew; and it seemed to me a 
 poor sort of providence which would tie a donkey 
 up in sight of a barrel of oats, leave him starving 
 there a while, and then come and knock him on the 
 head. I know better now. I recognize the fact 
 [321 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 that I'm still a donkey ; even marriage can't alter me 
 in that ; but I know what I'm put in the world for, 
 at any rate, which is more than any unmarried man 
 can say. You think I'm a raving lunatic, but 
 really the shoe's on the other foot ; it's you who are 
 out of harmony with the scheme of things, not I. 
 Do you want to know the recipe for certain happi- 
 ness? Go find a woman like my wife, and marry 
 her." 
 
 Clarges nodded in silence. He was convinced, 
 now, that Amy had never told her husband of their 
 words at Murdoch's dinner. He hesitated, not 
 knowing whether to be glad or sorry of the fact. 
 Sometimes he was sure that Bradford suspected his 
 own disability; sometimes he thought the young 
 man was supremely unconscious of it. Just now 
 he could not make up his mind whether Bradford's 
 words expressed only native enthusiasm, or whether 
 they concealed a wish to find out what other peo- 
 ,ple thought. Therefore he waited for the next 
 move. 
 
 " Do you know what day this is ? " 
 
 " Eighteenth of November? " 
 
 " Exactly. Eighteenth of last November, my 
 [ 322 ]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 dear sir, I really began to make your acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 " So? " 
 
 " Don't you recollect Shedsy and I came to 
 church, and you corralled us and brought us up 
 here. You should have heard Shedsy rave about 
 your rooms afterward ! He wanted to turn Epis- 
 copalian minister. Well, I've been mighty glad to 
 know you this year. I hope we're not going to 
 drift apart now." 
 
 " What makes you think we shall ? " 
 
 " I don't. Shedsy's theory is, though, that a 
 married man is lost to his friends." 
 
 " We'll hope he's wrong." 
 
 " Yes. Because a man has come into his fortune 
 is no reason why he should despise the poor beggars 
 who are still waiting for their luck. Clarges, why 
 don't you take my word for the joy of it, and get 
 married? " 
 
 The rector's football training had given him 
 agility, but not deftness, apparently. Reaching 
 for more tobacco, he upset a small vase, which 
 rolled off the edge of his mantelpiece and was 
 smashed to bits. 
 
 [323]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " That was one of my favorites, too," he said, 
 sadly, as he picked up the pieces. " I bought it 
 for a wedding present, and was too much enamoured 
 of it to send it on." 
 
 Bradford was properly grieved. He did not 
 press his question, and their talk shifted to Shedsy 
 and other topics. It is plain that neither Bradford 
 nor the rector were intended for the diplomatic 
 service; for, when Bradford had soon after taken 
 his leave, he went away smiling to himself. " If 
 that was really a favorite vase," he mused, " the 
 dominie should find a cheaper way of turning the 
 subject." And Clarges said to himself, 
 
 " She hasn't told him, or he wouldn't be cad 
 enough to pretend friendship ; but he guesses, and 
 wants to make sure. I wonder if trouble has come 
 already ? " His eyes were sombre. 
 
 Bradford found Amy waiting for him. She 
 kissed him, and helped him to take off his coat, as 
 she always did, but afterward she slipped away, 
 leaving him to the society of Murdoch. The 
 pickle-maker was reading, a popular magazine, and 
 grunting over it. Presently he dashed it to one 
 side.
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 " D d fool stories," he growled, " all about 
 
 boys and girls, as if men and women weren't worth 
 writing about. Can't get away from the idea that 
 if a man's in love he's happy, and when he stops 
 being in love he's unhappy. You been having any 
 row with Amy, Frank ? " 
 
 "No," answered Bradford, surprised. "Why?" 
 " Well, you didn't come home to dinner, and she 
 seemed grumpy. Don't waste your time quarrel- 
 ling; life's too short. But it's none of my busi- 
 ness, I know." 
 
 " You're altogether mistaken," said Bradford. 
 Then they relapsed into silence, from which pres- 
 ently Bradford roused himself to follow his wife 
 upstairs. Murdoch's words had set him wondering, 
 although he was sure that had anything been wrong 
 with Amy he should have noticed it as he came in. 
 He found her sitting doing nothing something 
 unusual for Amy. He went and stood behind her 
 chair. 
 
 " You have such pretty hair, my wife ! " 
 She said nothing, but she put up her hand, and 
 clasped one of his, so that he was entirely re- 
 assured. 
 
 [325]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " I wonder if we are never going to quarrel, 
 Amy ! " he laughed. 
 
 " Why do you say that? " 
 
 " Your uncle was just lecturing me. He thinks 
 I've done something to you hurt your feelings." 
 
 She only held his hand the tighter. 
 
 " Dearest ! " He bent over to kiss her ; and, as 
 he did so, a letter fell from his breast-pocket into 
 her lap. She picked it up. It was bent and 
 frayed, and showed signs of having been carried 
 long; but it was not that which caused her quick 
 glance up at him. She had involuntarily read the 
 superscription. The address was, " To my Mother 
 in Heaven." 
 
 " Just a whim of mine, once," he said, speaking 
 lightly. 
 
 Their eyes met. " May I read it, dear? " she 
 asked, softly. 
 
 There was an odd light in Bradford's eyes as he 
 dropped his face to her hair, and kissed it. " I I 
 would rather not, Amy." 
 
 " Forgive me for asking. But do you miss 
 her so?" 
 
 " Never never since I have had you, my love ! " 
 [326]
 
 DRIFTING 
 
 She yielded him the letter, but when he had 
 taken it she still seemed to cling to his hand. " I 
 am glad to fill her place a little, dear. But I have 
 wondered if you missed her. It is so long since 
 my mother died! I think sometimes that I can 
 remember her, though. I have been wishing 
 lately that she could come back to me." 
 
 A pang went to Bradford's heart. " Are you 
 tired of me already, Amy ? " he asked, trying to 
 smile. 
 
 Suddenly she clutched his hand to her, and laid 
 her lips against it. " My husband, my husband ! 
 Don't you see what I mean? I have something 
 to tell you." 
 
 He knelt at his wife's feet, and put his arms about 
 her ; and she told him not with words, but with her 
 eyes, and the fluttering touch of her hands. They 
 sat long in silence. Bradford broke it. 
 
 " And I told a man only this evening that I 
 knew what happiness was ! " 
 
 [327]
 
 Chapter Eighteen 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 " Uncle Jack," said Amy, at the dinner-table, " has 
 
 an extraordinary way of celebrating birthdays. He 
 
 has brought me a sable jacket, which I don't need, 
 
 because he is thirty-nine to-day." 
 
 " We drink your health, Uncle Jack ! " 
 
 "I'm getting old, that's right," admitted the 
 
 pickle-maker. " I feel like a patriarch already. 
 
 I don't mind getting gray, but I'd hate to get 
 
 bald. Any signs of it ? " 
 
 " No, the hairs of your head can't be numbered 
 
 yet." 
 
 " I used to think," said Murdoch, " that a man 
 was getting ready for the shelf at forty. I figured 
 that I'd do a lot of things by that time. I don't 
 know but I have done most of 'em." 
 
 " Is there anything you haven't done ? " 
 " Well, yes." He gave a glance at Amy, and 
 [328]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 then laughed. " The little girl there talked me out 
 of one of them confound her ! " he added, affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 " Oh, if one of your theories was that by forty 
 you'd have learned how to manage her ! " Brad- 
 ford's laugh implied that Methuselah would have 
 found life too short for that task. But both he 
 and the pickle-maker knew what Murdoch meant. 
 There was something irritating to a potential bene- 
 factor in the way Dr. Craven clung to the presi- 
 dency of Carfax. There were rumors occasionally 
 that he was unwell, during the winter; but they 
 seemed contradicted by his acts and appearances. 
 Certainly, he seemed no nearer resignation than he 
 had been a year before, although time was passing, 
 and Murdoch was nearing forty. It occurred to 
 Bradford that Murdoch would possibly not find 
 unwelcome any accident which should disclose his 
 intention to establish the Murdoch Fund. 
 
 The idea, lingering in his mind, may have made 
 him less guarded than usual in his speech that night. 
 He had a caller a caller who wished to see him 
 personally, the maid said ; and when she added the 
 statement that the caller's name was Barnes, Brad- 
 [329]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 ford laughed. He went out and grasped Shedsy's 
 hand, and led him to the den. 
 
 " My wife will not disturb us here, old man," 
 he said. " You needn't be afraid. I have her 
 well trained." 
 
 Shedsy grinned. " No offence, I hope. Haven't 
 seen you in a d-deuce of a while. How's every- 
 thing? " 
 
 " If you mean my wife she's well, thank you. 
 How's all with you? " 
 
 " Bully. Slim's f-fatter than ever. I'm worried 
 about Kate, though." 
 
 " What's the matter with Kate? He's a loafer. 
 He never comes to see his friends any more than 
 you do, old Shedsy Barnes." 
 
 Shedsy looked worried. " I wish I knew what 
 was the m-matter with him. He moons and 
 m-mopes, which can't be good for anybody." 
 
 "Sick?" 
 
 " Kate ? " The idea was too absurd for discus- 
 sion. 
 
 " Maybe he's in love? " 
 
 " N-no, he isn't," answered Shedsy, confidently. 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 [330]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY -GIFT 
 
 " Because he n-never goes to see but one girl, and 
 he t-talks about her," was Shedsy's ready answer. 
 " I was b-bothered a little, thinking it might be 
 th-that, so I asked him something about her, and 
 he never h-hummed nor h-hawed which is a s-sure 
 s-sign." 
 
 Bradford dissolved in laughter. " Shedsy, your 
 ideas are aboriginal. You're out of date. Keep 
 up with the procession. I'll bet my head against 
 a penny he's in love.. Who's the girl he goes to 
 see?" 
 
 " Miss Craven." 
 
 " Oh Marion? Then I take it all back." 
 
 " Think she's a b-back-number ? " 
 
 " Don't talk that way about a nice girl, Shedsy. 
 I think she's out of the market, that's all. She 
 represents a past generation, like the college." 
 
 " You're always knocking the c-college," com- 
 plained Shedsy. " I don't see any harm in it. 
 Anyway, it'll be many a long day before we get 
 anything else here." 
 
 " I'll bet you what you please it won't." 
 
 " What do you know about it? " 
 
 " Want to bet? " 
 
 [331]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Murdoch g-going to put his hand in his pocket 
 after all?" 
 
 " What makes you guess that? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. They s-said so, last year ; 
 and I thought you ought to know, if anybody 
 d-did." 
 
 " Want to bet? " 
 
 " You're like a man with his hands shut, wanting 
 me to bet whether he's got a d-dollar in them or not. 
 I won't go against a man's own game. But I'll bet 
 you you're bluffing, just the same." 
 
 " Maybe. But Kate is lucky to have got his 
 job under the old regime. They may not be so 
 easy to pick up after a while. You needn't tell 
 him I said so." 
 
 " Oh, I reckon Katherine the Shrew could g-get 
 a job in any sort of w-weather, Frank." 
 
 " He's a good man. But this thing may be 
 bigger than you think." 
 
 " How big? " 
 
 " What should you call big money for a college, 
 Shedsy?" 
 
 "A million?" 
 
 Bradford laughed once more. " There you go 
 [332]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 again with your primeval theories ! A million won't 
 pay the janitors in a modern university, let alone 
 the professors. Make it a million a year, why don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Who's going to give a million a year? " 
 
 " Nobody till he gets ready. I am, perhaps. 
 I asked you if you wanted to bet? The proposi- 
 tion's still open. You don't get any of my infor- 
 mation for nothing. This is a business world, 
 Shedsy." 
 
 " Go on ! " answered Shedsy, simply. " Let's 
 talk about the c-cushions. You put on a swell 
 front here, F-Frank. You've g-got the rooms of 
 that dear man of G-God, Father Clarges, whipped 
 to a custard." 
 
 Yet when he went home, and found Kate pulling 
 at a pipe before the fire in the rooms of the Re- 
 siduum, he recollected what Bradford had said, and 
 retailed it to Kate with gusto save the part of the 
 conversation which related to that young doctor of 
 philosophy. 
 
 " I'm certain, from what he said, Katherine, that 
 the p-pickle-maker is going to give a 1-lot of money 
 to Carfax." 
 
 [333]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 "How soon?" 
 
 " That I don't know. Frank d-didn't say. But 
 soon, of course, or he wouldn't have mentioned it to 
 m-me." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 " He wasn't d-definite. But he talked about a 
 m-million a year." 
 
 " A million fiddlesticks ! " 
 
 " He offered to b-bet on it," said Shedsy, argu- 
 mentatively. " And by the way, he asked me not 
 to mention it; but of course he didn't mean you, 
 since you were his b-best man." 
 
 " There were those rumors last year," said Kate, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Must be something in it," said Shedsy, com- 
 fortably. Kate glanced at him angrily, but 
 Shedsy was warming his hands, quite unconscious 
 of having given cause of annoyance. " N-nasty 
 night, out. I certainly do 1-like having my own 
 fire." 
 
 " What time is it? " 
 
 " Only nine. After all F-Frank told me about 
 his having his wife t-trained, do you know what 
 happened ? She came in on us ; so I s-skipped out. 
 [334]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 She's a queen, isn't she? Where are you going, 
 for h-heaven's sake ? " 
 
 " I've got a headache, and I want some fresh air." 
 " Why, boy, it's b-blowing like the mischief, and 
 d-down to zero ! " 
 
 " I don't care." Kate went out into the cold. 
 He had been moping and unsocial, as Shedsy said, 
 and he felt no less so to-night, since hearing Shed- 
 sy's rumor. He felt useless, incompetent. What 
 influence upon his own fortunes, he wondered, would 
 this news of Shedsy's, if it were true, as it probably 
 was, in some form or other what influence would 
 it have upon his fortunes, and the fortunes of his 
 friends, the Cravens? Dr. Craven was no man to 
 have the spending of a million a year. He would 
 resign. Kate fiercely resolved that he, too, would 
 resign ; together they would go away where ? To 
 what ? The world seemed to have got by them both 
 some way ; they represented stagnation in the midst 
 of progress. A society on the watch for money 
 in the mud has no time to read Greek. His thoughts 
 were indefinably bitter as he marched along the icy 
 sidewalks. He hardly knew why they were bitter ; 
 he hardly knew what he was railing so fiercely 
 [335]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 against. At length he became aware that he was 
 chilled, and that his errant walk had led him to the 
 president's house ; and he rang, feeling a dark scorn 
 of himself. Marion Craven herself opened the 
 door and let him in. " Oh, it's you?" she said. 
 "Want to see the dad?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Come to see me on this cold night? That is 
 good of you. Sit down and talk to me nicely." 
 She took the piano-stool, with an air of resuming 
 some occupation, and, as he said nothing, began to 
 touch out a melody dreamily. The notes dropped 
 one by one, into his bitter musings. If this word 
 was true, undoubtedly they meant to force the 
 president out. After his years of service, they 
 might have let him alone a little while ; perhaps he 
 would not have annoyed them long! But no the 
 lust for size and notoriety was in the air, and the 
 pickle-maker, or whoever else was at the back of the 
 plan, was only like the rest of the world. A man 
 was kept as long as he could work, and then turned 
 out to die. For himself, Kate thought he desired 
 no more; but Dr. Craven was different. What 
 obstacle was that in the way ? Kick it to one side, 
 [336]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 said the world, and let us get on, for God's sake. 
 The obstacle was Dr. Craven; and Dr. Craven 
 was 
 
 " You are unconventional to-night." 
 
 " Yes. I'm feeling a little blue." 
 
 " Won't you tell me about it? " 
 
 There was something in the tone, far more than 
 in the words, which unlocked his heart. He stood 
 up how big he was! and came toward her; and 
 Marion Craven, to whom the question had meant 
 little, saw that in his eye which made her look down 
 at her fingers, picking out the dreamy, desultory 
 tune. 
 
 " Yes. I've been feeling blue. Do you know 
 why? Because I'm so little of a man, and yet be- 
 cause I love you so much." 
 
 Mr. Strong!" 
 
 " I know I'm presumptuous. I beg your pardon. 
 I beg your pardon, honestly. I'm such a fool. 
 Only, I've cared so much, and so long, that when 
 you asked me just now, I couldn't help telling you. 
 I'm very sorry." 
 
 She rose and faced him. " Do you know what 
 you are saying? " 
 
 [337]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Oh, yes. I know well enough. I haven't any 
 excuse to offer. I've wanted to say it a long time, 
 though of course I know how preposterous it is. A 
 woman like you couldn't be expected to care for 
 such as I. Well I'll say good-night. I'm sorry 
 if I annoyed you; but I'm not sorry I told you. 
 I couldn't help it. I love you, and I have for 
 years." 
 
 He was not looking at her, and so he did not see 
 the wonder in her eyes change slowly to a light 
 which was very soft. They stood a little apart, 
 the woman young at thirty-five, the boy old at 
 twenty-seven. He turned to go. 
 
 " I don't see," she whispered, " why it is j pre- 
 posterous." 
 
 At that he looked up, and saw her face. 
 
 " Wait, wait ! " she cried, breathlessly. " I am 
 I shall be thirty-six my next birthday. I have 
 been engaged to other men. There was one I 
 cared about. Can you take me on those terms? 
 Can you take an old woman almost? " 
 
 He only stared at her without moving, while the 
 fire crackled and purred in the stillness. " Do you 
 mean you love me a little? " 
 [338]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 " Not a little." Her hands played with her 
 chain. " Not a little. A great deal." 
 
 " That is worth waiting these years for." 
 
 " Oh," she exclaimed, suddenly, " do you think I 
 have just begun to care? Why, why, have you let 
 them go by? We might have known so long ago, 
 before I was an old woman almost ! I should have 
 stayed young, then. Now I am too old to be " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Kissed," she breathed, inaudibly. But Kate 
 heard. 
 
 They sat watching the red-gray heart of the fire, 
 and tried to realize the change that had come into 
 their lives. 
 
 " Just a little while ago," said Kate, " while I 
 was on my way over here, I was thinking how harsh 
 the world was. And now " He left the sentence 
 unfinished. 
 
 " Why did the world seem harsh? " 
 
 " I don't know. Because I was not man enough 
 to ask for what I wanted, perhaps." 
 
 " Was there nothing else? " 
 
 He hesitated. " Shedsy had brought me some 
 news I did not like." 
 
 [339]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " I have a right to know." 
 
 " Yes, you have ; a double right. It is about 
 Carfax College." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He says it sounds a little wild that Mur- 
 doch, or someone he knows of, is going to give 
 Carfax College a million a year." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " Of course it's absurd. But there's something 
 in it, no doubt. Shedsy had it from Frank Brad- 
 ford to-night." 
 
 She looked at him, half-frightened. " I wonder 
 if dad knows ? " 
 
 " No. I am sure he doesn't." 
 
 "Would you tell him?" 
 
 " It is only a rumor." 
 
 " If it came so directly as you say, it is more 
 than a rumor." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " Can you trust Mr. Barnes? He may have 
 misunderstood." 
 
 " Shedsy never misunderstands." 
 [340]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 " And he had it from Mr. Bradford to-night? " 
 
 " Yes. What object would Frank possibly have 
 in speaking of such a thing, if it were not true? " 
 
 " I would rather tell father myself than have 
 him find it out suddenly. Did he say when the news 
 was to be given out? " 
 
 " Soon, he thought." 
 
 " It would be like that man to try and make a 
 sensation out of it," she said, vindictively. " He 
 cares for nothing but notoriety he and his pickles ! 
 Look at those billboards." 
 
 " Where is your father? " 
 
 " I believe he has gone to bed. He isn't very 
 well." 
 
 Before the statement had left her lips, the door 
 opened slowly, and Dr. Craven, in dressing-gown 
 and slippers, appeared. He looked very old. 
 Kate's heart was stirred again with a rush of pity. 
 
 " Marion," the president said, " I remember that 
 I have a letter I must send. Will you transcribe it 
 for me ? " 
 
 His daughter looked from the young man to the 
 old. She saw, in her eager fancy, headlines shriek- 
 ing the news of this great gift to Carfax College ; 
 [341]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 she saw her father surprised, shocked, upset in his 
 feebleness. He ought to be warned of this chance, 
 she reasoned. Her mind was made up impulsively. 
 " Tell him," she said to Kate. 
 
 " Dr. Craven," said Kate, hesitantly, " I wish to 
 marry your daughter." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ? " 
 
 " I didn't mean that," she interrupted. " I 
 meant never mind. It is quite true, daddy dear. 
 He wishes to marry me, and I wish to marry him. 
 May I?" 
 
 Dr. Craven looked from one to the other. He 
 held out his hand to Kate, saying, 
 
 " I think, my dear, I will get your mother to 
 transcribe my letter." He turned. 
 
 " No, wait," said Marion. " Mr. Strong, tell 
 him about the other." 
 
 " We heard a rumor to-night, Dr. Craven," said 
 Kate, obediently, " that Marion that we think you 
 should know of. It came to us very directly that 
 Mr. Murdoch, or someone he knows of, is about to 
 give a great deal of money to Carfax College. The 
 sum mentioned was a million dollars a year." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Strong. I am not 
 [342]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 sure I heard you rightly. Will you say that again, 
 please? " Kate said it again. Dr. Craven sat 
 down. His daughter took the arm of his chair, 
 and put her hand upon his arm. 
 
 " A rumor only, you say ? I cannot believe it, 
 Strong. Mr. Murdoch would have notified us 
 through the proper channels. He is a trustee. 
 These matters are not given to the public before 
 they have been acted on officially." 
 
 " We had it from his from Mr. Bradford, to- 
 night." 
 
 " Is it possible ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " What a gift ! What a college we they will 
 have, with that endowment ! " 
 
 " They ! " echoed his daughter, in irrepressible 
 indignation. 
 
 " I am an old man, my dear," reproved her father, 
 gently. " I am an old man." He looked at the 
 thin hand his daughter held a scholar's hand, 
 long, blue-veined, wrinkled. For eleven years he 
 had been Professor of Greek at Carfax College, 
 and president for twenty-seven. Yes, he was an 
 old man. Yet he had not before realized so keenly 
 [343]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 that seventy was a great age. He had always in- 
 tended to resign at seventy, and so secure time to 
 finish his Commentaries. Well the time for the 
 Commentaries might come sooner than he had fan- 
 cied. 
 
 " They will never " began Kate, in a low voice, 
 as if he were afraid of blasphemy. But Dr. Craven 
 was rude enough, for almost the first time in his 
 life, to interrupt. " They will never ask for my 
 resignation. No. I do not believe they would. 
 Mr. Murdoch is too kind-hearted a man to acknowl- 
 edge the inevitable. But of course if this news 
 proves true, as I hope and believe it may I shall 
 resign at once. I could not direct the fortunes of 
 such an institution as this will be." He lapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 " Father? " 
 
 " Ah what is it, my dear? I was just think- 
 ing" his voice trailed off. Thinking? Yes; he 
 was thinking of the thirty-eight years which he 
 had given up to Carfax College, and which he was 
 now, if this news were true, to leave. Was he dar- 
 ing to repine? Oh, shameless old man, selfish, un- 
 ambitious old scholar of Greek, to receive so great 
 [344]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 a gift in such a fashion ! Minister, where is your 
 religion? He looked up. 
 
 " I am a little tired. I think I shall go up- 
 stairs, and ask your mother to read to me. Yes. 
 What a day it will be for Carfax, will it not? Car- 
 fax will expand, as Mr. Murdoch is so fond of 
 saying. This will please Mr. Murdoch, this gift 
 will it not? " 
 
 " Mr. Murdoch is giving the money, father." 
 " What say ? Yes. True. I had forgotten. 
 Still, I think he should have let us know more di- 
 rectly perhaps. Probably he intends to surprise 
 us, however. And now if you will excuse me 
 I feel a bit tired. Thank you." Leaning on his 
 daughter's arm, he climbed the stairs. 
 
 Next evening the pickle-maker came jubilantly 
 to the dinner-table. " Hello, kids ! " he cried, com- 
 prehensively, to Bradford and Amy. " Had a 
 letter to-day guess who from ? " 
 
 " Couldn't to save ourselves." 
 
 " From the old doctor Dr. Craven. He wants 
 to know whether a rumor he has heard is true, that 
 [345]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 I'm to give something to Carfax College. Apol- 
 ogizes for writing, but says the directness of his 
 information justifies him. I told him I didn't 
 know where he'd got his facts, but since he asked me, 
 I wouldn't deny I was thinking seriously of it; 
 had made up my mind to it." 
 
 " You told him that, Uncle Jack? " 
 
 Murdoch nodded. " Wonder how the olji boy 
 learned about it ? Either of you been saying any- 
 thing? It must have been Barrett. He pretends 
 to be so close-mouthed, but the best of us will slip 
 up occasionally. At any rate, there's no harm 
 done. I was thinking yesterday we'd have to make 
 up our minds to it, pretty soon. I've mailed the 
 formal letter to the board, tipped the wink to the 
 papers, and I guess the reporters will be out here 
 to-night like wolves." 
 
 " So Dr. Craven knows about it," said Amy, 
 thoughtfully. " What did he say in his letter, 
 Uncle Jack?" 
 
 " Nothing much. Just wanted to know if his 
 information was accurate. I told him I didn't 
 know how he'd got it, but that he'd got it straight." 
 
 " I wonder how he heard? " She was musing 
 [346]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY -GIFT 
 
 aloud, not addressing anyone in particular. Neither 
 Bradford nor Murdoch had time to answer at the 
 moment, for the bell rang. 
 
 " The first wolf's at the door ! " cried Murdoch, 
 gayly. He was plainly in no mood of reproach 
 to whoever had betrayed his secret. 
 
 " A gentleman from the Times, to see Mr. Mur- 
 doch." 
 
 " Tell him to wait. I'll see him in twenty min- 
 utes." 
 
 During that twenty minutes the bell rang again 
 four times. Gentlemen from the Herald, from the 
 Spy, from the Eagle, and from the Globe, were also 
 anxious, it appeared, to see Mr. Murdoch. The 
 city press called him up by telephone, and asked 
 permission to send a man out. The representative 
 of the New York Sim drove up in a cab with his 
 deadly rival, the head of the Carfax Bureau of the 
 Associated Press. The telegraph wires buzzed 
 from Maine to California, and Carfax was the 
 centre of the electrical storm. Had the Secretary 
 of the Treasury embezzled all the funds in his 
 possession, and fled to Murdoch's house, the siege 
 of correspondents could scarcely have been heavier. 
 [347]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Ten million dollars cannot be thrown into the edu- 
 cational pool without a splash. 
 
 Murdoch was in his glory. " Well, boys," he 
 began, and the words were the keynote of his mood. 
 Once again he sang his psean, but this time to the 
 proxies of a nation. He sat lounging in his chair, 
 ostentatiously careless, smoked a cigar, and radi- 
 ated content and enthusiasm, while they plied him 
 with questions. Swimming before his eyes came 
 the massive headlines, while he answered gayly. 
 " Another of you ! " he chuckled, when the special 
 correspondent of the Journal, the American, and the 
 Examiner appeared. " Well, have a cigar. Funny 
 what a stir this little gift of mine seems to make, 
 ain't it ? " And the reporters accepted his cigars, 
 and winked at each other when they had time ; and 
 in the accounts next day appeared not a word of 
 his unreserve, or his zeal for advertisement, or his 
 nai've enjoyment of the sensation which he was cre- 
 ating, but only stately phrasing which kept him 
 before the public in the light that ought to halo a 
 benefactor of his magnitude. That was what they 
 did for him, not because they were grateful for 
 his heartiness or his good cigars, but because it is 
 [348]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 the policy of the newspapers of America, one and 
 all, to keep up our illusions as a nation. The 
 moment that we publicly admit those truths which 
 we privately confess, two things will happen: the 
 United States will cease to be the butt of the world's 
 laughter, and it will begin to decay. 
 
 Of course the problem soon presented itself, and 
 was formulated by these trained questioners what 
 was to become of Dr. Craven ? Murdoch pished and 
 pshawed. The money was given to the Board of 
 Trustees without conditions. Dr. Craven was a 
 friend of his a personal and dear friend. What- 
 ever was done would be done decently and in order. 
 There was no hurry. And the scribbling reporters 
 noted all this eagerly, nor thought it incumbent 
 upon them to mention that other reporters, ready 
 to scribble quite as fast, had been sent posting to 
 Dr. Craven long ago ; to the members of the Board 
 of Trustees ; to prominent men upon the faculty 
 everywhere the slightest chance of news appeared. 
 The newspapers of Carfax are not unique in their 
 methods. Like others, they leave nothing to 
 chance; they discover all they can, by hook or 
 crook ; having done which, they guess at what re- 
 [349]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 mains, and publish the whole for truth. Murdoch 
 might have known that already men in all the 
 offices were busy with a list of possible successors 
 to Dr. Craven. 
 
 That was not a wild night in Carfax newspaper- 
 dom, because the facts were all easy to get, and no 
 mystery was involved. But it was a busy night. 
 And the headlines, next morning, left the pickle- 
 maker but little to desire. Only one grieved him, 
 as it was repeated with variations over and over 
 again. " President Craven to Resign." President 
 Craven, it is true, had refused, with stately cour- 
 tesy, to consider the matter, so far as it affected the 
 business management of the college, until he had 
 communicated with the Board of Trustees. It was 
 not his custom, he told them gently, to anticipate 
 through the public press the action of the Board. 
 This gift was very generous; it was wonderful; it 
 might be epoch-making for education. Further, 
 however, he could not go. So the reporters and the 
 editors went alone. " Craven to Step Out." " New 
 Blood for Carfax." " Fear that President Craven 
 will Resign." In one way or another, they all 
 suggested the next step of that progress which, in 
 [350]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 Murdoch's phraseology, was to take Carfax College 
 to the head of the procession. 
 
 Where was Bradford, meanwhile? Slipping 
 into his coat, dodging a reporter at the door, and 
 making his way as fast as cars would take him to 
 the Residuum. When Murdoch had asked, in 
 passing, " Either of you two said anything? " and 
 when Amy had wondered how Dr. Craven had 
 heard, Bradford had not replied, because it seemed 
 to him impossible, absurd, to suppose that his 
 words to Shedsy Barnes the night before could have 
 resulted in this explosion. Twenty-four hours 
 previously less than twenty-four hours previously 
 he had hinted at a possibility ; could his hint have 
 been transformed to certainty in that space of time ? 
 The idea, he told himself over and over, was in- 
 credible. Yet he was not reassured. Murdoch's 
 attitude toward him, if his words had really been 
 the betrayal, would not be harsh but Amy's? 
 Amy ! There was the point round which his spec- 
 ulations revolved. The click of the car-wheels 
 resolved itself into a maddening iteration What 
 will Amy say? What will Amy say? 
 When he had been talking to Shedsy the night be- 
 [351]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 fore, he had thought only of Murdoch's position, 
 and of the stunning news itself. His wife's little 
 query, her intercepted glance, suddenly waked in 
 Bradford's mind a thousand fresh possibilities. 
 She was a she was a little odd about some things. 
 Yet what, after all, had he told Shedsy? The 
 barest fragments of things inchoate hints, at the 
 most, quite impossible of transformation into this 
 complete knowledge. Moreover, Shedsy was a safe 
 man. There had been the Barton case, which he 
 had known the secret of ; yet he had never dropped 
 a word of it; the case had gone to its successful 
 conclusion, without a suspicion in the mind of any- 
 one that Shedsy knew. He would not mention this, 
 any more than he had mentioned that, thought 
 Bradford. Wherever this information of Craven's 
 had sprung from, it had not come from Shedsy, 
 that was certain. And the cars clicked off their 
 endless repetition as a sub-current to his medita- 
 tions What will Amy say ? until he 
 reached his corner and swung off. Then he raced 
 over the icy walks, sprinted round the corner, 
 dashed up the steps of the Residuum and, whis- 
 tling a careless tune, sauntered into the Residuum. 
 [352]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 Shedsy was sitting there alone. He looked up as 
 Bradford entered, and his face lightened. 
 
 " Hello, Frank ! " 
 
 " Hello, Shedsy ! " 
 
 " G-glad you came up. I was just g-going 
 down to see you." 
 
 "Anything special?" Bradford strove fiercely 
 and successfully to keep the keen interest out of his 
 voice. 
 
 " Well, yes. You remember what you hinted to 
 me last night, and asked me not to mention ? " 
 
 " What was that, Shedsy? " 
 
 " Well, about the money for Carfax, and so on. 
 Hey? Well, I told Kate. He told the C-Cravens. 
 Now, he says, it's got back to Murdoch. I'm 
 sorry." 
 
 " So am I, Shedsy." 
 
 " My G-God, Frank, don't say that ! T-tell me 
 it don't make any d-difference to you can't you 
 t-tell me that? Seems to me I've g-got about all I 
 can stand now, what with K-Kate " He broke 
 off. 
 
 " It won't make any great difference, I guess, 
 old boy. Still, I wish you hadn't told. But then, 
 [353]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 if the milk's out of the pitcher, why, it's out of the 
 pitcher." What will Amy say? The click of 
 the car-wheels echoed in Bradford's brain. 
 
 " I never thought K-Kate would tell," ran on the 
 boy, eagerly, his face lightening again as Bradford 
 passed the matter off. " I supposed of c-course 
 you would tell Kate anything you'd t-tell me, since 
 he was your best man, and all. But I was pretty 
 b-blue when you came in. I was just going d-down 
 to your place to tell you about it." 
 
 " It's done now, Shedsy. We won't say any- 
 thing more about it. It'll be in all the papers in 
 the morning." 
 
 " N-no ? How do you know ? " 
 
 " There were twenty reporters at Murdoch's 
 when I left." 
 
 Shedsy groaned. 
 
 " Never mind, old man. Where did you say 
 Kate was? " 
 
 " G-gone to the Cravens. He's " Shedsy 
 stopped once more. "Frank, I swear. I'm almost 
 afraid to t-tell you, after my last b-bull. But 
 Kate said it wasn't a secret. He's engaged to 
 Marion C-Craven." 
 
 [354]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRtHDAY-GIFT 
 
 " Engaged to Marion Craven ! " 
 
 Shedsy nodded dumbly. At any other time 
 Bradford would have been amazed and amused at 
 this news, but to-night the questioning rattle of 
 the car-wheels was too clear in his hearing. So he 
 sat idly, hearkening and fearing. What will 
 Amy say? Presently he roused himself, and for 
 ten minutes made a pretence of talk ; then he got 
 up. " Well, old man, so long." 
 
 " Don't go, F-Frank." 
 
 " Must, I'm sorry to say." 
 
 " You you don't bear m-malice, do you? I'm 
 anything you p-please, but true as g-gospel, I 
 never dreamed the story would g-get out ! " 
 
 " Not a bit, Shedsy." Bradford smiled, and if 
 the smile were feeble, nevertheless Shedsy saw it. 
 When Bradford had gone, Edgar Baker Barnes still 
 sat by the table, drumming with his fingers. At 
 length Slim appeared, and looked at him over his 
 eyeglasses. 
 
 " What's the trouble, Shedsy? " 
 
 "Nothing, Slim." 
 
 " I thought you looked miffed. Have you seen 
 my small German dictionary ? " 
 [355]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Shedsy shook his head. " I reckon there were 
 two fairy godmothers 'round when I was born," 
 he said, irrelevantly. " One says, ' I'll give him the 
 privilege of having friends and being mighty 
 f-fond of them.' And the other says, * I'll see to 
 it that he loses them one by one.' Well, that was 
 about a stand-off, wasn't it? B-but I tell you, 
 Slim, the second one g-got in the right c-counter. 
 Yes, sir, she g-got to me, all right, old boy." And 
 here, with Slim's hand upon his shoulder, our story 
 leaves Edgar Baker Barnes, alias Shedsy a good 
 lad, but a bachelor from the cradle. 
 
 Some men will carry unopened all day a letter 
 which they fancy contains unpleasant news, and 
 in the evening open it suddenly, read it steadily, 
 and laugh. They are the last men into a battle, 
 and the last to leave. Bradford, instead of going 
 home, went to the club, and in a quiet corner sat 
 and indulged himself in gloom. When someone 
 came up and spoke to him, he forced himself to be 
 cheerful, but the effort was obvious. 
 
 " Bradford is off his feed to-night," said the man 
 to a friend. The friend chuckled. " Haven't you 
 heard? " he answered. " Murdoch, his wife's uncle, 
 [356]
 
 MURDOCH'S BIRTHDAY-GIFT 
 
 has given ten million that Bradford was expecting 
 to Carfax College ! " 
 
 The man grinned. " What an ass Murdoch is! " 
 he commented. 
 
 Bradford let himself into the house at midnight. 
 The last reporter had hastened down the steps, and 
 all the place was dark. He went up to his wife's 
 room without hesitation. Amy was asleep, in an 
 attitude characteristic of her, her cheek resting on 
 her hand. He stood and looked at her a long time. 
 What would she say if she knew that he had been 
 the betrayer of Murdoch's secret? At last he went 
 off to bed. 
 
 [357]
 
 Chapter Nineteen 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 The guesses of the newspapers were confirmed in a 
 few days. Dr. Craven handed in his resignation to 
 the Board of Trustees, at the meeting which was 
 called to accept the gift of the Murdoch Fund ; and 
 the board accepted the resignation likewise, and 
 made him speeches of sorrow, and sent him a framed 
 memorial, which cited one by one his services to 
 Carfax College, and said many complimentary 
 things of him such as ought to console any old 
 man who was not too full of repining. And more- 
 over, the Board, at Murdoch's suggestion, made 
 him President emeritus, and allowed him two- thirds 
 of his former salary, which had been four thousand 
 dollars a year. Dr. Craven accepted the memorial 
 with calmness and the honor with dignity; but he 
 declined to remain in the President's house until 
 his successor should be elected. His wife, however, 
 [358]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 used force of a sort, and he reconsidered his deter- 
 mination, reluctantly. And all Carfax buzzed with 
 commendation of the proprietor of the Shakespeare 
 Brand, or if it did not commend it abused him 
 roundly, which was just as satisfactory in the end. 
 Meanwhile Amy said nothing, and Bradford waited 
 for her to speak ; and when she did not, concluded, 
 at first doubtfully, then more and more surely, that 
 she knew nothing of his own part in the disclosure 
 of Murdoch's intentions. Indeed, who was to tell 
 her if he did not ? Shedsy she never saw ; Kate she 
 never saw, and Kate was not the man to mention 
 such a matter anyway. So Bradford grew less 
 and less afraid, and presently the matter dropped 
 gradually from his mind, as the matter of the 
 scar had done, and he was only now and then con- 
 scious of any restraint in Amy's tenderness for him. 
 He was the more and more tender with her as her 
 hour came on. 
 
 One Thursday, two months after the announce- 
 ment of the Murdoch Fund, there was a rumor in 
 the afternoon papers that Dr. Craven was stricken 
 one said with paralysis, one said with some affec- 
 tion of the heart. The morning papers of Friday 
 [359]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 denied both ; the afternoon papers of the same day 
 reaffirmed the rumor, and this time with authority. 
 On the following Sunday afternoon, Carfax Col- 
 lege was without a president of any sort, and Prov- 
 idence had courteously removed an old obstacle to 
 progress. 
 
 He died very quietly. " I am sorry to leave the 
 Commentaries unfinished. Perhaps, my dear boy, 
 you will try " Kate bent closer, but the Doctor 
 left the sentence, like the Commentaries, unfinished. 
 A moment later, however, 
 
 " Why, Isabelle ! " he murmured. 
 
 " Yes, dear," his wife answered. But he did not 
 hear her. " Why, my little Isabelle ! " The news- 
 papers announced his death the next day : George 
 Mark Craven, in the sixty-seventh year of his age ; 
 for eleven years professor of the Greek language 
 and literature in Carfax College, and president for 
 twenty-seven. 
 
 Then Amy spoke. 
 
 " Francis, why did you tell Dr. Craven about the 
 money ? " 
 
 [360]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I didn't, dear." 
 
 " You told Mr. Barnes." 
 
 " Not even that, Amy. I suggested the possi- 
 bility of it to him but I never thought he would 
 mention it." 
 
 "Why did you tell him?" 
 
 " I tell you I didn't tell him, Amy. I said there 
 was a possibility of a change for Carfax, and 
 Shedsy imagined the rest." 
 
 " Didn't you say to him that Uncle Jack was 
 going to give a million a year to Carfax? " 
 
 " No, Amy, I did not. Why do you cross-exam- 
 ine me like this? Don't you trust me? If you do 
 not, you ought to say so." 
 
 Her next sentence came after a hesitation, brief 
 indeed, but very long to Bradford. " Francis, I 
 do say so." 
 
 " Amy ! " 
 
 " Do you know what I have done? " she went on, 
 with a calmness terrible to Bradford. " I have lied 
 for you, Francis." 
 
 " You are talking wildly, Amy. You ought not 
 to excite yourself, dear. Think of the baby, Amy." 
 
 " I am not excited, Francis. But I must tell 
 [361]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you what I feel. I cannot go on longer as I have 
 done. Marion Craven told me, one day, that you 
 had told Mr. Barnes, who had told Mr. Strong. 
 She asked me to thank you for letting them know ; 
 she implied that Uncle Jack meant to surprise them 
 all, to let them know suddenly, without warning. 
 I I let her think so. I did not tell her that he 
 had kept this secret for a year, and that he would 
 have kept it as long as was necessary. You know 
 that I would have died to make you happy, Fran- 
 cis; but I did not think when I told you I loved 
 you that you would ever ask me to lie for 
 you." 
 
 " You are hurting me very cruelly, my wife." 
 
 " I do not mean to hurt you. But we must un- 
 derstand things, Francis. I must know what you 
 intend to do. Are we to go on like this al- 
 ways ? " 
 . " What do you mean? " 
 
 " Am I to feel that I cannot believe a word you 
 say?" 
 
 " Amy," he said, collecting himself, " do you 
 know that you are talking to your husband? I 
 think you do not quite realize all that you are 
 [362]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 saying. I cannot, I ought not, listen to you any 
 longer. To-morrow you will feel differently." 
 
 " Will Dr. Craven be alive to-morrow ? " she 
 asked, coldly. 
 
 " Do you mean that you consider me responsi- 
 ble," he demanded, with the sensitive quickness of 
 perception that was always his, " for Dr. Craven's 
 death? Why, it is absurd." He tried to laugh. 
 " He has been sick for years, dear. Go to sleep, 
 now ; to-morrow ' 
 
 " It is not that," she said, wearily. " Perhaps 
 you are right ; perhaps this shock did not hasten his 
 death. I do not know." Bradford could not help 
 noticing the steadiness of her sense of justice. 
 " But all the other things you have told me you 
 have not seemed to care what you have said. Once, 
 before we were married, someone warned me that 
 you did not care. I did not believe him; I hated 
 him. I hate him now, but I believe him. No, 
 don't try to stop me. It is better for both of us 
 that there should be no deceit between us. I have 
 tried, ever since we were married ever since the 
 very day after we were married to disbelieve him, 
 but how can I? There was that story you told me, 
 [363]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 the first time you came to see me. Afterward, I 
 found that it was not true. I thought mine was 
 a bitter sorrow, that night but I did not know 
 what sorrow was. Then, while I was putting that 
 story from me, fighting it off, there were other 
 things. You told people, at dinner, of things that 
 I knew had not happened; but I should not have 
 minded much they were only stories if it had 
 not been for the idea I was fighting. And there 
 were times when I had almost fought it down. 
 When I knew the baby was coming I thought I 
 was sure that I had been all wrong to mistrust you 
 in the least. I don't know why I was sure, but I 
 was. Then this. You promised Uncle Jack that 
 you would never speak of it. It was not your 
 secret, any more than it was mine ; we had no right 
 to speak of it. But you did. And Uncle Jack 
 asked you if you had. And you let him think that 
 you had not." Her voice, monotonous and sad as 
 the ticking of a metronome, ceased. 
 
 Bradford, suddenly, surrendered. Surrendered 
 his dignity, surrendered his self-respect, surren- 
 dered his pride. " It is true, Amy," he said, under 
 his breath. " It is true. I told Shedsy, and I 
 [364]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 did not tell your uncle. It is all true. But can't 
 you forgive? Don't you know, dear, that you are 
 speaking to me like a judge not like a wife? I 
 am not as bad as that, dear? I have not forfeited 
 forgiveness? Amy, Amy, my Amy, don't you see 
 that I am begging for it Francis, who has lied 
 to you, but who loves you, loves you ! " 
 
 " How am I to know ? " she cried, quickly. " You 
 say so ; but how am I to know ? " 
 
 " You mean " 
 
 " I mean that I do not know whether or not you 
 love me ! " she repeated, sadly. " What have I to 
 assure me but your word ? " 
 
 " Love knows love," he answered, brokenly. 
 
 " Can there be love where there is not truth ? " 
 
 " I do not think," he said, humbly, " that I have 
 deserved this, but perhaps I have." 
 
 It was as if they had changed places. He was 
 the quiet one now; while Amy Bradford hardly 
 knew that tense, passionate voice for hers. " Oh, 
 I have loved you, loved you ! " she cried. She 
 broke down; her tears came in a flood, as if her 
 heart was broken. He took a step toward her, and, 
 as if she divined it, she sprang to her feet. 
 [365]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Don't touch me," she panted. " Don't touch 
 me! How do I know you love me? You have 
 cheated me before why not in this? What am I 
 your mistress, or your wife ? My baby ! Have 
 you ever told me the truth? Are you in earnest 
 now? You say you suffer. I do not want you to 
 suffer. But do you think I have not suffered at 
 all ? But you need not believe me, either, now ! I 
 have lied, too! You have taught me all that I 
 know first to feel, and then to lie ! We are alike 
 now ; we can neither of us be trusted ! " He stood, 
 quite incapable of movement, and she slipped by 
 him, without looking at him again, into her own 
 room, and he heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
 How odd these little domestic tragedies are, 
 which play themselves out quite unnoticed under- 
 neath our noses ! Smith and Mrs. Smith are a well- 
 matched couple, are they not? Mutual respect, 
 say the wise ones who are Watching them cool, 
 gray admiration, not the fiery red of love, makes 
 the best background for the picture of comfortable 
 married life. They do not salute each other rapt- 
 [366]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 urously on railway platforms, they are not miser- 
 able out of each other's sight ; but then, their duties 
 to society are admirably performed! She is a 
 careful hostess; and how excellent are the cigars 
 and claret of Smith! Really, the situation is one 
 fortunate in all respects. Meanwhile, after the 
 guests are gone, what dull ghosts of misery and 
 pain haunt those rooms wherein sit separately and 
 in shadow the admirable hostess and the excellent 
 host! 
 
 Murdoch had no knowledge of any break be- 
 tween Bradford and Amy. Bradford was too 
 clever, Amy too strong, to be detected by such a 
 straightforward, unsuspecting man as the pickle- 
 maker. Had he known of the trouble and its cause, 
 Murdoch would have been indignant with Amy. 
 Bradford pleased Murdoch's love of show. Besides, 
 he was not sorry that his gift had been made public, 
 though by no fault of his. He was not yet forty ; 
 he was barely thirty-nine. Carfax College called 
 the first man on' the list of. .eligibles, and he came; 
 stipulating for dictatorial power, and promptly 
 began to turn the wheels of progress. He was al- 
 most as young as Murdoch forty-one ; he looked, 
 [367]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 as much as Murdoch did, the business man; he 
 spoke with the sharp decisiveness that finds no time 
 for formal courtesy ; and his first act was to reduce 
 the salaries of most of his staff. Some, Kate among 
 them, resigned ; others were married, and dared not. 
 The name of the new president was Robinson 
 Horace Robinson. His " line " was paleontology 
 or was it petrology ? Well, it makes no difference ; 
 and his salary was three times what Craven's had 
 been. 
 
 Bradford lived a strange life the loneliest life, 
 perhaps, that any man can live. Robinson Crusoe, 
 on his island, was not always lonely. Bradford 
 was always lonely. Within ten miles of him were 
 a million people; he spoke to five hundred every 
 day ; dozens called him " Frank," and not one knew 
 him. The round of his days went on as mechani- 
 cally as a panorama that childish kind on rollers, 
 which you turn with a crank. He did what was 
 expected of him, said what was expected of him, 
 so ably and so aptly that hardly a soul in Carfax 
 ever guessed he had a care. Amy was all that a 
 wife should be. After that outburst, there was no 
 repetition of reproach, of course. He kissed her 
 [368]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 when he went away to the office, and when he re- 
 turned. She did her wifely duties, and lived her 
 lonely life, like his. 
 
 Sometimes, in these days, the remembrance of his 
 father's story, as it had been written for him, re- 
 curred to him with the sharpness of a sword. This 
 was the existence his father had led. He might 
 have hated his father, he thought drearily some- 
 times ; but he did not ; rather, he pitied him. The 
 days were long to Bradford, but the routine of the 
 office, the crowd of little duties, kept his mind 
 poised. The nights, however, frightened him, now 
 and then. He lay wide-eyed in the blackness, and 
 saw 
 
 An old-fashioned stone house. He was asleep 
 there, quite alone, in an upper room reached by two 
 steps from the hall. There was the sound of a 
 light foot on the porch below. It came along the 
 hall, reached the steps, and stumbled; someone fell 
 against the door with a crash. Bradford, lifting 
 himself unsteadily upon one elbow, cried, " Who's 
 there? " but not like one expecting an answer. 
 Quick feet scrambled, the door hurled open ; there 
 was a rush across the room, and hands at his throat 
 
 strangled, strangled. 
 
 [369]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Again he was in that house a house he had never 
 seen from the outside. He was sitting in the upper 
 room. Suddenly, at the sound of a cry without, 
 he rose, and moved quickly in the darkness toward 
 the door. He had forgotten the steps, and he fell, 
 with a sharp pain. He could not move. He heard, 
 in the void, the howl of a dog the whine of deadly 
 fear. 
 
 Now he was in the woods, at night. He came 
 upon a clearing, of half an acre perhaps, lighter 
 by. contrast with the velvet-gloomy trees. As he 
 stood there, he saw, at his left, a pair of silent, fiery 
 eyes, so near he might have touched them. He fled 
 from he did not know what, stumbling on and on. 
 He fell and was bruised, but he rose and stumbled 
 on. The night and the woods were endless. At 
 last, ahead of him, he saw the line of forest break, 
 and knew that he was free and safe. The revulsion 
 made him dizzy ; but he drew himself together with 
 a shout, and ran toward the light, and came upon 
 a clearing, lighter by contrast with the velvet- 
 gloomy trees. Upon his left, so near he might 
 have touched them, he saw the silent, fiery eyes. 
 
 He bit his lip till the blood choked him, and he 
 [370]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 knew that he was awake. He remembered his 
 father, at such times, and wondered if he were 
 going insane. 
 
 Amy's life seemed changed less even than Brad- 
 ford's. She read and sewed and dreamed and 
 waited. The spring came, and turned into summer, 
 bringing the anniversary of their engagement, 
 which Murdoch insisted on celebrating with a cer- 
 tain festivity. But Amy had an excellent excuse, 
 in her condition, for avoiding company. In June 
 her baby would be born. Amy longed that it might 
 be a boy. Not only with the old craving for a 
 man-child from the Lord, but it may have been 
 partly also because she was afraid that a girl might 
 suffer too much. She might perhaps, some time, 
 wake to the knowledge of life, and then lose her joy 
 in a day. Amy used to wonder as all women do 
 whether she was to live or die. There is no pang 
 in the wonder only dreamy hope and dreamier 
 fear. She did not care for the baby with the pas- 
 sionate sacrificial love she had given her husband. 
 Many a woman loves her husband because he is 
 the father of her children. Some love their chil- 
 dren for the father's sake. Such as the latter are 
 [371]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 few, very few ; one or two, perhaps, in the circle of 
 our acquaintance. Amy might have been one of 
 those women. But now her heart only stirred ten- 
 derly when she thought of the life which was to 
 come of her life. And at length her hour was 
 upon her. 
 
 A moment, while the doctor and the nurse were 
 busy without, Bradford slipped into the room. 
 Amy's eyes were shut as he looked at her, but she 
 seemed to know that he was there. He bent over 
 her, and she whispered, 
 
 ** You mustn't stay." 
 
 " Mustn't? " 
 
 " No. I do not want you." 
 
 She might have struck him, and not approached 
 that cruelty. " Amy ! " he cried. 
 
 " If you stay," she whispered, " I will speak to 
 the doctor." Her husband went out softly. To 
 the nurse he said, 
 
 ** My wife fancies the pain would be worse if I 
 saw her suffering." The nurse, attributing the 
 dumb pain in his face to sympathy, only nodded. 
 
 Hitherto Bradford had clung, in spite of every- 
 thing, to the hope that his wife might be convinced 
 [372]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 of his love, and come back to him; might not love 
 him, perhaps, with the flush of joy he had seen in 
 her eyes when he married her, but might love him 
 still. To cling to that hope longer was very hard. 
 She did not want him ; she would not let him try to 
 comfort her. She did not want him that was it. 
 Her need of him was dead ; he had killed it utterly. 
 He knew that, and he knew that never had he loved 
 her and needed her as he did now. It was strange 
 to him to think that he, Francis Bradford, the 
 clever man, could be so helpless as he was. He 
 wanted his wife, and she did not want him. 
 
 They brought him his son to look at in the early 
 morning. His wife, they said with satisfaction, 
 was doing well. 
 
 Sometimes, as she lay with her baby beside her^ 
 realizing him sometimes Amy would remember 
 how she had thought of him before he was born ; 
 how she had half-fancied it would be sweeter for 
 both of them to go away into the dark together at 
 the moment of his birth; how she had wondered 
 whether she really wanted anything except rest. 
 [373]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 At such times she laughed, or else, hating herself, 
 she murmured to him over and over, " I did not 
 know, I did not know," trying to excuse herself to 
 him for the fancies. " My dear, a baby is only an 
 incident," Marion Craven laughed once, when Amy 
 had been trying to explain her unconscious treachery 
 before Boy's birth. " You mustn't be idolizing a 
 step in evolution, you know." 
 
 " He hasn't a bit of a mark anywhere on his 
 whole body," was Amy's answer. " He is abso- 
 lutely perfect." 
 
 Her joy in Boy made her often thoughtful of her 
 own mother, who had only borne the agony, and 
 hardly tasted the happiness. Amy longed to be 
 able to reach out her hand and touch her mother's 
 somewhere. She would whisper to the dark, " Can 
 you see that I am very happy now, dear? I hope 
 you can see that." She dreamed of her mother ; and 
 from this rose a strange fancy that, when Boy was 
 asleep, he, too, was in his grandmother's sight 
 that his grandmother was watching over him. Will 
 it be believed that when this fancy first came to 
 Amy she experienced a quick pang of jealousy, and 
 so smothered the sleeping Boy with kisses that he 
 [374]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 woke as she had intended? But afterward she 
 grew used to the thought, and tried only to sleep 
 herself, so as to pass the time away until she might 
 see him again. 
 
 Boy grew, and waxed fat, if not intelligent ; and 
 cried, and was fed, and slept, and woke, and cried 
 again. There is really less excuse for the mother- 
 instinct in humanity than anywhere else in the ani- 
 mal kingdom ; not a kitten or a puppy but is more 
 interesting to the honest, casual observer than are 
 the very young of humankind. Boy's great-uncle 
 was keenly disappointed in him, though he loved 
 him fondly. It seemed to Murdoch that Amy's 
 baby should have exhibited some appreciation of 
 the world by the end of the second day, at least. 
 But Boy remained, like the rest of his kind, stupid 
 for an interminable time. He had no other name 
 than Boy. Murdoch was fertile of suggestions, 
 but Amy smiled at them all except when he urged 
 her to call the baby Frank. He was doing that 
 one evening when Bradford interrupted. 
 
 " I shouldn't like that," he said. " If Boy had 
 been a girl, I shouldn't have wanted him named for 
 Amy. There is only one Amy Bradford for me. 
 [375]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 Perhaps Amy feels the same way about this." He 
 looked at his wife, greatly daring, thinking that 
 she must give him anyway the cold comfort of an 
 assenting nod. But she only wrapped Boy's shawl 
 a little closer round him while he slept, and went on 
 looking at him. Murdoch, however, who was used 
 to her quietness, supposed that she agreed with her 
 husband, and ceased to clamor for Frank. So Boy 
 remained only Boy. What need had his mother 
 for a special name? She had thousands of names 
 for him, little inarticulate murmurous cries, suited 
 to such a little, inarticulate bit of life as Boy. 
 
 When he was a trifle older she began to take 
 pictures of him. It was a passion, more than an 
 amusement, with her. She took pictures of Boy in 
 all moods and in all attitudes, but by far the fewest 
 were of him laughing. He seldom laughed. He 
 was more like his mother than his father in many 
 ways, but especially in this one. You might play 
 with him, and talk to him, and sing to him he 
 watched you with a round, unwinking stare, esti- 
 mated your value, and forgot all about you. He 
 was not fond of strangers. He even cried when his 
 great-uncle held him, to the annoyance of the es- 
 [376]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 timable pickle-maker. But it was Bradford's one 
 bit of joy that Boy loved him, and would go to 
 him almost out of his mother's arms. Bradford 
 did not care for Boy as he cared for Amy by no 
 means ; but it was his nature to expand to the love 
 of anything which loved him, and so he expanded to 
 his little son. Boy was very near to Bradford's 
 heart. He sang little foolish tunes to him ; talked 
 broken baby-talk, a thing which he had all his life 
 despised so much that he blushed in the presence of 
 it; he carried Boy for hours against his shoulder, 
 in the crook of his elbow. It was his father who 
 first showed Boy the sunshine and the trees, the 
 day that Boy was three weeks old, and swore upon 
 his honor that Boy had laughed at sight of them. 
 Yet even with the new bond between them, Bradford 
 was no closer to his wife. Free as he was when he 
 was alone with Boy, he turned awkward and self- 
 conscious in Amy's presence. Love for her and 
 contempt for himself made him afraid. 
 
 Well, Boy lived six months, till the winds of 
 
 December came crying from the north, and then the 
 
 baby died as peacefully as he had lived ; fretting a 
 
 little, murmuring a little, moaning a little, and so 
 
 [377]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 off to sleep. Of what use were those six months? 
 Boy had never said a word. He had not even re- 
 ceived a name the little, indistinguishable atom 
 among myriads had never even been marked by the 
 individuality of a name. A bit of a breeze, the 
 ripple of a river, the leaf of a forest that was 
 Boy. A little grave, some pictures and some little 
 clothes, and the ache in the heart those were the 
 remembrances of Boy. So much space as he has 
 been given why, it is all out of proportion to 
 Boy! 
 
 When Boy had been buried five days Bradford 
 went to his wife, feeling that he could no longer 
 stand the life he was living. 
 
 " Oh, my darling, my darling ! " It seemed as 
 if she must hear, and must know that now he was 
 in earnest. He had only the single longing to 
 comfort his wife, and be comforted if he could. He 
 wanted to take her in his arms, to confess his fault 
 over and over; to find his wife again above the 
 grave of his son. He had loved Boy so sincerely, 
 he did not think that Amy could repulse his desire 
 to share her sorrow. They were alone now, they 
 had only each other. He could offer his wife no 
 [378]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 reparation, he could not even promise that he 
 would always be what she would have him trust- 
 worthy ; but he knew that love demands no repara- 
 tion, and asks no promises, choosing rather to for- 
 give seventy times seven. All his feeling rang in 
 cry. 
 
 " What is it? " she answered. 
 
 " Won't you come back to me, Amy ? " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Francis. Have 
 I ever left you? " 
 
 " Can't you forgive me ? " 
 
 " Forgive you for what? " 
 
 " Amy," he said, unsteadily. " This isn't like 
 you, dear. I've not deserved this." 
 
 " I am too tired to guess what you mean, 
 Francis." 
 
 " I mean that I love you so much I cannot go on 
 like this! If you have made up your mind that 
 you cannot care for me, if I am hateful to you, as 
 I seem to be, I will go away somewhere out of your 
 sight. I am not what you thought I was, I have 
 confessed it; I make mistakes, and I did give away 
 your uncle's secret. But I am not as bad as you 
 think me, Amy. I never deserved the love you gave 
 [379]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 me, I know. But no more do I deserve to have it all 
 taken away. Is it all gone, Amy ? Don't you care 
 for me at all ? " He said it very badly and halt- 
 ingly, and she answered him at once. 
 
 " You speak of deserving, as if I had made up 
 my mind to love you or not to love you. It isn't 
 so, Francis. I never made a resolution about you. 
 There is something dead in me, that is all. Once 
 I cared about things, but I couldn't let anyone 
 know. Then, when you came, I cared so much 
 more about you than about anything else that I 
 could tell you. But I found out afterward that the 
 man I loved had never existed. How can I love 
 another one when he asks me? If I could have 
 what I asked for, I should ask that Boy might come 
 back to me; but he can't do that, and neither can 
 the love I had once. Why should you ask me to 
 forgive you ? There is nothing to forgive ; things 
 happen so, that is all; you couldn't help being 
 yourself. Why should you think I hate you? 
 Why should you go away? You know that I ex- 
 pect to live with you all my life." 
 
 " If you thought your love for me would come 
 back, would you pray to have it, Amy ? " 
 [380]
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," she answered, wearily. " I 
 don't know. What is the use of talking? " 
 
 " How can you be so hard ? " he cried. 
 
 " Hard? " she repeated. " Am I? Isn't it you 
 who were hard, to take my love, to take everything, 
 and not to love me? Francis, you know that I am 
 made all one way. I know there are people who can 
 make allowances, but I can't ; I must trust entirely, 
 or I can't trust at all. If I could I would believe 
 that you love me, as you say you do, and I will 
 try, if it will make you happier. I don't want to 
 be hard." She broke off suddenly, as if there were 
 no more use of words. As he said nothing, she got 
 up presently, and, going to the window, stood look- 
 ing out. There was snow on the ground. He knew 
 of what she was thinking knew that she had for- 
 gotten his very existence. He fixed his resolution 
 while he stood there. 
 
 [381]
 
 Chapter Twenty 
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 Clarges, as his custom was on Friday mornings, 
 sat writing out his sermon for the next Sunday. 
 He liked to fix his thoughts by setting them down, 
 though when he was before his congregation he 
 did not always adhere to the words which suggested 
 themselves to him in his study. On this particular 
 Friday no words would come. The rector was 
 physically spent. The previous day had been the 
 twelfth of the month, and he had fasted a private 
 fast he always kept ; it was the day he had decided, 
 years before, to abandon his father's business and 
 go about the Lord's. Unfortunately, to-day was a 
 fast-day also, and Clarges had breakfasted upon 
 crackers and water. He was used to rigid sim- 
 plicity, even to austerity of living, but forty-eight 
 hours on crackers is not conducive to easy thinking. 
 Besides, his brain seemed less under control than 
 [ 382 ]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 usual. He could not keep his mind off Amy Brad- 
 ford, as he had seen her, quiet and tearless, at Boy's 
 funeral a few days before. Clarges was used to 
 funerals, and accustomed to displays of sorrow 
 hypocritical and sincere, well-bred and uncouth, 
 hopeless and comfortable; but Amy's face baffled 
 and troubled him. He wondered what she was 
 thinking of, as she sat listening if she listened 
 to the words which rounded off the life of Boy. He 
 wondered how she had found life, since her mar- 
 riage. He knew that the death of her son had hurt 
 her terribly, but he knew, too, that her life was 
 before her still, and if she cared for her husband 
 as she had cared for him when she married him, 
 she would still be desperately glad that she had a 
 life to live out. If she did not care Clarges shiv- 
 ered. He could not help fearing that in such case 
 she would have preferred to die with her son. 
 
 He rose, and began to walk up and down the 
 room, thinking. He drew out a pipe mechanically, 
 and then put it back. A queer thing about Clarges 
 was that he never smoked when he was alone. 
 From Amy his thoughts drifted to her husband. 
 Once he had supposed that when Bradford and his 
 [383]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 wife found each other out, as they must some day, 
 the suffering would all be Amy's. He had antici- 
 pated for Bradford only anger and disenchantment 
 when he discovered that his wife was the stronger 
 of the two. Once he had expected that conceit 
 would come to Bradford's assistance, and shield 
 him from any unpleasant shock. But, as the year 
 had gone by, and he had had glimpses of Brad- 
 ford's attitude toward Amy, Clarges doubted 
 whether matters were to be arranged so easily for 
 Amy's husband. When the break came, as it must 
 come, Clarges suspected that both would be hurt. 
 
 The little girl who acted as maid to the clergy- 
 house of St. Hilda's knocked at the door. 
 
 " There is a gentleman to see you, Father." 
 
 "Who is he, Norah?" 
 
 " I asked him, Father, and he said just to tell 
 you a gentleman." 
 
 " I must know who he is. If he won't give his 
 name, tell him I'm busy." 
 
 She retired, and came back with a card, on which 
 was written, " I. H. S." 
 
 Clarges turned the card over and over in his 
 fingers. Why had the man not sent up his name? 
 [384]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 Why this curious appeal ? " Show him up, Norah," 
 he said. He sat down hastily, filled his pipe, and 
 was smoking when Bradford entered. He rose, 
 however, and shook hands. 
 
 " Have a chair. Pipe ? " 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 The rector, looking at Bradford, was astonished. 
 The younger man had aged, in a week, so that he 
 seemed the elder. They sat without speaking for 
 five minutes ; then Bradford said, abruptly, 
 
 " Do you know what I'm here for? " 
 
 Clarges looked at the card, which he still held, 
 but said nothing. Had the break come, then? 
 
 " You know what sort of a man I am, don't 
 you ? " said Bradford, bitterly. " You've known 
 ever since the first time we met, haven't you ? And 
 you haven't always kept the knowledge to yourself, 
 have you? Yes; I mean you have told my wife. 
 Never mind. God knows I'm past bearing malice. 
 Sometimes I think you even did me a service. She 
 was so set on hating you, and proving you wrong, 
 that she didn't find me out as soon as she would 
 have, otherwise. Well, I've come to give you the 
 satisfaction of a confession." 
 [385]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " You'd better lie down," said the rector. " I 
 don't believe you're well." 
 
 " I'm perfectly well, thanks. I'm as well as I 
 ever shall be. Sit down. I know what I'm talking 
 about." 
 
 Clarges, studying his guest, sat still as he was 
 ordered. 
 
 " You've always known I wasn't well, not quite 
 certain about the truth, haven't you? Don't 
 trouble to answer. I know what you think. You 
 saw through me the first time we met. You didn't 
 like me, on account of well, you know; but be- 
 sides that, you understood me. Few men do; I'm 
 too clever for most of them. I always wondered 
 how you knew." He stopped a moment ; the rector 
 did not take the pipe from his lips, but the smoke 
 ceased to curl up from the bowl. 
 
 " Did you ever guess," Bradford went on, " that 
 once in a while I was actually deceiving myself, 
 as well as other people? I don't suppose that such 
 a subtlety appeals to your nature. You're like 
 you're the sort of man that knows exactly what he 
 believes, and that finishes it. Perhaps I've fooled 
 and lied so long, I'm denied your exalted point of 
 [ 386 ]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 view ; but I've made up my mind to try for it, for 
 a little while. I've set out to be absolutely honest 
 for the time I've got left ; and this that I'm telling 
 you is the first instalment of my honesty. I'm 
 going to ask you a straightforward question, too 
 something I've never done before. You were in 
 love with my wife, of course ; that was plain enough ; 
 why did you try to make up to me? You never 
 disguised the fact that you saw through me, but 
 you did run after me for a while. What was that 
 for? " 
 
 " Because I loved your wife, as you say ; though 
 she was not your wife then." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I thought I knew what kind of a man you 
 were, but I wanted to make sure." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I thought, if I was right, there was probably 
 unhappiness ahead for her; and I loved her, and 
 should have liked to have saved her from it." 
 
 " It would have been a d d sight better 
 
 for all of us if you had married her, instead of 
 me." 
 
 " I never should have married her." 
 [ 387 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " You would have if you could." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You asked her once, you know. Don't lie, 
 Father ; leave that to me." 
 
 " Yes, I asked her. But I knew my case was 
 hopeless ; if I had not known that, I shouldn't have 
 asked her." 
 
 Bradford frowned. " You talk riddles. Don't 
 make me lose my faith in you, too." 
 
 The rector laid his pipe upon the table. The 
 amber mouth-piece was half -bitten through. "Your 
 faith in me ? " 
 
 " You married me ; you buried my baby. You're 
 my minister, by the conventions. Let me ask you a 
 question. Do you believe in a God ? " 
 
 Clarges nodded. 
 
 " A heaven, of course ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And a hell?" 
 
 " Here," said Clarges, but inaudibly, and the 
 jet Christ quivered on his breast. 
 
 " Complete outfit of terms," laughed Bradford, 
 disagreeably. " Well, minister, that God of yours 
 has scored off me." 
 
 [388]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 " Look here," repeated Clarges, watching him 
 narrowly, " don't you know you're not well? " 
 
 " I shall be well enough by to-morrow, minister." 
 
 Clarges went to a drawer and fetched a flask and 
 glass. " Drink this." 
 
 " I never touch it, minister. Don't you know I 
 have no vices? " 
 
 Suddenly Clarges crossed to him, and put his 
 hand on his shoulder. " Poor lad ! " he said, softly. 
 " Oh, poor lad ! " Bradford laid his head upon 
 his arms, and a dry, tearless sob escaped him. 
 
 " She doesn't think I love her, Father," he said, 
 pitifully. " She doesn't believe I love her ! " 
 
 The rector's lips worked curiously, as he stood 
 looking down. He licked them with his tongue, 
 like a man afraid. Bradford and he had never 
 liked each other, and he did not like Bradford now, 
 but he was sorry for him. Bradford knew that, 
 and was a little comforted. Strong men despise 
 pity ; weak men only profess to, and crave it when 
 the strain comes. 
 
 " Frank," said the rector, " you have just said 
 that by the conventions I am your minister. You 
 know, too, that once I tried to tell your wife, be- 
 [389]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 fore she was your wife, what I thought about you. 
 May I go and tell her what I think now ? " 
 
 " You believe that I love her? " 
 
 " God help you ! Yes, I believe you do." 
 
 " She doesn't." 
 
 " May I talk to her? You said you had faith in 
 me." 
 
 " What good will it do? You don't think I came 
 here this morning for that? " 
 
 " No. And I may do no good. But " 
 
 " Speak to her if you want. When shall you 
 see her? " 
 
 " This afternoon." 
 
 Bradford hesitated. Then he drew a letter 
 from his breast-pocket. " When you've said all 
 you can, give her this. I've always tried to keep it 
 out of her sight ; but now it can't do me any harm, 
 at least. Give it to her, and tell her to burn it; I 
 sha'n't need it any longer. Good-by, Clarges. I 
 must go to the office. I have my work to do, you 
 know. I was on my way when I thought of you, 
 and just decided to try my new honesty. Come 
 and see me at three. I will wait till then. But you 
 will fail." He went away, nevertheless, with a 
 [390]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 little flicker of hope in his heart the hope of the 
 drowning man when he sees the straw. 
 
 Clarges, left alone, did not return to his sermon, 
 but walked up and down, thinking over what he had 
 heard, and what he meant to say to Amy. He had 
 no doubt that Bradford was in earnest. His last 
 scrap of hesitation vanished just before he put his 
 hand on Bradford's shoulder, and offered to speak 
 to his wife. He wondered if she would receive him 
 at all, or listen to him. He thought she would 
 though she had once ordered him never to speak to 
 her again. To disobey her now was only another 
 penance that he inflicted on himself ; he was always 
 inflicting them, of one sort and another. But to 
 plead for her husband he needed his brain clear, 
 so he rang for Norah and ordered a luncheon. She 
 was puzzled, since it was a fast-day; but she was 
 used to the vagaries of Father Clarges, and would 
 cheerfully have cut off her little nose and served it 
 to him on Good Friday had she fancied he wanted 
 it. Servants, children, and dogs adored Clarges; 
 shopmen and his curates disliked him. Both feel- 
 ings were certificates of good character. 
 
 He saw Amy, in the afternoon, at the same little 
 [391]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 table where he had seen her months before and 
 found out certainly that she disliked him. As at 
 the former time, she was reading; but he did not 
 take the book from her hand, nor did she give him 
 cause to. She had the same steady, empty look 
 upon her face that she had borne at the baby's 
 funeral a look which any careless person might 
 have translated as meaning that she did not care ; 
 there had been plenty to give it just that interpre- 
 tation. It must be confessed that Amy was not 
 popular. The look had hitherto baffled Clarges, 
 but he thought he held the key now to her heart 
 as well as her character, and so he understood it. 
 
 He blessed the good fortune which made pre- 
 liminaries unnecessary with Amy, and began at once 
 to tell her of his morning's interview with her hus- 
 band. He told it very calmly, but very earnestly, 
 speaking more rapidly than she had ever heard him 
 speak before. 
 
 ** Frank is in a very desperate condition, Mrs. 
 Bradford," he said. " He is possessed of the idea 
 that he cannot make you believe he loves you; he 
 is quite hopeless of proving it to you ; and the 
 worry over it is killing him." 
 [ 392 ]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 She listened without answering. 
 
 " I do not think he will be responsible for his 
 acts," went on the rector, slowly, " unless his mind 
 is relieved in some way." 
 
 " He my husband asked you to tell me this ? " 
 
 " No. I offered. I remembered very well that 
 you had once asked me never to speak to you again. 
 You know that I would not, if I could help it, 
 offend you. So you can judge whether I think this 
 matter serious." 
 
 " And what did he and you agree that I was to 
 say to you, Father Clarges ? " 
 
 " He told me that my coming would do no good. 
 He told me that you were so thoroughly sure of 
 your own righteousness, that you had no room for 
 kindness in your heart. No; he did not use those 
 words, Mrs. Bradford. He did not even think them. 
 But if it is true that you are to answer me as he 
 said you would, then those words are true of you." 
 
 " What do you want me to say? " 
 
 " I want you to tell him that you love him, 
 whether you do or not. You can save his mind in 
 no other way, Mrs. Bradford." 
 
 " It would do no good," she answered, impa- 
 [393]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 tiently. " He would only look at me, and he 
 would know what I was thinking of him. He 
 always knows what I am thinking of him. I should 
 not hesitate to give you the message you want, since 
 you think his condition requires it. But it would 
 do no good." 
 
 "And you do not think he cares for you ? I re- 
 member very well, I tell you, what I said to you 
 once, in this house, about Frank Bradford. I am 
 not forgetting it when I assure you that if I ever 
 saw love for a woman in a man's heart, or heard it 
 in his voice, I saw it and heard it to-day." 
 
 " You saw it? You heard it? " she repeated. 
 " Father Clarges, you do not, you cannot under- 
 stand either of us. You understand me better than 
 you do my husband ; so, perhaps, since he has chosen 
 to confide in you, I may do the same. How can 
 you tell what my husband feels? It is quite im- 
 possible, because he does not feel. It is all acting 
 acting. I am sure that when he talked to you 
 this morning he was in earnest yes, I am just as 
 sure of that as I am that a little while from now 
 he will not be in earnest over me, but over something 
 else. How can you tell? You cannot understand 
 [394]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 at all. My husband is never himself, he is the man 
 that other people are expecting him to be. Once I 
 told you I did not like you, and it was quite true. 
 It is quite true still. I think you care too little for 
 anybody to deserve liking. I think that you are 
 hard and selfish. But at least you are honest. 
 You live your own life, not a thousand other lives. 
 So you cannot understand my husband." 
 
 " I think I understand him far better than you 
 do, Mrs. Bradford. I will tell you why," he added. 
 She did not speak. 
 
 " Amy," he said, going back to his old address. 
 " Amy, years ago there was a young fellow in 
 college with me who was very like your husband. 
 He not only wondered what other people thought 
 of him, but he would do and say things to make 
 them think of him. If he was applied to for in- 
 formation, he often gave it whether he had it or 
 not, rather than show ignorance; and he lied to 
 fill gaps. I don't know whether you would call 
 it lying; it was done almost unconsciously. He 
 was simply swept on by this desire of his to be 
 noticed, and carried, often, very much farther than 
 he meant. Then, one day, his eyes were opened 
 [395]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 to himself. I needn't tell you how; but it was a 
 bitter day for him. He saw himself just as he 
 was, a sounding-board and no more. He hated 
 himself. He was not a bad man, not even a very 
 weak one ; and he tried to reform. He tried to be 
 exactly himself, and say exactly what he felt, at all 
 times. But he soon found that he was failing. 
 He was still exaggerating, adapting in a word, 
 lying. Do you know what he did? He took refuge 
 in eccentricity. He had tried to cure his fault, and 
 failed; very well, he thought, then he would be re- 
 venged on himself. Whenever he became aware 
 that he was wondering what anybody thought of 
 him he turned rude and harsh. Of course that 
 alienated the people. So he became friendless ; I 
 won't say unpopular, because there were certain 
 qualities about him which made him necessary to 
 the college life ; but friendless. He was very lonely. 
 He found life very miserable. But, like all men of 
 his temperament, he was an excellent actor, and he 
 did not show his misery. So gradually he won a 
 reputation for himself as a rude, clever, solitary 
 man, who cared nothing for the applause of any- 
 body ; refused it ; had no use for it. So the ap- 
 [396]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 plause followed him. When he saw that he turned 
 more unsocial still, and it followed him more in- 
 sistently. If he had been a dull man, or a weak 
 man in other ways, this mightn't have happened! 
 but he was not dull or weak except in this one 
 thing. 
 
 When he left college, he cast about for a pro- 
 fession. He still had the idea that he must keep 
 himself under ; so he decided on the profession that 
 subjugates a man most to the service of other peo- 
 ple. That is the ministry. This man undertook the 
 training and learned many things. He learned 
 that his theological school was a school for scandal ; 
 that gossip and triviality of thought and meanness 
 flourished in it, such as the few noble men labored 
 in vain to root out ; that the study was not theology, 
 but diplomacy, and cheap diplomacy at that. Yes, 
 he was disillusioned; but he went through it, and 
 entered the church. The same popularity followed 
 him. He knew that he was looking for it, and at 
 heart craving it; so he adopted the same repres- 
 sive policy as before ; and, as before, his popularity 
 only increased. He became well known, and gained 
 a large church. That was seven or eight years ago. 
 [397]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 What is he now? The same man the same man 
 he was years ago in college conscious still, in every 
 nerve and fibre of him, of the opinions around 
 him; eager to be noticed; and an actor in every- 
 thing he does. He would do this, and therefore he 
 does the other thing. He would like to be the 
 centre of a group, so he plays the hermit. He 
 would rather be thought saintly, so he smokes his 
 pipe in people's company, and treads on their pet 
 ideas. He has got his reputation, now, just as he 
 had it in college. People think him rude, selfish, 
 and honest. He is in reality rude, selfish, and as 
 disingenuous as a man can be. You say I do not 
 understand your husband, Amy? I tell you I un- 
 derstand him as you never can, for I have been 
 through the dark places before him. I understood 
 him when he came to see me to-day. He has been 
 what God made him, and he is bitterly punished 
 for it. I thought once 7 had tasted a little agony, 
 but I see now that I never did. I told you that I 
 remembered what I had said to you here one day. 
 I do not take back a word of it. I told you then 
 that I should not ask you to marry me, if I dreamed 
 you would. You thought I was only insulting 
 [398]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 you. Do you see now what I meant ? I was afraid 
 for us, as I was afraid for you and your husband. 
 But I tell you this to-day : you may not love your 
 husband that I know nothing of but that he 
 loves you, you cannot doubt. I am a man exactly 
 like him ; and I know." 
 
 " And what am I to do? " 
 
 " Not to think of him as worse than he is. To 
 believe in him because he fights himself, and to for- 
 give him what he fights against. That is all I can 
 say. You know, much better than I can know, all 
 your husband's splendid qualities. You know that 
 he is courteous, that he is courageous, that he is 
 gentle, that he is clever. Love these, and for the 
 rest forgive him, because he does not forgive him- 
 self, and because he loves you as he does." 
 
 Her gray eyes so young still were dull and 
 sad as she asked, 
 
 " Are you sure he even knows these things ? Are 
 you sure he would rather be just himself? " 
 
 " You cannot take my word for it the word of 
 a man who has walked the same road? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I think I do believe you. 
 
 But " 
 
 [ 399 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 He drew out the letter which Bradford had given 
 him. " I have no idea what is in this," he said, 
 " but your husband asked me, when I had said all 
 that I could, to give it to you, and ask you to read 
 it." 
 
 She took it, and read the address. It was an old 
 letter, frayed by handling; and it was not ad- 
 dressed to her. She had seen it once before. " To 
 my Mother in Heaven." She opened it, while 
 Clarges went to the window, and stood looking 
 out. 
 
 " I have read your letter to me," it began, ab- 
 ruptly. " What was there in my father which has 
 come down to me? You saw to-night that I could 
 not tell the least little story exactly as it happened. 
 Why did I lie about the conductor? I did not mean 
 to. It came out before I was aware. I only wanted 
 to make the story sound well. Do you call that 
 lying, up where you are? Perhaps I should not 
 have called it so before I had your letter, but things 
 seem different now. 
 
 " Am 7 going to wear out my emotions, and 
 grow tired of everything? Why do I suspect that 
 Shedsy is fonder of Kate, and even of Slim, than he 
 [400]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 is of me ? Why do I care, so long as he is fond of 
 me, to have him fonder of me than of anybody 
 else ? And you know that it isn't only Shedsy ; it's 
 everyone; I want them all all to like me best. 
 Yet they don't. Why should they? I wonder if 
 I am honest in asking that question, or do I really 
 think I am cleverer and pleasanter than the rest, 
 even while I'm denying it? God knows, and you 
 know, too, I suppose, mother. What is this thing 
 that besets me? Do I care, really, what people 
 think of me ; really want them to like me ? If I did, 
 wouldn't I take more pains to make them like me? 
 You know I take no pains. It is rather a curious 
 thing to boast about, but I don't take pains. I 
 will set it down squarely, as the truth I don't care 
 whether people like me or not. What then ? Is it 
 only that I want them to notice me have I fallen 
 that low now? 
 
 " You want me to be * genuine.' Aren't we all 
 what we are? Do you think I get any pleasure 
 out of capering and grinning to amuse people? 
 Do you think I am pleased with myself when I 
 catch myself wondering what Tom, Dick, and 
 Harry in the street-car arc thinking about me; 
 [401]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 when I raise my voice so they can hear me say 
 something witty? Do you think I like to know 
 that I give the best of me, the cheap best of me, to 
 anybody I happen to meet for five minutes? Do 
 you think I like to keep pumping and pumping 
 and pumping, when I'm with my friends, for fear 
 they should find out that the reservoir is all empty 
 that I gave it all to a man who went by half an 
 hour ago and will never think of me again? For- 
 give me for these questions ; I know you know that 
 it is all torture to me ; only, your letter made me 
 think of these things, and thinking of them hurts. 
 Why do I do them all? Isn't it because I can't 
 help it? And isn't that being genuine? 
 
 " Mother, it doesn't help me to tell me to be gen- 
 uine. Don't you see, that only makes me think 
 about myself, and thinking about myself is all the 
 trouble. If I could only forget myself for a little 
 while, forget myself completely, I would go in rags, 
 I might treat people like a brute, but God ! I should 
 be happy ! If only, for a little while, I might stop 
 thinking of myself, of what I ought to do, and 
 just do! Mother, you have the ear of God, I am 
 sure, for you were honest when you were on earth, 
 [402]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 and you suffered. So won't you take this prayer 
 of mine and lay it at His feet a petition to the 
 King? God, let me feel ! Hate, or love, or agony, 
 or happiness, just let me feel! This is my answer, 
 mother, to your letter. You know it all, already, 
 I am sure. Don't desert me, don't hate me for it. 
 Don't forget that I am your son. Francis Howell 
 Bradford." And there was a postscript in pencil. 
 " God forgive me ; I know you never can. It is 
 quite true; while I wrote, I was conscious that I 
 was writing well. Well, this is good-by." 
 
 " Were you to see him, Father Clarges ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Tell him tell him I believe him, please." Her 
 voice was empty of expression. Clarges looked at 
 her ; then he hurried on his errand. 
 
 Looking at his watch, he saw that he could not 
 even reach the car-line before three the hour when 
 he was to meet Bradford. There was a recollection 
 in Clarges's mind of which he had said nothing to 
 Amy. He did not admit that he was worried, but 
 remembrance of Bradford's face and actions, of 
 his final remark " I will wait for you until three " 
 spurred him on. Nevertheless, the rector's heart 
 [403]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 was higher, as he rode down toward Galton's, than 
 it had been for a long time. Like Bradford, he 
 had tasted honesty; and though it left him con- 
 scious of himself, he felt that at least his effort had 
 not been thrown away. As he was thinking of this 
 the car stopped, and seemed to remain still for a 
 long time. Clarges looked out, and saw a line of 
 cars ahead. 
 
 " How long is this going to last ? " he demanded 
 of the conductor. " Maybe five minutes," said that 
 functionary; and Clarges waited impatiently five, 
 seven minutes; then they moved on slowly. They 
 stopped again half a block on ; five minutes more, 
 and they had not yet started. Clarges, he did not 
 know why, began to grow very anxious. He almost 
 began to wish that he had telephoned Bradford to 
 wait. He decided, if nothing happened in three 
 minutes, to take a cab. The interminable three 
 minutes came to an end, and he walked quickly 
 down the street, looking for a cab. He had one 
 at length, and was rattling away down-town. With 
 every step his anxiety increased, and he told him- 
 self he was a fool. What had Bradford meant by 
 that sentence of his " I shall be well, this time 
 [404]
 
 THE RECTOR SPEAKS 
 
 fo-morrow " ? Probably nothing. Yet it seemed 
 to Clarges that he must get out and run ; anything 
 to lessen the time before he reached Bradford's 
 office. He got there at last. It was five minutes 
 past four. The elevator crawled up to the top 
 floor, not fast enough for his hurry. He asked the 
 red-uniformed attendant for Bradford. 
 
 " Mr. Bradford has just gone, sir." 
 
 "Gone?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Impossible ! He had an appointment with me." 
 
 " At what time, sir? " 
 
 " At three." 
 
 " It is five minutes past four. He left at four." 
 
 " Does he always go so early ? " 
 
 " Not often, sir." 
 
 " Did he say where he was going? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 Clarges, with a heavy heart, went out, won- 
 dering. 
 
 [405]
 
 Chapter Twenty-One 
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 Bradford waited twenty minutes; half an hour; 
 three-quarters but Clarges did not come. Fin- 
 gering the pen upon his desk, the dulness of cer- 
 tainty lying upon his heart, Bradford waited. But 
 at last, when an hour was up, he rose. If the 
 rector came now, it could only be that he would 
 bring bad news, the worst news, the final news ; and 
 Bradford preferred not to listen to the retailing 
 of that again. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Stebbins, just see that that demurrer 
 is filed before five o'clock, please. I shall not be 
 back this afternoon." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Bradford wondered whether the clerk would use 
 that dull, disinterested tone, if he knew that his 
 superior would not return the next day, either; 
 nor the next ; nor the next ; nor any day thereafter. 
 As he went out Bradford turned at the door and 
 [406]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 looked back. His desk was in a cheerful, sunny 
 spot. It was odd to think that he should never see 
 the light creep down the curtains any more! 
 
 He dropped into a drug-store next door, where 
 he had not infrequently made purchases, and asked 
 for ten eighth-grain morphine powders. 
 
 " Insomnia? " inquired the clerk, sympatheti- 
 cally, as he filled the order. 
 
 " Oh very slight, now and then. But these are 
 for someone else. I fancied perhaps you wouldn't 
 sell them without a prescription? " 
 
 The clerk laughed. " I guess we can trust you, 
 Mr. Bradford. They lose their strength, unless 
 they're kept carefully." 
 
 " I know. But I think they'll last as long as my 
 friend needs them," returned Bradford, carelessly. 
 " What an unholy thing it would be to fall into 
 the habit of swallowing these things, eh? Turn a 
 man yellow as brown paper, I suppose ? " He 
 stared curiously at the packet. 
 
 " I guess. Lots of folks use the stuff, though ; 
 squirt it into themselves. It's the curse of the 
 country ; coming to be, anyway." The cheerful 
 answer reminded Bradford of Miss Mangier. 
 [407]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 " Good-afternoon," he said. 
 
 " That's what I call a gentleman," remarked the 
 clerk, when Bradford had gone. He spoke to a 
 lounger by the cigar-case. " Polite, he is, and 
 sharp as a razor. Never comes in here but he says 
 something worth listening to. Well, he'd oughto 
 be happy. He's old Murdoch's son-in-law, he is." 
 
 " That feller? " 
 
 " Imp-h'm. He only works when he feels like it, 
 and spends the rest of his time kiddin' around. I 
 could be gay myself, with that snap." 
 
 " Yah ! Gimme some pennies, Jack ; I'm goin' 
 to break your machine." 
 
 Bradford decided to walk home. This would be 
 his last opportunity. Somehow, though his reso- 
 lution was fixed and quite untroubled, he felt that 
 he would put his purpose off that little while. It 
 made no difference whether he died at half-past 
 four or at five. " I fancy the trains to where I'm 
 going are run to suit the passengers," he thought. 
 He lingered down the street, looking into the faces 
 of the people he passed, as they hastened by with the 
 set look of people who must not be detained. They 
 were in a hurry. Where were they going? To an 
 [408]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 appointment? So was he. Home? And he. Per- 
 haps to bargain and sell ? That, at least, was over 
 for him. So he speculated. His brain, which was 
 always clear and sharp, was clearer and sharper 
 than ever. He had that sense of extra senses which 
 had now and then possessed him before, as, for in- 
 stance, on the night of the wreck, when he came to 
 Carfax. He saw everything the goods in the 
 windows, the signs of the stores, the traffic in the 
 street, and the expressions on the faces of the 
 passers-by a dozen of those tiny dramas which we 
 let go unheeded every day : the long hand-grip of 
 two men on a street-corner, and the sarcastic grin 
 on the face of one as he turned away ; the flash of 
 a thievish newsboy up an alley, with an orange 
 under his coat ; the progress of a girl and a young 
 man across the street, oblivious of everything but 
 themselves. He heard everything the clatter of 
 the pedler's toys, the rumble of the wagons, broken 
 fragments of sentences from those around him, the 
 ring of hammers on a building, the drip-drip of 
 water where a great plate-glass window had been 
 freshly washed. He smelled everything the man- 
 ufactured perfume of the bunch of gummy carna- 
 [ 409 ]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 tions thrust into his face, the fragrance of orris- 
 root as a woman hurried by, the sour odor of 
 cooking from a basement kitchen, the exhalations 
 of the roadway. Yet, keen as his senses were, he 
 walked in a dream all the time, unspeculative on 
 all but the one topic what would these people 
 think if they knew what he was on his way to do ? 
 
 Suddenly, in his reverie, he was aware of a team 
 bearing down upon him at a crossing, and he leaped 
 quickly to safety. A policeman spoke to him 
 sternly. " Mind where ye're goin', now. They'll 
 be over ye yet." 
 
 " Thank you, officer. I saw it in time, though." 
 Strange, curious human heart, he mused ! He was 
 going to his death, and yet instinctively he had 
 dodged the chance which would have made his walk 
 unnecessary. 
 
 Now he was in the region of the billboards, and 
 great, gaudy advertisements screamed at him in all 
 colors and shapes. Among them, of course, were 
 the quotations of the Shakespeare Brand, and, over 
 and over, Murdoch's face watching him. It gave 
 no sign of fright or pity was not that curious? 
 What would Murdoch be thinking by to-morrow? 
 [410]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 But his lithographs, no matter what he thought, 
 would go on roaring his wares through the satiated 
 land, and his face would look as happy as ever a 
 good sort of a man to clash a stein with, as Brad- 
 ford had thought once. Bradford was aware that 
 his pace was very slow, and he quickened it ; walk- 
 ing on through the mile of small, tawdry, dirty 
 shop-fronts with the shopkeepers tilted back on a 
 wooden chair before the door. They would sit just 
 so to-morrow, if it were a fine day, without the 
 slightest knowledge or care that the tall, slight, 
 well-dressed young man who had looked at them 
 so eagerly the day before would never look at any- 
 thing again. Then, he had got among the man- 
 sions on the avenue; he met and spoke gayly to a 
 few people he knew, reached Murdoch's house, let 
 himself in quietly, and went up to his own room 
 without seeing a soul. 
 
 He sat down at once to his desk. He had three 
 letters to write, and he wrote them rapidly, without 
 hesitation, one directly after the other one to 
 Clarges, one to his mother, one to his wife. 
 
 " I know that you have done what you could, 
 and of course I'm obliged to you, but I knew be- 
 [411]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 forehand that you would fail. Still, I'm not sorry 
 I told you about it, for I had to tell someone. 
 That was because I am a weak man. You, being 
 strong, cannot guess what weakness is. There was 
 a time when I disliked you because you disliked me. 
 Of course, it makes no difference to me now what 
 you think of me; and yet, oddly enough, I dislike 
 you still. I may as well be honest, since this is my 
 only chance. I respect you highly, and thank you, 
 but I don't like you. You'll wonder why at this 
 particular minute I stop to say so. I hardly know. 
 Or yes, I do ; I don't want to go to my death leaving 
 a lie behind for you. Good-by, and thank you 
 again." 
 
 " It is foolish to be writing you, mother, since I 
 shall know in a very few minutes whether your be- 
 lief or my want of belief is the truer to things as 
 they are. If you were right about your heaven, 
 and so on, my chances of seeing you are not worth 
 much; we shall belong to different worlds, I'm 
 afraid. There are only two worlds, though; the 
 false, and the true. I believe firmly that I am 
 cutting loose from both, and ending all my troubles, 
 but perhaps I am only getting into others. At 
 [412]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 least they can't be worse than these, and you know 
 I always liked change. 
 
 " Do you remember the little prayer you made 
 for me, once ? It was pretty coldly answered, wasn't 
 it? I go the road my father went, only I haven't 
 his consideration for my family. Prayers are dull 
 things, mother. I made one, once, and They, who- 
 ever They are or was it just Luck? answered it. 
 I wanted to feel, and be myself. That was allowed 
 me. But They are ironical, after all. They let 
 me be myself, as far as suffering was concerned, 
 and then They left me false in other things. Wasn't 
 that like a cat with a mouse, though ! Take your 
 cat-Gods, mother; forget your son; he and they 
 are not for each other. He will stick to his old 
 theory of Luck. 
 
 " Well, dear, this is pretty harsh, isn't it ? I 
 ought surely to write more kindly things to a dead 
 mother. But you see, though I have been living 
 lies all my life, I don't care to die with one on my 
 lips. I have got pretty far down, but I think I 
 have found myself, down here, and know what I 
 am, now ; there isn't any use of further talking, is 
 there ? That was what Amy said to me once. Do 
 [413]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 you know Amy? She has been worth while 
 never forget that, mother. I never got to say good- 
 by to you, do you remember? You were gone 
 when I saw you. This is my good-by. Luck or 
 the cat-Gods, whichever it is, we shall never see 
 each other any more. So good-by, good-by, my 
 mother." 
 
 " You think me untrue, not to you, but to myself. 
 Believe me, Amy dear, I am dying with no lie on my 
 lips when I say for the last time I love you. I 
 know that the kindly and courteous thing would be 
 to fill this letter with rot, such as I could easily 
 write, which would make you mind less that I had 
 killed myself. But I have been shamming and 
 sham-polite too long; I am past the kindly and 
 courteous thing, now. I want you to care. I 
 want you to know there was something about me 
 that was genuine, even if it was only genuine brutal- 
 ity, which took a time like this to prove itself. Be- 
 lieving that, can you believe that I loved Boy, and 
 that I love you? Well, that's all. I'm pretty 
 tired, and I'll say good-night, dear." 
 
 He got a glass of water and a spoon, and, taking 
 the little packet of powders in his hand, opened it. 
 [414]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 Then he measured the powders into the water one, 
 two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. They 
 made a cloudiness as they sank. After a moment 
 he added the last two, brushing off the clinging 
 grains solicitously with his little finger. He stirred 
 the water with the spoon. How curious it seemed 
 to be doing this as calmly as if he were only going 
 to sleep! He set the glass down, and addressed 
 the three envelopes; then, laying the letters to his 
 wife and to the rector side by side, he slowly burned 
 the letter to his mother. He held it, with his mind 
 on other things, till the flame reached up and 
 touched his finger, so that he winced. Then what 
 chord did that strike? He threw back his head 
 and laughed, silently and grotesquely. Laughing, 
 he saw himself in the mirror a wild face, staring 
 like a mask. Where was his calmness? Was he 
 going to fail himself now, at the end? He seized 
 the glass nervously, and as he took the spoon out 
 it dropped clattering on the floor. The noise hurt 
 Bradford's nerves. What who was this drinking? 
 Frank Bradford? Surely not. Was that Frank 
 Bradford in the mirror there, with a glass in his 
 hand a glass half- full of cloudy water? He 
 [415]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 shook so that the water trembled ; and the water in 
 the mirror trembled too. By God, it was he! 
 Laughing silently once more, he ended his hesita- 
 tion, and put the glass to his lips. 
 
 That afternoon, toward half-past four, Amy 
 went up to her room, and sitting down by the win- 
 dow began to think over once more what the rector 
 had said. She had given him her word to believe 
 her husband, and to forgive him ; but her resolution 
 left her cold. Her will and her intellect were 
 working, not her emotions. The man she had 
 married was gone, she thought; or, as she had 
 told him, had never existed. The amiable, gently 
 smiling, tired-looking, politely untruthful gentle- 
 man called Frank Bradford was what he had 
 always been. Whether he loved her or whether he 
 did not, there was really no way of knowing, and 
 the question was not material. Amy Bradford 
 would not have ceased to care for a man because he 
 ceased to care for her, any more than she would 
 have begun to love him because he loved her. She 
 was steadfast. If Bradford had been the man she 
 thought him he might have beaten her or aban- 
 doned her or been unfaithful to her, in the old 
 [416]
 
 THE ROAD OUT 
 
 phrase, and she would have gone right on loving 
 him. But he was not that man ; never had been. 
 
 She took a little package, tied with a ribbon, 
 from her jewel-case and opened it. Here were the 
 photographs of her dead Boy. She laid them one 
 by one, without looking at them, against her lips. 
 She did not need to look at them, she knew them 
 so well. Her eyes were set upon the lawn, where 
 the sun dripped melted gold among the trees, but 
 she saw nothing there. The wind among the grass 
 variegated it in light and shade, but Amy knew it 
 not. For her the soul was gone from sun and wind 
 and trees. One by one she laid the pictures back, 
 all but the last, the picture of the baby laughing. 
 She lifted it to her face, but she did not kiss it, 
 only laid it hungrily and tenderly against her 
 breast. O baby mine! 
 
 A noise reached her ears from her husband's 
 room adjoining. Her husband had not yet come 
 home, she thought, and no one else had any busi- 
 ness there at this hour. She opened the door, the 
 picture in her hand. The letters lay upon the 
 desk, in full view, with the open box of powders 
 beside them. Her husband, with a glass of cloudy 
 [417]
 
 THE CHAMELEON 
 
 water at his lips, stared at her over the rim. In his 
 eyes she saw sorrow and weariness and fear, which 
 changed as hers met them. She rushed to him, and 
 snatching the glass, hurled it wildly into the grate, 
 where it crashed in broken splinters. Did he care 
 so much as this, so much as this ? She hardly knew 
 either how or why, but her arms were round his 
 neck, her face on his shoulder, and the same shud- 
 der shook them both. " Oh, Frank, Frank ! " The 
 baby's picture dropped from her hand, unheeded, 
 and fluttered to the floor. Bradford was afraid to 
 kiss her, but he stood and held her in his arms, and 
 saw the road to life stretching up from the gates 
 of death he had been about to enter. 
 There we had better leave them. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [418]
 
 Carfcington 
 
 THE TWO VANREVELS 
 
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